Made to Forget: Nepherium Novella Series, #1

By Samantha LaFantasie

There's something that lies within my memory. Hidden in the dark. Something that can kill me and those that I love. But I was in an accident, covered in mystery and deception. And my memory…was lost. There are those who want me to remember. I don't trust them.  And those I do trust…are fighting for me to forget.

Elsabetha Ellery wants to get her memory back, even if it kills her.

After waking up in a hospital with no memory, Elsabetha quickly learns those who claim to be her friend are anything but. And those who are her true friends keep themselves unseen.

Stuck with piecing together her broken memories alone, Elsa struggles with having faith in those she trusts and heeding the warnings of the dangers in recovering her memory. Ignoring them, she faces heavy consequences. Ones she doesn't see until it's too late and a life is lost.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Samantha LaFantasie
• Release date: Jul 31, 2013
• ISBN: 9781386191469

Samantha LaFantasie

A Kansas native, Samantha LaFantasie spends her free time with her three kids and arguing with her characters. Writing has always been a passion of hers, forgoing all other desires to devote to this one obsession. She’s primarily a fantasy writer but often feels pulled to genres such as sci-fi, romance, and others. Samantha became a bestselling author with the Pandora Boxed Set (which includes Made to Forget: Nepherium Novella series--Part One) on both Amazon and USA Today. Samantha loves to take time to enjoy other activities such as photography and playing her favorite game of all time, Guild Wars 2.  

Book preview

ONE

THERE’S NO WORSE FEELING than thinking you are waking from a really bad nightmare, only to find yourself in the hospital with no memory of why or how you got there.

When I opened my eyes, I expected to find myself in the comfort of my own bed instead of wrapped in crispy sheets and a holey bedspread. My vision was blurred and my head pounded with an incredible headache. Something covered my head where the pain was centered. Lifting a hand, I discovered gauze taped into place. Touching it with slight pressure caused more pain, forcing me to wince. My uniform and gear were missing. Instead, I wore drawstring pants and a t-shirt made from thin material, covered in small, brown trees and tiny, green birds. A small box was taped in the center of my breasts. It chirped with each beat of my heart.

Panic filled the darkest depths of my soul as I struggled to remember what happened. I couldn’t remember anything. Just flashes of still frames­–partial memories–like watching a movie with the most vital scenes blacked out. I took deep breaths, recalling what I could of my training, and then took in my surroundings, desperately seeking anything familiar.

The small, square-shaped room was adjoined with another small room that I assumed was the bathroom. The cream walls were dotted with a few blond-stained cabinets and drawers. Two burgundy chairs sat in the corner of the room in front of a row of sealed, vertical blinds. There was nothing that I recognized and nothing to suggest I had been compromised.

The irritating contraption in my nose pulled against the skin and formed a raw spot. Whenever I shifted my head, it felt like it was slicing through another layer of skin. I pulled the oxidizer from my nose and the heart monitor from my chest then slipped my sock covered feet to the floor. I was determined to storm through the door and find someone with answers—or fight my way out, if need be. 

Apparently, ripping off monitors and running from my room freaking out set the medical staff on edge. They tackled me to the floor and gave me a bullet full of some sedative, causing me to wake up and freak out again later. The difference being, my wrists were cuffed to the sides of the bed. The top was raised slightly, allowing me to lie in a partial sitting position. I struggled with my restraints, then slammed my head to the back of the bed. They were treating me like some prisoner! A surge of dizziness and pain swam through me, bringing with it a bout of nausea.

A shadow from the corner of the room moved in my periphery. Without looking directly at the figure, I could tell it was a woman. She was around five-six or five-seven and thin, but the curves along her legs and arms were well-formed. I had no doubt she could hold her own.

Who are you? I asked, still not looking directly at her. I closed my eyes to force away the remaining effects of my fit.

Jenna Malcom. I’ve been assigned to you.

Assigned to me? For what? By who?

Finally, I looked at her directly. She was pretty—in the black widow sort of way. Her blonde hair was pulled into a long ponytail, situated dead center in the crown of her head. Her eyes glistened in the fluorescents. They weren’t an icy blue, but were rather bright and warm. Yet the feeling I got off her said otherwise.

Someone who has taken an interest in your safety. Relax. Her smile reached her eyes. All will be explained soon.

She removed herself from the chair with smooth, fluid movements then calmly sauntered to the intercom attached to the wall in front of my bed. She kept her gaze on me with a smile that would make any guy drool and every self-conscious school girl even more insecure. I know, because I was just like that. Always striving for that seemingly unobtainable perfection. At least until some point in my life, lost in my missing memories. Apparently, it no longer affected me the way it used to.

