I am thrilled to be hosting a spot on
the BLUE BLOODS: AFTER LIFE by Melissa de la Cruz Blog Tour hosted by Rockstar Book Tours. Check out my post and make sure to enter the giveaway!
About the Book:
Author: Melissa de la Cruz
Pub. Date: July 12, 2022
Publisher: Disney-Hyperion
Formats: Hardcover, eBook
Pages: 352
Find it: Goodreads, Amazon, Kindle, B&N, iBooks, Kobo, TBD, Bookshop.org
The Blue Bloods are back…more fanged and fabulous than ever.
After defeating Lucifer and sacrificing the love of her life, Jack, Schuyler
wakes up back in New York safe and sound. Only it’s not quite the New York she
knows, and she’s not in her regular body. She looks different and feels
different and so does everyone else. Schuyler soon discovers that in this
world, her best friend has a different last name, her parents are both alive
and well and one of them is an entirely different person, and the love of her
life? Not so dead after all. The catch? Jack has no idea who she is.
As it turns out, Schuyler is not in her New York. She’s not even in her
universe. This is an alternate reality. One where Lucifer is alive and well and
acting as mayor of New York, Blue Bloods are luring humans to clinics to drain
their blood, and Jack is Lucifer’s right hand man. Just when she thinks all is
lost, Schuyler is contacted by a familiar friend―the Silver Blood, Kingsley.
The Kingsley from her world. He actually remembers the Schuyler she used to be!
But he also has a theory, and it’s one she doesn’t like. That Schuyler was sent
here to defeat Lucifer. Again. And that she’s the only person in this universe
or any universe that can defeat him.
New to the BLUE BLOODS
world? Read the original series and the spin off books now!
Excerpt:
Catherine Carver’s Diary
21st of November, 1620
The
Mayflower
It has been
a difficult winter. The sea does not agree with John, and we are always cold.
Perhaps we will find peace in this new land, although many believe we have not
left danger behind. Outside my window, the coastline resembles Southampton,
and
for that I
am grateful. I will always long for home, but our kind are no longer safe
there. I myself do not believe the rumors, but we must do as instructed.
It has always been our way. John and I are traveling as husband and wife
now. We are planning on marrying soon. There are far too few of us, and
more are needed if we are to survive. Perhaps things will change. Perhaps good
fortune will shine on us, and our situation will ameliorate. The ship has
anchored. We have landed. A new world awaits!
—C.C
New York City The Present
One
The Bank was
a decrepit stone building at the tail end of Houston Street, on the last
divide between the gritty East Village and the wilds of the Lower
East Side. Once the headquarters of the venerable Van Alen investment and
brokerage house, it was an imposing, squat presence, a paradigm of the
beaux-arts style, with a classic six-column façade and an intimidating
row of “dentals”— razor-sharp serrations on the pediment’s surface. For
many years it stood on the corner of Houston and Essex, desolate,
empty, and abandoned, until one winter evening when an eye-patch–wearing
nightclub promoter chanced upon it after polishing off a hot dog at
Katz’s Deli. He was looking for a venue to showcase the new music his DJs
were spinning—a dark, haunted sound they were calling “Trance.”
The pulsing
music spilled out to the sidewalk, where Schuyler Van Alen, a small,
dark-haired fifteen-year-old girl, whose bright blue eyes were ringed with
dark kohl eye shadow, stood nervously at the back of the line in front
of the club. She picked at her chipping black nail polish. “Do you
really think we’ll get in?” she asked.
“No sweat,”
her best friend, Oliver Hazard-Perry replied, cocking an eyebrow. “Dylan
guaranteed a cakewalk. Besides, we can always point to the plaque over
there. Your family built this place, remember?” He grinned.
“So what
else is new?” Schuyler smirked, rolling her eyes. The island of Manhattan
was linked inexorably to her family history, and as far as she could
tell, she was related to the Frick Museum, the Van Wyck Expressway, and
the Hayden Planetarium, give or take an institution (or major
thoroughfare) or two. Not that it made any difference in her life. She
barely had enough to cover the twenty-five dollar charge at the
door.
