Fated by
Alyson Noel
- Reading level: Ages 12 and up
- Hardcover: 368 pages
- Publisher: St. Martin's Griffin (May 22, 2012)
- Language: English
- ISBN-10: 0312664850
- ISBN-13: 978-0312664855
Until now, he's existed only in her dreams -
but fate is about to bring them together.
I shove through the crowd, knocking into girls and bouncing off boys, until one in particular catches me, steadies me.
I feel so secure, so at home in his arms.
I
melt against his chest-lift my gaze to meet his. Gasping when I stare
into a pair of icy blue eyes banded by brilliant flecks of gold that
shine like kaleidoscopes, reflecting my image thousands of times.
The boy from my dream.
The one who died in my arms.
The cover is so gorgeous. The hair, the earrings, the color (I got the pink version) it all mixed so well.Pretty!!!
I’ve read Alyson Noel’s Immortal Series, although I haven’t read the last book yet. For me that series, has high and lows, it got a good beginning, but the middle books started to go slow for me (like, you fell in love with a television show, then the director thought of extending it because he thought we’ll like it, but no, it just actually ruined the story, better to go with the original storyline I guess), a friend o fmine said, the last book EVERLASTING is as good as the first book, so I think I’ll give it a try.>:D. With FATED, her new series, I have doubts, but with the nicest cover among her books up-to-date, and a promising new theme, I couldn’t resist the lure, and so here I am, just finished reading it and fully-satisfied.>:D
Daire and her mother, Jennika have always moved to different places and get to interact with famous people, that’s one great privilege of your mother being a Hollywood make-up artist. One queer thing she has never told anyone even her mother, since they won’t believe her, is that there are times, when all stand still except her, like time has stopped except for her. It’s fun and she got used to it but on her sixteenth birthday, lots of things begin to happen and they’re not good. She’s been haunted by dreams and reality alike, worse, her mother and doctor believes she’s delusional. When she and her mother don’t know what to do, Paloma, Daire’s grandmother suggested to take care of Daire. So Daire goes with her grandma to Enchantment, Mexico (the name already gives the vibe), learns her bloodline, her ability, her family’s past, her destiny and the boy she must save.
I don’t know why, but I fully understand the prologue, and the story just got better the more I read. I always love Noel’s writing style, I just hope that she won’t get sidetracked with the middle books and continue her planned storyline. Noel doesn’t just write stories, she brings her readers into her story and made them experience themselves. I love the animal guides, the sayings, the crow prints in the pages made this book superb. The characters, flawed as ordinary humans, are all unique and relatable. The idea of a good/bad twin (Dace and Cade) is good, though how I wish it isn’t so clear who Daire wants. It ends where the pieces started to clicked and yet leaves enough space for new questions that hopefully will be answered in the next book. The Native American Mythology is a new theme for me that will entertain me for awhile. :D
FATED is not just another paranormal story, it has substance, family relationships, friendship, a romance that’s not over-the-top, learning and lore. It’s a promising first book that not only engage and keep you on edge but would surely make you a fan of the Soul Seekers Series (glad to be part of it). A page turner from start to finish. Very highly recommended!
P.S. Even if you’re not into The Immortal Series or Riley Bloom Series, give this one a try, it won’t disappoint you if you’re looking for a fresh read.
Thanks to Alexandra Mencel at St. Martin’s Griffin for this finished copy and a promised of ECHO in exchange for my honest review. Looking forward to reading it..:D
View all my reviews
CHAPTER 1
There are moments in life when everything pauses.
The earth hesitates, the atmosphere stills, and time shrinks and folds onto itself until it collapses into a big tired heap.
As
I push through the small wooden door of the riad where Jennika and I
have camped out the past several weeks, trading the hush of the
rose-and-honeysuckle-scented courtyard for the chaos of the serpentine
maze of medina--it happens again.
But instead of mimicking the
stillness like I usually do, I decide to go with it and try something
fun. Easing my way along connecting salmon-colored walls, I pass a
small, thin man caught in midstride, press my fingers against the soft
white cotton of his gandora, and gently spin him around until he's
facing the opposite way. Then after ducking beneath a mangy black cat
that, caught in midleap, appears to be flying, I stop at the corner
where I take a moment to rearrange a display of shiny brass lanterns an
old man is selling, before moving on to the very next stall where I slip
a pair of bright blue babouches onto my feet, decide that I like them,
and leave my old leather sandals along with a fistful of crumpled-up
dirhams as payment.
My eyes burning with the effort of keeping
them open, knowing the instant I blink, the gandora-clad man will be one
step farther from his destination, the cat will land on its mark, and
two vendors will gaze at their wares in total confusion--the scene will
return to one of perpetual chaos.
