by Sarah Cross
Mira moved into the light like a sleepwalker, leaving Blue behind in the dust, the unused room, the past.
She thought of the fabled hundred years that cursed girls like her had slept, and how, after that much time, everything would be covered by a thick blanket of dust, including the princess. The intrepid prince would have to trust that something beautiful was hidden underneath. He’d kiss her and the first color to be revealed would be the chapped pink of her lips.
Her eyes went to Freddie, playing his guitar and lit by the sun. She couldn’t picture him kissing a girl coated by dust—he was too alive for that.
He was golden. And she … she was covered with death, with her grief over her parents. She’d tried to replace them with dreams, and she’d drifted through life in a haze, her eyes seeking ghosts instead of the world around her.
She was already asleep.
She had been for a long time.
Freddie and Jewel finished their song. They looked up and laughed at some mistake they’d made. Freddie set his guitar down, and Jewel paused to cough into her handkerchief, catching a spill of orange blossoms and pearls.
“Mira,” Freddie said when he noticed her. There was so much warmth in his voice, so much affection—he said her name like he’d say I love you. She didn’t know how to deal with that.
“How do you perform?” she asked Jewel instead, gesturing to the spilled pearls.
“Oh. That.” Jewel wiped her mouth and tucked the handkerchief into her fist. “I hold it in until the end of a song. Then I take a moment to let it all out and catch my breath. It used to be really bad. I could barely get two words out.”
“Does it hurt?” Mira asked.
Jewel nodded. “But it’s a pain you get used to. It’s supposed to be a gift. My sister, Aimee, has it worse. She pissed off the wrong fairy, and now she spews toads and snakes and dead leaves when she talks.”
Mira felt sick. “Live snakes?”
Jewel arched an eyebrow. “Would it be better if they were dead?”
“Foul,” Freddie said, wrinkling his perfect nose.
“My mom’s house is crawling with lizards now,” Jewel went on. “It smells like a stagnant pond. There are leaves decaying in the corners, soaking into the carpet. I moved out of there, obviously.” Jewel spit a handful of diamonds into her palm—looking for a moment like a boxer spitting out broken teeth. She held her hand up to the light.
“I bought a condo with the fruits of my curse. I’m the Kind Girl in my tale, so you’d think I’d let my mom and sister move in with me—but I can’t deal with that smell. Or Aimee’s attitude. Once she bit off an anole’s tail while it was crawling out of her mouth—just to be disgusting.” Jewel shuddered, and Freddie shuddered, too. He didn’t have much of a stomach for bad things.
“And there’s no one who can break the curse?” Mira asked. “No one Honor-bound?”
“My sister can break her own curse if she stops being nasty all the time. But it’s hard to be nice when you’re vomiting reptiles every other word. And since my curse isn’t a punishment … it’s permanent.”
Shrugging, Jewel tucked the handkerchief into her pocket. “It could be worse. I could be like Layla and be charged with humanizing Rafe after he gets Changed. He’s been such a tool lately, it can’t be long before he insults an evil fairy and gets turned into a Beast. Then Layla’s going to be Honor-bound to redeem him. She says she won’t bother, but I know her; her conscience won’t let her abandon him. I can—”
Jewel stopped to pluck a string of bleeding hearts from her lips; managed a wry smile. “I can handle this.”
“Speaking of Layla,” Mira said, “do you think we could get her to come over?”
“She won’t come to Rafe’s house,” Jewel said. “Not until she has to.”
“Oh.” Mira sighed. “Because I kind of need to talk to her. I guess—later.” She was about to sit down on the trashed couch when Freddie got to his feet.
“As you know … I am always at your service,” he said. “I could drive you.”
“Oh no, I don’t want to interrupt your band practice—”
Jewel waved her hand at the mostly empty foyer. “What practice? Rafe will sleep until three, then spend an hour grooming himself. Blue’s playing will not be improved—we know that by now. So … go. Have some fun.” Her eyes glittered suggestively.
