From the book

chapter ONE

the statue has got to go.

That's my first thought as I prep the living room for Dustin's visit later tonight. I know I'm the only one who would notice the discriminating eyes of Mom's four-inch Jesus staring down from the mantel. Dustin probably wouldn't look away from my breasts if the room were two feet deep in holy water. Still, I reach for it.

When my hand fumbles and the statue topples sideways, I pick the thing up and scan the hearth for any other too-holy housewares.

"What are you doing?" My older sister rushes in from the kitchen, scuffles across the carpet, and ignites a spark when she snatches the statue out of my hand. She settles it back into its ring of dust, adjusting it to its all-seeing viewpoint, and then eases her hand away like she's afraid the thing might fly right up to heaven. Turning, she glares at me.

Great. Caught in the act of abducting a religious icon. Not exactly the act I feared being caught in tonight.

"Actually, Faith"--I stare into her eyes so she won't miss this--"I was wondering if you could give me a lift to the church."

As expected, her whole face lights up, and I'm tempted to let her believe she's finally fished her heathen sister out of the sea of despair. It's better than telling her the truth.

"Amy's going to meet me at a coffee shop near there," I add. Not complete honesty, but close enough.

"Oh." Her face falls. "I'm not sure, Brie. I mean, I wasn't going to--" She flicks her fingernail against her thumb a few times and looks away.

She wasn't going to what? Wasn't going to youth group like she has every single Friday night since she was born? I glance at the clock above her head. Good thing Dustin's not waiting down the street somewhere, which was my initial idea. But me staying home alone on a Friday night would be far from ordinary and I don't want to raise anyone's suspicions. I stare back at Faith until she goes on.

"Celeste doesn't want to go, my car's out of gas, and I can't find my Bible." She starts for the kitchen. "Sorry, Brie, I'm not going tonight."

Usually, I strategize about as well as a fly caught in a screen door. But tonight I had taken the initiative to plan something nice--really nice--for Dustin, and tonight, of all nights, Faith's turning into someone I don't even know. What happened to her Big Salvation Plan, the one that wraps around her life in giant, multicolored jawbreaker layers of certainty?

I can't do anything about Celeste cutting out on her. They argued on the phone earlier and I learned a long time ago that I don't understand their friendship well enough to get involved. But I can fix other problems. I reach for my purse. "I have gas money."

She stops in the kitchen doorway.

I dig out the only bill I can find, walk toward her, and push it at her chest. She looks down at my hand like it's covered in warts.

"I know it's only five bucks, but that'll at least get your car to the church and back, right?" Heading to the bookshelves in the living room, I scrunch my nose because the dog, curled up on the couch, must have farted. I pull off a Bible with Brie Jenkins inscribed in the bottom corner of its black leather cover. "Here," I say, coughing from the flutters of dust. "Take mine."

"That's a King James Version," Faith says. "I really need my N.I.V."

Faith and her New International Version. Like it matters. And here I thought getting my parents out of the house would be the hard part, but they left before six, barely...

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.

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...

Chapter One

The ghost slipped between the two pine trees, moving silently, not even leaving footprints in the pine needles on the ground. Then it stopped, as if it could smell something—something living.

Don’t be scared, Eve Evergold told herself as her heart began to pound. I’m strong and I’m brave. I’ll get through this, she thought. She wrapped her arms around herself, and tried to stay absolutely still. But that was impossible. She had to keep breathing, and that meant chest-up-and-down movement.

The ghost moved its head, a fraction at a time, sensing, searching. Its face—smooth, pure white and inhuman—was expressionless. The creature moved its head another fraction, and now it was staring right at Eve. Its eyes shone with a deep red fire. It felt as if those eyes seared everything they gazed at, including Eve’s skin. If it kept looking at her, she was sure those eyes would pull her straight to the burning centre of hell.

Eve turned towards Jess, her best friend practically since birth. Jess’s face was twisted with terror as she stared at the ghost. The fire in its eyes brightened. Eve could hear crackling as it moved towards them. It was—

Jess screamed. Almost immediately handfuls of popcorn rained down on both of them. Jess got a few ‘shh’s from other people in the theatre, but a lot more simply laughed.

No more horror movies for Jess and me, Eve promised herself. From now on, there will be nothing scary in my entire life!

* * *

”I can’t believe I screamed. Out loud,” Jess complained as she and Eve stepped out onto the broad sidewalk in front of the movie theatre.

”Is there actually another way to scream? Like, in writing?” Eve teased as they started down Main Street. “Anyway, I can believe it. You always freak at scary movies.”

”This one wasn’t supposed to be scary,” Jess said. “I heard it was going to be like a Twlight movie. And there wasn’t even any kissing.”

”We deserve a treat after that,” Eve told her.

”Shoes?” Jess asked hopefully, gazing at the array of sling-back wedges in the window of the Jildor shoe boutique.

”I don’t think we’re quite that traumatized,” Eve said. “Also, I’ve almost reached the limit on my AmEx.” Well, her parents’ AmEx. Parents who would not be happy if she went over the limit they set. The very generous limit, as they often reminded her. “I was thinking something more like—“

”Ice cream,” Jess finished for her.

”Two scoops.” As they strolled towards the ice-cream shop, Eve looked for the strings of white fairy lights that were twisted among the branches of the elm trees lining the street. They went on every day at dusk, but she guessed it wasn’t quite dark enough yet. Eve loved those little lights. And the elm trees. She loved Main Street—all two and a half blocks of it.

