know what she missed, only that she was homesick for something, maybe for someone, she’d never been.
She ran her hand along the edge of the crucible. Could this thing burn me new? Make it
so I’d never have to see another ghost or Gray or whatever they decided to call it? And would she even wish for that now?
Alex remembered Belbalm asking what she wanted. Safety. A chance at a normal life.
That was what had come to mind in that moment—the quiet of Belbalm’s office, the herbs
blooming in the window boxes, a matched set of teacups instead of the chipped mugs of
jobs lost and promotional giveaways. She wanted sunlight through the window. She
wanted peace.
Liar.
Peace was like any high. It couldn’t last. It was an illusion, something that could be interrupted in a moment and lost forever. Only two things kept you safe: money and power.
Alex didn’t have money. But she did have power. She’d been afraid of it, afraid of staring directly at that blood-soaked night. Afraid she’d feel regret or shame, of saying goodbye to Hellie all over again. But when she’d finally looked? Let herself remember?
Well, maybe there was something broken and shriveled in her, because she felt only a deep
calm in knowing what she was capable of.
The Grays had plagued her life, changed it horribly, but after all of those years of torment, they’d finally given something back to her. She was owed. And she’d liked using
that power, even the alien feeling of North inside her. She had enjoyed the surprise on Lance’s face, on Len’s face, on Betcha’s. You thought you saw me. See me now.
“You have to take your clothes off,” said Dawes.
Alex unbuttoned her jeans, trying to hook her fingers into the waist. Her movements were slow, hampered by pain. “I need your help.”
Reluctantly, Dawes stepped away from the shelves and helped shove the jeans over
Alex’s hips. But once they were around her ankles, Dawes realized she needed to take off
Alex’s boots, so Alex stood there in her underwear while Dawes untied her boots and yanked them off.
She stood, eyes jumping from Alex’s bruised face to the tattooed snakes at her hips, which had once matched those at her clavicles. She’d gotten them after Hellie told her there was a rattler inside her. She liked the idea. Len had wanted to try tattooing her in their kitchen. He’d gotten his own gun and inks online, insisted it was all sterile. But Alex hadn’t trusted him or their filthy apartment and she hadn’t wanted him to leave a mark on
her, not that way.
“Can you lift your arms over your head,” Dawes said, cheeks red.
“Uh-uh,” Alex grunted. Even forming words was getting difficult.
“I’ll get shears.”
A moment later, she heard the snip of scissors, felt her shirt pulled away from her skin,
the fabric sticking to the drying blood.
“It’s okay,” said Dawes. “You’ll feel better as soon as you’re in the crucible.”
Alex realized she was crying. She’d been choked, drowned, beaten, choked again, and
nearly killed, but now she was crying—over a shirt. She’d bought it new at Target before
she’d come to school. It was soft and fit well. She hadn’t owned many new things.
Alex’s head felt heavy. If she could just close her eyes for a minute. For a day.
She heard Dawes say, “I’m sorry. I can’t get you in. Turner will have to help.”
Was he back from the market? She hadn’t heard him return. She must have blacked out.
Something soft moved over Alex’s skin and she realized Dawes had wrapped her in a
sheet—pale blue, from Dante’s room. My room. Bless Dawes.
“Is she in some kind of shroud?” Turner’s voice.
Alex forced herself to open her eyes, saw Turner and Dawes emptying cartons of milk
into the crucible. Turner’s head moved back and forth like a searchlight, a slow scan, taking in the strangeness of the upper floors. Alex felt proud of Il Bastone, the armory with its cabinet of curiosities, the bizarre golden bathtub at its center.
She meant to be brave, to grit her teeth through the pain, but she screamed when Turner