When Stars Come Out, page 1
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-0-9911323-5-5
Copyright © 2018
Cover Design by: Regina Wamba of MaeIDesign.com
Edited by: Jena O’Conner
All right reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author.
Dedication
To Mrs. Applegate,
You once said that your legacy would only last a generation and honestly, I just can't have that happening. I need all my readers to know that without you, this book—all the books I have written—wouldn't exist.
When we were introduced, I never imagined the empowering relationship that would follow. You became a source of support. Someone I knew would always believe in me. You changed my life in more ways than you know. From helping me revise my first short story that won first place in the Eastern Oklahoma Writing Contest, to writing that treasured letter of recommendation that would aid me when I applied for the Gates Millennium Scholarship, to reading all my books. Each of these things are gifts you have given me.
Teachers have such power over their students. I am so lucky to have had you--a source of motivation, a person who believes in me--sometimes more than I believed in myself--and a friend. Can you imagine the beauty that would exist in the world if every person had a teacher like you in their lives?
Your legacy lives on in your students. It lives on in these books because you are a part of them.
Your biggest fan,
Scarlett
If you or someone you know is contemplating suicide, please call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-TALK (8255).
Please do not struggle in silence. People care, your friends and family care. I care.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I have written about Shy and Anora for about ten years. In the last three, this book has challenged my writing ability in ways I never imagined, but in ways I appreciate beyond words. I look forward to continuing to improve my craft and write books in the WSCO world.
I want to thank my critique group, Skeleton Bluff Writer’s Colony for reading WSCO and offering the best advice while building me up and making me feel powerful—Kim Ventrella, Michael Hallows, Jen and Sean Burnside—you guys are the best!
I want to thank my AMAZING critique partner, Nicole Singer. Your feedback and excitement for everything I write is invaluable. You keep me motivated. Plus, I love reading your books!
I want to thank SCBWI: Oklahoma, whose conferences inspired me to continue improving my craft so that WSCO could be the best book.
I want to thank Regina Wamba of MaeIDesign for designing a GORGEOUS cover. Regina, you delivered something far beyond my expectations. I’m completely in love with your work. You are a QUEEN.
Thank you to my friends and family, who consistently ask for updates on my writing and offer encouragement. I love you guys.
Last, I have to thank my husband who cooks and cleans while I write and edit books. He’s also the main reason this book looks so pretty on the inside. I love you.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE – ANORA & THE DEAD GIRL
CHAPTER TWO - ANORA & THE GOLD COIN
CHAPTER THREE - ANORA & THE CONFRONTATION
CHAPTER FOUR - SHY & THE ASSIGNMENT
CHAPTER FIVE – ANORA & THE COIN BOX
CHAPTER SIX - SHY & THE HELLHOUNDS
CHAPTER SEVEN – ANORA & THE BOY WHO SEES THE DEAD
CHAPTER EIGHT - SHY & THE WEB
CHAPTER NINE – SHY & THE COUNCIL
CHAPTER TEN - ANORA & THE GAME
CHAPTER ELEVEN – SHY & THE TRACKER
CHAPTER TWELVE – ANORA & INFLUENCE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN – ANORA & THANE TREADWAY
CHAPTER FOURTEEN – SHY & THE SALT LINE
CHAPTER FIFTEEN – SHY & THE OFFER
CHAPTER SIXTEEN – ANORA & LILY MARTIN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN – SHY & THE LIFE THAT GOES ON
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN – ANORA & THE FUNERAL
CHAPTER NINETEEN – ANORA & THE WITCH
CHAPTER TWENTY – ANORA & THE TRAIN YARD
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE – SHY & THE TRACKER
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO – ANORA & THE CERCATORE
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE – ANORA & THE SHADOW KNIGHTS
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR - ANORA & CHASE LOCKWOOD
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE - SHY & THE LAKE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX – SHY & THE PAST LIFE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN – ANORA & QUEEN’S RANSOM
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT – SHY & ROTH’S RETURN
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE – ANORA & THE BEGINNING OF THE END
CHAPTER THIRTY – SHY & THE AFTERMATH
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE – ANORA & THE ORDER
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO – SHY & THE RITUAL SITE
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE – ANORA & ROUNDTABLE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR – SHY & THE REVELATION
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE – ANORA & THE STAND-OFF
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX – ANORA & THE BETRAYAL
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN – SHY & THE ABOMINATION
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT – ANORA & INFLUENCE
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE – ANORA & A NEW SET OF RULES
CHAPTER FOURTY – ANORA & THE STARS
CHAPTER ONE – ANORA & THE DEAD GIRL
I lean forward in my seat and stare at my reflection in the car mirror, assessing my work. I took my time putting makeup on this morning, choosing a brown shadow that makes my eyes look more yellow than green, and black liner. My dark hair cascades over my shoulders. By the end of the day, it will be mostly straight, too heavy to sustain the curls it took an hour to fix. I practice a smile, checking to see if any lipstick transferred to my teeth, but also testing to see if I can manage to make it look real. This is my chance at a new beginning, and as long as I’m careful, the past won’t bleed into the future.
