Sparks

By Emalie Brannigan

"We are built and destroyed on love."
Zelda Ellyn Jadestone doesn't know love; she can't remember her old family, and she's determined to forget her little brother, Peter, who abandoned her almost four years ago. The only two people she finds solace in are her elderly neighbor and father figure, Charles Woobi, and her best friend, Eric Stellenzer. She's content with living a simple, ordinary life, and chooses not to dwell on the people she's lost. But when Charles Woobi is suddenly arrested under mysterious circumstances, Zelda enlists the help of a young Uniform, or military officer, named David, and discovers her society holds something much more sinister than she ever knew could be possible.

In Emalie Brannigan's exhilarating, debut novel, Zelda Jadestone explores the fine line between love and hate, truth and pain, and justice and obedience as she unravels the mystery behind her memory loss and her brother's disappearance. Love just might be something worth fighting for.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jan 4, 2019
• ISBN: 9781543955545

Book preview

Copyright © 2020 by Emalie Brannigan

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Print ISBN: 978-1-54395-553-8

eBook ISBN: 978-1-54395-554-5

Dedicated to my family and friends, for all the support, and to my laptop, for giving me the idea for this book in the first place.

We all carry that spark deep within us. We all have the ability to burst into flame.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

I hear his laughter this time, so close to my ear that it startles me. I hear my name echoing throughout the room, his light, boyish voice chasing me as I searched for him. Suddenly, a light, and I whirl around to see him standing amidst the darkness that threatened to swallow him. I took cautious steps in his direction, drawing nearer with each breath I took, a nd I was just beginning to feel the warmth radiating off his small frame when—

I woke up staring at the empty bed across from mine, body instinctually tensing at the sight of the pristine, neatly folded sheets that teetered on the edge. Pulling the blanket closer to me for warmth, I felt that tug once again, that urge to relight the spark in me, that little flame that blew out the morning I woke up to find Peter had disappeared—no note, no goodbye, just gone. I growled deep in my throat at my own resentment and the bitter taste anger left in my mouth.

The sparks fueled by pain are always the brightest.

The rejection stung most, I think—the ever-present, creeping sadness that caused my bones to quake every time I thought of him. I couldn’t seem to tear my eyes away from the empty bed, nor could I seem to steer my thoughts away from the boy who had once occupied it.

The memories caused a knocking, stabbing sensation at my heart, and I looked around to try to find something to distract myself with until Peter slipped from my mind. But everything I looked at reminded me of him. The table at which we would sit and dine together, his empty bed, the door to the bathroom. I couldn’t outrun my thoughts, not this time, so in a rush to escape my suffocating surroundings, I scurried out of bed. My bare feet touched the cold concrete floor as I hurried over to the closet and put on my mandatory clothes that every citizen was mandated to wear: the gray shirt, gray pants, and gray shoes that made even the most noticeable people fade into the background.

I slinked out of my househut—that small brown box people in the Society lived in—placed my hands in the baggy pockets of my pants, and sighed softly, thinking what to do now that I was out. Breaking the curfew was against the law, and although I was tempted to go back inside for that exact reason, the memory of Peter was much too overwhelming to even consider walking back into my househut. I ran my hands through my long, brown hair and quickly scanned my street for Uniforms before I saw a figure of someone else standing at the end of the road. Startled, I slammed my body up against my door to hide myself from view, but curiosity got the best of me, and I peeked back to see the figure now walking away from me, toward the boundary. Upon noticing that he was wearing gray, not the Uniform-mandated white, I trotted down the street quietly until I reached the man.

He stood by the boundary, the filmy substance that distorted whatever was on the outside of the Society. One touch to the shiny, humming film would cause instant disintegration. As I got closer, I noticed the gray hair, stout stature, and small cane he leaned on, and I relaxed when I realized it was only Mr. Woobi.

