Chapter Seventeen
Rosalie
The sound of the front door closing pulls me from sleep. I sit up with a start, wincing at the throbbing in my head, and run my hand over the cool, rumpled sheets next to me. Where Emily slept, there's a folded note with looping handwriting: Had to get to work, didn’t want to wake you. Call me if you need me! Underneath the text is a row of hearts and a crudely drawn depiction of two women holding cell phones to their ears. I chuckle under my breath and take a sip of the water that had been filled on my nightstand, popping a Tylenol—also set on my nightstand—in my mouth.
I wade through the apartment like the ghost Henry accused me of being. After making the bed in an attempt to return to some sort of normalcy, I brew a cup of coffee and thumb at my phone screen. No texts or missed calls from Henry, not even to let me know where he's been. I'm not sure what I expected, but it stings that he doesn't care to reach out. Not because I particularly care what he's been up to these past two days, but because he's been pawing at me for so long that the absence of him is louder than his affection ever was.
Andrew would call me selfish. Not with any condemnation, just as a point of fact. "Sky's blue," he'd say. "Water's wet. You're selfish." And when I'd scowl because nobody wants to be selfish, or at least nobody wants to be called selfish, he'd puff out his bottom lip. "There's nothing wrong with wanting, Rosie. It's the taking that gets you in trouble."
"You'd know best," I murmur, the words too loud in the too empty apartment. The birds start up outside the window, three quick chirps and silence. They don't usually sing this late in the afternoon. Not like we have trees for them anyway. Maybe they're calling out to someone, too. Maybe they'll have better luck.
It gets old after a while so I turn the television on and find the show that Emily was raving about. I watch three episodes before I realize I'm hungry. I watch half of another episode before voices in the hallway make me blink out of the easy chaos of fiction. Neighbors, probably. It's not unusual for people to argue in the hallway.
"—nobody’s orders but your own." A woman's voice, familiar but I can't place it. "It won't work."
"If I wanted your counsel," a gruff, taunting voice replies, "I would've asked you for it."
"I know him. You should ask me."
"Please, remind me how intimately you know him." They're right outside my door now. A nagging sensation starts in my gut, something I haven't felt since that night with Marcella and the strange woman.
Run, it tells me. Get the hell out. Doesn't matter where you go. Just go.
I stumble to the window leading to the fire escape, adrenaline making my steps clumsy instead of sure. Kept enough of my mind to grab my phone, which I tighten my fist around. The birds have stopped singing. I nearly have the window open when the slap echoes from beyond the door, blunted by the distance.
Andrew always said I had a poor survival instinct. He said I'd run onto a crowded freeway to save a dog from being hit. I'm not sure if that's true, but if I'm wrong, if there's a person out there being hurt and I'm choosing myself instead of helping… How can I live with that? How can I walk away knowing that I might be leaving someone behind?
My body decides my course before my brain can catch up, stomping back to the door on steadier legs than before. Run, that voice says again, the most animal part of me. I am selfish. I am, but not like this. I throw the door wide.
There’s a woman, and she’s clutching her cheek. A pair of sunglasses at her feet have cracked with the blow or the fall, a tiny fracture in the corner of the tiny lenses. She’s standing tall like she wants to fight back but can’t, not out of fear. It’s something sharper than that, and more layered. I can’t name the emotion that flashes in the jade of her eyes when they meet mine. Or I can, but I don’t want to.
The man’s head is half-obscured behind the doorway, so he ducks to look at me fully. His hair is oil-slick and short, and his eyes are dark with pupils blown wide enough that they overtake his irises. He doesn’t look like a person. He looks like a painting.
I place the woman’s voice at the same moment that the man speaks. The night that Marcella bought me pizza, she was there. She knew I could hear them. She knew now, and she spoke so loud. To warn me? Or to draw me out?
"Good," the man says. "Now I don't have to pick the lock."
I reach for the doorknob, but he’s faster. Fingers slide around my neck, tight enough to cut off the scream lodged inside. I beat at his arm, but he only squeezes harder. Panic, real panic, lights in my gut and surges up my throat. It tastes like bile. It tastes like a summer day I took for granted.
“Run along, Gemma,” the man says without looking back. “You’re needed elsewhere.”
If I had air, I’d beg her to stay. As it is, I can’t even twist my head to watch her go. She must, though she makes no noise, or I can’t hear it over the blood pounding in my ears and the man’s voice.
“You’re familiar with the term ‘collateral damage,’ I presume?”
