Libra Ascending: An Epic Urban Fantasy Romance (Zodiac Guardians Book 1)

by Tamar Sloan

  “Ms. Grotberg?”

  Suki rolls her eyes again and Tristan suspects it’s her thing. “And saying her name like that is the best way to get one. She’s also the vice-principal.”

  He follows them down the hall, scanning the students as he goes. He’s found the blonde from his vision, now to find the brunette.

  That one who looked at him like he was just there, like he was real…

  The curious glances continue, and Tristan makes a point of smiling or saying hi. No one fits the image he saw. He tells himself he needs to connect with his inner Tess.

  Patience, Zodiac boy. You’ve found one girl already. You’ll find the second.

  Cassandra and Zayn take a left into a classroom and Tristan follows them. Luckily, the tables are grouped in bunches of four, meaning he easily sits beside his newfound friends. Students file in, taking their places.

  None of them the brunette.

  When Ms. Grotberg enters, the entire room falls into silence. Elderly, with a beak-like nose, she surveys the room. Her gaze falls onto Tristan, not looking pleased to have a new addition.

  Tristan stands, smiling as if he’s the one welcoming her. “Good morning, Ms. Grotberg. My name’s Tristan Ayers and I just recently transferred from Twin Buttes.”

  There’s a snigger and Ms. Grotberg’s hawkish gaze snaps left, trying to locate it. She’s greeted with silence and blank faces.

  “An unusual name, I know,” adds Tristan, widening his smile as he lifts his brows. “But quite unforgettable.”

  Ms. Grotberg’s jaw slackens for the briefest of seconds. She shakes her head. “You’re one of those, huh?” She waves a hand dismissively. “Take a seat, young man. Page eighty-four in your textbook.”

  Tristan sits back down and Zayn leans in. “Whoa, your head’s still intact,” he whispers, clearly impressed.

  Tristan grins. Who knew the name of that place would actually come in handy after showing absolutely no Zodiac Heir potential, no matter what Tess said. “Good thing, too.” He taps his temple. “I need to get up to speed.”

  Zayn frowns. “Get up to speed?”

  Cassandra leans forward, her twinkling eyes narrowed. “You mean you want the goss.”

  Thwump. Another blow lands between Tristan’s shoulder blades. “Then you’ve come to the right place.”

  Tristan makes a show of looking curious yet surprised. The Popular Clique are always the ones in the know. “I really have hit the jackpot then,” he murmurs.

  Keeping their voices low, Cassandra and Zayn progressively work around the room, describing each student. Cheerleader. Chess champion. Works at Creamy Dreams and will give you a discount if you compliment the purple hair. The longer they talk though, the more intimate the details get. She lost her virginity at camp. He got caught by the principal trying to graffiti the news in the boys’ bathroom.

  Throughout, Tristan asks his strategic questions. “What did his parents think about that?”

  Zayn chuckles. “They’re hoping to hell his younger brother only follows him in looks.”

  So, not adopted. Mentally, Tristan scratches another kid off the list.

  He tilts his chin at a girl with ink-black hair slouched in the back corner. “Now, she looks like someone who could lift tables with her mind.”

  Cassandra snorts. “The only thing that gets high is her.”

  No special abilities then. Scratch another one off.

  The period is almost coming to an end when Tristan brings the conversation back to Cassandra. “What about you? What’s your favorite fro-yo flavor?”

  Start small and innocuous, a little flirtatiously. Then work your way up.

  “You’re kidding right?” Zayn scoffs. “The daughter of the great Mr. Sinclair would never eat fro-yo. She’s too busy getting straight A’s, winning national debates, and getting gold for the track team.” He nudges her shoulder. “And looking slim, trim and terrific, to boot.”

  Cassandra scowls at him. “Shut up, Zayn. For the hundredth time, I don’t like fro-yo.”

  So, pretty and a high-achiever. They sound like qualities one would want in a Zodiac Heir.

  “Your parents are the Sinclairs?” Tristan doesn’t actually know who they are, but he makes a note of doing some research. “Is your mom as pretty as you?”

