CHAPTER ELEVEN

FREDDIE’S CAR WAS SILVER AND SHINY on the outside, with leather and new-car smell on the inside—predictably perfect—but it was cluttered with an unexpected number of guitar magazines, empty candy boxes, and … what looked like sword catalogues.

Mira grabbed one of the catalogues and flipped through it. It was from a mail-order smithy that sold medieval weapons and armor: broadswords, chain mail, decorative letter openers. Freddie had drawn circles around the things he wanted, like a kid marking up a toy catalogue to make his Christmas list.

“You like this stuff a lot, huh?” she said.

“It’s an interest of mine. I—” He turned to her, frowning apprehensively as he backed down Rafe’s driveway. “You think it’s strange.”

“No, no, it’s just different. I didn’t know anyone still made stuff like this.” She kept flipping, fascinated. “How many of these do you have?”

“Swords? Just one. It’s in the trunk.”

“The trunk?”

“You never know when you might drive past a house covered in briars. Where a princess is sleeping. It’s good to have something to hack through them. So you can rescue her.”

“Wouldn’t a hatchet work better?”

“A sword is more heroic,” Freddie mumbled.

They drove past mansions spaced out like castles among the trees—home to quite a few Royals, Freddie said—and on toward cuter, cozier neighborhoods, where curses mingled with good and bad luck. Trees leaned across the road, dappling it with shadows; and then the trees cleared to reveal sun-baked yards, where children in bathing suits dashed through sprinklers. Old women held court on porch swings, and ladies in floppy hats did battle in their gardens, yanking out weeds by the roots.

A lovesick mutt chased Freddie’s car for a few blocks—tongue lolling, tail wagging—until Freddie stopped to play with him, afraid that if he ignored him, the poor dog would get hit by a car.

When they resumed their drive, Mira stayed quiet. She could sense that Freddie wanted to talk to her, but she kept her eyes on the sword catalogue, skimming the descriptions even as she started to feel carsick—anything to keep from discussing their shared fate. It began to feel a little like a bad first date. She couldn’t wait to get out of the car—and it must have showed.

“I think … you don’t like me,” Freddie said.

Mira hesitated. “Of course I like you.”

“You’re mad because of what I said about Felix.”

Of course it would come back to Felix. “If that’s true, then I’m mad at everyone.”

“But, Mira …” He sighed. “We wouldn’t all say it if it wasn’t true.”

And that was when she snapped. She was sick of the secrets, sick of the intimation that she should do whatever they said, without an explanation, because they knew better—as if everyone was a better judge of her situation than she was.

“No one is saying anything, except stay away from him,” Mira countered. “Do you have some real reasons for me?”

“Mira, you passed out. When Blue found you, you were unconscious. You stayed that way for eight hours.”

“It’s called sleeping.”

“It’s not. Felix hurt you. You couldn’t—your body couldn’t—”

“You know what?” Mira said. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I don’t like you.” She shifted so she was facing the window, and did her best to ignore him. But it was impossible to tune out his sighs of frustration or the smack of his hand against the steering wheel.

“I never imagined you’d be so difficult,” he muttered.

“Maybe that’s why you’re supposed to meet me when I’m unconscious. So I don’t burst your bubble right away.”

“Don’t be mean, Mira. I haven’t been mean to you.” She could hear the hurt in his voice, and she squirmed, feeling guilty. He was right. And he was trying to help her—even if he was wrong.

“I’m sorry. It’s just—I don’t like being pressured to feel a certain way. Or told that the guy I like is bad for me, when he obviously isn’t. I wish you guys would just trust that I’m not stupid. If we were friends, that’s what you would do. You’d want me to be happy.”

“No one thinks you’re stupid. And I do want you to be happy.”

“Then let me be.”

“But that’s not happy! You can’t live happily ever after when there’s no after!”

“Freddie!” she snapped. “Happily-ever-after isn’t real! Not everything is a fairy tale!” Her voice seemed louder suddenly, and she realized he’d shut off the car. They were parked in Layla’s driveway, in front of a small white house trimmed with flower boxes and crawling with honeysuckle.

Mira opened the door and stumbled out before he could say anything else. Freddie existed in a fairy tale more than any of them. With his replica swords, his animal magnetism, his unrealistic hopes, and his Once-Upon-a-Dreaming …

It wasn’t her fault that she didn’t live up to his expectations. His dream wasn’t her life.

