Girls of Might and Magic An Anthology By Diverse Books with Magic

Cannon was barking up the wrong tree anyway. If I could locate the dead, I would have found my mother’s ghost by now. I hadn’t found her, and it wasn’t for lack of trying. My mother died the day before my fifteenth birthday. I’d been planning to go to a sleepover at my best friend Bayley’s house that day. I’d asked my mom to give me a ride to Bayley’s, but her car was having problems. She was going to drive it to an auto shop. I was mad about my mother driving to the auto shop rather than driving me to Bayley’s. I lashed out at her in anger and didn’t stop to hug her or tell her I loved her when I raced out the door to catch the bus. I didn’t even say goodbye. If I knew that would be the last time I saw her alive, I would have given her the biggest hug. I probably would have passed on the sleepover altogether. After my mother died, I started to see ghosts everywhere. I spent so much time trying to find my mother’s ghost that I almost drove myself mad. When I confessed to friends and family that I could see and speak with the dead, it landed me in a mental ward. Eventually, I told them that I’d made it all up in my head. I did what I had to do to get out and I vowed to ignore the ghosts. When I moved back home with dad, I was the talk of the town. Everyone either laughed or avoided me altogether. My goal was to keep my head down, graduate, and move on with my life—but it seemed no matter where I went the ghosts would follow. The bus approached the stop closest to my house. I stood up, and the bus driver looked at me, waiting for me to leave. I quickly sat back down. “What are you doing?” Greg asked. “This is your stop.” “Hush,” I whispered. 48th and Cordsvill was only two stops away. Just because I couldn’t find the one ghost I wanted to see, didn’t mean I couldn’t try to help someone else. As the bus approached 48th and Cordsvill, the ride became bumpy. City leaders seemed to forget about road maintenance in this part of town. I guess they assumed the people that they deemed important wouldn't see this area anyway. They let the sidewalks crumble and the buildings fall apart. There were no banks, hospitals, or grocery stores nearby. The residents

made do by shopping at the nearby liquor shops, convenience stores, and gas stations. Soccer moms locked the doors to their minivans as they drove through if they couldn't avoid the area altogether. I knew all of this because I grew up in this neighborhood. Now my dad and I lived five blocks away. It was crazy how five blocks could feel like a whole new world. No, I didn’t live in the nicest part of town, but I was closer to a grocery store and a bank. When Cannon told me that this is where his brother died my curiosity piqued. The bus stopped and I felt a warm sense of familiarity. Even though I had to duck under overgrown tree branches and walk on the street in places where there were no sidewalks, I knew exactly where I was going. On the way, I passed my old home. A little boy was playing in the yard. He must have been about eight or nine. He waved, and I returned the gesture while offering a warm smile. He turned and ran toward the house, vanishing before he made it to the door. My heart sank as I realized what he was. I rarely saw ghosts that were so young. When kids die in places like this, the word feigns concern for a few days and then forgets. The people who called this place home were almost as invisible as ghosts. I swallowed and kept going. There were ghosts around, but most of the time they didn’t acknowledge me. Ghosts don’t realize I can see them until I make it known. Children, however, are more likely to try and interact with the living. They often do not realize they are dead. I’d only been off the bus for ten minutes when I found my destination. The building had recently been remodeled, and a fresh coat of paint made it appealing to the eye. When I lived in this neighborhood, 48th and Cordsvill was a mom-and-pop shop that sold snacks, food, beauty supplies, and other knickknacks. That store was demolished, and in its place was a red brick building. A wooden sign with the words “Red Serpent Dance Studios'' was in the yard, and a flyer featuring stylish teens in a dramatic pose was on the door. I’d heard about the studio. It had been the subject of a couple of local news features. The leader of the studio had danced on Broadway but chose to come back to his hometown and mentor the city's youth. The silver doorknob was loose. It rattled under my grip as I pulled the door open. A warm gush of air that smelled of baked cookies greeted me as

I stepped inside. I was in a small office with a desk, a waiting area, and a television. A long hallway led further inside the studio. A plump woman in a black blazer rushed into the front room, adjusting her clothes and fixing her hair as she made her way over to me. She stretched out a manicured hand, and I took it, giving it a firm shake while sharing a warm smile. “Hello, child,” she said. “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before. Are you here for the graduation tonight?” “Graduation?” I asked. “Mr. Serpent’s junior dancers are graduating from their program tonight. I’ve got a few goodies for them, I'm making snacks, and some will be given scholarships for the intermediate dance class,” she explained. “If you aren't here for the graduation, what brings you here?” “I’m looking for information on a guy named Chris.” She sat down at her desk. “He was an instructor here. A great mentor for the kids. He was even on a reality TV show. They looked up to him.” “The reporters say that he took his own life.” “Yes, that is what they say.” She sighed. “They found his body here,” I added. “But not his car.” “Not the press we are accustomed to getting, for sure.” I moved closer and lowered my voice. “Do you know what might have happened to him?” “I think one of the young kids he was mentioning got into some trouble. The kid was working for a man named Gradey.” Her brow furrowed as she spoke. “Honestly, sweetie, I would stay out of it if I were you.” “Mind if I run to the bathroom?” “Go ahead.” She motioned to the hallway. I knew ghosts loved familiarity. If Chris died here it wasn't too much of a stretch to think he might still be hanging around. I took a quick look through the studio. There were trophies, photos of kids being taken to statewide competitions, and messy offices. I passed the dance studio where students rehearsed. Unfortunately, I didn’t find any ghosts. When I slipped back into the front office the woman raised an eyebrow as I walked in, as if she were skeptical about where I'd disappeared to for so long. “Thank you,” I said. “I’ll head out. I hope the graduation goes well.”

She stood up and raised a finger. “Sweetie, I’m telling you, please don’t try to find Gradey. He’s trouble.” She looked me in the eyes. “You are exactly the type he’d want to come knocking on his door, and it's best if you didn’t.” “Alright,” I said. Her eyes narrowed. “ You're going to do it anyway, aren't you?” I didn’t respond. “I know you think I'm an old kooky woman, but this place is about more than dance. I lost my little boy years ago, and my goal is to keep kids safe,” she said. “What's the point of being old if I can't share my wisdom with the youth? Trust me, hun, no good can come from visiting that man.” “I appreciate it. I really do,” I said as I opened the door to leave. “But the dead can’t advocate for themselves, and what's the point of being young if I can't ignore sound advice?” I called Cannon as soon as I left the studio. He asked me to meet him at his place, but I felt intimidated when I approached his front door. His Victorian-style home with its ivory columns and cutaway bay windows reminded me of a small castle. When I rang his doorbell, I could see the red dot of a camera light up. I waved. The door swung open. “Hey, Grace.” He looked genuinely happy to see me. Even though I knew it was because I was helping him investigate his brother's death, I couldn't stop the warm feeling that spread through me when his eager grin revealed dimples. I mentally scolded myself for noticing them. “Where's the moat and alligators?” I asked. “What?” I shook my head and stepped inside. “Nothing.” His living room was half the size of my house. I knew Cannon's family had it good, but I didn’t know they had it good, good. My gaze lingered on his bookshelf, which was the focal point of the room. Maybe he hadn't been kidding when he complimented the book rack. We sat on the couch and I asked him if he'd heard of a man named Gradey before.

Cannon shook his head. “I’ve heard of Gradey, but there's no way Chris would get mixed up with a man like that.” “What does Gradey do?” I asked. “Does he sell drugs or something?” Cannon shrugged. “Probably.” “I think your brother was trying to protect a child from Gradey,” I explained. “Maybe this is too big for us. Do you think we should call the police?” Cannon shook his head. “The cops already closed the case. I’m done depending on them to actually do something.” “We are just kids. What can we do that hasn't been done already?” “You are not just a kid. You have an amazing gift,” he assured me. “You can see things that the cops will never see.” “I never said I can see ghosts. In fact, I said the opposite.” “But you can.” “I can not.” Cannon sighed. “I saw you at school after your mother died. You didn’t look crazy when you were trying to convince us that the ghosts were real. There was so much truth in your eyes.” “Don’t mistake truth for desperation.” “I guess I just assumed that if you can see the dead, you might be able to see Chris and ask him what really happened.” “And what will I tell the cops if I see Chris?” I asked. “Should I say “I have some new information because I talked to a ghost?” People think I’m a freak already, and I don’t want to be institutionalized again.” Cannon pulled his knees into his chest and wrapped his arms around them. “You know, Grace was always my favorite church word.” I blinked. “What?” “Grace is unmerited mercy,” he said. “It's a way to right wrongs when there is no other way. We can’t turn back the clock or revisit the past, but Grace is a second chance.” I chuckled. “What's funny about that?” he asked. “Nothing, it’s just...that was random.” “Who wouldn't want a second chance?” “You are so philosophical at times,” I said, thinking back on his words to me at the bookstore about groupthink. “You don’t act like a typical teenage jock.”

