by Tamar Sloan
She knew in that moment, no matter how badly she wanted a family, she couldn’t go with him. She somehow knew that he had yet to hit his new wife, but abuse was his addiction, and it was only a matter of time.
The most disgusting part about it was that guilt wasn’t the only alien emotion assaulting her, but so too was satisfaction and urgency. Mr. Sinclair enjoyed hurting women, got a thrill from seeing the fear in their eyes before his fist came down.
Brielle felt all of it inside her, and it made her physically ill. She couldn’t keep it in, not just because it affected her so terribly, but because Mrs. Sinclair deserved to know what she was in for.
Still shaking from the vision, she’d grabbed Mrs. Sinclair’s wrist and, right there in the middle of the rose garden, pleaded, “Get as far away from this man as you can. He’ll hurt you.”
Mrs. Sinclair’s mannequin smile faded, confusion barely pinching her botoxed face. “I beg your pardon?”
“What are you talking about, girl?” Mr. Sinclair’s charming façade melted, an edge in his voice feeling like a threat.
Brielle couldn’t take it. The guilt and shameful glee and need overwhelmed her, coupled with her own fear and desperation to prevent future brutality. Tears streamed down her face as she turned on Mr. Sinclair, her vision blurring.
“How could you?” she cried. “What kind of person could enjoy hurting others like that? Especially those who trust you and care about you? If you adopt me, will you beat me, too?”
Mr. Sinclair’s face was a mask, but Brielle could see the terror and rage in his eyes. He looked at his wife, whose concern and confusion were evident in her wide gaze. Grasping her arms, his face had softened. “Darling, I assure you, I have no idea what this girl’s talking about.”
Sister Agatha strolled toward them, her smile faltering as she approached. “Is everything alright here?”
“What sort of orphanage are you running, Sister?” Mr. Sinclair barked. “I thought I’d have better luck finding a respectable child at an old-fashioned orphanage than a group home, but your kids seem to be just as perverse.”
Sister Agatha looked at Brielle, who was frantically shaking her head in denial, and her thick brow furrowed in concern. “What happened?”
Mr. Sinclair straightened his shoulders and adjusted his tie. “This girl accused me of doing terrible things to women. I shudder to think how she even knows of such things. If you have no more wholesome young girls at this institution, I don’t think—”
“Slow down, Mr. Sinclair,” Sister Agatha cut him off. “While I can’t account for whatever Brielle said without further investigation, I can assure you that we raise these children with the utmost care and discipline. If adoption is truly something you want to pursue, I can’t in good conscience let you leave without at least speaking with some of the other girls in need of a good home.”
Mr. Sinclair smoothed his suit over his torso. “Very well. And how will you punish this one for making outrageous accusations?”
Sister Agatha regarded Brielle with a look of curiosity, and Brielle couldn’t tell whose side the Sister was on.
“I will speak with her in private, but I think for now the missed chance at being adopted is punishment enough,” Sister Agatha said. “Brielle, wait for me in my office. Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair, if you’ll follow me back inside, I think I know just the girl who would be perfect for your family.” She waved an ushering hand toward the orphanage, inviting the Sinclairs to follow her.
Brielle had rushed to Sister Agatha’s office as instructed, preparing her words of protest and explanation.
When Sister Agatha finally entered the room and closed the door behind her, she sat beside Brielle rather than on the other side of her desk. Her face was stony and unreadable, and Brielle was certain she was about to be punished. It was so unfair!
“Sister, I don’t know how to explain it, but I know what he did.” Brielle’s words came out in a high-pitched flood. “He’s a bad man! You can’t let him adopt any of the girls here, please!”
Sister Agatha put a comforting hand on Brielle’s shoulder. “I’m only going to ask you this once, and I need you to be honest with me.” Her eyes locked on Brielle’s to stress the importance of her question. “Did Mr. Sinclair hurt you or touch you inappropriately?”
Brielle frowned and shook her head ever so slightly. “No, but…Sister, I saw him hurt others.”
