Exalted (30 page)

Cayne still liked to drive
fast when he couldn't fly.

Julia had a thing for the
gardens in Golden Gate Park, so they would often spend a few hours there before
checking into their hotel, a quaint three-story on a side street within walking
distance of the wharf—the same place they'd stayed since the very first year
Drew invited them for barbeque, that summer he met Yates.

It was always a good time,
but this summer promised to be extra good. Julia had talked to Carlin the week
before, and although Car hadn't admitted it, Julia had a strong suspicion the
girl had been in St. Moritz—and they all knew which smut peddling,
playboy-lifestyle-living, Carlin-obsessed bachelor made his platial home in the
Alps.

As she climbed out of the car
in front of a stone and wood cottage in the beautiful, family-oriented Saint
Francis Wood neighborhood, Julia smoothed her green and white dress and flashed
Cayne a mischevious grin. Okay, maybe it was kind of a nervous grin.

The smoky, tangy scent of
barbecue slid up her nose, and Julia followed the smell around the houses,
where a crashed tricycle made her smile, to a familiar form in a purple Polo
and khaki shorts, covered in the front by a pink and white gingham apron. Back
half-turned, Drew was manning a grill and talking to—

"JULIA!" Carlin,
wearing suede-looking leggings, boots, and a stylish white tunic, jumped up
from the picnic table, her curly brown hair bouncing as she ran, screeching
"bebé!" and a bunch of other over-excited, four-letter words that
were totally inappropriate for Mere, Drew and Yates's three year old.

"Julia! Why didn't you
tell me, oh, you look wonderful!"

Drew and Cayne moved in for a
man hug, and as Julia beamed at Drew and he beamed back, she could tell he
wasn't really surprised.

He smiled, shrugging as he
stepped closer to hug Julia. "You look marvelous."

"So do you."

She heard the sliding glass
door open, followed by Mere's voice. Julia turned to see the little girl with
pig-tails and a yellow white dress emerging through the door, holding her
father's hand.

But as Yates strode forward,
handing Drew a bottle of what was probably some fancy burger seasoning, and
revealing another figure behind him, Julia saw spots. You're-pregnant, you-might-pass-out-now
kind of spots.

She heard Carlin start to
cackle as the newcomer grinned—and oh my, what a grin.

"EDAN!"

Six-foot-three,
caramel-haired, gray-eyed, totally human Edan looked every inch the billionaire
he was. He grinned as he leaned down to kiss her on the cheek.

"Surprised?" he
asked.

Julia nodded.
"Very."

He clasped hands with
Cayne—the two mended fences way back when The Alpha offered Edan mortality.
"I had no idea," he said, nodding to Julia's obviously pregnant
stomach.

"No one did," Cayne
said. "She wanted to surprise Car."

"I am surprised! And
excited! Aunt Carlin! It sounds good."

Drew cleared his throat in a
serious kind of way, and Julia glanced at him. Before he could say anything,
she saw his face light up with what she knew to be a vision. He put his hand on
Mere's hair, and as if on cue, the little girl stepped over to Julia. "You
have a surprise," she said, "and so does Aunt Carlin."

"Oh really?"

Julia turned to Carlin.

"Are you ashamed of
me?" Edan said, and Julia's stomach filled with butterflies as her good
friend beamed, and she stretched out her left hand.

Julia screamed. She actually
screamed, and for the next few minutes, she and Carlin were jumping and
screaming like the college roommates they had once been.

"HOLY CRAP, CAR! Edan!
That's a
rock
."

Edan smiled his still-sly
smile, and Carlin twined her arms around his neck.

"It's about time,"
Yates put in.

Cayne took Julia's hand,
fingertips stroking her knuckles, and Julia pulled him close and nodded.
"It really is." She grinned. "I'm so
excited
."

-THE END-

ACKNOWLDGEMENTS:

If you followed me at
www.ellajamesbooks.blogspot.com
or liked
www.facebook.com/ellajamesauthorpage
,
you know I had a lot of trouble getting Exalted ready for the world. I'm not
sure what made this book's production process quite so difficult. At one point
I had it chalked up to plain ole bad luck. My copy editor suggested a curse. The
Adversary in action? Methuselah's sour grapes? Regardless, I want to thank the
fans that followed me through these many roadblocks. You cheered me on when a
virus ruined the original document file and I had to re-type the entire book.
You were patient when, over and over again, I suffered delays. You were
dedicated, enthusiastic, and kind, and your support was so appreciated. No
author could ask for better fans.

*

ABOUT EDITING:

I love almost everything about being an indie
author. One of the few things I don’t love is lack of access to the number of
editors available to a traditionally published author. Did you know
traditionally published books are often edited by two to four different
editors? There are editors for storyline continuity and editors for grammar.
Indie authors pay their editors out-of-pocket—and they usually have only one.
Even the best editor can’t stack up against three or four, and if you’ve read
indie books, you’ve probably noticed that they usually have more typos. As an
author, I know typos can distract from a good story, and I hate them. If you
find a copy error in one of my books, please e-mail me. My e-mail address is
[email protected]. I would welcome your keen eye—so much so that I’m
offering to pay you 5 cents for every typo you spot. (The only caveat is we
have to agree that it’s an error). This message is at the end of the book
rather than the beginning because I don’t want you to go looking for errors.
(There are easier ways to win money from me. Check out my Facebook page; I do lots
of giveaways!) But if you are the sort that notices every error, my apology to
you is this offer.

