her small size an impairment, offering an inferior vantage point. She hates how often she must look up at people, how easily she gets shoved about in a crowd. Like a fucking child. Now she feels none of that. She is tall, powerful, deadly.
Bea wakes in a sweat. She shakes her head, looks to her hands: she’s a wren again, not a raven. Bea blinks several times, pressing out the images, distancing herself from the dream. She’s never fallen asleep over a book before. Bea thinks of her mamá. And, though she can hardly countenance it, the possibility that she too might be going mad stains her thoughts like the imaginary ink that stained her hands. This is Bea’s greatest fear—to lose her mind—far greater than death.
Still shaking, Bea glances about for her chubby stalker, suddenly wanting the reassurance of his bearded face. But she’s alone in the library now, not another student in sight.
11:45 p.m.—Leo
For every Grimm he’s killed, Leo has a scar. For every girl, a crescent moon. For every mother, a star. Spread across his shoulder blades and along his spine is a constellation, a galaxy of scars. Most of the time he forgets, but lately he finds himself thinking about these marks more often. Because he’s also thinking about her.
If, as he’s started imagining, they were to find themselves in close and unveiled proximity, how would he explain these scars? And she would ask. Every woman he’s been with has. Unless sufficient amounts of alcohol ensure that a good many things go unremarked upon. But Leo suspects Goldie isn’t the type for drunken one-night stands. He can’t be certain, but he’d be surprised. There seems a curious mixture of light and dark in her, a strange alchemical balance of innocence and experience.
Regarding the scars, he would lie, naturally. Since he cannot say: Oh, yes, they’re stamped upon my skin on the battlefield, engraved by the last breath of my latest kill. Who do I kill? Why, your sisters, mothers, aunts, cousins . . . Some I hunt for sport, the ones who aren’t pureblooded, to keep me sharp, to ready myself for those I have to fight on the night they turn eighteen. Will I kill you? Why, yes, if I can. I’m afraid I’ll have no choice, my dear.
A conversation stopper, if ever there was one.
By rights, he shouldn’t be able to lie to her. By rights, she should be able to tell. Her powers are far above and beyond such simple psychic abilities. And yet, she has no idea. These powers remain untapped, untouched potential.
And even though she’s the enemy, Leo still feels a twitch of sorrow at Goldie’s ignorance. She’s like a firework never lit, a flower that never blooms, a baby that’s never born. He feels the desire to tell her, to teach her, to be the one to unlock her potential, the first to see the firework ignite, the flower bloom, the baby born. Despite himself, Leo wants to say, You’re a Grimm unparalleled, the most powerful I’ve ever seen. You could be phenomenal, invincible, if only you knew.
Of course, he won’t.
Such a thing would be stupid. Such a thing would be suicide.
11:59 p.m.—Goldie
I lie on the sofa, staring up at the cracked ceiling with its patches of damp, listening to Teddy’s snores drifting across the room. Soon he’s going to need more than I’ll be able to provide. As he gets older the expenses will grow. Three hundred and forty-five quid will seem like nothing. How much longer will we be able to share a single room? Soon he’ll want one of his own. He won’t ask, but he’ll need it all the same, especially when he starts doing teenage-boy-type things.
I’m going to need a bigger, better plan. A heist. A big score. I start to ponder banks, and then I wonder how much Garrick keeps in the hotel safe.
6th October
Twenty-six days . . .
7:08 a.m.—Goldie
On my way to the staff room, I peek into the restaurant. There, eating a full English breakfast of the finest quality, is the French family. The mother pokes at the black pudding with distaste, but the father and son gobble it up. This is their last morning, their bags will be packed upstairs. I can’t explain how I know this. It’s an air they have—an air of preparation, expectation—as if their minds have left ahead of their bodies and they’re already halfway to France. Which means I must hustle.