“I held her life in my hands.
And then I took it away from her.”

CHAPTER FOUR

GINGERBREAD HOUSE was a kitschy café, housed in a cottage that had been decorated with candy. The window frames were red and white striped, and lacquered strawberry squares, butterscotch medallions, rainbow-swirl lollipops, and peppermints stuck to the walls.

The early morning crowd was trickling in: a mix of solo diners, couples, and cops. A dozen girls in party dresses walked barefoot through the parking lot, carrying their worn-out shoes—like they’d spent the night clubbing and were reluctant to go home.

A party of middle-aged tourists, dressed in T-shirts that bore the name of a lighthouse they’d visited, was turned away at the door by a woman in a Bavarian barmaid costume, with the explanation that they needed a reservation.

Viv didn’t meet the same resistance. She claimed an eight-person table in the middle of the cramped café, then took out her phone and started inviting people. A waitress hustled over to hand out menus, and poured them all cups of sludgy black coffee.

Mira found herself seated near the end of the table, next to Blue and across from Freddie. She’d had a moment in the car—crammed in the backseat with people she barely knew—when the situation had overwhelmed her. She’d felt a sudden burst of loneliness and helplessness—despair that she wouldn’t find her parents’ graves after all—and hot tears had slipped down her cheeks. She’d quickly turned toward the window and wiped them away. She didn’t think anyone had noticed she was upset—and she didn’t want them to.

“The pancakes are really good here,” Freddie told her. “So are the waffles.”

Mira scanned the menu. She tried to keep her voice light. “I’m looking for freedom with a side of restraining order, but everything just comes with bacon.”

“The restraining order costs extra,” Blue said, tearing open two sugar packets and dumping them into his coffee. “No substitutions.”

“That sucks. I guess I’ll go with bacon,” Mira said.

While the others ordered, Blue brought his coffee cup to his lips and asked quietly, “Why were you crying before? Were you scared?”

Mira shook her head, not sure how much to say. “No. I was … thinking about something that makes me sad.”

“Okay. I wanted to make sure we didn’t scare you.”

“You weren’t thinking about that when you broke into my room.”

Blue shrugged, looking guilty. “I did want to scare you then. But only to warn you. I never wanted to make you cry—that takes things to a different place.”

“What place?”

“A place where I’m hurting people, not helping them.”

“So you still think you’re helping me?”

“Whether you know it or not.” And then he went quiet, shifted his attention to the waitress, laughed at some joke Viv made. He stood up to wave at a big, barrel-chested guy who was heading toward them. The guy looked like he hadn’t gone to bed yet. He wore a wrinkled Hawaiian shirt and had lipstick-print kiss marks on his neck—in two different colors. His shaggy golden hair tangled around his face, and he managed to look smug despite his dishevelment.

“That’s Rafe,” Freddie said. “He’s the one who broke your door down. He would have come in with us, but he had to … ah, escort some ladies home.”

Mira nodded, eyeing Rafe warily. He had one strike against him, and she had a feeling there would be more.

Rafe flopped down next to Viv and slung his arm across the back of her chair—then proceeded to peer down her shirt. “Viv still doesn’t have any boobs,” he announced.

Henley smashed his fists against the table, rattling the plates and silverware. Then he muttered something about leaving before he killed someone, and left the café.

Viv sighed. “Stop talking about my boobs, jackass.”

“Rafe, please show some manners,” Freddie said. “At least pretend to have them.”

Rafe ignored them both. “You lost the puberty lottery, Viv. Get your dad to buy you a pair. The same set your stepmom has.”

Viv sipped her Coke, her eyes hooded and dismissive, like she was used to this. “You know, if I had to break your curse, I would kill myself.”

“I would, too. I need something to feel up if I’m fated to be stuck with one girl for the rest of my life.”

“There are ladies present,” Freddie said—his silver voice taking on a sharp edge.

Finally, Blue threw a piece of toast at Rafe. “Keep your curse talk to yourself, Wilder.”

Rafe snatched the toast off his lap, folded it like a taco, and ate it in two bites.

“You don’t get to complain,” Rafe said with his mouth full, jabbing a meaty finger at Blue. “That’s one problem you’ll never have—being stuck with one girl. You can have as many as you want. Just keep going on to the next.”

Blue glared at him, coldly, steadily—with genuine loathing.

Then another one of their friends arrived, diverting their attention and keeping Blue and Rafe from fighting.

“What’s all this curse talk?” Mira murmured to Freddie.

“Just a joke,” Freddie said, flashing an unconvincing smile.

