THE SANDMAN ☞ TRAVIS STOLL

FOURTEEN

    VALERIE GREENWOOD HAS OWNED a lot of dresses. She's been to so many galas, balls, costume parties in her life that she has a closet in the penthouse just for gowns.

    Never in her life, however, has she felt so like herself in a dress.

    It's a starry night sky wrapped up in a gown, all black tulle with silver flecks laced within the layers of fabric. Sleeves, billowing and loose around her arms, drape down from her shoulders and cinch at her wrists, the cuffs not too tight around her. Through the translucent fabric, all of her scars and tattoos are visible, even the brand, obscured just enough to not be entirely distinguishable.

    With her bronze-brown hair braided and wrapped around her head like a crown, silver star pins woven through her hair like constellations in a molten metal sky, she resembles a goddess, born out of darkness but shining like a falling star.

    Josslyn is her antithesis, it seems—where Valerie is all smoke and silver, Josslyn is radiant sunshine, gowned in gold and glitter. Her blonde hair is slicked back, away from her face, and a crown of braided, gilded gold rests upon her head. Clara wears a dress of emerald lace, green gemmed earings sparkling in her ears. And Eloise is a vision in sapphire, with her dark hair hanging down her back in curls and wearing a ballgown that could rival any princess.

    It feels nostalgic to be with her sisters in black tie formalwear, something they did so often in their childhoods. They've been to so many fancy events that this should feel like just one more in a long line, but it's clear to all of them that something is different, something is missing.

    Valerie and Josslyn glance at each other as they gather in the hallway between their childhood bedrooms, and the thought is clear on their faces—Noelle would have loved this.

    It's bittersweet, and although the action hurts like a knife through the ribs, Valerie reaches out a hand.

    Josslyn takes it, squeezing three times before letting go.

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    Travis Stoll is a fish out of water, a middle class boy-turned-man in a hotel full of people who are richer than god and have more money than they can ever spend. He stands in the hotel lobby, next to Josslyn's husband, in a suit that he wouldn't have been able to afford if he worked every day of his life.

    The Greenwood girls—both the daughters and their mother—are late. They were due in the ballroom five minutes ago, and the hundreds, if not thousands, of guests are waiting impatiently for the birthday girl and her family behind the double doors to Travis's left.

    It's nearing ten past seven when the elevator dings to their right, and as the door opens, a mosaic of jewel toned gowns is all he can see, until a blur of night-sky darkness steps out.

    Travis nearly falls to his knees when he sees Valerie Greenwood, her bronze-brown hair pulled away from her face in a way that shows off her bone structure and her heavily pierced ears. She glitters as she walks, shining like silver and obsidian with every step towards him.

    And when he meets her halfway, one arm crooked for her to loop her own through, she's smiling. At him. It's not a kilowatt smile, not by any means, but there is something wolfish to it that is so uniquely Valerie that his knees threaten to buckle again.

    Gods, he's in love with her. Every facet of her, every side of her—from the parts of her that are sharp and mean and cruel to the parts that she only lets him see when they're totally alone: the parts of her that are soft and vulnerable and tired. The parts of her that are unexpectedly funny, those that are cynical beyond reason. Whether she's covered in monster dust or clothed in designer, the feeling in his stomach, behind his ribs, remains the same.