Newhaven: Book Two of The Reaper Trilogy a YA Paranormal by Elizabeth J. Rekab ➱ Release Tour with Giveaway

 

Newhaven
The Reaper Trilogy Book 2
by Elizabeth J. Rekab
Genre: YA Paranormal

New town, new rules... Same evil.

After discovering that everything they believed in was a lie, the survivors of Everhaven struggle to adapt to life in the harsh Outside world. Abigail, her mother, and her boyfriend, Preston have settled into a town noted for psychics—a role Abbie quickly adapts to thanks to her continued ability to communicate with the Dead. She can't help but wonder why ghosts disappear when they touch her, but she doesn't have time to contemplate that when she has a vision of a new town, like Everhaven. Abbie realizes with horror that it's happening all over again.

Now, she must locate the town and figure out a way back inside the Beneath to free her father and best friend. Secrets revealed along the way threaten to derail Abbie's plans, but she can't let them. She's determined to defeat the terrible underworld ruler Ivan once and for all; the fate of thousands of souls depends on it.

Goodreads * Amazon

Everhaven
The Reaper Trilogy Book 1

A town not even the Dead can escape. A teen who dreams of freedom. Can Abbie save her loved ones before Everhaven claims their souls forever?

"As someone who loves my YA books, this is a great read that kept me intrigued and invested in the story until the very end! Truly one of a kind." - Early Reviewer

"Think Pleasantville written by Stephen King... An absolute winner... Elizabeth J. Rekab [is a] fictional writing magician." - Goodreads Reviewer

17-year-old Abigail Walters knows that after an Everhaven resident dies, they will come to her, just as she knows she will always be an outcast due to her late father’s crimes. What's more, she can't leave Everhaven no matter how badly she may want to escape. No resident can cross its border into the outside world.

When a string of random deaths and missing corpses plagues the town, Abigail begins to wonder whether her own father’s death was accidental, or if he was punished for seeking something he was never meant to find. Unable to trust the authorities, Abigail embarks on a mission to finish what her father started; uncover the truth of a terrifying town conspiracy that threatens a fate far worse than becoming a restless corpse.


**Only .99 cents!!**
Goodreads * Amazon

THE CALLING

 

The Dead always ring three times.

Those words bounce around inside my head like an echo in

the forest. They chip away at my brain like a creek wearing at the

soil. When I close my eyes, the phrase floats there, suspended

behind my eyelids. My mind pokes it, prods it, turns it upside down,

considers its implications.

As I step out of the kitchen into the living room and look

across to my front door, I don’t even realize my mouth is moving,

whispering the words over and over again like a mantra.

“The Dead always ring three times.”

In Everhaven, the Dead don’t always stay still. Sometimes,

they have unfinished business. In fact, they usually do. It could be a

message for a husband, or a wife, or child; a need to find something

that was lost or return something to where it belonged; or even just a

desire to see the stars and walk the earth and just talk with someone

once more. In those cases, not even advanced decomposition and a

closed coffin lid will stop them. Every resident knows this, but we all

go about our lives as though we don’t. It’s a gift from our Provider,

after all. One of the more morbid ones, but still a gift. Nonetheless,

the Dead generally stay out of sight and thus—somewhat—out of the

mind of the usual townsfolk. Unless you’re the Rester.

The Dead won’t follow you on the street, or track you down at

school, or do their stiff-legged saunter into Henry’s Diner. But if

you’re the Rester, they will come straight to your front porch at night.

They won’t knock, or jiggle your doorknob, or throw stones at your

window. No, they ring the doorbell three times for reasons I can’t

pretend to comprehend. How can I decipher the behavior of the

Dead when the town’s former Rester, Rodney Brown, didn’t even

fully understand?

His words are what churn through my mind tonight as I stare

at the front door; more importantly, at the figure standing just outside

on my porch—a distorted shadow, visible through the door’s frosted

glass pane.

My home suddenly feels ten degrees cooler. The tiny hairs on

the back of my neck begin to prickle. Every follicle on my body zaps

to attention, as though I’ve been rolling around in wool for hours and

built a static charge to epic proportions, sending strange tingling

sensations skittering up and down my spine.

“The Dead always ring three times,” Rodney Brown had said.

He’d spoken those words less than a month before his death.

He wasn’t talking to me, wasn’t even sitting at the same table as me,

but I heard it like he was speaking right into my ear. Like somehow it

had been said with me in mind. I’d watched as he wiped a bead of

sweat from his gray, caterpillar-sized eyebrows. The little droplet fell

square into the steaming chowder he was hunched over, but he

didn’t seem to notice.

“Don’t know why, but it’s always three, one right after the

other. Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong,” he continued between

noisy slurps of sweat-infused soup. He made wide gestures with his

free arm, as though acting out a campfire story. “And if you don’t

answer, they won’t leave. Oh, no. They’ll stand on your porch, still as

a lamp post until you open that door. It’s a gift—and praise our

Provider for that—but them Ringers are stubborn.”

My mother would’ve chastised me if she’d known I was

eavesdropping. So, while she finished her black tea, I shoveled a

spoonful of blueberry pie into my mouth and kept what I’d heard to

myself. But not even my favorite dessert in honor of my fourteenth

birthday could erase it from memory. The Rester’s gruff voice

continued to fill my head long after he’d left Henry’s Diner.

Until his death two days ago, Rodney Brown answered when

the Dead came to his door for sixty long years. It was his duty to

finish their business and get them back into their graves. Anyone in

town can see the Dead, but only the Rester can hear their voice.

Everhaven needs a new Rester now.

“Not me,” I whisper to no one in particular as my gaze

remains fixated on the blurred shadow outside my door. The

implications of what this will mean for me, for my already-outcast

status, and the duties I’ll have to perform . . . none of it seems

desirable. Not one bit. “Please, not me.”

