Crossing Stars

by Nicole Williams

  I had to get away.

  My hands were moving to his chest, ready to propel him away from me, when the dark lights above the dance floor flicked on. Instead of white, blinding light, it was almost neon blue, making every article of white clothing glow.

  “Black lights? Seems a little low-rent club for the great Krait to stoop to at his legendary White Party.” Constantine glared at the rows of lights before glaring at his jacket glowing like it was radioactive.

  “I like it,” I said, inspecting my dress. Even my white flats were glowing. Everyone around us was oohing and ahhing. All, that is, except for two: the man in front of me and the man just off to the side.

  “No, you don’t.” Constantine snapped his head from side to side. “You like what I tell you to like, and you don’t like what I tell you not to like.”

  Rylan spun around, his expression murderous. I was in the process of breaking out of Constantine’s arms when the band broke into a new song, heavy on the guitar. With each chord, a burst of neon liquid sprayed out into the crowd, splattering onto skin and hair and clothing. The surprise of it was enough to distract Constantine and me. Rylan didn’t even flinch when a firework of color exploded in the center of his chest.

  “What the hell?” Constantine shouted, cursing when neon purple splattered his arm.

  “It’s just glow-in-the-dark paint. It’s not krait venom.” I jolted when a rainbow of blue and pink sprayed the top of my chest, but I found myself smiling a moment later. Mainly because Constantine was backing away like he’d just come face to face with the entire Irish mob and the only thing he had in his hand was a water balloon.

  “Are you coming?” he shouted as he wiped at his jacket, only making the splatter worse.

  I knew I should go with him. I knew I’d pay for it if I didn’t. But I also knew he wouldn’t come back to retrieve me and risk further damage to his suit, and I wanted to stay. I wanted to stay next to the still-quivering-with-rage man who was almost hovering over me. I wanted to stay and dance, glowing in the magic of the lights and paint, living out this one night like it was my last . . . because I knew if I continued the way I had been, it may be.

  “I’m going to stay and enjoy the low-rent atmosphere. Good luck with your suit.” As I waved at him, the only true smile I’d ever aimed at Constantine slid into place. It wasn’t a smile of affection but of victory.

  He was retreating. I was holding my ground.

  “You should have let me shoot him.” Rylan’s voice was thick with anger.

  When his hands slipped into mine from behind, I could almost feel his rage melt away. The difference between Rylan’s touch and Constantine’s was so great, I couldn’t even compare it to day and night. They were as different as two things could be. As Constantine left the dance floor, he shot one last look in my direction. It didn’t look like he’d even seen me, but the message was clear. My defiance wouldn’t go ignored or forgotten. For every action, there was an opposite and equal reaction . . . but I feared with Constantine, it would never be equal, but exceedingly more.

  “I know,” I agreed with a quiet sigh.

  “Who is he?”

  To answer that question was also like trying to define something that words didn’t yet exist to define. So instead of grappling for an answer that couldn’t be properly expressed, I took a breath and looked around. The dance floor was packed with bodies, all glowing white and painted in an equally glowing rainbow. There wasn’t a face without a smile and a laugh on it. This wasn’t a night for frowns or sighs or regrets. This was a night for celebrating. Twisting around, I pressed myself against his chest, not caring who saw . . . because no one was looking. Everyone was too busy enjoying their own lives to notice our embrace.

  “Do you want to talk about him the rest of the night?” I asked, erasing the serious wrinkles on his forehead with my pinkie. “Or do you want to dance with me?”

  His answer didn’t come in the form of words.

  IF THE WHITE Party was the one day a year I always looked forward to, today was one of the ones I was most anxious about. Armistice Day had been brought into being back when my great-grandfather was running the Vipers, back when a man didn’t hesitate to say he was in the mafia when someone asked what he did for a living.