  Cassandra rolls her eyes, no doubt used to compliments. “We’re both blonde, if that counts.”

  So, possibly not adopted. Squashing the disappointment, Tristan wishes he could just come out and ask these questions.

  It would save a whole lot of time.

  He opens his mouth to probe about siblings when the bell rings, sparking a flurry of movement. Cassandra scoops her books up. “Electives next. I’m off to Global Economics, Zayn has Sports Science. You?”

  Tristan ignores the second punch of disappointment. It seems the talk with Cassandra is going to have to wait. He makes a show of pulling his schedule out of his back pocket even though he’s already memorized it. “Classic American, whatever that is.”

  Cassandra’s smile turns coy as she pauses at the door. “Make me something good.”

  Zayn snorts. “She’s not going to eat it, though.”

  Eat it?

  Classic American is a cooking class?

  Without warning, Zayn pitches the ball at Tristan again. He doesn’t blink as he catches it and lobs it back.

  Zayn inclines his head with a grin. “Not bad.”

  Tristan winks. “Get that ball up the field so you can get more offensive players in the attack zone.”

  Zayn throws the ball across the hall, making several people duck, then catches it. “That’s the plan, m’man!”

  Cassandra shakes her head. “Your classroom is down the hall and to the left. See you at the cafeteria?”

  Tristan lets the happiness those words spark shine from his smile. “Looking forward to it.”

  He finds his class easily enough—not only is Mirror Point High too small to get lost in, but Zarius has had Tristan navigate every new house or apartment they’ve been in blindfolded. Tristan could easily follow the smell of cheap cleaning spray and burnt cheese.

  Cooking class. How the hell did he end up in cooking class? Tess usually deals with the enrollments and class selection. She knows Tristan’s generally ahead of the curriculum thanks to the home-schooling, and also needs to be in a diverse set of classes so he can connect with as many kids as possible.

  But cooking class?

  Admittedly, the title Classic American doesn’t really say food technology.

  Straightening his spine and telling himself he can’t afford to miss an opportunity, Tristan eyes the teens that pass him on the way down the hall. Any of them could be a Zodiac Heir.

  And if they don’t find one soon…

  Kids file past, tall ones, short ones, smiling ones, frowning ones. Tristan tries to stay focused even though they start to blur together. How many teens has he scanned, wondering if there’s some way to distinguish a Zodiac just by sight? How many times has he thought he had a lead only to come up empty-handed?

  Right now, talking to Cassandra is his best bet. It’s the closest they’ve come so far. Lunch can’t come fast enough.

  Tristan slips into the classroom, bright pictures of fruit and vegetables lining the wall. He suppresses a shudder. Chardis’s lair probably looks like this place.

  As he waits for the teacher to look up from her computer, he scans the room. His eyes stop at a girl in the far station across the room. Her head is tilted so her chocolate-colored hair falls over her face. This is a girl who doesn’t want to be noticed.

  But for some reason Tristan notices her.

  In fact, he can’t look away.

  She’s a brunette, but so is half the school. It doesn’t mean anything…

  She looks up and two words slam through Tristan.

  It’s her.

  The girl from the vision.

  The one who looked at him in a way no one has.

  The one w
ho’s staring right back at him like her world just stopped, too.

  5

  Brielle

  Cooking is one of Brielle’s favorite classes. Not just because making food gives her a focus that nothing else does, but because it’s the one class she has with her best—and kind of only—friend, Adalind.

  The snarky brunette is already sitting at their station when Brielle enters the room, the streak in her hair dyed pink this week. Adalind’s bored expression perks up as Brielle comes to join her.

  “How was your weekend?” Adalind asks, smiling at Brielle like she’s the only person in the room.

  Brielle loves this about her, how she puts her full attention on her, and truly is interested in what she has to say. What she loves most is that Adalind is one of the only people she’s never had a vision of. What more could she ask for in a best friend?

  “It was okay,” Brielle shrugs. “I spent the whole time stressing about today.”

  “You shouldn’t worry,” Adalind says, flipping her pink streak over her shoulder. “That couple will love you, you’re awesome! You just have to be yourself, and they’ll see that, too.”

