by K. Ancrum
To be completely honest, if Peter had just taken her straight to the party instead of ruining everything by running her all over the city, she probably would have felt like it was worth the risk of sneaking out. It was better than the cool-kid parties she’d seen on TV back home, and it was certainly much better than she had imagined. The mirror/strobe combination alone was completely out of this world, not to mention the confetti installation. She did not feel like this was worth the drama she’d suffered tonight, but it was entirely too late for that.
Fyodor slung his arm over her shoulders and moved closer to yell in her ear over the music. “Ominotago and Tink have to say hi to family,” he shouted. “Stay with me. We will go upstairs.”
Wendy had been so distracted by the flashing lights that she hadn’t noticed Tinkerbelle waving at her.
Five minutes, Tinkerbelle mouthed as Ominotago pulled her away. Stay with him.
Minsu and Charles were also leaving. Charles held up his wallet and nodded over at the bar. Fyodor held up three fingers and nodded. Wendy twisted around to see what had happened to Peter, Curly, and Nibs, but only managed to glimpse the bright shock of Nibs’s red hair as the three boys disappeared into the crowd.
Fyodor leaned in again as he guided Wendy to the mezzanine stairs. “Hunting,” he said.
Wendy didn’t know what that meant, but it still filled her with dread. She allowed Fyodor to use his large body to push through the crowd so she wouldn’t have to struggle past drunk screaming people on their way up the stairs. He muscled his way to one of the couches, which were all occupied, and sat on the arm. The guy sitting next to the couch arm scooted over to get out of Fyodor’s way, and Fyodor took the opportunity to slide down onto the seat. The other kid, clearly unhappy at being way too snugly seated next to a boy he didn’t know, got up. Fyodor scooted over even further, brushing up against the kids on the other half of the couch, and smacked the now empty seat next to him. Wendy wasn’t sure what was ruder to do, so she just sat down in the vacated space.
Fyodor leaned in again. “Charles and Minsu will be here soon. Then, we talk.”
Wendy wanted answers now. “What did you mean by hunting?”
Fyodor made a tight expression and looked around before continuing. “This—” he gestured around at all the people, “—is a place where he finds boys to bring home. He can tell, somehow, who is hungry. Who is lonely. He tracks them like a hunter, impresses them. Reaches out with a hand of treats, da? Like he’s bringing in a little kitten?” Fyodor put his hand out, cupped like he was coaxing a cat out from under a bush. He looked around again to make sure Peter wasn’t nearby.
“Some come out. Some, not so much. Maybe he’ll try again later, maybe not.” Fyodor shrugged. “He is a picky man and very smart. Dangerous.” He raised an eyebrow at her emphatically. “This, you know.”
“Is this where he met Curly?” Wendy asked loudly. The music was screaming, and this very much felt like a conversation that should be had in whispers, but it couldn’t be helped.
Fyodor shook his head. “Curly came to him. Sometimes there are worse things out at night, on the streets.” After the expression Wendy made when hearing this, Fyodor frowned deeply. “Do not judge Curly,” he said fiercely.
“I’m not!” Wendy replied quickly. “I’m just worried and scared for him … among other things.”
Fyodor accepted this and instead looked very, very tired. He rubbed his eyes and put his head in the palm of his hand, leaning over his knee. “It will be good when this is finished,” he said.
Minsu and Charles elbowed their way through the crowd, followed closely by Ominotago and Tinkerbelle. At the sight of Ominotago, the kids on the other half of the couch got up and wandered off, clearly recognizing her.
“Sorry,” Ominotago said, handing Wendy an apology drink. “My cousins helped set this up, so I had to at least say hi.”
“Oh … thank you, but I don’t drink,” Wendy said, looking into the cup suspiciously.
Ominotago shrugged. “It’s just soda with some maraschino cherries in it. I didn’t want to assume.”
