Winter#1

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

a

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

WINTER’S SHADOW

WINTER’S SHADOW When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

S

p Papyrus When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

p “ “Qui sait beaucoup ne craint rien.” ―Do muito saber vem o nada a temer.‖

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

WINTER TALES #1

Blake Duchamp...

Winter Adams é tudo o que ele pode pensar. Desde seu fatídico encontro em Lament. Desde que ele olhou para ela com aqueles olhos de esmeralda. Desde que ele salvou sua vida.

Mas Blake não é tudo que ele parece ser. Há uma estranheza sobre ele, algo escuro e sobrenatural. Algo perigoso. Em seu sótão está um segredo que ele mataria para defender, mas Winter parece ter uma habilidade especial para fazê-lo esquecer do seu dever. E ele é a sua única proteção contra a escuridão crescente.

O único problema é, para proteger Winter, Blake deve arriscar a exporum perigo ainda maior. Ele mesmo.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Paris

Agosto, 1878 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Madeleine Bonnaire fugia sob as luzes piscando da rua, na Rue Descartes. Victor estava vindo. Ela não conseguia mais ouvi-lo, apenas correndo, com medo do que ela poderia ver se ela se virasse – Victor corria através da escuridão, a respiração nebulosa, no ar frio da noite. Seu marido não era nada se não persistente. Foi como ele primeiro ganhou seu coração, e agora Madeleine temia que essa persistência pudesse capturá-la, e parar seu batimento para sempre. À frente, uma passagem aberta numa pequena praça de mercado. Frutas esmagadas e outros resíduos estavam espalhados entre os paralelepípedos, deixado pelos vendedores que há muito

haviam fechado as lojas. Uma única lâmpada da rua brilhava estupidamente no meio da praça. Madeleine tropeçou no círculo fraco da lamparina e colocou uma mão trêmula contra a base de ferro para se apoiar. Ofegante, ela puxou seu corpete, tentando aliviar um pouco da pressão em seu peito.

Ela poupou um olhar de pânico para trás à medida que ela tinha acabado de chegar. Felizmente, não havia nenhum sinal de Victor, sem pisadas pesadas ecoando. Ainda assim, ela não ousou descansar por muito tempo – especialmente com o refúgio tão perto.

Madeleine podia ver a torre da igreja de Saint Étienne que pairava sobre o Panthéon a meia distância. Em breve ela estaria escondida entre o restante dos infelizes da cidade, a salva de Victor. Na manhã seguinte ela voltaria para casa para encontrá-lo dormindo fora de sua ira. Quando ele acordasse, não haveria nenhuma menção do calvário que ele a colocaria através dessa noite.

Havia um demônio dentro dele, um ódio fervente que ele mal conseguia conter nos melhores momentos, e o assumia completamente uma vez que o álcool suficiente passava sobre seus lábios.

Ele manteve escondido dela no começo, mas não por muito tempo, no seu casamento começou a manifestar-se através das palavras cruéis desnecessárias que ele usava sempre que ela o desagradava. Ele a chamava de 'porca de olhos maçante‘ caso ela queimasse o seu jantar ou se esquecesse de limpar o forno, rápido para lembrá-la em tons de escárnio que se não fosse por ele, ela ainda estaria se prostituindo sobre o palco. Irritada em ter seu passado teatral referido desta forma, Madeleine tentou se defender uma vez, mas isso o irritou mais ainda. Vendo a raiva negra nos olhos de seu marido, assustou tanto que ela aprendeu a segurar sua língua, e rezando para que o demônio à espreita dentro dele pudesse encontrar outro hospedeiro.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Suas orações ficaram sem resposta e rapidamente a crueldade de Victor sangrava em seus punhos. Ele se transformava contra ela com a mais leve provocação, rosto contorcido em um rosnado animalesco, enquanto fazia chover golpes para baixo. Quando seu desejo por violência não ficava satisfeito com uma mera surra, ele tirava o cinto, e com a fivela de prata arrancava faixas de sangue pelas suas costas.

Ela não o deixaria evoluir para esse estágio hoje à noite.

Cheirando o uísque em sua respiração e reconhecendo o olhar negro em seus olhos, ela fugiu para a rua, mas não antes que ele conseguisse marcá-la.

A mão dela estalou distraidamente para seu rosto, ainda pulsando do golpe de Victor. Se não fosse por seu filho, Antoine, Victor despertaria numa cama gelada indefinidamente. A criança era a sua recompensa por suportar este tormento. Ela voltava por ele, apenas por ele.

Madeleine começou a se mover para longe da lâmpada, parando quando algo chamou sua atenção ao telhado em frente à praça. Uma sombra estranha ou...

Não, não era uma sombra, contudo. O que primeiro ela pensou que fosse um truque da luz, Madeleine agora viu com espanto um homem, vestido em um terno fino e chapéu. Embora isto lhe deu uma razão para parar, o que tinha atraído sua atenção não foi à silhueta do homem, mas os olhos, que brilhavam como uma esmeralda malévola na escuridão. Ela nunca tinha visto essa cor antes. Certamente este efeito irritante foi causado por algum reflexo da lua, e as lâmpadas da cidade? E o que ele estava fazendo lá em cima no telhado? Agachado como um gárgula de pedra bizarra, o homem continuou a observá-la.

Madeleine estava tão mistificada pelo observador sombrio que ela não notou a sombra de Victor cambaleando entre as pedras da When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

calçada atrás dela.

— Madeleine!

A aparição esquecida em seu pânico, Madeleine virou-se para ver Victor correr em sua direção. Seu rosto estava inchado, vermelho com a perseguição, os olhos injetados de sangue – o demônio violento encarnado.

Com um grito assustado, Madeleine conseguiu correr antes que ele a alcançasse, e correu pela praça em direção à boca do beco mais próximo. Seu único pensamento era colocar a maior distância possível entre ela e Victor, mas na pressa ela tomou um caminho que a levou para longe da segurança da igreja, e para uma rua desconhecida. Percebendo seu erro, ela tentou tecer para onde ela acreditava estar Saint Étienne, mas só conseguiu ficar mais perdida.

Desesperada agora, ela gritou por socorro para que qualquer pessoa pudesse ouvir, mas não houve resposta. Seu olhar frenético procurou os terraços de ambos os lados por uma luz ou um sinal de que alguém tivesse a escutado, mas encontrou apenas portas e janelas fechadas. Ela estava completamente sozinha.

Guiada pela luz do luar pálido, Madeleine viu uma abertura estreita no meio da rua à frente – uma passagem que Victor poderia concebivelmente perder em sua busca de embriaguez. Jogando um último olhar assustado atrás dela, ela se virou para a passagem e correu direto para o abraço assustado de um estranho. O homem a pegou, rindo com surpresa, Madeleine, ainda em pânico, saiu de seu alcance.

— Largue-me!

Ele obedeceu, permitindo-lhe se afastar dele. Depois que ela percebeu que não era Victor, Madeleine suspirou de alívio.

— Sir. . . Por favor, meu marido... — Ela fez uma pausa, franzindo a testa um pouco. Havia algo sobre o aspecto do homem, iluminado por uma lâmpada da rua distante, ele parecia familiar.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

— Sim? — O estranho falou, sorrindo um pouco como se a confusão de Madeleine o divertisse. Madeleine deu mais um passo para trás, ficou claro de onde ela o tinha visto antes.

Ela observava o estranho com cautela. — Senhor, eu acabei de vê-lo no telhado?

Seu sorriso se alargou. — Eu imploro seu perdão, mademoiselle, eu não queria assustá-la. — Inclinando-se delicadamente sobre uma bengala de prata, ele deu mais um passo para que Madeleine pudesse avalia-lo mais claramente.

Um suspiro escapou de seus lábios, sua ansiedade e medos foram momentaneamente esquecidos, substituídos por admiração.

Durante seu tempo como atriz no Teatro Grand Guignol, Madeleine tinha trabalhado com muitos homens bonitos, mas nenhum deles era comparável à beleza do homem que estava à sua frente agora. Ele era jovem, talvez não muito mais velho que ela, mas sua beleza tinha um prazo sutil, um refinamento à suas bochechas lisas e testa. Havia um segredo aqui. Uma história sedutora foi escrita em recursos requintados do desconhecido, um mistério que Madeleine poderia passar horas ou dias ou meses decifrando.

— Permita-me apresentar-me, — disse o estrangeiro, tirando o chapéu e curvando-se profundamente. Se ele notou sua admiração nua, ele era educado demais para chamar a atenção para isso. — Meu nome é Ariman.

Madeleine confusa. — Mas como...?

Ariman deu de ombros a sua pergunta, embora antes que ela pudesse terminar a pergunta, ele olhou em seus olhos. — Eu estive observando você por algum tempo.

A estranha luz de seus olhos parecia crescer mais brilhante, e Madeleine encontrava-se incapaz de se virar. Quanto mais tempo ela olhava para os olhos do estranho – para Ariman – menos medo When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

e confusa ela se sentia. Todas as suas perguntas – por exemplo, como ele sabia seu nome e como ele transportou-se tão rapidamente a partir do telhado para o beco – empalideceu no brilho de esmeralda.

— Você estava me observando? — Madeleine ouviu a si mesma responder suavemente na maneira isolada de alguém falando em seu sono.

Ainda sorrindo, Ariman assentiu. — Eu tenho algo para te mostrar. Você vem comigo? — Ele arqueou as sobrancelhas esperando, e ofereceu sua mão com luva cinza.

— Ir com você para onde?

Antes que ele pudesse responder, o silêncio do beco foi quebrado por um grito.

— Encontrei você, bruxa!

Sentindo-se como se tivesse sido esbofeteada, acordada de um sonho, Madeleine girou para ver Victor correndo até eles como uma besta selvagem. Seu rosto estava contorcido em uma expressão de tal fúria que Madeleine podia acreditar que ele tinha apenas assassinato em sua mente.

— Você está correndo de mim? — Ele rosnou entre respirações ásperas. — Vou te dar algo para correr!

— Madeleine, — Ariman disse calmamente. Seus olhos arregalados de terror, Madeleine virou-se para seu pretendente misterioso e ficou surpresa, ao ver quão pacífico ele estava. Não havia medo sombreando seus traços finamente forjados. E a luz em seus olhos. . .

— Pegue minha mão, — ele ordenou em voz baixa.

Madeleine hesitou, apenas por um segundo ou dois, e então ela deslizou a mão na sua. Trovão roncou alto, o chão se abriu e ela estava caindo. Caindo através da escuridão.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 1 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Foi à igreja que trouxe Winter aqui.

Chamada de Lament Pilgrim, ficava em algum lugar na floresta perto do cume da montanha de Owl e havia boatos de que era uma das mais antigas construções ainda de pé em Bluff.

Velho o suficiente para ser o seu editor. Harry Francis, achava que merecia um artigo e foto no jornal do colégio. Infelizmente para Winter, não havia fotografias de Lament Pilgrim disponível no domínio publico, por isso caiu para ela – recentemente nomeada para o Tempo da Trindade como Fotógrafa – para se aventurar na montanha de Owl. Apesar de ser seu primeiro trabalho, Winter

estava se sentindo sem entusiasmo de sacrificar sua tarde de domingo por um tiro ruim de uma antiga igreja. Dois tiros ruins, na verdade. Ele queria opções, embora Winter suspeitava que ele também gostava de fazer a sua vida difícil. Harry era esse tipo de cara.

Havia outra razão pela qual ela não queria estar lá.

Secretamente, Winter não gostava da montanha. Ela se lembrava daquela que está na Disney – a montanha que era de fato um demônio gigante com asas de morcego e infernais olhos amarelos.

Sempre que ela olhava para a montanha Owl pairando sobre sua cidade, ela não conseguia deixar de pensar que o demônio estava adormecido, esperando sua hora para o anoitecer.

Hoje, não havia nenhum sinal de quaisquer demônios ou espíritos malignos enquanto Winter seguia o Senhor Denning ao longo do caminho sinuoso abaixo do estacionamento do Centro de Patrimônio. Apenas insetos. Muitos insetos. Como orador de Lament Pilgrim e do Centro de Patrimônio, o velho tinha muito a dizer, no entanto, foi difícil se concentrar em sua palestra desconexa, enquanto me defendia dos zumbidos, horríveis dos sedentos de sangue.

— Claro, após o incêndio em 79, mais ou menos paramos de receber turistas aqui em cima. — Senhor Denning fez uma pausa para destacar uma parte da floresta que estava menos preenchida com árvores do que o resto da área. — Destruiu direto aqui, em direção à velha Lament Pilgrim, fizeram uma verdadeira bagunça.

Bando de garotos idiotas começaram. Um churrasco.

Provavelmente, bebendo e se drogando também.

Winter teve de reprimir um sorriso quando o velho lançou um olhar desconfiado em sua direção, como se pudesse começar a beber e se drogar ali mesmo no local. Eles continuaram ao longo do caminho, o Senhor Denning retomou sua fala com um ar When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

arrependido.

— Mesmo antes que o fogo nunca atingisse os visitantes.

Principalmente os grupos escolares. O ônibus de turismo estranho.

— Ele suspirou. — Lugar estúpido para construir um Centro de Patrimônio, eu suponho. Lugar, mesmo estúpido para construir uma igreja. É muito difícil conseguir que as pessoas orem sem subir uma montanha. Não admira que elas chamem de Lament Pilgrim (Lamentação Pelegrina). Eu reclamaria muito, se eu tivesse que fazer isso todas as manhãs de domingo.

— A igreja ainda está de pé, certo? — Winter perguntou, subitamente nervosa de que ela pudesse ter vindo até aqui para fotografar uma pilha de escombros enegrecidos.

— Claro, que está.

Winter deu um suspiro de alívio.

— Os primeiros colonos não poderiam ter escolhido o local melhor, mas eles sabiam como construir uma igreja em um dia, — o senhor Denning prosseguiu. — O fogo não podia fazer muito do lado de fora da igreja – sólidas paredes de pedra – mas o interior não se saiu tão bem. Eu guardaria as minhas expectativas de verificação se eu fosse você, senhorita Adams. Lotes de carvão e cinzas talvez poucas aranhas se você tiver sorte. Eu pressionei o conselho para pagar a restauração, mas você sabe como...

Winter permitiu que as palavras do senhor Denning derivasse em segundo plano, perdida no zumbido persistente dos insetos. Tal como uma brisa fria soprou através das árvores, fazendo com que os pelos dos seus braços se arrepiassem, Winter ouviu a voz de sua irmã em sua cabeça: "O ar fresco vai te fazer bem." Isso é o que Lucy tinha dito a ela antes de ela sair na hora do almoço.

Absurdo completo, é claro. Não era como se Bluff Hagan fosse uma cidade sufocada na poluição. Na verdade, ela duvidava que a população de oito mil ou isso, pudesse gerar o suficiente de poluição When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

para o ambiente. A única diferença entre o ar da cidade e no ar daqui, era a temperatura. Que era mais fria na montanha. Mais fria e mais silenciosa. Então, ela mal conseguia ouvir o barulho do oceano.

Não, Winter não gostava daqui, e quanto mais tempo ela passava perambulando ao longo deste caminho infestado de insetos, mato, mais sombrio seu humor ficaria. Ela só queria encontrar essa igreja idiota, tirar as fotos para o artigo estúpido de Harry, e voltar para casa antes que o resto do fim de semana corresse para longe dela. Os bosques ao redor do caminho começavam estreitos e ela teve um vislumbre de pedra cinzenta entre os troncos das árvores à frente.

Lament Pilgrim. Finalmente.

O caminho aberto para a pequena lareira e Winter teve a sua primeira visão clara da igreja. Era menor do que ela imaginava.

Dificilmente uma igreja – mais para uma capela – na verdade.

Musgos espessos cobriam as paredes de pedra, o pico do telhado tinha sido destruído e suas telhas pareciam afundadas em lugares, o campanário estava em um ângulo um pouco torto e havia cavidades vazias no lugar das janelas, oferecendo um vislumbre da escuridão dentro. Havia algo inquietante sobre a igreja. Algo prejudicial.

Eles fizeram uma pausa na borda da clareira e Winter esperou pacientemente pelo seu guia para se recompor. Embora não poderia ter sido mais do que uma caminhada de quinze minutos, o senhor Denning estava bufando como se não fizesse exercício em um bom tempo. A julgar pelo estômago e os dois queixo extras que ele estava carregando, Winter adivinhou provavelmente que era.

— Bem, senhorita Adams, lá está ela. Lament Pilgrim. A igreja mais antiga de Bluff, a mais antiga, provavelmente no estado. — Ele limpou algum suor da parte traseira de seu pescoço com um lenço.

— Eu suponho que você esteja querendo dar uma olhada dentro?

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Winter assentiu com a cabeça. — Se isso não for muito problema.

Senhor Denning balançou a cabeça. — Não, nenhum problema. Houve um tempo que eu trazia grupos escolares e turistas aqui, mas foi há dez anos ou assim desde que Lament Pilgrim teve outros visitantes além de mim.

Winter seguiu em direção aos degraus de pedra. — Por quê?

Senhor Denning fez uma pausa e baixou a voz para um sussurro conspiratório. — Depois do incêndio, o conselho local descartou essa estrutura insegura. Verdade seja dita, eu não deveria sequer estar deixando você entrar, sem a assinatura em um monte de formulários de seguros em primeiro lugar... Mas não vou dizer que você esteve aqui.

Winter sorriu reconfortantemente. — É o nosso segredo.

— É bom saber, — senhor Denning mancou os passos para as portas duplas. — Eu estou escrevendo para alguém feliz sobre a igreja novamente. Pode ajudar-me, finalmente, a obter o financiamento de que eu preciso para limpar isso. — Uma corrente espessa estava enrolada através das maçanetas e presa a um cadeado. Ele tirou um chaveiro e começou a tentar as chaves na fechadura. A primeira falhou, então ele tentou outra e depois outra.

— Então, porque é inseguro lá? — Winter perguntou, olhando para a igreja.

— Bem, colocando desta maneira: há pouco mais do que saliva mantendo a fé naquele telhado acima. Você vai ficar bem desde que tome cuidado. Droga! — exaustivas tentativas com as chaves, ele deixou a corrente e o cadeado cair de volta contra a porta. — Devo ter deixado à chave no Centro.

Winter subiu os degraus. — Você se importa se eu tentar?

Um pouco confuso, senhor Denning lhe entregou o chaveiro.

— Faça como quiser.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Winter agarrou o cadeado e inseriu uma chave de bronze pequena. Girou tão facilmente quanto ela esperava que fosse, e a corrente caiu no chão. Assustado com o barulho, um bando de aves levantou voo do banco de árvores por trás da igreja. Ela os observou, esfarrapadas formas pretas contra um céu azul.

— Eu devo ter pulado uma, — senhor Denning disse, franzindo a testa, enquanto ele pegava o chaveiro. Winter encolheu os ombros com indiferença.

Fechaduras sempre abriam sob seu toque. Era um truque que beirava o sobrenatural, apesar de que tinha crescido tão habituada que ela não tinha consciência disso.

Ela deu um passo para trás quando o senhor Denning empurrou abrindo as portas dianteiras para revelar o interior escuro. Uma rajada de ar velho correu para fora do ventre da igreja, como um sopro que tinha sido realizado por um longo tempo. Um arrepio de medo leve ondulou até a nuca de Winter.

— Agora, eu espero que a sua câmera tenha flash, não há muita luz para ver por lá.

Winter levantou a Nikon pendurada ao pescoço. — Claro. — Embora, se ela era perfeitamente honesta com si mesma, ela estava começando a sentir medo, mas tudo bem. Assistir o senhor Denning abrir a porta para a escuridão tinha a perturbado. Ela deveria ter trazido uma lanterna também.

— Ok, então, — o senhor Denning acenou com a cabeça, estendendo a mão para entregar a chave de bronze que ela tinha usado para desbloquear o cadeado. Antes que ela pudesse tomá-la de seus dedos rechonchudos, a chamou de volta, dando um último aviso. — Cuidado com o que eu disse sobre o telhado. Tenha cuidado lá. Eu ficaria para manter um olho em você, mas eu tenho telefonemas para dar no Centro. Além disso, você não parece que precisa de uma babá.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Winter pegou a chave e enfiou no bolso do seu jeans, pensando que ele estava errado sobre isso. Senhor Denning não pode ter sido a melhor companhia, mas ele era uma companhia, no entanto. Ela não gostava da ideia de ficar sozinha na floresta, com esta antiga igreja sombria.

— Não tem problema, senhor Denning. Obrigada mais uma vez. Vou deixar a chave fora quando eu terminar.

— Certo. Certifique-se de travar. — Ele franziu a testa. — Onde vai ser esta publicação?

— Tempos da Trindade. É o nosso jornal escolar. Nós estamos fazendo uma história dos edifícios antigos em Bluff, e meu editor queria algumas fotos para ir junto com ele.

Senhor Denning deu de ombros. — Tempos da Trindade?

Nunca ouvi falar disso.

Winter não ficou surpresa. Ninguém lia o Tempo da Trindade, exceto o idiota do Harry e talvez alguns dos professores. Winter não se preocupava em lê-lo até que o Diretor Sorensen sugeriu que ela se juntasse à equipe editorial como uma fotógrafa. Sugestão não era realmente a palavra certa – Sorensen disse a ela, que se não trabalhasse com Harry e os outros jornais, ela estaria em perigo de ser reprovada. Provação acadêmica. Para Winter pareceu mais como chantagem.

— Certifique-se de me enviar uma cópia. Tenho certeza que a senhora Danvers gostaria de lê-lo. — Senhor Denning começou a caminhar em direção ao caminho que conduz através da floresta para o Centro de Patrimônio. Ele parou na beira da clareira para acenar um adeus. — Espero que você encontre o que está procurando, senhorita Adams. — E com isso ele se virou e partiu ao longo do caminho.

Espero assim também, Winter pensou enquanto observava a floresta engoli-lo.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Acima das árvores, uma confusão de cores frescas se aproximava. Se ela não terminar aqui em breve, provavelmente ficará encharcada na viagem de volta.

Com isso em mente, Winter voltou para a porta escura, respirou fundo e entrou em Lament Pilgrim.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 2 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Winter apertou sua jaqueta firmemente ao redor de seu corpo enquanto ela atravessava a soleira. Ela tentou se convencer de que foi a queda brusca de temperatura que estava fazendo-a tremer, não a atmosfera sinistra da igreja. Seu nariz enrugou de desgosto, quando o cheiro de mofo e bolor picou suas narinas. Cheirava antigo aqui. Velho e obsoleto. Pelo menos ela podia ver. Eixos diagonais de luz solar fraca esfaqueada pelos buracos do telhado da igreja, como a iluminação de inverno através da escuridão.

Ela mergulhou debaixo de uma cortina esfarrapada de teia de aranha, mantendo os olhos abertos para todas as formas pretas

vigilantes. O senhor Denning não disse algo sobre aranhas?

Olhando ao redor, os destroços espalhados pelo chão, foi fácil imaginar, pois seu pé resvalava em pilhas de madeiras podres e milhares de pequenos e peludos, corpos negros correndo para cima sua perna. Se ela visse sequer um daqueles monstros de oito patas pequenas ela sairia daqui – estágio acadêmico ou não!

De repente, ocorreu a Winter que esta era a primeira vez que ela estava em uma igreja desde o funeral de seus pais há seis meses.

Seis meses. . .

Para interromper a sua mente da habitação naquele dia miserável, Winter ergueu a Nikon para seu olho e começou a capturar imagens da confusão sombria. O processo a distraiu, mas Winter sabia que a tristeza ainda se escondia na periferia da sua consciência, à espera de arrastá-la para baixo. Enquanto ela continuasse ocupada ela ficaria bem.

Vendo a igreja através da lente da câmera, Winter foi atingida por sua desolação. Não havia quase nada aqui. Nenhum banco ou cabines de confissão, apenas um altar reduzido na frente da igreja, e ao lado, uma base fragmentada de um púlpito carbonizado.

Qualquer mobília que não tinha sido reduzida a cinzas tinham sido empilhadas e empurradas para as bordas da sala, presumivelmente para abrir espaço para os vagabundos que tinham usado Lament Pilgrim como um abrigo ao longo dos anos.

Quando ela olhou para seus pés, Winter estava interessada em ver o que parecia ser vermelho musgo crescendo no chão em pedaços grossos entre as garrafas de cerveja vazias, latas e lascas de madeira. Em uma inspeção mais próxima, ela percebeu que não era musgo, no entanto, mas os restos de um tapete de pelúcia, que deveria ter decorado o corredor antes da igreja cair para a ruína.

Era difícil imaginar uma congregação religiosa sempre se reunindo aqui. Winter sentiu como se ela estivesse andando pela When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

carcaça de um enorme Leviatã 1 podre – algum horrível monstro morto que havia sido deixado para se decompor na montanha e agora era nada além de ossos e pó.

A Igreja parecia ser mais antiga.

Isso parecia morto.

Winter tremeu, especialmente naquele pensamento mórbido.

A escuridão de repente parecia viva ao seu redor. Ela podia ouvir o vento assobiando por entre as fendas nas paredes, o soar tanto lúgubre e sinistro.

Quanto mais cedo ela terminasse aqui, melhor.

Winter começou rapidamente a rematar disparos para terminar o rolo de filme, tendo menos cuidado do que ela deveria ter para enquadrar as suas fotografias. As fotografias não tinham que ser obras-primas, de modo desde que um ou duas fossem úteis. Ela tinha confiança suficiente em sua técnica que não precisava gastar horas agonizantes sobre todos os ângulos. Basta fotografar e sair!

Depois de alguns minutos desta ressalta frenética, Winter percebeu, sem nenhum senso de alívio pequeno, que era o seu último rolo de filme. Ela procurou em torno de algo que valesse a pena fotografar para seu tema final. Um flash de cor chamou a sua atenção para a parede a leste. Empurrando após uma grande pilha de escombros para que ela pudesse ver o que estava criando o arcoíris manchado, Winter fez uma descoberta surpreendente. Era uma janela de vidro colorido alta que tinha sido previamente obscurecida do seu ponto de vista por uma coluna grande – uma das poucas que apoiava o telhado restante.

A parte inferior da janela estava faltando, mas a metade superior permaneceu uma prova impressionante da arte dos vitrais, em contraste marcante com a tristeza e miséria da igreja. A imagem When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

1

Leviatã - é uma criatura mitológica, geralmente de grandes proporções, bastante comum no imaginário dos navegantes europeus da Idade Moderna. Há referências, contudo, ao longo de toda a história, sendo um caso recente o do Monstro do Lago Ness.

era uma descrição primorosa de Nossa Senhora segurando sua mão em bênção, proferida em azul, vermelho e amarelo. O artista tinha tomado um cuidado especial para infundir o rosto da Nossa Senhora com a mistura adequada de beleza e piedade.

Seu senso de pavor momentaneamente foi esquecido. Winter aproximou-se para um melhor ângulo do vitral. Isso era único!

Winter se encheu de confiança de que esta foto em particular garantia todo o crédito extra que precisava para passar o semestre.

Harry Francis iria cantar louvores a ela para Sorensen, e Winter seria liberada da ‗condicional‘. Ela podia até ser capaz de usar a imagem em sua carteira pessoal, que era atualmente limitada de algumas fotos do Farol do Pico de Whistler. Desde que ela não tinha estragado.

Ajustando a exposição para manter as cores vibrantes, Winter levantou a câmera para seu olho, cuidadosamente enquadrando a janela no visor. Seu dedo começou a pressionar o botão, mas congelou na ação. A respiração de Winter ficou presa na garganta.

Ela não estava sozinha.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 3 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Winter lentamente baixou a câmera, cuidadosamente para não fazer barulho. Através da vidraça quebrada de vitral ela podia ver os restos de um cemitério antigo, praticamente escondido pela grama alta e as ervas daninhas surgindo a partir das matas envolventes.

Lápides enegrecidas erguidas acima da grama aqui e ali, enquanto que, fungos estranhos intemperavam pela passagem do tempo. Em pé sobre um dos túmulos, vestido em um terno cinza simples, estava um homem jovem.

Ele estava inclinado longe dela por isso ela não conseguia ver seu rosto, um buquê de flores silvestres em suas mãos. Devagar ele

se ajoelhou e colocou as flores na base da lápide, com um grau de reverência que lhe disse o quanto ele se preocupava com a pessoa enterrada ali. Quando ele se endireitou, uma rajada de vento soprou através das árvores, esbofeteando suas roupas e libertando os cachos negros de sua testa. Winter pôde ver seu rosto de forma mais clara.

Ele era lindo.

Seus olhos traçando os contornos do rosto dele, em busca de uma falha e não encontrando. Sua pele era um profundo dourado, sua estrutura óssea surpreendente em sua perfeição: maçãs do rosto salientes, nariz uma linha reta ligeiramente inclinado, e um queixo esculpido coberto de pelos finos. De longe, a sua característica mais marcante eram os olhos, que brilhavam como estrelas de esmeralda nas sombras do cemitério. Winter pensou que tivesse detectado uma tristeza sobre ele, uma qualidade assombrada sombreando suas características, o que fez a sua beleza ainda mais marcante.

E ela não conseguia desviar o olhar!

Algo sobre o homem exigiu sua atenção, chamando-a num nível instintivo. A pulsação de Winter acelerou, seu corpo lavado com calor, mas ela estava apenas vagamente ciente dessas respostas físicas. Era como se observando o homem, tivesse a embalado em uma espécie de estado de sonho. Seus pensamentos retardaram e nenhum medo persistente de perceber que ela não estava sozinha, desapareceu. Nada parecia importar, apenas o estranho.

Ela bateu contra o parapeito da janela, a sensação de trazê-la de volta para si mesma. Se ela tivesse tentado andar em direção a ele?

Incomodada por este lapso em consciência, ela calmamente saiu de vista. O que estava errado com ela? Ela estava espionando um estranho, observando o que era claramente um momento particular, mas ela não se conteve. Mesmo agora, à vontade para dar uma olhada ao redor da moldura da janela para ele era irritantemente forte. Muito forte para resistir. Sua beleza exigia sua atenção.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Winter furtivamente inclinou-se ao redor para vê-lo novamente, uma pergunta finalmente ocorreu nela – o que ele estava fazendo aqui?

A igreja estava longe o suficiente da estrada que era improvável que uma pessoa pudesse tropeçar para ela. Além disso, Winter estava certa que o único caminho para chegar até aqui era passando pelo Centro de Património, e um andarilho não teria sido capaz de passar sem o senhor Denning vê-lo. O velho não havia mencionado a Winter que alguém viria para a igreja hoje, que a levou a acreditar que ele não sabia sobre o belo estranho. O homem era tanto um invasor neste lugar esquecido como era Winter.

Winter levantou a Nikon e enquadrou o desconhecido através de sua lente. Havia pouco pensamento consciente por trás da ação, apenas um desejo quase instintivo. Foi o mesmo impulso que a tinha atraído para a Nossa Senhora: captar o motivo estético do valor.

Silenciosamente, ela mudou o foco até que requintadas características do desconhecido foram levadas em evidência. Mais uma vez, a noção passou pela sua mente que, o que ela estava fazendo era errado de alguma forma.

Winter tirou a foto, e imediatamente se arrependeu de sua decisão.

Ao som do disparador, o homem se enrijeceu e balançou a cabeça em sua direção. Seus olhos travaram nela, e a intensidade de seu olhar a obrigou a dar um passo para trás, como se tivesse a empurrado. Um pensamento estranho passou pela mente dela - ele a viu! Ele realmente a viu! – E por trás disso outro, e outro pensamento muito mais claro – O que ela tinha feito?

Winter continuou se afastando, ainda olhando para o estranho, incapaz de quebrar o feitiço de seu olhar. Dando pequenos passos, seu pé ficou preso em um pedaço de madeira caído e ela perdeu o equilíbrio.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Whack!

As costas dela bateram contra a coluna de suporte e ela escorregou no chão, vagamente consciente de sua camisa sendo rasgada pela madeira áspera. Lá ela ficou, sentindo uma mistura de choque e constrangimento. Bom trabalho, Winter, ela pensou, realmente bom!

Houve um rangido alto acima dela nas vigas quando a sua colisão vibrou a coluna e encontrou o caminho para as vigas. A chuva de pó polvilhou em cima dela. Ela afastou-o de seu cabelo e subiu dolorosamente a seus pés. O homem havia desaparecido do cemitério. Talvez ele estivesse fazendo o seu caminho de volta para a porta de entrada para confrontá-la.

Esta perspectiva não preocupou Winter tanto quanto deveria, porque alguma coisa estava distraindo-a – algo que ela não conseguia entender, mas parecia terrivelmente importante. Lá em cima, o rangido aumentou, para aprofundar um gemido baixo à medida que, a igreja manifestava a sua queixa.

Os cabelos finos nos braços eriçaram como se o ar ao seu redor recebesse infusão com eletricidade estática. Lentamente, muito lentamente, o pensamento formou, elevando-se acima do ruído, tornando-se mais claro.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

O telhado estava caindo!

Como que para confirmar isso, mais poeira derramou ao seu redor e os ecos sinistros amplificaram. Winter não precisava mais se convencer. Ela arrastou-se sobre os escombros desordenados no chão. O pó caindo como uma chuva espessa e cinza. Tossindo e cuspindo, ela protegeu a boca com a mão. Pânico ameaçou florescer, mas ela o segurou. Ela só precisava andar depressa e ter cuidado para não tropeçar em qualquer um dos...

Uma viga enorme caiu ao chão, quase a atingindo. Winter gritou enquanto lascas de madeira voavam pelo ar, passando pelos

seus braços e pernas. Atordoada, ela ficou enraizada no lugar, olhando para a viga que tinha caído e os móveis quebrados que tinham sido pulverizados abaixo dela.

Isso poderia ter sido ela!

Winter começou a correr em ziguezague, uma mão protetora segurando a Nikon contra o peito. Acima, o telhado da igreja continuou gemendo e tremendo, desalojando suportes de madeira e atirando para baixo, fragmentos de madeira como um deus enraivecido. Seus olhos ardendo, Winter conseguiu abaixar e tecer através da avalanche, mantendo seu olhar aquoso trancafiado na saída. Ela estava perto agora – a mata verde do lado de fora surgindo pela porta da igreja, a luz e cor com uma promessa de segurança. Apenas a alguns passos. . .

Winter poupou um último olhar para cima, bem a tempo de ver uma viga correndo em sua direção.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 4 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Escuridão ondulando com a luz esmeralda.

Sinos soando em algum lugar distante.

Ela estava voando, ou caindo, enquanto alguém segurava sua mão com firmeza.

Um vento quente esbofeteando seu rosto, enchendo o nariz e os pulmões com o doce perfume.

Onde ela estava?

Onde...?

Winter abriu os olhos para a luz solar áspera da clareira. Um rosto surgia da luz dourada sobre ela: o estranho do cemitério. Ele

estava olhando para ela, seu rosto franzido. Parecia um pecado que esse rosto tão belo estava perturbado com esta expressão preocupada. Winter piscou os olhos, curiosa para ver se ele desaparecia ou se isto realmente estava acontecendo.

Parecia um sonho.

— Você está bem? — Sua voz era suave, o seu hálito vagamente tinha um aroma doce. Enquanto ele olhava para ela, a luz em seus olhos parecia iluminar, intensificar, desenhá-la dentro.

Perdida em seu olhar, ela estava vagamente consciente do seu batimento cardíaco acelerado. Esse sentimento peculiar de ser vista por ele voltou, mais forte do que nunca. Ele estava olhando para ela mais profundamente do que qualquer um já tivesse feito antes, a sua visão penetrando sua mente, como se procurasse algo escondido.

— Você está bem? — Ele repetiu.

— O quê? — Respondeu ela sem fôlego.

Outro cara se juntou ao estranho, este menos bonito e bem mais antigo – o senhor Denning.

— Você está se sentindo bem, senhorita Adams? Nenhum osso quebrado?

Sua chegada abrupta quebrou o seu transe inquietante.

Sensação de tontura e um pouco sem fôlego, Winter conseguiu responder. — Eu acho que não.

Ela olhou mais uma vez para o estranho, cautelosa para fazer contato visual novamente e, de repente percebeu que ela jazia embalada em seus braços. O constrangimento a essa intimidade forçada levou a sentar-se muito rapidamente. Fogos de artifícios explodiram roxos em sua visão, ameaçando mandá-la de volta para a escuridão.

— O que aconteceu? — Sua mente trabalhava lentamente, tentando ligar os pontos que a levaram a este ponto.

Ela se lembrava de apertar os olhos fechados, esperando o When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

terrível impacto da viga, mas que era o lugar onde a memória dela parou. Como ela veio parar deitada aqui na clareira? Ela tinha sido atingida na cabeça e sofreu algum tipo de dano cerebral? Winter levou a mão à cabeça. Certamente que ela deve ter rachado o crânio ou pelo menos o machucado. Mas não havia nenhuma dor quando ela timidamente pressionou a pele e, melhor ainda, sem sangue, quando inspecionou com os dedos.

— Fácil, você caiu, — disse o senhor Denning, suas sobrancelhas se contorcendo com preocupação.

— Deixe-me ajudá-la, — disse o estranho, e Winter não podia se deixar ajudar, mas sorrateiramente viu outro vislumbre de seus olhos mágicos. Eles eram tão verdes quase luminosos, sem saber que tinha sido hipnotizada por eles. Winter nunca tinha visto ninguém com olhos assim. Ele gentilmente colocou uma mão sob seu cotovelo e ajudou-a a levantar. Folhas secas rangeram abaixo quando ela mudou seu peso.

— Obrigada. — Winter sorriu timidamente para ele, desejando que suas bochechas não corassem.

Ambos os homens foram agora vê-la de perto, como se preocupados que ela pudesse entrar em colapso a qualquer momento.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Oh Deus, a igreja!

Winter olhou passando o senhor Denning em direção a Lament, que parecia ainda mais disforme do que antes. Uma grande parte do telhado estava faltando, e a entrada foi obstruída com madeira quebrada. O pânico da igreja veio correndo de volta para ela com uma clareza impressionante.

— Tem certeza que está tudo bem? Precisa de ambulância ou algo? — Denning lhe perguntou.

Winter balançou a cabeça lentamente. — Eu estou bem. — Ela deveria ter estado debaixo daquele monte de entulho!

Ele apontou o polegar em direção à igreja. — O que aconteceu lá dentro?

— Eu não sei, senhor Denning. Em um minuto eu estava tirando fotos, o próximo... O telhado estava caindo. — Ela se sentia culpada por ter mentido, mas faltou a coragem de confessar a verdade. Foi culpa dela! Se Winter não fosse tão desajeitada, nada disso teria acontecido.

Enquanto ele examinava o dano, o senhor Denning distraidamente esfregou as costas de seu pescoço com um lenço. — Apenas tirando algumas fotos, hein? Não dirigiu um trator no meio da porta da frente ou algo?

Com a menção de suas fotografias, Winter começou a procurar no chão em volta dela pela Nikon.

— Onde está minha câmera?

— Eu a tenho, — o estranho respondeu calmamente. Seu coração afundou quando ele levantou o que restava da câmera pela correia rasgada. Um caco de vidro caiu da lente para o chão. O corpo tinha sido esmagado, a parte de trás escancarada como uma ferida. Ela preferia ter quebrado um osso ou dois, se isso significasse salvar a Nikon. Ossos curam, as câmeras não. Foi um presente do seu pai. Ela delicadamente a pegou do estranho e virou-a em suas mãos.

— Sinto muito, — disse o estranho com compaixão, como se ele tivesse alguma noção de quanto à câmera significava para ela.

Senhor Denning inspecionou a câmara arruinada por cima do ombro. — Poderia ter sido pior. Pelo menos você saiu com uma parte. A velha Lament poderia ter tomado outro pedaço se este rapaz não estivesse aqui. — Ele franziu a testa para o estranho. — Qual é o seu nome novamente, meu filho?

— Blake. Blake Duchamp.

— Bem, Blake, parece que a senhorita Adams aqui lhe deve um When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

grande obrigado.

Winter sorriu para Blake se desculpando. — Absolutamente.

Obrigada. Eu sou Winter.

Ela sentiu seu rosto corar, como sempre acontecia quando ela se apresentava. No entanto, desta vez, foi pouco a ver com sua auto-consciência em ter tal nome não convencional, e mais a ver com o toque da mão de Blake quando ele apertou a dela.

— É um prazer conhecê-la, Winter.

Senhor Denning inclinou a cabeça para Blake. — O que você estava fazendo aqui de qualquer maneira, Blake? Eu não o vi no Centro de Património da Humanidade.

Winter assistiu Blake, curiosa sobre este ponto. Seu rosto ficou ilegível, ele calmamente respondeu:— Caminhadas.

Uma das sobrancelhas do senhor Denning saltou para cima. — Caminhadas?

Blake assentiu como se fosse à coisa mais natural do mundo caminhar em torno dessas matas na montanha em um terno cinza e sapatos. Senhor Denning parecia como se ele quisesse dizer outra coisa, mas deu de ombros e se virou para enfrentar a igreja.

Ele suspirou profundamente. — Que confusão. Vai ser um diabo para limpar. — Depois de pensar um momento, ele virou-se para Winter e perguntou esperançosamente, — Senhorita Adams, eu acho que poderia começar a assinar os formulários do seguro agora, poderia?

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 5 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Pelo tempo que Winter deixou o Centro de Património, a luz do entardecer havia tomado uma qualidade muito mais escura.

Enquanto ela tinha estado dentro preenchendo toda a responsabilidade da forma que o senhor Denning poderia encontrar, as nuvens de tempestade havia roubado todo o céu, transformandoo em uma cor de ardósia. Um estrondo baixo de um trovão soou enquanto ela atravessava o estacionamento para Jessie, sua lambreta. Se ela não chegasse em casa logo, ela ia se molhar.

Pouco antes de ela chegar a Jessie, uma voz a assustou.

— Posso lhe dar uma carona?

Winter se virou para ver de pé Blake ao lado da pick-up enferrujada no outro lado do estacionamento. Um pouco surpresa que ele ainda estava aqui, ela sorriu timidamente e balançou sua cabeça.

— Está tudo bem. Eu tenho a minha lambreta.

Ele balançou a cabeça em direção ao caminhão. — Eu poderia colocá-la na traseira. Parece que vai chover.

Winter hesitou um instante antes de balançar a cabeça novamente. — Obrigada de qualquer maneira.

A razão para esta recusa foi dupla. Um: ela estava profundamente embaraçada sobre a tomada da foto de Blake como um paparazzi demente, e dois: ele a assustava. Não, isso não era verdade. Blake não a assustava no sentido de que ele era perigoso, mas a onda de sentimentos que ela tinha experimentado olhando em seus olhos a fazia desconfortável.

Algo sobre esse estranho tinha arrancado qualquer controle emocional que Winter possuía, e por alguns breves segundos ela se sentiu fora de si. Distante. Perdida.

O que a assustava mais, era saber que, esse sentimento era como parte do seu controle que ela gostava de perder. Quando ela estava olhando para Blake em frente ao estacionamento, Winter sentia uma sensação vertiginosa de um fantasma. O bom senso lhe disse que provavelmente era ruim para ela e deveria ser evitado.

Mesmo que as agitações em seu coração argumentasse o contrário.

Ainda consciente do olhar de Blake, Winter colocou o seu capacete e deslizou para a Jessie.

Por que ele fez a oferta, afinal? Evidentemente, Blake não era só lindo, era muito mais. E Winter havia recusado a oportunidade de passar mais tempo com ele. Sim, ela podia acrescentar essa decisão ‗inteligente‘ na sua lista, certa de andar alegremente para o que era obviamente uma armadilha mortal.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Winter com a chave na ignição, se encolheu ao som áspero de tique-taque no fundo do motor da Jessie. Sua lambreta velha estava chegando ao fim de sua vida útil. Na semana passada, enquanto esperava em um conjunto de semáforos, Jessie começou tremendo e vibrando de forma mais alarmante antes de finalmente parar.

Enquanto a lambreta não pegava, Winter tinha sido forçada a empurrá-la o resto do caminho até a casa. Uma vez na garagem, o motor havia ganhado vida. Winter se lembrou de puxar a correia um truque que ela usava com seu pai quando era criança.

Por alguns segundos, nervosa, Winter pensou que ela poderia realmente ter que aceitar a oferta de Blake, mas o motor começou a zumbir. Ela dirigiu Jessie em direção à saída do estacionamento, sentindo-se autoconsciente sobre as plumas de fumaça preta oleosa arrotar da lambreta. Quando Blake virou-se para vê-la passar, ela lhe lançou um olhar. Ele se virou sem sorrir, e continuou olhando para ela daquela maneira intensa. Ele era um estranho, era com certeza. Estranho e bonito.

Winter se perguntou se ela iria vê-lo novamente. Mesmo em uma cidade pequena como Bluff Hagan, a probabilidade de seus caminhos se cruzarem uma segunda vez, era pequena. Além disso, essa oportunidade raramente batia duas vezes, especialmente depois de conseguir a porta batendo em seu rosto pela primeira vez. Sim – ela tinha estragado tudo. Perdeu a sua chance única de conhecer o misterioso Blake. Ele não era nada agora, apenas um relato, uma história emocionante para ela dizer a Jasmine na escola amanhã. Ela provavelmente deixaria fora a parte sobre a recusa da oferta de uma carona para casa, no entanto. Jasmine nunca iria perdoá-la por ser tão covarde.

Considerando o tipo de dia que ela estava tendo, Winter não ficou surpresa quando começou a chover minutos depois que ela saiu do estacionamento. Ela tinha acabado de completar para When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Arquimedes e estava descendo a montanha para a cidade quando as gotas iniciais caíram. No começo eram apenas pingos e ela foi capaz de andar sem muita dificuldade, mas depois de alguns minutos a chuva caiu com vigor. Ela se perguntou por que os capacetes não foram equipados com limpadores. Ela desacelerou a Jessie e foi quando a vibração terrível começou.

— Vamos, Jessie! — Winter pediu, segurando o guidão, mas o zumbido do motor da Jessie já tinha regredido para uma série de estouros alarmante e crepitante. Apesar de Winter suplicar desesperadamente, a lambreta logo se calou. Com a gravidade apenas para mantê-la em movimento, Winter empurrou na encosta por mais alguns metros antes de puxar mais para o lado da estrada.

O que um final perfeito para uma tarde perfeita.

Sentada na beira da estrada, Winter assistiu a fúria da tempestade sobre Bluff Hagan. Do seu ponto de vista sobre a montanha, ela podia ver a maior parte da cidade lá embaixo, espalhada a partir da base da montanha. Todas aquelas pessoas lá em baixo estavam desfrutando o último fim de semana enquanto ela estava presa na montanha, ficando mais úmido e mais frio a cada minuto.

Bluff parecia um pouco com uma aldeia de brinquedo, o Rio Lackey enfiado poderia ter sido uma gota de tinta prata derramado.

O olhar de Winter seguiu o caminho serpenteando o rio, passando pelas ruas e casas para o litoral, onde desaguava no oceano. Os Bluffs, a partir do qual a cidade recebeu seu nome, erguia-se em ambos os lados da boca do rio, mais distante, uma coluna brilhante: o farol no Pico de Whistler. Além do farol, o oceano era uma faixa escura larga azul. Chapas grossas de chuva sopravam sobre a água, enquanto relâmpagos se agitavam nas nuvens. Se ela não estivesse encharcada e com frio, a vista teria atingido Winter da forma mais bonita.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Ela estava prestes a ver se Jessie tinha acabado o mau humor quando o som de um motor se aproximando chamou sua atenção de volta à estrada sinuosa em direção ao Centro de Património.

Segundos depois, faróis picaram através da chuva quando uma pick-up virou a esquina. Winter se ajeitou em sua sela enquanto a caminhonete rolou até parar perto de onde ela estava estacionada.

O motorista se inclinou para abaixar a janela do lado do passageiro.

— Pule,— Blake disse, empurrando a porta do passageiro.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 6 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Enquanto Blake estava colocando a Jessie para baixo na parte traseira de sua caminhonete, Winter nervosa começou a questionar a sua decisão. Ela deveria ter chamado Lucy para vir buscá-la.

Elas poderiam ter deixado a lambreta aqui na montanha e chamado um reboque. Era uma opção cara, mas pelo menos ela não estaria aqui sentada se sentindo ansiosa.

Seus pensamentos foram interrompidos pelo som do travamento da caçamba no lugar, seguido pelos calçados de Blake esmagando do lado de fora cascalhos. Winter lambeu os lábios secos quando ele abriu a porta e deslizou ao lado dela. Mesmo que a

chuva tivesse achatado o cabelo preto ondulado ao couro cabeludo, ele ainda parecia como se ele pudesse ter pisado fresco das páginas de uma revista. Winter duvidava que ela pudesse dizer o mesmo para si. Seu cabelo vermelho estava pendurado em fios molhados pelos lados de seu rosto, e seu casaco azul e camiseta estavam encharcados. Pelo menos ela não se preocupou em colocar qualquer rímel nesta manhã, caso contrário, ela certamente teria olhos de panda e parecia ainda mais assustadora.

— Você está com frio? — Blake perguntou, seu olhar caindo para os arrepios em seus braços.

— Não, eu estou f... — ela começou, mas ele já estava tirando seu casaco. Seus olhos se encontraram brevemente quando ele envolveu-o em seus ombros. Olhando em seus olhos de esmeralda, Winter sentiu um choque, quase como uma onda de eletricidade, que a fez vibrar o corpo inteiro. Ela olhou para baixo, tanto confusa e profundamente envergonhada sobre uma forte reação física do contato com os olhos inocentes.

— Obrigada, — ela murmurou, ordenando-se a obter controle.

Blake era apenas um homem. Um homem bonito, mas ninguém é tão incrivelmente trabalhado. Mas mesmo quando ela tentou esta linha de raciocínio, Winter não podia segui-la. Envolta na jaqueta de Blake, no calor luxuoso do seu corpo, Winter sabia que era uma mentira.

— Onde? — Blake perguntou, ligando o motor.

Por um momento, a mente de Winter passou em branco enquanto ela tentou se lembrar de como chegar à sua casa. Talvez ela tivesse batido a cabeça na igreja? Ela estava achando difícil pensar com clareza. Eventualmente, as direções surgiram através de seus pensamentos confusos.

— Apenas vá para baixo da montanha, e vire à esquerda na estrada principal.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Blake assentiu e conduziu a caminhonete para a pista. Eles seguiram em silêncio, enquanto Winter olhava através da janela de chuva para Bluff Hagan, tentando pensar em algo para dizer. O silêncio se estendia, tornando-se desconfortável, enquanto seus olhos inquietos verificavam a paisagem enevoada abaixo.

— Então, porque Winter? — Blake disse, quebrando o silêncio.

— Um nome como este deve ter uma história por trás dele.

Winter se encolheu. Provocações infantis incontáveis havia deixado sua marca. — Não há muito. Minha mãe era fã do grande blue. Provavelmente você nunca ouviu falar de Johnny Winter.

— Claro que sim. — Resposta rápida de Blake a espantou. — Ele cantava no BB King "Seja cuidadoso com um Louco", nos anos sessenta, certo?

— Eu não posso acreditar que você sabe disso!

Ele encolheu os ombros. — Eu tenho uma memória para a música. E pouco mais, — ele acrescentou, seus lábios se contorcendo em um leve sorriso. Era apenas uma ligeira fenda em sua cortina de reserva, mas Winter foi incentivada. Qualquer coisa era melhor do que o silêncio constrangedor.

— Bem, se minha mãe tivesse um menino, ele seria chamado de Johnny. Ela teve uma menina, então...

— Winter, — Blake terminou por ela.

Ela suspirou. — Não é o mais fácil nome para sobreviver no parque infantil. A maioria das pessoas só me chama de Vitória.

— Eu gosto de Winter, — disse Blake, e, talvez pela primeira vez, assim como ela. — Posso lhe fazer uma pergunta?

— Claro. — Ela estava se sentindo muito melhor. Vendo o sorriso de Blake aliviou a tensão que ela estava sentindo. Além disso, ele não achava que seu nome era bobo.

— Por que você estava me espionando?

O estômago de Winter se contraiu em um nó.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

— Eu não est... — Ela começou.

— O que estava fazendo com a câmera? — Blake não usou qualquer vestígio de seu sorriso mais cedo.

Muito perturbada para chegar a uma desculpa plausível, Winter só podia responder com sinceridade. — Sinto muito. Eu não pretendia nada com isso. Eu estava lá tirando fotos para algo estúpido do jornal da escola. E então eu vi você e. . . Você deve pensar que eu sou uma aberração. — Eu sou uma aberração, ela pensou consigo mesma miseravelmente.

— Claro que não, — ele disse, seu tom amolecendo. — Não se aflija. Eu estava apenas curioso.

Winter se atreveu a acreditar que ele estava dizendo a verdade.

— O que você estava fazendo lá? — Ela perguntou, lamentando a pergunta ao mesmo tempo em que escapou de seus lábios. Não era da sua conta o que Blake estava fazendo no cemitério. Já não era o suficiente que ela tivesse se intrometido na sua intimidade por um dia?

— Visitando um túmulo, — Blake respondeu logo.

Obviamente, ele não tinha vontade de discutir o assunto.

Preocupada que o clima no carro mais uma vez cresceu tenso, Winter acumulou seu cérebro para uma forma de resgatar o momento.

— Então, você está só de passagem ou... ? — Winter tinha certeza de que Blake não era da cidade. Bluff Hagan era pequena demais para alguém que se parecia com ele passar despercebido. Ela supunha que ele poderia estar aqui para umas férias, embora seja improvável. As pessoas vinham para Bluff Hagan para as praias e não seria quente o suficiente para nadar por meses ainda.

— Não, eu acabei de comprar um lugar fora em Holloway Road. Estou pensando em ficar aqui por um tempo.

Os olhos de Winter se arregalaram. Ela conhecia este nome When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

bem, como a maioria das outras pessoas em Bluff Hagan. Holloway Road começava na orla da cidade antes de desaparecer na floresta na base da encosta sul da montanha Owl. Ela costumava ser a principal rota para a rodovia, mas foi substituída pelo desvio construído há alguns anos atrás. Agora era uma estrada solitária, viajada por poucos, e a propriedade ali, não estava certamente à venda.

— Não é o lugar Velasco? — Winter perguntou, incapaz de esconder o choque em sua voz.

Blake olhou para ela. — Você já ouviu falar dele?

— Todos já ouviram falar dele! — Ela ergueu uma sobrancelha.

— Tem uma... Reputação.

— Eu não entendo.

— Você sabe como cada cidade tem uma casa mal assombrada?

Bem, a nossa é o lugar Velasco. A história diz que o velho homem Velasco era um ministro da igreja na década de trinta. Ele tinha uma esposa e três filhas. Isso foi durante a Grande Depressão, da forma que a comida era muito escassa. Havia um monte de pessoas famintas ao redor. Em um domingo a esposa de Velasco e filhas não vieram à igreja. Quando não apareceram na semana seguinte, as pessoas começaram a fazer perguntas. Um mês depois, quando ainda não haviam aparecido, alguém chamou a polícia. Eles descobriram a esposa de Velasco e filhas, refrigeradas no sótão. Bem, parte delas, de qualquer maneira. Eu acho que a fome ficou demais para o velho Velasco, então ele improvisou. Eles o encontraram pendurado nas vigas do sótão, enforcado, ao invés de enfrentar as consequências.

No Halloween as crianças locais criam coragem para ir para cima e tocam o sino. Você tem que tocá-lo três vezes ou corre o risco de ser chamado de frouxo. — Winter fez uma pausa e acrescentou: — eu só toquei duas vezes.

Blake ficou em silêncio por um momento, sua expressão em When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

algum lugar entre surpreso e divertido. — Eu comprei uma casa mal assombrada?

Ouvindo-o dizer a frase casa assombrada fez Winter ficar ciente de como o conceito era bobo. Independentemente disso, ela decidiu jogar junto, aliviada que a conversa tinha desviado a cena embaraçosa em Lament. — Mesmo assim, temos medo. Você acredita em fantasmas?

Ela olhou para Blake e viu que ele estava tentando não sorrir.

— Suponho que eu tenha, — ele respondeu, e Winter teve a nítida impressão de que ele estava curtindo uma piada privada.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 7 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

— É isso, virando à esquerda, — Winter disse quando eles viraram em Waverly Street. Sua casa era ainda alguns números de distância, mas estaria lá em breve. Muito cedo para Winter. Passando pelas ruas, Blake tinha apenas começado a se abrir sobre, como ele decidiu se mudar para Bluff Hagan para fugir da cidade. Enquanto ele parecia relutante em discutir sua profissão, ela teve a impressão de que deveria ter sido muito estressante. Talvez ele tivesse sido um corretor, ou um sócio minoritário em uma empresa? Ele tinha algo desse olhar, correndo faminto sobre ele, no entanto, havia um cansaço que penetrava em seu tom de voz sempre que ele fazia

alusão ao seu passado. A tristeza que o fez tanto simpático e curioso.

Blake parou a caminhonete ao pé da entrada da casa de Winter. Ela observou que o furgão de Lucy estava estacionado na garagem – ela deve ter acabado cedo na farmácia hoje. Felizmente, as janelas da cozinha estavam abertas, de modo que havia uma chance de Lucy ver Blake fora. Winter não gostava de ter que suportar o inevitável interrogatório que poderia ocorrer se sua irmã lhe visse chegando em casa com um homem estranho.

Blake desligou o motor. — É aqui, certo?

— Sim, obrigada pela carona, — ela disse, querendo saber se ela deveria convidá-lo para dentro.

— Não tem problema. — Antes que ela pudesse reunir a coragem para perguntar se ele queria entrar para tomar uma bebida, ele já abriu a porta. — Vou pegar sua lambreta na parte traseira.

Ele entrou na chuva, deixando Winter com uma sensação de uma menina boba apaixonada. O que ela estava pensando? Um cara lindo como Blake, provavelmente, tinha uma namorada esperando por ele em casa.

Ainda envolta no seu casaco, Winter rapidamente recolheu suas coisas e seguiu-o para fora. Ela olhou para sua casa, para cima da propriedade, uma forte inclinação e sentiu uma pontada de vergonha. Ela esperava que Blake não fosse julgá-la com base em sua aparência. Sua antiga casa fora tão amável que ela não ligava para a deficiência deixada na frente dela. O melhor que você poderia dizer sobre isto era que, ela tinha quatro paredes e um telhado para manter a chuva fora de suas cabeças. Depois eles venderam sua antiga casa para resolver dívidas de negócios pendentes de seu pai, isto era tudo o que tinham: uma caixa cinza de dois quartos elevados sobre uma pequena garagem. Não era um lixão, mas Winter nunca seria capaz de pensar nisso como casa.

— Você tem um mecânico que possa confiar? — Blake disse, When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

quando ele tirou as correntes que amarravam Jessie na caminhonete.

Winter deu de ombros. — Eu confio em quem me dá a cotação mais barata.

— Eu sei um pouco sobre motos. Pelo som que estava fazendo quando você foi embora, eu acho que você só tem um filtro contaminado. Não deve ser muito caro para consertar. Não paga mais que cinquenta.

Cinquenta!Como que ela vai pagar por isso? Decidiu se preocupar com isso mais tarde, Winter tentou apreciar a vista.

Protegendo os olhos da nebulização da chuva, ela assistiu Blake começar a desembarcar sua moto da caçamba da caminhonete.

Apesar de ser relativamente pequena, a maneira como ele levantou sem esforço Jessie da caçamba, sugeriu que ele era mais forte do que parecia.

Winter viu seus braços tensos e flexionados e não poderia deixar de imaginar como ele parecia sem sua camisa.

— Eu posso arranjar alguém para dar uma olhada logo, porém, — ele disse enquanto pegava o guidão com ele. — Você não deve deixar que eles mintam.

Um pensamento passou por Winter. — Vou tentar alguma coisa. — Ela virou a chave na ignição de Jessie. Depois de alguns cliques, o motor tossiu milagrosamente a vida.

Blake parecia genuinamente espantado. — Como você fez isso?

— Eu tive uma sensação de que Jessie estava brincando. — Ela desligou o motor.

Ele ergueu as sobrancelhas para ela. — Jessie?

— Sim, eu chamo a minha lambreta de Jessie, e eu não acho que seja estranho.

Seu pai foi quem a pediu para nomear a lambreta no dia em que pegou do lote de carros usados, dizendo-lhe de um modo que as When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

coisas não pertenciam a você até você os nomear. Jessie tinha chegado a Winter quase que instantaneamente, embora ela não tivesse certeza de onde. A lambreta simplesmente parecia com Jessie.

— Sua caminhonete não tem um nome? — Ela perguntou a Blake com falsa surpresa.

— Claro. Toyota, — ele respondeu, sem perder uma batida.

Houve um momento de silêncio, enquanto eles estavam olhando um para o outro. Quando seu olhar bloqueou com o seu, Winter focou em sua reação física, sem se afastar. Ela sentiu uma intensa onda de prazer lavando sobre ela, seu corpo ficou quente, tanto que ela quase foi surpreendida com a chuva não chiando e se transformando em vapor enquanto caía sobre sua pele. Olhando para os olhos verdes brilhantes de Blake, Winter se sentia mais viva do que ela podia se lembrar. Era uma sensação delirantementeviciante, como se tivesse passado a vida inteira em uma sala escura, e tinha agora, finalmente, experimentado o calor do sol. E pensar que ele poderia fazê-la se sentir desse jeito só de When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

olhar para ela!

— Você quer que eu te ajude a levar a Jessie até a garagem? — Blake disse, olhando para a calçada íngreme e quebrando o feitiço.

Sentindo-se confusa, Winter sacudiu a cabeça.

— Não, está tudo bem. Eu acho que você já fez o suficiente para mim por um dia.

Ela furtivamente deu um último olhar por debaixo de seus cílios, e ficou curiosa ao ver que uma sombra havia caído sobre o seu rosto.

— O que é isso?

Blake pareceu recordar a si mesmo e forçou um sorriso não muito convincente.

— Nada. Foi bom conhecê-la, Winter.

— Você também, Blake, — ela disse, acenando com a mão. — Obrigada, você sabe, por salvar minha vida.

— Sempre. — Houve outro estrondo de trovão. — É melhor você entrar antes que se afogue. — Ele começou a se mover para longe dela. — Fique fora de igrejas antigas, ok? — Ele falou por cima do ombro antes de chegar à caminhonete.

Ela sorriu para ele. — Vou tentar.

Blake ligou a caminhonete, deu uma última olhada rápida e puxou de volta para a rua. Foi só depois que ele desapareceu de vista que ela percebeu alguma coisa.

Ela ainda estava usando sua jaqueta.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 8 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Winter empurrou a Jessie na ladeira, e seus pensamentos correram.

Se ele deixou a jaqueta de propósito? Será que ele quer vê-la novamente ou foi simplesmente um acidente? Estas eram questões de peso e gostaria de ter alguma consideração. A ideia de ver Blake novamente a entusiasmava, mas agora ela estava livre de seu olhar hipnótico, Winter podia ouvir mais claramente a voz pequena de cuidado na parte de trás de sua mente. A mesma que disse a ela para pegar Jessie e dirigir ao Centro de Patrimônio, em vez de aceitar a sua carona. Havia algo diferente sobre Blake, algo além de sua beleza surpreendente. Um perigo. Um segredo.

Com o canto do olho, Winter percebeu a cortina da janela da cozinha cair de volta no lugar. Ela suspirou profundamente.

O momento em que ela guardou a Jessie e começou a subir as escadas da garagem, Lucy chamou da cozinha. — É você, Win? Winter cerrou os dentes, já irritada com a perspectiva do interrogatório. — Sim, sou eu.

— Dê-me uma mão aqui, você pode?

Winter marchou relutantemente para a cozinha. Lucy estava inclinada sobre o fogão, mexendo um caldo nocivo em uma panela grande. Ela ainda estava vestida em seu uniforme verde da farmácia, mas tinha amarrado o avental floral vermelho de sua mãe para protegê-la dos respingos. Ela virou-se ao som da aproximação de Winter, chamando-a com entusiasmo.

— Venha aqui, eu quero que você prove isso.

Winter assistiu com horror quando sua irmã mergulhou a colher no líquido borbulhante e trouxe-o para ela. Lucy soprou antes de empurrar a coisa para a boca de Winter. Que fechou os olhos, tentando manter o rosto neutro. A sopa / guisado / gosma correu por sua garganta, deixando um sabor amargo.

— Como está?

Winter abriu os olhos para ver Lucy olhando para ela com expectativa.

— Delicioso, — ela mentiu, mas o alívio de Lucy valeu a pena.

— Sério? Eu estava preocupada que eu não usei alecrim o suficiente.

— Não. - Eu acho que você acertou em cheio.

— O jantar fica pronto em meia hora. Por que você não toma banho e depois põe a mesa?

— Tudo bem. — Ela começou a sair da cozinha. Talvez ela pudesse escapar antes de Lucy começar a fazer perguntas.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

— Então... jaqueta nova, hein?

Winter parou na porta. Ela tinha estado tão perto!

Lentamente, ela se virou sobre os calcanhares e se apoiou contra a estrutura de madeira.

Lucy sorriu para ela. — Quem é o cara?

— Apenas um cara. — Foi difícil manter a nota de exasperação em sua voz.

— Apenas um cara? Vamos lá, Win, você pode fazer melhor do que isso. Qual o nome dele? Será que ele vai para a sua escola?

Como vocês se conheceram? Você conhece o procedimento.

Winter escolheu suas palavras com cuidado. Desde a morte de seus pais, Lucy era sua protetora. Proteção era na verdade um eufemismo - ela praticamente colocou Winter em prisão domiciliar.

— O nome dele é Blake. Ele é novo na cidade. Minha moto quebrou e ele me deu uma carona para casa. — Winter achava que omitindo o acidente pouparia sua irmã de alguns estresses desnecessários, mas, aparentemente, ela calculou mal a sensibilidade de Lucy.

— Ele era um estranho? Você está me dizendo que você entrou em um carro com um homem estranho?

— Bem, não. Não é verdade. Quero dizer, nós meio que nos conhe...

Lucy não deixou ela terminar. — O que você estava pensando, Win? Você sabe como muitas meninas desaparecem todos os anos? — Ela continuou seu discurso, desembrulhando uma lista de estatísticas que o Winter achava altamente suspeito. Sempre que tinha um desses argumentos, Lucy era de alguma forma capaz de citar resmas de estatísticas, apesar de Winter nunca ter visto ela realmente realizar qualquer pesquisa para reunir informações. A única literatura que Lucy lia eram os tabloides que ela trazia para casa da prateleira da farmácia.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

— Você está absolutamente certa, Lucy. Eu não vou fazer isso de novo. — Em situações como esta era melhor apaziguar sua irmã, em vez de discutir. Winter não culpava Lucy por reagir dessa maneira. Ambas ainda estavam de luto e se Lucy tinha se tornado um pouco desequilibrada e superprotetora, Winter conseguia entender. Mesmo se isso dava em seus nervos às vezes.

— Eu só quero que você pense antes de tomar estes riscos estúpidos. Eu sei que eu não sou mamãe, mas... — Cansada, Lucy pareceu recuperar alguma aparência de sanidade. Ela atravessou a cozinha e puxouWinter em um abraço apertado. — Você sabe que eu te amo, certo? — Ela sussurrou no ouvido de Winter.

— Eu sei.

— Ótimo. — Lucy a afastou, seus olhos brilhando com lágrimas. Winter preferiu ignorar isso. Antes do funeral, ela não conseguia se lembrar de alguma vez ter visto Lucy chorar. Mesmo quando elas visitaram o necrotério para identificar os corpos de seus pais, Lucy não tinha chorado. Ela ficou muito pálida, e sua voz caiu para apenas um sussurro, mas seus olhos tinham permanecidos secos.

Foi até que elas estavam no cemitério, observando os caixões sendo abaixados para a terra, que as lágrimas de Lucy haviam chegado. Ela gemeu tão alto que Winter, embora ela repreendeu-se por isso, sentiu-se um pouco envergonhada com o espetáculo que Lucy estava fazendo. Desde essa altura, as lágrimas sempre pareciam muito perto da superfície e Winter sentia como se ela tivesse que andar com cuidado ou correr o risco de sua irmã chorar novamente.

— Vá tomar banho, — disse Lucy, segurando as lágrimas e olhando criticamente para as roupas de Winter. — Você parece que esteve rastejando através de um canteiro de obras.

Se você soubesse! Inverno pensou enquanto ela fugia pelo corredor até o banheiro. Ela abriu as torneiras, espirrando a água refrescante em suas bochechas. Lucy quase teve um aneurisma When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

porque Winter pegou uma carona para casa com um homem estranho - como ela reagiria se soubesse quão próximo Winter tinha chegado a ser enterrada debaixo de uma tonelada de escombros?