  Brielle smiles but looks down at the table. Adalind only thinks that because she doesn’t know Brielle’s freak side, and if Brielle has anything to do with it, she never will.

  Adalind came to the school at the start of the year, a military brat, and for whatever reason, she latched onto Brielle instantly. Brielle isn’t the best at making friends. Ironically, being forced to see the private details of everyone else’s lives has made her very closed off, so she doesn’t put herself out there as much as she should.

  But that didn’t seem to matter to Adalind. From the day she arrived, Adalind had gravitated toward Brielle like a magnet, and Brielle didn’t mind one little bit.

  Adalind sighs dramatically. “I wish you had a cell phone. Then we could text each other on weekends.”

  Brielle smirks. “You mean, as opposed to actually talking in person, like they used to in the old days?”

  Adalind rolls her dark eyes. “You know what I mean. And trying to hang out with you on weekends is tough because that creepy nun interrogates me at the door every time.”

  Brielle snickers. Sister Cora is kind of a scary old lady.

  “You should just let me buy you a phone,” Adalind offers for the umpteenth time. “Just because you don’t have parents doesn’t mean you have to live without modern day necessities. I could be like your sponsor, you know.”

  “Okay, fine, if I don’t get adopted this time around, then I’ll concede and let you buy me a phone,” Brielle says.

  Adalind shrugs. “Fair enough.”

  Smiling wide, Brielle shakes her head and rolls her eyes, and when her eyes fall, the sight they behold makes her heart trip.

  A guy is walking through the doorway. A new guy as she’d remember someone who looked like that. A guy she can’t look away from.

  His golden brown hair is mussed in casual spikes, and his blue t-shirt hugs his Adonis physique in a way that would make any girl drool. But it’s not just his good looks or lean grace or the fact he’s new that has Brielle’s heart doing somersaults; it’s the way his cerulean eyes are locked on hers, and the frozen way he stands just past the entrance of the class, staring at her.

  Looking like she feels—like the world just...expanded and imploded at the same time.

  “Ah, you must be Tristan Ayers,” Ms. Brom greets.

  He falters and turns to her, and Brielle’s arms prickle with a chill at the loss of his gaze.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Tristan says, readjusting his backpack slung over his shoulder.

  Miss Brom scribbles on her attendance sheet and nods. “Alright, Tristan, you can take the empty seat at station four.”

  Brielle’s eyes widen and her heart just flat-out stops beating.

  That’s her station!

  Brielle and Adalind had been happy not to have a third person at their station, it gave them the freedom to chat about personal stuff during class without having to include anyone else.

  Tristan approaches, checking the numbers on countertops he passes. When he spots the number four sticker on the edge of her counter, he once again puts those intense, bright blue eyes on her and smiles, and a sizzle surges through Brielle’s nerve endings. As he takes the empty stool to her left, she’s happy to give up that third seat and the privacy its vacancy had previously afforded.

  Brielle hardly notices the other students settling into their seats around her. All she can do is feel the heat of the solid male body right next to her, smell the sweet musky scent of his body spray, and try like heck not to look in his direction lest she be paralyzed that way for the duration of the hour.

  “Hey,” he says in a way that draws out the single syllable, making it impossible not to look. “I hope you ladies are good at cooking, because I sure as hell am not.” He grins again, and Brielle is mesmerized by how soft his pink lips appear as they lift to reveal straight white teeth. “Sorry you got the short straw.”

  Brielle blinks. That’s the last thing she’s thinking right now.

  “I usually ride Brielle’s coattails, so I guess you’ll be hopping on that bandwagon, too,” Adalind says, reminding Brielle that there are other people in the room besides her and Tristan.

  “Right,” Brielle says, coming to her senses. “Yeah, I don’t mind.”

  “I’m more than happy to help, cooking just isn’t my forte,” Tristan says. “I have no intention of letting you do all the work.” He winks at her, and she hardly notices the heat radiating up her neck. “I’m Tristan, by the way,” he says, leaning closer, the warm skin of his upper arm grazing hers.

  “I’m Brielle,” she says, mouth suddenly dry. She swallows. “And this is Adalind.”

