Elixir [NOOK Book]

Overview

Clea Raymond is a talented photojournalist and the daughter of high-profile parents. Usually she’s in total control of her camera, but after Clea’s father disappears while on a humanitarian mission, eerie, shadowy images of a strange and handsome young man begin to appear in Clea’s photos—a man she has never seen in her life.

When Clea suddenly encounters this man in person she is stunned—and feels an immediate and powerful connection. As they...
See more details below
Elixir

Available on NOOK devices and apps  
  • NOOK Devices
  • Samsung Galaxy Tab 4 NOOK 7.0
  • Samsung Galaxy Tab 4 NOOK 10.1
  • NOOK HD Tablet
  • NOOK HD+ Tablet
  • NOOK eReaders
  • NOOK Color
  • NOOK Tablet
  • Tablet/Phone
  • NOOK for Windows 8 Tablet
  • NOOK for iOS
  • NOOK for Android
  • NOOK Kids for iPad
  • PC/Mac
  • NOOK for Windows 8
  • NOOK for PC
  • NOOK for Mac
  • NOOK for Web

Want a NOOK? Explore Now

NOOK Book (eBook)
$9.99
BN.com price

Overview

Clea Raymond is a talented photojournalist and the daughter of high-profile parents. Usually she’s in total control of her camera, but after Clea’s father disappears while on a humanitarian mission, eerie, shadowy images of a strange and handsome young man begin to appear in Clea’s photos—a man she has never seen in her life.

When Clea suddenly encounters this man in person she is stunned—and feels an immediate and powerful connection. As they grow closer, they are drawn deep into the mystery behind her father’s disappearance and discover the centuries-old truth behind their intense bond. Torn by a dangerous love triangle and haunted by a powerful secret that holds their fate, together they race against time to unravel their past in order to save their future—and their lives.
Read More Show Less

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
Disney and pop star Duff's first novel is a largely predictable paranormal love story, breathlessly narrated by Clea, a homeschooled senior and photojournalist, who travels the world on photo shoots. Clea is recovering from her surgeon/humanitarian father's disappearance and presumed death a year ago, after he funded a dig for ancient vials of the elixir of life in Brazil. But when a sexy stranger starts appearing in her photos, Clea is suddenly barraged by dreams of past lives, loving this same man in each one. When she shows the photographs to her cute friend/bodyguard-of-sorts, Ben, he reveals that this stranger has been appearing in family photos since she was a baby. Clea and Ben meet the stranger, Sage, in Brazil, and all three head to Japan, following in the footsteps of Clea's father. Two groups desperate for the elixir are pursuing Sage, and tensions (and the love triangle) heat up as enemies close in. Clea is a likable though unmemorable heroine, and the writing is passable but never exceptional. The open ending leaves Sage's short-term fate (and Clea's eternal one) for later books. Ages 14–up. (Oct.)
From the Publisher
"[Hilary Duff[ tackles topics and settings far removed from her L.A. life in her thrilling first novel. And even though it's aimed at young adults, it's an exhilarating read for all ages."

-Star Magazine

"[Hilary Duff has] pen[ned] a thoroughly engaging read. After gulping up Elixir, I'm ready for another dose."

-MTV.com

VOYA - Rachel Wadham
The daughter of an eminent surgeon and a committed politician, seventeen-year-old Clea travels the world working as a photojournalist. Things begin to unravel when her father inexplicably disappears and many of the photographs she develops show the same shadowy man that has been appearing in her very vivid yet strange dreams. Soon Clea; her long-time travel companion, Ben; and her best friend, Rayna, are drawn into the mysterious world of an ancient society working to protect the secrets of an elixir that grants immortality. Traveling from Brazil to Japan, Clea must decide if she can risk her heart with the shadowy man, as she and her companions unravel some complex secrets. Because the book was written with screenwriter and author Elise Allen, it is difficult to say how much of this novel represents celebrity Duff's own work, but even if the percentage is very little, her name on the cover alone will garner readers. Building on some of the popular YA literature trends, including paranormal romance and ultrawealthy jet-setting characters, this novel is quite exciting and keeps you reading. There is, however, little literary quality here. The characters lack depth; the love triangle is unbelievable; several added elements are downright silly, thus straining credibility; and in the end very little is resolved, leaving major plot elements unsatisfactorily hanging, even if a sequel is in the works. You can call it a beach read, escapism, or a guilty pleasure, but this book will be read despite its poor quality. Reviewer: Rachel Wadham
Children's Literature - Kirsten Shaw
As the daughter of a United States senator and a world-renowned doctor, Clea Raymond unwillingly lives the celebrity lifestyle. But when her father goes missing during a trip to Brazil while searching for the ancient Elixir of Life, her world crashes. Trying to avoid feeling the grief of losing her father, she throws herself into her photography when she notices a mysterious attractive man popping up in the background of her photographs. It does not take long before the mystery man begins starring in her dreams and she understands this man is somehow connected to her. Traveling to Brazil to find out more about her missing father, Clea spots the mystery man on the beach and after chasing after him is thrust into a race to save their lives and find her father. Readers are instantly captivated from the first chapter and will devour each page until the shocking end. The film, television and recording star makes her YA debut with a well-written, creative and fast-paced adventure that will leave readers yearning for the next book in the series. Reviewer: Kirsten Shaw
School Library Journal
Gr 9 Up—Clea Raymond, 17, lives a charmed life. She travels the world with her best friend, Rayna, partying in countries near and far. Her mother is kept busy by her work as a United States Senator, but she loves her daughter with all her heart. And Clea has a cute guy trailing her every move—her bodyguard/voice of reason, Ben. Everything would be just perfect, except for the fact that her beloved father, a world-renowned surgeon, has gone missing while on a humanitarian mission in Rio. She can't stop thinking about him and his disappearance, and one night she stumbles onto something that might help her find him. Looking through photos she took on vacation, Clea notices a strange man who lurks in the background of every picture. Then, she starts having dreams about him. She's always a different woman in a different time period with him—and she always dies a brutal death. With the help of Ben, Clea travels to Rio to try and figure out the mystery behind her father's disappearance and the identity of the stranger in her pictures and her dreams. This entertaining book has a good mix of romance and suspense with a little reincarnation thrown in for good measure. Clea is caught up between the love she feels for the mystery man and the feelings she starts to have for Ben. Yet she soon figures out that there's more to this love triangle than she realizes. The fast-paced story will keep readers turning the pages until the very end, which hints of a sequel. Even those not impressed by the author's star power will enjoy this tale of love across the ages.—Traci Glass, Eugene Public Library, OR
Kirkus Reviews

Ludicrous wish-fulfillment trappings surround immortality, gore and passion. Wealthy, famous teen Clea (homeschooled, but seemingly only so the text can ignore schooling entirely) travels internationally on professional, merit-earned photojournalism assignments. Her senator mother and perfect pal Rayna (gorgeous and unfailingly supportive) can't make up for the disappearance and presumed death of Clea's father ("the most renowned heart surgeon in the world"). After Clea discovers a magnetic man brooding in every photo she takes—sometimes impossibly, like suspended in the air—nightmares about dad become whirlwind dream romances with the brooder. In each dream, she's a woman from the past and dies violently. Pragmatists, stay away: Clea meets Sage (the brooder) and has sex with him while still unsure whether he's her timeless soulmate or personal serial murderer. When they realize he can prevent her destined bloody death only by committing suicide himself, she faces a choice familiar to genre readers. Nice-guy supporters will resent the bum rap Duff gives to Ben, Clea's other admirer, but they're the wrong audience for this purple, obsessive, murderrific series opener. (Paranormal romance/horror. YA)

Read More Show Less

Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781442408593
  • Publisher: Simon & Schuster Books For Young Readers
  • Publication date: 10/12/2010
  • Series: Elixir , #1
  • Sold by: SIMON & SCHUSTER
  • Format: eBook
  • Pages: 336
  • Sales rank: 138,942
  • Age range: 14 years
  • File size: 4 MB

Meet the Author

Hilary Duff

Hilary Duff is a multifaceted actress and recording artist whose career began on the popular Disney sitcom Lizzie McGuire. She has since starred in many movies and TV series, including Cheaper By The Dozen, The Lizzie McGuire Movie and A Cinderella Story, and most recently appeared in a guest starring role on Gossip Girl. She has also released three multi-Platinum albums as well as a clothing line for DKNY and a bestselling fragrance, With Love, Hilary Duff for Elizabeth Arden. Hilary's humanitarian work is recognized throughout the world. She is Co-founder of the charity Blessings in a Backpack, a program that provides quality nourishment for school children who wouldn't otherwise receive it. She has served on The President's Council and was named Youth Ambassador to Colombia. Elixir is her first book.
Read More Show Less

Read an Excerpt


one

I COULDN’T BREATHE.

Wedged in the middle of an ocean of people, I gasped for air, but nothing came. The heat from a million writhing bodies radiated over me, their sweat weighing down the air. I searched anxiously for an escape, but painfully bright lights strobed on and off, clouding my sense of direction.

I was losing it. I was going to pass out.

I forced in a deep breath and tried to talk myself down. I was fine. It wasn’t like I was anywhere dangerous. I was on a dance floor, in the most exclusive nightclub in Paris. People lined up all night in the freezing cold for even a chance to stand where I was now.

It didn’t help. The techno beat thrummed into my brain, five notes repeating over and over and over until I knew I’d have to scream. The crowd pushed even closer and I couldn’t move my arms, could barely turn my head, and I had a sudden vision of this being forever, an eternity packed in this tiny space as confining as a coffin.

