You Are Mine

You Are Mine

Book One

by

Janeal Falor

Copyright © 2013 Janeal
Falor

ISBN: 0-9816162-3-2

ISBN-13: 978-0-9816162-4-7

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Notes

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visit: www.janealfalor.com

Cover Photo by Olga Ekaterincheva at
www.shutterstock.com

For Lori

Not only an amazing critique
partner,

but the truest friend.

Chapter One

M
y blood will entice warlocks to ask for my hand in marriage,
so of course Father wants it spilled. The sooner the magic within
it is measured, the sooner he can sell me off. According to the
laws of Chardonia, there's no escaping it. For me that day has
come.

From the way Father's bulky frame
lounges on the couch in the men's waiting area as he casually
smokes his pipe, one would think my testing doesn't matter. I
suppose it doesn't, as long as I have enough magic to make him a
beneficial connection. The greater the level of magic flowing in my
veins, the better the marriage offer will be. And of course,
whatever my owner wants, I must deliver. Only, I can't control how
much magic is in my blood.

I shift my weight trying not to think
about things I can't change, but it's hard to think of anything
else as I stand in the cramped women's corner of the testing
center. A soft tut sounds from mother. If anyone has reason to be
uncomfortable in this cramped corner, it's her. Eight months
pregnant with sweat glistening through her white face paint, though
the spring day is just beginning to warm. Too many other women are
crowded about waiting with their daughters. Her eyes don't lift to
mine, instead staying properly focused on the ground. From the set
of her mouth, the lecture about my fidgeting will come when we're
home. After I've brought her favorite food to help pacify her a
bit.

Keeping my head bowed, I sneak another
glance at the men. They're carrying on like men do, with ample
space to spread themselves across couches and chairs throughout the
plush waiting room, lit by windows that don't stretch to our side
of the room. Father is smoking a pipe and motioning for a glass of
wine as he laughs at something the warlock next to him has said. He
must not have noticed my fidgeting. His ignorance of it will make
it easier to appease mother during her lecture. But it's hard to
care about possibly getting out of punishment when this morning he
demanded I come on the day of my eligibility instead of waiting a
year or two like most.

There's movement in the
hall across, disrupting my thoughts. All of us girls waiting by our
mothers strain forward. They must be as eager as I am to be the
next one called. Not to be one step closer to marriage, but to be
done with this place. In truth, I am probably the only one eager to
be away from here. While the other girls are truly eager to wed and
take the only role society allows them, I've had to force
enthusiasm. The role of a warlock producer holds no appeal. It's a
role mother's failed at—fourteen times
—
with me being her first mistake. I
eye her rounded belly. Maybe this time will be different. Highly
unlikely. Not that I'd ever admit it aloud. I'm a mistake enough
without being wholly foolish.

Someone steps out of the hall. I lower
my gaze to the wooden floor. Today is not a day for getting caught
sneaking glances.

“
Stephen's
daughter.”

For once, I wish they'd call me by
name. It's not as if Serena is hard to say. I bunch my hands
together, but quickly take a step forward, leaving mother and the
others behind. Why did I want it to be my turn so desperately only
a moment ago? My heart quivers as I near the hall, moving closer to
the unknown. Keeping my strides steady, I fight the overwhelming
desire to run. My request to Father this morning not to get tested
was not only rejected, but my cheek still aches from the punishment
delivered for asking. If I publicly defied Father, worse is sure to
follow. Not only for me, but for my sisters.

By the time I get to the hall, the man
is already striding away. I manage to keep pace with him, feet
making barely a sound, head bowed. But each step is harder to take.
Each movement taking me closer to the unknown and farther from what
little freedom I have.

When he abruptly stops, a squeak of
fear almost escapes me as I barely stop myself from running into
him. He ushers me inside a tiny room with a grunt. A single wooden
chair is the room's only occupant. Otherwise its blank white walls
are lit by the strange glow of a single electric blub.

He flips the light off and slams the
door, leaving me in darkness. There's no stopping the frightened
squeak, but I am strong enough to keep myself from opening the
door. Being left in the dark is one thing I hate about being a
woman. I never wish I had been born a boy more than when I'm left
in the dark. Boys are never left alone in the dark. And certainly
not for days. At least this time it shouldn't be that long. They
wouldn't want to keep Father waiting.

I reach out until I feel the back of
the chair. Once I'm sure of its position, I lower myself onto it.
My body refuses to relax, remembering when tiny paws crawled over
my feet in the cellar. No matter. Girls aren't allowed to relax
anyway. Not unless heavy with what may be a warlock.

