At least, I will.
My senses are twice Agravaine’s.
Sluagh or not, royal blood has its advantages.
Were she Awakened to her true power, he might sense her, but no. She is one of the two last sleeper-princesses, her powers leashed and locked down since her birth. Even to me, she is a faint blip on my radar, a faint blip that dodges in and out, playing peek-a-boo with me.
I scan the crowd and lock gazes with the mortal girl. Her red hair blazes beneath the flashing stage lights. My hand remembers her touch. It twitches on the bow, and I play a discordant note.
Peek-a-boo.
I jerk my gaze back to Agravaine, my heart pounding, my throat dry, my hand aching…aching to touch her again.
Stop it, Roue, I tell myself, even as I feel her watching me. Peek-a-boo. I see you.
Agravaine glares at me through the crowd, waiting for me to give him a sign, a clue to the sleeper-princess. I have nothing—just a strange longing for a mortal girl.
Please be mortal, please be mortal…
Long and hard, he stares. Did he hear that discordant note? Did he see me with her there by the ladies room? What if he mistakes her for the sleeper-princess? My every breath is a painful pulse.
He turns back to hunting the crowd, trying to make me jealous. He dances with the pretty girls. His hands are on them, but his eyes are on me.
My eyes are on the redhead. She’s a bright beacon in the crowd.
He thinks I will be his mate. He is wrong. So very wrong.
Her face is upturned, her eyes searching mine as if to say, Peek-a-boo. I see the real you. She can’t possibly. Not through my Glamoury. I look away quickly, back to where Agravaine moves through the crowd, predatory.
His jacket shifts, sliding off his left shoulder, and I see the Moribund black and glittering, threaded through his pale flesh. With every passing night, he becomes more machine than man, his needs warped and perverse.
His eyes on me, he snags a new partner, a pretty brunette, and begins to feed. The Moribund glitters eagerly as it leaps from his fingers, splicing into her bare shoulders. She shivers, shudders, but she doesn’t see it, doesn’t register what’s happening even as she’s infected. The black circuits chitter and jigger, siphoning off her life-force.
He leans in, drinking it in.
Some night, you’ll have to do that, Rouen.
Gross. No. Never. I look away, disgusted. Even now, my own Moribund stretches and pulls at my right hand. The flesh infected by dark circuitry is as good as dead, threaded with machine parts cold and numb. All I can feel is the movement of the Moribund
That, and her.
When she touched me, I felt it down to my soul. Even gloved in leather, I felt her.
I play, sweeping up the crowd, heightening their excitement, their bliss, their euphoria as the flashing stage lights bathe me in color and heat. I play for her, for what can never be between us. Because connection or not, no Fae can ever be with a mortal.
Our powers are too strong, too seductive and destructive.
If I wanted to, I could blast the crowd, faestrike them until all they feel is a dark, consuming yearning for all things lost—lost youth, faded passion, misplaced inspiration.
Like all Fae powers, my gift is double-edged. It must be handled carefully.
I play, the warble and wail of the electric violin filling up the club. All around me, the smell of sweat and humanity, lights flashing, a sea of faces—so many I cannot see. It doesn’t matter.
My gaze strays again to the redhead.
Her red hair, her grey eyes on fire—
Get it together, Roue. The sleeper-princess. You’re looking for the sleeper-princess of the fair Fae.
Sadness and dread crash over me, and I pour it into my bow-work, lacing each note with wistfulness as I push my gramarye outward, casting candy-floss threads wide. As one, the crowd sways and pitches. Not one of them immune.
Not one of them the sleeper-princess.
That’s how we’ll know her. She won’t fall to my power—at least, not my power to enspell and ensnare.
Sated, Agravaine pulls away from the girl. She doesn’t want to let go—poor, silly thing—but she’s no match for his strength. With a chuckle, he leaves her for the crowd. His Moribund will eat away at her as she pines over him. Days, weeks, maybe a month. Her misery will give him power. Perhaps then she’ll forget about him and be free.
Unless he reverses the flow of power and blows her circuits wide open.
