I’m cold. I can’t scream. It’s all wrong. This hasn’t just happened. It’s impossible.
The four remaining Halfies seem to melt back into the shadows, leaving me with my partners. One dead, one infected, both of them lost to me.
Jesse stands, his eyes glinting in the orange light cast by street lamps. Soon his hair will turn mottled white and his fangs will grow in. He’s one of them now, one of the things I hunt and destroy. He looks at me, then at the body by his feet. Back up to me, and I see something I do not expect: confusion.
“I think I did a bad thing,” he says. “But her blood smelled so sweet, Evy. It still does.”
A high-pitched whimper rips from my throat. Trembling from head to toe, I take two steps forward, closer to him and the place where I dropped my gun.
He narrows his eyes at me. “You smell sweet. So sweet and pure.”
If he smells purity in me, he needs to get his nose checked. This monster in front of me isn’t my Jesse. It isn’t the man I’d once confessed my worst sins to over a bottle of tequila, a bowl of lemons, and a shaker of salt. It only looks like him. In my head, I scream for Wyatt to guide me. I know what must be done; I just don’t know if I can do it.
Jesse advances, licking his lips. I retreat. I have one knife, clutched so tight in my left hand that my knuckles scream.
“You know what I’m going to enjoy?” he asks, no longer advancing.
I eye the gun, on the ground just behind him. Five feet from me. “What’s that?”
“The look on Truman’s face when we knock on his door.”
“What makes you think I’m going to go anywhere with you?”
He grins and it’s terrible. He runs the tip of his tongue over the small points on his developing canines. “Because all it takes is one little bite.”
“Try it,” I growl.
He charges. I drop, tuck, and roll. On my knees and gun in hand, I spin, aim, and fire. He hasn’t managed to turn. My shot hits him squarely in the back, through his heart. He falls, head cracking off the pavement, and is still.
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
