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LIFE IS A NIGHTMARE FOR Miranda Murphy. Without knowing when or why, blood oozes from her palms—an anomaly that makes her feel like a freak. But her abnormality is now the least of her worries. She’s just enrolled at “Suicide High.” Three deaths in three months—one occurring just days before her arrival.

When she bumps into a cute boy named Jake, things don’t appear so glum. Especially since Jake’s a psychic who can predict the immediate future. But his gift of sight can’t prepare her for the horrors that await.

Through Jake, Miranda meets three other extraordinary students:

Topher – who can heal by touch.
Sam – who eats the sins of the dead.
And Xyan – who speaks and understands all languages.

It’s then that Miranda learns the secret behind why she bleeds.

When it becomes evident that supernatural forces are at play, the five determined friends team up. Now it’s up to them to destroy the evil infecting their school.

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Excerpt

Prologue

INSECTS MAKE LOUSY SPIES. ESPECIALLY flies. Sure they’re quick and plentiful, but even with four-thousand lenses, their eyesight sucks. Yet he needs to see her—to watch her. He finds a plump green blowfly and slips in.

She’s standing behind the stadium, just outside the boys’ locker room. She glances again at the bottle in her hand, sniffling back snot and tears. Her lower lip trembles.

He buzzes near her ear. Do it.

Her stillness reflects the night air. Sticky. Hot. Dark. The parking lot is emptying out, leaving trace odors of choking exhaust.

Inside the locker room, players whoop and brag, their voices ringing off the tiled walls. It was a big win after all.

She steps through the door and faces the half-naked crowd. He follows, alighting close. He’s literally a fly on the wall.

Boys dash about, stumbling and snatching up towels.

She stiffens, holding her ground within the swirl of steamy fog—her ponytail askew, her mascara flaked around her eyes. Sweat stains ring her underarms, and a single tear traces down her cheek.

“What the hell, Chloe?” one boy yells. “Get out!”

The fly waits, rubbing its legs together in anticipation. Do it.

She holds up the bottle, her hand blocking the label. A slight smile inches across her lips as she unscrews the cap. “I wanted y’all to see this.” Then bringing the bottle to her mouth, she chugs.

Good girl.

Seconds later…it begins.

Her body constricts as vomit spews. Splatters of black nuggets and foaming bile slap the floor.

The boys grimace and dodge, pushing away from the spattering gunk. “Jesus Christ!” one yells, his face open with fear.

Then the hemorrhaging starts. First it leaks from her eyes, quickly followed by a gushing nosebleed. All, while she upchucks her stomach lining.

The bottle drops and rolls, the label in view.

“It’s fuckin’ Drano!” someone shouts.

Several boys run out. Others fumble with their phones.

Chloe drops. Her body jerks and bucks like someone being repeatedly Tasered. Umber juices still stream from the cavities of her face. Her lips bubble and fizz, eaten away like a hole in a rusted tailpipe.

Three coaches push in.

What’s your call on this one, fellows?

By the time the distant siren is heard, her spasms have given way to an occasional twitch.

“What happened?” a paramedic says, nearly slipping on the rivulets of puke and slime.

At first, no one speaks. Then everyone speaks at once. One boy points to the Drano.

The paramedic shouts, “Get that stretcher in here!”

Commotion erupts. Coaches order the boys out as the EMTs scramble with oxygen and tubes.

Jake Levine approaches the ambulance. He sees the stretcher being lifted into the back.

There you are.

The fly circles nearer.

Too late, my friend.

“I remember this,” Jake whispers. He clamps his fists to his eyes, and leans back against the railing outside the locker room. Two boys, soaked more by perspiration than water, stand nearby. One breaks into giant sobs. The other sighs and slumps, saying to no one in particular, “Welcome to Suicide High.”

Exactly.

Satisfied, the spy exits the insect. The fly dives into a bug zapper and fries.

Chapter One
Miranda

TUNA WAS A BAD CHOICE. Too much mayonnaise. It oozed from the sandwich and left wet rings on the bread. Ugh. Miranda’s stomach coiled. 

Who am I kidding? She gazed across the parking lot at her new school. Oh yeah…me.

After moving here last week, she’d pretty much swept through the seven stages of grief. That last one, acceptance. Guh. But hey, she’d made it through four classes already.

Sitting on a bed of pine needles in ninety-eight degree heat hadn’t helped either. Pines. Somewhere in Houston there had to be real trees with proper shade. 

The fifth period bell rang. Miranda tossed the leaky sandwich into the wooded area next to where she sat. Surely some woodland creature wouldn’t mind a little StarKist swimming in mayo. Bon appetit. 

She double-checked the gauze taped to her palms and adjusted her fingerless gloves. So far, so good.

So far.

