It was so peaceful, there in the lake, that it was a long time before I noticed I was dead. The green water was cold with autumnal chill yet gentle like the sweetest embrace. I drifted in it among the tall water plants and funny little fishes, humming to myself and thinking of…
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“Tell me, Eliza Booker. Do you really think you can cheat death?”
Smoke filled my lungs; my breath came in strangled puffs. Around me, a circle of fire blazed—all thanks to the pyre-loving poltergeist smirking like a Jack-o-lantern amid the chaos.
Its appearance continually shifted, like shadows that couldn’t latch onto a form.
My feet pounded against the pavement as the mid-September rain cut through the late summer humidity. My dark hair was soaked, but I didn’t care. I kept running, pushing myself to keep up with the droplets falling from the sky. My legs hurt, but still I ran. The pain didn’t matter. I couldn’t stop.
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“We must evacuate!” Ojiichan warned. “Evacuate or die!”
For just a moment, there was no reaction. I trembled, not knowing what to expect. I silently implored them to listen to my grandfather.
Instead, they laughed. Not as if he had told a joke, but as if he was the joke. Worse still…
The people here have always thought me peculiar.
Me and my family. A tyrannical, penny-pinching father. A harsh stepmother. And, of course, cold, forbidding spinster sisters.
It’s the rumors about me that make me laugh the hardest. To the people of this fair city, I’m also a kleptomaniac who’s stolen from her own family.
On August 19, as I planned my lemonade stand crawl for National Lemonade Day tomorrow, a perplexing pronouncement pinged my PDA: “Hue Splatman has given Mayor Butterbloggs six hours to surrender Adver City before he detonates a network of non-yellow paint bombs.”
I gasped. “Suffering citrus, how will we paint the town yellow? Lemon Fest will be ruined!”
August 31st
3:20 a.m.
I crept along the shadows of Buck’s Row in London, humming a song underneath my breath. Brownstone buildings loomed over me, and my foot clacked against a circular black plaque.
I giggled, a slightly intoxicated sound.
“Careful where you’re walking there, missum,” said a voice with a heavy London accent.
The night air smells like cinnamon and fryer oil from the cart vendors down below. Swing jazz floats on the breeze from the club three shops down. I tap my fingers moodily on the rusty edge of the fire escape. It’s Independence Day, but I don’t feel much like celebrating.
Tomorrow, my brother leaves for war.
Alaric and I had fled west, narrowly escaping the assassins from our world. After a month with no further attempts on our lives, I began to breathe easier and embraced Earth’s comforts—even settling into a routine. My brother, on the other hand, stayed vigilant. He didn’t believe that the assassins had given up.
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Fireworks exploded over Elysium Fields Senior Living and Nate almost dropped the bag of empanadas as he blundered out of his car. He squelched his apprehension. He had to reach Abuela before she lost herself in memory.
On recent visits, Abuela had been lucid, and he’d told Alexis about their picnic traditions. Abuela would demolish them in Rummy.
The most terrifying day of my life was humid and hot—the type of weather that either makes people love summer or wish for winter. I stood in front of Rimlain Canyons, casually scanning the uneven cliff walls with Mr. Krinkleton, a librarian and fellow adventurer. Rumor had it there were riches to be found here, yet many who went searching for them never returned.
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“If we said wedding vows, do you think we’d say ‘‘til death do us part,’ or ‘‘til death bring us together’?” I raised my gray, ghostly hand to view it in the moonlight.
“I don’t know, Eliza, but d’ya think you can ask this question again after we stop two raging yōkai from…
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