Kill Me Softly (14 page)

Two lovers stopped before the fountain—easy to identify because they stood so close to each other and stayed connected with small, affectionate touches while they spoke. Mira watched them, distracted now that she and Blue were no longer alone, and as she did, the lovers wrapped their arms around each other and shared a slow, mesmerizing kiss.

She stared, caught off guard by the display, and the couple, oblivious to anyone but each other, clasped hands and continued down the path to the street.

She realized Blue had gone silent, too. They'd both stopped to watch. And it occurred to her then what his mark might mean.

“Your mark is a heart,” she said, growing surer as she spoke. “A heart means love. You're some kind of hero—Honor-bound or something. You fall in love.”

“Mira …” Blue stopped and turned toward her, his face tight in an expression she couldn't place. “Do I seem like a hero?”

“Not really. But—”

“I fall in love,” he said. “But don't assume anything else. Don't assume anything good.”

And he walked away from her. Left her standing by the fountain, and pushed through the glass doors to the casino. In an instant, they were separate, apart again, and it was hard to remember what it felt like to be his friend—to feel close like that, to feel like they trusted each other.

Mira sat down on the rim of the fountain. The marble ledge was damp, and mist sprinkled her skin. Coins shimmered under the water like fish scales. She counted them, each one a wish, and wondered how love could be anything but good.

Love destroys you.

W
HEN SHE LET HERSELF INTO FELIX'S SUITE
, the lights were on but the rooms were empty. It was ten o'clock. Probably too late to go tiptoeing around graveyards.

Mira's eyes stung at her carelessness. She'd missed him. Missed her chance. And she had only three days to find her parents' graves before her birthday—or she wouldn't be able to share it with them. Might not be able to share
anything
, with anyone, if she succumbed to her curse. She had to find them now—while her wants still mattered.

Maybe she could go alone.

She had a list Felix had made, with the names and addresses of all the cemeteries in the city. Mira stuffed the list into her purse, grabbed a flashlight, and hurried down to the valet station at the front of the hotel. She looked for Felix as she cut through the casino, but there was no sign of him.

Out front, the valet was ushering someone into a taxi. Mira caught the shimmer of a silver evening gown before the door shut and the valet turned to see what she needed. He wore a dark blue jacket that resembled a soldier's dress uniform, and he stood at attention, his back straight, looking bored and hot and a little disenchanted.

“Somewhere you'd like to go?” the valet finally asked.

“I—hi. I'm Felix Valentine's guest. And I wondered—could I use the courtesy car?” She swallowed. If this didn't work, her only option was to get a cab to take her. And she wasn't sure she trusted cabs.

The valet looked her up and down slowly, then smiled as if he recognized her. “Of course. One moment.”

He hailed one of the Dream's courtesy cars and asked for her destination.

Unfolding the list, Mira pointed to the cemetery she'd chosen. “Here,” she said.

The valet raised his eyebrows, but didn't comment. She supposed it was his job to fulfill strange requests. He leaned in to inform the driver, then opened the door for Mira. “I hope you find what you're looking for,” he said.

Mira thanked him and climbed inside. Then the door slammed and they were moving swiftly through the night, the glitter of the hotel lights receding behind them. Cinderella in a modern-day carriage, on her way to dance with the dead.

The cemetery Mira had chosen was called Enchanted Rest. She was getting used to the fairy-tale names of the places Blue and his friends frequented, so when she noticed the name on the list, it seemed obvious. If her parents—her fairy-tale parents—were buried somewhere, why not there?

But when the car pulled up, she was dismayed to see the cemetery wasn't the enchanted grove its name implied. The unkempt grounds were enclosed by an iron fence tipped with spikes and bordered by knee-high grass. No one had bothered to lock or even latch the gate, and as Mira pushed through, the hinges groaned like a tormented soul.

Anticipation made her shiver—the thrill of a bad idea mixed with the hope that she'd finally find her parents. Mira clicked on her flashlight and shined the beam on each headstone, mouthing the names, waiting for her lips to stumble across
Piers and Adora lively
.

At first, she could hear the low hum of the driver's radio, but as she crept deeper into the cemetery, the sounds of civilization vanished, and all she heard were the wind rustling through trees, the shush of her footsteps, the chittering of insects. And her breath, coming too fast.

She forced herself to push on. She wouldn't let herself think about vengeful ghosts or deranged wanderers. Only about the happy ending waiting beyond one of these headstones.

Lost in thought, she collided with a spiderweb that stretched between two trees. She cried out as it stuck to her, panicked by the wispy feel of thread on her lips. Frantically, she brushed the webbing from her shoulders, her face. A flap of wings startled her and she spun around, but couldn't tell where it had come from. She heard the faint dirge of the gate creaking open and banging shut, and began to tremble, even in the heat.

It's the wind. Keep going. You're almost there
. …

When Mira reached the last grave, she turned to look back at all the ground she'd covered—not wanting to believe that she'd searched the whole cemetery and not found them. She wanted to cry. She'd been so sure they'd be here.

Could she have missed them? Overlooked their graves?

Mira sagged against the iron fence and gazed out at the thick forest beyond it—as black and impenetrable as the night sky. Resting her hands on the top bar, she stared into the dark, imagining there were two more graves hidden out there: concealed by rosebushes or thick garlands of moss. But there, and waiting for her.

She thought of the Cinderella fairy tale she'd read the other night. The stepsisters' acts of mutilation had grabbed her attention, but there was another part of the tale that had resonated with her. After her mother's death, Cinderella planted a hazel twig near her mother's grave and watered it with her tears until it grew into a beautiful tree. Cinderella then went to the tree for comfort, because it was imbued with her mother's spirit. When she needed clothes for the ball, she went to the tree and asked for them, and a bird in the tree threw down a gorgeous gown and delicate shoes.

