Page 1 of Avidian
Chapter One
RULE 1 OF THE NEW ORDER: TRUST NO ONE—NOT EVEN THE DEAD, FOR THEY HOLD MORE SECRETS THAN THE LIVING.
I wander through the gardens,admiring the night-blooming flowers, and find myself pondering the unthinkable—what it takes to kill another person.
Despite having never ended anyone’s life myself, I imagine a long list of people I would like to kill. At the top of that list is Marco, the head of the family that claims ownership of me.
I sit against the trunk of my favorite weeping willow, gazing out as moonlight dances across the pond. This garden is one of the last sanctuaries here, surprisingly serene for the Western District. With the constant droughts on this side of the country, we’re lucky if anything grows at all. My district hasn’t seen rain in so long, and each year the days grow warmer, the air drier. It’s hard to imagine that the other half of Sunderlands spends most of the year buried under snow and ice. Marco, along with a few other families, must be paying a pretty penny to keep this place looking so lush.
My heart nearly stops when a man appears, walking past me toward the water’s edge. Considering I can see the dead, it’s a significant reaction. The thought of Marco’s men finding mehere sends a chill down my spine. He would probably burn this entire garden to the ground to punish my insolence.
Frozen in fear, I watch silently as the man grabs a handful of rocks and begins skipping them across the pond, cursing under his breath with each throw.
His clothes reek of wealth: an all-black suit and pristine shoes.
“Fuck,” he mutters, throwing the last rock into the water and running a hand through his reddish-brown hair.
He’s probably pissed he was outbid today at the underground meeting where men like him go to bid on people like me—Avids—people with unique abilities who only the most wealthy families can afford to purchase.
Asshole.
He looks up, and our eyes lock. I debate standing and trying to outrun him, but in these heels and this fucking dress Marco made me wear, there’s no way I’d make it.
“Rough night?” I ask, trying to keep my voice casual, like I belong here. Not like the prisoner I really am.
“Is it that obvious?” he says, taking a few steps toward me.
“The rocks didn’t do anything to you, and neither did the water, so cursing at them is a bit of a giveaway,” I say. He moves even closer, standing in front of me.
Play it cool, Kat. Don’t give yourself away. You belong here.
“Do you mind if I sit?” he asks.
I glance at the grass next to me. “I don’t own the park,” I say, and he makes a slight chuckling sound, moving to sit next to me. Not too close though—he keeps a respectable distance, which I silently thank him for.
“Can I ask you a question?” he asks.
I look over at him, seeing him clearer now that he’s on my level. He doesn’t look much older than me, probably in his late twenties or early thirties if I had to guess. He has dark-browneyes, but not the boring kind of brown; they have little flecks of amber and gold in them. His stubble-dusted face highlights a strong jaw, and his broad shoulders suggest strength. I wonder what he does for a living, but there’s no way I’m going to ask him that.
“That depends—was that your question, or do you want to try again for something better?”
He laughs. “What’s your name?” He leans back against the gigantic tree trunk we now share. I debate lying, but what do I care? I’m never going to see this man again, so I decide to tell him the truth.
“Katja, but my friends call me Kat.”
He smiles, and I’m not sure why my name makes him happy. “Kat, I like that.”
I smirk at him. “I didn’t say we were friends.” He has a nice smile, this mysterious man—perfect, straight white teeth and nice lips.
Why are you thinking about his lips, Kat?
“Katja then, pleasure to meet you. I’m Malachi.”
“Malachi, why are you having a bad night?” I ask apathetically, not wanting him to know how curious I actually am.
“I’m missing home, I guess. I’ve been living in the Midwest District for the past seven years on business, and it’s not the same,” he says, clearly not one of Marcos's men then. Marco doesn’t have any ties to the Midwest that I’ve ever heard of.
“I’ve never seen the Midwest before, but I imagine anywhere is better than here,” I say, crossing my feet.
