Alison wrinkled her nose. “Dude at the next table should go easy on the cologne,” she said. “And I think somebody’s been smoking weed in the ladies’ room. That what you mean?”
He shook his head. “I could’ve sworn I smelled a shade.”
Alison shrugged. “I know you say you can smell them, but I can’t—not from a distance, anyway. I wish I could.”
Jonah grimaced. “No you don’t. Trust me.” He paused. “You’re looking good, Shaw. Did you lose weight or what?”
She looked up, saw that he was kidding about that last part, and grinned. “I’m feeling good,” she said, sipping at her drink. “I’ve been going to a new skin therapist. He is amazing.”
Jonah stared at her, puzzled. Skin art was Gabriel’s specialty, one of the treatments he never delegated. “Really? I didn’t know Gabriel had hired anyone else.”
“He hasn’t. This one’s an independent. Dimitri Weed. He has a clinic on Canal.”
“You’re going outside of the Anchorage for treatment?” Jonah said, beating down surprise.
Alison nodded. She leaned toward Jonah. “Don’t tell Gabriel. Or Natalie. It’s not that I don’t have confidence in them. It’s just, you know, an add-on.”
“How’d you even find this guy?” Jonah said. “Where’d he come from? Is he a sorcerer or what?”
“He’s a sorcerer,” Alison said. “Some of the other savants have been seeing him. They said he works wonders, so I thought I’d give him a try.”
Jonah’s heart sank. Charlatans tended to prey on savants, offering them the kind of hope that Gabriel couldn’t.
“Alison. You know as well as I do that skin therapy is nothing to mess around with. There are lots of quacks out there who are more than willing to take your money. They do more harm than good.” He paused. “What’s he charging you, anyway?”
“It’s pricey,” Alison said evasively. “But what if it works? How much would you pay for something that works?”
Everything, Jonah thought. I’d pay everything for Kenzie.
“Here. Want to see?” She slid her dress off her shoulder to display a new tattoo: a lurid, glittering snake that angled down between her shoulder blades. Jonah leaned in to take a closer look.
“What the hell is that?” Natalie snapped, over Jonah’s shoulder, startling them both.
“Nothing.” Alison jerked her dress back into place and hunched over the table.
Natalie and Rudy stood tableside, still flushed and sweating from dancing, both holding drinks. Nat had a familiar fire in her eyes. Jonah braced himself for incoming.
“I thought there was something different about you,” Natalie said. “Let me see that.”
“No,” Alison said. “I know what you’ll say.”
“You went to that guy on Canal, didn’t you?” Natalie slammed her drink down so hard the contents slopped onto the table. “After I told you not to.”
“Leave her alone, Nat,” Rudy said. “It’s not your business.”
“It is my business,” Natalie retorted. “She’s my friend!”
Alison scraped back her chair and stood. “If I’m your friend, you want what’s best for me, right?”
“Exactly,” Natalie said, eyeing her suspiciously. “That’s why I—”
“Well, I’ve felt better since I’ve been seeing Dimitri than I have in two years,” Alison said. “I’m sorry, but it’s true. I think you’re just jealous of his success.”
“That’s not it,” Natalie said, cheeks flushed. “There just aren’t that many good skin therapists out there. And you don’t go to anyone who doesn’t know what meds you’re taking. Besides, I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something—I don’t know—wrong about his work. I don’t trust him.”
“Well, I do. And so does Rudy.” Alison threw a challenging glare his way.
“What does that mean?” Natalie asked, looking from Alison to Severino.
“Shut up, Alison,” Rudy said, licking his lips nervously. “You promised you wouldn’t—”
“When were you going to tell her?” Alison asked. “In the middle of a hookup? She’s not stupid.”
“I think you’d better tell me now.” Natalie’s voice had gone from fire to ice in an instant.
Jonah wanted nothing more than to escape the oppressive stew of emotions swirling around him—rage, guilt, suspicion, fear. But he was hemmed in by his three friends, with no way out.
Even worse, the shouting match in the corner was drawing attention from onlookers.
