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Hello, this is my YA novel, Max and the Spracketts. I worked on two novels for my MA, which i completed this year. Morrigan's Curse/Feathered Heart is one and this is the other. Both are complete--although I am making minor structural edits to both in light of some stuff I've been reading on here-- hahahha CHAPTER ONE Max Somewhere inside all of us is the power to change the world. (Roald Dahl, Matilda) The snow fell in thick curtains around him, the houses twinkling with warm Christmas lights and the skinny streetlamps glowing with misty orbs. He had no idea it was so late—he’d not missed a train in five years, and he wasn’t missing this one. Wiping sleet from his eyes while he ran, Max slipped on the pavement and stumbled toward a lamplighter. “OY! Watch it, lad!” the lamplighter yelled, as Max crashed into him. The man wobbled on his ladder, hands grasped tight as the ladder tilted away from the lamp post until he stood like he was walking on stilts. “Whoa, woa!” he called, voice deep with panic, like he was talking to an unbridled horse. “Gotcha!” said Max, clutching the grainy ladder. He was going to get a splinter from this. He set the ladder back against the lamppost. “Sorry, I didn’t…” Max stammered, the cold air like blades in his throat. “Sorry I didn’t,” the lamplighter mimicked him. “Alright, no need for that, I saved you, didn’t I!” “Why you cheeky little—” The lamplighter lunged at him, stale breath reeking of ale. Max ran, snow seeping beneath his collar, skin numb to the coldness, fear pushing him on. He had to get back to the train! His whole life was on that train! No way could he spend a month on the streets in Vienna. He’d freeze for one thing! How could he be so stupid? Getting carried away playing his violin. He couldn’t help smiling, though. He loved it when a crowd drew around him, listening to him weave his father’s old song out of the new strings he’d just bought. Then he’d left the violin under the bench next to the carousel. Stupid mistake. It was that hooded girl, ratting him out to the Scouts when he was doing an innocent bit of thieving from that fat rich guy. Rookie move, letting her distract him, and he was no rookie. How had he forgotten his violin? He could always leave the violin, if he did, he’d definitely catch the train before it left the station. Darn violin was all he had of his dad he couldn’t leave the thing. Even if no one stole it, the wood wouldn’t last a week in this snow. That girl! He saw her—actually saw her—point him out to the Scouts! She wasn’t one of the rich. Her clothes were too dull and drab. Plus, she had no nanny with her, and couldn’t be older than thirteen, maybe fourteen. So who was she? She had to be street kid. Someone needed to sit her down and explain the street code to her. Rule number one: no ratting each other out. Max dragged his hands over his face, his mind clouded with images of her. She’d distracted him, and he couldn’t understand why, which distracted him even more. He didn’t like it. All he could think of was her hooded figure. That and his poor cold violin! Oh and his train. He had to focus, focus on the train! Get the violin, catch the train! Get the violin, catch the train! Pausing to catch his breath. The thick snow blanketed everything—where was he? He dragged his fingers through his hair, stinging with the cold. He should have worn full gloves, not the fingerless ones. The air from his breath hardly warmed them. The wind picked up, parting the snow momentarily and offering a glimpse the Vienna Ferris Wheel, hanging in the sky like a giant spider's web. A grin cracked his cheeks. He knew exactly where he was—not far from the town square. His eyes stung from the cold. Popping the latch on his leather satchel, he took out his brass goggles. His heart tugged at the empty space where his violin should be. He opened the pouch to reveal an array of colored lenses, neatly stacked in individual silk sleeves. Flicking through them, he found what he was looking for: copper. Always, copper for twilight. Inserting the lenses into the goggles, he pulled them down and felt familiar relief. He could wear his copper lenses at night, and see as well as in daytime. This was one of the reasons he wore the goggles. The other reason? They were a gift, and those hadn’t come by him very often in his short life. The main main reason, though, was Max had gold rings around the pupils of his eyes, and if he didn’t wear the goggles, people got too excited around him. Many people wore goggles, but no one had gold rings around their pupils. No one he’d met, anyway. They helped him fit in. People stared at his inky black pupils ringed with gold—after all, why wouldn’t they? One time he got a mirror and stared at them for so long he could have sworn he saw flames. He preferred the goggles. He checked his watch – 7:45 – the train left at 8:00. He took off at a sprint. Not far now. The question nagged at him again – why would anyone bother to snitch on him to the Scouts? It didn’t make any sense. He was a nobody, a thirteen-year-old orphan who lived on a train. He wasn’t like one of those rich kids the Scouts could ransom out for cash. Who was that girl, anyway? He had a pretty good grasp on the street kids. He’d visited Vienna every two weeks for over five years, but her…he’d never seen her before. He’d always liked his stops in Vienna. This one he’d got new strings for his violin, long overdue, but they weren’t cheap. This stop had gone very wrong. His dad had said they’d lived here once, before his mother had died. Max couldn’t remember it, but he felt it. Felt the near-touchable familiarity of the streets and the smells. It was by far the best train route, because they traveled through the Carpathians. Max loved to thieve off the passengers, hit Budapest and go straight to the new Opera house where he and his dad would sit in the rafters and listen to the