like delirious, demented flies. He swatted. He begged for relief. He was innocent this time, but what prince doesn’t have regrets? They uncovered every slip of his toxic tongue, every crime.
What mortal man is not terrified,
gripped in fear and horror
To hear their sacred law.
Those girls, those Furies, did not smell the delicious stench that the hormones of their rage released from the maggot-loving plant.
They did not see the storm cloud building over the house. They did not see the ash in the snow globe falling on all the old trapped princes, plus this new one, snagged and helpless.
They opened the window and invited him to step through it.
“Jump,” they sang. “Here is your reprieve. Escape our misery. Jump and find peace.”
Leaping from the heights,
The hard, heavy downfall.
I walked to the window, heard that glorious rush of air, and it felt like a drug coursing through me. I saw his flailing limbs and his body hitting the clump of bushes.
I heard the screams of the so-called innocent bystanders. But nobody is innocent here, all are bound together by the guilt of everyone else.
FOURTH STASIMON, THE BOOK OF FURIOUS
26
What happened? What did we do?
I have no solid recollection. It was different from the other Fury times. We were in, but we did not seek out any particular incident, not even the memory of what just happened between Brendon and me. I was too far gone. We latched onto everything at once—a whirling mass of his regrets and guilty feelings. I saw splashes of old girlfriends hurt and lies told. Then, quickly, even those visions shut down. An intense wind of rage blew out any light in my mind, leaving me blind.
The sound of a window opening. The touch of a curtain blowing.
I remember ordering, Jump.
And then I am back in the whiteness of Ambrosia’s bedroom. I have to shake my head to regain my vision. The world slowly comes back into view. The door is still closed. There’s no Brendon. Curtains are pulled apart. I hear screams rising from beneath the window. My stomach lurches from the stench of rotting meat.
What happened?
Quickly, I wrap the remnants of my costume around me. Alix, Stephanie, and I rush down the stairs, and by the time we get outside everyone has gathered under the window. I tremble from the first blast of cold on my half-naked body. The chaos of the scene that greets me matches the chaos in my mind. There’s yelling and crying, and my heart is pounding so hard I can hear the whooshing pulse in my ears. Girls dressed as mermaids and flappers hold on to each other and sob, mascara dripping down their cheeks. Devils, cowboys, and astronauts shout overlapping orders that contradict each other. “Elevate his head!” “No, don’t move him!” “Raise his feet!”
My body feels disjointed, as if the parts of it—legs, arms, tongue, toes, elbows, head—are strangers to each other and have traveled a long distance to meet up here for the first time. They are awkward, uncertain of how to act naturally with each other. I check around frantically. How bad is it? What do people know? Do they suspect me? What about Brendon? Is he…? I can’t let myself think the end of that thought.
Pox is shouting at 911 through his cell phone.
The Double Ds keep repeating, “Oh my God, oh my God.”
Their red-haired best friend whimpers into her phone, “Mom, pick me up. Now!”
Gnat to Bubonic: “Dude, we better get rid of any drugs.”
Off in the distance, an ambulance siren illustrates the Doppler effect that Mr. H explained in class. The sound shrieks at a higher and higher pitch as it gets closer.
I want to see.
I don’t want to see.
I can’t see.
Then: “I need to see him.”
Stephanie tries holding me back by grabbing on to my wrist, but I break free and inch my way through the crowd. My fingers pull at my hair as I weave between clusters of people. I push through four layers of costumes and finally stumble into the inner circle.
I can see him now. Brendon. He’s all alone in the center, spotlighted by a long beam of moonlight. His face is pressed against the bush he landed in, his curly hair falling over a neck that’s twisted in an unnatural position. I shudder. Only a few minutes ago I was running my fingers through that hair.
He was running his fingers through mine.
My gaze darts from detail to detail: the ruffled cuffs of his Prince shirt, the square of his