I glance at Mom. Even now she keeps her gaze forward, hands tight on the steering wheel, navigating the rented Ford Focus around another bend in this hopeless road. Mom doesn’t want the past to follow me, but I can’t help feeling guilty. I’m the reason she has to start over, too.
You’ll make so many friends, a voice rumbles in my head. If he were still here, it’s the kind of encouragement my poppa would give. I smile at the thought and straighten in my seat, clasping the round coin at my neck—my poppa’s coin. It will be easier to let go of the past if I make friends.
Another bend and Mom turns down a white concrete drive, flanked by a set of red brick pillars. A black plate with gold letters identifies this as Nacoma Knight Academy—my new school.
Sweat beads on my forehead, as if the sun has moved inches from my face, and I know something’s not right.
Oh, no.
My stomach feels like it’s full of wasps as I focus on the building ahead of me. Balconies outside the third and fourth floors are enclosed with black bars, making each one resemble a cage. A girl hangs by her neck at the center of the building, four stories up. I follow the rope with my eyes, finding it tied to one of several stone spindles jutting from the top of the roof.
My fingers dig into the leather seat, and there’s a familiar prick in my palm as hysteria crawls up my windpipe, into the back of my throat. I swallow the scream, glancing at Mom, realizing the momentum of the car hasn’t slowed.
She can’t see the dead girl.
Of course she can’t. My mouth tastes bitter at the thought—that’s why we’re in this mess. Mom can’t see the dead, and from the one conversation we’ve had about it, she also believes anyone who claims to see the dead is a liar.
A bead of sweat trickles down my face, tickling my neck and I release my breath. I can do this, I remind myself. The dead are everywhere, and I took precautions as I was getting ready this morning. My perfume has a hint of rosemary, the evil eye dangles off a zipper on my backpack, and there’s a bag of turmeric powder in my blazer pocket. Small things, but they should keep the souls at a distance. Soul, not ghost—I don’t like that word. It implies transparency. The dead I deal with look as human as the day they died: solid, fleshy, and like the nearly decapitated girl hanging by her neck over the doors, they wear their deaths.
This is just a reminder of the rules I set for myself—and the reason I need them.
Rule number one: ignore the dead.
But as we approach, I can’t take my eyes off her. How hard must she have fallen? She’d been a student at Nacoma Knight Academy. Her uniform is similar to mine, except instead of a blazer, she wears a knitted sweater—longer, with two pockets on the front—and a skirt that falls mid-calf. While I don’t think she’s one to cause me trouble, she’s been here a while and her presence is a vortex, sucking my energy. It makes me jittery, like I’ve had too much caffeine.
Mom brings the car to a jerky halt. I stick my hands out to stop myself from colliding with the dashboard, only to realize the bell has rung. Students dressed like me and the dead girl race to buildings across campus. Several move in and out of the doors beneath her feet.
Suddenly I regret my choice of accessory—a pair of purple and blue nebula tights. Personally, my favor
I don’t move to exit the car. Once I’m outside, I have to worry about screwing up again. I’m the new girl, and people will want to look at me, talk to me. I’ll have to make sure they’re actually alive. Sure, I want friends, but I also want to become transparent, blend in so well with the crowd I’m hardly noticed. I want to be normal. If I can’t manage that, I’m not sure what is next for me: another school?
Probably not. Mom is done moving.
“Any more signs that you’re seeing things,” she threatened on the drive to Oklahoma, “And I’ll commit you.”
She’s already been researching psychiatric facilities in our new state—I found them saved as bookmarks in her phone. Bringing up seeing the dead was the biggest mistake I’d ever made, but I was warned and I didn’t listen.
Mom must have noticed how pale I looked after her threat because she had reached over, patted my leg and said softly, “They helped your poppa.”
If that were true, he wouldn’t be dead, I think, rubbing the face of my poppa’s coin.
“Anora, stop grinding your teeth!” I jerk, startled by Mom’s sudden command. It’s the first time she’s met my gaze since we got in the car this morning—the first thing she said other than put on your seatbelt.
I let go of the coin, its heavy weight settles against my chest, and I relax my jaw, unaware I’ve been clenching it. Mom sighs, which seems to soften the flicker in her eyes. She reaches to brush a few strands of hair out of my face.
“Honey, I know this all happened so fast, but this...this will be good for you...for both of us.”
She smiles so I smile back, only to make her feel better. It is damage control, something I put myself in charge of since our transplant to this windy state is my fault.
It is always my fault.
“Would you like me to walk you to the door?”
Mom isn’t smiling now and she taps the steering wheel with her fingers. I’m probably making her late for her interview.
I lift my backpack from the floor, stifling my impulse to take another deep breath. I need to say something reassuring. Something like, That’s alright, Mom. I’ll be fine. Don’t worry. I love you.
Instead, I say, “No, Mom. That’s all I need on my first day.”
“Fine.” She answers in that clipped, short-tempered tone she’s been using with me for the last two months. “I’ll pick you up after three.”