music. And that was his plan today. If he missed the train, where would he go? He entered a broad street lined with grand houses, each one with a flight of steps leading to ornate front doors with large windows. Inside, maids lit candles, and Christmas trees were strung with so much popcorn Max could swear the smell of butter filled the air. It looked cozy. Max hated cozy. He suspected it had something to do with the peaceful look on children's faces as they snuggled into their parent's arms. This was what he suspected. It was a feeling, not something he could see, touch, smell, or taste—thus, not something he could really believe existed. Feelings were ghostly, unreliable. Max didn't like unreliable. Unreliable didn't work in his world. He skirted the corner and saw the town square. Music flowed down the street towards him. All the streets leading off the square glowed, snow fell, lamplighters protected their flames, grim faces undeterred. And the square was lit up like a snow globe. The warm aroma of toasted chestnuts filled the air. Children laughed at clowns cavorting on the circular wall around the main fountain. Couples linked arms as they stood in line for the chestnuts baking in orange fires. Old couples wrapped against the cold sat on benches watching the merry scene and listening to street musicians play beautiful music for copper and silver Gulden. And there it was, sitting beneath a bench—his violin! With its smooth, brown wood, polished so often it felt soft like an old shirt could feel soft after a thousand washes until it felt like a fine garment. His violin was not a fine garment, but it was treasured. From near the carousel came a shout: “There he is!” Max looked up. It was one of the Scouts the girl had ratted him out to. There was a gang of them patrolling the square. Helpers of the law my arse, thought Max. What were the chances of running into them here. Perfect. Just perfect! He leapt over a chained fence, slid across the dirt, under the bench and snatched up his violin. “Gotcha!” Opening his satchel, he slipped the violin inside. No time to wrap it properly—right now he had to shrug off those Scouts and get on the train. “Get him!” yelled the tall one. Max rolled his eyes. That Scout never gave up. He was like a puppy with an old rag. The station was two blocks away going east. He had to try! At the end of the street, the bright domed ceiling of Wien Hauptbahnhof, Vienna’s Central Station, lit up the night. He was almost home. He ran down the wide two-way road. Outside, the station buzzed with those arriving, those leaving and those ready to make a quick korona carrying trunks. He knew the inside was no different. Without a second thought he leapt into the traffic standing between him and home. Carriages beeped and swerved, horses reared but Max dodged them all. Reaching the curb where the carriages lined up for passengers, he was tempted to snatch a suitcase as it was being loaded, but slipped on ice and narrowly avoided a clap round the head from a grim-looking cab driver. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the Scouts trapped on the other side of the road—he wanted to tease them, but had no time to waste. He ran to the entrance. The large clock hung above the doorway read 7:56pm, and the train was leaving at eight sharp. Stars peeked through the station’s domed skylight windows. Max craned his neck to see the Platform Board. He needed to know where he was departing from—there it was, Platform 16! He slipped into the crowd and let it carry him through mental tunnels towards the Platform area, slipping out when they reached Platform 16. Bursts of steam enveloped his ankles. Passengers emerged like specters, forcing him to sidestep out of their way. There were too many people blocking his path, he’d never make it to the train in time. His breath caught. There it was: his train, pulling out of the station. His only hope was to jump down onto the tracks of Platform 16 and run after his train. Taking a quick, courageous breath, he did just that, narrowly missing the tracks. "There he is!" Max felt his legs stiffen. Above him, on Platform 16, stood the Scouts. The scrawny one jumped onto the tracks, the other two stayed put. Max ran after his train, lungs burning, slipping and sliding on the icy tracks. The scrawny scout lunged for him but Max dodged to the side, sending him crashing to the ground. The hard ice was like a punch to the face but Max just winced and kept running. The tracks ahead glistened with ice. The train was just within his reach! He had to get alongside and find one of the ladders that ran up to the roof. The train hissed. Chugged. Slowly building momentum. Max was seconds ahead of the Scout. Steam gathered in clouds all around him. The sleek black side of the train beside him. The steam parted and he saw the ladder. Max broke into a sprint. The ladder inches from his grasp. The cold rungs bit his palms and fingers as he clutched them—Yes! He had it! A hand grabbed the back of his neck and yanked down hard. Max clung to the ladder, fingers white and firm, arm now wrapped through the rung. "I’ve got you!" It was the scrawny Scout, face burned from where he hit the tracks. The train let out a long whistle. The pistons fired harder, the wheels picking up speed. Max closed his eyes and clung on for all he was worth. The Scout’s sweaty hand slipped from his neck, only to grasp his ankle. Max kicked out and felt the hand, mercifully, release. “Yes!” he cried. "No!” "Hahah! Better luck next time!" Max laughed giving him a mock salute. “I’ll get you in Lemburg!” The Scout screamed. Clouds of steam quickly consumed his angry puce face. Max paled at the threat. Blimps allowed Scouts to travel quickly through the skies. It would be easy to find him if they decided to. But would they? He clung to their ladder. The train rushed beneath the sweeping arched tunnel of Vienna’s Central Station. A sigh escaped his lips when