by Melissa Marr
But Niall took both of her hands in his, gently so that she could pull away if she wanted. “Dance with me. If you’re still unhappy, we’ll see you home. Seth and I both.”
Leslie looked back at Seth. He sat in a club that she hadn’t known existed, surrounded by people in extreme costumes and bizarre behavior, yet he was calm. Unlike me.
Seth tugged at his lip ring, rolling it into his mouth as he did when he was thinking. Then he motioned toward the floor. “Dancing’s fine. Just don’t drink anything he offers you—or that anyone else offers you, okay?”
“Why?” She forced the question out, despite her instant aversion to asking, to knowing.
Neither Niall nor Seth answered. She thought to press the matter, but the music was beckoning her, inviting her to let go, to forget her doubts. The blue lights that came from every corner of the club spun across the floor, and she wanted to spin with them.
“Please dance with me.” Niall’s expression was one of need, of longing and unspoken offers.
Leslie couldn’t think of any question—or answer—worth refusing that look. “Yes.”
And with that Niall spun her into his arms and onto the floor.
CHAPTER 12
Several songs later, Leslie was thankful for the long hours of waitressing. Her legs ached, but not as much as they would have if she’d been out of shape. She’d never met anyone who could dance the way Niall did. He led her through moves that made her laugh and taught her strange steps that required more concentration that she thought casual dancing could ever need.
Through it all, he was curiously careful with her. His hands never strayed out of the safe zones. Like at the museum, he was almost distant as he held her. If not for a few flirtatious remarks, she’d suspect she’d imagined that delicious look when he’d invited her to dance.
Niall finally paused. “I need to check in with Seth before I”—he burrowed his face into the side of her neck, his breath almost painfully warm on her throat—“give in to my unconscionable desire to put my hands on you properly.”
“I don’t want to stop dancing….” She was having fun, feeling free, and didn’t want to risk that pleasure ending.
“So don’t.” Niall nodded to one of the dreadlocked guys who’d been dancing nearby. “They would dance with you until I return.”
Leslie held out her hand and the dreadlocked guy pulled her into his arms and spun her across the room. She was laughing.
The first guy passed her to another dreadlocked guy, who spun her toward the next. Each of them looked identical to the last one. There were no pauses in their movements. It was as if the world had begun spinning at a different rate. It was fabulous. At least two songs passed, and Leslie wondered how many guys there were—or if she was dancing with the same two over and over. She wasn’t sure if they really were identical or if the illusion was a result of being spun so impossibly fast. But then she stumbled to a halt. The music hadn’t ended, but the dizzying movement had.
The dreadlocked guys stopped moving and she realized there were five of them.
A stranger walked across the floor toward her, moving with languid grace like he heard a different song than she did. His eyes were surrounded by dark shadows. He looked like he was surrounded by shadows, as if the blue lights glanced away without touching him. A silver chain glinted against his shirt. Dangling from the chain was a razor blade. He waved a hand dismissively at the dreadlocked guys and said, “Shoo.”
She blinked when she realized she was staring. “I know you. You were at Rabbit’s once…. We met.”
Her hand drifted to the top of her spine, where her not-yet-complete tattoo was. It suddenly throbbed like a drum-beat caught under her skin.
He smiled at her as if he could hear that illusory beat.
Two of the dreadlocked quints had bared their teeth. The others were growling.
Growling?
She looked at them and then back at him. “Irial, right? That’s your name. From Rabbit’s…”
He stepped behind her, slid his hands around her waist, and pulled her back to his chest. She didn’t know why she was dancing with him, why she was still dancing at all. She wanted to walk off the dance floor, find Niall, find Seth, leave, but she couldn’t walk away from the music.
Or him.
Her mind flashed odd images—sharks swimming toward her, cars careening out of control in her path, fangs sinking into her skin, shadowy wings curling around her in a caress. Somewhere in her mind she knew she needed to step away from him, but she didn’t, couldn’t. She’d felt the same way when she’d first seen him: like she’d follow him wherever he wanted. It wasn’t a feeling she liked.
