Kindling (The Hunter Trilogy Book One) Read online

  By Abigail Colucci

  Copyright © 2012 by Abigail Colucci

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, but I have good authority to say that the author wouldn’t mind you sharing the book with your friends. Cover art images: manostphoto / photostock / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

  My bed was the only place I wanted to be that morning and I would stay there all day and through another week if I could. I was an active sleeper, to say the least, and I was currently wrapped up like a burrito with my pillows covering my head.

  So, why was I awake when I had heard the siren song of my bed? My papá had come in, trying to be as silent as he could, trying to catch me off-guard. If I was asleep he would scare the pee out of me, but usually I was so alert I woke up from the breeze of the door. I so didn’t want to leave my bed and I could feel the primordial groan of my mind rejecting waking up, but I was careful not to let my papá know I was awake. He thought he was going to scare me? No way. It was my turn to startle him.

  When he was close enough, I sprung out of bed and pinned him to the floor.

  “Whoa!” papá screamed and then waited for a few seconds to make sure he didn’t wake anyone else. When he was sure the house was quiet, he said, “That was awesome, mi cielo, you are ... What do the kids said? Totally radical?”

  I rolled my eyes and tried to help him up. He’s not an old man by a long shot - and most of my friends are so jealous I’ve got such young parents who actually want to do stuff - but he could still be pretty lame sometimes. And I like to treat him like an old man, just to tease.

  “Oh, Catalina,” he said, swatting my hand away. “Don’t treat your papá like a grandfather.” He sprung up from the floor as if he had practiced that move a million times. “We going to run this morning,” he told me. I glanced out the window. The sky was just beginning to orange with the rising sun. The moon stood out among the fading blackness, in its heightened phase before the full. Then I looked at my papá like he was crazy.

  “God, papá, what time is it?” I collapsed on the bed and smooshed my face into the pillow. “Is anyone else even up yet?”

  “No, no one is up yet,” he said. He sat next to me and combed the knots out of my hair with his hand. “But, I thought we could do a little training today. Before, you know, your party.”

  “Ah, crap,” I said into my pillow. How could I have forgotten about the party? The parties were always so awful and I was even turning a lame age – 17. Nothing happened at 17. I was still a juvenile, still in high school even, but my family made such a big, stinking deal out of birthdays that I developed birthday amnesia just so I was able to survive the next one. I couldn’t even imagine what they were planning for my eighteenth birthday. As the oldest grandchild and daughter, my family made it seem like every birthday was like a Quinceañera Ball and the actual Quinceañera I had two years ago? Holy avocado, Batman-o, my family threw a bash that lasted - not kidding you - four days. It’s not that I’m not grateful, because I am. My family loves me, they want me to continue traditions, yadda yadda yadda, but it’s been two years and I was still recovering from the 96 hours of constant celebrations.

  I looked over my shoulder and snarled when I saw the awful blue and purple dress I was supposed to wear – with ruffles(!) and sparkles(!!) and plastic gems(!!!) and tulle(!!!!) – made into an even bigger dress-abomination by a six-tiered hoop skirt and blue, satin gloves. My little sister picked out the dress for me a month ago and aliens must have temporarily taken over my body because, even though I knew she would pick the gaudiest dress she could find, I agreed to wear it. Besides, Gaby was so excited about the dress I just couldn’t say no to her. She had always loved the spotlight, loved the dressing up and the ceremony of the whole thing. I don’t mind being the center of attention, it’s just so formal I can’t stand it – satin gloves that make my arms hot and itchy, awkward dancing with all the relatives I only see on birthdays, scruffled facial hair scratching my cheeks, basic strangers leaning in to kiss me, dinner on fine china with formal dinner etiquette - my abuela insists -, awkward conversations and small talk with people quadruple my age ... Give me pizza, dancing with my friends, and an all-night movie marathon with lots of junk food and that would be my perfect birthday. My sister, she was made for the formality, and I didn’t know how managed it so perfectly – she was only 13 – but she could talk with anyone without being weird and awkward like I usually was. Her birthdays were a time of overjoyed fanciness; mine were a time of trudging through tulle. Oh, how I wish I had a bit of Gaby in me.