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

The new girl took a seat at the foot of the table, between Mira and Freddie, and when Mira looked at her—really looked at her—she forgot why she’d been pouting at Freddie in the first place.

The new girl was the most beautiful girl Mira had ever seen.

Glossy, straight, black hair hung to her waist. Her doe eyes were long lashed, so dark they were almost black; her skin gleamed like silk. Her face was so lovely that just looking at her made you happy, and she even smelled pretty—like honeysuckle. There were no butterflies floating around her head—but there should have been.

Freddie introduced them. “Mira, this is Miss Layla Phan. Layla, meet Mira.”

“Hi,” Layla said. Her voice was gentle, sweet—but there was something fierce in her expression when she looked at Rafe.

“You don’t want to sit by me?” Rafe called to her with a grin.

“No, I don’t,” Layla said. “I wouldn’t sit by you if every other seat in the room was on fire.”

“Ouch.” Rafe winced, then rebounded with a sleazy smile. “That would hurt me if I believed it. You know you’re curious to go for a ride.”

“About as curious as I am to get syphilis,” Layla snapped.

“He meant a ride in his car,” Freddie clarified for Mira, looking like he desperately hoped she was dumb enough to believe him.

“His car has syphilis?” Mira asked, feigning shock. When Freddie blushed, she said, “I know that’s not what he meant.”

Freddie nodded, abashed, and rubbed his hands over his face. “You’re right, I’m sorry you had to hear that. He will—be reformed, eventually.”

“He is such a tool,” Layla muttered. Her hand was trembling against the table. “I would love to just shoot him with a hunting rifle when his transformation day finally comes.”

“Transformation day … ?” Mira prompted.

Layla’s big, dark eyes blinked at Mira and she seemed to remember where she was. “Oh. Nothing. Never mind. Hello. I forgot I don’t know you. I … exaggerate. A lot. I don’t even own a rifle.”

“You can get one at Walmart,” Viv said. “Charge it on my card. I’ll use my coma as an alibi.”

Mira focused on eating her pancakes, even though she was starting to feel sick. What was wrong with these people? Was everyone insane?

Next to her, Blue seemed edgy. He was breaking his bacon into pieces. His fingertips glistened with grease.

“I’m starting to think it was a mistake to introduce you to the whole gang,” he said.

Rafe was still hitting on Layla; Layla was fighting with him, insisting that fairies didn’t turn good people into monsters, they just exposed the monstrousness that was already there; and Freddie was doing his best to play peacemaker, or etiquette coach from 1850, or whatever he thought he was doing. Henley was watching the group from outside, leaning against the window, smoking a cigarette. Viv was sawing into an apple tart with a masochistic grin on her face.

“No wonder you’re such a freak,” Mira said finally.

“Oh yeah, I learned it from watching them,” Blue said with a faint smile.

“I want you to know,” Mira said, “that whatever your intentions are, even if you think they’re good, I didn’t travel all the way here to be shuttled around and babysat by crazy people. There are things I need to do here, and I intend to do them.”

“Fine, just stay away from our casino.”

“No,” she said.

Blue turned fully toward her then; grabbed her wrist—hard, like he was trying to intimidate her—and she flung her syrup-sticky butter knife at him and twisted free from his grip. Causing a scene, of course. Sometimes you had to.

She sprang to her feet. “Don’t tell me what to do. And don’t manhandle me unless you want to be dismembered. This is your last warning.”

“Will you keep your voice down?” Blue hissed.

“No, I won’t,” she said, getting louder on purpose. There was a syrup stain the size and shape of a gash on Blue’s chest. People were staring at them, but oddly enough, no one seemed all that surprised by her outburst—and she didn’t care if they were. Anger blended with the sugar in her body and made her feel nauseous. She just wanted to go. So she grabbed her bag and, for the second time in two days, stormed out.

“Always popular with the girls, Blue,” Viv said. Mira heard a chair being pushed back like someone was about to chase after her, and then Blue’s voice saying:

“Forget it, Freddie.”

“But she’s upset,” Freddie said.

“She’s a big girl; let her play with fire if she wants to.”

“Nice ass,” Rafe said.

And then the door swung shut behind her, mercifully silencing the peanut gallery; and Mira was plodding through the hot parking lot, her flip-flops squishing like they were about to melt on the steaming asphalt.

Henley looked up at her approach. “Need a ride?” he asked. He didn’t look particularly enthused about giving her one.

“No,” she said. “But thanks. Have fun with the crazies.”

He snorted. “I wouldn’t call it fun.”

“I was being sarcastic.”

Henley nodded, raising his cigarette to his lips, and she set off toward the Dream.