The Lost Child

By M. J. Wright

The Smythe Family have never played by the unspoken rules of the dome city they live in.  After the death of his father Ethan is thrust into the dark side of the family business.

Fane was born a halfling.  Illegitimate son of Joseph Smythe and elder half sibling to Ethan. His mission in life is to protect the family he hates the

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michelle Wright
• Release date: Apr 10, 2018
• ISBN: 9780994648136

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M. J. Wright

The Lost Child

First published by Michelle Wright in 2018

Copyright © M. J. Wright, 2018

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

First Edition

ISBN: 978-0-9946481-3-6

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Contents

The Art Of Appreciation

A/N

Prologue

The Funeral

Jo

The Escape

Rites of Passage

Ember

Your's

Consort

Her File

Surprise Visit

Questions

Closer

Mistaken Identity

Firebird

Dance With The Devil

Bleeding All Over The Carpet

The Ants Came Marching Two By Two

Overnight At Smythe Towers

Overnight At The Brothers' Safe House

Death Match

Entrapment

Straight Talking

Trust

Our's

Anamnesis

Glossary

Play List

The Art Of Appreciation

Without all of you this book would not have been completed.

My Family: My partners in dinner table intrigue, strategy and creative unblocking. xoxo

My Investor: Julie Ford: For someone to believe in a project the way you have with this one is still pretty much in the realms of miraculous to me. Thank you so much.

My Beta Readers: Jessie, Brooke, Katherine and Lorna: Thank you for pushing me when I need it and picking apart the manuscript to make it even more awesome.

My Illustrator: Angel: I believe so much in your work.

My Technical Consultant: Adam: Thank you for making my weapons and fight scenes eerily accurate.

A/N

Most stories are often told from one maybe two points of view. Some of my chapters have up to four or five points of view. I have not done this to confuse you. Just like reality the truth of anything must be gathered from many points of view.

Disclaimer: There are scenes in this book that are triggers. If you have problems with violence, inferred sex (I don’t describe down to the detail), slave trade, child assassins and generally shady behaviour not to mention coups this book is possibly not for you.

Psychic conversations and flashbacks are in italics.

Prologue

{Ethan}

‘Your father has flown free.’ The callous words from my uncle’s lips are supposed to fill me with abject terror. Numbness fills my body automatically deadening the pain such news should evoke. Checking his watch, he dismisses me easily with a wave of his hand. I watch him roll out of the room in his custom-made wheelchair.

Two guards take up posts inside the door of my apartment. Bowing my head, I pretend to appear torn up. Inside my emotions balance precariously between disbelief and fury. Premature death is an accepted way of life within our family.

Staring down at the brown carpet I know the dynamics of the hierarchy has shifted yet again. My father, Joseph, was the heir to Smythe house. He was not easily manipulated or controlled. His death makes me the new heir. It is a job I don’t want and yet this is the family I was born to someday lead.

Our family mantra has always been ‘Protect Charlotte Grace’. I was so young when we started planning for this day. Charli is our weak point. She is an invisible. We protect her from the cruelty outside the four walls of the family apartment. We protect her from herself when necessary.

The personal detail who surrounded my father like mosquitoes enter the room. Rubbing a hand down my face I stand. Mamma is standing out in the hall. Her face is streaked with tear tracks. Reading her message in her eyes I continue past her. She has hidden her pain deep inside.

She is flawless in her performance. The grieving mate of the late heir. Mother of the current heir. Not one misstep. Not now. Not ever. Deep inside I know what it has cost her to leave Dad’s body to the other Smythe females. She holds her head high. Dipping it slightly. She knows I want to stop and comfort her in a hug.

The new team of bodyguards keeps me moving forward. Children yell the news from street corners. Holding up people desperate for the sales. Desperate to help their parents keep their families together. The solid wall around me keeps me moving. Through the back entrance into Smythe Towers and into the private elevators.

Someone pushes up. When we exit they walk me past our family apartment where Charli is waiting. They crack jokes about being too old to live with females. We turn many corners before they let me into a new apartment. Fear slides down my back and dissipates almost instantly. I too must be flawless in my performance.

They have put me in a place where they can watch my most minuscule of gestures. Uncle John has put me in a place where no one can hear me scream if death comes swiftly. The first step in his rule of absolute control is always isolation.He has no idea that I find him predictable. I am Ethan Joseph Smythe. The board has been set. The game is just beginning. I will take this house apart piece by stinking piece before I die.

{Charli}

Tears slip down my face unchecked. No one can see them in the dark of my room. Pain surrounds me like a fog. The females who came to tell me fed me the platitudes to make me feel better.

My companion didn’t correct them. She is gone for the night. Mamma will come in soon. Ethan. I already know without being told that they have taken Ethan to new quarters. They think because I don’t speak I’m too stupid to understand the world around me. My family knows differently. I speak to them when I need to. I speak to them directly inside their minds.

My reflection stares back at me from the mirror on the table opposite me. I was supposed to be practicing my speech exercises again. I don’t see the point anymore. Daddy was the only one who insisted on it. Mamma wants me to be so invisible that I blend in with my surroundings.

If I could control my body’s movements, I would. Uncle John was here again today. His excuse was that our therapy room is the best in the entire tower. Ever since he had that fall at the high council last year he’s been watching me more. It’s getting creepy. He asks me random questions never expecting answers. At first, I thought he just liked to hear his own voice. A pattern is establishing. Daddy would have listened to me. Tears flow faster dripping off my chin.