he felt the crisp night air. He’d probably be fine. Probably. The train lurched forward. Max scampered onto the roof and gripped the rails running along the sides. It was the throttle, releasing steam into the belly of the train. The train vibrated through his feet and up his legs, but Max stood firm as if he stood on solid ground. Relishing the wind in his face as the train thrust forward, he stole a glance over his shoulder and there she was: his Vienna, twinkling in the night. Max decided to sit down before he fell. Just for a moment—the same moment that swept over him every time he left Vienna. With his back to the city, he faced the approaching snow-capped peaks of the Carpathian Mountains. Tenderly, he withdrew his violin, the wood so tarnished it scratched against his chin as he tucked it in place. The chords strident and piercing as they twisted out of the warm wood. Max swayed to the familiar childhood rhythm his dad had played every day. His song. Their song. His mother’s song. Almost certain he could see the notes marching off into the sky. Max played until his fingers felt stiff with cold and he could play no more. "Until next time," he whispered, wrapping the violin in the cloth and packing it carefully in the satchel. Max dipped a hand into some unseen pocket and pulled out a greasy pack of chewing gum. Popping a stick into his mouth, he let out a sigh. Snowflakes fell heavy and fast, and he wiped them from his eyes. Relief flooded him. He’d made it. He’d made it back to his train. He’d made it home. For a moment, running through the streets, he’d lost everything. But he’d made it. And he’d found his violin. The train picked up speed. Time to move inside. Max got to his feet and ran. One destination in mind. Bounding over carriages and leaping across the divides, the rush of wind blinding, the clatter of steel wheels on steel tracks deafening. The front of the train was in view. Which meant he had to duck beneath the thick stream of smoke from the boiler room chimney. Ahead, he saw the hatch and skidded to halt next to it, blinded by smoke. But for what he needed to do, he didn’t need to see—he just had to be quick. The temperature plummeted, the farther they traveled from the city. Wrapping his fingers around the hatch’s frozen wheel, he fought to spin it open. Fat chunks of ice cracked and shattered. A hiss of steam belted him in the face. The hatch popped open. Before anything else could go wrong, Max swung through the hole. Closing the hatch behind him. Inside, he landed hard, but on both feet. He always hated how the drop was twice his height. He really had to fix a retractable ladder somewhere the guards wouldn’t find it, but that he could access with ease. The engine room was dark, but his goggles helped him snake his way around the back of one of the furnaces. The familiar din embraced him like an old comforter, with its endless clattering of steel wheels and the soft pulse of firing pistons. At the back of the furnace was a narrow walkway, barely wide enough for one person. With his back flat against the wall, Max inched his way along, careful not to touch the furnace’s scorching metal. He counted his paces. “One. Two. Three…” At three, Max stopped and felt the wall behind him until his hand found what it sought—a small handle set into the wall. He pulled forcefully and it moved only a fraction, but that’s all he needed to release the mechanism. The wall behind him hissed with steam as it separated into two sliding doors that slowly opened on a hidden room. “Home.” Max walked inside and pulled a level on his right. The wall hissed with more steam as it closed, sealing off the clamor of the engine room. “Ah, quiet. No need to wear you now old friends." He pulled off the goggles and placed them back inside his satchel, before hanging it on a hook. Max hadn’t always lived on a train, but it felt like he had. He knew every nook, hook, and baggage rack. There wasn't a place to hide, spy hole or quick exit he wasn't privy to. He had even found one or two 'special' places wide enough for his arm to enter carriages and swipe a quick bite to eat from unwitting passengers. He stepped through the dark towards an old lamp hanging from a pipe. He struck a match, igniting the oil. The flaming wick cast the room in a muddy light. The kind of light that summons dusty memories. He prodded them into the recesses of his mind and let his hand brush over his beloved books: Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, a Roget’s Thesaurus, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, and a leather-bound copy of Greek Myths. A small yet mighty shelf. "Time to investigate the new passengers. But first, what to wear?" he smirked, pushing the Scout’s threat out of his mind. Maybe they would be at Lemburg, but maybe not. It would take them time to organize. He pulled hard on a rope above his head. A small trap door opened, releasing a shower of clothing—bloomers, starched shirts, beards, cravats, wigs, and boots. A mass collection of disguises. "Not today, thank you.” He muttered, tossing a corset aside. "Ah, you will do nicely!” He held up a scarlet velvet suit and struggled into it, yanking at the lace collar. Too tight. How did these bourgeois put up with it? Trussed up in tight suits and decorated in baubles made them easy pickings. He grinned. Always the best to steal from. Max slipped through the engine room and was out the door quicker than a wink.

