Page 1 of Broken Destiny

Chapter One

Zosia

It isn’t the bell that summons me. It’s Kodi. He drifts into the room just as I’m getting to the good part in my book. He always seems to know the exact time to infuriate me by interrupting my reading. “Someone’s coming, Zo. Recruiters.”

The watered-down book about the duke and his attempts to woo the impoverished, desperate heroine automatically disappears from my mind. “Human or otherwise?” I ask carefully, examining Kodi’s form as he hovers above my bed. My room is barely larger than a closet. It’s a good thing he doesn’t have a body or he might not fit.

At that moment, the bell rings, echoing shrilly in my ears. “Otherwise,” Kodi whispers, echoing my fears.

I consider just staying in my room. If it were humans, I would have. No one ever picks me. I’m too old, too broken, and too sinful - or so the reverend mother tells me before she doles out my punishment. But supernaturals? Every so often, they come here to check us out. I should have known they would return. Magic manifests at different ages, and they want to be certain their kind isn’t rotting within the human system.

Not that they should care about me. If I had any magic of consequence, I’d fix my legs. I know I’m not fully human, though. There are too many things that happen to me that I can’t explain, and the memories about how my legs got so messed up bubble with magic. To the magical or human world, I’m still disposable. The magicals might accept me, but I have no guarantee there won’t be horrible reasons behind their motives. Past experience and a decade of hiding urge me to run, but of course I can’t.

Sharing a resigned look with my only friend, I cuff the special braces that help me walk onto my forearms and stomp into the foyer. Thankfully, I received a room on the first floor, even if it is a closet. Mother Mary grumbled about that but couldn’t come up with a good reason for social services why I kept falling down the stairs. They were a bitch to navigate with my crutches, especially when the young kids raced by me and tripped me just for fun.

I’m a foot taller than every other child waiting in the row. Most of them have their nicest clothes on and fresh faces, meaning they were actually forewarned. Not like I care. I’m relatively happy here. I do my chores, I read every book I can get my hands on, and I disappear from the world for as long as I can get away with.

The Reverend Mother Mary walks along the line, her stern face set in permanent lines that portray her disgust with every single thing and person on the earthly plane. Those lines only deepen when her eyes alight on me. I know what she sees - an urchin who is far too old for her home, with a surly face and crooked legs. I know she doesn’t want me here, and I know for a fact that she performs selections without telling me. The people arriving must have directed Mary to ensure every single child in the orphanage was gathered, or the bells wouldn’t have rung and I wouldn’t have had to abandon my book. I’d prefer reading about the duke’s seduction of the clueless debutante to being here. Even a crappy romance novel is better than real life, especially if supernaturals are involved.

When the front doorbell rings, a shiver trails down my spine and I consider running back to my hole. Ever since the supernaturals came out to the humans, they’ve displayed how infiltrated they are in society, making any sort of retaliation by the humans impossible. Some cults still try, saying they’re not pure creatures of God. Their God, of course. I roll my eyes at the rough, planked floor.

When the figures sweep into the dreary house like they own it, their robes shimmer, and many of the kids ooh and ahh as if we’re at a circus. I resist the urge to roll my eyes again. It’s just fancy tricks. The cloth is designed to refract light. I can’t deny the three figures cut an impressive image, though. They’re all beautiful: the first older than dirt but elegantly refined, the woman could give every actress on television a run for her money with how curvaceously and ethereally gorgeous she is, and the third is a dignified man with a blank face. My hands tighten around my crutches. Despite their pretty faces, these three individuals are predators and hunters.

I hunch over my braces, exaggerating the way my legs bow together, and a sweep of hair falls in front of my face. I haven’t washed it in days just because I’ve been busy reading, so it works in my favor to make me look more undesirable. I’m not anti-magic like those cults that try to kill off the newly-outed supernatural community, but I don’t want to be noticed by them either. If they do know about me, if they know what I am, will they continue whatever that monster started when I was just a child?

I’m worried some of the more dreadful rumors are true; it’s the downside of my overactive imagination. What if they actually take crippled humans and grind their bones down for potions? My legs are mostly useless anyway, so it wouldn’t be murder, which is against the peace treaty. Shivers trails along my spine again as the distinguished gentleman’s eyes travel down the line of eager kids. They talk about it all the time, about being chosen by the magical community, or the OSC - Organization of Supernatural Creatures. Of course it’s every unwanted child’s dream: to be more than an inferior, unwelcomed human.

The ancient man trails his eyes along almost lazily, stopping on Benny. The little monster is only seven, but even I can feel the spark of magic in him that will manifest someday. Those huge, round eyes spark with something wild every time he loses his temper; it’s a dead giveaway.

