The Shift by Fiona Dodwell

Excerpt from The Shift

 

 

Michael went along to each room that was being used by a resident, pushing open each door quietly and peering in. He’d been told by Roger that during each night shift, every room that was occupied had to be checked – to ensure no one had fallen to the floor or needed help of any sort. To Michael’s relief, all of those on the top floor appeared to be fast asleep.

Closing the last bedroom door behind him and turning back to the hallway, Michael looked up and his eyes fell onto a shadowy figure at the end of the hallway by the stairs. His heart galloped ferociously in his chest and he took an involuntary step back. “Who are you?” he gasped, a tremor rippling through his voice.

The dark, silhouetted figure remained still and frozen, but Michael knew instinctively that it – whatever or whoever it was – was watching him. Closely. Get Out. Go. Leave. No words were spoken, but the thought was conveyed to him as he stared at the unnatural sight of the spectre at the end of the long corridor. It was only when – finding his strength and courage at last – Michael began to move slowly towards the being that it turned and disappeared into the wall in front of him.

 


The Shift
Fiona Dodwell
Genre: Horror/Psychological
Publisher: Double Dragon Publishing
ASIN: B00CQ59LKM
Number of pages: 230 pages
Formats available: Ebook and paperback
Book Description:
Michael White is a man desperate to escape his past. After tragedy costs him his job and marriage, he finds himself abandoned in a world of depression, loneliness and unemployment – until a new start working at a luxurious care home is offered.
But Hill Wood House isn’t like any other care home. What are the shadowy figures that follow Michael? What do they want? And beyond the paranormal, who is stalking Michael? Who is entering his home at night and leaving disturbing messages across his walls?

 

Can anyone ever really escape their past? Michael is about to go on a dark journey to uncover the truth behind what is haunting him – a truth that will wreak death and destruction to those Michael cares about.
 
Author Biography
Fiona grew up in Buckinghamshire in the UK. She has had a passion for the written word since she was a child, and found herself a regular visitor of local book stores and libraries from a young age. Growing up, Fiona became a big fan of the supernatural and horror genre – in both film and literature. She devoured Susan Hill, Dean Koontz and Stephen King novels with relish, and soon realised she wanted to create dark fictional worlds of her own.
Fiona has studied a variety of subjects in recent years, from Theology and Psychology, to Film Studies and Drama. Her passion for writing, though, is what she focuses on now. In 2011, she released her debut horror novel, The Banishing, and then went on to publish Obsessed and The Shift. These novels were published with Double Dragon Publishing and Damnation Books. 
Fiona also enjoys writing articles and has written for Paranormal Underground Magazine, Pinched Literary Magazine, Supernatural Magazine and also runs her own website, which contains various selections of her articles, interviews and reviews. 
In September of 2015, Fiona signed a contract with Media Bitch Literary Agency where she is now represented. She has recently finished several short stories and is working on her new novel, The Risen, which she hopes to release in 2016.
 
Fiona currently lives with her husband, Matthew, and her unruly ginger cat, Oscar. 
Twitter: angel_devil982
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Wrath and Bones by A.J. Aalto

“Remind me why we’re doing this? On a Friday night? The day after Christmas? With no

pizza? And no beer?” Golden asked, standing on her tiptoes so her paint roller would reach the

edging along the high ceiling.

“Nope,” I said, turning my binoculars out the frosty office window to peer at the silver

Volvo shining beneath the streetlight across the street, commercial-grade parking job and all. No

real people parked like that. They’d even got the five-spoked wheels perfectly aligned. The

leather of my old tan gloves creaked as I fiddled, adjusting the focus, as if the frogs embroidered

on the cuff were getting quietly jiggy; they provided a touch-psychic like me a valuable barrier

between my psychometrically sensitive hands and the unfamiliar items in Mark Batten’s new

house, any one of which could send me reeling with unwanted visions. Thin and supple though

they were, they didn’t do anything to diminish my innate klutz tendencies, and I over-corrected

back and forth a bunch of times before I could see my target clearly.

“We’re here because of you,” she said. “You can’t say no to Batten.”

“I can so,” I murmured, tempted to believe my own words. I tried to imagine Batten

asking me to do something to which I’d say no, but since he’s a sexy jerk, I nearly sprained my

brain before giving up. “I didn’t have to say no; he didn’t ask.”

“You offered? You?” She paused in the process of dipping her roller in the tray, blowing

her bangs out of her face with an upward puff of breath, then swiping at them with the back of

her unoccupied hand. “But that’s a nice thing to do. You don’t do nice. You do sneaky, or kooky,

or clumsy, or awkwardly slutty, or exploding, or – ”

“I’ll throw another zombie spider at your melon if you don’t shut your wang-hole. I do the

occasional nice thing when I think I’m going to get something out of it,” I reminded her primly.

She aimed the roller at me, and the plastic drop cloth rustled under her feet. “He’s not

even here helping.”

“He’s out of town on a case.” In fact, Mark “Kill-Notch” Batten was not just out of town,

but out of the country, somewhere in Bolivia; his new independent work as an international

vampire hunter, unhindered by his old FBI rules, took him to far-flung places tracking monsters

that had chosen not to play by the rules. I didn’t like to think about him adding to the collection

of tattoos on his right pectoral with fresh black hashmarks, one for each revenant kill, but I did

like to think of him chasing down other types of baddies, and I assumed, with unrepentant sexual

immaturity, that he did so buck-ass naked, his bronze tan slick with sweat and his big muscles

glistening in the sun. Meowsa.

“You’re thinking about him naked again,” Golden said with a sigh.

It was bad enough that my brother Wes was legitimately telepathic; having mundane-as-

fuck Heather Golden peg me like that was intolerable, even if I was totally obviously ogling

Batten’s ass in my mind. I had to change the subject, fast. “Nu-unh,” I lied, as tonight’s prey

came into sight. “I’m checking out this dweeb.” White kid. Early twenties. Shirt. Tie. Clean

shave. Bright smile at the Mustang pulling in his driveway.

My name’s Marnie Baranuik, and being nosy comes with the territory. I’ve worked as a

forensic psychic for both Gold-Drake & Cross and the FBI’s Preternatural Crimes Unit. But now,

I was flying solo, opening my own psychic detective agency. How I was going to manage as a

business owner was anyone’s guess. Since I could pick my own cases, I expected a lot less ghoul

scum and fewer opportunities for being chased around in my underpants by zombie

Labradoodles. Blowing away human zombies with Diet Dr. Pepper, propane canisters, and kitty

litter was still totally on the table, though. I was, I reminded myself, a badass. Now, I just

happened to be a badass with tax paperwork. Oh, Goddess, I was turning into an adult. Abort,

“Besides, it’s our office,” I continued. “I’ll be using it, too. I just volunteered us to paint

while he’s gone, that’s all.”

