Silverlighters

The Silverlighters

# 1

By Ellem May

For Caria ‘cause you kick butt and would make an awesome Silverlighter

Series Synopsis

Imagine if you found out everything you ever knew was a lie – that those closest to you were part of that lie. That you had to change your name and start over again.

What if your memories had been stolen? The memories of the boy you loved. Of your very first kiss ... what would you do? How would you react? What if you found out he was the one that stole them from you?

How far would you go to protect those you love? What would you do to get them back? Only time will tell ...

This is my story. I only hope I get to finish it before it’s too late. Too late for you. Too late for me. Too late for all of us.

Because ... the end is coming, and I've been shown a glimpse of it.

You might think this is just a story. But it is real. It's already begun and you need to know what's coming ...

Copyright
Silverlighters - book 1
© Ellem May, 2013
All rights reserved worldwide
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted without permission.
[email protected]
http://www.facebook.com/Silverlighters
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters and places are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Kindle Edition
YA Paranormal Science Fiction

Acknowledgements

Behind the scenes there are many people involved in getting a work ready for publication. One of the most vital ingredients is the highly undervalued beta reader who reads it first. I was lucky to find some truly amazing beta readers who are worth their weight in gold and then some.
Lani
Ayers –
your enthusiasm is contagious and you have mad-ass beta reading skills.
Amanda Phillips –
thank you for inspiring the re-write of chapter 19, and for everything else you are doing for me. You are and have been amazing.
Jay
Bual
–
I love the way you let me get into your head as you read Silverlighters. It was an incredible experience.
Crissy
Conner –
she of the sharpest eye for picking up errors!
Susan Elizabeth –
a fellow author – I loved your notes and insightfulness from a writers point of view. Maybe one day I will be beta reading for you!
Aarati
–
thank you for your fantastic notes and your enthusiasm.
Argie
–
thank you.

Before

1

I still remember the way I fumbled with the key to the security door, my hands numb with the cold. My only thought was reaching the warmth of the apartment on the fifth floor where I lived with my father. That and the fact I was running late, and was meant to be studying with Bianca for the Biology test the next day.

If only I knew then how much everything was about to change. I might have paid more attention to the small details. And I definitely wouldn’t have been worrying about some stupid test.

I remember feeling as though I was being watched. Or maybe that feeling came to me later, after the explosion.

I’ve gone over it so many times in my mind I can hardly remember what was real and what wasn’t.

I remember glancing down the street as I struggled with the key. I saw a man standing there, watching me. He was half hidden by the shadows, his hands thrust in the pockets of his long, dark coat, his back hunched with the cold.

I never got a good look at his face, though now I wish I had.

You see, the security door suddenly swung open, and a woman rushed out, colliding with me. She looked up, her face obscured by the hood of her dark jacket, and the thick blue scarf wrapped around her neck and the bottom of her face.

For a moment time seemed to stop as she met my eye, the tendrils of our warm breath mingling in the cold air between us.

The woman stepped back, letting out a small, sharp gasp of surprise.

Something deep inside me woke. There was something familiar about her.

My hand reached for her as though it were possessed, my subconscious mind already aware of the one thing I failed to even consider at the time.
 

A look of horror and fear crossed the woman’s face. She broke eye contact, and pushed past me.

I turned, my hand still reaching for her as she moved quickly down the street.

The man stepped out of the shadows, linking his arm through hers, and they hurried away. Neither of them looked back.

If only I had realized then. If only I could go back.

I would have followed them, because now I believe I know who the woman was. Why she seemed so familiar.

I think it was my mother – which should be impossible considering I watched her die the day I turned eleven.

Instead, oblivious, I hurried toward the elevator, rubbing my hands to warm them. At the time I was more worried about how late I was and how angry my father was likely to be on a scale of somewhat annoyed to seriously pissed off.

As far as my father was concerned, I didn’t have a curfew as such. You would think that was a good thing, right? But it wasn’t. Instead, he demanded I be home by dark. No exceptions.

He said the city wasn’t safe, especially for sixteen year old girls, to which I always reminded him that I was almost seventeen – practically an adult – and that it wouldn’t be an issue if I were a boy.

At the time I thought he was being overprotective.

Now I know better.

I was rehearsing my apology when I reached the fifth floor.

As it turned out, I didn’t need it.

A thin sliver of light spilled out into the corridor, coming from our apartment door.

It was ajar.

I knew immediately that something was wrong.

My father never left the door open. If you saw the amount of locks on the other side of the door, you would understand what I mean.

I know what my father would have wanted me to do.

Leave.

Immediately.

Instead, I peered through the crack in the door, and for a moment I was eleven years old again.

Pain cut through me as I remembered the night dad and I returned to the small apartment we’d lived in when my mother was killed.

It had seemed so unfair at the time. Not only had I lost my mother, but someone had robbed us while we were at the police station being questioned.
 

The apartment had the same look about it. It was a mess. There was stuff everywhere, and I could hear someone crashing around in the kitchen.

I took a deep breath, and leaned against the wall, going over my options. I was scared – terrified even.

But mostly I was angry.

When I was younger most of my friends went to soccer and dance and music lessons. Stuff like that. My father took me to karate and taekwondo and kick boxing. It was always our thing, even when mom was around.
 
