Wrath & Worth

Chapter One

A glass cup shattered against the kitchen wall, shards flying in every direction. Before I could draw breath to ask what I did wrong, Brian used my sweatshirt to wrench me out of my chair. I shrieked.

“Shut up!” he hissed. “The neighbors will hear you and call the cops again.”

His breath smelled like stale coffee, and a piece of egg dangled from his wild brown beard. My heart pounded. We’d been eating breakfast in silence up to this point, him scrolling his phone while I tried to hold my power back so he didn’t discover it. I was probably the only Kinnish in the world who had to hide my power from own family. Brian hadn’t inherited the gene. He was Aplos, like Dad.

Not all Aplos deserved to know the truth.

My eggs were only half-eaten, my stomach in knots. My psychic ability pushed against my consciousness, ever present, an inaudible whisper in the back of my head that I dreaded would overtake me. I’d clenched my fists in my lap while Brian ate, focusing on the quiet sound of my breath as I tried to remain present.

I was going to lie to him today.

The more anxious I felt, the more volatile my power grew. If Brian caught me lying to him, the punishment would be swift and severe. Imagining this outcome made my stress level spike, but I’d thought he didn’t notice when I lost the fight against my power, leaving reality as a vision surfaced in my mind. I’d leaned my elbow on the table, covering my eyes to hide their violet glow.

My consciousness shifted, and I’d seen a vision of Brian and me when we were kids, before Mom died. Dad had brought home a Wii. We were trying to play a bowling game on it, but I kept messing up.

“You suck at this!” ten-year-old Brian snapped at me as he snatched my controller away.

“Brian, she’s seven!” Mom’s voice warned from the kitchen. The sound of it made my heart squeeze, even as tears of indignation pricked my eyes at Brian’s nastiness.

The glass had whirled past my head without me noticing it. The sound of it shattering jolted me back to reality, face to face with twenty-year-old Brian, whose meanness had morphed into violence since Mom’s death.

“Did you hear me?” he spat.

I quickly shook my head, trying to pull his hand away from my shirt.

“Dishes, Liana. And now all this!” He gestured angrily at the floor.

“I’ll clean it up right now.” I pulled at his hand again. This sweatshirt was one of my favorites: a black, fleece-lined pullover. His grip threatened the stitching around the neck. He released me, and I rushed to the broom and dustpan standing beside the fridge. Keeping my head down, my long black hair fell in front of my face as I swept the pieces of glass that had scattered across the hardwood floor. School would start soon. I needed to get this cleaned fast.

“I gotta leave for work,” he said, breathless. He was simmering down now that he’d vented his anger, but his cheeks matched his red McDonalds shirt. “This kitchen better be spotless before you leave.”

“It will,” I promised, waiting for him to ask the question he asked me every day before he left. Bracing to lie, my heart rate increased. I attempted to inhale deeply through my nose. I needed to stay calm, or my power would get triggered again.

He huffed, striding out into the hall. His winter coat rustled as he put it on at the front door. “You got work today?” he called out.

Here we go. My hands tightened on the broom handle.

“Yes,” I answered. My pulse thumped in my ears as I waited for his response. My power stirred again. I felt my eyes unfocus, but I gritted my teeth against it.

Please, no. Not right now.

I waited for beat. He’d catch on to what day of the week it was right away. I worked every afternoon at Uncle Jim’s cafe except Wednesdays and weekends.

He poked his head around the wall to glower at me. “It’s Wednesday,” he said, narrowing his eyes.

I nodded my acknowledgment, feeling faint. “Uncle Jim asked me to pick up an extra shift,” I lied again, reciting the words I had planned.

It had been eight years since I’d accidentally pushed our mother to her death, but the numb hatred in Brian’s brown eyes never ceased to shake me. Eight years ago, he was just my grumpy older brother. Sometimes he told me I annoyed him, but he never did anything about it. Mom’s death had damaged us both. Without her here as a buffer between us, violence was his constant reaction toward me. With Dad on the road for weeks at a time for work, nobody could stop him from harming me, from controlling every aspect of my life.

He sighed in irritation, pointing his finger at me. “I don’t like you working extra shifts. We’re repainting the house this summer, and I’ve got a lot of other big projects in mind for us to do once you’re done with school. If this stupid job gets in the way of that, we’re gonna have a problem.”

I stared at him. He had no idea, but I wouldn’t be here this summer. My power threatened to overcome me again as my mind wandered to what his reaction would be like when he realized I was gone. My plan was to leave quietly one day while he’s at work.

“Clear it with me first next time,” he snapped.

