by KB Anne
Wide Awake
The Goddess Chronicles Book One
K.B. Anne
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictiously.
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Published October 2018
Copyright © 2018 by K.B. ANNE
All rights reserved.
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No part of this book may be reproduced or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
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Published by Gripping Tales, LLC, Pennsylvania.
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ISBN: 9798621614959
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Cover Design by Anika Willmans, Ravenborn Covers
Editorial Services by Laura Parnum, Laura Parnum Books
Created with Vellum
TO MY READERS,
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You are FIERCE.
Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.
Contents
Join the Koven
The Prophecy
1. Glitter-Farting Unicorns
2. Past Infractions
3. Friends of Three
4. Judgment and Bitch Moves
5. Dinner with Demons
6. Fractured Stroll Down Memory Lane
7. Adventures by Candlelight
8. Daydreams and Nightmares
9. Coffee for Mickey
10. Flying Monkey Asses
11. Bundle O’ Nerves
12. Soapy Kisses
13. Secret Keepers
14. Gone Clubbing
15. Knockout Hookups
16. Spell Work with BFFs
17. Change of Plans
18. Giants and Eyeballs
19. Snap, Crackle, Pop
20. Love Bites? I Think Not
21. Zombie Thief
22. Curses, Kisses, and Daydreams
23. Together We Fall
24. Post-its and Magic
25. Knife Tales
26. Red Rum
27. Repeat Offender
28. Dead Man’s Curve
29. New Channels and Seances
30. Lies and Misdemeanors
31. Magical Backfires
32. Frozen Pigskin
33. Campfire Stories
34. Armies of Immortal Werewolves
35. Betrayal
36. Silver Bullet
37. Spinning out of Control
38. Blood Sport
39. Exhalations and Not-So Fairy Tales
40. Lies and Prophecies
Join the Koven
About the Author
Also by KB Anne
Acknowledgments
Blood Moon: The Goddess Chronicles Book Two
Prologue
Chapter 1
Join the Koven
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The Prophecy
One of love, one of light,
Spring forth from the womb
To guard from the night.
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The power to heal. The power of youth.
Their existence to all a living proof.
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As immortality weighs,
One shall fall, one shall rise,
To perish from all humankind.
1
Glitter-Farting Unicorns
I lie. I cheat. I steal.
Parents don’t trust me with their daughters or their sons.
That desk shoved next to the teacher’s desk? Mine.
The hint of smoke in the bathroom when you apply your lip gloss? That’s me.
The “inappropriate” language scrawled across the fifty-seven million posters advertising the pep rally? You’re welcome.
Did you find my use of color on the drawing depicting the mating habits of Kensey and her boyfriend particularly intriguing?
Good. I’m glad we agree. But don’t get too comfortable with that bony ass of yours, because if I find you in my seat at the principal’s office, I’ll wrap my black-tipped daggers around your designer-label shirt and make you realize that after-school detention for skipping class is the least of your worries.
“Freak,” you’ll mutter to yourself, and you’ll be right.
Oh, and by the way, “Skunk Girl?”
One would think the combined efforts of three-quarters of the junior class could serve as one master brain and come up with a nickname a bit more imaginative than “Skunk Girl.” Ever hear of Google?
Honestly.
The torture I’m subjected to on a daily basis is un-freaking-believable.
“Gigi,” Mrs. Kelso whispers, pushing her bowl of fall-themed York Peppermint Patties over to me, “he caught you on film.”
I shrug with indifference as I unwrap my orange-foiled mint. It’s only a matter of time before they kick me out. The school shouldn’t spend so much energy disciplining one troubled youth.
Principal Donahue’s door swings open.
Make that two troubled youths.
At Donahue’s side stands a shiny new plaything.
Black leather jacket.
Black motorcycle boots.
Ripped jeans.
Tall, muscular body wearing his clothing admirably.
Expulsion becomes the last thing on my mind. For once the rumors are true, and I am front and center to the greatest novelty our school has ever witnessed: the foreign exchange student. Three words packed with the promise of awkward fumblings in janitor’s closets without all that pesky long-term commitment business getting in the way.
His steely gray eyes pin me in place like the dead swallowtail butterfly I mounted on cardboard when I was seven. Together we fall into a cheesy ’80s movie scene with sunshine beaming on the drool-worthy specimen while unicorns fart glitter rainbows out of their asses. In a long, drawn-out moment, I imagine all the legendary things we can do together.
Until he opens his mouth.
“You’re mine,” he says in a deep, husky Irish accent.
