"Get out!" Enoch roared. He grabbed Clare by the collar of her shirt and dragged her up the wooden stairs.

His hands were shaking. He didn't know why he was so terrified of a toddler, but the golden flash in her eyes made his stomach churn with nausea. He needed to be outside. He needed his family around him to prove he was still in charge.

He shoved Clare out the back door.

She stumbled onto the muddy ground of the compound yard. Cold, heavy raindrops immediately began to hit her face and arms. She pushed herself up onto her hands and knees. The mud squished between her fingers.

Kayleigh Pruitt walked out onto the porch. She held a steaming mug of coffee in both hands. A nasty smirk twisted her lips.

"Look at the little rat," Kayleigh sneered. She walked down the steps, her heavy boots sinking into the mud.

She stepped close to Clare, looming over her. "Stay in the dirt where you belong."

Clare steadied herself and rose to her knees. The physical discomfort was there, but it felt distant now.

Several other members of the survivalist community stood on their porches. They watched with blank, uncaring faces. No one moved to help.

Enoch marched down the steps. He wanted to erase the fear he felt in the basement. He picked up a thick, wooden branch from the firewood pile.

"I'll teach you to look at me like that," Enoch spat.

Clare looked up at the gray sky. The memory of her past life flashed behind her eyes again. She remembered dying alone. She would not let that happen again.

Her jaw clenched tight. Her fingernails dug deep into the muddy earth.

A hot, vibrating pressure built up behind her sternum. It matched the rhythm of the falling rain. As her anger spiked, the rain turned into a violent downpour.

The wind howled. It ripped across the yard, tearing the coffee mug right out of Kayleigh's hands. The ceramic shattered against a rock. Kayleigh stumbled backward with a shriek.

Enoch ignored the wind. He raised the wooden branch high above his head with both hands.

Clare tilted her head up. The golden light flared bright in her irises. She focused all the heat in her chest toward the storm above.

A deafening crack split the sky.

The black clouds above them spun into a tight, unnatural spiral.

A jagged bolt of purple lightning tore down from the clouds. It struck the tip of the wooden branch in Enoch's hands.

The wood shattered and flew from his grip in an explosion of splinters.

The electrical force threw Enoch off his feet. He landed hard in the mud. He lay there, dazed and trembling, staring at the sky with wide, terrified eyes. His hands shook uncontrollably. The smell of ozone and scorched wood filled the damp air.

Kayleigh screamed and scrambled backward, falling into the mud in her panic.

The community members on the porches gasped. Some crossed themselves. They backed away into their houses, their faces pale with terror.

Clare sat up slowly. The rain plastered her dark hair to her cheeks. She looked at Enoch's shaking form. Her breathing was perfectly steady. She felt the power receding back into her chest, leaving a satisfying warmth behind.

"Witch!" Kayleigh pointed a trembling finger at Clare. Her voice cracked. "Demon!"

Clare stood up. The mud dripped from her clothes. She took one slow, deliberate step toward Kayleigh.

Kayleigh scrambled backward on her hands and feet, sobbing in pure panic.

Control it, The Chronicler's voice echoed in Clare's mind. Do not expose yourself completely.

Clare stopped. She took a deep breath. She forced the golden light to fade from her eyes. She slumped her shoulders, instantly transforming back into a small, frightened girl.

Enoch rolled onto his side in the mud, gasping. He didn't dare look at Clare.

Far away, over the sound of the pouring rain, the low, heavy rumble of large engines echoed down the mountain road. Black SUVs were tearing through the mud, heading straight for the compound.

Kayleigh lunged forward. She grabbed Clare by the arm, her grip rough and panicked.

"Get in there!" Kayleigh screamed, her voice shrill.

She shoved Clare into the small, wooden woodshed behind the main house and slammed the heavy door. The metal lock clicked into place.

The shed was pitch black. The air smelled of rotting wood and gasoline. The only light came from a tiny crack under the door.

Clare stumbled and fell onto a pile of dry hay. She sat up and leaned her back against the rough wooden wall. Her chest heaved as she tried to calm her racing heart. Using the power had drained her energy.

A soft, blue light began to fill the small space.

The Chronicler materialized in front of her. His glowing form cast long shadows against the walls.

"Did I do that?" Clare asked. Her voice was a dry whisper.

"You did," The Chronicler said calmly. "Your emotions are the trigger. You must learn to leash them."

He crouched down to her eye level. "There is something else you must know, Clare. You were not abandoned by your parents. You were stolen."

Clare's breath caught in her throat. Her eyes widened. The heavy knot of rejection that she had carried through her entire past life suddenly unraveled.

The Chronicler raised his hand. A holographic image projected into the air between them.

It showed a massive, luxurious living room. Silas Barrett stood by a window, his face pale and exhausted. Genevieve Barrett sat on a sofa, clutching a small, pink stuffed bunny to her chest. Tears streamed down her face.

"They have never stopped looking for you," The Chronicler said softly.

Clare's lower lip trembled. A hot tear slipped down her dirty cheek. Her chest ached with a sudden, desperate need to be held by that woman.

"We must bring them here," The Chronicler said. "If you stay in this timeline without them, the universe will correct itself. You will die again."

"How?" Clare asked, wiping her nose with the back of her hand.

