Thirteen: Mistakes Were Made.

In a matter of minutes, every guest of the Borgata was cowering in the lobby, too afraid to go outside and face the loose panthers. Rumors of panther sightings swirled. People had seen them on the beach, near the local diner that was famous for its blueberry pancakes, and roaring outside the Trump Tak Mahal. Apparently one of the panthers had trapped a child under the boardwalk; a couple of people had thrown hamburger meat on the sand, distracting the car and allowing the kid to escape. The other panther had found its way into a strip club. Every stripper and patron was forced to evacuate, the girls standing in the parking lot in next to nothing.

Broadcasts of the panthers' rampage played on every television screen in the Borgata's lobby, bars, and restaurants. News vans from everywhere in the Tristan's area screeched into the Borgata parking lot, and the lobby quickly transformed into a makeshift studio. Biedermeister and Bitschi were being interviewed over by the Starbucks kiosk, looking haggard and distraught. "I don't know who would do this to us," Biedermeister, sister said, shaking his head. "We have no enemies."

Aria rode back up to the room and flopped down on the bed, still not believing this was happening. She couldn't believe Hallbjorn had gone through with it. Was he planning on returning to Aria and telling her what he'd done? Did he expect her to be proud of him?

She looked again at his crumpled tuxedo on the floor and felt an unexpected pang of longing. Their wedding ceremony had been so perfect, a memory she thought she'd treasure forever. Now, it felt tainted and tarnished. She picked up the tuxedo jacket from the floor and hung it neatly on a hanger. The rose corsage the showgirl had poked in Hallbjorn's lapel was still here. When Aria pressed the jacket to her nose, it smelled like Hallbjorn, a mix of chocolate and mint and the brisk winter air.

Underneath the jacket was the shirt, cummerbund, and socks, but the tuxedo pants, which had a satin stripe running up the side, were nowhere to be seen. Aria peered around the room for Hallbjorn's suitcase, thinking he'd stuffed the pants in there. She could have sworn he'd left his bag in the closet, but it was also nowhere to be seen. Nor was it in the bathroom, on the armchair near the window, or in one of the bureau drawers.

She froze in the middle of the room, suddenly knowing. Hallbjorn had taken his bag with him. He'd never planned on coming back here. Apparently, Aria's refusal to help free the panthers was grounds for abandonment.

So that was it? Had he seriously ditched her for some panthers? She thought about how he'd said he loved her. How excited he'd been to get married yesterday. It was all a ruse?

Tears rolled down her cheeks. She ripped the snake ring off her finger and set it on the desk, then changed her mind and winged it across the room. The ring clanged against the heater and fell onto the floor atop a few sheets of paper.

It was their marriage license. Aria crouched down and stared at the red seal from the state of New Jersey. It looked so official. Binding. But then she stared at Ella's signature, all loops and swirls, nothing like Ella's real signature. Aria had signed it with a glittery purple pen. The license made a crinkling sound when she stuffed it in her bag. She shoved her feet into her shoes, grabbed her room key and the ring, and rushed out of the door, suddenly fueled with purpose. There was something she needed to do.

There wasn't a single soul on the streets, and when Aria walked up the steps of the Atlantic City courthouse, the guards waiting at the metal detectors gave her startled looks. "You went outside with the panthers on the loose?" one of them blurted. Aria plunked her bag on the conveyor belt without answering.

A woman at the info desk directed her to a small office on the second floor that was packed full of papers and smelled like stale cigarettes. Aria approached a clerk behind a bulletproof-glass-protected window who was glued to a report about the silver panthers on a mini TV. "The last spotting of the panthers was in an alleyway behind Caesars," a reporter's voice said. A bunch of guys in jumpsuits that said Animal Control were on the screen. They pointed enormous blow-dart stun guns at a green BFI dumpster.

"Excuse me." Aria passed the marriage documents through the little slot in the window. "I need to come clean about something. These documents are not valid."

The woman wrenched her gaze from the TV and stared at the papers. "Why is that?"

"I'm seventeen." Aria held up her driver's license. "And I forged my mom's signature. She has no idea I got married. I doubt she'll allow it."

The woman pushed her glasses lower on her nose and gave Aria a long, disgruntled stare. "You know that it's illegal to forge someone's name, right?"

"I know." Aria hung her head. "I wasn't thinking." She wondered, suddenly, if she would get in trouble. What was the penalty for forgery? A fine? Jail?

The woman just shrugged and lifted a stamp over the license. "I'm going to have to make this null and void." Then she clucked her tongue. "Who wants to get married at seventeen years old, anyway? Why be weighed down by a husband? They're nothing but trouble. A modern woman should be free and unencumbered."

Aria almost laughed. That sounded like Hallbjorn's argument for freeing the panthers.

The clerk shook her head. "Does the guy you married know you forged your mom's signature?"

The TV screen behind the clerk caught Aria's eye. The Animal Control guys were still stalking the dumpster. Suddenly, one of the silver panthers appeared. They tried to shoot it with a tranquilizer, but it pounced toward them and they all scattered. The cameraman started to run, too. He got a parting shot of the panther as he fled. It looked anxious and scared. Not happy, like Hallbjorn predicted. Not free.

For a split second, she considered telling the clerk that Hallbjorn had set the panthers loose. All of Atlantic City was looking for him, after all. They needed to bring him to justice for what he did.

But she couldn't quite from the words. Hallbjorn might have been a lunatic, but he was still her husband—at least for a few more seconds, anyway. And deep down, she knew his heart was in the right place.

"I don't think our marriage is at the forefront of his mind right now," Aria answered glumly.

The noise of the Void stamp hitting the paper was deafening. The woman asked Aria if she'd liked to keep the license as a souvenir, and Aria reluctantly grabbed the paper through the slot and turned toward the door. "Hey," she called, and Aria glanced over her shoulder. The clerk's grumpy expression had lifted and softened. "You'll get married when the time is right," she said. "I work as a part-time psychic. I know these things."

"Thanks," Aria said. And for some crazy reason, it made her feel better.

She pulled her coat closely around her as she exited the courthouse. The air was turning bitter, and clouds were rolling in. It would probably be best if she got out of Atlantic City before it started to snow again. She looked up and down the boulevard. The casinos gleamed in the distance. The ocean roared beyond, filling the air with a salty scent. A few streets away, sirens wailed.

Aria reached into her purse and pulled out the defunct marriage license. Aria Marie Montgomery is married to Hallbjorn Fyodor Gunterson. Slowly, methodically, she tore it into lengthwise shreds until it was tiny pieces of confetti, not that different from the confetti that had rained down on her and Hallbjorn's heads at the Chapel of Luv. She opened her palms and let the breeze pick up the shreds and blow them away. The bits drifted under cars, swirled into treetops, and whisked around corners, never to be seen again.

"Good-bye, Hallbjorn," Aria muttered, knowing she'd never see him again, either.