Chapter 11
Idon’t know if it’s shock or fear, or something my father’s power did to me, but I can’t seem to get myself together.
One moment I was sitting beside him in the plush leather interior of his opulent towncar, begging for him to listen to me, to accept me.
To keep me. The next I was staring up at the greying sky, crowded out by masked males hovering over me.
Haunting replicas of skulls hide their features. The masks are dipped in black, the obsidian pigment running down the surface and fading into the bone-white fangs connected above their exposed mouths.
The one said they were here to help me. Sterling?
I feel the name float to me through the fog in my head.
Had I heard them call him that? He’d promised that they wouldn’t hurt me.
But I know who they are, and I can’t believe that’s true.
Even still, I cling tight to his leather jacket as he guides his bike effortlessly through the dirtied streets of the ungoverned district.
I try to keep track of where we are, some survival instincts still kicking in.
But the motion surrounding me makes my stomach turn and before long I’m burying my head into his shoulder.
“Not much longer,” he calls back. I can barely hear him over the rumble of his motor. But something about his words, his tone, softens the ache in my chest. Eases my worries, just a fraction.
Before long, we pull into a parking lot outside of a compound building.
On the left is a motel with flickering lights and a less than impressive entrance; to the right is a mechanic’s garage with the roll up doors open to reveal a few rundown vehicles and more motorcycles like the ones we are riding.
The male I’m with rolls his bike into a parking spot in the lot, swinging a leg over once it's stopped and hopping off the leather seat. He extends a hand for me, offering me a kind smile. He shed his mask at some point, though I can’t remember when.
I can hear the distant rumble of the other males, their approach imminent.
I swallow, taking his outstretched hand and allowing him to lead me inside the main entrance to the motel.
The inside is dim, and it takes my eyes a moment to adjust. He leads me through the entrance, over to a couch on the far end of a makeshift living room.
Everything is worn, dingy, and I can’t even think about the brown stains I spot with just a first glance around the place.
But as he eases me onto the couch, I’m suddenly thankful for its comfort.
As the shock wears off, the pain grows, my body sore and achy from the combination of last night’s attack and today’s turn of events.
I don’t know what all the ghouls did to me, how much damage they were able to inflict before these males found me.
But I can tell there’s new wounds, can taste the metallic tang in my mouth from fresh blood.
And they had made sure to point out the bite on my arm.
I’ve never encountered ghouls before, but my arm feels like it’s on fire, the bite flaring with heat as I cradle my arm against me.
“Hey." The male I think is called Sterling crouches before me, brushing a loose strand of hair out of my face. “We’re going to get you patched up. Just sit tight while we evaluate the damage, okay?”
I try to nod, feeling the way my eyes flutter as I attempt to focus on the words he’s saying.
The front door bursts open, the rest of the males trampling in.
I wrap my arms around myself defensively, burrowing into the corner of the couch closest to Sterling.
Exhaustion and shock must have numbed me of the fear that now comes back in waves, the realization that I have jumped from one threat to another.
“Easy,” Sterling calls over his shoulder, turning just enough to show his frustration.
My eyes dart from him to the others, trailing over each male.
The one before me looks kind, sympathetic, now that his mask is off.
But the others are still cloaked in the dark coverings—like something out of my worst nightmares.
It’s how I know who they are, how I knew even back in that alley when I first laid eyes on them. Why I know I'm not safe here.
They are the Blood Order. Enemies of the Watchers.
And as much as my father reviles them, I’ve heard endless tales of how they punish our kind for wandering too far into their district.
I know only too well that their methods can be worse than any death I would have met at the hands of those ghouls.
They are our sworn enemies. And they have come for me.
“Why did you save me?” I force myself to say. “What do you want from me?” But the words are too dry, too weak.
“What do we want?” The raven-haired one steps forward. “We just saved your life. Maybe instead of throwing accusations and assumptions around you could toss a thank you in first.” He folds his arms across his chest, cocking his head to the side as he watches me behind hollow sockets.
“Aamon,” Sterling grumbles, pushing to his feet and turning to face the others.
“Sterling,” the one called Aamon mimics his tone. Aamon, Sterling—I check them off my mental list, tucking information away into the recesses of my mind.
“She’s hurt and terrified. The least we could do is show her a little hospitality.” He tilts his head, and it's as if a silent conversation passes between the two of them. Aamon finally sighs, shaking his head as he raises his hand to his face and removes his mask.
My gasp is audible when the mask falls away to reveal the fighter I’d seen a couple nights ago in the Market Ebon.
The one whose tattoo-covered muscles claimed a bloody victory in the ring just as Dina and I were slipping away.
