Chapter One

Maybe, if I looked like a girl from Phoenix should, I could work this to my advantage. But physically, I'd never fit in anywhere. I should be tan, sporty, blond - a volleyball player, or a cheerleader, perhaps - all the things that go with living in the valley of the sun.

Instead, I was ivory-skinned, without even the excuse of blue eyes or red hair, despite the constant sunshine. I had always been slender, but soft somehow, obviously not an athlete; I didn't have the necessary hand-eye coordination to play sports without humiliating myself - and harming both myself and anyone else who stood too close.

When I finished putting my clothes in the old pine dresser, I took my bag of bathroom necessities and went to the communal bathroom to clean myself up after the day of travel. I looked at my face in the mirror as I brushed through my tangled, damp hair. Maybe it was the light, but already I looked sallower, unhealthy. My skin could be pretty - it was very clear, almost translucent- looking - but it all depended on color. I had no color here.

Facing my pallid reflection in the mirror, I was forced to admit that I was lying to myself. It wasn't just physically that I'd never fit in. And if I couldn't find a niche in a school with three thousand people, what were my chances here?

I didn't relate well to people my age. Maybe the truth was that I didn't relate well to people, period. Even my mother, who I was closer to than anyone else on the planet, was never in harmony with me, never on exactly the same page. Sometimes I wondered if I was seeing the same things through my eyes that the rest of the world was seeing through theirs. Maybe there was a glitch in my brain. But the cause didn't matter. All that mattered was the effect. And tomorrow would be just the beginning.

I didn't sleep well that night, even after I was done crying. The constant whooshing of the rain and wind across the roof wouldn't fade into the background. I pulled the faded old quilt over my head, and later added the pillow, too. But I couldn't fall asleep until after midnight, when the rain finally settled into a quieter drizzle.

Thick fog was all I could see out my window in the morning, and I could feel the claustrophobia creeping up on me. You could never see the sky here; it was like a cage.

Breakfast with Charlie was a quiet event. He wished me good luck at school. I thanked him, knowing his hope was wasted. Good luck tended to avoid me. Charlie left first, off to the police station that was his wife and family. After he left, I sat at the old square oak table in one of the three unmatching chairs and examined his small kitchen, with its dark paneled walls, bright yellow cabinets, and white linoleum floor. Nothing was changed. My mother had painted the cabinets eighteen years ago in an attempt to bring some sunshine into the house. Over the small fireplace in the adjoining handkerchief-sized family room was a row of pictures. First a wedding picture of Charlie and my mom in Las Vegas, then one of the three of us in the hospital after I was born, taken by a helpful nurse, followed by the procession of my school pictures up to last year's. Those were embarrassing to look at - I would have to see what I could do to get Charlie to put them somewhere else, at least while I was living here.

It was impossible, being in this house, not to realize that Charlie had never gotten over my mom. It made me uncomfortable.

I didn't want to be too early to school, but I couldn't stay in the house anymore. I donned my jacket - which had the feel of a biohazard suit - and headed out into the rain.

It was just drizzling still, not enough to soak me through immediately as I reached for the house key that was always hidden under the eaves by the door, and locked up. The sloshing of my new waterproof boots was unnerving. I missed the normal crunch of gravel as I walked. I couldn't pause and admire my truck again as I wanted; I was in a hurry to get out of the misty wet that swirled around my head and clung to my hair under my hood.

Inside the truck, it was nice and dry. Either Billy or Charlie had obviously cleaned it up, but the tan upholstered seats still smelled faintly of tobacco, gasoline, and peppermint. The engine started quickly, to my relief, but loudly, roaring to life and then idling at top volume. Well, a truck this old was bound to have a flaw. The antique radio worked, a plus that I hadn't expected.

Finding the school wasn't difficult, though I'd never been there before. The school was, like most other things, just off the highway. It was not obvious that it was a school; only the sign, which declared it to be the Forks High School, made me stop. It looked like a collection of matching houses, built with maroon-colored bricks. There were so many trees and shrubs I couldn't see its size at first. Where was the feel of the institution? I wondered nostalgically. Where were the chain-link fences, the metal detectors?

I parked in front of the first building, which had a small sign over the door reading FRONT OFFICE. No one else was parked there, so I was sure it was off limits, but I decided I would get directions inside instead of circling around in the rain like an idiot. I stepped unwillingly out of the toasty truck cab and walked down a little stone path lined with dark hedges. I took a deep breath before opening the door.

Inside, it was brightly lit, and warmer than I'd hoped. The office was small; a little waiting area with padded folding chairs, orange-flecked commercial carpet, notices and awards cluttering the walls, a big clock ticking loudly. Plants grew everywhere in large plastic pots, as if there wasn't enough greenery outside. The room was cut in half by a long counter, cluttered with wire baskets full of papers and brightly colored flyers taped to its front. There were three desks behind the counter, one of which was manned by a large, red-haired woman wearing glasses. She was wearing a purple t-shirt, which immediately made me feel overdressed.

The red-haired woman looked up. "Can I help you?"

"I'm Isabella Swan," I informed her, and saw the immediate awareness light her eyes. I was expected, a topic of gossip no doubt. Daughter of the Chief's flighty ex-wife, come home at last.

"Of course," she said. She dug through a precariously stacked pile of documents on her desk till she found the ones she was looking for. "I have your schedule right here, and a map of the school." She brought several sheets to the counter to show me.

She went through my classes for me, highlighting the best route to each on the map, and gave me a slip to have each teacher sign, which I was to bring back at the end of the day. She smiled at me and hoped, like Charlie, that I would like it here in Forks. I smiled back as convincingly as I could.

When I went back out to my truck, other students were starting to arrive. I drove around the school, following the line of traffic. I was glad to see that most of the cars were older like mine, nothing flashy. At home I'd lived in one of the few lower-income neighborhoods that were included in the Paradise Valley District. It was a common thing to see a new Mercedes or Porsche in the student lot. The nicest car here was a shiny Volvo, and it stood out. Still, I cut the engine as soon as I was in a spot, so that the thunderous volume wouldn't draw attention to me. I looked at the map in the truck, trying to memorize it now; hopefully I wouldn't have to walk around with it stuck in front of my nose all day. I stuffed everything in my bag, slung the strap over my shoulder, and sucked in a huge breath. I can do this, I lied to myself feebly. No one was going to bite me. I finally exhaled and stepped out of the truck.

I kept my face pulled back into my hood as I walked to the sidewalk, crowded with teenagers. My plain black jacket didn't stand out, I noticed with relief.

Once I got around the cafeteria, building three was easy to spot. A large black "3" was painted on a white square on the east corner. I felt my breathing gradually creeping toward hyperventilation as I approached the door. I tried holding my breath as I followed two unisex raincoats through the door.

The classroom was small. The people in front of me stopped just inside the door to hang up their coats on a long row of hooks. I copied them. They were two girls, one a porcelain-colored blonde, the other also pale, with light brown hair. At least my skin wouldn't be a standout here.

I took the slip up to the teacher, a tall, balding man whose desk had a nameplate identifying him as Mr. Mason. He gawked at me when he saw my name - not an encouraging response - and of course I flushed tomato red. But at least he sent me to an empty desk at the back without introducing me to the class. It was harder for my new classmates to stare at me in the back, but somehow, they managed. I kept my eyes down on the reading list the teacher had given me. It was fairly basic: Bront?, Shakespeare, Chaucer, Faulkner. I'd already read everything. That was comforting ... and boring. I wondered if my mom would send me my folder of old essays, or if she would think that was cheating. I went through different arguments with her in my head while the teacher droned on.

When the bell rang, a nasal buzzing sound, a gangly boy with skin problems and hair black as an oil slick leaned across the aisle to talk to me.

"You're Isabella Swan, aren't you?" He looked like the overly helpful, chess club type.

"Bella," I corrected. Everyone within a three-seat radius turned to look at me.

"Where's your next class?" he asked.

I had to check in my bag. "Um, Government, with Jefferson, in building six."

There was nowhere to look without meeting curious eyes.

"I'm headed toward building four, I could show you the way...." Definitely over- helpful. "I'm Eric," he added. I smiled tentatively. "Thanks."

We got our jackets and headed out into the rain, which had picked up. I could have sworn several people behind us were walking close enough to eavesdrop. I hoped I wasn't getting paranoid.

"So, this is a lot different than Phoenix, huh?" he asked.

"Very."

"It doesn't rain much there, does it?"

"Three or four times a year."

"Wow, what must that be like?" he wondered.

"Sunny," I told him.

"You don't look very tan."

"My mother is part albino."

He studied my face apprehensively, and I sighed. It looked like clouds and a sense of humor didn't mix. A few months of this and I'd forget how to use sarcasm.

We walked back around the cafeteria, to the south buildings by the gym. Eric walked me right to the door, though it was clearly marked.

"Well, good luck," he said as I touched the handle. "Maybe we'll have some other classes together." He sounded hopeful.

I smiled at him vaguely and went inside.

The rest of the morning passed in about the same fashion. My Trigonometry teacher, Mr. Varner, who I would have hated anyway just because of the subject he taught, was the only one who made me stand in front of the class and introduce myself. I stammered, blushed, and tripped over my own boots on the way to my seat.

After two classes, I started to recognize several of the faces in each class. There was always someone braver than the others who would introduce themselves and ask me questions about how I was liking Forks. I tried to be diplomatic, but mostly I just lied a lot. At least I never needed the map.

One girl sat next to me in both Trig and Spanish, and she walked with me to the cafeteria for lunch. She was tiny, several inches shorter than my five feet four inches, but her wildly curly dark hair made up a lot of the difference between our heights. I couldn't remember her name, so I smiled and nodded as she prattled about teachers and classes. I didn't try to keep up.

We sat at the end of a full table with several of her friends, who she introduced to me. I forgot all their names as soon as she spoke them. They seemed impressed by her bravery in speaking to me. The boy from English, Eric, waved at me from across the room. It was there, sitting in the lunchroom, trying to make conversation with seven curious strangers, that I first saw them.

