Chapter 35
I jerked awake when a hand clamped over my mouth.
The sulfuric glow from the electroliers outside Justice’s window threw bars of light over the bedroom, but the man was imprisoned in shadow.
I’d been deep in a dream where I’d spun in an endless loop, alternating between shoving Justice into the Den’s black tentacles and stabbing Finn in the heart. In the dream, both of them hated me, but Finn was the only one who promised retribution.
Maybe the dream was a premonition.
It was too dark to see anything but his gray outline. The width of his shoulders, the slant of his jaw, the angled and muscular shape of him. For a split second, the electroliers’ glow caught the kaleidoscopic, starry-night blue of his right eye.
Finn.
If I doubted my eyes, my other senses would’ve told me who he was. I could taste him, the sweat and salt of his skin, as I bit the meat of his palm—hard. He grunted in surprise. His soft, deep rumble worked its way through me, as familiar as distant thunder before a summer storm.
I dragged in a breath, and my eyes teared at the familiar scent of him—the electric sky, the summer meadow, the cleansing rain shower. It flowed through me, pushed through my blood by the rapid beat of my pulse.
He tasted like Finn. He smelled like Finn. He sounded and looked like Finn.
But he wasn’t Finn.
At least, he wasn’t the Finn I’d always loved.
He was cruel. He was vicious. He’d promised to hunt me down and kill me.
He pressed his hand more firmly over my mouth, smothering any sound.
“Mari. It’s me.”
Yeah. I knew that. That was why I was fighting.
“Hold still. This part’s tricky.”
There was no way I was holding still.
In Hell Gate, there was no such thing as a peaceful, restful night’s sleep. If you wanted to stay alive, you never left yourself unprotected. Sleep left you vulnerable. A deep sleep left you dead.
Sleep and I had a complicated relationship, but one thing we agreed on was to always keep a knife close at hand. Under the pillow, strapped to the headboard, taped to the side of the nightstand. Justice, being a smart, alive human, lived by the same rule.
Slowly, with every rise and fall of my chest, I inched my hand over the mattress.
Finn’s breathing was loud and quick as he bent over me. He pressed something cold and heavy against my chest.
“It might hurt, but it’ll be quick,” he whispered. Then, almost apologetically, he added, “It would’ve been better if you hadn’t woken up.”
This was it.
He was going to kill me.
There! I found the knife Justice kept strapped to his headboard. I gripped the handle. Then I took a deep breath, preparing myself.
Finn still held his hand over my mouth. He stared down at me, his expression blurred by the midnight darkness. I swear, though, he was smiling.
I hated the fact he was exactly the same as ever but also entirely different.
His summer-storm scent, his salty taste, and his deep voice were all there.
Even the feel of him was the same. He settled over me and inside me until I couldn’t discern where he ended and I began.
Even clothed, I felt naked beneath him, vulnerable and open.
I wanted to bask in the glory of his touch.
I’d always known Finn loved me unconditionally.
That he’d read the words in my soul even when I wanted to hide them from him.
The jealousies, the resentments, the fear, the greed, and the lust—he saw all of it, and he loved me all the same.
I’d always known I had a home in him. And he’d always known the same.
I’d seen his fears, his anger, his resentments, his wrath, and I loved him still. I was his home, and he was mine.
That was how it had been.
That was what it felt like now.
The shadow of his smile looked like a man coming home after a long war, seeing the front door open and his wife waiting at the threshold with her arms open wide.
He smiled as if he were almost home.
Then the weight on my chest squeezed, stealing the breath from my lungs. A violent, wrenching pain tore through me. I was disintegrating. My cells were pixelating. I was turning to sand and running through the fingers of Finn’s open palm.
I stared at his soft smile, his hand still clamped over my mouth as I gasped in pain.
Then, before I was unable to fight, I lifted the knife. Quick as an adder, I arched the blade, shoving it toward Finn’s throat.
His eyes widened. He grabbed my arm. Ripped me upright. We flipped off the bed. Crashed to the floor. And fell into darkness.
* * *
I jarred back to myself with the sudden, bursting speed of a train whistle. I gasped, sitting upright and looking around.
Another thing growing up in Hell Gate had taught me was to never panic. Panicking made bad situations worse. Panic was what often led to death. I did my very best to always stay calm.
