Read "The Immortals Series Books Evermore, Blue Moon, and Shadowland" by Alyson Noël available from Rakuten Kobo. Sign up today and get $5 off your. Immortals Series. Awards & Special Recognition. “ mesmerizing tale[s] of teenage angst, love and sacrifice with plenty of crossover appeal ” -Publishers. Download everlasting [the immortals series, book 6] - alyson noel ePub eBook. Download everlasting [the immortals series, book 6] - alyson noel PDF, MOBI.
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Praise for The Immortals Series by Alyson Noel "Alyson Noel surpassed all my expectations. Not only is Blue Moon an ama. Evermore: The Immortals .. Author: Alyson Noel DOWNLOAD PDF Then I watch as he tosses his pen in the air, smiling as it forms a series of slow lazy. The Immortals has 63 entries in the series. La Porta Author (). cover image of The Complete Immortals Series Boxset Alyson Noël Author Katie Schorr.
This is a keeper and a book that you have to go out and buy right now because if you don't you will be missing out. Wendy Higgins. I guess I never wonder: The same chill I once found abhorrent, repulsive, but not anymore. English Download options:
But not Riley. She's just as bratty; spoiled, and awful as she was when she was alive. Sabine leaves the car with the valet and we head inside. And the moment I see the huge marble foyer, the outsized flower arrangements, and the amazing ocean view, I regret everything I just thought.
Riley was right. This place really is chichi. Big-time, major chichi. Like the kind of place you bring a date-and not your sullen niece. The hostess leads us to a cloth-covered table adorned with flickering candles and salt and pepper shakers that resemble small silver stones, and when I take my seat and gaze around the room, I can hardy believe how glamorous it is.
Especially compared to the kind of restaurants I'm used to. But just as soon as I think it, I make myself stop. There's no use examining the before and after photos, of reviewing the how things used to be clip stored in my brain. Though sometimes being around Sabine makes it hard not to compare. Her being my dad's twin is like a constant reminder. She orders red wine for herself and a soda for me, then we look over our menus and decide on our meals.
And the moment our waitress is gone, Sabine tucks her chin-length blond hair back behind her ear, smiles politely, and says, "So, how's everything? Your friends? All good? But just because she can handle a twelveman jury doesn't mean she's any good at the small talk. Still, I just look at her and say, "Yep, it's all good. She places her hand on my arm to say something more, but before she can even get to the words, I'm already up and out of my seat.
I head in the direction she unknowingly sent me, passing through a hall of mirrors-gigantic gilt-framed mirrors, all lined up in a row: And since it's Friday, the hotel is filled with guests for a wedding that, from what I can see, should never take place. A group of people brush past me, their auras swirling with alcohol-fueled energy that's so out of whack it's affecting me too, leaving me dizzy, nauseous, and so light-headed that when I glance in the mirrors, I see a long chain of Damens staring right back.
I stumble into the bathroom, grip the marble counter, and fight to catch my breath. Forcing myself to focus on the potted orchids, the scented lotions, and the stack of plush towels resting on a large porcelain tray, I begin to feel calmer, more centered, contained. I guess I've grown so used to all of the random energy I encounter wherever I go, I've forgotten how overwhelming it can be when my defenses are down and my iPod's at home.
But the jolt I received when Sabine placed her hand on mine was filled with such overwhelming loneliness, such quiet sadness, it felt like a punch in the gut.
Especially when I realized I was to blame. Sabine is lonely in a way I've tried to ignore. Because even though we live together it's not like we see each other all that often. She's usually at work, I'm usually at school, and nights and weekends I spend holed up in my room, or out with my friends. I guess I sometimes forget that I'm not the only one with people to miss, that even though she's taken me in and tried to help, she still feels just as alone and empty as the day it all happened.
But as much as I'd like to reach out, as much as I'd like to ease her pain, I just can't. I'm too damaged, too weird. I'm a freak who hears thoughts and talks to the dead. And I can't risk getting found out, can't risk getting too close, to anyone, not even her. The best I can do is just get through high school, so I can go away to college, and she can get back to her life. Maybe then she can get together with that guy who works in her building.
The one she doesn't even know yet. The one whose face I saw the moment her hand touched mine. I run my hands through my hair, reapply some lip gloss, and head back to the table, determined to try a little harder and make her feel better, all without risking my secrets.
And as I slip back. Any cute guys in the building? And I'm so caught up in the drama unfolding before me, between tomorrow's bride-to-be and her so-called maid of "honor," that I actually jump when I feel a hand on my sleeve. I would've said hello, but you seemed in such a rush.
Dressed in a dark wool blazer, a black open-neck shirt, designer jeans, and those boots — an outfit that seems far too slick for a guy his age, yet somehow looks just right. Andjust as I'm wondering what to say next, Sabine appears. And while they're shaking hands I say, ,"Um, Damen and I go to school together.
And when she smiles I can't help but wonder if she's flooded with that same wonderful feeling as me. I've always wanted to go there.
I gape at her, panicked, wondering how I failed to see that coming. Then I glance at Damen, praying he'll decline as he says, "Thanks, but I have to head back" He hooks his thumb over his shoulder, and my eyes follow in that direction, stopping on an incredibly gorgeous redhead, dressed in the slinkiest black dress and strappy high heels.
She smiles at me, but it's not at all kind. Just pink glossy lips slightly lifting and curving, while her eyes are too far, too distant to read. Though there's something about her expression, the tilt of her chin, that's so visibly mocking, as though the sight of us standing together could be nothing short of amusing. I turn back to face him, startled to find him looming so close, his lips moist and parted, mere inches from mine. Then he brushes his fingers along the side of my cheek, and retrieves a red tulip from behind my ear.
