CHAPTER TWO

SIX DAYS BEFORE HER SIXTEENTH BIRTHDAY, in a casino café called Wish, in the heart of Beau Rivage, Mira ordered her third lemonade of the night and spread a few cold French fries around her plate—artfully, so it looked like she was still eating, not just taking up space. 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.

She was shivering from the air-conditioning. Her hair was even wavier than usual, made wild by the humidity and tangled from all the sweaty, plodding walking she’d done.

She needed a place to stay, but she was too young to rent a hotel room. Too skittish to camp outside. She’d trekked to three cemeteries that day, wanting, if she couldn’t stay overnight in Beau Rivage, to at least see her parents’ graves before she left—but all she found was sunburn and frustration.

By nightfall, her enthusiasm had vanished. The inviting seaside city became a neon ruin. Dark figures stole through the shadows. Lights from the casinos rippled and flashed, drumming her eyes with violent starbursts. Humid air clung to her like an unwelcome admirer—and she’d hurried into the Dream Casino to shake it off.

That was how she’d ended up at Wish.

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 had the kind of innocent exterior people felt comfortable harassing: heavy-lidded, sleepy eyes, and a soft-featured face that made her seem gullible, though she wasn’t. She kept her head down so as not to encourage any well-meaning Samaritans. Or perverts.

She was reading A Streetcar Named Desire for the nth time, mouthing words she’d nearly memorized, when she noticed a guy standing at the edge of her table. She moved her hand to the nape of her neck, worked her fingers through the knots in her hair, and prayed he would go away.

No such luck.

“I’m getting bored watching you,” he said. “You’ve been reading that book for hours.”

She raised her eyes and saw ripped jeans, black-ink sentences twisting across them like chains. A spiked leather cuff on one slender bronze wrist. A miniature chain-saw pendant dangled from his neck.

And then the kicker:

His hair and even his eyebrows were blue. Blue like sour candy, like poster paint. His hair stuck out from his head in spikes, stiff and sharp, and he had a smirk to match. A metal barbell pierced his left eyebrow.

Every part of him seemed calculated to drive people away. Like a plant studded with thorns, or an animal whose bright colors signaled poison.

Well, it was working.

Mira wasn’t sure if he was flirting with her or harassing her for the fun of it—but she wanted him to leave her alone. And in her experience, the best way to get rid of an obnoxious guy was to be rude to him. She spent so much time being polite that she definitely knew how to be the opposite.

“I’m not here to entertain you,” she said, putting on her coldest look.

The muscles in his tanned forearms flexed as he flattened his hands against the table and leaned over to read her page, undeterred. “What are you here for, then?”

“None of your business,” she said.

“That’s probably not true.”

Mira ignored him, hoping he would get bored and leave.

“I’m Blue, by the way,” he said.

She rolled her eyes. Blue. Right. “How nice for you.”

Blue turned his attention to her duffel bag then: stuffed to bursting, the coded destination sticker from the bus company still stuck to the handle. “Are you lost? You’re not an orphan, are you? My older brother loves seducing orphans.”

The idea was absurd, but the word orphan struck a nerve. It always did.

Mira swallowed her initial reaction. “Is that so,” she said flatly.

Blue nodded. “It’s a sickness. So for your own safety, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“This is a public place,” she argued. “I can—”

“Actually—” Blue started.

“Blue—you’re being nice to her, I hope.”

Mira turned to see a boy in a white oxford shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He was cute, with honey-colored hair and an athlete’s physique, but he seemed awkward, even a little embarrassed to be there. His eyes hovered around Mira, like a bee distracted by a flower.

She managed a strained smile, to be polite.

“This is Freddie,” Blue announced. “He has a thing for damsels in distress.” He said it almost derisively, and Freddie ducked his head and mumbled, “No.”

“No, he’s not being nice to me,” Mira answered, since Blue was ignoring that part.

“I am being nice,” Blue said. “I’m chasing you away.”

She glared at him. “So I should be grateful you’re a jerk?”

“Exactly.” Blue leaned toward her again. “What are you doing here anyway? You’re practically camped out.”

“And you noticed because you have nothing better to do than stare at me.”