REBELRY- YA Science Fiction, American Royals meets Divergent Opening chapter - introduces main character, setting, tone, inciting incident CHAPTER 1 Summoned “. . . though we have toiled and emerged from the War victorious, now our labor truly begins. Today we grant our oppressors an amnesty they have not earned. We shall not exact vengeance, but they will learn to follow and serve. With wisdom, mercy, and compassion, we will build a magnificent world and show our oppressors that we can create paradise on Earth. And so, let it be shouted in every street, the Age of Man is no more. For I proclaim to you, the Age of Woman has begun!” Excerpt from General Roxana Darieos’ address to the Women’s Coalition Army New York City ruins, 22 August 2124 Dust from the pages of the twenty-second century chronicles tickled my nose. Its thick cover, warped by time, felt rough to my fingertips. As I soaked up our founding mother’s words, just knowing I was breaking rules made me giddy. Not that I went out of my way to read censored books, but my history tutor never shared these firsthand accounts of the Magnificent Revolution, and it could help me with my Grad Exam. As I read, I stretched myself long on the sofa like a cat, one foot landing up on the sofa’s back and the other resting on the seat cushion. Midnight pressed chilly on our French door that led to the east wing patio, but here in the library it was toasty. The fireplace radiated warmth with a sweet cedar scent. The fire crackled, and its sparks reflected in the bay window’s dark glass. Being cozy and safe inside with my nose buried in a book, while outside the air grew frigid, was a special sort of wonderful. And this book—whoa. I reread the passage and gasped. But this part couldn’t be true. Was this why the book was censored? “Ryver?” I called out. “Is it true that some women stood against the Revolution?” Across the room, the desk-high titanium hub spooled into active mode. Blue lights ticked up its sides, and the luminescent nectoliquid fountained from its crystal basin, swishing into a floating azure sphere. The sphere vibrated when the Ryver spoke in her deep motherly voice. “What a curious question, Miss Xandra.” “That’s weird, right?” “There is no historical record of any female opposition before, during or after the Magnificent Revolution. It did not happen.” “Then why would it be written here?” “Written where? Are you reading one of the censored books from your grandmother’s collection?” “Umm, I’m not sure?” I lied. “It’s not like Gamma’s books have big red stamps across their covers to indicate which ones I’m not supposed to read.” “I will have to send a note to the Governor.” I lifted my head and pleaded over the sofa’s arm. “Please, don’t. Do you really want to distract Mother when she’s at the Summit? Anyway, it’s for my studies. The Grad Exam is only three months away. It’ll be here before I know it, and history’s a huge chunk of it.” “Checking now on your latest performance chart.” Oh, Mother God. I dropped my head on the sofa’s cushion and buried my eyes under a pillow to escape. Its tassels made my nose itch. Sometimes I wished we had a basic Ryver hub that only spit out info, instead of a criterion hub with its Wisdom and Nurture built-ins. “As I suspected,” the Ryver said, “among sixteen-year-old girls you are rated at the ninety-eighth percentile in history studies.” Which meant I still had two percent to go. I pressed the pillow around my ears, trying to shut out the Ryver’s lecture. “If you’re concerned about your Graduation Examination, might I suggest that instead of focusing on your strongest subject, you may wish to shift your focus to your weakest—oratory. Most of the girls in your level have already completed the public speaking requirement.” The mere suggestion sent a chill through me. I shoved the pillow under my head. “I have three whole months until the exam. Plenty of time.” I tucked my nose back into the book. “If you’re experiencing anxiety about the speech . . .” The room went silent. I lowered the book to my belly. Weird. The Ryver never stopped in mid-sentence. BEHH-BEHH-BEEEEEE blared throughout the chamber. I jerked up. The emergency alert. My book hit the floor with a thunk as I rushed to the bay window and yanked the drapes closed, then hid behind a wing chair. In the case of imminent danger, it was protocol for the security team to flood our estate lawns with light, but it was still dark outside. “Ryver, what’s going on?” I started my breathing exercises. Breathe in-two-three-four, hold-two-three-four. “A guest has arrived at the estate, Miss Xandra. Madam Qiu is bringing her to you now.” I blew out my breath in a gust, and my shoulders dropped. “Since when is a guest an emergency?” Madam Qiu was Mother’s closest aid and protected the family like a Doberman. Normally, she’d educate uninvited guests to make an appointment during office hours. Not fire off an emergency alert and usher them into the family’s private wing in the middle of the night. “Your guest is an officer with the Arbiter Corp,” the Ryver replied. My back went rigid. “What?” I said too loudly. Now the alert made sense. And with Mother away, I had to greet guests. My stomach twisted into a painful knot. “Please tell me there’s time to run up to my quarters to change.” “I’m afraid not. They will be here any minute.” A noise came out of my throat that sounded like a half-throttled whinny. I spun back to the window to use it as a mirror. My leggers had a big stain on them, my shirt was from my brother’s closet, and when did my hair tie fall out? The Arbiter Corp would not be impressed with messiness or boyswear. I combed through my long brown tangles with my fingers. Unfortunately, there was nothing I could do to make my nose daintier or russet eyes less dull. And where were my shoes? Skidding through the chamber in socks, I checked the study table and Ryver hub, and along the shelves lining the walls, then circled back to the sofa by the fire. Ah ha. As I reached for my loafers tucked under our tea table, a high-pitched ping signaled that someone had entered the library’s archway. I popped up, slapping a smile on my face, with a shoe on one foot and the other held behind my back. Madam Qiu entered first, eyeing my hair and shoeless foot. I shot her a helpless shrug, then cranked up my smile for our guest. A tall woman in a cobalt blue uniform with gold buttons and shiny boots strode into our library