The one thing I can do is close my
eyes and hum the little tune Bethany sings the younger girls when
they're frightened. The humming stays silent, playing only in my
head. There would be more punishment if I got caught humming. It's
just as well. Bethany may sound as sweet as a bird, but I'm worse
than an old frog.

How long will they keep me here? They
could have at least sent mother with me, since she has nowhere else
to go. She could stand in one of these corners as well as a corner
out there. Did she sit in the same room when she was tested? I wish
she would have told me more on the carriage ride here. She only
said that I need to have a lot of magic in my blood to be of any
worth. My head aches under the tightness of my bun.

The door opens and the electric lights
turn on. I squint against the brightness, wanting to look at the
light. Our house was only recently wired for electricity and Father
rarely wastes it on us. My eyes adjust to the unnatural light so
I'm able to see a man, skin like prunes, focused on the papers in
his hands. When he looks up from his papers, his eyes tighten. “Get
out of my chair.”

I jump. Blast! I should have known it
wasn't for my use. Why didn't I think of it being there for the
tester? I lower my head, hoping he doesn't discipline me for the
mistake.

Once seated he says, “Shut the
door.”

After closing it, I press
my back against its hard surface. His focus returns to his papers.
No punishment then
—
at least not immediately.

“
Seventeen today,” he
says. “Need more girls to come in right away on their
birthdays.”

Does he think I had a choice? Who
would come early if they didn't have to? I suppress a groan.
Cynthia maybe. She's always been fascinated by boys. And the girls
from class. Basically, any girl who's not me.

He delves back into the parchment. His
thin nose is long until the end where it bulges out. White hair
sticks out from his head as if the remaining strands are trying to
escape.

“
Very good pedigree,” he
mumbles. “Father most impressive. Mother's Father is Devon
Mullshire. His and his Fathers' powers were excellent. Simply
excellent. With that alone I'd say a warlock should court the girl
before the month is over. Get over here, girl, and give me your
bare hand.”

Is this a trick? Some sort of test
before the real test? The Woman's Cannon says a woman must always
wear gloves when a warlock is present. I inch toward him, but leave
my hands gloved and curled together. He can't really want me to
break that rule, can he?

At my hesitance, he zaps a silver hex
at me. The light strikes across my body and I attempt to hide a
cringe. I suck in a breath as the feeling of needles poking my skin
encompasses me. As the pain subsides, I tug off my glove and hold
out my hand, silently cursing him.

The tester's fingers scratch against
my hand as he flips it palm up. I clamp my jaw together and force
myself not to move. He stares at my palm. Maybe he can see the
magic just by looking. Maybe the rumor in class of the tester
spilling my blood was to scare us girls.

A spell of black fog dances from his
hands, with tendrils darting out of it like clawing fingers. I dig
the heels of my shoes into the floor. The fog nears and loses its
blur, hardening into a single knife. I pull away, but he yanks me
back. The dark blade stabs my finger then dissipates, leaving
behind pain. I bite my lip to keep silent.

The crimson on my finger grows and
drips. Before it falls to the floor, the warlock emits a faint blue
spell to catch it. The light flows up to the cut and draws more
liquid from my wound. While the pulling continues at my fingertip,
I feel a tug snagging deep in my chest. Something inside me
protests as the yanking grows. Once there's about a shot glass
full, the pulling stops.

A small hiss escapes me, which he
thankfully doesn't seem to care about. The spell dances over my
finger, closing the wound, and the last trickle of fluid ceases.
Dizziness strikes. I wobble and use the still closed door to steady
myself. The room sways as the tester waves his hand, and the spell
stretches its beam of light and thins my blood out into a flat
circle. The sight of my blood like an evil moon before me makes my
stomach churn.

The minutes drag by. The dizziness
doesn't leave, but lessens. I try to avoid gazing at the crimson
circle. The tester's brows furrow as he studies it. My pulse grows
faster. I didn't expect it to take this long. I suck in air and
gradually release it. Is there something wrong with it? What if
there's no magic in it at all? If I were a boy, it would have been
checked long ago, but since women don't do spells, there wasn't a
reason to check until now. How angry will Father be if there's
nothing in it?

I sag lower against the door. The
tester fixes a glare at me. I stand straight and proper though it
makes the room sway again. His focus returns to my life force. The
spelled light pulses twice before compressing my blood. When it's
the size of a squashed pea, it merges onto one of his
papers.

“
Bring your Father.” His
voice makes me start after such a long silence.

I hurry from the room, grateful to get
away. Once in the hall, I give myself a moment to become accustomed
to my weakened state. When I think I can handle it, I walk fast
down the hall. Or at least as quickly as my faint body will let
me.