Title: The Electric Girl Author: Christine Hart Genre: Young Adult Science Fiction
Polly Michaels is trying to forget that her mom has cancer. She keeps busy at school and plods through a normal social life. Until a freak electrical storm and a unicorn appear in the orchard next to her house.
Sy’kai wakes on an orchard floor to the smell of rotting cherries and wet earth. She doesn’t know where she is—or what she is—but she knows something is hunting her.
Polly recruits her friends to find the mysterious creature she saw from her window while Sy’kai, a confused shape-shifting endling from another dimension tries to piece her mind back together. Once the human girls find Sy’kai (whom they nickname Psyche) the mystery unravels and the danger facing all of them comes into focus.
A gritty struggle ranges throughout the girls’ rural hometown and in the wild terrain around it. All while two questions hang over their heads. Can an alien deliver a miracle for a human mother? Can a group of teens defeat an interdimensional demon?
Polly crept softly downstairs and into the vaulted kitchen. In the window behind the double sink, her mom’s stained-glass butterfly reflected a glint of moonlight. Her gaze darted from the window to the sliding glass doors across the room, behind a small round oak table. A greasy takeout box and two plates of chicken bones on the counter—her mom’s only half-eaten—glistened in the faint light. She paused next to the table, gripped the padded back of a dining chair, and leaned toward the glass door. She peered out, across the backyard and into the orchard.
A large beacon of light flickered in the trees. It moved, as if floating. No, not floating—walking. The intense glow, marked by dark strips of trunk and branch, moved at a measured pace. She squinted, trying to make out an outline of . . . whatever it was that meandered through the trees.
It’s an animal. It has to be!
She lifted the latch on the sliding glass door and gently opened it. Chilly night air rushed in, smelling of ozone and the earth. Her flannel nightgown billowed in the breeze. She placed a bare foot on the smooth concrete of the patio. The cold was sharp and shot straight through Polly, causing her to gasp, but she forced herself to keep moving. She stepped all the way out and slid the door back into place, almost closing it but not quite.
The roving light in the orchard had grown larger. It was weaving between the dark rows of trees in the distance. The undulating pace of it . . . it wasn’t human. Whatever it was, it was moving—walking, she thought, but not on two legs.
Polly put one foot in front of the other, compelled by her need to know. She crossed the backyard, reaching the bumpy bare earth of the orchard floor. She steadied herself against a tree trunk as adrenaline raced through her veins. She leaned into the tree, hoping to conceal her figure without losing sight of the creature, whatever it was.
She waited, watching in both awe and terror as the glowing animal came closer. The creature made no sound at all. Polly watched, eyes trained on the glow itself, until finally she could make out a shape—a long, muscular torso flexed above four knobby legs. Pointed ears flickered.
It’s a horse! A white mare! Oh my god, she’s so bright.
The horse turned its head, flashing a spiraled horn—unmistakable against the dark branches around them.
NO WAY!
“Polly? Are you out there?” she heard her mom call. She turned to see her mom’s silhouette standing in the kitchen. Her mom flicked on a light, spilling yellow across the yard. Polly whipped around to see the unicorn again, but the orchard had grown dark, full of silent indigo trees.
Award-winning author Christine Hart lives on BC’s beautiful West Coast. She loves writing about places and spaces with rich history and visually fascinating elements as a backdrop for the surreal and spectacular.
Christine has an undergraduate degree in writing and literature, along with a professional background in communications and design. She is a member of the Federation of BC Writers and SF Canada.
When not writing, she breaks stuff and makes stuff – in that order – for the Etsy shop Sleepless Storyteller.
City of Spells, the follow-up to Alexandra Christo’s gritty YA fantasy, Into the Crooked Place, finds the world on the brink of war and four unlikely allies facing sacrifices they had never imagined.
After the loss of Wesley and the horrifying reveal that Zekia is helping the Kingpin of her own free will, Tavia, Saxony, and Karam flee to Saxony’s home to rebuild their rebellion. Meanwhile, trapped in the Kingpin’s darkness, Wesley must fight against the deadly magic that invades his mind and find a way back to his friends before it’s too late.
As the Kingpin’s dark magic spreads and his army conquers Creije, these four unlikely friends have to decide just how far they’ll go—and how much they are willing to sacrifice—to win.
In the list of terrible things he’d done in his life—and Wesley liked to keep track of things like that—he was sure crying had never been one. He knew that memories were fickle, of course, but he trusted his mind to keep hold of important stuff like that.
Those were the things that needed to be remembered if he was going to hold a grudge properly, and if there was one thing Wesley Thornton Walcott did well, it was hold a grudge.
Wesley didn’t cry in the face of death.
He didn’t cry because he had only half a family—the half that gave him a house but not a home, that protected him but did not love him, that stared at him like he was something so very other in a realm of strange magic and monsters.
He didn’t cry when he crossed lines and burned bridges.
He didn’t cry when he threw away friendship for leadership.
And he didn’t cry when Zekia clawed through his mind, or when her shadow demon clawed through his body. They could try to break Wesley into a thousand pieces, but he wouldn’t give them that. He ’d fought his way up from the streets of Creije and there was no way he was going to go down with a fight.
“Fighting is hard,” Tavia said. “Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is just give in.” She sat beside Wesley in the cell, her grin sly as ever, while the low glow of night filtered from the cracked window, reflecting the sky in the pool of Wesley’s blood.
“Don’t you ever just want to give up?” she asked.
She shuffled closer to Wesley and squeezed his hand.
“It’s okay if you do.”
Wesley held on to the sound of her voice, like a cliff ’s edge, even though he knew it wasn’t really her voice at all.
He’d learned that by now.
He knew better.
He turned to Tavia and pushed a flick of black hair from her eyes in a way he had never dared to before. It was damp with sweat and clinging to her cheeks like seaweed, making her look young and restless.
