Chapter 1

”Color is merely light refracted through a prism—energies perceived by the naked eye. At the intersection of metaphysics and chromatics, the study of soul-shades, or auras, coalesces. Exploring further, the evidence of soul-shades suggests a deep connection between energy and consciousness, with colors providing new insights into the mysterious nature of the soul…”

-Excerpt from the personal journal of Dr. Claude Foster, Director of Faeology at Mesmeric Labs

FANTASIA

“Shit, I’m late!”

I jump up from bed, quickly throwing on my work clothes and slapping on a layer of makeup.

I type out a quick message to Mellie, letting her know I’m on my way to relieve her at the bar. With a grimace, I glance at the time and stuff my phone in my back pocket. I throw my hair into a bun, exit my room, and snatch my keys off the counter. My roommates’ curious eyes follow me, but we say nothing to each other. My boots are barely on my feet before I’m flying out the door and down the steps.

I overslept during my nap—a nap I wouldn’t have even needed if my idiot boyfriend wasn’t up all night—and morning—partying with my damn roommates.

The humid summer air weighs me down, fighting against me as I pick up my pace. The pungent odor of hot garbage assaults my senses. Sweat pricks the back of my neck. I’m rethinking my dark makeup. The cheap shit I buy—the only shit I can afford—is already melting off my face.

Someone bumps into me, making me slam into a wall. My shoulder scrapes against the rough brick, and I hiss in pain.

“Watch it, asshole!” I shout into the mass of people moving along in an anonymous, colorful blur.

A few people retaliate by shooting back vulgar names of their own.

Wincing at the tenderness in my shoulder, I brush the dirt off it.

Around me, people crowd the sidewalk. They’re all in a pointless hurry, assertively pushing ahead as if competing for their place.

But they wouldn”t be in this part of the city, in this sweltering temperature, if they were important.

Everyone is on edge because of the heat, which ratchets up the normal, cranky energy a notch. As much as I loathe my job as a bartender, I can’t wait to sneak into the beer cooler for a reprieve when I get to work.

People rush past me, a kaleidoscope of hues, while the sun disappears behind towering buildings and casts long shadows.

As I scan the crowd and wait for a chance to cross the street, the whirl of colors momentarily flusters me. No one else has to deal with this issue, though. The color that radiates from each person—an extension of their essence, the shade of their soul—is visible only to me.

Lucky me.

I hate crowds.

Too many people.

And the darker it gets, the brighter their soul-shades appear. My head begins to ache, growing in intensity and summoning a wave of nausea. I grimace, working to keep the bile down.

Keeping my gaze downward, I try to focus on the pale cobblestone underfoot instead of the swirling fog of colors.

I wish I could turn it off. Although I haven’t found a way to do that, over the years I’ve learned how to repress my ability—keeping my mouth shut about this useless magic.

I harrumph to myself.

Magic—if that’s what it can even be called. It’s magic I didn’t ask for. Something that will only get me killed if the wrong people find out.

It”s easier to ignore the colors when there are fewer people, but on a crowded pedestrian street and during the transition from day to night, it all becomes more overwhelming.

Keeping my elbows up as a shield, I jostle through the crowd, making my way toward the alley on the opposite side of the street. Carefully, I step around a pile of shattered glass, then break out into a jog. My skinny jeans are almost too tight to be comfortable, and my combat boots weigh me down, but I push on, swerving around a few pieces of rotting wood, some trash bags, and a couple of sleeping bodies.

I stop at a cross street, listening to the distant honking of car horns and the faint hum of city life. The scent of exhaust lingers in the air. With a quick glance in both directions, I dart across the street.

As I navigate the twists and turns of the narrow alleyways, the shadows cast by the fading light create an eerie atmosphere. The walls, worn and graffitied, tell stories of the city’s lurid history. The ground beneath my feet is uneven, neglected.

The streetlights come alive and illuminate my path, an occasional flickering neon sign adding a splash of vibrant color to the growing darkness. Now that I’ve left the crowds behind, I can breathe a little easier.

My footsteps reverberate through the alley. With every step I take, the city”s energy pushes me forward, guiding me through its maze.

Veering to the left to avoid a few trash cans, I end up tripping over a man hunched in a corner, smoking.

“Watch it, bitch!” he yells as I run away.

Gritting my teeth, I restrain myself from voicing my thoughts.

I wouldn”t be in a hurry to get to work if Mellie didn”t have to get home to her son. Because of me, she”s already been stuck working for an hour past the end of her shift, and it weighs on my heart.