Closing my eyes, I try to reach Ethan. I can’t reach him. His mind is preoccupied. I can’t break through the wall he’s raised. Not without causing him excruciating pain. Last time I did it by accident. Now I know better. The door opens, and the room is flooded with bright light. Mamma is wearing all white. The Smythe colour for mourning.

She crosses the room and takes a tissue from the box my companion left beside me. I can feel her arms slip around my body as she shudders. Her quiet sobs fill the air. Tears fall unheeded mingling with my own. Eventually, she straightens up. ‘No more tears.’ She decrees softly and says, ‘Ethan is counting on us.’

Wiping her eyes, she then turns to me and deals with mine gently. Her mind is receptive to my mind voice. ‘When will we see him again?’ I ask holding her eyes with my own hoping that the desperation I feel hasn’t bled through to her.

Mamma doesn’t answer.

The Funeral

{Third Person}

Smythe Towers held a certain charm with its curves and clean sharp lines. Instead of standing tall in the domesphere to rival the heights of Mercy house it dominated an entire block of the inner circle.

Four identical buildings with curves created a ripple effect that drew the eye away from the clear walk tubes that connected one building to the next. History had revealed that it had been built by a Smythe male when the domesphere was only newly built itself. Before Spark city had even been established.

Exuding an aura of lethal calm Ethan Smythe entered the room. The air hung heavy with so many bodies packed closely together to honour a worthy male in a ceremony that had long since lost meaning for most of us. Sweat trickled down the neck of the body in front of me.

Recognising the same thirst in his eyes as I had inside my soul I held myself as still as possible blending into the sea of mourners. Sitting on the stage I hoped he had only two goals in mind. Avenge his father’s death. Keep his family safe at all costs. Pretending to go along with the rituals I studied the room at my leisure from beneath my eye lashes. Charlotte Grace’s attendant waved her hand fan back and forth fanning the golden-haired child. Soft sobs chinked at his armour slightly. His mother dabbing at her eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief.

{Third Person}

His stone-cold gaze sweeps around the room. Burning themselves into his memory the small details will be there to be examined later at his leisure. Watching helplessly the words wash over him in continuous waves. Father. Brother. Nephew. Late Heir. Love. Emotion flickers briefly in the depths of his almost black eyes before fading away. Observing the same First Family members I wonder which one of them will be the first to crack.

They all wear white. Pretenders. Nothing more than piranhas feeding off the misery of another. Who would be the first to try to kill him? Who would befriend his mother to gain inside information? Who would sit with Charlotte Grace and whisper poison in her ears? Assessing each one coolly I draw my own conclusions of where the danger will come from next.

{Ethan}

His cold demeanour softens slightly when he meets his mother’s eyes for a mere millisecond. They were surrounded by the other First Family females all dignified in their grief. Fake. His mother the only exception. Tears tracking down her cheeks. More brimming in her lovely eyes. She was grieving her mate the way the Brothers of Sabrefield Sanctuary had taught her. With her entire heart.

{Third Person}

Looking past the First Family towards the slaves. He looks directly at us the inmates of the infamous cells from the cells hidden on the two basement levels of the building. We don’t wear white out of respect for the dead. We wear the only clothes we have been given. The barriers are between us and them.

Guards walk a designated pattern. Hands on guns. Sharp words in low voices to keep the inmates quiet in a section of the room that has standing room left only.Foul promises have quarters cringing away from the aisles. Lewd glances from family members keep us isolated in a world of our own. The isolation tactics the guards are using cause him to lose focus completely.

{Ethan}

They’re afraid of me. Of what this change could mean to their comfortable lives. I’ve almost got the game figured out. Key pieces elude me. ‘Ethan!’ Sharp insistent tones cut through the fugue state I’ve sunk into. Passing my inattention off as grief I take the microphone from Uncle John’s outstretched hand. I wait patiently as he backs his wheelchair out of the way of the podium.

Bowing my head, I feel the pressure in the room weighing down on me. Pressure to say the right words. To show a spirit of unity in the face of immense tragedy.

Keeping the sheep happy has never been so easy. It would be so inspirational not one of my many extended relatives will not dare interfere in the day to day decisions made behind closed doors. They would never learn about the shoddy finances that kept them in their luxury, the illicit activities or the real estate deals on the outer rim that dealt in more than land rights.

‘Today we farewell more than just another heir to this house. We farewell a father.’ I focus on Charlotte Grace as she blinks a response. Errant tears run down her face. Her companion shakes her slightly before making a show of wiping it away. Knowing there is nothing I can do for her from the stage without causing a scene I continue, ‘A brother.’ Dropping my hand on John’s shoulder in a show of solidarity, ‘A son.’ My foremother Arcana’s steely glare covers the tears forming in her eyes.

‘A mate.’ I can hear mother’s soft sobbing and choose not to acknowledge it, ‘Today we farewell Joseph Smythe in the manner befitting a member of the First Family of this house and today I regretfully accept the position left vacant by his untimely passing. My father will not be forgotten.’

‘Keep talking. Uncle John is becoming a problem. He has been overly friendly with me. It makes me uncomfortable.’

My sister’s sweet voice whispers in my mind. The barriers I had raised in my mind weren’t thick enough. The information she shared with me left me feeling nauseated. A layer of detachment envelopes me once more as I retake my seat. Observing the rest of the proceedings in silence my stomach muscles clench in fury. Twisting my features into the appropriate show of grief I wait for the whole charade to be over with.

Checking my watch, I keep to the shadows in the halls. Waiting for