The Blood: Secrets and Lies: Book 1

By Brandylan James

What would you do for love? Would you lie for it? Would you die for it? Would you kill for it? Would you endure centuries of darkness for just one last chance to change everything, even if you knew it was probably hopeless?

 Love is never easy. But in the end, it is all that is worth fighting for.

In 1587, the forbidden love between Cassondra Clare, a wycan, and her sworn enemy, vampire heir, Daniel Croft was destined to end badly.  Now almost 500 years later, two other star-crossed lovers, their direct descendants, try to defy the curse that will precipitate the final conflict.

 Love is never easy, nonetheless, for nearly 500 years, Jaydon Croft has fantasized about one thing: killing the witch who imprisoned him for loving her. True, he betrayed her and his good twin by revealing their plans, but that was a minor technicality.  She should have loved him, not his sainted brother. But she didn't and damn it, the witch was going to pay! 

 Love is never easy. It's even harder when he's in love with your best friend. It's harder still when you realize that she is destined to kill him. Nonetheless, when the first day of senior year finally rolled around in sleepy Croft's Landing, NC, Jules Walker was totally psyched. Not only was she going to hook up with her best bud and fellow Blud band member Dylan Croft after the long summer vacation, but more importantly, according to the grapevine, Dylan and Landing High's resident queen bitch, Amanda Zane, were officially over. For some reason, that made Jules' heart beat just a tad faster.  However, before she even had a chance to process, much less address her newly emerging feelings for Dylan, he was already head-over-heels . . . for someone else, and that would be his undoing.

 Love is never easy, especially when ultimately it  will demand your blood.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BDJ Media
• Release date: Jan 31, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386605850

Book preview

What would you do for love? 

Would you lie for it? 

Would you die for it? 

Would you kill for it?

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Dedication 

The Cave Dweller’s Diary 

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2 

Chapter 3 

Chapter 4 

Chapter 5 

Chapter 6 

Chapter 7 

Chapter 8 

Chapter 9 

Chapter 10 

Chapter 11 

Chapter 12

Chapter 13 

Chapter 14 

Chapter 15 

Chapter 16

Chapter 17 

Chapter 18 

Chapter 19

Chapter 20 

Chapter 21 

Chapter 22 

Chapter 23

Chapter 24 

Chapter 25 

Chapter 26 

Epilogue

Book 2 Preview

About the Author

DEDICATION 

This series is dedicated to the Red Celtic boys: Dylan Thomas, Dylan Malloy, Jamie Dylan (Ch Fleetwood Farm’s Jamie O’Dyl), William Dylan (Fleetwood Farm Dangerous Heart),  Jonathan Dylan (Fleetwood Farm Jonathan O’Dyl), Brandon (Ch Fleetwood Farm’s Right About You),  Brandy, James (Little Jim), Jamie, and their feline sidekicks: Liam, Chloe, Teddy and Matthew; to KW, who read everything I wrote, to the goddess Morrigan, the majestic Madadh alluidh (Wolf ),  animal lovers everywhere, and to those who, in the words of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, are willing to engage in that willing suspension of disbelief for the moment, which constitutes poetic faith. 

Brandylan

Copyright © 2017 by JC Kosloff

Registered Writers Guild of America East 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

Do not go gentle into that good night ...

Rage, rage against the dying of the light ...

-—Dylan Thomas

The Cave Dweller’s Diary

Date ... unknown. Time ... irrelevant 

Life is unfair. This is not a lament. It is a fact. Why do I say that?  Because unlike you, I have lost everything. Do you have any idea what that means?  Rhetorical question.  Of course you don’t.  No matter.  How could you? And how in hell could I have been so bloody brainless?  So stupid, so idiotic? So ineffably taken in? How damnably pathetic is that?!  Is there any worse fool than a fool in love?  Don’t bother to answer that either because there is no answer. I have been and no doubt will always be my own worst enemy. Or, as my father often warned, I suffer from intemperance. So be it. Simply stated, it’s over. Completely. Irrevocably.

What’s left? Absolutely nothing. 

In my case, at least, I must admit hope has begun to wane. I am not certain why it has taken this long. Is it perhaps because I’m an arrogant bastard? Well, yes, some would say that, but, I allege, in good way. A self-serving, declaration? Perhaps, and perhaps, too, it is simply wishful thinking? It is, after all, that last, pathetically insipid vestige of sanity. Whatever the reason, it has been a very, very long time, even for one such as myself. Truthfully, I have never required companionship, yet of late what I would not give, had I anything to give mind you, for a few words of company. Just a good evening or a simple hello would more than suffice. Amazing, isn’t it, how such little things can suddenly take on such a colossal meaning? Yet I have learned to accept my lot ... mostly.  All right, reluctantly ... very reluctantly. Was there really ever a choice? 

