Arabella

By D. A. Harvey

After a mystery phone call Jessica Pearce is suddenly embroiled in events that have been orchestrated way before her birth. Then when a mysterious man turns up at her doorstep, she must learn to trust her feelings and follow him in a journey of discovery that endangers them both and the very fabric of the universe. She must learn the truth about herself and her origins and the clock is ticking. A journey that began five centuries in the past must now join with the present to ensure there is a future.

• Language: English
• Publisher: ReadOnTime BV
• Release date: Apr 9, 2015
• ISBN: 9781742844848

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The Circle Trilogy

Book One: Arabella

D A Harvey

The Circle Trilogy

Book One: Arabella

Copyright © 2015 D.A.Harvey

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Smashwords Edition

The information, views, opinions and visuals expressed in this publication are solely those of the author(s) and do not reflect those of the publisher. The publisher disclaims any liabilities or responsibilities whatsoever for any damages, libel or liabilities arising directly or indirectly from the contents of this publication.

A copy of this publication can be found in the National Library of Australia.

ISBN:  978-1-742844-84-8 (pbk.)

Published by Book Pal

www.bookpal.com.au

To my family and friends -

To have found you, I have found myself, and without you the truth would not have been revealed; we are not alone after all.

Contents

CHAPTERS

PROLOGUE

FOUND

RELATIVES

ESCAPE

AWAKENING77

REUNITED

TRIAL

CALOGEROUS

DARIUS

ANDREA

THE CASTLE

ZOEY

CUSTODIANS

ALLYSA

ALISTAR

COGNISANCE

RESOLUTION

HOPE

EPILOGUE

GLOSSARY

PRELUDE BOOK TWO: DARIUS

PROLOGUE

We are under attack and I know that I am the only one left who can stand in its way. But I must choose. To save this world and have any chance of saving our own, I must sacrifice the one person who I am truly connected to.

Immobilised by my decision, I stared as my love pleaded silently for his death. My heart pounded in my chest, while my mind refused to register the sound of the weapon firing. I watched him fall slowly to the ground and with each painful second my heart shattered into insignificant pieces.

How did it come to this? How could I murder the one who holds my heart?

With the absence of any feeling, I did not acknowledge the pain when retribution for my actions was given. I stared at my executioner blankly. I knew there was something I had to do, but I just stared. I could feel the life leaving me and I did not care.

As the light slowly dimmed, my mind screamed in anguish; and then I, too, fell; fell into a pit of despair and darkness.

Waking in a lather of sweat, my body shivered as I recalled the events of that dream again. Each night for the last two weeks I’ve dreamt the same events, and wake each time feeling the same way: helpless and alone. And every morning I ask the same questions. What is going on? Who were those people in my dream and why do I feel so defenceless, so powerless?

For many years I have felt this way. I’m alone with no family, no connections, not one person in my life to make me feel safe or wanted. This did not help my situation.

When I was at the foster home, what now seemed a life time ago, the doctor tried, in his clinical way, to point out that these feelings were not unusual for a child of the State. I remembered him smiling nervously as he patted my shoulder gently, which always gave me the creeps. I smiled and just nodded so he would stop trying to console me, and also stop touching me.

What amplified these feelings even more was the continual sensation of being watched. I don’t mean from the prying eyes of my keepers or doctors; I mean from the ever-constant feeling of an invisible presence that had me on edge most of my life. I say invisible because it could not be seen, not even I could see it, but sense it, yes. This feeling that I alone experienced had me questioning over and over…What am I?

Yes, I know what you’re thinking. I’ve made a mistake and it should read: "Who am I? Well, that’s what I’ve been asking myself for a very long time. Have I made an error? Have I been imagining things? Do I need to be committed?"

Sorry I’m rambling. That’s what my friends would say. Don’t take any notice of Jess. She’s a bit on the crazy side and doesn’t know what she’s talking about, proclaimed Kate, my so-called best friend from the second grade.

Kate, who lived down the street from us, was one of those people who only believed in what she thought was normal - (or, what her parents told her was normal).

