“Got it.” I go back to the binders. Jimmy doesn’t matter much to me. Time-wise, if he is in the Wars now, then he couldn’t have killed Leo. But then why does he know about it? Micah said people talk—like my brother’s murder was so notable it’s worth sharing. Great. My throat tightens, but I fight the feeling and turn another page.
It crosses my mind, and not for the first time, that Leo’s killer may very well be dead. Logically, it’s a possibility.
But no—I can feel he’s alive. Maybe it’s naive to delude myself into such a hope, but I feel it. He’s still out there somewhere, unaware that the point of my joining the Wars was to stop his heart the way he stopped Leo’s.
“No wonder the Boars are always on the news,” I say, shutting the binder once more. “There’s so many of them.”
Kate takes the nail polish and touches up her own color. “I heard Jax tell Micah that Ty doesn’t even ask them to do half of the vandalism and other shit they do. We wouldn’t do shit like that. The things the other gangs do are usually a give and take. Tit for tat, or whatever.”
“Retaliation,” Nianna clarifies. “The Wars are a big balancing act. At least, it is for us and the Herons. The Boars do whatever they want. Just for kicks, I guess.”
“Huh,” I reply glumly. Murder people. Ruin lives. Kill little brothers—for kicks. Breathe, Valerie. “Hey, what time is it?”
Kate leans back and checks the clock on the oven. “Three thirteen. Why?”
“Just wondering.”
I blink back tears and look down at the binders again. Grabbing the Heron one, I open to the first page. A now-familiar face is first.
In the photo, Camille looks like she could be the long-lost cousin of the Kardashians. The folds of a designer jacket billow in the wind as she exits her car. At her wrists, twin bracelets gleam like polished bronze in the camera flash. Long black hair frames her face, contrasting with a perfect pink lipstick. Her eyes are directed forward, away from the cameras. I can only imagine what kind of glares a girl like her can deliver—like a sword through your chest.
Nianna stretches up and I tilt the binder so she can see.
“Camille is one tough bitch,” she says. “Her grandfather’s Yakuza or something. She’s been leader since the last Weston left.”
I study the rest of the Young Herons, my heart rate rising. The photos vary—some direct shots, others more blurred—but I keep matching face to name as best I can. And then—
“I know some of these people,” I say. Charles Davis. Kayla Meyers-Britt. We’d run around the Westons’ yard, playing tag or whatever as our parents sipped wine and laughed too loud. “I haven’t thought about them in years. They used to come to the Westons’ parties.”
“They’re on another side now,” Nianna says. “Don’t forget that.”
“I won’t.”
“How’d you get invited to the Westons’ parties?” Kate asks, eyes bright and curious.
“My mom has her own event-planning company. Mrs. Weston hired my mom for some event when I was a kid, and they stayed in touch. Easy to do, I guess, given that we live down the street.”
“Soooo,” Kate says, “your family’s rich too?”
“No no no,” I reply. Money is something Lyla and I have talked about at length, a habit that’s no doubt going to be fueled by her upcoming years at UC Berkeley (if she gets in, which she totally will). “We’re fine, but we’re not like the Westons. It’s weird to talk about, I know. Because, like, obviously I have privilege. But we’re definitely the crappiest house on the block. I went to a really great school, but I didn’t get a new BMW for my sixteenth birthday or anything like that.”
Kate shrugs. “Still.”
“I know. And I’m not saying I’m poor, by any means. I’m really grateful for how hard my parents work for me. But at school, every moment of my day was people reminding me that I had less than them and thus was less than.… That stuff wears on you after a while.”
I think back to the time when Matthew and I were dating. We were hanging out with his friends at lunch one Friday. They were a nice enough group of sporty, Ivy League–bound guys and girls. All intelligent, all beautiful. Some girl came up to us—Melissa something, she was part of the student council—and asked if Matthew had a second to chat privately. I watched as they talked, and after a moment she’d turned bright red, then looked confusedly in my direction.
“What was that about?” I asked when he came back.
“Nothing.”
“What did she want?”
