by F. T. Lukens
Raves for MONSTER OF THE WEEK
“Lukens’ effervescent storytelling navigates with heart and nuance the complications of what we owe to one another and what we owe to ourselves, and is a heartwarming validation of found families and what makes relationships thrive.”
—C.B. Lee, author of Not Your Sidekick
“A light read with all the magic and monsters.”
—Kirkus Reviews
Raves for THE RULES AND REGULATIONS FOR MEDIATING MYTHS & MAGIC
2019 American Library Association GLBT Rainbow Book List
Gold Winner, 2017 IBPA Benjamin Franklin Awards | Teen Fiction
Gold Winner, 2017 Foreword INDIES Book of the Year Awards | YA Fiction
Finalist, 2017 Cybils Awards | YA Speculative Fiction
“Creatures, comedy, and coming out: check.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“A humorous fantasy about a bisexual teenager whose day job plunges him into a world of pixies, unicorns and other fantastical beasts.”
—Foreword Reviews
“F.T. Lukens brings a joyfully charming innocence into this endearing adventure…”
—Tanita Davis, author of Finding Wonderland
“It is literally laugh out loud, clap a hand over your mouth and check to see if anyone noticed your outburst levels of funny.”
—D.E. Atwood, author of If We Shadows
Raves for The Broken Moon Series
“Lukens writes a satisfying balance of action and romance in a science fiction setting that will feel familiar to fans of the genre… Add this title to young adult sci-fi collections, and expect readers to eagerly anticipate the next book in the series.”
—School Library Journal on The Star Host
“I continued my science fiction kick with a YA novel I have been eyeing for quite some time. The Star Host by F.T. Lukens hooked me from the blurb. It still hasn’t let me go, and I finished reading it hours ago. I want more… like right, the heck now. I need more Asher and Ren in my life. You need more Asher and Ren in your lives.”
—Prism Book Alliance
“The mythology of the stardust is absolutely gorgeous; the worldbuilding is fantastic, with so many tiny details building a perfectly clear view of a world that is not our own… The short version is that this book is amazing, and I am hard-pressed to be more coherent than ASKLJFDAH and OMGFLAIL.”
—D.E Atwood, author, If We Shadows on The Star Host
“VERDICT A solid purchase for libraries with a sci-fi reader base or those looking to develop LGBTQ genre fiction collections.”
—School Library Journal on Ghosts & Ashes
“FIVE STARS… Ghosts & Ashes continues the adventures of The Star Host, Ren, as he comes to grips with his power and searches for his place in the cosmos. This is a rollicking adventure that blends elements from westerns, sci-fi, YA, and romance into a cohesive page-flipping thrill ride.”
—Foreword Reviews
“Fans of queer sci-fi adventure, this is the series for you. Start at The Star Host and plow right on through Ghosts and Ashes in one go. Told in Lukens’ no-nonsense prose, this story will draw you in and not let go.”
—Teen Vogue
Copyright © 2019 F.T. Lukens
All Rights Reserved
ISBN 13: 978-1-945053-82-5 (trade)
ISBN 13: 978-1-945053-83-2 (ebook)
Published by Duet, an imprint of Interlude Press
www.duetbooks.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and places are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real persons, either living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All trademarks and registered trademarks are the property of their respective owners.
Book Design and Cover Illustration by CB Messer
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Interlude Press, New York
To Lauren, Joshua, Catherine, Bobby, Andie, Emmarose, Kevin, Michael, Elin, Alexander, Ezra, Elijah, Zelda, Jayla, Remy, Sarah, & Leo
May your lives be full of happiness and unicorns
Now I will believe
That there are unicorns
—The Tempest (3.3.24-25)
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Some readers may find some of the scenes in this book difficult to read. We have compiled a list of content warnings, which can be found at www.interludepress.com/content-warnings
Chapter 1
Unicorn poop.
It was real. It was a thing, one that, unfortunately, Bridger had intimate knowledge of—size, texture, aroma, number of sparkles—and had handled on more than one occasion in an official capacity, though finding and scooping said poop was not something he’d be able to put on future resumes because: one—poop—and two—unicorns.
No one was supposed to know about the unicorn that lived in the woods next to the shopping complex. Well, no one other than his boss, Pavel Chudinov, an intermediary between the world of myth and the human world, and his boss’s roommates, who happened to be pixies.
Well, and him. Yes, him. Bridger Whitt, seventeen-year-old, awkward dumpster-fire and graduating senior. That was not his official job title, but it seemed more apt than assistant.
He had the dubious privilege of access to unicorn-poop knowledge because hanging out with cryptids was his after-school job. How he’d obtained the job and held down the job while in his first semester of his senior year of high school was a long story, novel length in fact, and it involved Bridger, his boss, his best friend in the whole world, a cute hero masquerading as the guy-next-door, the aforementioned pixies, an angry unicorn, and the Beast of Bray Road. It also featured a lot of running away from things intent on harming him and copious amounts of what-the-fuckery.
