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    Epic Teen Fiction
    Epic Teen Fiction
    Epic Teen Fiction
    Ebook1,436 pages22 hours

    Epic Teen Fiction

    By Lizzy Ford

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    About this ebook

    Six full young adult fiction books from among Lizzy Ford’s most popular series! Witches, magic doors, Greek gods – there’s something for everyone in this collection.

    “The Door” – science fiction about a young woman in Arizona who discovers a magical door leading to the future. The Door Novellas.

    “Dark Summer” – teen paranormal romance with witchlings and the ultimate battle between good and evil. Witchling Series.

    “Kiera’s Moon” – sci-fi alien romance featuring a young woman whose best friend kidnaps her into outer space to find her a life and a mate. Anshan Saga.

    “Broken Beauty” – heartbreaking teen literary fiction about a seventeen year old struggling from rape (mature teens only.) Broken Beauty Novellas.

    “Aveline” – post-apocalyptic fiction set 500 years after the apocalypse in Las Vegas where a war is brewing between the city’s tyrannical leader and his Native American neighbors. Lost Vegas Series.

    “Omega” – dystopian fiction with Greek gods and a kickass teen Oracle of Delphi set in modern day Washington DC. Omega Series.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherLizzy Ford
    Release dateApr 24, 2017
    ISBN9781623783198
    Epic Teen Fiction
    Author

    Lizzy Ford

    I breathe stories. I dream them. If it were possible, I'd eat them, too. (I'm pretty sure they'd taste like cotton candy.) I can't escape them - they're everywhere! Which is why I write! I was born to bring the crazy worlds and people in my mind to life, and I love sharing them with as many people as I can.I'm also the bestselling, award winning, internationally acclaimed author of over sixty ... eighty ... ninety titles and counting. I write speculative fiction in multiple subgenres of romance and fantasy, contemporary fiction, books for both teens and adults, and just about anything else I feel like writing. If I can imagine it, I can write it!I live in the desert of southern Arizona with two dogs and two cats!My books can be found in every major ereader library, to include: Amazon, Barnes and Noble, iBooks, Kobo, Sony and Smashwords.

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      Epic Teen Fiction - Lizzy Ford

      1

      Y ou’re sure this is it? I asked, getting out of the car. I shielded my eyes against the scorching sun and squinted at my destination – a sagging, two story farmhouse with a faded sign in front that read, Old West Bed & Breakfast . The house’s paint was chipping, its porch neglected and the long driveway gravel and dirt.

      It’s the only place on this street, grunted a police officer in desert khakis as he hefted my suitcase from the trunk of his car and placed it on the ground.

      We didn’t have gravel and dirt roads in New York City, where I’d spent my whole life. We didn’t have trees – aside from the Park – but this … this was a different kind of world entirely. We were in the high desert according to the police officer who picked me up from the airport and brought me here. The desert was a great, sunbaked expanse of dirt and sky, edged by purple-blue mountains in every direction, and filled with shrubs and cacti, few of which were taller than four feet, with the exception of the saguaro cacti. The nearest town was a ten minute drive on dirt roads followed by another forty minutes on paved roads.

      I had been exiled to the middle of nowhere.

      This can’t be happening. I’d been repeating the words for almost nineteen months. The first time I was sure I’d entered a dream or parallel reality was when he tried to rape me and almost succeeded. The second time – when I accidentally killed him with his own knife.

      The third: when the judge on my case cared more about running for office under a No Excuse For Crime platform and used my case of involuntary manslaughter to make a public statement about how he meant to clean up our borough in the City. The fourth instance occurred last week at sentencing, when he’d given me the choice of six months in prison for manslaughter or a year on probation doing community service across the country. My case, and banishment, were unheard of, according to my defense attorney, who had been unable to change the outcome of either.

      And then there was today, the final chapter in my nightmare of a life. If I had known I was going to be hours from a Target or mall, I’d have thought more than two seconds about my decision to bypass jail.

      I tugged on the locket hanging around my neck the way I did whenever I was upset. It contained the last picture of my father, who had died ten years ago from cancer, and my favorite picture of my mother.

      Remember. If you leave the property, your ankle bracelet will alert every cop and Fed within southern Arizona. The police officer reminded me. Here’s my card if you need something.

      Releasing the locket, I accepted his business card, numb to my new reality. Thanks, Officer … Santos, I said, reading his name. "You’re really, really sure this is it?" The rundown bed and breakfast didn’t look anything like a halfway house or rehabilitation center, which was how my temporary place of living was alternately described by people at court.

      Yep. The caretaker is elderly. Sometimes she has problems getting around, so if she falls or something, remember: don’t leave the property. Call me or 911. He circled the car as he spoke and opened the driver side door. I’ll wait until you’re in the fence to activate the bracelet.

      Thanks, I mumbled, unable to take my eyes off the house that looked more depressing by the minute. Maybe prison wouldn’t have been so bad, if I weren’t claustrophobic. I’d been put on meds every time they took me to jail. At least here I could breathe.

      Oh, and watch out for snakes and other unfriendly visitors.

      Figures. My eyes went to the ground around my feet. Okay.

      Gripping the handle of the suitcase, I took four steps until I was securely on the property. The bracelet vibrated at my ankle, a sign it was on, and I drew a deep breath.

      I couldn’t bring myself to walk for a long moment, not until the sounds of Officer Santos’ car driving away had faded. It was so quiet here, unlike New York, where there was always some kind of background noise. Usually, it was traffic.

      Turning all the way around, I frowned, unable to imagine who in their right mind would come to this bed and breakfast. The dust trail left by the officer’s car was visible for miles. A simple fence ran along the property’s edges. It was allegedly about a hundred acres, large enough for me to walk around and get some exercise without tripping my ankle bracelet. The May sun was uncomfortably warm, but I kind of liked how dry it was. With any luck, this environment would clear up the last of my teen acne.

      The worst part is over, Gianna, I told myself with another deep breath. One year of chores for an old lady, and I’m done with this mess.