The birds at the bird feeder had sensed Freddie and were already in flight. Like prince-seeking missiles, they shot straight toward him, then landed on the hood of his car and began to serenade him. Freddie stayed holed up inside, unresponsive to their devotion.

Mira pressed down on the doorbell, shaking.

She wanted to be one of them, she was supposed to belong … but she still felt like an outsider. Like they were all ganging up on her. She didn’t know all the secrets they knew, and that made her seem stupid, naïve. And she was tired of that.

She missed Elsa and Bliss. She missed feeling safe—and for a moment, she considered calling her godmothers, coming clean about what she’d done. They were fairies; they knew this world better than she did. Maybe they could help her. …

No. Mira shook her head. They wouldn’t give her answers. They’d decide for her—like they always had—and decide she was better off not knowing. They would take her away. She couldn’t let that happen.

Layla yanked the door open, and Mira snapped out of her daydream. “Aah. Mira. I thought someone was in trouble out here!”

Mira flinched as Layla grabbed her finger and lifted it off the doorbell. She’d lost track of what she was doing—and had barely noticed the nonstop ringing.

“Sorry,” Mira said. “I was … distracted.”

“It’s okay. What’s up? What can I do for …” Layla peered around her. “Is Freddie not coming in?”

“Um … we had a fight,” Mira said. “Nothing to worry about. Listen, can I talk to you? It’s important.”

“Of course,” Layla said, stepping aside. “Come in.”

Layla’s house was cozy and rustic, full of mismatched furniture, country quilts draped over couches, New Age goddess paintings side by side with classic fairy-tale prints and framed family photos. It reminded Mira of her own house, and the cluttered, a-little-of-everything style her godmothers preferred. The living room smelled like honeysuckle and coffee. Books were piled on a low table: academic texts about fairy tales, obscure classics, and the libretto booklet for Puccini’s Tosca, flopped open upside down to mark the page.

Layla sat down in a comfy easy chair and drew her legs up onto the seat. She grabbed her coffee mug, then stopped.

“Oops, sorry. Did you want anything to drink?”

Mira shook her head. “I just want to talk.”

“Okay. I’m a bad hostess—just so you know. No one ever comes over, so I’m out of practice. Most of them get twitchy if they’re not in a mansion. Also, my dad’s a little weird. That might be the real reason.”

“Weird how?”

Layla sighed. “I might need a real drink if I’m going to explain that. Kidding,” she added—although she looked like maybe she wasn’t. “My dad’s a gambler. You may have noticed the casinos all over Beau Rivage? Yeah, so that’s a problem. He’s not very good at it. And he doesn’t know when to stop. So on the rare occasion that people visit, he’ll usually try to sell them something from our house to help pay off his debts. He knows most of my friends are rich. Which I guess to him means they’re fair game and I shouldn’t mind.”

“Can’t your mom get him to stop?” Mira asked, glancing at the family photos—all of which showed a very young woman with baby Layla and her father, if they showed her at all.

“She’s dead. Like most moms around here.” Layla sighed again. “Anyway. I’m sure you didn’t come over to hear about my dad. What’s up?”

Mira hesitated. After this, she’d know something about the Valentine brothers that neither one had wanted to explain. She was a little afraid to find out, because she was pretty sure Romantic didn’t mean buys you flowers and brings you candy. Although Felix had that part covered if it did.

“Blue told me I should ask you about Romantics,” she said.

Layla set her cup down with an awkward clatter. “Really?

I … I wasn’t expecting that. He’s usually pretty private. All right.” Layla got up to search for a book, running her finger across the spines. “You can tell me?” Mira said. “It’s not part of the curse that you can’t?”

“I can tell you what a Romantic is,” Layla said, returning with a heavy leather-bound book similar to the one she’d shown them at the bookstore, but more modern. “I can’t talk about Blue’s specific curse. Any secret that’s meant to stay secret, I can’t utter. The magic in our blood acts like a leash—or a muzzle, in this case. It prevents us from breaking taboos.”

Mira nodded, disappointed. “Okay. Well, then, I guess … tell me whatever you can tell me.” Layla turned to R, and pushed the book closer. Mira drew in a breath—

Romantics

Natural charmers who feed on love, drawing it from the lover’s body through kisses and caresses that drain the lover’s life force, often until there is nothing left. The stronger the love, the easier the life will be to steal.

