The Destined Divines: Divine Witches, #1

By JJ Otis

Riddled with anxiety and guilt, all seventeen-year-old Meg wants is to forget her grief-filled past and ace her coveted dance audition. All goes according to plan until a startling vision of a phantom attacking a bloodied stranger causes her to collapse during a crucial move. Injured and disappointed, Meg tries to convince herself that it was just a hallucination brought on by a seizure.

 

But when Meg attends a new school and meets the boy she saw in the vision, she isn't sure what to believe anymore. And that's only the beginning of bizarre things happening in Meg's life: the phantom from the vision and a desolate city with crystal towers haunt her nightmares, a hidden room in a historic manor reveals dark secrets, and the spirit of a young woman warns Meg of horror to come.

 

Except, the horror strikes sooner than expected, and Meg realizes she's entangled in something far beyond her comprehension. As Meg struggles to tie these strange events together, she must overcome her inner demons of anxiety and self-doubt before the phantom of her nightmares destroys her and all those she holds dear.

 

The Destined Divines is the first book in the Divine Witches duology. Full of twists and turns, unique magic, a touch of romance, and endearingly flawed characters, this YA Paranormal Fantasy is perfect for fans of Sarra Cannon's, The Shadow Demons Saga, Libba Bray's, The Diviners, and Kim Chance's, Keeper.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: JJ Otis
• Release date: Oct 12, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201870386

Book preview

Chapter 1

Dancing is freedom. Freedom to tell a story the way I want to. Freedom from my anxious mind and all that’s going on in the world. Everything melts away when I dance.

It’s why I’m standing in the lobby of Allegra’s Star Academy of Dance. I’m one of fifty dancers competing for a coveted dance internship. If I do, then next year I’ll have no problem getting into one of the best university dance programs in the country.

But if I don’t get into Allegra’s, my entire plan will crumble, and I’ll fail again. The constant thoughts weigh as heavily on me as the guilt of what happened with JD last year. My stomach knots into a pretzel. It’s all my fault. If only I’d—

No. Stop. Concentrate. Breathe.

But a bundle of nerves continues to twist inside me, and I tighten my grip on the strap of my tote. Having the jitters before an audition is normal, but for me, it’s much more than that. Anxiety suffocates me as though I have heavy stones crushing my chest.

The line moves forward, and a hum of voices surrounds me. Floor-to-ceiling windows behind us allow the summer sunlight to spill over the entire space and sparkle on the gray and white marble tile. Some dancers stretch while they wait in line. Others chatter to their parents and one another. I’m not from Boston, where Allegra’s resides, so I don’t know any of them. A few days ago, we moved from Michigan to a tiny seaside town called Port Paxton, northeast of the city.

To keep my mind busy, I run through my routine for the thousandth time and tap a finger as I count. But a girl with bright red hair and freckles rushes past me toward the main doors, sobbing. My breath catches and blood thumps faster through my veins. I can’t end up like her. I can’t mess up this audition. If I do, my harbored dream will fracture into a million pieces, and I lack the strength to pick them all up.

Ugh, stop thinking about it.

Beside me, Uncle Blake studies me with his brown eyes, the wrinkles on his forehead deepening the longer he stares. His lips turn upward into an encouraging smile, but he runs a hand over his receding salt-and-pepper hair. To hide my nerves, I take a slow, deep breath.

It’d help if my anxiety medication would work. Only two more people and I can sign in.

Tapping a finger again, I count to the beat in my head. Yet it doesn’t take long for my anxious mind to betray me, and the final moments I had with JD bubble to the surface. Heat washes over me like a wave. Nausea swirls in my stomach and sweat beads on my hands.

Even though the memories are painful, I wish JD were here today. He always told me I could achieve my dream of becoming a dancer when others laughed. Now, without him beside me, I doubt myself more than ever. But my first love is never coming back, because it’s my fault he’s dead.

I inhale and glide a trembling finger over the June birthstones of the necklace my parents gave me ten years ago on my seventh birthday. First, a tiny pink pearl, then a medium Alexandrite, and finally, the large rainbow moonstone. I’m not sure why, but it’s as though the stones give me strength when I need it. They’re kind of like a lucky charm. I exhale and roll my shoulders, easing the tension coiled within me.

The girl in front of me flicks her long, dark hair behind her, and I catch the faint scent of coconut. She pulls the thin strands together into a ponytail and secures it into a tight bun. I glide my fingers through my dark auburn hair to ensure that it’s secured and some curls frame my face. Satisfied, I smooth out my teal dress, trying to ignore the urge to check my hair again.

