Jump Zone: Cleo Falls Read online

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Acknowledgments

  About Wylie Snow

  Other books by Wylie Snow

  Jump Zone: Libra Rising

  Prologue

  Jump Zone: Cleo Falls

  Copyright © 2013 by Wylie Snow. All rights reserved.

  First Kindle Edition: 2013

  Published by PG Watkinson

  Jump Zone: Cleo Falls © 2013 by PG Watkinson

  All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

  Editor: Megan Records http://www.meganrecords.com/

  Proofreader: Susan Helene Gottfried

  http://westofmars.com/susans-editing-services/

  Cover and Formatting: Streetlight Graphics

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication

  To Simon, James, and Spencer, who encourage, nurture, and tolerate my creative ups and downs with unfailing support. And to my mom, for giving me Everything.

  Dear Readers:

  As a special thank you, my creative team has designed a Jump Zone game for your iPod, iPhone or iPad. Please visit my website www.wyliesnow.com for instructions on how to download this complimentary app.

  Available from September 9, 2013 for a limited time.

  Prologue

  Taiga Forest

  I’d always presumed the moments before death would be fuzzy and warm.

  They’re not. Death is painful. And cold.

  Death is terrifying.

  For me, there are no sepia vignettes of my childhood, no sign of my mother’s smiling face to usher me into a blissful afterlife, open armed. There’s nothing to distract me from the fright that slams me every time my mouth fills, every time my head slips under.

  No matter how hard I kick or thrash, the current is merciless, dragging me downriver, closer to the edge, closer to the—

  I can’t even think the word.

  I claw for the surface, flailing desperately for something to grab onto. But there’s nothing. Not a rock, not a log, not even a stray root. Even if by some miracle I don’t drown, there is nothing to save me from the fall.

  Seventy feet, straight down.

  And the rocks at the bottom… I’ll be smashed.

  My chest burns so bad, I want to scream from it. Can’t, don’t dare. I bite down on the inside of my lips to seal them from another mouthful of icy water and taste the copper of my blood. I will my legs to get me to the surface for another breath, but I’m tumbling through the blackness, not sure which way is up.

  The rapids twist and toss me, pull me fast and hard as if they’re doing me a favor in getting me to the edge quickly. It’ll be over soon. Yet every agonizing second feels never-ending.

  The more my muscles ache from cold, the heavier my limbs become, the slower time goes. Death is a cruel bitch.

  My lungs are on fire. And no matter that my eyeballs feel like they’ve been dunked in acid, panic won’t let me close them.

  There’s a legend amongst my people of a Ghost Warrior, a survivalist from Old Canada who lost his life in the Polar Wars. They say he guides folks home in their time of need, gives them a second chance. Where is this phantom rescuer for me? Am I not worthy?

  I already know the answer…

  The pressure in my chest begins to crack me open. I acknowledge my fate, look it in the eye, welcome it. The thought frees me. The simple act of mental acquiescence releases my fear, replaces it with regret. And anger. I’ll never get a chance to make amends to my tribe, to Jaegar or my father, never feel the love I’ve tried so hard, so damned hard, to earn.

  Anger fuels my strength, gives me a final burst of energy. My anaesthetized legs push off of something solid. My head breaches the surface.

  I scream in Death’s face.

  Then water fills me, douses my fire. I am numb, unable to feel my extremities, unable to feel anything. Like a piece of flotsam, the current tosses me over the precipice toward the jagged rocks below. My world goes dark.

  One

  “Easy now, darlin’. Get it all out. Breathe for me now.”

  His voice came at her through a long black tunnel. Cleo ignored it at first, but it grew louder and more persistent. She couldn’t connect where she was, or who kept insisting she breathe. Before she could get a grasp on her senses, her stomach muscles twisted, convulsed as river water filled her throat and exploded out her mouth. She could vaguely taste the tang of her last meal; a strip of jerky and a couple of handfuls of trail mix, eaten in haste.

  Images flooded her mind—the flash in the sky, the kayak, the rocks. Her head spun like the vortex she’d been trapped in. She needed to breathe, needed to—

  Gripped by another spasm, she opened her mouth to scream from the agony ripping up her insides but all that came out was another mouthful of river.

  There was a spot of warmth on her back, the hand of whoever was keeping her propped on her side so she wouldn’t drown in her own sickness.

  So, not dead.

  Or alone.

  The Ghost Warrior must have come. She’d always been skeptical of the legend, but who else could have possibly brought her back from the journey into dark?

  “That’s it. Let it all go.”

  Retching, loud and vulgar in her throbbing head, masked the words of the rumbling, reassuring voice behind her. There couldn’t possibly be anything left in her, yet her body still heaved, still gagged until every ounce of strength was spent. Exhaustion made it impossible to keep her cheek off the ground.

