Not that she’d matter for long.
Nabila, Oscar and I would make our own way out of this—we’d harness our music and escape the demons.
That thought kept me buoyed until I passed through the gates of The Milton.
Nabila waited for me inside the entrance.
The triumphant grin fell from my face as I took in her expression: mouth tight, eyes worried.
I searched for the Bulldog, ready to tell her she had to back off, but she wasn’t there. Shit. That meant, whatever was happening at the Milton wasn’t our normal sort of trouble—it was something else.
“Come,” Nabila said.
Somehow I knew Oscar needed us. “What’s happened?”
“Just come.” She tugged my hand and I followed her up the stairs and along the walk to apartment Thirty-One. This time, I didn’t need to argue with a relative, or even knock on the faded, peeling door.
The door was ajar and Oscar had managed to fill the space with his slender frame. “No, Mama.”
“Move…” A figure behind him cried. “Mooooveeeeeeee…”
I thought I’d heard terrible sounds. The sound of my mother’s chest-rattling as the end of all things neared. The slow drawl of the doctor telling me she was dead. Sunglasses whispering in my ear at the station, his gravelly voice grating my ears with that French accent.
Churchfield. Just the sound of her breathing was awful.
But the wail that emerged from what had to be Oscar’s mother was the razor-edged cry of a banshee. The sound encompassed endless need, hunger, desperation and pain—so much pain.
“Let me out,” she shrieked.
“You have to rest, Mama.” Oscar sounded panicked. “Please, Mama. Nan says you have to rest.”
Nabila eyed me. “I stuck her with my pins, yeah? To calm her. They did nothing.”
“Your pins aren’t calming,” I said.
“They are when I stick them in the right places. Or… usually, they are.”
I let out a breath. “What can we do?”
“Help,” she hissed.
“Not helpful,” I hissed back. Jostling her with my elbow, we closed the distance. Crowding into the doorway until we were both able to put a hand on Oscar’s thin back, as if that touch could suck the tension from the hallway.
“Oscar,” I whispered, “what can I—”
“Move!” His mother wailed once again.
Movement flashed from the shadows past Oscar. I saw then that his mother’s fingers had curled into claws. She slashed at him, but Oscar held firm. He didn’t cry out, he didn’t move. He didn’t even flinch.
I wrapped my arm around his waist and pressed into his side, trying to lend him strength.
Nabila tucked herself into his other side. “We sing to his mama. We sing.”
At a total loss, I stared at her. “Sing? I don’t know any lullabies for addicts.”
“Don’t you? The songs of the mother are universal. Join me.” Nabila began humming low and deep.
The sound vibrated deep, sending a shudder through Oscar and me.
So I did it.
Matching her tone, I began to hum with her. It filled the back of my throat. I didn’t know the words, the melody. Yet there was something primal about the tune that pulled me in, something instinctive to the pattern.
I was wrong. I did know it.
More than knowing it, I could match the beat with some of my favorite songs. Lines of music that I’d never thought had anything in common blended together in my head, my heart and on the tip of my tongue.
When Oscar joined us, the whole building moved.
It seemed to shake and sway in time with the rhythm, to move with the primordial force we’d summoned—or maybe that was all in our heads.
The part where I watched the panic and desperation washed away from his mother’s face?
That was no illusion.
His mother began to sway with our rhythm, fingers slowly uncurling and releasing her grip on Oscar, jaw slowly relaxing as her lips began forming silent words to match our song, as if she were singing along with us, too.
Still singing, Oscar took her hand and led her down the hall.
Nabila and I followed him inside of the small, dingy apartment, never breaking our melody. Together we helped him take his mother into a bedroom and settle her in bed, where he shackled her with torn strips of sheets.
Oscar seemed to wilt as he finished his task, his voice growing thready and weak. But Nabila and I kept singing. We sang until his mother’s cloudy blue eyes closed and she slept deep, her breath coming in even waves.
