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"Great. We live in a crack house," Silas says once the man has slammed his door shut again.
By the time we reach the top floor, my muscles and Screwtape are screaming at me with equal intensity. Loud music thuds at us from below, so audible that the stereo might have been right next to us. Silas sets our bags down and fumbles in his pocket for a key, but there's no need--when I lean against the door frame, the door swings open and crashes into the wall behind.
"Well then," Scarlett says. When neither Silas nor I move, she forges ahead into the apartment. Silas and I make brief eye contact before following her.
The apartment is open, no walls separating one space from another. The patterned tin ceiling is high above our heads and causes our footsteps to echo as if we are in a museum; truth is, that's sort of what it feels like. The walls are covered with tacks, to which fragments of posters still cling, and one corner is filled with magazine clippings of women in various stages of undress. The windows are huge, but several are cracked and a few panes are missing entirely. The place smells musty and damp, like a basement. Outside on a heavily rusted fire escape are a few potted plants, long dead and keeled over the sides of their containers.
There's furniture--sort of. A bed that looks to be straight out of the sixties lurks in an offshoot of the main room. There's a round dining room table that actually looks fairly decent, save the neon pink graffiti that covers the oak top. And the couch... well, the battered brown couch looks
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comfortable, but there's no way I'll sit on it unless it is covered with a blanket or twelve. I feel a wave of pity for Silas, having to sleep on it.
Silas looks casual, if a little disgusted by the place, and Scarlett is... well, Scarlett. Once freed from his basket, Screwtape finally stops growling and begins to stalk cockroaches and sniff around for mice as I unpack the bag of kitchen things, afraid to put anything in a drawer. Scarlett and Silas angle the mattress against the wall and take turns beating it with a broom. They hang a flowered sheet up over the entrance to the little bed area where Scarlett and I will sleep.
Three hours later, the apartment still looks terrible. But at least it's terrible without random beer bottles and cigarette ashes covering the counters. Outside, a dog barks wildly.
"I have to go pay our rent," Silas says with a halfhearted look around the room.
"I have to get you money to pay our share," Scarlett adds, rummaging through a bag. I look away; I'd rather not know which of our grandmother's items she's decided to pawn.
"You coming with us, Rosie?" Silas asks, leaning against one of the many iron pillars that break up the apartment.
I know I should go, because I know Scarlett hopes to go hunting afterward--I see her securing her hatchet to her belt. But the truth is, I don't want to hunt. I want to be at home. How long have I wondered what life would be like outside of Ellison, only to yearn for the small town now that I'm in Atlanta?
"No, I was thinking I'd stay here and finish unpacking,"
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I answer, lifting myself up onto the countertop. Scarlett gives me a long stare, and I know she can see the frustration in my eyes. She nods.
"Okay. Keep your knives on you, even in here," she says and tosses me the belt that has both bone-handled knives stored securely on it.
Silas smiles gently at me, and then he and Scarlett leave, pulling the door tight until the lock pops shut behind them. Their footsteps echo loudly as they descend the stairs, and I hear the junkie's door fly open as they pass him again. I sigh and lower myself into one of the chairs. I set my feet on Silas's toolbox--I think it belonged to Pa Reynolds.
"Don't be silly, Leoni," Pa Reynolds said as he unloaded tools from the back of his ancient pickup truck. There was sawdust in his hair, and his overalls were permanently grass-stained. "A man's--or woman's--home is his castle."
"That doesn't mean I should get free labor," Oma March said, arms crossed.
"But I am your humble servant, my queen," Pa Reynolds said through a grin.
They were close in age, and there'd always been a sort of friendly flirtation between our grandmother and Silas's father. Looking back, I suppose it was normal for them to find comfort in each other. Silas's mother, Celia, had died when Silas was eight years old, and Pa Reynolds's brother
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Jacob--the only one of his seven siblings that remained in Ellison--was so much younger that he was more like another one of the kids. I got the feeling Pa Reynolds longed for some companionship and understanding from Oma March, even if it came in a schoolboy tone that made us cringe.
