Evermore By Alyson Noel

Evermore is a fantasy novel by Alyson Noël released in 2009. It is the first novel in the Immortals series. Evermore was an immediate bestseller and, as of October 11, 2009, had spent 34 weeks on the New York Times Bestsellers list for children's books.Since a horrible accident claimed the lives of her family, Ever can see auras, hear people's thoughts, and know a person's entire life story by touch. Going out of her way to avoid human contact and suppress her abilities has branded her as a freak at her new high school—but everything changes when she meets Damen.
Damen Auguste is gorgeous, exotic and wealthy. He's the only one who can silence the noise and random energy in her head—wielding a magic so intense, it's as though he can see straight into her soul. As Ever is drawn deeper into his enticing world of secrets and mystery, she's left with more questions than answers. She has no idea just who he really is—or what he is. The only thing she knows to be true is she's falling deeply and helplessly in love with him.

From The Book

"Guess who?"
"Haven's warm, clammy palms press hard against my cheeks as the tarnished edge-of her silver
skull ring leaves a smudge on my skin. And even though my eyes are covered and closed, I know
that her dyed black hair is parted in the middle, her black vinyl corset is worn over a turtleneck
(keeping in compliance with our school's dress-code policy), her brand-new, floorsweeping, black
satin skirt already has a hole near the hem where she caught it with the toe of her Doc Martens
boots, and her eyes appear gold but that's only because she's wearing yellow contacts.
I also know her dad isn't really away on 'business" like he said, her mom's personal trainer's
way more "personal" than "trainer," and her little brother broke her Evanescence CD but he's too
afraid to tell her.
But I don't know any of this from spying or peeking or even being told. I know because I'm
"Hurry! Guess! The bell's gonna ring!" she says, her voice hoarse, raspy, like she smokes a
pack a day, even though she only tried smoking once.
I stall, thinking of the last person she'd ever want to be mistaken for. "Is it Hilary Duff?"
"Ew. Guess again!" She presses tighter, having no idea that I don't have to see to know.
"Is it Mrs. Marilyn Manson?"
She laughs and lets go, licking her thumb and aiming for the tarnish tattoo she left on my
cheek, but I raise my hand and beat her to it. Not because I'm grossed out by the thought of her
saliva (I mean, I know she's healthy), but because I don't want her to touch me again. Touch is too
revealing, too exhausting, so I try to avoid it at all costs.
She grabs the hood of my sweatshirt and flicks it off my head, then squints at my earbuds and
asks, "What're you listening to?"
I reach inside the iPod pocket I've stitched into all of. my hoodies, concealing those ubiquitous
white cords from faculty view; then I hand it over and watch her eyes bug out when she says,
"What the? I mean, can it be any louder? And who is that?" She dangles the iPod between us so
we can both hear Sid Vicious screaming about anarchy in the UK. And the truth is, I don't know
if Sid's for it or against it. I just know that he's almost loud enough to dull my overly heightened

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