Mila's Shift (The Darkest Day Series - Book 1)

Chapter 2

Her body felt strange, foreign, like it had a mind of its own. Her brain swam inside the cage of her uncooperative flesh. Muffled shouts and jeers drifted into her fuzzy brain. Spikes of adrenaline shot through a system that simply wanted to slump against one of these nice, comfy cars and fall asleep.

Or throw up. Her stomach lurched, threatening to unleash the countless shots of vodka she'd had that night. She held her middle, willing it to settle. I'm never drinking again.

Her mind flitted around like a bug in a jar. She leaned her weight against the cold, slick metal, tempted to lean her face against it, hoping the icy surface would soothe her.

"Sweetness," a slurred male voice said, making it through the murk.

She jerked up and almost fell over, catching herself against the nearest object. Her arm slammed against cold metal, pain radiating from the point of contact. A wall of men closed in, activating some far-off warning system in her psyche, like hearing an ambulance coming but not knowing where.

When had they gotten so close?

One grabbed her from behind, wrapping an arm around her waist.

Everything inside her rebelled, fighting and screaming all at once.

* * *

Mila jerked awake, breathing hard. For a spell, she stayed in that moment so many years ago, leaving May behind, leaving her career behind. A single tear ran down her face.

Why am I crying?

Hadn't she cried out all these emotions years ago? Back then, the world felt impossible, too much to cope with alone.

Then she remembered.

May was dead.

She sucked in a shuddering breath and the tears came in earnest this time. They poured a deluge until her face burned with the emotion, her nose stuffed worse than any cold. The rivers of salty sorrow dried to an arid riverbed. A hollowed out shell, she sat there on the mattress, the once wet tracks leaving tight reminders on her skin.

Getting out of bed, Mila dressed on autopilot, falling back into the old routines with ease, but stopped dead when she reached the door to the bathroom. A part of her refused to force her feet forward.

She couldn't do it. She couldn't look in the mirror and see May's face. It would break her. Minutes ticked by where she tried to quiet the turmoil inside. After a time, she crossed the threshold with her head downcast, her—no, May's—hair blocking the view. She did what she had to, grabbed what she needed, and raced out as if her life depended on it.

Mila dropped on the bed with a gasp, needing a few more moments to center herself. "I am May. I am May Trace," she chanted again and again, tears recurring and choking her. Not capable of keeping her own company right now, she turned on the TV, hoping it could silence the pain eating her alive.

"I wouldn't say it's a controversy," the man on screen said, steepling his fingers in front of him. "It's a question of basic human rights."

"Yet, they're not human, are they?"

Mila flinched, but couldn't look away.

"Aren't they? Do we know they're not?"

"Yet it's a proven fact that they're a danger. They can change into anyone, anything. One could change into the President and just walk right into the White House, or a military base, or our schools." The screen shifted to a female leaning forward in outrage.

"First, the government takes steps to prevent that. No one can get into a secured facility without a verified ID, and many places without on site DNA confirmation. Our country is secure."