Hunted

HUNTED

For Jean, the mom I never thought I’d have,
and the most loving, encouraging, wise, beautiful-soul
person I know. I feel so loved by you and I treasure
our relationship.

For all survivors of abuse and those who’ve
experienced oppression, but especially for ritual abuse
survivors; I hope you find your voice, along with
healing, love, and safety,

And for all readers who like a good story,
I hope you find yourselves moved.

®

Lodi, New Jersey

Copyright © 2011 by Cheryl Rainfield.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner or form, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise whatsoever—without written permission of the publisher, except for brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews or as provided by copyright law of the United States of America.

Published by WestSide Books

60 Industrial Road

Lodi, NJ 07644

USA

This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events described are imaginary. Any resemblance to real people, places and events is entirely coincidental.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
International Standard Book Number: 978-1-934813-62-1

Cover illustration by

Cover design by David Lemanowicz

Interior design by Chinedum Chukwu

Printed in the USA

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

First Edition

HUNTED

CHAPTER 1

Mom’s gaze flicks to the rearview mirror for the thou-sandth time, like she’s afraid someone’s tailing us. I don’t know how she thinks she can tell in the dark—or with her abilities shut off, leaving her as blind and dull as a Normal.

“There’s no one there,” I say, sharp like broken glass, as if I haven’t been checking every few minutes myself. As if I haven’t been reaching out around us for anything different. Anything off.

The truth is, I think she’s right to be nervous. I can’t feel anyone watching, can’t even sense another Para close by—but they’ve been shadowing us too quickly lately, like they’ve found a way to zero in on my talent. But only another Para could do that, and I haven’t sensed the metallic bitterness that comes from the Government Paras—the Para-slaves.

Just before we ran, I got the sense that I knew one of the trackers—or that they knew me. That’s never happened before. It’s too big to think about—one of our own, hunting us. Betraying us, without being forced to.

7

Cheryl Rainfield

I glance at Mom. She’s clenching the steering wheel so tightly it looks like she might wrench it off its hinges.

I wish she’d swallow her anxiety, act like the parent.

The way she was before . . .

Mom loosens her grip on the steering wheel, turns to look at me, her eyes bloodshot. “You’re sure no one’s following us? Check again, will you, hon? We can’t take any chances.”

I grit my teeth, biting back words. I’ve never gotten used to her asking me to do what she used to on instinct. It’s reversed our roles. Now I’m the parent and she’s the child, needing protection.

I hunch against the car door, away from her, and open up more to the people around us. Their voices tumble and roll over each other chaotically.

. . .
shouldn’t have had that third donut . . . can’t do this

. . . will he be waiting up for me?
. . .

I sift through them, feeling for power, for predatory instincts. For anyone focusing on us, when we should just be two anonymous blips in a car.

Nothing.

I reach out farther, toward the people off the high-way.

. . .
who does he think he is, calling at three in the
morning?. . . drank too much damned coffee
. . .

Then I reach past the stray thoughts, the people in their cars and beds. I reach for the strongest voices, the ones that vibrate at a higher frequency—the other Paranormals.

I sense a few hundred, maybe more, in the cluster of 8

HUNTED

buildings we’re heading toward, but they’re fast asleep, their energies focused on dreaming.

I do one more sweep, delving deeper—and that’s when I feel it. The pinprick of attention, where there should be none. Someone watching us intently, hiding behind layers of others’ thoughts.

I draw my breath in so sharply my chest hurts.

Mom glances at me. I force a smile, try not to let the fear show.

I’ve got to find out who the watcher is without them sensing me. I visualize a shield of energy around Mom and me. I blend it with the energy of our own bodies, building onto it.

Then I reach out gently for that hidden mind. The layers open up to me slowly—caution, a proprietary protectiveness, and intense concentration.

I laugh as I recognize the familiar mind pattern. My old Para-friend and contact, John. I’ve never met him in person, but he’s helped us get to safety so many times over the years.

“What are you doing, watching us?”
I ask, teasingly.

“I told you, we’ll be okay.”

I feel him startle—surprised, even annoyed, that I caught him keeping tabs on us.
“If you think I was going to
let you face the wolves alone, you’re wrong,”
John sends.

“I’ll always watch out for you. Besides, you’ve had too
many near misses lately. I want to make sure you’re safe
this time.”

“Too many near misses” is putting it lightly. Normals 9

Cheryl Rainfield

used to get suspicious of us—of
me
—once every six months or so. But lately, their target rate has increased—

at least with me.

