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An arm comes around my shoulder and I jump.
“It’s okay,” a woman says. “You’re safe.”
“Where’s Fia?” Adam asks.
“How do you all not know?” I ask. “I thought she had a plan. You are the plan. Right?”
“She didn’t tell us anything,” the woman says. “Do you have any idea what she’ll do next?”
I shake my head. Fia’s future is always a mystery to me.
FIA
Five Days Before
“MISS FIA, YOUR SHOULDER—” THE SECURITY GUARD says, eyes wide.
Ignoring him, I skip inside, the opulent, open lobby of the school swallowing me whole. James turns a corner, his suit all well-tailored lines of professionalism, sleek and slippery and mature. I hate it when he wears a suit. When he wears a suit he is Mr. Keane. His easy smile freezes before it can touch his eyes. He’s scared for me.
It’s adorable.
“What happened?” he asks. Ms. Robertson (I hate her I hate her I hate her I hate her) is behind him, a sheaf of papers clutched to her starched chest.
I shrug—it hurts—then flop onto one of the leather couches. I’ll get blood on it. I’ve poured a lot of blood into this school, but it’s still thirsty, it’s always thirsty.
“Ran into an old friend. And his knife. Why do so many of my old friends have knives?”
Ms. Robertson stomps toward me, glaring at my arm like it’s personally offensive. “My office. We’ll see if we can patch you up without stitches. Who did this?”
I smile at her. Hello, Doris! Hello, Doris! Hello, Doris! Hello, Doris! Hello, Doris! Hello, Doris! Hello, Doris! Hello, Doris! Hello, Doris! Hello, Doris! Hello, Doris! Hello, Doris! Hello, Doris! Hello, Doris! Hello, Doris! Hello, Doris! Hello, Doris!
She glares at James. “Make her stop.”
James raises an eyebrow at me. “Fia?”
“What? All I said was hello. It’s polite to say hello. Hello, Doris.”
Huffing, she leaves and I stand, slightly woozy, to follow her. “Who was it?” James whispers.
“Dmitri. Russian mobster? He was mad that I stole millions of dollars from him. Silly man, doesn’t he know money is imaginary?” It’s paper that turns into numbers on screens. It’s there, then it’s gone. I put it places, I take it out, I move it somewhere else. Imaginary. Most things are imaginary, when you think about it.
Sometimes I think I’m imaginary.
“Dmitri,” he growls, nodding. “If I had been there . . .”
“I still would have fought him and won, but then I would have had to worry about you, too.”
James gives me a wry half smile. “At least let me pretend I can defend you sometimes.”
I pat his cheek. “You’re so cute when you’re delusional.”
“And you’re sexy when you’re on a post-fight high.” His eyes search mine, more serious than his tone would indicate, and I know he’s looking to see whether or not I’m falling apart. He doesn’t need to.
I’m better than I was a month ago. A week ago, even. It was bad, but James held me together. He whispered dark, secret things to me and helped me escape myself with promises of flames and freedom. I narrow my eyes but smile, to let him know I know what he’s looking for and that he won’t find it.
“Don’t tell Doris about Dmitri. I’ll be there in a minute.” James brushes a kiss along the top of my head. I lean into him, breathing in, wanting to lose myself there, needing to lose myself there. “Where were Johnson and Davis?” he asks.
I take a step back. “How am I supposed to know? It’s not my fault if my shadows can’t stay attached to me. Call Wendy Darling. Maybe she can sew them to the bottoms of my feet.”
