LITMIR.BIZ

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finding an unchanging base myth to all of them. Aunt Bridge was advancing her research on medieval goddess cults by focusing on the group of French women who had worshipped the Mother Goddess in the form of the fairy Melusine.

      The idea that those women had really hidden a chalice, much less that we could find it…that had been an amusement. We were Grail Keepers, as our mothers’ mothers had been for centuries. Keepers of the secrets of the goddess grails.

      We weren’t Grailgetters.

      Now someone was after our information. And if what had happened to the Kali Cup in New Delhi was any warning…

      We had to find the cup first. The chalice that Melusine worshippers would have used and which they would have hidden by the time of the medieval witch burnings.

      Edit that; I had to find the cup.

      I’m embarrassed to admit that the next thing I knew, I was drawing a deep breath and waking to an announcement, in French, that we had started our descent toward Charles de Gaulle. The previous night must have wiped me out, for me to sleep through six hours and at least one meal service.

      I cracked my eyes open and saw that at some point I’d been covered with a thick, rich blanket. Mmm; nice service on this flight. Except…

      A few other passengers also had blankets, and theirs were fairly thin and flimsy.

      Mine was a first-class blanket.

      Suspicion contracted my chest. Did that mean…?

      My notes! I clenched my hand instinctively, sitting bolt upright. My fingers closed on rubber-wrapped index cards. Maybe Lex hadn’t come back here. Maybe the flight attendants just ran out of coach-class blankets.

      Then something small and hard slid off my lap.

      It was a small box of gourmet chocolates. The kind they give out in first class. The kind Lex had always passed on to me after his business trips…back when we were together.

      In the seventh grade, Alexander Stuart inexplicably returns to public school. He’s no longer a bully; instead, he keeps to himself. I’m one of the few people he’ll speak to, maybe because I stood up to him in kindergarten.

      When he sits out PE, we think he’s getting special treatment. Same with all his absences. None of us guesses he’s sick until the day he comes to school with his head shaved.

      This, of course, is when kids stop calling him Alex and start calling him Lex Luther. He ignores them.

      Our teacher does not. One afternoon when he’s gone, she tells us Alexander has leukemia. He could die. That’s why his parents want him home with them. We must not tease him.

      Kids can be cruel. But not all kids. Not most of us.

      Lex notices the change, the sympathetic looks, the students who hang back as if leukemia—or mortality—are contagious. He notices the return of his name. “Hi, Alex.” “How are you feeling, Alex?” “Hey, Alex, what’s up?”

      I see his sharp hazel eyes go from confusion to to realization to fury at becoming an object of pity. Finally, during English, he stands up. “Miss Mason? I want everyone to call me Lex.”

      Miss Mason doesn’t understand. “Now, Alex…”

      “That’s what I want.” There he stands with his military-school posture, a twelve-year-old outsider, skinny, bald. I suspect just how exhausted he must be, how sick he must feel. But he prefers mockery to sympathy.

      “No, Alex,” says Miss Mason. “I won’t allow it.”

      He continues to stand, demoted from sick to helpless by her condescension. An ache grips my throat. It doesn’t seem right.

      So I say, “Fine, Lex. Just sit down and shut up, okay?”

      Several students turn to me in amazement, but I don’t pay attention to them. I’m watching how Lex’s quiet, hazel eyes slide toward me.

      “Did you hear me?” I challenge. “Lex?”

      And with a nod of quiet satisfaction, he sits.

      “Maggi Sanger!” protests Miss Mason.

      “As long as he’s going to act like a jerk, why not let him be an archvillain?”

      Of course I’m sent to the principal. But I also get a glimpse of Lex Stuart’s rare smile. He’s waiting outside the almost empty school building when I get out of detention. A black limousine owns the parking lot not five spaces from my mother’s minivan.

      “We’re doing group reports for social studies,” he says. “I chose Camelot. Will you partner with me?”

      I wait. I know I am not a particularly attractive twelve-year-old. I’m chubby, and my hair is usually messy from running and playing.

      He looks intrigued. “Please?”

      “Sure,” I say. “Lex.”

      He almost smiles. He has preferred “Lex” ever since.

      Alex was a victim.

      Lex is a survivor.

      Chapter 4

      S tanding in line for customs, my backpack slung comfortably over one shoulder, I caught glimpses of Lex’s long suit coat half a line ahead of me. Surely he was just being chivalrous with the blanket and chocolate? He wasn’t spying, living up to his archvillain moniker, was he?

      Could he possibly do both?

      It wasn’t lack of time or opportunity that kept me from asking. Nor was it cowardice or embarrassment. We’d been lovers at one time, remember?

      Nope. I held my tongue because I couldn’t think of a way to confront him without tipping my hand. On the very low chance he’d seen my notes, at least he hadn’t taken any; I’d checked that on the plane. Better to err on the side of discretion.

      Especially while guards stood by with automatic weapons.

      By the time I left the secured area, Lex was greeting yet another reason for not trusting him.

      His cousin Phil, CEO, prince regent of the family business.

      Phil Stuart was stocky and harsh-featured, right down to his crooked nose. He purposefully wore his tawny hair too long. His suit was more expensive than Lex’s, but not as understated. Phil was the kind of businessman who put the filthy back into filthy lucre—and yet Lex was one of his staunchest supporters.

      Having someone save your life with his own bone marrow will do that.

      I turned to scan the waiting crowd. Aunt Bridge’s assistant would be a college-age girl, right? I noticed one young blonde, but she threw her arms wide to greet my Discman seat mate and they began making out, right there in the airport. Okay, probably not her.

      I felt either Lex or Phil watching me, but didn’t want to look paranoid by turning. I continued studying the crowd. When I saw my name on a piece of cardboard, I looked up.

      Oh, my…goddess.

      The person who held it was older than standard college age by about a decade.

      He was also a guy.

      Other than being tall—lanky, really—the man holding the sign that read “Magdalene Sanger” could have been the anti-Lex. He wore broken-in jeans the way only cowboys and Europeans can, and a loose T-shirt. His shaggy black hair looked finger combed, and he didn’t seem to have shaved that morning. When his gaze met mine, I saw his eyes were a bright blue.

      They smiled at me in welcome, even bluer. And yet something in that smile seemed unapproachable. Amiable but off-limits. Probably married…even if he wasn’t wearing a ring.

      Then he lowered the sign to step forward and greet me, offering a slim, bony hand, and surprised me further.

      Because he wore a prominent

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