The Gifted Children: The Finding of Ariadne Turner

By Joey Love

Ariadne is a teenager on the run from mysterious forces that seem to follow her wherever she goes. People around her are dying and there are whispers that it may be her fault. Under an alias she hides from her terrifying past- until she is whisked away into a world of the unknown by a stranger named Tuc. At a school for children with supernatural powers, Ariadne finds friendship and begins to unravel the secrets of her old life. Together with her friends Grey. Elias, Lincoln and Caroline, Ariadne battles foes that threaten to turn her already tumultuous world upside down.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joey Love
• Release date: Oct 9, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463348048

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The Gifted Children

The Finding of Ariadne Turner

Joey Love

Copyright © 2019 Joey Love

All rights reserved.

Distributed by Smashwords

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Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Prologue

I had never meant to kill anyone. I left everything behind and never looked back; it was far too late to make any semblance of a difference, too late to save any of them. I gave myself a new name, a new identity, but my precautions didn’t stop them from looking for me.

I saw my face plastered all over the news; they must think I was another victim of the murderer. They didn’t suspect that I was the one who killed him, and why would they? No one would believe me if I were to say it was an accident. After all, maybe it wasn’t an accident.

Maybe, the three times it happened before weren’t accidents either. Something about this one, though, I couldn’t pass off as an innocent mistake. The other times, I was upset, of course, but rationalized that they would have died anyway, I gave myself excuses. This boy was different—I hadn’t thought of his fragile mortality the entire time we were together. Until he died. Until I killed him.

One

I hand the cashier a crumbled twenty, I always pay for everything with cash. Never leave a paper trail—my number one rule. I’m disguised well enough, but even I can’t be overconfident and slip up, leaving my name all over the state of Nebraska. If I do, the private investigators my family has hired will find me for sure, considering how my real name isn’t exactly inconspicuous. My parents were huge Greek mythology buffs, and my name is a dead giveaway to who I really am. I could never blend in with a name like mine, trust me—I’ve lived with it for sixteen years.

I accept my change—thirty-two cents—give the smiling cashier a nod and lift my bag from his outstretched hand. He’s starting to recognize me, I’ve visited this store too often recently. It was my hope to go to different shops each time I needed something, but my options are very limited here. It turns out Nebraska has a lot less accessibility in comparison to New York City—the only place I had ever lived before now.

The door lets out a resonating clang behind me, the bells attached to the door handle chiming as I leave. The sound makes me long for Christmastime, even though it’s August and the heat is beating down on me, sticky sweat rolling down my back as I walk outside, exposed to the sun. This town is so small, I can see everything it has to offer on a single desolate stretch of road.

Several dilapidated houses and empty storefronts are all smashed together in an untidy line, staring at me as I walk in their shadows. The diner I work at is a few blocks away from the store, passing it gives me a rush of relief that I don’t have to go back until the morning. It’s not difficult work, in fact, there are so few customers it’s a wonder Mel’s stays open at all.

I continue to walk two more miles on the worn-down, dusty brick roads until I get home. At least for now, I live in the basement of a middle-aged woman’s home whom I had met after a few weeks in town. She had noticed me sneaking out of the old shoe store, which turned out to belong to her family. Since she was the only one left to inherit the business, and she was not interested in keeping it up, it had fallen to disrepair, not unlike most of the shops on the strip.

The shoe shop, not without its disadvantages, had worked well for me at the time. I had run out of cash for a motel, and no one ever came to the shop anyway, so I set up camp in what looked to be the remnants of a back office. It was in the far back corner, with a small, dingy window that I could barely squeeze out of. Thankfully for me, all of my belongings fit into only a few bags, so taking things with me was quick work if I had an unexpected visitor. The floor, on the other hand, was not particularly comfortable, but I was happy to not be sleeping on a bus or a bug-infested motel bed for the first time in weeks.

Good things never last long. I was lucky, though, my secret hideaway had opened the door to a better secret hideaway. When Imelda first approached me I was hesitant, but she offered me a bed, with a promise of no bugs, instead of a floor to sleep on. She asked no questions and offered no information in return, I found it extremely hard to turn that down.

