I received this book in exchange for my honest review...
I don't even know where to start with this book. OMG this was so good I swear I don't know where to begin my review. In
this story we are introduced to a group of vampires and a girl who has
dreamed of all of them helping her find her sister. Abigail is in New
Orleans looking for her missing sister Riley, while looking for her
sister she happens to be attacked by a stranger but recused by Vincent(
OMG SUPER HOT MYSTERY MAN) Vincent saves her and takes her back to her
hotel room, he clears of her mind of their events (or so he thinks)
goes looking for Vincent because she needs his help and the help of his
friends. Abby gets Vincent to help her as well as falls in love with
him. This is some really hot intense scenes in this story
story is amazingly awesome and I can not wait for the next installment.
I am so glad I read this book and now the only thing to do is wait for
the next installment (please don't make me wait too long)
All she wants is a home, but can she find one...UNDER DIFFERENT STARS
Kricket Hollowell is normally not one to wish upon stars; she believes they’re rarely in her favor. Well versed at dodging caseworkers from Chicago’s foster care system, the past few years on her own have made Kricket an expert at the art of survival and blending in. With her 18th birthday fast approaching, she dreams of the day when she can stop running and find what her heart needs most: a home.
Trey Allairis hates Earth and doubts that anyone from his world can thrive here. What he’s learning of Kricket and her existence away from her true home only confirms his theory. But, when he and Kricket lie together under the stars of Ethar, counting them all may be easier than letting her go.
Kyon Ensin’s secrets number the stars; he knows more about Kricket's gifts than anyone and plans to possess her because of them. He also knows she’s more valuable than any fire in the night sky. He’ll move the heavens and align them all in order to make her his own.
When everything in their world can be broken, will Kricket rely upon love to save her under different stars?
Water swirls around me as I open my eyes. I shiver, realizing I’m in Trey’s arms. He’s standing chest deep in crystal blue water with Wayra pacing on the bank only steps away. Clutching Trey closer to me, my cheek remains on his shoulder. Watching a bead of water slip down his powerful neck, I hear Jax say, “She’s waking up.”
Trey, cupping his hand in the water, pours some of it over my hair. It drips down the sides of my face, cooling me. “Let’s get her out. I’ll get the visor and we can check her vitals.”
As Trey wades out of the pond with me in his arms, I try to lift my head from his shoulder. It makes me dizzy so I lay it back. It’s then I notice that I’m only in my bra and underwear. A blush creeps into my cheeks as I hug Trey tighter to me. Wayra meets us on the bank, draping a blanket over us. Trey sits down with me on his lap. He leans against a tree trunk holding me securely to his chest. Peeking at his face, he seems angry as he smoothes my hair back from my face.
Hurrying over with the visor that looks like grandma goggles, Trey sets them on my eyes. Everything is green as I gaze around at the water in front of us. Flashing green lights and readouts occupy the peripherals of the glasses, but the information is running faster than I can possibly read it.
“Ho!” Jax exclaims next to me.
Immediately, Trey’s arms tighten on me as he barks out, “What? How bad is it?”
“Naw, it’s not bad…it’s just…Kricket…” Jax breathes, like he’s in awe. “Look at this brain activity…it’s massive.”
“What do you mean?” Trey asks with relief in his tone.
Jax grins. “She’s lighting everything up. Look at her frontal lobe…it’s off the charts.”
“What does that mean? Is she healthy?” Trey growls.
Jax nods enthusiastically. “She’s healthy! We didn’t fry her with heat stroke, that’s for sure. Or, if we did, she’s got more brain activity than anyone I’ve ever seen to compensate for it,” he replies, sounding seriously geeked about it.
“Those things aren’t broken, are they?” Trey asks speculatively.
“No…here.” Jax pulls them off my face. “Wayra, come here.”
Wayra walks over and Jax puts the glasses on his eyes. “See! He’s normal, well, normal for him. See how it doesn’t light up in these areas?” he points out to Trey.
“Now watch this,” he says, taking the glasses off of Wayra, he places them back on my face. “See? It’s like Christmas in Chicago with all those lights,” Jax says proudly.
“So that means she’s smart?”
Jax beams. “Yeah, she’s smart! She’s brilliant! There’s no telling what she can do.”
“If she’s so smart, why did she run until she almost popped? Why didn’t she just tell us she needed to rest?” Wayra asks derisively.