Winter desligou a água e olhou o seu reflexo recém limpo criticamente. A mesma menina de rosto liso que vira no espelho esta manhã olhou de volta para ela.

Esta versão foi apenas abafada um pouco. Lá estava o seu cabelo rebelde vermelho precisando desesperadamente de um pente; sua pele pálida com um punhado de sardas desde a ponta de seu nariz e bochechas; e sua boca que às vezes parecia um pouco torta.

Com um cabelo decente e uma dúzia de tubos de maquiagem, ela podia ser capaz de subir de categoria muito bem, mas seria necessário algum trabalho. E não havia nada que pudesse fazer a respeito de sua boca, mesmo sendo remotamente adorável.

Não é de admirar que ela se sentiu intimidada em torno da perfeição física de Blake. Eles poderiam muito bem ser de diferentes espécies. Ele a levou para casa e eles pareciam ter algumas coisas em comum - ela ainda não podia acreditar que ele sabia quem Johnny Winter era! Pode haver uma chance de Blake não ser tão superficial como praticamente todos os outros que Winter já conheceu, incluindo ela própria. Talvez sardentas, boca torta de garotas eram o tipo dele? Ela suspirou, sorrindo para a loucura do pensamento.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Uma garota pode sonhar.

Winter foi para seu quarto e se deixou cair sobre a cama.

Ela pensou em colocar uma música, mas decidiu que o som do tamborilar da chuva no telhado era muito acompanhando seus pensamentos.

Embora ela tivesse chegado muito perto de ser morta hoje, esse importante momento particular não era o que agora estava girando em sua mente.

Era Blake que ocupava seus pensamentos. Seus olhos

hipnóticos brilhando com sua própria luz mágica. A chamando.

Puxando-a para...

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 9 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Blake estava sentado na penumbra cintilante do estudo, escrevendo furiosamente em seu diário. Uma vela acesa solitária marcava a página que ele estava trabalhando, mas que ele poderia facilmente ter escrito sem. A ausência de luz não fazia nada para afetar a nitidez da sua visão. Às vezes, porém, um pouco de luz era uma necessidade para não se sentir tão só.

Foi um erro salvar Winter.

Sua caneta parou quando o rosto da garota flutuou à frente de sua mente. A luz em seus olhos era diferente agora, mas naquele breve momento quando ele a pegou olhando para ele do outro lado

do cemitério, ele teve um vislumbre de como ela era especial. Não é de admirar que ele se sentiu obrigado a intervir, apesar de saber as consequências de suas ações. Se o tempo lhe ensinou alguma coisa, foi que ele era fraco diante de tais compulsões.

Seria perigoso para ambos se a visse novamente, mas ela não iria durar muito tempo sem a sua ajuda. Já as forças estavam se reunindo ao redor dela, as forças que em breve começariam a exercer sua influência negra. A ideia do sofrimento dela lhe doía muito mais do que deveria, considerando o pouco tempo que passaram juntos. Ela era inocente e não merecia o destino que a aguardava - o destino que ele a condenou. Havia algo sobre a garota, algo mais do que o dom secreto que ela possuía. Ela tinha uma beleza tímida, uma qualidade que o lembrava de outra...

Blake escrevia com renovado vigor, esperançoso que as palavras derramadas de sua caneta iriam exorcizar algumas de suas agitações. Normalmente, o ato de escrever o acalmava, lhe permitindo organizar seus pensamentos e voltar a examiná-los com o frio distanciamento, enquanto estavam no papel. Hoje à noite ele não iria trabalhar. Blake podia sentir um temor crescente na boca do estômago.

Ele largou a caneta, expirando em frustração. Ele deveria estar observando ela agora, em vez de ficar sentado aqui deliberando sobre o que fazer. No entanto, ele não podia sair de casa, pelo menos não durante a noite. Seria arriscado deixar a coisa andar por aí sem vigilância. Ele havia cometido este erro no passado e as consequências foram terríveis.

Blake assistiu a chama da vela torcer e enrolar o pavio.

Como se estivesse sentindo o conflito de seu mestre, Nefertem penetrou suavemente no estudo e se esfregou carinhosamente contra a perna de Blake. Grato pela companhia, ele sorriu para o gato e coçou-o levemente atrás das orelhas. Enquanto Nefertem When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

ronronou de prazer, um pensamento ocorreu à Blake.

Ele chutou a si mesmo por não considerá-lo mais cedo. Ele podia não ser capaz de sair de casa, mas havia outras maneiras de manter Winter segura.

Blake ficou tenso quando de repente a música começou a tocar no andar de cima no velho gramofone vintage que ele tinha comprado há mais de uma década - uma compra que ele se arrependeu desde então. Um arrepio percorreu sua espinha quando a voz assustadora de Vaughn De Leath cantando "Are You Lonesome Tonight?" ecoou pelo velho lugar Velasco.

Que foi despertado.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 10 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Durante a noite, Winter sonhou que havia um gato do lado de fora janela do seu quarto.

Um gato gordo alaranjado olhava para ela através do vidro com uma expressão estranha. Winter sabia que estava sonhando, porque apesar da escuridão, ela podia ver tudo tão claramente. As listras alaranjadas na pele do gato, o M distorcido em sua testa marcando-o como um gato, os bigodes se contorcendo e sua cauda preguiçosamente balançando. O gato andava para trás e para a frente no parapeito da janela, antes de encontrar um lugar confortável para se enrolar. Ele observava Winter, luminosos olhos

verdes flutuando na escuridão, como o gato Cheshire de Alice.

Em um ponto, no sonho, Winter viu algo mais se movendo atrás do gato. Três figuras altas, mais negra do que a noite, se materializaram no ar sobre o seu quintal. Winter tinha medo das formas, mesmo que ela não conseguia ver quem ou o que eram. Ela sabia que elas eram ruins. Elas estavam erradas de alguma forma. O gato pareceu sentir as formas também, e virou-se, assobiando e cuspindo nelas. As três formas se afastaram, desaparecendo, e o gato relaxou e retomou a observar Winter.

Em seu sonho, Winter sentiu-se agradecida pelo gato. Que era seu protetor.

Seu guardião.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Siena março, 1879

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Madeleine estava na varanda da casa observando o derramamento do luar sobre a colina da Toscana. Um leve perfume de citros derivou dos laranjais na escuridão abaixo. Ela podia ver a silhueta de San Gimignano à distância, suas torres e muralhas afiadas contra o céu noturno. Adorável como a vista era, isso não ofereceu nenhuma trégua do medo que sombreava seu coração. Ela poderia muito bem estar olhando para uma parede em branco.

Houve uma mudança sutil no ar ao seu redor, um espessamento da atmosfera, como se fosse sobre a tempestade. Um

flash de luz, e Ariman saiu das sombras aureolado em cintilante fogo verde. A luz vívida do bruxo durou poucos segundos antes de desaparecer no éter. Madeleine não ficou surpresa com a sua chegada. Ela estava esperando-o, embora ela ficasse perturbada ao vê-lo retornar sozinho.

— Onde ele está? — Ela perguntou, sua voz traindo sua emoção.

— O seu marido tomou medidas para protegê-lo. — Vendo sua angústia, ele acrescentou um pouco sem jeito, — eu tentei.

Madeleine sentiu as lágrimas coçarem na parte de trás de seus olhos. O pensamento de Antoine, chorando no meio da noite por sua mãe, era uma dor que ela mal podia suportar.

— Você deve tentar novamente.

— Seu filho está perdido. — Sua boca se apertou um pouco.

— Sinto muito, Madeleine.

Madeleine foi para Ariman, implorando-lhe: — Por favor, meu amor, você tem esse poder...

Ariman balançou a cabeça. — Meu poder tem limites. Seu marido se cercou de homens que não são tolos. Homens que conhecem os métodos que podem impedir-me.

— O Bane. — Madeleine zombou do nome que Victor havia dado aos homens que ele alistou em sua cruzada doente.

Ariman assentiu. — Eles crescem mais fortes, mais organizados a cada dia. A profundidade da obsessão de seu marido é... notável, — ele terminou, a nota fraca de admiração em sua voz irritou Madeleine.

— Não há nada de extraordinário nisso. Victor é um louco.

Eu não posso deixar Antoine sozinho com...

— Você deve. Ele vai te matar antes que ele permita que você tenha seu filho.

— Ele vai me matar de qualquer maneira.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Que era verdade. Ambos sabiam.

Desanimada, Madeleine caiu contra Ariman, descansando sua bochecha em seu peito. A lua turva no céu à noite quando ela começou a chorar. Ela esperou que Ariman acariciasse seu cabelo, para ele oferecer algum pequeno conforto nesta hora triste, mas ele permaneceu rígido, frio.

— Madeleine..perdoe-me, mas tenho que ir agora, — ele disse, depois de um minuto de silêncio tenso.

Ela se afastou dele, confusa, com medo. — Por que...

— Você está em perigo.

— Eu não tenho medo de Victor. Ou seu Bane,— ela zombou.

— Você está em perigo comigo. — Ariman observou sua reação, seus olhos de esmeralda brilhando estranhamente ao luar.

Madeleine ficou momentaneamente atordoada, incapaz de responder. Como ele pode dizer uma coisa dessas? Ela amava o homem de pé à sua frente, mesmo que em seu coração, ela sabia que Ariman não era um homem.

— Não me deixe, — foi tudo o que conseguiu dizer, tentando segurar seu olhar, que se lançou para longe dela.

— Eu fiquei com você muito mais do que eu planejava, — afirmou Ariman sem jeito. — Não é o costume da minha espécie agir desta maneira. Nós não casamos. Não podemos ter filhos.

Os olhos de Ariman correram até a sua cintura. Ele sabe! A mão de Madeleine instintivamente disparou para o local acima do seu ventre.

Ariman suspirou em frustração. — Madeleine, você não tem ideia o quão difícil tem sido para mim.

— Como difícil? — Madeleine sentiu raiva moderar o medo e miséria. — Eu desisti de tudo por você. Meu filho!

— Vai ser melhor para você quando eu for. — Ariman se When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

afastou dela, mas ela ouviu hesitação em sua voz. Ela se agarrou desesperadamente para a chance de que ele ainda podia mudar de ideia.

— Por favor, meu amor. Fique. — Ela pegou sua mão. — Eu não tenho medo de você.

— Você deve ter, — ele respondeu, afastando-se dela, como se ela fosse perigosa. — Sinto muito.

O rosto de Ariman uma vez inescrutável agora estava aberto para ela. Ela viu a dor e confusão gravados em suas feições tão claramente como se eles estivessem sido escritos em palavras. E então a escuridão estava flutuando em seu rosto, ocultando-o como fumaça e ela não pôde ver nada, apenas seus olhos. Eles brilhavam mais do que as estrelas ou a lua acima. A luz se intensificou, se espalhando por todo o seu corpo em ondas de luz ondulante. Não havia nenhuma palavra de adeus, sem despedida - Madeleine ouviu o som do trovão e, em seguida, seu amor foi embora.

Ela estava sozinha.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 11 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Sra. Lathkey terminou de copiar o trecho de Jane Eyre no quadro negro e o destacou. Ela se virou para a classe segurando um pedaço de giz no ar, como um maestro diante de uma orquestra.

— É claro que, enquanto Charlotte Brontë certamente não tinha boa reputação, muitos estabeleciam sua honra daquilo que hoje conhecemos como o herói romântico. Sr. Rochester é taciturno, ranzinza e capaz de ataques de raiva extremo, no entanto, ele também é compassivo e terno. E são estas qualidades contrastantes, juntamente com o seu passado misterioso, que atraiu Jane Eyre para ele...

Winter estava distraída da palestra da Sra. Lathkey porque Jasmine estava a cutucando no braço. Ela olhou para a sua amiga, tentando não olhar para a franja rosa choque de Jasmine. Ela tinha tingido no fim de semana na sua última tentativa de ser diferente.

Na semana passada tinha sido um piercing no nariz e na semana anterior, batom preto com sombra vermelha. O fato de que Jasmine já se destacava no Trinity Senior College devido à sua herança vietnamita não parecia ser suficiente. Winter não tinha certeza onde sua amiga iria chegar, mas não ficaria surpresa se ela usasse uma tatuagem até o final do ano.

Jasmine estava olhando para Winter com uma expressão exagerada de censura. Ela sussurrou, — Eu não posso acreditar que você não me ligou imediatamente!

Winter encolheu os ombros inocentemente, como se o evento em Lament não fosse a coisa mais emocionante que já tinha acontecido com ela. Isso certamente seria uma história boba para dizer a sua amiga.

— Eu só não acho que foi uma grande coisa, — Winter respondeu, subestimando sua excitação admirável.

— Win, isto é enorme! Quero dizer, quando foi a última vez que você conheceu um cara? Ou até mesmo falou com um?

Não era de estranhar que Jasmine parecia mais interessada em Blake, que o fato de que Winter tinha sido quase esmagada até a morte. No entanto, Winter se sentiu um pouco insultada pela insinuação de Jasmine. Winter podia não ser a garota mais popular da escola, mas isso não quer dizer que ela era uma perdedora, triste sem fim! Ela contou o número de encontros que teve neste ano e ficou decepcionada com o resultado. Tanto quanto ela gostaria de culpar a morte de seus pais por sua vida miserável social, não seria honesto.

— Eu falo com os meninos todos os dias. — Era verdade.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Winter, ocasionalmente, pedia emprestado uma caneta de Damien McNamarra que se sentava ao lado dela na biologia, e às vezes Rhymes Hugo perguntava a Winter para explicar um problema de matemática.

Jasmine revirou os olhos. — Você sabe o que quero dizer!

— Eu não sei porque que está ficando tão animada.

Jasmine sorriu, finalmente, pegando um ato indiferente de Winter.

— Winter Adams, você é um cavalo no escuro, não é?

Winter sentiu suas bochechas corarem. Ela lutou contra o rubor que daria seus verdadeiros sentimentos. Lutou e perdeu.

— Acho que foi muito legal, — ela admitiu finalmente. — Blake é.. — Ela lutou para encontrar as palavras que lhe faria justiça. — Ele é...

— Winter e Jasmine!

As duas meninas pularam. A sala de aula ficou completamente em silêncio quando a Sra. Lathkey falou severamente.

— Como nenhuma de vocês me parece particularmente interessadas no que eu estava dizendo, talvez vocês possam oferecer os seus próprios pensamentos sobre o uso das imagens de Brontë gótico?

Winter engoliu em seco e lançou um olhar de soslaio para Jasmine, que apareceu de forma semelhante mortificada por estar na berlinda. Sra. Lathkey cruzou os braços e esperou ansiosamente que uma das garotas falassem. Ao contrário de Jasmine, Winter tinha realmente lido Jane Eyre, e bastante apreciado, mas a compreensão de uma história e poder analisá-la eram duas coisas completamente distintas.

Winter respirou fundo, esperando que a sua língua, de alguma forma pudesse funcionar independentemente de seu cérebro When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

e girar ricamente sua saliva seca. — Bem, eu suponho...

Houve uma batida na porta da sala de aula.

Sra. Lathkey sorriu cruelmente para Winter. — Não pense que você vai sair tão facilmente. — Enquanto ela foi abrir a porta, Winter deixou o ar que estava segurando correr para fora e atormentou seu cérebro por algo inteligente para dizer sobre o romance.

— Ah. Meu. Deus.

Winter olhou para cima e viu um sorriso lento se espalhar pelo rosto de Jasmine. Ela seguiu o olhar lascivo de sua amiga para a frente da sala, onde a Sra. Lathkey estava ao lado de um garoto que Winter nunca tinha visto antes.

Ele era alto e de ombros largos, e com o seu corte bagunçado loiro e braços musculosos, parecia o tipo de cara que passava todo o seu tempo livre na academia. No entanto, não parecia haver nenhuma daquela arrogância irritante que alguns dos atletas de futebol usava como um distintivo de honra. Em vez disso, o novo garoto parecia um pouco estranho na sua pele, como se ele tivesse acabado de acordar esta manhã neste corpo novo e adulto e não sabia muito bem o que fazer com ele. Ele não era do tipo de Winter - não com os músculos saltados - mas ela poderia apreciar por que Jasmine tinha reagido tão fortemente. O menino era novidade.

— Todo mundo, este é Sam Bennet. — Sra. Lathkey começou sua introdução. — Sam irá juntar-se a nós pelo resto do semestre. Por que você não se senta, Sam? — Sra. Lathkey examinava a sala procurando um lugar para Sam. Finalmente seus olhos pousaram sobre a mesa vazia ao lado de Winter. — Lá na parte de trás, ao lado de Jasmine. Winter, dê espaço, por favor.

Winter relutantemente mudou de lado, criando um espaço para Sam se sentar. Sam levou sua estrutura enorme pelo corredor e tomou o seu lugar entre as meninas. Sorrindo de forma amigável, When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

ele estendeu a mão para Winter.

— Oi, eu sou Sam. Winter apertou sua mão. — Win. Jasmine bateu-lhe no ombro.

— Jasmine. — Ela deslizou a mão para baixo na sua, como se ela esperasse que ele a beijasse. Sam olhou para sua mão e apertou-a um pouco sem jeito.

— Prazer em conhecê-la, Jasmine.

— Encantada. — Jasmine respondeu, batendo os cílios. — Se você tiver alguma dúvida sobre a escola ou qualquer coisa, eu ficaria feliz em respondê-las.

Winter revirou os olhos, e teve que lutar contra o sorriso que estava surgindo com a reação de desconforto de Sam para a paquera de Jasmine.

Sra. Lathkey continuou, — eu tenho certeza que você vai estar interessado em saber, Sam, que Winter estava prestes a assumir a discussão em classe.

Winter olhou, impotente para a Sra. Lathkey, silenciosamente implorando para que ela deixasse isso de lado. Sua professora se inclinou contra a mesa na frente da sala de aula, observando Winter com uma expressão sarcástica.

— Winter, quando você estiver pronta...

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 12 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

O sino da escola soou enquanto Winter tentava falar sobre Brontë, e ela suspirou de alívio. Ela começou de forma convincente o suficiente, traçando paralelos entre Thornfield e Morro dos Ventos Uivantes, antes de sua mente ficar em branco e perder a noção de qualquer ponto que ela estava tentando fazer.

— Bem, obrigada, Winter, por essa incrivelmente...explicação criativa. — Sra. Lathkey pareceu um pouco desapontada, ela não foi capaz de torturar Winter mais. Ela virou a atenção para o resto da classe, que estavam ocupados guardando seus livros. — Falando de criativo, não se esqueçam das

suas atribuições para amanhã. Espero quinhentas palavras de cada um de vocês de escrita criativa em estilo gótico. Não haverá extensões e sem desculpas. — Ela olhou por cima dos óculos, um dos colegas de Winter, Billy Gleeson, que era famoso por chegar com motivos estranhos, cujo ele não podia realizar seu trabalho de casa.

Winter fez uma careta com a perspectiva de passar a noite na frente de seu computador. Escrita criativa era algo que ela não tinha absolutamente nenhum talento. Imagens eram excelentes – Winter poderia ter uma boa fotografia e até mesmo desenhar um pouco mas as palavras estavam além dela. Por si só elas pareciam bem; isso quando ela era solicitada para colocá-las em qualquer tipo de ordem, ela tinha problema.

Winter se levantou com sua bolsa e estava prestes a perguntar se Sam precisava de ajuda para encontrar sua próxima aula, quando ela viu que ela não era a única com essa ideia.

Jasmine estava debruçada sobre sua mesa em um ângulo que permitiu que sua camisa revelasse um pouco mais. — Então, Sam, que classe você tem a seguir?

Se Sam notou a vista que Jasmine estava oferecendo, ele foi muito educado para não olhar. Ele olhou para o calendário. — Biologia. Você sabe onde os laboratórios são?

— Absolutamente, — respondeu Jasmine entusiasticamente.

— Eu ficarei feliz em mostrar a você.

Winter sorriu para si mesma. Jasmine com certeza não perdeu tempo. Os três começaram a caminhar em direção à porta quando a Sra. Lathkey chamou, — Jasmine, eu posso falar com você por um minuto?

Jasmine encarou a professora com relutância. — Eu estava prestes a mostrar a Sam como chegar ao laboratório de ciência.

Sra. Lathkey arqueou uma sobrancelha. — Tenho certeza When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

que Winter pode fazer isso. Temos que discutir o seu ensaio - ou a falta dele.

Jasmine saiu do lado esquerdo de Sam num acesso de raiva frustrado. Winter sorriu simpaticamente para ela quando Jasmine passou.

Sam virou-se para Winter e fez um gesto em direção à porta.

— Depois de você.

Eles deixaram Jasmine com a Sra. Lathkey e se juntaram à multidão de estudantes que faziam os seus caminhos para a próxima aula.

— Jasmine parece muito... amigável, — disse Sam. Winter não tinha certeza se Sam estava sendo sarcástico ou se tinha realmente confundido o flerte de Jasmine pela sua simpatia.

Ele teria que ser bastante alheio perdendo os sinais que ela estava enviando.

— Sim, ela é. A garota mais amigável que eu conheço. — Winter viu Sam olhando para ela com o canto do olho, e tentou esconder seu sorriso. — Então você acabou de se mudar?

— Sim, de Wauchope.

Winter franziu a testa para o nome desconhecido. — Wauchope? Onde fica isso?

— É uma pequena cidade nas montanhas. Próximo a Dale.

— Menor do que Hagan Bluff?

— Muito.

— O que você está achando até agora?

— Não é tão ruim. É bom estar perto da água. Eu estou pensando que eu poderia aprender a surfar.

— Não é tão fácil como parece.

— Você já tentou isso?

— Tentei e falhei. — Quando elas tinham quatorze anos, Jasmine caiu profundamente apaixonada por Rory Cochrane, um When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

instrutor local de surf, e arrastou Winter para o clube de surf para se inscreverem para aulas com ele. Depois de quase se afogar no primeiro dia, Winter passou o resto do verão sentada na praia ensopada com protetor solar, lendo Stephen King, enquanto Jasmine tentava, sem sucesso, conseguir a atenção de Rory.

Sam deu de ombros. — Eu provavelmente não vou ter a chance. Nós geralmente não ficamos no mesmo lugar por muito tempo.

Winter pegou um traço de arrependimento em sua voz.

— O que os seus pais fazem?

— Meu pai trabalha em um banco, e muda para diferentes ramos a cada dois meses.

— Isso soa muito horrível. — Winter não estava apenas sendo educada. Ela achava difícil o suficienteencontrar o seu lugar aqui em Trinity ao longo dos últimos cinco anos; a ideia de ter que começar em uma nova escola repleta de rostos desconhecidos a cada mês, era assustadora.

Sam deu de ombros novamente. — Eu estou acostumado com isso.

— Winter! — Uma voz familiar definiu seus dentes na borda.

Ela se virou para ver Harry Francis correndo para alcançá-los.

Desde que o diretor havia designado Winter para o jornal da escola, Harry parecia gostar de afirmar sua autoridade sobre ela. Ela supôs que jornal era o único lugar em Trinity, onde um deslizamento impopular como Harry Francis tinha qualquer tipo de poder.

— Oi, Harry, — Winter disse, forçando um sorriso.

— Eu estive procurando por você.

— Eu estava me escondendo. — Era a verdade disfarçada como uma brincadeira. Winter estava evitando Harry, porque ela ainda não sabia se as fotos que ela tinha tirado em Lament foram salvas. Ela largou a câmera em Fletch Photographics, antes da When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

escola, mas a forma como os olhos do cara ficaram arregalados quando ele pegou a Nikon dela, não a encheu com confiança. Ela fez um gesto em direção a Sam, na esperança de distrair Harry do tema das fotos.

— Harry, este é Sam. Ele é novo aqui.

Harry olhou para Sam e Winter viu um lampejo de desdém em seus olhos. Ela supôs quando Harry olhou para Sam, ele viu apenas outro atleta musculoso preparando para intimidar ou provocá-lo.

— Prazer em conhecê-lo, — Sam disse, estendendo a mão.

— Sim. — Harry ignorou a mão de Sam e voltou sua atenção para Winter. — Então, você conseguiu as fotos para mim no fim de semana?

— Claro. Houve um acidente, apesar de, e...

— Impressionante. Quando posso tê-las? — Ele não parecia interessado em quaisquer outros detalhes.

— Amanhã,— Winter respondeu hesitante.

Harry franziu a testa. — Tem certeza?

— Absolutamente. — Winter tentou soar confiante, mas, a julgar pelo olhar desconfiado no rosto de Harry, não totalmente.

— Você sabe que nós vamos imprimir amanhã à noite, não é?

Se eu não tiver as fotos o artigo será inútil, o que significa que eu vou ter que executar o trabalho de algumas páginas em breve, o que provoca problemas para as impressoras. Sorensen não gostaria disso.

O estômago de Winter capotou na perspectiva de ser chamada ao escritório do diretor e ter que explicar à Sorensen.

Embora 'quase ser morta' era uma desculpa bastante razoável para não cumprir um prazo, ainda era uma conversa que ela preferia não ter, especialmente após o problema que o diretor tinha feito para trabalhar no artigo, era um acaso que Winter queria provar a si mesma. Por trás do seu desconforto com Sorensen havia outro fator When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

interessante para ela ter as imagens prontas a tempo. Não tinha nada a ver com qualquer noção de responsabilidade de Sorensen, Harry, ou até mesmo o Times em si, mas vinha de um sentido surpreendentemente forte de orgulho profissional. Ela tinha tirado algumas boas fotos na montanha, e queria a oportunidade de ser reconhecida por seu trabalho.

— Não se preocupe, você vai tê-las, Harry.

— Eu espero que sim. — Harry sorriu ligeiramente para Winter e Sam, em seguida, tomou o caminho por onde ele veio.

— Cara legal, — Sam observou sarcasticamente.

— Bem-vindo à Trinity, — Winter disse com um encolher de ombros.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 13 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Winter cutucou sua lasanha da cafeteria da escola experimentalmente, tentando avaliar se era comestível. Ela estava consciente de que Jasmine estava olhando fixamente para ela do outro lado da mesa, mas fez o possível para ignorá-la. Mas, como o exame silencioso estendia, Winter encontrou o comportamento muito irritante para suportar sua amiga.

Ela retirou o garfo e olhou para Jasmine. — Isso não vai acontecer, Jas. Jasmine levantou as mãos defensivamente. — Eu não estou dizendo que você deve comprar flores para Blake ou qualquer coisa...

— Bom, porque eu não vou.

— Caras não gostam de flores. Eu só acho que... — Jasmine fez uma pausa para tomar outro pedaço de sua salada. — Você está pilotando lá fora, de qualquer maneira devolva o casaco, certo? O mínimo que você pode fazer é dar a ele algo agradável como um obrigada.

— Eu já disse obrigada. Além disso - Eu tenho a impressão de que ele não estava muito interessado em forjar um relacionamento significativo comigo.

— Quem está dizendo algo sobre um relacionamento significativo?

A boca de Winter caiu aberta em indignação fingida. — Você é como uma prostituta!

Jasmine levantou as mãos em defesa de seu comentário. — Tudo o que eu estou dizendo é que não iria machucar você colocarse lá fora pela primeira vez. — Sua expressão se suavizou e ela abaixou sua voz. — Eu sei que você teve um ano difícil, Win, e eu acho que seria bom para você ter um pouco de diversão. Saia da sua cabeça um pouco, você sabe?

Embora tocada pelo sentimento, Winter era realista. Ela não tinha a menor chance com Blake. — Eu não vou discutir com você, Jas. Eu simplesmente não consigo ver isso acontecendo.

Jasmine suspirou. — Bem, ele não irá com essa atitude. Você tem que ser pró-ativo sobre este tipo de coisa. Esta não é a Idade Média. As meninas podem dar em cima dos caras sem medo de ser apedrejada até a morte.

— Eu sei, é apenas...

— O quê? Você está esperando o Sr. Darcy para lhe dar uma chamada? Talvez o velho Redcliff aos mouros cairá.

— É Heathcliff.

— Seja qual for! Você pode passar o resto da sua vida When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

esperando o cara perfeito para te convidar para sair. Não deixe isso para o destino. Tome alguma iniciativa.

Envergonhada, Winter brincou com seu almoço. Palavras de Jasmine ardiam sobre ela, embora Winter entender que sua amiga queria o bem. Isso simplesmente não era tão fácil para Winter, e nunca tinha sido.

Desde que tinha atingido a adolescência, e provavelmente antes disso, Jasmine dava em cima dos garotos. E se não iam para ela, ela estava mais do que disposta a persegui-los. Com sua confiança e aparência exótica, Jasmine não tinha passado uma noite de sexta isoladamente desde que ela tinha treze anos.

Winter, por outro lado, tinha dificuldades para conhecer pessoas, algo que seu talento involuntário em ser invisível só fazia piorar. Mesmo antes da morte de seus pais que lhe dera um desculpa legítima para o isolamento e pouca introspecção, ela ficou muito mais confortável numa noite, tentando conversar com um cara, que provavelmente, a usou para chegar perto de Jasmine.

Ela teve paixões ocasionais ao longo dos anos, mas sempre tinha sido de curta duração e nunca intensa o suficiente para puxála para fora do casulo seguro que ela tecia em torno de si mesma.

Não era que Winter não queria romance em sua vida; a perspectiva de que apenas parecia muito grande e assustador. Ela assistiu Jasmine ter facilidade com os caras da mesma forma que ela assistiu bailarinos e músicos - inveja da habilidade desses artistas, mas consolava-se por saber que ela nunca poderia igualar. Algumas coisas simplesmente estavam longe dela.

Winter notou Jasmine olhar por cima do ombro, e então rapidamente de volta a sua comida. — Não olhe agora, mas Smotely está vindo.

O tilintar dos piercings de Smotely, correntes e roupas pretas cresceram quando ele surgiu à vista. Até quase um ano, Smotely When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

usava óculos e tinha carteirinha de membro de matemática da Geek Squad. Durante as férias de verão, ele se transformou em um personagem Gótico-Emo-Punk-Roqueiro - estranho, uma transformação que tanto Winter e Jasmine encontraram em partes iguais fascinante e divertido.

— Hey, — ele disse em um tom sombrio manufaturado, como se o esforço para falar fosse quase demais para ele. Ele evitou olhar ambas nos olhos.

— Oi, Ken, por que você não puxa uma cadeira e compartilha um leite com chocolate com a gente? — Jasmine perguntou, com os olhos brilhando.

— Não, obrigado, — respondeu Smotely, perdendo completamente o fato de que ele estava sendo zombado. — Vocês querem comprar alguns ingressos?

— Para ver quem?

— Os Ninjas Urbanos. Eles estão cantando todas as noite de quinta-feira no clube de surf. Alguns amigos desistiram, então eu estou tentando se livrar dos seus ingressos. Dez dólares cada.

Custaram-me 20, por isso é um bom negócio.

Winter ficou chocada ao ver Jasmine realmente considerando a oferta de Smotely, e ainda mais chocada quando ela pegou sua bolsa.

— Vou levar quatro deles.

O anel da sobrancelha de Smotely contraiu. — Você sabe que eles são hardcore, certo?

Winter teve que conter-se de corrigi-lo. Os Ninjas urbanos não eram hardcore. Alguns anos atrás, sua mãe mostrou á Winter um pouco de seu velho Pantera e álbuns do Iron Maiden. Winter ficou curiosa sobre as bandas após vasculhar sua coleção de discos e ver a arte da capa berrante. As canções eram um pouco intensas demais para a sensibilidade de Winter, mas tinha lhe dado algum When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

tipo de compreensão do que hardcore (metal pesado) parecia. Isso certamente não soava como Ninjas Urbanos.

Jasmine deu um show por estar ofendida pela insinuação de Smotely de que ela não era fria o suficiente para apreciar a música da banda. — Eu sou muito hardcore, — ela respondeu, entregandolhe o dinheiro e pegando os ingressos.

— O que seja, — ele disse com um encolher de ombros e voltou para seus amigos melancólicos.

Assim que ele saiu do alcance da sua voz, Winter perguntou com cautela: — O que você está fazendo?

Jasmine sorriu, um brilho malicioso nos olhos. Winter começou a ficar nervosa. Ela tinha visto aquela expressão maliciosa antes e conhecia para temer a sua aparência.

— Eu tenho uma ideia.

Winter engoliu em seco. "Oh, não...

— Ouça-me. Nós estabelecemos que flores, chocolates, corações vermelhos grandes e ursos de pelúcia não são bons, certo?

O que vocês gostam? Música. E que coincidência – olhe o que eu tenho aqui. — Ela espalhou os quatro ingressos. — Você está me seguindo?

Winter balançou a cabeça, embora ela teve uma suspeita de que Jasmine estava prestes a propor.

— Depois da escola hoje, você vai andar até a casa de Blake e dar a ele um destes. — Jasmine deslizou dois ingressos sobre a mesa. — Diga-lhe que o ingresso é um sinal de sua apreciação por ele ter salvado a sua vida, blá, blá, blá.

— Você é louca.

— Não, eu não sou. É uma maneira infalível para você ir a um encontro com ele, sem ter de pedir um encontro.

Apesar da explicação legal de Jasmine, este plano não agradou Winter. Na verdade, isso a fez sentir um pouco doente. — When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Jas, eu não gosto mesmo de os Ninjas Urbanos! Além disso, eu não posso pagar os ingressos. — Ela empurrou-os para o outro lado para Jasmine, que prontamente devolveu a ela.

— Eu posso. É um presente.

Nervosa, Winter sacudiu a cabeça. — Eu não posso!

Jasmine jogou as mãos para cima, exasperada. — Win...

— Olha, o que você quer que eu diga? Eu aprecio o pensamento, mas... — Winter sabia que o coração de Jasmine estava no lugar certo, mas não havia nenhuma maneira de que ela iria para o lugar Velasco e chamar Blake para o show.

Jasmine abruptamente empurrou o almoço de lado e levantou-se.

Winter franziu a testa. — O que você está fazendo?

— Inspirando você. — Jasmine olhou para além do ombro de Winter e aprovou uma expressão determinada. Winter seguiu seu olhar e viu Sam sentado sozinho comendo um hambúrguer.

Enquanto Winter assistia com espanto, Jasmine atravessar o refeitório para ele. Ele não pareceu muito preocupado que o almoço estava sendo interrompido. Depois de um minuto ou dois conversando, Jasmine acenou para Sam e marchou de volta para Winter. Com uma expressão satisfeita, ela sentou-se e pegou o garfo.

— Concluído.

Winter sussurrou para a amiga. — O que está feito?

— Vocês dois irão para o show com Sam e eu na quinta-feira.

— O quê?

— Você me ouviu.

— Mas Jas...

— Nada de mas. Isso está acontecendo. Se você não passar por isso, você não só vai me deixar para baixo, mas Sam também.

— Jas! — Fim da conversa. Você vai ter uma vida, querendo você When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

uma ou não!

Jasmine começou a comer seu almoço de novo, sorrindo presunçosamente entre garfadas. Winter empurrou sua bandeja do almoço para o lado. Ela tinha perdido o apetite.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 14 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Pelo resto do dia os ingressos permaneceram amontoados debaixo da jaqueta de Blake no fundo da bolsa de Winter. Fora de vista, mas definitivamente não fora da mente. Quando a campainha final soou, ela ainda não tinha chegado a uma decisão sobre o que ela ia fazer com eles. Geralmente era fácil para ela rejeitar as tentativas de Jasmine, mas o plano desta vez de sua amiga insistente a prendeu.

Romanticamente falando, ser tímida não levou Winter muito longe.

Este era seu último ano do ensino médio e o fato triste era que, a maioria dos garotos de sua classe provavelmente não sabia o seu nome. Na melhor das hipóteses eles a viam como sombra de

Jasmine, na pior das hipóteses eles não a viam em tudo. O que ela tem a perder se ela pedir a Blake para ir ao show? Apenas o seu orgulho, mas se houvesse uma chance de Blake dizer que sim, não valeria a pena arriscar um pouco a humilhação? Meditando sobre esta questão, Winter fez seu caminho para o estacionamento da escola.

Jessie não deu nenhum sinal de soluço mecânico de ontem, e logo Winter teceu seu caminho em direção a Maple Boulevard e Fletch‘s Photographics.

Cantarolando pelas ruas arborizadas, a confusão de Winter e o estresse começaram a diminuir. Ela parou de se preocupar com os ingressos e a vergonha de perguntar a Blake sobre o show.

Ela até se permitiu uma pequena faísca de esperança de que sua máquina fotográfica poderia estar salva. Andando com Jessie era bom assim - sempre que Winter estava na motocicleta sua perspectiva iluminava. Algo sobre o vento nos cabelos, a sensação de velocidade e de movimento, apenas a fazia se sentir mais feliz.

Sua mãe nunca quis que Winter tivesse Jessie. Trabalhando como enfermeira no hospital perto da rodovia, ela passou a maior parte de seu tempo cuidando de pacientes feridos acidentados em veículos. Ela chamava motociclistas – de ―pessoas temporárias‖.

Apesar das preocupações de sua mãe, foi amor à primeira vista quando Winter viu a motocicleta creme usada em um quintal sujo.

Ela não se importava que ela estava enferrujada e tinha a potência de um veículo - cortador de grama - comprando a Jessie Winter se sentiu bem. Mesmo depois que ela entrou na escola de condução defensiva, sua mãe ainda não ficou feliz com a compra, mas Winter nunca se arrependeu. Ela nunca esteve remotamente perto de entrar em um acidente.

Enquanto Winter virava para Maple Boulevard, ela olhou para o espelho lateral como ela sempre fazia, em seguida, olhou por When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

cima do ombro apenas para garantir que o caminho estava livre.

Não havia carro surgindo imediatamente ao seu lado; mais para trás, porém, Winter viu algo que a fez parar. Uma caminhonete branca estava chegando pelo trânsito mediano. Caminhonete de Blake. Ela tinha certeza disso.

Ela voltou sua atenção para a estrada, e foi da mesma forma que ela fez, porque naquele momento um vulto negro com listras passou à sua frente. Winter reagiu instintivamente para evitá-lo, desviando toda a pista para o caminho do tráfego. Ela tinha apenas um segundo para registrar que a forma preta era um filhote de Labrador antes de qualquer outra coisa exigir sua atenção. A caminhonete vermelha estava cambaleando em direção a ela.

No último instante, uma mulher de meia-idade ao volante arrancou a caminhonete para a direita, esquivando-se de Winter e correndo uma roda para cima da calçada no processo. O carro chegou tão perto da motocicleta que Winter foi capaz de observar em detalhe assustador a mancha amarela na blusa do motorista, juntamente com o sanduíche meio comido deitado no banco do passageiro.

Winter se endireitou de volta para o lado correto da estrada, coração martelando no peito. Ela parou e desligou a motocicleta, dando aos seus nervos uma chance de se acalmarem.

Foi o primeiro quase acidente que tinha tido em todo o tempo que ela estava montada na Jessie. O fato de que isto também foi a segunda vez que ela quase morreu em dois dias, não passou despercebido por ela. Ocorreu para Winter, alguma coisa sinistra, que a sua má sorte em Pilgrim Lament parecia tê-la seguido. À medida que seu batimento cardíaco começava a desacelerar, ela notou algo estranho em seu espelho lateral. Três figuras escuras estavam de pé na estrada atrás dela. Ela virou, mas tudo o que ela viu foi o dono do cachorro correndo para recuperar o animal de When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

estimação rebelde. Não havia sinal das três figuras e quando ela olhou para o espelho novamente, não havia evidência do reflexo deles. Tinha que ser só sua mente, repleta de adrenalina, brincando com ela.

Não havia nenhum sinal da caminhonete de Blake, também.

Se isso mesmo tinha sido Blake. Havia todas as chances da caminhonete enferrujada ser de outra pessoa. Certamente depois de ver o quase acidente de Winter, Blake teria parado para ver se ela estava bem. Dirigindo de volta para a estrada, ela dirigiu muito devagar e com cuidado o resto do caminho para a rua comercial, para desgosto dos carros atrás dela.

Até o momento de Winter parar no estacionamento em frente a Fletch Photographics, os seus nervos se estabilizaram um pouco, mas ela ainda estava se sentindo trêmula. Ela rapidamente olhou seu reflexo na janela da loja adjacente à frente, para ter certeza que ela não parecia muito exausta antes de entrar. Quando ela se aproximou do balcão de serviço na parte de trás da loja, Mitch, o gerente da loja, franziu a testa para sua aparência desgrenhada.

— Você está bem Winter?

Durante os últimos dois anos, quando ela se tornou uma cliente regular, ela e Mitch tinham atingido algo que, se não uma amizade, então era mais quente do que o habitual relacionamento varejista com o cliente. Esquentando o suficiente para chamar um ao outro pelo primeiro nome. Ele era cerca de dez anos mais velho, e um lembrete do tipo de carreira e de vida que ela poderia desfrutar se ela não se formasse e saísse da cidade. Uma vida que consistia em trabalhar no varejo, se embriagar no clube de surf nas noites de sexta-feira e se casar e ter filhos antes de atingir seus vinte e poucos anos, porque não havia muito mais o que fazer.

Winter forçou um sorriso. — Eu estou bem, Mitch. Como When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

está o meu bebê?

A maneira como ele suspirou sugeriu que seu bebê não estava em grande forma em tudo. Mitch se inclinou e procurou debaixo do balcão. Ele era careca na parte de trás de sua cabeça, couro cabeludo rosa mostrando através de seu corte loiro. Quando ele se endireitou novamente para cima, algo sobre seu comportamento fez Winter pensar em um médico dando más notícias a um paciente.

— Eu tentei o meu melhor, mas o corpo foi completamente destruído e as lentes, bem... — Ele trouxe o que restava de sua Nikon, e colocou-a na frente dela. — Veja por si mesmo. O que você fez? Passou um carro sobre ela?

Cala a boca, Mitch - Eu deixei uma igreja cair sobre ela, na verdade. Winter virou a câmera mais em suas mãos, piscando sobre When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

o momento em que seu pai havia dado a ela. Era um chuvoso sábado à tarde. Ela tinha acabado de voltar do farol no Pico Whistler, onde ela tinha tirado algumas fotos usando a função de câmera em seu telefone. Enquanto ela estava enviando-as para o seu computador, seu pai tinha cutucado o nariz por cima do ombro e exclamou com entusiasmo genuíno, — Uau! Essas parecem muito boas, garota!— Winter teve que encolher os ombros modestamente, mas foi secretamente emocionada com o elogio. Ele realmente nunca tomou um grande interesse em qualquer coisa que ela havia feito antes. Depois de analisar todas as imagens, ele disse a ela, — Eu tenho algo no sótão que pode lhe interessar.

Este misterioso objeto acabou por ser a Nikon.

Aparentemente seu pai não tinha problema com o aspecto técnico de tirar fotos, só faltava o talento criativo necessário. Sempre perfeccionista, ele abandonou o curso anterior, em vez de perder seu tempo com uma habilidade que ele nunca dominaria e a câmera se sentou negligenciada, juntando poeira desde então.

Winter estava fascinada pela peça arcaica da tecnologia - as câmeras que ela tinha utilizado foram digitais - e estava ansiosa para começar a usá-la imediatamente. Seu pai estava mais do que feliz em transmitir seu conhecimento técnico sobre os temas da exposição, distância focal, e assim por diante, mas infelizmente eles não tinham qualquer filme. Isto precipitou o primeiro de muitos passeios – pai e filha - para Fletch.

Ela lembrou-se vividamente do primeiro dia que encontrou com Mitch -o seu corte e bigode loiro combinando, uma camiseta branca que ele usava que dizia ―buzine se você acha que eu sou sexy ". Ela se lembrou especialmente da expressão cômica de incredulidade quando perguntaram se ele tinha qualquer rolo de filme de 35 mm.

— Faz um tempo desde que alguém se interessa por um, — ele confessou, fazendo-a ainda mais animada sobre ter suas mãos em um rolo de filme - ela se sentiu como uma contrabandista de lidar em contrabando ilegal.

Depois de pesquisar na parte de trás da loja por alguns minutos, Mitch conseguiualguns rolos ("Bem atrás de alguns ossos de dinossauros", ele brincou) e prometeu encomendar mais. Ele então começou a gastar uma quantidade generosa de tempo procurando conjuntos de lentes diferentes que estavam disponíveis para um amador iniciante - tão generoso, de fato, o pai de Winter brincou que ele estava mais interessado nela do que vender qualquer coisa para eles.

Eles passaram os próximos fins de semana na internet pesquisando por artigos de fotografia e execução de testes de cinema juntos em uma câmara escura improvisada que seu pai trouxe do porão (para irritação de sua mãe). Não foi fácil obter o revelador necessário e fixador de fluídos, então ele, em vez de misturar as soluções ele mesmo, utilizou materiais da farmácia.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Aquelas tardes ocupadas de sábado tinham sido alguns dos melhores momentos que Winter poderia lembrar. Agora, segurando a Nikon nas mãos, ela sentiu uma profunda tristeza que tinha pouco a ver com a câmera quebrada do que sua destruição simbolizada.

— Eu posso enviá-la para o fabricante - Talvez eles possam fazer alguma coisa. — Mitch ofereceu timidamente, falando para à expressão cabisbaixa de Winter.

Ela largou a câmera de volta para o balcão. — Obrigada de qualquer maneira, Mitch, mas seria apenas um desperdício de tempo. Isto foi feito no passado.

O rosto de Mitch se iluminou. — Ei, eu quase esqueci. — Ele abaixou-se de novo para remexer debaixo do balcão, desta vez vindo com um pacote de fotografias. Ele o entregou para ela com orgulho. — A câmera pode ser um caso perdido, mas eu fui capaz de salvar o filme e desenvolver as fotos. Você tem boas fotos aqui, Winter.

Winter sentiu um lampejo de alívio - pelo menos havia uma fresta de esperança a esta nuvem escura. Ela abriu o pacote e começou a vasculhar as fotos e ficou encantada ao descobrir que Mitch estava certo. Ela havia tirado boas fotos dePilgrim‘s Lament.

Boas era na verdade um pouco de eufemismo, suas fotografias eram interessantes, bem composta, e – ousou pensar que ela era artística. Parecia que a Nikon não havia morrido em vão.

Winter franziu a testa enquanto ela segurava a última fotografia para um exame mais minucioso. Foi a fotografia que ela tinha tirado de Blake em pé no túmulo - a fotografia que quase custou a vida de Winter. Algo estava errado com ela, no entanto.

O fundo estava bem, embora um pouco embaçada. Havia as lápides picando suas cabeças cobertas de musgo - fora das ervas daninhas e grama, havia as madeiras escuras por trás do cemitério mas o objeto da foto, Blake, estava obscurecido pelo que parecia um When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

borrão preto estranho. Winter mostrou a fotografia para Mitch. — O que houve com esta?

Mitch olhou para a foto e assentiu. — Oh, sim, eu vi isso... me bate2. Achei que o filme pudesse ter sido danificado quando a câmera morreu.

Winter olhou para a imagem com uma sobrancelha franzida.

— Mas por que só esta imagem? As outras se viraram muito bem.

Mitch encolheu os ombros. — Às vezes as coisas estranhas acontecem quando você trabalha com filme. Talvez seja a hora de entrar na era digital?

Não satisfeita com essa explicação, Winter deslizou a imagem de volta com as outras. Após consultar o preço - que parecia muito baixo e ela odiava se sentir como um caso de caridade - ela pagou à Mitch pelas cópias e saiu da loja.

Ainda sentindo-se estranhamente perturbada, Winter quase perdeu o cartaz em Howl‘s Music Jamboree quando ela saiu da loja de Mitch para sua motocicleta. A obra de arte berrante dominava a janela e apresentava três homens vestidos com quimonos japoneses, usando maquiagem pesada preta e espadas de conquista. Abaixo deles uma inscrita seguia o roteiro: "Os Ninjas Urbanos: Caminho do guerreiro" Havia um adesivo na parte inferior da janela de publicidade 'Ingressos já à venda'.

Ingressos. Todos os seus pensamentos da fotografia, a câmera em ruínas, o quase acidente, foram postos de lado quando Winter lembrou o que tinha que fazer. Em quinze minutos, mais ou menos ela estaria no velho local Velasco, batendo na porta da frente de Blake para devolver sua jaqueta.

Ela não estava olhando para todos os presságios para ajudar a fazer a sua decisão quanto a seguir o plano de Jasmine, mas isto estava lá, bem na frente dela. O concerto de Os Ninjas Urbanos.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

2

Tipo de gíria – uma crítica.

Quinta-feira. Parecia que o destino estava conspirando com Jasmine, exortando-a a ter uma chance.

Engolindo nervosamente, Winter continuou andando para onde ela havia estacionado Jessie. Ela podia sentir os ingressos deitado no fundo de sua bolsa pesando para baixo, crescendo mais pesado a cada passo.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 15 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Aproximando da Holloway Road, o clique persistente de odômetro da Jessie soou aos ouvidos ansiosos de Winter como o tique-taque de uma bomba relógio. Ela tentou racionalizar que aquilo que ela estava fazendo era perfeitamente aceitável - ele deixou sua jaqueta com ela quando ele a deixou, ela estava fazendo um favor a ele percorrendo aqui fora para devolvê-la - mas foi quase como se ela tivesse contratado algum tipo de vírus. A ideia de ver Blake novamente a fez se sentir quente e doente e preocupada.

Certamente uma vez que ela estivesse realmente na frente dele, esses sintomas diminuiriam. Ela vendo Blake não era a figura de

fantasia que ela estava construindo em sua mente. Ele era um cara normal.

O sinal apontando para desligar surgiu e Winter lutou contra o desejo de continuar dirigindo à direita. Ela quase não venceu a batalha, forçando-se para virar Jessie para a espessa, abrigada, passagem da floresta. Embora ainda faltasse algumas horas para o anoitecer, o sol tinha afundado por trás da montanha e trouxe um início de crepúsculo a esta seção das madeiras. Assombras dos galhos das árvores, lançadas pela estranha meia-luz, estendia em toda a estrada como mãos agarradas. O único som que Winter podia ouvir era o motor da Jessie, uma vez que reverberou através do silêncio azul-esverdeado.

Nervosa, ela examinou a linha da árvore para calçada da casa famosa. Onde está? Certamente ela já se deparou com a casa até agora? Ela estava prestes a virar a Jessie, pensando que ela deve ter perdido a estrada, quando ela viu uma pausa nas árvores à frente: um caminho de terra que leva para dentro dos bosques mais profundos.

O lugar Velasco.

Nervosa, Winter freou e virou para a entrada da garagem.

Ela rolou Jessie lentamente em direção a casa, folhas mortas esmagando sob os pneus.

Fazia dois Halloweens atrás que ela tinha passado aqui, mas a casa no final da trilha parecia um mau presságio como ela se lembrava. Naquela noite escura, rastejando em direção a porta da frente com Jasmine para testar seus nervos, Winter tinha involuntariamente recordado de Poe "A Queda da Casa de Usher".

Algo sobre a maneira como o narrador sentia uma "insuportável tristeza‖ descendo sobre a sua alma enquanto se aproximava da casa, parecia particularmente oportuno em relação ao lugar Velasco.

Assim como ela teve naquela noite, Winter perguntou When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

distraidamente se o velho Edgar Allan nunca tinha visitado Bluff Hagan, e arriscado esta particular trilha lamacenta. As semelhanças eram surpreendentes.

A mansão de dois andares pode ter sido bonita uma vez, mas há muito tempo tinha caído em desuso. Cordas de hera se agarravam a ela como veias doentes, e a maioria de sua pintura branca tinha descascado, expondo placas cinza. Três das janelas do andar térreo estavam rachadas, o resto endurecido de sujeira e poeira. Ainda mais estranha do que a própria casa era a árvore magnólia desmedida à espreita na borda do jardim da frente.

Trançada e escura, a árvore foi infectada pelo mesmo ambiente corrompido estragando a casa, e parecia que ia arrancar-se a qualquer momento e cambaleando em sua direção.

Winter desacelerou a Jessie a uma parada e saltou, olhando para a casa com apreensão. Não havia nenhum sinal da caminhonete de Blake no jardim da frente, dando-lhe a vaga esperança de que ele não poderia estar em casa. Ela não sabia ao certo até que ela marchou até a porta da frente e bateu. Atirando sua bolsa sobre um ombro, Winter andou para a casa. Os passos rangeram sob seu cuidado quando ela subiu para a varanda sombreada. Ela teve de se abaixar sob a hera derramada dos beirais, antes que pudesse chegar à porta.

O cheiro da umidade ascendente fazendo-a tossir, Winter tentou entender por que Blake, a própria encarnação da beleza estética, escolheria viver em um lugar totalmente privado. Por que não comprar um dos bangalôs abaixo em Lighthouse Beach? Eles não poderiam ter sido muito mais caro. Pedir a um cara por um encontro era uma coisa, mas ter de enfrentar uma casa mal assombrada era mais do que uma garota deve ter para lidar.

Winter levantou a mão para bater na madeira nua da porta.

Seu punho pairou ali por um momento, enquanto ela mentalmente When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

percorria o script que ela tinha preparado. "Oi, Blake, espero não

estar interrompendo. Você deixou o seu casaco comigo ontem, então eu pensei em trazê-lo de volta. Como você está instalado? " Então, ela teria que encontrar uma maneira artisticamente em referência para o bilhete do show, algo ao longo das linhas de,

"Você nunca vai adivinhar o que aconteceu, mas eu ganhei dois ingressos em um sorteio para ver os Ninjas Urbanos, na noite de quinta-feira, e que você poderia gostar.. É o mínimo que posso fazer depois que você salvou minha vida." Na cabeça de Winter parecia um pouco bobo, ela realmente esperava que não soasse tão ruim quando saísse da sua boca.

Winter bateu os nós dos dedos na porta rapidamente, combinando o ritmo agitado de seu batimento cardíaco. Ela esperou por alguns segundos e bateu novamente. Ninguém abriu a porta e ela não podia ouvir qualquer passos no outro lado. Sentindo-se aliviada, Winter abriu o zíper da bolsa e tirou a jaqueta de Blake.

Ela deveria apenas deixá-la aqui e desperdiçar a única oportunidade que ela tinha para vê-lo novamente? Pesando-se sobre suas opções, Winter foi subitamente distraída pelo estalar alto de um galho no bosque ao lado da casa.

Alguém estava se movendo lá fora.

Franzindo a testa, ela desceu da varanda e olhou na direção do barulho. Estava muito escuro agora para ver muito claramente, mas Winter pensou que ela poderia apenas ver uma forma preta alta se movendo entre as árvores que limitam o jardim da frente. Ela seguiu o seu progresso por um momento antes de ela desaparecer nas sombras mais profundas.

"Olá?" Ela chamou, sua voz traindo um traço de seu medo constante. Se fosse Blake lá fora, por que ele não responde?

Houve um farfalhar no bosque logo atrás dela. Winter girou ao redor, com medo piscando através do roxo da meia-luz. Ela não When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

podia ver ninguém, mas soou como se as pessoas estivessem espreitando através da vegetação em ambos os lados do pátio, a circulando. Observando-a. Um vento frio começou a soprar, lançando as folhas mortas sob a árvore de magnólia para Winter.

Quando ela era criança, Winter tinha experimentado terrores noturnos, muitas vezes deixando seu quarto nas primeiras horas da manhã para subir na cama de seus pais. Ela sempre corria a curta distância entre seu quarto e de seus pais com os olhos fechados, convencida de que havia algo horrível a perseguindo através da escuridão. Esse mesmo medo irracional a agarrou agora.

Havia algo naqueles bosques, algo que queria machucá-la! Winter virou-se e correu de volta para a escadaria até a varanda. Ela bateu na porta da frente de novo, mais freneticamente neste momento.

Blake? Por favor, deixe-me entrar! Não houve resposta.

Atrás dela, ela ouviu agora outro som: um clique baixo mas distinto, como um inseto gigante rangendo suas mandíbulas juntas.

O barulho era mais aterrorizante do que os ramos sendo pisoteado, como alienígena, como desumano. Em pânico agora, Winter desistiu de bater e tentou a maçaneta.

Trancada!

Sem outra opção, Winter tentou novamente, desta vez desesperadamente disposta a abrir sob seu toque. Embora ela não tinha nenhuma referência visual, uma imagem do funcionamento interno da trava, especificamente o copo deslizando para trás para soltar o parafuso, materializou em sua mente. Ao mesmo tempo, milagrosamente, ela sentiu a maçaneta girar. Ela empurrou a porta, correu para dentro e bateu a porta fechando-a atrás dela.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 16 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Apoiada com as costas contra a porta, o coração batendo, Winter esperou para ver o que iria acontecer a seguir. À medida que os segundos se passaram sem incidentes, ela começou a se sentir tola.

O que tinha acontecido com ela? Não havia nada lá fora, na floresta - sem presença malévola vindo para buscá-la. Os sons de estalo provavelmente tinham sido apenas um gambá ou alguma outra criatura inofensiva movendo-se na vegetação rasteira. Esse pânico cego que agarrou deve ter sido algum tipo de estresse póstraumático tardio do quase acidente, esta tarde, ou talvez da fuga da igreja ontem. Apenas um processamento de sobra da adrenalina,

fabricando a ilusão de perigo. Não havia figuras escuras a perseguindo. Não havia nenhuma razão para ter medo.

— Você é uma perdedora, — Winter disse a si mesma, deixando escapar um suspiro longo e trêmulo. A porta se abrindo sob sua mão foi estranho, especialmente como isso coincidiu com a assustadoramente imagem mental detalhada do copo correndo livre - uma imagem que ela não tinha ideia foi armazenada em algum lugar nos arquivos de sua imaginação. Era quase como se sua imaginação tivesse ampliado pelo buraco da fechadura e testemunhado as partes da fechadura se movendo, motivado pela sua vontade. No entanto, foi fácil racionalizar essa sensação peculiar.

A imagem vívida tinha sido simplesmente o subproduto de toda a adrenalina inundando seu sistema. Seu desespero frenético sacudindo a maçaneta da porta, simplesmente deve ter aberto a fechadura antiga. Não havia nada de incomum nisso.

Satisfeita ela resolveu o mistério, Winter afastou-se da porta.

— Olá? Blake?

O único som que ela podia ouvir era o tique-taque de um relógio em algum lugar nas profundezas da casa. Embora a luz lá fora tinha praticamente desaparecido, ainda era muito mais brilhante do que o interior da casa. A noite havia caído cedo, dentro destas paredes. Parecia que Blake havia atraído cada cortina da casa, selando a escuridão, ou a saída de luz.

Conforme seus olhos se adaptaram, Winter podia ver uma escada em frente a ela.

Olhando para as sombras no topo das escadas a fez se sentir desconfortável. Ela imaginou o espectro de Velasco emergindo do espaço, flutuando para baixo descendo as escadas em direção a ela, seus olhos avermelhados e rosto negro, a corda pendurada balançando em suas mãos pálidas.

Tremendo, Winter largou a mochila e retirou a jaqueta de When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Blake. Agora o que ela iria fazer? Blake provavelmente ficaria um pouco preocupado se ele voltasse para casa e encontrasse a sua jaqueta sentada dobrada no chão sem nenhuma explicação de como ela apareceu. Ela tinha que pelo menos deixar um bilhete.

Infelizmente tinha deixado o caderno em seu armário na escola, assim ela não tinha nada para escrever. Havia várias caixas de papelão empilhadas agredidas contra a parede ao lado dela, algumas ainda seladas com fita adesiva. Blake não deve ter tido tempo para

terminar de desempacotar. Talvez ela encontrasse um pedaço de papel em branco entre suas coisas. Winter espiou dentro da caixa aberta mais próxima.

Em vez de papel, ou potes e panelas, ou qualquer outra coisa que ela tinha imaginado que poderia conter, Winter ficou intrigada ao ver que a caixa estava cheia de livros. Não apenas quaisquer livros - ela não conseguia ver qualquer rascunho ou livros. Em vez disso, a caixa continha várias dezenas de diários encadernados em couro. Sua curiosidade irresistível culpou quaisquer reservas, Winter pegou um diário superior e abriu-o. Suas páginas eram amareladas com a idade e farfalhava baixinho quando ela virava-as.

A data acima do primeiro registo de leitura era ―11de novembro de 1891‖. O diário era mais- antigo! Infelizmente, a escrita caligráfica fluindo abaixo da data, era bonita de se ver, era completamente incompreensível para ela. Winter havia estudado francês um semestre, quatro anos atrás e reconheceu uma palavra aqui e ali, mas não havia nenhuma maneira que ela pudesse traduzir o que ela estava lendo.

Winter fechou o diário, no processo de desalojar uma folha solta de papel dobrada, enfiada na capa traseira. Ela voou para o chão, e quando ela ajoelhou-se para pegá-la, ela ficou surpresa ao ver que estava escrito em Inglês.

15 de agosto de 1892 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Querida Elisabetta, Escrevo sob o pretexto de que estou praticando meu Inglês, mas eu rezo por essas palavras, que de alguma forma encontrem o caminho do seu coração, uma passagem durante a noite e se fixem em um sonho, e você vai acordar com uma percepção diferente de mim. É um desejo tolo. Você nunca vai decifrar este pergaminho frio, nunca verá esses desajeitados arranhões à luz de velas, nunca saberá o tormento que eu aguentei a cada momento. Sou um covarde, Elisabetta, embora certamente você suspeitou pela maneira que eu empalideci quando você entrou no quarto, como eu mal pude reunir uma fala quando você me cumprimentou. Meu maior medo é que você confunda minha reticência por apatia, ou pior - hostilidade. A verdade é que você me deixou impotente e doente, como um veneno. Não consigo resistir ao desejo da embebição. Eu desejo você, Elisabetta, desde a nossa primeira conversa durante o tutorial do Professor Ovarecz. Muitas vezes eu reproduzi isso na minha mente, envergonhado pela minha própria falta de jeito. Suas palavras foram cruéis, Elisabetta, tanto mais dolorosas quanto elas caíram de lábios tão requintados. Minha mãe disse que você esconde seus verdadeiros sentimentos, que você se importa comigo tão fortemente como eu a você, mas eu não me atrevo acreditar. Seria o máximo acreditar que um anjo poderia se apaixonar por um jumento. Devo confessar assim que eu olhei para você do outro lado da sala, observando a luz dos seus cabelos dourados brilhantes e vermelhos? Eu posso ver o brilho no azul profundo dos seus olhos como se você carregasse o sol dentro de você. A luz me chama, desejos despertam assustando com sua intensidade. Tempo não faz sentido neste momento. Imagino acariciando seu rosto, sentindo a suavidade da sua pele, vendo sua palidez ao lado da minha própria pele escura. Como uma sombra caindo sobre a neve...

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Winter parou a leitura, quando ouviu um som abafado profundamente dentro da casa. Ela prendeu a respiração por um momento, escutando. Quando não havia mais barulho, ela falou nervosamente. — Olá? Tem alguém aí?

Deve ter sido apenas sua imaginação. Depois de sua louca corrida dos fantasmas invisíveis na floresta, era óbvio que ela estava em um estado altamente sugestionável de espírito.

Apesar de querer ler o resto da carta, Winter escorregou de volta para o diário e a substituiu na caixa. Isso não faria com que Blake achasse que alguém vasculhou seus pertences. Ela se perguntou brevemente se o autor já tinha confessado seus verdadeiros sentimentos por Elisabetta ou se o amor não foi correspondido. Caso ela chegasse a conhecer Blake melhor, ela poderia perguntar a ele sobre os diários e o que aconteceu com o romântico que os escreveu.

Agora, ela não queria ficar mais no lugar Velasco. Winter se sentia como uma invasora, uma sensação de desconforto agravado pelo seu pavor desta infame casa. Tinha que haver um pedaço de papel em algum lugar para que ela escrevesse um bilhete para Blake.

O corredor ramificou-se para os lados. Uma cozinha de azulejos brancos era visível à sua direita e à sua esquerda o que parecia uma grande sala de estar...

Winter viu algo cinzento ondulando na meia-luz. Era apenas uma lençol que cobria uma parte da mobília. Deve haver uma janela aberta em algum lugar, permitindo que uma brisa irritasse o tecido de tal maneira perturbadora. O que ela pensava que fosse? Um fantasma? Ridículo. Não havia tal coisa como...

Uma forma veio rastejando para fora da sala de estar com ela.

Winter deu um passo para trás. Mas ela não estava sendo atacada pelo espectro de Velasco - apenas um gato malhado gorducho. Ela realmente estava uma pilha de nervos, esta tarde. O When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

gato olhou com curiosidade por um momento antes de preencher e esfregar-se contra seu jeans.

— Qual é o seu nome? — Ela perguntou, ajoelhando-se para acariciar o gato. Que se estendia sob o toque de Winter, claramente gostando da atenção. Havia algo familiar sobre o gato. Ele lembrava do gato que ela tinha visto na televisão... Ou em um sonho.

Enquanto ela estava acariciando o gato malhado, outro traço de movimento chamou sua atenção. Para sua surpresa, mais três gatos apareceram. Um era de cor âmbar negra com olhos verdes sonolentos, outro branco e muito magro, o terceiro cinza e ostentava uma cicatriz de batalha em sua bochecha direita. Todos eles estavam sem coleira como o gato malhado. Os gatos se estabeleceram no limiar da sala de estar, olhando-a desconfiados.

Então, Blake era um amante de gato.

Winter encontrou o conceito de ele possuir assim muitos gatos sem dono - a julgar pela falta de coleiras. Isso sugeriu uma solidão que parecia em desacordo com sua aparência e personalidade.

Contra a parede perto da base da escada havia uma mesa grande de carvalho e um espelho. Certamente haveria algum papel e uma caneta na gaveta que ela poderia usar. Ela se aproximou e começou a vasculhar a gaveta, consternada ao descobrir que não havia nada. Apenas pó e algumas baratas mortas.

Ela bateu a gaveta fechada em frustração, e seu joelho bateu contra algo coberto com um pano grosso inclinado contra as pernas da mesa. O objeto grande retangular começou a tombar, e Winter só agora conseguiu pegá-lo.

Um dos cantos do pano caiu, e Winter ajoelhou-se para ver o que estava coberto: uma pintura a óleo. Intrigada, ela afastou o pano, revelando toda a imagem.

Era um retrato de família de uma bela jovem, amamentando When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

duas crianças pequenas no colo - um menino e uma menina.

Gêmeos, Winter tinha certeza disso! Eles compartilhavam os mesmos olhos verdes e feições angelicais. Winter não era uma especialista em história, mas a julgar pela forma como os números foram vestidos na pintura, provavelmente datado na segunda metade do século XIX. Havia algo sobre a imagem que parecia estranhamente familiar, embora Winter não poderia colocar seu dedo sobre isso.

Talvez ela tinha visto uma cópia da mesma em uma arte num livro.

Ela foi atraída pela expressão nos olhos da mãe. Era felicidade contaminada com uma tristeza doce que o Winter achou incrivelmente comovente. Ela se perguntou o que a jovem estava pensando enquanto o artista capturou este aspecto.

A respiração de Winter ficou presa conforme uma música suave começou a tocar nos quartos acima. Ela não estava sozinha. A música era estranha - um pouco abafada e com um assobio distinto, como se estivesse tocando através de um gramofone antigo.

Winter se levantou e pegou seu reflexo no espelho sobre a mesa, e ficou chocada com a forma como ela parecia com medo.

Afinal, era apenas música. Não havia nada de assustador sobre alguém tocando uma música. Blake deve estar lá em cima em algum lugar. Ele provavelmente esteve no chuveiro e tinha acabado de sair, era por isso que ele não ouvira Winter chamando por ele.

Uma voz rouca, acompanhada por um violino solitário, flutuou para baixo através do teto, enviando calafrios pela espinha de Winter. Ela pensou que poderia ser Ella Fitzgerald.

Winter chamou de novo. — Blake, — mas novamente ele não respondeu. Era possível que a música havia afogado a sua voz.

Ela mudou-se para a base das escadas e parou, olhando para os degraus sombrios da escada. Ela estava realmente disposta a ir até lá?

Winter estava vagamente consciente de uma sensação When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

estranha na parte de trás de sua mente, como uma voz sussurrando para ela em um idioma que ela não sabia, mas cujo significado era inegavelmente limpo. Havia algo lá, algo que ela tinha que ver...

Sentindo-se como se tivesse caído em algum tipo de sonho, Winter começou a subir a escada. Ela ignorou o olhar desconfiado dos quatro gatos, que estavam sentados no fundo observando-a como um coro grego em silêncio. Ela estava na metade, quando uma voz ecoou pela casa.

— O que você pensa que está fazendo?

Ela se virou e viu Blake em pé na porta da frente aberta com um monte de mantimentos. O gorducho gato malhado correu para onde ele estava, enrolando a cauda em torno de sua perna esquerda.