My fingers loosen their hold on the large wooden spoon I’m

clutching, which I’d been using to stir the spaghetti sauce simmering

on the stove when the doorbell rang and made me forget all about

dinner. The spoon slides from my hand and hits the plush, white

living room carpet, staining it marinara-red. Somewhere in the back

of my mind, my mother’s voice screams that I’m like some sort of

barnyard animal and scolds me for making a mess. Right now, I can’t

bring myself to care.

Legs trembling, I step over the fallen spoon and creep across

the rest of the living room toward the door. The shadow through the

glass pane doesn’t move. I can make out a head and hunched

shoulders, still as a statue.

Still as a lamp post.

My mouth opens to say something, to yell for whoever it is to

go away. Anything. But my voice lodges in my throat like a chunk of

barely chewed steak, and I’m unable to force even a strangled

squeak from my vocal cords. I want to shout for my mother, but even

if I could, I know she’s out trying to nudge her way into the town’s

social committee and not due back for an hour. Which means I’m

alone except for whatever stands on my porch. Still, my stubborn

feet continue to shuffle forward. I’m terrified to see what’s out there,

but I want to know. I need to.

My stomach tightens, feeling like an almond getting crushed

in a nutcracker, because somehow, I already know the truth in my

bones.

As I reach the foyer, the shiny white tiles are an unexpected

contrast to the cushy carpeting. The sudden, stiff coldness under my

toes shocks me into a moment’s hesitation. Just a moment. Then I

move again. I’m inches from the door now. Breath hitches in my

chest and wheezes out through clenched teeth. My shaking fingers

close around the brass doorknob, but my hand is so clammy that

they keep slipping off. After several unsuccessful attempts, I finally

turn the knob, hearing the soft click as the lock pops out of place.

Just do it, I tell myself. Now.

Without further hesitation, I yank the door wide open.

A brick wall of stench greets me first. It’s so pungent that I

slap my open palm over my mouth and nose, and bile stings the

back of my throat. So overpowering that I momentarily forget about

the Ringer standing on my front porch, muddying up the tan

welcome mat.

I almost don’t recognize him. His once-dark skin is paler,

ashen. The face is somehow bloated yet sagging at the same time,

eyes sunken and glazed over like cellophane wrap has been

stretched over the brown irises. The whites of his eyes are peppered

with broken lines of black veins. Silver hair caked with dirt and

decay.

Despite his appearance, I know who it is; I’d known the

moment the doorbell rang the telltale three times. The bile climbs

higher up my throat and suddenly I’m biting my lips together to hold it

in. The Ringer’s dead eyes lock on mine as the swollen mouth

begins to move. A raspy voice grates my ears as it speaks the words

I’ve been dreading to hear.

“I’m sorry, Abigail,” Rodney Brown says. “It’s you.”

 

 

 

PART ONE – WAKE

 

CHAPTER ONE

 

20 Days to Return

My name is Abigail Walters, and I am Everhaven’s one and only

Rester. Rodney Brown’s corpse delivered the news of my calling a

month after my fourteenth birthday. Three long years ago, now.

My life hasn’t been the same since.

It’s my job to get the Dead back where they belong with minimal

incident. They can’t find their way back without me. Death has a

way of fogging the mind like that, it seems. The Dead only walk at

night, and only seem to know the path between the cemetery and my

house. Like deranged homing pigeons, they come straight to my

front porch, leaving their muddy footprints on the white-washed wood

my mother always has to scrub clean.

“Hello up there! I’m ready to sleep now!”

The voice pulls me from my thoughts, and I look down into Jesse

Douglass’ open grave. He’s peering up from his coffin, staring at me

impatiently with arms crossed over his chest.

“I’m sorry.”

“You should be,” he scoffs. “You can’t let your mind wander like

that when you’re supposed to be performing my slumber ritual.”

Some Ringers are awfully testy. This one in particular has been

a nonstop barrel of fun since he came to my door. Even in life, Jesse

Douglass wasn’t known around town for his pleasantness. He spent

most of his later days perched in a rocking chair on his porch and

yelling at children that ventured too close, “Get off my lawn, it don’t

pretty itself!”

The fetid stench of decay floats up to me from six feet down. It’s

more than enough to make a normal person gag, but when you’ve

been doing what I have for three solid years, you get used to it.

Mr. Douglass’ silver eyebrows inch upward. “Well?”

“I’m starting now. Lay back and relax, please.”

“About time.” He lets his head fall back to the casket’s pillow and

his eyelids slide closed.

“May the Provider catch you with opens arms,” I begin, and Mr.

Douglass draws an unnecessary yet satisfied-sounding breath. A

lingering reflex from being alive, no doubt.

Walking over to my bicycle that rests near the Ringer’s

headstone, I grab the backpack and spade I’d brought. I rest both on

the ground near the base of the stone, then kneel and unzip the bag,

the noise sharp and biting in the otherwise silent graveyard. My

hands emerge from inside the bag clutching a silver lighter, two tall

white candles wrapped in wax paper, a small bottle of cleansing oil, a

pocket-sized prayer book, and a flashlight.

I unwrap the candles and place them at either side of the

headstone, making sure I grind them into the grass so they don’t fall

over. Carefully, I light them, and reach for the bottle of cleansing oil

before standing and brushing off my knees. Pulling the cork from the

bottle, I tip it over the grave and allow some of the liquid to dribble

down onto Mr. Douglass’ forehead.

The Ringer’s eyes fly open, and he huffs through his nostrils.

“Excuse me, do you keep your oil in the gosh dang freezer, child?”

“Sorry, Mr. Douglass.” I’m getting tired of apologizing. “You can

close your casket now.” I wait for Mr. Douglass to reach up and grab

the handle all Everhaven caskets are equipped with. He pulls the lid

shut with a loud THUNK. Too loud. No doubt trying to make one last

point as he slams his final door.