“Yes,” Blue said. “But it’s also because I live here. The Dream is my dad’s casino.”

Mira took a shaky sip of her lemonade. Great. Maybe he was lying—but maybe he wasn’t, and he was going to be a jerk and kick her out, because he could. Then she’d have to trek to one of the other casinos, when God only knew what kind of people were wandering around.

She grabbed her bag. “I have to use the bathroom,” she said abruptly.

Freddie blushed and looked away.

“So you are human,” Blue said.

“You thought I was something else?”

“No.” Blue smiled. “Go ahead. We’ll wait.”

When she came back, Blue and Freddie had taken care of her check, and her glass of lemonade and the plate of fries she’d been “still working on” for three-plus hours had been cleared away. It shouldn’t have been a big deal—but she’d been clinging to that table like it was her sanctuary. She felt like they’d stolen something from her.

“I wasn’t done yet,” she said. She imagined herself trudging through the city again, this time in the dark, her heavy duffel bag chafing her hip, the unnerving scuffle of footsteps behind her. …

“Don’t bother thanking me,” Blue said. “It’s no trouble to comp your meal and your room. Really.”

“I don’t have a room here,” she said, with growing irritation. “That’s why I needed the table.”

Blue’s eyes lit up—and Mira got nervous: he seemed way too happy to find out she didn’t have a room here. “Even better. I’ll get you a room at the Palace down the street. It’s a little sleazy—they have heart-shaped bathtubs and pink wallpaper and, uh … yeah.” He gave her a fill-in-the-blanks look. “But no one will come by and grope you in your room. I can’t promise you that if you fall asleep in the café.”

She glared at him, as viciously as her face could muster.

Blue shrugged. “You never know. We cater to a filthy clientele.”

“That’s so tempting,” Mira muttered. “But no thanks.” She pushed past him and he grabbed her arm, bronze fingers tight against her skin. He didn’t look like he was offering her a choice. He was trying to bully her into this, get her to leave the casino with him, and then … ?

“It’s the middle of the night,” Blue said easily, charm creeping into his voice. “Come on—Freddie and I’ll walk you over.”

Mira’s blood was thudding in her ears. This had been a terrible idea. This whole thing … She jerked away from him. Her voice wavered as she said, “Did you not hear me? I’m not going anywhere with you!”

Blue’s mouth snapped open like he was about to say something else. She didn’t stick around to hear what it was.

The overhead lights in the casino blazed an ugly yellow. Mira followed the nauseatingly bold gold-black-violet carpet like it was the yellow brick road. Slot machines dinged and screamed en masse, like monsters at odds with each other. Cocktail waitresses wove in and out of the crowd.

It was 1:38 A.M.—there was no way she was going to wander the streets. So she found a secluded part of the elaborate fairy-tale garden in the Dream’s lobby, climbed past the flimsy rope barricade, and settled at the base of a wisteria tree to wait until morning.

Mira checked her watch periodically, heart drumming nervously at first, wondering how long she could rest there before someone kicked her out. But as 1:50 changed to 2:04 and then 2:15, she relaxed.

She was half asleep when she heard a female voice murmur, “Oh, look at her. I wonder what’s wrong.”

Mira snapped alert—and tried to pretend she hadn’t heard. Maybe the woman wasn’t talking about her. Or, more likely, she was—but maybe she would lose interest and go away.

She heard shoes sinking into the mulch that made up the floor of the garden, along with an annoyed masculine grunt as someone who would rather not be so nimble at 2:30 in the morning climbed over the rope and into the man-made fairy-tale forest.

Mira lifted her chin—just as the guy crouched in the dirt to be level with her.

She guessed he was twenty or twenty-one, which surprised her. She was used to college kids because she lived in a college town, and generally, they were such a mix of tolerant and self-absorbed that they didn’t care what anyone did. She couldn’t imagine one of Elsa’s students checking on her.

But then, this guy didn’t seem like a typical twenty-one-year-old.

He wore a dark suit without a tie, his shirt open at the neck. His hair glinted blue-black, and his eyes were just as dark—like sapphires, or a raven’s wing. There was something not quite normal about him, something too beautiful, and strange, and she found herself watching him the way she’d watch a fire: captivated, and a little afraid to be so close.

