Kill Me Softly (25 page)

“I saw you earlier,” she began, “with two of your … I think, security guards, and a woman, and there was a man you'd caught counting cards. You were threatening him.”

“Oh, that,” Felix said quietly. “Did that scare you?”

“A little. You seemed—like a different person. Almost cruel.”

“Some people deserve it,” he said. His hand went to her shoulder, caressed her bare skin. Like it soothed him to touch her, and like it did the opposite, too.

“You're sweet, Mira; I hope you'll always be that way—and I would never want to hurt you. But some people …” His hand stilled, and he met her eyes. “No one steals from me—from the casino. I don't allow that.”

“So … what happened to him?”
Don't stop,
she thought, leaning into him so he would touch her again.

“We sent him home with a slap on the wrist. Will that help you sleep at night? Don't think about it anymore. I mean it—he's not worth your time.”

Mira nodded. He'd glossed over her question—but in a way, that was what she wanted. She didn't want to hear the gory details any more than he wanted to tell her. And at this point, she had other things on her mind. Felix had insinuated his thumb under her nightgown's satin strap, and now he slid it over the rounded curve of her shoulder, the satin whispering against her arm as it fell, the bodice straining against her breasts.

The nightgown was tight; she'd had to wriggle to get into it, and it would take the same effort to get it off, but his hands didn't exactly seem discouraged. He bowed his head to kiss her neck, his lips trailing luxuriously over her skin, every nerve in her body startling awake.

Her breath sounded wild in her ears.

Last night, he'd shown her the crumbling ballroom under the stars—and then deposited her in a new hotel room, untouched. As if mindful of the strength he'd stolen.

The strength she had in abundance now.

Two days had passed since he'd kissed her in the flower shop—and he kissed her as if that had been two more than he could stand. She grasped at his hair as his mouth worked its way from her throat to her collarbone and lower, his tongue sending shivers all through her body. Her blood was burning; her dress was disappearing. … Her head felt like a feather, airy and light. She wanted to surrender to that feeling … but she was afraid to. Her life was precious to her; she didn't want to lose it.

“Who—who were those people you were with?” she asked.

Felix lifted his head and she squirmed away from him, shifting into a less kissable position. His mouth gleamed in the light. His dark blue brows were two puzzled arcs. “What?”

Mira adjusted her nightgown. “The security guards, and that woman, Gretel. Is she Gretel from the fairy tale?”

Felix nodded. “That was Gretel, and her brother, Hansel, and Louis—the Wolf from ‘Red Riding Hood.' ”

“Friends of yours?”

He studied her, like he wondered what she was up to. But then he must have realized, read it in the flush of her cheeks and the darting of her eyes. “Sure, you could call them that. They were blackballed by the Marked community. So I found a place for them at the Dream.”

She'd only meant to interrupt—to delay him until she could think straight—but now she was curious. She'd known there were heroes and villains in the fairy-tale community. She hadn't considered that there might be outcasts.

“Why were they blackballed? I thought Hansel and Gretel were captured by a witch. How is that their fault?”

“It's not their capture that's a problem. Gretel was eleven when she killed the witch … in a particularly brutal way. It was self-defense, but she pushed the witch into an oven and she watched her burn. She doesn't feel remorse. She's strong—she had to be, to save herself. And people don't like that; it makes them nervous.”

“She likes to hurt people,” Mira said, as understanding dawned on her. “That's her job here, isn't it?”

“Let's just say she's fond of retribution.”

“And the Wolf? People don't like him because he tried to kill an old woman, too, right? Red Riding Hood's grandmother?”

Felix grimaced, his gaze shifting past her, like he was revisiting a memory that was far too vivid. “He did eat her grandmother—although he never did swallow the girl. A hunter arrived and shot him. Then he cut Louis open to save the old woman, and filled his stomach with rocks and sewed him up again.”

“That's torture,” Mira said, disgust filling her. “What was the point of torturing him?”

Felix shrugged. “Fairy tales aren't pretty things, Mira. You know that. I'm sure Red Riding Hood thought the hunter was a hero. Anyway,” he went on, “Louis would have died—but Gretel and I found him and brought him to Delilah, and she cleaned the rocks out and saved him. That was a few years ago.”

