Khanh, first of her name, mother of bunnies > Books: mythology‎ (56)

“Daddy, no!” I shouted.
“They’re going to kill him!” I wailed, desperate.
“Nooooo!” I wailed.

“Daddy, no!��� I shouted.
“They’re going to kill him!” I wailed, desperate.
“Nooooo!” I wailed.

Orion was my soul mate. Orion, who had bedded Eos and dallied with Artemis and gotten himself killed by her and her awful brother, Apollo. Orion, the notorious egomaniac, the most reckless thrill seeker who’d ever lived, a mortal I was still getting to know. He was, in many ways, my polar opposite, but he was my one and only home.

“I’d rather die than live without you.”

A deafening crack of thunder shook the ground beneath our feet, sending us staggering together into the nearest tree trunk.

“How dare you debauch my daughter?” he growled in Orion’s ear. “I should tear your head from your feeble, mortal body right here.”

With a bow in my hands I never failed. With a bow in my hands I was the purest version of myself. I pulled back and let fly. The hunting arrow zipped through the air, headed directly for its target. Headed for my father’s heart.

“You will be banished to Earth without your powers. You will be, essentially, a mortal. You will then prove your worth to me by forming true love between three couples with no godly tricks up your sleeve,” Zeus continued. “Only then will you be allowed to return to Mount Olympus.”

At the very top of the page in front of me was a space for my name and my birth date, which had been left blank. At least the king had given me that, the chance to choose my own name.

I stared out the window and considered, then picked up a pen and wrote it in. True Olympia.

“Do any of you have girlfriends?” she asked.
Josh’s jaw fell open. Brian laughed.
Everyone gaped at her. She didn’t seem to notice. Instead she looked at me. “What about you? What’s your name? Do you have a girlfriend?”

She was wearing a white sweatshirt about ten sizes too big and pink shorts that showed almost every inch of perfect leg. But craziest were the brand-new, shiny, red-and-purple cowboy boots. Which I think she was wearing with no socks.

“I’m going to find you a girlfriend,” I repeated, taking another swig of iced tea. “I’m really good at matching up couples. It’s a special talent of mine.”

Veronica rolled her eyes. “Who is this freak?” she whispered to Josh.

“Another setup?” I whispered.

“Yes! You said you wanted to find love! I’m finding it for you!” True exclaimed.

“With a girl who doesn’t speak?”

“Who the hell do you think you are?” I shouted.

I grabbed the tiny device from his hand and hurled it as hard as I could toward the street. Unfortunately, with my weakened human muscles, that wasn’t very far. Still, it did crack in a satisfying way against the concrete and shatter into a half-dozen pieces.

“What the hell? This bitch is crazy!”

This was a nightmare.

Clearly, I couldn’t make one match without my powers, let alone three. I was never going to get this right. Never.

Orion was doomed.

“Lmee ’lone,” she muttered. Her breath smelled like rotten grapes. I maneuvered her back onto the mattress and flung the covers over her legs. Her hair was matted in places, and puddles of drool marred one pillow.

I leaned forward, horrified. Was that a pimple on my chin?

“No!” I cried, the tears flowing freely now. “This was not part of our deal! No one said I was going to deteriorate!” Back home, my skin had never been marred by anything—not a blemish, not a wrinkle, not a scar, and certainly not this awful burning sensation. I was simply beautiful, every moment of every day and night.

I was a goddess, for Zeus’s sake! There wasn’t a human on Earth who could touch my beauty.

It was me on vomit day, wearing the band jacket over the long, gauzy dress and jeans Then me in my overalls on Wednesday, that itchy plaid vest I’d sported on Thursday, and finally the purple sweatpants and striped shirt I’d worn on Friday.

We passed by an open bag on a chair and I saw a pretty plaid scarf peeking out from inside. I grabbed it and tied my hair back from my cheeks.

I looked her up and down through the silver-framed sunglasses I’d taken from an open locker.

That iced tea looked good. Refreshing. I picked up the bottle and gulped down half of it. Charlie stared. I placed it down and sighed. My head throbbed a bit more dully.

“Um, that was mine,” Charlie said.

“What is with everyone and this mine thing?” I asked.

She leaned away from me, sliding wary eyes in my direction. I picked up one of the doughy sticks, dipped it in the vat of maple syrup I’d been provided, and took a bite.

I reached past a tiny girl with blond curls and took a carton of milk and a brown roll.

“You’re cutting the line,” she said.

“Get over it,” I snapped.

After shadowing Veronica this morning, I was certain of one thing: The girl was a two-faced bitch.

The honors English teacher looked like a Hun and had the personality to match. You’d think she’d be happier, considering she was sporting a gold wedding band and had a picture of herself and her handsome husband framed on her desk. People around here obviously took true love for granted. I would have liked to have seen how she would behave if she’d had that big hunk of masculinity ripped away from her for the gods knew how long. Maybe it would soften her a touch.

...bogglingly beautiful. So clearly clueless to it. So obviously sweet and shy and vulnerable."

..."Not-Justin-Bieber was standing there, holding my books out to me in a neat stack. Except up close he looked nothing like Justin Bieber. His cheeks were more square and his eyes very, very blue. He was hotter than Justin Bieber. By a lot."

The girl whose beauty was once fabled became a horrifying monster.
Her legs twisted together into a reptilian beast. Her hair, so

The girl whose beauty was once fabled became a horrifying monster.
Her legs twisted together into a reptilian beast. Her hair, so envied by women and the subject of many an ode by men, transformed into a nest of vipers.
I am the Gorgon Medusa. And my eyes can turn anything living to stone.

They are gentle creatures, individually named by me but normally referred to as a whole, since they intertwine together more often than not. More importantly, they abhor death just as avidly as I do.

And it sucks. It genuinely, truly, absolutely, unequivocally sucks. I hate stealing lives.
Thus, not only am I a monster, I’m a really lousy one. A lonely, classic Five Stages of Grief following, insecure, shut-in of a pathetic beast who talks to the snakes on her head and the statues on her island.