“What do you mean you saw?” Sister Agatha asked. “Did he hurt any of the other children here?”
“No, he hurt his girlfriends,” Brielle insisted. “I saw him do it, in my head. And if he adopts any of the girls here, he might do the same to them.”
Disappointment deepened the wrinkles on Sister Agatha’s face as she closed her eyes and sighed. “I don’t know where this is coming from, Brielle. But I think it means you’re not ready to be adopted. And it’s unfair of you to try to take that same chance away from others.”
“Sister, that’s not what’s happening,” Brielle protested, getting more and more desperate. She couldn’t explain how she’d seen what Mr. Sinclair had done. It was crazy. No one would believe her accusation without proof. But she couldn’t just sit by and let someone else fall into his clutches. “I want to be adopted more than anything. You know that. Which is why you have to believe me when I say that Mr. Sinclair is a bad man.”
“How do you know that, Brielle? Have you ever met him before today?”
“No.” She shook her head slowly.
“Have you seen or read anything about him in the news?” Sister Agatha continued.
“No, but—”
“Then how do you know?”
“I just know,” Brielle shouted, slamming her hands on her lap. “Please, you have to believe me. You know I wouldn’t lie.”
Sister Agatha looked at her for a long moment, then rose and rounded the desk to sit in her usual chair on the other side of it. “I’m sorry, Brielle. The Sinclairs are a very prominent couple, and they can offer some needy orphan a good home. Without proof they are unfit parents, legally, I can’t do anything to prevent them from adopting her.”
Her? Oh no, they’ve chosen someone.
“Who?” Brielle asked, mouth suddenly dry.
“Your friend, Cassandra.”
The bell rings, and Brielle gratefully comes back to reality, eager for a more engaging class that would keep her from reliving the past. She’d quarreled with herself over that incident for years. Should she have not said anything? After all, her actions came to no avail; the Sinclairs still adopted her friend. If she’d just made them dislike her without upsetting them or Sister Agatha, maybe she wouldn’t have lost Cassandra as a friend. Maybe she would have saved Cassandra from him. She might even have been adopted years ago because Sister Agatha wouldn’t have excluded her from events in fear that she’d scare off other parents.
Brielle shakes her head as she walks down the hall to her next class. No, things couldn’t have gone any other way. Because warning people about who Mr. Sinclair really had been the right thing to do, and Brielle always tries to do the right thing, even if it costs her.
But none of that matters anymore. She has a second chance. The Pierces are interested in adopting her.
She just needs to be...normal.
4
Tristan
Mirror Point High looks like so many of the other high schools Tristan’s seen, he doubts he’ll even remember it once they leave. Multi-storied and square. Brown brick and narrow windows. He scans it, thinking of his vision, but nothing about it feels familiar...
Of course it’s not. There’s no way it would be that easy—rock up to school, find a Zodiac Heir, take them home to proudly show Zarius and Tess.
Feel like they’ve actually got a chance at winning this.
Standing in the parking lot, Tristan hears the screech of tires. He holds still, pretending he hasn’t noticed as his body goes on high alert.
Zarius’s voice whispers through his mind. Skins are
everywhere.
Chardis chooses his vessels carefully, infiltrating their minds and taking control of their bodies. The possession blackens their hearts until it’s the same pithy void as Chardis’s soul. Unfortunately, it also gives them unnatural strength.
And the ability to turn invisible.
You drop your guard, you’re dead.
Zarius hasn’t sugarcoated the truth during their training. Some days, his words are as brutal as his kicks. But he can’t afford to. If Tristan isn’t ready for anything, anytime, his days end.
And so does the Universe.
But someone shouts, there’s a brief argument, and it’s over. The usual bustle of students resumes around him, one or two glancing at Tristan, most too preoccupied with each other or their cell phones to notice the new kid.
Tristan doesn’t mind. It gives him time to scope out the place.
