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When I fi rst set out to write Winter’s S hadow (then called Shade) I ha d no expectations of being publis hed. All the material I’d ever read on the subject s uggested there wa s very little chance of getting your fi rst novel on an e ditor’s desk, and eve n less chance of selling it. But I wrote anyway. Beca use that’s what writers do, and als o be cause t he story dema nded t o be told. It was n’t satisfi ed rattling around i n the ba ck of my imagination with all the other half-fi nis hed and abandoned pr ojects. It wante d to live on the page, eve n if those pages w ould only exi st in the bottom of my desk drawer. Three-quarters of the way throug h that initial draft I decide d to call a few literary agents. Just to see whether or not my little paranor mal romance sounded like something they might be intereste d in. Pre dictably they all said it wasn’t . . . except for one . After listening to my nervous pit ch, Lyn Tranter told me to se nd her the fi rst fi fty page s. Whe n she fi nis hed with those she asked to read the rest. Evidently my manu script was n’t quite good en ough to g o out (a mas sive understateme nt in my opinion), but she saw enoug h pote ntial to take me on. Four or fi ve dra fts later we had somethi ng she thought s he might be able to sell. Turns out she was right. So my fi rst thank you g oes out to Lyn, for taking a chance on a g uy with no previous writing credits a nd help ing me whip Wi nter’s Shadow into a pre sentable condition. My second big thank you goes to the tea m at Pan Macmillan, espe cially Alexandra Nahlous and Joel Naoum for their brilliant editing sugge stions a nd tireless enthusias m. T he book you’re holding in y our hands is infi nitely better be cause of their contribution. It would be re miss of me to overlook the input my various fa mily me mbers had in creating Winter’s Sha dow, so please i ndulge me while I get a little maudli n. Both my parents read t he fi rst few drafts and gave use ful story advice, as well as pi cking up my numerous grammatical errors. Dad es pecially was res ponsible for helpi ng me iron out some tricky narrative kinks, and di d his best to proofrea d every single word of every single dra ft – a Herculean task i f ever there was one. I wrote the words and even I could barely bring mysel f to re-rea d every draft. Finally, I’d like to thank my beauti ful girl, Greta. Not only are you the love of my li fe but the e xcite ment I saw in your eyes whe n you fi 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.

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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