Then the next thing I know, I'm standing alone as he heads back inside with his date. And I gaze at the tulip, touching its waxy red petals, wondering where it could've possibly come from-especially two seasons past spring. Though it's not until later, when I'm alone in my room, that I realize the redhead was auraless too. I must've been in a really deep sleep because the moment I hear someone moving around in my room, my head feels so groggy and murky I don't even open my eyes.
And since I'm too tired to play, I grab my other pillow and plop it over my head. I'm sorry if I was mean to you, and I'm sorry if I upset you, but I really don't feel like doing this now at-" I lift the pillow and open one eye to peer at my alarm clock. So why don't you just go back to wherever it is that you go and save it for a normal hour, okay? You can even show upin,that dress I wore to the eighth grade graduation and I won't say a word, scout's honor. So I toss the pillow aside and glare at her shadowy form lounging on the chair by my desk, wondering what could possibly be so important it can't keep until morning.
What more do you want? Eight I see dead people. All the time. On the street, at the beach, in the malls, in restaurants, wandering the hallways at school, standing in line at the post office, waiting in the doctor's office, though never at the dentist.
But unlike the ghosts you see on TV and in movies, they don't bother me, they don't want my help, they don't stop and chat. The most they ever do is smile and wave when they realize they've been seen. Like most people, they like being seen. But the voice in my room definitely wasn't a ghost. It also wasn't Riley. The voice in my room belonged to Damen. And that's how I know I was dreaming.
Robins's class it's the same as being early. I nod, hoping to appear casual, neutral, not the least bit interested. Hoping to hide the fact that I'm so far gone I'm now dreaming of him. Robins for lingering in the faculty bathroom, wishing he'd just stow the flask and come do his job already. I press my lips together and fumble with the iPod in my secret compartment, wondering how rude it would seem if I turned it on and blocked him out too.
It's just, I've never met anyone who was emancipated, and I always thought it sounded so lonely and sad. Though from the looks of his car, his clothes, and his glamorous Friday nights at the St. Regis hotel, he. And the moment he stops talking I hear the heightened whispers of Stacia and Honor, calling me a freak, and a few other things much worse than that.
Then I watch as he tosses his pen in the air, smiling as it forms a series of slow lazy eights before landing right back on his finger. And it's so weird how all the noise just stops and starts, starts and stops, like some messed up game of musical chairs.
One where I'm always left standing. One where I'm always it. And it makes me want to lift my hood, crank my iPod, and drown it all out. Including Damen. Especially Damen. I close my eyes when he speaks-silence, sweet silence, for those fleeting few seconds. Then I open them again and gaze right into his. Robins walks in. I just opened my lunch pack to find a single red tulip lying smack between my sandwich. Just like the one from Friday night. And even though I've no idea how he did it, I'm sure Damen's responsible.
But it's not so much the strange magic tricks that bother me, it's more the way he looks at me, the way he speaks to me, the way he makes me feel"About your family. I didn't realize Allow myself to enjoy the peace of it. Grateful to hear what he says and not what he thinks.
Like an average girl-with a much better than average boy. Wanting to explain how what she saw was nothing, how it meant nothing, even though I know better. She rolls her eyes and sits beside Damen, her hostile thoughts transforming her aura from bright yellow to a very dark red. Then gazing at Damen, she adds, "So, how was everyone's weekend? And when I glance at Damen, I'm shocked to see him shrug too, because from what I saw, he was poised for a much better weekend than me.
I spent most of it cleaning up Austin's vomit, since the housekeeper was in Vegas and my parents couldn't be bothered to come home from wherever the hell they were. But Saturday totally made up for it. I mean, it rocked! Like, seriously, it was probably the best night of my entire life.
And I totally would've invited you guys if it hadn't been so last minute. She's like a hardcore case. She's what they call a donor. Haven rolls her eyes. A donor is a person who allows other vamps to feed off them. You know, like suck their blood and stuff, whereas I'm what they call a puppy, because I just like to follow them around.
I don't let any-. Well, not yet. Anyway, what I was saying is this codependent donor chick, Evangeline, which, by the way, is her vampire name, not her real name-" "People have vampire names?
You know, like your first childhood pet plus your mom's maiden name? Because that makes me Princess Slavin, thank you very much. Haven sighs, striving for patience. It's nothing like that. You see, a vampire name is serious. And unlike most people, I don't even have to change mine, because Haven is like an organic vamp name, one hundred percent natural, no additives or preservatives.
Anyway, we went to this really cool club somewhere up in L. Haven sets down her cupcake and claps. Finally, someone cool at this table," she says. The place was packed. There was even a VIP coven room, which I totally snuck into and hung out at the blood bar.
Even after Evangeline sort of ditched me for some guy she met, I ended up meeting this other girl, who was even cooler, and who also, by the way, just moved here. So we'll probably start hanging out and stuff. All I know is that it was better than your guys' Saturday night-well, maybe not yours, Damen, since you seem to be up on these things, but definitely those two," she says, pointing at Miles and me. And this is what he sends. Stupid phony poseur! And then Damen says, "Because it's me.
And even though we passed it around and had a good solid laugh at the whole weird coincidence, there's still one thing I can't quite get past: If Damenjust moved here from New Mexico and not New York, well, doesn't it seem like he should've looked a little bit younger in that picture? Because I can't think of anyone who looks exactly the same at seventeen as they did at fourteen, or even fifteen, and yet, that thumbnail on Miles's Sidekick showed Damen looking exactly the same as he does right now And it just doesn't make any sense.
When I get to art, I beeline for the supply closet, grab all my stuff, and head for my easel, refusing to react when I notice how Damen IS set up right next to mine. I just take a deep breath and go about the business of buttoning my smock and selecting a brush, stealing the occasional glance at his canvas and trying not to gawk at his masterpiece in the making-a seriously perfect rendition of Picasso's Woman with Yellow Hair.
Our assignment is to emulate one of the great masters, to choose one of those iconic paintings and attempt to re-create it. And somehow I got the idea that those simple Van Gogh swirls would be a sure thing, a cinch to reproduce, an easy A.