You know the type: they live in a normal society where everyone was required do the same things, think the same way, and, look out if anyone showed the slightest difference. Kate tried to be a true friend but, with such ignorance surrounding her, I was not surprised by her outburst.

As the words left her mouth that day, I pictured Kate’s mother and knew exactly where Kate had learnt them.

Here was this perfect girl from her perfect family, and here was me from my tainted life and who-knows-what dubious origins.

Since those fated words were uttered, my strangeness was publicly displayed, highlighting to all that I was not normal.

Apart from my unknown origins or lack of respectable family, there were also physical differences. These differences were only slight at first. The sun was too bright or it was too hot or I just didn’t have the energy to keep up with the rest of the kids.

As I grew, the differences just became weirder and harder to hide. Why was it I knew when something bad was about to happen or, at times, knew exactly what others were thinking?

My weirdness made people uncomfortable to be around me and, my so-called minders always looked for plausible explanations.

Eventually I was taken to the hospital for tests. Many were performed, with some extremely painful. And even after all they had put me through, the only woeful synopses these so-called medical professionals could offer were: Don’t worry, she’ll grow out of it, or She’s a girl—you know, hormonal and quite emotional. But my all-time favourite was, There is no credible evidence to support her hallucinations, so just ignore her outbursts. She’s just looking for attention.

Contrary to what they believed, attention was not what I was looking for.

Eventually I just kept to myself. I was tired of trying to fit into a society that was just not ready for me.

Now with my past haunting me and these dreams invading my sleep, my anxiety was increasing with each passing day. What do these dreams mean? Are they trying to warn me? Am I about to die?

My mortality should worry me but for some reason which I cannot fathom, I’m unusually calm.

When I think of death, I instantly feel it is something not to be feared but rather a release of what ties us to our past.

With this thought I am overwhelmed with another presence. This presence screams out constantly, struggling to be heard, and with each passing day it was getting worse.

The presence invaded my dreams, my thoughts, and I knew now I was not alone. There was someone else trying to break through, someone else who demanded to be heard. Her name was not Jessica Pearce and she was someone who was most definitely not of this world.

Part One

FOUND

I’ve got that feeling again. You know, that feeling like someone has walked over your grave. There’s no point looking over your shoulder; you know you won’t be able to see anything. It’s like a fleeting glimpse, always at the edge of your vision, but you just can’t get it to focus. As usual, it took a few moments for the dog to start barking.

Ssh, Zoey, you know it won’t help. It will only end up giving us both a headache, I pleaded with her, scratching her ears gently.

Actually, I don’t know why I bother. There’s no point in reprimanding the dog for barking at nothing again. It’s not her fault for sensing something that just can’t be seen.

When she was a small puppy, I came out of the bathroom one morning to find her backed up in the corner of the bedroom, whimpering.

She and I both knew something was there as the hairs on the back of both our necks were standing to attention - always a bad sign.

In the beginning I felt guilty for letting her stay. It wasn’t right to put her through that frustration of never finding the thing that tormented her incessantly. But as time went on I could not find the courage to live without her.

I told myself I was doing the right thing by her, as she was a stray and needed a home.

Who was I kidding? When it came down to it, she found me, not the other way around. This was something I had yet to discover.

Apart from the dog, I chose to live alone, well, almost alone.

For me people are way too complicated and too emotionally draining with their dramas, real or made up. The more they tried to obtain that illusive something, the more they lose of themselves. And everyone is afraid of an emotional connection. I found it sad that as we protect ourselves from being hurt it prevents us to let others in. But who was I to tell them? As many people had pointed out, I was just as guilty as they were.

Unfortunately, I had tried but was disappointed many times and that was why I kept to myself. Well, most of the time.

Unfortunately, like most ordinary people on this planet, I had to work for a living. This meant I had to drag my sorry arse out of bed five days a week and mix with the complicated and emotionally draining masses.

So, today being Monday, I buried my feelings once again and became that actress I’d been practising since awareness.

The day started normally; up at 6:30 a.m., showered, ate breakfast and dressed.

I take the same route to work every day, Monday to Friday, passing the same people, the same cars. Life goes along with such monotony and very little excitement.

