by Cyn Balog
Also by
CYN BALOG
FAIRY TALE
For Sara and Gabrielle,
who made every sleepless night worth it
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Working on Sleepless has been like a dream because of some very special people. As always, thank you to my writing BFF, Mandy Hubbard or Amanda Grace or whatever she goes by these days, who is the definition of persistence and determination and the reason I’ve been able to keep a positive outlook even on the very bleakest days. Thank you also to my many talented writer friends who have helped me over the past few months, including Brooke Taylor, Josh Berk, Keri Mikulski, Carrie Ryan, Saundra Mitchell, Aprilynne Pike, Michelle Zink, Maggie Stiefvater, Cynthia Leitich Smith, Teri Brown, Heather Dearly, and Cheryl Mansfield. You are all amazing.
Thank you to my agent, Jim McCarthy, and to Stephanie Elliott, Krista Vitola, and the rest of the people at Delacorte Press who had a role in bringing Sleepless to life. It has been such a pleasure working with all of you.
To my parents, Marilynn and Richard Reilly, thanks for everything. Thank you also to my mother-in-law, Gail Balog, for baby sitting and for promotional efforts, and to the rest of my family. A big thank-you to my grandfather, Orlando Bianco, whose own Ellis Island story served as the basis for Eron’s background, and to my mother for telling it to me.
Big hugs to anyone who has read my books or come out to support me at any of my events—I wouldn’t be able to do this without you. Your e-mails and letters keep me going every day and are treasured more than you can possibly know.
Special shout-out to anyone named Kiki. Your name isn’t really goofy. Try going through life with a last name that sounds like a character from The Hobbit.
And I’ve saved the best for last. Thank you to Bri, Bun, and Brie, who are the reason behind everything good in my life. The moon for you.
Contents
Other Books by this Author
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter 1 - Julia
Chapter 2 - Eron
Chapter 3 - Julia
Chapter 4 - Eron
Chapter 5 - Julia
Chapter 6 - Eron
Chapter 7 - Julia
Chapter 8 - Eron
Chapter 9 - Julia
Chapter 10 - Eron
Chapter 11 - Julia
Chapter 12 - Eron
Chapter 13 - Julia
Chapter 14 - Eron
Chapter 15 - Julia
Chapter 16 - Eron
Chapter 17 - Julia
Chapter 18 - Eron
Chapter 19 - Julia
Chapter 20 - Eron
Chapter 21 - Julia
Chapter 22 - Eron
Chapter 23 - Julia
Chapter 24 - Eron
Chapter 25 - Julia
Chapter 26 - Eron
Chapter 27 - Julia
Chapter 28 - Eron
Chapter 29 - Julia
Chapter 30 - Eron
Chapter 31 - Julia
Chapter 32 - Eron
Chapter 33 - Julia
About the Author
Copyright
Griffin Colburn knew something was wrong the moment he slid into the driver’s seat.
It was a twinge. Nothing more. He shook his head, blinked. Pushed it off.
His Mustang started fine, like always. He revved the engine a few times, like always. He always said it was to keep it from stalling, which it sometimes did in cold weather, but really he loved to feel the power behind the car. It was old, but still fast and dangerous.
He wouldn’t know how dangerous, though, until that night.
As he backed out of the driveway, Julia blew him a long, exaggerated stage kiss, as if he were shipping off to war. As if she knew she’d never see him again. Then she wiped some nonexistent tears from her eyes and pretended to sob hysterically into her hands. His headlights illuminated her slight, pale body, crowned with long reddish hair. She squinted in their glow and then smiled toothily, like a preschooler.
He fed a Sinatra disc into his CD player and grinned back at her, then listened as Ol’ Blue Eyes crooned, “Someday, when I’m awfully low.” The tinkling of the piano keys drowned out the screeching of his tires, and as he began to sing along, he felt it, fiercer now. It started in his temples, trailed behind his eyes, the momentary shiver that comes somewhere between wakefulness and sleep. Twinge. Twinge. For a second, he felt as if he were falling. He blinked again, gripped the steering wheel to steady himself.
