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  PRAISE FOR

  BEYOND THE RISING TIDE

  “With a beautiful voice, Sarah Beard tells a rich story with layered characters, and does so with deceptive simplicity. Beard has created sensory experiences that transport the reader to a luscious chocolate shop, the salty tang of the ocean, a piquant vineyard, and more. Twists and turns will have the reader wondering how the story can possibly resolve in a satisfying way, yet the ending is a perfect blend of the surprising and the inevitable, making Beyond the Rising Tide a book that will stay with you long after the final page.”

  — ANNETTE LYON, award-winning author of Band of Sisters

  “Beyond the Rising Tide grabbed my attention from the very start. The premise was intriguing, and I quickly fell in love with the characters. This is one of those stories that stays with you long after the closing scene. It was beautifully imagined and vividly written. I absolutely loved it!”

  — TERESA RICHARDS, author of Emerald Bound

  “This book is not only an engaging and satisfying supernatural romance, but also a beautiful story about life, death, and the gray places in between.”

  — E. B. WHEELER, author of The Haunting of Springett Hall and Born to Treason

  “This novel is the perfect mix of modern love story and literary fiction—one brimming with genuine emotion that had me rereading passages simply because they were too beautifully written to experience just once.”

  — JULIE N. FORD, author of award-winning Count Down to Love and best-seller No Holly for Christmas

  SWEETWATER BOOKS

  AN IMPRINT OF CEDAR FORT, INC.

  SPRINGVILLE, UTAH

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  © 2016 Sarah Beard

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever, whether by graphic, visual, electronic, film, microfilm, tape recording, or any other means, without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief passages embodied in critical reviews and articles.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. The opinions and views expressed herein belong solely to the author and do not necessarily represent the opinions or views of Cedar Fort, Inc. Permission for the use of sources, graphics, and photos is also solely the responsibility of the author.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-4621-2666-8

  Published by Sweetwater Books, an imprint of Cedar Fort, Inc.

  2373 W. 700 S., Springville, UT 84663

  Distributed by Cedar Fort, Inc., www.cedarfort.com

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Names: Beard, Sarah, 1977- author.

  Title: Beyond the rising tide / Sarah Beard.

  Description: Springville, Utah : Sweetwater Books, an Imprint of Cedar Fort, Inc., [2016] | ©2016 | Summary: Seventeen-year-old Kai Turner is dead, so he should be the one haunting, but instead it is Avery Ambrose, the girl whose life he saved, who haunts him.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016003638 (print) | LCCN 2016010823 (ebook) | ISBN 9781462118748 (perfect bound : alk. paper) | ISBN 9781462126668

  Subjects: | CYAC: Love--Fiction. | Dead--Fiction. | Ghosts--Fiction. | LCGFT: Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.B380234 Be 2016 (print) | LCC PZ7.B380234 (ebook) | DDC [Fic]--dc23

  LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2016003638

  Cover design by Michelle May Ledezma

  Cover design © 2016 Cedar Fort, Inc.

  Edited and typeset by Melissa J. Caldwell

  To Diane and Mel,

  for always letting me know you’re there,

  even when I can’t see you.

  ALSO BY SARAH BEARD

  Porcelain Keys

  don’t know how it’s decided, who lives and who dies. Why some are granted more time among the living, and others are snatched away into the land of the dead. All I know is that tonight, a decision has been made. And of the two critically injured people sprawled on the highway, I’ve been assigned to save only one.

  Raindrops pound against the asphalt, and ambulance lights wash the scene in bursts of red like an outdoor rave. Only, there’s no one dancing here. Just a heap of metal that was once a car, an obliterated highway divider, and a handful of paramedics giving new meaning to the term graveyard shift. They don’t know I’m here, but without my help, the boy I’ve been assigned to won’t be leaving here alive.

  My feet don’t disturb the water as I stride through a puddle, as though it’s a mirage in a desert. In truth, I’m the mirage. The thing with no real substance. The paramedics don’t acknowledge me as I kneel beside the boy. Not because they’re busy cinching a tourniquet around his leg or searching for a heartbeat, but because I’m invisible to them.

  I’ve grown accustomed to the invisibility, but after being a healer for six months, I still can’t handle the sight of blood. The boy’s jeans are soaked with it, and the rain thins it out as it spills onto the asphalt like a polluted stream. So I look at his face instead. His eyes are closed, his mouth open as raindrops fall between his lips. Something about him startles me. Like I’ve unexpectedly looked into a mirror. His wild tawny hair. His brokenness. Or maybe it’s just his age. Late teens—the same age I was when I died. Lucky for him, I’m here to make sure he doesn’t share my fate.

  As the paramedics begin CPR, I rest my hand on the boy’s shoulder. My fingers sink into him a bit, and I grimace as I feel the wreckage of his body. His ribs are broken, his pelvis shattered, his aorta ruptured. The paramedic doing chest compressions is thick and heavy-handed, tearing the boy’s heart more with each pump.

