by Sarah Cross
“No,” Mira admitted. “I have a map, but—it’s hard to know where to start.”
He looked at her carefully, like he was considering something. “If you’re not in a hurry, I might be able to help you. If you’re really serious about this.”
“I’m serious about it,” she said quickly. “I’ve wanted this for so long, I—it would mean a lot to me.” She was in a hurry. But the thought of trekking through the city alone was so demoralizing she was willing to wait a few days if it meant she’d have help.
He nodded. “All right, good. Well—I can’t promise you anything, but I’ll see what I can do. And in the meantime, you’ll be our guest.”
“Thank you. So much.” She felt like she was babbling, even when she barely said anything. He was being so nice—she should let him leave already. She started to move away from the window, and he said:
“So tell me your story.” And she stopped. She could sense his attentiveness, like a hand on the back of her neck. Like his voice was touching her skin. “Who’d you leave behind at home?” he asked. “Foster parents?”
“My godmothers. They knew my parents. They were there when they … died. And they took care of me after that.”
He leaned his shoulder against the window, tilted his head to look at her. The silver light turned his dark blue hair and eyes a midnight black. “Do you mind if I ask what happened?”
Normally, she didn’t talk about her tragedy—but he was looking at her in a way that made her want to trust him. And he’d agreed to help her with this—this dream that meant everything to her. She wanted him to know.
Mira bowed her head. “I was three months old. We were at my christening party. … It was held in this beautiful ballroom, with a mural on the ceiling, like the Sistine Chapel, except with fairy-tale scenes. You could spin around and around and always see a different story. There was a red-cloaked girl running from a wolf, and a mermaid whose fins were splitting to become legs, and—a beauty taming her beast. … That’s what my godmothers told me—I was too young to remember.”
She took a deep breath, and paused. The tale of that night was whole in her head, in one piece like a bedtime story, because that was how her godmothers told it—but she couldn’t tell it straight through. She had to split it into before and after.
“Then—the fire started. It spread through the ballroom, and crawled up the curtains and reached as high as the ceiling. Smoke filled the air, and beams were crashing down … and my parents were trying to save everyone. They handed me to my godmother Bliss, and she wrapped me in her shawl and ran through the smoke to safety. It was a party, and there were a lot of people … but my parents managed to get everyone out. Except, I don’t think they realized they’d done it. Because they kept searching. So they were—” The words stuck in her throat, as hard as a stone. “They were the only ones who didn’t make it out in time.”
“How tragic,” he said. “They were heroes … but they could have lived, if they’d known.” He said it like he meant it. Like he understood how awful it was to have lost them that way.
Mira nodded. “That’s the hardest part. I can’t help wishing they hadn’t tried so hard to save everyone. Because—then maybe I’d still have them.”
She waited for him to insist she didn’t really mean that—like Elsa always did—or to say it was selfish to trade a host of lives to save two. But his mind was elsewhere.
“A christening party … So your parents were very traditional.”
“They sort of look that way in pictures. I have maybe one picture where my dad’s not in a tuxedo,” she said with a smile. “But I don’t know. I mostly think of them as perfect.”
He tipped his head back, eyes closing, moonlight sliding over his throat. “I don’t remember my mother very well. I never think of her as perfect. But that’s probably because she left. When someone chooses to leave you … it’s different.”
“You lost your mother?” She hadn’t expected to have that in common with him. She wondered if that was why he’d offered to help her.
“She left when I was eight. I think she was afraid of getting attached.”
Mira nodded, not sure what to say. She couldn’t imagine a mother cold enough to leave for that reason. “I’m sorry,” she said.
He shrugged. “It was a long time ago.”
They stood at the window a moment more, and then he went to the light and turned it on. The room expanded from a dark ocean overlook to a subtly glitzy suite; the shine and shimmer of the casino stirred with the colors of sea and sand.
Now that the room was brighter, it seemed less intimate, less a place for confessions. Mira unpacked her bag while he called the front desk, unrolling crumpled shirts and tank tops and skirts and trying not to stare at him.