  There’d always been Italians in Chicago, and there’d always been Irish . . . and there’d always been a power struggle between them. When the two nationalities first immigrated to America, they’d been shunned. Painted as dirty, lazy breeds who wouldn’t know honor if it sprung from their chests. Neither Irish nor Italian could find jobs in this great nation they’d heard so much about. With families to feed and nothing to lose, mobs were formed. It started out harmlessly enough—“you’re one of us, so we’ll protect you” sort of thing—but prohibition changed all of that. When Chicago’s homes ran dry of alcohol, its streets flowed with blood.

  Armistice Day was the way my ancestors and Patrick Moran’s ancestors tried to atone for the ruthless bloodshed and unabashed hate between their groups. For one day every year, not a bullet was fired, not a vile of poison injected, not one body was dumped into the lake. Guns were locked away, crowbars settled back into car trunks, baseball bats rested in their corners, and knives were wiped clean. For one day a year, there was peace. How two men could decide one day of quiet could atone for so many days of unrest was a concept I’d never quite grasped, but regardless, I was always expected to take part in it.

  The ceremony took place at the same cathedral every year, a giant stone mass on a hill overlooking the lake. It was so elaborate and rich with history, it could have belonged in the great cities of Europe. On one side of the cathedral sat the Costas, on the opposite side the Morans, and the only thing more shocking than two sworn enemies sharing the same oxygen was that not one time had the sacredness of Armistice Day been broken. Probably because both sides knew if they broke the temporary truce, their own men would be just as likely to kill them as their enemies would.

  After the attempt on my life, I’d been stuffed in the front row of the cathedral between my parents and a dozen guards, my face hidden by thick black lace. This would be the first year I didn’t have to sit through the sermon with a heavy piece of fabric obscuring my vision. At least, not for the entire sermon.

  As was tradition, each side selected a child who’d come of age in the past five years or so from one of the high-ranking families for a ritual known as the Exchanging of Arms ceremony. A boy from one side handed over the preferred weapon of his family, and a girl from the other side handed over the preferred weapon from hers. It was a symbolic exchange that, in the end, was pointless. One fewer gun from their side and one fewer vile of poison from ours didn’t mean fewer deaths. It was nothing more than a ritual steeped in tradition, and one that I didn’t doubt would long outlive this city.

  Since I was eighteen, I was officially eligible to be the Arm Bearer, but I never imagined I would actually become one. With the lengths my father had gone to to keep my identity hidden from his enemies, why would he just lift the proverbial and literal veil from my face?

  That answer was simple. He had no choice.

  Since it had been the Costa’s turn last year to decide if they’d be putting forth a male or female, it was the Moran’s turn this year. They had selected a young man to be their Arm Bearer, which meant the Costas needed to choose a young woman. Out of the roughly one dozen families in my father’s inner circle, I was the only female who had recently come of age. Of course there were more options in the hundreds of other families that worked for him, but my father knew better than to put a lower family’s daughter at the altar. It would be a disgrace to the Morans to suggest one of their most important families’ offspring was equal to one of our lower families’ offspring. Insults might have been the way of things on those other three hundred plus days, but Armistice Day was about honoring three things: the fallen, tradition, and a worthy adversary.

  All that history and dogma led Josette Costa to be an Arm B
earer this year. I hadn’t even been told I’d be participating in the ceremony until a few days ago when my parents surprised me with the big news. My father had said he hadn’t told me earlier because he didn’t want me to worry myself sick, but I guessed that he didn’t want me to do anything to sabotage my part. After my behavior at the dinner with Constantine, my father had been appraising me like I was more a ticking time bomb than a dutiful daughter.

  I spent the morning locked away in one of the cathedral’s back rooms, getting dressed for the big event. A few weeks ago, I might have been able to cross The Line anonymously enough, but that would never be the case again. I’d never be able to step foot over it without fearing that a dozen different sights were aimed at my head. I probably couldn’t even stand close to The Line without finding barrels pointed my way. I’d been kept hidden for thirteen years to keep my face a mystery to the Morans . . . yet there we were, about to give them all the up close and personal.

