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Herausgeber: WS
Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
Serie: Writers of the Future
Sprache: Englisch
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

25 Award-winning Authors and Illustrators

Brilliant new worlds

Captivating new ideas

Powerful new stories of action, adventure, and fantasy

Prepare for alien contact. Explore the darkest alleyways of urban fantasy. Rise to the dizzying heights of magical realism.

You will love this year’s anthology because these award-winning writers provide a diverse array of stories that will transport you and reshape your reality.

Get it now.

Bonus Short Stories & Tips by David Farland • Frank Herbert • L. Ron Hubbard • Diane Dillon • Brian Herbert & Kevin J. Anderson
• Frank Herbert

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Leseprobe

Thirteen captivating tales from the best new writers of the year accompanied by three more from monumental authors you’ve read before.

In a world where monster killing and trapping is big business, one girl from a Hunter family decides she won’t kill monsters. As a matter of fact, her best friend is one. …

—“Agatha’s Monster” by Azure Arther

A “book wizard” wants to help a pair of young orphaned brothers repair their relationship. But a powerful new magic book with problematic spellwork stands in the way.

—“The Magic Book of Accidental City Destruction:A Book Wizard’s Guide” by Z. T. Bright

The daughter of Neptune Station’s greatest hero is about to face her most daunting mission yet: elementary school on Earth.

—“The Squid Is My Brother” by Mike Jack Stoumbos

A bartender with a vendetta against the future must determine if his customer is a time-traveling tourist.

—“Gallows” by Desmond Astaire

Grant’s Tomb—missing! Pennsylvania Station—missing! The Empire State Building—missing! New York City is disappearing piece by piece. …

—“The Professor Was a Thief ” by L. Ron Hubbard

A disgraced Lark is forced to take the job nobody wants. His songs can sway minds, but there’s no margin for mistakes in the frozen north.

—“Lilt of a Lark” by Michael Panter

When a lieutenant with a mysterious past discovers an exotic creature held captive by a traveling farrago, they must decide how far they will go to save what matters most. …

—“The Mystical Farrago” by N. V. Haskell

Alone but for her grandchild and a fox spirit, Emily braves Russia’s winter and Napoleon’s army to keep her family alive and together.

—“Tsuu, Tsuu, Kasva Suuremasse” by Rebecca E. Treasure

An abused boy finds an alien artifact that gives him the strength to reshape his life and stand up to his violent step-father.

—“The Daddy Box” by Frank Herbert

A son must decide whether to follow his father’s footsteps and accept a responsibility he doesn’t understand.

—“The Island on the Lake” by John Coming

When a desperate bid to recover stolen memories goes wrong, Alice must decide how far she’s willing to go to protect her best friend.

—“The Phantom Carnival” by M. Elizabeth Ticknor

A botanist must cure a dying planet before an evacuation when she will be forced to leave her young daughter behind.

—“The Last Dying Season” by Brittany Rainsdon

When Fava, a Neanderthal shaman, discovers the men of metal driving away her mammoths, she must find magic powerful enough to save the herd.

—“A Word of Power” by David Farland

Technology suppresses crime on the generation ship Eudoxus until a body is discovered, threatening the years of peace.

—“The Greater Good” by Em Dupre

A genetically engineered assassin, concubine, and bodyguard has to unravel the entirety of her being to save her son. …

—“For the Federation” by J. A. Becker

Tyson doesn’t need to be psychic to know the invitation is a trap, but he can’t refuse a poker tournament with the highest stakes imaginable.

—“Psychic Poker” by Lazarus Black

L. Ron Hubbard PRESENTSWriters of the Future

“It really does help the best rise to the top.”

—Brandon SandersonWriters of the Future Contest judge

“Writers of the Future is the gold standard of emerging talent into the field of science fiction fantasy that has contributed more to the genre than any other source.”

—Midwest Book Review

“Writers of the Future, as a contest and as a book, remains the flagship of short fiction.”

—Orson Scott CardWriters of the Future Contest judge

“Writers of the Future is always one of the best original anthologies of the year.”—Tangent

“It’s a five-course meal that is a nice flow of different types of stories going all the way through.”

—Kevin J. AndersonWriters of the Future Contest judge

“Where can an aspiring sci-fi artist go to get discovered?…Fortunately, there’s one opportunity—the Illustrators of the Future Contest—that offers up-and-coming artists an honest-to-goodness shot at science fiction stardom.”

—Sci-Fi magazine

“The Contests are amazing competitions. I wish I had something like this when I was getting started—very positive and cool.”

—Bob EggletonIllustrators of the Future Contest judge

“I really can’t say enough good things about Writers of the Future. … It’s fair to say that without Writers of the Future, I wouldn’t be where I am today.”

—Patrick RothfussWriters of the Future Contest winner 2002

“This is an opportunity of a lifetime.”

—Larry ElmoreIllustrators of the Future Contest judge

“The Illustrators of the Future is an amazing compass for what the art industry holds in store for all of us.”

—Dan dos SantosIllustrators of the Future Contest judge

“A terrific book and a terrific launch to the careers of the latest batch of the very best new writers in the field.”

—Robert J. SawyerWriters of the Future Contest judge

“The Illustrators of the Future Contest is one of the best opportunities a young artist will ever get. You have nothing to lose and a lot to win.”

—Frank FrazettaIllustrators of the Future Contest judge

“I consider this to be the best short fiction contest anywhere. L. Ron Hubbard’s vision of promoting and nurturing young writers has given thousands of talented people a forum in which their work can be seen and appreciated.”

—Jody Lynn NyeWriters of the Future Contest judge

DEDICATION

To David Farland (1957 – 2022)

Thank you for all the years of great books and stories and all your help to new writers. You will never be forgotten.

L. Ron Hubbard PRESENTSWriters of the Future

VOLUME 38

The year’s thirteen best tales from the Writers of the Future international writers’ program

Illustrated by winners in the Illustrators of the Future international illustrators’ program

Three short stories by David Farland / Frank Herbert / L. Ron Hubbard

With essays on writing and illustration by Diane Dillon / Brian Herbert & Kevin J. Anderson / Frank Herbert / L. Ron Hubbard

Edited by David FarlandIllustrations art directed by Echo Chernik

GALAXY PRESS, INC.

Thank you for purchasing L. Ron Hubbard Library Presents Writers of the Future Volume 38

To receive special offers, bonus content and info on new fiction releases by L. Ron Hubbard, sign up for the Galaxy Press newsletter.