I will not make undue requirements on your time since this is only the beginning of the tome. Yet, allow me to elaborate briefly as it may arm you with some perspective. I do not ask for your pity. Truly. I ask only that you consider my side of the events. You see, the rage of the first centuries of my captivity slowly gave way to impatience and finally to absolute despondency with the passing of every decade, every season, with each new specter of light giving way to the deepest dredges of darkness with no possibility of escape. 

No escape ... 

Even now the thought takes my breath away. Honestly, it is something I never contemplated. Why would I?  I was a mere child in terms of the life of my species at the moment of this unfortunate error in judgment.  Yes, my friend, an error in judgement.  Does the child ever imagine a day when all of his freedoms will end, when his ability to drink in all of the universe that lay before him will be drained dry? No! Why would he? We are all too brash and full of confidence in an existence that we simply take for granted.  I am not unique in that regard. Perhaps you have experienced it as well?  In any case, it is that very attribute of the young and untested—that grand arrogance—which invited the miscalculation. That is precisely what it was: a miscalculation. However, there is, in my case at least, one other reason. 

Misguided emotion ... 

I freely admit it.  As a result, I am now but a shadow of my former self—my demeanor no longer that of the indestructible being I once was. This, the final arrogance of believing that nothing could prevail against my strength, my cunning, my superior wit, even my perfect countenance—though I do not mean to boast on that account—but it is the last suggestion of conceit I will allow myself. 

Suffice it to say the universe I supposed was entirely within my control, or at the very least within my grasp, has played the ultimate trick, and I am crushed under the weight of its primal power.  I am alone and I will be so forever, unless ... But let me not further ruminate about what is at best, a hope and at worst a lie. Just like my life. A complete, pathetic lie. 

I was but one and twenty and had just begun to savor the richness of the universe that was outstretched before me, the power that was mine for the taking. And then, it was over. In a heartbeat. Gone. Finished. Light turned to darkness; hope to despair. And for what? What was my real crime? Had it been for those whose lives I drank dry, at least that would be a reason; this would then be a fitting punishment. Well, possibly. 

But no, it was not for that, for them, those faceless, clueless creatures on whom I’d fed out of necessity. After all, I did not ask for this hand, but once dealt, it was the hand I was doomed to play, as it is for all of my kind. If blame must be ascribed, pray look elsewhere; pray look to your own heart and soul. That, however, is another tale for another time. So, no, it was for none of those things that I find myself in this dire situation. It was for something far more treacherous.

It was for an unwieldy blunder. That’s right, for a terrible, terrible mistake. 

It was, dear reader, all for love ... 

PROLOGUE 

Roanoke Island, North Carolina.  October 31, 1587 All Hallows Eve 

I don’t want to die. But I will die. Here.  Now. Tonight. And if I don’t, then I’ll kill the one person I love most in all this world. How did life get so complicated? None of this was supposed to happen. Everything was planned out.  Accepted. Understood. Necessary for our survival. I was supposed to marry Thomas, have children, and together we would make this new land our home.  So simple. So logical. So safe.  Except for one thing—one exquisite curve diabolically cast into the mix— I never counted on falling in love. Not just that but falling in love with the darkest enemy of our race. And then the darkness became my one shining light and now that, too, is extinguished. Or about to be. And the worst, most horrific and maddening thing of all is that I am powerless to change it.

Cassondra Clare rested her quill on the ledge next to the ink well she had hastily packed in her sack with some clothes, sweet breads, dry meat and herbs before running away.  None of this was supposed to be happening. She was not supposed to love him. But it was happening and she did love him, and anyway, what did that matter now? All she had to do was get through this night—also the eve of her eighteenth birthday—the night she would change.  That didn’t matter either.  He mattered. Their love mattered.  She forced herself to concentrate on him, only him.

Don’t be afraid. I’ll come back for you. No matter what happens tonight, nothing will keep us apart, not God nor the Devil.  I’ll find you, Cassie.  No matter how long it takes, no matter where you are, live and I will find you ...

Easier said than done. That was true love for you. Completely devoid of logic, yet filled with the kind of impossible faith that no logic could ever understand. In reality, it was hopeless. Still, Cassondra Clare repeated her lover’s words over and over in her head, praying they would steal her nerves and override what her other senses knew to be true.  It wasn’t working.

