The next few hours pass by in a blur. With much needed assistance from Left-Scar, and at times, random people I bribe on the streets, I finalize all the details and payments to get Two to New York. I find two hotel rooms (the boys will have to share) and secure a rental car. I drive all the way to Silver Bird Rentals and hand over the wad of cash for the plane and pilot, drinking an entire bottle of water to keep from choking up. A bathroom stop is in order afterward.

By the time I pick up Two, not a penny remains in the brown sack.

Yes, you heard me right. All seventy million is gone. Every. Last. Dollar.

I stare out the windshield, my eyes straying from the road as I drive back to the yacht. It bothers me a little bit that Two, a prince with a yacht, forced me to spend all my money on his transformation. When I brought this disparity up, he simply stated that his dad bought him his yacht, clothes, and pretty much anything else he owns. There isn't a dime to Two's name, unless he counts the royal shells, which technically belong to the royal family as a whole.

As we putter along, passing by crashing waves, messy beaches, and ragged boardwalks, silver flashes in the late afternoon sun. I do a double take, and my eyes zero in on a metal kiosk with the words "Saltport ATM" above it. My heels slam against the break, bringing the car to a screeching halt.

"Hey!" Two exclaims. "Watch it! I can already feel the kinks returning to my shoulders."

I glance in the rearview mirror. Seeing no one behind me, I back up until I can pull into the five-minute parking beside the boardwalk. My hand does little to shield my eyes when I hold it up. The glint emanating from the ATM is just too piercing. But I can't peel my eyes away.

"Someone tell me I'm not the only one seeing that," I say in a single exhale. When no one replies, "come on. Someone tell me I'm not crazy."

A beat passes before Right-Scar clears his throat. "Are you referring to the ATM?"

So I'm not crazy. My brain can't quite process what this means. The ATM was there, then wasn't, and now it's back. It doesn't make sense.

"Are we just going to idle here all day?" Left-Scar grunts at last.

"Technically, it's the afternoon," Two pipes up.

I haven't quite made up my mind about what to do. Sure, the Saltport ATM kind of ruined my life the last time I used it. But at the same time, I'm broke. I might even be in debt if that seventy-million wasn't mine. And part of me wonders if I'll get lucky again.

Hey, the sun is smiling down on me. Why shouldn't fortune do the same?

"I'll be back in a moment," I say. I hop out of the car, purse clutched in my hand. Footsteps clunk after me on the wooden planks, and Right-Scar quickly catches up to me. I suppose they don't trust me to leave all on my own. For all they know, I could dive into the sea and swim away, never to be seen again.

In reality, I'd never ruin my dress like that.

I slow my pace as I approach the ATM. Before I can second guess my decision, I swipe my card.

Welcome, Jessi Albright.

Internally, I plead for it to work. I just need enough money for some food when we go to New York.

The screen goes black... again. My lips tighten. Come on. Work like a normal machine.

Minutes pass. I grow antsy, shifting my weight between my feet. I don't dare look at Right-Scar. Who knows what sort of unwanted comment he's cooking up.

Then, a whirring sound spins into the air. It grows faster and faster, louder and louder, until the entire box begins to vibrate. My arms fold over my chest, fingers grip my elbows. What the heck is going on?

The kiosk gives a final, intense rattle. Something knocks inside it, and two objects clang inside the ATM tray. The whirring whines as it decreases in pitch and volume. It peters out, carried away by a passing breeze. The ensuing swish of the waves is disconcertingly quiet. Slowly, tension leaches from my muscles, and my nerves settle. I lean forward to see how much the ATM dropped me this time.

Already, I know it's significantly less than last time. A single wad of hundred dollar bills lies inside the slot, secured with a purple rubber band. I breathe a small sigh of relief. Thank goodness I'll be eating tomorrow.

The part that perplexes me is the black device beside it. It blends into the slot, so it's hard to get a good look at it. I shift in front of the kiosk, slipping both items into my purse.

"Wait a minute," Right-Scar says. "Let me see what you got."

My heart quickens, though I'm not quite sure why. An ATM should only hand out money, right? What difference does it make if the others know?

I pull the bundle of cash out. Right-Scar's eyes flicker over it, then drop to my purse. I can feel every beat like a hammer in my chest, every moment's hesitation mounting my anxiety.

There is no reason to be anxious. There is no reason that Right-Scar shouldn't see both items.

And yet some instinct tells me that I have to hide my second gift.

"Okay. Let's head back," Right-Scar says. He turns, walking along the boardwalk as if nothing happened. I exhale a long, silent breath of relief. My fingers fumble to unzip my purse, and I slip the cash inside. I take a moment — a single, short moment to glance at the other item. My eyes quickly look up again, not wanting to linger and betray the object hiding under the bills.