Oliver
affectionately swung an arm around her shoulders. “Stop worrying! You worry too
much. This’ll be fun, I promise.”
“I wish
Dylan had waited for us,” Schuyler fretted, shivering in her long black
cardigan with holes in each elbow. She’d found the sweater in a Manhattan
Valley thrift store last week. It smelled like decay and stale rosewater
per fume, and her skinny frame was lost in its voluminous folds. Schuyler
always looked like she was drowning in fabric. The black sweater reached
almost to her calves, and underneath she wore a sheer black T-shirt over
a worn gray thermal undershirt; and under that, a long peasant skirt that
swept the floor. Like a nineteenth century street urchin, her skirt
hems were black with dirt from dragging on the sidewalks. She was wearing
her favorite pair of black-and-white Jack Purcell sneakers, the ones with
the duct-taped hole on the right toe. Her dark wavy hair was pulled back
with a beaded scarf she’d found in her grandmother’s closet.
Schuyler was
startlingly pretty, with a sweet, heart shaped face; a perfectly upturned nose;
and soft, porcelain skin—but there was something almost insubstantial
about her beauty. She looked like a Dresden doll in witch’s clothing.
Kids at the Duchesne School thought she dressed like a Dickensian urchin.
It didn’t help that she was painfully shy and kept to herself, because
then they just thought she was stuck-up, which she wasn’t. She was just
quiet.
Oliver was
tall and slim, with a fair, elfin face that was framed by a shag of
brilliant chestnut hair. He had sharp cheekbones and sympathetic hazel
eyes. He was wearing a severe military greatcoat over a flannel shirt and
a pair of holey blue jeans. Of course, the flannel shirt was John
Varvatos and the jeans from Citizens of Humanity. Oliver liked to play
the part of disaffected youth, but he liked shopping in SoHo even more.
The two of
them had been best friends ever since the second grade, when Schuyler’s
nanny forgot to pack her lunch one day, and Oliver had given her half of
his lettuce and mayo sandwich. They finished each other’s sentences and
liked to read aloud from random pages of Infinite Jest when they were
bored. Both were Duchesne legacy kids who traced their ancestry back to
the Mayflower. Schuyler counted six U.S. presidents in her family
tree alone. But even with their prestigious pedigrees, they didn’t fit in
at Duchesne. Oliver preferred museums to lacrosse, and Schuyler
never cut her hair and wore things from consignment shops.
Dylan Ward
was a new friend—a sad-faced boy with long lashes, smoldering eyes, and a
tarnished reputation. Supposedly, he had a rap sheet and had just been
sprung from military school. His grandfather had reportedly bribed
Duchesne with funds for a new gym to let him enroll. He had immediately
gravitated toward Schuyler and Oliver, recognizing their similar misfit
status.
Schuyler
sucked in her cheeks and felt a pit of anxiety forming in her stomach.
They’d been so comfortable just hanging out in Oliver’s room as usual,
listening to music and flipping through the offerings on his TiVo; Oliver
booting up another game of Vice City on the split screen, while she
rifled through the pages of glossy magazines, fantasizing that she, too,
was lounging on a raft in Sardinia, dancing the flamenco in Madrid, or
wandering pensively through the streets of Bombay.
“I’m not
sure about this,” she said, wishing they were back in his cozy room
instead of shivering outside on the sidewalk, waiting to see if they
would pass muster at the door. “Don’t be so negative,” Oliver chastised. It had
been his idea to leave the comfort of his room to brave the New York
nightlife, and he didn’t want to regret it. “If you think we’ll get in,
we’ll get in. It’s all about confidence, trust me.” Just then, his
BlackBerry beeped. He pulled it out of his pocket and checked the screen.
“It’s Dylan. He’s inside, he’ll meet us by the windows on the second
floor. Okay?”
