Rebecca Jaycox's novel, The Other Inheritance, is on sale from now until the 5th!
Rebecca grew up in the tiny town of Berryman, which borders the Mark Twain National Forest and the Courtois River about 70 miles south of St. Louis. The beautiful landscape fed her imagination, and she began writing stories at age 10 and never stopped. Always seeking adventure, Rebecca moved to France after she graduated college with a journalism degree to teach English at a French high school. Bitten by the travel bug, she has recently visited Italy, Greece, Austria, Spain, and finally made it to her bucket-list destination of Istanbul last summer. Rebecca now lives in New York City with her husband, Gregory. She is the curator and program director of the YA Lit Series at the 92nd Street Y--one of New York's premier cultural centers. She enjoys reading and writing fantasy, urban fantasy, steampunk, and science fiction. The Other Inheritance is her first novel.
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She touched the frog. Just once. It leaped into the air and hopped away, disappearing under the classroom desks. It had been awaiting its fate as a science experiment, fully dead, the stench of formaldehyde permeating the room . . .
Seventeen-year-old Reggie has been having a tougher time than usual. As if dealing with her alcoholic mother and fighting school bullies isn’t enough, dead things keep coming back to life and this biker dude shows up in her dreams, babbling about magic and a world called the Other.
Reggie’s life is changing, and she has no idea why. Or whether she should believe Rhys, the man in her dreams, who claims she’s in danger and that someone is coming to take her to a safer reality.
And when Asher shows up, things really get crazy.
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Here's an excerpt from the book!
“Did anyone ever tell you that you’re a cliché?” seventeen-year-old Reggie Lang asked. She was hunched in an antique, high-backed chair. Her chestnut hair spilled over her shoulders, her splattering of freckles barely visible in the firelight.
“Am I?” he said.
The man on the other side of the hearth stretched his long legs out toward the fire. A scar puckered his right cheekbone, slanting down to the sharp blade of his nose.
Reggie took in his tough leather boots and duster. “The Hell’s Angels called. They want their motorcycle back.” His rough exterior stood at odds with the delicate furniture and pink-veined marble fireplace.
He laughed. “Hell’s Angels? Never heard that before.”
“Really? The leather look of doom isn’t deliberate?”
He tugged at his coat, designed for function, not fashion. The light from the fire picked out grooves and scrapes that pitted the hide. “It’s for protection.”
“From what? Don’t tell me you’re a rebel with a cause.”
His amusement faded. “I have a very important cause. And you’re a key part of it.”
Reggie wrapped her arms around her knees. Wariness shone in her large brown eyes.
“I’m a key part of your cause? Does this mean you’re finally going to tell me what I’m doing here? These little chitchats are getting on my nerves. Tell me what you want from me or leave me alone.” Three nights now, they’d been meeting, and he refused to give his name or any answers.
“I’m here to help with the changes you’re going through. To help you understand your place.”
“My place? Who are you to tell me about my place? For all I know, you’re just some pervert who gets off by harassing teenage girls,” Reggie said, pushing herself to her feet.
“I’m not a pervert. Never accuse me of such things again.” His anger surprised her.
Reggie’s eyes narrowed as she searched his, but she found no signs of a lie. She sank back down into the chair. “Sorry, I have to watch out for myself.”
“Understood. Now, would you like to know what changes I’m talking about?”