Endure (30 page)

“Boring?” Nick offers. He's plucking out blades of grass while waiting for another Amnesty letter I want him to sign.

“Exactly,” Issie breathes out. “Boring.”

“Boring is good,” I announce, handing Nick a letter and giving another one to Astley. His eyes meet my eyes. We were talking about the same thing in the car today, about how our lives have settled into something calm. The Pixie Council has disbanded. Rogue kings still exist, but none right here, and none as bad as Frank. Amelie is in charge of the day-to-day aspects of the kingdom, and Astley, who was homeschooled and tutored his entire life, is attending high school with us, taking all AP classes. It's disgusting. And nice. And disgusting. He's as smart as Devyn. He's going to deliberately get a B in health class (totally required to graduate for some reason) just to make sure Devyn keeps valedictorian for next year. It wouldn't be fair otherwise.

“Remember when you came here?” Nick asks.

“She was all peace jeans and U2 songs,” Cassidy sighs, coming toward us. She walks with a little hitch now, like she's still protecting her wounds. “And you two argued constantly.”

“Not constantly,” I argue, all defensive, casting a side look at Astley, but he's not jealous. He never gets jealous, which is lovely but kind of weird.

“Constantly.” Nick laughs. He hands me back the letter. I pass it to Cassidy to sign. It's about the death penalty, which is ironic because we're protesting about it being used unlawfully when we've used it unlawfully more times than I can count.

“And she'd always be mumbling those phobias under her breath.” Issie sits up. “It was so adorable.”

“Adorably neurotic,” Devyn says. “I thought she'd be my parents' next patient.”

“Not nice,” Issie says, punching him in the shoulder.

“But true.” I agree with Devyn. I was a wreck. “Now I'm just neurotic about getting into college.”

“And keeping the world safe from those who don't care about human rights,” Issie says.

“You will be accepted,” Astley says.

“That's what Betty says.” I touch a tiny blade of grass. It's so different from the grass in Charleston—thinner.

Cassidy looks up from signing her letter. “How's Gram doing?”

“She still misses Mrs. Nix but is pretending not to. She's taken over Mrs. Nix's honey hives. It's sweet and sad all at the same time, you know?”

For a minute we're quiet. There have been so many funerals and wakes, in-school service days with counselors that they've shipped in so that those of us who are left can handle our post-traumatic stress and survivor guilt. The town has lost so many people.

There's a little wind. Dandelion weeds are starting to poke up through the grass. Soon they'll grow pretty yellow heads. Then they'll turn to skeletons of themselves, and the wind will blow their seeds away, spreading them everywhere. Part of me wonders if that's what the evil pixies are doing, waiting, ready to burst from the ground and spread everywhere. Part of me thinks I'm paranoid.

“So, spring break . . . ,” Issie prompts. “How awesome.”

Cassidy eases herself to the ground next to us. “It will be.”

Cassidy is going on the show choir trip, as are Devyn and Nick. But Astley, Issie, and I are headed to Europe, to go to that villa Astley promised. We will see seals and flowers. We will be free of Bedford, no offense to it. It will just be nice to go someplace that wasn't the site of massive deaths and evil.

When I first got to Bedford I was so full of fear that I had become nothing. I hardly felt anymore because feeling hurt too much. And now? Now I think of a quote my stepdad used to say. It was by Anandamayi Ma: “Be anchored in fearlessness. What is worldly life but fear!”

I have no idea who Anandamayi Ma is. I should probably look her up, but not now, because right now I am so happy that I am not the only one who remains, that I am the one who risked everything so the world didn't end, that I get to hang out on the grass and feel the sun and let Astley rest his head against my hip as he sprawls out and stares up at the sky. Most of Frank's pixies are ours now, assimilated into the fold, contrite and upset about what they had become, and working toward redemption.

Winter is over. My friends and I own lives where we can all exist without constant fear. It's a life where I can be proud of being half pixie, proud of who I am, who we all have become.

Acknowledgments

Thanks to my mom, Betty Morse, who has been battling sickness after sickness and staying alive despite everyone’s doubts. She personifies fierce and good. I love her the whole world. And thanks to Lew Barnard and the rest of my family for not disowning me yet.

Thanks to Emily Ciciotte, who proves that you can be glorious even when watching TV.

Thanks to Shaun Farrar. You have taught me to be brave and to have hope. I am so sorry that you have to keep teaching me that over and over again.

Pixie kisses to Alice Dow, Lori Bartlett, Marie Overlock, Jennifer Osborn, and Dotty Vachon; to Laura Hamor, Kelly Fineman, Jackie Shriver Ganguly, Tami Brown, Melodye Shore, and Tamra Wright. You have all been so patient with me and so wise.

Thanks to Jim Willis, Ken Mitchell, and the Mount Desert Police Department for letting me write and dispatch and for all of you offering to be in my books numerous times. You are.

This series would not have existed without the guidance of Michelle Nagler. She is a rock star of an editor and I am so lucky that she was there to make Zara as tough and awesome as possible. She and the rest of the amazing Bloomsbury crew—including, but not limited to, Melissa Kavonic, Alexei Esikoff, Jill Amack, and Regina Castillo—make it wonderful to be an author. Thank you. They don’t get the fan mail, but they deserve it more than I do.

And all my thanks to Edward Necarsulmer and his mighty assistant, Christa Heschke. There can be no better agent and no better friend. I am so sorry I always pocket dial you when I am in an airport and disconnect you when I drive. Some day I won’t. I swear.

