Beyond the Rising Tide

P
RAISE FOR

BEYOND THE RISING TIDE

“With a beautiful voice, Sarah Beard tells a rich story with layered characters, and does so with deceptive simplicity. Beard has created sensory experiences that transport the reader to a luscious chocolate shop, the salty tang of the ocean, a piquant vineyard, and more. Twists and turns will have the reader wondering how the story can possibly resolve in a satisfying way, yet the ending is a perfect blend of the surprising and the inevitable, making
Beyond the Rising Tide
a book that will stay with you long after the final page.”

—
ANNETTE LYON
, award-winning author of
Band of Sisters

“
Beyond the Rising Tide
grabbed my attention from the very start. The premise was intriguing, and I quickly fell in love with the characters. This is one of those stories that stays with you long after the closing scene. It was beautifully imagined and vividly written. I absolutely loved it!”

—
TERESA RICHARDS
, author of
Emerald Bound

“This book is not only an engaging and satisfying supernatural romance, but also a beautiful story about life, death, and the gray places in between.”

—
E. B. WHEELER
, author of
The Haunting of Springett Hall
and
Born to Treason

“This novel is the perfect mix of modern love story and literary fiction—one brimming with genuine emotion that had me rereading passages simply because they were too beautifully written to experience just once.”

—
JULIE N. FORD
, author of award-winning
Count Down to Love
and best-seller
No Holly for Christmas

S
WEETWATER
B
OOKS

A
N
I
MPRINT OF
C
EDAR
F
ORT
, I
NC
.

S
PRINGVILLE
, U
TAH

© 2016 Sarah Beard

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever, whether by graphic, visual, electronic, film, microfilm, tape recording, or any other means, without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief passages embodied in critical reviews and articles.

This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. The opinions and views expressed herein belong solely to the author and do not necessarily represent the opinions or views of Cedar Fort, Inc. Permission for the use of sources, graphics, and photos is also solely the responsibility of the author.

ISBN 13: 978-1-4621-2666-8

Published by Sweetwater Books, an imprint of Cedar Fort, Inc.

2373 W. 700 S., Springville, UT 84663

Distributed by Cedar Fort, Inc.,
www.cedarfort.com

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

Names: Beard, Sarah, 1977- author.

Title: Beyond the rising tide / Sarah Beard.

Description: Springville, Utah : Sweetwater Books, an Imprint of Cedar Fort, Inc., [2016] | ©2016 | Summary: Seventeen-year-old Kai Turner is dead, so he should be the one haunting, but instead it is Avery Ambrose, the girl whose life he saved, who haunts him.

Identifiers: LCCN 2016003638 (print) | LCCN 2016010823 (ebook) | ISBN 9781462118748 (perfect bound : alk. paper) | ISBN 9781462126668

Subjects: | CYAC: Love--Fiction. | Dead--Fiction. | Ghosts--Fiction. | LCGFT: Fiction.

Classification: LCC PZ7.B380234 Be 2016 (print) | LCC PZ7.B380234 (ebook) | DDC [Fic]--dc23

LC record available at
http://lccn.loc.gov/2016003638

Cover design by Michelle May Ledezma

Cover design © 2016 Cedar Fort, Inc.

Edited and typeset by Melissa J. Caldwell

To Diane and Mel,
for always letting me know you’re there,
even when I can’t see you.

A
LSO BY
S
ARAH
B
EARD

Porcelain Keys

don’t know how it’s decided, who lives and who dies. Why some are granted more time among the living, and others are snatched away into the land of the dead. All I know is that tonight, a decision has been made. And of the two critically injured people sprawled on the highway, I’ve been assigned to save only one.

Raindrops pound against the asphalt, and ambulance lights wash the scene in bursts of red like an outdoor rave. Only, there’s no one dancing here. Just a heap of metal that was once a car, an obliterated highway divider, and a handful of paramedics giving new meaning to the term
graveyard shift
. They don’t know I’m here, but without my help, the boy I’ve been assigned to won’t be leaving here alive.