She’d missed Deepdene, the tiny, exclusive town in the Hamptons where she’d lived her whole life, even though summer in Kauai with her family and Jess had been awesome.

Eve and Jess walked through the yellow door of Big Ola’s Ice Cream Shop at the end of the block. As usual on a Friday evening, every table and booth was taken. In their little town, the ice-cream place was one of the three possible teen hangouts—Java Nation and the pizza place being the other two.

Eve turned to Jess. “OK, who do we know?”

They both scanned the small room. “Pretty much everyone. My brother’s over there, with the other stooges,” Jess commented.

”Shanna and the crew are by the window.” Eve gave them a wave.

”You’re back!” Katy Emory called from her seat next to Shanna. She gave them the ‘call me’ sign.

Jess moved closer to Eve and lowered her voice. “And I think—no, I’m sure—that’s the new minister’s kid, Luke Thompson, sitting by the postcard rack.”

”Who?” Eve asked.

”I talked to Megan. Remember? It was about a week ago, that day you were getting the hot rock massage but I was too sunburned,” Jess said. “Anyhow, Megan said that Luke has floppy blond hair that falls into his eyes all the time—which that guy totally does. Love it, by the way! And she said he’s going to be a freshman like you and me. I told you, she met him over the summer.”

”Oh yeah. Of course,” Eve said. Jess’s next-door neighbour, Megan Christie, always got to meet new people first because her parents ran the best—and only—real estate agency in town. They were full-service, even finding movers and hiring household help for the buyers of Deepdene’s huge houses, which ranged from French country-style estates, complete with barns, to ultra-modern, all-glass-and-angles mansions right on the white-sand beach. And that meant that Megan was involved with newcomers from the very moment they set foot in town. It was a big deal in Deepdene, population 2,704, especially because some of those 2,704 included the very rich and very famous, in the categories of movie directors, pop stars, fashion designers, news anchors, celebrity spawn and other magazine-cover staples. Anyone who was anyone and lived in New York City also had a house in Deepdene or one of the other villages that made up the Hamptons, 120 miles away from Manhattan. As long as they had enough money, of course.

Eve was giving the cute new boy a stealthy from-under-the-eyelashes look. His hair looked so silky. It made her want to run her fingers through it.

”I still think Megan might have had a little thing going with Luke over the summer,” Jess said. She started to hum ‘Son of a Preacher Man’, a song from the CD her mother played almost every time she drove them anywhere.

”Of course she did,” Eve said again. Megan’s ability to flirt was legendary. So was the fact that she’d gotten breasts in fifth grade, before anyone else. Eve and Jess were a year younger than Megan, and they’d been deeply impressed. And deeply concerned about what—and when—their own bodies would pop out. Eve’s had never popped quite as much as she’d hoped, but the guys didn’t seem to mind that she was more on the sleek and slender side. Who knew—maybe she still had some popping in her future.

”Megan moves fast,” Jess agreed. “But, when I spoke to her, it sounded like she was already done with him and interested in somebody else. She wouldn’t say who. You know what a drama queen she is. She loves to hint and make you beg. But I didn’t get time to find out any more. She said she was tired and going to bed, even though it was only nine o’clock—her time—when we were talking. She was practically falling asleep on the phone. She said she hadn’t been sleeping a lot. Nightmares or something.” Jess gave another glance over at the guy who had to be Luke. “Let’s go sit with him,” she suggested.

Eve laughed. “Why not? He’s had to wait all summer to meet the glorious us. Poor deprived boy.” She led the way over to the table and slid into one of the empty chairs. “You look bored, Luke. We decided you need entertaining,” she told him, giving him a smile.

”I’m Jess. And she’s Eve. Welcome to Deepdene,” Jess said, giving Eve a little shove with her butt. Eve moved over, letting Jess share the chair. Luke was at a table for two.

Eve moved an empty ice-cream dish out of the way with her elbow. Somebody had been sitting here with Luke. Wonder who? she thought. Not that it mattered.

”Thanks, but I’ve been here for a month. Where were you?” Luke asked.

”Kauai,” Eve and Jess answered together.

”Right. Hawaii. Rich people love to go beach-hopping,” Luke said, nodding. “Even when they already live on top of a perfectly good beach right here in the Hamptons. I keep forgetting that, being poor myself.”

Jess immediately looked concerned, but Eve laughed. The guy was kidding—she could tell by the little smirk on his face. “Poor?” she said sceptically.

”OK, no. But we definitely don’t have summer in Europe. Or, you know, Hawaii,” Luke said. “Though maybe you two will invite me with you next year. I’m lots of fun, I promise.” He winked.

Eve was too surprised to answer, and she could see Jess’s cheeks turning red. The b oy was pretty flirtatious for a minister’s kid!

”So go ahead, ask,” he said. “I know that’s why you came over.”

Eve and Jess looked at each other, baffled. He couldn’t know that Eve sort of wanted to curl her fingers into that silky blond hair of his. Could he?”

”What’s it like to be a minister’s kid?” Luke prompted.

”You don’t know that’s what we were thinking,” Jess told him.

