First Published by Monster House Books, LLC in 2017
Monster House Books, LLC
34 Chandler Place Newton, MA 02464
www.monsterhousebooks.com
ISBN 9781945723261
Copyright © 2018 by Monster House Books LLC
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Dedication
For those who dare to long for love.
Author’s Note
The events in Derailed occur prior to Circuit Fae: Moribund. In Moribund, Syl does not remember much of what goes on here. This is due to the fact that she suffers a great trauma in Derailed and loses a lot of her memories—of that night, of her brief Awakening (which is then locked down by her Glamma), and of Euphoria herself. It’s also important to note that, although Euphoria retains her memories of that night, she never realizes Syl and the sleeper-princess are one and the same.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Excerpt of Ouroboros
Chapter One
Syl
A sleeper-princess UnAwakened
Is a danger to herself
And everyone around her
- Glamma’s Grimm
You know that bumper sticker that says I’d rather be reading? Well, it might be cliché to say this, but that’s totally me. Syl Skye, introvert extraordinaire. Hates crowds, loves cats, able to leap tall books in a single bound.
So why am I in a jam-packed, smoke-stinky club on a Friday night in the dead of summer, elbow-to-elbow with about a gajillion teens my own age?
One word: Euphoria.
Local legend, glam goth-rock star/violinist, all badass babe in black leather. I’d do anything to see her play. Including risking the Wrath of Mom™ by sneaking out on a Friday night and hopping the train from Richmond all the way to DC with my BFF, Fiann, and our usual squad.
Only…Fiann seems to have her own agenda.
“Fiann?” I squeeze my way through the crush of Euphoria fans. At 5’1,” I can’t see over the crowd, and it makes me feel totally cramped and claustrophobic. “Hey, Fi—” I turn and catch a glimpse of her blonde ponytail bobbing away. She’s already losing herself in the crowd. Leaving me behind.
Again.
Darn it. She promised she wouldn’t ditch me. I touch the iron nail on its cord around my neck. Glamma said it would bring me luck, but…there goes Fiann and the others, Belinda, Gina, Charlotte, Jane. My squad.
Only Gina looks back. “C’mon, Syl!”
I try, but the sea of bodies closes up in front of me, cutting me off. I’m stuck in the middle of the dance floor, the hot flashing lights blinding me, bodies crushing and bumping up against me. My sudden claustrophobia is super not helped by the opening band’s loud, thumping synthwave. My poor introverted heart ramps up to DEFCON 1. I hold the iron nail so hard it digs into my palm.
Warning, warning, self-destruct in T-minus five seconds.
Five…four…
Fiann promised. But promises haven’t meant much to her these days.
Well, it still means something to me. I decide to give her the benefit of the doubt. “Fi, wait up!” I practically dive through the crowd to get to her and my squad.
Three…two…
Grumbles and annoyed murmurs speed me along the way, my “Sorry! Excuse me, sorry!” lost in the bump-thumping of the opening band’s encore. By the time I reach my friends at the bar, I’m breathing hard, and I’m sure my face is as red as my hair. Speaking of my hair—I can feel it morphing from perfect, styled curls to frizzy rat’s nest.
Ugh. So much for the hour I spent doing my hair and makeup.
One.
“What gives?” I smooth back my red curls and fix Fiann with some serious side-eye. I’ve given her the benefit of the doubt. Doesn’t mean she’s off the hook.
She only sniffs, looking anywhere but at me. “Nothing gives.”
Oooookay, that is so not an answer. I open my mouth to call her on her bull, but Charlotte shoves between us.
“Are we getting mocks or what?”
“Mocks” is what my squad calls mocktails. Yeah, kind of annoying, but I let it go because the 9:30 Club has the best ones. The pineapple margarita mock is my fave.
Without waiting for an answer, Char flags down the bartender and orders for the whole squad. Mojito mocktails for Gina and Jane, lavender lemonade for Belinda, the rosemary-blueberry smash for Fiann. Char gets the lemongrass jasmine iced tea for herself and then eyes me.