Though when I spot the glowing
people hovering on the periphery, studying me in the careful way that
they do, I'm quick to squinch my eyes shut and block them from view.
Hoping that this time, just like all the others, they'll fade away too.
Return to wherever it is that they go when they're not watching me.
I
used to think everyone experienced moments like that, until I confided
in Jennika who shot me a skeptical look and blamed it on jet lag.
Jennika
blames everything on jet lag. Insists time stops for no one--that it's
our job to keep up with its frantic forward march. But even back then I
knew better--I've spent my entire life crossing time zones, and what I'd
experienced had nothing to do with a whacked-out body clock.
Still, I was careful not to mention it again. I just waited quietly, patiently, hoping the moment would soon return.
And it did.
Over
the past few years they've been slowly increasing, until lately, ever
since we arrived in Morocco, I've been averaging three a week.
A
guy my age passes, his shoulder purposely slamming into mine, his dark
eyes leering in a way that reminds me to arrange my blue silk scarf so
that it covers my hair. I round a corner, eager to arrive well before
Vane, so I can catch the Djemâa el Fna at dusk. Banging into the square,
where I'm confronted by a long line of open-air grills bearing goats
and pigeons and other unidentifiable meats, their skinned and glazed
carcasses rotating on spits, shooting savory clouds of spice-laden smoke
into the air...the hypnotic lull of the snake charmer's tune emanating
from cross-legged old men perched on thick woven mats, playing their
pungis as glassy-eyed cobras rise up before them...all of it unfolding
to the spellbinding pulse of gnaoua drums that continuously thrum in the
background--the sound-track for the nightly resurrection of a
bewitching square returning to life.
I take a deep breath,
savoring the heady blend of exotic oils and jasmine, as I cast a final
glance around, knowing this is one of the last times I'll see it this
way. The film will wrap soon, and Jennika and I will be off to what ever
movie, on what ever location requires her services as an award-winning
makeup artist. Who knows if we'll ever return?
Picking my way
toward the first food cart, the one beside the snake charmer where Vane
waits, I steal a handful of much-needed seconds to crush that annoying
ping of weakness that grabs at my gut every time that I see him--every
time I take in his tousled sandy blond hair, deep blue eyes, and softly
curving lips.
Sucker! I think, shaking my head, adding: Fool!
It's not like I don't know any better. It's not like I don't know the rules.
The
key is to not get involved--to never allow myself to care. To just
focus on having some fun, and never look back when it's time to move on.
Vane's
pretty face, just like all the other pretty faces before him, belongs
to his legions of fans. Not one of those faces has ever belonged to
me--and they never, ever will.
Having grown up on movie sets since
I was old enough for Jennika to sling me into a backpack, I've played
my role as the kid of a crew member countless times: Stay quiet, stay
out of the way, lend a hand when asked, and never confuse movie set
relationships for the real thing.
The fact that I've been dealing
with celebrities my entire life leaves me not so easily impressed, which
is probably the number one reason they're always so quick to like me. I
mean, while I'm okay to look at--tall-ish, skinny-ish, with long dark
hair, fair-ish skin, and bright green eyes that people like to comment
on, I'm pretty much your standard issue girl. Though I never fall to
pieces when I meet someone famous. I never get all red-cheeked and gushy
and insecure. And the thing is, they're so unused to that, they usually
end up pursuing me.
My first kiss was on a beach in Rio de
Janeiro with a boy who'd just won an MTV award for "Best Kiss" (clearly
none of those voters had actually kissed him). My second was on the Pont
Neuf in Paris with a boy who'd just made the cover of Vanity Fair. And
other than their being richer, more famous, and more stalked by
paparazzi--our lives really aren't all that different.
Most of
them are transients--passing through their own lives, just like I'm
passing through mine. Moving from place to place, friendship to
friendship, relationship to relationship--it's the only life that I
know.
It's hard to form a lasting connection when your permanent address is an eight-inch mailbox in the UPS store.
Still,
as I inch my way closer, I can't help the way my breath hitches, the
way my insides thrum and swirl. And when he turns, flashing me that
slow, languorous smile that's about to make him world famous, his eyes
meeting mine when he says, "Hey, Daire--Happy Sweet Sixteen," I can't
help but think of the millions of girls who would do just about anything
to stand in my pointy blue babouches.
I return the smile, flick a
little wave of my hand, then bury it in the side pocket of the
olive-green army jacket I always wear. Pretending not to notice the way
his gaze roams over me, straying from my waist-length brown hair peeking
out from my scarf, to the tie-dyed tank top that clings under my
jacket, to the skinny dark denim jeans, all the way down to the
brand-new slippers I wear on my feet.
"Nice." He places his foot
beside mine, providing me with a view of the his-and-hers version of the
very same shoe. Laughing when he adds, "Maybe we can start a trend when
we head back to the States. What do you think?"