She crossed the parking lot, took the last sip of her Dr Pepper and pitched it, along with her crumpled lunch sack, in the trash barrel. As she turned to head inside, a curly-haired boy in a striped T-shirt and cargo shorts slammed into her.

He reached to steady her, his dark eyes gleaming beneath thick lashes. “Oh man…I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” she said, walking around him. At this point, her only thoughts were finding her next class. And getting through the rest of the day.

“Hey,” the boy yelled as she reached the door. “You’re new.”

She nodded slightly as she blended into the hustle of students.

He caught up to her. “I’m Jake.” 

Okay, he has a name. She didn’t see much point in telling him hers. He’d learn it the second her secret was out. She looked down at her enrollment card. “Where’s room 234?” Quickly adding, “And don’t say upstairs. That’s obvious.”

A smile tugged at his lips. “I wasn’t.” 

It was a cute smile.

Pointing toward the stairwell, he said, “I’m going up. I’ll show you.”

If she hadn’t been plagued with first day jitters, she might’ve smiled back. Cute and a gentleman.

Jake squinted at her. “Weren’t you in first period chemistry?”

“Uh…I think.” Was she? It was going to take a few days to get used to this schedule. And this massive school. She was just a hick from Fort Blake, a flea-sized town on the Texas map. Her new neighborhood was double the population.

“Look, I know how you feel,” he said, his smile uncommonly bright. “I was the newbie last semester.”

Ah, this was sympathy, not generosity. And besides, what could she say to that? Oh really? Where are you from? Why’d you move here? Do your palms spontaneously bleed too? 

At the top of the stairs, he pointed left. “Second hallway. On the right.”

Easy enough. “Thanks, Jake.”

“See you later.” He walked off, then pivoted, walking backward. “Oh…and sorry about what happened in sixth period.”

Wait, what? 

She halted. “We haven’t had sixth period.” 

His eyes narrowed, then he shook his head, rattling the rocks. “Oh. In that case you might want to skip it.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, spun and left.

Miranda rattled the rocks in her own head. Skip what he said or sixth period?

After entering room 234, she handed her schedule card to Mrs. Darrow, the history teacher. Darrow eyed the card. “Miranda Murphy?” 

“Here,” she teased.

The teacher handed it back. “Welcome to World History.”

Miranda offered her a jittery smile, took the schedule, and made her way to an unoccupied desk in the back. 

Holding up the textbook, Mrs. Darrow tapped the cover. “We’re studying the Crusades.” 

She drooped. Of course. ’Cause there’s nothing like holy sacrifices and spilt blood to open the palm spigots. Shoot me now.

There was a name for monstrosities like her: stigmatic. 

Miranda had studied it since the first time it’d happened to her. Brought on by hysteria, most references said. Yeah, sure. The only hysteria came from the people who’d observed it. For her, bleeding palms seemed as natural as her period, though it came along more frequently. And while she could never trust what might cause her to bleed, she did know the effect it had on others—others who thought she was a messenger from God. A demigoddess. A saint. 

She tugged at her gloves again for reassurance. Here’s hoping it’s a short unit.

Miranda had already studied the Crusades at her old school, St. Ignatius. Studied it inside and out. She could ace this without turning a page. So while Mrs. Darrow lectured, Miranda concentrated on the dreams she’d had since moving to Houston a week ago. Three of them. Weird, twisted nightmares. Monastic in nature. And more vivid than any she’d ever had before.

With notebook and pen, she sketched the latest. Maybe getting it out of her head and onto paper would help her understand what the hell it meant.

As the clock ticked away, she drew the dream scene. It still didn’t feel like a dream. Was there such a thing as dream reality? A cross between memory and fantasy? She laid it out on paper.

A steampunk setting. Gears, valves, pipes. Brass and copper fixtures. Cold iron. Steel rivets. Even her lace collar resembled sprockets and cogs. Weirdly awesome. But the room where she’d been was actually a well-designed vault. And at its center stood a sealed lead coffer shrouded in green mist. It’s what lay inside that coffer that’d turned the oddball dream into a brow-sweating nightmare. Through a hole on top, she’d peeked in. All that was visible was a monstrous mouth with razor sharp teeth, held open by what looked like a metal torture device. 

She’d bolted awake that morning with bloody palms and racing heart. Her heart soon calmed and her palms dried. But the monster in the dream? It would never go away. 

When the bell rang, Miranda tucked the artwork into her backpack. As she headed out the door, Mrs. Darrow called, “Miranda.” Her steely glare was as cold as Miranda’s steampunk dream. “I expect my students to pay attention. Since you’re new, I didn’t make an example of you. If it happens again, be warned.”

“It won’t,” Miranda lied. If I truly absorb myself in that religious rhetoric, I’ll make an example of myself. Tomorrow she’d find another way around it.