Every day I watch the little old Chinese woman doing her stretching exercises in the park, the bald-headed man running with his dog for exercise, and the mums racing their vehicles dangerously through the traffic to get their kids to school.

But sometimes, when I’m not concentrating, the world shifts, tempting me to look a little closer and before I knew it, I saw things that normal people would not.

Sometimes this was a good thing, as I intuitively knew when to swerve or to abruptly change lanes to avoid an accident, mostly from those sleep-deprived mothers.

When this happens, I soon forget and just get on with my day. But every now and then, I’m aware of something else in play, and I’m left with a strange feeling that I was being watched.

It’s during these times that I have such a sense of foreboding that I’m left experiencing inexplicable fear and I struggle to function.

I knew these incidents were not accidents at all, rather some form of communication, but from whom? At times I was so overwhelmed by sensations that it took me a few moments to snap out of it, arousing just enough to hear the impatient and angry honking from my fellow motorists. And there had been times where I had turned my car around to race back home, hoping to hide from whatever, or whoever, was haunting me.

So today when I woke so strong, so decisive, these feelings returned, reaching out to communicate with me again. How did I know? Well, the whole time my head felt as if it were about to explode with the almost caressing presence pushing against the barriers, intimately whispering, demanding to be heard. Thankfully, this presence vanished as I drove into the underground car park that was conveniently positioned beside my workplace.

Taking slow, deep breaths, I turned the engine off and stared at my reflection in the rear view mirror. What I saw reflecting back had me worried. If anyone that I knew saw me now they would immediately call for an ambulance, or worse, a padded one!

Composing myself slowly, I changed my appearance from a deranged woman to one that was just slightly unhinged.

Taking a few more deep breaths, I left my car and headed towards the stairs that lead directly to the office reception area.

Entering the rather dismal lobby, I stared at the company sign displayed on the rear wall behind the receptionist.

For a major freight company to be named Hamper’s Goods always amused me, but then it was named after Joe Hamper who owned the business. No one had been able to get through to him as to why many of our customers found it funny; to hamper meant to hinder or impede not expedite, which was what anyone freighting goods expected. But apart from that, there was nothing else at Hamper’s Goods that could be called humorous; everything was pretty normal and repetitive, and that’s how Joe liked it. That’s okay, as I found the repetitiveness strangely soothing, especially after what I’d experienced this morning.

With the morning platitudes out of the way, I sat down at my desk and commenced opening the mail that our receptionist, Julie, happily offloaded to me.

The company is quite large so there’s always a lot of mail to open. With the background noise of ringing phones and people speaking over each other, I inattentively tore through the envelopes. I was almost half way through the pile when cold shivers suddenly gripped me.

My hand froze as my eyes focused on a strange letter that bore my name in bold, alien letters.

It wasn’t strange that I received a letter. It was the way the letter felt when I held it in my hands. It looked like any business letter-white, window face-normal.

But as I sliced the envelope with the letter opener, a strange buzzing pierced my ears and my vision blurred.

As my mind registered the shock, my thoughts instantly stilled with a strange language invading my awareness. A few seconds passed before my mind was released, leaving me staring at the half-opened letter still clutched in my hand. As I stared, I searched my thoughts and the contents of the letter flowed within my mind.

How can I explain this simply? I can’t. I can only offer to say that the letter communicated to me telepathically.

Yep, crazy? But how else could it be explained, because after the initial shock I opened the letter to find it completely blank?

I must have sat there for a while because it took me some time to realise that someone was angrily shouting out my name.

Jess! What are you doing? Answer the damn phone!

The sound of that relentless voice pierced the haze within my mind allowing the phone’s incessant ring to break through. Reaching forward, I angrily grabbed the hand set, pressing it firmly to my ear.

Miss Pearce? A strange accent questioned before I had the chance to speak.

The accent was not just strange - it was familiar, but I had no idea where I’d heard it before. Initially, I could not determine if the voice was male or female. But what was more of a worry was I couldn’t determine if the voice was human. With my heart pounding in my chest, I answered warily.

Yes, and you are?

My name is Alistar Creeton. I believe you have received our letter.

