Beautiful Darkness (65 page)

We didn't see him. We only saw the fading night and the rising blue sky. Not the blue sky in my bedroom, but the real one. Even though it might look different to each of us. Only now I wasn't so sure the sky looked the same to any two people, no matter what universe they lived in.

I mean, how could you be sure?

The old man walked away.

We didn't hear the familiar sound of space and time rearranging as he ripped into the last possible moment of night — the darkness before the dawn.

Eighteen Moons, eighteen spheres,

From the world beyond the years,

One Unchosen, death or birth,

A Broken Day awaits the Earth …

After

R
idley stood in her room at Ravenwood, the room that used to belong to Macon. But nothing remained the same except the four walls, a ceiling, and a floor, and possibly the paneled bedroom door.

Which she shut, with a heavy click, and bolted. She turned to face her room, her back against the door. Macon had decided to take another room at Ravenwood, though he spent most of his time in his study in the Tunnels. So this room belonged to Ridley now, and she was careful to keep the trapdoor leading down into the Tunnels locked under thick pink shag carpeting. The walls were covered with spray painted graffiti, black and neon pink mostly, with shots of electric green, yellow, and orange. They weren't words, exactly — more like shapes, slashes, emotions. Anger, bottled in a can of cheap spray paint from the Wal-Mart in Summerville. Lena had offered to do it for her, but
Ridley insisted on doing it herself, Mortal-style. The reeking fumes made her head ache, and the splattering paint made a huge mess of everything. It was exactly what she wanted and exactly how she felt.

She'd made a mess of everything.

No words. Ridley hated words. Mostly, they were lies. Her two-week incarceration in Lena's room had been enough to make her hate poetry for a lifetime.

Mybeatingheartbleedingneedsyou —

Whatever.

Ridley shuddered. There was no accounting for taste in the family gene pool. She pushed herself away from the door and walked over to the wardrobe. With the slightest touch, she opened the white wooden doors, revealing a lifetime's careful collection of clothing, the hallmark of a Siren.

Which, she reminded herself, she wasn't.

She dragged a pink footstool to the shelves and climbed up on it, her pink platform shoes slipping back and forth over her pink striped knee socks. It had been a Harajuku kind of a day, not often seen around Gatlin. The looks she got at the Dar-ee Keen were priceless. At least it had passed the afternoon.

One afternoon. Out of how many?

She felt along the top of the shelf until she found it, a shoe box from Paris. She smiled and pulled it down. Purple velvet four-inch peep-toes, if she remembered. Of course she remembered. She'd had some damn fine times in those shoes.

She dumped the contents of the box onto her black and white bedspread. There it was, half-shrouded in silk, still covered with crumbling dirt.

Ridley slumped down on the floor next to her bed, resting
her arms on the edge. She wasn't stupid. She just wanted to look, as she had every night for the past two weeks. She wanted to feel the power of something magical, a power she would never have again.

Ridley wasn't a bad girl. Not really. Besides, even if she was, what did it matter? She was powerless to do anything about it. She'd been tossed aside like last year's mascara.

Her cell phone rang, and she picked it up from her nightstand. A picture of Link popped up on the screen. She clicked it off and tossed it into the endless pink shag.

Not now, Hot Rod.

She had another Incubus on her mind.

John Breed.

Ridley settled back into place, tilting her head to the side as she watched the sphere begin to glow a subtle shade of pink.

“What am I going to do with you?” She smiled because, for once, it was her decision to make, and because she had yet to make it.

three

The light grew brighter and brighter until the room was bathed in a wash of rose-colored light, which made almost everything else disappear like thin pencil lines that had been only partly rubbed out.

two

Ridley closed her eyes — a little girl blowing out a birthday candle, to make a wish —

one

She opened her eyes.

It was decided.

Writing a book is hard. It turns out, writing a second book is twice as hard. Here are the people who got us through the many phases of our Seventeenth Moon:

O
UR BELOVED AGENTS
, S
ARAH
B
URNES AND
C
OURTNEY
G
ATEWOOD, WITH HELP FROM
R
EBECCA
G
ARDNER, FROM THE
G
ERNERT
C
OMPANY,
who continue to shepherd Gatlin County to new and faraway places no piece of pecan fried chicken has ever seen
. S
ALLY
W
ILCOX AT
CAA,
for bringing Gatlin County to a town where nobody would ever touch a piece of fried anything.