“That’s awfully domestic. You hit your head on the refrigerator door the other night?”

“Whoa, slow your roll, troll,” I said. “I’m not helping him pick out fucking curtains.”

“You’re not painting, either,” she said. “I am.”

Point: Golden. “I will, I will,” I promised, “but Volvo Boy’s bugging me.”

She put her roller down and stepped over the mess, weaving through sheet-covered

furniture to cross the room. The office was in the front of Batten’s house, a cute two-bedroom-

one-bath with a fenced back yard, compact and cozy, perfect for one guy. I hadn’t thought any

further than sharing an office, because the idea of pursuing anything domestic with Kill-Notch

made me queasy. Didn’t I already have a serious domestic arrangement with Harry? Can you

have more than one of those? Come to think of it, I doubted I’d ever seen Batten cook; he’d

always come over to my place, where Harry did the cooking, and filched the beer I bought

specifically because I knew he liked it.

Batten and I had been on exactly one date. It had started with dinner and a discussion of

what movie we might see, and ended in a giant fight about robots followed by vigorous, can’t-

make-it-as-far-as-the-bedroom sex on his kitchen floor, sex that had left us both speechless and

smelling like lust and linoleum polish. And if I’d hit my head on the refrigerator in the middle of

it, I wasn’t about to tell Golden.

Two days of stunned silence followed, during which Harry wrestled with the shift in

attention, focus, and power by being an absolute prince. My Cold Company’s unperturbed

reaction was more disquieting than if he’d blown a fuse, but I was dreading any sort of candid

confrontation about it. If I was being honest, I was more afraid he’d say it was fine; I’d learned

from Harry’s combat butler, Mr. Merritt, that my Grandma Vi had had many suitors while she

was living as Harry’s previous DaySitter. Was Harry a Bond-boffing voyeur? I wondered. Bad

enough that Asmodeus gets his jollies when I get lucky, but my Harry, too? I pondered the

uneasy mixture of trepidation and sexiness into which that might coagulate.

My intermittently torrid and annoying chemistry with Batten wasn’t news to Golden. She

was my only girlfriend in the whole country, the only person who could drag my ass to Claire’s

Early Bird for coffee, girl talk, and various forms of sugar and grease. She’d settled nicely into

her role as my dirty-secrets confidante, sensing my preference for shallow jabs over deep

connections, stowing neither her sharp wit nor her blunt attitude. Now, she leaned over my

shoulder and squinted through the window at the blond boy standing in the snow across the

street. She always smelled like lily of the valley, an old lady’s perfume turned warm and classic

by her skin chemistry; it was a scent I was still getting used to. In the field of new relationships,

Batten wasn’t the only person dropping their guard, showing me the chinks in their armor, and

inching closer to my battlements. My people skills weren’t good enough for me to drop all my

defenses yet, but I was trying.

“Just some punk dealing,” was Golden’s assessment, watching the exchange between the

young man and his visitors with cool detachment; though my secondary Talent woke to offer me

empathic glimpses of her emotional state, it didn’t take a psychic to gather she was unimpressed.

I felt a smirk curl onto my lips. “The most notorious vampire hunter in the nation,

currently contracted by the Bolivian government to hunt a Hagenbeck’s werewolf in the Andes,

Mr. Ex-FBI Badass, is living across the street from a drug dealer?”

“He’ll stop dealing when his mom runs out of pills.”

“This is America,” I chided, aghast. “Moms don’t run out of pills.”

Golden preformed a very feminine move, an effortless sweep that brushed escaped locks

of strawberry blonde hair back over her shoulder where the rest of her ponytail laid; I couldn’t

have matched the move without teetering over. Then she flipped me off. It was odd seeing her in

garage-grey coveralls and black Converse sneakers with little skulls on them. Agent Heather

Golden usually wore navy suits and crisp white shirts buttoned to the neck when working at the

Boulder branch of the PCU, where I had worked, too, until recently. When we went out for

coffee together, she still looked pretty professional, skipping the suit jacket but keeping

everything else dry-clean-only. I knew from past adventures that her toenails were likely painted

black. They might even have red stick-ons in the shape of little drops of blood. Golden had a fun

streak that predated her work with the PCU. I was determined to drag it into the light so it could

breathe a little.

She caught me staring up at her and made a face, crossing her eyes and sticking out her

tongue. “Adorable, right?” she asked. “So, do you figure Batten moved to Ten Springs to be

closer to you?”

I choked on my surprise and horror, and blurted, “No!” Then I went back to a safe

subject, returning to hiding my face behind the binoculars; I swung them back to the street.

“Look at this twerp.”

Golden would not be distracted. “Why else would any sensible single man move to this

godforsaken ass-crack of a town?”

“Sensible?” I snorted. “Batten?”

I could hear the smug smile in her voice. “Why would he add long and treacherous

commutes to his life?”

“If he didn’t like treacherous, he wouldn’t be dating me,” I pointed out.

“Fair point. Why would he add a long commute?”

“If you had that Bugatti, wouldn’t you want to drive it? Besides, he said he wanted to find

peace and quiet,” I said, slowly, like I was explaining to a Cocker Spaniel how not to pee on my

“He couldn’t find peace and quiet in Boulder?” she asked doubtfully.

“Can’t get much quieter than Ten Springs, population five hundred and forty,” I pointed

“Five hundred forty-one,” she amended. The smugness in her voice had thickened, and I

Felt her wary approval; she hadn’t always understood Batten chasing my skirt, but her opinion

on the matter had changed, and she was currently rolling with it, happy to have something to

tease me about.

Point: Golden. “Look at this dickazoid. Whoever heard of a drug dealer wearing a tie?” I

asked, not exactly feigning my outrage, but trying to ham it up and change the subject.

“You’re Canadian. Deal with it Canuck-style.”

“That’s what I’ll do,” I agreed. “I’ll write him a sternly-worded letter. Dear Drug Dealer:

You’re doing it wrong, eh? Sorry. Sincerely, Anonymous. P.S. Here’s some maple syrup.”

“Things are changing, Marnie-Jean,” she said. Nobody had called me Marnie-Jean except

my mother until Golden found out what the J stood for. She rolled paint onto the walls, wide

chocolate stripes of paint over the original, boring beige.

“The sissification of punkdom?”

“We’re all heartbroken about it,” she said solemnly. “Especially Henry Rollins.”

“I like my crooks like I like my coffee: strong, smelly, and liable to choke me.” I

considered the boy who waved politely at his customers as they drove away; he held up his hand

and just curled his fingertips down. Once, twice. A cute little finger-wave.