A shudder courses through me. I remember the fifth sleeper-princess, dead and sallow-skinned, hollowed out, her spirit racked and torn from her body. Devoured by the hearthstone.
Focus on this sleeper-princess, Roue.
I look down into the crowd. My last song is almost over, and I want to revel in these last moments… The last moments before Agravaine turns me into his Huntress.
A killer.
My gaze falls on the redhead once more. “After,” I promised her.
But I will break that promise.
With one final draw of bow on violin, the song is over. My freedom races with it into the crowd. I step from light back into darkness.
He is coming for me. He moves through the crowd, a shark slicing through water. He is coming, and he will make me raise my gift in violence. The sleeper-princess is encased in iron, a circle of railway tracks, and we must destroy it to find her.
I have no time for “after.”
And even if I did, I have nothing to give.
Not even to the girl who made me feel again, even for a moment.
I take one last, lingering look at her, and then I hear Agravaine’s voice raised in Command. “Rouen.”
As my freedom flees into the night, so do I.
Chapter Three
Syl
The sleeper-princess of the fair Fae
Hidden amidst road, river, and rail
Protected by a ring of cold-wrought iron
And mine own Grimmacle
- handwritten in the margins of Glamma’s Grimm
Glamma always said that a broken heart is worse than a broken bone. I used to think that was a bunch of baloney, but now…
Now, not so much. I stand by the stage, toying with Glamma’s iron nail, waiting like a total dork.
It’s after the show, but not the “after” Euphoria promised.
She left the stage half an hour ago, taking her spun-glass violin and all my hope with her. Whatever Disney magic the club had going for it is wrecked by the super-bright houselights. It’s hot and humid in here, and the crowd’s gone home, leaving only smashed cigarette butts and empty red Solo cups.
Euphoria fliers litter the tiled black floor. Awkwardly, I toe one, trying to look like I’m casually hanging out.
The roadies hit the stage, dismantling the drums and amps with terrifying speed.
My heart drops to the pit of my sour stomach. Face it, Syl. There is no “after.”
Fiann and the rest of our squad are waiting by the doors, looking beyond bored and annoyed. “Come on, Syl,” Fiann calls out again. For like the fifth time. She’s really losing her patience. I can tell by the way she taps her Jimmy Choos on the floor.
“Yeah.” Belinda knocks back the last of her gajillionth lavender lemonade and chucks the plastic cup onto the floor. “We need to get a move-on if we’re gonna make the train.”
I look back at the stage, trying to ignore the achy stabbing in my heart. I thought Euphoria and I made a real connection. I thought…
What, that she was into you? my inner killjoy taunts. She prolly says stuff like that to all her fangirls.
My head thinks that’s totally legit, but my heart doesn’t want to believe it.
Stupid heart.
“That’s it, girls. We’re leaving.” And just like that, Fiann, my supposed BFF, turns on her thousand dollar designer heel and stalks out the door into the late summer night. The rest of our squad follows. Only Gina has the good grace to look embarrassed
before she slinks on after.
Leaving me. Alone. In the club. Waiting for a girl that’s never going to show.
Okay, I’ve officially hit rock-bottom. File me under Super Uncool. Still…I look at the red curtains separating me from backstage. It’s like I can feel her back there, wanting to come to me.
Puh-leze, Syl. That’s just so…weak.
Walk away, I try to tell myself, but my stupid heart keeps right on being stupid. I’m frozen, and I can’t stop staring at the stage where Euphoria stood when she picked me out of the crowd, those sapphire-blue eyes all smoldery on mine as she sang.
For me. To me.
My heartbeat kicks up a bazillion notches, all the butterflies in my stomach doing the cha-cha. She wanted to keep her promise, the hopeful part of me whispers.
Oookay, I’m veering into crazy stalker-fan territory now. I touch Glamma’s nail to give me strength and get my butt in gear. I make myself walk away.
From the stage, from my hopes, from Euphoria’s promise.
There is no “after.”
My heart stabbing me like a serial killer stabs a helpless victim, I chase after Fiann, plunging out into a sticky-sweaty summer night. “Hey, wait up!”