But it wasn't the gown and the shoes that appealed to Mira—it was the way the dead mother looked out for Cinderella. Watched over her, stayed with her … And if fairy tales were real—if there were things like curses and destiny—then maybe Mira could plant a hazel twig near her parents' graves, and they would be with her, in a way. Maybe she could ask the tree to make her stop missing them.

Half in and out of consciousness, fantasizing about her own little hazel tree, Mira curled her fingers around the fence—and sliced her hand on one of the spikes.

Pain swept through her like wildfire. She trembled when she saw the cut on her finger, the blood flowing freely. She didn't like blood—not the sight of it, not the slippery feel of it. Her knees went weak and she feared she was about to col-lapse—to pass into a life-stealing sleep. Lost in the back of a graveyard, prey to wolves and men and anything and everything for a hundred years.

If she screamed before she fell asleep, would the driver hear her? Would he know what to do? Would people think she was dead?
Would they bury her?

“Mira!”

The call came from behind her—and she
did
scream. Her heart raced in her chest. And then two hands grasped her shoulders, and her mind caught up with her fear.

“Mira, it's me.”

“Felix,” she said. By the time she recognized his touch, his voice, she could barely hear herself over the pounding of her heart. “You scared me.”

He pulled her into his arms. “You cut yourself.”

Her knees stopped wobbling as she relaxed against him. She didn't collapse, didn't lose consciousness. The pain in her hand was still there, but the fence wasn't her trigger. It was a wound, like any other wound.

She clutched the arm that curled around her, unable to help herself; stained his sleeve with blood.

“Felix,” she said again. “How did you … ?”

“The valet told me where you went.” He shook his head and muttered, “I should fire him for sending you here. Cemeteries aren't safe at night. You should have called me.”

“It was late when I got back. I didn't want to bother you.” She didn't want to admit that she'd worried he'd be busy, or on a date with someone experienced, someone sexy, and she'd have to hear the girl's voice in the background while being turned down.

“You never bother me.” He looked past her into the trees, eyes narrowed like he was searching for something. “What were you doing, staring into the dark just now? Was someone there?”

“No,” she admitted. “I just—I do this thing where I space out and stop seeing what's in front of me. I disappear into my head. I always do that.”

She was studying the night shadows that veiled his face and remembering the heart on Blue's back. “Felix, something happened today. I—” She stopped herself; took a deep breath, barely able to say it, to make it real. “Remember how you thought I came to Beau Rivage for a reason? That there was something I was meant to find here? I think I found it.”

“What did you find?” His voice was low, appropriate for a graveyard at night, like he didn't want anyone to overhear, not even ghosts. He pulled her closer, his hands on the small of her back, and she let her arms go around him like they belonged there.

“I'm like you,” she whispered. “I'm cursed.”

She was the first girl he'd fallen for, and he was nice to her, he made her laugh and fixed her bike chain when it broke and he flirted with her and pretended to cheat off her history tests, when really it was an excuse to stare at her. At how her red hair fell over her shoulders and onto her desk, and how she'd fling it away, like it was a weapon she was losing patience with. He always got bad grades anyway. He was rich enough that it was okay to be an academic failure.

He didn't expect anything to happen between them because it
couldn't
happen; but he wasn't immune to wanting it. His heart surged every time she smiled at him. Surged with hope that this could be different. But he was careful. The one time she asked him to a school dance, he lied and said he wasn't allowed to go; his father was dragging him off to a business conference. She seemed to sense the lie and never asked again.

But then on his birthday …

He kissed her. He stupidly kissed her. And it was better than he ever could have imagined. Until it was over. Really and truly over.

He would dedicate a piece of his heart to her. He would never forget her—but that was all the recompense he could offer. He couldn't bring her back.

She'd never looked more beautiful, more perfect, than she did when she was dead.

Mira told Felix everything.

Her curse. Her meeting with the fairy. Even how certain she'd been that she would find her parents at Enchanted Rest, and her disappointment when she hadn't. Felix listened as she poured out her heart, her confusion, and started to ask questions only when she'd worn herself out. By that time, they were tucked away in a rounded booth at Twelve, the Dream's jazz club, named for the underworld nightclub where twelve princesses were said to dance, night after night, until they wore through the soles of their shoes.

The Dream's version of Twelve was a secret cove of a room: rounded booths arranged in a half circle in front of the stage, shadows pierced by haloes of candlelight. Filmy curtains shielded each booth and could be drawn closed to give the booth the look of a sultan's tent. Silver plum branches served as centerpieces—copies of the silver branches from the Twelve Dancing Princesses fairy tale, branches the soldier-hero collected in the underworld as proof of where the princesses went to dance.

Mira slumped against Felix, as exhausted as if she'd danced all night herself, and his arm came across her shoulders to pull her close.

“How's your hand?” he asked, turning her wrist to look at it.

“Fine,” she said. “The cut wasn't deep. I just don't like blood. And I was worried about … you know. I panicked.”

“I bet,” he said, stroking her fingers. It reminded her of the way Blue had held her hand when he'd first learned about her mark: examining her fingers, as if imagining the wound that would one day condemn her to sleep.

“You're not alone anymore,” Felix said. “You have a place here. In Beau Rivage … and with me. So you don't have to be afraid of this. Of being cursed.”

She burrowed into his side, taking comfort in his closeness. In belonging.

“There's still so much I don't know,” she said. “Like …”

Felix's other arm circled around to grasp the one that held her, so that he was holding her against him, his arms locking her in casually but protectively. She wanted to stay there forever.