I loathed and feared him at first, convinced he would abuse me like his relatives had, but he is a persistent thing. It took years—literally, hundreds of years—but he chipped away at my shell with acts of kindness small and large.

He is always trying to right wrongs, save people, and make the world a better place, which is one of the things I love best about him.

“The simple fact is, my uncle raped you, and somehow my bat-shit insane sister blamed and cursed you for it happening in one of her temples. In no way did you deserve what happened to you.” He shakes his head slowly as he closes in on me. “You’ve born it better than any other person I could ever imagine. It’s time for it to end, though. I sorely regret not doing anything earlier.”

Before—I had no say in my punishment. I’ve born it quietly.
Maybe it’s time I finally take a chance.

Athena is sitting next to Poseidon. Her hair is in a tight bun, her expression sour as she peers down at me. There is disdain there, and something else—something I can’t quite pinpoint. But whatever it is, I am more than aware of her revulsion, and it saddens me. I worshipped her. Served her. “How many times do I need to say it? The little whore got what she deserved.”

“Niece,” he stresses, mimicking her formality, “this isn’t the first time you’ve overstepped your bounds by punishing innocents; this one just so happens to be the last remaining victim. If you even try to spew that victim blaming crap again, I’ll take you down to the Underworld with me for a spell. Maybe then you can understand what true justice entails.”

“Anger is good. I can work with anger. She doesn’t need your coddling, Nymph-girl. She needs somebody to help her kick some ass.” His lips curl so high that I swear, the corner of one side of his mouth closes in on an ear. “And I can do that.”

Another kiss, a light brush across the center of my lips. “I will fight for us, Medusa. I will not give up. Please do not give up on yourself, either. Never forget that I love you. Never forget that you mean everything to me.”
Our foreheads touch. “I love you. Hold onto that. I did not wait two thousand years for your love only to lose it so easily.”

“For somebody who is supposedly the bastion of wisdom,” Hades continues darkly, “you do a piss-poor job of exhibiting it yourself.”

His voice matches mine. “No. It’s like I said—she’s insane. Her being named the purveyor of wisdom is one of the greatest of cosmic jokes.”

He is lounging in his throne, dressed in a t-shirt, torn shorts, and flip-flops. There is no beard, no mustache—just sandy hair and weathered, tan skin.

“Cease your frivolity, cow,” Athena hisses at her sister.
“How delightful. Your daughter strives to show example of my words,” Hades says, this time to Zeus.
“Athena, shut it, will you?” Zeus snaps. An exasperated sigh escapes from his lips as he kneads his forehead. Hermes was certainly right on this account—the Assembly loves to bicker.

It is obvious he and Persephone are deeply in love, which is yet another surprise. Like most everyone, I’ve read the stories of how he’d kidnapped her and held her against her will half the year in the Underworld. Only, Persephone doesn’t act like a kidnapped victim ought to act; that, or she’s an excellent actress who suffers heavily from Stockholm syndrome. She dotes on his words, as he does to hers.

He murmurs sweet words of comfort, ones that do not rush me to wrap up nor belittle me for my outburst. And I know, just know, in this moment that I love him. That I am in love with him.
That I have been for a long time and too blind to see it before now.

“You have a goodness in you others would have long let die away in such circumstances. This is what I fell in love with. Not your body—which, I won’t lie, I enjoy very much, or your beautiful hair (because you know I most certainly was fascinated with your snakes, too), or those eyes of yours I find myself so easily lost in on a regular basis. Dusa, I love you. Who you are."

Chiron looked surprised. “I thought that would be obvious enough. The entrance to the Underworld is in Los Angeles.”

Chiron looked surprised. “I thought that would be obvious enough. The entrance to the Underworld is in Los Angeles.”

Nancy Bobofit appeared in front of me with her ugly friends—I guess she’d gotten tired of stealing from the tourists—and dumped her half-eaten lunch in Grover’s lap.
“Oops.” She grinned at me with her crooked teeth. Her freckles were orange, as if somebody had spray-painted her face with liquid Cheetos.

"Another time, Athena and Poseidon competed to be the patron god for the city of Athens. Your dad created some stupid saltwater spring for his gift. My mom created the olive tree. The people saw that her gift was better, so they named the city after her.”
“They must really like olives.”
“Oh, forget it.”
“Now, if she’d invented pizza—that I could understand.”
“I said, forget it!”

“About sixty years ago, after World War II, the Big Three agreed they wouldn’t sire any more heroes. Their children were just too powerful."

Now that I was declared a son of one of the Big Three gods who weren’t supposed to have kids, I figured it was a crime for me just to be alive.

"During the winter solstice, at the last council of the gods, Zeus and Poseidon had an argument. The usual nonsense: ‘Mother Rhea always liked you best,’ ‘Air disasters are more spectacular than sea disasters,’ et cetera."

In his pocket was a set of reed pipes his daddy goat had carved for him, even though he only knew two songs: Mozart’s Piano Concerto no. 12 and Hilary Duff’s “So Yesterday,” both of which sounded pretty bad on reed pipes.

Annabeth nodded. “Your father isn’t dead, Percy. He’s one of the Olympians.”
“That’s...crazy.”
“Is it? What’s the most common thing gods did in the old stories? They ran around falling in love with humans and having kids with them. Do you think they’ve changed their habits in the last few millennia?”

“What? You assume it has to be a male god who finds a human female attractive? How sexist is that?”

“Come now, Percy. What you call ‘Western civilization.’ Do you think it’s just an abstract concept? No, it’s a living force. A collective consciousness that has burned bright for thousands of years. The gods are part of it."
"Did the West die? The gods simply moved, to Germany, to France, to Spain, for a while. Wherever the flame was brightest, the gods were there. They spent several centuries in England. All you need to do is look at the architecture. People do not forget the gods."

