Excerpts Young Adult Read an Excerpt From Senescence by Shelby Nicole Time and fate are at a tipping point. Can true love rewrite history, or will Jade’s second chance at love slip through her fingers forever? By Shelby Nicole | Published on April 15, 2026 Comment 0 Share New Share We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from Senescence, the second installment in Shelby Nicole’s YA paranormal romance Grove Hollow—out from Delacorte Press on December 1st. Jade thought she had lost Will forever… so his return to her through a magical mirror is shocking. Even more shocking: He’s no longer a ghost. To blend in, he enrolls at Grove Hollow Academy with Jade and the Misfits. But as the couple will soon learn, destiny has plans for Jade and Will. With Will’s return come his secrets—and his past loves. And when Jade and Will are approached by ancient gods with a life-changing message, Jade will have to decide where her heart lies.Time and fate are at a tipping point. Can true love rewrite history, or will Jade’s second chance at love slip through her fingers forever? Blackhill Cemetery Wes nods, picking up the thread. “So, what you’re saying is, if there’s no grave, it means Will is really here to stay?” The hope on Will’s face fades, replaced by a frown on his lips. His eyes drift to the cemetery, where the gray, foggy horizon stretches endlessly, marked by scattered rows of weathered headstones. “As if I was never murdered?” he asks himself. “That I maybe never existed at all before now. My identity… erased completely…” His words falter, leaving a void that none of us dares to fill. The group instinctively closes in, our footsteps leaving trails in the frosted ground as we gather around him. I tug at his coat sleeve. “You’re still you, Will,” I say firmly. “Whatever the locket did or didn’t do, it doesn’t change who you are.” Will’s voice trembles, his eyes glistening. “That’s not what I’m concerned about. It’s that if I never existed… then who am I?” The tip of my nose stings. I think, again, of my grandfather’s sea shack. That place is a part of who I am. It’s where I sat in front of the fire, reading my books and watching television with my grandfather. What would it feel like if someone told me these memories, these pieces of myself, never happened? That they never existed? Even with the unsettling truths now altering my perception of my grandfather, it doesn’t change the fact that he was my family. He was a giant part of my childhood. He’s still a part of me. But if Will never existed, and without his memories, he had no past to hold on to. His parents never knew him. He never knew them. My heart sinks. Why did I think this was a good idea? I didn’t fully realize the consequence of this question, of how much it could hurt Will, and how much his struggle to understand his past life might tear him apart. Now I’m not sure I want to know if we’ll find his grave. What if it’s gone? What if nothing remains of him to prove he ever existed at all? While a part of me selfishly hopes it’s not there, hoping my dream was just a dream and not some form of premonition, I can’t ignore what that would mean for Will. The lump in my throat grows at the severity of that realization. The world is frozen quiet. Just the six of us, standing on the border of a reality we can’t fully grasp, daring to hope that this fragile second chance might mean something more. “I guess there’s only one way to find out,” Davy says, pointing toward the graveyard’s tall, iron gate. Each step into the graveyard is a descent into death, now surrounded by the muted presence of countless buried souls. The tombstones stretch out in every direction. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of grave markers rise from the earth. Their edges are worn and weathered by time, covered in snow, dirt, and dead moss that dulls the words engraved on them. Occasionally, an angelic headstone rises above the others. Her mournful eyes follow us as we tiptoe. Amid the lonely, bleak horizon, a solitary red cardinal perches on the twisted branch of an ancient elm. It reminds me of the one I saw at Montgomery Manor. It doesn’t move as it watches us. Will guides us along the stone path, his steps sure, as if he’s memorized the way. We tread behind him with careful footfall, too afraid that even the smallest sound might disturb the dead. “This place is freezing. I don’t think I’ll ever feel warm again,” Julian mutters, zipping up his leather jacket. “The chill seeps into my bones.” Davy quivers. The whites of Aubrey’s eyes shine in the half light. “It’s always colder and darker here, even on the hottest summer day when the trees are full of leaves.” “How many times have you been here, Will?” Wes voices the question I’ve been hesitant to ask, unsure if it’s too delicate to bring up. “I’m not sure. I never kept count. Perhaps a couple hundred?” There’s a raw sadness in his reply that slips through. “There was a time I came almost every day just to talk to my mother,” he adds. The crack in his voice catches in his throat, and his reflective words and longing for his mother pull at my heart. “Sometimes, I would hope… hope that maybe a spirit like mine, another lost soul, might be wandering these grounds. A ghost, I guess. Just so I wouldn’t be alone. But it’s