  I wondered what it had all been for. Sure, I’d lived to see eighteen, but I’d paid for it with thirteen years of my life, and the rest of my life might be extinguished sometime in the near future. No matter what, I was destined to never really live the way everyone else did. Those thoughts put me in a sullen mood and kept me silent all morning. I’d given this family enough; I wouldn’t let them pull one more thing from me—a word included.

  But another thing added to my anxiety about the whole ceremony—Rylan. I didn’t know how he was involved with the Morans. All I knew was that three of Moran’s men had cowered from him and that he lived on the Irish side of The Line. If Rylan was involved in Moran’s crew, he would be in those pews—everyone was, from the newest grunt worker to the leaders themselves. The only way a “family” member could miss Armistice Day was if they were dead. Everyone would be surprised when they learned the woman presented by the Costas was the Krait’s only child, but I had no doubt Rylan would do much more than just shift in his seat.

  I knew he didn’t have the slightest clue who I was or who my father was. I’d had the chance to tell him—he’d asked me enough times—but when I’d tried to tell him at the White Party, he wanted me to wait until the next time we were together. This wasn’t how I’d planned on telling him—a hood being slid from my head as I stood at an altar across from one of my enemy’s children to exchange weapons.

  “Please try to hold still, Josette.”

  My mom was tugging on the laces at the back of my gown, cinching them tighter than anything should have been cinched—especially when a pair of lungs and a heart were caught up in the center of the cinching.

  “I’ve held still my entire life.” I didn’t realize I’d said the words until Serena’s head snapped my way and my mom’s fingers stilled at my back. “I mean . . . okay.” I wasn’t sure who I was anymore—the sweet, obedient girl who never stepped out of line or the strong, rebellious one who leapt across lines.

  “You seem nervous,” Mom said, going back to work on the lacing.

  How observant. “I am.”

  Serena slid the heavy cape from its hanger and approached me. “Don’t worry. No one will have anything more deadly than a pair of cufflinks. Today’s a day of peace. You’ll be fine.”

  “Here, this is proof of just how fine I am around the Morans.” Pulling my hair back, I traced the scar at my temple with my pinky.

  Serena lifted her eyes to the ceiling. “Good thing you’ve got a thick skull then.”

  “Funny.”

  She lifted a shoulder. “I thought so.”

  My mom gave me one last cinch that made me question if I should have eaten breakfast. Serena stepped in to spread the cape across my shoulders then fastened it around my neck. Under the weight of the dress alone, my knees had felt close to buckling, but with the cape, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to take a single step. And I had to make it down an entire aisle and up stairs.

  “You’re a vision in fifty pounds of silk and velvet.” Serena giggled as she grabbed a full-length mirror from the corner of the room.

  I lifted my arms, but against the weight of the cape, I couldn’t raise them much past my waist. “No one would need to tie concrete blocks to my feet if they wanted to drown me. All they’d have to do is toss me in the water like this, and I’d sink right to the bottom.”

  “Should I ever want to kill you, thanks for the tip.” Serena stopped a few feet back and positioned the mirror in front of me.

  Mom stepped up beside her, tears in her eyes as she inspected me. From her expression, you would have thought she was getting me ready for my wedding instead of the one day a year the two great mob families of Chicago struck a temporary truce. “You look so beautiful. So impossibly beautiful.” Mom grabbed one of the tissues from the desk and dabbed her eyes.

  I thought of asking her to reach for a tissue for me as well, but it wasn’t because I was overwhelmed with joy. As was tradition for the female Arm Bearer, I was dressed head to foot in a crimson so deep, in certain places it was almost black. The dress my mom had had made for me was a monstrosity—fitted from the waist up, but from the waist down, it was all billows and bustles and ball-gown. The dress was made of silk, and from the looks of it, ten parachutes had been sacrificed in the making of it. Really though, I didn’t want to imagine how many yards of fabric had been wasted in this ball skirt that put the old belles of the South to shame. The skirt spread out like a liquid pool of blood, trickling at least twenty feet behind me.

