Page 1 of Heart of the Sun

prologue

Tuck

Now

Holy shit. What the hell is happening?

Cold sweat broke out across my back as the lights inside the small, chartered plane blinked off and the engine went quiet. I could hear the pilot, Russell, behind the curtain to the cockpit, speaking into the radio with what sounded like growing alarm. I rose from my seat and took a few unsteady steps to the cockpit doorway where I slid the curtain open to see Russell furiously pushing buttons and moving dials. I grabbed the wall to hold myself steady as the plane bumped and jerked, sudden flares of lightning pulsing through the darkened cabin.

“What’s going on?” I asked, voice as shaky as the rest of me.

“The engines and the navigation equipment went down,” Russell said. “Air traffic control cut out and I can’t get them back on the line.”

My heart dipped along with the plane, and I heard a small squeal of fear from behind me where Emily and Charlie were sitting. “Isn’t there a backup system?”

“That’s out too! Copy! Copy!” he called into his headpiece, but again there was no reply. “Shit.”

I ignored Emily’s quiet cries; there was nothing I could do. I had no idea what the hell was going on, and my own fear was mounting as the plane made another small drop. A bead of sweat rolled down the side of Russell’s cheek, punctuating the fact that he was panicked as well.

“Sit down and buckle up. I’ll use the manual controls,” he said, obviously trying to insert a note of confidence in his tone. “We can still glide, but I’ll need to get us down quickly. Brace for impact.”

My heart was racing as I turned back toward my seat. “What’s happening?” Emily asked, eyes wide with fear.

“Something knocked out the engine and navigation system and air traffic control isn’t answering,” I said, my eyes sweeping over her to verify she was buckled in. “He says to brace for impact.” I glanced out the window. The sky had dimmed, and I could see zigzags of lightning in the distance. An unexpected electric storm?

Emily looked straight ahead, grasping the armrests as the plane gave a groaning shiver.

I sat down and buckled myself in just as the plane dipped and then dipped again, my stomach rising and falling quickly as a small piece of luggage went flying past my face. Then the plane took on a bumpy flight pattern and strange milky clouds streaked past my window, splintered by a spidery bolt of white lightning right next to us.

I could hear the muted blast of the wind outside, highlighting the dead silence of the engine.

Brace for impact, the pilot had said. But I didn’t know how to do that other than sitting still and silent,terror pounding through my body.

We plunged yet again, the force jolting and lifting me and causing the seat belt to bite harshly into my hips. For a minute I was afraid the belt would break against the immense pressure. When I turned my eyes toward Emily, she was still gripping the armrests, her face ashen, eyes clenched tight. Next to her, Charlie had his eyes squeezed shut as well and looked to be hyperventilating. The plane began to shake, making a long, shrieking sound as though it was at risk of being torn apart by the rapid descent. My heart slammed, the hair rising on my nape and arms.

Just get us on the ground, Russell. Please get us on the ground.

We bumped and shook and for a moment, the sky went even darker, then seemed to split. The plane lowered again and this time didn’t straighten out for several long seconds. My breath lodged in my throat. The aircraft straightened, and as the nose rose, the sky parted once more, and I glimpsed the ground. It was red and fiery, smoke billowing everywhere. I swallowed heavily, the bony fingers of terror gripping my lungs.

I closed my eyes, focusing on my breath, conjuring the one place on earth that had always brought peace to my soul. I was a child again, the air tinged with the scent of orange blossoms. I lifted my face to feel the kiss of dry heat upon my skin and listened for the ringing echo of my mother’s laugh.

“Tuck.”Hervoice.Emily.Not who she’d later come to be, the woman she was now, but the girl she once was. The one I’d loved. “Tuck.” That whisper again, my name floating over her shoulder as she ran through the groves of my memory, dirty knees and tangled hair, her quickened breath interrupted by bursts of giggles, spirit as radiant as the California sunshine. Another dip, another swerve, my memories dissolving in the surge of adrenaline shooting through my veins.My eyes shot open, and I leaned forward, watching helplessly out the window as we descended straight into hell.

chapterone

Tuck

Eleven Years Ago

I hopped the split rail fence, jogging along the creek bed, bending quickly to cup my hands and bring a drink of fresh, clear water to my mouth. A lizard scooted from under a rock, both of us startling each other before he darted away. Upright again, I ran the path I’d used a thousand times, toward the old stable on the east end of our property. The sun was just beginning its descent, purple streaks bleeding slowly across the horizon. Behind me I heard the shouts and laughter of my friends—the children of the farmhands and a couple neighbor kids—goofing off among the citrus groves. Normally I’d be hanging out with them, especially on a summer night like tonight, but more and more recently, I’d craved the quiet of my own thoughts, the time to focus on my dreams.

I was only fourteen, but my grandfather had come from Mexico and settled in California when he was just about my age,and even then, began to map out and work toward his future, the results of which spread out all around me, from the logo emblazoned on the front gate, to the far pasture where our horses roamed.Honey Hill Farm.

The old stable, no longer in use anymore, except for storage—and a secret space I’d claimed as my own—came into view and I raced toward it. A slight breeze rustled the leaves surrounding the structure, and I pulled the side door open just enough to squeeze through into the dim interior. It smelled like motor oil, dirt, and old wood, and though the mingling scents couldn’t necessarily be described as pleasant, they comforted me in some odd way. They spoke of peace, of found solitude, of safety even. This was my hideaway, a place of secret thoughts and dreams that felt as never-ending as the sky, and as bright and sweet as those oranges dripping like jewels from the trees.

There was something different—though temporary—occupying the space, however, and I thinned my lips as my gaze caught on the shiny convertible decked out in American flags and “Phil Swanson for City Council” campaign signs. The restored 1957 Ford Thunderbird was undeniably cool, the pride and joy of the owner of the orange grove neighboring ours, but I’d be glad when Mr. Swanson had backed it out of here, and this all-but-forgotten space once again belonged to me and me alone. That would be this weekend, right before the annual Labor Day parade, where Mr. Swanson planned to drive the car for his campaign. It was only being stored here because he’d washed and waxed it and didn’t have a space to house it as his own garage was undergoing some sort of expansion.

I looked away from the shiny red interloper and headed for the ladder that took me to the loft area. As my head cleared the high-up floor, my eyes widened, shock halting my movement, one leg raised to step to the next rung.

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