As I stroke Screwtape's fur and look warily at the rusting pipes on the ceiling, I wonder what he would do to fix this place. Outside, the bells of the dilapidated church chime the hour--tinny, mechanical sounds that are more jarring than peaceful. Screwtape hisses at the noise, and I sigh. I'm not sure even Pa Reynolds could turn this place into a castle. But hey, maybe Silas can.
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CHAPTER SEVEN
SCARLETT
I CAN FEEL THE FENRIS ALL AROUND ME IN THIS CITY, like they've touched every surface and traveled every sidewalk. All the streets are a blur of metal, glass, and people. It's so incredibly different from Ellison. People don't stare at me here. They don't stare at anyone--they look straight ahead and storm to their destinations as if they're on terribly important missions. I suppose we have that in common.
The pawnshop is dingy, overcrowded with things that smell like other people's homes: fabric softener, cigarettes, spices from cooking. I weave through to the front of the store, where a mannish, bored-looking woman watches The Jerry Springer Show on a tiny television. I turn over two bracelets and dip out of the pawnshop a few moments later, a thin fold of money in hand.
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Twilight seems to go on forever; when the sun has set, billions of lights take over the streets. Everyone and everything is illuminated by the glow from neon signs, bright marquees, and headlights. It makes me lose track of the hours, unable to tell from the sun or moon exactly what time of evening it is. I wander down into a subway station, staring at the swirls of graffiti on the wall, searching my pockets for a coin or two to give to an older black man drumming on upturned buckets. He has a face almost as scarred as mine, though I doubt his marks are the result of a wolf.
"Hell, girl. Your man do that to you?" he says, staring at the scars on my arms and the few peeking out from my eye patch and hair. Somehow, his bluntness is comforting, more so than the sideways glances most girls give me, the horrified looks as they touch their own lovely, scar-free faces. But with this guy? It's unnecessary to hide when someone has already announced he sees you.
"Not quite," I reply and toss a few quarters into a coffee can by his feet. "And I kicked his ass anyway."
"Good for you, good for you, chickadee," he says as he taps off another intricate drum sequence.
I exit the subway to find the last few strands of twilight disappearing on the city's horizon. According to the map on the train wall, I should be only a block or so from the park. I pass the library, enormous and impressive, looking strangely classical amid all the silver and gray, and sadly realize it's already closing for the evening. I like libraries. It's a comfort that knowledge can be saved for so long. That what we learn can be passed on.
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I wander a few more blocks until the trees of Piedmont Park appear at the end of the street. They seem prouder than the trees at home somehow, impressed with one another for surviving in the city for so long. Just before I reach the park, a burst of bright, pounding music rings out, then fades--a door to a club just down the street opening and shutting. I turn and walk toward it, clinging to the brick wall that surrounds an old apartment building as I watch the line of girls waiting to go in.
They're adorned in glittery green rhinestones, shimmery turquoise and aquamarine powders streaked across their eyelids. Dragonfly girls. Their hair is all the same, long and streaked, spiraling down their backs to where the tin
y strings holding their tops on are knotted tightly. Their skin glows under the neon lights--amber, ebony, cream--like shined metal, flawless and smooth. I press harder against the crumbly brick wall behind me, tugging my crimson cloak closer to my body. The scars on my shoulders show through the fabric when I pull the cloak tight. Bumpy red hills in perfectly spaced lines.
The Dragonflies laugh, sweet and bubbly, and I groan in exasperation. They toss their hair, stretch their legs, sway their hips, bat their eyelashes at the club's bouncer, everything about them luring the Fenris. Inviting danger like some baby animal bleating its fool head off. Look at me, see how I dance, did you notice my hair, look again, desire me, I am perfect. Stupid, stupid Dragonflies. Here I am, saving your
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lives, bitten and scarred and wounded for you, and you don't even know it. I should let the Fenris have one of you.