I didn’t know what else to do. I waved back.
“Don’t encourage them,” Annabeth warned. “Naiads are terrible flirts.”
“Naiads,” I repeated, feeling completely overwhelmed. “That’s it. I want to go home now.”

“All right,” I said. “It’s better than being turned into a dolphin.”

“But a quest to . . .” Grover swallowed. “I mean, couldn’t the master bolt be in some place like Maine? Maine’s very nice this time of year.”

A knife flashed in her hand and she lunged at him.

God, he had to be crazy. She had a knife to his throat and all he could think about was how her l

A knife flashed in her hand and she lunged at him.

God, he had to be crazy. She had a knife to his throat and all he could think about was how her lips would taste.

Insanity. It had to be.

But he wanted to kiss her more than anything right that second.

This was her fault. She had disturbed the balance of the universe.

She ached to return to Pyralis, to the twilight and the scent of flowers layered through the air, to the vast horizon of stars and the trees that whispered songs to her in the half darkness, and to her sisters, singing to the sky, running through the forests.

Her fate depended on his.
If she did not find Luc, if she did not kill him the way the marble had indicated—the hand, the knife—she would never be allowed to return to Pyralis Terra.

He never exactly felt like an outsider, but the thought was always there, in the back of his mind: Different.

She had the craziest eyes he’d ever seen. … Gray, but tinged almost with purple, like the bay reflecting the sunset.

The soft grayish-purple color of her eyes was unlike anything he’d ever seen, and he couldn’t keep from staring. Her pupils dilated and the color changed, deepening to a wild violet hue that reminded him of dark storm clouds in a summer sky.

The fire lit up crazy colors in her eyes—threads of silver and gold, that wild violet color—and for a second, he felt as if he was consumed by her eyes, lost in them.

She smelled like flowers—lilac. The word popped into his head. It was intoxicating. He wanted to bury his face in her hair and breathe her in. Do more than just breathe her in.

The space between them grew smaller; the smell of her, that insane smell of flowers, intensified.

For a second, her head lolled heavily against his, and he could smell her breath. Flowers.
She smelled like flowers.

And then her lovely eyes rolled backward, her body relaxed, and she lost consciousness.

“You will destroy Pyralis, Corinthe. You will destroy everything you love. Is that what you want? The only way to stop it is to kill him.”

But she didn’t know whether she could kill him.
She didn’t want to kill him.

Her sister Fates: Alexia, Alessandra, Beatrice, Brienne, Calyssa...

In Pyralis, the Fates all looked the same. They wove white dresses out of flower petals.

The way he had looked at her, the hunger in his eyes, made something ache deep inside of her.

She was an Executor, and feelings had no business in her life, but for one second, she wondered what it would be like to kiss him.

Enough, she told herself. Wherever he was, she would find him and kill him. There was no choice, only destiny.

There was no way she could kill him, even if she wanted to.

He pulled her hips forward instinctively, molding them against his body.
Corinthe made a sound deep in her throat, and his pulse leapt. Fire raced through his veins.
She moved closer and the knife nicked his throat.

Was she a runaway? Maybe he had startled her and she had come after him in self-defense. Assumed he was going to turn her in.
It had to be a misunderstanding.

Luc turned back toward Corinthe. She paused, and a gust of wind lifted strands of her hair, making it dance around her head chaotically. For a second, insanely, he wondered how it would feel to have her body pressed up against him one more time.

Girl or not, injured or not, she was still trying to kill him. He was on her in an instant, straddling her waist, the knife pulled quickly from his belt and pressed against her throat.

Corinthe grabbed his hand, forced the knife against the pulse that beat wildly in her neck. Her eyes glistened in the suns, turning a haunting shade of purple. She arched her back, lifting her chin so she was even more exposed to him.
She looked alone and lost and wild and beautiful.
Protect her.
The crazy thought came out of nowhere.

The silk wraparound skirt she had on billowed around her legs. She smoothed it down over her hips and he forgot everything—what to think, what to say, how to breathe.
Everything about her was amazing. The way she tilted her head to the side, like she was listening for something. The curve of her neck right at the shoulder, a spot he wanted desperately to touch.

For ten years she’d been dwelling in this world, executing fates as the Unseen Ones willed, but none of the humans had made her feel this way before. What was different this time?

He was different—he looked at her differently, too, as if he could see something behind her eyes.

His Juliet stood before him, or at least, the shape of her, frozen in blood, monochromatic crimson, but unmistakably her. Thick chains bound her across neck and waist; manacles clasped her wrists. Her eyes were the worst of all, open, bloody, blank and unseeing, yet somehow still accusing.

“You must go north. You will find the man who can help you there.”

“Farther. Farther than you have ever traveled. Over the mountains, to a castle by the sea. The seat of a murdered king.”

...the unearthly portal that divided the realm of the living and the dead.

But they were gone, the hillside, too. Romeo found himself in a strange, barren wasteland.
He was alone.

He plunged into the spectral river on the maggot’s back, and when it surfaced, screaming its rage from its horrible, rotting mouth, he saw through the portal.
And he knew Romeo would not save him.

“It’s me.”

“I don’t care!” Romeo could not hold back his anger any longer. “You’re mad, and I’m a fool for letting you lead me here.”

Hamlet groaned. “Oh, stop pitying yourself. You were desperate and unhappy at home, you’re desperate and unhappy now. Nothing has changed, except that now we’re closer to your goal.”

“Have you listened to a word you’ve said? You’re miserable without your true love, and you’ve come here to find her. You are closer to rescuing a loved one from death than any man has ever been, and now all you’re doing is complaining.”

“I thought you said it wasn’t terrifying!” Romeo shouted, his eyes wide with fear.
Hamlet shrugged. The bastard actually shrugged as he lay there on the stone. Romeo would have punched him, but there were more pressing matters at hand than the prince’s maddening attitudes.