”But we kind of were,” Eve put in. “Specifically, are you the kind of minister’s kid who is extra, extra good?” she joked. “Or are you one of those wild ones who will do anything to prove they are extra, extra bad?” She had a feeling she knew the answer already.

”Because it has to be one or the other, right?” Luke laughed. “So using that logic, you’re spoiled. Because rich girls are always spoiled. And you spend every free second shopping or thinking about shopping. Because spoiled rich girls love to spend money,” he added with a teasing smile.

”He’s got us,” Eve said to Jess. It had taken quite a bit of shopping to get close to her parent-set monthly AmEx limit. Maybe even a little too much. Those earrings she’d bought at the airport weren’t exactly essential. But the flight back home had been delayed, and she and Jess had used the time to make the round of the gift shops.

”He does,” Jess agreed. She grinned at Luke. “We love to shop, and we’re very good at it!”

”I’ve got to go,” Luke said. He leaned closer to Eve. “But to answer your question, I wouldn’t say I’m extra, extra bad.” He reached out and tugged gently on one of her long dark ringlets. “But I wouldn’t say I’m an angel, either.”

With that, he stood up, dropped a five on the table, and walked off.

”Oh my God, he played with your hair! I think he likes you more than me,” Jess gave an exaggerated pout.

”I thought your heart was lost to Seth Schneider,” Eve said, pretending to be shocked. Jess had been into Seth since for ever, but he never seemed to notice.

”Well . . .” Jess shrugged.

”Anyway, he’s clearly in lu-u-u-urve with me!” Eve joked. Although, no joke, when he’d touched her hair she’d felt it down to her toes. “Come on, let’s get cones to go, and walk around.” Suddenly she was having a hard time sitting still.

They started towards the counter. Eve managed to bump into one of the café tables—things like that happened to her all the time—and she stumbled. She leaned down to steady the table—luckily nothing had spilled—straightening up just in time to see Luke giving Shanna Poplin’s hair a gentle tug. He’d said he was leaving, but he hadn’t gotten very far. Only halfway across the room.

Jess followed Eve’s gaze. “Hmm. Looks like he’s in lu-u-u-urve with Shanna too. I think our preacher’s kid might be a little bit of a player,” she said.

Eve used both hands to shove her thick, curly hair away from her face. Yikes. Seeing Luke do the hair-thing to Shanna about a minute after he’d done it to her kind of stung. Which was ridiculous. She’d spent all of five minutes with the guy.

”He’s as much of a flirt as Mega,” Eve said. “But I think he needs to work on his moves. He’s pulled out the hair-touch twice in about a minute and a half.” The very effective, feel-it-to-the-toes hair-touch. Well, at least she’d seen the true Luke. Now she knew not to take any of his playing seriously.

Jess ordered their ice creams—Swiss orange chip for her, coconut chocolate chip for Eve. “So what do you think, now that we’ve seen him up close?” she asked softly. “I say Choo all the way.”

”I don’t know if I’d go as far as a Choo,” Eve said thoughtfully. After all, Jimmy Choo was the highest ranking on the shoe scale—Eve and Jess’s system for classifying boy hotness—and Luke needed to have some points knocked off for the limited variety of his so-called moves. “But he’s definitely a Blahnik,” she had to admit.

”And a Balenciaga bag!” Jess added with a grin. “So what about the other new boy in town that Megan mentioned?”

”Oh yes—Mal, wasn’t it?” Eve exclaimed. “The one who’s moved into the rock god’s house.”

”Rock god’s mansion, you mean,” Jess corrected. The Razor place—people still called it by the rock god’s name—was huge even by Deepdene standards, which was saying something. And the grounds were almost endless—a large pond, sunken tennis courts, formal gardens, sprawling meadows, all behind a high green privacy hedge. It was surprising that it had been empty so long, almost ten years. Property—an property—in the Hamptons was almost always immediately snapped up.

But the Razor place had a history. Before the rock star killed himself—right in the house—there’d been some kind of software genius living there. One of the Kennedys had for a while. And way back when Eve’s grandmother was growing up, a famous director had lived in the mansion. All of them had moved out after less than a year. Jess said it was because the place was haunted. And she wasn’t the only one.

But Eve didn’t believe in ghosts, at least not now that she wasn’t sitting in a dark movie theatre. She was more interested in flesh-and-blood-and-muscle guys. “Two new boys in one year. That’s got to be a record,” she said thoughtfully.

”I can’t believe our luck,” Jess agreed as she paid for the cones. “And right in time for high school!”

”We’ve seen one new boy. What are the stats on the other one?” Eve asked. She led the eway out of Ola’s, noting that Luke was still loitering around Shanna’s table.

”Our age. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Cute. That’s all Megan could tell me,” Jess replied. “Like I said, she couldn’t stop yawning. It was ridiculous. I wanted to force-feed her a litre of Pepsi Max.”

Eve paused in front of the Madewell boutique. “The denim bar! I missed this place,” she said. “Every pair of my favourite jeans comes from here.”

”The consultants understand your butt better than you do yourself,” Jess agreed.

”I want to get a pair with custom embroidery. I’m thinking of—“ Eve paused, suddenly becoming aware of little prickles dancing up the back of her neck—the kind of prickles she always got when somebody was watching her. She could almost feel the staring eyes on her back. Could it be Luke? Her bad, bad, too-romantic brain just went there.