“Stop obsessing,” Golden said, “and help me paint your boyfriend’s walls.”

“He’s not my… for fuck’s sake, this crook drives a fucking Volvo.” I clutched the

binoculars tighter. “No, don’t you do it. Don’t… Ohhhhhh, bitch.”

“What’s he doing? Helping an old lady cross the street?”

“He saw me. He gave me one of his cute waves.”

“You’re going to get shot in the face,” Golden predicted, doing precisely nothing to stop

“He went inside and opened the curtains in his living room.”

“Maybe he thinks you wanna jump his bones. Gonna put on a strip show for ya. You’re

the one ogling him through binoculars like the world’s most boring stalker.”

“He took his shirt off. Aaaaaand now he’s doing yoga in his front window. Like a dick.” I

shook my head, but could not take my eyes off the wiry little jerk doing inversion poses in what I

assumed were Gap for Kids chinos.

“Doesn’t Harry do yoga? Don’t you do yoga?”

We both did, but admitting that wouldn’t support my irritation in this case. Golden passed

behind me to look out the window and steal my Dr. Pepper. I would have slugged her if it had

been a cup of espresso, but my new machine hadn’t come in, so I was stuck with soft drinks, and

she was welcome to them.

I dipped my own roller and started on an untouched wall. In the mixed light from the

ceiling fan and the camping lantern we brought to brighten up the corners, the velvety brown

paint looked like a delicious blend of rich coffee and dark chocolate. I hadn’t covered more than

a quarter of it before I felt Harry approaching. Well before Heather or I could have heard the

purring rumble of the Kawasaki come down the street, the Bond sending a pleasant thrum of

anticipation through my belly, a vibration more metaphysical than biological, designed to

awaken a DaySitter’s senses in preparation for their companion’s presence. I knew he felt me,

too; like two machines checking one another’s distance and readiness, Harry and I pinged each

other, striking metaphorical bells and whistles, and in response, dark urges rolled to life in my

veins. It felt like hope, like the night was rife with endless possibilities, like I had sprouted wings

and could take a swan dive off the roof without fear. His hopes, his endless possibilities, his

reckless excitement, true; I got a mere sampling of his high. The creature who owned me cruised

down my boyfriend’s street, an English revenant approaching a vampire hunter’s abode with a

monster’s smile hidden beneath a vicuna scarf.

“This guy must travel with Cirque du Soleil,” Golden continued. “I can’t even imag—”

She dropped to a crouch, still clutching the binoculars, and the Blue Sense roared open to blast

me with an interesting one-two punch: alarm, followed by vigilance.

“Did he catch you ogling him?” I asked, but my humor failed, and I dropped the roller

and got down on hands and knees to crawl to her position. “What’s wrong?”

“Harry’s here,” she whispered.

I relaxed with a smirk. “Duh. It’s after dusk, and he knows where I am,” I reassured her.

It’s not like I could hide from him if I tried. “It’s absolutely fine.”

That was a minor exaggeration; my relationship with Mark Batten had always been a

nettle in my Cold Company’s backside, but one he was tolerating better these days. I often felt a

wary concern through our Bond from my companion when the subject of Batten came up, but it

was tempered with curiosity, and an eagerness that I didn’t quite understand. Harry continued to

dote on me while holding ground in a wait-and-see place. What he was waiting for was anyone’s

For my part, I waited until Golden returned to her painting before swiping my roller

again. “So why is he here tonight?” she asked.

“He’ll say he’s coming to help,” I guessed, “but what he’ll actually do is snoop around

and make disparaging remarks about the state of Batten’s wardrobe.”

“Care to make a wager?” Golden suggested. “I’m betting because I’m here, he’ll take

over the painting. You know, rescue the damsels in distress from the dragon that is this job.”

I smiled; I could see why she’d think that. Saying Harry was a little old-fashioned was

like saying the Pope was kinda religious. That being the case, I couldn’t imagine my Cold

Company doing manual labor that risked getting paint on his Anderson & Sheppard trousers, not

for Golden, not for me, and certainly not for Batten.

“You’re on. Next check at Claire’s?” We shook on it, and I tried to remember what the

most decadent thing on the menu was. I think it was a chocolate croissant with maple filling.

Maybe I’d get two, just to rub it in.

When Harry did come wading through the maze of haphazardly-stacked cardboard boxes,

wearing the high collar of his bespoke navy pea coat popped against the inclement weather, the

temperature of the room began to sink; revenants carry a chill with them like an immutable

cloak, and some mortals get an involuntary shiver crossing paths with the undead. His touch of

the grave felt familiar and, oddly, my half of the office began to feel temporary, like my

arrangement sharing office space at Batten’s was a short-term deal. Then again, to my Cold

Company, Lord Guy Harrick Dreppenstedt, just weeks into his four hundred and fortieth year,

most anything would seem short-term. Harry was waggling my cell phone at me urgently; I’d left

it in my purse at the front door and hadn’t heard it ring.

“The Orc Quarter is on fire, love,” he informed me without the preamble of a greeting.

His posh British accent was crisply summoning, and laced with immortal power that likely set

Golden’s goose bumps flaring. I couldn’t have ignored his voice if I tried. Few humans could,

but certainly not his DaySitter. “The fire chief would like you to pop over and take a peek.”

Normally I’d have said something cheeky, but the words “Orc Quarter” stomped my wit.

I felt my brow knit. “I’m sorry, the what?”

“The Orc Quarter in Schenectady.”

“Schenectady,” I said, seeking clarification, “New York?”

“Just the place, yes.”

“Has an Orc Quarter?”

“Well, I assume they must have, ducky, if the Schenectady Fire Department is ringing

you up to attend to it,” he chided, then tried to hand me the phone. When I scowled at it, he

clucked his tongue.

“See, this is exactly why I stopped working for the feds and went freelance, so I can tell

people who call me on Boxing Day with flaming orc problems to hop up their own ass,” I said.

“Besides, there are two preternatural biology labs in Manhattan and a branch office for Gold-

Drake & Cross. Why do they want me?”

“One wonders,” he agreed. “Shall I inquire?” I rolled my eyes; Harry mistook this as a

request, and spoke into the phone. “Might one inquire as to why you are requesting the presence

of Ms. Baranuik of all people, Chief Fitchett?”

I sighed, took my Dr. Pepper back from Golden, and downed it, wishing there was more.

I had a feeling I was going to need it.

Harry relayed, “Mister Fitchett says the Schenectady police have one resident in custody

that is refusing to talk to anyone but the Litenvecht Späckkenhuggar.”

