I’d only wanted to disappear for a time, not be forgotten forever.
I grip the chalk with every muscle in my tired fingers. It scrapes my plea against the pavement in a desperate shade of blue. Mom or Dad will notice me this time. I lean back and rub my sore knees.
Dr. Byron Stoneburner inserted the bronze snake into a satchel as German bullets whizzed overhead. He secured the latch on the bag and mumbled a prayer.
Courage. Or Jack’s dead.
A disheveled officer nudged his arm. “You’re serious?”
Byron tightened his helmet chinstrap and placed a muddy boot on the trench ladder.
It was the day before Elle’s ball, and I was desperate. So I traveled with all haste to my cousin’s shoppe, Fiona’s Fabulous Footwear.
I know, I know. I’m Elle’s fairy godmother. I should have known how to make some simple slippers. But while I can create the most ornate carriages
“Forget deep-sea diving,” Gertrude Tesoro muttered, trying to enjoy Café Regatta’s scenic patio beside Helsinki’s Taivallahti Bay. “The hardest part of this job is getting paid.”
“Client inbound, Aunt Getty,” Cody’s voice came through her earbud.
Lars Korhonen, dressed like a CEO at a board meeting, stood out like a sore thumb among the Saturday morning coffee crowd.
Nobody knew precisely where the relics came from nor how those with the money and power to assemble such collections managed to locate them in the first place.
Yet Hal was certain of one thing—at some point he had robbed and swindled them all.
“Let me guess. You see yourself as…
Haleh hunched over her loom at the back of her parents’ rug shop, a knot tightening in her chest as her father tried to reason with their most difficult customer.
“It takes time, Amir… You’ve asked for a large rug…” Father’s voice wavered. “We need another month. Remember, good things are worth the wait.”
The arrow ripped open my pant leg, slicing into my thigh. Leave it to the Mythic Mafia to get all theatrical with their weapon choices.
“Are you hurt, sir?” the girl beside me asked.
“Shut up and run,” I ordered.
We raced around a corner. Well, she raced, and I limped.
“Reginald!”
At ten years old, I was well-versed in my mother’s acoustic range and recognized this dangerous pitch. I peered out from under my covers—the clock announced “8:00 a.m.” in bright red. On a Saturday morning. Why was I already in trouble?
Panic pulsated through me.
“Plan on harvesting some wheat?” Jake asked, lifting a brow. “Or hacking your way through the jungle?” Trent snorted. I rolled my eyes. “This”—I proffered the scythe—“is a souvenir from my latest investigation.” “Another spirit taking issue with his new living conditions?” Jake paused. “Or, I guess, lack thereof?”
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They say in your last moments you see the faces of those you love. Yet as dark red stained through Coren’s tunic to the tips of his fingers, he wondered if he’d ever truly loved anyone. How much blood had he lost? Even with the pressure he applied, life escaped him like water through a cracked dam.
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