Freddie flushed. His normally proud shoulders were stooped with embarrassment, and Mira realized what Jewel meant by have some fun. She was teasing, but …
Mira hadn’t been alone with Freddie since that strange moment they’d shared on the beach, when she’d touched him and her hands had burned. Hadn’t been alone with him since he’d known, for certain, that they shared a destiny. It gave new meaning to the word awkward.
But she did want to talk to Layla. …
“You really don’t mind?” she asked.
“You heard the boy,” Jewel said. “His carriage awaits.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
FREDDIE’S CAR WAS SILVER AND SHINY on the outside, with leather and new-car smell on the inside—predictably perfect—but it was cluttered with an unexpected number of guitar magazines, empty candy boxes, and … what looked like sword catalogues.
Mira grabbed one of the catalogues and flipped through it. It was from a mail-order smithy that sold medieval weapons and armor: broadswords, chain mail, decorative letter openers. Freddie had drawn circles around the things he wanted, like a kid marking up a toy catalogue to make his Christmas list.
“You like this stuff a lot, huh?” she said.
“It’s an interest of mine. I—” He turned to her, frowning apprehensively as he backed down Rafe’s driveway. “You think it’s strange.”
“No, no, it’s just different. I didn’t know anyone still made stuff like this.” She kept flipping, fascinated. “How many of these do you have?”
“Swords? Just one. It’s in the trunk.”
“The trunk?”
“You never know when you might drive past a house covered in briars. Where a princess is sleeping. It’s good to have something to hack through them. So you can rescue her.”
“Wouldn’t a hatchet work better?”
“A sword is more heroic,” Freddie mumbled.
They drove past mansions spaced out like castles among the trees—home to quite a few Royals, Freddie said—and on toward cuter, cozier neighborhoods, where curses mingled with good and bad luck. Trees leaned across the road, dappling it with shadows; and then the trees cleared to reveal sun-baked yards, where children in bathing suits dashed through sprinklers. Old women held court on porch swings, and ladies in floppy hats did battle in their gardens, yanking out weeds by the roots.
A lovesick mutt chased Freddie’s car for a few blocks—tongue lolling, tail wagging—until Freddie stopped to play with him, afraid that if he ignored him, the poor dog would get hit by a car.
When they resumed their drive, Mira stayed quiet. She could sense that Freddie wanted to talk to her, but she kept her eyes on the sword catalogue, skimming the descriptions even as she started to feel carsick—anything to keep from discussing their shared fate. It began to feel a little like a bad first date. She couldn’t wait to get out of the car—and it must have showed.
“I think … you don’t like me,” Freddie said.
Mira hesitated. “Of course I like you.”
“You’re mad because of what I said about Felix.”
Of course it would come back to Felix. “If that’s true, then I’m mad at everyone.”
“But, Mira …” He sighed. “We wouldn’t all say it if it wasn’t true.”
And that was when she snapped. She was sick of the secrets, sick of the intimation that she should do whatever they said, without an explanation, because they knew better—as if everyone was a better judge of her situation than she was.
“No one is saying anything, except stay away from him,” Mira countered. “Do you have some real reasons for me?”
&nb
sp; “Mira, you passed out. When Blue found you, you were unconscious. You stayed that way for eight hours.”
“It’s called sleeping.”
“It’s not. Felix hurt you. You couldn’t—your body couldn’t—”
“You know what?” Mira said. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I don’t like you.” She shifted so she was facing the window, and did her best to ignore him. But it was impossible to tune out his sighs of frustration or the smack of his hand against the steering wheel.
“I never imagined you’d be so difficult,” he muttered.
“Maybe that’s why you’re supposed to meet me when I’m unconscious. So I don’t burst your bubble right away.”
“Don’t be mean, Mira. I haven’t been mean to you.” She could hear the hurt in his voice, and she squirmed, feeling guilty. He was right. And he was trying to help her—even if he was wrong.
“I’m sorry. It’s just—I don’t like being pressured to feel a certain way. Or told that the guy I like is bad for me, when he obviously isn’t. I wish you guys would just trust that I’m not stupid. If we were friends, that’s what you would do. You’d want me to be happy.”
