My mother died with a guilty conscience. Sometimes, the sense of abandonment she left behind in Haiti permeates through my dreams in sweltering island landscapes I've never seen and faceless relatives I've never met.

Today, Eris is with me. In the dream, we fall from a helicopter and crash through the Caribbean forest, the spindling branches not enough to break our fall. The second before we hit the ground, two giant hands extend from the clouds and pluck us from the air, then set us down, unharmed.

And then the hands, one wrinkled and dark brown, and the other lighter with delicate fingers, press against the base of our spines. Our eyes roll back, Eris' veins emit a golden glow, and we're laughing. The goddesses Nana Buluku and Chalchiuhtlicue are giddy at their new, mortal bodies. I'm speaking fluent Nahuatl and Eris Yoruba, and the bugs and animals and trunks of trees understand every word, talking back to us in a myriad of languages.

The scene changes. We're in Port-Au-Prince with the sea of square, multicolored houses along the hills, and the price is on my head now. The government can't have William's head, so they'll have mine. The goddess possessing my body warns me that they've contracted a local gang to ensure my capture. Not for ransom, but for my blood—I will die here, sacrificed on an altar lined with bottles of alcohol, porcelain saints, and cheap plastic rosaries.

Eris shoots golden bullets at the masked men. They're armed with AK-47s, but Nana Buluku makes her skin into iron. One of them manages to restrain me and lock me in a car trunk.

And then I wake, comfortable in my bed with my silk hair wrap and eye mask, and Eris' name is on my lips, because the last thing I remember was screaming for her help.

▴ ▴ ▴

Through the weekend, as I dive head-first into my ever-increasing to-do lists and work with an inhuman productivity, the kiss with Eris doesn't leave my mind.

Whenever I close my eyes, it loops on repeat. Her teeth biting my lip, the hitches in her breath, the soft curves of her spine, the way she stands on the tips of her toes to make up for our height difference. And now, with that boundary breached, I let myself remember all the times she's glanced at my mouth. Her confession that she thought of kissing me since the day we met, and I feel faint at the possibility such forbidden desires lingered in the back of her mind every time she dragged me to filth. And then the day I met her... I thought she was nervous under the pressure of the competition, but she only averted her gaze around me, stumbling over her words, branded with that same doe-eyed vulnerability.

She's repulsive. But there's been some bizarre alchemy, some form of Stockholm syndrome because maybe I'm so alone I'm latching onto the closest thing, but even that doesn't explain this twisted attraction.

Attraction to what, though? Her danger? The shameless way she walks like she's in control of whatever ground she steps on? Or the fact she's utterly doomed, utterly alone with no one else to confide in but me?

It doesn't have to mean anything. Nothing but a lapse in judgment, it doesn't mean anything. All she wanted was to make me question myself, lowering my resolve in the only way she could after I lowered hers. I gave her the satisfaction of having her little lesbo moment with a straight girl, and it cost me nothing but my pride.

At least my brain is fixated on the kiss instead of the way her paintbrush perfectly forged my triangles.

But then, as I'm sitting alone in the library during lunch, she storms into my line of vision with a different concern.

"You made out with my brother?"

I give her a dumb look as if I have no idea what she's talking about. I'm about to tell her to stop believing rumors, but then she clarifies:

"He told me. He told me yesterday that you and him had a thing."

Last year, I made Axel promise me not to tell anyone, especially not her. I needed her to continue seeing me as impeccable, unavailable, and astronomically above such mundane activities. She likes to call me a prude, but in such an over-sexualized world, I've always considered remaining untouchable a virtue.

I broke my own vow of chastity when Axel made his move, too shocked to push him away the first time, but even that was nothing more than a few minutes of kissing. Nothing memorable. Nothing that took anything away from me in the ways Eris does with just a glance.

"Why does it matter?" I ask. I stand up to face her, leaning against the bookshelf while she grits her teeth, trying to stay calm but failing, back to the rival I know—but for a completely different reason.

"He's my brother," she snarls. "And you went behind my back, both of you."

"It was literally a year ago. He just liked me."

"Yeah, he told me he liked you a whole lot. What the fuck did he see in you?"

"Is it that hard to believe?" I ask. "I mean, not even you're immune to my charms, it appears."

