They drive like that for a while, the wind ruffling in the windows as they cruise along the coast. When she finally garners the courage to glance his way, it’s to see him eyeing her arms. Lys’s half-moon bites constellate her bare skin, marking her from the base of her palms to the insides of her elbows. She draws her wrists in close, crossing her arms over her chest.
“I know, I know,” he says, eyes back on the road. “None of my business.”
The sunlit world slips past and past. To their left is the sea, oily and dark. The tide is out, and several algae-bitten yachts lie on their sides in the sucking mud. The beachfront is lined in a strip of mega-hotels, concrete gone discolored with mold.
It’s full dusk by the time Max drops her off. He parks before a sprawling Southern mansion, pulling up behind a line of cars. The building’s front is gridded in windows, every last pane painted black. Several sleek roman columns hold up a half-circle balcony, over which spills vibrant red caladium. Towering palm trees girdled in yellow fairy lights line the paver-clad roadway. Everything is soft and lovely and welcoming—glittering gold and draped in splendor.
It’s nothing at all like Lys’s ice-clad kingdom in the north.
“Are you coming?” she asks Max, halfway out of the car.
“Er, no.” His eyes dart from the building and back to her. He seems suddenly apprehensive. “I’m not on the guest list. I was just in the area.”
Wariness builds into a blister. “Doing what?”
“That’s a good question.” He drums a thumb on the wheel. “Really good. Let’s just say I was protecting an investment of mine.”
“Is that a polite way of saying it’s none of my business?”
His smile is faint. “Something like that, yeah.”
“Perfect.” She shuts the door, bending down to address him through the open window. “Thanks for the ride. For what it’s worth, I’m really grateful you didn’t try to kill me.”
He tugs his sunglasses down his nose. His eyes are a rich, warm brown. “Is that a regular occurrence for you?”
“You have noidea.”
“I might have some,” she thinks she hears him say.
“What?”
“No, nothing. You, uh—look really nice in that dress, by the way. I’m glad you wore it.”
She straightens in surprise just as he puts the car in reverse. By the time she’s gathered her sense enough to ask him what he means, he’s gone, backing out into the lot and taking off down the road. She watches his jeep until it’s out of sight, certain she’d heard him incorrectly.
Overhead, the sky is the exact color of a bruise.
Bracing herself, she turns to go in and stops.
Someone is standing beneath the overhang. A boy, or perhaps a man. He’s tall and tapered, dressed in a gray vest and pleated slacks, the white sleeves of his shirt cuffed at the elbows. His hair, so black it looks almost blue, has been combed back from his face, revealing pale, angular features.
“You look lost,” he says, coming closer.
She clears her throat. “Do I?”
“Very much so.” He looks older up close. There’s the slightest bit of silver at his temples. “Paris Keeling’s parties are famously invite-only.”
“Iwasinvited. Paris asked me here himself.”
He angles his head to the side, searching her face. “Did he?”
“Yes.”
“Interesting.”
Somewhere inside, music is playing. It thuds in her feet. Hums in her core. All she can hear is the rush of the ocean. The man is still studying her, an achingly familiar look of introspection in his eyes.
“You’re awfully pretty,” he notes. “I don’t suppose you’ll tell me your name.”