      A year didn’t seem so bad after all I’d been through. At nineteen, I was supposed to be finishing up my first year of college with my friends. I’d end up two years behind, unless this place had good internet and I could go to school online.

      I pulled my suitcase down the long driveway and was sweating by the time I made it to the porch. I paused before the front door, staring at it. It was tall, heavy, aged wood, far wider than the kind of door that belonged on a farmhouse, with huge, bronze antique hinges. If I had to place it, I’d guess it was a medieval castle door. It had to have been special for someone to install it on a normal looking farmhouse.

      Too hot to spend much time examining the strange door, I fanned myself and knocked. I waited, imagining the owner to be slow because of her age.

      When she finally opened the door, though, I was still surprised by how old. The tiny, African-American woman barely reached my shoulder in height. Her sharp eyes were nearly swallowed by deep wrinkles, her frizzy white hair unkempt and she wore a bathrobe and slippers.

      Hi, I said, raising my voice. I’m your new … uh, helper.

      I can hear just fine, she replied in a quiet voice. She squinted through glasses to look me up and down critically. Is that how they dress now? she said, clearly displeased.

      I glanced down at my black leggings and sandals. I wore a loose, off the shoulder tunic style shirt. Yes, ma’am.

      Awful. She turned and walked into the interior of the house.

      I trailed uncertainly and sighed as the cold air conditioning hit me. The interior of the house was in better shape than the exterior and filled with well-maintained antiques from the Civil War Era and late eighteen hundreds. Dark woods, a ticking grandfather clock, and narrow staircase whose walls were packed with antique plates and platters were all visible from the foyer. The old farmhouse’s décor hadn’t been updated in a hundred years, if not more. Wooden floors were covered with round, faded rugs.

      I closed the door behind me and instinctively reached for the lock.

      Don’t! she said sharply.

      I jerked, not expecting the tone. Don’t what?

      There’s one rule here, girl. Never, ever lock the door. It’s written beside the lock, or do they teach kids your age to read anymore?

      Blinking, I realized she was right. There was a faded post it note taped beside the bolt. You never lock the doors? What about robbers or strangers or wackos? I asked.

      This isn’t New York, you damn Yankee. I honor my Southern hospitality here, she said sternly. I welcome all sorts here. It’s what I do.

      I dropped my hand. It didn’t sit well for sure, not after a lifetime of learning common sense safety for living in a drug and crime riddled section of the City. I’d never been called a Yankee either.

      Then again, this woman was clearly set in her ways, and we were miles from anything. It wasn’t like living in an apartment building near the Projects.

      Come along, she ordered. Leave your bag there.

      I obeyed. I sensed she didn’t like me and wasn’t certain why. Well, aside from the murder rap. She appeared small, sweet and grandmotherly but had the manner of a drill sergeant.

      She walked me through the house and a large kitchen filled with antiques like everywhere else and out a back door onto a smaller porch.

      Your duties will be outside mostly, she told me. You can start with the gardens. There’s seed and equipment in the shed. The house needs painting, the roof repaired and the gutters cleaned.

      This can’t be happening. I listened. I’d never done manual labor a day in my life. If I didn’t kill myself the first time I picked up a hammer, it’d be a miracle. I surveyed the property behind us filled with shrubs, short mesquite trees, and cacti. The shed appeared in as good of shape as the rest of the house. Um, what garden? I asked.

      It’s along the side of the house.

      I stepped down creaking steps that sagged beneath my weight and went to the side of the house. You’re … you’re not joking by chance, are you?

      That whole area will be a vegetable garden and small orchard, she called.

      The area beside the house was at least clear of desert flora. I knew nothing about dirt or soil or whatever it was called, but this was an expanse of rock or sand or clay maybe? There was a lot of dust and nothing else. My eyes traveled up the side of the two-story house to the roof. Was a garden even possible in the desert?

      Maybe being drugged up and in a cell wasn’t so bad. I went back to the porch, feeling overwhelmed and about to cry after my long day of travel.

      I’ll also need your help inside from time to time when we have visitors, the old lady added.

      Okay, I said. Do you have internet so I can research how to do all this stuff?

      Of course not. You’re here to work, not surf the internet.

      My face grew warm beneath her disapproving look. Um, I didn’t catch your name.

      Caretaker. It’s all anyone calls me. She returned to the interior of the house. Come inside and see your room.

      I trailed. She led me upstairs. I lugged my bag with me, up the carpet covered wooden stairs to the second floor, which was much larger than I expected. There were two dark, long, narrow wings, and she went down the right wing. We passed no less than ten closed doors before she came to one at the end.

      Your room has its own bathroom, she said and pushed open one door. The rest of the guestrooms share a common bath.

      Thank you, I said, not expecting the small kindness after her rather chilly reception.

      Put your things away and change into work clothes, she said brusquely and moved past me down the hallway.

      Yes, ma’am. I opened the door, silently praying the accommodations weren’t as antiquated as everything else in the house. The room was large with twelve feet tall ceilings and enough space for a small sitting area near the windows. Antique dresser, tables and wardrobe were offset by a modern sleigh bed of dark wood. Quilts covered the bed, and I set my purse on it, gazing around with some relief. The bathroom, too, was a combination of old décor and new plumbing.

      It was nicer than my room in New York.

      Tugging out my phone, I was relieved to see I at least had a strong signal here. I texted my mother, who had messaged me twice asking if I made it.

      Just got in. It’s ok, I told her. I took a picture of my room and sent it to her.

      I changed into workout clothes. I didn’t own work clothes per se, but my chilling clothes were comfortable enough. The whistling of a teakettle drew me to the kitchen, where the Caretaker was preparing a cup of tea.

      Bottled water in the fridge, she told me without turning. The water for the garden comes from the well, not the house. You have to pump it. We have a washer, no dryer, so you’ll have to hang your clothes to dry outside. You can get started with the garden tonight.

      Seriously? I waited, praying she was going to laugh and tell me this was all one huge joke on the new girl. I’ve spent the past twelve hours traveling, I objected.