He frowned. “Jock?” “Well, a lot of your friends are.” I shrugged. “They display stereotypical jock behavior.” He laughed. “I consider myself more of a starving artist, trying to bring music and dance to the masses. However, I’m not above a nice game of basketball.” I rolled my eyes. “This isn't Mean Girls, Grace. In real life, you can’t categorize people like that. If someone is popular, it doesn't make them a bad person.” He paused. “Do you think I’m a bad person?” “You are not how I imagined you to be,” I admitted. It had been a while since anyone talked to me about anything deeper than the weather. I enjoyed spending time with Cannon. “Oh?” he said with a grin. I frowned. Those damn dimples. “I didn’t realize I’d come up in your imagination before,” he teased. I could feel my face grow hot. “No… not what I meant…I’m not, like, sitting around and imagining you.” “But if you were, how would you imagine me?” “I thought you'd be a jerk. The jock stereotype I had in my head, with a bit of an artsy-hipster update.” He frowned. “Well, I guess we've both been victims of people making assumptions about us. One more thing that we have in common.” Then Cannon took my hands. “Look at me, Grace.” I took in the honey-brown warmth of his eyes. “I know you’ve been hurt, but you need to learn to put aside your assumptions about other people and about yourself. Give others, and yourself, a second chance,” Cannon said. “There will always be those who say you are too young, too old, too weird, too crazy, too big, too small, too quiet, or too loud. If I would have listened to people like that, I would have never accomplished half of what I have done. You brave ghosts every day. Do not be afraid of people.” I pulled my hands away and placed them in my lap. “Everybody’s haunted by something, Cannon. Our fears, our shortcomings, our dreams. Everybody’s haunted. Even if it’s not by ghosts. I have the right to be afraid.” “What are you haunted by?” he asked. “Besides the ghosts, I mean.”

My mother’s face filled my mind. I thought about how my last words to her before the car accident that took her life were words of anger rather than love. “Regret.” I followed Cannon’s eyes to a family photo hanging over his mantle. His family looked picture perfect. His twin brother had the biggest, brightest smile. “I feel you,” he said. “I quit teaching dance with my brother because I wanted to focus on my YouTube channel. I wanted fame, but my brother wanted to make a difference. I wish I could have been there with Chris when it happened. Maybe he would still be alive…” I reached out and took his hand again. “You don’t know that. Don’t blame yourself. Besides, you can still make a difference in honor of your brother. Maybe this is your chance to finish what he started.” He squeezed my hand tight, then slipped his fingers between mine. His touch felt electric. I gulped. “Even if we don’t find out what happened to Cannon, I'm glad I met you, Grace. Thanks for giving me a chance.” Then he moved closer until his lips were only inches away from mine. What. The. Hell. Was. He. Doing. He paused, sensing my hesitation, and raised a questioning brow. Despite myself, I nodded slightly and let his lips meet mine. A feeling of warmth spread through me as we kissed, but it was over too soon. He pulled back and offered me a sheepish grin. “What was that for?” I asked. “I like you, Grace.” “You don’t know me.” “I know enough to want to learn more,” he said. “And I don’t want today to end with any regrets.” I told myself the kiss was due to misplaced emotions. Cannon felt a connection to me because we were both experiencing similar types of grief. It had nothing to do with me, really, and everything to do with the fact that we both had loved ones who were dead. It would be best if I forgot about the kiss, and pronto.

“Um… sitting on the couch seems fun, but we have a murder mystery to solve,” I whispered. “Want to go?” “Go where?” Cannon seemed confused. “To Gradey’s home,” I said. In all honesty, anywhere but here would work. I needed to be far away from where the kiss took place. His eyes widened. “Don’t we need some type of plan first?” “I have one,” I lied. I was perfectly capable of making one up on the way. It wasn't hard to find out where a man as famed as Gradey lived, and soon we were taking off in Cannon’s mustang. Gradey didn’t live in the neighborhood with all of the young ghosts he helped to create. He lived in a home that was even nicer than Cannon’s. His secluded house was thirty minutes outside of the city. It didn’t look like he wanted any neighbors. I looked at his acres of manicured land. “Plenty of space to hide a body.” “What kind of drugs is he selling?” Cannon asked as he looked up at the mansion. “An elixir for eternal life? The fountain of youth?” “Drug dealing is a hierarchical operation,” I said. “My guess is that Gradey is several steps removed from the people who are actually selling them. It's possible that Gradey never even touched the goods; he had enough minions to take care of the dirty work for him. Maybe the student that Chris was mentoring came out here on drug-related business?” “We don’t even know for certain that he sells drugs,” Cannon said. “That was just a guess. Let’s just keep our eyes open and observe for a bit.” From the street corner, we watched Gradey’s home. Cannon’s hands trembled in his lap. “You alright?” I asked. “Two Black kids sitting in a neighborhood like this. There probably are no people who look like us here. I’m waiting to see which one of these people will call the cops on us first.” “I don’t think we’ll have to wait long,” I said as the front door to the house swung open. Gradey stepped out and strolled over to one of his cars. He looked like a middle-aged manager type, who wore a suit each day and had a pretty wife who probably locked the door to her minivan whenever she drove past neighborhoods like mine. From the street corner, we watched him drive his sleek, black car away from his lavish home. When the coast was clear, we made our move.

“Now might be a good time to tell me the plan,” Cannon said as we hopped out of the car. “Sometimes ghosts can manipulate physical objects,” I said. “If your brother’s ghost is here, he might be able to open the door and allow us to look for evidence.” We crept toward the house. Rather than ringing the bell, I chose to knock. A short, redheaded housekeeper opened the door and peered out at us. This was not part of the plan. “Is Gradey home?” I asked, hoping I looked like an innocent teenage girl and not a makeshift detective trying to search the house for ghosts. “Gradey didn’t tell me anyone was coming today.” She frowned at us. “I’ll give him a call.” She reached for her phone and Cannon leaped into the room. He shoved her hand, sending her phone flying, then he grabbed the woman, holding her still. She let out a shrill scream that I was sure would alert everyone in the state. I swiftly ran in, shut the door, and locked it. “Cannon, what are you doing?” “Go look now,” he said. “See if you find anything in the house.” I swore under my breath as I took off running up the spiral staircase and started searching every inch of the immaculate home. Four bathrooms, six bedrooms, two living rooms, and eight closets later I decided to look in the basement. An old, creaky stairway led to a cool, dark basement. I couldn't find a light switch, but a dim light cast haunted shadows along the walls. I felt a strong sense of fear and repulsion as I crept down; a voice in my head warned me to run. Just as I was about to step from the stairs into the room, one of the shadows moved. “Chris?” I whispered. There was no reply. I used my phone as a makeshift light, examining the room until I saw someone sitting on a mattress in the basement. Her arm was cuffed to the leg of a nearby metal table. She had sandy brown skin and short, black hair. I couldn't tell if she was a girl or a woman. Her face screamed girl, but with the mature way she was dressed I was hoping she was a woman. “Hey there,” I said. She didn’t answer, just watched me with fearful eyes. It reminded me of the way ghosts reacted when they realized I could see them. “Who are you?” Her voice was brittle.

“I’m Grace.” I took a tentative step toward her. “Who are you?” “I’m not supposed to tell my real name.” “Who said that?” “Mr. Gradey.” “What would you like me to call you?” I asked. She shrugged. “Do you live here?” “Sometimes,” she said. “Sometimes Gradey sends me to other homes. There are other girls who live here, sometimes, too. He doesn't trust me to go home yet, but he says I’ll be able to go home soon. After what happened with Chris, I don’t know.” “What happened with Chris?” Her face lit up. “You know Chris?” “He went to my school.” “He was my dance instructor.” She frowned. “I think Gradey hurt him.” It finally dawned on me what was happening. Gradey wasn't selling drugs. He was selling people. Young girls, to be exact. Chris probably died trying to help get this girl out. “Do you know where the keys to those cuffs are?” I asked. “I can’t leave,” she said. “Gradey will hurt me, too.” “I won’t let that happen,” I promised. She shakily pointed her free arm at the artificial plant in the corner. I found a small silver key under its vase. “Did you already get rid of Gradey?” she asked after I freed her wrist. “Not yet,” I said. “It's on the top of today's agenda.” I raced back up the stairs to Cannon, who was holding the maid as she squirmed. “Cannon, call the cops,” I cried. “There’s a girl trapped in the basement.” Cannon's eyes grew wide. “Grace, we just broke into a man's mansion. Do you think the cops will listen to us?” “This isn't just about us anymore, Cannon,” I said. “I think human trafficking might be involved here. We came to advocate for the dead, but

there are people who are alive that need us to fight for them. Let’s help her. That's what your brother would have wanted.” Cannon gritted his teeth and handed me his phone. I made the call, but I knew he was right. The cops didn’t often give Black kids who break into homes the benefit of the doubt, and I could easily be making the call that ended both of our lives. But if we left, the maid would alert Gradey and tell him all about it. Unless Gradey was behind bars, I knew I'd never feel safe. After I called the cops we sat on the floor and waited as Cannon held the maid still. As we listened to the sirens approach, goosebumps rose on my skin. Red and blue lights flashed through the windows, causing my heart rate to rise as I rushed to unlock the front door. I peeked outside and saw the officers approaching with guns drawn, so I moved back and sat next to Cannon. When the cops came in, they aimed their guns at us with their fingers ready on the trigger. My heart skipped a beat as I realized how close to death I truly was. “Hands up,” their voices boomed. We obeyed. The maid scurried away from Cannon the moment he lifted his arms. She sneered at us triumphantly. “Officers, these thugs broke into Mr. Gradey's home!” she screamed. Her hands were not up, but they didn’t aim at her. They saw Cannon and me as the threats. “What are y'all doing in these parts?” the officer asked. I couldn't take my eyes off of the gun pointed at my head. In less than the amount of time it would take me to blink, I could be dead. I swallowed and tried to form words. “There's a girl in the basement,” my voice cracked. “Mr. Gradey is keeping her locked down there. We came to get her out.” One of the officers went to investigate. I waited on pins and needles until the officer returned with the girl. “How did you know she was here?” the police officer asked. “My brother,” Cannon said. “He was trying to help her. He’s dead now. We think Gradey killed him.” “It's true,” the girl spoke up. “I was in the basement but I heard Chris and Gradey fighting.” “What's your name, girl?” the officer asked while putting his gun away. “Cora,” she said. “My name was Cora Kingsley.”

