Inside was a card, signed by the whole gang; a handmade braided leather bracelet embellished with one of Ángel’s favorite picks—a Gravity Gold—and a used thrift-store T-shirt from the first professional venue Ángel had ever played, the long-extinct Manatee Bar, which featured a peeling pink aquatic mammal and the cursive word Chillin’.

It was a totally Marissa gift—not expensive, but highly personal. It was clear that she’d searched for something that he—and only he—would like.

“I really do wish I’d gotten this yesterday,” he admitted, holding the bracelet to his wrist, deciding that the black leather of the band and the cream-colored vinyl of the guitar pick looked nice against his brown skin.

“An ornament?” said Oberon.

“Yeah. Not much call for it here, but I want to see how it looks.” Ángel fumbled one-handed to secure the bracelet onto his wrist.

Oberon extended a hand. Ángel hesitated, then held out his arm, and Oberon, emitting his rumbling subsonic vibration, fastened the clasp. Ángel’s nerves jumped when Oberon’s fingers gently brushed the inside of his wrist like nettles, but he bit his lip, hard, and forced himself not to recoil.

He had the strangest feeling—as though the fastening of the bracelet were a ritual. As if, by allowing it, he had given Oberon permission to pay him court.

Chapter 18

Ángel awakened the next morning feeling as though everything had changed.

He blinked. The washed-new feeling came from the quality of the light coming through the window: it had a pearly sheen, unlike anything he’d ever seen before. He got up and peered out.

The ground was covered with a thick blanket of snow, and more was falling, heavily, silently, in fat clumps rather than individual flakes. It was like the cover of a Christmas card, all sparkling and soft. Except in Christmas cards the sky was usually blue, not that low menacing gray.

He washed and dressed and ran downstairs, singing “Sweet Baby James.” He caught Lily in the kitchen and, since “Sweet Baby James” was in three-four, waltzed her around the island, singing.

“Did you look outside?” He swung her in a circle.

“Yes, it started around midnight, and we have four inches! We’re going to be stuck until the snowplows come.”

He stopped dancing. “We’ll be forced to cannibalism. We should start with the security team. They’re beefy. I’m stringy and tough.”

“Hah,” she said. “You’re the youngest, and they have guns.”

“That is a good point. I think I’ll go outside. Should I make a snowman? Is that an appropriate snow activity?”

“They never look as good as in the cartoons,” she warned him. “You want breakfast?”

He pulled on his boots. “Yes, when I come back in. You don’t have to make it.”

“That’s what I do,” she said. “Put on a hat, or you’ll catch a cold.”