Blurb:
Sophia Perez-Hidalgo’s
survival depends upon her mastering magic and the supernatural before her
lawless parents and their vengeful boss catch up to her. How far must she flee
to escape them forever? Sophia runs until she’s out of stolen money, then…Fate
delivers her into the arms of Louisiana teen Shi-loh Breaux Martine, and his
grand-mère, a reclusive voodoo priestess living deep in the bayou.
Breaux knows Sophia is
trouble — but he’ll travel through time, battle zombies, and risk his bright
future to protect her. While Ainslie, best friend extraordinaire, will
jeopardize her sanity to find and aid Sophia. When friendship, magic, and love
are not enough, Sophia will have to save herself. But first, she must believe
she’s worth saving.
Author:
Ariella Moon is the
author of the Teen Wytche Saga, a sweet Young Adult paranormal series. Ariella
writes about magic, friendship, high school, love and time travel, in Spell
Check, Spell Struck, Spell Fire, and Spell For Sophia from Astraea Press.
Ariella spent her
childhood searching for a magical wardrobe that would transport her to Narnia.
Extreme math anxiety, and taller students who mistook her for a leaning post,
marred her youth. Despite these horrors, she graduated summa cum laude from the
University of California at Davis. Ariella is a Reiki Master, author, and
shaman. She lives a nearly normal life with her extraordinary daughter, two
shamelessly spoiled dogs, and an enormous dragon.
Now available on
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ღ Amazon ღ Barnes & Noble ღ Smashwords ღ
Excerpt:
Prologue
Two-and-a-half years
ago
I'd thought escaping
would uncoil the fear and worry squeezing my heart. I figured I'd stop looking
over my shoulder once I crossed the California state line, or Arizona's, or New
Mexico's, or the border between Texas and Louisiana. But I hadn't. Terror and
hunger dogged me. I reeked of desperation. My head throbbed from all the bad
decisions I had made since I'd found my bio-parents.
I could still pull out
of this; save Christmas. Call Ainslie, the voice inside my head urged. I bet
he'll loan you his phone. My gaze zeroed in on the leader of a ragtag group
playing basketball on the schoolyard. His short black curls had been coaxed
away from his face, revealing warm nutmeg-colored skin and kind, dark eyes.
Fifteen years old? I wondered.
He handed the
basketball to a young white girl, then glanced my way. His head-to-toe sweep
took in my gaunt face, long inky hair, grungy jacket and jeans, scuffed ankle
boots, and the school backpack at my feet. He glanced protectively at the
little kids who shouted at the girl to pass the ball. Then his gaze migrated
back to me. His mouth twisted to one side. I could hear the word tolling inside
his head. Trouble.
I hunkered against the
side of the school building and tugged my gray knit cap low over my forehead.
"Who's she?"
A little kid with Christmas bows stuck on her wooly ponytails wrapped herself
around the teen's leg. Her fearful stare gutted me. I'm pretty sure I had worn
the same expression the first time I'd entered foster care.
Kick it. I pushed away
from the wall. My vision blurred. My hollow stomach whirled and the schoolyard
spun like a carousel ride. I braced myself against the cool bricks until the
dizziness passed. Pull it together. It will be dark soon. I needed to find a
restaurant or fast food joint — any place open on Christmas where I could
dumpster dive for food scraps.
I lowered my eyelids
and tried to picture the route I had walked from the train station. I hadn't
planned on wandering through a lush Louisiana neighborhood. The children's
shouts and laughter had lured me to the brick school and its asphalt
playground. School had been my favorite place, before…
My thoughts torpedoed
back to the barren southern California desert. Some developer had gone bust,
and all that remained of his planned subdivision was a paved road dead-ending
in sand. "Hide in plain sight," Mamá had said as Papá parked their
pink-and-white vintage camper. The vehicle stood out among the sagebrush and
creosote like a slash of bubblegum paint.
Hide what? I had
wondered. I soon had my answer: a methamphetamine lab.
I rubbed my arms,
creating an X over my chest. Embarrassment heated my cheeks. How stupid and
naïve I had been. My parents hadn't gone legit. They were trying to evade the
local cops and the Drug Enforcement Agency. They had planned to flee northern
California without phoning my caseworker or me. If I had waited just one more
day to contact them…
"See, the cops
would be looking for a couple, not a family," I later overheard Papá boast
to his boss.
"Weren't you
worried they'd issue an Amber Alert?" one of the boss's henchmen asked,
casting a sideways look at me.
"For a foster
teen?" Papá scoffed. "They run away all the time."
My heart accelerated.
Heat flooded my body. Gasoline fumes seared my nose and throat as if I still
held the peanut butter jar full of siphoned petrol.
I forced my eyes open.
The skin grafts on my throat and arm tightened like a noose and tourniquet. I
managed a shaky step. The basketball thudding against the pavement stilled.
"You okay?"
the boy called out.
My brain hunted for an
answer and came up empty. When did I eat last?
Footsteps, rapid and
rhythmic, raced toward me, growing louder with each footfall. My stomach
whooshed. My eyes rolled back inside my head. The schoolyard went black and
blinding starbursts flashed before my unseeing eyes. My legs floated away and I
freefell backward.
The earthy scent of
musk cologne and male sweat jolted me awake. Minutes must have passed. Sinewy
arms carried me against a damp, solid chest.
"She's waking
up," the white girl reported.
"Good." The
boy's voice enveloped me like a fleece-lined blanket. "Everyone hold
hands. We're going to cross after this truck."
My eyelids refused to
open. I registered the rattle of a slow-moving pickup as it drove past. The
boy's arms tensed. He tightened his hold on me, then stepped down off a curb.
"I can
walk," I mumbled, pretty sure I felt like dead weight in his arms.
The boy chuckled.
"Sure you can." He crossed the street without breaking stride,
tensing again before he stepped up on the far curb. His heart drummed steadily
against my ear. My eyes wedged open a slit.
"I'll fetch Miss
Wanda," the younger of the two white girls said. She had the same
heart-shaped face and blond braids as the older girl. She raced up the steps of
a two-story house with pearl-colored siding. "Miss Wanda!" she
shouted. Her sister followed, stooped beneath the weight of my backpack. She
held two small children by the hand — Christmas Bow Girl and a boy who appeared
to be about four.