Concentrate. 

She needed a distraction. Her fingers quickly seized back the quill. Dipping it in ink, she continued to write in her diary. 

It’s started again. We’re betrayed. They’ve denounced us as witches and now everyone is calling for our blood. They’ve all gone mad.  I don’t know if I’ll survive this night or if I’ll ever see Daniel again. If I die, this stands as my testament of what has transpired here where we hoped to find freedom and have now, once again, become the object of torment by an enemy so vile ... and yet, so beloved.  Am I mad to love him?  I’ve risked my heart and my soul, and so has he. 

A deathly chill raced through her veins as she picked up her head and instinctively looked toward the long, winding tunnel that led to the outside. She could hear the nippy autumn wind stirring the crisp leaves that had fallen to the ground. Beyond that was an eerie silence punctured only infrequently by the staccato hoot of an owl. A million thoughts swirled through her head. Had he reached her family in time?  And if so, had they heeded his words?  Would they? Or— no, she could not ... she must not allow herself to speculate any further. Concentrate, she told herself, more forcefully this time.  He will come.  He promised...  Daniel? I'm alone and I'm so afraid. Please, Goddess, hear me, help me! Please ... 

A faint thud caused Cassondra to spring up. Slowly, she inched slightly toward the entrance of the cave and crouched in the far corner under an earthen ledge, trying to make herself small enough to disappear.  Outside, she could now see that the sky was heavier than usual with the encroaching gray gloom of what promised to herald an early winter, one she might never live to see if Daniel had failed. Cassondra’s heart was racing uncontrollably.  It was making her dizzy.  Her head throbbed with a growing ache.  But she willed herself to separate from the pain and to focus on him and on their love for each other. 

Don’t be afraid ... I’ll find you, Cassie ... I will find you ... 

The sharp snap of a twig outside shocked her out of her reverie. Though inaudible to a mere human,  her ears could sense it just as they could hear the dull thud of a man’s boot even before it made contact with the ground beneath.  Someone was coming.  Please, please let it be him, she prayed. 

Daniel? she whispered into the vacant darkness.  Of course, who else could it be?  Who else knew of this secret place?  All these months they had hidden their love for fear of reprisals from both their families.  It was forbidden for them to love each other, yet the thought of living without him was as impossible for her to conceive as it was to stop breathing.  Any moment she would see his beautiful, pale, almost translucent face break through the mire of this dismal, harrowing night. She would run into his rippled arms and let her fingers rake through his long, dark blonde hair; then she would bury her face in the cool hollow of his neck. Sometimes, like in the sweltering heat of the midsummer night, lying next to him was all the comfort she needed to calm her growing fever, to control the increasingly wild racing of her blood, to remind her that they were living proof that love was blind to their differences— that it was all that mattered.  In such moments, he was defenseless, and once the Madadh alluidh awakened in her, she could kill him swiftly, easily.  It was her instinct, indeed her imperative, and the imperative of all her kind to do so, even if there was a temporary truce between them. Yet even if there had not been, she was certain that nothing would have changed. Love was stronger than blood. Now, however, the truce was over.  If Daniel had not succeeded in freeing her family, then she, too, would be hunted.  And what if he had freed them?  Would they let him live? Cassondra shivered.  She knew the answer.  Somewhere in her head she also knew the situation was undeniably hopeless.  Yet she pushed that dark and dreadful thought far into the recesses of her consciousness and listened only to her heart. It longed for Daniel; it waited for him to return.  I will come back for you ...

Daniel?  Instinctively, her chin tilted upward.  But even as she inclined her neck forward in the direction of the thin slice of silver moonlight that had managed to snake its way through the labyrinthine passage, she knew that something was not right. Her keen sense of smell told her so. The footsteps crept closer. Short, faltering steps. Why so tentative? That was strange. She knew it, yet she refused to concede the possibility that someone else had happened upon this place. How could they? 

Please be Daniel, be Daniel, she whispered as the sound grew more audible.  Please ..., yet something was very, very wrong. Intuitively, she knew this as her blood started to race hotly through her veins, rising up, rushing behind her eyes, so that it throbbed like an angry vein about to burst, distorting her vision, and for an instant, she could not immediately see who was standing before her.  However, while her eyes may have failed her momentarily, another sense did not.  Her nostrils flared at the sour stench of ash from a pistol that had just been discharged. 

Silver powder?