Luke equals player, Eve reminded herself. You do not want to crush on Luke. You don’t want to, and you aren’t going to. Don’t even bother to look.

But she couldn’t help herself. She had to know.

Eve glanced over her shoulder. No Luke. But somebody else was staring at her.

A guy she’d never seen before. He stood across the street, leaning against the wrought-iron fence that enclosed the park, one foot crossed over the other. And he was just . . . staring. When he realized she’d caught him, he looked away. But then looked back, and a slow, sexy half-smile spread across his face. Just for Eve. Like the two of them shared a secret.

The fairy lights in the elm trees clicked on. Like magic. Like something out of a movie. A non-horror movie.

Eve dragged her gaze away from him, every nerve-ending in her body tingling. That had to be the other new boy. Mal. But Megan had been wrong. He wasn’t cute.

Mal was smouldering.

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,...

Chapter 1

A body launched from the bushes, straight at me, before I had time to register who or what it was. The force of the impact alone was enough to knock the breath from my lungs-that is, if I breathed. Instead of crushing me, I rolled with his momentum and neatly turned over once, then used my feet to send him flying over my head, crashing into crates of recycling awaiting pickup on the sidewalk.

Doing a quick flip from my back onto my feet, I, Colby Blanchard, moved toward my would-be assailant without trepidation.

“Are you okay, Cyrus?” I questioned, looking for signs of injury as he lay sprawled among the old newspapers and empty soda cans.

“Mmmph,” came his muffled reply as he disentangled himself from the bins, “…finish me?” He stood and I was relieved to find him relatively unharmed.

“What did you say?” I asked, a bit dubious of his reply. His left pant leg was ripped at the knee and I could see the scraped skin starting to bleed.

The scent of fresh blood filled my senses and I had to take a step back. A familiar ache in the roof of my mouth and loud rumbling from my stomach reminded me I hadn’t fed last night. My treacherous hand involuntarily reached for the pocket housing specialized orthodontic headgear embedded with stainless-steel fangs. What? Just because I’m fang-handicapped doesn’t make me a freak or anything. I can still get the job done, ya know. Just not right now. Now it was a battle of wills, between my true self and the inner demon who demanded to feed.

I took a Zen moment and subdued my hunger. It was so not getting the upper hand here. The first rule of thumb was no feeding on friends, and I wasn’t about to break it because I was feeling a bit peckish.

“I said, why didn’t you finish me off? You stood there like some clueless victim waiting for me to find a weapon to take you down.”

“Uh, I knew it was you?” It was an obvious answer, but Cyrus was always all business.

For the last eight months, Cyrus spent two hours a day teaching me how to fight and protect myself. I met him on a routine visit to see my Great-Aunt Chloe at her condo in Providence Point. Her neighbor, Bits Walker, was bragging about her grandson, a self-defense instructor and former special operative in the military. Like anything Bits said, I took it with a grain of salt. After all, she’d been married four times but on last count, she mentioned seven husbands. I wondered if perhaps she wasn’t all there.

But one day, there was Cyrus, holding Bits’s yarn as she knitted and listening attentively to her stories. He was smaller than I imagined, with craggy skin and a wicked-looking scar across his chin to his left ear, which appeared to be partially missing. He was wiry and muscular. I doubted he had an ounce of fat on his frame.

My thoughts were interrupted by Cyrus digging around the refuse. “What are you looking for?” I asked skeptically. Cyrus was, well, let’s just say he and his grandmother were very alike in the sanity department.

“Aha!” he shouted triumphantly, brandishing what appeared to be a sharpened piece of wood.

“You had a stake?!” I gasped incredulously.

“It’s like I’m having a conversation with Jello?” he muttered to himself. “Of course. Did you think I was going to continue attacking you with just my bare hands? You are far too advanced for those tactics. At least, I thought you were. I thought you had achieved the black zone.”

Oh crap, not the zones again.

When he first started training me, I was in the white zone, which meant I was completely oblivious to my surroundings. Then came the blue zone or was it the green? I could never keep them straight. Anyway, I quickly raced up the zones to the black zone, which meant I was in ninja-like awareness all the time. Personally, I liked being in the white zone, but when you’re the most unpopular half-blood Undead in the neighborhood, you couldn’t afford to be in the white zone anymore.

Ever since I was attacked and turned into a vampire-oh, excuse me, that would be half-blood vampire-I’d become persona nongrata in the Undead community. I think I might have been able to live out my days in relative peace and solitude if I hadn’t petitioned for half-blood rights and emancipated an entire species. That move made me a little less than popular with the full-blood population.

Well, excuse me for fighting injustice.

I did such a good job at freeing my people, I was elevated to being their Protector, which I am sure was the Tribunal’s way of getting rid of all of us. I imagine they were still kicking themselves that not only was I Undead and around, I was becoming a pretty kick-ass Protector in the process.

Today was the day I would meet the rest of my half-blood family. Yep, we were going to show those bigoted full-bloods that we’re every bit as useful and viable a species and deserve to exist. At least, I hoped so. I hadn’t met any other half-bloods yet, but I held out high hopes for our success.

“Colby? Hello? Colby Blanchard? Are you even listening to me?” Cyrus asked impatiently.

“Uh, sorry. What were you saying about the zone?”

He sighed in exasperation (he did that a lot with me) and repeated, “Since you refuse to allow me to test your skills in the evening, you have to be in the zone all the time.”