But from the looks of my chaotic, hectic strokes, I completely misjudged it. And now it's so far gone, I can't possibly save it. And I've no idea what to do. Ever since I became psychic, I'm no longer required to study. I'm not even required to read. All I have to do is place my hands on a book, and the story appears in my head. And as far as tests go? Well, let's just say there's no more "pop'; in the quiz.
I just brush my fingers over the questions and the answers are instantly revealed. But art is totally different. Because talent cannot be faked. Which is why my painting is pretty much the exact opposite of Damen's. Then just to torture myself even further, I take another glance at his effortless, curving brushstrokes, and add it to the never-ending list of things he's amazingly good at.
Seriously, like in English, he can answer all of Mr. Robins's questions, which is kind of weird since he only had one night to skim all three hundred and some odd pages of Wuthering Heights. Not to mention how he usually goes on to include all manner of random historical facts, talking about those long-ago days as though he was actually there.
He's ambidextrous too, which might not sound like all that big a deal, until you watch him write with one hand and paint with the other, with neither project seeming to suffer. And don't even get me started on the spontaneous tulips and magic pen. Machado says, smoothing her long glossy braid as she stares at his canvas, her aura vibrating a beautiful cobalt blue, as her mind performs cartwheels and somersaults, jumping in glee, racing through her mental roster of talented former students, realizing she's never had one with such innate, natural ability-until now; 'And Ever?
What on eqrth could it possibly be? You know, Starry Night? Just don't forget the golds, and the yellows! It is a starry, starry night after all!
Then without even thinking I dip my brush in yellow, before wiping off the blue, and when I press it to my canvas it leaves a big blob of green. He smiles, his eyes finding mine. I drop my brush to the floor, sending mushy globs of green paint splattering across my shoes, my smock, and my face, holding my breath as he leans down to retrieve it, before placing it back in my hand.
The one on my forehead. The one that's hidden under my bangs. The one he has no way of knowing about. Ten The next morning as I'm getting ready for school, I make the mistake of asking Riley's lielp in choosing a sweatshirt. It brings out your eyes. Rummaging for lip gloss and stopping just short of applying it when she goes, "Okay, what gives? I mean, the sweatshirt crises, the sweaty palms, the makeup, what's going on? It definitely qualifies as makeup. And you, dear sister, were just about to apply it.
Still waiting for an answer over here! But don't think you can stop me from gueSSing," she says, trailing behind me. Remember how nervous and paranoid you were? Wondering if he liked you back, and bippidy-blahblah. So come on, tell me. Who's the unlucky guy? Who's your next victim? But instead I just clear my throat, shift into reverse, and say, "No one.
I don't like anyone. But trust me, that's the last time I'll ever ask you to help. But when I see Damen talking to Stacia, I add paranoid to the already long list.
But he just ignores me and remains perched on her desk, and I watch as he reaches behind her ear, and comes away with a rosebud. A single white rosebud.
A fresh, pure, glistening, dewy; white rosebud. And when he hands it to her, she squeals so loud you'd think he just gave her a diamond. No way! How'd you do that? I press my lips and gaze down at the ground, fiddling with my iPod and cranking the sound until I can no longer hear her. I storm toward my desk, my feet moving like they're supposed to, one in front of the other, like a zombie, a robot, some dense numb thing just going through its preprogrammed motions, unable to think on its own.
Then I settle onto my chair and continue the routine, retrieving paper, books, and a pen, pretending I don't notice how reluctant Damen is, how he drags his feet when Mr. Robins makes him return to his seat. In fact, I said exactly that the very first day. Remember when I said that? You just didn't hear me. I'm still reeling from English, when Damen leaned toward me, right in the middle of roll call, so he could pass me a note.
But only so I could pass it to Stacia. Wondering how a single piece of notebook paper, folded into a triangle, could possibly cause so much pain. It's about not wanting to touch it! Not wanting to know what it says!
Because the moment my fingers make contact, I'll see the words in my head-the whole, sexy, adorable, flirty, unfiltered message. And even though it'll be bad enough to hear it in her thoughts, at least then I can pretend that it's compromised, diluted by her dimwitted brain. But if I touch that piece of paper, then I'll know the words are trueand I just can't bear to see them"Pass it yourself," I finally said, tapping it with the tip of my pencil and sending it off the edge of my desk.
Hating the way my heart slammed against my chest as he laughed and bent down to retrieve it. Hating myself for the flood of relief when he slid it into his pocket instead of passing it to her. I mean, not to point fingers or anything, but you are the last one who saw him today Remembering yesterday in art, the way Damen's eyes sought mine, the way his touch warmed my skin, so sure we'd shared something personal-magical even.
But then I remember the girl before Stacia, the gorgeous haughty redhead at the St. Regis, the one I conveniently managed to forget. And I feel like a fool, for being so naive, for thinking he just might've liked me. Because the truth is, that's just Damen. He's a player. And he does this all the time. I gaze across the lunch tables, just in time to see Damen compile an entire bouquet of white rosebuds from Stacia's ear, sleeve, cleavage, and purse.
Then I press my lips and avert my gaze, sparing myself the gratuitous hug that soon foll. I can hear Miles's thoughts, weighing my words, trying to decide if he should believe me. Then he sighs and says, "Do you feel as dejected, jilted, and heartbroken as me?
How just yesterday I was sure something significant had passed between us, only to wake up today and be presented with this.
But instead I just shake my head, gather my things, and head off to class, long before the bell even rings. All through fifth-period French, I think of ways to get out of art. Even as I'm participating in the usual drills, lips moving, foreign words forming, my mind is completely obsessed with faking a stomachache, nausea, fever, a dizzy spell, the flu, whatever. Any excuse will do. And it's not just because of Damen. Because the truth is, I don't even know why I signed up for that class in the first place.