  Blackness beckoned her to come back to the place where she wouldn’t have to fight, wouldn’t feel the pain or cold, but Cleo refused to succumb. She clung to this discomfort, to life, and struggled to shake off the disorientation. She prised open her burning eyes and through milky vision saw a shimmer of light reflected in the shiny pool of her own vomit.

  Lovely, she thought as her eyes drifted closed again, I survived, but my dignity didn’t. She groaned and tried to roll away from the mess, but the movement triggered more retching.

  “You’re going to be fine. I got you. Just concentrate on breathing,” the voice rea
ssured calmly while she ejected more from her stomach. “Quite a bath you took there, darlin’.”

  As her wits returned, she began to tremble, gasping for precious air, afraid to let her lungs go empty.

  He draped something over her, something heavy and warm, but her wet leather clothing held the chill and she couldn’t stop violently shaking.

  “You’re going into shock,” he said, bundling her tighter. “Try to slow your breathing down. Don’t want you to hyperventilate on me. In and out, nice and slow, on my count.”

  Cleo closed her eyes and focused on the Ghost Warrior’s voice, concentrating on his instructions. She tried to inhale deep and slow, tried to savor the feeling of each inhalation, but she gulped greedily and let it out with fearful reserve.

  Tingles, sharp and searing, spread through her limbs as her core warmed. The discomfort shoved away the fog and confusion from her mind. The details of the accident buzzed behind her eyes, but Cleo swept them away like an annoying horsefly. She couldn’t go there. Not now. It was more important to focus on surviving.

  Ghost Warrior talked her through the worst, all the while rubbing her back. He counted slowly as she breathed, in and out, in and out, until her panicked gasps calmed.

  It was working, whatever he was doing. She was glad the legend was true. The Ghost Warrior, born of the Taiga, the northern wilds, protected his people.

  He smoothed the clinging tendrils of her hair from her neck and cheek with a gentle touch, his silk-smooth fingertips gliding across against her forehead. Softly…so softly.

  Too soft.

  People of the Taiga did not have soft hands. So who was stroking her hair? Not a triber. Definitely not a warrior, even a ghostly one.

  Don’t trust outsiders.

  Instinct kicked in. Cleo rolled away from the gentle touch as fast as her protesting limbs would allow. She grasped for the knife at her thigh, only to find an empty sheath, then felt for the weapons harness that normally crisscrossed her torso. Gone.

  Her muscles protested as she jumped to her feet in a graceless, jerky motion and assumed a stiff version of attack stance. Hot pokers stabbed through her right leg as she fought to keep her footing. Her body swayed as her brain struggled to maintain equilibrium. The last thing she needed was to faint.

  “Whoa, whoa.” The stranger got up slowly, palms outstretched like he was talking to a spooked horse.

  Soft hands. Not one of us. Even the tribe medics and scholars chop their own wood. The youngest children develop calluses from working fields and learning to handle a bow.

  Never trust outsiders.

  He was backlit by a potassium nanowire lantern that threw his face into shadow and blinded her with its glare. Cleo tried to peer into the darkness behind him, around him, and as far as her peripheral would allow without letting him out of her sight, trying to ascertain if this outsider was alone.

  From his silhouette, she could see he was a much larger man than she wanted to face while unarmed and half stunned.

  He moved toward her. Cleo stepped back, ignoring the pain shooting through her lower leg, worse now that the ice in her blood had thawed. Her shin was on fire, but she couldn’t take her eyes off the outsider.

  “Take it easy, darlin’, before you hurt yourself,” he said, his voice even. He inched toward her, hands open, fingers spread.

  He was taller than her father, but not as broad. She might be able to take him…if only the damn world would stop swaying.

  “G-get back,” she warned, but her throat burned and her croaky voice sounded more squeaky than fierce. She was in position, ready to execute a roundhouse kick to his side, but her leg wouldn’t bend, wouldn’t move. And then there were two of him, rushing at her. She shook her head to clear the spinning black discs that danced through her vision, but the movement made them grow bigger until they swallowed her.

  For the second time that night, Cleo’s world went black.

  Two

  Loath to leave the haven of sleep, Cleo squeezed her lids tight against the penetrating light. But consciousness took hold, bringing with it a mother of a headache and an underlying sense of urgency that made her blood surge.

  Jaegar! It was crucial she get to him before the recruiters washed the Taiga ways out of him. She drove him away and now had to bring him home, restore him to his rightful place.

  Memories of the previous night tumbled forward with the velocity of the waterfall—the cold, the pain, the helplessness…the retching.

  Then the voice, the big guy with the gentle touch. The Ghost Warrior.

