Page 42

EZRA

T hings are still a little weird between Fitzie and I, but I’m taking it as a win that he agreed to come to the festival in the first place.

Of course, I’m pretty sure it’s only cause his new best friend Orion is gonna be there.

He just needs time to get used to it all — monsters in general, and Lysander in specific.

I want him to be part of this world, to understand how special it is.

By the time the barbecue gets demolished and the monster kids are running around on a sugar craze from the sweets Larch got catered — which is exactly as wild as it sounds — Fitzie’s even unwound enough to critique the pastries from the dessert tent.

I tune out in the middle of it to find Lysander gone, and I grab my plate as an excuse to search him out.

I spot him at the gazebo, staring out over the lake. The wind pulls his long, loose hair all over the place as he leans over the rail. All he needs is a crown to complete the whole dramatic ‘royal family in exile’ look.

“See any Ogopogos?” I joke, stepping up beside him.

He turns, a faint furrow between his brows. “Ogo-whats?”

“Never mind.” I should ask Orion if Bigfoot is real one day. “You ready for the race?”

“Of course.” He smiles, but I read hesitation underneath.

He must be nervous about doing it in front of so many people. “Lemon bar for good luck? Though I’ll warn you, according to Fitzie they’re only in the sixtieth percentile of zestiness.”

“Why didn’t you say so?” Lysander plucks it out of my hand, his eyes lighting up. “We need all the luck we can get.“

“And all the desserts.”

He daintily bites the huge bar in half, and when the whole thing is gone he pats icing sugar off his lips. “These are in the eightieth percentile at least .”

I swoop in. Afterward, I can only agree — my lips are feeling the zest.

After an announcement from Syril and a reminder of the rules we drag our boats to the edge of the water.

Every boat has been decked out by excited monster kiddos while we ate lunch, with the goal of making them as un-seaworthy as possible.

Whichever clunky contraption reaches the island in the middle of the lake first and grabs the flag off the dock wins, but touching the decorations will get you disqualified.

Lysander climbs in gingerly and I push the boat into the water, holding the back end steady. He wobbles, sitting down with a quick huff and white-knuckling the bench.

I check out the decor. “They did a pretty good job.”

Lysander nods weakly. “Uhuh.”

A row of pink floats trail from either side of the bow, which are definitely gonna get in the way of the oars.

The kids have put an umbrella in the middle and hung charms made out of paper and glitter glue all the way around the edge.

The glitter glue is a surprise, but I guess kids everywhere are basically the same.

Three big plastic wings are attached to the back end of the boat to represent Lysander’s wings, which is also cute as hell — and I suspect adult interference, because there’s no way little hands did that on their own.

But it’s in good fun, and I would’ve loved to see monster kings trying to do this challenge in the old days, all dressed up in their best clothes.

A quick glimpse of Lysander’s grimace as he looks over the edge of the boat says he doesn’t feel the same, and no amount of lemon bars will change his mind.

“All swimmers out!” Mara shouts. “All competitors, lifejackets on!”

Nymphs, sirens, and fauns clamber out of the water and rush between the boats. Lysander grabs the sides, the color in his cheeks washing away as the chaos makes the boat rock wildly from side to side.

Too late, I clock his problem — it’s not the audience he’s afraid of, it’s the water.

“Sweets.” I lean in. “We can sit this out, y’know. It’s not gonna bother me.”

He tears his gaze away from the surface of the lake just as Mara’s whistle sounds.

Reeeeeet!

“Go!” the faun next to us shouts, and her partner takes a running leap into their craft. The boat bucks under my hand. Lysander’s jaw clenches.

“I said I’d do it.”

When he gets that look, every instinct I have screams to make it all better.

But I know Lysander has a big thing about his fears — his limitations, as he thinks of them.

Even though I don’t see them that way. If he can sit in my house and let me choose to talk or not talk about my stupid insecurities over letting people down, why can’t I let him choose to conquer his fears for the sake of a silly bit of fun?

I push off.

Getting in the boat necessitates some rocking and rolling. I grab the oar on my right. Lysander releases his iron grip on the edge to pick up the other, dipping it into the water cautiously. The floats make a tok-tok noise against the blade of the oar.

“Dip and push,” I tell him, demonstrating. The boat spins. He mimics my movement with a determined frown, pushing us in the other direction.

The mechanics of rowing a boat seem to distract him from the fact that we quickly abandon the shallow area of the bay. I focus on matching his pace, hoping he doesn’t notice the tension creeping into me. Slowly, our wonky little craft jerks forward.

