First Chapter Reveal: Fat Boy vs. the Cheerleaders by Geoff Herbach

MEMORANDUM

From: Henry P. Rodriguez, Attorney at Law
Submitted To: Seventh District Court, Otter County
Re: Case No. 1745321—Gardener et al v. MLA Independent School District

SHORTLY BEFORE MIDNIGHT ON JUNE 15, GABRIEL JOHNSON, A SIXTEEN-YEAR-OLD FROM MINNEKOTA, MN, WAS APPREHENDED OUTSIDE CUB FOODS BY OFFICER REX McCOY. JOHNSON POSSESSED $17.75 IN SMALL BILLS AND CHANGE, WHICH HE CONFIRMED HAD BEEN REMOVED FROM THE VENDING MACHINE AT MINNEKOTA LAKE AREA HIGH SCHOOL. 

POLICE SUGGESTED THE ALLEGED ROBBERY WAS RELATED TO A LARGER CONFLICT INVOLVING ASSAULT, VANDALISM, AND DEFAMATION OF CHARACTER THAT HAS COME TO BE KNOWN AS THE SPUNK RIVER WAR.

THE FOLLOWING TRANSCRIPT IS GABRIEL’S VERBATIM ACCOUNT, RECORDED IN A CONFERENCE ROOM AT THE MINNEKOTA POLICE DEPARTMENT BETWEEN 10 A.M. AND 5:40 P.M. ON JUNE 16. 

WE SUBMIT THIS DOCUMENT AS CONTEXT FOR THE ABOVE NOTED CASE. THERE IS A SPECIFIC HUMAN COST WHEN THOSE IN POWER WIELD POWER ARROGANTLY. THIS CASE SUPPORTS A TEENAGER’S FIGHT FOR DIGNITY, OPPORTUNITY, AND FAIRNESS.

Chapter 1

Ripping off the pop machine last night wasn’t meant to be funny. It was my duty to all the geeks, burners and oddballs in school, because that machine sucks. Robbing it was serious business, okay?

Why are you laughing, Mr. Rodriguez?

I did it myself. I robbed the machine all by myself.

There were sheep in the school this morning? Real sheep?

How—? Oh, wait, I remember now. I must’ve let them in there by accident. Whoops. Like, left the door open after I robbed the machine and all those sheep wandered in by themselves.

No, it’s not funny, sir. Really.

I’m telling you, I’m the one who stole the money. It was eighteen dollars, but I lost a quarter when Officer McCoy roughed me up. Look at my chin! I have scrapes all over my stomach and knees, too.

That stupid pop machine. Stupid pop! It all started with that stupid…

Yeah I hate that machine! For so many reasons.

For instance, in May, me, Justin Cornell and Camille Gardener did this pop study for health class. The study was Camille’s idea, because she turned into a health nut when her dad started organic farming last year (they grew like two tomatoes and a one giant zucchini—they’re not the best farmers). Anyway, out of Camille’s concern for student health, she got us to study usage of the pop machine, her theory being that unhealthy kids would be the heaviest users.

Big, bad study, sir. Mr. Luken, our Health teacher, gave us passes to hang out in the cafeteria all day. We made a chart of jocks, brains, music geeks, gamers, burners, and “others” (sad sacks who are hard to categorize because they have no social connections to anyone) and we took note of who purchased a product from the pop machine and what specific product they purchased.

Almost nobody paid attention to us while we took notes. Only a couple said stuff like, “What are you staring at, dorks?” Seth Sellers, a jock, made fart sounds when he saw me.

This pop project was eye-opening, sir.

After school that day, me, Camille and Justin went to Bitterroot Coffee Shop down on Main Street to tally things up.

“Nick, Gamer, purchased three Pepsis in four hours,” Justin said.

“Kendra, Burner, four different pops in five hours,” Camille said.

“She’s pretty overweight,” Justin said.

“Not as big as Tiff, Other, who bought four bottles of Sierra Mist,” Camille said.

“Oh Lord Mother of all Balls,” I said.

Camille plugged the data into a spreadsheet, squinting.

Justin shook his head, sucked his latte and was all like, “Whoa.”

Then Camille sat back, sipped her green tea and was all like, “Just as I suspected.”

I smiled and said, “Holy Mother of all Balls, right?” I drank a mocha with whipped cream, which has a million calories, by the way.

Here’s the scoop, sir: Purchasers of pop at Minnekota Lake Area High School are fat asses, trailer park kids, addicted gamers, and burner chicks who eat cigarettes for breakfast. Dozens and dozens of these kids. Most of them went for second rounds later in the day. Some for thirds. A couple, fourths (me, for instance). Very few jocks purchased pop from the machine. (Seth Sellers bought one bottle of Pepsi late in the afternoon, so he was able to greet me with the aforementioned fart sounds.) Two cheerleaders purchased from the machine, but they both bought diet. That diet stuff will kill you, but not make you fat on the calories.

What does that tell you, Mr. Rodriguez?

I tried not to show my concern, but Justin and Camille were clearly concerned.

“You drink a lot of pop, Chunk,” Justin said. “Could be part of the problem,”

“Oh, is there a problem?” I said. “I wasn’t aware of a problem!” I smiled big and raised my fat mocha like I was making a toast.

“There’s a problem, Chunk,” Camille said. “A big problem.” She didn’t smile. She didn’t toast me.

“I’m just sayin’,” Justin said.

Yeah. Really. A problem. I drank a hell-ton of Code Red Mountain Dew every day—four bottles, five bottles—and the only pants that fit me were stretchy pants (elastic waistband, sir).

