Beautiful Experiment

Beautiful Experiment

Book One

Island of Defiance Trilogy

by

January Valentine

Smashwords Edition

Beautiful Experiment (Paranormal Fantasy Romance)

Island of Defiance Trilogy – Book One

Copyright © 2013 Victoria Valentine

All Rights Reserved Victoria Valentine writing as January Valentine

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 both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, locations, and incidents are a product of the author's imagination, or the author has used them fictitiously.

ISBN-13 9781310275463 (Digital Version)

ISBN-13: 978-0615828596 (Paperback) 

ISBN-10: 0615828590 

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013930002

Water Forest Press Books

PO Box 295, Stormville, NY 12582

waterforestpress.com

JANUARY VALENTINE BOOKS

VICTORIA VALENTINE WRITING AS JANUARY VALENTINE

WHEEL WOLF (BESTSELLING WEREWOLF HORROR)

LOVE DREAMS  (CONTEMPORARY ROMANCE)

SWEET DREAMS IN THE MIND OF A SERIAL KILLER  (THRILLER HORROR)

FIGHTING FOR YOU  (STEAMY NEW ADULT ROMANCE)

SEVEN DAY WONDER (EROTIC NOVELLA) WRITTEN AS LANA LUNDON

NEWLY BRED WITH MAGIC (EROTIC SHORT)

SNOWED IN EROTIC ANTHOLOGY (5 AUTHORS)

THE CUTEST LITTLE DUCKIE  (VICTORIA VALENTINE) CHILDREN'S

DESERT NOON ROMANTIC POETRY  (VICTORIA VALENTINE)

TABLE OF CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

THIRTY-THREE

THIRTY-FOUR

THIRTY-FIVE

CAST OF CHARACTERS

ABOUT ME :-)

CREDITS

For

Monkachino & Bearcup

Greed is so destructive. It destroys everything.

—Eartha Kitt

Armageddon? It has to be a nightmare. So I’m just going to let the ocean engulf me. When I begin to suffocate, I’ll wake up.

 —Brook Knight

PROLOGUE

The island is all I have ever known.

The island, the man I call Father, and the transient waywards who have come and gone for as far back as I can recall. From the moment they set foot on the island, training begins. Father uses a method he calls tried and true: he breaks them and reconstructs them.

Their confinement is temporary, so emotional attachment has never been an issue, although I am burdened with bits and pieces of their humanity: their language, their habits, their world. I have learned to live within myself, yet instinct tells me there must be so much more to one's existence than sand and ocean, Father and dysfunctional waywards. I find myself branded with memories … desires … struggling with the heart of a boy, the spirit of a man.

Defiance is an uncharted island. Father has said it is God's creation which has always been here. Other times he insists it is manmade. I'm not sure if the island derived its name from its purpose, or its purpose from its name. In either case, I have been here for an eternity of seventeen years.

 ONE

The sun is a blinding starburst piercing a blue and orange sky. Before my eyes water, I squeeze them shut, allowing my other senses to absorb the day. The warmth surrounding me is intensifying, and the air is sweet, its fruity fragrance drifting with crosscurrents flowing freely from the forest. It is a day that makes me thankful to be alive. To be free.

I watch the vessel lurch in the ocean's great waves as the human cargo is loaded onto a skiff. Something tumbles, or is tossed over the side of the listing ship, dragged onto the small craft rocking beside it, then the outboard engine sputters and the skiff launches toward me and the shore.

Another day, another dollar. Handing me a clipboard and pen, Father sighs. You take roll call. He sounds more monotone than usual. With each new boatload, his robust voice loses passion. If I had a dollar bill for every one I've had to ... has become his litany.

If you want to compare human life to money, I would imagine the comparison can be made. It's difficult to keep the mockery in my voice in check.

We've been through this so many times, Brook. I don't understand why you haven't grown accustomed to the onslaught of the waywards. His sigh sounds older than a hundred years.

I draw in salt-scented air, the lofty day heavy on my soul. Before they're even ashore, I find myself wondering who the new arrivals are. What they have done. Their souls must be as weighted as mine for destiny to have brought them here.

I'll be sharing more of the load with you. Father pins a hand to a hip, points his nose in the air.

Whatever you need. I'm here. I do ninety percent of the heavy work anyway, so what's ten percent more?

"It's whatever they need you'll be tending to." My stomach seizes, and my mind follows. Handling waywards is a tremendous responsibility. How I'll manage them, I'm not certain, but I've watched Father work with them long enough to know how I won't treat them.

The sky is feathered smoky gray where it merges with the ocean in a pencil-thin line. There is nothing else in sight: not another island, not another living being. Just Father and me, the endless horizon, and those on the skiff.

