Girl of Myth and Legend Read online

  Praise for Girl of Myth and Legend, Book One in The Chosen Saga:

  ‘An enjoyable, violent novel that delivers a strong-willed heroine and a brooding hero. This should be a surefire hit for fans of Marie Lu’s Legend and Leigh Bardugo’s Grisha trilogies.’

  Kirkus Reviews

  “Leonie’s adventures are just beginning, and The Chosen Saga is shaping up to be a unique entry.”

  John M. Murray, 4 Star Clarion Review

  ‘This is a great book. The story leaps from the page and dazzles the mind.’

  Books, Books and More Books

  ‘I was unable to put this book down until the very end. Fans of Laini Taylor’s “Daughter of Smoke and Bone” trilogy may enjoy this debut from Giselle Simlett.’

  fangirlsreaditfirst.wordpress.com

  ‘It’s hard for me to believe, sometimes, that there are more ideas and plots that haven’t yet been written, but clearly Giselle Simlett has thought of one, and it’s great.’

  meganreads.com

  ‘I have not read anything like this before… If you enjoy reading fantasy novels, this will most certainly be the book for you.’

  kelleysmusings.wordpress.com

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Giselle Simlett was born and raised in England. She has studied Creative Writing at both Gloucestershire University and the Open University. She has a diploma in Creative Writing, Language and Literature.

  She does not as yet have a diploma in the power and responsible use of magic, but she does have a young son, which amounts to the same thing. She currently lives in Australia with her husband and son.

  Girl of Myth and Legend is Book 1 in The Chosen Saga.

  Visit Giselle’s website at GiselleSimlett.com

  The Chosen Saga

  Girl of Myth and Legend

  Giselle Simlett

  WWS Publishing Ltd

  Pembrokeshire, Wales, UK

  Copyright © 2015 by Giselle Simlett

  The right of Giselle Simlett to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1998.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions or locales is completely coincidental.

  The Chosen: Girl of Myth and Legend. – 1st ed.

  eBook ISBN 978-0-9943826-0-3

  Paperback ISBN 978-0-9943826-1-0

  Book Layout © 2014 BookDesignTemplates.com

  WWS Publishing Ltd

  2 Trebrython,

  Dwrbach,

  Pembrokeshire, SA65 9RP

  GiselleSimlett.com

  I dedicate this book to two extraordinary people.

  The first dedication is to a much beloved person who has nurtured my talent and inspired me as a writer. He is my best friend, my tutor, my fellow writer and my dear granddad. This book is for John Simlett, who never failed in believing in me.

  The second dedication is to my nan, Patricia Simlett.

  Thank you for filling my head with stories of quests and legends and pixies. You are forever my most favourite storyteller. Thank you for making me dream with my head in the stars.

  CONTENTS

  THE PERKS OF ROUTINE

  THE SHORTCOMINGS OF SERVITUDE

  COATED IN STARS

  WISHES AND CURSES

  THE LAST

  A NEW AGE

  LADY OF LEGENDS

  BLOOD ANSWERS BLOOD

  UNTIL THE END OF DAYS

  MY MONSTER

  FATE’S SENSE OF HUMOUR

  SPLINTERING SHIELDS

  ALL WE OWN

  LABYRINTHS OF CHAOS

  SOMETHING ELSE, SOMETHING MORE

  COLOURS OF SORROW

  FALLING SPIRES AND CRYING GODS

  OUR FOOTPRINTS IN THE SNOW

  COLOUR IN WORDS

  SECRETS IN THE GARDEN

  MIRAGE

  FAIRY-TALE JUSTICE

  WHAT BINDS US

  FIRE ON FIRE

  THE HAZE

  BE BRAVE

  SENT WITH LOVE

  THE GLINT OF A KNIFE

  ENDLESS SKY

  THE MAGIC IS THERE

  BLACK AND WHITE

  THE STARS HAVE BEEN WAITING

  VAGUE POSSIBILITIES

  PAVING THE PATH

  CATALYST

  SOMEWHERE VERY NOWHERE

  CURSES AND DEMONS AND NIGHT

  SPIDER WEB

  THE PULSAR’S WOLF

  WHAT IS YOUR PURPOSE?