I knew it, too, knew pop was part of my issue. But, see, I also thought it was part of my success! I was winning by buying all that pop! All the vending machine money went to fund the band! I’m a trombone player, you know? That’s one badass, hilarious instrument, right? Trombone! Awesome instrument. I love band so much so I figured I was paying myself by drinking all that pop. Winning it huge.

No. Stupid.

The truth is, I’ve gained a load of weight in the last couple of years. Kids call me fat ass, sausages, fudge balls, butter balls, cake balls, lard ass, 8 Butt Johnson. All kinds of names. I laugh and go along with it, but those names hurt my feelings.

Even my stupid gym teacher calls me names!

The day after our pop study, I was depressed, so it took me a long time to get to school, so I was late to gym class, so Mr. McCartney ordered me to “orbit,” which means run laps. I didn’t want to get detention (McCartney had been threatening me with detention, because I make jokes and I’m quote unquote mouthy). So I did what I was told.

While I was jogging around the gym, Seth Sellers shouted, "Planet turd in orbit!"

I smiled. “Yeah, watch out, planet earth. This shit ball might crash out of the night sky!” I faked being out of control and weaved off course like I was crashing.

McCartney got pissed. “This isn’t a joke, Chunk,” he said. “This is a punishment.”

“Okay,” I said. “Sorry.” I jogged on, but when I got to the far end of the gym, Janessa Rogers, this nasty cheerleader, said, “Shake it, Chunk! Shake it!”

I puckered my lips duck-face style and started shaking my ass while I jogged.

Everybody laughed.

Everybody except McCartney. He freaked. Way out of control. His face turned dark red and sweat streamed down his forehead. He started yelling, "You wanna be a clown, Chunk? You wanna disrupt my class? Oh, you’re real hilarious!”

I stopped my ass shaking,

“God, I’m sick of it,” McCartney shouted.

I stopped jogging all together. Stared at him, because he was screaming. Everyone else stopped whacking their birds (we were in a badminton unit).

McCartney walked toward me fast. “I’m so sick of your baloney. Sick of your face.”

“My face?” I asked, because I was surprised, because I always thought McCartney sort of liked me, even if I annoyed him.

“Your fat face! Get out of my gym, you sack of shit. Get your fat ass out of here."

Everybody stared. Everybody’s mouth hung open.

I swallowed hard. Stared at McCartney for a second. Then said, "Okay.” I put my head down and bumbled out of there as fast as my fat legs could carry me.

Terrible. Teacher verbally assaults you like that?

Hey. Why are we talking about this, Mr. Rodriguez? Shouldn’t we be talking about how…how you’re going to keep me from going to jail or something? I’m a little nervous about my crime.

The whole story, huh? Okay. You asked for it. I can talk forever.

Pop. The night after I was kicked out of gym, I pulled five empty bottles of Code Red Mountain Dew out of my backpack (there isn’t recycling at school, so I bring my empties home). One bottle didn’t have a cap on it. A little Code Red dribbled out onto my bedroom rug. It made a little stain. I squinted at it and my heart beat hard.

This stain reminded me of Doris our cleaning lady back when Dad was trying to pick up the pieces after Mom hit the road (Mom ran away to Japan while I was in eighth grade, by the way).

Doris was a tiny old lady. She spilled dirty mop water on the carpet. She said, “Better laugh than cry.” She broke a lamp when she whacked it off a side table with the duster. “Better laugh than cry.”

Poor Doris! She was terrible. She could barely lift a broom, she was so old. Dad had to fire her, which made him cry (serious sobbing breakdown, which he did a lot back then), but what was he going to do? She plugged the toilet with Clorox wipes. She broke a whole set of plates. She fell off a stool and ripped down our shower curtain. Dad had no choice. But when the taxi dropped her off at our place on the day he actually fired her, he broke down like a weak-ass baby. “I’m sorry,” he cried. “I’m so sorry, Doris.”

Doris shrugged and smiled and put her coat back on. I was so nervous about how she would react. What if Doris cried about getting fired? What would we do then? But she didn't seem to care at all. "Better laugh than cry," she said. Then Dad drove her home.

And I exhaled. I relaxed. And I thought: Doris has it right, right? Better laugh than cry. I don’t want to be a fool sobbing mess like my dumb dad, who can’t deal with his wife leaving him (my mom left me, too, and I wanted to cry, but seriously, better laugh than cry). That became my whole way of dealing.

A couple years later, there I was, ass dancing in the high school hallway while Seth Sellers mocked me with fart sounds. Laughing all the way, man.

But I stared at that Code Red stain on my rug and my heart beat and I thought, that’s not funny. For the first time, sir, it occurred to me that my total lack of dignity is not remotely funny.

That feeling continued into the night.

Grandpa, who you met this morning, moved in with me and Dad last summer to help us out. He cooks really well and sort of cleans—better than Doris, I guess. After he got too old to be a professional body builder, Grandpa ran a diner in town and the dude can make comfort food like nobody’s business.

Yes, you heard me right, body-builder.

Why are you laughing?

Everybody in town knows about Grandpa. He was Mr. Minnesota 1977, Mr. Rodriguez. I'm serious. The ladies loved him. Grandpa was Arnold Schwarzenegger's main competition back in the day.

That's what he told me and I believe him.

Long story short, sir, that night Grandpa cooked up some steaks and a bunch of mushrooms in butter sauce and mashed potatoes and green beans and fixed us salads. The deal is I never ate the green beans or the salad part. I doubled up on mashed potatoes, because oh balls, yes, do I love the awesome flavor of my grandpa's cream cheese infused mashed potatoes.

