Beware the Night (The Offering Series #1)

Beware the Night (The Offering Series #1)

by Jessika Fleck


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Jessika Fleck's Beware the Night is a YA dystopic novel about a young woman who must join a dangerous revolution to fight against injustice—and the boy she loves.

On the island of Bellona, they worship the sun. Seventeen-year-old Veda understands that keeping the sun content ensures plentiful crops, peace and harmony, and a thriving economy. But as a member of the Basso class, she never reaps those benefits.

Life as a Basso is one fraught with back-breaking work and imposing rules. Her close friendship with Nico is Veda’s one saving grace in a cruel world where the division between her people and the ruling Dogio is as wide and winding as the canals that snake through their island.

But when Veda’s grandfather is chosen as the next sacrificial offering to keep the sun’s favor, Veda is forced to see the injustice of her world. Turning away from the sun means she must join the night—and an underground revolution she’s been taught to fear all her life.

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Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781250233332
Publisher: Square Fish
Publication date: 03/10/2020
Series: Jessika Fleck's The Offering Series , #1
Edition description: Reprint
Pages: 336
Sales rank: 588,405
Product dimensions: 5.30(w) x 8.20(h) x 1.00(d)
Age Range: 13 - 17 Years

About the Author

Jessika Fleck is a writer, unapologetic coffee drinker, and knitter — she sincerely hopes to one day discover a way to do all three at once. Until then, she continues collecting vintage typewriters and hourglasses, dreaming of an Ireland getaway, and convincing her husband they NEED more kittens. She has lived all over the U.S. from Hawaii to Vermont, but currently lives in Illinois, where she’s learning to appreciate the beauty in cornfields and terrifyingly large cicadas. She resides there with her sociology professor husband and two daughters. BEWARE THE NIGHT is her second published work for young adults.

Read an Excerpt



My jaw.

The snap echoes between the walls of my skull as white-hot pain shoots down my throat and into my ears, pushing water from my eyes.

One shaky whimper flees my lips. Just one.

His boot — now a vise with the ground — clamps my cheeks between the hard grate of its sole and the sharp, icy gravel beneath me.

Snow drifts down, sweeping me with cruel, frosted kisses.

The Coliseum is taller, more menacing, than ever. This time, I'm the cause of all the commotion.

Down here, the large stone arena orbits me, the traitor, mocking the Sun instead of honoring it. Each towering arch surrounding me is an ashen rainbow, cracks and all. And below each arch, the stands are crammed, stippled with faces like small dewdrops piled on grass. The Coliseum is strong as always, but today, it's suffocating, the unbreachable walls yards away yet closing in on us.

We're positioned front and center, the main attraction: a girl and her executioner. Our stage: snow and dirt. Our audience: the blood-hungry citizens of Bellona.

I'm numb and frozen and burning all at once. Long strands of red-tinted hair stick to my forehead and hang over my eyes. Blood trickles thick from my nose down the back of my throat. It tastes of tin. I spit it out and blood sprays the snowy ground.

The crowd cheers.

"More!" several shout as one.

"Traitor!" a woman calls out.

A child lets out a high-pitched "Off with her head!"

Mass laughter ensues.

They lust for this, are entertained by it, feed on and frenzy over it.

But all of that is background noise. At this moment it's only me and one other — the Imperi officer who holds me with the intensity of his eyes. Each fleck, each shadow. I know so much and so little of those eyes.

Tears collect in my own, blurring his image. Bloodying every memory. It's better. I can't stand seeing him.

As if on cue, the gray clouds break. The Sun shines down, casting a fiery ring around us; a spotlight illuminating the place where I lie and my executioner crouches over me, his boot at my jaw like a hunter with fresh- killed game.

The Coliseum quiets.

All of Bellona hushes.

A newly hung banner flaps in the wind, the red words IN SUN'S NAME, THE IMPERI WILL PROTECT YOU FROM THE NIGHT distorting with each whipping gust.

"Veda ..." My name cuts through the silence as a whisper in my ear.

I strain my eyes to see past his exterior. To find the boy I thought I knew so well within the enemy. But I can't begin to pluck a single piece of him from the fray. Instead, my sight settles on the altar, the slate pedestal to our right, the large sacred hourglass suspended above. Red sand fills the bottom bulb.

