Tribe (Tribe 1)

Vampire.

Ember Perry hates the word. It makes her feel like some kind of teenage freak. A monster. But she and her family are Healers—their driving desire is to relieve suffering. There’s no denying there is a dark side to the gift of healing, which forces them to hide their abilities, or risk exposing what they really are. But what good is the power to heal, if you’re never allowed to use it to save lives?

Then Ember meets Alex Baxter, and feels a connection with him that touches her soul. She can’t quell the overwhelming urge to save him, regardless of the danger. Soon Ember wonders if she made the right decision. Not only is Alex recovering, but he’s healing at an alarming rate—morphing from a sickly teen into a strapping specimen of manhood in mere weeks, and leaving Ember baffled.

Breaking the rules has consequences, and it isn’t long before Alex is asking questions, and Ember fears the worst. Has she bought one person’s life with the blood of her family, and of the entire Healer tribe?

T
ribe 2
:
Precipice
(Coming July 2014)

Tribe 3:
Patriarch
(Coming August 2014)

h
ttp
://www.AudrinaCole.com

A
ll Rights Reserved

Copyright © 2014 by Audrina Cole

I
t had been
a bad idea from the start—the kind that leads to terror and bloodshed.

I regretted ever leaving the house that night. But it was a little late to think about that, when I was lying across the back seat, trembling, dripping sweat, and clinging to the tenuous threads of my self-control.

“We’ll be there soon,” Jenna soothed as she cast a glance at me through her tilted rear-view mirror.

I grunted, my arms wrapped tight around my middle. The gnawing ache in my belly had me on the verge of writhing, but I held on, grinding my teeth instead. If I gave in to the pain—if I arched my back, or let loose a scream of agony—then my little cover story of having a diabetic episode would be blown, and Jenna would turn the car around and race me to the nearest hospital.

Images of the carnage that would ensue filled my mind.

Groaning, I shook the pictures from my head, concentrating on the one mantra that would save us both...
I will not kill my best friend...I will not kill my best friend...

“Are you
sure
you don’t want me to take you to the hospital?” She was nervous, her voice wavering.

“No!”
I snarled through gritted teeth. “I’m fine, just get me home so I can get some insulin.”

“I can’t believe you never told me you were diabetic. You should carry insulin with you.”

I considered the possibility of tearing her throat out, because she wouldn’t just let me suffer in silence. I imagined the warm blood that would spurt from the ragged gash, filling my mouth.
No more chatty Jenna!
I almost cackled with glee.

Repulsed at the ferocious instincts welling up inside me, I growled:
“No
more talking,
drive
faster!”

We took my exit and turned onto Pleasant View Road. She was blowing past the speed limit, and I could only hope there were no cops around. Sweat trickled down my back as the shakes got worse—a crack addict needing a fix didn’t shake that bad.

“Only a few more miles, and we’re there.” Jenna’s voice cracked. She was starting to panic, and her anxiety swept over me, making me feel worse.

“
Eight
more miles,” I mumbled.

I wasn’t going to make it.

I will not kill my best friend...I will NOT kill my best friend...

That was when I saw the flashing red light washing over us, and knew I was in real trouble. I raised my head high enough to look over the front seat, in time to see the red and white striped barrier lowering, blocking our way.

Train.

T
he night
that ended in bloodlust began with the most innocent of intentions. Some friends of Jenna’s parents were holding a spaghetti dinner fundraiser for their sick kid. As soon as I heard the words “sick kid,” I should have run the other way—and I tried to. Oh boy, did I try! But Jenna’s parents were making her go, and she called me, begging and pleading for me to come, until I thought my ears would bleed.

“Fine! I’ll go. But I’m not talking to the sick kid.”

“You’re such a weirdo. You volunteer at a hospital—how can you be so afraid of sick people?”

“I’m not.” I bit my thumbnail and stared up at my bedroom ceiling. How could I explain the inconsistency? “I just...I like to compartmentalize things. When I’m at the hospital, I’m mentally prepared to see dying people. I just don’t handle it as well out in the real world.”

