Chapter 1

The cold, damp air of the cannery smelled like rust and dead fish. It was a smell I' d known my whole life, but now it felt like the smell of my own grave. My sister, Gabrielle, was tied to the pillar next to me, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

My hands were bound tight behind the rough wood, the rope digging into my wrists. Across the cavernous room, the leader of the corporate militia, a man with a dead-eyed stare, was talking on a satellite phone. His men, armed and bored, patrolled the perimeter.

State police were outside. I could hear their distant shouts through the broken windows, the occasional crackle of a megaphone. A standoff. A media circus waiting to happen.

This was all about the land, our ancestral land. This militia worked for a corporation that wanted it, but it was more than just real estate. They knew the prophecy. They knew that Gabrielle and I were the last two Spirit Weavers of our tribe. If we both died, the land would die with us, a spiritual blight that would poison everything.

My ex-fiancé, Andrew Scott, knew the prophecy too. He' d loved talking about it on the campaign trail. It made him look connected, worldly. The handsome state senator with his exotic Native American girlfriend, a descendant of a sacred lineage. He used my heritage like a shiny accessory.

Gabrielle' s fiancé, Brian Hughes, Andrew' s chief of staff, also knew. He' d once sworn to protect our traditions. Now, he just protected Andrew.

The militia leader ended his call and walked toward us. He grinned, a nasty, yellow-toothed expression.

"Good news, ladies. Your knights in shining armor are on their way."

He gestured to a small, flickering television one of his men had set up. A local news channel was broadcasting live from the police barricade. And there they were.

Senator Andrew Scott, his face a perfect mask of grave concern, speaking into a dozen microphones.

"Jocelyn Clark is the love of my life," he said, his voice ringing with false sincerity. "We will not rest until she and her sister are safe."

Beside him, Brian Hughes nodded, his jaw set. "Gabrielle Hewitt is my whole world. We are coordinating with law enforcement to ensure a peaceful resolution."

I felt a bitter taste in my mouth. They were performing. This wasn't a rescue; it was a press conference.

Gabrielle spat on the floor. "Liars."

The militia leader chuckled. "Oh, it gets better." He snapped his fingers, and two of his men dragged a third person into the dim light.

It was Molly Johns.

The ambitious intern from a rival political family. She looked terrified, her designer dress torn, her face smudged with dirt. She was supposed to be their new project, the "proper" high-society girl they were grooming.

"Found this one snooping around the perimeter," the militia leader announced. "Said she was trying to help."

On the television, a frantic aide whispered something to Andrew. His composed expression shattered. He grabbed the aide's arm, his eyes wide with genuine panic. Brian' s face went white as a sheet. Their concern for us had been a performance. Their terror for Molly was real.

The militia leader saw it too. His grin widened. He had found their weakness.

"Well, well, Senator," he shouted towards the police line, his voice echoing in the cannery. "Looks like you have a choice to make."

He pulled out a rusty, pneumatic nail gun, the kind used to board up windows. He pressed the nozzle against the back of my hand, the cold metal a shock against my skin. One of his men did the same to Gabrielle. Another held Molly, pressing the cold steel of a pistol to her temple.

"Who do you save first, boys?" the leader taunted. "The two Spirit Weavers who hold the fate of the land in their hands? Or the pretty little intern?"

There was no hesitation. Not a single moment of conflict.

"Save Molly!"

Andrew and Brian screamed it at the same time. Their voices, raw with desperation, were perfectly synchronized.

The militia leader laughed, a loud, cruel sound that filled the cavernous space.

Then he pulled the trigger.

A white-hot agony exploded in my right hand. The nail punched straight through my flesh and into the wooden pillar behind me. I screamed, a sound torn from the deepest part of my soul. Beside me, Gabrielle shrieked as the same thing happened to her. We were pinned, crucified to the pillars, our blood dripping onto the filthy concrete floor.