Visit us online at GalaxyPress.com

Any unauthorized copying, translation, duplication, importation or distribution, in whole or in part, by any means, including electronic copying, storage or transmission, is a violation of applicable laws.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

For information, contact Galaxy Press, Inc. at 7051 Hollywood Boulevard, Suite 200, Los Angeles, California 90028.

Illustration for “Agatha’s Monster” © 2022 Zaine Lodhi; Illustration for “The Magic Book of Accidental City Destruction: A Book Wizard’s Guide” © 2022 Ari Zaritsky; Illustration for “The Squid Is My Brother” and “Tsuu, Tsuu, Kasva Suuremasse” © 2022 Natalia Salvador; Illustration for “Gallows” © 2022 Nick Jizba; Illustration for “The Professor was a Thief” © 2022 Michael Talbot; Illustration for “Lilt of a Lark” © 2022 Brett Stump; Illustration for “The Mystical Farrago” © 2022 Annalee Wu; Illustration for “The Daddy Box” © 2022 André Mata; Illustration for “The Island on the Lake” © 2022 Majid Saberinejad; Illustration for “The Phantom Carnival” © 2022 Xiaomeng Zhang; Illustration for “The Last Dying Season” © 2022 Jerome Tieh; Illustration for “The Greater Good” © 2022 Jim Zaccaria, Illustration for “For the Federation” © 2022 Arthur M. Doweyko; and Illustration for “Psychic Poker” © 2022 Tenzin Rangdol.

This anthology contains works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Opinions expressed by nonfiction essayists are their own.

Print ISBN: 978-1-61986-763-5eBook ISBN: 978-1-61986-762-8EPUB ISBN: 978-1-61986-760-4Kindle ISBN: 978-1-61986-761-1

Writers of the Future and Illustrators of the Future are trademarks owned by the L. Ron Hubbard Library and are used with permission.

Introduction by David Farland

The Illustrators of the Future Contest and the Importance of Art Direction by Echo Chernik

List of Illustrations

Agatha’s Monster by Azure Arther Illustrated by Zaine Lodhi

The Magic Book of Accidental City Destruction: A Book Wizard’s Guide by Z. T. BrightIllustrated by Ari Zaritsky

The Squid Is My Brother by Mike Jack Stoumbos Illustrated by Natalia Salvador

Gallows by Desmond Astaire Illustrated by Nick Jizba

Boos and Taboos by L. Ron Hubbard

The Professor Was a Thief by L. Ron Hubbard Illustrated by Michael Talbot

Lilt of a Lark by Michael PanterIllustrated by Brett Stump

The Mystical Farrago by N. V. Haskell Illustrated by Annalee Wu

Tsuu, Tsuu, Kasva Suuremasse by Rebecca E. Treasure Illustrated by Natalia Salvador

The Single Most Important Piece of Advice by Frank Herbert

The Daddy Box by Frank Herbert Illustrated by André Mata

Teamwork: Getting the Best out of Two Writers by Brian Herbert & Kevin J. Anderson

The Island on the Lake by John Coming Illustrated by Majid Saberinejad

The Phantom Carnival by M. Elizabeth Ticknor Illustrated by Xiaomeng Zhang

The Last Dying Season by Brittany Rainsdon Illustrated by Jerome Tieh

The Third Artist by Diane Dillon

A Word of Power by David Farland Inspired by Bob Eggleton’s The Mammoth Leaders

The Greater Good by Em Dupre Illustrated by Jim Zaccaria

For the Federation by J. A. Becker Illustrated by Arthur M. Doweyko

Psychic Poker by Lazarus Black Illustrated by Tenzin Rangdol

The Year in the Contests

Writers’ Contest Rules

Illustrators’ Contest Rules

Get Exclusive Content

Become the Next Writer of the Future

Introduction

BY DAVID FARLAND (1957 – 2022)

David Farland was a New York Times bestselling author with more than fifty novels and anthologies to his credit. He won numerous awards across several genres, including the L. Ron Hubbard Gold Award in 1987, the Philip K. Dick Memorial Special Award, the Whitney Award for Best Novel of the Year, and the International Book Award for Best Young Adult Novel of the year.

In 1991, Dave broke the Guinness Record for the world’s largest book signing.

In addition to writing novels and short stories, Dave worked in video games as a designer and scripter, and worked as a green-lighting analyst for movies in Hollywood.

He helped mentor hundreds of new writers, including such #1 bestselling authors as Brandon Sanderson (The Way of Kings), Stephenie Meyer (Twilight), Brandon Mull (Fablehaven), James Dashner (The Maze Runner), and others. While writing Star Wars novels in 1998, he was asked to help choose a book to push big for Scholastic. He selected Harry Potter, then developed a strategy to promote it to become the bestselling book of all time in English.

Dave ran a huge international writing workshop where twice each week he interviewed successful writers, editors, agents, and movie producers, and offered access to his writing courses.

Dave also helped mentor writers through the Writers of the Future program, where for more than fifteen years he acted as Coordinating Judge, editor of the anthology, and taught workshops to winning authors.

Dave passed away just after he finished the final details on this volume. To say that he will be missed by all is a massive understatement.

For more information go to: davidfarland.com.

Introduction

Welcome to L. Ron Hubbard Presents Writers of the Future Volume 38. Over thirty-eight years ago, L. Ron Hubbard founded this Contest to promote the writing of speculative fiction short stories—in science fiction, fantasy, and horror. The idea was to inspire, train, and promote young writers who very often have a hard time getting noticed by professional publishers.

Shortly after its inception, the Contest was expanded to provide the same services for illustrators.

The stories you read in this anthology come from budding writers. Some stories are the authors’ first publication.

All new authors are invited to send stories from anywhere in the world. There is no charge for entering this Contest, and we show no favoritism. When we receive a story, as judges, we have no way of knowing the author’s age, gender, nationality, race, or political affiliation.

In past years I’ve talked about how stories are selected and what I’m searching for. If you want to read about that, look at the introductions to the volumes I’ve edited over the last many years.

Today I’d like to talk about something else that is important to both me and this Contest: nurturing talent.

When L. Ron Hubbard founded the Contest, he created it to run every three months to help motivate new writers to compose on a regular basis. As a young writer some thirty-seven years ago, I did just that—until I got serious and wrote a story that won the grand prize. So inspiring authors was important to him.

