Sanctum (Guards of the Shadowlands, Book 1)
Read Sanctum (Guards of the Shadowlands, Book 1) Online
Authors: Sarah Fine
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text copyright © 2012 by Sarah Fine
All rights reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner. Request for permission should be addressed to:
Amazon Publishing
Attn: Amazon Children’s Publishing
P.O. Box 400818
Las Vegas, NV 89149
www.amazon.com/amazonchildrenspublishing
ISBN: 978-0-7614-6329-0
Book design by The Black Rabbit
Map design by Luka Rejec
Editor: Courtney Miller
First edition
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For Jennifer, who was there from the beginning
.
ON MY FIRST DAY
at Warwick High School, if you’d told me I would choose to go to hell for
any
of the students, let alone Warwick’s queen bee, I would have laughed. Or maybe I would have stabbed you with a ballpoint pen (it was kind of a rough day).
I was out behind the school, lighting up a badly needed lunchtime cigarette, when I first saw her. She was pretty, blonde, and wearing something more expensive than a year’s worth of foster care checks. Her pale blue eyes darted across the fence and landed on this tall, skinny kid in dirty jeans who was standing next to me. She walked up to him, her voice shaking as she asked, “Angela told me you have OC?”
Dirty Jeans peeled himself off the fence. “Angela might be right, depending on what you have for
me
.”
The girl reached into her purse, pulled out several bills, and held them up. I felt like slapping her in the back of the head. Nobody ever taught her not to wave money around in public?
Dirty Jeans smiled as he pivoted around and backed her against the fence. “I think you might have more than that for me. Is this your first time?”
Now, what do they call that? Something French. Double fucking entendre. I should have jammed my cigarette in his eye right then. I can’t be the only girl who fantasizes about these things.
The blonde’s face crumpled. “My first…oh, coming back here…yes?”
Couldn’t she tell this punk wanted to take advantage of her? He was obviously going to take her money, but she’d asked for it. And by the way he was looking at her, I was betting he would try to double-charge for her fix. She had
not
asked for that.
I shouldn’t have cared. I’d been listening to girls like her make bitchy comments about my wild hair and cheap-ass Kmart-special outfit ever since I showed up this morning for my first day of school, escorted to the office by my new foster mom and my probation officer. I’d watched those girls shrink back as I walked down the hall. I’d heard them whispering about how I’d killed someone, which was totally untrue. I’d
almost
killed someone. And I’d expected all those rumors, all
those pinch-faced expressions, and already decided I didn’t care what they thought, didn’t care about
them
. So what did it matter that
this
preppy girl was about to get some involuntary up-close with a wannabe drug dealer?
But…the moment I saw the blood drain from her already-pale face, I knew I wasn’t going to be able to watch this go down.
I crushed out my cigarette and took a few steps closer to them. I’m not huge, but I’m not one of those anorexic walking stalks of celery, either. I could do man push-ups. I’d had some time on my hands while I was at the RITS: Rhode Island’s teen jail. I also knew the value of being able to protect myself. Just one of the many side effects of having been Rick Jenson’s foster kid. After months spent under his “care,” I’d tried to kill myself. And when that didn’t turn out to be the escape I’d hoped for, I’d escaped in a different way. By beating the crap out of him and getting myself sent to juvie. Where I learned not to be afraid of kids like Dirty Jeans.
“Come on now,” I snapped, taking another step closer. “Let her buy her pills and run back to her friends.”
“Shut up,” replied Dirty Jeans as he leaned closer to the girl, towering over her. He didn’t even look at me. He didn’t think I was a threat. Awesome.
The bell signaled the end of lunch. I was one fuckup away from getting sent right back to the RITS and should have been scurrying to class, but I couldn’t force myself to leave her. I
knew what it felt like to be helpless and pinned, no matter how hard I tried to forget.
“Take the cash,” she whimpered, “and let me go to class.”