He strolls toward the entrance, looking casual and self-assured. He’s learned this whole process is quicker if he hooks up with the right kids from the get-go. He just has to find them…
There’s a wide set of stairs that lead up the front door, pale and stained. To the left, Tristan notices a bunch of kids on the other side, prowling in the shadows. The Outcasts, as he likes to call them. They like to wear black boots and too much eye-liner. They’re so busy perfecting their blank stares and life-sucks attitude to know what’s going on in the school.
They’re worth keeping a note of as it’s possible some of the Zodiacs have struggled to assimilate, especially with their powers unchecked, but they’re not the people Tristan wants to talk to right now.
Someone sweeps past him, and Tristan registers the sharp scent of soap. Three teens, clothes neatly pressed, stride up the steps, books in hand. The High Achievers. They get the best grades, love to talk about books and Anime, and generally come from well-to-do families. Usually intact families. Odds are, they’re not a Zodiac. Plus, they spend too much time in the library to be of use.
Tristan hears a tinkling laugh and he slows, knowing he’s getting close. A bunch of kids are hanging around the doors on the right, laughing and chatting. All girls, their hair straightened and glossy, their midriffs peeking between their leggings and tees. Two of the girls crowd in close, lips pouting. Tristan waits for it. Yep, there it is. The requisite selfies.
They lean back, scrolling through the multitude of photos they just snapped. “Do you think it works? Maybe we should take it again?”
Tristan blows out a breath through pursed lips. He’s fallen for this before, thinking these are the people he needs to integrate with. It wasted days when they could’ve been moving onto the next school.
These guys are the Fringe Group. The Wannabes, the Second-in-Line. The Popular Clique would never question their selfies. Even if they hated it they know you don’t show that sort of insecurity right on the front steps of the school.
The Popular Clique knows you look like you’re having fun. Always.
Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Tristan leans against a concrete column. If he’s found the Fringe group, then it’s only a matter of time. The next part is inevitable.
It happens only a second later. The glance, the cute little wave. The frantic patting down of hair.
They’re here.
The group is smaller than he’s seen in other schools, but then again, Mirror Point High is one of the smaller places they’ve been to. Generally, Zarius and Tess prefer to hit the bigger schools. More butts for your buck as Zarius likes to say. Tess doesn’t bother to correct him anymore—“bang, Zarius, we’re not buying backsides!”— because they get the gist. More teens to check out in one location.
But desperate times mean desperate measures.
Three of them—two boys, one girl—are waiting at the end of the pavement beside the parking lot. A girl sashays towards them, pressing the button of a remote over her shoulder as a silver Mercedes flashes its indicator lights behind her.
A blonde girl.
Holy pitch. The blonde girl.
She joins the others, rolling her eyes and laughing at something they said. “I know. I never would’ve got the smell of poor out if she’d hit.”
They walk past him, secure in their knowledge they’re lords of this kingdom. Tristan’s heart is hammering. It’s the girl from his vision. Less bruised, far more conscious, but definitely the same girl.
The thought flashes through his mind before he can stop it. Could she be a Zodiac Heir?
Could she be the Gemini Twin?
Shaking his head and telling himself to get a grip, Tristan picks up his books. Just because the girl was in a vision doesn’t make her one of them.
But it does mean he needs to find out more about her. Especially if her life could be at stake.
Good thing he’s done this a gazillion times before.
Falling behind them, Tristan flicks up his collar.
One of the guys, tall with shoulders almost the width of the stairs, throws a small red ball up into the air and catches it again. “Coach reckons I can go from defense to offense next game.”
The other girl, sleek black hair and caramel skin, scoffs out a laugh. “You said that last week.”
The blonde girl is absorbed in her cell, not even noticing when one of the Fringe girls waves. She’s frowning as she chews on a fake nail that perfectly matches her pink skirt.
The big guy throws the ball against the wall, above the head of one of the Outcasts as he tries to slink through the door. The Outcast flinches but doesn’t bother to turn around or look. The guy catches it, grinning. “Yeah, well, he saw me when I got that fast break.”
