Unblemished Read online

  ADVANCE PRAISE FOR UNBLEMISHED

  “A breathtaking fantasy set in an extraordinary fairy-tale world, with deceptive twists and an addictively adorable cast who are illusory to the end. Just when I thought I’d figured each out, Sara Ella sent me for another ride. A wholly original story, Unblemished begins as a sweet melody and quickly becomes an anthem of the heart. And I’m singing my soul out. Fans of Once Upon a Time and Julie Kagawa, brace yourselves.”

  —MARY WEBER, AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR OF

  THE STORM SIREN TRILOGY

  “Lyrically written and achingly romantic—Unblemished will tug your heartstrings!”

  —MELISSA LANDERS, AUTHOR OF ALIENATED,

  INVADED, AND STARFLIGHT

  “Self-worth and destiny collide in this twisty-turny fantasy full of surprise and heart. Propelled into a world she knows nothing about, Eliyana learns that the birthmark she despises is not quite the superficial curse she thought it was—it’s worse, and the mark comes with a heavy responsibility. Can she face her reflection long enough to be the hero her new friends need? With charm and wit, author Sara Ella delivers Unblemished, a magical story with a compelling message and a unique take on the perils of Central Park.”

  —SHANNON DITTEMORE, AUTHOR OF

  THE ANGEL EYES TRILOGY

  “Unblemished is an enchanting, beautifully written adventure with a pitch-perfect blend of fantasy, realism, and romance. Move this one to the top of your TBR pile and clear your schedule, you won’t want to put it down!”

  —LORIE LANGDON, AUTHOR OF THE AMAZON

  BESTSELLING DOON SERIES.

  “Unblemished had me from the first chapter—mystery, romance, and mind-blowing twists and turns that I SO did not see coming! The worlds Sara Ella builds are complex and seamless; the characters she creates are beautifully flawed. Readers are sure to love this book and finish it, as I did, begging for more!”

  —KRISTA MCGEE, AUTHOR OF THE ANOMALY TRILOGY

  © 2016 by Sara E. Larson

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of HarperCollins Christian Publishing, Inc.

  Special thanks to Jim Hart of Hartline Literary.

  Map by Matthew Covington.

  Thomas Nelson titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].

  Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-0-7180-8102-7 (eBook)

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Ella, Sara, author.

  Title: Unblemished / Sara Ella.

  Description: Nashville, Tennessee : Thomas Nelson, [2016] | Summary: “With a birthmark covering half her face, Eliyana has always recoiled from her own reflection in the mirror. But what if that were only one Reflection—one world? What if another world existed where her blemish could become her strength?” Provided by publisher.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016017932 | ISBN 9780718081010 (hardback)

  Subjects: | CYAC: Fantasy. | Birthmarks--Fiction. | Abnormalities, Human--Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.1.E435 Un 2016 | DDC [Fic]--dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016017932

  16 17 18 19 20 RRD 5 4 3 2 1

  For my mom,

  Mary Elizabeth (1956–2012).

  You always said I’d write a book.

  And, as always, you were right.