Irial spun her against his chest, holding her firmly to him as he matched his movements to hers. She didn’t want to like it, but she did. For the first time in months, the humming fear that was always just under the surface quieted completely, as if it had never been there. The stillness was enough to make her want to stay next to Irial. It felt good—natural, as if the rush of ugliness she was constantly fighting not to feel had drifted away when he took her into his arms. His hands were on her skin, under the edge of her shirt. She didn’t know him, but she couldn’t find any words to make him stop. Or start.
Laughing softly, he slid his hands over her hips, his fingers bruisingly tight on her skin. “My lovely Shadow Girl. Almost mine…”
“I’m not sure who you think I am, but I’m not her.” She pulled back with a ridiculous amount of effort. She felt like a cornered animal. She shoved at him. “And I’m not yours.”
“You are”—he put his hand over hers, capturing it as she pushed angrily at him—“and I’ll look after you well.”
The room felt like it was shifting, tilting, and she wanted to run. She shook her head with effort, and she said, “No. I’m not. Let go.”
Then Niall was beside them, saying, “Stop.”
Irial pressed his lips to Leslie’s in a lingering open-mouth kiss.
She didn’t like him, but she wouldn’t have pulled away for anything. Her anger shifted into something territorial. The dual desire to resist being claimed as property and to claim him as hers surged through her. Irial stepped back, staring at her as if they were the only two people there. “Soon, Leslie.”
She stared at him, not sure if she wanted to shove him again or pull him closer. This isn’t me. I’m not…what? She didn’t have words for it.
Niall was watching, and standing behind him were all of the dreadlocked guys and a larger group of people she’d not noticed earlier. Where had they all come from? The club had seemed mostly empty before; now it was filled. And no one looked friendly.
Niall tried to move her behind him, murmuring, “Come away from him.”
But Irial slid his hands around Leslie’s waist. His thumbs slipped under the edge of her shirt to stroke her skin. Her eyes blurred at the pleasure of that casual touch—not anger, not fear, just want.
Irial was asking Niall, “You didn’t think she was yours, did you? Just like old times. You find them, and I take them.”
Leslie blinked, trying to focus, trying to remember what she should be doing. She should be afraid. She should be angry…or something. She shouldn’t be watching Irial’s mouth. She stumbled as she tried to back away from him.
Niall bristled. Leslie could swear his eyes actually flashed. He stepped closer to Irial, hand clenched like he’d strike him. He didn’t. He just ground out, “Stay away from her. You’re—”
“Mind your place, boy. You have no authority over me or mine. You made your feelings on that quite clear.” Irial pulled Leslie closer until she was right back where she’d been when they danced, in his arms and frighteningly unable—unwilling—to move.
Her face was flame red, but she couldn’t move for several heartbeats.
“No,” she said, forcing the word out. “Let go.”
Then Niall stepped forward. “Leave her alone.”
His eyes did flash.
“She’s a friend of
our court, of Aislinn’s, of mine.” Niall moved as close as he could to Irial without touching him.
Court?
“My girl claimed by your family?” Irial pulled her up so they were face-to-face and gazed at her as if there were secrets written on her skin. “She’s not been claimed by yours.”
Claimed? Leslie looked at him, at Niall, at the strangers around her. This is not my world.
“Let go of me,” she said. Her voice wasn’t strong, but it was there.
And he did. He let go of her and stepped away so suddenly, she had to grab his arm to keep from falling to the floor. She was mortified.
“Get her out of here,” Niall said. From somewhere in the crowd behind him, Seth stepped forward. He reached out for her hand, an uncharacteristically friendly move for him, and pulled her away from Irial.
“Soon, love,” Irial said again as he bowed from the waist.
Leslie shivered. If her legs had been working, she would’ve run from the club. Instead the best she could do was stumble alongside Seth.
