Sahara Ashdell: Threat to Malorsty (Book 1)

The suffocating darkness of the car trunk was not how Brooklyn Craig had imagined spending the eve of her fifteenth birthday. Yet here she was, curled into a tight ball, her tear-streaked face pressed against her knees, her thin arms wrapped around her trembling body. The cold metal of the trunk scraped against her skin with every jolt of the car, the tire well digging into her side. It wasn’t the dark that gnawed at her—she’d grown accustomed to shadows in the attic—but the unknown. Where was she being taken? Why? The question that cut deepest, though, was one she’d carried her whole life: why had no one ever wanted her? Her unloving family and the events of the day played over in her mind, a relentless loop of rejection and betrayal, as the car’s engine rumbled beneath her.

Charles Craig, her uncle, was the picture of polished power. As Mayor of Canterbury for nearly a decade, he exuded charisma that kept voters loyal. Tall and lean, he wore tailored black suits, always paired with a green tie that matched his sharp, calculating eyes. His glossy black hair was meticulously combed, catching the chandeliers’ gleam as he strode through City Hall. His days were filled with budgets, handshakes, and calculated smiles, each gesture designed to maintain his grip on power. His wife, Margaret, was his perfect counterpart, ruling the town’s social scene with flawless makeup and designer outfits that never repeated. At her daily Country Club luncheons, her blonde hair was a cascade of perfection, not a strand out of place. Their daughter, Trina, sixteen and a mirror of her mother’s beauty, was a local celebrity. Her blonde curls adorned billboards and magazine covers, her face a fixture in TV commercials. Boys chased her, girls envied her, but Trina’s haughty smirk dismissed them all, her nose tilted as if the town’s air was beneath her.

At public events, the Craigs were a vision of unity, dazzling in coordinated outfits, their smiles practiced and bright. They knew they were Canterbury’s elite, but to secure Charles’s re-election, they played the part of approachable charmers. Charity, however, was a foreign concept. Their rock-walled mansion, perched on the edge of town beside a private golf course, was a monument to their success. With eight bedrooms, seven baths, and a five-car garage, it boasted an outdoor pool that glistened under the sun and an indoor twin hidden within. Trina claimed three bedrooms: one for sleep, one for her designer wardrobe, and one for fitness. Charles and Margaret maintained separate suites, sharing a third room for exercise equipment. Another served as Charles’s home office, its walls lined with awards and photos of handshakes with dignitaries. The final bedroom overflowed with Margaret’s surplus purchases—designer bags and shoes too precious for the attic’s dust.

In that attic, Brooklyn lived, a frail fourteen-year-old whose fire-red hair marked her as an outsider in the Craigs’ polished world. Orphaned at two when her parents, Marshall and Bella Craig, died in a car accident, she had known only the attic’s chill and musk. Forbidden from attending school or appearing in town, her existence was confined to the mansion’s shadows, her days spent serving the Craigs’ endless demands. She scrubbed floors, polished silver, and mended Trina’s discarded dresses, her hands calloused from work no one acknowledged.

Tomorrow was her fifteenth birthday, a milestone she knew would pass unnoticed. No cake, no gifts—her only proof of her existence lay in a small wooden box hidden beneath an attic floorboard. Inside was her birth certificate and a faded photo of her parents cradling her as a baby. In the image, her dark curly hair matched her father’s, not the straight red strands she now twisted nervously between her fingers. Her mother’s blonde hair and round face bore no resemblance to her own sharp features. Charles and Margaret often sneered that Bella was a “tramp” who’d cheated, that Brooklyn’s red hair proved she wasn’t Marshall’s. Yet the photo told a different story—her parents’ smiles radiated love, their arms protective around her. Why, then, was her hair red now? The question haunted her, as did her longing for a life where she was wanted. She couldn’t help but daydream about what her parents might have done for her birthday—perhaps a quiet dinner, laughter, a cake with her name in icing. The Craigs, by contrast, turned Trina’s birthdays into spectacles: surprises hidden throughout the mansion, parties with hundreds of guests, fireworks lighting the sky, and gifts piled high enough to dwarf the room.

A bell’s sharp ring shattered her thoughts. Brooklyn shoved the box back under the floorboard, replaced the wooden slat, and hurried to the attic door. Her bare feet padded down the creaking stairs, her heart pounding as she reached the kitchen. Margaret stood there, hands on hips, berating Ms. Mabel, the maid, for a smudge on a wine glass. At Brooklyn’s arrival, Margaret’s eyes snapped to her, sharp as knives. “And where have you been, you little germ?” she spat, her voice dripping with disdain.

