Siren's Tears
Ridley 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.
Acknowledgments
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:
OUR BELOVED AGENTS, SARAH BURNES AND COURTNEY GATEWOOD, WITH HELP FROM REBECCA GARDNER, FROM THE GERNERT COMPANY, who continue to shepherd Gatlin County to new and faraway places no piece of pecan fried chicken has ever seen. SALLY WILCOX AT CAA, for bringing Gatlin County to a town where nobody would ever touch a piece of fried anything.
OUR BRILLIANT TEAM AT LITTLE, BROWN BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS: OUR EDITORS, JENNIFER BAILEY HUNT AND JULIE SCHEINA, OUR ART DIRECTOR, DAVID CAPLAN, OUR MARKETING GURU, LISA ICKOWICZ, OUR QUEEN OF LIBRARY SERVICES, VICTORIA STAPLETON, OUR PUBLICITY GURU, MELANIE CHANG, AND OUR PUBLICIST, JESSICA KAUFMAN, who are as good at what they do as Amma is at crossword puzzles.
OUR AMAZING FOREIGN PUBLISHERS AND EDITORS, ESPECIALLY AMANDA PUNTER, CECILE TEROUANNE, SUSANNE STARK, MYRIAM GALAZ, AS WELL AS THOSE WE HAVE YET TO MEET, who have welcomed us into their houses and their countries. OUR#1 SPANISH FAN, AUTHOR JAVIER RUESCAS, who not only blurbed our book in Spain but spread the word.
OUR FAVORITE READER, DAPHNE DURHAM, 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.
OUR RESIDENT TEEN CLASSICIST, EMMA PETERSON, who translated Latin Casts while cramming for AP Vergil. OUR FRIGHTENING TEEN EDITOR, MAY PETERSON, who no doubt will go on to terrify many other writers in the future.
OUR BOSS PHOTOGRAPHER, ALEX HOERNER, whose photo of us looks nothing like us, so we love it. VANIA STOYANOVA, for her beautiful trailer, amazing photos, and her work as co-administrator of our U.S. fansite. YVETTE VASQUEZ, for reading our drafts a hundred times, blogging our tour, and acting as co-administrator of our U.S. fansite. THE CREATORS OF OUR INTERNATIONAL FANSITES IN FRANCE, SPAIN, AND BRAZIL. ASHLY STOHL, who designed bookplates and invites, built websites, and took photos that brought the South to life for readers around the world. ANNA MOORE, for building our Beautiful Creatures site 2.0. AUTHOR GABRIEL PAUL, who creates all the brilliant online games for our tours and promotions.
OUR CASTER GIRLS 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, AND 25. You are the heart of The Caster Chronicles and always will be.
OUR YA WRITING MENTORS, WP AUTHORS, BOOK BLURBERS, TRAILER MAKERS, FANSITE DESIGNERS, FELLOW DEBUT AUTHORS, BLOGGERS, NING/GOODREADS FRIENDS, AND, OF COURSE, OUR TWEETHEARTS. 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.
OUR FAMILIES
ALEX, NICK, AND STELLA GARCIA AND LEWIS, EMMA, MAY, AND KATE PETERSON AND ALL OUR RESPECTIVE MOMS, DADS, SISTERS, BROTHERS, NIECES, NEPHEWS, SISTERS-IN-LAW, PARTY-THROWING COUSINS, AND FRIENDS. FROM AUNT MARY TO COUSIN JANE, you have always been there for us. STOHLS, RACCAS, MARINS, GARCIAS, PETERSONS: By now you have every right to hate us, but oddly you don't.
DEBY LINDEE AND SUSAN AND JOHN RACCA, for housing us on our many Southern field trips. BILL YOUNG AND DAVID GOLIA, for being our knights in shining armor. INDIA'S AND NATALIA'S DADDY, for helping us when we were supposed to be helping him. SAUNDRA MITCHELL, for everything, as always.