More than just giving authors a goal to reach for, giving validation was just as important. In fact, teaching writers to believe in themselves may be the greatest motivator. So, we grant awards and certificates to those who win Honorable Mention, Silver Honorable Mention, Semifinalist, and Finalist places, as well as to our First-, Second-, and Third-place winners.

Authors who are struggling to break into the field need both encouragement and training. You’ll find a free online writing course taught by me, Hugo and Nebula Award–winner Orson Scott Card, and World Fantasy Award–winner Tim Powers at our website WritersoftheFuture.com.

Training and inspiring writers aren’t things I do only with the Contest. For the past fifteen years I’ve offered free writing tips (and free writing books).

I wish I could convey just how deeply I really want to help, but with thousands of writers who enter this Contest every quarter, I don’t have time to do everything I’d like. I feel like Bilbo Baggins, who told Gandalf, “I feel thin, sort of stretched, like butter scraped over too much bread.”

The bulk of my time for this Contest is spent studying anonymous entries and trying to gauge just how well each story succeeds and how much potential each author has.

Over the past three decades, I’ve discovered and mentored some great ones.

Part of my time with the Contest is spent training new authors in the week before the annual awards ceremony, or critiquing our semifinalists, or speaking at writing conventions.

Some of my time is spent editing this anthology so that we can present the fine new writers we’ve discovered. That’s both an honor and a privilege. As an editor, I get to put together a collection of stories I truly love. I hope you love them, too.

In this anthology, you’ll find tales by new authors and illustrations by artists from all over the world—stories that will make you wonder, make you laugh, make you cry, and hopefully will leave you inspired to create your own best future.

—David FarlandDecember 2021

The Illustrators of the Future Contest and the Importance of Art Direction

BY ECHO CHERNIK

Echo Chernik has been illustrating for thirty years and has been the recipient of many prestigious awards and accolades.

Her clients have included Disney, BBC, Mattel, Hasbro, Miller-Coors, Jose Cuervo, Celestial Seasonings, McDonald’s, Procter & Gamble, Trek Bicycle Corporation, USPS, Bellagio Hotel & Casino, Kmart, Sears, Publix Super Markets, Regal Cinemas, the city of New Orleans, the state of Illinois, the Sheikh of Dubai, Dave Matthews Band, Arlo Guthrie, and more. She is a master of many styles including decorative, vector, and art nouveau.

She has been interviewed on CBS, PBS Radio, and countless publications in her career. Echo owns an art gallery in Washington State featuring exclusively her art, and she tours the world meeting fans and lecturing on illustration.

As the art director and Coordinating Judge of the Illustrators of the Future Contest, Echo prepares the winners for the business of illustration and a successful career in art.

Visit Echo’s website at echo-x.com.

The Illustrators of the Future Contest and the Importance of Art Direction

The illustrations within this volume were created by winners of the Illustrators of the Future Contest. I have the honor of being the Coordinating Judge for the Contest, and I also serve as this volume’s art director.

An art director to a book is akin to the role of a conductor to an orchestra. It is the art director’s responsibility to make the art flow together to create a cohesive and beautiful performance. As the Contest Coordinating Judge and art director for the Writers of the Future volumes, my objective is to ensure every illustration is the highest level of quality and does justice to the story it represents.

Illustrators of the Future is an international contest. It is free to enter. The anonymous judging means that anyone of any age, race, gender, from any country can and does win this Contest. The competition is based on the quality of the art alone. There are absolutely no biases. Every three months, illustrator winners receive a cash award and an illustration published in the Writers of the Future anthology. Additionally, all the winners are flown to Los Angeles for a weeklong workshop with the Contest judges, art directors, and the other winning illustrators to join the professional community in person. Finally, one grand prize winner will be selected and revealed at a red-carpet award ceremony in Hollywood, California.

Once an illustrator receives their fateful call from the Contest Director informing them that they are a winner, they are introduced to the anthology’s editor and myself. The editor assigns the illustrator one of the stories from the Writers of the Future Contest winners for that year. I then take over as art director and guide them to completion of the piece that will be published in the upcoming volume and will be judged for the grand prize award.

As art director, my goal is to do so much more than make the book look good. Winners go through the paces of a real illustration job, from being assigned the story, to submitting thumbnails for my review, creating a finished piece worthy of both the story and their vision, and managing a real-world deadline. Their piece should conform to the story but not give away the ending. It should be in the style that the illustrator wants to make a career with, and it should be a shining example of their artistic ability. In the end, the pieces will be published in the anthology, become a valuable portfolio piece for the artists to get more illustration work, and for one lucky illustrator, will be a grand-prize winning piece of art. Working with an art director is something that takes practice, and that can only be learned from experience.

With thirty years of experience as a professional illustrator, I’ve worked with absolutely phenomenal art directors. They provide the right direction for a piece without stomping on the artist’s vision. When you work with a good art director, you are a team, with the goal to create an amazing finished product.

The talent that is brought to me through the Contest is astounding, and it is an honor to work with these artists at this early stage in their career, and to help them launch into greatness and success. If you are an aspiring artist or know someone who is, take the opportunity to enter the Contest. There is nothing to lose and everything to win. We look forward to seeing your entries.

List of Illustrations

“Agatha’s Monster” by Zaine Lodhi

“The Magic Book of Accidental City Destruction: A Book Wizard’s Guide” by Ari Zaritsky

“The Squid Is My Brother” by Natalia Salvador

“Gallows” by Nick Jizba

“The Professor Was a Thief” by Michael Talbot

“Lilt of a Lark” by Brett Stump

“The Mystical Farrago” by Annalee Wu

“Tsuu, Tsuu, Kasva Suuremasse” by Natalia Salvador

“The Daddy Box” by André Mata

“The Island on the Lake” by Majid Saberinejad

“The Phantom Carnival” by Xiaomeng Zhang

“The Last Dying Season” by Jerome Tieh

“A Word of Power” by Bob Eggleton

“The Greater Good” by Jim Zaccaria

“For the Federation” by Arthur M. Doweyko

“Psychic Powers” by Tenzin Rangdol

Agatha’s Monster

written by

Azure Arther

illustrated by

Zaine Lodhi

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Azure Arther is a native of Flint, Michigan, who resides in Dallas, Texas, with her husband, son, and Blazion the Betta fish. Azure began writing at a young age, and while her inspiration began with Grimm fairy tale stories and the Sleepover Friends, much of her current style has been heavily influenced by Octavia Butler and Henry James.