  I had to stop thinking about that stupid dress or my anxiety would overwhelm me, so I buried my face in my pillows again. “It’s my birthday. I think I’ll sleep instead of train,” I nestled into my blankets again and heard my father laugh. Truthfully, I knew no matter what I said he was going to make me run with him. I had only been allowed to skip training two weeks in my entire life – once for chicken pox and once for pneumonia – and there was no way he was letting me stay home just because it was my birthday. Besides, I had been a bit in the dumps this last week - I found out my boyfriend cheated on me - and one thing my father truly believes in was exercise makes you feel better. He even quotes that Legally Blonde movie all the time “Exercise gives you endorphins. Endorphins make you happy. Happy people just don't mope around wearing the same sweatpants for three weeks straight” or he’d say something equally as annoying based on whatever he thought I needed healed of that day. And then there was no sigh sufficiently strong enough to convey my annoyance and my eyes would turn completely backwards in my sockets from me rolling them so dramatically.

  My father sighed and stood. “It’s funny, because remember when it seemed like I was asking a question about running?” I could hear the grin in his voice. Oh, god, I knew he was going to do something to me now. “It wasn’t a question.” He grabbed my blankets in such a way that he spun me and flung me from my bed, wedging me against the wall below my window.

  “You’re so mean!” I grumbled from the floor. “It’s my birthday.”

  Papá ignored me. “Five minutes, mi pequeña, and you’re ready to run. Any more time and I’ll start adding miles.” He grinned.

  “Papá,” I whined. Even though I knew my whining never got me anywhere with my father in relation to my training and running miles, I whined because I’m an American teenager and it’s my god-given right to be a whiny when I want to be. With almost everything else, my father spoiled me and tended to give into my moods - Gaby and I have him well-trained - but not when it came to my training. To him, my training was a nonnegotiable part of my existence and, if I were to put up a fuss, he would just add miles to the run I would be forced to go on anyway. So, I made one small whine, gave him a dramatic sigh, and let my eyes roll back into my skull.

  “That’s my baby girl,” he said. He helped me up. “Five minutes,” he warned. As he was walking out of my door, he paused and grinned. “Oh, mi cielo, happy birthday,” he said.

  I smiled as he shut the door, but I knew he was serious about making me run farther, so I threw on whatever clothes I could find and pulled my hair in a ponytail. Then I quickly made my bed because, if I didn’t, I would definitely hear about it from my mom. It didn’t matter if it was my birthday or the day of the apocalypse, my mother would absolutely flip if my bed wa
sn’t made. It was a non-negotiable chore, even though the rest of my room could look like a tornado swept through it as long as my bed was made my mom was cool. She would peek in, look at my bed, nod once if it’s made, and shut the door. If my bed was not made - even on my birthday - I would have to hear the nagging that was reserved specifically for times like these. “I don’t ask much just a made bed. Am I insane to want a made bed?” she would said. Yes, she was insane for caring only about the bed - I mean, I had a pile of stinky gym clothes laying on my floor that I hadn’t washed in three weeks - but I had reached an understanding with her. Make the bed, don’t hear nagging. Don’t make bed, hear nagging. So, I make the bed.

  I complained about my parents but they were okay. Sure, they could be lame and old-fashioned about some things and we argued a lot about stupid stuff, but they were really relaxed about other things some of my friends’ parents went crazy over. Like, I didn’t have a curfew. Ever. They let me make that decision on my own. As long as they knew where I was and as long as I picked up my phone when it rang, they were chill.