Twinge.
This time, he squeezed his eyes closed, only for a moment. In that moment, the image of the beautiful young woman appeared.
Whoa, he thought. Too many late nights. He sat up in the driver’s seat, stretched his spine. Usually when his mind wandered, it went to NFL playoffs. Or to the scantily clad, Playboy Playmate type of beauty. And yet, when he blinked again, he could see her, as plainly as if she were sitting in the passenger seat next to him. She was dressed in the pink silk of a fairy-tale princess, braiding her black waist-length hair. When she batted her heavy lashes, a slow smile spread on her face.
Then her eyes focused on him. Shark’s eyes, two emotionless black buttons.
He shook his head, rubbed one temple with his free hand, checked the seat beside him again. Nothing but his baseball glove and a grease-stained fast-food bag. I definitely need more sleep, he thought as he sped out of the neighborhood. He was halfway down Peasant when he felt a slow, warm caress run up his neck, down his chest—twinge. His whole body lurched forward. It was almost like he skipped forward a few moments in time. He must have driven right through that stop sign on Peasant, because he couldn’t remember coming up to it. Instead, he found himself on Main Street, at an amber light, which normally he would have sped through, but sensing something was off, he slowed. Suddenly—twinge—he blinked and it was green again, without ever having turned red.
“What the …” He gripped the wheel tighter.
He thought about turning back, but only for a second. Griffin Colburn didn’t have a reputation for spinelessness.
Just a few more minutes. Just a few more minutes and I’ll be in bed. He pressed down on the accelerator, thinking of home.
He blinked again. Twinge.
And she was there.
This time, clearer.
Beckoning to him.
CHAPTER 1
Julia
“You can ring my be-e-ell, ring my bell!”
My eyes flicker open. All I see is a pink satin pillow, which I’ve clamped over my face to block out the rest of the world. When I remove it, I recoil in the morning sunlight like the undead and crane my neck to check the clock at my bedside.
9:20 a.m. Oh, hell no.
Before I can theorize who on earth hates me enough to be playing cheesy disco music on the only day of the week I can sleep in, I realize that the noise is coming from under my other pillow. Grinding my teeth, I rip the pillow off the bed, throw it across the room, and see my cell phone vibrating there.
Griffin.
He’d been quiet for all of three minutes during our “study session” the night before, while I was fixing him cookies and milk, which was plenty of time for him to reprogram my phone with music he knew would make me want to hurl. I quickly pick the phone up; the display says “private.” I know only one person who has a private number, all the easier to annoy me with. This is, without a doubt, the last time I’ll ever play Betty Crocker for him.
As I flip the cell open, my eyes trail to the floor, where I’ve thrown the proofs of our picture from prom. I’d been convinced I looked like a princess in that photograph, until he proudly showed me the proofs last night. He’d had his pointer and middle fingers behind me,
giving me rabbit ears. Jerk. “What?” I groan.
“Ms. Devine?” The voice is professional, kind of effeminate … but I’m smarter than that. Griffin can disguise his voice better than anyone.
“Yeah?”
“Coby Baker from the Bucks County Courier Times.”
I sigh. This is a good one. Last weekend, I won a major cash award from Publishers Clearinghouse, which was just too obvious, since I’m not that lucky. “And?” I snuggle back under the covers.
“Are you Julia Devine, Griffin Colburn’s girlfriend?”
“Who?” I ask innocently. There’s silence on the other end; I’ve caught him off guard, a small victory for me. “Yeah, I am. What about him?”
“I was hoping I could get a quote from you, as his girlfriend.”
Oh, I can give you a quote, I think, but I doubt any paper would be able to publish it.
I’m silent, choosing the words, when his voice comes through again, more serious. “I’m sorry for your loss, Ms. Devine.”