“Personality flaw,” Trey replies. “She’s going to show us that she’s not weak.”
“She’s sitting right here,” I murmur, pulling the glasses off my face and handing them
My Review: Let me start of by saying I LOVE AMY BARTOL AND I AM A HUGE FAN!!!!
I have just finished Under Different Stars, this book was GREAT. It has everything I have come to love from the author, its sci-fi, its romance and its action packed. Think Star Trek meets The Three Musketeers meets Beauty and the Beast. (Only Trey is so not anyone's beast, he's HOT)
This installment is so amazing, that I was hooked from the first chapter, Kricket is a girl who doesn't have any family but she has 2 great friends, however she knows that she is different from the fact that once she cuts her hair it grows right back plus add in having violet eyes. One night will taking the train home from work she meets three very interesting very handsome men but she knows that something is off about them, she manages to get away from them only to be attacked by 3 more interesting men (some women have all the luck LOL)
This story takes you on her first journey to discovering who she is and where she came from. I am so in love with all the characters and as always Amy can even make you love the bad guys( check out my baby Brenner in her Premonition Series), also as usual since Amy is such a great author she leaves me waiting for the next installment in yet another one of her series...
Awesome read check it out you will not be disappointed...
I live in Michigan with my husband and our two sons. My family is very supportive of my writing. When I’m writing, they often bring me the take-out menu so that I can call and order them dinner. They listen patiently when I talk about my characters like they’re real. They rarely roll their eyes when I tell them I’ll only be a second while I finish writing a chapter…and then they take off their coats. They ask me how the story is going when I surface after living for hours in a world of my own making. They have learned to accept my “writing uniform” consisting of a slightly unflattering pink fleece jacket, t-shirt, and black yoga pants. And they smile at my nerdy bookishness whenever I try to explain urban fantasy to them. In short, they get me, so they are perfect and I am blessed.
BLOG TOUR GIVEAWAY (OPEN INTERNATIONALLY):
1st place: KINDLE FIRE + ebook of Under Different Stars
These letters are often all that get me through week to week. Even if it’s just random
stuff, nothing important, they’re important to me. Gramps is great, and I love
working on the ranch. But…I’m lonely. I feel disconnected, like I’m no one, like I
don’t belong anywhere. Like I’m just here until something else happens. I don’t even
know what I want with my future. But your letters, they make me feel connected to
something, to someone. I had a crush on you, when we first met. I thought you were
beautiful. So beautiful. It was hard to think of anything else. Then camp ended and
we never got together, and now all I have of you is these letters. S**t. I just told you I
have a crush on you. HAD. Had a crush. Not sure what is anymore. A letter-crush? A
literary love? That’s stupid. Sorry. I just have this rule with myself that I never throw
away what I write and I always send it, so hopefully this doesn’t weird you out too
much. I had a dream about you too. Same kind of thing. Us, in the darkness, together.
Just us. And it was like you said, a memory turned into a dream, but a memory of
something that’s never happened, but in the dream it felt so real, and it was more,
I don’t even know, more RIGHT than anything I’ve ever felt, in life or in dreams. I
wonder what it means that we both had the same dream about each other. Maybe
nothing, maybe everything. You tell me.
~ ~ ~ ~
We’re pen pals. Maybe that’s all we’ll ever be. I don’t know. If we met IRL (in real
life, in case you’re not familiar with the term) what would happen? And just FYI,
the term you used, a literary love? It was beautiful. So beautiful. That term means
something, between us now. We are literary loves. Lovers? I do love you, in some
strange way. Knowing about you, in these letters, knowing your hurt and your joys,
it means something so important to me, that I just can’t describe. I need your art,
and your letters, and your literary love. If we never have anything else between us,
I need this. I do. Maybe this letter will only complicate things, but like you I have
a rule that I never erase or throw away what I’ve written and I always send it, no
matter what I write in the letter.
Your literary love,
GOODBYE IS NOT FOREVER
~ Caden ~
Between art classes and the requisite camp activities—which were stupid bullshit—
the first week of camp passed in a blur.
