PHOENIX RISING

He wore the same clothes he'd had on when he'd been staked - dress pants, his House medal, a white button-up shirt, a tear in the fabric in the spot above his heart. Eyes wide, he drank in the sight of me.

I reached him, and we stared at each other for a moment, both afraid, perhaps, of what might come - and what had been.

"I saw the stake," Ethan said. "I watched Celina throw the stake and felt it hit me."

"She kil ed you," I said. "Mal ory . . . She worked magic to bring you back as a familiar. Catcher interrupted the spel .

He thought it would create a monster, but you're - you don't seem like a monster."

"I don't feel like a monster," he softly t sh uld csaid. "I dreamed of you. I dreamed of you often. There was a storm. An eclipse."

"You dissolved into sand," I added, as his eyes widened in surprise. "I had the same dreams."

Stil frowning, he raised a hand to my face, as if unsure whether I was real. "Is this a dream?"

"I don't think so."

He smiled a little, and my heart tripped at the sight of it. It had been so long since I'd seen that teasing smile. I couldn't help the new flood of tears, or the sob that escaped me.

He was here. He was alive. And most important, he seemed to be his own person, not some mindless servant, some black magic familiar of Mal ory's. I didn't know what I'd done to deserve a chance at it, but he'd come back, and the gratitude - and shock - was nearly overwhelming.

"I don't know what to say," I told him.

"Then don't," he said, embracing me again. "Be stil ."

A cool breeze crossed the Midway, and I closed my eyes, just for a moment, trying to take his advice, trying to slow the overwhelming beat of my heart. As I stood there, I'd have sworn I caught the scents of lemon and sugar in the air again.

But then Ethan shuddered. I looked up at him, and his eyes were glazed, his skin suddenly pale.

"Merit," he said, gripping my arms fiercely, his legs suddenly shaking with the effort of standing. I wrapped an arm around his waist.

"Ethan? Are you al right?"

Before he could answer, he col apsed.

Luc and Keley arrived at the Midway to inspect the damage, their joy at seeing Ethan muted by their fear -  our fear - for his condition. Once assured Mal ory was being cared for, the Maleficium was back in safe hands, and Jonah had control of McKetrick, we focused on getting Ethan back to Cadogan.

The trip was surreal - escorting my evidently resurrected vampire lover and Master back to his House. Luc led us back through a gate in the fence I hadn't known existed. We hustled through the back of the House and up the back staircase into Ethan's suite.

Luc placed him on the bed and stepped away while Keley, apparently having been trained in medicine in some former lifetime, looked him over.

Maybe having seen the fear and exhaustion in my face, Luc moved over to me. "You okay?"

I lifted my shoulders. "I don't know what I am. Is he going to be al right?"

"Hel , Merit, I'm not real y sure what he is or why he's here. What happened out there?"

I fil ed him in on what I'd seen of Catcher and Mal ory's magic before he'd arrived. "Is Ethan her familiar? Wil she be able to control him?"

"I don't know," Luc quietly said. "If Catcher interrupted the spel , I'm not sure why he's here at al ."

"I've been having dreams about him - prophetic dreams about him and the elemental magic - since she took the ashes. Maybe he's been coming back, bit by bit, since then."

"So Catcher's magic finished the resurrection, but kept him from being completely mindless? That's certainly a possibility, but it's not my area of expertise. Hel , I doubt Catcher even knows.er hed"

The unknowing, the risk Ethan would be at the beck and cal of a girl so addicted to black magic she was wil ing to throw away her friends - and her city - pushed me over the edge. Fear and panic bubbled to the surface, and I looked away, tears suddenly streaming down my face.

I moved to the nearest chair and sat down, then covered my hands in my face, sobbing from the tol of the emotional rol er coaster of Mal ory and Ethan - and at the possibilities that I'd already lost Mal ory . . . and that I'd have to endure losing Ethan al over again.

I don't know how long I'd cried when I heard rustling, soft but certainly there, from across the room. Slowly, I uncovered my eyes and looked up. Ethan was propped up on the bed. He looked obviously weak, his eyes barely open. And as in my dreams, he said my name. But this was no dream.

I wiped away tears and hurried to the side of the bed beside Keley. "Are you al right?"

"I'm fine. Tired." He swal owed. "I need blood, I think."

I looked back at Keley. "Is that an effect of the . . . whatever this is?"

"Possibly. Luc, can you check the second-floor kitchen? Grab some blood?"

Luc immediately went to the door of Ethan's apartments, but came back two minutes later empty-handed, muttering a few choice words about Frank. The second-floor refrigerator was apparently empty of blood. As were the first- and third-floor fridges.

"Long story short, hoss, we're out of blood at the moment."

Ethan sat up a little. "I'm sorry? The House is out of blood? Why would Malik let that happen?"

"I'm going to re-stress the 'long story' bit. It also happens drinking from vampires is currently against the rules of Cadogan House, but I'm pretty sure we'l go to bat for you on this one." He winged up his eyebrows. "Although you may need to impose upon a Novitiate for nourishment."

Now my cheeks were flaming red, but the suggested intimacy - the possibility that my Master needed to take blood from me - didn't seem to faze Ethan.