I held up a hand to stop him. “Yeah, yeah, I get it. I’m sorry. It’s just today is the day I meet my new sorority sisters and I’m really nervous.”

“Oh well then, that’s fine. I’m sure no one will be out to get you today…”

“Ha, ha,” I retorted sarcastically.

“Today of all days you need to be most aware.”

It took three glowing-eyed djamphir, all of them torn-up and bloody, to pick up Ash and start carrying him away. I pulled against Christophe's hands. "No, please—no, I've got to go with him, no—"   

"Stay still." Christophe dabbed at a scratch on my forehead, one I couldn't remember getting. "No broken bones, no bleeding. Dzie;kuje; Bogu, moj maly ptasku…" Blue eyes sharp, he glanced at my face. The blonde highlights had slid back through his hair as his aspect retreated. The fox had vanished, but I wasn't worried about that. "Be still."   

"I want to go with him." I glared at Christophe, my throat full of something. "Where were you?"
   
"Keeping watch on your window. I told you I wouldn't leave you unprotected. I also told the wulfen to take care of you. When I get my hands—"
   
Which brought up another question. I tried to slide away again. "Shanks. Did you see him? Is he—"
   
Christophe grabbed my shoulder. "Robert? He's wounded but otherwise hale. Where is the loup-garou? I would have thought he'd be with you. Now please, Dru. Be still, calm down, let me work."
   
"Work? Jesus Christ, those were vampires! Ash—is he—"
   
"He may live. I would never have believed a werwulf could do this. But he's Broken, and…well. In any case, you're safe. Everything else is immaterial."
   
"Reynard!" A familiar voice. Benjamin rocketed around the corner, his sneakered feet slipping in greasy crud and rotting vampire blood. He took in the scene, dark eyes passing over everything in a brief contained arc. "What the hell are you doing here?" He looked like hell. He was beat up and battered, bruises puffing up along one side of his face, his hair wildly disarranged. His clothes were torn too, and I saw with no real surprise that he was holding a single malaika in a white-knuckle grip. He saw me, too, and almost choked. His eyes blazed.
   
"There you are!" He took a single step forward. "Where were you? What were you doing? How did you escape? We were about to—"   

"Leave her be," Christophe said mildly, and Benjamin turned white and almost swallowed his tongue. "Your cadre?"
   
"Still efficient. Some slight wounding." But the djamphir's shoulders straightened and he actually looked proud.
   
"My faith in you is restored." But Christophe didn't look away from my face. His eyebrows drew together. I swallowed hard and slumped against the wall. "Assess the damage to Milady's chambers, if you please, and send me Leontus. Thank you."
   
I think it was the first time I ever heard a djamphir actually dismissed, though not in so many words. Benjamin made curious little salute with his free hand, glanced at me. His hair stuck up wildly. "Milady." And he vanished back down the hall, running flat-out.
   
"Have you been sparring hard?" Christophe's hand came up. I almost flinched, but he rested his fingertips against my cheek. I'd almost forgotten the shadows of bruising on my face, thought that maybe the confusion would cover it up. I should have known better, he didn't miss much.
   
"Anna." The single word blurted out, and I instantly regretted it. Christophe's face hardened, and he let go of me.
   
A swarm of djamphir filled the hall now, mostly older students. They were making certain the vampires were out of commission, and the cracking and tearing sounds made my gorge rise. The hall was full of nose-scorching smoke too, from vampire blood eating into fabric. Christophe started barking orders, and every single one of them hopped to obey like he was a teacher or something. They even looked relieved that someone was there to tell them what to do.
   
I know that feeling. I always felt better when Dad was around to tell me what the hell was going on and what my part in it was. I tried not to look at the mess on the floor. Every bruise and muscle I owned began to shake. My hair hung in my face, blonde streaking through the curls and retreating as the aspect boiled through me and receded.
   
A lean blond djamphir arrived at a dead run with, of all things, a can of Coke. Christophe plucked it from his fingers with a nod and turned to me. "Here. You need the sugar."
  
"Reynard." Leon appeared out of thin air. "The Council's got wind of this. They're en route."
   
"It doesn't matter. She's safe." Christophe pressed my hand around the cold aluminum, the can already sweating condensation. "And I can afford to be caught now that I've run my course."

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

From "Sunshine" by Richelle Mead

CHAPTER TWO

Rhea Daniels didn’t like boats. She’d always wondered if it had something to do with being a fire wielder. All Moroi used magic tied to one of the four elements—earth, air, water, or fire. Those who used water always seemed to love swimming and being in boats. Not Rhea. The rocking back and forth—even on a large boat like this—made her nauseous, and she had a recurrent fear of falling over the side and sinking into a cold, dark grave.

That didn’t stop her from standing near the edge tonight, far from the laughter of the others who were still going on about the attack on the beach. She didn’t mind the isolation; she didn’t know most of them anyway. Besides, the yacht’s outer sides received the most wind, and that cooling air made her feel a little less sick. Nonetheless, she still gripped the railing with a tightness that made her fingers cramp. Grimacing, she glanced ahead at their destination. Like all vampires, she had excellent night vision and could discern the island’s dark shape against the star-clustered sky. They weren’t moving nearly fast enough toward it, as far as she was concerned.

“Don’t your hands hurt?”

