Khanh, first of her name, mother of bunnies > Books: mary-sue‎ (57)

A line pops into my head, one I repeated dozens of times to get the right balance of hope and desperation that the Zombie Killer is known for. All

A line pops into my head, one I repeated dozens of times to get the right balance of hope and desperation that the Zombie Killer is known for. All that stands between me and the end of the world...is a bobby pin.

Vaya con dios, mi amigo.

I try not to think about the day Pierre and I first fell in love. It was a year ago, when we were wrapping up Zombie Killer, my blockbuster about an orphan who saves the human race.

Pierre was the only one who could make me feel better, and the only boy who ever whispered, This is forever.

I hate asking for help. Luckily, I never have to. A team of specialists is paid to take care of my every need, to anticipate what I might want and have it prepared ahead of time. If they don’t have the right brand of mango lip balm ready for me after a shoot, they’re done.

I’m normally cute: big blue eyes, pouty lips, long copper curls. But this is gorgeous. My short black hair falls straight and glossy as a waterfall; my eyes are melting chocolate.

Standing in front of me is the sexiest guy I’ve ever seen. His eyes are a rugged green, his black hair shaggy on his shoulders. His cargo pants hang off his slim hips, and a white undershirt clings to his chest. My personal trainer would kill for his body.

“Hola.” I’m completely tongue-tied.

“You’re a spoiled brat. You have no problems,” Nick says. “You think your life’s so tough, but your rich mommy and daddy take care of everything for you.” He snatches my orange soda from my hand, takes the last sip, and tosses it into the trash. “You don’t know what real pain is.”

“When I met you on the bus, I thought you were just another rich American,” he continues. “But you’re not. You’re...different.”

[She] finds me a pair of brown contacts, which I’m used to wearing, thanks to my months of demon-red contacts in Zombie Killer.

I’ve never been this hungry before (except for all-night shoots for Zombie Killer.

Anger races through me, and I remember the judo move I learned for the all-night shoot of Zombie Killer. I’ll show you petty problems.

I’ve done it before. I jumped out of a moving car for a stunt in Zombie Killer.

What if someone jumps out and attacks me? What do I do? I try to recall the judo moves I learned for Zombie Killer.

I remember my mom telling me the day before she disappeared, when I was filming the fight scene for Zombie Killer. In that scene, when the zombies had me almost beaten, the Zombie Killer realized that sometimes not fighting is as powerful as fighting.

Hiding from a killer with an armed stranger in Mexico? Am I crazy?

I’ve seen this church before, I realize, on the studio’s back lot. It’s the “Traditional Mafia Church” set.

It feels like my story’s ending. It’s a story with a tragic ending, one where the heroine starves to death on the side of a mountain, all alone, with only a lamb to keep her company.

I see your soul, I want to say, but I bite my tongue, and hope he sees mine.

“Nobody knows,” Nick says. “But when the locals look at them, they see angels.”
“What do you see?”
“Something even better,” Nick says, looking right at me.

"Oh, really?" Rosanna rolled her eyes dramatically, "How convenient that you decide to change the rules after you go on a date with the hottest guy

"Oh, really?" Rosanna rolled her eyes dramatically, "How convenient that you decide to change the rules after you go on a date with the hottest guy in school! Maybe it shouldn't be called the Lonely Hearts Club -- maybe you should call it the Rules Will Change When Convenient For Penny Club!"

He was a guy. A guy guy. As far as I was concerned, he probably had the dead bodies of small children and puppies hidden in his locker.

"Are you even kidding me? Every time you're around Ryan, you flirt up a storm."
Yeah, well, that was the old Penny. New Penny was done flirting. I'd be happy if I never had to speak to any guys for the rest of the year.

I couldn't help but wonder why it was that a guy could find two good girls to date at the same time, when we girls couldn't even find one decent guy.

"The guys in the Elite Eight aren't the problem," Morgan said. "Those girls are so shallow and have zero -- and I mean zero -- things to discuss outside of their boyfriends."

I would stop torturing myself by dating loser guys. I would enjoy the benefits of being single. I would, for once, focus on me. Junior year would be my year. It would be all about me, Penny Lane Bloom, sole member and founder of The Lonely Hearts Club.

Rita and I had joked that guys always wore that on a first date while girls always wore jeans and a black top. Since I wasn't wearing a black top, this was clearly not a date.

"First date?"
I held my breath.
He smiled. "Yes, and what chance do you think I'd have with a second date if I made her pay?"

"I started this club because I was sick of guys. But as the Club has grown, I've noticed that it's more about focusing on ourselves, and that we're really good at that. So now I think maybe our focus shouldn't be on never dating a guy, but on keeping true to your friends. if one of us wants to go --"

All members agree to stop dating men (or, if referring to the male population at McKinley High, "little boys") for the rest of thy high school existence.

"And then when we do find someone we think is special, we forget about our friends." I tried not to look at Diane. "Or we change something about ourselves to please a guy instead of doing what makes us happy or what we know is right. Why do we do this? Why do we even bother?"

I spent more time than necessary hanging up the coats. the entire time I sensed Nate's eyes on my back. And I enjoyed it.

I am on a date with Ryan Bauer.
My stomach did a somersault and I tried to catch my breath. Crap, I'm on a date with Ryan Bauer. I'm not supposed to be on a date! Not only that, I'd declared in front of the entire Lonely Hearts Club that I wasn't going on a date.

I blushed. I needed to take it down a notch before I started making decisions about our china pattern.

"I've always been a little bit jealous of you."
"Excuse me?" How could Miss Perfect, blond-hair, blue-eyes model Diane Monroe be jealous of me?
"Seriously, Penny --I mean, seriously! Look at you! Do you have any idea how hard I have to work to look like this? I mean, look at what I'm eating, for the love of carbs!" Diane motioned toward her garden salad with fat-free dressing and then looked over at my turkey sandwich with cheddar cheese and mayonnaise and potato chips.

"AND you have the coolest style. I choose what I'm going to wear based on what magazines tell me. I look the same as everybody else. But you have your own funky style that nobody else could pull off You always have."
In other words, I was a freak because I preferred All Stars over stilettos.

"You and Ryan are Diane's closest friends. She wants you both to be happy!"

Even when I was little, I knew I wasn’t like everyone else. Sure, I had the clothes and the shoes and the general skills to win superficial popula

Even when I was little, I knew I wasn’t like everyone else. Sure, I had the clothes and the shoes and the general skills to win superficial popularity points. In the last couple years, I’d managed to get involved in stuff like debate and student government, but I’d never managed to be, well, normal.

Totally normal girls don’t wear four-inch Prada heels to the library, or stalk criminals, or wear four-inch Prada heels while stalking criminals.

I felt for the picture of the girl hidden in The Cleave. Next to my other important stuff—cell phone, lip gloss—she was there.

My virginity wasn’t exactly a secret. One of those trashy magazines had even broadcast it in an article called “Ruby Rose: The Virgin Vigilante.”

I needed a few moments with my oldest and dearest friend: Gladys—aka my shoe closet.
Happy to see me, too, Gladys and all her Pips stood at attention for my entry—except for my tan Dolce & Gabbana Catwoman boots, which had to be neatly hung to avoid damage or creases. I had to take care of my Sleeping Beauties.
“Gladys, I need help.” My words echoed into the space.

Big Black, my overly tinted SUV and current best friend.

I looked down at the shimmering weapon—aka Smith, my .38 Special Revolver with built-in laser sight that I’d gotten for my Sweet Sixteenth.

“Liam, it’s never OK to kill,” I said flatly. I had good reason to do it, sure, but that didn’t make it “OK.”

I pulled the trigger.
The deafening gunshot rang out.
The world changed into a black-and-white movie with a river of red flowing all around me.
A ruby-red river of my own making.

I aimed for the largest target area and pulled the trigger. His chest ripped open and his body lost momentum. He would never fight again.

