Nothing scared me more than the dark. I liked to see what was coming, and darkness was a place where things could hide.
Think about something else.
The memory closed in before I could stop it….
My mother’s face hovering above mine as I blinked myself awake. The panic in her eyes as she pressed a finger over her lips, signaling me to be quiet. The cold floor against my feet as we made our way to her closet, where she pushed aside the dresses.
“Someone’s in the house,” she whispered, pulling a board away from the wall to reveal a small opening. “Stay here until I come back. Don’t make a sound.”
I squeezed inside as she worked the board back into place. I had never experienced absolute darkness before. I stared at a spot inches in front of me, where my palm rested on the board. But I couldn’t see it.
I closed my eyes against the blackness. There were sounds—the stairs creaking, furniture scraping against the floor, muffled voices—and one thought replaying over and over in my mind.
What if she didn’t come back?
Too terrified to see if I could get out from the inside, I kept my hand on the wood. I listened to my ragged breathing, convinced that whoever was in the house could hear it, too.
Eventually, the wood gave beneath my palm and a thin stream of light flooded the space. My mom reached for me, promising the intruders had fled. As she carried me out of her closet, I couldn’t hear anything beyond the pounding of my heart, and I couldn’t think about anything except the crushing weight of the dark.
I was only five when it happened, but I still remembered every minute in the crawl space. It made the air around me now feel suffocating. Part of me wanted to go home, with or without my cat.
“Elvis, get out here!”
Something shifted between the chipped headstones in front of me.
“Elvis?”
A silhouette emerged from behind a stone cross.
I jumped, a tiny gasp escaping my lips. “Sorry.” My voice wavered. “I’m looking for my cat.”
The stranger didn’t say a word.
Sounds intensified at a dizzying rate—branches breaking, leaves rustling, my pulse throbbing. I thought about the hundreds of unsolved crime shows I’d watched with my mom that began exactly like this—a girl standing alone somewhere she shouldn’t be, staring at the guy who was about to attack her.
I stepped back, thick mud pushing up around my ankles like a hand rooting me to the spot.
Please don’t hurt me.
The wind cut through the graveyard, lifting tangles of long hair off the stranger’s shoulders and the thin fabric of a white dress from her legs.
Her legs.
Relief washed over me. “Have you seen a gray and white Siamese cat? I’m going to kill him when I find him.”
Silence.
Her dress caught the moonlight, and I realized it wasn’t a dress at all. She was wearing a nightgown. Who wandered around a cemetery in their nightgown?
Someone crazy.
Or someone sleepwalking.
You aren’t supposed to wake a sleepwalker, but I couldn’t leave her out here alone at night either.
“Hey? Can you hear me?”
The girl didn’t move, gazing at me as if she could see my features in the darkness. An empty feeling unfolded in the pit of my stomach. I wanted to look at something else—anything but her unnerving stare.
My eyes drifted down to the base of the cross.
The girl’s feet were as bare as mine, and it looked like they weren’t touching the ground.
I blinked hard, unwilling to consider the other possibility. It had to be an effect of the moonlight and the shadows. I glanced at my own feet, caked in mud, and back to hers.
They were pale and spotless.
A flash of white fur darted in front of her and rushed toward me.
Elvis.
I grabbed him before he could get away. He hissed at me, clawing and twisting violently until I dropped him. My heart hammered in my chest as he darted across the grass and squeezed under the gate.
I looked back at the stone cross.
The girl was gone, the ground nothing but a smooth, untouched layer of mud.
Blood from the scratches trailed down my arm as I crossed the graveyard, trying to reason away the girl in the white nightgown.
Silently reminding myself that I didn’t believe in ghosts.
2. SCRATCHING THE SURFACE
When I stumbled back onto the well-lit sidewalk, there was no sign of Elvis. A guy with a backpack slung over his shoulder walked by and gave me a strange look when he noticed I was barefoot, and covered in mud up to my ankles. He probably thought I was a pledge.
My hands didn’t stop shaking until I hit O Street, where the shadows of the campus ended and the lights of the DC traffic began. Tonight, even the tourists posing for pictures at the top of The Exorcist stairs were somehow reassuring.
The cemetery suddenly felt miles away, and I started second-guessing myself.
The girl in the graveyard hadn’t been hazy or transparent like the ghosts in movies. She had looked like a regular girl.
Except she was floating.
Wasn’t she?
Maybe the moonlight had only made it appear that way. And maybe the girl’s feet weren’t muddy because the ground where she’d been standing was dry. By the time I reached my block, lined with row houses crushed together like sardines, I convinced myself there were dozens of explanations.
Elvis lounged on our front steps, looking docile and bored. I considered leaving him outside to teach him a lesson, but I loved that stupid cat.