We.
There is no we.
I know it. He knows it. And it bugs me that he tries to pretend otherwise.
The
cameras stopped rolling hours ago, and yet here he is, still playing a
role. Acting as though our brief, on-location hookup means something
more.
Acting like we won't really end long before our passports are stamped RETURN.
And
that's all it takes for those annoyingly soft girly feelings to vanish
as quickly as a flame in the rain. Allowing the Daire I know, the Daire
I've honed myself to be, to stand in her place.
"Doubtful." I
smirk, kicking his shoe with mine. A little harder than necessary, but
then again, he deserves it for thinking I'm lame enough to fall for his
act. "So, what do you say--food? I'm dying for one of those beef
brochettes, maybe even a sausage one too. Oh--and some fries would be
good!"
I make for the food stalls, but Vane has another idea. His
hand reaches for mine, fingers entwining until they're laced nice and
tight. "In a minute," he says, pulling me so close my hip bumps against
his. "I thought we might do something special--in honor of your birthday
and all. What do you think about matching tattoos?"
I gape. Surely he's joking.
"Yeah,
you know, mehndi. Nothing permanent. Still, I thought it could be kinda
cool." He arcs his left brow in his trademark Vane Wick way, and I have
to fight not to frown in return.
Nothing permanent. That's my
theme song--my mission statement, if you will. Still, mehndi's not quite
the same as a press-on. It has its own life span. One that will linger
long after Vane's studio-financed, private jet lifts him high into the
sky and right out of my life.
Though I don't mention any of that,
instead I just say, "You know the director will kill you if you show up
on set tomorrow covered in henna."
Vane shrugs. Shrugs in a way
I've seen too many times, on too many young actors before him. He's in
full-on star-power mode. Thinks he's indispensable. That he's the only
seventeen-year-old guy with a hint of talent, golden skin, wavy blond
hair, and piercing blue eyes that can light up a screen and make the
girls (and most of their moms) swoon. It's a dangerous way to see
yourself--especially when you make your living in Hollywood. It's the
kind of thinking that leads straight to multiple rehab stints, trashy
reality TV shows, desperate ghostwritten memoirs, and low-budget movies
that go straight to DVD.
Still, when he tugs on my arm, it's not
like I protest. I follow him to the old, black-clad woman parked on a
woven beige mat with a pile of henna bags stacked in her lap.
Vane
negotiates the price as I settle before her and offer my hands.
Watching as she snips the corner from one of the bags and squeezes a
series of squiggly lines over my flesh, not even thinking to consult me
on what type of design I might want. But then, it's not like I had one
in mind. I just lean against Vane who's kneeling beside me and let her
do her thing.
"You must let the color to set for as long as it is
possible. The darker the stain, the more that he loves you," she says,
her English halting, broken, but the message is clear. Emphasized by the
meaningful look she shoots Vane and me.
"Oh, we're not--" I start to say, We're not in love! But Vane's quick to stop me.
Slipping
an arm around my shoulder, he presses his lips to my cheek, bestowing
the old woman with the kind of smile that encourages her to smile back
in a startling display of grayed and missing teeth. His actions stunning
me stupid, leaving me to sit slack faced and dumb--with heated cheeks,
muddied hands, and a rising young breakout star draped over my back.
Having never been in love, I admit that I'm definitely no expert on the subject. I have no idea what it feels like.
Though I'm pretty sure it doesn't feel like this.
I'm
pretty dang positive Vane's just cast himself in yet another starring
role--playing the part of my dashing young love interest, if only to
appease this strange, Moroccan woman we'll never see again.
Still, Vane is an actor, and an audience is an audience--no matter how small.
Once
my hands are covered in elaborate vines and scrolls, the old woman
reminds me to allow the stain to take hold while she gets to work on
Vane's feet. But the moment her attention turns, I use the edge of my
nail to scrape away little bits. Unable to keep from smiling when I see
the paste fall in a loose powdery spray that blends with the dirt.
It's
silly, I know, but I can't risk there being even the slightest sliver
of truth to her words. The movie will wrap soon, Vane and I will go
separate ways, and falling in love is an option I just can't afford.
With
our hands and feet fully tended, we make our way along the sidewalk
grills, devouring five beef and sausage brochettes, a pile of fries, and
two Fantas between us, before drifting among the square's nightly
circus that includes snake charmers, acrobats, jugglers,
fortune-tellers, healers, monkey trainers, and musicians. There's even a
woman who's set up shop removing black rotted teeth from old men, which
the two of us watch in horrified fascination.
Arms slung around
each other's waists, hips rubbing together on every other step, Vane's
breath tickles the curve of my ear when he slips a mini bottle of vodka
from his pocket and offers me first swig.