“No one thinks you’re stupid. And I do want you to be happy.”
“Then let me be.”
“But that’s not happy! You can’t live happily ever after when there’s no after!”
“Freddie!” she snapped. “Happily-ever-after isn’t real! Not everything is a fairy tale!” Her voice seemed louder suddenly, and she realized he’d shut off the car. They were parked in Layla’s driveway, in front of a small white house trimmed with flower boxes and crawling with honeysuckle.
Mira opened the door and stumbled out before he could say anything else. Freddie existed in a fairy tale more than any of them. With his replica swords, his animal magnetism, his unrealistic hopes, and his Once-Upon-a-Dreaming …
It wasn’t her fault that she didn’t live up to his expectations. His dream wasn’t her life.
The birds at the bird feeder had sensed Freddie and were already in flight. Like prince-seeking missiles, they shot straight toward him, then landed on the hood of his car and began to serenade him. Freddie stayed holed up inside, unresponsive to their devotion.
Mira pressed down on the doorbell, shaking.
She wanted to be one of them, she was supposed to belong … but she still felt like an outsider. Like they were all ganging up on her. She didn’t know all the secrets they knew, and that made her seem stupid, naïve. And she was tired of that.
She missed Elsa and Bliss. She missed feeling safe—and for a moment, she considered calling her godmothers, coming clean about what she’d done. They were fairies; they knew this world better than she did. Maybe they could help her. …
No. Mira shook her head. They wouldn’t give her answers. They’d decide for her—like they always had—and decide she was better off not knowing. They would take her away. She couldn’t let that happen.
Layla yanked the door open, and Mira snapped out of her daydream. “Aah. Mira. I thought someone was in trouble out here!”
Mira flinched as Layla grabbed her finger and lifted it off the doorbell. She’d lost track of what she was doing—and had barely noticed the nonstop ringing.
“Sorry,” Mira said. “I was … distracted.”
“It’s okay. What’s up? What can I do for …” Layla peered around her. “Is Freddie not coming in?”
“Um … we had a fight,” Mira said. “Nothing to worry about. Listen, can I talk to you? It’s important.”
“Of course,” Layla said, stepping aside. “Come in.”
Layla’s house was cozy and rustic, full of mismatched furniture, country quilts draped over couches, New Age goddess paintings side by side with classic fairy-tale prints and framed family photos. It reminded Mira of her own house, and the cluttered, a-little-of-everything style her godmothers preferred. The living room smelled like honeysuckle and coffee. Books were piled on a low table: academic texts about fairy tales, obscure classics, and the libretto booklet for Puccini’s Tosca, flopped open upside down to mark the page.
Layla sat down in a comfy easy chair and drew her legs up onto the seat. She grabbed her coffee mug, then stopped.
“Oops, sorry. Did you want anything to drink?”
Mira shook her head. “I just want to talk.”
“Okay. I’m a bad hostess—just so you know. No one ever comes over, so I’m out of practice. Most of them get twitchy if they’re not in a mansion. Also, my dad’s a little weird. That might be the real reason.”
“Weird how?”
Layla sighed. “I might need a real drink if I’m going to explain that. Kidding,” she added—although she looked like maybe she wasn’t. “My dad’s a gambler. You may have noticed the casinos all over Beau Rivage? Yeah, so that’s a problem. He’s not very good at it. And he doesn’t know when to stop. So on the rare occasion that people visit, he’ll usually try to sell them something from our house to help pay off his debts. He knows most of my friends are rich. Which I guess to him means they’re fair game and I shouldn’t mind.”
“Can’t your mom get him to stop?” Mira asked, glancing at the family photos—all of which showed a very young woman with baby Layla and her father, if they showed her at all.
“She’s dead. Like most moms around here.” Layla sighed again. “Anyway. I’m sure you didn’t come over to hear about my dad. What’s up?”