Bending, I recork the oil bottle, set it aside, and grab the leatherbound

prayer book and flashlight. The beam of the flashlight scans

the worn, delicate pages. I have the prayer memorized, of course,

but tradition dictates that I read directly from the book.

Going through the motions, I clear my throat to recite the

Provider’s prayer. Because this is the way it’s always been done,

always will be done. Still, the words seem empty to me, which makes

me at odds with just about everyone else in this town. Sometimes, I

envy them and find myself wishing I shared their faith, which would

make life easier. Simpler. At least the devout feel something,

whereas all I feel is hollow. Ever since five words changed my life,

there’s been a void within me that keeps on growing. Feeding on

itself and festering, its infection spreading more nothingness within

me. Those words weren’t, “I’m sorry, Abigail. It’s you.”

The words that changed me the most were, “I’m sorry, Abigail.

He’s gone.”

Still the worst words I’ve ever heard in my life.

Once again lost in the past, my voice shakes with emotion as the

Provider’s prayer leaves my lips just above a whisper.

From darkness comes light,

Hope incarnate.

Once every hundred and fifty years, He will return.

He will gather the souls of the dearly departed and guide them to

paradise.

He will bestow great kindness upon those who believe,

For his glory knows no bounds.

I finish reciting the prayer and shut the book, which also contains

a brief history of Everhaven. I know that, too, by heart. It explains

how, nearly 150 years ago, our town founders signed a contract with

the Provider, promising our unwavering devotion in exchange for

good fortune. That every 150 years, He will return to collect the souls

of Everhaven’s Dead and take them to His home in Paradise.

The details of the contract have always been hazy to me.

Though it boils down to this: the souls of all those born in Everhaven

are entrusted to Him, and because of this, no resident can ever

leave town. We are physically unable to move past its borders, just

as our souls are unable to leave our bodies until He comes for them.

It’s the reason a Rester is needed here. Why Ringers walk the earth.

I may not be an expert on the outside world, but I’m pretty sure

this makes our town unique. At any rate, if there are corpses

wandering around in other towns, my father would’ve told me. He

knew so much more about the outside than anyone else in town and

he was always keen to share it with me.

There I go, obsessing over the past again. Once again wistful, I

draw a deep breath, attempting to clear my mind like I always do

when performing the rituals. Then I speak to the closed casket

beneath me one more time.

“Rest well, Mr. Douglass, until the Provider returns for you.”

With my final line recited, I reach for my spade, scoop up some

dirt, and pour it on top of the coffin. Then I do it twice more. Always

three scoops of dirt.

This town loves the number three.

Once finished, I drop the spade and fish inside my backpack for

the finishing touch; a traditional Everhaven wreath made of white

roses and sage. I leave it beside the grave to indicate to the

Gravedigger—a quiet, stoic man named Louis Locke—that the body

is back in its coffin and ready for final reburial.

My work is done for the night.

I shine the flashlight onto my wristwatch.

It’s ten fifteen.

Exactly twenty days, one hour, and forty-five minutes until the

Provider returns.

Quickly, I blow out the ceremonial candles, wrap them back up in

the wax paper, and place them along with the rest of my Rester

toolkit items inside the backpack before zipping it shut and sliding

the straps around my shoulders. Then, I walk my bicycle over toward

the place in the cemetery I’m most familiar with.

The grave I’m seeking is toward the middle; another gray

marble slab etched with heartbreaking words. My hands drift toward

them and I kneel down in the grass, soft blades cool against my

shins while my fingers trace the familiar letters. I’ve lost count of how

many times I’ve visited this grave, but I have to do it before I leave

the cemetery as part of my own personal ritual.

Alexander Walters.

Beloved father and husband.

“Hey, Dad,” I whisper, the pain still raw even five years later.

Another pang catches me off guard, and a sigh hitches in my

throat. I miss him. I miss the way we were together. Until the freak

accident happened when I was just twelve-years-old.

My father’s job was to keep the town’s electricity functioning.

One night during a routine check, one of the generators caught fire,

and my father was trapped. By the time the flames died down, the

town was left in darkness for a week. All that remained of my father

was a few charred bones and teeth, everything that he was reduced

to nothing more than a pile of ash. The remains were buried; with his

soul, I’m told. In such a rare and extreme case, the body can’t wake

back up. A funeral is given and the casket stays closed, where the

spirit lingers in a state of stasis. Until His return.

My fingers drift to the metal piece I always wear around my

neck, and I remember the day I found it. I’d snuck out of the house a

few days after my father’s death, waited until my mother was asleep

and rode my bicycle to the scene of the explosion. It was a long ride,

to the far reaches of town, but I made it. I stopped at the top of the

low hill maybe fifty yards away from the wreckage, frozen. Though

some of the building’s right side was missing, the brick charred a

dark coal color, the cleanup crews had already removed all the

rubble. For a long time, I just stood at the top of the hill staring,

unable to tear my gaze away from the place my father lost his life,

until something glinting near my foot caught my eye. Nestled in the

grass was a piece of metal about the size of a quarter. Somehow,

the metal had fused itself together into an almost perfect circle,

smooth and scarred black from the fire. I took it home, put it on a

chain, and it’s been with me ever since. A daily reminder of what was

lost.

Of what the Provider failed to protect.

It’s why I wear the charred metal piece in place of the

Provider’s symbol. My mother used to question that a lot, but she

gave up long ago when she realized I was never taking it off. Not for

anything. My mother, however, takes comfort in knowing that her

husband will be with the Provider soon.

I wish I could feel the same comfort.

After kneeling in the grass for a while, I look to my watch

again. It’s something else I always wear. The worn leather band is

much too large for my arm. I had to poke an extra hole just to keep it

from sliding down my wrist. But it belonged to my father, and that’s

good enough reason for me to not care what it looks like.

Its silver hands indicate that it’s now ten thirty.

