The Lost Magic (Book One)
Grace Lynn Stevenson is an eighteen year old girl who recently moved with her wealthy, but busy parents to a new city. She’s popular, pretty and rich - what more could a girl want? But deep down, she’s sad, lonely and plagued by nightmares. When she meets Sebastian Caldwood at her new private school, she’s inexplicably drawn to him and his strange tattoos. Sebastian always gets what he wants - he simply has to wish it; but he’s fighting his own inner demons, and struggling to remember a past that eludes him. When he remembers that he is much older than he looks, he realizes that he’s seen many people live and die, including Grace. Once Sebastian realizes his true nature and finds what he has been searching for the past hundreds of years, he also realizes that it is now up to him to protect Grace from the dangers that have plagued them throughout eternity.
ISBN Trade Paperback: 978-1-926760-63-3
FICTION | Paranormal Romance
List Price: $17.95
Published: December 7, 2010
“I was captured by Amber Frost from the very beginning... (and found it easy to relate to both Grace and Sebastian). The characters were well-developed and believable, the settings clearly described, and I enjoyed every word. I can hardly wait for the next books in this series...” BItten By Books
“This is a wonderfully written book with truly unforgettable characters; a young adult novel that will keep much older audiences captivated as well. Once the book is opened, you will find it difficult to put down.” Book Divas
“...will leave such an ache in your chest for true love that you will never be able to forget this story. This has got to be one of the best stories for young adults that I have read in a very longtime and rivals the pens of Lauren Kate, author of Fallen, and Alyson Noel, author of The Immortals series.” The Scribe’s Desk - Kyra Dawson
My pen carefully moved across the paper, twisting, flowing, black ink streaking in its wake across the virgin white surface. The contrast was bold and oddly satisfying. I surrendered to my instincts, allowing my subconscious to control my movements. I watched as if from a distance as the intricate swirls untangled into a detailed pattern, my pen dancing across the page. It was a strange sensation, to be so absorbed in my drawing but to feel so detached from my actions at the same time. This was one of the rare times I didn’t overanalyze. There were no rules that bound me here; I was free to express myself, to escape.
It was one of the reasons why I often chose to work in the art room during my free periods. I found a strange kind of peace beneath the high ceilings and under the glaring fluorescent lights. I sat at my usual place, the desk that was always left empty at the side of the room. My seat was facing the tall windows at the back of the art room that looked out over the school courtyard. On sunny days I would gaze out at the bright blue sky and watch wispy, white clouds drift by. Lately, I’d been watching the late autumn rains fall, washing away the last traces of summer as the seasons turned and changed.
I felt safe in the art room. No one knew me here – no, that wasn’t true. Everyone knew me everywhere. But no one spoke to me here and no one expected me to speak to them. I didn’t have to try so hard. I could afford the luxury of letting myself go – a little. I was free to doodle, to daydream and to work through my increasingly complex thoughts. Life never used to be this complicated but lately... lately something was wrong. I’d become aware that there was something missing in my life, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
I continued to draw, spiraling deeper within myself with each precise and impulsively placed line.
My life was all about order, all about rules. It started with my parents, their strict ideas about how an eighteen year-old girl should behave, all the things I must accomplish, everything I should want, all that I should strive for. I tried my best to please them, to be the daughter that they wanted me to be. Each day I dressed myself in the expensive and fashionable clothes my mother bought for me. I paid meticulous attention to my appearance, knowing that my mother expected me to appear flawless and composed at all times. My parents had many expectations for me – good grades, extra-curricular activities, to be friendly, polite and bubbly no matter how I truly felt. It didn’t feel like their standards were too high; I knew they just wanted me to be happy in the way they thought I should be. I never disappointed them.
I was fairly certain my parents were happy or at least pleased with themselves; all of their dreams and desires were coming true but they had expected no less from life. They weren’t satisfied; what we had was never enough and they constantly strove for more. My father had recently been promoted to a partner at the law-firm where he had worked for the past three years. This had meant more prestige for our family and almost as importantly, more money. We’d moved into the city of Victoria, closer to my father’s office and into a significantly larger house. My mother had been able to buy more expensive things to fill our bigger, fancier home and I’d been enrolled into a better school, the prestigious Craigflower Academy.
We lived on Vancouver Island, on the West Coast of Canada. Craigflower Academy was in Victoria, British Columbia’s quaint and touristy capital city. It was where we’d relocated to from our previous smaller, rural home outside of the city. I missed our old neighborhood, the fields, the forests, the nearby lake, but I didn’t complain, I never complained. I forced out a smile as we said goodbye to the house I’d lived in for most of my life. I didn’t shed a single tear as I left the private school that I’d attended for the past sixteen years and all my old friends behind. The future held bigger and better things for me than them or so I’d been told. There was no reason to feel sad.
I knew I was lucky to be going to such a prestigious private school. I knew I should be impressed by Craigflower’s beautifully manicured campus grounds, historic-looking, statuesque buildings, state of the art equipment and world-renowned teaching staff. And I should have been thrilled to move into such a huge, beautiful, new house with so many windows, balconies and pillars. There may have been no fields and forests in my new neighborhood but we now lived right along the waterfront on the exclusive Beach Drive, minutes from the ocean and just a short drive to Victoria’s busy downtown area. I should be proud of our beautiful gardens, tall oak trees and high, iron gates. Yet often, I would wistfully gaze out my third story bedroom window to the snow peaked mountains on the horizon and the forests and mountains that bordered the city. I had to remind myself that we were now in the right neighborhood, socializing with the right people and I was finally attending the right school. I knew I should be grateful. I knew I should try harder.
My pen began weaving and looping, tracing lines faster, harder, darker. The pattern that had started out so neat and precise was exploding outwards across the page, the lines tangling out into a dark and detailed nest that overwhelmed the pristine white in twisted shadows. I watched myself curiously, vaguely surprised by the darkness of the image I was creating.
Also by Suzi Davis