BAD WICKED TWISTED: A Briarcrest Academy Box Set (86 page)

“Fairy dust is not real. This I know.”

—from the journal of Violet St. Lyons

BOOM!

I, Violet St. Lyons, who once believed herself the luckiest girl in the world, was born on the same day that the Violette-Sells comet was discovered. My parents, two avid stargazers, said it was a sign of how special I was and promptly named me Violet. They claimed my life had been blessed with fairy dust.

At the very least, comet residue.

I’d foolishly believed it for eighteen years, until the moment of my death.

Which was now.

Boom!
Another explosion rocked the plane and metal ripped away as a section of the aircraft to my right vanished. Luggage flew through the air. People disappeared. The mom with the baby who’d sat in the aisle across from us—gone. The redheaded flight attendant who’d been collecting trash—gone. Disembodied screams echoed from the surrounding passengers as my own scream took up most of the space in my head. Air sucked at us viciously from the outside as a tornado of people banged around the space and one by one got pulled out into the swirling abyss.

I watched, helplessly transfixed, as I sat between my parents, gripping each of their hands as the plane we’d boarded six hours earlier for Dublin spiraled toward the Atlantic Ocean. I was going to die. My mother was already dead, a twisted piece of shrapnel sticking grotesquely from her chest as her head lolled around her neck. Blood had already soaked her shirt, yet I refused to let go of her hand. She’d be okay. We were always okay. We were the St. Lyons family of Manhattan, an icon of old money wealth with deep political ties. Page six of the
New
York Times
featured pictures of us on a monthly basis. We couldn’t die on a plane.

Reality dawned as we plummeted. The yellow breathing apparatus dropped and dangled in my face, taunting me with its pointlessness. Fire and black smoke boiled in front of us where the cockpit had been, and my mind recognized that the pilots had to be dead. Just a few minutes ago, they’d come over the intercom and announced that the plane was making its descent into Dublin Airport exactly on schedule.

Then the first explosion had gone off.

Bits of debris flew around, narrowly missing me. My elderly father grabbed my hand and squeezed, his face drawn back in a horrible grimace. Fear and then horror flickered across his face as he saw Mother, but there was no time to comfort him.

Paralyzed in my seat, we spun like a drunken top, and a part of my brain noticed the sun was rising, its pink tinge lending a soft glow, catching the reflection of clouds and making them silver-lined. The rocky coast of Ireland glittered in the distance. Mocking me. We’d been headed there to celebrate my eighteenth birthday.

Just then my violin case flew past my head from the overhead compartment and crashed against the wall of the plane. Shards flew. I shuddered and wanted to vomit. God, help us. We were here because of me. Our deaths were my fault. I spared a glance at the diamond promise ring Geoff had given me before we’d left. Would the Mayor of New York’s son go on without me?

The air was turbulent yet thin, and my chest tightened as dizziness pulled at me. I resisted. Had to stay awake. Had to be with my dad. I was younger, stronger, faster. My eyes went to the gaping hole in the plane. Had to think ahead. Plan. Water would fill up the plane on impact, ensuring we’d sink rapidly.

My fear escalated as the ocean rushed at us, its surface choppy and ominous. I took in a giant breath and braced myself. We hit at an angle, the plane a torpedo as it sliced into the sea. Daddy disappeared, ejected by the impact, and I yanked on my seat belt, unclicking it to go after him. Heart thundering, I sent a final look at my mother. I wanted to take her with me, but she was gone.

Water everywhere, bubbling and gurgling as it filled up the plane. Salt water stung my eyes. People floated by, some alive as they floundered for the opening. I kept my gaze off the dead ones.
Focus. Get out. Only seconds left.

I swam from my seat and fought my way out of the large hole in the plane, lungs exploding. Burning. I’d been under too long.

Daddy!
I caught a glimpse of his red shirt above me and kicked harder.

Up, up, up. Must get up. My arms moved. My legs kicked. Excruciating pain. Ignore it. Almost there. So close that I could see the daylight breaking through the water.

The hottest fire I’ve ever known lit in my chest. Scorching.

Air
. Just want to breathe. Just get to the top.
Please.

My body rebelled and I inhaled and swallowed water, the burn racing down my throat making it spasm as I tried to cough it out. I struggled but took in more and more, the cold liquid filling my lungs.

Dark spots filled my eyes. This was drowning.

Exhausted.

Done.

My body twitched. I grew disoriented.

I let go of the fight. My hands floated in front of me.

Oblivion.

Darkness.

No bright lights, no tunnel.

No heaven, no mother, no father.

No comets.

No fairy dust.

“She was music with skin.”

—Sebastian Tate

Two years later

WHERE WAS SHE?

I stood at the edge of the patio and adjusted my binoculars, spying on the twenty-something girl who lived in the Spanish-style mansion behind us in the Hollywood Hills. And by mansion, I mean a house three times the size of ours with a red slate roof and a huge archaic-looking door on the front. Impressive. The Maserati out front was sick too. Chick was rich, living the dream.