  Contents

  Prelude

  Act I: Home

  One. Monster

  Two. Think Again

  Three. Be Happy

  Four. Dark and Cold

  Five. Childhood

  Six. Far Away

  Seven. Tragic Place

  Act II: I’m Not That Girl

  Eight. Hands Touch

  Nine. Eyes Meet

  Ten. Sudden Silence

  Eleven. Sudden Heat

  Twelve. Hearts Leap

  Thirteen. That Boy

  Fourteen. Don’t Dream

  Fifteen. Too Far

  Sixteen. Don’t Lose Sight

  Seventeen. Who You Are

  Eighteen. Might Have Been

  Nineteen. Soften the Ache

  Twenty. Reality

  Twenty-One. He Chose

  Twenty-Two. Wishing

  Twenty-Three. Wounds

  Act III: Something There

  Twenty-Four. Unsure

  Twenty-Five. I Didn’t See It

  Twenty-Six. When We Touched

  Twenty-Seven. It Can’t Be

  Twenty-Eight. Never Looked

  Twenty-Nine. Could Be

  Thirty. True

  Thirty-One. Prince Charming

  Act IV: For Good

  Thirty-Two. Limited

  Thirty-Three. Of Us

  Thirty-Four. Before We Part

  Thirty-Five. So Much of Me

  Thirty-Six. My Heart

  Thirty-Seven. Our Stories End

  Thirty-Eight. Rewritten

  Thirty-Nine. Changed

  Coda: Ky

  Acknowledgments—a.k.a. Cool Nerds In My Universe

  Discussion Questions

  About the Author

  Once upon a time is ne’er what it seems.

  And happily ever after oft a mere device of dreams.

  What wicked snares are vines, and thorns cause many throes.

  But peer beyond the surface; you may there find a rose.

  —THE REFLECTION CHRONICLES, FIRST ACCOUNT

  Prelude

  This is all my fault.

  She’ll lose her soul because of me.

  I stare at the Verity’s vessel and search his stony eyes for some sign he’ll do what he must, some sense he’s finally decided to let go.

  Do it, my soul pleads. Save her, my eyes implore.

  One, two, three breaths before he nods.

  Sigh. This is it. The steady adagio of my beating heart plays the coda in my final act.

  His face is drawn, pale. The sight pulls at my heartstrings, overtuning them to the point of snapping.

  My eyes want to close. I will them to remain open. I won’t abandon him in this. The burden is ours to bear. Together. No turning back.

  The enemy raises his sword as the Verity’s vessel creeps toward him. The extended note of hesitation ushers in the last cadence of my life. There will be no encore for me. No reprise or standing ovation. This is my final performance. The curtain is closing, and the audience is taking its leave.

  His sword comes flying down.

  ACT I

  Home

  ONE

  Monster

  It can’t be true. I’ve known the news for a week, and still it hits me as if I’m finding out for the very first time.

  Elizabeth Ember, Up-and-Coming Artist of the Upper West Side, Dies at 34.

  The bold headline on the front of the New York Times obituaries blares up at me, a black-and-white photo of Mom posted beneath. Was it only last month this exact photo adorned another section of the paper? Even with gray skin, her dark hair swept into a messy bun, Mom’s organic beauty radiates from the page. Why she hated being photographed, I’ll never understand. I flip the paper upside down. When I die, will my portrait grace the news?

&nbs
p; Of course not. My face looks as if a toddler scribbled on it with a red Sharpie while I was asleep. No reporter in his right mind would put my picture in the paper. Not unless it was a Halloween edition.

  Mom used to sit in the rooftop garden of our brownstone, a cup of hot Earl Grey in her hands, and gaze out over Manhattan. She adored this city for its energy and symphony of cultures. “It’s always alive, always moving,” she’d said.

  Now, every consolation from a complete stranger invites a fresh wave of sobs. My chest heaves with each one, rising and falling like the steady tumult of the Hudson on a stormy day. I drive back the waves with smiles and nods and deep, controlled breaths, all for the sake of appearances. To be the hostess Mom would’ve been. The one I’ll never be.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss . . .”

  Smile.

  “She’ll be missed . . .”

  Nod.

  “It will get better with time . . .”

  Inhale.

  “You know we’re all here for you, dear . . .”

  Exhale.

  Nothing more than empty words from phony people who can’t even look me in the eye as they give their condolences. Can I blame them? I don’t enjoy looking at me. Why should they?

  My phone vibrates, dancing along the granite countertop in our—my kitchen. The screen lights up, flashing the name and selfie that hurts and comforts in one ping of mixed emotions.

  Joshua.

  My fingers curl around the orchid-colored case, squeeze. I asked him to stay away, to give me space. Time. He agreed with a solemn nod, giving me what I wanted.

  If it’s what I wanted, why do I long to go next door and fall into his arms?