“Delilah,” Mira murmured. “Weren't you—aren't you—afraid of her?”

“Why would I be afraid of her?”

“Blue's afraid of her,” she said.

“No …” Felix shook his head. His eyes went distant again. “Delilah has her price—for everything … that's true. But Blue isn't afraid of her. Blue's afraid of himself.”

There was no rest for the wicked.

After the party, when all he wanted was to sleep, or to take a page out of Viv's diary and drown himself in the Deneuves' well—his father insisted on a dinner.

He was shell-shocked, barely able to speak, and he missed her—already, he missed the soft warmth of her in his arms, the brightness of her laugh. He wanted to see her. Wanted to be near her. Wanted to die.

Instead, he sat stiffly, almost catatonically at a table for four in one of the private banquet rooms at Rampion, the Dream's finest restaurant, waiting for their fairy dinner guest to arrive.

His father catered to VIPs every day—but fairies were in a class of their own.

Fairies were revered by the Marked community. Some people courted them, begging for a curse—like Viv's late mother, who'd pricked her finger when she was pregnant and asked for a girl as white as paper, as black as ink, as red as blood, because she wanted her daughter's life to be “dramatic.” Then there were families like the Knights, who invited fairies to christenings to bestow virtues on their future heroes and heroines.

But ultimately, fairies had the power—to enchant you, destroy you. It had been that way from the moment fairy and human blood had mixed.

Once upon a time, fairies had been fairies and humans had been humans, and they were as separate as fire and water. Occasionally, a fairy would enchant a worthy human, but for the most part, fair
ies viewed humans as tedious creatures, as silly as butterflies or bees.

That was before love arrived, and changed everything.

Fairies were female, and solitary. And while they lived a long time, they did not live forever. every so often, a fairy would seek out an enchanted male—the North Wind, perhaps, or Dawn, Day, or Night, who dragged the hours along on red, white, and black horses—and they would mate to perpetuate their race. They did not fall in love. They were too haughty and proud with each other to be
that vulnerable. And yet love called to them—from a very different place.

The fairies and their male counterparts discovered love by observation—by watching humans. They descended from their peaks of isolation, their palaces and clouds, not to interfere or enchant, but to fall in love; and they lay with human men and women for the pleasure of it. Such unions were forbidden, but they were kept secret.

Until the half-blood children were born.

Their existence was a scandal.

The hard-hearted fairies believed the impure offspring had to be punished. The kindhearted fairies fell fast in love with the children—and chose to protect them, to offer them gifts and assistance. They quickly split into factions, for and against.

And so the curses began. The tests. Rites of passage. Punishments. Rewards.

Happily-ever-afters, and utter ruin.

Over the years, as the population of part-human, part-magic children grew, the fairies relaxed their vigilance, choosing to curse some of their mixed-blood descendants, and not others. They groomed them to be heroes or villains—after their own hearts. And because their hearts were involved, even the wickedest fairies could become attached. They saw, in the villains they marked, miniature versions of themselves.

Delilah had that sort of affection for Blue's father, because he had made something of himself; he was smart, charismatic, unafraid. She hadn't marked any of the Valentines herself, but she knew Blue's curse had awoken, and she'd invited herself to dinner to celebrate.

Blue's father considered it a great honor.

Delilah arrived twenty minutes late, while Blue's father was sipping champagne and quizzing Felix on something work related. She carried a thin parcel wrapped in silver-black paper and handed it to Felix.

“It's a book of William Faulkner stories,” she announced before he could open it. Her eyes slanted like a cat's when she smiled, like Blue's mother's had. “I think you'll like them.”

“Thank you,” Felix murmured, too polite to show he was puzzled, if he was.

“It was Blue's birthday,” Blue's father reminded her—scolding her playfully. “Did you bring him something, too?”

“I hardly think Blue wants another present from my kind,” Delilah countered silkily. “He looks like he needs time to recover from the last one.”

She smirked, and her expression cut him to the core; because she knew what he had done, and it amused her. Jane, though miracu
lous to him, was merely human. Barely worthy of the fairy's notice.

