Background came from this design.
Genre: YA Urban Fantasy
Word Count: 95,000
3 Line Pitch:
Sixteen-year-old Brina is half-human and half-pracin—don’t call them pixies—and a half-breed should not be able to suddenly produce all eight kinds of the addictive, marketable, pracin dust. If Vincent and his revolutionaries can make her unlock the secret behind her abilities, humanity could face extinction. If Brina doesn’t expose the secret herself, the pracin will remain enslaved by an ancient curse.
First 250:
When you’re the strangest-looking person in a country full of paparazzi, you should either look your best or hide. But Brina’s workout had run late, her parents expected her home in ten minutes, and it was rush hour: driving was out. Flying was more fun anyway.
So she dumped her school bag, gym bag, and purse in her best friend Moira’s closet, threw open the window, and sat on the sill.
“Watch out for birds,” Moira said, pulling the ponytail holder out of her long blue hair and toeing off her gym shoes. “It’s not faster if you have to go to the hospital again.” Then she smirked, lifted one slender, light blue hand, and headed off to her shower.
Brina stuck her tongue out at Moira’s long blue wings, gripped the edge of the window sill, and closed her eyes. Concentrating on the gland behind her heart, she pumped black dust into her bloodstream. When her fingertips started to tingle, she thought SMALL and opened her eyes to see the window frame slowly rising large around her as she shrank down, down, until she was the size of a small mouse, buffeted by the warm fall breeze.
With a twist and a push, she launched herself out the window into the sweltering air of San Antonio, gliding above the manicured gardens that stretched out under Moira’s window.
The first flash came from her left and, like an idiot, she twisted toward it. Which is how the photographer’s zoom lens caught her: eyes opened wide, long braid slicked back from her face with her own sweat, and limbs sticking out at startled angles from her workout tank and short-shorts.
When you’re the strangest-looking person in a country full of paparazzi, you should either look your best or hide. But Brina’s workout had run late, her parents expected her home in ten minutes, and it was rush hour: driving was out. Flying was more fun anyway.
So she dumped her school bag, gym bag, and purse in her best friend Moira’s closet, threw open the window, and sat on the sill.
“Watch out for birds,” Moira said, pulling the ponytail holder out of her long blue hair and toeing off her gym shoes. “It’s not faster if you have to go to the hospital again.” Then she smirked, lifted one slender, light blue hand, and headed off to her shower.
Brina stuck her tongue out at Moira’s long blue wings, gripped the edge of the window sill, and closed her eyes. Concentrating on the gland behind her heart, she pumped black dust into her bloodstream. When her fingertips started to tingle, she thought SMALL and opened her eyes to see the window frame slowly rising large around her as she shrank down, down, until she was the size of a small mouse, buffeted by the warm fall breeze.
With a twist and a push, she launched herself out the window into the sweltering air of San Antonio, gliding above the manicured gardens that stretched out under Moira’s window.
The first flash came from her left and, like an idiot, she twisted toward it. Which is how the photographer’s zoom lens caught her: eyes opened wide, long braid slicked back from her face with her own sweat, and limbs sticking out at startled angles from her workout tank and short-shorts.
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