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2017 PENGUIN RANDOM HOUSE BOOKCON FREE SAMPLER

Leigh Bardugo Peter Bognanni Kristin Cashore Julie C. Dao E. Lockhart Marie Lu Michael Poore Krysten Ritter Augustus Rose J. Courtney Sullivan 2017 Penguin Random House BookCon Sampler is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitious.

This sampler contains excerpts from the following forthcoming books: Bonfire by Krysten Ritter, Forest of a Thousand Lanterns by Julie C. Dao, Genuine Fraud by E. Lockhart, Jane, Unlimited by Kristin Cashore, Reincarnation Blues by Michael Poore, The Readymade Thief by Augustus Rose, Things I’m Seeing Without You by Peter Bognanni, Warcross by Marie Lu, and Wonder Woman: Warbringer by Leigh Bardugo. These excerpts have been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming editions. Contents

Bonfire 4 Forest of a Thousand Lanterns 11 Genuine Fraud 43 Jane, Unlimited 62 The Readymade Thief 97 Reincarnation Blues 120 Saints for all Occasions 134 Things I’m Seeing Without You 143 Warcross 165 Wonder Woman: Warbringer 195 BONFIRE

Krysten Ritter BONFIRE

A NOV E L

KRYSTEN RITTER

CR OWN AR CHE T YPE NE W YOR K Copyright © 2017 by Krysten Ritter All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Crown Archetype, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York. crownpublishing.com Crown Archetype and colophon is a registered trademark of Penguin Random House LLC. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request. ISBN 978-1-5247-5984-1 Ebook ISBN 978-1-5247-5986-5 Printed in the United States of America Jacket design by Jacket photograph by 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 First Edition PROLOGUE

MY LAST YEAR OF HIGH SCHOOL, when Kaycee Mitchell and her friends got sick, my father had a bunch of theories.

“Those girls are bad news,” he said. “Nothing but trouble.” He took it as a matter of faith that they were being punished. To him, they deserved what they got.

Kaycee was the first. This made sense. She was the first to do everything: lose her virginity, try a cigarette, throw a party.

Kaycee walked in front of her friends, like an alpha wolf leading the pack. In the cafeteria, she decided where to sit and the others followed; if she ate her lunch, the rest did, too; if she pushed her food around on her tray or just ate a bag of Swedish Fish, her friends did the same. Misha was the meanest and the loudest one.

But Kaycee was the leader.

So when she got sick, we, the senior girls of Barrens High, weren’t horrified or disturbed or worried.

We were jealous.

We all secretly hoped we’d be next.

The first time it happened was in fourth-period debate. Everyone had to participate in mock elections. Kaycee made her way through three rounds of primary elections. She was easy to believe in the role of politician, convincing and quick-witted, a talented liar; I’m not even sure

Kaycee knew when she was telling the truth and when she wasn’t.

She was standing at the front of the room delivering a practiced stump speech when suddenly it was as though the tether connecting her voice to her throat was cut. Her mouth kept moving, but the volume had been turned off. No words came out.

For a few seconds, I thought there was something wrong with me.

Then her hands seized the podium and her jaw froze, locked open, as if she were stuck, silently screaming. I was sitting in the first row—no one else ever wanted those seats, so they were mine to take— and she was only a few feet away from me. I’ll never forget how her eyes looked: like they’d transformed suddenly into tunnels. Derrick Ellis shouted something, but Kaycee ignored him. I could see her tongue behind her teeth, a wad of white gum sitting there.

Some people laughed—they must have thought it was a joke—but I didn’t.

I’d been friends with Kaycee, best friends, back when we were young. It was only the second time in my life I’d ever seen her look afraid.

Her hands began to shake, and that’s when all the laughter stopped. Everyone went quiet. For a long time, there was no sound in the room but a silver ring she always wore clacking loudly against the podium.

Then the shaking traveled up her arms. Her eyes rolled back, and she fell, taking the podium down with her.

I remember being on my feet. I remember people shouting. I remember Mrs. Cunningham on her knees, lifting Kaycee’s head, and someone screaming about keeping her from swallowing her tongue.

Someone ran for the nurse. Someone else was crying; I don’t remember who, just the sound of it, a desperate whimpering. Weirdly, the only thing I could think to do was pick up her notes, which had fallen, and reshuffle them in order, making sure the corners aligned.

Then, all of a sudden, it passed. The spasm apparently left her body, like an ebbing tide. Her eyes opened. She blinked and sat up, looking vaguely confused, but not displeased, to find us all gathered around her. By the time the nurse came, she seemed normal again. She insisted it was just a weak spell, because she hadn’t eaten. The nurse led

Kaycee out of the classroom, and the whole time she was glancing back at us over her shoulder as if to be sure we were all watching her go. And we were—of course we were. She was the kind of person you couldn’t help but watch.

We all forgot about it. Or pretended to.

Then, three days later, it happened again.

FOREST OF A THOUSAND LANTERNS

Julie C. Dao Philomel Books an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC 375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014

Copyright © 2017 by Julie C. Dao. Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

Philomel Books is a registered trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request. Printed in the United States of America. ISBN 9781524738297 1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

Edited by Brian Geffen. Design by Jennifer Chung. Text set in Fairfield LT Std. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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he procession stretched down the cobblestone road, a serpent Tmade of men in red and gold, the Emperor’s colors. They marched forward, ignoring the slack-jawed townspeople gaping at the banner they carried: a dragon with a forest curled within its talon, the emblem of the royal house. A palanquin draped in scarlet silk appeared, resting on the shoulders of four men. People craned their necks to see the occu- pant, but caught only a tantalizing glimpse through the swaying curtain: blood-red lips, golden blossoms in shining hair, and robes that cost more than any of them would see in a lifetime. “Another day, another concubine.” A bent old woman bared the three teeth she had left. “It seems he has a taste for pretty village girls. May blessings rain down upon him,” she added hastily, in case a soldier heard her criticize their sovereign. “He must not discriminate by class when it comes to beauty,” another woman agreed. She was not as old as the first, but she was just as bent. Most of her weight rested on her good leg, while the other hung

Forest of a Thousand Lanterns 2nd pass_BOM.indd 1 2/15/17 10:19 AM crookedly, like a dead branch. Her shrewd gaze moved from the procession to the girl beside her. She was not the only one looking at this girl. More than one soldier admired her as he marched by. The girl wore tattered, faded clothing like everyone else. But she had a face like a painting: a perfect oval, with lotus lips blooming beneath a sweet stem of a nose. She appeared docile, virginal, but the eyes she lifted told a different story with their sparkle of intelligence. They were the kind of eyes that flashed from the shadows of a darkened room. “He must not discriminate,” the woman said again. “What do you say to that, Xifeng?” “I wish the Emperor joy, Guma. She must be special indeed if he chose her for his own,” the girl said respectfully, even as her coal-black eyes burned. At the palace, slaves would bathe the young concubine’s feet in orange flower water. Every inch of her would smell like jasmine, and when the Emperor put his lips on her skin, he would know nothing of her hardship and poverty—the same hardship and poverty that coated Xifeng like sweat. “She is no more special than you.” There was no love in Guma’s statement, just fact. But they were mere words, ones she had said for years. She shuffled closer and hooked a claw-like hand around Xifeng’s elbow. “Come. It may be silks and riches for her, but it’s back to the needles for us. Tonight, we will read the cards again,” she added as gently as she ever could. Xifeng knew these rare glimpses of kindness from her aunt could be swept away the next minute by a dark mood. So she inclined her head in a show of grateful obedience, picking up the basket containing their meager purchases, and the pair trudged back home.

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Forest of a Thousand Lanterns 2nd pass_BOM.indd 2 2/15/17 10:19 AM They lived a short distance from the center of town—rather a grand term for a muddy square. There, ragged farmers and crones with more brains than teeth hawked wares that had seen better days: maggoty vegetables, cracked pottery, dull knives, and cheap hemp fabric. It had rained the night before, a torrential downpour of early spring that would be good for the rice and crops but had turned all else into a pungent soup of mud and debris. A few scrawny chickens ran by, a trail of droppings streaking behind them, as a woman emerged from a soggy cottage to scream at her brats. Some days, Xifeng thought she would gladly watch this town burn. She ached to leave it all behind and never look back. To think she was trapped here forever, while the Imperial palanquin carried that other girl straight into the Emperor’s swan-feathered bed. She felt Guma’s sharp eyes on her and took care to keep her face neutral. To show discontent was to rebuke her aunt for all the sacrifices she had made. After all, Guma had not been required to raise the bas- tard daughter of a sister who had shamed their family and killed herself. And despite being eighteen, Xifeng knew any small sign of displeasure would earn her a dozen stripes with the bamboo cane. She flinched inwardly, thinking of the scars on her back that had just begun to heal. And then there he was, walking toward them, as though her thoughts had conjured him. Wei. The reason for those scars. His proud, shaven head was turned away, watching the innkeeper across the street argue with a customer. His features were sharper in profile, brutal and beautiful, and the other men gave him a wide berth as he cut through the crowd. With his shoulders like a bull, bare arms that rippled with muscle, and ferocious storm of a gaze, he was the living embodiment of war. But those large, capable hands, which now

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Forest of a Thousand Lanterns 2nd pass_BOM.indd 3 2/15/17 10:19 AM carried a stack of rusted swords to be repaired—Xifeng knew how gentle they could be. She remembered how they had felt on her skin and struggled not to shiver at the memory of it, because Guma’s clever eyes were still watching to see her reaction. “What would you like for supper?” Xifeng kept her voice steady, as though she didn’t know the man approaching them at all. Wei faced forward. He had noticed them now; her skin prickled with his awareness. She wondered if he would say something. He had an idea that because he was physically strong and Guma weak, he could overpower her and free Xifeng from her control forever. But there were different kinds of strength, and provoking Guma to release hers was the last thing they would want. She patted her aunt’s tense arm as though there were no one else dearer to her in the world. “I could make a soup of these prawns. Or I could fry the turnips, if you prefer.” And then the moment passed. Wei walked by without a word. Xifeng reserved her sigh of relief to release later when she was in the kitchen, alone. “Do the prawns,” Guma said calmly. “They’re already beginning to smell.” A few steps more, and they arrived home. Xifeng’s grandparents had once owned the entire building with its handsome dark oak façade and imposing doors carved with a phoenix rising. They had been successful tailors before the war, and Guma and her younger sister, Mingzhu, had grown up here. Xifeng found it more difficult to imagine Guma as a child than to picture the splendor that had long worn off these faded walls. Despite the poor condition of the place, they had managed to rent the downstairs to a couple as a teahouse. Guma and Xifeng lived on

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Forest of a Thousand Lanterns 2nd pass_BOM.indd 4 2/15/17 10:19 AM the drafty upper floors with Ning, the girl they had hired to help them sew and embroider. She was waiting for them by the door, and though she was fifteen and scrawny, the glance she gave Wei’s hard, retreating back was that of a woman. It was not the first time Xifeng had caught her gawking at him, but she had never seen the girl’s longing so raw and sharp. She could practically feel the waves of lust radiating off her. Xifeng felt something growl deep inside. But before she could do or say anything, Guma released her arm and cracked a vicious slap across Ning’s face. “What are you doing there? I don’t pay you to stand idling and ogling,” she snapped as the girl touched her reddened cheek and sniffled. “Get back upstairs.” Ning turned wet eyes to Xifeng before obeying, and though a note of pity rose up inside Xifeng, she remained silent. She knew that slap had been meant for her, but she had hidden her emotions so well that Guma had to vent her violence on the hired girl, like a teapot with built-up steam. She watched Ning slouch upstairs, both feeling sorry for her and thinking she deserved it if she thought she could steal Wei for herself. But Xifeng’s relief was short-lived. Guma grasped her arm again, pinching hard enough to leave a bruise. Her face had begun to wrin- kle like a rotting pear, making her appear much older than her forty years. “Don’t think I don’t know you want the same thing from him,” she hissed, her sour breath filling Xifeng’s nostrils. “Don’t think I don’t know you still sneak around, no matter how many times I pull out that cane.” Xifeng kept her eyes down, biting the inside of her cheek at the pain of Guma’s fingernails, hatred boiling within her. No matter how hard she worked and how obediently she behaved, she received only scorn and beatings in return.

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Forest of a Thousand Lanterns 2nd pass_BOM.indd 5 2/15/17 10:19 AM “He’s not good enough for you, do you understand? You deserve better.” And though one hand still gripped Xifeng’s arm, the other gently stroked her cheek. That simple gesture, one a mother might make toward her daughter, dissolved the hatred in an instant. Xifeng leaned into her touch, forget- ting the pain. “Now help me upstairs, child.” The upper level had always seemed an endless labyrinth to Xifeng, even now as a grown woman. Once, these chambers had been full of purpose. Dried flowers still littered the floor of one room, where years ago they had hung from the rafters above vats of boiling water, ready to be made into fabric dyes. Across the hall, wisps of thread still clung to abandoned looms, unwilling to relinquish the past. The large room at the back had housed an army of hired girls, whose quick, clever hands had embroidered endless lengths of silk for noblewomen. But those days were long gone. Nowadays, they used only four rooms: two for sleeping, one for cooking, and one for eating and sew- ing. She led Guma to a stool in this last room, where Ning sulked and hemmed a square of cotton with blue-dyed thread. “Mind your stitches,” Xifeng told her, earning a baleful glare. Ning had come from one of the coastal villages, reeking of fish and poverty. Guma had hired her when she saw what she could do with a needle. Since then, the girl had become Xifeng’s shadow, the irritating younger sister she’d never had. Ning followed her, asking questions and imitating her movements, the way she spoke, and the style in which she arranged her hair. But there was a sense of competition, too, and Xifeng suspected the girl’s interests had shifted from trying to impress Guma to making Wei look at her the way he looked at Xifeng. Ning darted a frightened glance at her, and Xifeng realized she had

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Forest of a Thousand Lanterns 2nd pass_BOM.indd 6 2/15/17 10:19 AM been staring. She turned away, draping a length of pale pink silk over Guma’s lap. For weeks, they had been embroidering plum blossoms all over the fabric. Her aunt had sneered at the choice of color and design, which belied the humble origins of the lady who had commissioned the tunic for a banquet. Truly well-bred women preferred silks dyed darker colors, which cost more. But Xifeng thought wistfully that she would wear the cheapest of silks if it meant she too could enjoy herself at some festival. “Go prepare the meal, and don’t be long about it,” Guma told her crossly. “We need to finish this in two days, and you’ve wasted too much time gawking at the new concubine.” Xifeng held her tongue at this injustice. It was Guma who had wanted to wait for the procession on this chilly spring morning, so she could compare her niece with the new addition to the Imperial harem. “Was she beautiful?” Ning asked timidly. “Of course,” Guma snapped, though she hadn’t seen any more of the woman than anyone else. “Do you think the Emperor would choose an ugly girl like you to bear his children?” Xifeng turned to hide her smile and carried the basket down the hall. Guma was right. Wei would never look at such a plain, moon-faced girl. Not when he had her. But Ning didn’t choose to look the way she does, Xifeng thought, with another twinge of pity. Any more than I did. She put a pot of water on to boil, gazing at her own reflection. She had seen that face every day for eighteen years in the wash- basin. She never needed to open her mouth. She never needed to do much. All it took was stepping out with that face, and she would get a wink from the innkeeper, the best cut of meat from the butcher, and a

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Forest of a Thousand Lanterns 2nd pass_BOM.indd 7 2/15/17 10:19 AM pretty bead or two from the tradesmen in the square. One of them had even given her a pomegranate once. Wei had been furious when she told him, and would have made her throw it away if she hadn’t already brought it home to Guma. “I don’t ask for these things,” she had protested, comparing it to his natural-born talent for metalworking. The town craftsman had hired him because he could shape a beautiful sword from the ugliest bronze. But still, Wei had been gruff and grim and unwilling to understand. Perhaps the Emperor’s new concubine had been born with a face like hers. Lovelier, even, since it had won her a home in the Imperial Palace. The water began to boil, and Xifeng turned away bitterly to season the prawns. She sliced the last of the ginger and scallions, hoping their client would be satisfied with the pink silk and pay immediately. They couldn’t afford more vegetables until then, and eating plain rice— something they’d had to do many times in the past—always put Guma in a fearsome temper. Xifeng carried the meal into the front room. They ate in peace, inter- rupted only once by Guma criticizing how she had cooked the prawns, and then worked until the sun went down. She recited poetry as she worked, something Guma always required her to do. Her aunt had drummed into her head that poetry, calligraphy, and music marked a well-born lady, and so she had endured many a sleepless night to study. She would have resented it, had it not proven that Guma wanted and expected a better life for her.

The moon shines down upon us, beloved

The water a vast and eternal mirror

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Forest of a Thousand Lanterns 2nd pass_BOM.indd 8 2/15/17 10:19 AM A voice whispers from every tender branch

Turn your face from the world’s apple-blossom fragility

And embrace this boundless night

Guma paused in the midst of stitching a plum blossom petal, her nostrils flaring. “Where did you learn that?” she demanded. “From one of your volumes.” Xifeng gestured to a dusty stack of faded texts in the corner, the meager remnants of her mother and aunt’s school days. She often marveled at the wealth her grandparents had possessed, to have afforded such things for mere daughters. “Show it to me.” The tone of her aunt’s voice made her put down the needle immediately. Xifeng located the volume, one thinner and newer than the rest, and presented it to the older woman. Guma examined it, lips thinning as she ran her fingers over the unembellished back and turned it over to look at the title: Poems of Love and Devotion. She hastily shoved the book back at Xifeng, as though it had burned her fingers. “Ning, isn’t it time you went to bed?” Xifeng kept looking at her aunt as the girl put away her work and lit the red tallow candles. She hadn’t realized the sun had set until she felt the candlelight relieve her strained eyes. As soon as Ning was gone, she asked, “Did the poem remind you of something, Guma?” Her aunt spoke often about the past—mostly to complain about the riches she had then that she didn’t have now—but rarely mentioned her sister. All Xifeng knew of her mother was what she had been told only once: that Mingzhu had been beautiful and brainless and had gotten herself pregnant and abandoned by a nobleman. The

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Forest of a Thousand Lanterns 2nd pass_BOM.indd 9 2/15/17 10:19 AM pinched expression on Guma’s face suggested she was thinking of her now, but when she spoke, it had nothing to do with her. “I know that poem. It was . . . told to me many years ago.” She licked her dry lips, her gaze flickering from the text to her niece with something like terror. Xifeng had seen that fear twice in her life: once, when Guma had hobbled home in a frenzy to shut all of the doors and windows without explanation, and again after she had woken from a nightmare of spiraling black snakes. There was a long silence. “It’s time to read the cards,” Guma said.

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here was another room on that upper level, one of which they T never spoke. It had once stored valuable tools: vats for cooking dyes, bamboo dowels for drying fabric, and boxes of needles, thread, and scissors. Guma often spoke bitterly of how her parents must be rolling in their graves now that she had turned it into a sanctuary for her unspeakable craft. Not so very long ago, the Hou family had been tailors of rare and cunning skill with clients from across the continent of Feng Lu. Des- ert dwellers journeyed endless miles, bearing cobweb-thin silks to be woven into veils against the sun. Hunters brought furs down from the mountains for hoods and cloaks, telling tales of beasts the flatland folk had only heard of through legend. Fanciful stories spread of how the Hou tailors would stitch in luck and goodwill if one paid well; underpay, and they took revenge by weav- ing in an impossible-to-satisfy itch, a harelip for one’s firstborn, or a jealous husband. Guma’s parents coyly courted these rumors, which

Forest of a Thousand Lanterns 2nd pass_BOM.indd 11 2/15/17 10:19 AM brought in money for feasts and music lessons for their daughters, but took care to dismiss the gossip when asked directly. It would not do to own up to such abilities, not when family members had been executed for less in the past. A streak of magic had plagued the Hou blood for centuries, one that only recent generations had managed to suppress through willpower and discipline. “Hypocrites,” Guma sneered whenever she spoke of her parents, “denying the very gift that brought them their fame.” Where the rest of her family had sought to curb and smother their magic, Guma em- braced it with religious fervor. Now, Xifeng followed her into the secret room, each of them carrying a tallow candle. It was so small, they barely fit inside together, but Guma had managed to squeeze in all she needed for her secret trade. Dried plants dangled from the ceiling, polluting the air with a venom- ous odor, and carvings and oddly shaped rocks covered the walls. On a crooked shelf lay a collection of rusted knives and bowls stained with vile fluids. And in the center of this dark den was a blood-spattered table, beneath which Guma had hidden her most treasured possessions. She spread the contents of a small oak box on the table as Xifeng watched: nineteen rectangles of fine yellow wood, depicting images in burgundy-black ink. They showed emperors and empresses, crowned dragons, barren rice fields, and a monk raising a skull above his head. Xifeng could not read them herself, but she knew they concealed depths of meaning, each layer of truth peeling back to reveal an even more convoluted answer. And the messages shifted again when combined with other cards. As she studied the images, her aunt limped around the room, lighting more candles and a large pot of incense. With the door closed, the poison-sweet fumes wrapped curls of thick, heady fragrance around

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Forest of a Thousand Lanterns 2nd pass_BOM.indd 12 2/15/17 10:19 AM her. Xifeng hated the smell, which made her light-headed and prone to strange dreams while awake, but Guma insisted on the incense for every reading. Whether it was because she enjoyed Xifeng’s discomfort or needed the scent for her art, she never made clear. The foreign deck of cards had come to Guma many years ago. Since then, she had given up the traditional wooden sticks preferred by most seers, favoring blood truth. She had taught Xifeng that the spirits of magic were reluctant to release answers without a blood sacrifice first. Guma shuffled the cards and turned them facedown, reaching for a knife. Seizing Xifeng’s left hand, she flipped the palm upward and sliced the base of her index finger. Xifeng did not flinch when the blade bit into her flesh, knowing how Guma detested weakness. The incense seemed to help, blurring the pain as a line of blood spilled randomly across several cards. Guma turned the bloodied rectangles over with a smile. These were the same six images the spirits selected for Xifeng whenever the cards drank her blood. And drink they did, for the droplets had already begun sinking into their grain. “I told you,” her aunt gloated, tapping the first card, which showed a withered field. Beside it, the second card depicted a steed with a sword embedded in its heart. “The barren rice field means hopelessness, unless paired with the horse as it is here. When the spirit is gone, the body nourishes the empty earth. You are resourceful. You will find a way around hopelessness, and create something out of nothing.” More familiar words. More promises of talent, of a greatness Xifeng longed for desperately but could not find inside her, no matter how hard she looked. She worried her lip between her teeth, bending over the horse card

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Forest of a Thousand Lanterns 2nd pass_BOM.indd 13 2/15/17 10:19 AM to hide her doubt from Guma. The point at which the blade entered the steed’s body seemed to gleam. She imagined its heart bursting upon impact, the lifeblood spilling from its body, and felt the urge to lower her lips and drink before it was wasted. Lifeblood, the essence of the heart, contained the most powerful magic in the world. Guma had taught her to revere the heart, for even that of an animal was enough to perform complex spells. Depending on the skill of the wielder, one could summon and communicate with others who knew this forbidden magic, or even cast a glamour over oneself to compel and attract. Xifeng moved on to the next two cards. One showed a lotus opening beneath the moon, and the other displayed a man with a dagger in his back, shreds of flesh clinging to the blade. “Fate finds you alluring,” Guma said, tapping the lotus, “but do not be fooled. It is you who are its slave. Let no one stand in your way. If they face you, your beauty will entrap them. If they turn away, you will stab them in the back.” A scowl creased Guma’s face when she saw the fifth card. On it, a handsome warrior rode into battle with a bloodstained chrysanthe- mum, a keepsake from his lady. The slope of his shoulders was like Wei’s, and Guma pushed the image away without comment. This card was the reason she didn’t punish Xifeng more severely for seeing Wei, for it foretold that he would play some important role in Xifeng’s life, whether her aunt liked it or not. The bamboo cane stung but did not stop them from meeting in secret, and Guma knew it. Sacrifice. The word seemed to echo in the darkness as Xifeng studied the warrior’s bloody flower. That was the meaning of this card, Guma had explained once. A relinquishing of something—or someone—dear, as

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Forest of a Thousand Lanterns 2nd pass_BOM.indd 14 2/15/17 10:19 AM payment for greatness. Xifeng tore her eyes from it, unwilling to think just now about what or whom she might have to lose. And there it was again: the sixth card, showing the back of a woman’s head, uncrowned, the dark spill of her hair like a stain. “The Empress,” Xifeng said. Guma watched her through narrow eyes as she took in her future. This card reigned above all others; this sliver of wood showed Xifeng’s true destiny. This was the greatness for which she would have to pay. An undeniable energy hummed through her fingers when she picked it up, but still she hesitated, searching in the ripples and waves of the woman’s hair for some sign of truth. “You doubt.” Guma’s voice was flat, displeased. “No,” Xifeng said hastily, feeling faint under her severe gaze. “I don’t dare question the spirits of magic. It’s just . . . difficult to imagine such a future for myself.” “You question my interpretation of the spirits’ message, then?” No one grew angry faster than Guma whenever she suspected Xifeng’s skepticism. She snatched the Empress card from her niece’s hand, mouth twisted with fury. “Any other girl would kiss my feet if I told her she would be Empress of all Feng Lu one day. But you spit in my face with your doubt.” She raised her sharp, bony hand to strike her. Xifeng cringed. “Please, I don’t doubt you! If you say I’m to be the Empress, then the Empress I will be.” That calmed Guma a bit, though her mouth remained downturned. She straightened the cards in a sul- len silence, which Xifeng knew could last for days if her aunt wished to thoroughly punish her. “I’ve grown used to our way of living. I have trouble imagining myself owning servants and silks I might have once embroidered for finer folk. That’s all.” “The cards have always told us your fate lies in the Imperial Palace.”

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Forest of a Thousand Lanterns 2nd pass_BOM.indd 15 2/15/17 10:19 AM Guma clenched her teeth. “Why else would I fill your head with poetry and calligraphy? Why would I bother teaching you the history of our world and the politics of kings? Other women dream of warm houses and sober husbands for their daughters. I dream of life at an Emperor’s side for you, and this is how you treat me. With suspicion.” Xifeng kept quiet as her aunt continued ranting at her. Had she been braver, she might have asked Guma to reconsider the meaning of the fortune. Perhaps the card meant she would serve the Empress, not be the Empress. It would make more sense, not to mention it sounded much less terrifying. And it would explain how Wei could still be a part of her future—perhaps the sacrifice merely referred to giving up her old life, and not him at all. But the danger of Guma’s drawn-out silence kept Xifeng quiet. She felt too unsteady to argue, anyway, surrounded by the caustic stench of the incense. She blinked her blurry eyes and noticed that one other card held a droplet of blood, not yet absorbed. “Guma, there’s a seventh card.” “Don’t be foolish. There are only ever six, and that one doesn’t have enough blood to be yours.” Still, she seemed curious, so Xifeng flipped it over. The card showed a slight boy on the cusp of adulthood, pale and oddly delicate. He wore peasant garb and carried a traveling pack, and his eyes were fixed on the stars above. So intent was he upon the heav- ens, he did not notice that his foot hovered over the edge of a cliff. “What does this mean? This boy?” Xifeng’s head swam. She felt herself swaying in her seat, and gripped the edge of the table to steady herself. Guma’s cruel eyes took in the card. She turned it over, silent and intent. The drop of blood was gone, as though it had never been there

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Forest of a Thousand Lanterns 2nd pass_BOM.indd 16 2/15/17 10:19 AM at all. “This is the Fool, the card of infinite potential. This boy means luck.” Excitement slithered down Xifeng’s spine. In the musky haze, anything seemed possible. Only moments ago, she had questioned her aunt’s reading of the Empress card. But now, she didn’t know why she had doubted. A normal reading only ever consisted of six cards, yet she had been granted seven. Surely, that was a sign from the gods themselves. The woman painted on that sliver of wood was her and no other; that was the shape of her own head. “The spirits favor me completely, then,” she said drowsily. But Guma’s harsh voice broke into her revelation. “Not your luck . . . someone else’s. This card shows a stranger born under a lucky star.” As quick as she had been to dismiss the card, she now glared as though it were Xifeng’s fault. “Someone plots against you, against everything we strive for.” Xifeng’s stomach churned as her eyes refocused on the boy’s face. The artist had given him such long lashes. They cast a shadow like the fringe of treetops against his skin. If she pulled off his hat, would she find a waterfall of hair to rival her own? “An enemy disguised,” she uttered, and it seemed the words did not come from her lips, but from the card itself. Guma went very still. “A snake in the grass. A dark world in the cave.” The room twisted further, and images swam before Xifeng’s eyes: a sea of waving yellow grass, and a snake like a disturbing ink stroke on paper. It glided toward the mouth of a cave with unnatural grace, the movement like dark silk curving around a man’s beckoning arm. “The Serpent God,” Xifeng murmured as the snake took the shape of a thin, unnaturally tall man. “The true god of us all.” A voice spoke inside her mind, gentle and familiar, one that had

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Forest of a Thousand Lanterns 2nd pass_BOM.indd 17 2/15/17 10:19 AM spoken at the edge of her hearing many times before but never so clearly. The moon shines down upon us, beloved . . . The images melted into each other, but Xifeng could still sense Guma there, sinking to her knees with her hands outstretched in prayer . . . or apology. Something shifted in Xifeng’s chest. She had heard its growl of fury earlier when she saw Ning looking at Wei, but this was something else, something new: a lazy, satisfied preening, like basking in sunlight. If she closed her eyes, she might even be able to see the creature’s spiraling coils through the cage of her own ribs. Embrace this boundless night, the voice said tenderly. “Leave her,” Guma hissed from where she still knelt. “Let her be!” Xifeng felt herself falling, heard the crack of her forehead against the edge of the table. Right before she sank into unconsciousness, she thought she saw the strangest thing of all: her aunt bending over her with tears in her eyes . . . as though she loved her. Xifeng closed her eyes and let the darkness take her.

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Forest of a Thousand Lanterns 2nd pass_BOM.indd 18 2/15/17 10:19 AM 3

ifeng woke the next morning in the room she shared with Ning. X She lay still, head aching as she blinked away a disturbing dream in which she’d swallowed a snake whole. She could still feel it writhing down her throat, choking her, and shuddered as Guma limped in and placed a bowl of steaming broth beside her. She struggled to sit up. “I’m sorry I overslept. What happened last night?” “You don’t recall fainting?” Xifeng winced at a stabbing pain above her heart and tugged at the neck of her tunic, gasping at the sight of the bright red crisscross on her skin. It had been etched by a sharp blade. “I had to drain you of some lifeblood. There was too much magic coursing through you.” Guma tilted her head. “You truly don’t remember what happened?” “The card you showed me—the Fool, the boy who looked like a girl in disguise—he . . . or she is my enemy.” It wasn’t a question, but still

Forest of a Thousand Lanterns 2nd pass_BOM.indd 19 2/15/17 10:19 AM Guma nodded. “And I’m not to know who she is? Or when I will meet her?” “The spirits of magic were warning us. We must stay vigilant. Trust no one, understand? Nothing can stand in your way when you earn your place in the Empress’s inner circle.” She lowered herself painfully onto a stool, examining each of her niece’s features in turn. Xifeng often felt as though her eyes, nose, and mouth were all separate entities instead of parts of a whole—possessions whose worth Guma assessed, like pearls and combs and silks. Who would endure more pain if she broke her nose or scratched her eye—herself, or Guma? “You’ll be safer in the palace.” Her aunt’s voice held the same fear as when she had seen the volume of poetry. Xifeng remembered Guma falling to her knees the night before, pleading hands outstretched. “Who was the man I saw in the vision?” Three words appeared in her mind, but she dared not say them aloud: the Serpent God. Guma had spoken the phrase once many years ago, when Xifeng had woken from a nightmare and described what she had seen. “He’s someone you would do better to forget.” Guma swiftly changed the subject. “The spirits of magic only give hints and instructions through the cards. It is for you to take your destiny in your hands. If the Emperor won’t send for you, you must go yourself.” Xifeng sipped her broth. Away from the plumes of incense, the notion of becoming Empress seemed ridiculous once more. But why should it? she asked herself. Thanks to Guma, she had better than a lady’s education, and she was certainly beautiful enough. “I will finish the pink silk by myself today. Brush your hair, wash your face, and take some air this morning. You look haggard,” Guma said distastefully, shuffling toward the door. “And cover your head from the

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Forest of a Thousand Lanterns 2nd pass_BOM.indd 20 2/15/17 10:19 AM sun. We can’t have you getting as dark as a common farm girl if you’re to go to the palace. The Empress and her ladies never have to go out into the sun.” Xifeng rubbed her bruised forehead and rose from her pallet with a wince. The basin of water confirmed that she did look ill, so she scrubbed her face well and pinched her cheeks to make them pink. The problem with her looks was that people expected her to maintain them, Guma most of all. Any careless morning in which she did not wash or brush her hair properly, and she would be deemed lazy or slatternly. She felt better as soon as she stepped into the cool spring air. The sky shone bright blue, rinsed clean by the rain, and the town bustled with activity. The couple downstairs had thrown open their teahouse doors, and several customers sat bickering about who owed whom in a misguided bet. Two elderly men squatted outside, smoking, and stopped talking to ogle her. One of them released the contents of his nose onto the cob- blestones, and she turned away in disgust, only to see a woman empty her chamber pot in front of her house, forcing her small son to squeal and jump out of the way. Xifeng strolled toward the square, making a mental list of the things she would never have to see again if she managed to get to the palace. The butcher’s assistant, who had a limp and a lazy eye and still dared to lick his lips at her. The apothecary’s wife beating their servant again, on the pretext that the girl was inefficient when everyone knew it was because the apothecary had taken a shine to her. The delivery men scratching their private parts before digging their hands into tubs of flour and rice that would be sold to families for their supper. “Good morning to you,” leered a man coming out of the bathhouse. “What, too high and mighty to return a friendly greeting?”

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Forest of a Thousand Lanterns 2nd pass_BOM.indd 21 2/15/17 10:19 AM “What’s the matter with you?” his friend hissed at him. “Do you want Wei to kill you?” She kept her eyes forward, not meeting anyone’s gaze. Some days, she didn’t mind the attention. But today, the card reading still preyed on her mind and she longed to be alone to think, far from the scrutiny of Guma and the townspeople. She turned her steps toward the rolling hills that hugged the edge of the Great Forest, wishing she had a palanquin to hide in like the new concubine. Soon, the crowd thinned and the only people she came across were women carrying their washing from the river. A fencing demonstration was taking place on the adjacent field, and Xifeng shaded her eyes to see two men parrying with swords that flashed in the sunlight. They stopped, switched weapons, and continued more slowly. She recognized the craftsman for whom Wei worked, perhaps testing a new blade with a customer. Which meant that Wei was nearby . . . Xifeng caught her breath when she saw him. He was bare chested today, gleaming with sweat from fencing. His tawny arms were etched with black markings, ones he had insisted the blacksmith give him with a blade lit by fire, to match those of soldiers in the fierce southern armies. Any girl would have gladly laid down her virtue for him, but he belonged to her. His fate entangled with hers—only hers. She stepped onto the field with a pressing need to breathe the same air he did. He turned to respond curtly to someone beside him, and that was when she noticed Ning. She had seen those movements from the girl too often lately: the flutter of those tilting eyes, head turning coyly over one shoulder, wrists twirling to hide her teeth as she laughed. Wei was dismissive with her, but she behaved as though they were on the brink of courtship.

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Forest of a Thousand Lanterns 2nd pass_BOM.indd 22 2/15/17 10:19 AM The ground seemed to tilt beneath Xifeng, and a great rushing sound began in her ears. Not again, please, she begged, standing stock-still, thinking of what had happened last night that she could not remember—and of the serpent man she did recall. There was a twisting deep in the center of her body, like a creature curving around her heart. And then the anger came. The field flickered in and out of sight, and another image took its place: the swamps on the southern edge of town. If it was a dream, it felt as real as life. She heard the squelching of mud beneath her feet as she walked. She took in the scent of damp earth and felt a veil of gnats brush her face. Ning followed close behind as Xifeng led her into the maze of festering gray water. The creature inside brandished its fangs with delight. Xifeng felt a flash of lidless eyes like beady jewels. It, too, knew what lay hiding in the reeds and the mists: a frame of rope stretched over sturdy branches of cypress and two rows of deadly wooden teeth. Each spike was the length of Xifeng’s arm from elbow to shoulder and had been sharpened to a fine point. Stop it, Xifeng pleaded. I don’t want to see this. But this was a waking vision, not a dream from which she could rouse herself. And some secret part of her rejoiced at the sight of the alligator trap gaping for prey. She bent down as to a lover, stepping aside so Ning could approach, the blanket of grass slicking wet kisses against her skin. And then the girl stepped on the trigger rope and the trap snapped shut, stilling the air around them. Even the birds went silent. Ning screamed—or was it the creature?—and Xifeng felt horror and anguish and obscene joy at the sight of her collapsing on top of her destroyed legs. She held her shaking hand above the mess of flesh and

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Forest of a Thousand Lanterns 2nd pass_BOM.indd 23 2/15/17 10:19 AM white bone, feeling the warmth that still radiated from the girl’s broken body. From deep within her, the voice spoke. She will never again look at what belongs to us. “No,” Xifeng moaned aloud. She will never again want what is ours. “No!” she shouted, heart surging. When she lifted her head, the swamp was gone. She was kneeling on the field with everyone watching her, the men with their swords limp at their sides, the women open- mouthed, Ning’s face stunned and her legs whole and intact. And Wei himself crouched before her, hands on either side of her head, lips repeating her name. Still Xifeng could not respond, and without another word he scooped her up into his arms and carried her away from the crowd of shocked faces.