But they don’t. They’re nowhere to be seen.
“Fiann? Gina?” I shield my eyes against hazy streetlights and the headlights of passing cars. The streets are super-packed since all the clubs let out around the same time. I’m jostled and pushed. Where—
There! I catch sight of Fiann’s high pony bouncing through the crowd. She and the girls stop at the far corner, waiting for the light to change.
My pulse is doing jumping jacks, and a cold flop-sweat from being left behind breaks out all over me. I take off at a run. “Hey, guys! Wait up!” My ears are still ringing from the show. The iron nail bumps against my skin. I scramble after Fiann and the others, their ponytails bobbing, their designer dresses flashing splashes of color through the crowd.
The light changes, and they cross. I’m running full-tilt, but I don’t make the light.
I skid to a stop, stuck watching them get farther and farther away as cars whiz past on the street. They make it to the next corner, to the Metro stop, and head down into darkness of the subway.
Ugh, why won’t they just wait? Seriously. Fiann sees me. I know she does.
Bing! The light changes to Walk, and I run, huffing and puffing like the Little Engine That Could.
By the time I catch up, Fiann and company are through the turnstile, and I’m left digging for my Metro card. I find it tucked into my dress pocket.
Awesome!
But when I pass it through the card reader, it comes up short, the turnstile flashing red at me.
Not awesome.
Murmuring an apology to the lady behind me, I step out of line and dig for change in my other dress pocket. Please let me have enough.
Thank goodness, luck’s on my side. Two quarters and, oh, hey, a crumpled dollar bill. Just enough. I could kiss Glamma’s lucky nail! I put all my money on the card, swipe through the turnstile, and run toward the Outbound signs, searching the late-night crowd.
Score! Fiann’s walking at the head of her little posse. I try to catch up before they reach the stop, but her strides are long, and she mall-walks. Shorter, smaller, I can’t compete with her.
Not anymore. Not in anything.
And soon, everyone will know my dad’s checks stopped coming—when Mom and I have to move from our luxury townhouse in the upscale section of the Fan.
Is that why Fiann’s being so über-weird to me? Because I can’t keep up with her shopping sprees and expensive outings anymore—or is it something else? Something Euphoria-related?
Don’t be silly. What would she be jealous of—that Euphoria left you standing there like the poster child for total dorkdom?
The same way Fiann left you at the turnstile, scrounging for pocket change?
I can’t afford a pass to the Metro like the rest of my squad. I barely scraped enough together to see Euphoria tonight.
I’m totally pay-as-you-go now.
“Fiann!”
Now they’re ahead of me, rushing down the stairs with Bryce and Brody and everyone else who doesn’t want to miss the midnight trains out of DC. It’s a busy Friday, and the stairs and platform are packed with late-night crowds. It’s standing-room only. The trains bellow and belch as they chug in, chug out, gray smoke puffing around the platforms like we’re in an old-time movie.
Belinda lifts up her iPhone 10,000 and snaps a group selfie.
And me? I’m stuck at the top landing as the crowd moves at a snail’s pace down the stairs. “Fiann!” I yell, but the screeching of train wheels drowns me out.
Fiann’s laughing at something Charlotte said. She glances up at me, totally sees me, and looks away.
What the what?
The train gives a loud ding! and an automated voice crackles over the speakers, telling me what I already know: I’m about to miss it. There isn’t another one tonight, and my TracPhone is almost dead. I’m out of minutes anyway.
Pay-as-you-go is great as long as you can pay.
This is officially turning into my nightmare.
Shoving my crappy phone back into my boot, I gently push through the crowd, throwing apologies like confetti. It’s impossible not to jostle people, but at least I’m not throwing elbows like Brody is. Jerk. I can’t fathom what Fiann sees in him. He’s a football player, he’s handsome, popular. None of that seems like a good enough reason to ditch your BFF.
And I can’t get it out of my head that this is about more than boys. It’s about Euphoria paying attention to me.
Okay, Syl, now you’re losing it. But I’m not.
