She yanks it away, clutching it to her chest.
"She's here," she mutters at the screen. "She's here, okay? Now can I have my stuff? Please. Just a hit. I need it so bad?—"
Oh, my god, she’s delusional.
"Who are you talking to?"
"Me." The voice is deep, accented, and calm.
I spin around.
A man stands at the base of the stairs. He's tall and lean, dressed in black jeans and a fitted jacket. His head is shaved, and crawling up the side of his face—from jaw to temple—is a tattoo of a bird. A crow.
He has the blackest eyes I’ve ever seen, but that’s not what makes my blood turn to slush. It’s the vacancy there. Theemptiness. The total lack of compassion or empathy in those eyes.
He smiles, but his gaze remains cold. Gold teeth catch the basement light.
"Hello, London." He knows my name. "Your mama's been telling me all about you."
I back up until my calves hit the couch. My mother is still scratching, still muttering about needing her fix.
"Mom." My voice doesn't sound like mine. "What did you do?"
She doesn't meet my eyes. She's rocking now. "Just go with him, baby. Don't make it hard. He said if you cooperate?—"
“Go with him?!”
And then all the pieces in my mind suddenly rearrange, and I see what’s going on here.
“Mom…” My voice is barely a whisper. “You sold me? You called me here so you could trade me for drugs."
"It's not like that?—"
"What is it like, then?" My voice cracks, but I refuse to cry. Not here. Not in front of this man.
The thug takes a step closer. He reaches into his jacket and produces a syringe. The liquid inside is dark—purplish-black. Raven.
"This will make things easier," he says in his unhurried English. "You won't feel a thing. Won't fight. My guys will appreciate that."
He said guys—plural.
My stomach heaves.
"Wait." I hold up both hands, palms out. "If you put that away—I'll go with you. Willingly. You don't need to drug me."
His grin widens. "I like this one. She negotiates." He twirls the syringe between his fingers. "But my employer prefers the merchandise…compliant."
Merchandise. The word hits like a slap.
He lunges.
I duck sideways, my hip catching the arm of the couch. He misses—barely—grabbing at air where I was a half-second ago. He laughs, low and delighted, like a cat batting a mouse between its paws.
"Feisty." He rolls his shoulders. "Good. I have customers who enjoy feisty."
My mother wails from the couch. "Just let him do it, baby. It won't hurt as much if you don't fight. Please, London, just let him?—"
"Shut up!" I scream at her. My voice tears from my throat raw and ragged.