Finally, thank you to all the awesome people who send me e-mails and comment on Facebook and Twitter and all the random social network places I appear. You have no idea how much you help me believe in the goodness of people. Thank you so much for being goofy and supportive and . . . well . . . yeah . . . awesome.

Looking for a further fix?

Read on for a taste of
After Obsession
, an utterly addictive ghostly romance.

Alan and Aimee have just met, but already they are bound to each other by something they can’t quite name. Something that rattles the windows, haunts the waters and threatens to tear them apart before they can find out what their connection really means . . .

You are mine.

You all will be mine.

These are the words I hear every single freaking morning since my friend Courtney’s dad died. They slither around inside my brain all day until I think I’m going crazy, and today is no exception. Even hanging out half-naked on the grass in the backyard with my boyfriend, Blake, I hear them. We’re supposed to be looking up at the sky, enjoying the lazy post-make-out feeling, but no . . .

“You, Aimee, are the best,” Blake says. “You are the best girlfriend in the universe and you are mine forever. Got it?”

The words remind me of that dream voice, and even though my head rests on Blake’s chest, I don’t feel calm like I normally do when we’re together. Queasiness settles into my stomach. Blake’s heart thumps away like the drum beat to a blood song I can’t hear. Blake’s a singer. He always has a song going on in his head, and I imagine that song fills him all the way, pumping into his blood, spreading throughout his capillaries, going into every inch of him, the way the words go into me. I sigh over his heartbeat.

“Gramps and Benji will be home pretty soon,” I say.

“Hint, hint?” he asks, reaching for his shirt and smiling his rock-star smile that makes everyone swoon.

“Sort of,” I apologize.

All around us is just woods and river and the  house; it feels like they’re watching, telling us it’s okay to be young and happy. But it’s not okay to be young and happy, not today. Not now. Not when Courtney’s dad is dead. It isn’t right for me to be happy when everything inside of her is a big, big ache. I know that ache personally. The ocean took Courtney’s dad; the river took my mom. It was a long time ago, but my ache is still there.

Blake leans me against the biggest pine tree, but I’m not really feeling it anymore. In the last few weeks, I’ve been feeling it less and less with Blake, and that worries me so much because we are perfect for each other; everyone says that.

Blake groans. “We have to write a paper in psych about our deepest fears.”

“Yeah?” His eyes are so gray. They are ocean eyes; that’s what I like to think. Although, the ocean isn’t so great an image anymore. Still, I take the bait and ask, “So what’s yours?”

He moves his hands down from my shoulders to my arms, all the way to my wrists, and grabs me there while he shrugs. “I don’t know. I’m not really scared of much. Fire, maybe. Not getting into Stanford.”

Something inside me sloshes around like old coffee, stale and nauseating. A crow takes off from the tree, black wings beating against the air, with the air, of the air.

“What are you afraid of ” he asks.

I think about it, then just tell the truth. “I’m afraid of myself.”

His eyebrows wrinkle, confused.

I push out a big breath and say, “Me. The thing I’m afraid of the most is me.”

There are some things about myself that I  can’t explain. Sometimes, I see things in my dreams before they happen—just like my mom used to, which makes me think there’s some sort of genetic component to the  whole “psychic” thing. Yes, I know this is weird, and yes, I saw things about Courtney, and yes, I am seeing things about some rugged boy I’ve never met, a boy who has the kind of skin that looks perpetually tanned. And yes, weeks ago I had a dream about men drowning, but the fog was so intense and the lighting was so bad that I  couldn’t make out who they were, didn’t know how to stop it. I didn’t realize one of them was Courtney’s dad.

The dreams suck like that.

It’s not just dreams. Sometimes when people are sick or hurt, I can touch them and somehow they are better or they start healing. Sometimes you can see their wounds start to close. I don’t know if my mom could do that, too; she didn’t live long enough for me to ask her.

I am not crazy.

Right before Blake leaves, we kiss good-bye, long, slow, him pressing me into the edge of his old Volvo station wagon.

“I wish you didn’t have to go,” I say.

He pulls his head away, moves some hair out of my face. His words touch my cheek, soft. “Me, too.”

I step backward. The wind blows my hair back into my face. Blake stares up at my house, a big, wood-shingled cape with a front porch, attached garage, all that. “Your house is so cozy looking,” he says.

“
Cozy
looking?”

“It just looks nice. I like to imagine you in there sleeping at night.”

I turn around to look at the  house and lean back against his car with him. “It
is
cozy looking. It’s so different from Courtney’s  house now. Sometimes it feels awful there, you know?”

“I think it’s a common feeling.” He tugs my wrist, pulling me closer to him. “Call Courtney, have her come over. Then maybe you’ll both feel better.”

So, right after Blake leaves, I text Courtney to come kayaking with me, and Gramps texts me that it’ll be another hour before he and Benji get home.

As soon as Courtney gets to my house, we grab life jackets and paddles and head to the long, wooden dock that juts out into the river. It’s about a half a mile to the bay and the ocean where Courtney’s dad died. It’s the same distance back to town, farther by car. The river is the quick way in and out. For a second, Courtney looks out to sea, and I know she’s got to be thinking about her dad because her eyes dull and her mouth droops down. She shakes it off, though, and it’s like I can actually witness her rearrange her features into something happy.