The Hidden Kind: Wrath & Worth

Prologue: Diane

Diane Marshal was trying to find the courage to speak. She had come to visit her only brother on the pretense of helping him move into his new apartment, but the real reason was so she could have this discussion without anyone around to overhear. He was unpacking plates in the kitchen, and she sat at his little glass dining table, fighting through her nerves.

She took a breath and blew it out slowly. The best thing to do was to say it fast–like ripping a bandaid off. She cleared her throat.

“Jim…Liana is psychic.”

He froze, a bright teal plate in his hand. His black hair was askew from sleep, and he wore sweatpants and a worn t-shirt. Apparently, there was no point in getting dressed when your visitor was your sister. 

Diane's daughter, Liana, was like her in so many ways–they had the same curly black hair and vivid green eyes, the same soft smile. Diane's psychic power was the one thing she had desperately prayed Liana would not inherit. 

She wanted the Kinnish gene to die with her. 

The gene either appeared when a child reached ten years old, or not at all, and the world of the Kinnish itself was entirely secret. Liana’s brother Brian had passed his tenth year and came out on the other side normal, but not her. And it was all Diane's fault. 

“Are you sure?” Jim set the plate down, his tone one of forced calm. He was good like that, level-headed no matter the circumstances.

“Jim.” She pressed her fingers to her temple. 

“Sorry,” he snapped. “I know you're sure. I get it.”

They frowned at each other, and then Diane’s lip trembled. Her eyes filled, and she covered her face and wept.

“Oh, Di…” Jim came over and knelt next to her with his hand on the back of her chair. “I know this isn’t what you wanted.” 

“Why did the gene have to pass to her?” she sobbed. “She’s going to suffer so much. Her whole life will be about hiding and fear.”

“Hey–” he interrupted sharply. “None of that. Wishing it away doesn’t help, and you know it.” 

She sniffed, but couldn’t keep a smile from tugging at the corner of her lips. Their dad used to say that to them all the time. Pulling the hem of her oversized green sweater down over her plump frame, she said, “What am I going to do?”

“What Mom did for you. Teach her how to hide it, control it, and use it right.” 

She wiped her fingers across her wet cheeks. “Brian made it through, but not my baby girl.” 

Jim was silent. Then he sighed. “It’s time to tell Jake.” 

Her expression hardened. “No.”

“You’re seriously going to keep Liana’s power a secret too? She’s ten! How’s she gonna hide it from her own dad?”

“I’m going to put the fear of God into her and make sure he never finds out.” Diane’s heart squeezed painfully as the words left her mouth. Lying to Jake all these years had produced a guilt that burned like acid in her gut. She wanted to trust her husband, but she couldn't. At first, she’d been too afraid. Her parents had trusted their dearest friends with the secret of her mother's power, and they had betrayed them. The Eradicators found them and killed them, leaving her and Jim alone when they were only teenagers.

A decade of friendship had done nothing to keep her parents safe. The people they loved betrayed them. And Diane would not make the same mistake. 

When Liana’s power surfaced, Diane thought she had no choice but to finally tell Jake the truth. But when she used her power to look ahead at his reaction, she saw her deepest fear brought to life. Instead of falling apart though, she used her knowledge as motivation to teach her daughter the ins and outs of keeping her power a secret. 

Nothing mattered more.  

“What's he doing with them today?” Jim asked. 

Diane shrugged. “Probably just letting them watch TV. I told him today could be a down day.” Her power rose inside her head. Instinctively, she shut her eyes, her hand coming up to press against her temple as if her head hurt, the way she'd feigned a thousand times. A vision of Brian and Jake on either end of the couch came to her mind. A large bowl of chips sat on the cushion between them. Worry pricked her heart.

Where is Liana? She prompted her power, pushing it so she could see more. The vision shifted, and she saw Liana in her bedroom, laying on her stomach on the floor surrounded by paper and colored pencils. Her tongue was sticking out the corner of her mouth and she was concentrating hard. Diane smiled as the vision vanished and her power retreated to the back of her head.

“You're a pro at that,” Jim commented.

“What?” 

He waved his hand at her. “The ‘Ow, my head hurts’ act.”

She smiled wryly. Disguising her power as chronic headaches had been her go to all her life, and no one ever questioned it. If neither of her children had developed powers, everything would have been able to continue as it was. The Kinnish gene wasn't guaranteed to surface unless both parents had it. After all, Jim didn’t have any powers at all. 

