A Thousand Fires

by Shannon Price

  I listen for a moment as silverware clinks against plates. Low ripples of laughter carry from Aure to the three others then to Matthew. She must have told a joke.

  Camille isn’t there, but that doesn’t mean she’s not watching. I check the corners of the room for cameras.

  I choke-cough a few more times, and the group turns. Aure tucks her brown hair behind her ear, frowning. I don’t know why I looked at her and not at Matthew.

  “Val.” Matthew sets his fork down, and the whole group stands as he walks over to me. “Feel okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Check her,” Aure says.

  When Matthew doesn’t move, another Heron—an African American guy with muscles that could rip off limbs—steps forward. Heat rises to my cheeks as he takes his time patting me down. I stare at Matthew and blink carefully to keep the tears from slipping out.

  How many times has Matthew himself flipped me upside-down as a prank, or poked my sides because he knows how ticklish I am? We’ve known each other our whole lives. Seen each other naked, for Christ’s sake. We’re us. Does he really think I’d come here armed?

  Matthew frowns at me, apologetic but unmoving.

  “Clean,” the guy says.

  “Of course I am,” I snap back.

  Aure folds her arms across her chest. As she does, I see the bold feathers of the Heron emblem on the inside of her wrist. One wing curls around and extends farther to encircle her left ring finger, like a wedding band.

  It strikes me suddenly that she looks a lot like me, only more polished. Same hair, same build, but with more refinement. She stands straighter and exhales grace. Like Valerie 2.0, the expensive version.

  But there is something sad about her, too. She must be around my age, but her cheeks are etched with frown lines—as if she’s seen too much, borne too much.

  I’m too caught up in my thoughts to realize that the group of us have been standing in a tense, shivery—not to mention awkward—silence.

  “Can I talk to her alone?” Matthew asks Aure.

  “Camille said five minutes,” she says. “No more.”

  “No more.”

  She leads the rest of the Herons out a side door, her hand brushing Matthew’s shoulder as he goes. The door swings shut, and it’s just me and Matthew, Matthew and me. The last time we saw each other, we said I love you. Now he’s with the Herons, and I’m a Stag. I say the first thing that comes to mind.

  “Where did you get your tattoo?”

  Wordlessly, Matthew unbuttons his shirt, tugging down the powder-blue fabric and scrunching up an undershirt until I can see his arm: an arm that’s wrapped me in a thousand hugs, reached for me across the hallways at school, pulled me close …

  The heron takes up most of his shoulder. Its wings nearly touch his collarbone then wrap around to where I cannot see.

  “You?” he asks.

  I sweep my hair off my neck and turn around. After a few moments, I let my hair fall and face him. Heron. Stag. Matthew. Me.

  We break.

  Matthew rushes forward and pulls me into a hug. I press my face into his chest, almost struggling to breathe for how tightly he’s holding me. My lips find the smooth skin of his neck, his cheek. He kisses me back, and the earthquake between us shakes the room. How could I ever have forgotten this? How have I not wanted it every moment of every day since our birthday? We part and lean our foreheads together.

  “Are you okay?” he whispers.

  “I’m fine, I’m fine.” I put my hand on his arm, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath his shirt.

  “I wanted to come for you right away,” he says. “That night. You left for the airport. The Herons were at my house when I got back.” Another nod. “You’re okay, though? You sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you been cutting?”

  I think for a moment. “No, actually. I haven’t. Not a lot.” His eyebrows rise in surprise—but it’s as shocking to me as it is to him. “What about you? Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. I’m bored, mostly. I’ve been cooped up here for weeks. I’ve only gone outside twice since I was recruited.”

  “Twice?” And I thought my cabin fever was bad.

  “Twice.”

  “Why don’t they let you out?”

  “I don’t know. Because they can, I guess. Camille says it’s for my own protection. A lot of people hated Alex.” He sits down on the sofa and puts his face in his hands. “The Wars isn’t what I expected. I thought I’d know because of Alex and Aaron but … damn. Some of these people.” He lowers his voice. “They don’t care about anyone but themselves. I’m just pretending to go along with everything, at this point.”

