January 14 2023
Wheels rattled over cracked asphalt as I bombed down Elm Street, Boulder City's morning heat already baking the air. Hoover Dam loomed in the distance like a concrete giant, its shadow stretching toward our dusty suburb even at dawn. My skateboard—scratched-up faithful steed—was my only shot at outrunning the day before it crushed me. Late again. Mom's note on the fridge had screamed School by 7:45, Alex!, but the alarm betrayed me, same as always.
Alexander Cross, thirteen and fading into walls. Dad ditched us a decade ago for Vegas lights, leaving Mom to sling burgers at the diner and deal blackjack till midnight. I was her shadow kid—good at dodging, bad at fitting in. But today, something itched under my skin, sharper than usual, like static before a monsoon. Maybe it was the weird dream last night—wings and shadows clashing, a sword glowing like it was alive. Shook it off as too many late-night games, but the itch lingered.
I skidded to our meet-up by the rusted fence near the old train depot, where freight cars sat bleaching under the relentless Nevada sun. Eli and Jordan were already there, boards at their feet, kicking pebbles. Eli Miles, our doodle king, hunched over his sketchbook—that creepy leather thing he'd scored at a garage sale for two bucks. Its cover looked older than the dam itself, pages shimmering funny when the light hit right. Jordan Hartley, the straight-A machine, leaned on his squeaky cruiser, checking his watch like his parents' helicopter radar might ping him.
"Yo, Speed Demon," Jordan grinned, tossing me a half-eaten protein bar from his backpack. "Thought the coyotes got you. Mom's got another double shift?"
I snatched it, ripping the wrapper with my teeth. "Diner then casino. She's a machine. You escape the 'future doctor' lecture?"
"Barely." Jordan rolled his eyes, voice dropping to a parental drone: "'Jordan, one B-minus and Harvard ghosts you.' I told her skating keeps my brain from melting." He was the planner, always with escape routes—mental and literal—but even he cracked under the pressure cooker at home. "Seriously, man, if my folks knew I was late because of a 'skate detour,' they'd chain me to the desk with flashcards."
Eli didn't look up, pencil scratching furiously. "Guys, check this." He flipped the sketchbook toward us. A new drawing: three winged figures back-to-back against a horned shadow, sword blazing between them. The lines pulsed faintly, like heat haze off asphalt. "It... changed overnight. I swear I didn't draw that sword."
Jordan squinted, leaning in closer, his nose almost touching the page. "Garage sale black magic? Burn it, dude. Looks like it could curse us with bad luck—or worse, make us actually popular."
I chuckled, but it came out forced, the static itch in my skin flaring for a second. "Yeah, Eli, if that thing's alive, it probably eats homework. Explains your A in art. Or maybe it's haunted by some old artist's ghost, demanding more doodles."
Eli clutched it closer, fingers tracing the cover. It felt warm, almost throbbing. "Nah. Feels right. Like it's mine." His home life was a minefield—dad's beer-fueled rages, mom's endless night shifts. This book was his armor, his way to escape into worlds where heroes won. "You guys don't get it. It's like it whispers ideas—cool battles, angels crushing demons. Helps me forget the crap at home."
Jordan leaned back, crossing his arms. "Whispers? Now it's talking? Next you'll say it's got Wi-Fi. If it starts asking for sacrifices, I'm out."
We all laughed, the tension breaking a bit as we kicked off together, boards syncing in a rhythmic clack-clack over potholes, desert wind whipping dust in our faces. Boulder City Middle School squatted ahead, a squat brick fortress ringed by chain-link and tumbleweeds. The Dam's hum vibrated faintly through the ground, a constant reminder we lived in its shadow—literally and figuratively. "Race you to the bike racks?" I called, pushing harder.
Jordan grinned. "You're on—loser buys sodas after."
Eli trailed, sketchbook tucked in his backpack. "You two are gonna kill yourselves. Slow down!"
Hallways hit like a cage match: lockers slamming, kids shoving, the stench of gym socks and cheap cologne. We beelined for Eli's locker, but Trevor Hawkins—eighth-grade tyrant in his football jersey, flanked by meathead Marcus and smirking Lila—cut us off. Trevor zeroed in on Eli like a heat-seeking missile.
"Art freak's got his fairy tale book again," Trevor drawled, snatching it before Eli could react. The leather creaked in his grip. "What is this garbage? Angels? Demons? You drawing your wet dreams, Miles?"
Eli lunged, face flushing. "Give it back, Trevor. That's not yours."
Marcus guffawed, cracking his knuckles. "Or what? You'll sketch us to death?" Lila snapped a pic on her phone, already queuing the group chat roast. "This is gold—'Eli's Fairy Tales: Volume Loser.' Hashtag trending."
I dropped my board, chest tight with that familiar boil. Last time I swung at Trevor, detention plus Mom's disappointed eyes. But today? "Hand it over, jackass," I growled, stepping up. My fists clenched, nails biting palms—rage wasn't abstract anymore; it hummed in my veins.
Jordan flanked me, voice steady but edged. "Trevor, you're 5-10 on a good day. Pick on someone your own IQ."
Trevor whirled, eyes narrowing. "Hartley thinks he's smart? Daddy's little scholarship boy, slumming with losers." He flipped through the book roughly, pages rustling like dry leaves. A faint spark leaped from one—golden, like a struck match. He didn't notice, but I did. Eli froze, whispering, "Don't rip—"
Too late. Trevor tore a page, the sound like flesh splitting. That spark flared brighter, singeing the air with ozone. The crowd gasped, one kid muttering, "Did you see that flash?" but Trevor just crumpled it. "Pathetic. Like you three—losers on wheels, rolling nowhere." He shoved the book at Marcus, who dangled it over a trash can like bait.
