The Stars Never Rise. Rachel Vincent

       Praise for the novels of New York Times bestselling author

      RACHEL

      VINCENT

      ‘I liked the character and loved the action. I look

      forward to reading the next book in the series.’ Charlaine Harris

      ‘Vincent is a welcome addition to the genre!’

      Kelley Armstrong

      ‘Compelling and edgy, dark and evocative, Stray is a must read! I loved it from beginning to end.’ Gena Showalter

      ‘I had trouble putting this book down. Every time

      I said I was going to read just one more chapter, I’d find myself three chapters later.’ Bitten by Books on Stray

      ‘Vincent continues to impress with the freshness of her

      approach and voice. Action and intrigue abound.’ RT Book Reviews

      RACHEL VINCENT is the New York Times bestselling author of many books for adults and for teens, including the Shifters, Unbound, and Soul Screamer series. A resident of Oklahoma, she has two teenagers, two cats and a BA in English, each of which contributes in some way to every book she writes. When she’s not working, Rachel can be found curled up with a book or watching movies and playing video games with her husband.

      Visit Rachel online at

       rachelvincent.com

      Follow Rachel Vincent on

       www.miraink.co.uk

       To my husband, who helped me brainstorm this project in various versions for two full years before I even told my agent about it. Thanks for all the plotting sessions, for the sketches you drew of my concepts and for your endless patience. You’re the best. No, really.

       ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

      Thanks to my amazing agent, Merrilee Heifetz, who makes things happen.

      Thanks to my new editor, Wendy Loggia at Delacorte Press, who championed this book all the way into print.

      Thanks, as always, to my critique partner, Rinda Elliott, who saw several versions of the beginning of this book, only a few passages of which made it into the final text. Your input is invaluable.

      Many thanks to the awesome Rachel Clarke for a critical early read.

      A big thank-you to Jennifer Lynn Barnes, for Panera writing days, company and advice. There is no scene that cannot be conquered with a little caffeine and a bowl of soup.

      And finally, thanks to everyone at Random House who has worked on The Stars Never Rise. Your dedication and experience are greatly appreciated.

      And finally, thanks to everyone who has worked on The Stars Never Rise. Your dedication and experience are greatly appreciated. Thanks so much to Angharad Kowal, my UK agent, and to Anna Baggaley and Mira Ink, for making The Stars Never Rise available in the UK.

      Table of Contents

       Cover

      Praise

       About the Author

       Title Page

       Dedication

      ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

      ONE

      TWO

      THREE

      FOUR

      FIVE

      SIX

       SEVEN

       EIGHT

       NINE

       TEN

       ELEVEN

       TWELVE

       THIRTEEN

       FOURTEEN

       FIFTEEN

       SIXTEEN

       SEVENTEEN

       EIGHTEEN

       NINETEEN

       TWENTY

       TWENTY-ONE

       TWENTY-TWO

       Endpage

       Copyright

       ONE

      There’s never a good time of day to cross town with a bag full of stolen goods, but of all the possibilities, five a.m. was the hour best suited to that particular sin.

      Five a.m. and I were well acquainted.

      “Nina, hurry!” Marta whispered, glancing over my shoulder at the cold, dark backyard, but she probably couldn’t see much of the neat lawn beyond the rectangle of light shining through the open screen door. “Mrs. Turner’s already up.” She wiped flour from one hand with a rag, then flipped the lock and pushed the door open slowly so it wouldn’t squeal and give us away.

      “Sorry. Mr. Howard locked his back gate, so I had to go the long way.” My teeth still chattering, I stepped into the Turners’ warm kitchen and handed Marta the garment bag I’d carried folded over my right arm. The plastic was freezing from my predawn trek. Marta would have to hang the uniforms near a heater vent, or Sarah Turner would figure out that her school clothes hadn’t spent the night in her warm house, and I’d be out of a job. Again.

      I couldn’t afford to lose this one.

      Marta set her rag on the butcher-block kitchen island, where she’d been cutting out homemade biscuits, then hooked the hangers—I’d bundled them just like the dry cleaner would have—over the door to a formal dining room half the size of my house. I’d been in there once. The Turners’ cloth napkins probably cost more than my whole wardrobe.

      Mr. Turner owned the factory that made the Church cassocks—official robes—for most of the region. I found that ironic, considering the illicit work I was doing on his daughter’s clothes, but I refused to feel guilty. The Turners’ monthly tithe would feed my whole family for a year.

      “They’re