Revel

by Maurissa Guibord

Genres: YA Contemporary; YA Paranormal

Synopsis

There's an island off the coast of Maine that's not on any modern map. Shrouded in mist and protected by a deadly reef, Trespass Island is home to a community of people who guard the island and its secrets from outsiders. Seventeen-year-old Delia grew up in Kansas, but has come here in search of her family and answers to her questions: Why didn't her mother ever talk about Trespass Island? Why did she fear the open water? But Delia's not welcome and soon finds herself enmeshed in a frightening and supernatural world where ancient Greek symbols adorn the buildings and secret ceremonies take place on the beach at night. Sean Gunn, a handsome young lobsterman, befriends Delia and seems willing to risk his life to protect her. But it's Jax, the coldly elusive young man she meets at the water's edge, who finally makes Delia understand the real dangers of life on the island. Delia is going to have to fight to survive. Because there are monsters here. And no one ever leaves Trespass alive.

Release date: February 12, 2013

Publisher: Delacorte Press

Print pages: 256

Sample

Chapter 1
Maybe I should have known from the beginning to stay away from Trespass Island. The signs were all there, as clear as flashing neon. Like Don't Eat at Joe's--I Got Salmonella. I guess I was just too blind to see them.
I stood at the counter of the Portland Ferry Company to get my ticket, pulling my short-sleeved hoodie close against the gusts of cool ocean air that blew through every time the doors swung.
"You can't get there from here," the ticket clerk said. His Maine accent broke there in two. They-ya.
I blinked, then smiled. "What? Oh. Ha. Good one." I definitely wasn't at my best. I'd just ridden by bus for two days from Garden City, Kansas; I'd slept sitting upright last night next to the Pavarotti of snorers and was seriously under-caffeinated. And I obviously didn't get New England humor.
But the ticket clerk just scowled at me, leaned forward, and fired his words through the circular hole in his window like spitty missiles. "I said, you can't get there from here."
He actually wasn't joking.
I held up a finger, rummaged in my backpack and took out an old book. Mysteries of the New England Coast fell open to a faded map in the center. I slid the book under the ticket window.
"See? This is where I want to go." I pointed to a small blob on the map, squishing down the book a little because the blob was almost hidden in the crack of the spine. "That's Trespass Island, right? Doesn't one of the ferries go there?"
"Nope," the ticket agent said. "Ferry for Saylor Island goes past there." He poked a finger on the map. "Doesn't stop at Trespass. That's a private island. Residents only. Hey, watch it."
I'd twisted the book a little, accidentally nudging his Portland Sea Dogs mug, and a spout of coffee splattered his shirt.
"Oh my gosh. I am so sorry. Here, take this." I pushed a wad of napkins under the window.
The ticket agent waved away my help and wiped coffee from his name tag, which said I'm Richard, meanwhile muttering something under his breath about tourists.
"But people live there," I said. "How do the residents get back and forth?"
The ticket agent eyed me, then shrugged. "Most folks who live on an island have their own boat. 'Less they're real good swimmers." He snorted.
"Ha ha, right." That was so--not funny again. My laugh sounded distracted, bordering on panicky. "So how do I get out there? There must be a mail boat or a water taxi. Something."
The man's smile faded. As if he'd expected me to be miles away by this time, pestering someone else. When I didn't budge from the counter, he said with a touch of impatience, "Folks on Trespass are real private. They don't want tourists poking around. Or treasure hunters." He gave a disparaging jerk of his chin toward the book.
"Oh, I'm not a tourist," I said quickly. "I have family on the island."
Family. That word felt strange. My grandmother was the only family I had left, and I'd never even met her.
"Oh yeah?" The guy looked me up and down. "Your family know you're coming?"
"Well, no, not exactly."
"Huh." The ticket agent chewed on the problem, looking bored. "Guess you're out of luck. Best let 'em know you're here. Make arrangements that way."
He looked past me and seemed disappointed to find that nobody else was in line.
"Okay. Thanks." I took the book, picked up my small suitcase and turned away. There must be a way. I'd find one. After coming all this way, I couldn't go back.
"Wait a minute," the ticket agent called. "You say you've got family out there on Trespass?"
When I looked back, he fidgeted, as if trying to decide something. "I might be able to find someone to take you," he said at last, rubbing the bristles on his jaw. "Old fella that comes out for the mail will be coming by. But it's against the rules. And expensive." He licked his lips. "Say . . . three hundred dollars?"
"Three hundred dollars?" It was a crazy amount for a simple boat ride. On the other hand, I had the money. And no other options. Not at the moment, anyway.
I dug into the pocket of my jeans and pulled out a small plastic change purse. The thing was kind of embarrassing, with its gaudy polka dots, but it was secure, and small enough to tuck in a pocket. "I don't have that much in cash. But--" I flipped open the clasp and extracted a misshapen coin. I'd taken five from the safe-deposit box at the First National to fund this trip. There were three left. "I have this." I tapped one of the coins on the counter and slid it forward.
"It's a Spanish gold piece," I told him. He slipped a hand over the coin. "Two escudos or something. It's worth about three hundred and fifty dollars. You can look it up online."
"So it's true," he whispered. He rubbed the coin between two thick fingers.
"What's true?"
"Nothing," he said, pocketing the coin.
"Okay," I said with a shrug. "Can I get a ride?"
"Wait outside." His gaze fixed on the gleaming coin like his eyeballs were magnetized. "Dock seven."
Rolling my small suitcase behind me, I went from the dimness of the ferry terminal into the bright sunshine. Outside, the sounds of clanging bells, horn blasts and screeching gulls filled Portland's harbor. I sat down on a bench and wrinkled my nose. I'd never been this close to the ocean before. Wasn't the sea supposed to smell fresh and tangy? This just . . . smelled. The fishy odor of the dock felt cloying and thick, almost as if the salty air were trying to seep into my skin. A damp, cool breeze blew in from the water and, as if to defy the warm June temperatures, made me shiver.
This was nothing like Kansas. I'd left bright green fields bursting with crops and the smells of warmth and grass and sunshine. Here the vast gray-blue ocean looked cold and bleak. I felt lost already.
At Dock 6 the Island Mermaid was boarding. I watched as cars lined up on the lower deck and foot passengers jostled in a ragged line up the ramp. A rowdy group of little kids all wearing red T-shirts emblazoned with Camp Sunshine were the last to board, herded by teen counselors.
The campers pounded up the steps to the upper deck of the ferry and immediately rushed to the railing, giggling and poking each other. One curly-haired boy slung himself halfway over the top, seeming to teeter as he pointed down at something in the water. He bounced back down and I let out the breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. I watched them. Interesting. Not one of them looked as though they were contemplating a dreadful, watery death. They probably hadn't even seen Titanic. I had. Seven times.
With the blare of a horn that made me jump, the Island Mermaid pulled away from the dock, leaving a long white trail of churning water.
Just don't think about it. It's not a big deal. It's perfectly safe.
I swiped a coil of hair from my eyes and looked up at a colorful map painted on the wall of the building. Dotted lines crisscrossed the blue expanse of Casco Bay, showing the paths of ferries between the coastal Maine islands. Pushing my glasses up on my nose, I peered at it. There was nothing on the spot where Trespass Island should have been. It was missing.
And there was something else: the few dotted lines that went through that area of the ocean where Trespass should have been curved in wide arcs around the spot. Almost as if the ferries went out of their way to avoid it.
Weird.