  Adalind gives a half-hearted two-finger salute in greeting.

  Tristan opens his mouth to say something, but is interrupted by the teacher.

  “The lesson for today is one of my favorites, but it’s not easy.” Ms. Brom claps her hands in front of her plaid apron, a far too eager smile on her plump face. “They’re round, sweet, and everyone’s favorite treat—donuts!” She raises her arms high up over her messy bun like her announcement is the best news any of them has ever heard, only to receive sighs of exasperation from the class.

  “Donuts,” Tristan breathes like he’s just found water after a week in the desert. He looks at Brielle, hope bright in his eyes. “They can’t be that hard to make, right?”

  Brielle glances at the deep fryer filled with oil on the counter in front of them, figuring they must be making fried donuts rather than baked. “You’d be surprised.”

  Ms. Brom begins her demonstration at her station, and Brielle, Adalind and Tristan measure out the ingredients accordingly.

  “So Tristan, what’s your story?” Adalind asks, frowning in disgust at the yolk on her fingers as she cracks the eggs.

  “My story?” he repeats as he dumps a cup of flour into the mixing bowl.

  “Yeah, like, what brings you to Mirror Point High in the middle of the semester?” she clarifies, washing the yolk away at the sink as soon as she’s finished cracking.

  “My parents move around a lot for work,” he says, waving away the cloud of flour that erupts as a result of his too-hasty dumping. “I’ve been all over the place.”

  “Oh, are your parents in the military, too?” Brielle asks. “Adalind’s parents are in the Air Force, right?”

  “Something like that,” Adalind replies. She’s always vague when it comes to the topic of her parents, and Brielle assumes they do something classified, so she never presses the issue.

  “Kinda. My dad’s in defense,” he says, ducking his head to check out the recipe. “Sugar. We’re going to need lots of sugar.”

  They put all the ingredients together and Tristan tries stirring, his sloppy motions forcing the mixture to spill over the brim.

  “Here, let me.” Brielle takes the bowl and whisk from Tris
tan and stirs in an even circular motion, smoothing the ingredients together.

  “Wow, you’re pretty good at that,” Tristan says, flaunting that perfect smile once more. “Did your mom teach you how to cook?”

  Brielle frowns and shakes her head, not wanting to get into the issue of her parentlessness.

  “Is your dad the cook in the family, then?” he asks.

  Again, Brielle shakes her head, continuing to stir. When the dough is thoroughly mixed, she takes it out and attempts to roll it. “Wanna try?” She offers the rolling pin to Tristan, and he accepts it with hesitation. “It’s okay, you can’t really mess this part up.” She giggles.

  He pushes the pin onto the mass of dough and rolls it back and forth. He’s a bit too rough, and Brielle is tempted to guide his hands with hers, if only for the excuse to touch him. What’s wrong with her? She’s never been this…girly around a guy before.

  “So, what do your parents do for a living, Brielle?” he asks, and Brielle bites her lip at the question.

  “Brielle is currently in the market for parents,” Adalind says, as if they were talking about merchandise and not people. “If her current prospects don’t take the offer, I’m considering adopting her myself.” She winks at Brielle, and Brielle is super grateful for the save.

  “Oh,” Tristan says, pausing in his clumsy rolling. He looks at Brielle long enough for her to turn back to the dough, suddenly uncomfortable. Tristan’s probably already decided she’s a freak. “I get it,” he continues rolling, his voice hushed. “I’m adopted, too. I just got lucky.”

  “Oh.” Brielle looks back, surprised. Aside from the kids she grew up with in Grace Orphanage, she’s never met another orphan. This time she doesn’t break away from Tristan’s blue gaze.

  Is that why she feels so drawn to him? They literally just met!

  Tristan is the first to break away. He clears his throat. “Okay, I think that’s good.” Tristan lifts the pin to assess his work.

  “May I?” She gestures for the pin. He hands it over and she smooths the undulating dough a bit more to make it uniformly flat. “Now we just cut out circles.” She hands Tristan the small circle cutter, then proceeds to press the larger one into the dough. “Press that into the center of my circles.”