Rachel Van Dyken Books Novels & Stories

she chuckled. “He’s a writer. They’re solitary people,” I offered. “Vickie, are you okay?” she asked with concern. “You do remember that the writer thing is just his cover for the vampire army job. Just like the traveling social worker is mine. Right?” I looked at her as if I was just seeing her and said in a light, distracted voice, “Yes. Yes. A cover.” She stood up and walked around the table to where I sat. Putting one hand under my elbow, she nudged me to my feet. “That’s it. Time for you to go snuggle back into your bed.”

, Rachel grunts. I want to say "Why", but I don't want to risk sounding like a creep so I whatever her and go back to going through the rest of the shelf even though I'd done that a thousand times before. I drag my hands across the spines of the books; Kara Taylor's Prep School Confidential, Carol Wyer's The Secret Admirer, and Megan Goldin's The Night Swim. You would be subtle to call Rachel a crime-thriller addict - she's more of a crime freak. The Night Swim. There is a piece of paper sticking out of it. I pull it out of the book. Something is scribbled across it in Rachel's handwriting.

RACHEL Brushed in with a line of violet and ash. River whispered, “It’s the only place she was allowed to rise.” I glanced at them. “No,” I said. “She rose in you.” Melinda’s POV The next morning, River came into the kitchen holding two books. Mine — the memoir. And Rachel’s old poetry journal — the one I’d kept tucked away for years. They placed both on the table. “I think I want to make something.” “Out of those?” “No. Out of what’s missing between them.” I raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

Danielle was a little too abrasive for people who were meeting her for the first time, I thought ruefully as I linked a hand through her arm. Danielle looked after the woman’s disappearing figure in some curiosity. ‘The Boss thinking of setting up a home for lost folk or something?’ she asked as we walked away and I shushed her with a shake of my head. As we chatted and strolled to the kitchen, to settle on stools while Beatrice bustled about making coffee, Rachel informed me that she was getting married the following week and then she would be flying out to Iceland. She had taken up a new project there.

“She’s nothing, Adrian. Nothing but a servant trying to steal what’s mine.” I glance at Rachel, whose eyes flicker with a storm of emotions—fear, defiance, something I can’t name. She looks caught between two lives, two selves, and for one reckless heartbeat, I almost want to tear down whatever wall she’s hiding behind just to see which one is real. Vanessa’s voice drags me back. “You won’t stand there in front of me and pretend this is nothing. I won’t allow it.” Her fury fills the room, but I hardly hear her. My blood still burns with the almost-kiss, with the ghost of Rachel’s breath against my lips. I wanted it. I still want it. And Vanessa’s outrage does nothing but make me want it more

I say. But we both know that’s a lie. Our To-Be-Read piles are already so massive they’ve crossed into absurd territory. Even if we lived three lifetimes each, we probably wouldn’t get through them. Honestly, the idea of finishing our TBR lists is far more unrealistic than the dragon book currently sitting in my hands. Rachel’s eyes suddenly sparkle with an idea. Before I can ask what she’s thinking, she disappears down the aisle. Ten seconds later she returns. With two shopping baskets.

He chased me into the hallway and grabbed my wrist. "Rachel wants to break up with me," he said. "Vanessa, you've achieved your goal now, haven't you? Are you satisfied?" I was about to lose my mind. Who on earth wrote this book?

It was dawn and the sun’s ray casted long shadows across the ancient books scattered on the table. Rachel sat among them with her hands moving methodically as she flipped through pages and her brow was furrowed in concentration. The weight of the pack’s survival, of Gilly’s fate, and of Zone’s worsening condition, seemed to press down on all of us, but Rachel carried it with quiet determination. I stood near the door, pacing as I waited for her to find something—anything—that could guide us.

“Piece by piece but I will still come back to break you forever piece by piece.” “I, Racheal Synder, would end your life.” I spat out with hatred lanced in my voice. Kelly’s eyes moved to Rochelle again. “So you think that makes us even?” “You think we are frightened by your words?” “I think it makes us the same. We both frighten at each other” Her face twitched. Then she smiled. But it wasn’t warm. “You don’t know what I’ve become, Rachael.” “Neither do you,” I whispered.

“Something outrageous. With a pulley system and a trapdoor. Something that says ‘adventure’ and ‘home’ all at once.” She smiled, her heart a warm, full ache in her chest. This was the man she had married. Not the besieged strategist, but the builder of treehouses. “I got a letter today,” she said softly. “From Rachel Mirren.” She felt him go still. “And?” “She’s written a book. About power, coercion, and the failure of institutions. She wants to dedicate it to ‘the resilience of survivors.’ She asked for our blessing.” The ghost of their old life, reaching out in the form of a dedication. Not a threat, but an acknowledgment.