She is obsessed with literature and has found that her passions are evenly distributed between writing, teaching, parenting, and reading books with her son. Azure’s stories and poems have appeared or are forthcoming in more than a dozen publications, but Writers of the Future is her first professional sale.

About “Agatha’s Monster,” Azure says, “Agatha began with some random questions. One day, I found myself wondering: what if monsters were born out of trauma? What would the world look like? How would humanity stay safe? Thus, Agatha came to life as a Hunter, a mage, a regular person with basic needs and worries. The ride Agatha and her monsters go on surprised me at times, and every rewrite shifted the narrative just enough to keep me, and hopefully future readers, guessing about what would happen next. The ending actually surprised me, too, and I feel it is one of my best-written endings thus far.”

ABOUT THE ILLUSTRATOR

Zaine Lodhi was born in 1999 in the seaside tourist town of Sarasota, Florida. He feels as if his path as an illustrator was predestined—he has known the trajectory of his life since childhood. Zaine was surrounded by incredible fantasy art from a young age, collecting Magic: The Gathering cards and whatever comics he could get his hands on. The art of Frank Frazetta, Alex Ross, and Gerald Brom were pivotal in his stylistic development.

Zaine is currently studying illustration with a visual development (concept art) focus at Ringling College of Art and Design. He placed the most importance on programs that value an unwavering work ethic and emphasize preparation for the workforce.

He has a strong classical painting background fostered by professors who specialize in figure and landscape painting. He combines traditional painting and drawing skill sets with his visual library to produce concept art for games and film. Currently, he is a student freelance illustrator looking to join a studio and make a mark in the video game industry upon graduation.

To see more of his work, go to: www.artstation.com/zainel/albums/2636349

Agatha’s Monster

“Hung-greee.” Martin growled the word in my ear, drawing out the last syllable. I rolled over and batted at him. He scuttled out of reach and squatted on the other pillow, his tail lashing. “Hung-greee.”

“Mouse?” I asked, not bothering to open my eyes.

“No mouse,” Martin rasped. He whined. “No mouse left. Hung-greee.”

“You can’t be this alert when Mom comes.” I sat up and yawned. The sun was rising, its beginning rays embellishing the shaded spots outside.

Martin crept across the patchwork quilt, hesitant, because I am not a morning person, but determined. He reached out a clawed hand to tap my arm, his four digits splayed, haunches ready to bolt back. When I didn’t snap at him, he wrapped his small fingers around two of mine. I smiled slightly and asked, “What about a cat?”

“Permission?” Martin perked up, the short, fuzzy tufts of black feathers around his ears dancing. His breath, always slightly foul, wafted between us, but I was used to it.

“Sure. Get the one that keeps taking a dump in the front yard.” I grabbed his scaly, clawed hand, and looked him straight in his round, yellow eyes. “Do. Not. Get. Caught.”

“No get caught.” Martin nodded, his large mouth already beginning to drool. He smiled, multiple rows of pointed teeth glinting in the faint light and widened his gaze, an attempt to look serious. “Return to Agatha. No get caught.”

“Hurry.” I opened my window and let him scuttle out into the backyard, his black skin blending into the last of the shadows as he slipped down the side of the house. I stretched, partially yawned again, and blearily watched the light slowly creep across the sky; faint purples and vibrant oranges mixed with the slow reveal of the neighborhood. In the hall, the floor creaked slightly, but other than that, there was just the soft whisper of movement on the hardwood planks when Mom crossed to my room.

“You awake?” Her voice was hushed when she poked her head in. I could barely see her face in the dim light.

“Yes, Mom.”

“Good. Let’s get this day started.” She began to shut my door but reopened it. “Make sure to keep your voice down. Dad and Devon were out late last night.”

“’Kay.” I pretended to get out of bed, but as soon as the latch clicked, I was back at the window, whispering urgently. “Martin? Martin. Come.”

And he did, bounding across the last patches of shadow, his body making liquid leaps from one scrap of darkness to another until finally, he was balanced on the edge of the window, bringing the scent of blood and outside with him. A white and brown cat leg was in his mouth. I felt bad for a moment, but Martin had to eat, and I didn’t have enough magic to only feed him power. I threw an arm out, effectively blocking his path back over the windowsill. “Is that the one?”

“Maybe.” Martin shrugged and grunted; his gravelly voice was hardly recognizable around his full mouth. His belly, which was dark gray against the blackness of the rest of him, was bulging. He was full, thank the gods, and a cat would usually hold him for a few days, sometimes a week. I ran my hand over the flat part of the top of his head, burying my fingers in the short fur for a second before giving him a brief caress down the soft, flexible spikes along his back. He purred, a deep rumble like the creature he was eating.

“Finish it,” I said, motioning to the cat leg.

“Save.” Martin clutched the leg to him, his spindly fingers forming a fist around the paw. He liked to wake in the middle of the day and have a snack. The claws on the limb flexed from the strength of his grip, and I gagged.

“Ugh.” I looked around the room, grabbed a T-shirt off the floor, and handed it to him. “Wrap it up, and don’t get any on my things.”

He awkwardly stuffed the cat leg in the shirt and smiled at me, tiny bits of cat fur and grime stuck between the pointed triangles of his teeth. I rolled my eyes, scooped him and his package up, and tucked him into a drawer, right by his lodestone, a patch of white fabric with smeared, dried blood on it. He curled up in the back, beneath some old clothes, and immediately went to sleep, his long tail coiled around his body, the cat leg pillowing his triangular head. I stroked his scaly skin and closed the drawer. It was time to start the day.

I slipped out of my door, flipped the lock on my room—a simple spell that my little sister could probably break, but she’d be in so much trouble if she did—and headed down the hall.

“And now for the Hunter Report.” In the kitchen, Gary Hedge, the digital announcer, chuckled. “My favorite part of the day.” The anchor began to give a play-by-play of the top-rated monster killers. The Hunters. My dad was somewhere on the list, and I absently listened for his name as I went into the bathroom. I left the door cracked as I stripped and activated the shower. I scrubbed quickly, more to wake up than to wash, and was out before Hedge finished.

“As usual, I saved the top Hunter families for last. Devon Arbriger, who, before his little sister, Ardwin, joined the ranks, was considered the youngest Hunter ever. …” He droned on, expounding on my brother’s exploits and history. I rolled my eyes at the mention of Ardwin.

