She went to her sister’s birthday in full glory, and she’s still done up from it, not a hair out of place. Her box braids are twisted into what she called fun buns, and they’re set with purple gemstones that match her glittery purple dress. I don’t think I’ve seen her in any other color, which is part of her own sculpted image as the perfect Easter Princess, even in this grungy college bar.
My throat grates as I force a swallow. I should explain to Kris and Iris why I did what I did. I should beg their forgiveness. I should dosomethingto make up for beingmebut my phone is lead in my hand and the bar is suddenly so fucking hot, I can’t get a full breath.
“What’d he say?” Kris asks like he’s trying to calm a spooked animal.
“Are you all right?” Iris adds.
Great. Pity and caution.
“Nothing. It’s fine,” I lie and wedge my phone in my pocket. “I’m going home as soon as I sober up. I need some air.”
“Coal.” Kris starts to stand when I do, but I wave my hand at him and do fuck all to hide my panic.
“Just give me a second, all right? I’ll be back.”
“Youarecoming back,” Kris tells me. “Don’t make me chase you again. We’ll go home together.”
“Yeah, sure. I promise.” And I head for the bar’s front door.
But I take one glance at the window that looks out on the sidewalk, and I freeze.
The normal world hasn’t figured out how my dad gets to “every house” in one night. It isn’t that exciting: magic. The staff of hundreds doesn’t hurt, of course, but it’s mostly magic. One way is we take a sprig of mistletoe, jam it at the top of a doorframe, and: voilà! Instant portal anywhere we envision.
Which is how Holiday press have gotten here as fast as I did, once they figured out where I went; most Holidays have some form of transportation magic. And I realize I am rather predictable, like Kris said, because there are at least three Holiday reporters here, and when they see me heading out, they swing to attention, ready to photograph whatever I do or don’t do and spread it across our tabloids. I recognize their badges and Ihatethat I see them enough to clock them by a glance through a grimy window: one is fromChristmas Inquirer,an outlet that only features Christmas, while the other two are fromHoliday Heraldand24-Hour Fête,broader publications that harass—I mean,feature—the antics of a myriad of Holiday reigning families.
No small amount of our magic goes towards keeping us separate from the ordinary world, and that extends to the internet—so while normal people might see our pictures, all they’d be able to find out is that they’re of foreign royals. They wouldn’t see the captions, wouldn’t see our names or who we are.
Doesn’t stop it all from sucking the life out of me.
Headline:Prince Nicholas drinks away sorrows in lieu of anything productive, but what did we really expect.
I turn past Iris and Kris. “I’ll be out back.” And I’m gone before they respond.
I duck down a hall that leads to the bathrooms, bypass a door markedSTORAGE,and shove into one labeledEMPLOYEES ONLY.How do I know this door leads to the back alley? Thanks to my first week of freshman year, a fake ID, and one too many tequila shots.
The alley is empty, thank god, a dead end capping off to my left and an opening to the road farther down on the right. The night air is no less muggy than it was inside, summer heat trapping the moisture from a recent rain, but I slam my back to the brick wall and breathe like it’ll help balance the ever-wobbling scale lurching betweenEverything is fineandHahahahahahaha fuck.
Usually, my only intention is everOh, this will be funny, and then I’m off and running with no other rationale able to beat through the concrete casing around my brain.
But this time?
I’d wanted to do something real. And it’d been easy. Easy to access the database, easy to set up the off-season gift deliveries. Easy to carry on like normal and go to Lily’s party, and I’d beenhappy,because I’d done something good for once, and fuck, if that wasn’t a sobering feeling.
I’d been so arrogant. Socertainthat I’d finally done something to spread joy.
And then the news reports of the New Koah collapse had started rolling in with dead-perfect timing.
I cannot believe I brought up my mother.
The door bangs open next to me and I jump about a foot in the air.
There’s still enough vodka swirling through my system that I have trouble focusing on who it is—the alley has one light flickering a few yards down, and it backlights the guy, his frame thin and slight.
My first thought ispaparazzi,but he has no camera or badge. He’s in a black T-shirt and distressingly tight black skinny jeans, and my confusion clears because isn’t that what the bartender was wearing? Then I remember theEMPLOYEES ONLYsign I barreled past, and I roll my eyes into my skull.
“Shit. I’m sorry.”
The guy makes a startled noise, almost a laugh. “You’re—what?”