I renewed my grip on the knife and slashed once as hard as I could, until I felt the blade slide through tissue and hit bone. He went limp.

“Things have long been out of control, Liam. I have killed, or been responsible for...” I stopped to count with my fingers. “Seven deaths now. Seven!”

A falling sensation rushed over me, and a sickening crack echoed through my skull.

And I was losing consciousness.

My world quickly spun out from under me. Swirling. Darkness. Pain. The last thing I saw was Liam, still on the ground, soundlessly calling out my name.

A jarring pain stabbed through my chest, and a coughing fit brought me back to reality.
The last thing I felt was being carried away in the arms of a strong man.

He’d done it again. He wanted to toy with me. And I’d been stupid, impatient, and impetuous enough to walk right into his trap.

Ha, I was insane. I was about to sneak out of my nice safe home and go looking for a rapist to convince him to help me. Real smart, Ruby. Best idea ever.

“How about that I killed somebody,” I said. “I’m a Vigilante Teen Assassin. At least that’s what TMZ called me."

I stared at his lips. Were they telling the truth? Or were they like chocolate—promising happiness, providing a few moments of heaven, then ultimately betraying me, going behind my back and putting junk in the trunk?
It didn’t seem like a fair choice. Chocolate had total power over me—there was no denying my addiction to the dark, creamy crack. Those few moments of bliss were always enough for me to disregard the consequences. So, even if Liam was only chocolate, I wanted to taste a piece.

It didn’t seem like a fair choice. Chocolate had total power over me—there was no denying my addiction to the dark, creamy crack. Those few moments of bliss were always enough for me to disregard the consequences. So, even if Liam was only chocolate, I wanted to taste a piece.

“I nearly killed my father,” he said point-blank, staring at his hands as if they might still have blood on them.

“Protecting yourself would be calling the police, not taking a baseball bat and putting your own father in a coma for seven days.”
“You don’t know all the facts,” I said, a little thrown by the baseball-bat thing. Liam hadn’t mentioned that detail, and I flinched at the image of him beating his father.

He turned to her, leaned down, and kissed her, his kisses sending her over the moon. They lay entwined on the lounge chair making out. Becca lost h

He turned to her, leaned down, and kissed her, his kisses sending her over the moon. They lay entwined on the lounge chair making out. Becca lost herself in the perfect world where a handsome prince sweeps an average American girl off her feet.

“Ten days of this. Shoot me now. Everything here is a gabillion years old. The palace of this, the castle of that. Seriously?”

All she wanted was something familiar, like an icy cold, American Diet Pepsi, french fries, and music that wasn’t three hundred years old. She checked out the streets jutting off the square and chose the street where she saw the McDonald’s.

She leaned back in her seat, quickly bored again, and wishing she were home. Other than the couple of moments of eye candy, Becca hated Europe.

The demands of the monarchy—and his parents—threatened to suffocate the life right out of him. As each day passed, he lost more of himself.

“I guess the thing that makes it so difficult is my lack of choices. There is very little I get to decide for myself. My parents have picked my schools, my activities, who I associate with. They and their advisors decide who I sit next to at formal events, who I speak to at a grand opening, who I take photos with at fund-raisers, what charities I must support, even what horse I’ll ride.”

He was far more interested in saving the planet from pollution than plotting invasions in war-torn countries.

Other royal families, like in England, they don’t have to go into the military, do they?”
“The direct heirs to the throne have all served.” He frowned.
“So what are you going to do?”
“Run away.”

"I barely passed high school Spanish.”

Something about this beautiful American girl kept him from thinking about anything else. It didn’t make sense. Becca was ignorant of the historic cities she toured. Her sense of direction was so bad she could probably lose her own shadow, and her quirky sense of humor made him constantly want to kiss her.

“The kids in Europe must hate history class. These countries go back so freakin’ far. At least the U.S. is barely two hundred years old.”

“But you’re not even from here! I don’t know how you can remember the history of other countries. I can’t tell you a thing about Canada other than they play a lot of hockey there. History is my worst subject. I barely pulled off a B last semester.”

"Think about it. I’m an American girl in a foreign country, who took off with a guy I’ve known for barely two minutes. For all I know, you’ve kidnapped me and are going to sell me into slavery.”

“For starters, I don’t have too many skills other than shaking hands, playing polo, and fencing.”

Becca set down the remote and rubbed her face. When she looked up, she saw a tall, imposing figure lurking on the other side of her balcony railing.
Becca screamed and scrambled back into the corner of her bed.
“Becca, it’s me, Nikolai,” he called out, hoping he didn’t fall into the Danube as he clung to the outside of the moving boat.

“If you do become king, you could never hang out with me.”
“Nope. Not unless you were my queen.” He smirked.

Being the Prince of Mondovia allowed him access to a lot of pretty girls, most of whom wanted to kiss a prince. But none drove him crazy like Becca.

Dear Kurt Cobain,
Mrs. Buster gave us our first assignment in English today, to write a letter to a dead person.

Dear Kurt Cobain,
Mrs. Buster gave us our first assignment in English today, to write a letter to a dead person.

It’s hard to be myself, because I don’t know exactly who I am. But now that I’ve started high school, I need to figure it out really fast.

On my first day...I used my favorite outfit from middle school instead, which is jean overalls with a long-sleeve tee shirt and hoop earrings.

The next thing I realized is that you aren’t supposed to bring your lunch. You are supposed to buy pizza and Nutter Butters, or else you aren’t supposed to even eat lunch.

I guess I am not doing this assignment the way I am supposed to. Maybe I’ll try again later.

Yours,
Laurel

Dear Amy Winehouse,

Your fearlessness seemed like it came from a different time. When your first album was released, you still looked innocent, a pretty girl who said she thought she was ugly.

You would step onstage in your little dress, sipping a drink, with your big beehive hairdo and Cleopatra eyeliner, and sing with a voice that poured out of your tiny body. You were willing to expose yourself without caring what anyone thought. I wish I was more like that.

I especially like to watch this boy, whose name I figured out is Sky. He always wears a leather jacket, even though summer is barely over. He reminds me that the air isn’t just something that’s there. It’s something you breathe in.

Dear Janis Joplin,
When I got home today, I looked up about Slash, and I also looked up about your life, so that I can start my education, and so that I can be friends with Tristan and Kristen.
When Kristen and I are better friends, I am going to ask her to play me some of your music.

Yours,
Laurel

And although he has license to stand with the cool kids, he still doesn’t fully belong anywhere and hasn’t relinquished his title of Mr. Mystery. Hence the throng of girls who are always leaning in and touching his arm. But of course, my money’s on you.”

“You’d be a really great writer,” I said.
“Oh yeah? How do you know?”
“By the way you talk. Like when you said that Kurt is so loud because he’s staring the monster in the face, and how you’ve got to fight back.”

I have you in a corner, India. If you’re thinking that my father wouldn’t like it...you’re right. Not only would he not like it; he would destroy your reputation without a second thought.”

"A wife is an investment, like any other, and I take care of my possessions."

Dear Lady Xenobia,
I think I’ll call you Lady X. It has such an exotic sound to it; I feel as if I am writing to the madam of a prosperous brothel. (I’ve never done that before, in case you’re wondering.)
Thorn

Dear Mr. Dautry,
I am named after a queen who conquered all of Egypt, not after a brothel owner.
Lady Xenobia

She took a deep breath and twisted all her hair around itself. Most of her hairpins seemed to be mysteriously missing.
“I pulled them out in the carriage,” Dautry said, watching her fruitlessly pat her head.
“Why on earth did you do that?”
“I was bored.”

“My father said that in the event of tribulation or strife, I was to be sent to you.” She stopped again.
“He did not fuss, and neither did I,” said Rose, and up went that little nose again. “I don’t like to be unclean, and I didn’t care for the insects living in the straw. But I did not complain.”
“Or cry. At least,” she added, “until I reached your house, when I succumbed to exhaustion.”