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Forest of a Thousand Lanterns 2nd pass_BOM.indd 24 2/15/17 10:19 AM 4

ifeng felt better when they entered the sun-dappled shade on X the edge of the forest. Her heart slowed as the breeze cooled her feverish face. Wei set her down gently against a tree and knelt before her, concern softening his savage features. “What happened?” he asked. She put a hand to her cheek, surprised to find it wet. “I saw something horrible. A vision of death.” She bit her trembling lip and felt his eyes go to her mouth immediately. He was so aware of her every movement, even the whisper of her lashes against her cheek. “It happened last night, too, when Guma read the cards for me.” “The cards.” Wei shook off the words like gnats. “I thought I smelled her demon-scent on you. She’s made you ill again with her sorcery nonsense.” “It’s not nonsense,” Xifeng protested, though she could hear her own uncertainty. Nightmares of pain and death had tormented her for years, visions woven by the creature inside her. But Guma’s incense had always

Forest of a Thousand Lanterns 2nd pass_BOM.indd 25 2/15/17 10:19 AM had the curious effect of bringing these terrors into day, blurring her dreams with reality. “If you want to believe something, believe you should be free of her. Why stay?” Xifeng felt the truth in his words, but at the same time, she remembered Guma stroking her cheek so tenderly. “She raised me, and I have a duty toward her,” she said softly. “She’s the only mother I have.” “Mothers may be strict with their children, but they’re not cruel to them,” Wei argued. “She’ll never love you, no matter what you do.” He put his arms around her, and she leaned her head against his comforting bulk. “Let me take you away from here. Please.” “Where would we go?” “Does it matter, as long as we’re together?” She raised her face and pressed her mouth against his hard, unsmil- ing one. He tasted the same way he smelled, of sweat and smoke and metal. He kissed promises into her lips, gentle at first, then fiercer, wilder. She let his unspoken words roll across her tongue and fit her body against his in tacit agreement. He belonged to her, no matter what anyone else said—no matter what anyone else wanted. The cards knew it. The universe knew it. “I love you,” he said. One breath. Three simple words. He had always been there for her—her escape, her sanctuary. He knew her better than her mother ever had and her aunt ever would, and he offered his heart to her freely. But her heart only gave a coy silence when she asked it about him. And whenever her own promises of love lingered on her tongue, the voice would come from within: Remember you are meant for another. She had never told him what Guma believed the cards predicted:

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Forest of a Thousand Lanterns 2nd pass_BOM.indd 26 2/15/17 10:19 AM that Xifeng would one day be the Empress. And if this destiny came to light—if, one day, she sat on the throne—only one man could sit beside her, and it would not be Wei. No matter how she tried to deny it, she felt surer, each time the warrior card appeared, that the sacrifice the spirits demanded from her was Wei. But if the prophecy turned out to be wrong, then she would have given up the only light in her dark life . . . for nothing. Which would be the greater sacrifice: the crown, or the person she cherished most in all the world? She held him tightly and ran her lips over his cheekbone. The taste helped her forget the disturbing thought that plagued her in the dark and quiet: that she might never be free to love as others did. “I’d cross the sky and bring you the moon, if you wanted me to. I would be a free being if not for you.” Wei buried his face in her hair and breathed through the strands, a fish ensnared in a dark net. “I’ve loved you since the day I first saw you. You were eight and I was nine, and it was the coldest morning we’d ever had. You had a brown scarf on your head to keep out the chill.” Xifeng listened, astonished. “That was ten years ago.” “You were with her, and she was pinching and scolding you. You were shivering, but still you took off your scarf and gave it to her, to make amends. You wrapped it around her and tucked the ends in so she’d stay warm. I saw you and I wished it were me you cared for.” Wei’s kiss seemed to burn her, to smoke out the truth about her awful visions and the thing inside her. “It is you I care for,” she said, pulling away with a shaky laugh. “But I’m not as good as you think. When I saw Ning with you earlier, I imagined doing something terrible to her.” His eyes crinkled at her. “You were jealous.”

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Forest of a Thousand Lanterns 2nd pass_BOM.indd 27 2/15/17 10:19 AM “Be serious,” she snapped. “I imagined killing her, Wei. I wanted her dead. I saw it happening clearly in my mind.” Wei always blamed the incense for her visions, claiming Guma drugged her, and she clung to that pitiful strand of hope. The alternative was too awful to con- template. “What kind of person am I if I could see myself doing such horrible things?” “It was only in your mind.” He caressed her cheek, now dry. “The bad thoughts you think and the evil dreams you dream . . . those come from Guma. But the tears you shed are your own.” Xifeng clung to his words like a rope in the sea, overwhelmed by the love for him that she couldn’t express. “You see only the best in me. You make me believe I could be good.” “You are good. I don’t need sorcery to know I can give you a better life.” Wei rested his chin on top of her head. “We could go to the Imperial City, like you’ve always talked about. We’d have food, rooms protected from the winter chill, and fat, contented children.” “That sounds heavenly,” Xifeng whispered, with a soft laugh at how simple his needs were: a hearth, a home, a wife, a child. His innocence tore at her heart. He was so sure they would always be together. But she masked the truth with a smile, to save him from pain, and wondered if it would only hurt him more someday. “I like the sound of a life away from here, with you.” “Have I talked about running away for so long that I’ve finally convinced you?” Wei asked, delighted. “I’ve only mentioned it every year since we were thirteen.” “I haven’t forgotten.” With each passing year, he had grown more persuasive, and stronger and angrier, too. Xifeng had watched him practice with the swords he made, picturing Guma’s throat laid bare beneath the graceful deadliness

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Forest of a Thousand Lanterns 2nd pass_BOM.indd 28 2/15/17 10:19 AM of his blade. It had been a comforting thought on those nights when she lay curled on her side because sleeping on her whipped back was too painful. Wei’s fingers ran down her cheek to her collarbone, and she felt him suddenly tense. He was staring at the crisscross wound above her heart, revealed by her tunic shifting. She tried to tug the cloth back over it, but he stopped her. His jaw tightened, eyes sparking as he took in the huge, angry red cut on her skin. In the light of day, the injury looked horrific, grotesque. “Did Guma do this to you?” he asked, his voice low, taut. “Wei . . .” Xifeng began desperately. She had always taken care to hide the beatings from him—a simple task, since Guma took care never to mar Xifeng’s face. But now he tugged the tunic from her shoulder, revealing countless bruises along her arm and side. He turned her roughly, fingers grazing the jagged scars on her back from Guma’s cane. When he looked into her eyes again, the tender lover she knew was gone, replaced by the man who had once beaten the life out of a thiev- ing attacker with his bare hands. “Why did you never tell me she hit you?” He trembled with fury. “She is dead! I’ll kill that witch in her sleep.” “Wei,” Xifeng begged, but he shook her off. “Better yet,” he said, with a ferocious smile, “I’ll break her good leg and we can watch her crawl away from me. She can live out the rest of her life on the cold, hard ground like she deserves.” Xifeng couldn’t help recoiling, despite having fantasized about it often. Picturing Guma hurt and twisted on the floor was different from hearing it spoken in Wei’s ruthless voice. She didn’t want to imagine what would happen if her aunt survived, and what kind of revenge she might concoct in that room of spells and secrets.

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Forest of a Thousand Lanterns 2nd pass_BOM.indd 29 2/15/17 10:19 AM She knew Wei never made idle threats. He wore conviction in the set of his jaw. So she said the only thing that could spare a life—either Guma’s or his own. “Take me away from here. I want to go with you.” There seemed, to Xifeng’s ears, to be an odd echo to the words, as though she had spoken in unison with another. Yes, a voice whispered, set us on the path to destiny . . . Wei’s eyes refocused. “Do you mean it?” “No more beatings,” she said decisively. “No more blaming and lec- turing, no more nights without food and sleep.” And no more rare ges- tures of kindness, she added to herself, with quiet sorrow. No unexpected caresses, no hints of approval. But the words could not be unsaid, and Wei had already accepted them. He helped her to her feet. “Go home and pack a bag. We’ll meet here tonight,” he told her, his eyes blazing. “And if you are not here by sundown, if she tries to stop you, I will come. And I will destroy her.”

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Forest of a Thousand Lanterns 2nd pass_BOM.indd 30 2/15/17 10:19 AM GENUINE FRAUD

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ATTENTION READER: Lock_9780385744775_2p_all_r1.inddTHIS IS AN 4 UNCORRECTED ADVANCE EXCERPT.2/28/17 12:17 PM Begin here:

THIRD WEEK IN JUNE, 2017 CABO SAN LUCAS, MEXICO

It was a bloody great hotel. The minibar in Jule’s room stocked potato chips and four different chocolate bars. The bathtub had bubble jets. There was an endless supply of fat towels and liquid gardenia soap. In the lobby, an elderly gentleman played Gershwin on a grand piano at four each afternoon. You could get hot clay skin treatments, if you didn’t mind strangers touching you. Jule’s skin smelled like chlorine all day. The Playa Grande Resort in Baja had white curtains, white tile, white carpets, and explosions of lush white flowers. The staff members were nurselike in their white cotton garments. Jule had been alone at the hotel for nearly four weeks now. She was eighteen years old. This morning, she was running in the Playa Grande gym. She wore custom sea- green shoes with navy laces. She ran without music. She had been doing intervals for nearly an hour when a woman stepped onto the treadmill next to her. This woman was younger than thirty. Her black hair was

Lock_9780385744775_2p_all_r1.indd 1 2/28/17 2:28 PM in a tight ponytail, slicked with hair spray. She had big arms tic milk jug. The eel swam out from the rocks. It must have and a solid torso, light brown skin, and a dusting of powdery been eight feet long. Bright green.” blush on her cheeks. Her shoes were down at the heels and The woman shivered. “I don’t like eels.” spattered with old mud. “You could skip it. If you scare easy.” No one else was in the gym. The woman laughed. “How’s the food? I didn’t eat yet.” Jule slowed to a walk, figuring to leave in a minute. She “Get the chocolate cake.” liked privacy, and she was pretty much done, anyway. “For breakfast?” “You training?” the woman asked. She gestured at Jule’s “Oh, yeah. They’ll bring it to you special, if you ask.” digital readout. “Like, for a marathon or something?” The “Good to know. You traveling alone?” accent was Mexican American. She was probably a New “Listen, I’m gonna jet,” said Jule, feeling the conversation Yorker raised in a Spanish-speaking neighborhood. had turned personal. “Cheerio.” She headed for the door. “I ran track in secondary school. That’s all.” Jule’s own “My dad’s crazy sick,” the woman said, talking to Jule’s speech was clipped, what the British call BBC English. back. “I’ve been looking after him for a long time.” The woman gave her a penetrating look. “I like your ac- A stab of sympathy. Jule stopped and turned. cent,” she said. “Where you from?” “Every morning and every night after work, I’m with “London. St. John’s Wood.” him,” the woman went on. “Now he’s finally stable, and I “New York.” The woman pointed to herself. wanted to get away so badly I didn’t think about the price Jule stepped off the treadmill to stretch her quads. tag. I’m blowing a lot of cash here I shouldn’t blow.” “I’m here alone,” the woman confided after a moment. “What’s your father got?” “Got in last night. I booked this hotel at the last minute. You “MS,” said the woman. “Multiple sclerosis? And demen- been here long?” tia. He used to be the head of our family. Very macho. Strong “It’s never long enough,” said Jule, “at a place like in all his opinions. Now he’s a twisted body in a bed. He this.” doesn’t even know where he is half the time. He’s, like, ask- “So what do you recommend? At the Playa Grande?” ing me if I’m the waitress.” Jule didn’t often talk to other hotel guests, but she saw “Damn.” no harm in answering. “Go on the snorkel tour,” she said. “I “I’m scared I’m gonna lose him and I hate being with saw a bloody huge moray eel.” him, both at the same time. And when he’s dead and I’m “No kidding. An eel?” an orphan, I know I’m going to be sorry I took this trip “The guide tempted it with fish guts he had in a plas- away from him, d’you know?” The woman stopped running

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Lock_9780385744775_2p_all_r1.indd 2 2/28/17 12:17 PMLock_9780385744775_2p_all_r1.indd 3 2/28/17 12:17 PM in a tight ponytail, slicked with hair spray. She had big arms tic milk jug. The eel swam out from the rocks. It must have and a solid torso, light brown skin, and a dusting of powdery been eight feet long. Bright green.” blush on her cheeks. Her shoes were down at the heels and The woman shivered. “I don’t like eels.” spattered with old mud. “You could skip it. If you scare easy.” No one else was in the gym. The woman laughed. “How’s the food? I didn’t eat yet.” Jule slowed to a walk, figuring to leave in a minute. She “Get the chocolate cake.” liked privacy, and she was pretty much done, anyway. “For breakfast?” “You training?” the woman asked. She gestured at Jule’s “Oh, yeah. They’ll bring it to you special, if you ask.” digital readout. “Like, for a marathon or something?” The “Good to know. You traveling alone?” accent was Mexican American. She was probably a New “Listen, I’m gonna jet,” said Jule, feeling the conversation Yorker raised in a Spanish-speaking neighborhood. had turned personal. “Cheerio.” She headed for the door. “I ran track in secondary school. That’s all.” Jule’s own “My dad’s crazy sick,” the woman said, talking to Jule’s speech was clipped, what the British call BBC English. back. “I’ve been looking after him for a long time.” The woman gave her a penetrating look. “I like your ac- A stab of sympathy. Jule stopped and turned. cent,” she said. “Where you from?” “Every morning and every night after work, I’m with “London. St. John’s Wood.” him,” the woman went on. “Now he’s finally stable, and I “New York.” The woman pointed to herself. wanted to get away so badly I didn’t think about the price Jule stepped off the treadmill to stretch her quads. tag. I’m blowing a lot of cash here I shouldn’t blow.” “I’m here alone,” the woman confided after a moment. “What’s your father got?” “Got in last night. I booked this hotel at the last minute. You “MS,” said the woman. “Multiple sclerosis? And demen- been here long?” tia. He used to be the head of our family. Very macho. Strong “It’s never long enough,” said Jule, “at a place like in all his opinions. Now he’s a twisted body in a bed. He this.” doesn’t even know where he is half the time. He’s, like, ask- “So what do you recommend? At the Playa Grande?” ing me if I’m the waitress.” Jule didn’t often talk to other hotel guests, but she saw “Damn.” no harm in answering. “Go on the snorkel tour,” she said. “I “I’m scared I’m gonna lose him and I hate being with saw a bloody huge moray eel.” him, both at the same time. And when he’s dead and I’m “No kidding. An eel?” an orphan, I know I’m going to be sorry I took this trip “The guide tempted it with fish guts he had in a plas- away from him, d’you know?” The woman stopped running

2 3

Lock_9780385744775_2p_all_r1.indd 2 2/28/17 12:17 PMLock_9780385744775_2p_all_r1.indd 3 2/28/17 12:17 PM and put her feet on either side of the treadmill. She wiped “All right, then,” said Jule. “It starts at eight o’clock in her eyes with the back of her hand. “Sorry. Too much that lounge off the main lobby. The bar with sofas.” information.” “Eight o’clock. You’re on.” The woman walked over and “S’okay.” extended her hand. “What’s your name again? I’m Noa.” “You go on. Go shower or whatever. Maybe I’ll see you Jule shook it. “I didn’t tell you my name,” she said. “But around later.” it’s Imogen.” The woman pushed up the arms of her long-sleeved shirt and turned to the digital readout of her treadmill. A scar wound down her right forearm, jagged, like from a knife, not clean like from an operation. There was a story there. “Listen, do you like to play trivia?” Jule asked, against her better judgment. A smile. White but crooked teeth. “I’m excellent at trivia, actually.” “They run it every other night in the lounge downstairs,” said Jule. “It’s pretty much rubbish. You wanna go?” “What kind of rubbish?” “Good rubbish. Silly and loud.” “Okay. Yeah, all right.” “Good,” said Jule. “We’ll kill it. You’ll be glad you took a vacation. I’m strong on superheroes, spy movies, YouTubers, fitness, money, makeup, and Victorian writers. What about you?” “Victorian writers? Like Dickens?” “Yeah, whatever.” Jule felt her face flush. It suddenly seemed an odd set of things to be interested in. “I love Dickens.” “Get out.” “I do.” The woman smiled again. “I’m good on Dickens, cooking, current events, politics . . . let’s see, oh, and cats.”

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Lock_9780385744775_2p_all_r1.indd 4 2/28/17 12:17 PMLock_9780385744775_2p_all_r1.indd 5 2/28/17 12:17 PM and put her feet on either side of the treadmill. She wiped “All right, then,” said Jule. “It starts at eight o’clock in her eyes with the back of her hand. “Sorry. Too much that lounge off the main lobby. The bar with sofas.” information.” “Eight o’clock. You’re on.” The woman walked over and “S’okay.” extended her hand. “What’s your name again? I’m Noa.” “You go on. Go shower or whatever. Maybe I’ll see you Jule shook it. “I didn’t tell you my name,” she said. “But around later.” it’s Imogen.” The woman pushed up the arms of her long-sleeved shirt and turned to the digital readout of her treadmill. A scar wound down her right forearm, jagged, like from a knife, not clean like from an operation. There was a story there. “Listen, do you like to play trivia?” Jule asked, against her better judgment. A smile. White but crooked teeth. “I’m excellent at trivia, actually.” “They run it every other night in the lounge downstairs,” said Jule. “It’s pretty much rubbish. You wanna go?” “What kind of rubbish?” “Good rubbish. Silly and loud.” “Okay. Yeah, all right.” “Good,” said Jule. “We’ll kill it. You’ll be glad you took a vacation. I’m strong on superheroes, spy movies, YouTubers, fitness, money, makeup, and Victorian writers. What about you?” “Victorian writers? Like Dickens?” “Yeah, whatever.” Jule felt her face flush. It suddenly seemed an odd set of things to be interested in. “I love Dickens.” “Get out.” “I do.” The woman smiled again. “I’m good on Dickens, cooking, current events, politics . . . let’s see, oh, and cats.”

4 5

Lock_9780385744775_2p_all_r1.indd 4 2/28/17 12:17 PMLock_9780385744775_2p_all_r1.indd 5 2/28/17 12:17 PM and sociology, but the head coach was a perv,” she’d say. “Touching all the girls. When he got around to me, I kicked Jule West Williams was nice- enough- looking. She hardly ever him where it counts and told everybody who would listen. got labeled ugly, nor was she commonly labeled hot. She was Professors, students, the Stanford Daily. I shouted it to the short, only five foot one, and carried herself with an up- tilted top of the stupid ivory tower, but you know what happens chin. Her hair was in a gamine cut, streaked blond in a salon to athletes who tell tales on their coaches.” and currently showing dark roots. Green eyes, white skin, She’d twist her fingers together and lower her eyes. “The light freckles. In most of her clothes, you couldn’t see the other girls on the team denied it,” she’d say. “They said I was strength of her frame. Jule had muscles that puffed off her lying and that pervert never touched anybody. They didn’t bones in powerful arcs—like she’d been drawn by a comic- want their parents to know, and they were afraid they’d lose book artist, especially in the legs. There was a hard panel of their scholarships. That’s how the story ended. The coach abdominal muscle under a layer of fat in her midsection. She kept his job. I quit the team. That meant I didn’t get my fi- liked to eat meat and salt and chocolate and grease. nancial aid. And that’s how you make a dropout of a straight- Jule believed that the more you sweat in practice, the less A student.” you bleed in battle. She believed that the best way to avoid having your heart broken was to pretend you don’t have one. After the gym, Jule swam a mile in the Playa Grande pool She believed that the way you speak is often more impor- and spent the rest of the morning as she often did, sitting tant than anything you have to say. in the business lounge, watching Spanish instruction videos. She also believed in action movies, weight training, the She was still in her bathing suit, but she wore her sea-green power of makeup, memorization, equal rights, and the idea running shoes. She’d put on hot pink lipstick and some sil- that YouTube videos can teach you a million things you ver eyeliner. The suit was a gunmetal one-piece with a hoop won’t learn in college. at the chest and a deep plunge. It was a very Marvel Universe If she trusted you, Jule would tell you she went to look. Stanford for a year on a track- and- field scholarship. “I got The lounge was air- conditioned. No one else was ever in recruited,” she explained to people she liked. “Stanford is there. Jule put her feet up and wore headphones and drank Division One. The school gave me money for tuition, books, Diet Coke. all that.” After two hours of Spanish she ate a Snickers bar for What happened? lunch and watched music videos. She danced around on her Jule might shrug. “I wanted to study Victorian literature caffeine jag, singing to the line of swivel chairs in the empty

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Lock_9780385744775_2p_all_r1.indd 6 2/28/17 12:17 PMLock_9780385744775_2p_all_r1.indd 7 2/28/17 12:17 PM and sociology, but the head coach was a perv,” she’d say. “Touching all the girls. When he got around to me, I kicked Jule West Williams was nice- enough- looking. She hardly ever him where it counts and told everybody who would listen. got labeled ugly, nor was she commonly labeled hot. She was Professors, students, the Stanford Daily. I shouted it to the short, only five foot one, and carried herself with an up- tilted top of the stupid ivory tower, but you know what happens chin. Her hair was in a gamine cut, streaked blond in a salon to athletes who tell tales on their coaches.” and currently showing dark roots. Green eyes, white skin, She’d twist her fingers together and lower her eyes. “The light freckles. In most of her clothes, you couldn’t see the other girls on the team denied it,” she’d say. “They said I was strength of her frame. Jule had muscles that puffed off her lying and that pervert never touched anybody. They didn’t bones in powerful arcs—like she’d been drawn by a comic- want their parents to know, and they were afraid they’d lose book artist, especially in the legs. There was a hard panel of their scholarships. That’s how the story ended. The coach abdominal muscle under a layer of fat in her midsection. She kept his job. I quit the team. That meant I didn’t get my fi- liked to eat meat and salt and chocolate and grease. nancial aid. And that’s how you make a dropout of a straight- Jule believed that the more you sweat in practice, the less A student.” you bleed in battle. She believed that the best way to avoid having your heart broken was to pretend you don’t have one. After the gym, Jule swam a mile in the Playa Grande pool She believed that the way you speak is often more impor- and spent the rest of the morning as she often did, sitting tant than anything you have to say. in the business lounge, watching Spanish instruction videos. She also believed in action movies, weight training, the She was still in her bathing suit, but she wore her sea-green power of makeup, memorization, equal rights, and the idea running shoes. She’d put on hot pink lipstick and some sil- that YouTube videos can teach you a million things you ver eyeliner. The suit was a gunmetal one-piece with a hoop won’t learn in college. at the chest and a deep plunge. It was a very Marvel Universe If she trusted you, Jule would tell you she went to look. Stanford for a year on a track- and- field scholarship. “I got The lounge was air- conditioned. No one else was ever in recruited,” she explained to people she liked. “Stanford is there. Jule put her feet up and wore headphones and drank Division One. The school gave me money for tuition, books, Diet Coke. all that.” After two hours of Spanish she ate a Snickers bar for What happened? lunch and watched music videos. She danced around on her Jule might shrug. “I wanted to study Victorian literature caffeine jag, singing to the line of swivel chairs in the empty

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Lock_9780385744775_2p_all_r1.indd 6 2/28/17 12:17 PMLock_9780385744775_2p_all_r1.indd 7 2/28/17 12:17 PM lounge. Life was bloody gorgeous today. She liked that sad woman running away from her sick father, the woman with the interesting scar and the surprising taste in books. The poolside bartender, Donovan, was a local guy. He was They would kill it at trivia. big- boned but soft. Slick hair. Given to winking at the clien- Jule drank another Diet Coke. She checked her makeup tele. He spoke English with the accent particular to Baja and and kickboxed her own image in the reflective glass of the knew Jule’s drink: a Diet Coke with a shot of vanilla syrup. lounge window. Then she laughed aloud, because she looked Some afternoons, Donovan asked Jule about growing up both foolish and awesome. All the while, the beat pulsed in in London. Jule practiced her Spanish. They’d watch movies her ears. on the screen above the bar as they talked. Today, at three in the afternoon, Jule perched on the corner stool, still wearing her swimsuit. Donovan wore a Playa Grande white blazer and T- shirt. Stubble was growing on the back of his neck. “What’s the movie?” she asked him, looking up at the TV. “Hulk.” “Which Hulk?” “I don’t know.” “You put the DVD in. How can you not know?” “I don’t even know there’s two Hulks.” “There’s three Hulks. Wait, I take that back. Multiple Hulks. If you count TV, cartoons, all that.” “I don’t know which Hulk it is, Ms. Williams.” The movie went on for a bit. Donovan rinsed glasses and wiped the counter. He made a scotch and soda for a woman who took it off to the other end of the pool area. “It’s the second- best Hulk,” said Jule, when she had his attention again. “What’s the word for Scotch in Spanish?” “Escocés.” “Escocés. What’s a good kind to get?” “You never drink.”

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Lock_9780385744775_2p_all_r1.indd 8 2/28/17 12:17 PMLock_9780385744775_2p_all_r1.indd 9 2/28/17 12:17 PM lounge. Life was bloody gorgeous today. She liked that sad woman running away from her sick father, the woman with the interesting scar and the surprising taste in books. The poolside bartender, Donovan, was a local guy. He was They would kill it at trivia. big- boned but soft. Slick hair. Given to winking at the clien- Jule drank another Diet Coke. She checked her makeup tele. He spoke English with the accent particular to Baja and and kickboxed her own image in the reflective glass of the knew Jule’s drink: a Diet Coke with a shot of vanilla syrup. lounge window. Then she laughed aloud, because she looked Some afternoons, Donovan asked Jule about growing up both foolish and awesome. All the while, the beat pulsed in in London. Jule practiced her Spanish. They’d watch movies her ears. on the screen above the bar as they talked. Today, at three in the afternoon, Jule perched on the corner stool, still wearing her swimsuit. Donovan wore a Playa Grande white blazer and T- shirt. Stubble was growing on the back of his neck. “What’s the movie?” she asked him, looking up at the TV. “Hulk.” “Which Hulk?” “I don’t know.” “You put the DVD in. How can you not know?” “I don’t even know there’s two Hulks.” “There’s three Hulks. Wait, I take that back. Multiple Hulks. If you count TV, cartoons, all that.” “I don’t know which Hulk it is, Ms. Williams.” The movie went on for a bit. Donovan rinsed glasses and wiped the counter. He made a scotch and soda for a woman who took it off to the other end of the pool area. “It’s the second- best Hulk,” said Jule, when she had his attention again. “What’s the word for Scotch in Spanish?” “Escocés.” “Escocés. What’s a good kind to get?” “You never drink.”

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Lock_9780385744775_2p_all_r1.indd 8 2/28/17 12:17 PMLock_9780385744775_2p_all_r1.indd 9 2/28/17 12:17 PM “But if I did.” “I said it’s a big resort. Lots of Americans. I don’t know “Macallan,” Donovan said, shrugging. “You want me to who’s staying alone and who’s not.” pour you a sample?” “I’m not American,” said Jule. He filled five shot glasses with different brands of high- “I know. So I told her I hadn’t seen anyone like that.” end Scotch. He explained about Scotches and whiskeys and “That’s what you said?” why you’d order one and not the other. Jule tasted each but “Yeah.” didn’t drink much. “But you still thought of me.” “This one smells like armpit,” she told him. He looked at Jule for a long minute. “I did think of you,” “You’re crazy.” he said finally. “I’m not stupid, Ms. Williams.” “And this one smells like lighter fluid.” He bent over the glass to smell it. “Maybe.” She pointed to the third. “Dog piss, like from a really angry dog.” Donovan laughed. “What do the others smell like?” he asked. “Dried blood,” Jule said. “And that powder you use to clean bathrooms. Cleaning powder.” “Which one d’you like the best?” “The dried blood,” she said, sticking her finger in the glass and tasting it again. “Tell me what it’s called.” “That’s the Macallan.” Donovan cleared the glasses. “Oh, and I forgot to say: a woman was asking about you earlier. Or maybe not you. She might have been confused.” “What woman?” “A Mexican lady. Speaking Spanish. She asked about a white American girl with short blond hair, traveling alone,” said Donovan. “She said freckles.” He touched his face. “Across the nose.” “What did you tell her?”

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Lock_9780385744775_2p_all_r1.indd 10 2/28/17 12:17 PMLock_9780385744775_2p_all_r1.indd 11 2/28/17 12:17 PM “But if I did.” “I said it’s a big resort. Lots of Americans. I don’t know “Macallan,” Donovan said, shrugging. “You want me to who’s staying alone and who’s not.” pour you a sample?” “I’m not American,” said Jule. He filled five shot glasses with different brands of high- “I know. So I told her I hadn’t seen anyone like that.” end Scotch. He explained about Scotches and whiskeys and “That’s what you said?” why you’d order one and not the other. Jule tasted each but “Yeah.” didn’t drink much. “But you still thought of me.” “This one smells like armpit,” she told him. He looked at Jule for a long minute. “I did think of you,” “You’re crazy.” he said finally. “I’m not stupid, Ms. Williams.” “And this one smells like lighter fluid.” He bent over the glass to smell it. “Maybe.” She pointed to the third. “Dog piss, like from a really angry dog.” Donovan laughed. “What do the others smell like?” he asked. “Dried blood,” Jule said. “And that powder you use to clean bathrooms. Cleaning powder.” “Which one d’you like the best?” “The dried blood,” she said, sticking her finger in the glass and tasting it again. “Tell me what it’s called.” “That’s the Macallan.” Donovan cleared the glasses. “Oh, and I forgot to say: a woman was asking about you earlier. Or maybe not you. She might have been confused.” “What woman?” “A Mexican lady. Speaking Spanish. She asked about a white American girl with short blond hair, traveling alone,” said Donovan. “She said freckles.” He touched his face. “Across the nose.” “What did you tell her?”

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Lock_9780385744775_2p_all_r1.indd 10 2/28/17 12:17 PMLock_9780385744775_2p_all_r1.indd 11 2/28/17 12:17 PM Noa knew she was American. In the staff parking lot, Jule looked around and found the That meant Noa was a cop. Or something. Had to be. bartender’s little blue sedan, unlocked. She got in and lay She had set Jule up, with all that talk. The ailing father, down on the floor in the back. It was littered with empty Dickens, becoming an orphan. Noa had known exactly what plastic bags and coffee cups. to say. She had laid that bait out— “my father is crazy sick”— She had an hour to wait before Donovan finished his bar and Jule had snapped it up, hungry. shift. With luck, Noa wouldn’t realize anything was amiss Jule’s face felt hot. She’d been lonely and weak and just until Jule was seriously late for trivia night, maybe around bloody stupid, to fall for Noa’s lines. It was all a ruse, so Jule eight- thirty. Then she’d investigate the airport shuttle and would see Noa as a confidante, not an adversary. the cab company records before thinking of the staff lot. Jule walked back to her room, looking as relaxed as she It was airless and hot in the car. Jule listened for footsteps. could. Once inside, she grabbed her valuables from the safe. Her shoulder cramped. She was thirsty. She put on jeans, boots, and a T- shirt and threw as many Donovan would help her, right? clothes as would fit into her smallest suitcase. The rest she He would. He had already covered for her. He’d told left behind. On the bed, she laid a hundred- dollar tip for Noa he didn’t know anyone like that. He warned Jule and Gloria, the maid she sometimes talked to. Then she wheeled promised to collect the suitcase and give her a ride. She had the suitcase down the hall and tucked it next to the ice ma- paid him, too. chine. Besides, Donovan and Jule were friends. Back at the poolside bar, Jule told Donovan where the Jule stretched her knees straight, one at a time, then case was. She pushed a US twenty- dollar bill across the folded herself back up in the space behind the seats. counter. She thought about what she was wearing, then took off Asked a favor. her earrings and her jade ring, shoving them into her jeans She pushed another twenty across and gave instructions. pocket. She forced herself to calm her breathing. Finally, there was the sound of a suitcase on rollers. The slam of the trunk. Donovan slipped behind the wheel, started the car, and pulled out of the lot. Jule stayed on the floor as he drove. The road had few streetlights. There was Mexican pop on the radio. “Where d’you want to go?” Donovan asked eventually.

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Lock_9780385744775_2p_all_r1.indd 12 2/28/17 12:17 PMLock_9780385744775_2p_all_r1.indd 13 2/28/17 12:17 PM Noa knew she was American. In the staff parking lot, Jule looked around and found the That meant Noa was a cop. Or something. Had to be. bartender’s little blue sedan, unlocked. She got in and lay She had set Jule up, with all that talk. The ailing father, down on the floor in the back. It was littered with empty Dickens, becoming an orphan. Noa had known exactly what plastic bags and coffee cups. to say. She had laid that bait out— “my father is crazy sick”— She had an hour to wait before Donovan finished his bar and Jule had snapped it up, hungry. shift. With luck, Noa wouldn’t realize anything was amiss Jule’s face felt hot. She’d been lonely and weak and just until Jule was seriously late for trivia night, maybe around bloody stupid, to fall for Noa’s lines. It was all a ruse, so Jule eight- thirty. Then she’d investigate the airport shuttle and would see Noa as a confidante, not an adversary. the cab company records before thinking of the staff lot. Jule walked back to her room, looking as relaxed as she It was airless and hot in the car. Jule listened for footsteps. could. Once inside, she grabbed her valuables from the safe. Her shoulder cramped. She was thirsty. She put on jeans, boots, and a T- shirt and threw as many Donovan would help her, right? clothes as would fit into her smallest suitcase. The rest she He would. He had already covered for her. He’d told left behind. On the bed, she laid a hundred- dollar tip for Noa he didn’t know anyone like that. He warned Jule and Gloria, the maid she sometimes talked to. Then she wheeled promised to collect the suitcase and give her a ride. She had the suitcase down the hall and tucked it next to the ice ma- paid him, too. chine. Besides, Donovan and Jule were friends. Back at the poolside bar, Jule told Donovan where the Jule stretched her knees straight, one at a time, then case was. She pushed a US twenty- dollar bill across the folded herself back up in the space behind the seats. counter. She thought about what she was wearing, then took off Asked a favor. her earrings and her jade ring, shoving them into her jeans She pushed another twenty across and gave instructions. pocket. She forced herself to calm her breathing. Finally, there was the sound of a suitcase on rollers. The slam of the trunk. Donovan slipped behind the wheel, started the car, and pulled out of the lot. Jule stayed on the floor as he drove. The road had few streetlights. There was Mexican pop on the radio. “Where d’you want to go?” Donovan asked eventually.