Like my father’s coffin. Did he have a coffin? Was he even buried? Did anyone even know when he died? Was he alone, lost in the jungle? Was he attacked by animals? Was he found and tortured? Had he prayed for us to save him before it was too late?

That did it. Now I was hyperventilating. I closed my eyes and forced my arms up and apart, swimming for dear life through layers of writhing, grinding bodies. I nearly cried when I felt a burst of winter air on my face. I’d made it out to the balcony. I staggered to an open love seat and leaned against its back as I drank in gulp after gulp of fresh air.

I was back; I was okay. I took another deep breath, this one calm and centering, and looked out over the nighttime Paris skyline, the Eiffel Tower bathed in yellow lights. It was beautiful. Automatically I reached for the camera bag dangling at my hip, but of course I hadn’t brought it to the club. I sighed and let my hand drift to the silver iris charm I always wore around my neck. I ran my fingers over its three upright petals and three drooping sepals. The petals represent faith, valor, and wisdom, my dad had said when he fastened the necklace around my neck on my fifth birthday. You already have all those things in spades, little girl, he’d continued, then knelt down to look me straight in the eye. But when things get tough and you forget, this necklace can remind you.

“Clea? Are you okay?”

I smiled and turned to see my best friend since forever clicking across the balcony in high strappy sandals. Those combined with her golden dress, endless legs, and thick mane of red curls made Rayna look like she’d stepped out of a Greek myth.

“I’m fine,” I assured her, but the sudden crease between her eyes proved she didn’t quite believe me.

“You were thinking about him?”

I didn’t have to answer. Her eyes fell to my hand, still fingering the iris charm, and she knew.

“It’s worse when you don’t sleep,” she said. “Maybe we should go back to the room and …”

I shook my head before she could finish. I actually felt a lot better. And even if I didn’t, sleep wouldn’t help. More often than not in the past year, sleep was just an invitation to nightmares I didn’t want.

Besides, even though I knew Rayna would leave in a heartbeat if I asked her, I also knew it was the last thing in the world she wanted to do. She had only three days before winter break ended and she had to go back to Vallera Academy in Connecticut to finish up her senior year. I knew what that was like; this time last year I was at Vallera with her. It took an extreme act of pleading on my part to get my mom to agree to the homeschool switch. Rayna and I had dedicated the entire three-week vacation to traveling and jet-setting, and there was no way she wanted to lose a single second of her remaining time to something as mundane as hanging out in a hotel room.

“I’m great,” I assured her. “I just needed a break. And Le FÉroce is open all night; we’re just getting started.”

“Yes!” Rayna squealed. Then she leaned in close and added meaningfully, “I’ll fetch our dates.”

I grinned as she clicked back to the glass doors. Our “dates.” I loved that she called them that when we’d only met them an hour ago at the bar.

I settled into the love seat and looked back out at the skyline, composing photos in my mind and musing about assignments I might take when I got home. Something meaningful, I hoped. Maybe something that could feature GloboReach, my dad’s charitable foundation. So much of my dad’s press in his last year centered around the vials he uncovered; it’s like the world forgot he dedicated himself to more important things, like saving people’s lives.

“Enter … the boys!” Rayna proclaimed with a flourish as she arrived with “our dates” in tow. “Pierre … and Joseph.”

“Hi.” I smiled, taking the drink Joseph offered me. “Thanks.”

“Pas de problÈme,” Pierre answered for Joseph as he collapsed into the cushioned chair next to mine. “It is a pleasure to take care of deux belles filles like yourselves.” He placed two drinks on a small table, then cried out to Rayna, “Viens, ma cherie! Viens!”

With a playful growl, he wrapped his arms around Rayna’s waist and pulled her down on his lap. Was he for real? Rayna seemed to think so. She squealed happily, then settled in sidesaddle.

“You are very bad indeed,” she scolded him.

“Mais non!” he protested, then handed her a drink as a peace offering. “Pour toi.”

“Merci,” Rayna replied, locking eyes with Pierre and arching her back just enough to add another cup size as she took a sip, then set her glass back down. “Et pour toi,” she purred, and closed the distance between them for a long, involved kiss.

Fascinating. Thanks to my parents, I’ve been lucky enough to see some of the greatest actors of our time perform onstage. Rayna engaging in the art of seduction beat all of them, hands down. I wasn’t sure about her choice of partner this time, though. Pierre was so beautiful, it would be a crime against humanity for him not to be a male model, but he was so slim and angular that I imagined sitting on his lap and kissing him would be like cuddling with a porcupine. Rayna didn’t seem to mind. She came up for air with a smile that promised more, then leaned toward me and stage-whispered, “Pierre and I are soulmates.”

I tried not to laugh. I would have if it was just a line, if she were just saying it to assure Pierre he wasn’t spending his drink money in vain. But I knew in this moment, Rayna absolutely meant it, as strongly as she had meant it when she’d said it about Alexei, Julien, Rick, Janko, Steve, and Avi … all of whom she had fallen head over heels with in the past three weeks.

Personally, I don’t believe in soulmates. Rayna relishes the concept. She adores the breathless romance of a brand-new relationship. It’s a drug for her; nothing makes her feel more alive. And each time that whirlwind of ecstasy sweeps her away, she truly believes that this time it’s real; this time it’s forever. No matter how often she’s let down and disappointed, Rayna remains endlessly optimistic about the prospect of true love. It’s an attitude I can’t relate to at all, but in her I admire it to no end.

“I’m happy for you,” I said. And I meant it. If a fantasy about the man with the angles brought her joy, I was all for it.

She returned my smile, then went back to kissing Pierre, expertly avoiding getting impaled on the points of his chin and cheekbones.

“Ahem.”

Joseph had perched on the love seat next to me. His brow was furrowed. Poor guy probably assumed he’d have my full attention the moment he arrived.

“Sorry,” I offered, turning my body to face him.

“Are you okay?” he asked in a clipped British accent. “You looked terribly upset when you left the dance floor.”

“I did?” I had a disturbing image of a juicy Page Six headline: Senator Victoria Weston’s Daughter Loses It in Paris Nightclub. “Did people notice?”

“In the middle of that zoo?” He laughed. “No one but the three of us. Or the two of us, really. I’m not sure Pierre’s had his eyes off your friend’s …” He tried gesturing with his face to illustrate Pierre’s obsession with Rayna’s chest, but it was impossible to do so without stepping all over his refined sense of manners.

It was pretty adorable, really. “It’s okay,” I assured him, “I know what you mean.”

“Oh thank goodness,” he gushed. And as we laughed together, I wondered if I shouldn’t reconsider Joseph. I had written him off as Pierre’s wingman, but maybe that wasn’t fair. Physically I had no complaints: He was a little taller than my five-four, with pale skin and dark hair, a forelock of which constantly threatened to fall into his face. He was slim, but clearly toned and strong, like …

“Do you play soccer?” I asked. “You look like a soccer player.”

Great. Now I sounded as cheesy as his friend Pierre. “I mean—”

“No, it’s okay. I do play soccer, actually. Not professionally or anything, but …”

Joseph started to tell me about himself, and I did listen, but I also watched his eyes.

The eyes are the windows to the soul, Clea. My father began telling me that when I was very young, and by the time I was old enough to know it was a clichÉ, it already felt like an eternal truth.

Joseph’s eyes were powder blue, open and clear. A little too clear, to be honest. I kept waiting for something he said to light a fire in them, but it never happened. When he told me he was in the middle of a two-year sabbatical to “travel the world and find his passions,” I knew I was done. The right guy for me is someone who lives his passions, not someone on a scavenger hunt to find them. Rayna would say that didn’t matter; Joseph didn’t have to be my dream man to be a wonderful night’s entertainment. Maybe she was right, but I got exhausted just thinking about all the energy it would take to seem interested when I really wasn’t.

Joseph leaned forward so his forelock fell over his brow. “So now that I’ve told you everything there is to know about me … tell me about yourself, Clea Raymond.”

“Actually … I’d like to go upstairs and dance,” I answered honestly.

“Great, let’s do it,” he replied, but I shook my head as he started to rise.

“That’s okay,” I said with what I hoped was a kind enough smile. “I really just want to be by myself for a little.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah … you don’t have to wait for me or anything. I don’t want to waste your night. There are a lot of other girls in the club.”

“Ah,” he said, rising.

I cringed—had I hurt his feelings? Then he smiled. He may not have been happy, but he got it.

“Well then … nice meeting you.” He extended his hand, and I shook it. He was a sweet guy; I hoped he’d find someone else. As he strode back inside, I tapped Rayna on the shoulder and caught her eye, then made my way upstairs. The breeze kicked up as I walked, and I shivered. My strappy silk cocktail dress was far too skimpy for winter—even a winter buffered by the club’s powerful heat lamps—but it was perfect for dancing. Not the claustrophobic mosh-fest nightmare going on in the main club, but dancing.

I pulled open the balcony doors and immediately felt at ease. Le FÉroce’s small Upper Lounge was the polar opposite of its wild downstairs, and far more my style. It was intimate, with subtle lighting, plush booths, candlelit sconces, a large mahogany bar, a dance floor, and a small stage on which a phenomenal singer belted out Etta James. I felt embraced by the whole atmosphere, and threaded my way through the other dancers until I was right in front of the stage, where I let the music carry me away.

I love dancing. If the music’s right, I get lost in it, and for a little while I can forget about everything else. Dancing for me is what I imagine yoga or meditation is for Rayna. It’s similar to how I feel when I’m rock climbing, all by myself on a cliff side where I can only concentrate on the next handhold, the next foothold, and the addictive pain in my muscles as I pull myself higher and higher.

