I change in my bathroom, then hurry outside, Sebastian following me despite my protests. I’ll work out a way to ditch him when we get to the Park.
In spite of its name, it’s not an actual park with grass and swings. Nothing like that exists in Black City anymore. The Park is short for Park Boulevard, an old street in the rich part of the city that was bombed during the blitz.
The gate creaks as I open it. The street looks like a photo negative; the white marble buildings have turned black with soot, while the dark ground is dusted with snow.
It’s eerily quiet as Sebastian and I stroll down the center of the road. I study the houses on either side of us, their roofs long gone and their windows blown out by the bombs. Many of the structures have collapsed into piles of rubble. Even though the residents were evacuated a year ago, ghostly echoes of them still linger here.
“This brings back some memories,” Sebastian says quietly.
Ones I’d rather forget.
We approach the mansion at the end of Park Boulevard. Sebastian reassuringly takes my hand. The once-elegant white building is now broken, derelict, and covered in ash. Thorny vines twist around the house, slowly dragging the building back into the earth.
“It’s like something from a dream,” I say quietly. “I know it was my house, but I don’t recognize it at all.”
I make a quick mental note to pick up a souvenir for Polly if I get the chance. I never got around to it the night I met Ash under the bridge two weeks ago.
Gregory sits on the stone steps by the front door of the mansion, alone, wrapped in his brother’s coat. A sign on the front door reads: DANGER! UNSTABLE STRUCTURE. KEEP OUT. A large bonfire has been lit on the lawn, and several groups of people huddle around it toasting mallow-puffs, including Ash, Beetle and Day. She’s standing slightly apart from the others, clearly not wanting to be with them, but not wanting to be on her own, either.
Ash’s black eyes flicker in the firelight. The smile slips from his lips when he sees Sebastian holding my arm.
“Don’t you dare make a scene,” I warn Sebastian, shrugging my arm free. “If you care about me at all, you’ll just play nice. Okay?”
Sebastian looks at Ash, then back at me. A dark emotion flickers across his face. My breath catches in my throat. He suspects something.
“Whatever makes you happy,” he says.
We go over to the gang, and I stand opposite Ash, close enough so he knows I’m with him, but not so close that Sebastian has any more reason to be suspicious.
Ash’s face is hard like stone.
“Sorry,” I mouth.
He turns his attention back to the bonfire. I want to go over to him and take his hand, but I can’t. Not with everyone looking.
“So, Fisher,” Sebastian says coolly, “are you excited about your first hunt as a Tracker later this week?”
Ash’s fist clenches.
“Don’t taunt him,” I snap at Sebastian.
I can’t believe we have to go on a hunt. With everything that’s been going on, I’d forgotten all about it. How can I hunt Darklings now that I’m in a relationship with one of them? I can’t image how Ash is feeling about it.
Ash stares at the fire, acting like I don’t exist. His skin takes on a warm blush from the flames, making him appear almost human. Part of me wishes he were human; everything would be so much simpler. We could hold hands in public, we could kiss, we could be together—really together, like a regular couple. But then he wouldn’t be Ash.
“When did you convert to the Purity?” Day asks Sebastian, warily eyeing his shaved head.
“A few days ago. I had a moment of enlightenment,” he explains, turning his gaze toward Ash. “Purian Rose showed me the error of my ways. I’ve been far too lenient on the Darklings. If I don’t clamp down on the nipper threat, then before you know it, they’ll be roaming the streets, attacking people and fragging our women.”
My heart beats rapidly. Ash’s mouth twitches.
“Of course, you’d never do that, would you, Fisher? Fragg a human girl, I mean?” Sebastian says.
“Seb, that’s enough!” I say.
He gives me a malicious smile. “Sorry, sweetheart.”
“Don’t call me that,” I retort.
“Why not? You loved it when we were together,” he says.
“Don’t push it, Sebastian. Remember who you’re talking to. I’m your boss, not your girlfriend,” I say.