Ele não prestou atenção nisso e, continuou olhando com raiva para Winter.

Sentindo-se como se tivesse levado um tapa acordada de um sonho profundo, Winter deslizou de volta para baixo da escada. Seu rosto estava quente o suficiente para inflamar em chamas.

— Eu sinto muito... Eu ouvi a música e no andar de cima...

— Como se tivesse feito de propósito, a música parou de tocar no nível superior, fazendo-a parecer como uma mentirosa.

— O que você está falando? — Blake exigiu.

— Eu... Hum...

— Eu deveria chamar a polícia!

— Por favor, não! A porta estava aberta. Eu - Eu chamei antes de entrar. E... — Winter estava tendo dificuldade para conseguir as palavras. Como ela poderia explicar a ele o pânico When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

irracional que a levou para dentro?

— Basta ir, Winter, — ele ordenou, visivelmente tentando conter sua raiva. Seus olhos continuavam pulando atrás dela para além das escadas, como se estivesse procurando alguém. Uma

namorada?Isso é provavelmente quem estava tocando a música!

Winter, mortificada queria desesperadamente escapar desta situação terrível, mas depois lembrou-se da jaqueta. Talvez isso pudesse ajudar a provar que ela veio aqui com as melhores intenções.

— Blake, eu... Ah... Só queria devolver a sua jaqueta. Está perto dos diários.

Os olhos dele voaram para a jaqueta deitada perto dos diários. Ele parecia crescer ainda mais irritado, como se achasse que ela estava espionando suas coisas.

— Eu não toquei em nada, — ela mentiu, ficando mais vermelha a cada segundo. — Eu também vim para dar-lhe um presente. Você sabe, por me salvar ontem. — Tateando no bolso, ela silenciosamente repreendeu a si mesma. O que há de errado comigo? Devo ter perdido minha mente! Suas ações haviam sido dolorosamente estúpida. Inadequada. Tola.

Encontrando o ingresso, Winter estendeu para Blake como uma oferta de paz. — Eu pensei que seria um gesto simpático...

— Eu não quero nada de você. Saia. Agora. — Desta vez era mais frustração em sua voz do que a raiva. Ele queria que ela fosse, e Winter não o culpava. Primeiro, ele a pegou espionando no cemitério da igreja, agora ele a pegou rondando a sua casa - não é de admirar que ele queria chamar a polícia! Blake provavelmente pensou que ela fosse alguma perseguidora mentalmente desequilibrada e, o mais assustador era que Winter não podia ter certeza de que ele estava errado.

— Tudo bem. Eu vou. — Com a mão trêmula, Winter deixou o ingresso do show na mesa do corredor, depois passou por Blake, com a cabeça abaixada. Ela nunca se sentiu tão envergonhada em toda sua vida. Uma vez fora, ela praticamente correu para onde estava estacionado a Jessie, saltou sobre e virou a chave. Nada aconteceu.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Ela ouviu a porta da frente se abrir. Blake provavelmente queria gritar com ela mais um pouco. Winter queria virar pó, desaparecer. Seu estômago parecia como se estivesse cheio de ácido de bateria. A qualquer momento ela poderia vomitar.

— Por favor, pegue! — Ela implorou a Jessie, girando a chave de novo, mas a lambreta se recusou.

Agora, tudo o que ela ouviu foram passos na grama enquanto Blake caminhava em sua direção. Lágrimas de humilhação picando na parte de trás dos olhos de Winter, e ela piscou. Ela não queria que ele a visse chorando.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 17 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Winter olhava melancolicamente pela janela da caminhonete de Blake. A pálida mata de Holloway Road brilhava na escuridão. Ela jamais esqueceria de como se sentiu tão humilhada e envergonhada.

Ela olhou de relance para Blake. Iluminado pela luz fraca azul do painel de instrumentos, seu rosto permanecia pedregoso, mandíbula apertada como se selando outro discurso irritado. Ela deveria ter apenas caminhado e deixado Jessie enferrujar no quintal de Blake.

Ela poderia ter caminhado a noite toda até chegar em casa, mas pelo menos ela não teria que suportar esta experiência cansativa. A atmosfera na caminhonete era sufocante, claustrofóbica. De uma

maneira que ela desejava que Blake pudesse apenas gritar com ela mais um pouco. Jogar tudo fora do seu peito. Qualquer coisa, menos esse silêncio miserável.

Winter ainda não entendia por que ele insistiu em levá-la para casa. Este ato de caridade relutante era mais do que ela merecia. Sua lambreta chiava e sacudia na parte de trás da caminhonete, o som lembrando que este inverno era tudo culpa da Jessie. Duas vezes agora, a lambreta tinha sido responsável por unilos como alguns loucos casamenteiros.

— Sinto muito, — disse Blake, Winter surpreendente saiu do seu devaneio miserável.

Ela não sabia bem como responder. — Pelo quê?

— Gritar com você lá atrás. — Ele ainda se recusava a olhar para ela, embora ela pudesse ouvir a nota verdadeira de remorso em sua voz. — Minha reação não foi... Apropriada.

— Você tinha todo o direito de gritar comigo, Blake.

— Não, eu não tinha. Eu só não esperava ver você de novo tão cedo. Você me pegou desprevenido. Ainda assim, eu não poderia ajudar, mas pergunto o que você estava pensando.

Winter se contorceu sob a questão. — A porta estava aberta.

Eu nunca teria entrado de outra forma.

— Ela estava trancada, Winter.

Ofendida com a insinuação, Winter teve um momento para encontrar sua voz. — Eu não arrombei, Blake. — Ela lembrava vividamente a maçaneta da porta girando sob seu toque. — Eu bati primeiro e depois eu ouvi um barulho do lado de fora e...

Blake agora olhou para ela, franzindo a testa. — Que barulho?

— Nada. Você pensaria que eu estava louca. — Recordando seus olhos arregalados de indignação em sua casa, Winter acrescentou: — Ainda mais louca.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Não havia nenhuma maneira que ela pudesse descrever o pânico irracional que ela sentiu na sua varanda da frente com os sons que ouvira na floresta, as formas escuras ela pensou que tinha vislumbrado em movimento através do crepúsculo. Era bastante provável que Blake já achava que ela era desequilibrada sem ela listar os delírios paranoicos. No entanto, a música que ela ouviu no andar de cima não foi uma alucinação. Winter tinha certeza.

— Aquilo no andar de cima foi sua namorada? — Ela perguntou hesitante. — Tocando a música?

A questão pareceu diverti-lo. — Eu vivo sozinho, — ele respondeu após uma longa pausa. — A música que você ouviu foi o rádio.

O rádio? Isso não faz sentido. Por que um rádio começou a tocar e depois desligou sozinho? Blake não parecia disposto a falar mais, então Winter ficou debruçada sobre questões perturbadoras o resto do caminho para casa.

O momento em que Blake parou em frente da entrada, ela alcançou a porta. Ela não podia esperar para ficar livre da tensão no carro, que não tinha diminuído, apesar do seu pedido de desculpas.

Mas antes que ela pudesse escapar, Blake gentilmente pegou o seu braço.

— Winter, espere.

O toque de seus dedos em sua pele enviou um arrepio de prazer através dela, e de repente ela não estava mais ansiosa por desaparecer. Intrigada, ela viu seu conflito preocupante, suas belas feições. Algo estava em sua mente.

— Eu não acho você louca, Winter.

Desarmada pela admissão, ela levou um momento para responder. — Ah. Bom saber.

Havia claramente algo mais que Blake queria dizer, mas as palavras o iludiram. Ou ele estava segurando-se. Winter queria When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

estender a mão e tocá-lo, fazer alguma coisa para que ele soubesse que estava tudo bem em falar com ela, mas o momento passou.

Blake forçou um pequeno sorriso. Foi um esforço fraco para encobrir o que estava o atormentando.

— Vou pegar seu lambreta, — ele disse e saiu, deixando-a desconcertada. No primeiro momento em que viu Blake no cemitério, Winter sentiu que ele carregava uma tristeza secreta dentro dele. Este mistério era parte de sua sedução, acrescentando profundidade a sua beleza, o que tornava difícil para ela tirá-lo de sua mente. Apesar de tudo o que havia acontecido entre eles, vislumbrando algum segredo nos olhos de Blake reacendeu sua curiosidade. Ela ainda queria conhecê-lo, no entanto, não havia qualquer chance de que ele quisesse mais saber dela.

Quando Winter pulou para fora da caminhonete, Blake estava rolando a Jessie para a entrada da casa. Ele descansou a lambreta no cavalete e se virou para ela, seus olhos verdes brilhando no escuro. Apenas ontem à tarde ele estava de pé em mais ou menos no mesmo lugar, olhando para ela com uma intensidade similar.

Uma luz acendeu na varanda, banhando-os em seu brilho fraco amarelo. Ambos olharam para cima para ver uma sombra emmovimento atrás da cortina: Lucy. A irmã intrometida de Winter estava enviando uma mensagem não muito sutil de que eles estavam sendo observados.

— Bem, eu acho que isso é um adeus, — Winter disse, procurando em seu rosto por um sinal - qualquer sinal – de que isso não era um adeus. Que ele a perdoou pelo que aconteceu esta tarde e queria vê-la novamente. Em vez disso, suas esperanças afundaram quando Blake enfiou a mão na jaqueta e tirou o ingresso do show.

— Pegue isso de volta.

— Ok. — Winter cautelosamente arrancou de sua mão o When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

objeto que causou todo esse tumulto. — Eu sinto muito por... Tudo.

Blake rejeitou seu pedido de desculpas. — Esqueça isso. — Ele acenou com a cabeça para o ingresso. — Foi um bom pensamento, Winter. Talvez você possa dar a um de seus amigos?

Winter não sabia o que ia fazer com o ingresso. Queimá-lo veio à mente.

— Te vejo por aí, — Blake disse, seus olhos se encontraram mais uma vez quando ele passou por ela. Esse conflito ainda estava lá, assim como uma outra coisa - remorso, talvez? Então, novamente, poderia ser apenas um pensamento positivo de sua parte. Winter assistiu Blake subir em sua caminhonete e ir embora, e depois empurrou Jessie para a sua garagem, resistindo à vontade de chutar a lambreta por todo o caminho.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 18 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Enquanto caminhava no andar de cima ela podia ouvir Lucy no telefone na cozinha, a conversa muito baixa para ela ouvir quaisquer palavras. Winter estava grata pela irmã estar distraída.

Ela começou andar na ponta dos pés pelo corredor...

— Winter?

Caramba! Lucy deve ter ouvido seus passos. — O que?

— Telefone para você. Espere um segundo, Jas, ela acabou de entrar pela porta.

Jasmine era a última pessoa que ela queria falar agora. Com um suspiro relutante, Winter foi e tirou o telefone de Lucy.

Ela colocou o aparelho contra a orelha, afastando-se de sua irmã. Ela estava preocupada que seu rosto revelasse muito.

— Olá?

Jasmine soou como se ela estivesse comendo alguma coisa do outro lado da linha. Entre garfadas ela conseguiu deixar escapar: — Você sabe por que eu estou ligando. Fale comigo.

— Não é uma boa hora, Jas. — O que você quer dizer? O que aconteceu? Você soa estranha.

— Eu te ligo mais tarde, ok?

— Não, você não vai! Diga-me o que está acontecendo. Você...

Ou você não entregou o ingresso para Blake?

Com o canto do olho, Winter observou Lucy servindo-se de um chá na bancada da cozinha, e notou uma fraca desconfiança no seu ato. Sempre intrometida, Lucy poderia bem ter puxado uma cadeira ao lado de Winter com um bloco e uma caneta para que ela pudesse tomar notas.

— Espere um segundo, eu vou lá fora. — Olhando para Lucy, Winter pegou o telefone e foi até a sacada da frente. Uma vez que ela tinha certeza de que Lucy não podia ouvi-las, Winter falou. — Você quer saber o que aconteceu, Jas? — Pelo tom de sua voz eu percebo que as coisas não foram tão bem?

— Você é um gênio. Eu saí para ver Blake, assim como você me disse. Foi um pesadelo completo. Eu fiz papel de boba.

— Por que, o que você quer dizer? Ele não pegou o ingresso?

— Não, ele não pegou o ingresso. Muito obrigado por me empurrar para uma das piores experiências da minha vida.

— Eu não acho...

— Você nunca pensa, Jas. Você sempre acaba intimidando as pessoas a fazer o que você quer.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

— Isso não é justo, Win. O lado racional de Winter sabia que era verdade, mas havia tanta dor dentro dela que ela precisava atirar em alguém, e Jasmine era um alvo fácil.

— Olha, eu tenho que ir. — Seria melhor ir agora, ao invés de ser mais cruel com Jasmine.

— Ok. — Jasmine ficou em silêncio por um momento antes de dizer baixinho, — Winter, me desculpe.

— Sim, bem, eu também sinto muito. Vejo você amanhã.

Winter desligou o telefone. Ela provavelmente deve a Jasmine um pedido de desculpas pela manhã, mas estava muito agitada para se preocupar com isso agora. Ela não deveria ter atendido o telefonema, para começar. Longe ela podia ver a silhueta da Montanha contra a estrela polvilhada no céu. Olhando para a montanha, Winter foi atingida por um mau pressentimento. Como se algum destino sombrio a esperava lá em cima.

Ela estremeceu no ar da noite, incomodada com a queda brusca de temperatura. Uma brisa fria surgiu do nada e começou a soprar em torno da casa. A lâmpada solitária iluminando a varanda piscou de forma irregular, como se afetada pela mudança. Franzindo a testa, Winter assistiu balançando para frente e para trás com o vento. Ela de repente se agarrou com a certeza irritante de que ela não estava mais sozinha. Era menos forte do que a sensação de que ela tinha experimentado fora do velho lugar Velasco, mas tão perturbador.

Lentamente ela se virou, em relação à escuridão além da sacada da entrada com cautela. Parte dela queria fugir para dentro, mas ela já tinha cedido a esse impulso irracional, uma vez hoje. Foi quando obteve suas emoções sob controle. Não há nada lá fora! Ela repetiu isso a si mesma novamente como um mantra, tentando expulsar o mal-estar rastejante. Isso não funcionou. Quanto mais ela ficava ali When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

exposta e vulnerável, ela se sentia. A sobrecarga de luz piscando assustadora só aumentou seu temor. Ainda assim, ela não correu para dentro, só para provar a si mesma que o seu medo não valia a pena reconhecer. Com calma afetada, ela se virou para andar para dentro da casa quando um miado alto no final da varanda a assustou. Um gato estava agachado no parapeito, olhando para ela.

Um gato malhado laranja. Ele miou uma saudação novamente.

Winter deu um profundo suspiro de alívio. Seu instinto tinha razão: havia algo na escuridão olhando para ela - um gato, velho e gordo. Tão abruptamente como tinha aparecido, o vento parou. Até a luz da varanda parou de piscar e retomou seu brilho persistente maçante. Apenas alguns fios defeituosos e uma rápida mudança no tempo – nada mais para ficar preocupada.

Sacudindo os restos de sua paranoia assustadora, ela atravessou a varanda para saudar seu perseguidor. — O que você está fazendo aqui, gatinho?

O gato apenas piscou e lambeu os bigodes em resposta. Agora ela estava mais perto, Winter ficou surpresa ao ver que ele se parecia exatamente com o gato malhado que ela tinha visto na casa de Blake. Mas isso era impossível, não é? Isso teria levado o amiguinho a noite toda viajando de Holloway Road para a casa de Winter. A menos que ele pegou uma carona na traseira da caminhonete de Blake, é claro.

— Que tal um pouco de água? — Ela perguntou ao gato, estudando-o de perto para ver se ela poderia reconhecer quaisquer marcas que confirmem sua identidade como gato de Blake. O grande M laranja na testa certamente parecia familiar. O gato malhado também compartilhou a forma carinhosa. Assim que a oportunidade se apresentou, ele saltou ansiosamente em seus braços. Rindo enquanto seus bigodes faziam cócegas em seu rosto, Winter o levou para dentro.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Lucy estava esperando por ela na cozinha, cortando cebolas.

Ela olhou para aproximação de Winter, uma sobrancelha arqueando interrogativamente para o gato em seus braços.

— O que há com o gato?

Winter balançou a cabeça. — Encontrei-o na varanda. Ele parece com sede.

Lucy tuteou em desaprovação. — Você não deve alimentá-lo, Win. Ele vai voltar e antes que você se dê conta terá um animal de estimação sem você querer.

Winter colocou o gato no chão e procurou por uma tigela. — Eu não me importo se ele voltar.

Encontrando uma, ela encheu de água e colocou-a diante do nariz curioso do gato. Ele imediatamente começou a lapidação.

— Então, aquele telefonema era sobre o cara que trouxe você?

O mesmo de ontem?

— Sim. — Qual é o nome dele?

Winter suspirou e se virou para a irmã. Por que Lucy não poderia apenas ter uma conversa com ela, sem que se transformasse em um interrogatório?

— Blake.

— O que ele faz?

— Contrabando de Drogas, — Winter respondeu sem pestanejar. — Estou pensando em trabalhar com ele. Você sabe – tentando entrar com drogas ao longo da fronteira, coisas assim...

— Winter. — Lucy sempre chamava de 'Winter' em vez de 'Win', quando queria discipliná-la.

— O que você quer que eu diga você, Lucy? Eu mal conheço o cara.

— Mas você gosta dele?

Winter revirou os olhos dramaticamente, na esperança de When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

esconder sua verdadeira reação. A cena horrível esta tarde não atrapalhou seus sentimentos por Blake, em vez disso, esclareceu.

— Sim, — Winter gostava de Blake - de fato como parecia muito leve uma palavra para o que ela estava sentindo.

— Então... você vai me dizer o que vocês estavam falando?

Você parecia muito chateada antes.

Winter simplesmente sorriu e balançou a cabeça. — Não. Não, eu não vou.

Lucy franziu os lábios de frustração e voltou para as cebolas.

— O jantar estará pronto em vinte minutos.

Winter assentiu e pegou o gato. Ela sabia que provavelmente deveria colocá-lo para fora, mas ela se sentia como uma empresa.

Empresa que não pediu um milhão de perguntas, de qualquer maneira. Deixando Lucy fervendo na cozinha, Winter levou o gato para o quarto e fechou a porta.

Quase imediatamente, o gato se contorceu de seus braços, caindo no chão. Ele acolchoou-se sobre seus cobertores, que estava fora de uso, ao pé de sua cama. Winter sentiu uma onda de exaustão sobre ela. Tudo o que ela queria fazer agora era ir dormir e esquecer tudo o que tinha acontecido esta tarde. Infelizmente, se a experiência passada era qualquer indicação, uma vez que ela apagasse as luzes e fechasse os olhos, o sono seria impossível.

Sempre que algo perturbador acontecia, sua mente, em um ato de insubordinação cruel, gravava em detalhes – só para reproduzir o evento doloroso repetidas vezes, logo que Winter abaixava sua guarda mental. Esses minis filmes nunca foram simples daquilo que ela tinha experimentado. Em vez disso, eles pareciam ser editados para a máxima dor emocional, demorando-se em olhares desdenhosos ou linhas ofensivas do diálogo.

Depois que seus pais morreram Winter perdera o que parecia semanas de sono, atormentada por um filme em sua mente como ela When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

apelidou de "A cena da polícia‖. Este registo especial começou com Winter chegando em casa da escola para encontrar um policial sentado na cozinha com Lucy: O Oficial olhou para cima quando Winter entrou na sala, com o rosto jovem (ele não poderia ter mais do que vinte e dois). Ele se apresentou - Wilson Oaks - para Winter e, então, ofereceu a ela um assento. Oficial Oaks disse a Winter que ela deveria se preparar. Ele fez uma pausa por um momento, como se para o efeito dramático, e em seguida, contou a ela do acidente dos seus pais em câmara lenta, termos metódicos, como se estivesse descrevendo a uma pessoa cega algo que tinha visto na televisão. Oficial Oaks perguntou a Winter se ela havia compreendido e Winter olhou para Lucy para ver se era algum tipo de brincadeira cruel. Havia algo sobre o olhar vago de sua irmã que convenceu Winter que isto era um acontecimento de fato.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Seus pais estão mortos.

Winter se desculpou, porque ela estava prestes a vomitar. Ela só conseguiu chegar ao banheiro e depois permaneceu ajoelhada nos azulejos azuis e brancos em uma espécie de estupor.

Este era o ponto onde o filme iria parar e rebobinar antes de rodar novamente.

E agora Winter teve uma adição fresca para se juntar a sua coleção de filmes dolorosos em sua mente. Ela já tinha um título para ele. – Winter a perseguidora psicopata. E suspeitava que recebesse alguma brincadeira séria durante a próxima semana ou algo assim.

Ela passou por cima da camada de roupa suja cobrindo o piso para chegar a sua escrivaninha. Havia três prateleiras parafusadas sobre ela, as duas primeiras repleta firmemente com álbuns de música e a outra na parte inferior reservada para seus tesouros. Esta prateleira do tesouro era algo que Winter havia criado cinco ou seis

anos atrás após descobrir uma concha particularmente bonita na praia do Farol. A concha tinha sido a primeira adição à prateleira e foi seguido um ano depois com um livro de poemas de Rimbaud, enviado para ela pela sua avó Sal, seis meses antes de morrer.

Sal tinha sido uma leitora voraz, e era particularmente apaixonada por poesia, que ela ocasionalmente lia em voz alta para Winter depois de beber demais a gemada no Natal. Pouco depois que Sal foi diagnosticada com câncer, ela enviou a Winter o volume de Rimbaud. Winter foi relutante em aceitar o presente por causa do que isso significava - a morte se aproximava de sua avó – mas sua mãe a fez durar. Mesmo assim, Winter não foi capaz de abrir o livro desde o funeral por causa da emoção crua que ela aparentava.

Depois de ganhar este tesouro particularmente doloroso, na prateleira não havia outro item colocado sobre ela até que Jasmine a presenteou com um pequeno sapo de pelúcia que ela ganhou em uma brincadeira na Páscoa do ano passado. Mesmo que o sapo fosse muito brega, Winter foi discretamente tocada pelo dom de Jasmine e assim o sapo foi direto para a prateleira.

Agora Winter enfiou a mão na bolsa e tirou a Nikon esmagada, colocando-a entre o livro de poemas e o sapo. Ela olhou para a câmera por um momento, sentindo uma tristeza mais ressonante do que qualquer coisa que ela tinha sofrido hoje. Que preferia meditar sobre a experiência no lugar Velasco do que pensar sobre seu pai.

Música. Isso é o que ela precisava.

Winter começou vasculhando seus álbuns. Ela tinha herdado a maior parte deles de sua mãe, e, geralmente, era capaz de encontrar algo no meio da gama eclética para acompanhar qualquer humor que ela estivesse sentindo. Sua mãe nunca tinha jogado fora nenhum álbum que possuía, para que todos os seus caprichos musicais fossem representados, desde Yodelling Cowboys dos anos cinquenta para Swedish Death sueco.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Vendo o quanto sem noção seus amigos eram sobre música, como facilmente tocava o que era popular nas paradas de música sem saber como derivava na maior parte do tempo, fez Winter apreciar o bom gosto da sua mãe havia lhe dado.

Deu-lhe uma pequena sensação de superioridade para se agarrar, quando a maior parte do tempo ela se sentiu atrás de todos os outros no que diz respeito à moda, televisão, meninos. . . Pelo menos ela poderia dizer que seu bom gosto musical não era mal. Às vezes, quando ela tocava o seu velho álbum, Winter gostava de imaginar sua mãe como uma adolescente deitada em sua cama ou fazendo a lição de casa. Isso a fazia se sentir feliz e triste, tudo ao mesmo tempo.

Após alguma deliberação, Winter pegou um CD, do Nirvana In Utero, e inseriu em seu tocador.

Apesar de quase vinte anos, era um dos álbuns mais recente da coleção, e perfeitamente adequado para exorcizar algumas emoções reprimidas.

Os acordes estridentes da primeira faixa reverberaram através de seu quarto enquanto Winter caiu apática em sua cama. O gato malhado pulou sobre o colchão e começou arranhar a janela fechada.

— Teve o bastante de mim, hein? — Winter disse com espanto, e abriu a janela para que o gato pudesse escapar. Ele se arrastou para a borda exterior e depois pulou para o galho próximo do cipreste que crescia fora de seu quarto. Winter assistiu o gato agilmente atropelar o tronco para o chão abaixo, onde ela se surpreendeu ao ver dois outros gatos se juntar a ele. Os três gatos correram para as sombras mais profundas do quintal.

Winter fechou a janela, sentindo-se vagamente desconfortável.

Assistindo o gato rastejar para fora de sua janela tinha lhe dado uma poderosa sensação de déjà vu. Uma imagem apareceu em sua mente When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

– uma memória de um sonho, talvez? Três figuras escuras pairando no ar sobre o seu quintal. Observando-a.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 19 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Blake caminhou ao redor pelo lugar Velasco para verificar se as Alas ainda estavam funcionando. Tudo parecia bem, mas ele fez outro círculo de qualquer maneira – dupla e tripla corrente. A casa estava segura. Nada de sobrenatural poderia entrar ou sair sem a sua expressa autorização. Ele tinha boas razões para ser cauteloso.

Os Skivers estiveram aqui.

Quando ele tocou em Winter no carro, Blake usou sua Visão para espiar em sua mente. Nesse segundo ele testemunhou uma memória - a experiência de Winter fora de sua casa, as sombras, os ruídos – e entendeu o que a levou para dentro. Ele nunca deveria

ter gritado com ela. Ela tinha todos os motivos para agir da maneira que fez. Infelizmente, pegando-a na escadaria chocou-o tanto que Blake não tinha conseguido se impedir de gritar. Sua indignação foi motivada pelo medo. Se ele chegasse em casa cinco minutos mais tarde, então ela poderia se perder para sempre.

Foi ficando mais difícil de pensar nela como uma responsabilidade, como um problema que ele precisa resolver. O ingresso para o show foi um gesto surpreendentemente doce. Tinha sido um longo tempo desde que alguém havia lhe dado um presente.

Pensando nisso um sorriso um pouco confuso penetrou no rosto de Blake. Por que ele estava se sentindo assim? Em um nível intelectual ele soube da conexão imediata entre eles, à maneira como seu corpo reagiu à sua luz, desejando, querendo possuí-la, era instintivo. Não tinha nada a ver com as emoções.

A paixão evidente de Winter com ele também poderia ser resumida a química corporal. Ele estava ciente do efeito que tinha sobre as garotas, como seus olhos os enfeitiçavam. Isto era uma mera resposta superficial. Além de sua aparência, Winter não conhecia Blake – ela não poderia devido ao pouco tempo que passaram juntos, mas quando Blake olhou para ela, ele sentiu a estranha sensação de que ela o conhecia. Ou podia. Fazia muito tempo que uma garota o fizera sentir assim. Um tempo muito longo.

Com algum esforço Blake se obrigou a parar esta linha de pensamento. Estas emoções não eram práticas e certamente não iria ajudá-lo a manter Winter segura. Isto tornaria mais difícil para ele se concentrar. Ele precisava permanecer distante, frio, concentrado.

Os Skivers estavam ficando mais ousados.

No início da tarde, enquanto Blake havia seguido Winter em sua caminhonete, ele a observava causar o acidente na estrada. No último momento, ele dirigiu, escapando chamar a atenção para si mesmo. Ele não queria assustar Winter, mas ia ser difícil continuar When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

protegendo-a nas sombras. Ele precisava de mais ajuda. Felizmente, ele sabia onde encontrar.

Blake andou pela casa e saiu para o jardim da frente. De pé sob os galhos balançando da árvore magnólia, Blake fechou os olhos, enviando uma mensagem para a noite. Em poucos minutos os gatos responderam ao seu chamado, dezenas deles, sem dono e amados animais de estimação, rastejando para fora da floresta e amontoando-se na grama perante ele. Uma congregação fiel à espera de ouvir o sermão de Blake. Antes que ele pudesse falar, houve um som batendo a partir da casa atrás dele, como um tapa de mão contra uma janela. Blake se virou e olhou para o lugar Velasco.

As janelas estavam escuras protegendo o último andar, que brilhava âmbar malévolo. Ele estava assistindo.

Sempre observando.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 20 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Na manhã seguinte, Winter se aproximou da Jessie com um nível significativo de desconfiança. Por toda a afeição a encarnação da lambreta, Winter sabia que, a última análise era apenas uma peça de uma máquina incapaz de pensamentos conscientes. No entanto, se isso começasse agora, depois de morrer fora do local Velasco e forçando-a a suportar o passeio de carro desconfortável com Blake, ela poderia começar a acreditar que a lambreta estava seguindo sua própria agenda pessoal. Ela não sabia se ela se sentia aliviada ou desapontada quando Jessie permaneceu obstinadamente em silêncio depois de várias voltas da chave na ignição.

Winter voltou lá em cima e pegou o telefone. Lucy já tinha ido trabalhar, então, se ela queria ir para a escola chagando á tempo, ela precisava de uma carona de alguém.

Ela discou para Jasmine, na esperança de que sua amiga não tivesse guardado rancor sobre a forma como Winter tinha falado irritado com ela na noite passada. Isso realmente não tinha sido justo da parte dela atirar em Jasmine assim.

Após alguns toques curtos a linha foi pega. — Olá?

— Bom dia, Jas, é Win. — O que foi? — Sim, Jasmine ainda estava chateada com ela.

Winter conseguiu detectar a ligeira frieza em sua resposta.

— Eu estava pensando se você poderia me pegar? — Winter exalou.

Houve uma breve pausa, antes de Jasmine responder. — Claro, chego em dez minutos.

Winter desligou o telefone, grata por ela ter conseguido uma carona, mas não saboreando ter de suportar um passeio de carro com Jasmine tendo um acesso de raiva. Era, no mínimo, uma caminhada de quarenta e cinco minutos a Trinity, e não havia nenhuma maneira que ela pudesse fazer para chegar a sua primeira aula á tempo sem Jasmine. Não, ela poderia perder as equações quadráticas do Sr. Jenkins, mas seu registro instável não precisava de outra marca negra sobre ele por ter chegado tarde.

Pensando nisso, Winter lembrou vagamente o e-mail ameaçador que tinha encontrado em sua caixa de entrada esta manhã. Era de Harry Francis, insinuando que se o Winter não tivesse conseguido produzir as imagens para o seu artigo de hoje, ele não hesitaria em informar a Sorensen que ela tinha falhado na sua tarefa de crédito extra. Winter bateu levemente em sua mochila, sentindo a forma reconfortante das fotografias que tinha embalado antes. Eram boas fotos. Ela sabia que eram boas fotos, mas havia When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

qualquer chance de Harry tentar encontrar falha nelas. Winter não sabia se ele ainda reclamaria para Sorensen, vendo que ela tinha concluído a tarefa.

Seus pensamentos foram interrompidos por um sinal sonoro de buzina do carro do lado de fora. Winter correu para baixo da calçada onde Jasmine estava em seu mini Cooper cor champanhe.

Ela deslizou para o banco do passageiro. — Obrigada por me pegar, Jas. Jas sorriu educadamente. — Não tem problema.

Demasiadamente, tão bom. Winter colocou o cinto de segurança a si mesma e Jasmine puxou de volta para a estrada. No entanto, depois de alguns minutos de condução em silêncio, Winter percebeu que Jasmine não ia ser a primeira a iniciar a conversa.

— Então, ontem à noite... — Winter começou, mordendo a língua. — Me desculpe se eu fui rude com você no telefone. Eu estava chateada.

Ela olhou para Jasmine com o canto do olho, e ficou aliviada ao ver a expressão de Jasmine amolecer. Apesar da sensibilidade de Jasmine, ela sempre era rápida para perdoar.

— Está tudo bem. Eu não deveria ter pressionado você tão duramente como eu fiz. Então o que aconteceu?

Winter respirou fundo e disse tudo o que tinha acontecido no local Velasco para Jasmine: o diário, os gatos, a música curiosa que ela tinha ouvido, que acenou para ela no andar de cima. Ela falou sobre o quão furioso Blake tinha sido quando ele a encontrou, consciente de não querer pintá-lo de uma forma negativa.

Depois que ela terminou, Jasmine permaneceu em silêncio pensativa por um momento.

— Ele gosta de você, Win, — ela declarou como se fosse uma dedução óbvia.

Winter balançou a cabeça, secretamente encantada com a When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

conclusão de Jasmine. — Duvido disso, Jas. Jasmine deu de ombros. — Tenha em mente, eu apenas falei o que você me disse – mas se eu encontrasse um cara estranho escondido na minha casa eu não iria oferecer para levá-lo para casa.

Mesmo se a sua lambreta tivesse quebrado.

— Blake é apenas bom.

— Ele não parece bom. Ele parece meio irritado e estranho.

Sair em cemitérios, vivendo em uma casa mal-assombrada, mantendo todos os gatos.

— Você não diria se o tivesse visto, — Winter disse, sorrindo para a rudeza de Jasmine.

— O que seja. Eu não sei se eu deveria incentivá-la a ver esse cara de novo. Foi bom ele ter devolvido o ingresso.

Winter olhou pela janela para o céu azul claro, sentindo-se muito melhor por ter discutido a situação. Poderia ser verdade?

Poderia um cara como Blake realmente estar interessado em alguém como ela? Ele salvou sua vida... Qual que a síndrome chamada onde os enfermeiros se apaixonam por seus pacientes? Talvez houvesse algo semelhante para rapazes que salvavam as garotas de desmoronamento de igrejas?

Trinity apareceu no lado direito da estrada.

— Sam me ligou na noite passada, — Jasmine disse enquanto passavam pelos portões no estacionamento.

— Sério? O que vocês conversaram? — Winter olhou e viu Jasmine lutando para conter sua excitação.

— Tudo. Escola. Sua família, a minha família. Eu fiquei no telefone com ele por quase duas horas. Uma conversa inacreditável.

Ele é como, você sabe, um homem. Não um menino. Intenso.

Jasmine olhou para fora da janela, para seus colegas. — Não é como o resto destes macacos.

Winter não poderia deixar de sorrir para a amiga sonhadora.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Não era a primeira vez que ela vira Jasmine gaga sobre um menino tão rapidamente, mas era a primeira vez que ela ouviu Jasmine citar uma de suas conquistas como ‗intenso‘. Quente, exuberante e sexy eram os adjetivos que ela normalmente invocava.

— Quem teria pensado que nós duas conheceríamos alguém ao mesmo tempo? — Jasmine disse quando ela estacionou o carro e desligou o motor. Sorrindo, Winter encolheu os ombros em acordo.

Não que ela pensava que as suas situações fosse muito semelhantes – Jasmine realmente tinha uma chance com Sam. Elas saíram do carro e caminharam em direção à entrada do prédio principal. Estudantes vagavam nos degraus da frente, conversando em panelinhas ou em pé sozinhos esperando seus amigos chegar.

Jasmine continuou jorrando sobre Sam. — É engraçado, mas quando o vi pela primeira vez eu tenho essa sensação de que havia algo de especial nele. Não, isso não é verdade. — Um sorriso insolente veio à tona. — Primeiro eu vi os músculos, e o sorriso, e os dentes, e os olhos – então eu tenho aquela sensação especial. Você acha que é possível, Win? Você pode simplesmente olhar para alguém e conhecê-lo?

Winter se lembrou do primeiro momento em que ela viu Blake no cemitério. — Eu acho que sim.

— Tenho que te dizer, é um pouco estranho. Quero dizer, quando foi à última vez... — Jasmine parou. Seus olhos se arregalaram perigosamente, as bochechas ficaram douradas, e o lábio inferior se contraiu levemente. Winter conhecia Jasmine tempo suficiente para reconhecer esses sinais, e para decifrá-los.

Uma tempestade estava por vir, uma tempestade de Jasmine, e provavelmente era prudente começar a procurar pela tampa.

Felizmente a fúria não era dirigida a ela. Winter seguiu o olhar enfurecido de Jasmine e viu Sam na base dos degraus que levavam When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

até a entrada. Ele não estava sozinho.

Becky Layne - ou Layne a ―Dor‖ como Winter e Jasmine a chamava – estava falando com ele, falando, provavelmente não era a descrição mais precisa. Enquanto elas observavam, Becky riu ruidosamente com algo que Sam disse, em seguida, tocou em seu braço, em um gesto abertamente de paquera. Ela lançou seu longo cabelo loiro para trás sobre um ombro, sorrindo para Sam debaixo de seus cílios.

— Desculpe-me um segundo, — Jasmine disse por entre os dentes, e marchou para a dupla, seu rosto se aproximando da cor rosa choque.

Tanto quanto Winter teria gostado de assistir Jasmine dilacerar Layne, ela tinha assuntos mais urgentes para tratar. Ela fez seu caminho após o ginásio para a sala de recreação, onde a sede Times fica localizada. Harry estava sentado em sua mesa debruçado sobre alguns exemplos de layout para a próxima edição. Não era surpresa para ela encontrá-lo aqui antes da escola começar – Harry vivia mais ou menos na sala de recreação. Ao som de sua aproximação, sua cabeça levantou-se, olhos redondos estreitando por trás de seus óculos de lentes grossas quando ele viu que era Winter.

— Winter, acho que você recebeu meu e-mail esta manhã?

— Sim, Harry. Obrigado por ser tão paciente, — ela respondeu, sem se preocupar em esconder seu sarcasmo. — Conforme solicitado – suas fotografias de Pilgrim‘s Lament. — Ela deixou cair o pacote das fotografias em frente a ele sobre a mesa.

— Eu tenho que admitir, eu tinha minhas dúvidas. — Ele abriu o pacote e tirou as fotografias. — Quando Sorensen me disse que eu tinha que usar você como uma fotógrafa, eu pensei que ia ser um desastre. Sem ofensa, mas você nunca me pareceu o tipo de pessoa que tinha uma forte ética de trabalho.

— Eu aprecio você me dar o benefício da dúvida, — Winter When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

respondeu através de lábios finos.

Ela viu de perto como Harry folheava as fotos, observando sem nenhuma pequena satisfação a forma como a sua expressão cética mudava lentamente para a admiração genuína.

— Não é ruim. Acho que podemos trabalhar com elas.

— Não é ruim? Se você soubesse o que eu passei para obtê-las.

— Surpreendentemente, eu realmente não me importo. — Harry continuou inspecionando as fotos alheio a exasperação de Winter. — Woah! O que temos aqui? — Ele disse, franzindo a testa quando ele chegou à fotografia final. Era a imagem do cemitério assustador prejudicada pela falha nebulosa, que Winter tinha se esquecido de retirar o pacote.

— Muito interessante. — Harry trouxe a imagem para mais perto de seus óculos.

— Sim, alguma coisa deu errado com essa imagem quando foi revelada. — A estranha escuridão texturizada da fotografia fez Winter se sentir inquieta novamente. Havia algo quase substancial sobre a área defeituosa onde Blake estava de pé – como se ele tivesse sido desenhado.

— Eu não acho que isso foi um erro de revelação.

— Por quê? Você já viu algo assim antes?

— Por uma questão de fato, eu vi. Você tem mesmo uma sombra.

— Eu sei disso.

Harry balançou a cabeça. — Não... Não é o que eu quis dizer.

— Ele suspirou com frustração. — Você não assistiu Mistérios Ocultos? Onze e trinta na noite de sábado?

— Eu devo ter perdido.

Harry acenou com a foto dela. — Esta foto foi tirada em um cemitério, correto?

Winter assentiu, sem saber como um ambiente pode ser When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

conectado a um erro de revelação.

— Bem, o que você encontra em cemitérios? — Harry continuou, como se explicando algo pacientemente para uma criança pequena. — Pessoas mortas. Uma sombra é o espírito de uma pessoa morta em filme.

Ele observou a expressão incrédula de Winter, e pareceu um pouco ofendido.

— Olhe isso... É ciência.

Apesar da explicação ridícula de Harry — Ciência? Sim, certo!

– Um calafrio correu pela espinha de Winter.

— Posso ficar com ela? — Harry perguntou esperançosamente.

— Não. — Winter tirou a foto dele, por que ela estava se sentindo tão possessiva sobre isso.

Ela saiu da sala rapidamente, ignorando a expressão confusa de Harry. Ela não podia acreditar que ela foi afetada pelo que ele disse.

Tinha que ser uma piada.

Não havia tal coisa como fantasmas.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 21 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Normalmente não sendo maior fã de aula de ginástica, Winter hoje estava totalmente distraída. Tentando manter-se com o grupo, com os olhos fixos na mancha de suor da garota à sua frente, ela estava momentaneamente tentando colocar Blake fora de sua mente. Esta não era uma tarefa fácil. Seus traços esculpidos, pele oliva impecável, queixo firme, e os mais deslumbrantes olhos verdes intrometendo em seus pensamentos. Não era apenas o rosto de Blake que penetrava em seu pensamento, mas a fotografia do cemitério que parecia inexoravelmente ligada a ele.

Durante todo o dia, ela foi obrigada a olhar a foto

repetidamente, procurando alguma prova de falha de qualquer reação química que pudesse causar o efeito bizarro.

Tinha que haver uma explicação lógica por trás da figura sombria e Winter estava determinada a procurar na fotografia até encontrar. Um fantasma como no filme. Puro absurdo, é claro, mas ainda assim...

Depois da ginástica, Winter foi direto para os chuveiros. Ela levou mais tempo do que o habitual, deleitando na água quente, imaginando-se lavando as preocupações de que a atormentavam.

No momento em que ela terminou de tomar banho e se vestir, as outras garotas já haviam deixado o banheiro. Winter olhou para o relógio e viu que ela tinha perdido o toque final. A escola tinha oficialmente terminado há dez minutos. Se ela não se apressasse ela vai perder a carona de Jasmine e terá que pegar o ônibus para casa.

Winter foi estragada por possuir seu próprio veículo. Seria frustrante ter de sentar no ônibus, barulhento, fedorento enquanto ele tomava o dobro do tempo para chegar em casa, como sempre.

Rapidamente secando seu cabelo, Winter foi verificar sua aparência. Ao contrário das outras garotas, ela não se importava em colocar batom ou lambuzar base por todo o rosto, mas ela não queria sair do banheiro parecendo um horror completo. Como os espelhos estavam completamente cozinhados pelo vapor ao longo do banho, Winter se viu como uma mancha cinzenta, nebulosa e indistinta. Havia algo de errado com seu reflexo embora. Algo... Seu coração saltou em sua garganta. Isso parecia que três formas escuras estavam logo atrás dela no próprio vapor.

Rodopiando, Winter viu apenas os bancos de madeira e linhas de armários azuis cobertos de uma fina camada de condensação.

Com medo, ela se virou para os espelhos. Isso é impossível! As formas escuras ainda estavam lá. Tremendo, Winter inclinou-se e passou a mão através do vidro, limpando a névoa. Não havia nada When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

refletida no espelho, exceto seu próprio rosto pálido. Ela ficou ali olhando para o seu reflexo por alguns segundos a mais, até ela ter certeza de que o vidro não escondia nada, e depois fugiu pelo corredor.

Ela não tinha ido muito longe quando alguém agarrou seu braço, fazendo com ela pulasse.

Com alívio, viu que era apenas Sam. — Eu sinto muito, eu não queria assustá-la, — ele disse, olhando mortificado.

Winter balançou a cabeça. — Você não fez. Eu estou apenas – não se preocupe com isso. — Ela rapidamente mudou de assunto.

— Como estão as coisas com você?

— Muito bom. Os professores têm sido realmente úteis, e a maioria dos caras aqui parecem legais. Estou tentando entrar para a equipa de futebol. O treinador O'Leery parece pensar que eu tenho uma boa chance de ficar dentro do que eu costumava fazer...

Ele continuou falando enquanto eles chegaram às portas da frente e saíram para o sol da tarde claro, Winter apenas ouviu a metade. A experiência no banheiro sacudiu-a. Combinado com o pânico que tinha experimentado no local Velasco, e em sua varanda na noite anterior, Winter estava começando a se preocupar que algo estava realmente errado com ela. Denial sempre tinha sido seu amigo – isso tinha começado através do processo de luto – mas se essas alucinações continuarem atormentando-a, ela vai ter que falar com alguém. Desde o funeral, o conselheiro da escola, Sra. Morris, havia insistido em conversar com ela – "Podemos conversar sobre qualquer coisa que você quiser." – mas ela conseguiu evitá-la.

Talvez fosse hora de tomar sua oferta.

— Você não viu Jasmine, não é? — Ele perguntou hesitante, uma vez que tinha chegado ao fim da escadaria. Winter estava muito preocupada com suas próprias preocupações para perceber When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

que Sam circulou o tema de Jasmine toda a conversa.

— Não, desculpe. Não, desde esta manhã.

A testa de Sam enrugou em confusão. — Ela parece zangada comigo por alguma coisa. Eu não sei o que eu fiz. Nós vamos para este show amanhã à noite.

— Certo, os Ninjas Urbanos. Deve ser bom.

— Sim, só que eu não sei se ela ainda quer que eu vá com ela, ou... Eu só queria saber o que eu fiz de errado.

— Eu tenho certeza que não é nada demais.

Sam provavelmente não conhecia as regras silenciosas de Jasmine, havia certas regras que eram esperadas seguir – a primeira certamente eram brincadeiras de flertar com outras garotas, especialmente Layne. Infelizmente, ele não era o primeiro cara que se aproximara de Winter com a esperança de encontrar alguma pista interna para entender o comportamento de Jasmine. Winter, por sua vez, desejava que houvesse um manual para Jasmine, delineando as complexidades e rituais obscuros que eram necessários para mantê-la feliz, para que ela pudesse escorregar para estes pobres homens e salvá-los do estresse desnecessário.

Sam apontou para um grupo de garotas que estavam na beira da quadra de basquete. Jasmine estava com elas. — Você acha que talvez você pudesse falar com ela para mim?

— Claro, — Winter disse relutantemente. Ela odiava ser a intermediária dos melodramas bobos de Jasmine. O pobre rapaz parecia estar sofrendo, embora - o mínimo que podia fazer era tentar fazer com que ele tivesse alguma mente.

Ela deixou Sam fingindo verificar seu telefone, enquanto sorrateiramente roubava olhares de Jasmine, e atravessou a quadra de basquete em direção ao grupo.

Em pé com ela estavam três garotas da equipe de natação de Jasmine: Sally Jensen, Tina Mitts e Olive. Winter foi amigável com When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

elas, mas apenas por causa do relacionamento com Jasmine. Ela às vezes tem a sensação de que, se não fosse por Jasmine, Sally, Tina e Olive provavelmente não iria fazer um esforço com ela.

— Ei, pessoal, — Winter disse, pairando fora do seu círculo. As garotas – Jasmine incluída – pareciam estar em uma profunda discursão.

Jasmine acenou para Winter, trazendo-a para a conversa. — Ei, Win, você o viu?

— Quem? Sam? Carrancuda, Jasmine balançou a cabeça. — Não, definitivamente não Sam. Olhe sobre o meu ombro. — Winter começou a fazer exatamente isso antes de ser advertida por Jasmine, — Sutilmente, Win! Seja legal!

Como sutilmente ela podia, Winter olhou em todo o campo de futebol para a parte pequena de estudante no estacionamento.

Como a aula apenas tinha acabado o estacionamento ainda estava bem cheio, por isso Winter levou um momento ou dois para reconhecer a enferrujada caminhonete branca estacionada em meio a outros carros. E o cara encostado no capô.

— Lindo, não é? — Jasmine disse, confundindo a reação chocada de Winter para temor. — Tina acha que é o novo namorado de Kristen Mackey. Ela está dizendo...

— É Blake, — Winter disse calmamente. Os espectros do banho, a aflição de Sam, a fotografia assombrada, todos os outros pensamentos e preocupações pulando fora de sua cabeça agora foram esquecidos. Blake estava encostado na frente do carro, com as mãos nos bolsos, como se pacientemente à espera de alguém... À espera de Winter.

Os olhos de Jasmine se arregalaram em choque. — Esse é Blake? Wow – você não estava brincando, Win. Ele é totalmente fora do seu padrão.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Winter disparou uma olhada para Jasmine. Sua amiga deu de ombros um pedido de desculpas, mas apontou para Blake como evidência para sua observação. — Ei, eu te amo, Win, mas olhe para ele!

— Quem é Blake? — Sally perguntou, e Winter percebeu vagamente que ela se tornou o centro das atenções das demais garotas. Elas estavam olhando para ela com uma mistura de curiosidade e incredulidade que era um pouco insultuoso.

— Ele é um cara estranho que salvou a vida de Winter e agora está totalmente na dela, — Jasmine disse.

— Ele está em você? — Tina perguntou a Winter em espanto, não se preocupando em esconder a inflexão em sua voz como se a ideia de um homem lindo gostando de Winter beirasse o impossível.

— Ele não está comigo. Nós mal nos conhecemos, — Winter disse conscientemente.

— Por que você acha que ele está aqui então? — Jasmine perguntou.

— Acho que é melhor eu ir descobrir. O estômago de Winter agitou com a ansiedade novamente. Apenas a visão de Blake foi o suficiente para fazê-la sentir-se agitada e confusa. Ela começou na direção do estacionamento, sentindo os olhos das garotas chatas em suas costas.

Ela estava no meio do caminho quando Blake a viu. Ele acenou, como se preocupado que Winter pudesse não vê-lo. Havia pouca chance de que isso acontecesse – até mesmo a esta distância Blake era de tirar o fôlego. Winter podia ver sua beleza afetando as outras garotas que passavam dentro de sua órbita. A maioria delas simplesmente passava sussurrando animadamente entre si, mas uma ou duas indivíduas desavergonhadas pararam para olhar. Com toda a comoção que ele estava causando, Blake poderia muito bem ter sido algum tipo de estrela do rock famosa ou uma celebridade. Mas When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

ele não parecia notar a atenção. Winter supôs que ele estava acostumado a ser olhado.

— Ei, Winter, — Blake saudou assim que ela chegou a sua caminhonete. Estar tão perto dele a fez se sentir quente, como se Blake estivesse emitindo uma radiação intensa que só ela podia sentir. Ela concentrou todos os seus esforços para não corar.

— Oi. O que você está fazendo aqui? — Winter não pretendia parecer agressiva, mas graças a seus nervos, a questão saiu muito mais claramente do que isso significou para ele. Ele subitamente parecia estranhamente calmo no estacionamento, como se todos os alunos zanzando estivessem esforçando-se para ouvir a conversa deles. Ela sabia que era provavelmente um absurdo paranoico, mas ela não conseguia se livrar da sensação.

— Eu pensei que com a Jessie quebrada você poderia precisar de um carona para casa.

— Uma carona?

Blake pareceu um pouco envergonhado. — Eu não consegui dormir a noite passada porque eu estava me sentindo tão culpado...

Gritando com você do jeito que eu fiz. Pensei em tentar fazer as pazes.

Winter não podia acreditar no que estava ouvindo. Ela tinha se convencido de que ela provavelmente nunca veria Blake novamente. — Você tem certeza? Eu posso pegar uma carona com um dos meus amigos, ou...

Longe, Winter podia ver Jasmine e as outras garotas olhando com muita atenção. Até o pobre Sam, a quem ela tinha esquecido, estava de pé onde ela tinha o deixado perto dos degraus da frente, observando a conversa dela com Blake. Sabendo que ela estava sendo observada tão de perto a fez se sentir dolorosamente consciente.

Blake sorriu e balançou a cabeça. — Winter, por favor, entre When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

no carro. Eu não estaria aqui se eu não quisesse estar.

Winter não conseguiu segurar o sorriso encantada. — Ok, obrigada.

Enquanto ele a acompanhava até a caminhonete, Blake sussurrou, — eu não quero assustá-la, mas eu acho que as pessoas estão olhando para nós.

Winter riu. — Eu acho que você pode estar certo.

— Por quê?

— Porque elas não têm nada melhor para fazer. — E porque

elas estão tentando descobrir o que uma pessoa linda como você está fazendo falando comigo, ela pensou.

— Vamos embora, antes que comessem a fotografar, — Blake disse, abrindo a porta para ela. Embora Winter sabia que ele quis dizer isso como uma piada, ela não podia deixar de piscar, inquieta sobre a fotografia do cemitério em sua bolsa. Ela agarrou-se – Blake estava dirigindo para sua casa! Ele veio para a escola com o propósito expresso de vê-la. Isto era algo digno de ficar obcecada, não por uma estranha fotografia.

Blake pulou para o banco do motorista e ligou o motor.

Enquanto eles conduziam através do estacionamento, Winter notou o espanto escancarado de Jasmine e das outras garotas.

Ao invés de se sentir estranha ou autoconsciente, ela vibrou uma sensação bastante estranha.

Winter se sentiu especial.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 22 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Segurando dois copos de suco de laranja, Winter provisoriamente desceu as escadas para a garagem. Blake provavelmente estava escutando o barulho do rock‘n roll nas caixas antigas de Lucy, porque ela podia ouvir o Rolling Stones "Sympathy for the Devil‖ estalando através dos alto-falantes.

Blake estava debruçado sobre o motor da Jessie, apertando os olhos pelo brilho suave da luz da garagem. Quando a viagem acabou, ele se ofereceu para consertar a Jessie – Winter ansiosamente agarrou essa oportunidade.

Ela não se importava se ele conseguisse isso ou não, ela estava

apenas grata pela oportunidade de passar mais tempo com ele. Ele olhou quando ela se aproximou. — Eu espero que você não se importe – Eu estou escutando o som, e eu trabalho mais rápido com a música.

— Não tem problema. — Winter entregou-lhe uma das bebidas. — É laranja ok? Não temos uva.

— Laranja está bom. Obrigado. — Blake engoliu o conteúdo do vidro, um bom brilho de suor estava na sua testa.

— Como a Jessie está? — Winter perguntou, olhando para as vísceras expostas de sua lambreta.

Blake coçou o queixo. — Muito boa, na verdade. Eu acho que você só tinha uma vela solta. O filtro de gás também estava um pouco entupido o que ajudou a situação. Fácil de resolver, porém.

Eu devo terminar em uma hora.

— Tome seu tempo.

— Eu não estou no seu caminho?

— Nem um pouco. — Tanto quanto ela estava preocupada que ele pudesse ficar o tempo que quisesse.

Blake assentiu e se inclinou sobre o motor novamente.

Enquanto Winter o assistia trabalhar, ela tentou relaxar e aproveitar o momento. Lá estava ele, as mangas arregaçadas, trabalhando, escravizado por ela. Era o material de fantasias – Winter ainda não se sentia animada. Sua mente voltou para o vestiário, e essas três figuras sinistras à espreita no espelho. Winter estremeceu, sentindo seus braços arrepiarem.

Blake olhou para ela, franzindo a testa ligeiramente. — Você está bem?

Winter forçou um sorriso. — Claro.

Suas sobrancelhas saltaram ou com ceticismo.

— Não é nada sério. Eu só acho que eu poderia estar perdendo a cabeça, — ela confessou com um sorriso desajeitado, fazendo When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

pouco caso do que estava se tornando uma preocupação muito real.

— O que aconteceu?

Winter suspirou, sem saber por onde começar. — Desde que você... hum... que a coisa toda aconteceu na igreja, eu tenho tido esses ataques de pânico estranhos. Eu continuo vendo sombras que se parecem com pessoas, reflexos em espelhos, quando não há ninguém lá. — As palavras soaram bobas, quando saíam de sua boca.

— Sombras?

Ela riu nervosamente. — Sim – muito louco, hein?

Com a testa franzida, Blake se inclinou para ajustar um parafuso. — Algumas culturas acreditam que vendo figuras escuras é um mau presságio. Um sinal de que o perigo está chegando.

Agora foi a vez de Winter levantar as sobrancelhas. — Obrigada por me fazer sentir melhor.

— Eu só estou dizendo que talvez você deva segui-las. Tome um pouco de cuidado extra. Não se coloque em quaisquer situações potencialmente perigosas.

— Como andar em torno de uma igreja condenada?

Blake sorriu, embora não tão amplamente como ela gostaria.

— Exatamente. Pode me passar a chave de fenda?

Winter ficou grata pela mudança da conversa. Ela remexeu em sua caixa de ferramentas. — Qual? Há cinco aqui.

— Uma com a cabeça chata.

Sentindo-se tola, Winter encontrou a chave de fenda e entregou a ele. O braço dela acidentalmente roçou sua mochila sentada ao lado da caixa de ferramentas, derrubando-a no chão.

Alguns de seus livros derramaram para fora, entre eles seu diário.

Blake parou o que estava fazendo e ajudou-a a pegá-los. Enquanto ele lhe entregava o diário, a fotografia escondida na parte de trás escorregou para o chão.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

— O que é isso? — Ele disse, os olhos estreitando com suspeita.

— Ah. — Winter relutou em identificar a imagem e lembrouse de Blake das circunstâncias embaraçosas que o rodeiam. — Essa é uma das fotos que tirei na igreja. É...

— Sou eu, certo? Você pegou um pouco antes... — Ele olhou para confirmação.

Winter assentiu, seu pulso acelerado com a memória. — Sim, mas algo aconteceu com ela quando foi revelada. Estranho, não é?

A carranca de Blake se aprofundou enquanto ele examinava a sombra manchada na fotografia. Depois de alguns segundos de estudo em silêncio, ele perguntou: — Você mostrou isso para mais alguém?

— Não – apenas o cara na loja de fotografia. E meu editor, Harry. Ele acha que é um fantasma. Então, novamente, ele é um idiota.

Winter esperou Blake rir da referência fantasma, mas sua expressão apertou ligeiramente. Depois de mais um momento de avaliação, Blake relaxou, e ela finalmente foi recompensada com o sorriso divertido que ela estava esperando.

— Não é à toa que você está vendo figuras sombrias em toda parte. Isto assustaria qualquer pessoa. — Ele entregou a foto para ela. — Não é um fantasma. Eu vi algo assim antes. É chamado de Efeito Grimaldi e acontece quando há muito nitrato de prata desenvolvendo o filme. Odeio decepcionar seu editor, mas não há nada de sobrenatural nisso.

— O Efeito Grimaldi? — Winter ficou aliviada pela falha misteriosa ter um nome, indicando uma explicação científica.

Blake começou a trabalhar no motor da Jessie novamente, aparentemente não interessado em discutir a fotografia mais.

Winter colocou a imagem de volta para o seu diário, feliz por escondê-la de vista. Efeito Grimaldi ou não, a mancha preta ainda a When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

enervava.

— Ok, — Blake disse, colocando para baixo a chave de fenda.

Uma dica de um sorriso puxou no canto de sua boca. — Eu suponho que você não conhece a chave de boca?

Ele estava brincando com ela!

— Chave de boca. Sem problema, — respondeu confiante. Ela ignorou sua expressão duvidosa e olhou para a caixa de ferramentas de novo, tentando descobrir qual das coisas de metal poderia ser.

Depois de alguns segundos, Blake falou amavelmente: — É aquela com o buraco.

— Eu sei! — Winter estalou com indignação fingida. Blake sacudiu a cabeça e começou a limpar o excesso de gordura em torno das bordas do painel aberto.

Bob Dylan, "Knockin on Heaven‘s Door‖ estava tocando durante os últimos minutos, e, mal percebendo que ela estava fazendo, Winter começou a cantarolar junto ao coro baixinho. Ela finalmente encontrou a chave, virou-se para entregá-la a Blake, e ficou surpresa ao ver que ele também estava cantarolando baixinho junto com Dylan.

Blake corou (Ele corou!), Quando viu que Winter tinha o flagrado. Ambos estavam expostos sobre o motor da Jessie, sorrindo, enquanto Dylan cantava no fundo. Quando o olhar de Blake procurou o dela, Winter sentiu um formigamento delicioso por todo o corpo, como se seus dedos invisíveis estivessem ligeiramente acariciando sua pele. Mantendo seus olhos presos nela, Blake deu um passo mais perto. Ele tinha estado parado na sombra da garagem, mas agora, com a luz da tarde derramando pela garagem aberta, sua pele morena estava impregnada com um brilho dourado.

Winter imaginou que ela poderia desaparecer completamente no brilho de tal beleza. Ele não iria deixá-la desaparecer embora. Seu olhar a segurou tão firmemente como um forte abraço.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Ao se aproximar, os lábios de Blake se separaram um pouco – ele vai beijá-la!

De repente, a intimidade do momento frágil foi arruinada pelo som de um motor de carro acelerando na calçada do lado de fora.

Os faróis duplos do carro de Lucy estalaram derramados pela porta da garagem aberta, prendendo Winter e Blake como um casal de fugitivos.

Vendo que o espaço para o carro dela foi ocupado completamente, Lucy puxou o freio de mão e saiu. — Olá. — Seu olhar passou rapidamente entre Winter e Blake, como se esperando que um deles explicasse o que estava acontecendo.

— Lucy, — Winter disse, sorrindo com os dentes cerrados.

Como de costume, sua irmã tinha exibido um timing impecável.

Lucy sorriu educadamente para Blake. — Blake, não é?

— Isso mesmo.

— O que vocês estão fazendo? — Ela apontou para Jessie. — Problema com sua lambreta?

— Sim, ele a consertou.

A testa de Lucy enrugou ligeiramente. — Isso foi muito gentil da sua parte, Blake.

— Não foi nenhum incômodo. — Blake virou para Winter. — Eu acho melhor eu ir. — Ele se afastou da lambreta e pegou sua jaqueta.

— Por que você não fica para o jantar? — Lucy perguntou abruptamente.

Winter e Blake ficaram igualmente surpresos com a oferta.

— Um...

Submetendo Blake para o interrogatório de sua irmã, para não mencionar a sua falta de habilidades de cozimento, essa não era a ideia de Winter passar tempo de qualidade com ele. Ela lhe lançou um salva-vidas.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

— Se você já tem planos...

Blake deu de ombros. — Não, jantar soa bem. Obrigado pelo convite.

Lucy sorriu para Winter como se quisesse dizer: Veja como boa eu posso ser? Winter não estava acreditando. Ela respirou fundo e rezou silenciosamente para que Lucy não a envergonhasse. Isto ia ser interessante.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 23 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Winter girou alguns fios de espaguete encharcados ao seu redor do garfo e mergulhou-o no molho aguado reunido em seu prato. Isto deveria ser espaguete a bolonhesa, o líquido marrom derramado sobre ele tinha pouca semelhança com molho bolonhesa que Winter conhecia. Ela não tinha certeza de onde Lucy havia escondido a carne ou cebola nele, mas até agora ela não foi capaz de encontrar sinais de qualquer um.

Ela arriscou um olhar de soslaio para Blake sentado na ponta da mesa, e viu que ele estava fazendo um trabalho muito melhor que ela de fingir apreciar a refeição. Ele colocou um bocado de massa

em sua boca com um som contente.

— Delicioso.

Lucy sorriu para ele, hesitante, como se ainda ela não acreditasse que alguém pudesse apreciar sua culinária. — Eu pensei que eu tivesse acrescentado muita água na mistura à bolonhesa.

Blake sacudiu a cabeça. — Nem um pouco. Isto é, na verdade, muito semelhante à maneira como eles servem espaguete na Itália.

Winter assumiu que Blake estava apenas sendo educado, como ela não podia imaginar italianos, ou de qualquer outra nacionalidade para esse assunto, servindo espaguete como este.

Lucy inclinou a cabeça para um lado. — Você foi para a Europa?

Blake assentiu, enxugando a boca com um guardanapo. — Eu nasci lá. Apenas fora de Bolonha.

Winter não ficou surpresa ao saber que ele era de outro país.

Blake parecia consideravelmente mais culto e refinado do que qualquer outro cara que ela conheceu.

Lucy o olhou com ceticismo. — Mas você não tem sotaque.

— Estive aqui por um tempo.

— Eu adoraria ir para a Europa. — Winter suspirou melancolicamente. Ela estava ansiosa para viajar e ver o mundo, antes de ir para a faculdade, mas não tinha dinheiro suficiente para fazer no futuro previsível. A maioria do dinheiro que ela herdou dos seus pais era para pagamento de taxas de sua escola para o restante do semestre. Lucy tinha colocado a pequena quantia que sobrou em um fundo de poupança, que Winter não podia tocar até completar vinte e um anos de idade. Talvez se ela conseguisse um emprego quando ela saísse da escola ela poderia ser capaz de economizar o suficiente para viajar à Europa por alguns meses. Havia sempre uma chance de Lucy conseguir um emprego para ela na farmácia.

Então, novamente, Winter não tinha certeza se seria capaz de When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

trabalhar lá. Ela não sabia como Lucy conseguia fazer isso. Winter tinha muitas lembranças visitando seu pai depois da escola, vendo-o em seu jaleco atrás do balcão, enquanto ela fazia sua lição de casa em sua mesa. Ela achava horrivelmente irônico que as duas garotas Adams pudessem acabar trabalhando na antiga farmácia de seu pai.

Eles tinham compartilhado uma completa falta de interesse por isso, enquanto ele estava vivo.

— Então, Blake, o que trouxe você para Hagan Bluff?

Lucy formulou a pergunta inocente, mas Winter viu pelo estreitamento de seus olhos que a sua resposta seria um longo caminho a decidir seus sentimentos sobre ele.

Blake fez uma pausa na hora que estava colocando o espaguete em sua boca.

— Bem, eu sempre quis viver perto do mar, e eu tenho estado de olho em uma propriedade ao longo deste trecho da costa. Uma casa surgiu no mercado que me interessou, então eu decidi me mudar.

Lucy parecia genuinamente impressionada. — Você é um proprietário? Uau, você parece tão jovem. Eu pensei que você fosse um estudante.

Blake sorriu modestamente. — Eu sou mais velho do que pareço.

Quando Lucy continuou olhando para ele com uma expressão perplexa, Blake acrescentou jovialmente, — Suco de cenoura e muitas outras coisas.

Uma pequena ranhura apareceu entre os olhos de Lucy. Winter tinha visto esta expressão antes, quando estava assistindo uma comédia na televisão e ela riu de uma piada que Lucy não achou divertido. O senso de humor de sua irmã era limitado antes da morte de seus pais, e que agora diminuiu ainda mais, para um ponto que Winter não tinha certeza de que, mesmo existia mais.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

— Perdoe-me se estou um pouco curiosa, — Lucy disse, quebrando um pedaço de pão de alho seco. — Como você pode comprar uma casa hoje no ambiente económico? O que você faz para viver?

— Lucy, — Winter advertiu sua irmã. Ela estava preparada para suportar o interrogatório de sua irmã para Blake, mas o tom de Lucy assumiu uma qualidade de confronto. Ela estava tratando Blake como se ele fosse um suspeito de um crime e que ela estava tentando criar buracos em seu álibi. Winter olhou para sua irmã enquanto Lucy afetava um ar de inocência.

Felizmente Blake não pareceu ofendido. — Winter, está tudo bem, — ele disse, e virou-se para enfrentar Lucy. — Família com dinheiro é a resposta para a sua pergunta. Eu tenho a sorte de ser rico e independente. E quanto sobre você, Lucy? — Ele perguntou, inesperadamente virando a mesa sobre o interrogatório. — O que você faz para viver? Você está estudando no momento?

Lucy se endireitou, reagindo a pergunta de Blake como se fosse um ataque. — Bem, eu trabalho em uma farmácia. Eu estava estudando marketing, mas tive que adiar. Alguém tinha que voltar para cá e cuidar de Win. — Ela olhou carinhosamente para Winter, que evitou seu olhar. Ela não gostou de se sentir como um caso de caridade.

— Onde estão os seus pais?

— Blake perguntou inocentemente, fazendo Winter estremecer. Este jantar era estranho o suficiente, sem discutir sua tragédia familiar.

Lucy deixou cair o garfo no prato. O toque atingindo a porcelana barata fez parecer que o tintilar soasse por minutos. Lucy lentamente pegou o utensílio, brincando-o em suas mãos, como se ela não soubesse o que fazer com ele. Quando ela olhou para Blake seus olhos estavam úmidos. — Winter não contou a você?

Blake sacudiu a cabeça, olhando de soslaio para Winter por When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

esclarecimentos. Ela sorriu simpaticamente para ele, e que esperava que sua irmã não fosse começar a chorar.

O lábio inferior de Lucy tremeu um pouco, mas ela conseguiu mantê-lo junto. — Nossos pais morreram.

Blake olhou horrorizado.

— Eu sinto muito, eu não...

— Eles morreram em um acidente de carro há seis meses, — Lucy falou, ignorando seu pedido de desculpas. Ele abriu a ferida e ela estava amaldiçoando se ela o deixaria em paz. — Nossos parentes mais próximos – Tio Kevin e tia Wendy – vivem no outro lado do país, pelo que foi deixado para mim eu sou a guardiã legal de Winter. Eu adiei meus estudos e consegui um emprego na farmácia do nosso pai. Felizmente, os novos proprietários concordaram em me colocar. É só por um ano, até Winter ir para a faculdade. Então eu posso ter minha vida de volta. — Ela sorriu ligeiramente e tomou um grande gole de água.