      If you want dinner, you’ll start the garden, she replied tartly. "You will earn your keep here, girl, or you’ll be sent back to New York."

      Rolling my eyes, I exited out back. I tied my hair into a ponytail while I walked to the shed.

      I eyed the lopsided door to the shed and opened it. The inside was dusty, disorganized and filled with cobwebs. A bare bulb hung in front of me, and I turned on the light to survey the haphazard mess of equipment and supplies. Oh, god. It was worse in the light. I was able to see just how much bigger the desert spiders were than those in New York.

      The seed, of course, was all the way in the back on a shelf. There was no path through the disaster. Not for the first time, I found myself swallowing hard, trying not to breakdown and cry like I’d wanted to a million times since the night that changed my life. I’d stopped trying to make sense of what happened and instead bought into my attorney’s logic that life simply wasn’t fair.

      But this penance was just unreal. I released a defeated breath. I really hate my life.

      I wasn’t going to work in such a disgusting environment. Before I could start the garden, I’d have to clean out the shed first.

      I began hauling tools and boxes of assorted crap out of the shed and depositing it in the space between the shed and house. Often sneezing from dust, I battled spider webs, freaked out frequently when one of the beast-sized arachnids moved and then blasted them with the water hose once I figured out how to turn it on. It took a full three hours for me to clean out the shed.

      When I finally reached the box of seed, I hefted it to the side of the house and dropped it. I bent over, hot and panting. The late afternoon sun was still hot, and I straightened with a groan. My hands were scratched and blistered, my legs sore. I wasn’t much of one for exercise, either. Naturally slender, I’d never had to work hard to keep from gaining weight, so I never did.

      I went to the back porch and picked up a bottle of water, sitting down to watch the sun as it neared the horizon. Shadows were lengthening, and I was beyond beat and ready for bed. To make matters worse, I could smell the food Caretaker was making, and I had a feeling she wasn’t going to give me any. It wasn’t like I could walk down the block to grab something, either.

      You can’t leave everything out tonight, Caretaker called from the kitchen. You best start putting things away.

      No one’s gonna steal that crap, I replied grumpily. Everything’s rusty and old.

      How do you know, Yankee? Her voice was louder, and I twisted to see her standing at the screen door.

      You leave your doors unlocked! I pointed out.

      The doors stay unlocked so visitors can come in. That doesn’t meant they won’t run off with my garden shears when they leave.

      Are you serious? I asked in disbelief. You don’t care if they enter in the middle of the night and murder you in your sleep, but you draw the line at garden shears you can get at Wal-Mart for like, ten dollars?

      Put it all away or you don’t get dinner. She moved away from the door.

      You’d be dead your first night in New York, I muttered under my breath.

      Standing, I suppressed the urge to throw the water at the screen door. The sun began to sink into the horizon, leaving a magnificent trail of orange, pink and red in its wake. I gazed at it, awed by the colors I’d never seen in person before, and finally went back to the shed.

      I was usually pretty particular about organizing my room and car. I didn’t have time to dump out every box in the shed and organize it, but I could at least put things back in a logical way for tomorrow.

      Tired and hungry, it took another four hours to repack the shed. I closed the doors and made an irritated mental note that even these doors weren’t locked before returning to the back porch. If someone wanted to steal anything from this place, there was nothing to stop them. Why was she being so mean?

      I reached for the door, eyes on the roast beef, mashed potatoes, collard greens and pecan pie on the table, visible though the screen door. My stomach growled.

      Check the mail and come in for dinner, Caretaker ordered.

      Yes, ma’am. I bit off the words. Rather than cut through the house, I went around, once more surprised by how quiet the night was. And the stars …

      I stopped in front of the house to gaze up. I’d never seen so many or knew they were this bright away from the light pollution of the City. Whereas the daytime had been broiling, the night was considerably cooler. I stood, shivering and mesmerized by the flickering stars. A dust laden breeze whipped past me. I sneezed and went to the mailbox beside the front door. Pulling out a few envelopes, I started to go back the way I came when I remembered the front door was open. I paused on the porch to lean out from under the roof and see the sky again. It was quiet, peaceful here. The sky and earth seemed to meet in our front yard and stretch forever.

      I was almost able to understand the appeal of being away from the City.

      I walked inside, closed the door and had taken two steps when a resounding knock sounded from behind me. I turned, confused. I’d seen no one and heard no cars pull up. For a moment I thought I was tired enough to imagine it. I’d been inside mere seconds.

      The firm, quick knock came again. I turned and opened the door.

      Four men stood on the porch dressed in … what in god’s name were they wearing? Grey jumpsuits and silver belts? The kind space aliens wore in corny sixties sci-fi shows? Two of them carried long cases while one wore a grey and silver hat. None of them had luggage.

      You’re not the Caretaker, the one in front said.

      No. I looked up and met his gaze. Not much older than me, he was handsome despite his horrible getup, clean shaven with bright green eyes and a stoic expression. Are you musicians or something?

      Musicians? he echoed.

      Not handsome – completely hot. Or … spacemen from a b-movie? I half-joked.

      He appeared unamused and the men behind him were expressionless and quiet.

      Was everyone out here so unfriendly? I thought New York was bad.

      Invite them in, girl! the Caretaker barked from the kitchen.

      I stepped aside with a sigh. The men walked in, and I waited for the last to enter before stepping outside again.

      Wherever they’d come from, there was no vehicle parked out front. I peered into the night, wondering how far they’d walked to get here, and then closed the door.

      No sooner had it shut than I heard another knock.

      I must be too exhausted to notice my own nose. I opened the door to see another of the men in strange gray jumpsuits. Moving aside, I waited for him to join the others in the nearest sitting room and then stepped outside once more.

      This time, I stared into the darkness for a full minute, determined not to let my fatigue get the best of me. Like before, there was no one outside. At all.

      You’re letting the mosquitos in, the Caretaker snapped. What’s wrong with you, girl?

