Dragon Born

Book 1: Legacy of Dragons

by Sean Fletcher

Genres: YA Contemporary; YA Dark Fantasy; YA Wizards & Witches; YA Paranormal; YA Werewolves & Shifters; Young Adult; young adult fantasy; ya fantasy; dragon shifter; dragons and mythical creatures

Synopsis

She’s hunted for what she is. He hunts those who would hurt them.

When Astrid is attacked by a creep calling himself a Slayer, it seems like a cruel prank the universe is pulling on her already crappy life.

Then Kaden, the most infuriating, stunning boy she’s ever met, arrives and tells her she’s a dragon-kin like him—part dragon, part human.

Then Astrid actually shifts into a dragon.

Wonderful.

It's not wonderful to Kaden, who should be busy hunting down the Slayers, a group as vicious as his methods and as dark as his past. He doesn’t have time to chaperone a girl with newly awakened dragon powers, one who’s too stubborn to stay safe. He knows he should stay away from Astrid.

Yet working together becomes vital when the Slayers hatch a new plan to destroy the dragon-kin, headed by a deadly new leader. And with Astrid as their prime target, Kaden might be the only one who can stop them…if the secrets they both carry don’t destroy them first.

If you love fast-paced YA fantasy with dragon shifters, undiscovered magic, twisting magical mysteries, and a slow burn enemies-to-lovers romance, sink your teeth into Dragon Born!

Publisher: Epic Worlds Publishing

Sample

Chapter One—Kaden

The guy across the store wants to murder me.

I don’t need to be a mind reader to know. Don’t even need to use my magic. I can see the hatred in his eyes. The sixth sense of the dragon inside me picked up the stench of his deadly intentions the moment he walked in.

Also, there’s the hilt of a sword barely peeking out from beneath his jacket. That’s the main giveaway. Slayers are many things—brutal, violent, sadistic—but subtle isn’t one of them.

“On second thought, I guess I’m having mine to-go, please,” I say to the guy making my sandwich. He glowers at me like the greatest crime in the world is changing orders, before glancing across my face, over my clothes, down to the tattoo circling my wrist. I can almost see his thought process: Tall teenage dude with scuffed jeans and a leather jacket, scar on his face, and most likely gang tattoos. Just finish his stupid sandwich and get him out of here.

“No problem,” the guy says and shoves my lunch down the counter.

I step out of line to wait. I catch the Slayer’s eye. He shifts the sword closer to his hands and I can’t help smirking.

He knows.

I know.

This is going down. Hunters—especially the kind of hunter I am—don’t make a habit of giving ourselves away. My usual quarry is typically smarter than your non-magical riffraff. The Slayers must have picked up that I was coming. Which means I’ve finally found what I’m looking for.

Keeping the one Slayer in my peripheral, I scan the rest of the store for his buddies while Disgruntled Employee finishes my lunch. Slayers usually travel in pairs. I don’t see anyone else suspicious in here, which means his partner must be waiting outside.

Just down the road—beyond the gas pumps and swaying pines—I can make out the bristling building tops of the nearest city, Thornbriar. It’s a suburb of the much larger Rochester, but Thornbriar is where my search has led. That’s fine by me.

I have reasons for wanting to stay out of Rochester.

While I continue waiting, I make faces at the little boy in line. He giggles from behind his mom’s leg, his chubby cheeks spread wide in an innocent grin. The Slayer’s glower deepens. He probably doesn’t think people—sorry, creatures—like me have an ounce of humanity in us. That we’re wholly consumed by the beasts inside.

He’s not entirely wrong. He’s also not entirely right.

“Kaden?” The guy at the register calls my name. I finish crossing my eyes at the little boy, then pick up my sandwich. Pay with cash, always with cash, then walk out.

I’ve got a couple minutes, tops, to prepare.

The love of my life sits around the back of the store. To some, driving a 1966 Shelby GT is enviable. To others, impractical. To me, when I saw the muscle car sitting unused and unloved in someone’s driveway, it was a splurge in my splurge-free life. The ride’s taken me all over the country. I’m no gearhead, but the parts aren’t too hard to come by if you know the right repair shops. That’s the thing I liked most about it: Something breaks on a car, you fix it. When people break, they stay broken.