Eli's voice cracked. "Please. That's... everything. My drawings, my escape—give it back."
Marcus swung it teasingly. "Or what? Cry about it?"
Something snapped. I shoved Marcus hard, board clattering. "Enough!" The book tumbled; Eli snatched it, cradling it like a wounded bird. Tiny cuts on his fingers from the sharp edge welled blood, smearing a crimson streak across the cover. It absorbed instantly, like ink in blotting paper. The book seemed to warm in his hands, but no one else saw the faint glow flicker along the edges.
Trevor's laugh was forced now, crowd murmuring about the spark. "Big hero, Cross. Your mom's the real loser—serving fries to winners like me."
That stung deep—Mom's endless shifts, our crappy apartment. But before I could lunge, Mr. Patrick—physics teacher, perpetual chalk dust—barked from the end of the hall. "Hawkins! Cross! Break it up!" The crowd scattered. Trevor smirked. "Later, losers." They melted into the throng.
We huddled by the lockers, breathing hard. Eli taped the torn page with shaking hands. "Did you see that spark? Felt like... heartburn in my chest. And the blood... it's mending. Look." Faint lines were knitting, golden threads invisible to anyone else.
Jordan frowned, peering close. "Static. Old book, dry air. But Trevor's escalating. We report him?"
"And get labeled snitches?" I rubbed my throbbing knuckles. "Nah. We handle it our way. Like the time we 'borrowed' his football—deflated it with a needle. Remember his face?"
Eli chuckled weak. "Priceless. But this book... it's special. Like it's fighting back too."
Jordan: "If it's 'alive,' maybe it deflates Trevor's ego for us. Come on—bell's about to ring."
We hustled to Physics, sliding into back seats as Mr. Patrick launched into Newton's Laws, chalk screeching F=ma on the board. Trevor, two rows ahead, twisted and muttered loud: "Hey, Eli—when I wrecked your book, was that force or just you being a lightweight?" Snickers rippled. Eli gripped his pencil tight, but Jordan shot me a look: Don't react. We knew escalating would just make it worse.
"Force equals mass times acceleration," Mr. Patrick droned, oblivious. "Apply it to real life—push too hard, things break."
I whispered to Eli, "Like Trevor's face if he keeps pushing."
Eli smirked faint. "Or his ego when we push back."
The rest of the morning blurred—History with Mrs. Calhoun droning about the American Revolution, me doodling boards conquering battlefields; Math with quadratic equations making my head spin like a bad ollie. Trevor kept up the jabs, but we ignored them, focusing on each other. In English, while reading Macbeth, Trevor volunteered dramatically: "I'll play the witch—stirring up trouble for the losers." More laughs. Eli traced invisible lines on his desk, like he was redrawing his lost art in his mind. "He's like Banquo's ghost," Eli muttered. "Haunting us."
Jordan leaned over. "Or Macduff—'hell-hound.' But we'll be the kings in the end."
Lunch was the breaking point. We grabbed a table in the corner, away from the noise, but Trevor's gang followed. "Losers' corner!" Trevor yelled, tipping Jordan's tray. Fries scattered, soda soaking Eli's salvaged pages. "Oops." The cafeteria monitor glanced over but was busy breaking up another scuffle across the room. We cleaned up in silence, humiliation burning, but our bond held—whispers of "We'll get through this" keeping us steady.
PE was next: laps and dodgeball. Trevor "accidentally" nailed Eli with a ball, but Jordan pulled him aside. "Why do they win?" I muttered during study hall, the day's weight crashing down. Jordan shrugged. "Because we let them think they do. But we're tougher."
Eli nodded faintly, his damaged sketchbook clutched like a lifeline. "It's like we're cursed. But... this book feels different today. Warmer."
After school, we skated home together for a bit, wheels humming in unison. The sun dipped low, casting long shadows over the desert. "See you tomorrow," Jordan called as he veered off. Eli paused, looking uneasy. "Guys... something's off with the book. The pages—they're glowing a little." I laughed it off. "Probably the soda stain. Get some rest."
Back home, I leaned my board against the fence and collapsed inside. Mom had left a note: Dinner in fridge. Love you. Exhaustion hit hard, but thoughts of the day lingered—our friendship, the rage, the weird spark from Eli's book.
That night, Eli couldn't sleep. He stared at the sketchbook on his desk, its cover pulsing faintly with a golden light, like a heartbeat. The torn pages seemed less damaged now, edges almost mending themselves. He flipped it open, and the drawings stirred—lines shifting subtly, as if alive.
The air grew thick, warm like a fever. Shadows danced on the walls. Suddenly, Eli wasn't in his room anymore.
He stood on a vast battlefield under a molten red sky, lightning cracking like whips. Golden-armored figures—angels, he realized—clashed with hordes of demons: clawed beasts with multiple heads, tails lashing like serpents, eyes burning with ancient hate. The ground trembled with their fury. In the center, a blazing sword hovered, its light scorching the earth, sealing away writhing shadows.
A dark winged figure loomed in the distance, eyes like coals fixed on the sword. Lucifer.
A voice whispered, not in his ears but his soul: "The seal weakens. You three are chosen—the heirs of the archangels. Awaken, before the first demon claims you."
Eli jolted awake, heart pounding, sweat soaking his sheets. The sketchbook glowed brighter now, the sword from the vision sketched on a new page—as if drawn by an invisible hand. Trembling, he grabbed his phone and texted us: Guys, we need to talk. Now. Something's happening.
Little did we know, the bullying that day—the rage, the desperation—had cracked open something inside us. Angelic energy stirring, drawing shadows from the depths. The hunt had begun