      I have a name! I snapped back and returned inside. It’s Gi-

      I don’t care. Take your dinner and eat in your room. She stood at the foot of the stairs, a plate covered in tinfoil in her hands. If I need your help, I’ll call you.

      Help with what? I grumbled moodily and took the plate.

      With our guests. Now go. She turned away and headed into the sitting room, where the men were drinking tea and speaking quietly.

      One of them opened the case he carried. I waited to see what kind of instrument it was, but he pulled out something resembling a gun instead.

      How goes the hunting? the Caretaker asked, far more pleasant with them than she was with me.

      Poorly, the one I spoke to answered.

      Hunters dressed like that? I’d only seen the hunters on television, and they wore camouflage, not space jumpers.

      We haven’t been able to locate him, another said.

      Him? What exactly where they hunting?

      You get going, Yankee! the Caretaker yelled.

      I am! Geez. The series of bad days wasn’t getting any better. I went up to my room with the food, wolfed it down without tasting it, and toppled into bed. I was too tired to consider this strange new place, and the bed was too comfortable for me to think much more than I still wasn’t sure this place was better than prison before I fell deep into sleep.

      2

      The blaring alarm woke me up at five. I lifted my head to check the time, not about to get up this early, and smacked the snooze button. Sinking back into the comfortable bed, I started to fall asleep when someone banged on my door.

      Come on, girl! You need to start that garden!

      This has got to be hell. Was I seriously going to spend a full year doing this crap? I pulled my pillow over my head, but she began pounding on my door with strength I didn’t know a two hundred year old woman possessed.

      All right! I shouted finally. I’m awake!

      The knocking stopped. I pushed myself up and groaned. My body hurt from the work I did yesterday. Not at all wanting to be awake, I had a feeling the old lady wasn’t going to cut me any slack. I dressed in gym clothes, sleepily tied my hair back and left my room.

      She was waiting for me in the hallway. I’m up, I grumbled.

      Breakfast is at seven o’clock sharp, she said and whirled, starting down the hallway.

      What do I do until … Never mind. I clearly had to earn my meals around here. Trudging down the stairs, I went down the hallway and to the kitchen. The sun had started to lighten the sky on the opposite side of the house. I shivered in the early morning chill and eyed the stupid shack. I let the screen door slam behind me.

      You’re in charge of the garden?

      Blinking, I glanced grouchily at the man seated on the rocking chair on one side of the porch. He wasn’t one of the jumper-men. Middle aged with a graying goatee, he was the first person I’d seen smile around here. His eyes were a shade of liquid gold I’d never witnessed before.

      Yeah, I said finally, realizing he had asked me a question.

      The drought’s affecting it, I think.

      There’s a lot more wrong with that patch of dust than drought. But I nodded. I didn’t hear you come in last night.

      I got in late. We travelers keep odd hours.

      Start the garden, girl, Caretaker bellowed from the kitchen.

      God, I was starting to hate that woman. Nice to meet you, I told the stranger and then walked off the porch towards the shed. I opened it and glanced back over my shoulder. The stranger was in the kitchen with Caretaker.

      Dragging out what I thought I’d need for the garden, I stood in the center of the large space, at a loss as to where to start. Finally, I picked a spot near the corner of the house and dropped onto my knees with a spade in one hand and handful of seeds in the other.

      With absolutely no knowledge about gardening, I was able to guess all I had to do was bury the seeds and then wait a few months for something to grow. The sun had cracked the horizon and was perched on one of the distant mountain ranges.

      Thanks, Caretaker! someone called from the front porch. Good luck with the garden this year.

      Thanks. I’ll need it with the help I have, replied the disgruntled Caretaker.

      Rolling my eyes at her, I leaned to see around the side of the house. The man with the beautiful eyes was walking down the driveway towards the road, a pack on his back. He wore a cowboy hat and boots befitting how I thought people out west dressed.

      What’re you doing, girl?

      I jumped, not expecting the old lady to move so fast. She stood behind me, as if she’d sprinted from the front porch through the house to sneak up and scare me. I didn’t put it past her. I motioned to the ground. I’m planting seeds.

      In order?

      What?

      Are you planting them in order?

      "In order according to what? I don’t see any instructions anywhere."

      She sighed noisily and strode away. Yet another year I won’t have a garden.

      I gazed at the seeds in my hand. They were a jumbled mix of colors and sizes. I assumed if they came that way, they went into the ground that way as well.

      With a glance towards the driveway, I started to turn then stopped.

      The stranger who had been halfway down the driveway when the Caretaker confronted me was completely gone. Not walking down the long road to town or off the road into the desert. Just … gone. I hadn’t heard a car, but maybe …

      No dust trail. When Officer Santos left yesterday, he’d left a dust trail.

      There was something really weird about all this.

      It’s too early, I told myself. I was hungry, sore and tired. If anything, my eyes were playing tricks on me, because people didn’t just disappear.

      Kneeling down, I began to sling seeds into shallow graves and cover them up.

      The sun came up and began its climb into the sky. It was already warm by the time breakfast rolled around. I went in the back door to the kitchen. Muffins and coffee, homemade mini-quiches and other wonderful foods sat buffet style in platters on the rectangular table. I grabbed a plate and filled it up then went to sit out on the back porch to eat. The sounds of others in the kitchen drew my attention. The four men in gray jumpers were eating as well.

      Not remotely interested in them, I finished up and grabbed a water before going to the side of the house.

      Several of my seeds had sprouted slender green ribbons that poked above the dirt. For some reason, the sight of them cheered me up for the first time in a very long time. I knelt and touched them very gently, admiring how something so delicate could grow in this hellish place. I thought back to my mother’s apartment, where I’d lived my entire life. We never had plants, so I had no experience to compare this to. Everything about my life the past year and a half had been miserable and here I was, growing a garden. It didn’t make up for my misery, but it felt good to see the green ribbons poking out of the clay-dirt and know I had something to do with it.

      I hurried to the shed and grabbed a bucket then went to the world’s oldest well pump and filled it with water.