Luc and Keley silently slipped out the door.

Suddenly as anxious as a girl on a first date, I sat down on the edge of the bed. This was so strange. He'd been gone. And now he was back. I was so glad to see him I thought my chest might burst with it, but it was stil surreal.

"Nervous, Sentinel?"

I nodded.

Ethan tilted his head, splaying his golden hair against the pil ow behind him. "Don't be. It is the most natural thing a vampire can do." He took my hand and gazed down at my wrist, then rubbed his thumb over the pulse that throbbed just beneath my skin. The sensation sent flutters of warmth through me, but not just of desire. He gazed beyond my wrist as if staring at the blood and life that ran beneath it, his emerald eyes silvering as the hunger for blood hit him.

I'd never given blood to anyone before. I'd taken it from Ethan, but that was the extent of it. Eight months ago, could I possibly have imagined this would be my first experience?

That I would be sitting here, with Ethan, in his apartment, ready to offer up a wrist?

He pressed his lips to my pulse, and my eyes drifted shut, my body now humming with predatory interest, my own fangs descendinangindg. "Ethan."

He made a faint sound of masculine satisfaction, and I shivered when he kissed my wrist again.

"Be stil ," he said, his lips against my skin. "Be stil ."

It had been a night for tears. For losing a friend, hopeful y only temporarily, to magical addiction. For my own reunion with Ethan. But whatever those emotions, they paled in comparison to the reunion shared by Ethan and Malik.

When Ethan was fed and I'd advised Luc, Malik made his trip upstairs, his eyes as wide as saucers. He looked between me and a stronger-looking Ethan - stil resting on the bed - trying to figure out the magic or trick at work. It took him a few minutes to even attempt words.

They'd known each other for a century. It stood to reason the reunion would be meaningful.

And when the reunion was done, as if nothing had passed between them, it didn't take them long to get down to politics.

"The GP sent a receiver," Malik said.

"They didn't waste much time," Ethan muttered. "Who did they select?"

"Franklin Cabot."

"From Cabot House? Good lord." Ethan grimaced. "That man is a worm. Victor would be better off if he met a stake of his own. How bad has it been?"

Malik glanced at me, as if checking in before burdening Ethan with too much bad news. But I knew Ethan wel enough to presume he wouldn't want to be coddled. I gave Malik a nod.

"I'l give you the short list," Malik said. "He put the House on blood rations. He revoked the right to drink in the House.

He has limited their right of assembly. He revoked Merit's status as Sentinel and sent her to see Claudia. He subjected the guards to a sunlight endurance test."

Ethan's eyes widened in disbelief. "I am at a loss."

"He is incompetent," Malik said. "Out of respect for the House and the GP I gave him room to conduct his investigation. But he has gone too far." Malik cleared his throat. "I heard him on the telephone a few hours ago advising Darius that Cadogan vampires had been in league with a sorceress to destroy the city. I had planned to address the issues with him before the Midway occurred, but now that you're back . . ."

Silence, as Ethan considered. My shoulders tense, I waited for a response, expecting a blowup of temper or careful y modulated fury.

"Screw them," Ethan final y said.

After a moment of utter shock, I enjoyed my second biggest smile al night. Malik's wasn't much smal er.

"I'm sorry," I said, "did you just say 'screw them'?"

Ethan smiled grimly. "It's a new dawn, so to speak. I don't give the GP a lot of credit, but they're smart enough to recognize incompetence when they see it." He looked fixedly at Malik. "And if they don't, they defeat their very purpose for existence."

He hadn't exactly used the word "revolution," but it lurked there - the possibility that Cadogan House could exist without the GP.

Maybe my RG membership wouldn't freak him out as much as I'd thought.

Not that I had any plans to tel him.

"I'm on my third life," Ethan said. "And in this one, I may be at the beck and cal of a sorceress with an addiction to black magic. It tends to put the GP's irrationality into perspective."

"And control of the House?" Malik wondered.

"The GP wil never al ow me to retake the House until they're assured Mal ory doesn't have control. And while I understand the House isn't exactly fond of the GP right now, I couldn't disagree with that position. It's too risky. The House should remain in your very apt Mastery until you're confident I'm acting of my own free wil ."

My beeper buzzed with an alert: There was a meeting in the bal room. Clearly the Master(s) of the House hadn't scheduled it, because they were both here. Curiosity piqued - and since they'd moved right into discussing historical applications of the vampiric line of succession - I politely excused myself and walked downstairs to the second-floor bal room.

One of the doors was propped open, so I fol owed the crowd of vampires inside and sidled up beside Lindsey and Keley, whom I found in the back of the room.

Frank stood on the platform in the front of the bal room, waxing poetic about the evils of Cadogan House and the lack of restraint of its vampires. "Cadogan House is on an unsustainable course," he said. "Taking too much interest in human affairs. Attempting to solve problems that are outside its purview and authority. That course cannot continue, and I cannot in good faith recommend to the Presidium the continuation of the status quo."

He paused as if for dramatic effect while the vampires looked nervously around, the pepper of tense magic rising in the room. They shuffled nervously, waiting for Frank's verdict.