“Like I said. Weirdo.”

“Keep it up and you’ll go alone.”

“Sorry! I’ll pick you up in half an hour.”

She picked me up and we drove over the Idaho border into Spokane, Washington. Coeur d’Alene Idaho and Spokane Washington were both close to the Idaho-Washington border, with a few little suburban towns between the two larger cities. Coeur d’Alene had most of the conveniences you could want in a small city of the inland northwest. But anything Coeur d’Alene didn’t have could be found in the larger, more urban city of Spokane. According to Jenna, the sick kid’s family lived in Spokane.

The fundraiser was in a hall downtown. An hour later, the fundraiser was in full swing, though with a meager turnout, and I’d had my fill of party games, raffles, and other activities. Jenna was talking with a boy she knew who looked just as bored as we were. Since I was feeling left out, I took my cup over to the refreshment table to get more punch, carefully avoiding the small crowd that had gathered around the sick boy.

It turned out he wasn’t a young boy, as I’d assumed. He was older, maybe pre-teen, though I couldn’t see much through the crowd besides his ball cap and glimpses of the wheelchair he sat in. The older he was, the better for me, because it was almost impossible to control myself around sick kids. Mom had warned me when I left not to do anything stupid, and I’d promised her I wouldn’t.

As I dipped out some fruit punch, I heard a sob behind me. I glanced over my shoulder and saw the Paulsons—Jenna’s parents—talking with their friends, the Baxters, in the corner. Mrs. Baxter looked distraught, and Mr. Baxter had his arm around her. I turned my attention back to the punch, but I could hear them clear as a bell, though they were twenty feet away in a noisy room.

“I really thought we’d have a better turn out than this,” Mr. Baxter said.

Mrs. Baxter dissolved into tears, while her husband put his arm around her.

I knew I shouldn’t listen in, but it wasn’t my fault that I had super-hearing, and once I tuned into a conversation, it was hard to ignore it, short of plugging my ears and singing “la, la, la.”

“Gina, it’s still early,” Mrs. Paulson crooned in an effort to soothe her friend, “and we haven’t sat down to dinner yet. More people could show up.”

“Not enough. The amount we got will barely pay for what we spent on advertising.”

“Wasn’t everything donated?”

“Everything but the advertising,” Mr. Baxter chimed in. “We couldn’t find anyone willing to foot the bill for that, or give us free advertising, except for one small, local paper.”

“That’s terrible.”

“It doesn’t matter, really,” he sighed. “Even if we didn’t have to cover the costs of advertising, what we’ve raised so far wouldn’t even cover the travel expenses to the alternative healing clinic we wanted to take Alex to, much less the month of treatment he needed.”

This caught my attention. I knew their son had some kind of cancer, and it was unusual to hear of a parent seeking alternative therapies for their child. To do so would be to risk having your child taken away. That could only mean one thing—their son was so far gone, even the doctors had given up.

“I’m so sorry, I wish there was more we could do.” I recognized Mr. Paulson’s voice.

“Please, you’ve done enough,” said Mr. Baxter. “You helped pass out the fliers, you paid for the rental of this hall, and you helped call around for donations of supplies. I know you’d do more if you could. The economy is so bad right now. I’m sure if everyone could give what they wanted to give, we’d have all the money we needed. It’s just hard for everyone.”

“I really thought he’d make it,” Mrs. Baxter’s voice wavered. “We’ve been fighting this for two years, and even though the doctors said it would get him in the end, he kept rallying…I just couldn’t let myself believe them.”

That was my cue to leave. I was getting sucked in, and I had to get out of there before it was too late. Before I did something really stupid.

I could do more than just donating a few dollars. So much more.

I squelched the rebellious thought. I
had
to get out of there. I needed to clear my head.

After gulping down my punch, I grabbed my purse and headed for the back door I’d seen propped open earlier, making my way through the sparse crowd of children playing and adults talking. I’d get a little air, wait until I was calmer, and then ask Jenna to bring me home.

