The man keeps coming, and my heartbeat ricochets as I focus on Jax’s hand, the way he’s holding the knife tightly, the way his breathing is uneven now.
“I’m not letting anything happen to her,” Jax warns.
The man stops, then turns and runs, and Jax lowers his hand slowly.
“You would’ve used it,” I say quietly.
He doesn’t look at me. “If I had to.”
The train pulls in, and the doors open with a hiss.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Thankfully, the train car is nearly empty. The ride back is quiet. We are seated next to each other on an empty bench, not touching anymore, but not far either. I keep my eyes on the window, watching the dark slide past, trying to make sense of the night—the pawnshop, the tunnel, the odor still stuck in theback of my throat, the things I don’t want to think about too hard. My mind keeps slipping back to him—the feel of his hand, the way he made me feel safe through all of it. Where it really gets stuck, though, is in the messy memory of his lips on mine.
Thirteen
NOW | JAX
Idon’t know what the fuck is happening or what I’m feeling, only that it’s all too much. Too real and somehow not real enough.
“Put her over here!” someone shouts beside me.
A gurney slams into my hip. They pull her from my arms before I'm ready to let go. My hands come away with her blood.My fucking fault.Her head lolls with the movement, but her eyes don't open.
The doors burst open and my father blows in, looking like he’s been carved from exhaustion. I don’t remember the last time we saw each other, but I push the anger away because if anyone can put her back together, it’s him. He doesn’t give me a second glance, his focus a laser on her leg.
“Pressure dressing, now! Someone start an IV. I want her typed and screened—prep an OR.” he orders immediately.
A nurse presses gauze to the wound and blood soaks through instantly. The smell of her blood hits me and my fucking stomach clenches. I’m starving for it, my mouth watering, and at the exact same time I feel like I’m going to throw up all over the floor. It’s the most fucked-up thing I’ve ever felt.
My father’s gaze moves from the wound, up her body, and finally lands on her face. The clinical mask doesn’t just crack; it evaporates. His eyes snap from her straight to me. The question in them isn’t professional anymore. It’s a condemnation.
He rounds on me like I’m a threat, not a witness. “What did you do?” The nurses freeze. They look at him, then at me. He doesn’t talk to people like this. I know that much. But I haven’t beenpeopleto him in a long time. I’m the case he can’t solve, the problem he can’t fix.
“Tell me you can help her,” I rasp, and the magic claws up like it wants to rip itself out of me and finish the job.
He stares—reading me like he already decided the answer.
“She needs surgery,” another doctor says, her voice cutting through my horror. “Right now. If this cut is deep in the muscle wall, she could lose function. If it nicked an artery?—”
“She’s a dancer,” I choke out. “She needs her leg.”
A muscle in my father’s jaw jumps. “You better hope I’m good at my job,” he says, lowering his voice. “Whatever happened here wasn’t an accident, you and I both know it.”
Two nurses push the gurney toward a pair of double doors and I move to follow—instinct, reflex, gravity. My father steps in front of me, blocking the way with his whole body. “You don’t go past this door.”
He waits for me to argue, but I don’t, I can’t, and when my knees go weak, the magic uses—no, abuses—the opening, hitting me full force. I can’t fight it, I don’t even try, because not even on my best days could I stop this urge, let alone tonight. I close my eyes and let it in, and it doesn’t feel like losing control, it feels like finally admitting I never had any. My senses fracture open as my nostrils flare, catching scents that don’t belong here—rust, rain, sweat, fear—and my vision sharpens until I can see every pore in the tile. My muscles twitch and every cell in my body prepares for what comes next:the hunt.
The Markings stop burning—like accepting the mission numbed the fire. Or maybe there’s nothing human left to feel pain at all.
I walk out of the hospital without a sound. My feet move without thought and without choice. I look like someone wandering aimlessly—but I know exactly where I’m going. The train would get me there faster, but I don’t deserve fast. If I have to do this, I’ll feel every step.
Streetlights flicker as I pass, a trash can collapses inward, denting like a fist punched it but no one touched it. A stop sign twists as its metal bends like wet paper while storefront glass shivers as I walk by. I don’t reach out or gesture, because this is how I scream, by breaking things.
Tar City breathes like a sleeping animal, and I move through it like a predator. I'm aware of everything, from the water dripping from a busted gutter and the scrape of a shoe on concrete two alleys over, to the goddamn grease trap from the restaurant next door and everything in between.
I walk for miles until the city’s all a blur and I don’t even feel my legs anymore. My feet stop on their own when I reach the building. I see how the window is cracked but taped together with hope someone can’t afford to replace.First floor, too easy, too bad.The scent is everywhere—salt, milk, the faint sweetness of laundry detergent, and underneath it, life, new life.
