Authors: Anya Breton
Tags: #romance, #magic, #gods, #witch, #shapeshifter, #panther
Time's Daughter
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places,
and incidents are the products of the author's imagination or are
used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or
persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
© 2012 by Anya Breton
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Contact information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Anya Breton
See Cover Art Acknowledgments for information about
free stock photography, free images and free fonts used in this and
other covers.
Publishing History
First Edition, May 2011
First Smashwords edition, April 2012
Second Edition, May 2013
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
I stretched out my
limbs with a ragged yawn, wiped the drool from my chin and then
recalled with a groan that I was being filmed. Wonderful. My
nation-wide film debut was going to be made with sleep-filled eyes
and a crusty mouth. Could I hope the documentary my mom had forced
me into would only be shown at small-time film festivals then go
direct to the dumpster instead of DVD?
I considered my next move. It was comfortable
beneath my afghan on the little twin bed. But school started soon.
Staying wasn’t an option.
Should I get out of bed now or wait until my pillow
had dried a little so the cameras wouldn’t show the dark stain on
the burgundy fabric? What would a normal person do?
Stealthily I flipped the pillow over, hiding the
drool track. I slowly drew myself into a seated position. It was a
barely veiled attempt to appear as if I hadn’t been awake for
several minutes already.
The camera above the door caught my attention. My
gaze shifted to the one in the corner to my right and then the last
gleaming camera in its spot over the sole window in the room. There
was a digital eye installed in such a way that
nothing
could
escape their notice.
I quickly retreated into the one camera-free room in
our five-room apartment: the bathroom. It was my safe-zone now.
Yeah, my safe-zone had morphed from the entirety of our
eight-hundred-square-foot apartment into one ten-foot by ten-foot
room.
I gazed at the nondescript female in the mirror and
told myself that it was only for six months. Not long when one took
into account the average life span of an American female.
Today marked the beginning of my stint as one of six
sideshow freaks. That was how my classmates would view us when we
showed up at school with a team of filmmakers in tow.
It really would be a circus. Already the whole town
was in a tizzy about the documentary: “Young America: The average
teenager in small-town USA”.
My mother had seen the advertisements for casting
hanging on the bulletin board of our local grocery store and
insisted I go. I’d hoped that somehow the Hollywood hotshots would
sense I’d been forced to meet with them and that I didn’t want to
be a part of the project. Maybe they had. I was certain the fact
the casting director wanted a date with my mother was the only
reason they’d picked me.
With a defiant glance at the door, I ignored the
director’s standing order that we do our hair outside the bathroom.
If I ignored enough of the orders early on maybe they’d replace me.
It would be the only way I could get out of this insanity.
“
Aeon!” My mother’s soprano voice
called from the kitchen on the opposite side of the small
apartment.
Hands down I had the weirdest name at school. Most
of my classmates’ parents thought I’d been named after an old MTV
cartoon. In reality I’d been given my father’s name but I would
never dare tell them that.
My neck craned in an effort to hear her additional
mumble. Had she sounded cheery just now? Tiffany Still was rarely
cheery in the morning. Something was up.
The camera mounted on the hallway wall and
videographer in black pointing a lens at us reminded me what that
was.
She was putting on a show for the filmmakers
.
Great.
For the first time since I was ten, my mother was
making actual breakfast instead of sleeping past her alarm and
rushing out the door with a fruit bar in hand. It wasn’t that she
was a bad mom. She had a lot on her mind. Between working two jobs,
taking care of me all by her lonesome and fending off
cancer
, she had more important things to do than make me
bacon.
“
You’re going to be late,” she said
while setting a plate of newly flipped eggs over-easy and two bacon
strips in front of me at the small round table that didn’t really
fit in the cramped kitchen.
If one of the two of us were going to be late today
it would be
her
.
The barely-there make-up on her downturned eyelids
was obvious to me but I doubted anyone else would have noticed it.
Wavy dark brown hair that usually fell past her shoulders was
pulled back into a jaw clip in such a way that it looked un-styled.
Anyone who knew my mother knew that she was always styled in one
way or another. Today was no exception.
Her manicured wine-colored fingernails glistened
over the fork she handed me. It was hard to believe that she’d had
two tumors removed from those fingers a year earlier. Even stranger
was that she used those fingers to cut hair four days a week nearly
non-stop for five years.