Before her brain could assimilate what she already knew, Cassondra saw him: Jaydon Croft— the one she most reviled as much for his lust as for her own, however imprudent. Jaydon, her tormentor.  In the beginning, she was perversely drawn to his savage wildness, knowing full well that he had murdered Thomas ... or at the very least had led him to his death and her to her freedom.  How evil was that?  He had lured her with his hot passion, with his reckless intent, though she fought against it with all her power. Not hard enough.  Then she met Daniel. He was the polar opposite of his brother. Yet like many twins, Jaydon was consumed by a sick need to possess anything Daniel wanted.  And what he wanted most was Cassie. She had been drawn to both of them, albeit for different reasons. 

Stupid, stupid girl! 

Yet it was Daniel, the gentle, loving brother that she had chosen, and for that, Jaydon could not forgive either of them.  It was destined to end badly.  Every instinct she had told her this.  Nonetheless, she was determined to wield destiny to her own design.  Love would make it so. Though as she glared into her intruder’s cold, steel blue eyes, a tremor rocked her resolve. 

Where is he, Jaydon?  Where is Daniel ...?  What have you done?! 

Jaydon Croft raised the gun, his red lips curling into a deadly smirk.  Are you ready to die, witch? 

Chapter 1

Present Time. Deep woods somewhere in the northeastern US

The slim hooded figure leapt through the air with the absolute agility and precision of an animal running for its life and landed on the far side of a deep ravine, muddied by the force of rain pounding against its bank.  Damn it!

The runner peered down at thick globs of mud trailing down the legs of the previously clean, brand new gray denims that were all the rage just now.

Friiiig! 

There was a cool fifty bucks shot straight to hell, thank you very much. Definitely not okay. This display of self-indulgence, however, took less than a second before a more primal instinct kicked in as the runner reassessed the situation—the chase was not over.  Someone or something was out there and whatever it was, it would not rest until it had what it had come for. 

Caitlin ... Caitlin Clare. 

The voice seemed to whistle faintly through the trees. The runner turned right, then left, trying to gauge its direction. 

Who are you? Why are you following me?  There was no answer, only the pounding of the relentless rain whipping against the leaves of trees already drenched to capacity, their branches hanging limply and practically touching the ground.  Then she heard it again, only this time the voice was in her head. 

Caitlin Clare ... 

This was one seriously sick dude, the runner thought, sensing an omnipresence. Whatever it was, it was fast, very fast and seemed to know every twist and turn of the dense woods.  It could be a bear, though that wasn’t very likely, given its speed. So what was it?  Whatever, one thing was undeniable—it was still there, watching, waiting; it was, one might conjecture, reveling in its presumed superiority, enjoying the game before closing in. 

This isn’t funny, all right!  Hey?  Hey? Do you get it? What the hell do you want?

This time, however, the runner did not wait for the reply that by now was painfully obvious: it wanted blood. Her blood. 

CROFT’S LANDING, NORTH Carolina, Present time. 

Jules Walker bolted up in bed, small beads of a cold sweat etched across the wide, otherwise smooth plane of her forehead.  Her breaths were like short, faltering gasps for air—the last desperate struggle for life of one about to die. Except she was very much alive, verified by her consciousness as her eyes clicked from left to right, attesting to the fact that she was in her bedroom, her two hands balled into tight fists as they clung to the fabric of  the bedspread lying across her body.  For an instant, it looked like a sea of blood. 

It was just a red quilt. 

But it was the same dream, although she could never remember exactly what it was— only that she was running, fighting for her life against something ... or someone so powerful that the blood began to flow out of her body, pulling her down into an abyss of darkness while she fought against it with impotent breaths that only served to fill her lungs with more of her own dying blood. 

That’s when she woke up.  Suffice it to say, it was unnerving, not only because it was happening more or because she understood any more of what was actually happening in the dream, but also because the sense of it—her own sense of consciousness within her unconscious state—was that it was becoming more intense, more threatening. She had no idea what any of that meant, but it made her uneasy, certainly not how she wanted to feel today of all days—the day she would see Dylan Croft again after a whole summer.  And now she was going to be late. 

Hustle and flow! 

A quick shower later, she was standing in front of the mirror that framed the top of her dresser. 

You are absolutely, irrevocably dead!  As if her pale skin and silky chestnut brown hair falling into soft waves at the shoulder wasn’t enough, the charcoal eyeliner she picked up in the bargain bin at the drug store to outline her already dark brown eyes would definitely seal it. Add a wisp of pink lip-gloss, a hint of matching blush across her high cheekbones, and basically, she would never be able to live down this first day of senior year. It simply was not her usual MO. 

