First World(4)

“Miqueriona, my little one. Have you ever wondered why you have this mark?”

Abigail, get the hell out of there.

I wasn’t sure if that was my inner voice or an outside force issuing direction. But something was telling me to ignore the inviting warmth and ... well ... get the hell out of there.

So what did I do?

Stared up into his piercing blue eyes and continued the conversation. I’m a slow learner.

“I know why I have this mark. It’s a birth mark.” That may have come out like I was speaking to a two-year-old.

The man smiled. His teeth were straight, white and perfect. Not typical of many street people. He was definitely keeping some secrets.

“Who am I? Not important.” He continued, and I had to admit it, I was in love with his accent. “What do I want? Much more important. But right now there is no time to explain.”

Between the randomness of the conversation and his accent, I was struggling to understand.

“But you are the most important of all, young Aribella. Now is not the time for questions. Danger lurks in the darkness. I will locate you again. And as difficult as you will find this, try to be patient. Your time is coming.”

I opened my mouth to stall him; he couldn’t leave yet. But he never let me speak. Changing tactics, I gripped his jacket. My hands tangled in the extra cloth along the sleeves. The material was unusual; it looked rough and coarse, but in my hands felt as smooth as silk.

“And stop roaming the streets. It is too dangerous for you. Salutia, miqueriona.”

Then he tipped his head and, escaping my grip, was gone.

More than annoyed, I took off after him, following his path onto the street, but it was deserted.

Impossible!

I’d just met the older, grumpier superman, because no one could disappear that quickly. Breathing, I winced as my ribs pulsed hot sharp jabs at me. If I didn’t stop falling down, my body was going to go on strike and refuse all movement. I glanced at my battered old watch. Crap! It was after eight; I was going to miss last class. The matron was sure to kill me this time. No idea why people worry about the danger on the streets; they should live in my house.

I took off along the path at a reasonably fast pace. I was confused, even more than usual. He called me Aribella and miquw awara something or other. The first one was a name, for sure, and the second definitely another language. My heart raced. I needed to find him again. I wanted to look now, but he was right: the dark was hunting-time; the predators emerged. Tomorrow, I decided, would be much safer.

I was passing familiar streets; I was almost home. Though, trust me, it was missing a few of the homely essentials. The cold stone building where I grew up was Compound 23. One of the dozens of hidden dwellings where children were stashed. I’d been dumped on this one’s doorstep. Figuratively speaking. The under-eighteen compounds are single sex and secluded. The training grounds for future rebels.

Lucy, my best friend, lived there with me. She helped me smack down a couple of bullies when we were three and we’d been inseparable ever since.

While keeping a steady pace, I had to remain alert to dodge the random array of trash in my path. Downtown New York was just rubble now. I hadn’t seen her in the prime of her life, but I imagined she was magnificent.

Pausing before the front gates, I glanced around to determine I was alone. Crazy vines covered the outside of what looked like an abandoned building. But there was a minute high-tech security panel hidden in the wall. I pressed my palm against the scanner before entering the password and finishing with voice authentication. All of this security: barbed wire fences, video surveillance – and still girls disappeared.

The human-trafficking movement had gained strength over the years. We lived in constant fear of ending up in that life.

The gates opened and I slunk inside. The landscape within the estate was barren. The barriers which were designed to protect cast an ominous prison feeling. Old photos that hung in the hallway depicted the manor surrounded by lush gardens, but all that was left now was scuffed dead grass and some scattered leaves. Suffice to say, it offered protection but no warmth. Opening the large front door, I stepped inside.

“Where have you been, Abigail Swish? Class has started and I see you aren’t in it.”

I jumped at the sound of the cold high voice behind me. Spinning around, I hesitated to deliver a smart-ass reply. Standing, hands on her bony hips, was Patricia Olden, head of Compound 23. Her black hair was short and slicked back, framing her sharp features. She was forty-five years old, one of the youngest leaders among the rebels. Her joys in life included being a controlling bit... witch ... no, I was right the first time – bitch. On top of that, her loathing of teenagers was legendary. This was my mother figure, hence why I ran in the ganglands.