BlackMoon Beginnings (The Prophesized Book 1) Read online

  Text Copyright 2013 Kaitlyn Hoyt

  This Book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied, or transmitted without the written permission of the author. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to peoples either living or deceased is purely coincidental. Names, places, and characters are figments of the author’s imagination. The author holds all rights to this work. It is illegal to reproduce this novel without written expressed consent from the author herself.

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover Design by Victoria Faye

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  Formatting by Inkstain Interior Book Designing

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  Editing by TCB Editing

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  This book is dedicated to my family and friends for all their support and encouragement. I want to thank my mom and sisters for loving this book and pushing me to publish it, and my best friend, Elizabeth, for reading it multiple times and threatening me during my freak-out moments. It truly means a lot. Lastly, this book is for the readers, for anyone who wants to escape into a world full of love and magic.

  BlackMoon Beginnings

  Scorching Secrets

  Descending Darkness

  Reaching Retribution

  Eternal Endings

  Redeeming Lainey

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  About the Author

  SCHOOL. THAT PLACE WHERE WE are forced to go five out of seven days a week. It’s a place of learning, as so many call it; yet I can’t wrap my head around it. I know it’s necessary if we want to go out into the world and have successful careers, but are they really preparing us for anything? Will I take anything I actually learn in school and apply it anywhere else? Will I ever need to know how to find the derivative using the chain rule? Will I ever need to calculate enthalpy changes or annotate an English paper? School is my purgatory right now, and all I want is to be set free.

  “Ryanne Arden,” Mrs. Applegate calls out.

  “Here.”

  It is the Friday before the last week of school, and while most teachers slowly start tapering off their agendas, Mrs. Applegate teaches until the last minute, trying to cram everything into the end of the year schedule. I got the infectious senioritis disease way before it was acceptable to have it. I’ve already progressed past any curable stage. I, Ryanne Arden, have stage four senioritis, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.

  After hearing my name, I open my notebook, and begin doodling. I used to be such a good student. I used to strive for perfection in my schoolwork. I was that over-achiever that everyone hated. “She’s such a hardworking and diligent student,” my teachers used to say. They wouldn’t say that anymore.

  Getting lost in the drawing and the adding of details to make it perfect, I lose track of time. It’s not like I pay attention in school anymore anyway. Drawing is the only thing I’ve been able to do recently that gives me any sort of satisfaction. Art is one of the few ways I can express myself without judgment because no one besides me ever sees it.

  Someone on the other side of the classroom drops a book onto the hard linoleum floor. The sound echoes through the small room, jolting me back into awareness. Looking up at the clock, I am surprised at the time: 3:25 p.m. Only five minutes left of class. I hadn’t listened to a single word that Mrs. Applegate said during the duration of this block. I couldn’t. I can’t concentrate on school anymore.

  It’s almost over. I only have to survive a week. One more week of high school, and then I am out of this small town, out of the little town of Stormfield, Maine, and on to bigger and better things. Well, at least that is what all my teachers say. “You all have big and bright futures ahead of you.”

  The thing is, I have no idea what I want to do after school. I don’t have a plan like everyone else. Yes, I have applied to some colleges, but I don’t know where I want to go or if I even want go to any of them. I just know that I want out of this old school, and out of this town. There are too many people here who know my story. There are too many memories, and I just need to get away from it all.

  I look down at my drawing, and see a picture of model home. It is massive with a large stone exterior, and set in the woods. I want to live somewhere like that—away from everyone else, but close enough to others that I don’t feel so alone. Being alone in a sea of people is one of the worst feelings in the world.

  I tear my eyes away from the paper, and glance out the window. The sun is shining brightly today. The light illuminates everything, reflecting off of car windows; it’s difficult to look for too long.

  “This weekend, you should all finish reading The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe. Your test is on Monday. This is an easy read. It’s a children’s novel for those of you who haven’t started it yet.” Mrs. Applegate stops talking, and stares directly at me. “I would recommend reading it this weekend.” The bell rings, signifying the end of the school day. “Class dismissed.”

  Gathering up my notebook and pen, I grab my bag from the floor, fling it over my shoulder, and head toward the door. “Ryanne, can I talk to you for a minute at my desk?”

  I stop walking, and look at the door. It’s so close. I can make it. Two steps, and I will be out of the classroom. My conscience gets the best of me. With a sigh, I turn around and face my teacher, plastering on a small fake smile.

  Mrs. Applegate is sitting at her old wooden desk. Her graying hair is pulled back into a tight bun at the base of her neck. With her reading glasses on, she squints down at the paper she has in front of her. Slowly, I walk up to the front of her desk, and stop a foot away, waiting for her to finish. After putting the paper down, she takes off her glasses, and looks at me.