  Wasting no more time, I summon the power of my healing wristband. The metal begins to burn on my wrist, and the inlaid stone brightens like smoldering embers. Inside of me, the power whirls and swells like a firestorm until it’s too much to contain. Then it leaves me and moves through the boy, sewing up his ruptured heart as if it were torn fabric. It doesn’t heal his other injuries, only what medicine and his own body can’t heal quickly enough.

  A moment later, a female paramedic declares that they have a pulse. The heavy man rocks back on his heels in relief, and the boy is lifted onto a backboard and carried to the ambulance.

  My work here is done, but I can’t bring myself to leave. My eyes travel over the wet road until I find the other victim. A woman, probably the boy’s mother. She’s been extracted from the car and lies on the road, and beneath all the scarlet, the original color of her dress is uncertain. Her feet are bare, and I’m grateful I can’t see around the paramedics to glimpse her face. Two of them are kneeling over her, doing their best to keep her alive. And Grim stands at her head, ready to seal her death.

  His real name is Jerick, but in my head, he’s almost always Grim. Not only because of his job, but because I’ve never seen the man crack a smile. I guess if I were the one always taking people from their loved ones, I wouldn’t feel much like smiling either.

  I take a couple of steps toward the woman. I don’t see her spirit anywhere, so she must still be in her body. It’s not too late. That boy back there doesn’t have to go through the pain of losing his mother. Not when I possess the power to save her. I take another step toward her.

  “Don’t come any closer, Kai,” Grim warns with weariness, like a teacher who’s told his student one too
many times to keep their hands in the confines of their own workspace.

  “Why?” I ask, and my voice is tired too. Tired of asking why any of us have to be torn from the people we love. Tired of never getting an answer.

  He raises his scepter, reminding me that he has a job to do. The diamond-shaped tip of the scepter burns orange like a flame, a sign that he’s only moments away from sealing her death. “If you want to help people, then help only the ones you’ve been assigned to. You wouldn’t want to lose that privilege again, would you?”

  My gaze returns to the woman, a heaviness settling over me. The boy’s life may have been spared, but if Grim takes his mother, he’ll be left with wounds that will never fully heal. Wounds like mine.

  Grim is right, though. I know the consequence of working outside of my jurisdiction, and if I want to keep helping people at all, I can’t cross that line again.

  Despite the paramedics’ efforts, the woman’s soul rises and leaves her body like cotton pulled from a withered boll. When Jerick hovers the glowing specter over her lifeless body, I have to turn away. And when I hear her voice asking why she has to leave her son, I can’t stay any longer. I quicken away to the only place where I can put this tragedy out of my mind.

  It’s raining where I stand in front of Avery’s house, but my clothes and hair are dry. If I could feel the air, it would be heavy and humid. If I could inhale, I would smell soil and damp foliage, like the vineyard in Marquette when the black earth soaked up the rain and the leaves were beaded with dew. Summer scents I always took for granted when I was alive.

  I shouldn’t enter her house. There are all kinds of rules and boundaries when it comes to people’s sanctuaries. But tonight, the need to be near her is stronger than ever. I’ve been in the rain far too long, and she’s my only pavilion. If I can glimpse her face, maybe I can forget about the woman who died tonight. My hands are heavy with unused power, and my heart is a dead weight in my chest.

  I don’t bother with the front door. Doors are for people who can open them, for hands that have substance and can grasp a doorknob. So I walk through the wall next to the front door. It pulls on me a bit, like walking through a turnstile in a subway station. And then I’m in her living room.

  The house is dark save for one rectangle of light falling from a doorway in the hall. I drift down the hallway, passing an empty bedroom and then an office lit by the glow of a computer monitor. Her mom is asleep in front of the computer, half sitting, half sprawled across the desk.

  At the end of the hall, I find Avery’s room. Strewn on her floor are her Converse All-Stars, clothes, and a marine science book, open with the spine up. Her laptop balances precariously on the edge of the bed, ready to be accidentally kicked off.

  Her blankets are in disarray, a sea of restless waves. She’s curled beneath them like a crumpled paper boat, all folds and sharp edges. Her hair is splayed around her head, pale gold in the night-light blooming behind her bed.

  Even without crossing the threshold, the heaviness inside me lifts a bit. I don’t know why, but when Avery’s near, I’m more at ease. Maybe because she’s the last person I came in contact with before my death. Maybe because I know she thinks about me when few others in this world do. She cares about me, and she doesn’t even know my name.

  Her alarm clock reads two thirty in the morning, so I flinch when she sits up and flings a spiral notebook at the wall. She heaves a discouraged sigh, then falls back into bed, curling on her side. I hesitate for a minute in her doorway, wondering what’s up. Wishing I could just ask. Maybe her ex-boyfriend is being a jerk again. Or maybe she’s upset about her parents’ split, or her mom’s ups and downs.

  She starts crying, so I toss the rules aside and come in, circling her bed so I can see her face. Her eyes are shining with tears, and she’s got one hand wrapped around her forearm, her nails digging into her skin. It drives me crazy when she does that. I want to wrench her hand away and smooth out the moon-shaped marks her nails have made. I try. But she sifts through my hand like fine sand.