Ahead of us, a blond male dancer stands behind the sign-in table and takes names. He points to where people need to go. His phone dings, and as he reads it, I wonder what it says to distract myself. But more restless thoughts push through the serenity, and my mother’s voice whispers in my head.

A moonstone can lock away secrets beneath its pearly veil, even our own hidden truths.

It’s funny how random memories of her surface from time to time. I can’t remember why she said this to me. I glimpse the iridescent glow of the moonstone on my necklace. Could a gemstone hold such knowledge? I wish it could tell me words of wisdom or encouragement from my parents or JD to help me right now. But there’s no way a stone can do that. And even if it could, it’s not like I can crack it open like an egg and find out.

Uncle Blake clears his throat and brings me back to the reality of standing in line at Allegra’s. He’s my rock. Uncle Blake always keeps me grounded. I wish he’d allow himself to live life more, but he’s such a homebody. He never complains about his lack of social life either. Whenever I try to get him to go out, Uncle Blake says he’d rather spend time with me. It’s nice when he’s home, but I feel guilty sometimes, and at other times, like I’m a burden to him. Especially this past year after the accident with JD. It cost us both.

At last, the line moves, and we step forward. A sharp pain radiates through the knee I injured in the car accident. I hold my breath so Uncle Blake doesn’t notice.

But he reaches out and holds my hand. Meg, sweetheart. Are you sure you’re ready?

Dang it, he always knows.

Of course, I say in the calmest tone I can muster.

His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t call my bluff.

God, it sucks how he always knows when I’m lying. Why does he have to be such a talented detective?

He lowers his head and says. Don’t feel like you have to do this. I don’t care about the cost. Your health and well-being are what matter to me.

Maybe I should leave. The physical therapist said my knee isn’t strong enough yet, and I should wait to audition. I could fail and blow everything. My hands shake more, so I tighten the grip on my tote even more.

Do you think I should wait?

I know dancing has helped you through so much. But, sweetheart, I’ll understand if you want to wait and not go here yet.

I nod, and a stray piece of my hair falls into my face, so I brush the curl away. I open my mouth to respond, but he continues.

Going to Allegra’s is a huge commitment, and things are different now. Over the past year, you’ve been through so much. I’ll support you in any decision you make. But I want you to be sure you’re ready for all of this.

I stare at the sign-in table. A voice inside me screams to sprint to the truck and go home. It nags at me, saying I don’t deserve to dance again or to go to Allegra’s. But JD’s words of encouragement return to me . . . No matter what, don’t give up. His support has always kept me going, and I won’t let him down now.

I know, I tell Uncle Blake. But I need to at least try, or I’ll never know.

He pats my shoulder and smiles. Stubborn and determined, just like your mom. I’m proud of you, and so are your parents. I’m sure they’re watching over you . . . and so is JD.

At his words, I grasp my necklace again, and tears brim my eyes. He’s right. My parents aren’t here, but they’re always with me. I force a smile in appreciation.

My turn comes, and I move forward. The guy working to keep everyone organized holds a clipboard and clicks the pen impatiently. Up close, he reminds me of a dancer in Michigan who had a scar under his left eye because a dog bit him when he was a kid. But this dancer has an arrogance about him, and he wrinkles his nose as he glares at me.

Meghan Daly.

He scans the list and marks a check on the page. Here’s your number. Some time slots have changed because of no-shows, and . . . He reads his phone again. They just moved yours up, so you’d better hurry. Go down the hall, and someone will escort you backstage. He writes a number on a sticker and hands it to me. I peel it off and place it on the left side of my chest, just below my collarbone.

Thanks. I hurry to a red padded bench to sit down. Uncle Blake trails behind me but remains standing as I open my bag and pull out my foot paws. Once I kick my sneakers off, I slip my toes through the holes of the fabric, and I pull the rest of it over the ball of my foot, leaving my heel bare. I always have a tingle of excitement when I put them on, but now the nerves inside me don’t let it last long. Only perfection is acceptable today.

All set? Uncle Blake takes my shoes and bag.

I think so.

He hugs me tight. The woody notes of his cologne are soothing, as always. Dance your heart out, sweetie.

I grin at him and rush down the hallway to the door of a warm-up room. A girl exits from it and stops.

She glances at my number tag. There you are. She motions for me to follow her. You need to get backstage.