12 13

Lock_9780385744775_2p_all_r1.indd 12 2/28/17 12:17 PMLock_9780385744775_2p_all_r1.indd 13 2/28/17 12:17 PM “Anywhere in town.” “I’m going home, then.” His voice sounded predatory all of a sudden. Imagine this: a sweet house sits on the outskirts of a town Damn. Was she wrong to have gotten in his car? Was in Alabama. One night, eight-year- old Jule wakes up in the Donovan one of those guys who thinks a girl who wants a dark. Did she hear a noise? favor has to mess around with him? She isn’t sure. The house is quiet. “Drop me a ways from where you live,” she told him She goes downstairs in a thin pink nightgown. sharply. “I’ll take care of myself.” On the ground floor, a spike of cold fear goes through “You don’t have to say it like that,” he said. “I’m putting her. The living room is trashed, books and papers every- myself out for you right now.” where. The office is even worse. File cabinets have been tipped over. The computers are gone. “Mama? Papa?” Little Jule runs back upstairs to look in her parents’ room. Their beds are empty. Now she is truly frightened. She slams open the bathroom. They aren’t there. She sprints outside. The yard is ringed with looming trees. Little Jule is half- way down the walkway when she realizes what she’s seeing there, in the circle of light created by a streetlamp. Mama and Papa lie in the grass, facedown. Their bodies are crumpled and limp. The blood pools black underneath them. Mama has been shot through the brain. She must have died instantly. Papa is clearly dead, but the only injuries Jule can see are on his arms. He must have bled out from his wounds. He is curled around Mama, as if he thought of only her in his last moments. Jule runs back into the house to call the police. The phone line is disconnected. She returns to the yard, wanting to say a prayer, thinking

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Lock_9780385744775_2p_all_r1.indd 14 2/28/17 12:17 PMLock_9780385744775_2p_all_r1.indd 15 2/28/17 12:17 PM “Anywhere in town.” “I’m going home, then.” His voice sounded predatory all of a sudden. Imagine this: a sweet house sits on the outskirts of a town Damn. Was she wrong to have gotten in his car? Was in Alabama. One night, eight-year- old Jule wakes up in the Donovan one of those guys who thinks a girl who wants a dark. Did she hear a noise? favor has to mess around with him? She isn’t sure. The house is quiet. “Drop me a ways from where you live,” she told him She goes downstairs in a thin pink nightgown. sharply. “I’ll take care of myself.” On the ground floor, a spike of cold fear goes through “You don’t have to say it like that,” he said. “I’m putting her. The living room is trashed, books and papers every- myself out for you right now.” where. The office is even worse. File cabinets have been tipped over. The computers are gone. “Mama? Papa?” Little Jule runs back upstairs to look in her parents’ room. Their beds are empty. Now she is truly frightened. She slams open the bathroom. They aren’t there. She sprints outside. The yard is ringed with looming trees. Little Jule is half- way down the walkway when she realizes what she’s seeing there, in the circle of light created by a streetlamp. Mama and Papa lie in the grass, facedown. Their bodies are crumpled and limp. The blood pools black underneath them. Mama has been shot through the brain. She must have died instantly. Papa is clearly dead, but the only injuries Jule can see are on his arms. He must have bled out from his wounds. He is curled around Mama, as if he thought of only her in his last moments. Jule runs back into the house to call the police. The phone line is disconnected. She returns to the yard, wanting to say a prayer, thinking

14 15

Lock_9780385744775_2p_all_r1.indd 14 2/28/17 12:17 PMLock_9780385744775_2p_all_r1.indd 15 2/28/17 12:17 PM to say good- bye, at least— but her parents’ bodies have disappeared. Their killer has taken them away. She does not let herself cry. She sits for the rest of the night in that circle of light from the streetlamp, soaking her nightgown in thickening blood. For the next two weeks, Little Jule is alone in that ran- sacked house. She stays strong. She cooks for herself and sorts through the papers left behind, looking for clues. As she reads the documents, she pieces together lives of hero- ism, power, and secret identities. One afternoon she is in the attic, looking at old photo- graphs, when a woman in black appears in the room. The woman steps forward, but Little Jule is quick. She throws a letter opener, hard and fast, but the woman catches it left-handed. Little Jule climbs a pile of boxes, grabs an over- head attic beam, and pulls herself onto it. She runs across the beam and squeezes through a high window onto the roof. Panic thuds in her chest. The woman takes after her. Jule leaps from the roof to the branches of a neighboring tree and breaks off a sharp stick to use as a weapon. She holds it in her mouth as she climbs down. She is sprinting into the underbrush when the woman shoots her in the ankle. The pain is intense. Little Jule is sure that her parents’ killer has come to finish her off— but the woman in black helps her up and tends the wound. She removes the bullet and treats the injury with antiseptic. As she bandages, the woman explains that she is a re- cruiter. She has been watching these past two weeks. Not only is Jule the child of two exceptionally skilled people, she

Lock_9780385744775_2p_all_r1.indd 16 2/28/17 12:17 PM JANE, UNLIMITED

Kristin Cashore Kathy Dawson Books Penguin Young Readers Group An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC 375 Hudson Street New York, NY 10014

Text copyright © 2017 by Kristin Cashore. Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

Printed in the United States of America ISBN 9780803741492

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9780803741492_JaneUnlimited_ARC_TX.indd 6 3/21/17 12:11 PM The house on the cliff looks like a ship disappearing into fog. The spire a mast, the trees whipping against its base, the waves of a ravening sea. Or maybe Jane just has ships on the brain, seeing as she’s inside one that’s doing all it can to consume her attention. A wave rolls the yacht, catches her off balance, and she sits down, triumphantly landing in the general vicinity of where she aimed. Another wave propels her, in slow motion, against the yacht’s lounge window. “I haven’t spent a lot of time in boats. I guess you get used to it,” she says. Jane’s traveling companion, Kiran, lies on her back in the lounge’s long window seat, her eyes closed. Kiran isn’t seasick. She’s bored. She gives no indication of having heard. “I guess my aunt Magnolia must have gotten used to it,” says Jane. “My family makes me want to die,” Kiran says. “I hope we drown.” This yacht is namedThe Kiran. Through the lounge window, Jane can see Patrick, who captains the yacht, on deck in the rain, drenched, trying to catch a cleat with a rope. He’s young, maybe early twenties, a white guy with short dark hair, a deep winter tan, and blue eyes so bright that Jane had noticed them immediately. Someone was apparently supposed to be waiting on the dock to help him but didn’t show up.

9780803741492_JaneUnlimited_ARC_TX.indd 3 3/21/17 12:11 PM “Kiran?” says Jane. “Should we maybe help Patrick?” “Help him with what?” “I don’t know. Docking the boat?” “Are you kidding?” says Kiran. “Patrick can do everything by himself.” “Everything?” “Patrick doesn’t need anybody,” Kiran says. “Ever.” “Okay,” Jane says, wondering if this is an expression of Kiran’s general, equal-opportunity sarcasm, or if she’s got some specific problem with Patrick. It can be hard to tell with someone like Kiran. Outside, Patrick catches the cleat successfully, then, his body taut, pulls on the rope, arm over arm, bringing the yacht up against the dock. It’s kind of impressive. Maybe he can do everything. “Who is Patrick, anyway?” “Patrick Yellan,” Kiran says. “Ravi and I grew up with him. He works for my father. So does his little sister, Ivy. So did his parents, until a couple years ago. They died in a car accident, in France. Sorry,” she adds, with a glance at Jane. “I don’t mean to remind you of travel accidents.” “It’s okay,” Jane says automatically, filing these names and facts away with the other information she’s collected. Kiran is British American on her father’s side and British Indian on her mother’s, though her parents are divorced and her father’s now remarried. Also, she’s revolt- ingly wealthy. Jane’s never had a friend before who grew up with her own servants. Is Kiran my friend? thinks Jane. Acquaintance? Maybe my mentor? Not now, maybe, but in the past. Kiran, four years older than Jane, went to college in Jane’s hometown and tutored Jane in writing while she was in high school. Ravi is Kiran’s twin brother, Jane remembers. Jane’s never met Ravi, but he visited Kiran sometimes in college. Her tutoring sessions had been different when Ravi was in town. Kiran would arrive late, her face alight, her manner less strict, less intense.

9780803741492_JaneUnlimited_ARC_TX.indd 4 3/21/17 12:11 PM “Is Patrick in charge of transportation to and from the island?” asks Jane. “I guess,” Kiran says. “Partly, anyway. A couple other people chip in too.” “Do Patrick and his sister live at the house?” “Everyone lives at the house.” “So, is it nice to come home?” asks Jane. “Because you get to see the friends you grew up with?” Jane is fishing, because she’s trying to figure out how these servant relationships work, when one person is so rich. Kiran doesn’t answer right away, just stares straight ahead, her mouth tight, until Jane begins to wonder if her question was rude. Then Kiran says, “I guess there was a time when seeing Patrick again, after a long absence, made me feel like I was coming home.” “Oh,” says Jane. “But . . . not anymore?” “Eh, it’s complicated,” Kiran says, with a short sigh. “Let’s not talk about it now. He could hear us.” Patrick would have to have superpowers to hear a word of this conversation, but Jane recognizes a dismissal when she hears one. Peering through the window, she can make out the shapes of other boats, big ones, little ones, vaguely, through the downpour, docked in this tiny bay. Kiran’s father, Octavian Thrash IV, owns those boats, this bay, this island off the eastern seaboard, those waving trees, that massive house far above. “How will we get to the house?” she asks. She can see no road. “Will we ascend through the rain, like scuba divers?” Kiran snorts, then surprises Jane by shooting her a small, approving smile. “By car,” she says, not elaborating. “I’ve missed the funny way you talk. Your clothes too.” Jane’s gold zigzag shirt and wine-colored corduroys make her look like one of Aunt Magnolia’s sea creatures. A maroon clownfish, a coral

9780803741492_JaneUnlimited_ARC_TX.indd 5 3/21/17 12:11 PM grouper. Jane supposes she never dresses without thinking of Aunt Magnolia. “Okay,” she says. “And when’s the spring gala?” “I don’t remember,” Kiran says. “The day after tomorrow? The day after that? It’s probably on the weekend.” There’s a gala for every season at Octavian Thrash IV’s house on the sea. That’s the reason for Kiran’s trip. She’s come home for the spring gala. And this time, for some inexplicable reason, she’s invited Jane along, even though, until last week, Jane hadn’t seen Kiran since Kiran’s graduation almost a year ago. Kiran had stumbled upon Jane at her job in the campus bookshop, because, like many visiting alumni, Kiran had remembered it had a public restroom. Trapped behind the information desk, Jane had seen her coming, an enormous handbag on her arm and a harassed expression on her face. With any other ghost from her past, Jane’s first instinct would have been to turn her shoulder, hide behind her dark curls, and make herself into a statue. But the sight of Kiran Thrash brought Jane instantly to the strange promise Aunt Magnolia had extracted from her before she’d gone away on that last photography expedition. Aunt Magnolia had made Jane promise never to turn down an invitation to Kiran’s family estate. “Hey,” Kiran had said that day, stopping at the desk. “Janie. It’s you.” She’d glanced at Jane’s arm, where tattooed jellyfish tentacles peeked out from under her shirtsleeve. “Kiran,” said Jane, instinctively touching her arm. The tattoo was new. “Hi.” “Do you go to school here now?” “No,” Jane said. “I dropped out. I’m taking some time. I work here. In the bookstore,” she added, which was obvious, and not something she wanted to talk about. But she’d learned to chat, to fill the silence with false enthusiasm, and to offer her failures as conversational bait,

9780803741492_JaneUnlimited_ARC_TX.indd 6 3/21/17 12:11 PM because sometimes it enabled her to head off the very next question Kiran asked. “How’s your aunt?” It was like muscle memory now, this steeling herself. “She died.” “Oh,” Kiran said, narrowing her eyes. “No wonder you dropped out.” It was less friendly, but easier to bear up against, than the usual reaction, because it brought a flare of annoyance into Jane’s throat. “I might have dropped out anyway. I hated it. The other students were snobs and I was failing biology.” “Professor Greenhut?” Kiran asked, ignoring the dig about snobs. “Yeah.” “Known school-wide as a pretentious douche,” said Kiran. Against her better instincts, Jane smiled. Greenhut assumed his students already knew a lot about biology, and maybe the assump- tion was just, because no one else in the class had seemed to struggle like Jane had. Aunt Magnolia, who’d been an adjunct marine biology teacher, had spluttered over the syllabus. “Greenhut’s a superior, self- righteous donkey,” she’d said in disgust, then added, “No offense to Eeyore. Greenhut is trying to weed out students who didn’t go to fancy high schools.” “It’s working,” Jane had said. “Maybe you’ll go to school somewhere else,” Kiran said. “Some- where far away. It’s healthy to get away from home.” “Yeah. Maybe.” Jane had always lived in that small, upstate uni- versity town, surrounded by students whenever she’d stepped outside. Tuition was free for faculty kids. But maybe Kiran was right, maybe Jane should have chosen a different school. A state school, where the other students wouldn’t have made her feel so . . . provincial. These students came from all over the world and they had so much money. Jane’s roommate had spent her summer in the French countryside and,

9780803741492_JaneUnlimited_ARC_TX.indd 7 3/21/17 12:11 PM once she’d learned that Jane had taken high school French, wanted to have conversations in French about towns Jane had never heard of and cheeses she’d never eaten. How disorienting it had been to attend the classes she’d watched enviously through the windows her whole life, and wind up miserable. In the end, she’d spent most nights with Aunt Magnolia instead of in her dorm room, feeling like she was living a parallel version of her own life, one that didn’t fit her skin. Like she was a puzzle piece from the wrong puzzle. “You could be an art major somewhere,” Kiran said then. “Didn’t you used to make cool umbrellas?” “They’re not art,” said Jane. “They’re umbrellas. Messy ones.” “Okay,” said Kiran, “whatever. Where do you live now?” “In an apartment in town.” “The same apartment you lived in with your aunt?” “No,” Jane said, injecting it with a touch of sarcasm that was probably wasted on Kiran. Of course she hadn’t been able to afford that same apartment. “I live with three grad students.” “How do you like it?” “It’s fine,” Jane lied. Her apartment-mates were a lot older than she and too pompously focused on their abstruse intellectual pursuits to bother with cooking, or cleaning, or showering. It was like living with self-important Owl from Winnie-the-Pooh, except that their hygiene was worse and there were three of them. Jane was hardly ever alone there. Her bedroom was a glorified closet, not conducive to umbrella- making, which required space. It was hard to move around without poking herself on ribs. Sometimes she slept with a work in progress at the end of her bed. “I liked your aunt,” Kiran said. “I liked you too,” she added, which was when Jane stopped thinking about herself and began to study Ki- ran, who had changed somehow since she’d last seen her. Kiran had

9780803741492_JaneUnlimited_ARC_TX.indd 8 3/21/17 12:11 PM used to move as if she were being pushed by at least four different urgent purposes at once. “What’s brought you to town?” Jane asked Kiran. Kiran shrugged, listless. “I was out driving.” “Where are you living?” “In the city apartment.” The Thrashes’ city apartment was the top two floors of a Manhattan mansion overlooking Central Park, quite a distance away for someone who was just “out driving.” “Though I’ve been called home to the island for the spring gala,” Kiran added. “And I may stay awhile. Octavian is probably in a mood.” “Okay,” said Jane, trying to imagine having a gazillionaire father, on a private island, in a mood. “I hope you have a nice time.” “What is that tattoo?” asked Kiran. “Is it a squid?” “It’s a jellyfish.” “Can I see it?” The jellyfish sat on Jane’s upper arm, blue and gold, with thin blue tentacles and spiral arms in white and black reaching all the way down below her elbow. Jane often wore her shirtsleeves rolled up to show a glimpse of the tentacles because, secretly, she liked people to ask to see it. She pushed her sleeve up to the shoulder for Kiran. Kiran gazed at the jellyfish with an unchanging expression. “Huh,” she said. “Did it hurt?” “Yes,” said Jane. And she’d taken on an extra job as a waitress at a diner in town for three months to pay for it. “It’s delicate,” said Kiran. “It’s beautiful, actually. Who designed it?” “It’s based on a photo my aunt took,” said Jane through a flush of pleasure, “of a Pacific sea nettle jellyfish.” “Did your aunt ever get to see your tattoo?” “No.” “Timing can be an asshole,” Kiran said. “Come get drinks.”

9780803741492_JaneUnlimited_ARC_TX.indd 9 3/21/17 12:11 PM “What?” said Jane, startled. “Me?” “After you get off work.” “I’m underage.” “So I’ll buy you a milkshake.”

That night, at the bar, Jane had explained to Kiran what it was like to budget for rent, food, and health insurance on a part-time bookstore salary; how she’d sometimes believe in absentminded moments that Aunt Magnolia was just away on another of her photography trips; about the detours she found herself taking to avoid the apartment building where they’d lived together. Jane didn’t mean to explain it all, but Kiran was from the time when life had made sense. Her presence was confusing. It just came out. “Quit your job,” Kiran said. “And live how?” Jane said, irritated. “Not everyone has Daddy’s bottomless credit card, you know.” Kiran absorbed the dig with disinterest. “You just don’t seem very happy.” “Happy!” said Jane, incredulous, then, as Kiran continued to sip her whiskey, seriously annoyed. “What’s your job, anyway?” she snapped. “I don’t have a job.” “Well, you don’t exactly seem happy either.” Kiran surprised Jane by shouting a laugh. “I’ll drink to that,” she said, then threw back her drink, leaned over the bar, reached into a con- tainer of paper umbrellas, and selected one, blue and black to match Jane’s shirt and her tattoo tentacles. Opening it carefully, she twirled it between her fingers, then presented it to Jane. “Protection,” Kiran announced. “From what?” Jane asked, examining the umbrella’s delicate working interior. “From bullshit,” said Kiran.

9780803741492_JaneUnlimited_ARC_TX.indd 10 3/21/17 12:11 PM “Wow,” Jane said. “All this time, I could’ve been stopping bullshit with a cocktail umbrella?” “It might only work for really small bullshit.” “Thanks,” said Jane, starting to smile. “Yeah, so, I don’t have a job,” Kiran said again, holding Jane’s eyes briefly, then looking away. “I apply for things now and then, but it never comes through, and I’ll be honest, I’m always kind of relieved.” “What’s the problem? You have a degree. You had really good grades, didn’t you? Don’t you speak, like, seven languages?” “You sound like my mother,” said Kiran, her voice more weary than annoyed. “And my father, and my brother, and my boyfriend, and every damn person I talk to, ever.” “I was only asking.” “It’s okay,” she said. “I’m a spoiled rich girl who has the privilege to mope around, feeling sorry for herself for being unemployed. I get it.” It was funny, because those were Jane’s thoughts exactly. But now, because Kiran had said it, she resented it less. “Hello, don’t put bullshit in my mouth. I’m armed,” Jane said, brandishing her cocktail umbrella. “You know what I liked about your aunt?” Kiran said. “She always seemed like she knew exactly what she was going to do next. She made you feel like that was possible, to know the right choice.” Yes. Jane tried to respond, but the truth of it caught in her throat. Aunt Magnolia, she thought, choking on it. Kiran observed Jane’s grief with dispassion. “Quit your job and come home with me to Tu Reviens,” she said. “Stay awhile, as long as you like. Octavian won’t mind. Hell, he’ll buy your umbrella supplies. My boyfriend is there; you can meet him. My brother, Ravi, too. Come on. What’s keeping you here?” Some people are so rich, they don’t even notice when they shame others. What value was there in all the deliberate, scrabbling care Jane put into her subsistence now, if a near-stranger’s indifferent invitation,

9780803741492_JaneUnlimited_ARC_TX.indd 11 3/21/17 12:11 PM born of boredom and a need to pee, made Jane more financially comfortable than she could make herself? But it wasn’t possible to say no, because of Aunt Magnolia. The promise. “Janie, sweetheart,” Aunt Magnolia had said when Jane had woken extra early one morning and found her aunt on the stool at the kitchen counter. “You’re awake.” “You’re awake,” Jane had responded, because Jane was the insomniac in the family. She’d balanced her hip on the edge of Aunt Magnolia’s stool so she could lean against her aunt’s side, close her eyes, and pretend she was still asleep. Aunt Magnolia had been tall, like Jane, and Jane had always fit well against her. Aunt Magnolia had put her cup of tea into Jane’s hands, closing both of Jane’s palms around its warmth. “You remember your old writing tutor?” Aunt Magnolia had said. “Kiran Thrash?” “Of course,” Jane had responded, taking a noisy slurp. “Did she ever talk about her house?” “The house with the French name? On the island her dad owns?” “Tu Reviens,” Aunt Magnolia had said. Jane had known enough French to translate this. “‘You return.’” “Exactly, darling,” Aunt Magnolia had said. “I want you to make me a promise.” “Okay.” “If anyone ever invites you to Tu Reviens,” she’d said, “promise me that you’ll go.” “Okay,” Jane had said. “Um, why?” “I’ve heard it’s a place of opportunity.” “Aunt Magnolia,” Jane had said with a snort, putting her cup down to look into her aunt’s eyes. Her aunt had had a funny blue blotch staining the otherwise brown iris in one of her eyes, like a nebula, or a muddy star, with little spikes, spokes.

9780803741492_JaneUnlimited_ARC_TX.indd 12 3/21/17 12:11 PM “Aunt Magnolia,” Jane had repeated. “What the hell are you talking about?” Her aunt had chuckled, deep in her throat, then had given Jane a one-armed hug. “You know I get wild ideas sometimes.” Aunt Magnolia had been one for sudden trips, like camping in some remote part of the Finger Lakes where overnights weren’t exactly permitted and where cell phones didn’t work. They would read books together by lantern light, listen to the moths throw themselves against the canvas of the tiny, glowing tent, then finally fall asleep to the sound of loons. And then a week later Aunt Magnolia might go off to Japan to photograph sharks. The images she brought back amazed Jane. It might be a photo of a shark, but what Jane saw was Aunt Magnolia and her camera, pressed in by water, silence, and cold, breathing com- pressed air, waiting for a visit from a creature that might as well be an alien, so strange were the inhabitants of the underwater world. “You’re wild, Aunt Magnolia,” Jane had said. “And wonderful.” “But I don’t ask you for many promises, do I?” “No.” “So promise me this one thing. Won’t you?” “All right,” Jane had said, “fine. For you, I promise I won’t ever turn down an invitation to Tu Reviens. Why are you awake anyway?” “Strange dreams,” she’d said. Then, a few days later, she’d left on an expedition to Antarctica, gotten caught too far from camp during a polar blizzard, and frozen to death. Kiran’s invitation brought Aunt Magnolia near in a way that nothing else had in the four months since.

Tu Reviens. You return. It’s unsettling, to be so far from home—all her usual anxieties lifted, only to be replaced with new ones. Does Kiran’s father even know Jane

9780803741492_JaneUnlimited_ARC_TX.indd 13 3/21/17 12:11 PM is coming? What if she’s just a third wheel once Kiran meets up with her boyfriend? How does a person act around people who own yachts and private islands? Standing in the lounge of The Kiran, the rain falling in sheets outside, Jane tells herself to breathe, slow, deep, and even, the way Aunt Magnolia taught her. “It’ll help you when you learn to scuba dive,” Aunt Magnolia had used to say when Jane was tiny—five, six, seven— though somehow, those scuba lessons had never materialized. In, Jane thinks, focusing on her expanding belly. Out, feeling her torso flatten. Jane glances at the house, floating above them in the storm. Aunt Magnolia never worried. She just went. Jane suddenly feels like a character in a novel by Edith Wharton or the Brontës. I’m a young woman of reduced circumstances, with no family and no prospects, invited by a wealthy family to their glamorous estate. Could this be my heroic journey? She’ll need to choose an umbrella appropriate for a heroic journey. Will Kiran think it’s weird? Can she find one that isn’t embar- rassing? Teetering across the lounge floor, opening one of her crates, Jane lights upon the right choice instantly. The petite umbrella’s satin canopy alternates deep brown with a coppery rose. The brass fittings are made of antique parts, but strong. She could impale someone on the ferrule. Jane opens it. The runners squeak and the curve of the ribs is warped, the fabric unevenly stretched. It’s just a stupid, lopsided umbrella, Jane thinks to herself, suddenly blinking back tears. Aunt Magnolia? Why am I here? Patrick sticks his head into the lounge. His bright eyes flash at Jane, then touch Kiran. “We’re docked, Kir,” he says, “and the car is here.” Kiran sits up, not looking at him. Then, when he returns to the deck, she watches him through the window as he lifts wooden crates onto his shoulder and carries them onto the dock. His eyes catch hers

9780803741492_JaneUnlimited_ARC_TX.indd 14 3/21/17 12:11 PM and she looks away. “Leave your stuff,” she says to Jane dismissively. “Patrick will bring it up later.” “Okay,” Jane says. Something is definitely up with Patrick and Ki- ran. “Who’s your boyfriend, anyway?” “His name is Colin. He works with my brother. You’ll meet him. Why?” “Just wondering.” “Did you make that umbrella?” asks Kiran. “Yes.” “I thought so. It makes me think of you.” Of course it does. It’s homemade and funny-looking. Kiran and Jane step into the rain. Patrick holds a steadying hand out to Jane and she grabs his forearm by accident. He is soaked to the skin. Patrick Yellan, Jane notices, has beautiful forearms. “Watch your step,” he says in her ear.

Once on land, Kiran and Jane scurry toward an enormous black car on the dock. “Patrick’s the one who asked me to come home for the gala,” Kiran shouts through the rain. “What?” says Jane, flustered. She’s trying to shield Kiran with her umbrella, which sends a rivulet of icy water down the canopy straight into the neck of her own shirt. “Really? Why?” “Who the hell knows? He told me he has a confession to make. He’s always announcing shit like that, then he has nothing to say.” “Are you . . . good friends?” “Stop trying to keep me dry,” Kiran says, reaching for the car door. “It’s only making both of us more wet.” There is, it turns out, a road that starts at the bay, continues clock- wise around the base of the island, then enters a series of hairpin turns that climb the sheer cliffs gradually.

9780803741492_JaneUnlimited_ARC_TX.indd 15 3/21/17 12:11 PM It’s not a soothing drive in a Rolls-Royce in the rain; the car seems too big to take the turns without plummeting off the edge. The driver has the facial expression of a bulldog and she’s driving like she’s got a train to catch. Steel-haired and steel-eyed, pale-skinned with high cheekbones, she’s wearing black yoga clothes and an apron with cooking stains. She stares at Jane in the rearview mirror. Jane shivers, tilting her head so her boisterous curls obscure her face. “Are we short-staffed again, Mrs. Vanders?” Kiran asks. “You’re wearing an apron.” “A handful of guests just arrived unannounced,” says Mrs. Vanders. “The spring gala is the day after tomorrow. Cook is having hysterics.” Kiran throws her head against the back of the seat and closes her eyes. “What guests?” “Phoebe and Philip Okada,” Mrs. Vanders says. “Lucy St. George—” “My brother makes me want to die,” Kiran says, interrupting. “Your brother himself has made no appearance,” says Mrs. Vanders significantly. “Shocking,” says Kiran. “Any bank robbers expected?” Mrs. Vanders grunts at this peculiar question and says, “I imagine not.” “Bank robbers?” says Jane. “Well,” Kiran says, ignoring Jane, “I announced my friend ahead of time. I hope you’ve set aside space; Janie needs space.” “We’ve set aside the Red Suite in the east wing for Jane. It has its own morning room,” Mrs. Vanders says. “Though regrettably it has no view of the sea.” “It’s nowhere near me,” Kiran grumbles. “It’s near Ravi.” “Well,” says Mrs. Vanders with a sudden softening of expression, “we still have sleeping bags if you want to have sleepovers. You and Ravi and Patrick liked to do that when you were young and Ivy was just a baby, remember? She used to beg to be included.” “We used to toast marshmallows in Ravi’s fireplace,” Kiran tells

9780803741492_JaneUnlimited_ARC_TX.indd 16 3/21/17 12:11 PM Jane, “while Mr. Vanders and Octavian hovered over us, certain we were going to burn ourselves.” “Or set the house on fire,” says Mrs. Vanders. “Ivy would make herself sick and fall asleep in a sugar coma,” Kiran says wistfully. “And I would sleep between Patrick and Ravi on the hearth, like a melting s’more.” Memory comes on sharply; memory has its own will. Sitting with Aunt Magnolia in the red armchair, beside the radiator that clanked and hissed. Reading Winnie-the-Pooh and The House at Pooh Corner. “Sing Ho! for the life of a Bear!” Aunt Magnolia would say as Chris- topher Robin led an expotition to the North Pole. Sometimes, if Aunt Magnolia was tired, she and Jane would read silently, wedged together. Jane was five, six, seven, eight. If Aunt Magnolia was drying socks on the radiator, the room would smell of wool. The car approaches the house from behind, roars around to the front, and pulls into the drive. It’s not a ship anymore, this house, now that Jane sees it up close. It’s a palace.

Mrs. Vanders opens a small, person-sized door set within the great, elephant-sized door. There is no welcoming committee. Jane and Kiran enter a stone receiving hall with a high ceiling and a checkerboard floor on which Jane creates small puddles everywhere she steps. The air whooshes as Mrs. Vanders closes the door, sucking at Jane’s eardrums and almost making her feel as if she’s missed a whispered word. Absently, she rubs her ear. “Welcome to Tu Reviens,” says Mrs. Vanders gruffly. “Stay out of the servants’ quarters. We don’t have room for visitors in the kitchen, either, and the west attics are cluttered and dangerous. You should be content with your bedroom, Jane, and the common rooms of the ground floor.”

9780803741492_JaneUnlimited_ARC_TX.indd 17 3/21/17 12:11 PM “Vanny,” says Kiran calmly, “stop being an ogre.” “I merely wish to prevent your friend from skewering her foot on a nail in the attic,” says Mrs. Vanders, then stalks across the floor and disappears through a doorway. Jane, unsure if she’s meant to follow, takes a step, but Kiran puts a hand out to stop her. “I think she’s going to the forbidden kitchen,” she says, with half a smile. “I’ll show you around. This is the receiving hall. Is it ostentatious enough for you?” Matching staircases climb the walls to left and right, reaching to a second story, then a third. The impossibly tall wall before Jane almost makes her dizzy. Long balconies stretch across it at the second and third levels, archways along them puncturing the tall wall at intervals. The balconies might serve as minstrels’ galleries, but they also serve as bridges connecting the east and west sides of the house. The archways glow softly with natural light, as if the wall is a face with glowing teeth. Straight ahead, on the ground level, is another archway through which greenery is visible and the soft glow of more natural light. Jane hears the sound of rain on glass. Her mind can’t make sense of it, in what should be the house’s center. “It’s the Venetian courtyard,” Kiran says, noticing Jane’s expression, leading her toward the archway. She sounds defeated. “It’s the house’s nicest feature.” “Oh,” says Jane, trying to read Kiran’s face. “Is it, like, your favorite room?” “Whatever,” Kiran says. “It makes it harder for me to hate this place.” Jane studies Kiran instead of the courtyard. Kiran’s pale brown face is turned up to the glass ceiling, the pounding rain. She is not beautiful. She’s the kind of plain-looking that a good deal of money can disguise as beautiful. But Jane realizes now that she likes Kiran’s snub nose, her open face, her wispy black hair.

9780803741492_JaneUnlimited_ARC_TX.indd 18 3/21/17 12:11 PM If she hates this place, Jane wonders, why does she consent to come when Patrick calls? Or does Kiran dislike every place equally? Jane turns to see what Kiran sees. Well. What an excellent space to stick in the middle of a house; every house should have one stuck in its middle. It’s a glass-ceilinged atrium, stretching fully up the building’s three stories, with walls of pale pink stone and, in the center, a forest of slender white trees; tiny terraced flower gardens; and a small waterfall shooting from the mouth of a fish. At the second and third levels, long cascades of golden-orange nasturtiums hang from balconies. “Come on,” Kiran says. “I’ll show you to your room.” “You don’t have to,” says Jane. “You can just tell me where to go.” “It’ll give me an excuse not to go looking for Octavian yet,” Kiran says. Laughter erupts from a room not too distant. She winces. “Or the guests, or Colin,” she adds, grabbing Jane’s wrist and pulling her back into the receiving hall. It’s strange to be touched by someone as prickly as Kiran. Jane can’t tell if it’s comforting or if she feels a bit trapped. “What’s Colin like?” “He’s an art dealer,” Kiran says, not directly answering Jane’s question. “He works for his uncle who owns a gallery. Colin has a master’s in art history. He taught one of Ravi’s classes when Ravi was an under- grad; that’s how they met. But even if he’d studied, like, astrophysics, he’d probably have ended up working for his uncle Buckley. Everyone in that family does. Still, at least he’s using his degree.” Kiran has a degree in religion and languages she’s apparently not using. Once, Jane remembers, Kiran wrote a paper on religious groups working with governments to encourage environmental conservation that fascinated Aunt Magnolia. She and Kiran had talked and talked. Aunt Magnolia had turned out to know a lot more about politics than Jane had realized. Kiran backtracks through the receiving hall and takes the east stair-

9780803741492_JaneUnlimited_ARC_TX.indd 19 3/21/17 12:11 PM case on their left. The walls going up are covered with a bizarre collection of paintings from all different periods, all different styles. On every landing is a complete suit of armor. Dominating the second-story landing is a particularly tall realistic painting done in thick oils, depicting a room with a checkerboard floor and an umbrella propped open as if left to dry. Jane feels she could almost step into the scene. A basset hound, coming down the steps toward them, stops and stares at Jane. Then he begins to hop and pant with increasing interest. When Jane passes him, he turns himself around and follows eagerly, but his long radius makes for slow turning, and basset hounds aren’t designed for steps. He treads on his own ear and yelps. He’s soon left behind. He barks. “Ignore Jasper,” Kiran says. “That dog has a personality disorder.” “What’s wrong with him?” asks Jane. “He grew up in this house,” Kiran says.

Jane has never had a suite of rooms to herself. Kiran’s phone rings as they step through the door. She glances at it, then scowls. “Fucking Patrick. Bet you anything he has nothing to say. I’ll leave you to explore,” she says, wandering back out into the corridor. Jane is free now to examine her rooms without needing to hide her amazement. Her gold-tiled bathroom, complete with hot tub, is as big as her bedroom used to be, and the bedroom is a vast expanse, the king-sized bed a mountain she supposes she’ll scale later, to sleep in the clouds. The walls are an unusually pale shade of red, like one of the brief, early colors of the sky at sunrise. Fat leather armchairs sit around a giant fireplace. Jane opens her umbrella and sets it to dry on the cold hearth, noticing logs stacked beside the fireplace and wondering how one goes about lighting a fire.

9780803741492_JaneUnlimited_ARC_TX.indd 20 3/21/17 12:11 PM The morning room, through an adjoining door, has eastern walls made of glass, presumably to catch the morning sun. The glass brings her very near the storm, which is nice. A storm can be a cozy thing when one isn’t in it. Outside, formal gardens stretch to meet a long lawn, then a forest beyond, disappearing into fog, as if maybe this house and this small patch of land have floated out of normal existence, with Jane as their passenger. Well, Jane and the mud-soaked child digging holes with a trowel in the garden below, short hair dripping with rain. She’s maybe seven, or eight. She raises her face to glance up at the house. Is there something familiar about the look of that kid? Does Jane recognize her? The little girl shifts her position and the sensation fades. After surveying her morning room (rolltop desk, striped sofa, floral armchair, yellow shag rug, and a random assortment of paintings), she returns to her bedroom, wrapping herself in a soft dark blanket from the foot of the bed. A small scratching noise brings her to the hallway door, which she opens a crack. “You made it,” she says as the dog barrels in. “I admire your persevering spirit.” Jasper is a classic basset hound in brown, black, and white; his nose is long, his ears are longer, his legs are short, his eyes sag, his mouth droops, his ears flop. He is a creature beset by gravity. When Jane kneels and offers a hand, he sniffs it. Licks it, shyly. Then he leans his weight against her damp corduroys. “You,” Jane says, scratching his head in a place she suspects he can’t reach, “are perfect.” “Oh,” says a voice at the door, sounding surprised. “Are you Janie?” Jane looks up into the face of a tall girl who must be Patrick Yellan’s little sister, for she’s got his looks, his coloring, his brilliant blue eyes. Her long, dark hair is pulled back in a messy knot. “Yes,” says Jane. “Ivy?”

9780803741492_JaneUnlimited_ARC_TX.indd 21 3/21/17 12:11 PM “Yeah,” says the girl. “But, how old are you?” “Eighteen,” says Jane. “You?” “Nineteen,” she says. “Kiran told me she was bringing a friend but she didn’t tell me you were my age.” She leans against the door frame, wearing skintight gray jeans and a red hoodie so comfortably that she might have slept in them. She reaches into her hoodie pocket, pulls out a pair of dark-rimmed glasses, and sticks them on her face. In her gold zigzag shirt and wine-colored cords covered with dog hair, Jane feels awkward suddenly, like some sort of evolutionary anomaly. A blue-footed booby, next to a graceful heron. “I love your outfit,” Ivy says. Jane is astonished. “Are you a mind reader?” “No,” says Ivy, with a quick, wicked grin. “Why?” “You just read my mind.” “That sounds disconcerting,” says Ivy. “Hmmm, how about zeppelins?” “What?” “Were you thinking about zeppelins?” “No.” “Then that should make you more comfortable.” “What?” says Jane again, so confused that she’s laughing a little. “Unless you were just thinking about zeppelins.” “It’s possible I’ve never thought about zeppelins,” says Jane. “It’s an acceptable Scrabble word,” says Ivy, “even though it’s often a proper name, which isn’t allowed.” “Zeppelins?” “Yeah,” she says. “Well, zeppelin, singular, anyway. I put it down once on two triple-word scores. Kiran challenged me, because zeppelins are named after a person, Count Ferdinand von Zeppelin or somebody, but it’s in the Scrabble dictionary anyway. It earned me two hundred fifty-seven points. Oh god. I’m sorry. Listen to me.”

9780803741492_JaneUnlimited_ARC_TX.indd 22 3/21/17 12:11 PM “Don’t—” “No, really,” she says. “I swear I’m not usually afflicted with verbal diarrhea. I also don’t usually brag about my Scrabble scores two minutes after meeting someone.” “It’s okay,” says Jane, because people who talk so easily make her comfortable, they’re less work, she knows where she stands. “I don’t play much Scrabble, so I don’t know what it means to earn two hundred fifty-seven points. That could be average, for all I know.” “It’s an amazing fucking score for one word,” Ivy says, then closes her eyes. “Seriously. What is wrong with me.” “I like it,” says Jane. “I want to hear more of your Scrabble words.” Ivy shoots her a grateful grin. “I did actually have a reason for coming by,” she says. “I’m the one who got your room ready. I wanted to check if everything’s okay.” “More than okay,” says Jane. “I mean, there’s a fireplace and hot tub.” “Not what you’re used to?” “My last bedroom was about the size of that bed,” Jane says, pointing to it. “The ‘cupboard under the stairs’?” “I guess not that bad,” says Jane, smiling at the Harry Potter reference. “I’m glad,” says Ivy. “You’re sure you don’t need anything?” “I don’t want you to feel like you have to take care of me.” “Hey, it’s my job,” says Ivy. “Tell me what you need.” “Well,” says Jane. “There are a couple things I could use, but I don’t really need them, and they’re not normal things I would ask you for.” “Such as?” “A rotary saw,” says Jane. “A lathe.” “Uh-huh,” says Ivy, grinning again. “Come with me.” “You’re going to bring me to a rotary saw and a lathe?” says Jane, tossing the blanket back onto the bed.