The voice startled her. Moroi had good hearing, too, but the newcomer had caught her off guard. Glancing over, she saw a guy watching her curiously as he shoved his hands into khaki pants. The wind was making a mess of his pale blond hair, but he didn’t seem to notice. That hair color was fascinating. Her own was a light shade of gold, but his was a platinum that would probably look white in the right lighting. There was also a regal air to him, like someone who’d been born and bred to power and prestige, but that description applied to most everyone on this trip.

“No,” she lied. Silence fell. Rhea hated silence. She always felt the need to make conversation and struggled now to think of what to say next. “Why are you over here?” The words came out harsh, and she winced.

He gave her a small smile. He had nice lips, she decided. “Do you want me to leave? Is this your private part of the ship?”

“No, no, of course not.” She hoped he couldn’t see her blush in the dark. “I just thought . . . I mean, I’m just surprised you aren’t with everyone else.”

She thought he might make some teasing remark, but then, to her surprise, the smile vanished. He averted his eyes and stared out to sea. She studied his clothes as he did. He wasn’t in a tux or anything, but the slacks and sweater screamed more wealth and status. She felt self-conscious in her jeans. His next words brought her back from her fashion analysis.

“I guess I’m just tired of hearing the Strigoi stories,” he said at last, voice stiff. “Like how it was some kind of awesome sideshow.”

“Ah.” She glanced back to where that girl—Ashley?—was recounting her tale for the hundredth time. Rhea kept hearing snatches of it, and the story seemed to grow more elaborate with each telling. In this version, the Strigoi had actually thrown her to the ground, and all the guardians had been needed to rescue her. Rhea returned her attention to her odd companion. “Yeah . . . I don’t really find that interesting—at least not the way they do.”

“You don’t?” He turned back to her, eyes widening as though it was the strangest thing in the world that someone wouldn’t think a Strigoi attack was cool. She saw then that his eyes were jade-colored, as fascinating to her as his hair. That shade of green was beautiful and rare, only showing up in a few of the royal families. The Dashkovs were one, but she couldn’t recall the others.

“Of course not,” she scoffed, hoping her scrutiny of him hadn’t been too obvious. “They wouldn’t be so excited if someone had actually been hurt. I mean, God, don’t they remember that attack earlier this year in San Jose? When all those people died?”

The guy’s posture went rigid, his eyes still wide, and she suddenly regretted her words. Had he known one of the victims? She felt stupid and awkward, silently berating herself for not thinking before she spoke.

“I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have—”

“You remember that?” he asked, his voice as puzzled as before.

“Yes . . . how couldn’t I? I mean . . . well, I didn’t know anyone personally, but all those people . . . most were Lazars, but there was that Szelsky lord . . . and Prince Dragomir’s wife. What was her name?”

“Alma,” he said softly, still regarding her wonderingly.

Rhea hesitated, not sure how much she should say about it. She was certain now that he’d known someone. “Well, it was horrible. Beyond horrible. I can’t even imagine how their families must feel. . . .”

“It was six months ago,” he said abruptly.

Rhea frowned, trying to figure out the meaning in that statement. He wasn’t brushing it off or implying that six months was a long time—which, in her opinion, it wasn’t. He spoke as though he was testing her, which didn’t make much sense.

“I don’t think six months is a long enough time to get over losing someone you love,” she said at last. “I know I couldn’t. Did—did you know anyone there?”

He opened his mouth to say something, but a sudden wave jolted the boat. It lurched slightly, causing a few eager squeals from the crowd beyond them. Rhea gasped and squeezed the rail harder—which she honestly hadn’t thought was even possible—and lost her footing a little. Her companion caught hold of her, helping her stay steady as the boat righted itself and regained its smooth sailing.

Deep breaths, deep breaths, she told herself. Wasn’t that what people did to calm themselves? Heavy breathing didn’t seem to be a problem for her. She was on the verge of hyperventilating, and her heart felt like it was going to pound right out of her chest.

“Easy,” he said, voice low and soothing. “You’re okay. It was just a bad wave.”

Rhea couldn’t answer. Her body remained taut and locked, unable to move or react in her terror.

“Hey,” he tried again. “Everything’s fine. Look—we’re almost there, see?”

With much effort, Rhea turned to where he nodded. Sure enough, the island was much closer. A cluster of lights marked the dock, and figures along the shore seemed ready to guide them in.

Exhaling, she relaxed her grip—a tiny bit—and shifted her body. He still held on to her, apparently unsure if she really was okay.

“Thank you,” she managed at last. “I’m . . . I’m fine now.”

He waited a few more moments and then finally released her. As he lifted his hand from where it had been pressed against one of hers, he seemed surprised to notice the ring she wore. Its large marquise-cut diamond glittered like a star on her finger. He stared at it in shock, as though she was wearing a cobra wrapped around her hand.

“Are you . . . are you engaged?”

“To Stephen Badica.”

“Seriously?”

The tone of his voice—his complete sense of disbelief—suddenly triggered a fierce spark of anger in her. Of course he was surprised. Why wouldn’t he be? Everyone else was. They all wondered how it was possible that Rhea Daniels—who was only half-royal—could have caught the interest of someone who came from a such a prestigious branch of his line. Her parents’ marriage had been a big enough scandal. Everyone had thought her mother married beneath her, and Rhea knew the sting of that was what had caused her mother to encourage this engagement to Stephen.