When we finally stopped, he led us silently into the small front room, where he slid onto a threadbare couch.
“What happened?” I asked him, sitting close, shoulders touching.
“My nan had to… she was here by herself,” he said. “There was no one to help her with my mom, and the hunger… It was too much. She caught my nan by surprise, nearly got out.” A shudder snaked through him. He dropped his head into his hands. “The demons don’t care. I’m going to lose her.”
I wanted to tell him that he wasn’t, but I remembered all the doctors and nurses, teachers…all the people I was supposed to be able to trust who’d told me my mother would be fine—when they knew damn well she wouldn’t.
I wasn’t going to lie to Oscar.
“You don’t know for sure,” I said. It was the best I could do.
“It worked. I knew it would,” Nabila said, sitting tight on Oscar’s other side. “We helped her. The three of us.”
We had.
Somehow our music had wrangled her addiction, stuffed it down into a place where it couldn’t hurt her, at least for a little while.
“I can’t believe it worked.” Oscar lifted his head and looked at each of us, a flicker of wonder in his pale eyes. “How long will she be safe?”
I linked my arm with his, leaned close. “I wish I knew.”
Oscar’s lips flickered with the ghost of a smile. “At least it didn’t happen while I was supposed to be watching her. I don’t know what I’d do, Ash. If it were my fault.”
“Addiction isn’t anyone’s fault. Not even the demons,” Nabila said. “You’re doing the best you can.”
“My best isn’t good enough. It never has been.” Oscar sighed.
In reply, Nabila wrapped her arm around him.
“You two should go before Mistress finds you here,” Oscar said quietly.
“Actually,” I said. “I have news on that front.”
“I can’t have another citation, Ash.” Oscar’s expression was dour.
“No, listen.” Straightening, I gave his arm an excited tug. Talk about the right time for some good news! “So you know how I said I’d figure it out? Well, I went and talked to Bournival… and he gave me permission to start our band! For real. We can practice in his classroom during school hours and at the Milton, even at the Ground Zero before customer hours, if you’re willing to give it a go.”
Nabila frowned at me. “How the hell did you swing that, Freshy?”
“Wait, I’m not done.” I grinned. “There’s more good news.”
“Just get to the bad so we know what’s up already,” Oscar pleaded.
“I’m getting there. Just wait.” I took a beat, letting the tension build just a bit before carrying on—what can I say, I’m a performer at heart. “Listen. We can practice all those places. And… we’re also free to go to that place you keep talking about, Nabila. Basically, we can do what we want until the ball.”
“Does Bournival know our plan?” Nabila asked.
“Nope. I think he assumes we’re just kids being shitty kids, is my guess.” I pressed my lips together and shrugged. He had referenced our “rebellion,” but I’d taken that to mean regular, teenage rebellion. “Or I hope. We should take precautions.”
“What about the Keeper?” Oscar looked wary. “She says we have to be home right after school and she doesn’t want us hanging out.”
“That’s part of the bad news, isn’t it?” Nabila pulled a pin from her hair and twirled it between her fingers.
Okay, so it wasn’t all triumph. “There’s going to be a ball to honor his arrival—”
“Fuck me,” Oscar whimpered.
“This is bad, Ash. All bad.”
“I haven’t even finished telling you.” I snorted. “It could be good. Bournival wants us to play the ball.”
“All of us?” Oscar gulped.
“Yep. That’s how I got permission. Said I couldn’t do it without you.”
The three of us simultaneously looked to the door to the room where Oscar’s mother now lay sleeping peacefully.
“If they see what we can do together, they’re going to want it from us—want us to use it for them. They can make us,” Nabila said with a shudder.
“And after this is over, Myrtle will make us pay,” Oscar added.
She most definitely would. Glorified shit troll that she was.
“Maybe she will and maybe she won’t,” I said, trying to sound brave. “That’s weeks from now.”