Julienne Walker stared tentatively at the strange reflection looking back at her.  Mirror, mirror on the wall ... 

Yeah, right.  Do not even go there; the wicked witch beat you to it. 

What she should have been doing instead of a bad imitation of Snow White’s evil stepmother was ditching the shi-shi lavender top that she got as a seventeenth birthday gift, which fyi, had never made it out of the box until this morning, and changing it for the slightly used Grateful Dead T-shirt she bought at a garage sale over the summer. That would have been the sensible thing to do. Then again, Jules had never been known for being particularly sensible. It was the artiste in her, most definitely the artiste. Then in the flash of a second, she felt herself being pulled down, drowning again in the dream. 

The sound of her mother’s voice careening up the stairwell from the first floor, thankfully brought her back.

Jules, honey, I got the pancakes all ready.  You need a good hot meal before school. 

Jules blew out a cleansing breath. Ugh!  She could feel the heartburn already.  May as well go for broke, she told her alter ego, and proceeded to flick a mascara wand across her upper lashes to complete the transformation. You would think, she mused, that after seventeen years and counting, her mom would have figured out that she hated pancakes. 

Starr Walker was forty-five going on sixteen; so theoretically, Jules was the adult in the house. Like most young women her age, she saw her mom as an artifact, albeit a crazy, loving one.  What else could you say about someone who still thought Sex and the City was some kind of manual for pre-menopausal women?  There was less to say about Charles Chuck Dane, aka, the biological dad of record, who apparently cut out while Jules was a blip of a bun baking in the maternal womb. Anyway, it had always been just she and Starr against the world— or whatever part of the world at large that Croft’s Landing represented. The so called nuclear family was a grossly overrated concept. 

Sic transit gloria mundi.

Jules read that in one of the old almanacs she found in the village museum where she conducted guided tours on weekends for extra money. Strictly a tourist attraction, which was mostly what Croft’s Landing was about—locals and tourists in season. The latter were a dwindling but select group of history buffs who had read about the early colonial settlements on the internet.  Then there was the overflow from the casino in Cherokee— the bottom feeders who didn’t want to spring for one of the more expensive hotels on the strip, usually ended up at The Inn at Croft’s Landing, aka, home sweet home and the town’s only B&B ... or hotel of any kind, unless you counted the Landing Motel, a somewhat modernized version of the Bates Motel, complete with a flickering sign, right off the interstate.  It was one of the only establishments in the environs of town not owned by the Croft family. 

Jules, will you come on before the pancakes get cold!

Coming ... 

The first day of school was always a mixed bag. At least for her. True, this year was somewhat different—it was senior year and technically, at least, supposed to be the high point of her high school career.  Funny, it didn’t feel all that much different from junior year. Actually, nothing seemed all that much different about life in general. That was the thing about Croft’s Landing—if you were born there, you were most likely a lifer, which wasn’t all that terrible, considering that a certain other lifer was scheduled to return this term.  Jules arched her brows, sizing up her mirrored reflection one last time with some skepticism. High point of her career?  That remained to be seen.  What she was less likely to figure into the equation, or even admit as a condition precedent to her embracing senior year with a new found sense of exhilaration was one person:  Dylan Croft.  According to the village grapevine, Dylan and Amanda Zane were over.  That mattered because:  first, Amanda was never good enough for him; and second because

Dylan was Jules’ best friend, and third because ... 

Jules pressed her eyes shut and made a demi-pirouette in the direction of the doorway.  She couldn’t allow herself to finish the thought or even acknowledge that there was any more to it. There wasn’t.  It was enough to say that Dylan Croft was special, and the real reason Jules could have for looking forward to senior year was that she would have the opportunity to hang out with him more if he was disengaged from Landing High’s resident queen bitch.  That and the fact the Dylan had managed to avoid taking his humanities English requirement, meaning they were going to be in at least one class together—probably English Literature.  That was most definitely too cool for words. 

Julienne, are you coming—everything’s getting cold!

Okay, okay, she yelled down as she scooped up her backpack. Please at least be chocolate chip pancakes. As Jules headed out, she caught another glimpse of her reflection, this time in the full-length mirror suspended from her open closet door.  She gasped. For second ... only the barest blink of an eye for sure ... she thought she saw someone ... something that— no, it wasn’t possible, but whatever it was, it was covered with ... blood. 

Julienne! 