“I don’t know. I never stepped completely through the corpseway.” Hamlet’s thought trailed off as he moved through the light, sliding his feet cautiously along the floor. “Seems safe enough. Come on.”

“I stuck my head in,” Hamlet argued. “It came out again. And my father’s ghost was able to traverse the corpseway. I see no reason that it might not work exactly as I’ve described.”

“Was there no way to find out, before you did this to me?” Juliet asked, her large brown eyes full of hurt. “The two of you never thought that a bit more preparation might have been required before tampering with the forces of life and death?”

Juliet proved tireless with her blade, to Hamlet’s surprise and delight. He could not imagine the ladies of his uncle’s court taking such bloodthirsty delight in defeating monsters.

But Romeo had seen this fire in her from the very instant they’d met, though it had been only a small spark then. Set among the tinder of conflict, she was now ablaze.

The cloth fell away from the thing’s face, revealing no eyes, no nose, just the sightless, round countenance of a maggot and a circular mouth full of teeth in endless rings.

Something in Juliet’s voice bothered Romeo. There was a smirk to her tone that was too comfortable with the prince. She spoke the way she had spoken to Romeo that night at her father’s party.

My face feels as if it’s turning as red as kimchi.
I’m out of breath, and my nerves are fried squid.

My face feels as if it’s turning as red as kimchi.
I’m out of breath, and my nerves are fried squid.

“In ancient times there was a daughter of the spirit of the river.”

“Why don’t princesses ever do something in all these old stories?” I interrupt. “Like try to escape or get someone to help them?”

“You misunderstand me, Jae Hwa. It is not because I do not want you here. It is for your safety.” Then he shoots Dad a tight-lipped look. “You must take her back to America.”

“I knew you would come back, my princess,” he says.
I stop midstride at his words. There’s something about his dark-pooled eyes that causes my breath to catch and my heart to ice over.
“Just give me back my arrow,” I say.
But I never get it back.
Because he vanishes in a trick of the light.

A growl rumbles. I look up and freeze. A massive, lionlike creature, eyes glowing yellow, stands in my path.

“I am the Guardian of Seoul. Some call me Haechi. I have been sent by Palk to warn you and offer my protection.”
“But—but you attacked me,” I sputter. “And how do you know English?”

It’s as if a switch has been flicked. Honking cars, the pound of construction, the roar of the buses replace the creature’s breathing. I swivel in a circle. Everything is back in place as if nothing happened.

“You can leave the country, although I doubt Haemosu would ever let you on that plane. Find someone to marry you and hope he does not die before you make it down the aisle. Haemosu gets terribly jealous of suitors.”
“Komo.” I give her an incredulous look. “I’m sixteen.”
“Or stay and fight. But whatever happens.” Her eyes narrow as thin as slivers. “Do not let him touch you.”

It isn’t the first time I’ve dangled over the edge, streetcars zipping below me, to swing into our neighbors’ balconies.
I creep to the railing, careful that Dad doesn’t catch my silhouette through the windows, and climb over the metal bars. I could fall, but I know I won’t.

I should go and not let crazy mythical creatures control my life.

Then I think about my aunt. She’s totally against the ski trip, especially since it’s outside of Seoul in the mountains. I thumb through the edges of my notebook. What should I do?
“Marc will be there,” Michelle says slyly.
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll go.”

[My aunt] would flip if she knew I was out here on such a clear, sunny day. But all that seems so far away. I suck in a gulp of mountain air and feel as if I’ve finally escaped it all.

“So you will come, then. To the land of the wonderful dream.” He extends his hand, and I take it without thinking. The instant we touch, it’s as if a small electrical shock surges into my fingertips.

No! I leap on Haemosu’s back and wrap my arm around his neck, choking him.

How do I stop him?
Dad knocks and opens the door. “I just got off the phone with your principal,” he says. “The police called the school. You’re suspended for three days. You’re lucky. You could have been deported.”

"When he touches you, he will leave his mark… and your courting begins. Each time you meet, he will pull a little piece of your soul into his realm. Until you are no longer with us."

Haemosu left his mark. My stomach rolls, remembering my stupidity.

But I let him into my head. I’ve fallen into his freaking trap. So stupid!

“It would have helped if you had stayed out of the sunlight. Or fought him in our world.” Komo is all brisk-like again. “If you had not let him touch you and pull you into his lands. If you had listened to me.”

She scowls, her eyebrows knitting close together. “I told you not to let him touch you.”
It’s as if I’d been slapped. Of all people in the whole entire planet, I thought she’d understand. Now she’s treating me as if I’d done something wrong.

“I speak and write six languages fluently, been on the honor roll practically my entire life, and even know some judo moves."

“I’m fluent in Chinese!” he yells over the rush of everyone dashing into class.
I freeze. What can that boy not do?

Marc and Grandfather chat in Korean for the rest of the taxi ride. Marc is more fluent than I am.

Marc slides his hand in mine. I don’t pull away. “I’m saying I can see things. You know, supernatural stuff."

He isn’t laughing. “I know where they keep their keys. I know where the back door is. And I know where the power box is.”

All I can think about is how Marc saved me and I did nothing. There must have been something I could’ve done.

"Your dad isn’t Korean; and if it’s all so secret, then why do you know all this?”
“My dad is an expert in religious studies, and he’s an archaeologist.” Marc’s voice turns to a whisper. “Because of his expertise, he gained the trust of the Guardians."

“Hmmm,” the King said, making a face. “I’m not sure this is what we bargained for, boy. We expected the girl to be attractive.”

If

“Hmmm,” the King said, making a face. “I’m not sure this is what we bargained for, boy. We expected the girl to be attractive.”

If I hadn’t been so terrified, I would have been insulted.

“This is the one.”

“Are you certain?” the King asked from his perch on the throne. “She rather smells.”

"She foretold that when a prince of night bonded a daughter of the sun, the curse would be broken.”

“She meets the criteria given to us by the foretelling. You do sing, don’t you?” the troll woman asked.