Blake parecia um pouco inseguro sobre o que ele deveria dizer.

— Deve ter sido muito difícil para você, — ele disse.

— Você não pode imaginar, — ela respondeu, olhando para o prato como um zumbi.

Winter decidiu que agora era o momento tão bom quanto qualquer outro para começar a limpar a mesa.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 24 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Winter esfregava o lado marrom endurecido na parte inferior da panela em que Lucy tinha feito o molho bolonhês. Blake se juntou a ela na cozinha, levando o resto dos pratos sujos, e começou a raspar os restos de comida para a lata de lixo ao lado da pia. Houve o som de uma televisão sendo ligada na sala ao lado, quando Lucy deslocou da mesa para o sofá.

Blake murmurou baixinho: — Eu sinto muito pelo que aconteceu lá. Eu não queria perturbar você e sua irmã.

Winter olhou para cima da pia e foi tocada com a forma como genuinamente Blake parecia aflito. — Não é culpa sua. Lucy tem

estado um pouco... Sensível desde o acidente... — Ela não conseguiu terminar a frase. Mesmo depois de todo esse tempo ela ainda tinha dificuldade em dizer que eles tinham morrido.

Blake tomou a panela dela e começou a secar com um pano de prato. — Você não tem que explicar... — ele começou, mas Winter balançou a cabeça. Ao invés de encerrar o assunto como ela normalmente fazia quando a conversa se voltava para os seus pais, Winter surpreendeu-se ao querer falar com Blake.

— Não, está tudo bem. — Ela tomou uma respiração e as palavras começaram a derramar, chegando facilmente, apesar da dor que elas conjuravam. — Eles estavam dirigindo ao longo da estrada costeira, no caminho para o local do piquenique com vista para Praia do Farol. Era algo que eles faziam toda quarta-feira – como um ritual. Algo aconteceu... A polícia não sabe exatamente o quê. Talvez meu pai estivesse em alta velocidade? Ou algo deu errado com o carro? Tudo o que sei é que em algum ponto ele perdeu o controle e passou pela aresta para o oceano. Eles se afogaram.

As duas últimas palavras ficaram no ar entre eles. A garganta de Winter apertou e ela sentiu as lágrimas quentes picarem seus olhos, ameaçando transbordar por suas bochechas. Isto não era ela.

Lucy era a emocional – não ela! Ela não queria chorar na frente de Blake.

Blake pegou a mão dela delicadamente. Seus olhos encontraram os dela, e ela estava surpresa e grata pelo carinho e compaixão que ela viu refletido ali.

— Eu sei com que é perder os pais, — ele disse suavemente.

Winter enxugou os olhos e olhou para ele com interesse. Então, ela e Blake tinham algo em comum. Ambos eram órfãos. Antes de Blake continuar, veio o som de Lucy se aproximando da cozinha.

Ele soltou a mão de Winter, e deu um passo longe dela, com medo When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

de ser pego em pé muito próximo.

Lucy entrou no aposento, com os olhos um pouco inchados.

Winter adivinhou que ela saiu da mesa antes deles, por está chorando. Ela sorriu para Blake secamente. — Obrigada por ajudar a lavar, amanhã Winter tem escola e provavelmente ela deveria estar estudando.

Blake assentiu e dobrou o pano. — Claro. Obrigado por me convidar Lucy.

— Foi um prazer, tenho certeza.

Winter pegou o leve rastro de sarcasmo na voz de sua irmã, e esperava que Blake houvesse perdido. Não era justo que Lucy não gostasse de Blake, porque ele tinha acidentalmente a incomodado.

— Eu vou levá-lo até a garagem, — Winter disse a ele, ignorando o aperto da boca de Lucy.

Liderando Blake para o corredor e para a varanda da frente, ela foi atingida pelo vento frio. Abraçou-se à medida que começou a descer os degraus da garagem onde Blake tinha estacionado sua caminhonete, esfregando algum calor de volta para sua pele.

— Bem, eu definitivamente faço melhores primeiras impressões, — disse Blake, uma vez que eles estavam fora do alcance da voz de Lucy.

Winter suspirou, exasperada. — Eu não sei qual o seu problema. É como se, só porque ela não pode seguir em frente com sua vida, ela não quer que eu siga.

— Dê um tempo a ela. Tenho certeza que ela está fazendo o melhor que pode.

Blake notou os arrepios nos braços nus de Winter.

— Volte para dentro, você não tem que me ver partir.

Winter acenou com a preocupação distante. — Eu estou bem.

— Ela estava preparada para enfrentar uma nevasca caso isso significasse passar mais tempo com ele. — Então... Jessie está bem When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

agora?

— Sim, ela deve funcionar. Só não ande acima de cinquenta quilômetros.

Winter arqueou uma sobrancelha. — Eu nem sabia que podia andar acima de cinquenta.

Sorrindo, Blake acenou de volta para a casa. — Sério, vá para dentro, Winter. Está congelando aqui fora.

Uma ideia de repente lhe ocorreu. — Espere um minuto!

Deixando Blake de pé com uma expressão perplexa, ela correu para dentro da casa, retornando alguns minutos depois segurando algo na mão.

— Tome isso, — ela disse, colocando o ingresso dos Ninjas Urbano nas mãos de Blake.

— Winter... — ele começou a protestar, mas ela silenciou-o com um aceno de cabeça.

— Apenas no caso de você mudar de ideia. — Ela baixou o olhar, com medo do que seus olhos revelassem. — Você não sabe como foi difícil para eu dar a você.

— Eu não sou realmente o cara que vai a um show, Winter.

Muitas pessoas, você sabe?

— O que há de errado com as pessoas?

— Elas só por si mesmas. Em grupos, podem ser perigosas.

Winter foi surpreendida com a cautela de Blake. Era quase como algo que Lucy diria. — Você tem medo da roda de punk?

— Entre outras coisas. — Ele inclinou a cabeça para um lado, estudando-a. — Você vai definitivamente?

— Eu quero. — Winter não tinha certeza se iria se Blake não fosse.

Ele acenou com a cabeça, pensativo e dobrou o ingresso. — Eu vou pensar sobre isso, então. Obrigado.

Não era a resposta que Winter esperava, mas foi o suficiente When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

para animá-la.

— Dê os meus agradecimentos a sua irmã novamente pelo jantar, — disse Blake, movendo-se em direção ao seu carro.

— Estou feliz que você tenha gostado. Na casa dos Adams, temos todas as refeições com um lado de conversa estranha, — acrescentou, esperando que um pouco de humor pudesse encobrir o embaraço do ocorrido.

Blake inclinou a cabeça para ela como se ela fosse um problema particularmente difícil de resolver. Seus olhos fechados, e por um momento delirante Winter teve o bom senso mais uma vez que Blake queria beijá-la. Isso era irracional, impossível, instinto maravilhoso – um instinto de seu corpo reforçado através de sua reação. Corando com o calor, o pulso acelerado, e tudo se destacou em detalhes requintados. As estrelas no céu, a montanha Owl como uma linha se destacando na escuridão à distância, uma mecha do cabelo de Blake mexendo com a brisa, a sensual curva de seus lábios, e seus olhos. A maior parte de tudo eram os seus olhos.

— Eu te vejo por aí, — disse Blake, de repente virando-se para a sua caminhonete. Ela assistiu ele ligar o motor e desviar para a rua. Pensando em pé pelo quase beijo, real ou imaginário, Winter permaneceu tempo o suficiente até não ver mais o carro, quando o frio finalmente começou a afirmar-se novamente. Tremendo, ela correu de volta para dentro, fechou a porta atrás dela e soprou em suas mãos geladas para tentar aquecê-las.

O sorriso ainda estava em seu rosto. Blake disse que ia pensar When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

sobre ir ao show! Ele vai pensar sobre isso! Isso foi praticamente um sim! Ela sabia que estava se pondo para uma grande decepção, mas ela era incapaz de controlar seus pensamentos galopantes.

— Winter? — O som da sua irmã chamando-a da sala de estar foi o suficiente para colocar um amortecedor leve no seu humor.

Gemendo interiormente, ela se arrastou pelo corredor. Ela duvidava

que Lucy queria cantar louvores sobre Blake.

Sua irmã estava olhando pela janela em seu quintal, com o rosto escondido. Winter decidiu partir para a ofensiva, ao invés de deixar Lucy iniciar uma palestra.

— Olha, Lucy, eu sei que você provavelmente não gosta de Blake por qualquer motivo. Mas isso realmente não é nenhum de seus...

— Venha aqui, — Lucy disse, sem se virar, e a estranha inflexão da sua voz foi o suficiente para despertar a curiosidade de Winter. O que ela estava olhando?

Winter foi até a janela e viu os gatos.

Havia pelo menos trinta; todas as cores e raças diferentes, alguns com coleiras, alguns sem. Havia tantos deles que Winter mal podia ver a grama entre seus peludos pequenos corpos. Ela supôs que poderia haver ainda mais deles fora da vista nas sombras onde o quintal inclinava longe das luzes da casa.

— O que eles estão fazendo aqui?

Mistificada, Lucy balançou a cabeça lentamente. — É por isso que você não pode alimentá-los.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 25 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

O som dos gatos do lado de fora levou todos os esforços inúteis de Winter para dormir. Ela não sabia se eles estavam fazendo amor ou lutando uns com os outros, mas o que eles estavam fazendo, parecia doloroso. Pensamentos de Blake circulavam incessantemente por sua mente, tornando o sono ainda mais impossível de alcançar. Três dias – era o tempo que ela tinha o conhecido, mas o impacto que ele fez em sua vida foi considerável. Winter não conseguia se lembrar da última vez que um cara tinha tomado tanto de sua mente. Talvez Tommy Butler na oitava série, mas a memória de que o amor particularmente não correspondido empalideceu o

significado contra a intensidade dessas emoções.

O guinchado abaixo da janela acentuou de tal maneira como um drama desenfreado. Winter apertou o travesseiro sobre os ouvidos na tentativa de bloquear o som agudo, mas isso fez pouca diferença. Ela suspirou em frustração e decidiu que ela poderia muito bem sair da cama, o sono não parecia que iria acontecer no futuro próximo.

Ela sentou-se à escrivaninha e ligou o computador. A tela piscou para a vida, banhando seu quarto em um brilho azul opaco.

Winter verificou seu e-mail e se divertiu ao ver um de Jasmine no topo da sua caixa de entrada. A mensagem simplesmente lia-se,

CONTE-ME TUDO! Winter digitou rapidamente uma resposta, resumindo os eventos da tarde e à noite: a fixação de Blake pela Jessie, o jantar excruciante com Lucy, sua aceitação do ingresso para o show e a possibilidade de que ele poderia estar se juntando a eles, na noite de quinta-feira.

Depois que ela enviou o e-mail para Jasmine, Winter começou ociosamente a navegar na internet. Por um capricho, ela procurou 'EFEITO GRIMALDI', curiosa para ler sobre a explicação de Blake da fotografia do cemitério. Não houve resultados listados abaixo desse termo específico. Intrigada, Winter digitou variações da ortografia no mecanismo de busca e ainda não conseguiu encontrar qualquer evidência apoiando a reivindicação de Blake.

Isso era estranho. Talvez a ortografia não estivesse correta?

Winter tentou convencer-se de que isso tinha que ser uma hipótese, mas não conseguiu banir completamente o pequeno verme da dúvida que tinha começado a corroer a ela. Blake poderia ter feito o termo?

Winter desligou o computador e decidiu tentar dormir de novo.

Apesar do barulho, ela fechou os olhos e, eventualmente, ela caiu When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

em um profundo sono. Ela começou a sonhar – e não com gatos, como ela poderia ter esperado. Ao invés disso, Winter sonhou que estava voando através de um céu manchado verde esmeralda.

Ela não estava voando sozinha.

Alguém segurava sua mão com força, puxando-a através do ar.

Alguém...

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 26 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Em um canto à direita do sótão Velasco, Blake estava agachado sobre um dos baús antigos vasculhando seus pertences. Depois de um minuto de buscas infrutíferas, ele bateu a tampa para baixo em frustração. Onde estava? O ímã deveria estar aqui com o resto das peças que ele trouxe de Marrocos. Tentando um método diferente, ele fechou os olhos, evocando a imagem do fragmento de cristal verde em sua mente. Quando ele capturou a imagem clara, ele estendeu com seus sentidos, sintonizando-se à vibração única do ímã.

Ainda com os olhos fechados, Blake levantou-se e se moveu

para o extremo oposto do sótão onde havia algumas caixas de papelão empilhadas contendo suas roupas. Guiado pelo instinto, ele chegou a uma das caixas e passando as mãos em todos os casacos dobrados embalados, até que sua mão fechou sobre algo irregular e duro. Abrindo os olhos, viu o ímã deitado em sua palma, a fina corrente de ouro enrolada debaixo dele como uma cobra.

Luz brilhou no rosto de Blake enquanto ele segurava o cristal verde. Ele imaginou pendurado em volta do pescoço pálido de Winter. Ele já podia imaginar a reação de surpresa, a forma como seu rosto corava de forma adorável. Agora era só uma questão de escolher a hora certa para apresentar a ela.

Saber da morte de seus pais o afetou profundamente esta noite.

Durante a viagem para casa ele meditou sobre o sofrimento que ela passou, a tristeza profunda que viu dentro daqueles lindos olhos cor de avelã. Blake conhecia a solidão fria de ser órfão, e não desejava a ninguém. Especialmente Winter. Ele só queria a sua felicidade. Ela não merecia menos. Ele esperava que o dom do ímã pudesse oferecer-lhe algum pequeno prazer. Ela não precisa saber seu motivo oculto: que o ímã era mais do que uma peça de joalharia. Muito mais. Ele queria mantê-la tão ignorante quanto possível sobre a escuridão no mundo, a escuridão que ele conhecia muito bem. A ideia de assustá-la, especialmente se ele era a fonte desse medo, fazia seu coração doer.

Na garagem esta noite a fome quase o havia arruinado. Ao observá-la, Blake foi tomado pelo desejo de tal forma que, por um momento ele quase perdeu o controle. No entanto, alguma coisa o dera força para resistir a essa única luz dourada, viu o brilho nos olhos de Winter. Mesmo sem a chegada abrupta de sua irmã, Blake acreditava que ele não teria cedido a seus impulsos. Este show de contenção foi tão animador quanto foi surpreendente. O que havia sobre essa garota que dominava seus desejos perigosos?

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Ainda remoendo esta questão, Blake colocou o ímã em seu bolso e voltou para baixo. Os gatos estavam esperando por ele.

Parecia que tinha escolhido um sacrifício – um azul pequeno.

Provavelmente o nanico da ninhada. Blake pegou o gato cor de fumaça e olhou com tristeza em seus olhos. Ele viu renúncia lá.

Reconhecimento. Relutantemente, ele se virou e levou o azul para o corredor. O destino do pobre gato se escondia atrás da última porta à esquerda. Atrás dele seguia um cortejo fúnebre de seus irmãos e irmãs. Os gatos olharam para Blake em reprovação, mas eles entendiam que não havia outra maneira.

Era hora da alimentação.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Bolonha Outubro de 1879 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Madeleine fechou os olhos enquanto outra contração torturava seu corpo. No último momento, ela cerrou os dentes, selando o grito que veio arremessado de sua garganta. Seria imprudente chamar muita atenção para si mesma. Deixando acreditar que ela era apenas mais uma cliente pagante, dentro da carroça pequena de Madame Provost. Era pouco provável que Victor o solicitasse como seus informantes – ele sempre manifestou desprezo pelos Romani – ainda com Madeleine permanecessecautelosa. Durante o ano

passado Victor tinha crescido muito, ele tinha os olhos por toda parte. Mesmo aqui, em meio a esse bando de ciganos vagueando, a palavra pode ter se espalhado do louco que estava disposto a pagar ouro para obter informações sobre sua esposa perdida.

Quando a onda de dor passou, Madeleine abriu os olhos para ver o rosto enrugado de Madame Provost olhando para ela com preocupação. Os medalhões decorativos de bronze na testa da velha pegou a luz da lamparina, piscando ligado e desligado.

— Logo, vem, — ela disse. Seu hálito cheirava fortemente das ervas exóticas e especiarias que pendiam em cachos atados do teto da carroça. Ela apertou suavemente a barriga inchada de Madeleine. Madeleine ficou tensa em preparação para outra contração, silenciosamente ela se perguntou, se tinha feito a escolha certa em vir para cá.

Madeleine tinha declinado a oferta de uma parteira gentilmente em Bolonha, inventando uma história sobre um marido que ela se reuniria em breve na próxima cidade – um marido que já tinha feito acordo com a parteira de lá. Sua paranoia tornou-se tão aguda que ela não ousou dizer a verdade a essa gentil estranha.

Mesmo uma parteira bem-intencionada não se podia confiar, não sabia se iria fofocar a seu marido ou a irmã ou sacerdote sobre a estranha senhora estrangeira de riqueza aparente e grávida, que chegou à sua porta, sozinha, sem nenhum sinal do pai da criança.

Madeleine sabia que o risco da tal tagarelice, sabia que havia uma maneira de chegar a ouvidos hostis. Não, ela tinha feito à escolha certa em escolher a carroça sombria da cartomante.

Enquanto os Romani eram geralmente vistos com desconfiança, foi essa qualidade precisa que os fez salvadores improváveis de Madeleine. Outros seriam menos propensos a acreditar neles, eles devem relatar sua visita. Como párias sociais, que estavam longe dos círculos de fofocas, ela procurava desesperadamente evitar.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Ironicamente, foi à fofoca que trouxe Madeleine aqui – uma conversa ouvida por acaso na taverna sobre a caravana Romani descansando na floresta ao redor. Levou apenas algumas perguntas sutis antes de saber sobre Madame Provost, embora ainda estivesse com medo enorme de se aventurar sozinha. O desespero lhe deu coragem. Pelo menos com os ciganos, ela e seu filho por nascer, tinham uma chance de sobrevivência. Era mais do que ela poderia esperar se Victor a alcançasse.

Seu abdômen contraiu novamente, e desta vez Madeleine foi incapaz de parar um gemido agonizante de seus lábios. Suas mãos agarraram nos lençóis que Madame Provost tinha espalhado sobre a mesa de carvalho duro, distorcendo-os em cordas.

— Empurre! — A velha pediu, e Madeleine tentou obedecer, mas a dor aumentou acima de tudo, drenando sua força. Sua visão ficou borrada, o teto da carroça ondulado como se refletido em uma poça de água, e tingido de vermelho escuro a partir dos cantos.

Com Antoine tinha sido muito mais fácil. Ele saiu apenas com um gemido, e o efeito sobre seu corpo foi mínimo. Havia sido um nascimento, quieto e gentil. Agora parecia que ela estava dando a luz a um leão, rasgando e arrancando suas entranhas como se furioso por ter sido deslocado de sua casa.

Conforme outra contração atravessou seu abdômen, obrigandoa a gritar, Madeleine se encontrou fazendo um desejo desesperado.

Se Ariman estivesse aqui...

— Empurre! — Madame repetiu, com a voz soando com autoridade. — Empurre!

Madeleine tentou obedecer, mas o esforço foi muito grande. Ela não tinha mais forças em seu corpo. Como lenha a ser alimentada em um forno ardente, sua dor havia avidamente a consumido.

— Eu não posso! — Ela chorou, lágrimas de agonia e frustração manchando suas bochechas.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

— Você pode, — veio uma voz das sombras mais profundas no canto de sua visão turva. A voz de um sonho. Ao pé da mesa, ela ouviu o grito assustado de Madame Provost. A velha deu um passo para trás, enquanto uma mão quente rodeava as de Madeleine, o toque inconfundivelmente real. Ariman sorriu para ela, sua mão livre suavemente retirando o cabelo de seus olhos.

— Você voltou, — Madeleine ofegou fracamente. Madame Provost, bifurcou o sinal do mau-olhado em Ariman. Um olhar sinistro.

— Por favor, continue, — disse Ariman graciosamente, embora não houvesse uma nota de advertência em sua voz. Murmurando uma oração, a velha engoliu temerosa e voltou para o pé da mesa.

— Você tem que empurrar, — ela disse, sua voz ligeiramente tremendo.

Madeleine, olhando para o seu amor, de repente, encontrou a força que precisava. Não havia mais dor agora, apenas os olhos de Ariman e a luz brilhando esmeralda que deles emana. Como ela tinha perdido aqueles olhos, e do jeito que olhava para ela com essa mistura de afeto e suave admiração – como se Madeleine fosse à única mágica!

Um impulso final e a carroça preencheu com o som do choro da criança. Havia algo sobre o som que Madeleine, mesmo em seu estado de exaustão, reconheceu como estranho.

Os gritos lamentosos soando como se estivessem girando um sobre o outro, um início, mesmo enquanto o outro ainda saía, criando um efeito Doppler desconcertante.

A característica calma de Ariman se contraiu em uma expressão atípica de surpresa.

Usando o restante de sua força, Madeleine levantou a cabeça e olhou para baixo, para ver Madame Provost admirada.

Não era um, mas dois bebês chorando se contorcendo nos When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

braços da velha!

Gêmeos...

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 27 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Winter na aula de inglês, mão esquerda apoiando o queixo enquanto ela tomava notas com a outra. Sra. Lathkey pediu a classe para criticar as lições de escrita criativa sendo lida em voz alta, no entanto, Winter tinha apenas rabiscado a página. Ela não estava ouvindo Billy Gleeson quando ele gaguejava sua prosa terrível. Ela mal conseguia manter os olhos abertos. Os gatos haviam retornado na noite passada.

Ontem de manhã, Winter acordou ao som agradável do oceano na distância. O sobrenatural gritando que tinha mantido até as primeiras horas da manhã, parou. Quando ela olhou para fora da

janela, não havia sinal dos gatos em seu quintal, apenas alguns tufos de pelos rolando sobre a grama como erva daninha sendo levada pelo vento. A visão surreal poderia muito bem ter sido um sonho.

Ela passou o resto da quarta-feira tentando não ficar obcecada sobre a conversa que teve com Blake em sua garagem.

Tudo o que ele disse foi que ele consideraria se juntar a ela no clube de surf, na noite de quinta-feira. Ainda assim, a possibilidade de vêlo tão cedo – especialmente em circunstâncias que poderiam ser interpretadas como encontro – era tão delirantemente inebriante que Winter tinha encontrado dificuldades para pensar em outra coisa. Escola se arrastava interminavelmente, o seu estado de antecipação nervoso só fazia as horas durar mais. Quinta-feira viria em breve. No momento em que ela chegou em casa, ela se sentiu drenada e esgotada, tudo que ela queria era começar um descanso de boa noite.

O tumulto havia começado um pouco antes das oito horas, enquanto ela e Lucy estavam jantando. Ambas estavam cuidadosamente evitando o tema de Blake quando o som de fora dos felinos gritando ofereceu uma distração não inteiramente indesejável. Olhando pela janela da sala, elas testemunharam uma visão surreal semelhante ao da noite anterior – seu quintal estava repleto com gatos. Só que desta vez parecia haver mais deles.

Mesmo depois de Lucy ligar a mangueira sobre eles, os gatos não fugiram, e Winter foi forçada a suportar mais uma noite de sono.

Quando ela se sentou à mesa do café, esta manhã, descabelada e grogue, Lucy abordou o assunto de chamar o controle de pragas para fazer algo sobre os gatos. Winter falou o contrário.

Ela não conseguia explicar seus motivos, os gatos eram um incômodo, mas algum instinto que ela não entendia completamente a levou a acreditar que havia uma razão para a presença dos gatos.

Não era uma coincidência aleatória que tinham se reunido em seu When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

quintal. Eles estavam lá para um propósito.

Pensando sobre os gatos e se perguntando por que ela se sentia estranhamente protetora deles, Winter estava distantemente consciente de que Billy Gleeson terminou sua história e foi se sentar.

Ela sentiu um momento de pânico leve quando a Sra. Lathkey olhou para a classe para escolher alguém. Claro Winter não tinha feito sua lição – na verdade, ela tinha esquecido tudo sobre isso uma vez que ela tinha deixado a sala de aula na segunda-feira. Blake, os gatos, e sua falta de sono, tirou completamente sua energia mental para contemplar algo tão trivial como lição de casa.

Ainda preocupada com a elaboração de uma desculpa, ela sentiu um lampejo de alívio quando Sam foi chamado para ler a sua obra. Ela estava salva por enquanto. Ela esperava que sua história fosse longa o suficiente para durar até o sino tocar.

Quando ele começou a falar, Winter encontrou-se, apesar de seu cansaço, o estado de mente confusa, encantada com a sua estória. Situada no interior da França no final do século XVII, a estória de Sam foi contada através dos olhos de um adolescente chamado Stephen Pascal, que foi forçado a uma caça ao lobo por seu pai e irmãos como um rito de passagem cruel. Enquanto Sam se aproximava da conclusão de sua estória, Winter pensou ter detectado um traço de melancolia por trás de suas palavras. Quase como se a estória fosse mais importante para ele do que um exercício de escrita criativa.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

―... Damien seguiu o lobo para a caverna, e ficou com seu rifle mirando o focinho do animal. Seus brilhantes olhos amarelos brilhavam malignamente na escuridão. Atrás ele ouviu o pai puxar o gatilho. "Faça isso, Damien.Mate a besta.‖ No entanto, ele hesitou.

Afinal, este animal não era mau, apesar do que seu pai e irmãos tinham declarado. Era simplesmente obedecer seu instinto como um predador. Não caçar por prazer ou crueldade, só para seu sustento.

O animal era perigoso, sim, mas não um monstro. Quem era ele para sentenciá-lo, até a morte? "O que você está esperando?" Seu pai exigiu estridentemente. Damien ouviu um eco dos seus irmãos através da caverna. Eles pensavam que ele fosse um covarde. Talvez eles estivessem certos. Com um pedido de desculpas silencioso para o lobo, Damien fechou os olhos e puxou o gatilho. A explosão foi ensurdecedora, e o cheiro de pólvora encheu seu nariz. Quando ele abriu seus olhos, o corpo do lobo estava amassado na parte de trás da caverna. Parecia que ele era filho de seu pai depois de tudo.‖ Sam olhou para a Sra. Lathkey. — Isso é tudo o que eu escrevi.

Sra. Lathkey empurrou os óculos de volta da ponta do seu nariz. — Muito interessante, Sam. Não era exatamente o que eu tinha em mente quando eu defini a lição, mas divertido independentemente. Obrigado, você pode se sentar.

Sam assentiu e fechou seu notebook. Winter notou que Jasmine oferecer-lhe um sorriso de apoio. Evidentemente sua raiva sobre sua indiscrição com Becky Lane tinha passado. Sra. Lathkey foi para a frente da sala. — Quem gostaria de ler uma seção de seu próximo trabalho? — Previsivelmente, ninguém se ofereceu, para sua frustração evidente. — Vamos, pessoas, um de vocês deve estar orgulhoso de seu trabalho.

Winter abaixou-se em sua cadeira, rezando para que ela não fosse chamada. Assim quando a Sra. Lathkey virou em sua direção, o sino tocou para o final do período. Winter soltou um suspiro de alívio e começou a arrumar seus livros. Era a sorte de escapar. Ela teria que se lembrar de fazer a tarefa, quando ela chegasse em casa hoje, porque ela duvidava que manteria sua sorte.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 28 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Winter estava sentada no refeitório, os olhos fixos no seu prato de comida e não sobre o nauseante espetáculo à sua frente. Quaisquer problemas que Jasmine e Sam tinham experimentado parecia ter sido bem e verdadeiramente esclarecido, a julgar pela forma que Jasmine estava esbanjando atenção nele agora. Winter teve que abafar seu reflexo de vômito quando Jasmine sedutoramente colocou uma batata frita na boca de Sam. Isso nunca deixou de surpreender Winter como rapidamente sua amiga acelerava um relacionamento. Sam tinha apenas chegado no Trinity na segundafeira, e aqui estava, apenas três dias depois, e Jasmine já havia

gerado discussão de um amante. Se continuasse nesse ritmo eles se casariam e divorciariam em um fim de semana.

Jasmine balançou a cabeça, maravilhada com Sam. — Eu simplesmente não posso acreditar que a história veio de você. ' Sam pareceu confuso. — Por que? Você pensou que eu fosse um idiota?

— Por uma questão de fato, eu pensei. Um idiota, grande e bonito.

Sam tentou parecer triste, mas não conseguiu esconder o sorriso. — Sinto muito por exceder as suas expectativas.

— Então você deve ser. Se eu soubesse que você era tão nerd, eu não teria o convidado para sair. — Sam lançou uma batatinha nela, que Jasmine rindo desviou. Seu comportamento de repente ficou sério quando algo além do ombro de Winter lhe chamou a atenção. — Falando de nerds...

Winter ouviu passos vindo por trás dela.

— Oi, Winter, — Harry Francis disse, ignorando olhar de Jasmine de desgosto.

— Harry. Tudo bem? — Winter não esperava ver Harry até que seus extraordinários serviços como fotógrafa fossem necessários para a próxima edição do Trinity Times.

— Sim, está tudo bem. — Pela primeira vez, não pareceu com condescendência. Seu aspecto não era exatamente amigável, mas certamente foi amigável.

— Você provavelmente deve estar com aquela foto estranha que você me mostrou na terça-feira, não é?

Winter relaxou – é isso que ele queria. A fotografia do cemitério! Ela se lembrou de como ele ficou impressionado pela sua imagem estranha.

— Eu acho que sim. Por quê? — Ela tinha certeza de que a fotografia estava na parte de trás do seu diário, onde ela o havia When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

deixado.

— É só que eu estava em uma sala de chat na noite passada conversando com um cara que manifestou algum interesse em vê-la.

Ele me ofereceu cinquenta dólares, na verdade.

— Você está falando sério? — Winter não podia acreditar que havia pessoas lá fora que pagam dinheiro para uma coisa dessas.

Harry assentiu. — Eu vou te dar vinte por isso.

Winter pensou na sua oferta por um momento antes de decidir que não havia razão para manter a fotografia. Ela poderia muito bem ter algum dinheiro por isso, mesmo que ela estivesse ficando com a menor parte do negócio.

— Claro. Por que não? — Ela puxou o diário de sua bolsa e virou para trás, esperando ver a fotografia aninhada lá. Não estava.

Franzindo a testa, Winter abanou as páginas do diário, esperando que a fotografia caísse, mas foi decepcionada.

— Isso é estranho, — ela disse, cavando no fundo da bolsa, caso a fotografia tivesse caído. — Ela não está aqui.

Harry pareceu um pouco esvaziado. — Bem, se você encontrá-la, deixe-me saber. — Ele deixou Winter com uma sensação confusa. Ela colocou a fotografia no seu diário depois de mostrar para Blake em sua garagem. Onde poderia ter ido?

Jasmine e Sam estavam olhando-a com curiosidade.

— O que foi aquilo? — Jasmine perguntou, pegando uma batata frita e mergulhando-a no ketchup.

Winter encolheu os ombros, mas não podia ignorar completamente a sensação de desconforto na boca do estômago. — Nada.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 29 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Após a escola terminar, Winter demorou com Jasmine nos degraus da frente, enquanto ela esperava por Sam. Jasmine apenas disse a ela com entusiasmo que ele a estava levando para o Adagio – um restaurante italiano na Rua Hatherly – antes do show começar esta noite. Wintertentou partilhar o entusiasmo da amiga, mas algo sobre sua expressão deve ter dado o sinal a Jasmine que ela estava muito preocupada.

Jasmine tocou em seu braço com simpatia. — Eu não acho que você deva se preocupar. Blake não teria pegado o bilhete de volta se ele não estivesse considerando seriamente ir.

Winter suspirou e se pegou olhando com esperança para o estacionamento procurando qualquer sinal do veículo de Blake. Era a terceira vez que ela tinha verificado desde que ela e Jasmine chegaram aqui. Ontem, Winter demorou na frente da escola, aparentemente para assistir a equipe de futebol que Sam faz parte.

Blake não apareceu, e depois que as eliminatórias terminaram, Winter foi para casa sentindo-se esvaziada.

— Eu não sei, Jas. Eu meio que lhe implorei para ir. — Foi surpreendente a rapidez com que suas emoções ficaram positivas inicialmente na noite de terça-feira, depois de Blake aceitar o ingresso, para esta rasteira dúvida. A falta de sono devido as invasões dos gatos estava provavelmente contribuindo para sua perspectiva negativa. E se ela o tivesse visto ontem, ela provavelmente não estaria se sentindo tão vazia. Ela se amaldiçoou por não ter seu número de telefone quando teve a chance – uma simples chamada ou mensagem de texto teria esclarecido tudo para ela.

Jasmine estava olhando para ela, desconfiada. — Você ainda vai, não é?

Winter hesitou. — Talvez.

— Você tem que ir! — Jasmine implorou. — Eu estava pensando que nós poderíamos ir como góticas. Mexer com a cabeça dos Telotismo e sua tripulação. Seria incrível!

Winter encolheu os ombros. — Eu não tenho nenhum delineador preto. Além disso, você e Sam vão se divertir sem mim.

Quanto mais Winter pensava sobre isso, mais a ideia de deixar Sam e Jasmine irem só aumentava. Sentada no refeitório assistindo o festival amoroso era ruim suficiente; Winter temia como os dois se comportariam fora da escola.

— Claro que vamos, mas vamos nos divertir com você, — Jasmine explicou, não deixando o tópico do assunto sem luta. — When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Por favor, Winnie! Vai fazer bem você sair de casa. Blake irá. Eu sei!

Winter desejou que ela pudesse compartilhar a certeza de Jasmine. As portas da frente da escola se abriram e Sam apareceu no topo da escada. Ele viu Jasmine e Winter e começou a descer em direção a elas, dando-lhe a oportunidade de orientar a conversa longe de suas inseguranças.

— É bom ver vocês dois com tudo resolvido, — ela sussurrou, incapaz de manter-se sorrindo. Os dramas de Jasmine eram tão frequentes e exagerados que era difícil levá-la a sério.

Felizmente, Jasmine estava muito ocupada assistindo Sam notar sua expressão sarcástica. — Não foi um grande negócio, — ela murmurou sob sua respiração, correndo através de suas palavras antes de Sam ficar ao alcance da sua voz. — Só falta de comunicação, realmente. Sammy sabia que Becky Layne era uma puta desagradável. — Ela disse ela, como se Becky fosse algum tipo de inseto predador atacando sua presa.

— O que vocês estão falando? — Sam disse, olhando para elas com desconfiança.

Jasmine se virou para Winter. — Winter não tem certeza se vai para o show desta noite. Estou convencendo-a.

Sam parecia genuinamente decepcionado por ela não se juntar a eles. — Por que não? Qual é o problema?

Winter encolheu os ombros, desconfortável por discutir a situação com Sam. — Eu não decidi ao certo ainda.

— Eu estava ansioso para conhecer o seu namorado. Jas me disse que ele é novo na cidade também.

— Ele não é meu namorado, — afirmou um pouco mais indignada do que ela pretendia. — De qualquer forma, ele provavelmente não virá.

— Você não sabe, — disse Jasmine. — Você só está falando sem ter certeza.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

— Por que eu faria isso?

Jasmine deu de ombros. — Porque você está nervosa.

Winter suspirou, irritada por ter que se defender.

Infelizmente ela não podia ignorar o elemento da verdade na acusação de Jasmine. É que o que ela estava fazendo? Tentando falar sem saber porque estava com medo, não que Blake pudesse não ir, mas que ele realmente aparecesse?

O olhar de Sam passou entre Jasmine e Winter, como se estivesse cauteloso de oferecer sua opinião e potencialmente perturbar uma delas. Eventualmente, ele disse: — Bem, eu espero que você mude de ideia.

— De qualquer forma, não é como se você tivesse nada melhor para fazer, Win, — disse Jasmine, apenas semi brincando. — O que você vai fazer ao invés disso? Vai para casa e assistir TV? Isso seria uma agradável mudança de ritmo para você.

— Isso pode vir como um choque para você, Jasmine, mas eu tenho uma vida própria!

Nem Sam e nem Jasmine pareciam totalmente convencidos de que era verdade. O triste era que Winter não tinha certeza de que ela estava convencida.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 30 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Naquela noite, Winter se encontrava sentada no sofá assistindo TV. Por mais que ela fingiu ser insultada pela insinuação de Jasmine, a verdade era que ela não tinha muito de uma vida fora da escola.

Agora, as opções sociais de Winter eram limitadas a sentar-se aqui, ou ir para o seu quarto para ouvir música e navegar na internet.

Nenhuma opção parecia particularmente atraente. Apesar de sentir-se cansada durante todo o dia por causa do agito da noite anterior, Winter estava incrivelmente inquieta. Seu olhar flutuou para o relógio pendurado sobre sua televisão, mentalmente calculando se ou não, ela ainda tinha tempo suficiente para ir ao

show.

Fora ela podia ouvir a mangueira sendo ligada enquanto Lucy preparava para aspergir água sobre os gatos novamente em sua mais recente tentativa de assustá-los para fora do quintal. Ela tentou enxotá-los educadamente, e quando isso falhou, ela bateu as tampas das panelas altas juntas, mas os gatos mal reconheceram sua presença. A mangueira foi ligeiramente mais eficaz.

Durante o dia, Winter havia tentado várias técnicas diferentes para manter-se distraída sobre Blake, qualquer coisa para manter seu cérebro ocupado. Um dos exercícios que ela definiu para si mesma foi descobrir o termo coletivo para tantos gatos. Quando nenhum veio à mente – ―bando‖ não parecia certo, e ela tinha certeza de que "arrogância" apenas relacionava com os leões – pesquisou na internet em seu período livre para ver o que ela poderia encontrar. De longe, o termo mais popular era ―grupos‖,e parecia muito benigno quando usado em referência ao grupo perturbador de animais fora. Elas estavam sendo atormentadas por um grupo de gatos. Isso simplesmente não parece certo.

Os olhos de Winter pularam para o relógio novamente. Ela ainda tinha tempo de ir ao show, se ela saísse agora, mas ela estava em conflito. Admitir para si mesma que Jasmine estava certa sobre ela procurando uma desculpa para não ir, não ajudou a tomar a decisão mais fácil. Se Blake não aparecesse esta noite seria doloroso, mas, considerando a perda de cortar o coração que ela já enfrentou este ano era muito pequeno. No entanto, se Blake fosse para o show esta noite significaria que essa relação que ela estava construindo em sua mente, realmente poderia ser uma chance de ser real.

Totalmente despreparada para tal eventualidade, esta perspectiva emocionava e aterrorizava Winter de qualquer maneira.

Seria muito mais fácil ficar onde estava. Não havia dor ou ansiedade ficando aqui sentada no sofá. A questão era – ela poderia When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

viver com sigo mesma sabendo que ela perdeu a oportunidade de passar a noite com o cara mais incrível que ela já conheceu? Depois da intensa contemplação olhando para o relógio, Winter pulou do sofá e foi para a janela.

Ela podia ver Lucy abaixo, visando um jato de água para um dos grupos de gatos. Os gatos agilmente pularam para fora do caminho da agua e, ao invés de fugirem, apenas se mudaram para outra parte do quintal.

Winter gritou para ela, — Ei, Lucy!

Lucy olhou para cima, seu rosto cor de rosa com frustração.

— Você se importaria se eu sair por algumas horas?

Lucy franziu a testa com desconfiança. — Por que? Vai para onde?

Winter se sentiu endurecer com irritação por causa da curiosidade de sua irmã. Por que Lucy não apenas pergunta se ela vai se encontrar com Blake? Desde a noite da refeição, sua irmã não mencionou Blake na conversa. Ele havia se tornado uma fonte de discórdia tácita entre elas.

Winter conseguiu manter a voz baixa. — Eu pensei em visitar Jasmine por algumas horas.

Lucy refletiu essa perspectiva por um momento. — Tudo bem. Mas esteja de volta às onze, certo? Ainda é uma noite de escola.

— Tudo bem.

Ela deixou Lucy com sua batalha contra os gatos e foi escolher uma roupa. Seu guarda-roupa era desprovido de qualquer coisa remotamente incrível. Todas as suas roupas pareciam monótonas e fora de moda; certamente nada condizente com o que poderia ser seu primeiro encontro (que não é um encontro!) com Blake. Preocupada que ela estivesse correndo contra o tempo, Winter rapidamente escolheu seu favorito jeans e uma blusa preta When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

que ela estava confiante que a fazia parecer mais magra do que realmente era. Enquanto ela deliberadamente pensava se ia com botas ou tênis, o nervosismo de Winter começou a dar lugar a uma sensação de formigamento desagradável de expectativa.

Algo estava para acontecer hoje à noite.

Algo incrível.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 31 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Havia uma longa fila de pessoas do lado de fora da entrada do clube de surf enquanto Winter guiava a Jessie para o estacionamento. A maioria delas havia adotado o visual típico gótico: muito delineador preto, jeans rasgados, botas pesadas e os realces roxos. Alguns estavam vestindo camisetas com o logotipo Ninjas Urbano – Winter considerou alguns falsos.

Ela aprendera com sua mãe que nunca em nenhuma circunstância usaria uma T-shirt para uma propaganda de show da banda que estivesse prestes a ver. Isso simplesmente não aconteceria. A menos que você estivesse tentando ser irônico, é

claro, Winter era diferente da maioria destes adolescentes. Eles pareciam muito tristes.

Ela saiu da lambreta, sentindo um pouco visível em seu conjunto relativamente chato. Ela desejou ter algumas roupas mais ousadas para que pudesse se encaixar com os outros espectadores.

Pelo menos ela estava vestindo preto.

Winter verificou a fila procurando por Jasmine e se sentiu um pouco melhor sobre a sua escolha de moda, quando ela finalmente localizou a amiga. Jasmine tinha aparentemente renunciado a ideia de se vestir como uma gótica, e decidiu ir na direção oposta, escolhendo uma roupa tradicional, com saltos brilhantes e altos – e Sam estava do lado de Jasmine, parecendo igualmente fora de lugar com sua camisa pólo azul. Winter sorriu para si mesma quando ela cruzou o estacionamento em direção a eles.

— Estou tão feliz que você veio! — Jasmine disse, puxando Winter em um abraço exuberante, logo que ela estava dentro do alcance dos seus braços.

Sam sorriu para Winter por cima do ombro de Jasmine. — Oi, Winter.

— Sam, — Winter conseguiu deixar escapar em saudação, antes de Jasmine retirar seu ar.

Winter notou alguns olhares de reprovação das outras pessoas na fila atrás de Jasmine e Sam. — É melhor eu ir para a parte de trás da fila. Algumas pessoas estão olhando com reprovação.

— Não seja boba, — disse Jasmine, agarrando-lhe a mão e puxando-a para a fila.

— Ei! Você não pode fazer isso! — Um cara gordo, de aparência ranzinza em uma t-shirt preta gritou atrás deles.

Jasmine virou a cabeça e disparou. — Lide com isso!

Winter olhou para cima e para baixo da fila procurando por Blake. Seu coração se afundou quando ela não o viu. Jasmine sorriu When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

para ela. — Procurando por alguém?

Winter tentou dar de ombros inocentemente, mas ficou claro pela reação de sua amiga que seus sentimentos estavam escritos por todo o seu rosto. Jasmine ligou seus braços com os dela quando a fila começou a avançar. — Vamos lá, ele já pode estar lá dentro.

Os organizadores do evento montaram um palco improvisado na frente do clube de surf, e transformou o pequeno quiosque na parte de trás em um bar. Havia uma enorme luminária retangular pendurada sobre o palco com meia dúzia de refletores ligados a ele, todos na área onde a banda iria tocar. A estrutura parecia fora do lugar, para não mencionar perigosa, nas dimensões modestas do clube de surf. Para não ajudar, as lâmpadas fluorescentes eram uma rede de lâmpadas de Natal azuis amarradas ao longo das paredes.

Seu brilho escondia o quadro de aviso e estante de troféus por trás deles, que teria quebrado a ilusão de que o local não era apenas um templo de adoração do rock'n'roll.

Sam viu o bar. — Certo, eu posso pegar para as encantadoras senhoritas uma bebida?

Winter balançou a cabeça e pegou sua bolsa. — Não, está tudo bem. Eu posso pegar a minha própria.

— Deixe-o pegar uma bebida, Win. — Jasmine virou-se para Sam e sorriu em agradecimento. — Obrigada, querido, duas cocas seria ótimo. E você poderia ver se eles têm alguma batatinha frita sabor churrasco?

— Eu volto já. — Ele inclinou-se e deu-lhe um rápido beijo na sua bochecha.

Jasmine suspirou melancolicamente ao vê-lo desaparecer no mar azul.

— Você teve sorte, ele é bom, Jas, — Winter disse, deixando de comentar sobre como os muitos outros ―bons‖ que Jasmine tinha conhecido só este ano.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Primeiro foi Eric, capitão da equipe de natação, um menino, loiro e magro com uma quase perfeita barriga isóscele – em forma de triângulo invertido. Ele não durou mais do que duas semanas, que foi uma semana a mais que Kevin Mulhoney, um aspirante a pintor começou a ver Jasmine depois que pediu a ela para posar para ele na competição anual de retrato de Hagan Bluff. Kevin mal tinha terminado de pintar as pernas de Jasmine quando ela terminou com ele – aparentemente ele estava fazendo seu olhar gordo – e começou a namorar Chris Baker, que tinha o cabelo quase tão longo quanto o de Winter e um hábito de citar erroneamente poesias.

Havia outros, é claro, mas estes foram os três primeiros que veio à cabeça de Winter. Com base em curta duração que esses romances haviam sido, Winter não podia deixar de se perguntar quando o coitado de Sam iria durar. Embora, considerando o olhar sonhador nos olhos de Jasmine, havia uma chance de que ele poderia durar mais do que o resto.

— Eu sei. Eu continuo tentando encontrar uma falha nele, mas eu apenas queria que fosse perfeito.

Winter imitou a expressão melancólica de sua amiga. — Jasmine sua: romântica incurável.

Jasmine ignorou, e franziu os lábios, pensativa. — Nós iríamos fazer lindos bebês...

Winter não poderia discordar disso. Com a pele dourada de Jasmine requintada e a perfeição loira de Sam, seus filhos iriam ser geneticamente abençoados. Ela estava prestes a comentar sobre isso quando ela notou um sorriso lento se espalhar pelo rosto de Jasmine.

Winter virou-se para seguir o olhar de Jasmine e sentiu o chão afundar sob ela, como se ela estivesse em pé na proa de um navio que tinha de repente batido em uma onda.

Blake havia chegado.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 32 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Vestido com um terno e camisa justa com o colarinho aberto no pescoço – em contraste com o jeans rasgado e t-shirts de outro show – Blake estava na entrada do clube de surf, parecendo pouco à vontade em meio à maré fluindo de adolescentes sujos. Lindo como ele era, Blake parecia um pouco com o irmão mais velho de alguém que vasculhava o local para manter um olho nas coisas.

— Oh meu Deus, — disse Winter, surpresa que ela ainda fosse capaz de falar. Vendo Blake foi um choque muito maior do que ela esperava.

Jasmine colocou um braço ao redor dela e lhe deu um apertão.

— Garota fique firme. Apenas lembre-se de respirar.

— Ele veio!

— É claro que ele veio. Você convidou. Agora, vá falar com ele.

Ela gentilmente cutucou Winter para Blake. Ele estava apertado na escuridão do clube de surf, como se procurasse alguém.

Procurando por ela.

— Talvez eu espere aqui um pouco mais.

Jasmine empurrou-a novamente.

Winter olhou desesperadamente para Jasmine, mas viu que não adiantava discutir com ela.

— Vá em frente! — Jasmine ordenou.

Winter respirou fundo e caminhou nervosamente através da multidão para onde Blake estava de pé. Iluminado pelo neon azul, ele parecia incrivelmente bonito. Tão lindo, de fato, que a deixou ainda mais hesitante em se aproximar dele. Ela não se sentia com o direito de entrar na órbita de Blake. O modo como seus cachos grossos negros emolduravam seu rosto, aquelas altas maçãs do rosto e seu queixo esculpido – ele apenas parecia assim... Perfeito. Seu coração pulou uma batida quando seus olhos se encontraram, e seus joelhos ficaram fracos.

— Decidiu enfrentar a multidão, não é? — Ela disse, finalmente, chegando a ele. Winter ficou impressionada com o quão relaxada sua voz soou em oposição à excitação quase debilitante e ansiedade que ela sentia através de seu corpo.

— Bem, eu pensei comigo mesmo: como poderia ser ruim? — Ele respondeu, lutando para levantar sua voz sobre o ruído da multidão. Um garoto vestindo um boné para trás, bateu aproximadamente em Blake quando ele inclinou em direção ao bar.

Ele não se incomodou pedindo desculpa só continuou distraidamente. Blake riu da grosseria. — Eu poderia ter cometido When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

um erro.

— Estou feliz que você veio. — E isso era tudo Winter poderia pensar em dizer. Sua aparência a jogou para o ponto em que ela parecia incapaz de chegar com algo a contribuir para a conversa. Ela estava começando a entrar em pânico que ela iria passar o resto da noite sofrendo dessa paralisia, quando Jasmine escorregou para fora da escuridão para resgatá-la.

— Oi, eu sou Jasmine. A melhor amiga de Winter. — Jasmine estendeu a mão, incapaz de conter-se em adotar seu tom de voz mais sensual.

Blake apertou sua mão. — Prazer em conhecê-la, Jasmine.

Winter não poderia ficar mais confiante na luz fraca, mas parecia que Jasmine realmente corou quando Blake a tocou. Winter nunca viu um cara fazer Jasmine corar antes.

— Tenho certeza que Win falou sobre mim? — Jasmine continuou esperançosa.

— Não realmente, — Blake disse com um encolher de ombros, e Winter se sentiu culpada pela alegria secreta que ela notou na forma como os olhos de Jasmine se arregalaram um pouco em estado de choque. Ela estava acostumada a ser o centro das atenções de cada garoto. Felizmente, Sam chegou naquele momento para oferecer ao ego de Jasmine o impulso necessário.

— Duas cocas. Não havia nenhuma... — Vendo Blake, Sam fez uma pausa no meio da frase e Winter ficou intrigada ao ver desvanecer seu temperamento alegre. Ele entregou a Jasmine as duas bebidas e pisou territorialmente na frente dela.

— Blake, não é? — Sam disse, sorrindo educadamente, mas mantendo o olhar fixo em Blake em uma maneira inteiramente hostil. — Eu sou Sam. Blake assentiu, mas não fez nenhum esforço para deixar Sam à vontade. Em vez disso, ele reagiu à presença de Sam com When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

hostilidade semelhante, seu apertado sorriso, tornando-se uma careta. Os dois apertaram as mãos, ambos relutantes para ser aquele cara a quebrar o domínio primeiro. Eles pareciam estar testando a força um do outro.

Winter não sabia por que Blake e Sam estavam agindo da maneira tão agressiva um para o outro, mas ela achou que deveria tentar colocar um fim a isso.

— Talvez devêssemos ir mais perto do palco? Eu acho que eles estão prestes a começar.

Como se na sugestão, os alto-falantes na frente do palco gemeram quando alguém trocou os microfones. Jasmine estava olhando para Blake tão intensamente que ela ficou alheia à insegurança óbvia do seu encontro. Agora, ela observou a reação de Sam, e rapidamente tentou acalmar a situação.

— Boa ideia, eu quero ser capaz de ver a banda. — Ela agarrou Sam pelo braço e puxou-o para o palco.

Sam se permitiu ser levado embora, mas não antes de atirar um último olhar para Blake, como se o alertando para manter distância.

Blake pareceu relaxar uma vez que Sam foi embora.

Ele fez um gesto em direção ao palco onde uma multidão considerável de adolescentes estava aglomerada em preparação para a chegada da banda. — Depois de você.

Winter assentiu, desejando que ela tivesse a coragem de tomar Blake pela mão como Jasmine tinha tomado a de Sam. Em vez disso, ela caminhou à frente dele, levando um pouco de conforto leve em quão perto ele se arrastava enquanto ela andava através da multidão. Algumas vezes ele levemente batia contra ela, o breve contato deu-lhe arrepios de prazer.

Uma vez que eles chegaram ao local e Jasmine e Sam estavam na frente, Winter teve o cuidado de colocar-se entre os dois garotos.

Jasmine deve ter pensado a mesma coisa, porque ela fez questão de When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

colocar Sam do lado de fora de seu quarteto. Seu braço estava firmemente ao redor da cintura de Sam, em um esforço para colocálo à vontade.

Que não pareceu estar funcionando.

Winter podia ver a expressão de Sam no brilho de néon e ele não parecia nada feliz. Isso nunca deixou de surpreendê-la como os caras competitivos poderiam ser, não apenas no esporte, mas em todas as áreas da vida. Pensando sobre a reação de Sam, Winter se perguntou se um cara alguma vez sentiria essa proteção com ela.

Ela olhou de relance para Blake, que estava olhando em volta distraidamente como se preocupado que alguém poderia reconhecêlo. Isso foi um pequeno soco emocional por pegá-lo olhando assim desconfortável. Ela entendeu que este não era exatamente o seu público, mas ele poderia pelo menos mascarar a inquietação um pouco para seu benefício! Se ele ao menos olhasse para ela e sorrisse, ou fizesse algo que mostrasse que ele sentia um fantasma de emoção, ou, sua falta, apenas reconhecê-la. Em vez disso, o olhar de Blake passava por tudo ao seu redor exceto para ela.

Um grito alto emitido a partir da multidão quando os Ninjas Urbanos subiu ao palco e Winter tentou se levar pelo alvoroço que estava se formando. Talvez Blake pudesse se soltar uma vez que a música começasse. O vocalista, Alfie Jameson, desfilou até o microfone, a sua guitarra Fender pendurada na cintura. Ele parecia mais velho do que ele aparentava nos clipes que Winter tinha pegado anteriormente na televisão – mais perto dos trinta do que vinte. — Boa noite, Hargan Bluff, — ele ronronou para o público.

— Espero que vocês tenham um bom momento esta noite – nós teremos. — E eles saltaram direto para a sua assinatura atingida, — When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

What Dreams May Come.

A multidão ao redor de Winter pulava e balançava ao ritmo da condução da música. Ela olhou para Jasmine e viu seus quadris

balançando, cantando junto com a letra do refrão. Mesmo Sam mudou-se para a música, mas ele não parecia estar gostando do desempenho tanto quanto Jasmine. Ele manteve esgueirando olhares para Blake, como se certificando de que ele estava mantendo distância. Apenas Blake não parecia ser pego pela música. Winter manteve-se através da música e cada vez que ela relaxava, Blake parecia mais distraído. Em pé imóvel, um vinco fraco alinhava sua testa, Blake estava um milhão de quilômetros de distância.

Qual era o seu problema?

Terminando a música, Blake pegou Winter olhando para ele e sorriu com culpa, como se envergonhado por seu comportamento preocupado.

Winter gritou para ele sobre a música. — Você está bem?

Blake franziu a testa como se suas palavras foram perdidas em uma distorção ensurdecedora que vinha através dos alto-falantes.

— Você... — Winter começou a repetir, mas foi interrompida por um rangido estranho vindo de cima deles. Mesmo quando isso foi mais alto do que o efeito do som de outro orador, Blake parecia ouvi-lo também e olhou para o banco pesado dos holofotes.

Seguindo seu olhar preocupado, Winter pensou em sua experiência na igreja antes do teto desabar.

Um dos holofotes acima parecia estar tremendo.

De repente, houve um som horrível de metal sendo rasgado em pedaços, e o holofote se apagou. Enraizada no local em estado de choque, Winter observou prolongar por um segundo o seu balançar avançando, antes de cair. Que caiu apagado piscando para ela.

Não houve tempo para o medo, apenas fascínio destacado quando ela estudou a descida do objeto caindo. Winter estava apenas consciente de Blake levantando-a do chão enquanto ele levava para longe do holofote, um instante antes de atingir o chão.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Ele segurou-a em seus braços, protegendo-a com seu próprio corpo dos vidros estilhaçados.

A música foi cortada em um lamento estridente quando os Ninjas Urbanos olharam para a platéia. Embora o holofote caindo fosse quase inaudível para as suas músicas, a comoção da multidão, foi suficiente para chamar a sua atenção.

Embalada ao peito de Blake, Winter podia sentir seu coração batendo debaixo de sua bochecha. Trêmula retirou-se de seu abraço para ver o que tinha acontecido. Os destroços dos holofotes estavam espalhados ao redor no lugar onde ela tinha estado.

Jasmine estava parada do outro lado do holofote caído, pálida e assustada.

— O que está acontecendo por aí? — Alfie Jameson falou do microfone. — É alguém machucado?

Winter olhou a partir dos destroços para a expressão sombria de Blake. Ele sabia! Apesar de sua irracionalidade, a certeza desse pensamento perfurou seu choque. De alguma forma, Blake sabia que o holofote ia cair.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 33 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Os Ninjas Urbanos recusou a continuar após o acidente, para a frustração da torcida, que começou batendo os pés e vaiar assim que eles deixaram o palco. Ninguém estava ferido, depois de tudo – por que a banda parou de tocar? Depois que cinco minutos se passaram sem a banda voltar, os pés da multidão e as vaias diminuíram para resmungos, e o público começou a se dispersar.

Logo que a multidão havia diminuído o suficiente para eles irem, Blake gentilmente guiou Winter para a saída, protegendo-a da melhor maneira possível dos adolescentes revoltados espancando de todos os lados. Ainda se sentindo chocada, Winter tentou descartar

a certeza estranha que Blake sabia sobre o acidente antes de acontecer. Como ele poderia saber? Era impossível, claro, mas isso não impediu que o seu sentimento fosse verdade. Ela tentou manter os olhos em Jasmine e Sam, mas logo os perdeu no mar de rostos.

Eles teriam que encontrá-los assim que estivessem do lado de fora.

Estimulados pelo fluxo, Winter e Blake foram para o estacionamento. Espectadores descontentes estavam em pequenos grupos, reclamando uns com os outros sobre o desempenho truncado, ou reclamando em seus telefones. Um grupo de garotos começou a tocar os Ninjas Urbanos alto em seus celulares e ficaram pulando, recusando-se há terem seu tempo bom em ruínas.

Winter mal tinha consciência deles. Ela continuou pensando na imagem do holofote vindo na direção dela, mais e mais em sua mente. Às vezes, a imagem se transformava e ela estava de volta em Pilgrim‘s Lament e não era um holofote, mas uma viga de madeira que estava caindo. Isso estivera tão perto. Se Blake não tivesse...

— Você não está machucada, não é? — Blake estava estudando-a com preocupação.

— Não. Além do meu cérebro, que eu acho que pode estar danificado. — Ela riu fracamente. — Eu estou tendo alguns pensamentos loucos.

— Como o quê?

— Como eu estou amaldiçoada ou algo assim. Há apenas muitas vezes você pode quase ser esmagada em uma semana antes de começar a ficar paranóica. — Winter tentou manter o tom leve, mas sua voz parecia frágil, como se pudesse quebrar a qualquer momento.

— Você não é paranóica. Apenas azarenta. — Blake tomou sua mão, apertando-a suavemente. — Não tenha medo. Tudo vai ficar bem.

Winter sorriu esperançosa. — Promessa?

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Blake hesitou um segundo, antes de responder. — Promessa.

Olhe, lá está Jasmine.

Ela seguiu seu olhar e viu Jasmine tropeçando fora com a multidão, parecendo perplexa. Winter ficou na ponta dos pés e acenou com as mãos. Ela poderia dizer que Jasmine ainda estava um pouco agitada.

— Você viu Sam? — Jasmine perguntou distraidamente. — Nós fomos separados na multidão. Eu não consegui encontrá-lo.

Winter balançou a cabeça. — Já tentou ligar para ele?

— Sim, mas seu telefone está desligado.

— Você quer a nossa ajuda para encontra-lo? — Blake perguntou.

— Não, está tudo bem. Tenho certeza que ele está por aqui em algum lugar. — Jasmine verificou o estacionamento novamente.

— Como vocês dois saíram? O holofote caiu rapidamente. Estava muito louco lá dentro.

— Estou com todos os dedos das mãos e pés contabilizados.

— Você teve sorte de o cara lá ter alguns bons reflexos.

— Eu sei, — Winter respondeu, olhando de soslaio para Blake, que parecia desconfortável com a atenção.

— Bem, se você ver Sam, diga-lhe para me ligar. Foi bom finalmente conhecê-lo, Blake, — Jasmine disse, oferecendo-lhe a mão.

Blake sacudiu educadamente. — Você também, Jasmine.

— Vejo você amanhã, Win. — Os olhos de Jasmine passaram claramente sem palavras que dizia: não estrague tudo!

Uma vez que Jasmine foi embora, Winter soltou um longo suspiro trêmulo. Coisas definitivamente não fora tão bem quanto poderia, mas talvez ela pudesse salvar a noite. — Então, hambúrgueres e batatas fritas vai encarar? Há um café na esquina.

Ele ainda deve estar aberto.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

— Sinto muito, mas é melhor eu ir para casa.

— Você precisa? — Winter tentou esconder seu tom decepcionado, mas não conseguiu. Ela encolheu-se um pouco com a carência em sua voz. Ela soava como uma criança.

— Sim. Outro momento, no entanto.

Winter podia ver que ele sentia muito, o que a fez se sentir um pouco menos esvaziada, mas por que ele não poderia poupá-la uma ou duas horas?

Ela precisava de conforto, caramba! Talvez ele precisasse alimentar os gatos. Gatos... Winter esperava que os esforços de Lucy com a mangueira do jardim tivesse tido sucesso. Após o drama no clube de surf, ela não podia suportar a ideia de mais uma noite sem dormir.

— Ok, eu vou acompanhar você até o seu carro.

Blake pareceu um pouco divertido por sua inversão do clássico gesto cavalheiresco, mas não protestou. Ele tinha feito o suficiente para ela, esta noite, o mínimo que podia fazer era deixa-la acompanha-lo até seu carro. Enquanto eles caminhavam em silêncio em direção ao fim do estacionamento onde a caminhonete de Blake estava, Winter tentou descobrir uma maneira de lhe pedir o seu número de telefone. Determinada a não deixar esta oportunidade ser jogada no lixo, ela estava encontrando dificuldades para resolver esta questão. Parecia incrivelmente importante não estragar essa questão em particular.

— Obrigado novamente por me convidar hoje à noite, — disse Blake, enquanto se aproximavam do seu veículo.

— Você não precisa me agradecer. Espero que da próxima vez não seja assim... Agitado. — Ela olhou para as estrelas. — Eu continuo esperando um motor de avião ou um meteoro cair sobre mim a qualquer momento.

Blake seguiu seu olhar e sorriu. — Parece claro para mim.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Seus olhos se encontraram e Winter sentiu seus espíritos subir.

Estava escrito claramente para que ela visse em seu meio sorriso carinhoso, as sobrancelhas ligeiramente levantadas e o olhar brilhante – Blake gostava dela. Ela não estava imaginando. De alguma forma, o impossível havia acontecido: este lindo, estranho homem jovem havia desenvolvido sentimentos por ela.

Ela duvidava que fosse um momento mais oportuno para pedir o seu número. Seu coração acelerado, Winter abriu a boca, a questão nervosamente dançou na ponta da sua língua quando ela viu seu aspecto azedo. Algo sobre o seu ombro lhe chamara a atenção.

— O que...?

Ele empurrou-a para a sua caminhonete e se inclinou para examinar alguma coisa. Winter viu que o pneu na roda direita estava baixo. Blake levantou-se e caminhou rapidamente em torno do veículo inspecionando os outros pneus, franzindo a testa enquanto ele descobriu que eles estavam todos baixos.

Winter abaixou-se para examinar mais de perto a roda e viu que havia uma longa incisão na borracha preta. Alguém tinha cortado os pneus de Blake!

Ela enfiou seu dedo na fenda. — Por que alguém faria isso?

— Eu não sei, — ele disse severamente. — Você tem o número de um mecânico ou uma borracharia?

Winter balançou a cabeça. — Desculpe – um... Eu poderia ligar para minha irmã?

Blake esfregou a barba do queixo, pensativo. — Não se preocupe com isso. Vou pegar um táxi. — Winter notou que ele continuava olhando para a rua além do estacionamento, como se esperando ver alguém. O estacionamento estava quase vazio agora.

A maioria do público tinha ido. Havia alguns retardatários de pé em pequenos grupos sob as lâmpadas fluorescentes, mas além destas When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

pessoas, Winter e Blake estavam sozinhos. Seu comportamento agitado fez Winter se sentir nervosa.

Um pensamento de repente lhe ocorreu. — Talvez eu possa te dar uma carona para casa?

A imagem dele escarranchado na sua lambreta atrás dela, os braços em volta da sua cintura, era incrivelmente potente. Winter ficou um pouco com falta de ar só de pensar nisso.

Blake esmagou sua fantasia. — Não, não precisa. Eu vou fazer do meu jeito. Obrigado, no entanto. Talvez...

Ele foi interrompido pelo som de um motor de carro sendo estacionado nas proximidades. Winter se virou e viu uma van preta em marcha lenta na via paralela ao estacionamento.

Havia algo curioso sobre as janelas da van. Elas foram coloridas, obscurecendo o motorista e os passageiros. Talvez a van estivesse aqui para pegar a banda. Winter ouvira que estrelas do rock gostavam de viajar incógnitas, embora ela não imaginasse que haveria muitos fanáticos esperando para correr até banda depois do ocorrido hoje à noite.

— Acho que vou aceitar sua carona para casa, afinal, — Blake disse calmamente, uma inflexão estranha na sua voz.

Apesar de Winter ter ficado satisfeita com a sua abrupta mudança, ela estava mais intrigada com sua expressão. Blake parecia com medo.

— Você está bem?

Ele percebeu que ela estava estudando-o e forçou um sorriso, o forçado sorriso brilhante foi quase suficiente para dissipar sua preocupação. Quase...

— Claro. Vamos.

— Você conhece aquela van? — Ela perguntou, apontando para o veículo em marcha lenta.

— Por que iria? — Blake disse com desdém, e tomou-a pelo When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

braço, levando-a para longe da caminhonete. Ela lançou um olhar apressado sobre seu ombro enquanto eles atravessavam para onde Jessie estava estacionada, mas a van não tinha se movido. Se isso era o que tinha assustado Blake, o motorista não parece muito interessado em segui-los.

— Me desculpe, eu não tenho um capacete para você, — Winter disse, uma vez que chegaram a sua lambreta.

— Apenas não caia, — Blake respondeu secamente. Ele estava fazendo um bom trabalho em cobrir sua ansiedade, mas Winter conseguiu ver, evidente a tensão na sua boca.

— Eu não faço nenhuma garantia.

Ela montou na lambreta, deixando espaço suficiente para Blake, e sentiu uma pequena emoção quando ele deslizou para o assento atrás dela. Ele cruzou os braços em volta de sua cintura; seu peito pressionado na parte de trás dela, e Winter podia sentir sua pulsação batendo por baixo da camisa. Ela ligou a lambreta.

Durante o zumbido baixo do motor, ela ouviu Blake dizer, — Quão rápida essa coisa anda?

— Não se preocupe devemos estar em sua casa, na próxima terça-feira, não mais do que isso.

Winter apertou o acelerador e os dois partiram na noite.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 34 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

O caminho mais certo para Holloway Road era pelo centro da cidade, no entanto, Winter sabia que eles provavelmente chegariam lá mais rápido se eles tomassem o caminho pelo litoral de Bluffs. No mês passado, a Câmara Municipal programou uma equipe à noite para arrumar os buracos de Main Street, o que significa que há dezenas de trabalhadores na rua agora. Se tiverem sorte, ela e Blake ficarão parados dez minutos ou assim, mas havia sempre uma possibilidade de ficarem por mais tempo.

Winter decidiu não arriscar, especialmente por que a pressa parecia ser um problema para Blake.

Por que ele estava com tanta pressa, afinal? O que havia o assustado no estacionamento? Apesar de sua demissão, Winter tinha certeza de que tinha algo a ver com a chegada da van preta sinistra. Por que estava dirigindo ao redor com vidros escuros? As pessoas lá dentro provavelmente queriam que as suas identidades permanecessem secretas. Em seguida, houve o fato preocupante dos pneus rasgados do veículo de Blake, enquanto eles estavam dentro do clube de surf. Ela olhou para o espelho lateral e relaxou que não havia ninguém os seguindo.

