by S. Massery
“In here, please,” she says.
The back half of the car are seats of four that face each other, with a table in the middle. In the front, there are rows that all face forward.
“Do you have a preference?” he asks me.
“I guess just a regular seat,” I say.
He nods and picks a row. He motions for me to take the window seat. “They’ll probably have food in the next car up once we get moving. I can grab us something for dinner.”
I smile at him and sink into my seat. “I haven’t said thank you.” I put my hand on his forearm, his muscles jumping under his skin. My lungs constrict. It’s hard to remember that he’s had a life beyond Bitterwood. Beyond me.
There’s a whole ocean of things that I don’t know about Griffin. I barely know how he’s capable of killing someone—I don’t understand how he does it mentally, the headspace he must go into. I’ve seen the difference, like a shadow passing over his features. It’s so slight, I didn’t notice it at first. But I see it now. It comes out every once in a while.
I’m not afraid for me—I’m terrified for whoever is on the receiving end.
And then there’s the whole Angel of Death issue. He hasn’t explained it, hasn’t so much as mentioned it, and it gnaws at my skin like an unscratched itch. Every mention of it—even Shade in the basement, calling Griffin Angel—has made me think that Griffin is hiding who he truly is.
‘I’m not a good guy,’ he told me.
“You don’t have to thank me.” He leans into me, ducking his head.
Our foreheads touch. Our noses brush together. It puts us in our own little bubble, and I’m grateful for it.
“I do. You’ve done so much. I just want—” I stop myself.
“There’s nothing wrong with want,” he says. “Desire.”
Desire is the very thing that burns in me, white-hot, all the time. I craved his touch all the time, even when he was gone. It hasn’t shut off. The thing is, even if we aren’t skin to skin, he’s still a part of me.
I wish I knew how to leave traces of myself in other people. How to make them feel me when I’m not around. Because I’ll be gone in a few weeks—I’ll be dead, and everyone I’ve ever loved will forget about me. If the same were to happen to Griffin, no one would forget him. He has that way about him, a magnetism that I can’t help but admire.
“It’s selfish,” I murmur.
“It’s okay to be selfish sometimes. What do you want?”
I want you, a small voice in my head whispers. And so many other impossible things.
Therein lies the problem:
Wishes and wants don’t stop death. And my guardian angel can’t either.
I doze until Griffin’s hand on my shoulder jerks me awake.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m going to get food. I’ll bring back something for you.”
I nod slowly, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, and sit up. Night fell since we left, and the train rushes past distant cities. Their glow barely breaks through the darkness, but it’s comforting to know they’re there.
I squeeze my eyes shut as my hands tremble. Nausea rolls through my stomach, and I bring my hands up to cover my face. Losing my mind on a train in Europe—look how far I’ve come.
I don’t want to uncover Griffin’s secrets. I want to pretend he’s just the boy who beat back my nightmares and kept the bullies at bay, but he’s so much more than that.
Courage, Hadley.
My whole body shakes, and tears drip down my cheeks. Haven’t we done this before?
“Hey,” Griffin says, suddenly above me. His arms wrap around me, and he lifts me onto his lap. “You’re crying? What happened?”
His voice in my ear should soothe me, but I cry harder. I lean into him, letting him support me, and sob into his chest. This is more than fear. This is grief and unsureness and—
“I-I’m sorry,” I hiccup.
“What happened?” he asks again.
“I just— Death, you know?”
And to my surprise, he nods. Of course he would understand. Angel of Death. Wouldn’t it be nice if he was the one to pull my soul from my body?
He already has.
“Listen to me, Hadley,” he says, cupping my jaw. “I will not let anyone—or anything hurt you.”
I climb off him and back into my seat, then take a deep breath. “So, food?”
That breaks the spell.
He smiles at me. “You’ve got an appetite?”
“I always have an appetite,” I say. “Except when I don’t.”
He smiles and stands. “Well, I got distracted. The line was pretty long. I think I’ll go now, though. Soup?”