My mind wandered as I danced, and I found myself imagining how the conversation would have continued with Joseph. He gave me the big clue by calling me by my full name. Based on experience, that meant there was a good chance his next question would have been, “So … what’s it like being Victoria Weston’s daughter?”

It was a crazy question, especially coming from someone like Joseph, who had casually mentioned his ties to the throne and his family’s regular appearance in the British tabs. He knew what it was like to live in the spotlight. But he wouldn’t have been asking to really find out the answer, just for something to say.

Rayna loved that question. She got it all the time too, only her version asked what it was like to be connected to the Weston family. It was the perfect setup. She’d answer by locking eyes with the guy who asked and cooing meaningfully, “It’s the people. I get to meet the most incredible people.…”

That was never my answer. I am not a people person. Maybe that’s why I was so okay with homeschooling my senior year. Rayna said she could never do it. She’d be plagued by the dozens of social dramas she’d miss every day. I wasn’t bothered by that in the least. It’s not that I don’t like people; there are certain people I absolutely couldn’t live without. Or at least people I feel I couldn’t live without. I’ve learned this year that the truth is I can’t live well without certain people, but I can live.

Rayna is one of those people. I’ve known her all my life—Rayna’s mother Wanda is my mother’s “Equine Professional.” Basically, Wanda’s the nanny for my mother’s horses. It’s a full-time job, and Wanda could never do it if she had to commute. Instead she has a guesthouse on the property, where she’s always lived with Rayna’s dad, George.

Mom and Wanda were pregnant at the exact same time, and Dad told me it drove him crazy because neither of them would listen to him and take it easy. At nine months pregnant and big as a house, Wanda would still waddle endlessly around the property, mucking stalls, scooping grain, and personally grooming and walking every horse. Mom was in state politics back then, and even though most of her travel was fairly local, it was constant. To my dad, it was nothing short of miraculous that Mom was actually home when she went into labor … exactly five minutes before Wanda. Since George was at work, Dad ended up driving both women to the hospital. They clutched each other in the backseat—two huge-bellied, panting, moaning women, both of them freaking out about the work they were missing. Dad sped all the way to the hospital, sure he’d get pulled over and arrested for being a suspected polygamist with a taste for overachievers.

Rayna and I were born exactly five hours apart—I’m the older one—and we’ve been inseparable ever since. We say we’re twins with different parents.

The tabloids love to point out the difference in social status between Rayna and me, but to me, she’s blood. My parents feel the same way. They’ve always made sure Rayna went to the same private schools I did, and she’s been invited on every family vacation.

Still, to the rest of the world, she’s not a Weston. I’m not sure that’s such a bad deal. I am a Weston, and the main thing it’s meant is a bunch of photographers chasing me from the minute I was born, writing about how I might affect Mom’s career, or whether I’d follow in the Weston footsteps one day to change the world. My family name meant that two months into seventh grade, a photo spread appeared in People magazine: “Clea Raymond’s Awkward Tween Years!” It was filled with hideous pictures of me from camp the summer before—pictures I had no idea were even being snapped. There was one of me with sleep-knotted hair and thick glasses, another of me picking out a wedgie. There’s nothing better for a twelve-year-old’s blooming self-esteem than images like that papered all over her school. They gave me a stomachache that lasted until high school.

Rayna’s an expert at glossing over bad moments like that. She always knew when my name was in magazines. She loved that I got to travel the world with my parents, and squealed with glee whenever I told her I went to some celebrity-laden event. She’s never been jealous over any of it. And even though she’s been around that stuff all her life, she never got jaded about it. She’s always excited when she comes with me to a party, or an exclusive club, or an exotic vacation spot … or something like this winter break trip, where we got to do all three.

I didn’t even realize I was dancing with my eyes closed until I felt a hand grip my arm and they snapped open.

“Clea!” Rayna shouted over the music, her eyes shiny from the drinks and the excitement of a new love of her life. “Je vais aller chez Pierre! He has a penthouse with a view of the Eiffel Tower. C’est trÈs bon, non?

Rayna clearly thought it was trÈs, trÈs bon, so I had to agree. “Oui,” I said, smiling. “Just be safe. You have his address?”

Rayna nodded, and I pulled out my phone so she could type it in.

“Pepper spray?” I asked.

Rayna rolled her eyes and pulled the cylinder from her purse. I nodded approvingly.

“Anything feels wrong, you call me. No matter what. And if you don’t text me within twelve hours I’m calling the SWAT team.”

“We’re in France. There is no SWAT team,” Rayna reminded me. Then she leaned close, touching our foreheads together and looking me straight in the eyes. “I will be fine. You will never lose me.”

For the past year she’d been saying that almost every time we separated. Much as I appreciated the sentiment, I always winced at the “never.” It seemed to be taunting fate. I’d told Rayna this, but she only laughed at my “crazy superstitions.” Apparently it was fine to believe in fate delivering you a soulmate every night, but crazy to believe fate might chafe at being told what to do. I believed Rayna gave fate far too much credit for benevolence.

I stayed at the club only long enough so Rayna wouldn’t see me leave. She’d feel bad if she thought I’d gone out only for her benefit. Back at the hotel, I dove greedily for the room safe and unlocked it to grab my camera.

For as long as I can remember, photography has been my escape. My father gave me my first camera when I was only four. “Remember, Clea,” he told me, “taking pictures is a huge responsibility. Many cultures believe a photograph can capture one’s soul.”

As always, I’d listened solemnly to him, hanging on every word and believing it without question, even when Mom laughed and rolled her eyes. “Oh, Grant, look at her,” she said, her voice filled with adoration for us both. “Her eyes are saucers. Tell her it’s not true.”

“It’s not true,” Dad agreed, but his back was to Mom and she couldn’t see what I did: He was crossing his fingers. I grinned, thrilled to be Dad’s co-conspirator.

From the minute Dad gave me the camera, I couldn’t get enough of it. He loved that. He was also a photography buff, and he was proud that I could always hang for the long hours in his basement studio. Both he and Mom claim I was very mommy-oriented before I got into photography, but I don’t remember that. In my memory, it was always Dad and me, talking, laughing, and sharing everything as we worked together to turn our pictures into art.

Rayna laughs at me. Given my antipathy for the paparazzi, she thinks it’s hysterical that I’m so attached to my cameras. But to me, what I do is the anti-paparazzi. TMZsters want to capture surface. If a picture’s in focus, it’s great. My goal is to capture what the surface is hiding. There’s a story behind every face, every landscape, every still life. There’s a soul in every subject, and when my camera and I are really speaking, really working together properly, we can capture it.

In my hotel room, I placed the camera gently on my bed so I could pull on extra layers and brave the cold. I’d brought my favorite camera along for the trip—a DSLR my dad had bought me just before he left for his final GloboReach trip. Newer and supposedly better models have come out, but this one feels tailor-made for me. Quickly I yanked off the cocktail dress and heels and pulled on a pair of silk long johns, my favorite jeans, a turtleneck, a thick pullover sweater, a hoodie, and a knit beanie hat. No gloves—gloves form a barrier between me and the camera; they break our connection.

Bundled as much as I could, I pulled open the door to the balcony and stepped outside. The temperature had dipped below freezing, and ice rimmed the wrought-iron railings and furniture. I gave the skyline a cursory view, knowing I wouldn’t really see it until I looked through the lens. I took a deep breath, savoring the moment, then lifted the camera to my eye. Immediately I started snapping. I could see it all from here: little cafÉs, markets and libraries tucked in until morning, and above it all, the breathtaking majesty of Notre Dame, glowing in spotlights that brought it vividly to life.

I stayed on the balcony for hours, capturing every tiny intricacy of the architecture, the street, the scattered people walking by. I snapped it all, and kept the Latin Quarter company until sunrise broke over the city and everything warmed just enough for me to realize my fingers had gone completely numb.

A perfect night; and I didn’t have to sleep.

I walked back into the room, felt immediately blasted by the heat, and silently thanked myself for the foresight to turn up the thermostat before I started shooting.

My hands were too numb to dial the phone at all successfully, but after two failed attempts I managed. I asked room service for a hot cocoa, their largest pot of hot tea, and a chocolate croissant, making sure they’d leave it outside the door if I didn’t answer. I planned to be in the shower until my skin turned lobster red and every bit of the cold was leached from my body.

Forty-five minutes later I was bundled in a cozy robe, sitting on my bed, drinking cocoa and munching the croissant. Heat still radiated from my body after the blisteringly wonderful shower, as delicious as the meal. Perfectly satisfied, I flipped on the news, curious if I might catch a glimpse of Mom. Where was she this week? I couldn’t remember. Was it Israel? Moscow? Could she actually be here in Europe? I leaned back on a stack of pillows and settled in to watch …

… and the next thing I knew, I was surrounded by flames.

They were everywhere. I squeezed my eyes tight against the angry orange sear, but it didn’t help. I knew it was there; even behind my eyes I could see it.

And the smell. The pungent odor of toxic chemicals melting out of plastics, rugs, electronics. The sick scent of burning hair. Human hair. My hair?

No. I saw him now. The man staggering around the inferno that had once been a hotel room, flames dancing over his arms, his legs, his hair. He pounded at the flames, but it only fueled them, and as they leaped down to his face, the man turned to me, and I saw my father’s final agonized cry of—

“NO!” I gasped, bolting upright. My heart raced, and tears of despair rolled down my cheeks. Where was I? I clutched for my necklace and found only the thick folds of my robe. Frightened and shaken, I looked around, completely disoriented, my nose hunting for the smell of fire.