"There is too much doubt in this House. Doubt about its position within the umbrel a of the Greenwich Presidium.

Doubt about its loyalties. You have taken oaths to your House. Unfortunately, those oaths have been sublimated by the Masters of this House. Therefore, tonight, you'l each of you take a new oath. You'l recal that you exist through our generosity, and you wil swear fealty to the Greenwich Presidium."

The room went silent, the magic peaking with an electric spark that felt strong enough to il uminate the room.

"He cannot be serious," Lindsey whispered, expression aghast as she stared at the podium.

"I think it only appropriate that the captain of our guards, she who is tasked with protecting the House from al enemies, dead or alive, take the first oath."

The wave of turning heads divided, splitting to create a gap that put Keley directly in Frank's line of sight. He beckoned her forward with a hand.

"Keley, captain of this House, come forward and swear your fealty."

She looked at me with doubt in her eyes, clearly unsure what to do. I sympathized. If she refused to go forward, she'd undoubtedly catch hel . Sure, Malik and Ethan were in the building, but they were two floors away, and she was surrounded by vampires who'd be honor bound to obey whatever dictate Frank laid out.

On the other hand - swear an oath to the GP? Was this guy crazy?

There was no good option, no right choice, I thought, except to create as little new drama as possible. So I reached out and squeezed her hand, and gave her the gav She took a moment to compose herself, then walked slowly forward through the gap of vampires. Some looked at her with obvious sympathy; some looked like they expected more from their captain than kowtowing to the dictates of a GP figurehead.

She reached the dais at the front of the room, which was Frank's signal to wax poetic again.

"Keley, captain of this House," he said again. "Swear your oath to the Greenwich Presidium."

"I have sworn oaths to Cadogan House," she said, her voice ringing clearly through the bal room. "I am already bound."

I felt a surge of relief from the crowd, but the pulse of magic from the front of the room was much less friendly.

"Then rebuke your oaths to Cadogan House."

"I wil not rebuke my oaths," Keley said. "I did not make them lightly, and I wil not rebuke them so you can make a better report to the GP."

A vein in his neck pulsed with fury. "You wil swear your loyalty to the GP," he gritted out, "or you wil regret it from here 'til eternity."

The doors burst open. "Like hel she wil ."

Al heads turned back to the doorway. Malik stood there, fury in his eyes, his arm around Ethan's waist as he helped him into the room. A complete hush fel over the crowd, just before the room erupted in noise and sound and joyful tears. Vampires rushed toward the door, and Malik gave them a moment to welcome their fal en hero.

I took the opportunity to look back at Frank and savor the shocked expression on his face. That expression, after the grief he'd put this House through, almost made it worthwhile.

And then Malik cal ed the vampires to order again.

"Quiet," he said, and the room silenced immediately. "For your information, Mr. Cabot, the vampires of this House take oaths to the House and its vampires, not the GP."

Frank composed himself and offered him a dubious look.

"And by whose authority do you chal enge mine?"

Malik gave back a look that was just as imperious. "By the authority instil ed in Cadogan House and its Master by the Greenwich Presidium."

Frank looked from Malik to Ethan. "A Masterdom that appears to be in some state of disarray."

Ethan cleared his throat. "Malik Washington is Master of this House. He was duly Invested by the GP upon my death, such as it was. He wil remain in that position until I am Invested again."

In other words, Malik was Master of the House, and Ethan wouldn't chal enge his position.

The crowd rustled with anticipation.

"The vampires in this House," Malik said, "including the captain of its guards, have proven their worth time and time again. Tonight, we saw their wil ingness to head immediately into battle, the danger to them notwithstanding, to protect this House. They are brave and honorable. And in response, you accuse them of disloyalty and demand new oaths? I seriously doubt the GP would condone such behaviors. You are hereby ordered to leave this House, Mr.Cabot."

"You have no power to order me out."

Malik arched a very Ethan-like eyebrow at Frank.

eyebrowranly dI have power to remove any forces that are disruptive to this House, and Ethan is in agreement with me. No one would argue that you fal wel within that category. You have ten minutes to remove your belongings."

"I wil report you to the GP."

"I'm sure you wil ," Malik said. "You may report that our House is wel in order, that it is home to brave and true vampires. Oh - and you can also advise them that Merit has been reappointed Sentinel."

He smiled a bit evil y, and I had to bite back my own wide grin.

"Take that back to the GP, Mr. Cabot. And should the urge arise, feel free to tel them to fuck off."

With Frank expunged from the House, the rest of the vampires surrounded Ethan with joyous celebration. As if energized by their affection, he managed to stand on his own again.

When the vampires quieted, Malik put a hand on his shoulder. "This House is yours, by blood and by bone, and you are welcome in its wal s at any hour."

Ethan had once said something similar to me, assuring me that I was a member of his House "by blood and by bone." Maybe it was one of the phrases vampires used, part of the col ective vocabulary, the communal memory, of a people bound together by the need for assimilation.

"When the time is right," Malik said, "I wil hand the torch back to you. In the meantime, the city wil undoubtedly have questions. I've no doubt the mayor wil be pounding on the door soon enough."

