Maybe I can stop at the bakery and grab a few cinnamon rolls. They’re not nearly as distracting as demon cookies, but my aunt loves them.
Decision made, I head down the street. Teenage werewolf boys lounging outside the coffee shop turn to watch me pass. They know better than to whistle. Word will get back to their dads, and all their hides will be red, even if they are old enough to drive.
Just as I pass them, I hear one of the boys say, “I heard the nightmares are leaking in.”
“Bull,” another teenager replies. “That magic can’t get in here. The barrier stops the nightmares.”
The first teen, with long, wolfish sideburns, replies, canines showing, “I don’t mean the magic. I mean the people.”
All the boys go silent. The second one replies, “They wouldn’t dare. Let ’em try. We’ll show them their kind isn’t welcome here.”
The first kid shrugs. “Just telling you what I heard.”
The Nightmare District. That's on the outskirts of town, separated from Castleview by a magical barrier that's stood for years. The barrier stops nightmare magic from seeping into our streets—keeps the dark dreams contained. But people can cross if they have permission or a summons.
Not that anyone wants to. I've never been there, never wanted to go, and from what I hear, visitors aren't exactly welcome.
And worse—supposedly there’s a nightmare king who’s cruel and ugly.
They say he's never been seen in daylight. That he rules from a palace made of shadows and broken dreams. That he can kill you with a thought.
A shiver whips down my spine, and I shake it off as I cross the road and head down a tree-lined street, one showcasing cozy Tudor-style homes. It’s a shortcut to the bakery. I pick up the pace, my red-sequined sneakers thudding against the pavement.
The scent of wood smoke fills the air as chimneys puff. It’s late spring and warm, but that doesn’t stop most witches and wizards from lighting their fires.
Ambiance. You know?
I’m just about to round the corner and am literally ten seconds from the bakery when a tingle shoots down my spine.
Witchy sense.
Some witches cast spells. Some can tell the future.
Not me. I’ve got witchy sense, and that means I can feel magic.
And what I feel makes my chest lock down.
I spin as a wall of freezing cold terror races toward me. The air distorts, rippling as this foreign magic, like nothing I’ve ever experienced, approaches.
I lift my hand, hoping my frazzled power can stop it?—
A man steps forward. He lifts his hands and the magic hits him—hard. He falls to the ground.
And groans.
For a second I just stare. Did he save me?
The gold bangles lining my arm clink as I reach for him. “Are you…are you okay?”
He groans louder. “No, I’m not.”
He slowly gets up, and when he stands, there are so many details I notice about him. First, he’s tall, like a good foot taller than me.
Next, he’s dressed in a suit that’s all black—even the vest and shirt. His hair is black, too. Inky.
But his eyes, they’re crystal blue—and piercing.
My throat closes as he rubs his head and frowns. “Why are you here?”