“Yes,” I croaked, not knowing why it mattered. “What do you intend to do with me?”

“Why, to bond you to our dear Tristan,” the troll said, smiling at me. “You are to be a princess of Trollus and mother of his children; and in doing so, you will set us all free.”

Not all of them were deformed, but they were monsters still, every one of them. And I was to wed one. To be bedded by one. To bear its children. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. I was supposed to be on my way to Trianon to get everything I had ever wanted. Now, not only had I lost everything – my family, my friends, my dreams – I had just been informed that what life I had left would be spent in an endless nightmare.

“Ha ha,” Tristan snorted. “How dreadfully clever. And speaking of clever, is this to be your bid for escape?” He contemplated my clothing. “In a dressing gown and bare feet? Now tell me, if I go put on nightclothes and slippers, might I join you, or is this a solo adventure?”

My eyes stung. “You think this is all exceedingly funny, don’t you? I’m nothing but a joke to you.”

His brow creased in a frown. “If you’re a joke, it isn’t an especially humorous one.”

“You are the last person in the world I’d choose to marry,” I hissed.

“I don’t entirely relish the idea myself,” Tristan said, “but sometimes we must do the unthinkable. Because you have no choice, just as I have no choice."

We waited for what seemed like an eternity, then, abruptly, a collective groan of disappointment passed through the throng of trolls.

“Did it work?” I asked, heartily wishing someone would explain what it was.

“No,” Tristan said. “It didn’t.”

“I will ignore you. Be cruel to you. And you must play along. Act sad and unhappy. Never give anyone a reason to think I’ve shown you a moment’s kindness or that I’ve confided in you in any way. And above all, never let anyone suspect that I care one way or another whether you live or die, beyond how it might impact me.”

Fountains and statues graced every corner. In place of greenery stood gardens of glassworks sculpted into trees, bushes, and flowers. The delicate displays would not have lasted more than a month exposed to the elements above ground. Then again, hailstorms likely did not trouble Trollus.

Almost too late did I see the beam of sunlight crossing his path.

“No!” I gasped, throwing my weight into Tristan, knocking him down sideways into a narrow alleyway.

I eyed the beam of sunlight that was still too close for comfort. “The sun.”

“Everyone knows that trolls turn to stone in the sunlight,” I said.

His astonishment faded and to my horror, he started to laugh. Reaching out one arm, he waggled his fingers in the sun. “Oh, the stories you humans come up with,” he gasped out, and my cheeks burned.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. But what good were my regrets? I’d ruined everything and still he’d come for me when I’d needed him the most. I’d told myself to make the most of my life in Trollus, but instead I’d made the least of it. The worst of it! Because of me, the only other person fighting for my freedom was dying.

“Trolls,” I finally said, “are supposed to be ugly.”

My thoughts turned to Marc, who was always kind to me when no one else was. “They aren’t ugly.” I bit my lip, trying to find the right words. “More like beautiful things that have had the misfortune of being broken.”

He was perhaps my brother’s age, and particularly handsome. The light of the orb reflected in his silvery grey eye as though the glow came from within. I’d never met anyone in my life with eyes like his.
The two sides of his face, so flawless on their own, were like halves of a fractured sculpture put back together askew.The lack of symmetry was more than unsettling – it was shocking, gruesome even. One eye higher than the other. One ear lower than the other. A mouth marred by a permanently sardonic twist.

Almost every action I took or decision I made was designed to affect circumstances months, years, even decades down the road. I’d always thought it was the prudent way to live, but now I feared I would wake up one day an old man, with my past wasted and no future left to live.

“Under the sun, with your family. That’s where you belong.”

“Why?” I slammed my fists down on the table. “Why can’t you believe me? Why don’t you trust me?”

“Because you’re human, Cécile. You can lie, even to yourself.”

“Tell me you’ll grow strong again. That you’ll gallop on horseback through summer meadows. Dance in spring rains and let snowflakes melt on your tongue in winter. That you’ll travel wherever the wind takes you. Promise me."

While I waited I poked up the fire, added another log, set out two glasses, and surveyed my desk. My study also served me for a sitting room, and I made sure it was kept as orderly and comfortable as the solidity of its nineteenth-century furnishings demanded. I had completed a great deal of work that afternoon, supped off a plate brought up to me at six o’clock, and then cleared the last of my papers.

I drummed my fingers on the desktop. The clock in my study seemed to be ticking unusually loudly tonight, and the urban half darkness seemed too still behind my venetian blinds.

Even though I knew there were assassins on the loose, I’d let myself get caught up in Richard, in these ...feelings I can’t seem to shake. I i

Even though I knew there were assassins on the loose, I’d let myself get caught up in Richard, in these ...feelings I can’t seem to shake. I ignored my duties, skipped protocol. Richard almost ended up dead for it.

“Why are you sleeping?” I slip into the room and approach the bed.

His eyes open, and for the briefest second I feel their hazel irises on me. Something inside me clenches.

“Who—who are you?” he asks, his stare vague. “How’d you get in here?”
He sees me. It’s not possible. The veiling spell...somehow, my magic has failed.

I revealed myself to a mortal—to Britain’s prince—and instead of wiping his memory, I ran. I broke the barrier between magic and mortal. And I didn’t fix it.

A petite, linen-cloaked table waits for us on the lawn, covered with plates of freshly sliced fruits, eggs, sausage, and toast. An elegant china teapot sits to one side, steam rising from its spout like the breath of a sleeping dragon. Hundreds of roses, in every hue, seduce me with their scent.

“Damn, Rich. When you said you were bringing a friend, I thought...” He doesn’t bother finishing his sentence. “What runway did you get her off of? And where can I get one?”

We move together as one being, in sweet unison to the lingering guitar solo. We dance even after the last notes die, moving about in each other’s arms to some unheard song. We dance until nothing is left.

I lunge into the air, taking advantage of my magic to perform a string of elaborate acrobatics before I sink into the pool’s embrace.

