chapter four

Lucy directed me past the city of Desert Peak and on to LA where we could do some ‘serious shopping.’ A lifetime in the vast wasteland of Hell had left me way too sensitive to all the noise and smells of this world. The distractions made my skin ache. I itched to stick my earbuds in to cut down on the information overload, but every time I tried, Lucy tugged them out. Finally she confiscated my iPod altogether.

“We should get you a phone, anyway,” she insisted, pushing me into a service store. Half an hour later I walked out with a shiny new toy that made Lucy happy—since she could call me—and satisfied me because I could still have all the music I needed to make life bearable.

Hours later, we dropped into chairs at an outdoor café after pawning a copious amount of bags off on the valet. I was reasonably happy with my spoils, even if Lucy made me buy a few items I’d never wear. While she had not approved of my endless selection of black jeans and black T’s, she did allow me to stock up on some basic items that weren’t embellished with rhinestones, cute catch-phrases or snakeskin (seriously).

I leaned back into the wrought iron garden chair and took a deep drag of my Coke. “Ahhh,” I said, closing my eyes against the burn in the back of my throat. Lucy took a more refined sip of her strawberry daiquiri, then pinned me with her chocolate brown eyes—her expression dangerously serious.

“So, baby.” She reached out a hand, my pale complexion almost translucent in comparison to her beautiful dark skin. She pried my fingers away from their napkin-tearing. “You gonna stay with us a little longer this time?” I tried to look away, but she squeezed my hand, hard, until I met her gaze. “You gotta give it a chance, you know. What happened to that poor boy wasn’t your fault, baby. You need to give your destiny a chance.” I knew she meant well, that she wouldn’t know how the bile washed up my throat at the memory of the last time I lived in Desert Peak. And she didn’t have a clue about my destiny.

I managed a noncommittal nod that seemed to appease her. Lucy didn’t know who my father was. She only knew the cover story Daniel provided—that I was heir to the throne of a small and distant country, and there’d been threats against my safety. “Uncle” Daniel had kindly taken me in so I could live the life of a normal teenage girl, unencumbered by royal duties and death threats. The cover ensured Lucy, and everyone else, were more forgiving of my social awkwardness, while making Lucy feel she was the fairy godmother sent to teach me the ways of life and love.

And what a godmother she was. Sitting in the California sunshine, dressed in fresh whites and yellows, Lucy reminded me of the goddess Calypso, all dark and glorious, beautiful and alive. She was easily as stunning as any First Order demon—only more so because of the warmth radiating from her like spun sugar. She caught me staring and her eyes crinkled with humor. I looked away, feeling the weight of the constant embarrassment that marked my time in the human world.

Lucy busted up laughing. “Ready to go home?” She twirled the ice in the bottom of her glass with the straw.

“No.” The word landed like a bomb on the table between us. Or maybe that was me hitting the unsteady bistro table with my fist. The glass fractured and wouldn’t go back to its unbroken state no matter how much I wished for it. “Sorry,” I mumbled, hiding my freakishly undamaged hand in my lap. “Sorry.”

But the laughter still danced in Lucy’s eyes. She called over the waiter to request our bill. “So sorry, sugar,” she said, gesturing to the spider cracks radiating out from the fist-sized divot. “Girl’s got boyfriend trouble.” She flashed the waiter one of her glorious smiles and leaned on the arm of her chair just enough to add emphasis to her words with her cleavage. “Add it to our bill?”

The five-foot-nothing waiter blushed. “Oh. Oh! No worries, I’ll uh . . . I’ll take care of it.” He didn’t move though. Just stood there staring, mouth hanging open, drool pooling at the corner of his lips. Lucy shook herself as if a shiver had run down her spine. The waiter blinked.

“Thanks, sugar. That’s ever so sweet of you.” Lucy reached up and slid a hand around the waiter’s neck, bringing his face down to place a kiss on his cheek. “You’re a dream.” When she let go, he stumbled back a little. His face lit up and he hurried into the restaurant.

Lucy and I cracked up and I laughed like I never have in my life. Even after Lucy paid with cash she pulled from inside her bra—even though she had a perfectly good wallet tucked inside her rhinestone-studded bag—fits of giggles still washed over me. It’s like the door that locked away the part of my brain reserved for laughter had been forced open and now I couldn’t close it.

We drove up the mountain, the wind ripping through my hair, the trunk filled with bags and bags of clothes, shoes, and accessories of every variety. Sitting beside Lucy, who was singing her heart out to some old song, I felt deliciously warm and alive for the first time ever. I wished I could capture the moment and replay it every day. Every minute of every day.

Because then we pulled up to the estate and I keyed in the code (666, so predictable), and my sentence in my very own hell began.

The evening crowd poured out of their cars and headed to the party already underway in the backyard.

“Damn,” Lucy said, pulling off her shades. She ran her fingers through her hair, and checked herself in the visor mirror. She shimmied out of her blouse and capris—heels on all the while—to reveal a sparkling silver bikini.

“You workin’ tonight?” I asked, dread settling like a stone in my stomach.

“You betcha, baby.” She didn’t even have the shame to feel bad about it. “See ya later?” But she was too busy sliding out of the car and slathering coconut oil over her skin to notice the emphatic shake of my head.

“Not if I can help it.”

Lucy leaned into the car and kissed my cheek, her eyes shining, and ran as quick as she could in her stilettos—remarkably fast, considering—in the direction of the party.

While Enrique helped guests out of their cars, I grabbed my packages and hustled into the house before he spotted me.

I dropped the bags in my room before turning to close and lock the door, then threw myself onto my bed. I might have drifted to sleep but for a wave of aching cold that crept into my bones. Father was near.

I sat up, fear surging through me. Unguarded, the spark had grown to fill my soul with warmth—I fought to tamp it down. The room darkened as my father’s Shadow entered, crowding into every corner and crevice.

My body begged me to fall to my knees, or to run and hide. I forced myself to stay sitting, though I gripped the fabric of Aaron’s coat as if my life depended on it.

Desolation, Father said, his voice travelling into my mind. Probing. Searching. It is time.

“Time for what?” I whispered, the words barely audible as they scraped through my suddenly dusty throat.

But instead of an answer, Father flooded my mind with images—a Remembering that was not my own.

The pixie-face of a girl, spiked blonde hair, freckles spotting her tear-stained cheeks. With trembling hands she pulls a tiny brass key from a chain around her neck and uses it in the credenza in an elegant, white room.

There’s so much white my brain tries to name the place Heaven, but I know it’s nothing of the sort. It’s this girl’s personal hell—I can feel it.

She pulls a heavy, dark-brown bottle from the cabinet and hugs it to her chest. After closing the door, she struggles with turning the key in the lock as her whole body shakes with—what? Need?

And then I understand.

This is want. Greed. Gluttony.

This is Sin.

The girl stumbles up the stairs and throws herself into a room filled with heavy blackness, where the light from the lamp struggles against the reaching dark. Even sound is swallowed by the darkness.

My breath catches in my throat as I see the extent to which this girl has recreated Hell.

She checks the window blinds, the light-cancelling kind that don’t let even a sliver of sunlight through, and switches off the light. She sinks down in a corner, the Shadows of demons caressing her as she pulls the stopper off the bottle and takes her first hit.

The details filtered down to me like a dossier of despair—

Miriam Carr. Sixteen.

Alcoholic.

In my sophomore class at St. Mary’s Academy. Daughter of California’s Governor, Ethan Carr.

Suicidal.

Bring her to me.