  No such thing as the Ghost Warrior.

  Instinct again took over and snapped her into high alert. Her muscles contracted, ready for action, ready to defend, to fight, to survive. But she couldn’t move her arms. Something tight constricted her wrists.

  She’d been bound, tied up like an animal.

  She flexed her ankles, relieved to find them untied. She fought the urge to jump up, run away from whatever was making her heart pound so hard. No, that wouldn’t be wise, and she was supposed to be wise—the elder council deemed it so. Freaking out would not help. She would remain calm, determine her surroundings, and then decide on a course of action. She squeezed her lids closed and focused her acutely trained senses.

  The muffled sound of water hammering rock told her that she’d been moved away from the falls, but not too far. She could tell without opening her eyes that the sun had barely breached the horizon. The sounds of dawn in the forest were unmistakable: birds singing their morning songs, animals scurrying through the underbrush looking for a breakfast of insects, the rustle of leaves as the dew evaporated.

  She smelled the pungent scent of a fire made with green, damp wood.

  Novice.

  She smelled him—woodsy, masculine, and not entirely unpleasant. No sour stink of fear. And he was so close, she could hear shallow breathing. A sign her companion maintained a calm state or, better, still slept.

  Whatever she lay upon enveloped her like a warm bath. She couldn’t feel the morning breeze on her body, so she assumed she was covered. Using as slight movement as possible, she wiggled her finger and felt a practically weightless cover, so unlike the heavy pelts and woollen blankets she snuggled beneath at home.

  So her captor had bound her but seemed concerned with her comfort.

  Don’t trust outsiders.

  Cleo cautiously tensed and released each muscle, but it took everything in her not to wince. She ached everywhere. It even hurt to breathe. The bottom half of her right leg throbbed in a rhythm out of sync with the pounding in her head. She didn’t think it broken, but the bone along the front of her shin felt hot and tight—swollen, for sure. Hopefully not infected.

  Every inhalation, even the shallowest, made her abdominal muscles hurt, likely the result of throwing up half a glacier. And her right butt cheek stung as if she sat on a pine needle. Damn, there was likely one stuck in her pants. Then something struck her like a low-hanging branch. She wasn’t wearing pants. Her calves and thighs rubbed together, skin on skin, and her arms were crossed and tied over a bare midriff.

  For the love of ducks, she’d been stripped naked! He must have taken her clothes off after she passed out.

  Bastard. Sick, perverted dirty outsider.

  The rational half of her brain yelled, “Hold up, he needed to get you warm,” but the indignant she-warrior in her busted with anger and humiliation. It took a great deal of forbearance to keep her facial expressions in check.

  She was sore and knew it would be a bitch of a morning if she had to fight, naked, but at least there was no serious damage to her body. Her forehead felt tight and her cheekbone hurt just above her scar, but she didn’t need her face to take her captor down. Clothes would be nice. It would be embarrassing to fight naked, but she would if she had to
.

  The bound wrists were a problem.

  “Hey,” he whispered, his voice thick with morning rasp. “You awake?”

  Cleo mustered the most menacing look possible before turning in his direction and opening her eyes. He sat on a log not three feet away, eyeing her intently. The dark shadowy figure from the previous night was completely opposite by the light of day, a fact that scrambled her throbbing, angry head even further. The soft dawn light fell across hair the color of golden wheat, thick and entirely uncontrollable.

  His eyes—it must have been a trick of the forest, because she’d never seen anyone with eyes like that—pale silvery blue, rimmed with sapphire. More wolf than human.

  Don’t trust outsiders.

  “Why am I naked?” She tried to sound fierce, like a kick-ass warrior should, but she had her own case of morning voice that cracked on the one word she was trying to emphasize, making her sound vulnerable and, well, naked. She cleared her throat. “Where. Are. My. Clothes?”

  “And a good morning to you, sunshine.”

  She squinted, unamused, to show she meant business.

  “And the lady has some spark!” He grinned, showing off a row of straight white teeth, another sign he didn’t belong in the Taiga.

  He scrutinized her, his eyes unnerving as they traveled over her face, but she couldn’t look away. He caught her stare head on and held it until the heat in her cheeks made her look away.

  “Glad to see you got your color back. That shade of dead-blue didn’t suit you, darlin’.”

  Despite her attempts to look threatening, he remained in good humor.

  Don’t trust outsiders! Outsiders bring evil and death and destroy families.

  Feeling a surge of alarm, Cleo tugged and twisted her wrists, but the cord wouldn’t give. As the panic built, tears formed in the corners of her eyes. Cleo grit her teeth and swallowed. She couldn’t, wouldn’t let him see her cry. Warriors, even third-class ones, did not crumble into emotional heaps.