I shifted on the hard bench. The ferry had become a distant white spot on the water. Suddenly it was gone, seeming to vanish in an instant.
A long time ago I bet someone stood on the shore and watched someone they loved sail away. That was the person who came up with the idea of the earth being flat. Because that's exactly what it looked like to me, as if the boat just fell off the edge of the world.
Maybe I should give up and go back to Kansas. Then I wouldn't even have to get near a boat, never mind in one.
Water wasn't exactly my element. I could make do just fine with fire, air and earth. Not that I was terrified of it or anything. That had been Mom's thing; she wouldn't go near open water. In fact, I could swim reasonably well. As long as the pool was heated, I had a sturdy flotation device, and I could stand up every few feet.
No, I decided. This was too important. I picked up my backpack and clutched it close to my chest. A measly little thing like the Atlantic wasn't going to keep me from what I'd started to do. I stared out across the water. The islands in view from the dock had names like Peaks, Little Diamond and Cushing and must be only short ferry rides from Portland. Judging by that old map, Trespass Island was much farther away.
And once I got there--what then? If the past few months had taught me anything, it was that I needed to change if I wanted to make a new life here. To fit in, to be more . . . unobtrusive, that was the word for it.
I'd been with three different foster families in the six months since my mother died. The last time I'd seen Mrs. Russell, my caseworker from Social Services, she'd seemed to imply that this was somehow my fault.