While I was sucking down the potatoes, Grandpa stared at me. He said, "Boy, the lack of roughage in your diet accounts for that big gut of yours.”

I looked up, stared back at Grandpa’s pinched face. I remembered Mr. McCartney calling me a fat ass in gym. My heart sank. My chin quivered. "Big gut?" I asked.

"You heard me," he said.

I swallowed hard, thought I might cry, because all these names… But then my Doris philosophy kicked in. I said, “I’m out of here!” I put the rest of the potatoes in my mouth—a giant wad—jumped up from my chair and ass-danced out of the dining room.

“Sure love the spuds, don’t ya, ya Chunk,” Grandpa called after me.

“Ha ha ha!” my dad laughed.

Back downstairs in my room, I stared at the stain again. What the hell is so funny? Am I really just a joke? I pictured Doris’s quivery arms and unsteady gaze and her wrinkled old face.

Then it hit me! Oh man, I thought. Crap! You’re not Doris, you idiot.

Total realization, sir. Doris couldn’t help it that she was so old. What was she going to do? Cry about living so long she no longer had control of her body? Better laugh than cry makes sense for her. I, on the other hand, have a choice. I’m a powerful young buck. Ass dancing isn’t the only option, right?

Don’t get me wrong, sir, I like being funny. But I don’t like…

You asked for it! The whole story! This totally has to do with the pop machine.

See, I was already pretty crabby that last week of school. Because I tried to limit my Code Red intake to three bottles a day, because I didn’t want to be a victim anymore, didn’t want to just laugh it all off. I wanted to do something for myself. I’d become dependent on the sugar and caffeine in the freaking pop, okay?

 Justin and Camille both commented on my bad mood.

“Why so sad?” Justin asked while driving me to school.

“Someone hit you with the sad stick?” Camille asked during chemistry.

“Bah,” I replied to both of them. “Screw everything.”

See? I was already evolving the attitude that caused me to become the criminal I am today.

Then, Wednesday that last week of school we had the first tiny event of what has since come to be known as the Spunk River War.

What a stupid name. Spunk. That’s a bonehead name.

Sure thing, sir. Go ahead and get coffee. I’ll be here when you get back. Not like I can go anywhere.

Chapter Reveal: Empower by Jessica Shirvington

Synopsis
It has been two years since Violet Eden walked away from the city, her friends, her future and - most importantly - her soulmate, Lincoln. Part angel, part human, Violet is determined to stand by the promises she made to save the one she loves.

Living in the perpetual coldness of a broken soul she survives day to day as a Rogue Grigori in London.

But when an unexpected visitor shows up at her door, the news he bears about someone she swore to protect leaves Violet with no choice.

Even worse, she fears that this might all lead back to the night she tries hardest to forget. And what was taken without her permission.

Violet is going back to New York ... and she knows exactly who is going to be there.

With Phoenix in her dreams and Lincoln in her heart she knows it is only a matter of time before the final choice must be made.

Chapter One

“But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep.”

Robert Frost

My sweater was coated in a layer of mist—-again—-a by--product of life in London. I barely noticed the constant drizzle anymore. It’s not as if the cold bothered me, not when I was the very definition of cold.

What was bothering me was the smell. There is something rank about a meat market at night—-especially when you’re wedged into the eaves wondering what, over the years, has been sprayed about and never cleaned away. I shuddered.

The Smithfield Market was currently in vogue, but a gritty sense of history thickened the air, giving it a density that made me sure this wasn’t the first time the site had been used for wicked intent. And right now, it was hunting hour.

At least I was the hunter.

I watched quietly as the exiles came into the center of the massive terminal--style space, vaguely interested to note that there were six of them, instead of the four I’d expected. No bother, I suppose. I still had the element of surprise on my side.

The past two years had taught me not to let the everyday hiccups get to me. Sure, the additional muscle would hurt, but only in the physical sense, and I could cope with that. Rolling with the punches is necessary when you are a Grigori—-a human--angel hybrid—-a weapon against the ever--increasing numbers of exiled angels on earth. For me even more so, since they gave me such a colorful nickname. I’m the Keshet—-the rainbow. I didn’t ask to be, but I made my choices and I stand by them.

So, there I was. Although I was still trying to figure out exactly what being the rainbow meant, mostly I found that the desire to know conflicted with my continuing need not to think about it at all. One thing I did know was that somehow I could create space with the angels—-an unknown place where we were able to take form and communicate. My angel maker—-whose name I still didn’t know—-said it was a place of new possibilities. For what, I was not sure.

But I know this is what I am. It is what I will be.

The final two exiles sauntered up to the four already waiting. It used to be impossible for me to be this close to exiles without them going into a frenzy, sensing my presence. But I’d learned many lessons over the past year, the most useful of which had been how to keep my guards up and locked so tight that even exiles couldn’t sense me when I was truly concentrating.

Which—-judging by the thin film of sweat on my forehead—-is now.

The exiles dumped the huge calico sack they had been dragging along the floor and pulled it open, revealing three mutilated bodies to join the two maimed ones already on display.

From my position it was difficult to tell how old the corpses were, and if the smell was able to give a clue, I wouldn’t have known, the stink of death and flesh being an overall theme of the place.

It was no wonder the exiles liked it so much.

Normally, exiles wouldn’t bother with the cleanup—-leaving evidence was of no concern. Normally, the exiles enjoyed the mess and despair they left behind. But not these exiles. These dark exiles were working for someone else. They’d been following a plan, using a hit list, and it was all too well constructed for any one of them to mastermind. Our intel told us they’d been hired. Such behavior would usually be considered beneath them, but apparently this group of exiles had decided the job was thrilling enough to suffer the humiliation of working for the highest bidder—-even if that was a human.