It didn’t take them long to find Cora’s name on the database. Her mother had reported her missing, but because of her age and history they assumed she was a runaway. They told Cora that after questioning she could go home. Cora helped the officers find Gradey’s whereabouts, and they seemed to disregard me and Cannon now that they had a bigger target in mind. I fully expected to spend the night, or longer, behind bars, but one of the officers decided to let us go when they had Gradey in custody. Somehow, we’d taken down the biggest human trafficking operation in the city. At least I'd have an interesting story to tell when people asked what I did over the summer. Maybe awkward teenage girls with otherworldly abilities could be heroes in the real world after all. As soon as Cannon and I stepped out of the police station into the crisp night air, I breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank God we’re okay,” Cannon said. “I thought the next time you saw me I’d be a ghost as well.” Cannon's car was still at Gradey’s house, but we would worry about that later. Right now, we both wanted to go home. The city bus came and we walked inside hand in hand. Greg danced down the aisle to greet me. I stifled a laugh as I took my seat. “What's so funny, Grace?” Cannon asked, sitting beside me. “Nothing,” I pulled him to my seat as Greg moved behind us. “I see how it is, Grace,” Greg said. “I’m nothing now? And who is this boy in my seat? You’re so stingy with the tea.” We got off at Cannon’s stop and when I looked down at my phone, I realized just how late it was. “It’s past midnight,” I said. “That was the last bus. Do you think you can drive me home?” “I would if my car wasn't in the middle of nowhere.” Cannon unlocked the door to his house. We stepped inside and he slipped off his shoes. “Oh yea…” “Don’t worry, we have a spare bedroom. My mom will take you home in the morning.” I slipped off my shoes and we went up the stairs. Cannon stopped a few feet away from the spare bedroom and pointed. “There you go.” I laughed. “Are you afraid to even walk me to the door?” “It was Chris’s room,” he said. “I tend to avoid it.”

My face grew warm. Was I that big of a jerk? “I’m sorry.” Then Cannon moved closer to me. I could smell the fear, sweat, and anticipation that had accumulated throughout the day. “Trust me, I'm not afraid of getting close to you.” He kissed me again, this time with more assurance. He held nothing back as he teased my lips. My mind was spinning. Could Cannon really have feelings for me? He felt like a kindred spirit. I could imagine us building happiness together, creating joy and laughter that covered all our ghosts. I pulled away and grinned up at him. “Goodnight Cannon.” He stole one last kiss. “Goodnight Grace.” I opened the door to the bedroom and my mouth fell open. A boy was leaning against the windowsill and looking out at the stars. When he heard the door open, he turned around and my breath caught in my chest. Chris looked exactly as I remembered him. “I guess my brother’s started sneaking girls in?” Chris asked, taking a step toward me. He held my gaze, watching me watch him with surprise. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that you can see me.” Cannon moved closer, peering into the room from the hallway. “Are you okay, Grace?” I couldn't form words, so I pointed into the room with a trembling hand. Cannon’s eyes grew wide. “Grace,” he said. “You look like you just saw a ghost.” I nodded as a hopeful smile filled Cannon’s face. I’d done it. I’d actually found his brother. It was the type of ending I thought could only exist in books. Maybe I'd see my mother again someday, too. If not in this life, then in the next. I was glad I could help provide Cannon closure. We couldn’t bring Chris back, but we could finally discover the truth.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR K. R. S. McEntire lives on a healthy diet of fiction and tea. She loves art, photography and travel because, like books, they allow her to explore new worlds. She lives in Indianapolis with her husband and is one of the founding authors of the Diverse Books With Magic Facebook community. Connect with her on Facebook, Instagram, and by subscribing to her author newsletter. Find her online at krsmcentire.wordpress.com.

“No matter my origins, there is worth in what I am.” ― Namina Forna, The Gilded Ones

L 4 FAITH Sudha Kuruganti aya tightened her grip on her dagger. The night was calm. The moon shone through the curtains, silvering the scene that lay before her—Mr. Abe Pasternak’s study, a place of comfort and quiet decadence befitting a private collector of occult artifacts. A walnut desk dominated the room, books lined the walls, and a reading lamp on the desk cast a warm glow on everything. It would’ve looked almost peaceful—if it wasn’t for the bodies. Pasternak lay hunched over a book, his mouth open in a silent scream. His forefinger still lay on the page, as if he had been reading when he was struck down. Two men in cheap suits lay before him. Blood pooled around them, and one of them was frozen in a snarl, evidently in the process of shifting to meet his attacker. The other one, his pointed ears marking him as fae, lay a few steps behind his companion, blood oozing darkly from a bitten tongue, and broken fingers twisted painfully. Stepping forward, Laya stooped and raised the fae’s sleeve with the tip of her dagger. Runes marked his hands, all the way to the elbows. A sorcerer. And a very good one.

Along with a werewolf. This collector had the money to afford the best in magical security. Raising a hand to the runestone at her throat, Laya cast her magic out, searching for anything unusual. Her yakshinimagic drifted through the whole apartment as a magical breeze. She sensed that several occult artifacts were missing, but tracking them down was a mission for another agent. She was here for the Box. Pandora Unit had been tracking the magical artifact across the Eastern seaboard. Wherever it had gone, a trail of bodies had followed. Humans and supernaturals alike had killed and died for the Box’s abilities to grant wishes. Now, as Laya cast her magical feelers around the apartment, all she could find was the lingering traces of the Box’s magic. There was no trace of whoever had taken it. Disappointed, Laya recalled her elemental powers and opened her eyes. She pulled out her phone and reported in. “It’s me. The Box is gone.” Ten minutes later, Laya was leaving the apartment as silently as she had entered. The security system had been cracked with the latest in magitech. Laya waited until she was downstairs on the road again before lifting the sleeping charm on the building’s inhabitants. All she needed was the nightshift concierge to spot her leaving the apartment, or one nosy neighbor to complain about seeing a ‘leather-clad brown girl’ leaving old Mr. Pasternak’s unit. Better safe than sorry, as her instructor had drilled into her head. Laya tucked her plait into her helmet, got onto her motorcycle, and drove off. When she had heard she’d be sent to New York on her first solo mission, she’d been thrilled. It had seemed simple enough. Find the Box. Retrieve the Box. End of story. Now, as she drove through the night, Laya wondered if she was being set up to fail. In twenty minutes, she was back at Unit headquarters in New York, a brownstone much like the one which she had just broken into. She swept

past reception, tossing an insincere smile to the werewolf at the desk. Already, she was dreading her debriefing. Her fae boss was notoriously difficult to please. She tried to think of some way she could spin this to her advantage on the elevator ride up, but when the doors dinged open, Laya was no closer to a good explanation than before. If only there was a magic spell for this, she thought sourly. Abracadabra, get your boss on your side! In what felt like no time at all, Laya was standing in front of her boss’s office, while the rest of their little unit slumbered peacefully in the other rooms in the apartment. At least none of them were here to witness this. “Is Jenna in?” Laya raised her eyebrows as she waited for her boss’s assistant to look up from his phone. He waved her in without a word, and rolling her eyes, Laya walked in. Jenna was at her desk, but—Laya winced—Briony was in the chair before her. Laya stifled a groan and dropped into the empty chair next to her old classmate. Of all the people… “Well?” Jenna gave her a cool look, and Laya fought the urge to squirm. Dammit, she wasn’t a schoolgirl anymore. She was twenty-four, for God’s sake, and a trained Pandora Agent! “They were all dead,” Laya said, pulling herself together. “Pasternak, his werewolf bodyguard, his fae sorcerer—all of them. And the Box was gone.” Jenna sighed, then picked up the phone on her desk. “Yes, this is Jenna Taylor. I’d like to report a 187, with two dead—a werewolf, and a fae. Make sure their bodies are taken care of and get magical law enforcement on the case. We have three officers in the NYPD, use your discretion and choose one of them.” She replaced the phone’s receiver in the cradle, and turned to Laya again. “Anything else?” “Pasternak was reading a book. I took photos, logged them into evidence, as per protocol. Myth and Legend, Vol. 3.” Laya shrugged. “Significant, maybe?” Jenna didn’t even blink before she dismissed it. “It’s just a book.” “Yes, but—”

“I realize that as a former academic—" “Almost academic,” Briony piped up, her blue eyes wide in her annoying, patented oh-don’t-mind-me, I’m-just-trying-to-keep-the-factsstraight, I-definitely-don’t-want-to-put-anyone-down look. She tossed her perfect blonde hair over her shoulder. “Yes, yes,” Jenna waved her hand. “As someone who was almost an academic, Laya, I know you think books are reallyimportant, but let me remind you, Pandora Unit deals with facts. And since you’re on my team as long as you’re in New York, a word of advice—all I care about is the targets we have to acquire.” She made a chopping motion with her hand on the desk, and her green eyes glowed. “That’s it.” “But don’t you think—” Jenna shook her head, leaning back in her chair. “Briony was just giving me her report on the cursed mirror she destroyed. Now that she’s free, why don’t you two partner up and work on the Box together? Two heads are better than one, and it’ll give you two Academy kids a chance to catch up.” She flashed a not entirely kind smile their way. “No, Jenna, I work better on my own—” “That’s really not necessary—” Jenna blinked, and her eyes glowed a soft green as she narrowed them at the two girls sitting before her. “Did I give you two the mistaken impression that this was a democratic unit?” she said softly. Both Laya and Briony shut their mouths with audible snaps. Without another word, they rose from their chairs. “Status report every twelve hours or whenever something comes up,” Jenna said, her voice mild again. She didn’t wait for their nods, already turning away to look at a file on her desk. As soon as they had closed the door behind them, Briony turned to scowl at Laya. “Great. Stuck with you.” Laya narrowed her eyes at the blonde girl. “You aren’t my first choice of partner, either.” “Oh, did the little Academy Princess get her feelings hurt? I don’t give a shit, so toughen up, and start pulling your weight,” Briony snapped, stepping closer until she was in Laya’s face. “It’s been 48 hours since you arrived here, and all you’ve done is hang around and do recon, and when

