Dark Waters (Warriors S1B5)

Chapter 1

My name is Jean O'Hara. Everyone denominates me Daphne. When I was young, my most beloved show was the cartoon Scooby-Doo, and the most especial character was Daphne, the statuesque redhead. People christened me Daphne, and I let them.

Only my mother calls me Jean.

I was born in Cork, a city in southwest Ireland. But now I live in the United States, with my Aunt Rory and Uncle Ryan and their daughter, Saoirse. 

And I'm a superhero.

It eventuated in July, on the 4th. Uncle Ryan and Aunt Rory apprised me that one of the neighbors was having a barbecue and we were going. We had barely ambulated into the backyard before their daughter came running up to me. Her flaxen-colored hair flapped with every pitch of her head, and her cobalt orbs were so fervent. She smiled happily. "Hi! You're the new girl, right? I'm Kristi! It's really nice to meet you! How do you like the neighborhood? Are you going to my school?"

I tried to cognize everything she said. "Um, I'm Daphne."

Her orbs distended. "Wow, you moved here from another country! What are you, Scottish?"

"Irish."

"That's so cool! I think we have Irish in our family! And Scottish, and British, and French, and..."

"Great. That's...great." I saw Aunt Rory recouping something from the trunk. "I'm going to help my aunt."

After portaging the shepherd's pie to the food table, I spent the time I wasn't eating avoiding Kristi. After my fifth time getting up and coming back with an empty plate, Saoirse whispered to me there was a bookshelf inside the house. I waited until Kristi had her back turned and slipped inside. 

The bookshelf was in the living room, tucked away in a corner to the side of the flatscreen TV. It was a heavy looking bookshelf of maple and walnut. I pulled a thick tome from the shelf. Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. I looked over the compendium, taking in the beryl coloring and Harry staring off into the horizon, his wand raised as if he was ready to cast a spell. 

My mother forbade Harry Potter from our household. "Books of the devil," she'd thunder, shaking her finger and pacing around. I always thought she looked like a bull pawing at the ground before it charged when she was like this. "If I ever catch you reading one of those works of the devil, Jean..." Then she'd grab the nearest book, probably a Bible, and slap the coffee table or the counter or the arm of the couch. 

The floor creaked behind me, and I froze. My fingers trembled around the book. "She's not here," I whispered to myself. "She's not here. She's not here."

A canine head came into my line of sight. It was a huge dog, as tall at the shoulder as I was kneeling down, with a black-and-tan coat and thick hair around its neck, like a lion's mane. It put its nose in my face, its muscled sides expanding and contracting as it sniffed deeply. 

The back door opened, and a boy came up the stairs. He saw me and the dog and changed directions, hopping the couch and grabbing the dog by the collar. "Back off, Grayson." The dog barked in protest. "Don't you bark at me. Come on." He led the asseverating dog by the collar around a corner, and I heard a door open and close. The boy returned, brushing dog hair off his clothes. He knelt down and reached for my arm.

I drew my arm back.

He looked at me. His hair was leucous, cut close to his skull. His orbs were fervidly azure. His hands looked stalwart. "You OK? Did he bite you?"

"No." My eyes shifted down to the book in my hand. "Thank you."

"I'm Max," the boy said.

"I'm Daphne."