And then the memory of our kiss flashes through her eyes, as if she's been forcing herself not to think about it for days, and she shakes her head. "There's nothing about you that's charming, bitch. So tell me. Did you like him back or what?"

"I don't know," I say.

I could be honest and tell her that I couldn't stomach the thought of his hands on me in anything more than a hug, that all I wanted was a friend in this endless solitude streak. But I don't.

For a split second, her glare breaks, revealing the wounded Eris from the other day, but then she conjures even more rage to take its place and snaps, "What kind of answer is that?"

"You should really be more quiet in the library," I caution. "Anyway, it's none of your business."

"None of my business?" she asks, completely ignoring me. "You go around dating my brother, and it's none of my fucking business?"

"We never dated," I clarify. "Stop being so irrational."

Maybe her finding out would've only pissed her off before, but it actually hurts her now. She's always had a flair for dramatics, but she's seething as if everything she knows about me was a lie, as if her world is crashing around her, as if I've committed some mortal, unforgivable sin.

I have enough shame to last me through a decade of Canadian winters, and I refuse to let her add to the stockpile. I refuse to let her make me feel guilty for this one thing when every other week she shows up at school with her lips locked with a new girl. I refuse to let her make me feel like this is betrayal when we've never even been friends.

She's not pulling at her hair like usual. Her hands are clenched into fists, as if all she wants to do with them is punch me.

"What did you do to get Axel, who never likes anyone, to like you?" she demands. "Did you fuck him?"

I make a face of disgust. Maybe it would puncture her even more if I said yes, but even if she's already siphoned all my pride from me, I can't lower myself to that level. "No. I didn't."

"How many times," she breathes, "how many times did you kiss him?"

"Maybe twice," I say, tone flat. "It was clear all he wanted was to get laid, so I cut it off rather swiftly."

She winces. "And why'd you let it get that far anyway?"

"We were friends, or so I thought."

"Friends? Really?"

"I used to attend the chess club meetings every so often. He invited me to a game. He won, but he said I was the first person to give him a real challenge in months."

She goes silent, but this conversation has done nothing to calm her down. And then I notice my two hickeys on her neck. She's made a half-assed attempt to hide them with choker necklaces, but the redness is visible through the golden chains.

I close my eyes, needing her out of my sight immediately. Would it kill the bitch to at least cover up with concealer?

"I get it now," she says with a bitter laugh. "You've been tryna infiltrate us all along. First Axel, now me. You say you were friends with him, but I call bullshit. All you wanted was to use him to feed information to your uncle, huh?"

"Axel never talked about anything that could be useful in that regard," I say. "If that was my intention, my efforts would've been better spent elsewhere. Besides, he's not open with me like you are, Eri."

I didn't think it was possible to make her angrier, but my nickname for her has really set her off—her nostrils are flaring, the flames of hell bristling in the whites of her eyes, her glare molten with judgment.

It's so familiar. So reassuring. I smirk as I realize that if I hold onto this, we can go back to normal.

"Aw, Eri," I mock. "Are you upset you're not my first?"

"Fuck you," she spits.

I tilt my head at her, laughing as I finally regain my sense of superiority. "Don't tell me you're actually jealous."

She's quiet, and that reveals everything. She's so insanely jealous she doesn't know what to do with herself. I've had to watch her fool around for years, but all this time she's only known me as independent, virginal, and heartless. I almost wish I wasn't—just to see how deep it would get under her skin.

"You don't see me getting upset over anyone you're with," I say. "Not that I would have any reason to. Doesn't seem fair, does it?"

"That's way different," she's quick to say. "Axel is my fucking family."

"So if it was any other person, it would be fine?"

She's silent again, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, until she finally admits: "No. It wouldn't."

It only makes me laugh harder. "Wow, hypocrite, much? Maybe you're used to getting everything you want, but get this through your empty head—you don't own me. You have no right to act so jealous and possessive over something that's never, ever been yours."

Because I can claim her soul, but I'll die before she gets a hold on mine.

My words cut with the exact sharpness I intended. It's as satisfying as throwing a basketball in a perfect arc into the hoop halfway across the court. I've lost count of the points we've scored in this four-year-long match, and Eris might've destroyed my game with her perfect forgery, but now I'm rapidly catching up to her lead.

She turns to leave, and I'm more than ready to eat my lunch in peace, but then she stops to say, "Imagine if I did the same thing with Fitz."