Her attire left a lot of questions unanswered. She wore jeans, knee-high boots that clicked with every step, a grey shirt that went over the waist of her jeans, and a black jacket that barely covered the length of her long torso. Her appearance conflicted with the energy she gave off, like she was trying to project a façade that didn’t fit. As she stretched her long, graceful fingers to the button on the intercom, I wondered why someone with her superficial grace wouldn’t have a better manicure. Her skin was smooth and milky, with long, slender fingers, but the cropped nails looked like they had never seen a shade of polish. Definitely something that didn’t match the appearance she was clearly trying to portray.

I struggled–and failed­–to get a definitive reading of her energy. Everything conflicted. I squirmed in unease. There was much more to the story than what I was seeing, like she somehow knew of my abilities and was purposefully trying to throw me off. My initial instincts warned me to not trust what she said.

A trickling beep sounded from the small speaker, followed by a cracked, feminine voice, Ye-eh-es?

She’s awake, Jenna responded. Her gaze lifted to mine, and she smiled again. I raised an eyebrow.

Okay, the voice said as it came through clearer, cracking with heavy static afterward.

How long have I been here? I asked.

She shrugged and walked back to her small chair in the corner of the room. She took a seat and crossed her legs and arms.

The blinds were pulled open, and the glass door was unlocked. The room overlooked a small courtyard complete with small ponds, rivers that curved in and out, and a small waterfall.

Do you not remember me at all? Do I not look familiar to you in any way? Jenna asked.

Should you be familiar? I asked, unable to hide the snide tone in my voice. My discomfort with her presence was rapidly morphing into irritation.

She smiled again. Wow, they really did a number on you, didn’t they? She chuckled softly then turned her gaze to the courtyard.

They?

You’ll see.

I considered letting a few more remarks roll off my tongue, but the door to my room slid open and shut with a soft hiss. Footsteps padded into the room, and before me stood a pseudo-brunette man in a long, white coat­­. He carried a D-File in the crook of his arm. His cold-as-stone grey eyes matched his plastic smile.

Immediately, I didn’t trust him. Of course, I never really trusted any medical staff.

He stepped to the side of the bed, slipped his hand into mine, and gave me a half-assed squeeze.

Never trust a person who doesn’t give you a firm handshake. I don’t remember where I learned that–or from whom–but it went along with my instincts, so I didn’t fight it.

Good morning, Miss Ellery. I’m Dr. Barlow, your attending physician. I’ve been asked to monitor your progress and oversee all of your care. How have you been feeling?

Like someone had better start giving me answers and release me from these restraints. I felt like adding an insult to his deficient façade but held my tongue. There was a time and place for that, and I knew right then wasn’t it.

His smile widened. Let’s get you all checked out first, then we’ll see about the restraints and maybe some answers. Sound like a plan?

I shrugged. Do I have a choice? No. Of course not. As long as I was chained up, so to speak, I had to play by his rules.

Miss Ellery, five days ago you were in an accident involving a transporter. You’ve been in a coma until today. With the extent of your injuries, massive memory loss was expected. But we won’t be able to determine the severity or give a prognosis of recovery until we know how much you remember. He moved around me as he explained, running a bio scanner over the length of my body, except for my head. Then he parked himself on the foot of the bed, moving the D-file to his lap, and looked at me expectantly.

You want to know how much I remember.

He nodded. That would help tremendously.

Nothing. I remember nothing, I admitted sourly.

But you remember your name? he asked.

I nodded.

Your home address?

I hesitated but nodded again. Was that unusual?

Do you remember where you work?

I shook my head, though it wasn’t entirely true. I remembered that I worked for the Aurora Vanguard, but not what I did, specifically. I remembered it was undercover work and very secretive.  He nodded in return and removed himself from the bed, leaving the D-file at my feet.

Do you remember anything from your childhood, like school, family, favorite places to hang out, first boyfriend? he asked, taking out a penlight and shining it into both of my eyes individually.

I tried to think. Really I did. Only flashes of images would come. Things I recalled but with huge pieces missing. It was like thinking through Swiss cheese. I tried to remember a boyfriend or special someone, but no luck. Only a big blotch of nothingness.

I remember things–memories from my past–but nothing as specific as what you are asking. It’s like a big, black blank.

He pressed his lips together firmly, nodded again, then took the D-file into his lacking grip and laid it on my lap. He pressed the red button on the top and tapped a few places on the clear surface. The screen blacked out momentarily before a red outline of a human head appeared with tangled cracks covering the left side.

"This is the thermal x-ray scan of your