“This is Felix,” he said into the phone. “I need you to activate a key for room 2005 and bring it up here. Right. Just put that it’s my guest. Leave the checkout date open.”
He—Felix—hung up and faced her. Paused for a moment, watching her unpack. “Someone’s bringing your key.”
“Thanks,” she said, pushing her hair out of her face, straightening up. Then it occurred to her that maybe she was being presumptuous. That it was rude to assume the room was free.
“I can pay,” she said, reaching for her wallet.
Felix gave a short shake of his head. “Don’t worry about it. I feel better knowing you’re not on the street. Think of it like you’re doing me a favor. Not like you owe me.”
He smiled, and there was something unguarded about it, like they were friends. Mira smiled back—feeling safe, and less lost—and the tension she’d carried all day began to ebb.
A few minutes later, there was a knock at the door. A hotel employee had arrived with the key card. Felix took it and sent the clerk away, then set the key card on the desk next to a hotel notepad, where he wrote down the numbers she would need: the front desk, room service, his phone number—and that was when she finally saw his full name, the letters surging forward in a series of sharp slashes:
FELIX VALENTINE
“If you can’t reach me … that probably means I’m dealing with someone high maintenance, or I’m in a meeting and can’t answer my phone. It doesn’t mean I’m ignoring you.”
He stopped, lost in thought, and then laughed. “I never asked your name. I was so caught up in …” He shook his head.
“It’s late, and I wasn’t thinking. What should I call you?”
“Mira,” she said. “Or Mirabelle.”
“All right, Mira … I’ll let you get some sleep. But call me if you need anything. And tomorrow or the day after, we’ll start our search—whenever I can steal some time.”
“If you’re busy, I can look by myself. You’ve done a lot for me already; you don’t—”
The words dried up in her mouth. Something about the way Felix was looking at her—his eyes dark, and very sure—made her feel like it was silly to keep offering him an out. He touched her shoulder and said:
“Mira, I spend every day doing things I don’t want to do. But I want to help you. I can make time for that.” He leaned in then, and his lips brushed her cheek; and for a moment he was all she could see. Her world was reduced to the warmth of his lips, the hint of smoke on his clothes, and the tang of his cologne.
And then he moved away. He was being friendly, probably. But she wasn’t used to being kissed by anyone other than her godmothers. She wasn’t used to kisses that were simultaneously startling and wonderful, casual and memorable. Her world was so much smaller than that.
“Okay?” he said with a smile.
“Okay,” she managed, not sure she knew what she was answering anymore.
“Good.” Felix stepped into the hall; paused long enough to tell her, “Hey—bolt the door after I leave. You can’t be too careful around here.”
“I will,” she promised. But she didn’t. Not immediately.
Her cheek burned like she’d been lying in the sun too long, and she
stood perfectly still, not wanting to break the spell. The scent of Felix’s cologne lingered on her skin.
When she closed her eyes, she could imagine he was there. She could relive that kiss one more time. All two seconds of it.
Exhaling slowly, Mira threw the bolt and kicked off her flip-flops. She let her fantasy float away—it was the kiss equivalent of a handshake; nothing to get excited about—and let the delicious freedom of being barefoot bring her back to reality. The carpet soothed her, because it wasn’t a hot strip of road with no end in sight. She had a room; she didn’t have to worry that someone would harass her or hurt her. She could rest.
But first: a shower. She was too sticky with sweat to sleep.
She padded to the bathroom—which was huge and had folded towels as thick as couch cushions, an entire wall of mirrors, and a deep Jacuzzi tub that was separate from the shower.
Mira shucked off her dirty clothes and stepped into the glass-walled shower. She scrubbed the day’s travel grime from her skin, until she felt like a new person, with fresh hopes—and as she did, her fingers grazed the disfigurement at the small of her back.
The mark.