Dip. Push. Dip. Push.

Our rhythm picks up. Lysander’s cheeks quickly flush with the effort. I’m so fixated on him, I don’t even notice we’re outstripping the competition until a wobble in the boat has me checking our status.

The wind has picked up, tugging at the umbrella and kicking up choppy waves that make the little craft rock and shiver. This time there’s no distracting Lysander from the fact that we’re smack in the middle of the lake.

His stroke falters. He stiffens up, hands tightening on the handle.

“We’re more than halfway there,” I reassure him.

He diverts his gaze back to the middle of the boat and hunches over his oar. “We could go faster.”

The thing about Lysander is he might be slender and light, but he’s also incredibly strong, and I find myself working hard to keep up.

Our craft shoots forward, barely hampered by the decorations trailing off us.

We zip past the other boats one by one. Lysander’s wings point straight out behind him, wobbling slightly with every flex of his shoulders, and an unbearable wave of endearment sweeps over me at the sight of him trying so hard to prove himself.

God… he’s really it for me.

Finally, the island looms and the dock comes within spitting distance. I steer us toward it. Never mind winning, I’m eager to see the back-end of this boat — my arms are aching.

“Almost there,” I grunt.

Lysander twists around to look, but when he turns back, his eyes are huge and frightened. “There’s something on the shore!”

“Huh?” I follow his gaze, scanning the shoreline. At first I don’t see anything. The island is a stubby chunk of moss-covered rock, with sparse trees and a single pier sticking out from the jagged shore.

Movement between the trees catches my eye. I see weird shadowy figures that sway in one place — or are they just tall bushes shimmering in the heat?

Before I can decide what to do, we’re swinging around from the loss of momentum, and the long prow of another boat snags one of our floats, entangling us. We’ve drifted so far to the side we’re suddenly face to face with another competitor, a very large faun and his small harpy companion.

“Watch it!” he growls.

“Shit.” I grab Lysander’s oar from his lax hand and steer us away, biceps burning as I maneuver us apart. Our boat shoots free, leaving behind a string of floats. The momentum sends us skating up to the dock. Lysander shakes himself out of his stupor abruptly.

“The flag!” he cries, standing up before I can stop him.

The boat wobbles wildly. He grabs at the flag as we sail past the end of the dock. The oar hits a post and wrenches out of my hand. I drop it to grab onto Lysander and hold him steady, but I’m too slow — with a yelp, he tips off the end of the boat and into the lake.

“Lys!”

I don’t even think before I jump over the side.

Shit! The water is icy. I gulp a breath quickly and reach for him. He splashes and flails, evading my grip in his panic.

A whistle blows across the lake behind us. “Hang tight!” Plato bellows, and there’s a splash.

“It’s fine,” I yell through a mouthful of lake, but Lysander is still struggling. I grab onto his waist. “I’ve got you. Just stay calm.”

His mouth opens in a frightened gasp. “Ez! I can’t swim.”

I pump my legs, lifting him higher in the water. “Breathe, baby. You have a lifejacket on, you don’t need to swim. Move your arm in a circle and kick your legs slowly.”

He clings to my arm painfully, but I feel his weight slowly transfer off me.

“That’s it,” I tell him encouragingly, and before he can freak out again, I steer him gently toward the dock. “Keep kicking. We’re heading toward the ladder.”

“It’s too deep,” he whimpers. “I’ll drown!”

“You’re gonna be okay,” I repeat, half for him and half for myself.

I can’t see his wings, but I feel them beating frantically through the water in time with my heart.

Plato lets out a loud curse, stopping a few feet from us to tread water with perfect ease. “I can’t help.”

Right.

I’m gonna have words with Syril later. And myself. Because I completely forgot that if something happened to Lysander on the water, no one but me would be able to help him without getting hurt.

What in fuck were either of us thinking?

“I can do it,” Lysander gasps, paddling toward the ladder.

My stomach clenches in relief when he finally grabs on. I urge him up the ladder, following closely behind, and Plato swings onto the dock a moment later.

“Are you okay?” he asks Lysander, crouching.

“Don’t touch me!” Lysander scrambles backward. He falls to his ass, coughing and spitting out water.

“Tell me what to check,” I demand, intercepting Plato.

“Just make sure he hasn’t inhaled any water.” Plato sits back on his heels. “Fuck. Let’s not do that ever again.”