  “Matthew,” I say. “Why am I here? Like, didn’t it get you in trouble?”

  He runs his hand across his lips. “Camille knows Alex well enough. I kind of took advantage of that. I had to see if you were okay.”

  “That’s all?”

  “More or less.”

  “What’s the more?”

  Matthew fidgets and shakes his head. “Val, why did you say yes? When Jax recruited you—why did you say yes?” He shakes his head. “I thought since it wasn’t the Herons, you’d say no.”

  “I had to accept,” I reply. “For Leo.”

  “But I wanted you to be safe.”

  “I wouldn’t have been safe even if the Herons did recruit me.”

  “No. But you would have been if you hadn’t joined the Wars at all.” He steps back from me. “I told you I’d take care of it, remember?”

  I do remember. It was back at the end of spring, beginning of summer. Matthew and I were walking down on the Embarcadero by Cupid’s Span, an enormous statue of a bow and arrow. It should have been a dream of an outing, but the air between us was jagged. That was the day I told Matthew I wanted to join the Wars.

  “It’s a bad idea,” he had said. “I know how you feel … with Leo … but come on. Joining the Wars won’t fix anything.”

  “I knew you’d be upset.” Both of us had our arms folded across our chests. It’s a funny mirroring thing I’d noticed we did early on. It didn’t feel fun or cute that time.

  “You could die,” he said.

  “Most people live through it. Alex did.”

  “Still.” He stopped walking and I did, too. The yellow lights of the streetlamps looked like fidgety torches on the bay. “What if I do it for you?”

  “What, join the Wars? I mean, I kind of assumed…”

  “Yeah, well. I meant what if I find the guy? I can ask Alex to look into it. We can find him and you won’t have to join.”

  Back in the present, I shake my head slowly as it dawns on me. I can imagine the moment that the idea sparked in his mind. Matthew’s always been the kind of guy who’d do the right thing, and keeping me out of the Wars counts. So he did what he could to stop me …

  “You told the Herons not to recruit me,” I whisper. “Didn’t you?”

  Matthew keeps his eyes on the ground, which is all the answer I need.

  “You told the Herons not to recruit me,” I repeat. “But you didn’t think to keep the Stags from doing it. We could have done our year together.”

  “I didn’t want you here at all! I thought maybe if we weren’t dating … if I could put distance between you and me, and you and the Wars, that you wouldn’t join. I was trying to protect you, Val.”

  “You swore you didn’t know anything,” I say. Double pinky promise. “You lied to me.”

  “I just wanted you safe and out of the Wars. If you weren’t recruited I thought … I thought maybe you’d realize it’s okay to move on.”

  “You joined,” I fire back defensively.

  “I had to,” he says. “This is all my parents have cared about my whole life. All the trophies, all the titles I held at school—it never mattered. They would brush it off, like I hadn’t worked for any of it. All they cared about was my maintaining our family’s honor by getting revenge for what happened to Aaron.”


  I interrupt. “It’s true, then.”

  He pauses. “What did they tell you?”

  “That Annie died, and Ty Boreas’s brother went berserk. Aaron soon after. That’s why he never comes home, isn’t it?”

  Matthew nods solemnly. “Aaron doesn’t just live in Tahoe. My parents sent him there. He’s not … all there, anymore.He’s under psychiatric care twenty-four/seven.”

  I lift my hands like, What? “How come you never told me any of this? You should have been honest with me.”

  “Yeah,” he says. “I see that now.”

  “So we’re both here for our brothers,” I say. “And the protests, the beatings, the murder—started over one poor dead girl, and now it’s totally out of control? That’s all this is?”

  “Yes.” He exhales heavily. “And that’s the real reason why I joined. That’s why I asked to see you.” Matthew gets up and starts pacing like the walls are made of fire. “Alex is already out. Camille and Aure and the others are in too deep. But you … I need you to do something for me.”

