Escaping Fate

By DelSheree Gladden

Turning sixteen should mean driving, dating, and breaking curfew.

It shouldn’t mean certain death.

Arrabella might have been excited for her upcoming birthday if her parents hadn’t just moved her to the middle of nowhere.
Worse than missing the city and her friends is the nightmare that assaults her every night. Stalking her dreams, a raven-haired girl warns her, taunts her, as she is paraded toward her death.

In search of answers, Arra turns to her grandfather, the only person willing to delve into her family’s dark past. Warning her that once she takes the first step, there is no going back, he begins to unwind their awful heritage.

She can’t tell her parents what is waiting for her, so she turns to a new friend, Tanner Wheeler, a young man she barely knows but is immediately drawn to. Together, they unravel a story of selfish betrayal that reaches back to an age of merciless gods and blood sacrifice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: DelSheree Gladden
• Release date: Sep 8, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465959409

DelSheree Gladden

DelSheree Gladden was one of those shy, quiet kids who spent more time reading than talking. She didn't speak a single word for the first few months of preschool. Her fascination with reading led to many hours spent in the library and bookstores, and eventually to writing. She wrote her first novel when she was sixteen years old, but spent ten years rewriting before it was published.Native to New Mexico, DelSheree and her family spent several years in Colorado before returning to northern New Mexico. When not writing novels, you can find DelSheree reading, hiking, sewing, playing with her dogs, and working with other authors.DelSheree has several bestselling young adult series and has hit the USA Today Bestseller list twice as part of box sets. DelSheree also has contemporary romance, cozy mystery, and paranormal new adult series. Her writing is as varied as her reading interests.

Book preview

Voices whisper, chasing away sleep. Pounding and screaming pull her fully to consciousness. She sits up trying to shake away the dream. Her father rushes over to her, forcing her to admit this is no nightmare.

"Konētl, child, don’t move. Don’t make a sound." He rushes over to the window and peeks through the slats of wood covering the window above his bed. She sees his body stiffen at what he sees and fear paralyzes the young girl’s body. All her life she has been haunted by the fear that this would one day come. She knows, but she asks her father anyway.

"Tahtll, Father, what is happening?" she asks.

Shuffling away from the window, her father moves to the door and presses his aging back against it. They both know that the men outside mean them harm. Holding a finger up to his lips he signals for his daughter to stay quiet. Huddling in her thin blankets, she tries to keep herself from crying. Silent tears slip down her cheeks as the chaos continues.

The crashing and pounding grows louder every second, and the young girl cries out to her father. "Why are they doing this? Why won’t they leave us alone, Tahtll?"

The angry mob’s thunderous hits knock the old man away from the door for a brief second before he can force himself back against it. He continues to strain against the door as he calls out to his daughter. "Go, hide, konētl. Do not let them find you or they will take you. Hide!"

Needing no further motivation, the terrified girl runs from her pallet bed just as the splintering of wood announces the intruders’ arrival. She lunges for the only real piece of furniture in the room, a large wooden cupboard that stands just high enough off the ground to let the girl slip under it. Curling up on the floor, she tucks in every part of her body and tries unsuccessfully to shut out the sounds around her.

Give her to us, now! somebody shouts.

Get out of my house! You have no right to be here. Leave my daughter alone, the girl’s father pleads. He tries to block them from entering any further, but the crowd of angry men pushes him aside. The mob’s feet trample through the tiny hut, knocking over chairs and tossing the two beds in search of the child. Burying her silent sobs in her hands, she prays to the gods that they will not find her. Her father has kept her alive so far. He has to be able to do it again.

The young girl can hear her father’s voice as the men search, begging them to leave, and even resorting to threatening them with harm. Her father is an old man, though. He has little strength left to try and defend the last of his family.

Please leave us alone, he sobs. Please do not take her away from me. She is all that I have left.

Shut up, old man, someone bellows. She belongs to the gods now.

No! her father screams. She sees his gnarled feet scramble across the floor as he tries to overcome one of the men. The crack of his bones resounds in the little hut. The girl cries out when his face falls into the dust just inches away from her own. Dark blood drips down his unmoving face.

Covering her mouth right as she realizes she screamed aloud, she prays that no one heard her cry. The gods are not listening to her pleas tonight. They want her for their own. Hands plunge in at the girl and grab at her from every angle. Screams burst out of her as she tries to wriggle out of their grasp. They fight over her, yanking her back and forth, before they finally pull the screaming girl out from under the cupboard.

Let go of me, she begs. Let go! Get your hands off me!

Nobody listens to her pleading. They simply drag the girl upright and start yanking a dusty, roughly woven bag over her head. She tries to scream again for help, surely someone in the village will help her, but the dust fills her lungs and sends her into a coughing fit. Tight cords wrap around her hands and feet as they all laugh about their conquest. Helpless, she can do nothing as they carry her away to meet the gods.

But the meeting cannot happen until she is purified.