She’s much taller than I am, and her bright hazel eyes remind me of JD. To escape the thoughts of him, I build a vault in my mind to keep them locked away. The vault doesn’t always work, but it helps to keep them at bay for a while. I jog to keep up with her. At last, she stops by a doorway and gestures for me to enter, then hurries down the hall to the dancers waiting in the warm-up room.

I wish I had more time to prepare, but maybe it’s a good thing they’re rushing me to the stage. The more time I have, the more my anxiety will increase. And right now, I can’t afford that. I need to focus.

I take a deep breath as I enter the sweltering backstage area. Another hopeful dancer stretches and ignores my presence. An older man with white hair and black-rimmed glasses stands near the red velvet curtain and peeks out at the stage. Strips of lights along the ceiling shine like bright stars on the walnut wood floor. I find a spot near the wall, and my heart thumps so loud, I hope they can’t hear it. As I warm up, I roll my shoulders back, and then forward. In an instant, sweat beads on my forehead, and I wave my hand in front of my face to cool off.

It’s almost August. Can’t anyone turn on the AC in here?

A lanky brunette girl sprints off stage with tears streaming down her puffy red face. I meet the gaze of the other dancer, who has stopped rehearsing. She tilts her head and gives me a tight half-smile as if to say, poor thing. My chest tightens, and I pray I don’t have the same result. The other dancer straightens her shoulders with determination, waiting for her turn. Her muscular build makes her appear more like a gymnast than a dancer.

I force myself to continue stretching, but my restless thoughts interrupt my concentration. That could be me. I could mess up. Nausea twirls in my stomach like a distraught ballerina and all I want to do is to curl up in a ball. To subdue it, I instead inhale, then slowly release the air. Focus. My finger glides over the moonstone pendant again. A minute later, I’m relaxed and centered. After tucking the necklace into my bra, I pull my foot up to stretch my quad muscles.

I will make them proud today. Dancing is what I’m supposed to do. I can do this.

The man standing at the curtain calls out a number and waits as the other girl approaches him. He whispers something to her, and motions for her to go. She steps onto the stage, looking like a dazed bird that hit a window. I can’t help but wonder if I look like that before I audition.

I hope not. Deep breath. I’m next.

Over the next few minutes, I continue to do a few moves of my routine to prepare. Soon, the girl dashes off stage with a giant grin on her face. The man calls number twelve thirty-one and sweat runs down my neck.

This is it. I approach the edge of the stage, and he gives me a reassuring smile.

Your turn, miss. Break a leg, the man whispers.

Every muscle in my body tightens at his words. I hate that saying. It dredges up memories of firefighters telling me to stay awake and keep calm while they worked to get my trapped leg free.

He motions for me to go ahead, and I put my mask of happiness on as I step onto the stage.

My heart flutters and a storm of nerves bursts like fireworks inside me as I walk to center stage. Gentle air from the fan high above cools and soothes me. I lock my trembling hands together in front of my waist and broaden my smile, hoping it doesn’t appear as fake as it feels. The blazing spotlight ignites a spark of exhilaration inside me and obstructs the sea of crimson seats ahead.

Name, an icy female voice says from the black hole in front of the stage.

Meghan Daly, I say as loud as I can without yelling.

When you’re ready, Miss Daly, orders a gruff male voice.

I gesture for my music selection. The instant the rhythmic piano notes begin to rise and fall, the song steers my movements. I glide across the stage, generating the illusion of my feet not touching it. Pulsing drums join in and the music pumps through me. Nothing exists but my body and the beat.

I’ve chosen to combine different dance styles to demonstrate my abilities. Part way into the routine, I do a calypso leap with my left leg straight forward while the right is bent backward with my foot almost touching my head. The tension in the pit of my stomach disappears, and I’m free. I bend so my head is near my knee and pivot myself into a side aerial. Once I land, I add some hip-hop attitude with a toss of my hair and a few old-school moves.

Less than a minute and my routine is over, so it’s time to show what I can do. A surge of adrenaline provides me with the power I need to do the Matrix move. Balancing on the balls of my feet, I bend my knees and drop backward. I’m horizontally inches from the floor, yet neither my body nor hands make contact with it. With graceful strength, I rise and launch into the last twenty seconds. But the music fades away as if someone is taking the stereo out of the theatre, and the spotlight spins like a pinwheel, blinding me. I lose my bearings and struggle to stay on my feet. When the light stops moving, an image snaps into my mind.