“Nothing too nice,” I tell him. “Try jeans and a T-shirt.”

“No.” I smile coyly, satisfied he hasn’t guessed. “We’re going to look at your kingdom.”
“The Eye,” he mutters under his breath. “You’re talking about the London Eye.”

“I could magic us to the front.” I frown. Are there always so many mortals clamoring for a taste of flight? The queue is so sluggish it makes my skin itch.

Breena’s energy seems boundless as she strides ahead. There’s no rust or corrosion in her aura. No weariness to her magic. As if all these modern metals and electric currents swirling around us don’t exist.

The smell of food and drink, the smell of anything at this point is enough to wake the deeper sickness in my bowels.

I lunge to the top of the table in a single movement, ignoring the stress on my humanoid muscles and how much I want to vomit.

Although the pain has been latent over the past few weeks, its return is fiery and lancing. My knees nearly buckle under it.

The prince came to my rescue. He protected me. This is so shocking, so unprecedented, that I can’t think of anything to say.

Richard has her pinned to the ground, his face a war mask. The prince just saved our lives.

I can’t move. I can’t think of any spells to protect us.
It’s Anabelle who saves us.

The Black Dog’s aged-yellow canines snag my many layers of skirts—it ends up with only a mouthful of taffeta and cotton.

I look down at my outfit. Layer after layer of colors. Sea-foam tulle peeking out from aqua and daffodil cotton. Silver-threaded plum fabric mixes steadily with champagne silk.

Without him, I would be nothing now. Unraveled into ether and air.

Something about Richard is different from the others I’ve guarded. Something connects us: something dangerous and electric.

I love him.
What I have to say. The thought turns my stomach over and over. Far more terrifying than the idea of hunting soul feeders with Breena tonight.

I’m at the height of my bound, incarnate power, ready to take on an army of soul feeders.
But something is unmistakably missing. A hole has been sawed through my chest. A piece of myself I lost without consent.
I can’t not think of him.

Dropping the veiling spell, showing and telling who I am, reaching out my hand . . . Had I done all of those things because I wanted to? Because I knew, in some unreached part of myself, that there was this—spark, flame, inferno—between us?
Suddenly I feel selfish. Undone. No self-respecting Fae would do what I just did. She wouldn’t be so weak.

You’ll die for him either way. Breena’s words are haunting, inescapable here.
But that’s what I’m doing. Isn’t it?

How can I explain to her that none of this was for the Guard or the crown? That it was all for Richard? For a life and a future with him?

Who the fuck are you?
Here on the floor, in my final moments—MacKayla Lane’s last grand hurrah—I see that the answer is all I’ve ever been.
I’m nobody.

With an explosive inhalation, I snap upright in bed, and my eyes fly open—like coming alive after being dead and interred in a coffin.
I am Mac.
And I’m back.

And Barrons—what’s his deal? Doesn’t he want her alive? Why have they all abandoned her when she needs ‘em the most?
Men.
Dude, they suck.

“I was out of my mind. I’d never have done it otherwise.”
Really, his dark eyes mocked, and in them I was demanding more, telling him I wanted it to always be this way.
I remembered what he’d replied: that one day I would wonder if it was possible to hate him more.
“I had no awareness. No choice.” I searched for words to drive my point home. “It was every bit as much rape as what the Unseelie Princes did to me.”

The darkness agrees with me. It asks me to release it, as loud as a roar and as quiet as a whisper. I remember what my sister said long ago: You mu

The darkness agrees with me. It asks me to release it, as loud as a roar and as quiet as a whisper. I remember what my sister said long ago: You must control the darkness. You can’t ever give in to it. But the shadows want to make me happy, and I deserve a little happiness.

I just don’t need the distraction. I need to focus on not failing. That’s going to be hard enough for me to do without getting all twitterpated about a boy.

Rain in Tartarus means a lot of different things. Today it’s a fine mist of excrement falling from the sky. It’s like having an outhouse upended over your head.

I can’t think of my sister without remembering the last time I saw her, her chest a gaping wound, her blood soaking into the concrete of the patio. She was my best friend and now she’s gone.

I’m finally realizing that my imprisonment is permanent. I’m not going to go to high school, or college, or anywhere else in the Mortal Realm. I’m going to be forever stuck here in Tartarus, covered in sludge and pretending to be brave. A year has passed, and I feel just like I did the last time I saw Hermes. Desperate, confused, and incredibly lost.

“He’s dead. He was betrayed long ago by his beloved, and killed by a sword made of bright. But as he lay dying, he swore he would return, that not only would he avenge his murder, but that he would slay the bright Exalteds who killed him.”

I’m suddenly just so exhausted.
I’m tired of being afraid.
The entire mass of the creature regards me, waiting for me to do something. But I’m so sore and tired, and a wave of defeat washes over me. I just can’t see the point in fighting anymore.

“Are you seriously going to sit there and wait for it to eat you, or are you going to cross the chasm?”

Nanda’s expression turns stormy. “A Pellacis?”
I turn to look at Cass, who hangs back. “What’s wrong?”
“Pellacis are dangerous vættir. They’re liars and cheats, as dishonest as they are pretty."

I like Blue and his playful attitude.
But even though I’m fond of Blue, I don’t trust him. To be fair, there aren’t many people I trust these days.

“I would guess that the kid you knew has changed some.”

Not even the frowns of the few skeptics in the crowd can remove the hope of all those people looking at me, wanting me to be the answer to all their problems.
I can’t save them. I can’t even save myself.

Hades suddenly opens his arms, and before I can retreat out of his reach, I am wrapped up in a hug. It’s a strange sensation, and his darkness wraps around me in a comforting embrace. I want to stiffen, to resist even this small measure of affection. But the darkness is calming. Reassuring.

... the whole of his darkness draws back from him, so that for one shining moment his form is revealed. The inky aura looms over him like a snake about to strike.
“Insolent puppy,” he says.