I have no artistic ability; my project's a mess, and it's not like I'm going to be an artist anyway. And yeah, I guess if you throw Damen into that already full mix, you end up not only with a seriously compromised GPA, but fifty-seven minutes of awkwardness. But in the end, I go. Mostly because it's the right thing to do.
And I'm so focused on gathering my supplies and donning my smock, that at first I don't realize he's not even there. And as the minutes tick by with still no sign of him, I grab my paints and head for my easel. Only to find that stupid triangle note. I stare at it, focusing so intensely that everything around me grows dark and out of focus. The entire classroom reduced to one single point. My entire world consisting of a triangleshaped letter resting on a thin wooden ledge, the name Stacia scrawled on its front.
And even though I've no idea how it got there, even though a quick survey of the room reaffirms Damen's not there , I don't want it anywhere near me. I refuse to participate in this sick little game. I grab a paintbrush and flick it as hard as I can, watching as it soars through the air before tumbling to the ground, knowing I'm acting childish, ridiculous, especially when Ms. Machado comes by and swoops it up in her hand. I take the note she dangles before me, Ever clearly scrawled across its front, and written in Damen's unmistakable hand.
Having no idea how this happened, no logical explanation. Because I know what I saw. My fingers tremble as I begin to unfold it, opening all three corners and smoothing the crease, gasping when a small detailed sketch is unveiled-a small detailed sketch of one beautiful red tulip. Eleven Halloween is just a few days away and I'm still working on the final touches for my costume.
Haven's going as a vampire duh , Miles is going as a pirate-but that's only after I talked him out of going as Madonna in her. But only because my once great idea has morphed into an overly ambitious project I'm quickly losing faith in. Though I have to admit I was pretty surprised Sabine even wanted to throw a party to begin with.
Partly because she never really seems interested in stuff like that, but mostly because I figured that between the two of us we'd be lucky to come up with five guests max.
But apparently Sabine's a lot more popular than I realized, as she quickly filled two and a half columns, while my list was pathetically shorter-consisting of my only two friends and their possible plus ones. Which pretty much left Riley and me as the sole members of the decorations committee.
And since Sabine handed me a catalog and a credit card with specific instructions to "don't hold back," we've spent the last two afternoons transforming the house from its usual look of semicustom Tuscan track home to spooky, scary, crypt-keeper's castle.
And it's been so much fun, reminding me of when we used to decorate our old house for Easter, Thanksgiving; and Christmas. Not to mention how staying busy and focused has really helped curb some of our bickering. But she just laughs. Even though it might be easier, I still like to pretend my life is somewhat normal. Skeleton near the entryway so he can greet all our guests. I'm not an idiot. Besides, I can't wait to meet him, or I guess I should say; see him, since it's not like you'd ever introduce me.
Which is really pretty rude if you think about it. I mean just because he can't see me doesn't mean--'-" "Jeez, he's not invited, okay? I close my eyes and sigh, chiding myself for falling into her poorly concealed trap. He-he was just some new kid, who at first I thought was kind of cute, but then, when I realized what a total player he is, well, let's just say that I'm overit.
In fact, I don't even think he's cute anymore. Seriously, it lasted like ten seconds, but only because I didn't know any better. And it's not like I'm the only one who fell for his game, because Miles and Haven were practically fighting over him. So why don't you just stop with all the air punching and hip thrusts, and get back to work, okay?
But now that it's out there I can't take it back, so I just try to ignore her as she hovers around the room singing, "Yup! I so so knew it! Riley and I taped webs in all of the windows and corners, and stuck huge black widow spiders in their middles.
We hung-black rubber bats from the ceiling, scattered bloodied, severed fake body parts all around, and set up a crystal ball next to a plug-in raven whose eyes light up and roll around when he says, "You'll be sorry! You'll be sorry! We put steaming cauldrons of witches' brew really just dry ice and water in the entry, and scattered skeletons, mummies, black cats and rats well, fake ones, but still creepy , gargoyles, coffins, black candles, and skulls pretty much everywhere.
We even decorated the backyard with jack-o'-lanterns, floating pool globes, and blinking fairy lights. And oh yeah, we placed a life-sized grim reaper out on the front lawn. She loves making death puns. Thinks they're hysterical. But mostly they just make me cringe. Ignoring the joke, I turn to her and say, "Do me a favor? I told her it's a really great witch's costume, but she needs to ditch the nose.
Guys don't usually go for that sort of thing. I mean, just because I've witnessed that like a gazillion times doesn't mean I've gotten used to it. I head into my closet and unzip the bag I've hidden in the back, removing the beautiful plack gown with the low square neckline, the sheer three-quarterIength sleeves, and the super tight bodice that swells into shiny, loose folds-just like the one Marie Antoinette wore to the masked ball well, as portrayed by Kirsten Dunst in themovie.
And after struggling with the zipper in the back, I slip on my very tall platinum blond wig because even though I'm already blond, I could never get my hair to go that high , apply some red lipstick, fasten a filmy black mask over my eyes, and insert some long, dangly, rhinestone earrings. The second Riley pops back in she shakes her head and says, 'llli clear-finally!
I mean, first she put the nose on, then she took it off, then she put it back on and turned to check out her profile, only to take it back off again. I swear it took all of my will not to just snatch it off her face and chuck it out the window. She plops herself onto my desk chair and uses the tip of her sparkly green fin to propel herself around.
And then some guy called needing directions, and she went on and on about what a great job you did on the house, and how she can hardly believe you handled it all by yourself, and bippidy-blah-blah. Taking all the credit for our hard work.
I mean, it's not like you're all that big on cake. It was a vicious tabloid rumor, so don't you believe it," I tell her, unable to stop mirror gazing, as I recheck my makeup and pat my wig, hoping it will all stay where it's supposed to. But when I catch Riley's reflection, something about the way she looks makes me stop and move toward her. Then she. You're dressed as a tragic teen queen, and I'd do anything just to be a teen. I guess I'm so used to having her around that I sometimes forget how she's not really here, how she's no longer part of this world, and how she'll never grow any older, never get the chance to be thirteen.