I rub my gritty eyes.
“You sense anyone with a lock on
us?”
I ask John.

“No one. But something doesn’t feel right. Have you
sensed anyone?”

“No.”
But then I didn’t last time, either—until it was almost too late.

“Keep your talent damped down, just in case.”

“You mean try to pass as a Normal,”
I send, disgusted.

I can’t stop my gaze from sliding to Mom. She’s worse than a Normal. She’s deadened everything inside her so nothing gets out, nothing gets in. It’s like her brain is a lump of cement, unreadable—instead of energy and thought.

“It’s better to have a little discomfort and be safe,”
John sends.

“I know, I know.”
I jerk away from him grumpily, closing our connection. “Nobody’s watching us, except John,” I tell Mom. “Most of the Paras are asleep.”

“Caitlyn Isobel Waters, you know I don’t like you saying ‘Para’; it’s derogatory,” Mom says, her voice as hard and brittle as an icicle.

“It’s Caitlyn Ellis this time, remember?” I say.

“I remember.” Her mouth tightens, then she glances at me, her face softening. “Thank you for making sure we’re safe. I wish
I
could check myself.” I scowl and slouch down in my seat.
You could if you
wanted to. If you tried.

10

HUNTED

Mom takes a gulp of coffee. “You want to get some sleep?”

Like I could, knowing they’re after us. And she’ll need me. “That’s all right. It’s not that far now.”
God. We’re always so polite to each other. Like
strangers.

I hate that I can’t hear what she’s thinking. I stare out into the murky night, my tinted glasses making it as dark as ink. Even at three in the morning, there are small yellow squares of light, testaments to the people still awake—dealing with crying babies, nightmares, heartache.

People’s thoughts are coming at me faster now, little blips as we pass other cars, the buildings in the distance.

We drive beneath a big anti-Para sign flashing its message: BE A GOOD CITIZEN! REPORT PARA BEHAVIOR

I’ve seen that one so many times my eyes almost glaze over. The next sign is just as common: DON’T LET THE PARAS TAKE OVER!

REPORT SUSPICIOUS BEHAVIOR

But the sign after that makes me sit up straight: PARAS ARE UNNATURAL!

THEY DO WHAT NO HUMAN SHOULD

Shivers race down my spine. I’ve never seen that one before. I haven’t seen so many anti-Para signs so close together in a while. I can almost feel the hate closing in around us. Why did John think we’d be safe here? But I know why—it’s easier to hide in a city.

My eyes ache and my body’s heavy with exhaustion. I try to focus on the rhythmic thrum of our tires on the road, 11

Cheryl Rainfield

the whisper of classical music from the speakers, the click-click of the turn signal as Mom changes lanes, but the Normals’ mind-voices keep growing until they’re a faceless roar.

We pass a ParaTrooper outpost, the building lit up in the dark, the barbed wire along the top of the fence gleaming like bloody teeth. I avert my gaze fast, as if they’ll feel me looking. If they have a Government Para on staff, they might. Paras are forced to do the government’s bidding against their will.

To protect us, I build the shield up around Mom and me again, gritting my teeth with the effort. I’m so tired that every little thing drains me.

Mom pats my knee. “We’ll be okay, Cait. You’ll see.”

“Sure.” She says the same thing every time—but we’re still running.

Mom sighs. “It won’t always be like this, honey.

Someday, we won’t have to run. Someday, we’ll have rights, just like every other citizen. Every Normal.” I roll my eyes, quietly snorting.
That’s right, Mom.

Keep hoping.

Mom sighs again, her sour-coffee breath filling the car.

Her hair is greasy, her face lined, deep shadows beneath her eyes. She badly needs a shower; we both do. But there wasn’t time. We haven’t stopped driving except for gas and to pee.

We travel light—what we can each carry in one duffel bag and one backpack. It makes for a fast getaway, but I feel like a visitor in my own life.

12

HUNTED

Now it’s my turn to sigh. I’ve lost so many people I care about—Dad, Daniel . . .

I squeeze my eyes shut. I don’t want to get pulled into the undertow.

“Caitlin!”
John sends.

Heavy, murderous thoughts seep into the car, filling my head, making it hard to think. I snap my eyes open, glance in the rearview mirror. A ParaTrooper patrol car is coming up behind us. They’ve got a Government Para with them; I can almost taste the bitter metal of the tracker em-bedded in his tongue. How could I not have noticed? I curse myself. I’m too drained to deal with this. But I have to. I reach for Mom’s thigh, touch it gently, and build up the shield around us. “Patrol,” I say softly. “Just keep driving.” Mom nods grimly, the knuckles of her hands bone white, her eyes as wide and as scared as I feel.