“You want one?”
Of course I do, but when I slip my hand into my minidress pocket, I come up with only pocket lint and some spare change, reminding me that money’s been tight since Dad’s support checks stopped coming a few weeks ago. “Umm…”
“Well?” Char’s practically chomping at the bit. Everyone’s looking at me, waiting for my answer—even the bartender—and my introverted heart is about two seconds from flatlining in embarrassment. Three months ago, it wouldn’t have been a question. I’d have ordered my yummy pineapple margarita mocktail and paid for my squad’s drinks, too.
But now…
My face gets impossibly hotter and redder. “Uh…no. That’s okay.”
“Suit yourself.” Char turns her back along with Jane and Belinda. Gina gives me a pitying look, and Fiann…
Once upon a time, Fiann would’ve stood up for me. We’ve been friends since the sixth grade, after she punched Tommy Watson in the face for stealing my first edition Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. In return, I helped her pass math. Since then, we’ve kind of been a team.
Until lately.
“Fi?” I reach out to touch her arm, but she turns her back on me.
Her sudden cold shoulder stings me hard. I hold on to my “lucky” iron nail and blink back tears, standing there awkwardly, toeing the floor with my beat-up Docs. What is up with her lately? All summer, she’s been like a feral cat—one minute all purrs and pet me, pet me, the next trying to rip my face off, or else ignoring me completely.
Not sure which is worse.
I’ll have to ask Glamma for advice. My mom’s mom, Glamma is part Irish lass, part kitchen-witch, and all sass. She always knows what to do.
In the meantime, I stand off to one side, studying the crowd. Everyone’s dancing, drinking, laughing. They all look so confident, so comfortable.
I can’t help but envy them because this is so not my scene.
I’m just here for Euphoria.
With a final howl that’d put a direwolf to shame, Mary Maudlin finishes their set and stalks off the stage, all black leather, swoopy velvet, and lace. The lights come up a bit as the house music pumps through the speakers.
My heart jacks up a notch—and by a notch, I mean it’s trying to karate-kick its way out of my chest.
Euphoria’s up next.
Fiann and the girls turn, sipping their mocktails. “Let’s get a good spot, ladies.” Fiann flounces her way toward the stage. She’s good at getting through the crowd, throwing smiles and snark, flirting with guys as she passes. The other girls do the same, but not me.
Even if I was good at flirting (spoiler alert: I’m not), boys are not my thing.
I mean, I’ve never had a girlfriend or anything, but I have spent a lot of time cr
ushing on a certain goth-rock star in black leather.
Wow, Syl, you got it bad.
I do. Euphoria’s super-glamorous with her long black hair and gothy eye shadow. Plus, she plays a violin that looks like it’s made of spun glass. Her music’s what they call “neoclassical darkwave.” It sounds like a chorus of dark angels took their harps and violins and staged a revolt against heaven, all crashing and soaring and broody, layered over with Euphoria’s smoky-smexy vocals.
Also, all her lyrics are about girls liking girls. Total bonus. When I listen to her music, I feel like she really gets it, really gets me.
I feel like I belong. Somewhere.
Also, also, Fiann and I still agree that we’re both Euphoria’s number-one fan. Well, we agree to disagree.
So there’s that.
In fact, she leans in now and whispers, “Excited, Syl?”
I give her a reluctant smile. “Excited? I’m somewhere between freaking out and a near-death experience.”
Fiann chuckles. “So you’ll be okay with owing me, then.”
It’s not a question. “Wait, what?” I stare after her as she beelines toward the bar, toward… Oh, no. The Dickinson twins, Brody and Bryce.
“She isn’t,” I say aside to Gina, but oh yeah, she is.
Fiann flirts with the twins, all batting eyelashes and compliments I can’t make out. But by the looks on their Proactiv-perfect faces, it’s something like, Oh, Brody and Bryce, you’re just the coolest of the cool.
Barf.
Game face, Syl. Pretend you don’t see them.
