The Charm Collector Facebook ad: “She stole a sword. It decided to keep her.”

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Chapter 1 Three buzzes sounded from the countertop. Quick, quick, slow. I snatched up Dad’s pocket mirror and expectantly flipped open the lid. It would take a couple of moments for the message to form, so I grabbed the last piece of toast off my plate, nibbling on a corner of my meager dinner. “C’mon,” I muttered, my foot tapping a restless rhythm on the bottom rung of the stool I was perched on. “Give me something good …” Words finally materialized on the glass, like a fingertip carving letters out of steam. Warehouse District. Haskins. Code 154. I nearly choked on my toast. I unceremoniously dumped the pocket mirror onto the counter, smooth convex bottom spinning on the faux marble, and scrambled off the stool so fast it clattered to the ground. Leaving it, I bolted across my tiny apartment to my bedroom. Off went the sweatpants and on went a rumpled—possibly dirty—pair of jeans. I swapped my pajama top for a clean T-shirt unearthed from under the bed. I pulled it on as I ran back into the dining room, searching for my boots. Yanking them on, I left them untied. No time for that. A bulky, mostly empty backpack lay discarded by the door and I scooped that up, checking the front pockets to make sure I had my essentials—namely a couple of handheld fae lights, my wallet, and lock picks. Strapping it on, I darted out of my apartment, only to double back for the pocket mirror. I stuffed the remaining toast wedge in my mouth and slipped out into the hallway. I pulled my necklace free from where it rested under my shirt and squeezed the small talisman at the end between finger and thumb. The inch-long metal pendant was flat on the back with an upraised top, like an egg cut in half. With my other hand, I pressed my thumb to the matching design on the metal where a lock would be on a mundane door. The talisman between my fingers and the mark under my thumb grew warm simultaneously. A mechanism inside the door clicked. With the door locked, I stuffed my talisman back under my shirt and made sure Dad’s mirror was tucked snugly into the pocket of my jeans. Then I was off. I ran down the dimly lit hallway before slamming the push bar on the door to the outdoor staircase that hugged the side of the ten-story complex. The summer air had a slight breeze to it, and the sky was dark save for the blue haze on the horizon. It was late, after ten, so the staircase was deserted, allowing me to take the steps two at a time and ensuring I didn’t knock any unsuspecting neighbors on their asses. Again. Being on the fourth floor meant I didn’t have that far to go. My backpack flopped around, and my unbound curls whipped about my face as I went. When I reached the bottom floor, I pulled an elastic tie off my wrist and got my unruly mass of hair into a bun as I headed for the telepad station two blocks away. I needed my hair secured during transit—that was a lesson you only needed once. After it was out of my face, and my shoes were tied, I ran the rest of the way. Even though my neighborhood of Montclaire was only a few miles outside Luma Proper, it was mostly dark and quiet around here at this hour. Luma Proper sat at the center of the city, made of uptown and downtown. Ringing Luma Proper were five districts. The Warehouse District to the north, the Industrial District to the west, the mostly residential neighborhoods of Ardmore and Montclaire to the east, and the Necropolis to the south. The five districts and Luma Proper made up the entirety of Luma as a city—all of it hidden behind a veil. Most of the lesser fae—like goblins and fauns—as well as a large population of humans lived in the neighborhood districts. Downtown and uptown swarmed with witches, shifters, draken, and griffels. Humans and lesser fae lived there, too, but in much smaller numbers. I eyed the bluish hue that hung on the horizon again, just past the tops of high-rise brick apartment buildings. The ever-present glow of Luma Proper wasn’t a welcome sight so much as a familiar one: the city that never slept, that kept its fae lights burning at all hours. The blue fae light—an even more reliable source of illumination than mundane electricity—was so bright in the heart of the city that it obscured the stars. I’d heard rumors that the mundane city of Los Angeles, about three hours south of Luma, glowed even brighter. I could neither confirm nor deny that; I’d never traveled outside of the city—never traveled outside of California. The telepad station was the next block up. The steady stream of people heading in and out was the first sign of life I’d seen since leaving my apartment. I pushed open the dingy glass doors of the station, the lobby bustling but the sound subdued. Fae lights were on at all hours of the day in here, unlike in the surrounding apartments and houses, but they were weak. The entire bank of lights on the leftmost side of the room was out, and a pair of maintenance witches were working on getting them back on. This station had three outgoing telepads and three incoming. An outbound one had been on the fritz for weeks. The station needed functioning telepads more than functioning lights, but the higher-ups paid the highly skilled maintenance witches and sorcerers handsomely if they lived in Luma Proper so they’d be more readily available. Folks like me, stuck on the edges of the city where things were slightly more affordable, got the short end of the stick. Better for the heart of Luma to look shiny and bright, even if the nonessential limbs where the blue-collar folks lived were starting to atrophy. Welcome to Luma, where the lights are always on and you’re always home, I muttered to myself in a robotic tone as I got into line. On the right side of the station, where I stood, a row of people waited in front of either of the two functioning telepads. A pair of young women ahead of me wore skintight leather skirts and high heels, so they must have been out to party tonight. Everyone else was clad in uniforms, waiting for an available pad to take them to their graveyard shifts. With a whoosh, the eight-foot-tall middle inbound cylinder suddenly held a weary worker, probably from a Luma restaurant, bar, casino, or club. He stood on the telepad’s glowing blue base. I slipped an arm out of one of the backpack straps and swung the bag around to my front. Rooting around in a side pocket, I found my wallet and pulled out my telepad card. The white plastic edges were rough from so much use. After getting my pack back on and giving the straps a couple of tightening tugs, I tapped the card idly on my open palm, hoping I had enough money on it to get me to the Warehouse District. There was plenty of money in my account, just not in my legal name. I didn’t want to grant the Collective the ability to track my movements, thank you very much. If the telepad card had been tapped dry, I’d need either the fake ID and bank card with my false name on it, or cash—none of which were in my wallet. “Next,” the woman beside the telepad droned, waving me forward without looking at me. All her attention was on the tablet she held in her hand. “Name.” “Deanna Kyle,” I said, instead of my actual name: Harlow Fletcher. “Where you going?” “Warehouse District.” The woman looked up from her tablet to give me an appraising head-to-toe scan. Her nose twitched a fraction, then she tapped at her tablet. “Go ahead.” I approached the scanner, sent up a silent prayer, and swiped the card. I held my breath. A long moment later, I exhaled in a relieved rush when the light on the side of the box flipped to green. “Have a nice trip,” the woman said flatly. I stepped into the cylinder, the air inside near freezing. There were outlines on the floor in the shape of feet, but each was twice the size of a normal human foot, just in case a draken in the area needed to use a telepad. Very few draken ever used telepads in the five smaller neighborhoods that ringed Luma Proper, as the cylinders were usually only seven to eight feet tall—their average height. The cylinders in Luma Proper were closer to fifteen feet. My best friend Kayda hated the telepads out here. They made her claustrophobic. Even the smaller telepads were expensive, though, and needed constant maintenance from witches to reinforce the teleportation spells. Taking a ride in a pad anywhere was a risk, but even more so in the outer neighborhoods. I’d heard countless horror stories of telepads running out of fae power or the teleportation spell giving out while someone was mid-port—or both—and travelers ending up at their destination missing a limb or vital organ. I tried not to read the details on the “Last Spell Reinforcement Date” card posted to the inside of the cylinder. If I was going to end up splattered across the streets of Luma, I’d rather be surprised. Ready to read more? https://www.melissajacksonbooks.com/melissas-books

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She stole a sword. It decided to keep her.

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