As for the billionaire businessman, well, that’s not my department, but someone will pay him a visit. Right after all the evidence of his wrongdoing—-minus the exile activity—-is handed over to the authorities and his bank accounts are heavily siphoned to pay for the futures of his victims’ families. And our fee, of course.

Which, thanks to certain people, is exorbitant.

Two of the exiles were dressed impeccably: one in a steel--gray suit and sporting villain--typical slicked--back hair; the other wore a slim--collared black suit that hugged his tall figure and set off his of--the--moment tousled, light brown hair. The remaining four were less striking in casual wear, though nonetheless picture perfect. All six looked over the bodies like fishermen comparing the size and quality of their haul. My hand grazed my dagger, the blade that had been given to me after I first embraced my powers and became a Grigori warrior three years ago. I was never without it. I even had a sheath attached to my bed for a quick draw if needed.

I’d learned the hard way—-through the death and suffering of people I loved and, strangely enough, through my own death and suffering—-exiles stop at nothing. Their insanity and misguided missions know no bounds, and they take pleasure in causing great pain and suffering to humankind.

At least tonight I would only face exiles of dark. A couple of years ago, the two opposing sides, light and dark, had called a truce. Of course, I tried not to think back to that time.

I tried constantly.

The discovery of the scripture that could end all Grigori had found its way into my hands. That in itself was part of the reason the Assembly had rejected me. They blamed me for trading with the dark exile, Phoenix. My decision had allowed him to resurrect Lilith—-his mother, the first dark exile—-from the dead, and she had taken control of the Grigori Scripture. But at the time, my choice had been a simple one. Phoenix had Steph, my best friend, and I wasn’t about to take any chances with her life. I’ve never regretted that choice.

Not like so many others I’ve made.

In the end, that made it easier to walk away from a place in the Academy when Josephine decided to change her mind. Of course, that was after I’d given my life, Lincoln’s soul had shattered, and Phoenix had died—-proving that not only was he the son of Lilith, but he was also the human son of the first man, Adam—-all so that I could kill Lilith. And those reasons weren’t even the ones I tried not to think about.

But I can’t go there right now.

I caught myself. I was working and the last thing I could afford to do was acknowledge that I was thinking about him.

The six exiles started to shift the remains of the bodies toward the incinerator, tossing them with supernatural strength and no care. I half expected them to try and mince the meat and load it onto trays for sale tomorrow. I wouldn’t put anything past them.

“Make sure you take the index fingers,” one of the suited exiles instructed. “Mr. George is expecting me to deliver them to him tonight.”

That’s a shame. Though I’m sure Mr. George will receive a knock at his door nonetheless.

“I still don’t understand why we don’t just kill him too,” another said.

“Are you challenging me?” The exile who had spoken first stepped forward.

His questioner mirrored his actions.

Here we go.

“If I must.”

Exiles never back down. Their pride and egotism combined with their unique brand of insanity is just too much to ignore. Angels were not created to take corporeal forms on earth. Though they have existed for eternity, in human bodies, they manifest emotions in ways their innate nature can never process. It makes them unstable. And almost unstoppable.

I wriggled into a better position and waited patiently, knowing that this would work in my favor.

Sure enough, the exile who had spoken out first also struck out first, engaging with the suited exile. It didn’t last long. The suit, clearly the older of the two and a true fighter—-my guess was he had once been either a Domination or a Power—-overpowered his opponent, snapping his neck and making quick work of removing his heart.

We had our methods of ending their immortal existence; they had theirs.

Happy days. I now have one less exile to take care of.

I checked the time and sighed. If I didn’t get this show on the road, I’d lose my window. And fighting alone was always my preference.

The drop to the ground was at least two stories high, but I landed behind the group of exiles lightly, thanks to my angelic enhancements.

Breathing calmly, I let go of the power I was holding tightly within, just enough to lower my shields.

The exiles, who had been preoccupied with their boasting, stiffened instantly and spun around to face the new threat. It was almost comical, the look of surprise on their faces. I guess a Grigori had never snuck up on them before.

Responding quickly, the suited exile stepped forward, shoving two of them to the side, the five of them quickly forming a semicircle around me.

So nice of them to stand in single file.

But the way he studied me—-with trademark exile insanity and undisguised raw desire—-made me think that this one recognized me. It happened from time to time.

I wanted to sit around and chew the fat. Really. I couldn’t think of anything I’d rather do with my time than hear about how they intended to rip me limb from limb and how that would make them as great as gods and me the most pathetic of humans. But when you’ve heard it all before and always walked away—-or, at the very least, been carried—-while they were returned for their ultimate judgment, it gets old. So, I cut to the chase.

“You have a choice. Make it or I will make it for you,” I said, knowing that of all Grigori, I alone had the right to put it like that. “Consider wisely,” I reinforced. After all, I could return them like any other Grigori with one of our blades, but if I willed it, I could also strip them of their angelic strengths and leave them human—-a fate exiles considered worse than an eternity in the pits of Hell. As far as I was aware, I was the only Grigori who could do this without requiring the exile in question to first choose such a fate. Which, of course, never happened.

“You brought Lilith to her end,” the suit said, his head tilted to the side, as if confused.

Yeah, that’s right, little ol’ me.

And it only cost me everything that mattered.

