Unbound: A Siren's Quest for Freedom

D Targett Zoe

Description

Freedom means nothing if you're the only one free. Stefan has only ever wanted a peaceful, normal life without harming anyone...but that's not the life he was given. Growing up with two brilliant sisters, Kesia has always wondered why she was born...she needed to find meaning in her life. When these two lost souls meet, a new hope arises for both of them. A chance to right the wrongs and give meaning to their lives.

Sujets

• Fantasy (canción de Mariah Carey)
• Fantasy

Informations

• Publié par: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Date de parution: 31 janvier 2019
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781528947589
• Langue: English

Extrait

Unbound: A Siren’s Quest for Freedom
Zoe D Targett
Austin Macauley Publishers
2019-01-31
Unbound: A Siren’s Quest for Freedom About the Author Dedication Copyright Information Acknowledgements Chapter 1 Stefan— Chapter 2 Kesia: Aged 7- Chapter 3 Stefan— Chapter 4 Kesia— Chapter 5 Stefan— Kesia— Stefan— Chapter 6 Stefan— Kesia: Aged 8 Kesia— Stefan— Kesia: Aged 9- Stefan— Kesia: Aged 10- Chapter 7 Kesia— Stefan— Kesia— Stefan— Kesia— Chapter 8 Stefan— Kesia: Aged 11 Kesia— Stefan— Chapter 9 Kesia: Aged 13- Stefan— Kesia: Aged 14- Stefan Chapter 10 Kesia- Stefan— Kesia— Stefan— Chapter 11 Kesia— Stefan— Kesia— Chapter 12 Kesia— Stefan— Kesia— Chapter 13 Kesia— Stefan— Kesia— Stefan— Kesia— Chapter 14 Kesia: Aged 15- Stefan— Kesia— Stefan— Kesia— Chapter 15 Kesia— Stefan— Kesia— Stefan— Kesia— Stefan— Chapter 16 Stefan— Kesia— Stefan— Kesia— Chapter 17 Stefan— Kesia— Stefan— Kesia— Chapter 18 Kesia: Turning 16 Today- Stefan— Kesia— Stefan— Kesia— Stefan— Kesia— Chapter 19 Stefan— Kesia— Stefan— Kesia— Stefan— Kesia— Chapter 20 Arthur— Chapter 21 Stefan— Kesia: Aged 17 Kesia— Stefan— Kesia— Stefan— Kesia— Stefan— Kesia— Chapter 22 Kesia— Stefan— Kesia— Chapter 23 Stefan— Kesia— Stefan— Kesia— Chapter 24 Kesia— Stefan— Kesia— Chapter 25 Stefan— Kesia— Stefan— Kesia— Chapter 26 Kesia— Stefan— Kesia— Stefan— Kesia— Stefan— Chapter 27 Stefan— Kesia— Stefan— Kesia— Chapter 28 Stefan— Kesia: Aged 18- Kesia— Stefan— Kesia— Stefan— Kesia— Stefan— Kesia— Stefan— Kesia— Stefan and Kesia— Epilogue: Three years later Stefan— After Epilogue
About the Author
Zoe was born and raised in Devon; she is now living in Kent, having moved there in 2004. She was raised with a love and respect for reading and writing.
Zoe has travelled widely in the UK and abroad, including Washington DC; six weeks travelling across Australia, taking in Western Australia, Adelaide, Melbourne, Sydney and Canberra; and two visits to Japan, visiting most of the major cities there.
She worked for over ten years as a nursery nurse but is now concentrating on her writing and other artistic pursuits, as well as volunteering at a local charity bookshop.
Dedication
To my nan, Vera ‘Vicky’ Targett. Your belief in me never died (1927–2007).
Copyright Information
Copyright © Zoe D Targett (2019)
The right of Zoe D Targett to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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 permission of the publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781788238946 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781788238953 (Hardback)
ISBN 9781528947589 (E-Book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2019)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LQ
Acknowledgements
First, I would like to give thanks to my English teachers, Mrs Hamlyn from my primary school and Mr Ferguson from my secondary. Although my spelling was never great, you saw through that and inspired the potential within me.
On the subject of teachers, I also want to give thanks to David Smith, a diligent volunteer who ran the Creative Writing group I attended in my adult life. He helped push the imagination into overdrive with fun prompts and sometimes unusual story plots.
Through the process of writing this book, I did not show many people its contents, but one exception was a former work manager of mine, Kim Ziolkowski. Sharing the same taste in books as yours truly, as well as being a great manager, she was kind enough to not only read, but give an outsider’s opinion on my (at the time) budding novel. She was only able to read the first few chapters before she regrettably had to move to another location, but her encouraging words and feedback will forever stay with me, and for that, I thank her.
I would also like to mention Richard Burridge, someone who has been helping me this past year to come out of my shell. In fact, without him coming across a certain publisher’s advert in his magazine, this may have never been possible.
And lastly, but never the least, I would like to thank my parents, Suzanne and David. Without these two, I would have never learnt the enjoyment of reading. I had always had many stories in my head, but if it wasn’t for my parents, those stories would have never made it to paper, and now, writing my stories is a part of my life, a part I never want to stop doing.
So thank you, all of you.
Chapter 1