holding the most erect posture I’d ever seen. Her hair was spun into a tight twist, not a wisp out of place. The woman’s magnolia-scented perfume bit into my nose with its tart bouquet. Her male guard cast a mountainous shadow. Madam Qiu’s gentle Pacifican accent and quilted overrobe masked her steely reserves. She displayed a soft smile and offered a gracious nod of her head, as if guests stopped by every midnight. “Miss Xandra, may I present Lieutenant Noma from Cyprus.” I tightened my smile. “Oh. Whoa, hey, all that way?” Cyprus? That made no sense. “Um.” I cleared my throat and tried to mimic Qiu’s gracious nod. “How do you do?” The lieutenant scanned me from tangles to toes. Her nostrils flared a fraction. Then she pulled out a silver scroll-tube with a hard wax seal. I hesitated to touch it. Clinging to my smile, I popped on my second loafer. “Lieutenant Noma, was it? Sorry, there must be a mix-up. Mother is at the Leadership Summit. In Cyprus. Where you came from?” “You are Miss Xandra Fallow?” the lieutenant said. “Of the East Atlantic Fallows?” “Yes?” The lieutenant thrust the tube at me. I accepted it gingerly and broke the seal. A slip of paper tumbled out. Paper? But paper was reserved for the highest degree of secrecy. 10 Matrona 2496 To Miss Xandra Fallow, by order of Her Serene Luminance. You will present yourself at Palace Darieos for a private audience with the Arbitrix Iliana Darieos. A slipjet is waiting at Providence City Skygrid Center to transport you to Cyprus. You are to leave immediately. Goosebumps spread across the back of my neck. Officially, as arbiter of the Grand Council, the Arbitrix served as the builder of consensus over the domains’ queens. But everyone understood that Arbitrix Iliana ruled the world. I passed the paper to Qiu before swinging back to the officer. “What’s going on?” Lieutenant Noma’s diction was crisp. “You’ve been summoned to meet the Arbitrix.” “Thanks for spelling that out. That was helpful.” I clamped my lips shut. Whoops. I pulled my smile back on. “Do you, maybe, have any idea why?” “It is not my duty to know,” she replied. Turning from the unhelpful titan, I huddled with Qiu, “Does Mother know about this?” “The Governor has been unavailable tonight,” she whispered. “She’s missing?” My heart thumped faster. Qiu rested a warm hand on my arm. “She’s been called into several ad hoc meetings this Summit. I expect it’s more of that.” I spun back to the lieutenant. “Did something bad happen to my mother?” “Last I saw, Governor Kalliope was as healthy as a tiger.” I blew out a long exhale. Okay. But I’d never met such a rude officer. Why the bad attitude? The guard cleared his throat. When Lieutenant Noma looked over to signal orders to him, a Divina Matrem pendant popped out of her collar. Oh. Its beveled diamond shape that contained a revolving number four symbolized the Temple of the Divine Mother. This Noma was a Femenina, a member of my mother’s opposing political party. “You’ve ten minutes to gather presentable attire,” the lieutenant said. “The journey will take an hour. Bring whatever personnel are needed to prepare you.” Madam Qiu propelled me through the archway and across the grand foyer while firing orders into her ryvulet—a device inserted behind the jaw that connected her to the Ryver. Mother’s adorners were coming along. Qiu too. But someone had to stop this dreadful mistake. The Arbitrix didn’t want me. The one time I’d met her it didn’t end well. I looked back toward the library where my Arbiter Corp escorts waited. They should be flying out of the archway any second, the lieutenant howling that it was all cancelled because the message belonged to a different girl. Any second now. Any second. The archway remained empty. I whimpered. Oh, no. I couldn’t go to Palace Darieos. They’d expect a governor’s daughter, and especially the heir-elect, to have mastered a strong posture and commanding voice by my age. I couldn’t even walk into a room of strangers without panic—I gasped. No-no-no. The Leadership Summit was still in session. “Qiu, how many people attend the Summit?” Qiu tugged me up the staircase. “Delegates include the global assembly of queens, governors, Sapphic ministers, ambassadors, and mayors. Also, their teams, a few husbands—” “A big crowd you’re saying? Like really, really big.” I dragged my feet on the stairs. Qiu slipped a supportive squeeze into her iron grip. “You’ll be fine, Miss Xandra.” But my heart was beating way too fast. Breathe in two-three-four. Mother God, someone was going to look awfully foolish when this mistake was sorted. Please don’t let it be me.

Opening Scene- Establishes setting, protagonist, antagonist, and primary and secondary conflicts. CHAPTER 1 “Only one in forty are venomous.” The murmured reminder did nothing to banish the trickle of bright adrenaline down my nerves as the breakers began their telltale frothing beneath the water’s surface. I should have felt badly for skipping my voice session, but I was too sated on the sand’s warmth and a full belly to much care. Strands of hair coaxed on the sea’s winds floated across my copper cheeks, and I did not bother to restrain their path over slitted eyes which watched the ebb of the surf- waiting. The coiling of my stomach had little to do with breaking the unspoken rules governing my days, but what I now contemplated as I watched the equine creature emerge from the roiling waves. I began to hum and then to sing, my ability to voice two notes simultaneously drawing the animal near in swells of melding chords. She beckons with misting fingers Tantrums of thrown limbs Join the waves, the wind, the storm Listen to her hymns Embrace her darkness, kiss her depths Taste salt upon your lip Your neglect of dawn’s blood skies Cost more than just your ship Closer it came across the sand, ears perked at the old sailor’s ballad as I wove the chorus in the air around us. Half a dozen coves carved Cretoria’s coastline