I nodded, relieved that he’d accepted my excuse. I had banked that he wouldn’t want to confront Uncle Jim. He had always favored me over Brian, and Brian had taken it to heart. He preferred to pretend Uncle Jim didn’t exist.

This gave me the afternoon after school to tour the apartment downtown. I wouldn’t be eighteen for another two months, but I didn’t care. I would do everything I could to get an apartment as soon as it was legal.

My escape plan started today.

He turned his back on me, leaving the house. I listened as his car started, my body relaxing as the sound of the engine faded away. I tipped my head back, finally able to take a full breath.

Sweeping all the glass into the dustpan, I tipped it into the trash. My heartbeat gradually slowed as I wiped down the dark granite counters, drew the frayed brown curtain shut over the sink, and washed the dishes. With the kitchen back to Brian’s standard, I sank into the nearest chair, laying my head down on the table. Anxiety bubbled low in my stomach, threatening to boil to a full on attack. My power simmered alongside it, ready to react.

Twisting my wrist, I checked the reflection of my eyes in the round silver pendant on my rope bracelet. It was something I never removed, even to shower, my only assurance about whether what I was seeing was real. With my power flickering like this, my green eyes darkened–on the verge of glowing violet once my power took over again.

Five things I can see, I soothed myself, looking around the room. I saw the white fridge that I knew was mostly empty, the dark hardwood floor, the light gray walls, the green light blinking on the microwave, and the wood stain on the table by my hand.

I inhaled deeply. Four things I can feel.

I felt the rough edge of the table under my thumb, my heavy hair cascading down my shoulders, the way my toes felt frozen inside my navy blue sneakers, and the hard metal chair underneath me.

My mind calmed, and with it, my power.

Three things I can hear. The faucet dripped slowly into the sink. The vent above the stove droned uselessly. My chest tightened again as I failed to hear a third thing, only coming up with silence. My power swelled, ready to sweep me away again.

I rubbed small circles over my heart.

Two things I can smell. I inhaled through my nose. The scent of eggs lingered in the air, along with the pleasant smell of coffee from the half full pot on the counter–something I’d forgotten to tend to. Brian wouldn’t care if I drank the rest or dumped it, so long as the pot was clean. I stood, pouring what I could into a stainless steel thermos, then rinsing the pot.

One thing I can taste, I thought, finishing the ritual that would calm me down enough to face going to school. I sipped the coffee, wincing against the bitterness, but relishing the fact that it would help me get through another day. This afternoon was going to be a big deal, for better or worse.

Chapter Two

The bike ride to school was torturous in the frigid November air. After locking my bike up, I crunched through the frozen grass, hurrying into the school. Students bustled around me, and I skirted off to the side to avoid contact with any of them. My power was volatile around people, and I could never hold it in completely inside the school.

That’s what my hair was for.

Keeping my gaze on the floor, my hair was a wavy black shield draping over my eyes and the side of my face as I walked. I wove around people, watching their shoes to know where to step, avoiding any chance of accidental physical touch. Stepping around a group of boys clustered in everyone’s way, I gripped the straps of my backpack, holding my breath to battle with my power as it revealed their thoughts inside my head.

If Dad finds out I’m cheating, I’m dead, the boy with the green coat worried, tucking his friend’s science test into his backpack.

There she is, thought the boy in the gray Spartans sweatshirt, watching longingly as a red-headed sophomore he liked retreated down the hall.

She’s so creepy, the tallest boy thought, stepping aside with distaste as I passed.

Realizing he meant me, I cringed in annoyance. My eyes stung as they faded to their normal green again, then I glared at him. He wasn’t the first person to think of me as creepy. It was a side effect of being psychic. Aplos, or people without the Kinnish gene, could feel that something was off when they looked at us.

Still, it irked me. I’d never even spoken to him before.

He noticed my pause, his eyebrows going up. “What?” he asked, running a hand self-consciously through his blond hair.

“Nothing,” I answered shortly, turning away to push open the door to Mr. Benson’s class. He wasn’t worth the risk of the social interaction, anyway. He didn’t seem like-able himself.

My seat was at the back of the room, by the window. I settled into my chair in silence. Mr. Benson looked up from where he stood at James Johnston’s desk, waving when he caught my eye. I spared him a small smile. Mr. Benson was a rare Aplos who didn’t seem unsettled by my presence. Getting into his art class for first period had been the highlight of my senior year.

Art was all I had.

