Page 1 of The Chosen Two

Prologue

Theinsideofthewarehouse is dark, but I can still see as if I am outside on a bright summer day. It’s a strange feeling, and I wonder if I’ll ever get used to this new ability, not to mention my new super hearing. Of course, all I can see are boxes stacked to twice my height and a twisted pathway running throughout. I can sense someone running on the far side of the room to my left. I stand still and close my eyes, tracing their path around the room with my hearing, like some freakish bat lady. Whoever, or whatever, that is, they have entered the maze.

Quite frankly, this entire situation is utter bullshit, but if I need to fight monstersandlisten to my kids fighting on eleven now, I’ll just use this machete thing to stab myself right here and be done with it.

I can make out the ragged breathing of whatever is in here with me. It is somewhere behind me and sounds like it holds a whole lotta breath. I’m not ready to turn around, but I can tell it’s getting closer.

What the hell did he put in here with me?

Why did I do the one thing that I, as a woman, have learned not to do from the time I could comprehend personal safety: trust a random guy I just met? Big mistake.

Chapter 1

Miranda

Iamnotreadyto open my eyes when the alarm on my phone starts to screech. The ear-piercing chime is the only one that can wake me up, but that’s only because I hate it so much. I look at the screen to check the time. I’m not sure why since my alarm goes off at the same time. Every. Goddamn. Day. 6:15 a.m. Yuck.

I used to be able to hit the snooze a few times before I really had to get up. But my eldest, Jessie, is in eighth grade now, and she has to be in school practically before dawn for her science club. My two elementary schoolers, Natalie and Sam, get dropped off next. If they aren’t in school before 8 a.m., then they have to be signed in as tardy. My sixth grader, Phoebe, is dragged around with her siblings because she doesn’t need to be at school until 8:15 a.m. When I was their age, I didn’t need to be at school until 9 a.m. Forcing kids (and their parents) to be up so early is crazy to me. My husband, Jake, is the one who usually handles the daily drop-off marathon.

I pad into the bathroom and feel a little sweaty from the heat blowing out of our vents. We have hit the time of year when the morning has a delicious crisp chill, and none of my children will get out of bed if they can even sense it. As I wash my hands, I look at my reflection and the twenty extra pounds I have hanging around. Okay, more like fifty. Fine, it’s seventy pounds. After I turned forty, taking off weight has been getting harder and harder. Granted, I haven’t really tried all that hard.

I notice that the silver is starting to shine in my dark brown curls. But at least after forty-two years, I finally learned how to take care of my hair so it is shiny and soft instead of resembling steel wool. I use my cooling applicator to apply a little eye cream and hope it makes the perpetual dark circles lighten a bit. I trace my upper lash line with a soft brown liner and brush on a touch of mascara so that people can at least tell I have eye lashes. They used to be so dark and long and lush, but they got lighter and lighter with each of my four pregnancies. I used to only use makeup on special occasions. Now I don’t feel human, or at least not remotely feminine, without my liner and mascara.

I brush my teeth, grab my bathrobe, and return to my room where I flip up the light switch.

“Time to get up!” My voice has a singsong tone but is still insistent.

Jake mumbles through his arm draped over his face to block the sunlight. “Mm, okay, Miranda.” Jake is still curled up with Sammy, our seven-year-old, youngest, and only son. My husband’s hair is hanging in our son’s face; he needs a haircut. Well, not needs—not to me anyway. It’s getting a little floppier than he prefers though. I stare for a second nostalgically.

When we first got together, he was in a band, and he was a bit of a bad boy. His medium brown hair was down to his shoulders, and he wore baggy pants slung low on his slim hips and a chain that attached his wallet to a belt loop. But then we grew up. He had to be professional, and I had to stop admitting I liked grungy boys, because old ladies like me can’t like bad boys in a band. Now he prefers to keep his hair perfectly coiffed in a short pompadour style.

Sammy’s hair is almost black and super thick. It curls when we let it go too long between haircuts. His eyes are hazel, like mine, but lighter, with a tendency to be greener rather than brown.

“Come on, guys. Time to get up. Now, Jake!” My husband jumps a little as he realizes he’s reached that point when he really needs to get moving.

“Do I have to go to school today?” I like to refer to Sammy as inert. He’s not great at changing direction. If he’s in bed, he wants to stay there. If he’s at school, he wants to stay there. A Sammy in motion stays in motion; a Sammy at rest stays at rest.

“Um, yup. It’s a school day. Get. Up. Now.”

He groans as he forces himself out of our bed and down the hall to his own room where he slams the door, hopefully to get himself dressed. I always heard how much easier boys were to raise than girls. Maybe that only applies when they don’t have three older sisters from whom they learn how to act.

As I walk down the hall, I hear arguing behind the closed bathroom door.

“No, Phoebe. You can’t borrow it.” As the oldest, Jessie has always been my rule follower and most responsible kid, as long as the rules and responsibilities are logical. There is no room for nonsense in Jessie’s mind.

“Why not?” Phoebe whines. There is plenty of room for nonsense in her mind. She’s brilliant but much less rigid than her big sister.

“Well for starters, you’ll ruin it. Plus, I don’t know when I’ll ever see it again—if I ever see it again. Don’t look at me like that!” Jessie tries to be unyielding with her little siblings, but she usually ends up giving in to them, and she often ends up regretting the concession.

I continue down the hall, and Natalie’s door is still closed. My nine-year-old is my late riser. She is the most like me in personality, to be honest. Although she has outgrown sleepwalking into our bedroom every night, she still prefers to have me wake her up with a morning snuggle for a couple minutes. I tilt her blinds open a bit so the morning sunlight filters into the room. I climb into her bed, and she doesn’t open her eyes before snuggling into me.

“Good morning, love bug. Five minutes of snuggles, then time to get out of bed. Okay?”

While she is always ready to get up when our time together ends, I have to pry myself away. I know from her sisters that this year is likely the last she will insist on any kind of snuggles. Maybe it is the last she will even permit them. By next year, who knows if I will even get a good-bye hug as she races out the door. So, I hold her and stroke her silky golden hair. When my alarm chimes, I kiss the top of her head. She smiles at me as she opens her eyes, mostly blue with specks of green. I smile at her and then head downstairs.

Once again, our day starts with a typical stress-filled morning. I mean, such is life with four kids. I take breakfast orders on my way to the stairs and have eggs scrambling, bagels toasting, and frozen pancakes microwaving when Jessie and Phoebe walk into the kitchen, arguing, as usual.

Phoebe is pleading with her big sister. “No! They’re obviously mine. They’re way more my style than yours.”

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