  I close my eyes, mentally pushing away the cacophony of voices echoing around our—my home. It doesn’t work. This is all just too much.

  A sea of catered dishes covers the kitchen island. Nothing offers comfort like platters of prosciutto and tartlets, right? What is this, a cocktail party? And could it be more obvious these people know nothing about me or Mom? Prosciutto? Really? Gag me. I haven’t touched meat in ten years, and I’m certainly not going to start now.

  Beyond the bar, the sunroom with its large bay window, upright piano, and ornate fireplace is set up as an art gallery. Mom’s recently commissioned dealer, Lincoln Cooper, took care of all the details, despite the setback his recent gallery fire caused him. How very noble of him considering he’s known us less than a month. Where did he find all these people? Do they even know who they’re mourning, or are their sympathies part of the show?

  Easels display oil-pastel renderings and watercolor paintings, along with a few of Mom’s charcoal sketches. Most of the pieces featured are from her Autumn collection, Lincoln’s idea of staying on theme with the current season. He negotiates prices while admirers speak overtly about the tragedy of such a talented artist dying so young.

  “What better way to remember Elizabeth than to display and sell her masterpieces at the wake,” he’d said with enthusiasm. “Eclectic art is all the rage now.”

  I nodded my consent, but I knew better. Lincoln Cooper couldn’t care less about paying tribute to Mom. He hardly knew her. All he cares about is his big fat commission. And considering he’s priced each painting well beyond what Mom would approve of, I don’t think he’ll have trouble getting what he wants. Sheesh. Maybe this is a cocktail party. Let him have his fun. I only want one painting for myself, along with Mom’s sketchbooks.

  The essence of her surrounds me. In every brushstroke and ebony pencil rub. In the scent of canvas. In the crinkle of brown paper as Lincoln unwraps a new piece to replace one he’s just sold. My lower lip quivers, and I suck it in between my teeth. Mom would want me to be brave now, but how can I be? She’ll never again sit on our roof and paint the sun rising over Central Park. Never send me down the block to pick up a new box of pencils from Staples or sketch me while I do my homework.

  At once I can’t breathe. I’m suffocating, but no one notices. I can’t be here anymore. I won’t do this. She’s not dead. She can’t be.

  Nausea takes over. I cover my mouth with one hand, bolt from the kitchen. My empty stomach lurches, but I welcome the chance to escape. I shove past the mingling art enthusiasts in the sunroom who turn their attention to me for a moment before I enter the bathroom across the hall. Slam, flip, click. Finally having a moment of privacy and solace, I collapse to the floor, clutch my throbbing head in my hands, and cry.

  “Mom . . .” Sob. Swipe. Sniff. “Mom, I need you.”

  “Beneath winter’s icy sadness lies spring’s blooming joy.”

  Mom’s poetic words breeze across my heart. She was always repeating things like this, urging me to remember them, to write them down.

  “Not this time, Mom.” Not this time.

  Tap, tap.

  I jerk my head up. Hold my breath. If I don’t answer, whoever it is will go away eventually.

  Tap. Tap, tap, tap, tap—

  “Occupied,” I call out. “There’s another bathroom—”

  “El? Are you in there? It’s me.”

  I roll my head back against the door. He’s here? He’s here.

  “Come on.” A hint of humor mellows Joshua’s tone. “I brought pizza. I know how much you hate fancy hors d’oeuvres.”

  My stomach rumbles. I’ve hardly eaten in days. Still, I can’t bring myself to budge.

  “If you don’t come out, I’ll start singing.”

  He wouldn’t dare, not with all those people around.

  “One . . .”

  I stand and push the tears away with my palms.

  “Two . . .”

  I force myself to look in the mirror, and my heart tumbles to the floor. What did I expect? Crying and mascara streaks would actually help my appearance? I can’t let him see me this way.

  Shattered. Broken.

  I’ve fallen apart in his presence once, and all it brought was more heartache. Never again.

  “Three.”