The surprise of his voice combined with his words turns my brain into a useless pile of shit. I have no doubt that an extraterrestrial being is about to rip through my chest full-on Alien style.
This boy—no, this man—glides across the room and out the door, leaving Mrs. Kelso and me staring at each other like mind-blown idiots. And the hammering in my chest makes me think I’m having a heart attack.
“Doris!” Principal Donahue bellows from his doorway, jerking us back into the present. “Get Dr. McCleery on the line—”
I reach for a black-foiled mint, hoping to steady my pounding heart. Why would Donahue need to speak to Uncle Mark anyway?
“—And send in The Delinquent.”
Ah, yes. That’s my other nickname.
Original, I know.
My heart continues to pound against my rib cage, but it has nothing to do with nerves about being called into the principal’s office. No, this chest pain is something different. Something life-threatening. I can only hope that Mrs. Kelso’s defibrillator certifications are up to date, because if I die on shag carpeting installed by the lowest bidder it would be a travesty. Fitting, but a travesty.
The mountains of reports teetering at the front corner of Donahue’s desk beg me to knock into them. I find nothing more beautiful than sending reams of paper spiraling in a chaotic rhythm to the floor. Well
, except for maybe watching the giant of a man pick it all up.
But not today.
Today, foreign encounters of the bizarre kind have thrown off my thirst for small acts of violence and disruption.
“Cigarettes, Gigi?” he says, followed by an exasperated sigh. “You don’t even smoke.”
I choose not to disagree with him. When I lie my throat burns like the hot coals I almost swallowed at the Fourth of July barbecue involving intoxication, a dare, and a poorly executed circus trick. The cameras in the school don’t lie either. And the pack of cigarettes on his desk along with the zebra-print lighter carved with “Gigi” sitting on top of the green folder? Cold, hard evidence.
I shrug. “I like the smell.”
His eyebrows melt into his protruding forehead. Small children have gone lost in there, never to return.
“You like the smell of cigarettes?”
And so, begins our daily staring contest. Each of us searching for the missing plate in the other’s armor before loosing the final black iron arrow. These battles have gone on for hours. Sometimes days. Often weeks. Neither one of us willing to admit defeat. Neither one of us willing to yield.
That is until today.
The intercom squawks during a particularly intense clash. Donahue narrows his eyes, still glaring at me as he presses the button.
“Yes, Doris?”
“Dr. Donahue, Dr. McCleery is on the line.”
The bulging vein in his forehead thrums into action. “Miss Brennan, you and I aren’t through with this conversation. Tell Mrs. Kelso to add another ten days of after-school detention to your sentence.”
“So, that puts me at five years past my graduation date?”
He ignores my smart retort, more interested in speaking with Uncle Mark instead.
“Hello, Dr. McCleery. Yes, I wanted to talk to you about Breas, your foreign exchange student?”
That’s the hunky Irishman’s name. Figures.
“He and I have had several differences in opinion. I would appreciate it if you could come in to discuss the matter further.”
Stunned into silence, I sit as a delinquent-in-waiting.
Fire alarms have gone off. Food fights have broken out. Angry parents have banged on his door, and still, after one of us claims victory, he always, I mean always, begins with his “Make Good Choices” lecture and leads into “This is the last time, young lady. Next stop, Juvie.”
But he skips the lecture and doesn’t even dismiss me with his trademark off-you-go wave, because he’s completely absorbed in his conversation with Uncle Mark.
And speaking of Uncle Mark, why did he fail to mention Breas’s arrival last night at dinner or the half dozen other nights last week? Having some stranger live with you seems a pretty important event in one’s life, but no. He said nothing. He acted as Principal Donahue is acting now. As if I am invisible. As if Breas’s housing situation has nothing to do with me.
And as for that initial attraction I felt?
It vanished the moment he claimed me as his.
I, Gigi Brennan, belong to no one.
2
Past Infractions
Lizzie pulls a binder out of her locker. “So, did you get in trouble?”
I flop back against the wall. “The day I get in any real trouble is the day I find Jesus.”
“That soft spot for your mom still gets him hard, huh?”
I shove her across the hall. “Ewww!”
She rushes over and grabs my arm. “Oh my god, what if Donahue is your father?”
I jerk out of her grasp. “That’s not even funny. My dad’s some drug addict the birth vessel met at a crack house. Besides, Donahue’s like seven feet tall and half walrus.” I gesture to my five-foot-nothing frame.
She swooshes my cropped white hair up and flicks the short black hair underneath. “Maybe your mom had sex with a skunk.”
I backpedal away from her. “You’re a bitch, you know that?”
