follow three important rules;
Always guard my ability
Never share my secret
And pretend to be normal.However, those three little rules don’t make my life easier. I still find dead
people and deal with strange visions. Not to mention, an attraction to a boy
who doesn’t exist. Whenever we cross path’s he mists away like smoke on a
mirror. He drives me crazy, that Kaff Cooper.
As a flock of dead crows fall from the blackened sky, Kaff becomes the only one
who can see the truth straight to the dark underbelly of who I actually am.
My hands feel the pull to extract the forsaken, the lost, the forgotten. It
comes as naturally as breathing and there is no stopping it.
She deposited a small pink Victoria’s Secret bag in my lap. “I ran out of wrapping paper so I had to regift in a used bag but I figured if this kept Clyde and me from getting burned in the kitchen, why not give them to you.” She smiled. “Anyway, this is more protective.”
Way too much information. I tore at the hot pink tissue, dug to the bottom, and plucked out the most hideous brown oven mitts I had ever seen. I looked up, annoyed. “I can’t wear these. They’re . . . they’re. . . .”
“Then start a trend.”
“Where? The zoo?”
“The mitts are thermal lined in case dowsing burns your fingertips. It’s a safety precaution.” She stepped on the brake and we jerked forward. “You can’t afford to screw this up, girlfriend. Wear them when you feel the urge.”
“You’re giving me mixed messages. I have a lot of urges and none of them require oven mitts. Seriously. You know how humiliating this is for me? Now you want me to advertise my quirk with torch-blower gloves? Why not throw rotten tomatoes at me in a bell tower? Or send me to massage school where at least I’ll be admired for my vibrating hands.” Disgusted, I tossed the mitts at my feet.