TUCKED UP IN THE GUEST-ROOM BED, I LAY AS FAR AWAY FROM Malina as I could get, my back turned to her. I knew I should tell her what Jovan had told me, wrap myself around her and split the weight of Mama’s new absence between us, but I couldn’t bring myself to pierce the surface of the silence between us yet. Everything was still too raw. Finally, my thrashing became too much to take. Sleep was so far away that it felt like some distant horizon I would never reach. I needed to be elsewhere, and I needed not to think.
I tossed the covers back and flung my feet to the floor. Malina pulled herself up in bed as I dragged my tunic back over my head and laced up my sandals, her knees drawn up to her chest and her face curtained by the darkness of her curls on either side. “Riss, where are you going?”
“Out.”
I’D ONLY BEEN to the beach at night a few times by myself. Usually it was with Filip and Nev and a Pepsi-vodka flask, a few times with Luka. Lina had never been much for sneaking out of the house for midnight swims.
At least not with me, I thought bitterly. Maybe she’d been here with Niko hundreds of times, for all that I knew.
Either way, it wasn’t always so solemnly wonderful as this. The moonlight was bright as lanterns, and houses twinkled on the bay’s opposite shore, sparking halfway up the looming black mountains like scattered bonfires. Every breath of balmy air was thick with salt. The water lapped at the moonlight, silvered tips above the oily black, and the pebbles beneath my bare feet were still warm from all the sun they’d drunk during the day.
I could hear them crunching as Fjolar picked his way toward me.
“Flower girl,” he said, bracing himself on one hand as he eased down beside me, bringing a waft of whiskey and chocolate. “I didn’t think I’d hear from you quite this much sooner rather than later.”
“But you thought it would be soon, regardless,” I tossed back. “A little presumptuous, no?”
“Well, you do owe me,” he pointed out. “And you don’t seem like a girl given to welshing on her bets.”
“Right,” I muttered, my cheeks lightening. The moonlight was so bright I wondered if he could see my skin flushing with color; I could feel his eyes on me even as I looked straight ahead. “And what was this bet I lost, exactly? Maybe we should start with that.”
“Fair enough,” he agreed. “If you’re going to be parting with my two kisses, seems reasonable to tell you why.”
The certainty behind the words—the sureness that those kisses were his—caught fire like a sparkler lit in my stomach, a hissing mix of excitement and indignation.
“Well, we’ll see about that,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “The honorable don’t usually finagle drunk girls into bets. I’m still deciding if this one even stands.”
“One, I never claimed any honor to my name,” he replied, ticking the points off on his fingers. “Two, I thought it might be in my favor that we had so much in common, what with fractal magic between us. Not a quality you find in a beautiful witch every day. And three, I won fair and square. You told me you couldn’t make the ceiling bloom for me—I told you that you could. And so you did.”
My face went numb, but even as my mind blanked with shock, a small part of me spun in giddy circles at having been called beautiful. “Fractal magic?” I stammered. “Witch?”
“You are one, aren’t you? You and your sister, both. I heard her singing at that café before I came in, and you made me the prettiest Christmas-light nebula at that party. You just needed a little nudge, was all. I can’t do it myself, exactly, but I can help. Make it easier for you to bloom.”
“How?” I breathed. “Who are you?”
A match flared, illuminating his broad-boned face, eyes glinting and mouth soft amid faint stubble. I heard him suck in a long breath, a pungent waft of tobacco from a hand-rolled cigarette.
“I’m like you,” he said through the smoke. “My mother was a witch, and among other things, she could summon fractals. I can see them—and draw them, hence the tattoos, that’s actually what I do for work—but I can’t pluck them from thin air like you can, make others see the fabric of the world.” He chuckled softly. “It’s spectacular, what you do. Wild, stunning. I’ve never seen another one like you.”
I sifted through everything he’d said, still reeling. “Was a witch?” I said carefully.
“Yes. She’s gone, has been for a few years. It’s just me and my younger brother now, in Reykjavík, she and our father split very long ago. She was from here before she moved to Iceland, taught us both the tongue. I thought this might be the right summer to see it for myself, her Montenegro.”
That explained the accent, the unusual, rocking rhythms of his speech. I stole another glance at his sharp profile, watched him blink slowly like a sleepy lion. “Maybe this is where the magic comes from,” he added, “and she simply brought it with her.”