I shake my head. Push it
away. In any other place I might be game, but Marrakesh is different,
and mysterious, and a little bit scary even. Not to mention I have no
idea what the local laws are, though I'm guessing they're strict, and
the last thing I need is to end up in a Moroccan jail for underage
drinking.
It's the last thing he needs too, but it's not like he
listens. Vane just smiles, unscrews the cap, and takes a few swallows
before he tucks it back into his pocket and pulls me into a dark
abandoned alleyway.
I stumble. Squint. Grasp at the wall as I
fight to find my way. Steadied by the warmth of his hands at my waist,
and the reassuring phrase that flits through my head--the one Jennika
used to wean me from my night-light back when I was a kid:
You gotta adjust to the dark so the light can find you.
He
pushes the scarf from my head, leaving it to fall around my neck, as
his face veers so close all I can really make out are deep blue eyes,
and the most perfectly parting lips that are quick to claim mine.
I
merge into the kiss, tasting the lingering traces of vodka still
coating his tongue, as my hands explore the muscled expanse of his
chest, the taut curve of his shoulders, the clean edge of his jaw. My
fingers twisting into his silky mane of hair, as his slip under my
jacket--under my tank top--seeking, discovering--bunching the fabric
higher and higher as he works his way up.
Our bodies melding,
conforming into a tangle of grinding hips--a crush of lips. The kiss
becoming so heated, so urgent, my breath grows ragged, too fast, as my
body ignites like a freshly struck match.
So delirious with the
feel of him--the warmth of him--the promise of him--I surrender to the
nudge of his fingers working inside my bra--circling, pulling, as my own
fingers move south. Wandering over a well-defined abdomen, then lower
still, down to his waistband. Ready to venture to places I've yet to
explore, when he breaks away, his voice no more than a whisper when he
says, "C'mon, I know a place." The words thick, eyes bleary, as we fight
to catch our breaths, fight to keep from pressing forward and claiming
the kiss once again. "Seriously. I can't believe I didn't think of it
before--it's gonna be epic--follow me!" He finds my hand, pulls me out
of the dark and back into the bright, lively square.
At first I go
willingly, prepared to follow him anywhere. Though it's not long before
I'm seduced by the sound of that incessant pulsing rhythm--the
trance-inducing lure of the gnaoua drum.
"Daire--c'mon, it's this
way. What gives?" He frowns, brows slanted in confusion when I drop his
hand and keep going, not bothering to check if he follows--no longer
caring about anything other than locating the source of that beat.
I
squeeze through the tightly packed crowd until I'm standing before
it--my head filled with the hypnotic rhythm of that red leather drum, my
eyes swimming with the flash of crimson silk, gold coins, and a
carefully veiled face revealing nothing more than a pair of intense,
dark, kohl-rimmed eyes.
"It's a dude--a trannie!" Vane shoves in
beside me, mesmerized by the sight of the caftan-clad male with his
hands thrust high, golden cymbals clinking, body wildly writhing.
But that's all that Vane sees.
He doesn't see what I see.
Doesn't see the way everything stops.
Doesn't see the way the atmosphere changes--growing shimmery, hazy, like peering through carnival glass.
Doesn't see the way the glowing ones appear--hovering along the perimeter.
Doesn't see the way they beckon to me--beg me to join them.
Only I can see that.
Even
after repeatedly blinking, trying to return the scene to normal, it's
no use. Not only are they still there, but now they've brought friends.
Crows.
Thousands and thousands of crows that fill up the square.
Landing
on the drummer, the transvestite belly dancer--soaring and swooping and
settling wherever they please--turning the once-vibrant square into a
field of dark beady eyes that relentlessly watch me.
The glowing people creep forward--arms outstretched, fingers grasping--stomping the crows to a mess of black, bloodied bits.
And there's nothing I can do to stop their progression--nothing I can do to convince time to march forward again.
So I do the only thing that I can--I run.
Bolting
through the crowd, pushing, screaming, shoving, shouting for everyone
to get out of my way. Vaguely aware of Vane calling after me--his
fingers grasping, pulling me close to his chest, urging me to stop, to
turn, to not be afraid.
My body sags in relief as I lift my face
to meet his. Wondering how I'll ever explain my sudden bout of craziness
now that everything's returned to normal again, only to gaze past his
shoulder and find the crows replaced with something much
worse--thousands of bloodied, severed heads hanging on spikes that fill
up the square.
Their gruesome mouths yawning into a terrible
chorus that calls out my name--urging me to listen--to heed their
warning--before it's too late.
One voice in particular rising
above all the rest, its grisly battered face bearing an eerie
resemblance to one in a crumpled old photo I know all too well.
FATED. Copyright 2012 by Alyson Noel.
Macmillan