you do finally make your move, you’re too late.” She snorted. “Dunno why HQ decided to send a paper pusher into the field.” “What is your problem?” Laya snarled. She raised her hand to push the other girl away, but changed her mind at the last minute, grabbing the end of her long, curly-haired plait. “My problem is that your useless ass is going to get someone killed because you’re too green to know better.” Briony made a moue of disgust. “Nepotism really does suck.” Laya tried to center herself, but already she could feel her magic reacting. A light breeze sprang up around them, ruffling Briony’s hair. “I earned this spot on Pandora Unit.” Briony snorted. “Sure, you did. And underneath all this fabulous hair, I’m just a cuddly little fuzzy wuzzy puppy.” Laya couldn’t help it, the mental image was too incongruous, and she snorted. An answering chuckle had both ladies turning. They stared at the receptionist, who had evidently been listening in on their conversation. Laya rolled her eyes. It figured that he was all pally with Briony, for all Laya knew, they were even part of the same pack. She’d heard there were quite a few werewolves here in New York. “Don’t mind me,” the receptionist said airily, as he turned back to his phone. “But this Academy you were talking about, you don’t mean Legend Valley, do you?” He looked up at them both with avid curiosity. “Princess Laya here is the Principal’s niece,” Briony said, rolling her eyes. “She’s an Avasarala?” The werewolf now looked at Laya with new eyes, and she cringed. It all came down to her famous last name, in the end. “Yep. How else do you think little Miss Librarian swung a spot here on Pandora, after spending all her time studying to be a researcher for the Academy’s Magitech Department?” This again. “I passed the qualifying exam with the best score,” Laya said, wondering whether she could ever stop defending herself. “And who sets the exam? Who evaluates it?” Briony shook her head as she answered her own question. “The Academy, of course. Everything’s set up for you, while the rest of us had to bust our asses out in the field for three years before we got a solo mission.”

“I didn’t get a solo mission, did I?” Laya said sourly, as she took off down the corridor. “I got you as a partner.” “Don’t you walk away from me!” “I thought you’d want to get all the intel I have before we start working on the case,” Laya said sweetly. “Or can your wolfy nose just magically sense the past?” Briony subsided into a grumpy silence, and Laya turned on her booted heel. She’d felt so cool when she’d first bought the leather pants and jacket, and the short-heeled boots. Now, the leather stuck clammily to her skin, and she wondered who she’d been trying to fool. Pantsuits and pencil skirts had always been her style. But she’d heard that you had to dress for the job you wanted, so she’d gone shopping at a place that catered to motorcycle enthusiasts. Ignoring the chafing on her thighs as her skin slowly rubbed itself raw, Laya stalked to her desk, and retrieved the file she wanted. She slapped the papers into Briony’s outstretched hands. “Here, knock yourself out. Let me know if you find any leads. I’m going to do some research of my own.” What she was really going to do was go home and change, and maybe catch a little cat nap, but Briony didn’t need to know that. Without waiting for a reply from the blonde werewolf, Laya turned and went home. An hour later, dressed in comfy pajamas with her hair up in a high bun, Laya felt more like herself. Unlike the others in the New York chapter of Pandora Unit, she was staying in one of the many studio apartments that the Academy maintained for their relic hunters. She’d appreciated the space as she’d recovered from jet lag after her long-haul flight from Hyderabad, India to New York, but now she was wondering if she should’ve roomed with the rest of the unit. Certainly, it would have helped her fit in better. Laya sighed, and rubbed her eyes. She’d been through the file again, for what felt like the thousandth time, without getting anywhere. She needed a break.

With a bone-cracking stretch, Laya stood up. She made herself a cappuccino—she was grateful the apartment came with a coffee machine; the Academy spared no expense for their own—and sat at the window, looking out into the night and trying not to brood. She recalled Briony’s words and wondered if that was how everyone saw her: a jumped-up brown girl who had bagged a coveted spot in the Pandora Unit through no skill of her own. Founded years ago to keep dangerous occult artifacts out of human hands, Pandora Unit was known for its deep pockets and its shiny magitech. Laya had worked hard to get where she was, but Briony was right. The Academy funded the Pandora Initiative, and her uncle was Principal of the Academy. She’d passed the qualifying exam to join Pandora, but how could she be sure she hadn’t been given a free pass just because of her uncle? Or worse, how could she be sure her uncle himself hadn’t given her a free pass because of what had happened with Vikram? Vikram was her beloved cousin, her uncle’s son—but they’d grown up in each other’s pockets, and were more brother and sister than anything else. From the day they were born, they’d done everything together. And then two years ago, one day—out of the blue—Vikram disappeared without a word. Even to her. When Vikram had run away from home, he’d done more than break his engagement to Laya’s friend and disappoint her uncle—he’d torn the family apart. If only he’d told them all that an arranged marriage wasn’t for him. If only he’d told Laya how he felt. If only… Cut off from her brother and her best friend, Laya was left adrift. All she could do was cling to whoever was left. Her dad had died when she was a baby, and Vikram’s dad had always been a steady, calming father figure in her life. Naturally, she’d gravitated to his side. Abandoning her graduate degree in magitech research, Laya had decided to join Pandora Unit. And now, at twenty-four, she was one of the few brown girls on Pandora Unit. Her uncle had called her to congratulate her when she was assigned her first solo mission, sounding so proud. “I know you’ll do great,” he’d said. “You show them what you’re made of, Laya.” She had to live up to his faith.

Her coffee finished, Laya stood up, set her cup aside, and sat crosslegged on the floor. A spot of meditation always helped calm her nerves and point her in the right direction. As she let her consciousness drift, Laya sensed a presence. Someone was astral projecting. The presence nudged her mind shyly, almost like a curious puppy. Gently, Laya pushed back. Who are you? You can hear me? Now, Laya could feel surprise and confusion. I felt you in Abe’s house. I followed you because I thought you could help me. You were there? Laya’s surprise zinged down the connection. I didn’t feel your presence. Laya took a breath. How can I help you? I’m trapped. Please, free me. Where are you? They took me away from Abe. I don’t know where I am. Who did? Who took you? A mage. He sent warrior elves. Abe tried to fight, but he couldn’t stop them. They stole so much. Including me. Laya’s heart jumped. Her mission was to track down the Box, and if this person knew where it was… Where is it? Is the Box with you? Please, save me. Where are you? I sense water…and others…so many other souls, all around me… please, help me… Wait! Tell me more! There was only silence. Laya opened her eyes, immediately feeling the dull throb of the headache that came with projecting her consciousness across vast distances. Ignoring it, she made her way to the desk that came with the room, and pulled out a map of the city. Water…many people… Ten minutes later, she had it. The Box was on a boat at the harbor.

Now, she just had to let Jenna know, and convince her boss to let her raid a boat that she was yet to identify. Great. Laya changed into her street clothes again, forgoing leather pants this time for a more comfortable pair of jeans. She strapped a knife to her calf, and checked that her runestone was still at her neck. She always wore it next to her skin. It amplified her elemental yakshini powers enough that she could control wind, along with water, which was her natural element. She’d received it as a thirteenth birthday present from her uncle, at the time when most magical beings started developing their powers. She remembered his smile when he’d given it to her, and tightened her hand around the stone. Laya folded up the map of New York and slipped it into her jacket’s inner pocket. She was ready to meet Jenna. Satisfied, Laya opened the door and walked right into Briony. “Ow!” The blonde werewolf raised a hand to her face, where Laya’s forehead had smacked into her nose. “What are you doing here?” “I have a lead on the Box, Princess. Come on.” “And I’m telling you, it’s at the Harbor!” Laya scowled at Briony. Really, she should’ve been a werebull instead of a wolf, she was so stubborn. “Right. Because a disembodied voice told you so.” Briony’s tone was heavily sarcastic, and Laya flushed. “So? You’re going by what your informer told you. What’s wrong if I do the same?” “You don’t even know who your informer is. This could just be a prank call. God knows I astral pranked enough times myself when I was a kid.” Now, Briony turned to Jenna, who’d been listening to them argue for the past ten minutes without saying a word. “Come on, Jenna. Buzz has a history with me. I trust him. I know he’s on the up and up.” “Your informer is named Buzz?” Laya said scornfully.