“Better married to Mr. Dautry than never married at all.” Lala had been beset by suitors all season, but her father had rejected every one. She knew why: he had decided that her beauty was worth a huge settlement. In short, no one had bid high enough to pay off his debts.

He looks up as we pass, and for an instant, our eyes meet, and it feels like the world slows on its axis.

“Look, I’m all for the idea of bringing a bunch of hot college guys to town, but are you sure we should be opening the gates if a bunch of magic-haters are out to kill us?”

We can have anything we want. Good grades. Fabulous clothes. Immunity from teachers’ punishments. Control over everything. Lust and love from whatever boys we choose. It’s all ours. Doesn’t that interest you?”

Across the group of mourners, two impossibly beautiful girls are staring right at me. One is a beautiful honey blonde with perfectly tanned skin. The other, who’s even more stunning, has glistening cocoa skin, a perfect model’s body, and mounds of wildly gorgeous ebony curls.
They’re surrounded by three guys and two other girls, all of whom are also gorgeous

She’s paired her oxford with a set of Chanel pearls featuring a diamond-encrusted, interlocking double C. Her high-heeled Mary Janes are studded with what look like diamonds, and her hair is artfully mussed.

“Gin and tonic?” Arelia asks eagerly as she smoothes a corner of the blanket. It’s cashmere, I notice. “Or would you prefer champagne today?”

Not only are they undoubtedly the most gorgeous girls in school, but they’re being trailed by a crowd of adoring-looking guys as they sweep into the cafeteria in a cloud of expensive perfume.

“Dandelion and mojo beans, sandalwood and lemon balm, we draw your power. Spirits, open the gates of Carrefour on Saturday night.”

"We’re getting you a haircut and a makeover on Thursday after school. We’ve already scheduled an appointment for you at Cristof’s Salon.”

The thing is, I’ve always felt a half step different from everyone else.

“It’s like one big country club,” I say.

A half-dozen shops that look like they belong in an Atlantic seaside resort town—not middle-of-nowhere Louisiana—extend down the left side of the street.

"At one time our ancestors were very powerful practitioners of voodoo. But in 1863, they, along with Peregrine’s and Chloe’s ancestors, struck their own deal with the fates because they felt voodoo was getting too commercialized."

...some sort of sorority ritual.

“There are a few things to know: First, all charms have to start with asking Eloi Oke to open the gate so that we can talk to the spirits. Second, they all have to involve herbs or flowers, because we channel our power from them. Third, they always have to be specific. Like you can’t say, ‘Make all the boys fall in love with me.’ Instead you’d have to ask for your own beauty enhancements, or ask for the love of a specific guy. Or both.”

“But I mean the one with the blue eyes,” I mumble.
“The light-skinned black dude?” Drew asks.

I wish I weren’t thinking about Caleb. I wish I hadn’t spent the last twenty-four hours daydreaming about being pressed up against the solid chest I’d collided with outside the library.

“I cheated on her every day. In my mind, I thought of you in ways I shouldn’t have, again and again. She was nothing compared to you. I’ve never fe

“I cheated on her every day. In my mind, I thought of you in ways I shouldn’t have, again and again. She was nothing compared to you. I’ve never felt this way about anybody before—”

The only French word I know is oui, which means “yes,” and only recently did I learn it’s spelled o-u-i and not w-e-e.

I’m going to be sick. I’m going to vomit that weird eggplant tapenade I had for dinner, and everyone wil hear, and no one will invite me to watch the mimes escape from their invisible boxes, or whatever it is people do here in their spare time.

“Where have you been all my life?” I ask the beautiful panini. “How is it possible I’ve never had a sandwich like this before?”

Mer is next in line, and I transcribe her speech phonetically.

Oon ploss see voo play.

My dream is to study film theory in California. I want to be our nation’s greatest female film critic.

I wonder if Matt is a better kisser now that he has someone more experienced to practice on. He was probably a bad kisser because of me.

Oh, no.

I’m a bad kisser. I am, I must be.

Someday I’ll be awarded a statue shaped like a pair of lips, and it’ll be engraved with the words WORLD’S WORST KISSER.And Matt will give a speech about how he only dated me because he was desperate, but I didn’t put out, so I was a waste of time because Cherrie Milliken liked him all along and she totally puts out.

Oh God. Does Toph think I’m a bad kisser?

"You’re beautiful.”

I trip and fall down on the sidewalk.

I look away as he takes my hand and helps me up. “I’m fine. Fine!” I say, brushing the grit from my palms. Oh my God, I AM a freak.

“You’ve seen the way men look at you, right?” he continues.

“If they’re looking, it’s because I keep making a fool of myself.”

Slutty nurse. I don’t believe it. Tiny white button-up dress, red crosses across the nipples. Cleavage city.

"I said you were beautiful. I slept in your bed!”
“You never made a move! You had a girlfriend!”
“No matter what a terrible boyfriend I was, I wouldn’t actually cheat on her. But I thought you’d know. With me being there, I thought you’d know.”

It’s nice holding hands. Comfortable.

I wish friends held hands more often, like the children I see on the streets sometimes. I’m not sure why we have to grow up and get embarrassed about it.

I mean I didn’t SLEEP sleep with him. Obviously. But I slept with him.

I slept with a boy! I burrow back down into my sheets and grin.

"Liv...it’s a name, a verb, a command. A notion of mortality. That’s a name ripe for some epic poetry. If I could write, I’d write you one, a poem.

"Liv...it’s a name, a verb, a command. A notion of mortality. That’s a name ripe for some epic poetry. If I could write, I’d write you one, a poem.”

“I appreciate the effort, man, but let it go,” Gabe said, sincerely. “You know what’s most important right now: to learn the truth and bring justice. For her.”

My grades certainly didn’t get me into Wickham Hall. I assumed it was my portfolio.

They dressed the same. Their hair was almost identical. Their skin was milky with the occasional bout of freckles. Their noses even turned up in the same way. But mostly, they all talked the same.

That’s when I noticed him. He was standing next to the headmaster, still looking at me even though the others had turned away. Our eyes met, and I quickly looked away. But I could feel his gaze linger. I desperately willed my face not to flush, my lips not to purse. Suddenly I was aware of every single muscle in my face.

I looked up, mouth full of bread, to see what had happened and...he was there.
He stood in front of me and asked, “May I have this dance?”

He was skittish and intense, but his brown eyes were gentle. Still, I wanted to keep at least three feet away. He was almost exactly how I’d always pictured Vincent Van Gogh—in other words, pretty crazy.

Malcolm let go of my hand and took out his iPod. He clicked it on and then handed it to me. A playlist called Liv, Forever was cued up.
“I made it for you. Obviously.”

And we walked along a sun-dappled path, comfortable like two people who’d known each other forever.
I looked out over the terrain. Lush and seemingly endless. And we walked right into it, serenaded by the Beatles’s “I’m Looking Through You.”

He turned to me. “Draw on me.”
“What?”
“Draw on me.""
After he said that, he took his shirt off. His body was perfect.

My head whipped back from its force. And that’s when everything went black.

My body was cold and dull. Plump with death. I looked almost serene. My dark hair spread around my head, kind of like that famous painting of Ophelia floating in the river. Funny, I’d made so many self-portraits and yet I’d never really looked at myself and realized I was actually kind of pretty.

He kneeled on the ground next to my body and kissed my cheek.

I was separate from the world. I had become the star, hadn’t I? That tragic, lonely thing.

I imagined myself an angel. I kind of was, wasn’t I?

I waited and waited until there was enough condensation for me to write a single sentence. It took every ounce of willpower to ignore the pain in my fingertip. But I did it.
I will hold u again, I wrote on the glass.

It was mid-afternoon so there were no stars, of course, but the leaves were every possible orange and the clouds were perfect puffs.

A self-portrait. Almost all my drawings are self-portraits. They don’t necessarily look like me—in fact, they rarely do—but they represent me.

“You are so talented. Do you understand? Your skill is exceptional. If you unleash and add true emotion to your work, it will sing, Olivia! It will fly!”