“Fine,” Rudy said. “I’ve been seeing Dimitri, too.” Slowly, deliberately, he turned and yanked up his sweater. There, at the base of his spine, curled a dragon. “I feel great, Nat,” he said, over his shoulder. “I’m sleeping better, and I have more energy during the day.”
Natalie stared at the tattoo, the blood draining from her face. “And I guess next you’ll say you can quit anytime you like,” she shouted at his back. “Oh, no, that’s right, you can’t.”
“Don’t be mad, Nat,” Rudy said, turning back around. “Even the music is better. If you’d just keep an open mind, I—”
Natalie leaned toward him, fists clenched. “So the music is better, is it?”
“What’d I miss?” Mose had returned, limping his way through the gawkers. “We’re back on in three, right?”
Fault Tolerant returned to the stage, bodies stiff, glaring at one another.
This is exactly why I don’t like to go to clubs, Jonah thought. Too much drama. And since he only had four friends, this kind of drama seriously affected his quality of life.
Club Catastrophe was in downtown Cleveland, in a neighborhood of old warehouses and commercial buildings that housed restaurants, clubs, apartments, and condominiums.
Emma tried to keep her expectations low, but she couldn’t help it—her heart beat a little faster when she heard the music throbbing through the open doors.
Only Tyler seemed to be having second thoughts. “You know where you need to go to catch the Rapid home, right?” he said as Emma slid out of the car.
“I walk up Superior to Tower City and follow the signs to the trains,” Emma said. “Then I take the Green Line out to Lee Road.”
“You sure you have your RTA pass?”
Emma put her hands on her hips. “Are you hovering again, Tyler?”
Tyler leaned across the front seat toward her. “Maybe. Just remember—this area attracts all different kinds. And somebody’s killing the gifted. So be careful.”
“I’ll be all right.” She pointed down the crowded sidewalk. “See? There’s plenty of people out on the street. And it’s not like I came straight off the farm. I won’t do anything stupid.”
“You won’t be able to reach me by phone while I’m onstage. If you need to call, leave a message, and I’ll call right back during the next break. And be careful. Walk right home from the stop.”
“Don’t worry,” Emma said even as she was thinking it was oddly fine to have somebody worrying. On impulse, she leaned through the window and kissed him on the cheek. “Bye now.”
Emma paid the cover, collected her drink tickets, and extended her arm for the under-twenty-one wristband. Then, summoning her courage, she strode into the club like she belonged.
The place offered seating for maybe two hundred people, and the permanent stage in the corner said it was a serious music venue. The tin ceiling and the battered floorboards were probably original to the warehouse.
The band, Fault Tolerant, had already taken the stage, and the dance floor churned with bodies. Emma threaded her way to the front to see what she could see. The band members looked to be young—high school age—but they had some skills. Especially the drummer. She put her whole body into it. The lead guitarist played a sweet Parker DragonFly, sitting down, like one of those timeworn old blues players. He was seriously good.
More important: they all wore the glow that Tyler claimed was the mark of the gifted. In fact, there were splotches of light all ov
er the room, like some of the dancers had individual spotlights built into their bodies. Why so many, all right here?
Emma cashed in one of her drink tickets and looked for a place to sit. Once around the room and she was still on her feet. This band drew a crowd, that was for sure. The only empty chairs were at a table in the back, a table with one occupant, who sat shrouded in shadows.
Emma moved in close, trying to get a better look before she committed herself. It was a boy—focused on his phone, the light from the screen illuminating his face, bringing his features into sharp relief as his long fingers flicked through screens.
Two things struck her right away. One: he was the kind of boy that made your heart beat faster before you ever heard his name. And two: he was the kind of boy Emma would never, ever have.
He was all muffled up, in a black leather jacket, a scarf wound around his neck, his head turtled into his shoulders. He even wore thin leather gloves on his hands.
Maybe he has one of those diseases where you’re cold all the time, Emma thought.
Somehow, she found herself standing next to his table, a moth flinging itself into the flame.