“Buzz happens to be a fae with electric powers,” Briony snapped. “Sorry if all of us can’t have meaningful, difficult to pronounce names.” “Laya is just as easy to pronounce as Briony, and—” Jenna cleared her throat, and they both subsided into silence, still fuming. “Briony, follow your lead.” She turned to Laya, who had already opened her mouth to protest, and pinned her with a glare. “You, Avasarala —you follow your own lead. Be warned, though. If you screw this up, this is your last field mission.” As Laya gulped, Jenna gave them both a nasty smile. “Now, get going. Let’s see who has the better instincts for fieldwork.” Half an hour later, Laya stood outside the offices of the Melusine Private Ferry service. Operating out of the New York Harbor and making a daily trip to New Jersey, this ferry service was how the Box was going to be transported. Laya had scryed three times for a location, and each time, she’d been pointed unerringly toward this office. Now, she walked into the office in the early dawn hours, as a blearyeyed man sat at the reception desk. “Can I help you?” “Yes, I’m with the New York City Department of Transportation.” Laya flashed a badge, too quickly for the man to see. “We’ve had a few complaints about your ferry, something about stolen goods being transported here…” She let the sentence dangle and was rewarded with a look of panic in the man’s suddenly awake eyes. “No way, everything’s in order!” “I’ll have to check for myself.” He made a face, but in ten minutes, Laya was following him down the pier to a handsome vessel with the words Enormous Fanny on the side. Laya scrunched her nose in distaste. Charming. “Here ya go,” the man was now saying. “This is where all the freight containers are, and as you can see, there’s nothing—”

Laya tuned him out, her attention caught by the tell-tale presence of magic. There. Shipping container number 13, appropriately enough. She nodded as the man talked, and somehow managed to say all the right things to get him to leave. Then, Laya faced the closed doors. She couldn’t see the runes, but she could feel that the entrance to the container was heavily warded. Someone had gone through a great deal of trouble to keep their artifacts safe. The mage that her informer had mentioned? Taking a deep breath, Laya called up her magic. Her runestone began to glow, and she used her powers to slide past the wards as if she was made of water. She felt it when the wards cracked, and faded, and she waited a few minutes before turning the key in the lock and opening the doors. The first thing that caught her eye was the bodies. Again. Two fae were on the ground—a man and a woman, their necks clearly broken. A third man lay between them, blood already clotting into a sticky puddle around his slashed throat. The wounds looked self-inflicted; the man clutched an athame in his hand, the blade bloody. His eyes were all black, the color fading slowly as the magic leached out of him and into the surroundings. This must be the mage, then. Cautiously, Laya stepped into the container unit. Two hurricane lamps sat on a table, illuminating a few artifacts on the wooden surface. Another low table had more artifacts carelessly piled on them. Laya could recognize two very expensive spell books and an enchanted telescope. She took another step into the room, and there, sitting in the glow of the hurricane lamps, was the Box. Laya nearly danced in delight. As it is, she couldn’t help the soft whoop of delight that left her lips as she crossed the room to scoop up her prize. Briony was going to be so pissed. As her hands touched the Box, a voice piped up. You found me! Laya looked around in confusion. I don’t see you anywhere. Her informer laughed, and the sound raised her hackles. Here I am, the voice said softly. Tauntingly. Where—Laya blinked as she understood. The Box.

She couldn’t recall anything in the intel about the Box being sentient, but she couldn’t doubt the evidence of her own eyes. What happened here? How did these people die? Then, a horrible thought struck Laya. Did you do this? The voice laughed again, and now, Laya could hear the malice in it. It was in the terms of the contract. What do you mean? Why, the mage made a wish. ‘I wish to be the most powerful mage alive!’ And now he wasn’t alive any more, Laya thought, with growing horror. What about Abe Pasternak? Well, the werewolf sold out his employer for money from the mage. And he wished to be the richest man alive… Laya shuddered. But what about the others? Why did you kill Pasternak, then, if only the werewolf wanted riches? I gave Abe a chance, the voice said, sounding petulant. But it’s no fun when you don’t play by the rules. Abe was going to destroy me. And that wasn’t allowed. What the Box meant by that, she had no idea. Laya carefully pushed her hands into the back pocket of her jeans, where she stored her mobile phone. She had to inform Pandora Unit of the Box’s true nature. At least, she had to tell Jenna. Now, let’s see what you want, the Box’s voice was gleefully malicious. It sprung open with a snap, and Laya covered her eyes as a gale-force wind blew over her, ruffling her hair and almost knocking her down. Her runestone glowed as she redirected the wind harmlessly away, and she heard the Spirit of the Box tut in annoyance. Stop fighting me! The Box’s voice was insistent, and Laya stumbled, falling to her knees as the psychic assault intensified. Ah, yes, a deep desire to prove yourself…you’re desperate to stand out, to become an accomplished woman…and above all, you want your family to be whole. Well, I shall give you what you want… And then Laya felt like her brain was being pried open as if it was a tin can. Memories poured into her head, and she saw and felt them all as if they were real…herself, graduating top of the class at the Academy…Jenna,

applauding Laya’s actions as the whole of the New York office cheered for her, even Briony…and then she was sitting down to a family dinner, only instead of her mom, her uncle and Vikram at the table with her, it was her mom and her uncle sitting down with her. Her uncle beamed at her, but Laya saw him holding hands with her mom. Wait, that’s not right… As if that thought had been the key that unlocked the knowledge, Laya knew that in this life, her mom and her uncle had had an affair, and in this universe, Vikram didn’t exist, because he’d killed himself at age thirteen— She let out a wail of anguish, and the illusion wavered and popped, like a soap bubble. “I didn’t wish for that,” she said, panting. “I don’t want that.” And just like that, she remembered what Abe Pasternak had been reading before he was killed. Myth and Legend, Vol. 3. And the entry named Jinn. And then, the line where his finger had rested: Jinn may be trapped by sorcerers, and then forced to follow orders. Her gorge rose. Someone had caught a living, breathing Jinn…and likely killed it, then trapped its…spirit? Shade?...into a box, and forced it to follow orders. “Wait! What’s your name?” My name? I lost it, long ago. Even the memory of it is gone, now. Laya shuddered. Just how long had this Jinn been trapped in the Box? Her intel traced the Box’s first appearance on the market to the nineteen fifties. If it had been trapped all this time, unable to do what it truly wanted, while it had to grant everyone else their wishes…no wonder it liked to twist the wishes around until all that was left was death. Maybe that was the only way it could amuse itself. “What do you want?” Laya asked desperately. “What do you wish for?” There was a dead silence, and Laya held her breath. Freedom. “I can give it to you.” You? I’ve seen your mind, Agent, the Jinn spat. You want to take me back to Pandora, and keep me in a storage box, under lock and key. Well, that’s not happening. “No, no, I promise, I won’t lock you up—” LIAR!

The word reverberated with psychic power, and Laya clutched at her head. Blood dripped from her nose, and she winced in pain. No more time for talking, now. She had to make a decision, and jump in with both feet, all the while hoping like hell she was right. Laya stretched out a hand and called upon her power. A tornado swept through the room, papers flying like confetti. At the same time, the sea under the boat surged, the table unbalancing in the sudden lurch of the water. The lid to the Box slammed shut, and Laya winced as a psychic scream echoed in her ears. Concentrating, Laya willed her wind power to pick the Box up, and flip it to the floor. Hard. She scrambled to her feet, and brought down her heeled boot on the wood, calling on all her desperate strength. The wooden lid cracked, and there was a burst of light—Laya squeezed her eyes shut, praying she’d made the right call— And then everything was silent again. On the edge of her consciousness, she heard a faint whisper: Thank you. “So, it’s gone? Empty?” Laya sat in front of Jenna’s desk, in what was now becoming her familiar spot. “The Jinn’s gone,” she agreed. “The Box is just another piece of wood, now.” Jenna nodded and placed the empty box onto her desk. “Good work.” She looked up at Laya appraisingly. “Now that that’s over: how would you like to join the New York office?” Laya blinked. Whatever she had been expecting now, a job offer was at the bottom of the list. “I thought you didn’t like me.” Jenna smiled, her long fangs showing. “I don’t. But you’re competent. You showed initiative with the astral projection. And then, out in the field, you went with your gut and you neutralized a potential threat. That’s all I want in a Pandora Agent.” She tapped her long nails on the desk. “So, how about it?”

Laya smiled. Just a few hours ago, she might’ve been swayed by the offer. But after the Jinn had shown her what she really wanted, there was no way she was going to leave her family for a place in New York. “I’m sorry, I’m going to have to decline,” Laya said firmly. “My place is in India. With my family.” She flashed Jenna a smile, enjoying the fae’s annoyance. “I hope you understand.” Jenna made a face like she swallowed a lemon, but she nodded. “Well, then. Your flight’s been booked for tomorrow. If that’s all, show yourself out of the office, please. Pick up your time reports on your way out, and enjoy the rest of the day off.” Laya nodded and stood. “Thanks for everything.” On her way out of the building, she ran into Briony. The blonde werewolf looked sleep-deprived, and her hair hung limp around her head. “Solved the case,” Laya said breezily, enjoying the way her old classmate stared. “See ya!” And before Briony’s stupefied eyes, Laya got onto her motorcycle and drove away. It felt good to put the office in her rear-view mirror. She was going to enjoy some downtime. Maybe explore the city. Whatever was in store for her in the future, Laya had no doubt now that she was ready to meet it. And make the most of it.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR Sudha Kuruganti writes fantasy inspired by Indian mythology. She loves books, anime, coffee, chocolate, manga, Beatles music, and dogs—not necessarily in that order. Sudha’s work includes a clean paranormal romance series, the Elementals of India, and the Legend Valley Academy trilogy, which features Mal Jones, Laya's niece, as she investigates her dad’s disappearance and discovers her place in the world. Want more of Laya, kickass relic hunter? Check out her next adventure here (Link “here” to http://getbook.at/SummerShenanigans) and pre-order (link “the collection” to http://getbook.at/PandoraUnit) the collection of her further adventures in magical relic recovery. When she's not writing, Sudha is usually nose deep in a book, experimenting with strange online recipes on her Air Force officer husband, or playing with their young son. Find all of Sudha's books on Amazon and sign up to receive her newsletter and a free story here: bit.ly/SSKnewsletter

“Tell me there is still good in the world. Tell me there is still hope for all of us.” ― Marie Lu, Champion

C 5 THE OUTSIDE C. C. Solomon lara was running as fast as her legs could take her. She wanted to turn to see how far it was behind her, but fear and adrenaline kept moving her forward. However, she could hear it. And it sounded too close. She turned the corner of the dimly lit hallway and faced another lengthy path. The few lights hanging from above flickered, adding to the ominous feeling. She passed closed doors, rattling the knobs and banging for help. No door opened, and the building filled with an eerie silence, as if it was only it and her that existed. Her lungs burned with the continued effort. There seemed to be no end to the hallway. No exit door. It was closer now. She could hear the grunts and its feet pounding on the carpet. It snarled at her back, chomping its teeth. Finally, she saw the light from an open door. She increased her speed, pumping her legs and arms. She ran inside but couldn't close it fast enough. The beast was closer than she'd thought. It knocked her to the ground and pounced on her back. Giant slobbery teeth shone in the dark as the creature leaned forward to bite her.

