Endure

by Carrie Jones

  Four Months Later

  FROM AGENT WILLIS’S PERSONAL LOG

  For about two months now, the town of Bedford, Maine, has been quiet. All winter it was besieged by random kidnappings of teens and eventually adults, scores of missing, and then a sinkhole that destroyed the local theater and coffee house. The snow has stopped. Incident reports are run-of-the-mill. There are no missing youths, no reports of strange whispers in the woods. Still, the place has something off about it, and my case, I fear, will never be officially closed. So many civilians and so many officers lost their lives in the strangeness that went down here. That sticks in my gut.

  Spring in Maine comes with a rush of mud. Streams overflow from melting snow, and temperatures plunge back into the land of cold every night, but I do not care. Spring is spring, and my friends and I are alive, even Cassidy, although she was in the hospital for a terribly long time. The show choir is headed for Disney and the national competition. Disney is in Florida, where it’s warm, even at night.

  We sit on the lawn in front of the school. Seniors shuffle off to get their cars out of the senior lot. The late bus straggles up to the turnaround. Brakes squeal as it comes to a stop, the door opens, red lights flash near its roof.

  Nobody is in danger.

  Nothing is going to snatch anyone away.

  Issie flops onto the grass, then adjusts herself so her head is resting on Devyn’s thighs. His hand plays in her hair.

  “Do not get me wrong,” she says, crossing her feet at the ankles. “I like that nobody is in mortal danger anymore but it’s … it’s kind of … Well …”

  “Boring?” Nick offers. He’s plucking out blades of grass while waiting for another Amnesty letter I want him to sign.

  “Exactly,” Issie breathes out. “Boring.”

  “Boring is good,” I announce, handing Nick a letter and giving another one to Astley. His eyes meet my eyes. We were talking about the same thing in the car today, about how our lives have settled into something calm. The Pixie Council has disbanded. Rogue kings still exist, but none right here, and none as bad as Frank. Amelie is in charge of the day-to-day aspects of the kingdom, and Astley, who was homeschooled and tutored his entire life, is attending high school with us, taking all AP classes. It’s disgusting. And nice. And disgusting. He’s as smart as Devyn. He’s going to deliberately get a B in health class (totally required to graduate for some reason) just to make sure Devyn keeps valedictorian for next year. It wouldn’t be fair otherwise.

  “Remember when you came here?” Nick asks.

  “She was all peace jeans and U2 songs,” Cassidy sighs, coming toward us. She walks with a little hitch now, like she’s still protecting her wounds. “And you two argued constantly.”

  “Not constantly,” I argue, all defensive, casting a side look at Astley, but he’s not jealous. He never gets jealous, which is lovely but kind of weird.

  “Constantly.” Nick laughs. He hands me back the letter. I pass it to Cassidy to sign. It’s about the death penalty, which is ironic because we’re protesting it being used unlawfully when we’ve used it unlawfully more times than I can count.

  “And she’d always be mumbling those phobias under her breath.” Issie sits up. “It was so adorable.”

  “Adorably neurotic,” Devyn says. “I thought she’d be my parents’ next patient.”

  “Not nice,” Issie says, punching him in the shoulder.

  “But true.” I agree with Devyn. I was a wreck. “Now I’m just neurotic about getting into college.”

  “And keeping the world safe from those who don’t care about human rights,” Issie says.

  “You will be accepted,” Astley says.

  “That’s what Betty says.” I touch a tiny blade of grass. It’s so different from the grass in Charleston—thinner.

  Cassidy looks up from signing her letter. “How’s Gram doing?”

  “She still misses Mrs. Nix but is pretending not to. She’s taken over Mrs. Nix’s honey hives. It’s sweet and sad all at the same time, you know?”

  For a minute we’re quiet. There have been so many funerals and wakes, in-school service days with counselors that they’ve shipped in so that those of us who are left can handle our post-traumatic stress and survivor guilt. The town has lost so many people.