The mark rested at the base of her spine. It was wine red like a burn, shiny-smooth like a scar: a ring spoked by thin red lines, like a wheel. It was as big around as her fist.
Her clothes covered the mark if she was careful to wear long shirts, but her bikini never did. It looked like she’d been branded, and she hated it. One of the reasons she was growing her hair out so long was for extra camouflage. If she had hair down to her butt, she could walk around in her bathing suit without worrying what people would say.
Because she’d heard it all, since her first appearance at a pool party when she was twelve. Bikini clad for the first time, constantly hurrying out of the water for another trip down the waterslide, she’d heard:
What’s that thing on her back? Cancer?
Giggles. Sounds of disgust and disbelief.
Is that a tattoo? It’s so ugly!
She’d wrapped her towel around her waist as soon as she realized they were talking about her, then sat on the side, the fun of the waterslide forgotten, while she waited for Bliss and Elsa to ferry her home.
Ever since that day, she’d felt the mark like it was a living thing. Like an eye that followed her everywhere.
Her godmothers said it was silly to be self-conscious about “a little birthmark.” It’s your body, there’s nothing wrong with it.
As if it was normal to have a hideous, wheel-shaped mark on your skin.
She felt a pang of guilt when she thought of Elsa and Bliss, and wondered where they were right now—whether they’d flown to San Francisco or were tearing the house apart in a panic. But she was too exhausted to beat herself up over it. She didn’t like lying to them, but they hadn’t left her much choice. She needed closure, needed that connection with her parents. She’d deal with the consequences when this was over.
Finished with her shower, Mira wrapped her soggy mass of blond hair in a towel, pulled on the pair of boxer shorts and the tank top she’d brought as pajamas, and climbed between the sheets, letting the covers swallow her up like quicksand.
She was so tired she could barely feel her limbs—but her brain wouldn’t fall asleep. She stared at the blackness of the ceiling and wondered if she was crazy, coming all the way to Beau Rivage to kneel beside two graves. Breaking her godmothers’ hearts to save her own.
Of course you’re crazy. It’s a question of how crazy.
The covers were heavy, like earth lying on top of her.
Normally, when she couldn’t sleep, she took refuge in daydreams. She’d unroll a story for her parents like a velvet carpet, and guide them down it until she fell asleep. But tonight she felt too caught in the present to leave it.
She was in a new place, in a beautiful room that belonged to her. She thought of Felix, and how he’d kissed her cheek, and her heart raced like it wanted to remind her it was there. She’d spent eight months obsessed with her plan, writing love letters to a boy who didn’t exist. It felt nice to have a real crush for once.
When she slept, she dreamed of the ocean, of wisteria petals fluttering onto her skin. Of Felix kneeling in the sand, sea foam dripping from his fingers, murmuring, here they are.
She awoke to a tremendous bang.
CHAPTER THREE
PALE DAWN LIGHT BLED around the curtains—enough for Mira to see that the bolt on the door had been breached, and the door had been flung open and slammed hard against the wall. A slender, dark figure moved swiftly through the room—
And pounced on the bed.
Mira started to scream; she reached for the phone beside the bed as the intruder’s body fell onto hers. A hot hand clamped over her mouth.
“What are you still doing here?” he hissed. “Are you crazy?”
Disoriented but filled with adrenaline, she bucked like a wave—she was stronger than she looked; she’d been dancing ballroom for years—and managed to roll him off her, his body thumping hard against the floor. Her instincts said, fight, protect yourself.
She leapt from the bed and landed on him, her knees striking his chest. Then she reached for the phone—and she would have smashed it into his head if he hadn’t jolted his hips and knocked her sideways.
He grabbed her wrists and pinned her flat on her back. Leaned over her.
And in the dim hints of dawn, she recognized him. The spiky hair. The wiry frame that was working hard to keep her trapped. And her fear quickly turned to anger.
“You really are crazy,” Blue muttered. “You need to get the hell out of here, now.”
“Get off me!” she said, struggling to bring her leg up so she could knee him somewhere sensitive.
