“What the fuck does that mean?” I practically growl.
She slips back inside without another word and closes the door. I hear the lock slide into place.
Frustrated, I spin toward the elevator and see Cadence’s door open a sliver, but it quickly closes. I approach and knock, “Cadence! Cadence, it’s me, Jude.” But it doesn’t open again.
“Look,” I say after a moment, realizing she’s not going to answer, “if you can hear me, you should leave. Get somewhere safe. There are things happening that I’m not sure any of us fully understand. You seem like a nice person. Brennan thought so, but he’s not here anymore. I don’t know where he is or if he’s coming back. But that means it’s just you and Tim Burton’s version of the Bobbsey Twins down the hall. I know it’s been…differentfor you here. Hard, even. So maybe go stay with family or take a road trip for a while.”
I pause, waiting to see if she says anything. For a second, I think maybe I hear breathing, see a shadow pass beneath the door. But it’s too brief to tell. Finally, I swallow down my disappointment and say, “I’m going upstairs. I’ll see you on the other side.”
Back in the elevator, I press the button for Arla’s floor. As the doors close, I wonder if I’ll see Brennan again. Maybe his departure is a good thing. Maybe he got tired of all the bullshit, got away, and is lying low, starting over. Maybe this means Arla can’t carry out her ritual to trap the Fathom. But somehow, none of it feels that easy.
Upstairs, I approach her redwood door and beat my hand between the swirls of glass.
When she answers, she looks tired and more than a little annoyed. It’s not a look I’m used to seeing on her. Her black hair needs combing and her eyes are webbed in pink. The flowing black tunic and ripped jeans she’s wearing are more hapless-bohemian chic than her usual sleek style, and the shoulder of one sleeve is torn, a crescent of fair skin peeking through. To anyone on the street, she’d look fine. But those of us who know her know that Arla never looks less than exquisite.
“What do you want?” She sounds just like Twig. It must be going around.
I follow her inside, not bothering to close the door, and glance around. Both bedroom doors are closed, but the loft seems too quiet, too empty. My eyes catch on Brennan’s signet pinkie ring on her ottoman, the dragon design unmistakable. I’d know it anywhere; it’s haunted my memory since I first saw it. I quickly look away. “Is Brennan here?”
Arla pauses mid-stride. “Brennan? And here I thought you’d come to see me. I’m hurt, kitten.”
“I, uh, haven’t been able to find him since we last talked. And my friend didn’t show up to work this morning. I thought maybe they came back here, spent the night at the club.” That ring glints from the ottoman in my periphery as apprehension crawls up my legs and spine, urging caution.
“I’m afraid I haven’t seen him since your visit yesterday,” she says, uncorking a half-full bottle of red wine on the table and pouring some into an exaggerated glass with a slender stem.
“So, you saw him yesterday, then? He’s okay? Was he alone?” My eyes follow her, but I stay where I am near the kitchen bar.
“Alone? Yes. Okay? Not so much. He showed up here ranting about secrets and favorites. Demanding I give him Rudzitin’s journal, claiming I was hiding something. He was quite worked up over it. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, kitten?”
I didn’t know if the others knew about the journal, but I guess I do now. Arla must have shared that much with them. But they certainly don’t know about the poster or the articles Levi showed me. I don’t know if even Arla knows about those.
“You had a confrontation?” I press her, believing she knows more than she’s saying, looking for some clue as to where he might be.
“Confrontation’s such a strong word,” she says taking a sip of wine. “But when I wouldn’t give in to his petty demands, he decided to leave.”
“Leave? As in, leave your apartment? Leave the building?”
“Leaveus, Jude. Leave the group, the Fathom, all of it.” She shrugs.
I cock a brow. “You’re saying he moved out?”
“In so many words,” she replies.
“Overnight?” Unsuccessfully, I try to curb the suspicion in my tone.
“It’s not like I followed him. Seemed like he needed his space, you know?” She stares into her wineglass as if all my answers are swimming there.
“And you’re fine with that?” I ask.
Arla spits a laugh. “I’m not a prison warden, Jude. Everyone’s free to come and go. You do it all the time.” Her eye finds mine, a warning implicit in them.
“Did he say where he was going?” Without word on where Brennan is, I don’t know how I’ll find Aaron.
She sighs. “Oh, can’t we talk about something more pleasant, for pity’s sake? Fuck Brennan and his whiny demands, his never-ending questions and paranoia. The boy was never quite right, if you ask me. We don’t need him anyway. He’s expendable.”
Expendable.The word hangs heavy in the air between us. I swallow and avoid glancing at the ring.Aaron, where the fuck are you? What have I gotten you into?“We don’t need Brennan?”
“Not anymore,” she says, smiling, sucking on a secret like it’s hard candy. “I’m celebrating, by the way.” She tips her head and the dragon rings zings from the ottoman to her open hand. She slides it over her ring finger as a sultry voice begins to play from hidden speakers. It takes a second for me to recognize the melody and lyrics of Nat King Cole’s “Fascination.”