9780803741492_JaneUnlimited_ARC_TX.indd 23 3/21/17 12:11 PM “This house has one of everything.” “Do you know where everything is?” Ivy considers this thoughtfully as the dog follows them out into the corridor. “I probably know where almost everything is. I’m sure the house is keeping some secrets from me.” Jane is tall, but Ivy is taller, with legs that go on forever. Their strides are well-matched. The dog clings close to her feet. “Is it true Jasper has a personality disorder?” she asks. “Kiran said so.” “He can be quirky,” Ivy says. “He won’t do his business if you’re watching him—he glares at you as if you’re being unforgivably rude. And there’s a painting in the blue sitting room he’s obsessed with.” “What do you mean?” “He sits there gazing at it, blowing big sighs through his nose.” “Is it a painting of a dog or something?” “No, it’s a boring old city by the water, except for the fact that it’s got two moons. And sometimes he disappears for days and we can’t find him. Cook calls him our earthbound misfit. He’s our house mystery too—he appeared one day after one of the galas, a puppy, as if a guest had brought him and left him behind. But no one ever claimed him. So we kept him. Is he bothering you?” “Nah,” says Jane. “This house,” she adds as Ivy walks her down the hallway toward the atrium at the house’s center. A polar bear rug, complete with head and glassy eyes, sits in the middle of the passageway. It looks like real fur. Wrinkling her nose, Jane makes a path around it, then rubs her ears again, trying to dislodge a noise. The house is humming, or singing, a faint, high-pitched whine of air streaming through pipes somewhere, though really, Jane’s not totally conscious of it. There’s a way in which background noises can enter one’s un- conscious self, settle in—even make changes—without tripping any of one’s conscious alarms. Ivy slows as she nears the center of the house. The girls are on the

9780803741492_JaneUnlimited_ARC_TX.indd 24 3/21/17 12:11 PM highest level, the third, and Ivy takes the branch of the hallway that goes to the left. Jane follows, finding herself on one of the bridgelike balconies she saw from the receiving hall. The bridge overlooks the receiving hall on one side and the courtyard on the other. Ivy stops at one of the archways overlooking the courtyard. Some- one’s left a camera here, perched on the wide baluster, a fancy one with a big lens. Picking it up, Ivy hangs it around her neck. When Jane steps beside her, breathing through the heady feeling of vertigo, Jasper does too, shoving his head between two balusters. “Jasper,” Jane says in alarm, reaching for his collar, then realizing he’s not wearing one. “Jasper! Be careful!” Jasper demonstrates that he cannot possibly fall, by straining with all his strength to push himself through the balusters, failing, then looking up at Jane with an “I told you so” expression. It’s not a comforting demonstration. “Don’t worry,” Ivy says. “He won’t fall. He’s too big.” “Yeah,” Jane says, “I see that, but I still wish he’d stay back. Respect the heights, you long-eared bozo!” At this, Ivy lets out a single, small laugh. “Quixotic,” she says. “What?” She shakes her head at herself. “Sorry. It just occurred to me that if I’d been able to play the word quixotic in that spot instead of the word zeppelin, I’d have scored even more points. Because of the combined power of the x and the q. They’re valuable letters,” she adds apologeti- cally, “because they’re rare. You make me want to talk. It’s like a com- pulsion. I could go get a muzzle.” “I told you, I like it,” says Jane, then notices, suddenly, the words on Ivy’s camera strap: I am the Bad Wolf. I create myself. It’s a reference to the TV show Doctor Who. “Are you a sci-fi fan?” “Yeah, I guess so,” says Ivy. “I like sci-fi and fantasy generally.” “Who’s your favorite Doctor?”

9780803741492_JaneUnlimited_ARC_TX.indd 25 3/21/17 12:11 PM “Eh, I like the companions better,” says Ivy. “The Doctor’s all tragic and broody and last of his kind, and I get the appeal of that, but I like Donna Noble and Rose Tyler. And Amy and Rory, and Clara Oswald, and Martha Jones. No one ever likes Martha Jones but I like Martha Jones. She’s an asskicker.” Jane nods. “I get that.” “Were you going to say something about the house?” says Ivy. “Be- fore?” “The decorative stuff,” Jane says. “The art. Isn’t it kind of . . . random?” Ivy leans an elbow on the balustrade. “Yeah, it’s definitely random,” she says. “Officially random, really. A hundred-some years ago, when the very first Octavian Thrash was building this house, he, um, how should I put it, he . . . acquired parts of other houses, from all over the world.” “Acquired?” says Jane. “What do you mean? Like, the way Russia acquired Crimea?” Ivy flashes a grin. “Yeah, basically. Some of the houses were being remodeled, or torn down. Octavian bought parts. But in other cases, it’s hard to say how he got his hands on them.” “Are you saying he stole?” “Yes,” Ivy says. “Or bought stuff that was stolen. That’s why the pillars don’t match, or the tiles, or anything really. He collected the art the same way, and the furniture. Apparently ships would arrive full of random crap, maybe a door from Turkey, a banister from China. A stained-glass window from Italy, a column from Egypt, a pile of floorboards from some manor kitchen in Scotland. Even the skeleton is made of the miscellaneous crap he collected.” “So . . . the house is like Frankenstein’s monster?” “Yup,” she says, “speaking of sci-fi. Or like some kind of cannibal.” “Will it eat us?” Her smile again. “It hasn’t eaten anyone yet.”

9780803741492_JaneUnlimited_ARC_TX.indd 26 3/21/17 12:11 PM “Then I’ll stay.” “Good,” she says. “Some of the art seems newer.” “Mrs. Vanders and Ravi do the buying these days. Octavian gives them permission to spend his money.” “What things do they buy?” “Valuable stuff. Tasteful stuff. Nothing stolen. Ravi works as an art dealer in New York now, actually, with Kiran’s boyfriend, Colin. It’s like his dream job. I think he cries with happiness every morning on his way to work. Ravi is bananas about art,” she adds, noticing Jane’s puz- zled expression. “He’s been known to sleep under the Vermeer. Like, in the corridor, in a sleeping bag.” Jane is trying to imagine a grown man sleeping on a floor beneath a painting. “I’ll try to remember that, in case I’m ever walking around in the dark.” “Ha!” says Ivy. “I meant when he was a little kid. He doesn’t do it now. We used to play with some of the art too, like, pretend-play around it. The sculptures, the Brancusi fish. The suits of armor.” While Jane tries to file all this information away, rainwater pounds on the glass ceiling of the courtyard. “What about the courtyard?” she says, taking in the pink stone, the measured terraces, the hanging nasturtiums. “It isn’t unmatching. It feels balanced.” “Mm-hm,” says Ivy with a small, crooked smile. “The first Octavian rescued the entire thing from a Venetian palace that was being torn down, and brought it over on a boat in one piece.” There’s something preposterous about a ship carrying three stories of empty space around the Italian peninsula, through the Mediterra- nean, and across the Atlantic. “This house kind of gives me the creeps,” Jane says. “We’re about to go into the servants’ quarters,” Ivy says. “It’s nice and simple in there, with no dead polar bears.”

9780803741492_JaneUnlimited_ARC_TX.indd 27 3/21/17 12:11 PM “Does that bother you too?” Ivy gives a rueful shrug. “To me, he’s just Captain Polepants.” “Huh?” “That’s what Kiran and Patrick called him when we were little. They thought it was hilarious, because Kiran’s half British, and in the U.K., pants means underpants. Mr. Vanders had a name for him too,” Ivy says, screwing her face up thoughtfully. “Bipolar Bear, I think it was. Because he likes psychology. Funny, right?” “I guess,” Jane says. “My aunt was a conservationist. She took pictures of polar bears instead of making rugs out of them.” “Speak of the devil,” Ivy says, looking down to the courtyard below. An elderly man darts across the floor. He’s a tall, dark-skinned black man in black clothing, with a ring of white hair. He carries a small child on one hip, maybe two or three years old. All Jane can see of the child from above is wavy dark hair, tanned skin, flopping arms and legs. “Why?” the toddler yells, squirming. “Why? Why!” “Kiran never mentioned there’d be so many kids here,” Jane says, remembering the little girl digging in the rain outside her window. Ivy pauses. “That was Mr. Vanders,” she says. “He’s the butler, and Mrs. Vanders is the housekeeper. They manage a pretty big staff. He’s always in a hurry.” “Okay,” Jane says, noticing that Ivy’s said nothing about the child, and that her face has gone measured, her voice carefully nonchalant. It’s weird. “You said we’re going into the servants’ quarters?” she adds. “Mrs. Vanders actually told me I’m not allowed there.” “Mrs. Vanders can bite me,” says Ivy with sudden sharpness. “What?” “Sorry.” Ivy looks sheepish. “But she’s not in charge of the house. She just acts like she is. You do whatever you want.” “Okay.” Jane wants to see the house, every part of it. She also wants to not get yelled at.

9780803741492_JaneUnlimited_ARC_TX.indd 28 3/21/17 12:11 PM “Come on,” Ivy says, pushing away. “If we see her, you can just pretend you don’t know which part of the house we’re in. You can blame me.” She’s backing away across the bridge while facing Jane, willing Jane to follow her. Then she shoots Jane her wicked grin again, and Jane can’t say no.

“Every time I step into a new section, I feel like I’m in a different house.” Jane spins on her heels, examining the unexpectedly serene, un- adorned, pale green walls of the forbidden servants’ quarters, in the west wing of the third story. All the doors are set into small, side hallways that branch off the main corridor. “Wait till you see the bowling alley downstairs,” Ivy says, “and the indoor swimming pool.” Jane realizes she’s been breathing the faint, rather pleasant scent of chlorine ever since Ivy joined her. “Are you a swimmer?” “Yeah, when I have time. You can use the pool whenever you want. Tell me if you want me to show you the changing rooms and stuff. That’s my room,” she adds, pointing down a short hallway to a closed door. “Hang on, let me put my camera down.” “What are you taking pictures of?” “The art,” she says. “Be right back.” She leaves Jane in the main corridor, where Jasper leans against her legs, sighing. Jane’s clothing has dried, mostly; at any rate, she no longer feels like a soggy, cold stray. She’s exposed out here, though; she imagines Mrs. Vanders peering at her disapprovingly around corners, and she also wishes she could see Ivy’s room. Do the servants have hot tubs and fireplaces too? Is Ivy always on the clock? Does she get to travel to New York like Kiran does? If she’s nineteen, will she go to college? How did she go to high school? For that matter, how did Kiran go to high school?

9780803741492_JaneUnlimited_ARC_TX.indd 29 3/21/17 12:11 PM Ivy emerges. “Do you have a hot tub in there?” “I wish,” says Ivy, grinning. “Want to see?” “Sure.” Jane and Jasper follow Ivy into a long room with two distinct realms: the bed realm, near the door, and the computer realm, which takes up most of the rest of the space. Jane never knew one person could need so many computers. A jumble of ropes is propped beside one of her key- boards, along with two of the longest flashlights Jane’s ever seen. Large, precise drawings—blueprints, sort of—cover the walls. Jane realizes, looking closer, that they’re interior maps of a house that are so detailed that they show wallpaper, furniture, carpets, art. “Did you make these?” asks Jane. “I guess,” says Ivy. “They’re the house.” “Wow.” Jane sees familiar things now: the Venetian courtyard, the checkered floor of the receiving hall, the polar bear rug. Ivy seems embarrassed. “Patrick and I share a bathroom in the hall,” she says. “Mr. and Mrs. Vanders have their own suite, though, and it has a hot tub.” “You could use my hot tub.” “Thanks,” says Ivy, pulling the tie out of her messy bun, shaking her hair out, and winding it back up again. The air is touched with the scent of chlorine, and jasmine. “Marzipan,” Ivy says randomly, giving her hair a final tug. Jane is used to this by now. “Yeah?” “Another great word to play in that same spot, because of the position of the z.” “Are you always thinking up good eight-letter Scrabble words?” “Nope. Only since you came along.” “Maybe I’ll be good for your Scrabble game.” “It’s looking that way. Brains are bizarre,” says Ivy, going back into

9780803741492_JaneUnlimited_ARC_TX.indd 30 3/21/17 12:11 PM the corridor and leading Jane and Jasper past more hallways and doors. “If you grew up here,” says Jane, “how did you go to school?” “We were all homeschooled,” says Ivy, “by Octavian, and Mr. Vanders, and the first Mrs. Thrash.” “Was it strange? To be homeschooled, on an isolated island?” “Probably,” says Ivy with a grin, “but it seemed normal when I was a kid.” “Will you go to college?” “I’ve been thinking about it lately,” Ivy says, “a lot. I’ve been saving up, and I took the SATs last time I was in the city. But I haven’t started applying.” “What will you study?” “No clue,” she says. “Is that bad? Should I have my whole life plotted out?” “You’re asking a college dropout,” says Jane, then isn’t sure what af- fect to adopt when Ivy looks at her curiously. I’m okay? I’m not okay? I feel stupid? Back off, my aunt died? “I didn’t mean to put you on the spot,” says Ivy. “There’s nothing wrong with being a college dropout.” “It doesn’t feel very good, though,” says Jane. “That doesn’t mean it’s wrong,” says Ivy thoughtfully. That sounds like something Aunt Magnolia would say, though she’d say it in ringing tones of wisdom, whereas Ivy says it as if it’s a new possibility she’s considering for the first time. They’ve come to a door at the end of the corridor, made of unfinished planks, with a heavy iron latch instead of a knob. Ivy pulls it open to reveal a landing with elevator doors straight ahead and stairs leading up and down. She flicks a switch on the landing and the room above brightens. “West attics,” she says before Jane can ask. “The workshop is up there.” “Mrs. Vanders said I wasn’t allowed in the west attics, either,” says Jane. “She said it’s dangerous.”

9780803741492_JaneUnlimited_ARC_TX.indd 31 3/21/17 12:11 PM Ivy snorts, then starts up the steps. “Come see for yourself. If it looks dangerous, we won’t go in.” “Okay,” says Jane, pretending to be the rule-breaker she isn’t, because she doesn’t want to lose Ivy’s respect. “Wow,” she adds as her climb brings an enormous room into view. It’s filled with neat rows of worktables, almost like a shop class. With tall windows and high, wooden rafters, it’s as big as the entire west wing, rich with the smells of oil and sawdust. Rain drums against the roof. Through the windows Jane can just barely make out the spire on the house’s east side, puncturing the storm clouds. It’s a tidy, open, barn-like space, with no loose nails or shaky beams. Jane wanders, Ivy following. An unfinished chest draws her attention. It’s walnut—Jane knows her woods. It has a carved top depicting an undersea scene of sperm whales (Jane also knows her whales). Above the whales, a girl floats in a rowboat, oblivious to the creatures below. “Who made this?” Jane asks. “Oh,” says Ivy, looking embarrassed but pleased. “That’s mine.” “Really? You make furniture too? It’s beautiful!” “Thanks. I haven’t touched it in forever. I don’t get time for the big projects. Though my brother and I did finish a boat recently.” “You and Patrick made a boat up here?” “Yeah. A rowboat. We had to lower it to the ground on ropes through a window. There’s a freight elevator to the outside, and a dumbwaiter,” Ivy says, waving a hand back toward the stairs, “but it was a boat, after all.” A DIY rowboat. Jane tries to make her umbrellas watertight, but it’s not like anyone’s going to drown if she screws something up. “Do you take the boat out?” “Sure,” says Ivy. “It’s a great little boat.” Who builds a boat, in her spare time, with her own hands, then slaps it onto the ocean and rows around in it successfully? Probably

9780803741492_JaneUnlimited_ARC_TX.indd 32 3/21/17 12:11 PM while announcing winning Scrabble words and being bold and daring. “There’s a rotary saw in the back somewhere,” Ivy says, “and we have a few different lathes.” “Thanks,” says Jane, feeling a bit desolate. “You should help yourself to whatever you need.” “Thanks,” Jane says again, hoping Ivy won’t ask her what she needs them for. The house moans and grumbles, almost as if in sympathy with Jane’s feelings. As old houses do, Jane thinks to herself. She imagines this house curled up with its back to the sky, shivering around the center it must keep warm, holding its skin against the driving rain. A tiny, self-contained glass room sits near the stairs. There’s a table inside, on which is propped a large painting of a white man with slop- ing shoulders, wearing a beret with a great, curling feather. Brushes, bottles, and light fixtures surround the painting. “Is someone a painter?” Jane asks, pointing. “Rembrandt’s a painter,” Ivy says, grinning. “That’s a Rembrandt self-portrait. It’s one of the house’s pictures. Mrs. Vanders is cleaning it. She has a degree in conservation, among other things. Maybe you can smell the acetone—sort of a sharp smell? She uses it sometimes.” “Oh,” Jane says, feeling silly for not recognizing a Rembrandt. “Right.” “That room is her conservation studio,” Ivy says. “It’s sealed, so the art is protected from sawdust, and the glass is a fancy kind that shields it from outside light.” “Wow.” “Yeah,” says Ivy, understanding. “This is a house of serious art lov- ers. And Octavian has more money than God.” A door at the back end of the attic opens with a scraping sound, startling Jane. Spinning around, she sees a flash of yellow wallpaper

9780803741492_JaneUnlimited_ARC_TX.indd 33 3/21/17 12:11 PM in a bright room beyond. A man with a pert mouth steps from the room, notices Jane, and clicks the door shut quickly. He has dark hair and East Asian features and wears a navy blue suit and orange Chuck Taylors. Pulling latex gloves from his hands and shoving them into his pock- ets, he walks across the room toward them both. “Hello,” he says. “Hi,” says Ivy, her voice carefully nonchalant again. “This is Philip Okada,” she tells Jane. “He’s visiting for the gala. Philip, this is Kiran’s friend Janie.” “Nice to meet you,” says Philip, speaking with what sounds like an English accent. “You too,” says Jane, glancing at the gloves dangling from his coat pocket. “Forgive me,” he says. “I’m something of a germophobe and I often wear them. How do you know Kiran?” “She went to college in my hometown.” “Ah.” He smiles a polite smile, his face creasing into lines that make Jane think he must be at least thirty. Thirty-five? Even older? When do old people get laugh lines? “How do you know the Thrash family?” asks Jane, deciding to be nosy. “The New York party scene,” says Philip, his expression pleasantly bland. “I see,” says Jane, wondering what that means, exactly, and how a germophobe manages a crowded party “scene.” Is there more here than meets the eye? “Well,” he says, “see you later, no doubt.” He bends down to give Jasper a vigorous rub behind the ears. Then he descends the stairs, slid- ing his hand along the metal railing. “You’d think a germophobe would avoid dogs and railings,” says Jane.

9780803741492_JaneUnlimited_ARC_TX.indd 34 3/21/17 12:11 PM Ivy’s face is expressionless. “Take whatever you need,” she says, turning away. “Our attic is your attic.” Definitely more here than meets the eye.

9780803741492_JaneUnlimited_ARC_TX.indd 35 3/21/17 12:11 PM THE READYMADE THIEF

Augustus Rose 01 02 03 04 05 06 07 08 09 10 11 THE 12 13 READYMADE 14 15 16 THIEF 17 18 19 20 21 Augustus Rose 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 S32 V i k i n g N33

9780735221833_Readymade_i-x_1-374_1P.indd 3 10/20/16 2:33 PM 01 02 03 04 05 06 07 08 09 10 VIKING 11 An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC 375 Hudson Street 12 New York, New York 10014 penguin.com 13 Copyright © 2017 by Augustus Rose 14 Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, 15 promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not 16 reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to 17 publish books for every reader.

18 library of congress cataloging‑in‑publication data 19 [INSERT CIP DATA] 20 Printed in the United States of America 1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2 21 Set in Bulmer MT 22 Designed by Spring Hoteling

23 This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to 24 actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely 25 coincidental. 26 27 28 29 30 31 32S 33N

9780735221833_Readymade_i-x_1-374_1P.indd 4 10/20/16 2:33 PM 01 02 03 04 05 06 07 08 09 10 ONE 11 12 13 14 15 16 LEE was just six the first time she stole something. Deposited by her 17 mother at a birthday party to socialize with kids she barely knew and 18 hardly liked, she secreted herself in the bedroom closet of the birth- 19 day girl’s parents during a game of hide-and-seek. Lee was a tiny 20 child, mostly silent and near-invisible anyway, so hiding was easy, and 21 the game was a good chance to be alone. She stayed in the closet a 22 very long time—lingering well after the other kids had moved on to 23 other games—and, while there, she discovered a box covered in faded 24 green velvet and tied with old twine. Something inside rattled when 25 she shook the box. Lee didn’t intend to open it, but then her finger 26 caught in the loop of the bow and the twine just kind of fell loose. 27 Inside the box was a stack of yellowing letters held together by 28 more twine, a painted iron toy steamship, an old wooden pipe, and 29 the source of the rattling: a small glass bottle with something trapped 30 inside. Lee crouched there, listening to the shrieks of the other kids 31 and holding the bottle up to what dim shafts of light came in through S32 the slats, trying to guess what was inside. When she heard her mother N33

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01 calling her name, she pa nicked—stuffing the bottle in her pocket, 02 then pushing the box back below the pile of sweaters where she’d 03 found it. As Lee followed her mother through the house and out to 04 the car, she realized it was late, well after dark, and all the other kids’ 05 parents had come and gone. Her mother held the back door open as 06 she climbed in, and Lee’s father turned to her from the front seat and 07 gave her one of his smiles, the smile he used when he’d screwed up, 08 and handed her a partially eaten chocolate bar. “Did you have a nice 09 time, honey?” he asked her, but Lee’s answer was caught in the slam 10 of her mother’s door. They were silent the whole ride home. That 11 night Lee tented herself beneath her covers with a flashlight, then 12 took the object out and examined it again. The bottle was blue glass 13 clouded with age. Lee felt a twang of guilt at having taken something 14 that was not hers. But when it rattled in her hand, a surge of pleasure 15 ran down her spine. She had to hold the bottle up to the light to see 16 the tiny silver die inside. 17 18 When Lee would come home after school, her mother would be at 19 work, but her father was usually there. Sometimes he’d be in the 20 driveway, working on his old Dodge Dart, its hood up, and he’d let 21 her sit up on the fender, her feet dangling into the engine compart- 22 ment as she’d hold the carburetor or distributor in her hands and he’d 23 explain what all the parts were. When it was running, he’d sometimes 24 take her out for a drive and even let her sit in his lap and steer on the 25 byroad straightaways. 26 Often when she’d come home, the house would be full of her 27 father’s friends, people from the local music scene and the occasional 28 semifamous bassist or ex‑drummer from this or that band passing 29 through whom Lee was too young to recognize. Her father worked 30 an irregular schedule, inspecting and repairing hospital x‑ray ma- 31 chines, but really he was a singer-songwriter and musician. He put 32S out a self-titled album with an indie label a year before Lee was born, 33N

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and sometimes he was invited onstage to perform on a song during 01 some band’s show, but he never made a living off of any of it. His 02 friends all said he could have been another Elliott Smith, if only his 03 life had gone a little differently. 04 Her father had a disarming smile that softened any room he en- 05 tered, and people naturally gravitated to him, the center of some subtle 06 magnetic force. Lee loved coming home to a crowded living room, 07 where she could sit in a corner unnoticed and listen to the stories. She 08 loved watching her father especially, seated in his usual spot at the end 09 of the sofa, staring down at his socks as someone would be telling 10 some tale of loss or excess. And she loved watching others watch him, 11 as her father would inevitably look up, smile from the corner of his 12 mouth, and deadpan some line that Lee rarely understood beyond the 13 fact that it would set everyone else in the room off laughing. 14 As though through some unspoken understanding, the visitors 15 always left a good half hour before her mother, a nurse, returned 16 home. By which time her father would (with Lee’s help) have the er- 17 rant glasses collected and washed and put away, and some semblance 18 of dinner going. On one occasion they’d missed a few glasses that 19 had been set down in a planter, and her mom had taken her aside and 20 asked if anyone had been over. Seeing no reason to lie, Lee told her 21 yes, a few of dad’s friends were here. 22 “What were they doing?” 23 “Just hanging out and drinking grapefruit juice and talking.” 24 As soon as Lee said this, her mom’s jaw set, and she walked to the 25 kitchen and placed the two glasses on the counter above the dish- 26 washer. Lee understood that it was for her father to find—a simple, 27 direct message that her mom knew. 28 They argued that night, Lee could hear it from her room, and she 29 never understood what could have been so bad about drinking juice 30 with your friends or why her mom was always so wound up and an- 31 gry. Her father wasn’t around in the morning and didn’t come back S32 N33

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01 for several days, but this brief vanishing act was something he did all 02 the time, and Lee was used to it. 03 04 Lee was seven when her father left for good, disappearing without a 05 word. She simply came home from school one day to a house that felt 06 different. Lee looked around without landing on anything until she 07 went into her parents’ bedroom and saw that all her father’s stuff was 08 gone, emptied from the drawers and the closet and the top of the 09 dresser. The bathroom was clear of his things as well. 10 He’d taken more than he usually did, but Lee still expected him 11 to return after a few days. When five days passed, then a week, she 12 asked her mom. 13 Her mom looked down at her dispassionately. “He might come 14 back tomorrow, or he might never come back. I can’t tell you which. 15 I think you’d better just get used to it.” 16 “Where did he go this time?” 17 “I wish I knew.” 18 Her mom said nothing more about it, though as the days, then 19 weeks, and then months passed and it seemed finally clear that her 20 father wasn’t coming home or even sending a letter, Lee could see her 21 mother crumble, bit by bit, from the inside. Some nights Lee could 22 hear crying behind the closed door of their bedroom, until she didn’t 23 anymore; but by then her mother seemed emptied out entirely. Lee 24 liked to listen to her father’s CD sometimes when she came home 25 from school, before her mother got off work. It was sad and funny at 26 the same time, scratchy and full of longing, and Lee liked the way she 27 felt when she listened to it. One day she came home to find it gone. 28 29 At eight she stole a glossy black paintbrush from the desk drawer of 30 Mrs. Choi, her pretty English teacher, who used it to keep her hair 31 bunned. At nine Lee slipped things from the backpacks of her peers: 32S pencil cases and charm bracelets and sticker books. At ten she made 33N a game of trying to steal one thing from each of the kids in her class:

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pens and mittens and colored Nalgene drinking bottles, never any- 01 thing of real value. She kept her swag in a box in her closet, and 02 sometimes she would lay it all out on the floor of her room. It was the 03 only way she used any of it. Lee didn’t consider any of the kids friends. 04 It wasn’t that they teased her or ostracized her or thought her weird, 05 but none of them seemed to see her, either. Holding these objects in 06 her hands allowed her to imagine something like closeness. 07 Her mom was a palimpsest. She had erased herself a layer at a 08 time, until only the dim outline of who she was remained. Every now 09 and then the mom Lee knew would emerge to celebrate her daugh- 10 ter’s birthday or Christmas, and she made sure the bills were paid and 11 that food was on the table, but mostly she was gone. Lee hated her 12 for her slow retreat into herself, for leaving Lee behind. Her mom’s 13 hours at the hospital kept Lee from seeing her much anyway, but 14 even when she was around, Lee felt she could almost see through her. 15 So when she told Lee, now twelve, that she was bringing a friend 16 home for dinner, Lee didn’t know what to think. Steve was the op- 17 posite of her father. He wore a white linen tunic and crisp linen pants 18 and white canvas slip‑on shoes. Around his neck was a leather cord 19 tied around a pale crystal. His hands were soft when he shook Lee’s, 20 and when he saw her looking at one of the ha lf-dozen braided co lored- 21 le ather bracelets he wore on his wrist, he took one off and gave it to 22 her. Lee smiled thank you and put it in her pocket. Over dinner he 23 asked her a few bland questions about school, wiping his hands and 24 the corners of his mouth after every bite. 25 He came by more and more frequently and sometimes stayed 26 over. Steve didn’t talk much, and when he did, it was often in whis- 27 pers to Lee’s mom. He moved in so stealthily that Lee didn’t realize 28 he had until she noticed he’d set up a small meditation area in the 29 corner of the living room, with a floor pillow, a mandala on the wall, 30 and a small bowl of incense. Lee would often come home to the smell 31 of that incense, Steve facing the wall with his back to her. He asked S32 her to join him one time, and she did, but Lee didn’t understand N33

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01 what he wanted her to do. How was she supposed to empty her mind 02 when it was constantly filling back up? 03 04 At thirteen Lee stuffed a vintage Misfits ‑T shirt into her backpack 05 because she had seen a girl in the store admiring it. When she wore it 06 to school, a boy mumbled “Cool shirt” as he passed, which left a 07 ringing in her ears. The next day she dropped the folded shirt on the 08 cafeteria table in front of the boy. The gesture had taken every ounce 09 of nerve she could muster, and she felt dizzy with it as she walked 10 away. He never said another word to her, but the day after, another 11 boy gave her ten bucks to get one for him, and a business was born. 12 Soon she was regularly taking orders from her classmates, any- 13 thing from jeans to jewelry to CDs. She’d hit the boutiques and de- 14 partment stores on Walnut Street in downtown Philly, shop small and 15 steal big, then sell the stuff for a third the price. The money—loose 16 change and wadded bills—she pushed into a hole in her father’s old 17 guitar case. Lee’s tastes were simple—jeans and hoodies and Chuck 18 Taylors—and so she had little to spend the money on. It wasn’t about 19 the money. Stealing scratched a locationless, tingling itch in her. 20 At fourteen she stole a stack of blank birth certificates from the 21 hospital where her mother worked, along with a stamp of the hospi- 22 tal’s seal. She laid the sheets out on her roof, exposing them to several 23 days of sunlight, and aged them with coffee grounds until they 24 looked like they’d been sitting in a drawer for twenty years. Then she 25 sold them to her classmates for a hundred dollars apiece so that they 26 could use them to obtain fake IDs at the DMV. This earned her the 27 attention of Edie Oswald. Pale and athletic, tall without being gawky, 28 Edie had a face that looked as though it had been carved from marble 29 by some Renaissance genius. She carried herself with the ease and 30 insouciance bestowed by a life of privilege and was the only girl in 31 school who could dress like a 1960s socialite one day, an early- ’80s 32S punk the next, and get away with it. 33N “Can I bum one?” Edie asked.

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Lee was standing against the wall outside the gym where no one 01 ever came, the remains of a sandwich on the ground by her feet. She 02 fished a cigarette from her pack and handed it to Edie, then helped 03 light it with her own. 04 “I’ve been looking all over school for you. For a while I thought 05 you might be one of those gone kids.” 06 Over the past few months seven kids from the Philadelphia ar ea— 07 tw o from their school—had simply disappeared without a trace. One 08 of them showed up again a few weeks later, a fif teen-year-old boy 09 from a foster home in the suburbs, but he was still gone. His eyes 10 were engorged and depthless, and it was as though his consciousness 11 had been scooped out—he’d lost the ability to communicate and re- 12 sponded only to simple commands. Lee hadn’t known any of them, 13 but she knew Edie did; one of them had run with her crowd. 14 “So this is your spot, huh?” Edie looked around the patch of 15 dirty grass and wrappers and cigarette butts as though it were Lee’s 16 living room. 17 The buzz of Edie’s recognition left Lee mute. To be seen by Edie 18 Oswald was to suddenly exist. 19 Edie pointed to a bit of graffiti, a cartoon stick figure with a cock 20 rammed through its mouth and out the back of its head. “That one 21 of yours?” 22 Lee took this opportunity to stare into Edie’s unblinking green 23 eyes. Edie had a jagged black bob and a mouth that was always turned 24 up at one corner as though perennially on the verge of amusement. 25 Lee understood she was supposed to say something clever back, but 26 the moment for that had passed, and now there was just awkwardness. 27 They stared out across the football field. Lee watched a kid arc 28 out for a long pass and stretch his arms, only to have the ball drop 29 through his hands. Edie wasn’t the kind of girl who needed to go 30 trawling for friends, so Lee knew the score: within a minute or so 31 Edie would ask her for something. She began counting in her head: S32 one, two, three, four, five . . . N33

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01 “I hear you can get things,” Edie said. 02 Five. The girl was to the point, Lee had to give her that. She looked 03 down at her cigarette. 04 “So how’s it work?” Edie flicked her cigarette away. “You take 05 orders or what?” 06 Edie asked for a green cashmere sweater with abalone buttons 07 from Bloomingdale’s. She even had a picture, and Lee couldn’t help 08 but be a little thrilled when Edie texted it to her—they now had each 09 other’s numbers on their phones. Edie probably had hundreds of 10 numbers on hers, but not Lee. Lee now had twelve. 11 What Lee didn’t expect was that a few days later, after she had 12 delivered the sweater, Edie would invite her over to her house after 13 school. They ended up drinking from Edie’s parents’ liquor cabinet 14 and gossiping about the kids in school Lee only ever watched from 15 afar. Edie asked Lee things no one had ever thought to ask her— 16 about what she wanted to do after high school, where in the world 17 she most wanted to visit, what kind of man her father was—and Lee 18 realized she didn’t know how to answer these simple questions. She 19 had never talked to anyone about her father and did not know how to 20 start. She asked Edie about hers, and Edie lit up when she spoke of 21 him: what an important man he was and all the places he took her. 22 She talked about where she wanted to go to college, and when she 23 asked Lee about it, it was as though Edie were asking what pro bas- 24 ketball team Lee wanted to play for. Lee was silent. Edie drunkenly 25 put one finger to the mole above Lee’s lip and seemed about to say 26 something, then just giggled. 27 This is what it must be like, Lee thought as she walked home, 28 drunk on Edie’s attention even more than the booze, to have a friend. 29 30 They began hanging out more and more after that, and Edie was 31 careful to ask Lee for things only occasionally, insisting on paying her 32S even when Lee would refuse her money. Lee took notice of Edie’s 33N taste, and she couldn’t help stealing for her the mo re-than-occasional

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gift. Her feelings for Edie were as formless as a weather pattern. All 01 Lee knew was that she tingled under Edie’s attention and sometimes 02 placed herself in Edie’s path after school in the hope that Edie would 03 collect her. With this friendship came an acceptance into Edie’s 04 crowd, and before long Lee found herself invited to parties and out 05 to clubs. 06 For the first time she went to a school dance. She gave Edie the 07 combination to her locker, because it was near the gym and accessi- 08 ble, and Edie stashed a few bo oze-filled bottles of Coke there earlier 09 in the day. Drunk and emboldened, Lee even danced, awkwardly 10 bouncing around with the kids in Edie’s cr owd—her crowd now, 11 too, Lee reminded he rself—listening in as they gossiped and gave 12 each other shit about who was fucking whom behind whose back and 13 who’d pissed on whose toothbrush. But for Lee the highlight of the 14 dance took place in the bathroom with Edie, as they sat up high by 15 the windows and shared a joint. When she was with Edie, it was as if 16 Lee were the only person on Earth; Edie focused in so totally, with 17 such sincere interest, that Lee felt herself seen in a way she never had 18 before. 19 “What do you think of Danny Poole?” Edie asked her. 20 She hadn’t much noticed this boy from Edie’s crowd, except that 21 sometimes Lee would feel herself being stared at, though he always 22 looked away when she turned. Lee tried to see him through Edie’s 23 virescent eyes. 24 “He likes you,” Edie said. 25 “He told you that?” 26 “I can tell. You want to go out with me and Deke sometime? The 27 four of us could have some fun.” 28 Deke was Edie’s boyfriend. He dressed like a headbanger and 29 played guitar in a metal band but drove his parents’ Infiniti and wore 30 four-hundred-dollar boots. Lee felt as though she’d been chosen. 31 “Sure,” she said. Why not. S32 “Cool. I’ll set it up.” Then Edie reached into her purse and took N33

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01 out a folded Kleenex. She unwrapped it, revealing two powder-filled 02 gel caps. Edie held them out until Lee took one. She waited for Edie 03 to go first, then swallowed the one in her hand. 04 “What did we just take?” 05 “Molly-olly-oxen-free!” Edie trilled. 06 Lee had never taken Ecstasy before. “What’s it feel like?” 07 “You’re about to find out.” Edie hopped down from the window, 08 and Lee followed her back into the dance. 09 Lee didn’t remember much about that first time; it just got swal- 10 lowed up with all the other times. She did remember dancing in a 11 way that felt as fluid as a river. She remembered a sensation of pure 12 joy, and she remembered the people all having auras, trembling out- 13 lines that she kept trying to touch. Mostly she remembered going 14 home with Edie that night, sharing Edie’s bed and the feel of Edie’s 15 skin against hers, Edie’s fingers tickling up and down her back, Edie’s 16 eyes on her own. 17 “Why’d you choose me?” Lee asked her, the drug making all 18 questions suddenly possible. “You can have . . . you can hang out 19 with anyone in school you want. Your crowd, they wouldn’t have 20 anything to do with me if you hadn’t taken me in.” 21 Edie eyes were softening with sleep, but when she opened them 22 wide again, Lee thought she could see herself reflected in the pupils. 23 “You want to know what’s special about you.” 24 It made her feel stupid to hear it phrased that way, but yes, Lee 25 supposed that is what she wanted to know. 26 Edie was silent for a moment. “When I was nine, I found a little 27 baby bird. It couldn’t have been more than a week old, but it had all 28 its feathers and it was walking around in drunken little circles on the 29 sidewalk. So I bundled it up in my jacket and took it home, made a 30 nest in a cardboard box, and fed it seeds and ladybugs and Cheerios. 31 It was the first thing I woke up to every morning, and every day after 32S school I rushed home to take care of it.” 33N “You think I need rescuing?” Lee asked.