No, she thought, her limbs trembling as she recalled the weakness she’d felt last night. The numbness. The way the world had turned gray around her.

“That’s—that’s what Blue is?” And Felix. And Felix … oh my god …

“Yes,” Layla confirmed.

“He can’t help it?”

“Sadly, no. It’s part of his curse. Blue must be worried about you, if he wanted me to tell you. He doesn’t—for obvious reasons—like for people to know.”

“Yeah, I can see….” Until there is nothing left. “I can see why.”

This was what Freddie meant by no after. No happily-ever-after. Because the person she loved could kill her.

“What tale is that?” Mira asked, searching for some shred of the tale in her memory. “I don’t remember any fairy tales where … where someone drains the love from someone else’s body. And …”

“It’s not that specific in the tale,” Layla said carefully. “You have to keep in mind that the people transcribing the tales weren’t the same people living them, in most cases. They came across them through hearsay, in bits and pieces. A lot of the elements are captured, but some things are hidden. Some curses are also secrets. Secrets you shouldn’t try to reveal … ever.”

Layla looked torn, like she wanted to say more, but couldn’t. Her eyes glimmered like she was upset. “You’re not going to listen, are you?”

Mira stared at the entry until the words blurred together, a tangle of rusty brown—the color of dried blood. “What does it feel like when someone drains the love from you?” she asked.

“I’m not sure,” Layla said. “It’s never happened to me. Or to anyone—we know.” She seemed to stumble on the last part, and Mira looked at her, searching for an answer—but Layla just shook her head. “I’m sorry. That’s all I can say.”

“Okay,” Mira said. “Well. Thank you….”

She headed to the door, conscious of the feeling of the floor beneath her feet. The sensation of her muscles shifting as she crossed the room. The smooth texture of the doorknob in her hand. All things she wouldn’t have felt last night, when her body went numb after Felix had kissed her and kissed her and kissed her. And then abandoned her.

Because he was afraid. He was afraid of draining her away to nothing. Because she cared for him too much. Or he cared for her too much. Or both.

Mira stopped at the door, not ready to face Freddie. To face anyone, really.

“Layla,” she said. “Is it possible to avoid your destiny? Like if you’re fated to be with someone, but you can sense that it isn’t right between the two of you?”

Through a pane of glass in the door, she could see Freddie still in his car, leaning his head against the steering wheel.

“I don’t know,” Layla said. Her voice was fragile—this was a sensitive subject for her, too. “But I hope it’s possible. That what we want—what we’re willing to fight for—matters as much as, or more than, our curse.”

Mira nodded, swallowed to force down the lump in her throat, and stepped out into the heat. The screen door banged shut behind her—and before she’d made it halfway down the driveway, a rust-eaten Camaro pulled in behind Freddie, boxing him in. A slim older man with black hair like Layla’s sidled up to Freddie’s car and knocked on the window.

“Frederick! Freddie Knight!” the man called. “Hey, buddy—I have something for you; open up.”

Freddie seemed disoriented; he scrambled out of the car, struggling to get a polite smile on his face. “Mr. Phan,” he said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were … am I in your way?”

“Not at all, not at all! Take a look at this.” Mr. Phan produced a ragged-edged vintage movie poster and showed it to Freddie. “What do you think this would set you back—normally, if you got it from an antiques dealer and not from a friend? Give me an estimate.”

“Um …” Freddie faltered.

Mira heard the house door bang open again, followed by Layla’s shoes clattering quickly down the driveway. When she reached Mira, instead of continuing on toward her father, Layla linked arms with her, and leaned her head on Mira’s shoulder like she wanted to hide there. “Oh dear god,” she muttered. “You’re about to see the salesman in action.”

“What do you think—one hundred, two hundred dollars? Either of those would be a deal. A steal, even.” Mr. Phan leaned in, an easy confidence in his movements. “But I’ll give it to you for eighty dollars. That’s practically free!”

“Um, you see, I don’t—I don’t exactly have that much cash on me,” Freddie fumbled, eyes darting toward Layla with a save-me vibe. “So while it’s a generous offer …”

“You know what?” Mr. Phan clapped Freddie on the shoulder. His face broke into a charming smile. “I trust you. You’re good for it, if anyone is. You can pay me the rest later. How much do you have on you now? Fifty? Don’t tell me Philip Knight lets his boys walk around penniless! That would be a disgrace!”