She stepped into the hallway and checked her schedule. Up next, Latin. Jake’s warning replayed. Sorry about what happened in sixth period. He’d looked genuinely concerned. In that case, you might want to skip it. Why? 

Exhaling a day’s worth of anxiety, she ignored his advice and went on to class. She padded softly toward the back, but those seats were taken. She settled for one in the middle then--oops—hopped up again, remembering she needed to show Mr. Ronan, the Latin teacher, her enrollment card. 

She breezed against a girl who was just taking a seat. The girl’s X-shaped pendant swung furiously as she jerked away, dodging Miranda’s touch.

“Es fängt an!” the girl cried.

“Sorry,” Miranda said, trying to steer clear. 

German? Had that girl yelled at her in German? Miranda wondered if she’d entered the wrong class. She looked around to double-check. Near the white board was a large calendar dated with Roman numerals and adorned with a photo of the crumbling Coliseum. The clever caption read: There’s no place like Rome. 

She handed her card to Mr. Ronan. He gave it a quick glance, and she glided back to her seat. The girl who’d shrieked German glared at her like someone had drawn a penis on her forehead. What the hell is her problem?

It was then that Jake sauntered in and spotted her. Raising both eyebrows and arms, he shrugged, body language for I warned you. He slid into a desk, legs askew.

In the front, Mr. Ronan rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, hands behind his back. He shook his head in a tsk-tsk fashion. After taking a quick sip from the water bottle on his desk, he started, “People…” A shake of his head. “I have your quiz grades.” He drew out a long sigh.

She watched him with curiosity. There were no teachers like him back at St. Ignatius. He appeared to be in his fifties, but his collar-length hair was inky blue-black--courtesy of Just For Men?—and curled around his puckish face. His faded AC/DC T-shirt was tucked into khaki slacks and mostly covered by a tan sport coat. 

This guy’s vying for the “Cool Teacher” award.

Mr. Ronan paced, still harping on the test scores. “You’re my star class. You should’ve danced through that quiz. I mean, come on. Some of it was Latin two material.” His eye caught Miranda’s and his thoughts seemed to snap. Pulling open a drawer, he took out a sheet of paper and brought it over. “Miss Murphy, we’ve been discussing the influence of the Greek philosophers on the formation of the Roman Church.” 

She cratered. Karma hates me.

He slid the paper onto her desk, his steepled hand holding it firmly in place. “So that I’ll better know your level, would you please complete this worksheet for me? It’s strictly translation.” He pulled his hand away and placed it in his pocket. “No need for apprehension. I’m sure you’ll ace it.” He offered her a reassuring smile.

She wasn’t so assured. Especially since his star class couldn’t dance through one of his quizzes. 

Once he’d strolled back to the front of the room, Miranda let out a silent breath. She straightened the paper and gave it a look, recognizing some of the Latin right away. The Vulgate Bible. In public school? What happened to separation of church and state? 

Most of the passages came from Ezekiel. At least it wasn’t New Testament stuff. Mr. Ronan had launched into a lecture on the moral value of the teachings of Plato and Socrates, and how they played a key part in the early Roman Church. Miranda looked at the paper, confused. Wait…does he expect me to do this now? 

As though reading her thoughts, Mr. Ronan paused and nodded toward her. “You can hand it in after class.”

With that mystery solved, she quickly scanned some passages. No piece of cake, but her Catholic school background came in handy now. Luckily most of the verses he’d chosen were short and repetitive. She picked up her pen and began to write. It wasn’t as bad as she’d first thought. Until… 

16:6 transiens autem per te vidi te conculcari in sanguine tuo et dixi tibi cum esses in sanguine tuo vive dixi inquam tibi in sanguine tuo vive

Shit!

And passing by thee, I saw that thou wast trodden under foot in thy own blood. And I said to thee when thou wast in thy blood: Live: I have said to thee: Live in thy blood.

The first drops hit the paper, tapping like rain. Clenching her fists, she bolted for the door, dripping a steady trail of red dots. After a couple of wrong turns, she found a restroom. Blood cascaded down her fingers and wrists. Damn gloves! She peeled them off, along with the bandages, and dumped the scarlet mess into the trash. Blood sprayed from her palms. What the hell? This was a first. Usually it fell in large drops or flowed in a thin stream. Never like this. After a few slippery twists, she turned on the faucet and plunged her hands underneath.

Stop! Stop! Stop! She tried desperately to will the blood away, but it only gushed stronger. 

Thank God, her stigmata wasn’t like others who bled from their feet and forehead. Hers flowed strictly from her palms. But never this bad. It geysered up, splattering her shirt, jeans, even her shoes. Good God! She looked like Elm Street’s worst nightmare.