  “Do you know what your grade in this class is?” she asks, and then pauses, waiting for me to reply. When I remain silent, she continues. “You are failing my class, Ryanne. I understand that you are going through a tough time, and I think I’ve been lenient. However, this class is necessary to graduate. If you want to walk with everyone in your class, you must pass the test on Monday, and the final on Wednesday. I know you have not started reading this book yet, so I would suggest you go out and buy it tonight. Your grade depends on it.”

  I nod, but remain quiet. I love reading for pleasure, but when I’m forced to read for an assignment, my mind looks at it differently. I understand what she is saying though. I don’t think I can take another year at this school. “Is that all, Mrs. Applegate?”

  She looks up, and stares at me for a couple of seconds. I recognize the look in her eyes. All adults who know
what happened give me that look. With a disappointed sigh, she replies, “Yes, you may go.”

  Turning around, I walk out of the classroom, and toward the entrance of the school. I don’t even bother to go to my locker. I won’t do any of my other homework anyway. Throwing the door open, I’m prepared to be blinded by light, but it’s not sunny anymore. The sky is a light shade of grey with gloomy clouds completely blocking the sun.

  Walking down the few stairs in front of the school, I walk past everyone making plans for the weekend, and saying goodbye to their friends. I exit the parking lot, and then turn right to head toward Jane’s house.

  Jane is my legal guardian. She took me in when I had nowhere to go. She’s in her mid-thirties, but looks years younger than that. Standing tall, she’s just under six feet. With short pixie-like hair, she almost looks ethereal. However, she’s a workaholic—working six out of the seven days in a week. When she comes home from work, she continues to do work. Because of that, she’s seeing someone from her job. I’m often home alone during the days. Even when she’s there, it’s like I’m alone. I don’t mind though. I prefer the solitude.

  As I turn the corner toward the house, I notice her new blue Ford Focus in the driveway. For a weekday, that’s odd. Jane’s never home at this time.

  The wind begins to pick up as I walk up the driveway. With anticipation building, I unlock the front door, and step inside. Jane is standing in the kitchen, making dinner, which is something that she also never does. I usually have to fend for myself after school, which means a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for dinner.

  “Hey Jane, what’s up?” I ask, while taking off my green Converse shoes. Jane doesn’t allow anyone to walk on the carpet with shoes on. It has to remain in pristine condition.

  She stops cooking, and turns around. Ignoring my question, she replies, “Go put your books in your room. We need to talk.”

  Uh-oh. She turns back around, and continues cooking without saying another word. What could that be about?

  I walk up the stairs, and into my boring bedroom, sighing as I look around. I haven’t bothered to decorate much since I’ve been here. I know I won’t be able to stay too much longer. My eighteenth birthday was a couple of days ago, and I am no longer in need of a legal guardian.

  Brushing away the negative thoughts, I turn toward the computer in the corner of the room, and turn it on. As the computer slowly wakes up, I move to the other side of the room, and look out the window. The sky has gotten darker since I’ve been home, and large raindrops are beginning to fall. The clouds open up further, releasing their sadness onto the earth below. The sound of water resonates off the roof, while droplets stick to the window, creating a blurry illusion of the outside world. Pushing myself up from my window seat, I walk over to my bed and sit down, waiting for Jane to call me.

  Only a few moments later, I hear, “Ryanne, it’s time for dinner,” being yelled from the bottom of the stairs.

  At the dinner table, I begin to stir my peas around the plate. I never eat them. They’re the devil’s tasteless vegetable. But I don’t want her to think I don’t appreciate the meal, so I pretend to eat them.

  “How’s school?” Jane asks.

  “It’s fine,” I hesitantly reply.

  “I got a call from your teacher this morning, Mrs. Applegate. Do you have anything to tell me?”

  “Umm…nope. I don’t think so.”

  She looks at me for a few moments, waiting. I know what she wants me to say, but I don’t tell her. “You’re failing English, Ryanne.” Her voice starts to rise, slowly inching more toward a yell. “You need to pass that class to graduate! She said that you have a test on Monday over The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe. Have you read it?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Well, when do you plan on reading it?”

  “Well…after I buy it.”

  “You haven’t even bought the book yet?” She stares at me, probably trying to determine if I am joking or not. “After dinner, you will go to the bookstore and buy it. I don’t want to hear any excuses. I understand that, after your mother died, you needed some time. But it has been over a year, Ryanne. You have to start living again. She would want you to graduate. I can’t let you throw your life away like this.” Jane never mentions my mother unless she is very upset with me, because she knows how much it hurts me to think about her.

  “Fine, I’ll go. But I don’t really have much of a chance of passing the class this late in the game.”

  “But you can at least try.”