He grips my shoulder with one hand, the other still cutting off my breath. I thrash against it, desperate, a child trying to remove their hand from the stove lest they leave a layer of skin behind. The pain blurs my vision, or maybe my eyes are closed, or maybe he’s blinded me, too.
The summer after fifth grade, Henry’s parents were out of town one weekend so we set up a tent in his backyard and pretended away the solace of a well-stocked pantry. He had a firepit and gasoline and more fireworks than any child should’ve been trusted with. Emily lit one that was meant to fizz like a flower, and I leaned in too close and seared my eyebrows right off. There were welts on my arms, and it hurt so bad that I wanted to cry, but I laughed instead, and they both laughed with me. That smell, fire catching on skin— it’s one I’d recognize anywhere. There’s no fire, but the pain is the same. I’m not laughing this time.
“If it was up to me, I’d put you out of your misery.” I curve my fingers into claws, nails ripping at the skin of his forearm, but there’s no give in his hold. “Fortunately for you, I need to send a message.”
He spins me and shoves and then I’m falling, falling for such an impossibly long time. There’s nothing but falling and darkness and the smell of burnt flesh. I squeeze my eyes shut against the pressure building in my skull. My body hits the tile hard, sending a shock through my bones. Instinctively, I curl on the ground, bringing up my knees to protect my stomach and covering my face and head with my arms.
The man doesn’t touch me again, but his voice echoes in my skull long after he leaves. “Tell the deathling to mind himself.”
A flash of light, then everything is still. The quiet makes me dizzy. I don’t lower my hands. He could’ve killed me. It’s the only thought in my head. He could’ve killed me.
The stubborn pulse of my heart pounds in my ears. Not—dead. Not—dead. Not—dead. I keep my head tucked into my arms, elbows against my stomach and knees pulled up, curled like a prey animal trying to ward off a beast with bigger teeth. I don’t know how long has passed. The man left, or I think he did.
I shiver at the sound of footsteps approaching me, then begin fully trembling as another set moves away. Two people in my apartment. They’ve returned, him and the woman. They’re here to finish me off. My eyes are still screwed shut. A shuffle of fabric—one of them kneeling beside my head.
“You’re okay, petal.” A pained whisper, “You’re okay.” My eyes flutter open at the plea in his voice. Theodore lets out a shaky exhale. “Are you hurt?”
I blink at him, beyond words.
His eyes trace my body, assessing. “Stupid question, I know. You’re safe now. I’ve got you.”
Another blink.
“Well, you don’t have to believe me for it to be true.” Giving me time to flinch away, he wraps his fingers around my forearms and strokes his thumbs down the inside of my wrists. “Marcella’s here, too. She’s packing you a bag.”
I let his touch soothe the ache that his words can’t reach. He guides my hands away from my face and helps me sit up. His eyes are wide and darker than I’ve ever seen them, even with Henry, even when he talked about Az and Anya and his mother. A curl dips below his eyebrow. It must be obscuring his vision. I’d wrap it around my finger if I could get my body to obey. I’d yank it until it popped out of his scalp. It’s his fault, I know it is. As soon as the thought comes, it’s blanketed by a coarse tenderness. Like smothering a grease fire. Of course it’s his fault. Of course I forgive him.
“Are you—” Feels like I’ve been chain-smoking behind the dumpster with Dom, or like I’ve just swallowed a fistful of glass, or like I’ve been screaming even though I haven’t. “Are you— cross with me?”
Theo laughs and puts his palms on my cheeks, leaning forward to press his forehead against mine. I breathe in the smell of him, dewy and familiar like the moment before a thunderstorm. “No. No, mon cœur. I am very much not cross with you.” He presses his lips to my forehead before pulling away.
Marcella’s voice flits towards us. She’s standing in the hallway, scanning her surroundings like she can speak to the walls and deduce what went down. Her shoulders are back, chin high, and she looks all the world like she wants to take a bite of me and spit me out when I don’t meet her standards. “We’re clear. Let’s go.”
“Go?” I ask.
“You want to stay?” Marcella shrugs. “I wouldn’t say that the comforts of home are worth the risk, but what do I know?” A backpack is slung over her shoulder— Emily’s old school backpack, likely stuffed with clothes and toiletries and other necessities. No, I can’t stay here.
“We’ll take you somewhere safe,” Theo says, drawing my attention. His hands tighten on my arms. “This is going to be uncomfortable, but it’ll only take a moment. You’re safe. Okay?”
I don’t believe him, but I nod anyway.
