throat was raw from that black, burning water. Still, my mouth moved and words came out, the dead speaking to the living, a séance that linked me one last time with the world of light.
All the while, the River Styx patiently lapped at the edge of my boat. Waiting for me to die.
If only I could dip my hand in the water.
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
Chaz:
The hospital lights were turned down low and everyone spoke in hushed tones, as if that would make everything easier, like it could somehow soften the blow to the gut that was on its way.
He was dying. My brother was dying and I had to talk to him. Even if he didn’t answer me. I asked Mom to give us a few minutes alone. She floated into the hallway, took holo Dad on some sort of glowing leash. I closed my eyes when he drifted past. Still can’t bear to get too close to that thing.
We were alone now. Russ and I. He was breathing, ragged and rough. The doctor said he’d had some sort of allergic reaction to the dart. It wasn’t a strong poison, but for some reason, maybe because of his weakened state from the spikes…there was no definitive answer for what was happening to him, but he probably wouldn’t make it through the night.
He would never see his daughter again. Even if we could find Isabelle, right now, he wouldn’t see her.
“Russ, it’s Chaz.”
His body lay still, arms tucked close to his sides. His eyes blinked open as he struggled against the darkness that surrounded him. “Isabelle,” he whispered. Then a long minute later, “My baby girl—”
I held his hand. He was looking at me now, one of those brief coherent moments before the curtain comes crashing down and the lights go out. I could barely hear his words, so I moved closer, caught him in mid-sentence.
“—that monster took her,” he murmured, “I couldn’t move, I couldn’t stop him—”
“Who was it, Russ? Tell me who took Isabelle—”
“—didn’t you smell him that night?” He struggled to grab my shirt and pull me closer. “Didn’t you smell him when everybody was chantin’ and throwin’ rocks? I can smell him, all the time—”
Rocks. Chanting. A stench wrapped around my intestines, soaked through my lungs. I could taste it in the back of my throat, heavy and sweet, like swallowing a mouthful of rotting honeysuckle. The night Dad was murdered. The nightmares. Somebody laughing in the darkness.
“Russ, are you saying that the guy who took Isabelle was there when Dad died?”
“—he’s gonna put her on the flyin’ horses—”
“Who? Tell me his name—”
He stared at me, as if he saw some dark terror in the distance, something approaching faster than he expected. He took one last jealous breath, then exhaled, long and slow. He fell still, all the answers I needed still locked inside.
There was a moment when all the lights in the room seemed to dim, when the darkness came on leather wings. It sat beside me, nameless and faceless, a beast all claws and teeth. I recognized the presence. Remembered a time when we met before.
Right now, more than anything I needed closure. And accountability.
“I’ll get her back, Russ,” I said, my words catching in my throat. I had to pause, had to ignore the gen-spike stench and the black slithering shadows. “No matter what it takes, I promise, I’ll get Isabelle back.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
October 14 • 4:59 A.M.
Chaz:
Midnight poured down into my gut, cold and stark. The monster that took Isabelle hadn’t contacted us yet. I had a team of people searching the Grid for any clues. I hated to admit it, but my niece would probably turn up in the Underground Circus. I had to have people in place, watching for her.
All of them would be watching for a five-year-old, almost six-year-old, girl who would be sold in a few hours to the highest bidder.
Right now Angelique and Pete were sleeping off the venom that some punk had shot into their veins. In the morning, they’d help put together the disjointed pieces of this puzzle. Somehow they’d each played a part in this and it was time for them to confess.
Whether they wanted to or not.
But I didn’t know if I would survive that long. Isabelle was out there somewhere, scared and alone. Waiting for someone to rescue her.
I stood on a wrought-iron balcony, overlooking the French Quarter. The day had been sliced neatly in half, divided down the middle into dark and light and I