  Try. I’m not even sure I understand the definition of that word anymore. I stop pushing my peas around my plate, and look up at her. Her face is full disappointment, but also full of faith in me. I know that I can’t let her down. Right now, she is all I have.

  GRABBING THE CAR KEYS OFF the counter, I rush out the front door, and am surrounded by the musty smell of the rain. The downpour has relented to a soft drizzle while various shades of grays are accumulating in the sky, swirling around one another like a van Gogh painting. The gloomy clouds that had gathered and drenched the earth are starting to drift away into nothingness. The trees begin to sway as the wind picks up, rustling their leaves together, creating a whisper of noise throughout the town.

  Thankful to be out of the strange weather, I turn the car keys in the ignition. The car comes to life, a steady thrum reverberating throughout the vehicle. Being a small town, the only bookstore is the local BlackMoon Bookstore on Amber Avenue. It will only take a few minutes to drive over there. Since it is a small town though, I have to park out of the way, and walk to the store.

  Pulling into a parking lot at the back of Second Chances, the local thrift store, I get out of the car and begin walking toward the bookstore located across the street. I stop at the crosswalk to push the walk button…only there isn’t a walk button. Since the weekend has begun, Stormfield is pretty quiet. Most people would have gone into Brookville, the larger town located a few miles away for their weekend festivities. Without bothering to look before crossing, I take a step off of the curb, and into the road.

  After a couple of steps, a bright light and a loud noise echoing down the street blind me to my right: a car horn. Everything freezes around me. The wind picks up, and blows my hair across my face, momentarily blocking my vision. My heart is beating a mile a minute, as if trying to escape my chest. I’m sure that if anyone were near, they could hear its loud beat. My airways constrict, making it difficult to breathe. I try to move my feet, but they seem to be glued to the ground, forbidding any movement. Fear overwhelms me as I see the car getting closer.

  During times like this, most people would say their life flashed before their eyes. I don’t know what kind of situation those people went through, because the only coherent thought running through my mind is Crap, I’m going to be hit by a car.

  Suddenly, the sky darkens, lightning cracks overhead, thunder booms directly above, and the intensity of the wind increases; the car is less than a foot away from me. Since moving is impossible, I close my eyes, and wait for the pain—wait for my inevitable death.

  It never comes.

  The car horns blares, nearly blowing out my eardrums, and at the last possible second, a large gust of wind blows through the street, picking me up, and depositing me on the other side of the road. I put my arms out to try and stop the momentum, but I only manage to scratch my exposed skin.

  My body collides with the curb, successfully stopping the rolling. Turning onto my back, I try to catch my breath because the wind was knocked out of me during the fall. I can’t suppress the painful groan from escaping my lips as feeling returns to my body. Black spots start to dot my vision. Moaning, I attempt to roll over and sit up, but am overcome with dizziness. I hear the sound of a bell, a door open, and then footsteps running toward me. The car speeds past me while the driver yells all sorts of obscenities out the window.

  “Oh my goodness, dear. Are you hurt? I saw what happened, but couldn’t make it to you soo
n enough.”

  I look toward the sound of the voice, but can’t concentrate on who is speaking to me. The world is spinning, creating duplicates of everything. I feel the woman reach for my hand. Wrapping my arm around her neck, her other arm wraps around my waist, and she pulls me up. Leaning almost all of my weight on her, she walks me toward her store: the BlackMoon Bookstore.

  “Colton, go get me an icepack, and some Advil from the back,” she yells to someone once we step in the doorway.

  Muffled into the background, I hear a book being dropped, and the sound of footsteps receding. The woman guides me toward a nearby chair. Overcome with a headache, I lean my head forward and place it onto my knees. My long, dark, curly hair falls forward and creates a curtain around my face, encasing me in my own world. I take a deep breath, hoping that the pain will stop soon.

  After a couple of minutes, the room slowly stops spinning, and I am finally able to lift my head and look around. Large shelves of books, both old and new, clutter the small shop. I can tell by looking around that certain sections have more visitors than others. Some shelves have more dust lining their edges, while others are completely clean. The wallpaper is a deep shade of purple, fading with age, with small golden stars dispersed evenly on its surface. The back of the shop has large, leather-bound books behind a display case at the register.

  “Are you okay, honey? Where does it hurt?”

  Flinching at her loud tone, I start shaking my head and reply, “Ugh, my head.” It comes out as nothing more than a whisper. I can’t muster anything louder. Placing my head into my hands, I close my eyes, and block out my surroundings again. How the heck did I get across the street? I should be dead right now or, at least, on my way to the hospital. This doesn’t make sense.

  “I couldn't find an icepack, but here's the Advil. Is she hurt?” inquires a deep voice that I’m assuming belongs to Colton.