Provavelmente algum caipira boquiaberto viu a caminhonete de Blake decidiu causar pouco prejuízo. Semelhantes incidentes não provocados de destruição imprudente acontece o tempo todo na cidade. Havia muitos jovens e poucas coisas para fazer. Todos os hormônios agitados tinham que ir para algum lugar, e muitas vezes era através de violência ou vandalismo. Não havia nenhuma razão para pensar que Blake estava fugindo de algo. Era só a paranóia brincando com ela de novo.

Eles passaram pela Boulevard, Fletch e Howl‘s Music Jamboree, antes de virar para Horton Street e ir em direção ao cais de pesca. A falta de postes de iluminação, nesta parte da cidade não impediu Winter de enxergar – tinha a luz da lua azul macia. Não era totalmente claro, mas, a lua estava baixa no céu, guiando-a em direção ao litoral como um farol.

Além do zumbido baixo do motor da Jessie, as ruas pareciam estranhamente silenciosas, como se a cidade se abrisse para ela e Blake ficarem sozinhos. Eles não passaram por outro carro ou pedestre enquanto dirigiam, não vendo nenhuma outra luz cortando as sombras à frente.

A noite era deles.

Os braços de Blake eram rígidos em torno da sua cintura, tornando Winter consciente de quão mole sua cintura é em When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

comparação. Ela apertou os músculos de seu estômago, fazendo uma promessa silenciosa para si mesma que a partir de amanhã ela começaria a cuidar melhor de si mesma. Ela iria começar a ir para a academia na parte da tarde com Jasmine.

Jasmine era viciada em Pilates durante os últimos três anos, mas desistiu de convencer Winter que não era nada mais do que uma forma dolorosa para passar horas – horas que Winter sabia que, poderia ser dedicada a algo mais útil. Como assistindo TV. A ideia de tentar competir com Jasmine e sua boa forma, era profundamente desagradável, mas que não iria matá-la se tentar.

Winter mal conhecia Blake, no entanto, aqui estava ela, já contemplando as mudanças de vida enormes para seu benefício – e qualquer perspectiva de qualquer tipo de exercício físico regular para ela era uma mudança de vida enorme. Ela precisava desacelerar e se deixar levar. Um passo de cada vez. Seria sensato esperar até que ela pelo menos pegasse o número de telefone de Blake antes de começar a planejar sua lua de mel. Alguns olhares carregados eram maravilhosos e tudo, mas não exatamente se somam a um relacionamento.

Apesar do motor da Jessie protestando contra a ladeira íngreme, eles subiram o morro e viraram para Pacific Drive, deixando a área maior da cidade atrás deles. O matagal espesso ergueu-se ao seu lado esquerdo, obscurecendo a visão do oceano.

Isso corria por um trecho curto antes de diluir à medida que chegava mais perto de Bluffs. Logo o mar se abriu ao lado deles na escuridão, o barulho do acústico das ondas apenas sob o som da lambreta, o spray ocasional da névoa do mar refrigerando suas bochechas. O reflexo da lua deslizando através da superfície da água mudando, perseguindo eles enquanto passavam ao longo da borda do penhasco, transformando a água prateada na sua encosta. Era lindo.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

— Você pode fazer essa coisa ir mais rápida? — A voz de Blake gritou por cima do barulho do motor, Winter saiu do seu devaneio.

Ela ficou suficientemente curiosa pela urgência de seu tom de voz e verificou seu espelho esquerdo novamente. Desta vez, o reflexo não estava vazio – faróis de um carro estavam aparecendo.

Seu segundo olhar rápido revelou que não era um carro no entanto, mas a mesma van com os vidros escuros que ela havia visto estacionada em frente ao clube de surf. Seus instintos estavam certos. Blake estava com medo da van e com razão, ao que parece, pela forma como estava agressivamente indo sobre eles. O veículo não tinha placa, e isso fez a ameaça parecer mais real.

Winter pisou no acelerador e conseguiu se afastar da van. O vento gelado da costeira esbofeteou seu rosto, fazendo seus olhos lacrimejarem. Ela olhou o espelho lateral novamente e ficou assustada ao ver a van em alta velocidade fechando o espaço entre eles.

— Quem são eles? — Ela gritou por cima do vento forte.

— Apenas dirija Winter! — Blake gritou de volta.

Tentando ignorar seu medo e confusão, Winter concentrou toda a sua atenção na estrada. De alguma forma, ela foi puxada para o meio de uma situação muito perigosa – uma situação ainda mais terrível por causa de sua ambiguidade. Se eles saíssem disso com segurança, Blake iria explicar seriamente.

Se ao menos houvesse uma estação de serviço ou algum lugar para parar e chamar a polícia, mas havia apenas a ponta do penhasco para à esquerda e grosso cerrado, espinhoso à direita.

Pacific Drive era o único caminho sinuoso através desta seção da reserva natural, e não iriam passar a nenhuma civilização novamente por um ou dois quilômetros.

Winter insistiu para a Jessie ir mais rápido, When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

desesperadamente assistindo a escuridão à frente de sinais de outro carro. A estrada desapareceu em uma sombra que mesmo o brilho da lua não poderia penetrar. Nenhuma luz brilhava lá, nenhum sinal de ajuda. Winter de repente pensou nos seus pais e percebeu com horror que ela estava se aproximando do local onde seu pai perdeu o controle do carro e desapareceu sobre Bluffs. Seria um caso cruel de sincronicidade se ela e Blake fossem condenados ao mesmo destino.

O coração de Winter saltou quando o motor da van rugiu mais alto em seus ouvidos. Sua sombra foi lançada em todo o cascalho pelo brilho malévolo dos faróis da van – estava quase em cima deles! Se eles não poderiam ir mais rápidos, eles iriam para...

— Espere! — Blake gritou quando a van colidiu a luz na traseira da Jessie.

Winter sentiu o solavanco da lambreta debaixo do seu assento. Foi um milagre ela não perder o controle. A próxima vez ela não teria tanta sorte. A van bateu novamente, levando Jessie para fora da estrada, dobrando-os para beira do precipício.

Escuridão azul bocejou à sua frente, mas Winter ainda segurava o guidão, esperando que ela pudesse evitar esta catástrofe. Mas simplesmente não havia terra bastante abaixo deles.

Em um estado dormente de terror, ela estava vagamente consciente de que todo o som parecia ter drenado para fora do mundo, com exceção do vento forte e da voz de Blake tentando ser ouvida acima, (o que ele estava dizendo?). A roda dianteira da Jessie correu ao longo da borda do penhasco, e então eles mergulharam em direção ao mar revolto abaixo.

As águas frenéticas correriam em sua direção. Ela podia ver pedras quebrando a superfície como lápides preto, brilhante e liso.

— Vamos, Winter! — Blake estava gritando em seu ouvido, mas Winter estava muito aterrorizada para registar a sua voz, como When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

qualquer coisa, apenas o ruído de fundo.

Isto era!

Ela ia morrer!

— VAMOS...

Isso estava acontecendo! Isto realmente...

— O GUIDÃO! Winter estava ciente dos braços de Blake puxando-a, tentando levantar os seus acima da lambreta enquanto eles caíram, mas suas mãos estavam congeladas no guidão em um aperto de morte. Ela estava consciente de uma dor no peito e seu coração cedeu sob a tensão deste completo e absoluto terror mortal.

O spray do mar salgando sua boca aberta, o mar à meia-noite escaldante encheu sua visão. A voz de Blake em seu ouvido de alguma forma cortou o caos.

— Vamos lá, Winter, — ele sussurrou com autoridade impossivelmente calmo e Winter finalmente obedeceu. Ela soltou o guidão e enquanto Jesse caía debaixo dela, ela se lançou nos braços de Blake cedendo ao esquecimento.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 35 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Morrer foi fácil.

Não houve dor, não como fim abrupto quando Winter atingiu as águas geladas. Houve apenas um aperto, uma sensação de alfinetes e agulhas picando sua pele e em seguida a atmosfera parecia sutilmente mudar ao seu redor, tornando-se mais densa, espessa, quase como a água. O estranho foi que ela permaneceu consciente por tudo isso. Ela sempre imaginou a morte como sendo a ausência de tudo – visão, audição, tato – mas os sentidos de Winter permaneceram afiados.

Ela cheirou o perfume da morte quando atingiu em cheio

suas narinas e pulmões; sentiu seu toque como uma brisa quente acariciando seu rosto, ouviu sua música repicando os sinos distantes. mas será que ela podia vê?

Hesitante, Winter abriu os olhos... Ela estava voando.

Voando através de um céu escuro, verde manchado como se, logo abaixo do horizonte, um sol esmeralda estivesse prestes a subir. Ela não estava sozinha neste lugar. Blake estava voando ao seu lado na escuridão esmeralda, ele apertou sua mão ao redor dela, puxando-a através deste espaço. O vento bagunçando o seu cabelo, soprando de sua testa lisa. Seus olhos estavam fixos à frente em algum ponto imaginário no nada, com uma expressão de concentração suprema.

De repente o vento parou, e Winter sentiu que estava sendo sugada para baixo. Um projeto rompeu o aperto de Blake sobre ela e puxou-a para longe. Ela viu sua cabeça virar para ela, os olhos arregalados de medo, e então ela estava caindo. Seja qual for a mágica que a mantivera no ar isso falhou uma vez que seu contato com ele foi quebrado. Ela caiu na escuridão – lentamente. A gravidade parecia ser fraca neste lugar.

Apesar do fato de que ela estava caindo, Winter não estava com medo. Ela já morreu uma vez e duvidava que ela pudesse morrer novamente. Separar de Blake incomodava, mas a preocupação estava distante e facilmente ignorada. Ela estava além de tais emoções negativas. Com cada respiração do perfume doce no ar, Winter sentiu serenidade quente espalhando por seu corpo, roubando todas as sementes de medo antes que pudessem florescer.

Ela permitiu-se cair para o que parecia um tapete espesso de nuvens. Havia imensas formas escuras sob as nuvens, contraluz por uma luz verde mudando. Logo ela estava caindo por entre as nuvens e finalmente viu um espectro da luz abaixo.

Era uma cidade.

Uma cidade fantasma. Uma luz sobrenatural verde fluía When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

sobre todas as superfícies como água ou fogo ou fumaça. Os olhos de Winter se arregalaram quando ela girou ao seu redor A arquitetura dos prédios e edifícios era surpreendente, uma confluência aparente de diferentes estilos de diferentes períodos de tempo, em seguida, tornando familiar e totalmente estranho. Não havia planície, nenhuma forma geométrica simples – tudo parecia intricadamente forjado e texturizado. Era a escala dessas estruturas, que era a mais inspiradora. O mais alto arranha-céu que ela já vira foi ofuscado pelas torres e colunas que ela via agora. Que passaram por ela, rompendo as nuvens além dos céus. Era uma cidade de Babel. À medida que, ela chegava mais perto, derivando entre as torres e pináculos, Winter começou a vê-las. As pessoas da cidade.

Milhares delas, que se amontoavam nas ruas e praças abaixo.

Roupas exóticas ondulavam nos ventos, chapéus meia lua largos pendurados como luas verticais sobre sobrancelhas pálidas, muitos dos habitantes seguravam reluzentes hastes pretas, que jogavam faíscas quando isso atingia o chão. Algumas das mulheres estavam envoltas da cabeça aos pés como beduínos do deserto, o material cintilante como se fosse feito da própria noite. Mais pessoas viajavam entre as torres ao longo de pontes amplas... Não, Winter viu que estava enganada. Essas pessoas não utilizavam pontes para navegar no espaço entre as torres – elas estavam flutuando!

Deslizando silenciosamente pelo ar como fantasmas... Ou anjos.

Havia luz verde sendo jogada de homem para mulher, e construções iguais. As principais fontes de esplendor parecia ser uma série de grandes poços circulares, situados nos cruzamentos.

Números reunidos em torno desses poços, reunido por algum tipo de cerimônia. Os olhos de Winter doíam só de olhar para baixo à luz esmeralda jorrando, mas ela não conseguia desviar o olhar.

Havia mistérios na luz. Se ela pudesse chegar mais perto, então ela poderia começar a entender...

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

De repente, veio uma forma arremessada para fora da escuridão acima de Winter, reunindo-a em um abraço forte. Era Blake. Segurando-a com força nos braços, levando-a para cima, longe da cidade e de volta para as nuvens para o céu. Winter lutou contra seu abraço, com vontade, necessidade – para ver o que estava no fundo dos poços. Para descobrir os segredos que estava naquela luz.

Ela gritou de frustração, mas sua voz foi perdida. Não havia nenhum som aqui, nenhum som, exceto o do vento correndo. E os sinos soando na escuridão.

Deixe-me ir! Winter silenciosamente pediu a Blake. Por favor, deixe-me...

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 36 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

—... Vá!

O mundo explodiu em torno de Winter, oprimindo seus sentidos com o seu ruído familiar e cheiros. Eles estavam caindo pelo ar, trancada em um abraço emaranhado, e depois...

BATIDA! O ar foi eliminado dos seus pulmões quando eles atingiram o chão e começaram a rolar sobre a superfície irregular. Blake corajosamente tentou absorver a maior parte do impacto, até que, finalmente, a aceleração diminuiu e eles pararam. Winter estava deitada de costas, com Blake deitado em cima dela. Ela estendeu as

mãos e podia sentir areia fria sob seus dedos. Um feixe do farol distante cortava uma faixa durante à noite, e ela sabia onde eles estavam: Praia do Farol perto do clube de surf, onde eles saíram há meia hora. Nada disso fazia sentido.

Ela tinha morrido. Ela tinha ido para o precipício na lambreta com Blake. As ondas e rochas precipitaram-se para cumprimentá-la, mas antes que tivesse batido, Blake tinha puxado a Jessie, puxadopara...

O peso de Blake em cima dela estava tornando difícil para respirar. Agora, ele levantou a cabeça fora de seu peito. Seu rosto estava completamente sem cor, seus lábios brancos. Apenas seus olhos brilhavam na noite com a sua luz de fogo verde, tão bonito, tão semelhante à luz da...

A cidade!

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

A imagem daquele lugar assombrado, vivo como fogo, voltou correndo. Foi difícil para Winter manter a memória em sua mente, no entanto. Já as imagens milagrosas estavam se tornando intangível e difícil de entender, como se agarrar a fumaça. Ou um sonho. Independentemente disso, ela segurou tão forte quanto pôde, concentrando-se sobre os detalhes da gigante estrutura, os fluxos das pessoas flutuando, os poços vomitando essa luz verde hipnótica. Quanto mais forte ela segurava suas memórias, menos o mundo real ao seu redor se tornava.

Blake, a areia, o mar, tudo começou a se enfraquecer quando a imagem da cidade fantástica tornou-se mais brilhante. Winter quase podia ver a cidade por trás do céu da noite, como se a luz estivesse sendo projetada através de uma cortina transparente.

— Winter? — A Respiração de Blake cheirava doce, como o perfume do vento fantasma, o vento acima da cidade.

— Winter, — ele disse, mais firme agora, mas ela não lhe respondeu. Ela não podia responder-lhe. Ela estava olhando para

além da beleza de seu rosto para a Terra dos Sonhos onde eles fizeram a sua jornada juntos, para a cidade viva com fogo verde e magia.

— Winter - olhe para mim!

Ela sentiu as mãos de Blake ir para seu rosto, embalando suas bochechas. Havia areia em suas mãos, os grânulos levemente arranhando sua pele. Isso era real. Blake era real. Winter começou a voltar a si. Por um momento, ela foi ligada a esse outro lugar por um fio de memória que era forte o suficiente para começar a puxar ela de volta – mas de volta para onde?

— Blake?

Ele pareceu relaxar uma vez que Winter falou seu nome.

Ainda assim, ele embalou seu rosto com ternura, acariciando o lugar sob os olhos lentamente com os polegares, como se preocupado que ela pudesse escapar novamente. Ela queria que ele a segurasse e olhasse assim para sempre. Ele salvou sua vida novamente, ela não sabia se foi mágica, mas de alguma forma ele a trouxe aqui para este lugar.

— Está tudo...

Incapaz de fazer qualquer outra coisa, Winter se inclinou para cima e plantou seus lábios nos dele, roubando suas palavras com um beijo. Que poderia muito bem ter sido o seu primeiro, então cheio de novas sensações e sentimentos. Seus lábios apertados, a língua de Winter encontrou a sua, saboreando sua boca, sua deliciosa beleza. Foi um beijo lento, um beijo verdadeiro.

Como toda garota, Winter sabia quando ela sempre queria ser beijada, e agora ela agiu sua fantasia com precisão e habilidade.

Blake era o parceiro perfeito. Sua boca era suave, mas forte, balançando suavemente contra a dela, respondendo ao seu ritmo.

Rápido, então lento. Rápido, então lento. Delirantemente mais estimulados, os sentidos de Winter cambalearam.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Ela tornou-se sutilmente consciente da peculiar sensação ainda de boas-vindas sendo arrastada para Blake. Não fisicamente, mas em um sentido mais profundo – suas essências viajaram através do beijo para encontrar a meio caminho, entrelaçando, juntando-se, tornando-se uma singularidade. Winter estava começando a sentirse tonta, como se ela fosse desmaiar. Mas ela não conseguia parar de beijá-lo – não, ela não queria que acabasse. Ela se sentiu conectada a algo que ela nunca soube que existia. Uma energia que vivia atrás de coisas. Brilhante e puro.

E então, acabou.

Blake rompeu-se de seu abraço. Ele se afastou e ficou na areia a poucos metros de distância, à respeito de seu... Medo? Por que ele está tão assustado? Certamente ele deve ter sentido essa conexão sublime, essa proximidade. Winter tentou sentar-se, mas descobriu que não podia. Seus músculos estavam muito fracos para a tarefa. O máximo que ela podia fazer era apoiar-se nos cotovelos.

— Qual é o problema? — Foi difícil formar as palavras, como ela não parecia ter qualquer fôlego. Ela sentiu como se tivesse acabado de correr uma maratona. Ao contrário de seu corpo, sua mente estalava com energia misteriosa, como se tivesse bebido dúzias de cafés e acompanhado com um litro de Red Bull. O mundo parecia mais brilhante e mais claro. As ondas quebrando na costa, o farol e a lua se escondiam além dele, todos estavam saindo agora com uma clareza surpreendente.

— Blake?

Seu peito arfava como se ele também estivesse fora do ar. A cor voltou ao seu rosto e a estranha luz verde em seus olhos era mais brilhante – quase como os olhos de um gato brilhando na noite.

Blake parecia de alguma forma mais bonito do que nunca. Como ela poderia vê-lo tão claramente? A luz da lua não era tão poderosa.

Isso tinha sido um beijo.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Winter observou-o engolir e sacudir a cabeça algumas vezes como se estivesse tentando limpá-la.

— Eu sinto muito, eu... — Blake começou, então, com um olhar de pânico em seus olhos, virou-se e caminhou rapidamente até a areia nas dunas.

Com algum esforço, Winter se virou e gritou para a figura recuando, — Blake! — mas se ele ouviu, ele não parou.

Confusa, ela se forçou sobre seus pés, e começou a tropeçar em sua direção. Suas pernas pareciam de chumbo, tornando quase impossível persegui-lo em qualquer velocidade. Desesperada, ela conseguiu localizar suas pegadas no caminho em torno de uma das areias brancas e depois parou abruptamente, como se não estivesse lá. Mas isso era impossível. Não era...?

Enquanto Winter ficava olhando para o final da trilha, ela descobriu que não poderia responder a essa pergunta. A palavra impossível tinha perdido a definição para ela.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 37 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Blake se materializou no quarto Velasco. Apertando o peito, ele caiu no chão em agonia. Faíscas verdes de energia satirizaram através de sua forma contorcendo-se para mais alguns segundos antes de pulverizar, deixando um leve rastro de ozônio no ar. Fora um longo tempo desde que ele tinha feito duas viagens de forma mais próxima. Seu corpo agora estava imerso no meio de uma fome paralisante em que visava repor os estoques de energia.

Atendendo o seu chamado em silêncio por ajuda, a porta para o quarto foi empurrada aberta e quatro gatos entraram. Eles circularam em torno de Blake, emprestando-lhe um pouco de sua

força até que ele foi capaz de elevar-se do chão. Esta não foi a primeira vez que eles os salvaram. Exaustos, os gatos caíram de barriga, observando as pernas trêmulas do seu Mestre.

Não havia outra escolha. Era isso ou revelar-se ou deixar Winter mergulhar para a sua morte. Blake não se arrependeu de suas ações, apesar do fato de que agora o perigo era mais imediato do que nunca. Amanhã, depois de consertar os pneus da sua caminhonete, ele não perderia tempo em encontrá-la. O Tempo de Winter estava se tornando curto. Se ele tivesse força, ele iria para ela agora, mas ele precisava se recuperar. Seria tolice tentar protegêla neste estado debilitado.

Blake se firmou contra a mesa. Doía-lhe pensar em como confusa e assustada Winter deve ter ficado quando ele a deixou na praia. O beijo foi inesperado, ele não teve tempo para se preparar para os efeitos. Pensando em seus lábios tocando os seus, seu corpo doía de saudade. A fome ameaçou dominá-lo de novo, e foi com muito esforço que Blake recuperou o controle.

Um som horrível rouco ecoou do andar de cima, quebrando o silêncio da casa velha. Os gatos saíram correndo em terror, desaparecendo nas sombras. O som aumentou. Risos.

Ele estava rindo dele.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 38 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

No momento em que Winter entrou pela sua porta da frente, sua roupa estava encharcada de suor e sua garganta estava seca. A viagem para casa a partir da praia levou mais tempo do que ela esperava. Cada passo, um esforço enorme, foi um milagre, ela ter feito isso tudo. Trabalhando sob esta letargia alarmante, apenas a sua visão permaneceu forte. Mais forte, na verdade, do que tinha sido antes. Ela tinha sido forçada a manter-se nas sombras, enquanto o brilho das luzes dos postes da rua era muito doloroso.

O benefício de um progresso lento lhe permitiu pensar – para

tentar racionalizar tudo o que ela tinha passado. Infelizmente, ela não estava mais perto de chegar a uma solução agora do que tinha sido quando ela deixou a praia. Nenhuma experiência pessoal, nenhum livro ou filmes ou televisão explicava o que ela tinha visto.

A única pessoa que poderia iluminar o mistério fugiu e deixou-a sozinha. E por quê?

Winter não podia acreditar que ela tinha cometido um erro ao beijar Blake. Não acredito! Ela não imaginava a paixão com que ele devolveu seu beijo, do jeito que ele tinha pressionado em cima dela, puxando-a para mais perto. Mesmo se ela estivesse errada, e Blake tinha ficado com nojo do beijo, certamente fugir para a noite não foi uma resposta razoável. Blake fugiu porque ele estava com medo – ela tinha visto o medo em seu rosto. Ele mostrou uma visão para ela hoje à noite, e ao fazê-lo revelou algo sobre si mesmo. Algo sobrenatural, mágico, que ele claramente desejava manter segredo.

Winter estava grata pela casa estar escura – significava que Lucy tinha ido para a cama e não haveria perguntas. Só de pensar em sua irmã já estava esgotando agora. Ela mal tinha energia para entreter suas próprias perguntas, muito menos lidar com Lucy.

Amanhã, ela estabeleceria sobre descobrir este mistério. Ela localizaria Blake e iria confrontá-lo com as perguntas que a atormentavam. No entanto, agora ela mal conseguia ficar de pé.

Tudo o que ela queria fazer era tomar um banho e ir para a cama.

Antes disso, porém, ela iria beber alguma coisa. Sua garganta se sentia como se estivesse forrada com lixa.

Se movendo confiante através da cozinha totalmente escura, Winter foi até a geladeira e pegou uma caixa de leite, estremecendo com a luz interior que automaticamente acendeu.

Ela bateu a porta da geladeira, selando o brilho, e avidamente engoliu o conteúdo da embalagem até a sede ser extinta. Ela estava engolindo o leite quando a luz da cozinha brilhou para vida, When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

temporariamente cegando-a.

— Decidiu voltar para casa, não é? — Lucy estava na porta, com os braços cruzados.

Winter gesticulou para ela em frustração. — Desligue a luz!

— O quê?

— A luz – é muito clara.

— Você andou bebendo? — Lucy disse, incrédula.

— Não. Claro que não! — Winter respondeu, estremecendo.

Através do brilho, ela podia ver uma mancha de creme hidratante no rosto da sua irmã, sua expressão de trovão.

— Você tem alguma ideia de que horas são? — Lucy exigiu, e Winter pegou outra emoção à espreita abaixo da indignação: Medo.

Winter sentiu uma pontada de culpa.

— Eu realmente sinto muito, Lucy – Eu tive uma... Noite estranha. Isso não vai acontecer de novo.

Cautelosa por mais repreensão, Winter passou por Lucy para o corredor, e começou a andar em direção ao banheiro. O brilho ardente da luz da cozinha havia desencadeado uma dor de cabeça assassina, e ela precisava de alguns analgésicos assim que possível.

Mas não parecia que Lucy estava indo deixá-la ir tão facilmente. Ela tinha a noite toda para extrair algum lançamento.

— Você simplesmente não pode ficar fora a noite toda sem ligar ou deixar alguma mensagem para mim, — Lucy começou, sua voz estridente. — Você simplesmente não pode fazer isso, Winter!

Eu quase chamei a polícia... — Ela parou quando Winter entrou no banheiro, fechando a porta para ela.

Deixando a luz apagada, Winter foi a pia e espirrou um pouco de água fria em seu rosto. Ela puxou um pacote de pílulas para dor de cabeça do armário, tirando dois deles. Ela engoliu junto com a água, fazendo uma careta ao seu gosto acre. Do outro lado da porta ela podia ouvir a respiração de Lucy quando ela podia muito bem When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

sumir. Winter desejou.

— Win? Winter passou as mãos pelos cabelos molhados, exasperada.

— Estou muito cansada, Lucy – podemos conversar manhã?

Winter ouviu sua irmã suspirar — Eu entendo que você tenha dezessete, você não é uma criança – mas você ainda é minha responsabilidade, Win. Pelo menos por mais alguns meses. Se você estiver em algum tipo de problema, eu quero que você me diga.

Winter estava parada sobre a pia no escuro, cansada demais para se desculpar. Ela notou que a água ainda estava correndo e desligou.

— Honestamente, Lucy, está tudo bem. Eu vou tomar um banho agora. Eu falo com você amanhã.

Lucy permaneceu do lado de fora por mais um momento, e então Winter ouviu seus passos suavemente indo para o corredor e depois fechando sua porta do quarto. Ela suspirou de alívio e caminhou através da escuridão para o chuveiro e ligou.

Descartando suas roupas arenosas, ela entrou na torrente de água, deleitando-se em sua temperatura, caindo em cascata sobre ela. Ela virou o rosto para o chuveiro, fechando os olhos contra a pulverização. O rosto de Blake apareceu na escuridão, sorrindo para ela. Ela sorriu para ele, saboreando água na sua boca.

Quem é você? Ela perguntou para o fantasma de Blake e sua resposta silenciosa surpreendeu.

Não quer saber – o que eu sou? Ele respondeu, antes de seu rosto desaparecer. Era uma questão preocupante. Blake tinha realizado uma façanha esta noite, certamente, para além de qualquer capacidade humana – de modo que isso fazia dele desumano? Perturbada por esta noção, mas sem vontade de insistir sobre isso, ela desligou o chuveiro, e, abafando um bocejo, tropeçou em seu quarto. Ela caiu sobre o colchão, sem incomodar de retirar When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

as cobertas, e caiu no sono depois de sua cabeça atingir o travesseiro.

Winter sonhou que acordou no meio da noite para ver Blake ao pé da sua cama, com os olhos ardendo em fogo verde, iluminando a escuridão.

Ele não disse nada, apenas ficou lá olhando para ela, com tristeza. Isso fez seu coração doer ao vê-lo olhando tão triste, e ela tentou dizer-lhe que estava tudo bem, que tudo ficaria bem, mas quando ela falou, nenhum som saiu de sua boca. Havia apenas rugido do mar e o som dos sinos badalando à distância.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Munique Dezembro de 1887 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Caminhando pela neve, Madeleine pensou por um segundo aterrorizada que ela tivesse perdido de vista as pegadas das crianças.

Freneticamente, ela procurou no terreno branco até que ela encontrou de novo: um conjunto duplo de pegadas desaparecendo na floresta profunda. Ela enrolou seu lenço mais firmemente em torno de seu pescoço e andou na direção que as pegadas conduziam.

Eles apenas foram embora há três horas, mas a viagem para a fazenda Herr Falkenmyre tomou muito menos tempo do que isso.

Madeleine se amaldiçoou por não ter obtido um jarro de leite. As crianças ficaram tão animadas com a perspectiva de sair da casa, que ela descobriu que era impossível recusar. Desde que nasceram ela manteve um controle tão restrito sobre eles – com medo de que se ela os deixasse fora de sua vista por mais de um segundo eles poderiam cair nas garras de Victor e sua Perdição. Mais de uma vez ela teve que proibi-los de brincar fora, a decepção em seus olhos feridos quebrou seu coração.

Uma viagem para uma fazenda pode não parecer muito interessante para um adulto, mas Claudette e Blake aproveitaram a tarefa. A curta viagem de sua casa através dos bosques para a propriedade Falkenmyre ofereceu uma oportunidade atraente para a aventura.

Fazia meses que ela e Ariman foram alertados das atividades de Victor, e assim Madeleine ficou menos relutante em enviá-los na missão. Agora percebendo que ela foi induzida a uma falsa sensação de segurança, ela nunca iria novamente baixar sua guarda. Por When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

favor, Deus – deixe que meus filhos fiquem seguro!

— Blake! Claudette! — Madeleine gritou, esticando os ouvidos sobre o som dos ventos crescentes de uma resposta. Flocos de neve começaram a descer do céu cinzento sombrio.

Trovoadas volumosas apareceu ameaçadoramente à distância.

Uma nevasca estava vindo, ela poderia prová-la no ar. Logo as pegadas seriam cobertas e suas chances de encontrar as crianças seriam remotas. Se Ariman estivesse em casa, ela ficaria menos preocupada. Ele poderia tê-las encontrado em um instante.

Infelizmente, ele estava longe, em Praga, garantindo a sua passagem segura para o movimento em janeiro. Eles já estavam hospedados em sua casa de campo, nos arredores de Munique tempo demais.

O vento gelado atravessou o casaco grosso de Madeleine, fazendo-a estremecer. Mesmo que Blake e Claudette não tivesse

conhecido qualquer perigo, e sim apenas desviado o caminho e se perderam, não durariam muito no frio. Sentindo pânico com este pensamento, ela tentou se mover mais rápido, mas a neve era grossa, na altura da cintura, impedindo o seu progresso.

Madeleine conhecia apenas dois caminhos através destes bosques – um mais longo do que o outro. Ela tomou o caminho mais longo, antecipando que os gêmeos de oito anos de idade, queriam prolongar a expedição, a sua liberdade de sua superproteção. As pegadas eram pouco mais do que impressões superficiais agora. Na verdade, elas pareciam mais cópias de pata. Se ela tivesse cometido

um erro e seguido o conjunto errado de pegadas?

Estudando o chão com medo, Madeleine percebeu que ela não podia ter certeza que ela ainda estava ainda no caminho.

Ela fez uma pausa, em busca de um marco familiar. As árvores se aglomeravam ao redor dela, suas negras formas esqueléticas torcidas e monstruosas.

Uma criança gritou, o som quase sendo arrancado pelo vento antes de chegar aos ouvidos de Madeleine. Animada, ela gritou: — Crianças?

— Mamãe! — Foi à resposta imediata apenas um pouco à frente. Era Blake!

— Estou chegando! — Estimulada pela nota de urgência que ela detectou em seu grito, Madeleine andou pela neve com um vigor renovado.

Oferecendo uma oração silenciosa de agradecimento, ela se sentiu quase delirante de alívio. Em mais alguns minutos, a fúria da tempestade poderia cobrir os seus gritos e ela os teria perdido para sempre.

O tapete de neve diluiu enquanto ela andava por uma pequena elevação, e ela foi capaz de andar mais rápido. Respirando pesadamente com o esforço, empurrou através de um matagal When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

espinhoso e foi recebida com uma visão que a fez congelar.

Blake e Claudette, agachados nos ramos de uma árvore de carvalho seco. Estalando abaixo deles estavam três lobos rosnando.

As feras temíveis estavam na base da árvore com suas garras, tentando ganhar uma aquisição para que eles pudessem chegar a sua refeição.

Enraizada ao local em estado de choque, Madeleine saiu de seu estupor pela expressão aterrorizada de Blake quando seu olhar encontrou o dela através da clareira. Seu instinto de proteção materno foi aceso e ela olhou ao redor desesperadamente por uma arma. Um galho morto deitado na neve perto. Ela pegou-o, sacudindo-o como um taco.

Quando ela caminhou em direção aos lobos, Madeleine viu Claudette inclinar a cabeça em sua direção. Ela ficou surpresa ao ver que as feições angelicais de sua filha estavam sem sombra ao invés de medo como o do seu irmão. Claudette parecia calma, mais fascinada pelas bestas do que salivando medo deles.

— Afaste-se deles! — Madeleine gritou para os lobos.

Seus focinhos se contorcendo e apontaram em sua direção.

Através da neve à deriva, ela podia ver o brilho sinistro amarelo dos seus olhos quando saíram da árvore e andaram lentamente em sua direção. Esguios, esses lobos estavam com fome pelo longo inverno.

Longas cordas de saliva escorriam de suas mandíbulas enquanto eles viam Madeleine avidamente. Apesar do vento, ela podia ouvir os estrondos de grunhidos na parte de trás de suas gargantas.

— Corra, Mãe! — Blake gritou da segurança da árvore.

— Não tenham medo! — Ela respondeu, com a voz trêmula.

Agarrando o pau com as duas mãos, ela esperou os lobos avançar. O medo que a fez tremer era por Blake e Claudette, não para si mesma. Percebendo o uivo, o primeiro lobo quebrou a posição e correu pela neve em direção a ela. Madeleine se preparou, elevando When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

o pau sobre sua cabeça. Uma vez que atingiu uma pequena distância, o lobo saltou, olhos fixos em sua garganta. Terror fez de Madeleine uma guerreira. Ela balançou o pau com toda a sua força, trazendo-o para baixo em cima do crânio triangular do lobo com um estalo alto. O animal ferido caiu na neve batendo contra uma árvore.

Agora, os outros lobos vieram, levantando nuvens de pó branco com as patas. Madeleine virou-se para enfrentá-los com o pau, sentindo um negro desespero escurecer. Não havia nenhuma maneira que ela pudesse lutar contra eles dois! Seu olhar em pânico passou os lobos para as crianças na árvore. Claudette não estava!

Ela podia ver as gengivas vermelho-sangue dos lobos agora, seus cruéis, dentes irregulares expostos rosnando triunfantes.

Enrijecendo para o ataque, Madeleine levantou o pau novamente.

Os lobos nunca a alcançaram. Um borrão pálido interceptou o mais próximo, jogando-o para o chão. Madeleine assistiu com espanto quando o borrão se definiu em sua filha de oito anos de idade. O vento soprando os cachos negros de Claudette sobre a sua cabeça, obrigando o lobo abrir suas mandíbulas, arrancando a sua cabeça para trás. Madeleine ouviu uma pressão e o lobo caiu das mãos de sua filha, com o pescoço quebrado.

O outro lobo, distraído com o sofrimento de seu companheiro, abandonou seu cargo em Madeleine. Confuso, ele circulou Claudette, avançando e recuando em seguida, sem saber se ainda era seguro atacar o ser humano minúsculo.

A pequena menina ficou observando calmamente o lobo bobo.

Ainda não havia sinal de qualquer medo em seu rosto de boneca, apenas respeito frio. Seus olhos se estreitaram quando o lobo deu alguns passos em direção a ela. Madeleine viu a luz esmeralda de seus olhos (tão parecido com seu pai) flash na escuridão da floresta.

A comunicação silenciosa passou entre os dois – um aviso. O lobo When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

sobrevivente uivou, uma vez, um gesto, patético desesperado, antes de voltar a correr para a floresta, a cauda entre as pernas. Madeleine deixou cair o pau e correu para sua filha, reunindo a criança em seus braços. Claudette estava estranhamente quente, quase queimando os lábios de Madeleine quando ela cobriu o rosto febril com beijos.

— Isso foi divertido, — Claudette disse calmamente.

Madeline, chocada se afastou de sua filha. Ela olhou para o rosto de sua filha, corado cor-de-rosa, os olhos brilhando estranhamente na luz baixa. Embora Claudette estivesse fisicamente ilesa, Madeleine temeu que a batalha com os lobos tivesse danificado as suas formas invisíveis. Algo havia mudado em seu anjinho... Ou algo tinha sido revelado: um aspecto escuro dormente até agora. Antes de Madeleine mudar o seu pensamento preocupante, ela foi desviada pelo som de pés minúsculos que atravessam a neve atrás dela.

Quando ela se virou, Blake pulou em seus braços, quase a derrubando.

— Eu estava com tanto medo! — Ele gritou, enterrando o rosto em seu peito. Ela sentiu as lágrimas encharcando seu corpete enquanto ela o balançava suavemente.

— Silêncio agora, o perigo já passou. — Ela disse, seu olhar voando para Claudette.

Observando o rosto branco de sua filha, Madeleine sentiu um calafrio e sabia que ela estava mentindo.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 39 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Winter nunca dormiu com o despertador antes, mas quando o rádio-relógio estalou para vida, na manhã seguinte, ela mal se mexeu. Não foi até que seu telefone começou a tocar que ela finalmente abriu os olhos. Os olhos turvos piscando na luz da manhã, ela tateou em busca do incômodo vibrando ao lado de sua cama.

— Olá? — Sua voz ainda estava grossa de sono. Ela manteve os olhos fechados, porque a luz no seu quarto parecia quase insuportavelmente intensa.

— Win? Qual é o problema, você está bem? — Era Jasmine.

— Yeah. Por quê?

— Por que não veio para a escola?

— O que você quer dizer. — Confusa, Winter abriu os olhos de novo – devagar desta vez, para dar a suas recém-pupilas sensíveis tempo para se ajustar. O quarto ameaçou permanecer uma hiperroda de cores e chamas de luz por alguns segundos antes de resolver em algo que ela pudesse suportar.

Ela olhou de soslaio para a tela LED vermelho do rádio-relógio ao lado dela e ficou chocada ao ver a hora. Era quase meio-dia!

— Você está doente ou algo assim? Você soa muito estranha.

Winter se esforçou para trazer seus pensamentos em foco. — Eu estou me sentindo bem. Olha, Jas, eu acordei. Eu vou telefonar para você em um segundo, ok?

— Tudo bem. Tem certeza que não há nada de errado? — Jasmine perguntou, a voz em questão.

— Eu estou bem, Jas. Eu vou telefonar de volta. — Winter não estava em condições de discutir o que tinha acontecido na noite passada com Jasmine. Ainda não, de qualquer maneira. Ela precisava falar com Blake antes que ela pudesse contemplar discutir com alguém.

Arrastando-se para fora da cama, Winter puxou sua calça jeans. A luz que entrava pela janela ainda era dolorosa. Ela pegou os óculos escuros, que estavam deitados na mesa ao lado do seu exemplar de Jane Eyre. O doce alívio que lhe proporcionou foi quase celestial. Ela terminou de se vestir e foi para o banheiro para lavar o rosto e escovar os dentes. Ela conscientemente evitou ver seu reflexo, com medo de que ela pudesse parecer pior do que se sentia.

Winter nunca sentiu tanta fome em toda sua vida. Seu estômago roncava tão alto que estava surpresa que não tivesse a acordado antes do telefonema de Jasmine. Ela praticamente correu When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

para a cozinha e começou a fazer uma refeição cheia de ovos, bacon e uma tigela cheia de cereais para terminar. Seu enorme apetite era desconcertante, normalmente ela comia uma maçã e tomava uma caneca de chá no café da manhã. Hoje, ela não conseguia ficar cheia.

A experiência na noite passada, aparentemente, esgotou completamente a energia do seu corpo. Depois que havia um pouco de comida no seu estômago, Winter se sentiu muito mais forte.

Forte o suficiente para enfrentar a tarefa à frente, de qualquer maneira.

A ideia de ver Blake novamente a encheu com uma mistura de ansiedade e excitação. Sua maior preocupação era que ele não quisesse vê-la novamente. Winter sentia que tinha outra escolha.

Era impossível esquecer os locais que ele havia lhe mostrado – a cidade fantasma, o voo, o tele transporte. O que ela deveria fazer? Ir para a escola e fingir que nunca aconteceu? Era como se uma fenda havia sido aberta em sua mente – uma rachadura em suas noções pré-concebidas da realidade, uma rachadura que estava lentamente aumentando. Winter estava preocupada que se Blake não ajudasse a entender o que estava acontecendo, a rachadura poderia continuar a aumentar até que isso a engolisse totalmente e ela perderia a noção da realidade.

Com a pobre Jessie indo embora, o único meio de Winter chegar a Blake seria de ônibus. Ela tinha certeza de que a saída 410 para Clifton iria levá-la juntamente para Holloway Road, mas ela precisava caminhar para Maple Boulevard para pegá-lo – uma distância razoável. Se ela queria chegar ao local Velasco antes do anoitecer, ela teria que se mover. Ela lavou os pratos do pequenoalmoço, colocou de lado sua apreensão crescente, e partiu em sua viagem.

Lá fora, um banco de variedades de nuvens cinzentas rolara no When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

céu. Parecia que iria chover de novo. Apesar do sol diluído, Winter descobriu que ela ainda precisava dos óculos de sol para ver confortavelmente. Algo tinha definitivamente acontecido ontem à noite para fazer sua visão mais sensível. E se fosse permanente?

Winter não queria passar toda sua vida escondendo seus olhos como uma celebridade.

Mantendo um olho sobre as nuvens, ela apressou o passo quando ela começou a descer a trilha. Alimentada por sua ansiedade, a viagem não demorou tanto tempo como ela esperava, e logo ela virou a esquina para Maple Boulevard. O ponto de ônibus estava à frente justamente com a agência de viagem. Enquanto ela se aproximava, o telefone soou em seu bolso. Era Jasmine novamente.

— Olá?

— Por que você não me ligou de volta?

— Eu sinto muito, Jas. Eu esqueci completamente.

Houve um rolo sinistro de trovão acima. Winter conseguiu provar o sabor metálico no ar que sempre precedia de uma tempestade. Se ela não encontrar uma cobertura logo ela ia ficar muito molhada. Embalando o telefone contra sua orelha, ela se dirigiu para a agência de viagem para comprar uma passagem de ônibus.

— Então você vai me contar sobre a noite passada, ou você vai me deixar em suspense? — O que poderia possivelmente Winter lhe dizer que seria uma boa, mesmo remotamente, passível?

— Win? Você está aí?

Winter suspirou baixinho o suficiente para que Jasmine não pudesse ouvi-la. — Você sabe o que, Jas? Não há nada a dizer. Nós nos despedimos e foi isso.

— Você está brincando comigo? Nada aconteceu? Sem beijo, sem amasso – nada?

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Um beijo...

Que havia sido muito mais do que um beijo, Winter se sentia como se devesse inventar outra palavra. As duas vezes que ela foi beijada antes de Blake, certamente não poderia comparar.

O primeiro, Arnie Wilkins, tinha sido um menino gordinho com chocolate em seus dedos sentando perto dela e Jasmine na condução escolar na oitava série. Durante a jornada, Jasmine sentiu que era hora de Winter perder a "virgindade do beijo‖, e Arnie era o mais próximo (e mais disposto, como Winter suspeita) candidato. O beijo durou apenas um segundo ou dois antes de Arnie tornar-se um pouco ansioso e decidir tentar explorar suas amígdalas com a sua língua. Depois de empurra-lo, lembrou-se de se sentir aliviada por finalmente ter feito isso – beijado um menino - e agora estava livre da carga de expectativa.

O segundo, Mark O'Connor, foi em uma festa do ano passado patrocinado pela escola, no clube de surf. Marcos era da escola pública, do outro lado da cidade e surpreendeu Winter, pedindo-lhe para dançar com ele. Ela o tinha visto em algumas festas, mas os dois nunca trocaram palavras. Ele beijou-a na escuridão durante uma música do Radiohead, e ela provou álcool em seu hálito.

Nenhuma dessas experiências chegou perto de igualar a sensação elétrica dos lábios urgentes de Blake contra os dela.

Ela sorriu para si mesma, pensando que depois de todas as coisas incríveis que aconteceram com ela, foi este momento que queimava mais brilhante em sua memória. Parecia que as maravilhas do universo empalideceram ao lado de a sua mágica simples.

— Win? — O tom impaciente de Jasmine a trouxe de volta à Terra.

— Desculpe. Eu gostaria de poder lhe dizer mais. — Ela estava preocupada que Jasmine pudesse pressionar o assunto, mas When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

felizmente a amiga estava muito ocupada com os seus próprios problemas para detectar a sua relutância.

— Bem, parece que você ainda teve uma noite melhor do que a minha! — Jasmine disse.

— Por quê?

— Por causa dos caras, é por isso! Eu odeio todos eles!

Oh – o problema eram garotos. Winter encontrou-se estranhamente grata pela oportunidade de ouvir as divagações neuróticas de Jasmine. Era uma distração bem-vinda de seus próprios pensamentos assustadores, dúvidas e ansiedades.

— Diga-me o que aconteceu, Jas. — Ontem à noite, depois que eu deixei você, passei meia hora andando a procura de Sam – meia hora, Win! Antes de eu descobrir que o idiota me abandonou, — Jasmine fez uma pausa para aprofundar o ―Fato importante‖. — Ele me abandonou! Eu! Ninguém nunca me abandonou. Eu sou a única que faz.

— Isso é inacreditável, — Winter ofereceu, apenas parcialmente em tom de gozação. Ao contrário de Winter, Jasmine era inexperiente com a rejeição. Finalmente, aqui era uma questão que Winter de coração tinha alguma familiaridade. No entanto, isso não parecia como se ela estivesse indo obter uma palavra de consolo. Gotas gordas de chuva começaram a salpicar sua jaqueta e ela acelerou o ritmo.

— Você sabe, eu poderia ter morrido quando o holofote caiu.

Eu estava distraída! O mínimo que Sam poderia ter feito era ficar para me confortar. Quer dizer, isso é o que uma pessoa normal faria dada a situação, você não acha?

Winter teve de conter-se de assinalar que não era ela, Jasmine, que tinha, de fato, quase morrido. Em vez disso, ela ofereceu a simpatia necessária, ou uma imitação razoável.

— Eu realmente sinto muito por você, Jas. When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Jasmine ficou ainda mais irritada. — Não sinta pena de mim, sinta pena de Sam. Esse menino não sabe o que ele terá. Você acredita que esse covarde nem sequer teve a coragem de aparecer na escola hoje também? Ele acha que pode apenas me evitar!

Aquele perdedor! — Ela parou seu discurso retórico para sugar uma respiração. — Sério, eu acho que eu poderia realmente matá-lo.

Você conhece algum bom advogado de defesa criminal?

— Uh-huh... — Winter disse distraidamente, entrando na agência, quando uma cortina de água caiu atrás dela e a tempestade começou. Não havia ninguém na loja, para salvar, apenas um funcionário idoso atrás do balcão. Ele atirou um olhar de desprezo para ela antes de voltar sua atenção de volta para a sua revista de carros. Winter baixou seu telefone, Jasmine continuou sem desligar o telefone, mais ou menos repetindo a história.

— Eu quero um bilhete para Clifton, por favor? — Winter falou para o atendente, tateando sua bolsa.

— Muito brilho para você aqui, não é? — O atendente perguntou sarcasticamente, acenando para seus óculos de sol.

— Oh, desculpe! — Winter disse, sentindo um pouco tola. Ela levantou os óculos de sol, timidamente, sentando-o em cima de sua cabeça. As luzes fluorescentes da loja ainda eram brilhantes, mas tolerável.

— Setenta e cinco, — o funcionário disse, tocando na velha máquina registradora.

Winter deslizou o dinheiro pelo balcão. Ele pegou sem um sorriso, evidentemente irritado com a interrupção de seu tempo de leitura. Ele se arrastou para fora da máquina de bilhetes ao lado da caixa registadora e começou a imprimir o seu bilhete.

— Você sabe, eu não estou me sentindo amorosa para você, Win. Só porque você está doente e tudo, não significa que você não possa atirar alguma simpatia ao meu caminho. — Jasmine falou, When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

finalmente.

Winter rapidamente começou a se desculpar. — Sinto muito, Jas. O que você estava...

As palavras morreram em sua garganta quando o funcionário retornou. Winter sentiu sua boca cair aberta quando ela olhou com espanto para seu rosto.

— É isso por hoje, senhorita? — Ele estendeu o bilhete para Winter pegar. Ela não reagiu.

— Winnie! — A voz de Jasmine mudou por causa da raiva abertamente agora, mas Winter mal a ouviu. Ela estava paralisada pelo atendente à sua frente – com o que viu em seus olhos.

— Win? Por que você está ignorando...?

Winter estava ciente de o telefone escorregar entre seus dedos, mas não fez nenhum esforço para pegá-lo. O funcionário observou com leve surpresa quando caiu no chão.

— Você deixou cair seu telefone.

Quando Winter não fez nenhum movimento para pegá-lo, simplesmente ficou lá olhando para ele, o funcionário começou a ficar irritado.

— Posso te ajudar com alguma coisa?

Winter não conseguiu responder-lhe.

Seus olhos... Seus olhos estavam em chamas!

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 40 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Winter não podia acreditar no que estava acontecendo na sua frente. Quando o velho funcionário franziu o cenho, ela conseguia ver linguetas minúsculas de dança do fogo azul em suas pupilas. As chamas tremeluziam e pulsavam nas profundezas negras, arrebatando Winter com sua luz e movimento.

— Senhorita? — O funcionário cruzou os braços em irritação.

Quando ela outra vez não respondeu, ele balançou a cabeça, exasperado. Winter ficou fascinada ao ver seus olhos, deixando finos rastros de luz azul com o movimento de agitação de sua cabeça.

— Seus olhos... — Foi tudo que conseguiu dizer. Ela baixou os óculos de sol de novo, curiosa para ver se o efeito visual iria desaparecer. A luz azul desapareceu. Deve haver alguma coisa sobre as lentes polarizadas que escondiam o efeito de seu olho nu.

Hipnotizada, Winter levantou os óculos de sol e o estranho fogo no olho tornou-se visível novamente. O que também deixou Winter tardiamente perceber visivelmente a irritação do funcionário.

— Senhorita, se você não vai comprar mais nada, peço que você saia, — ele disse, apontando para a porta atrás dela.

— Sinto muito, — Winter ouviu dizer distante. Ainda olhando para a luz espectral azul nos olhos do velho, ela pegou o seu telefone, e saiu pela porta. O aguaceiro havia diminuído um pouco e durante a chuva nebulosa ela podia ver uma dúzia de compradores enfrentando o tempo miserável enquanto eles caminhavam passando as vitrines; seus corpos pouco mais do que formas nebulosas arrastando para lá e para cá, e seus olhos ardendo no mesmo fogo espectral como o do atendente.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

O que estava acontecendo? Ela estava tendo alucinações? Era assim que ela iria ver o mundo depois que sua mente perdeu a noção da realidade? Será que as pessoas ao seu redor se transformaram em fantasmas de olhos azuis?

Um homem careca de terno castanho saiu da loja de ferragens em frente a ela, segurando um jornal sobre a cabeça para se proteger da chuva. Este tinha algo diferente – suas pupilas brilhavam néon vermelho ao invés de azul. Fascinada por este novo desenvolvimento, Winter parou para ver o homem enquanto ele estava parado na faixa de pedestres, arrastando duplas luzes vermelhas em seu rastro.

Enquanto ele estava na calçada esperando o sinal mudar, o telefone do homem começou a tocar. Winter assistiu enquanto ele atendia a chamada, e riu de alguma piada inédita.

Percebendo uma trégua no tráfego, o homem começou a atravessar a rua, ainda rindo para o receptor. Ele estava muito distraído pela sua conversa para perceber o ônibus caindo sobre ele na direção oposta, distraído demais para ver o perigo que se aproximava.

Um grito de alerta subiu na garganta de Winter. Mesmo enquanto ele escapava de seus lábios, ela sabia que era tarde demais.

O motorista do ônibus pisou no freio, mas o ímpeto do veículo era muito grande, e o homem foi atingido antes que ele tivesse a chance de virar a cabeça. Instintivamente, Winter olhou para longe, para que ela não visse o momento do impacto. Ela ouviu o baque nauseante quando seu corpo se chocou com a frente firme do ônibus, seguido de um som batendo. Quando ela se atreveu a olhar novamente, ela viu o homem deitado vários metros de distância do ônibus, se contorcendo como se uma corrente elétrica passasse por ele. Pedestres preocupados correram para o seu lado, deixando esmorecer trilhas de luz azul em seu rastro. Winter podia dizer que o esforço era inútil.

Ninguém poderia sobreviver a tal colisão.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 41 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Winter nunca tinha visto alguém morrer antes. Seus pais foram mortos, enquanto ela estava em sala de aula na escola, e foi apenas que ela tinha ido com Lucy ao hospital e viu seus pais deitados na placa do necrotério, que a realidade insuportável da situação tinha batido em casa. Mesmo assim, Winter lembrou ser grata de que ela foi poupada vendo o momento de sua morte. Agora, aqui estava acontecendo diante de seus olhos – a verdade da mortalidade. A verdade, súbita confusa e violenta.

Mesmo à distância, Winter podia ver o brilho vermelho dos olhos do homem enquanto ele estava dentro do círculo de

espectadores. Eles tinham tomado uma qualidade menos brilhante mas continuou a se destacarem em contraste marcante com as luzes azuis em chamas daqueles ao seu redor. Vergonha de si mesma por sentir outra coisa senão horror ao destino do homem, Winter não poderia deixar de ver a beleza das cores do quadro – a vibração cintilante do vermelho e os azuis parcialmente obscurecidos pela chuva. Era um momento transcendente de maravilha, e muito rápido.

A frieza de repente roubou mais de Winter que não tinha nada a ver com as roupas molhadas agarradas ao seu corpo. Era quase como se ela tivesse entrado na sombra de algo monstruoso e invisível: algo que bloqueava toda a luz e calor. Três formas escuras apareceram nos cantos de sua visão e começaram a ir em direção ao homem morrendo.

As formas eram altas – pelo menos dois metros – e se moviam de uma forma desumana suave, como se estivessem deslizando. Winter não tinha certeza de onde elas vieram, só que a visão delas a fez querer encolher dentro de si e desaparecer.

O que eram?

Apesar de serem vagamente humanos na aparência, os espectros não eram nada. Suas cabeças alongadas estavam completamente sem pelos, branca e lisa – mais como osso polido do que a pele. Uma estranha luminescência parecia irradiar de sua pele como a fumaça, gravando os números em uma luz branca brilhante.

As criaturas poderiam ter sido estranhamente belas se não fosse por seus olhos: Pretos, como ébano polido. Sem íris, nenhuma pupila, apenas uma escuridão, aterrorizante inquieta, que mesmo a partir da distância em que Winter se encontrava era assustador. Duas das criaturas estavam vestidas em idênticas justas túnicas pretas, acentuando suas alongadas, molduras esqueléticas e escondendo seus pés – estas roupas fez Winter lembrar das batinas usadas pelos When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

missionários jesuítas, sem qualquer conclusão de roupa benigna como possuídas. A túnica da terceira figura era um pouco diferente.

Estranha, rodando projetos carmesim bordado, mangas e gola, marcando a criatura como algo separado das outras duas. Esta deve ser a entidade dominante, seu Mestre.

O Mestre abriu a sua boca, comunicando com as duas sem palavras, apenas o som de seus dentes juntos como um inseto gigante. O som fez Winter estremecer. Parecia completamente desumano. Parecia errado. Com uma realização arrepiante ela sabia que tinha ouvido esse som antes – na floresta, fora do local Velasco.

Winter era claramente a única que podia ver as aparições, caso contrário as pessoas reunidas em torno do moribundo certamente teriam começado a gritar de terror uma vez que as criaturas entraram em seu meio. E ainda assim os espectadores interessados pareciam sentir as suas presenças, instintivamente se movendo de lado para deixar as criaturas completamente avançar.

Com horror, Winter engasgou quando a criatura se moveu agachando próximo ao moribundo, enquanto a segunda criatura atingiu as dobras de sua batina e retirou algo pequeno e afiado. O Mestre estava sobre elas, observando ou talvez direcionando suas ações. A visão melhorada de Winter, que agora ela deixou escapar mais do que nunca, lhe permitiu ver o objeto que a criatura realizou em seus dedos: tesoura! Apesar de relativamente pequena e inofensiva, as lâminas brilhavam com perigo no cinza claro.

A criatura empunhando a tesoura fez algo que Winter pensou que tivesse perdido completamente sua mente.

Ignorando as leis da física, a mão pálida da criatura passou através da roupa do homem e das costelas, como se fosse fumaça. A mão foi retirada um momento depois, segurando uma bola de luz pulsante vermelha – a intensidade machucou os olhos de Winter.

A luta do homem intensificou agora que a criatura segurava When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

a luz em suas garras. Ele começou a sofrer espasmos; pernas sacudindo como se ele estivesse tentando chutar os espectros e libertar-se. Winter sentiu as lágrimas picar seus olhos ao vê-lo lutar – era tão terrível!

Tentáculos finos de luz vermelha saíam do peito do homem agarrando-se à esfera na mão do monstro, como artérias serpenteando para um coração. Usando sua tesoura, a criatura começou a cortar através dos fios de luz, provavelmente para terminar de remover a esfera do moribundo. Vendo a essência do homem sendo cortada livremente, provocou um horror primitivo que Winter mal teve consciência do grito subindo em sua garganta.

— Pare com isso!

Os espectadores reunidos em torno do homem olharam em sua direção, alguns com mais curiosidade do que outros. Porém, o espetáculo de uma menina histérica gritando na calçada não era tão interessante como a figura sangrenta deitada a seus pés. Seu grito chamou igualmente a atenção das criaturas. Elas pararam no que estavam fazendo e viraram lentamente a cabeça em sua direção.

O Mestre, em particular, pareceu fascinado pela intrusão de Winter. Seu sangue gelou quando ela inclinou a cabeça para um lado, estudando-a. Lentamente, o Mestre levantou seu braço e apontou para Winter. Obedecendo a uma ordem silenciosa, as outras duas criaturas começaram a deslizar em toda a estrada em direção a ela.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

O que ela fez?

Winter tentou gritar, mas não conseguiu. Não pareceu ter bastante ar em seus pulmões para gerar o som que ela precisava fazer.

Seus membros ficaram fracos, o medo havia roubado sua força.

Mas ela não podia ficar aqui! Essas coisas estavam vindo rápido. Se chegassem até ela...

Essa perspectiva terrível foi o suficiente para quebrar sua paralisia, e Winter virou e correu.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 42 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Winter não tinha destino em mente, ela só sabia que tinha que ir embora. Chuva picou seus olhos, obscurecendo sua visão. Os consumidores que ela se lançou passando a olharam com expressões chocadas – o que eles estavam pensando dela? Uma garota louca passando por eles? Por alguma razão, ela era a única amaldiçoada com a capacidade de ver os horrores atrás disso. Como eles não podiam ouvir esse som horrível? Parecia abafar todos os outros ruídos, elevando-se acima do ruído do tráfego em Maple Boulevard, até mesmo sua própria atormentada respiração. E estava cada vez mais alto.

O coração de Winter martelou em seu peito, seus pulmões ameaçaram estourar. Ela não era uma corredora. Ela era uma pessoa que se senta, uma comedora, uma observadora de TV. Este tipo de exercício estava além dela. Se ela não parar logo ela vai entrar em colapso por exaustão.

Outro som retumbou através da vibração demoníaca: Um motor. Alguém estava dirigindo atrás dela. Uma caminhonete pelo barulho. Houve um borrão de movimento fora do canto do olho de Winter quando a caminhonete a ultrapassou, pulou do meio-fio, e derrapou até parar do outro lado da calçada barulhenta. Em seu estado atual, Winter estava muito desorientada para perceber que ela tinha visto este veículo antes – era apenas um obstáculo bloqueando sua fuga. Ela estava prestes a dar a volta quando o motorista se inclinou para fora da janela. Winter quase chorou de alívio ao ver suas características aflitas, mas ainda reconhecidamente bonitas. ―Rápido, entre! ― Blake disse, acenando com urgência para ela. Seu olhar se lançou passando Winter, escurecendo com o que viu lá.

Winter não precisou de mais incentivo, nem ela precisava ver o quão perto as criaturas estavam. Ela podia ouvi-las. Suas vibrações demoníacas soavam cada vez mais enquanto ela corria para a caminhonete. Uma vez lá dentro, ela mal teve tempo de fechar a porta antes de Blake pisar no acelerador. A caminhonete pulou para frente, seu impulso fixando-a contra o assento. Agarrando o braço, Winter se preparou quando Blake enviou a caminhonete arremessando-a de volta para a estrada, por pouco não atingiu uma minivan azul. A buzina do motorista explodiu furiosamente para eles enquanto eles se afastavam. ―Você está bem? ― Blake perguntou, seus olhos preocupados passando rapidamente da estrada para ela.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Ela não conseguia responder. Não parecia estar com ar suficiente em seus pulmões para formar as palavras. Suas pernas latejavam como se alguém tivesse encravado agulhas em suas canelas e lentamente torceu-as. ―Winter? ― Blake perguntou novamente, claramente incomodado por seu silêncio. ―O... O que são essas coisas? ― Ela conseguiu dizer finalmente. Sua voz soava fraca e distante. ―Eles são chamados de muitos nomes – Comedor de Almas, Barqueiros. Conheço-os como Skivers. ― Blake disse severamente.

Os pensamentos de Winter giraram quando ela tentou obter um controle sobre si mesmo. Seria possível fisicamente forçar sua mente do jeito que você pode com um músculo? Se assim for, ela estava em perigo de ferir a si mesma. Suas mãos começaram a tremer incontrolavelmente, as convulsões se espalhando até o resto do seu corpo. Houve o som de dentes clicando em conjunto, e por um terrível segundo Winter pensou que fossem as criaturas, até que percebeu que eram seus próprios dentes batendo. ―Havia um homem lá atrás, ― ela começou, como se falando pudesse ajudá-la a lidar melhor com isso. ―Ele foi atropelado por um ônibus, e então essas coisas vieram. Os Skivers... ―Você viu uma luz vermelha em seus olhos? Antes de o ônibus atingir.

Winter se virou para ele, ansiosa para sua explicação. ―Sim – o que significa isso? ―A luz é chamada de Occuluma. Se ela estava brilhando vermelho, em vez de azul, então isso significa que ele foi marcado para a colheita. ―Occu... ―Occuluma. Invisível a olho nu, exceto para aqueles com a Visão. O Occuluma é uma forma de medir a força de vida de When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

alguém. A mais brilhante ardente chama azul, é quando mais tempo você tem para viver. Se essa luz diminui e cresce fraca, mais nós aproximamos da morte.

Winter franziu o cenho, incapaz de manter-se com o fluxo de informações. ―Blake, devagar. Eu não entendo...

Blake sacudiu a cabeça, o volante arrancando para a direita, ele ultrapassou um carro lento. ―Não há tempo, Winter. Você vai ter que tentar acompanhar. Eu sei como isso deve ser confuso.

Ela percebeu seus olhos pularem para o espelho retrovisor e sentiu uma pontada de medo. Seguramente eles deixaram os Skivers muito atrás? A caminhonete estava se movendo em um ritmo vertiginosamente rápido, Blake habilmente desviou dentro e para fora de lacunas através do tráfego da tarde. Outro carro teria dificuldade em manter o ritmo como eles, muito menos três criaturas que viajavam em pé. Ainda assim, ela tinha que ver por si mesma, só para ter certeza. Timidamente, Winter virou... ―Não olhe! ― Blake advertiu de seu lado, um segundo tarde demais.

Os Skivers ainda estavam seguindo. Winter podia ver suas escuras, formas espectrais distorcidas no vidro pela chuva. Eles estavam deslizando após a caminhonete de Blake com fluidez sobrenatural, as bainhas dos seus mantos negros mal tocando o chão.

Winter caiu no banco, um soluço de terror escapando de seus lábios. ―Winter? ―Isso não está acontecendo.

Blake lançou um olhar em sua direção, alarmados com a palidez. Ela estava em choque. ―O que eu posso fazer? ―Fale comigo, por favor, ― Winter implorou. Ela sentiu como When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

se sua sanidade estivesse escorregando livre de suas amarras. ―Me ajude a entender o que está acontecendo. ―Ok, eu vou fazer o meu melhor. Concentre-se em minha voz.

Tente não pensar sobre o que está atrás de nós.

Por mais impossível que seu pedido foi, Winter apreciou o esforço de Blake. Não podia ser fácil para ele se concentrar na estrada e falar com ela ao mesmo tempo. Ele respirou fundo e começou. ―Todos nós temos um caminho, Winter. Um começo e um fim. Se alguma vez descer este caminho, se evitarmos o nosso fim predestinado, então nos tornamos marcados. Nosso Occuluma muda de cor. Ele muda do azul para vermelho. O homem que você viu anteriormente, o único que foi atropelado pelo ônibus, deve ter pisado fora de seu caminho. Em algum momento antes de hoje ele deveria ter morrido e não o fez. Ou de propósito, sorte cega ou através de intervenção de outra pessoa, ele escapou do seu destino.

Uma vez que isso aconteceu a sua alma tornou-se perdida.

Winter olhou fixamente para frente, olhando a estrada desaparecer abaixo da caminhonete de Blake. Muito preocupada com seus próprios medos, ela estava tendo problemas para processar suas palavras. ―Alma? ―A palavra é boa quanto qualquer uma para a luz que reside em todos nós. ―Essas coisas nos perseguindo pode roubar nossas almas? ―Coloque o cinto de segurança, ― Blake sugeriu, pouco antes de a roda arrancar violentamente para a direita, ele virou-se para ultrapassar um carro lento. Winter foi jogada contra ele, e depois jogada dolorosamente na porta lateral. Sentindo-se tonta, ela amarrou o cinto de segurança ao seu redor. ―Não roubar. Retirar em determinadas circunstâncias. Eles When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

não podem simplesmente levar a alma de ninguém, ― Blake continuou. ―Somente aqueles cuja Occuluma brilha vermelho.

Aqueles que não fazem mais parte do plano de vida. Mesmo assim, os Skivers estão subordinados a um conjunto de regras antigas. Por exemplo, eles são proibidos de atacar diretamente a vida. ―O que você quer dizer? Eles têm que esperar até que alguém seja atingido por um ônibus?

Blake lutou para colocar o conceito claramente. ―Não exatamente. Os Skivers são criaturas do mal, a sua presença perturba a ordem natural das coisas, dos pensamentos impuros das pessoas, acidentes de causas – como o ônibus batendo no homem.

Eles inspiram medo e pavor. Muitas vezes, eles podem usar essa influência escura para conduzir a vítima predestinada de o ponto onde eles tiram a própria vida, outras vezes leva mais tempo.

Eventualmente, porém, eles sempre conseguem o que querem.

Ele conduziu para Rua Harris rápido demais, os pneus da caminhonete gritando de queixa, e inclinado em direção da Montanha Owl. Winter não sabia onde eles estavam indo, e não se importava. Ela só queria chegar o mais longe possível dessas coisas.

Ainda mais agora que ela tinha uma vaga ideia do que eles eram capazes.

Desorientada, Winter olhou para fora da janela, mas a visão das fachadas das lojas correndo, a fez sentir-se menos ainda no controle. ―Por que eu posso vê-los? O que aconteceu comigo? ―Você sempre teve a Visão, Winter, a capacidade de ver o invisível. Estava apenas adormecido dentro de você. Ontem à noite na praia quando nós... ―Blake parou, como embora hesitante em mencionar o beijo roubado. ―Aquilo acordou esta capacidade. Que provavelmente irá enfraquecer ao longo do tempo, pode ser que não, eu não tenho certeza. Eu não planejei qualquer coisa para que isso acontecesse.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

O beijo foi à razão por trás de toda essa loucura. Se ela nunca tivesse se jogado sobre Blake, talvez ela tivesse sido poupada desse terror – essa habilidade que ele aludiu. A Visão.

A mente de Winter zumbia com perguntas, mas antes que ela pudesse perguntar as palavras morreram em seus lábios. Ela olhou para os olhos de Blake – Occuluma brilhando neles. Era verde, diferente do azul e vermelho dos espectros, mas não menos hipnótico. ―Olhe para longe, Winter, ― ele disse em voz baixa, os olhos fixos na estrada.

