But she couldn’t give up that bracelet. She’d made it herself, drilling the stones and threading them on a sturdy chain. Even though the stones seldom spoke to her anymore, she never took them off. This bracelet contained the first crystals that had spoken to her…
She was Charisma Fangorn, one of the Chosen Ones, and her gift was that she could hear the earthsong.
All of her life, Charisma had been aware of the earth, speaking through the stones at her wrist, at her neck, crooning like a mother to her beloved child.
As a child, Charisma had reveled in those loving tones, and believing everyone heard the same song, she had spoken to her mother about the pleasure she felt in hearing it.
Two things.
One—her mother wasn’t her biological mother, and an altogether pretty poor excuse for a human being.
Two—that woman started farming her out as a clairvoyant at markets and street fairs across the western U.S. Charisma hated it, hated the nomad lifestyle and managed to get into school where she—
Her eyes popped open.
The darkness pressed on her eyeballs.
The glowing eyes were closer. A lot closer.
Charisma pulled her shoulder in. In a slow, desperately painful movement she pressed her back against the wall and staggered to her feet.
The glowing eyes surrounded her, but they moved no closer.
Yes. She tried to smile. They wouldn’t touch her. Because…she was one of the Chosen Ones. She would die fighting. And at least she had found her bracelet. At least she hadn’t come down here in vain.
A few levels up, the walls were slimy and cold. Down here, the heat from below radiated up Charisma’s back and fought off the chill of death.
Charisma bent, inch by painful inch, down to her boot and pulled her knife. She grasped the handle in her sweaty palm. She wished she could say the blade felt familiar, but no. She lost her knives in fights every day, every week, until Irving bought them by the case and kept them in the hall closet for the Chosen so they would never be without.
God bless Irving. Almost a hundred years old…She had never thought he would outlive her.
The creatures chattered in anticipation, prisoners who for the first time in weeks glimpsed a good meal.
Oh, God. She wished she hadn’t thought of that, or of the way Carl Badden had looked when they found his body. He’d been one of the Chosen for only weeks when they lost him, and his expression of terror and anguish…No, Charisma would fight to her last breath…
She breathed, in and out, the sound rasping in her ears.
The gibbering got louder, more excited.
She lifted the knife. Narrowed her eyes. Braced herself.
And staggered when something heavy, cold and slick and silent, fell on her from above.
She screamed, the pain in her shoulder agonizing, then screamed again as that thing sank its teeth into the muscle above her collarbone. She stabbed, impaling it, heard it squeal and struggle. She lost her grip on her knife. She grabbed, dug her fingers into some body part. A nose. An eye. She didn’t care. She only knew she suddenly had a handle with which to throw it, and she did, flung it as hard as she could, the way a person threw a cockroach or slug or spider or snake.
A thump. A squawk. Four pairs of eyes went out. She’d knocked them over like bowling pins, and that made her happy. But she’d lost her last weapon, and the chattering grew guttural, angry, intent.
The eyes grew closer. Closer. Glowed hotter, red and blue.
Her shoulder throbbed. The bite spread cold down her arm and up her neck. Venom. She’d been poisoned. The world wavered. She was going to die…
She heard a rush of movement from the side.
She crouched and turned to fight.
Loud and deep and animal, something roared.
And right before her eyes, a bomb exploded. Light flashed scalding white, burning her retinas.
The creatures screamed.
She tried to cover her eyes. The ragged edges of her collarbone scraped together.
The creatures scattered.
She sought unconsciousness.
The beast roared again, closer this time, then like a vengeful god grabbed her, lifted her, flung her over a broad, hairy shoulder, and bounded like a lion up the stairs.
Her arm hung uselessly down his back.
The pain was excruciating.
The fear broke her spirit.
She welcomed death.
.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Christina Dodd, Betrayal
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