Clara woke up with a scream in her throat. She paused, hearing a slow, deep scratching on her wall across from her bed and a low growl. She wasn't dreaming now, but it sounded an awful lot like the monster in her nightmares. She'd heard it before. It was maddening. No one in the building admitted to having a pet, although this sounded bigger. Like a wolf, but not a wolf. What was it? Sweat drenched her body, plastering her tight curls to her head. She thought she'd placed a bonnet on her head before going to sleep. She felt around on the bed for it, finding the satin material. She began wrapping her hair in the bonnet when her bedroom door slammed open, startling her. Wesley held onto the doorknob, staring down at her with wide, concerned eyes. "Are you ok, mistress? Was it the dream again?" The worried look in his eyes made him seem almost human. Almost. He certainly looked like a man. He was tall with an athletic build, appearing to be in his late teens/early twenties. His deep brown skin and curly black hair, cut into a close fade, seemed very real. The only thing that ever gave him away were his eyes. Those shockingly pale blue eyes had a faint nonstop swirling white light that circled his irises. It was a dead giveaway that he was something other than human. She glared at him, annoyed at his title for her. "For the hundredth time, please don't call me mistress!" Wesley gave her a wiry smile. "What am I to call you, then?" She pursed her lips and rolled her honey-colored eyes, continuing to tuck her hair back under the bonnet. He knew she hated being called mistress, and was doing this to be funny. She never thought his kind could be such smart-alecs. "Clara. It's not that difficult. Nobody else's robot calls them mistress or master." Wesley lowered his brows and gave her a distinctively human look of annoyance. "I am not a robot." She jutted her chin out, unapologetic. "See, you don't like to be called the wrong name, either." The proper name was actually a cybernetic companion. When she woke up from a coma two months ago, she was in an apartment that she did not recognize, with Wesley staring down at her. Having gotten deathly sick

from an illness that affected her brain and immune system, they'd placed her in a medically induced coma to survive. Wesley would not say how long she had been in the coma or why she wasn't in the hospital anymore. All she knew was that now he was her roommate slash guardian. She sighed. “I’m fine, Wes. You don’t have to jump up every time I have a nightmare. Things would be better if I didn’t keep hearing those strange growls outside the apartment.” “It’s probably a neighbor’s emotional support pet. Or maybe a loud movie they are watching.” She lifted her upper lip in a silent snarl. Once again, he was feeding her an excuse that made no sense. “Please don’t insult my intelligence. I know the difference between a dog’s growl or bark and what I hear. I hear snarls and growls from above me, next to me, and below me. It’s like this building is full of the infected.” She put up a hand before Wesley could say something to brush off her worries. “And before you start, yes, I know we have the tests, so people don’t get that far out of control anymore. But not everyone takes the test like they should or turns themselves in for observation. I’ve heard some people even rip out their chips. What if someone with the plague lives here?” Wesley tilted his head, seemingly assessing her with his eyes. Well, perhaps he actually was checking her vitals. Having him around was like having her own on-call doctor. “This place is safe, Clara. And I am here to protect you. As long as you stay in this apartment, nothing can harm you. Can I make you some tea or perhaps give you a massage?” He made a flexing motion with his fingers that looked very inappropriate to Clara. She cocked a brow at him. His touch still freaked her out. He felt too human, and it confused her. “No, thank you.” She looked out the window, the blinds were open. The many windows in her space taunted her with a promise of the life that she could not access. She often slept with the blinds open, enjoying the comfort of the city light peeking into her room in the dark. It made her feel connected to the world since they prohibited her from leaving the apartment for now. “Wes, I’d like to go for a hike tomorrow,” she announced, shifting back down on her bed to try to return to sleep. “Clara, you know that is not possible.” Wesley clasped his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels like an excited kid. He always appeared so

full of life for something not real. “We can do a simulation hike with the virtual reality glasses.” Of course, it wasn’t possible. Why could she never leave? Why could she not see her family? Wesley and Dr. Miller, her weekly therapist, said she needed isolation for her health and rehabilitation, but something felt wrong. She huffed. “I don’t want fake. I want real. Get me real.” Wesley gave her empathetic eyes she found unnerving from a robot. He really looked like he was concerned. “Your health is the reason, Clara. It makes you high risk. The outside world is not safe for you now. But that can change. Just give it time.” “How is fresh air going to compromise me? And we can go together. Everyone has a rob- cybernetic companion of some sort, nowadays.” “Dr. Miller has to approve it. Continuing your session with her will allow for that to happen.” She shut her eyes tight. She knew it would not, especially with her recurring nightmares. “You can go, Wesley.” He bowed his head, closing the door. “Good night, Clara.” She didn’t reply, wishing she was anywhere but stuck in a building with a robot. After another agitating session with Dr. Miller the next afternoon, Clara headed to the kitchen to find lunch. She didn’t have any classes that day, but she would need to study. She was already behind a semester from being sick. This was not what she expected her life to be; instead of making new friends and being on campus for her first year of college, she was relegated to an apartment. Wesley stood in front of the island to the open kitchen; lunch was spread on the counter. Just as he had done all the days before. She had to admit that for a robot with no taste buds, he had impeccable cooking skills. She looked down at the counter and raised a brow in surprise. “Sushi?” Wesley gave a wide grin, looking too proud of himself. “I thought you might like something different today. You sounded quite… agitated in your

session with the doctor.” She frowned and placed her hands on her hips. “Were you spying?” “I apologize, mis- Clara. My hearing is exceptional; I should have lowered my volume.” He moved from around the counter and stood in front of her. He was a little too close for Clara’s comfort, and she took a step back. “I know you wanted to go outside, but you are not missing anything.” She rolled her eyes in annoyance. “How would you know?” He turned his head, and she saw his whirling blue eyes brighten as he scanned his data access. “For the past several decades, society has made a comfortable world indoors. Where it is safer. Many diseases ravaged the world. Specifically, the most recent disease known as Mitrovirus-80 or The Plague as it is commonly known. As a result, most people live most their days at home and isolated from strangers.” She waved a hand at him. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Spare me the history lesson. I know what the world is like.” Most of the world now survived through social distancing except if they were constantly tested and given approved access to certain places like schools, restaurants, and planes. In certain countries, all human movement had to be sanctioned and was monitored through implanted chips. Human health was also monitored through the chips to ensure that the few spaces still open to public interaction were free of the sick. None of that entailed keeping someone locked in her home indefinitely. She’d heard the rationale Wesley had given her many times, including from her doctor. It didn’t make her situation less difficult, especially when she did not have her parents or siblings with her. Her eyes glistened, and she blinked rapidly to push back her disappointment. Wesley grabbed her hand, linking their fingers together. “Please don’t be upset, Clara. Allow me to make you happy. I could not help but overhear that Dr. Miller asked that we form a closer bond. Companions and their humans are often very close. In the best of circumstances, we can be each other’s best friend. I want that for us.” He gave her a dimpled smile, his eyes crinkling. Something tweaked at her heart, to her surprise. His programming really made him appear to care. Really, she thought, he must have cost a fortune to make. Who was footing this bill? Clara snorted, removing her hand from his before picking up a piece of sushi. “Of course, you would. You’re programmed to want that.”

Wesley stared down at his hand, now empty of her own. “I am programmed to be of assistance, but I want to be close to you. May I hold your hand again? I liked that.” Clara cut her eyes at him, growing more annoyed by the minute. She didn’t care about what he wanted; he was a robot. She was the one who was suffering. She didn’t want to be friends with a robot. She wanted a real human friend to see with her own eyes and not through a screen or hologram. Clara recalled that her family didn’t have helper robots. Her parents were state-of-the-art in just about everything but that. They even limited their internet time. Her parents wanted their children to read actual books and to play board games. They valued their independence from technology in that way. Which was why Clara had a hard time believing her parents would ever approve of her current living situation. And yet they had changed their opinions, and no answer she received from them eased her mind. “If you really wanted to be my best friend, you’d help me sneak out of here.” She batted her eyes at him, popping the sushi in her mouth. Wesley lowered his head before looking up at her again with pained eyes. “I’m sorry, Clara, but I cannot do that. You could get sick.” “No, no, NO! That’s all you ever say.” She gritted her teeth and kicked him in the leg, instantly regretting it as her sock-covered foot knocked against his metal shin. She hopped up and down, crying as her foot throbbed with pain. Wesley instantly lifted her in his arms and carried her to the couch. He assessed her toes, his touch light and careful. “It’s not broken, but it is bruised,” he surmised before getting up and walking to the kitchen. She frowned, sucking in another cry before punching a pillow. How had she gotten so stupid? Wesley returned with a small bag of ice and he sat down beside her. Then he lifted her foot to his thigh, and placed the ice on her toes. “You must be careful, Clara. I am not meant to cause you pain.” She looked into his inhuman eyes, catching something like sorrow emanating from the blue eyes. She would not be swayed. She leaned towards him. “Can I at least go home? There are only pictures of my family here. I have nothing of theirs.”