I raised my eyebrows. “Time’s almost up,” I said, refraining from closing my eyes briefly as I felt a surge of power within, something that had been happening increasingly. I was getting stronger, and exactly what that meant and how to harness it wasn’t the kind of knowledge I was excited to discover.

I could strip them all, make their choice for them, and be done with it, but I’d only done it twice. Onyx had been my first, and I’d seen the pain it caused him. I didn’t like knowing I was the one who took away his choice. Who was I to do such a thing? The second had been a demonstration, and had resulted in the exile in question meeting a quick death. I can’t say I regretted it—-he’d been one of the exiles so happy to see me strapped to a crucifix and tortured for hours—-but still…

Anyway, tonight was more like training, and I’d been taught to be thorough. So, when the suit threw the first exile at me—-knowing he’d be nothing more than a momentary distraction while I took him down and he lined up the next one—-I got to work.

I braced, grabbing my dagger and moving into position. By the time the exile came within range, my dagger had sliced through his heart and he was no longer there. Simply gone. Where did their physical forms go? Beats me.

I was already spinning by the time the second one was sent flying through the air toward me. My foot stopped his momentum and threw him back. I was on him in an instant, my dagger going straight to his heart. It didn’t need to be the heart to return them, just a killing blow inflicted by a Grigori weapon. You could slice into exiles all day long with your garden--variety knife or shoot them with a gun, but neither option worked. I’d never seen a Grigori manage to rip out an exile’s heart barehanded, and even though the trick worked for exiles taking out other exiles, something told me that it did not alter our rules. Permanent results for Grigori over exiles only came via the blades of angels.

Or my blood.

The third exile went much the same way, and soon enough I was left being circled by the two suits. To my surprise, they actually worked together—-exiles aren’t good at that—-boxing me into a corner. The brown--haired exile in the black suit moved in on me when the other one feigned a move to my right. I took a closed fist across the face and a foot to the stomach.

I heard a crack—-broken rib—-but I didn’t register the pain. That kind of pain was barely a tickle compared to the agony I carried inside, every moment of every day.

My pause gave the other exile the chance to take a swing. His foot collided with my hand so hard that my dagger went flying across the room. I kept my eyes on my attackers but my ear on my weapon, listening to the reverberations as it slid along the concrete floor and eventually hit the far wall with a clang.

The exiles smiled.

I sighed.

Then I leapt into the air, gaining enough height to grip the brown--haired exile’s throat between my knees. Twisting my body as I fell through the air, I dragged the exile down with me, his neck breaking with a loud crunch.

It wouldn’t keep him down for good, but a broken neck buys time.

The exile in the gray suit grabbed me roughly from behind and threw me into the wall.

I groaned as I slid down the metal piping my back had hit. It was the opposite wall to my dagger.

Damn it.

It wasn’t an ideal situation. And I wasn’t fool enough to delude myself into thinking I could make it to my dagger. I was regretting my decision not to wear any other weapons tonight, but my dagger was the only weapon that, when sheathed, was invisible to human eyes.

Think, Vi.

I’d come down behind a wall of old crates. I was considering how I could use them to my advantage when I spotted a piece of the slim metal piping I’d broken in my fall. It lay by my foot.

I could hear the exiles moving toward me. They were cackling.

“We should take her body with us to the tournament tonight,” one said.

The other one laughed. “That would definitely put dark in the lead.”

“And everyone would know that we were the ones who killed her.”

Can anyone say “premature victory”?

Without stopping to think, I pulled off the bracelet from my left wrist, using the specially designed clasp to cut open the flesh around my silver marking, currently swirling in the presence of exiles, and let it spill onto the end of the metal bar.

It took just a few seconds, and as soon as I palmed the pipe, the exiles started to throw the crates aside then came into view, their smiles wide with anticipation.

I stood. I didn’t return their smiles. I didn’t bother to do anything other than what needed to be done.

I lunged, raising my elbow into the face of the black--haired exile as I spun, the metal pipe striking his companion through the heart. He was gone. I turned back to the first exile and, hoping that there was still enough of my blood on the pipe to do the trick and using my supernatural speed for all it was worth, I jammed the pipe straight into his neck.

His face wore an expression of pure surprise.

I’d seen that look before.

I sighed and my shoulders slumped forward, unfulfilled. This was my job, one that I would do for as long as I existed, which could be a significantly long time. But two years ago, I’d accepted that there was no longer any satisfaction to be had in my world.

No fairytales.

Only the cold.

Turning toward where I thought my dagger had landed, my surroundings suddenly changed.

I was no longer seeing the warehouse. There were flashes of white, moving fast, pounding hooves. Horses. Silver streaked through the air like a dance. Swords. Slashes of red painted the sky. Something sharp and deadly ripping through flesh—-wet and gruesome. Claws. Thousands and thousands of beings as far as I could see fought ruthlessly, with no sign of tiring. In the center, two warriors battled beneath a blinding light. I could not make out their faces.

I blinked hard.

The image was gone, and in its place Gray stood against the wall of Lincoln’s warehouse, casually flipping my dagger in the air. “Would you like me to applaud?” he asked.

Leaning against a metal support pole, he had that midtwenties look I’d come to associate with the older Grigori—-though I had no idea how old he really was—-and was dressed in his usual black jeans, black T--shirt, and black leather jacket. Black really was the only color worth investing in—-blood stains everything else. He sported about a week’s worth of growth on his face, though his head was shaved, the scars that ran over the top of his skull telling of a history both terrible and secret. Grigori did not generally scar, so I knew that whatever had caused these had occurred before Gray had turned seventeen.