He pats my leg, and I’m tempted to ask him to stay with me.
Courage.
I stand, too. “I’m going to go to the restroom. Gotta fix my face.”
The first one is occupied, so I keep walking. It feels good to stretch my legs. My gaze jumps from person to person as I go down the train. A conductor passes me, going in the opposite direction.
She calls, “Approaching Brussels. Inbound in five minutes!”
The last car is silent except for the sound of the train rattling along the track. There’s no one in it. I peer around, contemplate seeing if I can get out onto the back platform of the train, like in the movies, and slip past the empty rows of seats.
I skim my hands over the top of each seat, steadying my walk, and I make it all the way to back. I grab the door handle, but it doesn’t move. Slightly defeated—but not completely undeterred—I turn around to go back.
A man leans against the opposite door, twenty feet away, and I nearly jump out of my skin. He isn’t anyone I recognize. He has salt-and-pepper hair, smooth olive skin, dark eyes. His goatee is neat, and it accentuates his frown.
“Ah, is this a private car?” I’m half-hoping he doesn’t speak English and he’ll let me pass.
There are deep lines etched into his skin between his brows, like he’s never removed his scowl.
“Patrick was favoring you.” He has an Italian accent, I think.
He knocks on the door behind him, moving to the side, and two men drag Patrick into the car. They throw him to the floor, and I shrink back.
“What is this?” Patrick spits.
“Look at the girl, you fool,” the man says. His lip pulls up, like he’s disgusted. “So softened by her sickness, you couldn’t accomplish the task I set out for you.”
I straighten my spine. Bad guy, an alarm in my head shrieks. No shit, brain.
“You would’ve let her get off this train alive. You would’ve let Griffin Anders get off this train in Paris and disappear.”
I’m not ready for the gun. The train is slowing, coasting along the track. A horn is blowing. I dare a glance out the window as we fly through the outskirts of Brussels.
“Step aside, Hadley,” he says.
One of his goons stalks toward me, and I dart into a row, pressing myself against the window. The guy unlocks the door and yanks it open, and a cool breeze blasts into the car. The howl of the train magnifies.
“Out, Patrick.”
“Boss—”
He lunges forward and grabs Patrick by the front of his shirt. I didn’t imagine this guy would get his hands dirty, but I was clearly wrong. He drags him to the door while Patrick’s heels scrape for purchase on the carpeted aisle. This dude is just dragging Patrick, and I can’t help but flash back to the night Patrick did the same to me. The feel of his hand pressed over my nose and mouth.
“Who are you?” I manage.
He calmly holds Patrick out over the back railing and glances back at me. “You can call me Santos.”
I stare at him, because that name is familiar. It’s rushing water that roars in my ears. There’s a puzzle here, waiting to click into place. I just have a feeling I’m missing a few pieces. I keep staring.
He sighs, his lip curling, and releases Patrick.
Patrick drops to the floor, holding o
nto the railing with both hands. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I’m sor—”
Santos raises the gun and pulls the trigger.
My scream lasts all of two seconds before one of his men is on me, shoving my face against the train window. The image of Patrick falling onto the tracks skips in my mind, over and over.
“My man will release you if you stop screaming, Hadley,” Santos says.
My eyes are wide, and I suck in breath through my nose. Panic rips through me.
“I don’t think she’s stupid enough to keep screaming, Allen.”
The other man slams the door closed, and I cast one look out the small window.
Allen releases me. The train is leaving Patrick’s body behind. It’s already fading in the distance. How long will it take for someone to find him?
“You worry for him?” Santos gestures for me to come closer with his gun. It has a long cylinder attached to the barrel, which is probably why the gunshot didn’t echo around the train car.
“Worry for Patrick?” I echo. “No. Just generally horrified.”
Santos nods. “The more death you’re around, the more normal it feels.” He winces carefully. “Ah, I’m sorry, Hadley. I realize how cavalier it is, to talk about dying when one is already marked for such a tragedy.”