They were sitting in the corner of the cafeteria, as far away from where I sat as possible in the long room. There were five of them. They weren't talking, and they weren't eating, though they each had a tray of untouched food in front of them. They weren't gawking at me, unlike most of the other students, so it was safe to stare at them without fear of meeting an excessively interested pair of eyes. But it was none of these things that caught, and held, my attention.

They didn't look anything alike. Of the three boys, one was big - muscled like a serious weight lifter, with dark, curly hair. Another was taller, leaner, but still muscular, and honey blond. The last was lanky, less bulky, with untidy, bronze-colored hair. He was more boyish than the others, who looked like they could be in college, or even teachers here rather than students.

The girls were opposites. The tall one was statuesque. She had a beautiful figure, the kind you saw on the cover of the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue, the kind that made every girl around her take a hit on her self-esteem just by being in the same room. Her hair was golden, gently waving to the middle of her back. The short girl was pixielike, thin in the extreme, with small features. Her hair was a deep black, cropped short and pointing in every direction.

And yet, they were all exactly alike. Every one of them was chalky pale, the palest of all the students living in this sunless town. Paler than me, the albino. They all had very dark eyes despite the range in hair tones. They also had dark shadows under those eyes - purplish, bruiselike shadows. As if they were all suffering from a sleepless night, or almost done recovering from a broken nose. Though their noses, all their features, were straight, perfect, angular.

But all this is not why I couldn't look away.

I stared because their faces, so different, so similar, were all devastatingly, inhumanly beautiful. They were faces you never expected to see except perhaps on the airbrushed pages of a fashion magazine. Or painted by an old master as the face of an angel. It was hard to decide who was the most beautiful - maybe the perfect blond girl, or the bronze-haired boy.

They were all looking away - away from each other, away from the other students, away from anything in particular as far as I could tell. As I watched, the small girl rose with her tray - unopened soda, unbitten apple - and walked away with a quick, graceful lope that belonged on a runway. I watched, amazed at her lithe dancer's step, till she dumped her tray and glided through the back door, faster than I would have thought possible. My eyes darted back to the others, who sat unchanging.

"Who are they?" I asked the girl from my Spanish class, whose name I'd forgotten.

As she looked up to see who I meant - though already knowing, probably, from my tone - suddenly he looked at her, the thinner one, the boyish one, the youngest, perhaps. He looked at my neighbor for just a fraction of a second, and then his dark eyes flickered to mine.

He looked away quickly, more quickly than I could, though in a flush of embarrassment I dropped my eyes at once. In that brief flash of a glance, his face held nothing of interest - it was as if she had called his name, and he'd looked up in involuntary response, already having decided not to answer.

My neighbor giggled in embarrassment, looking at the table like I did. "That's Edward and Emmett Cullen, and Rosalie and Jasper Hale. The one who left was Alice Cullen; they all live together with Dr. Cullen and his wife." She said this under her breath.

I glanced sideways at the beautiful boy, who was looking at his tray now, picking a bagel to pieces with long, pale fingers. His mouth was moving very quickly, his perfect lips barely opening. The other three still looked away, and yet I felt he was speaking quietly to them.

Strange, unpopular names, I thought. The kinds of names grandparents had. But maybe that was in vogue here - small town names? I finally remembered that my neighbor was called Jessica, a perfectly common name. There were two girls named Jessica in my History class back home.

"They are ... very nice-looking." I struggled with the conspicuous understatement.

"Yes!" Jessica agreed with another giggle. "They're all together though - Emmett and Rosalie, and Jasper and Alice, I mean. And they live together." Her voice held all the shock and condemnation of the small town, I thought critically. But, if I was being honest, I had to admit that even in Phoenix, it would cause gossip.

Irys had explained to me that magical powers were a gift, and only a handful of magicians came from each clan. "Of course, the more magicians in a family," Irys had said, "the greater chance of having more in the next generation. Mogkan took a risk kidnapping children so young; magical powers don't manifest until a child reaches maturity."

"Why were there more girls than boys?" I had asked.

"Only thirty percent of our magicians are males, and Bain Bloodgood is the only one to achieve master level status."

As I steadied the rope ladder that hung from the jungle's canopy, I now wondered how many Zaltanas were magicians. Beside me, the three girls tucked the hems of their dresses into their belts. Irys helped May start up the rope rungs, and then Gracena and Nickeely followed.

After Irys disappeared into the green canopy, I set my boot on the bottom rung. My feet felt as if they were swollen with water, weighing me down. Reluctance clung to my legs as I dragged them up the ladder. In midair, I paused. What if these people didn't want me? What if they didn't believe I was their lost daughter? What if I were too old to be bothered with?

Talk ceased the minute we entered. All eyes focused on me. My skin crawled. I felt as if they were examining every inch of my face, my clothes and my muddy boots. From their expressions, I gathered I wasn't meeting expectations. I stifled the desire to hide behind Irys. Regret that I hadn't asked Irys more questions about the Zaltanas thumped in my chest.

At last, an older man stepped forward. "I'm Bavol Cacao Zaltana, Elder Councilman for the Zaltana family. Are you Yelena Liana Zaltana?"

I hesitated. That name sounded so formal, so connected, so foreign. "My name is Yelena," I said.

A young man a few years older than I pushed through the crowd. He stopped next to the Elder. Squinting hard, his jade-eyed gaze bore into mine. A mixture of hatred and revulsion creased his face. I felt a slight touch of magic brush my body.

Copyright © 2000-2005 Harlequin Enterprises Limited. All rights reserved.

CHAPTER ONE

My sister Justine always believed that the best way to deal with your fear of the dark is to pretend it’s really light.

Years ago, she tried to put the theory into practice as we lay in our beds, surrounded by blackness. Protected by a fortress of pillows, I was convinced evil hid in the shadows, waiting for my breathing to slow before it pounced. And every night, Justine, a year older but decades wiser, would patiently try to distract me.

“Did you see that cute dress Erin Klein wore today?” she might ask, always starting with an easy question to gauge just how bad it was.

On rare occasions, usually when we went to bed late after a busy day, I’d be too tired to be terrified. On those nights, I’d say yes or no, and we’d have a normal conversation until falling asleep.

But on most nights, I’d whisper something along the lines of “Did you hear that?” or “When vampires bite, do you think it hurts?” or “Can monsters smell fear?” At which point Justine would proceed to question two.

“It’s so bright in here,” she’d declare. “I can see everything — my backpack, my blue glitter bracelet, our goldfi sh in his bowl. What can you see, Vanessa?”

And then, I’d force myself to picture our room exactly as it had appeared before Mom turned off the light and closed the door. Eventually, I’d manage to forget about the evil waiting in the wings and fall asleep. Every night I thought it would never work, and every night it did.

Justine’s method was useful in combating my many other fears. But several years later, standing on top of a cliff overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, I knew it didn’t stand a chance.

“Doesn’t Simon look different this summer?” she asked, coming up to me and wringing out her hair. “Older? Cuter?”

I agreed without answering. Simon’s physical transformation was the first thing I’d noticed when he and his younger brother, Caleb, had knocked on our door earlier. But that was a discussion for another time—like when we were warming up in front of the old stone fireplace at our lake house. First, we had to actually make it back to the house.

“Caleb, too,” she tried again. “The number of brokenhearted girls in Maine must have, like, quadrupled this year.”

I tried to nod, my eyes locked on the swirling water and frothy foam fifty feet below.

Justine wrapped a towel around her torso and took a sideways step toward me. She stood so close I could smell the salt in her hair and pores and feel the coolness of her damp skin as though it pressed directly against mine. Water droplets fell from the ends of her hair, plopped on the warm gray slate, and sent smaller drops bouncing onto the tops of my feet. A sudden gust of wind lifted the billowing spray up and around us, turning my shiver into a shudder. Somewhere below, Simon and Caleb laughed as they scrambled toward the steep path that would lead them through the woods and back to us.

“It’s just a swimming pool,” she said. “You’re standing on a diving board, two feet above it.”

I nodded. This was the moment I’d been thinking about during the entire six-hour drive up from Boston, the moment I’d pictured at least once a day since last summer. I knew it looked scarier than it was; in the two years since we’d discovered the old trail sign marking this secluded spot far from tourists and hikers, Justine, Simon, and Caleb had jumped dozens of times, never walking away with so much as a scratch. More important, I knew I’d always feel like a junior member of our little summer group if I never took the plunge.

“The pool’s heated,” Justine continued. “And once you’re in it, all you have to do is kick twice, and you’re at the steps leading to your comfy lounge chair.”

“Will a cute cabana boy bring me fruity drinks at this comfy lounge chair?”

She looked at me and smiled. We both knew that was it. If I was coherent enough to crack a joke, I’d already opted out.

“Sorry to say I forgot the pineapples at home,” Caleb said behind us, “but the cabana boy’s here and ready for service.”

Justine turned toward him. “It’s about time. I’m freezing!”

As she headed away from the cliff’s edge, I leaned forward. Whatever relief I felt now was temporary, and my disappointment in not being able to do what I’d vowed all year long would only grow once we left Chione Cliffs. Tonight, I would lie awake, unable to sleep because of the pain I’d feel for being such a chicken, such a baby, yet again.

“Your lips are turning blue,” Caleb said.

I turned to see him shake out his favorite beach towel—the only one I’d ever seen him use, with a cartoon lobster wearing sunglasses and swim trunks—and wrap it around Justine. He pulled her toward him and rubbed her arms and shoulders.

“Liar.” She smiled at him from under her terry-cloth hood.

“You’re right. They’re more lavender. Or lilac. Because lips like those are just too pretty to be boring old blue. Either way, I should probably warm them up.”

