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"...Nic's narration is believable,
honest, and riveting. This darkly compelling read will find
a niche with teens who like their fantasy well seasoned
with the gritty reality of life, from the glitzy flash of
the club scene to the darker, crueler side of survival on
the streets."
— School Library Journal
"Amid the glut of supernatural romances,
this one is original and engrossing." Kirkus Reviews
"A recent favourite is Raven by Allison van Diepen,
a wonderful take on the whole idea of immortals that doesn't
go anywhere you'd expect it to."
— Charles De Lint
"It's a thoughtful, well-written,
unusually compelling novel -- one that, yes, will appeal
to fans of Stephenie Meyer."
— Quill and Quire
"Ms. van Diepen really knows how to
craft a story! The tension and passion between Nicole and
Zin was amazing -- believable and sustained through the
whole book!"
— The Book Vault
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DYING EMBER
Ask me the exact moment I fell in love with Zin, and I’ll
tell you it’s the first time I saw him dance.
If you’ve seen him dance, then you understand.
If you haven’t, then trust me—there’s nothing
he can’t pull off on the floor.
Ask him why he isn’t dancing backup for some big-name star,
and he’ll say he doesn’t do anyone’s choreography
but his own, plus he’s happy as hell working the bar at
Evermore. It’s the sickest club and ripest breaker battleground
in Manhattan. He can’t believe he actually gets paid when
he’d be there anyway.
When Zin is working the bar, he’s everywhere at once, just
like on the dance floor. He wears black tanks and low baggy pants
belted with clunky silver chains. He’s an Arabic kind of
beautiful, with short black hair and green eyes. His olive skin
is pale from lack of sunlight, since he’s mostly a nocturnal
creature. He rarely goes to bed before six a.m., rarely wakes
up before two p.m.
You should have seen Zin’s face the first night I showed
up to work.
“Carlo hired you? When did this happen?”
“Yesterday. Aren’t you happy?”
“Yeah, of course.” He wraps those lean, muscular
arms around me. “Are you sure?”
My knees weaken at his breath against my ear. God, he smells
good, like Ivory soap and aftershave. “Why wouldn’t
I be?”
“Don’t you have homework or something?”
“College applications have already gone out. I’ll
only be working here on weekends anyway.”
“Your call.” He smiles that leonine smile. “I
hope you’re ready for some serious cash.”
Evermore’s home is a converted church. According to Zin,
the place was gutted by fire six years ago. The elderly congregation,
mainly from nearby Little Italy, couldn’t afford to rebuild,
so they joined another several blocks away. Carlo bought the place
soon after, and now what was once a sanctuary holds a huge dance
floor, velvet lounging areas, and tea-lit alcoves. He also restored
the balcony, a perfect place to make out in privacy or spy on
the action below. He left the surviving stained-glass windows
as is, partially blackened by the fire, giving the place a gothic
feel.
It’s
just before ten and the club is pretty deserted. DJ Gabriel’s
acid jazz echoes a hollow bass. There are two couples here on
first dates; I can tell because the guys are trying not to look
at my legs. (After a few dates, most guys allow themselves a look.)
One of the guys is drinking heavily, and the girl is slapping
off his hands. The other date is going well—the girl is
in his lap already.
“Battle at midnight. I hope you have the clothes,”
Zin says as he’s fixing the drinks.
“I do, but I haven’t asked Carlo if I can take a
break then.”
“He’ll let you. He knows the dancing brings in customers.”
“Who’s coming?”
“The Spinheads.”
“Seriously?”
“Of course.” Battling is the one thing Zin never
jokes about.
***