CHAPTER 13
Leslie and Seth had gone several blocks before she felt able to look at him. They weren’t friends—by his choice—but she still trusted him more than she trusted most guys. She still valued his opinion.
They were almost at the Comix Connexion before she spoke. “I’m sorry.”
She’d glanced at him as she said it but turned away at the sight of the anger on his face. His hands were held in loose fists. He wouldn’t hurt her—Seth wasn’t like that—but she still flinched when he reached out and caught her wrist.
“Sorry for what?” He quirked his eyebrow.
She stopped walking. “For making a scene, for acting like a big slut in front of you and Niall, for…”
“Stop.” Seth shook his head. “That was not your fault. Irial’s trouble. Just…just get away from him if you see him coming your way, okay? If you can, just go. Don’t run, but get out.”
Mutely, she nodded, and Seth pulled his hand away from her wrist. Like at the Rath, Leslie was sure he knew things he wasn’t saying. Is it a gang thing? She hadn’t heard of any real gangs in Huntsdale, but that didn’t mean there weren’t any. Whatever it was that Seth knew, he wasn’t talking, and she didn’t know how to ask. Instead she said, “Where are you going?”
“We are going to my house.”
“We?”
“You have somewhere else safe to go before work?” His voice was gentle, but she felt certain that it wasn’t a real question.
“No,” she said, turning away from the too-knowing look on his face.
He didn’t say anything else, but she’d seen the understanding in his eyes. And in that instant, she was sure that he—and therefore Aislinn—knew how ugly things were at home. They knew that she’d been lying to them, to everyone.
She took a deep breath and said, “Ren’s probably there, so…you know, not exactly the safest place to be.”
Seth nodded. “You’re always welcome to crash at the house if you need.”
She tried to laugh it off. “It’s not…”
He raised an eyebrow.
And she sighed and stopped lying. “I’ll remember that.”
“You want to talk?”
“No. Not today. Maybe later.” She blinked back the tears in her eyes. “Ash knows, then?”
“That Ren hits you or about what happened with his dealer?”
“Yeah.” She felt like throwing up. “Both, I guess.”
“She knows. She’s been there, in a bad place, you know? Not the same, not as—” He stopped. He didn’t offer her a hug or do any of those touchy-feely things that a lot of people would do, things that would make her fall apart.
“Right.” Leslie folded her arms over her chest, feeling her world unraveling from somewhere inside, and knowing she couldn’t fix it.
How long have they known?
Seth swallowed audibly before adding, “She’ll hear about Irial too. You can talk to her.”
“Like she talks to me?” Leslie held his gaze then.
“Not my business either way, but—” He bit his lip ring and rolled it into his mouth. He stared at her for several heartbeats before saying, “You’d both be better off if you started being straight with each other.”
Panic welled up inside of her, a black bubble that made her throat feel tight. Like it had when their hands…No. She wasn’t thinking about that, wouldn’t think about it. Lately, the awful feelings had been so distant. She wished they would stay that way. She wished numbness would settle over her. She started walking faster, almost running, feet hitting the sidewalk with a steady thunking noise.
If I could outrun the memories… She couldn’t, but it was better to think her heart raced from running than from the terror hidden in the memories. She ran.
And Seth ran steadily beside her, not behind or in front, keeping his pace measured to hers. He didn’t try to stop her, try to make her talk. He just sprinted alongside her like running through the streets was perfectly normal.
They were at the edge of the railroad yard where he lived before she could bear to stop. Breathing deeply, she stared at one of the fire-blackened buildings across the street. Standing there in the patch of grass that shouldn’t thrive in the dirty lot, she braced herself for the conversation she didn’t want to have. She asked, “So how…what…how much do you know?”
“I heard about Ren setting you up to get out of trouble.”
Hands, bruising, laughter, the sickly-sweet smell of crack, voices, Ren’s voice, bleeding. She let the memories wash over her. I didn’t drown. I didn’t break.
