Troy-guard. He actually pronounced it right. Momma says even though it’s a made-up word, it’s the Louisiana French way of saying it, like how Calliope Street is “Kal-ee-oh-pee” around here. Our three families use the name because we like each other… or something. I don’t know. There’s more to it, but Nox is the one who wants to follow in the “Phantom of the French Quarter’s” footsteps. They tried to teach me all that boring stuff, but I’d rather dance.

  “Is this real?” Benoit scoffs. “It sounds like Raymonda.”

  The ballet we did last summer had fun costumes and choreography, but the story of a rich guy kidnapping a girl who’s already engaged felt make-believe. Until now.

  “They can’t really be talking about marrying you off,” Nox mumbles behind me. “Over my dead body.” He crosses his arms like Daddy does when he says the same thing.

  Up in box five, our dad hums thoughtfully. “Don’t you have your own secret club to back you up?”

  Mr. Fury huffs. “The fact you know about it is why I didn’t go to them.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Fury,” Uncle Kian says smugly. “We make it our business to know other peoples’ business.”

  “And that’s my point. All of us have our own territories. Bordeauxs have the Deep South. McKennons hold the West, Lucianos, the Northeast. The Furys and Wildes control Appalachia and the Southeastern Coast, with the Furys barely hanging on. For now. We’re being chopped down branch by branch, and the Wildes keep coming. Everyone wants the throne, and I won’t be the one to bend the knee. They’re already pushing into Mississippi and Pennsylvania, Bordeaux and Luciano territory. You don’t want that. Trust me.”

  “My cousin controls the Northeast,” Uncle Sev corrects. “I’m no longer a player on the board.”

  “What the fuck, Severino?” Uncle Kian growls.

  “Look, I’m on your side up until the point my Brylie has to marry a monster.”

  “A monster?” Mr. Fury snarls.

  “He has a point,” Uncle Kian agrees. “You can’t tell me the one with those crazy eyes is entirely sane. No way I’m letting him marry my girl.”

  “They’re not monsters.” Queenie’s soft voice is harder now. “Orion, Dashiel, Hatton… they’re boys.”

  King’s tone roughens too. “And each of them have been through more in their lives individually than your pampered princesses have combined. You can’t imagine what we’ve lost to this feud. My own sister—” he chokes.

  The sketchpad boy scowls up at the box. The tablet held by the boy beside him goes dark. The one who hasn’t stopped looking at me flicks the knife open one last time, then crosses his arms, breaking eye contact as he leans back.

  His gaze moves to the doors like he’s waiting for an intruder to burst through. Which is kinda funny since Bordeaux Conservatory is neutral ground. Everybody respects that rule. It’s the safest place in the world.

  I drag my eyes back to box five.

  Queenie murmurs words I can’t catch, then speaks louder, gentle but firm.

  “King lost his sister recently in a Wilde retaliation against another Fury branch. That’s why we’re here. This feud won’t just defeat the King branch. Our enemies want to wipe us off the map. Everyone knows our ambitions up there. They know we intend to make our blue mountains safer. Still lawless, in our Fury way, but built on family, community, and land. Not shaped by greed or bought by power-hungry men clawing for control. We need your help.”

  There’s a moment of silence that reminds me of a funeral.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” my dad finally replies before his voice turns shockingly cold. “But we’re not handing over our daughters as sacrifices to keep your feud in check. You losing a family member, no matter how tragic, is only more reason to protect ours.”

  “He’s right,” Uncle Kian adds. “My wife and I abolished arranged marriage in our own society over a decade ago, before we formed the Troisgarde. We won’t start them again. We won’t take away our daughter’s say in her own life.”

  Lucy finds my hand and I squeeze. I grab Brylie’s too. Even though she hates this kind of thing, I’m not surprised when she grips mine fiercely. She’s soft sometimes. Especially when she’s scared.

  Benoit’s right. All of this sounds like the ballets we dance in. But in real life, there’s no way our parents will make us marry someone we don’t like. Right?

  “You will honor the Troisgarde-Fury pact,” King insists, each word heavier than the last. “Or are you not men of your word?”