I rolled my eyes and headed for my shorts and T-shirt. Justine had made her own vow for this summer — not to hook up with Caleb again, the way she had last summer and the summer before that. “He’s just a kid,” she’d declared. “I’m done with high school, and he has an entire year to go. Plus, all he does is play that ratty guitar when he’s not playing video games. I can’t afford to waste another second on what will never amount to anything more than endless hours of making out ... no matter how good those hours are.”

When I asked why she didn’t hang out with Simon, who would be a sophomore at Bates College and was therefore more age- and intellect-appropriate, her face had scrunched up.

“Simon?” she’d repeated. “The walking, talking Weather Channel? The brainiac who’s using college as an excuse to study cloud formations? I don’t think so.”

It had taken Justine all of thirty minutes — just long enough for us to unpack the car, have a snack, and hop into Simon’s old Subaru wagon — to break her promise to herself. She hadn’t jumped on Caleb right away, though it was clear by the way her eyes lit up as soon as she saw him that she wanted to. She’d waited until we were in the car and down the road to throw her arms around his neck and squeeze so tight his face turned pink.

As she nuzzled against his chest now, I pulled on my clothes and grabbed a towel. Although the sun was out and I hadn’t even gotten wet, I still shook from the cold. This far north in Maine, temperatures in the middle of the summer didn’t get much higher than the low seventies, and the biting wind always made it feel at least ten degrees cooler.

“We should get going,” Simon said suddenly, emerging from the trail mouth.

Simon might’ve been the older, quieter, more studious Carmichael brother, characteristics previously complemented by a lanky frame and bad posture, but something had happened in the past year. His arms, legs, and chest had fi lled out, and with his shirt off, I could actually see small ridges on his abdomen. He even seemed to stand taller, straighter. He looked more like a man than a kid.

“The tide’s changing, and the clouds are rolling in.”

Justine caught my eye. I knew what she was thinking: Different channel, same forecast.

“But we just got here,” Caleb said.

“And what about the sunset?” Justine asked. “Every year we say we’re going to watch it up here, and every year we don’t.”

Simon grabbed a shirt from his backpack, throwing it on without bothering to towel off. “There will be lots of sunsets. Today’s is going to be blacked out by that massive storm system hurtling this way.”

I followed his nod toward the horizon. Either I’d been too focused on the water to notice the sky, or the blanket of dark clouds had come out of nowhere.

“I checked before we left—the weather station said that skies would be clear until later tonight. But by the looks of it, we’ve got only about twenty minutes to get back down the mountain before lightning strikes.” Simon shook his head. “I wish Professor Beakman could see this.”

Before I could ask why, Caleb and Justine started talking in hushed voices and Simon crouched next to where I sat, knees against my chest to try to warm up. “You doing okay?” he asked.

I nodded and tried to smile. Over the years, Simon had become a protective big brother not just to Caleb but to Justine and me, as well. “A little cold and now wishing the rubber soles of my sneakers were thicker, but fine other than that.”

He pulled a maroon fleece from his backpack and handed it to me. “It’s no big deal, you know. It’s just one day. We have all summer. And next summer, and the summer after that.”

“Thanks.” I looked away, embarrassed. He was sincere, but I didn’t need any reminders of my failure so soon after its occurrence.

“Seriously,” he said, his voice soft but fi rm. “Whenever you’re ready, or never at all is totally fi ne.”

I pulled on the fleece, happy for the distraction.

“New plan,” Justine announced.

I took Simon’s outstretched hand and jumped to my feet. Justine and Caleb had managed to tear themselves away from each other, but only long enough for Justine to drop her towels to the ground. They now stood at the edge of the cliff, holding hands and facing backward.

Justine grinned. “Just because we’re short on time doesn’t mean we can’t commemorate the fi rst official day of what will surely be the best summer ever.”

“By going back to the house and warming up with hot chocolate?” I suggested.

“Silly Nessa.” Justine blew me a kiss. “Caleb and I are going to do one more jump.”

“With a twist,” Caleb added.

As they exchanged looks, I glanced at Simon. His mouth was open, as though waiting for his brain to pick the words that would pack the greatest punch in the shortest amount of time. His new, broad back muscles tensed under the thin cotton of his T-shirt. His hands, which had hung at his sides after helping me up, clenched and froze.

“Backflips!” Justine exclaimed.

“No,” Simon said. “No way.”

I couldn’t help but smile. This was exactly what I loved — and envied — most about Justine. While I still slept with a night-light, couldn’t read Stephen King, and was physically incapable of making a perfectly safe cliff dive, Justine lived for the same blood-pumping rush I tried my hardest to avoid. Here we were, minutes away from being drenched and fried, and she wanted to guarantee her shot at electrocution by jumping into a whirl-pool — backward.

“It’ll take two minutes,” Caleb said. “You can head down as soon as we take off, and we’ll meet you on the path.”

“You know the tides get weird in weather like this,” Simon said. “The water’s already much shallower than it was for our last jump.”

Justine looked down behind her. “It can’t be that bad already. We’ll be fi ne.”

I watched her, my beautiful, older sister, her brown hair now dry enough to fly in long wisps around her head. There was nothing I could say — once Justine’s mind was made up there was no room for negotiation. As she smiled at me, her eyes shone against the dark clouds that seemed to swallow what remained of the sky.

A jagged shard of neon-white lightning tore suddenly through the air, striking near enough to make the ground rumble. The wind picked up, snatching leaves from branches and dirt from the ground. A long stick flew at me like an arrow from a bow, and I covered my head with both hands and dropped to the ground. The rain started, falling softly at first and then harder, until Simon’s fleece clung to my back and cold water streamed down my face. I held still, hoping the attack would retreat as quickly as it’d struck, but the air only grew colder, the wind stronger, the thunder louder.

From the book

1

MY FATHER

I know two things about him.

He's locked away

down there in Texas,

I've heard my mother say.

She only talks about him

when she's full of wine.

His name is Dylan Dawson,

same as mine.

DARKEST PLACE I'VE EVER BEEN.

Middle of the California desert. No lights for miles. Another hour to Needles.

Wade watches the road behind us in the side mirror. Baby Face thumps her tail. Looks out the back window, growling at every shadow. The three of us need sleep, but we won't rest until we make it to Arizona.

I want to kill Wade. He is my best friend, but I want to rip off his head and leave his body on the highway for the vultures and wild dogs. I understand why he did what he did, but I had three months at a good job. I was turning myself around. I had a girl. I had a future.

Not anymore.

I remind myself how Wade saved my life in juvie. It's the only thing that stops me from leaving him on the side of the road.

We ride with the windows open because the air conditioner is busted. Still feels like we're traveling in an oven. Watch the temperature gauge. Radiator has a leak. Gallon jug of water in the backseat in case the engine overheats.

I strain my eyes to keep them focused on the white reflective lines so the Mustang won't fly off the blacktop. At least there's a full moon, but it makes my eyes play tricks on me. Every time I pass a cactus I think it's a man with a gun standing outside in the sand. A shining reflection becomes the glint of a badge ... or a barrel.

I remember the rage in Eight Ball's eyes. He'll come looking for us. Of that I'm sure. My only comfort is that he doesn't know where we're heading. I didn't tell anyone. Not even Jess or Mom. Better that way.

If they are lucky, they will forget about me.

I still have Jess's note in my back pocket. I don't know why she ever fell for a guy like me. What must she be thinking now? Will she hear about me on the news?

And my mother. How will she react when the police come looking for me? It almost killed her when I went to juvie last time.

I realize I'm pushing the gas and have to force my foot to relax.

Keep it slow. Don't draw attention. Remember to breathe.

I've got to put some highway behind us, but we can't afford to get pulled over. If a cop checks my license or registration, he'll notice the plates I lifted from the Volkswagen in San Bernardino.

Wade and I don't speak. There isn't much to say after what has happened.

I try to stick my head out the window, hoping for a blast of cool wind to revive me, keep me awake, but it doesn't help. All the air has gone out of the world. I cannot breathe. The night is an endless sea of desert and blackness. I clutch the steering wheel--my life preserver--though I'm not sure anything can save me now.

"You're goin' kinda fast." Wade mumbles the first words he's uttered in four hours.

I look at the speedometer and see I've edged past eighty. Ease my foot off the gas. Take a deep breath. Can't let my thoughts go wandering. Have to make it to Arizona. Then we can pull into a rest stop and grab a couple hours' sleep.

"I didn't think it would go down like it did." Wade looks at me.

I want to scream and tell him what an idiot he is, that as usual, he didn't think at all. But he already looks like a puppy expecting to get beat--slouching in his seat, head hanging, greasy blond bangs covering his eyes, trying to make himself...

Chapter One

Guess what? Today was my sixteenth birthday. Pretty cool, huh? Sure, if by cool you mean worst day ever . . . and it was only noon.

I sat in the Stassen High School’s cafeteria staring at “tuna surprise.” Let me tell you, it was a surprise all right. I was surprised it passed the health code. It was gray, for crying out loud. Food should not be gray.

Also, it might be tolerable if I lived somewhere exciting, but, no, I’d be turning sixteen in nowhere’s ville: St. Paul, Minnesota.

I pushed the glutinous mush around its little container. At least the potatoes looked edible. My stomach growled, so I poked a forkful into my mouth. I sighed. What I really wanted was my turkey sandwich, or at least someone I could joke around with about the whole stupid situation.

But, no. I was sitting alone.

Bea was supposed to be here. Sometime in middle school we made a solemn blood vow. We’d always sit together at lunch so neither of us would ever have to look like that sad, lonely loser.

Hello, yes, that’d be me! Loser in corner number one.

On my birthday, no less.

Bea, Beatrice Theodora Braithwaite to her mother, was my kind-of sort-of best friend. She was the only person in school with a more arcane name than me. Get a load of this: Anastasija Ramses Parker. Yeah. You can see why most people just call me Ana.

