Page 1 of Beasts of Shadows #1

“Everything you know about mythology is wrong.”

∞∞∞

Nowhere Island, Canada

There’s a clear divide between those around me.

Gathering in one column are figures with not-so-human characteristics.

Back home, they’d stand out. Pointed ears, horns, inhuman eyes—there’s no hiding that.

In Monterey, you wouldn’t even see people like them.

California pays heavy taxes to keep creatures from the Shadow Realm—shades—out.

I could have gone my whole life believing things like bogeys and gods were just cautionary bedtime stories.

But this is their world. When they regard the batch of us mortals, in our jeans and crop tops and jaded faces, all they see are animals they’re superior to.

Yet, even those mortals beside me have an advantage that I do not. They’ve lived a thousand lives as the survivors of starvation, gang violence, and instability. The nation’s “at risk” youth, hoping to make it out of the ghetto, have flocked here for a chance at a better life.

And sure, I’ve been in a couple of fights. What teen hasn’t? But I’m not survivor material .

Welcome to Van Ritten Institute of Mythos and Civilization. Only thirty-seven percent of fledgling mortal students actually make it to graduation. And I don’t mean the rest drop out. That’s the survival rate. The school slogan is, “Power is earned in pain.”

Living to graduation proves to the deities that you’ve earned their blessing.

That’s what it’s all for, to most families. A spot at Ritten—or any of the other like-minded institutes around the globe—offers good fortune and financial stability to anyone who makes it through. It’s too tempting for students from low-income lives.

But I came from money. Attending Ritten by choice never even crossed my mind. Not until I got my conscription letter in June, that is. There wasn’t much to say after that.

Conscriptions aren’t uncommon. Shades, like witches, must send their children to the academy so they can train properly to serve the gods.

Even they have an upper hand over the mortals here by choice.

Except I’m neither. My family doesn’t come from any supernatural presence. My parents didn’t make any deals for their fortune. To Joshua Gowie and Lina Harper, the letter was completely unexpected.

To me? Not so much. Because I knew I was different.

I’m a seer. I can see the future. Mostly little things—a fight in the cafeteria, who’s going to break up with who. Flashes. Echoes. Nothing useful, really. Nothing I can control. But it was enough to mark me. Enough for the gods to notice.

And the gods don’t miss much, I guess. Once they know what you are, they don’t bother with niceties.

So the letter came. Gold seal. No return address. Just my name and my future carved into parchment. They had claimed me. Drafted. Shipped off like some rare artifact too volatile to keep on display.

And now I’m here. At Ritten. Where mortals die in training drills and gods pass judgment like it’s a hobby. Where power is currency and I’m already in debt. Where people like me—people without a pantheon or a patron—don’t last long.

I eye the nightfall with tight fists, wondering what, exactly, this reception assessment will be composed of.

“Nari Harper?”

The girl before me is in a blue-gray jumpsuit with a utility belt around the waist and heavy-duty pockets above the knee. Clipped to her hip are daggers and other emergency tools. Attached to each bicep is a First Aid kit. The patch on her chest reads Ruiz .

This must be a guard in-training. A Valkyrie, or Warrior of Ayar Cachi, here to learn the ins and outs of deity security.

Not that the gods really need it. None have died from anything except old age in the last two thousand years. Warriors are more likely to fight each other over some imagined transgression.

Remember World War II? That all started because Thor wanted his hammer back. Calea, the Hag, confiscated it under the Treaty of Versailles.

I mean, there were other factors, but that was a big one. I hear Thor’s like a baby with his favorite stuffy.

I give a nod, and she moves down the line, collecting names and making checks on her clipboard; long charcoal braids swinging against her back.

Ominous scarlet hues paint the Canadian backdrop.

If I were on the other side of the island, where the ferry dumped me five hours ago, I would see the reassuring lights of Vancouver.

I could comfort myself, just a little longer, knowing that the Mortal Realm was just there; reality was just a skip away over the Strait of Georgia.

But here, on the west of Nowhere, there’s only the solemn, hilly terrain beyond the Salish Sea to keep me company.

Red skies at night, sailor’s delight. Red skies in the morning, sailor’s warning.

It would be a reassuring phrase if I were a sailor. But all I feel right now is cold. The sunset is suspiciously the same color of blood. My chest tightens with each exhale, and my skin crawls. A sky like that is no peaceful end to a day. It promises a violent end to a life.