“I just never . . . I had no idea there were others. My mother always told us we were all alone in the world.” And somehow, even after remembering Sorai and Naisha, I hadn’t thought past it enough to glimpse the notion that there might be other families in the world like mine. “But I’m starting to think she might have told us a lot of things that aren’t true. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry that you lost your mother.”
“She wasn’t an exceedingly nice woman,” he said dryly. “Pleasantness was not so much her forte. But even still. It’s always hard to let a mother go.”
I pressed my lips together, scraping my teeth over their tender insides. “It is. I—I wouldn’t have thought that I’d miss mine.”
“Why not?”
“She wasn’t ‘exceedingly nice’ either,” I replied, mimicking his tone. “Especially not to me. Have you ever heard of those people who have overactive immune systems, and they’re allergic to ridiculous things, like to their own spit or skin? It was like that with us. I’m half of her, but the way she tore into me you’d think I was made from all her castoffs, all her warts and wrinkles and crooked joints. All the things she ever hated about herself, things she wished she could cut out. Or would have, if she hadn’t been so fucking perfect.”
“Maybe it’s the opposite,” he mused quietly. “Maybe there was too much of everything shared between you, and not merely the bad. Two magnets face-to-face, repelling.”
I closed my eyes against the searing swell of tears. Silently he passed me the cigarette, and as I pinched it between my fingers, his hand landed lightly on my thigh. I nearly flinched at the sudden contact and the warmth of his skin, but the first potent lungful chased the doubts away. My mind opened up like it always did, unfurling and unfolding. Heat dripped through me like some sweet sap, and I tipped my head back as he just barely stroked my thigh, trailing caresses on the very surface of my skin.
“What kind of magic did your mother have? Was it like yours?”
“No,” I murmured, eyes still closed. Each word felt discrete and sticky, like a melting bonbon on my tongue. It was work stringing them together, but sweet. “She baked things, made flavors. You’d taste them and see something like a memory, but of a place you’d never even been. A moment in time that she’d seen or imagined, and translated into taste.”
“Taste is very powerful that way. Together with smell, they’re like the strongest time machine. Take you anywhere you like, and even where you don’t.”
“I don’t know,” I said, my insides still rising and falling, aloft on a warm tide. “I don’t know why I’m telling you any of this. You don’t know me. You didn’t know her.”
“I’d wager you can feel how similar we are,” he suggested. His eyes were so intent on mine that even in the dark it made me squirm, scrabbling for someplace safe, a shell to drag over my most tender parts. These were the insides I kept sealed away, from air and from everybody else. “You look at me and simply know me, the way I looked at you and knew you. Even our names. Iris, Fjolar. My name means ‘violet flower,’ a bit like yours. And it means ‘warrior’ as well.”
“No more wagers, please,” I said with mock haste, trying to lighten the weight between us. “If we keep going this way, I might wind up in your debt forever.”
He huffed out a low, growly laugh. “I imagine you’d make the time pass very quickly.”
“Maybe once I could,” I said, thinking of my whirlpools and spirals. “Not as much anymore. It’s mostly just flowers now, and before you, I couldn’t even make anyone see them.”
“So you say, and yet, ceilings keep turning so interesting around you.” He gestured at the water with his free hand, the other still curled warm and heavy around my thigh. I could feel the width of his palm and the pressure of each fingertip so acutely I wondered if I could draw his fingerprints just by feel. “Have you ever tried to bloom that?”
“Yes,” I said. My voice came out raspier than I expected, and I cleared my throat. “Though only in daytime, with the sun on it. And just for myself, of course. It was one of my favorite things. Like a bonfire made of sun and water.”
“How about from beneath?”
“What do you mean?”
“Come. I’ll show you.”
He stubbed out the cigarette and heaved himself up in one smooth movement, then turned to stand in front of me, holding out his hands. I took them and he pulled me up, so hard I stumbled into him with a surprised squeak, palms flat against his chest. We stood there for a moment, his eyes on mine, his mouth so close my lips parted in response to the tickle of his breath.
“My, my,” he murmured, running his hands down my bare arms, over my shoulders, and down my back. “That was a very adorable little mouse sound. Not what I would expect from you. Tell me, do you make any others?”
I felt that giddy rush again, like a globe filled with sparkling water being tilted back and forth. “That’s just—do you always say things like that to girls you barely know?”