“I think I’ve been waiting for you my whole life.”
“It must’ve been a pretty boring life.”
“It was. Then I met you.”

But then images started to emerge from the darkness around us. At first they were pleasant: a Titian cherub, a Chagall angel. But then one of Bosch’s devils appeared. And Munch’s screaming terror. Francis Bacon’s agonizing Pope. And one of Basquiat’s jagged skulls.

There was an opening in the canopy of trees where we could see the brilliant moon. And stars. Hundreds of them. He took my hand. He held it strongly—with commitment. We lay there silently for a long while until he spoke.
“Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art—
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night

I was dying inside. Brain exploding like a Pollock. Heart melting like one of Dalí’s clocks.

And he cried. He didn’t have that embarrassed look guys usually have when they cry, like the way my dad had struggled against his tears. Malcolm let go, without shame.

“You know what I wish?” he asked.
What?
“That I could just see you one last time—hear your voice. Hold you.”

None of the girls was asleep, drugged, playing, waiting.
They were dead.
They had been killed here.
She wanted to be horrified. It seemed sick to be j

None of the girls was asleep, drugged, playing, waiting.
They were dead.
They had been killed here.
She wanted to be horrified. It seemed sick to be jealous, too, but she was. It hurt to know he’d loved so many other girls; that she was not special, not unique.

“I’m not allowed to ride in my friends’ cars. I’m not allowed to get my license until I’m eighteen. I’m not allowed to date. Not allowed to watch R-rated movies. Not allowed to go for walks after dark. Not allowed to play with sharp objects. The list goes on and on.”

It was one in the morning and she was alone in a strange city, with her duffel bag next to her, a play cracked open in front of her—and she had nowhere to go.
This was not the triumphant homecoming she’d imagined.

Casinos were open all night. She’d figured she could sit in the café, maybe doze off with her head on the table, and no one would care. But now that she’d been there three hours, Mira was starting to think her predicament was obvious. That some gambler would see a “helpless” girl in a frilly blouse and shorts and hit on her. Or some slot-playing grandma would spot a “runaway” and call the police. Or both.

She pressed the handkerchief to her mouth, and when she pulled it away, Mira saw that the cloth was full of sodden flowers: shiny-wet violets, tiny daisies, delicate pink bleeding hearts. All fresh and flecked with blood.

Mira’s forehead wrinkled with confusion. Sometimes this place was just too weird.

Her cheek burned like she’d been lying in the sun too long, and she stood perfectly still, not wanting to break the spell.

His hand grazed her breast, and her breath caught in her throat.

...the bolt on the door had been breached, and the door had been flung open and slammed hard against the wall. A slender, dark figure moved swiftly through the room—
And pounced on the bed.

Mira settled back and did her best to calm down. Maybe Felix would punch Blue for her later.

She wanted to do something, to show him she could be natural at this, but—she couldn’t. Her body had gone rigid with apprehension.

She wandered out into the empty suite, trying hard not to cry. Her embarrassment from last night came flooding back.

Mira pouted at him. It was obvious there was something he wasn’t telling her.

There are things I need to do here, and I intend to do them.”

“Um, little animals flock to him like he’s made of candy.”

“What’s all this curse talk?” Mira murmured to Freddie.
“Just a joke,” Freddie said, flashing an unconvincing smile.

“You know, you are the most...despicable person I’ve ever met.” Mira’s fingers tightened around the Cinderella’s Secret bag. “You don’t even know me, but you insist on being a jerk to me every chance you get.”

“I didn’t say he wants to like you. Just that he does. Maybe because you act like you don’t like him, so he feels a little safer."

“Would you like me to carry your bag?” Freddie asked. He looked a little guilty—but hopeful, too.
“No.”
“But I’d like to do you favors.”

She threw her arms around his neck, swayed toward him, off balance, and kissed him violently, possessively. Come back, she thought. Stay with me.
“I bought—a sexy nightgown,” she said. “Do you want to see it?”

But the one thing she hadn’t expected to find was a kiss that could destroy her. A kiss that—if it hadn’t ended in time—could have been her last.
She shivered all over at the memory. Both terrified and wanting it to happen again.

“I’m small and plain.”
Desni shot her a look of disbelief. “You’re a beautiful girl, Senna. More so because of how rare your features are. Those gol

“I’m small and plain.”
Desni shot her a look of disbelief. “You’re a beautiful girl, Senna. More so because of how rare your features are. Those golden eyes—”
“But when compared to someone like Ciara—”
“You compare diamonds to rubies. Rubies may be a bit more flashy, but diamonds are made of tougher stuff and are more rare.”

Well let me tell you 'bout the way she looked
The way she'd act and the colour of her hair
Her voice was soft and cool
Her eyes were clear and bright
But she's not there

He was tall—head and shoulders taller than her. Thin, but in a strong way. He had a crop of brown hair that hung low over his forehead. His legs bowed out at the knees—probably from riding so much. He had a permanent wrinkle around his eyes, as if he never stopped smiling long enough for the lines to smooth out. He was smiling at her now.

Oh, Sister Sea Plants, I ask of thee,
Take me to the place none but Witches see.

Corn, stop the men who hold me tight,
Bind them though they fight.

Plants of the forest, make a path for me,
For through this forest I must flee.
After I pass, hide my trail,
For an enemy I must quell.

Plants, with strength and swiftness, come to me,
For with my companions I must flee.

He saw a face set against a dark cloak. Wisps of blonde hair, wavy from the moist air, fell across her breast. Her lips were full.

Before she could change her mind, she snatched her wrap from its hook and flung it around her narrow shoulders.

“I’ve heard her. When she’s fully come into her own, I wouldn’t doubt she’ll be at least a Level Four."

"My guess is you might be the only Witch left.”

Joshen lowered his voice. “Then how’ll you find it?”
“I’ll find it,” she assured him.

She didn’t know how to explain it, but the song felt right.

Bringing his bruised face closer, Wardof beckoned Garg toward him. “You wanna do something to stop me, you dull, fat, laughable excuse for Espen’s Servant!”

This class is way over my head. Half an hour of this and I swear my notes were penned by a retarded monkey who is just as confused as I am.

“What kind of obtuse podunk outfit is this anyway? Supersized, narcissistic Rent-a-Cop!” I sit back and realize the cop has returned to my window. Aw crap.

His voice is rich with a funny eastern accent, which under lighter circumstances I would find amusing.

His head is now turning slowly, methodically, and he is looking at me as though I’m one of the Seven Wonders of the World.

His concern for me is palpable, like a hand caressing my cheek.

He could feel her concern for him radiating like a lighthouse.

No, not just hot but sexy as hell and— Wait, what?
Sexy? Where in the hell did that come from?

He had been tracking his lost lover’s soul and found it in Sophia.

So his wardrobe was chosen with care: black jeans and a long-sleeved black shirt buttoned at the throat. And for good measure, he wore a long black duster, a favorite from the old days.

He opted for black skinny jeans with multicolored Converse high tops and a black T-shirt that said, I DIED FOR AN IRON MAIDEN.

He wore black jeans rolled at the cuffs, black combat boots, and a tight black T-shirt over his beefy chest. His hair had been cut shoulder length and gathered at the back of his head with a leather, noose-like strap.

Dante changed clothes three times before settling on black designer jeans and a charcoal mock turtleneck. After all, this was a special occasion. He should look nice and sophisticated but not like he was trying too hard.

“Now we go to America!” Dante announced the command he had been waiting years to say.

Dante clenched his teeth. “Fine! To Italy. And then to Connecticut without another delay.”

He seems disjointed from the others like a curious bystander.

He was blue!”
“As a Smurf!”

I look and see Casey James laughing at his own joke. A moment later he stops, and his mouth opens and closes like a fish. His eyes gradually bulge in panic. Before I can think the words, He’s choking, Michael is there, wrapping his arms around Casey’s waist and hauling him out of the chair.