Relief washes over me when I catch sight of Pub Path, the bustling pedestrian street in the city center known for its bars. My pace quickens, and my lungs start to burn as I make a beeline for it, only for my boot to catch on something.

My arms flail as I go flying.

I slam into the cement, my knees and palms taking the impact. The collision causes a surge of pain to shoot through my body, and tears prick my eyes.

After taking a few deep breaths, I sit back on my haunches and wipe my palms on my jeans. When the pain lessens, I glance back to see what I tripped over.

Sprawled facedown on the pavement is a girl.

There’s a serious drug problem in the city.

“Hey,” I say. “Wake up.”

Standing up, I nudge her with the toe of my boot.

She doesn’t move. I reach down to shake her shoulder.

Nothing.

Dread creeps up my spine as I crouch down, ignoring my sore knees, to inspect her.

“Hey,” I repeat.

I brush her hair away, uncovering a face that’s too pale, with purple lips and bloodshot eyes.

Screaming, I jolt backward and fall on my ass.

My hands shake as I take in her appearance. She can’t be older than fifteen or sixteen. A smoky haze surrounds her body—a grey soul-shade—indicative of her demise.

I missed it initially, so used to vibrant colors that the grey blended right in with the cement. And I’ve only seen grey once before.

The only other time I’ve seen a dead body…

An image of my parents flashes in my mind.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I shake my head.

I should call the Silver Scouts. Report the death. Clearly no one else has.

But I can’t.

My stomach roils. I jump up and run to the closest dumpster, deeper in the alley, barely making it before spewing my stomach’s contents.

The sobs come before I can swallow them down.

“Hey!” a deep voice calls. “Are you all right?”

My legs threaten to give out—wobbling from exhaustion and shock. Someone gently cups my arm, steadying me and rubbing my back in soothing circles.

“I’m fine,” I say hoarsely. “There’s a…” I swallow, glancing toward the girl. “She’s—”

“I know.”

The hand on my arm gives a reassuring squeeze, and in the fading light, I notice ink on the back of the hand: a dark skull with a worm crawling out of one of the eye sockets.

A damn Nightcrawler.

Yanking free of the stranger, I swallow the thick ball of fear in my throat. “I have to go.”

When I glance back at the man, he’s looking past me, at the dead girl. His eyes widen before narrowing into angry slits.

I spin around, ready to bolt, but the sight of a tall, shadowy creature hovering over the girl roots me in place.

My heart clenches, and for a moment, I stop breathing.

It’s happening again.

Just like with my parents.

The mysterious figure, hidden beneath a cloak, releases a chilling, gut-wrenching moan that echoes through the air as it leans over the young girl. As its hands hover over her, a sense of dread permeates the atmosphere. It inhales deeply, its raspy breathing filling the silence. Slowly, deliberately, it draws the girl’s foggy grey aura into its mouth.

Shivers trail down my spine.

I glance behind me, pondering my next move. Bolt past the Nightcrawler or past the creature devouring the girl’s soul?

Behind me, the Nightcrawler watches the scene, remaining quiet and motionless.

“You see him, too?” I whisper.

The Nightcrawler shifts his attention to me, then reaches out, abruptly yanking me against him as he covers my mouth. He jerks me into the shadows of the alleyway, out of sight of the thing consuming the girl’s soul.

Not a thing.

Fae.

With his own twisted magic.

“Don’t let him see you,” the man whispers in my ear.

The city’s roar fades to an eerie murmur. My heartbeat pounds in my head while we stand there breathing heavily.

The gangster’s muscular body presses into me from behind. He keeps one hand over my mouth, and his rings bite into my skin. His other arm wraps around my waist in a protective gesture.

I struggle against his grip, trying to pry his palm from my mouth.

He clutches me tighter, whispering for me to stop moving.

My low back presses into something hard, and my eyes widen as I reach between us, my finger brushing against metal.

A gun.

Of course this gangster has an illegal weapon on him.

A few beats pass while I consider my next move. For the love of Gods, I only want to get to work, but I really don’t want to go past the monster and the dead girl. As sad as the situation is, it’s better if I stay out of it. Especially if she was tied up with these two—a fae with magic and a gangster with a gun.

I need to get out of here before someone notices something amiss and calls the Silver Scouts. Their orders to protect the city mean nothing to me. I don’t trust them.

The seconds tick by as I sweat.

Finally, the gangster’s arm drops from my waist. I jerk away.

“Wait.” He reaches for me, his other hand going for the gun in his waistband and pulling it free.

