Birthright

CHAPTER SEVEN

"What?" Kray asked in a low voice. He hadn't heard the old man right. There was no way he could have heard what he thought he just did.

Mrs. Morrison touched his arm. "I know this is hard to believe, my child. But it is true."

"The sickness you mentioned is nothing more than the symptoms that precede the onset of the Kindling process," Mr. Morrison said. "Headaches, sensitivity to light or sound, tiredness, nausea, and most importantly, a rash that appears on the arms and legs. But these are only the early symptoms. The Sen inside of you will develop at an incredible rate for a period of one week. Your body's adjustment to it will be extremely unpleasant. We can help you learn to control the pain and—"

"Stop it." Kray stood abruptly. He wiped his palm on his trouser leg in an attempt to remove the glow. What had seemed like comforting warmth now felt like a terrifyingly unyielding and foreign sensation wrapped around his hand. "You did this to me. Remove it."

"Kray, don't be afraid."

"Teanh, let me speak to him," Mr. Morrison interrupted, bushy eyebrows pulled down into a stern look. "Your hand became like this because your Sen reacted to mine. That's why you feel energized. The golden light will disappear soon, but I can teach you to control such things after you Kindle. In the meantime, there are people that I want to get you in contact with—people who will teach you about being a Sanser. You will need to stay here until you have recovered completely."

Kray's panic escalated at the word Sanser. They were crazy. He wasn't—couldn't—be one of them. "I don't believe you," he snapped, backing toward the door, trying to escape the madman and his terrifying words. "Stay away from me. You're trying to trick me."

"Kray!"

Mr. Morrison moved so fast that Kray barely reached for the doorknob before his arm was pulled away. Fear clutched his chest and he flinched when the man spun him around, forcing him to look into his dark, angry eyes.

Kray expected anger, but Mr. Morrison's voice was calm. "Do you think that growing up as the son of criminals is a hard life? That's nothing compared to what will happen to you if the Metas get their hands on you. If you choose to walk away and never return, you will be in grave danger. They will take you away and harvest you, putting you at great risk. You might even die." A haunted look filled his eyes. "Just like Tera."

He stopped speaking, allowing Kray a moment to reflect on his words. Harvest? What'd he mean by that? And why would his life be at risk?

"One week," the old man continued. "One week is all the time you have from the moment your symptoms first begin. That week has already passed if you're now experiencing the migraines. If you choose to leave now and don't return very soon, the natives will quickly realize what is happening to you. Be back here before then, or it will be too late for you. And whatever you do, do not mention this to anyone, not even to Alexandra. She might be your friend, but her loyalties are to the ANEF. Now go."

Kray stumbled out of the house, his feet clumsy and his eyes unseeing. He buried his hand deep in his pocket, afraid Alex would see it and run screaming in fear—or more likely, put him down like a wild Sanser. Part of him refused to accept Mr. Morrison's words as anything more than the ravings of an old, senile man.

But why would he create such an elaborate lie? It didn't seem likely that he was lying, but the alternative was to believe him.

Alex stood up and stuck her handheld back in her pocket, frowning at him. "What's wrong? You look weird."

Weird. Kray gave in to the urge to laugh. Her eyebrows drew together even further. "What's up with you? Did you find out why you were ill?"

"It's nothing serious. Just a cold or something. Let's get out of here." He walked past her down the uneven path, his steps hurried as he tried to put distance between himself and the old man's house. His body was trembling. "It's gotten cold all of a sudden—wish I'd worn a sweater."