Looking back, he was surprised he’d survived it with limbs and wits intact. And he supposed he should be grateful that his current worst worry was to be walking in the forest looking for mounds of sparkly excrement and not, say, getting mauled by the Ozark Howler. For the record, the Ozark Howler was kind of cute and fluffy if you didn’t focus on the glowing red eyes or the massive claws and teeth, or the little fact that it was an omen of death.
Anyway, the pixies, Nia and Bran, were the reason for Bridger’s current unicorn-poop gathering excursion. He held a plastic sack of the poop; the distinct smell of cotton candy wafted out every time he jostled it while he combed the woods for more because the pixies needed a heap for their side business of making and selling cosmetics. Bridger didn’t ask questions. He’d learned the hard way not to ask questions when it came to certain aspects of the magical life. The answers only led to headaches and thinly veiled disgust at exactly what certain cryptid byproducts were used for. Okay, so he had asked about the unicorn poop. Apparently, it was an essential ingredient in a spectacular anti-aging cream. (It was their best seller.)
Hands wrapped in plastic gloves, Bridger scooped up another handful of the glittery stuff and dropped it in the bag. Sweat beaded his hairline in the late afternoon sun. Spring was f
inally edging out the remnants of the long Michigan winter. Despite the warm weather and the shopping complex teeming with teenagers nearby, in the woods Bridger was alone. Only a few months ago, he would’ve hated the silence and the feeling of loneliness which clung like a ghost. But now that he had found another family—a weird, loud, family with members who sparkled and other members who growled—he didn’t mind the quiet. After a long week of school and work, he quite enjoyed it.
A crunch in the flora and a tinkle of bells made the hair on the back of Bridger’s neck stand on end. He spied the magnificence of the unicorn through the trees. The blinding white of its coat was beautiful as freshly fallen snow under a rising sun; the gleam of its horn was sharp and shimmering as a sparkler on the Fourth of July. It whinnied at him, pawed the ground, and tossed its silky mane, a waterfall of strands that prismed rainbows as it moved. The rest of the forest went still, and the far-off sounds of cars and people at the shopping complex dimmed and disappeared. Magic bled into the air, poured onto the forest floor, and the atmosphere went dense with it as the unicorn moved toward him. Its dark, intelligent eyes were framed by long lashes; its silky ears pricked forward.
“Yeah, I see you.” Bridger stripped off the gloves and stowed them in the bag. “Don’t waste your whole L’Oreal photo shoot act on me. I’m literally picking up your poop.”
It nickered in greeting then trotted over to nose at his backpack. Watchful of the sharp point of its horn, Bridger pushed its snout away. His fingertips lingered on the velvet fur, and his soul found peace in the thrum of magic and joy around him before he slid his bag off his shoulder. He pulled out a heavy lump wrapped in tinfoil.
“Is this what you want?”
The unicorn snorted.
“Well, come on then.” Bridger walked deeper into the trees, with the unicorn following him, until he came upon a large rock in a clearing. He squirted hand sanitizer onto his palms and rubbed them together, then he peeled back the wrapper to reveal a large bean and cheese burrito with extra guacamole and absolutely no tomatoes. He pulled a paper plate from his bag, plunked the burrito on it, and set it down in the middle of the meadow. Sitting heavily on the rock, he dropped both the bag of poop and his backpack onto a bed of springy grass. “I wish I had known the effect burritos have on you the first time we met.”
It rolled his eyes.
“Oh, don’t even! We both know you were a dick back then. I mean, we’re friends now, but chasing me, twice I might add, with the intent to skewer me puts you firmly in the asshole category.”
Bending its neck, it nibbled at the burrito, then nudged Bridger’s leg playfully. Bridger scratched between the unicorn’s ears.
“My birthday is this weekend,” he said, relaxing on the rock. “I’ll be eighteen in three days. I think my boyfriend, Leo—you haven’t met him—I think he might have something special planned. Which is cool, but also a little nerve wracking.”
He and Leo had been dating exclusively for the last six months, since the homecoming game when Bridger kissed him in front of the entire school, and the alumni, and the other school’s team and fans, and, well, it was about as big a hey I like you gesture a high schooler could pull off, short of an elaborate promposal. And as awesome as it was and as comfortable as Bridger was in the relationship, a few things made his anxiety spike. One was explaining to people that, even though he was in a relationship with Leo, the most ridiculously hot guy in school, he still was also attracted to girls. Another was navigating the whole intimacy issue. As it was, he was still very much unicorn friendly.
“I mean, it might make me less maidenly, if you get my drift.” Bridger rubbed a hand over his forehead, trying to forestall the tension headache he’d get from worrying too much. “Can we still be friends if I’m like fifty percent less virginly? Are there percentage points when it comes to purity? A sliding scale? Because I mean, I am not a hundred percent right now. Definitely down to, like, eighty. And let’s be real, the whole purity thing is basically antiquated oppression based on heteronormative thinking. You know?”
The unicorn didn’t respond. Instead it happily munched on the flour tortilla and refried beans.
“Okay, so I didn’t know all that until recently. I’ve been educating myself. Anyway, will you try to skewer me again if something does happen between me and Leo? Because I’d miss our little talks. You’re crap at conversation but you’re a great listener.”