She had walked right up to me and simply stated that an old shoe store is no place for a young lady to sleep and made me an offer that I couldn’t refuse. She had promised not to say anything about me if I didn’t cause her any trouble. It gets lonely at the house and hearing someone else making some noise would put a stop to me becoming a crazy cat lady, she had said. She never asked where I was from, or why I was running.

I sensed that maybe she had been in trouble before and was trying to make things right with the world. She was big into karma, horoscopes, that sort of thing. I could deal with hearing what the stars and planets were doing if it meant she kept my presence a secret. So far, she had.

My thoughts had occupied my time during the walk home. Before I even realize it, I’m unlocking the door to the basement entrance and quickly slamming the deadbolt behind me. The basement isn’t much to look at. The three rooms amount to about 300 square feet, plenty of room for a teenage girl who ran away from home—it wasn’t like I was planning on having friends over every other night.

The kitchen and living room are combined. The kitchen has a mini refrigerator large enough to fit my meager groceries; a few cabinets with peeling green paint—no doubt leftover from the ’70s; and an ancient microwave, larger than the fridge, that works about half the time. The living room is even more sparse. A floral printed sofa, that sits along the far wall and smells strongly of vinegar, is the most dominant piece of furniture in the room.

An old gray armchair—which has more tears in the fabric than could possibly be counted—rests on the wall shared with the kitchen. It’s like there wasn’t quite enough space in the living room but someone was determined to make it fit. There is no television; there is nothing more than a sofa and a chair crammed into the dark, windowless room. I switch on the lights, casting a dim orange glow over the room—I need to add light bulbs to my next shopping list.

Right beside me is an old, wobbly folding table large enough for two. One of the legs is currently being held together with gray duct tape, thankfully though, the chairs are sturdy. Looking around, I smile. It isn’t what I am used to. It is not what my parents had ever planned for me, but I love every inch of this basement. I don’t have to pretend to be anyone here. I can just be me.

Well, most of the time, anyway.

An airy, almost ethereal, voice calls from the upstairs, Jennifer, is that you?

I look beyond the sofa at the spiral staircase leading to the upper floor of Imelda’s home. Stepping closer so she can see me, I reply, Yes, it’s me! I’m sorry if I bothered you.

A smile creeps onto Imelda’s face. She looks ten years younger when she smiles. Nonsense. Would you like to have supper with me tonight? I think you are going to have an interesting week, Neptune is being very generous . . .

Oh, I’m sorry Imelda, I have a lot to do tonight. For school, noticing her smile quickly turning to disappointment I add, Maybe over breakfast?

Perking up she says, Of course. Have a good night, Jennifer.

I hear the door click shut and the locks turning into place. I may not agree with her faith in astrology, but Imelda is certainly understanding of my desire to be alone. About once a week she has asked me to join her for supper and each time I decline. Tomorrow will be no different from the days before. I will get up before the sun and set out for the diner and she’ll soon realize I won’t be upstairs for breakfast. Neither of us will ever say anything about it.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not entirely heartless, it’s the opposite. I don’t want anything to happen to her. When I agreed to stay here I knew I couldn’t get close to her for her own safety. I thought I would be more capable of keeping my emotions in check, admittedly, it does help that Imelda is the most isolated person I have ever met, aside from myself.

If something happened to her, it is likely no one would notice, at least giving me time to skip town. In the few months I’ve been staying here, though, I’ve realized that I’ve started to care for Imelda. This alone makes me say no to her supper invitations, it’s a risk that I’m not willing to take. I won’t hurt anyone again.

I place the shopping bag on the table and sigh as I remember all the work I should do tonight. I had enrolled in an online GED program. Of course, the certificate I earn will have the name Jennifer Smith on it, but the achievement will be all mine. The point is, my father always had high hopes for me getting a higher education, and I figure I’ve already let him down enough by becoming a murderer. So, I owe it to him to at least earn my GED and go to college, even though he’ll never know about it.