Jules pressed her eyes shut, then slowly opened them. She stared hard into the mirror. Nothing.  She forced a small, throaty laugh then took a step backwards and appraised her reflection. Did she really know that person? The black straight leg jeans and ankle boots worked, or at least were not a great departure from her usual look.  However, the frilly lavender blouse was a completely different story.  What are you trying to prove? she asked, scrunching up her face in a small semblance of a frown.  Would he even notice?  She made a fist and knocked on her forehead.  Get over yourself, Jule!

Starr, however, was not about to do any such thing. I’m seeing it, but I’m not believing it!  Had her mom been holding a pitcher of OJ, it probably would have crashed to the floor.  Luckily, the only thing that dropped was her jaw. 

Mom, please— 

Did I die and go to heaven? 

Not likely. At least the heaven part. 

Not funny. 

Jules slumped into a chair in front of a heaping plate of blueberry pancakes. At least they weren’t buckwheat, and there wasn’t a glob of molasses on top.  That was some progress. Jules looked up.  Starr’s jaw was still hanging down in a state of suspended shock. It had to be the pink lip-gloss. 

Would you stop? 

Can’t I admire my little honey bun? 

Please don’t call me that. It’s so Rogers and Hammerstein. The other thing about Starr was that she knew the lyrics to every Broadway musical ever produced. Lately, she was on a South Pacific kick. To wit, she immediately went into her best Nelly Forebush two-step in the direction of the phone in the foyer that started to ring.  Saved by the bell.  Now that the summer was over, there wasn’t a lot of action at the Inn, especially on weekdays. It wasn’t that they were starving or anything like that, but business was slow. It usually picked up in late October for fall foliage, but for now it was nice to have the place all to themselves, which was why Starr liked to whip up the gigantic pre-school breakfasts—it made her feel needed.  This morning, however, Jules’ stomach was all butterflies, and even if her mom had made chocolate chip pancakes, she wouldn’t have been able to get more than a few forkfuls down—just to be polite. 

Get over it, she told herself, more forcefully this time.  It’s not like anything else has changed.  Or had it?  Jules decided not to go there, either.  Over psychoanalyzing one’s subconscious motivations was an invitation to trouble, she reminded herself as she breezed through the foyer. Starr was just hanging up the phone. 

Let me make you a sandwich for lunch.  I have some egg salad with curry—

Mom, there’s a café on campus, remember? Starr looked back at her wide-eyed, as if it was a revelation. A Mom was a mom was mom— whether you were two or ninety-two.  Jules made a backwards wave with her hand.  Later. 

Hey— Jules turned. Can I say you look good, missy, or is that too high school?  She smiled, if for no other reason than to acknowledge the twinkle in her Mom’s eyes—or was that an impending tear?  Whatever.  Jules definitely did not want to go there. 

Thanks, she said quickly, and was out the front door before the possibility of any other sappy mother-daughter repartee could present itself. The lip-gloss, it had to be the lip-gloss. That brought her back to thoughts of Dylan. She had not seen him since the beginning of summer.  Practically an eternity, it seemed. Not that they were  together-together by any means, but usually once school closed, his band, Blud,  of which she was a member, would meet and jam a few times a week. Then there was the occasional weekend when Starr would let them play on the sun porch at the Inn if there were families with teenagers checked in, and there were the usual Saturday nights at the Java Hut.  So in that sense, she was used to seeing Dylan all the time. 

Not so these last few months. Jules hadn’t laid eyes on him since he took off for Europe when school let out.  He texted her every now and then from London or Amsterdam where he was visiting some cousins and otherwise connecting with the rest of the family tree.  But other than that, nothing.  Not that she expected anything.  Why would she? After all, they were just buds, as opposed to being a couple like he and Amanda were—past tense. Amanda, coincidentally or not, had also gone to Europe for the summer to try her hand at modeling for some Italian catalogue company in Milan.  The fact that her extended  family, some of whom lived there, owned a  bunch of publishing companies may have had little bit to do with her becoming Croft’s Landing’s answer to a Cover Girl commercial. The important thing was that at the end of junior year, Amanda put out the word that she had broken it off with Dylan so she could be single for her European adventure, so as to give all those Italian dudes the chance to hit on her. 

Anyway, that was her story, though Jules suspected it was Dylan who finally decided to drop his ball and chain, but he was way too nice a guy to contradict Amanda’s face-saving version of the facts. Nonetheless, it would be interesting to see how it would all play out, Jules thought as she pulled into the school parking lot on her pre-owned Harley moped—a birthday gift from Starr—who made her promise upon fear of being