Mr. Benson flipped the pages in James’ sketchbook, pointing and giving feedback I couldn’t hear over the chatter in the room. My power flickered, ready to satiate my curiosity by showing me. I lowered my head, my breath catching as I shielded my eyes. A slow exhale brought my blood pressure down to normal again.

When it felt safe to glance up again, I watched Mr. Benson hand James his sketchbook. He got up and made rounds to each group of students, holding his hands up for anyone who wanted to slap him five. Many did, but he had a smile for everyone, regardless. Mr. Benson always dressed a little too young for his age. Today he wore a gray polo shirt with the sleeves pushed to his elbows, jeans, and bright red high-tops, his black dreads gathered at the nape of his neck. As he reached me, he held his hand in the air. I gave him an exasperated look.

“Rude, as usual,” he teased. “Whatchu got for me today, Marshal?”

Suppressing a smile, I reached into my backpack for my sketchbook. Recently, I’d been trying to perfect drawing realistic people. I let it fall open on the desk. Spread over two pages were dozens of eyes, noses, and hands in different positions. He whistled his approval, leaning his hand on the table as he bent for a closer look.

“You’re dedicated to the nitty-gritty practice of this,” he said. “I like that about you. Someday, people won’t be able to tell your portraits apart from photographs.”

I felt myself blush, pleased by his praise, but didn’t respond. I could hold my power in for brief spurts of conversation, but I didn’t trust myself to take it any further than that.

The bell rang, making his head pop up. Sliding my book back over to me, he sprinted to the front of the room, grabbing a large squirt bottle off his desk.

“Ya’ll have five seconds to sit!” he called, brandishing it in the air.

Everyone dashed to their seats, but one boy who wasn’t fast enough got sprayed in the back. He let out a startled yowl, jumping into his chair as he wriggled his shoulders in discomfort. “It’s winter, Mr. B! What’s wrong with you?”

Mr. Benson barked out his usual loud laugh. “You know the drill, Michaels. The bell means you’re on my time now. I need ya’ll to sit and pay attention while I teach you about this week’s artist.”

Over the past month, Mr. Benson had been choosing a different artist each week, then having us train to copy their work. First, we’d learned about Impressionism and Claude Monet, then painted using vibrant colors with tiny soft brushes. Then we got to study street art and Keith Haring. Mr. Benson had covered every wall in the room with paper and let us mark it however we wanted. I’d drawn a lilac branch, my favorite flower.

“Wins-low Homer!” Mr. Benson sang, clapping with each syllable. “It’s realism week, friends.”

The projector turned on, showing us a black and white photo of a man wearing a tweed suit and straw hat. His prominent mustache was his only facial hair. Several people giggled.

“Winslow Homer was a realist, which means when he captured an image on paper, he didn’t romanticize it. He painted people and landscapes to be what they were, seeing beauty in the everyday moments of life.” He clicked through several pictures of Homer’s paintings as he spoke, pausing on one called Breezing Up. It showed a boat full of boys tilting on an ocean wave. “He also did a lot of art contrasting the power of the ocean to the fragility of people. Nature is no joke, folks.”

I liked that idea, but if it were me, I’d compare people to storms rather than waves. I always felt small in the face of a booming gray sky and wild wind. Leaning my chin on my hand, I watched as he clicked through more pictures and told us about where Homer grew up, that he was an illustrator before he became a painter.

Illustrating would be a fun job if I could avoid people while doing it.

When he finished giving us Homer’s biography, he assigned us to spend the rest of today’s class drawing something mundane.

“Take this assignment seriously,” he said. “If you pick your kitchen as your subject, draw it, but be thinking about how it would feel if that kitchen was gone–if you moved or your house burned down. Makes your heart squeeze, doesn’t it? People rarely realize something is special until it’s gone. There’s beauty in the things we look at every day.”

I thought of my house. If there were happy memories to capture from it, the unhappy memories clouded them out. Opening my sketchbook to a new page, I looked around. I would choose something nearby that didn’t trigger my power. I was next to the window, close enough to press my fingers against the cold glass. Outside was the center courtyard. In spring, the cedar tree in the middle was full of leaves that filtered the sunlight into the room. Right now it stood bare, its weathered bark chipped in places from kids trying to climb it all the time. I liked that tree. It was tired, but resilient. Year after year, winter after winter, it remained–even in the face of constant abuse.

Like me.

I started drawing.

Mr. Benson strode lazily around the room as we worked, offering advice as he went. When he got to me, he paused for a moment, laughing softly. “You would choose something from nature. I’ve noticed you gravitate that way a lot.”

I kept my eyes on my paper as if I hadn’t heard him, leaning forward to hide the drawing behind my hair.

