Dark and Shallow Lies(94)

But I couldn’t look way from those fire-and-ice blues, even if I wanted to.

“I didn’t mean to scare you, Grey.” His ocean-deep voice settles over me like a quilt.

“You didn’t,” I whisper.

And the world is perfectly calm when he kisses me.

After, though . . . somewhere in my mind . . . I see a massive wall of water slam into La Cachette. It finds the hiding place and swallows it whole in one big gulp.

Like a sea monster.

And Zale holds me tight as I scream.





We never went back. After Elizabeth.

No one did. Except maybe Willie Nelson.

La Cachette is under thirty feet of water now. It’s a permanent part of the river, and the Summer Children are scattered.

Six of us alive.

And six of us dead.

I never went back up to Little Rock, either. Dad drove my stuff down to Shreveport and Honey and I set up shop in New Orleans. We have a little bookstore on Royal Street. The Grey Rose. I’m a student at Tulane, too, and that keeps me pretty busy, but I help out as much as I can.

Full-time college student.

Part-time psychic.

It’s a strange life, and I love it. But my soul is still wet.

So tonight, I follow St. Ann Street all the way down to the park, where I can stand above the Mighty Mississippi.

And I face south.

Toward La Cachette.

I touch the blue pearl hanging around my neck. Spin Elora’s ring on my finger.

Three times.

Like making a wish.

And I long for the slow roll of the tides beneath my feet.

The crackle of electricity in the air.

But I’m nineteen now. And it’s been two summers.

I find a spot to sit. An empty bench in a crowded city. If I close my eyes and breathe in the river, I can almost imagine myself home.

It’s strange to think that the water flowing by below me will eventually make its way down to the hiding place. It will slip over the polished skeleton of the boardwalk. And the bones of the Mystic Rose.

It will wash over what’s left of Hart.

And Evie.

Whatever remains of Elora.

Dempsey Fontenot.

And Aeron.

I murmur their names to the river.

Spark their memories like a candle.

Because we were all flames lit from the same match.

And I’m the only one still burning.

So much has changed. It’s like Zale said. I’ve had to go on living in a completely different way. But I do know for sure now that there is magic in me. Not the kind my mama had. That beautiful, terrible power. But the kind that comes from walking through a storm.

And making it out the other side still breathing.

It’s getting late and the sun is sinking. I should be heading home for dinner. I stand up to go, but something stops me.

A sudden change in the air.

It hums and snaps like a living thing. Dances against my skin. I hear the echo of my name. Ocean-deep. And, when I turn around, those fire-and-ice eyes stop my heart from beating. Zale grins at me. Holds out his hand. And I whisper the words out loud.

“It’s okay. I’m not scared.”





I’ve spent most of my life working in the theatre, so when I first started thinking about writing, it seemed like such a solitary art. It didn’t take me long to realize how wrong I was. So many people have a hand in bringing a book to life that, in the end, it’s just as collaborative an act as putting on a play.

First and foremost, I need to thank my family. My mother and father raised their three children in a house where books and words were a part of our daily lives from the very beginning. My mother, Anna Myers, is the author of many wonderful middle grade novels, and my father, Paul Myers, was a poet. Their examples meant that, when I did decide to start writing, I knew it was actually a thing real people could do. Thanks especially to my mother, whose absolute faith in me prompted me to give this a try. And to my son, Paul, who wasn’t a bit surprised when I told him I was writing a book, because that’s just what people in our family do. Thanks also to my sister, Anna-Maria Lane, for always being up for a phone call or a lunch date when I needed a break, and to my brother, Ben Myers, an exceptional Oklahoma poet whose writing continually inspires me. My whole extended family deserves to be mentioned here, but I want to specifically to list my cousin, Becky Kephart, who is one of the most genuinely enthusiastic cheerleaders anyone could have, and our friend Lela Fox, who isn’t actually related to us but definitely deserves to be counted here among my family. Thanks to all of you for everything!

Thank you to my agent, Pete Knapp, who first read this book over the Fourth of July weekend, even though I didn’t really believe him when he said he would. Pete, I’m blown away by your passion for great stories, your clarity of vision, your kindness and generosity, and your absolute dedication to the authors you work with. To everyone else at Park & Fine, thank you! I can’t imagine a better literary home. I especially want to mention the foreign rights team, Abigail Koons and Ema Barnes.

A huge thank-you to my wonderful editor, Ruta Rimas at Razorbill, who saw from the very beginning what this story could be. Your enthusiasm for this book was unmatched. You made this whole process so easy and seamless, and this nervous debut author is eternally grateful for your guidance, your expertise, and your patience.

Thank you to so many other wonderful team members at Razorbill and Penguin Young Readers who made this possible, including Casey McIntyre, Felicity Vallence, Kaitlin Kneafsey, Gretchen Durning, James Akinaka, the wonderful marketing and sales teams, and all the rest who work behind the scenes like Jayne Ziemba and Abigail Powers, and Kristie Radwilowicz, who designed the gorgeous cover.