I waited for the rest of it. When there wasn’t any more, I prompted, “And?”

“Apparently, my pet, that would be you.”

“I’m the Licken-Vicken Spackle-Smuggler?” I pointed at my chest with a gloved finger.

“Quite so.”

“What the hell is a Lite-Bright Spunk-Shucker?”

“Since the Orc language is a largely borrowed tongue, and they originate in the area now

known as Sweden, I’m going to translate the phrase roughly as either ‘small killer whale’ or

‘Little Orc-Killer.’”

My jaw dropped. “But I’m not the little orc killer. Or a big orc killer. I’ve never met an

orc, much less killed one. Unless they mean I’m little, which, I guess is true. But still, that’s some

bullshit.”

“This I know,” Harry replied patiently. He continued to waggle the phone at my face.

“I’ve never even seen an orc, except for blurry videos and a preserved fetus in an UnBio

“This does not surprise me in the least. Nevertheless, they would like you on-site as soon

as possible, and when you’re done with that, the Schenectady police have an orc in custody with

whom you are to have what I hope should be an illuminating conversation.” When I made no

move to take the phone from his outstretched hand, he noted, “My heavens, but your

entrepreneurial spirit certainly does leave something to be desired.”

I had started my own business as a private psychic detective, hanging my digital shingle

online just the day before – a Yuletide present to myself, in a way – and until Harry had shoved

the phone in my face, I wasn’t aware my number was even listed on the site yet. I was tempted to

answer with, “How’d you finger my digits?” but that might not be good customer service.

“Harry, you are the worst secretary ever.”

He nodded his head in assent, but I could feel the mirth swirling through our Bond, so I

pursed my lips and flipped him and Golden, who was trying to muffle some unprofessional

laughter behind one fist, off.

I listened for sounds of drooling or panting or chewing on the other end, and when I

heard no such monster noises, I sighed and cleared my throat. “Bare Hand Services, how may I

help you this evening?”

 


Wrath and Bones
The Marnie Baranuik Files 
Book 4
A.J. Aalto
Genre: Paranormal/Fantasy
Publisher: Booktrope Editions
Date of Publication: December 28, 2015
ASIN: B018MNEBKQ
Number of pages:  486
Cover Artist:  Greg Simanson
Book Description:
Marnie Baranuik is confident that her new psychic detective agency will be a great success, and she has eight million business cards to prove it. But before the paint even dries on her open for business sign, she’s summoned to face the Demon King Asmodeus in His own playground, the revenant court, home of the undead nobility, to participate in a conclave of the most powerful immortals on Earth.
Orc prophets have forewarned her that danger is looming in the far north. In her most ambitious adventure yet, Marnie must harness her powers, gather trusted friends to wade into battle, and complete an international treasure hunt that would make Indiana Jones break into a cold sweat, before raising a new revenant house to rule from the Unhallowed Throne… and do it all without getting her heart or legs broken. Storms are brewing, threats are piling up, and the stakes are higher than ever, but Marnie is determined to dance with danger to the very end. There’s only one thing left to do: deal with it, Baranuik-Style.
Does anyone know if yetis like take-out? And when you’re on a date with a mummy, who picks up the check?

 

Amazon      Amazon CA      Amazon UK
 
 
About the Author:
AJ Aalto is an unrepentant liar and a writer of blathering nonsense offset by factual gore. When not working on her horror novels, you can find her singing old Monty Python songs in the shower, eavesdropping on perfect strangers, stalking her eye doctor, or failing at one of her many fruitless hobbies. Generally a fan of anyone with a passion for the ridiculous, she has a particular weak spot for smug, pseudointellectual a**holes and narcissistic jerks; readers will find her work littered with dark, imperfect creatures and flawed monsters.
AJ cannot say no to a Snickers bar, and has been known to swallow her gum.
   

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Strange Girl by Christopher Pike

Strange Girl Banner 851 x 315
CHAPTER ONE

I STILL GET asked about Aja, where she came from, what it was like to be her friend, to

actually date her, whether the stories about her were true, and who—or what—I really thought

she was.

The last question makes me smile, probably because I understand it’s hard to talk about

Aja without sounding like a nut. That’s what I try telling people who want to know about her.

She was a mystery, a genuine enigma, in a world that has more trouble each day believing in

such things. And now that she’s gone, I think she’ll forever remain a mystery.

At least to those who loved her.

And to those who feared her.

My name’s Fred Allen, and I was a seventeen-year-old senior in high school when I met

Aja. I was heading home on a hot Friday afternoon after a boring two weeks of classes when I

spotted her sitting in the park across the street from campus. I’d like to say I saw something

special about her from the start but I’d be lying, although later I wondered if she might have been

kind of strange.

There was a perfectly fine bench five feet off to her left but instead of sitting on it like a

normal person she was kneeling in the grass and plucking at a few scrawny daisies, while

occasionally looking up at Elder High’s sweaty student body as they poured into the side streets

or else cut across the park toward their homes.

The sweat was because of the humidity. From June until October, it hovered around 90

percent. But the stickiness was usually vanquished by a brief autumn that blew by in a month or

less, and was replaced by bitter winter winds that were so cold they’d bite your ass off—even if

you had the bad taste to wear long underwear to school, which only the principal and the teachers

did.

I suppose it could have been worse. Elder could have been located in North Dakota

instead of South Dakota. Our northern neighbors were something of a mystery to most of us. I

mean, it’s not like anyone went to vacation up there. All we really knew about them was that

they were always lobbying to change their name to just plain “Dakota.” For some reason they

thought that would make their state sound more inviting. Go figure.

Anyway, the thing that struck me about Aja at the start, besides her love of grass and

daisies, was that she stared at many of the students who walked by. She didn’t smile at them,

didn’t say hi or bat her long lashes or anything seductive like that. She just looked straight at

them, which probably made most of them feel uncomfortable. I noticed the majority looked away

as they strode by.

I mentioned her long lashes, and yeah, I did happen to notice she was pretty. Not

beautiful in the usual social-media way, but an easy eight or nine on Fred Allen’s relatively

generous scale of one to ten. Even at a distance of a hundred yards I could see her hair was dark

brown, shiny, and that her skin was the same color as my favorite ice cream—Häagen-Dazs

Coffee.

Yet I didn’t equate her with ice cream because I wanted to take a bite out of her or

anything gross like that. It’s not like I felt some mad rush of seventeen-year-old hormones and

experienced first love for the twentieth time. I just sort of, you know, noticed that she looked

nice, very nice, and that her long lashes framed a pair of large, dark eyes that were, sadly, not

looking anywhere in my direction.