And then I remember how it's all my fault to begin with, and I feel a million times worse. She's been mad at me all week, ever since she learned he didn't make the list. I roll my eyes and take a deep breath, tired of defending the obvious, of having to point out yet again how he's clearly ditched us, becoming a permanent fixture not just at Stacia's lunch table but also her desk.
Procuring rosebuds from all manner of places, and how his art project, Woman with Yellow Hair is beginning to look suspiciously like her. I mean, excuse me for not wanting to dwell on the fact of how despite the red tulips, the mysterious note, and the intimate gaze we once shared, he hasn't spoken to me in almost two weeks.
There's a redhead too?
I shrug. Because the truth is, he could be with just about anyc. All I know is that he isn't here with me. Gorgeous like a movie starsexy like a rock star-he even does illusions. Evangeline raises her brows. No one's that perfect. Too bad you can't see for yourself. I called it way before I knew you. But I just shake my head and steer them to the other side of the room, hoping she'll move on to something else and soon forget about Damen.
And just as I'm about to give her the signal, the one that means she better cut it out if she wants to stick around, the doorbell rings, and we race each other to get it. And just as I'm thinking how Miles is going to be completely envious of that costume, I realize who he's dressed as, and my heart skips two beats.
But he just smiles and hands me the flowers. Wondering how this possibly could've happened, searching for some logical explanation for Darnen's showing up at my party dressed as my perfect other half. But the moment she sees his costume, realizing he came as Count Axel Fersen, the notso-secret lover of Marie Antoinette, her entire face dims, and her eyes turn to me, glaring accusingly. I mean, it's such a bizarre coincidence I'm beginning to doubt it myself, wondering if I somehow let it slip, even though I know that I didn't.
And even though he only keeps it there for a moment, it's still long enough to leave my whole body tingling. The moment they're gone, Haven turns to me and says, "I can't believe you! I confided in you, I trusted you! It's just some freaky coincidence. I don't even know what he's doing here, and you know I didn't invite him," I say, wanting to convince her, yet knowing it's useless, she's already made up her mind.
Unlike you. I mean, how can I convince you of that? Just tell me and I'll do it! Instead, I blazed through the first hundred pages before I knew it.
Except I couldn't keep my eyes open any longer. So I picked it up the next morning and finished it. Now I can't wait 'til July for the second book to see what happens next.
The writing style, story, and characters are a bit like Meyer's and Marr's popular books, but written with a new twist and voice. And after reading the book, you too will probably want your own Damen, even if it means making the ultimate sacrifice. Cast and Stephenie Meyer will love this outstanding paranormal teen-lit thriller. Ever was so real and her emotions were so believable that it was a little creepy.
It's like Alyson Noel is actually a grieving, lovestruck teenager. She got Ever completely perfect. And by perfect, I mean delightfully flawed and deep. Definitely a book that fans of Stephenie Meyer and Melissa Marr should add to their collections. Definitely engaging and will catch your attention the minute you open to the first page!
I am a fan of the Twilight series and I recommend this book to those who like the series as well. It is a very quick read, with all the interesting twists and turns. It really keeps your attention throughout the story, because the puzzle gets pieced together bit by bit, but you don't know exactly what happened until the end. The only thing that disappoints me is that the second book won't be published for a while. I would definitely recommend this to my friends.
Noel pens a well-detailed story that makes it easy for the reader to visualize both the characters and the world around them. Evermore has a familiar theme that attracts readers, but inside this book you'll find that the author has added some unique details that sets it apart. I found Ever to be a character I could really respect. This is the first in a series for Noel and I think she may have a hit on her hands. Evermore has good and evil, likable characters, vivid descriptions, and a good story.
The fact that Ever had psychic powers was truly interesting. They flowed neatly through the book and I felt Ever's pain. I couldn't put it down. Alyson Noel created an amazing new world, and after this book I am so curious to see where it heads because honestly, I have no idea. I really felt for her because of all she lost and what she struggled with daily. Evermore was a really fast, engaging read with some great characters. It is the first in a series, so I'm eager to see if we will learn more about Ever, Damen, and friends in the next one.
Definitely recommended. Noel has delivered a deliciously fresh new series that will be the next new thing that has every teen and even adults everywhere hooked and waiting for more. This is a keeper and a book that you have to go out and buy right now because if you don't you will be missing out. People will be asking if you have been living under a rock if you don't give Evermore a try, and that is just not acceptable. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St. July 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 For Rose Hilliard-because she is an absolute dream to work with and I couldn't have done it without her!
Bill Contardi--what can I say? You are the absolute BEST! Thanks for all your hard work on my behalf! Marianne Merola--thank you for helping to spread The Immortals throughout the world! The St. Martin's Team--including but certainly not limited to: My family and friends--you know who you are!
Thank you for all the love and support and for dragging me away from the computer just when I need it the most--I appreciate you more than you know! Sandy--the Patron Saint of Blue Hippos--you rock my world! And, of course, my readers--not only do you make it all possible--you make it fun and worthwhile and an absolute thrill--I can't thank you enough! I beheld the wretch-the miserable monster whom I had created.
Her heavily made-up eyes searching mine as I glance around the busy plaza and cringe. Instantly regretting my decision to come here, foolish enough to think a trip to her favorite cupcake place on a nice summer day would be the best place to break the news. Like that little strawberry cake would somehow sweeten the message. But now I'm just wishing we'd stayed in the car. Watching as she leans forward, tucks her long, platinum-streaked bangs back behind her ear, and squints.
But are you for real? I mean, here you drop a major bomb on me--and I mean major--as in my ears are still ringing and my head is still spinning and I kind of need you to repeat it just to make sure you really did say what I think--and your only concern is that I'm talking too loud?