Tristan comes up beside him as they enter the school. “You were trying to get an unsettled clear? That ain’t easy.”
The guy turns around, frowning when he doesn’t recognize Tristan. “Ah, you play lacrosse?”
“Nah, just prefer it to football.”
The dude’s eyebrows hike up like they usually do. It’s always one of the two—football or lacrosse. You figure out the school sport, find the jock, and you’re in.
They’re outside the lockers and the guy slows to a stop. The others crowd around him, except for the blonde. She’s still glued to her cell.
The big guy grins. “People think football’s rough.”
Tristan rolls his eyes. “I’ve never seen a guy knocked for a loop in football like I have in lacrosse.” If this were a different school Tristan would be swapping the sports around. “Although it’s not all brawn. You need brains, and a mean throwing arm.”
“Damn straight you do.” The guy flicks the ball above the lockers, angling it so it comes straight at Tristan.
Even if he wasn’t expecting it, Tristan’s reflexes have been honed from years of training with Zarius. Considering Skins can go invisible, a lot of it’s been done with a blindfold.
You can tell a lot from the sound of rubber hitting brick, from the schlurp of the ball collapsing in on itself, the crack as it recoils.
Tristan doesn’t need to look to catch the ball as it comes straight at his head. His hand darts up and the ball lands in his palm with a slap.
The smart ones test you. That’s good.
The smart ones have all the info.
The big guy’s eyebrows shoot up. “Whoa!”
He says it loud enough that several others turn around to see what’s going on. Tristan grins at each curious face, not minding the attention. The more people he can smile at, the more people will be happy to talk to him.
What’s more, it gets the blonde’s attention.
She looks up from her phone, an irritated frown marring her smooth skin, glancing around to see what the fuss is. Her eyes skim Tristan, registering he’s no one she knows, and she goes to look away. As a general rule, the Popular Clique doesn't give the common student the time of day.
But then she stops. Her eyes dart back to Tristan.
His grin expands as he gives her a short, jaunty wave.
Her eyes widen, vivid blue s
eeming to dominate her face, but she quickly recovers. She scans Tristan from head to toe, a slight challenge in the assessing tilt of her chin. Being easy on the eye has its advantages…
Tristan waits, deciding he likes her already. She’s got qualities a guy would like and she knows it. When her eyes return to his, he nods. “Hey, I’m Tristan.”
He leaves a question mark at the end. Knowing the blonde girl’s name is the first step.
Her pink lips tip up. “Cassandra. First day, huh?”
“Sure is. Was hoping someone could translate this for me.” He holds up a slip of paper with his schedule. From what he can tell, he has English first. It’s finding someone to sit with that’s the goal.
She steps in close, her eyes twinkling. Plucking it from his hands, she puckers her lips as she scans it. “Advanced English first.” She looks up and Tristan registers her perfume—floral yet spicy. “With me.”
He arches a brow. “Now that’s lucky.”
Before Cassandra can answer, a solid thwump hits Tristan between the shoulder blades. “The name’s Zayn. And our team is always looking for reserves…”
Bingo. Tristan is now in.
He absorbs the slap, knowing it was supposed to put him off balance. “Depends. What do people do for kicks around here?”
Zayn slams his locker shut. “Play lacrosse, obviously.”
The dark-haired girl rolls her eyes. “Watch Netflix while your parents think you’re studying. My name’s Suki, by the way.”
Cassandra leans in a little closer. “Go down to the local fro-yo cafe—Creamy Dreams.”
“Cool name,” Tristan states with an arched brow. He turns to Zayn, holding his hands up in apology. “Sorry man, fro-yo will win out every time.”
The bell rings followed by a chorus of more lockers clanging shut. Zayn snaps a glance at Tristan’s midriff. “It shows, too.”
Tristan laughs—he had a six pack when he was fourteen—glad that at least he’ll like these people. It makes a necessary task enjoyable.
Cassandra flips her hair over her shoulder. “Let’s get going. We don’t want to give Ms. Grotberg an excuse to give out detention.”