I cover the distance from the sofa to the bedroom within a few paces. Sitting at the small desk in the corner, I open my notebook; tonight, Algebra is on the menu. Math is my least favorite subject by far. At home I had already taken Algebra, so it isn’t too difficult, just time consuming. If I stay on course I will have my GED in two months, and I can get a real job until I decide to continue on to college. I haven’t worked out all the details of how to enroll without a birth certificate, or some other proof of identification. Sooner rather than later I’ll need to figure out a way to get fake documents.

As for now, I wait tables at a diner, Mel’s, in the mornings from 5 a.m. until 11 a.m. It doesn’t pay well, but I don’t need much. I know it’s risky to get a job, but I tried carefully not to let anyone know too much throughout the application process. I work my hours and collect my paycheck week after week, never giving Mel a reason to question me.

It helps that Mel’s is completely unremarkable, it’s as safe of a place to work as I could ever find. It’s a hole in the wall local diner whose owner is as slimy as they come. He doesn’t ask many questions, my paychecks are all cash given under the table, plus tips. It works out well for both of us.

My mind is too occupied to concentrate on Algebra, I close my books and head for bed. A small twin bed is shoved against the wall opposite of the desk. Lying on top is the warmest, most misshapen knit blanket in the world. It’s an olive-green color; an odd color to choose for a blanket, since it closely resembles green bean baby food—and gradually gets wider at the ends and smaller in the center. I’m sure it wasn’t intentionally made to be, but I don’t mind.

Imelda had given it to me the night that she had found me at the shoe store. She had proudly told me that she had knitted it herself. I curl myself underneath it and try to shut out the equations running through my mind. Though, in this half dream state I can’t help but think that maybe the equations are the least of my problems.

• • •

My alarm wakes me up at 3:30 a.m.. Turning it off, I do my best to make very little noise. Padding softly across the chipping linoleum floor, I head out to the table where I had left my bag yesterday. Digging around in the dark, my fingers brush what I’m looking for—a box of hair dye. My hair is naturally dark brown but the night I left home I had bought a dark red dye from the store and I’ve been touching it up once a month.

I am a bit overdue and my roots are starting to give my natural hair color away. I’m starting to resemble the missing girl from New York. This color isn’t red enough to look unnatural, but it’s different enough that I look very unlike my old self. I lather the dye in and then pile my hair on top of my head, looking in the mirror.

I stare at the reflection long enough to feel the ever-familiar twinge of self-pity. My eyes were once bright blue, but the bruised colored shadows underneath them erase any of their usual shine, dulling the blue to an almost unrecognizable shade. My high cheekbones stick out more prominently than they ever have before, and I have no color in my face whatsoever. I guess that’s what happens when you avoid sunlight.

Despite the major changes in my appearance, I still wouldn’t say I’m unattractive. But I used to be that girl. The one with full, dark hair waving down her back and a tan every day of the year. My parents have quite a bit of money and have always prided themselves on appearances. I’ve had braces and had my teeth whitened. My mom always bought me the nicest designer clothes.

She would have an aneurysm if she saw me now. I resemble a sleep deprived drug addict. I can’t help but think maybe the hair dye isn’t necessary, I can hardly recognize myself anymore, despite my hair color.

After showering and washing out the leftover dye, I dress for work and head out the door, it’s already 4:15. I have two miles to walk to the diner, so I pick up my pace. Several weeks ago, Imelda had offered to drive me, but I had declined, saying how much I enjoyed the walk to clear my head. She, of course, is very supportive of self-reflection and didn’t press the matter.

Feeling slightly worn from the walk, I creep inside the backdoor of Mel’s and am immediately surrounded by the smell of old bacon grease and smoke. Ephraim, the middle-aged cook, smiles at me and waves his spatula in my direction before turning his attention back to the food he was preparing. His clothes don’t fit very well, they need another inch or two of material around his stomach. The buttons are strained so tightly I’m afraid one might burst and end up in the food. His untidy light brown hair is pulled back and secured with a hairnet, a backwards facing ball cap placed neatly on top.