“I need words, petal.”
“Okay,” I whisper.
The space around us dims, then disappears. We’re launched into thick and oily darkness. My feet dangle beneath me, scrambling for purchase. Theo’s eyes stare straight ahead as if he’s mapping this awful space, navigating through it with such ease that it might’ve been his hometown. The vastness around me roars like an ancient and unending wind, and if not for Theo’s vice-grip on my hand, I’d cover my ears against the sound. I close my eyes, but it doesn’t make a difference. The darkness is infinite and all-consuming.
How much time does he spend here, gliding through the thick and endless nights? How often has he traversed trough this to get to me, to get home? Bile climbs up my throat. I swallow it, only for the acid to be overwhelmed by a raw and guttural scream clawing to escape. I’m not supposed to be here, not while my heart is still thudding in my chest.
The darkness clears as quickly as it arrived. We’re in a cluttered, homely living room that smells faintly of dust and fresh flowers. My stomach churns, and my vision blurs. I sway. Two strong hands underneath my armpits steady me and lead me to a couch. I sit obediently, staring into my lap, inhaling through my nose, counting to ten, and exhaling through my mouth. Theo rubs long, comforting strokes down my back.
When I’m sure that I’m not going to vomit, I say simply, “That sucked.”
It’s Marcella that replies. “Are you talking about the mode of transportation or the man that tried to kill you?”
From behind the curtain of my hair, I see Theo glare at where she must be standing. “Both,” I say. “Definitely both.”
The terrible ringing starts in my ears again. I tug at my earlobe in an effort to find some relief, glancing up at Theo and Marcella staring at each other. “Aloud, please,” I demand, my patience for these goddamn immortals waning.
Marcella turns slowly, studying me like she’s trying to see underneath my skin “You can hear that?”
“I don’t hear anything,” I snap. I’m being rude, but I’ve just been nearly murdered. I have the right. Almost murdered. By a grim reaper. The thought makes me want to erupt into insane laughter.
That awful high-pitched noise sounds in my ears, louder this time, and it’s all I can do not to throw my hands over them. I do not want to add tinnitus to my growing list of unsolvable problems. Marcella’s painted lips curve into a smile. “Interesting.”
“Out with it,” Theodore nearly snarls.
“Az once shared with me that some humans, especially humans that are particularly involved with death, are more… sensitive. Nothing super helpful, and very rare to even realize the gift before they die since most don’t have the pleasure of meeting us until then.” Involved with death. That’s a pretty way of putting it. “It’s just a theory.”
“I am wholly uninterested in theories right now, sorcière.” Theo stands, obscuring my view of Marcella. “What do you know?”
Marcella considers. “Gemma wouldn’t have left her alive regardless of Morrigan’s orders. She’s too damn vindictive.”
“It was a man,” I offer.
“Appearance is irrelevant, petunia. We can change on a whim.” She winks at me. “Appreciate the input though. Injuries?”
“I’m fine.”
“Sure you are. I wasn’t talking to you, though. Signatures, your highness. You know them better than anyone.”
His fingers curl at his sides. “Can we… do this later?”
“Later, she’ll be healed or dead. Be a big boy and answer my question. Injuries?”
Muscles stiff, he turns and kneels before me. “May I?”
I nod.
“Words,” he reminds me.
“Yes,” I whisper, not entirely sure what I’m agreeing to.
He puts his hands on my cheeks, gentle in a way that surprises me given that his eyes are black with rage. His fingers glide over my cheekbones, pressing down firmly but not painfully. “Lorenzo would’ve gone for the eyes,” he says, then glides his hands to my hairline. “Analise leaves a scar on the scalp.”
“She wouldn’t send anyone that low-ranking and young,” Marcella says.
“No harm in being thorough,” Theo mumbles, tracing his fingers along the sides of my face, then down my neck. I wince a little as he brushes the bruises just beginning to form. “Sorry,” he says quietly, then louder, “Rhett wouldn’t leave any marks.”
“Rhett was culled with the last batch,” Marcella says. “Got caught with his hand in the cookie jar… the jar being Morrigan’s newest plaything. My condolences.”
“Good riddance,” Theo says. “Who, exactly, is your source?”
“Classified.” He glances over his shoulder, fingers lingering on the hollow of my throat. Whatever look he gives her is enough for her to amend, “Joseph.”
The sound he makes is not exactly a laugh. “Joseph?”
A pause. “You don’t trust him?”
“I’ve seen him slit a squirrel’s throat and drink its blood.”