I still remembered the day my mom bought him for me. I came home from school crying because we’d made Father’s Day gifts in class, and I was the only kid without a father. Mine had walked away when I was five and never looked back. My mom had wiped my tears and said, “I bet you’re also the only kid in your class getting a kitten today.”
Elvis had turned one of my worst days into one of my best.
I opened the door, and he darted inside. “You’re lucky I let you in.”
The house smelled like tomatoes and garlic, and my mom’s voice drifted into the hallway. “I’ve got plans this weekend. Next weekend, too. I’m sorry, but I have to run. I think my daughter just came home. Kennedy?”
“Yeah, Mom.”
“Were you at Elle’s? I was about to call you.”
I stepped into the doorway as she hung up the phone. “Not exactly.”
She threw me a quick glance, and the wooden spoon slipped out of her hand and hit the floor, sending a spray of red sauce across the white tile. “What happened?”
“I’m fine. Elvis ran off, and it took forever to catch him.”
Mom rushed over and examined the angry claw marks. “Elvis did this? He’s never scratched anyone before.”
“I guess he freaked out when I grabbed him.”
Her gaze dropped to my mud-caked feet. “Where were you?”
I prepared for the standard lecture Mom issued whenever I went out at night: always carry your cell phone, don’t walk alone, stay in well-lit areas, and her personal favorite—scream first and ask questions later. Tonight, I had violated them all.
“The old Jesuit cemetery?” My answer sounded more like a question—as in, exactly how upset was she going to be?
Mom stiffened and she drew in a sharp breath. “I’d never go into a graveyard at night,” she responded automatically, as though it was something she’d said a thousand times before. Except it wasn’t.
“Suddenly you’re superstitious?”
She shook her head and looked away. “Of course not. You don’t have to be superstitious to know that secluded places are dangerous at night.”
I waited for the lecture.
Instead, she handed me a wet towel. “Wipe off your feet and throw that away. I don’t want dirt from a cemetery in my washing machine.”
Mom rummaged through the junk drawer until she found a giant Band-A
id that looked like a leftover from my Big Wheel days.
“Who were you talking to on the phone?” I asked, hoping to change the subject.
“Just someone from work.”
“Did that someone ask you out?”
She frowned, concentrating on my arm. “I’m not interested in dating. One broken heart is enough for me.” She bit her lip. “I didn’t mean—”
“I know what you meant.” My mom had cried herself to sleep for what felt like months after my dad left. I still heard her sometimes.
After she bandaged my arm, I sat on the counter while she finished the marinara sauce. Watching her cook was comforting. It made the cemetery feel even farther away.
She dipped her finger in the pot and tasted the sauce before taking the pan off the stove.
“Mom, you forgot the red pepper flakes.”
“Right.” She shook her head and forced a laugh.
My mom could’ve held her own with Julia Child, and marinara was her signature dish. She was more likely to forget her own name than the secret ingredient. I almost called her on it, but I felt guilty. Maybe she was imagining me in one of those unsolved crime shows.
I hopped down from the counter. “I’m going upstairs to draw.”
She stared out the kitchen window, preoccupied. “Mmm… that’s a good idea. It will probably make you feel better.”
Actually, it wouldn’t make me feel anything.
That was the point.
As long as my hand kept moving over the page, my problems disappeared, and I was somewhere or someone else for a little while. My drawings were fueled by a world only I could see—a boy carrying his nightmares in a sack as bits and pieces spilled out behind him, or a mouthless man banging away at the keys of a broken typewriter in the dark.
Like the piece I was working on now.
I stood in front of my easel and studied the girl perched on a rooftop, with one foot hanging tentatively over the edge. She stared at the ground below, her face twisted in fear. Delicate blue-black swallow wings stretched out from her dress. The fabric was torn where the wings had ripped through it, growing from her back like the branches of a tree.
I read somewhere that if a swallow builds a nest on your roof, it will bring you good luck. But if it abandons the nest, you’ll have nothing but misfortune. Like so many things, the bird could be a blessing or a curse, a fact the girl bearing its wings knew too well.
I fell asleep thinking about her. Wondering what it would be like to have wings if you were too scared to fly.