At this stage my whole body was covered in goose bumps and, when I finally answered, I heard my voice sound distant and confused.

You…you…you mean the letter with no…no writing?

My God, I’m stuttering, I thought senselessly.

Yes, replied a voice that my mind was screaming to hang up on immediately but I couldn’t. I felt compelled to answer his questions. Who is this person?

Will you come? he asked again impatiently.

Struggling to find my voice and my composure, I finally pulled myself together and responded.

I’m so…so, sorry. What did you say?

Miss Pearce, my companions and I desire a meeting with you. Alistar said then repeated it slowly, deliberately, as if I was a child.

Meet you where? I replied cautiously, ignoring his taunt.

Please don’t play games. We know that you received the letter and have, therefore, received the instructions.

As he spoke, he enunciated his words slowly, and with each word his true intent resonated within my head.

I knew immediately I needed to hang up. My mind felt heavy, disorientated, and I couldn’t think straight.

Who the hell was this Alistar Creeton and how the hell did he know me? And more importantly, what did he know?

My ability to stay in control was so impeded that I thought this was it, I’d finally gone insane.

Thankfully my boss Carl, the owner of that earlier, familiar and annoying voice, appeared abruptly by my side demanding his reports.

For once in his life he did something right: this interruption shattered the unnatural connection Alistar Creeton had over me. Taking advantage of the opportunity I slammed the hand set back down on the phone’s platform. I stared blankly at the abused apparatus as my hand pulsed painfully.

For the remainder of the day I was in a haze. If you asked me later what I did, I couldn’t tell you. I honestly do not know how I held it together. I kept looking over my shoulder thinking-no-knowing, that something was watching. The acknowledgement of this fear ensnaring me was debilitating.

Thankfully, the clock finally reached a time where I could slip away unnoticed. Nervously, I hurried back to my car and drove home. Well, if that’s what you could call it. I don’t know how I managed to get the car and myself home in one piece. The whole time I drove, I was more concerned with what may have been following and not looking at where I should be going.

My home consisted of a small bedroom and even a smaller bathroom which was the second storey loft of George’s Garage.

George, a mechanic, maintains his business from home, which explained the name on the building. Him and his son, Sam, took me in when I had nowhere else to go and I return the favour by helping with the cooking and cleaning.

It’s a great arrangement as I play mum and they don’t ask questions.

Well, now they don’t ask questions, but there was a time when they wouldn’t shut up. Where are your parents?, Who did this to you?, Why did you runaway?

They kept asking and asking, and I just kept silent ‘til the time came when they stopped asking.

Eventually, turning eighteen may have helped silence their questions, easing that feeling that the law could come knocking at any moment. I kept trying to reassure them that no one was looking for me and they didn’t need to worry.

But how could they believe me? I was only fifteen when they were asking all those questions.

I did run away, on many occasions, but when I found George and Sam I was determined it would be the last.

No one really wanted me. There were the we want to be the perfect foster parents who slotted me in a role that I definitely was not suitable for. That lasted until I was nine and a half.

But one day those foster parents decided that I wasn’t a suitable candidate to be their daughter. They propagated some made up garbage that I stole something from their church and was sneaking out to meet the wrong crowd at night.

This resulted with me being placed in a children’s home for the next six years.

Honestly, looking back now, I think it was my changing figure and the roving eye of my foster father that suddenly changed my foster mother’s mind about me.

Anyway, I really don’t like to talk about that time in my life at the children’s home, other than I was lucky I didn’t kill the son of a bitch that decided I was to be his plaything.

Thankfully for him, he hadn’t locked the bathroom door adequately that fateful night he came up behind me forcing me onto the cold floor tiles. I struggled against him and, as my screams echoed within the dormitory, my mind felt a familiar presence wanting to take over. Images of how to render my opponent unconscious or, worse, dead, flowed within my thoughts.

Before I could acknowledge these feelings, Mrs. Henson, the Matron of our particular ward, came bursting through the door, dragging him off me.

You would think that as I was the victim I would be found innocent, but this was no normal environment. We were both found guilty and punished.