I toss the sandwich in the passenger seat and pop the trunk. Every belonging I’ve ever owned sits neatly packed in its proper place. Extra clothes and my journal are already stuffed in a quick-grab backpack. Snacks for the road strain behind mesh webbing. I click open the case that holds my two knives. Their rune-carved blades gleam up at me.

I shut the case. On second thought, I don’t feel like using my usual methods of fighting. I want to get my hands dirty.

Multiple pairs of footsteps approach behind me. “Turn around,” a man says. “I want to see your face when we kill you, abomination.”

I close the trunk with a chuckle. “Can’t you guys come up with more creative insults? Must have heard that one at least five times.”

I turn to find myself semi-circled by five of them. More than I thought. I must have hit the jackpot.

I pin the leader as the sneering one in the back. Sandwich shop sword man flanks him. The other three look like your run-of-the-mill Slayer grunts.

“We know who you are, hunter.” Their leader spits the term out like a piece of rancid meat. Which is pretty hilarious coming from them.

“I’m not sure you guys have the moral high ground here,” I say. “That kid in Oregon you left a bloody mess? I didn’t forget that. Or the Convocation some of your buddies torched outside Atlanta. Killed three people.”

As I talk, the darkness inside me starts straining against my control. A couple of the Slayers take a nervous step back. They can’t see my magic yet, but they feel a dangerous change in the air and that makes them scared. Good. Let them have a taste of what I am.

But not yet.

“Those beasts deserved to die,” their leader says.

“Those people,” I correct.

“Ha!” Their leader spits in disdain. The other Slayers close in. I step away from my car. I don’t want to dent it when things get messy. Already the Slayers are pulling out more collapsible swords and drawing knives. The air crackles with runic magic and I see the ancient symbols floating in the air around the woman on my left. They’ve brought a magic user.

They’ll need it.

The leader points the tip of one of his knives at me. “Kill hi—”

“Wait.”

The authority in my command causes the first eager Slayer to stumble in confusion. I hold my finger up, waiting.

Behind them, the little boy has just emerged from the gas station with his mother. She helps him into his car seat—thankfully neither one glancing our way—then hops in herself and drives off. My last view of him is his confused face catching sight of us before they’re both gone.

“Now go,” I say.

I take the magic user by surprise, darting close and sinking a fist viciously into her stomach. Her eyes nearly pop out of her skull as she wheezes and drops like a dumbbell. I don’t feel the slightest bit bad about the cheap shot. Or hitting a woman. When it comes to Slayers, I’m an equal opportunity bringer of pain.

With the most dangerous of their group taken out, I turn to the others. “Who’s next?”

The way they attack me has no order. It’s pathetic, really. I may be an unorthodox fighter, but I’ve got some tact.

I duck beneath a roundhouse and kick out the man’s knee. He drops with a scream and I’m already slipping past the slashing blades of his friends. The second man is more skilled, but after evading his sloppy swing I incapacitate him with a blow to the back of the neck. None of them are well-trained. Or wearing the usual Slayer body armor. It’s clear they didn’t send their A-Team to face me.

Advantage: mine.

I swivel in time to take a swift punch across the jaw. I stumble back and taste blood. My head spins and I have to shake it a couple times to clear my vision.

Okay, maybe I’ve gotten a little cocky.

“Die!” Sword man tries to deliver an overhead strike. I step aside and the blade swishes past and bites concrete. I deliver a crushing blow to his ribs and step over his collapsing body. His buddy behind trembles, too frightened to move. “You…You…”

“Easy way or hard way?” I ask him.

He yells and brings his own sword up.

Hard way it is.

I jab at his throat before he can swing. His eyes roll into the back of his head as he drops, unconscious. Easy. So, so easy—

A flash of steel out of the corner of my eye. I’ve gotten complacent. Forgot about the leader and his knives. It’s already too late to dodge as he slashes down at me. I bring my arm up to block.

Clang.

The daggers’ razor-sharp edges cut cleanly through the sleeve of my jacket but stop cold against the solid resistance beneath.

“No!” their leader grits out.

I twist my arm and the blades fly out of his hands. I didn’t feel the blow. I’m not even bleeding. As their leader stumbles back, I hold up my hand and show him the reason why.

