Prologue

Violet
Fairy dust is not real. This I know. from the journal of Violet St. Lyons

Boom!
I, Violet St. Lyons, who once believed herself the luckiest girl in the world, was
born on the same day that the VioletteSells comet was discovered. My parents,
two avid stargazers, said it was a sign of how special I was and promptly named
me Violet. They claimed my life had been blessed with fairy dust.
At the very least, comet residue.
Id foolishly believed it for eighteen years, until the moment of my death.
Which was now.
Boom! Another explosion rocked the plane and metal ripped away as a section of
the aircraft to my right vanished. Luggage flew through the air. People
disappeared. The mom with the baby whod sat in the aisle across from usgone.
The redheaded flight attendant whod been collecting trashgone. Disembodied
screams echoed from the surrounding passengers as my own scream took up
most of the space in my head. Air sucked at us viciously from the outside as a
tornado of people banged around the space and one by one got pulled out into the
swirling abyss.
I watched, helplessly transfixed, as I sat between my parents, gripping each of
their hands as the plane wed boarded six hours earlier for Dublin spiraled toward
the Atlantic Ocean. I was going to die. My mother was already dead, a twisted
piece of shrapnel sticking grotesquely from her chest as her head lolled around
her neck. Blood had already soaked her shirt, yet I refused to let go of her hand.
Shed be okay. We were always okay. We were the St. Lyons family of Manhattan,
an icon of old money wealth with deep political ties. Page six of the New York
Times featured pictures of us on a monthly basis. We couldnt die on a plane.
Reality dawned as we plummeted. The yellow breathing apparatus dropped and
dangled in my face, taunting me with its pointlessness. Fire and black smoke
boiled in front of us where the cockpit had been, and my mind recognized that the
pilots had to be dead. Just a few minutes ago, theyd come over the intercom and
announced that the plane was making its descent into Dublin Airport exactly on
schedule.
Then the first explosion had gone off.

Bits of debris flew around, narrowly missing me. My elderly father grabbed my
hand and squeezed, his face drawn back in a horrible grimace. Fear and then
horror flickered across his face as he saw Mother, but there was no time to
comfort him.
Paralyzed in my seat, we spun like a drunken top, and a part of my brain noticed
the sun was rising, its pink tinge lending a soft glow, catching the reflection of
clouds and making them silver-lined. The rocky coast of Ireland glittered in the
distance. Mocking me. Wed been headed there to celebrate my eighteenth
birthday.
Just then my violin case flew past my head from the overhead compartment and
crashed against the wall of the plane. Shards flew. I shuddered and wanted to
vomit. God, help us. We were here because of me. Our deaths were my fault. I
spared a glance at the diamond promise ring Geoff had given me before wed left.
Would the Mayor of New Yorks son go on without me?
The air was turbulent yet thin, and my chest tightened as dizziness pulled at me. I
resisted. Had to stay awake. Had to be with my dad. I was younger, stronger,
faster. My eyes went to the gaping hole in the plane. Had to think ahead. Plan.
Water would fill up the plane on impact, ensuring wed sink rapidly.
My fear escalated as the ocean rushed at us, its surface choppy and ominous. I
took in a giant breath and braced myself. We hit at an angle, the plane a torpedo
as it sliced into the sea. Daddy disappeared, ejected by the impact, and I yanked
on my seat belt, unclicking it to go after him. Heart thundering, I sent a final look
at my mother. I wanted to take her with me, but she was gone.
Water everywhere, bubbling and gurgling as it filled up the plane. Salt water
stung my eyes. People floated by, some alive as they floundered for the opening. I
kept my gaze off the dead ones. Focus. Get out. Only seconds left.
I swam from my seat and fought my way out of the large hole in the plane, lungs
exploding. Burning. Id been under too long.
Daddy! I caught a glimpse of his red shirt above me and kicked harder.
Up, up, up. Must get up. My arms moved. My legs kicked. Excruciating pain.
Ignore it. Almost there. So close that I could see the daylight breaking through the
water.
The hottest fire Ive ever known lit in my chest. Scorching.
Air. Just want to breathe. Just get to the top. Please.
My body rebelled and I inhaled and swallowed water, the burn racing down my
throat making it spasm as I tried to cough it out. I struggled but took in more and
more, the cold liquid filling my lungs.
Dark spots filled my eyes. This was drowning.
Exhausted.