Afterwards, I was always made to feel I encouraged him and there were many times I could sense others thought the same way. My life became increasingly precarious and I knew it would only be a matter of time before I was made to do something I would regret while trying to protect myself.

So one afternoon as I watched the laundry truck reverse into the side driveway, I did the only thing I could think of, and that was to hide myself amongst the soiled garments.

Nervously, I jumped the barrier between the workroom and the truck. Hesitating briefly to ensure the driver was occupied, I dove in, trying valiantly not to throw up. Heaving with the mixture of gym socks and body odour assailing my already nervous stomach, I breathed shallow through my fingers as the truck passed the gates of the home.

As soon as I was clear from the shadow of that building, I jumped from the moving vehicle and ran. I ran so fast, drawing strength from my aching legs and breathless lungs to erase the memories of that place forever. I didn’t stop until it felt as if a fire had been lit within my chest consuming all my oxygen.

Doubling over, I leant against a tree, concentrating on my breathing. As my breathing returned to some sort of normality I stood, finally taking notice of my surroundings. I found myself in front of a house with a child’s swing in the front yard and a push bike leaning against the garage door. I don’t know why, but I felt a strong impulse to go inside.

So that’s how I ended up on George’s doorstep. Dirty, dishevelled and extremely wary of trusting anybody.

Truthfully, at the time, I really don’t know why Sam invited me in and then pleaded with his father, Can we keep her? But knowing Sam as I do now, I understand why George said yes.

Two months before I came to their doorstep, Sam’s mother had died from breast cancer. George was a mess and was struggling to cope with Sam, who was five at the time.

Sam treated me like I was a lost puppy who needed a home and George just couldn’t say no to the angelic face and ice blue eyes that Sam shared with his mum.

Now, after ten years, I couldn’t imagine a better home. I know there were times when George wanted to return me to the pound or hit me with a rolled up newspaper, but our need for each other was like a buoy to a ship, creating focus and security.

What I didn’t know at the time was that these strengths, both from within and found, needed to be nurtured.

It was though I needed to be here, with George and Sam, to teach me how to love, enabling me to get through the next few days and, the rest of this life.

Forcing my thoughts to return to the present, I turned the ignition off and stared at the old wooden garage door with a paint job that dated back to the Sixties: a combination of faded orange and lime stripes! My God, what were they smoking back then?

Suddenly I jumped at what sounded like a wounded possum clawing at my window, causing me to hit my knee hard on the steering wheel during the ruckus.

Jess, Jess, what are you doing just sitting there? Come inside! Dad needs to talk to you. NOW! Sam yelled.

I hurriedly disentangled myself from the seat belt and stepped out of the car. Once I was out of the car, Sam didn’t even allow me time to attend to my injury as he immediately grabbed my hand, dragging me into the kitchen.

As a typical fifteen-year-old boy, Sam is totally unaware of his developing body. Now holding me in his vice-like grip, this development of his was painfully sending spasms from my hand and along my arm.

After we both crashed through the kitchen door, I quickly removed my hand from his and coaxed the blood to return. Standing still, rubbing my arm, I surveyed the room.

George sat at the round table at the far end, but he was not alone. A stranger sat with his back to us, his long blonde hair tied back in a tight ponytail that shone brightly under the kitchen light.

Finally, Jess, you’ve made it home, George said anxiously while tilting his head slightly towards his guest.

George’s entire demeanour made the hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention. He has always been a man of few words. Whenever you require someone to tell you to get your head out of your arse and get your shit together, George is that person.

He is that breed of man who will tell you what you need to hear whether it hurts or not. So what you see is what you get with George and that’s what I love about him.

So studying George’s body language now, I knew he was indicating trouble.

Jess, there is someone here who is impatient to meet with you. He has been waiting for two hours. He says his name is David Graham. Do you know this man? George enquired not too happily.

Abruptly, the man with the long blonde ponytail stood. This quick movement instantly had me on edge. As he stood, he inadvertently hit his head on the hanging light positioned above the table making it swing from side to side.

I moved hesitantly forward to shake his hand but my legs felt suddenly heavy and uncooperative.

The changing shades of light from the swaying globe made it