Chapter Twenty-Three
I can remember only three times in my life when I have felt bone-chillingly, life-flashing-before-my-eyes, shit-my-pants scared.
The first was when my parents took me into the city to see Cirque du Soleil when I was six.
It was my first time at Madison Square Garden, and the number of people in the stadium, sucking the life out of the room, overwhelmed me.
I felt like I couldn’t breathe. By the time the contortionists took the stage and began bending their bodies backward, I was throwing up into my popcorn.
The second was in high school, when some wiseass who believed the Middle East was monolith and couldn’t tell the difference between Syria and Serbia spray-painted BOMBS AWAY!
on my locker. When I entered my combination, a ticking sound filled my ears.
For about thirty seconds, I actually believed that some idiot bully had the gall to bring an explosive device to school.
Turned out it was just a kitchen timer. But the scare tactic worked all the same.
The third was a year after I graduated from college.
It was a Friday night, and Kyle had discouraged me from going out with my friends.
We were curled up on the couch, my head nestled into his chest, watching a movie.
An actor came on screen, and before my brain could catch up with my mouth, I murmured, “He’s so hot,” under my breath.
Without warning, Kyle’s right hand stopped caressing my hair and wrapped around my throat.
And squeezed. Lightly. Then a bit harder, until I felt the oxygen leaving my lungs.
When he released me, he insisted I apologize to him for being insensitive.
Three times in my life.
Three incidents that made me feel like the rug had been pulled out from under my feet, like my days on this Earth were numbered, like my limited time here was precious.
All three times, I was immobilized by my fear.
But that version of Joonie?
She had never heard of EGC.
That Joonie had never met the Salty Girls.
And that Joonie hadn’t read A Tale of Salt Water & Secrets upward of seven times.
So when I turn around and come face-to-face with one of my foes, a tiny voice in my head whispers: Not this time.
“Good to see you, sugarplum.” Thomas’s smile is menacing.
He makes his way around the block on the right-hand side, still dressed in that same gaudy velour tracksuit.
“We were so sad when we returned to find y’all missing.
Didn’t your folks ever teach you that it’s rude to leave a party without saying goodbye? ”
Nico takes a casual step in front of me, adopting a protective stance. “Apologies for our etiquette,” he says, his voice steady. “We were looking for more…comfortable accommodations.”
Thomas clicks his tongue. “And after we were so welcoming, too. Giving you two stragglers a lift. What ever happened to gratitude?”
Clarisse turns the corner opposite from her partner, approaching us from the left, her blue hair billowing behind her like a rogue wave. She blows out a cloud of smoke from her vape, her red lipstick smeared all over her face and teeth like she has a bloody nose.
I feel Nico stiffen next to me, fighting the urge to panic.
Think, Joonie. What would Merriah do?
Well, she’d fight back, that’s for damn sure. She’d call upon the powers of the treasure trove. Too bad I don’t have an ancient conch to call Tey with or a dorsal fin to rub, signaling a horde of bloodthirsty dolphins to come to my aid.
I do, however, have a borrowed phone.
Without breaking eye contact, I reach into my pocket and find Roy’s burner. I type a message without looking at the screen and press send, dispatching it to my few contacts.
A Hail Mary.
And now I need to keep these circus freaks distracted.
“How did you two even find us?” I ask, buying time.
“Did you put trackers on our bags or something?” Nico suggested we ditch our stuff, and I called him paranoid.
Insisted that there was no way two amateur thugs with what was surely a paint gun and a taser would be able to pull off such CIA-worthy tomfoolery.
“It wasn’t easy, I’ll tell you that much,” Thomas says. “We had to phone a friend.”
The door of a punch buggy parked on the street opens.
I hear the chiming of thick gold clanging together first.
Then I see the fine leather shoes.
The slick, gelled-back hair.
The receding hairline.
And the…surprisingly youthful face? Like, this guy moisturizes. I want to know about his skin care routine. He looks way too young to be the notorious Harry “the Hug” Lester.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Who are you supposed to be?”
The man bristles. “They call me Little Lester, or the Shrug. I’m Harry’s nephew.”
“Nephew?” I wrinkle my nose. “Harry didn’t want to come himself?”
He lets out a loud, exasperated sigh. “You don’t think the head of a crime syndicate does this kind of dirty work, do you? Give me a break. The Hug’s at the spa.”
Of course this juvenile in need of a toupee is waving a gun in my face while the real villain is getting a cucumber facial.
“Do they really call you the Shrug?” I ask.
The mobster grins. “Where’s my shrug at?”
“Is that supposed to be, like, half a hug?”
“Enough with the questions,” he snaps. Guess I hit a nerve? “They’re just nicknames. My real name’s M.C.”
