I roll my eyes. “Some of us have no desire to run a gang. I was able to handle Orion. It was the constant hunting that would have gotten old had Dox not suggested we go through the Harrow.”
Nodding, Locke picks at the small pieces of food left on his plate. “She gonna be okay?”
“Dox? Yeah. She’s a viper and she has connections that will get her through until the next gate opens. She even has an Chronal Mapper who loves her, so I have no doubt she’ll be coming in with the next gate.” I tilt my head back. “I just gotta survive until then.”
“I don’t have any family in Dross,” Locke says flippantly. “No one to leave behind. No one to miss. No one that’s made it to the other side either.”
“So then why did you enter the gate?” I ask curiously. “Most have a reason.”
He shrugs. “I didn’t plan on entering. I was just walking past when the Harrow Gate formed. I was pissed because Mother Remainder hadn’t paid me for my last haul and there those Ascendant Guard bastards appeared like shiny fucking beacons. My anger shifted when I saw them.” He tilts his head back and leans it against the booth, slumping down in the seat. I can feel the warmth of his legs spread around mine beneath the table. “I thought to myself, ‘Why am I putting up with this shit when those rich bastards are living in luxury? Why do they get all the glam and we have to fight for scraps and prostitute ourselves for some terrible fucking Harrow Bars?’” His eyes go half lidded. “I decided I wanted to make them all pay for that, so I got in line. The rest is history.”
I study him. He speaks about anger as if it’s some outside entity begging to be heard, but Locke practically vibrates with it despite his attempt at flippancy. Even now with a full belly and fully healed, he carries that anger like a shield, and at any moment, he could use it to bludgeon me to death.
“No parents?”
“Nah,” he says, looking down. “I was a street rat. By the time I was old enough to understand what parents were, they were gone. You?”
I look at the television where it flashes some sort of strange looking woman dancing around a field of flowers. It looks peaceful. She’s singing but I can’t hear what she’s singing about.
“I had a mother,” I admit.
Locke picks up on my phrasing. “What happened to her?”
“She was fragile. Luxe-born.” Locke’s eyes widen. “She couldn’t handle the shitty air in Dross. Died when I was seven, but she was never quite right before that. I don’t have any happy memories to look back on or anything.” I hum. “Unless they involve Dox.” I meet his eyes. “We were children in the Suffer Saint Covenant where my mother was treated. We left together once she died.”
“Fuck,” Locke says. “Luxe-born? I’ve never met a Luxe-born in Dross.”
“You wouldn’t,” I say. “She wasn’t an Ascendant.”
“How did she get to Dross then?” Locke asks. “Only Ascendants can come to Dross from Luxe.”
I could tell him the truth, but some part of me doesn’t want to. I don’t want him to know what kind of blood flows in my body. I don’t want him to look at me with that anger he carries even if that’s ridiculous. I’m not an enemy. I have just as much anger as he does, if not more, but it’s been a secret I’ve carried for years. Only Dox knows, and she’s not here to reassure me that it’s okay to speak about it now. If anything, it feels more dangerous since I’m one step closer.
“No idea,” I lie. “There wasn’t exactly many Suffer Saints who were forthcoming with information.”
Locke accepts that answer and closes his eyes. “Do you at least have something to remember her by?” At my hesitation, he adds, “You don’t have to tell me if it’s some secret.”
My hand runs down my thigh to the pocket there. Weapons don’t come from Dross into the Harrow, but apparently, tiny journals do. It’s worn and falling apart now. I’ve read it too many times, poured over the contents as if they’d give me some new answers. They did eventually, but it wasn’t any of the answers that I wanted. There were only more questions.
“Her journal,” I admit. “Did you know there are books in Luxe? Great libraries full of them?”
“Not surprising considering they hoard all their wealth,” Locke replies. “Of course, they’d have that sort of luxury. Meanwhile, we have to learn to read by letters scratched in rusted metal and drawn in the dirt.”
I pull the small purple journal from my pocket and gently set it on the table. Locke’s eyes focus on the worn leather cover, the gold initials, and the way my hands hover protectively around it.
“She liked animals,” I say. “My mother. So, she read lots of books on those.” I flip open the book. “She was also an artist and copied some of her favorite parts in her journal.” I flip to halfway into the book, where I know the pictures are. It falls open easily because I’d stared at these particular pages for so long, I knew all the markings and words by heart. “These are my favorite, and they were hers, too.” I tape the delicate sketched ink. “This . . . is a hyena.”
Locke leans forward and stares at the drawing. “It’s weird lookin’,” he comments. “Deformed even. Look at those shoulders.”
“No,” I laugh. “They’re just built that way. They’re interesting creatures that lived a long time ago.” I smile at the drawing. “My favorite is that they’re matriarchal.”
Locke frowns. “What does that mean?”
“That the females lead the pack,” I say. “Instead of the males.”
He looks contemplative as he studies the picture. “In my experience, women can be more savage.” He leans back, his eyes focusing on me. “No wonder you relate to the creature.”
I raise my brow and close the book before tucking it back safely in my pocket. “Are you saying I’m savage?”