Charles Woobi was the older man whose graying hair was almost always disheveled, his icy, light blue eyes seemingly searing through everything he watched. He had a waddle to his gait that no one else in the Society had, but he held his head up high, conflicting the haunted, distraught look that would sometimes fog up his eyes. He was always present in my childhood, acting as the father figure I didn’t have, bonding us in an inexplicable way. I admired him more than I did anyone else.

Mr. Woobi was the only one who could recall the time before the Society was created, a time I was so desperate to remember. Leader Caleb told us that he had our memories purposefully wiped so we couldn’t remember our pasts because of the trauma we had experienced during our time outside the boundary, a time when I was only a mere four years old and my brother Peter, barely a toddler. Over the years, as I became more curious, I began to ask anyone who would pay attention for any details he or she might have remembered from his or her past, but I never received answers. No one remembered, and neither did I.

But Mr. Woobi did, and I would go to him with every question. One particular day, while he was talking to himself, I overheard him mutter something along the lines of happened and fighting, and I was immediately intrigued, questioning him on what he could’ve possibly meant. Startled, he gave a little shake of his head, his eyes once again clouded over in a way that would sometimes scare me. He mumbled, You wouldn’t understand.

I would if you explained things to me, was my response, and a kind of hopeful expression passed over the old man’s face, a small smile lifting his wrinkles in a way that told me he hadn’t smiled in a while. It became a ritual for the three of us; he would come over every day to tell Peter and me stories from the past, allowing me to imagine what my life was like before the Society, before my parents had abandoned my brother and me. It’s what I dreamt about, what filled my heart with longing. Quite a trio we were, the lonely old man and the two equally lonely children. My family was once again rebuilt.

But everything came to a halt when Peter left. I had banned the elder from my househut, the memories of our little family too powerful for me to remember. I stopped asking questions about the past. I couldn’t handle the pain Peter’s absence left in my life.

I tried not to think of it too often.

I came up behind the older man, making sure he heard the soft clearing of my throat, so I didn’t alarm him with my presence. Good morning, I said, walking until I was standing right beside him.

Mornin’, Mr. Woobi responded with a smile when he saw it was me. Happy birthday. I didn’t get a chance to congratulate you on making it to eighteen yesterday.

I shuffled from foot-to-foot as I mumbled, I didn’t really give you a chance.

Mr. Woobi bobbed his head and put a gentle hand on my shoulder. You’re here now.

Mr. Woobi?

The elder turns around from gently tucking three-year-old Peter into bed to look at me softly. Yes, Zelda Ellyn?

Why don’t you stay here with us? It’s scary without you. As if on cue, the incinerator near the kitchen sink groans, and I clutch at my bedsheets fearfully, dark brown eyes blown wide.

He pads over to the side of my bed, a bed much too large for my five-year-old frame, and glides his hand over my hair lightly until I slowly begin to feel my eyelids droop. I wish I could, dear girl, he says. His voice is muffled as I drift off to sleep, but I manage to catch one more thing: But I’m here now.

I swallowed hard and reached up to place my hand over his in response.

What did you do on your special day? asked the elder after a brief lapse in conversation, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw the hint of a smile on his face when he added, Did Eric come to see you?

Something like a snort came out of my mouth at his statement. Yes. A warmth spread across my entire body at just the thought of Eric, and soon, I found myself smiling. Mr. Woobi and I were both quiet for a while, content with watching the shimmering of the boundary, before I asked, Why are you out here?

I heard him sigh, as if he had been waiting for me to ask that question. Why are you? he retorted playfully.

Peter.

That was all it took for Mr. Woobi to drop our eye contact and lower his head shamefully. I’m sorry.

What happened isn’t your fault, Mr. Woobi. My voice was much harsher than I had originally intended.

He shook his head and muttered, Yes, it is, under his breath.

I harshly gripped his shoulders to make him look at me, and he immediately softened under my gaze. Not your fault, I repeated, pronouncing every syllable so he knew that I meant it. Only Peter could decide if he wanted to stay.