My eyes caught on the room service tray lying next to me on the bed. Chocolate croissant crumbs. Specific. Concrete. My ragged breathing smoothed, and I glanced out the window to find the comforting glow of Notre Dame. I focused on the cathedral, taking in longer and deeper breaths.

The therapist had told me the dreams would go away as time passed, but it had been a year since my dad disappeared, and they were still pretty constant. The therapist now claims it’s because of the uncertainty. If I knew what happened, if there were any answers …

But there aren’t. So my mind fills in the blanks with every horrible thing I’ve ever heard, read about, or seen. And since I’ve had the amazing opportunity to work as a photojournalist, I’ve seen all kinds of things.

In other words, my brain has a lot of great nightmare fodder.

I chastised myself over this last one, though. It was ridiculous. If I knew anything, I knew my father didn’t die in a hotel fire. He hadn’t been staying at a hotel; he’d been at a GloboReach outpost. So why would I dream about that?

My eyes drifted to the television, and it all made sense. There was a fire on the screen. I must have heard it in my sleep and incorporated it into my dream. I made a mental note not to watch the news when I fell asleep. The last thing I needed was help with my nightmares.

I winced, watching the fire. It was huge, devouring a large, beautiful apartment building that had to have been around since the 1800s. It made me sad to think something could have the fortitude to last over two hundred years, only to be destroyed in no time at all.

I turned the volume up, wanting to know more about the building and the people who were inside. My French was only okay, but it sounded like the fire had broken out somewhere on the upper floors of a building that was much coveted for its views of the Eiffel Tower.

My blood ran cold.

I had heard something about views of the Eiffel Tower tonight.

No … I was jumping to conclusions … there was no way …

I heard Rayna’s voice in my head. Je vais aller chez Pierre! He has a penthouse with a view of the Eiffel Tower. C’est trÈs bon, non?

Still, there were a lot of apartments in Paris with views of the Eiffel Tower. The chances that this building was the same one …

I grabbed my phone and scrolled to where Rayna had written Pierre’s address, then glared at the TV anchors.

“Come on, come on,” I urged them. “Tell me where it is! What’s the address?”

“Le feu est a vingt-quatre rue des Soeurs,” the female anchor finally said.

The world stopped.

The addresses were the same.

“No!” I cried out. “Please, no. No, no, no …”

I pounded out Rayna’s number and waited forever for the phone to ring. “Pick up, Rayna, please pick up.”

Nothing. No answer.

“Shit!” I hung up, yanked on my clothes, and raced out of the room, doubling back for only a second to grab my camera. It was sheer instinct. Whatever panic I was feeling about Rayna, the fire was a news story, and I take pictures of news stories.

“J’ai besoin d’un taxi maintenant!” I snapped to the doorman as I ran outside, then followed it up with a perfunctory, “S’il vous plaÎt.” But the doorman had heard the desperation in my voice and had already darted into the street to flag one down.

This was taking far too long. Could I run the two miles faster? No, better to wait, but standing there was making me insane. I had to do something. I checked my watch: nine a.m. Three a.m. in New London, Connecticut. It didn’t matter. I called his number.

He answered on the third ring, sounding completely awake and alert, though I knew he had been asleep for hours.

“Clea? Are you okay?”

Thank God for caller ID. Ben knew I wouldn’t call in the middle of the night unless it was absolutely vital.

“Ben! Ben, it’s about Rayna. There’s a fire—a huge fire!”

My voice broke, and I started to sob. I couldn’t keep it together, not if something happened to Rayna. I couldn’t.

“Take a deep breath and tell me. Tell me everything.” Ben’s voice was calm and steady now. I loved that about him; the more difficult and emotional a situation, the more he’d step back and handle it logically and methodically. His voice had been my security blanket a lot this past year.

“I don’t know,” I said. The doorman had finally found a cab and I raced inside, shouting Pierre’s address to the driver. “Vite, s’il vous plaÎt—vite!” I curled into the backseat of the car, hugging myself as I told Ben what I’d seen.

“Okay.” Ben’s voice soothed me from nearly four thousand miles away. “Don’t panic. You don’t know anything yet. You’re going there now, right?”

“As fast as I can,” I said, reaching into my purse and pulling out a handful of euros, which I held out to the driver. “Plus vite, s’il vous plaÎt,” I urged.

“Great,” Ben said. “Just talk to me until you get there.”

I have no idea what I would do without Ben. My circle of trusted friends comes to exactly two: Ben and Rayna. Not even enough to make a circle—a line segment of trusted friends.

I spoke to Ben every second of the ten-minute ride. I had to. The sound of my own voice reaching out to him was the only thing that kept my entire body from flying apart and scattering into molecules of panic.

“ArrÊtez! ArrÊtez!!!” I shouted to the cab driver. Not that it was necessary; road blockades prevented us from going any farther. “I’m here!” I told Ben. “I’m getting out; I’ll call you back the minute I know anything.”

“I’ll wait,” Ben said, and I knew he would.

I shoved another handful of euros at the taxi driver, then ran out and immediately shut my eyes against the acrid air. I yanked my turtleneck collar over my nose and mouth to filter the smoke and ash as I ran the last block to the blazing building, pushing through gawkers at every step. Fire trucks were on the scene, but the water from their hoses seemed like an insignificant trickle, a child’s water pistol in the face of an inferno.

“RAYNA!” I screamed up to the wall of flames. “RAYNA!!!!”

“Clea!”

I spun around wildly, needing to see her face like I needed air, needing to make sure she was okay, that she wasn’t calling to me from a stretcher, gasping out her last—

“Clea … Clea, it’s okay. I’m okay … I’m right here.”

There she was, bundled into sweats and a long wool coat five sizes too large for her, her curls hidden by a massive gray hat with earflaps—a look that could have been pulled off effectively only by someone in 1930s Siberia … or a supremely angular male model.

“Oh my God, Rayna!” I cried, pulling her into my arms and squeezing too hard. I couldn’t help it. I needed proof that she was really there.

“I’m fine. Pierre and I went out for coffee. We weren’t even here when the fire started.” She pulled back just enough to press her forehead into mine and look into my eyes. “I told you you’ll never lose me, remember?”

“Don’t,” I warned, but the panic had already drained enough that I could smile. I hugged her again, and even when we pulled away we kept our arms wrapped around each other.

“Have you ever seen anything like it?” she asked solemnly, and I followed her gaze to the apartment building, its entire midsection now engulfed in leaping flames.

I had seen things like it, but that didn’t lessen the impact. Fire is magnetic—an almost illicit combination of destructive force and awe-inspiring beauty. With an effort, I turned away from the dancing slashes of flame to the scene on the street. I saw the grim determination of the firefighters, their faces betraying no emotion. I saw the onlookers, split between the curious and the personally affected—the former gaping upward in a state of exalted wonder, the latter huddled together in frightened groups, or chain-smoking and pacing like Pierre. I saw the dissonance of rainbows as the sun glinted off the water from the fire hoses.

“Itchy trigger finger?” Rayna asked, smiling. I followed her gaze to my right hand, which had already removed my camera from its bag. “You should,” she said. “I’m going to check on Pierre. And if you give me your phone, I’ll call Ben back and let him know everything’s okay. Assuming you called him,” she added with a grin.

Rayna knew me far too well. I gave her one last squeeze, then handed her the phone and disappeared behind my camera, blending seamlessly into the scene. It was where I belonged. It felt right.

I had absolutely no idea I was taking pictures that would change my life forever.

© 2010 Hilary Duff

Read More Show Less

First Chapter

Elixir


By Hilary Duff

Simon & Schuster Children's Publishing

Copyright © 2010 Hilary Duff
All right reserved.

ISBN: 9781442408531

one

I COULDN’T BREATHE.

Wedged in the middle of an ocean of people, I gasped for air, but nothing came. The heat from a million writhing bodies radiated over me, their sweat weighing down the air. I searched anxiously for an escape, but painfully bright lights strobed on and off, clouding my sense of direction.

I was losing it. I was going to pass out.

I forced in a deep breath and tried to talk myself down. I was fine. It wasn’t like I was anywhere dangerous. I was on a dance floor, in the most exclusive nightclub in Paris. People lined up all night in the freezing cold for even a chance to stand where I was now.

It didn’t help. The techno beat thrummed into my brain, five notes repeating over and over and over until I knew I’d have to scream. The crowd pushed even closer and I couldn’t move my arms, could barely turn my head, and I had a sudden vision of this being forever, an eternity packed in this tiny space as confining as a coffin.

Like my father’s coffin. Did he have a coffin? Was he even buried? Did anyone even know when he died? Was he alone, lost in the jungle? Was he attacked by animals? Was he found and tortured? Had he prayed for us to save him before it was too late?

That did it. Now I was hyperventilating. I closed my eyes and forced my arms up and apart, swimming for dear life through layers of writhing, grinding bodies. I nearly cried when I felt a burst of winter air on my face. I’d made it out to the balcony. I staggered to an open love seat and leaned against its back as I drank in gulp after gulp of fresh air.

I was back; I was okay. I took another deep breath, this one calm and centering, and looked out over the nighttime Paris skyline, the Eiffel Tower bathed in yellow lights. It was beautiful. Automatically I reached for the camera bag dangling at my hip, but of course I hadn’t brought it to the club. I sighed and let my hand drift to the silver iris charm I always wore around my neck. I ran my fingers over its three upright petals and three drooping sepals. The petals represent faith, valor, and wisdom, my dad had said when he fastened the necklace around my neck on my fifth birthday. You already have all those things in spades, little girl, he’d continued, then knelt down to look me straight in the eye. But when things get tough and you forget, this necklace can remind you.

