In this riveting contemporary fantasy, a teen uncovers a life-altering family secret while discovering that the boy haunting her nightmares is not only an angel--sworn enemy of jinn--but her fated mate. When;Roxy moves from her small town in England to Denver, she;expects her summer to be uneventful. All she has to do is not piss off her dad, continue healing from the loss of her mom, and conquer her sleep paralysis before going to university in the fall. Easy. But as fate would have it, she bumps into the beautiful boy, Zain, who''s been in her recurring nightmare. Each time, they''re burning at the stake. In real life, she witnesses him snapping the neck of a man and quickly learns that not only do jinn--demons--exist, but angels, too.; Meeting Zain triggers new nightmares, ones that come with a warning: If Roxy and Zain don''t ignore the attraction between them, there will be hell to pay. And upon learning that their souls have been entwined for centuries, they must decide whether their connection in this lifetime is worth fighting for, especially against the divine forces that forbid them from being together.

Autorentext

Sara Jafari is a British-Iranian author. She is the author of The Mismatch and People Change. Her work has been longlisted for Spread the Word's Life Writing Prize. She also runs TOKEN Magazine, which showcases writing and artwork by underrepresented writers and artists. Sara is based in London. Heavensent & Hellbent is her first novel for teens.

Leseprobe
1

I hadn’t slept in over twenty-­four hours. For once, this wasn’t a result of my sleep-­paralysis-induced-­insomnia but instead jetlag. As I left the plane with my dad and brother, Colorado heat greeted me. Perspiration gathered at the nape of my neck, my body not accustomed to actual summers, having lived in Yorkshire all my life, where Augusts were typically disappointing.

During the ride from the airport to our new house, my brother, Ehsan, began an annoying game of counting how many pickup trucks he saw. After ten he stopped counting, while Dad chuckled that maybe his next car needed to be a truck. Ehsan then moved swiftly on to jabbing his finger against the car window each time he noticed a fast-­food place we didn’t have in the UK, asking if we could go there one day, his voice becoming progressively more excited and higher pitched.

Dad pandered to him, saying, “Why not?” He probably meant it, too. Dad spent most of his paycheck on Uber Eats. My sister, Azar, and I were the sole reason that Ehsan ate vegetables. We’d learned how to cook because while takeout was fun at first, our bodies started to physically crave nutrients. Azar and I bonded over how to make vegetables taste good to a nine-­year-­old and a middle-­aged man with the taste buds of a nine-­year-­old.

“I wish Azar could have come,” Ehsan said.

“I know. Me too,” Dad said, looking at me in the rearview mirror. He’d trimmed his mustache right before we flew out, so it sat sharp atop his lip. “But she’s busy with summer work and readings for university, important stuff.”

We both knew that wasn’t really it, but it was a nice excuse. Azar and my dad didn’t get along. There was nothing she’d detest more than to be stuck with him over an extended period in a city away from her friends. I shared her sentiments, but as I hadn’t left home yet for university, I had to go. Fortunately, it would only be for six weeks.

As we pulled up to our new home, Dad said, “This will be good for us.” The house was modest, with a large porch wrapped around the front. “A fresh start.”

“Yeah,” I mumbled, despite the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

When Dad spoke of America, a glimmer of light returned to his eyes. I hadn’t seen it since Mum died, four years ago. “I always wished I’d held out to move to America, rather than just taking the first job offer I got abroad,” he had said with a sigh when he first told us about his new job as a software engineer for some tech company. He saw this as his second chance at happiness. Or maybe that he was righting past wrongs. Maybe he figured if he hadn’t moved to England, Mum wouldn’t have died.

While initially I said I’d rather drink poison than move the summer before my friends and I went to different universities, I realized I had to be selfless for him. For his chance at happiness. That was why I said I didn’t mind if we crossed the Atlantic for his work. For me, this was only temporary; I was going to university in England in the fall, anyway. I could take a potentially solitary six weeks if it meant he would go back to normal. And besides, it could be an adventure. An extended summer holiday. Maybe.

Not long after we entered the house, I told them I was going to lie down. In my new temporary bedroom, with the door shut, I breathed deeply. Air freshener, an artificial lavender scent from a bottle, lingered.

In the quiet of this foreign room, it became real. I never would have thought I’d live in some random city in America. Somewhere my mum had never even visited, let alone lived in with us. Irritation spilt over inside me, and I punched the bed pillow. Once, twice, three times—­and each time it bounced back, fluffy to a fault. Everything was out to get me—­even inanimate objects taunted me.

The landlord had provided us with the essentials we needed to get started, which explained why my bed had a matching lilac duvet cover and pillow, with a pink lamp on the bedside table. Pastel and sickly. The room was devoid of much else other than a small desk and chair and a dresser. All the furniture was white, with matching white floorboards.

Back home, I had painted the walls a forest green with the help of my best friend, Nic. There were patchy parts in the corners that I covered with furniture. After I learned how to propagate my mum’s houseplants, greenery soon littered my room. Vines lined my windows, with monstera plants sprawling across my bookshelf. Temperamental peace lilies that required far too much attention grew quickly to my delight, and I had placed them on any surface I could find. My mum would have loved my room, loved how her plants had thrived under my watch. It was a point of pride keeping them alive and watching them grow. We couldn’t take her plants with us, so I gave my favorite ones to Nic. I knew she’d take good care of them. Following the advice of the real estate agent, my old bedroom had been professionally repainted “Magnolia,” and the thought that it would never look like mine again twisted inside me.

It was better not to think about it. New beginnings weren’t a bad thing, I reminded myself. I was moving away for university—­ I wanted a change, so it wasn’t unreasonable for my dad to want the same.

I just had to make the most of my time here. I had already saved vintage and thrift shops nearby on Google Maps. While studying for my exams, I had become somewhat addicted to videos of American fashion influencers going thrifting. Charity shops in the UK were not as big, didn’t have the same excitement and possibility as the warehouses in the US with all their treasures (and vintage Coach bags).

I slung my backpack off my shoulders, my bones aching with fatigue. I pulled out my phone to reply to messages from Nic and Azar, and to tell them I’d landed. Nic sent screenshots of the weather in Hull compared to Denver. It was often raining in England, so at least I’d get some much-­needed vitamin D this summer.

I switched out of my airplane sweats and into my pajamas, ones that my mum had gotten me. I had worn them so m…