Stefan—
Well…once again, I had sated my appetite…for now anyway. As I got up from the bed, I looked back towards the girl, still sleeping. Around 19, pretty good looking with chestnut brown hair spreading over her tanned skin with a light sprinkle of freckles on her upper arms… such a shame .
I felt disgusted with myself, always destroying the lives of innocent women. But it was the only way I knew how to survive…that was not how it should be…I hated myself more and more every time.
I put my clothes back on as quietly as I could to avoid waking up the girl and tiptoed to the window. The cool breeze of an early dawn caressed my face as I opened the window. Grabbing the windowsill, I carefully avoided looking back at the bed as I jumped out into the sunrise, gently landing on the velvet grass of the inn’s garden. No one around… good, I did not want trouble.
But as I started heading out of the grounds, I had an uneasy feeling that someone, unseen, was watching me. I looked around but I saw no one. Putting it down to the terrible guilt that I felt, I shrugged off the unseen eyes and continued along my path.
The path I took to escape my crime was pretty generic, at least to me. I would always establish a place to escape to before…feeding. I would always escape to the woods and normally set myself by a quiet river so all I had to do was follow the sound of water once I entered the dense woods. But that simple rule I followed also allowed my mind to wander, making it almost impossible to block out the horrors that were always in the back of my mind but surfaced in times like these.
I always wondered what my victims would do next. Suicide? Insanity? Inactivity? One of these was always inevitable for them. After 60 years, you would think I was used to it, that the guilt of my conscience would have faded away or at least be easier to carry the burden, but for me at least, it only got worse. No matter what I tried to avoid it, the pain only got stronger, but I would not have it any other way. Despite my seeing no way out of my endless nightmare, I could at least carry the pain with me, no matter how much it tore at my insides, because not feeling any remorse for my actions, was an insult to the memories of those whose lives I had destroyed.
When I finally reached the river, I fumbled around in the nearly hollow tree stump, where my hands found the familiar smooth surface. I gently eased out the flat book that was my sketchbook with a pencil tied to its bindings by a string. With the book in hand, I sat myself at the edge of the riverbank, the calming waters lazily followed its path to the great blue sea, many miles from here.
I opened my sketchbook to a blank page and scanned my surroundings for inspiration. I finally set my sights on a nearby bird’s nest, the brown, speckled mother feeding her tiny chicks as they chirped excitedly. I focused all my energy, letting my creativity flow though my pencil. The lines on the paper felt like my despair was temporarily pushed aside as the picture splayed across the page.
Almost an hour had past and my mind had cleared as I gently put my book aside and sighed, wishing I could just draw forever, maybe I could even take up painting and sell my work or even just hang them up in a gallery somewhere so everyone can enjoy them, but alas I could never have a life of my own choosing like that.
Then suddenly I heard a decidedly loud bang and felt a small object speed past my head and my body stiffened as I slowly turned in the direction of the sound. I saw a forlorn man, aged and tense, with tears streaming down his cheeks. He had a gun pointed directly at my head, I guess I knew what the small object was now. There was something horribly familiar about him, yet I know I had never met him before, so why the familiar feeling?
I slowly got to my feet and turned to face him, he kept his gun steady as he moved its aim to my chest.
“You killed her!” he spoke with stifled anger in his voice, “YOU KILLED HER!” This time, his voice boomed around the forest floor and even seemed to disrupt the flow of the stream.
I felt an unpleasant stirring in my gut and realised that the presence I had felt back at the inn was caused by the very man before me; please, do not let it be what I think it is!
I feigned ignorance. “I am sorry, I do not know what you are talking about.” I lied.
“Don’t lie!” roared the man, “I saw you leave my daughter moments before she jumped out her window to her death!”
Suicide. That answered my earlier question regarding her fate. And that familiar feeling, I could see now, he had the same tanned skin as her as well the brown eyes I remembered from when I first found her. This man was the father and I had just taken his daughter from him.
Unable to find the words I needed, I simply stated in a solemn tone, “I am sorry…”
“Sorry won’t bring her back, damn you!” the man exclaimed as he squeezed the trigger tighter.
I sighed deeply and decided it was no use trying to talk the man out of his rage. Once again, the forest shook with the sound of a gunshot, and I felt the bullet pierce the fabric of my shirt and ricochet of