  But, it wasn’t like they weren’t strict, because they were - way stricter than most of my friends’ parents. I whined and complained all the time, but I couldn’t get out of my chores. None of my friends had chores. Their nannies all took care of that, but I never had a nanny. So, I made dinner twice a week and cleaned and took care of my baby brothers and mowed the lawn and my papá made me train, which I considered the biggest chore because it occupied most of my time. Training was every day, one hour before school and one and a half hours after school. And on the weekends we often got four or five hours a day in.

  But it's not even like I did anything too terrible. I knew I was whiny and annoying, but other than that I wasn’t too bad. Ever since the boyfriend broke up with me, I really hadn't wanted to do anything. He turned up everywhere my friends were and I just didn't want to see him. I hadn't even like liked him that much, but he cheated on me and that left a bitterness ... and then I had to deal with some not-nice rumours that sprung up around school. I was definitely more upset over the rumours he started than over the whole cheating thing and the rumours were the hardest thing to get over. Even though I didn’t really care about the asshole that was my ex-boyfriend, I was still kinda bummed and I appreciated my parents allowing me to mope around the house for several weeks. That was still pretty cool of them. Of course, I would never tell them they were kind of cool. That’s just not done.

  I made it downstairs in three minutes. I looked like a slob, I knew I looked bad, but I didn’t care. I had on an old hat that covered my dirty hair, which I had pulled into a bun on top of my head, and it had wings that went down and covered my neck. I was also wearing blue, UV protective pants and a large t-shirt that hung off of me like a dress – all of these items had been balled up on the floor not two minutes earlier and smell pretty ripe. Underneath my super-large t-shirt I wore a long-sleeve, rash guard shirt to prevent sunburn. I was freakishly pale and, in this climate, my whole life revolved around preventing sunburn.

  When I entered the kitchen my papá grinned and handed me a protein shake. I could tell he put kiwis and strawberries in it – my second favourite after chocolate, hazelnut butter, and bananas – and I chugged it so fast I winced from my brain freeze for nearly a minute.

  “Was your brain freeze my thank you?” he grinned and poked me in the arm.

  I smiled and nodded. “Thank you,” I said, even though my mouth was full of deliciousness, like ice cream for breakfast. He sipped on his shake slowly and, believe me, I slowed down. It was just, so good.

  After drinking the smoothies, we stretched in the driveway and I lathered my face and neck and hands and ears – anything that was even remotely exposed to the sun – with SPF 10,000+ sunscreen, because I would be as pink as the inside of a watermelon if I didn’t. Papá had already packed water bottles and towels in our backpacks and we strapped them as tightly to our backs as we could so they wouldn’t bump around during the run. The sky was brighter and the moon had now begun to fade behind the glow of the sun. The birds were beginning their morning calls and there was the coolest of breezes rustling the trees. As much as I hated to pry myself from the utmost comfortable place in the universe (bed), it was enjoyable being out this early. The air was cool and the bees were still asleep. And, when we started running, it was just my papá and me and the earth around us, just the sounds of our feet slapping the pavement and the birds chatting and soon the noisy bugs would be out yelling. But, almost everything around us was nice, peaceful.

  We ran past the suburbs and soon we were in the foothills, running along the tree line until we hit my favorite trail. I am in love with the mountains – I was actually named after them – so any chance I get to be near them made my heart glad. Usually, running in the mountains also made me incredibly pensive and reflective. It was something about being surrounded by nature, with the trees brushing against my arms and little puffs of orange dirt flying up beneath my feet and the quiet of the earth around me. It made me feel small, like I should analyze my life and become a better person because, my goodness, I just saw what was around me and I knew I only had so many years to spend on this earth to enjoy that beauty. When I was younger, the feeling didn’t last very long and I would quickly return to my annoying self but, I guess within the last year I the feeling lasted longer. I was maturing, I guess, but I was so moved by nature that I had genuinely been trying to be not annoying as I used to be. Heck, even recognizing how annoying I was, was a huge step for me.

  My papá knew I got super reflective in the foothills – he did, too, which was probably something he drilled into me as a kid – and he smiled at me as we made our way through the grassy trails leading to the mountains. The trail narrowed, so he manoeuvred in front of me to lead.

