“Guys, guys,” I said, holding up my hands for a cease-fire. “We can’t fling short jokes at each other when we’re all short. It’s just not effective.”

“That’s true,” Brooklyn said in disappointment.

“No, it’s not. I am three, count them, three”—he held up three fingers for us to count—“inches taller than the likes of you two. I can’t believe I’m willing to be seen in public with either of you.”

“Glitch,” Brooklyn said, a warning edge in her voice, “I will stab you in the face if you ever speak to me again.”

He squinted at her, completely unmoved, then turned to me and asked, “So, did your grandmother get her computer running?”

“No. You’re just going to have to stop by sometime and fix it.”

“Cool.” He smiled in anticipation. “What’s for dinner tonight?”

I knew he’d do that. Brooke had already invited herself over, claiming she needed to upload her assignment because the Internet at her house was down. Glitch would come over, fix my grandmother’s computer in about ten minutes, and then my two best friends would spend the rest of the evening keeping me company.

It was the same every year. For a week before until a week after the anniversary of my parents’ disappearance, they spent almost every waking moment with me, watching over me, seeing to my every need. They were amazing. I’m not sure what they thought I would do if left alone—I’d never been particularly suicidal—but they were the dearest friends a girl could ask for. The air seemed to turn dreary this time of year, thick and heavy, so having them around did help. And I totally loved being waited on hand and foot, so naturally I milked it for all it was worth.

The bell jingled, announcing a new customer before I could answer Glitch, but I was busy prying my fingers apart anyway. I’d spilled mocha cappuccino over them—hot mocha cappuccino—when I tried to add a sprinkle of cinnamon earlier, and few things were more disturbing than sticky fingers. Forest fires, perhaps. And people who claimed to have been abducted by aliens.

“I have to wash my hands before we go.”

“Okay.” Brooklyn rummaged through her bag and pulled out her phone for a quick check as I scooted out of the booth, grateful for the excuse. For some reason, the fact that my parents had been gone almost ten years exactly, like some kind of milestone anniversary, had me more melancholy than usual. “I’ll keep an eye on the traitor,” Brooke continued, “until we can decide what to do with him.”

“Do you need ideas?” Glitch asked, turning feisty. “I know lots of things you could do to me.”

“Do any of them involve piano wire and a razor blade?”

I laughed to myself and headed toward the back of our favorite and pretty much only hangout. It sat a mere block from our alma mater, Riley High, and we practically lived in our corner booth. I ducked past the snack counter and into a very dark back hall. Judging by the boxes lining the narrow passage, I’d be taking my life into my hands if I risked a journey to the little señorita’s room without illumination, so I ran my hand along a paneled wall. Where would I be if I were a light switch? Just as the tips of my fingers found the switch, a silhouette stepped out of the shadows and brushed past me. I startled with a gasp.

“Excuse me,” I said, placing a hand over my heart.

“Sorry.” The guy paused slightly before continuing on his way, and in that instant, I saw the makings of utter perfection: a long arm with shadowy curves that dipped around the fluid lines of muscle; a tall, wide shoulder; dark hair that curled playfully over an ear and led to a strong, masculine jaw. Something inside me lurched, craving a closer look at his face, but he walked by too fast and the hall was too dark for me to catch anything else.

After a couple of seconds, I realized my hand had brushed against his arm. It was enough to send a vision crashing into me, like the flash of a nuclear bomb, bright and unforgiving. Tamping down my surprise—I hadn’t had a vision in a very long time—I pressed shaking fingers to my forehead to wait out the familiar storm, to see what treasures would wash ashore in the aftermath.

Yet the things I saw were unreal, impossible, and certainly not of this world: A desolate landscape lay before me with scorched clouds and a roiling, violet sky. The air was stagnant and so impossibly thick, breathing it took effort. Then I heard the clanging of metal. I turned to watch in horror as a being, a boy of no more than sixteen or seventeen, fierce and somehow not quite human, struggled with a dark, monstrous beast. The boy’s arms corded as tendon and muscle strained against the weight of the sword he wielded. He slashed again and again, but the monster was fast, with razorlike talons and sharp, gleaming teeth, and the boy knew what those teeth felt like when they sank into flesh, knew the blinding pain that accompanied defeat. But he also knew the power he himself wielded, the raw strength that saturated every molecule of his body.

Another herculean effort landed a thrust in the monster’s shoulder and continued through its thick chest. The monster sank under the boy’s sword with a guttural scream. The boy looked on while the beast writhed in pain, watched it grow still as the life drained out of it, and somewhere in the back of the boy’s mind, he allowed himself to register the burning of his lungs as he struggled to fill them with air.

Blood trickled between his fingers, down the length of his blade, and dripped to the powdery earth beneath his feet. I followed the trail of blood up to three huge gashes across his chest. Evidently three of the monster’s claws had met their mark, laying the flesh of its enemy open. I gasped and covered my mouth with both hands as the boy spun toward me, sword at the ready. Squinting against the low sun, I could almost make out his features, but the vision evaporated before I got the chance. A heartbeat later, I was back in the dark hallway, gasping for air, one palm pressed against my temple, the other against the wall for balance.