In this sweeping WWII historical romance threaded with magic and myth, two star-crossed Japanese American teenagers find a love more powerful than the gods 1942. War rumbles across the world, gods stir in the wind, and two lives are set on a collision course that will change them forever. Seventeen-year-old Ren Hamada has always been defined by his troubled past, while Violet Aratani has only ever worried about keeping her straight-A grades and helping her parents run their beloved print shop. The two have little in common beyond the old magic that thrums in their worn family relics--and the fact that they’re Japanese American in a country determined to cast them as the enemy. Forced out of their homes and into ramshackle wooden barracks in the California desert by the US government, Ren and Violet collide. In a barbed wire world where everything they thought they knew is upside-down, the magnetic pull between them is the only thing that makes sense. But there’s more than just desert dust swirling in the air. A god walks among them, his mortal form tethered to the camp, and only Violet and Ren hold the key to freeing him--an act that would earn them an immeasurable reward. Yet with tensions rising and their lives on the line, is even a divine favor powerful enough to save them?

Autorentext

Autumn Krause was born and raised in Los Angeles, California. Her grandfather, his three siblings, and her great-grandmother were interned at Gila River Camp in Arizona during WWII, while her great-grandfather fought in the 442nd, the only all-Japanese regimental combat team. She writes: “The internment was knit into my life, a deep injustice never talked about with any theatrics, but always present, a memory living beyond the confines of its dates to form the backdrop of mine.” Autumn lives in Orange County, California, with her husband and children. She is a critically acclaimed author of Before the Devil Knows You're Here, an Amazon and Kirkus Best Book of the Year.

Klappentext

*In this sweeping World War II historical romance threaded with magic and myth, two star-crossed Japanese American teenagers find a love more powerful than the gods—inspired by the author's true family history of internment and resilience.

"A beautifully rendered story, full of heart and feeling."—Stephanie Garber, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Once Upon a Broken Heart***

A CALIBA GOLDEN POPPY AWARD FINALIST

A divine favor can change everything.

1942. War rumbles across the world, gods stir in the wind, and two star-crossed souls are set on a path that will change them forever.

Seventeen-year-old Ren Hamada is defined by his troubled past, while Violet Aratani only worries about keeping her straight-A grades. They have little in common beyond the old magic that thrums in their family relics—until the US government forces them out of their homes simply because they’re Japanese American. In a barbed-wire world where everything seems upside down, the magnetic pull between them is the only thing that makes sense.

But there’s more than just desert dust swirling in the air. A god walks among them, his mortal form tethered to the camp, and only Violet and Ren can free him—an act that would earn them an immeasurable reward. Yet with tensions rising and their lives on the line, is even a divine favor enough to save them?

Leseprobe
Chapter One

Ren

April 1942

The story was that Papa left for Japan when I was four. The reasons changed all the time. He left to help a family member. He left to bring over some stuff. He left for a job. Soon, he’ll be back. No one ever said who the family member was, what stuff, or which job.

It’s because the story was a lie.

Well, a half lie. The first part is true.

He left.

But he won’t be back soon. Sometimes, though, my stupid brain believes he will. I can’t remember the guy’s face, yet I’m always waiting on him. When you hear something long enough, it gets inside you. Mama told me the stories about Papa leaving the same way she told me every other factual thing growing up, so maybe that’s why I assumed they were true. Your name is Ren, after Papa. Emi is older, so you need to listen to her. Papa is in Osaka. Or maybe Tokyo now. Or Hiroshima. He misses us and he will come back, so be good and don’t get on my last nerve.

I’ll be hauling crates of waxy oranges and pinky-­red strawberries off the Santa Ana delivery trucks before school and think, When Papa gets back, we’ll—­ or I’ll be home after class, thumbing through our bills, and think, We just have to hang on until Papa—­

Then I’ll remember Mama bent over the dining room table, a bottle of Chinese rice wine half empty by her hand, dull words tumbling from her mouth. “Of course he’s never coming back, baka.” I’ll see the image of crusty lipstick smeared around Mama’s lips like blood, marking the back of her wrist where she must have dragged her hand across her mouth. I feel it. Not pain but panic.

I’ve been trying my hardest to unlearn the story. I keep failing and having to remember the truth and experience it again, like a cartoon character stuck in a spin-­dryer. It’s stupid. Tiring. Never-­ending.

It’s happening now, as I walk home to shower off the sweat from work and get ready for school, the clash of insecticide and fresh citrus hanging in my nose. All the guys at work gathered around one of those colorful Uncle Sam posters that have popped up everywhere—­this one showing him in a workman’s shirt and cap beneath the words DEFEND AMERICAN FREEDOM, IT’S EVERYONE’S JOB—­and talked about signing up and kicking Hitler and Hirohito’s collective ass. At first, I hung back. Japanese Americans can’t even enlist since Hirohito bombed Pearl Harbor three months ago. But as I started walking home, my mind wandered into some dumb fantasy where I don’t head off to Santa Fe when I turn eighteen like I’ve planned and instead I join up. I think about Papa seeing me in a uniform and being proud.

The daydream pops like bubble gum when the figurine hanging around my neck on a cord zings my skin.

The thing is old as hell. It’s not much more than a bit of wood in the shape of a sacred fox. It’s my only scrap from Papa, and that’s pretty much what it is: a splinter, a big nothing from the guy who didn’t stick around to tell me what it is or how to use it. I don’t even remember him giving it to me. The only memories I have are clinging to his legs at Obon like a grain of sticky rice to a pair of chopsticks, skipping rocks with him at Westlake Park, and hearing him and Mama fighting—­though I’m not even certain whether it was him or one of her other guys.

When I touch the fox, something inside it pulses. It’s like a heartbeat. Or the ticktock of a clock or the rhythmic purr of a cat. It’s quiet, old magic. It doesn’t belong here. Los Angeles is a place of bushes studded with jasmine stars and people who don’t own heavy coats and grandmotherly palm trees nodding over us. Magic, in this city of oranges and opportunity, is like that big black dot you see after looking at the sun. It’s the aftereffect of something brilliant, a negative image that’s dwindled over time.

It talks to me. The fox. It’s sort of like that Jiminy Cricket guy from Pinocchio, only without any words. Last time I sensed it, it urged me to tell Mrs. Bell that her dress was pretty. She had spent the entire semester telling me to stop slacking off, but at that compliment, she extended the due date on my math homework. It didn…