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Aralie and Michael, Part Two

I lean my head against the plane seat, ignoring the stares I can feel burning into my skin. Instead, I focus on the conversation I had with Wilkerson just before I left.

“Remember, Aralie, no one must know what you are and why you’re transferring,” he’d said.

“Duh,” I’d replied.

“And it’d probably be best if you befriended both the boy and the demon, to stay close to them.”

I groaned. “Befriend a demon? Are you serious?”

“Okay, maybe not befriend, but do be cordial to him so he won’t convince Michael not to talk to you.”

“I don’t have to worry about Colins not talking to me; do you remember who I am?”

So, here I was, 165-year-old, military-trained, demonically charged girl that looks sixteen, going to high school for the first time. I am dreading it.

At LAX, I grind my teeth together to keep from shoving back in the terminal and try to locate the girl that will be my roommate—she was sent by the school to retrieve me. In my mind, I imagined a tall, blonde, tan, cheerleader doing cartwheels around our shared room. I can only hope this assignment will be over before a coed ends up missing.

I’m just about to start asking random people if they are looking for me, when I see a sign with my name, Aralie Stryker, printed in a girly, loopy script on pink stationery. Great. I look at the girl holding it.

Just liked I’d thought, she’s a typical California girl—blonde, highlighted hair, tan skin, baby blue eyes that sparkle with delight, toned legs and arms, and a shirt short enough to reveal her pierced navel. Just as I see her, she sees me, and it’s like she instantly knows who I am. Did Wilkerson send a picture of me to the school?

She waves a manicured hand over her head and yells, “Aralie! Over here!”

I sigh. She said my name like “air-a-lee.” It’s gonna be a long assignment.



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