“Syl!” It’s impossible not to hear Fiann when she uses cheerleader-voice, and she knows it. “Come talk to the twiiiiinnnnsssss!”
One look at her, and I see the ulterior motive stamped to her face. She wants me to go out with Bryce so she can date Brody.
Nope, nope, nope. All the nopes.
“Syl!” Her voice has this grating edge to it, so I fall back on every introvert’s Old Faithful.
I point to the ladies’ room and do a weird, interpretive pee-pee dance. I touch Glamma’s iron-nail necklace. Please work, please work, please…
Fiann makes this frowny face, waving me off like she’s the Queen of England.
Score.
Before anyone else tries to drag me kicking and screaming into nightmare-dating territory, I beeline for the bathroom. Having a door and four walls between me and everything else—Fiann, Bryce, the crowd, the thump, thump, thump of the bass beat and the flashing of lights—is exactly what this introvert needs.
I duck into the ladies’ room. Weirdly, it’s not packed. In fact, I’m the only one in here. I guess Glamma’s iron nail is worth something, at least.
I sag against the wall. Dodged the dating bullet.
But for how long?
Fiann’s a dog with a bone when it comes to her social life. Plus, I know she thinks it’s “not normal” that I don’t have a boyfriend. No matter how many times I tell her I don’t want one, she never listens. “Everyone wants a boyfriend, Syl. Or at least a boy-toy.”
Yeah. Everyone except me. And Euphoria.
At some point, you should set the record straight, Syl. You are super gaaaaaaaay.
I’ve never told anyone. And really? People shouldn’t just assume I’m straight because I have long hair and like to wear makeup. Gay girls come in all shapes, sizes, and styles.
But if I’m being honest, I haven’t corrected anyone either because, well…it’s never come up before now. I mean, all my friends—Fiann, Belinda, Gina, Jane, Charlotte—they all know I’m Euphoria-crazy. I’ve been desperate to see her play. So when Fiann invited me last-minute, I made an excuse to Mom and snuck out, jumped on the train to DC, and now here I am.
In the thick of the smoke-filled 9:30 Club.
Waiting for even a glimpse of Euphoria.
“Are you going to hide in here forever?”
Fiann’s voice smashes my cozy bathroom cocoon. My eyes snap open, and there she is, all pretty and perfect aaaaaand annoyed. Her green eyes are flashing, and she’s practically tapping her Jimmy Choos on the cracked tile floor.
I know that look. She wants something.
“Well?” She acts like I’m holding up her sweet sixteen party. “We’re waiting. Why are you hiding in here, anyway?”
Ugh. Seriously, can’t a girl have a second to herself? “I’m not hiding.” I make a show of looking in the mirror and trying to unfrizz my red curls. “It’s more like…a strategic retreat.”
“Whatever, Syl.” She snorts and flounces to the mirror next to me, all blonde hair and perky prettiness. Her hair and makeup are flawless, as always.
Me? Not so much.
My curly red hair hates the humidity, and even the light dusting of powder I used can’t disguise all my freckles. Irish stars, Glamma calls them. I take after her, straight down to my grey eyes. Glamma Gentry’s all red hair and slow-burning temper, but she’s smart as a whip and loyal to her family.
Most days, I feel honored to look even a little bit like her.
Compared to Fiann, though, I feel like an ordinary girl next to a superhero.
“Sylllllllllllll…” She drags my name out into one super-long whine.
Ruh-roh. Start manipulation attempt in three…two…one.
“You should come hang with Brody and Bryce and me.” She pulls out a fifty-dollar MAC lipgloss and lines her already perfectly-lined lips. “We’re all having fun without you.”
I don’t have the heart to tell her I don’t find making awkward small talk with guys “fun.” It’s cool that she does, but me? That’s my exact definition of hell. “I just came to see Euphoria.”
“Well, duh.” She studies me in the mirror, her eyes narrowing. “That doesn’t mean you have to be so lame. Bryce was asking about you.”
Ick.
“We should double date.”
“Uh, yeah.” Ha, ha, ha, nooooooooope.