That was it; that was my first impression of Aja. Oh, there was one other thing. I did

happen to notice that she had on a simple white dress that didn’t quite reach to her knees. The

thing that struck me about the dress was—not that it was filthy—it looked like it could have used

a wash.

Introduction to Aja complete. I went home and didn’t give her more than a few hours of

thought all weekend. And no, honestly, my fantasies were not a hundred percent sexual. I mainly

wondered why a girl her age, if she was new to town, wasn’t going to school. It was just a

thought. Elder High, my school, was the only one in town for someone our age.

Monday morning I heard about Aja from my best friend, Janet Shell, five minutes before

our first period, calculus, started. I was taking calculus because it was an AP class and my

parents were obsessed that I ace as many hard classes as possible so I’d go to college and not

grow up to be as miserable as they were.

That was sort of a joke in our household but, unfortunately, it was mostly true. My dad

sold new and used cars at a Toyota dealership in a neighboring town of ours, Balen, which

actually had a multiplex where the speaker system didn’t sound like a jukebox and there was a

generous selection of eight movies. Unlike Elder’s sole theater, where you had to wear 3-D

glasses just to keep from squinting at the sagging screen.

My mom also worked in Balen as an executive secretary for a boss that couldn’t have

spelled her job title. My parents were both smart, and they loved each other, I think, but when I

asked why they hadn’t moved away from Elder—like, say, before I was born—they just told me

to pass the salt. What I mean is, the way they fell silent whenever I asked about their past made

me feel like I was somehow rubbing salt in old wounds. I joke about it now—a bad habit, I still

joke about most things—but it did worry me that they weren’t happy.

Janet Shell, on the other hand, was super happy, or else she knew how to act the part,

which according to her was all that mattered. She was taking calculus because she was smart and

loved math. But she was cool, too. For example, although a straight-A student, she intended to

get a C in calculus simply because she didn’t want to get elected our class valedictorian.

Besides hating the spotlight, Janet knew if she was required to give a speech to us

graduating seniors, there was no way she’d be able to resist telling us that virtually our whole

class would still be living in Elder when our ten- and twenty-year high school reunions rolled

around—her way of saying that the majority of us were destined to be losers.

“Have you seen the new girl yet?” Janet asked before Mr. Simon showed up his usual

five minutes late. We’d had him as our math teacher three years running. The guy came into

class reeking of pot almost every morning until Halloween rolled around, when he’d switch over

to some kind of mysterious blue pill—Janet swore it was the stimulant Adderall—and lecture us

on three chapters a week instead of his normal three pages.

Naturally, Janet’s question about the “new girl” piqued my interest. I’d been looking for

her since I’d arrived at school. Still, I acted cool.

“Nope,” I said, adding a shrug.

“Bullshit. You must have seen her. You just blushed.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Janet looked me over. “Her name’s Aja—A-J-A. It’s pronounced like Asia but with more

of a J sound. She’s a total fox, super exotic-looking. She just moved here from a remote village

in Brazil. Everyone’s talking about her but I hear she’s not talking much. The word is—she’s not

stuck-up, just quiet.” Janet paused. “What do you think? Want to ask her out?”

“How about I meet her first, then decide?” I said.

“Okay. But I think with this one you’re going to have to act fast. She’s no Nicole. You

can’t wait two years to get up your nerve. She’ll go quick.”

I felt a stab of pain that Janet had so carelessly brought up Nicole but hid it. “What makes

you so sure? She might be picky.”

Janet wavered. “True. But a ton of guys are going to hit on her. She’s a looker and she’s

got money and she knows how to dress.”

Recalling the plain, dusty dress Aja had been wearing in the park, that surprised me.

“Really?”

Janet caught the note in my voice. “You have seen her, you bastard. Why do you lie to

me when you’re such a shitty liar? Tell me the truth, have you talked to her?”

I sighed. “I saw a new girl last Friday while walking home from school. She was sitting

in the park, plucking flowers. I’m not sure she’s the same person you’re talking about.”

“Right. Like this town has a surplus of beautiful girls.”

“Hold on a sec. You’re the one who says us guys are always judging a book by its cover.

Well, what are you doing? So she’s pretty. So she’s got expensive clothes. She could still be a

jerk.”

“She’s not, she’s cool.” Janet leaned closer, lowered her voice. “I met her, I spoke to

her.”

“When?”

“Ten minutes ago. We only exchanged a few words but I sensed something unique about

her.” Janet paused. “You know the last time I said that, don’t you?”

“Ages ago. When you met me.”

“That’s right. That’s why you need to ask her out.”

“I’ll think about it.”

Mr. Simon stumbled in right then, smelling like Colombian Gold, and told us to open our

textbooks to chapter three. It was Janet who had to remind him that we hadn’t covered chapter

two yet.

I spent most of the class digesting what Janet had said. I’d learned long ago to take her

insights seriously. Janet was not merely smart; she had an uncanny intuition when it came to

people. She said 99.99 percent of the population were sheep. If she liked Aja, it meant she was

more than a pretty face.

I saw Aja in third period, before lunch, in American History.

We were in the same class. Just my luck.

Maybe, I thought, maybe not. My usual seat was in the corner, all the way in the back.

Aja came in two minutes after me and sat down in the first row, but the last seat, by the

windows. Basically, even though we occupied the same room, she was pretty far away. I

couldn’t help but think she’d somehow spotted me, remembered me staring at her the previous

Friday afternoon, and had gone out of her way to keep her distance.

Of course, given the fact that she hadn’t even glanced in my direction when she’d entered

the classroom, I was probably just being paranoid.

She looked good, better than good. There were plenty of heads between me and her and

all I could see was Aja’s. Her dark hair appeared a little shorter than last Friday, like she’d gotten

a trim over the weekend. But the shine was still there. And her long eyelashes, seen in profile,

were amazing.

Our teacher, Mrs. Nancy Billard, came into the room. A stuffy, old bird if you got on her

wrong side, but one of the most caring people you could meet if she happened to like you. She

taught AP English on top of history and I’d had her for English the previous year and had won

her over with a slew of wild-and-crazy short stories I’d written. She liked students who thought

outside the box.

However, those who landed on her wrong side were either flunked or ignored or both. In

her AP classes she enforced a strict work ethic. She said anyone who wanted to go to college had

to earn it.

“I see we have a new student today,” she said, glancing in Aja’s direction. “I was told

you’d be joining us. What’s your name?”

“Aja,” she replied in a soft voice.

“Is that your first or last name?”

“It’s what people call me.”

Billard cleared her throat, a bad sign. “Then that’s what I’ll call you. But please humor

the rest of the class and tell us your full name.”

“Aja Smith.”