Dragon scales, black as the deepest depths of space, crawl up my arm. I pull my sleeve back to inspect the damage. There is none, of course. I’m far from invulnerable, but it’ll take a lot more than a paltry attack like that to hurt me.

I flex my dragon claws a few times and shift back to my normal tan human skin.

“Close. Maybe next time.”

Then I kick him in the face. He drops, groaning.

The entire fight only took a couple minutes. They really were amateurs. Nobody saw us, either. Perfect.

I double-check none of them are bleeding out or dying. Death would be no less than they deserve, but I’m sure the local Convocation has already had issues with them. They’ll face proper justice.

Speaking of which…

I step over the nearest unconscious body and retrieve my burner phone from the trunk. I dial a number I’d looked up before I arrived. The other side picks up on the second ring.

“Rochester dragon-kin Convocation,” a woman says.

“I’ve got Slayers here,” I say.

There’s a long pause. I wonder if she’s ever directly dealt with the dragon-kin’s biggest threat.

“Do you mean you’ve spotted Slayers, or know where they are?”

“I mean I have five unconscious ones behind the Sinclair gas station off highway nineteen leading into Thornbriar. I’ll leave them by the dumpster where they belong. I recommend you send someone to pick them up quick before the day shift takes out the trash and gets traumatized for life.”

“Now wait just a min—”

I hang up and pocket the phone. An uncomfortable sensation crawls up the back of my neck. I turn back around to the Slayers.

One, two, three, four—

Their leader is gone.

Frantic, I dash around the side of the gas station in time to see him scampering across the highway. I bite my tongue in anger. I don’t let my quarry escape. Ever. It’s bad for my reputation. It’s also a danger to others. A desperate Slayer is an even deadlier Slayer.

I rush back to my car and retrieve a roll of duct tape. I take a precious moment to slow down and ensure I’m properly casting the runes that will keep them bound. The ancient symbols flare across the tape as I quickly truss up the unconscious Slayers and stash them out of sight.

My car starts up with a roar as I hop in and peel out onto the road. The Slayer’s already made it into the trees on the other side and I’ve lost sight of him. I pound the steering wheel in frustration. Taking my eyes off them was a rookie mistake. I can see Thornbriar down the hill through a break in the trees. No doubt that’s where he’s headed.

In fact…

I squint at the nearest building as I drive around the corner. A high school. Likely filled with kids my age. Vulnerable targets a Slayer could use as leverage. Probably his destination.

Things just got a lot more dangerous.

 

 

Chapter Two—Astrid

“Miss Michaels?”

I snap my head up from the desk. The entire class of Lit 320 stares at me, some with pity, some with delight that I’ve inadvertently made a boring hour a little more exciting.

My cheeks heat like a bed of hot coals. “Sorry, Mr. Camden, I was…”

Trying not to pass out? Exhausted? At the end of my rope?

“Focused on the material. Which is…” My eyes skirt over the desk. My textbook lays open, still on the copyright page.

Ah…

Mr. Camden gives a belabored sigh he probably reserves for ornery students and dogs that poop on the carpet. “Miss Michaels, please stay after the bell rings.”

Someone behind me sniggers. The temperature in my cheeks has nearly matched the surface of the sun.

“Yes, sir,” I mumble. I drop my head back to my book as Mr. Camden returns to the whiteboard to keep teaching grammar or our latest reading assignment or whatever it was. I wouldn’t know because I wasn’t paying attention. Again.

After a moment, I feel blessed relief as the stares of my classmates ease off. The entertainment has passed and I’m back to being the social pariah. No, that’s not entirely true. Invisible is more like it. I gravitate in a different social circle than most of them.

Who am I kidding? I gravitate in a different universe.

I rub my eyes with the palms of my hands. My eyelids feel like they have sandbags on them. It’s what I get for another late night of studying and work. I got home at a decent hour, but home is…home is…

“Psst!”

I glance to the left, through a stringy curtain of my blonde hair. My seatmate—Megan, I think—slyly holds out a canister of energy gum. She shoots a look at Mr. Camden and softly shakes it. “Take one.”

I do and pop it into my mouth, grateful beyond belief. “Thank you so much,” I whisper.

She stows the gum back in her pocket with a nod. “Figured you needed it. You look like death.”