I wished I was a witch like Nabila, only worse. Like an honest to hell bog witch who could turn shitty people or creatures into toads and crush them under my boot. I’d turn Myrtle into a toad and…
Focus on the matter at hand.
I reached for their hands and gave each a squeeze. “So we don’t show them what we can do—we just play regular music. Oya’s Blade is the front we need to search the casino and find a way out of this hell. We’ll figure out the rest as we go. Maybe we’ll find your key by then, Nabila. Maybe we’ll bring it all down before the fucking ball.”
“Whether we’re ready or not,” Oscar whispered.
Nabila sighed dramatically. “Ride or die, bitches.”
“Go big or go home,” I added, keeping with the theme.
“You underestimate my desire to go home,” Oscar quipped.
“Was that sarcasm, Feeder?” Nabila teased.
Oscar flashed a small smile and it filled me with strength. Whatever else I did, I wouldn’t allow his fate to be anything his mother’s.
He was my friend.
So was Nabila.
It was time to fight for them.
Chapter Twenty-Six
For the first time since that first night at the Milton, I dreamed about Lucas.
I’d barely thought about him for days—or, more honestly, I’d tried not to think about him. Banishing thoughts while Nash had me pinned against the wall or begging for more during our study sessions.
Yet Lucas had been there, in the back of my mind, part of the reasons that kept me from giving in completely to the pleasure Nash promised.
Which was probably insane.
Just like my dream.
I guess it was my own fault. I’d fallen asleep humming a strange little song that had come to me, thinking of the boy I’d met twice and wondering when I’d see him again.
Imagining the steady, warm grip of his fingers against mine, my eyes closed.
When I opened them again, I was in a strange dorm room. Confused, I glanced around as the knowledge I was dreaming slowly sunk into me. Judging from the swag on the walls, it seemed to be a dorm on the UNLV campus—stupid Vegas. Even in my dreams I was stuck here.
Though… I wasn’t stuck alone.
Sprawled across the dorm bed, one leg sticking out from the covers, his arm wrapped around a pillow, holding it tight to his bare chest, was Lucas. And damn. That chest. All the muscles I’d imagined were there, on full display against typical dude dark navy sheets.
Fast asleep, he looked so peaceful, dark curls in a messy halo around his head, sooty lashes resting against the curve of his cheek.
I longed to touch his face, to run my finger along the blade of his jaw.
So I did.
What could it hurt? I was dreaming, after all. I might as well enjoy it. A little thrill ran through me as I trailed my fingertips down his hairline and along the sharp edge of his jaw, marveling at the stubble that felt perfectly rough to my touch. If I’d been a bigger creeper, I’d have pulled a Prince Charming. Leaned in and—
His eyes snapped open. “What the—”
“Sorry.” I jerked my hand back.
Though, why was I apologizing? This was Dream-Lucas, not Real-Lucas. I could indulge my smuttiest fantasies and do what I want with him, play the prince to his Snow White and—
Whoa.
My feet lifted off the ground and suddenly, I was floating above him like some kind of sleep demon. Or a succubus.
“Ash?” He reached for me slowly, his hand trembling, as if he thought I’d disappear on contact. His strong fingers stroked my cheek, sending a lightning bolt of sensation ricocheting through me.
I sucked in a breath through my teeth.
Eyes wide, Lucas snapped his hand away.
He must have felt that shock. Duh. Of course, he felt it too. I wasn’t that much of a loser that even in my dreams, I couldn’t get a guy’s attention.
“How is this happening?” he whispered.
“A dream.” I grinned down at him. “Let’s enjoy it.”
“I’m awake.” Propping himself up on his elbows, he craned his neck and, for a moment, I thought he was going to kiss me.
For a moment, I was going to let him. What could it hurt?
Those stunning eyes of his dilated.