I get out of the car, close the door and she drives off.
Then it’s just me, the school, and the dead girl.
Well, crap.
A sign to the left of the sidewalk identifies this building as Emerson Hall. I turn in a circle. Now that I’m outside the car, I feel like I’ve been transported to another dimension. All traces of the outside world—the street we drove up and the black fence and gate—are lost amid acres of land and trees. Even the wind is different here—quieter, like it is trapped under a glass dome, exiling street noise.
I drag my gaze back to the dead girl hanging at the center of the building like some sacrificial god. Even now, this spirit is draining my energy, making me dizzy, and the longer she hangs there, the worse it’ll get. If I want to get through this day—and every one after that—I’m going to have to ignore her.
Easier said than done.
I give Poppa’s coin one last squeeze, slip it under my shirt, and march into Emerson Hall, avoiding the girl swinging over my head. Right now, I have to find my new normal, and part of that is pretending I am normal.
Inside, several students stand in line at a counter waiting to speak to one of three women behind a glass panel. I hang back at the entrance for a moment, surveying my surroundings, mostly waiting to see if there’s an energy suck—an indication that there are dead nearby. When I’m sure everyone in the lobby is alive, I choose a line and wait. A couple of students turn to stare, but I avert my eyes, looking at anything else—the plastic plant in the corner, wooden chairs pushed against a dirty white wall, black and white photos of buildings and long-dead or nearly-dead people.
A television behind the glass runs breaking news, the screen is splashed with photos of a deadly plane crash, deliberately taken down by its co-pilot. Officials make guesses as to the motive and the only thing I can think is that there are now one hundred and fifty more people bound here on Earth, murdered. My stomach clenches tight. Mom doesn’t like when I watch the news. She thinks I take it all too personally.
What she really means is she thinks I become obsessed, and I guess she’s kind of right. There are certain stories I invest in, and I’ll follow every piece of news released on the subject.
This one is no different.
I watch the news until it’s past time for my first class, and no one else is left in the lobby but me.
A woman with blond hair and a pink blazer smiles at me.
“Can I help you?” Her voice sounds robotic, filtered through the round metal intercom.
“I’m new. I don’t have my schedule—”
“Oh! You must be Anora Silby!” She retrieves a folder from her desk and hands it to me via a small opening at the bottom of the glass barrier. “Inside you will find your schedule and your student handbook.”
I open the folder and stare at the materials. My schedule sits on top. I have already zoned in on my first hour: trigonometry...a.k.a. Hell.
“Be sure you are aware of curfew.”
“Oh, I don’t live on campus.”
“Curfew is countywide,” she advises. “No one’s to be outside after midnight.”
“Why?”
It takes the lady a moment to realize I’ve asked her a question. She blinks.
“It’s always been like that. Since the twenties. You know, after the murders.”
“No, actually...I don’t know,” I wave my folder around to remind her I’m the new girl.
“It’s nothing to be worried about,” the lady assures me. “There haven’t been any murders since then. The curfew’s just in place as...a precaution. It’s best if it’s obeyed.”
She says it like a warning, like she thinks I’m one to break the rules. I can understand curfew for campus, but why is it countywide?
“Would you like a guide to help you find your classes?” Her voice brightens, her smile intensifies. It looks fake, and I get the sense I’m not welcome anymore.
“Uh, sure.”
It’ll be nice to have a map of this place in case I get lost trying to avoid the dead. The lady disappears from view and I take a closer look at the pictures on the wall. I’m partly hopeful I’ll see a picture of the girl outside in one of the photos, but I don’t find her. The images are mostly of buildings on campus in their prime. Gold plates beneath the frames indicate the year they were built. My favorite is Rosewater—that sounds calming.
I run my fingers over the cold metal, tracing the name.
“You must be Anora Silby.” The voice is energetic and warm, but it startles me. I tear my hand away from the plate as if I’ve been caught stealing and yelp, twisting to find a boy standing beside me. He has striking blue eyes and sharp features. My gaze drops to his lips, which are initially pulled into a smile until I face him, then it falters.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
I study him for a moment—lively eyes, faint color in his cheeks, and...warmth. He’s definitely alive. I guess I stare too long because he clears his throat and says, “Can I help you find your classes?”
“Oh…um…the lady was getting me a map.”
A smile stretches across his face again, brightening his expression. “I’m your map.” He extends his hand to me, keeping the other in his pocket. “Shy.”
I stare at his hand, confused—did he just call me shy?
“Excuse me?”
He chuckles under his breath. “It’s my name—Shy Savior.”
“Oh.” My cheeks flame and I want to hide. I fumble as I cradle my folder in my arm and reach for his hand. “Anora Silby…er…I guess you knew that.”
“Yeah,” he breathes, and then quickly adds, “But that’s okay. You have a nice name.”
He doesn’t move his gaze from mine as he shakes my hand firmly, and it is a little unnerving, especially since the pigment of his eyes is so concentrated—seriously, he has to be wearing contacts.
