Chapter 42
XLII.
The sun is at its highest when I take off from my mother’s backyard and race toward the few clouds patterning the sky.
This is only the second time I’ve used my wings, but they’re as strong as they were when I saved Nate from the bridge. My stomach coils at the memory. It might have been better if I’d let him fall into the fire. At least he wouldn’t spend his afterlife in Lot Thirteen.
While Nate’s house didn’t appear far on Mom’s tiny device, it takes forever before I spot the small cluster of homes she’d circled with her index finger.
I descend too quickly, landing with a grunt, and roll across the front lawn of 287, the house number I memorized from Nate’s file.
The home he lived—and died—in is taller my mother’s one-story house, but while her place is well maintained, with pristine paint and a manicured lawn, this one appears to be abandoned.
No one’s cut the grass I shake off my dress in a very long time.
It prickles my feet through the open-toed shoes my mother insisted I wear so that she could clean my boots.
A weathered for sale sign creaks as a breeze rushes by. The windows are dark, and no one answers my persistent knocks on the thick oak door.
My shoulders droop, and I drop my hand to my side.
So much for questioning Nate’s family.
I turn to leave, then stop.
Sherlock wouldn’t give up this easily. He’d search the house for clues. Even if that meant breaking and entering. Besides, is it even a crime if no one lives here?
I’m not totally up on Earth rules, but if Sherlock can do it, so can I.
The front door’s locked, so I circle to the back of the house and try each window until one pops open with a satisfying squeak.
I boost myself over the ledge, sucking in my gut and wriggling my hips through.
I tumble to the floor in a roll before coming to rest on my back in the middle of the room, panting.
I hold my breath and wait, but the only sound is my own racing heartbeat.
Pushing myself up, I glance around.
The room is dark save for the rectangle of light emanating from the window I dropped through. It smells damp, like the caves in Lapis. I feel along the wall until my fingers hit a light switch and flick it up. A single lamp above my head bathes the room in yellow light.
If someone’s abandoned this place, they forgot some of their stuff.
Boxes are stacked against the walls and beneath a set of stairs, the bottom ones bulging from the weight of those on top. Each one is labeled in black marker: neat handwriting, all in caps. Words like halloween and christmas and board games tattoo them.
One box draws my attention. It’s smaller than the others, tucked in the back like a secret.
The writing on it doesn’t match the rest—the edges of the letters are jagged and don’t always meet where they should.
They’re imprinted so deeply on the box that they’ve left a dent.
The hairs on my neck stand at attention as I run my fingers along the black lettering: nate.
He’s not forgotten, after all.
I kneel in front of the box and pry it open. A familiar face grins at me from the top of the pile, and blood pounds to my head. It’s a smile I’ve spent the last year with, one I’m desperate to see again.
Nate has his arm around an older human with salt-and-pepper hair and a thick mustache. They beam at the camera, the flash bathing them with a white light. In front of them sits a chocolate cake with blue icing that reads “Happy Birthday, Nate” in scripted letters.
Although Nate’s never described Gabe to me, this is unmistakably him. His eyes gleam, his head is tilted toward Nate, love etched as deep in his features as Nate’s name was on this box.
A twinge of jealousy tugs at my chest. What I would give for someone to look at me that way.
I frown as I study the photo further.
This was taken the same year Nate died. His arm’s clamped tight around the older man’s shoulders, fingers denting the skin, like he’s afraid of letting go.
I’m about to set the photo aside when something in the background catches my eye. I squint and tilt it toward the light.
There’s a boy in the shadows, a little older than Nate, standing between the two men.
He’s scowling, either unaware or unconcerned that the camera’s captured his disapproval.
Even in the semidarkness, his features are clearly a smoothed version of Gabe’s lined face, his blond hair gleaming in the light from the lamp beside him, his eyes piercing into mine.
This must be Nate’s foster brother. Nate mentioned he wasn’t very nice to him, but he left out the ick vibes he gives off.
Maybe it’s just me.
Dropping the photo beside me, I dig deeper in the box.
It’s mostly clothes and books, all weathered from use.
A smile tugs at my lips when I pull out Dante’s The Divine Comedy.
I flip through the familiar pages of Inferno, then land on Paradiso, where someone’s highlighted various passages throughout.
A yellow-tinted line in the first canto draws my gaze: “From a little spark may burst a flame.” Nate recited this to me when I was struggling to light the wooden planks by the river.
I chuckle.