Exactly five years, five months, three hours, and eleven

minutes since I found out about my father’s death.

But who’s counting? Surely only me. My father has been

forgotten. Only the infamy of his crimes lives on in everyone’s

treatment of my mother and me.

Standing on shaky legs, I brush the grass off my knees. When

I begin to head toward the front of the cemetery, I notice a figure

standing off to the side.

The gravedigger, Louis Locke. He’s known around town as

the “Cemetery Fairy” because he doesn’t talk much, and no one ever

really sees him do his job, yet the graves are always dug when they

need to be dug and his hands are perpetually covered in dirt.

The impassive gaze of his dark eyes is locked on me, and I’m

suddenly frozen in its beam, my cheeks flushing as though I’ve been

caught doing something I’m not supposed to be doing. But that’s just

silly. I haven’t done anything wrong. He cocks his head to one side

as though observing a science experiment, and it’s becoming

unsettling. Desperate to break the tension, I offer a quick wave.

There’s a long pause, and then he lifts his right arm and gives

a single wave in return, followed by a nod of the head. Then he turns

away from me and passes through the graveyard’s wrought iron

gate, heading out onto the street at a brisk, smooth pace, his strides

so fluid it’s almost as though he floats out. My gaze follows him as

he turns the corner. I wonder briefly where he’s going, but I know

he’ll be back.

He has a grave to fill in.

Just as he disappears from view, something rustles from

deeper inside the cemetery behind me. An odd sound, like many

heavy limbs shuffling through grass. I peer over my shoulder.

Nothing there. Just a sea of headstones, as silent and

unmoving as the occupants beneath them.

Still, the hairs on the back of my neck begin to prickle,

sounding a little alarm bell in my head. Suddenly, I can’t get out of

that graveyard quickly enough.

Nothing to be afraid of in Everhaven, I remind myself. No

predators here, no crime. Walking corpses, sure, but they’re

harmless. Annoying sometimes, but harmless.

All my internal assurances don’t stop me from walking my

bicycle faster.

I exit the cemetery’s gates and turn onto the street, quiet now

because of curfew. We’ve always had an unspoken curfew—

excluding those in jobs that require late night hours, like myself and

Louis Locke—though no one has ever explained why. It’s just the

way things have always been. We’re just supposed to accept things

at face value here, though my father never did. "That was his

problem," my mother would say. But I refuse to accept that.

I’ve just swung my leg over my bicycle when I hear a voice

next to me.

“Rester duties, again?”

Jumping, I spin as a figure steps into the light of the nearby

lamp post. It’s just Marcie Chambers, my best friend. More like an

older sister, really.

She has flawless skin, almond-shaped eyes the color of

melted caramel, and delicate features. Pretty, in my opinion. As the

baker of the best cupcakes in town, I’m more used to seeing her with

an apron around her waist and a smattering of white flour in her dark

hair. But tonight she’s more cleaned up, wearing a vibrant, capsleeved

yellow dress that hugs her curves just right and makes the

gold flecks in her eyes stand out even more. How I wish I looked like

her. I’m all gangly limbs and impossible hair, with skin so pale I could

almost pass for a Ringer.

Marcie gives a little wave of greeting. “Didn’t mean to startle

you.” Her voice is a contradiction to her appearance; where she’s

feminine and petite, her tone is low and coarse.

“How did you know I’d be out tonight?”

“Well, I knew Mr. Douglass had just passed, and he seemed

the restless type so, I did the math.”

“It’s after curfew,” I point out. It’s a dumb thing to point out.

Most people in town just quietly shuffle back to their homes by 10pm,

though it’s never been strictly enforced as of yet, and Marcie has

never been one to follow the crowd, anyway.

“It is, but I needed to clear my head after my date with James

today.”

“You mean, you actually said yes?”

She shrugs. “Options are pretty limited in this town, and he

wouldn’t take no for an answer. I figured it couldn’t hurt, but boy was

I wrong. That date was painful, and James certainly isn’t getting any

more charming. Or handsome, for that matter.”

James Marsh is the epitome of awkward, and coming from

me, that’s saying something. I could never picture him with Marcie,

but there may come a time when she has no choice. She’s twentyyears-

old, three years my senior. By law, every resident is required

to be married by the age of twenty-one, and if you can’t make the

decision on your own, a suitor is picked for you. James Marsh is

nineteen-years-old with a massive overbite and a face that’s more

freckles than skin, and he’s been after Marcie for ages. He also

happens to be the son of Deputy Marsh, who himself isn’t the most

pleasant man. I shudder at the thought of being forced to marry

anyone, but it will be my reality someday far too soon. Although, my

father and mother had been an arranged marriage and, to their

credit, they seemed to make things work pretty well. That is, until my

father’s crimes created tension between them.

“You were visiting your father’s grave again, after the ritual.

Weren’t you?” Marcie places a hand on my shoulder. “You know I

loved your father, too. Like he was my own.”

“I know.”

Marcie examines me closer then, taking in my visibly shaken

appearance. “Are you all right? You seemed a little jumpy when you

first saw me, like you were expecting someone else.”

I hold up my hands. “I’m fine, I swear.”

Her eyes narrow a bit, but she doesn’t press further. “Okay.

Take care, Abbie. I’ll see you soon.” With a knowing nod, Marcie

gives my shoulder one last squeeze, offers a sad smile, and turns to

walk home. It’s just then that I realize Marcie never told me why she

came to find me in the cemetery. Was she checking up on me or

something?

Still somewhat rattled, I place my feet on the bicycle pedals

and ride towards home, appealing to the void inside me to quell all

thoughts of arranged marriages and hidden dangers.

NEWHAVEN EXCERPT 

BEFORE

Egypt, 821 BCE

The boy has grown up to be a man.