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Edie looked at her with a mix of affection and pity. “The first 01 time I saw you, I wanted to bundle you up and take you home with 02 me. You’re so pretty, a beautiful little bird, but you look so lost, 03 Lee—anyone with a heart would want to do the same.” 04 Lee thought about how to take this. She wanted to be seen, es- 05 pecially by Edie, as strong and capable of handling herself, but the 06 drug was making her so velvety inside, it was hard not to smile. 07 “What happened to the bird?” she asked. 08 But Edie was already asleep. 09 10 Lee was used to being invisible, she had been her whole life, so it 11 wasn’t easy to know what to do with the spotlight, even if she was 12 only taking up the diffuse edge of the light shined on Edie. The 13 drugs helped. White powders and blue pills and yellow pills, little red 14 plasticky stars, mossy purplish weed laced with crystals, things 15 snorted and smoked and ingested. Stimulants and sedatives and en- 16 tactogens and dissociatives and psychotropics and hallucinogens. 17 Things that made her at once open up into the world and sink so 18 deeply inside herself that she grew scared she’d never find her way 19 out. Meth made her jerk and flop on the inside like a windup me- 20 chanical toy. Ecstasy made her oozy with love. Ketamine made her 21 float. Oxy wrapped her in a warm, steamy blanket. Soon enough she 22 was trading stolen goods for drugs, and soon after that for drugs in 23 bulk, which she sold to the kids in her crowd. 24 Danny Poole turned out to be a nice boy, shy but thoughtful. He 25 played drums in Deke’s band. Lee could tell that he mistook her dis- 26 connection for shyness like his own and saw an affinity where there 27 wasn’t one. But she liked having him around all the same, and for 28 several months they went to movies together and got drunk together 29 and had clumsy, gawky sex that turned sweet with time. 30 Lee honestly didn’t know what to feel when he broke up with her, 31 in a long handwritten letter, which he made sure to point out was S32 blurry with his tears. The letter detailed how much he cared about her, N33

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01 how he even thought he might love her (at least that is what Lee 02 thought she could read within the big blue smudge), but that they 03 were just too si milar—“too shy together and too silent together”— 04 and that he felt as alone with her as he did by himself. 05 Lee couldn’t bring herself to feel much of anything, though she 06 missed those nights they would sit together in his room, wordlessly 07 playing some drinking game until they were buzzed enough to fum- 08 ble toward each other. 09 Life went on, and Lee remained the go‑to girl for drugs and sto- 10 len merchandise. All the money she made she stuffed into the hole in 11 the guitar case, until it became too full to squeeze in another wad. 12 And so, for the first time in nearly four years, she opened it. The 13 money fell out onto her bed in a big green pile of bills: crumpled bills, 14 folded bills, rolled bills, wadded bills, a geological strata of bills—the 15 smaller denominations, from when she’d just started out, at the bot- 16 tom; the larger ones layering the top. The pile had an earthy, fungal 17 smell. To get the money back into the case, she sorted the bills and 18 flattened them and bundled them, counting as she did, feeling her 19 hands grow a filmy layer of dry mold. By the end she had just over 20 twenty thousand dollars, an amount of money Lee could hardly 21 fathom. She began to feel like getting out was really possible; that she 22 might actually make something of her life. College, maybe, some- 23 thing she and her mother had never even discussed. 24 25 Lee was apprehended for shoplifting at sixteen, pinched in a Nord- 26 strom by an undercover security guard she’d marked but had taken 27 for oblivious. He led her by the arm through the store, the ev idence— 28 one crumpled teal cashmere ca rdigan—draped casually over his 29 shoulder. She felt the eyes of the shoppers on her in a way they never 30 had been before, and burned with shame. 31 The store security called her mother and involved the police as 32S well, and though they did not press charges, the police made her 33N aware that the incident would remain on her record and that a second

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arrest would entail real consequences. Lee promised that she had 01 never stolen before and would never do it again. Her mother didn’t 02 speak to her at all except to ask her, in the parking lot on the way to 03 the car, what the hell she wanted with a sweater like that? Did Lee 04 think they were country club people? 05 The second time she was caught came only a month later, and the 06 police threatened to throw the book at her, chuck her into a juvenile 07 detention center and see how she fared with a little structure in her 08 life. Her mother had begged them to give Lee another chance, had 09 described the disappearance of Lee’s father and how tough the years 10 had been on both of them. 11 Lee’s mother wasn’t happy to have to do the whole song and 12 dance for the officers of the Philadelphia Police Department, and on 13 the way home she made it clear just how long was the limb she had 14 gone out on for her. Lee soon stopped listening, wondering if her 15 mom had meant any of what she’d said about Lee’s father. 16 17 Lee was curfewed for the rest of the semester, and she kept her hands 18 clean. She stopped stealing, stopped doing drugs, stopped partying. 19 She worried that Edie might no longer want to be her friend, but this 20 wasn’t the thing that cracked their friendship. 21 They were sharing a table at a café downtown, talking vaguely 22 about college, when a tall young man wearing some sort of vintage 23 military uniform, a few dull medals peppering his chest, sat with 24 them and asked for a cigarette. He had short black hair, severe avian 25 features, and intense, sunken eyes. He put the cigarette behind one 26 ear and chatted easily with them, talking music mostly. He performed 27 a little puppet dance on the table using two spoons and a napkin, his 28 eyes on Lee the whole time. “You know, you remind me of some- 29 one,” he told her. 30 Lee pulled a cigarette out for herself before realizing she couldn’t 31 smoke here. “Oh, yeah? Who?” S32 “Someone very special. What did you say your name was?” N33

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01 “I didn’t.” 02 “Her name’s Lee. Lee Cuddy.” 03 Lee gave Edie a dirty look, but Edie just grinned back. 04 “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lee.” One of his spidery hands flipped 05 open an old canvas shoulder bag and pulled out a stack of fliers. He 06 handed them one each. “Why don’t you two come to a little party 07 we’re throwing this Friday.” He pulled a small black notebook from 08 the bag and wrote something in it. “Go to this Web address on here 09 and type in the code on the bottom. It will give you a time and a place 10 to meet one of my associates. She’ll take you there.” When he turned 11 to leave, Lee could see a large star shaved into the back of his head. 12 She watched him hop onto an antique bicycle and ride off. 13 “Do you know what this is?” Edie said, gaping down at the flier 14 in disbelief. 15 The flier was on thick cardboard stock, about the size of a greet- 16 ing card, and it had an old black-and-white photo that looked like an 17 aerial shot of some just-excavated ancient city. to raise dust was 18 typed in, by manual typewriter, at the top, and société anonyme was 19 printed at the bottom. Below that it read admit one. There was a 20 date, September 3—this coming Fr iday—but no street address. Only 21 a Web address, followed a different six-digit code on each flier. 22 “Isn’t that your birthday?” Edie said. 23 It was. Lee was turning seventeen. 24 “Well, happy fucking birthday. This is an invitation to an S.A. 25 party.” Edie looked around the café and slid her flier quickly into her 26 bag, as though someone might try to take it away from her. 27 “What’s an essay party?” 28 “Dude. These things are legendary. They’re underground events 29 thrown in an old missile silo outside the city limits. I’ve been trying 30 to get into one for months. The thing is, you can’t just buy a ticket; 31 you have to wait for one to come to you.” 32S Lee handed Edie her flier. “Give it to someone else. You know I 33N can’t go.”

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“What are you talking about? That guy was totally into you.” 01 “I’m grounded?” 02 “So sneak out. Your mom doesn’t even have to know you’re gone.” 03 It was true; she could probably get away with it. But Lee liked 04 that she was no longer doing drugs or staying out nights drinking. 05 She was thinking more clearly, and her grades were moving back up. 06 Edie seemed to take Lee’s pause as answer enough. “Fine,” she 07 snapped, grabbing the flier from Lee’s hand. “I’ll ask Claire.” 08 Edie really knew how to stick it where it hurt. Claire Faver had 09 been Edie’s best friend before Lee came along, and Claire’s animosity 10 toward Lee was barely concealed. 11 Lee spent her birthday at home, sharing a dishwater-colored cake 12 that tasted of socks with her mom and Steve. “We noticed some links 13 you left up on the computer.” Steve took a bite of cake and closed his 14 eyes with pleasure. “Looks like you’ve been researching colleges?” 15 Lee took a mouthful of cake and shrugged. She tried to get a 16 view out the window, but Steve’s face was in the way. 17 “College is expensive, you know. That means debt.” 18 Lee forced the cake down. “I can get financial aid. Scholarships.” 19 Steve nodded. “Financial aid is complicated. And scholarships take 20 really good grades. Maybe if you had thought of that a few years ago . . .” 21 Steve had no idea what Lee’s grades were. She’d kept them up, 22 despite everything. She felt like grabbing last year’s report cards and 23 shoving them into his smug face. 24 “. . . but anyway, we think college is a fine idea.” 25 Lee looked at her mother. “You do?” 26 “Sure we do,” Steve said, waiting until she looked at him before 27 continuing. “But we also think that a year or two of real life under 28 your belt would do you some good. Most kids waste college because 29 they’re not mature enough to handle it yet. And after a year or two 30 you might find that it’s not really for you anyway. I never went to 31 college. Did you know that?” S32 Lee looked down at her hands. She had bent the fork nearly in half. N33

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01 “It’s true. And look at me. I love what I do. My business is boom- 02 ing. And I could use a smart, energetic assistant soon.” 03 Lee knew he was waiting for her to look up, but she wouldn’t 04 give him the satisfaction. 05 “Julia and I talked about this. She’s on board, too.” Steve looked 06 at Lee’s mom, who was trying to smile. “Anyway, just give it some 07 thought. Oh, and happy birthday.” He handed her a bright red box 08 with a sheaf of loose papers inside. She didn’t take it, and he set it 09 down in front of her. 10 “It’s for a Buddhist liturgy,” he said. “These are sutras. You sit 11 with them in the morning and chant them, aloud or silently. Like 12 this.” He opened the box and read aloud from the first page: “Shelter 13 is the foundation for all you will set out to do. Shelter is the milk and 14 honey of daily life. Shelter is the doorway to liberation.” He cast a 15 smile at her. “Happy birthday from your mother and me.” 16 “I’m going for a walk,” Lee said. 17 “Just be sure you’re home by dinner.” Steve carefully placed the 18 paper back in the box and closed it. “Curfew doesn’t go on hold for 19 your birthday.” 20 Lee left the house for Edie’s. It was a long walk but still early. 21 Edie wouldn’t have left yet for the party. Fuck her curfew. When she 22 got to Edie’s, a me dieval-looking tw o-st ory stone Tudor with elabo- 23 rately manicured hedges, she made her way around to the back, to 24 Edie’s room on the first floor. Peering through the window, she 25 could see Edie from behind, applying makeup in a mirror. Lee was 26 about to tap on the glass when she spotted a pair of oxblood Doc 27 Martens in the mirror, attached to a pair of stockinged legs on Edie’s 28 bed. Lee couldn’t see the rest of the person, but she didn’t need to to 29 know it was Claire. When her eyes shifted back, she could see Edie 30 staring at her in the mirror. Then Edie returned her attention to her 31 own face, and Lee knew she’d been dismissed. 32S On her way home, hurting in a way she hadn’t let herself feel in 33N

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years, Lee began to notice a man following her. Edie had often com- 01 plained about unwanted advances from strange men—in cafés, on the 02 subway, walking down the st reet—but Lee rarely had that problem. 03 The man was heavyset and a little hulking and was not at all subtle 04 about stalking her, especially considering his attire: an ol d-fashioned 05 tailcoat with brass buttons over a tight black waistcoat, black trousers, 06 and a black bow tie. He looked ridiculous, like an English butler lost 07 in the city. Lee quickened her pace, ducked down into a subway sta- 08 tion, walked through it, and came out at the other end. She thought 09 she’d lost him, but then he was right in front of her, blocking her way. 10 Lee felt frozen in place. “What do you want?” she said. 11 He said nothing. When she looked into his eyes, she could see 12 that his irises were weirdly misshapen. He shuffled in place, smiling 13 at her, and there was something childlike about him. Lee was sud- 14 denly more curious than afraid. Then she noticed a black box in his 15 hand, about the size of a cigar case. He clumsily flipped it open, and 16 a lens on a bellows popped out. He raised it to his chest and snapped 17 a picture of her. Then he bowed slightly, turned, and walked away. 18 Lee wanted to tell someone about the encounter, to confirm the 19 weirdness of it, but there was no one to tell. 20 The following Monday at school Claire and Edie spent the day 21 huddled together, whispering and laughing and sharing glances. A 22 door had been shut in her face. The one time she found Edie without 23 Claire, she asked her about the party, but Edie just shook her head 24 and laughed, then went back to texting. 25 26 The prospect of college, and with it the prospect of reinventing her- 27 self, had become something more than a distant, formless hope. She 28 began looking into programs, researching college towns. Edie had 29 slowly opened the door to Lee again, and Lee spent every day after 30 school at Edie’s house, where they leaned against each other on Edie’s 31 bed and fantasized about disappearing. They began making plans, S32 N33

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01 which were vague at first but solidified as they discussed which 02 schools offered the brightest fields of hope and possibility and plain 03 old American fun. Lee persuaded Edie to look out of st ate—New 04 York or California or some small town where they could rent a house 05 together and bicycle to class. 06 Edie wanted to study psychology, and Lee considered that as 07 well, until she happened upon a photo in a National Geographic mag- 08 azine. The article was about the discovery of a buried Assyrian city, 09 which was being carefully unearthed, and in the photo a young 10 woman in boots, khaki shorts, and a green cotton shirt squatted low 11 as she brushed dirt from the head of a statue. The woman had a scarf 12 wrapped around her black hair, and her clothes and tanned skin were 13 dusted in red earth. She worked solo. Lee knew immediately that she 14 wanted to be that woman. She tore the photo from the magazine, put 15 it into her pocket, and brought it out again in the seclusion of her 16 room that night. She tacked it to the wall above her bed and fell 17 asleep wondering what it would take to become an archaeologist. 18 As she turned down requests from the kids at school and stopped 19 dealing drugs, Lee found herself growing invisible again by degrees. 20 Her new friends, the kids in Edie’s crowd, had always found Lee to 21 be a little off, too distant and inside herself to ever be one of them. 22 They tolerated her when she was dealing and stealing for them, but 23 she no longer sensed the eyes of the other kids on her as she’d walk 24 the halls, no longer felt the twitchy anxiety of some boy nearby try- 25 ing to get his nerve up to ask her for something. 26 Edie persuaded Lee to introduce her old dealer to Edie’s boy- 27 friend, Deke, and Deke became the new go‑to guy. The itch to steal 28 never went away—in fact, it got worse—but Lee refused to scratch it, 29 and after a while it became like a phantom limb. 30 Claire seemed pleased with Lee’s fall from favor with their crowd, 31 and even warmed to her some, until one day Claire just didn’t show 32S up at school anymore. Poof, gone, just like those other kids. When 33N Lee asked Edie about it, Edie looked around the quad as if she’d only

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now noticed. “Maybe she finally ran off with that skinny indie bassist 01 dude,” she said. “She was always threatening to.” 02 Then two detectives came by the school one day to interview her 03 friends, and Edie took Lee aside and made her promise not to tell 04 them about the S.A. party she and Claire had gone to. 05 “Why?” asked Lee. “What does that have to do with anything?” 06 “It doesn’t. It doesn’t have anything to do with anything. But if 07 my father finds out I went, he’ll kill me. And if the police find out 08 about it, you can bet my father will, too.” 09 Lee promised, but it didn’t matter. The detectives never asked her 10 anything anyway. 11 12 Lee was seated by herself on the bleachers with a sandwich and a 13 short list of colleges. She had narrowed it to four, and Edie was sup- 14 posed to narrow hers to four, and together they were to agree to a 15 first choice, then a second and a third. Lee had a 3.7 GPA and had 16 scored a 2100 on a practice SAT test. Edie had money and connec- 17 tions. If they didn’t shoot too high, they were sure to get into one of 18 them together, and they had made a pact to choose only a school that 19 accepted them both. Lee saw Edie approaching from across the field, 20 hugging herself against the wind. Edie skulked up the bleachers, her 21 big eyes moist and smeared in mascara. She snatched the cigarette 22 from Lee’s mouth and sat beside her. 23 “What’s wrong?” Lee asked. 24 Edie took a drag and handed the cigarette back to Lee, sniffling 25 as she gazed out across the empty football field. Despite the chilly 26 October air Edie wore only a short skirt and a ti ght-fitting cardigan. 27 Lee pulled a sweatshirt from her bag and held it out, but Edie 28 ignored it, taking the cigarette back. “I really fucked it up this time.” 29 Edie Oswald. Golden girl. Touched by angels. Nothing ever went 30 wrong for Edie. How bad could it be? 31 “I got scared. I panicked. I’m sorry, Lee.” S32 Something in the distance spooked Edie, and she stood up and N33

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01 inhaled from the cigarette, then made her way down the bleachers. 02 She turned. “My father will help you, I swear. I’m really sorry.” 03 Lee leaned forward and squinted. An amorphous blob across the 04 field resolved itself into three separate figures as they approached. Lee 05 recognized Mrs. Bartlett, the school principal, followed by two uni- 06 forms of the Philadelphia Police Department. 07 08 09 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32S 33N

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9780735221833_Readymade_i-x_1-374_1P.indd 26 10/20/16 2:33 PM REINCARNATION BLUES

Michael Poore Reincarnation Blues

Michael Poore

What if you could live forever— but without your one true love? “Reincarnation Blues” is the story of a man who has been reincarnated nearly ten thousand times, in search of the secret to immortality, so that he can be with his beloved, Death herself. Neil Gaiman meets Kurt Vonnegut in this darkly whimsical, hilariously profound, and wildly imaginative comedy of the secrets of life and love. Transporting us from ancient India to outer space to Renaissance Italy to the present day, it is a journey through time, space, and the human heart. Reincarnation Blues is available wherever books are sold September 12, 2017!

Facebook.com/michael.poore.501

2017_DelRey_sampler_2p_all_ r1.indd 25 1/20/17 4:37 PM CHAPTER 1 THE WISE MAN OF OR ANGE BLOSSOM KEY

Florida Keys, 2017

This is a story about a wise man named Milo. It begins on the day he was eaten by a shark. The day didn’t begin badly. Milo woke up before sunrise, tucked his ﬁfty-year- old self into a pair of shorts, and walked out to meditate on the beach. His dog, Burt— a big black mutt— followed. Milo sat down in the sugar-white sand, closed his eyes, and felt the warm salt breeze in his beard. He took note of his ponytail feathering against his back and seagulls crying. That’s what you were supposed to do when you meditated: notice things, without really thinking about them. Milo was not a particularly good meditator. He cracked open a beer and watched the sun come up. Meanwhile, as always, the more he tried to think of nothing, the more he thought of ridiculous, noisy shit like his big toe or France. Maybe he would get a new tattoo. He drank his breakfast, noticing the ocean, welcoming its ancient indifference. He tried to match its breath—the breath of time itself— and fell asleep, as usual, on the beach with his beer and his dog, until the tide rolled in far enough to wet the sand under his ankles.

2017_DelRey_sampler_2p_all_ r1.indd 27 1/20/17 4:37 PM 28 Michael Poore He was, perhaps, the crappiest meditator in the world. But he noticed this, accepted it, and let it humble him. Humility was one of the things that made him a wise man. He walked back to the house to open a new bag of dog food.

The shark that would eat Milo in a few hours was miles away at that particular moment. It patrolled the surf off St. Jeffrey’s Key, looking for manatees. The shark knew it was hungry. This required no thought. The shark lived in the moment, every moment, in a perfect equanimity of sense and peace, meditating its way through the sea without even trying.

Milo worked in his garden for a while. He played with his dog and read a book about fossils. He went online and spent twenty minutes watching dumb videos. Then he drove his old pickup truck to St. Vincent’s Hospital, because visiting the sick is an important part of a wise man’s job. He took Burt with him. Petting dogs was good for people; it was a scientiﬁc fact. Burt was a wise man, too, in his way. All animals are.

On this particular day, Milo and Burt visited Ms. Arlene Epstein, who was dying of being a hundred years old. She was asleep when Milo arrived, and he stood there looking at her for a minute. Hospitals had an unfortunate way of reducing people, he thought. Looking at Arlene Epstein in her bed, tissue- delicate, you’d never know that she had once been a legendary bartender, keeping rowdy tourists in line with a sawed- off hockey stick.

2017_DelRey_sampler_2p_all_ r1.indd 28 1/20/17 4:37 PM Reincarnation Blues 29 Burt hopped up and rested his forepaws on the mattress. “Milo,” yawned Arlene. “Is it Thursday already?” “Saturday,” he answered, kneeling. “I always liked Saturdays,” mused Arlene. “I think I’ll die on a Saturday, if I can help it.” “Not today, though,” said Milo. “You look good.” “Fantastic,” she replied, sitting up and giving his beard a tug. “You can take me for a walk.” Arlene was not supposed to go for walks. There was a sticker on her door that said she was a “fall risk.” Milo ignored the sticker and stole a walker from a closet down the hall. Arlene took one step about every three seconds. Milo stuck casually by her side, ready like a hair trigger to catch her. Burt walked along the wall, snifﬁng like crazy. (Dogs love hospitals. Think of all the different smells you can never quite get rid of.) When they had traveled ten feet, Arlene asked, “Milo, do you know what happens when we die?” He was honest with her. He said, “Yes.” One step. Two steps. “Well?” she asked. “You come back as something else.” Arlene thought about that. “Like another person?” she said. “Or a dog. Or an ant. Maybe even a tree. Burt was a bus driver in his last life.” The old woman stopped. “Don’t fuck with me,” she said. “I’m going to die soon, on a Saturday, and I want to know.” Milo looked down at her with deep, honest eyes. “I’ve lived almost ten thousand lives,” he told her. “I am the oldest soul on the planet.” Arlene looked into one of his eyes, then the other. Seemed to like what she saw. She set the walker aside,

2017_DelRey_sampler_2p_all_ r1.indd 29 1/20/17 4:37 PM 30 Michael Poore took Milo’s hand with both of hers, and leaned on him some. They resumed walking. “Will I still be me?” she asked. “Sure,” said Milo. “More or less. Of course, you’re supposed to make improvements.” “Well, I don’t think I want to come back as a tree.” “Then don’t.” Arlene patted his hand and told him he was a good boy. Burt sniffed out something nasty on the ﬂoor and gave it a big, fat lick. If Milo had gone out swimming then and been eaten by the shark, it would have been a wonderful, gener- ous note for his life to end on. But he didn’t.

The shark, always hungry, had eaten a mess of ocean perch and some ﬂoating garbage and now cruised the deeps between islands, coming up slowly across the outer reefs of Orange Blossom Key. The shark had been an ocean perch in a former life. It had been food of all kinds. It had been the Strawberry Queen for the 1985 Strawberry Festival in Troy, Ohio. Sometimes, in dreams, it remembered these other lives. For now, though, it swam and was hungry, and swam and was hungry.

Milo still had his workday to look forward to. Part of being a wise man was knowing the importance of work. Milo did two things for a living. Thing One: He was a fisherman and a sport-fishing guide. He owned a boat called the Jenny Ann Loudermilk and charged people a fortune to catch fish. You could charge tourists in the Keys practically anything. Today, Milo’s workday involved housecleaning aboard the Loudermilk. Maybe a customer would ap-

2017_DelRey_sampler_2p_all_ r1.indd 30 1/20/17 4:37 PM Reincarnation Blues 31 pear, but he kind of hoped not. He was hoping to go surfing, if the waves built up. He stood on the deck of his boat, wielding a garden hose, spraying away seagull shit and old fish guts. Burt curled up on the floor in the pilothouse and lay there watching the flies on the windshield. Milo thought about Arlene Epstein and wondered if she was scared. He hoped not. Death was a door. You went through it over and over, but it still terrified people. That’s what he was thinking about when something bright and colorful caught his eye, down on the dock. A tourist, in an Orange Blossom Key T- shirt. A chunky man of middle years, wearing a mustache, sunglasses, brand- new boat shoes, and a straw hat. Suddenly Milo didn’t feel like working that afternoon. Suddenly he just wanted to head for BoBo’s Pub and sit at the bar and drink beer. “Are you going out again today?” asked the tourist. Aw, great balls of shit. “The customer’s always right,” said Milo. “You want to go out, we’ll go out.” “How much?” Milo quoted his fee, which staggered the man. (O, shining hope . . .) “Listen,” said Milo, “you get three or four other fellas, it’s easier on your wallet, and we could go out and hit it tomorrow morning— ” But the tourist seemed to be in the grip of some urgency. “No,” he said. “Let’s go ahead and go.” “Hop aboard,” said Milo, offering a strong, tanned, tattooed hand. The tourist introduced himself as Floyd Gamertsfelder. “I sell carpet,” he said. “That’s awesome,” said Milo, casting off.

2017_DelRey_sampler_2p_all_ r1.indd 31 1/20/17 4:37 PM 32 Michael Poore Burt jumped ship and trotted away down the dock, heading home. He didn’t belong out on the water, and he knew it.

Floyd Gamertsfelder didn’t give a shit about catching fish. This was something Milo knew the instant he saw him, the moment he heard that strange urgency in the carpet salesman’s voice. About half of Milo’s customers were like that; they paid heavy money for his time, fuel, and tackle, but they were there for something deeper and more difficult than amberjack or marlin. This was Thing Two, the second part of Milo’s job: professional wise man and counselor. People came to him because they had problems they couldn’t sort out on their own and they had heard of him. Just as people in cartoons climbed mountains to find wise men, real people traveled serious distances to consult Milo aboard his boat, upon the sea, for the price of a half- day charter. They were smart to do so. When you’ve lived almost ten thousand lives, after all, you can learn a great deal. Milo had squeezed so much learning and experience into his one, single soul that the knowledge had grown pressurized and hot and transformed into wisdom the way coal changes into diamonds. His wisdom was like a superpower. It showed in his eyes—like green fire in outer space— and in his tattooed skin, which was creased and furrowed as if his suntan had put down roots. “I really just want to talk to you about some stuff,” Floyd admitted as they motored out of the marina. “I know,” said Milo. Past the breakwater, a decent-sized swell lifted the Loudermilk. The kind that promised good surfing later. He hoped Floyd was a fast talker.

2017_DelRey_sampler_2p_all_ r1.indd 32 1/20/17 4:37 PM Reincarnation Blues 33 Patience, his boa reminded him. Compassion. Milo nodded, formed the mudra with his thumbs and foreﬁngers, goosed the throttle, and steered out to sea.

Floyd Gamertsfelder was not a fast talker. Milo was kind of hoping he’d open up and spit out whatever his mystery problem was before they got too far out, but no. Floyd made his remark about wanting to talk, and then he just clammed up, watching the horizon, looking glum. Milo wasn’t surprised. It took time, usually. The puzzles people brought were hardcore and personal. They had to ride the waves awhile before they opened up. They had to glimpse his outer- space eyes and hear the ocean roll in his seaworthy, biker-dude voice. Milo nearly always took his customers to the same place, the same coordinates. Out of sight of land, an hour over open water, to a place only he knew about. In ninety feet of water, he dropped anchor directly over a forgotten submarine wreck, an artiﬁcial reef that hosted almost every species in the Gulf. “A dead man could catch his limit here,” Milo told his customers. He and Floyd drifted around for two hours over the sub, catching bonito and sunﬁsh. Floyd opened up a little cooler he’d brought, and they each had a beer. “Have you ever been married, Milo?” Floyd asked. Ah, a marriage problem. Marriage counted for 80 percent of the wise- man business. Milo said, “Yep.” (Nine thousand six hundred forty- nine times.) “Well,” said Floyd, “basically I don’t think my wife is very nice to me.” Milo made a sympathetic noise.

2017_DelRey_sampler_2p_all_ r1.indd 33 1/20/17 4:37 PM 34 Michael Poore “Not like cheating on me. I don’t mean that. Maybe this’ll sound dumb, but she doesn’t ever do nice shit like bring me a glass of lemonade when I’m mowing the lawn. Am I being old-fashioned? They say it’s the little things, right? Well, she doesn’t do any of the little things.” Milo reached behind him to damp the throttle, cutting the engine noise. “Do I do little things for her?” Floyd continued. “Hell yes. Last week I made spaghetti, and— whoa, something’s happening!” A nice amberjack had hit Floyd’s line, and they spent fifteen minutes reeling it in. The wind picked up a little. Down below, in the ribs of the old submarine, thousands of fish watched the shadow of the Jenny Ann Loudermilk as it lurked across the sea bottom. A mile away still, the shark that would eat Milo chased a school of mackerel and glided north along the drop- off. “Is your wife nice to other people?” asked Milo. “Not particularly,” said Floyd. “What do you think the problem is?” Floyd took a deep breath and said, “I pretty much think my wife is an unpleasant person. I think she doesn’t like me very much, or anyone else, either.” “Why don’t you leave her?” asked Milo. Floyd digested this question for five full minutes. “I’m trying to be mature about things,” he said at last. “I thought maybe we just needed time. Marriage is work. So what— ” And here, he finally turned to look straight at Milo. “So what I think I need to do is, I need to grow up and want things to get better. My parents didn’t raise quitters.” Milo didn’t meet Floyd’s eyes. He watched the sea, looking for something in particular. “’Scuse me a minute,” he said, and cast a tube lure

2017_DelRey_sampler_2p_all_ r1.indd 34 1/20/17 4:37 PM Reincarnation Blues 35 waaaaaaay out, watched it splash down. Silently counted: Four, three, two, one—and then yanked back hard, cranked like mad, and dropped a giant angry barracuda onto the deck, right in front of Floyd. “Christ!” screamed Floyd. “What’s wrong with you?” The barracuda thrashed, all huge jaws and razor teeth, instantly making hash of the deck hose. Floyd exploded in panic, dancing and spinning. “Be mature about it,” suggested Milo. The barracuda flipped into the air, snapping at Floyd’s hands. “Give it time,” added Milo. “Fishing is work.” The barracuda mowed through an empty beer can and went for Floyd’s ankles. The carpet dealer, like most people, was brave when he needed to be. He swallowed his panic, bent down and grasped the fish around the middle, and flung it out of the boat with something between a sob and a grunt. Then he stood there shaking, pumped full of adren- aline, trying to decide if he had enough courage left over to shout at Milo again. “The problem with a barracuda,” said Milo, “isn’t that you aren’t being mature. The problem is that it’s a barracuda. If you don’t like being in the boat with it, one of you has to go.” Floyd sat down in the fighting chair. After a minute, he said, “Yes.” He said it in the saddest way, but he looked happy. Milo mashed the throttle and sped for home, hoping to save the tail end of the afternoon. If he had died just then, it would have been a poetic and satisfactory end. But he didn’t.

He chose to get drunk at BoBo’s Pub. BoBo’s was famous across the Keys for BoBo himself: a stuffed baboon with exposed fangs and a life

2017_DelRey_sampler_2p_all_ r1.indd 35 1/20/17 4:37 PM 36 Michael Poore preserver, eternally crouched on his haunches, one paw wrapped around a healthy erection. The bartender had to take BoBo home at the end of each night; otherwise, kids would break in and steal him. For about a year, Milo had been shacking up with the weekday bartender, a forty-five- year- old former soccer pro named Tanya. After closing, he helped her stack chairs, and then they went back to her bungalow (BoBo rode in the back of the pickup), where they killed half a bottle of wine and made love. Outside the open bungalow window, waves hissed and crashed. Then, suddenly, one wave made a different kind of sound, a boom like a bass drum in a hollow log. It was a surfing sound. “Come surfing with me,” said Milo. “Not tonight,” she said. “I’m going to get a little drunker and go to sleep.” “I’ll wake you when I get back,” he said, leaning down and kissing her. “No,” she protested. “Are you kidding? Let me sleep. I gotta work early tomorrow.” “Okay.” Isn’t that dumb? That was the last human conversation Milo had, in that life. He paddled out past the shallows, muscled his way through breaking waves, and slid downhill into the deeper country, where the waves were still swells, right before they began toppling. It was his favorite thing. Sitting on his board out there, waiting. Glimpsing the candlelight in the bungalow window. Wondering what Tanya was thinking about. Won- dering how Burt was doing at home, a few miles up the beach. Sleeping? Hunting along the shore? That was Milo’s status in the minutes before the shark. Not bad, as such minutes go.

2017_DelRey_sampler_2p_all_ r1.indd 36 1/20/17 4:37 PM Reincarnation Blues 37 He even managed to meditate a little, folding himself up inside the moment. He noticed the moon, like an anklebone, like a story, up in space. The night and the breeze and— The shark hit him. It drove upward like a rocket and smashed into the air with the surfboard in its jaws. Milo experienced it the way you might experience getting hit by a bus. Sudden and hard, and knowing something bad was happening without knowing what yet. And then knowing and being afraid. Getting eaten by a shark wasn’t any different for a wise man than it was for a shoe salesman or an aard- vark. He felt what was happening with terrible clarity— the awful tearing crushing— and he screamed and yelled just like anyone else. Too bad. He had always kind of thought he would go into death like an explorer, in a golden flash of peace and wholeness, and here he was being chewed up like a ham. His last words were “No! Fuck! No!” The voice in his head began to go quiet; the light inside him started to go out. Burt, Milo thought, before he went totally dark, would be smart enough to go find a new friend, someone who would appreciate what a fine dog he was. It was a good and kind thought, a wise thought, and then something like a fast- moving interstellar night flooded through him and snuffed him out like a—

With a ﬂick of its tail, the shark dove for the middle depths, leaving behind a cloud of gore and pieces of surfboard. It didn’t stop to savor or to be appreciative. It was still hungry, so it looked for more food. One half of the shark’s brain noticed the ocean, noticed the sounds and heartbeats of the sea.

2017_DelRey_sampler_2p_all_ r1.indd 37 1/20/17 4:37 PM 38 Michael Poore The other half noticed the warmth of good food di- gesting in its belly and remembered being a perch, and a mackerel, and a clam, and a whale, and a dog, and a cat, and the Strawberry Queen.

2017_DelRey_sampler_2p_all_ r1.indd 38 1/20/17 4:37 PM SAINTS FOR ALL OCCASIONS

J. Courtney Sullivan Saints for All Occasions

-0

J. Courtney Sullivan

Alfred A. Knopf New York 2017

Sull_9780307959577_4p_all_r1.r.indd 3 3/6/17 7:05 AM this is a borzoi book published by alfred a. knopf

Copyright © 2017 by J. Courtney Sullivan All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York, and distributed in Canada by Random House of Canada, a division of Penguin Random House Canada Limited, Toronto. www.aaknopf.com Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Sullivan, J. Courtney, author. Title: Saints for all occasions : a novel / J. Courtney Sullivan. Description: First Edition. | New York : Alfred A. Knopf, 2017. Identifiers: lccn 2016048931| isbn 9780307959577 (hardback) | isbn 9780307959584 (ebook) Subjects: lcsh: Domestic fiction. | bisac: fiction / Family Life. | fiction / Sagas. | fiction / Contemporary Women. Classification: lcc ps3619.u43 s25 2017 | ddc 813/.6—dc23 lc record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016048931 This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Jacket photograph of Dorchester Heights, Massachusetts, by James L. Woodward via Wikimedia Commons Front jacket flap image: Godong / Alamy Jacket design by Abby Weintraub Manufactured in the United States of America First Edition

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n the car on the way to the hospital, Nora remembered how, when IPatrick was small, she would wake up suddenly, gripped by some terrible fear—that he had stopped breathing, or spiked a deadly fever. That he had been taken from her. She had to see him to be sure. They lived then on the top floor of the three-decker on Crescent Avenue. She would practically sleepwalk through the kitchen and past Bridget’s door, and then down the hall to the boys’ room, her nightgown skimming the cold hardwood, the muffled sound of Mr. Sheehan’s radio murmuring up from downstairs. The fear returned the summer Patrick was sixteen, when they moved to the big house in Hull. Nora would awaken, heart pounding, thinking of him, and of her sister, images past and present wound up in one another. She worried about the crowd he ran with, about his anger and his moods, about things he had done that could never be undone. She met her worries in the same old way. Whatever the hour, she would rise to her feet and climb the attic stairs to Patrick’s bedroom, so that she might lay eyes on him. This was a bargain she struck, a ritual to guarantee safety. Nothing truly bad could happen if she was expecting it. Over the years, there were times when one of her other three con- sumed her thoughts. As they got older, Nora knew them better. That was something no one ever told you. That you would have to get to know your own children. John wanted too much to please her. Bridget was a hopeless tomboy. They had carried these traits along with them into adulthood. When Brian, her baby, moved away, Nora worried. She worried ever more so when he moved back in.