Are you kidding me? It's got to remain secret. It's imperative," I urge, realizing too late that I'm talking to the one person who's never been able to keep anyone's secret, much less her own. She rolls her eyes and slams back in her seat, muttering under her breath as I take a moment to study her closely, dismayed to see the signs already present: Even her teeth have gone straighter, whiter, and I can't help but wonder how this happened so quickly, with only a few sips of elixir, when it took so much longer for me.
My eyes continue to graze over her as I take a deep breath and dive in. Forgoing my usual promise not to eavesdrop on my friend's innermost thoughts, while I strain to get a better look, a glimpse of her energy, the words she's not sharing-sure that if snooping ever was warranted, it's now. But instead of my usual front-row seat, I'm met by a rocksolid wall that bars me from entering.
Even after I casually slide my hand forward and tap my fingertips against hers, feigning interest in the silver skull ring she wears, I get nothing. Her future is hidden from me. Is that how you see it? I sigh, wishing I'd handled this better, wishing I could do something to make it go away, but it's too late for that.
I've no choice but to deal with this mess that I made. I know. You made me an immortal? Like--for reals? Knowing that whatever she gives, be it verbal or physical, I've no choice but to take it. I deserve nothing less for wrecking her life as she knows it. I mean, seriously. I don't even know what to say. You have no idea. I just--" I shake my head, knowing I should cut to the chase but feeling like I need to explain my side of things--the impossible choice I was forced to make--how it felt to see her so pale, so helpless, teetering on the verge of death, every shallow breath quite possibly her last-But before I can even begin she leans toward me, eyes wide and fixed on mine.
This is not what I expected. Not what I prepared for. Though it's pretty much exactly what Damen warned me about. Damen--my best friend--my soul mate--the love of my lives.
My amazingly gorgeous, sexy, smart, talented, patient, and understanding boyfriend who knew this would happen and begged to come along for this very reason. But I was too stubborn. Insisting I do it alone. I'm the one who turned her--I'm the one who made her drink the elixir--so I'm the one who should explain. Only it's not going at all like I thought.
Not even close. Minus the bloodsucking? Everything I've ever wanted has finally happened! I'm a vampire! A beautiful vampire--but without all the gruesome side effects! We figure the vampire legends all stem from immortals, only with a few big distortions--like the bloodsucking, not being able to go out in sunlight, and the whole being allergic to garlic thing. That red stuff you and Damen always drink!
That's it, huh? So, what are you waiting for! Hand it over already, let's make it official--I can't wait to get started!
I mean, you'll never grow old, never get zits or split ends, you'll never have to work out, and you might even grow taller--who knows? But there's other stuff too--stuff you need to know--stuff I have to explain in order to--" My words are halted by the sight of her jumping out of her chair so quickly and gracefully she's like a cat--yet another immortality side effect. Hopping from foot to foot as she says, "Please. What's to know? If I can jump higher, run faster, never age or fade away-what else could I possibly need?
Sounds like I'm good to go for the rest of eternity. This is serious. There's more to explain. A lot more," I whisper, the words harsh, brutal, but having no effect whatsoever. She just stands there before me, shaking her head and refusing to budge. So drunk on her new immortal power she skips past defiant and heads straight for belligerent.
Every--single--thing you say and do is just so dang serious. I mean, seriously , you hand me the keys to the kingdom then demand I stay put so you can warn me about the dark side? How crazy is that?
Let me try it out, take it for a test drive, see what I'm capable of. I'll even race you! First one to make it from the curb to the library wins!
It's the only thing that'll put an end to all this and show her who's really in charge around here. Narrowing my eyes, I focus hard on her chair, driving it across the pavers so fast it buckles her knees and forces her to sit. But I just shrug. She's immortal, it's not like she'll bruise. Besides, there's plenty more to explain and not enough time if she continues like this, so I lean toward her, making sure I have her full attention when I say, "Trust me, you can't play the game if you don't know the rules.
And if you don't know the rules, someone's bound to get hurt. Frowning and glaring and mumbling--a full litany of complaints leveled at me--as I pull out of the lot and onto the street. You can't tell your mom, your dad, your little brother Austin--" "Please.
You already sang that one loud and clear. So, come on, keep it moving, let's just get 'em over and done with, so I can get out of here and start my new life. Under no circumstances whatsoever can you tell him. Can't tell anyone. Got it," she mumbles. But still, in public anyway, it's important to keep up appearances, so you have to at least pretend like you're eating. Is that what you've been doing all this time?
Keeping up appearances? Cuz Miles and I just thought you had an eating disorder. Like the karma Damen's always going on about--claiming that all of our actions cause a reaction--this is where my action has led me. Besides, even if I could go back and do it over again, I wouldn't change a thing. I'd make the exact same choice as before. Because no matter how awkward this moment may be, it's still better than attending her funeral, any day of the week.
This is not good. Not good at all. You were thinking something about being glad you didn't have to go to my funeral, right? I mean, I actually heard your words in my head. That is so cool! More than a little freaked by the fact that she was able to do that when I can't read hers, and I haven't even had a chance to show her how to shield herself yet.
About the whole telepathy thing? You and Damen really do read each other's minds. What was once your everyday, basic shade of brown, often hidden by crazy-colored contacts, is now a brilliant swirl of gold, topaz, and bronze--yet another immortality side effect. And now I can do it too! Jeez, I wish Miles was here. We've already been over that. Seriously, I won't tell him. Chillax already, would ya? I'm just used to telling him when exciting stuff happens, that's all. It's a habit. I'm sure I'll get over it.
But still, you gotta admit, it's pretty dang cool, right? I mean, how'd you react when you first found out? Weren't you totally psyched? But I wasn't up for listening then. And I was pretty much as far from excited as it gets. Then, the second time he insisted on explaining our long and tangled past, I was still on the fence. I mean, on the one hand I thought it was pretty cool that we could finally be together after centuries of being kept apart.
