The Death Series: A Dark Dystopian Fantasy Box Set: (Books 1-3) (76 page)

Brother.

I launched over there but Sophie took care of everything for all of us.

“Hey! What the hell do you think you're doing?” she asked Jonesy, her aqua eyes on fire.

Jonesy's eyes went to hers. With her heels on, they were about the same height.

“Saving you from this dumbass!” Jonesy said like,
obviously
. He folded his arms across a chest ripped with muscles from working all summer as a yard slave like the rest of us.

John and I were right behind Jonesy when Brody, Diego, Carson and Brett showed up.

This couldn't get any worse if I'd choreographed the whole tamale myself. I did a mental forehead slap and shifted my gaze to Jade. I wanted to know her position when Brett was in attendance. I didn't put anything past his weaselly carcass.

It didn't take a brain surgeon to see he'd picked up on the tension. Both mine and Jonesy's. I saw Brett drink in the sight of Jade and my heart sped. We'd managed the first two months of school pretty good without any problems. But now, the school quarter was coming to an end and we just couldn't seem to slide by without an altercation with these clowns.

“I don't need saving, if you hadn't noticed. Remember, you're the one that wants to go out with whatever,” Sophie said disdainfully and leaned back against Buddy, who was a good shot taller than her... and Jonesy.

A vein in Jonesy's temple kept time with his heartbeat. He looked at Sophie for a long moment and I could see him trying to calm down with an effort. Restraint wasn't a Jonesy strong point.

“What's the problem here, Buddy?” Carson asked, all smirk.

Jonesy wrecked it again by saying, “It's your Buddy here, ya know, your butt-buddy? He's making the moves on Soph... and I don't think he's good for her.”

Carson's eyes narrowed and he came forward. “And you're so great for her, Jones. Right? Cuz, how I see it, you'll go out with anything that's female with two legs.” His eyebrows raised to his hairline.

He had him there. Carson was a supreme dick, but that was Jonesy, non-committer extraordinaire.

“No comment, Jones?” Buddy asked, talking for the first time, voice laced with sarcasm.

Thunder rode Jonesy's face, the dark skin of his face taking on a purple hue.

Sophie huffed and crossed her arms.

Tiff saved Jonesy's face by sidling up to Carson and saying, “Don't you have your own dick to scorch off or something? Hell,” she swung her arm around to encompass the whole group of brainiacs, “you could probably do the whole group in like... five seconds.”

Carson moved toward her. And since Tiff
so
didn't know when to quit she continued as she was backing up, “I mean, a pile of millimeter sausages like you queers would be rudimentary for you?” Her gum snapped, momentarily blinding her because of size. She was brought up short by John, who'd moved behind her protectively. His long fingers wrapped her upper arms.

“Tiff... quiet,” John said in a low voice above her head.

“It's okay, Terran. Carson can't do anything, he'd get his pecker in a twist for sure,” she said, supremely confident.

I wasn't, because I didn't think Carson gave a shit. After all, daddy would bail his ass out no matter what he did.

Carson got right up in Terran's grill and Tiff had a bird's-eye view of his chest. Her head leaned into John's chest and she turned her face away.

“Keep the corpse-lover in line, Terran. Or I'm gonna rethink my position on female beating. Maybe she needs to find out first hand what kinda junk I carry?” He leaned down close to her face and whispered with menace, “Up close package patrol for you, right?”

John's face became a mask of rage, his cool demeanor replaced by heat. He pulled Tiff back and even I could see Carson had rattled her cage. No small feat.

She recovered, unfortunately. “I wouldn't do you with my dog's dick, Hamilton. Keep your pathetic parts in your pants.”

Carson moved toward her again and John put Tiff behind him as Brett grabbed Carson's arm. “Not worth it, man. Just take a chunk out of her brother's ass. Hell, she's got five. Pick one,” Brett said with his logic.

Brett-logic was so flawed.

