Page 1 of The Monster's Mate

Prologue

Quick Note: This is the last story in my Match Program. Newsletter subscribers will have access to a slice of life story eventually, with follow ups or other news of the series.

With that, enjoy!

PRONUNCIATION GUIDE:

Skiden —(SKY-den)

Tiran—(TEER-an)

Bronan—(BRO-nun)

Mejak—(Meej-ACK)

Kalrian—(Kal-REE-yun)

* * *

Planet Earth, long after World War III:

Never in my eight years have I been in the foyer of the group home.

It looks nothing like the living quarters. It’s spacious, ten- or fourteen-foot ceilings, spotless, floor-length windows that show the perfectly manicured lawns out front.

I’m trying not to stare, and I’m trying not to fidget so I look down, focusing on the scuffed, dirty slippers of my feet. Every girl is provided the thin-soled, gray shoes and they don’t hold up well considering how we toil outside in the gardens during spring, summer, and late fall.

The living quarters of the home are very different. The ceilings are much lower there, the halls narrow and cramped. Beds are crammed into the bedrooms bunker-style. The lights are dim, though we get a better dose of light as we’re marched to the school facilities to learn. Other students are in school from the surrounding neighborhoods and for a while, I tried to mimic the “normals.” The kids who aren’t raised in a group home.

Footsteps thump down the hall and I stiffen, waiting for the person to turn the corner.

The first thing I see are the dirt-stained coveralls in mustard.

“You’re not leaving us, pretty one? Going to get adopted at your age?” The gardener leers and I cringe when his tongue comes out to wet his lip.

Normally when we run across him, there’s a group of us and it’s always outside on the grounds. But today I’m alone in a massive facility with rooms and locked doors everywhere.

If I die here, under his hand, at least my legacy will be that I taught the other kids in the home to band together. No one is left alone and each girl that enters, we take under our wing. I shudder when I think of the countless girls that came before me that didn’t have that protection of sisterhood for the orphans.

“Go away,” I hiss.

“Don’t be so stuck up.” His voice is still in a sing-song tone, the way it was when I first met him at five. Except when I was five, I didn’t understand what the singing voice meant. I thought he was being nice.

It was pure chance that I saw the other children scatter and I instinctively ran too. From that point on, I warned newcomers, which caught on like wildfire. Soon all the kids were taking the newbies under their wings, even when we weren’t exactly sure what the danger was.

“Mr. Johnson, is there something you need?”

The gardener startles, unaware of Ms. Higa’s approach. I’d been watching as she came up behind him, the middle of the hallway with a carpeted runner blocked the sound of their footsteps. She’s with another woman, pretty and young, her hair up in a bun. She’s dressed in a pink skirt and white top, and my little eight-year-old heart hopes that maybe she’ll work here and every day I’ll get to see what other fancy clothes she has.

All I’ve ever worn is gray.

“N-no, ma’am. Just checking to see why the little one was indoors.” He turns back to look at me. “All alone.” There’s an ominous tone to those words and I know, we’re never supposed to be alone. Not around him.

And while Ms. Higa doesn’t notice his tone, the new girl does. Her eyes narrow.

“She’s fine. Lucy has a visitor, that’s all. You’re excused.”

I have a visitor? I don’t think I’ve ever had one, not once in my whole life.

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