He was once a scared little thing, skinny and trembling

near the banks of the mighty Nile after his parents abandoned him

and left him for dead. But he proved resilient, staying alive by fighting

the rats and wild dogs for scraps. Later, he was taken in by a

stone-faced couple who sought to use himfor their own means.They

fed and clothed him, and offered him shelter, but in exchange for his

innocence.He was no longer allowed to be a boy, but forced to grow

up an indentured servant, doing what he was told without question

or it meant the whip. But the boy never complained, though those

brown eyes remained calculating. This wasn’t a boy who had given

up; this was a boy who was biding his time.

He's grown into a fine-looking young man now; he knows it and

uses those looks to his advantage. His heart has hardened throughout

the years, cruelty emanating in greater degrees as he worked his

way up the ranks, tearing down all who stood in his way.He’s beaten

the odds, but at the cost of his own soul.

“Kanefer, please,” a young woman says, pleading with the man

who has no use for her now. They speak in their mother tongue, the

language of the pharaohs. “You told me you loved me. You said I

could trust you.”

Two large men flank her, grabbing her roughly by the elbows

with their free hands. Their arms are banded with gold, chests plated

with armor, and their other hands grasp long, sharp-looking spears

that have pierced the flesh of hundreds. The pharaoh’s guards.

“I love no one.” Kanefer’s dark brown eyes settle upon the young

woman with a calculated coldness that makes her pretty, small-featured

face fall into amask of despair. She now realizes thisman is not

the one he claimed to be, and that it means her doom. The young

man’s venomous gaze darts to the guards, and he gives a singular nod.

“Take her away.”

“No. Please, don’t do this,” the woman cries as the guards drag

her away, tears gliding down her face as she’s led roughly through the

street to face her judgment, wild eyes searching for help that won’t

come. “Kanefer!” Her shouts are soon swallowed by the crowd, who

pay her no heed. They are too busy attempting to peddle their various

trinkets and goods or haggle for a good bargain.

From the alley, a figure approaches the young man now, his guise

that of a beggar stricken down by leprosy, the skin hanging off in slim

ribbons, back hunched under a tattered robe.

“Please, sir, spare some change,” the beggar asks with his hands

cupped hopefully, speaking in the local, native tongue.

But the youngman looks upon himwithmalice and disgust. “Be

gone, you filthy beast,” he snarls.

“But sir, I am starving.” The stranger’s pock-marked hand grasps

Kanefer’s wrist to prevent him from moving past.He rips himself violently

free and shoves the beggar, hard.

“Do not touch me, you disgusting animal! You should be dead,

already.”

With that, he spins away and stomps off past the alley, and the

stranger knows the young man’s soul is lost. He already thinks himself

a god, believing himself to be above other humans.That is trouble,

for he is no god. The beggar, on the other hand, is so much more

than Kanefer realizes. The very thing he wishes to be.

He’s lost, but not beyond redemption. And the young man has

now become a personal mission of sorts. Because no soul is hopeless.

Not even his.

Soon, the stranger thinks. Your time is coming yet.

The beggar turns and slinks away from the bustling crowd at the

market, disappearing fromview as he fades into the shadow of the alley.

PART ONE: VISIONS

CHAPTER ONE

Abbie

The crystal ball is cool inmy hands. I stare into it intently, watching,

waiting, tongue clenched between my teeth in concentration.

The ball is small and sleek, seeming to shine with its own luminescence.

It’s also nothing but a prop. I’d found it at a thrift store

slash gift shop three blocks away from my tiny apartment where my

mother works as a salesperson and where I work as a psychic. Apparently,

in the outside world, you need money to live.

But the crystal ball is a tool for my customers. As Preston says,

outsiders love a good spectacle. And a girl from the creepy ruins of

Everhaven who can talk to ghosts and read fortunes in crystals, well...

that draws a crowd. Enough of a crowd for me to make more than

my mother does and contribute to bill paying.

Five months ago, the world was turned upside down for me and

the 966 surviving residents of Everhaven. Just above a quarter of the

former 3,918 residents.We were displaced, nomads from our home,

without purpose. The Provider was gone.

Many of them scattered, branching off to find their place in this

big, unfamiliar, scary world. But some of us stuck together, taking

baby steps towards re-acclimating with the outside. Those of us who

stayed together ended up in Lawton, which isn’t far fromthe ruins of

Everhaven. It’s a small town brimming with psychics, though many

of them are fake.How do I know? Because I’m pretty much the only

one of them who sees ghosts—that lingering effect of my strange

calling in Everhaven.

Mother hasn’t spoken much about what happened since we left.

She no longer wears her Provider necklace or knits. When she first

left Everhaven, she was completely rudderless, but finding a job at the

shop gave her a purpose again, and she threw herself into it headfirst.

5

She spends most of her days dusting off the antiques and prettying

the displays, and even learned how to work the cash register. Honestly,

I’m proud of how far she’s come. As for me, the store had an

opening for a psychic. Almost all the little stores in this town have a

psychic working out the back; it’s what they’re known for.

Now, I clear my throat and speak to the man sitting across the

table from me—my last client of the day. “I see that your dream is to

be a famous artist... a painter. I believe you could be very successful.”

“Pah! Clearly you haven’t seen my dear son paint,” says the ghost

of the man’s father near my ear.

In Everhaven, I could hear the voice of the Dead when they were

inside their bodies. But here, in the outside world, I can see spirits

even without their bodies, and they’re drawn to me. Must be a

perk—if you want to call it that—of being part reaper.

Lucky me.

Fortunately, that made me a perfect candidate for a psychic position,

and I passed the interview with flying colors. Even made the

owner of the store cry when I spoke to her late mother.

“Um, I feel like there might be another path calling you more

strongly than painting, though,” I tell the man, at his father’s behest.

The man’s eyes light up.He can’t be all that much older than me,

maybe early to mid-twenties. “I also DJ on the side.”

“DJ?” My brows rise in question.