I find myself taking shorter breaths as the small craft dodges rocky projectiles littering its course. Imagining floating bodies with flailing limbs, I deflect my gaze, focusing on the shoreline to my left where angry waves chew up the beach like rows of gnashing teeth.

I wonder what our success rate is. I drop my hands into my pockets. Let my imagination roam freely.

Father has always been the broad-shouldered man who could single-handedly move a fallen banyan tree. Today, he is bracing himself with a walking stick, used more for drama than necessity. You know as well as I that we have no control over the tally.

I know. You've told me the tally is done on the other side of the island, but haven't you ever wondered what the waywards are like when they leave? Have you ever seen one? With a jerk of my head, I squint down at him.

His coal black hair, parted on the side and curling around an ear, is freshly shampooed. I can smell the citrus scent. Today he is not wearing his crops and blousy shirt that hangs to his hips. He is dressed as a traveler who has stumbled upon a tropical paradise instead of his business meeting. He's sharp and suited. Only he wears no jacket. An unbuttoned, wheat colored vest covers his cotton pleated shirt which is fastened to the neck. His lightweight trousers balloon to his ankles. His bare feet hardly fit his persona, and it occurs to me, regardless of his dress, he rarely wears shoes.

One what? He quirks a brow. One donkey? One elephant? One jackal, perhaps?

A rehabilitated, before release, is what I asked. I want to lash out when he treats me as though I've just been delivered to shore, but I respect him. So I hold my tongue, turn my head so he doesn't see rebellion cross my face.

One or two. He frowns. As you grow, so does your thirst for knowledge. I don't like being interrogated. He puts the teakwood walking stick before him, grasping it with two hands and leans forward, feet parted, implanted and pointing outward, eyes intent on the scene unfolding before us. You'll find your own answers in due time. Everything happens naturally. That's one of the rules.

The ocean spawns hungry currents like dragon tongues licking, wrapping the skiff without mercy, attempting to draw the helpless occupants into its depths. I can't help but wonder what happens to them. I watch a flock of soaring gulls, thinking how easy their way of life appears.

We do our best, Brook. Let the other side worry about the outcome. As he  moves closer to the dock, his feet cake with wet sand. Six more seedy waywards, he calls over a shoulder. Is the lodge ready?

With a few strides, my bare feet dig into the sand beside him. Yup. Swept and stocked. The surging tide is tempting. I'm concentrating on the foam that is quickly erasing my footsteps. It's not the caw of gulls that alerts me, because the winged creatures have vanished. In their place, the air is filled with my name. I lift my face to something startling, and my heart begins to pound.

The sky has burst into flame. Red and gold, it's raging. The sun is the sky. Scorching. Shooting stars, like flaming spears, are dropping all around me. If I don't shut my eyes, I'll be blinded. If I do, I'll be nothing but a solid target. The wind wails like a mother who has lost her child. When the third moon falls, the beast will devour the sky.

As suddenly as it started, it ends. I'm standing beside Father, totally disoriented. Am I standing? I look down at my feet, because I feel legless. I'm floating. Struggling to regain control of my mind, my body, the shock.

I grip the clipboard and pen with my knees, so that I can draw my palms across my twitching eyelids, astonished that I'm actually still holding onto anything.

Did you see that flash? Did you hear that creepy voice? I'm breathless, massaging my pounding temples with burning fingertips. My head feels like it's about to split open. I rattle each eardrum with a pinky, then plug my ears to listen intently. Was the urgent whisper that turned me to stone inside my head? Phantom sounds? I've never experienced this kind of phenomenon before. My eyes pain.

Father regards me with a mix of surprise and concern. You have a migraine?

Migraine? I scoff. What the fuck, loops through my head. I'm freaked out, left with a strange feeling this is not going to be like other days. I try to shake it off, like I shake him off.

The sky is now clear and so perfectly blue, it looks as though it's been painted by deliberate strokes of an artist's brush. It is a seamless dome of beauty. If we were not receiving today, I might be lying on the pristine beach, permitting my thoughts to wander far beyond my own boundaries. Maybe I'd be lounging on my bluff, or climb my watchtower tree, burrow into its welcoming arms where I collect my years, watch over all that is mine.

Feeling better? His voice is buffered, but coarse enough to jar me from thought.

Skimming Father, my gaze snaps back to the waves, the skiff that is almost upon us. I'm fine. I don’t mention how bad my body aches, and feels like it’s being torn apart. I stretch my arms, then my neck, trying to pin down what I did to cause these muscle spasms. The bomb that’s about to explode in my head.