Sebastian’s green eyes darken with anger. “Yes, ma’am. My apologies.”
Ash digs his hands deep into his pockets and walks down the pathway leading around to the back of the mansion. Gregory watches him leave.
I need an excuse to follow Ash.
“I’m going to the restroom. Stay here,” I tell Sebastian, getting a small pleasure out of ordering him around.
“You’re not going into that house. The structure isn’t stable,” he says.
“Where else do you suggest I go? In the bushes?” I reply angrily.
He grabs my wrist.
“Lay one more finger on me and I’ll have you fired,” I say.
He lets me go, muttering curses under his breath.
I follow Ash, hoping none of the other kids will risk coming into the house after me. Chunks of plaster fall from the ceiling with my every footstep as I cautiously navigate the loose floorboards. I find Ash in the kitchen, running a finger through the thick dust on the countertop.
“I told Sebastian not to come. He wouldn’t listen.”
“You told me he wasn’t your boyfriend.”
“He isn’t! We broke up months ago.” I bite my lip. “Are you mad at me?”
“No.” He walks out of the kitchen and heads into the study across the hallway.
I chase after him. “You’re acting like you’re mad at me.”
“I’m not.”
“Then why wouldn’t you look at me earlier?”
Ash slams a hand against the wall, making a painting clatter to the ground. I flinch.
He turns his glistening eyes on me. “He smells like you.”
I gasp. “What?”
“Your scent is all over him.”
“He was on my bed earlier.”
I instantly regret saying that when Ash grimaces.
“He’s just a friend. Actually, he’s not even that. He works for me.”
There are two overturned chairs on the floor, and Ash picks one up and sits down. The scene brings flashes of memories back, images I’ve spent all year trying to forget.
“It’s not fair. He gets to be on your bed. He gets to be with you in public, and I have to act like we barely know each other. I hate the fact I can’t even look at you, in case someone realizes how I feel about you,” Ash says.
“Sebastian’s getting suspicious,” I say.
Ash runs a hand through his hair. “Are you sure?”
“He doesn’t have any proof, even if he does suspect something. It’s not illegal to talk to you, and that’s all he’s seen us doing,” I say.
Ash nods, then smiles faintly at me. “Did you find out anything about the Golden Haze?”
“No. How about you?”
“Evangeline’s given it to their alchemists.” He rubs his neck. “Look, I’m sorry I left with her earlier, but you understood, right? She’s the only twin-blood I’ve ever met; I just wanted to spend some time with her.”
Jealousy rages inside me, but I force a smile. “It’s fine. You must be curious about her. It’s only natural.”
He looks down at his feet, and I swear his cheeks flush for a second. No, I’m letting my imagination get away with me. Ash cares for me. I’m his Blood Mate, after all. He gets up and retrieves the fallen painting from the floor. His eyes widen. He twists the painting toward me, and my parents’ faces smile back.
“I grew up here,” I say. “I lived here until my father was killed, just before the air raids last year. We were evacuated to Centrum shortly after the raids started; this is the first time I’ve been back since his death.”
Ash leans the painting against the wall and takes in our surroundings. The study is vast, with wooden floors and dark green walls, both covered in dust and ash. A broken grandfather clock is by the door. On the clock face are twelve birds, representing the hours of the day. Time in my house was measured in birdsong.
Ash’s black hair stirs as he walks around the room. He looks at me, startled.
“It’s everywhere.” He swipes a hand across the wall, removing a layer of dust to reveal a dark splash of dried blood.
I look away.
“What happened?” he asks.
The events of that night rush back to me, and I shut my eyes.
* * *
I wake to the sound of a nightingale singing. Eleven o’clock. Father’s angry, urgent voice rings up through the floorboards. Who’s he talking to so late at night? I sneak into Polly’s room and find she’s already awake. We tiptoe downstairs. Mother’s hovering by the study door, her hair loose around her shoulders, talking quickly to a man hidden in shadows. Something stirs by his feet, and the smell of rotting flesh stings my nose.
