Sisters Red by Jackson Pearce Page A

and covered in barred windows. The other buildings on Andern Street are old and crumbling, and a crowd of shady-looking men hang out on the street corner.
    Silas begins mouthing the building numbers and slows the car.
    "This is it," he says with an air of finality. "Three three three Andern." He looks over at Scarlett and me as we duck in our seats to look up at the building.
    Nestled between two old office buildings and across from a vacant lot, it has the look of something that was once
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    elegant, beautiful, even: white paint peels off the boards, rusted sconces swirl by the door with a sort of Victorian air, and an octagonal cupola on the roof reaches to the sky. Most of the windows have the curtains drawn, all mismatched so that the building is a bit like a patchwork quilt. It looks soft somehow, as if the entire place were constructed from the same material as a beehive and could be crushed and scattered with one heavy gust of wind or a well-aimed rock. A group of homeless men leer at us, weathered faces scrutinizing me and then moving to Scarlett, whom they stare at with looks of amazement. She adjusts her eye patch.
    "We're on the eighth floor. Just stairs, no elevator," Silas says as if he's afraid we might change our minds.
    "Do we have a view of anything?" Scarlett asks, ignoring the hoboes.
    "Yep. The street, and we have access to the roof."
    "Good," Scarlett says sincerely. "Good for a lookout-type thing, I mean."
    "Right," I add, only because I feel as if I have to say something. I turn to look across the street. The vacant lot is surrounded by a dilapidated chain-link fence, tall grass, and two buildings that look like they're abandoned. In the lot I can see the frames of old cars, skeletons of a time when this street was a little more... alive. Silas does a three-point turn in the middle of the road under the hard stares of the homeless men--who I now think might actually be residents of our building--and parks in front of the vacant lot in what's barely enough space to be considered a viable parking spot.
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    Screwtape begins to howl again. I can't say I really blame him, if he can see his new home. I flash back for a moment to the sunny cottage, the bright flowers, the breeze that smelled like sweet hay, and the low rumble of cattle.
    Silas opens the driver's door and the wail of a police siren screams nearby. He glances up at the building, then back into the car. Scarlett is hurriedly gathering her things, so Silas's eyes linger on mine, some sort of concern flickering there.
    "I'm fine," I say softly. I realize only after the words have passed my lips that he didn't even need to ask the question. I pivot into the backseat and take Screwtape's basket cage from Scarlett. Silas pops the trunk, swings my duffel bag over his shoulder, and grabs a beaten red toolbox. One of the men catcalls at me, and Scarlett snickers.
    "Go on, Rosie, kick his ass," she says under her breath. She's overprotective when it comes to wolves but thinks it's especially hilarious how human men assume that girls can't defend themselves.
    The building is unlocked, the front door swinging open so quickly that it almost hits Scarlett in the face. The inside has the same sense of beauty gone to seed: cracked tile floors, heavily worn banisters, and a chandelier that's missing so many beads that it's practically just a ball of lights tied to the ceiling. The staircase spirals upward, each apartment jutting off a landing. Halfway up, a heavily muscled man flings his door open and scowls at us as we pass, a sickly sweet scent pouring from his apartment.
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    "Great. We live in a crack house," Silas says once the man has slammed his door shut again.
    By the time we reach the top floor, my muscles and Screwtape are screaming at me with equal intensity. Loud music thuds at us from below, so audible that the stereo might have been right next to us. Silas sets our bags down and fumbles in his pocket for a key, but there's no need--when I lean