“She asked me to junior prom.” Then he kissed the side of my head. “I told her no, obviously.”
“Oh. Okay.” It’s not like we were a new couple. Did she really not know Matthew was taken? Or did she just not believe it? The confusion that I’d read on her face was laced with a disbelief and derision I was starting to get used to as Matthew’s girlfriend. The bell rang and I pushed the incident out of my mind, until now. Matthew never made me feel like less than—but every part of his world did.
Back in the present, Kate smiles, and a wave of relief washes over me. “I guess I understand that. If I had a penny for every time my dad told me my sister was his favorite, I’d probably be a Heron by now. It’s not my fault I’m not good at school and tests and stuff.”
Shit, that’s rough. So I say as much.
“Yeah, well, you’re our favorite,” Nianna tells her firmly. Kate gives her a playful shove in response.
“Yeah, yeah.”
Nianna gets up, waving her nails to dry them. “Go tell Jax you’re done with binders. He wants to take you shooting before it gets too late.”
“Okay.”
Kate scoffs. “You’re going to ruin all my hard work.”
“I’m careful,” Nianna replies, deftly moving the binders into a pile.
“Hmpf.”
They keep talking as I go down the hall. Pausing, I listen for a moment—Jax is still on the phone, voice low. When I knock, he immediately stops talking. A beat later, he opens the door, hand raised.
“Hold on,” he says into his phone. A girl on the other line replies, her words lost in a high-pitched laugh. A jolt of jealously shoots through me. What the hell? Nothing to be jealous of. I don’t care. I have Matthew.
“What?” he asks.
“Nianna told me to tell you I’m done with the binders.”
“Oh,” he replies. “Well, go do whatever you want ’til Mako comes back.”
Somewhere behind me the front door opens and shuts. Mako’s voice echoes down the hall, calling for Kate like the husband on an old sitcom.
“Never mind, then. Give me a few more minutes.” Jax puts the phone to his ear again and shuts the door.
Whoever’s on that other line must be a hell of a person to have hooked Jax. The ridiculous part of me is disappointed—but it’s better this way. Jax is my leader, nothing more.
A few minutes later, he comes back out. I get up from the couch where I was waiting. “Who was that?” I ask.
He ignores me and cups his hands around his mouth, making a mini megaphone. “Yo, Mako?”
“Yeah?”
“Let’s take Valentine shooting.”
“Yes, sir.”
I wait as Jax pulls on a steel-gray thermal and dark blue vest. He reaches behind the door. A drawer opens and shuts. When he comes back into view, there’s a shiny black gun in his hand.
“Jesus,” I say, jumping back.
“It’s not loaded,” he replies, a laugh in his voice. “We’ll go over the basics here. More light in the kitchen.” He makes a shooing motion with his hands, and I scoot back toward the kitchen.
I take my usual seat. Mako produces another gun from a leg holster and puts it on the table. Even Jaws peers at the spectacle from over in the foyer. I didn’t hear him come inside, but I don’t mind him being there. I’m oddly fond of Jaws: knowing that it’s somebody’s job to guard us, to be in and to become the shadows, is comforting.
Two sharp ta
ps on the table pull my attention forward.
“First rule,” Mako says. “Never point a gun at anything you don’t want to shoot.” He pulls back the top of the gun. An oval-shaped hole on the side opens up. “Always check it yourself to see whether or not it’s loaded. Here’s the chamber. Even if the gun isn’t loaded, there can be a bullet in there. Always check.” He tilts it. “This is where the magazine goes.”
Bullets. For a moment I’m not there—I’m in the back of an ambulance hearing a paramedic say there were two bullet wounds …
“Val?”
“Sorry.” I give Mako a nod. “I’m listening.”
“So this is a Glock. Nine millimeter, semiautomatic. Here. Hold it.”
I take the thing and point it at the ground. It’s heavier than I thought it’d be. I knew joining the Wars would mean learning how to shoot, so I did research online and at the library. Glocks are made by one of the most popular manufacturers, I remember that much.
