Chapter 1
The Bracelet, the Broke Girl, and the Cobra
Aubrey
The flickering kitchen lightmakes my phone screen even harder to read, but my negative bank account balance glares back at me anyway. It sort of reminds me of how Derek used to look at me—judgmental, with that hint of smugness that always made me feel two inches tall.
“You need to be more responsible with your finances, Bree,” he’d say, as if most of my income wasn’t going to the insane price of merely existing in a city like Houston. The last straw wasn’t even his biggest offense—just the final one.
Standing at his firm’s holiday party, glass in hand, he decided to use me as his cautionary tale: “This is why you need a proper financial adviser, everyone. My girlfriend here thinks job-hopping is a viable career strategy.”
Ex-girlfriend, as it turned out about thirty seconds later.
I’d felt so powerful walking out that night, leaving him mid-sentence.
Now, staring at my account balance, all the power is gone as I realize pride doesn’t pay rent.
He helped me a lot. Financially, anyway. I always appreciated that. But the demeaning comments got to be a bit too much.
Maybe he had a point, though.
My best friend Maggie and I aren’t exactly living our best lives, even despite splitting the bills and rent.
Our apartment’s ancient AC unit rattles against the Houston summer heat. From somewhere down the hall, music thumps through the paper-thin walls, mixing with the constant hum of traffic outside.
The salvaged kitchen table wobbles as I shift my elbows and eye our attempts at “adulting” around me: a dying succulent that even Google couldn’t help us save, takeout menus arranged in what Maggie calls our “cuisine filing system,” and a collection of inspirational magnets on the fridge that mock me with phrases like “Living My Best Life!” and “Hustle & Flow.”
My half of the rent is due in five days, there’s a quarter tank of gas in my car, and the entire apartment smells like the popcorn I burned last night while stress-watching reality TV.
“This is fine,” I mutter to myself, even though it’s definitely not fine. “Everything is totally, completely fine.”
The phone buzzes in my hand, making me jump. Mom’s name pops up, as if she has a sixth sense that goes off exactly when I’m at my lowest. The message, of course, is overloaded with exclamation points and emojis.
Aubrey-bean, just checking on you. Your old room is exactly as you left it ? You can come back any time. Room, board, and meals included!!! Call us! XO Mom
My stomach lurches at the mere suggestion of returning to some teenage time capsule of boy band posters and stuffed animals. The thought of moving back home, of being suffocated by my parents’ well-meaning but overwhelming presence, makes me want to crawl under my bed and never come out. I’d honestly rather live on the streets.
The couch springs creak as Maggie shifts position in the living room, the sound drawing my attention to where she’s created her usual nest of throw pillows and snack wrappers. Her newly dyed purple hair spills over the armrest as she scrolls through her phone, the late afternoon sun catching the metallic threads in her thrifted tank top.
“You’re making that face again,” she announces without looking up. Her tone’s light, teasing, but underneath it there’s the weight of someone who’s seen me at my worst—and knows when I’m about to spiral hard enough for gravity to break.
“What look?” I ask, playing stupid.
She puts her phone down as she glances at me over the mountain of pillows she’s hoarding. “The one that says you’re contemplating selling a kidney on the black market.”
“I’m not making a face,” I lie, even as I catch my reflection on the phone screen. Okay, maybe I’m making a face. “And besides, who says the black market wouldn’t be a valid financial move at this point?”
“Girl, no.” Maggie sits up, her expression shifting from playful to that particular brand of best-friend concern that always makes me feel simultaneously loved and called out. “Look, I might have a short-term solution. There’s this pawn shop down the street. I got an amazing price for those anime figures my ex left behind before you moved in. The owner’s super fair with his pricing, and…” A sly grin spreads across her face. “Let’s just say the view makes the negotiations even better. Tall, dark, handsome, scaled…”
I blink. “Scaled?”
“Mmhmm. He’s a naga. You know, a half-man, half-snake chiseled god sort of deal?”
My stomach does a little flip. “A naga,” I repeat weakly.
Even after five years, I still haven’t wrapped my head around the fact that monsters are real. That they’ve been here all along, hidden behind whatever magic kept us humans oblivious.
The Great Unveiling changed everything—suddenly your dentist might be a vampire, or your mailman could have tentacles under his uniform. And while I like to think I’m pretty open to stuff like that, somehow every interaction I’ve had with non-humans has turned into a masterclass in social awkwardness.
