An Agent's Inbox #5

Dear Ms. Sciuto:

Sixteen-year-old bookworm Brielle's gritty fantasy world helps her escape her boring life. As bad-a** slayer Brielle Cross she's killed deadly creatures and the occasional Hoover vacuum. But when strange bruises start to appear on her body along with an unexplained tattoo, she starts to wonder if it could be more.

Cross has tried her best to hide her strange visions where she's Brielle Cross: Nerdy teen girl living in a happy world of dull. Her shrink says it's her way of coping with her job of slaying the confetti-blooded beings known as moths and butterflies as part of the M.B.E.A., but Cross has seen enough to know that's wrong.

Waking up in each others' worlds alone, Brielle and Cross realize they've been living in each other’s skin, literally. Thinking they’ll switch back soon, they pretend to be their doppelganger. Soon they’re tangled in a mystery that involves a mythical bridge that connects their two worlds and a handsome butterfly Cross was hired to kill.

The more they discover, the more it becomes clear: Someone wants them both dead--and the one they’re supposed to kill might be the only one who knows why. Now they must find out who’s trying to destroy their connection before the bridge back to their worlds comes crashing down.

CROSSING BRIELLE is a YA urban fantasy told from both Brielle and Cross' perspectives. It's complete at 63,000 words and should appeal to fans of the duel worlds of The Mortal Instruments and Alice In Wonderland's whimsy and creatures.

Thank you for you time and consideration.

Sincerely,

J.C.

CROSSING BRIELLE

The streets of Nashville were silent when Brielle made her move. Slinking through the alley as nimble as a cat, she stalked her prey’s tracks, waiting for the right time to strike. Liquid gold lit her way as her small frame slid along a bumpy brick wall. Foot firmly on a faded green dumpster, she propelled herself back up to her selected post. Sweat dripped from her brow, but Brielle refused to acknowledge it. Spring wasn’t always so hot, but right then she felt like she was standing in a freakin desert instead of on a tar roof.

Any day now. She knew he’d be back soon. After all, his victim was too close for him to pass up the chance to say his twisted hello. She just had to be patient—which wasn’t much her thing. She surveyed the dull, decaying landscape. The sun may have been shining, but as usual, it did nothing to help her find who she was looking for.

Moths were always tricky jobs, but cinnabars were the worst. It’d taken her six months of pretending to be a cinna-groupie just to learn his next set of victims’ names. Part of that time, she couldn’t actually remember. Really, she liked it that way. Kept her from believing the crap she had to say and do just to get the job done.

Finally the tell-tale solid black figure with blood red stripes running down his sleeves and pants came into view. Brielle’s head rose slightly, checking for the matching red spot on his back.