“Took a moment to remember your family name?”

Aja stared at her and said nothing.

Billard continued. “Well, we’re all very happy you could join us two weeks late. Another

week and you’d have wandered in during the Civil War. Ted, fetch a textbook for Aja from the

closet and let’s all open to page forty-nine, chapter three. Time we got to the thirteen colonies

and their feud with King George the Third.” Billard paused and glanced at Aja again. “Do you

have a problem, girl?”

“No.”

“You’re looking at me kind of funny. I thought maybe you did.” Aja didn’t reply, just

continued to stare at her, which didn’t sit well with Billard. “You do know something about

American history, don’t you?”

“No,” Aja replied.

Billard blinked, unsure whether Aja was sassing her or not. “Then it’s your responsibility

to catch up. This is an AP class—there are no shortcuts here. Read the first forty-eight pages of

your textbook tonight and I’ll quiz you on them tomorrow.”

Aja nodded without speaking as she accepted the textbook from Ted Weldon, a football

jock with a double-digit IQ and a gross habit of farting whenever he yawned. Some might have

wondered what he was doing in an AP class. But those who bothered to contemplate the matter

probably didn’t know that Ted’s father was best buddies with Elder High’s Principal Levitt and

that—despite what Billard had just said—there were always shortcuts available to those students

whose parents knew the right people.

Handing Aja her textbook, Ted didn’t simply look at her; he gloated over her face and

body before returning to his chair, eliciting a mild chuckle from the rest of the class.

“Thanks,” Aja said. Her voice was not merely soft, it was smooth, cool, confident. She

obviously didn’t have to speak up to make a point. Plus her answers to Billard’s questions had

been at best evasive, which I naturally had to admire.

Yet I could tell already that Billard didn’t like her and that Aja was probably going to

have a hard time in her class. That bothered me, a little, even though she was a total stranger.

Total stranger. Damn. Got to change that fast.

I remembered Janet’s warning that Aja would not last when it came to Elder High’s

horny guys, and it got my adrenaline pumping. When class was over I caught up with her outside

in the hallway and walked by her side before she stopped at her locker. Oh no, I thought. I wasn’t

ready for this. Suddenly a life-changing choice was upon me. I could either keep walking and

live the rest of my days in regret or I could stop and pretend to have a locker next to her.

I did the latter, spinning the dial on the lock like it was preset to my favorite radio station.

Only the volume never came on and the locker never opened because I had no idea what the

combination was. Fortunately, Aja seemed to be having trouble with her own locker and I was

able to swoop in and rescue her.

“It’s not opening?” I asked, way too casually and with a stupid grin on my face.

Aja pulled a slip of paper from her pants pocket and stuck it out for me to take. “I was

told this is the combination,” she said.

Aja didn’t have on ordinary pants; she wore designer jeans that had clearly been

purchased far from Elder’s finest clothing stores. Up top she had on an ultrathin maroon sweater;

and if it was responsible for her subtle curves, then it was worth its weight in gold. Her silky

blouse had red in it as well—a rusty color that made me think of desert sand dunes and romantic

sunset kisses and . . .

I was losing it, I suddenly realized. Aja’s big brown eyes were still waiting for me to take

her slip of paper. I shook my head and took a breath. Breathing was good, I reminded myself.

“This looks like it might work,” I said. Duh! The piece of paper said: “LOCKER

NUMBER” on top. A sequence of three numbers followed: 12–18–24. All the locks in

school—all the combinations I’d ever seen, for that matter—worked on the right-left-right

sequence. When I dialed in Aja’s three digits, the locker immediately opened. Amazing. I

noticed her eyes following me closely and added, “You see how it works?”

“Yes,” she replied, and it was only then I realized she’d never had a locker before. She

deposited her book inside and closed it. Out of habit, I reached up and spun the dial.

“You can’t be too careful,” I said.

“Pardon?”

“Your lock. You need to spin it to clear the combination.” She didn’t respond, just stared

at me. Again, I felt the need to add something. “So no one will break into your locker.”

“Kids do that here?” she asked.

“Some kids do, yeah.” Again, she seemed to wait for me to continue so I added,

“Actually, the students here don’t like being called kids.”

“What should I call them?”

“Girls or guys or people. Kids—it sounds kind of young, you know.”

“I didn’t know that but thanks for telling me.”

“No problem. By the way, my name’s Fred Allen. I’m in your history class. I sit in the

back.”

“I saw you.”

“You did?” God, the way I asked the question, the sheer amount of wonder in my tone, it

was like she’d just told me she’d found a heart donor that could save my life. I reminded myself

again to keep breathing and try to act normal. Fortunately, Aja didn’t appear to notice my

clumsiness.

“Yes,” she said simply, adding, “I’m Aja.”

“I know. I mean, I heard what you told Mrs. Billard.” Aja nodded and again acted as if

she wanted me to keep talking. I added, “She can be a great teacher if she thinks you’re trying.

But slack off and she’ll classify you as a loser. Then you’ll be in trouble. She was serious when

she told you that she’s going to quiz you on the first two chapters of the textbook. If I was you

I’d study tonight. I’d read chapter three as well. I wouldn’t be surprised if she quizzed you on the

whole lot.”

“I will.” She looked past me as the student body converged toward Elder High’s

courtyard. We had an indoor cafeteria but no one ventured inside before the first snow came. The

school lunch staff didn’t mind. They kept a half-dozen windows open where you could order a

decent hamburger, hot dog, or sandwich if you had the money. Since I was on a strict budget, I

usually brought a brown bag from home and just picked up a Coke from one of the vending

machines. In fact, my lunch was waiting for me back at my real locker, although I felt in no

hurry to get to it.

“The kids . . . the girls and guys have lunch now?” Aja asked.

“Yeah. It’s always after third period. Are you hungry?”

“This bod . . .” She suddenly stopped. “Yes.”

“Bring anything from home?” I knew she hadn’t because I’d seen the interior of her

locker and it had been empty. She shook her head and for the hundredth time waited for me to go

on. I added, “Then you should probably pick up something at the windows.”

“Are you going to these . . . windows?”

“Uh-huh. I can show you where they are if you want. If you don’t have other plans, I

mean.”

She flashed a smile. “I don’t have any plans, Fred.”

I liked how she said my name and loved her smile; nevertheless, I groaned inside

thinking how hard Janet would be laughing if she could see me now. Honestly, my nervousness

made no sense. Sure, Aja was pretty, and, sure, I liked her, or at least I thought I did. But she was

the new girl in town, a stranger from another country, and English was obviously a second

language for her. She should have been the one stumbling all over the place.