“Do I really
look all right?” she asked, feeling suddenly doubtful about her
clothes.
“You look
fine,” he replied automatically. “You look great,” he said, as his thumbs
jabbed a reply on the plastic device.
“You’re not
even looking at me.”
“I look at
you every day.” Oliver laughed, meeting her eye, then
uncharacteristically blushing and looking away. His BlackBerry beeped
again, and this time he excused himself, walking away to answer it.
Across the
street, Schuyler saw a cab pull up to the curb, and a tall blond guy
stepped out of it. Just as he emerged, another cab barreled down the
street on the opposite side. It was swerving recklessly, and at first it
looked like it would miss him, but at the last moment, the boy threw
himself in its path and disappeared underneath its wheels. The taxicab
never even stopped, just kept going as if nothing happened.
“Oh my God!”
Schuyler screamed.
The guy had
been hit—she was sure of it—he’d been run over—he was surely dead.
“Did you see
that?” she asked, frantically looking around for Oliver, who seemed to
have disappeared. Schuyler ran across the street, fully expecting to see
a dead body, but the boy was standing right in front of her, counting the
change in his wallet. He slammed the door shut and sent his taxi on
its way. He was whole and unhurt.
“You should
be dead,” she whispered.
“Excuse me?”
he asked, a quizzical smile on his face. Schuyler was a little taken aback—she
recognized him from school. It was Jack Force. The famous Jack Force.
One of those guys—head of the lacrosse team, lead in the school
play, his term paper on shopping malls published in Wired, so
handsome she couldn’t even meet his eye.
Maybe she
was dreaming things. Maybe she just thought she’d seen him dive in front
of the cab. That had to be it. She was just tired.
“I didn’t
know you were a dazehead,” she blurted awkwardly, meaning a Trance
acolyte.
“I’m not,
actually. I’m headed over there,” he explained, motioning to the club
next door to The Bank, where a very intoxicated rock star was steering
several giggling groupies past the velvet rope.
Schuyler
blushed. “Oh, I should have known.” He smiled at her kindly. “Why?”
“Why
what?”
“Why
apologize? How would you have known that? You read minds or something?”
he asked.
“Maybe I do.
And maybe it’s an off day.” She smiled.
He was
flirting with her, and she was flirting back. Okay, so it was definitely
just her imagination. He had totally not thrown himself in front of the
cab.
She was
surprised he was being so friendly. Most of the guys at Duchesne were so
stuck-up, Schuyler didn’t bother with them. They were all the same—with
their Duck Head chinos and their guarded nonchalance, their bland jokes
and their lacrosse field jackets. She’d never given Jack Force more
than a fleeting thought—he was a junior, from the planet Popular; they
might go to the same school but they hardly breathed the same air. And
after all, his twin sister was the indomitable Mimi Force, whose one goal
in life was to make everyone else’s miserable. “On your way to a funeral?”
“Who died and made you homeless?” were some of Mimi’s unimaginative
insults directed her way. Where was Mimi, anyway? Weren’t the Force twins
joined at the hip?
“Listen, you
want to come in?” Jack asked, smiling and showing his even, straight
teeth. “I’m a member.” Before she could respond, Oliver materialized at her
side. Where had he come from? Schuyler wondered. And how did he
keep doing that? Oliver demonstrated a keen ability to suddenly show up
the minute you didn’t want him there. “There you are, my dear,” he said,
with a hint of reproach. Schuyler blinked. “Hey, Ollie. Do you know Jack?” “Who
doesn’t?” Oliver replied, pointedly ignoring him. “Babe, you coming?” he
demanded in a proprietary tone. “They’re finally letting people in.” He
motioned to The Bank, where a steady stream of black-clad teenagers
were being herded through the fluted columns.
“I should
go,” she said apologetically.
“So soon?”
Jack asked, his eyes dancing again. “Not soon enough,” Oliver added, smiling
threateningly. Jack shrugged. “See you around, Schuyler,” he said,
pulling up the collar on his tweed coat and walking in the opposite
direction.
