Even teen evil queens need love. Right? (Or at least a handsome sword-fighting minion to do their bidding!)
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Bad things happen when Rowen is around and the worst part is, she has no idea why until a massive family secret sends her on a fantastica...
A crack of lightning snapped like a whip, followed by deep roils of thunder. Rain, sharp as needles, stung my face. The mud beneath my cold, bare feet sucked me in, deeper and deeper. I was frozen, both literally and figuratively. The trees surrounding me bowed like supplicants under the power of the wind.
"Take my hand," someone commanded. A boy whose voice I did not know, but I longed to obey. His outline was a blur in the downpour. I reached toward him, fighting the wind. Gritting my teeth with the effort.
But to no avail.
Deeper I sunk into the sticky mud.
"Please!" the boy begged.
I tried to reply, but my voice jammed in my throat.
The mud rose to my chest. My neck. My chin.
I had to escape on my own. No one could save me.
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There are two types of people in the world, the ones who love everything about gyms—the sweat-tinged air, the overbright overhead fluorescents, the wood floors painted with lines telling you where to stand, where to throw, physically defining your boundaries. (I'm not fond of those if you hadn't guessed). And the people who would rather drink a million smoothies than be inside one.
I was of the latter variety. It's genetic, I think. You either get the gym gene or the brainy gene. The few people who have both are freaks of nature and often become egotistical class presidents, football team captains, and future politicians, which if you think about it explains a lot about the world.
I'd never been fond of any activity that ended with the word "ball."
Ms. Piltz switched on the lights, which came up with a pop and buzz. Our school colors were black and purple, like bruises, to go with the whole vampire vibe, so the gym had black and purple everything—bleachers, school pennants, bins of rubber balls, banners made by the school booster club hanging all around the room with encouraging sentiments like: "B Positive!" "We've got all the spirits!" and "Bite me!" (No idea how the last one got past the faculty.) In the center of the floor was a circle with a cartoon drawing of old Vinnie Vampire inside, grinning as if he'd just enjoyed a good meal.
"Okay, ladies, if you could each grab a mat, belt, and block from the bin, we can get started."
It seemed weird to have the whole cavernous freezing gym for our little emergency yoga session, but no one asked me.
As I dug through the bin of yoga equipment, a chill of warning crept up my neck. The gym seemed to whisper to me: "Go away. Go away." It differed from the feeling I had in the attic. The attic had hungered for me; the gym was more like being sprayed with insect repellant.
In a snap, Ms. Piltz had a mat, belt, block, and an ancient boom box, (probably from the eighties), all set up in front of a mirror at the far end, behind one of the basketball hoops.
