Wattys 2020 Boot Camp

Ashley Casey - The Problem With Dying

Showcase entry for ajArnault

Pitch:

A college student, who discovers his magical gift, must team up with his newly-turned vampire BFF when they are caught in a brewing war between species.

Blurb:

A college student, who discovers his magical gift, must team up with his newly-turned vampire BFF when they are caught in a brewing war between species.

Torren Jacobs never considered himself born for greatness. Raised in the notorious city of Flint, Michigan, he had to use his intelligence and drive to scrape his way into college. While interning at a prestigious law firm, he meets the beautiful Mazia Khoury, who invites him to take a room in her home.

But when Torren shows up at the house, he finds a murder scene. His new roommate is dead and Mazia is missing.

Mandy Laytham was never the same after her father's death six years ago. On her quest to chase down the thrill of living, Mandy plunges into the world of the undead after a chance meeting with a handsome vampire. Forced to keep her rebirth a secret or risk exposure, Mandy grapples with how to balance immortality and her lifelong friendship with Torren.

After Torren inherits his dead roomate's magic, he is thrust into a world of supernatural powers and blood-thirsty creatures. Will he stay alive long enough to find a way to reconcile with Mandy or will the war that has forced them on opposite sides claim them as pawns in battle?

First 1000 words:

They say the human brain has thirteen thoughts per minute. Well, Torren would have killed for that kind of quiet. Especially now when everything felt so wrong. He felt wrong. The unbroken darkness of the sky felt wrong. It lingered above like a cheap rendering of what night should be.

Perhaps he was overthinking things again.

Which he admitted was possible. A panic attack was nothing more than a sudden onset of thoughts that tore through the human body like twenty sugar-high children loose inside a laboratory—pushing buttons and mixing chemicals. Like children, Torren's anxious thoughts were often irrational, but there was something different about his thoughts tonight. It wasn't that he was scared the odd feeling might kill him—no.

He was scared that whatever was wrong with him had been festering for a very long time without his knowledge.

Torren didn't know how long he had been laying on the gurney, unable to chase away the feeling of wrongness in his chest. He lifted an unsteady hand to his breastbone, expecting to feel a twin pulse hammering away, when a paramedic snapped an oximeter onto his left forefinger and began readjusting his oxygen mask.

"Hold still, my guy," said a cheeky voice. "You passed out hard. Hit the ground like it did you dirty."

A dull memory of his ride back from Ann Arbor took shape in the haze—the flood of swirling blue lights, the buzz of first responders, the orange barricade—and then that strange popping sensation. He had eased his old Civic to the side of the road before approaching a police detective.

"Have you ever had an experience like that before?"

The paramedic's voice helped quiet the storm of thoughts.

"I pass out sometimes. Anxiety."

His own voice rang foreign from behind the oxygen mask. Muffled and raw, like he had been screaming for hours.

"Well, good work falling into the grass. You must be an old pro at this."

Torren smiled, grateful for her good humor. He couldn't abide pity, even now. Craning his neck, Torren caught sight of the dilapidated brick house.

His new home. Or at least that's what it should have been.

He had the impression something terrible had happened. Suddenly, the front door swung open, and an officer appeared on the crumbling cement porch. The cop looked like he might be sick. Nose scrunched, lip curled. He ducked under a line of fresh police tape and joined the group of beat cops conferring in the overgrown yard.

Dread dropped in Torren's stomach like a stack of unread case law. Not that he needed another reminder of how much work his senior year would inevitably bring. Waving the paramedic back over, Torren slid the oxygen mask over his tangle of short, red-brown hair.

"Can I take this thing off? I'm feeling better."

The paramedic eyed him warily while checking the oximeter. "Alright, but I'd like you to stay on the gurney for a little while longer with your feet elevated. I'm not keen on lifting you up on this thing twice."

"Can you tell me what's going on?" Torren searched her face for tells or micro-reactions he could analyze. It was a tactic he learned this summer during his internship at Chambers & Hansen, a law firm in Ann Arbor. He had spent countless hours practicing with the other intern from Eastern Michigan University--Mazia Khoury.

Filing paperwork and other mundane office tasks took on a new light when they worked side-by-side. Mazia was fascinating, and he had so rarely felt fascinated by anyone. An unbidden blush crept into his cheeks like it always did when he thought of her. Studying her sharp features had been the best part of the entire summer.

Pulling tight medical gloves off her thick hands, the paramedic studied the matted grass. "Well, there's been a suspected homicide at your residence. Detective Wittier wants to ask you a few questions once you're up to it."

Torren stared back at her in disbelief, humidity clinging to his skin like a muslin shroud. "Homicide? But--but that means somebody's dead."

"Yes, thank you, Agent Obvious. That's exactly what homicide means." She set one hand on the curve of her waist and rubbed her forehead with the other. Torren felt the hair on his arms rise, like the air pressure around him had dropped.

Like a storm was brewing.

A swirl of ghostly air rustled the bushes and whistled down the empty street. Still, Torren's attention shifted back to the house. It looked broken. Despondent, even. Not just because it was run-down and crooked--which it was--but because the home had let something so horrific happen inside its walls. Broken not because of any superficial shortcoming but from its inability to provide that fundamental purpose of a house--protection.

"I was just wondering—"

"Look, I'm not supposed to say anything more--CSI is still sweeping the scene--but between you and me, the Medical Examiner has his work cut out for him. The inside of your living room looks like a scene out of The Jungle. A total slaughterhouse. The worst I've ever seen."

Torren blew out a heavy breath. The situation was becoming too real, too fast. Panic wrapped a clammy hand around his throat and squeezed, threatening to plunge him back into unconsciousness. Living with anxiety meant living with panic's hand around your neck and a heavy boot on your chest. Rarely ever alone, even to contemplate your own thoughts, especially when those thoughts took you to a place as grim as death.

Where was Mazia? This was her house. Had she heard about the murder? Or...

Panic shrieked with glee as soon as the thought surfaced. Jockeying his heart into a wild gallop.

No.

Torren wasn't going to entertain the idea that she could be the one inside. He just needed to find her. Maybe this wasn't even the right house. Torren knew panic's only enemy was logic. He just needed to be logical. As if the paramedic could read his thoughts, her dark brown eyes met his, and all her cheeky humor faded.