“Probably doesn’t even know I exist,” I muttered and slipped on the clothes I’d picked out last night; a yellow and black tunic that complemented my brown skin, fitted black pants, and black and yellow boots. I was a bumblebee today. I brushed my teeth and almost missed when Gary started in on Dad.

“His father, Jamaal Arbriger, reigning champion Hunter—I mean, no one has captured more monsters than this guy. …” Gary rambled about Dad’s stats. He sounded like a fan, but his coanchor brought him back to the point. “Ahem. It appears that the largest kill of the night came from both Jamaal and Devon’s efforts. Great job, guys!”

I exited the bathroom and clicked up the hall to the kitchen. The space was wide, with muted gray stone floors and white and gray marbled countertops. It should have been a cold room, but the large, scratched table and chairs, and the decorations Mom had added over the years, gave it a homey feel. Mom, her sleep-mussed, honey curls wild and in every direction, was folded into a chair, one of her long legs tossed over the arm, her bare toes flexing repeatedly as she watched the digital that rested in the corner near the sink. The curved, transparent glass was full of images from a Recording. The news had switched to a video submission of a Hunt.

“Maybe you’ll be a Recorder,” Mom said without looking back. Of course, she’d felt me come in.

“Do you ever get tired of being an Auror?” I asked in response. She could feel the auras of almost anything, including monsters and humans. The smaller the creature, the harder it was for her to detect, which was why she hadn’t found Martin. That and she wasn’t expecting a monster to be in her house. This was where her guard was down.

“Of course not. If anything, I get tired of being an Adept. No mage should have this much power,” she replied without missing a beat. “So, what do you think about Recording?”

“Maybe.” I shrugged. “I don’t know if I want to run around chasing after mages on Hunts, Mom. It’s dangerous and boring. Besides, there’s no guarantee that I’ll be able to see after the procedure I don’t need.”

“Of course you will, and yes you do. You’re an Arbriger. We just have to fix—” Mom flailed her hand into the air. All the magic in the world couldn’t give my mother tact. She stood, turned, and kissed the top of my head. “Make coffee. It’s Friday, and I want to watch the Hunt. They’re chasing an Intermediate.”

“Psh. Dad and Devon could do that alone.”

“Your father and brother could take down two Intermediates and a High Novice alone.”

“At the same time.” I laughed.

“Make my coffee, little girl.” Mom shoved at me and sat back down.

“I’ll be sixteen in two weeks.” I pulled the filter out and began prepping the machine. “Not so little.”

“Shhh.” The Hunt had started. I watched in snatches as I measured the grounds. The Recorder wasn’t bad. He definitely wasn’t the best, so they must not have had anything better for the Hunt of the Week. They had to play something, and new fodder was better than replays.

Recording was the only way regular people could see monsters, and since it was important that the nonmagical saw what the magical did, the news paid really well for Recordings. It was not a bad business, just … boring and dangerous. The Intermediate on the screen couldn’t have been as big as the one Dad and Devon had caught, but we didn’t have a Recorder that we worked with. Our last one, like all the others, had quit.

There were five mages in this Pack, six if you included the Recorder, not that anyone would: two Guards in purple, one Healer in green, and two battle mages—the Hunters—in red. I wouldn’t know for sure where they classed at until they did something, but they were probably fire mages. Most battle mages were. The Pack chased an Intermediate, perhaps ten feet tall. The creature was brown with yellow fur. It wasn’t that big, but it had to feed pretty well to hit that height. The Pack cornered the creature and slammed it with magic, the multihued spells pouring into the monster. Purple bands swooped around it. It was a containment spell from one of the Guards.

“Where’s my coffee? This is getting good.” Mom didn’t look at me but held out her hand. I moved next to the digital and filled the pot with water.

“I can mix some grounds with water if you want?” I snickered. She blew a raspberry at me, and I poured the pot into the machine. “In a sec.”

On the screen, the mages had contained the monster. I missed the battle mages’ talents. The Healer surged forward, drawing out the negative emotions or trauma reaction that made it so big. There was a flashy show of colors when he released the power; no wonder Hedge had chosen this one. As soon as the creature had shrunk to at least half its size, the leader of the group blasted the Intermediate, and I watched as it thinned to a flat sheet that floated across the air to the lead mage. The Hunter held out his arm, and the sheet wrapped around his limb from wrist to elbow; other tattoos on his skin moved to make room for the new one.

“Not a bad haul. I wouldn’t mind that monster to fight with,” I said and turned to grin at Mom.

“Terrance,” Mom muttered under her breath. “That trick gets old, and it’s not like he can use more than one of those damn tattoos at once.”

“You sound jealous.”

She looked over at me and rolled her eyes. Monster tattooing was rare; we both knew it, but Mom had never been able to tame a monster to her will.

“Get the oats started.” She got cream from the icebox and poured some into her cup before setting the carafe on the counter. The fragrance of freshly brewed coffee began to fill the room as we moved around each other, saying little; this was our daily routine. Mom broke the silence, her voice deliberately casual. “You know, as you said, your birthday is in two weeks. I thought we could go ahead and schedule your eye appointment.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my eyes,” I replied.

“Agatha.” Mom looked at me. I stopped and looked at her, holding the pot and the oats.

“I can see monsters.”

“Prove it.”

“I am not killing in a Hunt.”

“Because you can’t see.” Mom smiled brightly and pointed at the digital. “You can be a Recorder.”

“Just because I couldn’t see that one time—”

“It has been multiple times, Agatha.” She was right, but I knew I could see monsters. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have been able to see Martin. I would have brought Martin out to show her, but she would have killed him in less than a heartbeat. Anyone in my family would have.

“I’ll think about it.” I said the words simply, but there was nothing simple about getting your corneas removed and having magical lenses put in, and two out of ten failed, so you had to do it over again.

“On the other hand, your monster could still be out there if you just listen for its Call.” Mom was quiet. Waiting. She didn’t believe that a monster hadn’t manifested when my twin brother, Anthony, died. She was right, but she couldn’t have Martin.

“You know I’ve never heard the Call.” I wasn’t lying. I had never heard the Call to kill a monster. Even though most Hunters could hear it, some couldn’t. It didn’t mean I couldn’t see monsters. I just … couldn’t see all of them.

“Mmm.” She moved past me and turned the digital off with a short spark of angry magic from her hand. “This world, Agatha. This world only cares about money. There is a lot that goes into being a Hunter, but really, the world isn’t much different than it was before the monsters appeared. Society deals with the manifestations just as they deal with everything else: by asking how much it is worth.”

