Exalted

by Ella James

  Somewhere up there in the sky, a bright, bright, bright light shone down, just a tiny pinpoint. She could feel the energy of the net flow into her, shimmy into her veins and arteries, surge through every part of her. She screamed as she pulled, and then there was a loud clap, followed by a great ripple across the whole sky.

  And then the net was gone, and in a single instant, there were Authorities everywhere, hundreds of them.

  They rushed the Demons on the ground, shot made quick work of the ones in the sky, and surrounded The Adversary. He impaled two, but it didn't matter: the white light was growing brighter, and Julia knew deep in her soul that the gates of Heaven were open. The net was gone, The Adversary defeated, and her thoughts turned immediately to Cayne.

  He was on the ground, and she could see his aura, stronger and growing more so. She thought about how much she wanted to touch him, how badly she wanted to heal him. She extended her wings, too tired to fly, content to drift to him, and then like a horror villain The Adversary was flying toward her.

  "I'll kill you," he screamed, and Julia was too weak to stop him. He ran her through with his sharp, sharp sword, and she was falling, tumbling, plummeting hundreds of feet toward Cayne.

  Tears spilled from her eyes, because she had come so close. The stars were back, spinning above her, and one of them flared. Julia heard a familiar voice say, “Good job, bestie.”

  All of a sudden, everything was loud, like a football game, and the fans were cheering for her. She opened her eyes wider and searched the crowd, and somehow she knew she would see Meredith there, waving beside Suzanne and Harry. And Shea was there, smiling, beside the little boy who'd been holding the balloon in St. Moritz that day. Nathan was there, too, right there on the front row, and he smiled a gentle kind of smile, like he knew something good that she didn't.

  Julia wanted to wave at them, but she couldn't lift her arm. Couldn't even hold open her eyelids anymore.

  She shut her eyes, and Cayne was holding her. He felt like a dream, and they were both bathed in golden light. He kissed her mouth, and they twirled into the sky, into the clouds, into the light. Julia clutched Cayne close to her, and a booming voice laughed—this time gently.

  “Good job, Julia.” She knew that voice! It was her old neighbor, suspender-wearing Mr. Jenkins. He sounded proud of her, the same way he always had before, when he said, “I knew you could do it.”

  A feeling of wellness spread all through her, like pure sunlight.

  As she and Cayne sailed back down toward the Earth, she thought she saw a ball of red fire, but when she looked closely, she realized it was feathers—tons of feathers, falling off people who were climbing into clouds, molting off others who were running down the street. Two of the feathers were sparkling and pink.

  She hugged Cayne close and he hugged her, and by the time they landed, in the impeccable yard of a beautiful white mansion, the grass was green, the sun was shining, and the sky was blue.

  Cayne's mouth closed over hers, and when he'd kissed her soundly, he looked down on her and smiled. “My Julia. I missed you.”

  She kissed him back, a lot, so she could hardly breathe when she said, “I missed you more.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  They woke up in a waterfront cottage, in a small blue bedroom with doors that opened to a deck that led down to the beach. Cayne was wrapped in white, silk sheets, and he was sleeping so peacefully, Julia didn't want to wake him, so she tip-toed from the room and through the den and foyer to the walk, where she somehow knew she would find the morning paper.

  The top headline was a story about Abiss Enterprises, and its merger with a little-known weapons manufacturer, X Enterprises—which had turned out to be worth billions.

  Julia smiled when she read who had recently been named CEO. Andrew Reed. Somehow, she wasn't surprised to see the names of the new board members. Carlin Elgada and her own name, and Cayne's. When she didn't see Meredith's, or Nathan's, she closed the paper and went to get a hot shower, where she cried for longer than seemed reasonable.

  But when she got out, she took her time on her makeup. She put on sweet-scented lotion and tried to take pleasure in her favorite pair of earrings. She put on her most comfortable sundress dress and woke Cayne with a cup of coffee. And as they headed outside, to the beach, hand and hand, she finally felt that things would be okay.

  Epilogue

  The barbecue picnic was a summer tradition, and Julia and Cayne always made it into a road trip. Usually they left on a Wednesday afternoon, after Julia boarded Aero and Oscar, and Cayne stopped by Heaven & The Bun, their beach-front cafe. Cayne would drive their silver BMW Z4 from La Jolla, where they lived in a two-story cottage by the ocean. They would take the senic route, along the coast, and listen to loud classic rock and sometimes cheesy '80s bands Cayne could never quite appreciate; he was still kind of pop culture illiterate, no matter how many times Julia forced him to sit down and watch the Grammys or any of VH1's "I Love the (Insert Decade)" shows.

  It was a long drive, so after the initial release—hair loose in the wind, singing in the sun—they'd hold hands and talk about something. Anything, as long as it would pass the time. As long as they were together.

  If they left the house in time, they could make it to Goleta around lunch, and Cayne could get his favorite breakfast quiche from his favorite little hole-in-the-wall. Julia would get some coffee and a bagel with fruit on top, and it was back into the car.

  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.

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  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 ella_f_james@ymail.com. 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.

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  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.

  “Shhhhhh!” 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 Fron
t 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.

  “Sayonara,” she said.

  And that was that.

  My plan for the afternoon involved a dart gun, a tracking bracelet, and my beat-up copy of The Great Gatsby.

  I had a seasonal reading plan I’d stuck with each year since fifth grade: Walden in the spring, Pride & Prejudice in the summer, The Great Gatsby each fall, and Wuthering Heights every winter (my dad's dad, Gus Mitchell, had been a tenth-grade English teacher). I liked to imagine the rock-strewn, fir-dotted fields that rolled out toward the mountain range as my moors. In the privacy of my favorite woodsy spot, I savored my cold-weather reading with a gusto that made me feel like a walking liberal arts student cliché.

  With Gatsby in my pack and the dart gun in my gloved fist, I drifted through the fields, watching fir needles tremble, tracking birds as they rose and fell, formed flocks and scattered. They’d be leaving in the next month, before it got too cold for anything sans fur.

  I wondered if my herd of mule deer would already be there: by the creek that threaded through the northeast edge of our land. I hoped not. If they were waiting, I couldn’t sneak up on them. Encroaching winter made it especially important that I tag the last of the year’s fawns—now. When the snow came, their grazing patterns changed. The creek would ice over and the herd would scatter, seeking out the Bancrofts’ hot springs or one of the freeze-proof waterfalls just north of our property, on the land owned by Mr. Suxley.