in aggressive gouges, but Oren and I had claimed this one. Tidal pools of varying sizes reflected the slouching sun like pieces of shattered mirror embedded in the dark rocks on the west end, while nothing but golden sand comprised the remainder of the small crescent. Neither the locals nor the summer sunbirds from the nearby capital city of Mytikas enjoyed traversing the narrow ledge of a trail down the slate cliffs over the cove, leaving this place to us most days. Dusk had coalesced in fading golden shafts suspended in the leaden hour of the evening- the hour in which wild sea horses sometimes swam onto shore here to fling their manes of kelp as they pounded across the sand. I had never approached one until now, the longing to run my fingers over its flaring pink gills overpowering the conviction that such a thing is never meant to be tamed or even touched by civilized hands. My hands were not soft by any means, not like the lavender oil-scented ones of those in Mytikas. But they were human hands, and humans tended to ruin things they loved. I would only touch its muzzle, just for a moment. My notes fell softer as it approached. The hard plates of its nectarine-hued body rose and fell in ridges capped with skeletal knobs, ending in a curled tail. As it danced closer, my eyes drifted to its saddle fin, which rose high on its back tipped in lethal spines. Those needle-sharp points, and the smaller ones embedded in its ridges, contained a venom the barest amount of which would paralyze your limbs with creeping stealth as you were impaled further and dragged into the sea by the carnivorous animal. It was said that during those moments, the venom caused a euphoria, and you didn’t mind your imminent death approaching on the white-tipped depths. Her gills fluttered as she stretched her neck towards me, my nostrils catching the briny scent of kelp which hung in layers of twisting jade ribbon and bulbous air pockets along her neck. The orange of her shell absorbed the sunlight slanting across the cove like my own skin did. I was always famished for sunlight, for cool seawater, for the sound of the tide shushing my staccato heartbeat. She and I were kindred. The tips of my fingers brushed her fluted nose. A familiar voice sliced through the carefully cultivated haze around me. “Oppi? What-” The horse reared back, tossing her head as she shimmied backwards and turned away from me. “Curse you, Oren!” I yelled as the creature sprinted for the surf, thundering into the undertow. I whipped towards him, eyes squinting to see the outline of his rangy limbs. The wheat gold of his hair caught the sunlight and, for the briefest of moments, gave him a haloed aura which had me snorting. Deific at first glance, perhaps, but I knew the crooked angle of his lower front tooth and the origin of the scar beneath his sharp jawline- an incident involving sea urchin spines and decidedly mortal indignity. His eyebrows weren’t even symmetrical, the right one slightly more arched than the left, undoubtedly from raising it at me so often. “What’s the matter with you?” my friend called, long legs ambling over the sand towards me. “Were you about to touch that thing?” I crossed my arms as he approached. “Maybe.” The white of his eyes showed as he sighed. “Did you skip voice lessons?” What was he, my mother? Kalliope, her lilting voice wavered in my mind. I won’t have it said you’re shirking your duties to the Opera… Anxiety curled in my gut, but I clobbered it down with an imaginary piece of driftwood. The Phoerian Opera could go rot today. I was not yet in its gold-fisted grip- or so I told myself. Rolling my eyes in answer, I picked up the lobster tail I’d been roasting and tossed it to him. “Found four today.” I didn’t mention I’d spent two hours diving for them, but they were his second-favorite food, so I didn’t mind. He caught it with a soft swear and then dropped the scalding crustacean in the sand. Flicking his nimble fingers as if to rid them of the heat, he commented casually, “Suppose it’s a good thing you’re here already.” He paused, and I almost threw sand in his sun-bronzed face before he finally spit out what I’d been waiting to hear. “My contact at the Nautilus Citadel replied to our inquiry.” Everything in me suddenly focused to a razor-sharp edge, my urge to ream him for the ruined lobster abandoned. We’d been waiting over a month for a response from Oren’s friend who served as an Ensign in the Royal Navy. This was it. The only answer to the only question that mattered. “Yes?” My hands twitched as I contemplated the urge to strangle him. “What did he say? The one-dimpled smile which crept across my friend’s face raised the hairs on my arms. “We leave in the morning for the Solstice Trade.” My breath hitched. It was true. The vanished peoples of Gomethra’s mainland were real. The Solstice Trade was real. And we were going to crash it. No rule for what we were about to do existed, but if it had- I’d break it faster than a sea horse could drag me beneath the indifferent waves, euphoric to the bitter end. **** The edge of my awareness drug on unfamiliar ground, a hem fraying further with each barefoot step we’d taken inland to arrive at the wastelands of Gomethra. Though the boat in which we’d traveled was only a mile away through the forest, I forced the image of its hull bumping against the rocks through my mind like a talisman. “Do bones burn to ash as well, or are they still beneath us?” Oren mused. Patience had never been my strong suit, but I could think of a thousand things I’d rather be than patient, so I wasn’t going to fill the Amphritis Sea with tears over it. My cheeks stung as I dragged ash-encrusted nails down them. The imbecile beside me had clearly forgotten the need for silence as we crouched on the edge of the vast, grass-covered Ash Plains, anticipation taught as a lyre’s strings in our veins. “Shut it,” I hissed, sending his larger form toppling over from