“No, I have money—I mean—” Freddie stammered. He was already getting his wallet out, though he still looked like he wanted someone to save him.

“Aren’t you going to intervene?” Mira whispered.

“I would,” Layla whispered back, “but we really do need the money. So I’m just going to leave my dignity on the driveway, and then go hide under my bed and try to pretend this never happened.”

Freddie was counting out bills from his wallet now—he ended up giving Layla’s dad fifty dollars in exchange for the old poster.

“Here you go,” Mr. Phan said. “Enjoy it. I can’t believe I gave you such a bargain. I’ve got a soft spot for you, I guess. You remind me a little of myself.”

“Oh, er, thank you,” Freddie said, stuffing his empty wallet back in his pocket. He tossed the movie poster into the car without looking at it, like he didn’t want to be reminded that he’d dropped fifty bucks on it—and still owed thirty more. “Good to see you, sir.”

Mr. Phan’s eyes found Layla. He grinned. “Hey, baby! Guess what I brought you? You don’t think I’d come home without a present for my girl, do you?”

Layla cringed. “Dad, I told you to stop bringing me things every time you go somewhere. We don’t have the money.”

“What’s this, eh?” Mr. Phan fanned out the bills in his hand. “Looks like money to me. You let your dad worry about the bills. He’s got everything under control. Now close your eyes.”

Sighing, Layla did as she was told—but Mira could see the tension on her face. “Dad … I’m serious. You have to stop.”

Layla’s dad sauntered over, as upbeat as Layla was down. Drawing a slim jewelry box from his pocket, he opened it to reveal a pearl pendant, then undid the clasp and secured it around Layla’s neck. She shuddered when the pearl touched her collarbone.

“Not jewelry …” she protested.

“Don’t worry so much,” Mr. Phan scolded. “Tonight’s going to be my lucky night at the tables. You’ll see. Nice doing business with you, Frederick!” he called over his shoulder. “Bring that other thirty when you get a chance!”

Once her dad finally disappeared into the house, Layla let out a sigh and yanked off the necklace. “Here, Freddie,” she said, forcing it into his hand. “Pawn it or something. You can probably get eighty dollars for it.”

“No, really, Layla,” he said, pushing the necklace back at her. “It’s okay. I wanted that poster. It’s—your father gave me a good deal.”

“You’re just being nice,” she mumbled, sagging against his car.

“So let me be,” he said, lightly touching her arm. “It’s no big deal.”

Layla pressed her palms to her face. “Don’t pity me. Please. That makes it worse.”

“If I pitied you, don’t you think I’d slay Rafe and make him into a carpet for you?”

Layla laughed a sniffly laugh, and Mira realized the girl was crying. Layla hid it well—her eyes didn’t get red and swollen. She was as pretty as ever—just with two perfect tears sneaking down her cheeks. Wiping them away, she said, “Okay … maybe you should pity me a little.”

Freddie smiled. “That’s better.”

“Thanks for your help, Layla,” Mira said, stepping around to give her a hug.

Layla hugged back. “Anytime. Don’t be a stranger, okay? It gets lonely in this crazy house.”

“I’ll come back,” Mira said.

“Is that a promise?” Freddie asked.

“Uh—I guess.” Mira eyed him oddly. “Why?”

“Well, if it is … then you should stay away from Felix. Or you might break your promise. Inadvertently.”

Mira glared at him until he averted his eyes. Freddie shrugged, as if she couldn’t blame him for saying it. And the sad thing was, she couldn’t; a chill had gone through her at his words. Because he was right. She did have to be careful now. And she was afraid.

By the time they got back to the Wilder mansion, Rafe was awake. Practice began in violent, cacophonous earnest, and after an hour of playing audience, Mira left to sit in the rose garden outside. Curses & Kisses was half good (Jewel and Freddie), one-quarter okay but too full of pelvic thrusts to be enjoyable (Rafe), and one-quarter intentionally offbeat and horrible (Blue).

In the garden, the atmosphere was different—serene and romantic. It was the perfect place to get lost or hold a secret rendezvous. Roses bloomed everywhere, in nearly every color: red for love, pink for romance, white for innocence, lavender for enchantment.