A single bell rings.

It's time for the finale.



The icy hand of early morning slaps my face the instant I step outside. I gasp and then force an exhale that leaves gray clouds hovering on the other side of my lips. It's dark. It's freezing. I'm breaking the law.

Quickly, quietly, I make my way from shadow to shadow toward the woods. My face stings with numbness, my nose already tingling, but I ignore it. I've gotten used to that, ignoring discomfort, because there's always something more important. This morning, it's bait.

The one bait that trumps the worms I sell at the market. The worms do fine, but the fish are tired of them, fewer and fewer biting with each passing day. And who are they to be so picky? It's a free meal after all. But Poppy and I need to eat too. And right now, our hunger trumps stinkin' finicky fish. It also trumps the law.

Not only am I out before the Sun, but I'm headed to the Hill, the Dogio side of the island. The side Basso folk like me aren't supposed to wander. If we're found near the Hill it can only mean one of two things in the eyes of the law. We're either stealing or looking to steal. No one gets lost on this island; it's too small. No one walks around after dark; it's too dangerous. If I'm caught by an Imperi guard, I have no excuse. If I'm caught by the Night, I die.

A branch snaps in the distance and I skid to a stop, hiding behind a tree. For a moment I question everything. Can Poppy and I continue living on scraps if I don't catch any fish today? The cellar is emptier than ever. Even the mice have moved on. But is this truly worth it? My stomach grumbles in answer.


A plump mud beetle will assure me at least one decent catch.

As I keep to the edge of the woods, steering clear of any lamplight or main walkways, I can't ignore the crudely posted signs. Paint on parchment. Some of it still fresh and sticky.

Names ... Photos ... More and more Basso have gone missing. Taken by the Night. Snatched from their beds or from tunnels or while sneaking around after sunset, forced into illegal deeds to stay alive. A gust of wind blasts from nowhere right through the trees above me, casting leaves down like heavy raindrops. I startle when they hit me, but as fast as they've fallen, I brush them away, silently cursing the cold breeze for scaring me. For reminding me of childhood bedtime stories.

When evening's wind laps through the trees, the Night's light footsteps hide 'neath the breeze.

I force away the shiver.


Fear is a luxury I can't afford at the moment.

Besides, how many times have I gone out before morning bells? Countless. How many times have I encountered the Night? Never.

Making my way deeper into the woods, I take in the crispness of impending winter, the clean smell of snow that hasn't yet fallen but brews someplace not far off. The canal whispers to my right. At first, it sounds like a warning, hissing stop. Then it quickens, the rush of water urging me to move.

I stop when I reach the pond, which is only a small pool off the main canal that runs like a thick vein through our island. I crouch, my knees sinking into cold, damp earth. The mud beetles always nest in the soft dirt near fresh water. Not only is the soil richer on the Dogio side of the island, there's more fresh water. It'd take me days to find a mud beetle in the dry, unforgiving sandy stuff we Basso call soil.

Pulling my blade from my belt, I use it as a shovel. As I dig deeper and deeper, a black, iridescent beetle scurries and burrows farther into the ground. But before I can claw my fingers in to pinch the thing, a sound steals my concentration.

Just below the whistling wind, footsteps crunch over dry leaves behind me.

My heart lunges into my throat and the words ... the Night's light footsteps hide 'neath the breeze ... repeat on a loop in my mind.

I search my surroundings. Too quickly, the gray of night is churning into early morning indigo, shadows showing all over the place, distorting everything around me into Imperi soldiers sent to arrest unruly girls who leave before the morning bells. Or worse. Because there's always worse.

The footsteps crunch again. Closer now.

I tell myself to focus. To pay attention. "Look sharp," Poppy would say. But all I can picture is the brutality of the Night. Of bedtime horror stories about heathenish, moon-worshipping monsters cloaked in black like death. How they snatch children from their beds and put them to work underground, milking mud beetles and feeding the toes of naughty children to snakes and fanged groundhogs.

Bait, Veda. Bait.