“I do,” Fyodor said, and snatched one of the shots Charles was balancing on a platter in the cradle of his arm. He threw it back with the desperation of someone who isn’t drinking for fun. “How much longer do we have?” he asked, coughing.
Ominotago pulled out her phone. “Twenty minutes. We almost didn’t make it in time.”
“In time for what?” Wendy asked.
“The police to get here,” Ominotago said so quietly that Wendy had to read her lips.
Wendy didn’t get a chance to say anything to that whopper of a statement before Tinkerbelle covered Wendy’s mouth with her whole hand.
“We can’t talk about it anymore,” Tinkerbelle hissed. “Just make sure you’re with one of us and head for the exits. Don’t worry about them grabbing you. I said I’d protect you, and I meant it.”
Wendy smacked Tinkerbelle’s hand off her mouth and pushed herself up from the couch. “Fuck this. I’m taking my chances and walking home. Thanks for the drink, Ominotago, it’s been swell.” Wendy whirled on her heel, ready to get the hell out of this situation.
“WENDY, STOP!”
The only reason she turned around was because it was Minsu who had shouted. He sounded more serious than she’d heard him all night, his voice strangled with desperation.
Wendy faced the group. She could see Peter, Curly, and Nibs making their way up the mezzanine stairs on the other side of the building; it wouldn’t take more than five minutes for the trio to reach them.
Minsu held out both his hands to her plaintively. “I know you’re scared,” he said, voice cracking. “Don’t you think we’re scared, too? You’ve only been here for a few hours. Curly has been with him for years.”
Ominotago folded her arms and scowled, but Wendy could tell that she was more hurt than angry. In fact, all of them looked hurt. Charles’s wide-eyed terror was beginning to creep back into his face. Tinkerbelle still held her hand where Wendy had slapped it away, her cheeks hot and red. Fyodor’s gaze burned as he glared at the ground and refused to participate.
Minsu lowered his hands. “We only have a few chances, and this took ages to plan. You saw how he gets away anytime anything happens! Please, Wendy.”
She couldn’t hear Peter’s approaching footsteps over the thumping beat, but it still felt like she could.
“You promised,” Tinkerbelle said, her voice thick with tears. “You spit-shook on it.”
Wendy closed her eyes and clenched her fists.
She didn’t know these people. Spit-shaking meant nothing to her before tonight. It was after midnight, and her parents were probably already home from the party and furious. Her phone barely had any battery the last time she checked, and it was probably dead by now, so there was no way for her family or Eleanor to contact her. It was still too early for an Amber Alert, so there was no one looking for her. The police—if they were truly coming—would be here to raid this party, not to help her or be on her side. She was never going to see these people ever again after tonight; their problems really weren’t her problems. Their suffering was none of her business. This was too dangerous, and the stakes were too high. If she pushed through the crowd and took off at a sprint, Wendy could remember the way to the train station. Peter continued to stride across the mezzanine as the beat throbbed in her ears. She could go home, she could go home, she could go home.
Wendy opened her eyes.
She grabbed her drink back from Ominotago and chugged the entire thing, chewing through the cherries while the entire group watched in suspense. Wendy saw that Peter was only twenty feet away now, his eyes focused hard on the back of Tinkerbelle’s head as he wove through the crowd.
“Fyodor,” Wendy shouted loud enough for Peter to hear.
Fyodor finally pried his eyes away from the tile and looked up at Wendy solemnly.
“Will you dance with me?” Wendy demanded, thinking quickly.
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Fyodor stood and looked Wendy up and down just as Peter broke through to them.
“Yes,” Fyodor said, eyes dark and voice rough. He grabbed her hand and pulled her down the stairs.
Wendy couldn’t leave the group without glancing back. She saw Peter talking sternly to Tinkerbelle, but Ominotago was watching Wendy and Fyodor leave with a smile tucked in the corner of her eyes and her chin tilted up with pride.
Fyodor wrapped his arm around Wendy’s back and nearly carried her down the last three stairs.