Mira hesitated. After this, she’d know something about the Valentine brothers that neither one had wanted to explain. She was a little afraid to find out, because she was pretty sure Romantic didn’t mean buys you flowers and brings you candy. Although Felix had that part covered if it did.
“Blue told me I should ask you about Romantics,” she said.
Layla set her cup down with an awkward clatter. “Really?
I … I wasn’t expecting that. He’s usually pretty private. All right.” Layla got up to search for a book, running her finger across the spines. “You can tell me?” Mira said. “It’s not part of the curse that you can’t?”
“I can tell you what a Romantic is,” Layla said, returning with a heavy leather-bound book similar to the one she’d shown them at the bookstore, but more modern. “I can’t talk about Blue’s specific curse. Any secret that’s meant to stay secret, I can’t utter. The magic in our blood acts like a leash—or a muzzle, in this case. It prevents us from breaking taboos.”
Mira nodded, disappointed. “Okay. Well, then, I guess … tell me whatever you can tell me.” Layla turned to R, and pushed the book closer. Mira drew in a breath—
Romantics
Natural charmers who feed on love, drawing it from the lover’s body through kisses and caresses that drain the lover’s life force, often until there is nothing left. The stronger the love, the easier the life will be to steal.
No, she thought, her limbs trembling as she recalled the weakness she’d felt last night. The numbness. The way the world had turned gray around her.
“That’s—that’s what Blue is?” And Felix. And Felix … oh my god …
“Yes,” Layla confirmed.
“He can’t help it?”
“Sadly, no. It’s part of his curse. Blue must be worried about you, if he wanted me to tell you. He doesn’t—for obvious reasons—like for people to know.”
“Yeah, I can see….” Until there is nothing left. “I can see why.”
This was what Freddie meant by no after. No happily-ever-after. Because the person she loved could kill her.
“What tale is that?” Mira asked, searching for some shred of the tale in her memory. “I don’t remember any fairy tales where … where someone drains the love from someone else’s body. And …”
“It’s not that specific in the tale,” Layla said carefully. “You have to keep in mind that the people transcribing the tales weren’t the same people living them, in most cases. They came across them through hearsay, in bits and pieces. A lot of the elements are capt
ured, but some things are hidden. Some curses are also secrets. Secrets you shouldn’t try to reveal … ever.”
Layla looked torn, like she wanted to say more, but couldn’t. Her eyes glimmered like she was upset. “You’re not going to listen, are you?”
Mira stared at the entry until the words blurred together, a tangle of rusty brown—the color of dried blood. “What does it feel like when someone drains the love from you?” she asked.
“I’m not sure,” Layla said. “It’s never happened to me. Or to anyone—we know.” She seemed to stumble on the last part, and Mira looked at her, searching for an answer—but Layla just shook her head. “I’m sorry. That’s all I can say.”
“Okay,” Mira said. “Well. Thank you….”
She headed to the door, conscious of the feeling of the floor beneath her feet. The sensation of her muscles shifting as she crossed the room. The smooth texture of the doorknob in her hand. All things she wouldn’t have felt last night, when her body went numb after Felix had kissed her and kissed her and kissed her. And then abandoned her.
Because he was afraid. He was afraid of draining her away to nothing. Because she cared for him too much. Or he cared for her too much. Or both.
Mira stopped at the door, not ready to face Freddie. To face anyone, really.
“Layla,” she said. “Is it possible to avoid your destiny? Like if you’re fated to be with someone, but you can sense that it isn’t right between the two of you?”
Through a pane of glass in the door, she could see Freddie still in his car, leaning his head against the steering wheel.
“I don’t know,” Layla said. Her voice was fragile—this was a sensitive subject for her, too. “But I hope it’s possible. That what we want—what we’re willing to fight for—matters as much as, or more than, our curse.”
Mira nodded, swallowed to force down the lump in her throat, and stepped out into the heat. The screen door banged shut behind her—and before she’d made it halfway down the driveway, a rust-eaten Camaro pulled in behind Freddie, boxing him in. A slim older man with black hair like Layla’s sidled up to Freddie’s car and knocked on the window.