It was Monday afternoon, all-
camp free time, so most everyone was gone somewhere—into downtown Traverse
City, to Sleeping Bear Dunes, canoeing on one of the two lakes, swimming at
Peterson Beach. There were a few students on campus, most of them doing the same
as I was, finding a solitary place to play an instrument, paint, draw, or dance. I had
found the perfect spot overlooking Green Lake, sitting with my back to a pine tree,
sketchbook on my knees, trying to capture the way a duck’s wings curved for
landing as they floated over the rippling surface of the water.
there for over an hour already, the bark scratching my back through my T-shirt,
earbuds in and playing my current favorite album, Surfing With the Alien by Joe
Satriani. I’d drawn the same picture six times, each one a quick, rough sketch,capturing the outlines, the curves, the angle of the bird’s body and the delicate arch
of its neck. None of them were right, though. Like with my work on human hands,
one particular detail was eluding me. This time, it was the pattern of the pinfeathers
as the duck fluttered its wings, the way each feather rounded into the next, layered,
yet separate, while its green head and yellow beak thrust forward, the wings
creating a bonnet around its body. I’d stuffed each failed sketch under my foot, using
the last as reference for the next. My pencil went still as another duck approached
the water. Its wings curved to slow its descent, orange feet outstretched, and then at
the very last moment it reared back and flared its wings, braking to a stop and
settling on the water with barely a sound or splash. I watched intently, my eyes and
mind capturing the moment of wing-flare, watching the tips of its wings, then I
glanced down and erased frantically, redrawing, pencil moving furiously now, line
overlaying line, adjusting the curve and angles.
“You’re really good,” a
voice said behind me.
I knew without turning who it was. “Thanks,
Ever.” Had I really remembered her voice after that one conversation?
wished I didn’t feel so self-conscious all of a sudden. Would she think I was stupid
for drawing ducks? Watching them land had been fascinating when I was alone, and
drawing them had captivated my focus for the last couple of hours, but now that a
pretty girl was standing behind me…I was pretty sure it was the nerdiest thing ever.
I closed the sketchbook and set it on top of the pile of discarded
sketches, standing up and brushing off the seat of my shorts. When I finally turned
my gaze to Ever, I had to blink several times. I hadn’t seen her since the day we
arrived, despite looking for her in the visual arts classes and at meals. She’d been
pretty then, dressed casually in jeans and a T-shirt. But now…she was so beautiful it
made my stomach flip and tighten.
She was wearing a pair of khaki
shorts that barely made it to mid-thigh, and a rib-hugging green tank top that
matched the emerald of her eyes perfectly. Her hair hung in loose spirals around her
shoulders, and she had a bulky easel under one arm, a canvas under the other arm
and a wooden carrying case for paints in her hand. A smudge of red paint stood out
on her forehead, matching a similar smudge on her left wrist, and green paint was
smeared near her right cheek and earlobe.
I felt an absurd compulsion
to wipe away the paint with my thumb. Instead, I reached for the easel and took it
from her. “Were you just setting up? Or heading back?” I asked.
shrugged, and the strap of her tank top slipped over the round of her shoulder,
revealing the white strap of her bra. “Neither. I was kinda just…walking around.
Looking for something to paint.”
“Oh. I was just…sketching. Ducks.
Obviously.” I felt myself blushing as I mumbled, forcing my gaze away from the
overlapping green and white straps and the hint of pale skin as she brushed the
strap back in place. “I don’t really like ducks, I just…I thought the way they looked
when they landed was kinda cool, and I—do you want me to carry your easel?” I felt
like a spaz, shifting tracks so suddenly and blurting like an idiot.
shrugged again, and the damn strap of her shirt slipped again. I wished she would
stop shrugging so much, because it was wreaking hell on my ability to not stare at
her. It wasn’t just the strap, though, it was her chest, the way it lifted and settled
along with her shoulders. I felt my cheeks burn and wondered if my thoughts were
visible, somehow, like I had a digital marquee on my forehead, announcing the fact that I was staring at her boobs.
“Sure,” Ever said, and I had to refocus to
remember what we were talking about. “It is kinda heavy.”
easel. Right. I leaned down and scooped up my sketchbook and papers, then
adjusted the easel under my armpit more securely. “Where to?”
sensing a pattern now, and managed to avert my gaze before she did the shrug.