My fingers run along the metal etching on the grip. I shift the gun a few times until Mako shows me how to hold it properly. He has me grip it with two hands. On the night I was recruited, not one of them held their guns that way.
My skin feels too soft, the pads of my fingers too delicate. You’re new at this. Just be patient. I shake out my hand and take the gun again, holding it the way Mako showed me, finger near but not on the trigger.
“’Atta girl,” says Mako. “How’s the grip feel?”
I flex my hand. “Good.”
“Fit and grip are really important.”
“This is good.”
“Okay. Now, lift it up toward the window.”
I do. On top of the gun is a small tab with a notch in it. At the end of the gun is another raised bit.
“That’s the sight,” he says. “To aim, you put the front sight level and in the center with the back one. Try it.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.” He laughs. “It’s not loaded.”
Finding a bit of mold on the window blinds, I level the gun at it until the sights align. I set the gun down on the table again. My hands tingle.
“Got it.”
Mako walks me through a few other basics: how to rack the slide, where empty casings are ejected, and how new cartridges are loaded automatically. Finally, he looks at Jax. “All right, chief. Roll out?”
“Roll out.”
The three of us pile into the car, leaving me alone in the back seat—as if I didn’t feel enough like a child already. Mako drives us a short way down toward Lake Merced. We pass a pair of joggers and an elderly man out for an evening stroll. The streetlamps are just coming to life, their orange glow fading into the lavender twilight.
We pull over at a low building surrounded by a chain-link fence. A huge CLOSED sign hangs over what would be the entrance. Below it is another one labeled PRIVATE PROPERTY.
“Is this it?” I ask as we get out. Beyond the fence there are long rows of grass and gravel. I don’t see any targets.
“Yep,” Mako replies. “Place got closed down a year or so ago. Jax’s mom bought it for us.”
“No, no—she bought the land,” Jax says, his voice low in mock seriousness.
“Yes. How could I forget?” Mako laughs. “The land. That’s all.”
I stop short, stunned. It’d cost an obscene amount of money to buy such a large plot in San Francisco. Right on the lake, no less. Just how rich is she?
Jax pulls out a key to get us through the gate, then another to get us inside the shack of a building. An alarm beeps to life. Jax types in the code as Mako flicks on a light.
The former gun club is musty and dimly lit. The walls are lined with old flyers and dotted with holes, souvenirs from picture frames that used to decorate the space. There are a few empty shelves, a cash register, and a locked safe bolted to the ground in the back. Jax unlocks it as well and sets a box of bullets on the counter.
We head to the back. Mako goes over the points with me while Jax sets up a target. I can hardly see the faint outline until Jax flicks on a set of spotlights. He walks back toward us. Mako slips two earplugs into my hand.
“Won’t have these out in the field,” he says. “But I’d feel bad if you went deaf on my watch.”
“Thanks.” I twist the bits of foam and put them into my ears.
Mako loads the magazine. “She’s all yours. Remember how to hold it. And remember it’s going to kick back at you.”
“Right.”
I pick up the gun, rack the slide like he showed me, and level the sight. Closing my right eye, I focus my vision.
“You got it,” Mako says from behind me. Jax doesn’t say anything.
In the brief moment of quiet, the two sides of my brain take up arms.
Leo died this way. Someone pulled the trigger that sent the bullet ripping through the chambers of your little brother’s small heart and—no.
No, you have to learn so you can kill the Boar who shot him. Nothing matters but that. Now aim. Aim like that paper is Leo’s murderer.
Rage wins. I fire.
There is a kickback, but I manage to keep steady. Adrenaline rushes through my limbs. I fire again and again until the clip empties.
I set down the gun and back away like Mako told me to. He jogs out to fetch the target. He holds it up to the light, and I’m surprised at the cluster of holes near the center.
“You’re a good shot.”
“Apparently.” I stretch my arm.
“Do another one,” Jax says. I try to catch a glimpse of whether he approved of my shooting. Instead, I see a tiny flame. He’s lit a cigarette.
Luckily, Mako’s got me well taken care of. This time, he loads the clip then removes it and has me put it back on my own, loading and unloading it several times.