been… since the sixties since I’ve returned.” “Why’s that?” Aubrey’s words are faint. “The funerals,” he murmurs. “So many young men… so many sons, all of them too close to my age, dying fighting in Vietnam. Every time I came here, there was another grieving family. Another boy buried too young. I couldn’t bear it. The sight of them broke me. All of their lives and dreams were taken before they even had a chance to begin. Like me.” “That must have been really tough for you,” Julian says, his hand resting on Will’s back. Will nods with mournful eyes lost somewhere in the past. There’s nothing more to say. We all understand. He continues guiding us down the hill to a grander section of the cemetery, where the gravestones rise higher and grow more elaborate. Here, tombs with wrought-iron gates stand in rows, and intricate statues of elegant obelisks, pedestal tombs, and broken pillars mark the resting places of the departed. Frozen shrubs and frostbitten flowers, once meant to add life and color, exist in an elegant attempt to elevate this area. It seems the souls here hold greater importance than those buried in the humbler grounds beyond. Buy the Book Senescence Shelby Nicole Buy Book Senescence Shelby Nicole Buy this book from: AmazonBarnes and NobleiBooksIndieBoundTarget “Hey, Will, here are some Ashmore tombs,” Wes says, gesturing toward a short row of tombs that look more like miniature townhomes than burial sites. A few marble obelisks and gravestones stand among them, all remarkably well-kept. No dead branches or overgrown brush in sight. I wouldn’t be surprised if Allison’s family hired someone to maintain them. “Maybe there’s a Victoria somewhere,” Will says. We split up, scanning the tombstones for any sign of the name, but we come up empty-handed. “Jade, look,” Aubrey says, pointing to a stunning stone statue of a weeping female angel. She stands naked, her hand reaching upward to the sky as if pleading for redemption and grace. Below her rests a rectangular tomb with the name WHITNEY etched into the stone. I stop and stare at my last name in disbelief. “I bet it’s one of your ancestors.” I consider the tomb of someone I’ve never known. Someone linked to me by blood, blood that now mingles with the earth beneath my feet. A chill shudders through me. I find myself beside the marble tomb, tracing the letters etched on the gravestone with my finger. “Bruce Whitney, born eighteen sixty-two to Octavius Whitney and Tabatha Whitney.” I pause, recalling Aunt Ruth’s words from the first night I arrived at Blythe House. Octavius Whitney was my great-great-great-grandfather, twin to Augustus Whitney, who founded Whitney & Whitney Oil Company with his brother. “Died nineteen thirty-one. Loving, devoted husband to Emily Whitney, and father to Bruce Whitney Jr.” Wes gestures toward a tall marble tomb on a slight rise in the cemetery, commanding attention. It dwarfs the other graves, intended as a deliberate display of power and wealth. The tomb’s foundation is massive, complete with a pedestal where people can sit and admire the intricate details carved into its surface of roses and vines. Every curve and edge is perfectly executed. The grandeur of it all makes the surrounding graves seem insignificant, as if this tomb was built to remind everyone of the influence and legacy of its occupant. The name Octavius Whitney is impeccably etched into the eternally sealed door. A tribute to the man who helped build the foundation of the Whitney family’s legacy and fortune. “It feels odd, standing here next to the tombs of people connected to me, yet I know nothing about who they were,” I mutter. Aubrey drapes her arm around me. “Does it make you feel sad, not knowing them?” I pause in front of the opulent tomb. Mr. O’Connor hinted more than once at my family’s shady business history, and now, standing here, it feels almost ironic—this grand monument trying to dress up a life built on greed and deceit. As if marble and gold could rewrite who Octavius really was or somehow justify his legacy. If the Egyptian goddess Ma’at were to weigh his heart against her feather, I’m certain it would sink like a boulder from all the corruption. Wherever he is now, I can only hope he’s being held accountable. “No. It’s oddly comforting. Their secrets, whatever dark bargains they struck, are buried with them. They’ll face their judgment in the afterlife. I’d rather not know what they did to bring our family to a point where my grandfather was taking lives at such a young age.” “Let’s hope you never have to,” Aubrey says. “Jade!” Will calls. The hair on the back of my neck stands up. I turn to find him standing over a nearby grave, pointing to a marble headstone decorated with two cherubs. One cherub’s arm is missing as if it broke off long ago, and their heads are dusted with snow. I brush aside the brittle, lifeless branch that covers the headstone. The words carved root my feet to the ground: Here lies Maura Whitney, the beloved wife of Augustus Whitney and mother of Poppet Whitney. My breath stops. My hands cover my mouth as I read the name again. I glance around, eyes scanning the tombstones nearby. “I checked. There are no headstones near her mother’s grave with her name on it,” Will says. “Whose?” Wes asks as the others draw near. “Poppet. The