where he crouched next to me. The azure of his eyes widened as he froze at the lofty grass rustling around us. I prayed to Chrosos no one in the envoy had seen the ripple in the silver vegetation. The company of a hundred soldiers waited in stoic silence a stone’s throw from us as they faced the undulating waves stretching out for miles in front of them like a sea of mirrored anemones. My shoulders dropped in relief as they stood unmoving against the cloudless skies. “Thought you were bringing more food,” Oren growled, his mutinous wheat hair slipping over one eye. I heaved a token sigh, inhaling and exhaling the smell of burning leaves still lingering in the soil after all this time. His nattering didn’t matter anyways while the breeze and the grass spoke so freely around us, drowning our words in their whispered song akin to velvet brushing over my ears. “No matter how long we wait, seeing dragons will be worth it,” I reminded him, pulling a leather thong tight around my mass of lightning pale hair. There had always been rumors the dragons still existed. The official word claimed they had gone extinct from disease and starvation after The Scything, the war waged eight centuries ago between Nyskos and the northern kingdom of Volnyrocq. The mainland had not always been the wasteland of cursed grass which stretched before us. Oren had heard through his connections in Mytikas that some Rocqes still lived beyond the Ash Plains and that an exchange of goods happened each year near the summer solstice. Yet none of the things we’d speculated about came close to the reality before us. Half a dozen cargo ships were tethered on the wide river mouth which flowed alongside the plains, and the massive caravan of goods sitting behind the line of guards could have fed the capital city of Mytikas for a month. Nyskos had amassed hundreds of barrels of salted and smoked fish, live lobsters and crabs in enormous glass tanks pulled on wagons, towers of crated wine and sweet liqueurs, bottles of olive oil, sacks of grain and kafe beans...The smell alone carried over on the wind caused my mouth to water. I’d skipped breakfast for this (more like Oren ate mine on the way) to meet him at the docks and arrive here by the sun’s highest point. A distant rumble began to shake the ground beneath my knees, and I looked up to see the hazy outline of black forms marching through the grass. Those who believed in the tales of the Rocqes’ existence said they had lost their ability to breathe fire or fly, just as we, the race of Nereiden, had lost our sirenic traits over time. Whatever form they wore caused a rhythmic trembling of the grass around us, and we watched as the first row of two dozen black plates of armor came into focus. Their pace would bring them to us in moments, but that wasn’t what caused Oren to swear. “Holy mother of tentacles,” he breathed. Behind the Rocqe soldiers were massive carts pulled by beasts I had only read about in one of the texts from my mother’s collection. Unlike most cart animals, the heads of the bone lynxes with their twitching feline noses stayed angled high in the air, looking out over the soldiers of the retinue in front of them. Black spikes of bone longer than my arms rose in pairs from the ringed white fur on their backs, chains connecting them to the carts pulled taut from the manacles encircling them. They moved as if the weight of the house-sized carts didn’t affect them in the least as they stalked forward with fluid grace. My head tilted. “Is it wrong I have an urge to see how soft their ears are?” “T’would be a noble death,” Oren replied. “I'll sing your song in the Nautilus Citadel.” Oren’s voice was terrible, so I hoped it wouldn’t come to that. More intriguing than the bone lynxes were the men encased from the waist up in armor of glistening jet black with horned helmets. As they drew closer, I could see the iridescent scales which made up the armor shifting over each other. There were what appeared to be wings for epaulets, flaring out beyond their shoulders and ending in a single talon at the tip. In contrast, the golden armor of the Nereiden almost blinded a person when looking at it in full sunlight. I was pleased to see that our representatives didn’t move a muscle in reaction to the approaching envoy. One of the bone lynxes snapped its head in our direction, looking straight at us through the grass. My lungs seized. Ducking back down, I pulled Oren with me. “Do you think it sees us?” Oren’s eyes were not teasing now. “I have no doubt it does.” Shivers chased over my scalp. Or perhaps the shiver had more to do with the way he lowered his voice to a baritone murmur that had developed of late. It was strange to realize Oren’s lanky form had filled out into broader shoulders and his face had developed new angles to it. He’d always had beautiful features, and I’d teased him mercilessly for being prettier than any of the girls on Cretoria. But now he was beginning to strike me as something different. When the retinues finally came face to face, it was rather anticlimactic. Two soldiers simply exchanged scrolls, and then we watched for almost an hour while they loaded and unloaded goods from the bone lynxes onto the ships and vice versa. My stomach grumbled as time wore on, but I refused to look away. “They managed to cross the Ash Plains unscathed,” I commented, sifting gray dirt through my fingers as I sat on the packed earth. Drawings on old parchment surfaced in my mind, images of the warped creatures which hunted in the grasses of the plains and made crossing a suicidal endeavor. Oren raised a brow at me. “I would imagine it had something to do with the giant cats they brought,” he drawled. “Even if the shadow wolves are as big as they say, nothing would attack those things.” He had a point. As we watched yet more containers and barrels being hefted onto the flat carts of the bone lynxes, Oren voiced a question of his own. “Do you think