That would be annoying. Not because I'd be jealous, but because the last thing I want is Fitz kissing a narco, even though I clearly don't seem to have qualms about doing so myself.

"I wouldn't be throwing a tantrum over it like you are," I say, and she's no longer stolen the words from me—my impeccable arguments flow with all the ease in the world. "And please don't act as if what I did is so much worse than you having Fitz move drugs into the country. You could've gotten him arrested or deported at best. All I left Axel with was a bruised ego."

She turns around and stomps over until she's all up in my face, this time wearing not her panda slippers but a pair of dirty black Vans. She's getting awfully bad at preserving her composure, with no hesitation before throwing venom my way. "How the fuck could you kiss me when you didn't tell me about Axel? Making me forge your painting until it was perfect, wasting my fucking time, wanting so bad to impress you I barely slept for two days straight, and even before then—I let you paint right beside me, invited you to spend the night when no one gets that privilege. Hell, I let you put your hands on me, making myself stay quiet instead of smacking you right there, all to please you. Only for you to keep secrets from me like it's nothing."

"It is nothing," I say, backing away because the last thing I need is to be reminded of her closeness and vanilla stench. "Anyone normal wouldn't see it as a big deal. And since when is it my responsibility to tell you everything?"

"I tell you everything," she hisses, at least making the effort to keep her voice down this time. "I've confessed my sins like you're the priest in the pinche confession box; I've told you things not even my siblings know."

"You really need to stop acting as if I cheated on you."

She straightens her posture, and it's as if she decides right then I'm not worth her time or animosity. "Right. I'm just a dumb, irrational bitch, and you're the princesita who can do no wrong. My bad."

She disappears. First from my sight and then from school entirely. And, just as I confessed to her before, I start losing sleep. We haven't even started on the final painting, and the deadline—and our flight to Mexico—is only in a few weeks.

Eris ignores every single one of my texts about it. The read receipts don't even show up. How can she let this petty drama get in the way of our most important goal? Maybe her finding out about Axel wouldn't have caused this if I hadn't kissed her back. I should've left after I pushed her away the first time, I should've just gone inside to work on the sketches like we planned, I should've...

Where is she? What is she doing? Frustrated and sleep-deprived, I examine the painting I snatched from her art studio before leaving. I know the original had my signature. And this one...

Doesn't.

▴ ▴ ▴

With no other options, I scan the parking lot for her. Not Eris, but the last girl I remember seeing her with weeks ago—the short one with the cornrows, walking alone to her car.

"Where's Eris?" I demand.

She blinks at me quizzically. "Um, why are you asking me? You're the only one she spends any time with nowadays."

"I haven't seen her. Has she been skipping class?"

"Probably." And then her head perks up. "Oh, did you hear about her birthday party? It was this bonfire on the beach type of thing."

"I wasn't invited," I say, not expecting the acid in my voice. Of course—Eris is an Aries, and this year she turns eighteen. I never learned the exact date, but word of her parties always gets around. Fitz even attended one last year despite my endless protests.

"Me either," the girl says, shrugging. "But I heard there was a lot of alcohol. And then she, like, left right in the middle of it, after this yelling match with one of her friends—I don't even know about what—but she ended up wrecking her car. No one's seen her get that wasted before—she's totally out of control."

"Wrecked her car?" I ask, suddenly frantic, because all I can think of is her broken body in a hospital bed, just like I was once. "Is she okay?"

"Yeah, no injuries. I think she just slammed the front into a tree or something."

It's always the roaches of the world who survive.

"Lucky the cops didn't show up," the girl continues, "because she would've lost her license for that."

Eris Zepahua Lugo is throwing the tantrum of a lifetime, and I'm not there to see it. I shouldn't feel bad. Her decision to drive while inebriated was entirely her fault, but was I the one to set her off?

"Why are you asking about her anyway?" the girl inquires.

I sigh. "We have a painting due soon, and she's avoiding me like the plague."

"Oh, because you kissed her brother? Yeah, I heard about that."

Great. Now what was supposed to be a private issue has become banal high school gossip.

"I don't see what's the big deal," I say, because I haven't found the courage to confide in anyone as this gnaws at me, but since she already knows, I don't have much to lose.

The girl shrugs. "Me either. Not your fault she has a hot brother."

I make a face. I would never use the word "hot" to describe any man, not even Axel. Which does not help my am I a lesbian dilemma.