But on the other, it was a lot to take in. A lot to give up. And while at first we thought the choice was all mine--that I could continue to drink the elixir and embrace my immortality-or ignore it completely, live out my life, and succumb to my death at some point in the far distant future--now we know better. Now we know the truth about an immortal's demise. Now we know about the Shadowland.
The infinite void. The eternal abyss. The place where immortals linger--soulless--isolated--for all of eternity. A place we need to steer clear of. It's the only answer I plan to give. Which only prompts her to lean toward me and say, "Excuse me, but I so don't get you. I mean, hel-lo? Psychic powers, physical prowess, ageless youth, and beauty--does it mean nothing to you? Roger that, loud and clear. Of always being so burdened, so weighted down by the world?
It's like, you have the best life ever.
You're blond, blue-eyed, tall, fit, gifted, oh, and to top it all off, the sexiest guy on the planet just happens to be madly in love with you. And honestly, I'm sorry to say it, but I think that's crazy. Cuz the truth is, I feel fantastic!
Like a lightning bolt's surging through my body from my head to my toes! And no way am I joining you on your journey to Sad Land. No way am I slinking around campus in fugly hoodies and sunglasses with an iPod practically implanted in my head like you used to do. I mean, at least now I know why you did it, to avoid all the voices and thoughts, right?
But still, no fugging way am I living like that. I plan to embrace it--with both arms. I also plan to kick some serious Stacia, Honor, and Craig butt if they so much as bother me or my friends! Not quite ready to explain about Summerland, that glorious mystical dimension between the dimensions, or the bridge that takes all mortals to the other side--or at least not just yet anyway.
One thing at a time. I'll never get to cross over and see my family again--" I shake my head. Forgot how you hate to be touched. She's already so far ahead of the curve, on just one bottle of elixir, who knows what a full case will bring? It tends to change things. She looks at me, gaze fixed, intense, fingers idly picking at a small tear in her leggings as she says, "Seems like you're kind of cherry-picking the things you want me to know.
But I don't. I don't do anything but close my eyes and nod. So tired of lying and covering up all the time. It feels good to admit to a few things for a change. Some of it needs to be experienced to understand--while other stuff--well, a lot of it can wait. Though there are still a couple things you need to know.
Pretty much every day from now on. And wearing these will keep us safe. She tilts her head and scrunches her face, unable to read my thoughts but well aware I'm holding back. I mean, we're immortal, right? Which, if I'm not mistaken, pretty much means we'll live forever, and yet, you're telling me I need protection?
To be kept safe? Who or what could I possibly need to be protected from? Hoping he'll forgive me as I say, "You need to be protected from Roman. That's ridiculous. Roman would never hurt me. And not like it's any of your business, but we're actually well on our way to becoming more than friends. And since it's no secret you've hated him from day one, it's really not all that surprising to hear you saying this now. Sad, but not surprising. Knowing that raising my voice, trying to force her to see things my way, will never work on someone as stubborn as her.
I even have witnesses--I wasn't the only one there, you know! I mean, what's up with that? Obviously you didn't take it very seriously, so why should I? And as you see, I chose you. But I couldn't do it--and so--" I gesture toward her. Keeping quiet for so long I'm just about to speak when she says, "Sorry you didn't get what you want, Ever, really I am.
But you're wrong about Roman. There's no way he'd let me die. From what you said, he had the elixir standing by, ready to go in case you chose differently. Besides, I think I know Roman just a little better than you, and the fact is, he knows how unhappy I've been, about the stuff going on with my family--" She shrugs.
I've no doubt that if you hadn't made me drink, he would've stepped in. Face it, Ever, you made the wrong choice. You should've just called his bluff. Out of that whole entire litany, that's what I choose to focus on? I shake my head and start over. And since I tried to warn her about all the dangers--about him--Damen can't possibly fault me for what I say next. If you're going to insist on hanging with Roman, then all I ask is that you always wear your amulet.
Seriously, don't ever take it off--not for anything--and--" She looks at me, brow raised, door half open, desperate to get out of this car and away from me. His gaze deep and intense as he follows me into the den where I drop onto his plush velour couch and kick off my flip-flops. Careful to avoid his eyes as he lands on the cushion beside me, usually all too eager to spend the rest of eternity just gazing at him-taking in the fine planes of his face--his high sculpted cheekbones, lush inviting lips, the slant of his brow, his dark wavy hair, and thick fringe of lashes--but not today.
Today I'd prefer to look just about anywhere else. I lean back against the cushions, closing my eyes in a feigned bout of fatigue. But the truth is, I don't want him to see me, to observe me too closely.
Don't want him to sense my thoughts, my essence, my energy--that strange, foreign pulse that's been stirring inside me for the last several days.
I mean, she has the whole look, you know? That eerie, flawless, immortal look. She even heard my thoughts--until I blocked them. Is that how you see it--see us? I mean, I doubt even supermodels look that perfect all the time. Not to mention, what are we gonna do if she grows four inches practically overnight like I did? How do we possibly explain that?
They're not that uncommon among mortals, you know. I avert my gaze, taking in the crowded bookshelves filled with leather-bound first editions, the abstract oil paintings, most of them priceless originals, knowing he's onto me. He knows something's up, but I'm hoping he can't sense just how far it goes. That I'm just saying the words, going through the motions, not really invested in any of this. I peer at him, this wonderful glorious creature who's loved me for the last four hundred years and continues to do so no matter how many blunders I make, no matter how many lives I mess up.
Sighing as I close my eyes and manifest a single red tulip that I promptly hand over. Serving not just as the symbol of our undying love, but also the winning wager in the bet that we made. Can't thank me enough. Feels just like a rock star. No-scratch that, better than a rock star. She feels like a vampire rock star. But you know, the new and improved kind--without all that nasty bloodsucking and coffin sleeping. The thrill will die down eventually. You know, once the reality sinks in.