“But he was dead!” I whisper. “And Raph didn’t do CPR!” We stop at my locker and I throw my books inside.
“Well, he must have done something, right? I mean, Casey choked to death.”
“But...Raph didn’t. You saw that he didn’t, right?”

“What are you?” he whispered into her strawberry-scented curls. Damn. He breathed in deeply. He could inhale that smell all night. His body reacted

“What are you?” he whispered into her strawberry-scented curls. Damn. He breathed in deeply. He could inhale that smell all night. His body reacted to it like cats to catnip.

"Mr. Rock-Star-National-Geographic"

“It seems young Dillan has also been part of several, and I mean several, ad campaigns for designers like Calvin Klein and Armani, to name two."

"He was once approached to star in a movie."

"He’s even rumored to have dated every young Hollywood starlet and emerging singer you can name."

"You know that Taylor Swift song—”
“The one about the guy who dumped her?” Kyle asked.

“Dillan’s also the son of the legendary duo of archeologists: Dr. Jarvis Sloan and Dr. Lillian Sloan.”
“You mean the two who proved Atlantis is really in South America and not in Spain?"

“As I was saying,” she continued. “Rumor has it Dillan was responsible for unearthing a lost civilization in the Amazon.”

“Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.” He sighed like he tasted the meaning behind the words.

The cat on his lap purred. “You like Frost, huh?” He glanced at the contented feline. “I know. The man can rhyme.”

...her nose scrunched up and the tops of her cheeks tinted pink. She clutched the handle of the feather duster so hard its feathers quivered. Her lips contorted.

Those unique aquamarine eyes he could stare into all day. They reflected her heart and soul. And her blushes that stopped his heart every time.

He shifted moods from zero to sixty in less than three seconds. I was beginning to see that he said mean and snarky things as a defense mechanism.

An entire succubus population in one school? They made him feel like fresh meat ready for the taking.

“I’d like a piece of him,” he heard the woman say. He tried not to cringe. Or run. Cougars were known to give chase.

The second we touched, a spark zinged up my arm.
“Ye-aw!” I jumped out of my seat. All eyes in the room immediately focused on me.

He smirked. “What happened to compromise? You know the meaning of that word, don’t you? Or should I get a dictionary?”
I let out a keening growl and threw the tub of glue at him without thinking twice about it. The jerk had it coming.

His arms tightened around me. I sighed at his body heat against mine. It felt like a blanket on a rainy day—comforting and safe. Nothing like the arrogant Dillan I knew.
“No.” A hint of pleading crept into his tone. “Not yet. Don’t move yet.”

“I need to suck out the poison.”
Ignoring his continued protests, she bent over him and sucked at the wound she’d created.

The utter menace in Garret’s expression made him look like a man who knew people who specialized in making annoyances disappear, no questions asked.

“Il-lu-me-na-ri. My family...we protect people. Simply, we are what stand between you and chaos. Humans aren’t the only race in this world. Many of those we protect you from still consider you as food. In the Illumenari we call them Supernaturals. Basically everything that goes bump in the night."

"He was a love sick puppy with nothing but you on his mind. It was sickening to hear him talk about you all the time. Just ask any of his teammates."

She baffled the hell out of him. Selena Fallon. He couldn’t stop thinking about her. About the electricity their contact created.

I was gangly and awkward—coppery curls that broke brushes, a complexion like I’d never heard of the sun, and long limbs meant for banging into things.

She wrinkled her nose. “The freckles are still there.”
“No, no, no, no! They’re a feature that brings out the sea in your eyes! You’re beautiful.”

Another thump.
This would be the point where the audience would scream at me to run back to the house. But, like in horror movies, the heroine—i.e. me...moved to investigate.

What could be going on in that brain of hers to challenge a group of undead with a stick?

“Rainer!” He moved further into the house, not having the patience for his uncle’s mind games. “You dick, I know you’re home.”

“You’re trouble, and I don’t do trouble.” He opened the book again and continued reading like I’d been dismissed. Well, his highness had another thing coming.

“What?” Her words didn’t sink in fast enough. He was too distracted by the way the setting sun brought out golden highlights in her copper curls.

I whispered my disappointment at how Constance let herself fall into Dillan’s trap.

“The Perfect Killer is based in Chelsea and is a student,” I said loudly.
“You...didn’t know that,” I realized with a touch of despair. I had

“The Perfect Killer is based in Chelsea and is a student,” I said loudly.
“You...didn’t know that,” I realized with a touch of despair. I had said too much.
I only wanted to prove my cleverness to him, seemingly using information that was public property. But instead I had given him new clues that could lead to me.
Shit.

When I was nine, we began to manage it together, and when I was twelve she let me have it all for my own. I only killed four between the ages of nine and twelve, but when I took absolute possession of the mailbox I set a quicker pace—about ten a year.

I wondered if the maids would be nervous too if they knew they were cleaning the house of murderers.

She had on this draped, toga-like dress patterned with green bamboo; it didn’t suit her figure, and it bothered me, but she was one of my favorite teachers despite her odd dressing habits. I’d had her a few years ago for an English class. She taught English when she wasn’t teaching philosophy, and I liked her and how she spoke. Her short black hair was no-nonsense, no-frills. She didn’t talk too fast. She took her time with things, and sometimes I even believed that she might understand me and why I killed. But I would never tell her, of course. She was legally obligated, as a teacher, to tell the police.

...he looked almost upset, but the turmoil was mixed disturbingly with fury.

His eyes tell me that he is thinking intently about something else, and also that he is sad about something or other.

“Yes, but I didn’t do it, I swear I didn’t, everyone is going to think that, but I swear I didn’t, I didn’t, I didn’t...,” I wailed insistently, and leaned more heavily against the window, quivering timidly. I even managed to make myself cry some more, tears leaking out of my eyes slowly.

I thought about us in our gray-walled, elegant hallway, the two slender blondes on the edge of an expensive rug, pale-skinned and frail-looking, pausing beneath famous photographs, drinking orange juice from designer glasses.

They would see dark eyes under dark eyelashes, prominent collarbones, and a smattering of freckles dashed across a thin nose like Audrey Hepburn’s, the only truly beautiful feature of a small pale face—would they see a seventeen-year-old murderer?

Strangely few people knew about it, considering the fact that I was so famous. Not even the police knew about it. Or at least I assumed so, since they hadn’t taken control of or searched it yet.

Letters nearly filled the mailbox, at least thirty of them.

You know why we kill. We kill because there is no justice. And without us, the world is lost—”

Dear Killer,
I had had too much to drink, maybe I shouldn’t have been driving, but I didn’t mean anything bad. I was just going home. But there was this red light and I didn’t really know what I was doing, and I drove through it—and there was this other car that swerved to avoid me, and it crashed and someone died.
I just kept driving.

Kill her. Her name is Lily Kensington, and she lives at 28 Lark Place, in Chelsea. She gets home every night at nine.

It makes me angry. She makes me angry. But I love her. No one can have her but me, or I really am going to kill myself.
Please. Please kill her. If I can’t have her, no one can.

He was young. Younger than I had expected. Much younger, in fact. He couldn’t have been older than twenty-five or thirty. I remembered that my mom had said he was only unofficially in charge of the investigation.

...he had a bit of a studious feel to him, as if he were a professor or some other scholar.
He was attractive. Surprisingly so.

“I was hoping you’d come. We need a new eye here. It’s the same deal as before—an untraceable murder. It’s frustrating.”

“The couch pillows are still in place,” he said angrily. “No DNA, no fingerprints, no witnesses, no broken windows or picked locks, nothing. Nothing but the body.”

Alex let the tape fall, and shoulder to shoulder, we walked inside. Legitimate police officers passed by me, looking very official, making me feel like a child. Once we got into the front hallway, where Lily Kensington had put her hand on my shoulder, he gestured to the room to our left.

Black carpet so the bloodstains wouldn’t help the police solve the murder.

I walked into the Chelsea Police Station bearing pastries and a smile.

