Nightingale (The Sensitives) - By Dawn Rae Miller Page 0,1

crawled toward the door, only to be immediately flung back.

Mother wasn’t done with me yet.

#

“Try again,” Mother whispers. “Everyone is waiting.”

My wrist smarts and I touch where my wristlet should be. However, instead of the normal delicate band, a thick, blue restraint encircles my left wrist. To the public, it probably looks like a custom wristlet. But I know better. It, along with the guards, is all that’s keeping my powers in check. Mother explained this to me. The trauma of what happened at Summer Hill tapped into my power more than she had anticipated. Basically, my system became overwhelmed and I exploded.

“Six days ago…” My voice shakes. I must seem so frail to these people. I try again. “Six days ago, my mother’s guards rescued me from Summer Hill, the Channings’ family home, where I was kept hostage.”

The crowd murmers and another camera floats into position near my head.

There’s more I’m supposed to say, but the words are lost in the confusion of my mind. I open my parched mouth, then close it. Again. And again. No sound escapes my lips. Annalise appears at my side and hands me a glass of water. I drink deeply, allowing the liquid to soothe my throat.

The silent room waits for me to continue. I shift in my seat and set the glass down. Mother’s slim fingers travel down my arm, never breaking contact, and stop at my elbow. A sense of calmness washes over me, and I don’t fight Mother’s magic.

“Lark?” Mother says, prompting me. “You’re among friends. Everything is okay.”

I start reciting again. “While I was there, I was subjected to numerous tests and forms of…” My chest heaves. The memory of Bethina, lying on the grass as flames crept closer to her body, flashes through my mind. My heart races and I dart my eyes toward the exit, looking for an escape. All I want is to do is run as far as I can. I need to get out of here.

Mother’s grip tightens and her nails dig into my skin.

“Torture,” I say softly.

“Yes, that’s right, Love.”

They tortured me. Encased me. Denied me my magic. Killed my housemother.

Mother strokes my arm again. “Go on,” she whispers.

“They tried to kill me.”

#

“Who killed Bethina?” Mother kept her hands folded on the desktop. We were alone in her office, like we had been all day.

“Beck,” I answered. Not me. Beck. He killed her. Mother had repeated this to me non-stop.

“That’s right. Beck killed Bethina before turning on you.” Mother tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. “Do you love Beck Channing?”

Magic probed at my heart, trying to force me to speak the truth I’d hidden deep inside me, but I had to lie. Lying was the only way for this to stop.

“No. He wants to kill me.” My lips twitched and I pressed them tightly together. I refused to let myself say anything else.

Mother smiled, pleased with the progress we’d made. “He came after you. To kill you.”

“But Kyra and Annalise stopped him and rescued me from Summer Hill,” I finished, eager to show that I’d learned.

Mother smiled. “That’s right. We saved you, Lark. We saved you from those monsters.”

#

Mother promised if I did this one thing, I wouldn’t have to speak to the newscasters again. Everyone wants to hear what happened in my own words. And the Society needs to see I am safe and there is no threat to our security.

It’s my duty, as a Founder’s descendant, to do this.

“It’s true? Beck’s one of them? Did he orchestrate your kidnapping?”

I turn my head toward the voice and squint into the blinding lights. My fingers tingle with magic and I curl them into fists.

“What did you say?”

My guards’ magic hits me from every direction. Waves of ice and fire wash over my skin, licking at the rawest spots of my heart. I press my hand over my chest, struggling to breathe beneath the onslaught.

“Is Beck Channing Sensitive?” the disembodied voice asks again.

The crowd buzzes with excitement. This is what they’ve been waiting for: my public denouncement of my birth-mate. Kyra says it’s the scandal of the year, and judging by the reaction to the question, I think she’s right.

Mother’s fingers dig into the soft flesh of my arm again. I lift my head and stare into the nearest camera.

“Yes. He is.” My voice rings out across the corridor. The crowd goes silent, waiting for me to say more.

Magic pushes at my heart, encouraging me to speak the lie Mother has taught me.