Leave it to that boy to quote Paradiso in the middle of the actual Inferno.
“What are you doing?”
My head snaps up, and the book thuds to the floor.
I hadn’t heard anyone come home, much less creep into the room.
It’s the boy from the birthday photo. He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, amusement dancing across his features.
Not exactly the picture of someone who’s just encountered a stranger in their house rummaging through their stuff.
Not that I blame him for lacking concern. He’s twice my size, tall and muscular, his jaw and nose sharp as razors, his cheekbones curving up when he smirks.
By Earth standards, he’s probably considered attractive, but there’s a chill in his eyes that makes my insides squirm. It’s the same coldness I see in Ferus every day.
I stand, dusting off my dress, and widen my eyes in the “I’m innocent” way shadelings look at me in the Welcome Hall. “I’m Devica. A friend of Nate’s. And you are…?” I extend my hand in the traditional human greeting, my palm damp with sweat.
The boy stares, his gaze practically boring holes through me. He makes no move to take my hand, so I drop it to my side.
“Alex,” he says.
It’s a complete sentence that’s not an invitation for more, but I try anyway. “Nice to meet you, Alex.” I force my mouth into something I hope constitutes a smile and lie the way Father taught me. “Nate told me all about you.”
Alex’s eyes roam over my body, lingering too long in certain places. I suppress the urge to wrap my arms around myself. Instead, I keep the smile molded into my cheeks. He licks his lips, and my hand grips the hilt of my sword.
“You’re a friend of Nate’s?” he asks.
“You could say that.”
“Nate’s a killer.” Alex’s voice is as flat as the tile beneath our feet. “He murdered my dad.”
When I don’t reply, he eyes the open box at my feet. “I should’ve burned that when they put Dad in the ground. I don’t know why I kept any of his shit. Maybe I had the foresight that a pretty young thing would come through the window looking for it.”
He takes a step toward me, and I instinctively step back.
Humans shouldn’t unnerve me like this. I’m stronger than him. I could blast a ball of fire into his puffed-out chest.
But I should probably speak to him first.
“Nate didn’t kill your dad,” I blurt. “I came here to clear his name.”
Alex raises his eyebrows and strides slowly toward me. “Is that so? And have you found anything here to prove that?”
I frown.
A box of Nate’s crap gives me nothing to free him. Father won’t accept highlighted Dante quotes and used clothing as proof of his innocence. And Alex doesn’t exactly seem concerned with helping. His eyes narrow as he waits for my reply, and it’s enough to leave a sour taste in my mouth.
I’m sorry, Nate. Even the great Sherlock Holmes would’ve come up bust here.
“No.” I pick up Nate’s box and hug it to my chest. At least I can bring him some memories before he leaves for good. “Sorry I bothered you. I’ll take this and go.”
“You’re not going anywhere.” Alex grabs my arm, and the box spills at my feet as I’m flung into his soul.
Alex’s memories are nothing like Nate’s.
Whereas I viewed Nate’s good deeds through a white haze, Alex’s mind is dark, like I’m in a tunnel.
Even as a child, he was unkind.
He beat up other children before graduating to harming animals.
My stomach heaves as he ages into a teen who stalks women on the street, wretched thoughts in his voice buzzing through my head so loudly I want to shove my hands over my ears to block them out.
I’ve seen a lot of bad things where I come from, but I’m still not prepared for his mind.
Alex isn’t just bad. He’s evil.
I’m yanked further in time until I’m standing in a study, surrounded by hardbound books. I’m Alex and I have a gun raised at the man from Nate’s birthday photo. Gabe’s face is a mask of anguish as he pleads with his son to lower the weapon, tears streaming down his cheeks.
I strain to make out what he’s saying, but he’s cut off by two shots. His body jolts as blood pools on his plaid shirt. He falls to the floor clutching his chest, and I drop the gun and run.
I tear back into reality with a shriek, breaking away from Alex’s freezing touch.
Mr. Bellum tried to explain what I’d see when my sight was fully accessed—how sins would be clear as my own memories. He’d warned me that touching the person would be more intense. I’d experienced glimpses of it with Nate and on the street when we’d arrived in Los Angeles, but nothing like this.
Shivers course through me, my stomach clenching against the horrors I’ve lived through Alex.
If this is what Father feels when he’s judging, I understand his desire to punish.
Fury courses through me, making my teeth ache.
“It was you,” I manage through a tightened throat. “You killed your father.”