Excerpt From Spell Check, Book #1 The Teen Wytche Saga
About ten minutes into class, while Mr. Esenberg wrote on the board, I heard Jordan slide his feet under my desk. My breath wedged in my throat as the tips of his size nine high-performance sneakers nudged the heels of my shoes. Could the girl in front of me hear my heart thudding? Should I move my feet forward?
My feet tingled and refused to move. A blush blazed across my cheeks. I struggled to pay attention to Mr. Esenberg without making eye contact. Forty minutes passed, the bell blared, and I had no idea what had transpired. Hopefully, my notes will make sense. I think I took notes.
Jordan slid his feet back and thudded his book closed. We both bent down and reached for our backpacks. His leaned against mine. Our hands brushed and our heads were so close I could smell his herbal shampoo.
Students walked past us. I’m sure some of them were talking to each other or flipping open their cell phones. But it all faded away along with the smell of chalk, highlighters, and sweat. Everything receded except the warmth of Jordan’s skin, his cinnamon gum-scented breath, and the heart-stopping rush sprinting up my arm.
“Evie?”
We jerked apart. Seeing Parvani in the doorway looking hurt and shocked snapped my senses into hyper focus. Conversations sounded extra loud. Colors seemed too bright. It felt like a movie had started, full blast, in a hushed theater.
Excerpt from Spell Struck, Book #2, The Teen Wytche Saga
Reality struck like a cold shower ten seconds after I crossed the threshold into Art. Explore! Create! Follow Your Muse! The colorful posters along the wall had nothing to do with me or my life. I wasn't here to explore my creativity or strike deals with some girl I'd never see again after the Crystal Faire. I was here to work. Papo's bottom line — as long as my art brought in money, he'd keep a roof over my head. The roof might be the van or a foreclosed house, but it was still a roof. Papo relished reminding me it was more than anyone else had offered. Dad had never talked about his relatives; I assumed he didn't have any left. Whenever I had suggested Mom's family might want me, might be looking for me, Papo would laugh or cuff my head.
"You think so, Nico? You think your aunt is desperate to find her missing nephew? Then why didn't she rescue you when your dad hit the bottle and you were starving on the streets? Huh? Because she didn't care. She ain't got any kids. Why would she want some street rat?"
Part of me resisted Papo's brainwashing. After all, when cancer had stolen Mom, Bronwyn had been away at college, barely twenty years old, with no family left except me. But over time it had become harder to remember the truth. Bronwyn hadsent a cop to check on me. My gut twisted. One memory was clear: how Dad had glared at me.
"Tell him, Aidan. Tell the officer how you have plenty to eat and a safe place to sleep."
I hesitated. Dad acted all cool and confident, but I saw the fear in his eyes — fear that I'd tell the truth.
Dad kept pressing. "Bronwyn is just a kid. She's always been a worrywart. Go on, son. Tell him."
The baby-faced cop jabbed his thumbs into his belt. His glance wandered to two women crossing the street. His energy trailed them like a dog sniffing a scent.
Excerpt #1 from Spell Fire, Book #3, The Teen Wytche Saga
Thor's eyes met mine. Our gazes locked, and I swear he did a Zen mind meld. Soothing waves of chi — energy — flowed through me. The brimstone stink evaporated, replaced by the calming scent of lavender and sage.
Hazel's gaze swiveled from me to Thor, then back to me. Looking buffeted by an unseen wind, she silently returned to her seat.
The corners of Thor's full lips curved upward. Two urges warred within me — the desire to leap across the room and kiss him, and the urge to arch my neck and breathe fire.
Thor's smile widened.
Excerpt #2 from Spell Fire, Book #3, The Teen Wytche Saga
I paused beneath the fern‑painted ceiling fan and scanned the wall menu. I wasn't sure what I was looking for, but a weird craving fueled my search.
The dragon exerted pressure between my shoulder blades, prompting me. "A Scorpion's Nest smoothie."
Morningstar leaned over the high counter and gave me a once‐over. "You feeling okay?"
I licked my lips. "Absolutely." I had never tasted an orange juice, vanilla ice cream, and peanut butter combo, but I slapped the countertop and said, "I'm fine. Hit me."
Morningstar tilted her head to one side and studied me.
Oh — crap. Maybe I'm dragon drunk.
