Six Figures, Audrey Parker [bill gates book recommendations txt] 📗

Six figures, cloaked in the black of the night, glided forward solemnly. I was off to the side, my feet knotted in with the toes of an old ash tree. They didn’t see me here; they were clearly focused on the man between the trees fifty yards in front of me. He was tall and lean and sculpted as if from hard living. His tangled hair was a toffee brown and lightly brushed his shoulders whenever he repositioned his neck. And although I could barely peel my eyes away from those features, when I saw his eyes, my heart stopped and I couldn’t breathe. They were a light gray that reminded me of cloudy days, when the clouds have already rolled in, but the sun is still holding it’s own against them.
They were directed toward the figures in grim anticipation. He knows that they are coming, yet he doesn’t run.
They moved forward in sync, moving deliberately toward their target, who was unfortunately the man with the steely gray eyes.
The six stopped five yards away from him. “Oliver Ward,” one of them sneered. “I was so hoping we’d find you here,” He was in the middle, and when he had spoken his black hood had slithered away from his head. It revealed pale skin and a shaved head covered in overlapping symbols and marks.
From where I was spying from, I couldn’t see his eyes, but I guessed that they were as dark and menacing as his voice.
The man, Oliver, replied as calmly as his face implied. “It would be a lie to say that I’ve missed you, Maverick.”
Maverick. That is his name, and it fit him like a glove fits a hand.
“After you had left, I had wondered when you would be seen again,” Maverick continued. “It really was extremely rude of you, leaving like you did. But I knew it would be only a matter of time until we found you.” His eyes flashed dangerously.
“I did what I had to do,” Oliver briskly replies.
One of the figures in the back sighs, and it’s the first noise I’ve heard them make. “Maverick, make this quick. You might not have anyplace other to be, but the rest of us do.”
“Shhhh, Violetta. This will be done my way, or not at all.”
Maverick edged towards Oliver until their noses were just inches apart. “Do you know what we are her for?” he hissed.
Oliver responded instantly. “Yes.”
“Good. Then we need not explain it. Lorcan? The key?”
A man next to Violetta revealed a key as large as my forearm from the folds of his cloak. He twisted it into the air and a virtual chamber was unlocked. I had heard of Belladonna Prisons in the past, but I had never witnessed the unlocking of one. When you enter a Belladonna Prison, your senses are cut off from your brain slowly until you are oblivious to everything and living completely in your head. It also draws out your most excruciating fears and you are forced to relive them over and over again. I hope that watching one open is all that I have to do with them.
Oliver doesn’t twitch from his place and though he struggles to keep his face and eyes emotionless, I recognize cracks in him that are darkened with fear.
From far behind me, I heard the cry of a falcon, and with it the scuttling of footsteps. Oliver is lucky, he will become one of the few survivors of encounters with Maverick and his equals. I squint around and try to distinguish human forms from the trees. But all that I spot are birds of every type. Hummingbirds and robins rest on the same branch as bald eagles and there is no glaring between each glassy eye. But despite that detail, all talons were clenched on the branches.
I pivot back to where Oliver and the six people in black were standing. Oliver had still not stepped forward into the Belladonna Prison, and was not cowering where he stood, but his terror was mounting as the pressure against him increased.
Then, at the shrill call of a tawny hawk, every bird surged forward as one. Their formation wasn’t preset; it was as though attacks just as this didn’t happened frequently. But as I watched from the safety of the aged trees, the birds soared in graceful swoops and glides, wing over wing, tail brushing tail, to where Oliver stood terrified with the threat of the Belladonna Prison looming over him. Feathers of every color grouped around each individual figure, causing them to wail like toddlers. As this was happening, Oliver vanished into the woods opposite where I was standing. Without a thought for my own well-being, I sprinted through the trees with feet as nimble as a deer’s. I swiftly caught up to him, for though he was obviously assembled like a runner, with stretched legs, it was clear that he did not run like this very often. I grew up racing with others and I know how to position my muscles to get the longest stride possible.
I place a hand on his shoulder and swing him around to face me. “Hey,” I say soothingly. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
His ragged breathing throbs in the silence, and his blood rapidly pulses through his veins. His stormy eyes brim with terror and are wide as they see mine for the first time.
I have been told how unique my eyes are my entire life, yet I never get tired of hearing the different interpretations of their color. Some call it the earthy glow of the moon, others the soft rays of dawn. An elder lady once said that they were a black hole, because they inhale everything bright and moral around them and make it their own. I don’t know what Oliver saw in my eyes, but wonder shone across his face and his already shallow breathing halted completely.
“You,” he whispered in a daze. “I had a dream about you. You’re supposed to save us.”