“Yeah, DJ. Ya know, Disc Jockey?” I don’t know, but nod and

let him continue anyway. “My name was DJ ShockWave.That’s two

words, like a first and last name. I do weddings and everything.” The

man says it like he expects to impress me.He doesn’t; DJ may as well

be a foreign word to me. The man’s father is equally unimpressed.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake, my son will never get his life together,” the

ghost scoffs, cupping his forehead in his hand.

I stop looking intomy crystal ball, scooting it gently aside on the

table. “Your father is here,” I say.

The man shuffles uncomfortably in his seat. “He-he is?”

“He’s standing right next to me.”

The man looks, of course seeing nothing.

“He says he’s... proud?” I eye up the ghost who shakes his head.

“He loves you?” I try again.

The ghost shrugs. “He’smy son, after all. I love him. But he’s a real

rascal.”

“He called you a rascal,” I tell the man.

“That sounds like him,” he answers wryly.

“I think your father only wants good things for you in life.” I

shoot a pointed look at the ghost, eyebrow raised.

“Of course,” he replies. “I want to see my son succeed. He just

tends to make all the worst choices. May I?” The ghost holds his

hand out to me. “I’m ready.” Spirits say this a lot. He touches my

shoulder—a light touch, a cold mist. Then the ghost disappears in

a haze of light. I don’t know where they go when this happens. But

they go after they touch me. After they say they’re “ready.” Every

time.

“He’s gone now,” I say. “He said he only wants to see you succeed

in life.”

“Succeed by his standards, maybe.” The man sighs and leans forward.

“Hey, what was it really like in Everhaven? Because man, have

I heard some doozies. Nobody liked going there. Everybody steered

clear, for the most part. But I’ve heard stories that you guys would

sacrifice virgins and stuff.”

“Um, no.” I bristle. “No virgin sacrifices.”

He laughs and leans back, thumping his palm on the table. “See,

I knew that was bogus.”

“Plenty of goats, though.”

The man laughs again before realizing I’m serious. Then his

brows furrow. “Shit, you guys really were into some weird stuff in

that town, weren’t you?”

“You don’t know the half of it.” But then I sigh. “It was all we

knew. For a long time.”

“And now it’s wiped off the map by some freak earthquake, off

the charts on the Richter scale?”

“A freak earthquake,” I agree, though I don’t say it was because

my boyfriend and I broke the contract that bound our souls to some

evil, underworld king and the town crumbled as a result. Freak earthquake

is the best explanation I—or anyone else from Everhaven—

can give. It’s the only thing the outside world can even begin

to comprehend.

The man pays me, adding a nice-sized tip before thanking me

and leaving. Another satisfied, intrigued customer.

It’s the end of my shift.

“Last of the day?” The owner of the shop, Daphne, speaks to me

over top a low shelf of antique lamps she’s dusting. I nod.

She’s in her late thirties with thick, wavy hair and flawless, dark

brown skin. Being from Everhaven, I’m not worldly enough to identify

her ethnicity, and she’s never told me other than to say she is, “A

little of this, a little of that.” She’s lived in Lawton for the past two

years. She needed a change, and a town of psychics seemed “Cool,” in

her own words. She claims she never believed in psychics until she

met me, though. She calls me the real deal.

“Make anyone cry today?”

“Only one,” I reply. “Happy tears this morning. It was a momand

her young daughter; I spoke to the grandmother. She was sweet. She

was mainly concerned that her cat was being treated well.”

Daphne chuckles. “You’re something else, you know that? You’ve

got a gift, no doubt. You scare me sometimes, but you’ve got a gift.”

She’s kind but no-nonsense and very blunt. In that way, she reminds

me of Marcie. I feel a pang as I think about my former best

friend, no doubt suffering in the horrible underworld known as the

Beneath. Where I left her.

No, Abbie, don’t do this to yourself. Don’t let Daphne see.

Clenching my teeth to keep my chin from quivering, I hold out

my tips for the day and giveDaphne her cut for letting me work from

the back of her shop. She’s fair; at least, I think she’s fair. I always have

plenty left over.

Daphne whistles, eyes wide as she counts her share. “Abbie, you

are good for business. Never change, sweet pea.”

Mother isn’t working; it’s her day off, so she’s probably shopping

for groceries at the market. I tell Daphne goodbye and push through

the door, hearing the overhead bell jingle as I pocket my profits for

the day.

When I go outside, I spot Preston walking up as he often does,

since he works at a grocery store nearby, and our shifts usually end

around the same time. He’s looking as good as ever; tall, with a mop

of sandy brown hair, hunter green eyes, and a faint scar on his forehead

that somehow only adds to his appeal.He’s dressed much nicer

than I am in a soft-looking, V-neck shirt thatmatches the color of his

eyes, paired with sleek khakis. I suddenly feel ridiculous in my “psychic

medium” garb. Everything on me is blousy, ruffled, and packed

with way too many conflicting colors. Preston still looks at me like

I’ma sight to behold, though—in a good way—and I appreciate him

even more.

“Just the girl I was hoping to see.” He grins as he reaches me.

“Oh, not your other girlfriend?” I say teasingly as he pulls me into

a hug.

He whispers right into my ear. “She’s the next stop.”

That earns him a thump on the chest. He chuckles and dips his

head to kiss me thoroughly.

It’s still weird, saying the words “I have a boyfriend,” because I’d

never had one before a few months ago. It’s a brand-new concept to

me.

When he finally breaks the kiss, much too soon in my opinion,

he leans back a little and examines me. His thumb traces the faint

purple shadows under my eyes.

“You’ve been having the nightmares again, haven’t you?” It’s

more of a statement than a question.He knows me well.Nightmares

of the Beneath, of my father and best friend trapped in that hellish

place for eternity, and of all the death and destruction left in the

wake of breaking the town contract... They never go away, though

some weeks they’re worse than others.