      All but staggering back to the sprouts, I watered them carefully, pouring a small stream of liquid from a measuring cup onto the ground. There were more sprouts, and as I stood back to watch, even more sprang up.

      I had no idea gardening was this easy! I said, proud of myself. Eager to see more of the garden start to appear, I went to work in earnest this time.

      By the time it was noon, I had stripped down to my sports bra and leggings and was laboring over the sixth row of plants. I stood, hungry once more and ready for a refill of my water, when I heard someone pounding on the front door.

      I peered around the house to see the front porch, puzzled as to why no one in the country used cars.

      The group of men at the door were dressed stranger than the space-jumper-men, in an unusual combination of fur-lined leathers, boots and … something else. It looked like crushed velvet embroidered in bright colors from where I stood. Were these Indians? Deputy Santos had told me we were on the border of a Native American Reservation. If so, why were they dressed for the Arctic and not the desert?

      There was no method of conveyance in the driveway, no dust trail to indicate they’d been dropped off and nowhere they could’ve come from aside from the desert.

      To add to my confusion – they were soaking wet and dripping, as if they’d walked through a storm to get here. The sky was clear in every direction. Again, no one had luggage. Shouldn’t people coming to a bed and breakfast have at least an overnight bag?

      Caretaker! One cried in a voice as rough as his clothing.

      The door opened, and the three of them entered. They carried someone among them, and I caught a glimpse of a bloodied face.

      Of the visitors I’d seen here so far, none of them were the typical bored tourists from back East in search of an Old West adventure. I didn’t understand what kind of business Caretaker was running.

      Yankee! Caretaker cried out the front door. Bring me my medical kit! The blue one! It’s in the office! She slammed the door.

      Concerned, I hurried to the front door and spotted the trail of blood leading back towards the road. It splattered across the steps and pooled on the porch, mixed with water that had dripped off the men’s clothing.

      They’d walked here with some guy who bled this much?

      Distracted by the thought, I followed the trail of blood and water from the porch down the lane and back to the road. It started where the driveway met the dirt road. Unable to go farther for fear of causing a statewide manhunt, I studied the area beyond without finding any other footprints or pools of blood and water.

      Where did they come from?

      Girl! the Caretaker shouted.

      I really hate that. I turned, trotted back to the house and vaulted up the porch stairs and into the house. The men were upstairs. I went to the office – the room beside the three sitting parlors – and looked around for the medical bag. There were five bags on a shelf, all marked with red cross symbols, and each a different color. I grabbed the blue one and hurried up the stairs, following the sounds of talk and movement down the left wing, which I hadn’t yet explored. Pausing in the open doorway of one of the rooms, I found myself staring at the visitors, whose appearances were even stranger up close. I could’ve sworn they were dark skinned on the porch, but up close, they were sun tanned and light skinned.

      They wore different colors of dyed, old school leather, like I imagined cavemen or Native Americans wore, in layers mixed with furs, as if they traveled from someplace cold. Crushed velvet edged and detailed the leather. The men’s heads were shaved and their faces tattooed with red whorls and spiraling designs. They were armed, too, with swords of varying lengths and knives, and all of them the size of the professional lifters at the gym.

      Who the hell were these people?

      Quickly! Caretaker beckoned to me.

      I edged by the men, none of whom moved. In fact, they stared me down, their expressions almost feral. I had the sense of being in a movie or watching myself from the outside.

      I set down the bag beside the caretaker, and my breath caught. The guy on the bed before her was unconscious, his tattoos purple-blue instead of red like the others’ markings. He was hemorrhaging blood.

      Caretaker snatched my wrist with strength and speed I didn’t think someone that old capable of and planted my hand over a wound in his chest.

      Oh, god! I breathed as warm blood gushed through my fingers. I’m not … this isn’t … oh, god! Already, I was starting to get dizzy.

      You can’t handle the sight of blood? Caretaker demanded.

      Not really … I have a weak … stomach … I started to sag beside the bed.

      She slapped the back of my head hard enough to snap me back into the moment. If you don’t do this, this boy dies. Look at him. She gripped my chin and forced my focus to his face. You see him?

      Y…yes.

      He will die if you pass out. Keep that in mind. She released me and tore open the bag.

      I stared at the man’s features. It was impossible to make out much about him beneath the combination of blood and tattoos but he appeared to be around my age. He was in shape, lanky to the point of skinny yet wiry. I could feel his muscles beneath the blood gushing over my hands. I was starting to feel claustrophobic again and closed my eyes to try to block the building panic.

      Breathe deep, Caretaker instructed me. Look at his face. Not at the blood. You are all that’s keeping him alive right now.

      Visions from the night of the incident, of the night I’d almost been raped and ended up killing my attacker instead, pummeled me. I recalled waking up covered in sticky blood, the man’s lifeless body beside me. His eyes had been opened, his stare vacant.

      Focus! Caretaker slapped the back of my head again.

      My eyes opened. Ow! I complained and blinked away the images. But I obeyed, staring so hard at the guy’s face, I started to get a headache.

      Caretaker was yanking supplies out of the bag.

      The young man mumbled in his sleep, his head moving back and forth. His eyelids fluttered and then opened. He stared at me with eyes so dark blue, they were almost brown, before launching up.

      Hold him down! Caretaker instructed.

      The men around us pounced, pushing him to the bed once more. I pressed hard into his wound, unable to do anything for fear of panicking and fainting.

      We’re trying to save you. Do you understand? Caretaker leaned over the man to peer into his face. Be still, so we can help you.

      He blinked, and the tense body beneath my palms relaxed.

      Blood soaked the front of my sports bra from his attempt to get up. The edges of my vision were starting to grow dark.

      Don’t you dare! Caretaker slapped me again. The sting drove away the darkness.

      How she was so nice to the others and mean to me … god I wanted to smack her back so bad!

      You look at him, girl. You know if he dies, it’s your fault!