“Er, thanks. I feel like it, too.”

Story of my life, at least recently.

Freshly powered by the wonders of caffeinated gum, I manage to pay attention through the rest of the class (with grammar it’s no wonder I almost fell asleep) until the bell rings. I linger as I pack away my things and wait until everyone’s filed out before approaching Mr. Camden’s desk.

“I’m sorry about not paying attention,” I say. “I promise it won’t happen again.”

Mr. Camden sighs as he pushes his overlarge glasses back onto his face. He doesn’t look mad. Just disappointed. That’s almost worse.

“I didn’t want to talk to you about sleeping in class, though that is problematic. This…” He produces a slim stack of papers from a larger stack beside him, like a magician revealing a trick. And for my next act, your hopes will disappear!“This was what I wanted to discuss.”

My last essay. With a barely passing grade in disgustingly bold red at the top. The third barely passing essay I’d turned in.

“I’m not going to lie, this was abysmal,” Mr. Camden says.

Ouch. Points for a sick burn, teach.

“I know, Mr. Camden. I…” What can I say? I couldn’t concentrate? Scribbled it down between the long shifts at my job? I can’t tell him the truth. I don’t need his pity. “I can do better.”

“I know you can,” Mr. Camden says. “I’ve seen it. I know you take dual credit courses between here and the college in Rochester, so maybe you feel your high school courses don’t matter as much—”

“That’s not it at all,” I snap before he can finish. “Sorry,” I add as one of his eyebrows creeps up. “I take all of my classes very seriously.”

Mr. Camden holds my gaze, searching for the real answer. “I know you do. But this,” he gives another wave of the terrible paper I really want to spontaneously combust, “won’t get you accepted there as a full student.”

“I know, and I promise to make it up and get my grades where they need to be.”

“That’s what I wanted to hear. There’s a remedial English class in the library starting five minutes after the last bell. If you attend a couple of those, I’ll bump this grade up to a number that’s not painful to look at.”

I could have sprinkled him with confetti. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, Mr. Camden! I’ll for sure do that.”

Mr. Camden chuckles. “I’m hoping that also means you’ll turn in your usual high-quality work from now on as well. Very good, then, after the bell you’ll meet Yuki Senju. She teaches it. You know Miss Senju, don’t you?”

Knew her? No. Knew of her? Yes. Who in this high school didn’t? Between her sterling academic record and athletic prowess, I was surprised she hadn’t dumped all of us and taken over the world yet. “Uh, yeah, Yuki. Okay. Awesome.”

“Great.” Mr. Camden beams. “That should get you back on the right foot.”

That, or put me back in the dreaded social spotlight once again. There’s a fifty-fifty chance of it going wrong, but I appreciate Mr. Camden for trying.

I hitch the strap of my backpack farther up one shoulder as I turn to leave.

“Astrid?”

I tense as he clears his throat. I know what he wants to know, even before he asks, “Is everything okay with you? Outside of school, I mean. Forgive me for prying, but I can’t help feeling there are more pieces to this failing grade puzzle.”

A tremor travels up my arms as my body chills. A small buzz builds in the back of my head. I’ve felt under the weather lately, like a cold I can’t shake. This question isn’t helping.

“Nope, everything’s fine.” The lie tastes bitter as it slides out of my mouth. “Guess I didn’t study hard enough.”

There’s pity in his look now, the last thing I want. I force a smile and walk out.

The one advantage of Mr. Camden holding me back to talk is that there are fewer students to avoid as I head to my next class; fewer odd—sometimes downright hostile—looks to avoid, though I’ve finally stopped getting a lot of those. Before That Summer, I only received dirty looks when I wore enough black to pass as a goth, or the colored ends of my blonde hair raised a few teachers’ eyebrows.

I still wear both of those (maybe less black because I’m not a fan of sun stroke) but after my…incident, the only attention I usually get is hostile.

Gina Demarcos lets out an unnecessarily haughty sniff as I pass. I shut my eyes as a prickle travels across the back of my eyes, not unlike a static shock. I have to briefly lean against a locker and blink until my vision clears. When it does, for a second, I can see more. Like, scarily more. The drab linoleum floors and white and blue lockers pop with colors so vibrant it almost hurts my head. The students lingering at the far end of the hall snap into crystal clear focus as though they’re standing right next to me.

