Total pages in book: 254
Estimated words: 240032 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1200(@200wpm)___ 960(@250wpm)___ 800(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 240032 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1200(@200wpm)___ 960(@250wpm)___ 800(@300wpm)
“I don’t change. I can’t,” I answered, trying to explain it as simply as I could. “I always look like this.” I was average, medium, in almost every way. Wavy dark hair, brownish peach skin that was a clue of who I’d inherited it from, and light hazel eyes that were another clue—but a really broad one. My bone structure was a hint of my possible parentage, I thought, but the rest of me was pretty ambiguous.
From the way he blinked, the concept of not having another form was unheard of to him.
It was to the majority of people. Myths were myths to some, and legends were simply legends to others. But they weren’t.
My parents had explained it to me once when I’d been sixteen and that special thing in me had woken up and changed me. I hadn’t understood why or how I could be so different from them. From everyone in my life. Why I couldn’t turn into something too. Shift, some people called it. To me, it looked like a shimmer more than anything.
My parents had sandwiched me between them and explained that if there was something—magic—in this world that had created all those beings in mythology, that there was no reason to believe that something—that magic from a meteor—couldn’t be capable of creating all the other beings in the world that had stories and legends written about them too. That they were all intertwined for a reason.
“We’re in the same books but our stories are different, Nina,” my mom had assured me. “Why would only some be real but not the others?”
And then we had gone to our window and, through the blinds, watched our neighbor across the street: a tall, very old man with an eye patch who had two pet ravens that he tried to play off like they were wild when all the magical people in the neighborhood knew better. He was usually sitting out on his porch. I had always known on some level there was something different about him. He’d worn a bracelet most of the time, but when he didn’t? His magic had been staggering. He had been nice to Matti and me, but I remembered how much he had loved Henri. That was when my parents had mouthed to me who they thought he had been once upon a time.
They had never used the word “immortal” to describe him, but rather said “long-lived.” From an old, old pagan culture. One of the few ancient beings whose existence hadn’t faded from memory.
I would never forget that they had no sooner mouthed his four-letter name than the old man, who went by Otis, had turned his attention in the direction of our house and smiled in a way that made the hair on my arms rise.
We left for the store an hour later and bought a puzzle that I had dropped off on his doorstep.
Even now, thousands of years after magic had made its initial presence, some names, and the magic and the gifts that came with them, still evoked fear.
Nobody had called the puzzle an offering, but nobody said it wasn’t one either.
The older man had left an impression on me, but that still hadn’t been enough for me to accept who one or both of my biological parents might be. But when you’re young, all you want to do is fit in.
And when you’re older, you’ve accepted who you are, and you just want to be left alone. Funny how that worked.
In that moment though, Shiloh blinked, still confused, his gaze falling to my bracelet. It wasn’t anything special. It looked like a normal bracelet, with one smooth, round obsidian bead strung to a fire obsidian and then a quartz. The pattern repeated throughout the length of it. It was the obsidian though that did all the work. It hid what I wanted to keep a secret.
“But… but the monster was scared of you,” the little boy stuttered in confusion.
But he thought I was a princess anyway? There was no point in arguing his observation. I nodded. “You aren’t scared of me, are you?”
His lips pinched together, and he shook his head. “No, you’re nice.”
“Thank you.” I squeezed his little hand. “You’re nice too.”
Shiloh, the centaur/goat child, gazed at me for a second, the question about my identity lingering in his head before he used one of his two legs—hooves?—and kicked at a small twig. “My dad says you don’t have to be the biggest to be the scariest.”
“It helps to be big, but being small and scary works too. Like a spider.” I dropped my voice. “My friend saw one and came running out of the bathroom screaming that he thought it was going to eat him. It was a tiny little spider too.”
In front, Matti slowed down and glared at me over his shoulder but kept his mouth shut. That wasn’t exactly what had happened, but I could be dramatic too. Just less often.