He dipped his head and looked at her like he was waiting for her to tell him a secret.

“You don’t look happy,” he said.

“I’m okay,” she said, aware of how false that sounded, considering where she was.

“Are you hiding from someone?”

“No … not exactly.”

His dark eyes were taking her in, shifting from her bag to her wrinkled clothes to the unease that was probably all over her face. “You can tell me, you know. I might be able to help.”

Past him, Mira could see the young woman who’d first spotted her, leaning sideways to peer through the lacy grove of trees. She had dark brown hair, a cute, heart-shaped face, and a cuter body—perfectly showcased by the tight green dress she wore. “Is she okay?” the woman called.

“She’s fine, Cora.” He lowered his voice and asked Mira, “So what’s going on?”

Mira shrugged. “Some guy was harassing me in the café … so I came here.”

“Some guy?” He raised his eyebrows. “You should introduce us. I’ll make him apologize before I kick him out.”

“I don’t—oh?” A shiver crawled through her. Her eyes lingered on the blue-black of his hair, the bottomless blue eyes. “You—work here?”

“I run this place,” he said. “Well, more or less. While my dad’s away. And I love throwing people out. Just give me an excuse.”

“Uh … I don’t think you’ll throw this person out. I think he’s your brother. But thanks,” she mumbled.

He laughed. The corners of his eyes turned up—and suddenly he was different. The cool expression left his face, and he was smiling. “Blue? Was my idiot brother bothering you?

You’re right, I can’t kick him out—but let me try to make it up to you. How about a spa session? Dinner at Rampion?”

He started tossing out options, like he’d be happy to give her whatever she wanted; and as he kept talking, she stopped hearing the words as the rush of blood in her head overtook them. The way his eyes locked casually on hers, combined with his body language, the timbre of his voice now that he was being nice made her realize—he was kind of sexy. And when his hand brushed hers by accident, a fizzy shock buzzed through her veins. This wasn’t a kid with a skateboard, who smelled like body spray and laughed too hard at dirty jokes. He was something else, someone who lived in a different world, and she liked that.

“No, really, I’m okay,” Mira said, embarrassed that she was reacting to this guy she barely knew, ten feet from where his girlfriend was standing. “I just want to sit here for a while.”

He shook his head. “You can’t stay in the garden. What’s your room number?” He took his phone out. “I’ll deal with your parents. Did you fight with them? Is that why you’ve got your bag with you?”

The girlfriend—Cora—was shifting her weight, rubbing her bare arms. She looked less worried now and more impatient. “Everything all right?” she called. He waved a hand in her direction: wait.

“I don’t have a room here,” Mira said. “I’m not with my parents. I’m here to find my parents.” She exhaled a frustrated breath, already regretting blurting that out. She expected him to tell her how stupid that was. Instead, he seemed interested.

“Find them?”

“I’m looking for their graves. They died in Beau Rivage a long time ago. But I don’t know where they’re buried. And I don’t—have anywhere else to go right now.” Mira fidgeted with the zipper on her bag, certain she would have to leave. Her muscles felt so worn-out from walking all day that she just wanted to sleep. Give up in every possible way.

“You don’t have a place to stay, family here, anything?”

She shook her head, embarrassed. She’d been ruthlessly careful with every detail of her escape but had counted on her instinct, her affinity for her parents, to guide her once she got to Beau Rivage. Now she just felt stupid.

“You do now,” he said. He lifted her bag before she could stop him, pressed down the rope barrier, and glanced back like he expected her to follow. “You coming?”

“Um—” She scrambled after him. “I can carry that. And I wasn’t looking for a handout when I—”

“Relax,” he said, turning so her bag was out of reach. “Let me help you.”

Reluctantly, she climbed over the rope barrier, and he stepped down after. Mira wasn’t sure where they were going—but she was sure Cora was less than thrilled. That much was clear from the dirty look the girl gave her.

“It’s two A.M.,” Blue’s brother said. “And we have empty rooms that are going to stay empty. So the Dream is putting you up for the night. No arguments.”