Sitting in a room far away from her home, days later, the girl’s raven hair is brushed until it shines. Each stroke with the fine bone comb tilts her head, rippling the black cascade of her hair. Her almond stained skin, shining with fragrant oils, glitters in the flickering candle light. The scents from the citrus and vanilla oils are so strong it is intoxicating. Her expressionless face is dusted with heavy white powder, covering her tear streaked cheeks and red eyes.

Delicate magnolia flowers are carefully woven into her silky black hair, by fingers aged and skilled. A harsh black paint accentuates the lids of her strange, silvery eyes. Yellow falls down her cheeks like rain. Each color they apply has a meaning and purpose specific to the ritual. She knows the ritual well, even though her father tried to protect her from it all her life.

A simple, roughly woven white dress is tied around her thin body. Heavy earrings hang down to her shoulders. Turquoise armbands pinch her arms, hinting at the pain awaiting her. Knotting the red sash tightly around her waist, a thick woven blanket is drawn back from the doorway, allowing the malicious sun to display her to the waiting, bloodthirsty crowd beyond.

The noon hour warmth cannot pierce her angry heart when she beholds the great stone temple that will be her final destination. Memories of facing the priests the day before make her anger surge. They are responsible for this. They put her here. A sharp word from one of her caretakers finally forces her to step out of the hut and into the sunlight. She blinks at the sun’s glaring glory and hates it with all her soul. She had loved its beauty as a child, but now she fears it.

The bright sun gives away her secret fear, stinging her eyes and releasing her tears. Her painted face gives no glimmer of emotion. Only her shining silver-green eyes hint at the terror she feels beneath the façade.

The women who prepared her for this hour guide her toward the temple. The crowds part before them, cheering for their sacrifice. But the beautiful young woman hears nothing and sees only a haze of movement. Her feet can no longer move as they should. Each one of her steps is halting and fearful.

Her tremendous fear makes her legs quiver, and she almost collapses when her bare soles touch the first step of the temple. The soft touch of her feet on the stone seems to echo with deathlike finality. Now she can never turn back.

Hope abandons her as she halts on the first step. She is joined by two towering figures, the guards who will never allow escape. They do not touch her for fear that they will die with her. To keep her secured, one stands in front and one follows behind. The solemn procession begins the slow climb up the temple steps. The tear streaked ceremonial makeup cannot hide the growing horror that gathers in the girl’s heart as the stone path takes her to her end.

As her tears fall, a grey mist gathers around the scene. The raven haired girl is slowly consumed by it, hiding her from view.

Chapter Two

Gasping, I sit up in bed and draw a thin blanket up to my shaking body. The dream had come again. For the past two nights I have dreamed of the strange girl. Each night the dream begins again, adding a little more each time. Every night reveals more of the helpless child’s story. Child, I think with a shake of my head, she looks like she’s the same age as me. At fifteen, I have never experienced anything as horrible as what the poor girl faces in my dreams.

The night the first dream came, I woke with my heart racing. I had seen the girl drug from her house, bound, and carried away from her family. Her screams echoed in my mind as I sat in bed, willing my speeding pulse to calm down. I passed the first dream off as a nightmare, just another reaction to stress. When the dream continued the next night, the real fear started to seep in.

The only thing that remains constant in the dreams is the immense terror I wake with every night. I am gripped with the girl’s awful fear. The haunting look of desperate horror in the young girl’s face pulls at my soul, begging me for rescue. I watch with pity and anger, frustrated that I can do nothing to ease her fear.

As I wake tonight, I am so fearful that I can’t force myself to close my eyes again. I fear slipping back into the dream and having to feel such desperate pain once again. Lying in my bed, I watch the curtains sway in the breeze, seeking something familiar and innocent. Slowly, my mind and body come back to my own time. The haunting faces disappear, letting me escape into a welcome and dreamless sleep. Resting in the stillness of my own mind, I swim in the blackness until awakened by the familiar warmth of the sun.

As dawn’s orange shadows fall across the unfamiliar floor, I slowly open my eyes and blink away the last traces of the dream. The beige carpet and neutral toned walls immediately make me grimace. I am not yet used to waking up in a room I don’t recognize as my own. Nearly a week ago, I moved from my former life of popularity in Manhattan, to a painfully, mind-numbingly boring little town in rural Maine, hours away from anything.

I love city life. The constant noise and activity of living on an island filled with one and a half million people is invigorating. Every day holds the promise of something new for me, but for my parents, every day holds new dangers. My parents made the decision to move from our stylish Manhattan apartment to escape the violence and crime, as well as to be closer to my aging grandfather.

Hours from Manhattan, Grainer is the absolute opposite of what a town should be. With a population of less than fifteen hundred people, Grainer has fewer stores in the entire town than Manhattan holds in a single block. I hate everything about this place. The first few days have been miserable, but ever since the dreams started I have become increasingly convinced that the move was even more of a terrible choice than I first realized and I long to go back.