He tapped my shoulder, making me flinch. His touch made my power ripple through my head. I gritted my teeth, shutting my eyes. One deep breath, then another. It wanted to press forward, to show me more about him, but I wouldn’t let it. I wouldn’t lose control.

Not here.

“I was just teasing,” he said lightly. “I like it. Can I show you a trick for drawing realistic bark?”

I didn’t raise my head, but I nodded, letting my pencil roll onto the table. He picked it up, adding to the trunk that I’d begun. His talent blew me away.

I leaned closer, watching his lines move. For a moment, I forgot to pay attention to the space between us. His arm brushed my shoulder, and my power, already aggravated from before, rushed to the front of my mind and took over.

I gasped.

A woman’s face appeared behind my eyes. She was smiling, her caramel skin bright in the sunlight, her curly hair a wild bush around her head. Piercings shined in a line down her ear and winked from her nose. Her eyes were hazel, all the colors of the forest flecked inside.

Mr. Benson stiffened. Because we were touching, I knew he was seeing her too. Physical contact allowed me to share my visions with others. I jerked away, making the woman vanish. Blinking against the fluorescent-lit classroom, I tried to act as if nothing had happened, despite my heart beating wildly inside. Drawing attention with a big reaction right now would be a mistake. If I was careful, I could play this off, make him think he imagined it.

Cautiously, I looked at him. My pulse spiked. He was looking right at me, the last of my power, a faint violet glow, fading from his eyes.

“Interesting,” he breathed.

I felt faint, but I had to pretend I didn’t know what he was talking about. “My drawing?” I asked, my voice small.

He nodded. “I have one more suggestion. May I?”

I scooted my chair away from him. He leaned over and scribbled something on the corner of the page. When he was done, he set the pencil down, gently closing the book. Then, without another word, he moved to the next table.

I watched him in stunned silence. He’d seen. He knew. Didn’t he? Why wasn’t he freaking out? I lifted the corner of the book to peek at what he’d drawn. Instead of a picture, though, I found a message left for me in his messy scrawl.

Me too. Meet me here at lunch so we can talk.

I shut it quickly, my heart racing.

Him too?

Chapter 3

Mr. Benson didn’t come back to my table after that. He didn’t even look my way. When the bell rang, I gathered my things, leaving the classroom as fast as I could without drawing attention to myself. Ducking into the nearest bathroom, I shut myself in the stall, leaning back against the door. My power sputtered in response to my shock, and I pressed my hands over my eyes, breathing slowly to keep it in check.

Aside from my mom, I had never met another Kinnish before. How could he share his secret with me so easily? Even if he did realize what I was, he didn’t have to admit anything to me in return. What if I was dangerous? What if I used this information to ruin his life?

Me too. The words repeated in my head, awakening an ache in me I’d thought was buried so deep it could never come to light again. Loneliness, weighty and cold, settled in my chest.

When Mom died, my only connection to the Kinnish world was gone. I was a lone freak in a world of Aplos who moved around me, not knowing or caring what I was, how I felt, or what I could do.

Lunch hour couldn’t come fast enough.

I tapped my foot restlessly, braiding and unbraiding different sections of my hair as I pretended to listen to lectures in my other classes, hardly able to focus. When the bell finally rang for lunch, a nervous pit appeared in my stomach. Skipping the lunch line entirely, I headed to Mr. Benson’s classroom, walking nearly flush against the wall to avoid the current of students going towards the cafeteria. When I got to his door though, I hesitated, my eagerness giving way to fear.

What if this was a trick? What if Mr. Benson wasn’t Kinnish after all, and he wanted to get me alone now that he knew I was?

What if he was an Eradicator?

Guilt mixed with the fear. Mr. Benson was a good person. Everyone liked him. My power had never cautioned me against him for anything, so he deserved my trust.

Didn’t he?

I bit down on my thumb. Likeable didn’t equate to safe. Eradicators were an underground organization that were skilled at blending into Aplos society, like us. They would have to be likeable. In fact, it would be to their benefit. It’s easier to kill someone once you’ve already earned their trust.

The Eradicators had only one goal: stop the spread of the Kinnish gene from tainting the human race. Eradicators were the reason the Kinnish couldn’t reveal themselves to Aplos society. If we came out of hiding, we’d be walking targets.

My grandparents trusted the wrong Aplos, and lost their lives because of it.

I rocked back on my heels, trying to decide. My power fluttered quietly, but I pushed it aside. Maybe it could help me right now, but more than likely it would expose me even more.