"Quite possibly," Ethan said, and then took my hand and grinned at Malik. "But if you don't mind, I plan to use the last bit of the evening to ful advantage."

I felt my cheeks warm, but I was in good company; even Luc blushed at that one.

With Malik's assurance that Ethan's apartments were his to use, we returned to his room, hand in hand.

We'd barely closed the door before his mouth was on mine, hungry and insistent. Passion flared and spiraled around us with the magnitude of ancient magicks.

I didn't argue with him. I kissed him back with everything I had, devoured him with every tool in my arsenal, and moved in and around him as love ensnared us.

After a moment he pul ed back, his own breathing labored; he opened his eyes and captured my cheeks in his hands. "I haven't forgotten where we left things, Sentinel, nor do I plan to forget it."

"You've been gone a long time."

"Only to you. To me, there was only a vague dream of darkness . . . and occasional y your voice. You kept me bound to earth, and I cal ed your name to do the same for you."

I'm sure I paled a bit at that confession. The emotion of his being back was stil new, stil raw, stil untested. I was thril ed that he was back, but the emotion was so unexpected I was afraid to trust it.

He tipped up my chin and forced me to meet his gaze. "Is there someone else?"

"No. But for two months, there was no you, either."

We were silent for a moment while he searched my gaze.

"There was a time," he final y said, "when I would have acknowledged your reticence and given you time and space to reach your own decision."

He tipped my head down again ad th="1and slid his fingers to the back of my neck, sending shivers down my spine. Then he lowered his lips to my ear.

"This is not that time, Merit."

And then his mouth was on mine, and he took my breath away again. He kissed me like a man possessed, like a man with nothing more on his mind but the taste and feel of me.

Like a man returned to life.

"I have been given a third chance at life, even if the circumstances are somewhat disconcerting. You are mine, and we both know it."

He kissed me again, and as I began to believe that he was real y, truly back, I felt as possessive of him as I'd ever felt about anything, sure in the bone-deep knowledge that he was mine, and regardless of the circumstance, I intended to keep it that way.

After another long moment, he ended the kiss and wrapped his arms around me.

When the sun rose, we were nestled together, two bodies pressed together for warmth, for love, in gratefulness for miracles that probably shouldn't have been.

It was the best night's sleep I'd ever had.

Click here for more books by this author EPILOGUE

We awoke with our bodies intertwined, the phone beside Ethan's bed ringing loudly. I crawled across his very naked body and picked up the receiver.

"Yes?" I asked.

Catcher's voice was frantic. "She woke up. She overpowered the guards, and she left."

I sat up and shook Ethan's leg to wake him. "Slow down.

What do you mean she overpowered the Order?"

Alarm in his eyes, Ethan sat up beside me, his legs wrapped in a sheet. He pushed the hair from his face.

"They removed the restraints so they could check her out.

She managed to convince them that she was feeling better, that she knew she'd done wrong. As soon as they were off, she knocked out the guard. He's banged up pretty badly.

She knocked out two others on the way out. They cal ed a few minutes ago."

"Do you know where she went?"

"A temporary guardian left this morning to drive the Maleficium to Nebraska. There are rooms in the Order's silo that are impermeable to magic. The plan is to keep it there until a permanent guardian is appointed."

"The Order is supposed to guard the book of evil? That's a horrible idea."

"The Order's just providing the space. The temp is in charge of it until it goes to its new home."

"That's where she'l go. She wants to finish her task," I quietly said. "Combining good and evil together. She thinks it's necessary, that it wil help the world."

"They won't let me look for her," Catcher said. "The Order doesn't want me involved. And if she's truly using black magic, they're afraid to al ow sorcerers to get mixed up in it."

Honestly, I didn't disagree with the sentiment.

"I considered secreting her away," he confessed.

"She can't run from this," I said. "If she's become addicted to black magic, she needs to deal with it, not pretend it doesn't exist."

"I failed her. I should have known. I thought . . . I thought Simon was trying to turn her against me because of the Order. I thought that's why she was acting so strangely. I was blind. Blinded by my own fear."

"You knew when the rest of us knew," I said. "And you're the one who saved her and the rest of the city tonight. Never forget that."

He was quiet for a moment. "Do you remember when I told you that you had something of mine - something you had to protect?"

Tears immediately sprang to my eyes. "I remember."

"This is the time," he said. "I need you to protect it."

"Then that's what I'l do. I'l find her, Catcher, and I'l bring her back to you, safe and sound." The promise made, I hung up the phone and glanced over at Ethan, worry in my heart.

"So," he said, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.

"When do we leave?"

An hour later, we met in the foyer of Cadogan House, each of us carrying a duffel bag and a sheathed sword. Helen had replaced my Cadogan medal, and a thoughtful someone had col ected my car from Wrigleyvil e. That didn't sway Ethan, though, who insisted we drive his convertible Mercedes to find Mal ory. And real y, who was I to argue?

Ethan's hair was tied at the nape of his neck, and he wore the SAVE OUR NAME T-shirt - an homage to Wrigley Field - that he'd once let me wear.

"You ready?" he asked.

I nodded.