O
UR BRILLIANT TEAM AT
L
ITTLE
, B
ROWN
B
OOKS FOR
Y
OUNG
R
EADERS
: O
UR EDITORS
, J
ENNIFER
B
AILEY
H
UNT AND
J
ULIE
S
CHEINA
, O
UR ART DIRECTOR
, D
AVID
C
APLAN
, O
UR MARKETING GURU
, L
ISA
I
CKOWICZ
, O
UR QUEEN OF LIBRARY SERVICES
, V
ICTORIA
S
TAPLETON
, O
UR PUBLICITY GURU
, M
ELANIE
C
HANG, AND
O
UR PUBLICIST
, J
ESSICA
K
AUFMAN,
who are as good at what they do as Amma is at crossword puzzles.

O
UR AMAZING FOREIGN PUBLISHERS AND EDITORS
, E
SPECIALLY
A
MANDA
P
UNTER
, C
ECILE
T
EROUANNE
, S
USANNE
S
TARK
, M
YRIAM
G
ALAZ, AS WELL AS THOSE WE HAVE YET TO MEET
,
who have welcomed us into their houses and their countries
. O
UR#1
S
PANISH FAN, AUTHOR
J
AVIER
R
UESCAS,
who not only blurbed our book in Spain but spread the word.

O
UR FAVORITE READER
, D
APHNE
D
URHAM,
who gets us and, more important, Ethan and Lena. There isn't a cream-of-casserole big enough to show her how we feel. Even with cornflakes or tiny fried onions or mashed-up potato chips on top.

O
UR RESIDENT TEEN CLASSICIST
, E
MMA
P
ETERSON
,
who translated Latin Casts while cramming for AP Vergil
. O
UR FRIGHTENING TEEN EDITOR
, M
AY
P
ETERSON
,
who no doubt will go on to terrify many other writers in the future.

O
UR BOSS PHOTOGRAPHER
, A
LEX
H
OERNER
,
whose photo of us looks nothing like us, so we love it.
V
ANIA
S
TOYANOVA
,
for her beautiful trailer, amazing photos, and her work as co-administrator of our U.S. fansite
. Y
VETTE
V
ASQUEZ,
for reading our drafts a hundred times, blogging our tour, and acting as co-administrator of our U.S. fansite.
T
HE CREATORS OF OUR INTERNATIONAL FANSITES IN
F
RANCE
, S
PAIN, AND
B
RAZIL
. A
SHLY
S
TOHL,
who designed bookplates and invites, built websites, and took photos that brought the South to life for readers around the world.
A
NNA
M
OORE,
for building our Beautiful Creatures site 2.0.
A
UTHOR
G
ABRIEL
P
AUL
,
who creates all the brilliant online games for our tours and promotions.

O
UR
C
ASTER
G
IRLS 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, AND 25.
You are the heart of The Caster Chronicles and always will be.

O
UR
YA
WRITING MENTORS
, WP
AUTHORS, BOOK BLURBERS, TRAILER MAKERS, FANSITE DESIGNERS, FELLOW DEBUT AUTHORS, BLOGGERS
, N
I
NG/G
OODREADS FRIENDS, AND, OF COURSE, OUR
T
WEETHEARTS.
Like Gatlin's postmaster, Carlton Eaton, we hear all our news from you first. And whether good or bad, it's better to hear it from one of your own. Nobody will ever know how much fun you make even the Cave o’ Revisions.

O
UR FAMILIES

A
LEX
, N
ICK, AND
S
TELLA
G
ARCIA AND
L
EWIS
, E
MMA
, M
AY, AND
K
ATE
P
ETERSON AND ALL OUR RESPECTIVE MOMS, DADS, SISTERS, BROTHERS, NIECES, NEPHEWS, SISTERS-IN-LAW, PARTY-THROWING COUSINS, AND FRIENDS
. F
ROM
A
UNT
M
ARY TO COUSIN
J
ANE,
you have always been there for us.
S
TOHLS
, R
ACCAS
, M
ARINS
, G
ARCIAS
, P
ETERSONS:
By now you have every right to hate us, but oddly you don't.