Mira nodded, abashed. “Okay. I mean—thank you.”

“Or you could call the police,” Cora said—her voice taking on a hardness that hadn’t been there before. She crossed her arms over her chest. “Since there’s probably someone looking for her. And she’s not your problem.”

A chill came over Mira. “I—no one’s looking for—”

“Everyone in this hotel is my problem,” the guy said coolly, eyes on his girlfriend. “And I’m sure that if she wanted to call the police, she’d do that herself. So how about you go play”—he dug a handful of betting chips out of his pocket—“and see how fast you can lose my money. Set a record tonight.”

Cora made a face but accepted the chips, tucking them into her black clutch bag like she’d done this a hundred times. “Okay, but hurry up. I’m not feeling very lucky.”

“I’ll call you later,” he said. He pressed the button for the elevator, and he and Mira stepped inside when the brassy doors slid open, leaving the other girl behind.

Mirrors on every side of the elevator caught their reflections—and showed Mira she was even more disheveled than she’d thought. Her wavy hair was tangled and sticking up in places, like she’d been rolling around in a forest, not just sleeping against a tree. She wanted to smooth it down but didn’t want to seem like she was trying to look pretty for him. That would be more embarrassing than having messy hair.

He brought her to a room on the twentieth floor, opened it with his passkey, and set her bag down, then strode to the window and thrust the thick curtains apart. Moonlight swept into the room, edging the dark shapes with light.

He turned toward her but didn’t move away from the window. “You just got in tonight?”

“Earlier today.”

She drifted closer, lured by the view. Below, she could see the rolling dark waves of the sea, tinted silver by the moon. The Dream was so quiet, now that they were away from the clang of machines, the chaos of hundreds of voices.

“So you don’t know the city very well?” he said.

“No,” Mira admitted. “I have a map, but—it’s hard to know where to start.”

He looked at her carefully, like he was considering something. “If you’re not in a hurry, I might be able to help you. If you’re really serious about this.”

“I’m serious about it,” she said quickly. “I’ve wanted this for so long, I—it would mean a lot to me.” She was in a hurry. But the thought of trekking through the city alone was so demoralizing she was willing to wait a few days if it meant she’d have help.

He nodded. “All right, good. Well—I can’t promise you anything, but I’ll see what I can do. And in the meantime, you’ll be our guest.”

“Thank you. So much.” She felt like she was babbling, even when she barely said anything. He was being so nice—she should let him leave already. She started to move away from the window, and he said:

“So tell me your story.” And she stopped. She could sense his attentiveness, like a hand on the back of her neck. Like his voice was touching her skin. “Who’d you leave behind at home?” he asked. “Foster parents?”

“My godmothers. They knew my parents. They were there when they … died. And they took care of me after that.”

He leaned his shoulder against the window, tilted his head to look at her. The silver light turned his dark blue hair and eyes a midnight black. “Do you mind if I ask what happened?”

Normally, she didn’t talk about her tragedy—but he was looking at her in a way that made her want to trust him. And he’d agreed to help her with this—this dream that meant everything to her. She wanted him to know.

Mira bowed her head. “I was three months old. We were at my christening party. … It was held in this beautiful ballroom, with a mural on the ceiling, like the Sistine Chapel, except with fairy-tale scenes. You could spin around and around and always see a different story. There was a red-cloaked girl running from a wolf, and a mermaid whose fins were splitting to become legs, and—a beauty taming her beast. … That’s what my godmothers told me—I was too young to remember.”

She took a deep breath, and paused. The tale of that night was whole in her head, in one piece like a bedtime story, because that was how her godmothers told it—but she couldn’t tell it straight through. She had to split it into before and after.

“Then—the fire started. It spread through the ballroom, and crawled up the curtains and reached as high as the ceiling. Smoke filled the air, and beams were crashing down … and my parents were trying to save everyone. They handed me to my godmother Bliss, and she wrapped me in her shawl and ran through the smoke to safety. It was a party, and there were a lot of people … but my parents managed to get everyone out. Except, I don’t think they realized they’d done it. Because they kept searching. So they were—” The words stuck in her throat, as hard as a stone. “They were the only ones who didn’t make it out in time.”