Delilah turned to his father, and the two discussed business, and gossiped about other Cursed, other fairies. Felix interjected when appropriate—just enough to show he was following the con
versation. Mostly, he stayed silent, only breaking from his polite, attentive pose to unwrap the book under the table, and then to leaf through it out of boredom.

When Delilah ran her black-taloned hand across the back of Felix's neck and up through his hair, like he was her lover instead of a boy centuries her junior, Felix barely even flinched.

“How's louis?” she asked pointedly.

“Recovering,” Felix said, his gaze locked carefully on the book. “Thank you.”

Their father laughed, a little drunk from champagne. like
Felix was an innocent schoolboy Delilah was trying to seduce. Or already had.

Blue watched them through a haze of despair. emotionally, he felt destroyed—and he clung to that destruction, to remind himself of what he'd done. Because physically … he'd never felt better. A delicious energy coursed through him, along with a hunger he'd never known. Because he'd never known what it would be like to give in to what he really was.

He would see a girl now—a laughing girl surrounded by friends, or a tear-streaked mystery girl—and his heart would beat faster, desperate to know her. His lips would burn with the need to kiss her, to feel her pulse throb beneath his lips. Pulse and pulse and drum with the thrill of it—then fade.

He needed love so badly he felt like he would die without it.

And he hoped he would.

W
HEN DAWN BROKE
, Mira was lying on the couch with Felix, her spine pressed to the couch back, her legs tangled with his. Her skin burned hot when he kissed her, then cold as lost love chilled her veins. Late night rolled into early morning, and Mira's head swam with exhaustion, turned as muzzy as the light outside. Creaking carts and footsteps in the hall announced the new day.

“I should go,” Felix whispered, his lips moving against her ear.

“I know.” She put a hand out to steady herself, not sure which way was up and which was down; and he lifted her and carried her to the bed. She sank into the mattress, eyes fluttering as he helped her between the sheets.

“Staying?” she murmured. She was heavy … everything was …

She let her eyes close.
There.

“Going,” he corrected. “But not because I want to.” His fingers brushed her cheek. She mumbled something, a sleepy
mmm
.

That was the last thing she remembered.

She didn't open her eyes again until afternoon. She had a vague memory of trying to get up, and not being strong enough. And before that, she remembered Felix laying her down, pulling the sheets over her … but her brain was hazy, and confused.

She blinked at the room around her, and thought:
this is how it will feel one day when I wake up, but I'll have slept for years.

Last night, she'd forgotten about her curse. She'd been too busy enjoying the present to worry about the future.

But her curse was real. As real as Felix's curse, which had left her woozy and delirious, her love swept up and inhaled like breath.

One day, she might wake and see a stranger hovering over her, a boy on whose kiss her life depended. It wouldn't necessarily be Freddie. She might not know or like her rescuer—but she'd have to be grateful all the same. Everyone she'd known might be dead, and she'd have to rely on a stranger, to whom she was no more than a destiny, a pretty face. …

It was a morbid thought to be dwelling on, and she quickly shook it away. No. She'd find out what her trigger was—from Delilah, tonight—and she'd escape her fate.

She was going to have a happy birthday. A sweet sixteen—the sweetest. And that meant keeping her fears in check so they didn't carry over to tomorrow and spoil everything.

She stepped out into the living room of her suite, and the door bumped into something, setting off the soft bobbing rustling of a roomful of helium balloons—and she decided she was off to a good start.

Balloons in every color floated overhead, long ribbons hanging down to tickle her arms as she walked through. A forest of pink, green, purple, yellow—all soft pastels, blown sheer like bubbles.

In the center of the room sat a pile of presents wrapped in rose-print paper. Perched on top of the stack was a card.

“My birthday isn't till tomorrow,” Mira murmured as she opened the envelope, happy nonetheless.

She liked birthdays, liked celebrating an existence her godmothers had taught her never to take for granted. And to wake up to this, to know someone had spent the time thinking of her, planning this, thrilled her more than the actual presents ever could.

The card was made of shimmering paper that said
Happy Birthday
in gold script.