She dropped into the chair across from me and pulled
her fuzzy green robe tighter around her size ten body. “So what’s
going on today?”
I gestured to our left. “You mean besides the guy
standing right there with a camera in my face?”
“
Aeon.” Her blue eyes were
censorious.
Had I ever looked like that when scolding would-be
shoplifters at work?
It was possible. My mother and I shared the same
eyes, hair and body-type but the softer nose and fleshy lips I had
were from my mystery parent. Maybe I looked sterner than she
did.
Appearances were important to her so I gave her the
answer she’d sought. “I don’t know. Probably a pop quiz in history.
There’s always a pop quiz in history on Mondays.”
“
Always?” Her head pulled back as
though the wider view would provide an explanation. “You’ve only
been in school for three weeks.”
I shoved a chunk of egg into my mouth and chewed it
until I could swallow. “And each Monday we’ve had a pop quiz in
history.”
“
School started on a Wednesday. The
first Monday was Labor Day.”
“
Okay, so we’ve had one pop quiz,” I
said wryly. With a wagging of my fork I added, “But being prepared
for the worst is always good.”
She made a sound of disgust. “You’re such a
pessimist. I don’t know where you got that from.”
“
Maybe my father.”
My mother’s nostrils flared in annoyance as we faced
off over identical strips of bacon. I had mentioned my father. He
was an unmentionable. The topic of my parentage was right up there
with the birds and the bees and where we were going to get the
money for my college education.
“
Your father wasn’t a pessimist,”
she said coolly.
“
Good to know.” I drawled the final
word and pushed back from the chair.
I rinsed my plate in the sink then stuck it in the
dishwasher. Without thinking I grabbed the frying pan she’d used
atop the puke green colored stove and started scrubbing it inside
the wide aluminum sink.
She hovered behind me with her dish in hand. “Aren’t
you going to be late?”
I glanced at the clock on the wall. There were
thirty minutes to finish up and get to school. It was a
twenty-minute walk.
“
No.” I reached out for the dirty
plate.
She exhaled noisily but shuffled back to her room,
probably to ready for work. I finished the dishes with time to
spare despite her worries I’d be late.
After grabbing the backpack laden with the thickest
books in the history of man, I headed out the door with the
cameraman trailing close behind me.
Perhaps a little optimism was in order—for my mom.
I’d look on this Monday as a new start. Maybe I’d have a better
chance this time around than I’d had the first. Maybe.
Three weeks into
September in northern New England meant the temperature was chilly
in the morning. I had to wear my blue fleece pullover—the
hand-me-down from my mother when she’d bought her trench coat at
the outlet store last month. It was barely keeping the chill from
my bones but the next step up in my outerwear collection would have
me decked out like an Eskimo. It wasn’t that cold yet. I shoved my
hands deep into the pockets of my jeans and drew into myself to
stave off the chill.
Today was week four of my junior year of high
school. When I should be worrying about studying for college
entrance exams and essays, I’d be avoiding cameras and strange
looks instead. At least I wasn’t alone. Five others had been picked
along with me.
We were a mixed bunch by intent. There was me as
well as a role-playing nerd, a tomboy who was rumored to be a
lesbian, a football star, the well-off county prosecutor’s daughter
who happened to be a cheerleader and a mystery student. The only
thing we knew about the sixth person was that it was someone who
had recently moved to Junction Hill. The director had said it was
an amazing opportunity to document the trials and tribulations of
the new kid in town but had refused to give a name.
I hoped the interest in the new kid would trump the
interest in the hovering cameramen and the discovery of who had
been chosen to feature in the documentary. More than likely it
would be a toss up because of the hard feelings involved in those
who hadn’t made the cut. Many had tried for a part. I knew my
friends would be particularly bitter because it was no secret I
hadn’t wanted this.
My trepidation over what was to come grew as the
school came into view. I was treated to my first looks of shock in
the student parking lot. Loud whispers followed the stunned
expressions.
“
Aeon Still? Seriously? They picked
her over us? You have got to be joking. She’s so weird!” If the
disdainful female meant to hide her insults, she’d certainly
failed. “I thought this was supposed to be a documentary about
average
teenagers.”
“
Average is another way of saying
mediocre,” her companion said. “Maybe we were too
extraordinary
for them.”