“I said I’ll think about it.” I added butter to the oats and stirred them. She moved closer and wrapped her arms around me, squeezing.

“You know, before the manifestations twenty years ago, your father and I were dirt poor.”

“I do know, Mom.” I glared at the oats. “You and Dad were some of the first Hunters.”

“True, and that gave us an edge that we’ve managed to keep.” She touched my chin lightly, and I turned to look into her hazel eyes. “You need to remember that while Hunters run the world right now, it can always change. The world changed out of nowhere. You must have a skill. Be useful, make connections, save money.” She nudged me and smiled to lighten the blow. “Get your eyes fixed.”

I nodded instead of answering. If you asked Mom, we were one bad Hunt from poverty, even though she was the most frugal, financially careful Hunter I had ever met.

I finished setting the table just as Ardwin came in. Her honey ringlets were a wild halo around her pixie face, and drool had dried on her caramel skin. She yawned, her light brown eyes still heavy with sleep. Even at twelve, everyone knew Ardie would grow to be a great beauty, but her looks would just lead people to underestimate her. That would be their downfall. Ardwin was vicious.

“Did I miss the announcements? What’d Daddy catch? Did Devon do good?” Ardwin scrubbed at the crusted drool on her face. She poured a glass of water and drank it down in one go, waiting for one of us to answer.

“Daddy and Devon took down an Intermediate,” Mom answered her mildly. We looked at each other and smirked.

“Ooo.” Ardwin smiled and sat in Mom’s chair. She spun it to face the table and poured a second glass of water. “I wonder what happened for it to manifest.” This was the part Ardwin liked. She got serious pleasure from finding out what happened to make a monster appear. The higher the monster, the happier she was.

I set a bowl in front of Ardie, and she scowled.

“I don’t want oatmeal.” My sister pushed the bowl away and hopped up. Opening the cold box, Ardwin pulled a grapefruit and a lemon from inside and kicked the door shut. She tossed the fruit in the air; a knife slid off the counter and flew up to cut both fruits in half. The surprising part for me was not that she cut them but that she managed to catch all four halves and the knife without cutting herself. Ardwin was a Kinetic. She could draw power out of anything, even the air, and use it to move other things or beings.

“Good morning, sweetie,” Mom said, neatly plucking the knife from Ardwin’s hand and kissing the top of her head. In profile, they were twins, except Mom’s skin was dark brown, and her curls hung to the middle of her back, whereas Ardie was light brown and chose to keep her hair cut at her jawline. Unlike either of them, I didn’t want hair at all, so mine was a buzz cut, perfectly highlighting the crescent scar that trailed from my temple to my jaw.

“Morning, Mommy.” Ardwin dumped her fruit in the bowl on the table and proceeded to scoop the grapefruit out of its rind with a lazy twirl of her finger, her magic precisely setting the skin to the side. The lemon halves rose over the pink chunks and Ardwin hunched her head forward, her eyes wide as she concentrated. The lemons squeezed out juice and pulp, and my sister sat back, satisfied. I watched as she manually doused everything with sugar. She closed her eyes on her first bite and opened them to see me looking at her. “What?”

“Nothing.” I shook my head and returned to stirring the oatmeal. Ardwin was in a class all her own, but that made sense; Ardwin was a Hunter-born, one of those rare children that had the talent to not only see but kill monsters damn near since birth. Supposedly, Anthony and I were like that. I didn’t remember us that way, but Devon said we were.

I took the oatmeal off the stove and poured it into a ceramic pot. This I carried to the table and carefully placed in the center. I went back to the counter for the top, the carafe of cream, and utensils. I balanced them in my arms, all the while feeling Ardwin’s eyes on me. It was my turn to glare. “What?”

“It must suck to not have any real magic,” Ardwin observed, a smirk on her face.

“Whatever, Barfwin.” I sang out the name that caused her first monster to manifest and zapped her spoon, a minor magic, just like everything else I could do. She dropped the utensil, and I grinned when she glared at me.

“Watch it, Agatha,” Mom snapped.

“Yeah, Agony,” Ardwin snickered, and Mom slammed her coffee cup down. Both Ardwin and I startled.

“You don’t know what agony is,” Mom said quietly. She looked at me, and for just a moment, I saw the anguish in her eyes. Anthony. Agony was so close in sound to Anthony. “Eat your breakfast.”

Mom returned to her coffee. Ardwin raised an eyebrow at me, and I looked at her before mouthing my dead twin’s name. I saw the moment when Ardwin made the connection and her face fell. “I’m sorry, Mommy.”

Ardwin barely remembered Anthony, but we were all used to the bouts of melancholy that would spring up out of nowhere when Mom was reminded of him. Not that she ever forgot. She didn’t respond to Ardwin’s apology but got up and poured another cup of coffee. Behind her, while she was pouring sugar, the cover lifted from the oatmeal, adding the aroma of cinnamon to the air, and scooped into one bowl, while another spoon lifted half of Ardwin’s grapefruit into a second one.

“Hey!” Ardwin laughed, snatching at the bowl. Mom smiled slightly and stirred her coffee. She turned and held out her hand, waiting for the bowl of Ardwin’s fruit to float to her. My little sister squinted her eyes and concentrated. They played tug of war in the air, both smiling.

I rolled my eyes, dropped my spoon in the oatmeal, and stood.

“We’re going to be late,” I reminded Ardwin. “You haven’t even gotten dressed.”

“Mom will take me.” Ardwin shrugged. Since I had broken my sister’s concentration, the bowl flew toward Mom fast, and with her Hunter reflexes, she just as quickly caught it. Mom looked up from the dish, her expression just a tiny bit guilty, but not much.

“I’m sure,” I said to Ardwin and headed to walk out of the kitchen.

“Wait, and I’ll take you too.” Mom’s voice was quiet.

“I kind of want to walk.” When I looked up and met her eyes, I saw that she understood, even if she didn’t agree. Anthony was never too far from my mind, either. He was my twin, after all.

I walked slowly, feeling the heaviness that weighed me down. I may not have remembered how Anthony died, but there were times when I felt like I was missing something. There was this haziness in my mind whenever I tried to recall my twin and a sadness that came from the lack of memory. Sometimes, the weight of it all could drop me where I stood if it caught me unaware. Whether it was magical memory loss or a trauma block, neither seemed fixable.

It was the lack of closure that hurt Mom the most. She wanted to know. She wanted to enter my mind and experience it. She wanted to make sure that Anthony had died instantly or live with the fact that he died in pain. She wanted to torture herself some more. Sometimes, I was glad I didn’t have my memories, just to save her from herself.