It’s my turn to wince. I never broadcasted my illness in Bitterwood, yet all of these strangers know about the cancer. I step out of the row and slide past him. My back is to the front of the train now. If one of his men wasn’t behind me, I could bolt.
“You’re the one who wants Griffin to pay. Are you going to kill me?”
He shakes his head. “That would be too easy, I’m afraid.”
“Are you…?” My mouth goes dry. I swallow. “Are you going to torture me?”
Santos makes another face, like my question insults him.
“You are going to come with me. We’ll go from there.” He points to the window. We’re rolling into the Brussels’ station. “Allen, take her, please.”
The big man comes at me, and I almost trip over my own feet backing away from him.
“Don’t touch me,” I snap.
He snags my arm. I do my best to think of what the guys would do—Griffin or Zach or Dalton—and decide the best defense is a good offense. My dad used to say that.
So I pretend to go with his pulling, and when I’m close enough, snap my fist out. For the first time in my life, those self-defense lessons from the YMCA are put to good use. The impact of my punch rattles my bones, and pain snakes up my arm.
He grabs at his nose, stumbling away from me, and I leap for the door.
The other guy catches me mid-stride, his arm hooked around my middle.
I thrash in his grip as he carries me toward the back door. Sudden fear blooms in my stomach. If I get off this train, Griffin will never find me.
“Let. Me. Go.” I do everything I can to get away from him.
He tosses me out the door, onto the platform. I scuttle back, until my shoulder blade hits a vertical railing, and I latch on to the metal rail above me.
“Stupid girl,” he grumbles, reaching toward my face.
I kick at him, my heel catching his arm. He glances back toward the train car, where the other man is walking toward us.
“It’d be easier if we could just shoot her,” he says to Allen.
Santos has disappeared.
I’d give anything for a weapon. A knife. A gun. Hell, I’d settle for a spork at this point. Adrenaline is keeping me moving, but I’m exhausted. My muscles protest.
“You heard the boss,” Allen says. “You want to pay for her injuries? No? Grab her, then. Gently.”
I snort. “You’re telling him to be gentle?”
Allen shows me his gun. “Even valuable, I can still shoot you. A bullet in the right place wouldn’t kill you.”
I cringe, bravado left in the dust.
He keeps the gun trained on me, and the other guy heaves me to my feet. He stoops and buries his shoulder into my stomach, lifting me in a fireman’s carry. The breath whooshes out of me. I go to kick, but his arm bands my legs to his chest.
They leap off the train, onto the tracks. My upper body bounces against his back as they jog away from the station. No one says anything. No one sees. No one screams.
Disappointment overwhelms me. I don’t know why I expected it to be harder for them to get me out. It’s an outdoor station, and there aren’t many people around at this time of night. As soon as we’re out of the glow of the station, darkness blankets us.
“Where are you taking me?” I try to struggle free again, but he just pinches my thigh. “Ow,” I yelp.
“Keep still,” he orders.
“Where did Santos go?”
“Keep quiet,” he adds.
I press my lips together. Eventually, they climb a few steps and emerge on a deserted street.
A whistle from down the road draws their attention.
“Hey, mates,” a voice says. “She okay?”
“Yes, fine,” Allen says. “She’s just a bit drunk.”
“Can never be too sure,” the voice says. “You all right?”
My heart rate spikes.
The man carrying me pinches me one more time.
He murmurs, “I won’t hesitate to shoot him if you do anything to warn him.”
I nod, frantic, and he puts me on my feet. I turn slowly toward the man, and my heart nearly stops on the spot.
Shade.
He nods at me, saying, “It’s all right now, angel.”
“Hey—”
An echo of a shot shatters the night, and Allen makes a choking noise. I turn and watch him fall to the side, his hand at his throat.
The other man lurches for me, but I skitter toward Shade. There’s another shot just as his fingers graze my arm. I fall toward Shade, who grabs me with light hands.
“Easy does it.” He lowers me to the ground with a grimace. “Not as in shape as I once was, little one. No matter.”