  “Of course we are,” Kian says. “But a drunken bet is a different animal. Hell, we’d give you anything else you fecking well please⁠—”

  “It’ll be my boys or no one!” The shout ricochets from box five. “Marriage is the only power in our world that means something anymore. The legacies made from them are sacred. The Troisgarde-Fury Pact means survival for us all. We won’t just protect the bride. We’ll inherit the right and privilege to defend her family, and they’ll protect ours in turn. I won’t risk you forming that kind of loyalty with men who intend to hurt me and mine.”

  Lucy’s hand tightens, and she huddles against me. Even Brylie moves closer. Sweet Benoit and Nox stand as tall as they can, like they’re ready to fight.

  The staring boy’s eyes are back on me.

  “You’re treating them like pawns,” Aunt Lacey argues.

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Mrs. McKennon. They’ll rule the Fury kingdom. The King kin will make them queens in their own right.” His voice softens. “Like I did when I claimed Ruth. My Queenie.”

  “Don’t worry, cher,” Benoit murmurs, squeezing my shoulder, making me realize I’d been fidgeting. “Nox and I will protect you with our lives, I promise.”

  I nearly snort. “Don’t be so dramatic, Benny.”

  He scowls. “Well, if this guy tries anything, Sabine would be the first to tear him in two.”

  Benoit is as loyal as they come, especially to the woman who found him after the last big hurricane destroyed his home. My dad’s security manager has never stopped helping him look for his parents. But in the meantime, one of my grandmas, Madam G, adopted him.

  And he’s right. Sabine and her police officer wife run this town when my parents are touring for Momma’s shows. They’ll protect us. Everyone will.

  “Pawns. Queens. Pretty words disguising ugly threats,” my dad rumbles. “No wonder you have no alliances. You’ve got a lot of nerve.”

  “What I have is desperation. You think I want to sell off my sons? Of course not. But by being here, calling on our pact, I’m admitting that I can’t protect my own family anymore.”

  His voice grows more pained. “I want my boys to have what my wife and I have almost more than anything. But what I want most for them, for everyone, is to stay alive. My boys will do whatever it takes to protect our family, your families, and the innocents in this feud.”

  No one answers, the auditorium quiet as a graveyard.

  King’s barely controlled anger edges back in. “What’s your motto? Blood of three, power of many? Your families need these alliances too. You think the Wildes aren’t a threat, but they will be. Dealing with me is the lesser evil, I assure you. Your daughters will either be protected by all of us or left up for the slaughter by a ruthless Wilde.”

  The tension in the auditorium thickens, making it hard to breathe. Then my father’s deep voice chills me to the bone.

  “You’ve threatened our children for the last time. If a Fury sets foot in any of our territory again, it’ll be the last thing you do. Are we clear?”

  “You can say that a-fecking-gain,” Uncle Kian says, followed by Uncle Sev’s “Sí” and what I’m sure is an Italian curse word.

  There’s a heavy sigh and the creak of a seat. A man with black hair and a beard steps into the light, his expression unforgiving. The boys look exactly like him.

  Below him, another squeak echoes in the auditorium. A woman appears from one of the side doors and glides down the stage-left aisle with the grace of a dancer. All three boys glance over their shoulders the instant she appears, before the door even closes. Her blonde hair curls at her shoulders, and her long black dress flutters around her feet. Her eyes brighten as she finds the boys.

  Queenie Fury.

  She ruffles the sketchpad boy’s hair, and one by one, each lifts his chin, waiting for the light peck on his forehead without even looking, like the gesture is so familiar they hardly notice anymore. When she’s finished, the boy who stared at me smiles up at her.

  His smile. It’s so sweet. Something I never would’ve expected on such a surly boy.

  As they gather their things and get up—gosh, they’re so freaking tall—they surround their mom in practiced formation. The boy with the knife takes the lead, the one with the tablet follows at the end, and the youngest with the sketchpad gravitates to her side. Their heads are on a swivel as they move through the auditorium.

  They’re not just walking with her. They’re protecting her.

  Her warm eyes flick to mine, trapping me with her gaze. For a split second, I’m afraid she’ll out us. Instead, she smiles so wide I can’t help grinning back until hers falls into something… sad. Like she feels sorry for me. Or worried? I don’t know, but the look is gone before I can decide, and King’s voice grabs my attention again.

  “You have until their twenty-second birthdays.”

  “What are you talking about?” my dad growls.