“I dunno. I was thinking somewhere on that side over there.” She pointed to
a not-too-distant portion of the Green Lake shoreline.
through the woods along the shoreline, chatting about our art classes, comparing
notes and complaints. Every once in a while, Ever would move ahead of me, and the
way her shorts clung to her backside was so distracting I almost dropped the easel a
This was new territory for me. Girls were just girls. There’d
never been one that had grabbed my attention like this before, and I didn’t know
how to handle it. Of course, there were hot girls at school, and I looked at
them, ’cause duh, I’m a guy. But this was different. Ever was someone I could see
becoming a friend, and it was tricky having a friend who you couldn’t stop staring at
like some wonderstruck moron. I felt like she had this power of reducing me to a
Ook. Me Caden. You woman.
trotted up to walk next to her, which was only nominally better. The problem was
that anywhere I looked, there was something I shouldn’t be staring at.
Eventually, she came a stop on a little knoll surrounded by trees with a stunning
view of the lake. “This is good,” she said. “I could paint this.” I set the easel down and
unfolded it, then moved away and watched her arrange her canvas on the easel,
open her paint case and select a pencil. “You can’t watch over my shoulder. That’s
weird and creepy and I won’t be able to think.” She gestured off to one side. “Find
your own spot and we’ll critique each other’s work when we’re done.”
“So we’re both drawing the same basic landscape scene?” I asked.
nodded. “Well, I’ll paint it. You draw it.”
I found a place off to Ever’s left,
framing the lake between two huge Jack Pines. I set my pad on my crossed legs and
started sketching, and pretty soon disappeared into capturing the scene before me. I
didn’t entirely forget about Ever, because she was hot even while painting—
especially while painting, really. She was messy. She had a tendency to use her
fingers as much as the brushes. She would swipe her bangs out of her face and get
paint on her forehead and cheeks and nose. Even as I tried to force my attention
back to the sketch in my book, she scratched her wrist with one hand, smearing
orange paint on her wrist, and then rubbed her jaw with the same wrist.
I must have laughed out loud, because she glanced over at me. “What?” she
“It’s just…you have paint all over your face.”
She wiped at her cheek with one hand, which of course only smeared it worse.
I set my pad and pencils down and moved to stand next to her. “Yeah,
it’s…everywhere.” I hesitated, then dragged my thumb lightly across her forehead
and showed her the paint on my thumb.
She frowned, and then lifted
the bottom edge of her shirt to wipe her face. At the sight of her stomach and the
hint of white bra, I turned away. “Is that better?” she asked.
back around. She had paint all over her shirt, but her face was clean. “Yeah, you got
it off your face. Except…” I took a strand of her hair between my finger and thumb,
and it came away green. “You have it in your hair too.”
“I’m a messy painter, I guess. I like to use my hands. At home, I don’t even use brushes. But the
teachers here want me to try and expand my ‘vocabulary as an artist’ or some
bullshit like that.” She put air quotes around the phrase, mocking it. “Mom was the
Something in her eyes and voice when she mentioned her
mother, along with the fact that she’d used past tense, had me on alert. “She’s a
messy painter?” I didn’t want to ask, or assume anything.
turned away from me and focused on her canvas, dabbing her brush into a glop of
green on her palette, darkening the shade closer to the green of the pine needles.
“Because she’s dead.” She said it calmly, matter-of-
factly, but too much so. “Car accident. Not quite a year and a half ago.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I mean…yeah. I’m sorry for your loss.” That was a phrase I’d
heard before, but it sounded awkward when I said it. Fake and empty.
Ever glanced at me. “Thanks.” She wrinkled her nose. “We don’t have to talk about
it. It happened, and that’s it. No point in getting all weepy about it.”
like she was putting on a brave face, but I didn’t know how to tell her she didn’t have
to do that. If she wanted a brave face, what business was it of mine to say she
shouldn’t? I took a few deep breaths, and then changed the subject. “I like your
painting. It’s not quite realistic, but not quite abstract, either.”
It was an
interesting piece. The trees were thick, blurry, smeared representations of trees,
browns and greens that barely seemed like anything at all, but the lake beyond and
between them was intensely realistic, each ripple detailed and perfect, glinting and
reflecting the sunlight.
“Thanks,” she said. “I wasn’t sure it would work
when I started, but I think I like it.” She stepped back, rubbing the side of her nose
with her middle finger, blotting brown on her skin, then realized what she’d done
and sighed. “Lemme see yours.”