You ready to let me put some meat on your bones, Jenny? he hollers in his loud, boisterous voice.

That’s alright Ephraim, I ate before I came, I lie, trying to make myself heard over the sizzling of the grill.

He scowls at me, not convinced. You just keep on saying that.

I flash a small smile in his direction and walk to the front of the diner. Mel is at the register; his smell hitting me before his voice. His stringy black hair, the color of over-used car oil, falls in his eyes as he turns in my direction. His skin is frighteningly pale, and I think if I touched him it would leave an indentation of my fingerprint on his face, as waxen as he appears.

His raspy voice fills the room, You’re late. Again.

I look at my watch—it reads 5:01. I was here, I was in the back talking with Ephraim, I swear, I was here at 5:00.

He rolls his eyes and jerks his head, causing his hair to flip back over his head, likely spattering the register with grease, toward the last booth. They’re yours.

I grab one of the horrendous flower-patterned aprons off the hook and tie it around my waist, jamming a notepad and pen in a pocket as I make my way toward the booth. The same two wrinkly old men sit in this booth every morning drinking black coffee and eating Ephraim’s runny scrambled eggs.

I greet them and take their orders, which are the same as usual, and walk back toward the counter. Another girl has taken Mel’s place at the register.

Her name is Tessa and she is sixteen, like me. She has dark skin and hair that she always has tied back, although it sticks out no matter how hard she tries to control it. I’ve seen her around town, outside of the diner, and she never has it pinned back, letting it frame her face in its natural chaotic state. I suspect she only spends times trying to tame it because of the dress code Mel enforces, which unsurprisingly he does not follow himself. I think a piece of hair in the food is the least of the health code violations he needs to worry about.

I ring the bell for Ephraim and clip the order up so he can start on the eggs. While pouring coffee I hear Tessa whisper, I swear he has me come in this early just so he can go back to his office and sleep instead of work.

I like Tessa. She doesn’t talk too much. I smile and nod in agreement and make my way back to the booth.

The two gentlemen who were sitting there are gone. In their place is a young man who looks to be around twenty-five years old. I’ve never seen him here before, and in this town, especially at this diner, it’s uncommon not to know the customers—even for someone who isn’t from here, like me.

I stop short of the table. Looking at the surrounding booths, I wonder if my regulars are at a different table for the first time since they could be considered regulars, but my eyes are drawn back to the man. He has tan skin with light brown hair—almost blond—it looks like he took time to carefully style it, one of those hairstyles that it looks messy on purpose.

He is wearing expensive clothing and his hands are crossed formally on the table in front of him. He is giving me a half smile, his eyes focused on my face at all times, almost catlike. It’s not an unfriendly smile, but I feel vulnerable as he meticulously watches every move I make. I find myself suddenly wishing I would have spent more time this morning washing the dye from my hairline.

Clearing my throat, I say awkwardly, I’m sorry, have you seen the men who were sitting here? I have their coffees.

He continues to stare at me without saying a word. My eyes meet his and he raises an eyebrow, tilting his head up just enough so I can see his eyes. They are a strange shade of green—stuck somewhere between emerald and gold, or maybe they’re emerald with gold flecks in them.

I notice my mouth is now hanging open and I must look incredibly stupid. My mistake . . . I must be imagining things. Can I help you?

I’ll have a coffee, please, he says politely, surprising me with a British accent. His lips remain upturned in that way, like he has an impressive secret he is teasing me with, but he will never tell. His smile reveals two dimples on the sides of his mouth that are dotted with blonde—a touch lighter than his hair—stubble. His five o’clock shadow, guessing from how he seems so well put together, is there on purpose.

I back up toward the counter slowly at first before my senses come to me, I look like an idiot. I duck my head and shuffle away quickly, careful not to look back at him. As I pass the register, Tessa reaches out for my arm, You okay? You look shook up.