“How tragic,” he said. “They were heroes … but they could have lived, if they’d known.” He said it like he meant it. Like he understood how awful it was to have lost them that way.

Mira nodded. “That’s the hardest part. I can’t help wishing they hadn’t tried so hard to save everyone. Because—then maybe I’d still have them.”

She waited for him to insist she didn’t really mean that—like Elsa always did—or to say it was selfish to trade a host of lives to save two. But his mind was elsewhere.

“A christening party … So your parents were very traditional.”

“They sort of look that way in pictures. I have maybe one picture where my dad’s not in a tuxedo,” she said with a smile. “But I don’t know. I mostly think of them as perfect.”

He tipped his head back, eyes closing, moonlight sliding over his throat. “I don’t remember my mother very well. I never think of her as perfect. But that’s probably because she left. When someone chooses to leave you … it’s different.”

“You lost your mother?” She hadn’t expected to have that in common with him. She wondered if that was why he’d offered to help her.

“She left when I was eight. I think she was afraid of getting attached.”

Mira nodded, not sure what to say. She couldn’t imagine a mother cold enough to leave for that reason. “I’m sorry,” she said.

He shrugged. “It was a long time ago.”

They stood at the window a moment more, and then he went to the light and turned it on. The room expanded from a dark ocean overlook to a subtly glitzy suite; the shine and shimmer of the casino stirred with the colors of sea and sand.

Now that the room was brighter, it seemed less intimate, less a place for confessions. Mira unpacked her bag while he called the front desk, unrolling crumpled shirts and tank tops and skirts and trying not to stare at him.

“This is Felix,” he said into the phone. “I need you to activate a key for room 2005 and bring it up here. Right. Just put that it’s my guest. Leave the checkout date open.”

He—Felix—hung up and faced her. Paused for a moment, watching her unpack. “Someone’s bringing your key.”

“Thanks,” she said, pushing her hair out of her face, straightening up. Then it occurred to her that maybe she was being presumptuous. That it was rude to assume the room was free.

“I can pay,” she said, reaching for her wallet.

Felix gave a short shake of his head. “Don’t worry about it. I feel better knowing you’re not on the street. Think of it like you’re doing me a favor. Not like you owe me.”

He smiled, and there was something unguarded about it, like they were friends. Mira smiled back—feeling safe, and less lost—and the tension she’d carried all day began to ebb.

A few minutes later, there was a knock at the door. A hotel employee had arrived with the key card. Felix took it and sent the clerk away, then set the key card on the desk next to a hotel notepad, where he wrote down the numbers she would need: the front desk, room service, his phone number—and that was when she finally saw his full name, the letters surging forward in a series of sharp slashes:

FELIX VALENTINE

“If you can’t reach me … that probably means I’m dealing with someone high maintenance, or I’m in a meeting and can’t answer my phone. It doesn’t mean I’m ignoring you.”

He stopped, lost in thought, and then laughed. “I never asked your name. I was so caught up in …” He shook his head.

“It’s late, and I wasn’t thinking. What should I call you?”

“Mira,” she said. “Or Mirabelle.”

“All right, Mira … I’ll let you get some sleep. But call me if you need anything. And tomorrow or the day after, we’ll start our search—whenever I can steal some time.”

“If you’re busy, I can look by myself. You’ve done a lot for me already; you don’t—”

The words dried up in her mouth. Something about the way Felix was looking at her—his eyes dark, and very sure—made her feel like it was silly to keep offering him an out. He touched her shoulder and said:

“Mira, I spend every day doing things I don’t want to do. But I want to help you. I can make time for that.” He leaned in then, and his lips brushed her cheek; and for a moment he was all she could see. Her world was reduced to the warmth of his lips, the hint of smoke on his clothes, and the tang of his cologne.

And then he moved away. He was being friendly, probably. But she wasn’t used to being kissed by anyone other than her godmothers. She wasn’t used to kisses that were simultaneously startling and wonderful, casual and memorable. Her world was so much smaller than that.

“Okay?” he said with a smile.

“Okay,” she managed, not sure she knew what she was answering anymore.