“Some
people,” Oliver complained, as they rejoined their line. He crossed his
arms and looked annoyed. Schuyler was silent, her heart fluttering in her
chest. Jack Force knew her name.
They inched
forward, ever closer to the drag queen with the clipboard glaring imperiously
behind the velvet rope. The Elvira clone sized up each group with a
withering stare, but no one was turned away.
“Now,
remember, if they give us any trouble, just be cool and think positive.
You have to visualize us getting in, okay?” Oliver whispered
fiercely.
Schuyler
nodded. They walked forward, but their progress was interrupted by a bouncer
holding up a big meaty paw. “IDs!” he barked.
With shaking
fingers, Schuyler retrieved a driver’s license with someone else’s name—but her
own picture— on its laminated surface. Oliver did the same. She bit her
lip.
She was so
going to get caught and thrown in jail for this. But she remembered
what Oliver had said. Be cool. Confident. Think positive.
The bouncer
waved their IDs under an infrared machine, which didn’t beep. He paused,
frowning, and held their IDs up for inspection, giving the two of them a
doubtful look.
Schuyler
tried to project a calm she didn’t feel, her heart beating fast underneath
her thin layers. Of course I look twenty-one. I’ve been here before.
There is absolutely nothing wrong with that ID, she thought.
The bouncer
slid it under the machine again. The big man shook his head. “This isn’t
right,” he muttered. Oliver looked at Schuyler, his face pale. Schuyler
thought she was going to faint. She had never been so nervous in
her life. Minutes ticked by. People behind them in line made impatient
noises.
Nothing
wrong with that ID. Cool and confident. Cool and confident. She visualized the bouncer waving
them through, the two of them entering the club. LET US IN. LET US IN.
LET US IN. JUST LET US IN!
The bouncer
looked up, startled, almost as if he’d heard her. It felt as though time
had stopped. Then, just like that, he returned their cards and waved them
forward, just as Schuyler had pictured.
Schuyler
exhaled. She and Oliver exchanged a restrained look of glee.
They were
inside.
About Melissa:
Melissa de la Cruz is the author of
the #1 New York Times best-selling Descendants series, as well as many other
best-selling novels, including Alex & Eliza and all the
books in the Blue Bloods series: Blue Bloods, Masquerade, Revelations, After
Life, The Van Alen Legacy, Keys to the Repository, Misguided
Angel, Bloody Valentine, Lost in Time, and Gates of Paradise.
She lives in Los Angeles, California, with her husband and daughter.
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Giveaway
Details:
1 winner will win a finished copy of BLUE BLOODS: AFTER LIFE, US Only.
a Rafflecopter giveawayTour Schedule:
Week One:
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7/1/2022 |
Excerpt/IG
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7/2/2022 |
Excerpt/IG
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Week Two:
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7/3/2022 |
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7/4/2022 |
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7/5/2022 |
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7/6/2022 |
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7/7/2022 |
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7/8/2022 |
Excerpt
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7/9/2022 |
IG
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Week Three:
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7/10/2022 |
Review/IG
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7/11/2022 |
Review |
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7/12/2022 |
Excerpt/IG
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7/13/2022 |
Review/IG
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7/14/2022 |
Excerpt |
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7/15/2022 |
Review/IG
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7/16/2022 |
Review |
Week Four:
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7/17/2022 |
IG
Review |
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7/18/2022 |
Review/IG
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7/19/2022 |
IG
Review |
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7/20/2022 |
TikTok
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7/21/2022 |
Review/IG
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7/22/2022 |
Review/IG
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7/23/2022 |
IG
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Week Five:
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7/24/2022 |
IG
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7/25/2022 |
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7/26/2022 |
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7/27/2022 |
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7/28/2022 |
Review |
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7/29/2022 |
IG
Review |
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7/30/2022 |
Review |
Week Six:
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7/31/2022 |
Review/IG
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