  “My boys won’t make a move before then, that’s my promise. Not unless the girls are in danger. Otherwise, as soon as the clock strikes midnight on your daughters’ twenty-second birthdays, you’ll honor the Troisgarde-Fury Pact, and my boys will have their wives. I warn you. Once the first birthday arrives, the Wildes will use brutal tactics to interfere. If that happens, I won’t stop my sons from doing what they must.”

  “Twenty-two?” Uncle Sev asks. “That seems arbitrary.”

  My dad grunts his agreement. “Most rules do until they’re followed.”

  “Or fought over,” Mr. Fury adds. There’s a beat before he continues. “You’re lucky I didn’t say eighteen, since time is of the essence. The Troisgarde-Fury Pact has already made waves⁠—”

  “You told people?” Uncle Kian growls. “Bets between honorable men are kept private.”

  “No, I didn’t tell anyone, but there were more than just us in your gambling Red Room that night. In any case, I’ll spread rumors that the birthday clause is for twenty-five. If I know the Wildes, they’ll take the bait and bide their time just to fuck with us. Our families will have already united before the Wildes realize they’ve been played. I’m counting on you to keep your daughters safe until then. The moment my boys can protect them, they will. They understand the stakes and will guard your daughters with their lives.”

  The boy at the front of the line—the first to defend his mom—stops at the doors and locks eyes with me again. It feels like his warning as his father speaks.

  “Your princesses shall wear the Fury crown. Because without us, we’ll all die by the Wilde sword.”

  Queenie wraps her arm around the boy, turning him toward the door. His eyes leave mine, and his mom gives me a small wave before she and the Fury boys slip out of the auditorium.

  Above them, another door opens and closes. King Fury must have left too, because I hear Uncle Ben’s voice for the first time.

  “It’s war if you break this oath, Sol.”

  There’s a pause.

  “Then it’s war.”

  Present Day

  Twenty-eight.

  Twenty-nine.

  Thirty.

  My heartbeat races, my thighs shake, sweat prickles my brow. I’m sure my smile is blinding every time I turn and the spotlights zero in on me as I fling my leg around in a perfect spin. I’m dancing the best I ever have, rising up on my pointe shoes. Flying.

  Thirty-one.

  This is it.

  Thirty-two.

  And I land the final fouetté during the last performance of my life, tears in my eyes.

  The auditorium erupts in chaotic applause as the rest of the senior class floods the stage, cheering and hugging me. Our celebration is barely audible over the orchestra blasting “When the Saints Go Marching In,” and it stays lost in the music when someone from sound switches on an early ‘00s graduation song. As soon as it starts playing, the orchestra leaves their instruments in the pit to hop onto the stage and join the huge pile-up.

  I somehow hold back my tears, but it’s hard. We wrapped our college career with the show that was the most fun we’ve ever had performing. And now? It’s over.

  Technically, we graduated months ago, and the point of Bon Temps Senior Night is to usher in the freshman class. The seniors who stuck around after graduation work on the production all summer before we scatter across the world to chase our dreams. We’re welcoming the new students, but it’s also a goodbye. To college, New Orleans, and each other. And, damn, was it a good time.

  Our rehearsals usually consisted of running over parts we already knew by heart, then partying on Bourbon before heading to Frenchman Street. Partying instead of practicing meant tonight wasn’t our best work, but this audience of new students, friends, and family would’ve cheered if we’d played patty-cake for the last hour and a half. Most were probably one drink away from being trashed before the five-dollar cash bar opened.

  Us performers had our fair share of alcohol, but I only had one shot, and that was just because Brylie and Lucy twisted my arm. No way was I doing thirty-two freaking fouettés, one of ballet’s hardest turns, while drunk. Sure, I’ve done that a time or twelve for funsies in soft shoes, but en pointe? Hell no. That’s a broken leg waiting to happen. Broken toes have been enough for me, thank you very much.

  Flowers pelt the stage, and a bouquet of red and white roses bounces off Lucy’s head, knocking her ribbon headband askew as she squeezes into the crowd. Brylie and Benoit find their way to the center and tug Lucy inside as she scowls. Or scowls as much as she can. Lucy’s the nicest of us and wouldn’t hurt a fly.