“Good.” Felix stepped into the hall; paused long enough to tell her, “Hey—bolt the door after I leave. You can’t be too careful around here.”

“I will,” she promised. But she didn’t. Not immediately.

Her cheek burned like she’d been lying in the sun too long, and she stood perfectly still, not wanting to break the spell. The scent of Felix’s cologne lingered on her skin.

When she closed her eyes, she could imagine he was there. She could relive that kiss one more time. All two seconds of it.

Exhaling slowly, Mira threw the bolt and kicked off her flip-flops. She let her fantasy float away—it was the kiss equivalent of a handshake; nothing to get excited about—and let the delicious freedom of being barefoot bring her back to reality. The carpet soothed her, because it wasn’t a hot strip of road with no end in sight. She had a room; she didn’t have to worry that someone would harass her or hurt her. She could rest.

But first: a shower. She was too sticky with sweat to sleep.

She padded to the bathroom—which was huge and had folded towels as thick as couch cushions, an entire wall of mirrors, and a deep Jacuzzi tub that was separate from the shower.

Mira shucked off her dirty clothes and stepped into the glass-walled shower. She scrubbed the day’s travel grime from her skin, until she felt like a new person, with fresh hopes—and as she did, her fingers grazed the disfigurement at the small of her back.

The mark.

The mark rested at the base of her spine. It was wine red like a burn, shiny-smooth like a scar: a ring spoked by thin red lines, like a wheel. It was as big around as her fist.

Her clothes covered the mark if she was careful to wear long shirts, but her bikini never did. It looked like she’d been branded, and she hated it. One of the reasons she was growing her hair out so long was for extra camouflage. If she had hair down to her butt, she could walk around in her bathing suit without worrying what people would say.

Because she’d heard it all, since her first appearance at a pool party when she was twelve. Bikini clad for the first time, constantly hurrying out of the water for another trip down the waterslide, she’d heard:

What’s that thing on her back? Cancer?

Giggles. Sounds of disgust and disbelief.

Is that a tattoo? It’s so ugly!

She’d wrapped her towel around her waist as soon as she realized they were talking about her, then sat on the side, the fun of the waterslide forgotten, while she waited for Bliss and Elsa to ferry her home.

Ever since that day, she’d felt the mark like it was a living thing. Like an eye that followed her everywhere.

Her godmothers said it was silly to be self-conscious about “a little birthmark.” It’s your body, there’s nothing wrong with it.

As if it was normal to have a hideous, wheel-shaped mark on your skin.

She felt a pang of guilt when she thought of Elsa and Bliss, and wondered where they were right now—whether they’d flown to San Francisco or were tearing the house apart in a panic. But she was too exhausted to beat herself up over it. She didn’t like lying to them, but they hadn’t left her much choice. She needed closure, needed that connection with her parents. She’d deal with the consequences when this was over.

Finished with her shower, Mira wrapped her soggy mass of blond hair in a towel, pulled on the pair of boxer shorts and the tank top she’d brought as pajamas, and climbed between the sheets, letting the covers swallow her up like quicksand.

She was so tired she could barely feel her limbs—but her brain wouldn’t fall asleep. She stared at the blackness of the ceiling and wondered if she was crazy, coming all the way to Beau Rivage to kneel beside two graves. Breaking her godmothers’ hearts to save her own.

Of course you’re crazy. It’s a question of how crazy.

The covers were heavy, like earth lying on top of her.

Normally, when she couldn’t sleep, she took refuge in daydreams. She’d unroll a story for her parents like a velvet carpet, and guide them down it until she fell asleep. But tonight she felt too caught in the present to leave it.

She was in a new place, in a beautiful room that belonged to her. She thought of Felix, and how he’d kissed her cheek, and her heart raced like it wanted to remind her it was there. She’d spent eight months obsessed with her plan, writing love letters to a boy who didn’t exist. It felt nice to have a real crush for once.

When she slept, she dreamed of the ocean, of wisteria petals fluttering onto her skin. Of Felix kneeling in the sand, sea foam dripping from his fingers, murmuring, here they are.

She awoke to a tremendous bang.