The gods tell us the vættir are the ones who are flawed, our human blood compromising us. But it’s the gods who betray the ones they love without remorse.

I smell the river long before I see it, the stench of rotting flesh and dead fish wafting across the plain toward us. It smells like hatred and lies, and I wonder if that’s why some vættir refer to the Styx as the River of Deceit.

I take a deep breath and fight back the hysteria. I have to try to think about this rationally.

I already know that I stand absolutely no chance against a cerberus. No need to tempt the Fates.

The physical contact combined with the childhood nickname is enough to break through the haze of rage. I look down at him, and I suddenly feel very guilty.
I’m acting like a spoiled brat.

But I’m not brave. Never have been, never will be.

Whoever my father was, I know I was the result of a breeding contract, not some torrid affair. Love just isn’t in the cards for Harpies.

Harpies do not have crushes, especially on their childhood best friends.

No wonder I failed my Trials. I’m not even a Harpy. Feeling this turmoil and sick excitement over the mere thought of kissing Tallon proves what a failure I am. Harpies never fall for anyone. They definitely never fall in love.

“Apologize for what? Trying to keep us from waking up to a battalion of Acolytes on the doorstep? If anything, you owe everyone an apology for putting them in danger and for being a brat.”
Before I even think about it I’m swinging at him.

He laughs. “If anyone is strong enough to stand with me, it’s you. You can handle my darkness.”

I don’t tell him that’s because I am the dark. Besides, a girl has to have some secrets.

“I thought the same thing,” I said softly, my voice quavering, “when I saw the girls jumping...that they were like butterflies trapped between panes of glass.”

My whole body shuddered like a bell that had been struck. My hand, which looked small in his, was trembling. For a moment the din of the factory—the whirr of the sewing machines, the shouts of the foreman to hurry up, the street noise from the open windows—all receded. I felt as though the two of us were standing alone in a green glade starred with wildflowers, the only sound the wind soughing through the encircling forest...

...he possessed the finely carved features of a Greek statue, his skin pale as marble, his eyes the weathered gray of worn granite. And a heart as hard as stone...

Those wings weren’t entirely black—they held the iridescent colors of the sunset in them.

Amid danger and the heartbreak of her missing mother, falling for a human boy is the last thing Nerissa should do.

I’m what most humans would call a sea monster. I’m the sea serpent that historians have written about for years, the fiend that has capsized whole ships and devoured sailors by the mouthful.

The scales are a pale bluish-purple color, oozing iridescent fluid along their edges. I recognize them [...] immediately. But it isn’t just her scales in the box, it’s her crown...the same elegant ridge of spikes and fins on her forehead that mark mine—the mark of an Aquarathi queen.
The entire thing has been flayed off her scalp.

“But we’ve stayed here and done nothing while so many died, and all you want to do is forget about who you are, to become like these insipid humans. You’re stupid and blind. And selfish.”
“Don’t you speak to me like that!” I hiss. “I am your—”
“My nothing,” Speio says dully, his eyes wet with tears, gesturing to the landscape around us. “You are a princess of nothing. A princess of rocks and mud and death.”

Looking back, I was far more trouble than I was worth. Our people faulted him for being so indulgent and not taking a firmer hand with me, saying that if he couldn’t control his own child, how could he control his people? Put it this way—when I left, no one missed me. After all, as the humans say, no one mourns the wicked.

...the oddest-colored eyes I’ve ever seen—a bottomless blue, as if he’d leached the color straight from the depths of the ocean.
I must have imagined the strange, nearly navy color, or it must have been some trick of the sunlight, because on closer inspection, his eyes are more dark than light, almost blue-black.

...the fading sunlight makes his wet hair look like burnished metal. His hair is such an odd color. It’s not reddish-blond like mine, but it’s not gold or silver, either. It’s more of a mix of the two. The only thing I can think of to describe it is wet sand.

“Jenna, you can’t even imagine how bad,” I seethe. “He honestly thinks he is God’s gift or something. I mean, I swear he has rocks for brains. First of all, who would cut their first day to go surfing and show up not in uniform and make fun of Cano almost to his face? An idiot, that’s who.”

It’s not Ehmora that will be the death of me.
It’s this boy.

We have a traitor among us. Someone has been working with the Fallen to expose the names and locations of the vulnerable Nephilim.

“It wouldn’t hurt you to shut up.”
“Jesus! I’m trying to have a freaking conversation with you! You know, a normal one people have every day. Hey, how are you and all that shit. Is that so hard?”

She didn’t have Julian—she couldn’t have Julian. It wasn’t like he was another Nephilim or even a human—a human would have been better choice.
A rabid opossum would have been a smarter choice.

Lily sighed wearily. This wasn’t going as planned. “Michael, sit down. Luke, shut up.” It was a sad day for Nephilim around the world when she played mediator. “If you guys want to pull out your dicks and see whose is bigger, can you go ahead and do it so we can move on?”

"Who was the real Jamie MacCrae? A ruthless ruler or a puckish prince?"

"Who was the real Jamie MacCrae? A ruthless ruler or a puckish prince?"

“If I may, signori? It is a gigante mystery.” He illustrated his point by holding his hands wide apart and giving them a shake for emphasis. “As a young man, I was called to Doon from Napoli in 1915, during the last Centennial. I met la mia moglie---my future wife. Since then, I marry, make seven bambinis---babies..."

Of course, leaving [Doon] was preferable to death, but I wasn’t ready to give up on this place...or on him.

"[Jamie] smiled a sad, sweet smile. “I said, [your father]’s an idiot and he has no idea what an amazing daughter he has.” He said the words simply and with such sincerity that they washed over me like absolution. I closed my eyes, but the tears flowed hot over my cheeks anyway. How was it possible he knew the exact right thing to say? The words I’d secretly longed to hear, but hadn’t realized it until they came out of his mouth?

Jamie’s hot and cold act was draining. Every time he started to warm, to let me in the tiniest bit, he’d turn around and shut me out even harder. And why? What had I done? Except be nice to him and adore his kingdom.