Acknowledgments
IT ONLY TOOK THREE MONTHS to write the first draft of Beautiful Creatures. Turns out, the writing was the easy part. The getting it right part was harder, and took the help of a lot more people. Here is the Beautiful Creatures family tree:
RAPHAEL SIMON & HILARY REYL
Who saw it before there was anything to see
SARAH BURNES, OF THE GERNERT COMPANY,
AGENT EXTRAORDINAIRE
Who read it & got it from the start
COURTNEY GATEWOOD,
OF THE GERNERT COMPANY, AGENT 007
Who got it across the pond & beyond
JENNIFER HUNT & JULIE SCHEINA
LITTLE, BROWN’S MERCILESSLY GENIUS EDITORIAL TEAM
Who made us sweat & cry until we got it right
DAVE CAPLAN, OUR TALENTED AND PSYCHIC DESIGNER
Who created the road to Ravenwood just as we imagined it
MATTHEW CHUPACK
Who translated our Pig Latin into actual Latin
ALEX HOERNER, PHOTOGRAPHER TO THE STARS (AND US)
Who made us look good without any Casting
OUR NORTH CAROLINA RELATIVES, ESPECIALLY
HAYWOOD AINSLEY EARLY, GENEALOGIST
Who helped us plant our family trees
& ANNA GATLIN HARMON,
OUR FAVORITE DAUGHTER OF THE CONFEDERACY
Who lent us her maiden name & kept us talkin’ right
AND OUR READERS:
HANNAH, ALEX C, TORI, YVETTE, SAMANTHA, MARTINE, JOYCE,
OSCAR, DAVID, ASH, VIRGINIA, JEAN X 2, KERRI, DAVE,
MADELINE, PHILLIP, DEREK, ERIN, RUBY,
AMANDA, & MARCOS
Whose wanting to know what happened next
changed what happened next
ASHLY, AKA TEENAGE VAMPIRE QUEEN
SUSAN & JOHN, ROBERT & CELESTE, BURTON & MARE
Who listened & cheered us on, as they have our whole lives
MAY & EMMA
Who stayed home from school twice to edit out the cheese,
& who figured out the missing bit of the end,
as only a 13 & a 15 year old could
KATE P AND NICK & STELLA G
Who fell asleep every night to the sound of a laptop clicking
& OF COURSE,
ALEX & LEWIS
Who found all the holes
& made sure the universe didn’t fall through them,
who put up with all of the above
and then some.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Welcome
Dedication
Epigraph
Before: The Middle of Nowhere
9.02: Dream On
9.02: New Girl
9.02: A Hole in the Sky
9.11: Collision
9.12: Broken Glass
9.12: Greenbrier
9.12: The Sisters
9.14: The Real Boo Radley
9.15: A Fork in the Road
9.24: The Last Three Rows
10.09: Gathering Days
10.09: A Crack in the Plaster
10.09: The Greats
10.10: Red Sweater
10.13: Marian the Librarian
10.31: Hallow E’en
11.01: The Writing on the Wall
11.27: Just Your Average American Holiday
11.28: Domus Lunae Libri
12.01: It Rhymes with Witch
12.06: Lost and Found
12.07: Grave Digging
12.08: Waist Deep
12.13: Melting
12.16: When the Saints Go Marching In
12.19: White Christmas
1.12: Promise
2.04: The Sandman or Something Like Him
2.05: The Battle of Honey Hill
2.11: Sweet Sixteen
2.11: Lollipop Girl
2.11: Family Reunion
2.11: The Claiming
2.12: Silver Lining
Map
Deleted Scene from Beautiful Creatures
Amma’s Recipes
About the Authors
A Sneak Peek of Beautiful Darkness
A Sneak Peek of Dangerous Creatures
A Sneak Peek of Icons
A Sneak Peek of Unbreakable
Acknowledgments
Copyright
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2009 by Kami Garcia and Margaret Stohl
Interior digital artwork © 2010 by Jo Bird / Jelly London
Excerpt from Beautiful Darkness copyright © 2010 by Kami Garcia, LLC, and Margaret Stohl, Inc.
Excerpt from Dangerous Creatures copyright © 2014 by Kami Garcia, LLC, and Margaret Stohl, Inc.
Excerpt from Icons copyright © 2013 by Margaret Stohl, Inc.
Excerpt from Unbreakable copyright © 2013 by Kami Garcia, LLC
Cover image © 2009 by Robert Clark / MergeLeft Reps
Hand lettering © 2009 by Si Scott
Cover design by David Caplan
Cover © 2009 Hachette Book Group, Inc.
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft
of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at
[email protected] Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
Little, Brown and Company
Hachette Book Group
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Little, Brown and Company is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
The Little, Brown name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.
STRENGTH TO LOVE and LETTER FROM BIRMINGHAM JAIL speeches by DR. MARTIN LUTHER KING JR. copyright © 1963 by Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.; copyright renewed © 1991 by Coretta Scott King. Reprinted by arrangement with the heirs to the estate of Martin Luther King Jr., c/o Writers House New York, NY.
First ebook edition: December 2009
ISBN 978-0-316-07128-4
E3
Kami Garcia, Beautiful Creatures
(Series: Caster Chronicles # 1)
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