  And then there was the cape. Dyed the same color, it was made of heavy, rich velvet lined with satin. While the gown was different every year, the cape stayed the same. In a ceremony that seemed more about tradition than the meaning behind it, the cape was symbolic of the shadows our families stayed hidden in. Of the shadows that had been cast on us when our people came to America. Of the shadows we’d lived in, worked in, and learned to make our allies. So the cape symbolized the shadows, but to me, it had always symbolized death . . . because that was what happened in those dark places. Shadows, in my world, was just another name for death.

  As I studied myself in the mirror, I couldn’t help but wonder if, instead of dye, some other liquid had been used to color the cape and gown. The color was too close to blood to be ignored. I could almost see the bolts of silk and satin and velvet tumbling into a vat of blood, drowning beneath the surface of it. I was clothed in a good fifty pounds of fabric, and still I shivered.

  “I look like a walking sea of blood,” I said more to myself than anyone else, but my mom and Serena both heard me.

  Serena fought her smile, but Mom’s smile slipped away. “I don’t know why you feel the need to be so dramatic. You’re a lovely girl in a lovely dress about to take part in a lovely ceremony. There’s no need for your impertinent commentary.”

  “Mom, look at me.” I tried to hold my arms out, but again, I found them too weighed down. “Add a few streaks of red to my face and hair, and I’m the girl at prom who got a few buckets of pig’s blood dropped on her. I’m not lovely, and this gown isn’t lovely, and this ceremony is the furthest thing from lovely!”

  Oh my god. I was shouting at my mother. I never shouted at her—or anyone.

  From the expression of surprise that flattened her face, she was just as shocked as I was. “I think you need a minute to cool down.” She sounded as calm as I wasn’t. “I’ll see you out there.” She slipped through the door, leaving Serena and me alone in the room that seemed to get smaller and smaller.

  So I turned away from the giant drop of blood in the mirror and forced myself to take a breath. Then one more.

  “Hello, and what in the hell have you done with my cousin?” Serena settled the mirror back against the wall, giving me a curious look.

  “I think she’s been possessed,” I answered.

  Serena nudged me with a smile. “It’s about goddamned time.” She gave me a quick kiss on the cheek then headed for the door. “There’s only a few more minutes before the ceremony starts, so I’m going to go harass Luca wh
o, by the way, looks ready to rip a person’s head off with his bare hands if they come too close to you.”

  “Serena?”

  “That’s my name,” she sang back.

  “Would you do me a favor?”

  “Like mix you a Xanax cocktail? Roll you down the aisle? Cut fifty pounds off of that Rhode-Island-sized dress?” She clapped. “No problem.”

  My head shook. “Something else.”

  The lightness bled from her face. “What else?”

  With the ceremony minutes away, I didn’t have time to explain, though what I was about to ask required plenty of explanations. “Do you remember the guy who saved us the night we crossed The Line? Rylan?”

  Serena’s eyes widened a bit. “I wish I had forgotten him. I wish you had forgotten him. But yeah, I remember him.”

  “Could you go out there and see if he’s there? On the Moran side?”

  Her eyebrows came together. “Why?” Her face went a few shades lighter. “Oh my god, you’re seeing him?” Serena’s head whipped side to side like she was trying to shake the concept free.

  “Yes. We’re seeing each other. At least, as much as we’re able to given the . . . challenges.” I was only admitting this to Serena because I trusted her. And I needed a favor from her.

  “Challenges? Challenges? Challenges are long-term relationships. Challenges are disapproving parents. Challenges are ex-girlfriends who can’t seem to grasp the ex part. Seeing someone from the other side of The Line when you’re Salvatore Costa’s only child is not a challenge.” Her eyes locked on mine. “It’s suicide.”

  She wasn’t saying anything I hadn’t already told myself, but I hadn’t brought Rylan up to discuss the dangers in us being together. I wanted to at least try to give him a warning of who I was if he happened to be in the crowd. “I know it’s dangerous, and I know what my father will think and try to do if he finds out, but Serena, how can I tell myself not to fall for someone when I already have? How can I take it back? Because maybe you can, but I can’t. And even if there was a way, I wouldn’t want to.”