  “Watch it!” Brylie and I defend her in unison, although my tone is much gentler than Bry’s husky shout. None of it matters, really, because popcorn, pecans, and Mardi Gras beads are flying from all directions too.

  As I try to find the culprit, I spy box five instead. I’m not surprised to see Momma dabbing her eyes with one of Dad’s handkerchiefs.

  What does surprise me is that she only has her best friend, Uncle Jaime, and his husband, Robert, beside her.

  Where’s Dad?

  I frown, until a heavy arm slaps over my shoulders and a hard hand musses up my hair, knocking my black feathered veil off my head.

  “Nox! You butthead! You’re lucky Benny and I even let you back here.”

  Nox, Brylie, and Lucy shouldn’t be backstage since they’re not Bordeaux Conservatory seniors. But Bon Temps Senior Night is always a madhouse, and no one cares so long as you’re having a good time. As I fix my hair, though, I’m regretting it now.

  My twin chuckles. “Now, now, that’s no way to respect your elders.”

  “Seven minutes does not deserve elder status.”

  “Technically a whole day,” he points out with a grin.

  “By a calendar day,” I counter. Being born at 11:53 P.M., today’s Nox’s birthday. But as soon as the clock strikes twelve, it’s mine. We’ll have a countdown to switch the party over, and I can’t wait to lord it over him like he does me. “Now get your ugly ass off me!”

  I escape his clutches and glare at his grin. Aside from not having any scars, he’s the spitting image of our father, six-foot-four, black hair, fair skin. Although, we have no idea where his golden hazel eyes came from.

  “If I’m ugly, you’re ugly,” he cackles.

  “Are you calling Momma ugly?” I joke.

  “Nope.” He smirks. “Can’t see the resemblance whatsoever. Your feral side gets in the way.”

  All I can think to do is stick out my tongue, and he snorts. Even after all our low-key bullying, I’m still terrible at comebacks. Plus, he’s kind of not wrong.

  Other than our eyes, Momma and I could be the ones who are twins. Mine are more like a clear lake compared to her moonlight ones, but we’re both short and fair-skinned. I’ve done my best to look different where I can—gotten tattoos, straightened my unruly curls and dyed them cherry cola red. After the thousandth time of being asked to sing an aria instead of perform an arabesque, a girl can get a complex.

  Living in the spotlight, spending my life here in New Orleans at Bordeaux Conservatory—totally not awkward that it’s my family’s school, by the way—and never leaving anywhere without my overprotective parents, I’ve always been in Scarlett Bordeaux’s stunning shadow. I’m ready to break free, and I have just the plan.

  We visited Appalachia, where Momma’s extended family used to live, a lot growing up. I loved the green and blue mountains. Hiking through the woods was so different from running through the Garden District’s pungent flowers. That freedom calls to me more than the stage ever has, much to my helicopter father’s dismay.

  Which makes it strange that he’s not here, watching the last performance of my life.

  “Back up, everyone! Curtain, curtain!” someone calls, and we all move in unison to let the curtain drop and give our final bows.

  A song blares through the speakers as each senior group goes out for a bow. First the reluctant sound and backstage crew. Then the costume designers in their favorite pieces, the orchestra, who raise their instruments as they’re called. Next, the directors, actors, singers, and dancers begin to take their individual turns.

  This production was nothing short of chaotic. The playbill credited Phantom of the Opera, Moulin Rouge!, Sweeney Todd, Alice in Wonderland, Cinderella, Giselle, Raymonda, Manon, and Sleeping Beauty, all remixed into a gothic contemporary piece created by the senior playwrights.

  I couldn’t pick one favorite dance, so I choreographed a mashup of Giselle’s Mad Scene and my Black Swan duet with Benoit. I’ve even combined costumes with my Swan Lake feather bodice, a black feather crown, a veil, and a flowy, tulle romantic tutu that lands below my knees. I skipped the pounds of tattoo concealer I normally wear, so the gorgeous colored skull pieces on my upper right shoulder blade and left thigh are proudly on display. Any other tattoo and Dad would’ve freaked, but skulls are our family symbol. Pointe shoes finish the look, which I’ll miss in a masochistic kind of way. I don’t know if pain’s my kink, per se, but maybe if I ever lose my virginity, I’ll find out.

 

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