No. I didn't mean that. I sigh and walk to the other side of the brick wall, letting my fingers tangle in the thick ivy. It's dark on this side, shadowed from the neon lights of the street. I breathe slowly, watching the tree limbs sway, backlit by the lights of skyscrapers. Of course I didn't mean it. Ignorance is no reason to die. They can't help what they are, still happily unaware inside a cave of fake shadows. They exist in a world that's beautiful, normal, where people have jobs and dreams that don't involve a hatchet. My world is a parallel universe to theirs--the same sights, same people, same city, yet the Fenris lurk, the evil creeps, the knowledge undeniably exists. If I hadn't been thrown into this world, I could just as easily have been a Dragonfly.
Footsteps approach--footsteps that I recognize, padding softly in the park's grass.
"Silas," I greet him without looking. He slows.
"You know, for a girl who can't see on her right side, you're hard to sneak up on. What is that, some sort of pirate superpower?" he teases. If anyone other than him teased me about missing an eye, I'd fight him. But Silas gets away with it.
I smile and answer, "Yep. All us pirates have superhearing. It's a side effect of wearing an eye patch." He's standing just beside the wall looking at the Dragonflies. His eyes narrow in something between disgust and intrigue, as though
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he's not certain if he likes looking at them or not. I want to comment, but I stay quiet. Somehow it feels important to wait for his reaction. Silas finally turns to look at me in the shadows.
"It's like they're trying to be eaten, isn't it?" he asks pointedly. "Can I tell you how glad I am that you and Rosie aren't like them?"
"No kidding." I grin, relieved. "Rosie could be if she wanted, though. She's beautiful like they are."
"Beauty has nothing to do with it. Rosie could never be one of them. Do you really think they'd dress and act like that if they knew it was drawing wolves toward them?"
I frown, nodding. "I never thought of that. I guess you're right, though. Knowledge does have a way of making you an outcast. Or a hunter, in her case."
"Ah yes, Scarlett March, queen of the black-or-white perspective. Isn't there something between a hunter and those girls?" Silas asks.
I shake my head as I move to the edge of the wall, then peer around. "Anyway, how am I supposed to lure a Fenris when I'm competing against that? " A line of Dragonflies saunters into the club, only to be replaced by a new group of sparkly girls. I try to ignore the tiny tug of pity I feel for myself and my torn-up body. Pity is a useless emotion, I remind myself.
"Come on. You know a Fenris isn't going to attack a crowd like that. Just be the one girl who wandered away from
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the group," Silas answers firmly. He's never felt sorry for me and my scars, a harshness that I've always appreciated.
"I guess," I grumble. "Rosie will have to hunt more, though. She can compete with them."
"Oh," Silas says, half question and half statement. "And you're still against Rosie hunting solo?" He shoves his hands into his pockets and joins me on the dark side of the brick wall. The moon is heavy and newly full above, bright enough to cast his shadow on the wall, even with all the city's lights.
"You know how she is. I just worry about her..." I don't want to say it, but on top of my worry that she'll let a Fenris escape, I worry about her coming out of the fight like me. Or worse, like Oma March. "She has to hunt, though, or we're dead in the water here," I continue.
"Maybe. Maybe she's just not a hunter like you are," Silas says.
I raise an eyebrow. "She's a great hunter, you know that. Just don't tell her I said so."
"Maybe it's not for her, though, I mean."
I sigh. "It's not for anybody. It's just... what are we supposed to do? Sit back and assume someone else will kill the Fenris? It's our responsibility to do good when we have the power to. I can't do it alone. It was hard enough without you. If I lost her too..." I say quietly.
"Have you considered inspirational speaking?" Silas smirks.
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"They don't let pirates into lecture halls. They're afraid we'll loot everything," I bite back with a grin. Silas laughs loudly enough to earn a few flirtatious glances from the Dragonflies.
"Come on, Lett. Let's go get some sleep. And make sure Rosie hasn't been kidnapped by a crazy crack addict."