Maybe more than one.

I reach for the straps of my backpack to give them a twist, but remember all my personal effects were collected before we came out here. We get them back tomorrow, if we pass reception.

If .

No one could really tell me what to expect during in-processing. The last person from back home conscripted into service was Joseph Blumhorn in the late eighties, right before the bargain was brokered to bar Shadow Realm figures from crossing into the state.

Blumhorn, sadly, never made it past reception.

“Did you say you’re Nari Harper? Joshie G’s kid?”

I glance at the boy to my right. Blond curls frame his face. It’s a nice one. There are plenty of hot guys around campus this evening, but even with the ragged scar cutting across his forehead, he’s one of the hottest.

You know, in a vanilla sense. Not really my thing, but I get it.

“Are you a fan of country music?”

He doesn’t look like someone who’d listen to an old band like Texas Toast . He looks more like someone who dances to Spice Girls , or one of those boy bands. Hell, he could be in a boy band himself, if he wasn’t here. I survey him again.

Unlike most of my companions on the field, he’s in the school uniform. I don’t know how I missed it on my first look, but there it is. Maroon pants and matching over coat, black button-up shirt. His scarlet tie hangs loose, as if he’s been tugging at it throughout the evening.

If he was worried about something earlier, he seems relieved now.

His stature is at-ease. He’s smiling, revealing two dimples.

There are laugh lines cut into his lean cheeks.

He must smile a lot. Coupled with a jaw of marble and an athlete’s build, I can see why the girls beside me keep turning his way.

His eyes are frosty by color, but that’s the only thing cold about him.

“Nah,” he laughs at last, giving a shake of his silver mane. “But I recognized your name.”

“ My name?”

If I ever get recognized for having a famous parent, it’s my mom. Lina Harper is going on her eleventh season as a veteran cast member of Crimson Heir, a supernatural drama slash soap opera filming in Canada.

If my picture winds up in a magazine, it’s at one of my mom’s awards shows or premiers.

Hell, I don’t even go by Gowie. How would anyone know who my dad is?

“I’m Cody,” he says, without further explanation. He offers his gloved hand, and I shake it. It’s not cold out, making the leather covering seem out of place.

Maybe he’s one of those creatures that can do things by touch.

Or maybe he’s just a germophobe.

“Shouldn’t you be in the bleachers?” I ask, glancing at the still gathering groups of current students.

“I was looking for my cousin.” He gives a pointed wink, making me think that’s just an excuse he used to come down here. Maybe he’s sneaking a peek at a girlfriend or something.

Wrinkle lines mar his jacket, as though he came here in a hurry. Are current students even allowed to be down here? I thought we had to remain separated so that no one can tell us what to expect.

The whole damn thing has to remain a mystery. For no good reason.

I don’t even know what he’s so worried about. He’s clearly already in. He doesn’t have to go through whatever this assessment comprises of.

“Hey!” I say before he can move on. “If I make it through tonight, I can get you an autograph. Got any tips?”

His eyes darken, and he peers hesitantly at those eavesdropping around us.

“How are you at running?”

My stomach gives a lurch.

Well, that settles that. I can’t run for shit. I’m so royally fucked.

“That bad?”

He looks ready to say more, but the call of “Wyatt” at the end of my row has him biting the words back.

“Come find me if you make it through the night.” The words come urgently. He drops one gloved hand on my shoulder, gives a squeeze, then scampers off to whoever was calling his name.

Above, students settle into their seats, inky eyes blinking at us candidates hungrily. It’s time, I guess, for the evening’s activities to begin.

The girl beside me stiffens, kissing her Athena medallion. Judging by what Cody said, perhaps she should pray to Mars.

I pat my thigh, feeling for the object hidden in my cargo pants’ pocket.

For emergencies only.

Just as the first rays of light dip below the hilly terrain of Desolation Sound, a crow picks up around the courtyard. The shades hoot and laugh, while normies, like myself, wear forehead creases and nervous eyes.

“Settle down!” A woman barks, her voice amplified across the courtyard without using a microphone.

The bleachers fall eerily silent.

The woman at the podium is tall and fair, with shrewd eyes and an uncaring mouth. Though she looks human, when she peers out over the crowd, it’s clear she sees us as beneath her.

“Many of you have known since birth that you would join the ranks of one of the most prestigious academies on this side of the country.”