by Nikki Jefford
October 1st 2024
Genres: Urban Fantasy, Young Adult
Win the game. Change the world.
Winning the show means living forever. It is the golden ticket to fame, fortune, and a place among the vampire elite.
Being remade isn’t on my wish list. I like being me, and with nearly a million online followers, it’s working. My parents and big sister are the do-gooders in our family who want to make the world a fair and just place for all humans and paranormal creatures. I just want to finish high school and keep doing what I do best—sharing hair and beauty tips while discussing Spellcaster and how the show’s vampire judge Malachi Rayne is the hottest male on the planet.
Then, life as I know it ends. There are evil forces who will stop at nothing to maintain world dominance—indefinitely.
It’s hard to care when I’ve become dead inside and out.
After my family is violently attacked, the host of Spellcaster insists I audition for Season 13. For the first time in the show’s history, they want to represent every species of paranormals. That’s me now. Not human. Not vampire. Not the class of creature anyone EVER cheers for.
This season’s prize is power beyond anyone’s imagination. It is the kind of reward that contestants and their sponsors would kill to possess.
Let the other contestants and judges underestimate me. They can gossip all they want about the hotshot wizard and the alpha werewolf behaving as though I’m another prize to be won. And if Coach Malachi can’t handle a bold influencer with abilities, then he can suck it. I preferred watching him from the other side of the screen. He’s about to discover that Haylee Hutchins is a force to be reckoned with. The whole world will.
Someone thought they could silence my family for good. Instead, they created a monster. I’m still here, and I am much harder to kill.
Excerpt 1
Everything is spinning. My body. My vision. My brain. I clamp my mouth shut to keep from vomiting. The cleaning crew just got the stage cleaned. Then there’s the second reason I keep my lips pressed tight. I refuse to beg Malachi for mercy.
My hands flail and grasp for something to hold on to, but the wind rushing between my fingers is no help. If this is what flying feels like, then it’s highly overrated. I lean forward in an attempt to go vertical, which has the ill effect of pitching me forward so I catch a brief view of how far I am from the stage. My body flips around another time. I don’t want to land on my feet and crush my ankles. I certainly don’t want to land on my head and shatter my skull. I don’t want to break anything on my body!
If I won this season’s prize, I could defend myself instead of swirling helplessly like the roof of a house caught in a tornado.
The wind rips out my hair tie and blows my braid out in an instant. Blond hair whips me in the eyes. My body begins to descend slowly, while the spinning continues in full force. The tornado fades little by little into the stage until I am set down gently and it disappears altogether. I try to remain standing while the theater seats and stage continue to spin, but I tilt to one side and misstep. Thump. I fall to the stage, sprawled out on my side. It could have been worse, though. Way, way worse.
It’s a little hard to feel grateful as partially digested lunch rushes up my throat. I swallow it down.
Malachi stomps over. “What the hell was that, Hutchins?”
Great. He’s using my last name. The coaches never use contestants’ last names. I must be in trouble.
It’s a serious effort to get to my feet, which takes outstretched arms to keep my balance, but I’m not about to listen to this lecture in a crumpled heap on the stage.
My loose hair tickles my cheeks. I swallow again and cover my mouth with my hand. Malachi’s not in my face, but I don’t want him scenting my vomit breath. Well, not technically breath, but whatever foul waft might originate from the leftover taste on my tongue.
Malachi doesn’t wait for me to answer his question before drilling into me. “First rule of magical combat—never lose hold of your wand.”
“You lost yours,” I mutter, which is the wrong thing to say.
Everything is spinning. My body. My vision. My brain. I clamp my mouth shut to keep from vomiting. The cleaning crew just got the stage cleaned. Then there’s the second reason I keep my lips pressed tight. I refuse to beg Malachi for mercy.
My hands flail and grasp for something to hold on to, but the wind rushing between my fingers is no help. If this is what flying feels like, then it’s highly overrated. I lean forward in an attempt to go vertical, which has the ill effect of pitching me forward so I catch a brief view of how far I am from the stage. My body flips around another time. I don’t want to land on my feet and crush my ankles. I certainly don’t want to land on my head and shatter my skull. I don’t want to break anything on my body!
If I won this season’s prize, I could defend myself instead of swirling helplessly like the roof of a house caught in a tornado.
The wind rips out my hair tie and blows my braid out in an instant. Blond hair whips me in the eyes. My body begins to descend slowly, while the spinning continues in full force. The tornado fades little by little into the stage until I am set down gently and it disappears altogether. I try to remain standing while the theater seats and stage continue to spin, but I tilt to one side and misstep. Thump. I fall to the stage, sprawled out on my side. It could have been worse, though. Way, way worse.
It’s a little hard to feel grateful as partially digested lunch rushes up my throat. I swallow it down.
Malachi stomps over. “What the hell was that, Hutchins?”
Great. He’s using my last name. The coaches never use contestants’ last names. I must be in trouble.
It’s a serious effort to get to my feet, which takes outstretched arms to keep my balance, but I’m not about to listen to this lecture in a crumpled heap on the stage.
My loose hair tickles my cheeks. I swallow again and cover my mouth with my hand. Malachi’s not in my face, but I don’t want him scenting my vomit breath. Well, not technically breath, but whatever foul waft might originate from the leftover taste on my tongue.
Malachi doesn’t wait for me to answer his question before drilling into me. “First rule of magical combat—never lose hold of your wand.”
“You lost yours,” I mutter, which is the wrong thing to say.
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Nikki Jefford is a third-generation Alaskan nomad married to an amazing Frenchman. She loves fictional bad boys and heroines who kick butt! Books, travel, TV series, hiking, writing, and motorcycle riding are her favorite escapes. The dark side of human nature fascinates her, so long as it's balanced by humor and romance.
To get in on the fun and adventure, visit Nikki at her website for release alerts, updates, exclusive giveaways, and a free story when you subscribe to her newsletter: https://nikkijefford.com/newsletter/
Nikki Jefford is a third-generation Alaskan nomad married to an amazing Frenchman. She loves fictional bad boys and heroines who kick butt! Books, travel, TV series, hiking, writing, and motorcycle riding are her favorite escapes. The dark side of human nature fascinates her, so long as it's balanced by humor and romance.
To get in on the fun and adventure, visit Nikki at her website for release alerts, updates, exclusive giveaways, and a free story when you subscribe to her newsletter: https://nikkijefford.com/newsletter/
GIVEAWAY
Blitz-wide giveaway (INT)
$50 gift card to Nikki’s web store
Blitz-wide giveaway (INT)
$50 gift card to Nikki’s web store