I assumed the language barrier was the reason she had almost referred to herself as “This

body.” I was pretty sure that’s what she’d been about to say.

I escorted her to the windows and if I’d been forced to critique my stride I’d have to say I

looked like an extra on The Walking Dead. I was definitely taking time finding my cool gear.

But eventually I began to calm down and by the time we’d waited in line and it was our turn to

order I was feeling pretty good about myself. Why not? I’d just met Aja and already I was taking

her to lunch. Not bad for a few minutes’ work. I’d decided to pay for whatever she ordered to

show what a gentleman I was.

“Hey, Fred, how’s the demo going?” Carlos asked from the other side of the glass. He

was from Mexico and worked three jobs to keep his family of six out of the rain. He was also a

genius when it came to playing the acoustic guitar and was helping me to lay down tracks on a

new three-song demo I was struggling to put together.

Yeah, I know, so I wanted to be a rock star.

But tell the truth. Who didn’t?

“It’s getting there,” I said honestly, turning to Aja, who was staring at Carlos and not

bothering to look at the overhead menu. To his credit, Carlos acted like I showed up every

afternoon with a pretty girl on my arm. “Know what you want?” I asked Aja.

She looked at me. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Want a burger? A sandwich? A salad?”

“I’ll have what you’re having,” she said.

“I was going to have a turkey sandwich with fries. And a Coke. That sound good?”

Aja nodded. “That’s good.”

Carlos whipped up our sandwiches in three minutes flat and when it was time to pay Aja

pulled out a wad of cash fat enough to buy a new car with. I hastily told her I had it covered and

she put the money back in her pocket.

Like the rest of town, Elder High was kind of old and kind of poor, and no part of our

campus reflected those qualities more than our courtyard. It had no tables, no umbrellas to block

the sun, no drinking fountains. Only peeling wooden benches that, if you were lucky, managed to

catch the shade of a nearby tree.

Of course we had trees, the whole state did, except for our infamous Badlands, which I,

personally, happened to love. I steered Aja toward a shady bench located somewhere between

where the jocks and the bad boys gathered. Like most schools, Elder High had a variety of

clearly defined social groups, none of which had ever shown the slightest interest in attracting

me as a member.

For a few minutes I had Aja all to myself but I wasted them because all I did was eat and

watch her eat. It was during this time I noticed that she seemed to be following my lead. When I

unwrapped my turkey sandwich, she unwrapped hers. When I reached for a fry or a sip of Coke,

she did the same. She didn’t take nearly as big bites as I did, though. If anything she chewed her

food more thoroughly than anyone I’d ever met.

But she only mimicked me for a few minutes before quitting.

“Where are you from?” I finally asked.

Aja pointed north. “I live with my aunt Clara. In a white house by a large pond.”

I had meant where she was from in Brazil but her answer interested me. “You don’t live

in the old Carter Mansion, do you?”

“Carter? Hmm. Yes, the realtor told Aunty that was the name of the man who built the

house. That’s where this . . . that’s where I stay.”

“That’s one big house. Is it just the two of you?”

“Bart lives with us.”

“Who’s Bart?”

“Bart is Bart. He takes care of things.”

“Is he a housekeeper? A butler?”

“Yes. He’s been with Aunty since before I met her.”

“How old were you when you met your aunt?”

“I was small.” Aja added casually, “I ran into her in the jungle.”

“The jungle?”

“The town where I was born is surrounded by jungle.”

“And you just sort of bumped into your aunt?”

“Yes.”

“Are you saying she’s not your real aunt?”

Aja sipped her drink. “She’s as real as you and me.”

I frowned. “This was in Brazil?”

“Yes.”

I wanted to continue my line of questioning but we got interrupted right then by Dale

Parish and Michael Garcia, two close friends of mine. Actually, two members of a band I’d

formed—Half Life. Dale played bass and Mike was our drummer. Dale had only been playing a

year but he was a natural and kept improving in leaps and bounds every month. Mike—he’d

been banging on anything that made noise since he’d been a kid. No joke, he was like a force of

nature onstage. We were lucky to have him. I kept expecting to lose him to a louder and more

successful group.

Yet Mike swore he’d never leave us. He had faith in my singing and songwriting

abilities.

Unfortunately, he also had a temper and was unpredictable. He missed plenty of practice

sessions, even a few paid gigs. We never knew which Mike was going to show up. If he was

loaded, on pot or beer, we knew the “Beast” was in the room and we’d better watch out. But

when he was sober he was the nicest guy. The swings could be stressful.

Worse, Mike caused Dale constant grief. Because Dale was in love with him and Mike

didn’t have a clue. On the surface it seemed impossible, since they’d grown up together. But the

truth was Mike didn’t even know Dale was gay. And Dale had begged me and our keyboardist,

Shelly Wilson, never to tell him.

Carlos had warned me—and Carlos never lied—that Mike often hung out with a Hispanic

gang in Balen that controlled most of the area’s drug traffic. If anything was going to tear our

band apart, I knew it was going to be the tension between our drummer and bass player.

“Who do we have here?” Mike asked, straddling the bench beside Aja like it—or

she—was a horse he was anxious to ride. Dale nodded to me and smiled uneasily in Aja’s

direction but remained standing.

Physically, the two couldn’t have been more unlike. Mike was dark-skinned, short and

stocky, and could bench-press more than Elder’s heartiest jocks. If a swinging chick was looking

for a bad boy who could rip holes in the sheets, Mike was it. While Dale—well, I never met a

more gentle soul in my life but there was a reason his stage name was “The Corpse.” He was

way beyond skinny and pale. Onstage, under a harsh spotlight, he almost looked transparent. But

the boy sure could play. That was all that mattered to me.

I spoke up. “Aja, these are two musician friends of mine, Mike and Dale. We’re in a band

together. Dale plays bass and Mike the drums. Guys, this is Aja. She’s from Brazil. This is her

first day at Elder High.”

Aja nodded in their direction. “I enjoy music.”

“But do you like musicians?” Mike asked, teasing. “That’s what I want to know. Besides,

what the hell are you doing with Fred? Did he tell you he’s such a wuss that he won’t go

onstage—and I’m talking practically every single gig we play—without me swearing that I’ve

got his back?”

“I’m afraid it’s true,” I admitted. In the band, during shows, once Mike got going he

created such a ferocious rhythm that he drowned out any flat notes I hit on my guitar or with my

voice.

“Fred has more talent in his little finger than the rest of us combined,” Dale added.

Mike slapped me on the back. “Yeah, Fred’s the only one in this town that’s going

places. Take my word for it. So how did you two meet?”

I assumed Aja would remain silent, given her habit, and that I’d have to answer.