"Rosie could take that crack addict any day. And besides, I can't sleep. I have to... I have to move. Do something. Come on, Silas, hunt with me," I ask in a voice more pleading than I intended. Hunting makes things right, will make the city feel less like a strange land and more like a temporary home.
"Sadly, Lett, I am not as willing to go without sleep," he says pointedly. "Though you aren't going to start saying I abandoned you again over this, are you? Because if I have to deal with the Scarlett March you're-going-away-and-I-hate-you-for-it cold shoulder again, I might lose it."
I shake my head. "Go, get some sleep. Tell Rosie I'll be in late, I guess. Give me the key." I hold my hand out and Silas drops the apartment key in it. "And here's our part of the rent," I add and slip a hundred dollars into his hand.
"You know you two don't have to pay," Silas says seriously. "Rent isn't that bad. There's a steep discount for inhabiting crack houses, I think."
"It's fine," I say quickly, shoving my hands into my pockets before he can hand the money back.
"All right." Silas shrugs. "Be careful hunting, though. They aren't lone wolves here. Even you can't take on a full pack."
"We'll see." I smirk but then nod when Silas gives me
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an exasperated look. He walks away as I turn my back to the Dragonflies, tugging my cloak around my shoulders and meandering into the park.
Piedmont Park is a little eerie--the proud trees cast long shadows under the street lamps. Just shadows, unless you think they're real... I intentionally walk through them, smiling to myself. I swish my cloak out a bit, peering through the landscaped flowers and shrubbery for any other signs of life.
Wait... yes.
Yes, yes! The familiar rush of adrenaline sweeps over me. On the other side of the park, huddled in a small cluster by a row of pink hydrangea bushes, are three men. Fenris--I can feel it from here. I cough lightly, nabbing their attention. Three Fenris on my first night here? My heart swells. This is what I am meant for.
I glance through my hair to size them up. I've never fought three at once before, but one looks young--well, he looks old, but Fenris who haven't been monsters for too long have a different sort of movement, as if their bodies are still trying to be human despite the fact that their souls are long gone. I can handle them.
The largest of the Fenris grins at me from beneath a shaggy black haircut, and they circle around behind me as I speed up. I grip the handle of my hatchet tightly and look over my shoulder with what I hope is a fearful expression. I force myself to breathe so my eagerness doesn't overtake my rationality. Come along, come along.
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They've stopped.
I back up, wondering if they're just waiting for the moment to spring into action and chase me
properly. But no, they've circled up and are talking casually. I squint to see the pack mark on one's wrist. Bell. Bells are always aggressive--come on. I give a girlish cough and pretend to be terribly interested in a swan fountain nearby.
But they don't look. Instead they turn and walk away, loping like their inner wolves.
My skin goes cold. The hand on my hatchet tightens, threatening to release the weapon at their retreating backs. I press my lips together. This doesn't make sense. I baited them! I had them. Everything in me shakes, and my scars burn like seams that might burst at any moment.
No, no. I've never lost a Fenris like that, not once I had him. This is what I am.
I take off after them in a dead sprint, but even as my heart thunders in my ears and sweat begins to trickle down my back, I know it's a lost cause. They're fast, so much faster than a human. Still, I run until I reach the edge of the park, where I slow to a walk and my eyes burn in anger at the line of Dragonflies before me, blond hair and bright teeth and perfect marble-smooth skin. Why did I think that I would be able to lure three Fenris when they have this kind of prey? I watch the girls glitter, sparkle, glow in the night.
I am a hunter. If I can't hunt... I'm nothing. In a flurry of frustration, I whirl around and send my hatchet whistling
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through the air. It strikes the base of a nearby tree, sending a shower of bark to the grass as it sinks several inches into the trunk. A few Dragonflies take notice, scowling at me before going back to their conversations. I storm to the tree, yank my hatchet from it, and start home, heart raging.
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CHAPTER EIGHT
Sisters Red Page 9