I return home, a grass-mat hut, where I live with my mother, grandmother, and toddling brother, Silas. The hut was supposed to be a temporary shelter, but my father was prosecuted by the Six before any new construction could happen, and wasn’t as lucky as Oliver Holt. That happened three years ago and my mother and I aren’t capable of the physical labor that comes with building a new house. So, for now, the hut is what we call home.

        I burst through the door with my commodities for the day. As usual, I’d stopped by our nearest neighbor, three miles down the path-road, and collected a half gallon of goat milk for my mother to make into cheeses to sell. Our neighbor doesn’t mind us using his wares for a profit, as long as we help with his animals occasionally and keep his family clothed with wool from his sheep. Our agreement is compatible with both of us and it works out well.

        “What have you brought back today?” my mother asks, handing Silas to Grandmother. Alongside the clothing that we give to our neighbors, the farmers, there is normally enough to trade in the market for our necessities. I showed Mother the sack of flour and another of string beans, setting them both on the table. She had asked me to trade for them early this morning, before I set out for market, so they were no surprise for her. Though the last item I pull out of my leather messenger bag is a rarity. Trappers and rich folk eat these daily.

        I pull out a rabbit by the neck. Fresh meat for supper tonight; an otherwise pitiful meal turned into a feast.

        Mother crows with joy, though a lurking concern in her eyes wonders what I could have traded for it. But the excitement and enjoyment of expecting a full stomach tonight clouded that out and she began to prepare the rabbit in strips to smoke in the mirthful fire embers. I hang my messenger bag over a post of the bed in the corner. This is the bed that I share with Silas.

        “Come help me with your brother, Aster,” my grandmother speaks. I move towards her where she’s attempting to put my brother to sleep in her arms, like she used to while he was a baby. Silas would cry and shout until his little throat swelled up and he was miserable. The one person who could rock him to sleep every time was Grandmother. Though lately, as his teeth have begun to appear, he has acted aggravated and uncomfortable. Sometimes he will scream for hours, and keep all of us from sleeping that night.

        I bring Silas some eucalyptus leaves to chew on; they sooth the pain in his mouth. He gladly chews on them and calms down enough for his eyes to start to drop as Grandmother cradles him back and forth in her arms. I glance at Mother and see her still infatuated with the rabbit meat. I tread lightly toward the door, intent on going to the area that I found yesterday when I went out.

        “Come back in time for supper,” Grandmother whispers, so Silas will stay asleep. I nod my agreement and shut the door lightly behind me.

        The twitters of birds greet me and I step lightly in the foliage on the ground. I strode fast, and soon the scenery blurs into one around me. I focus on the narrow path deep into the trees, on where to step my feet among the moss and debris.

        I don’t know what I was specifically searching for; maybe a towering tree with low branches to shimmy onto, maybe a bush rich with berries that are just ripe enough to eat, that the birds haven’t gotten to.

        Although the day was bright and the sun out and shining earlier, dark and foreboding clouds stretched over the sky. The lighting was already dim, but the lack of sun made it almost impossible to see. My mind was saying that it was time to exit the woods: My feet refused to listen. They trudged forward on the same dirt trail, even as it commenced drizzling. My crimped hair that was a dull brown with streaks of red in it in the sunlight, normally, was quickly stuck to my face and neck and turned almost black with the water. My threadbare clothes plastered to the rest of me and my bare feet swiftly coated with a layer of dirt and leaves from the undergrowth. I barely noticed, just kept moving further into the forest.

        My eyelashes drooped with water droplets and I squinted for more visibility. The world was slowly morphing gray as the intensity of the falling