“Oh, you can’t leave now. We have to discuss payment,” Dirty Jeans crooned as he spared me a sidelong glance. I could almost see the gears turning in his tiny brain, like he thought he could get a twofer, like he thought I’d go along. And sure enough, he started to snake his arm around my neck as he spoke to the girl. “I want to feel your pretty mouth on my—”
I punched him in the stomach and he doubled over. I turned to the girl, who looked like she was about to hurl. “What are you waiting for? Get out of he—”
Dirty Jeans grabbed my hair, then jerked me backward. I smashed my heel down on his foot and elbowed him in the stomach. He gasped and let go of my hair. I darted behind him, pulling the only weapon I had out of my pocket: a ballpoint pen.
I aimed a sharp kick at the back of his knee and got a fistful of his hair as he staggered. He fell to his knees, and I kept hold of his hair as I snapped his head back. I held the point of the pen to his neck. “Ready to go back to class?” I allowed myself the luxury of pressing the pen into his neck, just a little. It left a satisfyingly deep indentation ringed with blue ink.
His hands rose from his sides but dropped quickly as the pen sank farther into his skin. He winced and rasped, “Yeah, but I’m gonna find you after school—”
I rocked his head back and forth. “Your rich-kid-wannabe-gangsta act doesn’t impress me at all. Believe me when I say I will fuck you up if you so much as twitch in my direction. I even have some friends in Providence who would love to help me. Would you like to meet them?”
I didn’t really. But if you had my rep and told
this
type of kid you had “friends in Providence,” they thought one thing: Latin Kings, baby. If I had to deal with the stereotype, why not make it work in my favor sometimes?
Dirty Jeans shook his head. He didn’t look me in the eye, which meant he wouldn’t give up…and would attack from behind next time. Suddenly tired, I let go of his hair.
“I heard about you. You’re that girl who just got out of the RITS, right? That means you’re on probation.” Little flecks of spit flew from his mouth as he got to his feet. “So guess what? You’re going back there—”
“No, she isn’t,” snapped the girl. I had almost forgotten she was there. “If you tell anyone what just happened, I’ll take my
pretty mouth
straight to the principal’s office, crying that you sexually assaulted me. Then we’ll see who ends up in the RITS.”
I was starting to like this girl.
Dirty Jeans fell silent. Although anyone would believe him if he accused
me
of attacking him, no one would buy the story if
she
backed me up.
“You better watch your back, bitch.” He spun around and jogged toward the school.
The girl turned to me. She looked so relieved that I thought she might fall to the ground. “Thank you so much,” she said, holding out a trembling hand. “I’m Nadia Vetter.”
It was such a formal gesture that I almost laughed out loud and ruined everything. Instead, I shook her hand. “Lela Santos,” I replied. “You’re welcome. And thank you, too.”
The bell rang again and I groaned. Nadia tilted her head. “What’s your next?”
“English. With—” I pulled my crumpled schedule out of my pocket. “Hoffstedler?”
She leaned over and checked the room number. “I’ve got History one hall over. Come on. I’ll walk you to class.” She started toward the entrance to the school, then paused and looked over her shoulder. “You coming? It’ll be better if I take you there. Then we can blame your tardiness on me.” Her smile was bright. “They
always
forgive me.”
I opened and closed my mouth a few times, trying to wrap my mind around the idea that this preppy girl was actually being nice, when I’d expected her to give me a quick thank-you and then start pretending I didn’t exist. Finally, I stopped trying
to find the right words to say and simply followed her into the school.
By my second day at Warwick High School, if you’d told me I would choose to go to hell for its queen bee, I might have believed you.
A year later
MY MUSCLES CONTRACTED, POWERFUL
and controlled, pushing me up from the ground and lowering me to the floor again. Over and over, until my arms trembled and my breath exploded from my throat in sharp bursts. And then a few more times after that, just to be sure I could. I finished my push-ups and moved on to sit-ups.
The knock at my door pulled me from my mindless reps. “Baby? You’re awful quiet in there.”
I sank back and tilted my head to the door, brushing away my curly hair, now damp with sweat. Diane, my foster mother, opened the door a crack and peeked in.