Chapter Thirteen
Jackson
I 'm laughing with Thomas and Lucius as we leave Worship. The club's just shut, and we'll let Blake and the rest of the bar staff lock up. My laughter almost feels genuine, like I'm almost having a good time. And why wouldn't I? I'm with friends at a place we created, a place adored across the city, but inside, I just feel empty. Every time I close my eyes, I can feel the echo of her kiss, the knowing marble eyes of the raven as their cries morphed into words. As we head out through the main entrance, Rocco, one of the bouncers, approaches me, his eyes serious but a little bored.
“Jackson? You gotta sec?” I nod and say my goodbyes to the others. They pat my back, and Thomas happily repeats what seems to have become his mantra for the night.
“A bet is a bet!” he yells to the near-empty street. I chuckle but don't even try to make it real. As they head off laughing, I turn back to Rocco, grateful for the excuse not to follow, to end my night here.
“What's up?”
“That girl you came in with? Yeah, well, she's passed out and by herself. Plus, her phone's dead. Any idea of someone we can contact?”
“Where are her friends? The girls she was with?”
He shrugs. Looking around the pavement, a few people still linger, waiting for rides or savouring one last smoke of the night. None of them were the girls she came with. They'd left her.
A red-hot flash of anger hits me.
Worship's policy, my policy, is that anyone too drunk is not just left to their own devices, not left to the mercy of the night. I feel a wave of relief that Millie's OK and not wandering around the city centre cold and alone. Millie's tough, but she's also new to this, and nobody makes good choices when they're drunk. I certainly don't.
“Where is she?”
“Just here.”
Rocco leads me a few metres away from the main entrance. One of the other bouncers has wrapped her up in his thick, padded coat, drowning her slight frame. Her pale skin and mahogany waves were the only things visible above the enormous dark coat. She looks asleep; her vulnerability right now frightens me.
Rocco sighs when he sees her, his eyes heavy with bored judgment. Drunk people are a nightly occurrence, and I'm fairly certain Rocco would take a good fight over a passed-out girl any day. It's partly why I hired him.
“She say anything? Before she passed out?”
“Nope. Kenny found her like this. You want me to call the police?”
I frown, not sure what to do. I've no idea where Millie's godmother lives, and Eva's file had been returned to HQ. I couldn't fathom how many rules taking someone still living to HQ would break, but I couldn't leave her here either.
“I'll take her home.”
Rocco's eyes widen in surprise for a moment and then he shrugs.
“Can you watch her? While I bring the car around?”
“Sure.”
I walk away but then turn around, taking one last glance at Millie and how small she looks. Next to her Rocco leans against the wall, indifference and tiredness deep in his features.
“Rocco? You don't leave her side, OK?” He looks surprised but nods. I never have to ask him to do anything twice. He looks offended, but he's too professional to say anything.
Frowning, I turn and run toward my car, wondering with a mix of fear and amusement just how many rules bringing home the daughter of someone I've reaped is breaking.
I drive with the windows down, hoping the cool air will wake her up and she'll be able to give directions to her godmother's. So far, she's opened her eyes a few times before falling straight back into a stupor. The thick padded coat is still wrapped around her shoulders, and her hair blows in the wind, catching on the red of her lips.
Leaning back in my seat, I gaze out of the glass. We're currently driving through central Bristol, which, despite the early hour, still has people scurrying about the streets, either the last of the hardcore clubbers or the early morning workers preparing the world for another day. The night sky is velvet-rich, with the lights of the buildings looming above us, breaking up the black.
Reluctantly, I drive towards my building. I want to take her back to her godmother's, but unless Millie tells me, I have no idea where that is. A car cuts in front of me, forcing me to slam the brake. I hit the horn and swear, but I don't think they even notice. Millie groans next to me.
“Wh … where am I?” I turn to look at Millie. Her eyes are open, and she is looking at me groggily, her brain slowly processing as she looks around the car. She's staring at me as if I'm a forgotten word on the tip of her tongue, and then she smiles. And the universe lights up.