Vampires began to funnel into the foyer, now cleared of Frank's rules, Malik in the lead. He stepped up to Ethan and me and stretched out a hand. He shook Ethan's, and then mine.

Luc, Lindsey, and Juliet stepped behind Malik, and Ethan's gaze moved to each in turn, then back to Malik.

"You have enough coverage to protect the House?"

Malik nodded. "Keley is confirming temporary replacements as we speak. And in the meantime, we are here if you need us. And when you return."

"Thank you," Ethan said, and after another round of hugs and tears, for the last time in God knew how long, we walked out of Cadogan House together, with a map and a plan.

Unfortunately, I barely made it three feet without stopping short.

Jonah stood at the gate, hands in his pockets, expression blank but for the solemn eyes that shifted between me and Ethan. My heart skipped a beat, anticipation building as I wondered why he was here . . . and what he would say.

We met him at the gate, Ethan's expression shifting between me and Jonah.

"On behalf of Grey House," Jonah said, "welcome back to Chicago." He glanced between me and Ethan. "You're going to find Mal ory."

"We are," I said, and we stood there awkwardly for a moment. Time to see how far that trust extended. "Ethan, could you excuse us for a moment?"

"Of course," he said, but raised my hand to his lips and pressed a kiss there before moving toward the Mercedes.

"I suppose you've gotten your partner back," Jonah sak, excusid.

"I agreed to join the RG," I quietly reminded him. "And I don't take that lightly."

Jonah looked at me for a long time, and I could read the deliberation in his eyes: Was I committed now that Ethan was back?

He must have found merit in my honesty, as he final y nodded. And then he spoke his piece: "We have moved in and out of each others' lives. Twice now, we've crossed each others' paths - for you, both as a human and a vampire. Relationships have been built on less."

I rol ed my eyes. "And Ethan would end you for suggesting it."

He smiled. "Ethan would appreciate a man who knows what he wants - as long as I don't interfere. And I don't plan on doing that. You and I are partners. I know where the lines are, Merit, and I can respect them. I have no interest in breaking up a relationship."

I made my good-byes and walked back to where Ethan was loading our bags into the car. I expected suspicion and vitriol in his mood and tone. I did not expect to see the smile on his face.

"Your partner while I was away?" he asked.

I nodded, stil unsure of my steps.

"You can relax," he said with a canny grin, then tweaked my chin. "I trust you." And then he tossed something in the air. Instinctively, I reached out and caught it, then glanced down at my open palm - and back up at him.

He smiled cannily. "Omaha's a long drive. You can take the first shift." True to his word, he opened the passenger side door and climbed inside.

I was going to have to learn this man al over again.

I guess al journeys begin with a single step . . . or an $80,000 convertible Mercedes. God wil ing, it would move fast enough, and we could find Mal ory in time.

Want more Chloe Neil ?

Read on for the opening chapter of FIRESPELL, the first book in her Dark Elite series.

Available now!

They were gathered around a conference table in a high-rise, eight men and women, no one under the age of sixty-five, al of them wealthy beyond measure. And they were here, in the middle of Manhattan, to decide my fate.

I was not quite sixteen and only one month out of my sophomore year of high school. My parents, philosophy professors, had been offered a two-year-long academic sabbatical at a university in Munich, Germany. That's right  - two years out of the country, which only real y mattered because they'd decided I'd be better off staying in the United States.

They'd passed along that little nugget one Saturday in June. I'd been preparing to head to my best friend Ashley's house when my parents came into my room and sat down on my bed.

"Lily," Mom said, "we need to talk."

I don't think I'm ruining the surprise by pointing out that nothing good happens when someone starts a speech like that.

My first thought was that something horrible had happened to Ashley. Turned out she was fine; the trauma hit a little closer to home. My parents told me they'd been accepted into the sabbk, et nothingatical program, and that the chance to work in Germany for two years was an amazing opportunity for them.

Then they got quiet and exchanged one of those long, meaningful looks that real y didn't bode wel for me. They said they didn't want to drag me to Germany with them, that they'd be busy while they were there, and that they wanted me to stay in an American school to have the best chance of going to a great col ege here. So they'd decided that while they were away, I'd be staying in the States.

I was equal parts bummed and thril ed. Bummed, of course, because they'd be an ocean away while I passed al the big milestones - SAT prep, col ege visits, prom, completing my vinyl col ection of every Smashing Pumpkins track ever released.

Thril ed, because I figured I'd get to stay with Ashley and her parents.

Unfortunately, I was only right about the first part.

My parents had decided it would be best for me to finish high school in Chicago, in a boarding school stuck in the middle of high-rise buildings and concrete - not in Sagamore, my hometown in Upstate New York; not in our tree-lined neighborhood, with my friends and the people and places I knew.

I protested with every argument I could think of.

Flash forward two weeks and 240 miles to the Flash forward two weeks and 240 miles to the conference table where I sat in a button-up cardigan and pencil skirt I'd never have worn under normal circumstances, the members of the Board of Trustees of St. Sophia's School for Girls staring back at me. They interviewed every girl who wanted to walk their hal owed hal s - after al , heaven forbid they let in a girl who didn't meet their standards. But that they had traveled to New York to see me seemed a little out of the ordinary.

