through the cloud of fear wrapped around my heart. If I am right, it’s a code. Dead Man’s Street—the dirt road that runs down by the Black River and the railroad tracks. He is telling me to meet him there; he has to be.
Believing it because I have no choice, I turn and head south. Without transportation, the trip will take at least an hour. I can’t risk the main city streets. Spies are everywhere, and they sell their information cheap. I stick to the shadows, drum up my courage, and run.
* * *
I crouch beneath an abandoned boxcar. It smells of human waste and rotting wood. The odors of oil and smoke join it, tinged with engine grease. The tracks around me are silent. Nothing disturbs the quiet of the moonlit train yard, save the occasional car that drives across the Wharton Street Bridge above, casting intermittent beams of light. I have been waiting for close to an hour, timed only by the ringing of a church bell on the other side of the river.
He isn’t going to show. I’ve fooled myself into thinking I still had one ally. My hands tremble, rocked by fear, inevitability, hatred. The tracks look like a nice place to throw myself the next time a train passes this way.
Gravel crunches. I peer out from the shadows of the boxcar. The sound draws closer, light steps trying to disguise themselves and failing. A figure emerges a hundred feet away, coming around the corner of a loading platform. He stops, waits. My heart soars, relief punching me in the stomach. Wyatt gazes around the train yard, moonlight glinting off his black hair. It accents the ever-present shadow on his face that no razor seems to touch.
I don’t move. Not even relief overpowers my ingrained sense of survival. I am a Hunter. I won’t move until I’m sure of my surroundings. It can still be a trap.
Wyatt steps farther into the yard and begins to unbutton his shirt. I stare. He shrugs out of the shirt, holds it at arm’s length, and turns in a slow circle. Exposed. Unwired. Asking me to trust him. I let out a breath. He puts the shirt back on, looking everywhere at once. Taking it all in.
Satisfied, I crawl out of my hiding place. He spots me and gapes. I realize I must be a mess, with blood on my clothes and in my hair, ash and soot adding gray to the red. He takes a step forward; stops. I wave him over. He comes.
I climb up into the boxcar, preferring its grimy, cobwebbed interior to crouching beneath it. Wyatt appears in the doorway, backlit by moonlight. I offer a hand and pull him up. His hand is so warm; I don’t want to let go. He surprises me by tugging me into a tight hug. My arms come up around his waist.
“I’m so glad you understood me,” he says. “Are you okay?”
Stupid question. “I’m pretty fucking far from okay, Wyatt. The Triads, the people I worked with for four years, won’t listen to me anymore. Why won’t they let me explain what happened?”
He disentangles himself, holds me at arm’s length. Black eyes seem to see right through me. “You know they won’t, Evy. They don’t give second chances. You’ve been marked as a threat. They won’t stop sending Triads after you until you’re dead.”
“You think I don’t know that?” I pull out of his arms and withdraw to the shadows of the boxcar. Dark and rot press in on me. “I’ve thought about turning myself in. Hell, I even thought about a spectacular leap off the bridge up there, because it seems easier than this. I don’t have anyone.”
“You’ve got me.”
The statement of singular fact unnerves me. I don’t deserve his loyalty, even though every fiber of my being craves it. Craves knowing I’m not alone in thisbattle. “If the Council finds out you’re helping me, they’ll kill you, too.”
“They can try, but they won’t.”
That certainty does nothing to settle my nerves. “You don’t know that, Wyatt.”
“Yes, I do.” He steps forward, hints of light casting odd, angular shadows on his expressive face.
Believing it because I have no choice, I turn and head south. Without transportation, the trip will take at least an hour. I can’t risk the main city streets. Spies are everywhere, and they sell their information cheap. I stick to the shadows, drum up my courage, and run.
* * *
I crouch beneath an abandoned boxcar. It smells of human waste and rotting wood. The odors of oil and smoke join it, tinged with engine grease. The tracks around me are silent. Nothing disturbs the quiet of the moonlit train yard, save the occasional car that drives across the Wharton Street Bridge above, casting intermittent beams of light. I have been waiting for close to an hour, timed only by the ringing of a church bell on the other side of the river.
He isn’t going to show. I’ve fooled myself into thinking I still had one ally. My hands tremble, rocked by fear, inevitability, hatred. The tracks look like a nice place to throw myself the next time a train passes this way.
Gravel crunches. I peer out from the shadows of the boxcar. The sound draws closer, light steps trying to disguise themselves and failing. A figure emerges a hundred feet away, coming around the corner of a loading platform. He stops, waits. My heart soars, relief punching me in the stomach. Wyatt gazes around the train yard, moonlight glinting off his black hair. It accents the ever-present shadow on his face that no razor seems to touch.
I don’t move. Not even relief overpowers my ingrained sense of survival. I am a Hunter. I won’t move until I’m sure of my surroundings. It can still be a trap.
Wyatt steps farther into the yard and begins to unbutton his shirt. I stare. He shrugs out of the shirt, holds it at arm’s length, and turns in a slow circle. Exposed. Unwired. Asking me to trust him. I let out a breath. He puts the shirt back on, looking everywhere at once. Taking it all in.
Satisfied, I crawl out of my hiding place. He spots me and gapes. I realize I must be a mess, with blood on my clothes and in my hair, ash and soot adding gray to the red. He takes a step forward; stops. I wave him over. He comes.
I climb up into the boxcar, preferring its grimy, cobwebbed interior to crouching beneath it. Wyatt appears in the doorway, backlit by moonlight. I offer a hand and pull him up. His hand is so warm; I don’t want to let go. He surprises me by tugging me into a tight hug. My arms come up around his waist.
“I’m so glad you understood me,” he says. “Are you okay?”
Stupid question. “I’m pretty fucking far from okay, Wyatt. The Triads, the people I worked with for four years, won’t listen to me anymore. Why won’t they let me explain what happened?”
He disentangles himself, holds me at arm’s length. Black eyes seem to see right through me. “You know they won’t, Evy. They don’t give second chances. You’ve been marked as a threat. They won’t stop sending Triads after you until you’re dead.”
“You think I don’t know that?” I pull out of his arms and withdraw to the shadows of the boxcar. Dark and rot press in on me. “I’ve thought about turning myself in. Hell, I even thought about a spectacular leap off the bridge up there, because it seems easier than this. I don’t have anyone.”
“You’ve got me.”
The statement of singular fact unnerves me. I don’t deserve his loyalty, even though every fiber of my being craves it. Craves knowing I’m not alone in thisbattle. “If the Council finds out you’re helping me, they’ll kill you, too.”
“They can try, but they won’t.”
That certainty does nothing to settle my nerves. “You don’t know that, Wyatt.”
“Yes, I do.” He steps forward, hints of light casting odd, angular shadows on his expressive face.
Similar Books
