CALLIOPE WAS QUITE pleased with her decision to come to the Hudson Conservancy Ball with Brice Anderton.
She and her mom had always loved making an entrance: the way all eyes in a room inevitably circled toward them when they arrived at a party; especially in new cities, where people wondered in hushed whispers who they were and where they’d come from. Every now and then Elise made a halfhearted attempt at keeping a lower profile—“We don’t want to be too notorious, it isn’t safe,” she would remind Calliope. As if she didn’t love the attention even more than her daughter did.
By now, Calliope thought she was used to attracting that sort of attention. But she hadn’t been prepared for the reaction to her and Brice walking into the underwater ballroom together.
She hoped at least some of the glances were because they looked so striking together, both of them tall and lithe and dark-haired, with haughty smiles. But she admitted to herself, with some reluctance, that Brice was the more intriguing of the pair. Everyone’s eyes kept darting toward him with undisguised interest. They all clearly knew who he was, followed his various misadventures, wondered about the new girl on his arm.
And it definitely caused Atlas to take notice. Calliope had made sure to flirt with him—no thanks to Avery’s inept attempts at joining the conversation, and her weird insistence on dragging Atlas away. Calliope had dealt with protective siblings and parents before, especially when she tried to con sheltered private school kids. But she had to say that Avery was one of the worst she’d ever encountered.
She lifted her head with proud purpose and surveyed the underwater domain, glittering with money and status and connections. Her mom was here too, with Nadav and his daughter, Livya. Calliope had chatted with them for a few minutes earlier. Elise kept glancing at her with raised eyebrows, clearly hoping that Calliope would take Livya off her hands so she could focus better on Nadav, but Calliope hadn’t been in the mood to play nice. As far as she could tell, Livya was a pale, insipid bore, and babysitting her was a waste of Calliope’s talents.
She stood now with Brice and a group of his friends. They were telling a story about an old prank, where they’d graffitied a bunch of hovers in writing you could see only on a certain contacts setting. It sounded lame, but Calliope joined in their laughter anyway. She glanced over at Brice, who was laughing too, but standing a little apart from the rest of them, with the sleek self-assurance that comes from being wealthy and drunk in a bubble at the bottom of a river.
The music changed, and Brice stepped forward to take her hand. “Dance with me,” he asked, more a demand than a request. Calliope set down the drink she’d been holding for show—she was trying to keep a level head tonight—and followed.
Why not flirt with Brice a little? She definitely couldn’t con him; it was too risky, given that he’d almost recognized her. Of course, Atlas was risky too, since he’d already rejected her once. But he wasn’t about to blow her cover.
And now that she knew how rich he was, part of Calliope was determined to steal something from him, just to say she’d conned the boy on the thousandth floor. God, what a story it would be. Not that she could ever brag about it to anyone, except her mom.
When they reached the dance floor, Brice turned around, moving his hands confidently around her waist. Overhead, holographic jellyfish glowed like floating candles, chased by the occasional neon shark. The dappled blue light played over Brice’s features, his aristocratic nose and sharply carved cheekbones. It wasn’t a face that had been made for gentle expressions.
“Calliope.” Brice pronounced it with that same laughing irreverence, and she wondered again how much of the truth he really knew. “Tell me about London.”
“Why?” she challenged. “You’ve probably been to London dozens of times. There’s nothing I could add that would change your opinion of it.”
“Maybe it’s not my opinion of London I’m looking to revise, but my opinion of you.”
She gave a little spin to gain herself some time, letting the folds of her dress fly out around her body and then fall sculpturally behind her. “Well, now I’m curious about your opinion so far.”
“Please. I know better than to walk into a trap like that.”
Brice pulled her nearer as the music picked up speed. Calliope wanted to retreat a step—this was too close, she could feel his heartbeat through the layers of his tux, could smell his cologne, light and just a little bit astringent—but his hand was playing idly with the zipper on the back of her dress, and her breath seemed stuck in her throat.
“Since you’re so curious, I went to St. Margaret’s. An all-girls boarding school in SoTo,” she volunteered, hoping to redirect Brice’s attention.
“I have to say I’m surprised. I wouldn’t have pegged you as the boarding school type.”
Calliope’s thoughts turned inexplicably to Justine Houghton. She’d probably spent her teenage years at a boarding school, being disciplined and monitored—while Calliope had traveled the whole world. And now she was here, spinning on an underwater dance floor, surrounded by sumptuous gowns and laughter and the unmistakable flash of diamonds.
It was clear to Calliope which of them had come out on top.
“I’m not really the type to do anything,” she answered Brice.
He smiled slowly, his hand skating lower down her dress. “I’m aware. You’re nothing like the girls I usually meet.”
“I remember, all the mysterious girls you meet on your travels.” As they turned slowly about the dance floor, Calliope felt the gazes of other couples brushing over them like a hand tracing down her cheek. She gave her head a vain toss, letting her hair spill over one shoulder, and bared her teeth in a smile.
