“Thank you so much, Joanna!”

  I snap the book shut and slide it to the girl with a tight smile.

  “Anytime.”

  She rushes away to a group of friends, shrieking with excitement.

  I didn’t have the heart to tell her that my name isn’t Joanna, and the book I just signed for her is written by me, Callie Everhart—she’ll figure that out sooner or later.

  Slumping forward, I put my head in my hands and glare at the tiny sign on my table.

  “From New York Times Best-Seller: Echoes of You — Out Now!”

  “Aw, honey—they forgot to add your name!” Cooed my mother, who made a sympathy-purchase of my book this morning—which would make it a grand total of four copies.

  Five sold in total.

  One of which was to a girl who thought I was someone else.

  Groaning, I slip a book from the pile and crack it open. I stare at the girl in the author photo, a veritable stranger now. She smiles up at me, glittering eyes, shiny, professionally colored hair, clear skin—and, no doubt, still unscathed by a propensity for pizza and energy drinks.

  It feels like an eternity since I was growing in fame and not poor habits.

  “Um, excuse me?”

  “Yes?” I respond absentmindedly, before remembering where I am. I pop my head up and plaster on a practiced grin.

  The man who stares back at me makes my breath catch in my throat. Tall, floppy brown hair and chocolate eyes. A spattering of dark stubble graces a strong jaw. I can almost see the dark hood, the cloak that swishes around leather boots, a glistening sword at his hip and a roguish scar on his cheek.

  “So, I’ve been watching your booth, and…”

  My heart flutters.

  “Would you mind packing up early?”

  “I- what?”

  He teeters from one foot to the other and clasps his hands, “We have another author coming in right after you, and since it’s been a slow day, I thought maybe you wouldn’t mind giving her some extra set-up time?”

  My eyes fall to the badge on his very-un-cloak-like polo. Brett. Store Manager.

  An argument swirls in my mind but I shove it down. No point.

  “Sure,” I say and begin to rise.

  “Oh, awesome,” Brett, Store Manager, exhales a long breath and claps.

  Grabbing my sign with a little more aggression than intended, I smile at him. “Sure.”

  “So, did you-”

  I don’t hear his next words. Books and sign in tow, the doors slide open with a hiss and I’m greeted by the unrelenting Arizona sun. I glare at the sky, at the worn steering wheel in my Ford Focus, at the pile of books in my backseat that hasn’t moved in months, and at the stairs to my tiny apartment.

  I’m sitting in my hot car staring at the ugly, brown stucco wall next to my parking spot when my phone starts to vibrate. My agent’s name lights up the screen. Or, more accurately, my third agent. Probably my last, thanks to the truly abysmal performance of my latest novel after years of writer’s block.

  It’s not my fault that my cheating ex-husband’s truly heinous behavior inspired an epic fantasy world controlled by an equally heinous villain. I think some people write from a place of love—me, I write from a place of rage.

  So when I tried to force myself into the world of sappy, modern-day romance novels, it’s no wonder why no one seemed to care. Least of all me.

  My phone lights up again. I feel a little guilty for ignoring her—even if I’m pretty sure she’s trying to fire me—so I pick up.

  “Brandy.”

  She laughs. “Is that how you greet your best friend now?”

  I neglected to mention that, thanks to my overactive imagination and disdain for socializing, she’s also my best—and only—friend.

  Silence. The heat prickles at my skin and reminds me to escape to proper air conditioning.

  “Was it that bad?”

  “Worse,” I grumble, swinging my car door open and making a beeline for the stairs, “Sold two copies—one was my mom, and the other thought I was Joanna.”

  She sucks in a breath. “Did your brothers at least show?”

  I let out a bark of dry laughter and jiggle my keys in the doorknob. “Good one, Brandy.” I twist and shoulder it open. “You know, I’m not even sure if they know I’m an author—if you can even call me that anymore.”

  My eyes sweep my dark apartment and I quickly look to see if anything’s out of place. Piles of books on the sofa arm, pizza boxes on the kitchen counter waiting to be taken out, an old, barely-functioning laptop on the coffee table—messy to the untrained eye—organized chaos to mine. I shut the door behind me and slide several locks in place.

  Living alone is no joke.

  “Anyway, are you calling to fire me?” I kick off my shoes, throw my too-tight jeans in the general direction of my washing machine, sights set on the fridge.

  “Well, seeing as you’re my only client, some might call that career suicide—besides, who else could I rely on to binge watch trashy reality shows with?”

  “Excellent point,” I mumble, a cold piece of dubious pizza already hanging from my mouth.

  I hear her hesitate before saying, “I do have to do my job and ask… have you thought more about writing more Ashvale books?”

