Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 161615 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 808(@200wpm)___ 646(@250wpm)___ 539(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 161615 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 808(@200wpm)___ 646(@250wpm)___ 539(@300wpm)
A faint, wrong kind of chill rolled along the back of my neck—like something cold and slick had just traced my spine with the tip of a tongue. My body reacted before my logic could catch up.
Skin tightening.
Breath stuttering.
Palms going damp.
It felt like phantom scales brushed my ankles, curling lightly, testing the air around me.
None of it was real, but my nerves didn’t care.
My imagination had teeth tonight.
Then an image immediately hit my mind. It was a massive nest, pungent and musky, and full of a writhing mass of jumbled, coiled bodies, tangled together in a knot and covered in scales. The flicker of forked tongues could be seen as they slithered and hissed.
If Kenji was right about this being a nest of snakes, then this could end up being a puzzle of ever-shifting pieces. And somehow, I would have to assess and unravel their twisted intentions.
Fuck. I hope I can do this.
My stomach dropped in a slow, sick roll.
I walked up to Hiro and his twin wolves—Yuki and Aki and a crazy realization hit me first.
“Wait a minute.” I slowed my steps. "One of Kenji's Personal Scales is named Yuki."
Then, I looked up at the twin. "And you're Yuki too."
He nodded. "Yes."
"Is that a common name in Japan?"
Aki spoke for him, "It is very common.”
Yuki nodded again, “But, it has different meanings depending on the kanji used."
“Oh.”
"Mine means snow." He shrugged. "My full name is Yukihiro, but most call me Yuki."
“And so. . .the Scale Yuki’s name has a different kanji?”
Hiro jumped in, “Yes. Which is why her name means happiness. Good fortune. Same sound, different characters, different meaning."
I made a mental note of this. “Got it.”
Hiro tilted his head slightly. "In America, you have similar names. Right? I know a lot of American Michaels."
“Facts.” I held up one finger. "But just so we aren’t confused this evening, I may say Scale Yuki."
Hiro shrugged those muscular shoulders. “Sounds good. . .sis.”
For a split second, I swore something brushed the side of my calf. I jerked and looked down.
Hiro checked too. “Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
It must have been just my nerves. But the fear of the snakes felt too deliberate, too targeted, like the nest already knew I was coming and had started trying to touch me.
I cleared my throat. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
“Then, let’s go, sis.”
We headed off, and I checked them out.
All three of them were big.
Not just tall—big. Black shirts stretched over broad shoulders. Gun holsters on the side. Veins along muscled forearms.
They looked like a very pretty death sentence as their long strides ate up the polished marble floor like men built for war.
I was bracketed between them, Hiro on my right, Aki a step ahead, Yuki slightly behind. If anyone looked down this hall, they’d see a small Black woman moving in the middle of three very dangerous men who could break necks faster than most people could unlock their phones.
And somehow, it was comforting and terrifying all at once.
The sound of slithering and hiding filled my ears, even though no snakes were near me.
My nerves flickered, but something inside me settled at the same time. . .that little mental switch I’d had since childhood. The one that clicked on whenever life got too heavy or too loud.
My grandma called it my Scooby-Doo mode.
She wasn’t wrong either.
It sounded silly, but it always worked to help me calmly solve a problem.
Even though my mother had offered to get my grandma cable TV, which would have allowed me to watch my favorite shows on Nickelodeon, Grandma had stubbornly refused, forcing me to watch her basic local channels.
That meant Scooby-Doo reruns on summer Saturday mornings.
Her living room always smelled like cocoa butter and Pine-Sol.
The buzzing TV’s glow hit the plastic-covered sofa just right, like it belonged there with the sunlight. I’d pour way too many Frosted Flakes into one of Grandma’s plastic mixing bowls, rush into the living room, place a Capri Sun on the side, and sit cross-legged on the floor.
Once the show came on, I’d be loudly crunching the whole time until the theme song finished.
Eventually, Grandma would show up with her cup of coffee, her housecoat would swish past as her slippers tapped on tile.
She’d sit on the couch behind me, mumbling things to the TV, calling Fred, ‘that sneaky fool.’ She was convinced he had a thing for Daphne. Meanwhile, she always chuckled at Shaggy and Scooby’s crazy detours. At least three times, she would complain that there should be a black girl with the Mystery Team, and then start to point out how Velma was probably a quarter Black.
“Yeah. She got some African DNA. Look at that hair and those hips. That’s from the Motherland no matter how much her people probably tried to hide it. Velma is Black.”
The commercial breaks were just long enough for bathroom runs or sneaking more cereal into the bowl.