But then she felt Brice’s eyes on her again, and it seemed that he could read straight through every movement of her body. Her smile became less fierce. “Where do you go all the time, anyway?” she challenged. She doubted he’d traveled anywhere she hadn’t also been. She was a professional.
“Everywhere. I’m a walking cliché. The boy who inherits lots of money, then promptly attempts to spend it all on expensive trips and gifts to himself.”
He’d delivered the line with styled indifference, yet for some reason it seemed melancholy to Calliope. She wondered what he would say if he knew that she did the same thing, just with other people’s money. “Why is that?”
Brice shrugged. “I guess it’s what happens when you lose both parents at age sixteen.”
Calliope’s breath caught. “Oh,” she managed, a little stupidly. Why hadn’t she caught that on the feeds when she’d stalked him earlier? She was losing her edge, she thought; but everything to do with Brice was making her feel muddled and uncertain. She had a panicked sense that she’d missed a lot about him. She needed to be careful.
Just then, Atlas stormed past. Calliope wavered. This was her chance—Atlas was here and alone, no Avery to interfere. It would be the work of a moment to go strike up a conversation with him, pick up their flirtation from earlier tonight.
Brice hadn’t missed the way her eyes darted instantly toward the other boy. “Really? You and Fuller? I wouldn’t have guessed.” He shook his head disappointedly. “I just don’t understand what all you girls see in him.”
Calliope summoned her most imperious look, the one she’d learned from Justine all those years ago. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she declared. And what did he mean by “all you girls”? Just how many had Atlas been involved with, exactly?
“He’s too boring for you,” Brice went on, as if she hadn’t spoken. “Don’t get me wrong, I like the guy. He’s just plain vanilla, and you’re so … complicated.”
This was exactly why she shouldn’t be spending time around Brice. He was too insightful, too careful and calculating; nowhere near emotional or naïve enough to fall for a con. If anything, he was so observant that he might have already realized what she was up to.
She needed to get away, before it was too late.
“I don’t know what you mean. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Calliope said stiffly, and beelined in the direction she had last seen Atlas.
He was standing alone at a high-top table, nursing a drink, hunched over as if to ward off anyone who might consider approaching. Calliope squared her shoulders and took a deep breath.
“Hey there,” she murmured, sidling over.
Atlas seemed momentarily bewildered, as if he’d forgotten where he was. Then his face broke out into that familiar off-kilter smile, a little wider than usual. “Calliope. How’s your night been?”
“Informative,” she said mysteriously. “What about yours?”
“Not what I expected.” He was still glancing down into his drink. He wasn’t even looking at her, she thought in mounting frustration, and if he didn’t ever look at her, how would he notice how gorgeous and alone she was, right now when he seemed to need someone most?
There was only one thing to do. Calliope reached across the table for Atlas’s drink and drained it in a single sip, lifting her head so that he could admire the arcing curve of her neck, letting her eyes flutter sensually closed. The drink was very strong.
She set the empty glass down on the table with more force than was necessary. Atlas startled at the sound. Well, at least something had finally gotten his attention.
“Sorry, I was thirsty.”
“Clearly,” Atlas replied, though he didn’t sound particularly angry. He lifted a shoulder toward the bar. “Want a refill?”
Calliope followed as he ordered them another round of drinks, a little surprised at how quickly he worked through his second glass. She didn’t remember him drinking like this in Africa. It is a party, she told herself, and yet she couldn’t help wondering what was bothering him. He’d seemed so much happier over the summer. She had a feeling that something—his family, probably—was holding him in New York, keeping him from ever really leaving for good, when this wasn’t where he truly belonged.
She shook off the sudden and uncharacteristic burst of introspection. Atlas was here now, which was all that mattered to her.
“Want to dance?” she suggested.
Atlas looked back up at her, and Calliope knew at once that something had changed; her instincts could sense it in the air between them like a shift in the weather, like when they’d been sitting on the ridge back in Tanzania and night began to settle its folds around them.
He didn’t say anything as Calliope led him purposefully onto the dance floor.
When she moved his hands onto her hips, he responded by pulling her closer, circling her back. His grip was warm on her bare skin.
After a while she whispered, “Take me home?” in Atlas’s ear. He nodded, slowly. She took his hand and led him up the stairs—he stumbled a little; he might be drunker than she realized—and crossed the pier to hail a waiting hover. Perfect. Now she would be able to scope out their apartment, start planning what she could take from them. Maybe even take something now, without anyone noticing.
She typed in the Fullers’ address, watching for a reaction from Atlas. When he didn’t protest, she lowered her mouth to his and reached for the buttons of his jacket in the semidarkness, unfastening each one with a brutal, determined energy.
It made her feel surprisingly vindicated, proving that the only boy who’d ever rejected her wanted her after all. Finally. It was about damn time.