Why Liana, though? She was just an innocent girl. 

Her eyes welled again.

“You don’t know what he’ll say,” Jim soothed. “Come on Di, pull yourself together. Be brave.” 

She wiped her sleeve across her face. “I do know, Jim. And it’s bad…” She clenched her teeth, holding her power back as it threatened to make her relive the truth. “It’s really bad.” 

“Seriously? What’s he going to do?” 

“Take Brian and leave us.” Her voice warbled. “Report us to the police. They won’t believe him, but there are Eradicators hiding everywhere…they’ll find out about us. Lee and I will have to go on the run. I was too scared to look any farther than that.”

Jim was blank-faced with shock. “You guys have been together….forever. How could he do that?”

“I’m not telling him,” she insisted. “And it’s not because I’m scared. It’s because I’m selfish.” She looked away. “Something bad is going to happen, Jimmy. I wish I could let it be a surprise for you, but I can’t. I need you.” 

Jim’s spine straightened, his eyes full of concern and guarded rage. “Something worse than Jake leaving?”

It was strange to look at her little brother and see a strong, fully grown man. Once upon a time, he was her annoying little sidekick. Now, his expression was one that comforted her, one she’d seen before, when their parents died. He wanted to protect her. 

She could only pray his love for her was enough to cover Liana too.

“I need you to promise me that you’ll be there for Liana. You’re the only one who knows about our power, and it has to stay that way.”

“Of course,” he said instantly. “Don’t worry about that.” 

“Jake and Brian will have no idea what she’s going through, and she’s going to be so scared and out of control. Please, no matter what she does, will you promise to watch over her for me?” 

“No matter what she does?” he repeated suspiciously. “What’s she going to do?” 

Diane pursed her lips and shook her head. “I’m not totally sure yet, but it’s bad. Everyone is going to want to turn on her, but you can’t. I need you to promise. She’s my baby girl, my mini-me in every way. You’ll love her no matter what,  just like you love me no matter what. Promise me.”

“Fine.” His eyebrows came together warily. “I promise.”

She gripped his arm. “Good. Liana is going to need somebody who won't give up on her.” 

“She has you,” he said. “Why are you talking like you’re not gonna be here?”

Sighing heavily, she put her arms around his neck and hugged him tight. He hugged her back, awkwardly patting her shoulder. Jim wasn’t a touchy feely guy. 

“You’re freaking me out,” he said. “You’re gonna be here, right? We’ll help her together.”

She tightened her grip on him. “No, we won’t.” She rested her chin on his shoulder, numb with grief. “I won’t be here, Jimmy. I’m going to die.”  

Chapter One

Eight Years Later: Liana

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

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

His breath smelled like stale coffee, and there was a piece of egg stuck in his wild brown beard. My heart was pounding. We’d been eating breakfast in silence up to this point, him scrolling his phone and me trying hard to hold my power back so he didn't discover it. My eggs were only half eaten because my stomach was in knots. My psychic ability pushed against my consciousness, ever present, a low whisper in the back of my head that I dreaded would overtake me. I clenched my fists in my lap, 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 was, the harder my power was to control. Lying to Brian was a major trigger for both. I thought he didn’t notice when I momentarily lost the fight, leaving reality as a vision surfaced. I leaned my elbow on the table and covered my eyes to hide their violet glow. 

My consciousness shifted, and I saw a vision of Brian and me when we were kids, before Mom died. Dad had brought home a Wii, and 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 Brian had thrown had whirled past my head without me noticing it, but the sound of it shattering on the wall jolted me back to reality. And here I was now, 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. It was a thick black pullover with fleece lining on the inside. I’d had it for so long that the corner of the front pocket was torn, and his grip threatened the stitching around the neck. He let it go, 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 up the pieces of glass that had scattered across the hardwood floor. School would start soon. I needed to get this cleaned up 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. Four years on the job, and he was still only a crew trainer. "This kitchen better be spotless before you leave for school.” 

"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 and strode out into the hall. I heard the rustle of him putting his winter coat on by 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, and I felt my eyes unfocus, but I gritted my teeth against it. 

Please, no. Not right now. 

There was a pause, and I knew he was thinking about what day of the week it was. 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, and I said yes," I lied again, reciting the words I had planned.