the Prince of Volnyrocq truly started the war? That he burned an entire city to the ground?” I’d thought about the answer to his question a thousand times. “Wouldn’t blame him if he did.” Oren gave me a look like I’d grown another head. “Just because one person died doesn’t mean you can-” “She didn’t just die, Oren. Her fins were cut from her body and her heart ripped out.” We’d had this argument countless times, but I was more than happy to rise to the occasion again. “If I found the person I was supposed to marry like that, I might go on a fire-breathing rampage too.” Oren frowned. “He should have known better than to bring a nereid to the Winged Court. The Rocqes were barbarians, even without the danger of a Kymaera being produced from their union.” I shrugged. “Forbid something, and someone will inevitably be stupid enough to try it, daemon spawn or not.” He paused, then looked at me sideways. “You still believe those stories? I doubt any of us could shift into dragons or mer, even eight-hundred years ago. And the Kymaera were probably just deformed children, not monsters. I pity them.” I turned my body towards him, jaw dropped. “What are you talking about? You’ve seen the Draekenmor Reef the same as I. The bones are piled from the sea floor to the surface. Thousands of dragons. They were pulled from the sky in The Scything.” He shrugged. “But what if it’s just casts and molds? Carvings? What if it doesn’t reach to the sea floor, Oppi?” “I can't even hear you over your own horsecrap,” I hissed, struggling to keep my voice low. He didn’t deserve to use his pet name for me. “What besides dragon fire could have created the Ash Plains you’re sitting on?” Those scrolls are not stories, Oren. They're histories. How can you deny that? He sighed, leaning back onto one elbow. “Mytikas has different texts now, ones that are more accurate based on actual research. Your mother’s scrolls are probably just a collection of tales that were never meant to be taken seriously.” My fingers curled into the ash beneath us. He was suddenly revealing this misbelief now, of all times? Those stories of dragons and mer were an unshakable part of us- so I’d thought. I was going to push him off a cliff when we got back to Cretoria. “What nonsense have those in Mytikas been spout-” A screech rent the sky in the distance, raising the dusty hairs on my body to stand. It was a shrill cry, ear-piercing in pitch and ending on a hopeless, echoing note like the last song of a dying glasswhale. We lifted our heads up out of the grass. All of the soldiers had stopped to listen too, and the bone lynxes had shifted to crouched positions as low as possible in their harnesses. Their great yellow eyes watched the sky to the north, and I turned to look at well. Another desolate shriek sounded, and I saw the vague outline of something high in the air- something too big to be any sort of bird. “Is that…?” I couldn’t say the words, my heart pounding so loud the bone lynxes could probably hear it with their tufted ears. “It can’t be,” Oren whispered. “It’s impossible.” The creature was too far away to make out anything more than the outline of wings and a sleek body, but I knew. It was a dragon. Apparently, the soldiers thought so too. Shouting began, and swords were pulled from sheaths as the Nereiden guards faced their dark counterparts. It was clear this wasn’t part of the plan. The Rocqe soldiers also drew their weapons from their backs, wielding two wickedly curved onyx blades in response. “We need to get out of here,” Oren rumbled, taking my hand. “Now.” I couldn’t agree more, though I was dying to stay and see what happened. But if fighting occurred, there would be no predicting where the soldiers would go, and they could run right into us. I wasn’t stupid enough to think we would be spared by even our own soldiers in such a precarious situation. Looking up to the sky once more, I saw the shape of the dragon- or whatever it was- growing closer. I had never in my life wanted to stay put more than I did in that moment, whether I was burned to a crisp or chopped into pieces. “Kalliope, now!” Oren dragged me towards the forest with more force than I expected. Tearing my gaze away from the black spec in the sky, I followed him, awkwardly running while bent over as low as I could. When we were almost to the tree line at the edge of the Ash Plains, another primeval screech struck our ears as the clang of swords rang out, and we both abandoned our stealth for speed as we sprinted for the shelter of the trees. As we reached the first few steps under the forest’s canopy, I turned back. All I saw before Oren jerked me forward again were flashes of gold and obsidian striking each other. “Wait, Oren, I want to see if-” “No, you don’t,” he snapped, and I blinked at him. He never spoke to me in that tone, but the hard set of his jaw silenced any argument I had planned to use. Still- I looked back one last time before jolting into movement… The elegantly curved blade of a black-suited soldier plunged into the space between his opponent’s armor where the shoulder met the golden breastplate. I watched as it was forced deeper, piercing sideways into the man’s chest. My own ribs seemed to constrict inwards as I pictured the perforation of his lungs, his heart, blood filling the cavities in between. The Nereiden’s cry was so small compared to the creature’s above and yet echoed through my nerve endings. It was final. It was desperate and fearful and knowing, his last sound. The gold-clad body fell to Ash Plains and did not rise. My blood had frozen, but it pounded in my ears nonetheless as Oren pulled me away. We sped over the forest paths back to where our small fishing boat waited. As we shoved off for the sail back to Cretoria, I thought I heard another wailing cry, and I caught my breath at the loneliness of it. Or, as Oren insisted on the way home, it was probably just the wind.

Books start with a catchy opening.