Seeing him in action, I always thought my father was invincible – like some sort of superhero.

He turned forty last year, but doesn’t look it. I guess he’s what you would call rugged, and he’s fitter than anyone I know. Basically, my father could handle himself – but that didn’t stop me from worrying.

What if he was hurt? What if he was lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood, dying, as someone went through our things?

Just like my mother.

Inside the apartment the phone started ringing.

Startled, I pressed my back against the wall until it stopped.

It rang again.

I heard a muffled curse, and through the crack in the door I saw my father charge out of the kitchen, flicking his dark hair impatiently out of his eyes. He had a hunted look about him as he picked up the receiver and slammed it back down.

I still remember the relief I felt as I pushed the door open, still cautious.

There was a dangerous air about him as he looked up, sensing the movement, an expression on his face I didn’t recognize.

There was also a distinct bulge under his shirt.

It was his gun.

Something was wrong.

Very wrong.

At the time I didn’t connect what was going on to the woman I had run into, or the man she left with.

“Dad? What’s going on?” I glanced about the small apartment, still wary. That was when I saw his black gym bag near the door.

My father met my eye, rubbing the thick beard at his chin. A mix of emotions flitted across his face. Relief and sadness, and that other expression I still couldn’t define.

“Pack your things,” he said. “We’re leaving in ten minutes.”

He went back to the kitchen.

My father has a strange sort of grace and beauty about him. Tall and lean, he makes me think of a jaguar; there is purpose to every move. Every thought. Every action.

He’s taught me to be like that, or maybe it comes from watching him.

Observe. Listen. Consider all options before acting.

Which was exactly what I was doing as I followed him into the kitchen.

“Where are we going?” I asked as I moved casually toward the counter and the scrap of torn newspaper that caught my eye.
 

He snatched it up, shoving it carelessly in his pocket.

But not before I saw the headline.

Man dies in explosion
.

The phone rang again.

This time I was the one who slammed it down.

“Dad? What’s going on?”

He pushed past me, and I finally recognized the expression on his face.

Fear.

I felt as though I’d been punched in the stomach. My father wasn’t scared of anything or anyone. Or so I thought.

Until that moment, I had no idea how contagious fear was. As I followed him to my room I could feel my heart slamming against my chest.

My father yanked the closet door open, pulled down my gym bag, and tossed it on the bed.

Next thing I knew my jeans and sweaters were flying across the room.

“Dad, hold on,” I said, my face burning as he reached my underwear drawer. “I can handle it from here.”

His face was suddenly as red as mine, and he couldn’t quite meet my eye as the phone in my room started ringing.

It had to be Bianca. And she would keep calling until I spoke to her.

I picked up the phone, saying, “Hi Bianca,” as my dad growled, “Don’t. There’s no time.”

“Did you forget about our biology test?” Bianca asked. “It is tomorrow you
kno
–”

My father ripped the phone out of my hand and threw it. I could still hear Bianca’s voice as it smashed against the wall.

“Dad? What is go–”

“Eight minutes,” he growled as he charged out of the room.

Confused and scared, I just stood there, wasting two of those precious minutes.

I was seeing a side of my father I didn’t know existed, but I knew him well enough to know I only had six minutes left.

I also knew I wouldn’t get any answers out of him then. If ever.

I started throwing my things into the gym bag, my mind racing too fast to care about what went in. I needed to know what was going on. Why we were leaving.

When I was done I hauled the bag through the apartment, setting it beside his. I had two minutes left. “We are coming back, aren’t we?”

My heart seemed to stop when he didn’t answer.

I raced back to my room. Was there anything else I wanted to take? I couldn’t think properly.

We always travelled light. My father didn’t see the point in collecting useless things. Said they just weighed you down. As a result the apartment was pretty sparse. My room not as much.

My eyes passed over the posters covering the walls without seeing them. The books on the shelf. The photograph mural I’d carefully stuck to the mirror.

Was there anything I couldn’t part with? Most of the stuff in my room could be replaced. Except for one thing. The thing I had deliberately left until last.

“Let’s go,” my father shouted.

“Just a minute,” I dived onto the floor, pulling out the box I kept under the bed.

I hadn’t opened it since the week my mother was killed. It brought back too many painful memories, and filled me with a crushing sense of guilt.

There was only one thing inside it.

The present she bought me for my eleventh birthday.

I always thought it was the reason she died. That it was my fault.

That if she’d stayed at the park with dad and me, instead of going to collect it, that it would never have happened.

My memories of that day aren’t very clear. They come back to haunt me in my dreams, changing and shifting.

As my mother’s face flashed through my mind, tears pricked the back of my nose, and stung my eyes. I pushed them back and pulled out the diary my mother never got to give me.

Instead, it was returned in a plain brown cardboard box with the rest of her things, the pretty pink wrapping paper stained with her blood.

My father stood at the front door, tapping his fingers impatiently against the wall.

His face was all hard planes and angles. Even with the horrid beard he refused to shave off, I could tell that his jaw was tightly clenched.

“Ready?” he asked, his face softening as I put the diary in my bag.

I wasn’t ready. Not in the slightest. But somehow I just knew nothing was ever going to be the same again.

I nodded as my father slung his gym bag over his shoulder, and we left the apartment that had been our home without so much as a backward glance, the door hanging open.