Excerpt from Ecstasy by Ivy Pochoda, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Three years I spent locked up in a foreign country at the mercy of guards and the sort of women I manipulated on the outside-the sort of women who begged and begged for a favor, a freebie, just one more. And then it was my turn for begging.

And that wasn't the worst of it.

My son. He turned me in.

I remember him at my arrest, wondering why he wasn't being taken in too.

The blood of my blood and all I am is his get-out-of-jail-free card.

You ever realize the only family you have left are the people you find in your never-ending after hours?

And you think you can do what I do?


What you don't know is that I left your world by choice. Once I learned to see around the edges of things, see behind and through things-see the self you keep hidden-I knew I would never go back. Once I could read the contrails on the dance floor. Once I was initiated into the dark heart of the dance. Once I learned it was possible to see more, see wildly, see without barriers and boundaries, why would I blind myself again, turn my back on spiritual rapture and pretend it was nothing more than a sport and a pastime?

If you believe god is a DJ, then I am your high priestess-the one who brings you close.

I will show you that the night has no borders, no beginning or end. I will tunnel you into yourself and help you hear that what's pumping in your veins isn't blood, it's trance. It's four-on-the-floor. It's dubstep. Handbag house. Darkcore.

You will know that I am the puppeteer of your secret self.


I am the music and the party. I tune you in. I raise the goose bumps on your neck. I am the music's synesthesia-the glow-pulse that envelops you, tap-tap-tapping on your heart and skin.

I will save you and set you free.

I am everywhere and nowhere. And you will always think of me.

Lena

The domestic terminal at the Athens airport is dark and crowded. The seats hard. The smell of cigarette smoke barely contained in the plexiglass lounge across the room.

Lena shifts her weight. Her body aches from the San Francisco flight.

The puddle jumper to Naxos is late. There will be a delay-deplaning, cleaning the cabin, boarding. The usual.

She watches the first passengers come down the gangway-a gaggle of women. British? American? They are boisterous and loud. They wear flowing dresses and crowns-the cheap tourist kind, the metal laurel wreaths sold at every shop in Greece. Some have flowers tangled in their hair.

The women link arms, singing, as they approach the passengers waiting to board.

They pass in front of Lena. She catches the stink of vacation-sunscreen and the deep funk of wine.

One of them-wild haired, her dress askew, her crinkled, freckled breasts barely contained in her sundress-trails a finger across Lena's cheek as she passes. The woman's finger lingers on Lena's chin. Her scent is strong-earthy, mossy, a feral crawl through a cave. Mud and sweat and something Lena can't quite place. The salt lick of the sea. She can hear something too-drumbeats and the ocean. A chant and a dance. A taste in her mouth-blood or wine, deep and rich, delightful and deadly.

For the first time in years, she feels the desire to dance. She feels the loosening of her limbs. The syncopation of her arms and legs.

She opens her mouth, as if to drink the woman's air.

Then the scent fades.

Lena rises to her feet, her hand outstretched to pull the woman back. Her mouth still open.

Then a restraining hand on her arm. She hits the chair, her purse tumbling to the ground.

"Jesus, Mom. Close your mouth. What the hell." Her son, Drew-his dead father returned to life. "Is there a lounge around here somewhere or does this shithole terminal not even have that?"

The smell, the sound, the taste-vanished. Still, something remains-a note, a last beat of Lena's heart before it's all gone.

Excerpted from Ecstasy by Ivy Pochoda. Copyright © 2025 by Ivy Pochoda. Excerpted by permission of G.P. Putnam's Sons. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.