“Oh,” I say, thinking fast. “I thought this was about him robbing the 7-E again. Did he finally croak?”
“Um … a-are you …,” the voice stammers. “The car accident?”
“Oh, right,” I say. Wow, Griffin is pulling out all the stops today. “It slipped my mind. Okay. Let’s see. He was a really nice guy, except for that weird fungus. And the funny smell. He was always taking chances. Clearly he is responsible for his own undoing.” I pause. “How’s that?”
More silence. This is where I expect Griffin to break in with his usual “What’s up?” Instead, “Coby,” still businesslike, says, “Um … thank you, Ms. Devine.”
“Pug, it’s nine in the morning,” I begin, but then I notice the words “call ended” flashing on the display.
Huh.
I toss the phone aside and slip deeper under my comforter. Ten minutes later, I’m almost asleep when it happens again.
“You can ring my be-e-ell, ring my bell!”
Cursing, I find the phone tangled within my sheets and check the screen. Private, again. My first and only boyfriend is so dead.
I flip the phone open. “Yeah?” I say, grouchier this time.
“Ms. Devine?”
“Who are you now, the Wall Street Journal?”
“Actually, it’s the Intelligencer.”
Okay, now this has gone too far. “Do you want a quote from the victim’s girlfriend, too?” I ask, my voice saccharine.
“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”
“Actually,” I say, “it’s a lot of trouble. Pug, I’m trying to sleep. This. Is. Not. Funny.”
“Hey. Julia Devine.” The voice on the other end sparkles with recognition. “You’re the Julia Devine. The one who made all those headlines. Right? How long ago was that? Five years ago?”
I bite my lip, suddenly aware of my heart thudding against my camisole. If there’s anything, any topic in my life, that Griffin knows is off-limits, it’s that. Even he wouldn’t touch it. “Nine,” I whisper.
There’s silence on the other end. “Ms. Devine,” the voice finally says, “have you not heard about the accident?”
My voice is a squeak. “Accident?”
“Ms. Devine. There was an accident, on Main Street, last night. Griffin Colburn was killed.”
It seems I was right about one thing, I realize as I flip the phone shut without another word and numbly stare at the display.
My first and only boyfriend is so dead.
CHAPTER 2
Eron
If Mama, God rest her soul, could see me now, crouching outside the window of a girl’s house, in this tree, she would surely rise from her grave and swat the life clean out of me. And I agree with her; this is no place for a man. But that is one thing I am not.
At least, not yet.
Watching the bedtime ritual of a woman from a clandestine post is perfectly acceptable behavior for us Sleepbringers, known as Sandmen to humans. In fact, I watch more than one woman every night. I’m sure Mama would get out the belt if she knew that. It’s not proper human behavior, so it was a struggle even for me to grasp. After all, I still appear human, and one’s human sensibilities are difficult simply to disregard. Even now I’m not entirely comfortable with stalking women in the dark, though I’ve been carrying out this seduction for nearly a hundred years. I’m about as used to it as I’ll ever be.
When I died and made my choice to join the Sleepbringers, it was Mama I thought of. She was the only one I hated to leave behind—well, besides Gertie, perhaps. Without me, Mama was alone. I was only seventeen, and I had aspirations to be someone, to make something out of my life. But all too suddenly, that was over. I was a picker in a textile mill in Newark and snagged my shoulder in one of the machines as I was trying to free some bunched fabric. Tore my arm up dreadfully, and by the time they got me to the hospital, I’d lost too much blood. It didn’t hurt. Or perhaps it did. I can’t remember. Like I said, it was a hundred years ago.
I do remember, like yesterday, sitting in a dream state and talking to a beautiful young woman. She told me not to be afraid, and it felt as if I’d met her before, perhaps in my dreams. For the first time, I didn’t trip over my words, didn’t make a fool of myself like I always did with the fairer sex. I was comfortable with her. Little did I know that as I spoke to this young woman, she was drawing me further and further into her world, seducing me, and pulling me forever away from the simple life I’d known as Eron DeMarchelle, textile picker from Newark, New Jersey. By the time she explained to me that my life was over, there was nothing left to be done.
