Touch (Denazen #1)(86)
To my husband, Kevin, who insisted I chase this to the end. For all the dinnerless nights and hours spent alone in front of the TV while I hung out with people who didn’t really exist. I don’t know what I did to deserve your unending love and faith, but I thank God for it every day.
And to my brother, James, who sat in front of the computer for hours to learn flash so I could have an awesome website. Thank you!
To Heather Howland, my very first CP and a true friend. My sounding board, plotting partner, and savior of my sanity (what little there is). Your faith and encouragement were key in getting Touch off the ground. If this book was a child, you would be its Godmother.
To Liz Pelletier, my editor—and friend. Your dedication and enthusiasm for this book got me through many moments of self-doubt. For loving Dez and Kale as much as I do, and helping me to share them with the world, thank you. For you, I would brave an entire army of commas.
To Katy Upperman and Christa Desir. I consider myself unbelievably lucky to have your amazing talents in my life. For always making time for me, and for your constant faith and friendship, thank you. It means more than you’ll ever know.
An unending thank you to my agent, Kevan Lyon. For seeing the potential and possibilities ahead. Here’s to many books in our future!
A huge thank you to my publicist, Cathy Yardley. For insisting I just be myself, and doing all the dirty work so there was nothing left for me to do except write.
To Lori Wilde, for making me more aware. I’m a better writer because of you. Thank you so much for your encouragement and moral support.
And to my first readers, Mom, Aunt Nina, Leslie Dow, and Melissa Karvecky. Your suggestions and enthusiasm were invaluable.
A heartfelt thank you to Jennifer Armentrout. For taking an interest and spreading lots of TOUCH (and Kale) love. Thank you so much for all your help.
Last but so far from least, to my family at Entangled. Thank you for your support and friendship. You leave me truly honored to be a part of such an amazing community.
About the Author
Jus Accardo is the author of YA paranormal romance and urban fantasy fiction. A native New Yorker, she lives in the middle of nowhere with her husband, three dogs, and sometimes guard bear, Oswald. When not writing, Jus can be found volunteering at the local animal shelter or indulging her passion for food. After being accepted to the Culinary Institute of America, she passed on the spot to pursue a career in writing and has never looked back. As far as she’s concerned, she has the coolest job on earth—making stuff up for a living.
Stay tuned for a free teaser of
Shea Berkley’s action-packed Young Adult novel, THE MARKED SON…
“Reading Shea Berkley is like watching magic unfold before your eyes. THE MARKED SON is written with such intrigue and depth, I could not get enough of this delicious tale. I’m hopelessly lost and can hardly wait to see what jewels Berkley has in store for us next.”
- Darynda Jones, author of FIRST GRAVE ON THE RIGHT
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Dreaming
I was eight the first time I saw the girl.
Mom freaked when I told her, said I was letting a girl terrorize my dreams, but I didn’t get it. They were dreams, not nightmares. I don’t remember ever waking up afraid. Not back then. So when the dreams kept coming, year after year, each one more vivid than the last, I held onto them like a skydiver clutching his ripcord. No way would I let Mom take them away from me.
It’s been years since she’s asked me about the girl, but lately Mom’s been curious. I tell her I haven’t had a dream in awhile. She eyes me like I’m lying.
So what if I am? I may not remember everything about my dreams when I wake up, but I do know when I’m about to have one. My scalp tingles, like tiny bugs zap, zap, zapping along my skin. The darkness behind my lids turns smoky. I’ve tried to pull away at that point but it’s no use. I don’t fight it now. Instead I sink into the thick air and come out the other side into a world that is nothing like the one I know...
Yet, it’s familiar.
Tonight, the smoke fades, and the girl appears in a thin, white gown. I’m lying in a meadow surrounded by deep woods, one hand tucked behind my head—shirtless and shoeless and wearing a pair of old, ratty jeans. I can hear the TV I left on fading in the distance until only the sound of the meadow fills the air.
She’s suddenly beside me, beautiful beyond words, her long, dark hair spilling over her shoulder as she bends to touch my hand. Her cool fingers rest more like mist than flesh in my palm. The rough corset she’s wearing cinches the fabric snug to her hips. She’s got a definite Victorian vibe going, but it suits her. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like it.
Her violet eyes darken, revealing the silent plea that carries a hint of desperation, and she tugs, urging me to get to my feet. She wants me to run, to escape. In the last two weeks, we’ve tried, running so long and so hard that we’re sure we’ll never find our way home again. We’ll be lost together forever. It’s what she wants. It’s what I need. But it always fails. We eventually wind up back at the meadow.
Tonight, I’m content to pull her down beside me, lie in the soft grass, and stare at the sky. Our fingers intertwine, our shoulders touch. We’ve both gotten older since the first time we met. There were years when we rarely saw each other, but lately, our time together has intensified. There’s a feeling of impending doom that wasn’t there when we were younger, as if this perfect place of dreams is about to shatter, and we’ll never see each other again.