If that’s short for Marrion Chad, I’m literally going to kill myself.
I stare at him. When I don’t move, he pulls me against his chest with a touch too much force. There’s a threat in that embrace. He pats my back, his hand wandering for a disrespectful moment. Then he pulls back and winks.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Beware the goat dressed as a lamb. Where have I heard that phrase before?
“We all work the same circuit,” the Shrug continues, gesturing to Thomas and Clarisse.
“Last year, we met while running a long con on the coast. Now I send them to retrieve items that belong to me and have a habit of running away. Your friend Nicholas is one of them. And from what I’ve heard, you have something valuable of ours as well.
Luckily, I’ve got eyes and ears all over this city.
So this meeting was somewhat inevitable, wouldn’t ya say? ”
Clarisse holds up our phones between two fingers.
“Plus, once we charged your phones, this number kept calling. Of course we wrote it down and gave it a ring from a burner. Super sweet, your mother is. Big talker, too. A bit gullible, though. We’ve been staking out the neighborhood ever since. Figured you’d show up eventually.”
They must have claimed they’d found something of his and offered to return it out of the kindness of their hearts, like the good Samaritans they are. Why wouldn’t she share her address? Especially since we conveniently forgot to tell her that we’re on the run from the literal Mob.
Um. Oops?
“I’ll cut right to the chase,” Thomas says. “You two are coming with us. One of you stole something from us, and it made, uh, a very important person unhappy.”
The ledger Nico took.
The one we accidentally-on-purpose never turned in to the police.
The one that’s now hidden in my purse.
And now this trio of freaks has us surrounded.
Thomas is on our right.
Clarisse covers our left.
M.C. “the Shrug” Lester stands in front of us.
We are a little too far away from Nico’s mother’s apartment for her to hear us scream. All around us, locals pass by, unbothered by the spectacle. Minding their own business. Fucking New Yorkers.
For all intents and purposes, we are trapped.
It’s Nico who speaks first, his voice clear and curt. “I have what you’re looking for. Let her go, and I’ll consider giving it to you.”
A bluff.
I know that the notebook is nestled somewhere inside my bag.
He’s sacrificing himself to protect me, just as Ryke would.
“Aw, how sweet,” Clarisse coos. “Looks like these two lovebirds finally figured their shit out. Fly, little birds. Fly!”
“That don’t make any sense, Rissy,” Thomas chuckles. Then, to Nico, “Too little too late, kid. Lester Senior wants a return on his investment—with interest. And you’re going to give it to me, even if I have to break every bone in her body.”
The sound Nico makes at his threat isn’t human, somewhere between a growl and grunt.
His chest puffs up. He bares his teeth.
I watch as he transforms into something more animal than man.
Practically primal, lethal.
And when he opens his mouth, his voice is a low, forbidding warning.
“If you lay a hand on her,” he says, “you will lose that hand.”
I hold my breath.
If he says, Touch her and die, I will lose my goddamn mind.
“Touch her and die. Simple as that.”
Holy fucking shit.
“How romantic,” Clarisse whispers to Thomas.
He glares in response. “An empty threat. Do you want to do the honors, or should I?”
I stare at M.C., who’s watching the scene with interest.
I try to communicate my desperation to him with my eyes.
“Take the ledger and go,” I plead with him. “Nico doesn’t have your money. We have nothing left to give you.”
He shakes his head, the corner of his lips curling into a half smile.
We know too much. I mean, we’ve seen too much.
Do not use your mind or your eyes to guide you. Follow the moonlight of your heart.
It all clicks into place—the prophecy the fortune-teller gave me on the train. Of course. Why didn’t I think of it sooner?
Three men emerge from a shallow pool of damnation.
My journey to find true love.
One made of tree sap and ink.
Ryke. The hero of my favorite series.
The second, hallucinations and the fog of the mystic.
Ryan Mare. The perfect man, but only in theory.
And the third, flesh, fire, and the truth of the histories.
Nico. The boy of my past and the man right in front of me.
When the squatting bird chants twice, go forth to the fallacies of your soul.
The pigeons. They chirped twice just moments ago.
Do not use your mind or your eyes to guide you. Follow the moonlight of your heart. Beware the goat dressed as a lamb. Only then will you defeat the fool and the red-painted maiden and land in the arms of the steady tide.
I have already underestimated Harry Lester, his nephew, and his band of thieves. The only way I can defeat Thomas the fool and bloody Clarisse is to follow the moonlight of my heart. To look inside myself and let that truth guide me.
For what you seek, you hold in the marrow of your shrouded words.
I am a reader. A writer. Words have always shown me the way.
They will not fail me now.
I know what I have to do.