Praise for the novels of
New York Times bestselling author
RACHEL VINCENT
âTwilight fans will love it.â âKirkus Reviews on My Soul to Take
âA high octane plot with characters you can really care
about. Vincent is a welcome addition to this genre!â Kelley Armstrong on Stray
âI liked the character and loved the action. I look
forward to reading the next book in the series.â Charlaine Harris on Stray
âRachel Vincent is a new author that
Iâm going to be watching.â Kim Harrison on Stray
âCompelling and edgy, dark and evocative.â
Gena Showalter
First of all, thanks to Rayna and Alex, for letting me
pick your teenage brains, and again to Alex, for being the first reader in my target audience.
Thanks to Rinda Elliott, for showing me what I
couldnât see. Thanks to my agent, Miriam Kriss, for believing I could do this, before there was any evidence to support that claim. Thanks to Elizabeth Mazer and everyone else behind the scenes at MIRA for making it happen.
Thanks to my editor, Mary-Theresa Hussey, for all
the questionsâfor answering mine along the way and knowing just which ones to ask in the margins. And finally, thanks to Melissa, for being there.
âCOME ON!â EMMA whispered from my right, her words floating from her mouth in a thin white cloud. She glared at the battered steel panel in front of us, as if her own impatience would make the door open. âShe forgot, Kaylee. I should have known she would.â More white puffs drifted from Emmaâs perfectly painted mouth as she bounced to stay warm, her curves barely contained in the low-cut shimmery red blouse sheâd âborrowedâ from one of her sisters.
Yes, I was a little envious; I had few curves and no sister from whom to borrow hot clothes. But I did have the time, and one glance at my cell phone told me it was still four minutes to nine. âSheâll be here.â I smoothed the front of my own shirt and slid my phone into my pocket as Emma knocked for the third time. âWeâre early. Just give her a minute.â
My own puff of breath had yet to fade when metal creaked and the door swung slowly toward us, leaking rhythmic flashes of smoky light and a low thumping beat into the cold, dark alley. Traci MarshallâEmmaâs youngest older sisterâstood with one palm flat against the door, holding it open. She wore a snug, low-cut black tee, readily displaying the family resemblance, as if the long blond hair wasnât enough.
ââBout time!â Emma snapped, stepping forward to brush past her sister. But Traci slapped her free hand against the door frame, blocking our entrance.
She returned my smile briefly, then frowned at her sister. âNice to see you too. Tell me the rules.â
Emma rolled wide-set brown eyes and rubbed her bare, goose-pimpled armsâweâd left our jackets in my car. âNo alcohol, no chemicals. No fun of any sort.â She mumbled that last part, and I stifled a smile.
âWhat else?â Traci demanded, obviously struggling to maintain a rare scowl.
âCome together, stay together, leave together,â I supplied, reciting the same lines weâd repeated each time she snuck us inâonly twice before. The rules were lame, but I knew from experience that we wouldnât get in without them.
âAnd â¦â
Emma stamped her feet for warmth, chunky heels clacking on the concrete. âIf we get caught, we donât know you.â
As if anyone would believe that. The Marshall girls were all cast from the same mold: a tall, voluptuous mold that put my own modest curves to shame.
Traci nodded, apparently satisfied, and let her hand fall from the door frame. Emma stepped forward and her sister frowned, pulling her into the light from the hall fixture overhead. âIs that Caraâs new shirt?â
Emma scowled and tugged her arm free. âSheâll never know itâs gone.â
Traci laughed and motioned with one arm toward the front of the club, from which light and sound flooded the back rooms and offices. Now that we were all inside, she had to shout to be heard over the music. âEnjoy the rest of your life while it lasts, âcause sheâs gonna bury you in that shirt.â
Unperturbed, Emma danced her way down the hall and into the main room, hands in the air, hips swaying with the pulse of the song. I followed her, keyed up by the energy of the Saturday-night crowd from the moment I saw the first cluster of bodies in motion.
We worked our way into the throng and were swallowed by it, assimilated by the beat, the heat and the casual partners pulling us close. We danced through several songs, together, alone and in random pairs, until I was breathing hard and damp with sweat. I signaled Emma that I was going for a drink, and she nodded, already moving again as I worked my way toward the edge of the crowd.