A smirk settles across his lips as he stares me down, somehow satisfied that he’s surprised me.
As if, perhaps, he recognizes me too? I tighten my hands into fists as his gaze pores over me.
The others follow his lead, shedding their masks.
I assess the two remaining males. One looks at me curiously through twinkling deep blue eyes, a hint of a smile pulling at his lips.
On his left, a broader, dark-haired male looks past me to Sterling, a worried look on his face as his brute muscles practically pop out from under his cut.
“Th–thank you,” I choke out, surprising them.
Even if I am afraid, I need to keep my wits about me, play along with whatever it is they have planned for me and show I’m not a threat to them.
He stills for an unnerving moment, as if debating to accept it, before turning to the blond-haired one behind him.
“Quinn, Go find Laurel. She should give her a once-over.” Aamon turns back to me, those dark eyes piercing. “Make sure nothing’s too terribly broken.”
I bite my lip, feeling exposed. The blond one, Quinn, disappears into the hall beyond the living room. The other male saunters over to the far side of the living room and leans against the wall, pulling out a blade and twirling it haphazardly between his fingers.
Sterling notices my eyes on the knife. “Don’t worry about Zeke,” he murmurs as he settles onto the couch beside me.
“He’s all bark and no bite.” I nod relaxing into him as he strokes calming circles against my back.
The motion is so intimate, like that of a companion, and I don’t have the energy to inch away from him.
I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t helping.
But Aamon . . . Aamon doesn’t move. Doesn’t take his eyes off me.
And even with Sterling’s touch against my back, I’m unnerved.
My skin goes colder the longer I feel his eyes on me, goosebumps breaking over my arms. Sterling must notice because he shimmies out of his leather jacket and drapes it over me in an instant.
Aamon’s eyes narrow at that, but he doesn’t protest.
“What have you boys gotten into now?" A quiet but stern voice calls from down the hall. I lift my shoulders, sitting up straighter to get a better look at the female making her way towards us. She’s small, surprisingly so. Waves of jet-black hair surround her, falling over her shoulders and tickling her waistline. A patchwork lace skirt flutters around her, an intricately carved wooden box in her hands. I’m instantly captivated by her presence, the unnaturally smooth way she moves simultaneously intriguing and off-putting.
She stops just short of Aamon, a hand on her hip as she evaluates the room.
When her eyes finally land on me, she tenses.
It’s the smallest movement, I barely catch it.
But I can tell she’s just as upset with my presence here as Aamon.
“Andras is not going to like this,” she chides, looking sidelong towards Aamon.
My body stiffens at the mention of the ungoverned district’s Alpha.
I had heard them mention him earlier, but the female’s familiarity deepens my suspicions.
They aren’t just minions at the bottom of the food chain.
They’re close to him, brushing shoulders near enough that a Watcher female in their midst could get them in a whole lot of trouble.
“Just tend to her." He lowers his voice, speaking directly to the female. “I’ll handle Andras.”
She lets out a long sigh, but nods, approaching me. “What’s your name, sweetheart?” She sets the box on the coffee table, opening it to reveal rows of small vials and herbs.
“Evangeline,” I half whisper.
Zeke, still brooding in the corner, huffs out something akin to a laugh and my gaze flicks over to him. “What?” The word is out of me before I can stop it. My eyes widen, my body tensing as I realize the error in my boldness. He meets my gaze, face hard and cold, but doesn’t say anything.
“Angel,” Aamon answers for him. “It’s a fitting name for you, given what you are.”
“I’m not an angel,” I bite out bitterly, half scoffing as my gaze swings back towards Aamon. “They are nothing but myth. Folk lore and fairytales for children of the High Quarter.”
“You’re a Watcher, aren’t you?” He frowns.
I nod, reluctantly. So far, no one seems to have pieced together exactly who I belong to in the High Quarter, and I can’t decide if that’s my saving grace or my ultimate downfall.
“So you’re as good as, in my book.” Aamon’s face contorts into a snarl, his words dripping with venom.
“You are wholly opposite our kind, living a life of comfort up in the clouds. For all I care, you may as well be a myth. Because whatever you are—Watcher, Angel, High Quarter whore—you are a thorn in my side and a nuisance who understands little about the pain your kind has put my people through.” He sneers, watching my reaction carefully.
I hold his gaze, despite the emotions rolling through me and the deep desire to run from him.
I’d always held sympathy for the members of the ungoverned district, but I’ve always been on the winning side of things.
Within the protection that being of the High Quarter affords.
It’s all too clear to me how much hatred runs between our kinds.
They may be healing me now, but Aamon’s face tells me enough: their sympathy won’t last long.