I was on a train car. The clack, clack, clack of the wheels over the track vibrated my seat and shook the thin metal walls. The train swayed, and I swayed with it, knocking against Finn, who was sitting on the seat next to me.
The car was loud—louder than any I’d been on—and the rumble drowned out nearly every other sound. The windows were open, and overhead ceiling fans spun lazily, shifting air around the car. The fans alternated with round lights that flickered every time the train jerked.
The inside of the car was painted mint-green, and the floors were bloodred.
The seats weren’t the usual plastic or vinyl; instead, they were wicker and woven in a checkered pattern.
There were advertisements on the walls. That wasn’t unusual.
What was strange was that the ads looked like they were from the 1930s or the 1940s.
The train swayed, jostling me closer to Finn. His thigh pressed against mine, and the heat of him spread through me. He was watching me carefully, taking in my reaction.
His attention was reflected in the window as I stared out over the East River. I swallowed painfully. We were high up, trundling over the dark water, caught between two stone towers.
We were on Hell Gate Bridge.
On the ghost train.
My breath was fast, my chest pinched. “Are we dead?”
I didn’t feel dead.
Finn didn’t look dead.
I glanced at him, taking in the smile playing at the edge of his mouth and the cautious, hopeful light in his eyes.
“No.” Then, at my frown, he added, “At least, I hope not.”
The train rumbled across the bridge, carrying us toward the misty lights of Manhattan. It moved slowly, leisurely rocking its nighttime pace.
There were other people in the train car. A woman in a long skirt and a hat, reading a book. A man in a suit holding one of the straps that hung from the ceiling. Two women whispering. Gossiping. A child resting his head on his father’s shoulder.
My mouth tightened, and my hands curled into fists.
“They’re figments,” I whispered. None of them noticed me. They were caught in whatever loop they were set to play for eternity.
Finn smiled, started to reach for my hand, then pulled back and rested his hand in his lap instead. “You always said you wanted to ride the ghost train.”
I studied his expression and frowned at what I found there.
He was covered in illusion. It was a vast net that blanketed him.
I couldn’t find the end or the beginning of the rope, or even a place to unravel the knots.
There were thousands of them, all strung together in a strange, jumbled macramé mess.
I didn’t understand it, but I had the impression he was the illusion.
That if I unwound him, he’d cease to exist.
Every hair on my body stood on end, and a shiver worked its way over me.
I looked down at myself, but there were no knots on me. I couldn’t see my face to know if any were wrapped around my mind.
“Are you real?” I whispered, my voice raw.
Finn laughed and finally grabbed my hand. I let him. Jagger’s will was a distant thing, a low hum compared to its usual forceful shout. I still couldn’t let a conjurer know I cared, but I wasn’t certain this Finn was a conjurer. He was likely illusion. Or figment. Or spirit. Or . . .
“I’m real.” He leaned back in the wicker seat and then tilted his face to breathe in the night air. The wind rippled through the car, ruffling his black hair. “Do you remember when you told me your dream was to buy a ticket, hop on a train, and just . . . go?”
He glanced at me out of the corner of his eyes, his head still tilted back, the wind still working over him.
“I remember.”
His lips curved, and he seemed satisfied with that small confession. He squeezed my hand. I let him. The weight of his palm felt as if it were anchoring me to the seat.
The lights of Manhattan drew closer, growing from winking fireflies to bright, burning stars. The train dipped and swayed, running over Wards Island.
“Where are we going?”
I’d unravel this illusion if I had to. Kill it.
It would take a moment, but if I were subtle about it, he wouldn’t even notice.
I began to work at the edges of his knots.
There were so many of them. Reef knots. Square knots.
Figure eights. Angler’s knots. Lark’s heads.
Prusik knots. Chain splices and eye splices.
It were as if every family had contributed to the mess.
I took the marlin spike in my mind and began to pry it loose.
Finn made a rumbling noise in his throat—the one that meant he didn’t know. “Not sure. We ride until it stops, and then we get off.”
He was being awfully nice. Awfully calm. Awfully like himself.
“And then what?”
He’d threaded his fingers with mine and was running his thumb in a circle around the center of my palm. “I don’t know.”
His touch sent a butterfly-wing sensation throbbing through me, but instead of pleasure, it brought pain. Every wingbeat, every pulse, sent a thrum of agony. It was no longer an anchor; it was a barbed hook. I tugged my hand free.