"Without her having to use her hands, the cows began to splash steamy streams of milk inside the buckets she had placed beneath their teats.
Eggs lifted from the hay inside the chicken coop, flying into her basket as the hens let out surprised clucks.
Next came the blackberries. Rather than getting nicked and bloody hands from the thorns, the berries plucked themselves off the brambles, falling into the girls’ baskets."

“Who the fuck are you, Ms. Lane?”
Rage filled me. Rage at what had been done to her. Rage at him for bringing it up. The thought that no one could s

“Who the fuck are you, Ms. Lane?”
Rage filled me. Rage at what had been done to her. Rage at him for bringing it up. The thought that no one could see or judge me was liberating. I swelled with grief and anger.
“Now tell me who you are.”
“Vengeance,” I said in a cold voice.

I turned around slowly, and looked up at him. He stiffened and sucked in a shallow breath. After a moment, he touched my cheek.
“Such naked pain,” he whispered.
I turned my face into his palm and closed my eyes. His fingers threaded into my hair, cupped my head, and brushed the brand. It heated at his touch.
“Never show it to me again.” His face was cold, hard, his voice colder.

He began bringing me gifts. One day he brought me chocolate that wouldn’t make me gain weight, no matter how much I ate.

I live with my mother in a house bigger than the entire shelter. I have a master’s degree from Yale. I work as a volunteer, and I don’t even need to do that. Do I appreciate it? No. On good days, it chafes, like a dress with a scratchy tag. On bad ones, I feel like a bobcat caught in a trap, ready to gnaw my foot off to escape. Then I look at someone like Cathy, and a wave of guilt and shame stifles the restlessness.

"Prove us innocent of this crime and the other evidence will be called into question. A house of cards. Pull out one and the rest topples.” She leaned forward. “Can you do that for me, Olivia?"

“I wouldn’t call Gabriel Walsh if I was on fire.” She pursed her lips. “No, I might. To sue everyone responsible---from the person who lit the match to those who made my clothes. But I’d wait until the fire was out. Otherwise, he’d just stand there until I was burned enough for a sizable settlement.”

"Diana is a Roman goddess of hunting and the moon and werewolves or something. She’s this strong feminist, and certain Wiccans worship her.”

“I am the infallible voice of the univer

“I am the infallible voice of the universe,” the priest says, his voice echoing as the Oracle speaks through him once again. “I have chosen my Champion. The boy is the one who can save you.”

“You’re going to have to get her to fall in love with you.”

"You are the Champion that fate has chosen to bring her to us. This quest is your destiny. The fate of the Underrealm lies on your shoulders, young Haden."

“I’m going,” I say as definitively as I can. “I want to go. This school Joe is offering is everything I’ve ever wanted. I’m going.”

...the grove’s song is calling to me.

I am always following some sound or song, trying to find the source. That time I crashed my bike on Canyon Road and ended up in the hospital in Saint George.
"No, it was a Joshua tree. It was singing at the bottom of the hill. Its song was so pretty, I wanted to find it.”

“Singing.” I know that word; I have just never heard the sound that it applies to. It has always been an abstract concept to me until now. “Is that what you call that?”

“Say you’ll come with me.” She has to say it. I advance toward her. “You have to say you’ll come.”

I need to study Daphne’s movements, just like I would with that hydra I hunted down last year for the Feast of Return. I stalked its movements for days. I knew its favorite places to go. Where it ate and slept. Where it was most vulnerable...before I made my move.

“It’s an iPhone,” he says. “And it’s the most important tool you’ll need in the mortal world.”

“However, this next feature is the most important.” He clicks on an icon that says YouTube and holds the phone up in front of me.

My online research into “how to get a girl to like me” had suggested, time and time again, that to win a human girl over, I had to be mean to her. I’d spent the bulk of class either ignoring her, contradicting her, or acting like a “bad boy,” which I gather meant showing off my muscles and leaning back in my chair after saying something sexually derogatory.

Name: Haden Lord.
Age: 16? 17?
Hair: Dark brown, almost black
Eyes: Jade green (but sometimes look like they have bright amber rings around the pupils?)
Occupation: Part-time pirate

"How do you know he wasn’t the one who was trying to hurt her in the first place?”
I shake my head in frustration. “Because I just do. And I don’t think he had anything to do with what happened to Pear, either. I was mistaken about that. He’s not evil. He’s just different.”

I realize then that her description would kind of match mine. Tall, tan, and blond. Though she is of the bleached variety and her tan probably comes from an airbrush—while mine is from living in the desert.

My normal voice isn’t high-pitched, like most of the female singers’ on the radio. I have a lower, slightly gravelly quality. Like Adele’s. But I can also sing higher if I want.

“You’re a natural blond, naturally fit— hello, all the mayonnaise on that sandwich—and most of all, you’re a natural singer. I, on the other hand, have to go to a stylist every six weeks to keep my hair color fabulous, do an hour of Pilates every morning to look this rocking, and I’ve had six different vocal coaches since I was five years old. I’ve had to work to get this voice. You just have it.”

"Don’t deny it, Daphne, you know you’re special. You’ve just got it, and people can see it. They can hear it.”

Energy pulses through my body, stronger than my heartbeat. The sunlight streaming through the canopy of the grove glints off her golden hair, and the curves of her body make my hands prickle with heat that is unlike what I normally experience before a surge of lightning. Her blue eyes, brighter than the mortal world’s sky, meet mine.

A soft breeze catches her golden hair, blowing a few stray strands about her face. I feel the sudden urge to reach out and catch one in my fingers. A strange heat tingles through my body at the thought.

“He’s crazy,” I mumble to myself as I lead Joe toward the house. “He’s daft,” Joe agrees.
“He’s insane.”
“He’s mental,” Joe says.
“I don’t even think he’s human.”
“And I can’t believe I kissed him!”