What. Is. Happening?

I glance at my hand braced against the locker. I see every pore and fine hair in detail so crisp it would make a BBC nature documentary jealous.

Then I blink and my hand is just my hand. 20/20 resolution and everything.

I shake my head. I don’t know of any cold that make your senses work better, if those two things are even related. I’m definitely not on any drugs. As hard as things have gotten, and as much as I know my classmates think I’m the type, I’ve never done those.

“…what is wrong with her?” Gina’s loud, clear voice filters into my ears.

I turn my head so I can see her out of the corner of my eye. She’s twenty feet behind me. And whispering.

She catches me staring and her brows furrow. “Why is she looking over—”

And then I can’t hear her anymore. I resist reaching up to touch my ears to see if something’s happened to make them bat-like.

“Hey, Astrid!”

This time I don’t need crazy weird hearing to note the challenge in Gina’s tone. I hurry away before they can catch up.

By the time I near my locker on the second floor, I’ve managed to push most of the weirdness from downstairs out of my mind. Either I had a fatigue-induced hallucination (likely), or I’d come in contact with radiation and somehow became a superhero (moderately less likely). Neither problem is one I want to deal with at the moment.

I turn the corner to my locker and stutter step when I find Blake standing there. He’s checking his phone but every so often brushes his bangs out of his eyes and gives a playful smile to a passing girl. Though part of my stomach flutters, I’m not sure if it’s from happiness or disgust.

I approach and he gives another girl a grin. She giggles. Actually giggles.

“Watch it, or you might have a harem soon,” I say.

Blake turns his teasing grin on me, this time with an added wink. “You won’t see me complaining.”

Lovely. I stand by my locker and wait for him to do something. Maybe give me a hug. Maybe even a kiss. Heaven forbid he show any public sign of affection.

When he makes no move, I put in my combination and throw open my locker with a huff.

“You kept me waiting,” Blake says. “Next class is about to start.”

“You were waiting for this thrilling conversation? How dreadful,” I say. I throw my English books inside and grab my calculator. Reconsider, then grab my papers for English. I’m definitely going to that remedial thing with Yuki. Even if the thought makes me want to break out in hives.

I close my locker to find Blake’s grin has wilted a bit. “Wait…are you upset at me?”

“What makes you think that?”

“I don’t know. Call it a feeling.”

He leans closer and for one long heartbeat I think he’s actually going to do it—show the school he’s involved with Astrid “That Summer” Michaels.

But he searches my face and leans back again. “Yeah, you’re definitely mad at me. And I think I know why. I told you, in school, you and me…”

“You couldn’t seem to keep your hands off me when we were making out in the back of your car.”

“Yeah…” Blake smiles like he’s fondly remembering that night, and I want to slap the smug expression off his face. “That was nice. But I told you, it’s a no go when we’re at school. You understand.”

“Sure,” I say tightly. “I have to get to class.”

“Whoa, you don’t have to rush.” Blake holds out an arm like he didn’t just complain about me keeping him waiting. “I don’t want you to leave mad at me.”

Too late. “I’m not mad, I’m—”

“Astrid, there you are!”

A soft hand grabs my upper arm as my best friend Holly appears like a genie in a puff of art chalk. Her eyes behind her way-too-big glasses narrow at Blake. “You told me we were going to meet at chemistry, Astrid. Come on, the bell’s gonna ring soon and you’ll get another detention if you’re late.”

Blake’s grin has gone brittle. “I’d better get to class, too, I guess. You free Wednesday, Astrid?” He’s oozing charm again. “We should spend some more time together.”

Holly’s hand tightens on my arm. “She’ll be busy Wednesday. Right, Astrid?”

Now her large eyes turn on me and for not the first time I’m reminded of a concerned owl.

I should say no. Blake doesn’t care about me. Not in the way I need—or want—someone to care. But here’s the kicker: I’m lonely. Achingly lonely. I have Holly, whose friendship means more than I can say. But I crave more.

“I can’t meet Wednesday,” I say, and I don’t miss Holly’s not-subtle beaming smile. “But maybe Friday if I don’t have a work shift.”

Holly’s smile plummets.

“Cool,” Blake says. “I’ll text you.”

