Book Description
Publication Date: August 7, 2012 | Series: Dreaming Anastasia
Stories within stories. Secrets within secrets. In accepting powers from the legendary witch Baba Yaga, Anne must tackle a complex set of missions: Discover the secret of their enemy's newfound immortality; decide whether she can kill him to free her family from a vicious curse; come to terms with the magic that now resides inside her; and finally find true love with Ethan. The riveting conclusion to the trilogy that began with Dreaming Anastasia.
About the Author
Joy Preble grew up in Chicago where— possibly because she was raised by an accountant and a bookkeeper—she dreamed of being a back up singer, but instead earned an English degree from Northwestern. Eventually, she began to write books so she could get paid for making up stuff. She now lives in Texas with her family, including a basset/boxer mix rescue dog named Lyla— who never met a shoe she didn't want to eat. Visit Joy at joypreble.com
Here is a bit of background on the scene from
Joy:
“The Anastasia
Forever deleted scene is my favorite. I had originally envisioned Anne turning
into a full blown Baba Yaga much earlier. And so I wrote this scene where she
and Ben and Tess and Ethan all go to that Swedish film festival, but in the
middle of the story. And there's all this wonderful tension and just at the
moment that Ben decides to confront Anne about Ethan and her feelings, Anne
realizes that smelling Ben's cologne is making her hungry. Really hungry. And
well, she almost eats him. And after that much wackiness ensued. But in the end,
I didn't go this route. But it is fun to see what might have been had my editor
seen it.”
We stop at the
base of the Grand Staircase - all pretty marble and elegant looking. I’ve always
loved those stairs – regal in a way that most things aren’t these days. Once
when I was five, David chased me up and down the stairs until we were both
red-faced and out of breath and Mom was pissed that we wouldn’t settle down and
let her show us the paintings. The stairs were more fun.
“My stomach
hurts,” Tess observes.
“It should,”
Ben comments testily. “You just ate your body weight in Red Vines.” Then to all
of us: “Coffee’s in the other building if that’s what you want.” Since we walked
into the lobby, he’s been directing his comments sort of generally into the
air.
“In a minute.
Let’s run to the top. I need to stretch.” I don’t wait for group agreement, just
lope up the stairs and assume they’ll follow me, which after a few beats, they
do.
On the second
floor landing, I stretch my arms into classic ballet third position – arms over
my head, elbows rounded, palms inward but fingers not touching. My gladiator
sandals aren’t the best footwear for this, and I’m wearing a pair of gray cargo
pants and a short white tee – hardly ballet clothes - but that’s okay. Until
I’d started back subbing at Miss Amy’s, I’d forgotten in the mess that is my
life, how much I love dance.
“Your form
needs work,” Tess says. She rises up on her toes as much as she can in her black
Chucks and skinny jeans and pirouettes around me. She’s a way better dancer than
I am these days, even goofing around. Of the two of I us, I’d always been more
focused and disciplined. Not any more.
“Coffee?” Ethan
asks again. “Wasn’t that the plan?” I know he thinks this is a waste of time –
and also dangerous since everything’s at risk for girls who make bargains with
witches. Ben needs to man up and move on. But I can’t just push Ben under the
metaphor bus like that, and I’m sure he knows this.
I ignore his
cranky tone and try out my arabesque - also in need of some serious work.
“Let’s get that
coffee.” It’s Ben’s turn to sound cranky. He beckons toward the stairs. “You
know that first movie won an award at Sundance. It’s really--”
“Your after
shave is really strong.” The comment pops out of nowhere and I feel my cheeks
redden. What a stupid thing to say. But suddenly the smell of his cologne is all
I can think of. My stomach rumbles, embarrassingly loud. Maybe I should have had
some of that popcorn.
I jump on the
coffee train. “You know what? A latte would be great right now.”
I’ve just spent
almost four hours trying not to fall into a coma while watching Swedish people
look unhappy and occasionally have sex in metro bus stations and in one
instance, a barn. My fingers feel all tingly. My skin feels sticky and clammy.
Am I having a panic attack?
Other
museum-goers stream around us. The light overhead through the huge skylight dims
noticeably. I look up. Thick gray clouds. The faint sound of thunder rumbles. My
heart kicks into overdrive. Am I about to throw up? Maybe it’s the flu.
“You want to
talk,” Ben says. “So let’s talk. You’re right. I can’t keep pretending all those
things didn’t happen. I dream about them, you know that? Your boss, Mrs. Benson?
Those things – those mermaid things – they surrounded her. I heard them breaking
her into pieces. You know that, right?”