Something swells in my chest, maybe confusion, concern, or even a tiny shred of hope. The ATM gave me a taser, a legit, electric-shock taser. I just can't imagine why. All I know is that this is the first time I've had even a slight advantage in this messed up situation.

And I intend to keep it that way.

***

How does one get into an exclusive event only for politicians? Don't ask me. I still haven't figured it out after a three hour plane ride.

I spend my time in the air flipping through complementary magazines, pondering how to get Two into the luncheon, then flipping through another magazine. Before the flight ends, I run out of reading material, making a mental note to sell the magazines to hopefully offset some of the costs I've incurred. Some have a retail value of over twenty dollars.

Bubbly water tingles my tongue. I'm not partial to sparkling water, no matter how luxurious it is. But it was the only beverage I found in the fridge on the back of the plane. Well, there were other beverages. It just wouldn't have been appropriate to start drinking them before five in the afternoon.

Clear, blue sky and clouds surround my window. Soon, houses and treetops creep into view, magnifying in size as we land. The plane comes to a bumpy stop at the airport outside New York City. To my surprise, the door opens, we aren't at a terminal. Instead, a long flight of stairs ascends to greet us. I climb down, holding the railing to steady my wobbling, white heels. A ferocious wind swoops over the airport, threatening to lift the edges of my coral-colored pencil skirt. The stiff material stands firm and doesn't betray me, though.

A black car awaits at the base of the stairs next to a man in a black tux.

"Here is your rental, Miss Albright," he says. Keys jingle between his fingers as he holds them up.

"Thank you." I nod to Right-Scar, who hands over the wad of cash counted out for the rental yesterday. The man stares at the bundle for a long moment. I set to work loading the luggage into the car's trunk. It isn't much — a single suitcase for the four of us, plus a giant, stuffed lobster that Two insisted we bring as a present for Taylor. I have to mash its head a bit, but it ultimately fits.

I slide behind the wheel, onto black leather seats. The cushions in the seats are way thicker than in my car, probably because they haven't been weighed down by occupants for years and years. Everything inside the car shines, from the leather to the display that lights up when the engine growls to life. A thought pops in my head, that I could drive away right now and be rid of Two and the Scar-Twins right now.

But I can't do that. Part of me thinks that they have the ability to track me down should I find a way to escape. I glance over the controls on my door, choosing a nod that most likely controls the windows and won't blow the car up if it isn't. The glass slowly lowers, and my nose wrinkles at a waft of car and airplane fumes.

"Everyone get in the car," I yell over the roar of a jet passing overhead. The backseat door opens, and three figures pile in.

"E-excuse me, Miss Albright," the tuxedo guy asks. He still clutches the cash Right-Scar gave him, though worry now laces his brow. "I haven't finished counting the money." He lets out a nervous chuckle. "I must ensure it's all here if you're going to pay in cash."

"I'm sorry," I say, glancing at the display that reads ten twenty-one in the morning. "But we really need to get going. If there are any problems, you can sue me."

"But—"

I press my foot on the reverse pedal. The car shoots through the clear path behind us, then forward as I navigate out of the airport.

An hour later, most of the time spent in bumper-to-bumper traffic, we pull up to the Skylight Hotel. Left-Scar agrees to park the car while Right-Scar, Two, and I figure out a way inside this luncheon. I stroll through the revolving, gold doors, onto shiny waxed floor that somehow doesn't have a single scratch in it. Crystal chandeliers hang overhead, and arched walkways lead to lounges with snow-white couches and chairs.

I'm painfully aware that my twenty-dollar pinstripe blazer doesn't stack up to the Prada and Gucci suits people pass by in, but I do my best to stand tall, keep my head held high like I belong here.

"So where's the luncheon?" Two chirps. I face him for the first time. Panic flashes through me when I see brown smudges on and around his lips and flakes on his face.

"Two! What happened to your face?" The prince's brow furrows, and I exhale in exasperation. "Did you eat something on the plane?"

Two brightens. "I did! There was a delicious box of chocolate donuts aboard. They were incredible. Even though they looked the same, every single one was a different flavor: cherry, strawberry, cola, chocolate chip, caramel..."

My first instinct is to ask why I never saw this donut box — my grumbling stomach wants to know the same thing. My second instinct is to find out how he knows each one was a different flavor. I stifle both.

"Just go to the restroom," I say. "Right-Scar, help him clean up. I'll figure out what's going on with the luncheon."