Still, Rhea hated the insinuations. She’d heard the whispers, people who wondered if maybe her parents had cut some kind of deal with Stephen’s parents, some bribe. Others said that Stephen was interested because she was easy—and that the engagement wouldn’t last once he tired of her. She knew they seemed like a weird match. Rhea was quiet—more of an observer of the world. Stephen was outgoing and boisterous, always at the center of the world—so much so that he was off now with the others, reliving the earlier excitement.

Rhea stepped back from the blond guy. “Yes,” she said crisply. “Seriously. He’s great. He invited me along.” She was one of the few people here who hadn’t attended St. Vladimir’s Academy.

“Yeah . . .” This guy didn’t sound entirely sure. Mostly, he still seemed baffled. “I just . . . I just can’t see you guys together.”

Of course not. He was obviously someone very elite. Even among royalty, there were those who were better than others. It was honestly a wonder he was even talking to her.

“Don’t you worry . . . don’t you worry you’re too young?” Again, he carried that wondering tone, further incensing her.

“When you’ve found someone good, you don’t need to jump from person to person.”

He flinched and seemed to fumble for a response, making her wonder if she’d hit a sensitive area. He was saved when a pretty brown-haired girl called to him to come join them. She addressed him as Eric.

“You’d better go,” said Rhea. “It was nice talking to you.”

He started to turn and then hesitated once more. “What’s your name?”

“Rhea.”

“Rhea . . .” He said the name as though he was analyzing each syllable. “I’m Eric.”

“Yeah, I heard.” She stared back over the boat’s edge, signaling that she was done talking to him. She had the impression he might say something more, but after several heavy seconds, she could just make out the sound of him walking away as the waves crashed alongside the boat.

Things You Keep in a BoxSo Mom got the postcard today. It says Congratulations in big curly letters, and at the very top is the address of Studio TV-15 on West 58th Street. After three years of trying, she has actually made it. She's going to be a contestant on The $20,000 Pyramid, which is hosted by Dick Clark.

On the postcard there's a list of things to bring. She needs some extra clothes in case she wins and makes it to another show, where they pretend it's the next day even though they really tape five in one afternoon. Barrettes are optional, but she should definitely bring some with her. Unlike me, Mom has glossy red hair that bounces around and might obstruct America's view of her small freckled face.

And then there's the date she's supposed to show up, scrawled in blue pen on a line at the bottom of the card: April 27, 1979. Just like you said.

I check the box under my bed, which is where I've kept your notes these past few months. There it is, in your tiny handwriting: April 27th: Studio TV-15, the words all jerky-looking, like you wrote them on the subway. Your last "proof."

I still think about the letter you asked me to write. It nags at me, even though you're gone and there's no one to give it to anymore. Sometimes I work on it in my head, trying to map out the story you asked me to tell, about everything that happened this past fall and winter. It's all still there, like a movie I can watch when I want to. Which is never.

Things That Go Missing

Mom has swiped a big paper calendar from work and Scotch-taped the month of April to the kitchen wall. She used a fat green marker, also swiped from work, to draw a pyramid on April 27, with dollar signs and exclamation points all around it.

She went out and bought a fancy egg timer that can accurately measure a half minute. They don't have fancy egg timers in the supply closet at her office.

April twenty-seventh is also Richard's birthday. Mom wonders if that's a good omen. Richard is Mom's boyfriend. He and I are going to help Mom practice every single night, which is why I'm sitting at my desk instead of watching after-school TV, which is a birthright of every latchkey child. "Latchkey child" is a name for a kid with keys who hangs out alone after school until a grown-up gets home to make dinner. Mom hates that expression. She says it reminds her of dungeons, and must have been invented by someone strict and awful with an unlimited child-care budget. "Probably someone German," she says, glaring at Richard, who is German but not strict or awful.

It's possible. In Germany, Richard says, I would be one of the Schlusselkinder, which means "key children."

"You're lucky," he tells me. "Keys are power. Some of us have to come knocking." It's true that he doesn't have a key. Well, he has a key to his apartment, but not to ours.

Richard looks the way I picture guys on sailboats--tall, blond, and very tucked-in, even on weekends. Or maybe I picture guys on sailboats that way because Richard loves to sail. His legs are very long, and they don't really fit under our kitchen table, so he has to sit kind of sideways, with his knees pointing out toward the hall. He looks especially big next to Mom, who's short and so tiny she has to buy her belts in the kids' department and make an extra hole in her watchband so it won't fall off her arm.

Mom calls Richard Mr. Perfect because of how he looks and how he knows everything. And every time she calls him Mr. Perfect, Richard taps his right knee. He does that...