  There’s a little wind. Dandelion weeds are starting to poke up through the grass. Soon they’ll grow pretty yellow heads. Then they’ll turn to skeletons of themselves, and the wind will blow their seeds away, spreading them everywhere. Part of me wonders if that’s what the evil pixies are doing, waiting, ready to burst from the ground and spread everywhere. Part of me thinks I’m paranoid.

  “So, spring break …,” Issie prompts. “How awesome.”

  Cassidy eases herself to the ground next to us. “It will be.”

  Cassidy is going on the show choir trip, as are Devyn and Nick. But Astley, Issie, and I are headed to Europe, to go to that villa Astley promised. We will see seals and flowers. We will be free of Bedford, no offense to it. It will just be nice to go someplace that wasn’t the site of massive deaths and evil.

  When I first got to Bedford I was so full of fear that I had become nothing. I hardly felt anymore because feeling hurt too much. And now? Now I think of a quote my stepdad used to say. It was by Anandamayi Ma: “Be anchored in fearlessness. What is worldly life but fear!”

  I have no idea who Anandamayi Ma is. I should probably look her up, but not now, because right now I am so happy that I am not the only one who remains, that I am the one who risked everything so the world didn’t end, that I get to hang out on the grass and feel the sun and let Astley rest his head against my hip as he sprawls out and stares up at the sky. Most of Frank’s pixies are ours now, assimilated into the fold, contrite and upset about what they had become, and working toward redemption.

  Winter is over. My friends and I own lives where we can all exist without constant fear. It’s a life where I can be proud of being half pixie, proud of who I am, who we all have become.

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to my mom, Betty Morse, who has been battling sickness after sickness and staying alive despite everyone’s doubts. She personifies fierce and good. I love her the whole world. And thanks to Lew Barnard and the rest of my family for not disowning me yet.

  Thanks to Emily Ciciotte, who proves that you can be glorious even when watching TV.

  Thanks to Shaun Farrar. You have taught me to be brave and to have hope. I am so sorry that you have to keep teaching me that over and over again.

  Pixie kisses to Alice Dow, Lori Bartlett, Marie Overlock, Jennifer Osborn, and Dotty Vachon; to Laura Hamor, Kelly Fineman, Jackie Shriver Ganguly, Tami Brown, Melodye Shore, and Tamra Wright. You have all been so patient with me and so wise.

  Thanks to Jim Willis, Ken Mitchell, and the Mount Desert Police Department for letting me write and dispatch and for all of you offering to be in my books numerous times. You are.

  This series would not have existed without the guidance of Michelle Nagler. She is a rock star of an editor and I am so lucky that she was there to make Zara as tough and awesome as possible. She and the rest of the amazing Bloomsbury crew—including, but not limited to, Melissa Kavonic, Alexei Esikoff, Jill Amack, and Regina Castillo—make it wonderful to be an author. Thank you. They don’t get the fan mail, but they deserve it more than I do.

  And all my thanks to Edward Necarsulmer and his mighty assistant, Christa Heschke. There can be no better agent and no better friend. I am so sorry I always pocket dial you when I am in an airport and disconnect you when I drive. Some day I won’t. I swear.

  Finally, thank you to all the awesome people who send me e-mails and comment on Facebook and Twitter and all the random social network places I appear. You have no idea how much you help me believe in the goodness of people. Thank you so much for being goofy and supportive and … well … yeah … awesome.

  Also by Carrie Jones

  Need

  Captivate


  Entice

  With Steven E. Wedel

  After Obsession

  Copyright © 2012 by Carrie Jones

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  First published in the United States of America in May 2012

  by Bloomsbury Books for Young Readers

  www.bloomsburyteens.com

  Electronic edition published in May 2012

  For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to

  Permissions, Bloomsbury BFYR, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10010

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  available upon request

  ISBN: 978-1-59990-749-9 (e-book)

  Book design by Nicole Gastonguay