I've been feeling a little-on edge lately, that's all. That edgy prickly feeling I've been carrying for days, tempering, melting, as I inhale his warm musky scent over and over again. Why can't I always be like this--feel like this? Why is everything changing? Identical in their straight dark hair with razor-slashed bangs, pale skin, and large dark eyes--but complete opposites in their dress.
Romy wearing a pink terry cloth sundress with matching flipflops, while Rayne's barefoot and dressed in all black, with Luna, their tiny black kitten, riding high on her shoulder. The two of them shooting Damen a happy, warm smile and glaring at me--business as usual, and pretty much the only thing that hasn't changed around here. She wants us to get to know each other better. You know, less student teacher, more future nonblood relations.
It's incredibly rude not to include him. But Damen's presence will only mess with my other evening plans. The ones he may suspect but can't possibly witness.
Especially after making his feelings on my foray into magick so abundantly clear. Tacking on an awkward, "So--you know. The moment I've been avoiding is now here. Tell her what he did? Recalling the speech I practiced in the car all the way over, about how Haven could be our best chance to get what we need from Roman.
Hoping it'll sound better to his ears than it did mine. He waits for me to continue, the patience of six hundred years stamped on his face, as I open my mouth to launch into my speech, but I can't.
He knows me too well. So instead, I just lift my shoulders and sigh, knowing words are unnecessary, the answer's displayed in my gaze. I mean, I'm judging me, so why isn't he? So I figured, what the heck. If she's going to insist on hanging with Roman, then what's the harm in her trying to snag the antidote while she's at it? And I know you think it's wrong, believe me, we've been over that, but I still don't think it's all that big a deal.
I mean, he had the antidote all along, he knew what I'd choose. But even if I did prove him wrong, how do we know he wouldn't have given her the elixir himself? You know, tell her we were prepared to let her die and end up turning her against us! Did you ever think of that?
I suppose I didn't," he says, lids narrowed, concern clouding his face. I'll make sure she's safe. But she does have free will, you know, it's not like we can choose her friends for her, so I figured, you know, when in Rome. Did you consider that? She seemed to get over that pretty quickly. And don't forget about Josh, the guy she was convinced was her soul mate who got booted over a kitten.
And now that she's in a position to have pretty much whatever or whoever she wants--" I pause, but only for a moment, not long enough for him to interject. I mean, I know she can seem kind of fragile, but she's actually a lot tougher than you think.
What's done is done and I don't want him to do or say anything that'll make me doubt my stance on Haven and Roman's relationship any more than I already do. He hesitates, gaze moving over me, taking me in, then rises in one, quick, languid move as he grasps my hand and leads me to the door, where he presses his lips against mine. Lingering, fusing, pushing, melding, the two of us drawing this kiss out for as long as we can, neither one willing to break away first.
I press hard against him, the contours of his body barely dimmed by that ever-present energy veil that hovers between us. The broad expanse of his chest, the valley of his torso-every inch of him conforming so tightly to me it's nearly impossible to tell where he ends and I begin.
Wishing this kiss could do the impossible--banish my mistakes--this strange way I feel--chase away the dark angry cloud that follows me everywhere these days. And just as I've settled into my car and Damen's gone back inside, Rayne appears, Luna still perched on her shoulder, twin sister Romy at her side.
Moon's moving into a new phase," she says, eyes narrowed, lips grim. No other words necessary, we all know what that means. I nod and shift into reverse, ready to back down the drive, when she adds, "You know what to do, right? You remember our plan? Backing out of the drive and onto the street, their thoughts chasing behind me, burrowing into my mind, as they think: It's wrong to use magick for selfish, nefarious reasons.
There's karma to pay, and it'll come back times three. Which, to be honest, pretty much makes me want to turn around and go just about anywhere else. I just sigh and pull into the garage instead. Knowing I've no choice but to face it. Face the fact that it's a heckuva lot better to sit around the dinner table than the breakfast table, which, if things continue to progress at the rapid pace that they are, then it's just a matter of time before it's: Good-bye Mr.
Munoz, hello Uncle Paul! I've seen it. It's as good as done. Now I'm just waiting for them to realize it too. I slip through the side door, tiptoeing lightly, hoping to make it up to my room without being seen so I can have some time to myself--time that I desperately need in order to set some things straight.
Poised and ready to dash up the stairs when Sabine pokes her head around the corner and says, "Oh good, I thought I heard your car in the garage. We're going to eat in about half an hour, but why don't you come in and visit a bit beforehand.
Switching my gaze to her and taking in the sweep of her shoulder-length blond hair, the flush at her cheeks, her sparkling blue eyes, and renewing my vow to be happy that she's happy--even though I'm not exactly thrilled with the reason behind it.
I mean seriously, just because it's summer doesn't mean I should have to look at faculty feet in my own house. I just stand there and stare, knowing I could grab it, place my hand on the front, and intuit the contents without ever having to unseal it.
But the thing is, I don't want to touch it, don't want anything to do with it, the job I once held, or Jude, the boss who, as it just so happens, played a significant role in pretty much all of my lives. Reappearing again and again, always managing to claim my affections until Damen showed up and swept me away.
A centuries-old love triangle that ended the second I saw his Ouroboros tattoo last Thursday night. And even though Damen claims that lots of people have them--that its original meaning wasn't at all evil, that Roman and Drina just made it that way, I can't take the chance that he's wrong. Can't take the chance that Jude's not one of them, when I'm pretty dang sure that he is. No matter how many books I read on the subject, adolescents may as well be aliens.
A look I know all too well. A look that prompts me to snatch the envelope right out of her hand, careful to handle it by its edges as I smile weakly and tackle the stairs. Hands shaking, body thrumming, as the contents reveal themselves to be a paycheck I definitely earned but have no intention of cashing, along with a brief note asking if I'll please let him know if I've no plans to return so that he can hire another psychic to replace me.
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