Jade spoke and I died a little as the males from this group trained their eyes on my girl. My beautiful, vulnerable girl.

“Listen, let's just... agree to disagree,” she started.

Diego laughed. “Your friend just told us we had no dicks. Not gonna get over it fast, sweetheart.”

“I'm sure she didn't mean it,” Jade said weakly.

Tiff snapped her gum. “Totally. Meant. It.”

Wow.

The bell shrilled and Carson gave Tiff a grim look, then turned his eyes to Jonesy. “You don't have territory rights here, Jones. She doesn't want you. Go hump some willing girl, you're good at that.”

I saw the knife dig deep on Sophie's face. I didn't believe that Jonesy was having sex with a bunch of girls. He
was
a female appreciator though. That last had been for Sophie's benefit. If Carson could cause trouble in our group, he was all for it. The jackass.

Buddy gave a slow stroke on Sophie's arm and she gave Jade the thumb signal for a pulse in the future, her face carefully neutral. Like she hadn't just heard that Jonesy was a man-whore. Jade nodded, her face solemn.

They walked off, Jonesy's eyes trained on Sophie's back. I didn't think he was watching her butt. Unless that included Buddy's hand in her pocket.

Carson glanced over his shoulder, pegging Tiff with a look. She smoldered back at him in anger and he smirked, disappearing into the crowd.

John's eyes met mine over Tiff's head. Only two months into sophomore year and already a fire was burning.

Guess who the match was?

#

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THE REFLECTIVE

Book One: The Reflection Series

Copyright © 2013-14 Tamara Rose Blodgett

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

All rights are reserved.

Dedication:

Sarah Drum

The only limitation is the one you put on yourself;

never give up~

THE CAUSE

First;
Right the Wrong

Second;
Bear no Injustice

Third;
Change Not, what must Be

Prologue

twenty years before

The midwife made her way along ancient cobblestoned streets, the crevices catching on her shoes, though Principle knew, they were as sensible as they came.

As was her occupation.

She'd arrive in the birthing ward at exactly eight a.m. for her twelve hour shift. Of course, it would not be twelve hours, it would be for however long the woman labored.

And if a Reflective was born.

Just the thought of the
potential
for that caused a nervous thrill to flutter deep within Florence, as it did each time she worked.

The Reflective newborn must be swaddled in special blankets. Non-reflective. A baby would not be lost on her shift... because it was a prodigy and jumped at a mirror or other reflective surface left uncovered.

Dear Principle
, she shuddered, thinking about what the punishment would be for
that
. As it was they couldn't use any surgical instruments that were not brushed stainless steel, and since the last unfortunate incident—had since moved to an all-ceramic surgical unit.

Florence swept up the massive steps, the rise of the treads so low the stairs felt more like a gentle slope than true steps.

The flakes of sparkling charcoal that clung to the deep thickness of the white granite reminded her that the sun still shone brightly, though their version of autumn would soon be here.

A shadow fell over Florence and she twisted to look at the sky, her foot on the top step, her hand on the solid brass door handle that opened to the birthing center.

A swarm of butterflies, so thick it blocked the cerulean of the sky, dropped false darkness all around her as they flew through the rectangular air ports that fed the ventilation system in warmer months.

They were a deliberate architectural feature that would allow entry for the only creature in their world that could identify a Reflective.

So many.

Florence stood in stunned wonder. She had witnessed butterflies come to mark the birth of a Reflective before, but never in such a great number.

Their importance was such that her world was named in their honor, Papilio, Sector Ten.

The path they made was a rainbow of iridescent color, which poured like water through the narrow vents that had been carved in the solid stone of the birthing center.

All who lived in their world were born in similar structures.

However, Florence was one of the few that worked at the birthing center that had the highest incidence of Reflective births. She had requested it, and after a five year waiting period- been assigned.

She snapped out of her reverie as the last of the mingling kaleidoscope of insects funneled through the deep recessive slits underneath the eaves of a copper roof, now aged a deep verdigris.

