Traveler (Traveler #1)
L.E. DeLano
Prologue
He ran for the trees as hard as he could, his legs burning and his lungs trying frantically to suck in enough air to keep him going. He had to lead them away.
A shot ricocheted off a large rock nearby, splintering him with fragments as he ran on, not daring to take the time to look back. If he could get into the woods, he could probably lose them. Most of the trees were decayed or fallen, and it was hard to navigate if you didn’t know your way around. There was a drop-off just a few hundred yards past the tree line, with a series of shallow caves just underneath it. He knew the safe way down; he just had to keep his lead.
Another shot rang out, and then another as a whoop went up from one of his pursuers. He’d finally made the tree line, so he risked a glance back, his green eyes wide and frightened. They’d broken off pursuit and were now running back, meeting the other members of their band as they dragged someone, kicking and screaming, down to the edge of the riverbank.
They’d found her.
“No!” he shouted. “Over here! Over here! Over here!”
He jumped up and down, waving his arms wildly. They gave him a cursory glance and then turned their backs on him, returning to their quarry.
The girl’s blond hair was matted with sweat and blood from where she’d fought off her captors. He made a short, abortive movement as though he was going to attack, but there were too many of them. He’d only have one chance. They were circling her now, but her eyes weren’t on them. They were on him, and she held his gaze as she mouthed the words.
Do it.
He took a deep, shuddering breath and set his jaw, again running as hard as he could toward them all, grabbing one by the shoulder and jerking him out of the way as he pulled back his arm and let the knife fly as hard as he could.
She made a strangled sound as it buried itself in her chest, and she bubbled the word “Thanks” through bloody lips as she sank to the ground.
He kept running, hearing their shouts, not caring if they shot him, and he leaped into the river below, feeling the rushing current pull him away from them all.
But not away from the memory of her face.
1
Remnant
There are few things in the world that I find more painful than being forced to sit on a cold metal folding chair in front of a home improvement store selling candy for the Spanish Club. Slightly higher on that list would be a root canal without anesthesia, and sitting at the candy-selling table when no one brought the candy.
“I don’t know how I let you talk me into this,” I grumble, folding my arms and sliding down on my chair.
“It’s not my fault,” Ben answers. He’s on the phone with Mr. Fielding, sponsor of the Spanish Club, who seems as clueless as we are about the whole situation.
I roll my eyes and reach into my backpack to pull out my favorite Moleskine journal. I might as well get some writing done while we’re waiting. I’ve had an idea burning in my head since I woke up this morning, and I know if I don’t get it down on paper, I’m going to lose it.
I start flipping through it until I find what I want. On the page before me is the remnant of the dream.
Green eyes, dark hair.
Ski lift? Or some kind of gondola? I’m riding with him and it jerks to a stop, throwing me out. I dangle for a moment before I fall, with his scream echoing as the air rushes by me.…
I add redbrick building to the list, then review it all again, chewing the end of my pen as I stare at the paper. I’ve almost got it figured out—how I’m going to turn this bit of a dream into an idea and then into a story outline with plot points and a clear beginning, and I’ve even got an idea of how I want it to end. I’m just missing the middle.
The story of my life.
I know the beginning—who I am and where I came from. I know I want to be a writer, maybe even a journalist who turns novelist and wins a Pulitzer in both categories. And I’m going to travel—a lot. I’m going to see the world and write about it all and invent new stories about old places. That’s the endgame.
I’m just lacking a middle, and there’s nothing I can do to change that while I’m still in high school and will be for eight more months. After that, it’s on to college, if all my financial aid comes through, and I can start really experiencing life.
That is, if I’m not cut down in the prime of life by an angry mob of sugar-starved, impatient people. I look up as a balding, middle-aged man with a rounded stomach moves up to the table.
“Any word yet?”
The guy is wearing a vivid red sweatshirt and a neon-green hat and has been bugging us at five-minute intervals for the last half hour. Clearly he’s too concerned with candy to worry much about fashion. I smile apologetically.
“Any minute now,” I promise, silently vowing to myself I will never volunteer for this stuff again, no matter how pathetically Ben begs me to.
“You said that last time I asked,” the guy persists.
“You can buy candy next door at the dollar store, you know,” Ben points out.
“They don’t have Giant Pixy Stix,” the guy gripes, then lumbers off.
Ben leans in and lowers his voice.
“If he asks me one more time…”
“Be nice,” I say. “We’ve been promising him five minutes for half an hour now.”