“You’re a kid. Why are you following me to work? You want something, I can tell, but I don’t know what that is.”
“Ah...well...” I laughed nervously. “I want to know about the Perfect Killer.”

When we got to the crime scene, there was crime-scene tape everywhere and a near army of reporters.
I did my best to keep them from seeing my face, given the fact that they were possible witnesses. Of course, I was subtle about it.

I looked around, biting my lip. I needed to get in. Usually by this point in the conversation I was already inside.
“Actually, I have to talk to you about something,” I murmured.
“Yeah, well, whatever you want to talk to me about, we can talk right here,” she said, leaning against the doorway imposingly, making it clear that she was taller and stronger than me. Her expression was distinctly unfriendly.
“It’s...well...I don’t want to,” I said childishly, petulantly.

“Fair enough. We’re friends, then?”
She smiled a soft smile, ever so slightly.
“Yeah. Friends.”
My stomach churned a bit.

“Stop playing games,” I hissed.
Yet again, everyone was listening. They had stopped what they were doing and they were all listening to us, wondering if we would deteriorate into physical violence again.

“How did you discover the body?”
“I just...went to the bathroom, and he was there, on the floor.” I shuddered.

And here, in the hallway, despite the darkness of the situation, emotions began to float up in my chest again, accentuated and amplified by the physical closeness between Alex and me.

"Welcome to Lumiére Academy. Your school."

"Welcome to Lumiére Academy. Your school."

"Ondines are peaceful, powerful, and protective. Along with our dessondine ancestors, we are responsible for the protection and maintenance of water. We give birth to two races, ondines and demillirs. We are beings of magic, leaders and symbols of the water elemental world."

"I still don't understand how training ondines to fight is a problem."
"It goes against our very nature." Her lips tightened. "It would be like trying to turn a swan into a shark."

Broussard's eyes swept the classroom. "Who can name the eight Virtues?"
"Clairvoyance, Kinesis, Projection, Healing, Cloaking, Empath, Teleportation, and Transmutation."

...most non-Redavi demillirs serve as chevaliers because they possess extra-human speed and strength.

"Redavi demillirs take afternoon classes in business and politics. But they usually just hang around bragging about their inheritances."
"Fucking Redavi," Cam muttered under his breath.

"Aquidae are grotesque demons with no soul. No matter how much they may look like us, they are not. They do not live, but feed off violence and death." She shook her head sadly. "The great tragedy is that these abominations used to be beings of light."

Aquidae were humans or elementals who were turned, either by force or by choice.

"How can an Aquidae be killed?"
"By destroying the Origin scar, either through staking or decapitation," Ryder said. "Staking is the easier of the two."

"Depends on what teacher you get. We're all juniors," Ryder motioned to everyone at the table, "which means we have most of our regular classes together. In the afternoon, we go to chevalier training classes while ondines take elemental magic or Virtue classes."

Thick, straight hair tumbled down to my waist, and I gave it a few more swipes with a brush to make it shine. I swept all of it in front of my left shoulder so that my right shoulder lay bare, showing off my tattoo. The familiar feel of my dagger in its usual place at the small of my back comforted me.
Sexy and just a bit dangerous. Exactly the look I was going for.

I remembered that tournament two years ago. I'd won decisively in kumite, the free sparring division against a six-five guy who was over twice my weight. Receiving that trophy was one of the proudest moments of my life.

I knew we were Redavi, which is kind of like nobility in ondine society.

Not only was my mom Redavi, but she was the daughter of the official political leader of Haverleau.

"You're an Empath?" Chloe squeaked. "That's really rare."
"I've never met an Empath before," Ryder said, staring at me like I'd grown horns out of my head.

"There was a prophecy," Aubrey said. "No one knows the exact details because prophecies are highly protected. But it predicted the coming of an ondine who would have the mark of the elemental diamond on her left ankle, and the mark of water on her right shoulder. As the sondaleur, she'd bring about the end of our war with the Aquidae."

Every movement was full of power, revealing the litheness of his body and his superior skill and control. Gold streaked through the air as his kouperet staked first one and then the other.
All three Aquidae were on the ground, dead in a pool of thick, dark blood.
I couldn't believe it. I'd never seen anyone move as fast or as effectively as this man just did.

"And of course, you've met Prince Tristan Belicoux."
Prince?
"He's Chief Gardinel and Crown Prince of the Selkie Kingdom."

"He's got quite a rep with the ladies," Chloe said. "And you're totally his type."

Julian LeVeq leaned casually against the wall, a small smile playing on his lips.

Julian LeVeq leaned casually against the doorjamb with his arms crossed, charisma rolling off him in waves.

Julian LeVeq lounged on a bench directly beneath the lamp, reading a battered paperback of The Complete Poetry of Arthur Rimbaud.

Aubrey shot me a surprised look. "You haven't heard? She went Rogue. Ran off last night with the gardinel assigned to her mother. They'd been together secretly for awhile."
Everyone shifted uncomfortably and I suddenly noticed my chest hurt.
"Don't they know what's going to happen?" Chloe shuddered.
No one said anything. We all knew the consequences.

Ryder and I spent quite a chunk of time together every day. I didn't consider him my boyfriend, but I did enjoy being around him. He made me laugh and his unfailing admiration made me feel good. Selfish as that feeling may be, I needed it a lot right now.

Julian probably wanted to add me to his long list of conquered women and he thought his chances would improve if we spent more time together.

A knife flashed in her hand and she lunged at him.

God, he had to be crazy. She had a knife to his throat and all he could think about was how her l

A knife flashed in her hand and she lunged at him.

God, he had to be crazy. She had a knife to his throat and all he could think about was how her lips would taste.

Insanity. It had to be.

But he wanted to kiss her more than anything right that second.

This was her fault. She had disturbed the balance of the universe.

She ached to return to Pyralis, to the twilight and the scent of flowers layered through the air, to the vast horizon of stars and the trees that whispered songs to her in the half darkness, and to her sisters, singing to the sky, running through the forests.

Her fate depended on his.
If she did not find Luc, if she did not kill him the way the marble had indicated—the hand, the knife—she would never be allowed to return to Pyralis Terra.

He never exactly felt like an outsider, but the thought was always there, in the back of his mind: Different.

She had the craziest eyes he’d ever seen. … Gray, but tinged almost with purple, like the bay reflecting the sunset.

The soft grayish-purple color of her eyes was unlike anything he’d ever seen, and he couldn’t keep from staring. Her pupils dilated and the color changed, deepening to a wild violet hue that reminded him of dark storm clouds in a summer sky.

The fire lit up crazy colors in her eyes—threads of silver and gold, that wild violet color—and for a second, he felt as if he was consumed by her eyes, lost in them.

She smelled like flowers—lilac. The word popped into his head. It was intoxicating. He wanted to bury his face in her hair and breathe her in. Do more than just breathe her in.

The space between them grew smaller; the smell of her, that insane smell of flowers, intensified.

For a second, her head lolled heavily against his, and he could smell her breath. Flowers.
She smelled like flowers.

And then her lovely eyes rolled backward, her body relaxed, and she lost consciousness.

“You will destroy Pyralis, Corinthe. You will destroy everything you love. Is that what you want? The only way to stop it is to kill him.”

But she didn’t know whether she could kill him.
She didn’t want to kill him.

Her sister Fates: Alexia, Alessandra, Beatrice, Brienne, Calyssa...

In Pyralis, the Fates all looked the same. They wove white dresses out of flower petals.

The way he had looked at her, the hunger in his eyes, made something ache deep inside of her.

She was an Executor, and feelings had no business in her life, but for one second, she wondered what it would be like to kiss him.

Enough, she told herself. Wherever he was, she would find him and kill him. There was no choice, only destiny.

There was no way she could kill him, even if she wanted to.

He pulled her hips forward instinctively, molding them against his body.
Corinthe made a sound deep in her throat, and his pulse leapt. Fire raced through his veins.
She moved closer and the knife nicked his throat.

