I crouch in the street, body trembling so hard I bite my tongue and draw blood. How am I ever going to explain this? Will Wyatt forgive me for what I’ve done? Will I ever forgive myself?
Do I want to?
I have no answers. I cannot think. I need help. I don’t want to leave him, but my phone is broken. I feel the pieces shifting in my pocket. I can’t bring myself to search the two bodies nearby. Bodies I can’t bear to look at, much less touch.
Numb, exhausted, and bordering on hysterical, I jog off and leave my family behind. The Triads will help. They have to.
Two days later, I welcome death. I will place a welcome mat for it, if such a thing is possible. I have paid a high price for my own selfish nature, and will never stop paying—not until I am allowed final rest.
I crouch in a dark alley, listening to the screech of fire engine sirens. The hulking vehicles tear down the street toward the blazing apartment building, red lights flashing, announcing their presence to the sleeping neighborhood. They will arrive too late.
Danika is dead. The Owlkins are obliterated, massacred by people I once considered friends. Murdered in their homes, punished for their silence, for their loyalty and unflinching desire to protect me—not even one of their own. I ran to them for protection after my own people betrayed me. Their deaths are my fault, and I know I will burn for it.
But not until my betrayers join me in Hell.
My route takes me deeper into the alley, to the service street that runs behind the buildings. I stay close to the shadows, ignoring the stench of rotting garbage. The air is heavy, already hot for May, and presses down like a blanket. Something hisses, but it isn’t a stray cat. It is something else, telling me to keep my distance. I do.
Keeping low, faster now. Two blocks farther and I break into a dead run. Pushed by fear and guilt, I draw energy from a tapped well, and surge forward. At the end of the block, I dash across a busy intersection. A car horn honks. Leaping over a low stone wall with unfailing grace, I hit and roll and run. On through a dark park, its rusty merry-go-round tilted and broken. Swings dangle from fractured chains. The slide is warped, the monkey bars covered in grime.
A trio of gremlins, no taller than my leg, scatter as I pass. I ignore them, unconcerned with their business tonight. The Dregs get a free pass, and I have no time to enjoy their confusion. Tonight, I have no beef with the non humans of the world. My enemy is the Metro Police Department. In one day, I have gone from their star Hunter to a wanted fugitive accused of murder.
They never gave me a chance to explain how my partners died.
At the far end of the overgrown park, I jump another stone fence. I land in a puddle, spraying tepid water over my shoes and black jeans. So much for not leaving tracks. I briefly consider disposing of the soaked sneakers, but I can’t run around the city barefoot.
Once again on a residential sidewalk within eyesight of dozens of apartment windows, I reduce my speed to a fast walk. It’s a good chance to catch my breath, to consider my options. I could just keep running and never look back, get out of this damned city and away from the Dregs. Find a place somewhere else, without the sharply delineated lines. No Triads. No Handlers. Just ordinary people.
But I can’t do that. Leaving means no justice for the Owlkins. It means no justice for Jesse and Ash, no justice for myself. And what of Wyatt? I haven’t seen him in two days. With two of his Hunters dead and a third on the run, what happens to him? Will the brass have him neutralized?
“My first loyalty is to you three,” Wyatt told us once. “It always will be.”
At the end of this block, I dart into a pay phone booth. I dig into my pocket for change. A few coins are all that I possess now, and I drop most of them into the slot. I dial a number as familiar as my own birth date and wait. A computerized buzzer ticks off the rings on his end of the line.
“Be there. Come on, Wyatt. Answer your phone.”
The line clicks, and a familiar voice asks, “Yes?”
“It’s me.”
Silence.
“Don’t come here, Evy,” he says. “The brass knows what you did. I can’t help you.”
The words hurt. My teeth dig into my lower lip to drown out that pain with another. “They killed the Owlkins. Do you hear me, Wyatt? They slaughtered an innocent Clan.”
“It’s a dead end, Evy, I can’t help you. You have to go down this road by yourself, I’m sorry.” Click goes the line.
I drop the phone back into its cradle, hope daring to peek through the cloud of fear wrapped around my heart. If I am right, it’s a code. Dead Man’s Street—the dirt road that runs down by the Black River and the railroad tracks. He is telling me to meet him there; he has to be.
Believing it because I have no choice, I turn and head south. Without transportation, the trip will take at least an hour. I can’t risk the main city streets. Spies are everywhere, and they sell their information cheap. I stick to the shadows, drum up my courage, and run.
I crouch beneath an abandoned boxcar. It smells of human waste and rotting wood. The odors of oil and smoke join it, tinged with engine grease. The tracks around me are silent. Nothing disturbs the quiet of the moonlit train yard, save the occasional car that drives across the Wharton Street Bridge above, casting intermittent beams of light. I have been waiting for close to an hour, timed only by the ringing of a church bell on the other side of the river.
He isn’t going to show. I’ve fooled myself into thinking I still had one ally. My hands tremble, rocked by fear, inevitability, hatred. The tracks look like a nice place to throw myself the next time a train passes this way.
Gravel crunches. I peer out from the shadows of the boxcar. The sound draws closer, light steps trying to disguise themselves and failing. A figure emerges a hundred feet away, coming around the corner of a loading platform. He stops, waits. My heart soars, relief punching me in the stomach. Wyatt gazes around the train yard, moonlight glinting off his black hair. It accents the ever-present shadow on his face that no razor seems to touch.
I don’t move. Not even relief overpowers my ingrained sense of survival. I am a Hunter. I won’t move until I’m sure of my surroundings. It can still be a trap.
Wyatt steps farther into the yard and begins to unbutton his shirt. I stare. He shrugs out of the shirt, holds it at arm’s length, and turns in a slow circle. Exposed. Unwired. Asking me to trust him. I let out a breath. He puts the shirt back on, looking everywhere at once. Taking it all in.
Satisfied, I crawl out of my hiding place. He spots me and gapes. I realize I must be a mess, with blood on my clothes and in my hair, ash and soot adding gray to the red. He takes a step forward; stops. I wave him over. He comes.
I climb up into the boxcar, preferring its grimy, cobwebbed interior to crouching beneath it. Wyatt appears in the doorway, backlit by moonlight. I offer a hand and pull him up. His hand is so warm; I don’t want to let go. He surprises me by tugging me into a tight hug. My arms come up around his waist.
“I’m so glad you understood me,” he says. “Are you okay?”
Stupid question. “I’m pretty fucking far from okay, Wyatt. The Triads, the people I worked with for four years, won’t listen to me anymore. Why won’t they let me explain what happened?”
He disentangles himself, holds me at arm’s length. Black eyes seem to see right through me. “You know they won’t, Evy. They don’t give second chances. You’ve been marked as a threat. They won’t stop sending Triads after you until you’re dead.”
“You think I don’t know that?” I pull out of his arms and withdraw to the shadows of the boxcar. Dark and rot press in on me. “I’ve thought about turning myself in. Hell, I even thought about a spectacular leap off the bridge up there, because it seems easier than this. I don’t have anyone.”