The Wilds (Reign and Ruin 1)
Read The Wilds (Reign and Ruin 1) Online
Authors: Jules Hedger
Tags: #romance, #adventure, #fantasy, #paranormal, #magic, #free, #monsters, #dystopian, #fantastical, #new adult
Originally from California,
Jules
Hedger
now lives on a narrow boat in London
with one cat and one husband. The Reign and Ruin series is her
debut.
Visit Jules Hedger
online
:
www.facebook.com/Juleshedgerauthor
https://twitter.com/JulesHedger
To Mr
Poling and WISE English, who let me take one period off every day
to encourage my writing. You, good sir, are a dude.
First published in 2014
by This Thistle Press
Copyright 2014 by Jules
Hedger
Smashwords Edition
The moral right of the
author has been asserted.
All characters and
events in this publication, other than
those clearly in the
public domain, are fictitious
and any resemblance to
real persons,
living or dead, is
purely coincidental.
All rights
reserved.
Thank you for
downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property
of
the author, and may not
be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial
purposes. If you
enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their
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Deep into that
darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting,
dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.
- Edgar Allan
Poe
Table
of Contents
Prologue
There have been some close breaks on this way to my
death. Honestly, I wasn't surprised when it finally arrived. I had
almost been killed twice already that I knew of. Both times, I was
scared. But that terror was for the pain, the feeling of needle
through skin or teeth tearing. I never feared the actual death
itself.
But this fear
now – the man that stood before me – was something entirely
different. His face showed nothing but gentle compassion. His
fingers twitched in a yearning to embrace my body in love, not wrap
around my neck. His arms were spread innocently wide in the promise
of acceptance and unconditional affection. He needed me so
much.
But I could
already feel myself slipping away. I saw the lines blurring around
my vision and sense the darkness creeping into my brain to engulf
all memory, opinions, and independent thought. Our hearts were
connected but my mind was screaming out against him.
Death was upon
me now in a way entirely different than blinking out of physical
existence. I was so much more afraid of this death than I had ever
been of the others.
Loneliness.
Desperation. The loss of my fated birth right. What a thing to look
forward to in a relationship right?
"How long has
it been since you've seen real sunlight?" I whispered.
Chapter
1
"Flight UA231 from Chicago is arriving at
baggage claim 4 . . ."
To try and
decipher why I have never dreamt – not once in my short 22 years –
would be a bit like trying to work out why some people my age can
master more than one language without breaking a sweat. Or why
planes get lost over Bermuda. Or Justin Bieber.
Nobody
knows.
Perhaps I have
yet to live through anything that was meaningful enough to make a
subconscious impact. My life was hardly worth remembering up until
I swallowed the marble, at least by my standards.
And yet even
after it all, even after finding the dead body on the floor of my
uncle's apartment, falling through the purple cloud and jumping off
the white horizon, those dreams still eluded me. I was still as
normal and boring as any other girl in New York, or any other
dimension created. I smoked. I swore. I listened to John Grant and
cut my bangs from a YouTube video. And even after looking into the
eyes of someone so beautiful, feeling his heart beat under my hot
palm like an electric pulse, it was only when awake did I know for
sure I was real.
All the other
times were darkness.
"Flight UA231 from
Chicago is arriving at baggage claim 4 . . ."
Flight UA231
from Chicago to New York, just landed with minor delays and a
shitty in-flight pasta meal.
The arrivals
lobby was packed with families home from school vacation, reuniting
again under the fluorescent lights with the hope of a hot summer
and picnics in Central Park. I was just praying my bag turned
up.
An elderly
couple stood beside me as I waited next to the rotating carousel
and watched black bag after black bag roll past. There was always
this breath of expectation and, as sad as it was to admit,
excitement in the wait. The elderly woman gave a little hum of
pleasure as her husband kissed her temple gently and leaned in
slightly so their shoulders were touching. I tried not to notice
but when all the bags had been and gone except for our own, I had
no choice but to look over and give the usual, "Oh no, it is us?"
half-smile. Of course it was me: the lone girl plugged into her
iPod, head down to avoid unnecessary conversation. But it was as a
team that we walked over to the information desk.