Mr. Benson had always been kind to me. He sought me out, admired my art, made me feel seen. Nobody else in my life did that.

It hit me then that his behavior towards me was another clue that what he was claiming was actually true. Of all the Kinnish lines, psychics were the only ones who naturally repelled Aplos. Why hadn’t I registered that all along? Mr. Benson had never once shied away from me, never once given me a look of irritation or distaste.

Taking a deep breath, I pushed the door open.

He was sitting at his desk with his phone in his hand. His lunch bag was open in front of him, a large sandwich rested on a paper towel next to his keyboard. It looked like he was typing to someone, but he stopped when he saw me, setting his phone down on the desk.

“Let that swing shut behind you, if you’re comfortable,” he said, nodding to the door.

I did, my cheeks flaring in anticipation.

He smiled widely, spreading his hands. “So…”

“You wanted me to come see you,” I prompted.

“Ah.” He leaned back in his chair. “You’re gonna make me share first. Alright. That’s fair.” He got up, pulling the cord to make the blinds shut, then faced his desk, his eyes landing on a plastic container full of pens. He held his hand out. A purple sphere of light shimmered around it, making me gasp. As he lifted his hand, the container rose into the air, trapped inside the sphere.

“Good enough?” he asked.

Awed, I nodded. He lowered the basket down again. The sphere dissipated.

He’d been telling the truth. I smiled widely, relieved. He was Kinnish, and he was a Bastion. Mom had known one back in college. Some Bastions could make force fields, some had diamond-hard skin, some had ultra-human strength. Mr. Benson made force fields. Amazing.

“So…you’re psychic?” he asked.

My confidence shrank. We stared at each other for a beat. Admitting it out loud made this real in a way that I couldn’t turn back from.

Secrecy was everything.

But he’d proved he was safe. If he was Kinnish, he couldn’t be an Eradicator. Kinnish would never hunt their own kind.

“Yes,” I said softly.

He clapped his hands joyfully. “This is cool. Not only is one of my favorite students Kinnish…” He lowered his voice. “But you’re psychic too. I’ve never met one before.”

I blushed deeply. People didn’t favor me.

“I only know what I’ve heard from friends,” he went on. “Psychics get their power from the matriarchal side, right? So…is yours from mom or grandma?”

“Both,” I answered timidly.

“Nice! I would love to meet them too, if they’re open to it,” he said, walking back around to sit in his desk chair again.

My chest constricted. I averted my eyes. “They’re dead.”

“Oh.” He drummed his fingers on the desk. “Well, my foot’s in it. I’m sorry.”

I shrugged, letting my hair fall forward to frame my face. It wasn’t like he killed them. Why did people always have to say I’m sorry?

“Do you have any other Kinnish family?”

I shook my head. That hadn’t bothered me in a long time, but it felt painful to think about now. “Do you?” I asked.

“Nah, no family,” he said breezily. “I have friends though. I guess now that includes you. I’m honored to re-meet you, Liana the psychic.” He held out his hand.

I didn’t take it. “I can’t,” I explained. “It’s better if I don’t…touch people. But it’s cool to know I’m not alone.”

He let it drop, his eyebrows creasing in the middle. “You’re about to get a heck of a shock, kid. You’re not alone by a long shot.”

I fought to hide my eagerness. “How many?” I asked evenly.

He smiled. “Two of them go to this school. They normally have lunch with me, but I asked them to steer clear today so you wouldn’t feel ganged up on.”

Suddenly, I cursed myself for never looking directly at my classmates. I thought through the kids in my grade, but only a handful of faces came to mind. “Who?” I asked.

“You’ll find out if you come to our meeting tonight,” he said. “We get together once a month outside of school to do power practice at my place.”

Power practice? I immediately imagined a group of people shooting out fire and force fields. Chewing the inside of my cheek, I considered his offer. With Brian thinking I had work, I had the evening free. But that was so I could do the apartment tour this afternoon. I couldn’t miss that, even for something like this.

Plus, the idea of being a stranger at an established group get-together sounded like the last thing I’d ever want to do. All eyes would be on me. Even now, my power was on a low boil in the back of my head. I’d spent so long avoiding interactions with people to keep it hidden, I wasn’t sure I even knew how to make friends anymore. Mr. Benson was the only one I spoke to, and he did most of the work.

He drummed all of his fingers on his desk this time. “She’s thinking…?”

I bowed my head, letting my bangs shade my glowing face. When would I have another chance like this? Probably never, unless I lied to Brian again.

I wanted to see the others who were like me.

“What time?” I asked.