“Sometimes, yes,” he whispered in my ear, brushing his stubbled cheek against mine. “But definitely never always.”
“Why do I feel so sparkly around you?”
He swirled one hand into a courtier’s bow. “Turning girls’ blood into glitter happens to be my specialty.”
I burst into giggles against his chest. Being around him was so much better than drinks, better than the smoke that still wisped through my blood. It was making me forget entirely how angry I was at Malina, how adrift I had felt when we returned from Perast with near nothing to show for it.
It nearly made me forget my missing mother.
“You, sir, are ridiculous.”
“And you, miss, are the same.” He took one of my hands and lifted it to his mouth, turning it over to press an openmouthed kiss into my wrist, and this time I was sure I felt the hot flick of his tongue against it. “So . . . wild. Iris suits you, you know. Irises grow everywhere, in cold and heat and desert, set down roots even in rocks. A warrior of a flower, no kind of lady.”
“It’s true,” I murmured back. “I’ve never been strong in the ladyship department.”
“And a very good thing that you’re so lacking. Because ladies don’t take off their tunics and leap into dark waters with strangers, do they?”
“Wait, what—” He flashed me a lazy half smile and abruptly let me go, pivoting on a bare foot to set off down one of the short concrete piers that jutted off into the water, stairs cut into their sides. He stripped down as he walked, tugging his V-neck over his head. The muscles in his wide back corded in the moonlight, shifting black and gray shadows. His torso tapered sharply at the waist, and as he stepped out of his jeans, I caught my breath at how dense his thighs and calves were, how solid all of him was, like he had been carved out of a single slab.
I swallowed hard. He glanced at me over his shoulder, his cheek creasing from his smile.
“Are you coming or not, then, flower? I’m not going to stand here for your inspection all night.” He let his hair down from its bun; it just brushed his shoulders as it fell loose. “Unless that happens to be your thing.”
It could be made to be my thing, I thought as I followed him. If he was willing to continue looking that way.
I pulled my tunic over my head, so aware of the fabric’s whisper against my skin. Everything felt high-pitched and sensuous, my mind and body vibrating at the same high frequency as I stepped next to him in my bra and panties, trying not to shiver as he took my hand. His thumb stroked over my knuckles, and his eyes went heavy-lidded as he ran a slow gaze over my body.
“What is it like,” he said, low and rough, “to be made so perfect as you are?”
“I’m not perfect,” I stammered, ducking my head. “My sister is the perfect one. Curves from here to everywhere. In all the right places.”
He stroked three fingers down my throat, tracing out its hollow. “And where exactly do you think yours are? Not in any wrong places I can see.” He tipped his head toward the water. “Lead the way. If you’re game to go, that is.”
Everything inside me roused at once. “Of course I’m game.” I dropped his hand and broke into a run to the edge of the concrete pier, calling, “Don’t forget to take the biggest breath!” over my shoulder.
Then warm air parted around me as I jumped, a wobbly, delicious plummet in my stomach as I dropped toward the water and broke its surface with pointed toes. I nearly exhaled the long breath I’d taken as the silken warmth rushed around me, sealing over my skin. A fizz of bubbles like popped champagne tickled against my face; Fjolar had landed almost exactly beside me, both of us kicking to stay underwater.
The salt stung like fury when I opened my eyes and water surged into them, but I could stand it and I could see, enough to make out the bright wavering coin of the moon’s reflection on the surface, and the rippling silver facets where its light broke on the waves all around it. Fjolar took my hand and squeezed it hard, my bones grinding together until I nearly gasped. And just like in the café the gleam went roaring through me. The facets multiplied over each other, and so did the central orb of the moon, spiraling into concentric rings around itself. I pulled at the gleam until I’d made the underside of the water into some strange, brilliant night sky, the glittering overlay of the moonlight like perfect constellations—as if someone had graphed out all the stars and forced them into order.
My lungs burned and my head went light from lack of air, but I didn’t stop pulling until the constellations came alive, blooming into silver fireworks that arced down toward us. I had never wondered how far I could take the gleam, what would happen if the fractal bloom actually touched me, but I wondered now as it came surging down.
I ran out of air before I could find out. Two kicks launched me back above the surface, gasping and laughing through salty water as I rubbed at my stinging eyes.
“What a glory,” Fjolar was saying breathlessly, laughing low in his throat. “What a work of wonder you are.”
