8
Innocence is dead.
The wind blew past, feathering my hair and pushing the acrid smoke and Furtig blood smell free from my clothes. I swung my legs over the cold gray boulder and let them hang free, kicking them out over the East River.
The blue-brown water was flowing quickly this morning, but at the edge of Wards Island, it slowed and spun, trapped in dizzying eddies. There were a dozen tiny whirlpools spinning around muddy river grass and the smooth, wet rocks that stuck out of the water. Mist rose where the spinning water met the sloping, rocky ground. It spread toward me and then shied away.
I’d kicked off my shoes and padded through the cool, dew-covered grass. Now I dipped my toes into the spinning current. The water tugged at and tickled my feet. The wind rushed at me again.
Innocence is?—
I frowned, brushing back my hair, as the wind tugged it free from my braid.
Last night, I’d tried to stop the moon from rising. Now the moon had set, and the sun pushed free of the river and broke through the cotton-wool fog veiling Queens. The sky was the not-quite-gray of night and the almost yellow-gold of morning.
The gray-orange reminded me of the Night Den burning.
The grassy park, the misty river, and the soccer field behind me were quiet, save for the early-morning mockingbirds mimicking car alarms and sirens. There was the wind rushing through the river grass, murmuring its wind warnings, but it was too quiet for me to hear.
I didn’t know why I’d come to this flat rock at the river’s edge. Wards Island was where the Wards had once lived. Centuries ago, they’d had a stone mansion here that was also an asylum. This peaceful, quiet island was home to history’s madness. There were a few figments on the island. They were a loop, replaying for infinity a single moment in time. There was a woman in a Victorian gown who picked a daisy and held it out. The daisy disappeared, and so she picked it again. And again. There was a boy who fell into the water and was swept away. He fell again. And again. There was a woman missing an eye who stood in the shadow of where the asylum had once blocked the sun. She stood unmoving, staring at the missing edifice.
Mostly, though, the island was empty and quiet, except for picnickers, families, and joggers. But this early, I was alone.
Maybe when I was gone, a figment of me being shot by Luvic would replay over and over again. I looked over at the grass where I’d fallen, expecting to see blood, but of course, there wasn’t any.
There was a spiderweb next to me though. It hung between the rock and a stick jutting out of the river mud. There was no spider. The web was slightly larger than my hand, with dew strung over the silk, little golden pearls reflecting the sun. Compelled, I reached out and gently set my hand against the web. It looked like the universe caught on a string. It looked like a hundred golden knots of illusion. The dew wicked over my skin, and the web vibrated and shivered under my fingers. It wasn’t illusion; it was as real as me. I gently pulled free, leaving the web to its spider. Who knew? Maybe it would come back.
I wiped my wet hand on my pant leg. The sun was higher, burning through the mist. Time to go home. When I’d parked the motorcycle at Hell Gate, I’d heard the last rumbling moans and screeches of celebration. That was two hours ago. I hadn’t wanted to step inside. I’d felt raw. Battered.
Years ago, when Griff’s dad came and left Griff at Hell Gate, I’d watched him eat. I’d hid behind a door and peered through the crack. Jagger gave the Jersey Devil a slipshot to eat. Jagger tore the slipshot apart with his clawed hands and his sharp teeth, rending him into pieces the Jersey Devil devoured.
That was how I felt. Torn, rent, and bleeding.
My own blood was the vicious predator, and it tore through me with sharp nails.
Finn is alive.
I stared into the shrouded sun, my eyes tearing from the light.
Jagger had claimed he’d feel this—that he’d know. But Jagger had lied. He lied so often his truth was lie. Still, I needed to be careful. I needed to tuck these feelings away before I stepped through the iron bars of Hell Gate.
The celebration would end with the sunrise, when everyone would pass out in the hall, sleeping under tables, on chairs, or in doorways. Once that happened, Jagger would want a report. But until then . . . I wiggled my toes in the water.
Would Finn come for me?
Now he knew what I was, would he come?
I’d asked him to when I’d sent the wind. Would he listen?
I didn’t turn at the soft pad of feet across the grass. I knew the cadence of that stride. I pulled my knife free and held it lightly.
“You’re alive,” I said, still staring at the cloaked sun.
Justice smoothly dropped to the rock and settled next to me. “I’m alive.”
He smiled down at the knife and then untied one shoe at a time, carefully placing them on the rock. He peeled his socks off, stuck them in the shoes, and then rolled up his pant legs. Finally, he dipped his toes in the water.
“Cold,” he said, surprised. He wrinkled his nose.