A horn honked behind me. I flinched and turned. Devon.

“Hey, little girl. Get in.” My brother pulled over next to me and opened the door. I slid across his leather seat and bumped him.

“I bet your breath still stinks.”

“Maybe.”

“What are you doing out during the daytime, vampire?” I teased, but Devon’s dark-brown eyes were inscrutable when he peered over at me. I sighed. “She woke you?”

“She worries.” Devon shrugged one large, muscular shoulder, and I buckled up. “Why would you walk? You knew it was going to set her off.”

“I needed some space.” I told him about breakfast, and he nodded. He pulled back onto the street, and we drove. I stared out of the window, breathing in the fresh air, and watched the mix of magical houses, some that floated in the air, others that constantly changed, and normal houses that regular people lived in. I loved our neighborhood. It was the definition of diversity.

“I miss him too, you know,” Devon said into our silence.

“Everyone misses him.”

“I miss you, too.”

“What does that even mean?” I laughed and looked over at my brother. I imagined Anthony would have looked just like Devon, muscular with Mom’s brown skin and Dad’s dark-brown eyes. Anthony would have had locs, though, and I, well, I wasn’t sure. I had hated hair on my head since I woke up. Devon and I had the same haircut.

“It means I miss you. You don’t remember. You were one crazy kid.” Devon smiled. “Both of you were.”

“You were fourteen. You were just a kid, too.”

“I was.” Devon grew quiet. He’d joined the Hunters on his fourteenth birthday. Even though the mandated profession choice is the sixteenth year, most Hunter children join at fourteen. Devon hated monsters. Honestly, I thought he hated them more than Mom did. He was merciless in battle, unnecessarily violent. He was the reason the last few Recorders quit. They couldn’t sell any of the Hunt videos that Devon was in. He literally tore monsters to shreds.

That was the only reason he didn’t know about Martin. Devon knew everything about me, except that.

Everyone had waited for Martin to manifest. Everyone knew that Martin would manifest. Whole families of Hunters combed the woods, trying to find my first manifestation. I didn’t know how Martin hid from them, but he was so tiny when I woke, able to fit in the palm of my nine-year-old hand. He was this small little being who fed on air and was warm, so warm, and comforting, in a way my family hadn’t been. Everyone was grieving a brother I barely remembered, and no one understood how I could forget him.

“All right,” Devon said, pulling into the parking lot. His car growled and purred as we drove up, and I saw a couple students admire the sleek automobile as they headed inside. It was a regular brick-and-mortar building, nothing like the fancy mage school Ardwin went to across town. I was one of the few mage family kids here. I hated it, but I had hated the magic schools even more.

“School.” I stared at the doors, not moving.

“Wanna skip?” Devon asked, and he wasn’t joking. He would totally take off and drive me wherever I wanted to go.

“Nah. Tests.”

He nodded at my response and reached into the backseat. “Forgot your lunch.”

“I didn’t pack one,” I said and caught myself.

He smirked and held the bag out. “Mom.”

I took it and leaned across the seat to hug Devon. For a moment, I felt safe in the warmth of my brother’s arms before he shoved me. “Out, you bald-headed bumblebee. To school with you, peon.”

“Like I said: your breath stinks.” I leapt out of the car and bumped the door shut. He rolled down the window and fake roared at me, his voice loud. I couldn’t help but laugh, even though we were both kind of sad.

I walked into the building with my head held high. In a school full of normies, even though I was basically nonmagical, even though I tried not to be, I was noticed, so I stopped hiding. I saw heads turning to look at me. I stood out in my yellow and black. They whispered, but they didn’t come near me. It had taken one visit from Devon for my bullies to leave me alone. No one forgot that day. I went to class, listened, daydreamed, and thought about surgery and how I could avoid it.

“Are we going to catch her today?” Janice asked, startling me as she jogged up on the way to the cafeteria. We walked beside each other. Janice was in the grade above me, but we talked about our monsters during study hall and at lunch, whispering about what we learned from them. I shrugged.

“I hope so. I’m going to feed her to Martin.”

Janice scrunched her nose up, her owl eyes behind her glasses even larger than usual. “Is that a good idea? Martin is already powerful.”

“No, he’s not, and he won’t be.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do. Martin is good.”

“No monster is good, especially not one that looks like a mini-Titan.” Janice hunched into herself. “You know … when monsters decimate towns and kill whole cities, it’s not Novices or Intermediates that do that. It’s the Gods and the Titans.”

“Everyone knows that.” I stopped in the middle of the hall to stare at Janice. She blinked at me.

“Well, I was thinking … with Martin being from the trauma—”

“You don’t know that.” I snapped at her.

“But you said you woke up—”

“I say a lot of things.” I started walking, and she hurried to catch up, huffing at my pace.

“I’m just saying. It’s probably better to keep Martin in a cage like I do with mine.”

“You hate your monsters. Martin is my friend. I would never trap and torture him like you do yours.”

“Whatever.” Janice glared at me. “No monster is ever your friend. You should just tell your family and let them take care of him.”

“You should just tell the mage board rep that you can see monsters and get a new family,” I said, taking a dig at her.

“No.” Janice was firm. “I won’t go live with some mage family that’s gonna treat me like normie trash.”

“It’s gotta suck to live with the monster blind, though.”

“Nah. It’s kind of cool to know something they don’t.”

“I guess.” My voice was doubtful, and Janice rolled her eyes. “Magekind shouldn’t stay with the mageless.”

“Mageless shouldn’t stay with Magekind. Kill Martin and join your family,” Janice said simply, her round cheeks curving into a malicious smile. “Put up or shut up.”

“Shut up, Janice. I’m not mageless.”

“You may as well be.” We went through the double doors into the cafeteria, both of us making a beeline for the corner table by the window that we always sat at. We didn’t say anything as we unwrapped our lunches. Mine was leftovers from last night. I made a point of looking up at Janice as I zapped my food, the tiny spark of kinetic energy sizzling the sauce on my pasta.

“I am not mageless.” We stared at each other until we both burst out laughing.

“Do mine,” Janice said, holding out her sandwich. I snickered and almost burned the bread. It was small magic, but it worked. Janice gazed at me and shook her head, stopping the question I was about to ask. She didn’t want to try. I shrugged and began eating.