“Thank you,” I replied, running a hand over my head to slick the hair back, licking the salt off my lips. “I—just, thank you.”
We stopped laughing at the same moment, rising and dipping as we faced each other, kicking to stay afloat with little fin-flicks of my feet. There was nothing but silence, the quiet splishing of the water right around us. His hair had slicked back too, and he was shining with sluicing water, his cheekbones curved and thick as ribs, his lips and lashes glistening as he watched me. My insides went tight with hunger.
I swam toward him in one quick burst, pushing his back against the pier. He gasped a little, and I wondered if the barnacles that clung to the concrete had cut him. I didn’t care. His nearness and that bright jolt of uncut tobacco, the quality of the night, had made me bold.
I cupped his face in my hands, feeling reckless and wild in the way I’d always pretended to be but never fully felt. I swept my thumbs over his cheekbones as his hands ringed my waist.
“Iris . . . ,” he said, an exhale of my name.
“Quiet,” I said, then kissed him. His lips parted beneath mine and the kiss went deep, tongue against tongue all silky wet. Beneath the lacing of smoke, he tasted fresh and sweet, and I kissed him like I was parched, like drinking a glass of cold water down in long and greedy gulps.
He groaned low into my mouth, and my hips writhed against his in response. He drew me closer and turned us around twice, until we were on the pier’s other side, him sitting on the steps and me straddling his lap. I pulled back just enough to look into his face, still breathing into his mouth.
“Is this what you were thinking about, this morning?” I barely recognized my own voice, so low and rough. “Is this what you wanted? Malina heard you wanting me. So you can’t lie.”
“Why would I ever lie about that?” he said. “Of course it’s what I wanted. Just like I want you now, any way you like.”
A thrill pierced through me, like a red-hot needle pulling fiery thread. All that permission. All of it mine. I wound my fingers through his hair and pulled, licking the salty water from where his neck met the thick muscle of his shoulder, sucking on his skin until he hissed between his teeth. I even used my own teeth, biting down until I felt him tense beneath me, hoping that I’d leave a mark. He let me kiss him wherever I wanted, my hands tight in his hair in a way I knew must hurt. But his own touch stayed infuriatingly light.
There’d been two boys before this, tourists who’d come through the café and stayed for a week or two. One of them I’d slept with when I turned sixteen, but nothing with either of them had come even close to this driving need. I wanted him so badly I was afraid of how fast my heart was beating.
“Why won’t you touch me harder?” I demanded, nearly panting against him.
“You’re the one on top from where I’m looking, flower,” he said, brushing his thumb over my collarbone. “If that’s what you want, then tell me so. Though it seems like you could use a little softness.”
“That’s true,” I whispered, suddenly near tears. It was the oddest combination, wanting him so much while also wanting to nest my face into his shoulder and cry into it. “I don’t get very much of that.”
He traced his fingers over my profile, over my forehead and down the straight line of my nose, dipping above and below the crests of my lips. He even fanned his fingertip through my spiky lashes. “I think you might need some now.”
I kissed him again, slower this time, lingering and long. His lips felt so soft against the stubble that surrounded them. “It’s not fair,” I whispered. “I’ve already given you more than the allotted two.”
“I have been known to be a very wily son of a bitch,” he teased. “Maybe all this tenderness is entirely to my benefit.”
“Maybe. But thank you anyway. It’s been . . . I don’t know how to feel anymore. With everything that’s happened with my mother. And then my sister upset me tonight, made me so angry at her.” I paused. “I could tell you what happened, if you want.”
“Doesn’t matter what it was. It brought you to me. And if this is what comes of such upset, could be I’ll write her a thank-you note.”
“I don’t think she’d appreciate any kind of note from you,” I admitted. “She doesn’t seem to like you very much.”
“She doesn’t need to,” he said simply. “I happen to like you lots more than her. She seems nothing like you at all.”
That shouldn’t have made me so happy—she was still my sister, and usually a very good one—but I’d never had this, someone who would so clearly rather have me. Someone who looked at me as if I blazed against the night, like a trailing comet. Like I was blinding.
“And what do I seem like?”
“Like wildfire. Like beauty that dies as soon as it’s curbed.”
“I guess we know what you’ll need to do with me, then.”
He ran his fingers down the ridges of my spine. “And what’s that?”
I rested my temple against his. “Don’t curb me, and you can watch as long as you want.”