“Clea? Are you okay?”

I smiled and turned to see my best friend since forever clicking across the balcony in high strappy sandals. Those combined with her golden dress, endless legs, and thick mane of red curls made Rayna look like she’d stepped out of a Greek myth.

“I’m fine,” I assured her, but the sudden crease between her eyes proved she didn’t quite believe me.

“You were thinking about him?”

I didn’t have to answer. Her eyes fell to my hand, still fingering the iris charm, and she knew.

“It’s worse when you don’t sleep,” she said. “Maybe we should go back to the room and …”

I shook my head before she could finish. I actually felt a lot better. And even if I didn’t, sleep wouldn’t help. More often than not in the past year, sleep was just an invitation to nightmares I didn’t want.

Besides, even though I knew Rayna would leave in a heartbeat if I asked her, I also knew it was the last thing in the world she wanted to do. She had only three days before winter break ended and she had to go back to Vallera Academy in Connecticut to finish up her senior year. I knew what that was like; this time last year I was at Vallera with her. It took an extreme act of pleading on my part to get my mom to agree to the homeschool switch. Rayna and I had dedicated the entire three-week vacation to traveling and jet-setting, and there was no way she wanted to lose a single second of her remaining time to something as mundane as hanging out in a hotel room.

“I’m great,” I assured her. “I just needed a break. And Le FÉroce is open all night; we’re just getting started.”

“Yes!” Rayna squealed. Then she leaned in close and added meaningfully, “I’ll fetch our dates.”

I grinned as she clicked back to the glass doors. Our “dates.” I loved that she called them that when we’d only met them an hour ago at the bar.

I settled into the love seat and looked back out at the skyline, composing photos in my mind and musing about assignments I might take when I got home. Something meaningful, I hoped. Maybe something that could feature GloboReach, my dad’s charitable foundation. So much of my dad’s press in his last year centered around the vials he uncovered; it’s like the world forgot he dedicated himself to more important things, like saving people’s lives.

“Enter … the boys!” Rayna proclaimed with a flourish as she arrived with “our dates” in tow. “Pierre … and Joseph.”

“Hi.” I smiled, taking the drink Joseph offered me. “Thanks.”

“Pas de problÈme,” Pierre answered for Joseph as he collapsed into the cushioned chair next to mine. “It is a pleasure to take care of deux belles filles like yourselves.” He placed two drinks on a small table, then cried out to Rayna, “Viens, ma cherie! Viens!”

With a playful growl, he wrapped his arms around Rayna’s waist and pulled her down on his lap. Was he for real? Rayna seemed to think so. She squealed happily, then settled in sidesaddle.

“You are very bad indeed,” she scolded him.

“Mais non!” he protested, then handed her a drink as a peace offering. “Pour toi.”

“Merci,” Rayna replied, locking eyes with Pierre and arching her back just enough to add another cup size as she took a sip, then set her glass back down. “Et pour toi,” she purred, and closed the distance between them for a long, involved kiss.

Fascinating. Thanks to my parents, I’ve been lucky enough to see some of the greatest actors of our time perform onstage. Rayna engaging in the art of seduction beat all of them, hands down. I wasn’t sure about her choice of partner this time, though. Pierre was so beautiful, it would be a crime against humanity for him not to be a male model, but he was so slim and angular that I imagined sitting on his lap and kissing him would be like cuddling with a porcupine. Rayna didn’t seem to mind. She came up for air with a smile that promised more, then leaned toward me and stage-whispered, “Pierre and I are soulmates.”

I tried not to laugh. I would have if it was just a line, if she were just saying it to assure Pierre he wasn’t spending his drink money in vain. But I knew in this moment, Rayna absolutely meant it, as strongly as she had meant it when she’d said it about Alexei, Julien, Rick, Janko, Steve, and Avi … all of whom she had fallen head over heels with in the past three weeks.

Personally, I don’t believe in soulmates. Rayna relishes the concept. She adores the breathless romance of a brand-new relationship. It’s a drug for her; nothing makes her feel more alive. And each time that whirlwind of ecstasy sweeps her away, she truly believes that this time it’s real; this time it’s forever. No matter how often she’s let down and disappointed, Rayna remains endlessly optimistic about the prospect of true love. It’s an attitude I can’t relate to at all, but in her I admire it to no end.

“I’m happy for you,” I said. And I meant it. If a fantasy about the man with the angles brought her joy, I was all for it.

She returned my smile, then went back to kissing Pierre, expertly avoiding getting impaled on the points of his chin and cheekbones.

“Ahem.”

Joseph had perched on the love seat next to me. His brow was furrowed. Poor guy probably assumed he’d have my full attention the moment he arrived.

“Sorry,” I offered, turning my body to face him.

“Are you okay?” he asked in a clipped British accent. “You looked terribly upset when you left the dance floor.”

“I did?” I had a disturbing image of a juicy Page Six headline: Senator Victoria Weston’s Daughter Loses It in Paris Nightclub. “Did people notice?”

“In the middle of that zoo?” He laughed. “No one but the three of us. Or the two of us, really. I’m not sure Pierre’s had his eyes off your friend’s …” He tried gesturing with his face to illustrate Pierre’s obsession with Rayna’s chest, but it was impossible to do so without stepping all over his refined sense of manners.

It was pretty adorable, really. “It’s okay,” I assured him, “I know what you mean.”

“Oh thank goodness,” he gushed. And as we laughed together, I wondered if I shouldn’t reconsider Joseph. I had written him off as Pierre’s wingman, but maybe that wasn’t fair. Physically I had no complaints: He was a little taller than my five-four, with pale skin and dark hair, a forelock of which constantly threatened to fall into his face. He was slim, but clearly toned and strong, like …

“Do you play soccer?” I asked. “You look like a soccer player.”

Great. Now I sounded as cheesy as his friend Pierre. “I mean—”

“No, it’s okay. I do play soccer, actually. Not professionally or anything, but …”

Joseph started to tell me about himself, and I did listen, but I also watched his eyes.

The eyes are the windows to the soul, Clea. My father began telling me that when I was very young, and by the time I was old enough to know it was a clichÉ, it already felt like an eternal truth.

Joseph’s eyes were powder blue, open and clear. A little too clear, to be honest. I kept waiting for something he said to light a fire in them, but it never happened. When he told me he was in the middle of a two-year sabbatical to “travel the world and find his passions,” I knew I was done. The right guy for me is someone who lives his passions, not someone on a scavenger hunt to find them. Rayna would say that didn’t matter; Joseph didn’t have to be my dream man to be a wonderful night’s entertainment. Maybe she was right, but I got exhausted just thinking about all the energy it would take to seem interested when I really wasn’t.

Joseph leaned forward so his forelock fell over his brow. “So now that I’ve told you everything there is to know about me … tell me about yourself, Clea Raymond.”

“Actually … I’d like to go upstairs and dance,” I answered honestly.

“Great, let’s do it,” he replied, but I shook my head as he started to rise.

“That’s okay,” I said with what I hoped was a kind enough smile. “I really just want to be by myself for a little.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah … you don’t have to wait for me or anything. I don’t want to waste your night. There are a lot of other girls in the club.”

“Ah,” he said, rising.

I cringed—had I hurt his feelings? Then he smiled. He may not have been happy, but he got it.

“Well then … nice meeting you.” He extended his hand, and I shook it. He was a sweet guy; I hoped he’d find someone else. As he strode back inside, I tapped Rayna on the shoulder and caught her eye, then made my way upstairs. The breeze kicked up as I walked, and I shivered. My strappy silk cocktail dress was far too skimpy for winter—even a winter buffered by the club’s powerful heat lamps—but it was perfect for dancing. Not the claustrophobic mosh-fest nightmare going on in the main club, but dancing.

I pulled open the balcony doors and immediately felt at ease. Le FÉroce’s small Upper Lounge was the polar opposite of its wild downstairs, and far more my style. It was intimate, with subtle lighting, plush booths, candlelit sconces, a large mahogany bar, a dance floor, and a small stage on which a phenomenal singer belted out Etta James. I felt embraced by the whole atmosphere, and threaded my way through the other dancers until I was right in front of the stage, where I let the music carry me away.

I love dancing. If the music’s right, I get lost in it, and for a little while I can forget about everything else. Dancing for me is what I imagine yoga or meditation is for Rayna. It’s similar to how I feel when I’m rock climbing, all by myself on a cliff side where I can only concentrate on the next handhold, the next foothold, and the addictive pain in my muscles as I pull myself higher and higher.

My mind wandered as I danced, and I found myself imagining how the conversation would have continued with Joseph. He gave me the big clue by calling me by my full name. Based on experience, that meant there was a good chance his next question would have been, “So … what’s it like being Victoria Weston’s daughter?”

It was a crazy question, especially coming from someone like Joseph, who had casually mentioned his ties to the throne and his family’s regular appearance in the British tabs. He knew what it was like to live in the spotlight. But he wouldn’t have been asking to really find out the answer, just for something to say.

Rayna loved that question. She got it all the time too, only her version asked what it was like to be connected to the Weston family. It was the perfect setup. She’d answer by locking eyes with the guy who asked and cooing meaningfully, “It’s the people. I get to meet the most incredible people.…”

That was never my answer. I am not a people person. Maybe that’s why I was so okay with homeschooling my senior year. Rayna said she could never do it. She’d be plagued by the dozens of social dramas she’d miss every day. I wasn’t bothered by that in the least. It’s not that I don’t like people; there are certain people I absolutely couldn’t live without. Or at least people I feel I couldn’t live without. I’ve learned this year that the truth is I can’t live well without certain people, but I can live.

