Veins of Fire (Outcasts, #1)

CHAPTER ONE // BIRTHDAY "PRESENTS"

CHAPTER ONE // BIRTHDAY "PRESENTS" 

THE SHRIEK THAT ESCAPES MY MOUTH DOESN'T SOUND HUMAN, but I can't contain my excitement as I free the gift from it's colorful box, tissue paper crunching and ripping as my hands tear through it.

"Dad, you didn't!" I exclaim, reaching for what's inside. My fingers greedily explore the fine black finish of the camera, tracing the gears of the adjustable lens right down to the mode dial. The travel strap is around my neck in seconds, and when I hold it as if ready to snap a picture, it just feels so right in my hands. It's everything I could have ever wanted and more, and my inner ten-year-old screeches as I realize those significant chunks of time I've been prone to forget for the past seven years may not be lost to me anymore. 

I gently sit the camera down on the table and throw my arms around Dad's neck, shouting, "Thank you, thank you, thank you!" He just laughs at me as I quickly tear myself away and start taking as many pictures as I can of anything and everything in our dimly lit apartment. The digital screen constantly blinks from the surrounding image to black as I snap one after the other, and the flawless representation of reality displayed when it blinks back into color makes me shriek again. "How did you get it?!" I turn to Dad, staring in question at my hulking giant of a father lounging in his seat. His massive arms are crossed over his chest and a proud yet mischievous smile that says he would reveal nothing lights up his face. "Come on! These things are worth a fortune!"

"All you need to know. . ." He begins, unfolding himself from his carefree position. Even though he's a big guy, he's surprisingly graceful: he steadies his hands on the arms of his chair and pushes up off it in one fluid motion, standing to his feet in front of me. I have to tilt my head back to look up at him, and as I do so I feel his hands encompass the crown of my head. ". . . is that I love you." He pulls me closer and plants a kiss on my forehead, and there's no place in the world that I'd rather spend the rest of my life. But because that isn't actually possible--both because it would be severely uncomfortable after about an hour, and because Dad will undoubtedly retreat to his workroom later, only to be seen for meals until our next move-- I snake my camera hand through the gap between Dad and I, snapping a picture of the moment before he can notice.

A second later, he pulls away, giving me a quick pat on the shoulder. "Now," he says, smile growing ever wider. "How would you like to go out for some ice cream?"

I'm ecstatic about how today has gone. Waking up to a birthday breakfast in bed; walking out into the apartment to see streamers hung recklessly from the exposed ceiling rafters and Mylar balloons floating about; receiving a new camera that I've been dying to have since I was ten; and now the offer to top it all off with ice cream. It was all so good that I had pinched my arm when Dad said he had a present for me, just to be sure I wasn't still tucked in bed, lost in some wonderful fantasy dreamland where Dad actually treats my birthday like a holiday and doesn't just hide away in his workroom after leaving a birthday card and a leftover piece of "Welcome New Neighbors!" dessert on the kitchen counter for me to find when I wake up. So I knew this wasn't a dream, but something just didn't feel right.

Already at the door, shoes on his feet and hand reaching for his keys, Dad turns back to make sure I'm following his lead. His wide smile twists into a frown when he sees I haven't moved a muscle. "Izzy Bug, what is it?"

I recoil, the childhood nickname--only ever used nowadays when Dad has royally screwed up and has to beg for forgiveness-- feeling like a slap to the face, and that's when I know I'm right. This is all a fantasy.

I can barely speak, my anger a clawed beast that has made its home in the back of my throat. I can feel the lick of its razor sharp nails against my tongue as I bite out, "We're moving again, aren't we?" I stare my father down, our matching blue-green eyes opposing armies on an emotional battlefield.