Before (The Sensitives) - By Dawn Rae Miller Page 0,23
the rest—those who roam free and hide in the shadows, not in the guarded settlements on the outskirts of major towns. Because no one knows how to fight magic, our Enforcers must catch them off-guard or overpower them.
But one thing remains the same for both groups: they absolutely cannot be allowed to breed.
I scan through my book until I locate the images of historical Sensitives. Sometimes, in old books, they’re called witches. But that was before we discovered what they had—extra senses. Then their name was changed.
I tap a page to zoom in on one. They don’t look anything like the group who attacked Beck and me. The ones today, other than not wearing a mandatory wristlet, looked exactly like us—normal people. Well, if you ignore the woman’s crazy eyes.
The image in my book fades in and out beneath my fingers. I flip the page and find Caitlyn Greene, my ancestor, surrounded by the rest of the Founders, smiling at me from the depths of time. Other than our chestnut-colored hair and small stature, we don’t look anything alike. In fact, with her wide eyes and full mouth, she looks more like Mother—or even Kyra—than me.
How did this woman muster the courage to confront such a dangerous group? She wasn’t much older than me—only twenty-two—when elected Head of State.
A twinge of shame eats at me. How can I be her descendant? My first reaction wasn’t to face them, but to hide. Unlike Beck.
The image zooms out again. Much older and stronger men surround her, but their body language indicates deference. Caitlyn was clearly in charge.
My gaze falls on the man to her left, who—unlike the other men—appears to be the same age as Caitlyn: Charles Channing, Beck’s great-great-grandfather and Caitlyn’s right-hand man. I’ve never seen a picture of one without the other.
The warrior and the diplomat—that’s how most texts refer to them.
Charles’s arm drapes over Caitlyn’s shoulder in a familiar way, his head turned slightly toward her like he’s going to whisper something in her ear. He’s as fair as Beck and has the same mischievous eyes.
Annalise can’t suspect Beck, can she? Not when his ancestor was Charles Channing. It would be blasphemy. After all, Charles is the one who developed policies and brokered a peace with the four other Societies.
A small smile forms on my lips. Beck is just like Charles. Always searching for the middle ground. I, however, am no warrior. No one would ever accuse me of being like Caitlyn—I’m too content to be in the background and out of the spotlight.
I scan through a few more pages and land on a picture of a smoky, gritty, ancient city. It’s amazing those old-time people didn’t kill themselves off with all that pollution and disease, and with limited access to medical care, education, and food. Their world looked so different from ours: crowded, dirty, downright crumbling. They tried to cram everything into everywhere and had no sense for order or beauty.
Not at all like the State, whose sole purpose is the protection and well-being of all citizens. We want for nothing.
With all the horrible things those people did, maybe wiping out most of them with the Long Winter wasn’t such a bad idea.
A low chuckle interrupts my thoughts. Beck pushes his desk across the aisle and next to mine, while Mr. Proctor continues lecturing. Only Beck could do something like this and not immediately get in trouble.
He leans close to my ear, and his warm breath tickles my neck. “Guess what?”
“I’m trying to pay attention.” Mr. Proctor has moved on to the importance of our roles in the State. How once we’re mated and placed in jobs, we will be challenged and blessed with security and oversight of the State. How unlike Singleton and Non-States people; each and every one of us is expected to contribute to the good of the Western Society.
“No, you’re not. You hate this class,” Beck challenges.
I squint at him, and purse my lips, trying my hardest to look upset. Try being the key word here because my stomach flip-flops from Beck’s close proximity and I suddenly feel breathless. “Fine. What?”
“Kyra kissed Maz last night. On the lips.”
“Kissed?” So that’s the big secret. I sneak a glance at Kyra. I’m not surprised, but she knows better. What if Maz isn’t her mate? Then what? “You want to talk about kissing?”
“Would you rather practice?” Beck leans back in his chair. His eyes glint with mischief.
He’s teasing me, I know, but I can’t stop the warmth