Rayna is one of those people. I’ve known her all my life—Rayna’s mother Wanda is my mother’s “Equine Professional.” Basically, Wanda’s the nanny for my mother’s horses. It’s a full-time job, and Wanda could never do it if she had to commute. Instead she has a guesthouse on the property, where she’s always lived with Rayna’s dad, George.

Mom and Wanda were pregnant at the exact same time, and Dad told me it drove him crazy because neither of them would listen to him and take it easy. At nine months pregnant and big as a house, Wanda would still waddle endlessly around the property, mucking stalls, scooping grain, and personally grooming and walking every horse. Mom was in state politics back then, and even though most of her travel was fairly local, it was constant. To my dad, it was nothing short of miraculous that Mom was actually home when she went into labor … exactly five minutes before Wanda. Since George was at work, Dad ended up driving both women to the hospital. They clutched each other in the backseat—two huge-bellied, panting, moaning women, both of them freaking out about the work they were missing. Dad sped all the way to the hospital, sure he’d get pulled over and arrested for being a suspected polygamist with a taste for overachievers.

Rayna and I were born exactly five hours apart—I’m the older one—and we’ve been inseparable ever since. We say we’re twins with different parents.

The tabloids love to point out the difference in social status between Rayna and me, but to me, she’s blood. My parents feel the same way. They’ve always made sure Rayna went to the same private schools I did, and she’s been invited on every family vacation.

Still, to the rest of the world, she’s not a Weston. I’m not sure that’s such a bad deal. I am a Weston, and the main thing it’s meant is a bunch of photographers chasing me from the minute I was born, writing about how I might affect Mom’s career, or whether I’d follow in the Weston footsteps one day to change the world. My family name meant that two months into seventh grade, a photo spread appeared in People magazine: “Clea Raymond’s Awkward Tween Years!” It was filled with hideous pictures of me from camp the summer before—pictures I had no idea were even being snapped. There was one of me with sleep-knotted hair and thick glasses, another of me picking out a wedgie. There’s nothing better for a twelve-year-old’s blooming self-esteem than images like that papered all over her school. They gave me a stomachache that lasted until high school.

Rayna’s an expert at glossing over bad moments like that. She always knew when my name was in magazines. She loved that I got to travel the world with my parents, and squealed with glee whenever I told her I went to some celebrity-laden event. She’s never been jealous over any of it. And even though she’s been around that stuff all her life, she never got jaded about it. She’s always excited when she comes with me to a party, or an exclusive club, or an exotic vacation spot … or something like this winter break trip, where we got to do all three.

I didn’t even realize I was dancing with my eyes closed until I felt a hand grip my arm and they snapped open.

“Clea!” Rayna shouted over the music, her eyes shiny from the drinks and the excitement of a new love of her life. “Je vais aller chez Pierre! He has a penthouse with a view of the Eiffel Tower. C’est trÈs bon, non?

Rayna clearly thought it was trÈs, trÈs bon, so I had to agree. “Oui,” I said, smiling. “Just be safe. You have his address?”

Rayna nodded, and I pulled out my phone so she could type it in.

“Pepper spray?” I asked.

Rayna rolled her eyes and pulled the cylinder from her purse. I nodded approvingly.

“Anything feels wrong, you call me. No matter what. And if you don’t text me within twelve hours I’m calling the SWAT team.”

“We’re in France. There is no SWAT team,” Rayna reminded me. Then she leaned close, touching our foreheads together and looking me straight in the eyes. “I will be fine. You will never lose me.”

For the past year she’d been saying that almost every time we separated. Much as I appreciated the sentiment, I always winced at the “never.” It seemed to be taunting fate. I’d told Rayna this, but she only laughed at my “crazy superstitions.” Apparently it was fine to believe in fate delivering you a soulmate every night, but crazy to believe fate might chafe at being told what to do. I believed Rayna gave fate far too much credit for benevolence.

I stayed at the club only long enough so Rayna wouldn’t see me leave. She’d feel bad if she thought I’d gone out only for her benefit. Back at the hotel, I dove greedily for the room safe and unlocked it to grab my camera.

For as long as I can remember, photography has been my escape. My father gave me my first camera when I was only four. “Remember, Clea,” he told me, “taking pictures is a huge responsibility. Many cultures believe a photograph can capture one’s soul.”

As always, I’d listened solemnly to him, hanging on every word and believing it without question, even when Mom laughed and rolled her eyes. “Oh, Grant, look at her,” she said, her voice filled with adoration for us both. “Her eyes are saucers. Tell her it’s not true.”

“It’s not true,” Dad agreed, but his back was to Mom and she couldn’t see what I did: He was crossing his fingers. I grinned, thrilled to be Dad’s co-conspirator.

From the minute Dad gave me the camera, I couldn’t get enough of it. He loved that. He was also a photography buff, and he was proud that I could always hang for the long hours in his basement studio. Both he and Mom claim I was very mommy-oriented before I got into photography, but I don’t remember that. In my memory, it was always Dad and me, talking, laughing, and sharing everything as we worked together to turn our pictures into art.

Rayna laughs at me. Given my antipathy for the paparazzi, she thinks it’s hysterical that I’m so attached to my cameras. But to me, what I do is the anti-paparazzi. TMZsters want to capture surface. If a picture’s in focus, it’s great. My goal is to capture what the surface is hiding. There’s a story behind every face, every landscape, every still life. There’s a soul in every subject, and when my camera and I are really speaking, really working together properly, we can capture it.

In my hotel room, I placed the camera gently on my bed so I could pull on extra layers and brave the cold. I’d brought my favorite camera along for the trip—a DSLR my dad had bought me just before he left for his final GloboReach trip. Newer and supposedly better models have come out, but this one feels tailor-made for me. Quickly I yanked off the cocktail dress and heels and pulled on a pair of silk long johns, my favorite jeans, a turtleneck, a thick pullover sweater, a hoodie, and a knit beanie hat. No gloves—gloves form a barrier between me and the camera; they break our connection.

Bundled as much as I could, I pulled open the door to the balcony and stepped outside. The temperature had dipped below freezing, and ice rimmed the wrought-iron railings and furniture. I gave the skyline a cursory view, knowing I wouldn’t really see it until I looked through the lens. I took a deep breath, savoring the moment, then lifted the camera to my eye. Immediately I started snapping. I could see it all from here: little cafÉs, markets and libraries tucked in until morning, and above it all, the breathtaking majesty of Notre Dame, glowing in spotlights that brought it vividly to life.

I stayed on the balcony for hours, capturing every tiny intricacy of the architecture, the street, the scattered people walking by. I snapped it all, and kept the Latin Quarter company until sunrise broke over the city and everything warmed just enough for me to realize my fingers had gone completely numb.

A perfect night; and I didn’t have to sleep.

I walked back into the room, felt immediately blasted by the heat, and silently thanked myself for the foresight to turn up the thermostat before I started shooting.

My hands were too numb to dial the phone at all successfully, but after two failed attempts I managed. I asked room service for a hot cocoa, their largest pot of hot tea, and a chocolate croissant, making sure they’d leave it outside the door if I didn’t answer. I planned to be in the shower until my skin turned lobster red and every bit of the cold was leached from my body.

Forty-five minutes later I was bundled in a cozy robe, sitting on my bed, drinking cocoa and munching the croissant. Heat still radiated from my body after the blisteringly wonderful shower, as delicious as the meal. Perfectly satisfied, I flipped on the news, curious if I might catch a glimpse of Mom. Where was she this week? I couldn’t remember. Was it Israel? Moscow? Could she actually be here in Europe? I leaned back on a stack of pillows and settled in to watch …

… and the next thing I knew, I was surrounded by flames.

They were everywhere. I squeezed my eyes tight against the angry orange sear, but it didn’t help. I knew it was there; even behind my eyes I could see it.

And the smell. The pungent odor of toxic chemicals melting out of plastics, rugs, electronics. The sick scent of burning hair. Human hair. My hair?

No. I saw him now. The man staggering around the inferno that had once been a hotel room, flames dancing over his arms, his legs, his hair. He pounded at the flames, but it only fueled them, and as they leaped down to his face, the man turned to me, and I saw my father’s final agonized cry of—

“NO!” I gasped, bolting upright. My heart raced, and tears of despair rolled down my cheeks. Where was I? I clutched for my necklace and found only the thick folds of my robe. Frightened and shaken, I looked around, completely disoriented, my nose hunting for the smell of fire.

My eyes caught on the room service tray lying next to me on the bed. Chocolate croissant crumbs. Specific. Concrete. My ragged breathing smoothed, and I glanced out the window to find the comforting glow of Notre Dame. I focused on the cathedral, taking in longer and deeper breaths.

The therapist had told me the dreams would go away as time passed, but it had been a year since my dad disappeared, and they were still pretty constant. The therapist now claims it’s because of the uncertainty. If I knew what happened, if there were any answers …

But there aren’t. So my mind fills in the blanks with every horrible thing I’ve ever heard, read about, or seen. And since I’ve had the amazing opportunity to work as a photojournalist, I’ve seen all kinds of things.

In other words, my brain has a lot of great nightmare fodder.

I chastised myself over this last one, though. It was ridiculous. If I knew anything, I knew my father didn’t die in a hotel fire. He hadn’t been staying at a hotel; he’d been at a GloboReach outpost. So why would I dream about that?