Right-Scar nods, ushering Two into the crowd. Embarrassment warms my cheeks. At least he's away from me, and soon, he'll be presentable again.

I suddenly realize this is the first time I've truly been alone in the last day and a half. Once again, I'm torn between my instinct to run for my life and the potential wrath of Two and his Scar-minions. I glance around, barely able to see through the crowd of expensive individuals. Slowly, I step around a group of chatting women in fur coats, weave between cocktail attire and formal executive-wear. My feet pick up speed. Natural sunlight floods the corridor, the light at the end of this human tunnel.

"Excuse me," I say, pushing my way past the most important people I'll probably ever see. Gasps follow me, but I refuse to slow down. The revolving doors are just a few, quick strides away, so close, I can hear the honking from the New York street.

A man strolls into the lobby, his blue eyes landing on me with a piercing intensity. I freeze in place.

"Oh. Hi." It isn't Right-Scar, the lesser of the twin evils. What rotten luck.

"Did you find Mr. Victored yet?" Left-Scar asks, monotone. I might as well be talking to a deep-voiced computer.

"Who?"

"Hector Victored. He's running the luncheon event. If we're going to get onto the guest list, he's the best chance."

"I'm sorry, how do you know about this guy?"

Left-Scar inhales. "While you were looking at Vogue, I decided to research the event we're going to. It was an excellent use of those three hours."

My cheeks flush at the dig, but I lift my head, trying not to let it get to me. When you mess up, own up to it. It's a part of life, a part of being human. "That... is a very good point." I clear my throat. "So, Victor Hector."

"Hector Victored."

"Hec-tor Vic-tor-ed." I sound it out. What a ridiculously difficult name. "Where do we find him?"

Left-Scar shrugs. "He's staying at the hotel."

"What room?"

"You think they put that information online?"

"Well, you never know." My gaze scans the room, landing on the front desk. "Perhaps we can ask the receptionists."

I make my way through the crowd once more. More eyes seem to follow me than before, or maybe I was just so focused on my escape that I didn't notice.

A woman with short, black hair glances up when I approach. Her tapered eyes crinkle as she smiles. "Hello, do you have a reservation?"

"Uh, no. I was just wondering if you could tell me..." I suddenly realize how weird it is for me to ask what room Hector Victored is in. "What Hector Victored's phone number is. We need to speak with him."

The woman's smile dissipates. "Hector Victored specifically told us not to disturb him this morning. And unfortunately, hotel policy bars us from providing such information."

The constricting weight bearing down on my arm lifts. I muffle an indignant cry as he unzips it and pulls out the cash inside. My eyes shoot open.

Don't see the taser. Please, please, please don't see it.

Left-Scar slides half the stack from the rubber band. It lands on the table with a plop.

"We have important diplomatic business to attend to," he says. "Your cooperation is very much appreciated."

The receptionist's eyes linger on the pile. Slowly, she reaches out a hand and thumbs through the bills accordion-style.

"I'll write his number down for you," she says after a moment.

As she turns away, I snatch my purse back, slipping the remaining cash inside and zipping it. I don't think Left-Scar noticed the taser, but I don't want to take any chances.

"I was kind of hoping I'd get to eat today," I hiss at him.

"There's better uses for cash," Left-Scar replies.

The receptionist hands over a scrap of paper with numbers neatly written across it. After walking away from the desk, I dial it. My fingers grip my phone so tightly, I fear it might snap in half. It rings, once, twice, thrice...

"Hello?"

My eyes nearly explode from their sockets. He responded. This Hector Victor guy actually responded.

"H-hello?"

"This is James Lane, secretary of Hector Victored, speaking. Hector Victored is unable to come to the phone, but if you state your name and reason for calling, he will contact you at his earliest convenience."

"Uh, this is Jessi Albright. I'm currently here in New York with Two, er, Prince Tewen of Aqualan and—"

"Wait seriously?"

"Yes..."

"I'm such a huge fan!"

"That's... great. So anyway, I was hoping, he was hoping, that he could come to the luncheon hosted today by Hector Victored."

"Hold on, let me put him on."

Indistinct voices speak in the background. I only catch a few phrases like "prince" and "merman."

"Hello, Miss Albright?" a male voice says.

"S-speaking."

"This is Hector Victored. We'd be honored for Prince Tewen to join us for our diplomatic social at noon. It's on the thirty-fifth floor of the Skylight Hotel. You are in New York, yes?"

"Y-yes."

"It will be the room at the end of the hall. Just tell the attendants your name, and they will let you in. Ta-ta."

A dial tone drones on the line. I exit the call, my brow creasing.

Well that was easy.