Then without so much as a hearty, platonic pat on the back, he saunters off. I finally manage to free my arm from Holly’s grip, which has begun cutting off my circulation.

“Astrid…” she begins.

“I know,” I say.

Holly nods, satisfied. “He totally doesn’t care about you. Well, not all of you, anyway. You could do so much better.”

“I know,” I huff. “Let’s just get to chemistry.”

“Just so long as you know,” Holly says triumphantly as she pumps her short legs to catch up with me. “Guys like Blake are as shallow as a kiddie pool. I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

She barely avoids colliding with a group of guys as we head upstairs to the third floor. I don’t miss a few of their gazes following after her, but she’s oblivious as always. That’s Holly, the smartest girl I know and also the most clueless. With her huge glasses, short, choppy hair, and insistence on cosplaying as a farmer with all the overalls she wears, most people assume she’s overcompensating on the artsy, nerdy girl cliché. But that’s just Holly. A pixie with the patience of a saint.

“We’re working on sculptures in art,” Holly puffs as we tromp up the stairs. “I’m trying to do a scale model of Manarola houses, you know, the ones in Cinque Terre, but of course we don’t have enough clay for that.”

“Uh huh,” I say, trying to act like I have the slightest idea what she’s talking about, per usual.

“But I was thinking next time we head to the college I’d bring it in there and—oof!”

I stop as Holly hits a meat wall at the top of the stairs.

“Sorry ’bout that,” Ken says. He’s about a head taller than me, which makes him two heads taller than Holly who’s gone mute as a monk with a vow of silence. Red creeps into her cheeks as she gazes up at him.

“Didn’t see you there.” Ken chuckles and I resist rolling my eyes. Good line, Casanova.

Holly opens and closes her mouth, at a loss for words. I don’t blame her. Ken’s on the football team and a senior, a double whammy we junior girls should be honored to speak to. Me, I couldn’t care less.

But Holly…

“Thanks a ton for your help on that art history paper, Holly,” Ken says. “Got an A with your help. You know, I’ve got another one coming up next week. Maybe we can get together and knock that out this weekend?”

“Uh…yeah, sure,” Holly manages.

“Cool, cool.”

“Yeah, so cool, rainbows and kittens and everyone’s happy,” I say. “Come on, Holly. Didn’t you say we were late?”

Giving Ken my most sardonic smile, I break Holly free from his gravitational pull. It takes about ten feet before I see her gaze return to the land of reality. “Isn’t he just…” She sighs.

“Oh, he’s just something all right.”

Holly pouts. “I like him, Astrid.”

“And he likes you. For all the papers you write for him.”

“I don’t write his papers. I just compile the research and lay it out in a standard format and then proofread it when he’s done.”

“Right. Just the same thing you did for Sterling, and Tanner, and Omar…”

Holly’s gone quiet.

“Sorry,” I say gently. “As long as you’re happy with it, I’m happy.”

She pushes her glasses back up her nose with a sigh. “Guess we both have boy trouble, huh?”

Among a thousand other things, yeah, that too.

I spend the rest of the school day collecting enough homework to make my college courses jealous. My backpack is so weighted by assignments and my looming dread at finding the time to complete all of them that it threatens to create its own black hole.

By the time the last bell rings and I drag my tired self to the library I’m almost too exhausted to be nervous about a remedial lesson with Yuki. Almost.

The library doors open with a silent whoosh and I walk into a serene pocket of stillness and quiet. I take a moment to breathe in the scent of books and the potato chips someone managed to sneak in. I barely have time to read anymore, not since…well, before. I miss this. Books full of worlds away from mine. A hundred thousand possibilities and a hundred thousand lives.

“Can I help you?”

The librarian behind the front desk is giving me a peculiar look and I realize I’ve been standing in place, sniffing like a total weirdo.

“Er, remedial English?” I say.

She points to the back, where I can hear hushed voices. “No food.” She eyes my hands like they’ve already committed a crime. “And certainly no drinks. The only thirst here should be the thirst for knowledge.”

“Ah. Noted.” I hurry away from her scrutinizing gaze and slip between the shelves to an open space full of tables at the back. Another girl younger than me sits scribbling something while Yuki Senju herself hovers over her shoulder.