When the ocean is calm it's translucent, sparkling with sunlight as though it's coated with billions of precious gemstones. Today it's not much more than rolling waves and seaweed.

I've never seen it this rough. Between wind and thunderous surf, I have to face him or my voice will be useless.

Storms. His reply is blunt.

You wouldn't know it by the sky. I bring my gaze to a more pleasant sight.

There's one brewing out there. You'd feel it if you had my knees. Staring gravely at the ocean, his body is rigid.

Are you in pain?

Nothing I can't handle.

Let's hope the weather holds off until we've settled them.

Rain or shine, we've got our work cut out for us, Brook.

As always. My stomach rises to my throat as I watch their approach. I wonder if I'll ever get used to this way of life. Do I want to? Of course not. There are so many other things I'd rather be doing right now, like hopping onto that boat, and for starters, checking out the other side of this island.

Beyond the boat, a floating veil of mist rolls in like billows of steam from a tremendous boiling kettle. I am no longer able to see the large vessel from which the skiff was launched.

The atmosphere of the island is as such, inviting one moment, rejecting the next. Father calls it a gentle beast, with characteristics and charm like the women he has known. My glance shifts, falling upon the shoreline curve where a jetty, composed of rocks chiseled and stacked by nature, projects like the nose of a dolphin and the forest begins. This is as far as my eyes pan.

Thank you for cutting your hair. For a moment his eyes wash over me, then his gaze refocuses on the others who are struggling against the relentless current. I know it pains you.

"Don't you mean shearing? I huff. I don't understand why I can't grow it long. I have awesome hair, or so I've been told." I smirk.

He shoots me a phony glare. You've been told, huh?  No cozying up to any of these girls. I don't want another batch begging to stay.

I'm not a womanizer. Just good company. I shrug.

No nighttime jaunts to the lagoon, either. And I mean it this time. Now his glare is authentic.

Yeah, yeah. I know. Stay out of the lagoon. Out of the forest. Out of the lockers. Pretend to like my boring life.

He almost looks sympathetic. One of these days you'll understand.

What? Why I can't swim at night?

You're impossible sometimes, and the reason I ask you to cut your hair is to set a good example.

I let out a tired sigh. My hand runs over my smooth scalp, the shadow of bristles so short and sun-bleached, my reflection in a mirror looks hairless. If not for my deeply tanned skin, I would look anemic.

Seems a waste. Six or more inches of attractive dark hair again and again swept into the trash. My jaw sets as our discussion continues. I like my hair long. It makes me feel ...

Like a rock star? He chuckles, scrubbing my head playfully. In so many ways you remain such a child, yet you desire to be worldly. Do you admire them?

Not as you might be thinking. My eyes lower, landing upon my anxious toes digging through a mound of sand.

I swing my gaze across the vast horizon which is now shaded with purples and blues, fantasizing about the places beyond. The order of the world not contained within this globe of existence called Defiance Island. I know the temperament of the waywards, but wonder what others are like. Are they beautiful? Intelligent? Kindhearted? Do they possess the nature that can make a man want to tear another to shreds?

 TWO

The yeoman guides the skiff to the short length of dock; even with his experience, the craft rebounds. I imagine the aging wood crumbling, dumping Father and me on our asses.

Another delivery. The yeoman's voice is distorted by wind, but I hear his spoken afterthought, Damned bastard waywards. The striped jersey he wears strains around his biceps, chokes his rugged neck.

Right on schedule, Karis. Father's voice scales the distance. Are you coming ashore for a whiskey?

Not this time, Latham. The yeoman's stern face is mottled with heat and perspiration. I have a pickup on the other side. With the erratic streams of air, and hitch of his head, the hair clipped to the nape of his neck ruffles and flaps like the furry hind of a scampering creature. Whether or not the crown is as bushy as his tail and beard is impossible to know, for a weathered scarf is knotted around his noteworthy head. With petrol reaching ten a quart, I can't afford to let'er idle. The world's going to shit. Consider yourself lucky to be out of it. The planet's ready to explode. They won't stop 'til they kill every living thing.

Global warming, Father shouts. Polar ice caps are melting. Better wise up before there's another great flood.

Propaganda bullshit, Karis returns. Greed will be the cause of the next demise. They'll be bottling and selling air before we know it.

He angers at his task, shoving the boy passengers rudely, cursing beneath his breath. The tallest wayward is thrown against the side of the boat, and his head makes contact with the composite material, resounding with a solid thud. His scream scorches the brief distance between us. Fuck! What the fuck's wrong with you, old man?