If Janice wanted, my family could have helped her become a full mage, maybe even Hunterkind, but she didn’t want that, and in a few months, it would be too late. Her core, the inner part that held her magic, would harden when she reached the age of maturity, usually at some point between sixteen and eighteen. She had to get proper training to fully access her power or kill her first monster by then to reach her full potential.

“You’re running out of time.”

“And I don’t care,” Janice said.

“Right now, but what about when you’re older, and you’re stuck as like … some …”

“Normie?” Janice asked. “A minor hedge witch or untrained parlor mage?”

“Yeah.” I looked down at the table, uncomfortable.

“Like you?”

“You hate your monsters, though.” I answered, avoiding the question.

“And you don’t hate Martin. It doesn’t make sense to me, just like I don’t make sense to you. Leave it alone, Ag.”

“Fine.”

“I caught a new one last night,” Janice mumbled around her sandwich, switching topics. She was hiding her bites behind her glossy brown hair. It did nothing to obscure the roundness of her face as she shoveled food into her mouth, but it made her feel more secure. Janice always ate ravenously but stayed generally fit. I barely ate, and we wore the same size. “I might kill this one.”

“This makes four—all in one fish tank. Is this one even yours?”

“Nah. Probably a neighbor’s. Nothing’s been going on for a while at home.” Janice shrugged.

“What are you going to name it?”

“I don’t know. Something that fits with Ralph and John.”

“And No Name,” I quipped. Janice tilted her head to look me in the eyes and shook her head.

“He has a name.”

“Well, you haven’t shared it,” I finished lamely. “You’ve got enough untrained power to keep three fed, but do you have enough to feed four?”

“Who cares if they eat?” she snapped. We argued about what she fed them a lot. Janice had enough magic to keep her monsters slightly satisfied, but I worried about them. They were tiny things that she barely fed, but even tiny monsters could become a problem with the right stimulus.

“I do. Unfed monsters find something to feed on. You know that.” I tapped her tray. “You gotta feed them something.”

“Crickets it is,” Janice said seriously, but we both laughed. Crickets would do, but monsters fed on magic more than real food. My house was full of errant magic, while Janice’s house had none except whatever well of power Janice naturally had. Martin stayed in a room, so he was cat sized. Janice’s stayed in an aquarium, so they fit in her palm, but the ones that we saw on the screens just grew to the sky; they fed on more than magic. They thrived on fear and pain, the trauma and chaos that they had manifested from, and they grew fast, sometimes within minutes, but only as big as their environment.

“What are you going to name it?” I asked.

“I don’t know.” Janice shrugged. She grinned at me, a wicked curve of her mouth with a feral baring of teeth. “I’ve been after it for weeks. I finally caught it with my camera last night.”

I nodded. There were many ways to catch a monster, but Janice and I had found that tape recorders and cameras worked best for us. The tiny ones got trapped in the reel, then you just had to extract them and decide where to keep them. It was different with Martin. I hadn’t trapped him. When I’d woken up, he was just there.

“I should just bring them to your house.” She grinned at me.

“There’s definitely enough errant magic for them to eat, but you’ll be a Hunter and a ward by the end of the night. The fam would figure out you’re Magekind for sure.”

Janice nodded. “No way, then.”

“It wouldn’t be that bad,” I said. “Maybe you’d become a famous Hunter, and I’d be your Recorder.”

“Are you finished?” Janice laughed, grabbing my container of barely touched food. I didn’t bother to answer, knowing she would throw it away, anyway. I was thinking about the monster we had been chasing at school, the one only she and I could see. If I caught it, I could take it home and prove that I could see monsters. It wouldn’t open my core, but it would stop Mom from trying to cut off my corneas.

Janice returned from throwing our trash away. “Let’s go.”

I got up from the table and followed her to the restroom, where Janice had once slammed my head into a wall, right behind that other group of girls who bullied her and hated me because of who my family was. Except, with Janice, we made up; we became friends. Once there, we tossed our backpacks on the ground outside, by the door, and went in. I washed my hands, pulled out my camera, and we waited for the monster to show up. She came out of the largest stall, but this time, I was ready for her.

On the way in, I silenced the new monster with a punch to my book bag. She stopped squealing.

“Mom!” I sang as soon as I closed the door. “I have a surprise for you!”

No one answered, so I slipped down the hall to my bedroom. I liked to check on Martin as soon as I got in, especially today. I didn’t want him to hear them kill this monster. That wouldn’t be fair to him. The window in my room was open, the glass shattered from something going through it. Martin’s drawer was open, and there were scorch marks on my wall. “Martin?”

“Looking for something?” Mom was standing in my doorway, holding Martin’s lodestone, the patch of red smeared across white fabric.

“Where is he?” I snarled at her, my hands curling with violence. I tossed the bag with the other monster onto the bed. Mom’s eyes flicked to the bag, her focus wavering for a split second, but her anger redirected to me.

“We haven’t caught it yet. Come.” She turned away, walking fast, as if she didn’t want me to see her face.

I followed, angry. “What did you do to him?”

When we reached the kitchen, my father was there, sitting at the table, his face pensive, his eyes staring off into the distance. He was rotating a large Hunter knife in his hands, the magicked blade moving intricately over and between his fingers, dancing faster than the eye could follow.

Devon was leaned against the counter, dressed in his Hunter leathers, his face flushed red and angry, matching his clothes. Outside, in the backyard, I could see Ardie. She had been sent out, but she was standing at the doorway, wearing an angelic white dress, probably from school this morning, glaring at me as she clenched her hands. She hated being left out of conversations.

“Tell me why you would keep a monster in your room.” My mother’s voice was distant. At the table, Dad mirrored Ardwin, his fists clenching and unclenching for just a moment before they began moving again. I could feel his power, angry and oppressive, building up in the room.

“How long have you been able to see them?” Devon asked. “Is it … was it because of Anthony? Have you been able to see them since then?” They all hesitated, the air vibrating as they waited for my answer.

I didn’t speak but nodded, the memory of the Titan that killed Anthony hazy, still elusive, even after all these years. I didn’t remember, didn’t want to remember, but the spray of blood across my face, across my clothes, leapt to the forefront of my thoughts. I smacked the memory down.

They asked more questions, but I kept blinking, remembering. My mother slapped me hard, and the concussion from the power in her hand rocked me back. I hit the floor, but it was Dad’s power that lifted me up, gentle, a buffer that I hadn’t even noticed. I met his eyes, and he looked at me, disappointed, but still Dad.