I swallowed over the lump in my throat and glanced around as I composed myself. The whole…hallucination…had lasted only a couple of seconds. I clenched my jaw.

Christ. It was nothing. I’m just imagining things.

I snapped my bracelet back in place over my marking and shot him a dry look. “Should I be charging a spectator fee?”

My voice sounded normal but my ears felt like they were still ringing with the echoes of battle.

“Not if the show is going to be over so fast, princess.”

I glared at him for persisting with the stupid nickname. “You know, you could’ve stepped in and given me a hand.”

“Sure,” he said with a solemn nod. “And you could’ve waited until the meet time we’d all agreed on too.”

I looked away briefly. “So, why are you here early?” I asked, hoping to divert the conversation.

Gray tilted his head. “Because I know you.”

I shrugged off the veiled accusation, even though it was true. To a degree.

“It was easier this way.”

He threw my dagger into the air, and I caught it by the hilt and slipped it back into its sheath.

“Well you can explain that to the others, since they just arrived.”

Chapter Reveal & Giveaway: Afterparty by @AnnStampler

About AFTERPARTY: 
A toxic friendship takes a dangerous turn in this riveting novel from the author of Where It Began.

Emma is tired of being good. Always the dutiful daughter to an overprotective father, she is the antithesis of her mother—whose name her dad won’t even say out loud. That’s why meeting Siobhan is the best thing that ever happened to her…and the most dangerous. Because Siobhan is fun and alluring and experienced and lives on the edge. In other words, she’s everything Emma isn’t.

And it may be more than Emma can handle.

Because as intoxicating as her secret life may be, when Emma begins to make her own decisions, Siobhan starts to unravel. It’s more than just Dylan, the boy who comes between them. Their high-stakes pacts are spinning out of control. Elaborate lies become second nature. Loyalties and boundaries are blurred. And it all comes to a head at the infamous Afterparty, a bash where debauchery rages and an intense, inescapable confrontation ends in a plummet from the rooftop...

Buy Links:

Amazon | BN | Book Depository | Indiebound

About Ann Stampler: 
Ann Stampler was the mild mannered author of literary picture books when she broke out, tore off her tasteful string of pearls, and started writing edgy, contemporary young adult novels set in Los Angeles, where she lives with her husband and writer’s-helper rescue dog – without whose compelling distraction she would have no doubt penned dozens of novels by now. 
Social media links:
Twitter | Facebook | Goodreads | Pinterest
The writing life blog | Novel in the Oven: Really Bad Writing Advice 

The LINK to the first three chapters of AFTERPARTY by Ann Stampler: http://www.scribd.com/doc/183272047/Afterparty-by-Ann-Redisch-Stampler-Excerpt

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First Chapter Reveal: OCD, the Dude & Me by Lauren Roedy Vaughn

About the Book:
Seventeen-year-old Danielle Levine is your typical high school teenager – if you count having OCD and ADHD as typical. Danielle’s “special” conditions lead her to a school for students with learning disabilities, and, even here, she struggles to fit in.

How Danielle navigates her status as a “learning-challenged” teen pariah is told, with equal parts pain and hilarity, in Lauren Roedy Vaughn’s debut Young Adult novel, OCD, THE DUDE, AND ME, which Kirkus Review has hailed as a “must-read.”

Told through a mélange of Danielle’s class assignments, journal entries, emails, texts, and letters to the school psychiatrist, OCD, THE DUDE, AND ME chronicles Danielle’s efforts to fit into a world that, to her, can be as alien as a distant planet. Yet, Danielle will be recognizable to her readers, with her body-image issues, her crush on an unattainable boy, and her feelings of insecurity over the rigid social code of high school life.

Just as things seemingly couldn’t get worse for her, Danielle meets a new friend, Daniel, who turns her on to the Coen Brothers’ classic cult film THE BIG LEBOWSKI and its indelible main character, the ever-cool, ever abiding Dude. Daniel and Danielle end up going to the prom together and to Lebowski Fest, an annual event celebrating the Dude and his Buddha-like philosophy, which says that things will work out if you “abide.”

AMAZON | BARNES & NOBLE | INDIEBOUND | BOOKPASSAGE

FIRST CHAPTER

*QUICK JOURNAL #1* 9/6 

First Day of School: Senior year 

I should be getting ready for school right now, but I’m not because my mother has thrown off the flow of the morning. When she came in my room to bring me my new Adderall prescription, she tripped on the Romantic Era section of my library, books which are alphabetized, systematized, and laid out on the floor. It took all summer for me to get them exactly where I want them. It makes me happy just to look at them. When she tripped, she scattered the stacks out of order. I don’t think it took longer than five seconds before my body started shaking. I crunched myself into a fetal position and started to breathe as deeply as possible. Mom told me to calm down, like it’s no big deal to rebuild perfection. Austen’s works are now mixed with the Brontë sisters. I can’t find Browning. Wordsworth is under my bed, and Blake and Shelley have been kicked to a pile of dirty clothes near my dresser. I don’t have time to realphabetize them, and Mom is starting to lose her patience, pointing out I could choose to use my time doing that, instead of sitting here and typing out my angst. She’s wrong. Typing out my angst is exactly what I need to do if I’m going to get myself in any functional state for school. After all she says “It’s not a library” but rather a cluster of books I keep on the floor for people to trip over. According to her “libraries have shelves.” I told her shelves are not included in the technical definition of “library.” She told me to quit it with the semantics and get dressed. Whatever. 