Mr. Woobi nodded toward me gratefully, took my hand, and patted the top of it. Thank you, he muttered under his breath.

I furrowed my eyebrows. For what?

But before he had a chance to answer, the familiar hum of a plane filled the air, and I hesitantly looked up to the sky to see the large red vehicle descending a couple of yards away from me, its propellers sending my hair flying in all directions. I ducked and threw myself behind the corner of a househut, knowing exactly where I would be sent if the Uniforms caught me awake before curfew.

Uniforms. Just the word alone was enough to send shivers up my spine. Anyone could spot them. Instead of the drab, dull color the citizens wore, Uniforms, the law enforcers of the Society, had crisp, stark-white suits with a vibrant, flaming red S surrounded by two rings—the Society’s symbol—on the left side, and boots that went right below the knee to match. I was never given a reason to hate them before:

Miss, Peter Adrian Jadestone has chosen a different path for himself. He has chosen to leave you…

Nine Uniforms marched out from the plane the moment it landed, headed straight for Mr. Woobi. Their boots made a clicking noise each time they stepped on the ground, and it was the only sound I could hear besides my ever-quickening breath. Once nine Uniforms had encircled Mr. Woobi, another stepped off the once-flying vehicle, but the moment his boot hit the ground and he turned around, I had to squint to make sure I was seeing him correctly. His golden-blond hair was a stark contrast to the rest of his dark-haired troop. He stood a head taller than everyone else, his shoulders big and broad, and his face was symmetrical, with a perfect nose that fit his oval-shaped face well. His eyes were a piercing, electric blue, a blue that seemed so familiar I could’ve sworn I had seen them before.

The blond one was the first to speak. Charles B. Woobi?

My elderly neighbor turned to look at him, a scowl embossed on his face. Yes, 125?

I looked over his cleanly-shaven face, how young he looked, and with a start, I gathered that this Uniform couldn’t have been much older than I was. My stare traveled down to his broad chest, where I noticed the five red stars glittering against his pristine, white jacket, matching the Societan emblem and showing everyone just how highly he was ranked. Even if I wasn’t a law enforcer myself, I knew a thing or two about the system, and it shocked me that someone so young would be in such a position of authority.

You have violated the terms of your agreement, 125 said, once again captivating my full attention with the sound of his soothing voice, much too soft to be recognized as a Uniform’s. You are to be taken to the Jail immediately.

I couldn’t mask the look of distressed surprise that came over my features, and I doubled over when I felt a stab at my heart. Not again, I thought to myself. Not again. Not again. A strange feeling inside stirred in me then, the same sinking in the pit of my stomach I felt every morning when I was forced to open my eyes to an empty, brother-less bed, the same emotion that made me want to defend Mr. Woobi in whatever way I could. But I was too afraid for my own self and what they would do if they caught me, so I stayed silent and willed my mind to do the same, clenching my jaw and fists tightly.

Mr. Woobi stepped closer to the blond-haired Uniform, causing the rest of the nine to also inch toward the older man, but 125 raised a hand to stop his squadron from doing anything else. It wasn’t until Mr. Woobi was up close and directly in front of him that he spoke. David, he pleaded, and I had never heard such sadness in the man’s voice before. What have they done to you?

A small gasp escaped me, and I had to forcefully cover my mouth with my hand. It was against the law to call a Uniform by his name; they were only to be referred to by their numbers, and although it was supposedly a sign of respect, to me it felt more like a way of dehumanizing them, making them seem like machines the Society created for obedience, the same way they did with Peter.

125, the one Mr. Woobi had called David, now had his jaw set. Mr. Charles Woobi, you are to leave with us immediately. There was a hardness in his tone now, all former calmness gone, that made goosebumps erupt along my arms.

I thought for sure Mr. Woobi would say something, justify his actions at the very least, but instead, he simply spat right onto the Uniform’s boot, looking slowly back up with disappointed eyes to stare at the blond one.