Brooklyn kept her gaze on the floor, knowing words would only fuel her aunt’s anger. Margaret’s tone shifted, a false sweetness curling her lips. “I have good news. Ms. Mabel will take you to live at her brother’s house.”

Brooklyn’s eyes darted up, meeting her aunt’s cold stare. “What?” Her voice trembled, shock mingling with dread.

“His wife is ill and needs a housekeeper,” Margaret said, her smile icy. “You’ve been such a burden to us. This will suit everyone.”

Anger flared in Brooklyn’s chest, hot and unfamiliar. “A burden? You’ve never cared for me. I do everything—clean, cook, wait on you hand and foot while you—”

A slap stung her cheek, silencing her. “How dare you speak to me like that, you ungrateful spur?” Margaret hissed. “You’re leaving with Mabel, and we’ll never see that awful red hair again.”

Charles appeared in the doorway, his green tie catching the light. “Brilliant, darling,” he said, kissing Margaret’s cheek. “I knew you’d solve our problem.” His gaze turned to Brooklyn, disgust curling his lip.

Brooklyn glanced at Ms. Mabel, searching for an ally, but the maid’s face was unreadable. “I don’t understand,” she whispered, tears pricking her eyes. This was her family, however cruel—how could they discard her so easily?

“It’s not for you to understand,” Charles barked. “Go gather your things. Now.”

Brooklyn had learned not to cross her uncle—his temper had left bruises before—so she climbed the stairs, her heart heavy with betrayal. At the landing, she paused, out of sight but close enough to overhear Charles’s low voice. “This house is hidden well, yes?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” Mabel replied. “In the middle of Burgby Forest, miles from any town. The nearest one’s half-abandoned—no phones, no roads out. Completely off the grid.”

“Excellent,” Charles said, satisfaction in his tone. “Let’s see them try to find her there. She must be gone before nightfall, and no one must see you take her.”

Brooklyn’s breath caught. Who was “them”? Why hide her? Charles’s next words chilled her further. “After she turns fifteen, she can never return. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Mabel said tightly. “If she escapes, she won’t survive that forest. No way she’ll make it back.”

Brooklyn reached the attic, her hands trembling as she retrieved her box and wrapped it in an old blanket with her few clothes—a tattered sweater, a pair of worn jeans, a single pair of socks. She scanned the dusty room, its bare walls and sagging cot a testament to her invisibility. Heavy footsteps startled her; no one ever came to the attic. Charles burst through the door, grabbing her shirt collar. “Hurry up,” he growled, shoving her toward the stairs.

“Why don’t you want me?” Brooklyn asked, a spark of courage flaring. If they were casting her out, what more could they do?

“We never wanted you!” Charles snapped, pushing her forward. “Marshall never wanted you. You’ll never get what your dirty mother’s—” He stopped, shaking his head, as if catching himself. Brooklyn’s mind raced. Did her parents leave her something? A will, perhaps, tied to her fifteenth birthday?

“Deserve what?” she pressed, pulling free as they reached the next floor. “What don’t I deserve?”

He laughed, cold and sharp. “You don’t even know what I’m talking about.”

“My parents left me something,” she guessed, her voice steady despite her fear. Charles froze, his grip spinning her to face him.

“They died penniless,” he snarled. “You should’ve died with them. They had nothing.”

“Then what don’t I deserve?” she whispered, chin raised.

“To meet your mother’s family,” Trina cut in, her voice smug from the hallway. “They want you when you turn fifteen.”

“I have family that wants me?” Brooklyn asked, a flicker of hope igniting.

“No,” Charles said, shoving her toward the next staircase. “I told them you ran away. They won’t come for you. Now shut up.”

He pushed her to the back door, where Mabel waited beside an old maroon car, its trunk open. “Is it ready?” Charles asked.

“Yes, sir,” Mabel said, her smile unsettling. Brooklyn glanced at the Craigs—Charles, Margaret, Trina—their triumphant smirks a shared victory. Wherever she was going, it couldn’t be worse than this. She stepped forward, placing her bundle in the trunk. A sudden shove sent her sprawling inside, her back slamming against the tire well. “No!” she cried, thrashing against Charles’s strong arms. Pain shot through her as he slammed the trunk lid. Darkness swallowed her, the car lurching forward, carrying her into the unknown.