      Not again. My breath hitched in my throat, and I stared once more down at the injured boy. This time, he stared back at me, unblinking, intense and just as wary and feral as his friends. There was fire in the depths of his oddly hued gaze. All I could think about was how much I didn’t want to be there if he passed, and I saw his eyes like I did those of the man I’d accidentally murdered. Empty. Glassy. The definitive proof that we as humans had souls, because I’d seen the shell left behind once the soul had been driven out.

      The world around me blurred, the sounds and colors shifting into surreal movement I was too terrified to acknowledge. Caretaker and one other were starting with the injuries in the guy’s legs, while I pressed hard enough on the wound in his chest for my arms to shake and stared at him, terrified of losing him, even though I had no idea who he was or what he’d done to end up this way. For all I knew, he’d tried to rape someone like me and ended up almost dead.

      He gazed back at me, and we stayed in our own little world, bracing ourselves against reality so neither of us had to face the pain waiting for us.

      Please don’t die, I begged him over and over silently.

      It felt like we stared at each other for an eternity. Caretaker pushed me aside finally, and the world outside of us erupted into sight and sound again.

      And smell. I had forgotten what blood smelled like, but it made me nauseated at once. I stepped back, out of her way, my hands trembling.

      Hold him down. This is going to hurt, I heard her say to one of the other men.

      Feeling sick, I slipped by the three men hanging back and into the hallway. I was feverish and half a second from a full blown panic attack. I raced out of the house and into the backyard. Frantically, I washed off the blood from my skin at the well then hurried to my t-shirt. I flung off my blood drenched bra without a second thought and tugged on my t-shirt then sank down beside the house, my courage spent.

      I couldn’t get the visions of that night I’d almost been killed out of my head. Over and over, I relived what he’d tried to do to me. I relived waking up to find him dead and my arm broken, my body scratched, stabbed and bruised. Those aches and pains had never gone away. Their ghosts lingered, along with the fear and emotion of the past year and a half.

      I trembled and clenched my knees to my chest, emotion holding my chest in a vise and my ability to think immobilized.

      Gradually, the sun warmed the coldness inside me, and the gentle sway of grass in a breeze comforted me. As happened often, I lost track of time. I survived the panic attack but didn’t move for a long time after, not yet ready to face the world.

      Wiping my face free of tears I hadn’t felt myself shed, I closed my eyes and worked on freeing my chest from the vise. My breathing turned from shallow and ragged to deep and regular once more. The rustling of …

      Rustling?

      Blinking out of myself, I lifted my head.

      My six rows of plants were in different stages of growth. The first one I’d planted was filled with knee high plants, the sixth with those mere inches off the ground, while the other rows somewhere in between.

      Some of those nearest me had yellow flowers, and at least four appeared to be trees rather than vegetable plants. I gazed at them, comforted by the whisper of their swaying in the dusty breeze.

      I knew nothing of gardening, but I was beginning to wonder if my plants were … normal. Were they supposed to grow this fast?

      I shifted to my knees. Panic attacks drained me. I was a shell of myself, hungry and exhausted and ready to curl up and sleep the rest of the day away. I forced myself up and returned to the water pump, paling when I saw the bloodied water around it.

      Your plants need water, Gi, I told myself hoarsely. You can’t let them die, either. A lump formed in my throat, and I went to fill up a bucket for the garden. I watered all six rows and then returned to the kitchen. Leftovers from breakfast were in Tupperware in the fridge.

      I microwaved my lunch and sat to eat it on the back porch. I wanted to go upstairs, to grab a new bra and change pants, but I was afraid of another attack or finding out the guy had died and I’d failed him. At last, though, I couldn’t stand the thought of wearing bloody clothing and crept upstairs.

      The door to the injured guy’s room remained opened. I went the opposite way, wishing him well yet also wishing I’d never met him. Safe in my room, I washed my face and fixed my mascara before changing clothing.

      I still felt his blood on me. I scoured my body in the mirror to ensure I hadn’t missed anything. I looked like complete shit, but I didn’t really care.

      I sneaked out of the house and returned to the garden. If nothing else, I was doing something worthwhile today. My body hurt from muscle soreness and pain with no source, and I soon lost myself in planting rows of random plants and trees.

      Dig a hole, drop in seeds, cover it, sprinkle with water.

      Over and over I performed this routine beneath the hot Arizona sun until darkness swept the sky clear of light and heat. I worked until I was too tired to work anymore then sat back and gazed at what I’d done.

      The first row of plants was waist high now, and I managed to smile. Moonlight dusted the dark leaves and flowers, and a light breeze caused them all to lean away from the house.

      This is the first thing I’ve ever done right, I whispered to my twenty rows of random plants and trees. Was this why so many people gardened as a hobby? Because of the sense of accomplishment, of doing something good, that came from a day of hard work?

      Girl. Dinner.

      At the sound of her voice, my spark of happiness was snuffed. I didn’t want to go inside. I wanted to hide out or better yet, go back to New York and rot in a prison cell. My probation officer had told me to keep my head down and suck it up, but I was considering calling him in a few days if this place didn’t get any better.

      Coming, I said softly and rose. God, I was so tired!

      With what energy I had left, I put back my tools in the shed and walked inside, heart racing, in case there were more dying men lying around everywhere I went.

      3

      H ow is my garden ? Caretaker asked the moment I set foot in the warm, fragrant kitchen.

      It’s my garden, you old bat. Fine, I said aloud. It’s going well.

      "Well means there is fruit and vegetables."

      I rolled my eyes. She was prepping a plate for me, and I assumed I’d be banished to my room while she ate with her visitors. How … how is he? The question came out before I could stop it.

      He’ll live.

      Inside, relief trickled through me. I watched her spoon a massive piece of something onto my plate. What is that?

      Dumplings.

      I had no idea what those were. She wrapped the plate in tinfoil and handed it to me.

      Upstairs, she commanded.

      Like hired help. I gritted my teeth to keep from saying anything and walked down the hallway. All three sitting parlors and the office were occupied, and I slowed as I passed. Three of the men from upstairs were in the office, a golden-eyed stranger in one sitting room and others I didn’t recognize in the third.