I hated showing people my drawings. I
drew because I loved drawing. I drew because it just seemed to come out of me,
whether I intended to do it or not. I doodled all over my textbooks and notebooks at
school, on my desk calendar at home, even on the leg of my jeans sometimes. I didn’t
draw to impress people. Letting someone see my work was like showing someone a
part of me, it felt like. I showed my dad my drawings sometimes, because he was an
engineer with a background in drafting and knew what he was talking about. And he
was my dad and wouldn’t be too harsh or critical.
What if Ever thought
I was shitty? I liked her and wanted her to think I was cool, talented.
Before I could re-think the decision, I handed her my sketchpad. To disguise my
nerves, I picked up a thick stick from the ground and started peeling the bark off.
Ever stared at my sketch for a long time, looking from it to the lake, and then walked
to where I’d been sitting when I drew it. After what felt like a thousand years, she
handed it back.
“You kick my ass at drawing. That’s really amazing,
Caden. It almost looks like a photo.”
I shrugged, picking at the bark
with my thumbnail. “Thanks. It’s not really all that photorealistic, but…it’s not bad
for a quick sketch.”
She just nodded, and neither of us knew what to say.
I wanted to be calm and cool and confident, make casual conversation and impress
her with my wit. But that just wasn’t me.
I was a bark-picker and a dirt-
kicker, words sticking in my chest and tumbling around each other.
“We should draw each other. Just pencils and paper,” Ever said, breaking the
“Sure,” was all I could say. I flipped the page of my book to an empty one, then realized she’d only brought her canvas, so I carefully
ripped the page out and handed it to her. “You’ve got a pencil, right?”
Ever lifted her pencil in response, and then sat down cross-legged in the dirt. I sat
facing her and tried to pretend that my eyes weren’t drawn to her inner thighs,
bared and looking softer than I could possibly imagine. I ducked my head and
regrouped, then forced my gaze to her face. I started sketching, getting the basic
shapes down first. By the time I’d finished the outline of her face and shoulders, I
had an idea. I wanted to mimic her own style, mixing realism with abstraction. It
flowed easily once I had the concept down. We were companionably silent then,
glancing up at each other every now and again, but focused on our work.
Wind blew in the tree around us, and the sun filtered lower and lower, and
somewhere voices echoed, laughing and yelling. The scent of pine trees was thick in
the air, a smell so pungent it was almost visible. It was the scent of a northern
Michigan summer, to me.
I didn’t know how long we sat there drawing
each other, and I didn’t care. I had a sense of complete peace, soul-deep
contentment. Our knees were touching, just our kneecaps brushing, and that was
enough to make me feel euphoria. Then Ever shifted, and my right knee touched her
left shin, pressing close and making my heart skip more beats than could possibly be
Finally, I knew the drawing was done. I examined it critically,
adjusted a few lines and angles, and then nodded. I was pleased. I’d captured her
face with as much realism as I possessed, her hair hanging in loose waves around
one shoulder, head tilted, eyes downcast. The farther down her torso the drawing
went, the more blurred and abstracted it got, so that her feet and knees were
charcoal smudges on the paper.
I stood up, leaving the pad on the pine-
needle-carpeted ground, and paced, working the blood back into my legs and numb
backside. When I returned to my seat in front of Ever, she was holding my
sketchbook and staring at it, an oddly emotional expression on her face.
“Is this how you see me?” she asked, not looking up at me.
I mean, it’s just a drawing. I was trying to mimic the way you did that landscape, you
know?” I reached for my book, but she held on. “Are you…I mean, you’re not mad or
anything, are you?”
She shook her head and laughed. “No! Not at all. I
was just expecting it to be a profile or something, you know? And this is totally not
that. I don’t know, Caden. You make me look—I don’t know…prettier than I am.”
“Not—um…I kind of think it doesn’t do you justice. It’s not good enough.
You’re…you’re prettier than that.”
“You think I’m pretty?”
was beet red, I could feel it. Once again I wished I could say something debonair like
James Bond would say in the old Sean Connery movies Dad watched every weekend.
Nice. Might as well have grunted like a Neanderthal.
Ever blushed and ducked her head, smoothing her hair over her shoulder with one
hand. “Thanks.” She glanced up at me, and our eyes met, locked. I wanted to look
away, but couldn’t. Her eyes were mesmerizing, green and almost luminous. “I
almost don’t want to show you my stupid drawing.”
I reached for the
drawing, but Ever didn’t let go of it. Our fingers touched, and I swore actual physical
sparks shot up from where our skin touched. Neither of us pulled away.