*

WHAT'S NEXT:

Turn the page for an excerpt of Here, the first book
in my new YA paranormal romance series. Follow my blog at
www.ellajamesbooks.blogspot.com
for information on more new releases, including a new adult contemporary
romance in December and an adult contemporary romance in January. And possibly,
one day, more on Meredith's story.

SUMMARY:

Milo Mitchell's life
used to be charmed, but that was before her family dissolved, she went a little
crazy, and her best friends started acting more like strangers. Spending
Saturday morning in a treehouse with a stun gun for company and a herd of deer
for friends is the only exciting thing in her life...until she shoots a fawn
and finds her dart stuck in a guy.
Her gorgeous victim is dressed in a Brioni tux and armed with a hanky. He has
no idea who or where he is. Afraid her dart caused his amnesia, Milo takes him
in, names him Nick, and vows to help him solve his mystery. Soon the pair find
Nick's face in a newspaper obituary, and Nick begins to have strange, ethereal
memories of Milo, who is sure she's never met him. Suddenly Nick knows things
he shouldn't know and is doing things he shouldn't do. When the Department of
Defense shows up, Nick and Milo run - toward a shocking conclusion that could
destroy both their worlds.

Here was nominated
Best YA Sci-fi/Fantasy Novel at utopYA Convention 2012.
Turn the page to read the first four chapters!

CHAPTER
ONE

The
day it happened, things were regular enough.

Halah,
Sara Kate, and Bree had spent the night—a chilly October Friday we’d talked
through until the sun rose, pink and soft across the Rockies. I awoke to Sara
Kate’s knee in my back, sharp enough to poke a hole through my favorite Cream
t-shirt. Halah and Bree were curled up on the floor, Halah’s pink subzero
“hotsack” tossed over the Miley Cyrus bag Bree’s grandmother had given her the
previous Christmas—the year we’d turned 15. Halah called the bag Miss Miley,
and at sleepovers at Sara Kate or Halah’s house, I usually fought Bree for her.

This
morning, Halah’s curly head stuck up, and her hazel eyes met mine. We grinned,
then pounced on Bree, chanting “Miss Miley, Miss Miley, Miss Miley!” till Bree
lurched up, her curvy body raining fragments of the popcorn we’d all munched
and, later, crunched into my rug.

“Shhh
hhh
!” That was Sara Kate, lumbering up
and glaring at us. She was never a morning person, and she’d been even less one
since she’d started hanging out with Ami McVea of the multi-colored dreadlocks
and
Turn Off Your Radio
(KILL THE MACHINE)
bumper sticker. S.K. hadn’t actually told me this—I was only her best friend,
after all—but I’d overheard her talking to Ami after orchestra practice, saying
something about midnight rides, and I happened to know from my college cousin
West that Ami and S.K. had been sneaking out on weeknights, riding into Denver
to go to (what else?) indie music shows.

“You’re
riding with the big dawgs. This ain’t no rusty banged up Beetle,” Halah
drawled. She had the most ridiculous faux Old West accent ever, and she was
referencing Ami McVea’s VW bug. We—the quad—had called ourselves the big dogs
in years past, although I couldn’t quite remember why.
 

Bree
ambled over and barked in Sara Kate’s ear. S.K. batted her off, then slid out
of my bed and pulled a Pop Tart out of her overnight bag. Halah braided Bree’s
hair, and S.K. painted her toenails with my electric lilac polish, and I
straightened my room and made us waffles, which we ate on the downstairs couch,
watching
Jeopardy
re-runs that Halah
killed, ’cause that girl made awesomesauce out of random facts, despite what
she wanted our school to think. (Re: brainless, badass, and beautiful).
 

Half
an hour later, the four of us stood in the pebbly indention of my driveway, a
time-shorn path through the rough grass that dusted the foothills of the
mountains.

I
looked at Bree and Halah, a unit within our unit, best friends just like S.K.
and I. “You guys be careful.” I smiled tightly. “Halah, spare Bobby the crotch
shot.”

Bobby
Malone was this senior who’d cheated on one of Halah’s cheer
teammates—Annabelle Monroe, the blonde cheerleader archetype. Which is why he
was also the bull’s eye in the day’s paintball meet-up.

Halah
grinned wickedly. “I’m not going for his crotch, Milo. I’m going for his little
tiny
balls
.”

“That’s
disgusting.” Bree’s nose scrunched.

“Keep
her out of trouble, mkay?”
 

Bree
shrugged. She had a piece of popcorn smashed under her breasts.

“I
want pictures,” S.K. called, as Hal and Bree set off.

“Only
if they can’t be used against us in a court of law,” Halah called back.

They
drove away, aiming for the far-off fence at the front edge of Mitchell
property. Hang a left, and they’d be on a gravel road that ran below the
massive Front Range, just a tiny ribbon if viewed from the top of the peaks, up
by turbines.

Mitchell
Turbines.

Mitchell
Windfarm.

Home.

S.K.
was never much for goodbyes, and after all, we didn’t know that’s what this
was. That bright gray morning was just an ordinary Saturday, on an ordinary
weekend in our junior year at Golden Prep, the only private arts high school on
our side of Denver.

“Have
fun with Bambi,” she said, and tossed her black hair, like the glossy, perfect
mane annoyed the heck out of her. (For the record, it really did).

“Have
fun with Jackie Chan.”

That
would be her Tae Kwon Do instructor, a big, smiling hottie whose actual name
was David.

S.K.
arched one brow. It jutted up over the frames of her black, square-ish glasses.