Hopeless Creatures

Prologue

Cassandra

The blood is everywhere.

It rolls across the pavement like a crashing wave, a red so deep it appears black in the moonlight. I’ve never seen so much in one place.

This isn’t real. It can’t be real.

The thought is stuck in a loop, banging against the confines of my skull, but the metallic bite of sulfur and iron coating each breath tells me otherwise. Haphazard pops blare through the midnight street, jolting my bones with each blast.

Gunshots. Those are actual gunshots.

My eyes leap to the car I was just standing beside on the street, before all of the shooting and gore ripped through the block.

Just ten minutes before, the night had been like any other. I’d driven down to the city for the weekend, but with early classes tomorrow, I sent my friends home and walked back alone. Just twenty minutes to my car, I’d reasoned. What could happen in twenty minutes?

The irony tastes bitter now, swirling with the copper tang in the air.

Of course, by the time I heard the first crack through the night sky, I’d realized the depth of my mistake.

Stupid, Cass. So fucking stupid.

The pops echo against the walls of nearby buildings, making it impossible to discern any directionality.

The puddle on the dirty street creeps closer.

It’s not my blood. That much I know. My body curves into the large cans lining the alley, embracing the cool bite of metal digging into my side.

I need to stay small, stay hidden, find a way to get through this night.

But through the chaos, I hear something else.

A gravelly cough sputters into the darkness beyond me. Between us spreads a widening moat of blood, slowly encroaching toward my hiding spot against the alley’s shaded wall.

Someone else is here.

Unfortunately, I’m too terrified to steal a glance at the interloper.

I curl tighter, rocking on the balls of my feet.

Back and forth. Each rock brings a deafening crunch of the gravel under my shoes below, but I can’t stop.

Have to keep moving. Can’t freeze up. Freezing up means dying.

The glacial fear threatens to shatter me with every shot, but movement—even this pathetic rocking—keeps the panic at bay.

The river of red has just reached the tips of my boots when the gunfire stops thundering through the air. The aggressive voices also seemed to have cut off, making a shiver wrack through my limbs.

Is it over? Please let it be over.

I wait. Seconds? Minutes? I don’t know. The silence feels loud, unnatural after the cacophony of sounds from before.

I start to count my breaths, a pitiful attempt to dissolve the pit of fear in my stomach, but I lose track at twelve.

I’m too scattered to focus on anything but the horrifying stretch of silence.

I allow myself the comfort of one last rock. Back. Crunch. Forth. Crunch.

It’s time, Cass. Who knows how long the reprieve will last? We gotta move.

The coaching doesn’t work. I’m still stuck.

Shock? No, probably just stupidity.

We’ve been working through stupid for years, Cass. Work through it.

Move!

Dread coats my skin in a thick layer of film as I rise, the icy wind whipping into my unfurled figure like a flag in a storm. Cold is good. Cold means I can still feel. That I’m still alive. The thought should be comforting, but it only reminds me that someone else might not be.

Ears straining, I step forward on the platform of my toes, as soundlessly as I can manage. Quiet as a mouse. Just a blip in the shadows.

Another step.

It comes down harder than I wanted. My shoe lands right into the puddle of blood I’d completely forgotten about, a soft splash radiating in my wake.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Drops of reddish black coat my ankle, stark against my pale skin.

The warmth of it makes my stomach lurch.

That’s someone’s blood. Someone’s life is draining out onto the concrete.

Then a click crackles through the quiet of the alley, and I turn—

Only to be met with the silver barrel of a dripping gun.

An involuntary gasp leaves my lips.

Nausea overtakes my stomach, threatening revolt. This is how I die: in a filthy alley, covered in someone else’s blood, just minutes from the safety of my car.

I suck in a shaky breath, knowing with morose clarity that it very well could be my last. The gun warps in my vision, extending towards my chest like the eye of a spear.

I should’ve left earlier. Should’ve asked Jackson to walk me to my car.

Should’ve called a damn Uber. Should have, should have, should have…

But just like that, the barrel disappears. The gun splashes onto the concrete with a harsh thunk.

What the hell?

My brain struggles to comprehend the nonsensical action, but with the weapon gone, the space opens wide between me and the threat. A whole new danger overtakes it as a bright gaze pierces through the shadows.