After a forever that could have fit into the space of a single breath, she let me take
the sheet of paper, and touch became loss.
It was an amazing portrait of me, ultra-realistic. I was sitting cross-legged with my pad of paper, pencil held in my
fingers, head down. You could just barely see the upper portion of my face, the
frown of concentration.
“It’s incredible, Ever,” I said. “Really amazing.” I
was torn between admiration and jealousy. She was really good.
She held my drawing, and I held hers. A cicada sang
somewhere, the loud buzzing sound of summer.
“I have an evening
composition class,” I said. “I should probably go.”
“Yeah. I should too.”
She stood up, brushing off her backside, an action I tried not to watch, then handed
me my sketchpad back. “I had a good time today. Maybe we could do this again.
I tore my drawing of her free and gave it to her. “Yeah. I’d
She gave an odd, half-
circle wave, then looked at her hand as if to question why it had done such an
awkward thing. Then, before I could say anything, she gathered her things and left.
I watched her go, wondering what this thing was between us.
Friendship? Something else? We’d only hung out twice, but it had felt like more than
that. Like we knew each other, somehow.
I went to class and then back
to my cabin, where I stashed her drawing of me.
~ ~ ~
I didn’t see Ever again until nearly the end of camp,
even though I went out of my way to find her. Every time I went by her cabin she
was gone, and I never saw her in any classes or workshops, or at dinner. I got a
glimpse of her once, swimming with her cabin-mates, laughing and wet and
beautiful, but I was with some guys from my own cabin, on the way to shoot hoops
in the gym.
It was three days until the end of the camp. Late at night. I
was supposed to be in bed, but I couldn’t sleep. I had an unsettled feeling in my
stomach, a restlessness that had no source or definition, just an anxiousness that I
couldn’t seem to dispel. I snuck out of the cabin and went down to one of the
It was a clear night, moonless and dark, lit only by a sky full of
stars. The air held a touch of coolness, whispering over my skin. I hadn’t bothered to
put on a shirt, wearing a pair of gym shorts and sports sandals as I stepped lightly
on the creaking wood of the long dock.
I was so wrapped up in my own
thoughts that I didn’t see or hear her until I was nearly on top of her.
Ever sat on the edge of the dock, feet dangling. I opened my mouth to speak, but
then I saw that her shoulders were shaking. She was crying.
know what to do, what to say. She’d come down here to be alone—I mean, that
much was obvious, right? And asking her if she was okay seemed stupid. I hesitated,
turned to leave. I didn’t know how to even begin comforting her, but I wanted to try.
So, I sat down next to her, dangling my feet over the black, rippling water.
She wasn’t sobbing, just quietly crying. I put my hand on her shoulder and
squeezed, a gentle touch that let her know I was there. A short hesitation, and then
she turned into me and my arm went around her and held her. I felt wetness touch
my shoulder, her tears on my skin. I held her, let her cry, and wondered if I was
doing it right. If there was something I was supposed to be saying that would make
“I miss her, Caden.” Her voice was tiny, barely audible. “I miss
my Mom. I—I miss home. I’m homesick. But most of all, I wish I could go home and
see Mom again. Dad doesn’t talk about her. Eden doesn’t talk about her. I don’t talk
about her. It’s like she died and now we pretend like she never was.”
“You can talk to me.” I hoped that didn’t sound too cliché.
know what to say. She’s been dead a year and a half, and all I can really say is…I miss
her. I miss how she made our family a family.” She sniffled and straightened away
from my shoulder, although our bodies were still flush against each other, hip to hip.
I left my arm around her shoulders, and she didn’t seem to mind it. “Now it’s just
each of us by ourselves. Eden and I…we’re twins, did I tell you that? We don’t even
really talk about her, or about missing her, or anything. And we’re twins, we almost
share a brain sometimes. Like, legit, we can read each other’s thoughts
“Nothing like that has ever happened in my family. I don’t
know how we’d handle it if it did. I know my dad probably wouldn’t talk about it. My
mom might. I’m like Dad, I think, and I’d have a hard time talking about things. I
already do. I’m sure you can tell. I never know what to say.” We were quiet for a
while. But Ever needed someone to talk to. And I thought about last week, the two of
us sitting by the lake, drawing—both of us knew how to speak with our hands and
pencils. An idea came to me, and I said it without thinking. “What if we were pen
God, that sounded stupid.