ancestor of Jade’s who murdered me and my family. It appears she has no gravestone here.” I roll the green beetle between my thumbs. “No. There would be no grave. Maybe a memorial, but there wouldn’t be a body to bury,” I whisper. The cold breeze blows and prickles skin. “Poppet went missing after she killed Will. The Whitney family covered it up after she ran away.” “Assuming Will was even murdered. Assuming he has a past,” Julian says. “Let’s keep moving.” I walk beside Aubrey and Julian, trailing behind Wes and Davy, with Will once again taking the lead. His hands fidget in his coat pockets while his legs move in lengthy, brisk strides. Our breaths come quickly, with each exhale a cloud escaping our mouths into the cold air. The space between us is shrinking, as the unknown creeps closer. I think I’m not alone in sensing we’ll be arriving at Will’s grave soon. My fingers twist the locket. The scarab clinks against my collar buttons, and my nails dig into the gold metal and green stone. Will’s footsteps slow, then stop entirely under the stone archway of a family plot. Like a ripple, we all follow suit. I slip through the group and squeeze to his side. My heart feels like lead as I glance up at him. His face is pale and drained of color. His expression is so ghostly that I momentarily forget he’s alive. His eyes hold a distant haze. It tells me his mind is no longer here but lost down a rabbit hole of thoughts he can’t seem to climb out of. I can feel in my bones how much the unknown before him is tearing him apart. Whatever lies ahead, it’s no longer his burden alone to carry. It’s all of ours now. I take his hand, and together, the six of us move forward, stepping into the Montgomery family plot. The fading light of the setting sun, dimmed by heavy snow clouds, casts a mournful glow over each grave we pass. The headstones stand close together. Proof of the unbroken bond of the Montgomery bloodline. Stone upon stone, as if even in death, they refused to be separated. Beside me, Will’s pace slows. His breath comes in shallow, uneven clouds of steam against the cold air. Next to me is his mother’s grave. Its century of age never hindered its elegance. The limestone headstone, rounded and weathered, is surrounded by an old iron enclosure. The fence is no longer upright but leaning sideways as if it might collapse at any moment. The ornamental stone vases, once home to beautiful flowers, now stand empty. Will doesn’t acknowledge her burial site. His eyes are fixed straight ahead as if refusing to look could somehow ease the pain. I know him. I know it’s his way of coping. Avoiding the places that hold her absence, whether in her bedroom or at her grave. If time really does heal all wounds, then I suspect the years spent avoiding her resting place only worsened his. My heart aches, knowing he’s waging an internal war to hold himself together while her loss, still fresh even after all these years, threatens to shatter him. I hold his hand firmly, offering what little comfort I can. He squeezes back. We move on, passing his father’s grave, the largest in the family plot. Its tall marble obelisk rises with a mournful, commanding presence; though not as grand or ostentatious as my great-great-great-grandfather’s monument, that feels fitting. It speaks to who Will’s father was and what was important to him, I think. A humbling humility that sets him apart from the greed and vanity embedded into my own family’s legacy. And then we come to a halt. I hadn’t anticipated how much this view would hit me. The dread in my chest pushes the air from my lungs and makes it nearly impossible to breathe. I steady myself by planting my feet hard into the ground, resisting the wave of lightheadedness. Standing before us is a monument to grief. A tombstone carved with an hourglass and wings. The stone wall enclosure stretches the length of Will’s six-foot body before it. This is the final marker in the line. No one says a word, as if time itself has halted. “William Montgomery. Loved deeply by father Albert Montgomery and mother Cornelia Montgomery. Born July 13, 1864. Died December 23, 1885,” Aubrey reads. I let out a staggered sigh. My brain gradually absorbs the meaning of the engraved writing. Will’s arm slips around my body. I hold him, unwilling to believe what I’m seeing. How am I in love with a man, his arms wrapped around me yet buried just beneath the earth we stand on? “May I?” Wes is the first to speak as he seeks Will’s permission to enter the grave’s shadowed boundary. Will’s nod brushes the top of my head, even as I stay pressed against his chest. Wes and Davy lead the way, crossing the stone enclosure’s threshold first, followed by Aubrey, then Julian. Will takes my hand and I follow his lead. We stand above where his century-old body rests six feet below us. All of us sit on the edge of the stone fence, huddled together, with eyes tracing the old-fashioned letters carved into Will’s gravestone. “I don’t get it,” Julian mutters, his fingers running over the back of his neck. “How are you here… if you’re down there?” It’s the question that’s probing at us all. Excerpted from Senescence, copyright © 2026 by Shelby Nicole. The post Read an Excerpt From <i>Senescence</i> by Shelby Nicole appeared first on Reactor.