They stumbled through the crowd to the middle of the room—in view of all exits, Wendy realized, and far enough from the speakers that the music buzzed in her bones instead of blasting her ear drums.
Fyodor gazed down at Wendy.
Then he pulled his phone out of his pocket and typed for a while, turning it around for her to see, because it was entirely too loud to talk.
You deserve at least one dance.
Wendy looked up to check the mezzanine, to see if Peter was watching them angrily, but Fyodor gently turned her chin back to him.
The music was a punchy rap song, more pop than gritty poetry. The people next to them were jumping up and down with the beat. The strobes enhanced the angles of Fyodor’s face, burning an afterglow behind his silhouette as he towered over her.
Fyodor reached out, but paused and jerked his chin at her as if to ask permission. Wendy answered his nod and allowed him to gently take both of her hands and place them on his shoulders. Then he reached a large solid arm behind her back and began to sway her gently to the beat. With a disorienting thrill, Wendy realized they were slow dancing.
Fyodor kept his right hand on the dip of her spine, not taking advantage even when she stumbled; she wasn’t used to moving this way. His left hand was tucked behind his back with almost military formality. Wendy couldn’t help but watch their feet, focusing on not stepping on his shoes. She realized with flustered hysteria that Minsu had been lying about Fyodor dancing like a scarecrow in a wind tunnel. He had been lying a lot. Fyodor was graceful and so skilled that he managed to find the slower beat in the music, turning them both effortlessly as if this was a ballroom and not a warehouse rave at all.
Fyodor stepped closer, until Wendy could feel the heat of his body, and it was nothing like being close to Peter. Fyodor smelled alive: a little like cigarettes, a little like the pomade he had in his blond hair, a little like deodorant, and a little like the metallic tang of panic-sweat that forms on people who have been on edge for entirely too long. No heady flowers, no smoke that reminded her of a house fire, no magic and starlight, just a flesh and blood kid, who moved her out of the way of a flailing dancer—bringing his left hand up fast to block Wendy from getting smacked in the back of the head.
Fyodor flicked his eyes over at the guy who clearly had too much to drink and grinned as if to say, At least he’s having a good time. He began to drop his arm to tuck it behind his back again, but Wendy caught his hand on the way down and threaded her fingers between his. Fyodor’s eyebrows knit in apprehension but smoothed as Wendy moved more confidently now. He squeezed her fingers and shifted into a middle-school-slow-dance style of rocking back and forth. He grinned.
Wendy took the bait, scowling as he dumbed down his waltz style for her. Fyodor grinned wider at Wendy’s pettiness, and for some reason seeing the imperfection of his gaping, childish smile and the shadow of a pimple on his forehead filled Wendy’s chest with warmth.
Fyodor lifted their conjoined hands and gave her shoulder a nudge. Wendy spun without thinking, and Fyodor caught her with ease, swinging her back into the gentle rhythm. A few of the people nearest them moved away to give them room, with confused and interested glances.
Fyodor chanced a look up at the mezzanine, and Wendy followed his gaze. Peter and Curly were looking down at them, and the expression on Peter’s face was what Wendy could only describe as gently furious. Fyodor stepped back from Wendy. The sudden gap left her cold as air rushed in between them.
Fyodor spun them twice and then finished with his back to Peter, blocking Wendy from Peter’s prying gaze.
It will be okay, Fyodor mouthed over the music, nodding resolutely.
It will be okay, he repeated, then he cupped Wendy’s cheek in his large palm and pressed their foreheads together. They weren’t dancing anymore, just standing still in the middle of the dance floor.
Wendy arched up closer and closed her eyes.
Her heart tripped over itself as she stood in the circle of Fyodor’s arms, with the bridge of his nose just grazing hers. She leaned up even closer for a kiss, but Fyodor pulled back.
He shook his head and pulled out his phone again at Wendy’s crestfallen expression.
you have been through too much tonight. It would be taking advantage
Then he took his phone back, swiped around, and handed it over to Wendy completely. He had opened his contacts and selected ADD NEW CONTACT.