Inside, Felix had written:

Mira,

What kind of surprise?
she wondered. The idea made her feel shivery, anxious, and excited. She set the card aside and moved on to the packages.

Opening the largest box, she pushed aside tufts of tissue paper to reveal an airy chiffon dress, white and patterned with red roses. It was sleeveless, tight at the waist, with a fitted top and a flowing knee-length skirt, sweet and sexy at the same time. She held it to her chest like a dance partner, and spun around in front of the mirror; then rushed back to open the rest.

The medium-size box contained a pair of red high-heeled shoes with roses on the toes.

And inside the smallest box was a teardrop-shaped bottle of perfume. She removed the stopper and the scent of roses wafted out.

By the time she'd finished trying on the shoes and the dress and dancing around the suite, it was time to get ready. Tonight was the night she would seize who she really was. Armored in roses, she'd discover her trigger—her secret weakness—and she'd see Blue and she would
behave
. And tomorrow … tomorrow she'd be a new person.

Mira dressed for the Curses & Kisses show like she was dressing for a ball.

She zipped into her new dress, dabbed rose perfume on her wrists, stepped into the red heels. She left her hair loose, hanging in long waves down her back.

The club was packed by the time she arrived. The opening act was onstage, the clash of their instruments making her ears ache. As she made her way through the crowd, she felt ridiculously conspicuous: most of the audience members were wearing jeans, miniskirts, tank tops, T-shirts. She was dressed for a garden party, not a night of thrashing in a grimy club.

Some wolfish guys leered and brushed against her, like it was clear she was an outsider.

Feeling dirty from the stares and the occasional anonymous hand, Mira pushed through to the greenroom, where Blue and his bandmates were hanging out, waiting to go on. The greenroom had all the charm of a garage: it was floored with concrete, too hot, and smelled like stale popcorn and wine. It was made even less charming by the sight of Rafe tossing jelly beans into a blonde girl's cleavage, while two other girls giggled appreciatively at his efforts.

Blue was lounging on a green couch, his arms stretched along the back. He had a drumstick in each hand, and was absently banging them on the couch back.

Mira was too nervous to talk to him right away. She wanted to treat him like she treated Freddie—not like someone she'd almost kissed, someone she hoped liked her dress and thought she looked pretty. And she felt too out of sorts to do that.

So she went over to Henley, who liked her about as much as most people liked being set on fire, and could be counted on to knock her off whatever syrupy cloud she was floating on.

Henley was sitting backward on a beat-up wooden chair, tipped back on two legs. He was watching Viv, who was sharing a pair of headphones with Jewel and bobbing to the beat in black boots, a denim miniskirt, and a white tank top with a red splotch over the heart, like a bloodstain.

“What role are you playing tonight?” Mira asked. “Chauffeur, chaperone, ex-boyfriend?”

“Chaperone,” he said. “Her stepmom asked me to look out for her. Viv tends to party too hard. And she holds her liquor about as well as a nine-year-old.”

“She weighs about as much as a nine-year-old.”

“Exactly.” Henley squinted at her. “What about you?”

Mira looked around, flustered, hair swinging heavily as she moved. “What about me what?”

Henley sighed and let the chair thunk to the floor. “What role are
you
playing? Felix's underage girlfriend, Blue's obsession, or Freddie's princess?”

“That's … rude,” she said.

“It was rude when you asked me, too.” He coughed and dug around for the pack of cigarettes in his pocket. “That piece of wisdom is yours free. Happy birthday.”

“Uh, thanks,” she said, taking that as her signal that the conversation was over. Well … she supposed her sappy birthday bubble had officially been popped. Maybe it was okay to talk to Blue now. At least to wish him luck. Or tell him to break both his legs.

He was already watching her anyway. He'd definitely noticed the dress.

“You dressed like a goddess just to hurt me,” Blue said when she was close enough to hear, driving a drumstick toward his heart like a stake.

“I did not,” she said, flushing with embarrassment. “Um, so, I have news.”

Blue raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? Good news?”

“My p—” The momentousness of the announcement made her gulp down a breath and try again. “My parents—Felix found them. I have their phone number and everything.”