I stop and ready myself. That strange static I felt before runs up and down my arms, now accompanied by a building headache, but I don’t have time for it. There’s no doubt in anyone’s mind that Yuki is the queen of the school. A senior with stellar, well, everything. Even talking to her will probably raise my social status just above troglodyte.

“What are you here for?”

Yuki stares right at me, every bit a real-life Instagram filter. She brushes her curled waves of black hair behind her ear, every movement perfect enough to be on the cover of a magazine. Her sharp, dark eyes spear me, contrasting with her moonlight-pale skin.

My headache grows. The buzzing bees in my stomach turn frantic.

“English,” I force out, shoving the discomfort away. “Lit 320.”

“Mr. Camden,” Yuki says. “And at this time of year…I’m guessing it’s the essay on Joseph Heller’s Catch-22?”

Wow. I’ve heard she was smart, but Yuki can give Holly a run for her money. “That’s right.”

“Take a seat.” She motions to a free table. I hurry to sit and scramble to pull out a notebook and pen. I feel Yuki’s gaze on me as I write my name at the top of the page.

“Start writing an outline,” Yuki says and I jump. I hadn’t heard her approach. She looks down at me coolly. The buzzing in my arms is going crazy but I manage to start writing bullet points.

“Will this help?” I ask.

“If I say it will, then it will,” Yuki says. “How can you write something if you don’t know what to write? Gibberish will come out otherwise.”

“Of course. We don’t want that.”

I try to start writing the outline, but Yuki stays hovering over me. My skin has grown itchy.

“Have we met before?” Yuki says.

I focus on forming each letter perfectly with the tip of my pen instead of looking up at her. “I don’t think so. You might have seen me around school.”

“I have a feeling we’ve met.”

I don’t know what to say to that. Yuki taps my paper. “Start with an outline to your introduction. I’ll come check soon and I expect it to be done.”

At last she leaves but that doesn’t help. My skin is still crawling. A buzz of static runs through the tips of my hair. I slide my feet too fast on the carpet and a painfully sharp snap! bites at my legs. “Crap!”

“Language!” The librarian’s sharp voice carries through the shelves, as though I’ve said something remotely offensive.

Both Yuki and the other girl are staring at me. I force a smile. “Sorry. Kicked the table.”

But every time I glance at Yuki out of the corner of my eye she’s still staring. The buzzing on my skin dissipated after my shock, but it’s rapidly building again. My leg fidgets with enough force to power half the city. I don’t know how much longer I can sit here.

“What did you say your name was again?”

Yuki has teleported back over, but this time I can’t concentrate enough to care. My scalp is crawling with fire ants. My arms itch like I stuck them in a swarm of mosquitoes.

“I didn’t,” I manage. “It’s Astrid.”

“Astrid what?”

I suddenly have the strangest urge not to tell her. Sure, she could find out easily enough. But something weird is happening and the way she’s been looking at me—like she’s looking at something not someone—isn’t helping.

“Your last name, Astrid,” Yuki says.

“It’s—”

The buzzing threatens to tear the skin off my arms. I am nothing but raw nerves. In desperation, I stomp the ground again.

I feel the buzz leave my hair, crawl across my scalp, travel down my body until it hits the floor. A sheet of shining, crackling electricity shoots across the floor toward the nearest bookshelf, where the books explode off it in a flurry of cracking spines and waxy pages. One of them catches fire and flutters limply to the floor like a downed bird.

I stare, mouth hanging open. My mind must be cracked. That didn’t just happen. It couldn’t.

“Fire!” Yuki barks, already moving. In an instant she’s vanished from my side and is stomping out the fire. “Miss Harvey, fire!”

The librarian rushes through the shelves carrying an illicit Big Gulp soda, which she hurls on the flames.

“How in the world?” she gasps. “Miss Senju, do you have any idea—”

But the shelf beside them chooses that exact moment to lean precariously over and dump even more books. Miss Harvey lets out a pterodactyl screech and rushes to stop it. Yuki is still stomping the ashes of the burned book, but once she’s done I know she’ll focus on me. She’ll demand answers I don’t have to questions I don’t want asked.

My headache is gone. So is the buzzing on my skin.

I don’t think about how both that and the exploding bookshelf are connected but gather up my stuff and rush out.