“I’m out,” I say, putting my palms up in a placating gesture, but I hesitate. Even in the dim lighting, I can make out how vibrantly, stunningly golden his eyes are…just as gold as the aura radiating from his body. For a second, I’m stunned silent. But that can’t be right. It’s just the lighting. “Please, just let me get to work.”

“You saw him.” His eyes narrow.

I shake my head. “I saw nothing. I won’t call the Scouts either. Swear.”

“You saw the Reaper.”

“Nope.” I shake my head. “Didn’t see—”

“Quiet,” he orders in a low voice, staring at me.

“Really,” I whisper, “this isn’t my business.”

He cocks his head, then rakes his eyes over my body, scrutinizing me.

“Can you please put the gun away at least?” I nod to the weapon in his hand, fear freezing me in place. Yeah, there is no way his soul-shade is gold. No way. Am I hallucinating? “Okay, okay. I’ll be quiet.”

He blinks a few times, as if trying to understand my words. I shrug, pressing my lips together and adhering to his command to be quiet.

“Come with me,” he demands. His intense, unblinking gaze bores into me, on the verge of being creepy.

Glancing at the gun in his hand, I back away.

“Yo, she ain’t breathing!” someone nearby yells. “Call it in.”

“Fuck this,” I mutter.

I turn toward the alley’s entrance, eyeing the girl’s body. At some point, the thing devouring her soul disappeared. I take my chance to turn and flee, betting on the fact that this Nightcrawler won’t shoot me in front of witnesses.

And if he does, well, it’s been real.

But no one will miss me.

Not even Reed.

The thought leaves me hollow.

Not even Reed will miss me.

I take off and leap over the poor girl’s prone body, wondering if anyone will miss her.

A couple of people standing near the girl stare at me in disbelief as I burst from the mouth of the alley onto Pub Path. They call for me to stop, but I ignore them.

“We’re calling the Scouts!” one of them shouts after me.

I glance over my shoulder, locking eyes with the gangster as he joins the couple beside the dead girl.

Why isn’t he running, too?

Don’t care.

I pump my arms, running as fast as I can to The Rising Star.

When I get there, I practically throw myself through the door, doubling over to catch my breath. A few curious eyes turn my way, but with all the strange shit that occurs in this city, my frenzied entrance ranks low on the list of unusual things.

The place is bustling, with each booth and high-top table occupied. The bar is devoid of any vacant stools. The weathered, beer-stained wood beneath my feet evokes a comforting sense of familiarity. My anxiety is eased slightly by the chatter and laughter of customers.

“Tasia!” Mellie’s stern voice reaches my ears over the clamoring of the patrons and crooning music.

She’s at my side in an instant, and when I catch my breath and glance at her, her annoyance fades into concern.

Throwing a bar towel over her shoulder and gripping me by the shoulders, she peers up at me. “What the hell happened to you?”

I use my thumb to swipe at the makeup I know is smudged beneath my eyes. “I’m so sorry I’m late.”

“Not worried about it. I owed you one anyway.”

“Would you miss me?” I ask.

“What?”

“If I died?”

She pauses, staring at me for a few blinks. Then she wraps her fingers around my wrist and pulls me toward the bathroom. What she lacks in height, she sure makes up for in strength—mentally and physically. “Clean yourself up. Take a minute or ten.”

“I’m good,” I reassure her.

She snorts, swatting me with her towel. “At least look in the mirror before trying to bullshit me, Tay. You look like a raccoon’s ass.” She crinkles her nose. “Smell like one, too.”

“I—”

“Go.” She uses her firm, motherly tone with me, shoving me toward the bathroom. “The bar ain’t going anywhere. Neither am I.”

“But…Axel…” I protest, worried about her getting back to her two-year-old son.

“With Nana.”

My arms itch to reach out and pull Mellie into a hug, but I refrain, not wanting to taint her with my sweatiness. She returns to the bar, so I adhere to her instruction, entering the single-stall bathroom and locking the door.

Facing the mirror, I grimace at how awful I look. My lavender soul-shade wavers around me, taunting me. It’s a reminder that I can’t escape my ability, no matter how much I try.

With a sigh, I wash my face, scrubbing off all the makeup. After tonight’s events, I don’t care about my appearance.

But I realize two things.

One, there isn’t anyone in my life who would miss me if I died.

Two, I wasn’t hallucinating the Nightcrawler’s soul-shade. It wasn’t a trick of the light. It wasn’t poor eyesight.

His soul-shade wasn”t a grungy, murky color like dark brown, or even a vivid primary color. No, it was unlike anything I’ve seen before.

It was stunningly bright, vibrant.

As golden as those eyes of his.