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.

The air inside the main house was thick with panic.

"We have to get rid of her," Enoch paced the living room, his injured hands held awkwardly against his chest. "She's cursed. She's bringing trouble down on us."

The phone on the wall rang. Enoch jumped. He picked it up.

"Flint?" Enoch said. "What is it?"

"Dad, there's a convoy coming up the mountain," his son Flint's voice crackled over the line. "They just blew past the lower gate. They're heavily armed. I—"

The line went dead with a sharp burst of static.

Enoch dropped the phone. The blood drained from his face. "Get the girl!" he yelled to Tabitha and Kayleigh.

They rushed out the back door. Kayleigh and Tabitha grabbed Clare by the arms. They dragged her toward the center of the muddy compound. Clare didn't fight back. She let her body go limp.

Enoch followed them, holding the shotgun. He stood behind Clare, using her small frame to shield himself as the distant sound of engines grew louder.

"Nobody move until I say so," Enoch ordered, his voice cracking.

Before he could do anything further, a massive explosion of sound shattered the silence.

The heavy iron gates of the compound were violently ripped off their hinges. A massive, matte-black Hummer smashed through the metal, sending sparks flying into the air.

Right behind it, three black, armored SUVs roared into the yard. They skidded in the mud, forming a tight semi-circle around the Pruitt family.

The high beams of the vehicles snapped on, blinding Enoch. He squinted, raising his arm to shield his eyes.

The doors of the SUVs opened simultaneously.

A dozen men in full tactical gear poured out. They wore black bulletproof vests. They moved with terrifying, silent precision. In less than two seconds, twelve assault rifles with suppressors were aimed directly at Enoch, Tabitha, and Kayleigh.

A red laser dot appeared directly on Enoch's chest. "Drop the weapon, now," the security chief's voice boomed over a megaphone.

Enoch froze. The shotgun felt like a toy in his hands. A cold drop of sweat rolled down his spine. His knees buckled, and he dropped the shotgun. It splashed into a puddle. Two guards immediately rushed forward, securing Enoch and stepping Clare safely away from him.

Only after the perimeter was completely secured did the back door of the command Suburban open.

Silas Barrett stepped out into the mud. He wore a custom-tailored black trench coat. His jaw was locked so tight the muscles twitched. His eyes swept over the scene, cold and sharp as broken glass.

Genevieve stepped out right behind him. Her expensive high heels sank deep into the muck, but she didn't even notice. Her eyes darted frantically around the yard.

Then, she saw her.

Genevieve saw the small, bruised girl standing in the mud. The relief that flooded her face was immediately chased by grief at the sight of Clare's thin arms, her hollow cheeks, the fresh cut above her brow.

Genevieve let out a sound that was half-scream, half-sob. It tore from her throat, raw and agonizing.

She sprinted forward. The head of security reached out to stop her, but she moved past him.

"Keep them secured," Silas said. His voice was low, but it carried over the idling engines.

Tabitha and Kayleigh raised their hands in the air, their faces masks of pure terror.

Clare slowly lifted her head. She looked at the beautiful woman running toward her.

Genevieve dropped to her knees in the mud. She threw her arms around Clare, pulling the small girl tightly against her chest.

Clare buried her face in Genevieve's neck. She smelled the faint scent of jasmine and expensive vanilla. It was a scent buried deep in her oldest memories.

"My baby," Genevieve sobbed uncontrollably. Her hands shook as she stroked Clare's matted hair. "I've got you. Mommy's got you."

Silas walked over. His heavy boots splashed in the mud. He looked down at Clare. He saw the fresh blood on her forehead. He saw the dark bruises on her arms.

His expression went very still. The kind of still that comes just before a storm.

He took off his black trench coat and wrapped it gently around Clare's shivering shoulders. He lifted her easily into his arms, holding her tight against his chest.

Silas turned his head slowly to look at Enoch. The weight in his gaze was more dangerous than any weapon.

The tactical team moved the Pruitt family together under guard, away from Clare.

Silas ordered his security chief quietly. "Hold them. The authorities will be here within the hour. I want every charge documented — every mark on this child on record."

Clare rested her head on Silas's broad shoulder. She closed her eyes and let out a long, slow breath. For the first time since she was reborn, she smiled.