The sun was down, the twilight giving way to a midnight-blue sky as I stepped through the door and into the cool spring evening. The air was cleaner out there, though not as fresh as it was out at my mountain home.

Wandering down the concrete ramp, I looked up at the faint glow of stars as they emerged like tiny pearls against the velvet sky.

Then I saw the dark figure hiding in the shadows.

My grip tightened on my purse, and I stepped back, ready to use it as a weapon to defend myself.

A weak laugh erupted from the shadows. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness in the alley, I saw that the figure was tall and lean, and on second glance didn’t seem to be very imposing. Then the light over the door behind me blinked on, and that startled me, too. I glanced behind me, but no one was there. The light must have been on a timer.

I looked back to the man in front of me. My empathetic senses kicked in a moment too late, and I realized there was no sense of animosity or malignant intent emanating from him. All I sensed was amusement, with an undercurrent of sadness.

He wore dark jeans, and a dark red hoodie, his face obscured in shadow by the brim of a ball cap he wore under the hood. He reached up and pulled the hood back. He was just a boy.

The sick boy. He must have sneaked away from the crowd while I was getting myself the punch.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.” Alex Baxter’s face was pale and gaunt, with shadows beneath his eyes. He looked younger than me, fifteen at most, though he was tall for that age.

“I’m not scared,” I protested. My hand still clenched my purse, the adrenaline still pumping through me.

“I was just getting some air. Too many people crowding around me in there,” he gave a limp wave toward the door behind me. At the foot of the ramp, behind him, sat a discarded wheelchair. He sagged against the wall, using it to hold himself upright.

I relaxed my grip on my purse. As my own tension faded, I smelled a powerful stench that I would have noticed as soon as I walked out the door, had I not been distracted. It billowed from him like a cloud of toxic gas, overwhelming me to the point of nausea.

Chemo.

I can’t tolerate being in the presence of it for very long. That’s why I avoid going to the cancer wards when I volunteer at the local hospitals. It’s too strong, and I’m incredibly sensitive. But he must have been off the chemotherapy for a while, or I would have been puking in the gutter already.

On the heels of the chemical odor came a rush of emotion, hitting me like a freight train: pain, fear, suffering, and betrayal. It was almost as overwhelming as the chemo. It felt like a weight crushing the air out of my lungs. If I didn’t do something quick, I
would
be puking in the gutter, just from sensory overload. I closed my eyes for a moment, and visualized a protective white light surrounding me like a giant bubble. The smell receded, and I was able to open my eyes and breathe normally.

He looked at me with an almost distrustful expression. “Are you okay?”

I smiled. “I’m fine. Got dizzy for a minute—almost took a header, but I managed to avoid it. Boy, that would have been embarrassing.”

“Glad you’re okay. So...I guess you should get back inside, if you’re not feeling well.” There was a bitter tone to his voice.

I wasn’t surprised. He expected me to bolt, like people often do when they’re around someone so ill. Working in the hospital, you notice the different ways people handle it when they visit sick relatives. Some people fawn over them and treat them like babies, while others get uncomfortable, don’t know what to say, and bow out of the conversation as soon as they are able to without appearing to be insensitive. Either way, it was extremely awkward for the person who was ill.

But I wasn’t going anywhere.

His dark eyes looked haunted—much older than the rest of him did. I could see pain. Agonizing pain. Even if I hadn’t been able sense his emotions, I could have looked into his eyes and seen the suffering.

“You’re still here,” he murmured.

“I am.” I stood my ground, looking him straight in the eye.

His eyes narrowed, and I felt the questions arising in him like bubbles in a pan of simmering water. He was confused, curious…and even more, skeptical.

“It’s a nice night.” My answer was nonchalant, and I walked up to him, taking my own spot against the wall. The wind blew stronger, flapping my flowing, multi-colored skirt around my legs and sending my unkempt curls flailing in the breeze. I tucked a blonde strand behind my ears to keep it out of my eyes.