With a deep breath and clumsy fingers, I claw my way into the ground in search of the pest. Determined, dirt caking my hands, finally, I get ahold of what I know is a mud beetle, its spindly legs fighting for dear life. With a gentle yet quick pinch, I yank the bug out of the earth and shove it into a jar. One'll have to do. But it's alive. Fresh is always better.

Fast as I can, I throw the jar in my bag, wipe my hands over my wool shawl, and shove my gloves on to cover the evidence. Step-by-slow- calculated-step, I inch my way to a tree and duck behind it.

Another loud crunch sounds. If it's an animal, it's large.

My breath catches.

I wait, silent as night itself, not daring so much as a long breath. As the Sun rises, I use the increased light to check the small hourglass slung around my neck. Holding the metal frame between my finger and thumb, I strain to see that the brown sand has nearly reached the one-hour line. Only a few minutes until the all clear.

Dropping the pendant, tucking it back under my shawl, I peek around the tree trunk, allowing one eye to sneak a look.

Whoever or whatever it was that made those footfalls is gone. I want to think it was an animal, a fox or deer. But sense tells me I'd have heard it run away. Even an Imperi soldier at their sneakiest would have made more noise. No, this was something stealthy. Something heavily cloaked. Sly and devilish.

Rumor is the Night melt into shadows like pitch in a crack, taking whomever they can skewer their bony fingers into right along with them. Usually unsuspecting Basso like me.

I shiver.

The Sun's risen.

Morning bells ring. Quick as I can, I flee the forest and make my way to the Hole.


My feet tread lightly along the stone streets, buildings towering on each side like the walls of an enormous labyrinth. Promises of I'll meet you at morning bells nag the back of my mind. But there was no time to meet Nico when there was bait to steal and fishing holes to get to.

Faster still, I wind my way through alleyways and over bridges. Despite the cool morning, escaped hair sticks to sweat dewing the back of my neck. Not daring to slow my pace, I gather and twist it all into a thick rope, tucking it back under my knit hat.

I don't stop until the alley opens into a large square. It's nothing but a bit of open space, all cracked stone and an old, dried-out fountain, vines growing up and over it. A tunnel, its mouth wide and dark, closes the other side into a dead end. I stride across the square, standing tall, readying to face what every Basso fears: this damn tunnel.

Like a grim warning, two altars flank the entrance. One is a Sun altar, no different from any of thousands filling corners and crevices all over Bellona. Piled on top of the stone pedestal is a framed image of the Sun; an hourglass; and a small bouquet of sunrise flowers, the red-yellow petals browned, long dead. Mounds of candles, many of them lit, are stacked atop melted wax that flows the length of the altar like a waterfall. Various types of shells have been stuck into the wax as if barnacles on the rocky shore of the Great Sea. At the base, several offerings have fallen — a couple of soap carvings, a large rusty nail, a walnut still in its shell, and a ball of string.

I kneel before the altar, close my eyes, and ask the Sun to guide me through unharmed.

I search my pockets for something to offer. With nothing but lint, the hourglass quickly sifting, I hastily take off a glove, ball up the pilled wool, and make a small bead of beige fleece. I leave the blessing next to one of the shells. Then I scoop the rest of the trinkets — discarded prayers — up off the ground and pile them back on the altar for good measure.

I try to ignore the other altar, but my curiosity gets the better of me. It's an altar to the missing. These have been popping up on more and more corners as the Night grow increasingly aggressive. Photos, scraps of paper, personal mementos, and other items overwhelm the top and are nailed and pinned up and down the sides of the wooden structure. Hanging above it is a fresh missing persons bulletin, several names scrolled beneath the large red block letters that read BEWARE THE NIGHT!

The tangled black yarn of a doll's hair catches my eyes before I force myself to glance away and refocus on the task at hand. The tunnel. Fishing.

The tight passage snakes through the bottom of the old housing building like a dark secret, the entrance a crumbling mosaic archway.

I light my lantern, take a deep breath, and enter.

Several paces in and it's already pitch black save the flickering of my lamp. The lights mounted along the walls are out, meaning one of two things: The unpredictable generator is down or they've been destroyed again, the bulbs busted by the Night.

Lantern in hand, I try my best to be as quiet as possible, but my boots squeak with each step as lures and hooks jingle from my belt.