The unicorn lifted its head and eyed Bridger in an exasperated-parent way. Bridger knew the look. Then it went back to the burrito. Okay, maybe it wasn’t such a great listener—stupid unicorn.
The sound of a million marching-band cymbals rang from the bottom of his backpack and broke the bubble of magic between them. Bridger sighed and fished around until he grasped his compact mirror. Flicking it open, Bridger pushed his blond hair out of his eyes.
“Hello?”
Nia flitted into view, her gossamer wings flapping madly, pink and purple sparks flying off her tiny shuddering body as she pointed at Bridger.
“Where are you?”
Bridger pursed his lips and turned the mirror toward the unicorn. “Gathering ingredients for your wildly successful cosmetic line.”
“Well,” she said, her voice a demanding squeak, “you’re taking too long. I need you to bring the unicorn donation back to the house immediately.”
Bridger’s burgeoning headache intensified. He pressed two fingers to his temple. “I’m near the Commons. It’ll take me at least thirty minutes by bus to get to the house. Can I bring it tomorrow?”
She huffed and crossed her arms. Agitated sparkles billowed around her. “Absolutely not! We’ll send the portal.”
Bridger’s eyebrows shot to his hairline. “The portal? Wait, is this some type of emergency? Are the toasters ringing? What’s going on?”
Bran budged into the frame; his shoulder knocked into his sister’s. His blue face took up most of the screen. His cheeks flared like a chipmunk’s, and he had frosting smeared all over his chin.
“Hi, Bridger!” Little bits of food flew out of his mouth; the words were slurred by whatever he’d shoved in there before bouncing into the conversation. “Don’t argue with Nia. She’s about to explode. Just listen for the portal. It should be there… now! See you in a few seconds!”
Bridger heard a shrill Did you eat the cake? just as the mirror winked out.
He shook his head. He stood and gave the unicorn one last pat on its neck, while it finished the burrito. Then he headed to where the portal hovered and hummed.
Floating a few inches above the ground, the portal was a glassy, swirling, black oval of magic. It was the fastest way to travel between two locations, and it was immensely helpful when trying to find a sasquatch on the Upper Peninsula or when someone needed rescuing from a horrifying hag. But it was usually reserved for emergencies and came with a few rules that Bridger didn’t understand. It couldn’t be summoned to a location, but it could be sent, and it was calibrated to specific people, but, in a pinch, anyone could use it if they were with a magical person.
If Bridger really thought about it, which he tried not to, it was absolutely terrifying. The portal was semi-sentient and completely beyond the realm of understanding. Entering it was like stepping through a warm waterfall, if the waterfall was a rip in the space-time continuum and sounded as if a drain had unclogged and all the water rushed downward in a giant slurp.
“Hi,” Bridger said, standing in front of the inky blackness. “Hope you’re well. Been a while since we’ve seen each other.”
The portal quivered.
“I’m good, thanks. Take me to Pavel’s office please.”
Bridger had learned that politeness went a long way in the myth world. Asking nicely was one of the most important tools in his assistant-to-an-intermediary tool box.
He stretched out his hand, and the darkness latched onto his fingers
and leeched up his arm. Bridger took a breath and stepped through. Noise filled his head, and heat tingled over his body, and he was squeezed on all sides, and then—Bridger popped out into the second floor of Pavel’s home and office and right into a surprise birthday party.
“Surprise!”
“Holy crap!”
Bridger jumped backward at the yells and the blare of party horns, clutched his heart, and dropped the bag of unicorn poop. He would have stumbled right back into the portal if not for the quick reflexes of the Beast of Bray Road, otherwise known as Elena. Elena’s sharp fingernails dug into the fabric of his T-shirt, and it tore as she jerked him toward the gathering of people and cryptids.
“The personification of grace as always, Bridger,” she said, her pouty lips curving into a smirk. Her luxurious, long brown hair swung behind her, and her amber eyes glinted, clearly amused.
Bridger’s traitorous heart double-thumped, and he blushed as she manhandled him to the group and a table laden with cake and food. Elena was super-model gorgeous and a werewolf. She was also kind of a bitch and she’d be the first to admit to it. They tolerated each other for Pavel’s sake—she being Pavel’s best friend and Bridger being the only assistant of his who had stuck around for longer than a few months.
Pavel held his arms out wide. His orange-and-pink striped shirt clashed horribly with his plaid pants, but Bridger had become so used to Pavel’s awful fashion sense that it didn’t register beyond the fact that his clothes appeared new and crisp and not his usual thrift-store chic or his rumpled, rolled-out-of-bed-and-rocked-up-to-the-party style. He’d even brushed his black hair, and it fell artfully across his forehead.
“Happy birthday, Bridger!”
Bridger’s eyes went wide as he took in the stack of pizza boxes, the hideously large cake with a section of frosting missing, obviously Bran’s doing, and a pile of presents. “What is happening?”
“A surprise birthday party is happening!” Astrid yelled, tackle-hugging him out of Elena’s grip. “Look, the pixies made cake. Elena decorated.”