Whatever beginner’s luck I had in my first round wanes. When Mako gets the target, he hands it to me more abashedly.
Jax steps up behind me. Apparently, he’s remembered this is important. “You’ll have to practice.”
“Obviously.”
“Every day.”
“All right.”
He nods.
Then, quick as a leaping cat, he takes two long steps sideways, pulling his own gun out from his waistband as he does. The shots come in quick succession. I jump back as Jax fires away, barely aiming. He keeps his weapon steady until he empties the clip.
“Fuck, man,” says Mako. “There’s never any warning with you.”
Jax laughs. “Come on. Let’s go home. It’s cold as fuck out here.”
I nod in agreement, but I don’t stop trembling. Not as Mako and Jax finish locking up the place and gate. Not as we climb back into the car.
My thoughts bleed with the reminder that I’m dancing with demons, flirting with monsters. The Stags can help me avenge Leo. Jax said so. I was so giddy with hope that it didn’t hit me exactly why it rang so true.
The Stags can help me find Leo’s killer, because they are killers, too.
* * *
It’s nearly nine when we get home, and I’m more than ready for bed. I’m about to say my good nights when Jax calls from his room.
“Kitchen. Everyone. Now.”
The Stags do as they’re told. When we’re all ready, Jax clears his throat and holds up a piece of pale blue paper. It’s the old-fashioned kind with perforated tear-aways on both sides. Faint gray text works itself down the page. Jax raises the paper for us all to see. “Ty wants to meet.”
Nianna recoils like she’s been bitten. “Why?”
“He says he has a proposal for me.”
“Sounds romantic,” Mako mutters.
“Who’s Ty again?” I whisper to Micah.
“Ty Boreas, the Boar leader,” he replies to me, then addresses the rest of the group. “Are you gonna meet him?” he asks, shifting on his feet.
Jax nods. “Yeah, I’ll meet him. It’s through IRIS. He can’t fuck with me. It’s against the terms.”
“Sounds good.” Micah t
ucks his hand into his sweatshirt pocket, leaning back against the fridge. “You want us with you?”
Jax thinks. “Yeah. It’ll give Valentine some experience with the other gangs. I’ll let Ty know when and where.”
Jax turns to go and the others start to disperse.
“Did the IRIS thing say anything about the Herons?” I ask. I catch myself before the words Or about Matthew Weston? slip out.
Immediately the mood of the room changes, and I regret saying anything at all. Fuck.
“Nothing from the Herons,” says Jax. “Camille keeps pretty quiet. Might change, though. New man in their ranks.”
“We expected that,” Nianna says. Her eyes settle on me. “We’ve been watching the Herons groom him for months.”
Him. Matthew. She knows we’re close. Was she watching that night I was recruited? Did she see our kiss? Anger and embarrassment rise in my chest. That was private, only for us.
And what does she mean by grooming him? Matthew told me it was always his plan to join, but only because he had to because of his family. Did he actually want to be part of the Wars? He’s not like the Young Herons. He wouldn’t even join the football team because he didn’t like the idea of hitting people, let alone really hurting anyone.
Jax turns away for real this time, and Nianna locks eyes with me. “Don’t ask about the Herons again,” she says, her voice carrying a strong tone of What the hell were you thinking? “Jax tells us what we need to know. Even if there had been something, it’s not our fucking business until he says so.”
“Sorry,” I reply sheepishly.
“Better be,” she says. “You really gotta learn.”
“I said I was sorry,” I reply, eyes starting to sting. Assuming we’re dismissed, I go and shut myself in the bathroom. There, I let a few tears fall and silently blot them with toilet paper.
I’m tired, my arm aches, and I feel as small as ever—not to mention confused. There’s no way the Herons have been grooming Matthew … so why does a small part of me believe it’s possible? Since the breakup, we haven’t talked as much. Matthew did quit student council abruptly, and whenever I asked why he’d change the subject or brush me off. I should have been more on him about it. Now that we’re apart, I can think of so many other questions I wish I’d asked him, and just as many things I wish I had said.
A Thousand Fires Page 8
