Chapter 13
London
Mom's house smells the same—stale cigarettes baked into the wallpaper, the chemical tang of whatever cleaning product she over-sprays to mask it, and underneath, a sour rot that never goes away no matter how many windows you open.
I stand in the entryway with my duffel hanging from one shoulder. The door clicks shut behind me. The house is dim. The curtains are drawn, and only a single lamp is glowing from the living room. There’s no sound except the hum of the refrigerator and the distant tick of the kitchen clock.
"Mom?" My voice echoes against the narrow walls.
No answer.
I climb the stairs to my old room. It's exactly how I left it—bare mattress, empty closet, a few books on the shelf. I drop my duffel on the mattress and sit beside it.
My phone is dark. No messages from Zeus. No missed calls.
I wonder if he knows I left yet. If so, does he know where I went?
Probably. On both accounts.
My chest aches with a deep hollowness. I press the heel of my hand against my sternum and force myself to breathe.
I made the right choice. I'm protecting him from the burden of me—from the constant reminder of a man who betrayed him. An ex-friend he was forced to kill.
I made the right choice.
So why does it feel like I'm dying?
Shuffling sounds pull me out of my spiral.
“Mom?” I call again.
No answer.
I head to the first floor and check the living room and the kitchen. Empty. Then I notice the basement door is ajar, a strip of yellow light bleeding up from below.
"Mom?"
I descend the stairs one step at a time. The partially finished basement comes into view—the old sectional couch, the TV mounted on the wall, the stained carpet Greg never replaced. And my mother, crumpled on the couch, wrapped in a blanket despite the warmth of the house.
She's shaking. Not a subtle tremor—full-body shaking that makes the couch frame rattle against the wall.
Sweat darkens her hairline and plasters thin strands of hair to her gaunt face.
Her arms are exposed, and she's scratching—dragging her nails up and down her forearms in frantic, repetitive strokes that have left angry red welts.
"Mom." I rush to her side and crouch. "What's wrong? What's going on?"
"Baby." Her eyes are glassy, unfocused. She grabs for my hand and misses, her coordination shot. "Thank God you're here. Thank God."
The moment she spots me she grabs her phone from beside her. Her thumbs fly across the screen, texting with a speed that contradicts her shaking hands.
I can’t figure out what’s wrong. Is she ill? Why is she behaving like she’s having drug withdrawal symptoms? That can’t be the case. It doesn’t make sense.
"I need it." Her teeth chatter. "I need it so bad, London. You don't understand. My whole body is—it's like bugs under my skin—"
My heart sinks.
“Mom, you just got out of the hospital." I grip her wrist gently. "You were in a coma for weeks. You detoxed. Unless—"
Unless she started using again the moment she got home.
The realization hits, along with a wave of disappointment.
"Mom." I release her wrists and lean back on my heels. "Who have you been getting Raven from?"
Her phone buzzes on the cushion beside her. She lunges for it, and again, her fingers move with uncanny speed considering her condition.
"Mom. Who are you texting?"
She doesn't look up. She types faster. Sends the message.
"Mom!" I grab for the phone.
She yanks it away, clutching it to her chest.
"She's here," she mutters at the screen. "She's here, okay? Now can I have my stuff? Please. Just a hit. I need it so bad—"
Oh, my god, she’s delusional.
"Who are you talking to?"
"Me." The voice is deep, accented, and calm.
I spin around.
A man stands at the base of the stairs. He's tall and lean, dressed in black jeans and a fitted jacket. His head is shaved, and crawling up the side of his face—from jaw to temple—is a tattoo of a bird. A crow.
He has the blackest eyes I’ve ever seen, but that’s not what makes my blood turn to slush. It’s the vacancy there. The emptiness. The total lack of compassion or empathy in those eyes.
He smiles, but his gaze remains cold. Gold teeth catch the basement light.
"Hello, London." He knows my name. "Your mama's been telling me all about you."
I back up until my calves hit the couch. My mother is still scratching, still muttering about needing her fix.
"Mom." My voice doesn't sound like mine. "What did you do?"
She doesn't meet my eyes. She's rocking now. "Just go with him, baby. Don't make it hard. He said if you cooperate—"
“Go with him?!”
And then all the pieces in my mind suddenly rearrange, and I see what’s going on here.
“Mom…” My voice is barely a whisper. “You sold me? You called me here so you could trade me for drugs."
"It's not like that—"
"What is it like, then?" My voice cracks, but I refuse to cry. Not here. Not in front of this man.
The thug takes a step closer. He reaches into his jacket and produces a syringe. The liquid inside is dark—purplish-black. Raven.
"This will make things easier," he says in his unhurried English. "You won't feel a thing. Won't fight. My guys will appreciate that."
He said guys—plural.
My stomach heaves.
"Wait." I hold up both hands, palms out. "If you put that away—I'll go with you. Willingly. You don't need to drug me."
His grin widens. "I like this one. She negotiates." He twirls the syringe between his fingers. "But my employer prefers the merchandise…compliant."
Merchandise. The word hits like a slap.
He lunges.
I duck sideways, my hip catching the arm of the couch. He misses—barely—grabbing at air where I was a half-second ago. He laughs, low and delighted, like a cat batting a mouse between its paws.
"Feisty." He rolls his shoulders. "Good. I have customers who enjoy feisty."
My mother wails from the couch. "Just let him do it, baby. It won't hurt as much if you don't fight. Please, London, just let him—"
"Shut up!" I scream at her. My voice tears from my throat raw and ragged.
The thug circles left. I mirror him, keeping the coffee table between us. My eyes scan for anything—a weapon, an exit. The basement has one window, too small to climb through. One staircase. The one he's blocking.
I am in deep shit.