“A questionable but nutritious option. There are others, too.”
“All similarly surprising, I’m sure,” he mutters, directing his attention back to me and tracing the lines of my collarbones. I flinch when he reaches my shoulder. He pulls away, hesitating at the collar of my shirt.
“He… burned me,” I say. “I think.”
Theo is frozen, eyes locked on my shirt as if he can see through it. “You told me,” he says in a voice that promises violence, “that he was no longer making house calls.”
“I didn’t think he was,” Marcella says. The rocking chair on the other side of the room begins squeaking on its own accord. She takes a step towards me. “Last I heard, he and Gemma were snapping at each other like feral dogs vying for the attention of Her Highness.”
“She was there,” I blurt. Theodore stiffens, narrowing his eyes. “Gemma. That’s what he called her. The— I remember her. From that night?”
“What night?” Theodore asks in a flat voice.
Instead of answering, Marcella rubs at her eyes. “You’re scaring the missus. She’s fine, Theodore. Listen to her heart. A little shaken up, but fine.”
He’s silent, likely taking her advice and listening which is embarrassing considering that my heart is racketing like a prey animal’s. After a slow exhale, he brings his fingers back to my shirt. “May I see?”
I swallow hard, managing only a croaked, “Alright.”
He pulls at the collar of my shirt, exposing just the edge of the reddened and blistering patch of skin. Marcella blows out a breath. “You’ve seen this before?”
“Not on human flesh,” he replies distantly. He replaces the fabric tenderly but I still flinch when the cotton rubs against the wound. “Are you in pain?”
“No,” I lie.
The only movement is his eyes searching mine. Without turning away from me, he says to Marcella in a voice like permafrost, “You knew."
Marcella shuffles back a step. "I knew your mother was around. I knew they'd plan an attack. I wasn't expecting it to be on her," she jerks her chin towards me, "or so soon."
Theo's lips thin. He stands, towering over me in a way that makes me shrink back into the couch. The hair on my arms raises like it's anticipating a strike of lightning even though the sky is clear, even though we're indoors. There's no refuting who he is— who his mother is. If there was any question before, it's been answered by the way the air stills around him. The violence that he promises isn't for me, but it's for me.
"I want patrols." He turns to face Marcella. Glass trembles in the kitchen.
“You know what I’m going to ask of you.”
As if he didn’t hear her, he continues, “I want to know any time one of Morrigan’s rats steps foot in this city. Fifty mile radius. Overlapping routes. No gaps. I want ample warning next time they’re even considering attempting something like this again. And I want Gemma’s head.”
“Demand after demand,” Marcella sighs. “Are we bartering?”
“No.”
“I can call in as many favors as I’m owed, but they’re going to ask questions. What should I tell them? That He Who Will Tame the River is asking for their assistance but won’t meet them face to face?”
I frown. “He Who Will— what?”
Marcella tilts back her head and exhales, slow. “What have you told her?”
“I’ve told her enough,” Theodore snaps.
She raises a brow as if to say, doubtful. “Mommy wants Theodore to come into his own so she can rule by her side. I want him to get off his ass so he can axe mommy. And Theodore wants to do neither for reasons that I can’t comprehend.” A flash of her palm halts his rising argument. “No, I can comprehend them. I just think they’re idiotic.”
"Come into his power," I repeat. He seems plenty powerful to me. "What does that mean?"
Theodore shoots her a warning glare, but she isn't looking at him. "How many people have you killed, Petunia?"
Theodore looks a jostle away from erupting. “She hasn’t—”
“Just the one?” Marcella drops to a squat in front of me, close enough that I can count the specks of hazel in her green eyes. “You think you killed him, don’t you?”
I set my jaw. She cocks her head to look at Theodore, still looming. My ears start ringing again, a horrible buzzing sound that makes me nauseous when I shoot to my feet. Theo reaches to steady me, but I dodge his hands. “I’ve had a shitty morning,” I say through gritted teeth, “after a shitty night, after a shitty week. Seeing as I’m not concussed, or at least I don’t think I am, I’d like to take a nap. Is there a bed here, or should I set up on the floor?”
Marcella claps her hands on her knees twice and stands. “I always forget how fussy humans are. Fine. Have your nap. We’ll reconvene tonight.” She winks at Theodore. “In through the nose. Hold and count to ten.”
He scowls but does inhale. Holds. Exhales. “Seven o’ clock.”
“I can’t do seven.” She flips her hair over her shoulder and struts towards the front door. “I’d miss dinner.”