I shake my head, giving her the sincerest smile that I can. I’m fine I guess . . . I must not be awake yet.

She releases my arm and laughs, Girl you need to take a day off!

As Tessa turns back to greet a couple who have just sat down, I run back to the kitchen to tell Ephraim to stop cooking the eggs, but it’s too late, he’s already finished them.

He laughs, Looks like you’ll have to eat these, so they don’t go to waste! I knew someday I’d get you to eat my cooking!

He shoves the plate into my hands and turns back to the grill. Shaking my head, I carry the plate out and set it on the counter. Tessa is filling drinks for her table and I say to her, Ephraim made extra eggs, he said they’re all yours. I already ate this morning.

Sweet! Thanks! She sets the drinks on the counter, completely forgetting about her table, and starts in on the eggs.

I dump out the coffees I had already poured, they are surely cold from sitting on the counter for so long. I stop procrastinating and fill a new cup and head back to the booth where my mystery diner sits.

I set the coffee in front of him, carefully avoiding eye contact. I immediately turn and start walking away when I hear him whisper, Thank you. I keep walking.

Every day for the next nine days he comes in and sits in the most remote booth the diner has to offer. Every day for nine days he smiles politely and asks for a coffee. All nine of those days he sips his coffee for exactly thirty minutes, leaves ten dollars on the table and walks out without saying a word.

On the tenth day, I walk inside and greet Ephraim, he makes a comment about how I need to try a new quiche recipe he has been experimenting with; I decline as kindly as possible and walk through the door to the front. So far everything is normal. I see Tessa at the door flipping the sign to ‘OPEN.’ I grab my apron. Morning, Tessa, I say while stifling a yawn. Ephraim is trying to feed us again.

Ugh, no thank you, the last time I ate those eggs of his I didn’t feel right for a few days! she pauses, and then continues in a hushed voice, Do you think that guy is coming back today? Because I’ll take the table if you want me to.

I consider letting her, but he tips well and seems innocent enough.

No . . . it’s okay. He’s not a problem. But, thank you for offering.

Hey, don’t worry about it. I just get a weird vibe from him, you know? Shrugging, she turns her back to me and starts to get ready for the day. Tessa is too good to me. I give her very little in return.

I hear the bells on the door rattle and check the time. Like clockwork, it is 5:05 as the man enters the diner, walking to the same booth where he waits.

I take a deep breath and walk up to him, notepad in hand, mostly to make myself look busy and to try to conceal the fact that I feel uncomfortable around him. He and I both know I won’t need to write his order, as usual, he will only have coffee.

Would you be interested in hearing our breakfast special? I ask him in the cheeriest voice I can manage, even though I know what his answer will be.

Looking up at me, he flashes the same enigmatic smile. I’ll have a coffee, please.

I get his coffee and return to the table. I turn my back quickly, planning to greet the men who just entered the diner, hoping they will keep me busy so I can avoid this quiet, odd man. Then, I feel his hand brush my wrist.

I turn around, pulling my hand away from him and raise my eyebrows, about to say something rude, but I stop myself when I see the expression he is wearing. I’ve never seen him look anything but calm. While he does look calm on the surface, I know from the subtle changes in his face that there’s something deeper. He is exceptionally good at hiding it, but it’s obvious that he is not calm right now.

Please, sit with me a moment, he asks in his familiar unwavering voice.

I surprise myself by letting out a small laugh, You have never said more than five words to me and now you want me to sit with you? Why?

I insist, he says in a hushed voice. He possesses a sense of urgency I find hard to ignore. I’m not sure why I sit, but I do.

My name is Tuc, he says this like it is an invitation for me to tell him something about myself. He is acting nonchalant again, unfolding a napkin and draping it across his lap, as if he has no worries in the world.

I’m sorry I really don’t have time to make small talk, I have work to do . . .

I move to stand up and his hand is suddenly on mine, goosebumps rise on my skin and I try to move but his grip is surprisingly strong.

Let go of me . . . I start to say