I’m standing in a small room. There’s a stained-glass window with diamond-shaped panes and a pyramid ceiling. A guy with dark sapphire eyes and a boyishly handsome face peers down at me. There’s intense devotion in his eyes, then a flash of fear. The scent of sandalwood in his cologne calms me. He caresses my cheeks, leaving smears of a warm liquid on my skin, and presses his lips to mine. A powerful energy draws me to him, and my heart hammers in my chest as I press against him. Scarlet blood covers us both.

He leans his forehead on mine, and whispers, Help me.

A black phantom with glowing red orbs for eyes materializes over his shoulder. I sweep one arm to the side as though trying to shove it away while holding tight to him with my other hand. But the room vanishes, and he’s yanked from my grasp.

A piercing scream rattles through my bones and I plummet through the air until I smash against an unforgiving surface. A sharp pain soars through my leg. I stifle a sob that threatens to erupt from my throat.

What happened? I search for the guy who kissed me, but a light blinds me. Where did he go? I’ve never seen him before. Why did he plead for my help? And what was that black thing with red eyes?

My body trembles and throbs as the auditorium comes into focus. I’m still in Allegra’s, but I’m no longer on the stage. I lie crumpled on the floor near the front row of seats.

Oh, God, no. How did I fall off the stage? I can’t fail.

The carpet is shards of glass, cutting into my hands as I push myself to a sitting position. I take a breath, and an excruciating stab in my side forces me to stop.

Miss Daly, are you alright? A woman kneels beside me.

Her uncle is on his way, another woman’s voice says from somewhere behind me. I had Dan go get him.

No, I say. Uncle Blake doesn’t need to see me like this. I try to get up, but the woman next to me holds me still.

You should stay put. Her long black braids swing in front of my face as she leans over me. She gives me an apologetic smile, but her smooth brown forehead wrinkles with concern. I’m Miss Rashleigh. We spoke on the phone a few weeks ago.

I tip my head in acknowledgement, and the motion makes the room spin. Shutting my eyes, I pray it stops.

It’ll be alright. Don’t you worry, Miss Rashleigh says in a soothing voice.

My arm aches. I rub it, wondering if I landed on it when I fell. I examine a mark on my inner wrist that looks like a tattoo, and confusion swirls inside me. I don’t have tattoos. Uncle Blake doesn’t like them and refuses to let me get one. It’s a dark-lined circle about the size of a quarter with lines jetting from the center and reminds me of a sun. I trace it with a fingertip, trying to think of a reason for how it got there. It must be dirt or a rug burn from the fall. I cross my arms to hide it because deep in my core, a tiny voice tells me I’m wrong.

Meg! Uncle Blake’s voice booms as he sprints down the aisle. He drops to his knees beside me. What happened?

I shut my eyes to steady my reeling mind. I don’t know.

Miss Rashleigh gets to her feet and pulls him aside to talk. The words hospital and seizure catch my attention.

Seizure? Tears burn my eyes, and I blink them away. Did I have a seizure? Do people hallucinate during them? If they do, maybe I did have one. What does it mean now? Do I have to go to the hospital?

Miss Rashleigh kneels beside me again. Get yourself checked out by a doctor, and we’ll discuss redoing your audition. Okay?

What if the doctor says I can’t dance? I try not to choke on the words.

If it comes to that, we’ll deal with it, Uncle Blake tells me.

My heart plummets and my stomach churns with nausea. I’m a failure, as always. Why did I even try?

Uncle Blake moves to help me stand, but I shove his hands away and struggle to my feet. Pain shoots through my side, and I suppress a whimper as I stumble and lean against the side of the stage. The floor sways beneath me like a boat on turbulent water, and a wave of nausea washes over me.

Let’s get you to a doctor, Uncle Blake says.

My entire body shudders in agony as he picks me up and carries me out of Allegra’s Star Academy of Dance.

Chapter 2

A recurring nightmare of the red-eyed shadow from my audition in late July plagues me each night now. My body shudders at the memory of the icy sensation of the phantom strangling me. I rub my throat with one hand and squeeze the side of the sink with the other. How can a shadow touch me? It doesn’t make sense.

But it’s just a dream, and dreams don’t make sense, right? I don’t have time to worry about it. At this rate, I’ll be late for my first day of school.

With a shaky hand, I tip the foundation bottle to apply it to the makeup applicator. Uncle Blake pounding on the bathroom door startles me so much I drop the foam makeup applicator in the sink.

Better get a move on, or you’ll be late.

Alright, alright! I reach into the sink to snatch up the sponge, but it flies toward me through the air and hits me in the chest. My breath catches, and I can only watch as it falls to the floor.

What the hell? I didn’t touch it.

