I’m his. He’s mine. It makes us vulnerable, but we’re safe with each other in our new world.
He lays his surfboard in the sand and reaches a hand down to me. “Come, love,” he whispers.
I take his hand and lean into him, digging my feet into the warm, powdery sand. We begin a leisurely walk.
Into our new life.
# # #
Read on for an excerpt from the first book in the Watchers series by Veronica Wolff.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
With special thanks to the following people:
Martha White, treasured friend, secret weapon, and the person most likely to be called in the event of my incarceration. And to the rest of our beloved YA posse: Ingrid Paulson, Whitney Miller, and Heidi Kling.
Professional me wants to thank Jeannie Ruesch, creator of gorgeous covers, at The Theater of Marketing. Danielle Poiesz and her copyediting talents at Double Vision Editorial. And the fabulous Lisa Rogers, who seems blessedly undaunted by my panicked emails.
Thanks to my primary cheering section, alpha readers, and chief brainstormers, Mom, Clara, Owen, Joey, Sue, and Adam. Especially Adam. Always, Adam.
And finally, dear readers, I want to thank YOU. I don’t know if I can fully express how much your messages mean to me. Your online notes (and nudges!) never fail to make my day. This book is truly for you. <3.
Excerpt from ISLE OF NIGHT
the Watchers
© Copyright 2016 – Veronica Wolff
All Rights Reserved
Chapter One
I looked around my room for the last time. I was leaving. Finally.
For good.
There was only one way I’d ever return to the town of Christmas, Florida, and it involved my dead body. Which meant I needed to make sure I had everything.
I fished my iPod out of the front pocket of my old duffel and hit play. Putting in my earbuds, I did a quick inventory of my stuff.
I had my clothes, of course. Not too many of those. Working the evening shift at Fuddruckers didn’t exactly buy someone a passport to fashion. What I did own was mostly cheap and mostly black, though I had managed to collect a few prized possessions. A vintage
Pretenders
T-shirt. Fingerless gloves in an awesome plummy black color. An ancient pair of Converse sneakers, broken in just right.
My bag was heavy with books, too. I was a little worried the zipper would pop from the strain, but there was no way I’d leave without them.
My French-English dictionary was especially gigantic. It was unabridged, and had cost several days of hard-won waitressing tips. But it held such promise, like I might be jetting off to Paris any day, where I’d sit around in bistros, grappling with issues and nibbling madeleines.
And then there was my biggest treasure of all: a framed picture of my mother. I patted the top of the duffel, feeling for its hard profile, checking for the umpteenth time that I’d packed it.
She’d died when I was only four. For some reason everyone took great pains to assure me there was no way I could possibly remember her. I’d look at the photo in secret, though, and I could still hear her voice and smell her crisp, lemony scent. With her blond hair and wide eyes, she reminded me of Uma Thurman, and I liked to imagine her wearing a tight yellow pantsuit, kicking my dad’s ass,
Kill Bill
–style.
Dad.
Ah, the sound of shouting and the stench of warm Coors. Now, those were some personal gems I wouldn’t stow away in the old duffel, even if I could.
“Bye-bye, Daddy Dearest. I am so out of here. Not that you’ll notice.” I pulled my iPod back out of my pocket and zipped through the playlist to my favorite Radiohead song. Standing up to check my drawers one last time, I bellowed out the lyrics.
“I don’t belong here. . . .”
“Annelise Drew!” Somebody banged on the door. “Shut the hell up!”
I scowled. It was my stepmother,
the Yatch
.
So I turned up the volume and sang even louder.
“But I’m a creep. . . .”
“I’m trying to get some rest,” she screamed from the other side of the door.
“Oh yeah.” I tore out the earbuds. “Because it’s eleven in the morning and you’ve been working since dawn?”
“You think you’re better than us,” she shouted. “Genius? You’re a
freak
. And now you graduate early from high school, and we’re supposed to think you’re
so special
.”
I smirked at how her words echoed the lyrics, and opened the door to the sight of her pale, haggard face.
The Yatch.
It was my pet name for her, the progression having gone a little something like
Beatrice . . . Bee-yatch . . . Yatch.
“What are you laughing at?” The faint bruise on the side of her cheek had paled to a sickly yellow.
Imagine that. She’d fallen in the shower. Again. Just ask Daddy.
I shook my head. It was a two-bedroom apartment—there was nothing to hide. I’d “fallen in the shower” before, too.
“Don’t give me that holier-than-thou look, young lady.” She shouldered her way in, peering around the room as though I’d been caught trying to steal the family silver. “Have I heard a thank-you for all I’ve done for you, all these years?”
“No,” I said, after a moment of elaborate contemplation. “I don’t imagine you have.”
Her eyes skittered nervously from me. She never had been good at standing up for herself. I imagined it was why Dad kept her around.
She scanned what remained of my belongings, her gaze lingering on the threadbare bedspread I’d had since I was eight, when I’d liked all things lavender. Believe me—nine years is a long time in which to learn to despise a color. “You’re welcome to keep that,” I assured her.
“You better clean this crap up,” she said instead, her voice shrill with disbelief. You’d have thought I’d left her a steaming turd right there in the middle of the tan shag rug. Her eyes came back to me. “Or were you going to sneak out like a thief?”
A little something like that, yeah.
I remained silent.
“Where the hell have you got to go, anyway? It’s not like you’ve got any friends.”
Friends.
I thought of the crowd at Dale R. Fielding High School. A bunch of half-wits who spent their time going to the mall or making out, or doing whatever it was kids my age did to fill their time.
As if.
No, I was going to college, thankyouverymuch. Not that I’d ever tell them that. They’d just suspect me of embezzling tuition money from Dad’s vast stores of wealth. Which was a laugh. If there was any money, it came from a disability check he’d probably drank away long ago.
No, I was going to college
tuition free
. It was one of the bennies of having a genius IQ and crazy-high GPA. My preference was to get the hell out of Florida, and though my guidance counselor said I could get a scholarship wherever I wanted, fancy private schools didn’t take Needs Cases (gag) like me midyear. Graduating from high school one semester early was the best I could wrangle, and so it was state school for me.
“I suppose you think you’re taking that car you’ve been driving.” The Yatch crossed her arms, believing she’d gotten one over on me. “But who do you think has been paying for your insurance?”
“
I’ve
been paying for my insurance, just like
I
paid for the car.” I glared, challenging her to just try to argue.
“Bea!” Daddy Dearest crowed from the other room. My stepmother and I continued our silent stare-off. Finally she snarled, “You think just because you’re smarter than the rest of us—”
“Bea! Get in here!” God forbid the man got up from the Barcalounger to grab his own freshie from the refrigerator. He had no idea I was leaving, and wouldn’t care if he did. I gave her my best saccharine-sweet smile. “I think Daddy needs another tall boy.”
The Yatch shot me a final scowl and bustled into the living room.
Out. Of. Here.
I heaved my duffel onto my shoulder, giving a farewell glance to the Einstein poster on my wall. He was sticking his tongue out at me, and I stuck out mine right back. “Ciao for now, Al.”
I snuck out the front door and was on my way.
BOOK LIST
Young Adult
The Watchers Series
Contemporary Romance
Sierra Falls
Historical Romance
Clan MacAlpin
Time Travel Romance
Highland Heroes
Novellas
(with Janet Chapman, Sandra Hill and Trish Jensen)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Like her heroine, Veronica Wolff braved an all-girls school, traveled to far away places, and studied lots of languages. She was, however, never trained as an assassin (or so she claims). In real life, she’s most often found on a beach or in the mountains in Northern California, but you can always find her online at veronicawolff.com.
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