Ela obedeceu, sentindo-se estranhamente culpada, como se tivesse vislumbrado algo privado, um aspecto de Blake que ele não estava confortável em compartilhar com ela. Voltando sua atenção de volta para a estrada, viu que ele estava dirigindo para o cruzamento da Rua Smith e Riley – um dos mais movimentados cruzamentos de Bluff. Todos os pensamentos de Occuluma foram postos de lado quando ela percebeu com alarme que o ritmo deles não estava desacelerando. O semáforo estava amarelo, mas qualquer segundo agora ficaria vermelho.

Blake acelerou, desviando em torno dos carros à frente deles e acelerando em direção ao cruzamento. Winter teve um vislumbre de uma luz vermelha piscando no tráfego pouco antes de eles cruzarem no caminho do tráfego. O mundo fora da caminhonete de repente passou em câmera lenta. Ela observou em detalhes surpreendentes os carros que se aproximavam através de sua janela do passageiro, ouviu o grito de pneus quando o mais próximo pisou no freio.

Rangendo os dentes, Winter se preparou para o impacto, mas, no último instante Blake conseguiu desviar, evitando a derrapagem do carro inclinando em direção a eles. Ele manobrou a caminhonete com segurança até o outro lado, uma cacofonia de buzinas soando When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

para eles.

Winter lentamente cerrou sua mandíbula. Quanto mais disso ela poderia tomar? Blake estava em silêncio ao seu lado, concentrando toda a sua atenção na condução. Cautelosa de distraí-lo ainda mais, uma nova pergunta agora ocorreu a ela, que parecia particularmente pertinente dada à situação. ―Por que eles estão nos perseguindo, Blake? ― Ela perguntou, resistindo ao impulso de olhar para trás. ―Você disse que essas coisas – os Skivers – são atraídos pela Occuluma vermelho. Que não pode simplesmente tomar as almas de qualquer um que eles querem. Por que eles...

Winter parou, sua boca subitamente seca. Não, não podia ser! ―Eu explico depois, ― Blake respondeu, enchendo o espaço apressadamente em silêncio como se a esperança de parar seus pensamentos da posição fosse o curso perigoso que ela começou. ―Quando estivermos seguros.

Winter mal ouviu. Ela mal tinha consciência de mais nada, exceto a certeza do medo frio, que estava se formando. O barulho da caminhonete, os salpicos da chuva contra as janelas, a roupa molhada – nada mais importava quando ela se perdeu nos seus pensamentos. Era como se ela estivesse de volta na Jessie, indo na direção da borda do penhasco, correndo em um sombrio destino impossível de evitar. ―Winter? ― Mais uma vez, ela ouviu a voz de Blake, mais insistente desta vez. Suas mãos tremendo, ela estendeu uma mão e agarrou o espelho retrovisor, dobrando-o para ela. Num segundo, ela viu seu medo preso no vidro.

Blake jogou o espelho para longe dela em uma tentativa inútil de esconder o reflexo dela. ―Eu queria que você não tivesse visto isso, ― ele disse com tristeza.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 43 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Winter fechou os olhos, tentando bloquear a imagem. Não adiantava. Mesmo com os olhos fechados, ela ainda podia ver nitidamente o seu reflexo, assustadoramente pálido. E seus olhos...

Os círculos vermelhos de fogo queimando no fundo de seus olhos. O Occuluma vermelho. Agora entendia por que os Skivers estavam os perseguindo. Sua alma foi marcada para a colheita. Ela deveria estar morta.

Através da escuridão ela ouviu Blake dizer. ―Eu vou resolver isto Winter, ― e ela esperava que a falta de convicção em sua voz fosse apenas sua imaginação. Parecia que ele estava tentando

convencer a si mesmo tanto quanto tranquilizá-la.

Quando ela abriu os olhos de novo, Winter viu que tinha passado pelo centro da cidade e estavam descendo para a Rua Mossdownt em direção a floresta nos subúrbios.

A Montanha Owl apareceu na distância, o seu pico envolto em mechas de neblina. ―Quando... quando eu deveria morrer? ― Ela sussurrou com a voz rouca, o medo de roubar a sua voz.

Blake hesitou por um momento antes de responder. ―A Igreja.

Eu nunca deveria ter interferido. É claro! Desde que Blake a havia salvo em Pilgrim‘s Lament, Winter sentiu seus dias subsequentes manchados por uma sombra escura. As figuras que tinha visto em espelhos, os sonhos perturbadores, todos esses acontecimentos preocupantes agora faziam sentido, tendo em conta a informação que ela tinha aprendido. Sua mente correu, ligando o acidente quase em Maple Boulevard, a queda do holofote no clube de surf, e ser forçada sobre o precipício, com a presença maligna dos Skivers. Eles estavam encarnados de má sorte – era surpreendente que ela sobreviveu por tanto tempo. ―Eu pensei que eles não podiam atacar suas vítimas diretamente? Existem regras... ― Ela falou, agarrando desesperadamente a inconsistência.

Blake sacudiu a cabeça. ―A Visão permitiu você vê-los em suas verdadeiras formas. Não como sombras ou pesadelos, mas como eles são no plano espectral. Uma vez que este contato visual é feito torna o contrato banal. Os Skivers podem levar você sempre que quiser.

Quando o choque, lentamente, começou a se desgastar, Winter sentiu como se pudesse estar doente. Sugando o ar para conter a náusea agitada, ela não conseguia parar de se deter sobre o seu When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

destino. Essas coisas estavam vindo por sua alma – o que aconteceria se eles conseguissem tomá-la? Será que ela passaria da vida após a morte? Ser condenada por toda a eternidade? ―Por que você fez isso, Blake? ― Ela perguntou, sua voz falhando um pouco. ―Se você sabia o que ia acontecer – Por que você me salvou.

Ele engoliu em seco, sua expressão de dor. ―Como eu não poderia?

Winter olhou e viu o medo nas suas belas feições. Não para si mesmo. Por ela. Mesmo agora, ela odiava saber que ela era a causa de sua angústia. ―Nós precisamos encontrar um lugar escuro, ― Blake disse, sua voz grossa com nova determinação. ―Sinto muito? ― Winter não tinha certeza se tinha ouvido corretamente. ―Me ajude a procurar por uma garagem aberta. Em algum lugar que a luz do dia não possa alcançar. ―Você não está fazendo qualquer sentido! ―Confie em mim.

Winter olhou através das janelas manchadas pela chuva nas casas bem agrupadas piscando fora. Ela não sabia por que estava procurando por uma garagem, mas ela não precisava. Ele não precisava lhe pedir para confiar nele. Agora Winter estava disposta a fazer qualquer coisa que Blake dissesse a ela. Ele era sua única luz na escuridão, a única esperança que ela tinha de sobrevivência.

A caminhonete de Blake rugiu em Dent Crescent, que, apesar de seu nome simples de se ouvir, era um dos locais mais ricos em Bluff Hagan. Não tão amontoadas como nas ruas anteriores, estas enormes casas tinham grandes árvores manchando suas propriedades. A maioria tinha garagens espaçosas do tamanho da casa de Winter. Infelizmente, todas elas pareciam estar fechadas.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Os olhos de Blake de repente fixaram em um local. ―Ali! Winter viu a garagem aberta que Blake tinha visto. Era ao lado de uma casa erguida no estilo Tudor, a magnificência arquitetônica um pouco manchada por três flamingos de plásticos brotando do canteiro. Ou os proprietários tinham um senso de humor extravagante ou gosto duvidoso. Felizmente, não havia carros estacionados na garagem, o que significava que eles tinham esquecidos de fechar, ou não havia alguém em casa. Evidentemente a última possibilidade não incomodou Blake quando ele parou e levou a caminhonete para a base da entrada da garagem.

Winter disparou outro olhar aterrorizado no vidro traseiro. Os Skivers continuavam a se aproximar deles. Eram dois quarteirões de distância, fechando a distância com uma velocidade assustadora. ―Blake! ―Eu sei. Corra!

Em seu estado de pânico, Winter não entendeu muito bem o que ele queria que ela fizesse – por que eles pararam aqui novamente? Vendo a confusão em seu rosto, Blake inclinou-se e abriu a porta do passageiro aberta para ela. ―Corra, Winter! Na garagem.

Winter pulou da caminhonete e tropeçou até a entrada da garagem. Blake pulou em seguida atrás dela. Eles chegaram até a garagem, e o pé esquerdo de Blake atingiu o seu centro, enquanto ele procurava o controle da porta. Por fim, a porta da garagem começou a baixar com um silvo pneumático alto. Mas lentamente – muito lentamente.

Winter não podia ver os Skivers, mas a julgar pela velocidade com que se moviam, ela temia que eles estivessem pertos. A qualquer momento, ela esperava que eles deslizassem através da fina abertura entre o chão e a porta da garagem como cobras pretas.

Felizmente, a porta finalmente fechou e a garagem foi mergulhada When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

em uma meia-luz escura. Winter desesperadamente abraçou a si mesma. Acima dela a chuva batia um ritmo interrupto quando atingia o telhado da garagem, mantendo o tempo com a sua própria pulsação frenética.

Pequenos detalhes se destacaram quando sua mente catalogou o que poderia muito bem ser o último lugar que ela já se encontrou.

De pé na escuridão, ela poderia ver uma pequena mancha de óleo no chão de concreto, um frasco de manteiga de amendoim velho cheio de pregos enferrujados sentados na bancada, uma máquina de cortar mato coberta de grama, empurrada contra a parede. ―Blake? ― Winter ouviu-se dizer tranquilamente. ―Sim? ― Ele respondeu em tom distraído. Ele estava ocupado bloqueando uma janela com um lençol velho que tinha encontrado sob o banco. ―O que eles fazem com as almas que eles tomam?

Ele fez uma pausa, antes de responder com firmeza. ―Você não precisa descobrir. ― Terminando com o lençol, ele voltou ao local onde ela estava. ―Pegue minhas mãos.

Winter deslizou suas mãos frias e úmidas nas suas, espantada com o calor que sentiu. Embora fosse muito escuro dentro da garagem, alguma luz amarelada ainda atravessava a janela sobre a bancada. Por seu brilho doentio, Winter podia ver seu rosto, a testa franzida sob seus cachos negros, os olhos ardendo brilhantemente com o Occuluma. Agora ela não se importava o que a luz espectral verde significava ou que o marcava como único entre os outros que ela tinha visto. Ela sempre soube que Blake era diferente, sentiu em seu coração naquele mesmo primeiro instante que seus olhos se encontraram. O que quer que se escondia por trás das chamas esmeralda deslumbrantes não mudaria seus sentimentos por ele. ―Eu não me arrependo de ter o beijado. ― Se isso era para ser um de seus últimos momentos, era importante que Blake soubesse When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

disso. Que ele entendesse o quanto o beijo significou para ela – o quanto ele significava para ela. ―Estou feliz, ― Blake disse, seu rosto amolecendo. Um leve sorriso tocou em seus lábios antes de ele fechar os olhos. ―Agora, não diga outra palavra. Tenho que me concentrar.

Winter assentiu e esperou.

Nada aconteceu.

Blake abriu os olhos e suspirou em frustração. ―Está muito claro aqui.

Winter ainda não entendia por que precisava estar escuro, ou mesmo o que eles estavam fazendo nesta garagem. Parecia como se tivesse tropeçado em um sonho, onde as regras da realidade arbitrariamente modificavam a cada cinco minutos mais ou menos.

A qualidade da luz na garagem mudou ligeiramente quando uma sombra moveu em frente da janela.

Ela olhou para além do ombro de Blake e sentiu um subido grito na garganta. ―Eles estão aqui!

Os Skivers tinham silenciosamente se materializados na garagem e estavam se aproximando de Winter e Blake. O mestre olhou para Winter, seus olhos de obsidianas perfurando seus próprios. Não havia nenhuma misericórdia nessa escuridão, nenhuma humanidade. Apenas o frio intenso.

Blake fechou os olhos contra os Skivers, sua testa enrugada em concentração. ―Segure-se firme.

Trovão retumbou (ou estava dentro?). A cena atrás dele brilhou, como se refletido em um espelho – um espelho que estava sendo dobrado, torcido e esticado – antes de explodir em um milhão de pedaços. Havia uma escuridão esmeralda tingida, enchendo a visão de Winter, engolindo-os inteiros.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 44 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Winter sabia que ela não estava morta neste momento, mas ter esse conhecimento não tornou mais fácil de aceitar o que ela estava vendo. Eles estavam voando novamente. Voando pelos céus escuros, os mesmos que eles tinham na noite anterior. Blake estava ao seu lado, ainda segurando sua mão. Ele deu um sorrido tranquilizador, e Winter sabia que, enquanto ela estivesse segurando sobre ele, ela estaria segura.

O perfume deste lugar estranho, preenchendo suas narinas e pulmões. Ela respirou com curiosidade, mais consciente do efeito que tinha sobre ela como da última vez. Como antes, o ar

perfumado acalmou Winter, acalmando seus medos como um opiáceo. A ameaça iminente dos Skivers pareceu desaparecer mais longe a cada respiração.

Eles flutuaram mais perto das nuvens abaixo, e Winter começou a ver de relance as formas escuras da cidade através do véu cinza. Aqui e ali uma estrutura particularmente ambiciosa rompeu o dossel enevoado, iluminado pelas explosões de luz esmeralda emitente dos poços abaixo. Ela podia distinguir pessoas em volta destas cavidades circulares, braços estendidos arrebatadamente, esperando o próximo gêiser de luz entrar em erupção. Sinos interromperam por perto, cada vez mais altos, mais hipnóticos.

Distante, Winter sentiu Blake apertar sua mão e ela conseguiu arrancar o olhar dos poços. Ele estava olhando para ela intensamente, sua boca formando palavras, palavras que ela mal podia escutar através da escuridão. ―Não olhe, ― a voz não parecia existir neste lugar, ainda assim Winter capturou a urgência de sua advertência. Foi difícil obedecer.

Os pontos turísticos da cidade imploravam para ser visto. À frente deles, um pequeno pedaço de luz branca apareceu no céu, como uma porta distante sendo aberta em uma sala escura.

Winter sentiu seu voo sutilmente mudar o curso quando Blake puxou-os para o seu brilho fraco, o que parecia insignificante em comparação com o esplendor da cidade abaixo. A luz ficou mais forte quando se aproximaram, mas a abertura era pequena, tão pequena que Blake teve que puxar Winter perto dele para passar pela brecha juntos.

Antes que passasse deste mundo fantasma, Winter teve um último suspiro, querendo segurar o máximo aquele cheiro inebriante de seu corpo quanto possível, e então eles foram para outro lugar.

Os cinco sentidos de Winter lutaram para aceitar a mudança When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

abrupta do ambiente. Havia algo frio e corajoso sob a ponta dos seus dedos – solo. Ela podia ouvir a chuva caindo em algum lugar muito acima. Cinza claro débil se infiltrou de uma abertura após passar com a cabeça, mas não foi o suficiente para ela ver os limites deste espaço. O que quer que este lugar fosse estava escuro, apertado e sujo. Ela piscou na escuridão, com sua cabeça sentindo curiosamente pesada. Imagens da cidade fantasma brilharam na frente de seus olhos – as torres rompendo as nuvens, os poços de luz... Winter ainda podia saborear o perfume do ar em sua língua, seu aroma calmante neste lugar frio e sujo. Ela se sentia cansada, muito cansada. Suas pálpebras começaram a baixar, o vazio acenou...

A respiração de alguém estremecendo ecoou pelas paredes e trouxe-a de volta para si mesma momentaneamente — Blake!

Ela abriu a boca para chamar seu nome, mas conseguiu apenas um sussurro.

'Blake?'

'Winter? "Sua voz soava como se ele estivesse vindo de muito longe.

Ela tentou virar a cabeça para onde a voz tinha vindo, mas não tinha força. A estranha letargia que havia atormentado sua última noite roubara sobre ela novamente.

Sua visão começou a nadar, e depois escurecer. Winter sentiu a escuridão, se fechando. Ela estava à deriva, caindo...

Alguém estava agarrando seus ombros e puxando-a pelo chão.

Em seu estado de semiconsciência, Winter podia sentir a sujeira derramando em sua camisa e jeans enquanto ela estava sendo arrastada. Algo arranhou contra seu rosto e algo duro e contundente espetou a sua coxa, mas essas sensações estavam distantes, quase como se estivessem acontecendo com outra pessoa.

Depois do que poderia ter sido cinco minutos ou cinco horas, When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Winter finalmente se sentiu sendo puxado para o exterior. Chuva gelada salpicada para baixo em seu rosto, mas ainda assim ela não podia acordar-se a plena consciência. Blake levantou-a em seus braços. Então, ela estava sendo carregada.

Sua cabeça rodopiando, Winter conseguiu levantar as pálpebras uma fração, e reconheceu por sua visão embaçada a árvore magnólia trançada na frente do lugar Velasco. Havia um pequeno buraco no tronco levando para dentro das profundezas escuras, ocas. Era grande o suficiente para eles passarem. A julgar pelas pegadas sujas na grama levando para longe da árvore, Winter adivinhou que foi onde eles apareceram. Em seu estado de sonho, isto quase fez sentido para ela.

'Winter?‘ Blake disse a uma grande distância.

Winter não podia responder-lhe. Ela estava entrando mais fundo na escuridão novamente.

Mais profundo...

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 45 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Um relógio estava tocando em algum lugar.

Havia um outro som, mais perto... Um ruído estranho e barulho de estalo. Winter sentiu calor irradiando contra seu rosto.

Lentamente, seus olhos se abriram.

Onde ela estava?

Ela estava deitada em um sofá de couro em uma sala desconhecida. Com os seus olhos focados, Winter podia ver cortinas pesadas desenhadas nas janelas ao longo da parede. As rachaduras de luz prateada entre as cortinas sugeriu que era dia. Winter só podia adivinhar quanto tempo ela estava dormindo. Pode ser manhã

de tudo pelo que sabia. O fresco couro rangeu debaixo dela baixinho enquanto mudou seu peso.

Havia sombras estranhas brincando no teto. Elas piscavam e dançavam, deslocando à luz do fogo. Winter olhou para baixo em direção ao final do sofá e viu a lareira. Filetes vermelhos e amarelos de fogo suavemente lambia uma pilha de madeira vegetal na grelha.

Confusa, ela levantou a cabeça e viu que ela não estava sozinha na sala. Blake estava sentado em frente a ela em uma poltrona empoeirada, uma mesa de café situada entre eles. Ele estava dormindo. Embora ele ainda era belo em repouso, ela notou com preocupação que seus traços estavam pálidos e um pouco febril.

Seus grossos cachos negros estavam colados à testa suada; suas roupas estavam desgrenhadas, cobertas de sujeira.

Uma onda de imagens inundou sua mente – os Skivers, a perseguição, a garagem, voando pelo céu escuro acima da cidade, o oco da árvore magnólia no jardim da frente. Blake deve ter os levado para dentro – mas eles estavam seguros aqui? No início da semana, ela ouviu os Skivers na floresta. O que estava impedindo-os de voltar? Pânico agarrando-a, Winter sentou-se, deslocando o gato malhado de cor gengibre que estava enrolado em suas pernas.

O gato pulou de Winter para o chão onde ele olhou para ela diante da reprovação através do estofamento de Blake.

Este movimento despertou-o, suas pálpebras se abriram. ―Você está acordada. ― O gato enrolou em uma bola ao seus pés, fechando um olho e mantendo o outro luminoso amarelo apontado para Winter. ―Estamos seguros? ―Sim, ― respondeu Blake com a voz rouca. Ele segurou o punho à boca, abafando uma tosse. ―Enquanto você estiver dentro destas paredes os Skivers não podem alcançá-la.

Seu olhar correu com medo para as janelas. ―Eu vi uma When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

dessas coisas chegar no peito de um homem. O que está impedindoos de passar através das paredes? ―Eu conjurei proteções ao redor da casa. Alas destinadas a mantê-los fora. Acredite em mim, Winter, você está segura.

Winter respirou fundo. Apesar das garantias dadas de Blake, ela não conseguia dissipar por completo o medo que se agarrou a ela, mesmo agora. Ela era uma alma condenada – Blake foi claro.

Quanto tempo isto a manteria em segurança? Enquanto ela considerava essa questão, ela ficou distraída por alguma coisa sobre a mesa de café entre eles. Um objeto que parecia estranhamente familiar. Inclinando-se mais perto para ver melhor, Winter viu que era sua fotografia desaparecida: a imagem falha do cemitério que tinha desaparecido de sua bolsa. ―Eu roubei de você.

Ela olhou para cima da fotografia para um Blake observandoa através da escuridão bruxuleante. ―Por quê?

Blake levou um momento para responder. ―Primeiro, deixeme fazer uma pergunta, Winter.

Ela colocou a fotografia de volta na mesa. ―Pergunte-me qualquer coisa. ―Alguma vez você já se deparou com uma porta trancada? ―Claro que sim, ― Winter respondeu cautelosamente, sem saber se ela estava faltando alguma implicação mais profunda. ―Deixe-me reformular a pergunta, ― Blake disse, seus olhos brilhando à luz do fogo. ―Alguma vez você já se deparou com uma porta que você não conseguiu abrir? Pense bem antes de responder.

Ainda muito confusa, Winter fez o que ele pediu, e foi surpreendida com o que ela se lembrou. Ou o que ela não conseguia se lembrar. Era impossível, claro. Deve ter havido algum momento When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

de sua vida, quando ela tentou uma porta e não conseguiu abri-la. ―Você não consegue lembrar uma única vez, certo? ― Blake disse, estudando-a de perto. ―Eu tenho certeza que eu já, mas eu não me lembro de um momento. ―No início, eu disse que você sempre teve a Visão. A capacidade simplesmente estava adormecida.

Winter não precisava lembrar. Ela podia ver a evidência brilhando nos olhos de Blake, a pequena faísca esmeralda do Occuluma. ―Sim. ―Isto não foi o limite do seu potencial inexplorado. Você é a Chave, Winter.

Winter engasgou. ―Eu sou o quê? ―A Chave, ― ele repetiu pacientemente. ―Você tem o poder de abrir portas fechadas.

Ela levantou uma sobrancelha com ceticismo. ―A maioria das pessoas faz isso. ―Não como você. Há outros lugares, outros mundos, além de um presente. Você pode abrir portas nesses mundos – ou fechálas. É um dom raro e poderoso.

Winter levou um momento para processar isso. Ela olhou para suas mãos, tentando vislumbrar um sinal de este poder incrível que Blake disse que ela possuía. Suas mãos pareciam – completamente normais. ―Como você pode ter certeza de que eu sou uma dessas " Chaves "?

Blake se mexeu um pouco, como se a questão o irritava. ―Eu poderia dizer desde o primeiro momento que eu vi você através do cemitério. Há uma luz única em seus olhos que é diferente do Occuluma. A luz dourada visível somente para alguém como eu. É muito difícil de resistir. ―Seus olhos travado When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

nela. ―Agora, eu quero você mais do que eu já quis alguém na minha vida inteira.

A sala parecia ter crescido de repente muito mais quente.

Winter molhou os lábios secos, tentando manter a compostura. ―Só por causa desta luz nos meus olhos? ― Embora entusiasmada com sua confissão, a decepção moderou sua excitação.

Ele não a queria por sua mente, sua personalidade ou sua aparência – apenas esta luz invisível.

Blake se inclinou para frente, sua voz amolecendo. ―Somente no início. Era algo que eu não tinha controle. Agora, no entanto... ―Vá em frente, ― Winter pediu.

Aborrecimento passou pelo seu rosto. Ele não estava confortável mostrando essa vulnerabilidade. ―Você deveria ter medo de mim! ―Por quê? ―Depois de ontem à noite eu achei que seria muito claro.

Winter sentiu desafiada a defender sua memória. ―A noite passada foi incrível! ―Eu quase a matei. ― Blake olhou furioso para ela mais um momento, antes de cair em sua cadeira, exausto.

Winter ficou chocada em silêncio. Lembrou-se da letargia alarmante que assaltara ela na praia - ele tinha feito isso com ela?

Observando-o pensando na fogueira, ela finalmente reuniu coragem para fazer a pergunta que assombra na parte de trás de sua mente desde que ele a puxou para fora deste mundo e levou-a para o outro. ―O que você é?

Os olhos de Blake se arregalaram levemente antes de ir precipitadamente para as chamas, evitando seu olhar novamente. ―Um monstro. ―Eu não acredito nisso.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

―Você vai. ― Ele suspirou profundamente, fechando os olhos. Quando os abriu novamente, eles tinham tomado com uma qualidade assombrada, sombreados pela memória do conto que ele estava prestes a dizer. ―Dois mil anos atrás, houve uma jovem que vivia em uma aldeia alta nas montanhas dos Cárpatos, na fronteira do que hoje é conhecido como a Romênia. Seu nome era Lamara e ela foi reverenciada por outros moradores como um oráculo, alguém que podia se comunicar com os deuses. Um dia sua mãe ficou muito doente. Apavorada em perdê-la, Lamara implorou aos deuses para poupar a vida de sua mãe. Os deuses cruelmente preferiram ignorar suas orações, independentemente do tempo que ela orou, quantos sacrifícios que ela fez para eles. Lamara cresceu frustrada, irritada por eles a abandonaram agora em seu momento de necessidade.

Especialmente depois de dedicar a sua vida a vontade deles. Ela resolveu que, se eles não quisessem ouvi-la, então ela iria encontrar uma maneira de viajar para a outra vida e fazê-los ouvir. Você vê, Lamara tinha um poder maior do que a de uma vidente simples.

Assim como você, Winter, ela era uma Chave – talvez a primeira.

Ela começou a construir um dispositivo, um portal. Ela esperava que este Espelho Negro, como foi chamado, eventualmente, pudesse levá-la aos deuses. Em vez disso, ela abriu uma porta para outro lugar: Chamado Terras Mortas. Lá, ela encontrou uma cidade – Krypthia, coração das Terras Mortas.

Winter abriu a boca para perguntar se esta era a cidade fantasma que ela tinha visto, mas Blake antecipou sua pergunta. ―Sim. Você já vislumbrou esta cidade duas vezes agora, e eu tenho certeza que você sentiu seu poder de sedução. Lamara certamente. Ela foi enfeitiçada pela beleza terrível de Krypthia e dos seres que habitavam lá: Os Malfaeries. ― A aparência doentia de Blake empalideceu ainda mais. ―Eu imagino que ela pensou que When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

eles eram anjos em primeiro lugar. Tão bonitos, tão sobrenaturais.

Até que começaram a se alimentar dela. ―Alimentar? ― Winter perguntou nervosamente. ―Os Malfaeries anseiam a essência única que existe dentro dos mortais – a força da vida, a alma. É como uma droga para eles.

No entanto, eles não são capazes de viajar até aqui para levá-los. As Terras Mortas não são apenas a sua casa, mas sua prisão. Existem outras criaturas que vivem nas Terras Mortas que não são limitadas neste sentido. Você já viu estes também. ―Os Skivers, ― Winter terminou por ele, tremendo com a lembrança dos demônios de olhos negros. ―Em troca de almas para a colheita, os Malfaeries permitem que os Skivers bebam de seus poços de luz. Há uma fonte de energia sob Krypthia, um vasto reservatório de energia. Os Skivers anseiam para se banhar no brilho dessa energia, e os Malfaeries cobiçam as almas em troca. ―Blake zombou de desgosto. ―Em um círculo de dependência, os Malfaeries e os Skivers alimentam-se dos apetites uns dos outros.

Winter piscou para sobre as figuras escuras que ela tinha observado circundando os poços de luz. Lembrou-se a forma como eles estavam, com os braços estendidos, esperando a luz estranha e a chuva sobre eles. ―Compreendendo este desejo doente, então você pode imaginar como Lamara era algo a ser valorizado, ― Blake continuou. ―Uma fonte inesgotável de vitalidade doce para os Malfaeries, desde que eles pudessem drená-la completamente. Eu imagino que grandes batalhas foram travadas pelo direito de alimentar-se dela. De alguma forma ela conseguiu escapar das Terras Mortas e encontrar seu caminho de volta a este mundo. Ela não voltou sozinha. Lamara estava com uma criança. Um mestiço – metade mortal, metade Malfaerie. O primeiro da minha espécie. O When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

primeiro Demori. ―Demori? ― A testa de Winter enrugou. ―É uma palavra antiga que significa ―Viajante Escuro‖, ― Blake esclareceu a ela. ―Com o tempo, Lamara deu à luz um filho e lhe chamou de Ariman. Ela tentou criá-lo como uma criança mortal – um erro. Ariman era mais forte que as outras crianças, mais rápido.

Ele podia ver coisas que as outras não podiam, fogo dançando em seus olhos que lhe falaram de sua mortalidade frágil – o Occuluma.

Com o tempo, ele descobriu outros presentes. Ele soube que ele podia viajar entre este mundo e as Terras Mortas, cobrindo distâncias em um momento com a facilidade de cruzar de uma sala para outra. Embora este dom especial veio com uma ressalva: só funcionava sob a cobertura da escuridão. O brilho do sol lhe roubava essa capacidade. Durante as horas do dia ele ainda podia viajar, mas os seus pontos de destino eram bloqueados pela Luz. Ele chamou de Sombra que Salta.

Winter assentiu, pensando no início da tarde, quando Blake procurou o abrigo da escuridão para escapar dos Skivers. ―Essas viagens para as Terras Mortas exigia energia, e quando ele voltou Ariman enfraqueceu. Ele experimentou uma fome paralisante. Uma fome que não ficava satisfeita, não importa o quanto ele comesse ou bebesse. Havia apenas uma coisa que podia o saciar: a vida. Drenando outro ser vivo através da boca. Através de um beijo. O beijo mortal. Ele fez esta descoberta terrível a primeira vez que ele voltou das Terras Mortas e se deparou com a sua mãe.

A boca de Winter se abriu em horror. ―Ele matou Lamara. ―Não de propósito. Você deve se lembrarque a luz da chave solicita o meu tipo como nenhum outro. Nós respondemos a ela em um nível instintivo, reconhecendo o único aspecto nessas partes: a capacidade de viajar entre os mundos. Ariman era jovem, mal preparado para resistir à atração, essa fome avassaladora. Não o When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

julgue de forma muito dura. ―Eu não sei como você pode defendê-lo. ―Ele era o meu pai, ― disse Blake em silêncio, com os olhos brilhantes fixos nos dela, como se esperasse que ela fosse desviar.

Winter não desviou, ela segurou seu olhar. ―Quantos anos você tem, Blake? ―Eu nasci em outubro, 1879.

Atônita, ela tentou calcular o número de anos. ―Isso é... ―Cento e trinta anos. Jovem para um Demori. Uma vez que atingimos a maturidade física, paramos de envelhecer. ―Você é imortal?

Blake sacudiu a cabeça. ―Nada é verdadeiramente imortal, Winter. Eu não envelheço, mas vai chegar um momento em que eu vou escolher avançar. ―Por que você vai ter que escolher morrer? ―Porque uma vida sem fim perde o sentido. Morte define a vida. Um dia, eu espero encontrar uma boa razão para morrer.

Winter considerou a sabedoria disso, e achou sem sentido.

Depois de estar cara a cara com o impulso de sua própria mortalidade preciosa, ela não poderia imaginar que algum dia iria escolher morrer. ―Minha mãe era uma mortal. Uma mulher chamada Bonnaire Madeleine. Ela era como você, Winter, e como Lamara.

Uma chave. Esta foi a razão do meu pai ser atraído por ela. Eu acredito que ele teria devorado Madeleine completamente como ele tinha séculos diante dela, mas algo aconteceu. Uma coisa que eu tenho certeza que ele não planejou. Talvez algo que ele nem sabia que ele era capaz. Ariman se apaixonou. ― Um sorriso triste se contraiu nos cantos da boca de Blake. ―Minha irmã e eu nascemos um ano depois.

Winter lembrou de algo que ela tinha visto durante a sua When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

última visita aqui – o retrato da mulher bonita e os dois querubins de olhos verdes. Gêmeos. A pintura no corredor...

Blake estava surpreso que ela tinha visto. ―Sim. Essa é a minha mãe, Claudette e eu. A pintura é a única coisa que me resta deles. Ambos estão perdidos para mim agora.

Apesar de sua curiosidade, Winter resistiu a pressioná-lo sobre este assunto. Ela sabia por sua própria experiência o incômodo de falar sobre os mortos. ―Eu não me lembro muito da minha infância, só que mudei muito. Paris, Munique, Gotemburgo, Roma – quase todas as cidades da Europa. Nós nunca ficávamos muito tempo em um lugar. Eu não sabia na época, mas nós estávamos sendo caçados. Caçados pelo Bane. ―Minha mãe não falava muito sobre o homem que ela deixou pelo o meu pai. Seu nome era Victor Bonnaire. Seu casamento não foi feliz. Se fosse, eu duvido que minha mãe teria ido de bom grado a Ariman. Depois que ela partiu, Victor foi conduzido pela raiva. Ele se convenceu de que meu pai era o diabo, que havia corrompido a minha mãe. A única maneira de salvá-la era libertar a sua alma. ―Ele queria matá-la?

Blake assentiu. ―É engraçado como muitas vezes os homens usam ―a vontade de Deus‖ como uma desculpa para o assassinato.

Victor reuniu um grupo de homens igualmente enlouquecidos, batizados como Bane, e fez da sua vida um trabalho de caçar minha família. Quando ficou muito velho, ele treinou seu filho, Antoine, para assumir a Cruzada. Quando Antoine teve seus próprios filhos, ele infectou-os com este mesmo ódio equivocado, e assim por diante até hoje. ― Blake fez uma pausa, antes de acrescentar: ―Os homens na van que nos levou para o precipício noite passada são os ancestrais diretos dos Bonnaire. Seu legado.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

O olhar de medo de Blake no momento da chegada da van preta de repente fez um monte de sentido. Ele permitiu um momento para Winter se debruçar sobre isso e depois continuou. ―Apesar de viver como fugitivos, tivemos uma vida mais ou menos normal. Meus pais nunca explicaram a Claudette o que nós éramos – eu acho que eles esperavam que a nossa herança Demori permaneceria oculta. ―Mas por que, Blake? Para fazer estas coisas que você faz... ―Nada vem sem um preço. Ser um Demori é ser amaldiçoado. ― A expressão de Blake tornou-se atormentada enquanto ele revivia um pouco de dor secreta. O coração de Winter doía por ver isso, e sem pensar, ela estendeu a mão tocando a sua mão.

Imediatamente, ela sentiu uma sacudida familiar de energia quando sua pele entrou em contato com a sua. A sensação de formigamento correu até seu braço e se espalhou por todo o seu corpo, enchendo-a com calor. De repente, uma memória explodiu na mente de Winter com uma intensidade dos fogos de artifício.

Uma memória que não pertencia a ela.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Era noite. Ela estava caminhando ao longo de uma ponte de paralelepípedos em direção a um castelo sentado no alto de uma colina íngreme. Atrás do castelo, mil estrelas brilhavam no céu, fazendo-a sentir frio e solitária. A ponte estendia sobre um rio, correndo e era iluminada pelo brilho suave de lâmpadas âmbar posicionadas em intervalos regulares. Ao lado de cada lâmpadahavia uma estátua de pedra diferente. Santos e pecadores, heróis e vilões de histórias que Winter nunca havia lido.

Ela não caminhava sozinha. Havia uma garota ao seu lado, segurando sua mão. Só que não era a mão de Winter. Era a mão de um homem, forte e suave. Mesmo pela luz das estrelas pálidas, a beleza da garota era impressionante. Luminosa. Como Winter, ela

tinha o cabelo longo vermelho derramado sobre seus ombros nus como o vinho. Seus olhos eram azuis, mas havia uma peculiaridade sobre eles, um elenco dourado que mudavam e dançavam como o reflexo do sol no oceano. Winter conhecia o amor desta menina.

Um profundo amor que fez sua dor de saudade.

A menina riu de alguma coisa, e então ela estava puxando Winter abaixo de um dos postes de iluminação da ponte, um sorriso travesso iluminando suas feições elfos. ―Beije-me, ― ela disse em uma linguagem que Winter não entendia. Essa luz dourada tentadora iluminou nos olhos da menina enquanto Winter se inclinou para frente. O beijo foi mais profundo e mais requintado do que qualquer coisa que ela poderia ter imaginado possível, mas havia algo escuro atrás do beijo. Algo crescendo dentro dela. Uma fome que fez seu corpo inteiro gritar, e ela já não estava beijando a menina, ela estava se alimentando dela. Alimentando-se de sua luz magnífica dourada. O corpo da menina ficou flácido dentro do abraço de Winter, desaparecendo dentro de si. Ela caiu no chão, parecendo como uma casca.

Horrorizada, Winter correu ao longo da ponte, correndo do terror, do crime que ela cometeu. Correndo do monstro que vivia dentro dela. Ela podia ouvir um som como um trovão distante, ficando mais alto. Faíscas esmeralda saltaram no canto de sua visão e depois da ponte, as estrelas, tudo se foi, Winter estava gritando e caindo em um buraco no mundo.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Winter retirou a mão de Blake como se tivesse sido queimada. Seu coração estava batendo e o fantasma de um grito ainda se escondia na parte de trás de sua garganta. A ponte, a menina, o horror ao que ela tinha feito – tudo parecia tão vívido e real. Como se tivesse

sido transportados através do tempo e depositados no corpo de um estranho. Não, não é um estranho – Blake. Tinha sido a memória de Blake que ela involuntariamente viu. ―A visão é um presente poderoso, ― ele disse com um suspiro derrotado. ―Quem era ela? ― Winter perguntou, ainda lutando para acalmar seu coração. ―O nome dela era Elisabetta. Éramos estudantes juntos em Praga. Eu a amava muito.

Elisabetta. O nome significou algo para Winter. É claro! A carta que ela tinha encontrado escondida na parte de trás do diário foi dirigida a Elisabetta. ―Essa foi a primeira vez que eu Viajei. Eu não sabia o que eu era. Eu não sabia que parte da razão por eu está atraído por Elisabetta era porque ela era uma Chave. Depois que eu comecei a beijá-la, a fome assumiu. Eu não consegui parar.

Blake ficou olhando para as chamas, seus olhos brilhando com lágrimas. Winter sentiu uma pontada de culpa por ser a razão pela qual ele estava com tal dor. Se não fosse por ela, Blake não teria quevasculhar essas memórias dolorosas. Ela estava prestes a dizer-lhe que ele não tinha necessidade de continuar quando ele começou a falar de novo, sua voz cheia de auto aversão. ―Aprendi o que eu era nesta noite – um monstro. Desde então, eu tentei viver como um homem. Tentando e falhando.

Doía de vê-lo tão abatido. Toda essa dor. Toda a escuridão.

Medo de que sua própria fome iria levá-lo a matar aqueles que amava. ―Você não é um monstro.

Ele se inclinou para frente e empurrou a fotografia sobre a mesa de café para ela. ―Esta imagem mostra-me exatamente como eu sou. Uma sombra. Uma praga sobre este mundo. É um lembrete When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

de que eu não pertenço aqui, que eu sou um insulto à natureza. Eu roubei porque eu não podia suportar a ideia de você descobrir isso.

Winter pegou a fotografia e examinou-a pela última vez. A área escura parecia ter mais forma agora que ela sabia o que estava olhando, mas não a abalou como antes. Ela sabia o que era.

Winter atirou a fotografia para a lareira e encontrou o olhar de Blake. ―É apenas uma foto, ― ela disse.

Blake ficou surpreso com a reação dela. Ele olhou para a fotografia ondulando e escurecendo nas chamas. ―Você não tem medo de mim? Mesmo sabendo o que eu sou?

Ela olhou para ele furtivamente, autoconsciente de revelar o quanto ela gostava dele. ―Eu sei o que você é, Blake. E isso não me assusta.

Surpresa se espalhou pelo seu rosto, transformando suas feições meditativas em algo mais leve. ―Winter Adams, de onde você saiu? ― Ele disse com admiração em sua voz. ―Você me encontrou. ― Winter sorriu, permitindo-se um momento para ser extasiada pela intensidade de seus olhos. ―O que vamos fazer agora? Os Skivers vão continuar vindo atrás de mim, não vão?

Blake assentiu com tristeza. ―Sim, eles vão. ―Então, esta é a parte em que você me diz como vai me salvar, ― Winter disse, tentando disfarçar o medo crescente com falsa confiança. ―Eu não sei como salvá-la. Eu não tenho as respostas, ― Blake admitiu com pesar. Ele parou por um momento, pensando profundamente sobre o problema. Após alguns segundos, Winter viu sua expressão preocupada relaxar como se ele chegasse a algum tipo de solução. ―Mas eu acho que sei onde posso encontrá-las... ―Onde?

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

―Krypthia, ― respondeu Blake, a própria palavra parecendo tamborilar com poder silencioso.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 46 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

― Os Malfaeries têm um corpo governante de anciãos. Eles podem ser capazes de ajudá-la, ― disse Blake, antes de acrescentar um pouco cauteloso, ―isto é, se me permitirem falar com eles.

Apesar da promessa tênue de esperança realizada pela resposta de Blake, Winter não gostou da incerteza que viu em seu rosto. ―Por que eles não vão permitir você de falar com eles? ―Demori são mestiços. Os Malfaeries nos desprezam por isso, mesmo quando eles têm inveja da nossa capacidade de viajar. ―Ele exalou cansado. ―Eu não vejo que temos qualquer outra escolha. Eu tenho que tentar.

De repente, ocorreu a Winter que Blake estava pensando em deixá-la sozinha em casa. Pânico fresco floresceu. ―Você vai me deixar aqui? Os Skivers... ―Eu disse a você, você está segura em casa. ―Eu me sentiria mais segura com alguma proteção. Como uma arma ou algo assim. ―A arma não adiantaria nada. Além disso, eu não vou te deixar sozinha.

Blake assentiu para o malhado, que estava descansando a cabeça no colo de Winter. Ela olhou para o gato e voltou para Blake, perguntando se ele tinha perdido a cabeça ou apenas desenvolveu um senso de humor muito ruim. ―Você está falando sério? Ele deve me proteger? ―O nome dele é Nefertem e ele tem protegido você o tempo todo. Os antigos faraós eram mumificados com seus gatos porque acreditavam que os animais podiam protegê-los dos maus espíritos em sua viagem para o além. Eles não eram tolos.

Percebendo que ele estava falando sério, uma pergunta lhe ocorreu. ―Será que você o mandou para a minha casa? E os outros gatos? ―Sim. Os gatos são amigos dos Demoris. Eles me ouvem.

Blake se inclinou sobre a mesa de café e pegou Nefertem, segurando-o até seu nível dos olhos. As bochechas do gato malhado gordo derramaram-se sobre as bordas das mãos de Blake. ―Você vai cuidar de Winter, você não vai, Nefertem? ― Ele perguntou, olhando profundamente nos olhos amarelos do gato.

Nefertem piscou sonolento e bocejou. Blake sorriu de satisfação, como se essa fosse a resposta precisa que ele estava procurando, e sentou o gato em cima da mesa de café.

Winter assistiu em confusão, sentindo-se como se ela tivesse entrado no meio de um jogo da escola sem saber o script.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

―Eu quase esqueci, ― disse Blake, enfiando a mão no bolso. ―Eu estava tentando escolher o momento certo para dar isso a você. ― Ele tirou algo de metal que reluziu à luz do fogo. ―Acho que agora é tão bom quanto qualquer outro momento.

Ele abriu a mão e mostrou a Winter o que estava deitado na palma de sua mão. Era uma corrente de ouro com um fragmento de cristal verde pequeno adornando-o. ―O que é isso? ― Winter perguntou, fascinada pela forma como as facetas ásperas do cristal refletiam a luz do fogo. ―Um imã. ― Blake se aproximou e pendurou-o delicadamente no pescoço dela. Ela estremeceu quando seus dedos levemente roçaram sua pele. Embora a corrente era legal, o próprio cristal emitia um calor suave, reconfortante. ―Se precisar de mim, basta segurar a pedra e dizer o meu nome. Eu vou logo que eu puder.

Winter olhou para ele em dúvida. ―É um colar mágico?

Blake voltou a olhar incrédulo. ―Depois de tudo o que eu disse a você, você acha difícil de acreditar? ― Winter supôs que ele tinha um ponto. ―Não use-o, a menos que você absolutamente tenha certeza.

Winter rolou o cristal entre os dedos. ―Obrigada. Eu gostaria de poder lhe dar algo em troca. ―Você pode. ― Os olhos de Blake arremessaram para longe de Winter. ―Mas eu tenho medo de perguntar.

Ele se levantou e caminhou até o centro da sala, onde ele parou na beira da luz do fogo bruxuleante, de costas para ela.

Confusa por sua reticência, Winter o seguiu. Ela tocou de leve no seu ombro, virando-o para encará-la. ―Não tenha. Eu vou te dar tudo o que puder.

Blake tomou uma respiração profunda. ―Você pode me beijar?

Ele queria beijá-la? Embora a ideia de um tal pedido teria When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

deixado seus joelhos fracos poucas horas atrás, uma vez que ela havia aprendido algumas coisas que lhe deu uma pausa. O quão perto ela esteve perto de desaparecer completamente no abraço de Blake na praia na noite passada?

Algo sobre sua reação deve ter passado para Blake, porque ele começou a recuar. ―Sinto muito, Winter. Você não tem que... ―Não. Por favor... Eu quero. ― Disse ela hesitante. ―Eu estou apenas... ―Medo?

Winter assentiu com culpa. ―E confusa. Por que você quer me beijar? ―Eu ainda estou fraco da última viagem. Eu preciso de alguma da sua energia para fazer a viagem para Krypthia. ―Você usa essa linha em todas as garotas? ― Ela disse, sem jeito tentando cobrir seu nervosismo.

Blake ignorou a piada. Isto claramente não é brincadeira. ―Você não precisa ter medo de mim, Winter. Eu posso controlar a fome. ― Parecia importante para ele que ela entendesse esse último ponto. Ele esperou pela sua resposta, seu rosto completamente aberto em sua vulnerabilidade. Ela não queria machucá-lo, mas... ―É justo...

Blake estava concordando com ela antes que ela pudesse terminar sua hesitação. Ele parecia mais do que disposto a afastar-se do assunto. ―Esqueça que eu perguntei. Eu me viro. Você não tem que se preocupar... ―Blake, ― Winter disse, parando-o em suas trilhas. Ela caminhou até onde ele estava de pé no centro da sala. Sua expressão era tão torturada que Winter teve que conter-se de atirar os braços ao redor dele. Qualquer coisa para tirar essa dor de seu rosto.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

―Venha aqui, ― ela ordenou-lhe suavemente.

Blake deu um passo hesitante em sua direção, como se tivesse medo de que ela pudesse ser capaz de prejudicá-lo. ―Você tem certeza disso? ― Ele perguntou mais uma vez, buscando seus olhos por permissão. ―Sim, ― respondeu Winter, e pressionou seus lábios nos dele.

Este foi diferente do seu primeiro beijo, mas não menos poderoso. Havia um elemento de medo no ato que de alguma forma era ainda mais emocionante. Apesar das garantias dadas por Blake, uma parte de Winter aceitou que este poderia ser o seu último beijo e pretendeu aproveitar cada segundo dele.

Tantas emoções fortes disputavam a atenção – medo, luxúria, compaixão e amor. Havia uma suavidade nos seus lábios; no entanto, a barba no seu queixo emprestava uma rugosidade deliciosa. Winter podia sentir a firmeza da língua de Blake, e ela ansiosamente respondeu na mesma moeda, saboreando sua doçura e paixão.

Ele embalou seu rosto, seus polegares acariciando delicadamente, logo abaixo das maçãs do seu rosto enquanto ele a puxou para mais perto. Winter sabia que Blake estava bebendo agora, ela podia sentir-se sendo atraída para ele, mas ela estava surpreendentemente sem medo. Se isto era como se fosse morrer, ela poderia se perder nos seus braços, então ela poderia sofrer com alegria. Ela poderia sofrer por ele...

E então o beijo acabou e Blake se afastou dela, com o rosto brilhando com uma nova vitalidade. ―Você está bem? ― Ele perguntou, segurando seus ombros em preocupação.

Winter sentiu-se tonta e um pouco sem fôlego. Oscilando um pouco em seus pés, ela conseguiu esboçar um sorriso. ―Eu When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

estou bem. ―Tem certeza? ― Ele estava procurando nos seus olhos por qualquer indício de uma mentira. ―Sim. Foi tempo suficiente? ― Tão tolo como era, ela esperava que ele dissesse que não.

Blake a desapontou assentindo. ―Obrigado. ―E agora? ―Eu vou deixar você. ―Você não deveria esperar até que escureça? ― Winter podia ver pela fresta entre as cortinas que a luz estava fora. O crepúsculo estaria sobre estas madeiras em breve e seu poder seria mais forte.

Blake sacudiu a cabeça. ―Não há tempo a perder. Eu não sei quanto tempo vai levar-me para encontrar as respostas que eu preciso, e você não pode ficar aqui para sempre.

Winter não tinha pensado nisso. Ela se perguntou se Lucy havia retornado para casa após o trabalho, e fez uma nota mental para ligar. Apesar do perigo de sua situação, Winter não queria deixar sua irmã preocupada mais uma noite.

Blake caminhou até o fogo e apagou, chutando fuligem sobre as brasas. Winter colocou a mão em seu braço e os dois esperaram à luz de morrer. ―Blake...? ―Sim? ―Você não tem que fazer isso para mim.

Blake se inclinou e deu um beijo suave em sua testa. ―Sim, eu tenho. ―E se acontecer alguma coisa enquanto você estiver fora? ― Winter perguntou, lutando para manter o medo em sua voz. ―Não vai, ― Blake disse calmamente. ―Mas se acontecer... ― Ele olhou para o imã. ―Me chame. Hora de ir. ― When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Ele deu um passo de volta para a escuridão mais profunda da sala. ―Uma última coisa, Winter. ―Sim? Ele fez uma pausa, dando a gravidade para o que ele estava prestes a dizer. ―Prometa-me que você não vai lá para cima. Não importa o que você ouvir. Não é seguro. ―O que você quer dizer? ―Prometa-me, ― ele insistiu. ―Eu prometo, ― Winter disse, e se castigou pelo verme de curiosidade que já tinha começado a atravessar o seu caminho através de sua convicção. O que estava lá em cima?

Agora que as cinzas tinham desaparecido completamente, a sala estava quase breu, se salvando pela fraca luz entre as cortinas.

Então Blake podia ver que ela estava assustada. ―Vejo você em breve, ― ele disse calmamente.

Winter observou os olhos brilhantes de Blake, no escuro, e então se ampliou consciente de que o ar em torno deles estava subitamente carregado com eletricidade. Faíscas verde cintilaram em torno de Blake. Houve um som como um trovão e depois ele se foi. Ele Viajou, deixando para trás o menor traço de perfume: o aroma das Terras Mortas.

Winter permaneceu na sala por mais um momento, estudando o espaço onde sua silhueta havia estado de pé, antes de aceitar, que ela agora estava sozinha. Parecia tão tranquila a casa.

Ela podia ouvir a casa rangendo, o relógio de pêndulo batendo, e a chuva do lado de fora, uma vez que caía sobre o telhado.

Sem a presença reconfortante de Blake, o escuro da sala continha uma ameaça que tinha faltado. Parecia vivo, esta escuridão. Winter, nervosa saiu rapidamente para encontrar um lugar mais brilhante.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 47 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Winter caminhou para a cozinha de Blake, acendendo a luz com uma mão, segurando o telefone com a outra.

— Luce, eu lhe disse na semana passada que eu ia passar a noite na casa de Jasmine. Você não se lembra? — É claro que ela não tinha dito a Lucy tal coisa, mas estava jogando no fato de que sua irmã estava muito preocupada com os vários aspectos da sua própria vida para se lembrar disso.

— Sim? Eu devo ter esquecido. — Lucy não parecia totalmente convencida de que a culpa era dela, mas pelo menos ela não estava chateada com Winter. — É uma pena, porque eu fiz

salteados. Sabe, com castanha de caju e pequenos pedaços de cenoura. Você ama isso, certo?

Winter amava quando sua mãe fez. Infelizmente, a versão de Lucy do prato parecia apenas o nome.

— Deixe um pouco para mim. Eu vou comer amanhã.

— Tudo bem. Divirta-se com Jasmine esta noite – que horas você chega amanhã em casa?

De repente, ocorreu a Winter que havia a possibilidade muito real de que ela nunca poderia ver Lucy novamente.

— Mais cedo ou mais tarde, — Winter respondeu. — Adeus, Luce.

Ela desligou o telefone, sentindo-se um pouco perdida e sem esperança. Olhando através da janela da cozinha para os matos sombrios fora, ela podia ver a Montanha Coruja, parcialmente obscurecida pela chuva. Olhando esse monólito, Winter sentiu um arrepio passar por ela, seguido de um forte sentimento de pressentimento que beirava a premonição.

Ela se sacudiu, tentando limpar os pensamentos obscuros de sua mente.

Blake foi para salvá-la.

Tudo o que ela tinha a fazer era esperar aqui até seu retorno.

Esperar sozinha no lugar Velasco, enquanto os ladrões de almas espreitavam fora e um perigo desconhecido residia no andar de cima.

Como se sentindo seu estado vulnerável, Nefertem pulou para cima do balcão da cozinha. Por mais que tentasse, Winter simplesmente não conseguia ver nada notável sobre o gato que sugeria que ele poderia a proteger. Ainda assim, guardião sobrenatural ou não, ela considerou que pelo menos tinha um pouco de companhia.

Reunindo Nefertem em seus braços, Winter deixou a cozinha para pesquisar o resto da casa procurando uma televisão ou alguma coisa para mantê-la distraída.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Explorando a sala com Nefertem enrolado em seus braços, Winter ficou desapontada ao descobrir não havia nada que oferecia a ela uma fuga de seus pensamentos. Sem televisão, sem livros, revistas – sem absolutamente nada. Apenas poeira e teias de aranha, e móveis antigos cobertos de lençóis amarelados. A caixa com os diários tinha desaparecido do corredor também. Apesar de sua inquietação, ela estava grata que eles foram embora, a tentação de pesquisá-los para descobrir mais sobre o passado de Blake, teria sido difícil resistir.

Ela passou para o corredor da frente e os olhos saltaram para a escada e as trevas que estava no topo das escadas. O que estava impedindo a ameaça proibida de se aventurar escadas abaixo para alcançá-la?

Talvez o perigo que Blake se referiu não era uma entidade consciente, mas um artefato misterioso, como o imã que havia lhe dado. Rolando o cristal distraidamente entre os dedos, Winter perguntou se era realmente mágico, ou se Blake tinha acabado de lhe dar algum tipo de pena estúpida: um objeto que Winter poderia agarrar com força quando sentisse medo ou insegurança, mas que não tinha verdadeira potência.

Os olhos de Winter mudaram da escada para a pintura de Blake, que ainda estava encostada na mesa do corredor.

Grata por algo para distrair sua mente, Winter abaixou Nefertem e abaixou-se para um olhar mais atento. Ela levantou o lençol e olhou com novo interesse na pintura abaixo. A tristeza nos olhos de Madeleine agora focalizados com maior comoção para Winter. Ela se perguntou como era ser uma amante de um imortal.

Os olhos de Winter pousaram na pequena figura de Blake, com as bochechas rosadas e olhos verdes brilhando de alegria. Ele fora feliz, então, jovem demais para saber o que o destino estava por vir.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Claudette, por outro lado, parecia uma criança muito mais sombria. Havia uma selvageria em seus olhos que Winter supôs que foi invenção do artista. Ela não acreditava que uma criança era capaz de olhar tão maliciosa.

Inesperadamente, Winter ouviu um barulho vindo da cozinha atrás dela. Soou como caranguejos andando pelo chão de azulejos. Seu coração congelou, um bloco de gelo irregular em seu peito. Lá estava isso de novo! Um som irregular clicando, como um inseto gigante.

Ela deixou o lençol cair sobre a pintura e virou-se lentamente para enfrentar a porta da cozinha. Nefertem miou a seus pés, sua cauda sacudindo de um lado para outro, sentindo o perigo.

Winter tentou convencer-se de que não era nada, que era apenas as tubulações ou algum outro som da casa, como o quadro antigo reagindo à umidade da tempestade. Com Nefertem ao seu lado, Winter se arrastou para a cozinha, esforçando-se para ouvir o clique errático, que caiu em silêncio.

Ela parou do lado de fora, a mão pousando na maçaneta da porta, perguntando-se se ela realmente queria ver o que estava do outro lado.

A mão dela correu para o colar – talvez agora seria um bom momento para ver se o ímã realmente funcionava?

Mas ela decidiu ir contra isso. Winter queria permitir que Blake tivesse tempo o suficiente para encontrar as respostas em Krypthia. Chamá-lo de volta tão cedo iria apenas atrasar sua salvação.

Aos seus pés, Nefertem estava olhando fixamente para a porta, fazendo um barulho estranho rosnando no fundo da sua garganta. Winter orou para que Blake soubesse o que ele estava fazendo, confiando sua segurança no gato. Não havia mais nada para isso. Ela poderia permanecer aqui, correr para outro cômodo, When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

ou enfrentar o que estava mais além.

Winter abriu a porta.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 48 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Os Skivers tinham a encontrado!

OS olhos de Winter se arregalaram com horror a visão deles do lado de fora na chuva. Havia muitos deles! Uma dúzia, pelo menos, pressionados contra as janelas da cozinha, como insetos horríveis atraídos pela luz interior. Quando Winter entrou, seus cruéis rostos brancos estalaram em sua direção, os dentes clicando em uníssonos animados com a proximidade de sua presa.

Winter sentiu a força nas pernas falharem enquanto uma onda de terror incapacitante a invadiu. Ela queria virar e correr, mas não podia se mover, presa pelo olhar fixo dos Skivers – olhos negros

perfurando os seus próprios. Ela podia se ver refletida em seus olhos, sua imagem capturada em um mundo de escuridão infinita.

Uma mancha laranja passou correndo pelos seus pés, Nefertem correu e pulou em cima do balcão da cozinha.O gato malhado grunhiu e cuspiu nos Skivers como se os desafiando a entrar através do vidro.

Winter assistiu com espanto atordoada quando os Skivers recuaram de Nefertem, e se moveram para fora de vista. Estava funcionando! O gato estava realmente assustando essas criaturas!

Uma vez que o último dos Skivers tinha desaparecido, Winter deu alguns passos hesitantes em direção ao balcão e pegou Nefertem agora dócil. O gato estava quente e febril em seus braços, mas por outro lado tinha instantaneamente voltado ao normal uma vez que seus inimigos tinham desaparecidos.

Blake estava certo em não subestimar o malhado, e Winter se sentiu culpada por duvidar dele. Algo sobre o gato assustou como o inferno os monstros, o suficiente para afastá-los.

Agarrando Nefertem ao peito, Winter andou lentamente para fora da cozinha, observando as janelas. Afinal, os Skivers ainda poderiam estar lá fora. Winter conjurou uma perturbadora imagem deles deslizando silenciosamente ao redor da casa como tubarões famintos circulando um bote salva-vidas, e estremeceu.

Empunhando seu guardião peludo como uma arma, Winter passou para o corredor da frente. Não havia nenhum vestígio do som clicando mais, a casa estava em silêncio. Ela podia ouvir o vento assobiando baixinho por entre as árvores, mas fora isso – nada. Cautelosamente, ela fez seu caminho através da parte da frente da casa, pisando suavemente sobre o tapete grosso.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

BANG! BANG! BANG! Winter gritou com algo ou alguém batendo na porta da frente.

Cambaleando para trás, seus olhos se arregalaram de medo quando

a maçaneta começou a sacudir violentamente. Blake estava errado sobre os Skivers.

Eles estavam entrando!

Nefertem parecia tão assustado quanto ela pelo barulho assustador e contorceu-se de sua mão, caindo no chão. A coragem que ele tinha mostrado aparentemente estava gasta.

Winter tentou pegá-lo, mas foi muito lenta e o gato correu até as escadas para o nível proibido. Winter ficou em pânico – Ela prometeu a Blake! – Antes de ir atrás do gato. Seja qual for o perigo espreitando acima não poderia ser tão ruim quanto à ameaça do outro lado da porta.

Chegando ao topo das escadas, Winter se agachou contra o corrimão, ouvidos esforçando para o som da porta da frente sendo aberta. A maçaneta continuou chacoalhando, mas não havia nenhuma indicação de que os Skivers tivessem entrado. Depois de mais alguns segundos de suspense angustiante, o barulho cessou abruptamente.

Ela permaneceu ainda por mais um momento, ouvindo sua própria respiração atormentada, antes de se mover. Parecia que ela estava segura por enquanto. Independentemente, Winter se sentiria muito melhor, logo que ela tivesse Nefertem em seus braços novamente.

Winter se sentia como uma intrusa, mas confortou-se com o pensamento de que, mesmo que Blake descobrisse que ela havia quebrado sua promessa, ele com certeza compreenderia uma vez que ela explicasse a situação. Afinal, Blake foi à pessoa que tinha lhe dado Nefertem como proteção em primeiro lugar; Winter fundamentou de que ele gostaria que ela tomasse todas as medidas necessárias para permanecer com seu guardião.

Ela precisava encontrar uma luz. Estava muito fraca no corredor para ela começar a procurar. Considerando o estado When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

desgastado de seus nervos, a ideia de tropeçar em Nefertem no escuro era profundamente desagradável. O aviso de Blake também estava escondido no fundo de sua mente. Não era seguro para ela aqui. Apesar do beijo de Blake, a Visão não voltou para ela, embora ela poderia ter usado desesperadamente agora. Ou o presente era tão temperamental como ele tinha sugerido, ou sua mente estava muito agitada para convocar a concentração necessária para que ela funcione.

Demorou um pouco, mas Winter finalmente encontrou o interruptor de luz, parcialmente escondido atrás de uma samambaia morta perto do corrimão. Ela sacudiu-o e as lâmpadas verdes estalaram em vida. No entanto, a fiação deve estar falha porque as lâmpadas continuaram a tremer, criando sombras. A luz era apenas o suficiente para poder ver, e Winter começou a se mover através da luz estroboscópica em direção ao corredor.

Ela virou uma esquina e se deparou com uma porta aberta. No limiar doquarto, ela sussurrou,―Nefertem? Você está aí, amiguinho?

Não houve resposta, por isso Winter se aventurou para frente e acendeu o interruptor da luz. Levou apenas um olhar rápido para deduzir que este era o quarto de Blake. Não era a pequena cômoda aberta, nem a cama impecavelmente única, empurrada para o canto. Era a coleção de música de Blake.

Durante seu breve tempo juntos, Blake tinha deixado referências de músicas suficientes para convencer Winter que ele tinha mais do que um interesse passageiro, mas ela nunca esperava encontrar nada parecido como isso. Uma parede inteira havia sido transformada em uma estante contendo uma incrível variedade de LPs, EPs, oito prateleiras com – fitas, cassetes, CDs – e praticamente todos os outros tipos de mídia de música tocáveis de todas as fases da história moderna. Quando ficou sem espaço nas When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

prateleiras, Blake empilhou sua coleção de música à altura da cintura com colunas de álbuns e individuais.

Ao contrário da devoção meticulosa de Winter de alfabetização, não parecia haver qualquer lógica para catalogação de Blake – Brahms estava ao lado de Kings of Leon, que dividia o espaço da prateleira com Queen e assim por diante. Olhando com espanto para os títulos variados, Winter decidiu que Blake explorava e possuía um pedaço de cada gênero, subgênero da música que tinha para oferecer. Era uma coleção impressionante, e se Winter não estivesse se sentindo tão tensa, ela teria tido um momento difícil vasculhando isso. No entanto, ela sabia que não deveria estar aqui. Como não havia nenhum sinal do gato, ela se virou para sair do quarto quando algo chamou sua atenção – alguma coisa prateada, descansando sobre a cômoda.

Deixando sua curiosidade tirar o melhor dela, ela cruzou o quarto de Blake e pegou o objeto prateado para um olhar mais atento. Era uma rara imagem dupla, ordenada com prata e ligeiramente manchada com a idade. Na imagem à esquerda havia uma fotografia em tom sépia de Blake, vestido com o que Winter só podia imaginar ser um terno preto antigo. Isso não era diferente do terno que ele usou no show da noite anterior, e Winter não pôde deixar de sorrir ao pensamento que lhe ocorreu –enquanto os gostos musicais de Blake tinham mudado e evoluído com o passar do tempo, parecia que seu senso de moda não.

A imagem oposta era uma fotografia de uma mulher jovem, com um cabelo preto e características austeramente bonitas. Seu primeiro pensamento foi que a mulher só podia ser Elisabetta, a qualidade da fotografia envelhecida fazendo-a parecer de cabelo vermelho, mas em uma inspeção mais próxima ela percebeu seu erro. A Elisabetta que ela tinha vislumbrado na memória de Blake era leve, possuindo uma feição tímida, enquanto não havia nada de When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

leve ou feminina sobre esta outra mulher. Em vez disso, sua expressão era severa. A mulher na imagem tinha que ser Claudette, a irmã de Blake. ―O que aconteceu com você? ― Winter disse baixinho para a imagem granulada. Enquanto ela olhava para a foto de Claudette, um som de miado baixo de repente veio das profundezas da casa.

Nefertem!

Winter colocou o quadro da imagem cuidadosamente onde ela a encontrou e saiu do quarto.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 49 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Passando para o corredor cintilando, Winter virou uma esquina e viu os gatos. Ela fez uma pausa, a respiração presa na garganta com a visão inquietante. Durante sua primeira visita ao local Velasco ela encontrou quatro gatos – Nefertem e outros três: preto, branco e cinza. Winter só viu Nefertem hoje e não tinha poupado um pensamento para os seus irmãos e irmãs, mas ali estavam eles, juntamente com uma dúzia de outros. Se ela não tivesse sido exposta a uma coleção da mesma forma estranha (grupo) de gatos em seu quintal, a cena teria sido ainda mais perturbadora.

O que eles estavam fazendo todos aglomerados nesta seção da

casa, como se sentados como sentinelas junto à janela do corredor?Winter podia ver uma porta no final do corredor, que parecia ser o foco da atenção dos gatos. Talvez fosse onde Blake mantinha a comida dos gatos? Fazendo piada para si mesma não ajudariao desconforto fechando ao seu redor como um cobertor pesado, frio.

Ela procurou entre a multidão elegante de corpos peludos e malhados, Nefertem enrolado contra a parede oposta, lambendo as patas contente.

Agachando-se, Winter deu um tapinharitmicamente nos seus joelhos para chamar a atenção do gato malhado. ―Nefertem. Venha aqui, garoto! ― Ela disse em voz baixa, sentindo instintivamente que era melhor ficar quieta. O aviso ambíguo de Blake assombrou seus pensamentos - havia perigo aqui!Winter agora acreditava mais do que nunca, ela podia sentir vibrando no ar ao seu redor. Algo estava dormindo e ela não se atrevia a despertar. ―Nefertem! ― Ela chamou o gato novamente, arriscando um tom mais alto. O gato malhado levantou uma pálpebra sonolenta e Winter considerou como tédio. Ele não fez nenhum movimento para chegar a seu lado. O resto dos gatos tinha notado também.

Alguns deles viraram a cabeça em direção a ela, enquanto outros apenas olharam em sua direção antes de continuar com a sua higiene e alongamento.

O gato preto de Blake, o maior do grupo, deslocou de seu lugar à frente da porta e caminhou no meio do corredor em direção a ela.

Lá ele fez uma pausa, miando uma saudação macia ou cautelosa.

Irritada com a relutância do gato malhado e cada vez mais agitada a cada segundo que ela demorava aqui, Winter começou a ir em direçãopelo corredor para os gatos. Era como se ela estivesse em um sonho, sendo atraída inexoravelmente para o fim de um longo When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

corredor onde algo terrível esperava. As luzes piscando ea visão surreal de tantos gatos só aumentaram a irrealidade da cena.

Ocorreu a Winter que o próprio Velascotinha provavelmente perseguido por este corredor antes de assassinar sua esposa, filhos e se enforcar, mas ela conseguiu banir essa ideia sinistra. Winter agora sabia o suficiente sobre os terrores reais que espreitavam ao seu redor para sepreocupar com meros fantasmas.

Passando por cima do gato preto bloqueando seu caminho, ela continuou em direção a Nefertem. O gato se virou para manter o ritmo com ela, seguindo ao seu lado.

Winter chegou à grande janela no final do corredor, onde Nefertem estava nas sombras lançadas pela estrutura. ―Por que você foge de mim? ―Ela perguntou, sentindo os olhos dos outros gatos sobre ela, quando o pegou. O gato ficou um pouco rígido em seus braços, seus músculos tensos. Virando-se para fazer uma retirada precipitada, Winter viu algo curioso.