“Pen pals?” At least, she
didn’t laugh at me outright.
“I know that sounds dumb, or whatever. But
it can be hard to talk on the phone. And we don’t really live close to each other,
and…I just thought maybe if we wrote letters, we could talk about whatever we
wanted, but on our own time.” She hadn’t said anything, and I was starting to feel
intensely self-conscious. “I guess it’s dumb.”
“No, I…I like the idea. I
think it’s awesome.” She turned and looked up at me. The starlight shone dim silver
in her green eyes, and I felt like I could fall into her eyes if I stared long enough.
“Like, we’d write actual paper letters? Every month?”
“Yeah, that’s what
I was thinking. Or it could be more frequently, if we wanted to. Whenever, you
know? Whenever we needed to say something.” I ran my thumbnail in the grooved
grain of the faded wood.
“I really…I think that would be awesome.” She
rested her head against my bicep.
We sat like that in the silence of a
northern Michigan summer midnight, close and touching, but not embracing, not
talking, lost in our own thoughts.
I heard voices behind us, turned to see
two flashlight beams bobbing toward us. “We’ve been found,” I said.
Just before our respective cabin staffers found us, Ever clutched my hand in hers.
“Promise me you’ll write?”
“I promise.” I squeezed her with my arm, an
awkward hug. “Good night, Ever.”
“’Night, Caden.” She hesitated a beat,
and then turned into me, makin it a full fledged hug, bodies pressed against each
Totally worth the trouble I got in.
~ ~ ~ ~
Pick-up that Saturday was chaotic, a thousand cars, parents and campers
reuniting. I found Dad leaning against the door of his truck, arms crossed. I spotted
him from a distance, held up a finger to signal “one minute,” then wove through the
crowd, duffel bag on my shoulder, looking for black hair and green eyes and a body
that had featured in more of my dreams than I cared to admit.
standing in the open door of a boxy silver Mercedes SUV, looking around almost frantically. She saw me and flew toward me, slamming into me and hugging me. I
was so surprised that I didn’t react for a moment, and then I dropped my bag and
my arms went around her shoulders and I was hugging her back, holding her,
smelling the shampoo in her hair and the faint, indefinable scent that made a girl
smell like a girl.
When we pulled apart, I handed her a folded slip of
paper on which I’d printed my name and address as neatly as I could. The paper she
handed me had a heart on it, my name written in a curving, looping script within the
heart. Did that mean something? Was the fact that she put my name inside the heart
significant? Or was that just something girls did? I wished I knew and I tried not to
read too much into it.
“You better write me,” she said.
will. I promise.” I held onto the folded square of paper, not wanting to put it in my
pocket in front of her. That would just feel rude, somehow.
I promise I’ll write you back.”
“You better.” I heard her father say
something to her sister Eden, and I shuffled back a few steps. “Good luck. You know,
with…everything we talked about.”
“You too.” She gave me a half-wave,
a stiff semi-circle of her arm. Her eyes were on me, and her lips were smiling, and it
was all I could do to tear myself away, grab my duffel bag and trot back toward Dad
and the truck. My head was spinning and my heart was doing strange sideways
Dad was waiting for me in the driver’s seat, the engine
idling, staring off out his window. His expression was pensive, brooding, and dark. I
made sure to wipe the goofy grin off my face as I tossed my bag into the bed of the
truck and ran the aged black rubber bungee cord through the handle, slipping the
hook securely under the lip of the bed rim. I had Ever’s note in my palm, and I slid
my hand against my thigh to hide it.
“Got a number, huh, bud?” Dad’s
voice was amused.
I glanced at him, stifling the urge to roll my eyes.
“How do you ‘sort of’ get a number?”
“It’s not her
phone number, it’s her address.”
“Her address?” Dad sounded
incredulous. “You must have some serious game, Cade. Where does she live?”
Serious game? My dad was trying to be hip again, apparently. I lifted one
shoulder in a shrug, not wanting to tell him about the pen pals idea, but knowing
he’d pester me until I did. “I dunno where she lives, I haven’t looked at it yet.
Somewhere in Bloomfield, I think.”
“Bloomfield, huh? The ritzy area.
Her pops must be loaded.”
I shrugged again, my standby response to
pretty much everything. “I guess. I think he works for Chrysler or something. An
executive or vice president. Something like that.”
