They pulled in and stopped, humming engines sending reverberations through the tiled floor.
“Dieu merci!” Anastacia wailed, clambering off the bike. “I am never, ever getting on a motorbike again.”
“Where are we?” Saskia asked, running over to assist Anastacia while the concrete door moved back into place.
The last one off was Lottie, her face a wet mess, cheeks bright red, and eyes to match.
“We need to find Jamie,” she said. “We have to find him!” She clung on to Ellie, who cradled her gently, the two of them falling into one another.
Up close now she could see the four in a circle on each of the bikes like a brand. Her heart pounded. A petrol fire burning in her chest spread through her with anticipation.
She focused on the Pink Demon, whose gloved hands were reaching up.
The fluorescent magenta helmet came away and silky black hair poured out from underneath it. Pale white skin, soft pink lips, and dark eyes that blazed like burning oil.
It took a while for Ellie’s brain to believe what her eyes were seeing. She practically choked. “You?”
Sayuri Chiba casually held her helmet between her arm and torso, one leg resting against the bright pink metal of her steed, and it was clear she’d done it a million times before. The engine purred now, waiting in anticipation for Sayuri to ride it through the glowing city.
“I thought,” she said with a lazy smile, “you might need a ride.”
Part Two森林浴Shinrin-yoku
Japanese phrase: “Forest bath—the act of finding clarity and wellness within the woods”
17
JAMIE VOLK HAD BEEN TRAINED to become a perfect machine, picking up on every detail, alert to every danger. So how had he allowed himself, once again, to be trapped?
He’d been so filled with animal rage, childish resentment, and petty emotion that he’d abandoned his instincts, letting them crumble under the weight of his own vendetta, his own desire to escape, and now he was alone, the twinkling lights of the city beneath him. Alone with their greatest enemy.
It was just as Lottie and Ellie had reached the top of the Ferris wheel, and Jamie saw from the ground how they’d embraced, intertwined again. Whatever had pushed Lottie away from Ellie had been resolved, and the solidarity that he’d rediscovered with the Portman was over. Then Haru had spotted her. Ingrid. Haru had told Jamie someone suspicious was watching them from the shadows of a festival game, small, freckles, hair like oil. Jamie knew it was her before he even looked, and he was thankful.
He saw her catlike grin, and a wave of adrenaline washed over him. It was a chance to get away, something to give him purpose again, but most of all a chance to get revenge.
Jamie heard Haru saying he’d look out for the others and take them home if he wanted to go after her. There was a split second when he wondered if he could trust Haru, whether he could trust anyone, and he allowed himself one lingering look at his fellow Partizan, the sweet, smiling feathery laugh of a boy who’d been so relentlessly nice to him—and he nodded.
He hadn’t even considered how strange it was that Ingrid was here in Japan. He’d just taken off, like a feral dog. Ingrid’s face had torn into a jaw-splitting smile as the pursuit began, and they ran, knocking people down without caring. Glad he hadn’t worn the sandals everyone else had, he could have run forever through the city, getting farther and farther from the festival, until she dipped into a building.
A trap! a voice in his head screamed, but he ignored it, storming up the stairs behind her, the click-click-clicking of her shoes a constant taunt.
He followed her up to the roof, darkness greeting him as he barreled through the metal door behind her, sure he would be confronted by an army ready to take him out. When it was only Ingrid, he was almost disappointed.
She looked around, her bleach-white skin light in the dark. It was as if she expected something, but nothing came. It was just her and him alone on the roof.
Easy, he thought.
He charged at her with a force built up from deep within, all the anger and humiliation, all the self-doubt and regret. The catlike eyes narrowed into slits as he threw out a kick at her face.
She stumbled backward out of his way, and knives appeared in her hands so fast it was as if they came from thin air. Black spider blades, the same ones she’d had at the Tompkins Manor, when she’d subdued him. The sting of the memory was enough to set him ablaze again, pulling out his own knives, which had been hidden in his robe.
Metallic clangs echoed around them with each strike, a barrage of blows bearing down on her. She snarled and growled, but with each attack she was pushed farther backward until she was up against the door.
“Such a perfect Partizan,” she teased. But in her callous attempt at a jab she left herself open. He dropped his own knife and effortlessly stepped out of the way of hers. She tripped forward and he grabbed her wrist, which was tiny in his hand, like a twig. Then he seized her other hand and squeezed, his grip getting stronger and tighter until she dropped both knives. Her eyes were filled with horror; she was no longer the prowling, smirking cat, but a mewling kitten.
“Stop, please.” But he didn’t; he squeezed harder until he felt the bones beneath her skin grinding and creaking from the pressure, ready to crack.
“Someone help me!”
But he could hardly hear her. His face twisted like a monster, intent on nothing but revenge as she cowered beneath him.
A single tear rolled down her cheek and