She wanted to feel less alone. To breathe in the scents of her family. Tears pricked the backs of her eyes, and she let out a ragged breath, feeling more alone than ever. This sterile place wasn’t home. It would never be! Wesley reached over and carefully wiped a tear from her cheek with his index finger. Startled, Clara looked over at him with wide eyes. What was with this robot? Had they programmed him to do such a thing? He stared down at his wet finger, his eyebrows furrowing together in a frown. “I hate that you’re crying, Clara. But I do not have the approval to visit your fam-“ She cut him off with a wave of her hand. “Of course, you don’t. You can’t go against what’s programmed into your system,” she replied with a biting tone. He looked down at his lap, still pressing the ice to her foot. “Why do you look so sad?” He wasn’t the one who was left on his own. “I am failing you. You have lost hope. You believe you are in prison and that I am your captor.” He wasn’t wrong. She’d tried to leave many times before. Each time she’d hurt herself trying to hit him or shove him out of the way to get to the outside or in anger at her living situation. It was too easy for her to forget he was made of steel. However, he never harmed her. She had hurt herself. What was wrong with her? She didn’t feel herself, but then again, she could barely remember who she had been before the coma. Now she was beating up a robot. With Wesley, it was like kicking a dog that kept coming back and licking you. That sudden realization alarmed her. She was taking her anger out on this robot, and that wasn’t right. He was not the cause of her situation, and it was only hurting her. Not just emotionally, but also physically. “Stop worrying about pleasing me. We’re never going to be friends this way.” Wesley gave her a contemplative look, eyes squinted. “What other way is there to be a friend? My research shows that for one to make a friend, they have to be a friend.” She snorted and rolled her eyes. “But you just follow the rules and behave like a servant. What we have is very one-sided. You do everything for me, and I do nothing for you. That’s not a friendship.” She looked down at her foot. “I’m sorry for kicking you.” He shook his head. “It didn’t hurt.”

She grabbed the ice and moved her foot off his lap. “It doesn’t matter. You don’t deserve to be abused. None of this is your fault.” She got up and limped towards her room, feeling even worse. A loud thud from above startled her. She looked up at the ceiling and frowned as she heard what sounded like furniture knocking over. She could hear shouting. People. Screams actually. She looked over at Wesley, who was already standing, also staring up at the ceiling. “You think they’re fighting up there?” she asked. A monstrous roar rocked the apartment from above. “You heard that growling too, right?” Wesley nodded. “Perhaps it is a pet, misbehaving.” She wrinkled her face in disbelief. “I thought robots were supposed to be smart. What kind of pet is that? A grizzly bear? Have we got bears as neighbors now? Someone could be hurt, or we could be in danger. It could crack our ceiling and fall through. If you won’t do something, then I will.” She turned and limped to the front door. She was calling his bluff. She could barely walk, let alone help someone from an animal attack, but she was done ignoring these things. She got to the door and turned the knob but soon felt Wesley behind her, pushing his hand against the door. Clara closed her eyes, still gripping the doorknob so tightly in surprise that she thought she might break it. “We have to do something. Something terrible is going on.” Wesley’s hand soon wrapped around her own. A surprising warmth sent a sudden calm through her. She sunk back against his chest, allowing him to settle her down, and loosened her grip. “Let me take care of it, Clara.” She blew out a breath and moved to the side, letting go of the door. Wesley gave her a sad smile that confused her before he opened the door and left; the click of the automatic lock sounded behind him. She stood in silence for what felt like hours as she continued to hear commotion around her. Then, suddenly, nothing. Just an eerie silence that wrapped around her and her apartment. When her door opened again, Wesley appeared with a grim face. His shirt was splattered with blood, and his arm held a deep gash exposing his internal machinery. She limped towards him, her face fixed with worry. “What happened? Do you need help?” “I will be fine. I can easily repair myself.”

“What was it up there?” He gave her a lopsided grin. “It was not a dog.” She blinked several times at him in astonishment. Was he trying to be funny, now? Of all times? “We knew. What was it?” Wesley headed to his room. “You are safe.” She followed him. “That’s not what I asked.” He stopped and turned to her. “You don’t need to know. You must not be stressed.” “I’m stressed by not knowing.” She grabbed his hand with both of hers, hoping that the contact would soften his resilience, if that were even possible. Sure, it was manipulative, but she didn’t care. He looked down at her hands, and his face seemed to shift in conflict, his eyebrows lowering. “I am so sorry, Clara. But I cannot.” She dropped his hand, rage thundering through her. “Of course, you can’t. I hate this place. And I hate you.” She had to get out of here. What had started off as annoyance at all the secrets had now turned to fear. One Week Later Clara awoke to the sound of an old R&B song blaring through the apartment with the smell of bacon and cinnamon pancakes filling the air. She rubbed her eyes and swung her legs to the side of the bed before sitting upright. Walking out of her bedroom and down the hall, she spotted Wesley in the kitchen flipping pancakes as he hummed along to the song. The quality of the music was unusual. She turned and headed to the living area, giving a light gasp as she saw her father’s record player on the bookcase spinning one of his many records. There were two boxes, one open and one closed. She rushed to the sealed one and opened it. Inside she found some books, a stuffed animal, clothes from her mother and sister, along with her brother’s anime hoodie that she loved wearing. Tears blinded her eyes. She sat on the floor, clutching the items and hiccupping with cries.

Soon she heard footsteps and then arms gently encircling her from behind. She felt Wesley’s hard chest on her back as he gathered her in an embrace. She wiped her face in surprise. “What are you doing?” “You were crying. I wanted to comfort you.” She turned slightly to him. “I thought I couldn’t have personal items yet. Did you get approval to bring these things here?” Wesley smiled at her, his dimples piercing his cheeks. “Yes, I begged Dr. Miller until she tired of me. I wanted to make you happy. Does this help you?” The innocent look in his eyes plus his dimpled smile did something to her heart. Still, she couldn’t forget the things he kept from her. She’d been giving him the silent treatment for the past few days, and she was slightly mad at herself for breaking it even now. “Will you tell me what happened at that apartment the other week?” She gave him a pout, hoping today he would continue his sympathetic streak and give in. He studied her face, his eyes whirling, face expressionless. “You are manipulating me?” He said it more as a question than a statement. “Is it working?” He looked down at the ground, eyes searching the floor. “I believe it is. Someone became infected. They had been undetected and contracted the violence symptom. It is quite unusual for someone to get to such an advanced stage. I had to… end his life. He was too far gone. Please don’t tell the doctor I told you. You are to be stress-free.” Perhaps she had misjudged robots, at least this one. He was more than a pet. His thinking was complex and, at times, funny and sweet. The fact that he had finally told the truth meant so much to her. Even if it was scary. “Well, I’m sorry you had to do that. And I feel awful for that person. Was he the cause of all the noises I’d been hearing?” Wesley gave an eager nod, face still solemn. “It is possible.” She turned around fully, getting on her knees, and gave him a tight hug. “Thank you. Thank you for all of this and for telling me the truth.” He placed a careful hand on her back and stroked up and down. His touch felt quite comforting. A far cry from when he first attempted a comforting touch upon their initial meeting. She had welcomed it then with a punch in the chest. “You keep helping me, but what can I do for you?” “Keep hugging me.”

She laughed, a curious pang hitting her heart. He really was becoming endearing. “Is that all?” “Yes. I want to feel… human. Humans require touch. They have emotions. I want those things, too.” She sucked her teeth. “Not all emotions. Being sad sucks.” “Sadness is but one emotion in a spectrum. It makes happiness that much more enjoyable.” He was just a robot, and yet he had gone outside of his programming to make her happy. He had picked the very things that would bring her joy, although she had not told him to. “How did you know I would want these particular things? Did my family offer them to you?” He nodded. “Have I done well?” She squeezed him. “Yes, you’ve done well. Very well.” Perhaps having him here wasn’t so bad after all. Two Weeks Later Clara awoke to a scream. She looked around her darkened bedroom and jumped when she heard a loud pounding against the adjoining apartment wall. More screams, a woman’s, sliced through the air, and soon the familiar snarls and growls followed until the screams disappeared. A slamming of a door, shaking the walls of her apartment, got her to her feet. Her heart pounded in her chest as she left her room’s relative safety. She pressed the hallway pad for the light, but nothing turned on. In fact, she couldn’t see the glow of any of her electronics in the apartment. The power had to be out. She could hear wild galloping feet in the outside hallway and slams against the walls, fraying her fragile nerves. Whatever was outside her apartment wanted in somewhere. She really hoped the front door was as strong as it seemed. Reaching the living area, she spotted Wesley standing in the dark facing the door. She walked to him, and he glanced at her, putting an index finger to his lips to keep her silent.

She stood slightly behind him as they waited, hearing the slamming and growling continue. Soon the doorknob to the apartment shook violently. It was trying to get in. Soon there was a loud banging on the door. Not a knocking, but more of a pounding, as if someone was throwing their body against the door. “Open, open, open, open, open!” cried a bass-heavy, croaking voice. The voice terrified Clara. It sounded inhuman. The door continued to shake. She wasn’t sure it could withstand constant pounding of that magnitude. Whatever was behind that door was impossibly strong. Was it stronger than Wesley? She would soon find out because the door suddenly slammed open. Wesley shoved her to the side. “Go in your room!” he barked as he raced towards the very beast that had plagued Clara’s dreams. It was a man. At least she thought it was. He was large, perhaps obese, and human-shaped, without clothes and hairless. Its skin was midnight black but textured and cracked all over, as if it were burned, with glowing red strips of color like lava peeking through the cracks. Its eyes were also like glowing lava, and it had teeth like razors. This was the Plagued. She turned on her heels and raced to the kitchen, she grabbed a butcher knife. She glanced towards Wesley and the beast, who were tussling on the ground. As a robot, Wesley was impossibly strong, yet he seemed to struggle against this humanoid creature. Were all infected so strong? There was no way her bedroom door would hold up against this thing if Wesley lost. Then she would be stuck in her room with no escape. The beast clawed at Wesley’s chest and arms, exposing machinery under the false skin. It opened its mouth incredibly wide and sank its teeth into Wesley’s shoulder, unbothered by the metal. Its teeth crushed the machine, bending it out of shape. Wesley leveled a punch to the side of the beast’s face. Blood and teeth flew from its mouth, and Clara heard a sickening crack of bone. Its mouth hung at an unnatural angle, almost wobbling off its face. Clara soon realized that was because its jaw was broken. Yet, the beast continued its attack. It kept clawing at Wesley, shredding more of the factory-made skin to expose the machine underneath. Wesley pushed his fist through the creature's chest, cracking ribs and pulling back a bloodied hand, but the beast would not die. Instead, it gripped the robot’s head and jerked it to the side, before detaching the head.