“That’s what friends are for. We acknowledge our weaknesses and still love each other. Have you caught wind of the new guy yet?”
“Caught wind of him? Are we really continuing this skunk analogy?”
She winks at me. “Mrs. Bauguess impresses on us the importance of word choice. And, you didn’t answer my question.”
Just the mention of the “new guy” makes me feel woozy. “He told me I was ‘his.’”
“What?” Her fingers dig into my arm as she catches me with her laser-beam stare. One of these days I really think she’s going to slice me in half with it.
“He blew out of Donahue’s office, took one blazing breath as he stalked across the office, and said, ‘You’re mine,’ in his Irish accent before drifting out the door.”
“What did you do?”
“For the first minute I sat like a dumb ass with my thumb up my bum. Then my brain started working again, and I regretted not kicking him in the Good and Plenties when I had the chance.”
She snorts out of her nose. She has the best laughs. Even when I’m mad and want to break something, which is actually quite often, she makes me laugh every single time.
“Gi, he’s gorgeous—and Irish. That alone makes him an object of interest. Did you see his broad shoulders? He’s a delicious piece of man-flesh,” she says, biting her wrist.
I slam my locker shut. “Exactly. Where’s the damaged soul? Where are the layers of scar tissue?”
Her lips curl up. “You like the ones you can love and leave.”
I place my hand over my heart. “True. Leaving is quite satisfying. Imagine if your parents knew you were best friends with a girl whose flower has been plucked more times than a wedding bouquet.”
She punches my arm. “Gi, don’t joke about my parents’ moral compass. If they knew I was friends with you, we both know what would happen.”
Her Jehovah’s Witness parents prohibit any and all interaction with non-JWs outside of school unless the JW is ministering a non-JW. I get a lot of ministering. Well, her parents don’t know she’s helping the Gigi Brennan. They think she’s helping a troubled youth and not the daughter of the whore who evidently used to be their friend. But really, I am one and the same.
A wave of unease falls over me as a fresh breeze smelling of a late-day sun shower replaces the stale, moldy, sweat smell of the hallway. My heart thumps into a frantic double beat. Everything around me grows cloudy, sort of out-of-body, like I’m watching all this weird shit happen to me and I can’t do anything about it.
As if that’s not cause for a panic attack, I forget how to inhale. Seriously forget how to pull oxygen into my lungs and release carbon dioxide. All made worse by scorching fingertips trailing along the curve of my jaw.
“Mine,” a hot, suffocating breath whispers in my ear. My eyes roll back in my head, and everything goes black.
3
Friends of Three
The ammonia leaves me gasping for air.
“You’ll feel better in a few minutes,” Mrs. Paige says, patting my arm.
“What happened?” I ask her, but I don’t recognize my voice. It sounds like I swallowed a mouthful of sand, and I haven’t willingly done that since I was at least four.
Before she can answer, a pale-faced Scott bursts into the room, followed closely by Lizzie and Ryan. “What happened? Is she okay?”
“Gigi’s fine, but she needs some breathing room.”
Scott grabs my left hand, Lizzie grabs my right, and Ryan grips my blanket-covered feet.
Mrs. Paige rolls her eyes. “So much for space. To answer your question, Gigi, I don’t know what happened. Usually a sudden drop in blood pressure causes someone to faint. I think you’re fine—some rest, something to eat, and your grandmother wants you to drink this.”
She hands me a steaming mug of tea.
“You called Gram?”
She nods. “Of course I did. When Rose Brennan’s granddaughter faints, I’m going to call my friend. Will you let her know I need more tea?”
<
br /> I glance at the handmade mug with the blue-green wash and Celtic knot stamp. It appears that Gram not only supplies Mrs. Paige with her cure-all tea, but her pottery as well. But Mrs. Paige’s version of the tea makes me wince. Lavender and lemon verbena mask the scent of the more noxious herbs, but not the bitterness.
“Did she send you any of her honey?”
She removes the arm pressure cuff. “No, dear, just the tea.”
I sip some more, and the rough edges of the nightmare fall away.
Thank god, because that creepy otherworldly crap was too much for me. For as long as I can remember, I’ve drunk Gram’s tea three times a day without fail. Well, mostly without fail. This morning, after I sat my mug on the windowsill to water a plant, Boo Bear knocked it over in his blind attempt—no really, he’s blind—to get a scratch. I mopped up the mess but didn’t bother to brew another cup.
Scott plops down on the bed next to me. “Dad’s on his way. He’ll drop you off to Gram. I’d go home with you, but I have practice after school.”