"I hope you're aware," said one of them, a silver-haired man with tiny round glasses, "that St. Sophia's is a famed academic institution. The school itself has a long and storied history in Chicago, and the Ivy Leagues recruit from its hal s."

A woman with a pile of hair atop her head looked at me and said slowly, as if talking to a child, "You'l have any secondary institution in this country or beyond at your feet, Lily, if you're accepted at St. Sophia's. If you become a St.

Sophia's girl."

Okay, but what if I didn't want to be a St. Sophia's girl?

What if I wanted to stay home in Sagamore with my friends, not a thousand miles away in some freezing Midwestern city, surrounded by private-school girls who dressed the same, talked the same, bragged about their money?

I didn't want to be a St. Sophia's girl. I wanted to be me, Lily Parker, of the dark hair and eyeliner and fabulous fashion sense.

The powers that be of St. Sophia's were apparently less hesitant. Two weeks after the interview, I got the letter in the mail.

"Congratulations," it said. "We are pleased to inform you that the members of the board of trustees have voted favorably regarding your admission to St. Sophia's School for Girls."

I was less than pleased, but short of running away, which wasn't my style, I was out of options. So two months later, my parents and I trekked to Albany International.

Mom had booked us on the same airline, so we sat in the concourse together, with me between the two of them. Mom wore a shirt and trim trousers, her long dark hair in a low ponytail. My father wore a button-up shirt and khakis, his auburn hair waving over the glasseser /div We sat silently until they cal ed my plane. Too nervous for tears, I stood and put on my messenger bag. My parents stood, as wel , and my mom reached out to put a hand on my cheek. "We love you, Lil. You know that? And that this is what's best?"

I most certainly didn't know this was best. And the weird thing was, I wasn't sure even she believed it, considering how nervous she sounded when she said it. Looking back, I think they both had doubts about the whole thing. They didn't actual y say that, of course, but their body language told a different story. When they first told me about their plan, my dad kept touching my mom's knee - not romantical y or anything, but like he needed reassurance, like he needed to remind himself that she was there and that things were going to be okay. It made me wonder. I mean, they were headed to Germany for a two-year research sabbatical they'd spent months applying for, but despite what they'd said about the great "opportunity," they didn't seem thril ed about going.

The whole thing was very, very strange.

Anyway, my mom's throwing out, "It's for the best," at the airport wasn't a new thing. She and dad had both been repeating that phrase over the last few weeks like a mantra.

I didn't know that it was for the best, but I didn't want a bratty comment to be the last thing I said to them, so I nodded at my mom and faked a smile, and let my dad pul me into a rib-breaking hug.

"You can cal us anytime," he said. "Anytime, day or night.

Or e-mail. Or text us." He pressed a kiss to the top of my head. "You're our light, Lils," he whispered. "Our light."

I wasn't sure whether I loved him more, or hated him a little, for caring so much and stil sending me away.

We said our good-byes, and I traversed the concourse and took my seat on the plane, with a credit card for emergencies in my wal et, a duffel bag bearing my name in the bel y of the jet, and my palm pressed to the window as New York fel behind me.

Good-bye, "New York State of Mind."

Pete Wentz said it best in his song title: "Chicago Is So Two Years Ago."

Two hours and a tiny bag of peanuts later, I was in the 312, greeted by a wind that was fierce and much too cold for an afternoon in early September, Windy City or not. My knee-length skirt, part of my new St. Sophia's uniform, didn't help much against the chil .

I glanced back at the black-and-white cab that had dropped me off in front of the school's enclave on East Erie. The driver pul ed away from the curb and merged into traffic, leaving me there on the sidewalk, giant duffel bag in my hands, messenger bag across my shoulder, and downtown Chicago around me.

What stood before me, I thought as I gazed up at St.

Sophia's School for Girls, wasn't exactly welcoming.

The board members had told me that St. Sophia's had been a convent in its former life, but it could have just as easily been the setting for a gothic horror movie. Dismal gray stone. Lots of tal , skinny windows, and one giant round one in the middle. Fanged, grinning gargoyles perched at each corner of the steep roof.

I tilted my head as I surveyed the statues. Was it weird that nuns had been guarded by tiny stone monsters? And were they supposed to keep people out . . . or in?

Rising over the main building were the symbols of St.

Sophia's - two prickly towers of that same gray stone.

Supposedly, some of Chicago's leading ladies wore silver rings inscribed with an outline of the towers, proof that they'd been St. Sophia's girls.

Three months after my parents' revelation, I stil had no desire to be a St. Sophia's girl. Besides, if you squinted, the building looked like a pointy-eared monster.

I gnawed the inside of my lip and scanned the other few equal y gothic buildings that made up the smal campus, al but hidden from the rest of Chicago by a stone wal . A royal blue flag that bore the St. Sophia's crest (complete with tower) rippled in the wind above the arched front door. A Rol s-Royce was parked on the curved driveway below.

This wasn't my kind of place. This wasn't Sagamore. It was far from my school and my neighborhood, far from my favorite vintage clothing store and favorite coffeehouse.

Worse, given the Rol s, I guessed these weren't my kind of people. Wel , they used to not be my kind of people. If my parents could afford to send me here, we apparently had money I hadn't known about.