  “What is it?” Two minutes ago, I would have agreed to anything, but right now I’m still so confused. I wonder what Matthew sees when he looks at me—his friend, the girl he says he loves, or an enemy. Maybe all three.

  My curiosity ends with seven sharp words:

  “I need you to leave the Stags.”

  13

  He must be joking.

  “No one leaves the Wars,” I say, waving my hand up, like duh. “It’s one of the rules. No one goes before their year is up.”

  “No one has before.”

  “No one who has left has lived before,” I say. I think back to my first day, when Jax cornered me in the basement. “The gangs always find you. And if they don’t find you, they’ll go after your family. Don’t desert. That’s a rule.”

  “I know, I know. But I have a plan.” He takes my hand and gently pulls me back to the couch. We both sit, and he puts a hand on my knee. “Look, I’m working with the police. Not the Herons. I have my own plans. Just me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  There’s no time for me to respond. Aure glides back into the room followed by the two guys from before.

  “Time’s up,” she says.

  “A few more minutes.”

  “Camille said five. You got five.”

  “Fine,” he says. He gives me a look like I will fix this. “You can take Ms. Simons back to Stag territory.”

  “Wait,” I say at the same moment Aure says, “Come on.”

  A Heron—Jacob Fisher, according to the binders—takes my wrists and deftly tightens a zip tie around them. When the other Herons have all turned their backs, Matthew mouths the words I love you and I die on the spot.

  We exit the dining room and go into a long hallway, then out into an enormous foyer. A glittering, curling staircase winds past yet another sparkling chandelier. Roses burst from gilded vases in little alcoves. Affluence imbues every piece of décor.

  Aure pushes me from behind. “Hurry up.”

  Just me. Not the Herons. What did Matthew mean by that? It’s horrible to realize I don’t know when I’ll see him again—it might not be for the rest of our year. I can’t go that long without knowing more, without understanding more. Because right now all I know is Matthew kept things from me when he said he loved me, and that doesn’t sound very much like love.

  Tears slip from my eyes. Aure stiffens and she gives me what must pass as a sympathetic look. “You cried a lot as a kid, too.”

  “You smiled more back then,” I fire back. Aurelia Saint-Helene. Of course she’d become a Young Heron. Her family and Matthew’s go way back. Even as a kid I remember her being prettier than I was, smiling and batting her eyes at the adults to get whatever she wanted.

  But she was kind, too. One year when I was about six, Mom insisted on bringing a casserole to the Westons’ Christmas party, despite the hosts insisting that guests bring nothing. “You always bring something,” I remember my mom saying as her heels clacked on the sidewalk when we walked over. “It’s polite.”

  I was ecstatic—her casserole was one of my favorite foods, and she rarely made it because it took so much prep. But the moment we stepped into the Westons’ house, all eyes swerved to our small family: me in a dress Mom got at Macy’s, my dad in a slightly wrinkled shirt he’d forgotten to steam, and Mom with her hands full of foil-covered casserole.

  Our small Pyrex dish with burnt cheese at the edges stood out like a sore thumb on the table laden with luxurious delicacies—a huge roasted ham, miles of hors d’oeuvres, a triple-layer chocolate cake … and our casserole.

  I was sent to eat and socialize with the other kids, who wasted no time in barraging me with questions.

  “What is it?”

  “No one else brought anything.”

  “It looks like vomit.”

  Seemingly above them all was Aure. When we were all allowed to grab food, she asked to be served the casserole and nothing else. We got back to the kids’ table and she took a bite, her eyes going wide.

  “This is the yummiest thing I have ever eaten.” She smiled at me. A real smile. “Do you get to eat this every day?”

  It’s one of those moments that comes back even when you don’t mean to think about it, like the time I called my fifth-grade teacher by her first name in front of the whole class or when I was learning to drive and backed into the neighbor’s fence by accident. Kindness was an emotion just as powerful as embarrassment or guilt, perhaps even more so.

  Kindness, evidently, is also not a virtue afforded to the Young Herons, at least not to anyone who isn’t their own kind.