It had been eight years since I’d 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 was annoying, but he never did anything about it. Mom's death had damaged us both, and without her here to be a buffer between us, violence was his constant reaction toward me. With Dad on the road for weeks at a time for work, there was nobody here to stop him from harming me, from controlling every aspect of my life. 

He sighed in irritation and pointed his finger at me, "Clear it with me first next time."

I nodded, relieved he'd so easily 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 hated him and preferred to pretend he 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 and left the house. I listened as his car started up, 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 double checked that the table was cleared. 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 up 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 and continued. 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 began to calm, 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 up and poured what I could into a stainless steel thermos, then rinsed 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

I rode my bike into one of the last empty spaces in the bike racks at school. Keeping my head down, my hair shielded my face from potential social interactions as I clicked the lock into place. I shivered in the late November air, my sneakers crunching through the frost as I walked over the grass leading up to the faded brick building. The sky above was stark and white. Washington winters were always so bleak.  

Students bustled around me as I walked through the main entrance, 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 on my walks around the school. Unfortunately, not every trigger could be avoided.

That’s what my hair was for. 

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 gathered together in everyone’s way, I gripped the straps of my backpack tightly, 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 that he meant me, I cringed in annoyance. My eyes stung slightly 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. Normal people could just 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 and turned, 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 social interaction, anyway. He didn’t seem like-able himself. 

My seat was at the back of the room, by the wall. Around me, students gathered in twos and threes, chatting and laughing and picking on each other. There were times I wished I had friends to visit with like they did, but the best way to keep my power a secret was to avoid it being triggered, and people were triggers. Over the years, my old friends had faded away, put off by the silent, angry person I pretended to be to keep them at bay.

I settled into my chair, and Mr. Benson looked up from his desk at the front corner of the room, waving when he caught my eye. I spared him a small smile. Of all my teachers, he was the only one I really liked. Getting into his art class for first period had been the highlight of my senior year. 

Art was all I had. 

He got up and crossed the room, holding his hands up for anyone who wanted to slap him five as he went. Many did, but he had a smile for everyone, regardless. Mr. Benson was one of only a handful of black men I’d seen in our tiny town. He always dressed a little too young for his age. Today he was wearing a gray polo shirt with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, jeans, and bright red high-tops. His hair was braided in tight rows away from his face and tied together at the nape of his neck. He kept his hand up as he finally reached my seat. 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 master drawing realistic faces and hands. I let the sketchbook fall open in front of him. 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 blushed, 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 and his head popped up. Sliding my book back over to me, he sprinted to the front of the room and grabbed a large squirt bottle off his desk. 

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

Everyone laughed and dashed to their seats, but one boy who wasn’t fast enough got sprayed in the back. He let out a startled yowl and jumped into his chair, wriggling 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, and 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 and then having us train to copy their work. First, we’d learned about Impressionism and Claude Monet, then painted using vibrant colors and 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. Liana, you’ll like this.” 

I felt myself turn a thousand shades of red as several students turned to look at me. I quickly lowered my head. What was wrong with him? 

“Eyes up here,” he quipped, raising his squirt bottle again. 

Everyone faced forward again. I raised my head slightly, and he flashed me an apologetic smile before clicking the remote in his other hand. The projector turned on, showing us a black and white photo of a man wearing a tweed suit and straw hat. His mustache was his only facial hair, and it was prominent. Several people giggled, but Mr. Benson ignored it. 

“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 relaxed looking 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 and that he was an illustrator before he became a painter. 

Illustrating would be a fun job if I could do it and still avoid people. 

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. There was nothing I cared for in it. If there were happy memories, 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 bent over my paper and started drawing. 

Mr. Benson strode lazily around the room as we worked, offering advice and ideas as he went. When he got to me, he paused for a moment and then laughed 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, but drew it closer, hiding it behind my hair. 

I felt him tap my shoulder, and I flinched. His touch made my power ripple through my head, and I gritted my teeth and shut 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 and let my pencil roll onto the table. He picked it up, and I watched him add to the trunk that I’d begun. His talent blew me away. 

I leaned closer, watching his lines move, and 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. I jerked away to break our contact, and the woman vanished. 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 up at him. My pulse spiked. He was looking right at me, the last of a 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 as he leaned over and scribbled something on the corner of the page. When he was done, he set the pencil down and gently closed it. Then, without another word, he moved to the next table. 

What? 

I watched him, not understanding. He’d seen. He knew. Why wasn’t he freaking out? I looked down at my book and lifted the corner 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?