  I liked to watch my papá run. He was so agile it was a little sickening, but I was proud to have him as my papá. While other father’s had affairs and drank and didn’t pay attention to their teenage daughters – my best friend, Mercedes, barely had a father he was gone on business so often – my papá made his family a priority. He did something special with each of his kids and treated my mom like she was his queen. The way they look at each other made me gag sometimes and it was hard to believe they were ever not together.

  But, there was a time when my mom was in love with another man. That man would be my real father, like real as in biological since, as far as I was concerned, my papá was as real as fathers got.

  I know, shocking, but you heard me right. My papá – the man who treated me like a princess, who had called me “mi cielo” for as long as I could remember, who spoiled and pampered me and gave into my girlish whims – was not my real father. Well, not biologically, anyway. It was easy to tell my papá and I were not related, though. He was a dark, Mexican American with nearly-black eyes and black, wavy hair – gorgeous and thick just like my sister’s and brothers’ hair – and I was ... giant and pale. Albino pale. Pale skin, pale hair, pale eyes – the reasons behind my UV protective clothing and prescription-strength sunscreen.

  Growing up in a South-Western state where the majority of the people around me were swarthy gods and goddesses made me a bit of an outsider. I went to a mainly Hispanic high school, so I was one of just a handful of pasty, white kids and even most of the other kids tanned, at least, but not me. I only came in two colors - white or red.

  Even without my skin color, I felt like I was kind of a mess overall: I was the tallest girl in my school and almost the tallest student; my arms and legs were long and lanky; my frame was athletic; my chest had microboobs. I hated nearly everything about how I looked and I could hardly look into a mirror without cringing. I saw myself as a freak of nature and, yeah, I was always pretty self-conscious about my looks, but it seemed to just get worse and more awkward as I got older. If it wasn’t for my friends, I’d just be that weird, lonely white girl that worked out all the time with her father. That’s not really how I wanted people to th
ink of me.

  My mother wasn’t dark like my papá, but she was darker than me and the only thing I got from her were my lips and my thin nose, so I supposed my nearly albino heritage came from my biological father’s side. Like, maybe he was Norwegian? Swedish? Maybe German or something like that? There had to be a a country full of unpigmented people somewhere, but I didn’t know. In all honesty, I really hadn’t had the urge to find out much about him. All I knew was his name – Henry – and that he was around when I was a baby, but then he left my mom and me with my papá’s family. Somehow, my papá and Henry knew each other and my mom ended up falling in love with my papá. It all worked out for the best, I suppose, and my parents never said anything bad about Henry, even though I think he’s kind of a dick for leaving his wife and newborn daughter with strangers in a strange place, but that’s just my opinion.

  I guess only met Henry once more, when I was four or five, but he either really didn’t leave much of an impression on me or I was so busy playing or something that I forgot all about him. I rarely even thought about him or acknowledged that I was not my papá’s biological daughter, so I wasn’t sure why I was thinking about him that day, of all days, because usually when I think of him I start feeling a little sad. I knew I shouldn’t – my papá adored me and we had a great relationship – but I couldn’t help but feel ... slighted, like I was missing out on part of another person’s life that I should have been a part of. And Henry was missing out on my life, too. My friends with divorced parents had two lives - one with their mother and one with their father - and they seemed to enjoy their two families or, at least, get perturbed at all of their relatives. I know it was a bit irrational because I had two parents who loved each other and were totally committed to their families, but I wanted to enjoy two families and got perturbed with all the people everywhere! As much as I hated to admit it and would never admit it to my parents, in the very back recesses of my conscious, I wanted Henry in my life. He was my father, after all. And I often wondered about my extended family, too. Like, did I have aunts and uncles and cousins and grandparents I could know? Was Henry remarried and I had half-siblings? Did he ever think about me? My mom was pretty sealed up about him. All she said was he’s a good man and had many reasons for leaving us and I would understand one day. She forgave him long ago and I should, too.