Was she a runaway? Maybe he had startled her and she had come after him in self-defense. Assumed he was going to turn her in.
It had to be a misunderstanding.

Luc turned back toward Corinthe. She paused, and a gust of wind lifted strands of her hair, making it dance around her head chaotically. For a second, insanely, he wondered how it would feel to have her body pressed up against him one more time.

Girl or not, injured or not, she was still trying to kill him. He was on her in an instant, straddling her waist, the knife pulled quickly from his belt and pressed against her throat.

Corinthe grabbed his hand, forced the knife against the pulse that beat wildly in her neck. Her eyes glistened in the suns, turning a haunting shade of purple. She arched her back, lifting her chin so she was even more exposed to him.
She looked alone and lost and wild and beautiful.
Protect her.
The crazy thought came out of nowhere.

The silk wraparound skirt she had on billowed around her legs. She smoothed it down over her hips and he forgot everything—what to think, what to say, how to breathe.
Everything about her was amazing. The way she tilted her head to the side, like she was listening for something. The curve of her neck right at the shoulder, a spot he wanted desperately to touch.

For ten years she’d been dwelling in this world, executing fates as the Unseen Ones willed, but none of the humans had made her feel this way before. What was different this time?

He was different—he looked at her differently, too, as if he could see something behind her eyes.

"If you want, I’ll finish combing your hair.”

I stared at his outstretched hand, totally floored.

I loved getting my hair brushed. More than getting

"If you want, I’ll finish combing your hair.”

I stared at his outstretched hand, totally floored.

I loved getting my hair brushed. More than getting my back scratched, more than getting a massage, more than anything, and I’d always dreamed about having a cute boy brush my hair.

Thad had just served up my secret fantasy on an island platter.

I sat on the bed while Natalie messed with my hair. It was the latest surreal Nil moment of the day. Less Survivor, more like America’s Next Top Model, island-edition.

When all the girls grew curves, I’d just stretched, growing like crazy until I hit six feet. Recently my chest had made a small effort to catch up— the key word there was small— but I still had no hips. The boyish Bermudas were perfect.

For a second, I saw myself through his eyes: gaunt, sunburned, not a speck of makeup, looking like some six-foot wild child from the bush after twelve days of oceanside camping. I was a tropical freak show.

She’d stood on the black sand, chin raised, Kevin’s shorts slung low on her hips and his bandana wrapped around her chest, her dark hair whipping around her shoulders, like a kick-ass character from a graphic novel.

“Is that breakfast? Something smells delicious.”
“Definitely. I’m guessing roast fish, warm pineapple. It’s a break from yesterday’s roast fish and warm pineapple.”

White and flaky, with a hint of citrus, the fish melted in my mouth.

Expecting fi sh, I was thrilled to find shrimp. The only thing better would’ve been a big ole pile of cheese grits on the side, but shrimp was shrimp, and this shrimp was good. Plump and tasty, it was seasoned with coarse sea salt and chopped fruit.

The Cove. Beautiful water as clear as glass, cascading into a black rock pool as cold as ice. Trees with deep green leaves the color of lush magnolias, kissing an Easter egg blue sky, lime green moss clinging to life on damp charcoal rock that will never burn.

There was a pit in the sand, lined with coals and an honest-to-goodness pig. There was a bonfire surrounded by black rock. Fish and crabs steamed over the fire, and yams baked near the crabs.

Up the beach, Heesham and Rives were pounding two wooden poles into the sand. A net stretched across the middle. Talla held a green ball; it appeared to be woven from the same green strips I’d tried to fashion a net from on my second week here, only these strips were cross-hatched in a tight pattern, forming a ball.

A volleyball.

Afternoon, a group of us went surfing. I managed to actually stand up for more than two seconds without falling off.

Slowing in the headwind, we glided over the rocks about seven meters off the ground. Jason cruised ahead of me. Landing was its own little rush, not quite like takeoff, but close.

A fire pit wafted lazy smoke into the air. Around the fire, kids laughed and talked. Two shirtless boys were playing catch with a coconut, throwing it like a football, their shoulders and backs rippling under a sheen of sweat. A girl built like a Playboy bunny was sprinting down the beach beside a tall boy with dreadlocks, like an advertisement for island athletic wear. Other kids floated on surfboards past the whitewater.

“How do you know I kissed him?”
“Please. I think everyone saw that kiss by the fire. And it’s about damn time.” She smiled.

Blue sky shone ahead, and when we broke through the trees, an open meadow burst with color: purples, blues, pinks, reds, yellows, and lots of white. Riding the breeze, the colors shifted in gentle waves.

Soon everything smelled like coconut-lime shower gel from Bath & Body Works.
“Who makes the soap?” I asked.
“Li. She’s crazy good with floral stuff. Her sandsoap’s the best.

Blessed with high cheekbones and sandy blond hair that brushed his broad shoulders, he looked like he’d just stepped off the cover of a cheesy romance novel in the grocery store book section.

“Talla.” Straight blond hair, knockout body. I missed her day
count because I was so distracted by her chest. No one should get boobs and muscles, but Talla had gobs of both.

Perfect latte skin, model-worthy dreadlocks, the shade of summer limeade.

I love you.
The rush of emotion hit me so hard, the words stuck in my throat.
Unable to speak, barely able to breathe, I twisted my fingers in her hair and pulled her lips to mine. Then, breaking away, I held her tight. No words, no expectations, just Charley in my arms and my eyes wide open.

Charley stepped onto the sand. Wearing Kevin’s shorts and a simple chest wrap, she wore her hair long and loose; it blew around her shoulders, like the first day I’d met her.

I couldn’t spear fish, weave a stupid net, or make fire. I’d no clue how to bake island bread. At home I made cakes from a box.

Watching Charley smile, I was dying to kiss her.
I fought the urge to wrap my arms around this girl I’d just met less than forty-eight hours ago.

To stay.

To be with Charley, a girl I didn’t know but wanted to—more than I’d wanted anything in months. For the first time since my feet hit Nil dirt, there was something I wanted more than leaving: time. Time without limits, time to get to know the girl who made me feel alive again.

“Tell me how to finish...i-e or e-y?”
“E-y,” I answered.
He chuckled. “So right.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He said, “Because for your name to end in a lie doesn’t fit. You’re the most real girl I’ve ever met, on or off Nil.”

“What’s wrong with me?”
She laughed. “There’s nothing wrong with you sweetheart. You are one of a kind, and there is not one other like you.”

“What’s wrong with me?”
She laughed. “There’s nothing wrong with you sweetheart. You are one of a kind, and there is not one other like you.”

There is an age old prophecy which tells of the one that will be born of Angel and Abomination. A child that will have the power, greater than the angels. A power that can bring change, and save the earth from total devastation.

The once beautifully, quilted fabric of my life was quickly unraveling into one giant, tangled mess.

"I’ve never seen anything like it! You Kade?”

“What’s your name child?” he said in a very kind voice.

I slowly walked pass all the shelves, examining the books, art, and what looked to be ancient relics. Some of these things looked like they were dated way back, like as far as A.D. and maybe even B.C.

And then it slammed me - reality did - like a Mack truck hitting me at full force. A shattering pain surged through my heart, quickly spreading like a brush fire, torching everything inside of me.

The belt was filled with large ammo and what looked like...grenades??? Oh my God!!!

It was a complete miracle that you survived.

I was going to Alaska, for heaven’s sake. I’d never heard of any hotties from Alaska. All I pictured were big, scruffy men in red flannels with facial hair.

"You can get lost easily over there. I heard that people, criminal types, move there to escape justice...you know...lots of places to hide. So you’d better be careful, Emma. Don’t go out alone at night. And, watch for bears…and moose that have babies. They will charge at you if you get too close."

An electrical current surged through my veins, and the same euphoric feeling, which I’d felt earlier, shot through me...intensified times ten.