Havia uma marca pintada na porta ao lado dela. Algum tipo de símbolo.

Parecia uma cobra torcida com três linhas cortadas na diagonal.

Havia também um cheiro –um cheiro horrível que fez seuestômago rolar. Três meses atrás, um rato morreu no espaço entre as paredes do seu quarto e o banheiro.Winter teve que conviver com o mau cheiro por três dias, constantemente pulverizando o ar com ambientador para ocultar o odor nocivo. É isso que esse cheiro à fez lembrar – decadência.

Winter ofegou quando a música começou a tocar no lado de fora da porta.

Nefertem endureceu em seus braços ao som, contorcendo sua cabeça peluda agitadamente. Era a mesma música antiga que ela tinha ouvido tocar a primeira vez que entrou na casa. Havia algo mais abaixo da música – outro ruído. Alguém estava se movendo no When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

quarto além da porta!

Apesar deste desenvolvimento alarmante, Winter estava estranhamente sem medo. Ocorreu-lhe que ela deveria ter medo – que a resposta adequada para esta situação seria para ela pegar Nefertem e correr escadas abaixo. Algo estava mantendo-a aqui.

Era quase como se uma consciência alienígena roubara sua mente, e agora estava influenciando suas ações.

Assim como Winter não sabia por que ela começou a subir as escadas no início da semana, ela estava igualmente perplexa ao ver sua mão se estender em direção à maçaneta. Ela não queria abrir a porta, mas essa sensação poderosa estava a obrigando, no entanto.

Seus dedos tocaram o metal maçante e foi quando ouviu os guinchos atrás dela.

Um segundo depois, algo pulou em suas costas, arranhando-a com suas garras. Ela gritou de dor, sua voz se perdeu no grito furioso de seu atacante. Uma cauda chicoteou sua visão periférica – o gato preto! Ele tinha enlouquecido. Ela deixou cair Nefertem em estado de choque, e girou freneticamente, tentando desalojar a fúria guinchante. No entanto, o gato se recusou a ser sacudido e cavou suas garras mais profundamente. Dor pungente passou por ela quando suas garras perfuraram a carne macia entre as omoplatas.

Finalmente, Winter conseguiu agarrar a nuca do gato e jogá-lo no chão. Instantaneamente, o gato se virou e correu para ela novamente.

Agora, os outros gatos se juntaram a ele, cuspindo e avançando para Winter, reagindo a ela da mesma maneira que Nefertem reagiu aos Skivers, tratandoWinter como se fosse seu inimigo mortal.

Olhando para os seus malévolos olhos amarelos, Winter não tinha dúvida de que os gatos de Blake estavamse preparando para arranhá-la se ela não saísse em breve. Apenas Nefertem ficou para trás, vendo o ataque a partir do canto, aparentemente tão chocado When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

quanto ela estava pela selvageria de seus irmãos. Quando o gato preto se enrolou para saltar de novo para ela, Winter se virou e fugiu para o corredor. Ela podia ouvir atrás dela o preenchimento dos gatos no tapete, iniciando a perseguição.

Quando Winter chegou ao final da escada, ela atingiu o seu pé sobre uma dobra no tapete e caiu esparramada. Ela caiu dolorosamente, deslizando sobre seu estômago. Ela rapidamente se virou para uma posição defensiva, prevendo os gatos descendo sobre ela em uma onda de dentes e garras, mas ficou agradecida ao ver que eles tinham parado. O grupo de gatos estava no topo da escada, evidentemente satisfeitos que ela já não representava uma ameaça.

Mantendo os olhos cautelosamente treinados sobre os gatos, ela lentamente se levantou. Além de estar um pouco machucada e surrada, cairnão tinhaa deixado com qualquer lesão grave. Ela sentiu um gotejamento quente correr-lhe a espinha e passou a mão sentindo provisoriamente a ferida. Seus dedos passaram por um corte longo e irregularentre seus ombros. Apesar de sua agressão, o gato preto só tinha tirado um pouco de sangue e a ferida não parecia profunda. Ela provavelmente develimpá-la para evitar infecção.

Blake deve ter remédio aqui embaixo.

Com certa apreensão, Winter se afastou dos gatos observando e das luzes piscando. Não é de admirar que Blake a divertiu contra ir lá em cima! Ele tinha um exército de gatos loucos rondando o corredor. Os gatos não eram o perigo. Blake tinha medo do que se escondia atrás da estranha porta marcada fosse feri-la. Talvez os gatos só tivessem a atacado para levá-la para longe disso.

Ela estremeceu com a lembrança da consciência alienígena forçando-a a chegar até a porta. O que teria acontecido se ela tivesse aberto e deixado escapar o que se escondia por trás? Se ela pudesse apenas passar as próximas horas esperandopor Blake sem incidentes ou medo, então talvez – apenas talvez! – Ela poderia When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

evitar ter um ataque cardíaco a partir desses episódios prolongados de susto.

Aparentemente, o destino não tinha terminado com ela ainda, pois, quando ela chegou ao final das escadas, Winter viu algo que a encheu de pavor fresco.

A porta da frente estava aberta.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 50 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Winter ficou olhando para a escuridão bocejando além da porta, com o coração batendo. Ela escutou atentamente e não ouviu nada, apenas o relógio antigo tiquetaqueando atrás dela.

Os insetos não clicavam, nenhuma outra evidência de que os Skivers estavam na casa com ela.

Winter desceu a escada e fez uma pausa, mordendo o lábio nervosamente. ―Blake?

Como ela esperava, não houve resposta. Blake tinha Viajado através das sombras da sala de estar, não havia nenhuma razão para

que ele não voltasse assim. Ele certamente não iria rastejar silenciosamente pela porta da frente sem chama-la em primeiro lugar.

Cautelosamente, Winter aproximou-se da porta, pronta para correrna menor indicação de que ela não estava sozinha. Ela parou para ouvir sons de movimento na casa, quaisquer sons em tudo.

Não havia nenhum.

Certamente, se eles tivessem entrado teriam se lançado sobre ela agora. Poderia ser possível que a porta tivesse sido arrombada pelo vento? O vento estava forte esta tarde, ela não descartou essa possibilidade de que a porta se abriu sob suas rajadas.

Segurando essa tênue esperança, Winter cautelosa atravessou o salão. Ela não podia deixar a porta aberta, não sabendo o que se escondia lá fora. Então quando ela estava chegando à maçaneta, um homem entrou na sua visão.

Ela gritou, tropeçando para trás quando ele encheu a porta.

Vestido com um uniforme militar preto, o estranho parecia algum tipo de soldado das Forças Especiais. Cerca de dois metros de altura e solidamente construído, seu rosto era largo e sem corte. Um grande crucifixo de prata ornado pendia alto no seu pescoço.

Combinando com o seu cabelo branco platinado. Seus olhos eram brilhantes como um animal cruel, astuto. Tinha algo em suas mãos, como uma balestra. Ele estava abastecido com o que pareciam pontas de metal compridas. Estranhamente, havia algo vagamente familiar sobre suas características, mas ela estava muito apavorada para quebrar a cabeça nesteponto.

Winter continuou a recuar em direção à sala de estar, apenas para cair contra algo tão sólido e inflexível como uma parede – outro intruso. Havia dois deles na casa! Uma mão pressionou sobre sua boca para impedi-la de gritar, enquanto o outro braço serpenteava sobre sua cintura, segurando-a com firmeza. A mão When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

sobre sua boca cheirava, um pouco incongruente, de manteiga de amendoim. Crucifixo atravessou o patamar para onde ela estava sendo presa. ―Quem é ela? ― Ele perguntou a seu captor com uma expressão confusa no rosto. ―Como eu vou saber, Marcus? ― A pessoa com o aroma de manteiga de amendoim respondeu, revelando o nome do Crucifixo.

Winter podia dizer que o homem que a segurava era muito mais jovem do que Marcus, pela forma como a sua voz falhou um pouco quando ele falou. Manteiga de amendoim não podia ser muito mais velho do que quatorze ou quinze. ―Eu a conheço. ― Uma voz familiar veio da cozinha.

Como ela estava, Winter se virou com seu captor e viu com espanto Sam Bennet caminhando em sua direção. O Sam de Jasmine, que ela tinha visto pela última vez de mãos dadas com a amiga no show.

O sorriso alegre de Sam, seus olhos azuis brilhando e perplexidade leve. Não havia nada daquele Sam aqui. Em vez disso, o seu mais sombrio gêmeo, mais intimidante tinha tomado seu lugar.

ComoMarcus, ele estava vestido em um uniforme preto e havia uma balestra amarrada às costas. ―Ela pertence a ele, ― disse Sam, seus olhos passando rapidamente para Winter. Ele parecia completamente despreocupado e sem surpresa de encontrá-la prisioneira por esses dois homens. ―O que vamos fazer com ela? ― Marcus perguntou a Sam. Embora ele fosse claramente mais velho, a maneira de Marcus falar com ele sugeriu que Sam era o líder.

Com um suspiro, Sam inclinou a cabeça para um lado e examinou Winter como se ela fosse particularmente irritante um problema de matemática. ―Vamos levá-la conosco. Tenho certeza When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

de que o velho quer falar com ela. Primeiro, porém, vamos descobrir o que ela sabe.

Sam inclinou-se para falar com ela, seus olhos tão duro como lascas de gelo. ―Winter, você está sozinha em casa? ― Ela não podia falar com a mão de manteiga de amendoim apertando com firmeza sobre sua boca, mas ela foi capaz de assentir com bastante facilidade.

Sam ficou satisfeito com a resposta. ―Bom. Onde ele está?

Winter fez um esforço para responder, mas não conseguiu. Sam fez uma careta para seu captor. ―Deixe-a falar, Damien.

Manteiga de amendoim – Damien –descobriu sua boca. Winter respirou fundo tremendo, olhando para Sam com olhos arregalados e assustados. ―Eu não sei, Sam. Sam franziu a testa. ―Não tenha medo. Só me diga onde ele está,Winter.

Ainda apavorada, mas firme em seu desejo de proteger Blake a todo custo, ela conseguiu um pequeno, encolher de ombros convincente em resposta. ―Deixe-me tentar, ― disse Marcus atrás de Sam, e o estômago de Winter apertou de medo ao sorriso cruel no seu rosto brutal. ―Não, Marcus, ― Sam misericordiosamente disse, e agarrou o pulso de Winter. ―Vou colocá-la na van. Damien pode usar seus cristais quando chegarmos em casa. Você dois comecem a trabalhar.

Quando Sam girou em torno dela arrastando-a pela porta da frente, Winter finalmente viu Damien. Ele não poderia ter mais do que quinze anos de idade. Havia uma erupção de espinhas em sua testa, e alguns pelos finos acima do lábio, que Winter assumiu como sendo sua tentativa de deixar o bigode crescer. Ao contrário de Sam e Marcus, o cabelo de Damien era longo e gorduroso. Embora mais jovem do que os outros dois, não parecia ter nada de inocente sobre When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

o adolescente. Por trás de seus óculos de lentes grossas, seus olhos a estudaram com uma malevolência perturbadora que a fez seu corpo congelar. ―Espere! ―Ele disse, enquanto Sam a puxava para a porta. ―O que foi?― Sam perguntou.

O olhar de Damien pousou no pescoço de Winter– não, não no pescoço, mas no colar adornando-o. Ele se aproximou e estudou o cristal verde de perto. Depois de alguns segundos de inspeção, ele disse com um traço de admiração, ―Ela está usando um ímã. ―Tem certeza? ― Sam perguntou. ―O que é um ímã? ― Marcus perguntou, franzindo a testa. ―Ela pode chamá-lo com ele, idiota.― Damien respondeu com desdém.

Marcus se irritou de leve e deu um passo para Damien. Sam se colocou entre eles. ―Esfrie ― ele advertiu. Virando-se para Damien, ele ordenou: ―Tire a roupa dela. ―Com prazer, ― disse Damien, olhando para o imã. ―Não me toque! ― Winter gritou, lutando contra o aperto de Sam. ―Eu não quero bater em você, Winter, mas eu vou! ― Sam advertiu, sufocando seus esforços frenéticos. Winter podia dizer pela sua expressão que ele quis dizer isso. Damien conseguiu puxar o colar por cima da cabeça dela, desembaraçando a pedra de seu cabelo, e o escondeu em um dos bolsos do uniforme. Enquanto ela observava o cristal verde desaparecer de vista, Winter sentiu sua esperança desaparecer com ele. O que ela vai fazer agora? Como When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Blake podia salvá-la se ele não sabia onde encontrá-la? ―Vamos. ― Sam arrastou-a através da porta aberta. Uma vez que eles estavam fora, Winter começou a suplicar para ele. Talvez Sam tivesse pena dela agora que ele estava longe dos outros. ―Sam, por que você está fazendo isso? ― Seus olhos correram

em torno de um sinal dos Skivers na escuridão circundante.

Sam ignorou a pergunta dela e puxou-a sobre a grama molhada.

Tinha parado de chover, mas o vento continuava forte, chicoteando o cabelo dela sobre seu rosto. Havia a van preta parada na garagem de Blake –o mesmo veículo que havia levado ela e Blake sobre o penhasco. Sam e os outros pertenciam ao Bane.

Sam puxou Winter para a parte traseira da van, abriu a porta e jogou-a para dentro. A parte de trás da van era mais como uma gaiola, sem janelas e uma barreira de arame separando-a do compartimento da frente. Winter escolheu a partir do piso de aço frio e enfrentou seu sequestrador. ―Por favor, Sam! Você não sabe o que tem aqui fora!

Sam evitou seu olhar choroso e a surpreendeu ao responder com uma nota de arrependimento genuíno. ―Sinto muito. ― Ele bateu a porta, trancando-a na escuridão.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 51 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Winter esperou até as passadas de Samdesaparecer antes de tentar chutar aberta a porta da van. Quando isso falhou, ela tentou erguer para além da barreira da rede para que ela pudesse escapar por entre o banco da frente. Infelizmente, ela não era forte o suficiente, e depois de vários minutos dessa atividade frenética ela caiu no chão, exausta. Mesmo na profundidade do seu desespero, houve algum pequeno consolo que Blake havia escapado esta provação. Winter não sabia como o Bane havia encontrado a casa de Blake, mas estava feliz por ele ter ido antes de Sam e os outros pudessem fazer algo com ele.

A reação de Sam quando ele viu Blake pela primeira vez no clube de surf de repente fez muito mais sentido para ela. Winter pensou que Sam estava com simples ciúmes, agora ela viu como sendo algo muito mais profundo. Ela se perguntou se ele estava ao volante quando a van os jogou sobre o penhasco.

Ela recordou a estória que Sam leu em voz alta na aula de Inglês. Não foi uma obra de ficção, e sim uma alegoria velada da estória do Bane. A estória, o jovem, que Winter adivinhou que Sam o substituiu, expressando remorso com a execução impiedosa das criaturas que ele e sua família caçaram. Houve um desejo definitivo nos caracteres de uma existência mais pacífica. Talvez Sam também tivesse dúvidas sobre o que ele estava fazendo, as dúvidas que Winter podia apelar para o seu lado compassivo.

Um som repentino clicando fora da van afastou todos os pensamentos de Sam. Winter prendeu a respiração, em silêncio, rezando para que seus ouvidos estivessem brincando com ela. Talvez o som fosse algum tipo de alucinação auditiva causada por estresse extremo, e medo?

Mais silenciosamente possível, Winter ficou de joelhos e olhou através da tela de arame na parte da frente do carro. Devido ao ângulo da van, ela não conseguia ver muito através do para-brisas, salvando apenas a floresta fracamente iluminada pelas luzes da casa.

Uma névoa luminosa no chão começou a infiltrar-se no meio do mato, rastejando lentamente para a van.

Não havia sinal dos Skivers. Talvez eles tivessem abandonado o cerco e voltaram para as Terras Mortas. Talvez... Winter ofegou quando uma figura sombria vibrou em sua visão periférica. Quando ela virou a cabeça para segui-lo, a forma preta havia desaparecido.

Sua temível busca a escuridão, ela lentamente se afastou da rede para as profundezas da escuridão da van, com medo de fazer When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

qualquer som desnecessário. Se ela ficasse quieta, talvez os Skivers não soubesse que ela estava na van. Eles poderiam pensar que ela ainda estava na casa. Desesperadamente, Winter agarrou-se a essa noção, respirando pelo nariz, de modo a limitar o som de ar correndo dentro e fora. Segundos agoniantes passaram e ela começou a acreditar que o perigo havia passado.

CLIQUE! CLIQUE! CLIQUE! CLIQUE! Clamando, Winter se jogou para o lado oposto da van. Desta vez, o clique veio do lado de fora da chapa fina ao lado de sua cabeça.

Pânico ameaçou assumir, mas Winter lutou, rangendo os dentes e tentando reunir alguma–nenhuma! – Coragem. Ela não queria morrer. Outra sombra vibrou após o para-brisas. Eles estavam brincando com ela! Ela rastejou para a rede de arame novamente, apavorada com o que ela poderia ver deslizando em sua direção através da neblina.

Nefertem de repente saltou do banco do passageiro da frente da van, fazendo Winter gritar. O gato ficou sobre as patas traseiras, apoiando suas patas contra a rede de arame. Ele miou em saudação, seus olhos amarelos calorosos.

Winter deixou escapar um longo suspiro trêmulo, sentindo alivio inundá-la. ―Você me deu um susto, seu gato bobo! ― Ela passou os dedos através do arame e tentou acariciar as bochechas de Nefertem. O gato roçou-lhe a mão, lambendo seus dedos.

Winter não sabia como o gato malhado a encontrara, mas estava muito grata pela atenção. Ele estava aqui, que era a principal coisa. Enquanto Nefertem permanecesse com Winter, ela sabia que estaria segura. Salva dos Skivers, pelo menos.

A porta da frente da casa bateu, seguido pelo som de passos e vozes. Os palestrantes soavam como Damien e Marcus.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

―Você matou todos eles? ―Sim... O gato preto me levou um tempo. ―O que diabos estava acontecendo naquele quarto? Todas aquelas coisas nas paredes. Eu nunca vi nada como aquilo. ―Vou ver meus livros quando eu chegar em casa. Eu reconheci alguns dos símbolos. Eu acho que era um feitiço de confinamento. ―Por que não há nada dentro do círculo? ―Isso é o que está me incomodando. Por que fazer um feitiço de confinamento com nada para conter?

As portas da frente van foram puxadas aberta. Damien foi o primeiro a pular para trás quando viu Nefertem. O gato saiu da rede e rosnou para ele. ―Woah! Há outro aqui dentro! ―Mate-o, ― disse Marcus casualmente por trás dele.

Enquanto Winter assistia com horror, Damien virou uma balestra de seu ombro e apontou para o gato malhado. ―Não! ― Ela gritou antes que Damien pudesse puxar o gatilho. Sam inclinou-se através da porta do lado do motorista, e olhou para ela com curiosidade através da rede. ―Por favor, Sam – ele é meu gato! Não o matem! ― Era uma mentira, mas uma boa.

Ela tinha começado a sentir como se Nefertem fosse o seu gato.

Sam pareceu pensar por um momento. Seus olhos frios encontraram os de Winter e ela aproveitou a oportunidade para pleitear em silêncio com ele. Não mate o gato! Por favor, Sam! Se ele morrer, eu morro! Winter sentiu um vislumbre de esperança com o que viu refletido no olhar de Sam – um lampejo de compaixão. Ela esperava que ela não tivesse imaginado. Sam se afastou dela e acenou para Damien, que parecia muito ansioso para usar sua arma mortal. ―Dê a ela o gato. ―Mas Sam, Pai nos disse para matar todos os gatos!

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

―Apenas os de Blake. Ela diz que é dela. ―Você acredita nela?

Winter não pensava que Sam acreditava nela. Algo sobre sua angústia tinha apelado para isso – ela podia ver nas emoções conflitantes no rosto dele. ―Dê a ela o gato, ― ele repetiu com firmeza. ―Sam... ― Damien resmungou novamente. ―Você me ouviu, Damien!

Damien olhou para Marcus procurando apoio, mas recebeu apenas um encolher de ombros. Fazendo beicinho, sua expressão o fez parecer ainda mais jovem, Damien destravou e baixou a rede de arame.

Antes que ele pudesse pegar Nefertem, o gato saltou sobre a barreira e para os braços de Winter.

Aninhando o gato, ela ofereceu Sam um sorriso trêmulo. ―Obrigada.

Ele a ignorou e deslizou para trás do volante. Winter suspeitava que ela tivesse esgotado qualquer tratamento preferencial que poderia esperar dele, mas estava grata, no entanto.

Ela duvidava que um dos outros dois teriam lhe mostrado a mesma bondade. Marcus parecia um animal mal-humorado, e Damien uma pequena doninha assustadora. Sam pode não ser o garoto que ela tivesse pensado que ele fosse, mas ele ainda parecia capaz de ter compaixão.

Guardando suas balestras, Damien deslizou para o meio, enquanto Marcus tomou o assento da janela. Havia um cheiro estranho no ar – um aroma químico pungente que ela não conseguiu identificar. Todos eles fediam com isso! Ela ainda estava confusa pensando no cheiro quando Sam ligou o motor, conduzindo com velocidade.

Winter caiu de costas no chão metálico, derrubando Nefertem When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

enquanto ela tentava, em vão, manter o equilíbrio. O gato pousou agilmente, deslizando longe para um lugar seguro. De onde ele estava, assistiu Winter com seus olhos amarelos brilhando fracamente na luz baixa.

Winter lentamente se ajeitou, estremecendo com a dor fresca de suas contusões. Ela foi empurrada para lá e para cá, enquanto a van deixou o terreno acidentado da entrada da garagem de Blake e virou para Holloway Road. Uma vez que a viagem se fixou, Winter se empurrou contra o lado esquerdo do compartimento de trás, puxando os joelhos até o peito. O que vai acontecer com ela?

Quanto tempo ela poderia sobreviver sem Blake para protegê-la?

Ela conjurou uma imagem do rosto de Blake e segurou-a em sua mente como um talismã. Ela esperava que, onde quer que Blake esteja, viria para ela em breve. Winter sabia que o perigo crescia a cada segundo que eles estavam separados.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 52 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Winter não tinha certeza de quanto tempo ela estava na van antes que eles eventualmente pararam, mas ela supôs que cruzaram de um lado da cidade para outro. Durante a viagem, os outros estavam em sua maioria tranquilos, exceto para algumas poucas menções de "o homem velho" e "a criatura" – uma referência a Blake, ela assumiu.

Uma vez que o motor do furgão foi desligado seus sequestradores saíram da van, deixando Winter e Nefertem esperando na parte de trás. Ela podia ouvir seus passos do lado de fora no cascalho, enquanto caminhavam ao redor para abrir as

portas traseiras, e se preparou para a ação. Winter passou a viagem perturbada, pensando que era provavelmente sua única chance de escapar. Ela virou-se em uma posição agachada, pronta para saltar assim que as portas se abrissem. Eles estavam provavelmente esperando que ela estivesse assustada e fraca, ela planejava usar isto para sua vantagem.

As portas foram abertas e Winter lançou-se para fora – direto para os braços de Marcus.

— Woah! Você não me disse que ela era um lutadora, Sammy, — Marcus disse, rindo quando ele agarrou os pulsos de Winter para impedi-la de bater nele.

Sam assistiu o esforço de Winter nos abraços de Marcus com uma expressão de tédio no rosto. — Pare de brincar e a leve para dentro. Alguém pode vê-la.

— Deixe-me ir! — Winter conseguiu gritar antes de Marcus cobrir sua boca com a mão e arrastou-a para a casa. Mesmo em seu estado de pânico, ela se surpreendeu ao ver que a casa de Sam era um bangalô de um andar modesto, indistinguível das casas ao lado.

A montanha Coruja erguia-se contra o céu noturno à distância, e pela sua localização, ela foi capaz de adivinhar de onde eles estavam na cidade. Em algum lugar perto Unidade Handley, não muito longe da escola. Depois de ter imaginado que seria levada a algum barraco isolado em algum lugar além da periferia, ela se sentiu um pouco confortada pelos ambientes familiares. Pelo menos se ela conseguisse escapar haveria ajuda de alguns dos vizinhos. Se ela conseguisse escapar...

Winter tentou se esquivar em torno do aperto de Marcus para ver se Nefertem tinha sido levado para fora da van também.

Não havia sinal do gato. Ela rezou silenciosamente que ele estivesse em algum lugar próximo, caso contrário ela teria muito mais a temer do que esses bandidos.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Marcus a levou sobre o limiar para a casa, com Damien e Sam seguindo de perto. Uma vez que eles estavam todos dentro, Sam trancou a porta da frente.

— Leve-a para trás. Ele está esperando por ela.

Winter não gostou do som disso. Exatamente quem estava esperando por ela lá atrás? Ela continuou a chutar e lutar contra Marcus, mas seu aperto era muito forte.

Enquanto ela foi arrastada pelo corredor central, Winter vislumbrou vários quartos, o primeiro continha três colchões infláveis alinhados lado a lado, enquanto o outro estava lotado com equipamentos de ginástica – pesos, halteres, um banco plano. O último quarto apresentava um conteúdo muito mais intrigante: Winter viu algum tipo de bancada com uma coleção de cristais e estranhamente peças em forma de metal espalhados por ele. Havia um computador portátil aberto correndo algum tipo de simulação gráfica que não fazia sentido para ela.

Os restantes quartos eram praticamente estéreis exceto pelas caixas de papelões estranhas ou caixotes. Toda a casa tinha uma sensação fria e impessoal – não havia fotos de família, revistas ou livros espalhados, nem mesmo uma televisão. Era mais como um quartel militar improvisado do que qualquer outra coisa.

Marcus empurrou Winter através de uma porta e, finalmente, soltou-a. Olhando para ele com raiva, ela se virou, sua respiração presa quando viu o velho sentado na mesa olhando para ela. Ele tinha cabelos longos, desordenadamente brancos, penteado para trás e um rosto magro que não teria parecido fora do lugar em uma máscara de Halloween. Havia algo assustadoramente cadavérico sobre ele, como se ele estivesse lentamente devorando por dentro pedaços de carnes. Sua pele era esticada muito fina em seus ossos, que Winter ficou surpresa ao ver seu crânio quando ele sorriu.

— E o que nós temos aqui? — Ele perguntou em tom When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

enganadoramente amigável quando Marcus a empurrou para ele.

Um ligeiro sotaque europeu afiado.

— Seu nome é Winter. Ela é a pessoa que lhe falei antes, — Sam respondeu.

O velho olhou com simpatia para Winter. — Eu imagino que você deve estar bastante assustada, jovem. Por favor, permita-me apresentar-me.

Winter olhou para ele. — Eu sei quem você é.

Uma das sobrancelhas grisalhas do homem se contraiu em curiosidade. — É mesmo?

— Você é o Bane.

Marcus riu atrás dela, enquanto o velho suspirou um pouco triste. — Nós não temos nos chamamos por esse nome há muitos anos, — ele respondeu.

Winter ignorou o divertido olhar nos olhos do homem velho assustador e rapidamente examinou o quarto procurando por qualquer coisa que pudesse ajudar a sua fuga. É evidente que ela não podia correr de volta do jeito que ela veio – não com Marcus e Sam bloqueando o percurso. No entanto, a janela de guilhotina na parte de trás do quarto era grande o suficiente para ela subir. Ela só precisava passar o velho para fazer isso.

— Meu nome é Caleb Bennet, — ele continuou, sua maneira excessivamente amigável deixando Winter ainda mais desconfiada dele. — Os meninos que estão atrás de vocês são meus filhos. Damien é o mais jovem, Marcus é o único com a cor do cabelo questionável, e eu acredito que você já conheça Sam. Irmãos! Maravilhada Winter tinha percebido algumas semelhanças físicas entre os três. Caleb fez um gesto para a cadeira mais próxima a ela. — Agora que fomos apresentados corretamente, você pode sentar?

Winter hesitou, precisando de alguma tranquilidade. — Meu When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

gato...

Caleb franziu a testa e olhou para Sam. — Gato?

Sam começou a esclarecer a pergunta de Winter, quando Damien entrou no quarto, segurando Nefertem ao peito.

Winter chegou até a mesa assustada. — Por favor, dê ele a mim.

Damien olhou para Caleb por permissão. Ele parecia estar deliberando sobre se devia ou não dar-lhe Nefertem quando Sam falou. — É seu gato. Nós matamos os outros.

Caleb deu de ombros e Damien entregou o gato malhado para Winter. Acariciando-o, Winter relutantemente se sentou em frente a Caleb. Ele sorriu mais uma vez, a expressão do seu rosto, dura e cruel.

— Crescendo em Praga, eu tive um cachorro quando eu era criança – um cão de caça chamado Lucius. Gatos, no entanto, sempre me incomodaram. Eles veem muito. Quando Satanás andou na Terra é dito que ele veio na forma de um gato. Você sabia?

Winter negou com a cabeça.

Caleb apareceu decepcionado por ela não conhecer esse fato.

— Qual é o nome do seu gato?

— Nefertem.

— Com um nome de um deus egípcio da sorte. Espero que ele trouxe um pouco.

— Não até agora, — Winter respondeu honestamente e o velho riu.

— Agora, posso lhe oferecer uma bebida? Chá? Café?

Ela não tinha tempo para esta charada educada. Essas pessoas tinham a sequestrado!

— O que você quer de mim?

Caleb pareceu surpreso com a pergunta. — Para protegê-la, é claro.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

— Proteger-me de quê?

— Você está em grande perigo, Winter, — respondeu ele, olhando-a gravemente.

Winter retornou seu olhar. — Sem argumentos aqui. Mas eu estaria em menor perigo se você não tivesse me sequestrado.

— Você acha que está segura com a criatura?

Winter ficou rígida na referência a Blake. Ela não fez nada para esconder o desgosto em sua voz ao responder: — Eu sei que estou segura com Blake. Ele nunca me jogou em um precipício!

Caleb abaixou a cabeça como se envergonhado pela acusação de Winter. — Eu devo pedir desculpas por essa ação em particular. Nós estávamos apenas tentando colocá-la como isca para a criatura usar um pouco do seu poder, revelando-se.

— Você é louco! — Winter respondeu, chocada que eles podiam matá-la tão facilmente.

— Cale-se, Winter! Você não tem ideia... — Sam começou, mas foi silenciado por um dedo levantado de Caleb.

— O que foi que ele disse sobre nós? — Caleb perguntou-lhe com um sorriso irônico, como se entregando a fantasia de uma criança pequena.

— Ele me disse a forma como vocês têm os caçado ao longo dos anos como se ele fosse uma espécie de monstro.

Os olhos de Caleb ampliaram-se ligeiramente e ele se inclinou em sua cadeira. — Como se ele fosse um monstro? Minha querida, o que você acha que – Blake – é?

Winter respondeu-lhe facilmente. — O homem que salvou a minha vida.

— Homem? — Caleb zombou. — Minha querida, nós dois sabemos que Blake não é um homem. Ele é um Demori. Assim como seu pai. Uma criatura que drena a força vital de pobres garotas ignorantes como você.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

— Blake nunca me machucaria, — disse Winter em tom desafiador.

— É claro que ele faria. — O tom de Caleb suavizou enquanto ele considerava a simpatia de Winter. — Tenho certeza de que Blake não quer machucá-la, mas, mais cedo ou mais tarde, ele não será capaz de resistir. É sua natureza matar o que ele ama.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 53 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Caleb fez uma pausa, observando o efeito de suas palavras em Winter. Após um momento de silêncio deste estudo, ele continuou falando, sua voz assumindo um tom acadêmico. — Mais de um século atrás, o meu antepassado Victor Bonnaire foi casado com uma linda jovem chamada Madeleine. Ele era um dramaturgo e ela uma atriz em seu repertório. Uma noite Madeleine foi levada de Victor por uma criatura – um Demori, que se chamava Ariman. A encarnação do mal.

Winter parou. — Eu já ouvi essa estória antes.

Caleb olhou-a com interesse. — Ele contou a nossa estória?

Winter assentiu. — Victor era um louco. Madeleine não foi tomada – ela foi embora de boa vontade.

Os olhos de Caleb se estreitaram e sua voz caiu para um nível perigoso. — Victor Bonnaire era um grande homem. Ele foi escolhido por Deus para livrar o mundo desse mal. Estamos orgulhosos de pertencer a sua linha. — Ele olhou para seus três filhos.

Damien e Marcus concordaram com a cabeça. Pode ter sido apenas um desejo de Winter – a memória de sua estória afetando seu julgamento – mas Sam parecia não ter a convicção de seus irmãos. Aquele olhar perturbador de fanatismo que ela podia ver nos olhos dos outros estava faltando no de Sam. O ódio de Victor deveria ser forte para sobreviver através dos anos e ser transmitido a seus descendentes. Caleb falou sobre o mal e monstros, mas Winter não podia deixar de ver a sua hipocrisia. Um pai preparando seus filhos para ser assassinos de nascimento; lavagem cerebral para continuar sua causa violenta, roubando-lhes toda a inocência ou a possibilidade de uma vida normal – isso era monstruoso. Isto era o mal.

— Mesmo se você estiver certo, — Winter respondeu, — mesmo se Ariman era um monstro – por que punir Blake?

Caleb retomou sua expressão sincera de indulgência paterna.

— Seu Blake é um pouco do monstro que seu pai era.

Winter já estava balançando a cabeça. — Blake não é um assassino. Você está errado.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

— Estou? — Caleb respondeu. Ele acenou com a cabeça para o filho do meio. — Traga o computador, Sam. Sam saiu do quarto e seus passos recuaram para dentro da casa. Caleb pressionou seus dedos esqueléticos juntos, enquanto ele a olhava pensativo. — Você realmente acredita que Blake cuidará

de você, não é?

Winter não respondeu. Ela não precisava. Este homem não sabia nada sobre seu relacionamento com Blake. Ele era um tolo assassino velho. Sam voltou depois de alguns minutos com um laptop, que entregou a Caleb. Caleb virou a tela e digitou alguns comandos no teclado. Quando ele ficou satisfeito com o que foi apresentado, ele deslizou o laptop por cima da mesa para Winter.

— Talvez você encontre interesse nisso.

Suspeitando que Caleb estaria tentando algum tipo de truque, Winter puxou o computador mais próximo. O que poderia estar aqui que iria mudar o jeito que ela sentia por Blake? Lá tinha uma pasta listando uma dúzia de nomes de meninas"em ordem alfabética.‖ — O que é...

— Abra um dos arquivos. Qualquer um deles, — Caleb a incentivou.

Usando o touchpad, Winter clicou em 'Carol Oates'. Depois de alguns segundos carregando, uma imagem encheu a tela – um recorte de jornal, digitalizado a partir das Crônicas de Kentworth. O artigo era datado de 5 de junho de 1999, e estava com qualidade o suficiente que Winter não teve problema para ler o texto. Seus olhos percorreram o artigo, alargando-se em choque enquanto as implicações ficaram claras.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

―Policiais descobriram o corpo de Carol Oates de dezessete anos no barranco atrás da Colina Noxton pouco antes do amanhecer desta manhã. A adolescente estava desaparecida há dois dias, depois de não conseguir voltar para casa na noite da última sexta-feira. O que era particularmente perturbador sobre a morte da senhorita Oates foi o estado em que o corpo foi encontrado. O

Detetive Mereson do Departamento do Condado de Kentworth disse: — Ela parecia muito mais velha do que seus dezessete anos, acrescentando que, se não fosse pelos registros dentários, indicando que era a senhorita Oates, poderia muito bem assumir como um corpo de uma mulher de sessenta anos.

Embora a causa exata da morte ainda é desconhecida, o detetive Mereson está confiante de que uma autópsia completa vai revelar como e quando a menina foi assassinada. Enquanto isso, as autoridades procuram interrogar um jovem visto com a senhorita Oates fora do cinema em George Street. Acredita-se ser um dos últimos a vê-la viva.‖

Winter olhou para Caleb e exigiu, — O que isto prova? Você não sabia que era Blake...

Caleb apontou para o laptop. — Vá até o fim.

Uma sensação de desconforto cresceu em Winter, ela fez o que ele disse e viu uma granulada, fotografia em preto e branco de Carol Oates. Ao lado de sua fotografia um esboço policial finalmente detalhado. Winter leu a legenda abaixo do desenho com uma sensação de mal estar crescendo dentro dela.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

―O esboço acima foi feito com a ajuda dos amigos de Carol Oates, que viram os dois juntos na noite em que ela morreu.

Qualquer informação sobre seu paradeiro, por favor, direcione para o xerife do departamento do Município de Kentworth, que pode ser contatado...‖

Era Blake – o artista tinha capturado suas características

perfeitamente. Winter empurrou o laptop longe dela, torcendo-se para enfrentar Caleb.

— Há outros artigos, outras meninas.

Winter balançou a cabeça, sentindo-se como se tivesse sido chutada no estômago. — Eu não quero ver mais nada.

Ela ficou chocada ao perceber que havia uma pequena parte dela que não estava completamente certa da inocência de Blake.

Ele havia admitido fortemente que a fome o agarrava depois de usar seus poderes – era impensável que ele cedeu para esta fome de novo, depois de Elisabetta?

Caleb fechou o laptop e entregou-o de volta para o Sam. — Não é culpa sua, Winter. Este diabo tem uma maneira sobre as mulheres jovens esquecerem de si mesmas. Seu pai tinha isso também.

Winter olhou para suas mãos, como se na esperança de encontrar alguma resposta que fizesse sentido sobre tudo isso. Ela não podia – não – aceitar que Blake era o responsável pela as mortes de todas aquelas meninas. Se ele era um assassino, por que ele não tirou proveito de todas as vezes que eles estiveram juntos sozinhos? Tinha que haver outra explicação.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 54 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Caleb se levantou e andou em torno da mesa onde Winter estava sentada. Ele abaixou-se ao seu nível e colocou a mão suavemente em seu ombro. — Nós precisamos de você para nos ajudar, Winter.

Precisamos de você para nos ajudar a impedi-lo.

Sua garganta estava muito seca. Quando falou, sua voz falhou. — Como?

Damien se moveu para onde eles estavam sentados e deixou cair o colar de Blake sobre a mesa na frente Winter. O cristal verde – o ímã – brilhou na luz.

Caleb olhou para Damien. — Será que funciona?

Damien assentiu. — Pesquisei, mantendo uma pequena parte para o localizador que queremos segui-lo. É definitivamente de Krypthia.

As orelhas de Winter aguçaram com a menção de Krypthia.

Ela não tinha certeza do grau de conhecimento do Bane, e ficou surpresa que eles sabiam o nome da cidade das Terras Mortas. Ela estava mais interessada na alusão de Damien para o localizador e como funcionava para rastrear Blake. Enquanto ela estava pensando sobre isso, Caleb voltou sua atenção para ela.

— Use-o para chamá-lo, Winter.

— Eu não sei como, — respondeu ela, baixando o olhar para que ele não pudesse ver a decepção em seus olhos.

— Ela está mentindo! Deixe-me fazer usá-lo, — Marcus retrucou.

Winter engoliu em seco com medo. Ela não tinha dúvidas que Marcus gostaria de machucá-la.

— Fique quieto! — Caleb agarrou.

Seu filho mais velho fechou a boca, ruborizando furiosamente.

Suspirando de frustração, Caleb disse: — Sinto muito, Winter. Marcus tem um temperamento explosivo. Eu entendo que você ainda esteja confusa. Talvez possamos ajudá-la com isso? — Ele se levantou e se afastou para o fundo do quarto. — Damien...

Ela é toda sua."

— Sério? — Damien disse, a emoção em seu tom assustou Winter mais do que as ameaças de violência física de Marcus.

Caleb assentiu encorajando.

— Excelente! — Damien levantou-se e saiu do quarto.

Winter não sabia o que ele ia fazer com ela, mas ela teve a sensação de que ia ser ruim. Ela virou-se implorando para Sam. — Sam, por favor, não os deixe fazer isso!

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Sam olhou para além dela, como se envergonhado de encontrar o seu olhar. Ela poderia dizer pelo pesar em sua voz que ele não queria que isso acontecesse mais do que ela, mas era impotente para deter isso. — Você deveria ter nos ajudado.

Damien voltou com uma pequena caixa de madeira. Ele sentou-se à sua frente na mesa e levantou a tampa. Winter não podia ver o que estava lá dentro, mas não tinha certeza que ela queria saber.

Sua imaginação explodiu com uma dúzia de possibilidades de que tipo de dispositivo de tortura Damien poderia estar prestes a usar nela – todos eles assustadores. Para sua surpresa, em vez de parafusos ou agulhas, Damien retirou um medalhão circular, o seu centro adornado com um rubi minúsculos.

— Abaixe as luzes, — Damien disse enquanto fechava a caixa e segurava o medalhão nas mãos.

Sam diminuiu as luzes até que mal podia ver o outro. A única fonte de luz estava no meio do corredor. Winter se preparou para o que estava para acontecer.

— Eu estava animado para ver o seu colar, Winter, porque eu só vi em livros. Eu não tinha certeza de que existia, — Damien disse, sorrindo para ela de uma forma que provavelmente poderia ser amigável, mas só saiu como inquietante. — Eu sou um colecionador de pedras raras, você vê. Nem diamantes e safiras – mas outras pedras muito mais preciosas. Muito mais poderosas.

— Isso aqui é um artefato muito especial. É chamado de Pedra das Bruxas, — continuou ele, deixando o medalhão balançar no ar como um pêndulo. — Não parece ser nada extraordinário sobre isso, mas se você olhar de perto o rubi, você pode ver uma luz escondida em suas profundezas. Você pode ver isso, Winter?

Sem saber porquê, Winter sentiu-se compelida a estudar o rubi no centro do medalhão enquanto balançava de um lado para o When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

outro. Ela se inclinou para frente, fascinada pela maneira como os aspectos do centro refletiam seu rosto... Havia uma luz! Ela podia ver piscando nas profundezas do rubi; pequenas rajadas de relâmpago vermelho correndo para cima e para baixo no interior do prisma minúsculo.

— Você pode ver isso? Você pode ver a luz? — Damien perguntou a ela em tons suaves e calmantes.

— Sim, — Winter ouviu-se responder. O rubi parecia preencher seu campo inteiro de visão, bloqueando Damien, Caleb, o quarto – tudo. Havia apenas a luz vermelha e a voz de Damien, obrigando-a a obedecer.

— Você vai nos ajudar, Winter.

— Sim, — ela ouviu uma voz dizer novamente distante.

Soou como ela, mas ela não poderia ter sido, porque ela não sentia sua boca de mover.

— Eu quero que você pegue o ímã que Blake lhe deu. Eu quero que você pegue-o e use para – oh meu Deus... Eu não acredito!

— O que foi? — Caleb perguntou, movendo-se para o seu filho. A conversa parecia distante, como se estivessem em outro quarto.

— Ela é uma Chave.

— Tem certeza?

— Eu acho que sim. Se tudo no Alistaire Grimoire for verdadeiro, essa menina é uma Chave.

Vagamente ciente da excitação na voz de Caleb, Winter não conseguia reunir alguma curiosidade sobre o que eles estavam falando. Nada parecia mais importante do que a Pedra das Bruxas, balançando de um lado a outro nas mãos de Damien.

— Não admira que ele a queria. Estou surpreso que a menina ainda esteja viva. Isso muda tudo. O que você acha...

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

A campainha tocou bem alto pela casa.

— Droga! — Damien amaldiçoou, baixando o medalhão.

Uma vez que foi oculto aos olhos de Winter, ela começou a voltar a si. Ela sentou-se piscando na escuridão, chocada ao ver que ela estava segurando o colar de Blake em suas mãos. Ela não se lembrava de pegá-lo.

A campainha tocou novamente.

Irritado, Caleb franziu a testa para seus três filhos. — Será que algum de vocês estão esperando hóspedes a esta hora da noite?

Os três se entreolharam e encolheram os ombros em confusão. Fechando os olhos, Caleb beliscou a ponte do nariz com força, como se estivesse tentando aliviar a pressão de uma dor de cabeça. — Marcus, vá ver quem é.

Depois que Marcus desapareceu no corredor Caleb foi até Damien e apontou para Winter. — Ela ainda está sob?

Damien balançou a cabeça. — Não, eu vou ter que começar de novo.

Caleb olhou severamente para Winter. — Por favor, não chame a atenção para si mesma. Eu odiaria ter que amordaçá-la.

Ainda confusa com o que tinha acontecido, Winter pegou Nefertem da mesa. O que havia de errado com ela? Por que ela se sentia assim... violada? Winter olhou profundamente nos olhos do gato malhado, tentando encontrar algo lá que fizesse sentido a situação.

Ela ouviu a porta da frente abrir no outro extremo da casa, seguido por murmúrios de vozes. Um minuto depois, Marcus voltou.

— É a garota de Sam, — ele disse a seu pai, olhando para Sam com estupefação.

As bochechas de Sam avermelharam.

— Sinto muito, Pai, eu não...

Caleb parou. — Só se livre dela.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Sam empurrou seus irmãos e saiu para o corredor.

Depois que ele se foi, Caleb esfregou de volta seu pescoço, distraído.

— Peço desculpas pela distração. Nós vamos continuar assim que puder.

— Continuar? O que você estava fazendo comigo? — Winter perguntou, tentando limpar a cabeça do nevoeiro estranho.

Caleb colocou a mão orgulhosa no ombro de Damien. — Apenas dando um empurrão amigável na direção certa. Acho que você quer nos ajudar, mas você está segurando-se de alguma forma iludida pela lealdade com Blake. Damien pode ser o mais novo de meus filhos, mas ele também é o mais inteligente. Ele treinou certas técnicas para nos ajudar a obter as informações que precisamos.

— Você está tentando me hipnotizar?

Damien sorriu. — É um pouco mais complexo do que isso.

Isto não é um mero truque. É uma combinação de ciência e misticismo. A Pedra das Bruxas não funciona com qualquer pessoa.

Há segredo... — Ele parou, distraído pela comoção vindo da frente da casa. As vozes se levantaram, cada vez mais aquecidas.

— O que está acontecendo lá fora? — Caleb perguntou, exasperado.

Apesar de Winter não conseguir distinguir as palavras, ela reconheceu a voz do intruso, aguda – especificamente no tom de indignação.

Era Jasmine!

Pelo som de fúria explodindo com Sam, Winter sabia que era sobre o ocorrido no início do dia.

Caleb expirou cansado e se voltou para Marcus e Damien.

— Ajudem o seu irmão se livrar dela.

Ainda sorrindo, os dois obedientemente saíram para o corredor, fechando a porta atrás deles.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Winter duvidava que os três irmãos Bennet eram suficiente para dissuadir Jasmine, uma vez que ela estava neste estado.

Caleb deu de ombros para Winter. — Eu às vezes esqueço que os meus meninos têm vidas fora da causa. Às vezes eu desejo que não. — Ele inclinou a cabeça para um lado, estudando Winter com fascínio divertido. — Você tem alguma ideia de como você é especial, Winter?

Winter engoliu em seco, desconfortável com o escrutínio. — Eu não sou especial.

— Ah, mas você é, — Caleb respondeu, sorrindo como um gato que tinha acabado de pegar um rato. — Estamos à procura de alguém como você durante muito tempo. Décadas, na verdade.

Você tem um dom, Winter. Um presente que podemos usar.

Winter não estava mais ouvindo. Algo sobre os olhos de Caleb tinha lhe chamado a atenção. O sorriso sumiu do rosto dele, substituído por uma carranca. — Por você está olhando para mim desse jeito?

De volta à casa, a Visão tinha falhado com ela quando ela entrou no corredor no andar de cima. Agora, ela voltou espontaneamente. Olhando para o rosto magro de Caleb ela podia ver o Occuluma, rastros minúsculos de chama azul girando nas suas pupilas.

— Você vai morrer em breve, — ela disse calmamente, hipnotizada pelo fogo azul desvanecendo.

A carranca de Caleb se aprofundou. Sua voz tomou uma qualidade perigosa. — O que você está falando?

Percebendo que ela falou demais, Winter olhou para longe da luz em seus olhos. — Nada. Sinto muito.

Caleb circulou a mesa, aproximando-se dela. — Diga-me, Winter. O que você viu?

— Eu não vi nada, — Winter respondeu, assustada com o When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

olhar no rosto de Caleb. Seja qual for o pretexto de bondade ou civilidade que ele ostentou, caiu revelando a violência por baixo.

Ele agarrou Winter pelos ombros, gritando: — O que você viu?

Nefertem de repente pulou da mesa – uma bola laranja guinchante de garras e dentes – para atacar Caleb. O velho cambaleou para trás, caindo no chão enquanto o gato arranhava seu rosto. Winter não perdeu tempo. Ela pulou de sua cadeira, pegou o colar de Blake da mesa e correu para a janela. Já podia ouvir os passos vindo pelo corredor em direção ao quarto.

Ela não tinha muito tempo.

Apoiando as palmas das mãos contra a moldura da janela, ela tentou empurrá-la aberta, mas ela não se moveu. Os passos se aproximavam no corredor. Winter podia ouvir Damien e Marcus provocando Sam sobre Jasmine – eles estariam aqui a qualquer segundo!

Freneticamente ela tentou ver porque a janela não se moveu; a janela ainda estava fechada. Na pressa, ela tinha esquecido de destravá-la.

Caleb soltou um gemido, enquanto ele continuava a lutando no chão com Nefertem. — Garotos, — ele conseguiu gritar.

Winter ouviu os passos dos irmãos acelerar e tentou novamente empurrar a janela aberta. Ela voou com facilidade surpreendente, sacudindo sua moldura. A maçaneta da porta girou por trás dela enquanto ela mergulhou através da janela para o quintal escuro.

Winter atingiu o chão dolorosamente, mas estava muito assustada para se importar. Ela ficou de pé e correu em torno do lado da casa. Felizmente não havia restrição no portão lateral e correu para frente da casa, saltando sobre o canteiro e correndo em direção ao carro estacionado na calçada.

Jasmine estava sentada atrás do volante do seu Mini Cooper, When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

parecendo chateada. Sua boca se abriu de espanto quando viu Winter correndo para ela.

— Winter?

— Ligue o carro! — Winter gritou, correndo para o lado do passageiro. Atrás dela, a porta da frente da casa se abriu e Sam e seus dois irmãos explodiram. Winter abriu a porta e deslizou para o banco. — Vai, Jas! — Winter pediu, fechando as portas.

Jasmine ainda parecia muito confusa, mas o pânico na voz de Winter, para não mencionar os homens furiosos caindo sobre elas, assustou-a como o inferno. Ela bateu o pé no acelerador assim que viu Sam atingir uma distância pequena do carro. Winter virou-se para ver os irmãos correndo atrás delas. Seus olhos saltaram para um borrão laranja ao longo do lado da estrada – Nefertem! O gato ultrapassou o trio, lutando para fechar o espaço cada vez maior entre si e o do carro.

— Pare!

— O quê?

— Pare o carro, Jas! Franzindo a testa, Jasmine pisou no freio, permitindo Nefertem chegar perto do carro. O gato saltou através da porta aberta de Winter. No entanto, a breve pausa permitiu que os três irmãos chegassem perto delas. Sam estava quase alcançando o Mini Cooper, sua expressão de trovão.

— Podemos ir agora? — Jasmine perguntou, olhando para o espelho retrovisor nervosamente.

— Sim! Elas saíram em disparada, deixando Sam em pé no brilho desaparecendo das luzes traseiras.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 55 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Uma vez que elas estavam longe o suficiente, Winter permitiu-se respirar novamente. Adrenalina zumbia através de seu corpo como a eletricidade, fazendo-a se sentir eufórica e vagamente doente. Ela escapou! Isso aconteceu tão rápido que ela ainda não podia acreditar que tinha conseguido a façanha. É claro que ela não tinha feito isso sozinha. Nefertem pulou para o seu colo e ela sorriu grata para o gato.

— Obrigada!

— Não tem problema, — Jasmine respondeu, pensando que a gratidão de Winter foi dirigida a ela. Sua voz soava um pouco em

pânico. — Me diga o que diabos está acontecendo, Win? O que você estava fazendo na casa de Sam? Por que eles nos perseguiram?

Que porra de gato é esse? — Ela tomou uma respiração profunda.

— Se você não consegue ver, eu estou um pouco assustada aqui!

— Seu nome é Nefertem, — Winter coçou Nefertem atrás das orelhas. — E ele é meu gato.

— Desde quando?

— Desde agora. — O gato piscou e bocejou, enrolando-se em seu colo.

— Eu estou esperando, Winnie.

Ela podia ver pelo brilho do painel de controle que Jasmine estava realmente chateada com a situação. No entanto, Winter continuava tendo dificuldade de envolver sua própria cabeça em torno de tudo.

— Eu não posso te dizer, Jas, — respondeu ela, hesitante, sabendo que Jasmine não contentaria ficar sem respostas.

Com certeza, Jasmine balançou a cabeça, definindo sua mandíbula em determinação. — Uh-uh, você tem que me dizer alguma coisa! Você não pode esperar que eu simplesmente lide com isso.

Winter suspirou e passou a mão pelo cabelo, distraidamente observando como gorduroso estava. Ela precisava de um banho desesperadamente.

— Você se lembra do verão passado, quando você teve aquele susto? Quando você pensou que estava grávida?

— Claro! Não é exatamente algo que você esquece tão depressa.

— Por uma semana, você ficou deprimida, não falou com ninguém – apenas comigo. Quando eu lhe perguntei qual era o problema, você me disse algumas coisas que eram muito grandes e assustadoras para falar. Você se lembra?

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

A boca de Jasmine caiu aberta. — Oh meu Deus, Winter, você está grávida?

Apesar da frustração de Winter, ela não podia deixar de sorrir para dedução torta de Jasmine. — Não! Nada disso. — Ela olhou para Jasmine tão fervorosamente quanto podia. — Essa coisa toda é muito grande para mim discutir com você agora. Eu prometo que quando eu puder. Tudo bem?

Jasmine mordeu o lábio pensativamente, considerando a sua proposta. — Você vai me dizer quando você pode?

Winter assentiu. — Sim. — Ok, então. Mas eu não estou registrando nada e isso é muito confuso!

— Concordo. — Winter caiu de volta para o banco. Ela se sentia exausta pelos acontecimentos das últimas horas. Nefertem tinha adormecido no seu colo. Foi uma noite dura para ambos e ela suspeitou que ainda tinha um longo caminho a percorrer antes de chegarem ao fim.

— Posso fazer mais uma pergunta?

Winter olhou para Jasmine, uma sobrancelha levantada.

— Talvez.

— Onde vamos agora?

No calor do momento Winter não tinha conseguido definir um destino para Jasmine. Ela estava muito agitada e agradecida por ter escapado com sucesso e não tinha sequer pensado que elas precisavam fugir para algum lugar.

— O lugar Velasco, — respondeu ela calmamente.

— Por que estamos indo para lá?

— Para encontrar Blake. — Winter não sabia o que ela ia fazer uma vez que ela chegasse a casa de Blake. As misteriosas 'proteções' que ele tinha colocado não impediu o Bane de entrar, mas elas pareciam funcionar contra os Skivers, então parecia o lugar When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

mais seguro para ela agora. Uma vez lá dentro, ela poderia usar o ímã para chamar Blake e avisá-lo sobre o Bane. Elas não podiam razoavelmente ficar na casa por muito tempo, agora que Caleb e seus filhos sabiam onde Blake morava. Winter só esperava que Blake tivesse algum tipo de plano de contingência.

Enquanto elas seguiram em silêncio, a mente de Winter virou inexoravelmente de volta ao artigo do jornal sobre Carol Oates, bem como a lista de outras meninas no computador de Caleb.

Ela tentou limpar sua cabeça do que tinha aprendido, mas a informação tinha criado raízes como um tumor maligno, brincando com suas inseguranças e medos.

Sem mais, Caleb colocou dúvidas sobre sua convicção da bondade essencial de Blak. Ela odiava Caleb por isso, e sentiu um pouco de satisfação sombria com a lembrança de Nefertem atacando o rosto do velho cruel.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 56 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Blake estava no centro do tribunal, olhando para os rostos pálidos, solenes da convocação Malfaerie. Havia treze deles, sentados em grupos através de cinco plataformas curvadas, que lentamente giravam em torno de Blake como os planetas orbitam o sol. Cada plataforma pairava fora do chão a uma altura diferente, dependendo da classificação dos Malfaeries sentado sobre ela. A plataforma mais alta flutuava várias centenas de metros do chão e estava ocupada por apenas um – o Magister. Era para este ser que Blake olhava agora, estudando o branco, rosto como a de uma pista para os pensamentos da criatura.

Sem ser grande orador, Blake havia declarado o caso pela alma de Winter tão claramente quanto possível, e sem emoção, pois sabia que não iria servir a sua causa. A empatia estava além dos Malfaeries. Em vez disso, ele fez o que Ariman lhe ensinou a fazer – oferece-lhes uma barganha.

Enquanto ele estava esperando ansiosamente o veredicto, Blake olhou para além das linhas dos Malfaeries para as nuvens luminosas correndo todo o céu noturno. Ele sentiu por um anseio familiar e aventurar-se no céu escuro, para exaltar os presentes que ele suprimia. Ele resistiu. Seria perigoso gastar muita energia enquanto ele estivesse aqui. Como era, a viagem de volta para o reino mortal iria minar sua força e ele não ousava arriscar invocar a fome. Especialmente porque ele esperava ver Winter novamente em breve.

Parte de sua barganha incluía a disposição que ele estaria autorizado a dizer adeus a ela.

Contemplando a perspectiva de ser separado de Winter para sempre, Blake sentiu uma pontada de dor em seu coração. Ele consolou-se com o conhecimento de que ela iria viver uma vida longa e saudável, morrer de morte natural, e um dia seus espíritos se reuniriam novamente. Apesar de não saber o que havia do outro lado da morte, Blake escolheu esta possibilidade. Isso aqueceu seu coração, tornando a dor mais fácil de suportar.

Uma coluna de luz esmeralda brotava de um poço não muito longe. Pelo seu brilho mudando, Blake poderia dizer algumas das expressões dos juízes mais claramente. Ele leu, curiosidade, espanto e desprezo gravado em suas características desumanamente – nenhuma delas acalmaram sua ansiedade. O Magister sozinho permaneceu impassível, seus olhos fechados.

Depois do que pareceu uma quantidade interminável de tempo, ele ouviu o frio Magister, sussurrando em sua cabeça. A When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

palavra falada não era a língua das Terras Mortas. O cérebro de Blake processou a língua estrangeira, tornando-a em algo que ele pudesse entender.

―Nós contemplado a sua proposta, Demori, e chegamos a uma decisão que esperamos lhe agradar.‖ O Magister abriu os olhos, um sorriso cruel se espalhando em seus lábios negros. Blake esperou impacientemente que ele continuasse. O silêncio se estendeu até Blake nervosamente falar com o Magister, aguardo a sua decisão, ―Magister.‖ Ainda assim, o Magister não respondeu. Como um Deus Escuro, ele deslizou ao redor da circunferência do tribunal, estudando Blake com estupefação arrepiante. ―Por que você não me responde?‖Blake exigiu.

Agora, o outro Malfaerie sorriu, seus olhos brilhando com malícia. Ele percebeu que estava tendo o prazer sádico em sua agitação.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

―Por favor sua decisão!‖ Finalmente, o Magister entregou o veredicto. A barganha de Blake foi considerada e encontrada falha. Em vez disso, ele foi presenteado com uma alternativa. Quando a voz do Magister ecoou em sua mente, Blake entendeu o que tinha o divertido tanto.

―Bem? O que você diz, Demori? Você aceita as condições?‖ Ele baixou o olhar das plataformas movediças, e respirou fundo o ar de Krypthian. Sua magia não podia fazer nada para aliviar o tormento que ele sofreu.

―Sim.‖

Marselha Fevereiro de 1896 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Um espesso nevoeiro amarelo rolava lentamente em cima da água enquanto Madeleine estava na proa do Demeter. Logo, o nevoeiro a cobriu completamente, mas por agora a sua visão estava clara. É claro que não havia nada para ver, apenas sombras e navios parados, mas Madeleine continuou observando independentemente. Ariman deudinheiro suficiente ao capitão para garantir que eles embarcassem em uma hora da noite, quando não haveria ninguém para testemunhar as suas passagens. Ainda assim,

deu a ela a tranquilidade para assistir. Nos últimos dezoito anos, procurando pelos seus inimigos tinha se tornado quase tão automático quanto respirar.

Seu olhar momentaneamente derivou para além da doca para o horizonte brilhando de Marselha quando as tábuas rangeram atrás dela, anunciando a aproximação de alguém. Ela endureceu, depois relaxou quando braços fortes familiares cercaram sua cintura. Se ela se virasse agora ela iria ver Ariman, inalterado desde o primeiro momento em que se conheceram no labirinto de Pigalle. Ainda jovem, ainda bonita – ao contrário de si mesma. O tempo não tinha a esquecido como ela o tinha, e os anos tinham começado a escrever a sua passagem em sua pele – uma linha aqui, um vinco lá. Às vezes dói em Madeleine só de olhar para ele, sua beleza juvenil um lembrete de sua própria mortalidade. Logo as pessoas a confundiriam com sua mãe e não sua amante. Seu dom da juventude eterna era amaldiçoado por Madeleine.

— Venha comigo ao convés inferior. O vento está frio, meu amor, — ele sussurrou. Madeleine estremeceu de prazer quando ele a beijou suavemente no rosto. Levava apenas uma palavra suave ou uma carícia dele, e ela esquecia suas inseguranças. O jeito que ela olhava jamais importava para Ariman. Ele a via, via seu espírito, e confessou muitas vezes quando eles estavam deitados na escuridão que a sua beleza o fez dele um escravo.

— Daqui a pouco, querido. — Ela respondeu, acariciando sua nuca enquanto ela inclinou o rosto para sorrir para ele. Mas seu sorriso não o convenceu, porque os olhos de Ariman se estreitaram, primeiro em suspeita, e então, preocupação.

— Não há nenhuma maneira de que ele pudesse ter nos seguido aqui, — Ariman tranquilizou-a, olhando em seus olhos.

Uma vez que ele tinha a capacidade de acalmar seus medos com um When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

olhar, mas a familiaridade tinha feito imune a seus encantos. — As crianças precisam de você. Elas estão bastante nervosas sem você as observando de pé a noite toda.

— Eles não são mais crianças, — Madeleine respondeu, mas relutante permitiu que Arimana a levasse embora. Era verdade que Claudette e Blake tinham quase dezoito anos de idade suficiente para não precisar de sua mãe. Especialmente Claudette. Sempre a criança mais forte e voluntariosa, ela não precisou muito de Madeleine quando ela era mais jovem, e muito menos agora.

Desde o dia dos lobos, Madeleine tinha visto Claudette de perto, estudando a filha por mais evidências da selvageria assustadora. Quando Claudette se transformou em uma jovem mulher, ela viu isso mudar e se esconder atrás de seus olhos como uma víbora nas sombras. Ultimamente, Claudette desapareceu na noite em que ela pensou que sua mãe estivesse dormindo. Era frio para Madeleine contemplar as atividades espetaculares da filha durante estas jornadas clandestinas.

No fundo, ela estava com medo de Claudette. A menina era tão diferente de Blake como um leão era para um cordeiro. Ela não compartilhava nenhuma gentileza de seu irmão gêmeo e sensibilidade. O legado Demori não sentou facilmente em seus ombros, como fez com ela. Isto a atormentava, de fato, desde aquela noite trágica, há dois anos quando ele tomou conhecimento do mesmo. Blake anunciou que ele tinha resolvido viver uma vida mortal, embora Madeleine estivesse preocupada de que sua natureza mais escura não permaneceria adormecida para sempre. Mais cedo ou mais tarde, a fome iria crescer e ele seria forçado a se alimentar.

Ela só esperava que Blake tivesse a força para lembrar a si mesmo como ela sempre o fazia, lembrar que ele era um homem em primeiro lugar, e segundo um Demori.

Eles estavam prestes a descer a escadaria do convés quando When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Madeleine sentiu Ariman tenso. Ela fez uma pausa, um pedaço frio de medo correndo por ela. Ela ouviu o som sobre o suave bater das ondas do porto e, em seguida, o barulho que havia alertado Ariman – cavalos e o chocalho de carruagens à distância. A cadência do Bane.

Ariman agarrou-a com força pelos ombros. — Vá para nossos quartos e tranque a porta. Eu vou dizer o capitão para levantar âncora.

— O que você vai fazer então?

— Pará-los de qualquer maneira antes que cheguem a bordo.

— Victor vai matar você! — Madeleine agarrou sua camisa com força, recusando-se deixa-lo ir. — Fique comigo!

— Ele vai tentar, — Ariman disse com um sorriso. Havia selvageria em seus olhos, a selvageria que ele passou para sua filha.

— Eu vou com você, então. Eu posso ajudar!

Os homens estavam gritando no convés acima deles. Ela podia ver a silhueta da tripulação do navio correndo em meio à neblina, quando eles foram tomados pela ação. Uma arma foi disparada, e o fedor acre de pólvora poluiu o ar.

— As crianças, — ele recordou calmamente. Madeleine ainda se agarrava a ele, e Ariman balançou a cabeça em frustração suave.

Rapidamente, ele ergueu o ímã de seu pescoço e baixou-o para o peito de Madeleine. O fragmento de esmeralda brilhou contra a sua pele com a sua própria luz estranha.

— Vou voltar assim que eu puder. Mas se eu estiver atrasado e o navio zarpa, use a pedra para me chamar, como eu mostrei. — Ele se inclinou e beijou-a profundamente na boca.

Ela o agarrou, resistindo a seus esforços, Ariman a afastou suavemente.

— Eu vou te encontrar, Madeleine. Eu sempre vou te encontrar. — Antes que ela pudesse protestar, ele se virou e correu When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

para dentro da neblina.

Madeleine relutantemente foi abaixo do convés. Houve mais tiros enquanto ela corria ao longo do corredor de sua cabine. Uma vez lá dentro, ela trancou a porta e olhou para seus filhos.

Blake estava olhando para ela por uma explicação, o rosto pálido de medo. Não havia terror nos olhos de Claudette, em vez disso, brilhavam com a mesma emoção fria que tinha apresentado contra os lobos.

— O que é, mãe? — Blake perguntou ansiosamente. Ele se tornara quase o espelho da imagem do seu pai. Apenas os cachos grossos negros de seu cabelo eram diferentes dos retos de Ariman, e os seus olhos, enquanto verde como todo o Demori, eram abertos e inocentes, desprovidos das faíscas maliciosas do seu pai.

— Não há nada a temer. Estamos erguendo vela, — Madeleine respondeu, sem saber o que dizer.

— Onde está papai? — Claudette perguntou, embora não houvesse preocupação real em sua voz.

— Falando com o capitão.

O chão debaixo deles balançou quando o navio puxou contra suas amarras. O capitão deve ter levantado âncora e desenrolou as velas. Havia tiros mais acima, seguido pelo som de metal colidindo.

— O Bane, — Claudette disse, seus olhos brilhando perigosamente. — Eu deveria ir e ajudar. Blake, nós deveríamos...

— Sente-se, Claudette! — Madeleine disse, com muito mais raiva do que ela pretendia.

Claudette olhou para ela. — Mas eu posso ajudar!

— Nós vamos esperar aqui até seu pai voltar. — A agitação no convés acima deles aumentou. Um homem gritou quando uma torrente de tiros foi disparada.

— Mãe? — O olhar de Blake disparou preocupado para o teto.

— Nós vamos ficar seguros, — Madeleine disse, puxando-o When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

perto, mas mesmo quando as palavras saíram de sua boca os sons da batalha ficaram mais alto. Havia pegadas agora, descendo pelo corredor.

— Deixe-me parar! — Claudette implorou.

Madeleine balançou a cabeça com firmeza. Ela não se atreveu a falar por medo da voz trêmula. Ele encontrou-os! Depois de todo esse tempo, Victor tinha finalmente os encontrado!

Um punho bateu na porta.

— Mãe, você está aí?

Ela ofegou em choque. Não era Victor – mas a voz compartilhada no tom cruel de seu pai. Era Antoine, o filho que ela passara as últimas duas décadas tentando recuperar. Ele já nãopertencia a ela. Victor esculpiu-o em sua própria imagem distorcida.

— Abra a porta, mãe. Você não tem nada a temer de mim.

Madeleine colocou o dedo aos lábios como um aviso para tanto Claudette e Blake. Não fazer um som!

Ela ouviu uma maldição de Antoine e grunhiu para alguém, — Tragao machado.

Procurando por uma arma que ela pudesse usar para protegêlos, Madeleine andou pelo quarto. Não havia nada além da sua bagagem e alguns panos rasgados pendurados nas vigas. Blake caminhou até o centro do quarto e confessou miseravelmente um pedido tácito.