“Ben.” I’m
feeling sicker now, but I try to focus. But Ben doesn’t want to be interrupted.
He glances at Ethan - something dangerous brewing in his eyes and the set of
his jaw.
“Outside,” I
gasp. What the hell is wrong with me?
“Anne?” Ethan’s
voice rises above the buzzing in my head, but I ignore him, too.
I turn and
stumble down the stairs. My ears are ringing. Or is it just the thunder getting
louder? I shouldn’t be doing this. But I can’t seem to think of anything but
putting distance between myself and Ben. In my head, I see us a few weeks ago –
my hands burning his face. Me running then, too, and calling
Ethan.
I’m in the
lobby now, shoulder against the heavy front doors of the Art Institute. Out onto
the cement landing and then down the stairs - running onto Michigan Avenue. It
starts to rain – small drops that get larger and fatter, falling on my head, my
face, my hands. Even in my panic – it is pure panic right now, mixed with
something else I can’t identify – I wonder if it’s somehow me that’s making it
rain.
“Anne!” All
three of them are calling my name – Ben and Tess and Ethan. The sound of it
echoes in the air around me.
On the
sidewalk, standing between the two huge lion statues that flank the Art
Institute steps – the ones David and I used to love to shimmy so we could
straddle their backs while Dad snapped pictures - I force myself to stop. This
is ridiculous. Why am I running? What is it that I’m afraid of? My heart skips
then steadies, then skips again. That weird feeling skates the inside of my
stomach.
I turn. Ben’s
reached me first and he puts his hands on my shoulders. His hair is wet from the
rain and a drizzle of water inches down the side of his face.
“Should I be
afraid?” he asks, his face serious now, his brown eyes locked on mine.
It’s the
question that sparks everything inside me like a lit match falling on dry wood.
Not What’s wrong? or What do you need? But “Should I be
afraid?”
“Ben,” I say
slowly because I understand now what’s happening and I don’t know if I can stop
it. “I think you need to run. I think you need to do it now.”
He stares at me
like I’m crazy. “What are talking about?”
“You need to
get away from me,” I say again, but I can see that he’s not going to. That even
after everything he’s seen, he still doesn’t get it. “Oh God, Ben. Go. Ethan!” I
look blindly around me and even though I’m sure Ethan is right there, my vision
is red and hazy and I can barely make him out. “Oh no. Ethan. You have
to--”
I’m her then,
not completely, but more Baba Yaga than me. Her power stretches inside me, a
spiderweb of fury. I clench my fists; try to hold it back.
Ben doesn’t get
it yet – how could he? He presses a hand to my cheek, palm against my
skin.
“You’re burning
up,” he says. And all I can think is how good he smells. How good he’ll
taste.
Ben pulls his
hand back. I lean toward him, my face close to his. Someone – Ethan maybe? Maybe
him and Tess? – tries to pull me back, but I’m too strong. I hold my ground.
Watch the confusion in Ben’s eyes.
No one
should underestimate your power, says a voice inside me that sounds like
Baba Yaga’s.
Anne,
says another voice that I think is Ethan. Don’t. Don’t give in to it. Hold
on.
“I
can’t.”
“Can’t what,
Anne? Anne, are you okay?” Ben sounds scared.
I try to stop.
I really do. But I can’t. Or maybe I don’t want to. This scares me more than the
sound of Ben’s voice.
Lightning, I
think.
It shears
through the sky.
Thunder, I
think.
It crashes
overhead.
Roar, I
think.
And the two
lion statues open their mouths and howl.
I press my lips
to Ben’s. Will him not to pull back. His eyes widen as I sink my teeth into his
lower lip – hard, then harder - until I draw blood. I lick it from his lip.
Swallow. My stomach muscles ripple, seize, ripple again. My jaw loosens; the
bones pop. My breath comes in ragged gasps. Pain. Red hot and
everywhere.
“Anne!” I hear
my name again. “Anne.”
My jaw loosens
some more. I press my lips shut, a tight seam, desperate to stop it. My teeth
dig into my lower lip so hard that blood starts to trickle. The taste of it
mingles with the taste of Ben. The combination is suddenly the best thing I’ve
ever tasted. I’m not just hungry anymore. I’m ravenous.
Understand
crashes through me. No. God no. If I open my mouth, it will unhinge like hers. I
know it. I know it. It’s not Ben’s cologne. It’s just Ben. He smells so good
because he smells like food. And if someone doesn’t do something right this
second, I’m going to eat him whole.