Anyway, Bea and I, we’ve known each other since second grade. That’s a lot of history. It’s hard not to be close to someone you borrowed your first tampon from, giggled your way through puppy- love crushes with, and survived that god-awful middle school sex education with. Though, honestly, I don’t always like her. We’re pretty different. Bea has diva tendencies, and I lean toward being a bookish, shrinking violet. But, we’ve been kind of thrown together by fate because she’s the only other True Witch at school.

It’s a secret, but real magic exists. True Witches can make shit happen. Not just that New Age-y feel-good stuff, but, like, things you’d notice: storms, sickness, dead cattle. You know, all the stuff we used to get burned at the stake for. That’s why we don’t talk about it.

There were plenty of Wiccans at school and elsewhere, of course. It’s all the rage to be a teen witch, but Bea and I could do real magic.

Or at least Bea could.

I was supposed to be able to. I’ve got the pedigree, but, well, something’s off. Maybe it was the same off something that made one of my eyes ice blue and the other a deep, mahogany brown.

When a chair scraped the linoleum floor, I looked up expectantly. Perhaps Queen Bea had finally deigned to put in an appearance. Well, better late than never.

Instead of Bea, it was Matt Thompson, hockey jock extraordinaire, and two of his cronies, Thing One and Thing Two, who sat down at my table. Between you and me, I had this secret crush on Thompson. He was pretty in that classic square-jaw, he-man way, okay? I appreciated the way his ultra-short, nut-brown hair curled at the tips, and the boy did have a way of fitting into a Tt-shirt and jeans that was pretty . . . noticeable.

Too bad he was such an asshole.

“If it isn’t Ana Parker, Witch Girl,.” hHe made it sound like some kind of superhero moniker. His buddies chortled.

I retorted with: “What do you want, Thompson? Did you get lost on your way to ‘Caveman 101’?” Which was a pretty snappy comeback for me, considering the quivering in my stomach. Guys like Thompson could smell fear, so I tried to hide mine under an air of contempt.

His friends looked at each other with perfect Neanderthal, heavy- eyebrow frowns and shrugged like they didn’t get the joke. Thompson, meanwhile, didn’t let it faze him. “How come you’re all on your lonesome, anyway? Couldn’t conjure up some friends?”

Oh, touché, you maestro of wit and repartee.

Thing One and Thing Two, however, found his little pun absolutely hilarious.

“Right. Ha. Ha,” I said. My tough-girl facçade cracked a bit. These sorts of scenes never broke in favor of the geek. If I wasn’t careful, there was going to be a drink in my face or some other embarrassment in my future. Worse, I knew I’d fare much better if Bea were here as back-up. Why were they still harassing me, anyway? Usually, Thompson and his crew did fly by pot shots and left Bea and me alone. Was this his sad, grade -school way of flirting?

“Careful, man,” said Thing One. “She might put a hex on us.”

I wish. The sad thing was that these three boys were perfectly safe from little ol’ me. I was a dud in the magic department. But they didn’t know that. No one did, not even Bea. That was my own special secret. One I tried to keep from myself. If I wasn’t a True Witch, then I was just a plain, old loser, wasn’t I?

Ironically, I could tell underneath the huff and gruff, the boys were a teeny bit nervous at calling me out. After all, if Bea were here, they might easily find a colony of spiders in their gym shorts or locker combinations that no longer worked.

For real.

The only thing I had going for me was that I totally looked the part of a witch. I had long, wicked straight hair complete with a slight widow’s peak right in the center of my pale, pasty forehead. Okay, Bea said my complexion was porcelain, but I always felt ghostly -white and washed- out . . . except for my eyes. I hardly needed mascara for the thick lashes that made my mismatched colored eyes stand out. It was my biggest weapon against guys like Thompson and his crew.

So I turned my patented “spooky eye” on them. It was a look I’ve perfected over the years. I squinted directly at Thompson with the ice-cold blue eye. I muttered under my breath about hex and flex and sex and t-T. rex and other rhyming words because, you know, people expect spells to rhyme.

They looked nervous. Thing Two’s Adam’s apple bobbed. Glances flitted between them. Thompson tried to act like he was unimpressed, but suddenly he saw someone he knew across the room. “Hey, there’s Yvonne. I need to talk to her about the band coming to her house party.” As he stood up to flee, Thompson mustered one last bit of nasty. “Too bad you’ll never be popular enough to be invited to a house party, freak.”

“Boo!” I said.

Thompson jumped and uttered a sound not unlike a squeak. Thing One—or maybe it was Two—actually snickered.

Score one for the freak! I only wish I didn’t feel like he might be right about me. Thompson swaggered over to flirt with Yvonne Jackson, whom everyone figured he’d take to hHomecoming, since she was, after all, the captain of the cheerleading squad. So cliché. I watched them surreptitiously as I attempted to ingest the edible parts of lunch. He leaned in to talk to her, propping himself on the table with his elbows, which made his pecs bulge. She giggled. It was gross, really, but . . .

Here I was, turning sixteen on the sixteenth, and was I having any kind of party? Would there be music and dancing or anything cool? Would I get any presents? No. Tonight, what I had to look forward to was a long, boring drive to a cabin in the far suburbs while Bea and my mMom chatted on like the whole thing wouldn’t flop.

The cabin was our “covenstead,” the place where our group of those capital- letter True Witches practiced magic in secret. Once there, I’d get to fail spectacularly in front of everyone when I was called on to perform a simple elemental spell as part of my official Initiation, or welcoming into the Inner Circle.

Only there wouldn’t be any welcoming.

Because, after I fubared the ritual, my mother would cry. I’d be shunned, cast out of the cCoven , and I’d finish my days at Stassen High School just like this: sitting alone at lunch, while everyone . . . EVERY one, even Bea . . . thought I was a weirdo freak.

It was going to be so awesome.

And I still hadn’t even made it half-way through the day yet.

Whee.

Chapter 1

There's a big difference between death threats and love letters–even if the person writing the death threats still claims to actually love you. Of course, considering I once tried to kill someone I loved, maybe I had no right to judge.

Today's letter had been perfectly timed, not that I should have expected any less. I'd read it four times so far, and even though I was running late, I couldn't help but read it a fifth time.

My dearest Rose,

One of the few downsides to being awakened is that we no longer require sleep; therefore we also no longer dream. It's a shame, because if I could dream, I know I'd dream about you. I'd dream about the way you smell and how your dark hair feels like silk between my fingers. I'd dream about the smoothness of your skin and the fierceness of your lips when we kiss.

Without dreams, I have to be content with my own imagination– which is almost as good. I can picture all of those things perfectly, as well as how it'll be when I take your life from this world.

It's something I regret having to do, but you've made my choice inevitable. Your refusal to join me in eternal life and love leaves no other course of action, and I can't allow someone as dangerous as you to live. Besides, even if I forced your awakening, you now have so many enemies among the Strigoi that one of them would kill you. If you must die, it'll be by my hand. No one else's.

Nonetheless, I wish you well today as you take your trials–not that you need any luck. If they're actually making you take them, it's a waste of everyone's time. You're the best in that group, and by this evening you'll wear your promise mark. Of course, that means you'll be all that much more of a challenge when we meet again–which I'll definitely enjoy.

And we will be meeting again. With graduation, you'll be turned out of the Academy, and once you're outside the wards, I'll find you. There is no place in this world you can hide from me. I'm watching.

Love,
Dimitri

Despite his "warm wishes" I didn't really find the letter inspiring as I tossed it onto my bed and blearily left the room. I tried not to let his words get to me, though it was kind of impossible to not be creeped out by something like that. There is no place in this world you can hide from me.

I didn't doubt it. I knew Dimitri had spies. Since my former instructor-turned-lover had been turned into an evil, undead vampire, he'd also become a sort of leader among them– something I'd helped speed along when I killed off his former boss. I suspected a lot of his spies were humans, watching for me to step outside my school's borders. No Strigoi could have stayed on a twenty-four-hour stakeout. Humans could, and I'd recently learned that plenty of humans were willing to serve the Strigoi in exchange for the promise of being turned someday. Those humans considered eternal life worth corrupting their souls and killing off others to survive. Those humans made me sick.

But the humans weren't what made my steps falter as I walked through grass that had turned bright green with summer's touch. It was Dimitri. Always Dimitri. Dimitri, the man I'd loved. Dimitri, the Strigoi I wanted to save. Dimitri, the monster I'd most likely have to kill. The love we'd shared always burned within me, no matter how often I told myself to move on, no matter how much the world did think I'd moved on. He was always with me, always on my mind, always making me question myself.

"You look like you're ready to face an army."

I shifted out of my dark thoughts. I'd been so fixated on Dimitri and his letter that I'd been walking across campus, oblivious to the world, and hadn't noticed my best friend, Lissa, falling into step with me, a teasing smile on her face. Her catching me by surprise was a rarity because we shared a psychic bond, one that always kept me aware of her presence and feelings. I had to be pretty distracted to not notice her, and if ever there was a distraction, it was someone wanting to kill me.

I gave Lissa what I hoped was a convincing smile. She knew what had happened to Dimitri and how he was now waiting to kill me after I'd tried–and failed–to kill him. Nonetheless, the letters I got from him every week worried her, and she had enough to deal with in her life without my undead stalker to add to the list.

"I kind of am facing an army," I pointed out. It was early evening, but late summer still found the sun up in the Montana sky, bathing us in golden light as we walked. I loved it, but as a Moroi–a peaceful, living vampire–Lissa would eventually grow weak and uncomfortable in it.

She laughed and tossed her platinum hair over one shoulder. The sun lit up the pale color into angelic brilliance. "I suppose. I didn't think you'd really be all that worried."

I could understand her reasoning. Even Dimitri had said these would be a waste of my time. After all, I'd gone to Russia to search for him and had faced real Strigoi–killing a number of them on my own. Maybe I shouldn't have been afraid of the upcoming tests, but all the fanfare and expectation suddenly pressed in upon me. My heart rate increased. What if I couldn't do it? What if I wasn't as good as I thought I was? The guardians who would challenge me out here might not be true Strigoi, but they were skilled and had been fighting a lot longer than me. Arrogance could get me into a lot of trouble, and if I failed, I'd be doing it in front of all the people who cared about me. All the people who had such faith in me.