  Back in the present, Aure exhales through her nose, scowling, and I brace for a slap or a punch, but her Heron restraint wins out. “You’re lucky you have somewhere to be or I’d teach you to keep your fucking mouth shut.” Then, her voice barely a whisper, “Maybe I’ll just stop by your house later. Right down the street from the Westons’, right?”

  Mom and Dad. “No!” I shout, but Aure is done with me. She hands me back to Jacob and I swear his grip is tighter this time. I don’t stop pulling at the zip tie. “Aure, don’t. Please.”

  “Be quiet.”

  I should have kept out of this. No matter how much I try, I just make it worse. Leo, if you’re up there, look out for them, please. Please.

  I’m led out onto the street. Instead of a limo, I’m to travel in a nondescript sedan. From the height of the buildings I can tell we’re somewhere between North Beach and the Financial District. Aure pushes a blindfold over my eyes before I can get a better look. I’m shoved into a car. Moments later, the front passenger side opens as she gets in.

  “Take us to the drop-off point.”

  Jax is going to be livid. Not only did the Herons take me—breaking the all-important rules—but also I gained nothing of use to him. I can’t tell him what Matthew said, can I? But Jax is my leader.

  And I can’t be loyal to both of them at the same time.

  The car rolls up and down the city’s famous hills until I know we’re way past downtown. We stop suddenly, and someone else gets in the backseat with me. Holy shit. Horrible images flash in my mind—Aure said I had somewhere to be. Who got in the car? I’m as helpless as I was the night I was recruited. They’re gonna knock me out, or worse …

  “What’s going on?” I say, plastering myself to the door behind me. “Who are you? Someone answer me!”

  “Calm down, Stag,” says a new voice.

  The blindfold is lifted off my eyes and I’m face-to-face with Camille Sakurai. She holds a gun idly in her hands.

  “What the fuck—” I say, jerking back as far as I can.

  I struggle to breathe as my brain takes in the most absurd details—her perfect manicure, the jasmine of her perfume, and her painstakingly curled hair.

  “I don’t have a lot of time for you, so I’ll cut to the chase. I know you and Weston are, like, close, but I don’t want him forgetti
ng what side he’s on,” she says. “I let him see you tonight because Alex has literally saved my life at least twice and I owed him. But this is it.” She sets the gun down in her lap, but keeps it pointed in my direction. “I don’t know what Jax has said to you, but the Stags are nothing. He made them up. So stop thinking you are a part of anything bigger. You are nothing.”

  She yanks the blindfold down again, nails scraping my forehead.

  I swallow. If we were truly nothing, the Young Heron leader wouldn’t have bothered to pull some shit like this herself. They’re scared. My heart soars so high I almost laugh—I have something to tell Jax after all.

  Sometime later, we come to a stop. The door beside me opens and I’m pulled out. Wherever I am, it’s quiet. And cold. The sound of a crosswalk speaker echoes from somewhere nearby. The zip tie is snipped, but awkwardly so that the scissors catch my skin, too.

  “Ow!” I say, covering the cut with my other hand, but I don’t have more than a second to get my bearings before Aure slams the door and the car speeds off.

  I pull the blindfold off. I’m in a neighborhood on a hill—which doesn’t narrow it down very much, because hello, San Francisco—and all is still, save for a gray sedan working its way up the street toward me. The driver stares at me, as if trying to decide my purpose for being there. If only you knew, pal. Walking toward a nearby crosswalk, I pass the Parkmerced library branch.

  I’m back at Stonestown.

  Reaching into my pocket, I grab my phone and turn it back on. Someone must have turned it off during the ride there. I text Jax.

  Safe. Headed back.

  He replies immediately.

  See you here.

  See you here?

  Well, fuck you, too, Jax. I wonder if he was even worried.

  It’s not that far of a walk—just a cold one—back to Holloway House. Besides, at this point I’m craving the solitude so that I can think. My once-perfect hair is ruined by the wind and misty air, and I don’t care.

  “Stupid, Valerie,” I mutter to myself. “What an idiot, getting dressed up.”