  As I pass my hand through her arm, I taste her pain. Not the reasons behind it, just the feeling. Like sinking. Drowning. A feeling I’m all too familiar with. It makes me want to go to her ex-boyfriend’s house and yank him out of bed and slam him against the wall for breaking her heart. But I’ve already tried that a few times since he broke up with her, and a punch isn’t very satisfying when it doesn’t connect with anything.

  “Breathe,” I whisper, even though she can’t hear me. “Breathe, Avery.” After a long minute, she draws in a shuddery breath. But then she digs her nails deeper as more tears spill from under her wet lashes.

  If I weren’t already dead, the sight of her crying like this would kill me. So I look away, to the notebook she tossed on the floor. It has her curvy handwriting on it:

  Him

  1. Scar on back.

  2.

  Below that, a mass of scribbles. Not doodle-scribbles. Frustrated, ripping-the-paper-with-your-pen scribbles.

  The list is about me. It’s all she remembers about me. My scar. And then it dawns on me that tonight, she’s crying over me. Hurting because of me. Digging her nails into her arm because of her grief over me.

  The weight of her sorrow presses me down, down, until I’m kneeling beside her. I have the ability to save lives. But in this moment, I feel utterly powerless.

  If I could only talk to her. If I just had the power to show myself like some others do, I could convince her that she doesn’t need to grieve over me. That I don’t regret saving her life, even though it meant sacrificing my own.

  As I listen to her cry herself to sleep, an idea surfaces in my mind. The same one that’s been bobbing up and down for the past several weeks. I don’t have to feel so helpless. I learned as a kid that the only way to escape helplessness was to take things into my own hands. If I want Avery to be happy again, maybe it’s time for me to take her healing into my own hands. I don’t have to remain unseen to her. Not when there’s a way to gain a temporary body. It’s risky, and it would involve dishonesty and thievery. It would require me to be the despicable person I left behind a long time ago. I’m not even sure I could pull it off. But I’ve been watching Avery’s life unravel since I saved it last winter, and it’s only a matter of time before the threads holding her together fray and snap completely.

  ou need to chill out,” Paige says. She has her bare feet up on the dashboard of my ’96 Cherokee, and she’s brushing on some last-minute toenail polish on our way to the beach. It’s dark out, so she has the vanity mirror open and the dim light makes her plum polish look black.

  “You know the sand is just going to stick to that, right?”

  She twists the cap back on the bottle of Berry Naughty and cranks on the floor heater, sticking her toes beneath the vent. “Don’t change the subject. I mean, I know you’re still like, shaken up or whatever from what happened. I would be too. But you can do this. For Tyler. You can show him you’re still the same girl he fell in love with.”

  My hands tighten on the steering wheel. “I am the same girl.”

  “You know what I mean. You’re the same, but you’re not. You’re like, Boring Avery. Not Fun, Live-by-the-Seat-of-Your-Pants Avery. That’s why he broke up with you, right? Because he doesn’t like Boring Avery.”

  Right. He doesn’t like Boring Avery. Crying-Under-a-Blanket-in-Your-Room Avery. Grieving Avery weighs him down too much. The words sting just as much when I think them as when he said them to my face. But I don’t want to talk about it, so I smile and say, “There’s more than one definition of fun.”

  “So your new definition is working sixty hours a week and holing up at your mom’s on the weekends?”

  “I don’t work sixty hours.”

  She rolls her eyes. “You’re at the chocolate shop when I come in for my shift. You’re there when I leave. You’re there when I come in later for free chocolate. You’re there—”

  “Okay, fine. I work a lot. But
what do you expect when my dad owns the business?”

  “I expect your dad to comply with child labor laws so his workaholic daughter will get out and enjoy her summer break. I mean, I could understand if you lived in Barstow. But, hello, you live in the sweetest little beach town in California.”

  Beads of sweat are gathering on my forehead, so I reach over and shut off the heater, then roll down the window. The briny Pacific air rushes in, and I sense a charge in the atmosphere—most likely an impending sequel to last night’s rainstorm. The June Gloom has been extra gloomy this year, and I wish it would pass already. “He doesn’t force me to work.”

  She levels a look at me that punctuates my own words. “My point exactly. So tonight, you’re going to have fun. You’re going to chill out and dance around the bonfire like the kickin’ teenage girl that you are. And you’re going to get in the water.”

  I feel the blood drain from my hands. “I’m going to the beach. That’s a big enough step for tonight. Tyler will see that I’m making an effort.”

  “At least get your feet wet. Come on,” she begs in her whiniest voice. It’s the same voice that convinced me to come tonight, and the same voice that persuaded me to dye my hair pink when we were thirteen.

  We’re nearing the beach at Port San Luis, so I shift into a lower gear. “I’m not making any promises.”

  “I’ll be there with you. I won’t leave your side, okay?” She wrangles her long dark hair into a ponytail. “Actually … that depends on Dillan. He’s been doing the hot-cold thing again lately. If he’s cold tonight, I won’t leave your side. But if he’s hot …”

  “I don’t need a babysitter,” I snap. The nearness of the ocean has my nerves on end like porcupine quills, and my words come out sharper than I intend.

  “Well, if you decide you need one,” she says, a glint of humor in her brown eyes, “I charge only ten dollars per hour. Twelve if you want me to put you to bed.”