One other thing also concerned me.

"I'm worried about how these grades will affect my future," I said. That was the truth. The trials were the final exam for a novice guardian like me. They ensured I could graduate from St. Vladimir's Academy and take my place with true guardians who defended Moroi from the Strigoi. The trials pretty much decided which Moroi a guardian would be assigned to.

Through our bond, I felt Lissa's compassion–and her worry. "Alberta thinks there's a good chance we can stay together–that you'll still be my guardian."

I grimaced. "I think Alberta was saying that to keep me in school." I'd dropped out to hunt Dimitri a few months ago and then returned–something that didn't look good on my academic record. There was also the small fact that the Moroi queen, Tatiana, hated me and would probably be going out of her way to influence my assignment–but that was another story. "I think Alberta knows the only way they'd let me protect you is if I was the last guardian on earth. And even then, my odds would still be pretty slim."

Ahead of us, the roar of a crowd grew loud. One of the school's many sports fields had been transformed into an arena on par with something from Roman gladiatorial days. The bleachers had been built up, expanded from simple wooden seats to luxuriously cushioned benches with awnings to shade the Moroi from the sun. Banners surrounded the field, their bright colors visible from here as they whipped in the wind. I couldn't see them yet, but I knew there would be some type of barracks built near the stadium's entrance where novices waited, nerves on edge. The field itself would have turned into an obstacle course of dangerous tests. And from the sound of those deafening cheers, plenty were already there to witness this event.

"I'm not giving up hope," Lissa said. Through the bond, I knew she meant it. It was one of the wonderful things about her–a steadfast faith and optimism that weathered the most terrible ordeals. It was a sharp contrast to my recent cynicism.

"And I've got something that might help you out today."

She came to a stop and reached into her jeans pocket, producing a small silver ring scattered with tiny stones that looked like peridots. I didn't need any bond to understand what she was offering.

"Oh, Liss...I don't know. I don't want any, um, unfair advantage."

Lissa rolled her eyes. "That's not the problem, and you know it. This one's fine, I swear."

The ring she offered me was a charm, infused with the rare type of magic she wielded. All Moroi had control of one of five elements: earth, air, water, fire, or spirit. Spirit was the rarest– so rare, it had been forgotten over the centuries. Then Lissa and a few others had recently surfaced with it. Unlike the other elements, which were more physical in nature, spirit was tied into the mind and all sorts of psychic phenomena. No one fully understood it.

Making charms with spirit was something Lissa had only recently begun to experiment with–and she wasn't very good at it. Her best spirit ability was healing, so she kept trying to make healing charms. The last one had been a bracelet that singed my arm.

"This one works. Only a little, but it'll help keep the darkness away during the trial."

She spoke lightly, but we both knew the seriousness of her words. With all of spirit's gifts came a cost: a darkness that showed itself now as anger and confusion, and eventually led to insanity. Darkness that sometimes bled over into me through our bond. Lissa and I had been told that with charms and her healing, we could fight it off. That was also something we had yet to master.

I gave her a faint smile, moved by her concern, and accepted the ring. It didn't scald my hand, which I took as a promising sign. It was tiny and only fit on my pinky. I felt nothing whatsoever as it slid on. Sometimes that happened with healing charms. Or it could mean the ring was completely ineffectual. Either way, no harm done.

"Thanks," I said. I felt delight sweep through her, and we continued walking.

I held my hand out before me, admiring the way the green stones glittered. Jewelry wasn't a great idea in the kind of physical ordeals I'd be facing, but I would have gloves on to cover it.

"Hard to believe that after this, we'll be done here and out in the real world," I mused aloud, not really considering my words.

Beside me, Lissa stiffened, and I immediately regretted speaking. "Being out in the real world" meant Lissa and I were going to undertake a task she'd–unhappily–promised to help me with a couple months ago.

While in Siberia, I'd learned there might be a way to restore Dimitri back to being a dhampir like me. It was a long shot– possibly a lie–and considering the way he was fixated on killing me, I had no illusions that I would have any other choice but to kill him if it came down to him or me. But if there was a way I might save him before that happened, I had to find out.

Unfortunately, the only lead we had to making this miracle come true was through a criminal. Not just any criminal either: Victor Dashkov, a royal Moroi who had tortured Lissa and committed all sorts of other atrocities that had made our lives hell. Justice had been served, and Victor was locked away in prison, which complicated things. We'd learned that so long as he was destined for a life behind bars, he saw no reason to share what he knew about his half-brother–the only person who had once allegedly saved a Strigoi. I'd decided– possibly illogically–that Victor might give up the information if we offered him the one thing no one else could: freedom.

This idea was not foolproof, for a number of reasons. First, I didn't know if it would work. That was kind of a big thing. Second, I had no idea how to stage a prison break, let alone where his prison even was. And finally, there was the fact that we would be releasing our mortal enemy. That was devastating enough to me, let alone Lissa. Yet as much as the idea troubled her–and believe me, it did–she'd firmly sworn she would help me. I'd offered to free her from the promise dozens of times in the last couple months, but she'd stood firm. Of course, considering we had no way to even find the prison, her promise might not matter in the end.

I tried to fill the awkward silence between us, explaining instead that I'd really meant we'd be able to celebrate her birthday in style next week. My attempts were interrupted by Stan, one of my longtime instructors. "Hathaway!" he barked, coming from the direction of the field. "Nice of you to join us. Get in there now!"

Thoughts of Victor vanished from Lissa's mind. Lissa gave me a quick hug. "Good luck," she whispered. "Not that you need it."

Stan's expression told me that this ten-second goodbye was ten seconds too long. I gave Lissa a grin by way of thanks, and then she headed off to find our friends in the stands while I scurried after Stan.

"You're lucky you aren't one of the first ones," he growled. "People were even making bets about whether you'd show."

"Really?" I asked cheerfully. "What kind of odds are there on that? Because I can still change my mind and put down my own bet. Make a little pocket money."

His narrowed eyes shot me a warning that needed no words as we entered the waiting area adjacent to the field, across from the stands. It had always amazed me in past years how much work went into these trials, and I was no less impressed now as I saw it up close. The barrack that novices waited in was constructed out of wood, complete with a roof. The structure looked as though it had been part of the stadium forever. It had been built with remarkable speed and would be taken down equally quickly once the trials were over. A doorway about three people wide gave a partial glimpse onto the field, where one of my classmates was waiting anxiously for her name to be called. All sorts of obstacles were set up there, challenges to test balance and coordination while still having to battle and elude the adult guardians who would be lurking around objects and corners. Wooden walls had been constructed on one end of the field, creating a dark and confusing maze. Nets and shaky platforms hung across other areas, designed to test just how well we could fight under difficult conditions.

A few of the other novices crowded the doorway, hoping to get an advantage by watching those who went ahead of them. Not me. I would go in there blind, content to take on whatever they threw before me. Studying the course now would simply make me overthink and panic. Calm was what I needed now.

So I leaned against one of the barrack walls and watched those around me. It appeared that I really had been the last to show up, and I wondered if people had actually lost money betting on me. Some of my classmates whispered in clusters. Some were doing stretches and warm-up exercises. Others stood with instructors who had been mentors. Those teachers spoke intently to their students, giving last-minute words of advice. I kept hearing words like focus and calm down.

Seeing the instructors made my heart clench. Not so long ago, that was how I'd pictured this day. I'd imagined Dimitri and me standing together, with him telling me to take this seriously and not to lose my cool when I was out on the field. Alberta had done a fair amount of mentoring for me since I'd returned from Russia, but as captain, she was out on the field herself now, busy with all sorts of responsibilities. She had no time to come in here and hold my hand. Friends of mine who might have offered comfort–Eddie, Meredith, and others– were wrapped up in their own fears. I was alone.

Without her or Dimitri–or, well, anyone–I felt a surprising ache of loneliness flow through me. This wasn't right. I shouldn't have been alone. Dimitri should have been here with me. That's how it was supposed to have been. Closing my eyes, I allowed myself to pretend he was really there, only inches away as we spoke.

"Don't worry, comrade. I can do this blindfolded. Hell, maybe I actually will. Do you have anything I can use? If you're nice to me, I'll even let you tie it on." Since this fantasy would have taken place after we'd slept together, there was a strong possibility that he would have later helped me take off that blindfold–among other things.

I could perfectly picture the exasperated shake of his head that would earn me. "Rose, I swear, sometimes it feels like every day with you is my own personal trial."

But I knew he'd smile anyway, and the look of pride and encouragement he'd give me as I headed toward the field would be all I needed to get through the tests–

"Are you meditating?"

I opened my eyes, astonished at the voice. "Mom? What are you doing here?"

My mother, Janine Hathaway, stood in front of me. She was just a few inches shorter than me but had enough fight in her for someone twice my size. The dangerous look on her tanned face dared anyone to bring on a challenge. She gave me a wry smile and put one hand on her hip.

"Did you honestly think I wouldn't come to watch you?"

"I don't know," I admitted, feeling kind of guilty for doubting her. She and I hadn't had much contact over the years, and it was only recent events–most of them bad–that had begun to reestablish our connection. Most of the time, I still didn't know how to feel about her. I oscillated between a little girl's need for her absent mother and a teenager's resentment over abandonment. I also wasn't entirely sure if I'd forgiven her for the time she "accidentally" punched me in a mock fight. "I figured you'd have, you know, more important things to do."

"There's no way I could miss this." She inclined her head toward the stands, making her auburn curls sway. "Neither could your father."

"What?"