A timer beeps in the kitchen, causing me to jump, and I grab it off the floor. I dab the makeup onto my wrist to cover the sun-shaped mark from my audition. Next to it, there’s now a crescent with five stars inside it. So weird. It keeps getting more detailed as time goes on.

Anxiety gnaws at me. I still don’t understand how I got this strange symbol. If Uncle Blake notices it, he’ll flip out and ground me until I graduate. I wish I knew how it just appeared on my wrist. Just like I wish I knew how I saw that blue-eyed boy. Unless the internet is right and seizures can cause hallucinations.

Breakfast, Uncle Blake hollers from the kitchen.

Coming. Once I finish applying the foundation, I pull the shirtsleeve over my wrist and make my way down the hall.

The first rays of sunlight filter through the blinds on the patio doors and brighten the old-style kitchen with dark wood cabinets and pale-blue walls. Our black Labrador, Sloane, lies under the small round table. I pat her head before sitting. Uncle Blake sets a plate in front of me with a frozen breakfast sandwich on it. It’s one of his specialties. He’s a horrible cook and only heats food in the microwave. My dad couldn’t cook either. Maybe it’s a genetic thing none of the men in my family can cook.

Uncle Blake heads over to the coffeemaker on the counter to fill his travel cup. Ready for your senior year?

I guess.

Whoopie.

My fresh start was supposed to be better than last year. This year, I was supposed to finish high school in Port Paxton and be part of Allegra’s exclusive dance internship program.

But now, I want to be invisible.

Uncle Blake tilts his head and gazes outside as if lost in thought. It seems like yesterday you were all dressed up with your Winnie the Pooh backpack, getting on the bus for your first day of kindergarten.

You weren’t even there that day. I take a bite of my food. It’s disgusting but I don’t want to hurt his feelings since he took the time to make me breakfast, so I force the lump of odd tasting cheese and egg down my throat. A sip of peppermint tea soothes me, though.

Uncle Blake pulls his blazer from the back of a chair and shrugs it on. Yes, well, you know what I mean. Your mom showed me pictures.

I drink more of my tea and pick the sandwich apart. Mm-hm.

Hey, don’t be so down. Before you know it, you’ll be graduating and auditioning at Allegra’s again.

I never should have auditioned this summer.

Sweetheart, he pauses to adjust the top button of his shirt, you didn’t know you were going to have a seizure and fall off the stage. It had nothing to do with your knee.

He’s right, but I still wonder why it happened. The doctor said my CT scans were normal. Thankfully, I only sprained my knee, so I didn’t have to wear a knee brace as long as I had to after the car accident. But I still have to do physical therapy for another few months. And the bruised rib hurt more than my knee.

I know, but I wasted your time and money. I take a bite of the biscuit and debate if I can eat the entire thing. Hopefully, Uncle Blake will leave soon, so I can throw it away and grab a banana and yogurt instead.

No, you didn’t. You’re talented. You earned an audition at Allegra’s when other dancers didn’t. He bends over and gently lifts my chin. I’m proud of you for being so brave. It takes a lot to put yourself out there. Remember, you’re only a failure if you stop trying. You need to believe in yourself. You’re an extraordinary young woman and stronger than you know.

Thanks, I say, hoping he’ll stop.

Uncle Blake kisses me on top of the head. Love you to infinity. See you tonight. Have a good first day.

Love you infinity squared.

He heads to the garage, and the overhead door rumbles open and closes as he leaves. I pet Sloane’s head, and she whines when I stop.

Sorry, I’d better go too. I toss the horrid food into the trash and gobble down a banana. At the front door, I grab my backpack off the floor. Sloane lumbers over to me, and I rub her ears. See ya later. Be good. I step out onto the tiny porch and lock the door behind me.

I grab my bike, which leans against the faded white porch railing. As I pedal down the sidewalk, a melodic chorus of birds and the morning traffic hum past me. I glide to a stop at the corner and glance toward Main Street. The early September breeze from the ocean brushes my cheeks, invigorating me. The charm of Port Paxton with its vibrant colored shops lining Main Street and red brick sidewalks is comforting. Today, I’m grateful the town is small, so I can ride my bike. The mere thought of driving a car makes my stomach do flip-flops.

Style and Grace Dance Studio stands down the street, and my muscles tighten. I miss dancing. Not doing it now is torture. Maybe later I’ll stop in and ask about a part-time job. A detective’s salary only goes so far, so if I want spending money of my own, I need to earn it.