Florence tore the heavy door open.

She didn't notice it clank behind her as she ran the length of the corridor to the floor that houses laboring mothers.

*

Florence burst through the swinging doors as two people, a man and a woman stood over a cradle.

Florence skidded to a stop, confusion reigning supreme.

What is this?

This
... appeared to be the parents in front of a babe that was so new some of the vernix still coated the wee one, her arms swinging as she howled.

The nurses hung back, one ending her shift, one in training.

Oh, for the love of all that is good.
She
stalked over to the newborn.

Florence halted as the sight overtook them all.

Their breath.

Their thoughts.

Everything else melted away for those who witnessed the post-birth spectacle but the scene itself.

The butterflies descended, floating in a lazy spiral as the sunlight laid an opalescent wash over their multicolored wings.

The chubby arms of the baby girl swirled and pumped, slowing as they drew nearer, her echoing screams gradually grew quiet.

The insects lighted on the rails of the basinet in a portentous group, their wings moving in a steady sweep to maintain balance.

Their appearance froze the breath in the parents' throats.

The moment swelled and grew in the stillness of the nursery. Rows upon rows of cradles pressed up one against the other as the parents watched the butterflies flutter precariously on the polished sides of the newborn's bed. Only hers and no other.

Their appearance was beautiful... final.

Florence strained to hear the mother's voice.

“She is Reflective,” she said in a sorrowful tone.

Her mate squeezed her hand so tightly her knuckles bleed to white.

“Yes,” he replied, just as grave.

Their gaze met in perfect understanding. They knew what the future held for their daughter: a life as mercenary, hunter and hunted.

An honor and privilege amongst their people.

Florence closed her eyes in sympathy,
a female Reflective
.

Every parents dream... and nightmare.

*

five years later

Beth shot the marble across the stretch of earth, watching the glass orb tumble and spin as it met the others she shot in a smack of hardened glass. It swerved at the last moment, ricocheting off a shooter and came to stand where she'd intended.

She possessed none that were mercury-coated. All the other children her age could play with any marble they chose.

Beth Jasper was a solitary girl.

But not one who lacked intelligence. Beth had felt the sadness from papa and mama and knew she would soon leave for the building that had a big
papilio
above the entrance in shining silver.

Mama and papa had taken her there last week to meet with a man who had a nose like the water birds that gathered by her family's pond.

It made it very difficult not to giggle. Beth sometimes had a problem with laughing when she ought not to.

Beth had been an observer and stood watch over her new surroundings, remembering what her adoptive parents had told her.

Beth, you must let us do the talking. Under no circumstances should you volunteer to train for a combative role. There are alternative roles for female Reflectives.

Beth crinkled her face at the memory, she understood all of what they wanted of her and she would not shuffle papers and look like the dolls that she had given up playing—to sit behind a desk.

All Reflectives were far advanced in all areas of maturation in comparison to their other humanoid counterparts from the sectors, thirteen in all.

Beth was no exception. She spoke like a teen, though she was five cycle. She puzzled through things that confounded adults.

She was faster, stronger... brighter.

Beth was female.

When Commander Rachett of the beakish nose leaned forward and delved deep, trying to pierce young Beth's very soul, she met him halfway.

Her small body leaned toward his. Unafraid—bold.

In their people's ancient language of Latin, he posed the question:
What role will you fill within The Cause, young Beth?

Beth's eyes narrowed and Rachett's brows raised slowly.

He had studied her, no doubt noting her half-breed status, for she was not of pure descent and female beside. She had met his stare with an unwavering gaze.

“A combative role, of course,” Beth said in her childlike voice, though the meaning was very adult. Understood and communicated like one.

“No! Beth...” she heard her mama say. Beth swung her legs back and forth underneath the chair, her eyes drifting to the candy dish poised at the edge of the desk then returning to the commander's.

Beth's stare never dropped from that of Ratchett's.