Before I even had the chance to contemplate the weight of his actions, Mr. Woobi was surrounded by the other nine Uniforms, clubs raised. At the sound of the crack of a club slamming into Mr. Woobi’s arm, that warmth of hatred I felt for the Uniforms grew into a heat, and I couldn’t seem to stop myself from rising from my squatting position behind the househut and shouting, Stop! They all turned to look at me with their dead eyes, and I fought hard to keep bile from rising into my throat from their listless stares. Hit him one more time… I growled at them all, determined to ignore the nausea that wrapped around my entire body as I thought about my future, certainly now going to be spent in the Jail. My eyes instead focused on Mr. Woobi’s limp body on the cement, his arm half-raised in a defensive position, and the heat coiled itself around my heart once again. "I dare you. Hit Charles Woobi one more time…"

Why don’t I hit you, instead? remarked one of the Uniforms with a wicked smirk, stepping away from my elderly neighbor to inch closer to me, club poised above his head. Looks as though you could use a good hit.

I stepped closer to Mr. Woobi until I stood in front of him, hatefully eyeing the Uniforms that had begun to form a circle around me. Go ahead, I retorted while hovering over the older man, arms stretched out to protect him from harm.

But right when I expected a blow, possibly to the head, the one named David rushed in front to shield me from the club. Don’t hit her, he barked at the other Uniforms, his voice enough to stop them dead.

She’s out of her househut before curfew, they tried to argue. She meddled in government-only business, and she spoke back to a commanding officer, 125. We have authority—

If I grant it to you, which I did not. We came in search of Charles Woobi, not a girl. David offered his hand to me so I could pull myself up, but I refused to touch him and stood up by myself. David’s eyes glowed as he watched me intently, a miniscule smile playing across his lips that I tried hard to ignore. I repeated the same mantra in my head—I hate Uniforms, I hate Uniforms, I hate Uniforms—to remind me not to look at him. Load up Charles Woobi; I’ll speak to her, he ordered, and the rest of his troop begrudgingly obeyed, their eyes never once leaving me as the blond-haired Uniform led me back over to the corner of the househut. He waved his hand in a way that signaled they were finished, and the marching into the plane began, only this time, the padding of Mr. Woobi’s feet joined with the smacks of theirs.

While his back was turned, I tried to slip away, but 125 saw me; I knew from the way he twisted around the second I began to take my leave. He stared at me with such an inquisitive intensity, an intensity I hadn’t experienced before, and it terrified me into trying to run. My sudden action took the Uniform by surprise, giving me a sense of confidence as I galloped around the corner, but all too soon I felt fingers wrap around my upper arm, forcing me to a sudden, violent halt.

What’s your name, miss? he panted, his chest lifting and falling just as heavily as mine was as he gazed into my eyes. The beginnings of perspiration were starting to bead along his hairline, and his short exhales blew into my face.

I couldn’t pull away, even if his fingers weren’t so tightly bound to my upper arm. He murmured again, What’s your name? Upon seeing how frightened I was, he added, I won’t hurt you, I promise. I think what you did for that old man was…brave.

You do? I asked in awe.

He nodded. Yes. That’s why I’m letting you go. He gave me a nudge; that touch alone was enough to send what felt like pure electricity bolting through my veins. Run back to your househut and stay there until curfew is called. I’ll make up some excuse. Another nudge. Go.

What will happen to him? I panted.

125 bobbed his head in the direction of the plane. Charles Woobi? When I nodded, his gaze softened. Do you care about him?

I murmured, Yes, under my breath, not trusting myself to look at him anymore.

The Uniform stiffened, but when he noticed the tears pooling in my eyes, he affirmed, I won’t hurt him.

It’s not necessarily you I’m worried about, I whispered. The other Uniforms, Leader Caleb, they could—

Anyone, then, he corrected himself immediately. I won’t let anyone hurt him.

Why are you helping me? I snapped back,