I hurried toward the doorway and peered out onto the fields. My view of the stands wasn't fantastic, thanks to all the obstacles on the field, but it was good enough. There he was: Abe Mazur. He was easy to spot, with his black beard and mustache, as well as the emerald green scarf knotted over his dress shirt. I could even barely make out the glint of his gold earring. He had to be melting in this heat, but I figured it would take more than a little sweat for him to tame down his flashy fashion sense.

If my relationship with my mother was sketchy, my relationship with my father was practically nonexistent. I'd met him back in May, and even then, it wasn't until after I'd gotten back that I found out I was his daughter. All dhampirs had one Moroi parent, and he was mine. I still wasn't sure how I felt about him. Most of his background remained a mystery, but there were plenty of rumors that he was involved with illegal business. People also acted like he was the kneecap-breaking type, and though I'd seen little evidence of this, I didn't find it surprising. In Russia, they called him Zmey: the serpent.

While I stared at him in astonishment, my mom strolled over to my side. "He'll be happy you made it in time," she said. "He's running some big wager on whether you'd show. He put his money on you, if that makes you feel any better."

I groaned. "Of course. Of course he'd be the bookie behind the pool. I should have known as soon as–" My jaw dropped. "Is he talking to Adrian?"

Yup. Sitting beside Abe was Adrian Ivashkov–my more-orless boyfriend. Adrian was a royal Moroi–and another spirit user like Lissa. He'd been crazy about me (and often just crazy) ever since we first met, but I'd had eyes only for Dimitri. After the failure in Russia, I'd returned and promised to give Adrian a shot. To my surprise, things had been...good between us. Great, even. He'd written me up a proposal of why dating him was a sound decision. It had included things like "I'll give up cigarettes unless I really, really need one" and "I'll unleash romantic surprises every week, such as: an impromptu picnic, roses, or a trip to Paris–but not actually any of those things because now they're not surprises."

Being with him wasn't like it had been with Dimitri, but then, I supposed, no two relationships could ever be exactly alike. They were different men, after all. I still woke up all the time, aching over the loss of Dimitri and our love. I tormented myself over my failure to kill him in Siberia and free him from his undead state. Still, that despair didn't mean my romantic life was over–something it had taken me a while to accept. Moving on was hard, but Adrian did make me happy. And for now, that was enough.

But that didn't necessarily mean I wanted him cozying up to my pirate mobster father either.

"He's a bad influence!" I protested.

My mother snorted. "I doubt Adrian will influence Abe that much."

"Not Adrian! Abe. Adrian's trying to be on good behavior. Abe will mess everything up." Along with smoking, Adrian had sworn he'd quit drinking and other vices in his dating proposal. I squinted at him and Abe across the crowded stands, trying to figure out what topic could be so interesting. "What are they talking about?"

"I think that's the least of your problems right now." Janine Hathaway was nothing if not practical. "Worry less about them and more about that field."

"Do you think they're talking about me?"

"Rose!" My mother gave me a light punch on the arm, and I dragged my eyes back to her. "You have to take this seriously. Keep calm, and don't get distracted."

Her words were so like what I'd imagined Dimitri saying that a small smile crept onto my face. I wasn't alone out here after all.

"What's so funny?" she asked warily.

"Nothing," I said, giving her a hug. She was stiff at first and then relaxed, actually hugging me back briefly before stepping away. "I'm glad you're here."

My mother wasn't the overly affectionate type, and I'd caught her off guard. "Well," she said, obviously flustered, "I told you I wouldn't miss this."

I glanced back at the stands. "Abe, on the other hand, I'm not so sure of."

Or...wait. An odd idea came to me. No, not so odd, actually. Shady or not, Abe had connections–ones extensive enough to slip a message to Victor Dashkov in prison. Abe had been the one to ask for info about Robert Doru, Victor's spiritwielding brother, as a favor to me. When Victor had sent back the message saying he had no reason to help Abe with what he needed, I'd promptly written off my father's assistance and jumped to my prison-break idea. But now–

"Rosemarie Hathaway!"

It was Alberta who called me, her voice ringing loud and clear. It was like a trumpet, a call to battle. All thoughts of Abe and Adrian–and yes, even Dimitri–vanished from my mind. I think my mother wished me good luck, but the exact wording was lost on me as I strode toward Alberta and the field. Adrenaline surged through me. All my attention was now on what lay ahead: the test that would finally make me a guardian.

THE FALL:

Doug came to, lying on his back in what felt and smelled like a field. A gray, milky sky gaped over him. He took it in too quickly and fluttered his eyes.

Why was he on his back in a field? What was wrong with his chest? This last thought came suddenly as he sensed something pressing down on him. He lifted his head, and for a kaleidoscopic moment glimpsed the wooden stake in his heart before his vision swam black and his head hit the dirt again.

“Oh yeah,” he whispered. “Forgot.”

“You keep passing out,” said a voice. “You wake up, look at the stake, pass out again. But shouldn’t you be dead? I thought a stake through the heart was supposed to kill you.”

“It seems like a good…” wheezed Doug, “…guess to me.”

High above, a crooked line of birds perforated the lightening sky. It was very cold.

“I think...I think sometimes you think you’re the hero of the story, and sometimes you think you’re the victim,” said the voice. “But you’re not either.”

THE PREVIOUS SUMMER:

Doug said, “Hi,” and the girl turned. The perfect girl with red hair and nearly empty cup of yellow beer turned and looked at him. He tried to relax his eyes, take all of her in at once–the blue belly shirt, the bottomless cleavage–without appearing to ogle. He didn’t know her, or practically anyone else at the party. She didn’t know him. She wouldn’t have any reason not to talk to him.

She found a reason. Look–it was all there on her face. She’d seen through his disguise–the hair gel, the too-tight shirt from Apparel Conspiracy. He was a completely surprising form of life, something that should not be at a party, shouldn’t be addressing her. A gorilla maybe, frantically signing ‘Koko want kitten. Koko want kitten.’

“What?” she said. Not super inviting.

“Hey. I’m Doug.”

She seemed hesitant to give her name, like she might get it back with gunk on it. But then,

“Carrie. My friend’s coming right back.”

“That’s…cool. So what school do you go to?” he asked. Not that he knew any schools in San Diego.

“Garfield,” said the girl, but as she did so she arched her neck to look over his shoulder. Her long, soft, beautiful neck.

Koko want kitten.

“It’s…kind of crowded in here,” said Doug. “Don’t you think? You want to go outside? Get some fresh air?”

“I’m waiting for my friend,” said the girl. And then her whole posture relaxed, and a sudden brightness in her eyes told Doug that she’d just seen this friend, the friend was close, like the friend had just pressed the button on her keychain that made the headlights flash and the locks pop.

“Just for a second,” said Doug. “Really quick. I want to show you something.”

“Ew.”

“No, it’s not like…just trust me…come outside…it’s totally amazing…”

The friend was back. The friend was right there, and Doug heard himself say,

“I’m a vampire.”

Both girls stared at him for an airless moment, possibly deciding how they were going to take this. Funny or Scary? Funny or Scary?

“A creature of the night,” Doug continued, “Cursed like Cain to wander–“

“Aren’t you a little fat for a vampire?” asked the friend.

Funny it is, then. Doug sighed. “I guess.”

“Oh my god, are you one of those comics convention people?” asked the friend. “Paul said there wouldn’t be too many of them.”

“Look, sorry,” said the girl, the girl whose name Doug had to admit had already escaped his mind. “I’m here with my friend. Maybe someone else will go see your comic book thing.” They turned to leave.

“I wasn’t trying to show you a comic book!” said Doug as he followed behind. “I’m a vampire! I’m a fat vampire, okay? I was trying to lose weight before I got bitten. Now I’m screwed.”

The girl faced him. A second or so later her friend realized she was walking all by herself. She clucked her tongue and came back.

“Why are you screwed?” asked the girl.

This was something. Not really the topic Doug wanted to talk about, but at least they were talking.

“I’m…cursed,” said Doug. He was going to have to come up with another word for cursed. “For all eternity, always alone, never able to quench my dark–“

No, he could see in her face he was losing her. Something else.

“Look,” he said, “vampires don’t change, right? I’m never going to get any older, and I’ll always look like this. Short. Doughy. You know I haven’t had anything to eat or drink except blood for the last month? And nothing. No change. If I can’t lose weight on an all-blood diet–“

“So is that why you wanted me to go outside with you? You were going to attack me?”

“No! No, I–“

“You were going to drink my blood?”

Doug dropped his eyes, but then he was just staring at her bare belly, at the hypnotic whorl of her navel that would certainly bewitch him, make him stupid with want. He glanced to her right, and noticed a few bystanders were listening in, their conversations ebbing away. Beautiful people with faces like flowers, turning slowly to bask in someone else’s blazing embarrassment.

“Only if you wanted me–“

“What?” said the friend. “We can’t hear you.”

“Only if you wanted me to,” said Doug. “I just would’ve showed you my fangs and then…maybe you’d be, you know…”

When he finished the thought it was barely there.

“…into it.”

“Okay, time to go,” said a really tall guy who came out of nowhere. He grabbed Doug’s arm and escorted him, backwards, stumbling, toward the foyer.

“Don’t be too mean to him,” the girl called after them. “He didn’t do anything.”

Don’t be too mean to him, thought Doug. Not TOO mean. He was fifteen years old, he would always be fifteen years old, and it was possibly be the nicest thing any girl would ever say about him.

Doug dug in his heels. “Wait,” he said. “I can’t leave without my friend. I dragged him here.”

His escort appeared speechless that Doug had been able to stop their momentum at all. Another tall, good-looking teenager had to step up to the plate.

“Fuck, there are more of you?” he said. “Where’s your friend?”

“Probably hiding in a bathroom.”

This second guy went off to look, leaving the first to just stand there and hold Doug’s arm and glare.

“Look, you can let me go,” said Doug. “I’m not going to turn into a bat or anything.”

“Heh. What? Shut up.”

“Seriously. I’ll leave as soon as my friend gets here.”

“I think you can let him go,” said someone new.