My eyes drifted to the television, and it all made sense. There was a fire on the screen. I must have heard it in my sleep and incorporated it into my dream. I made a mental note not to watch the news when I fell asleep. The last thing I needed was help with my nightmares.

I winced, watching the fire. It was huge, devouring a large, beautiful apartment building that had to have been around since the 1800s. It made me sad to think something could have the fortitude to last over two hundred years, only to be destroyed in no time at all.

I turned the volume up, wanting to know more about the building and the people who were inside. My French was only okay, but it sounded like the fire had broken out somewhere on the upper floors of a building that was much coveted for its views of the Eiffel Tower.

My blood ran cold.

I had heard something about views of the Eiffel Tower tonight.

No … I was jumping to conclusions … there was no way …

I heard Rayna’s voice in my head. Je vais aller chez Pierre! He has a penthouse with a view of the Eiffel Tower. C’est trÈs bon, non?

Still, there were a lot of apartments in Paris with views of the Eiffel Tower. The chances that this building was the same one …

I grabbed my phone and scrolled to where Rayna had written Pierre’s address, then glared at the TV anchors.

“Come on, come on,” I urged them. “Tell me where it is! What’s the address?”

“Le feu est a vingt-quatre rue des Soeurs,” the female anchor finally said.

The world stopped.

The addresses were the same.

“No!” I cried out. “Please, no. No, no, no …”

I pounded out Rayna’s number and waited forever for the phone to ring. “Pick up, Rayna, please pick up.”

Nothing. No answer.

“Shit!” I hung up, yanked on my clothes, and raced out of the room, doubling back for only a second to grab my camera. It was sheer instinct. Whatever panic I was feeling about Rayna, the fire was a news story, and I take pictures of news stories.

“J’ai besoin d’un taxi maintenant!” I snapped to the doorman as I ran outside, then followed it up with a perfunctory, “S’il vous plaÎt.” But the doorman had heard the desperation in my voice and had already darted into the street to flag one down.

This was taking far too long. Could I run the two miles faster? No, better to wait, but standing there was making me insane. I had to do something. I checked my watch: nine a.m. Three a.m. in New London, Connecticut. It didn’t matter. I called his number.

He answered on the third ring, sounding completely awake and alert, though I knew he had been asleep for hours.

“Clea? Are you okay?”

Thank God for caller ID. Ben knew I wouldn’t call in the middle of the night unless it was absolutely vital.

“Ben! Ben, it’s about Rayna. There’s a fire—a huge fire!”

My voice broke, and I started to sob. I couldn’t keep it together, not if something happened to Rayna. I couldn’t.

“Take a deep breath and tell me. Tell me everything.” Ben’s voice was calm and steady now. I loved that about him; the more difficult and emotional a situation, the more he’d step back and handle it logically and methodically. His voice had been my security blanket a lot this past year.

“I don’t know,” I said. The doorman had finally found a cab and I raced inside, shouting Pierre’s address to the driver. “Vite, s’il vous plaÎt—vite!” I curled into the backseat of the car, hugging myself as I told Ben what I’d seen.

“Okay.” Ben’s voice soothed me from nearly four thousand miles away. “Don’t panic. You don’t know anything yet. You’re going there now, right?”

“As fast as I can,” I said, reaching into my purse and pulling out a handful of euros, which I held out to the driver. “Plus vite, s’il vous plaÎt,” I urged.

“Great,” Ben said. “Just talk to me until you get there.”

I have no idea what I would do without Ben. My circle of trusted friends comes to exactly two: Ben and Rayna. Not even enough to make a circle—a line segment of trusted friends.

I spoke to Ben every second of the ten-minute ride. I had to. The sound of my own voice reaching out to him was the only thing that kept my entire body from flying apart and scattering into molecules of panic.

“ArrÊtez! ArrÊtez!!!” I shouted to the cab driver. Not that it was necessary; road blockades prevented us from going any farther. “I’m here!” I told Ben. “I’m getting out; I’ll call you back the minute I know anything.”

“I’ll wait,” Ben said, and I knew he would.

I shoved another handful of euros at the taxi driver, then ran out and immediately shut my eyes against the acrid air. I yanked my turtleneck collar over my nose and mouth to filter the smoke and ash as I ran the last block to the blazing building, pushing through gawkers at every step. Fire trucks were on the scene, but the water from their hoses seemed like an insignificant trickle, a child’s water pistol in the face of an inferno.

“RAYNA!” I screamed up to the wall of flames. “RAYNA!!!!”

“Clea!”

I spun around wildly, needing to see her face like I needed air, needing to make sure she was okay, that she wasn’t calling to me from a stretcher, gasping out her last—

“Clea … Clea, it’s okay. I’m okay … I’m right here.”

There she was, bundled into sweats and a long wool coat five sizes too large for her, her curls hidden by a massive gray hat with earflaps—a look that could have been pulled off effectively only by someone in 1930s Siberia … or a supremely angular male model.

“Oh my God, Rayna!” I cried, pulling her into my arms and squeezing too hard. I couldn’t help it. I needed proof that she was really there.

“I’m fine. Pierre and I went out for coffee. We weren’t even here when the fire started.” She pulled back just enough to press her forehead into mine and look into my eyes. “I told you you’ll never lose me, remember?”

“Don’t,” I warned, but the panic had already drained enough that I could smile. I hugged her again, and even when we pulled away we kept our arms wrapped around each other.

“Have you ever seen anything like it?” she asked solemnly, and I followed her gaze to the apartment building, its entire midsection now engulfed in leaping flames.

I had seen things like it, but that didn’t lessen the impact. Fire is magnetic—an almost illicit combination of destructive force and awe-inspiring beauty. With an effort, I turned away from the dancing slashes of flame to the scene on the street. I saw the grim determination of the firefighters, their faces betraying no emotion. I saw the onlookers, split between the curious and the personally affected—the former gaping upward in a state of exalted wonder, the latter huddled together in frightened groups, or chain-smoking and pacing like Pierre. I saw the dissonance of rainbows as the sun glinted off the water from the fire hoses.

“Itchy trigger finger?” Rayna asked, smiling. I followed her gaze to my right hand, which had already removed my camera from its bag. “You should,” she said. “I’m going to check on Pierre. And if you give me your phone, I’ll call Ben back and let him know everything’s okay. Assuming you called him,” she added with a grin.

Rayna knew me far too well. I gave her one last squeeze, then handed her the phone and disappeared behind my camera, blending seamlessly into the scene. It was where I belonged. It felt right.

I had absolutely no idea I was taking pictures that would change my life forever.

© 2010 Hilary Duff



Continues...

Excerpted from Elixir by Hilary Duff Copyright © 2010 by Hilary Duff. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Read More Show Less

Customer Reviews

Average Rating 4
( 416 )
Rating Distribution

5 Star

(230)

4 Star

(91)

3 Star

(47)

2 Star

(24)

1 Star

(24)

Your Rating:

Your Name: Create a Pen Name or

Barnes & Noble.com Review Rules

Our reader reviews allow you to share your comments on titles you liked, or didn't, with others. By submitting an online review, you are representing to Barnes & Noble.com that all information contained in your review is original and accurate in all respects, and that the submission of such content by you and the posting of such content by Barnes & Noble.com does not and will not violate the rights of any third party. Please follow the rules below to help ensure that your review can be posted.

Reviews by Our Customers Under the Age of 13

We highly value and respect everyone's opinion concerning the titles we offer. However, we cannot allow persons under the age of 13 to have accounts at BN.com or to post customer reviews. Please see our Terms of Use for more details.

What to exclude from your review:

Please do not write about reviews, commentary, or information posted on the product page. If you see any errors in the information on the product page, please send us an email.

Reviews should not contain any of the following:

  • - HTML tags, profanity, obscenities, vulgarities, or comments that defame anyone
  • - Time-sensitive information such as tour dates, signings, lectures, etc.
  • - Single-word reviews. Other people will read your review to discover why you liked or didn't like the title. Be descriptive.
  • - Comments focusing on the author or that may ruin the ending for others
  • - Phone numbers, addresses, URLs
  • - Pricing and availability information or alternative ordering information
  • - Advertisements or commercial solicitation

Reminder:

  • - By submitting a review, you grant to Barnes & Noble.com and its sublicensees the royalty-free, perpetual, irrevocable right and license to use the review in accordance with the Barnes & Noble.com Terms of Use.
  • - Barnes & Noble.com reserves the right not to post any review -- particularly those that do not follow the terms and conditions of these Rules. Barnes & Noble.com also reserves the right to remove any review at any time without notice.
  • - See Terms of Use for other conditions and disclaimers.
Search for Products You'd Like to Recommend

Recommend other products that relate to your review. Just search for them below and share!

Create a Pen Name

Your Pen Name is your unique identity on BN.com. It will appear on the reviews you write and other website activities. Your Pen Name cannot be edited, changed or deleted once submitted.

 
Your Pen Name can be any combination of alphanumeric characters (plus - and _), and must be at least two characters long.

Continue Anonymously
See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 421 Customer Reviews
  • Posted October 21, 2010

    Not enough...

    The beginning of this book is well thought out and written. Though I am thoroughly unsatisfied with the second half of this book. The main character suddenly decides she is in love with no preamble or even much dialouge with Sage. Not to mention the photograth mystery is never explain. Just an errant thought about what it might be and nothing more. Even worse was the ending which in no way tied up the main issue of the book which is finding Clea's father. Actually this concept is given up after finding the place where her father's clues ran out. How could a person give up with no thought other than of Sage? I personally would not continue to read this if a sequel came out. To many loose ends leaving the reader questing.