Fear.

The wall of emotion hit me hard, but my protective circle held it at bay.
Why is he afraid?

“Enjoying the party?” I nodded back toward the open door. The sounds of music and chatter drifted from it.

“Wouldn’t call it a party. Unless it’s a pity party.” He looked toward the street, shoving his hands in the hoodie pockets.

“Let me guess. People are either avoiding you, or treating you like an invalid. Right?”

“Yeah.” He cast a scrutinizing glance my way. “Or pretending like everything is normal and I don’t look like an old man or an alien.”

“That bothers you—the pretending?”

“Well, I prefer that to the other two options.” He flashed me a wry smile.

“Sometimes pretending isn’t a bad thing. It beats being depressed all the time.”

“True. But it gets old after a while. I’m tired of the false hope and the fake smiles.” He looked down at the ground, scraping his sneaker against the asphalt.

He was in self-pity mode, and I couldn’t blame him. So I took a different approach.

“I hear you’re dying.” I looked right at him, unblinking.

He looked up, surprised, but didn’t respond.

I tried again. “So what’s eating your insides? Brain tumor? Bone cancer? Lung cancer?”

His eyes searched mine, trying to determine what my angle was. “You’re a bold one, aren’t you?”

“So I’ve been told.” I stared right back at him. I sensed he was waiting for me to look away, to make an excuse to leave. To show some kind of fear or disgust or pity.
Sorry buddy, not happening.

“Geez, alright. If you must know, it’s pancreatic cancer.” He waited, and watched.

I winced. “Yikes.”

“Yikes, what?”

“I just…well…I know pancreatic cancer takes you fast. And that by the time they find it, you’re usually already in stage four.”

“Not mine. I’m lucky—or so they tell me. We found out early. Gave it a good fight, but eventually it spread to the liver, and on from there. It’s encroaching on the lungs, now.”

“So how long have you been fighting it?

“Two years. My parents were pretty hopeful that I might last seven years, like Steve Jobs did—my cancer is a rare form, similar to his. But no such luck. Maybe I’d have lasted longer if I had billions of dollars, so I could try every treatment under the sun, but…well, here I am. Chemo didn’t work, nothing worked. Prolonged things for a while, but that’s it. The doctors have given up.” He looked off into the distance. “But my Dad wants to take me to an alternative clinic out of the country that does natural stuff. He knows someone who got better there.”

“Do you think it will work?”

“No,” he scoffed. “Maybe if I’d gone a few months ago. Who knows? But now? It’s too late for anything.”

“Why didn’t you go before?” I saw the tears welling up in his eyes. I could feel hope lingering around the edges of despair, but despair was clearly winning the battle.

“Dad wanted to send me there months ago, but my mom wouldn’t hear of it. She wanted me to have every chance, to get the best care medicine had to offer. At least the best care our insurance would cover, anyway. We’re not exactly rolling in it.” A tear rolled down his cheek, and he turned away to wipe it off. “None of it did me any good. I wanted to skip the last round of treatment—all it did was make me sick and weak. It gave me an extra month or two, at best. Totally not worth it. Trust me on that.” He laughed, and the sound was hollow and bitter.

I could feel his aching sadness, and I fought to hold back tears.
Oh man, what did I get myself into?
This was why I had avoided him all evening. I couldn’t get involved. I
couldn’t
.

But he needed me. He needed a miracle. I knew
I
could give him that…but I also knew it would come with a price.

And not just the wrath of my mother.

“I’m Ember. Ember Perry.” I held my hand out to him and smiled.

“Alex Baxter.” He shook my hand, but his grip was weak. His pale, bony fingers were cool to the touch. “Maybe you should tell me
your
life story, now.” He grinned, and though it looked more like a grimace in his emaciated face, I saw his eyes light up just a bit, a hint of the warmth that resided somewhere deep inside, where the real Alex lived.