“Are these seats taken?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said, without looking up.
“Oh. Well, is it all right if I sit here until your friends come back?”
“No,” he said, still looking at his screen.
That got on Emma’s nerves. “Look, there’s no other place left to sit.”
He finally looked up. His skin was pale under a tumble of black hair, his brows dark and thick, his lashes, too. Up close, she saw the lines of pain around his mouth. His eyes were a shade of indigo she’d never seen…eyes a person could dive into, without a second thought. Behind those eyes, beyond the reach of the light, lay the blues. A sad story that needed telling. A story she wanted to hear.
He studied her face, his eyes flicking up to her untamable hair, over her flannel shirt and jeans, her bitten-off nails. At least, that’s what she guessed he was looking at.
“I’m sorry,” Boy Blue said, returning to his phone. “That’s not my problem.”
Slamming her glass down, Emma planted her hands on the table and leaned toward him. He looked up, startled, leaning back and bringing both hands up to ward her off.
Up close, he was even more intoxicating, and she nearly lost her train of thought. Mentally slapping herself, she said, “You know what? You’re damn pretty until you open up your mouth. You ought to keep it shut.” Grabbing up her drink, she stalked away, feeling the burn of his gaze between her shoulder blades.
Eventually, she did locate an empty table far from the stage, back among the pool tables. She sat, tapping her foot to the music, watching the action at the tables, counting the drinks as some of the pool players grew more and more wasted. She’d spent a lifetime hugging the wall in bars. You could learn a lot that way.
Too bad they didn’t give out grades for those kinds of lessons.
Now and then she looked back at the boy in the corner by the door. He still sat alone. So did she. So much for making friends her own age.
When the band took a break, one of the guitarists—a girl—walked back to Boy Blue and sat down at his table. He didn’t shoo her away. Instead, they leaned in close, talking.
So that’s how it is, Emma thought. He’s with the band. She thought of going back to the bar and using her second ticket, but was afraid she’d lose her table. Some of the pool players had been eyeing it for a while. She could give up and head home, but she’d been looking forward to hearing the rest of the set. Anyway, going home was too much like giving up.
Raised voices caught her attention. Turning, she saw that Boy Blue was now surrounded by members of the band, who were all waving their hands and hissing at one another. When the lead guitarist returned, they marched back onstage, leaving Boy Blue alone again.
He looked up, found Emma staring at him, and looked away.
What just happened? Emma thought as Fault Tolerant launched into their second set.
“Hey! Labrat!”
Emma twisted around, and saw that some of the gifted who’d been playing pool had formed a half circle around her table. Two were carrying pool cues.
They didn’t look much older than Emma, but none of them were wearing wristbands, and from the looks of things, they’d been taking full advantage of their legal status. They all carried beers, and they walked like people who’ve had a few already.
Emma blinked at them. “What’d you call me?”
“Labrat,” a preppy-looking boy said, breathing beer into her face. “Or would you prefer mutant?” He had the pudgy kind of baby face that turns into jowls later on.
Emma knew better than to mix it up with a drunk. “I don’t want trouble,” she said. “Came to hear the band. Just move on, now.” She pulled out her phone, looking for nonexistent messages. Wondering what people had used for cover before cell phones.
“Time to move on,” the boy persisted, thunking his beer down. “You’ve been squatting there all night.”
“Come on, Graham,” another boy said, leering at Emma. “Let her stay. Get a few drinks into her and maybe she’ll show us her scaly tail.”
“Eww,” a tall blond girl said. “Shut up, Cam. That’s disgusting. A wizard and a labrat?”
“Sometimes you wanna walk on the wild side, know what I mean?” Cam elbowed the girl. “Hey, Brooke! How about a threesome?”
Brooke pretend-slapped him.
A girl with long, sun-tipped brown hair had hung back by the pool table. Now she joined the group surrounding Emma. “Quit being jerks. If there’s no place to sit, pay the tab and we’ll go down the street.”