  LEONIE

  THE PERKS OF ROUTINE

  I am not extraordinary, nor is my life, and that’s how it has to be if I’m going to survive. I live within the jurisdiction of routine, the same continuous cycle of activity, day after day. It might not be what you call stimulating or inspiring, but I’m not looking for the Great Purpose that so many my age are chasing. I’m just trying to get by.

  My day begins the way it always does: I wake up and turn off my alarm clock seconds before it rings, accidentally booting Pegasus off the bed. He gives me a drowsy look, his tail wagging, tongue lolling. That’s what I like about Labradors: they live with a glass half full.

  ‘I’m starting to think you like being kicked off the bed every morning,’ I say, patting his head. ‘Masochist.’

  I take a quick glance at the white wall opposite me, the colour different to the maroon that paints the rest of the room. A few years ago it used to be covered in photographs and drawings. A few years ago I’d wake up and look at it with a smile. A few years ago everything changed. The brilliant white was supposed to help me forget, as if I were painting over the past and starting again. Pain doesn’t work like that, though; it sticks around and waits for you to face it, to feel it, but I know if I were to do that it would only engulf me. I don’t want to remember the past. I don’t want to remember her.

  After showering, I wipe the foggy mirror with my hand. My hair is brown when it’s wet, but usually it’s a reddish sort of colour. The brightness of my green eyes is diminished by the shadows under them, an attribute of having pale skin. ‘Stupid Panda Eyes,’ I mutter.

  Once dried and dressed, I go downstairs, a mass of golden fur that is Pegasus almost knocking me over.

  ‘Morning,’ Dad says, sitting at the kitchen table with a laptop in front of him. Dad has short, dark hair that’s thinning at the sides. He isn’t big or small or stocky. He’s average in everything. Height, build, features, even personality—there’s nothing unique about him that would draw your attention. Besides the beginnings of a stuck out belly.

  ‘Morning back at you,’ I reply, heading to the fridge.

  ‘I already have your breakfast out.’

  ‘Surprise, surprise. Fruit salad. Again.’

  I open the fridge and take out a slice of pizza. Leftovers—the best breakfast ever invented. I stuff it into my mouth. I don’t have to look at Dad to know he’s frowning at me, though he won’t say anything. He’s learnt from my lack of doing what he says that his lectures (such as ‘The Benefits of Eating Healthy and its Lasting Effects’) are in vain. I throw Pegasus the last of the pizza.

  ‘If you’re not going to sav
e yourself from heart problems, at least spare the dog,’ says Dad.

  ‘Pegasus, do you like the junk food, huh, boy?’ I ask.

  Pegasus licks the crumbs from the floor.

  ‘You don’t want nasty Dad to take away the junk food, do you?’ I turn to Dad, shrugging my shoulders. ‘I have to comply with his wishes.’ Dad shakes his head, and I grab my backpack and slide into my snow boots.

  ‘Hold on a second, Leonie,’ he says.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Pick something up from the post office on your way back home for me, will you?’

  ‘What, seriously?’ I complain. ‘Can’t you tear yourself away from that laptop for the twenty minutes it’ll take you to go there yourself?’

  ‘But I’m not—’

  ‘You lecture me over not being healthy, even though there’s barely any fat on me, and yet you’re too lazy to nip out to the post office?’ I cough the word hypocrite, and he sighs. ‘Come on. Where’s the guy who used to go jogging every morning and take me hiking everywhere?’

  ‘I’m still that guy,’ he protests.

  ‘Still that guy? Uh, Dad, hate to point this out and all, but you’re starting to form the undeniable features of a pot belly.’

  He glances down, his lips thin, and he closes the laptop. ‘I’ll put my shoes on.’

  ‘Great! See you later.’

  ‘Wait. You’ve got your phone with you?’

  ‘I don’t need it.’