The Chronicler pulled a small, sleek device from his pocket. It glowed with a pulsing blue light. He pressed a few buttons.

Hundreds of miles away, in the Barrett estate, Silas Barrett sat in his dark home office. He was staring at a glass of whiskey. His private satellite phone, a line known only to five people in the world, began to ring.

Silas frowned. He picked it up and pressed it to his ear. "Barrett."

"I have coordinates," a distorted, electronic voice said.

Silas sat up straight. His jaw tightened instantly. "Who is this?"

The voice read out a precise string of GPS coordinates. Then, it added, "Your daughter is still breathing. But she won't be for long."

The line went dead.

Silas's hand shook so violently he dropped the phone onto the mahogany desk. He leaped out of his chair. He sprinted down the hallway and burst into the master bedroom.

Genevieve was sitting on the edge of the bed, holding a framed photo of baby Clare.

"Get up," Silas said, his voice thick with raw emotion. He showed her the coordinates written on a notepad. "They found her."

Genevieve dropped the photo. It shattered on the floor. She stood up, her eyes blazing with a mix of wild hope and absolute determination.

Silas tapped the earpiece he always wore. "Alpha Team, mobilize the convoy. We have a target."

Back in the woodshed, The Chronicler put the device away.

"They are coming," he told Clare. "But you must survive until dawn. Do not let the Pruitts push you into a corner."

Clare nodded. She wiped her face and set her jaw.

Heavy footsteps stomped through the mud outside. Gus Pruitt, Enoch's teenage grandson, kicked the wooden door of the shed.

"You're in trouble tomorrow, freak!" Gus yelled through the wood.

The Chronicler's form began to fade into the darkness. "The darkest hour is just before the dawn," he whispered.

Clare sat in the dark. She reached into the dirt and found a long, rusted iron nail. She gripped it tightly in her small fist. She closed her eyes and waited.

The morning sun broke through the gray clouds, casting long shadows across the muddy yard.

Enoch walked out onto the back porch. He glared at Clare, who was standing by the chopping block. He wanted to punish her, but the memory of last night's storm — the purple lightning, his own hands shaking beyond his control — made him hesitate. He spat on the wooden floorboards and went back inside.

Clare picked up the heavy iron axe. It was almost as tall as she was. She focused her mind, letting a tiny fraction of the golden energy flow into her arms. The heavy metal suddenly felt as light as a twig. She swung it down, splitting the thick log perfectly in half.

Tabitha Pruitt walked out the back door. She carried a tin plate. She tossed it onto the dirt near Clare's feet.

On the plate sat a single slice of stale, hardened bread.

Clare looked at the bread. Her stomach growled loudly, but she didn't touch it. She kicked the plate away.

"Ungrateful," Tabitha muttered, turning away.

Gus Pruitt swaggered out from behind the barn. Two other teenage boys followed him. Gus held a wooden slingshot in his hand.

He pulled a sharp stone from his pocket and loaded it. He pulled the rubber band back and aimed at Clare.

The stone grazed Clare's temple. She flinched. A thin line of red marked her brow.

The boys laughed loudly.

Clare didn't cry out. She dropped the axe. She turned and locked her eyes directly onto Gus.

Gus's laughter died in his throat. He took a step back, suddenly feeling very cold. But his friends were watching. He couldn't look weak.

"What are you looking at, freak?" Gus yelled. He stomped forward, shoving his hands out to push her.

Clare didn't move her body. She moved her mind.

She visualized the space right in front of Gus's boots. She imagined a solid, invisible wall.

Gus's boot struck the invisible barrier. His balance lurched. He pitched forward, his arms flailing in the air.

He went down hard in the dirt, gasping. He pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, dazed and furious.

His friends went very still.

Gus turned on Clare, trembling with rage. He charged at her, screaming.

Clare stood her ground. She focused her energy into a tight, heavy ball inside her head. When Gus was three feet away, she released it.

She pressed the invisible weight against Gus's senses.

Gus stopped dead in his tracks. He let out a strangled sound of pure terror. He dropped to his knees and clutched his head. His vision blurred. He saw only shadows pressing in from every direction, vast and suffocating.

"Stop," Gus gasped. "Make it stop." He collapsed forward into the dirt, shaking.

Tabitha heard the screaming and ran out of the house. She saw her grandson on the ground.

"Gus!" she shrieked.

Clare instantly pulled the pressure back. She lowered her head and made herself look small and frightened.

Tabitha spun around. Her eyes were wild. "What did you do to him?!"

She rushed at Clare —

Clare simply stepped to the left. Tabitha's heavy body flew past her. Tabitha tripped over the chopping block and fell into the mud.

The screen door banged open. Enoch stood there. He held a shotgun. He pumped the action, aiming it in Clare's direction.

Clare looked at him. Her heartbeat remained perfectly steady. She stared into Enoch's eyes.

Enoch's hands began to shake. He remembered the purple lightning. He remembered how powerless he had felt. His finger hovered near the trigger, but he couldn't make himself pull it. His breathing grew ragged.

Tabitha sat up in the mud. "Do something, Enoch!"

Enoch slowly lowered the gun. His nerve had broken completely. He backed into the house and slammed the door.

Clare turned her back on them. She picked up the axe and went back to chopping wood.

High above the clouds, the faint, rhythmic thumping of helicopter rotors began to vibrate through the damp air.