“Caitlyn! Do you feel them?”
John sends.

“I don’t just feel them, I see them,”
I send.

“Shit. Can you lose them?”

I put everything I have into shielding Mom and me, cloaking us in the night, in the thought-patterns of Normals as we pass them. Just nice, law-abiding citizens who hate Paras. I’d laugh if it weren’t so sickening—people hating us just because they lack something we have.

The hatred is so intense my mind grows foggy. I shake my head to clear it. I breathe out the rotting decay and breathe in the sky, the night, pushing that energy out and around us—
Normals. We’re just Normals.

The patrol car draws nearer. Mom’s gaze keeps darting to the windshield mirror. Sweat trickles down my back.

13

Cheryl Rainfield

The patrol car coasts up on my side, level with us. I can see the beefy driver, his cheeks flushed with drink, his gut pushing at his black uniform, straining the buttons. His buddy beside him is playing with his gun, tossing it back and forth between his hands. Idiot. Stupid, mindless, bigoted idiot. And in the back seat—a Government Para, sitting iron-straight, body skeletal and emaciated, mouth hard.

The trooper playing with his gun puts it back in his holster, says something over his shoulder, and then draws his ParaController out of his breast pocket—the thin, black plastic device with a touch screen about the size of an ebook reader, that monitors a Government Para, and emits an electric shock to keep the Para in line. So he’s the Para’s handler. I’ll bet he liked torturing animals when he was little.

The trooper looks at me sharply. I smile weakly and waggle my fingers at him, trying to look like I’m grateful that he patrols the city, keeping us safe from those big, bad Paras.

The driver winks at me, but his buddy frowns and jerks his chin at us, talking, his thoughts loud—why would a mother-and-daughter Normal be out traveling so late? Behind him, I can feel the Government Para probing, trying to penetrate my wall of energy, get past my surface thoughts into my heart.

I focus my energy, keeping it steady, filling my head with Normals’ thoughts. And then I feel John’s energy joining mine, adding to my façade of normalcy. It grows and becomes almost solid.

The Government Para backs off.

“Thank you,”
I send gratefully. I probably could have 14

HUNTED

managed it myself. I have so many times. But I’m weary, and John gave me the boost I needed. And you never know with these Para-slaves. Some of them are so fueled by their own need for survival that they’ll do anything.

I start to let down the façade—and then I feel the Government Para at me again, probing, still not sure.

I focus on making my mind seem as closed and as deaf to others’ voices as a Normal, and I project that toward the Government Para. His interest in me wavers. But the patrol car keeps pace with us still.

Time for the big lie. I open the glove compartment, take out the folded anti-Para flag, and shake it open, flapping it in front of my window.

ParaTroopers think that we can’t bear to spread anti-Para sentiments. And most of us can’t. But I’ve had a lot of practice, at least with this flag. It’s helped save us. And though it sickens me, I smile.

I can see them argue, but the flag has done the trick.

The patrol car speeds ahead of us.

I let out my breath shakily and relax the shield just a bit, my hands trembling.

“Put that thing away,” Mom says.

I cram the flag back into the glove compartment, out of sight.

“Well.” Mom’s voice is breathy, like she’s just run a race. “They didn’t stop us. Nice job, Cait. Your dad taught you well.”

My chest aches, the pain spreading through me into my shoulder blades. I wish Dad was still here with us, with his rich laughter and his quick, creative mind. If he was still 15

Cheryl Rainfield

here, he’d be thinking up new and better ways to protect us from the Government Paras and patrols. Instead, I have only the shielding technique he taught me—and that was just for my comfort. That was before it was necessary to hide.

I rub my chest, trying to rub the ache away.

“Caitlyn—something’s wrong!”
John sends.
“Don’t
you feel it?”

I jerk. He’s right; something’s been niggling at the edge of my shield, like a bird pecking against glass, since we shook off the patrol car. I was giving in to my exhaustion, instead of keeping alert. I grit my teeth and open up to it.

The scent of metal fills my mind with a tight, high energy. A different Government Para is searching for us—for
me
. She knows I’m arriving here tonight in a beat-up car with a deadened Para who reads like a Normal. She holds my photo to get a better fix on me but she can’t quite get a focus.