  ‘Leonie—’

  ‘Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll be fine.’ I put on my coat and open the door to leave for college: the whipping wind deafens my ears; the sun dims behind the ghostly haze of the morning; the falling snow covers the footprints I leave behind, blanketing the vast plain of countryside. Covered in frozen foliage, our cottage stands alone in the middle of an endless field, a single willow tree facing it with a swing attached. I never minded the solitariness.

  Here, in the middle of nowhere, there are no traffic lights, no shopping centres, no cinemas, no anything really besides sheep and cows and fields. There’s certainly no fun, unless you like long walks to college at seven in the morning in one of the worst winters North Yorkshire has ever seen. And internet? Oh, it exists, but the constant disconnections make me wonder why we bother having it at all.

  The old man who owns the butcher’s will know the random kid walking to school’s mother’s sister’s best friend, and that best friend will know his brother’s cousin’s niece’s secondary school teacher. The community is knitted tight.

  As I trudge through the snow, nothing around me but cold space and the comfort of being alone, I picture my day as it happens most days: I’ll arrive at the small community college, which, despite looking like it wants to fall down around us, is still standing; give the good old finger to Daniel Portman when he makes his usual oh-so-witty crack about my accent; change into my tracksuit that is scarred with tears and holes for some inexplicable reason—cough, Pegasus, cough; spend a few hours playing cricket and football with some warmups in between, and then listen to Mr Dancy’s lacklustre lectures, which inevitably include some snide remarks about his supposed best friend but secret adversary Mr Collins, the other sports’ teacher; then I’ll go to a few more classes, buy one (or two… all right, three) of the college’s famous cookie monster crunch, and finally go home. I’ll do my assignments, have dinner with Dad, and play on my PlayStation 4 until I’m tired enough to go to bed. Tomorrow I’ll wake up seconds before my alarm clock rings and do the same again.

  Routine: that’s how I live. It wasn’t always, but it’s how I forget.

  There’s something lingering in the back of my mind though, a feeling of waiting. I always knew that something was coming for me, even though it never made sense. Like a string tied around me, I’m pulled towards more than mundaneness, more than routine, more than my world—more more more. I just didn’t think it would come so soon.

  Intense heat. Heat so raw and real and raging, blazing in the centre of my chest. I shake my head as if to brush the pain away—the heat does not let go. I take deep breaths as it worsens. God, the pain. The pain. What is this—indigestion? A heart attack? I’m seventeen: I can’t be having a heart attack. I’m guilty of the sin of gluttony, but I’m not heart-attack-worthy. But the pain. What else can it be?

  I look around for someone, anyone, and find the mist has thickened. Was it always this thick? It doesn’t matter: even if I wasn’t concealed by haze, there’s no one around for miles—one of the perks of living in the middle of nowhere, a perk I’ve enjoyed until now.

  I fall to my knees that sink into the snow. Damn. Damn. Where’s my phone? Oh, right, of course, I never bring it with me. Being borderline-antisocial is the other perk of my life; it means no ‘is he into me?’ calls. It also means no emergency calls for an ambulance.

  I rub my chest, tear at it. I’d spill my own blood just to rid myself of the burning burning burning. It consumes me, spirals me into a temporary state of insanity. I can’t cry out or groan or yell or speak any comprehensible words.

  Panic sets in. No no no. I know I’m lost now. Panic will weaken my grip on control, but it’s too late. Am I going to die? Oh dear God, I’m going to die. I’m going to die. I’m going to die from something and I don’t even know what is. Then I’ll be frozen over by the relentless snow and they, whoever they will be, might not find my body for weeks. I spare a thought for my dad. There are a lot of painful events that haven’t been resolved between us yet, but he’s always been there for me, never faltering. I don’t want him to have to hear from the police that his only daughter is now just a body in an ice cube.

  The burning reaches its peak. No, no, I’m not ready to go yet. Abi!

  I look at my gloved hands buried in the snow, wanting to focus on something as my mind goes hazy. My eyes widen, a gasp escapes me, and I rip off my gloves. My hands are… glowing. I shake my head. Surely the pain is making me lose my mind. Losing my mind is better than being a fireball, which right now is what I’m turning into.