"And did you see her walking around with that massive hickey on her neck? God, whoever did that is a total freak. Definitely not me. She doesn't even text me anymore—she's so distracted with you. But that's not new. You're, like, 50% of what she's talked about for years."

My face gets as hot as the surface of the sun. I want to bury it in my hands, but that will brand me as guilty. Is Eris not covering the bruises at all? Is she walking around shamelessly with them on display like a trophy of war?

I truly hate myself.

"She's acting like an obsessive girlfriend," the girl goes on. "Maybe she likes you, and she can't have you, and that drives her crazy. Would explain all the shit-talking she does."

That's news. I didn't think our beef extended beyond the scope of her and me, but if she's been tarnishing my reputation, maybe that's the reason I'm always the last to get chosen for group projects despite my superior intellect. Why people avoid me, writing me off as an arrogant, insufferable bitch—all because of her, surely overdramatizing any nasty thing I've ever said.

Of course, I'm not the most pleasant person anyway with all bite and none of my father's tenderness, but what if my isolation hasn't been solely my doing? What if Eris has been purposely driving everyone away, using her wealth to secure the social capital me, the newcomer Canadian, never could back when I was fourteen and still hadn't figured out what to do with my hair, wearing crooked winged eyeliner and my mother's old heels I couldn't bring myself to part with?

I'm quiet now, this whole moving-to-California experience taking on yet another shade of betrayal.

The girl is staring at me. "Didn't you have braids before?"

"Yes," I say. "I need to get them re-done, but it's expensive."

"My auntie does hair. I can get you a discount."

I raise an eyebrow at her. I don't even know her name. "And why would you care to help me?"

She scoffs. "Wow, everyone is right when they say you're stuck-up. Sheesh, just trying to be nice. The offer still stands." She pulls out her phone. "What's your @?"

▴ ▴ ▴

Eris has taken ignoring me to a whole other level. For two weeks, she's nowhere to be found. I try to work on the sketches myself, but it's missing her realism, and my waste bin overflows with crumpled paper.

And then I hear the knock on my door, and it's William.

"What's going on?" I say, because aside from dinner the only time he seeks me out is to update me on the latest news. "Did they find Ximena?"

"Not exactly, but she's been active. Hiding in Baja California but organizing drug deals on the side."

"What is the woman doing dealing drugs when she's wanted by the feds?"

"That's what I asked myself," he says. "She likes to present herself as an art dealer and real estate mogul. But my guess is now that her cover is blown, she thinks she might as well go full narco." He holds out one of his burner phones. "I got these pictures. Two cars busted by the DEA on the Tijuana border crossing. But the interesting thing is, they were on their way out of San Diego, not in. And they weren't carrying drugs."

I scroll through the images, most of which feature guns and ammo, but nothing like the huge terror machines you see in cartel videos. These guns are compact and small enough to conceal. And then... the paintings.

I recognize some of them from the warehouse party in L.A. The one of the mustached man in place of Jesus with a marijuana leaf printed on church mosaic. And then two of the lost paintings from the Gardner heist—probably all they managed to move out of there before the police discovered their desert hideout.

The last painting in the line-up, however, was never in L.A. at all.

Because it's mine.

The one I trusted Eris with, the one I left behind in her studio in my most idiotic mistake to date, Persephone Baines signed on the bottom right—Spring in Ottawa.

▴ ▴ ▴

a/n: so... did any of you predict that would happen? 💀 you didn't think eris and ef would just reconcile after one kiss, did you? the drama is escalating, and their rivalry lives to see another day. 

also, my goal word count was 85k, but we're already at 84k with all my unpublished drafts!! i spent hours earlier this week in one of the most productive writing frenzies of my life, outlining and drafting the following chapters, which means you can expect the next update shortly :o) in the mean time, please let me know what you think! do you think eris overreacted to finding out ef kissed axel? and what's the deal with ef's painting ending up in a DEA bust? 

song for this chapter to highlight eris' angst is BUZÓN - FUFU, linked in the header at the beginning. 

please help a girl out and press that "vote" button! it helps a lot. also, i frequently post updates and excerpts for future chapters and books on my message board, so head on over and follow so you don't miss anything! this book will be getting a "sequel" in eris' brother nico's POV this year, and it would be amazing if some of you stuck around for that as well <3