 Another huge issue is that I wanted to finish gluing the pieces of charming postcards I cut up to decorate this year’s “me-moir” binder, my fourth writing collection. Each year’s binder—the sacred place I keep all my school essays, journals, personal me-moir entries, e-mails, etc. My writing is best served contained, away from the eyes of others, but that doesn’t mean it shouldn’t have exquisite packaging. Obviously.

Since freshman year when my parents forced me to go to a “special school,” these binders are the only things that have made it bearable. Intense planning and a sea of supplies are required to build the perfect home for chronicling my life. It’s the best living history I’ve got. Every entry has its own color-coded sheet protector. Last week, I cut up six postcards, all with scenes of loving couplehood from the nineteenth century that weren’t a fit among the crowd taped on my headboard. Once it’s finished, they will fit together like an ornate puzzle. Which. Is. Awesome. Or would be, if this weren’t the first day of senior year and hundreds of pieces remain unglued. 

At least my back-to-school outfit is staying the same. There is no question about that. I am wearing my black combat Chucks and have managed to untangle my XL burgundy T-shirt from the twisted pile on my bed, which is where my tees like to live. My black leggings and black beret with the tiny feather that stands straight up will complete my look of “rotted lonely pear in bowl”—a still life. Appropriate. 

*CLASS ASSIGNMENT* 9/10 

 Essay #1: My Biography 

(This is what I turned in and got a C+ on after having to read it in front of the class because Ms. Harrison believes in “publishing” as an important part of the writing process. Make no mistake: I did not read the introduction or the conclusion aloud. Also, I have no interest in Ms. Harrison’s humiliating version of “publishing.” Clearly, I’ve got my own system for that.) 

Danielle Levine 

 English 12 

 Ms. Harrison 

 Period 4 

 Ms. Harrison, I liked the authors’ tea you planned where we all discussed the books we chose to read over the summer. I hope you could tell by my class comments that I liked Wuthering Heights. You have no idea how much my parents got in to reading that book with me. And, well, I got in to it, too. I dressed as Catherine. I have a lot of vintage dresses with puffy sleeves and petticoats (which generally stay in my closet) and a bunch of hats, from every era imaginable, and those were appropriate accents for this family read-aloud. (Very important note: don’t tell any of my classmates that we dressed up and read the book together. Please.) While my parents may have fantasized that their love lives were akin to Catherine and Heathcliff’s, let me assure you that the truth is no such thing. They were raised in the lap of luxury; they fell in love in college and have stayed in love; and they both make tons of money. Their hearts have never been torn asunder. I think this is a good place to transition into the meat of the essay you are looking for. 

I am adopted. My parents’ names are Doug and Evelyn. I don’t mind being adopted. I have no idea who my biological parents are. Most people know immediately that I am adopted because I don’t look anything like my parents. (Neither of them has a wild nest of red hair or thunder thighs.) My dad is a doctor and my mom is a successful real estate agent. I think about how she is a real, estate agent because she sells big houses to rich people. I could never be a real estate agent because once my clients saw that I had to lock every outside door at least fifty times after a tour, they’d never call me again. LOL, but it’s true. And, a doctor? No way. No one’s life should be left in my hands. I can barely do math; I couldn’t possibly tackle problems related to the human body. Makes me dizzy just contemplating it. (Btw, Ms. Harrison, if you want our essays to include the vocabulary words you are teaching us, you are going to have to allow me to italicize them. I cannot just let a new word blend in with my old vocabulary. Thank you.) 

I’ve attended Meadow Oaks School since the ninth grade. This school (as you know) is for high-potential students with learning disabilities, which is a euphemistic phrase for kids who don’t do well in school in some areas but whose IQs are still fine somehow. We’re all smart, but we have various “academic issues” that require some specific help from experts. You know the deal. What I like best about this school is that since almost everyone is Jewish, we get off a lot because of religious holidays. My family is no religion, so I don’t have to go to temple or church on the holidays. Usually on those days I read.

I don’t have any brothers and sisters or any pets. I have a housekeeper, Martha, and I’m very grateful for her because of my “materials management problems” as you call it. “Materials management” sounds more like a major in business college than a personal problem. You can just say I’m messy. I won’t be offended; I’m not blind to the truth. My own mother tells me my backpack “looks like a cyclone hit it.” 

My mom recently redecorated our two-story house to “reflect her aesthetic” of warm-colored walls and brightly colored accent pieces, but she left my room alone because clutter, scratches on the hardwood floors, and hats hanging on the wall are my aesthetic. People who love garage sales or go antiquing would love my room. But, don’t misunderstand, nothing in there is for sale.

My parents bought me a used hybrid vehicle so I can drive myself to school in a responsible way, but I have to pay my own car insurance. I get paid to walk the neighbors’ dogs up in the hills where we live, south of the boulevard in the Valley, and that is how I have money to pay for my phone and fund my snow globe obsession. Generally, I get snow globes whenever I go on trips, and I like the ones that have scenic or gentle images that are frozen in time. I don’t know why. I just do.

Teacher comments: If you have aside comments, please make an appointment to speak with me. Include only ideas relevant to the topic.

*QUICK JOURNAL #2* 9/10 

Just talking myself down

Writing “my biography” essay at the start of senior year sent me into somewhat of a tailspin. I survived the first days of school by wearing the right shoes and hats and by avoiding any vulnerable contact with the pretty and popular crowd (Heather, Sara, James, John, etc.), who make being at school look so easy. But once I had to start writing about myself (even though I like doing that under the right circumstances), I suffered a case of vertigo. I had to lie on my bed under my T-shirts for a bit.