      As I climbed the stairs, I realized why the sight of them bothered me. There were no families on vacation, and these men all seemed … militant. Hunters in jumpsuits, crazy men in leathers, and cowboys with knives.

      I was beginning to think this was some sort of gang hang out, not a legitimate bed and breakfast. But wouldn’t my probation officer do his homework before sending me here?

      Reaching the top of the stairs, I glanced towards my room then down the left wing. The door to the wounded boy’s room remained open, even though his friends were downstairs. After a split second of indecision, I walked down the hallway towards his room and paused outside, listening for any sign he was awake.

      I needed to see him for myself, to know I hadn’t been party to his death, too. No sound came from his room, and I peeked around the corner, ready to run at the sight of a single drop of blood.

      He was under the covers. The room smelled of disinfectant, and there was no sign of the mess from earlier. His tattoos alone marred his features.

      I crept inside, gazing at him. Some of the emotion from earlier emerged, the despair and fear, but I pushed it aside. I was too tired to deal with anything I felt.

      I’m glad you’re okay, I whispered, uncertain why I was really there except that my conscience was hurting me.

      He turned his head towards the door. The same fire was present in the eyes that were neither blue nor brown nor any color I’d seen before. They were dark and deep – it was the only real way to describe them.

      He said something in a guttural tongue, his voice gruff.

      I shrugged.

      He lifted his closed hand in offering. I hesitated then stepped forward. As I neared, his fist opened to display what looked like a misshapen penny in his palm.

      Oh. I gazed at it.

      He lifted his hand again, indicating I should take it.

      I did. Um, thanks. His hand dropped to his side. I’m glad you’re feeling better.

      We gazed at one another again, and the world around me began to fade, become less clear as he became the center of the universe. He was somewhat good looking beneath the tattoos, leaner than the men he was with, probably because he was my age and not yet filled out.

      I motioned to his face, curious about the tattoos. He touched his cheek with a small frown, not understanding.

      Unable to talk to him, I didn’t know how to ask about the significance of his markings and shook my head, exhausted. Thanks again.

      I left. I studied the coin and walked towards my room. Its size was the only thing it had in common with a penny. The color was off, more rust than copper, and one side of it was blank. The other had a symbol I’d never seen before.

      In what country did someone just hand you a penny?

      I tucked it into my pocket anyway, suspecting it was a token of gratitude for not passing out on him, and ate my dinner quickly in my room.

      While tired, I ran a bath instead of heading straight to bed. I turned off the bathroom light. The glow of the light on my nightstand crept into the bathroom. I waited for my bath to finish and stood at the window overlooking the driveway. Two men were walking away from the house, towards the road.

      No vehicles yet again. Did Caretaker have some weird rule about people driving up to the house?

      I waited and watched the two of them, wanting to see where the hidden parking lot was. They approached the edge of the driveway and stopped to talk to one another briefly.

      The gargle of the bath drain indicated it had reached capacity. I went to turn off the water with haste before hurrying back to the window.

      The men had vanished. No taillights were visible in either direction of the road, and moonlight was bright enough to illuminate the desert and anything man-sized that might be moving through it.

      They were simply gone.

      That’s not possible. I blinked, staring.

      Was I so tired I was making up stories about people disappearing? I spun away from the window and went to take my bath.

      I hopped out forty minutes later, relaxed yet unable to shake the wired feeling left over from my panic attack earlier. I should’ve told the old lady I had issues when I got here, but something about her made me not want to volunteer any such information.

      Achy and sore, I put on my sleeping shorts and t-shirt and sat on my bed to pull on socks when there was a knock at the door.

      Oh, god. Now what. As far as I was concerned, I was done for the night. I opened the door, ready to tell the old bat off for the first time, and gasped.

      The guy with purple tattoos from down the hallway leaned heavily against the doorframe, holding one arm across his midsection. His torso was bare and covered with tattoos, his eyes glazed. I gazed up at him, not expecting him to be so much bigger than me. He was as tall as his friends, if not taller.

      Look, no offense, but … I started.

      Sor … cha ni … li, he said in a wheezy, singsong tone.

      Um, no idea what that means.

      His eyes closed, and he sagged, sliding down.

      I lurched forward, gracelessly trying to keep him from hitting the floor. I caught him, but he was heavy enough to drag us both down. In the end, I managed to slow his fall and ended up part of it rather than helping him.

      He was unconscious, and I was trapped uncomfortably between his heavy body and the door. Red bloomed in the bandages around his chest and spread. The moment I saw blood, I had the sense of being close to passing out.

      Hey, I said, pushing gently at the guy who collapsed in my arms. Hey, wake up.

      He stirred. I shifted the best I could, managing to detangle my arm and leg from his body. It was an even worse time to pass out or throw up, and I focused on him.

      Hey, I said again and patted his cheek. Dude, come on.

      His eyelids flickered open. He tensed and stared at me briefly before recognition crossed his features.

      Can you get up? I asked, uncertain if he understood or not.

      Sor … cha ni … li. He grimaced and rested a hand on his belly once more.

      I’m guessing you’re telling me you’re bleeding. Let’s get you back to your bed and I’ll get the Caretaker.

      Caretaker.

      Yes. With a grunt, I did my best to heft him. He climbed to his feet and wobbled. I steadied him the best I could.

      We started down the hallway at a lumbering, precarious walk, my arm around him. He smelled of antiseptic and beneath that, his own rich, dark scent, which oddly enough reminded me of what I smelled walking into a Starbucks.

      When we made it to his room, I helped him sit and nearly toppled on top of him. He was warm, solid, and strong, a combination I’d never experienced from other guys my age, or never noticed if I did. He steadied me and I moved way quickly, releasing him to regain my balance.

      We gazed at one another again, and the moment grew awkward.

      Caretaker, I said finally, backpedaling. Without waiting for him to speak again, I left the room and hurried downstairs. I searched the rooms until I found her in the kitchen prepping tea. Hey, um, the guy upstairs is bleeding again and asking for you.