  My laptop sits half-open, as if mocking me. I eye it warily from the kitchen and take another bite. “Writer’s block,” I mutter through a mouthful of food.

  “Right, right. But, I don’t know—maybe if you read your old books, inspiration would strike?”

  Silence. I stare at the three particularly dusty novels on my shelf. Gold lettering on their spines wink at me.

  “I just… we’re kind of each other’s last hope—and you know people would eat up another Ashvale series.” She sighs and adds, “And, not to be selfish but… it would be a life-changer for me.”

  For me too, I note bitterly, taking a seat on my old, sunken-in couch. We say our goodbyes after she makes me promise three separate times that I’m not angry with her, and that we’ll hang out next week. I pull on a pair of sweats, kick my feet up on the coffee table and turn the television on. Seeing as my brain already seems to be rotting, I may as well help it along.

  I know Brandy’s right—of course she is.

  The Ashevale series was a massive success, contrary to the opinion of one notably grumpy creative writing professor, who had insisted that the fantasy genre as a whole was “silly” and “absurd”.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Well, I ended up with a six-figure book deal, and last I checked, he’s still teaching at the community college. His disapproving looks and sarcastic remarks even inspired a minor villain in my third book—who I relished in creatively killing off. I frown. That was six years ago. Where is Mr. Grant now?

  I reach for my laptop and flick it open, searching for my old community college. Thanks to my highschool boyfriend-turned-husband revealing his true colors after only two years of marriage, I dropped out before I could get my four-year degree, and ended up churning out the Ashvale series in just one year.

  Not that my parents would have let me get a creative degree.

  My mom would always say, “We’re not paying for a degree just for you to end up in the fast food service.”

  I had several years of international book tours, television interviews, and even a proposed movie adaptation to prove them wrong. Although, now I sit in a rinky dink apartment in a bad part of Phoenix, catching freelance editing jobs and watching my last six-figure advance dwindle. I figured out too late that buying affection doesn’t really work—even if they’re your own brothers.

  Whenever my parents ask about my latest book or come to a signing, they don’t have to say anything for me to know. The pity in their eyes, the sympathetic smiles. They could have the decency to say “I told you so” or maybe even tell me I’m an idiot, but, no. I get something far worse—disappointment.

  Scrolling to the bottom of the faculty page, I raise an eyebrow. No sign of Mr. Grant. I take a second look, but he’s not there. He was pretty young when I had him—it’s not unlikely that he’s moved on.

  I enter his name in the search bar and hold my breath.

  Caelan Grant.

  The man who made me want to quit writing before I even began. I still remember his smug smiles, the derisive looks, the way he acted like an Ivy League professor, and we were all a waste of his time. Especially me.

  While I was writing Ashvale and dealing with the divorce, I had an old paper he had graded taped to my fridge—in bold, red writing across the page, he had written “DO BETTER”.

  My stomach sours.

  Not sure when I threw that away. Probably somewhere between realizing I had no more Ashvale in me, and Echoes of You bombing to epic proportions.

  I half-expect his name to pop up under Columbia or Brown, having finally gotten his PHD and moved on from the community college students he was too good for.

  Nothing.

  A few people with different spellings of the name, but no Caelan Grant. The man doesn’t even seem to have an ounce of a social media presence—not exactly surprising, but a little strange given the situation. It’s like he got blinked from existence. A ghost.

  The hair on my arms raises and I slam my laptop shut.

  Enough of that for tonight.

  The sound of the television’s starting to grate on my nerves, so I flick it off. My phone lights up, but it’s just a text advertisement. I sigh and look at the books on my shelf. Brandy’s my best friend, and she’s been desperately trying to make it as a book agent on her own for years. Unfortunately, she got saddled with a dud and works as a bartender to pay her bills.

  I chew on my lip. Guilt is steadily eating away at my willpower.

  Wiping clammy hands on my shirt, I make my way to the books that have remained untouched since I moved into this apartment. I gave up on Ashvale when I tried to break out of the genre. There are threads that can still be tied, and plot holes to be filled. I know all the technicalities.

  It’s the inspiration that I lack.

  But I owe Brandy enough to at least try.

  I close my eyes and blindly pick one. The book is blank and leather-bound—I threw away the covers in a fit of frustration long ago—and I wipe away a layer of dust as I return to the couch.

  Grabbing the reading light from my pile of recently-read books, I prop my feet up again and settle in. I keep my curtains drawn almost 24/7 because you never know who’s lurking outside. My mom says my apartment is more like a cave, but I prefer it this way. Better for brooding, too.

  I’m just about to crack it open when there’s a knock at the door.