“That obvious, huh?” I say with a sigh. I’m sighing a lot these

days. My initial joy at finally being free of Everhaven was quickly replaced

by the harsh realities of the outside world, along with anguish

over the thought of my loved ones still suffering.

He offers a sad smile. “I’ve been getting themagain, too. Real bad

this week especially, for some reason.”

Without thinking, my hand drifts to the warm metal around my

neck. The metal piece that the Reaper—Louis—had given me years

ago, without my knowing. Sometimes I think that if I rub it hard

enough, I can summon Louis and ask himhow to get back inside the

Beneath, to rescue those trapped there. My father, Marcie, our former

ally Dean, Preston’s father, and countless others. But the Reaper

vanished without a trace after Everhaven crumbled.

Preston draws a deep breath before he speaks. “I keep thinking

that maybe my father left some other clues for us, encoded in his

journal. But I think I’ve read that thing a thousand times cover to

cover, and I’ve got nothing.”

“Got nothing. What else is new?”

I scowl at the condescending voice and turn to see Sal Capello’s

deep-set, dark eyes fixated on me. He’s walking with Jonah

Lane—Blue. They are two other Everhaven survivors. Blue is taller

and lankier, features wide and soft, making him appear younger with

a friendly, approachable quality. Sal is shorter and stockier with hard

lines, harshly sculpted edges, and an astute, jaded gaze that ages him

up. Opposites in every way. For some reason, they chose to stick

around Lawton too.

Sal used to be my nemesis and a bit of a bully, though he’s

changed somewhat, and even saved me in Everhaven, pulling me out

of a crater before I could fall tomy death.He’s still Sal though, which

means the bad kind of blunt and the wrong side of pleasant. On the

other hand, Blue—nicknamed for the vivid color of his eyes—has

become a surprisingly bright spot. He waves at me and beams. Blue

has been learning something called sign language, since he can’t

speak too well, not since the Silence cut his tongue out. I’ve learned

a few words from him myself. Sal, to his credit, has been learning the

most alongside Blue, probably in an effort to keep his mind occupied.

Blue signs, “Hello,” and that one I know. I sign it back with a

smile.He makes some other quick signs, and I frown, unable to decipher

the full message.

“Wok,” he says, and I understand at once he’s asking how work

was.

“The usual,” I answer. Sal taps him on the shoulder and makes

some quick signs, hiding them from me. Blue nods and looks at me

in apology, realizing Sal is being rude.

“See you later,” he signs to me. “You too,” he signs to Preston. Preston

signs goodbye back. He’s also learned more sign language than

me, given that Blue is his roommate.

I wave and smile—at Blue, not Sal. Then I turn to Preston, who

shakes his head, eyes locked on Sal’s retreating form.

“Capello never really gets any more pleasant, does he?”

“Slightly more tolerable than he used to be,maybe. But pleasant?

Definitely not,” I agree.

Preston reaches for my hand and laces our fingers together. “I

thought I’d surprise you for after-work dinner. Don’t worry,” he

holds up a finger to silence me as I open my mouth to protest, “I al-

NEWHAVEN: BOOK TWO OF THE REAPER TRILOGY 11

ready received approval from your mother to whisk you away on a

dinner date.”

“Well then, sounds like an offer I can’t refuse.” I grin. “Where are

we going?”

“That’s classified,” he says slyly before offering me his arm, which

I gladly accept. It can’t be too classified; there are only somany restaurants

in this town. Though, way more than Everhaven, which only

had two.

As we stroll, arm in arm, we pass by outsiders. I suppose we’re

outsiders now too, and despite a five-month adjustment period, it’s

still a bit of a culture shock. The daily news is so chaotic and sad,

deaths all the time, disease all the time, something we never had to

worry about in Everhaven. Though it was all a lie meant to keep us

complacent until our souls could be reaped and dragged Beneath, to

an underworld monster known as Ivan.

A female outsider chats on her cell phone, clearly a tourist passing

through to get a psychic reading. She pauses in front of one clairvoyant’s

shop, right in front of the Tarot Readings sign. She’s wearing

short shorts I’d never be caught dead in—shorter than I was ever allowed

in Everhaven—and a flower headband worn sideways around

her forehead. She holds out her phone and snaps what I’ve come to

learn is called a selfie, making a peace sign in front of the shop, pursing

her glossy lips.

Outsiders love their selfies.

Cars shooting exhaust fumes speed by on the narrow street,

honking. The noise is sharp and biting, and I resist the urge to cover

my ears. There are so many harsh sounds I still haven’t gotten used to

in the outside world, so many people acting way more reckless than

I’d seen in Everhaven. And this is still considered a tiny town, a laidback

place. I can only imagine what a big city like New York or Los

Angelesmust be like. Part of me would like to know; another part of

me shudders at the thought.

We arrive at our destination. Turns out, it’s Bella Notte’s, the

little Italian restaurant. My mouth starts watering as the smells of

cheese and garlic hit my nostrils. Small as this town and restaurant

might be, it’s still better than the ones we had in Everhaven, which

were meant to discourage outsiders from sticking around.

Preston holds the door open for me to enter. The area is small,

tables draped with thick, white paper, each with a flickering fake candle

in the middle, the dim lighting adding to the warm ambiance.

There are pictures of what I assume must be Italy plastered all over

the walls, fake grape vines snaking around them.

“Madame,” he says with a sly wiggle of his scarred brow as he

pulls out my chair for me. He’s really going all out tonight. I smile

and scooch into the chair, and he takes his seat opposite me, the lines

of his face highlighted by the flickering, fake candlelight. He flashes

that million-dollar grin in return, and as the waitress comes by to

take our drink order, I can’t help but think he’d make a killing as a

server; he’d be raking in tips galore with that smile. Me, I’d be tripping

over my shoelaces and likely fired my first day.

“Just water, please,” Preston says, and I echo his order.