      She turned. Why are you bothering him?

      I didn’t. He came to my room and collapsed.

      Go back upstairs. I’ll take care of it.

      "You’re welcome," I snapped.

      She ignored me.

      I went upstairs and paused at the top of the stairs. There was no reason for me to see him again. I didn’t like seeing someone hurt. I had no idea who these people were or why they showed up here instead of going to a hospital. It probably meant they were criminals or something.

      Yet I found myself starting down the hallway to his room. When I peered in, I saw him where I’d left him, holding his abdomen, waiting. I felt bad for him. The swirling and loopy tattoos on his face covered his neck and torso, all of them purple. Those on his chest were more intricate. It didn’t seem possible they were some kind of writing, but they had to have held some meaning for him to be covered in them. They amplified my interest in his muscular chest and shoulders and his fantastic abs.

      Sexy, strong and wounded. It was a strange combination. I tended to shy away from men since the incident, but he was too weak to stand, let alone hurt me. I didn’t view his strength as a threat but a sign of how bad off he really was if someone who should be strong couldn’t even stand without help.

      She’s coming, I said.

      He looked up. His eyes were bloodshot and appeared more blue than brown in the light.

      I pointed towards the stairs.

      He gave a single nod to show he understood. I’d never seen mannerisms like his, either, among the boys in high school. He seemed excessively self-assured and abrupt. We got a lot of tourists and visitors in New York, and my school was a melting pot of different ethnicities. Yet I couldn’t identify what language he spoke.

      Who was this guy?

      Rather than leaving, I visually followed the line of his shoulder to his rounded biceps and roped forearms, both of which were decorated with tattooed dots rather than sworls. His jawline was sharp and his forehead broad.

      Does it matter? I still didn’t know what he’d done to get hurt or who he might’ve hurt in the process. Something about how different he was fascinated me.

      As if feeling my gaze, he looked up again.

      Sorry, I murmured. Embarrassed to be caught staring, I backpedaled and left, hurrying back to my room.

      4

      The alarm was no easier to obey the next morning, and Caretaker’s beating on my door roused me when I tried to sleep through it again.

      Irritable and sorer than before, I hobbled out of bed, dressed and glared at her as I entered the hallway. I shoved my dirty clothes in the washer before stumbling outside. It was a full half an hour before I managed to register the world, not until the sun was up.

      It was then I noticed some of my plants had vegetables growing on them, and one tree was eight feet tall and blooming with pink petals. I went through the effort of watering everything before stopping to stretch my stiff body and starting a new row.

      Today, the sight of my plants wasn’t enough to take the edge off my discomfort and irritability.

      At seven, I went inside for the buffet style breakfast.

      The house was quiet. I hung out inside in case any of the leather clad cavemen appeared for breakfast.

      No one did. Not even Caretaker. Disappointed yet also a little relieved, I went back to work and frequently peered around the corner of the house to see if anyone was coming or going. I couldn’t get the image of the two men disappearing out of my head. I had to find out where they went.

      When I’d finished another two rows and needed a break, I left the garden and orchard and went around front.

      I followed the driveway to the road and paused there. I saw no new tire tracks, no footprints, no sign anyone had walked onto the road, even though the driveway was riddled with footprints.

      What is going on here?

      Girl!

      Suppressing a sigh, I turned to face the front porch.

      Hang up your laundry! I’m not running a hotel here, Caretaker ordered.

      You’re not running a bed and breakfast either, I muttered under my breath. I didn’t trust myself to respond in a way that might send her inside to call my probation officer. I left my quest to figure out what was going on with the bizarre visitors and entered the house. The laundry room was on the top floor, at the end of my hallway. I pulled out my clothing from the ancient machine and held them up to the light.

      The visitor’s blood was gone.

      I stared, visions of the incident flashing through my thoughts. I’d never been able to get the blood out of my clothing from that night and ended up throwing it out. My hands dropped to my side.

      Would I have been better off not surviving the attack? Was my life going to be miserable forever? Would these feelings ever just … leave?

      The sound of Caretaker walking up the creaky stairs drew me from my dark thoughts. I picked up my laundry and left the cramped laundry room.

      Clothesline is out back, Caretaker said with her normal pleasantness.

      Clothesline. Did they not have dryers outside of New York?

      I started towards the stairs and noticed the door was open to the wounded man’s room. Is everyone gone? I asked casually.

      Not the injured Tili.

      Did you say tea leaf?

      Tili. It’s a tribe of … you wouldn’t know, Yankee.

      I turned. What is your problem? I demanded. I’ve been working my ass off since I got here and you’ve been a total bitch.

      My problem, girl, is that they sent me a convicted murderer when I asked for someone more suitable.

      "Suitable for what? A murderer isn’t good enough to plant a garden?"

      We only have three hundred and sixty three days to go. Let’s get through this.

      I stared at her. She was sorting her laundry by color, brushing me off completely. I’d never felt quite so … gross. Like I had some sort of deadly disease or maybe I should’ve let the rapist asshole hurt me or worse. I didn’t know how to express any of the complicated emotions, especially not to this woman, who had already judged, labeled and placed me on the shelf next to the rest of her collection of antiques.

      With effort, I didn’t tell her to go screw herself or break down and cry.

      What’s his name? I asked. The tea leaf.

      "It’s Tili. And none of your business."

      I spun away, frustrated. My gaze lingered on Tea Leaf’s door. I left the second floor, grabbed a sandwich from the table and went to the garden.

      Munching, I was pleased with how my garden was blooming. But I was also pissed off. Instead of returning to work with the plants, I left the area to explore the property. A hundred acres wasn’t too big to explore in an afternoon, and I wasn’t motivated to do anything the old bat wanted.

      I set off to roam through the cactus thickets and mesquite bushes. The property was packed with fluffy, sand colored rabbits that looked too cute to be in the desert. I avoided the massive spiders and kept an eye out for the snakes as well.

      Reaching the

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