  Frowning, I jump up and approach with as much stealth as I can muster. I peer through the peephole, waiting for a mysterious man to break down my door and kidnap me to sell my organs. Maybe he’d have a gold tooth and an eye tattoo.

  No such luck.

  I purposefully picked the apartment with no other units around, so there are no blind corners for someone to hide behind when I make a rare appearance outside. Walking over to my phone, I check the doorbell camera and see a small box. I unlock my door and grab it in a flash—still not fully convinced that there’s no evil villain lying in wait—exhaling once it’s locked again. My thumb runs over the return address.

  The Ashvale Apothecary

  Rolling my eyes, I make a mental note to remind Brandy about my P.O. box. Nevertheless, curiosity gets the better of me.

  I use kitchen scissors to cut through some especially thick tape and wrench the box open. Underneath an egregious amount of tissue paper lies a small sachet of what looks to be loose-leaf tea. For a PR package—probably a sample from my publisher—this is especially bleak. I shake the box onto my counter looking for more contents.

  A small card—smaller than my palm. I turn it over.

  Insreagadh Tea

  Looks like the language I used occasionally in the Ashvale books—clever—although this word is unfamiliar. I shrug and go on a treasure hunt for my kettle.

  Tea steeped and piping hot, I make my way back to the couch and my book. I tuck my legs and turn to page one, taking a tentative test sip—and nearly choking. It’s unbelievably bitter, and it tastes like a blend of dirt, grass, and tree bark. Maybe instead of simply refusing to publish my next book, they’ve decided to poison me. What a poetic way to go—surrounded by pizza boxes, alone, with the only important thing I’ve ever done on my lap.

  I’m about to set the tea down, when the lingering flavor in my mouth begins to turn sweet and fruity.

  Now that’s interesting.

  I take another sip, lavender and honey bursting in my mouth.

  What is this, the mood ring of tea?

  Shaking my head, I start reading the first page, taking larger and larger gulps as I go. It burns my tongue, but as soon as I swallow, I want more. I lift it to my lips again, but a single drop rolls into my mouth and suddenly I’m staring at the bottom of my mug, unsure of when I started and confused about how I finished.

  Feeling warm and fuzzy, I set it on the arm of the sofa and nuzzle into a pile of pillows. The words on the page start to blur, and spin, and twirl in the air.

  Did my publisher send me drugs?

  I laugh and poke at the sentence floating in front of my face. Sweat beads on my forehead.

  It’s hot. Way too hot.

  My legs are rubber when I try to stand. I fall back to the couch with a groan, stomach twisting. The room is spinning. I’m shaking uncontrollably.

  I knew that pizza was too old, I say to myself when the world turns black.

  //

  I’m awake.

  I think.

  Or I’m dead.

  My skull is threatening to split open. I sigh and stretch, noting that the couch is wet.

  Wet?

  Eyes flying open—as best they can, given that they’re currently made of lead—I roll to my stomach.

  My couch is definitely not green. Or made of grass.

  “What the-” I’m saying right as it starts to rain.

  Okay, I know for certain that my apartment doesn’t rain.

  Scrambling to my feet—still feeling massively hungover, mind you—I realize I’m in the clearing of a forest. The sky is angry, a wild bolt of lightning shaking any lingering fuzziness away. I’m surrounded by massive, towering ash trees, their sharp, twisted branches reaching out for me in the fading light. As if on cue, the rain intensifies as another bolt of lightning cracks across the sky.

  So, clearly, I’m having an incredibly vivid, impressively detailed dream.

  I slap myself. Hard.

  “Holy-”

  I crumple over and cradle my cheek. A shiver racks my body as my clothes begin to soak through.

  Alternatively, maybe I was kidnapped and sold to the upper echelon of society for a good ol’ round of hunt-the-regular-person. As the sky grows dark, and the treeline more menacing, this seems like the most likely of scenarios. Wherever I am, it’s not Arizona.

  This will make a great ending to my biography if they ever find my body.

  Lightning strikes the sky and illuminates everything for a split second. Long enough to see the figure watching me from the shadows. It approaches me—slowly, methodically—until I can make out the long, black cloak and hood. I’m screaming at my legs to run. They’re planted, refusing to listen. My heart jumps into my throat as it pauses a few yards away. A strong gust of wind tosses its cloak to the side, revealing a long, glinting sword.

  Much less romantic when you’re about to get decapitated with it.

  I watch warily as it lowers to the ground, taking a knee in front of me. It grabs the hilt of the sword and unsheaths it. I wince as the sword whirls above its head and, instead of cutting me in half, it slices the ground. The cloaked head lowers to his knee.

  Blood rushing in my ears, rain hammering down around us, I can barely make out the low, guttural voice.

  “All hail the Endbringer.”