Kara Swanson - Dust

ACCLAIM FOR

Dust

A vibrant, mesmerizing storyteller and original voice in young adult fiction.

Tosca Lee, New York Times best-selling author

Dust sparkles with hope, magic, and a little bit of pixie dust. If you loved Peter Pan as a child, youll devour every gorgeous page of this romantic adventure! I cant wait to see what happens next!

Lorie Langdon, award-winning author of Olivia Twist and the Doon series

A whimsical imagining of the dark side of Neverland. Dust takes readers beyond the fairytale and, if possible, brings even more enchantment to the already beloved story.

Nadine Brandes, award-winning author of A Time to Die, Fawkes, and Romanov

Kara Swansons Dust will send you soaring above the bounds of this tired world to a Neverland youve never seen before and wont ever forget.

Wayne Thomas Batson, best-selling author of The Door Within Trilogy

Dust is pure magic! Fans of Peter Pan will be delighted to fly off on this journey sprinkled with faith, trust, and pixie dust! Kara Swanson is an author to watch. Her tale is a fantastical spin on a beloved classic.

Sara Ella, award-winning author of The Unblemished Trilogy and Coral

Dust is a soaring adventure that taps into the darker themes of J.M. Barrie's original tale while still giving the reader an entirely new and magical journey. If you loved Peter, this book is for you.

Shannon Dittemore, author of Winter, White and Wicked

With vivid descriptions, conflicted characters, and spirited pacing, Dust has it all. Swansons captivating sense of wonder makes this novel an immersive journey into a land youve visited in your dreamsand sometimes your nightmares.

Christopher Hopper, best-selling author of Ruins of the Galaxy

The Girl Who Could See

Dust

Shadow

Dust

Copyright 2020 by Kara Swanson

Published by Enclave Publishing, an imprint of Third Day Books, LLC

Phoenix, Arizona, USA.

www.enclavepublishing.com

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, digitally stored, or transmitted in any form without written permission from Third Day Books, LLC.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

ISBN: 978-1-62184-126-5 (printed hardback)

ISBN: 978-1-62184-129-6 (printed softcover)

ISBN: 978-1-62184-127-2 (ebook)

Cover design by Kirk DouPonce, www.DogEaredDesign.com

Typesetting by Jamie Foley, www.JamieSFoley.com

Thank you Alysia Maxwell

for contributing to so many of the elements and ideas

in this storyyour sweet heart is the fairy dust

sprinkled all over this novel.

Some day you will be old enough

to start reading fairy tales again.

C. S. Lewis

Wildomar, California

W hen did this fairy tale become a nightmare?

I slide my fingers over the worn little book, and the question surfaces again. Each textured hollow in the cover is as familiar as my own lightly freckled skin and chipped nail polish. How many times have I searched this storybook for answers?

But all Ive ever found is a myth. A lie.

Something at the far side of the convenience store clangs. Loud. I glare at the wall of refrigerators opposite my cashier counter. Theyre on the fritz again? Oh well. Duty calls.

As I reach for a wad of paper towels, I lay the book beside the small rack of Little Debbies. A few pale, thin specks drip from my fingertips. My dustthe strange, lightly colored, scentless flecks that no number of doctors and needles and scalpels have been able to diagnose. A skin disorder was all they said.

Code for: youre a freak of nature.

I blow the haunting, sandy flecks away from the book, as the mocking green eyes of the boy who never grew up peer up at me from the cover. Hes there in watercolor, perched on the edge of a window seat, sporting a jaunty green cap and a pair of panpipes. This book is the favorite bedtime story of my twin, Connor. An innocent fairy tale, I once thought. But it isnt a story, its a cursejust like the flakes that drip from my fingertips.

Shoving up the sleeves of my wool cardigan, I step out from behind the counter and around a stack of dollar DVDs, heading for the wall of humming fridges. I need to keep up with this job. Being broke wont help me find him any faster.

Not to mention that work allows me to drown out my mind, something especially needed today.

The anniversary of Connors disappearance.

I trot down the line of smudged glass refrigerator doors and finally find the culprit eliciting the racket. The tall fridge sports rows of Coca-Cola products and some foggy-looking plastic bottles of water, but nothing is leaking like last time.

I told them we needed a handyman in here, so they better not blame me for this. I aim a solid kick at the fussy refrigerator. The machine gives a wheeze, but the hissing clatter stops.

Feeling almost triumphant, I turn back, unused paper towels in hand. Then I hear a telltale drip-drip-drip.

I groan. Fine, fine. Nothing can ever be easy, can it? Oh boy, two hours into my shift, and Im already talking to inanimate objects.

Figures. At least theyre good listeners.

I drop down to wipe up the gathering pool. As I sop up the mess, the bell at the front of the store dings. Im half-tempted to stay put and see if the customer walks away. Really, Claire? Pathetic. This is my job, and I cant afford to lose another one. Not as a poor nineteen-year-old financing her own search for someone everyone else has forgotten.

Two girls appear in front of the cashier countertheir glistening hair falls in waves, their fashionably ripped jeans and tank tops showing far more skin than Id ever dare. Theyre both well cared for, put together. Things Ive never been that set my nerves on edge.

Take a deep breath.

I cant let my insecurities hurt them. Cant let my emotions leak out in burning dust. Ive never been able to stop or understand it, only bury the flecks and pray they stay locked away.

The girls glance around and spot me, still by the refrigerator. One of them, a brunette, lifts a hand in a half wave. The bathroom at Starbucks is broken. Can we use the one here?

This Circle K doesnt seem like their kind of place, with its cheap knickknacks and dented soda cans and paint peeling from the walls. Not that its my first choice either. But Ive always had to scrape bythanks to the mother who abandoned my brother and me as babies without even bothering to leave a blanket.

As I rise from my knees, I stifle the urge to hide my chipped nails in my jeans pockets. My comfortable, faded teal cardigan suddenly feels like a shapeless sack that will do nothing to hide the scar-laced skin that could betray me and start leaking the taunting, pale flecks again. Dust that could turn toxic if I dont keep it together.