Molten, Book 1
The kitchen floor lurched beneath my feet. Then the world went still, and the voices from the dining room cut out at the same time, like someone had pressed pause on my life.
I looked down at my hands, and they were not my pale, freckled ones. These were the hands I had always wanted, stronger than mine with glorious olive skin. They sliced a loaf of coarse, brown bread with a copper knife.
What the—?
A rushing sensation, like the drop on a rollercoaster, and then bam I met the eyes of the girl with the capable hands. Except that I also saw from inside her eyes, like I was in both places at once.
It was déjà vu on steroids—too weird—and I tried to make it stop. The other girl didn’t. Her mind flowed out, touched mine, and—
I paused at the marble counter, knife poised above bread, and glanced through the small, glassless window. My gaze skipped past my vegetable garden, over the wall of mortared stone, and beyond—to the mountain.
Something terrible was about to happen. This certainty came from nowhere and everywhere, like premonitions do. My throat constricted, thick with tears.
—the earth shook again, and the bread knife sawed into my index finger. The pain brought my attention back to Mom’s ordinary, Martha Stewart kitchen.
A drop of blood fell onto my freshly sliced white bread, leaving a stain like a crimson blossom. I dropped the knife and grabbed onto the faux granite counter, expecting the earth to shake again.
“Rachel!” Leonardo’s deep voice shouted as a chair clattered to the floor in the dining room.
I turned toward the kitchen doorway, bracing my back against the counter. Leonardo stood in the arched entrance, his tall, curly-headed form framed there. I looked into his face, and my mouth opened and let out a piercing scream. He flinched, taking a step backward, colliding with my parents as they tore into the room.
“Rachel, what happened?” My father grabbed the turkey-patterned dishtowel and came at me, full speed.
“She cut her finger. Just a small cut.” Leonardo’s gaze didn’t leave my face.
My hip bumped the stove. Why was I moving away?
Earthquake. I opened my mouth.
“Volcano,” I gasped.
Dad halted his advance.
I shook my head. No, it was an earthquake. Why would I say it was a volcano? I opened my mouth again.
“Volcano,” I said.
Ice curled around my spine. I squeezed my fists and parted my lips once more. Earthquake!
“Volcano!” I shouted.
Everyone stared like I’d lost my mind. Maybe I had.
My father stood, towel extended, while my mother looked from me to my father to Leonardo, as though begging someone to lend sense to my words. I felt much the same way, but it was Leo who held my attention; he could have been a statue in his high-end suit—still as death.
I opened my mouth and screamed again. This time I didn’t…I couldn’t stop.
My father jerked into motion. He inspected my hand, wrapped it in the towel, and checked me over for other injuries.
“What is it, sweetie?” Mom kept asking. “Please, Rachel, tell me what’s wrong.”
Leonardo just stood there, riveted, in my kitchen doorway, while I stared into his brown eyes and screamed.
I screamed until I blacked out.
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Molten, a YA paranormal romance by Láyla Messner
Two thousand years ago, he should have saved her. He destroyed her instead. Can the unforgivable ever be forgiven?
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Are you a literary agent? Molten is complete at 68K. Please e-mail — layla(at)laylamessner(dot)com — for my 150-word pitch.