Seth didn’t look away, didn’t flinch.
And neither did she. She might scream when the nightmares found her, but not by choice, not when she was awake.
She tilted her head back and forced her voice to stay steady. “I survived.”
“You did.” Seth’s keys clinked together as he shook them to find the door key. “But if everyone had known how bad things were before Ren let—” He stopped himself, looking pained. “We didn’t know. We were so caught up with…things, and—”
Leslie turned away. She didn’t—couldn’t—say anything. She kept her back to him. The door creaked open but didn’t slam closed, which meant he was standing there waiting.
She cleared her throat, but her voice sounded as tear-filled as it was. “I’ll be in. I just need a sec.”
She darted a glance his way, but he was staring into the empty air behind her.
“I’ll be in,” she repeated.
The only answer was the sound of the door closing gently.
She sat down on the ground outside Seth’s train and let her gaze follow the murals that decorated it. They ranged from anime to abstract—dizzying, blurring as she tried to follow the lines, concentrate on the colors, the art, anything but the memories she didn’t want to face.
I did survive. I still am. And it won’t happen again.
It hurt, though, knowing that her friends, people she respected, knew about what they had done to her. Logic said not to be embarrassed, but she was.
It hurts. But she didn’t want to let it. She stood up and ran a hand over one of the metalwork sculptures that sprouted like plants outside the train. She squeezed it until the sharp metal edges dug into her palm, until blood started to ooze between her fingers and drip onto the ground, until the pain in her hand made her think about now, not then, not other pains that left her curled into herself sobbing.
Think about this feeling, this place. She uncurled her hand, looking at the big cut in her palm, the smaller ones in her fingers. Think about now.
Right now she was safe. It was more than she could say some days.
She opened the door and went inside, fisting her hand again so the blood didn’t drip on the floor. Seth was sitting in one of the weird curved chairs in the front of the train. His boa constrictor was coiled in his lap, one thick loop trailing toward the floor like the hem of a blanket.
“Be rig
ht out,” she said as she walked past him to the second train car, where the tiny bathroom and his bedroom were. She almost believed he hadn’t noticed the way she held her hand.
Then he called out, “There’s bandages in the blue box on the floor if you need one. Should be some antibiotic junk too.”
“Right.” She rinsed her hand in the cold water and grabbed some toilet paper to hold. She didn’t want to wipe her still-bleeding hand on Seth’s towels. After she’d bandaged herself, she went back out.
“Feel better?” He was toying with his lip ring again.
Aislinn had said that the lip-ring bit was a stalling thing—not that Aislinn had been spilling secrets, but she seemed to find everything about Seth fascinating. Leslie smiled a little, thinking about them. Aislinn and Seth had something real, something special. It might not be easy to find, but it was possible.
“Some,” Leslie said, sitting back on Seth’s battered sofa. “I should probably rinse the, umm, sculpture off.”
“Later.” He motioned to the blanket he had put on the end of the sofa. “You should catch a nap. Here or back there”—he gestured toward the hallway that led to his room—“wherever you feel comfortable. There’s a lock on the door.”
“Why are you being so nice?” She stared at him, hating that she had to ask, but still needing to know.
“You’re Ash’s friend. My friend now.” He looked like some freaky wise man, sitting in the weird chair with a boa in his lap and a stack of old books beside him. It was partly an illusion made by the surreality of the details, but not entirely. The way he watched her, watched the door. He knew about what sort of people waited out there.
She tried to make light of it all. “So we’re friends, huh? When did that happen?”
Seth didn’t laugh. He stared at her for a moment, stroking the boa’s head as it slithered toward his shoulder. Then he said, “When I realized that you weren’t a loser like Ren, but his victim. You’re a good person, Leslie. Good people deserve help.”
There wasn’t any way to make light of that. She looked away.
Neither of them spoke for a few moments.