Holding my misery close to my heart, I crawl out of bed and pick my way between unopened boxes on my way to the bathroom. I tug a pair of denim shorts and an off white linen peasant top from my still-packed suitcase as I stumble along. The rest of the house is slowly being put away, but my room looks the same as it did when the boxes and bags had been first unloaded a week ago. It’s a worthless attempt at protest.

The bathroom floor is surprisingly neat. I didn’t leave it like that last night. I sigh, knowing my mom must have snuck in after I fell asleep and cleaned up the piles of dirty clothes. My mom is desperately trying to make the transition to my new home town as painless as possible. I feel a small measure of guilt at my obstinate behavior, but not enough to give in.

I made my opinion of the move very clear to my parents from the start. In the end, their fears outweighed my objections. The apartment was packed up within a month of the decision, and one by one the boxes and furniture were carried down to the waiting moving van. I sat in the room that would no longer be my own and cried. The worst part of moving is being alone. I left all of my friends in Manhattan. My only ally, my brother David, stayed behind, ready to start college in the fall. Now, I am alone, alone in my own home.

The night of the first dream was the first night I had not woken up crying because of the move. I had suddenly found a new source of fear. Hoping to scorch away thought, I turn on the shower until the streams of water are hot enough to make me wince. I step in and let the dull pain clear my mind. As I shower, I rinse away the unsettling feelings the dream left behind. Everything else remains.

I ache for someone to know as I finish my shower and stand brushing my hair in front of the foggy bathroom mirror. My silver-green eyes sparkle in contrast to my thick black hair. As I stare at my own face in the mirror, my breath catches as it morphs into the face of the raven-haired girl from my dream, blurred by sacrificial paint. The stranger’s eyes hold fear and blink away burning tears.

Reaching up to brush the tears away, I find my face completely dry. I blink, my eyes opening to find only my own face, clean and almond colored, staring back at me. I draw back from the mirror, fearful that the face will return. Shivering despite the warm misty air that surrounds me, I quickly leave the room.

This morning, I woke up so early that neither of my parents are awake by the time I leave the bathroom. The stillness of the house makes it seem safe enough to leave my room. I will have at least a few hours of peace before my mother continues her relentless battle to force me into loving my new life. I wander into the box strewn living room and pull a book off the top of a stack of boxes.

I am more into blogging and video chatting than reading, but that is something left behind in Manhattan for the time being. The book I held was opened out of pure boredom my second day in Grainer. Surprisingly, I have blown through the first half of the novel in just a few days. I have no idea where the novel came from, most likely another thoughtful gesture by my mom, but I am glad to have found it. Plunking down onto the couch, I sit down to read. Hours later, my mother wanders out of her room, fully dressed and ready for the day.

You’re up early, my mom comments.

Couldn’t sleep.

One of these days you’re going to have to get used to this place. My mom sighs at my melancholy. Arrabella, run down to the grocery store and pick up these things, she says, and I’ll make us some breakfast. The list she hands me is written on one of the brand name medication notepads my dad often brings home from work. Her perfect handwriting is nothing like my dad’s hurried script.

I’m fine with cereal, I say.

Well, you don’t have to eat, but your father and I would like some breakfast. He starts his new job today, in case you’ve forgotten. I won’t send him to work on an empty stomach, so go, she says. Her voice has taken on the firm tone I know not to disobey.

Picking up the list as I dramatically roll my eyes, I head out into the morning sun. I don’t want to do small town things like shopping in the neighborhood grocery store. I had always been more than happy to shop for groceries in Manhattan. I love the street-side stands and the hundreds of tiny specialty markets in Manhattan. There, I was free to wander about deciding what I wanted, moving from store to store until I had everything on my list. I love the endless variety of the markets.

If the small store in this town doesn’t have the items I’m looking for, too bad, it’s the only grocery store there is. How primitive, I think. I am not a small town girl.

The sign hanging above the grocery store entrance has been hand painted, and not in the trendy art deco style popular in retro art galleries. The store is small and quaint and disgusting. I plaster a disapproving grimace on my face as I walk in. Scowling at the rows of products, I quickly gather the items on my mother’s list. After checking off the last item, I walk the short twenty steps to the checkout counter.

The cashier is a girl who looks to be about my age. She greets me with a smile and begins scanning my items. At least they’re not completely backwards here, I think when I see the electronic scanner. In my fog of self-pity and dislike, I half expected the cashier to pull out a pencil and calculator. The happy chirp of the flashing red scanner deepens my scowl.

You’re new in town, right? the cashier asks.

I wonder if her lopsided smile has anything to do with my sour expression.

Yeah, I say. Aren’t small towns great? I think in my most sarcastic inner voice.

It’s not so bad here, she says. Most of us go down to the beach on the weekends to hang out during the summers. If the weather’s alright this Saturday, we’ll all be there for a bonfire.

Who’s most of us?

The high school kids, mostly just juniors and seniors.

Are there more than just you and me? I ask. From the size of the town, I would