    15 out of 19 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted October 21, 2010

    more from this reviewer

    I Also Recommend:

    Elixir

    When you think of Hilary Duff, you automatically think 'Lizzie McGuire', right? So, it's probably weird for you to think that she's written a book--well, at least, I did.
    Elixir was captivating, and not anything that I'd imagine Hilary Duff could write. I'm not dissing her, but it's just that I thought this would be some stupid story about a snobby-rich girl. True, the main character, Clea, was rich, but I didn't get the sense that she was snobby at all.
    She was a pretty cool protagonist, and I liked her rational-way of thinking. To be honest, she thought things out more thoroughly than I would have! Me, I would have jumped and freaked at just about every turn of events (I mean, taking a snapshot of your room and seeing some strange dude standing in your closet would have me screaming like a banshee and running out of the house).
    True, the story line kind of reminded me of Alyson Noel's Immortals series a little bit, but I filed all my negative comments away, in order to stop comparing all the characters.
    The book was entrancing, and I finished it in under a day. I enjoyed it through-and-through, and although the ending is a little disappointing, I think there is going to be a second one in the near future (although I can't find any information on it...yet).
    I suggest that every person who likes strange tales of love give this book a try. Set aside your views/opinions on the new author, and give her a shot (without envisioning Lizzie Maguire's little animated character writing this book on an overly-sized computer).

    13 out of 15 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted October 9, 2010

    I Also Recommend:

    A home run for Duff's first novel!

    This book was incredible! I was pleasantly surprised by how well it was written and how good of a story it is. Once I started reading it, I couldn't put it down. It's a fast read, but no less satisfying for it. It is a paranormal romance, for those who questioned what type of book it is. The characters were well developed and believable. The plot was original and the love story heartwarming. If you like the paranormal romance genre, then you will love this book. The ending was definitely left open for a sequel and hopefully, a series. I am anxiously anticipating news of a second book, and the book itself thereafter. Two thumbs up for Hilary! She knocked this one out of the park!

    9 out of 11 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted April 3, 2011

    more from this reviewer

    Absolutely hated it!!!!

    The whole entire book was amazing until the end. The last 20 pages ripped out my heart and stomped on it. Clea is such an idiot. The ending ruined the whole book. When I think about it all I think about is the horrible ending. Please do not waste you're time.

    3 out of 11 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted February 5, 2012

    Good

    This story was well written and a good main idea, but the ending was terrible. There should be a second book. If you are wondering what the paint thing is about here it is. Clea has had different lives before this 1 and so has sage. Everytime they fell in love and yet sage got caught and died. So sage painted his dreams or past lives. That is why clea says she has seen those people in her dreams. That is also why they fell in love.

    2 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted January 1, 2012

    It was okay...

    This book was okay. When I read it I felt it resembled The book Evermore. It had a great plot but, not something I recommend. I haven't read Devoted and, I'm not in a hurry, sorry to all the Hillary Duff fans! This book was just a quick read for me to pass time in social studies each day. . . It never left my locker.

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted September 5, 2011

    Ages 15+

    I was 12 when I first read this novel and it was not appropriate for my age group, even being mature for my age. I really enjoyed the overall story and the fact that it was by Hilary Duff. BUT, there are a few uncomfortable and mature happenings for a 6th grader to be reading. It is definitely more age appropriate for me reading it the second time around. Overall great story...but a disappointing ending which is okay because she is having a sequel come out.

    2 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted June 10, 2011

    What a let down!

    I was very disappointd in this book. It gets your attention right from the start, and then just fades. I didn't like that half the time I was reading about Clea's dreams. And how could she fall for Sage when Ben is truly the one that loves her. I would not recommend this book.

    2 out of 5 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted January 4, 2011

    This Book Is Pretty Much A Waste!

    I only have two more chapters to read to finish this book and thank goodness! This book is not what I expected at all! It's kind of all over the place. You're thinking things are one way and then they turn out to be something different. From what I've been reading it's pretty stupid and not at all logical. I wouldn't even call it a love story. It's definitely not one of those "I can't put this book down" type of books. I'll probably finish it tonight just because of the fact that I want to get it over with already. To me it seems like this book was "rushed", like Duff and Allen just wrote down anything to get it out there already. There really isn't any thought into this book. It's just nonsense! Don't waste your money if you're interested in this book! Just go check it out at the library! I'm even gonna stop following her on Twitter for convincing me to buy this lame book! lol

    2 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted October 12, 2010

    A book for romance and mysteries

    I was surprised when I saw the cover and even more the name of the author which is none other than my childhood hero and favorite singer Hilary Duff. This book inspries me how the details work and also the seductive mystery as I turn the page. Hilary Duff has really went the extra mile in this book I can't wait for her to continue this story.

    2 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted March 23, 2013

    Is it good

    I feeql like this book is very good, if the peolpe of the internet think its good then it must be good-btw if my best friend is out there on her nook and hs read this i would really like 4 you to respond.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted December 17, 2011

    it is a must read!

    This book is amazing. There is something new or suprising on every page. You never want to put the book down. I would strongly reccommend reading this if you like a fiction and romance novel.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted October 6, 2011

    OVER ALL IT WAS A GOOD READ.

    So I am 22 years old and read this book. YES this book has its flaws and at times I feel like it was rushed a little bit. But did you forget Hilary Duff is originally and actress/singer NOT A WRITER- she herself has admitted to it- with that being said IT WAS A GOOD BOOK!! I think the whole idea of it is quite interesting and new! The flaws that this book has, only allows you to use your imagination into wondering what happened or what will happen! That's what books are mainly about!I personally enjoyed the book and I am looking forward to the sequel.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted October 4, 2011

    Great Novel!

    I have read hundreds of books, but this book may be my favorite! It was well written and captivating. Of course there were some flaws; however, the novel had a great story line, was well organized, and was overall a great first novel! I was skeptical at first but was pleasantly surprised; I highly recommend this novel!

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted September 26, 2011

    Anonymus

    Awesome book loved it

    1 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted September 20, 2011

    AMAZING!!!!

    I read this book front to back on a flight home. I could NOT put it down! I was so oblivious to my surroundings when i was reading it, and i really felt like i was in the book, like i was Clea. This book is captivating and enticing & has great romance flair. I pre-ordered the sequel Devoted in May, and i cannot wait for it to arrive!!! I HIGHLY recommend this book!!!

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted September 15, 2011

    more from this reviewer

    Impressive

    This was a really quick and fun read for me. I know a lot of people have been skeptical about reading this book because they see Hilary Duff is the author they don't trust celebrity books. Well let me tell you guys - she did a good job. Hilary Duff and her collaborator/writing partner for this book (Elise Allen) have created a beautifully, well crafted story.

    Elixir is full of mystery, suspense, romance, and action. The writing in Elixir is very short and to the point. There is a good mix of description and dialogue and everything flows pretty nicely.

    Clea, the main character, is a likable character. She's smart, has well defined goals, and has a good heart. She is a good friend and daughter.

    There is a love triangle in this book and boy is it complicated. Well at the beginning you think it's simple. It's like oh okay, shes stuck between new mysterious hot guy and her guy friend who is crushing on her but she doesn't realize it, type of love triangle which makes you go: "Oh, i've seen this before." Well, not so much. When you realize along the development of the story that there is reincarnation and immortality involved in the this book, the love triangle gets much more complicated and I loved reading about it.

    What I really liked about this book was that there was a lot of traveling in the story. While Clea is working as a photojournalist and trying to figure out about the mysterious disappearance of her dad, and a guy who keeps up on showing on her pictures - she gets to travel practically around the globe. And this is where Hilary's background as an actress and singer probably shows because she's traveled around the world through her music and acting career and the descriptions of the places that Clea ends up in, really felt real.

    The secondary characters in this book are very well developed. I loved Clea's mom, her best friend Rayna, her best guy friend Ben and Sage who is her main love interest. The villains in this book are not quite who you expect and I really liked that. It was interesting to read.

    The paranormal elements in this book were of course, my favorite part of the book, I have to say. You have a mix of reincarnation, dreams, immortality and magic. How it all ties into Clea's life and her dad's disappearance and the guy who keeps up showing in her pics is really intriguing. But with that - a lot of things were still not clarified by the ending. Hilary ended the book with a huge cliffhanger and a very confused MC (main character) which is why I'm super excited for the sequel to Elixir which comes out in October of this year and is called Devoted.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted July 14, 2011

    This book was awsome!! A must read!!

    This book was very good! Once I started reading it I could not put it down!!! It is very captivating and very well writen!! I first picked it up because hilary duff wrote it but one I started reading it in the store I was there for an hour! I highly recommend this book!!!!

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted May 24, 2011

    Amazing

    This book is amazing, filled with thrill and excitement. I read this book in two days. It it filled with suspense and drama. The only word i can say is truely, amazing. I really hope she makes a sequel!

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted January 13, 2011

    very excited..then upset

    I loved this book. Was very entertaining and flowed and was a very easy read. I absolutely enjoyed every minute that I spent reading this book. The ending sucked though. I feel like she just cut it off for no reason. She could have easily made another 100 pages if not more. Not happy with the ending at all. Hopefully there will be a sequel, if not, then I would not suggest reading this book just because you will be disappointed in the end.

    1 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 421 Customer Reviews

If you find inappropriate content, please report it to Barnes & Noble
Why is this product inappropriate?
Comments (optional)