Doug’s escort let him go. “Whatever. Your house, Paul.”

“Oh,” said Doug to the new kid. “You’re Paul. Nice party.”

“Thanks. How did you find out about it?”

“I found a flyer at the convention center. At the Pre-Con party. It was under Stan Lee’s foot.”

“Someone must’ve dropped one,” said Paul. “Sorry, it was more of an ‘invite only’ thing.”

“I didn’t know.”

Just then Jay appeared with a tall guy holding each arm.

“Here he is,” one of them said. “People in the bathroom line said he’d been in there a half-hour.”

Doug glanced at his watch. That sounded about right.

Outside, Doug and Jay shuffled through wet grass, aware of the gazes of two or three guys standing guard on the front porch to make sure they didn’t double back, sneak in through a window, slide down the chimney. Crash the party and get dork all over everything.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” said Jay as they reached the car, “but that would have been a great moment for you to turn into a wolf or command rats or something.”

“Yeah. And then you could have gone and done recon in the bathroom again. Everything secure in there? Did they have enough guest towels?”

Jay didn’t reply.

They drove off into the dark street.

“I have to feed soon!” said Doug. “I feel like I’m starving and going crazy at the same time. I’m curs–damned! I’m damned to forever yearn for the…vile…”

“Vile crimson ichor?” offered Jay.

“No. For the vile…for the sweet, vile…”

Doug trailed off. Damn it, ‘vile crimson ichor’ had been pretty good.

“Will you die?” asked Jay. “If you don’t…feed? Will you die again?”

Doug exhaled and watched the houses pass.

“I don’t know. It was bad enough the first time.”

“You said it was awesome,” said Jay. “Before you said that getting turned into a vampire was better than sex.”

“Yeah…but–”

“You said it was like your penis went bonernova–“

“Can you not say ‘penis?’ Please? It’s like I get the exact opposite of a bonernova whenever you say it. Say ‘dick,’ or–“

“I don’t swear,” said Jay. “You know I don’t.“

“Look. Okay. Obviously…” said Doug, “…obviously the getting-turned-into-a-vampire part was great, and the vampire chick was hot and everything, but the actual dying part sucked. Obviously.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“’S okay.”

Doug rolled down his window a few inches and wedged his nose into the gap, inhaling the thick, salty air. Anything to keep from smelling the one hundred and fifty pounds of blood and best friend in the driver’s seat next to him.

“You’re the one with family here,” said Doug. He and Jay were staying with Jay’s aunt and uncle during the convention. “Are there any farms close by?”

Jay thought a moment. “I don’t think so. Maybe some citrus orchards. Ha! Maybe some blood oranges.”

“Jay–“

“No. No farms.”

“Well…there has to be something,” whined Doug. “Some place with big animals. Big enough so I won’t kill them.”

Jay was quiet. Then he made a turn toward the freeway.

From the book

London, April 1878.

The demon exploded in a shower of ichor and guts. William Herondale jerked back the dagger he was holding, but it was too late. The viscous acid of the demon's blood had already begun to eat away at the shining blade. He swore and tossed the weapon aside; it landed in a filthy puddle and commenced smoldering like a doused match. The demon itself, of course, had vanished--dispatched back to whatever hellish world it had come from, though not without leaving a mess

behind.

"Jem!" Will called, turning around. "Where are you? Did you see that? Killed it with one blow! Not bad, eh?"

But there was no answer to Will's shout; his hunting partner had been standing behind him in the damp and crooked street a few moments before, guarding his back, Will was positive, but now Will was alone in the shadows. He frowned in annoyance--it was much less fun showing off without Jem to show off to. He glanced behind him, to where the street narrowed into a passage that gave onto the black, heaving water of the Thames in the distance. Through the gap Will could see the dark outlines of docked ships, a forest of masts like a leafless orchard. No Jem there; perhaps he had gone back to Narrow Street in search of better illumination. With a shrug Will headed back the way he had come.

Narrow Street cut across Limehouse, between the docks beside the river and the cramped slums spreading west toward Whitechapel. It was as narrow as its name suggested, lined with warehouses and lopsided wooden buildings. At the moment it was deserted; even the drunks staggering home from the Grapes up the road had found somewhere to collapse for the night. Will liked Limehouse, liked the feeling of being on the edge of the world, where ships left each day for unimaginably far ports. That the area was a sailor's haunt, and consequently full of gambling hells, opium dens, and brothels, didn't hurt either. It was easy to lose yourself in a place like this. He didn't even mind the smell of it--smoke and rope and tar, foreign spices mixed with the dirty riverwater smell of the Thames.

Looking up and down the empty street, he scrubbed the sleeve of his coat across his face, trying to rub away the ichor that stung and burned his skin. The cloth came away stained green and black. There was a cut on the back of his hand too, a nasty one. He could use a healing rune. One of Charlotte's, preferably. She was particularly good at drawing iratzes.

A shape detached itself from the shadows and moved toward Will. He started forward, then paused. It wasn't Jem, but rather a mundane policeman wearing a bell-shaped helmet, a heavy overcoat, and a puzzled expression. He stared at Will, or rather through Will. However accustomed Will had become to glamour, it was always strange to be looked through as if he weren't there. Will was seized with the sudden urge to grab the policeman's truncheon and watch while the man flapped around, trying to figure out where it had gone; but Jem had scolded him the few times he'd done that before, and while Will never really could understand Jem's objections to the whole enterprise, it wasn't worth making him upset.

With a shrug and a blink, the policeman moved past Will, shaking his head and muttering something under his breath about swearing off the gin before he truly started seeing things. Will stepped aside to let the man pass, then raised his voice to a shout: "James Carstairs! Jem! Where are you, you disloyal bastard?"

This time a faint reply answered him. "Over here. Follow the witchlight."

Will moved...

From the book

"To know Brigit was to love Brigit," Lexa Greene said, lifting her chin. Tears shone in her green eyes. Hundreds of candles adorned the marble stairs of the Atherton-Pryce Hall chapel, flickering in the cool autumn breeze. The black-clad crowd of students, faculty, and parents huddled even closer together against the cold--and their own sadness.

Ariana Osgood held a white candle in front of her, the flame blurring before her tired, tear-stung eyes. Her heart felt like it was collapsing in on itself over and over again, radiating misery and pain throughout her body. She'd arrived at Atherton-Pryce Hall just over a month ago, and she hadn't imagined that she'd become true friends with anyone as fast as she had with Brigit Rhygsted--or that it could hurt so badly to lose her. It had been a week since Brigit had died, and Ariana still couldn't believe she was gone. A vivid image flashed through Ariana's mind. She saw Brigit's body, so slight, so broken, crumpled at the foot of that regal staircase where she'd met her end. The pain in Ariana's heart squeezed ever tighter and her throat closed up. If only she'd been there. If only there was something she could have done.

"She was all about adventure and laughter, and she exuded pure joy," Lexa continued.

Ariana heard a loud sniffle to her left. Kaitlynn Nottingham was weeping, holding her trembling fingers over her lips as if to keep from sobbing out loud. Ariana's free hand curled into a fist, and in her mind's eye she saw herself punching Kaitlynn in the face. Imagined the satisfying crack of her nose and the thud as the girl hit the ground.

Kaitlynn had killed Brigit. Shoved her down the huge marble staircase at the Norwegian Embassy for no better reason than her desire to be accepted into Stone and Grave--the secret society for which all three of them had been tapped. And now she had the gall to stand there and cry?

Hovering next to Kaitlynn was Adam Lazerri, his curly brown hair frizzy and his chin spotty with stubble. He stared at the ground, swallowing repeatedly, clearly trying not to cry. He at least had a right to be sad. He and Brigit had just started dating. Along with Adam was Landon Jacobs. The pop star's long bangs grazed the top of his dark sunglasses as he stared straight ahead. Next to him, Maria Stanzini let out a sob, and Ariana saw Landon reach out to squeeze her hand. Maria pressed her face into Landon's shoulder, looking for all the world like a girl who was leaning on her friend for support. Only Ariana knew that the two of them were secretly dating. At least her friend was able to take comfort from the boy she loved and not worry that anyone would read anything into it. For once, Landon was not the center of attention.

Ariana's own secret love, Palmer Liriano, stood at the edge of the group, his hands folded at waist level, his dark hair slicked back from his face. Every now and then he would sniffle and blink, holding back tears. Ariana wished she could go to him, comfort him, be comforted. But now was not the time to be selfish.

"If you would all bow your heads for a moment of silence in honor of our friend," Lexa was saying.

Soomie Ahn reached out and took Ariana's hand. The coil in Ariana's heart loosened, and she took a long, deep breath. She looked up at the large photo of Brigit propped up on the black velvet?covered table next to Lexa. It was surrounded by small pumpkins, brightly colored leaves, and mums in gorgeous gold and white. In the photo, Brigit beamed on a white-sand beach, her blond curls lit by the sun. She looked alive,...

From the book

1.

I have two favorite parts in The Wizard of Oz. I know it's kind of impossible to have more than one favorite of anything, but I think sometimes, like in the case of the best movie ever made, it's okay to make an exception. Because The Wizard of Oz has so many great moments--like when Dorothy first opens the door of her tornado-tossed house to a bright and colorful new world. And when the merry munchkins and Glinda the Good Witch of the North welcome her over the rainbow and present her with sparkly ruby red slippers. And when she finally makes it to Oz with her new group of friends and they all get head-to-toe makeovers. With so many memorable parts to choose from, it's practically impossible to pick just one favorite. So, I have two.

The beginning. And the end.

It sounds weird, I know. My two favorite parts of the movie are the only parts in black and white. Most people can't wait for Dorothy to get whisked away from boring, gray Kansas and wake up surrounded by flowers and lollipops. Who wouldn't want to go to sleep and wake up somewhere over the rainbow?

