He brushed a gentle hand across my cheek, then he winced as Darin pulled the dagger free.
“Mari,” Darin said. “So it is you. Looks like you came back a psychopath. Nice. It’s too bad. I used to like you.”
Finn stiffened and moved a fraction of an inch, placing himself between me and Darin. I grinned over his shoulder. I swore, if he called me a creature or asked me to make him an omelet, I’d knock his head off his shoulders.
The fog was clearing. The blue sky and the sun had nearly pierced through the mist.
Below, there was the distinct sound of a man’s groan.
Justice.
Darin’s eyes narrowed. He turned toward the railing.
Finn held me by the waist. Even after I’d stabbed him, he refused to let me go.
Well, even after I’d killed him, he refused.
“Mari,” he said, his voice urgent, “I’m coming for you. Okay? I’m coming.”
I shivered. It was too much like the warning he’d given Griff.
“You shouldn’t have killed Griff,” I said, jabbing his kidney. At his indrawn breath, I broke free of his hold.
Darin held his hand out, conjuring a nasty surprise for Justice.
I ripped it free, untying his knots.
Then I leaped onto the grotesque’s back and dove toward the shoal. Justice had struggled to his feet. He was white-faced, with a trail of blood dripping down his forehead. As the grotesque skimmed over the outcropping, Justice ran across the jutting rocks and jumped onto its back. He gripped me around the waist and held tight.
The wind rushed around us, and I spurred the grotesque higher. When I looked back, Darin had jumped down to the shoal, but Finn was staring after me.
I’m coming, his stare promised. I’m coming for you.
But was he coming to save me, or to destroy me?
14
The wind slipped through the door behind the boy. It stayed close, loath to let him out of its sight. He’d taken his time, wandering through back alleys and shadowed places. The boy was looking for something, although he didn’t tell the wind what. Or who.
But finally, the boy had swayed on his feet, nearly too fatigued to stand, and so the wind had shoved him until he finally admitted he was human.
Humans needed food. Water. Sleep.
So the boy had come to the safe house. It was a forgettable yellow-brick townhouse sandwiched between other forgettable yellow-brick townhouses on a nondescript street of utter insignificance in the middle of an insignificant neighborhood. The only unique thing about the street was that people rarely walked down it, and if they did, they forgot everything about it quickly after. It wasn’t illusion; it was just . . . forgettable.
It was in Brooklyn, which the boy didn’t mind, because he liked long subway rides, and also, his favorite pizza place in the entire city was near the subway stop. He’d eaten a slice, folded in half and dripping with melted cheese, before stopping at the dry cleaner’s.
The wind shoved past the boy, blowing through the safe house’s entry. It crinkled the dry cleaning’s plastic covering, pushing the dead, chemical scent across the room.
The boy quietly closed the wooden front door and turned the dead bolt. The safe house was small. It wasn’t expansive like the wood castle in the north. It wasn’t stately like the marble mansion on Fifth Avenue. The safe house was tiny, like a small child hidden under a cardboard box, with their arms wrapped around their knees and their head tucked in tight. The safe house barely dared to breathe.
The boy let out a long sigh and held out the dry cleaning. “I’m back,” he said quietly. “I picked up your dress at the cleaner’s.”
The wind swirled around the woman’s ankles. They were cold, even though she wore stockings beneath her linen dress. It fluttered the edges of the fabric and drifted over the airy, absent feel of her.
The man’s wife had always reminded the wind of a flute. She was a hollow tube that air rushed through. An empty sort of being. But she wasn’t always hollow. Sometimes, she’d wake up and play beautiful notes that made people weep. Conjurers claimed the woman had lost her mind when the boy destroyed his mirror, but the wind knew she’d always been reedlike and empty. She’d only become more so over time.
The wind played with the hem of her dress and inspected the room. There was only enough space for a small divan, one bookshelf, a television, a tiny round table with three chairs, and a wall with two kitchen cabinets, a sink, a two-burner stove, a dishwasher, and a small square refrigerator. The divan had a rumpled blanket on it, as if the woman had taken an afternoon nap. The television flickered noiselessly. In the back, there were two closet-size bedrooms and a bath.