“Ah, Felix.” Blue flipped a drumstick and caught it. “Good old Felix. He's swell.”

“Don't be mean.”

He reached out and took her hand, like an apology. “It's cool that you found your parents. Did you talk to them yet?”

“Not yet. I'm trying to figure out what to say. And I guess I don't want to rush it. In case it's not what I hoped for, you know? I want to keep this feeling a little while longer.”

“Do you need me to psych you up for it? Tell you how awesome you are so you believe it when you call?”

His fingers tightened around hers and she smiled. “I'll be okay. I'm just giving it time to sink in. It's still kind of surreal.”

“Well, if things get awkward and you want to play the sympathy card, just tell them what kind of friends you've made in their absence. They'll be horrified, and spend the rest of their lives making it up to you. Trust me.”

“Thanks,” she said. “I'll keep that in mind.”

They'd moved on to talking about whether Blue got stage fright, when a half-naked Freddie showed up. He was bare-chested and wearing jeans, and was in the process of turning a black T-shirt right side out. His normally perfect honey brown hair was now meticulously mussed, like someone had told him how to be a rock star and he'd done his best to meet them halfway.

“Hi, Mira,” he said warmly. “I'm glad you could make it.”

There was nothing strained in his smile, nothing fake about the kindness in his eyes.

She was shocked.

It was as if they'd never argued. Mira had been nervous that Freddie would hate her … but maybe, once he'd had some time to think about it, he'd realized that she hadn't meant to hurt him. That their relationship was just as frustrating and confusing to her as it was to him. For whatever reason, he was giving her another chance. And she was grateful. She met his smile with one of her own.

“Knight, stop flaunting your body,” Blue said. “Mira's going to start thinking of you as a piece of meat.”

“Mira can think whatever she wants about me,” Freddie said, tugging the shirt over his head. “I consider it an honor that she thinks of me at all.”

Blue laughed. “You're such a kiss ass.”

“I am not!” Freddie insisted, sounding hurt.

“Freddie's just being inhumanly nice,” Jewel said, coming up behind them and laying her hand on Freddie's shoulder. “As is his way. Hey, Mira. Sorry to interrupt, but I need Blue to get changed. We go on in ten minutes.”

“Fine,” Blue said, sighing like this was the most unreasonable interruption in the world. Jewel patted him lightly on his spikes.

“Thanks, Blue-noxious.”

“Mira, I'm about to be naked,” Blue said as he whipped off his belt and tossed it on the floor. “So watch out. Well, in my underwear.”

“I've seen you in your bathing suit,” Mira said. “It's the same thing.”

“It is not the same thing,” Blue said. “When it's accompanied by seventies porn music, it's an X-rated strip show.” Blue yanked off his shirt. “Freddie, you're kind of slow on the uptake.
eine kleine
porn music, please.”

Freddie scrunched his forehead in distaste. “I don't want to plug my guitar in just so I can play some bow-chicka-wow-wow accompaniment to your strip show.”

Mira laughed. “Bow-chicka-what was that, Freddie?”

“Bow-chicka …” Freddie flushed as he realized she was teasing him.

Blue kicked off his scrubby jeans, then proceeded to pull on the newer, neater, rock-starrier clothes that Jewel had brought over: jeans that had been distressed by the manufacturer instead of by real wear, and a black T-shirt printed with a silver heart bound in barbed wire.

Mira tried to convince herself that seeing Blue in boxers
was
just like seeing him in his bathing suit. But … it was different, more intimate. She'd wrestled with him; she knew what his body felt like, knew the hard feel of his muscles when he fought her playfully, when he laughed … when he almost kissed her. It was impossible to look at him and not see all of that. Impossible to look at him and not feel like he was hers.

But he isn't. And he can't be.

She swallowed, ashamed of herself, and turned away. She let her gaze drift across the room, like Rafe's jelly-bean harem was really fascinating.

Freddie came to her rescue. “Are you staying after the show, Mira? Will we see you later?”

“I think so,” she said. “Unless the agony of listening to you guys drives me away.” When Freddie did his sad puppy face, she grinned and swatted his arm. “Just kidding. Of course I'm staying. I need someone to walk me home.”