Eko (NINE Series, #1)

EKO

  by Loren Walker

  Copyright © 2016 by Loren Walker.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Octopus & Elephant Books (www.oandebooks.com)

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Book Layout ©2015 BookDesignTemplates.com.

  Cover by Deranged Doctor Designs

  EKO / Loren Walker. -- 1st ed.

  ISBN 978-0-9973922-0-3

  For the ones that I love.

  PART ONE

  I.

  Sydel took a deep breath, her first in hours. Her lower back ached, but the cold floor of her room was a relief to her swollen bare feet. Stripping off her blue high-necked tunic and trousers, her apprentice uniform, the stink of antiseptic and layers of sweat was overpowering. But when cool cotton slid down her body, her nightgown’s hem grazing the floor, she couldn’t ignore the ache in her throat anymore, or the frustration burning in her sternum.

  It was immunization day. Sydel was in charge of the operation, her first assignment as Yann’s medical assistant. She had taken care to dress neatly, pinned up her hair to look older, straightened the equipment and syringes again and again, prepared friendly suggestions or comforts for patients who were nervous.

  None of it mattered. Not one of the fifty residents of Jala Communia would look her in the eye, not one all day. Each man and woman gave mumbled answers to her questions; they offered their arms for injection without comment. She tried smiles, reminders, silences, but no one would lift their head. Failures, one after another. The community still shutting her out.

  It should have been better. Yann told her it would be different when she turned eighteen, when she was made his official apprentice. What was she doing wrong?

  Deflated, Sydel sat on her bed and pulled the pins from her hair. Six ropey braids fell over her shoulders; she itched at her scalp, sighing with relief. Then she loosened each braid, running her fingers through the strands. Her gaze wandered across her cell, taking stock of her few possessions to distract her from her thoughts. Textbooks on anatomy and physiology, borrowed from the library. Meditation beads hanging from a nail. The armoire in the corner, one door higher than the other, with her clothing and toiletries inside…

  Take her with you.

  Sydel froze at the sharp command, her hands on her last braid. Confused, she swiveled to the door, mouth open to ask what Yann meant by such a command. But the door was still closed, the lock fastened. There were no shadows in her cell.

  I said take her away.

  Sydel rolled onto her hands and knees, looking over the windowsill. The courtyard was silent, following the rainstorm. She strained her ears to listen: no creaking doors, no wet sounds of walking, no voices. Even the crickets were quiet, forced underground by the downpour.

  Sydel sat back on her heels. She put her fingers on her temples, massaging the skin, debating. Should she open her mind and call back to him? No. Yann hardly used Eko, and in the medical clinic where they worked, he strictly forbade it. What could be happening? Again, Sydel searched the landscape for signs. But all was quiet. No lights in the sky. Barely a trace of wind. Peaceful, on another night.

  Just an accident, she reasoned. Yann had a random thought, accidentally projected it, and since Sydel was the only other Eko, she picked up on it.

  Take her with you. Take her away.

  Was he being threatened? Impossible. Yann was the leader of Jala Communia. He was brilliant and powerful. Everyone deferred to his judgment. They always had. No one would dare. Would they?