“Get the hell out of my mind, kid,” he said.
And then he pushed Tavia’s head back so hard that it cracked against the surface of the cell wall. There wasn’t blood this time, but Wesley winced like there had been.
He heard a sigh and then Tavia’s newly limp body disappeared into smoke, and from across the room Zekia stepped out of the shadows.
“You’re getting quicker,” she said. “The first time it took you ages to figure it out.”
“Maybe you’re just getting sloppy.”
Though truth was, most of Zekia’s illusions had been perfect from the start, and if there was one thing she excelled at, it was making Wesley doubt every second of his life was real.
Still, she could never get Tavia right.
The first time she’d tried, Wesley was too out of it to see the small discrepancies, but it was the easiest thing to spot now. A conjured Tavia made Wesley feel cold and uncertain. She was always missing the bite to her words and the tilted smile that could never quite be replicated. She was missing the glint in her eye that told Wesley he was awful and she would forgive him for it anyway.
Zekia could try all she wanted, but she’d be hard-pressed to create an illusion as damn irritating and wonderful as the real thing.
“Want to give it another whirl?” Wesley asked. “I think I’ve still got some sanity left in me today.”
Zekia let out a great huff of breath, like she was frustrated that Wesley had stolen her favorite toy. Beside her, a shadow demon growled, its eyes like pure darkness.
It looked at Wesley in a way that said, Yes. Again. Let me taste the blood this time.
Alexandra Christo decided to write books when she was four and her teacher told her she couldn’t be a fairy. She has a BA in Creative Writing and works as a copywriter in London, both of which make her sound more grown up than she feels. When she’s not busy making up stories, she can be found buying far too many cushions and organizing food crawls all over the city. Alexandra currently lives in Hertfordshire with an abundance of cacti (because they’re the only plants she can keep alive).
Jeni has fully accepted her spiritual ability, and yet she’s unnerved by the apparition of Marielle, the ghost of a pioneer girl asking for help. As the ghost’s tragic love story unfolds in her dreams, Jeni’s resistance melts and she resolves to save the soul of Marielle’s lost love. When she discovers her own impulses cause Marielle to act uncharacteristically, Jeni believes she can change the past. Despite warnings against meddling with time, Jeni’s convinced she can save the soul of Marielle’s lover. Deep inside a dream and intent on her quest, Jeni is lured into a trap that binds her soul to Marielle’s. With no allies, no knowledge about crossing through time and with limited 18th century resources, Jeni is terrified: failure will leave her soul trapped in the past, or worse . . . lost in nowhere.
Ice spotted a nearby tree with a thick trunk. He headed for it, capturing Jeni’s hand and pulling her with him. He settled on the ground, knees bent, and patted the space in front of him. “Do they know why the river changed course?’
Accepting the invitation, Jeni scooted backward until her back touched his chest. He looped his arms around her and she sighed, melting against him. “They do now. The forests were cut down to feed the riverboats. It allowed massive erosion. Although,” she twisted her head so she could look up at him, “some people claimed it was a curse.”
Ice smirked. “Sure. Because it couldn’t have been their fault.”
“Exactly.” Sarcasm tinged her voice. “The legend of the curse is actually a tragic love story about… ” Again she looked up at Ice. “Are you ready for this?”
“Sure,” he said.
“A French girl and a Native American boy.”
“Like us.” He chuckled. “Do you know the entire legend?”
“I can give you the basics.” Jeni recounted the story, ending with, “So Amakapa swore that he and Marielle would be together again in the afterlife and that—” She broke off, sitting up so fast she nearly smacked her head into his chin. “Ice. Please tell me you see her this time,” she said in a low voice.
Ice searched the vista for a figure. “Where?”
“Across the road. Behind the fence, just to the left of where it’s leaning forward.” Her entire body was tense.
His eyes scoured the fence line, finding a spot where the wire bowed out as if something had pushed against it, or possibly fallen on top of it, but he saw no one.
“Do you see her?” Jeni’s voice faltered.
“No. Is it the same girl you saw before?”
“Oh, God.” With a strangled cry, Jeni clambered to her feet and dashed for the pathway.
Ice rushed after her. When she reached the trail, Jeni broke into a run, her face a white mask when she glanced over her shoulder. Ice swiveled his head to make his own cursory check, wondering if the figure Jeni saw had given chase. The path behind them appeared empty. He knew, however, something might be there. Something he couldn’t see. When Jeni broke out of the shadows and into the sunshine, she finally slowed, breathing hard.
Ice approached, placing a protective hand on her back while she bent over, hands on thighs, drawing in air. “What happened?”
She shook her head and straightened, hands over her face. “She…” Jeni sucked in a shuddering breath. “It looked like she was trying to speak to me.” She let her fingers trail down her cheeks, meeting his eyes with a haunted gaze.
“What did she say?”
“I couldn’t hear anything,” Jeni said. “But I didn’t need to. I could read her lips clearly. She was saying ‘help me.'”
Having a love for witches and vampires before they were trendy, Barbara gravitates toward stories with supernatural elements both when she reads and when she writes. Although classified as young adult, her books are enjoyed by a wide audience–pre-teen through adult.
Barbara’s novel Thunderstone was awarded 2013 Book of the Year Finalist status by Forward Reviews and before it was published, Thunderstone was a quarter-finalist in the 2012 Amazon Breakout Novel Award contest, winning a review by Publisher’s Weekly.
When she’s not writing, Barbara works in a library where she’s tortured by all the books she has yet to read. She’s a cult fan of the movies Labyrinth and Nightmare Before Christmas and a fan of all things Tim Burton. Barbara lives in Royal Oak, Michigan with her husband, daughter and a cat that often acts like a dog.
