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I laughed. “You’re so bad at this.”
“I’ve never done it before!”
“So bad.”
“Whatever. I’d like to see you do better.”
I tried to think what
Grandpap had said. “Come on, you insignificant bastard. What the hell.”
“Whoa,” Mark breathed. “That… your grandpa taught you that? My grandpa had hair sticking out of his ears and always forgot who I was.”
“He taught me a lot,” I said. “Everything, really. Try it again.”
“Okay. Let me think. Uh—how about, what’s wrong with you, you strange whore?”
I choked. “Oh my god.”
“Why won’t you tell me your secrets, you fucking shithead.”
“I don’t know why I even let you come with me.”
“Asshole motherfucking dick—”
He was good. I could give him that. But before I could even think of telling him so, I saw it.
“There,” I said, pointing the flashlight. “See? Right there? That’s what’s wrong.”
“I don’t see anything,” Mark said.
“It’s—ugh, just give me your hand.”
He didn’t hesitate.
Later, much, much later, I would think about this moment. The first time we’d held hands. The first time we touched of our own choice. His hand was bigger than mine, his fingers thick and blunt. His skin was darker and warm. The bones felt brittle, and I knew of the blood that thrummed just underneath. My father had made sure of it. I belonged to it, to the Bennetts, because of what was in my own blood.
But I was only eleven years old. I didn’t understand then what it meant.
He did, though.
Which was why he inhaled sharply when I took his hand in mine, why out of the corner of my eye I saw the flash of orange in the dark underneath the hood of the car. He growled a little, deep in his chest, and I swore in that moment the raven took flight. I—
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
I dropped his hand, startled at the angry voice coming from behind us.
Before I could completely turn around, Mark was in front of me, pushing me behind him. I stood on my tiptoes, peering over his shoulder.
Marty stood there, looking flushed and pissed off. The man in the suit was confused, his tie loose around his neck.
Marty’s eyes narrowed when he saw me. “You. I know you. I’ve seen you before. You belonged to Donald.”
Donald Livingstone. My grandpap. “Yes, sir,” I said, because I’d learned early on that if you were polite to adults, maybe you could get out of trouble.
“And you,” Marty said to Mark. “I’ve seen you following this one around.”
“I keep him safe,” Mark said. “He’s mine to protect.”