My feet don’t disturb the water as I stride through a puddle, as though it’s a mirage in a desert. In truth, I’m the mirage. The thing with no real substance. The paramedics don’t acknowledge me as I kneel beside the boy. Not because they’re busy cinching a tourniquet around his leg or searching for a heartbeat, but because I’m invisible to them.

I’ve grown accustomed to the invisibility, but after being a healer for six months, I still can’t handle the sight of blood. The boy’s jeans are soaked with it, and the rain thins it out as it spills onto the asphalt like a polluted stream. So I look at his face instead. His eyes are closed, his mouth open as raindrops fall between his lips. Something about him startles me. Like I’ve unexpectedly looked into a mirror. His wild tawny hair. His brokenness. Or maybe it’s just his age. Late teens—the same age I was when I died. Lucky for him, I’m here to make sure he doesn’t share my fate.

As the paramedics begin CPR, I rest my hand on the boy’s shoulder. My fingers sink into him a bit, and I grimace as I feel the wreckage of his body. His ribs are broken, his pelvis shattered, his aorta ruptured. The paramedic doing chest compressions is thick and heavy-handed, tearing the boy’s heart more with each pump.

Wasting no more time, I summon the power of my healing wristband. The metal begins to burn on my wrist, and the inlaid stone brightens like smoldering embers. Inside of me, the power whirls and swells like a firestorm until it’s too much to contain. Then it leaves me and moves through the boy, sewing up his ruptured heart as if it were torn fabric. It doesn’t heal his other injuries, only what medicine and his own body can’t heal quickly enough.

A moment later, a female paramedic declares that they have a pulse. The heavy man rocks back on his heels in relief, and the boy is lifted onto a backboard and carried to the ambulance.

My work here is done, but I can’t bring myself to leave. My eyes travel over the wet road until I find the other victim. A woman, probably the boy’s mother. She’s been extracted from the car and lies on the road, and beneath all the scarlet, the original color of her dress is uncertain. Her feet are bare, and I’m grateful I can’t see around the paramedics to glimpse her face. Two of them are kneeling over her, doing their best to keep her alive. And Grim stands at her head, ready to seal her death.

His real name is Jerick, but in my head, he’s almost always Grim. Not only because of his job, but because I’ve never seen the man crack a smile. I guess if I were the one always taking people from their loved ones, I wouldn’t feel much like smiling either.

I take a couple of steps toward the woman. I don’t see her spirit anywhere, so she must still be in her body. It’s not too late. That boy back there doesn’t have to go through the pain of losing his mother. Not when I possess the power to save her. I take another step toward her.

“Don’t come any closer, Kai,” Grim warns with weariness, like a teacher who’s told his student one too many times to keep their hands in the confines of their own workspace.

“Why?” I ask, and my voice is tired too. Tired of asking why any of us have to be torn from the people we love. Tired of never getting an answer.

He raises his scepter, reminding me that he has a job to do. The diamond-shaped tip of the scepter burns orange like a flame, a sign that he’s only moments away from sealing her death. “If you want to help people, then help only the ones you’ve been assigned to. You wouldn’t want to lose that privilege again, would you?”

My gaze returns to the woman, a heaviness settling over me. The boy’s life may have been spared, but if Grim takes his mother, he’ll be left with wounds that will never fully heal. Wounds like mine.

Grim is right, though. I know the consequence of working outside of my jurisdiction, and if I want to keep helping people at all, I can’t cross that line again.

Despite the paramedics’ efforts, the woman’s soul rises and leaves her body like cotton pulled from a withered boll. When Jerick hovers the glowing specter over her lifeless body, I have to turn away. And when I hear her voice asking why she has to leave her son, I can’t stay any longer. I quicken away to the only place where I can put this tragedy out of my mind.