However, she stared Mike right in the eye and said, “We met last Friday in the park. He was

watching me pick flowers and I smiled at him but he ignored me. But today he’s a lot more

friendly.”

Her comment caused my heart to skip.

She’d smiled at me?

Mike was suddenly curious about her accent. “¿Hablan español en el lugar de Brasil de

donde vienes?” he asked.

“No muchos. Pero algunos,” Aja said.

“¿Pero creciste hablando portugués?” Mike asked.

“Sim,” Aja said.

“What the hell are they saying?” I asked Dale. He’d taken four years of Spanish at school

but his real knowledge of the language had come from hanging around Mike’s family. Dale

leaned over and whispered in my ear.

“Mike asked if they spoke Spanish in her part of Brazil. Aja said, ‘Not many, but some.’

Then Mike asked, ‘But you grew up speaking Portuguese?’ And Aja said, ‘Yes.’ ”

“Why the sudden interest in Aja’s background?” I said. But Mike ignored me and

continued to speak to Aja, who appeared to fascinate him.

“Your accent—you remind me of my grandmother,” Mike said. “She could speak half a

dozen languages. She sounded like she was from everywhere, and nowhere, if you know what I

mean. Sort of like you.”

Aja lowered her head. “Ninguém do nada.”

“What was that?” I asked quickly.

Apparently she’d answered in Portuguese, which neither Mike nor Dale understood.

When I asked Aja what she’d said, all she did was shake her head like it didn’t matter.

Dale flashed Mike a sign that it was time to split and Mike, knowing my bad luck with

girls, bid us a quick farewell. When they were gone Aja and I returned to eating our sandwiches

and fries. A long silence settled between us but to my surprise it wasn’t uncomfortable. I

suspected Aja had spent most of her life alone and wasn’t bothered by quiet.

“I apologize for Mike,” I said. “He can be a handful when you first meet him.”

“He has a fiery spirit.”

“I suppose that’s where all the smoke comes from.”

Aja turned her big, brown eyes on me. “They look up to you. Are you that good?”

I assumed she was asking about my musical abilities and shrugged. “As far as South

Dakota is concerned, I could be the next Mozart. But if I performed at a club in Los Angeles or

New York or Seattle I’d be laughed off the stage.” I took a gulp of Coke. “Trying to make a

living as a singer/songwriter is probably the most irrational ambition a guy can have. One in a

million—no, one in ten million—ends up making money at it.”

“But it’s what you want to do,” she said.

“Unfortunately.”

“Then you’ll do it.”

I chuckled. “You haven’t even seen us play.”

The remark was far from subtle. I was hoping she’d bite and say she’d like to come to a

show. Also, it wasn’t by chance that I’d switched from talking about me to talking about the

band. If she didn’t bite, then she was rejecting Half Life, not me. So went my crazy logic. The

truth was I’d brought up being a musician to impress her. It was shameless, I know, but I figured

I had to play what cards I held.

“Is it fun for you?” she asked.

“Being onstage? Sometimes—when I forget what I’m doing and that people are watching

me. Then I love it. But most of the time I’m way too self-conscious and can’t wait until the gig is

over. Seriously.”

Aja continued to stare at me and because she didn’t blink often, it was a bit disconcerting.

“Play for me sometime,” she said.

There. I’d practically begged her to ask but now that she had I wished I’d kept my mouth

shut. I shook my head. “I’m not a solo artist. Better to see me in the band.”

She nodded but I didn’t think she believed me.

“How about you?” I asked. “What’s your favorite hobby?”

She hesitated. “I don’t have any hobbies. I just . . . enjoy things.”

“What sort of things?”

“Bart told me to watch out for questions like that. He said they’d get me into trouble.”

Her response caught me off guard. “Huh?”

“I told you about Bart.”

“I know, I heard you. But he actually told you how to behave while you were at school

today?”

Aja nodded. “He spent the weekend trying to teach me what to say and what not to say.”

“Isn’t that a little weird?”

If my question bothered her, she showed no sign. “Bart said he had to teach me so I

wouldn’t appear weird to the rest of you.” As if to reassure me, she reached out and touched my

arm. “He was trying to help.”

The instant she touched me, I felt something odd, a lapse of sorts, where I had trouble

focusing. The scene around us, the guys and girls walking back and forth across the courtyard,

they didn’t stop but they did seem to slow down. I shook my head to clear it and the sensation

eased up, somewhat. I noticed Aja had taken back her hand. I had to struggle to get out my next

remark.

“I should meet this guy. Maybe he can help me with my weirdness.”

Aja suddenly stood, leaving what was left of her food behind on the bench. She wasn’t

tall but at that moment she could have been standing on a chair and looking down at me. I

worried that my peculiar sensation had not passed, after all. Again, I had to remind myself that

she was new to the school, the stranger in a strange land, but right then I was certain I had it all

wrong, that she was more at home in Elder than I could ever hope to be.

“I’m glad we got to talk, Fred. I hope I see you again soon.”

With that she turned and walked away.


Strange Girl
Christopher Pike
Publisher: Simon Pulse
Release Date:  November 17, 2015
Genre: Paranormal Mystery
ISBN-10: 1481450581
ISBN-13: 978-1481450584
Paperback: 432 pages
From #1 New York Times bestselling author Christopher Pike comes a brand-new fascinating and seductive new novel about a girl with a mysterious ability—but one that carries an unimaginable cost.
From the moment Fred meets Aja, he knows she’s different. She’s pretty, soft-spoken, shy—yet seems to radiate an unusual peace. Fred quickly finds himself falling in love with her.
Then strange things begin to happen around Aja. A riot breaks out that Aja is able to stop by merely speaking a few words. A friend of Fred’s suffers a serious head injury and has a miraculous recovery.
Yet Aja swears she has done nothing.
Unfortunately, Fred is not the only one who notices Aja’s unique gifts. As more and more people begin to question who Aja is and what she can do, she’s soon in grave danger. Because none of them truly understands the source of Aja’s precious abilities—or their devastating cost.
Love Aja or hate her—you will never forget her.
In Strange Girl, #1 bestselling author Christopher Pike has created the rarest of novels—a love story that swings between a heart-pounding mystery and a stirring mystical journey.
Amazon    BN    BAM   
 
About the Author:
Christopher Pike is a bestselling author of young adult novels. The Thirst series, The Secret of Ka, and the Remember Me and Alosha trilogies are some of his favorite titles. He is also the author of several adult novels, including Sati and The Season of Passage.
Thirst and Alosha are slated to be released as feature films. Pike currently lives in Santa Barbara, where it is rumored he never leaves his house.
But he can be found online at www.Facebook.com/ChristopherPikeBooks
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