If the tales were true, one day, a single stolen rose would seal Layla’s fate. Too noble for her own good, the girl would trade her freedom for her father’s and agree to live with the wretched Beast. And if Mira’s curse took hold, one day, a bower of roses would form her prison—a coffin of thorns instead of glass. And yet the associations didn’t frighten her. She felt at peace sitting on the stone path that wound through the garden, inhaling the heady blend of perfumes.

By sunset, Mira was propped against the base of a Greek goddess statue, deep inside the garden. She was reading one of the skinny paperbacks she always had in her purse, barely aware of the fading light, when Blue dropped a ruby into her lap.

She closed her book, startled.

Seeing him—the blue hair, the violent jewelry, the sharp expression—was more of a shock than it usually was. Because now when she looked at him, she could see inside him, too. Deep into the secrets he didn’t want anyone to know.

For the past few hours, Mira had done her best to put the word Romantic out of her mind. But she couldn’t ignore it when he was right in front of her.

“Technically, that’s yours. Jewel dropped it when she was talking about you. It’s kind of our rule.” Blue sat down across from her, flipping her book up so he could see the cover.

Mira tried to play along. “What was she saying about me?”

“None of your business, nosy. Nah, actually, she was counseling Freddie.”

She sighed. “Oh … Freddie drove me to Layla’s, and we … we didn’t get along like he’d hoped we would.”

“Yeah, I was there for that part of the counseling session.”

They fell silent. It was useless to pretend they could make small talk while the weight of Blue’s confession hung between them. A hush fell over the garden. Even the birds had ceased their evening song. Not a sound reached them from the street; no voices carried from the house. It was as if the whole world was waiting for him to speak.

Blue drew his knees up. He reached back to mess with the spikes on his head. “So … you talked to Layla?”

Mira nodded, heart in her throat. “She told me about Romantics. The reason you think I’m in love with Felix—”

“Is because you wouldn’t have been that weak if you weren’t in love with him. Romantics can only …” Blue kept his eyes on the stone path, tracing one finger through the grooves. “We can only take love that’s freely given. That’s meant for us. That’s why …”

“That’s why you make sure no one gets close to you,” she realized. Why you can be so cold, rude, confusing … “You’re afraid of that.”

“Sometimes, you don’t know,” he said. “You can underestimate the depth of someone’s feelings. Or be caught up in how good it feels to be near them. When it first happens … you’re not sure how much of that feeling is natural—you know, happiness. And how much is the euphoria you get from stealing love. All you know is you never want it to end … and when you’re lost in it, you can take too much, too fast. And that’s dangerous. So I try to avoid it. To never get to that feeling in the first place.”

He was nudging a piece of grit along the grooves between the stones. Focusing on it instead of her. Like maybe it was easier to be honest when you could pretend the other person wasn’t there.

“I killed a girl,” he said. “At my sixteenth birthday party.”

Mira’s breathing stopped. She waited, her chest growing tighter—but she didn’t move. Didn’t dare.

“I was in love with her. Like, the kind of love you fall into when you fall for the first time. I watched her for years, but … I knew what I was—I always knew. So I never tried to win her over. And then it just … happened. She liked me anyway. More than liked me. And I got stupid, I gave in to it, but I—I didn’t expect it to happen so fast. For her to … for it to be over … so fast,” he said quietly.

“I didn’t try hard enough. I didn’t act like I did when I first met you. I thought if I didn’t ask her out, if I was busy when she wanted to do something … that would be enough. But I had a hard time not showing her how I felt. It’s just, it’s natural for us—for Romantics. We fall in love, and we want to make you happy so badly, to give you what you most want, need, desire … it’s like this selflessness that’s the ultimate selfishness. Because we do it all so we can have you. We need that … love. But once we have it, it means we have to lose it. And we don’t like letting go.”

Her heart ached for him. She didn’t want it to be true. Didn’t want to believe that he was doomed—along with anyone who loved him. Blue didn’t deserve that. No one did.

And … if Romantics were doomed, what did that mean for her and Felix?

“Isn’t there some way around it?” she asked.

“It’s our curse,” he said bitterly.

“But … there has to be a way. You can’t live without love.” It sounded trite, but she meant it. A loveless life would destroy a person. She’d been yearning for things she couldn’t have long enough to know. “It’s not healthy to lock up your emotions and push everyone away from you.”