“I’m trying to keep you from getting killed.”
“Yeah, right—”
The busted door had long since swung to a close, clicking almost shut. Now it opened again and Freddie’s worried head peeked in. “Is everything—?”
When he spotted them on the floor, he hurried inside, looking mortified. “Blue, what are you doing?”
“You know what I’m doing.”
“Get your stupid friend off me!” Mira said.
“You’re the stupid one,” Blue told her. “Because you’re still here. Pretty sure I told you to leave.”
I hate you, Mira thought, glaring up at him.
Blue’s chain-saw pendant hung down as he hovered over her, the silver blade dangling in front of her face, taunting her. She wanted to knock it out of the way, but he had her hands. The floor that had felt so plush last night was hard under her shoulders; and in her skimpy, makeshift pajamas—fine for living in a house full of women, not for being assaulted by strange boys—she felt almost naked.
Freddie dropped down beside them, distressed. “Let go of her, Blue; that looks really bad.”
“Feel free to stop him,” Mira said, “instead of frowning at me like a sad puppy.”
“Hey!” Freddie said, looking like a sadder puppy.
“I’m not going to molest you,” Blue said.
“You’re molesting my wrist,” Mira said. “I don’t want you touching me.”
“I didn’t want you to knee me in the lungs, so I guess we’re even.”
“We’re far from even,” she said through gritted teeth.
“Back to business,” Blue said. “You need to get out of this hotel—and not come back. And if I have to carry you out, cart you to the Palace Casino or a Motel 6, I will. If I have to hurt you, I will—I’m not nice. So don’t test me unless you want proof of that.”
Mira answered him with words Bliss and Elsa never let her say. Blue smiled, like she’d told him he was a talented assailant.
Freddie looked stricken. “Ladies shouldn’t talk like that.”
“Oh, shut up!” she snapped.
“Be nice to Freddie,” Blue said. “He has a crush on you.”
“Maybe I’m not nice either,” she said.
&
nbsp; “Fine,” Blue said. “Be mean to Freddie. But don’t blame me if a lovesick sparrow pecks your eyes out. You’ve been warned.”
Blue released her and got to his feet, watching her carefully, like he expected her to lash out. “Get your stuff. Then we’re getting out of here.”
“Those sparrows wouldn’t hurt anyone,” Freddie said. “A blue jay might. Or a hummingbird. But never a—”
Blue cut him off so he could yell at her. “Hurry up. You’ve got two minutes before I pack your stuff for you.”
“You’re crazy,” Mira said, pulling on her hoodie and zipping it up, since she wasn’t wearing a bra and she’d had enough of these guys staring at her. “First, you offer to comp my room. Then you try to drag me off to some sleazy hotel. And when your brother is actually nice to me, you freak out and assault me. What part of that makes sense?”
Blue shook his head. “If I had put you up somewhere, you wouldn’t have met my brother. I don’t want him around you. End of story.”
“I can’t believe you’re jealous of your own brother,” she muttered.
“Jealous?” Blue narrowed his eyes, looking angry finally. It gave his face a different cast from the cocky obnoxiousness he usually wore. “You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into. Now do what I say before I do something I’ll regret.”
Mira shoved her feet into her flip-flops, huffing like a bull, she was so furious. “I doubt you regret anything. You’d need a conscience for that.”
“Yeah, yeah—let’s go.” Blue put his hand out and shoved her lightly between the shoulder blades. “You don’t belong here. You have no freaking clue.”
Blue and Freddie escorted Mira through the Dream’s lobby and out the front door, where a valet stood waiting to usher guests in and out of cabs. He saw Blue and motioned for the hotel car—a black Lexus SUV—and saw them all in safely. Mira wondered if it would make a difference to the valet if she announced she was a hostage. She guessed no.
“Where to?” the driver asked.
“Take us to the Deneuve estate,” Blue said.
“Viv isn’t going to want to see us this early,” Freddie said.
