Sempre (Forever Series #1) by J.M. Darhower
Prologue
BLACKBURN, CALIFORNIA
The building was in shambles, decades of dry desert weather taking a toll on the exterior. It had started out as a town hall, back when the mining companies had a stake in the land, but those times had long since passed. Now it stood alone, withering away in the dark of night—the sole lasting reminder that the area had once flourished.
What had been a place of assembly now held another gathering, one more sinister that seven-year-old Haven was learning about for the first time. Her legs shook and stomach churned as she followed her master into the building, staying on his heels but doing her best not to step on his shiny black shoes.
They walked down a dark, narrow hall, passing a few men along the way. Haven kept her gaze on the floor, the sound of their voices as they greeted her master sending chills of fright down her back. These were new men, strangers, people she hadn’t known existed.
He led her through a door at the end of the hallway, and what met them made her stop in her tracks. The stale scent of sweat and mildew saturated the room, heavy cigar smoke burning her nose. Masses of men stood around, talking loudly, as the sound of crying echoed off the walls, hitting the child like a freight train to the chest. She gasped, her heart racing as her eyes darted around looking for the source of the pain, but she couldn’t see past the sea of bodies.
Her master grabbed hold of her, forcing her in front of him. She cringed as his hands clamped down on her shoulders and walked again at his command. The crowd parted for them, giving the two a clear path, and Haven obediently made her way to the front. She could feel the men staring, their eyes like lasers that burned down deep, making her blood boil as her face turned bright red.
In the front of the room, on a small stage, a few young girls knelt in a line. Tags were pinned to their ragged clothes, a number scribbled on it in black marker. Haven stood as still as possible, trying to ignore her master’s touch, and watched as the crowd tossed money around. One by one the girls were auctioned off to the highest bidder, tears staining their cheeks as men dragged them away.
“Frankie!”
Haven turned at the sound of her master’s name and recoiled from the man approaching. His face was like cracked leather and mangled with scars, his eyes a blackened pit of coal. In her frightened mind, she mistook him for a monster.
Frankie tightened his grip on her, locking her in place as he greeted the man. “Carlo.”
“I see you brought the girl,” Carlo said. “You getting rid of her? Because if so—”
Frankie cut him off before he could finish. “No, I just thought it would do her some good to see her own kind.”
Her own kind. The words fascinated Haven. She looked back at the stage as a new girl came out, a teenager who looked as if she’d been in a fight with some scissors. Dozens of holes peppered her clothes, and her blonde hair was haphazardly chopped in a pixie cut. She was gagged and shackled, the number 33 affixed to her shirt.
Haven wondered—Was she like her? Could they be the same?
Number 33 struggled when the man gripped her arm, resisting more than the others. A split second changed everything as she pulled away, the metal binding her ankles making escape difficult. She jumped off the front of the stage and managed to stay on her feet, bolting for the crowd.
Chaos erupted like a volcano, violent and sudden. Men shouted, and Haven held her breath as Frankie reacted, his movement fluid as he reached into his coat and pulled out a gun. A shot exploded beside Haven, and she jumped, her ears ringing from the sudden bang. Number 33 dropped, the bullet ripping through her forehead and splattering Haven’s blue-jean dress with fresh blood.
Hyperventilating, Haven’s chest painfully heaved as she stared at the body on the floor by her bare feet. Blood streamed from the wound, soaking into the cracked wood and painting the girl’s blonde hair a deep shade of red. Her icy blue eyes remained open, boring into Haven like they could see through her skin.
Frankie returned the gun to his coat and bent down to Haven’s level. She tried to turn away from the carnage, but he gripped the back of her neck and forced her to look at Number 33.
“That’s what happens when people forget their place,” he said, his voice as cold as the dead eyes she stared into. “Remember that.”
He stood, resuming his earlier position as he clutched her shoulders. The auction continued as if nothing had happened—as if an innocent girl weren’t slain in front of them all. Number 33 lay lifeless on the floor, and no one in the room gave her a second thought.
No one, that is, except Haven. The vision of it would haunt her forever.
TEN YEARS LATER . . .
1
The hot, dry air burned Haven’s chest. She gasped, struggling to breathe, as the dust kicked up by her frantic feet made it hard for her to see. It wasn’t as if it would help anyway, since it was pitch black out and she had no idea where she was. Everything appeared the same in every direction, nothing but desert all around.
Her feet felt like they were on fire as every muscle in her body screamed for her to stop. It grew harder and harder to continue with each step, her strength deteriorating as her adrenaline faded. A bang rang out, her footsteps faltering as she swung in the direction of the noise, spotting a faint glow of light in the distance. A house.
She darted toward it, trying to yell for help but no sound escaped her throat. Her body revolted against her, giving out when she needed it most. The light grew brighter the harder she ran until all she saw was a flash of white. Blinded, she tripped and collapsed to the ground, pain running through her in waves as the light surrounding her burned out entirely.