The old man gestures to the woman. She stoops in front of Benny with a little cooing noise that makes me want to throw up in my mouth. My neck tingles again, and I raise my head from the gorgeous woman to see the distinguished guy staring at me. I’m tempted to look behind me to see if there’s anything there that catches his attention, but I know I’m the last in line. Dread worms through me. He’s a good-looking man, especially with those slate-gray eyes focused directly on me, but I can’t muster any appreciation. With the way supernaturals age, he’s probably centuries older than me.

“This one,” the woman says. Her voice is like tinkling bells, so cliché I have to hold back a snort before it gives me away. “What’s your name, child, and how old are you?”

“Benny, ma’am. I’m seven.” He smiles, revealing canines that are sharper than a human’s. The humans can’t see them, because no one else shies away from them like I do. They all think he’s a cute little button of a kid until he loses his temper and shoves his tiny fist through a brick wall. Then, they forget that he even did it an hour later. He and I share an uneasy truce because he knows I can tell what he is. He avoids me and I avoid him. I don’t need to trip headfirst down the stairs. My neck wouldn’t survive.

“Of course you are,” the woman coos. “Would you like to come with us today?” At this, I do snort. Benny doesn’t really have a choice, but she makes it sound like he does. A few of the kids grumble, irritated they’re not chosen. But they don’t even have a chance. They’re humans.

The old man’s eyes finally find me and narrow suspiciously. I carefully drop my head, borrowing the picture of submission even though my nerves are ringing with anxiety. I have a good thing here. I can be lazy, do nothing but read, and avoid humanity, which basically sucks. The occasional punishments are easy enough to get through if I have a book waiting for me at the end of the day.

“Yes, ma’am,” the sweet little monster says. He shoots me a look from the corner of his eye, almost smirking, and I roll my eyes at him. His mouth tightens, but he looks away before he can react. He wouldn’t want to ruin his chances.

The warning tingles intensify. I glance under my fall of hair to see not one, but two, sets of shiny shoes standing close in front of me. Those shoes look more expensive than every single object in my closet room, perhaps more valuable than anything I’ve ever seen. I keep my head bowed.

“And who are you?” The soothing voice is like velvet. I clasp my hands around my braces until I can feel the metal biting into my hands. I’ve already caught their attention because I can’t keep my stupid reactions to myself, so I might as well lose their interest. I look up, narrowing my eyes into a scowl. The older man I almost dismiss. He’s only slightly interested, more curious than anything else.

“What do you have there?” the woman asks as if I’m some trinket the man is looking to buy. He stoops to see my face. His eyes are like a banked fire, a charcoal gray with flashes of brown that come and go so quickly I wonder if I imagine it. His face is a chiseled masterpiece. Do supernaturals have magical plastic surgery?

The younger man doesn’t answer the woman, but there’s expectancy in his gaze. Something tells me he expected me, and that scares me even though he gives off an almost comforting vibe. “What’s your name? Age?” he asks me, not unkindly. I consider not answering, but I pick my battles. Those facts could be easily found.

“Zo,” I answer, making sure to inject hostility and indifference into my tone. “I’m eighteen.” Actually nineteen, but the orphanage thinks I’m a year younger. I admit to fudging my age to milk my stay as long as possible.

The woman has joined the man. She studies me with a sniff, her elegant face portraying expressions I’m so familiar with, I see them in my dreams. Disgust, dismissiveness, indifference. The shape of my body is the sum of all that she sees. She glances at the other man. “Ansel, honestly? I see nothing in this…human?” She says the last word almost like a question, and it offers me no clues on my humanity or lack thereof.

The younger supernatural, Ansel, straightens to his full height and rubs an elegant hand along his jaw. A ring on his middle finger flashes in the light. The ring’s symbol makes every muscle in my body stiffen. I’ve seen it before. Fear trickles through me, almost foreign. I don’t usually feel it. I’ve erased threats from my life despite my more vulnerable body, or maybe because of it. An ache spreads through my legs, sparking along damaged nerve pathways.

“I think she would be perfect for an academy position, actually,” Ansel says evenly. His bland tone seems to suggest he’s no longer interested, but I can still see the curiosity sparking in the back of his eyes. My heart speeds up. Whatever this academy is, I want no part in it.

The woman, however, assesses me in a new light. “Really? Is she intelligent?” She directs the question to Mother Mary and my caretaker opens her mouth to lie. I can see it sitting on the back of her tongue, ready to be revealed, but the young man answers before she can.

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