Rachett had to know what she was: a warrior. It was an attribute that was either present, or not.

Her papa stood.

“We can't have her fight. She is female... and not big for her gender.” Her father's face pleaded with Rachett to see reason.

Commander Rachett wasn't known to be a reasonable man.

Rachett steepled his fingers underneath his chin, looking to her adoptive parents. Good people, common folk—loyal to The Cause, believers in the Principle.

Rachett's gaze had shifted to Beth. He scrutinized her face. Eyes like crushed brown velvet, hair like a raven's wing, skin like polished marble, pale but not pasty.

She is too beautiful to fight,
he'd thought with regret.

Beth had seen that future remorse on his face.

Then he looked at her hands. Long-fingered and limber.

His eyes shifted to hers.

“Beth,” he asked softly.

“Yes, Commander Rachett?” her small fingers held something in them.

He frowned, obviously distracted from his original comment.

“What do you have in your hand?”

She opened her palm and a large reflective marble stood in the middle of her tiny hand.

A shooter. Hard-laced mercury.

Rachett sucked in his breath.

“That's a locator.”

Her parents looked at each other. “Where did you get that Beth?” Her father asked carefully.

Beth's eyes touched on the worry that each face held, she felt her face scrunch.

“They hand them out at the front entrance...” Rachett said thoughtfully before she could answer.

Beth nodded carefully. The nice lady had given it to her so she could have something to entertain herself.

“Do you know what those are for?” he asked her.

She nodded again.

Beth knew. She liked the feeling of the smooth glossy surface. Her fingers worked over the cylindrical perfection delicately, with reverence.

“It is for those Reflectives that need to find their sector,” Rachett explained neutrally.

He smiled down at her.

Beth knew he understood she wasn't a regular five year old.

She watched his smile fade as he took in her gender. Beth was weary of being thought as lesser because she was a girl.

Beth noticed Rachett's hesitation. She'd heard the whispers of the bullying that was so commonplace within the ranks of the Reflectives.

Though of course, by now everyone had heard the story of the swarm that had descended at her day of birth.

Papiliones
do not lie.

Rachett shook his head, decision made. It was safer. Safer for everyone.

Beth narrowed her eyes on the vision of his soft thoughts.

Rachett stood, as did Beth and the parents not of her blood.

“I'm sorry. Beth will be placed in... inter-dimensional communication training. An excellent program and critical calling for the female Reflective,” Rachett stated, lacing his hands together, effectively closing the meeting.

“Thank Principle,” Beth's mother murmured, shooting a look at Beth that let her know she had been naughty for
not
remaining silent about her crazy intentions as instructed.

Heat began in Beth's chest. She recognized it immediately: anger.

It began at the core of her body and swam out like molten lava, lashing through her circulatory system in defiance of being contained.

Beth did not want to be a weak female.

She was not.

Then Beth did what all children do—she threw a tantrum.

Beth threw the marble at Commander Rachett of the Reflective Militia operated under The Cause.

“No!” she shouted in a clear, bell-like ring that stung the ears and raised the hair on the back of his neck.

Beth's body reacted to her emotions, and the spinning ball of glass coated by the forbidden mercury.

It spun and Beth tracked it automatically, as naturally as taking her next breath. It was part and parcel to being Reflective.

The heat inside her body coalesced, bursting painfully—beautifully , and she gasped as it moved for her, slamming into the ball midair.

Her small body morphed into the narrow strip of shimmering ribbon that all Reflectives become when they jump.

Beth allowed all of it happen in an instinctual slide of circumstance and raw emotion. Her new form lashed like a shining whip, absorbing into the shell of the spinning glass as it sailed in the air for its two seconds of flight

Coolness washed the heat away and she spun with the ball... and went somewhere else, in a falling stream of fire bathed by ice.

Rachett stood stunned as the ball that Beth Jasper had used for transport shattered at his feet.

The three of them stood... stunned, their bearings—gone.