"This sucks," I muttered, just in time for the heavy double doors in the middle of the tower to open. A woman - tal , thin, dressed in a no-nonsense suit and sensible heels - stepped into the doorway.

We looked at each other for a moment. Then she moved to the side, holding one of the doors open with her hand.

I guessed that was my cue. Adjusting my messenger bag and duffel, I made my way up the sidewalk.

"Lily Parker?" she asked, one eyebrow arched questioningly, when I got to the stone stairs that lay before the door.

I nodded.

She lifted her gaze and surveyed the school grounds, like an eagle scanning for prey. "Come inside."

I walked up the steps and into the building, the wind ruffling my hair as the giant doors were closed behind me.

The woman moved through the main building quickly, efficiently, and, most noticeably, silently. I didn't get so much as a hel o, much less a warm welcome to Chicago.

She hadn't spoken a word since she'd beckoned me to fol ow her.

And fol ow her I did, through lots of slick limestone corridors lit by tiny flickering bulbs in old-fashioned wal sconces. The floor and wal s were made of the same pale limestone, the ceiling overhead a grid of thick wooden beams, gold symbols painted in the spaces between them.

A bee. The flowerlike shape of a fleur-de-lis.

We turned one corner, then another, until we entered a corridor lined with columns. The ceiling changed, rising above us in a series of pointed arches outlined in curved wooden beams, the spaces between them painted the same blue as St. Sophia's flag. Gold stars dotted the blue.

It was impressive - or at least expensive.

I fol owed her to the end of the hal way, which terminated in a wooden door. A name, MARCELINE D. FOLEY, was written in gold letters in the middle of it.

When she opened the door and stepped inside the office, I assumed she was Marceline D. Foley. I stepped inside behind her.

The room was darkish, a heavy fragrance drifting up from a smal oil burner on a side table. A gigantic, circular stained glass window was on the wal opposite the door, and a massive oak a ffice, desk sat in front of the window.

"Close the door," she said. I dropped my duffel bag to the floor, then did as she'd directed. When I turned around again, she was seated behind the desk, manicured hands clasped before her, her gaze on me.

"I am Marceline Foley, the headmistress of this school," she said. "You've been sent to us for your education, your personal growth, and your development into a young lady.

You wil become a St. Sophia's girl. As a junior, you wil spend two years at this institution. I expect you to use that time wisely - to study, to learn, to network, and to prepare yourself for academical y chal enging studies at a wel - respected university.

"You wil have classes from eight twenty a.m. until three twenty p.m., Monday through Friday. You wil have dinner at precisely five o'clock and study hal from seven p.m. until nine p.m., Sunday through Thursday. Lights-out at ten o'clock. You wil remain on the school grounds during the week, although you may take your exercise off the grounds during your lunch breaks, assuming you do not leave the grounds alone and that you stay near campus. Curfew is promptly at nine p.m. on Friday and Saturday nights. Do you have any questions?"

I shook my head, which was a fib. I had tons of questions, actual y, but not the sort I thought she'd appreciate, especial y since her PR skil s left a lot to be desired. She made St. Sophia's sound less like boarding school and more like prison. Then again, the PR was lost on me, anyway. It's not like I was there by choice.

"Good." Foley pul ed open a tiny drawer on the right-hand side of her desk. Out of it she lifted an antique gold skeleton key - the skinny kind with prongs at the end - that was strung from a royal blue ribbon.

"Your room key," she said, and extended her hand. I lifted the ribbon from her palm, wrapping my fingers around the slender bar of metal. "Your books are already in your room.

You've been assigned a laptop, which is in your room, as wel ."

She frowned, then glanced up at me. "This is likely not how you imagined your junior and senior years of high school would be, Ms. Parker. But you wil find that you have been bestowed an incredible gift. This is one of the finest high schools in the nation. Being an alumna of St. Sophia's wil open doors for you educational y and social y. Your membership in this institution wil connect you to a network of women whose influence is international in scope."

I nodded, mostly about that first part. Of course I'd imagined my junior and senior years differently. I'd imagined being at home, with my friends, with my parents.

But she hadn't actual y asked me how I felt about being shipped off to Chicago, so I didn't elaborate.

"I'l show you to your room," she said, rising from her chair and moving toward the door.

I picked up my bag again and fol owed her.

St. Sophia's looked pretty much the same on the walk to my room as it had on the way to Foley's office - one stone corridor after another. The building was immaculately clean, but kind of empty. Sterile. It was also quieter than I would have expected a high school to be, certainly quieter than the high school I'd left behind. But for the click of Foley's heels on the shining stone floors, the place was graveyard silent. And there was no sign of the usual high school stuff.

No trophy cases, no class photos, no lockers, no pep ral y posters. Most important, stil no sign of students. There were supposed to be two hundred of us. So far, it looked like I was the only St.s tos, n Sophia's girl in residence.

The corridor suddenly opened into a giant circular space with a domed ceiling, a labyrinth set into the tile on the floor beneath it. This was a serious place. A place for contemplation. A place where nuns once walked quietly, gravely, through the hal ways.