Dad huffed in
sarcastic laughter. “‘Something like that.’ How informative. Did you learn anything
definite about her?”
“Her name is Ever Eliot. She lives in Bloomfield.
She’s into painting and sculpture. She has a twin sister named Eden.” I wasn’t going
to mention the fact that her mom had died in a car accident. It seemed like it would
be a breach of confidence to tell him. “She’s beautiful.”
“You like her?”
I shrugged yet again. “I guess.”
“You guess.” He shook his
head in frustration and then turned up the radio as “Springsteen” by Eric Church
came on, and we both tuned in to listen. When the song ended, he turned it down
again. “So this Ever girl aside, how was Interlochen?”
“It was good.”
He waited a few beats, glancing at me expectantly. “Thousands of dollars
and three weeks, and all I get out of you is “it was good’?”
always wanted more information from me than I ever knew how to give them.
“What do you want, Dad, a day by day breakdown? I don’t know. I learned about all
sorts of artistic bullshit. Angles, shading, perspective, composition. I tried my hand
at oil painting and watercolor. Even tried clay sculpture, which I suck at. I took a
class on drawing anatomy, which was pretty awesome. It was camp. I swam. Played
basketball with some of the guys from my cabin.”
“And met a pretty
“And that. Yeah.”
“Sounds like a great time.” He
grabbed my shoulder in his iron-hard fist and shook me, which was meant to be
affectionate, but ended up feeling rough, like he was trying to be casual, or playful.
“Think you’ll go back next year?”
I’d been thinking about that a lot the
last few days. “Maybe? I don’t really know. I’m torn. I did have a good time, and I
learned a lot, but…it was like a whole extra summer of school, just for art. Summers
at the ranch with Gramps…it’s just…different. “
Dad nodded. “Well,
think about it, I guess. You’ve got a year. I know Gramps would happy to have you
back next summer, but do what you want for you.”
We kept quiet after
that, listening to country and classic rock as the miles passed. The closer we got to
home, the more pinched and worried Dad’s expression became. I opened my mouth
several times to ask him what was wrong, but never actually spoke. He’d pass it off,
brush it off, say it was nothing for me to worry about. But if he was still acting
stressed or worried after three weeks, there was something going on that my
parents weren’t telling me.
At home, I tried to ignore it, but as the
summer days dwindled, bringing me closer to the start of ninth grade and my
fifteenth birthday, I couldn’t help noticing the whispered conversations while I was
watching TV, the increasingly frequent times they left together on mysterious
“errands,” or the way Mom seemed to be withdrawing into herself. But when I
walked into a room or started to ask Mom if she was okay, she pasted a smile on her
face and changed the topic to some variation of whether I needed any more school
When I got home from my absolutely shitty first day of ninth
grade, I sat at my desk in my room with the door closed, dug my American
Literature notebook from my backpack, and sat down to write to Ever for the first
New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Jasinda
Wilder is a Michigan native with a penchant for titillating tales about sexy men
and strong women. When she’s not writing, she’s probably shopping, baking, or
Some of her favorite authors include Nora Roberts, JR Ward, Sherrilyn Kenyon,
Liliana Hart and Bella Andre.
She loves to travel and some of her favorite vacations spots are Las Vegas, New York
City and Toledo, Ohio.
You can often find Jasinda drinking sweet red wine with frozen berries and eating a
Jasinda is represented by Kristin
Nelson of the Nelson Literary Agency.
Here is my review, this book was fast paced and very interesting from the first page. This book contains it all, really hot paranormal guys and a girl, we also have a heroine who is so fragile but strong at the same time. If there are demons in outer space as hot as the demons in this book then I might consider joining the space program LOL.
This is a story about a girl named Anya who has special powers and is being held against her will by a evil man Dairus(don't worry he gets his in the end ;)
Bastain is the hot hero Demon and Cal and Marik are his brothers, lets not forget Sonya the very funny no sugar coating sister Demon.
Anya is desperate to get away from Darius and steals away on Bastian's ship un-noticed. While Bastain is on his next mission Anaya is discovered, she is safe on the ship because his new job has come with some very strict rules no one on or off until delivery is made.
While on the ship Bastian and Anya begin to fall in love which is awesome but also cool is Anya gets to develop friendships and family with the crew members. This story has it all Love, action and the bad guy gets it in the end.I am so glad I read this and will be moving on to the next installment in this series.