Clara gasped and covered her mouth in horror. She took a careful step back, holding her breath. This creature was much stronger than she could have imagined. It had taken out a cyborg. The usually bright blue of Wesley’s eyes dulled, and his face went slack. Was he destroyed for good? She didn’t have time to think. She had to find a way out now before this beast turned its blazing eyes on her. She had to save herself now. The creature lifted its deformed head and looked in her direction. Panic took hold, and she raced towards her room, hearing the creature’s quick movements behind her. She slammed her bedroom door and struggled to slide her dresser against it. As she pushed, she grew angrier and angrier. What was it doing here? What did it want with her? Why this apartment? Had it killed Wesley? She hated to admit it, but over the past couple of weeks, she’d started to like him. Her heart panged at the possibility that he could be irreparably harmed. The door shook when she only had the long dresser halfway covering the entrance. It wouldn’t take long for the monster to break it down, and she had no plan other than jumping out the window to her inevitable death. However, that would be better than getting eaten or mauled alive by this thing. She should have been scared, but a wave of sudden anger overcame her. She flexed her fingers and gritted her teeth so hard she thought they might crack. A dull but loud ringing filled her ears. What was happening to her? Was she getting sick? “Kill, kill, kill, kill!” The demon voice said continually, almost wheezing out the words. She should have been terrified, but instead, she felt dizzy, her vision blurred as if she had vertigo. She stopped pushing against the dresser and stood back, still holding her knife tightly, as her mind cracked, pain sharpening in her skull. She could barely see or hear now. Her mind was only attuned to the monster and the pain. Her back slapped against the nearest wall, and she pressed her hands against her ears, shutting her eyes tight. She heard the door slam a final time, and her dresser crashed forward to the ground. She opened her eyes, seeing the beast jump on top of her dresser. She could barely breathe now. Anger, pain, and adrenaline mixed in her body. Her mind felt heavy, her heart constricted, cutting into her

breaths. She opened her mouth to take large swallows of air; her chest heaved up and down. “Stop! Get away from me!” She shouted so loud and so hard that her body shook, and it felt like her voice could echo through the whole building. She waved the knife in front of her, hoping that if the creature pounced, it would fall right on the sharpened tool and die. The creature halted and stood frozen, hunched forward, long arms dangling loosely at its side like some grotesque mannequin. Why had it stopped? Had it listened to her? She had to test it again. “Go away!” She screamed at the top of her lungs, her voice so loud it scratched at her throat, spittle flying out. The creature turned without delay, climbed over the dresser, and left without so much as a backwards glace. Clara could hear its clawed feet on the hardwood until it became muffled by the carpeted hallway. She remained where she was as she heard it move farther down the hall in silence. No more growling or pounding. Suddenly, a loud popping rang through the hallway. She then heard shouting and a rush of footsteps. “This is the police. Stay in your apartments, everyone. Everything is under control,” called an authoritative voice. She sagged to the floor, hiccupping with cries and exhaustion. Two days later, Clara sat in her bedroom for another virtual session with Dr. Miller, recapping the attack. Her mind was not fully back to normal. Her head still hurt, and she couldn’t close her eyes, seeing only the episode in her dreams. “Apparently, a guy with the plague got out. He had an unauthorized visitor sneak in and somehow shut down his cybernetic companion to not get reported. But then he ended up transforming, killing his guest, and escaping. When the police got there, the guy was lying on the ground, sleeping after I sent him out. I still don’t get why he even listened to me.” Dr. Miller gave a short clap, a smile crinkling the corners of her eyes. “You have excelled beyond what any of us could have expected.”

Clara tilted her head with confusion. Now that was not the response she thought she would get. However, it wasn’t surprising. It was now obvious to her that things weren’t fully as they seemed. “Doc, I think it’s time you told me what’s really going on here.” Dr. Miller leaned towards the screen, forearms resting on her thighs. “Clara, I know we’ve been very secretive about things. It was only to help you. Agitation can disrupt healing, as you know.” “I know, but what does this have to do with anything?” “You have Mitrovirus-80. When you were first diagnosed, your parents allowed us to put you in a coma. Doctors worked on the part of the brain that causes the uncontrollable violence, which also leads to the body transformation. That probably led to some memory issues. We also put you in a drug trial that could help end the transformation and violence symptoms.’’ Shock rocked her core, and she clutched her pillow to her chest. She had no recollection of any of this. “I thought people with the plague were… euthanized?” “Most are. But some have the potential for rehabilitation through medication and therapy. If caught early, we believe this is something that can be cured.” Seeing Clara’s worried face, Dr. Miller continued. “I know this is a lot, but it’s time you know. You had to be isolated to protect others. Being around organic humans can rouse the violence as it did with your neighbor.” Clara, still numb, began to rock on her bed, eyes glazed over such that she could barely make out Dr. Miller’s form on her TV. “Is this why I kept having nightmares?” The doctor nodded. “We suspect it was your violent subconscious. It couldn’t escape to kill in real life, so it manifested as a dream.” She felt cold dampness on her cheek and realized she was crying. She wiped her face with the back of her hand, finally seeing the screen clearer. Dr. Miller continued. “The cybernetic companions are here to help you with your depression and anger. And they can withstand your violence, which a human cannot. You’re stronger now. That is another part of your condition.” Suddenly things clicked into place. It made sense now why that infected man could overtake Wesley. The Plagued was physically stronger. If she

had attacked a regular human the way she’d kicked and punched Wesley in the past, she could have broken someone’s bones or worse. “This medicine and companion program is to help you manage. It doesn’t work for everyone. You have showed the most progress. As you know, if one is infected, being around another infected that transforms can bring upon one’s own transformation. You not transforming is incredible. The other patients on your floor went violent. Beyond saving.” Clara covered her face with her hands, feeling sick. She hadn’t felt herself that night. How had she survived? Had the medicine really helped keep her calm? “But what about me ordering that man to go away? Did I really do that?” She peeked out between her fingers to see her doctor’s response. Dr. Miller nodded. A gleeful glint to her eyes that Clara could even see through the screen. “Some of our studies have shown that a very limited few of the infected can connect with the other infected. This disease, we’ve now learned, creates something like a hive mind, and certain individuals can control that mindset.” She touched her chest, looking almost teary-eyed. “Clara, you are so special, more than you can imagine. I believe you can help us end the horrible effects of this disease. Will you help?” Clara lowered her hands, squeezing her pillow again. She wasn’t stupid enough to think she had any genuine power, and that no was an option. However, if she could help others, she wanted to do that. In fact, despite the terrifying events of the other night, she was feeling renewed. “Yes, but can I ask for one thing?” Two weeks later Wesley offered Clara a hand, and she gladly accepted the help as he pulled her to stand on the slab of rock. She glanced up at him with a smile, still feeling relief at his recovery. “Your neck still feel ok?” she cracked, looking away from him. She shielded her eyes with her hand from the glare of the sun and inhaled a deep breath of fresh air.

She heard him give a sigh of exasperation. “You don’t plan to let that go, do you?” She lifted a shoulder in response. Apparently, a little beheading to a cyborg was not a life ender. He squeezed her hand. “You must have been upset at my harm since you cried when I returned to you.” Just hearing him say that out loud reddened her cheeks with embarrassment. He was away from the apartment in repair, leaving her with an older substitute robot that she did not care for. If she hadn’t known before, she knew now that robots were individuals with unique characteristics. She looked over the water and the collection of trees several feet below. A warm breeze brushed the back of her neck, and she lifted her face to the cloudless sky with a smile. For the first time in a long time, Clara felt genuinely free. Although she didn’t hate her new normal now. Her life was not how she imagined it would be, but she was beginning to think it might be better this way. She could see her family now and go out into the world. She was still monitored, but now she understood why. The world wasn’t just about her. It was about those around her as well. She was fulfilling a grander purpose that went beyond herself. She could help humanity. That gave her hope that things could get better. Wesley brushed a thumb over the back of her hand, gaining her attention. “Are you happy, Clara?” She nodded, looking over to him with a smile. “Yes.” He looked down to their still interlocked hands, a content smile on his lips. “Should I let your hand go?” She thought about it a beat and then realized that she didn’t want that. She didn’t want him to leave her at all. He had finally become her friend. “No.” His smile widened in a boyish grin, and he gave her hand a light squeeze before looking back at the water. “Good.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR C.C. Solomon is a USA Today Bestselling author originally from Baltimore, Maryland. She has actively written fiction since the age of eleven. She is an avid "chick lit" reader and urban fantasy fan. In 2012, she participated as a writer and actress in the 48 hour film project. In her other life, she works in Equal Employment and Civil Rights for the Federal Government. Before becoming a public servant, C.C. briefly practiced law after graduating from the University of Maryland School of Law. In her free time she sings karaoke, travels the globe and watches too much TV. For giveaways, free reads, and lifestyle and travel tips sign up for her newsletter! And for opportunities to beta read/ARC read and get more insider information on her books join the Facebook group, Cat's Corner: New Adult Urban Fantasy and Paranormal Romance Readers.