“That’s true,” he said. “I can’t live without love—without stealing it. Without feeding off it. Do you know that it’s compulsive? That it’s like breathing? I’ve been holding my breath for a long time. Over a year since—”

She nodded so he didn’t have to say it. She knew the words hurt him.

“But as far as it not being healthy … it’s not healthy for me to kill someone I love either.”

“But if you’re careful,” she insisted, “if you stop yourself in time, like Felix did with me, couldn’t you … ?”

“Couldn’t I what? Couldn’t I be like Felix? I don’t want to be like Felix. I don’t ever want to be like Felix.” Blue’s eyes were dark, like a river at night. In the harsh light of sunset, the pupil and iris blended together, hardening his gaze.

“Relax,” she murmured.

“I can’t,” he said.

“What will happen if you … if no one ever loves you again? If you don’t breathe like that again?”

From somewhere beyond them, she heard a door slam. The hum of insects stirring. A peal of Jewel’s laughter floated on the warm, rose-scented air.

“I’ll die,” he said. “I’ll finally be punished. And it’ll be long overdue.”

Once upon a time, he believed he could be the exception.

He wasn’t a hero; he knew that. But years ago, he and Freddie had saved a life.

They’d been inching toward thirteen, too impatient to sit quietly in the car while Mr. Knight dealt with some business in the bank—so they were hitting each other with toy swords, using the seat backs as shields.

But then Freddie busted a knob off the dashboard. He was trying to fix it while Blue played lookout, when Blue spotted the girl.

At that age, hardly any of their friends were marked. Renee had yet to become Jewel; Rafe’s best claim to beastliness was an obsession with girls’ bra straps. But they knew enough to recognize a curse when they saw one.

Beau Rivage was in the grip of a cold snap, and that evening, the wind blew bitterly—but the teenage girl he saw wore nothing but shorts and a thin T-shirt. She crouched in the shadows, in an alley between two buildings. every so often, there was a flicker of light before her eyes: a tiny flare that trembled and then faded, making the evening gloom seem darker by comparison.

She was freezing, likely starving—and lighting match after match, entranced by the beauty of the flame.

“Freddie!” he hissed, his heart pounding with excitement. “look. A Match Girl.”

Freddie abandoned the knob to peer through the windshield, just as another match flared. “Ohhhh!” he exclaimed. “let’s help her!”

They scrambled out of the car and stopped at the mouth of the alley. This close, the girl wasn’t an obvious Damsel: she didn’t have the fine features of a Cinderella, whose regal bone structure would be evident even under a layer of soot. The Match Girl was dirty and desperate, her hair a greasy tangle, a sour odor emanating from her clothes.

She was marked to suffer, and then be extinguished without fanfare.

But Blue refused to let that be her destiny.

He crept closer until he was a handsbreadth away from her. He grabbed her box of matches and she gaped at him, bewildered at first—but he knew if he didn’t take it, she’d keep lighting the matches until she died, too absorbed by the dancing flame to do anything else.

They helped her stand; supported her as they brought her to the car. Then Blue darted through traffic to a fast-food restaurant across the street, where he bought her dinner, and a hot chocolate, and they set forth on their quest to rehabilitate her.

The Match Girl became their pet project. They harassed Mr. Knight until he agreed to bring the girl home, where Freddie’s mother ran her a bath and gave her fresh clothes, complaining only once in her overdramatic voice that if the girl had brought lice into the house, she (the sensitive Mrs. Knight) would be “done for, simply done for.”

The Knights kept the Match Girl as a lodger for a few weeks (the family’s heroic legacy made it hard for them to say no) and Blue and Freddie tended to her the only way they knew how: they made pests of themselves. They drew her out of her shell with board games, staged sword fights, bad impromptu rock concerts, until she was healthier, and smiling, and no longer drawn to self-destruction like a moth to a flame.

The day they said good-bye to her was a moment of triumph for all three of them. They’d fought for her, and they’d saved her—a girl who’d been doomed by her curse; and for years afterward, Blue had clung to that memory as proof that destiny could be overcome.

He’d thought he had a chance, too. That if he was vigilant and determined, he could fight his own fate. He’d believed it with the pure heart of an idealist, a child who’d never been tested.

Now he knew better.

He wasn’t a hero; wasn’t anything close. He was every bit as dangerous as his curse intended him to be.

He couldn’t hope to be good. All he could hope for was the strength to resist temptation—until his life flickered out like one last match.