She was also excruciatingly beautiful with her long dark hair and badass violin.

But
who
was she? A Hollywood celebrity like me? Somehow, I didn’t think so—mostly because she was always alone.

Last night from my hilltop view, I’d watched her eat a solitary dinner out on her patio, taking in how she sliced into her chicken and then chewed, her head bobbing to the music on her stereo. She’d added a serving of cheese puffs to her plate without a flicker of remorse, and for dessert she’d eaten an entire sleeve of Oreos. Her evening drink was a sniffer of tequila. I didn’t judge. Living on the road for five years, I’d had my own share of strange meals.

She was odd.

Since we’d moved in a few weeks ago, I’d concocted all kinds of theories about her. She was a porn star who’d retired and chosen to live out her life in solitude; she was a musician holed up in a mansion, composing an opus that would hypnotize the entire world; or my favorite, she’d killed her last boyfriend with an axe over his refusal to share his cheese puffs and she was now using the house next door as her hideout. Crazy to dwell on someone I didn’t know, but there was something about her loneliness that struck a nerve.

My bandmate Spider thought I was just bored. Maybe.

I tapped my foot.

What was taking her so long?

“Is she naked? Otherwise, what’s the bloody point in spying on her?” Spider asked me in a stage whisper, coming up behind me in the darkness on the patio. The Englishman sipped on his Jack and Coke.

“She’s not out yet,” I said. “And, it’s not really spying. I just like her music.”

He snorted. “Uh-huh. She’s fucking hot, isn’t she?”

Hot as hell—but I wasn’t sharing. I was surprisingly territorial when it came to Violin Girl.

“I think some clubbing would cure you real fast, mate.” He did a pirouette dance move that was straight out of our latest music video.

“Dude. Not tonight.” I needed a break. The paparazzi were all over me now that I was “fake dating” Hollywood starlet Blair Storm to garner good press.

He threw his hands up to the sky. “You’re
Sebastian Tate
, the lead singer of the Vital Rejects whose YouTube video just clocked in at two hundred million views. We’re famous, and all you want to do is wait for her to come out.” He shook his head. “It’s right odd how you fancy her.”

I laughed at his theatrics. I suspected he was drunk. “Coming from the guy with a blue pompadour,” I said.

“Don’t be jealous.” He smoothed his newly dyed hair delicately. “Seriously, I liked you better when you got obsessed with
The
Vampire Diaries
.”

I snorted. “Ha. Shut the fuck up.
You
love that show.”

He grinned. “Never. I hate blood suckers. Fucking pussies.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I watch macho shows, like wrestling and NASCAR,” he insisted.

“Bullshit. You DVR everything on The CW.” I snickered.

He lit a cig and sent me a thoughtful look. “You know, I haven’t had a shag in a while. You think Violin Girl would like me?”

I inhaled sharply. “She’s really not your type. I suggest you stick with your groupies.”

“If she’s female, she’s my type.” He waggled his eyes at me.

An image of her playing for him came to mind, and possessiveness zipped up my spine. I slammed my beer down on the patio table. “Keep in mind, we don’t know
who
she is or if she’s got a boyfriend. She could be married, and we don’t need another scandal.”

His lips quirked, and I suspected he’d played me all along.

I narrowed my eyes at him. I loved the blue-haired freak, but he could be a pain in the ass.

He popped me on the arm. “Wake up and smell the sexual tension, mate. You dig her, which is the most interest you’ve shown in a girl in
five
years. I can’t help but be fascinated.”

I shrugged. Whatever.

“Just go meet her. Knock on her door, pretend you’re lost, chat her up. Hell, take Monster with you. Girls love dogs, especially cute white Chihuahuas with ADHD.”

“
You’re
giving me dating advice?”

He paused and then grimaced. “Scary, huh?”

Spider was a notorious womanizer and generally treated girls like shit.

I sighed. “I don’t want to screw up the Blair thing.”

Spider got quiet, disapproval radiating off him. “Blair’s a piranha. You must really want this zombie movie.”

I nodded. “It’s directed by Dan Hing. Apparently, he had a bad experience on his set with a rock star-turned-actor and despises them. But, if I’m dating America’s Sweetheart, then I look like Mr. Nice Guy.” I paused. “Your arrest last year in Vegas didn’t help our image,” I said, reminding him of the heckler whose nose he’d busted. “We’ve had a shit-ton of bad press and I’m trying to fix it.”

He jutted out his chin, and I let out a sigh and rubbed my temple. Acting like his dad was wearing thin.

He changed gears. “Emma sent me an email asking if we’re going to the Briarcrest Academy reunion in September. Are we in or what?”

“She’s in charge?” I bit out.

He nodded.

Great
. Old feelings of betrayal swept over me as I remembered the fool I’d been for her in high school. She’d used me to make her asshole ex jealous, but the kicker had been she’d gotten pregnant—
and hadn’t known who the father was
. Those had been the worst six months of my life waiting for the DNA test to come back.
Me
a father at eighteen? It had seemed like the end of the world.