Page 3 of It's In His Hiss

“Take it easy, Alice,” I murmur, careful not to accidentally enhance someone’s power to strangle with a single thought—or cause some other disaster. “Don’t think about it, and maybe you won’t trigger or suppress any magical abilities.”

Taking a steadying breath, I continue on my way, eager to soak in every detail of Screaming Woods. There’s so much to see, so much to learn, and who knows? Maybe the key to unlocking my peculiar heritage lies somewhere among these mystical streets. For now, though, I’m content to be another face in the crowd, a regular girl with inquisitive eyes and a sketchbook full of dreams, searching for her place in a world where the extraordinary is utterly ordinary.

I round the corner onto Witchhazel Way, where the sun plays peekaboo with puffy clouds, casting a whimsical glow on the cobblestones. A pixie zips past my head, her laughter like chimes in the wind, and I duck, a reflex bornfrom too many close calls. It’s bizarre. Here I am, something of a danger for all things magical and messy, trying to blend in with the locals of Screaming Woods.

Today is not the day to accidentally remove a vampire’s immortality or make a werewolf even more deadly than they already are. My “abilities” tend to make humans go haywire, too. A simple brush of my arm, and Mr. Tall, Dark, and Brooding could suddenly trip over his feet like he’s auditioning for a slapstick comedy.

I slip into the throng of creatures, each going about their business with an ease I envy. There’s something freeing about a town that doesn’t blink twice at a vampire buying blood oranges or a mermaid flipping through the latest waterproof edition ofTails & Scales Monthlyas she reclines in a fountain with her shell bra gleaming in the sunlight.

I avoid bumping into people as much as I can. My “power” is as unpredictable as a lottery draw. I’ve never known how to control it or what causes it to happen. My parents have always pretended not to notice it, but I’ve seen them watching me, wondering, curious, and slightly nervous. My guttells me that they know what it is, but they’ve never said a word to even acknowledge the power exists.

Just last week, I was minding my own business at a local theater group’s production of “Oklahoma” when one of the actors started to sing like a banshee. One minute, his sultry timbre filled the theater, and the next? He was shrieking loud enough to pierce eardrums. Poor man didn’t know whether to be thrilled or horrified.

“Excuse me, miss, but could you step away from the griffins?” a nervous-looking satyr asks, eyeing me warily. “We’ve had… incidents.”

“Right, sorry!” I step back, watching as the majestic creatures preen under the attention of passersby, blissfully unaware of how close they came to a power surge.

It’s been like this for as long as I can remember. Dad always joked that our family was cursed with charm and chaos in equal measure. But that was their only explanation for why I was like a walking magical battery or dampener.

“Maybe I should wrap myself in caution tape,” I say to no one in particular, earning a few curious glances from a group of goblins perusing a street vendor’s wares.

My steps falter as I passThe Sibilant Shelf Bookstore. I’ve heard about the reclusive gorgon who runs the place, a shy guy with a snake problem and a heart of gold, so they say. I’ve yet to meet him, but the thought of what my presence could do to his already tricky existence keeps me at bay. After all, turning someone to stone with a look is quite the party trick, one that doesn’t need any help from little old me.

Although, when my best friend, Verity, was turned to stone by the love of her life, I secretly wondered if I was the cause. But I wasn’t anywhere near her at the time, so maybe not. Still, it was a secret I kept to myself, one of those things you torture yourself with when you’re trying your best to fall asleep and your brain won’t allow it.

“Stay out of trouble, Alice,” I remind myself, crossing the street to put some safe distance between me and the potential disaster waiting within those book-lined walls. “The last thing youneed is to be responsible for another turning-to-stone mishap headline.”

A giggle bubbles up my throat as I imagine the headlines, each more ludicrous than the last. I shake my head, letting the sound mingle with the cacophony of Screaming Woods’ daily symphony. Life is never dull, especially not when you’re me.

I wander further down Witchhazel Way, trying to look like I belong among the extraordinary. I sit on a bench, staring back toward the bookstore as a cloaked man exits. I’d love to go into the place. I love a good bookstore, but I’d be awfully close to the gorgon who runs it. Maybe I didn’t think this whole idea through carefully enough after all. How can I ever approach anyone for help when it could end in disaster?

As I’m about to give up for today and head for my new apartment, the sky decides to throw a tantrum. Dark clouds swarm overhead like angry bees, and the first rumble of thunder rolls through the town. A chill runs down my spine, not from fear but anticipation. Magic is in the air, and it smells like rain.

One fat raindrop splats against my cheek, a cold little wake-up call. The storm is breaking, and I need cover, stat. I sprint toward the nearest refuge. The bookstore calls to me like a secret hideout on a winter night. The rain starts to pour in a deluge that leaves me soaked in an instant.

“Typical,” I mutter, racing toward the store, my hand reaching to fling the door open.

Lightning rips the sky apart, so close I can almost feel its electric fingers graze my skin. My shriek is more embarrassed than scared as I dive for the door. My foot catches on an uneven cobblestone, and I stumble forward. I reach out to steady myself against alamppost, but the second my fingers make contact, a pulse of energy shoots up my arm.

The light flickers once. Twice. And then—boom!The lamppost explodes in a shower of sparks, the bulb bursting like a firework.

A few passersby shriek and duck.

I jump back, hands flying to my mouth. “I didn’t mean to!” I blurt, waving my hands as if that will somehow undo it.

A goblin vendor peeks out from his stall, shaking his head. “New here, huh?”

I swallow hard. “Is it that obvious?”

He snorts. “Only folks fresh to Screaming Woods still get spooked when weird stuff happens.”

“Right. Totally normal.” I force a laugh. “No big deal.”

I burst into the shop with all the grace of a newborn fawn and ram into a bookshelf, or at least, that’s what I think it is until it groans.

“Oof!” I exclaim, reaching for something to stop my fall.

It’s not the shelf but a tall, hard body dressed in plaid and denim. He looks like he stepped straight out of a supernatural lumberjack calendar—if lumberjacks came with jawlines that could cut glass and thighs that deserved their own zip code. And those shoulders look like they were sculpted by some mischievous forest god with a flannel fetish. His skin is the color of moss after a summer storm—dusky green and unearthly.

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