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Chapter 1
Ren
“Are you waiting for someone, honey?”the bartenderasked.
It was a reasonable question, considering that I’d been perched on one of the leather-cushioned seats at the bar for ten minutes without ordering anything. If the place had been any busier, he’d probably have pushed me a lot sooner. But there was only one other patron down the counter from me, a grizzled dude who was glued to his beer and the burble of the football game, and a handful of people scattered around the wooden tables in the rest of theroom.
I’d picked this bar for exactly that reason. If she came, it’d be somewhere low key, not too noisy or crowded. At least, that had felt like the right idea. It wasn’t as if she’d shown upanyway.
“Not exactly,” I said to the bartender, leaning my elbows on the counter. The smell of wood varnish and booze tickled my nose. “And if you’re going to call me anything, call me Ren.” Most of the times I’d heard “honey” in the last seven years, it’d been followed by a leer and agrope.
The bartender didn’t take offense, just grinned. “No problem, Ren. Can I get you anything, while you’re ‘not exactly’waiting?”
I was feeling too restless to want a drink for pleasure, but maybe that was why I should have one. It’d take the edge off my nerves. “I’ll have a BloodyMary.”
“That I can do.” His grin turned apologetic. “I do have to ask for ID. Take it as acompliment?”
I shrugged and pulled out my wallet. When I flashed the card at him, he chuckled. “Birthday girl, huh? It’s an honor to serve your first drink.” He raised an eyebrow. “Or at least your first legaldrink.”
Yeah, we wouldn’t get into the amounts of cheap vodka and rum I’d gulped for a buzz over the last several years. When you were crashing on the streets, there was always someone passing around a bottle in a paper bag. But I was done with that part of my lifenow.
There was only one thing stillmissing.
“Make it extra bloody,” I told the bartender. He saluted me and grabbed a glass. As he mixed the cocktail, I looked toward the door. Beyond the window, the headlights of Brooklyn traffic streaked by through the darkening evening. No one walkedin.
My hand rose to the locket that dangled just below my collarbone. I traced the delicate vine pattern etched in the warm gold. My chest still tightened a little when I flicked the locket open, even though I’d done it already a dozen timestoday.
The necklace was the last thing my mother had given to me. Seven years ago, but I could remember so vividly the way her dark eyes had shimmered with a hint of tears as she’d pressed the locket into my hands. She’d clasped her fingers over mine and leaned close. The perfume she wore, like smoky roses, had filled mylungs.
“I have to go,” she’d said. “If what I’m about to do works out the way I hope, I’ll be back before you know it. But if I’m not... You hold onto this locket. Don’t take it off for an instant. And keep it closed until your twenty-first birthday. Then, if I’m not here, you openit.”
At the time, turning twenty-one had felt so distant I’d hardly processed what she was saying. She’d left before on her little trips, but she’d never been gone more than a week or two. When she’d pulled me into her arms, I’d hugged her back a little harder than usual, but I hadn’t really believed she wouldn’t come back. She was the one sure thing I’d alwayshad.
But she hadn’t come back. And here I was, twenty-one. I snapped the locket closed, nudged it open, snapped it closed again. There was nothing inside but another etching, this one a symbol like an upside-down flame at the heart of a spiraling line. It didn’t mean anything to me. I wasn’t sure if it was supposedto.
Somewhere in the back of my head, I’d had the idea that the second I’d open the locket, Mom would know. She’d know, and she’d come find me. Whatever had been stopping her before, it’d beover.
I’d braced myself and popped it open for the first time twelve hours ago. And here I was, still twenty-one, sitting alone in a half-empty bar on a Thursdaynight.
Not alone for long. The bartender set my Bloody Mary down in front of me, and a guy who’d been sitting at one of the tables ambled over. He plopped onto the stool next to mine, called to the bartender for a gin and tonic, and looked me up anddown.
“You seem to be a little lonely tonight, sweetheart,” he said. His voice sounded as greasy as his hair looked. The armpits of his dress shirt were ringed with sweat stains. “Maybe I can help withthat.”
Hard pass on that one. “I’m good, actually,” I said. “No assistancerequired.”
He shuffled a little closer. He smelled like sweat too—sweat and the three to four drinks he’d already downed. Ugh. “Aw, come on. No harm in a littleconversation.”
I wouldn’t be so sure about that, I thought. The truth was, even if he’d been remotely appealing, I’d have steered clear. Me and guys didn’t seem to mix well. I’d had a few hook-ups over the years, but nothing that had gone past second base. As soon as things took a hot and heavy turn, a strange sensation rose up inside me. Like claws digging into my innards. And I’d suddenly feel as if I could rip the guyapart.
As if maybe I wantedto.
There’s nothing like visions of gruesome murder to put a damper on yourlibido.
That wasn’t the only time I felt the stirring of those claws inside me. The greasy guy tapped me on the shoulder with a smirk, and a prickle crept up over my ribs. The picture he was presenting snapped together into sudden focus. I could almost taste his bruised ego in its sauce ofdesperation.
“I’m not any more interested than your ex is,” I said, and took a sip of my Bloody Mary. “So how about you leave both of usalone?”
The guy’s face turned sallow. “Bitch,” he muttered. He snatched his drink off the counter and stalkedaway.