“Just in shock, I think,” I say on an exhale. Wetness seeps into the butt of my pants, but with my hands pressed into the stone, the world feels steadier than it did a moment ago. “Where’s Griffin? Who—”
“I did,” Dalton says, emerging from the shadows. There’s a long, thin case slung over his back. “And aren’t you glad I did?”
I pull myself to my feet and throw my arms around him. He stiffens, but I don’t let go. He’s stable. He’s someone I can trust. “Thank you, Dalton.”
Shade clears his throat. “I helped.”
“You did,” Dalton agrees. “Excellent bait.”
I let go of Dalton and take a few steps back. “Where’s Griffin?” When he doesn’t appear—I was half-hoping he would materialize from the shadows like Dalton—I bite my lip. “Is he okay?”
“I made him stay on the train,” Shade says. “He’s a stubborn git, though, so he may be—”
“Hadley!”
We turn as Griffin skids around the corner. He sprints toward us, barely stopping in time to lift me off my feet, arms binding around me. His face buries in my neck.
I shiver at the hot breath on my neck and hug him back. He lifts me higher, so I wrap my legs around him, too.
“They took you right out from under me,” he says. “I’ve never been so fucking scared in my entire life.”
“I’m okay.” My hands tangle in his short hair, keeping him close. The trembling only starts once he exhales. As soon as he’s calm, it’s like my body gives the okay to fall apart. He grips me tighter when my body shakes.
Sirens pick up in the distance. One of the guys grabs Griffin’s arm, pulling us out of the street.
“Public enemy number one.” Shade chuckles to himself. “I haven’t been allowed in Belgium since nineteen eighty-six.” He fixes Dalton with a stare. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, boy.”
Dalton sighs. “And I told you that there was trouble. Trouble for us means trouble for Reece.”
Shade g
lowers at him. “This comes at a price.” He sniffs. “Paradox and I deal in favors, not this—blackmail.” He spits the last word at Dalton.
Griffin walks ahead of the pack. Everyone is in a hurry to get away from the dead bodies—except Dalton. He looks as relaxed as can be, as if he didn’t just shoot two men.
Men who were kidnapping me, but still. There’s a trend here.
Dalton grins at Shade. “I look forward to the day you ring my doorbell.”
The glower slides off Shade’s face, and a grim smile replaces it. “Aye, I look forward to that, as well.”
They both chuckle, until Griffin says, “Where are we going?”
“My place,” Shade says. “Er, my boy’s place.”
“Reece?” I ask.
Shade’s eyes lift to mine. “No, girl. Elijah. He’s in school here on scholarship.”
Dalton tilts his head. “Your son picked a school in a country you’re not allowed in?”
“That’s messed up,” I murmur.
Griffin snickers in my ear.
“You don’t know the half of it,” he says. “We have a long, sordid history. However, at the end of the day, he’s my son. Space to him means moving away. Space to me means not hacking his computer… often. He knows I still love him, even if I don’t visit, and I know he still loves me, even if he’s about to propose to a girlfriend he’s never mentioned.”
I laugh. “I suppose you found out about her by breaking into his email or something?”
He huffs. “Don’t be barbaric, girl. I have alias social media accounts. That’s how I know. He told everyone except for me.”
We wind through the streets, sticking to the shadows, until Shade murmurs, “Here.”
We stop in front of a row of stores. There’s a recessed door between two shops, which Shade unlocks with deft fingers, and he holds it open for us.
I expect Griffin to set me down, but his hands slide to my butt, lifting me higher as he speeds up the stairs. We go up two flights, then pause for Shade to catch up. Dalton stays right behind us, his eyes on Griffin’s heels. Finally, Shade gets up and knocks on the door. Griffin puts me back on my feet, pushing me behind him, while we wait.
A minute later, it swings open and reveals a college-aged young man. His dark hair is messy, and his shirt is skewed. His mouth—cherry red from lipstick or something else—drops open.