I'll show you who's an old man. The yeoman's worn boot swipes the boy's backside, and the red-faced sailor laughs wholeheartedly, although I wonder if a heart even beats inside his barrel chest. Get your filthy ass off my boat, wise guy, before you're fish food. Ain't no one gonna miss a wayward.

The boy’s muscles bulge through his ocean-soaked clothing. He could break the yeoman in half if he wanted to. I assume he’s been drugged. The big ones usually are, and even then, I’ve seen fists fly.

The other five passengers appear taken aback, and if disagreement hangs on the tips of their tongues, it remains there. I watch the tall boy's lips move, imagining him to mutter, Piss off, but his words are shielded from the yeoman's eyes and ears. With a hop, he lands on the dock and steadies himself. He wears jeans with torn knees. Tiny drops of blood dot the collar of his plain white shirt. His feet are covered by heavy leather boots with cumbersome soles. Hands on hips, chin high, he's taking inventory of the beach.

I look at my bare feet, then run my palms over the soft weave of my low-slung pants, comparing my clothing to his. Although the denim sags on his body, I can't imagine wearing fabric so restricting. Even though my pants flow with each movement, my natural skin is my preference.

Manhandling the boys, yanking the arms of the girls, the bitter yeoman hastens the five remaining waywards onto the dock. They stumble as drunkards, circling for balance, gaining their bearings.

What the hell is going on? A boy with dark, buzzed hair and ink-stamped neck throws his hands into the air. Tattoos run the length of his arms.

We're kidnapped, that's what going on, a redheaded girl replies. She's not looking at the boy. She's taking in the desolate beach, her jaw dropping. My eyes drift over her athletic build, immune to the way she fills out her cutoffs and casual shirt.

I demand to see the authorities. There is irritation in the boy's voice.

"Who are you people? Where the hell are we?" Over and over questions choke the air. The waywards flit like grounded birds. Only the tallest one retains his air of arrogance.

Onto the beach with you, Father, who has made his way to the end of the dock instructs, chortling as though herding mindless animals. He points an arthritic finger. And don't even think about running, because you won't get far. Electric eyes crawl over every inch of this compound. They even detect shadows. The beams have never been known to mistake warm flesh and blood for vegetation. So don't think you can blend in with the scenery. And if you think you're a good swimmer ... His laugh is harsh. ... you won't want to take that route. He shrugs his head toward the ocean. Unless a sturdy vessel is awaitin' ya. This island's surrounded by nothing but water and sharks ― sharks and water ― and woodlands filled with things you won't want to come face to face with. His tone deepens. The woodlands beyond this beach ... stay the fuck away from them. You have no business there and ... let's leave it at that.

I'm taken aback. Father has never threatened any group so severely. I imagine he senses their need for intense management.

In varying degrees of hysteria, the waywards lumber to the sun-basted shore, while the skiff barrels around the island. Father strikes his usual stance: stiff-limbed, legs spread, arms locked behind his back, relying on his stick. You can call me Father. Half of you probably don't even have fathers. Test tube rats, lower than kennel dogs. But it's my job to make pedigrees of you and that's exactly what I'm going to do. Sweat your balls off, or your pretty pussies. Disregarding the shocked faces of the girls, he sneers at the boys who squint at him.

Test tube rats? What the fuck? The tallest boy, who has smashed his head on the interior of the boat, looks from face to face. A good-sized lump has formed on his forehead, which he rubs with an open palm, angering the purple bruise marring his smooth skin. His hair falls to his shoulders and is matted by mist. The last I remember, I'm on my way to some tobacco farm. Now I'm here getting my ass chewed out. What's up with that? And what's up with the douche on the boat calling me a specimen and throwing me overboard? I'm about to kick in some teeth in exchange for some answers.

Heads turning, eyes imploring, the group scatters and reassembles, as if the brush of arms, touch of hands, assures protection while they struggle with reality. They stare with indignation. It's no wonder. They've been abused by a stranger, battered by the ocean, dumped like trash. They're a sorry sight: hair hanging, clothing damp, shoes coated with sand.

Like it or not you're here because your parent, your parents, legal guardians, or the state you reside in couldn't figure out what else to do with you. Because you're all troublemakers. Misfits. A threat to society. Now line up. It's time for roll call. And watch your mouth, boy.

You can say fuck and I can't? What makes you so special? The tall one bares a row of even teeth, white as the bleached shells littering the shore.

When you've lived as many years as I have, you can say anything you want. But now, under my charge, you won't curse, you won't be disrespectful, you won't argue. What's your name, boy? Father growls.

The boy jerks his chin. What's it to you?