Chapter ONE

A Letter

Later he would tell her that their story began at the Royal Hungarian Opera House, the night before he left for Paris on the Western Europe Express. The year was 1937; the month was September, the evening unseasonably cold. His brother had insisted on taking him to the opera as a parting gift. The show was Tosca and their seats were at the top of the house. Not for them the three marble-arched doorways, the façade with its Corinthian columns and heroic entablature. Theirs was a humble side entrance with a red-faced ticket taker, a floor of scuffed wood, walls plastered with crumbling opera posters. Girls in knee-length dresses climbed the stairs arm in arm with young men in threadbare suits; pensioners argued with their white-haired wives as they shuffled up the five narrow flights. At the top, a joyful din: a refreshment salon lined with mirrors and wooden benches, the air hazy with cigarette smoke. A doorway at its far end opened onto the concert hall itself, the great electric-lit cavern of it, with its ceiling fresco of Greek immortals and its gold-scrolled tiers. Andras had never expected to see an opera here, nor would he have if Tibor hadn't bought the tickets. But it was Tibor's opinion that residence in Budapest must include at least one evening of Puccini at the Operaház. Now Tibor leaned over the rail to point out Admiral Horthy's box, empty that night except for an ancient general in a hussar's jacket. Far below, tuxedoed ushers led men and women to their seats, the men in evening dress, the women's hair glittering with jewels.

"If only Mátyás could see this," Andras said.

"He'll see it, Andráska. He'll come to Budapest when he's got his baccalaureate, and in a year he'll be sick to death of this place."

Andras had to smile. He and Tibor had both moved to Budapest as soon as they graduated from gimnázium in Debrecen. They had all grown up in Konyár, a tiny village in the eastern flatlands, and to them, too, the capital city had once seemed like the center of the world. Now Tibor had plans to go to medical college in Italy, and Andras, who had lived here for only a year, was leaving for school in Paris. Until the news from the École Spéciale d'Architecture, they had all thought Tibor would be the first to go. For the past three years he'd been working as a salesclerk in a shoe store on Váci utca, saving money for his tuition and poring over his medical textbooks at night as desperately as if he were trying to save his own life. When Andras had moved in with him a year earlier, Tibor's departure had seemed imminent. He had already passed his exams and submitted his application to the medical school at Modena. He thought it might take six months to get his acceptance and student visa. Instead the medical college had placed him on a waiting list for foreign students, and he'd been told it might be another year or two before he could matriculate.

Tibor hadn't said a word about his own situation since Andras had learned of his scholarship, nor had he shown a trace of envy. Instead he had bought these opera tickets and helped Andras make his plans. Now, as the lights dimmed and the orchestra began to tune, Andras was visited by a private shame: Though he knew he would have been happy for Tibor if their situations had been reversed, he suspected he would have done a poor job of hiding his jealousy.

From a door at the side of the orchestra pit, a tall spindling man with hair like white flames emerged and stepped into a spotlight. The audience shouted its approval as this man...

From the book

Chapter One

7:00 p.m.

I lose everything. Keys, my wallet, money, library books. People don't even take it seriously anymore. Like when I lost the hundred dollars my grandma gave me for back-to-school shopping, my mom didn't blink an eye. She was all, "Oh, Eliza, you should have given it to me to hold on to" and then she just went on with her day.

I try not to really stress out about it anymore. I mean, the things I lose eventually show up. And if they don't, I can always replace them.

Except for my purple notebook. My purple notebook is completely and totally irreplaceable. It's not like I can just march into the Apple store and buy another one. Which is why it totally figures that after five years of keeping very close tabs on it (Five years! I've never done anything consistently for five years!) I've lost it.

"What are you doing?" my best friend Clarice asks. She's sitting at my computer in the corner of my room, IMing with her cousin Jamie. Clarice showed up at nine o'clock this morning, with a huge bag of Cheetos and a six-pack of soda. "I'm ready to party," she announced when I opened my front door. Then she pushed past me and marched up to my room.

I tried to point out that it was way too early to be up on a Saturday, but Clarice didn't care because: (a) she's a morning person and (b) she thought the weekend needed to start asap, since my parents are away for the night, and she figured we should maximize the thirty-six-hour window of their absence.

"I'm looking for something," I say from under my bed. My body is shoved halfway under, rooting around through the clothes, papers, and books that have somehow accumulated under there since the last time I cleaned. Which was, you know, months ago. My hand brushes against something wet and hard. Hmm.

"What could you possibly be looking for?" she asks. "We have everything we need right here."

"If you're referring to the Cheetos," I say, "I'm sorry, but I think I'm going to need a little more than that."

"No one," Clarice declares, "needs more than Cheetos." She takes one out of the bag and slides it into her mouth, chewing delicately. Clarice is from the South, and for some reason, when she moved here a couple of years ago, she'd never had Cheetos. We totally bonded over them one day in the cafeteria, and ever since then, we've been inseparable. Me, Clarice, and Cheetos. Not necessarily in that order.

"So what are you looking for?" she asks again.

"Just my notebook," I say. "The purple one."

"Oooh," she says. "Is that your science notebook?"

"No," I say.

"Math?" she tries.

"No," I say.

"Then what?"

"It's just this notebook I need," I say. I abandon the wet, hard mystery object under the bed, deciding I can deal with it later. And by later, I mean, you know, never.

"What kind of notebook?" she presses.

"Just, you know, a notebook," I lie. My face gets hot, and I hurry over to my closet and open the door, turning my back to her so that she can't see I'm getting all flushed.

The thing is, no one really knows the truth about what's in my purple notebook. Not Clarice, not my other best friend, Marissa, not even my sister, Kate. The whole thing is just way too embarrassing. I mean, a notebook that lists every thing that you're afraid of doing? Like, written down? In ink? Who does that? It might be a little bit crazy, even. Like, for real crazy. Not just "oh isn't that charming and endearing" crazy but "wow that might be a deep-seated psychological issue"...

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.