"Delia, I'm here to help you," Mrs. Russell began, folding her plump hands on top of her desk blotter.
From her careful tone and patient smile, I knew it wasn't going to go well.
"Why didn't you call me to discuss the situation with Linda Derosier?"
"I told you. Linda was smoking. In the car. With a baby in the backseat."
"So you called Child Protective Services." Mrs. Russell frowned and checked her notes. "From a Mobil station."
"Are you saying I should have ignored it?"
Mrs. Russell took a deep breath that looked like part of some Eastern meditative exercise. "No. Not at all. I'm saying you could have handled it differently. You could have talked to me, for instance." She frowned, reading my file. "Oh, you've got asthma, don't you?"
"That's not why I called," I said in a low voice. "I can open a window. A baby can't."
Mrs. Russell closed the folder and rubbed her temple. She must have had another of her headaches. I had that effect on her. "Linda says she doesn't think she can handle you. You're a kind-hearted person, Delia, and it's good to be outspoken." She paused. "To a degree. But she doesn't think you're a good fit."
Not a good fit. It was a phrase I'd heard before, and it made me feel like a pair of grungy hand-me-down shoes. The thing is, nobody ever tells you how to be a good fit. They just tell you when you're not one. I clasped my hands tight in my lap and smiled. "That's okay with me. I can take care of myself. There's the money Mom left. I could get a job and--"
"Delia," Mrs. Russell said. "The fact is, until you turn eighteen, the State of Kansas is responsible for your safety."
"But not from secondhand smoke, apparently."
Mrs. Russell pressed her lips together in a very thin smile that said I don't get paid enough for this. "I'll need to make some calls to find another placement for you. It may not be local. But we'll do our best to try to keep you in your current school until the end of the year. It's a shame," she added, "that there isn't some family member you could go to."
"Actually," I'd told her, "there is."

The hard seat of the bench was getting uncomfortable, and I shifted position.
While I was stuck here, I decided to call Mrs. Russell. Weekly check-ins were part of the conditions for me being allowed to come to the island for the summer.
I got her voice mail and left a message, telling Mrs. Russell that I'd arrived in Portland safe and sound and was on my way to my grandmother's house.
"Excuse me, miss? You was asking about Trespass. That right?"
Startled, I looked up. A figure stood a few feet away, outlined against bright sun. I lifted a hand to shade my eyes and an elderly man came into focus. His upper back was bent into a stoop, and suspenders held up work pants over his concave chest. Beneath a faded Boston Red Sox cap, the man's face was old. The kind of old when wrinkles get so deep they begin to look like actual features--sideways mouths or squinted extra eyes.
"Uh, yes." I straightened up. "Trespass Island. That's where I'm going."
"What's that? Speak up, girlie."
"Yes," I said, and nodded for emphasis.
"Huh," grunted the old man. "Pretty young to be traveling all by yourself, ain't you?"
I glanced down at my jeans and my purple Converse All Stars. And my Snoopy and Woodstock tee, which probably made me look more like twelve than seventeen. "I'm older than I look."
"Me too." He grinned at me, wrinkles making accordion pleats on his face.
Honestly, I didn't see how that was possible.
"Beggin' pardon, but I was told you've got family on Trespass." He took off his cap, revealing bristly white hair on a spotted scalp. "Who are your people?"
He watched me expectantly, his baseball cap folded between his hands. My people? The expression seemed sort of old-fashioned. And sweet.
"My grandmother lives there. Marianne McGovern."
"Who?"
"Marianne McGovern!" I shouted.
"Pipe down!" snapped the old man, waving his knobby sticklike arms. "Want the whole Eastern Seaboard to know your beeswax?"
I glanced around the nearly empty dock. There didn't seem to be anyone nearby who'd have a consuming interest in my beeswax, but I shook my head.
The old man tottered closer, peering at me. "Then you're Helen McGovern's girl? Course I should have known it. Just look at you. You're the spittin' image of your ma. Like a little china doll." He stuck out a hand. "The name's Ben Deare. Pleased to meet you, miss."
"Delia." I smiled and shook his hand. China doll. I knew he meant it as a compliment, but the expression always bothered me. As if I had little rosy circles painted on my cheeks and those creepy, flip-open eyes. And maybe bloomers. But I did look a lot like my mom: petite build, blue eyes and blond hair that curled up like crazy in the damp.