The airline
representative looked up lazily from his magazine and picked up a
pen.
"Baggage gone
missing?"
"Yes, we
changed in O'Hare and perhaps it got held up there," the elderly
man said, handing over his ticket.
As the clerk
filled out the forms, the couple turned to me curiously.
"Where are you
coming from?"
"Sorry?" I
asked, pulling out my earphones and turning down Broken Bells.
"Where did you
fly from?" the old man repeated.
"Chicago," I
said blankly.
Obviously.
But when they kept staring, I felt
inclined to expand. "Third year in college, just back for summer."
I pointed embarrassingly at my t-shirt. "Are the big white letters
not a giveaway?"
"Absolutely,
show some
pride
in your education'" the old man said. "Kids
these days have no respect for it all, except for the football." He
looked at me suddenly. "You don't like football, do you?"
"No, no, never
been into football." The old man nodded in approval and his wife
reached over to pat my arm.
"Is anyone
picking you up? Do you live close or would you like a ride
somewhere?"
I smiled
uncomfortably and shook my head, because no, someone wasn't picking
me up. No one ever picked me up. My mom had long ago decided that
if I could handle pepper spray, I was better off on my own.
Besides, she was probably busy.
Before I went
to college I lived with my mother in the lower east side, rented
from a business man who reminded me strongly of a blueberry; the
fat, overripe kind that is already so spoiled you have to throw it
down the garbage dispenser and mourn the fact you just wasted $4.99
on moldy fruit. He wore a fedora hat, a cheap suit, and toupee that
looked like it had lost all hope of ever looking more like a dead
animal. I was tall enough to look over the man's balding head while
at the same time knowing he was probably staring at my tits.
"And you,
Miss?" the clerk was saying, calling me over. I held out my ticket
and positioned myself at the high desk. "Anything of value in your
luggage at all?"
"Just my
vibrator," I deadpanned. The man looked uncomfortable and I heard a
little gasp from behind me.
Oh jeez
, I sighed inwardly. "It
was a joke."
A shot of air
burst from the man's mouth like a locomotive releasing steam, in
relief or genuine mirth I really didn't know. Just like I didn't
know how to function in social situations, obviously.
The incredible
thing was that the couple behind me were laughing. And in the newly
empty baggage claim it was one of the only sounds I could hear and
it was stunningly loud. My insides squirmed.
The clerk
behind the counter ticked a box on his sheet, still shaking his
head and stealing shy glances up from the page. His freckles nearly
disappeared into his blush. He couldn't have been more than 19
years old.
"Right Miss, we
have the number. But in case someone took it by mistake or it gets
dropped off at a police or fire station, does it have any defining
characteristics?"
"Um, it's
black. It . . . has a few zippers. Decorative ones, I mean. And um
. . . there's a badge on it that says 'Fuck the police'," I replied
hesitantly. The man laughed and shook his head again. "No, sorry .
. . that wasn't a joke."
Freckle-face
19-year old coughed embarrassingly and I was damn sure he wasn't
the biggest loser in the room at the moment. And when I turned
around the elderly couple had disappeared.
There goes my
ride . . .
***
PLZ STAY @ STEVES.
BREAKFAST 2MORROW. SOZ HONEY, HAVE GUESTS.
I read the text
as the taxi sped past the lit freeway signs and through the dank
tunnels into the City. The latest Top 40 played from the front as
the driver studiously ignored me and nodded along to the lyrics of
some incredibly loud rapper putting a beat down about Hummers or
something. I read the text again. From what I could gather my
mother was hosting, seeing her gentleman caller, the Blueberry
Man.
I was used to
it. For the majority of my adolescent years, my mother would shake
me off at her brother's apartment on her way to the Upper West
Side. A heroin addict. A drunk. But a really nice guy if you got to
know him.
"Make sure he
feeds you something with green in it," my mother would say. "And
don't touch anything sharp."
My uncle locked
himself in his small apartment in central New York to paint his
demons. While my mother was off not even pretending to be a good
widow, I found myself passing an evening watching him create until
he left to meet his dealer Marty, who also stared at my
breasts.