His physique was statuesque, but his skin was pale…almost colorless. I assumed it was because he came from Alaska. No sun for half the year. That had to explain it.

All that was missing were vampires and werewolves. Wait…Vampires? Kade sure looked like a vampire with his pasty white skin.

“I mean, you look human to me, but I’ve seen you do inhuman things.” I waited for him to answer, but he didn’t say a word. “Are you a vampire?”
He suddenly burst into a laugh. “No! Vampire? You seriously thought I was a vampire?”

“Well… what about that thing that almost killed me in the bathroom? What was that? It looked like a vampire. Was it…a vampire?”

“Damn, you stink and you’re freakin’ ugly. Poor God must have hurt his back trying to bend and scrape the bottom of the crap barrel to create you.”

“I know that right now you don’t feel like there’s anything special about you, but you are very special, Emma.

I’d say you’re a rarity…something special

“You are a special breed Emma. There has never been another like you.

“You’re very perceptive, Emma Wise. I’ll give you that...but then again...I guess you aren’t like most people”

He suddenly threw his body on top of mine.
BAM!
The explosion of the Hummer sent shockwaves through the trees, and sent fiery shrapnel shooting everywhere. Flames and smoke bellowed from the wreckage, which had flipped onto its side.
I was overwhelmed with the feelings of warmth, and the euphoric pleasures brought on by his closeness, even more so now that his body was hard pressed against mine. He was gorgeous, and he was on top of me.

"Not everyone is created equal.”
I pursed my lips. “I don’t think I’m special.”
Roth looked at me again. “But you are. You’re a half demon that is al

"Not everyone is created equal.”
I pursed my lips. “I don’t think I’m special.”
Roth looked at me again. “But you are. You’re a half demon that is also half Warden."

...the Wardens went public ten years ago. The Alphas had ordered the Wardens to come out of the shadows. To humans, Wardens had come out of their stone shells. After all, the gargoyles adorning many churches and buildings had been carved to resemble a Warden in his true skin.

Zayne said I looked like the long-lost sister of the elf in Lord of the Rings. That was a huge confidence booster. Sigh.

No—not a mass, but a huge freaking snake at least ten feet long and as wide as I was.
The thing spun toward me, rising halfway up. Its eyes burned an unholy red.
“Don’t be scared of Bambi,” the demon said. “She’s only curious and maybe a little bit hungry.”
The thing was named Bambi?

“You don’t? I was following you.”
“Oh, so you’re a demon and a stalker?” I swallowed hard. “Because that’s not creepy or anything.”

He leaned in again, his lips brushing the curve of my cheek. “Let me suggest more appropriate places. I have this piercing—”

Roth let out a low breath. “Your mother was known by many names...And because of that, you’re on Hell’s Most Wanted List.”

Zayne’s grip relaxed. “Shut up.”
Roth came to his feet fluidly. “I don’t think I like your tone.”
“And I don’t like your face,” Zayne returned.
The amount of testosterone the two were throwing off was ridiculous.

Stacey only blinked, looking like she was coming out of some kind of bizarre trance. I scribbled hobag across her notes. She laughed and wrote virgin ice princess across mine.

Stacey started to tug her shirt up as a shield, but must’ve realized there wasn’t enough material there.

Stacey was saying as she threw herself into her seat. “I didn’t sneak out of the house dressed like this for no good reason.”
“No doubt.” I eyed her short skirt and then her cleavage. “We wouldn’t want your boobs to go to waste.”

“Great!” Stacey chirped, backing off and gesturing wildly behind Roth. She was doing something with her hand and mouth that I knew Roth would be oh so down for.

I dumped the stuff in the garbage can, shoulders stiff. “I’m not going to jump on you and suck out your soul, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Danika gasped. “That’s not what I meant—not at all. It’s just that you look like you need something and I want to help.”

Every so often the Church of God’s Children held a rally against the Wardens and then made headlines. They’d been doing it ever since the public had found out about the Wardens’ existence.

The world would descend into chaos if humans knew demons were ordering their morning coffee right alongside them.

Zayne’s eyes flicked up. They seemed brighter than usual. “You’re...perfect just the way you are.”

“Wow, he is so checking you out.”
“Huh?” I looked at Stacey. “Who?”
She glanced over her shoulder as she pulled me closer. “The guy you almost plowed into—Gareth Richmond. He’s still checking you out."

The line of his jaw hardened. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong? I told you to stop and you wouldn’t—”
“You were being a tease.” His voice dropped low. “And since when do demons really get a say in anything?”

“I...” I didn’t know. I loved Zayne, but I didn’t know what kind of love that was, and Roth... I thought I could be in love with him, if given time. Or maybe I already was, in a little way. “I don’t know.”

Not only was he a danger to me physically, he was dangerous to my heart. And now I had a new worry: how many innocent people did I condemn to

Not only was he a danger to me physically, he was dangerous to my heart. And now I had a new worry: how many innocent people did I condemn to death because I saved his life?

“You’re different from them.”
Story of my life. I’d always been different, never fit in, but he had no idea how different I felt lately. “That’s probably not a compliment, but I’ll take it as one.”

All I inherited from my mother was my fair Irish complexion. My curvy figure was pure Chileno, as was my hair: deep brown, almost black, and wild as if it had been wound around thick tree branches every night.

It was me in the picture, without a doubt. The same wild hair, the same big green eyes and spider lashes. I remembered getting in huge trouble for cutting them one day because a boy at the park told me they looked like spider’s legs.

“There’s something different about you that draws people to you. Grace was like that.” He glanced up at me, then quickly back down at his glass. “It’s always been this way. When you were little, it was animals. Any stray thing would follow you home. No sooner would I take you to a park than a bunch of kids would be trailing after you. Even adults, they’d stare.”

All morning long I had floundered in my classes, distracted by the subtle haze surrounding my classmates and teachers and the gradations of the colors around them.

It was confusing, and rather than forging a connection to people, it made me feel more different and alone than ever. Especially because the only color I ever saw radiating from myself was bright silver. It never varied.

Not once did I see another person with a silver shadow like mine.

“I’ve read about it, or heard about it. I can’t remember which. But I do remember this—silver ones are very rare. Almost mythological. So rare they’re thought to be wiped from the earth.”

Serena eyed Finn with a predatory glint, following his gaze to where I sat. She sauntered over to where he was set up, leaned in boob-grazingly close, and whispered something in his ear.

Finn stopped. “Shut your gob, you thundering bitch.”

His mouth moved softly against my neck. “Since I met you, nothing else exists. No one has ever touched me the way you do. You’re like a fookin’ hypnotist. I don’t know what you do to me, Cora Sandoval, but I can’t stay away from you.” He released me and stood back. “I can’t. I’m here, standing in front of you because I can’t.”

He cocked his head, blinked, and grinned. “You’re radiant, Cora. It’s the only word I can think of. You have a special light about you. People try so hard to shine. You do nothing, and you eclipse them all.”

Giovanni smiled and gave a slight nod. “My mother, she was Danish. I take after her a bit on the outside. But on the inside, I’m pure Italian.”
He sure was. Mix a young Nordic Viking with a Roman emperor and you’d have Giovanni Teso.

She smoothed her tightly drawn hair against her scalp. “I had hoped Finn was simply being melodramatic about his affections toward you. I had hoped it was merely a crush, as he is too young for any serious involvement. But I see it’s too late.” I’d never before heard someone use the word “hope” like a spear.

Dad didn’t answer her. He did that—left questions lying on the ground like dirty socks.

“Thanks. Seriously though, your mouth is talking fashion,” Mari said, leveling her gaze at me, “but you look like you were just visited by a clown carrying a doll, with slasher music playing.”

He looked like a rock-star poet, all the dark temptation of a rebel mixed with a sweetness, like maybe his biggest secret was the teddy bear under his pillow.

That messy blue-black hair, the scruff of beard, the spiral tattoo peeking out of his collar that teased me with mysteries carved in stones in the fog-drenched moss of Ireland.