Mother catches sight of us, and fear flashes across her face.
“Go upstairs!” she exclaims.
“No. Bring them in here,” a soft, effete voice orders.
“No, don’t!” Father yells from the study. “Run, girls! RUN!”
Polly starts to run, but I stay rooted to the ground, terrified for myself, scared for my father. I need to make sure he’s all right.
“Come on!” Polly urges.
An adrenaline spike forces me into action. I rush into the study, and Polly follows. What I see makes me gasp. Father’s tied down to a chair, beaten and bloodied. He stares at me, wide eyed.
“Father, what’s going on?” I say.
“Go! Go!” he yells.
A snarl draws my attention toward the man in the shadows. By his feet is a Wrath, its yellowed eyes boring into mine, its fangs dripping with venom. I scream and fall back into Polly’s arms. The Wrath puts the Sight on me, intending to eat me. It hungrily sniffs me, checking my scent to see what sort of food I am. It cocks its head, then backs away, disinterested.
“I think, Jonathan, you’re not being totally forthcoming with me. Perhaps you need a little more persuasion?” the man says. I instantly recognize his refined, light voice. Purian Rose.
He raises a white-gloved hand and gestures toward the guards standing in the corner of the room—I hadn’t even noticed them. They spring on me and Polly and stand us beside Father.
Purian Rose’s wolfish eyes glower at us from the dark. “So which girl should it be?” He looks at my mother. “Emissary, why don’t you choose?”
I kick and struggle against my captor as Mother looks between me and Polly.
“Don’t make me choose. Don’t . . . I can’t,” she says.
“Choose, or they both die,” Purian Rose orders.
“Polly! Take Polly!” Mother says hurriedly, rushing over to me and pulling me into her arms . . .
* * *
“They tortured Polly until my father confessed to collaborating with the Legion Liberation Front,” I say numbly. “Then when Purian Rose got everything he came for, he set the Wrath on my father. We were lucky to escape.”
“I’m so sorry,” Ash says.
“Sigur Marwick had promised to protect my father when he turned sides, but he didn’t. He abandoned him. He abandoned all of us when we needed him the most.”
Ash frowns. “Yeah, that sounds like Sigur, all right. He let his own niece die.”
“I don’t know why Rose let the rest of us live. Mother won’t talk about it, other than to say we should count our blessings. She’s never let me forget that it’s my fault Polly got hurt. If I’d run like Father told me to do . . .”
Ash pulls me into his arms.
“I never understood why my mother chose me over Polly. My sister was her favorite. Now she pretends like she doesn’t even exist,” I whisper.
Tears begin to well up in my eyes. I push Ash away and run out of the room. He catches up with me inside my old bedroom, which has been vandalized, the walls covered in graffiti and the furniture overturned and charred. My bed is still in one piece, although it looks like it’s seen some action over the past year.
I lie down on top of the dirty bedcovers and don’t protest when Ash joins me. It’s reckless letting him hold me like this when there are people outside, but I’m gambling on the hope they won’t come into the house. We lie like two spoons nestled against each other.
“I can’t bear this world. It’s so full of anger and hate. There’s death everywhere you look.” I turn to face Ash. “I want to stop feeling like this. Make me forget, Ash, please. Just for a short while, I want to live in a world where we’re not meant to be enemies.”
He looks at me, uncertain.
“Please, Ash . . .”
He kisses me hard, trying to force out the pain we’re both feeling. His heart beats in unison with mine, and I’m flooded with his hurt, love, desire. He’s all through me. Ash’s hands run down my body, skimming over my breasts, stomach, sliding under the waistband of my jeans. I sigh and tug at his top, my fingers slipping under the cotton cloth and caressing his stomach. He tentatively presses his lips against my pulse and runs the tip of his tongue along my neck. I twist my fingers through his hair, and he groans, his senses exploding at my touch.
“Maybe . . . you . . . should . . . stop,” he says between rapid breaths. “I’m . . . losing . . . it . . .”