Here is my current loop of obsessive thoughts: 1. It bothers me to think about all the upcoming school events that I will be alone for. 2. Just like every other year, I hate that Heather cuts in front of me in the lunch line and whips out her phone and starts talking so I can’t say anything. 3. I keep thinking about that day in PE last year, where I was the only person who couldn’t run the mile without taking breaks. My classmates, possessed of personal trainers, low heart rates, and taut physiques finished the run in like two seconds. By the second lap, I was gasping for air and so sweaty that they probably took bets on whether or not I’d die of a heart attack right before their eyes. I had hoped I would.

I have reordered the snow globes on my dresser about a hundred times. They are very calming. Nearly all of them depict life’s perfect moments, and when I give myself time to stare at them, they offer hope of a better world. Now they are in proper clusters. Farmhouses, landscapes, and historic monuments on the left, playful girls in the center, and couples in love on the right.

Next I’m going to try on all my hats and then stare at the postcards on my headboard to lose myself in a fantasy, where I convince myself that someday I will be somewhere other than right here.

*CLASS ASSIGNMENT* 9/16

 Essay #2: That’s Wonderful 

 (I love this essay even though Ms. Harrison did not because it was not organized and the tone was too informal, which Ms. Harrison is obsessed with. B- from Ms. Harrison but A+ from my aunt Joyce who read the essay and loved it.) 

 Danielle Levine 

 English 12 

 Ms. Harrison 

 Period 4 

 It was really wonderful to think about something wonderful. The sun was coming in through my bedroom window as I sat at my desk to write, so I put on my bright yellow Chucks and yellow sunhat and tried to let their happy color and the sun’s warmth sink into me in order to come up with a good topic. It worked! I have decided to write this essay about my aunt Joyce.

My aunt Joyce is forty-two years old, single, and has no kids. Now, before you get any prejudicial ideas about what she is like, let me tell you. My aunt Joyce is spectacular. She is beautiful: blond hair, thin thighs, smooth voice, perfect fingernails, great clothes—which she looks great in because she is a size two and a fashion designer. She gets me the most amazing hats and cool clothes, reflecting a time before sewing machines (lots of ribbons and laces), that we pull out of my closet and try on when we’re together. My mom has very short brown hair that highlights her bone structure but which does not lend itself to petticoats and flowery bonnets; however, sometimes she joins us for our costume parties anyway. Like the time we all tied ourselves into these elaborate corsets and pretended we lived the lives of the women I only read about. So fun. (However, I do worry those women were never able to take a deep breath while dressed. Terrible.) Besides classic and stylish clothing, Joyce has turned me on to some old music like Tom Petty, and I’ve turned her on to The Romantic Era, which is an awesome band (all six of the guys are so cute it’s unbelievable; you should check out their album. They have one song about Juliet . . . as in Romeo and . . . I think it’s right up your alley).

My aunt Joyce is not what your mind might jump to when you think single white female. Anyway, she and a friend did this WONDERFUL thing. They threw a shower for themselves! It was tight. My aunt Joyce told me that over the course of her life she went to so many baby showers and wedding showers that she couldn’t keep track of them all. So one day, she and her friend Karen were talking about all the time, attention, and money they spent on going to their girlfriends’ showers and how that time, attention, and money was probably never going to be reciprocated because they were destined to be single and childless for the rest of their lives, and while that is a fine thing to be, they would never have the fun of registering for gifts and having people celebrate them in a way that was not about their age. So they decided to “f*** social constraints” as my aunt put it and throw themselves a shower. (Isn’t that wonderful? I mean, really.)

They both registered at Pottery Barn and Target. (Joyce told me that at Target they asked all kinds of questions about her registry, and she was forced to make it a bridal registry, and so she had to make up the name of her fiancé, and she gave the name of a super-famous movie star that she has had a mad crush on forever, but I won’t out that here because Aunt Joyce’s decade-long fantasy crush is her business, and she played all coy when the salesgirl asked if it “was the real so-and-so” and the salesgirl got all excited because my aunt wouldn’t deny the veracity of the claim, but how silly, because why would a movie star’s wife-to-be register at Target? Please.)

Anyway, the party was at my house, and the women in my family love a good garden party. My aunt put my hair up in a Gibson girl–style, and, for a change, I felt very sophisticated out in actual life. Mom bought out every florist shop in Los Angeles to decorate, and she ordered three large ice sculptures for the backyard. Stunning. The hummingbirds my mom knows and loves (she actually names them) were out in full force, and they were the background music of the day. We had afternoon tea, played charades and croquet, and watched Joyce and Karen open presents in the backyard garden of my house. Just writing about the day makes me feel light as air. (That feeling rarely happens to me.)

I may be single my whole life, but my aunt will help me cope with whatever I become. Aunt Joyce and her shower are wonderful!

Teacher comments: Don’t use profanity—ever—in these essays. You are lucky to have Aunt Joyce.

About the Author:
Ms. Vaughn is especially equipped to write Danielle’s story. She has been a special education teacher and a writer for nearly 20 years. In 2005, she received the Walk of Hearts Teaching Award, and she serves on the Board of the International Dyslexia Association’s Los Angeles Branch. She was born in Cincinnati, Ohio, and moved to Honolulu, Hawaii, when she was in elementary school. She came to California for college, met her husband at the University of California, Irvine, and they have lived in Southern California ever since. Together, they share a love of The Big Lebowski. When not teaching, reading, or writing, Lauren is usually on a yoga mat.

Her latest book is the contemporary humorous young adult fiction, OCD, the Dude & Me.

You can visit Lauren Roedy Vaughn’s website at www.laurenroedyvaughn.com

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