my trek to Starbucks. Thankfully the rain had slowed down to a drizzle. I place the hood of my sweater on top of my head to protect my hair from frizzing.
A few blocks later I'm at Starbucks. I go to open the door, but it opens on its own. A couple of kids from school walk out, totally ignoring my existence. I'm not upset about it. The whole “being popular” thing has never been important to me, even when I was clueless to the whole supernatural world that existed. Popularity in high school ends right after graduation, and the ones that had been on top of the precious elite food train gets a rude awakening once they're thrown out into the real world where the wolves are always waiting for them in the shadows.
Literally.
Searching the coffee house I scan the faces of everyone in there, not finding the one I'm hoping to see. I check my watch—six o'clock on the dot. I sit down at a nearby table and pick up a very used New York Times , turning directly to the obituaries. Yeah, it may seem a little morbid that a sixteen year old picks up a paper and heads straight to the deaths section, but in my line of work it's a must. I look over all the names, not finding an Ashley among them. This gives me a crisp sense of relief, but I'm not feeling too encouraged. Just because there's no girl or woman by the name Ashley in the death notices doesn't mean she isn't dead or being tortured by an insane Night Viper.
Questions line and rotate in my brain. Who is this Ashley chick and why am I put in her place in the dream? Who is the white-haired Viper who orders beasts and humans around like they're dogs? And what about the young Viper from last night? How did he know my name and why was he looking for me? Also...why did I feel no fear when I thought of him?
“Gracen.”
I jump and throw the paper to the ground, my nerves completely rattled. My heart is bouncing around in my chest like a kickball tournament is taking place. Once I see who it is I release a sigh and settle down.
“Mark,” I breath out, my hand clutching my chest. “You scared me.”
“Oh, sorry!” he replies, sounding honestly contrite. “Didn't mean to scare you, and I'm also sorry for being late. My boss gave me some extra work at the restaurant and it took me longer than expected.” He grins sheepishly, the dimple in his left cheek making its appearance.
I smile back, taking in his good looks. Man does he look hot ! He's changed out of his waiter uniform and into jeans and a black turtleneck. His brown hair hangs in wet ringlets, and his hazel eyes twinkle with specks of green. For the first time I see how full and plump his lips are. I bet he's a great kisser. All in all, Mark Hopkins is, as Bets so crudely puts it, Grade A Choice Meat . It's just too bad I'm not interested in a boyfriend.
I think.
We order our coffees and find a comfortable couch to sit on. He tells me he's from a small town in Kentucky and has always dreamed of living in New York City. I learned a lot about his family, like his parents were divorced, he's the oldest of four brothers, and he misses he grandfather who passed away two years ago. His major in college is Biology, and he's interested in the paranormal, his favorite shows being Ghost Adventures and Ghost Hunters . To my utmost surprise I find myself liking Mark more and more, but then the conversation switches over to me.
“So tell me a little about yourself,” he says, taking a sip of coffee. “Like your hobbies, interests, goal...things like that.”
“Hobbies?” I think a moment but the only hobbies that come to mind is training with my Katana and tracking down demons to send back to Hell. I figure those hobbies would not go over well with him.
Instead of the truth I go with, “I like to hang out with my friends, shop, talk and text on the phone, spending time with my mom. You know, typical girly boring junk.”
“Really?” he reacts, his eyebrows lifting with amazement. “Wow, I didn't expect that from
A few blocks later I'm at Starbucks. I go to open the door, but it opens on its own. A couple of kids from school walk out, totally ignoring my existence. I'm not upset about it. The whole “being popular” thing has never been important to me, even when I was clueless to the whole supernatural world that existed. Popularity in high school ends right after graduation, and the ones that had been on top of the precious elite food train gets a rude awakening once they're thrown out into the real world where the wolves are always waiting for them in the shadows.
Literally.
Searching the coffee house I scan the faces of everyone in there, not finding the one I'm hoping to see. I check my watch—six o'clock on the dot. I sit down at a nearby table and pick up a very used New York Times , turning directly to the obituaries. Yeah, it may seem a little morbid that a sixteen year old picks up a paper and heads straight to the deaths section, but in my line of work it's a must. I look over all the names, not finding an Ashley among them. This gives me a crisp sense of relief, but I'm not feeling too encouraged. Just because there's no girl or woman by the name Ashley in the death notices doesn't mean she isn't dead or being tortured by an insane Night Viper.
Questions line and rotate in my brain. Who is this Ashley chick and why am I put in her place in the dream? Who is the white-haired Viper who orders beasts and humans around like they're dogs? And what about the young Viper from last night? How did he know my name and why was he looking for me? Also...why did I feel no fear when I thought of him?
“Gracen.”
I jump and throw the paper to the ground, my nerves completely rattled. My heart is bouncing around in my chest like a kickball tournament is taking place. Once I see who it is I release a sigh and settle down.
“Mark,” I breath out, my hand clutching my chest. “You scared me.”
“Oh, sorry!” he replies, sounding honestly contrite. “Didn't mean to scare you, and I'm also sorry for being late. My boss gave me some extra work at the restaurant and it took me longer than expected.” He grins sheepishly, the dimple in his left cheek making its appearance.
I smile back, taking in his good looks. Man does he look hot ! He's changed out of his waiter uniform and into jeans and a black turtleneck. His brown hair hangs in wet ringlets, and his hazel eyes twinkle with specks of green. For the first time I see how full and plump his lips are. I bet he's a great kisser. All in all, Mark Hopkins is, as Bets so crudely puts it, Grade A Choice Meat . It's just too bad I'm not interested in a boyfriend.
I think.
We order our coffees and find a comfortable couch to sit on. He tells me he's from a small town in Kentucky and has always dreamed of living in New York City. I learned a lot about his family, like his parents were divorced, he's the oldest of four brothers, and he misses he grandfather who passed away two years ago. His major in college is Biology, and he's interested in the paranormal, his favorite shows being Ghost Adventures and Ghost Hunters . To my utmost surprise I find myself liking Mark more and more, but then the conversation switches over to me.
“So tell me a little about yourself,” he says, taking a sip of coffee. “Like your hobbies, interests, goal...things like that.”
“Hobbies?” I think a moment but the only hobbies that come to mind is training with my Katana and tracking down demons to send back to Hell. I figure those hobbies would not go over well with him.
Instead of the truth I go with, “I like to hang out with my friends, shop, talk and text on the phone, spending time with my mom. You know, typical girly boring junk.”
“Really?” he reacts, his eyebrows lifting with amazement. “Wow, I didn't expect that from
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