  I glance at the door and wait. One, two heartbeats. Footsteps depart. I sigh. Guess he gave up. It’s for the best. I’m a wreck.

  My gaze returns to my reflection. The strange crimson birthmark winds up the right side of my face in creeping, curling tendrils. Like vines choking my skin. Thorns drawing blood in trickles, permanently staining my complexion.

  I’m a monster.

  I lift a hand and let it hover there. Now I look almost normal. Too bad I can’t walk around this way all the time. Or better yet, wear a paper bag over my head. My only trinket of beauty is the silver treble clef–heart pendant Joshua gave me last spring. The one he made me swear never to take off—a token from a time that will never be again.

  I swipe my fingertips beneath my eyelids to extract some of the runny mascara goop. My ombre hair, mocha melting into blonde, hangs in drab sheets to my shoulders. Mom’s idea of something wild for senior year, though it just makes me feel as if I’m trying to be someone I’m not. I comb my fingers through my full bangs, the ones I cut to cover my forehead, to help me blend in. Some birthmark covered is better than none covered at all.

  The soft picking of guitar strings breaks the silence. A familiar melody floats under the crack beneath the door, cradles my heart, and lifts it off the ground.

  Joshua sings out pure and strong. The chords to “Daydream Believer” are the first he taught me to play—G transitioning into A minor, then B minor to C. I could play the song in my sleep. He’s not being fair.

  More notes. Closer. Louder. His dynamic tenor beckons me as it crescendos at the chorus.

  I place a palm on the door. A smile surfaces for the first time in a week. In the three years I’ve known Joshua, he’s never once sung in public.

  I turn the lock and open the door to a crowd gathered around a boy and his guitar. The boy I love.

  No. The realization is a slap in the face. The confession may be internal, for my heart alone, but it’s there. Complicating. Everything.

  When he finishes the song
, everyone applauds. Once they disperse, trickling from the foyer back into the sunroom, Joshua smiles and shrugs in his boyish way.

  “I thought you weren’t coming,” I say to the floor.

  “You asked me not to.”

  My head lifts. “And yet here you are.”

  He takes a step closer. “Here I am.”

  The silence between us is easy. Comfortable. The first bout of normalcy I’ve had since Mom died.

  “You didn’t think I’d let you deal with these suits alone, did you?” He hitches his thumb over one shoulder, then lays the guitar against the stairs and crosses the hall, closing the remaining distance between us.

  “Thank you.” The words release on a much-needed exhale. Maybe I misunderstood what happened between us the other night.

  “Of course.” He smiles and his fingers brush mine. An accident? Aside from the times he had to position my hand on the guitar, Joshua has never initiated physical contact. I search his eyes for some confirmation the touch was intentional.

  A throat clears. Joshua shoves the hand that grazed mine into his pocket. The moment, whatever it was, is gone.

  An elderly gentleman with a pocket square and a circa-1970s briefcase steps forward, a manila folder tucked beneath his right arm. “Ah, Mr. David. Glad you could make it. I just need your signature on a few more papers.”

  Joshua glances between me and the man. Scratches the back of his head. His dark hair is a mess, and his black-and-green plaid shirt is rumpled. The disheveled look is out of character for him. “Right.” He takes the folder from the man. “Thanks.”

  My eyebrows pinch. “What’s that? Who are you?”

  “Forgive me.” The man sets down his briefcase and offers a hand. “My name is Wallace Matthews. You must be Eliyana. Elizabeth told me so much about you.” I can’t help but notice he doesn’t meet my eyes. My face.

  I cross my arms, not bothering to shake his hand. “Joshua? Do you know this guy?” My eyes don’t leave Joshua’s stubbled face, but his gaze remains downcast.

  “So very sorry,” Wallace mumbles, retracting his hand and letting it fall limp at his side. “I am Elizabeth’s attorney. And Mr. David here is your legal guardian now.” He picks up his briefcase and flips his wrist to check his out-of-date watch. “Strange she never mentioned any of this to you—”