“We’re off the clock,” Graham said. “I wanna play some more pool. Anyway, the labrat was just leaving.”
“You’re drunk, and you’re drawing attention to yourselves, which is exactly what Rowan told us not to do,” the girl said. “And we are never—ever—off the clock.”
“We won’t hurt her feelings, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Cam said, nodding toward Emma. “I don’t think she understands what we’re saying, anyway.”
“Come on, Rachel,” Graham said, a note of entreaty in his voice. “Loosen up a little. Your big brother isn’t here. Uh…you’re not going to tell on us, are you?” He put his hand on her shoulder, brow furrowed, looking a little panicked now.
“Not as long as you do what I say,” Rachel retorted. Just then, her phone buzzed. “I’m going to take this call. Meantime, take care of the tab and we’ll go.”
The wizards watched Rachel walk away, then turned on Emma.
“See that?” Cam said. “You got us in trouble.”
“Don’t worry,” Brooke said, sweeping back her mane of hair. “If Rowan gives us trouble, he’ll have my mother to deal with.”
Graham waved his cue under Emma’s nose. “Come on, labrat. Fair’s fair. You shouldn’t sit over here if you’re not playing pool.” He brightened. “I know! Let’s play for the tab.”
The rest of them snorted with laughter.
“Do you know what that means?” Graham leaned down, hands on his knees, so he was eye level with Emma, speaking slowly. “If I win, you pay for our drinks, and give up your table. That’s fair.” When Emma said nothing, he added, “How about it, labrat?”
A new voice intruded into the conversation. “How about you leave her alone?”
It was Boy Blue. He stood next to Emma, so close she could breathe in the scent of leather. So close she could have reached out and touched the rivets on his jeans. She resisted the temptation to do just that.
The wizards stared at him, at first too hazy with drink to conjure a response.
“Who’re you?” Graham said finally. “Her labrat boyfriend?”
“You think he’s a labrat?” Brooke said, wrinkling her forehead in confusion. “But he’s really hot.”
“Eww,” Graham said. “Now you’re being disgusting.”
They all
laughed, but some of the confidence had leaked out of them. They resembled a herd of sheep with a wolf in their midst.
“I can take care of myself,” Emma said to Boy Blue. “Don’t worry.”
“I’m not worried about you,” Boy Blue said. “I’m worried about them.”
Graham cleared his throat. “We’re not talking to you,” he said. “We’re talking to her.” He jabbed Emma with his pool cue.
Boy Blue struck like a snake, faster than Emma’s eye could follow. He ripped Graham’s weapon away from him, broke it like a matchstick, and dropped the pieces onto the floor.
Graham stared at him, openmouthed. “What the—that cue cost five hundred dollars!” he shouted.
“Really?” Boy Blue said. “Then you ought to be more careful about where you stick it.”
Emma was thinking, Five hundred dollars? For a pool cue? That can’t be right.
“You’re gonna pay for that,” Graham snarled. His friends muttered agreement. A crowd was gathering, spoiling for a fight. And Boy Blue seemed more than willing to give them one.
Emma didn’t mean to let that happen. Not on her account. She shoved back her chair and stood, facing Graham, hands on hips. “You want to play pool?” she said. “You’re on.”
Everyone turned and stared at her. The band played on, the bass thudding through the floorboards like a pulse.
Graham looked from Boy Blue to Emma. “You’ve got to be kidding,” he said, smirking. “All right, let’s do it.”
Boy Blue put his gloved hand on Emma’s shoulder, sending a thrill of electricity through her. “You don’t have to do this. I picked this fight. Let me finish it.”
Emma glared up at him. “What—you can pick a fight, but I can’t?”
For a moment, he was at a loss for words. “Well, yeah,” he said. “Pretty much.”
Emma turned back toward Graham. “What’s the action?” she said, rubbing her fingers together. “You really want to play for the tab?”
“’Xactly,” Graham said, taking in his mainliner posse with a sweep of his arm. “The tab. For all of us.” His eyes flicked to Boy Blue, then back to her. “And the cost of the cue.”