Well, me, for one. The beginning and the end are my favorite parts because that's when Dorothy is surrounded by everyone who loves her most. That's when she's happiest. And that's exactly how I feel at home in Curly Creek . . . and how, after today, I might not ever feel again.

"Heads up!"

I duck. An overstuffed black garbage bag flies over my head and lands on the walkway in front of me.

Momma crosses the porch and squats next to me. "Is your room done?"

I lower my chin to my knees and frown at the sight of her fluffy pink bathrobe poking through the top of the bag. "Yes."

She rocks to one side, gently nudging me with her elbow. "Do we have any road trip snacks left?"

I lean forward and grab the open bag of potato chips from the step below mine. I take a handful and hold the bag toward her. "Are you sure you don't want any help?"

Momma takes the near-empty bag, then tilts it and pours the broken remains into her open mouth. "Yup. We have a very long drive ahead of us, and I need my navigator to be rested and relaxed."

She gives me the bag and stands. I stay where I am, on the top step of the dusty front stoop, as she selects a cardboard box from the lawn and carries it to the car. The rear of the tiny hatchback already sags from the weight of our belongings, and black trash bags stuffed with clothes puff out of the open back windows.

It's hard to believe how quickly the car filled up, especially since we gave away a lot of stuff we didn't need. Mrs. Jenkins, Mom's boss at the Curly Creek Nail Boutique, got all of our pink dinner dishes, and Miss Amelia, my old babysitter and the lead day care provider at Curly Creek Li'l Peeps, got all of our towels and blankets. Some things Momma sold to Mr. Lou of Curly Creek Junk 'n' Treasures, like our TV and her self-powered treadmill. Thankfully, we didn't have to worry about packing up, giving away, or selling any furniture, since Momma had rented the house fully furnished.

But we still have to fit four boxes, three black garbage bags, two piles of coats, and one brown corduroy duffel bag filled with about a thousand balls of yarn and a dozen knitting needles into the car. All that stuff is strewn across the front lawn like a twister lifted our small blue house from its foundation, spun it around, turned it upside down, and shook out everything inside.

"Ruby Lee! Don't you dare leave me!"

I look up...

From the book

PREFACE

I was so lost when Kristen left. When she died. Then Caspian found me. I got to know him. Fell in love with him. He helped me deal with the fact that my best friend was never coming back. And when I found out that she'd been keeping so much hidden from me, he helped me try to understand.

But he had a secret too. A secret he should have told me from the beginning. Now I don't even know if he's real, or if I dreamt him up to help me process the pain. I can't stay away from Sleepy Hollow forever.

Will he be waiting for me?

© 2010 Jessica Miller

THE SHREVEPORT VAMPIRE BAR WOULD BE OPENING late tonight. I was running behind, and I'd automatically gone to the front door, the public door, only to be halted by a neatly lettered sign, red Gothic script on white cardboard: WE'LL BE READY TO GREET YOU WITH A BITE TONIGHT, AT EIGHT O'CLOCK. PLEASE EXCUSE OUR DELAYED OPENING. It was signed "The Staff of Fangtasia."

It was the third week in September, so the red neon FANGTASIA sign was already on. The sky was almost pitch-black. I stood with one foot inside my car for a minute, enjoying the mild evening and the faint, dry smell of vampire that lingered around the club. Then I drove around to the back and parked beside several other cars lined up at the employee entrance. I was only five minutes late, but it looked like everyone else had beaten me to the meeting. I rapped on the door. I waited.

I'd raised my hand to knock again when Pam, Eric's second-in-command, opened the door. Pam was based at the bar, but she had other duties in Eric's various business dealings. Though vampires had gone public five years ago and turned their best face to the world, they were still pretty secretive about their moneymaking methods, and sometimes I wondered how much of America the undead actually owned. Eric, the owner of Fangtasia, was a true vampire in the keeping-things-to-himself department. Of course, in his long, long existence he'd had to be.

"Come in, my telepathic friend," Pam said, gesturing dramatically. She was wearing her work outfit: the filmy, trailing black gown that all the tourists who came into the bar seemed to expect from female vampires. (When Pam got to pick her own clothing, she was a pastels-and-twinset kind of woman.) Pam had the palest, straightest blond hair you ever saw; in fact, she was ethereally lovely, with a kind of deadly edge. The deadly edge was what a person shouldn't forget.

"How you doing?" I asked politely.

"I am doing exceptionally well," she said. "Eric is full of happiness."

Eric Northman, the vampire sheriff of Area Five, had made Pam a vampire, and she was both obliged and compelled to do his bidding. That was part of the deal of becoming undead: you were always in sway to your maker. But Pam had told me more than once that Eric was a good boss to have, and that he would let her go her own way if and when she desired to do so. In fact, she'd been living in Minnesota until Eric had purchased Fangtasia and called her to help him run it.

Area Five was most of northwestern Louisiana, which until a month ago had been the economically weaker half of the state. Since Hurricane Katrina, the balance of power in Louisiana had shifted dramatically, especially in the vampire community.

"How is that delicious brother of yours, Sookie? And your shape-shifting boss?" Pam said.

"My delicious brother is making noises about getting married, like everyone else in Bon Temps," I said.

"You sound a bit depressed." Pam cocked her head to one side and regarded me like a sparrow eyeing a worm.

"Well, maybe a tad wee bit," I said.

"You must keep busy," Pam said. "Then you won't have time to mope."

Pam loved "Dear Abby." Lots of vampires scrutinized the column daily. Their solutions to some of the writers' problems would just make you scream. Literally. Pam had already advised me that I could only be imposed on if I permitted it, and that I needed to be more selective in picking my friends. I was getting emotional-health counseling from a vampire.

"I am," I said. "Keeping busy, that is. I'm working, I've still got my roommate from New Orleans, and I'm going to a wedding shower tomorrow. Not for Jason and Crystal. Another couple."

Pam had paused, her hand on the doorknob of Eric's office. She considered my statement, her brows drawn together. "I am not remembering what a wedding shower is, though I've heard of it," she said. She brightened. "They'll get married in a bathroom? No, I've heard the term before, surely. A woman wrote to Abby that she hadn't gotten a thank-you note for a large shower gift. They get…presents?"

"You got it," I said. "A shower is a party for someone who's about to get married. Sometimes the shower is for the couple, and they're both there. But usually only the bride is the honoree, and all the other people at the party are women. Everyone brings a gift. The theory is that this way the couple can start life with everything they need. We do the same thing when a couple's expecting a baby. Course, then it's a baby shower."

"Baby shower," Pam repeated. She smiled in a chilly way. lt was enough to put frost on your pumpkin, seeing that up-curve of the lips. "I like the term," she said. She knocked on Eric's office door and then opened it. "Eric," she said, "maybe someday one of the waitresses will get pregnant, and we can go to a baby shower!"

"That would be something to see," said Eric, lifting his golden head from the papers on his desk. The sheriff registered my presence, gave me a hard look, and decided to ignore me. Eric and I had issues.

Copyright © 2007 by Charlaine Harris Schulz.

From the book

1

Every strong swimmer has a story about nearly drowning. This is mine:

Late one June afternoon I was driving home from my summer job at my dad's water park, Slide with Clyde, when my phone rang and Brandon's name flashed on the screen. He knew I never answered my phone while driving. And everybody working at Slide with Clyde today had heard that my dad had gotten Ashley, the twenty-four-year-old human resources manager, pregnant. That meant all my friends knew, because I'd found Brandon a job there and my entire swim team jobs as lifeguards, all seventeen of us--everybody but Doug Fox.

My dad had left work a little early--to tell my mom before she found out from another source, I guessed. So if Brandon wanted to talk to me now, it must be important. Maybe it had something to do with my parents.

I parked my vintage Volkswagon Bug in the courtyard outside my house, between my dad's Benz and my mom's eco-friendly hybrid, and cut the engine. The Bug had no air-conditioning. The Florida heat had been bearable while I was damp from swimming and the car was moving. But my bikini had dried underneath my T-shirt and gym shorts. The sun beat down. The heat crept through the open windows like a dangerous animal unafraid of humans and settled on my chest.

I picked up my phone and pushed the button to call Brandon back.

"Zoey," he said.

"Hey, baby. Is something wrong?"

"Everything!" he exclaimed. "You're going to kill me. You know how I was telling you at lunch about Clarissa?"

"Who?" I'd been distracted when I talked to him at lunch. I'd just learned the latest about Ashley.

"Clarissa? The brunette who works at the top of the Tropical Terror Plunge? She's in college. You told me I should ask her out anyway."

"Right." I couldn't believe he'd called me about this. We'd become friends because I was a good listener, and I gave him advice on his girl troubles--but surely he knew this was not the time.

"Well, I asked her out, and she said yes. But then her big sister came to pick her up from work, and Zoey . This chick was on fire . I don't know how much older she is than me. She might have graduated from college already. That's kind of a reach, even for me. But I could go out with Clarissa this once, give it a few weeks to cool off, then try her sister. What do you think?"

"I think you're jailbait."

He laughed shortly.

In the silence that followed, I heard how mean my comment had sounded. True but mean. I could not have a friendly conversation right now.

"Brandon, can we talk about this later?" I asked. "I'm sitting outside my house, and I think my dad is inside telling my mom about Ashley."

"Oh," Brandon said. He sounded like he'd really forgotten about the rumors at work today. "Are you scared?"

"I'm?.?.?." I stared at the front door. "No, I'm used to the idea. Everybody's been talking about my dad and Ashley since the park opened in May. I'm more relieved that I don't have to be the one to tell my mom." I held up my hand and admired how perfect and smooth my manicure looked against the ancient steering wheel. "That's awful of me, isn't it?"

"Zoey, you could never be awful."

With that one sentence, Brandon melted my heart all over again. He was a player, but he meant well. Deep down he was truly a sweet person and a good friend, and he knew how to make me feel better.

I ended the call with him and stood up in the courtyard. Sure enough, my parents' voices reached me even here. I'd hurried...