— Eu não posso fazer isso, mãe. Eu não posso...

Madeleine foi até ele e segurou seu rosto com as mãos. — Shh... Eu não estou pedindo para você. — E ela não estava. Embora Blake possuísse os dons de seu pai, ele não tinha a experiência de usá-los. Seria perigoso não só para eles, mas para si mesmo invocar esses poderes agora.

— Mas eles estão vindo! O que vamos... — Ele foi When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

interrompido por uma pancada ensurdecedora. A porta de seu quarto estremeceu sob o golpe de um machado. Houve um momento de silêncio quebrado por outro baque chocante, e uma lâmina de machado estilhaçou através da porta. Uma alegria horrível de triunfo ecoou no corredor.

Claudette atravessou para o lado de Madeleine. — Por favor, eu estou pronta.

— Não, é muito perigoso!

Claudette balançou a cabeça e sorriu cruelmente. — Só para eles.

Havia uma ansiedade em seus olhos, uma fome que momentaneamente atordoou Madeleine – era isso realmente sua filha? E então o machado atravessou novamente, rasgando a madeira como a garra de um animal.

Madeleine olhou para sua filha e algo sobre sua expressão aterrorizada deu a Claudette toda a permissão que precisava agir.

Agarrando o braço de sua filha, Madeleine implorou: — Não Antoine.

Claudette concordou relutantemente, em seguida, deu um passo para trás. A atmosfera na sala ficou pesada, e houve um ruído fraco como a chama a de uma lareira, subindo lentamente. Luz verde começou a brilhar em torno de Claudette, correndo para cima e para baixo de seu corpo como água. Houve um trovão ensurdecedor e sua filha se foi, deixando Blake e Madeleine sozinhos.

Após um momento de silêncio tenso gritos iniciaram além no corredor. O Bane tinha finalmente encontrado o monstro que estivera caçando.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 57 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Elas passavam rapidamente pelo centro da cidade, Jasmine ficou surpreendentemente fiel à sua palavra e não pressionou Winter pela sua fuga misteriosa de casa de Sam. Jasmine tinha personalidade, Winter sabia o quão difícil deve ser para ela, por isso era ainda mais grata por sua paciência.

Enquanto Nefertem roncava suavemente no seu colo, a mente de Winter zumbia com dezenas de medos e preocupações, cada um competindo por sua atenção.

Elas se aproximaram do final da Holloway Road e ela começou a sentir alguma pequena esperança de que logo ela se encontraria

com Blake. Ela estaria segura. Juntos, eles trabalhariam uma maneira de iludir o Bane, e anular a ameaça dos Skivers. Então ela viu o brilho enfumaçado alaranjado à distância, e sentiu sua esperança escorrer. Em algum lugar nos bosques ao redor da Holloway Road fogo estava queimando.

Winter se lembrou do cheiro químico estranho que tinha picado suas narinas, quando Sam e os irmãos voltaram para a van no início da noite. Era gasolina! Se ela não tivesse estado tão chateada, ela reconheceria o cheiro e adivinharia o que era.

— Dirija mais rápido, Jas! Jasmine viu o brilho por si mesma. — Não se preocupe, estamos quase lá.

O sinal da rua para Holloway Road surgiu na escuridão e Jasmine acelerou, os pneus do carro derrapando no cascalho. Elas aceleraram na estrada em direção à luz cintilante, Winter freneticamente rezando para que suas suspeitas estivessem erradas.

O ar se tornou mais espesso de fumaça mais à frente da Holloway Road. Os faróis do carro de Jasmine refletindo as partículas de cinza, pegando rajadas de cinzas e cinzas.

Na opinião de Winter, a velha casa à frente apenas continha tanto significado na estória da cidade como o farol do Pico de Whistler, ou Pilgrim‘s Lament – ainda mais para as crianças da cidade. Durante décadas, tinha sido uma fonte de superstição, um lugar para falar em voz baixa, um destino para fãs de Halloween que procuravam uma emoção ilícita. E nas últimas horas havia sido tanto um santuário e um aposento de horrores para Winter.

Agora o lugar Velasco não existia mais.

Como se diminuindo no pé da calçada, a casa estava em chamas, sua casca enegrecida pouco visível através do inferno.

Além da silhueta dos troncos das árvores, Winter podia ver um carro de bombeiros solitário. Um punhado de bombeiros tentando When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

desesperadamente controlar as chamas, mas, mesmo a esta distância, Winter podia ver que seus esforços eram inúteis.

Jasmine parou o carro, e elas assistiram em choque como a estrutura queimava.

Plumas de fumaça subiam diante das entranhas da casa, desaparecendo na névoa vermelha. Filetes de fogo arremessando para fora da janela e da porta, lambendo o ar, cuspindo brasas.

Logo toda a propriedade de Blake seria cinzas. Por alguma razão Winter conjurou uma imagem da pintura de Blake em sua mente, sendo lentamente consumida pelas chamas, a pintura borbulhando, a ondulação de lona, encolhendo em si própria, o quadro escurecendo, tornando-se o carvão vegetal.

Jasmine virou-se para Winter, com o rosto pálido. — Blake não estava lá, estava?

Winter começou a sacudir a cabeça antes de perceber que ela não tinha nenhuma maneira de saber se Blake havia voltado ou não, enquanto ela estava com o Bane. Ele poderia estar lá agora, queimando vivo! Ela retirou o ímã de seu pescoço e segurou com força.

Era hora de testar o seu poder.

— Blake, — ela chamou baixinho, apertando os olhos fechados.

— O que você está fazendo?

— Shh... — Winter calou Jasmine, e repetiu o nome de Blake.

Depois de alguns segundos tensos, ela abriu os olhos e olhou através das janelas do carro por qualquer sinal de que isso tivesse funcionado. Tudo o que ela podia ver era um pouco de brasas flutuando passando pelo para-brisa como vaga-lumes.

— Não funcionou, — disse Winter, impotente. O que ela vai fazer agora?

Jasmine gritou quando alguém bateu na janela do passageiro.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Coração na boca, Winter virou e sentiu alívio inundando através dela.

Era Blake! Seu lindo Blake ainda estava vivo!

Ela arrastou-se para fora do carro e jogou os braços ao redor dele.

— Blake! Eu estava tão preocupada! — Escondendo o rosto em seu peito, a fotografia em preto e branco granulada de Carol Oates brilhou em sua mente. Winter baniu facilmente. Pressionada contra Blake como estava, sentindo seu calor, era impossível acreditar que ele era um monstro.

Blake acariciou a parte de trás de sua cabeça. — Eu estou bem, — disse ele calmo, seu tom reconfortante. — O que aconteceu com você?

Winter levantou a cabeça e olhou para ele, piscando as lágrimas. — Sequestraram-me, o Bane. Nós temos que ir, eles podem voltar aqui!

Blake franziu a testa, mas ele não pareceu tão surpreso com a informação que ela tinha lhe dado. Ele suspirou, seu olhar passando por ela para a casa em chamas. Depois de silenciosa contemplação de um momento, ele embalou o rosto de Winter delicadamente em suas mãos.

— Tudo vai ficar bem. Eu... — Ele foi distraído por um grito assustador ecoando nas matas próximas. Poderia ter ser um louco ou algum pássaro noturno. Fazendo careta, a atenção de Blake deslocou para as madeiras esfumaçadas.

— O que é isso? — Ela pensou ter visto uma sombra fugaz entre as árvores, mas não sabia se era apenas seus olhos brincando com ela. — Os Skivers?

— Não. Outra coisa, — disse Blake, e o pavor que ela ouviu em sua voz ainda não fez nada para seus medos. Ele pegou firme Winter pelos ombros. — Você tem que ficar longe daqui, Winter. Agora.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

— Mas, onde eu estarei segura? Os Skivers ainda estão caçando...

— Eu cuidei disso. — Seu rosto apertado, como se tentasse esconder alguma emoção mais profunda em seu rosto.

— Você cuidou? — Winter não conseguia acreditar. Ela tinha tudo, mas convenceu-se de que ela estava condenada a ser tomada pelas criaturas.

— Sim. Você precisa voltar para a igreja na montanha. Voltar para onde seu caminho deveria ter terminado. — Ele acrescentou, um pouco hesitante, — Então isso vai acabar.

— Eu não entendo.

Blake exalou em frustração. — Você vai. Vá para a montanha.

Tem que ser hoje à noite, caso contrário, eles não honrarão o acordo. Eu te encontro lá. — Que acordo? Oque ele estava falando?

— Blake...

— Por favor, sem perguntas, Winter. Não há tempo. Apenas vá. — Blake inclinou-se diante dela e abriu a porta do carro. Ela relutantemente voltou para dentro. Nunca parecia ter tempo suficiente para ele explicar alguma situação para ela. Nefertem estava sentado no colo de Jasmine, ambos olhando para ela com olhos brilhantes de curiosidade.

— Está tudo bem? — Jasmine perguntou.Winter realmente não sabia como responder.

Ela foi até a janela. — Você vai estar lá? Na igreja?

— Eu estarei lá. — Blake conseguiu esboçar um sorriso pouco convincente antes de virar e caminhar em direção à floresta.

Ainda sentindo confusa e assustada, Winter viu sua figura desaparecer entre as árvores, em seguida, virou-se para Jasmine.

— Sim, sim, eu o ouvi. — Jasmine já tinha começado a ligaro motor. — A igreja na montanha. Eu acho que seria demais esperar por uma resposta,por que estamos indo para lá?

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Winter admitiu.— Eu realmente não me conheço, Jas. — Jasmine virou o carro e arrancou para Holloway Road, deixando o lugar Velasco fumegante para trás delas.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 58 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Enquanto dirigiam para a montanha, Winter verificou mais uma vez que elas não estavam sendo seguidas. Não havia nenhum sinal da van do Bane atrás delas, apenas um trecho vazio da estrada recuando para a noite.

— Por que você continua fazendo isso? — Jasmine perguntou, observando Winter inquieta. — Há algo que eu preciso saber?

— Tudo está bem, — Winter respondeu, e esperava que não fosse uma mentira. É claro que não havia nenhuma maneira que o Bane pudesse suspeitar que elas estivessem indo para Pilgrim‘s Lament. Ela não tinha conhecimento até que Blake lhe deu a

direção. Ainda assim, sua mente voltou inquieta para a conversa que ela tinha testemunhado entre Damien e Caleb. Eles tinham dito algo como um "localizador", que era a respeito do imã pendurado no seu pescoço. Seus dedos foram para o fragmento de cristal, nervosamente rolando para frente e para trás, sentindo o seu calor peculiar. Deliberando sobre se devia ou não simplesmente jogá-lo para fora da janela – uma opção terrível, porque ela jogaria fora um presente de Blake? Winter viu a montanha aparecendo à distância, uma sombra contra a escuridão da noite. Logo elas estariam pegando a estrada para o seu pico, em breve ela estaria com Blake e certamente mais perto de colocar toda esta situação para trás.

Ela olhou para Jasmine curvada no volante, o rosto definido em uma expressão determinada. Se perguntando como louco tudo isso deve parecer para a amiga, Winter não podia deixar de amá-la um pouco.

— Obrigada, Jas. Se não fosse por você...

— Você estaria ferrada. Eu sei. Assim, desde que, eventualmente, você vai me dizer o que se passou esta noite. Porque eu tenho que lhe dizer, Win, eu estou prestes a mastigar meu braço com curiosidade.

— Eu vou dizer a você quando puder. Eu prometo. — Quando este pesadelo acabar, Winter olhou para frente, pensando em conseguir falar com Jasmine sobre todas as coisas incríveis que tinham acontecido com ela. Que poderia ajudá-la a aceitar o que ela tinha aprendido de Blake sobre o mundo invisível, que ficava pouco além da percepção normal. Caso contrário, Winter estando preocupada, passaria o resto de sua vida como um caso perdido, vendo Occuluma e Skivers em todos os lugares que ela olhasse.

— Você tem certeza que não estamos sendo seguidas? — Jasmine, de repente perguntou apreensiva.

Winter girou a cabeça e viu dois faróis brilhando na distância.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

As luzes estavam longe demais para distinguir se era um carro ou uma van.

— Provavelmente não é nada, — Winter disse hesitante.

— Eu espero que sim, porque quando começamos a subir a montanha, você sabe, é uma estrada de mão única. Se eles estiverem nos seguindo, não teremos para onde ir. Posso continuar?

— Jasmine acenou para a estrada à frente no sinal apontando para a Estrada Arquimedes.

Winter estava muito nervosa para responder de imediato. Se fosse o Bane atrás delas, ela não deveria levá-los a Blake.

— Win? — Sim, — Winter soltou, esperando que fosse a decisão certa.

Jasmine virou o carro e começaram a enrolar seu caminho até a Montanha. Segundos se passaram e a vista através da janela do carro trás ficou clara. Winter soltou um suspiro de alívio. Ninguém estava seguindo-as. Mesmo assim, ela não podia deixar de sentir uma sensação de que algo estava por vir. Alguma coisa estava vindo para ela.

Winter olhou pela janela, tentando acalmar sua agitação, e viu os matos sombrios piscar. Quanto mais alto elas subiam, Winter mais claramente podia ver as luzes de Hagan Buff, o brilho através das árvores como um pequeno tapete de estrelas. Em algum lugar, lá, Lucy estava terminando o jantar, e procurando nos canais da TV por um de seus excruciante programas de realidade. Ela estava grata pela ignorância de sua irmã. Se Lucy tivesse a menor noção do calvário dela, provavelmente Lucy teria um ataque. Nefertem de repente ficou tenso no seu colo. Um rosnado baixo emitido a partir do fundo da garganta dele.

— O que está acontecendo com ele? — Jasmine perguntou, olhando para o gato pelo canto do olho.

— Não sei. Talvez... — A voz de Winter se perdeu no rugido When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

surpreendente de um motor por trás delas. Faróis brilhantes inundaram o interior do Mini Cooper, crescendo mais brilhante quando a van bateu na traseira delas. Guinchando em choque, Nefertem saiu voando de suas mãos para a cavidade escura por baixo do painel de instrumentos. O volante saltou sob as mãos de Jasmine e ela perdeu o controle do carro, enviando-as ao longo da sarjeta e para a floresta. Saltando ao longo do terreno irregular, elas deram uma pequena aceleração, e o Cooper lançou para o ar.

Presa neste momento de animação suspensa, Winter viu Jasmine segurando o volante, com a boca aberta em estado de choque, e depois de atingir o chão novamente em um íngreme ângulo, foram jogadas para trás e para frente em seus assentos como bonecas de pano. O carro lavrou pelo mato, esmagando alguns dos troncos de árvores e pequenos arbustos, antes de parar estranhamente.

Winter balançou a cabeça, tentando limpar a imprecisão de sua visão. Ela sentiu como se tivesse sido jogada em uma máquina de lavar e secar. Vapor branco grosso subia das laterais da capota do carro amassado e havia um som irregular em algum lugar no motor.

O para-brisa estava completamente esmagado. Não havia nenhum sinal de Nefertem a seus pés ou em qualquer outro lugar. Olhando para Jasmine, ela notou com preocupação que a cabeça de sua amiga estava pendurada inerte até o peito. Pelo pálido brilho da luz interior, ela podia ver um filete de sangue escorrendo pela têmpora de Jasmine.

Winter desfez seu cinto de segurança e sacudiu Jasmine suavemente.

— Jas! Jas, acorde! — Jasmine não respondeu, mas o seu peito continuava subindo e descendo regularmente, dando a Winter a esperança de que ela estava apenas inconsciente e não gravemente ferida.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Winter abriu a porta e saiu cambaleando do carro. Na distância ela podia ouvir vozes masculinas. Embora elas ainda estavam longe, Winter reconheceu uma das vozes como pertencendo a Damien.

Era o Bane! As luzes do carro que tinha visto na estrada atrás delas deveria ter pertencido a van preta. O Bane deve ter desligado os faróis e se aproximou delas sob a cobertura da escuridão. Winter rapidamente circulou para o lado de Jasmine e abriu a porta. Ela sacudiu cautelosamente ombros de Jasmine. — Jas! Nós temos que ir! Por favor, acorde!

Jasmine gemeu baixinho, mas seus olhos permaneceram firmemente fechados.

— Eu acho que vi a van!

Winter virou sua cabeça para onde ela tinha ouvido as vozes gritando. Ela podia ver arcos de balestras por entre as árvores não muito longe, e ouviu as folhas sendo amassadas sob os pés. O Bane estava vindo!

— Jas! — Winter disse com mais urgência, sem ter utilidade.

Até mesmo se os olhos de Jasmine se abrissem sua amiga não estaria em condições de fazer uma fuga rápida. O som de corpos quebrando através do mato próximo fez Winter forçar a tomar uma decisão difícil. Blake disse enfaticamente que ela precisava chegar à igreja, ou arriscar sua salvação. Se ela ficasse aqui mais um momento ela colocaria em risco essa chance, e nesse processo de risco não só a vida dela, mas a de Blake também. Ela tinha que ir.

— Sinto muito, Jas! — Winter disse miseravelmente e correu para a floresta. Sentindo-se como uma covarde, Winter se empurrou pelo mato grosso, longe do Mini acidentado. O que ela estava fazendo? Como ela poderia deixar Jasmine para trás? Especialmente depois de tudo o que ela tinha feito por ela esta noite. Isso era o pior tipo de traição. Winter começou a voltar – talvez ainda houvesse tempo para alcançar Jasmine antes do Bane?

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Os gritos repentinos excitados de Damien e Marcus à medida que tropeçavam no local do acidente parou Winter em suas trilhas.

Era tarde demais. Cabisbaixa, ela se retirou do barulho, tentando consolar-se com o conhecimento de que Caleb não tinha a motivação para machucar Jasmine. O Bane poderia ser fanático, mas eles não eram sádicos. Certamente eles não prejudicariam uma menina ferida. Em breve Winter se reencontraria com Blake, os dois iriam voltar e resgatá-la. Ela continuou segurando este pensamento como um talismã, afastando a culpa que ameaçava a engolir.

O som de vozes enfraquecidas enquanto ela se aproximava da estrada, tornando-se perdida no mais profundo silêncio da floresta.

Se Caleb e seus filhos estivessem seguindo Winter, eles estavam fazendo isso tão silenciosamente como gatos selvagens perseguindo sua presa pela vegetação rasteira. A imagem feita fez Winter se arrepiar e ela acelerou o passo.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 59 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Winter marchou até a montanha, certificando-se de que ela estivesse fora de vista. Ela foi para o bosque ao lado da estrada –era tudo muito fácil de imaginar o Bane cambaleando em torno do canto em sua infernal van preta, pegando-a, como um coelho assustado. Ocasionalmente, as nuvens se abriram, permitindo que alguns raios do luar se infiltrassem, embora geralmente Winter estava sendo forçada a navegar na escuridão. Os olhos dela encontravam formas alarmantes na escuridão. Uma ou duas vezes ela se convenceu de que viu uma sombra alta negra entre as árvores à sua frente. É claro que era apenas sua imaginação.

Tinha que ser.

Winter chegou ao Centro do Património mais rápido do que ela esperava, e logo se viu perambulando pelo caminho para a igreja. Os bosques agitaram quando um vento forte começou a soprar do sul.

O vento pegou Winter, levando consigo o cheiro do oceano, e algo mais... Algo elétrico. Outra tempestade, talvez, ganhando força.

Winter podia ouvir as folhas sussurrando no vento, o som entrando na sua mente como imagens de cobras deslizando pelo mato.

Winter congelou ao som de um ramo estalando em algum lugar atrás das árvores à sua esquerda. É apenas um animal, ela disse em

tons totalmente caminhando.

convincentes.

Nada

a

temer.

Continue

Ela continuou ao longo do caminho, seus ouvidos esforçando para quaisquer outros sons que poderiam sugerir que ela não estava sozinha. O Bane a tinha encontrado uma vez, era perfeitamente possível que a encontrariam novamente. Sua única esperança era que eles não soubessem a localização da igreja.

Winter sentiu outra pontada de culpa quando seus pensamentos preocupados voltaram para Jasmine, quanto mais cedo ela chegar a Blake, mais cedo ela poderia ajudá-la. Blake seria capaz de resgatar Jasmine muito mais habilmente do que ela. Afinal, ele era um Demori, capaz de piscar dentro e fora de existência à vontade. Ele podia simplesmente com um soco, pegar Jas e deixá-la em algum lugar seguro.

Seu pensamento pulou para Nefertem. Ela se afundou ainda mais sobre o destino do gato. Embora ela não tivesse visto seu corpo deitado em qualquer lugar ao redor do local do acidente, era improvável que ele houvesse sobrevivido. Tanto Jasmine e Winter estavam usando o cinto de segurança que tinha as impedido de voar através do para-brisa. O gato não tinha essa proteção. Nefertem era seu guardião e seu amigo, e agora ele se foi.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Sua auto piedade foi interrompida por uma nuvem que passou através da lua, mergulhando a floresta em uma repleta escuridão.

Winter parou quando pensamentos frenéticos explodiram em sua mente – e se ela se perdesse aqui em cima, tropeçando pela floresta?

Havia mortos em todos os lugares – ela poderia,quebrar a perna, quebrar seu pescoço! Ninguém saberia. Ninguém viria.

Uma luz suave da lua, gradualmente reapareceu pelo caminho quando a nuvem se moveu. Winter respirou fundo, tentando acalmar as batidas do seu coração.

Pânico não iria levá-la a lugar nenhum. Ela precisava ser corajosa por Blake e Jasmine. Olhando em volta, ela reconheceu esta seção da floresta quando o Sr. Denning a levara desta forma.

Pilgrim‘s Lament não estava longe.

Sabendo que ela logo se reencontraria com Blake, as dúvidas negras dissiparam, mas a fuga do Bane retornou. A cabeça de Winter (ou era seu coração?),doíam com a informação que Caleb tinha jogado sobre ela. Tais acusações horríveis... Todas aquelas meninas assassinadas, sua força vital sugada. Uma sensação de pavor frio formou no fundo de seu estômago. Ela tentou rejeitar as palavras de Caleb, mas sua voz não saía de sua mente: É de sua When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

natureza matar o que ele ama.

Finalmente ela chegou ao final do caminho, Winter timidamente entrou na clareira. Sua respiração ficou presa quando ela foi atingida pela beleza assombrada da igreja Pilgrim‘s Lament, parecia algo saído de uma pintura – luz fria da lua banhava sua forma arruinada, criando sombras profundas e destaques estranhos.

Parecia sobrenatural e isso não fez nada para dissipar o mau pressentimento.

Pensando naquela tarde de domingo, ela correu ficando diante da igreja, Winter caminhou sobre os degraus de pedra rachado para as portas. Ela foi capaz de entrar facilmente e encontrou madeiras

caídas e destroços do telhado.

Quando Winter olhou para cima, ela se surpreendeu ao ver um céu noturno além dos buracos enormes irregulares no telhado. Um luar caindo por estas seções, punção através da escuridão à sua frente onde capturava poeira que circundavam preguiçosamente no ar. Parecia que a ruína do telhado anterior rendeu alguns benefícios inesperados: a igreja ainda era um lugar de sombras e teias de aranha, mas pelo menos havia luz suficiente para ela ver.

— Blake? — Winter chamou, mas não houve resposta. A ideia de permanecer neste lugar assombrado era inquietante. Sem saber o que estava fazendo, Winter começou lentamente a refazer seus passos em direção ao vitral quebrado – o lugar onde ela tinha visto Blake pela primeira vez. A imagem de Nossa Senhora parecia ainda mais bonita na luz fria, no entanto, havia uma tristeza para suas feições que Winter não tinha notado antes. Era uma expressão similar usada pela mãe de Blake no retrato. Irmãs em tristeza.

Winter chegou à janela e olhou para o cemitério arruinado.

Blake estava lá! Ela foi atingida com um forte sentimento de déjà vu – ele estava precisamente na mesma posição que esteve a primeira vez que ela o tinha visto, a cabeça baixa, solenemente sobre uma das lápides. Se não fosse pelo luar e as roupas que ele usava, o quadro teria sido uma imagem réplica do primeiro momento crucial.

Winter estava a ponto de chamá-lo quando sentiu um arrepio inesperado de dúvida passar através dela. Será que Blake realmente vai prejudicá-la e todaa suapaquera tinha sido algum tipo de jogo doentio? E se ele realmente fosse o monstro que Caleb acreditava que ele era? Envergonhada por esta divertida tal possibilidade, Winter encontrou sua voz e chamou.

— Blake!

Ele não se virou, mas continuou de pé, de costas para ela, olhando para o túmulo. Mais instável por sua falta de resposta, When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Winter chamou novamente.

— Blake?

Ela não podia esperar que ele acordasse de qualquer rabugento estupor que ele tinha caído. Desajeitadamente saindo da janela da igreja, Winter começou andando pelo cemitério para ele.

— Blake?

Ele olhou para ela, evidentemente surpreso ao descobrir que ele não estava mais sozinho. Havia um olhar estranho e distante em seus olhos, como se sua mente estivesse em outro lugar.

— Sinto muito, eu não ouvi você, — ele disse em um tom confuso.

— Você está bem?

Ele olhou para a sepultura, sua voz melancólica. — Eu nunca te disse por que eu estava aqui no primeiro dia, eu disse Winter?

Winter balançou a cabeça. — Não, você não disse. Olha, Blake, o Bane pode estar a caminho. Temos que...

— É túmulo da minha mãe, — Blake disse suavemente, e Winter ficou muito chocada com a revelação para terminar de expressar suas preocupações. — Cerca de cem anos atrás, viemos para este país da Europa, Claudette, minha mãe e eu deixamos meu pai para trás. Ele tentou nos salvar do Bane, mas não conseguiu.

Eles nos seguiram aqui. Depois de anos caçando, o Bane finalmente conseguiu nos prender em uma fazenda perto de Kendle. Minha mãe pediu para Claudette e eu viajarmos, para nos salvar, mas eu não quis deixá-la. Eu não tinha usado o meu poder desde aquela primeira vez. Quando Elisabetta foi... — Ele engoliu antes de continuar. — Eu não quero nunca experimentar aquela fome terrível novamente. Eu preferia ser levado pelo Bane. Quando eu recusei viajar, Claudette foi obrigada a transportar nós três através das Terras Mortas. Ela escolheu um ponto de saída, por acaso, em algum lugar longe do Bane. Ela nos trouxe aqui para Hargan Bluff.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Ele ficou em silêncio por um momento. Winter esqueceu sua ansiedade, enquanto observava a dor da memória atingir suas feições. — O desgaste físico caiu sobre a minha irmã. É bastante difícil viajar sozinho, sem falar arrastando outras duas pessoas com você através das Terras Mortas. A fome desceu sobre ela imediatamente e antes que ela soubesse o queestava fazendo, ela caiu sobre minha mãe e começou... A se alimentar. Eu tentei impedi-la, mas eu estava muito lento. E muito fraco. Claudette matou a nossa mãe. Após a fome cessar e ela perceber o que tinha feito, minha irmã nunca mais foi a mesma. O horror com o que ela tinha feito a desfigurou. Seu cabelo ficou cinza, sua beleza tornou-se corrompida. Ela enlouqueceu, tornou-se perigosa e eu fui forçado a...

Winter não precisou que ele terminasse a frase, e descansou sua mão confortavelmente em seu ombro. Ela adivinhou que Blake foi forçado a matar Claudette. Não admira que ele tivesse uma foto dela ao lado de sua cama. Como memória.

— Eu sinto muito, Blake.

Ela desejou que ela tivesse tempo de consolá-lo ainda mais, mas a ameaça do Bane, para não mencionar o destino de Jasmine, cresceu grandemente em sua mente.

— Devemos ir para dentro. O Bane está chegando. Eles têm Jasmine.

Blake encontrou seu olhar, compondo-se. — Como eles encontraram você?

Winter balançou a cabeça. — Eu não sei. Eles devem ter nos seguido.

Ele processou essas informações severamente. — Não se preocupe com a sua amiga. Eles não vão machucá-la.

— Como você pode ter certeza? — Winter perguntou, longe de estar convencida.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

— Porque sou eu que eles querem, — Blake disse baixinho, e começou a caminhar para a igreja.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 60 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Winter assistiu a forma sombria de Blake cortar os raios do luar na frente dela enquanto ele a levava pelo corredor da igreja em direção ao altar. Sua mão estava fria na dela, dura como a mão de um cadáver. Antes, seu toque tinha sido sempre tão quente e reconfortante.

— O que vamos fazer agora?

Blake não respondeu. Seu rosto estava tão obscurecido por sombras que ela não conseguia ler sua expressão.

— Blake, fale comigo, por favor.

— Nós vamos esperar, Winter, — ele disse suavemente.

Medo começou a crescer nela. Por que Blake estava agindo tão misteriosamente? Mais uma vez a fotografia de Carol Oates materializou espontaneamente em sua mente. Ela tentou bani-la, mas, a imagem permaneceu.

— Esperando o quê?

Blake olhou para ela. Seus olhos verdes brilhavam como esmeralda. — Sinto muito, — disse ele em um tom derrotado.

— Eu não entendo. Por que você está se desculpando?

— Porque eu acho que não posso salvar você.

— Você disse que os Skivers...

Blake sacudiu a cabeça. — Não é a eles que você precisa se preocupar.

Havia algo em seus olhos que fez seu sangue gelar – resignação sombria, como se estivesse preparando-se para realizar algum ato desagradável.

— O que aconteceu com Carol Oates? — A questão estava fora de sua boca antes que ela pudesse detê-la. Estando sozinha com ele nas sombras, de repente parecia terrivelmente importante que ela soubesse que ele era inocente do crime. Que seu medo era em vão.

Problematicamente, ele franziu a testa e respondeu: — Como você sabe sobre ela?

— Caleb me disse. Ele me mostrou a lista. — Winter tentou engolir, mas sua garganta estava apertada com ansiedade. — É verdade?

Ela estava de repente ciente de como o silêncio havia crescido.

Todos os ruídos ambientais da floresta, tinham ido, tinham parado.

O canto dos grilos, o murmúrio das árvores e o vento roscado através deles – tudo estava em silêncio.

Eventualmente, ele olhou para ela de novo, sua voz cheia de lamento. — É verdade. Elas estão todas mortas.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Winter olhou para ele em choque, tentando ver o brilho em sua expressão, um vislumbre de falsidade que pudesse provar que ele estivesse mentindo. Que ele não era o monstro que ela temia que ele fosse. Não havia nada para ser visto. Ele estava dizendo a verdade.

— Como? — Ela conseguiu com a voz rouca, as lágrimas picando em seus olhos.

— Eu não as escolhi, Winter. Elas me escolheram. Elas teriam descoberto onde eu estava hospedado, expondo-se ao perigo.

Ela empurrou a mão dele e começou a se afastar. Jasmine, o Bane, os Skivers – tudo empalideceu perantea revelação chocante de Blake.

— Eu tentava mantê-las em segurança! Você precisa acreditar em mim!

Recuando dele, Winter de repente tropeçou e caiu sobre uma das vigas caídas. Blake ofereceu-lhe a mão, mas ela se afastou, com medo de que ele estivesse prestes a cair sobre ela a qualquer momento. Ela não queria sofrer o destino de Carol Oates e as outras. Ela não queria ser mais um nome no computador de Caleb.

— Não, Blake – por favor! Eu amo você! — Era verdade.

Mesmo agora, com medo pela sua vida, havia uma parte dela que ainda o amava. O medo não poderia extinguir essa emoção.

Blake deu um passo para trás, evidentemente chocado com sua declaração. Seus olhos se encontraram e de repente ela percebeu que tinha cometido um erro. Não havia intenção de matar aqui, nenhuma dica do monstro que Caleb afirmou que Blake fosse. Em vez disso, Winter viu só tristeza no olhar de Blake e outra coisa também, algo que ela não ousara esperar ver...

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Amor.

— Eu não vou machucar você, — Blake resmungou, sua expressão ferida. — Eu nunca teria...

Sua voz foi abafada por um estranho som de assobio. Winter assistiu com horror quando ele foi violentamente atirado para trás vários metros ao longo da igreja por uma força invisível, aterrissando contra uma amassada plataforma no altar. Uma peça, muito brilhante de metal se projetou de seu ombro, fixando-o à base de madeira do altar. Cachos tênues de fumaça enrolaram do furo, onde o parafuso de metal entrou na sua carne.

Blake gemeu de dor, arranhando levemente no parafuso.

Uma voz familiar gritou atrás dela. — Cuidado! Ele está tentando se mover.

Houve outro som sibilante. Um segundo parafuso caiu no outro ombro de Blake, prendendo-o como um inseto. Ele soltou um grito angustiado.

Tudo tinha acontecido muito rápido para Winter compreender plenamente. Segundos antes, Blake estava falando com ela, e agora ele estava deitado se contorcendo em agonia. Era como se ela tivesse avançado no tempo, perdendo a série crucial de ações que faria sentido a esta cena.

Winter se virou para ver a marcha Bane através da igreja em direção a ela, Caleb no centro. Feixes de luz cortando através da escuridão, projetada por ‗balestras‘ de seus filhos. O único que não tinha uma dessas armas era Caleb. Em vez disso, ele segurava um machado de cabo preto na mão, o luar brilhando fora de sua lâmina.

Winter notou que faltava um irmão Bennet – Sam. Caleb moveu-se para Winter, com os olhos brilhando de malícia.

— Bem, Winter, parece que você nos ajudou depois de tudo.

Winter olhou para ele com medo. — Como é que você...

Ela parou quando viu Sam e Jasmine entrar na igreja. O fio de sangue da sua bochecha tinha secado. Seu andar era lento e embaralhado como a de um sonâmbulo.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

— Jasmine? — Winter chamou, mas sua amiga não respondeu.

Sua expressão estava em branco, drogada.

Winter, indignada virou-se para Caleb, alertando: — Se você machucá-la...

O velho sorriu. — Ah, não se preocupe, ela vai sair dessa em poucos minutos. Felizmente para nós, ela serviu o seu propósito.

Estou surpreso que as habilidades de Damien funcionaram.

Especialmente depois que você insensivelmente a deixou para trás na floresta. Muito ruim, Winter.

Caleb balançou a cabeça para ela em um show exagerado de decepção, e apesar de seu ódio por ele, suas palavras cortaram rapidamente.

Damien se aproximou mais de Blake, mantendo sua balestra na figura torturada. — Pai, você quer que eu acabe com ele?

Caleb balançou a cabeça. — Ainda não, leve as meninas lá fora primeiro. — Ele se virou para Winter. — É claro que, a menos que você queira ficar?

A raiva ferveu dentro dela. — Eu não vou deixar você fazer isso.

Antes que Caleb pudesse responder, Blake gritou, — Saia, Winter!

Assustada com o barulho, ela virou-se para encará-lo. Ele não se moveu de sua posição contra a plataforma do altar; não podia mover-se, de fato, enquanto os parafusos estivessem em seus ombros. Sua cabeça pendeu, com os olhos brilhando com lágrimas, Winter sentiu seu coração quebrar.

Ela olhou de Blake para o machado na mão de Caleb e entendeu o que ele pretendia fazer. A ansiedade nos olhos do velho gelou seus ossos. Caleb tinha treinado a vida toda para ser um carrasco e pareceu animado com a oportunidade de empregar seu ofício. Winter não poderia esperar qualquer misericórdia dele.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Sam passou por Caleb e pegou firmemente Winter pelo braço.

— Vamos, Winter. Você não precisa ver isso. — Havia uma pitada de compaixão em sua voz, mas ele não fez nada para acalmar sua raiva.

— Me largue! — Winter puxou seu braço livre e foi para perto de Blake.

Ela se virou para ele, implorando: — Vá, Blake! Saia daqui!

Caleb riu de seus esforços. — Você não acha que a criatura teria ido até agora se pudesse? Ele não vai a lugar nenhum.

Winter olhou para os finos, parafusos salientes cruéis dos ombros de Blake. Não admira que ele não tivesse Viajado ainda!

Algo nos parafusos de metal do Bane estava o mantendo fixo neste plano de existência.

Com um enorme esforço, Blake levantou a cabeça e olhou para Caleb, seu olhar acusador. — Você destruiu a minha casa. — Sua voz era muito fraca, cheia de dor.

Caleb assentiu. — Sim. Logo você vai embora também.

— Você é um tolo, — Blake respondeu calmamente. Sua pele tinha tomado uma palidez de cera, mas seus olhos ainda ardiam brilhantemente. Não com raiva, como Winter poderia ter esperado, mas com medo. — Você, deixou ela sair.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 61 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Suas palavras, embora quase um sussurro, pesaram na igreja velha, parecendo levar consigo uma promessa terrível. Que era muito mais assustador devido à sua ambiguidade – Deixou quem sair? Winter olhou para Caleb e seus filhos. As expressões vagamente preocupadas de confusão em seus rostos sugeriu que eles estavam tão desconfortáveis quanto ela.

Um vento frio começou a soprar, lamentando estranhamente quando ele ganhou entrada da igreja através das rachaduras e buracos. Winter começou a tremer. A pele de seus braços formigavam desconfortavelmente, e ela se lembrou da última vez

que tinha estado nesta igreja. Quando isso veio, então, momentos antes do teto desmoronar, uma premonição estava se formando – nada menos carregado com ameaça.

Alguma coisa estava vindo!

Marcus, Sam e Damien olharam entre si com medo. Apenas Caleb parecia impassível pelo vento frio e a sensação de ameaça que tinha invadido o local. Limpando a garganta, ele levantou a voz para a igreja tranquila. — Depressa. Vamos terminar com a coisa.

Ele empurrou Winter para fora do caminho e começou a caminhar em direção a Blake. Blake olhou passando através do seu carrasco para Winter, dor nublada em seus olhos. Seu coração se sentiu como se estivesse sendo arrancado. Ela não podia deixar isso acontecer!

Winter correu para frente de Caleb, bloqueando seu caminho para Blake. — Não se aproxime!

— Bobinha, — disse o velho, sorrindo cruelmente, e levantou o machado sobre a cabeça como se quisesse golpeá-la através dela para chegar a Blake. Winter plantou seus pés e fechou os olhos em antecipação do golpe mortal, mas ele nunca veio.

Em vez disso, um grito ensurdecedor rasgou através da igreja, impedindo o progresso de Caleb. Era o som que Winter ouviu na floresta enquanto o lugar Velasco queimava. O vento pareceu diminuir abruptamente, as forças da natureza recuando deste lugar.

Winter abriu os olhos e viu o rosto pálido de Caleb. O machado pendurado fracamente em suas mãos tremendo. Atrás dele, os Bennets agitaram suas balestras erraticamente, buscando o beiral da igreja caído com elas apontadas para o som arrepiante.

Segundos se passaram com um suspense insuportável, e então o horror começou.

Com um segundo grito ensurdecedor, uma forma irregular branca explodiu fora das sombras acima de Caleb e varreu o velho When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

do chão, jogando-o para o outro lado da igreja. Lá, a forma do pesadelo – uma mulher – Winter podia ver seu longo cabelo grisalho, confuso, e roupas brancas manchadas – debruçada sobre Caleb se contorcendo e o beijando.

Não havia sensibilidade na ação – nada além de violência e um ardor frio. Os membros de Caleb se contorcendo e estremecendo enquanto ele lutava sob o abraço da criatura, mas seus esforços foram em vão. No espaço de alguns segundos, a figura inteira dele pareceu desabar e sua pele, como seus ossos, órgãos e músculos estavam sendo sugados.

Winter estava vagamente consciente de gritos ao seu redor e movimentos, mas ela foi incapaz de atendê-los, de modo que ela estava paralisada pela alimentação horrível. Felizmente, ela foi poupada de ver o rosto de Caleb, enquanto a forma arqueada da mulher bloqueava seu ponto de vista, mas Winter podia imaginar o terror em seus olhos. Ela podia imaginá-lo muito facilmente.

Algo assobiou passando sob sua cabeça – um parafuso de ferro do Bane – mas este não encontrou a sua marca, ao invés, bateu na parede ao lado da cabeça da criatura. Como um abutre assustado, a mulher louca soltou a forma despedaçada de Caleb e desapareceu nas sombras sobre suas cabeças.

— Pai! — Sam correu para o lado de Caleb, enquanto todo mundo parecia preso ao chão de terror. Winter observou Sam embalar a cabeça sem vida de seu pai em seus braços, ainda também petrificado para sentir qualquer coisa, apenas uma vaga simpatia por ele. Um grito do fundo da igreja quebrou o silêncio atordoado, e empurrou a atenção de Winter para longe do filho de luto.

A mulher tinha aparecido atrás de Marcus e Damien. Eles correram para trazer suas balestras ao redor, mas sua velocidade era muito grande. Ela conseguiu derrubar Damien no chão e puxou Marcus em seu abraço antes de um único tiro foi disparado. Winter When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

ouviu o grito de Jasmine quando o espetáculo do pesadelo a sacudiu fora de seu estupor. A mulher plantou seus lábios sobre a boca de Marcus e começou a sugar sua força vital. Damien lutou para manter o equilíbrio de seus pés, e com um grito de guerra alto correu para o espírito agourento com sua arma levantada.

Seus tiros foram amplos e, uma vez que ele estava em certa distância para atacar, a mulher o empurrou, fazendo-o voar todo o comprimento da igreja em um display impossível de força. O corpo de Damien bateu direto através de uma das colunas de sustentação, como se fosse feito de papel, antes de aterrar esparramado e sem vida ao lado de Blake. Winter viu a expressão atormentada de Blake enquanto ele observava o massacre de sua posição preso. Seu olhar assustado silenciosamente implorou-lhe para correr, mas ela simplesmente não podia deixá-lo.

Houve um estrondo alto do beiral acima deles, seguido de uma chuva de pó, enquanto a igreja lutava com a perda de mais vigas de apoio.

Terminado com Marcus, a louca largou o corpo inerte e se virou para Jasmine, que estava agachada atrás de um pilar.

Horrorizada, Winter observou o monstro deslizar sua língua fora de sua boca, lambendo os lábios secos, em antecipação de outra refeição. Jasmine gritou novamente quando a mulher caminhou em sua direção.

Um parafuso passou por trás de Winter varrendo através do ar, quase atingindo o ombro da criatura. O esforço foi suficiente para distrair a mulher de sua vítima, e com um uivo de raiva, ela virou-se para enfrentar seu agressor. Sam correu para o lado de Winter, já carregando um parafuso de ferro fresco na balestra.

— Para trás de mim! — Ele resmungou. Havia lágrimas em seus olhos, mas ele parecia decidido a não deixar sua tristeza se interpor entre ele e a vingança. Ele apontou a balestra para a When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

criatura e disparou, mas antes que o parafuso atingisse seu alvo a mulher deixou de existir. Um momento, ela estava lá, no outro ela tinha ido embora!

A igreja estava em silêncio, apenas salvando o soluço de Jasmine no fundo da sala e o aumento de burburinhos do telhado acima. Se não sairmos daqui logo, o pensamento brilhou no fundo da mente de Winter, o telhado vai cair e matar todos nós! Um grande pedaço de madeira caiu do beiral no chão como se para provar a sua suspeita. No entanto, ainda não havia nenhum sinal da aparição do mal. Winter se manteve perto de Sam enquanto ele lentamente circulava a igreja com a balestra, apontando para a escuridão.

— Atrás de você! — Blake gritou com uma voz rachada de sua posição, mas era tarde demais. A mulher se materializou atrás deles, seus olhos verdes brilhando com loucura e ódio. Agora que a criatura estava tão perto, Winter ficou chocada ao descobrir que ela reconheceu o seu rosto. Como Blake havia mencionado, o cabelo virou cinza ardósia, mas os olhos... Seus olhos tinham provocado sua memória. Tanto como os do seu irmão, eles ainda eram mais escuros, mais cruéis. Este espírito agourento era a irmã de Blake – Claudette!

As roupas brancas esfarrapadas de Claudette giravam em torno dela enquanto ela se aproximava de Winter, com as mãos conectadas em garras. Sam colocou-se em seu caminho, mas ela golpeou-o facilmente. Sua fome estava fixada em Winter. Agora não havia mais obstáculos em seu caminho, Claudette parecia lenta em seu ataque, aparentemente saboreando o momento antes de matar. Sua boca (as gengivas! Suas gengivas eram negras!), torcidas em algo aproximando de um sorriso. Era a coisa mais assustadora que Winter já tinha visto.

Winter sabia que ela estava à beira da morte, ela podia sentir o When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

cheiro no ar. Sam estava caído contra uma das colunas podres, seu queixo apoiado no peito, mal consciente. Jasmine se arrastou para o canto e estava se escondendo do pesadelo gritando, chorando baixinho para si mesma. Não haveria resgate para um deles de qualquer um deles.

Winter queria que seus membros começassem a funcionar para que ela pudesse pelo menos tentar fugir, mas eles não responderam.

Para que iria servir, de qualquer maneira? Como você poderia correr mais que uma criatura que podia se mover através do espaço e do tempo em um piscar de olhos? Winter estava paralisada – incapaz de correr ou mesmo gritar. Os olhos verdes brilhantes de Claudette se mantiveram firmes. Winter sentiu a vontade de viver enquanto olhava para essas profundezas aterrorizantes. Claudette se aproximou, ainda mais perto...

Houve um som de assobio por cima do ombro de Winter, uma rajada de vento fraco de ar passando pelo seu rosto, quando o parafuso de ferro voou. Os olhos de Claudette se arregalaram em choque. Seu sorriso desapareceu; seu queixo caiu e ela cambaleou para trás, segurando no peito. Umterrível, som agudo baixo veio das profundezas de sua garganta. Suas mãos pálidas agarraram na ponta do parafuso, o resto do que foi enterrado na carne logo acima de sua mama direita, perfurando seu coração. A loucura fugiu do rosto de Claudette, e Winter podia ver que ela compartilhava a beleza de seu irmão. Isso havia sido corrompido, transformado pela terrível fome.

Agora isso foi restaurado a ela nos seu último momento trágico.

Não poderia ter sido Sam, que disparou o tiro, enquanto Winter via a flácida Claudette caída no sentido oposto, arrastando o machado de seu pai atrás dela. Soltando um grito de guerra rouco, Sam balançou em sua mão, habilmente cortando o pescoço de Claudette. Ela caiu no chão, e ele balançou novamente, terminando o trabalho.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

— Winter...

Blake!

Winter virou-se e correu para onde ele estava, sua respiração ofegante. Ele estava segurando a balestra de Damien em um braço tremendo, apontado para o corpo caído de sua irmã. O membro mais jovem do Bane deitado poucos metros de distância dele, seu cabelo empapado de sangue. Winter se agachou ao lado de Blake.

As lágrimas chegaram agora, lágrimas de dor e choque, derramando sobre suas bochechas.

— Eu a matei...

— Você me salvou.

— Não foi culpa dela. Foi à fome.

— Não fale, — disse ela, tentando impedi-lo de desperdiçar sua energia, mas Blake estava lutando para se explicar.

— Eu não podia permitir que ela a machucasse... Como as outras.

Winter saberia mais tarde, ela teria tempo para refazer o quebra-cabeça da forma mais clara, mas ela já tinha visto o suficiente para formar uma impressão nebulosa do que tinha acontecido. Todas aquelas meninas não foram mortas por Blake – mas por Claudette. Pobre louca Claudette... Nasceu sem a força para resistir à escuridão dentro de si.

Winter ternamente afastou um dos cachos de Blake. — Agora acabou. Ela encontrou a paz.

— Paz? — Blake olhou para ela em confusão, como se a palavra fosse desconhecida para ele. Sua expressão era tão nua e vulnerável que Winter sentiu novas lágrimas derramar pelo seu rosto.

— Tudo vai ficar bem, — ela conseguiu sufocar enquanto ela beijou suas bochechas ardentes. Winter moveu-se para os seus lábios, beijando-o profundamente, sentindo a mesma sensação de formigamento maravilhosa e assustadora. Imediatamente, ela When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

sentiu-se atraída para ele, e ele para ela. Winter sabia que era perigoso, mas ela não parou. Droga as consequências! Depois de alguns segundos gloriosos ela o sentiu debilmente tentando empurrá-la para fora dele. Era mais fácil ficar, ela pressionou-se contra ele, seus lábios selados, mas ela se recuou.

— Fácil agora. — Blake olhou para ela com aqueles belos olhos verdes. Estremecendo, ele tentou levantar-se. — Você poderia... — Winter ficou estarrecida com sua própria ignorância. Um dos parafusos de ferro ainda o pregava ao altar. Ele tinha arrancado o outro em seu esforço para alcançar e disparar a balestra em Claudette. Felizmente não tinha perfurado seu coração, mas a dor deve ser insuportável.

Winter engoliu em seco. — O que eu deveria... ?

Ele colocou as mãos ternamente sobre o eixo do parafuso esquerdo.

— Basta puxar.

Winter assentiu, se preparou e, em seguida, com os olhos fechados, puxou o pino livre do ombro direito de Blake. Blake soltou um grito de dor, o som de sua agonia quebrando o coração de Winter. Ela embalou seu rosto em suas mãos, sentindo as lágrimas em seus dedos.

Blake sorriu debilmente para ela. — Obrigado.

Ela inclinou-se para beijar-lhe suas lágrimas. — Você pode se mover? — Ele estava muito quente. Doente, calor irradiava dele em ondas. Por que ele estava olhando para ela assim? Aquele sorriso de dor em seu rosto parecia inteiramente para seu benefício. Ele estava tentando distraí-la da verdade mais profunda.

Os sons acima aumentaram. Outro suporte de madeira caiu no chão a uma curta distância deles.

— Nós temos que ir, Blake. O telhado...

Ele balançou a cabeça, ainda sorrindo através de sua dor. — When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Não. Eu vou ficar.

Winter franziu a testa, confusa com a finalidade das palavras de Blake. Ela sentiu novas lágrimas brotando novamente, e sua garganta apertou. — O que você está falando? — Mais poeira caiu do teto agora, cobrindo-os com uma camada fina, mas ela mal percebeu.

Blake olhou além de seu ombro, seus olhos se estreitando e sussurrou: — Está na hora.

Winter virou-se para seguir o seu olhar e viu pairando atrás dela, observando em silêncio – os Skivers.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 62 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Se ela não estivesse tão chateada pela dor de Blake, Winter sabia que ela teria gritado, mas como elaestava, apenas um grito abafado escapou de seus lábios. Um dos Skivers inclinou a cabeça, estudando-os a forma hedionda deles – o Mestre.

Ela ficou de pé, de pé sobre Blake protetora. Winter estava aterrorizadacom essas aparições vestidas de preto, mas não deixou o medo ditar suas ações. Não mais.

— Não... Não, você não pode ficar com ele! — Ela dirigiu sua indignação para o Mestre.

Sam, ajoelhado ao lado do corpo de seu pai, olhou para ela do

outro lado da igreja. Sua voz soou distraída quando ele falou. — Com quem você está falando?

Winter ignorou.

Blake falou suavemente atrás dela. — Está tudo bem, Winter.

Está tudo bem.

— Blake...

— Por favor, venha aqui.

Winter arriscou momentaneamente desviando sua atenção longe das criaturas, e viu acenando fracamente para ela se juntar a ele no chão. Os Skivers não se moveram ainda, eles permaneceram onde estavam, observando. Winter rapidamente se agachou ao lado de Blake. Suas mãos encontraram as suas e segurou-as firmemente.

— Olhe para mim, — ele sussurrou, olhando para ela, querendo que ela visse.

— O quê?

— Olhe para mim, Winter...

Winter ainda não entendeu o que ele quis dizer até que ela viu a luz em seus olhos. Seu beijo tinha restaurado a Visão e agora ela podia ver seu Occuluma; as pequenas chamas queimando nas profundezas das pupilas de Blake. Elas não eram mais verdes.

— Blake, o que você fez? — Winter gritou com horror, olhando para a luz vermelha doentia.

— Fiz uma barganha. Era a única maneira de salvá-la. Minha vida pela sua.

Winter começou a chorar. Ela enterrou a cabeça em seu peito.

— Não, Blake! Não! Por que você fez isso?

Acariciando seu cabelo suavemente, ele sussurrou em seu ouvido: — Você precisa perguntar?

Ela levantou a cabeça e olhou profundamente em seus olhos, seu coração rompendo com a aceitação que viu lá. Blake não ia lutar contra eles, ele estava os deixando levá-lo.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Ele gentilmente segurou seu rosto com as mãos, e até mesmo através de sua dor Winter podia ver quão cansado ele parecia. Quão cansado ele soava.

— Sem lágrimas, Winter. Você me deu algo maravilhoso: uma desculpa para morrer. Eu nunca pertenci aqui de qualquer maneira.

Ele estava errado, muito errado e ele não parecia ciente disso.

Ela iria torná-lo consciente – fazê-lo ver o quanto ele significava para ela, mas quando ela abriu a boca, as palavras não vieram, embora ela desejasse. "Você pertence a mim!" Ela queria dizer a ele, mas um soluço de dor saiu e foi tudo o que saiu dos seus lábios.

Ela se inclinou para beijá-lo uma última vez, seus lábios roçaram um contra o outro – e então ela estava sendo levantado do chão, por mãos frias e brancas.

— Não! — Ela gritou, lutando nas garras dos dois Skivers, mas a força deles era grande e seus esforços passaram despercebidos.

Seus olhos permaneceram em Blake enquanto ela foi puxada para longe.

Se ele estava com medo, não havia nenhum sinal no seu rosto, apenas um tipo de tristeza resignada enquanto o Mestre ajoelhou-se sobre ele. Ele tirou um recipiente ornamentado de suas vestes e abriu a tampa, colocando-o sobre o chão. Presa no punho de ferro dos Skivers, Winter viu entorpecida quando ele retirou uma tesoura. Ela ouviu o guinchado quando as lâminas arquearam-se abertas – como uma faca sendo raspada contra a pedra – e viu quando a criatura colocou a mão no peito de Blake e puxou a luz ofuscante vermelha. Um desses fios de luz vermelha torceu em torno de sua mão pálida e enrugada como uma cobra e o Skiver trouxe as lâminas para o fio.

Winter olhou para Blake do outro lado da igreja e desejou-lhe que ele conhecesse o seu coração, mas ele viu isso em seus olhos.

Ela viu um brilho lá, um flash naqueles bonitos verdes profundos e When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

sentiu algum alívio, em meio a sua dor, ele viu.

Blake sabia... Ele sempre soube.

O Mestre fechou a tesoura sobre a vida de Blake e Winter ouviu alguém gritar em agonia. Era o seu próprio grito. Uma vez que o ataque foi feito, o Mestre colocou a alma cintilante de Blake no recipiente e ele o guardou em suas vestes. Ele levantou-se e virou para Winter, como se tivesse um pouco de pena – ou o mais próximo que suas características exóticas pudessem ter – e depois foi embora, como fumaça preta. Os dois Skivers ao seu lado também desapareceram, voltando para as Terras Mortas.

Ignorando os sons do telhado acima, Winter correu pela chuva cinzenta de pó que caía dos beirais, e se jogou sobre o corpo de Blake. Sua cabeça estava inclinada em direção ao teto da igreja, os olhos abertos, com um sorriso beatífico nos lábios. Soluçando incontrolavelmente, Winter o reuniu em seus braços e balançou-o suavemente.

Ela teria o mantido assim para sempre, mas uma mão caiu sobre seu ombro.

Era Jasmine. Ela mancou através da igreja para onde Winter estava agachada sobre o corpo de Blake.

— Vamos, Winter, — disse ela com urgência tranquila, e Winter se permitiu ser levada embora.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 63 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Segundos depois que ela e Jasmine mancaram através da entrada da igreja, houve um acidente apocalíptico atrás delas enquanto o resto do telhado veio abaixo. Sam estava deitado na grama ao pé da escada, segurando o cadáver de seu pai perdido na luz do luar. Ele fora o único corpo que ele teve tempo para recuperar antes de o teto desabar. Ele olhou para elas com os olhos ampliados e perdidos enquanto elas desciam os degraus em direção a ele.

— O que eu faço agora? — Perguntou-lhes irremediavelmente.

Winter não tinha uma resposta, apenas muita dor em seu coração e pena dele. Em vez disso, ela e Jasmine seguiram em frente,

deixando Sam na sua dor sozinho. Elas não falaram na caminhada pela floresta. A cobertura de nuvens tinha se mudado e o caminho ficou mais fácil. Winter mal notou. Ela não se importava se a floresta estivesse um breu. Ela estava além do medo. Ela estava além de qualquer coisa, somente dor e sofrimento parecia ter envolvido em torno dela como um manto pesado.

Quando elas chegaram ao Centro do Património, Jasmine virou-se para Winter. — O que aconteceu esta noite?

— Ele me salvou, — Winter respondeu calmamente, e foram as únicas palavras que elas disseram. Ela andou passando Jasmine para a borda do estacionamento e fechou os olhos, respirando o ar da noite.

Ela queria escorregar para as Terras Mortas, para seguir Blake em Krypthia. Se ela realmente era uma destas Chaves míticas, então este poder se manifestaria agora. Por um momento, ela sentiu uma pontada de alegria quando o chão a seus pés balançou como se ameaçando cair, mas quando ela abriu os olhos à noite ao seu redor não foi alterada. Era sua noite, uma noite que não continha mistérios mais profundos.

Ele se foi.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 64 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Winter tirou na semana seguinte uma folga da escola, passando a maior parte do tempo sozinha em seu quarto, lendo e ouvindo música, tudo para manter sua mente fora de sua dor. Lucy foi surpreendentemente compreensiva, não questionando a sua decisão de ficar em casa. Era como se ela sentisse que Winter tinha passado por algo profundo e se dispôs a dar a ela o espaço e tempo para chegar a um acordo com isso.

Duas noites depois do incidente na montanha, Winter estava deitada na cama olhando para o teto quando um som arranhando veio da janela. Quase muito medo de olhar no caso de suas

esperanças forem frustradas, ela virou-se lentamente para ver Nefertem arranhando o vidro. De alguma forma, o gato sobreviveu ao acidente, e conseguiu voltar para sua casa. Chorando de surpresa e alegria, ela abriu a janela e o abraçou com força. Seu retorno foi uma breve pausa da escuridão, mas ela estava grata.

Enquanto lavava a sujeira do gato se contorcendo no banheiro, a mente de Winter virou-se para os mistérios que ela tinha testemunhado, tentando juntar as peças da estória que Blake nunca explicou. Lembrou-se da porta na casa de Blake com o sigilo estranho pintado sobre ela, e deduziu que Blake deveria ter aprisionado Claudette naquele quarto. Quando o fogo atingiu a casa de Blake, as chamas deveriam ter queimado e afastado qualquer meio místico que ele usou para impedi-la de fugir. Ela era o monstro que Caleb e seus filhos haviam caçado ao longo dos anos. Blake era apenas o seu protetor.

Secando Nefertem, Winter observou-se no espelho. A princípio, tudo o que viu foi seu reflexo normal, mas depois de um momento de concentração as chamas azuis brilhantes do Occuluma inflamavam nas profundezas de suas pupilas. Confortada de que o sacrifício de Blake não foi em vão, ela conseguiu, com alguma dificuldade, desligar a Visão. Ela estava melhorando lentamente. Ela se segurou na esperança de que com o tempo ela teria controle o suficiente para ver o que quisesse. A ideia de ver o Occuluma acidentalmente nos olhos de Lucy ou de outra pessoa e sabendo que ia morrer, ou, pior ainda, ser colhida pelos Skivers, era horrível.

Ignorância era felicidade.

Durante a semana a solidão caiu para Winter e Jasmine por duas vezes, mas Winter se recusou a vê-la. Isto era, em parte, porque ela ainda tinha que dominar a Visão e ela estava cautelosa de ter contato com as pessoas, o outro motivo era que ela ainda não podia suportar a ideia de falar sobre a tragédia. Era como coçar uma When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

ferida fresca.

Ela sabia que Jasmine estava separada pelas seguintes ocasiões – a primeira era uma caixa de chocolates com recheio de caramelo, que ela sabia que era a favorita de Winter, a segunda era um jornal com um artigo rodeado. Que Winter leu a seção com interesse:

―Os bombeiros foram chamados para controlar dois incêndios nas primeiras horas da manhã de sábado. O primeiro ocorreu em uma propriedade em Holloway Road, conhecida localmente como o lugar Velasco. O segundo incêndio ocorreu na Montanha da Coruja, logo abaixo do Centro do Património, no local da igreja mais antiga de Bluff, Pilgrim‘s Lament.‖ ―Ambos os locais foram completamente engolidos pelas chamas – o segundo incêndio originou os restos carbonizados de cinco corpos, ainda não identificados. Embora não houve evidência ligando os dois incêndios, a polícia não descartou que eles estavam relacionados. O lugar Velasco foi comprado recentemente pelo Sr. Blake Duchamp, a quem as autoridades estão agora à procura para interrogá-lo em relação aos incêndios.‖ When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Winter não precisou ler o resto do artigo – que era muito doloroso. Ela suspeitou que ela soubesse a identidade do incendiário por trás do fogo em Pilgrim‘s Lament – tinha que ser Sam. Talvez ele quisesse destruir qualquer evidência ligando os corpos recuperados na montanha. Em qualquer caso, Winter encontrou conforto no fato de que Pilgrim‘s Lament tinha sido reduzida as cinzas. Ele já não era um monumento trágico na noite de horror e

dor.

Quando à segunda semana rolou, ela encontrou a força para voltar para a escola. Havia alguns olhares curiosos de seus colegas de classe enquanto ela passava pelo corredor, mas para a maior parte ninguém parecia muito interessado em saber o porquê ela tinha desaparecido há uma semana. Exceto Jasmine, é claro, que manteve a distância dela como se preocupada que ela pudesse perturbá-la. Eventualmente, enquanto o dia se aproximava do fim, Winter viu Jasmine guardando seus livros à distância em seu armário e decidiu que era hora de falar.

— Ei, Jas. Jasmine pulou ao som da voz de Winter. Ela virou, seu rosto confuso. — Win, você está de volta!

Winter sorriu para a amiga. — Está tudo bem, Jas. Eu estou fazendo o melhor.

O lábio inferior de Jasmine começou a tremer e então ela abraçou Winter, enterrando suas lágrimas no ombro seu ombro. — Eu estava tão preocupada com você, Winnie! Eu ainda não sei o que exatamente aconteceu lá em cima, mas eu sinto como se fosse minha culpa.

— Não é culpa sua. Tinha que acontecer dessa maneira, — Winter sussurrou, enquanto ela acariciava a parte de trás da cabeça de Jasmine. Ela não podia fazer Jasmine entender que Blake trouxe o destino para si mesmo. Que foi parte do acordo feio que ele fez em troca de sua segurança.

Lágrimas molharam seu próprio rosto, tornando-se perdidas nos cabelos de Jasmine. Era bom chorar, como se ela estivesse purificando um pouco de sua dor com as lágrimas. A dor dentro dela ainda estava lá, estaria sempre lá, mas esse conforto de sua amiga tornou suportável.

Depois que elas ficaram abraçadas por algum tempo, Jasmine When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

retirou seu abraço e limpou o nariz. — Eu sinto muito, eu arruinei seu suéter, — disse ela, balançando a cabeça para o remendo úmido no ombro de Winter.

— Eu acho que estamos quites, — disse Winter, rindo um pouco em meio às lágrimas e apontando para as manchas que tinha deixado em Jasmine.

Jasmine fechou seu armário e elas se dirigiram pelo corredor em direção ao estacionamento. — Há ainda muito o quê eu não entendo. Você vai me dizer agora? — Jasmine perguntou hesitante, enquanto elas saíram para a luz quente da tarde.

— Sim. Eu acho que posso. — Era um dia tão bonito, e Winter estivera confinada por tanto tempo que ela não queria ir para casa ainda. — Vamos dar um passeio.

— Onde?

Winter pensou por um momento, antes de responder. — A praia.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Capítulo 65 When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Winter tinha começado a contar seu conto estranho quando Jasmine chegou a Praia do Farol, e elas estacionaram e desceram para a praia.

Além de um pescador de pé pela beira da água, as duas garotas tinham a longa extensão de praia para si. Elas deixaram um rastro de pegadas duplas por trás delas, enquanto elas fizeram o seu caminho ao longo da areia, parando de vez em quando para pegar uma concha colorida ou pular uma pedra. No começo foi difícil para Winter falar sobre Blake, mas uma vez que ela começou e as palavras vieram com mais facilidade, logo a estória foi caindo fora

dela como se pronta para finalmente ser lançada.

Quando os eventos de seu conto tomaram um rumo para o sobrenatural, ela ficou preocupada de que Jasmine pudesse interrompê-la com perguntas que ela não podia ter respostas. Mas sua amiga simplesmente escutou em silêncio, acenando de vez em quando e deu a Winter simpatia quando sua voz falhou contando os últimos momentos de Blake.

Eventualmente, quando a luz no céu começou a dourar e a maré começou a roubar as suas pegadas, Winter percebeu que ela não tinha mais nada a dizer. Ela sentou-se na areia e viu que elas não estavam longe daquele lugar mágico onde ela e Blake se beijaram pela primeira vez. Jasmine sentou ao lado dela e as duas garotas assistiram as ondas rolar.

— Uau, — disse Jasmine, olhando pensativamente para o oceano.

— Eu não espero que você acredite nisso.

Jasmine respirou fundo, sua testa tricotando enquanto ela chegava a conclusão. — Eu acredito nisso, Win. É uma estória incrível, mas... Eu acredito nisso.

Winter sorriu para Jasmine e apertou a sua mão em sinal de gratidão. Ela não precisava que Jasmine acreditasse nela, mas a fez se sentir melhor sabendo que ela acreditava. Ela não tem que carregar o fardo da estória de Blake mais sozinha.

— O que você acha que aconteceu com Sam? — Jasmine perguntou depois de alguns minutos de silêncio contemplativo.

Winter encolheu os ombros. — Eu não sei. Seu pai tinha feito um bom trabalho.

— Ele realmente se importava com você, você sabe.

— Sam? — Winter franziu a testa para Jasmine em confusão.

— Não. Blake. — Jasmine desenhou um pequeno círculo na areia enquanto falava. — A primeira vez que eu vi vocês dois When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

juntos, eu podia sentir. Foi na maneira como ele olhou para você. Às vezes, você pode apenas dizer.

— Nós apenas nos conhecemos em um curto espaço de tempo, — disse Winter distante. Tão curto.

Jasmine deu de ombros. — Não tem haver com o tempo. Vocês poderiam ter convivido por cem anos ou um minuto e isso não teria mudado nada sobre a maneira como ele se sentia sobre você. As pessoas convivem uma vida inteira sem encontrar algo especial.

As palavras de Jasmine ressoaram para Winter. De alguma forma, ouvir sua amiga falando sobre seu amor por Blake de maneira simples e honesta fez Winter ainda mais grata por ter tido a oportunidade de experimentá-lo. Blake se sacrificou muito por ela; o mínimo que ela podia fazer era suportar esta dor de cabeça por ele.

Jasmine levantou-se, sacudindo a areia de suas pernas. — Você está pronta para ir para casa?

Winter balançou a cabeça. — Eu acho que eu vou ficar aqui e assistir ao pôr do sol. Depois eu vou para casa. Obrigada por escutar, Jas. — Sempre. — Jasmine sorriu para ela, em seguida, começou a andar para trás ao longo da praia em direção ao estacionamento.

Winter assistiu a faixa vermelha no horizonte começar a escurecer. Quando a luz estava indo embora, ela desabotoou o botão superior de sua camisa e retirou o imã. Ela não o tirou por um único momento desde que ela voltou da Montanha da Coruja.

Enquanto Winter segurava a pequena esmeralda sob a luz do sol morrendo, um pensamento lhe ocorreu.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Poderia funcionar?

Winter sentiu seu coração começar a correr com a emoção da possibilidade remota. Ela revirou o imã entre o polegar e o indicador, sentindo seu poder – um poder que ela não sabia se

possuía mais.

Ela tinha que tentar!

O nome passou pelos os lábios de Winter, o nome que a assombrava desde que ela tinha acordado com aqueles belos olhos verdes na igreja. Ela começou a sussurrá-lo uma e outra vez, querendo que ele retornasse, na esperança de que ainda houvesse um pouco de magia no mundo agora que ele se foi.

— Blake? — Winter chamou a escuridão. A maré se arrastava, o ar ficou frio e ela ainda esperava.

Esperou até ele vir.

When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

Continua em

WINTER’S LIGHT

p Papyrus When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway.

Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one .

After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell.

Turns out she was right.

So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition.

My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution.

It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft.

Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi nishe d thos e initial clumsy pages I managed t o churn out gave me the strength I needed to fi nish the story.

p “ “Qui sait beaucoup ne craint rien.” ―Do muito saber vem o nada a temer.‖