“Jackson.”
She mutters my name as if it's something new and precious, like a newly discovered star. I can't ignore the way it makes me feel.
“The question is, where am I going? I need an address. Where do you live, Millie?”
She gazes at me, still perplexed. She was almost tipsy when we talked and kissed at the bar. In the hours that had passed, she'd obviously drank more—a lot more.
My question is met with silence.
“Millie?” I say firmly.
“North Street,” she mumbles before settling back into the comfort of her coat. I clench my teeth. I know full well that North Street is where she lived with Eva. They lived in a flat above a coffee shop. Eva's file was full of memories of that street: of her and Millie having breakfast there on the weekend, the theatre a little way down where they'd see plays, or the comedy bar where Eva and her friends would go for drinks and chicken wings.
How do I tell Millie I know that's not where she lives?
“That's definitely your address? Who do you live with?”
She groans and curls her body smaller into the seat of my car before responding with a sleepy sigh.
“North Street … Mum …” She falls silent, and I can tell from the shift in her breathing that she's asleep again. I groan and admit defeat.
My place it is.
When you don't age, you can't live anywhere for too long. People wonder how a twenty-one-year-old can still look like a young man when he should look like a man in his early thirties. The clubs and the bars are not just projects; they are something that's mine away from Scythe. They have a more practical purpose. They give me an excuse to move around.
I've lived in my apartment for nearly a year, working on Worship. I probably have five more years before someone gets suspicious. Millie leans heavily against me. I'm taking most of her weight, and with every step, I have to pull her up, making her groan. I'm sure if I let her, she'd just sink onto the ground and fall asleep where she is.
The main entrance to my building is blissfully empty. Our footsteps slap loudly on the marble floor. The world is silent except for the faint buzzing of electrics and the distant swoosh of cars driving through the night.
Jerry, the security guard, is looking at me curiously. I'm hoping a man who has seen me come home dozens of times with women, women who are always upright and sober, isn't judging this spectacle too harshly. Even so, my cheeks feel hot, and I desperately try to get her to stand up straighter, but she just groans.
“Well, someone's had a good night.” He chuckles, flicking through the sports pages of the Daily Beacon.
“Not sure who, but it definitely wasn't me.” I shake my head. Millie's not heavy, but moving this way is awkward, and it's exhausting me. I groan and come to a halt.
“She's a bit worse for wear, ain't she?”
I look at Millie. Her head is pressed against my shoulder, and she clings hard to my shirt.
“Millie's first night out.”
“She was committed, I see.” He snickers, and I grin at him. Admitting defeat, I scoop Millie over my shoulder. She groans, and her body goes slack. I'm pretty sure she's fallen asleep again.
“Need a hand, Mister Mort?” I've asked him to call me Jackson on many occasions. I think it amuses him to call me Mister.
“I think I've got it, thanks.”
I walk to the lift. Jerry's chuckling echoes through the barren room.
“OK, so this is the guest room.”
I drop Millie down on the bed, and she moans. Awkwardly, I try to help her out the coat. She helps me, moving her body off the bed so I can slide it out from under her. My skin feels hot, and I'm trying desperately to avoid touching any bare skin. And fighting just as hard not to glance at those long legs of hers.
She's watching me closely, which is making it worse. With her coat and shoes off, I cover her in the duvet. The light of the city pours through the blinds of the window, slicing white light across the sheets. It turns her skin the colour of the moon, her eyes pale and golden.
She's staring hard at me, her eyes picking me apart, and I feel exposed, like she can see right through me. Right through all my lies, straight to the heart of all the things I haven't said.
“They never said it, you know. You said they did, but they didn't,” she says, her voice clear, though the words are lost on me.
“Millie?”
“My name. They never said my name.” Then, the clarity is gone. Her voice trails off, and her body softens against the bed.
Before I've come up with another lie, she's already fallen asleep.