Done.
My body twitched. I grew disoriented.
I let go of the fight. My hands floated in front of me.
Oblivion.
Darkness.
No bright lights, no tunnel.
No heaven, no mother, no father.
No comets.
No fairy dust.

Chapter 1

Sebastian
Two years later

She was music with skin. Sebastian Tate

I tapped my foot.
What was taking her so long?
From my backyard patio in the Hollywood Hills, I watched the odd girl next door
with a pair of high-powered binoculars. She flicked on her porch lights, and a low
whistle came out of me at the sexy red-as-sin robe she wore, its silky material
flashing around her long legs as she moved around her patio. Her hair was down,
too.
This was new. Where were the usual yoga pants? The ponytail?
She looked like she knew someone watched, but that was impossible since our
outside lights were off. Even the light from the moon hit our house at such an

angle that she shouldnt be able to see us just by glancing over. Shed need a highpowered lens to know I was here.
Usually she played facing her rose garden, but this time she walked to the right
side of her patio, which faced us. Weird. But she didnt play. She just stood there
without moving. Staring toward our house. Uneasiness went over me.
What was she doing?
Could she see me?
As if it were a fragile bird, she positioned the violin under her chin and began
playing, arms bent and wrist poised, making the most exquisite sounds. And I
dont mean classical like Beethoven or Mozart; I mean body-thrashing, bloodthumping, hard-as-hell music that had me rooted to the ground, like shed
slapped iron chains on me.
Dark and seductive notes rose up in the air, and I got jacked up, recognizing a Led
Zeppelin song, only shed ripped its guts out and twisted it into something
electric. She pushed the bow hard, upping the tempo abruptly, her movements
controlled yet wild. My pulse kicked up and my eyes lingered, taking in the
slightly parted toned legs and the way her breasts bounced as she jerked her arms
to manipulate the strings.
Her body arched forward in a curve, seeming as if she might break into a million
pieces before she finished the piece or climaxed first. Then, her robe slipped off
her right shoulder, exposing part of her breast. Creamy and full, it quivered,
vibrating as she moved her arms. Her rosy nipple teased me, slipping in and out
of the folds of the material, erect from the cool mountain air and deliciously
bitable. I pictured my mouth there, sucking, my fingers plucking, strumming her
like my guitar until she begged me to
Stop, I told myself just as an appreciative groan came out. Whoever Violin Girl
was, she didnt deserve me lusting after her while she was pouring her heart out
with music.
I zoomed in as far as the binoculars would go, watching her surrender to the
music as she bent and swayed from side to side with her eyes closed, black lashes
like fans on her cheeks. Every molecule in my body focused on her, hanging on to
each note she pulled from her instrument.
She finished and kept her head bowed for the longest time, perhaps letting the
emotion wash over her like it had me. Then, she bowed to the banana trees and
gnomes in her garden, waving her hands in a flourish as she rose.
The entire event was surreal, yet poignant as fucking poetry.
I let out a deep breath I didnt even realize Id been holding.
Who the hell plays Stairway to Heaven with a violin? She did.

Bam! She snapped her head up, her eyes lasering in on mine, making every hair
on my body stand at attention.
And then
Standing there in the moonlight, she untied her robe and spread apart the sides
ever so slightly, her movements seeming almost hesitant, as if shed had to work
herself up. Unfamiliar jealousy hit me and I panned out and checked the rest of
the patio, expecting to see a lover. Whoever it was, I wanted to rip him apart piece
by piece.
And didnt that thought surprise me.
My gaze searched her patio, the backyard, her upstairs balcony. Nothing. No one.
She flicked her dark hair back and stroked the lapels of the robe, her fingers
lingering over the lacy material. Suddenly the evening smacked of
something more than just music. Her arms moved back and forth across the
front, opening the robe halfway and then closing it as if she couldnt make up her
mind.
My eyes went up, trying to read her face. Still as a statue, the only movement was
her mouth as it trembled, her full upper lip resting against the pouty lower one.
Tears ran down her face, but they seemed more of a defiant act, her jaw tightly
set, her shoulders hunched inward as if shed held it in too long and was giving in,
but not without a fight.
Violin Girl was trapped in a cage of darkness.
It still didnt stop me from holding my breath, silently begging her to bare herself
to me. Shed already laid bare her music. Part of me needed the rest of her.
She jerked the robe closed, making me groan in disappointment.
And then she did something completely crazy.
The lonely girl next door flipped me the bird.
Ilsa Madden-Mills 2015 Very Twisted Things