Fyodor smirked and wiggled his eyebrow.
Wendy blushed, remembering that Ominotago had called him a flirt earlier in the night. She typed her number into his phone and handed it over.
Fyodor looked over at Peter and clapped his hand on Wendy’s shoulder in an overly friendly way, as if she were Charles or Minsu. From the tightening of the expression on Peter’s face, it didn’t seem to be working.
Peter leaned over to Curly and said something that made Curly look exasperated. Curly started marching toward the staircase like he’d been given an order.
Before Curly could come down the stairs, all the exits were kicked open, and police poured in. The warehouse filled with sirens so loud, they drowned out the music.
CHAPTER 13
Fyodor acted quickly. He yanked Wendy to the nearest drink table, pushed its cups away, lifted Wendy clean off the ground, and put her on the table just before the stampede began.
“PLEASE LEAVE THE BUILDING IN AN ORDERLY FASHION.”
No one was doing that at all. Fyodor was pushed aside violently as Wendy managed to scuttle to the middle of the table, and he was immediately carried away with the crowd. Everyone was running: girls barefoot with heels in hand, party- goers popping the balloons on the floor left and right. It didn’t sound quite like gunshots, but it was enough to make the crowd scream and flinch. The DJ yanked their cords midset and the music went off, leaving only the sounds of panic and the authoritative shouting of the Chicago Police Department.
Wendy looked up to the mezzanine, but Peter and the rest of the group were long gone. The police were staying at the perimeter of the warehouse, and, to Wendy’s surprise, were actually holding open the doors. They seemed more focused on everyone clearing the building than they were about arresting people or getting in the way of the rushing crowd. They must be waiting, Wendy thought dryly, until everyone gets outside to corral them into police vans.
Someone roughly bumped the table Wendy was on, and it banged against the back wall, its legs shuddering as if it were about to collapse. She held on and tried to sit as still as possible, and the shaking stopped. The warehouse was clearing fast, and police were pouring in to forcibly push people out. They were dressed almost like a SWAT team, which was a stark difference from the police who’d come to the few house parties Wendy had attended back home. Those cops had mostly looked like trumped-up security guards. This was an entirely different level, even more than what she’d seen at the train station. As the last of the partygoers scampered out the door, Wendy was seized by her arm and dragged off the table by an officer who pushed her toward the door without even saying anything to her. He was rough enough to get the message across wordlessly, so Wendy followed the last of the kids outside. She glanced behind her, just in time to see officers flip over a couch and tear into its cushions as they began to detail-search the building.
It was twice as bright outside as it had been when Wendy and the others had gone inside, and it was extremely crowded. The police had formed barriers around the whole building. They were check
ing IDs and letting people out in small groups. Some of them were pulling clearly intoxicated partygoers to the side to do breathalyzers and then bundling them into police vans. The rest seemed intent on searching the area, pushing people into lines for ID checks, and tamping down on rowdiness. Despite the massive police presence, the cops were significantly less violent than Wendy would have expected. This wasn’t a raid, this was a search party, and the crowd was mostly getting in the way. In fact, now that she was more aware of what was going on, she remembered the explosive police drama earlier slightly differently. The business of it all, the distracted but hawkish look in the officers’ eyes, the rush of patting down people and pushing away what looked like easy targets so they could continue their search. Wendy watched as the police let a girl who wasn’t completely sloshed, but still visibly drunk, out of the barricade.
Wendy walked across the gravel and joined the back of one of the ID lines. Hopefully they would recognize her as a person who’d been reported missing and escort her home. Which might be a pretty good way to go out, since it wouldn’t look like she’d “escaped,” and Peter might not hunt her down like Tinkerbelle and the others had hinted he would. The other possibility was that they would just let her out of the barricade like everyone else. Then she could just make an incredibly long walk home or wait at the barrier edge for it to spit out someone she knew.