Understanding dawns on my delayed faculties.

He’d been ready to defend himself against whoever was approaching. Why did he lower the weapon when he saw it was me? Was he expecting someone else? Whoever was shooting a few minutes before?

The large man is slumped against the brick wall in front of me, his dark clothes doing little to conceal the astronomical amount of blood loss seeping from his form.

Wild, blue eyes tear through me like a rabid bite, stealing the breath from my lungs.

They pass over me with an assessing gaze before lifting to mine once more with strained intensity.

An impasse. That’s what this is. Both of us are preparing for one to concede. My leg twitches, readying to sprint away at the drop of a hat. His hand hovers in the blood beside his weapon, a thick cough brutalizing his chest.

This is a serious predicament I’ve gotten myself into. The rational part of my brain knows that, but I can’t keep the inappropriate thought from bouncing around in my head.

Damn, he’s pretty.

I feel like an asshole the second the notion rises. What the hell is wrong with you, Cass? The man is suffering through his final moments, and you’re thinking about his bone structure?

My eyes blur and burn, forcing me to blink for the first time in minutes.

Run. You should run. My instincts clash through my vibrating body.

Unbidden, I can practically hear Mom’s voice echo through my head—”Trust your instincts, Cassy. When they tell you to run, you listen the first time.”

The hypocrisy of that statement always made some part of me rage.

It wasn’t advice she’d ever heeded. I still remember all those moments I begged her to run, to pack her things, and get us out of that house, but she never could bring herself to go.

She stayed for him. No matter how many times he hurt her, she stayed.

I always promised myself that I’d be different.

That I’d listen for those clanging warning bells.

So why are my legs refusing to move?

Movement snaps me back to the scene. The weight of his arm collapses in his lap. Then his eyes drift shut in disinterest, head settling against the wall. He’s giving up.

He’s just… giving up.

And instead of taking the reprieve to run somewhere far, far away, my foot slides forward into the puddle, leg moving of its own accord.

What the hell are you doing, Cassandra?

The voice in my head takes on Mom’s intonation, pitch rising in concern. Fantastic. Now I’m having conversations with make-believe-mommy in my mind.

Curiosity grows alongside my fear as I study the large man whose eyes are now pressed closed, his face carefully blank despite the soft choking sounds forcing their way from his throat every few seconds.

There’s something almost beautiful about his stillness, the type that belongs to ancient sculptures in museums. Not rodent-infested alleys.

He doesn’t belong here. But neither do you.

So why am I still here?

Speculations fly through my consciousness, but one thought rises above the rest. It swims restlessly in my stomach as I eye the weapon casually lying on the ground.

I haven’t stumbled upon some helpless victim.

A helpless victim wouldn’t have his bloody hand wrapped around the trigger of a gun. Normal people don’t find themselves armed and targeted in the middle of late-night shootouts. Whatever I’ve seen tonight was never supposed to be caught. Which means…?

Which means I’m now a witness to something that I never should have seen.

I can’t look away from him even as I think it. I can’t get myself to run. Something makes my ribs feel tight and my skin too stretched. Like walking away would somehow hurt me far more than it’d hurt him. I have no idea why. I don’t know this man. He could be a killer, a drug dealer, a—

A wet, desperate cough breaks the tension. The kind of sound that makes your chest twist in sympathy.

I take another steady step toward the danger.

Maybe I’m more like Mom than I thought.

My mouth peels open, but nothing comes out. What do you ask someone who’s bleeding out on 5th Avenue in the middle of the night? How’s your evening going? Need a band-aid?

“You need to go to a hospital,” I settle on, desperately straining to keep my words even despite the thundering beat in my ears.

Deep blue eyes snap open. The man’s shoulders and chest rise with a thick wheeze, and it takes me a minute to realize he’s laughing at me. Laughing. The sound quickly dissolves into another coughing fit, a spray of blood joining the spittle.

He’s laughing because he knows something I don’t. Because I sound like an idiot, a naive little girl. Because…

Because he’s not planning to survive this.

Spurred on by that terrible, knowing laugh, I ease forward, eyes trained on him as if approaching a cornered animal. He certainly had the look of one. From this angle, moonlight bounces off the trail of blood spewing from his lips. His eyes are set in a dark, tired look of resignation.

But there’s something else there, too.