Glamma always says, “Trust in your gut instinct,” and my gut is telling me Fiann’s jealous. But of me? That would be super-weird, like cannot-measure-with-existing-technology weird.
“You better hurry, Syl!” She flashes a smile up at me, but it’s cold, her eyes crazy-bright. That’s what you get, that smile seems to say.
For what? I want to ask, and that’s when I see the truth written on her face.
She is jealous.
The train gives its last ding, and I’m still one landing from the platform. Fiann smirks and steps on.
Not gonna make it.
“Hold the door!’ I call, but she…doesn’t.
Darn it all! I try to hurry, but the crowd is molasses-thick, and I don’t want to push any more than I already am. The railing is cold in my hand, and—
Ha! The railing.
I hop up and push off, sliding down it like those parkour guys doing Assassin’s Creed cosplay on YouTube, and then I’m through the train doors just before they close. Seriously, I need to thank Glamma a ton for the lucky pendant.
“Made it.” I tip Fiann a wink as she gives me the stink-eye.
Whatever. I hope she’s over this little dramarama by tomorrow.
Right now, she won’t even look at me. I’ve gone from BFF to persona non grata in zero to sixty seconds, no waiting.
Always an overachiever, eh, Syl?
The train lurches away from the platform, and I grab the oh-crap handle to keep from falling tuckus over teakettle. I want to sit, but there’s no way on Gaea’s green Earth I’m cramming in with Fiann and the girls, not to mention Brody and Bryce.
Maybe she’s mad because I don’t want to double-date?
She’s certainly glaring at me like I ruined her birthday.
“Hey, Syl, over here.” Gina waves from her spot near Charlotte.
Charlotte, for her part, squirms like she’s got ants in her pants, giving Gina the total stink-eye. Whatever. It’s better than standing here like a dork waiting for Fiann to explode.
The train pulls away from the platform, and I do that awkward shuffling two-step, wobbling toward the empty seat next to Gina and Jane.
Jane wrinkles her nose, looking me up and down like she’s just now seeing my minidress and torn fishnets. “You
know, romantic-goth went out last summer.”
Seriously? Now they’re going to pick on my clothing choices? I give her a look, but she keeps on keeping on.
“For real.” Her voice sounds like that prissy cockatoo Glamma had for a week. “That’s sooooo out of style.”
We got rid of that annoying bird. Or the neighbor’s cat ate it. I can’t remember. Looking at Jane, one thought rises, If only…
I cock my head to one side. “You are aware that Euphoria is totally romantic-goth, right?” And she’s absolutely not out of style, my mind unhelpfully reminds me as a blush creeps up my neck.
“You”—Charlotte looks me up and down—“are most definitely not Euphoria.”
Well, she’s got me there.
Euphoria’s tall, all dark hair and dreamy blue eyes, a voice like an angel and a smirk like the devil. It’s on the tip of my tongue to spout off, tell Charlotte that Euphoria didn’t think my outfit was lame, but…
It feels…not right to put my meeting with Euphoria into ordinary words.
Fiann’s looking right at me. She saw. She knows.
“Here you go, Syl.” Gina breaks the awkward silence, shuffling aside her poofy skirt and patting the seat next to her. She’s a popular girl, rich, pretty, but unlike Charlotte, Gina’s nice. The nicest one of the bunch. Nicer than even me, probably.
I ignore Charlotte and plunk down next to Gina.
“Sorry about that.” She says it all quiet-like so only I hear.
I nod so as not to give her away. Fiann can be super-vindictive, and if she thought Gina was being nice to me while she, Fiann, was giving me the cold shoulder, she’d make Gina’s social life a living hell with Armageddon sauce and a cherry on top.
I heave a sigh, the sound eaten up by the chugging train. You’d think by high school, we’d be over the mean-girling, but a glance at Fiann tells me…
One of us isn’t.
Our train snakes onward under a bruised purple sky, the kind Bob Ross likes to paint on that TV show. “And let’s add some happy little clouds over here…and some tall white monuments…”
Derailed: A Prequel Novella Page 3