I reach the school and lock my bike to a rack in the front. The parking lot is bustling with students as I toss my backpack over my shoulder and make my way to the entrance. A twinge of pain hits my knee, causing me to stop for a second to examine the gray stone, two-story building looming above me. It’s more like a huge manor with its tall windows, grand staircase, and clock tower behind the central portion.

I pray it’s a good day without drama. That’s the last thing I need. My stomach churns so much it hurts as I pull the huge wooden door open to reveal an entryway with two curving staircases.

I side-step to avoid being trampled by a herd of boys and yank out a piece of paper from the pocket of my jeans. Even though I’ve memorized my schedule, my brain has shut down. As I continue to study it, I move forward and ram right into a guy. He smooths out his grey button-down shirt, shoves an antique heart locket into his pocket, and leers at me with intense ice-blue eyes. I cock my head to the side.

Why in the world does he have a locket? And why’s he looking at me like that? Oh no, do I have something in my hair or on my face? I need a mirror.

I step to the left. Sorry . . . excuse me.

You look lost. Want some help? He holds out his hand, waiting for me to give him my schedule.

My mouth moves, but I can’t form words. Behind us, the door swings open and a gust of cool air rushes inside. He plucks the paper from my hand, and icy prickles run down my spine.

He studies my schedule with a furrowed brow. Ah, you’re a senior too. Go left to find your locker. History class is up the stairs, third door on the right. He points to the left side of the staircase and hands the schedule to me.

I take it from him, not sure what to say. Thanks.

He waves. See ya around, Meghan.

It’s Meg, actually.

Whatever you say, Meg actually. He winks and saunters away.

Part of me wonders if he’s flirting with me. If he is, then he’s in for a surprise. I’m not dating. Not now. Not ever again. My Rapunzel tower I built after JD died keeps me protected. No one can tear it down or scale the walls to reach me. No one.

A group of younger girls ogle him. One of them twirls her hair and grins in his direction. Hey, Jacen.

How’s it going? Jacen asks as he walks past them. The girl giggles and follows her friends up the stairs.

I wander down the hall until I find locker 809 and enter the combination, but it won’t budge. Grumbling to myself, I try it again. The door opens this time, so I place my bag inside the locker and grab what supplies I need. Clutching a notebook to my chest, I climb the stairs to my first class.

The classroom has an artistic vibe to it, with three half-circle windows and a walnut-colored floor. There are empty seats in the back, so I stroll toward one by a window.

A guy wearing a maroon soccer jersey peeks at me as I sit at the desk behind and to the right of him. A few other guys are sitting on desks surrounding him.

Oh, come on, Tommy boy, one says, slapping him on the shoulder. Stop being so humble. I bet you end up getting a scholarship to any school you want.

Yeah, and next year our team is gonna suck, ’cause we won’t have you, another chimes in.

You’ll do fine. Tommy fiddles with his pencil as though he’s embarrassed and would rather not have their attention.

I try to tune out their rambling voices and brush a finger across my wrist to make sure the makeup is still covering the mark.

The bell rings, and another guy rushes in and slides into the seat next to me. My heart leaps at the sight of him. He leans back in the chair, one leg bent and the other stretching straight in front of him. Dark rinse jeans and a navy Henley shirt show off his slim but athletic physique. His stunning sapphire eyes lock with mine, and I can’t breathe. He’s the guy from my audition incident.

But how? The research I did said seizures can cause hallucinations.

Yet, here he is beside me. His jaw drops open, as a hint of confusion and shock flickers across his face. He studies me closely, then grins and turns his attention to the front of the room. But I’m still frozen and bewildered.

Finally, I rip my gaze from him and lower it to my desk. Taking a deep breath, I fidget with my pen cap.

Meghan Daly, the teacher—Mr. Mallen, according to my schedule—says from the front of the room. I raise my hand. After a minute of going down the list, he says, Landen Reed.

The guy next to me raises his hand.

I repeat his name over and over in my head. How did I see Landen during my audition? Why did he ask for my help?

All during class, I block out Mr. Mallen’s babbling monotone voice and try not to gawk at Landen, but I peek a few times to find him staring at me. At last, the dismissal bell rings. Too shaken to talk to him, I hurry out the door and head straight to my next class.

A couple of hours later, I’m walking toward my locker when everything becomes hazy. The floor moves as though I’m fighting ocean waves, and I stumble. My muscles flinch in anticipation of hitting the hard tiles. Instead, Landen rushes to my side and catches me. A burst of electricity flows through me at his touch. As he steadies me, an image flashes before