As Preston squints in the dim lighting to read the menu, I clear

my throat and talk about what’s been bugging me.

“Preston?”

“Yeah?” He peers up at me above the over-sized menu.

“Do you think our fathers found each other? You know, Beneath?”

He chews his bottom lip in thought. “I like to think so. I like to

think they’ve found each other and a good hiding place.” He points

to something on the menu. “Hey, fettuccine alfredo sounds good.”

I ignore the last bit. “What if Ivan found them?”

Preston sighs and closes his menu. “The thought is never far

from my mind, believe me. But would it be possible to talk about

something else tonight? I wanted this night to be about us, you

know—nice.”

“But I think it’s important we talk about it.”

“We do talk about it. All the time.”

“No, we don’t.”

“Yes, Abbie, we do. You bring it up all the time.”

“I bring it up, maybe, but you keep changing the subject, so we

never actually talk about it.” I rubmy necklace, the one Louis had left

for me to find years ago, after my father’s death. I hold it up, pinched

between thumb and forefinger. “You know I talk to this thing every

night? I talk to it like it’s a microphone and Louis can hear me at the

other end.Thinking that someday, he’ll respond with answers about

how we can get our fathers out. And Marcie... and Dean.”

The waitress returns with our waters then. She draws a pen and

a pad from a pocket in her apron. She wears black slacks and a white

collared shirt with a bowtie—the Bella Notte uniform. Her hair is

cut into a sleek bob, but the sleekness ends there. Her face looks

worn, dark circles under her eyes bleed into the edges of her freckled

nose. I realize I must look about the same. “Are you ready to order?”

she asks.

I realize that I haven’t even cracked my menu. “I, um, need a

minute,” I say sheepishly. She leaves, and it only takes me a minute of

scanning to decide on lasagna. I close my menu.

“Anyway, what I was saying is that it’s been five months and we’ve

made no progress in figuring out how to get them out.”

Preston reaches across the table and grabs my hand, squeezing

tight. I squeeze right back. “I know this is important to you. It’s important

to me, too. But it’s also been five months of us getting settled

and adjusted into a new life in a crazy outside world. It’s not like

we’ve been sitting around twiddling our thumbs.”

“I know.”

He releasesmy hand and pauses to take a sip of water before continuing.

“Also, it would help if I could afford to buy a computer. I’m

still barely able to make rent with my grocery store wages, and not

able to get much quality research done at the internet café. Shoot, I

still barely even know how to use a computer. Those things are tricky;

I don’t know how outsiders make it seem so easy.”

“If money is a problem, I can pay for dinner tonight. I got an extra

big tip from my last customer.”

He rolls his eyes. “Abbie, no.This was supposed to be my treat,

and that’s not what I meant.”

Before I can protest further, I feel... something. It starts as a tingling

that works its way tomy bones, the tiny hairs on the back ofmy

neck standing up like they used to when a corpse was near in Everhaven,

as they do now when a spirit lingers. But the tingling intensifies.

This is no corpse, no spirit. This is something else.

The metal around my neck grows warm. I look around, half expecting

to see the Reaper. But then the metal stings me, burning my

skin. I see a bright, white flash, and suddenly I’mback in Everhaven...

only, this isn’t Everhaven.There’s a procession of hooded Silents, that

much is the same. But the town looks all wrong. For starters, there

are palm trees and cactuses littering the landscape, and a large gathering

of people I don’t recognize. Like nameless, blank slates. They

walk around an unfamiliar setting; the buildings are all coated with

a rough-looking material and topped with brightly colored tiles. The

crowd converges around a shrine, familiar yet foreign, because the

symbol is the same—a square within a circle—but the surroundings

are different. All wrong. Then it’s like I’m watching a camera pan

under the shrine, through a familiar door, across the red wasteland

of the Beneath, zooming zooming past the mutant animals and the

moaning soul compounds and horrible, hulking guardians. To the

red tower, the throne room where Ivan—the ruler of the realm Beneath—

waits, red eyes gleaming.

It’s Ivan’s horrible face that makes me scream. That laugh, that

terrible laugh...

When I come to, I realize I’m on the ground and Preston is

kneeling next to me, his hands on my face.My eyes flutter open and

Preston breathes a sigh of relief, his expression a mask of concern.

“Thank goodness,” he whispers, pushing my hair from my face.

“Is she ok? Should I call an ambulance?” I hear a worried female

voice ask—our waitress.

I want to say I’m ok, but I can’t, because what I just saw can only

mean one thing. The Reaper must be sending me a message. A warning.

No, I am far from ok.

“Preston, I... it’s...” I can barely formulate a sentence. I’m sputtering.

He helps me to a sitting position and places a palm flat on my

back for support. “What is it? Did you see something?”

He knows I get flashes sometimes.Or, I used to, though I haven’t

had one like this in some time. Not since my father was visiting me

from the Beneath while Everhaven was still standing.

I grasp my boyfriend’s wrist—attached to the hand that lingers

on my face—and lock onto his hunter green eyes, my own eyes wide

and wild as I say the words with panic. “It’s happening again.”

Elizabeth J. Rekab is the author of Young Adult novels Everhaven and Hawnt. Her specialty is teen angst with a paranormal twist. She loves all fiction from comedic to romantic but gravitates towards fantasy, the supernatural, and the macabre. Her favorite thing to do is write chilling short stories and Young Adult paranormal thrillers with no shortage of her trademark wise-cracking characters.
When she's not creating an immersive page-turner, she's either searching for her next travel destination or hanging out with her Yorkipoo, three cats, and Senegal parrot in her home in Florida.

Website * Facebook * Twitter * Instagram * Bookbub * Amazon * Goodreads

Follow the tour HERE for special content and a giveaway!

$25 Amazon

a Rafflecopter giveaway

#NewRelease Tour with #Giveaway

#newhaven #ya #paranormal #kindleunlimited #elizabethjrekab