Interested in testing my Taser? Father takes aim with his walking stick.

The boy sizes him up. His jaw pulses. Reese Daniels.

Check him off, Brook, Father says, deliberate but satisfied.

I hesitate to remove my eyes, even for a pen stroke. I'm watching the reaction of this boy, ready to jump him should he try to attack Father. I don't trust the anger gathering around his mouth, or his curling fists.

A striking blonde girl breaks into sobs. Her long silky hair all but covers her face. As tremors take hold of her limbs, her soft voice vibrates. Why did you bring me here? She's snapping in and out of moods. First fearful, now peevish. My father is Marc Winslow. Her nose inches into the air. He's a famous attorney. Ever hear of him?

You're far from civilization, young lady. We don't get much news here ... or many big shots. Father sloughs her off like sunburned skin.

There's a Winslow on the list, so it's obviously her. I lift my brows. Offer something of a grin. You must be Gabriella. When her head tilts, she shoots a shocking blue stare in my direction, freezing me on the spot. For a moment I'm lost. I can just about move my pen to scratch a check beside her name. I'm speechless, because there aren't any words for something so beautiful. 

Porcelain skin envelops her sculpted features. A full, rosy pout emphasizes a cupid's bow any guy would love to run his tongue over. I drag my gaze from her face, only to be ambushed by her body, and have to fight the urge to pull those luscious curves against me. If my eyes weren't glued to her, I'd be doing some double-takes. She rocks a thigh-high denim skirt and tank top the color of her lips, which must be naturally pink, because the way she's chewing on them only deepens their color.

I need to call my parents. Speaking directly to me, she swipes her face with tapered fingers, nails polished maroon, the color of her glistening cheeks. I feel like I just woke up to a nightmare. I don’t understand any of this. Her head lowers, and I'm no longer able to see her eyes. I'm myself again.

You will understand in time, Father assures. An unruly chunk of hair covers his bushy brow and half an eye. He frees it with a jerk of his head. For the present, all you need to know are the rules: No cell phones. No computers. No Internet. No pens. No paper. No personal items. No modern conveniences. No mailman. No visitors. No piercings. Not even the clothes on your back. Father can be so cruel and languish in it.

The waywards falter and support one another, forming a tumultuous bundle of arms and legs, all but Reese who stands alone and aloof like a mighty oak.

Brook will escort you to the showers. You will deposit your clothing into receptacles, scrub away every bit of grime, and step through the scanner. He flashes a devilish smile filled with oversized teeth. Then it's off to work.

The boy with cropped hair, tattooed sleeves and firm jaw stands alert. He wears an Iron Maiden shirt, and his jeans are also ragged. A thought strikes me: all waywards share similar dress and behavior, yet their personalities vary so.

He watches Father with eyes only a fool would trust. We were on our way to the Smoke Pond Manor School. How did we end up here? This doesn't smell right. We're not in an airport. Why are we being scanned? His nearly bare head glistens.

We have to make sure you're not trying to smuggle in any contraband. Father gives him a brow-lifting once over.

Contraband?

Cigarettes, candy, dope. Father's long fingers tick off the list, pointing into the boy's scowl.

What's your name, son?

The tattooed boy mutters, I'm taking the Fifth until I find out what's going on. His eyes gravitate to Reese. Where are we, man? Any idea? Perspiration snakes from his forehead to his neck, forming a rectangle around the skull on the front of his shirt. He pulls it up and over his head and dabs at his face. It's then that I notice the tribal art climbing to his shoulders, rippling across his chest, imprinting much of his upper torso with jet black symbols and shapes.

Reese shakes his head. Nope. Last thing I remember, we were driving down some back roads. Something sideswiped our ride ... and blackout, dude. He turns to the others. Anybody remember what happened to us after that? He's rubbing his head. Christ. What the hell hit me?

Name. When Father bellows, everyone jumps. When he shakes his walking stick, he gets answers.

Zac Hart. The tattooed boy is hesitant. He's shaking his head. So, what you're saying is we're prisoners? He speaks in even tones lacking emotion. Because this ain't no plantation ... dude. Like we're supposed to be at right now. He slides a palm across his cheeks. This is fucked up.

Reese interrupts. I thought Smoke Pond would be the asshole of the world. Now I think I just landed in it … or maybe this is hell. He pulls his fingers through his mop of hair, freeing it from his scalp, then stuffs both hands into his pockets, tucking in his shoulders as if he feels a chill. In this heat, glaciers would melt in seconds. Fucked up isn't even the word for this, he grumbles.

"If you don't stop using that language, you'll be drinking ocean. I'm sure you're aware