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But it was Patrick who weighed most on her mind. He was fifty now. For the past several months, the old fear had returned. Ever since John kicked things up again. Things she had long considered safely in the past. Unable to check on Patrick on those nights when the feeling arose, Nora would switch on the lamp and shuffle through her prayer cards until she came to Saint Monica, patron saint of mothers with difficult children. She slept with the card faceup on Charlie’s empty pillow. Tonight, for once, she hadn’t been thinking of Patrick. Of all things, she was thinking about the boiler down cellar. It had been clanging since just after supper. Adjusting the temperature didn’t help. Nora thought she might have to bleed the pipes. As a last resort, she tried saying a rosary to make it stop. When this seemed to do the trick, she went to bed with a fat grin on her face, thus assured of her own powers. She was awakened not long after by the ringing telephone, a stranger’s voice saying there had been an accident, she should come right away. By the time she reached the emergency room, pink flannel pajamas under her winter coat, Patrick was already gone.

The ambulance had taken him to the Carney. It took Nora forty-five minutes to get from home to the old neighborhood. They were waiting for her by the door: a doctor and a nurse and a priest about her age. The presence of the priest made it clear. She thought of how they left Dorchester all those years ago for Patrick’s sake, but as soon as he was old enough he moved right back. This would be where his life had started, and where it came to an end. They took her to a windowless office. She wanted to tell them she wouldn’t go in. But she followed right along and sat down. The doctor looked terribly young for such a job, but then a lot of people were starting to look terribly young to her. He wanted Nora to know that they had tried to revive her son for close to an hour. They had done all they could. He explained in calm detail that Patrick had been drinking. That he lost control of the car and slammed into a concrete wall beneath an overpass on Morrissey Boulevard. His chest struck the steering column. His lungs bled out. “It could have been worse,” the doctor said. “If he wasn’t wearing a seat belt, he would have been ejected from the car.”

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How could it be any worse than death? she wondered, and yet she clung to this detail. Patrick had worn his seat belt. He wasn’t trying to die. Nora wanted to ask the priest if he thought all her fears had pointed to this moment. Or if they had been the thing to stave it off for so long. She felt that she should confess something. Her guilt. She knew they would think she was crazy if she said any of it out loud. She sat there with her lips pressed together, holding her pocketbook tight to her chest like it was a fidgety child. After the signing of papers, the nurse said, “We’ll give you a minute with him, if you like.” She led Nora to a room down the hall and closed the door. Patrick was lying on a gurney, a white blanket covering his body, a breathing tube protruding from his mouth. Someone had closed his eyes. From the hall and the rooms all around came the beeping of machines, the scurry of feet, and low voices. A burst of laughter from the nurses’ station. But in this room, everything was impossibly settled, final. Still. Nora tried to recall what the doctor had said. It seemed that if she could just piece it together, figure out what was to blame, she might still have him back. She felt overcome with anger toward John. She returned to that moment last May, when he first asked if she remembered the McClain family from Savin Hill. Their oldest son had approached John to run his campaign for state senate. “They weren’t very nice people,” she said. “I don’t think you should do it.” What she meant was Don’t do it. But John went right ahead. It had led to that terrible fight at Maeve’s confirmation. Patrick and John hadn’t spoken since. Patrick hadn’t been himself. Nora had seen another article in the paper just yesterday, a slight agita- tion taking root in her chest, as it did whenever she saw Rory McClain’s name in print. There was a photograph of Rory looking every bit the politician, that face so familiar to her, all black hair and toothy smile. His wife stood by his side, and three teenage boys, lined up according to height. Nora wondered if beneath the collared shirts and school picture day haircuts they were as wicked as their father and grandfather had once been. It seemed

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to her that a duplicitous nature must run in a family, like twins or weak knees. She hadn’t read the article. Though she knew John would call to make sure she had seen it, Nora turned the page. She took in a deep breath now and told herself to put these thoughts aside. There wasn’t much time left. Patrick had had a horrible mustache for the last two years, despite her begging him to shave it off. She let her hand hover in the air just above it, so as to hide the proof, and then she looked at him. She looked and looked. He had always been handsome. The most beautiful of all her children. After a while, the nurse knocked twice, then opened the door. “It’s time, I’m afraid,” she said. Nora pulled a small plastic hairbrush from her purse and smoothed his black curls. She checked his pulse, in case. She felt as if a swarm of bees were darting around inside her, but she managed to let Patrick go, as she had on other occasions when it felt impossible. When he was five and frightened about the first day of kindergarten, she slipped a seashell into his pocket as the yellow school bus came into view. To get you through, she said. In the fluorescent-lit hallway, the priest placed a hand on her shoulder. “You’re in better shape than most, Mrs. Rafferty,” he said. “You’re a tough cookie, I can tell. No tears.” Nora didn’t say anything. She had never been able to cry in front of other people. And anyway, tears never came right away at a moment like this. Not when her mother died when she was a child, and not when her husband died five years ago, and not when her sister went away. Which was not a death, but something close to it. “Where in Ireland are you from?” he asked, and when she stared back blankly, he said, “Your accent.” “County Clare,” she said. “Ahh. My mother came from County Mayo.” The priest paused. “He’s in a better place.” Why did they send the clergy at times like this? By design, they could never understand. Her sister had been just the same. Nora pictured her, in full black habit—did they even wear those anymore? She would wake up this morning at that tranquil country abbey, free from all attachment,

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free from heartache, even though she had been the one to set the thing in motion.

All the way home, unable to think of how she would tell the children, Nora thought of her sister. Her rage was like another person sitting beside her in the car. When the children were young, Charlie was always telling stories about home. The one they liked best was about the Bone Setter. “Did I ever tell you who came when you broke a bone in Miltown Malbay?” he would ask. They would shake their heads, even though they’d heard it before. “The Bone Setter!” he’d cry, clasping the closest child in his arms, the child squealing in delight. “You didn’t go to the doctor unless you were dying,” he said. “No, if you broke something, like I did—my ankle—this fine man would come to your bedroom and snap you right back into place with his hands, as good as new.” Charlie made a popping sound with his tongue. “No drugs. Didn’t need them.” The children went green when he told it. But then they begged him to tell it again. As usual when he spoke of home, Charlie left out the worst bits. The man had set his ankle slightly off. It led the rest of his body to be out of balance so that eventually, his knees bothered him, and later, his back. The lies they had told were like this. The original, her sister’s doing. All those that followed, an attempt on Nora’s part to try to preserve what the first lie had done, each one putting Patrick ever more out of joint. She had accepted it as the price of keeping him safe. John always complained that Nora favored Patrick. Bridget said that until she was five years old, she thought his name wasMy Patrick, since that’s all Nora ever called him. She had thought that someday they would understand, they would know the whole story, though she could not imagine telling it. Patrick had asked, but she could never bring herself to answer. She hadn’t even told them that she had a sister. Her mind wandered again to the abbey. Those women outside the world, capable of casting off everything, even their own names. Nora

Sull_9780307959577_4p_all_r1.r.indd 7 3/6/17 7:05 AM J. Courtney Sullivan is the New York Times best-selling author of the novels The Engagements, Maine, and Commencement.

Saints for All Occasions is available now, wherever books are sold.

Follow J. Courtney Sullivan

@jcourtsull

fb.com/jcourtneysullivan THINGS I'M SEEING WITHOUT YOU

Peter Bognanni Dedication TK

DIAL BOOKS An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC 375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014

Copyright © 2017 by Peter Bognanni. Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

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Printed in the United States of America ISBN 9780735228047 1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

Text set in Minion Pro

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

ThingsImSeeingWithoutYou_2P_ARC.indd 2 ARC 3/27/17 3:35 PM 1

The morning after I dropped out of high school, I woke up before dawn in my father’s empty house thinking about the slow death of the universe. It smelled like Old Spice and middle-aged sadness in the guest room, and I suspect this was at least part of the reason for my thoughts of total cosmic annihilation. The other part I blame on physics. The class I mean. Not the branch of science. It was one of the last subjects I tried to study before I made the decision to liber- ate myself from Quaker school, driving five hours through Iowa farm country to make my daring escape. I did the drive without stopping, listening to religious radio fade in and out of classic rock, which sounded something like this: “Our God is an awesome Godddddd and . . . Ooooh that smell. Can’t you smell that smell? The smell of death surrounds you!” All I could smell was fertilizer. And as the empty fields and pinwheeling wind turbines passed by my window, I tried not to think too hard about how I

ThingsImSeeingWithoutYou_2P_ARC.indd 1 ARC 3/27/17 3:35 PM had let things get to this point. And I tried even harder not to think of the improbable person I had come to love, who would no longer be in my life. But back to the universe for a moment. There seems to be no real consensus about how it’s all going to end, and that’s what had me worried in the predawn hours. If the worst is going to happen, as it always does, I’d at least like to know some details. But current theories are too varied to be of any real help. Some people think the Big Bang is just going to happen in reverse. Like: BANG! Everything to nothing! Deal with it fools! Other people think that outer space is just going to go dark and cold, stars blinking out like candles on an interstellar birthday cake. And still others think that time itself will come to an end like an old man’s watch that someone forgot to wind. If forced to choose, I’d probably go with the last option. Not because it sounds like a barrel of laughs. But if it’s all going to freeze like the last frame of an eighties movie, I think I could deal with it as long as I get to pick the right moment. For example, I could be jumping off a cliff, locked in flight like a majestic Pegasus. Or I could be mid-hiccup, frozen in a deranged bodily spasm for all of time. Or maybe

ThingsImSeeingWithoutYou_2P_ARC.indd 2 ARC 3/27/17 3:35 PM I could just round up all the people I’ve disappointed in the last few months and issue one giant apology before it all goes still. I could shout it through a megaphone. I AM TESS FOWLER AND I HAVE MADE TERRIBLE MISTAKES! MY BAD! PLEASE ENJOY THE VOID! And I guess if someone twisted my arm I might also opt for an eternal orgasm. The Long Bang, if you will. But the key here is that I want the power. I want to know when it’s going to happen, and I want the ability to choose my last act when the time comes. Because, lately, I’ve been feeling like I don’t have much control at all. Dropping out of high school, as it turns out, is only mildly empowering. It is remarkably easy, though. All you have to do is wake up one morning and realize that you are failing the shit out of all of your classes, you have alienated most of the people who were once your friends, and you haven’t really felt like a functioning human being for well over a month. At which point, I recommend stealing the last emergency joint from your roommate’s Mickey Mouse Band-Aid tin, walking to the two-lane highway that frames the entrance to Forever Friends Quaker Academy, and puffing away while saying good-bye to a place that almost felt like home

ThingsImSeeingWithoutYou_2P_ARC.indd 3 ARC 3/27/17 3:35 PM for a while. Then I suggest you get in your Ford Festiva and blow town like a fugitive. I neglected to wake my roommate, Emma, before I took off. She had snuck her boyfriend in again, and they were locked in a pornographic pretzel hold that defied the imagination. Seriously, they were like conjoined staircases in an Escher drawing, only naked and with more body hair. So, instead of saying good-bye, I left her the twenty-five bucks I owed her, along with the rest of my orange ginger body mist, which she was always stealing anyway. Then I walked out and closed that door forever. It sounds harsh but we never really had an honest conversation in our seven months together. Or even a fight. True, I was with her that time she didn’t get her period and we watched clips of Teen Mom on YouTube and cried. But we weren’t best friends. I’ll never be her maid of honor, giving a tearful speech at her destination wedding. And I probably won’t be giving her a kidney. At least not my favorite one. But, for the last few months we slept two feet apart in a room the size of a prison cell. We shared a shower caddy. We held each other’s hair when we got too drunk on Malibu and our barf smelled like suntan lotion. There’s an intimacy in that.

ThingsImSeeingWithoutYou_2P_ARC.indd 4 ARC 3/27/17 3:35 PM I also declined to notify Elaine at Health Services, which I imagine will come to bite me squarely on the ass sooner or later. Elaine is the woman who has been talking to me about my “grieving process” for the last month or so. She is nice enough, I suppose, and she gives warm hugs. But when I see the pictures of her dog dressed in Halloween costumes, I am sad for her. It’s like all the problems of girls like me have zapped her ability to have a real life. Now all she can do is worry and walk her spaniel. Ultimately, though, I just couldn’t deal with another one of her phone calls, where she asks such painfully earnest questions while not-so-secretly trying to ascertain whether or not I am going to off myself at her school. Well, I’m gone now, Elaine, so you don’t need to worry about that anymore. I give you permission to be relieved. Have an extra drink at the staff happy hour this week. You deserve it.

I suppose it’s worth mentioning here that I am squatting in my father’s home at present, with no immediate plans to leave it. The house is a sagging two-bedroom in Min- neapolis where he’s lived since his marriage to my mother unraveled like a bad sweater. And I am back living in it for two reasons that I can discern. The first is that it is only a morning’s drive away from

ThingsImSeeingWithoutYou_2P_ARC.indd 5 ARC 3/27/17 3:35 PM my hippie school in Iowa, and that seemed like a good amount of time to be in a car with myself. The second is that my mother is currently on an extended retreat in India with her new boyfriend, Lars, practicing something called Ashtanga Yoga, which I take great delight in not picturing. So, I journeyed to Dad’s bachelor rental, where he runs a funeral-planning business out of my former bedroom. Yes, you read that correctly. For the last few years, my father has been trying to find exciting new angles in the Death business. He has been doing this despite any real training and a steady lack of encouragement from nearly everyone he knows. There are still piles of unfinished coffins in the garage from his first attempt at “artisanal caskets.” And now that he’s trying to work as a funeral planner, there are pamphlets all over my old bedroom that say “Plan for the Party of Your Life!” (Which really means your DEATH. Surprise!) This is not new behavior from him, unfortunately, and it’s very much part of the reason we don’t talk too often anymore. If I had to be more specific, I would say that most of the reason we don’t talk is the fact that he drained a college fund in my name to cover costs for another of his “ventures.” That one was a mobile spa unit he could drive to the homes of the elderly to perform hot stone massages

ThingsImSeeingWithoutYou_2P_ARC.indd 6 ARC 3/27/17 3:35 PM on their seminude bodies in their driveways. Sweet idea, Dad. How did that fail to take off? He was, of course, going to pay the money “right back!” But somehow he just ended up borrowing more from my mom . . . without asking her. Yet, despite all this, I called him last night in a moment of weakness. Or desperation. Or maybe just to give him fair warning about my ruined life. Anyway, when I got through, I caught him on a beach in Nantucket, where I immediately heard what sounded like fireworks launching into the night sky. “Duncan Fowler!” he shouted over a prolonged screech. “Dad?” “Hello? This is DUNCAN!” “DAD. THIS IS TESS!” The screech came to an end. “Tess,” he said. “What’s wrong?” I couldn’t blame him for asking. The only time he ever got a call from me was when something was going horribly. “Nothing,” I lied. “Nothing is going horribly.” A deafening explosion stepped on my line. “What?” he said. “NOTHING IS WRONG!” I said. “EVERYTHING IS PERFECT!”

ThingsImSeeingWithoutYou_2P_ARC.indd 7 ARC 3/27/17 3:35 PM Silence. “Dad,” I said. “What the hell is going on? It sounds like an air raid over there.” “I’ll be honest.” He sighed. “You haven’t caught me at the best time, kid.” I couldn’t remember a time when I had. “I just have to tell you one thing,” I said. “I’ll be quick.” I took a breath and made sure another boom wasn’t coming. “I’m quitting,” I said. I didn’t wait for him to respond. “I gave up. On school. I’m quitting and coming home, probably forever. I hope that’s cool with you.” I expected a gasp. Or at very least a sigh. All I got was another crackle in the air. “Dad?” “I’m sorry,” he said. “I lost you for a minute. Did you say something?” I closed my eyes and mouthed a few f-bombs. “Forgive me, Tess,” he said. “The ceremony isn’t going so great here. The rockets just went off ahead of schedule and people are kind of freaking.” “Wait a minute. Rockets? What are you talking about?” “They were supposed to go off at twelve, but it’s only

ThingsImSeeingWithoutYou_2P_ARC.indd 8 ARC 3/27/17 3:35 PM eleven thirty. I’m not sure why that’s such a big deal, but apparently Zebulon was born just after midnight. . . .” “Who is Zebulon?” I asked. I both did and did not want to know. “A Borzoi!” he said. “Beautiful dog. At least, he was. He’s been through a cremulator now, poor guy. He belonged to a famous science fiction writer. Thus, the rockets. And the name Zebulon, I guess. He’s being launched as we speak. It’s really quite—” Another staccato of bursts. “Hold on. You’re doing dog funerals now?” “Well,” he said, “this is technically a life celebration, but yeah. It’s sort of an untapped market. Anyway, I’m kind of busy. And it’s almost exam time for you, right? What do they have you doing at that school, birthing a calf?” For a moment, I considered telling him the truth. I considered telling him that I was no longer learning things at the expensive private high school where my mom had sent me to “self-actualize,” and “build community.” I considered telling him I was, instead, at his house in Minneapolis, eating out of his sad bachelor fridge and getting ready to sleep in my old room—which now looked like a cross between a home accountant’s office and a prostitute’s garret—but then I heard some shouts from a faraway crowd.

ThingsImSeeingWithoutYou_2P_ARC.indd 9 ARC 3/27/17 3:35 PM “Oh crap,” he said. “Not good. The smoke is blowing back toward the beach. I need to move the old people. We’ll talk about this later, okay, Tessie?” And then, just like that, he was gone. So, I closed my eyes and lay back on the bed. It was and still is a single mattress bought for a smaller me. A smaller me who peed the bed well into her sixth year and was afraid of the dark until fifteen when she discovered Xanax and droning guitars. I hadn’t slept on it in almost a year until last night. Now the springs are shot and the mattress dips in the middle like a hammock. But, still, I tried to find sleep in the office of death. It was too quiet, though. I had been conditioned by Quaker school, and now I needed the sound of shouts echoing down the residence hall, and the rustles and shuf- fles of Emma and her boyfriend trying to have considerate sex across the room when they thought I was sleeping. I needed the sounds of other people, whatever those might be. Reminders that I wasn’t completely alone. So my attempt at shut-eye didn’t last too long. And instead of making some tea, or meditating, I got up and I sent a long message to the Facebook account of a person who no longer exists.

ThingsImSeeingWithoutYou_2P_ARC.indd 10 ARC 3/27/17 3:35 PM The vacant person’s name is Jonah. His account is vacant because he’s not alive anymore. Still, despite his un-aliveness, I sent my message to him. I told him about trying to go to bed in a room full of eerily upbeat death brochures. I told him about a new iPhone app that identified constellations when you point it at the night sky. I told him I missed his late night texts, his rambling e- mails, and the sound of his laughter on my voice mail. And I told him that I was home, but it didn’t feel like home anymore. I also told him that everything happening to me was entirely his fault. That if I hadn’t known him, hadn’t fallen for him against my better judgment, none of this would be occurring. I wouldn’t be wearing the same clothes I wore yesterday. I wouldn’t be lying on my sagging mattress from sixth grade, unable to move. I wouldn’t be a high school dropout. And I wouldn’t be barely holding in the full-body heartache that threatened to swallow me whole whenever I looked at his profile picture. Then I waited two hours for a response that I knew would never come. Which finally leads me to everything that happened this

ThingsImSeeingWithoutYou_2P_ARC.indd 11 ARC 3/27/17 3:35 PM morning, and the story I intended to tell in the first place before I began talking about other doomed things like the universe and Zebulon the rocket dog. So, I’d like to give this another try, if you don’t mind. My 2 English teacher, Mr. Barthold, once told me that I need to “trust the process,” when crafting a piece of writing, and that “the essential truth is a slippery thing.” Duly noted, Mr. B. Even though you are an embittered man clinging to a single published novel like a participa- tion trophy, you sounded genuine when you said this. So I shall heed your advice and trust the process. Okay? Fantastic. Here goes.

ThingsImSeeingWithoutYou_2P_ARC.indd 12 ARC 3/27/17 3:35 PM 2

I was sitting on the hardwood floor of the guest room in my underwear when I knew suddenly that I needed to go down to the lake. Well, first I needed to get dressed. Then I needed to go outside and walk to the lake. I had been up for about an hour hitting Reload on my browser, waiting, as usual, for a message from the void, when I finally just got up and got dressed. Then I slipped into the streets of Minneapolis with my computer under my arm. Nobody was out. It was too early, even for Midwest- erners. So, I wandered down the middle of the road toward the small lake at the bottom of the hill, where rich people pay a million dollars to stare at water. And while I walked, I tried to be honest with myself about the recent trajectory of my grief. The truth is I had never lost anyone before. At least nobody my own age. I wasn’t sure what it was supposed to feel like in normal circumstances, let alone my “not normal at

ThingsImSeeingWithoutYou_2P_ARC.indd 13 ARC 3/27/17 3:35 PM all” circumstances. Let’s just say there were complicating factors. Namely: Jonah and I had only met in person one time. For about five hours. Did I forget to mention that? “Boyfriend of the Internet!” Emma had called him once, “BF 2.0.” And she wasn’t wrong. We had mostly engaged via the device currently under my armpit. E-mail. Facebook. Text- ing. Etc. And now that he was gone, his death felt both like an absence and not. It was true he had never really been here to begin with. Only once did I see him looking at me from across the room with his beguiling gray-blue eyes, or smiling at me with that one crooked incisor that made him look a little devious when he was just trying to be charm- ing. But something had been here. Something I couldn’t bring back. And in the last two weeks, I had actually been sending him more messages than ever before. Even though I knew he couldn’t respond, I checked my in-box fifty times a day. Click. Reload. Click. Reload. I was sure he would write eventually and tell me it was all a hoax. I’m not dead. I’m alive! It was all a very funny joke on you by me! Ha-ha! But that never happened, and I was starting to scare myself

ThingsImSeeingWithoutYou_2P_ARC.indd 14 ARC 3/27/17 3:35 PM a little. So in these last few moments before first light, it finally became clear to me what I must do. I must commit my two-thousand-dollar personal computer to the depths of the lake at the bottom of the hill. Once upon a time, before I knew what clinical depres- sion was, I had cross-country skied over this lake. It was a hazy memory, but a nice one. I shuffled over the snow- covered surface at night by the light of candles gleaming in hollowed out ice blocks. My parents were still together back then and they stood by my side, helping me along. At the finish line there were ice pyramids stacked on the lake like tombs for frozen pharaohs. Now, of course, the lake was wholly thawed, but it was the idea of the frozen surface that pulled at me. Come winter, my computer would have an icy burial mound, all my communications with Jonah encased inside. As I walked toward the lake, though, I couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that if things had been different, I might be with him right now instead of doing this. All spring, we had been building toward a second meeting. We texted about it every day, trading job listings at all hours, convinced we could work at the same place after school was through. Anywhere would do. The more ridiculous the better.

ThingsImSeeingWithoutYou_2P_ARC.indd 15 ARC 3/27/17 3:35 PM It would make a good story for our grandchildren, Jonah said. And a bizarre new beginning to our relationship. So we started a list and said yes to everything. A clowning camp in Alaska? Sure. An arts initiative at a women’s prison in Oklahoma? Why not? A summer at sea on the Bosporus Strait? Sign me up! Anytime we saw summer work for teenagers, no matter how strange, we sent it to the other. It became a code between us. A declaration of our desire to unite as walking, talking actual people. To be together the way everyone else was. I’d write:

On a scale of 1 to 10, how do you feel about inseminating salmon eggs?

And he’d write back:

Nine! Who’s going to inseminate them if not us?

Then, an hour later he’d write:

Cooks needed at nudist colony in Spokane. Nightly wiener roast?

After a while, however, I noticed that I was the only one sending jobs.

ThingsImSeeingWithoutYou_2P_ARC.indd 16 ARC 3/27/17 3:35 PM You down for organic beet farming? We could be the Beet Generation! Hahahahahahahaha (punches self in face).

Or simply:

Rodeo Clowns?

And nothing would come back. Not even that emoji he was so fond of, the one with the smiley face sticking its tongue out. The one I’d always assumed meant “You are cute and funny and clever and did I mention cute?” but now I think probably meant “I am not actually engaging with you, Tess Fowler. This stupid grinning face is a BS substitute for real communication.” I passed the top of the hill and felt the ground beneath me begin to slant. The far bank of the lake came into view. It wasn’t quite dawn yet, but the clouds were just beginning to glow a buttery yellow. And, seemingly against my will, I began to narrate to Jonah about what was happening. In my head, I saw the little blinking cursor on my e-mail’s chat function. Then I saw my usual string of text starting to fill it in one word at a time, like it had so often. Me: Things I’m seeing without you: This was a game we played on occasion, looking out the

ThingsImSeeingWithoutYou_2P_ARC.indd 17 ARC 3/27/17 3:35 PM windows of our respective rooms, half a country away, and just describing what we saw. If we were doing it simultane- ously, it was possible, Jonah said, to be in two worlds at once. He was cheesy like that. Me: Steam coming off the pavement. Motion detector lights popping on and off like little lightning flashes. Me: Rabbits. Baby Rabbits? How can you tell a baby rabbit from a small adult rabbit? Are small rabbits confused for

babies in the rabbit world? Is it humiliating? A couple of times we tried the game with video chat, pointing our laptop cameras out the window, actually seeing what the other saw, but it wasn’t the same. It was always better with words. Translating the world for each other. Me: Automatic sprinkler systems. Fountains. A few covered pools in backyards. At the bottom of the hill, I crossed the road to the lip of the path around the shore. Me: The lake. Looked so big to me when I was a kid. Now it’s just a little guy. An oversize swimming pool with fish. So

clear today. A lone rower is out. Is she trying for a moment’s

peace before her crappy day begins? Is she training for some-

thing? Who are you, lady rower? Why are you working so

hard? You have badass arms.

ThingsImSeeingWithoutYou_2P_ARC.indd 18 ARC 3/27/17 3:35 PM In the days after he was gone, I could tell immediately that something had shifted. At some point, I didn’t know when, life had only started to feel real when I wrote to him about it. I was a better, funnier version of myself when I told him things. Life was manageable that way. My brain was manageable. Now, the days I was living felt robbed of something, and I needed to find a way to get it back or things were going to get really, really bad. Me: The steps of the wooden dock. The green algae on the water. The rower looking at me through reflective sunglasses.

The cool morning breeze that kicks up. And then the full light

of the sun finding its way over the horizon. Now the sky is blue-ing and the water is blue-ing. The computer in my hands. So smooth and metallic. Me cock- ing back my arms. The rower looking confused, a hand to her head like a scout’s as she battles the sunlight. A ripple moves over the surface of the lake. My computer whipping through the air like a square Frisbee, and landing, where it splashes, dies, and sinks into the murky depths with only the smallest of air bubbles. The way my shoes look running down the dock toward the water. The moment where I leap above the water and see it underneath me like a shiny marble floor. A shout from the rower. The cold water, cloudy with

ThingsImSeeingWithoutYou_2P_ARC.indd 19 ARC 3/27/17 3:35 PM eyes open. Total dark with eyes closed. My arms pushing through the lake water in slow motion. The weeds against my shins. Then the blinding white sun when I kick my legs and break to the surface, screaming so loud that my lungs feel like they might combust. This is it. What I’m seeing without you.

ThingsImSeeingWithoutYou_2P_ARC.indd 20 ARC 3/27/17 3:35 PM WARCROSS

Marie Lu There’s not a person in the world who hasn’t heard of Hideo Tanaka, the young mastermind who invented Warcross when he was only thirteen. A global survey released today shows that a staggering 90 percent of people ages 12–30 now play on a regular basis, or at least once a week. This year’s official Warcross Championships are expected to draw more than 200 million viewers. [ . . . ]

Correction: An earlier version of this story mistakenly described Hideo Tanaka as a millionaire. He is a billionaire.

—THE NEW YORK TIMES

Warcross_BOM_FM_2P.indd 9 3/29/17 2:37 PM MANHATTAN

New York, New York

Warcross_BOM_FM_2P.indd 11 3/29/17 2:37 PM 1

It’s too damn cold of a day to be out on a hunt. I shiver, tug my scarf up higher over my mouth, and wipe a few snowflakes from my lashes. Then I slam my boot down on my electric skateboard. The board is old and used, like everything else I own, its blue paint almost entirely scraped off to reveal cheap silver plastic underneath—but it’s not dead yet, and when I push my heel down harder, it finally responds, jerking me forward as I squeeze between two rows of cars. My bright, rainbow-dyed hair whips across my face. “Hey!” a driver yells as I maneuver past his car. I glance over my shoulder to see him waving a fist at me through his open window. “You almost clipped me!” I just turn back around and ignore him. Usually, I’m a nicer person than this—or, at least, I would have shouted an apology back. But this morning, I’d woken up to a yellow paper taped to

Warcross_INT_1P_rev.indd 1 3/29/17 2:35 PM the door of my apartment, its words printed in the largest font you can imagine.

72 HOURS TO PAY OR VACATE

Translation: I’m almost three months behind on my rent. So, unless I can get my hands on $3,450, I’ll be homeless and in the streets by the end of the week. That’d put a damper on anyone’s day. My cheeks sting from the wind. The sky beyond the cut of skyscrapers is gray, turning grayer, and in a few hours this flurry of snow will become a steady fall. Cars jam the streets, a nonstop trail of break lights and honking from here all the way to Times Square. The occasional scream of a traffic con- troller’s whistle cuts above the chaos. The air is thick with the smell of exhaust, and steam billows from an open vent nearby. People swarm up and down the sidewalks. Students coming home from school are easy to spot, their backpacks and fat headphones dotting the crowds. Technically, I should be one of them. This should have been my first year of college. But I started skipping classes after Dad died and dropped out entirely several years ago. (Okay, fine— technically, I was expelled. But I swear I would’ve quit anyway. More on that later.) I look down at my phone again, my mind returning to the hunt. Two days ago, I had gotten the following text message:

New York Police Department ALERT! Arrest warrant out for Martin Hamer. Payment $5,000.

Warcross_INT_1P_rev.indd 2 3/29/17 2:35 PM The police are so busy these days with the increasing crime in the streets that they don’t have time to hunt for petty criminals on their own—petty criminals like Martin Hamer, who’s wanted for gambling on Warcross, stealing money, and allegedly selling drugs to fund his bets. So, about once a week, the cops send out a message like this, a promise to pay anyone who can catch the criminal in question. That’s where I come in. I’m a bounty hunter, one of many in Manhattan, and I’m fighting to capture Martin Hamer before another hunter can. Anyone who’s ever fallen on hard times will understand the nearly constant stream of numbers that run through my mind. A month’s rent in the worst apartment in New York: $1,150. A month’s food: $180. Electricity and internet: $150. Boxes of macaroni, ramen, and Spam left in my pantry: 4. And so on. On top of that, I owe $3,450 in unpaid rent, and $6,000 in credit card debt. The number of dollars left in my bank account: $13. Not the normal things a girl my age worries about. I should be freaking out over exams. Turning in papers. Waking up on time. But I haven’t exactly had a normal adolescence. Five thousand dollars is easily the largest bounty in months. For me, it might as well be all the money in the world. So, for the last two days, I’ve done nothing but track this guy. I’ve lost four bounties in a row this month. If I lose this one, too, I’m going to be in real trouble. Tourists always clogging up the streets, I think as a detour forces me down a path right into Times Square, where I get stuck behind a cluster of auto-taxis jammed at a pedestrian walkway. I lean back on my board, pull myself to a halt, and start inching back- ward. As I go, I glance down at my phone again.

Warcross_INT_1P_rev.indd 3 3/29/17 2:35 PM A couple of months ago, I’d succeeded in hacking into the main directory of Warcross players in New York and synced it all up to my phone’s maps. It’s not hard, not if you remember that everyone in the world is connected in some way to everyone else. It’s just time-consuming. You worm your way into one account, then branch out to their friends, then their friends, and eventually, you’re able to track the location of any player in New York City. Now I’ve finally managed to place my target’s physical location, but my phone’s a cracked, beat-up old thing, with an antique battery that’s on its last legs. It keeps trying to sleep in order to save energy, and the screen is so dark I can barely see anything. “Wake up,” I mutter, squinting at the pixels. Finally, the poor phone lets out a pitiful buzz, and the red location marker updates on my map. I make my way out of the taxi jam and push my heel down on my board. It protests for a moment, but then it speeds me forward, a dot in a sea of moving humanity. Once I reach Times Square, screens tower above me, sur- rounding me in a world of neon and sound. Every spring, the official Warcross Championships kick off with a huge ceremony, and two teams of top-ranking players compete in an all-stars opening round of Warcross. This year’s opening ceremony happens tonight in Tokyo—so all the screens are Warcross-related today, showing a frenzied rotation of famous players, commercials, and footage of highlights from last year. Frankie Dena’s latest, craziest music video plays on the side of one building. She’s dressed like her Warcross avatar—in a limited edition suit and webbed glitter cape—and dancing with a bunch of businessmen in bright pink suits. Underneath the screen, a group of excited tourists stop to pose for photos with some guy dressed in fake Warcross gear.

Warcross_INT_1P_rev.indd 4 3/29/17 2:35 PM Another screen features five of the superstar players competing in tonight’s opening ceremony. Asher Wing. Kento Park. Jena MacNeil. Max Martin. Penn Wachowski. I crane my neck to admire them. Each one is dressed from head to toe in the hottest fashion of the season. They smile down at me, their mouths big enough to swallow the city, and as I look on, they all hold up cans of soda, declaring Coca-Cola their drink of choice during game season. A marquee of text scrolls below them:

TOP WARCROSS PLAYERS ARRIVE IN TOKYO, POISED FOR WORLD DOMINATION

Then I’m through the intersection and cut onto a smaller road. My target’s little red dot on my phone shifts again. It looks like he’s turned onto Thirty-Eighth Street. I squeeze my way through another few blocks of traffic before I finally arrive, pulling over along the curb beside a newsstand. The red location dot now hovers over the building in front of me, right above a café’s door. I tug my scarf down and let out a sigh of relief. My breath fogs in the icy air. “Caught you,” I whisper, allowing myself a smile as I think of the five-thousand-dollar bounty. I hop off my electric skateboard, pull out its straps, and swing it over my shoulder so that it bumps against my backpack. It’s still warm from use, the heat of it seeping through my hoodie, and I arch my back to savor it. As I pass the newsstand, I glimpse the magazine covers. I have a habit of checking them out, searching for coverage of my favorite person. There’s always something. Sure enough, one of the mag- azines features him prominently: a tall young man lounging in an office, dressed in dark trousers and a crisp collar shirt, sleeves casually rolled up to his elbows, his face obscured by shadows.

Warcross_INT_1P_rev.indd 5 3/29/17 2:35 PM Below him is the logo for Henka Games, Warcross’s parent studio. I stop to read the headline.

HIDEO TANAKA TURNS 21 INSIDE THE PRIVATE LIFE OF THE WARCROSS CREATOR

My heart skips a familiar beat at my idol’s name. Too bad there’s no time to stop and flip through the magazine. Maybe later. I reluctantly turn away, adjust my backpack and board higher on my shoulders, and pull my hood up to cover my head. The glass windows I pass reflect a distorted vision of myself— face elongated, dark jeans stretched too long, black gloves, beat-up boots, faded red scarf wrapped around my black hoodie. My rainbow-colored hair spills out from underneath my hood. I try to imagine this reflected girl printed on the cover of a magazine. Don’t be stupid. I push the ridiculous thought away as I head toward the café’s entrance, shifting my thoughts instead to the running checklist of tools in my backpack.

1. Handcuffs 2. Cable launcher 3. Steel-tipped gloves 4. Phone 5. Change of clothes 6. Stun gun 7. Book

On one of my first hunts, my target threw up all over me after I used my stun gun (#6) on him. I started bringing a change of clothes (#5) after that. Two targets have managed to bite me, so after a few tetanus shots, I added the gloves (#3). The cable

Warcross_INT_1P_rev.indd 6 3/29/17 2:35 PM launcher (#2) is for getting to hard-to-reach places and catching hard-to-reach people. My phone (#4) is my portable hacking assistant. Handcuffs (#1) are because, well, obviously. And the book (#7) is for whenever the hunt involves a lot of waiting around. Entertainment that won’t eat up my batteries is always worth bringing. Now I step into the café, soak in the warmth, and check my phone again. Customers are lined up along a counter displaying pastries, waiting for one of the four auto-cashiers to open. Decorative bookshelves line the walls. A smattering of students and tourists sit at the tables. When I point my phone’s camera at them, I can see their names hovering over their heads, meaning none of them have set themselves on Private. Maybe my target isn’t on this floor. I wander past the shelves, my attention shifting from table to table. Most people never really observe their surroundings; ask anyone what the person sitting at a nearby table was wearing, and chances are good that they can’t tell you. But I can. I can recite to you the outfits and demeanor of every person in that coffee line, can tell you exactly how many people are sitting at each table, the precise way someone’s shoulders hunch just a little too much, the two people sitting side by side who never say a word, the guy who is careful not to make eye contact with anyone else. I can take in a scene like a photographer might take in a landscape—relax my eyes, analyze the full view all at once, search for the point of interest, and take a mental snapshot to remember the whole thing. I look for the break in the pattern, the nail that protrudes. My gaze pauses on a cluster of four boys reading on the couches. I watch them for a while, waiting for signs of conversation or the hint of notes being passed by hand or phone. Nothing.