  ‘Stop doing that,’ I say, stupidly. The glow increases as if in protest, then it stops. For a moment, just a moment, I feel it building up inside of me. Then it grows grows grows. That’s all I know.

  ‘Leonie?’ Dad. ‘It’s OK. Everything’s OK. Get up. Come on.’ I open my eyes. Why does he sound so calm? Doesn’t he think it a bit, I don’t know, odd that I’m laid out on the plain in a puddle, the snow melted around me? But I soon forget his strange calmness: the pain is gone. I smell something foul, then feel a wet lick, and Pegasus’s big head is blocking the sun, his beady eyes looking down at me.

  I’m not a crier, not because I think it’s weak or stupid, but because I don’t cry easily. I’m bawling now, though, snivelling and stuttering and wiping away the tears. I’m not an affectionate person either, but I’m clinging onto Dad, his soft hushes a comfort. I manage to say, ‘What happened?’

  He smiles at me. Smiles. Of all the things to do! ‘I’ll take you home and explain.’

  I’m too dazed to insist on answers right now. He helps me stand and, though I can walk, my world is spinning, so he supports me as we head towards the cottage. He takes me upstairs to my room, and I sit on my bed.

  ‘How does a marshmallow hot chocolate sound?’ he asks. ‘That’s your favourite, right? I’ll go and make you one. Oh, and run yourself a hot bath so you don’t catch a chill.’

  I wait for him to go, fighting to keep my eyes open. I think about what happened, and I don’t feel ashamed that I cried, just ashamed that Dad has seen it. Dad, who found me so quickly, who is calm and completely unsurprised, who actually is making me a hot chocolate.

  I jump from the bed, preparing a list of questions in my head, when I catch my reflection in the mirror. I’m suddenly aware of my beating heart, and almost slam myself against the mirror, peering into it, blinking and then pulling up my eyelids.

  Oh. My. God.

  I turn from the mirror and run down the stairs to where Dad is making a
drink.

  ‘I-I need to get to the hospital! Look! Look at my eyes! Look at them!’

  He does. ‘I know. It’s all right. Calm down. That’s sup-posed to happen.’

  ‘Wh-what? They’re… they’re… my goddamn irises are… are red! Like blood. Like blood. Oh God. It is blood, isn’t it? They’re bleeding, aren’t they? Oh hell; I’m going to turn into some religious phenomenon or something!’

  He smiles. Again. Seriously, what’s his deal? ‘It’s not blood and they’re not bleeding and nothing is wrong with you. Like I said, that’s supposed to happen.’

  I shake my head, already exasperated. ‘Unless I missed something when I was learning about puberty, eyes bleeding or changing colour or whatever the hell is happening to them is not supposed to happen!’

  ‘Calm down. Believe me, I know this is a shock, but you’re not ill, far from it.’

  ‘What?’ I begin. ‘If you didn’t notice, I kind of, like, detonated out there. I’m pretty sure that’s not normal. In fact, I’m pretty sure that makes me a candidate for a secret government medical experiment. Whatever the hell just happened to me, I’m going to the hospital before I go nuclear.’

  ‘You’re not ill—’

  ‘Then what the hell am I?’ I shout.

  He holds my gaze in a disconcerting way. ‘You’re different, Leonie. You are Chosen.’

  And he explains everything.

  _________________

  ‘OK. How to start? All right. I’m going to be very blunt, so here it goes,’ he says. ‘I can see the future.’

  ‘Um. Yeah. Sure you can, Dad,’ I say.

  ‘All right, I anticipated that—’

  ‘Of course you did, you can see the future.’

  ‘Just let me elaborate—’

  ‘Go for it. You’re off to a good start so far.’

  He smiles, then frowns as he leans forward. ‘Leonie… Leonie, please listen. What I’m going to tell you is, well, it’s against all human logic. You might be confused at first—’

  ‘Already am.’

  ‘—but I’ll explain it to you. Don’t be worried or frightened by this change, though I wouldn’t blame you if you were. Just remember that I’m right here and you’re—’