Julia is sitting at her vanity, applying some cream to her skin. If I could speak to her, I would protest; her skin is already the color and texture of Ivory soap. Perfect. That is, except for the three small purple scars, like a cat scratch, on her right cheek. She always wears her reddish hair down. It looks lovely when it spills upon her satin pillows, but during the day, it covers too much of her face, which I suppose is her objective. She has always been wildly self-conscious about those scars, which she received when she was seven, in an incident she has otherwise done a wonderful job of forgetting. Her eyelids sag heavily, so my job should be easy today. For some reason, the thought saddens me.
I’m woken from my reverie when the room suddenly goes dark. I strain to see through the glass the covers of Julia’s bed floating down upon her small frame. Time to begin.
Stepping into the room, I adjust my cuff links and pat my coat pockets to ensure I have a good supply of sand in them. I pass the collection of running trophies, the posters and models of architectural masterpieces, the dusty shelves of discarded stuffed animals she cuddled faithfully when she was a child. Julia is on her side. I peer over her and realize that she’s holding a frame in her hands. Julia’s bureau is covered with framed photographs of family and friends; she feels safe with them watching her. In the darkness, I can’t see the picture she’s holding beneath the glass. I spread the sand over her, and before my ritual is anywhere near completion, she’s dreaming away. She turns onto her back and mumbles something I can’t quite make out.
Julia often talks in her sleep, and usually, her words are laced with worry. She speaks things in her dreams that she is afraid to say while conscious. She is quiet, prefers to keep to herself, which is something I’ve always understood, because I was quite the same way. When she was younger, she was the most precocious, talkative child I had ever known, but she’s much more tentative now, as if she no longer believes that her thoughts have worth. I want to soothe her, but that would break the first rule of the Sleepbringers: once the human is asleep, we must make our exit. Quickly, I leave the way I came, but I can’t bring myself to move on to my other charges right away. I sit on a branch and attempt to find her form in the darkened room, but all I can see is my reflection in the glass.
“Hello, my pet,” a voice breathes, tickling my ear.
“Good evening, Chimere,” I whisper. I don’t need to turn to know
that it is my mentor. A hundred years has bred a familiarity I didn’t know possible. She is that beautiful young woman I spoke about—well, if one could call her a woman; she is not human, either. Though, the difference between us is that she never has been and never will be. I’ve almost come to take for granted that she will forever be in my life. It’s hard to believe that in another few weeks, I will never see her again.
Chimere peers through the window. “Ah! Of course. This one shall be the hardest for you to part with, no doubt.”
“What makes you say that?” I ask, finally looking at her. She carefully adjusts her white petticoats and absently begins to braid her waist-length black hair. It’s one of her most endearing habits.
She smiles at me, her eyes saying, Must you even ask? “You two have been through much together.”
“That’s of no importance. It’s not as though she realizes that,” I mutter darkly.
“It matters to you, though, does it not? I can always guess where to find you. Most often when I come to check on you, you’re in this very spot.”
I don’t answer. Perhaps I was spending a few extra moments outside Julia’s bedroom, but I hardly felt it noticeable.
She smiles again. “It’s not at all unexpected. This one replaced your beloved, after all.”
I hitch a shoulder. Yes, Gertie was the girl I loved when I was seventeen, though it’s hard to think of her as that. “Beloved” would suggest a closeness I hadn’t achieved with the choirgirl from my church. In fact, we had never touched, or even spoken to one another. I firmly doubt she even knew my name. We only exchanged glances and smiles back and forth across the pews at St. Ann’s Church every Sunday for a year. Before the accident, I’d made plans to ask her to the church social. Since then, I’ve spent a hundred years regretting not following through with those plans. “Beloved” sounds rather presumptuous.