Warcross_INT_1P_rev.indd 7 3/29/17 2:35 PM My attention goes to the stairs leading up to the second floor. No doubt other hunters are closing in on this target, too—I have to get to him before anyone else does. My steps quicken as I climb the stairs. No one is up here, or so it seems. But then I notice the faint sound of two voices at a table in a far corner, tucked behind a pair of bookshelves that make them almost impossible to see from the stairs. I move in closer on silent feet, then peek through the shelves. A woman is seated at the table, her nose buried in a book. A man stands over her, nervously shuffling his feet. I hold up my phone. Sure enough, both of them are set to Private. I slip to the side of the wall so that they can’t see me, and listen closely. “I don’t have until tomorrow night,” the man is saying. “Sorry,” the woman replies. “But there’s not much I can do. My boss won’t release that kind of money to you without taking extra security measures, not when the police have an arrest warrant for you.” “You promised me.” “And I’m sorry, sir.” The woman’s voice is calm and cynical, like she’s had to say this countless times before. “It’s game season. The authorities are on high alert.” “I have three hundred thousand notes with you. Do you have any idea what that’s exchanging for?” “Yes. It’s my job to know,” the woman answers in the driest voice I’ve ever heard. Three hundred thousand notes. That’s about two hundred thousand dollars, at the current exchange rate. High roller, this one. Gambling on Warcross is illegal in the United States; it’s one of the many laws the government has recently passed in a desperate

Warcross_INT_1P_rev.indd 8 3/29/17 2:35 PM attempt to keep up with technology and cybercrime. If you win a bet on a Warcross match, you win game credits called notes. But here’s the thing—you can either take those notes online or to a physical place, where you meet a teller like this lady. You trade your notes to her. She gives you real cash in return, while taking a cut for her boss. “It’s my money,” the guy is insisting now. “We have to protect ourselves. Extra security measures take time. You can come back tomorrow night, and we can exchange half of your notes.” “I told you, I don’t have until tomorrow night. I need to leave the city.” The conversation repeats itself all over again. I hold my breath as I listen. The woman has all but confirmed his identity. My eyes narrow, and my lips turn up into a hungry little smirk. This, right here, is the moment I live for during a hunt—when the bits and pieces I’ve exposed of a trail all converge into a fine point, when I see my target standing physically before me, ripe for the picking. When I’ve solved the puzzle. Got you. As their conversation turns more urgent, I tap my phone twice and send out a text message to the police.

Suspect in physical custody.

I get a reply almost immediately.

NYPD ALERTED.

I pull the stun gun out of my backpack. It catches for an instant against the edge of the zipper, making the faintest scraping sound.

Warcross_INT_1P_rev.indd 9 3/29/17 2:35 PM The conversation halts. Through the bookshelves, both the man and woman jerk their heads toward me like deer in head- lights. The man sees my expression. His face is covered in a sheen of sweat, and his hair is plastered against his forehead. A fraction of a second passes. I shoot. He bolts—I miss him by a hair. Good reflexes. The woman darts up from her table, too, but I could care less about her. I rush after him. He hops down the stairs three at a time, nearly falling in his rush, scattering his phone and a bunch of pens behind him. He sprints for the entrance as I reach the first floor. I burst through the revolving glass door right behind him. We emerge onto the street. People let out startled shouts as the man shoves them aside—he knocks a camera-clicking tourist flat on her back. In one movement, I swing my electric board off my shoulder, drop it, jump on, and slam my heel down as hard as I can. It makes a high-pitched whoosh—I lunge forward, speeding down the sidewalk. The man glances back to see me gaining fast on him. He darts left down the street at a full, panicked run. I veer in his direction at such a sharp angle that the edge of my board protests against the pavement, leaving a long, black line. I aim my stun gun at the man’s back and shoot. He shrieks and stumbles. Instantly, he starts struggling up again, but I catch up to him. He grabs my ankle. I stumble, kicking at him. His eyes are wild, his teeth clenched and jaw tight. Out flashes a blade. I see its glint in the light just in time. I kick him off me and roll away right before he can stab at my leg. My hands get a grip on his jacket. I fire the stun gun again, this time at close range. It hits true. His body goes rigid, and he collapses on the pavement, trembling.

Warcross_INT_1P_rev.indd 10 3/29/17 2:35 PM I jump on him. My knee presses hard into his back as the man sobs on the ground. The sound of police sirens rounds the bend. A circle of people have gathered around us now, their phones and glasses all out and recording away. “I didn’t do anything,” the man whimpers over and over through a clenched jaw. His voice comes out garbled by how hard I’m pushing him into the ground. “The lady inside—I can give you her name—” “Shut it,” I cut him off as I slide handcuffs onto his wrist. To my surprise, he does. They don’t always listen like that. I don’t relent until a police car pulls up, until I see red and blue lights flashing against the wall. Only then do I get up and back away from him, making sure to hold out my hands so that the cops can see them clearly. My skin tingles from the rush of a successful hunt as I watch the two policemen yank the man onto his feet. Five thousand dollars! When was the last time I had even half that much money at once? Never. I’ll get to be less desperate for a while—I’ll pay off the rent that I owe, which should calm my landlord down for now. Then I’ll have $1,550 left. It’s a fortune. My mind flips through my other bills. Maybe I can eat something other than instant noodles tonight. I want to do a victory jump in the air. I’ll be okay. Until the next hunt. It takes me a moment to realize that the police are walking away with their new captive without even looking in my direction. My smile falters. “Hey, Officer!” I shout, hurrying after the closer one. “Are you giving me a ride to the station for my payment, or what? Should I just meet you there?” The officer gives me a look that doesn’t seem to jive with the

Warcross_INT_1P_rev.indd 11 3/29/17 2:35 PM fact that I just caught them a criminal. She looks exasperated, and dark circles under her eyes tell me she hasn’t gotten much rest. “You weren’t first,” she says. I startle, blinking. “What?” I say. “Another hunter phoned in the alert before you.” For an instant, all I can do is stare at her. Then I spit out a swear. “What a load of bull. You saw the whole thing go down. You all confirmed my alert!” I hold up my phone so the officer can see the text message I received. Sure enough, that’s when my phone’s battery finally dies. Not that the proof would’ve made a difference. The officer doesn’t even glance at the phone. “It was just an auto-reply. According to my messages, I received the first call-in from another hunter on location. Bounty goes to the first, no exceptions.” She offers me a sympathetic shrug. This is the dumbest technicality I’ve ever heard. “The hell it does!” I argue. “Who’s the other hunter? Sam? Jamie? They’re the only other ones canvassing this turf.” I throw my hands up. “You know what—you’re lying, there is no other hunter. You just don’t want to pay out.” I follow her as she turns away. “I saved you from a dirty job—that’s the deal, that’s why any bounty hunter goes after the people you’re too lazy to catch. You owe me this one and you—” The cop’s partner grabs my arm and shoves me so hard that I nearly fall. “Get back,” he says with a snarl. “Emika Chen, isn’t it?” His other hand is wrapped tightly around the handle of his sheathed gun. “Yeah, I remember you.” I’m not about to argue with a loaded weapon. “Fine, fine.” I force myself to take a step back and raise my hands in the air. “I’m going, okay? Leaving now.” “I know you already got some jail time, kid.” He glares at me,

Warcross_INT_1P_rev.indd 12 3/29/17 2:35 PM his eyes hard and glittering, before joining his partner. “Don’t make me give you another strike.” I hear the police radio calling them away to another crime scene. The noise around me muffles, and the image in my mind of the five thousand dollars starts to waver until it finally blurs into something I no longer recognize. In the span of thirty seconds, my victory has been tossed into someone else’s hands.

Warcross_INT_1P_rev.indd 13 3/29/17 2:35 PM 2

I ride out of Manhattan in silence. It’s getting colder, and the flurries have turned into steady snow, but the sting of the wind against my face suits my mood just fine. Here and there, parties have started to break out in the streets, and people decked out in red-and-blue jerseys count down the time at the top of their lungs. I watch as their celebrations blur by. In the distance, every side of the Empire State Building is lit up and displaying rotations of enormous Warcross images. Back when I was still living at the foster group home, I could see the Empire State Building if I climbed up onto the roof. I’d sit there and stare for hours as Warcross images rotated on its side, my skinny legs swinging, until dawn came and the sunlight would outline me in gold. If I stared long enough, I could picture myself displayed up there. Even now, I feel that old twinge of excitement at the sight of the building. My electric skateboard beeps once, snapping me out of my

Warcross_INT_1P_rev.indd 14 3/29/17 2:35 PM reverie. I look down. The battery is down to its final bar. I sigh, slow to a stop, and swing my board over my shoulder. Then I dig for some change in my pocket and head down into the first subway stop I can find. Twilight has faded to a blue-gray evening by the time I arrive in front of the crumbling Hunts Point, Bronx apartment complex I call home. This is the other side of the glittering city. Graffiti covers one side of the building. Rusted iron bars cage the first floor windows. Trash is heaped near the main entrance steps— plastic cups, fast food wrappers, broken beer bottles—all partially hidden underneath a thin dusting of snow. There are no lit-up screens here, no fancy auto-cars driving through the cracked streets. My shoulders droop, and my feet feel like lead. I haven’t even eaten dinner yet, but at this point, I can’t decide if I want food or sleep more. Farther down the street, a group of homeless people are settling in, spreading their blankets and pitching their tents in the entrance of a shuttered store. Plastic bags line the insides of their threadbare clothes. I look away, heartsick. Once upon a time, they too were kids, maybe had families who loved them. What had brought them to this point? What would I look like, in their place? Finally, I will myself up the steps through the main entrance and down the hall to my front door. The hall reeks, as always, of cat pee and moldy carpets, and through the thin walls, I can hear neighbors shouting at each other, a TV’s volume cranked high, a wailing baby. I relax a little. If I’m lucky enough, I won’t bump into my landlord, with his tank and sweats and red face. Maybe I can at least get an uneventful night’s sleep before I have to deal with him in the morning. A new eviction notice has gone up on my door, right where I’d torn the old one off. I stare at it for a second, exhausted, rereading.

Warcross_INT_1P_rev.indd 15 3/29/17 2:35 PM NEW YORK EVICTION NOTICE TENANT NAME: EMIKA CHEN 72 HOURS TO PAY, OR VACATE

Was it really necessary for him to come back and put up a new sign, as if he wants to make sure everyone else in the building knows? To humiliate me further? I tear the notice off the door, crumple it in my fist, and stand still for a moment, staring at the blank space where the paper once hung. There is a familiar desperation in me, a rising panic that beats loudly in my chest, pounding out each thing I owe. The numbers in my head start all over again. Rent, food, bills, debt. Where am I going to get the money in three days? “Hey!” I jump at the voice. Mr. Alsole, my landlord, has emerged from his apartment and is stalking toward me, his frown resembling a fish’s, his thin orange hair sticking out in every direction. One look at his bloodshot eyes tells me that he’s high on something. Great. Another argument. I can’t deal with another fight today. I fumble around for my keys, but it’s too late—so instead, I straighten my shoulders and lift my chin. “Hey, Mr. Alsole.” I have a way of pronouncing the name like it’s Mr. Asshole. He scowls at me. “You been avoidin’ me all week.” “Not on purpose,” I insist. “I got a gig as a waitress in the mornings now, down at the diner, and—” “Nobody needs waitresses anymore.” He squints at me suspiciously. “Well, this place does. And it’s the only job around. There’s nothing else.”

Warcross_INT_1P_rev.indd 16 3/29/17 2:35 PM “You said you’d pay today.” “I know what I said.” I take a deep breath. “I can come by later to talk—” “Did I say later? I want it now. And you’re gonna need to add another hundred bucks to what you owe.” “What?” “Rent’s going up this month. On the whole block. You think this ain’t hot property?” “That’s not fair,” I say, my temper rising. “You can’t do that— you just raised it!” “You know what’s not fair, little girl?” Mr. Alsole narrows his eyes at me and folds his arms. The gesture stretches out the freckles on his arms. “The fact that you’re living for free in my building.” I hold both hands up. The blood is rushing to my cheeks. I can feel its fire. “I know—I just—” “What about notes? You got more than five thousand of those?” “If I did, I’d be giving them to you.” “Then offer something else,” he spits. He shoves a sausage-like finger at my skateboard. “I see that again, I’ll smash it with a hammer. You sell that thing and give me the money.” “It’s only worth fifty bucks!” I take a step forward. “Look, I’ll do whatever it takes, I swear, I promise.” The words stream out of me in a jumbled mess. “Just give me a few more days.” “Listen, kid.” He holds up three fingers, reminding me exactly how many months I owe him. “I’m done with pity checks.” Then he looks me up and down. “You’re what, eighteen now?” I stiffen. “Yeah.” He nods down the hall. “Go get a job at the Rockstar Club.

Warcross_INT_1P_rev.indd 17 3/29/17 2:35 PM Their girls earn four hundred a night just for dancing on some tables. You could probably pull five hundred. And they won’t even care about the red on your record.” I narrow my eyes. “You think I haven’t checked? I have to be twenty-one.” “I don’t care what you do. Thursday. Got it?” Mr. Alsole’s talking forcefully enough now for his spit to fly onto my face. “And I want this apartment cleared out. Spotless.” “It wasn’t spotless in the first place!” I shout back. But he’s already turned his back and is stalking down the hall. I let out a slow breath as he slams his door shut. My heart pounds against my ribs. My hands shake. My thoughts return to the homeless, with their hollow eyes and sloped shoulders, and then to the working girls I’ve occasionally seen leaving the Rockstar Club, reeking of smoke and sweat and heavy perfume, their makeup smeared. Mr. Alsole’s threat is a reminder of where I might end up if I don’t get lucky soon. If I don’t start making some hard choices. I’ll find a way to work some pity into him. Soften him up. Just give me one more week, I swear, and I’ll get half the money to you. I promise. I play these words in my head as I shove the key in the lock and open the door. It’s dark inside. Neon-blue light shines from outside the window. I flip on the lights, toss my keys on the kitchen counter, and throw the crumpled eviction notice in the trash. Then I pause to look around the apartment. It’s a tiny studio, crammed full of belongings. Cracks in the painted plaster run along the walls. One of the bulbs in the room’s only ceiling light has burned out, while the second bulb is fading, waiting for someone to replace it before it dies, too. My Warcross glasses are lying on the fold-out dining table. I’d rented them for

Warcross_INT_1P_rev.indd 18 3/29/17 2:35 PM cheap because they’re an older model. Two cardboard boxes of stuff are stacked by the kitchen, two mattresses lie on the ground by the window, and an ancient TV and old, mustard yellow couch take up the rest of the space. “Emi?” A muffled voice comes from underneath a blanket on the couch. My roommate sits up, rubs her face, and runs a hand through her nest of blond hair. Keira. She’d fallen asleep with her Warcross glasses on, and a faint crease runs across her cheeks and forehead. She wrinkles her nose at me. “You got some guy with you again?” I shake my head. “No, just me tonight,” I reply. “Did you give Mr. Alsole your half of the money today, like you said you would?” “Oh.” She avoids my stare, swings her legs over the side of the couch, and reaches for a half-eaten bag of chips. “I’ll get it to him by this weekend.” “You realize he’s throwing us out on Thursday, right?” “No one told me.” My hand tightens against the back of the dining room chair. She hasn’t left the apartment all day, so she never even saw the eviction notice on the door. I take a deep breath, reminding myself that Keira hasn’t been able to find any work, either. After almost a year of trying, she’s just given up and curled inward, spending her days idling away in Warcross instead. It’s a feeling I know all too well, but I’m too exhausted tonight to spare much patience for her. I wonder whether the realization of living on the streets will hit her when we finally end up standing on the sidewalk with a bag of our belongings. I strip off my scarf and hoodie down to my favorite tank top, go into the kitchen, and start a pot of water to boil. Then I head over to the two mattresses lying against the wall.

Warcross_INT_1P_rev.indd 19 3/29/17 2:35 PM Keira and I keep our beds separated with a makeshift divider duct-taped together out of old cardboard boxes. I’d made my side as cozy and neat as I could, decorating the space with trails of golden fairy lights. A map of Manhattan, covered in my scrib- bles, is pinned on my wall, along with magazine covers featur- ing Hideo Tanaka, a written list of the current Warcross amateur leaderboards, and a Christmas ornament from when I was a kid. My final possession is one of my dad’s old paintings, the only one I have left, propped carefully beside the mattress. The canvas is exploding with color, the paint thick and textured as if still wet. I used to have more of his work, but I had to sell them off every time things got too desperate, chipping away at his memory in order to survive his absence. I flop on my mattress and it lets out a loud squeak. The ceiling and walls are awash in neon blue from the liquor mart across the street. I lie still, listening to the constant, distant wail of sirens coming from somewhere outside, my eyes fixed on an old water stain on the ceiling. If Dad were here, he would be fussing about in his fashion professor mode, mixing paints and washing brushes in jars. Perhaps mulling over his spring class syllabus, or his plans for New York Fashion Week. I turn my head toward the rest of the apartment and pretend that he’s here, the healthy, un-sickly version of him, his tall, slender silhouette outlined in light near the doorway, his forest of dyed blue hair shining silver in the darkness, facial scruff neatly trimmed, black-rimmed glasses framing his eyes, dreamer’s face on. He would be wearing a black shirt that exposed the colorful tattoos winding up and down his right arm, and his appearance would be impeccably neat, shoes polished and trousers flawlessly ironed, except for flecks of paint staining his hands and hair.

Warcross_INT_1P_rev.indd 20 3/29/17 2:35 PM I smile to myself at the memory of sitting in a chair, swinging my legs and staring at the bandages on my knees while my father put temporary streaks of color into my hair. Tears still stained my cheeks from when I’d run home from school, sobbing, because someone had pushed me down at recess and I’d scraped holes in my favorite jeans. Dad hummed while he worked. When he finished, he held a mirror up to me, and I gasped in delight. Very Givenchy, very on trend, he said, tapping my nose lightly. I giggled. Especially when we tie it up like this. See? He gathered my hair up into a high tail. Don’t get too used to it—it’ll wash out in a few days. Now, let’s go get some pizza. Dad used to say that my old school’s uniform was a pimple on the face of New York. He used to say that I dressed like the world’s a better place than it actually is. He would buy flowers every time it rained and fill our home with them. He would forget to wipe his hands during his painting sessions and end up leaving colorful fingerprints all over the place. He poured his meager salary into presents for me and art supplies and charities and clothes and wine. He laughed too often and fell in love too quickly and drank too freely. Then one afternoon, when I was eleven, he came home, sat down on the couch, and stared blankly into space. He’d just returned from a doctor’s appointment. Six months later, he was gone. Death has a terrible habit of cutting straight through all of the careful lines you’ve drawn between your present and your future. The line that leads to your dad filling your dorm room with flowers on your graduation day. To him designing your wedding dress. To him coming over for dinner at your future house every Sunday, where his off-key singing would make you laugh so hard you’d cry. I had a hundred thousand of these lines, and in one day they

Warcross_INT_1P_rev.indd 21 3/29/17 2:35 PM were severed, leaving me with nothing but a stack of his medical bills and gambling debt. Death didn’t even give me somewhere to direct my anger. All I could do was search the sky. After he died, I started copying his look—wild, unnaturally colorful hair (boxes of hair dye being the only thing I’m willing to waste money on) and a sleeve of tattoos (done for free out of pity from Dad’s former tattoo artist). I turn my head slightly and glance at the tattoos winding along my left arm, then run a hand lightly across the images. They start at my wrist and go up my shoulder, bright hues of blue and turquoise, gold and pink—peony flowers (my father’s favorite), Escher-style buildings rising out of ocean waves, music notes, and planets against a backdrop of outer space, a reminder of nights when Dad would drive us out to the countryside to see the stars. Finally, they end with a slender line of words that run along my left collarbone, a mantra Dad used to repeat to me all the time, a mantra I recite to myself whenever things get too grim. Every locked door has a key. Every problem has a solution. Every problem, that is, except the one that took him. Except the one I’m in now. And the thought is almost enough to make me curl up and close my eyes, to let myself sink back into a familiar dark place. The sound of boiling water shakes me from my thoughts just in time. Get up, Emi, I say to myself. I drag myself up from the bed, head to the kitchen, and hunt for a pack of instant noodles. (Cost of dinner tonight: $1.) My food stash has gone down by a box of macaroni. I glare at Keira, who’s still sitting on the couch and glued to the TV (used TV: $75). With a sigh, I rip open the pack of noodles and drop them into the water. The thud of music and parties comes from elsewhere in the

Warcross_INT_1P_rev.indd 22 3/29/17 2:35 PM building. Every local channel is broadcasting something related to the opening ceremony. Keira pauses the TV on one channel showing a reel of last year’s highlights. Then it cuts to five game analysts sitting around in the top tier of the Tokyo Dome, in a heated debate over which team would win and why. Below them is a dimmed arena of fifty thousand screaming fans, illuminated by sweeping spotlights of red and blue. Gold confetti rains from the ceiling. “One thing we can all agree on is that we have never seen a wild-card lineup like this year’s!” one analyst says, a finger plugged deep in her ear so she can hear above the noise. “One of them is already a celebrity in his own right.” “Yes!” a second analyst exclaims, while the others all nod. A video showing a boy pops up behind them. “DJ Ren first made headlines as one of the hottest names in France’s underground music scene. Now, Warcross will make him an aboveground name!” As the analysts fall back into arguing about this year’s new- est players, I swallow a wave of jealousy. Every year, fifty amateur players, or wild cards, are nominated by secret committee to be placed into the team selection process. Luckiest people in the world, as far as I’m concerned. My criminal record automatically disqualifies me from the nominations. “And let’s talk about how much buzz the games are getting this year. Do you think we’ll break some records?” says the first analyst. “It looks like we already have,” a third replies. “Last year, the final tournament saw a total of three hundred million viewers. Three hundred million! Mr. Tanaka must be proud.” As he speaks, the backdrop changes again to the logo of Henka Games, followed by a video of Warcross creator, Hideo Tanaka. It’s a clip of him dressed in a flawless tuxedo, leaving a charity ball with a young woman on his arm, his coat draped around her

Warcross_INT_1P_rev.indd 23 3/29/17 2:35 PM shoulders. He’s far too graceful for a twenty-one-year-old, and as lights flash around him, I can’t help leaning forward a little. Over the past few years, Hideo has transformed from a lanky teenage genius into an elegant young man with piercing eyes. Polite is what most say when describing his personality. No one can really be sure of anything else unless they are within his inner circle. But not a week goes by now without him featured on some tabloid cover, dating this celebrity or that one, putting him at the top of every list they can think of. Youngest. Most Beautiful. Wealthiest. Most Eligible. I’d certainly been with my share of boys, had plenty of nights where I’d caught a handsome thing at the diner or a coffee shop and then led him back home to distract me from my problems. Boys came and went without consequence. But Hideo’s image lingered in my mind constantly. “Let’s take a look at our audience for tonight’s opening game!” the analyst continues. A number pops up and they all burst into applause. Five hundred and twenty million. That’s just for the opening ceremony. Warcross is officially the biggest event in the world. I take my pot of noodles over to the couch and eat on autopilot while we watch more footage. There are interviews with squealing fans entering the Tokyo Dome, their faces painted and their hands clutching homemade posters. There are shots of workers double-checking all of the tech hookups. There are Olympic-style documentaries showing photos and videos of each of tonight’s players. After that comes gameplay footage—two teams battling it out in Warcross’s endless virtual worlds. The camera pans to cheering crowds, then to the professional players waiting in a private room backstage. Their smiles are wide tonight, their eyes alive with anticipation as they wave at the camera. I can’t helping feeling bitter. I could be there, too, be just as

Warcross_INT_1P_rev.indd 24 3/29/17 2:35 PM good as them, if I had the time and money to play all day. I know it. Instead, I’m here, eating instant noodles out of a pot, wondering how I’m going to survive until the police announce another bounty. What must it be like, to have a perfect life? To be a superstar beloved by all? To be able to pay your bills on time and buy whatever you want? “What are we going to do, Em?” Keira says, breaking our silence. Her voice sounds hollowed out. She asks me this question every time we dip into dangerous territory, as if I were the only one responsible for saving us, but tonight I just keep staring at the TV, unwilling to answer her. Considering that I have exactly thirteen dollars to my name right now, I’m at the most dire point I’ve ever been. I lean back, letting ideas run through my head. I’m a good— great—hacker, but I can’t get a job. I’m either too young or too criminal. Who wants to hire a convicted identity thief? Who wants you to fix their gadgets when they think you might steal their info? That’s what happens when you have four months of juvenile detention on your record that can’t be erased, along with a two-year ban on touching any computers. It doesn’t stop me from sneaking in some use of my hacked phone and glasses, of course—but it has kept me from applying for any real job I can do well. We were barely even allowed to rent this apartment. All I’ve found so far is an occasional bounty hunt and a part-time waitress job—a job that’ll also vanish the instant the diner buys an auto- mated waitress. Anything else would probably involve me working for a gang or stealing something. It might come to that. I take a deep breath. “I don’t know. I’ll sell Dad’s last painting.” “Em . . . ,” Keira says, but lets her words trail off. She knows it’s a meaningless offer from me, anyway. Even if we sold everything

Warcross_INT_1P_rev.indd 25 3/29/17 2:35 PM in our apartment, we’d probably only scrape together five hundred dollars. It’s not nearly enough to keep Mr. Alsole from kicking us out into the streets. A familiar nausea settles into my stomach, and I reach up to rub at the tattoo running along my collarbone. Every locked door has a key. But what if this one doesn’t? What if I can’t get out of this? There’s no way I’ll be able to get my hands on enough money in time. I’m out of options. I fight off the panic, trying to keep my mind from spiraling downward, and force myself to even my breathing. My eyes wander away from the TV and toward the window. No matter where I am in the city, I always know exactly which direction my old group foster home sits. And if I let myself, I can imagine our apartment fading away into the home’s dark, cramped halls and peeling yellow wallpaper. I can see the bigger kids chasing me down the corridor and hitting me until I bleed. I can remember the bites from bedbugs. I can feel the sting on my face from Mrs. Devitt slapping me. I can hear myself crying quietly in my bunk as I imagined my father rescuing me from that place. I can feel the wire of the chain-link fences against my fingers as I climbed over them and ran away. Think. You can solve this. A little voice in my head flares up, stubborn. This will not be your life. You are not destined to stay here forever. You are not your father. On the TV, the lights in the Tokyo Dome finally dim. The cheering rises to a deafening roar. “And that wraps up our pregame coverage of tonight’s Warcross opening ceremony!” one analyst exclaims, his voice hoarse. He and the others hold up V-for-victory signs with their hands. “For those of you watching from home, time to put on your glasses and join us in the event—of—the—year!”

Warcross_INT_1P_rev.indd 26 3/29/17 2:35 PM Keira has already popped on her glasses. I glance at the dining room table, where my own glasses lie. Some people still say that Warcross is just a stupid game. Others say it’s a revolution. But for me and millions of others, it’s the only foolproof way to forget our troubles. I lost my bounty, my landlord is going to come screaming for his money again tomorrow morning, I’m going to drag myself to my waitressing job, and I’m going to be homeless in a couple of days, with nowhere to go . . . but tonight, I can join in with everyone else, put on my glasses, and watch magic happen.

Warcross_INT_1P_rev.indd 27 3/29/17 2:35 PM WONDER WOMAN: WARBRINGER

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Bard_9780399549731_1p_all_r1.inddKEEP READING 3 FOR A SNEAK PEEK. . . . 12/29/16 11:52 AM

Bard_9780399549731_1p_all_r1.indd 3 12/29/16 11:52 AM Wonder Woman created by Willam Moulton Marston

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the CHAPTER 1 product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2017 DC Comics. WONDER WOMAN and all related characters and elements © & TM DC Comics. WB SHIELD: TM & © WBEI. (s17) RHUS38090 You do not enter a race to lose. Jacket art by Jacey Diana bounced lightly on her toes at the starting line, her calves All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Random House taut as bowstrings, her mother’s words reverberating in her ears. Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York. A noisy crowd had gathered for the wrestling matches and javelin Random House and the colophon are registered trademarks of throws that would mark the start of the Nemeseian Games, but Penguin Random House LLC. the real event was the footrace, and now the stands were buzzing Visit us on the Web! randomhouseteens.com with word that the queen’s daughter had entered the competition. Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, When Hippolyta had seen Diana amid the runners clustered visit us at RHTeachersLibrarians.com on the arena sands, she’d displayed no surprise. As was tradition, Library of Congress Cataloging- in- Publication Data she’d descended from her viewing platform to wish the athletes ISBN: 978-0-399-54973-1 (Trade) luck in their endeavors, sharing a joke here or offering a kind word Printed in the United States of America 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 of encouragement there. She had nodded briefly to Diana, show- First Edition ing her no special favor, but she’d whispered, so low that only her Random House Children’s Books supports daughter could hear, “You do not enter a race to lose.” the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read. Amazons lined the path that led out of the arena, already stamping their feet and chanting for the games to begin. On Diana’s right, Rani flashed her a radiant smile. “Good luck today.” She was always kind, always gracious, and, of course, ATTENTION, READER: always victorious. THIS IS AN UNCORRECTED ADVANCE EXCERPT 1

Bard_9780399549731_1p_all_r1.indd 4 12/29/16 11:52 AM

Bard_9780399549731_1p_all_r1.indd 1 12/29/16 11:52 AM Wonder Woman created by Willam Moulton Marston

Copyright © 2017 DC Comics. WONDER WOMAN and all related characters and elements © & TM DC Comics. WB SHIELD: TM & © WBEI. (s17) RHUS38090 You do not enter a race to lose. Jacket art by Jacey Diana bounced lightly on her toes at the starting line, her calves All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Random House taut as bowstrings, her mother’s words reverberating in her ears. Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York. A noisy crowd had gathered for the wrestling matches and javelin Random House and the colophon are registered trademarks of throws that would mark the start of the Nemeseian Games, but Penguin Random House LLC. the real event was the footrace, and now the stands were buzzing Visit us on the Web! randomhouseteens.com with word that the queen’s daughter had entered the competition. Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, When Hippolyta had seen Diana amid the runners clustered visit us at RHTeachersLibrarians.com on the arena sands, she’d displayed no surprise. As was tradition, Library of Congress Cataloging- in- Publication Data she’d descended from her viewing platform to wish the athletes ISBN: 978-0-399-59973-1 (Trade) luck in their endeavors, sharing a joke here or offering a kind word Printed in the United States of America 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 of encouragement there. She had nodded briefly to Diana, show- First Edition ing her no special favor, but she’d whispered, so low that only her Random House Children’s Books supports daughter could hear, “You do not enter a race to lose.” the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read. Amazons lined the path that led out of the arena, already stamping their feet and chanting for the games to begin. On Diana’s right, Rani flashed her a radiant smile. “Good luck today.” She was always kind, always gracious, and, of course, always victorious.

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To Diana’s left, Thyra snorted and shook her head. “She’s going “Take it easy, Pyxis,” Tek murmured to Diana as she passed. to need it.” “Wouldn’t want to see you crack.” Diana heard Thyra snort again, Diana ignored her. She’d been looking forward to this race for but she refused to flinch at the nickname. You won’t be smirking weeks— a trek across the island to retrieve one of the red flags hung when I’m on the victors’ podium, she promised. beneath the great dome in Bana- Mighdall. In a flat- out sprint, she Tek raised her hands for silence and bowed to Hippolyta, who didn’t have a chance. She still hadn’t come into the fullness of her sat between two other members of the Amazon Council in the Amazon strength. You will in time, her mother had promised. But royal loge— a high platform shaded by a silken overhang dyed in her mother promised a lot of things. the vibrant red and blue of the queen’s colors. Diana knew that This race was different. It required strategy, and Diana was was where her mother wanted her right now, seated beside her, ready. She’d been training in secret, running sprints with Maeve, waiting for the start of the games instead of competing. None of and plotting a route that had rougher terrain but was definitely that would matter when she won. a straighter shot to the western tip of the island. She’d even— Hippolyta dipped her chin the barest amount, elegant in her well, she hadn’t exactly spied. . . . She’d gathered intelligence on white tunic and riding trousers, a simple circlet resting against her the other Amazons in the race. She was still the smallest, and of forehead. She looked relaxed, at her ease, as if she might decide course the youngest, but she’d shot up in the last year, and she was to leap down and join the competition at any time, but still every nearly as tall as Thyra now. inch the queen. I don’t need luck, she told herself. I have a plan. She glanced Tek addressed the athletes gathered on the arena sands. “In down the row of Amazons gathered at the starting line like troops whose honor do you compete?” readying for war and amended, But a little luck wouldn’t hurt, either. “For the glory of the Amazons,” they replied in unison. “For She wanted that laurel crown. It was better than any royal circlet the glory of our queen.” Diana felt her heart beat harder. She’d or tiara. It was something she could earn instead of just be given. never said the words before, not as a competitor. She found Maeve’s red hair and freckled face in the crowd and “To whom do we give praise each day?” Tek trumpeted. grinned, trying to project confidence. Maeve returned the smile “Hera,” they chorused. “Athena, Demeter, Hestia, Aphrodite, and gestured with both hands as if she were tamping down the air. Artemis.” The goddesses who had created Themyscira and gifted She mouthed the words, “Steady on.” it to Hippolyta as a place of refuge. Diana rolled her eyes but nodded and tried to slow her breath- Tek paused, and along the line, Diana heard the whispers of ing. She had a bad habit of coming out too fast and wasting her other names: Oya, Durga, Freyja, Mary, Yael. Names once cried speed too early. out in death, the last prayers of female warriors fallen in battle, the Now she cleared her mind and forced herself to concentrate words that had brought them to this island and given them new on the course as Tekmessa walked the line, surveying the runners, life as Amazons. Beside Diana, Rani murmured the names of the jewels glinting in her thick corona of curls, silver bands flashing demon- fighting Matri, the seven mothers, and pressed the rectan- on her brown arms. She was Hippolyta’s closest advisor, second gular amulet she always wore to her lips. in rank only to the queen, and she carried herself as if her belted Tek raised a blood- red flag identical to those that would be indigo shift were battle armor. waiting for the runners in Bana- Mighdall.