His lips were close enough to feel the heat from his breath, to catch the barest whisper of contact. He brushed his thumb across my lower lip and I gasped. My own lips parting, I reached for him, desperate to touch him but needing the certainty of letting him pull me into him.
“Mmm,” he murmured, deep voice vibrating through me, “enjoy it, huh?”
Strong hands gripped my waist, tugging me down and—
The scream of my alarm yanked me away from Lucas. Like a giant hook had reared out of the sky and whipped my floating form from the UNLV dorm and slammed it back into my sad-assed room at the Milton.
“Oof.” I landed butt first on the hard floor.
Air exploded from my lungs and I groaned.
So not the way I wanted to wake up. All the pain, none of the kissing. Definitely not the kind of start to the day I’d been hoping for.
Figured. Even in my dreams I couldn’t manage to kiss Lucas. Though… that dream had felt so real.
I touched my fingers to my lips, remembering the feel of his touch.
It had almost been a very good start to the day.
I guess that’s where a great donut and too many unrequited hours in the special study hall landed a girl—fantasizing about a hot dude in his university dorm room. A room I’d never been in and, at this rate, never would. I hadn’t seen Real-Lucas in ages. Despite our strange little almost-date, when he’d walked me home from campus, there was no reason to think I’d see him again.
Though I did. In fact, I knew I would.
I just didn’t know when.
The semester was passing in a blur. When I’d struck my bargain with Bournival, the ball had felt far away—a distant future I could worry about later. But the past week had disappeared in a blink. One moment I was sitting with Nabila and Oscar, marveling at how we’d soothed his mother and discussing our newfound freedom to practice our band—the next moment I’d fallen out of bed on the following Wednesday, and had to haul-ass to get to homeroom on time for a test.
My hand ached from writing all the answers in the allotted fifty minutes, but I’d nailed it.
Despite my distraction over Lucas, I had to give Nash credit.
His study sessions definitely worked…
“Ash, focus already.”
“Wha—” My head jerked up. Cheeks burning as I realized Oscar and Nabila were staring at me from their positions
on the stage in Bournival’s classroom. Normally I’d be in study hall, but I’d gotten a pass to practice with my band. Which I should be doing, not daydreaming about being trapped in dangerous corners with Nash. “Uh, sorry.”
“Hungry, Freshy,” Nabila asked, putting way too much emphasis on hungry. “Or missing study hall?”
“No! What. Stop it,” I sputtered. Way to be convincing, Ash.
Oscar’s brows lowered.
Even the hint of my activities with Nash was enough to make Oscar scowl. Which never failed to weird me out. In every other way Oscar was usually the meekest person I’d ever met, but if you mentioned Nash, this whole other side emerged.
I wanted to ask why, but I knew he wouldn’t answer.
Fine. Whatever. We need to practice anyway.
“Come on.” I hit a power chord on my guitar. “We’ve got time for one more run through.”
“Can’t we switch up the songs already, I’m not feeling this…” Nabila hit a discordant note and frowned at her bass. “It’s too fast, or maybe too slow. I dunno. But for some reason, it’s not working.”
“Yeah.” I chewed on my lip and considered our set list.
My chosen song, a ballad by Halestorm—and damn, did I have the biggest girl-crush on front woman Lzzy Hale—wasn’t working. But it should be, dammit. I just couldn’t understand how we worked so well acapella, then failed once instruments were in our hands. This song should have broken that streak. It was perfect, it summed up everything I felt about us—about our band, our battle.
We just hadn’t captured the soul of it, which was, to be honest, a little ragey.
I squinted at Oscar.
“Let’s try it one more time.” Without shifting my gaze, I held up a hand before Nabila could protest. “This time, I need you to be twice as loud,” I said to Oscar, “and pick up the tempo a couple beats.”
“Oh, Ash, I don’t know,” he stammered. “I’m not good at louder—”
“After we’re done,” I continued, smiling sweetly, “Nash is picking me up and taking me for a late lunch.”
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