Languish by Alyxandra Harvey Page B

hand. We had access to the roof, which the landlord let us use as our private balcony. When I opened the window, he streaked out, racing to the spot where the crows usually hung out. They were safely asleep in a tree somewhere, and Elvis sat on his haunches and sulked.
    I flicked on the strings of Christmas-tree lights that draped over the railings. There was a plastic patio set in the center and one of those dining tents for shade. Two chairs were tucked inside, and dozens of silver-shot scarves hung from the ceiling poles, like some Berber desert palace. Mom was into all things Middle Eastern right now: belly-dance music, Afghan silver bracelets, and statues of ancient Egyptian gods. The planters around the tent were empty, except for a few dried-up stalks of mint and basil that hadn’t survived the drought. Even the lawns on the fancy side of town were brown from the water shortage.
    â€œEloise.”
    I squawked like a chicken being plucked bald. I had the most attractive reactions; I couldn’t think why I didn’t have a hundred boyfriends eager for my company.
    Still, when you found someone hiding in the shadows of your roof garden, a little screeching was healthy. Elvis hissed and darted past me to the safety of the apartment. Fat lot of good he was to me.
    â€œHow did you get up here?” The fairy lights caught the silver of his sword hilt. A
sword
hilt. “Did you
follow
me?” It was the guy from the ice cream parlor. His eyes were just as green, just as intense. I didn’t think I could beat him to the window, but I edged toward it surreptitiously. If I screamed, would someone down on the street hear me? My heart felt like a plucked guitar string. It was actually vibrating in my chest with fear. I did
not
want to be run through with a theater sword on my own patio.
    â€œI won’t hurt you,” he said softly, looking as awed as he had in the parking lot. He was still wearing a tunic, like an extra out of some medieval movie.
    I glared at him. “Then go away. My mom’s just in there, you know,” I lied.
    He raised his eyebrows. “Lady Jasmine is out front, kissing a man in a leather coat.”
    â€œYou know my mom?” Fear receded a little under a rush of hot indignation. I tried to cast a glance over the side of the rail to the sidewalk. I couldn’t see her, but I did see an entire flock of sparrows perched on the edge of the garbage bin.
    â€œI know your family. The blood of the Hart is famous.” The mention of blood made me decidedly nervous. “We honor Antonia’s lineage.”
    I gaped at him, well and truly confused. “Okay, you know my aunt too?”
    Aunt Antonia, the Hart wild child, had taken off again and we didn’t know where, but that was nothing new. Every spring, she left town and wouldn’t tell us where she was going. Sometimes we got postcards; sometimes we didn’t. Mom said Antonia had been like that since their sixteenth birthday. Mom might look like the boho free spirit, with her tattoos and combat boots, but she was actually the dependable twin. Go figure.
    â€œHave you seen her? Where is she?”
    â€œHiding until Samhain, as usual.”
    â€œWhat?” He said it so matter of factly, as if he was making sense. “Look, who are you? Because I’m this close to screaming.”
    â€œYour pardon, lady. I am Lucas Richelieu.” He looked like he was about to kiss my hand so I snatched it behind my back. “We must go,” he said again, urgently. “Anyone can see you now. ‘Tisn’t safe.”
    â€œBut going off with some stranger in leather pants is?” I crossed my arms. “Go away, Lucas Richelieu.” He looked so taken aback I nearly laughed. “You didn’t really think I was just going to blindly go off with you, did you?” He’d obviously never met my mother, even if he did know her name. Not falling for pretty boys was one of the first