Mortal Sight by Sandra Fernandez Rhoads

Mortal Sight

Mortal Sight by Sandra Fernandez Rhoads (The Colliding Line, #1)
English | 2020 | Children/Young Adult | ePUB | 2.3 MB

When Worlds Collide, Shadow Wrestles Light

Seventeen-year-old Cera Marlowe wants a normal life; one where she and her mom can stop skipping town every time a disturbing vision strikes. But when a girl she knows is murdered by a monster she can’t explain, Cera’s world turns upside down.

Suddenly thrown into an ancient supernatural battle, Cera discovers she’s not alone in her gifting and vows to use her visions to save lives. But why does John Milton’s poem Paradise Lost keep interrupting her thoughts?

In a race against time and a war against unearthly creatures, will decoding messages embedded in the works of classic literature be enough to stop the bloodshed and protect those she loves?

I don’t. And that’s exactly why Mom doesn’t want me in school anymore. I shrug as we weave around a half-unloaded delivery truck. “I guess I have to make friends in other ways.” In fact, Mom would come unhinged if she knew I was talking to Jess even this much.

Jess shakes her head. “I wouldn’t want to stay at home.” With her belligerent aunt passed out most of the time, I don’t blame her.

Swollen, bruise-colored clouds churn in the distance, darkening the sky. A storm is moving in fast.

The school sits halfway down the block. Before we cross the street, I glance over my shoulder with that paranoid feeling. Trucks rush down the road, a mom pushes a jogging stroller while talking on the phone, but as usual, no one notices me.

Jess wiggles her loose front teeth as we reach the sidewalk. I nudge her forward. “Go on. I’ll wait here until you get inside.” A peal of thunder sounds in the distance. My feet bounce. I want to stop by the market and pick up a few things before Mom wakes up and finds out I’m gone. She needs something besides stale peanut butter toast to eat before working her night shift.

Jess’s braid bounces against her backpack as she runs up the steps. When she reaches the school doors, she turns and waves at me before heading inside. Distant thunder shakes the ground and a sudden gust of wind rustles through the trees, swirling leaves over the road. Great.

Fall is here. According to my annual track record, I’ve got about a week left in this town—maybe less.

My feet pound the sidewalk a little harder as I pick up my pace. I hate moving. I’ve been doing it every year around my birthday for the past ten years, and it’s gotten old. Mom always makes a big deal out of my panic attacks. I know we can’t pay for whatever I need to get better, but moving isn’t the answer. For once I want to stop running.

Out of all the places I’ve lived, Wakefield is the only one that feels like it could be home. Anything goes in this sleepy artist town with painted sidewalks and bright murals on brick walls. Even now as I pass the quaint café on the corner, some shaggy California blond wearing a denim jacket and torn jeans plays guitar while he sings to a growing crowd. I don’t know the song, but as the melody rises, so does my resolve to stay.

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