And then she pushed open another set of double doors.

The hal way opened into a long room lit by enormous metal chandeliers and the blazing color of dozens of stained glass windows. The wal s that weren't covered by windows were lined with books, and the floor was fil ed by rows and rows of tables.

At the tables sat teenagers. Lots and lots of teenagers, al in stuff that made up the St. Sophia's uniform: navy plaid skirt and some kind of top in the same navy: sweater; hooded sweatshirt; sweater-vest.

They looked like an al -girl army of plaid.

Books and notebooks were spread on the tables before them, laptop computers open and buzzing. Classes didn't start until tomorrow, and these girls were already studying.

The trustees were right - these people were serious about their studies.

"Your classmates," Foley quietly said.

She walked through the aisle that split the room into two halves, and I fol owed behind her, my shoulder beginning to ache under the weight of the duffel bag. Girls watched as I walked past them, heads lifting from books (and notebooks and laptops) to check me out as I passed. I caught the eyes of two of them.

The first was a blonde with wavy hair that cascaded around her shoulders, a black patent leather headband tucked behind her ears. She arched an eyebrow at me as I passed, and two other brunettes at the table leaned toward her to whisper. To gossip. I made a prediction pretty quickly that she was the leader of that pack.

The second girl, who sat with three other plaid cadets a few tables down, was definitely not a member of the blonde's pack. Her hair was also blond, but for the darker ends of her short bob. She wore black nail polish and a smal silver ring on one side of her nose.

Given what I'd seen so far, I was surprised Foley let her get away with that, but I liked it.

She lifted her head as I walked by, her green eyes on my browns as I passed.

She smiled. I smiled back.

"This way," Foley ordered. I hustled to fol ow.

We walked down the aisle to the other end of the room, then into another corridor. A few more turns and a narrow flight of limestone stairs later, Foley stopped beside a wooden door. She bobbed her head at the key around my neck. "Your suite," she said. "Your bedroom is the first on the right. You have three suitemates, and you'l share the common room. Classes begin promptly at eight twenty tomorrow morning. Your schedule is with your books. I understand you have some interest in the arts?"

"I like to draw," I said. "Sometimes paint."

"Yes, the board forwarded some of the slides of your work. It lends itself to the fantastic - imaginary worlds and unrealistic creatures - but you seem to have some skil .

We've placed you in our arts track. You'l start studio classes within the next few weeks, once our instructor has settled in. It is expected that you wil devote as much time to your craft as you do to your studies." Apparently having concluded her instructions, she gave me an up-and-down appraisal. suitpraou Any questions?"

She'd done it again. She said, "Any questions?" but it sounded a lot more like "I don't have time for nonsense right now."

"No, thank you," I said, and Foley bobbed her head.

"Very good." With that, she turned on her heel and walked away, her footsteps echoing through the hal way.

I waited until she was gone, then slipped the key into the lock and turned the knob. The door opened into a smal circular space - the common room. There were a couch and coffee table in front of a smal fireplace, a cel o propped against the opposite wal , and four doors leading, I assumed, to the bedrooms.

I walked to the door on the far right and slipped the skeleton key from my neck, then into the lock. When the tumblers clicked, I pushed open the door and flipped on the light.

It was smal  - a tiny but tidy space with one smal window and a twin-sized bed. The bed was covered by a royal blue bedspread embroidered with an imprint of the St. Sophia's tower. Across from the bed was a wooden bureau, atop which sat a two-foot-high stack of books, a pile of papers, a silver laptop, and an alarm clock. A narrow wooden door led to a closet.

I closed the door to the suite behind me, then dropped my bag onto the bed. The room had a few pieces of furniture in it and the school supplies, but otherwise, it was empty. But for the few things I'd been able to fit into the duffel, nothing here would remind me of home.

My heart sank at the thought. My parents had actual y sent me away to boarding school. They chose Munich and researching some musty philosopher over art competitions and honors society dinners, the kind of stuff they usual y loved to brag about.

I sat down next to my duffel, pul ed the cel phone from the front pocket of my gray and yel ow messenger bag, flipped it open, and checked the time. It was nearly five o'clock in Chicago and would have been midnight in Munich, although they were probably halfway over the Atlantic right now. I wanted to cal them, to hear their voices, but since that wasn't an option, I pul ed up my mom's cel number and clicked out a text message: @ SCHOOL IN ROOM. It wasn't much, but they'd know I'd arrived safely and, I assumed, would cal when they could.

When I flipped the phone closed again, I stared at it for a minute, tears pricking at my eyes. I tried to keep them from spil ing over, to keep from crying in the middle of my first hour at St. Sophia's, the first hour into my new life.

They spil ed over anyway. I didn't want to be here. Not at this school, not in Chicago. If I didn't think they'd just ship me right back again, I'd have used the credit card my mom gave me for emergencies, charged a ticket, and hopped a plane back to New York.

"This sucks," I said, swiping careful y at my overflowing tears, trying to avoid smearing the black eyeliner around my eyes.

A knock sounded at the door, which opened. I glanced up. "Are you planning your escape?" asked the girl with the nose ring and black nail polish who stood in my doorway.

THE END

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