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“May the island guide you to just victory,” she shouted. pools teeming with limpets and anemones. It was a good place She dropped the red silk. The crowd roared. The runners to be alone. The island seeks to please, her mother had told her. It surged toward the eastern arch. Like that, the race had begun. was why Themyscira was forested by redwoods in some places and Diana and Maeve had anticipated a bottleneck, but Diana still rubber trees in others; why you could spend an afternoon roaming felt a pang of frustration as runners clogged the stone throat of the grasslands on a scoop- neck pony and the evening atop a camel, the tunnel, a tangle of white tunics and muscled limbs, footsteps scaling a moonlit dragonback of sand dunes. They were all pieces echoing off the stone, all of them trying to get clear of the arena at of the lives the Amazons had led before they came to the island, once. Then they were on the road, sprinting off across the island, little landscapes of the heart. each runner choosing her own course. Diana sometimes wondered if Themyscira had called the You do not enter a race to lose. northern coast into being just for her so that she could challenge Diana set her pace to the rhythm of those words, bare feet herself climbing on the sheer drop of its cliffs, so that she could slapping the packed earth of the road that would lead her through have a place to herself when the weight of being Hippolyta’s the tangle of the Cybelian Woods to the island’s northern coast. daughter got to be too much. Ordinarily, a miles- long trek through this forest would be a You do not enter a race to lose. slow one, hampered by fallen trees and tangles of vines so thick Her mother had not been issuing a general warning. Diana’s they had to be hacked through with a blade you didn’t mind losses meant something different, and they both knew it— and not dulling. But Diana had plotted her way well. An hour after she just because she was a princess. entered the woods, she burst from the trees onto the deserted Diana could almost feel Tek’s knowing gaze on her, hear the coast road. The wind lifted her hair, and salt spray lashed her face. mocking in her voice. Take it easy, Pyxis. That was the nickname She breathed deep, checked the position of the sun. She was going Tek had given her. Pyxis. A little clay pot made to store jewels or a to win— not just place but win. tincture of carmine for pinking the lips. The name was harmless, She’d mapped out the course the week before with Maeve, meant to tease, always said in love— or so Tek claimed. But it stung and they’d run it twice in secret, in the gray- light hours of early every time: a reminder that Diana was not like the other Amazons, morning, when their sisters were only just rising from their beds, and never would be. Her sisters were battle- proven warriors, steel when the kitchen fires were still being kindled, and the only curi- forged from suffering and honed to greatness as they passed from ous eyes they’d had to worry about belonged to anyone up early life to immortality. All of them had earned their place on Themy- to hunt game or cast nets for the day’s catch. But hunters kept to scira. All but Diana, born of the island’s soil and Hippolyta’s long- the woods and meadows farther south, and no one fished off this ing for a child, fashioned from clay by her mother’s hands— hollow part of the coast; there was no good place to launch a boat, just and breakable. Take it easy, Pyxis. Wouldn’t want to see you crack. the steep steel- colored cliffs plunging straight down to the sea, Diana steadied her breathing, kept her pace steady. Not today, and a tiny, unwelcoming cove that could only be reached by a path Tek. This day the laurel belongs to me. so narrow you had to shuffle down sideways, back pressed to the She spared the briefest glance at the horizon, letting the rock. sea breeze cool the sweat on her brow. Through the mists, she The northern shore was gray, grim, and inhospitable, and Diana glimpsed the white shape of a ship. It had come close enough to knew every inch of its secret landscape, its crags and caves, its tide the boundary that Diana could make out its sails. The craft was

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small— a schooner maybe? She had trouble remembering nautical A boom sounded over the waves, a hard metallic clap like a details. Mainmast, mizzenmast, a thousand names for sails, and door slamming shut. Diana’s steps faltered. On the blue horizon, knots for rigging. It was one thing to be out on a boat, learning a billowing column of smoke rose, flames licking at its base. The from Teuta, who had sailed with Illyrian pirates, but quite another schooner was on fire, its prow blown to splinters and one of its to be stuck in the library at the Epheseum, staring glazed- eyed at masts smashed, the sail dragging over the rails. diagrams of a brigantine or a caravel. Diana found herself slowing but forced her stride back on pace. Sometimes she and Maeve made a game of trying to spot ships There was nothing she could do for the schooner. Planes crashed. or planes, and once they’d even seen the fat blot of a cruise ship on Ships were wrecked upon the rocks. That was the nature of the the horizon. But most mortals knew to steer clear of their particu- mortal world. It was a place where disaster could happen and often lar corner of the Aegean, where compasses spun and instruments did. Human life was a tide of suffering, one that never reached suddenly refused to obey. the island’s shores. Diana focused her eyes on the path. Far, far Today it looked like a storm was picking up past the mists ahead she could see sunlight gleaming gold off the great dome at of the boundary, and Diana was sorry she couldn’t stop to watch Bana- Mighdall. First the red flag, then the laurel crown. That was it. The rains that came to Themyscira were tediously gentle and the plan. predictable, nothing like the threatening rumble of thunder, the From somewhere on the wind, she heard a cry. shimmer of a far- off lightning strike. A gull, she told herself. A girl, some other voice within her “Do you ever miss storms?” Diana had asked one afternoon as insisted. Impossible. A human shout couldn’t carry over such a she and Maeve had lazed on the palace’s sun- soaked rooftop ter- great distance, could it? race, listening to the distant roar and clatter of a tempest. Maeve It didn’t matter. There was nothing she could do. had died in the Crossbarry Ambush, the last words on her lips a And yet her eyes strayed back to the horizon. I just want to get prayer to Saint Brigid of Kildare. She was new to the island by a better view, she told herself. I have plenty of time. I’m ahead. Amazon standards, and came from Cork, where storms were There was no good reason to leave the ruts of the old cart common. track, no logic to veering out over the rocky point, but she did it “No,” Maeve had said in her lilting voice. “I miss a good cup of anyway. tea, dancing, boys— definitely not rain.” The waters near the shore were calm, clear, vibrant turquoise. “We dance,” Diana protested. The ocean beyond was something else— wild, deep- well blue, a Maeve had just laughed. “You dance differently when you sea gone almost black. The island might seek to please her and her know you won’t live forever.” Then she’d stretched, freckles like sisters, but the world beyond the boundary didn’t concern itself dense clouds of pollen on her white skin. “I think I was a cat in with the happiness or safety of its inhabitants. another life, because all I want is to lie around sleeping in the Even from a distance, she could tell the schooner was sink- world’s biggest sunbeam.” ing. But she saw no lifeboats, no distress flares, only pieces of the Steady on. Diana resisted the urge to speed forward. It was broken craft carried along by rolling waves. It was done. Diana hard to remember to keep something in reserve with the early- rubbed her hands briskly over her arms, dispelling a sudden chill, morning sun on her shoulders and the wind at her back. She felt and started making her way back to the cart track. That was the strong. But it was easy to feel strong when she was on her own. way of human life. She and Maeve had dived out by the boundary

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Bard_9780399549731_1p_all_r1.indd 6 12/29/16 11:52 AMBard_9780399549731_1p_all_r1.indd 7 12/29/16 11:52 AM LEIGH BARDUGO WONDER WOMAN small— a schooner maybe? She had trouble remembering nautical A boom sounded over the waves, a hard metallic clap like a details. Mainmast, mizzenmast, a thousand names for sails, and door slamming shut. Diana’s steps faltered. On the blue horizon, knots for rigging. It was one thing to be out on a boat, learning a billowing column of smoke rose, flames licking at its base. The from Teuta, who had sailed with Illyrian pirates, but quite another schooner was on fire, its prow blown to splinters and one of its to be stuck in the library at the Epheseum, staring glazed- eyed at masts smashed, the sail dragging over the rails. diagrams of a brigantine or a caravel. Diana found herself slowing but forced her stride back on pace. Sometimes she and Maeve made a game of trying to spot ships There was nothing she could do for the schooner. Planes crashed. or planes, and once they’d even seen the fat blot of a cruise ship on Ships were wrecked upon the rocks. That was the nature of the the horizon. But most mortals knew to steer clear of their particu- mortal world. It was a place where disaster could happen and often lar corner of the Aegean, where compasses spun and instruments did. Human life was a tide of suffering, one that never reached suddenly refused to obey. the island’s shores. Diana focused her eyes on the path. Far, far Today it looked like a storm was picking up past the mists ahead she could see sunlight gleaming gold off the great dome at of the boundary, and Diana was sorry she couldn’t stop to watch Bana- Mighdall. First the red flag, then the laurel crown. That was it. The rains that came to Themyscira were tediously gentle and the plan. predictable, nothing like the threatening rumble of thunder, the From somewhere on the wind, she heard a cry. shimmer of a far- off lightning strike. A gull, she told herself. A girl, some other voice within her “Do you ever miss storms?” Diana had asked one afternoon as insisted. Impossible. A human shout couldn’t carry over such a she and Maeve had lazed on the palace’s sun- soaked rooftop ter- great distance, could it? race, listening to the distant roar and clatter of a tempest. Maeve It didn’t matter. There was nothing she could do. had died in the Crossbarry Ambush, the last words on her lips a And yet her eyes strayed back to the horizon. I just want to get prayer to Saint Brigid of Kildare. She was new to the island by a better view, she told herself. I have plenty of time. I’m ahead. Amazon standards, and came from Cork, where storms were There was no good reason to leave the ruts of the old cart common. track, no logic to veering out over the rocky point, but she did it “No,” Maeve had said in her lilting voice. “I miss a good cup of anyway. tea, dancing, boys— definitely not rain.” The waters near the shore were calm, clear, vibrant turquoise. “We dance,” Diana protested. The ocean beyond was something else— wild, deep- well blue, a Maeve had just laughed. “You dance differently when you sea gone almost black. The island might seek to please her and her know you won’t live forever.” Then she’d stretched, freckles like sisters, but the world beyond the boundary didn’t concern itself dense clouds of pollen on her white skin. “I think I was a cat in with the happiness or safety of its inhabitants. another life, because all I want is to lie around sleeping in the Even from a distance, she could tell the schooner was sink- world’s biggest sunbeam.” ing. But she saw no lifeboats, no distress flares, only pieces of the Steady on. Diana resisted the urge to speed forward. It was broken craft carried along by rolling waves. It was done. Diana hard to remember to keep something in reserve with the early- rubbed her hands briskly over her arms, dispelling a sudden chill, morning sun on her shoulders and the wind at her back. She felt and started making her way back to the cart track. That was the strong. But it was easy to feel strong when she was on her own. way of human life. She and Maeve had dived out by the boundary

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many times, swum the wrecks of airplanes and clipper ships and None came. She shot upward, drew in a breath, and swam straight sleek motorboats. The salt water changed the wood, hardened it for the boundary, arms slicing through the warm water. so it did not rot. Mortals were not the same. They were food for There was always a little thrill when she neared the boundary, deep- sea fishes, for sharks— and for time that ate at them slowly, when the temperature of the water began to change, the cold touch- inevitably, whether they were on water or on land. ing her fingertips first, then settling over her scalp and shoulders. Diana checked the sun’s position again. She could be at Bana- Diana and Maeve liked to swim out from the southern beaches, Mighdall in forty minutes, maybe less. She told her legs to move. daring themselves to go farther, farther. Once they’d glimpsed a She’d only lost a few minutes. She could make up the time. Instead, ship passing in the mist, sailors standing at the stern. One of the she looked over her shoulder. men had lifted an arm, pointing in their direction. They’d plunged There were stories in all the old books about women who made to safety, gesturing wildly to each other beneath the waves, laugh- the mistake of looking back. On the way out of burning cities. On ing so hard that by the time they reached shore, they were both the way out of hell. But Diana looked anyway at that ship sinking choking on salt water. We could be sirens, Maeve had shrieked as in the great waves, tilting like a bird’s broken wing. they’d flopped on the warm sand, except neither of them could She measured the length of the cliff top. There were jagged carry a tune. They’d spent the rest of the afternoon singing vio- rocks at the base. If she didn’t leap with enough momentum, the lently off- key Irish drinking songs and laughing themselves silly impact would be ugly. Still, the fall wouldn’t kill her. That’s true until Tek had found them. Then they’d shut up quick. Breaking of a real Amazon, she thought. Is it true for you? Well, she hoped the boundary was a minor infraction. Being seen by mortals any- the fall wouldn’t kill her. Of course, if the fall didn’t, her mother where near the island was cause for serious disciplinary action. would. And what Diana was doing now? Diana looked once more at the wreck and pushed off, running Stop. But she couldn’t. Not when that high human cry still rang full out, arms pumping, stride long, picking up speed, closing the in her ears. distance to the cliff’s edge. Stop stop stop, her mind clamored. This Diana felt the cold of the water beyond the boundary engulf is madness. Even if there were survivors, she could do nothing for her fully. The sea had her now, and it was not friendly. The cur- them. To try to save them was to court exile, and there would be rent seized her legs, dragging her down, a massive, rolling force, no exception to the rule— not even for a princess. Stop. She wasn’t the barest shrug of a god. You have to fight it, she realized, forcing sure why she didn’t obey. She wanted to believe it was because her muscles to correct her course. She’d never had to work against a hero’s heart beat in her chest and demanded an answer to that the ocean. frightened call. But even as she launched herself off the cliff and She bobbed for a moment on the surface, trying to get her bear- into the empty sky, she knew part of what drew her on was the ings as the waves crested around her. The water was full of debris, challenge of that great gray sea that did not care if she loved it. papers floating on the surface, shards of wood, broken fiberglass, Her body cut a smooth arc through the air, arms pointing like orange life jackets that the crew must not have had time to don. It a compass needle, directing her course. She plummeted toward was nearly impossible to see through the falling rain and the mists the water and broke the surface in a clean plunge, ears full of sud- that shrouded the island. den silence, muscles tensed for the brutal impact of the rocks. What am I doing out here? she asked herself. Ships come and go.

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Bard_9780399549731_1p_all_r1.indd 8 12/29/16 11:52 AMBard_9780399549731_1p_all_r1.indd 9 12/29/16 11:52 AM LEIGH BARDUGO WONDER WOMAN many times, swum the wrecks of airplanes and clipper ships and None came. She shot upward, drew in a breath, and swam straight sleek motorboats. The salt water changed the wood, hardened it for the boundary, arms slicing through the warm water. so it did not rot. Mortals were not the same. They were food for There was always a little thrill when she neared the boundary, deep- sea fishes, for sharks— and for time that ate at them slowly, when the temperature of the water began to change, the cold touch- inevitably, whether they were on water or on land. ing her fingertips first, then settling over her scalp and shoulders. Diana checked the sun’s position again. She could be at Bana- Diana and Maeve liked to swim out from the southern beaches, Mighdall in forty minutes, maybe less. She told her legs to move. daring themselves to go farther, farther. Once they’d glimpsed a She’d only lost a few minutes. She could make up the time. Instead, ship passing in the mist, sailors standing at the stern. One of the she looked over her shoulder. men had lifted an arm, pointing in their direction. They’d plunged There were stories in all the old books about women who made to safety, gesturing wildly to each other beneath the waves, laugh- the mistake of looking back. On the way out of burning cities. On ing so hard that by the time they reached shore, they were both the way out of hell. But Diana looked anyway at that ship sinking choking on salt water. We could be sirens, Maeve had shrieked as in the great waves, tilting like a bird’s broken wing. they’d flopped on the warm sand, except neither of them could She measured the length of the cliff top. There were jagged carry a tune. They’d spent the rest of the afternoon singing vio- rocks at the base. If she didn’t leap with enough momentum, the lently off- key Irish drinking songs and laughing themselves silly impact would be ugly. Still, the fall wouldn’t kill her. That’s true until Tek had found them. Then they’d shut up quick. Breaking of a real Amazon, she thought. Is it true for you? Well, she hoped the boundary was a minor infraction. Being seen by mortals any- the fall wouldn’t kill her. Of course, if the fall didn’t, her mother where near the island was cause for serious disciplinary action. would. And what Diana was doing now? Diana looked once more at the wreck and pushed off, running Stop. But she couldn’t. Not when that high human cry still rang full out, arms pumping, stride long, picking up speed, closing the in her ears. distance to the cliff’s edge. Stop stop stop, her mind clamored. This Diana felt the cold of the water beyond the boundary engulf is madness. Even if there were survivors, she could do nothing for her fully. The sea had her now, and it was not friendly. The cur- them. To try to save them was to court exile, and there would be rent seized her legs, dragging her down, a massive, rolling force, no exception to the rule— not even for a princess. Stop. She wasn’t the barest shrug of a god. You have to fight it, she realized, forcing sure why she didn’t obey. She wanted to believe it was because her muscles to correct her course. She’d never had to work against a hero’s heart beat in her chest and demanded an answer to that the ocean. frightened call. But even as she launched herself off the cliff and She bobbed for a moment on the surface, trying to get her bear- into the empty sky, she knew part of what drew her on was the ings as the waves crested around her. The water was full of debris, challenge of that great gray sea that did not care if she loved it. papers floating on the surface, shards of wood, broken fiberglass, Her body cut a smooth arc through the air, arms pointing like orange life jackets that the crew must not have had time to don. It a compass needle, directing her course. She plummeted toward was nearly impossible to see through the falling rain and the mists the water and broke the surface in a clean plunge, ears full of sud- that shrouded the island. den silence, muscles tensed for the brutal impact of the rocks. What am I doing out here? she asked herself. Ships come and go.

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Human lives are lost. She dove again, peered through the rushing herself. She dove, the chill of the water fastening tight around her gray waters, but saw no one. bones now, burrowing deeper. Diana surfaced, her own stupidity carving a growing ache in One moment the world was gray current and cloudy sea, and her gut. She’d sacrificed the race. This was supposed to be the the next the girl was there in her lemon- colored shirt, face down, moment her sisters saw her truly, the chance to make her mother arms and legs outstretched like a star. Her eyes were closed. proud. Instead, she’d thrown away her lead, and for what? There Diana grabbed her around the waist and launched them was nothing here but destruction. toward the surface. For a terrifying second, she could not find the Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a flash of white, a big shape of the island, and then the mists parted. She kicked forward, chunk of what might have been the ship’s hull. It rose on a wave, wrapping the girl awkwardly against her chest with one arm, fin- vanished, rose again, and as it did, Diana glimpsed a slender brown gers questing for a pulse with the other. There— beneath the jaw, arm holding tight to the side, fingers spread, knuckles bent. Then thready, indistinct, but there. Though the girl wasn’t breathing, it was gone. her heart still beat. Another wave rose, a great gray mountain. Diana dove beneath Diana hesitated. She could see the outlines of Filos and Ecthros, it, kicking hard, then surfaced, searching, bits of lumber and fiber- the rocks that marked the rough beginnings of the boundary. The glass everywhere, impossible to sort one piece of flotsam from rules were clear. You could not stop the mortal tide of life and another. death, and the island must never be touched by it. There were no There it was again— an arm, two arms, a body, bowed head exceptions. No human could be brought to Themyscira, even if it and hunched shoulders, lemon- colored shirt, a tangle of dark hair. meant saving a life. Breaking that rule meant only one thing: exile. A girl— she lifted her head, gasped for breath, dark eyes wild with Exile. The word was a stone, unwanted ballast, the weight fear. A wave crashed over her in a spray of white water. The chunk unbearable. It was one thing to breach the boundary, but what of hull surfaced. The girl was gone. she did next might untether her from the island, her sisters, her Down again. Diana aimed for the place she’d seen the girl go mother forever. The world seemed too large, the sea too deep. Let under. She glimpsed a flash of yellow and lunged for it, seizing the go. It was that simple. Let this girl slip from her grasp and it would fabric and using it to reel her in. A ghost’s face loomed out at her be as if Diana had never leapt from those cliffs. She would be light from the cloudy water— golden hair, blue gaze wide and lifeless. again, free of this burden. She’d never seen a corpse up close before. She’d never seen a boy Diana thought of the girl’s hand, the ferocious grip of her up close before. She recoiled, hand releasing his shirt, but even as knuckles, the steel- blade determination in her eyes before the she watched him disappear, she marked the differences— hard jaw, wave took her under. She felt the ragged rhythm of the girl’s pulse, broad brow, just like the pictures in books. a distant drum— alive, alive. She dove again, but she’d lost all sense of direction now— the She swam for shore. waves, the wreck, the bare shadow of the island in the mists. If she As she passed through the boundary with the girl clutched to drifted out much farther, she might not be able to find her way her, the mists dissolved and the rain abated. Warmth flooded her back. body. The calm water felt oddly lifeless after the thrashing of the Diana could not stop seeing the image of that slender arm, the sea, but Diana wasn’t about to complain. ferocity in those fingers, clinging hard to life.Once more, she told When her feet touched the sandy bottom, she shoved up,

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shifting her grip to carry the girl from the shallows. She was eerily couldn’t just kneel there, watching her flop around on the sand light, almost insubstantial. It was like holding a sparrow’s body like a fish, and it wasn’t as if she could put her back in the ocean. between her cupped hands. No wonder the sea had made such Could she? No. Mortals were clearly too good at drowning. easy sport of this creature and her crewmates; she felt temporary, The girl clutched her chest, taking huge, sputtering gulps of an artist’s cast of a body rendered in plaster. air. “The others,” she gasped. Her eyes were so wide Diana could Diana laid her gently on the sand and checked her pulse again. see white ringing her irises all the way around. She was trembling, No heartbeat now. She knew she needed to get the girl’s heart but Diana wasn’t sure if it was because she was cold or going into going, get the water out of her lungs, but her memory on just how shock. “We have to help them—” to do that was a bit hazy. Diana had studied the basics of reviving Diana shook her head. If there had been any other signs of life a drowning victim, but she hadn’t ever had to put it into practice in the wreck, she hadn’t seen them. Besides, time passed more outside the classroom. It was also possible she hadn’t paid close quickly in the mortal world. Even if she swam back out, the storm attention at the time. How likely was it that an Amazon was going would have long since had its way with any bodies or debris. to drown, especially in the calm waters off Themyscira? And now “They’re gone,” said Diana, then wished she’d chosen her words her daydreaming might cost this girl her life. more carefully. The girl’s mouth opened, closed. Her body was Do something, she told herself, trying to think past her panic. shaking so hard Diana thought it might break apart. That couldn’t Why did you drag her out of the water if you’re just going to sit staring actually happen, could it? at her like a frightened rabbit? Diana scanned the cliffs above the beach. Someone might have Diana placed two fingers on the girl’s sternum, then tracked seen her swim out. She felt confident no other runner had chosen lower to what she hoped was the right spot. She locked her hands this course, but anyone could have seen the explosion and come together and pressed. The girl’s bones bent beneath her palms. to investigate. Hurriedly, Diana drew back. What was this girl made of, anyway? “I need to get you off the beach. Can you walk?” The girl Balsa wood? She felt about as solid as the little models of world nodded, but her teeth were chattering, and she made no move to monuments Diana had been forced to build for class. Gently, she stand. Diana’s eyes scoured the cliffs again. “Seriously, I need you pressed down again, then again. She shut the girl’s nose with her to get up.” fingers, closed her mouth over cooling mortal lips, and breathed. “I’m trying.” The gust drove into the girl’s chest, and Diana saw it rise, but She didn’t look like she was trying. Diana searched her mem- this time the extra force seemed to be a good thing. Suddenly, the ory for every thing she’d been told about mortals, the soft stuff— girl was coughing, her body convulsing as she spat up salt water. eating habits, body temperature, cultural norms. Unfortunately, Diana sat back on her knees and released a short laugh. She’d done her mother and her tutors were more focused on what Diana it. The girl was alive. referred to as the Dire Warnings: War. Torture. Genocide. Pollu- The reality of what she’d just dared struck her. All the hounds tion. Bad Grammar. of Hades: She’d done it. The girl was alive. The girl shivering before her on the sand didn’t seem to qualify And trying to sit up. for inclusion in the Dire Warnings category. She looked about the “Here,” Diana said, bracing the girl’s back with her arm. She same age as Diana, brown skinned, her hair a tangle of long, tiny

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Bard_9780399549731_1p_all_r1.indd 12 12/29/16 11:52 AMBard_9780399549731_1p_all_r1.indd 13 12/29/16 11:52 AM LEIGH BARDUGO WONDER WOMAN shifting her grip to carry the girl from the shallows. She was eerily couldn’t just kneel there, watching her flop around on the sand light, almost insubstantial. It was like holding a sparrow’s body like a fish, and it wasn’t as if she could put her back in the ocean. between her cupped hands. No wonder the sea had made such Could she? No. Mortals were clearly too good at drowning. easy sport of this creature and her crewmates; she felt temporary, The girl clutched her chest, taking huge, sputtering gulps of an artist’s cast of a body rendered in plaster. air. “The others,” she gasped. Her eyes were so wide Diana could Diana laid her gently on the sand and checked her pulse again. see white ringing her irises all the way around. She was trembling, No heartbeat now. She knew she needed to get the girl’s heart but Diana wasn’t sure if it was because she was cold or going into going, get the water out of her lungs, but her memory on just how shock. “We have to help them—” to do that was a bit hazy. Diana had studied the basics of reviving Diana shook her head. If there had been any other signs of life a drowning victim, but she hadn’t ever had to put it into practice in the wreck, she hadn’t seen them. Besides, time passed more outside the classroom. It was also possible she hadn’t paid close quickly in the mortal world. Even if she swam back out, the storm attention at the time. How likely was it that an Amazon was going would have long since had its way with any bodies or debris. to drown, especially in the calm waters off Themyscira? And now “They’re gone,” said Diana, then wished she’d chosen her words her daydreaming might cost this girl her life. more carefully. The girl’s mouth opened, closed. Her body was Do something, she told herself, trying to think past her panic. shaking so hard Diana thought it might break apart. That couldn’t Why did you drag her out of the water if you’re just going to sit staring actually happen, could it? at her like a frightened rabbit? Diana scanned the cliffs above the beach. Someone might have Diana placed two fingers on the girl’s sternum, then tracked seen her swim out. She felt confident no other runner had chosen lower to what she hoped was the right spot. She locked her hands this course, but anyone could have seen the explosion and come together and pressed. The girl’s bones bent beneath her palms. to investigate. Hurriedly, Diana drew back. What was this girl made of, anyway? “I need to get you off the beach. Can you walk?” The girl Balsa wood? She felt about as solid as the little models of world nodded, but her teeth were chattering, and she made no move to monuments Diana had been forced to build for class. Gently, she stand. Diana’s eyes scoured the cliffs again. “Seriously, I need you pressed down again, then again. She shut the girl’s nose with her to get up.” fingers, closed her mouth over cooling mortal lips, and breathed. “I’m trying.” The gust drove into the girl’s chest, and Diana saw it rise, but She didn’t look like she was trying. Diana searched her mem- this time the extra force seemed to be a good thing. Suddenly, the ory for every thing she’d been told about mortals, the soft stuff— girl was coughing, her body convulsing as she spat up salt water. eating habits, body temperature, cultural norms. Unfortunately, Diana sat back on her knees and released a short laugh. She’d done her mother and her tutors were more focused on what Diana it. The girl was alive. referred to as the Dire Warnings: War. Torture. Genocide. Pollu- The reality of what she’d just dared struck her. All the hounds tion. Bad Grammar. of Hades: She’d done it. The girl was alive. The girl shivering before her on the sand didn’t seem to qualify And trying to sit up. for inclusion in the Dire Warnings category. She looked about the “Here,” Diana said, bracing the girl’s back with her arm. She same age as Diana, brown skinned, her hair a tangle of long, tiny

12 13

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braids covered in sand. She was clearly too weak to hurt anyone “Vomit?” Diana scanned her knowledge of mortal bodily func- but herself. Even so, she could be plenty dangerous to Diana. Exile tions and immediately smoothed her gait. “Do not do that.” dangerous. Banished- forever- dangerous. Better not to think about “Just don’t drop me.” that. Instead, she thought back to her classes with Teuta. Make “You weigh about as much as a heavy pair of boots.” Diana a plan. Battles are often lost because people don’t know which war picked her way through the big boulders wedged against the base they’re fighting. All right. The girl couldn’t walk any great distance of the cliff. “I need my arms to climb, so you’re going to have to in her condition. Maybe that was a good thing, given that Diana hold on with your legs, too.” had nowhere to take her. “Climb?” She rested what she hoped was a comforting hand on the girl’s “The cliff.” shoulder. “Listen, I know you’re feeling weak, but we should try to “You’re taking me up the side of the cliff? Are you out of your get off the beach.” mind?” “Why?” “Just hold on and try not to strangle me.” Diana dug her fingers Diana hesitated, then opted for an answer that was technically into the rock and started putting distance between them and the true if not wholly accurate. “High tide.” ground before the girl could think too much more about it. It seemed to do the trick, because the girl nodded. Diana stood She moved quickly. This was familiar territory. Diana had and offered her a hand. scaled these cliffs countless times since she’d started visiting the “I’m fine,” the girl said, shoving to her knees and then pushing north shore, and when she was twelve, she’d discovered the cave up to her feet. where they were headed. There were other caves, lower on the “You’re stubborn,” Diana said with some measure of respect. cliff face, but they filled when the tides came in. Besides, they The girl had almost drowned and seemed to be about as solid as were too easy to crawl out of if someone got curious. driftwood and down, but she wasn’t eager to accept help— and she The girl groaned again. definitely wasn’t going to like what Diana suggested next. “I need “Almost there,” Diana said encouragingly. you to climb on my back.” “I’m not opening my eyes.” A crease appeared between the girl’s brows. “Why?” “Probably for the best. Just don’t . . . you know.” “Because I don’t think you can make it up the cliffs.” “Puke all over you?” “Is there a path?” “Yes,” said Diana. “That.” Amazons didn’t get sick, but vomit- “No,” said Diana. That was definitely a lie. Instead of arguing appeared in any number of novels and featured in a particularly ing, Diana turned her back. A minute later, she felt a pair of arms vivid description from her anatomy book. Blessedly, there were no around her neck. The girl hopped on and Diana reached back to illustrations. take hold of her thighs and hitch her into position. “Hold on tight.” At last, Diana hauled them up into the divot in the rock that The girl’s arms clamped around her windpipe. “Not that tight!” marked the cave’s entrance. The girl rolled off and heaved a long Diana choked out. breath. The cave was tall, narrow, and surprisingly deep, as if “Sorry!” She loosened her hold. someone had taken a cleaver to the center of the cliff. Its gleaming Diana took off at a jog. black rock sides were perpetually damp with sea spray. When she The girl groaned. “Slow down. I think I’m going to vomit.” was younger, Diana had liked to pretend that if she kept walking,

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Bard_9780399549731_1p_all_r1.indd 14 12/29/16 11:52 AMBard_9780399549731_1p_all_r1.indd 15 12/29/16 11:52 AM LEIGH BARDUGO WONDER WOMAN braids covered in sand. She was clearly too weak to hurt anyone “Vomit?” Diana scanned her knowledge of mortal bodily func- but herself. Even so, she could be plenty dangerous to Diana. Exile tions and immediately smoothed her gait. “Do not do that.” dangerous. Banished- forever- dangerous. Better not to think about “Just don’t drop me.” that. Instead, she thought back to her classes with Teuta. Make “You weigh about as much as a heavy pair of boots.” Diana a plan. Battles are often lost because people don’t know which war picked her way through the big boulders wedged against the base they’re fighting. All right. The girl couldn’t walk any great distance of the cliff. “I need my arms to climb, so you’re going to have to in her condition. Maybe that was a good thing, given that Diana hold on with your legs, too.” had nowhere to take her. “Climb?” She rested what she hoped was a comforting hand on the girl’s “The cliff.” shoulder. “Listen, I know you’re feeling weak, but we should try to “You’re taking me up the side of the cliff? Are you out of your get off the beach.” mind?” “Why?” “Just hold on and try not to strangle me.” Diana dug her fingers Diana hesitated, then opted for an answer that was technically into the rock and started putting distance between them and the true if not wholly accurate. “High tide.” ground before the girl could think too much more about it. It seemed to do the trick, because the girl nodded. Diana stood She moved quickly. This was familiar territory. Diana had and offered her a hand. scaled these cliffs countless times since she’d started visiting the “I’m fine,” the girl said, shoving to her knees and then pushing north shore, and when she was twelve, she’d discovered the cave up to her feet. where they were headed. There were other caves, lower on the “You’re stubborn,” Diana said with some measure of respect. cliff face, but they filled when the tides came in. Besides, they The girl had almost drowned and seemed to be about as solid as were too easy to crawl out of if someone got curious. driftwood and down, but she wasn’t eager to accept help— and she The girl groaned again. definitely wasn’t going to like what Diana suggested next. “I need “Almost there,” Diana said encouragingly. you to climb on my back.” “I’m not opening my eyes.” A crease appeared between the girl’s brows. “Why?” “Probably for the best. Just don’t . . . you know.” “Because I don’t think you can make it up the cliffs.” “Puke all over you?” “Is there a path?” “Yes,” said Diana. “That.” Amazons didn’t get sick, but vomit- “No,” said Diana. That was definitely a lie. Instead of arguing appeared in any number of novels and featured in a particularly ing, Diana turned her back. A minute later, she felt a pair of arms vivid description from her anatomy book. Blessedly, there were no around her neck. The girl hopped on and Diana reached back to illustrations. take hold of her thighs and hitch her into position. “Hold on tight.” At last, Diana hauled them up into the divot in the rock that The girl’s arms clamped around her windpipe. “Not that tight!” marked the cave’s entrance. The girl rolled off and heaved a long Diana choked out. breath. The cave was tall, narrow, and surprisingly deep, as if “Sorry!” She loosened her hold. someone had taken a cleaver to the center of the cliff. Its gleaming Diana took off at a jog. black rock sides were perpetually damp with sea spray. When she The girl groaned. “Slow down. I think I’m going to vomit.” was younger, Diana had liked to pretend that if she kept walking,

14 15

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the cave would lead straight through the cliff and open onto some Alia’s eyelids stuttered. “All at once? How long will you be other land entirely. It didn’t. It was just a cave, and remained a gone?” cave no matter how hard she wished. “Maybe a few hours. I’ll be back as fast as I can. Just stay warm Diana waited for her eyes to adjust, then shuffled farther and rest.” Diana rose. “And don’t leave the cave.” inside. The old horse blanket was still there— wrapped in oilcloth Alia looked up at her. Her eyes were deep brown and heavily and mostly dry, if a bit musty— as well as her tin box of supplies. lashed, her gaze fearful but steady. For the first time since Diana She wrapped the blanket around the girl’s shoulders. had pulled her from the water, Alia seemed to be truly seeing her. “We aren’t going to the top?” asked the girl. “Where are we?” she asked. “What is this place?” “Not yet.” Diana had to get back to the arena. The race must be Diana wasn’t quite sure how to answer, so all she said was close to over by now, and she didn’t want people wondering where “This is my home.” she’d gotten to. “Are you hungry?” She hooked her hands back into the rock and ducked out of the The girl shook her head. “We need to call the police, search cave before Alia could ask anything else. and rescue.” “That isn’t possible.” “I don’t know what happened,” the girl said, starting to shake again. “Jasmine and Ray were arguing with Dr. Ellis and then—” “There was some kind of explosion. I saw it from shore.” “It’s my fault,” the girl said as tears spilled over her cheeks. “They’re dead and it’s my fault.” “Don’t,” Diana said gently, feeling a surge of panic. “It was the storm.” She laid her hand on the girl’s shoulder. “What’s your name?” “Alia,” the girl said, burying her head in her arms. “Alia, I need to go, but—” “No!” Alia said sharply. “Don’t leave me here.” “I have to. I . . . need to get help.” What Diana needed was to get back to Ephesus and figure out how to get this girl off the island before anyone found out about her. Alia grabbed hold of her arm, and again Diana remembered the way she’d clung to that piece of hull. “Please,” Alia said. “Hurry. Maybe they can send a helicopter. There could be survivors.” “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Diana promised. She slid the tin box toward the girl. “There are dried peaches and pili seeds and a little fresh water inside. Don’t drink it all at once.”

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Bard_9780399549731_1p_all_r1.indd 16 12/29/16 11:52 AMBard_9780399549731_1p_all_r1.indd 17 12/29/16 11:52 AM LEIGH BARDUGO WONDER WOMAN the cave would lead straight through the cliff and open onto some Alia’s eyelids stuttered. “All at once? How long will you be other land entirely. It didn’t. It was just a cave, and remained a gone?” cave no matter how hard she wished. “Maybe a few hours. I’ll be back as fast as I can. Just stay warm Diana waited for her eyes to adjust, then shuffled farther and rest.” Diana rose. “And don’t leave the cave.” inside. The old horse blanket was still there—wrapped in oilcloth Alia looked up at her. Her eyes were deep brown and heavily and mostly dry, if a bit musty—as well as her tin box of supplies. lashed, her gaze fearful but steady. For the first time since Diana She wrapped the blanket around the girl’s shoulders. had pulled her from the water, Alia seemed to be truly seeing her. “We aren’t going to the top?” asked the girl. “Where are we?” she asked. “What is this place?” “Not yet.” Diana had to get back to the arena. The race must be Diana wasn’t quite sure how to answer, so all she said was close to over by now, and she didn’t want people wondering where “This is my home.” she’d gotten to. “Are you hungry?” She hooked her hands back into the rock and ducked out of the The girl shook her head. “We need to call the police, search cave before Alia could ask anything else. and rescue.” “That isn’t possible.” “I don’t know what happened,” the girl said, starting to shake again. “Jasmine and Ray were arguing with Dr. Ellis and then—” “There was some kind of explosion. I saw it from shore.” “It’s my fault,” the girl said as tears spilled over her cheeks. “They’re dead and it’s my fault.” “Don’t,” Diana said gently, feeling a surge of panic. “It was the storm.” She laid her hand on the girl’s shoulder. “What’s your name?” “Alia,” the girl said, burying her head in her arms. “Alia, I need to go, but—” “No!” Alia said sharply. “Don’t leave me here.” “I have to. I .. . need to get help.” What Diana needed was to get back to Ephesus and figure out how to get this girl off the island before anyone found out about her. Alia grabbed hold of her arm, and again Diana remembered the way she’d clung to that piece of hull. “Please,” Alia said. “Hurry. Maybe they can send a helicopter. There could be survivors.” “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Diana promised. She slid the tin box toward the girl. “There are dried peaches and pili seeds and a little fresh water inside. Don’t drink it all at once.”

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Bard_9780399549731_1p_all_r1.indd 16 12/29/16 11:52 AMBard_9780399549731_1p_all_r1.indd 17 12/29/16 11:52 AM Summer Reading Never Sounded So Good

ALEX AND ELIZA by Melissa de la Cruz WELCOME TO WONDERLAND #2 by Chris Grabenstein Read by Cassandra Campbell Read by Bryan Kennedy

FROGKISSER! by Garth Nix ONCE AND FOR ALL by Sarah Dessen Read by Marisa Calin Read by Karissa Vacker

GIRLS WHO CODE by Reshma Saujani GIRLING UP by Mayim Bialik Read by the Author Read by the Author

THE WHOLE THING TOGETHER by Ann Brashares MATYLDA, BRIGHT AND TENDER by Holly M. McGhee Read by Brittany Pressley Read by Jenna Lamia

WINDFALL by Jennifer E. Smith FROM PERCY JACKSON: CAMP HALF-BLOOD CONFIDENTIAL by Rick Riordan Read by Tonya Cornelisse Read by Jesse Bernstein