Sweet Revenge Of The Stolen Heiress

Kayleigh lunged forward. She grabbed Clare by the arm, her grip rough and panicked.

"Get in there!" Kayleigh screamed, her voice shrill.

She shoved Clare into the small, wooden woodshed behind the main house and slammed the heavy door. The metal lock clicked into place.

The shed was pitch black. The air smelled of rotting wood and gasoline. The only light came from a tiny crack under the door.

Clare stumbled and fell onto a pile of dry hay. She sat up and leaned her back against the rough wooden wall. Her chest heaved as she tried to calm her racing heart. Using the power had drained her energy.

A soft, blue light began to fill the small space.

The Chronicler materialized in front of her. His glowing form cast long shadows against the walls.

"Did I do that?" Clare asked. Her voice was a dry whisper.

"You did," The Chronicler said calmly. "Your emotions are the trigger. You must learn to leash them."

He crouched down to her eye level. "There is something else you must know, Clare. You were not abandoned by your parents. You were stolen."

Clare's breath caught in her throat. Her eyes widened. The heavy knot of rejection that she had carried through her entire past life suddenly unraveled.

The Chronicler raised his hand. A holographic image projected into the air between them.

It showed a massive, luxurious living room. Silas Barrett stood by a window, his face pale and exhausted. Genevieve Barrett sat on a sofa, clutching a small, pink stuffed bunny to her chest. Tears streamed down her face.

"They have never stopped looking for you," The Chronicler said softly.

Clare's lower lip trembled. A hot tear slipped down her dirty cheek. Her chest ached with a sudden, desperate need to be held by that woman.

"We must bring them here," The Chronicler said. "If you stay in this timeline without them, the universe will correct itself. You will die again."

"How?" Clare asked, wiping her nose with the back of her hand.

The Chronicler pulled a small, sleek device from his pocket. It glowed with a pulsing blue light. He pressed a few buttons.

Hundreds of miles away, in the Barrett estate, Silas Barrett sat in his dark home office. He was staring at a glass of whiskey. His private satellite phone, a line known only to five people in the world, began to ring.

Silas frowned. He picked it up and pressed it to his ear. "Barrett."

"I have coordinates," a distorted, electronic voice said.

Silas sat up straight. His jaw tightened instantly. "Who is this?"

The voice read out a precise string of GPS coordinates. Then, it added, "Your daughter is still breathing. But she won't be for long."

The line went dead.

Silas's hand shook so violently he dropped the phone onto the mahogany desk. He leaped out of his chair. He sprinted down the hallway and burst into the master bedroom.

Genevieve was sitting on the edge of the bed, holding a framed photo of baby Clare.

"Get up," Silas said, his voice thick with raw emotion. He showed her the coordinates written on a notepad. "They found her."

Genevieve dropped the photo. It shattered on the floor. She stood up, her eyes blazing with a mix of wild hope and absolute determination.

Silas tapped the earpiece he always wore. "Alpha Team, mobilize the convoy. We have a target."

Back in the woodshed, The Chronicler put the device away.

"They are coming," he told Clare. "But you must survive until dawn. Do not let the Pruitts push you into a corner."

Clare nodded. She wiped her face and set her jaw.

Heavy footsteps stomped through the mud outside. Gus Pruitt, Enoch's teenage grandson, kicked the wooden door of the shed.

"You're in trouble tomorrow, freak!" Gus yelled through the wood.

The Chronicler's form began to fade into the darkness. "The darkest hour is just before the dawn," he whispered.

Clare sat in the dark. She reached into the dirt and found a long, rusted iron nail. She gripped it tightly in her small fist. She closed her eyes and waited.