One third of the way through, I round the corner, and the opening at the end of the tunnel pops into view like a heavenly beacon sent down from the Sun himself. I'm desperate to make my way there, but it's still so far.

Before I can bolt toward the light, quick footsteps dart between the tunnel walls and my chest. "Who's —" I bite my tongue and a bit of metallic warmth blooms inside my mouth. I skid over gravel and run toward the exit.

The footfalls get closer.

I run faster until the steps are on my heels and heavy breath hits the back of my neck.

I skid to a stop, pivot, and punch whoever it is straight in the stomach, their momentum helping me out, but stinging my knuckles something fierce.

There's a groan of pain and the shadow doubles over before my lamplight.

"Gah ... Blessed ... Sun ...," he coughs.


He glances up at me, dark eyes watering.

"What the hell?" I say.

"I ..." He pauses to catch his breath and slowly stands. "I was just ... trying to catch up with you."

"Well done." I fail at holding in a small laugh.

He glares.

"What? You don't get to be mad. You scared me!"

His expression softens. "All right ... It was stupid."

"Not to mention mean."

"Fine ... Mean and stupid."

"Indeed." I won't admit I'm comforted by his sudden presence. And not only because my chances of meeting my end decrease exponentially with a Dogio by my side.

"Speaking of mean ...?" Nico holds up his hourglass so it dangles in my face from his forefinger.

"I was detained." I wiggle my mud-caked fingers in his face.

"Come on, Veda ..." He breathes my name as a disappointed sigh, eyebrows slanted into an exaggerated V. "Again?"

I shrug.

"You promised you wouldn't anymore."

I lift an eyebrow. "No, I didn't."

His jaw goes slack. "Yes, you did."

"No ... I promised I wouldn't leave during the night anymore. And I didn't. I left in the morning."

"Before the Sun was up."

"I'm not an idiot."

"I told you I can get the beetles for you. Jars full."

"And I told you no." He glowers, but the way he works at the corner of his lower lip, I know he wants to smile too. "Hey." I take a step closer and adjust my gear over my shoulder. "I'm sorry I didn't meet you. It's just ..." I pause to choose my words carefully.

Before I can get out the thoughts I'm struggling to form, Nico takes my hand, brushes off a bit of the mud, and finishes the sentence for me. " ... You had more important things to do." He looks straight at me through the dim lamplight, his eyes near-black, lashes thickly folding above them. Despite the darkness, I can distinctly make out the indent of the dimple on his left cheek. It shows deepest when he's happy and when he's disappointed. Pretty sure he's not happy.

We're both silent a beat too long, the wind howling in the background.

Nico places his hand on my shoulder. Layers below, my skin tingles with welcomed warmth. "You could have asked me to come along." He always says this. "Let me help you." He says this even more often.

"No." And I repeatedly refuse his offer. "We'd both be in trouble if caught." Nico's brow furrows. "Actually, I'd still be the one in trouble." I tap his Dogio badge.

"Veda ..." His voice trails off because he can't begin to argue.

But I'm sure to change the subject before he tries. "Why are you wasting your time at the Hole anyway?" I continue toward the exit.

"I told you ..." He leans in, reluctant grin dancing at the corners of his mouth. "My Sun, Veda, don't you ever listen?"

"What's that?" I bite the inside of my cheek to fight a smile.

He shakes his head but laughs under his breath. "I'm going because James is assisting with the hourglass. I promised him I'd watch, say hi after." Ah, right. Nico's young protégé. Dogio are assigned a mentee as part of their training or something. As if going to school nonstop through their sixteenth year isn't enough, then they mentor (basically more school), and eventually either join the Imperi or apprentice and take on a profession. So, basically, school from birth to death.

"We definitely don't want to miss that, eh?" I say.

"Exactly. A promise is a promise." He eyes me, but instead of the disappointment I expect to see, Nico takes the burden of my fishing basket off my arm and clasps my hand in his.

I hesitate at his touch. The fact that I want to hold his hand and the fact that I know I shouldn't wage a small war.

But here in the dark, not a soul around, I close my fingers over his.

And for the first time all morning, I breathe.


Excerpted from "Beware the Night"
by .
Copyright © 2019 Jessika Fleck.
Excerpted by permission of Feiwel and Friends.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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