“Well.” Fiann sniffs, clearly miffed by my lack of jumping for joy because some guy thinks I’m cute. “You still owe me. Plus, you won’t get a better invitation. Not now.”
Okay, that gets my dander up, as Glamma would say. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Fiann waves her hand again, totally waving away my protests. “Yeah, whatever. Be ready next Friday at seven p.m. I’ll pick you up in the town car, and then we can swing around to get the guys…”
She prattles on, and I stew silently, one hand closing to a fist around my iron-nail pendant. Fiann always does this to me, ropes me into doing what I don’t want. Whether it’s trying out for the Cheer-Cheer Squad or taking psych when I want to take advanced calculus or double dating.
And me? I’m half an idiot for falling for it over and over again.
Who cares? Just go on the stupid date, my inner go-along girl urges.
But I don’t. I’m only half an idiot. The other half of me is fierce and sassy, and you know what?
I’m super-tired of hiding.
Plus, there is no way on Gaea’s green Earth I’m going to waste my one chance to see Euphoria playing keep-away with a bunch of handsy high school guys.
Fiann’s still blabbing. “Of course, we’ll have to call for reservations at Morton’s—”
I close my eyes, praying for all I’m worth that something’ll happen—a ninja attack, an alien invasion, zombie apocalypse. Anything to get Fiann to shut up.
Outside in the club, the song changes. Instantly, I recognize the radio edit of Euphoria’s coming-out ballad, “Live Your Truth.”
Irony, thy name is Syl Skye.
Okay. That’s it. Forget this. No more fake boyfriends, no more walking the high school halls trying to fake interest in guys, no more hiding who I really am. No more letting Fiann bully me into being the go-along girl.
No more… Just no more.
She’s still going like the Energizer bunny. “—and then after, I figure we can head over to the Nanci and—”
“Stop, Fiann. Let’s…” I grab
her shoulders, hold her at arm’s length, wanting to shake her to see if Semi-Reasonable Fiann is in there. “Look, Euphoria’s up any second now. Let’s just go watch the show, okay?”
I hope she goes for it. We’re both huge Euphoria fans, more than the rest of our squad.
For a hot second, I think I’m in the clear and then she gives me her poutiest duck-face. “But, Syl…”
For real, is someone truly your BFF if all she does is try to get her way all the time?
The door busts open, and Belinda shoves her way into the cramped ladies’ room. Behind her, Jane, Gina, and Charlotte all pile in like clowns into a clown car.
“Come on, Fi-Fi. Brody’s waiting.” Belinda says it like it’s the most important thing in the universe.
I roll my eyes so hard you can hear it over the music, but I’m super-relieved when Jane and Charlotte yank Fiann out, flanking her like Tweedlesdee and -dum. Chalk up another point of luck for Glamma’s iron nail. The blare of music booms then muffles as the door opens then closes again, leaving me with Gina and Belinda. I consider taking cover in one of the stalls.
“Jeez, Syl.” Belinda looks me up and down, from my oxblood Docs to my torn fishnets and burgundy bodice and skirts. “You and your drama.”
I look at her like she’s got ten heads and a fox tail. Me and my…?
But before I can say anything, Belinda grabs Gina by the hand. “C’mon, Gigi. Let’s leave Syl to her pity party.”
Gina opens her mouth, but she really is a go-along girl, so she snaps her mouth shut as Belinda yanks her out into the pulsing music and flashing lights of the club.
Belinda can’t resist the parting shot. “Get it through that ginger head of yours—Fiann’s never going to be with you. She’s straight.”
“Whoa!” My shock makes me super-sassy. “Be with me? There’s only one flaw in that argument, Bel.”
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“This is planet Earth.”
“Whatever.” She tries to slam the door, but it’s one of those spring-loaded jobs, so it slowly, slowly creeps closed, wrecking her attempt to storm out like a drama queen.
“Good talk,” I call after her. I sound all cool, but when the door whumps shut, I’m shaking and so angry I could spit fire.
Derailed: A Prequel Novella Page 1
