2
Secrets And Lies
The dark prince sat astride his black steed, his sable cape flowing behind him. A golden circlet bound his black locks, his handsome face was cold with the rage of battle, and …
“And his arm looked like an eggplant,” Annabel muttered to herself in exasperation. The drawing just wasn’t working. With a sigh she tore yet another sheet from her sketchpad, crumpled it up, and tossed it against the orange wall of her bedroom. Already the floor was littered with discarded balls of paper, a sure sign that her creative juices weren’t flowing the way she’d hoped. She wished for the thousandth time that she could be a bit more like her mother. Everything Maria Poe drew, painted, or sketched was beautiful, and seemingly effortless.
Annabel pulled her headphones out—cutting off Stepping Razor in midsong—and rubbed her aching temples. It was only then that she became aware that the loud, piercing sound of a ringing telephone was echoing through the apartment. Tossing the sketchpad onto the bed, she jumped to her feet and ran into the living room, where the retro-white phone sat on a table near the front door.
“Is this Annabella Poe?” The voice on the other end of the phone sounded familiar, though not immediately identifiable.
Annabel twirled the phone cord nervously around her finger. “Yeees?”
“Hi, I’m one of the knife-carrying hooligans you met last night in Chaos? I’m afraid I made a bad impression and was hoping you’d give me a chance to make it up to—”
“Asher!” Annabel held the phone away from her ear as he cracked up laughing. “That is so not funny!”
“Sure it is. You just don’t see the humor.”
“Jerk.” Annabel sighed, leaning up against the wall. “You wouldn’t be laughing if you’d been here when I got home last night.”
“Why not?”
“My mom. She wasn’t happy that we were late. She freaked out. It was messy.”
“What? It’s not our fault there was traffic!” Asher protested. He was the youngest five children and had a finely honed sense of familial injustice.
“Yeah, well, she doesn’t see it that way. I disappointed her, I let her down, I made her worry, blah blah blah. I am the bane of her existence,” Annabel said, mimicking her mother’s precise phrasing with only a slight twinge of guilt.
“So, are you grounded?” Asher asked, a little too loudly. Annabel could hear a low rumble of voices behind him: people talking over each other.
“I don’t know yet,” she said. “My mom went out this morning with Jack, and they’re not back yet. Where are you, anyway? Java’s?”
“Yeah. We just finished up practice.” A cymbal clashed behind Asher. Annabel winced. “Java’s doing a poetry reading over at Kate Kobes tonight,” Asher went on, naming a coffee shop around the corner from Annabel’s that sometimes had live music at night. “The whole band’s going to go to show their support. Want to come?”
“Yeah, all right.” Annabel paused, tugging on the phone cord anxiously. “Wait, no.”
“Shut up, guys, will you?” Asher yelled, the faintness of his voice making Annabel suspect that he was holding the phone away from his mouth. He was back a second later, sounding troubled. “Was that a yes or a no?”
“I don’t know.” Annabel bit her lip. “My mom’s still mad at me about last night. I’m not sure I want to piss her off by asking for any favors. If I’m going to get in trouble, I don’t want it to be on account of Java’s lousy poetry.”
“Come on, it’s not so bad,” Asher said. Java was his next-door neighbor, and the two had known each other most of their lives. They weren’t close the way Asher and Annabel were, but they had formed a rock band together at the start of sophomore year, along with Java’s friends Joe and Mat. They practiced together faithfully in Java’s parents’ garage every week. “Besides, it’s not a favor,” Asher added, “it’s a poetry slam around the block from your house. It’s not like I’m inviting you to some orgy in Hoboken. Your mom can come along if she wants.”
“Orgy in Hoboken!” Annabel heard someone, probably Java, yell. Another cymbal crashed. She imagined her mother listening to Java read his poetry, and she shuddered inwardly.
“I don’t know. If all of you show up here, I think she’ll freak.”
“Then I’ll come alone. I’ll pick you up and we can walk over there together, meet the rest of them there. Your mom won’t mind. She loves me.”
Annabel had to laugh. “Sign of her questionable taste, if you ask me.”
“Nobody did.” Asher clicked off, amid shouts from his bandmates.
Annabel hung up the phone and glanced around the living room. Evidence of her mother’s artistic tendencies was everywhere, from the handmade velvet throw pillows piled on the dark red sofa to the walls hung with Maria’s paintings, carefully framed—landscapes, mostly: the winding streets of downtown Manhattan lit with golden light; scenes of Prospect Park in winter, the gray ponds edged with lacelike films of white ice.
On the mantel over the fireplace was a framed photo of Annabel’s father. A thoughtful-looking fair man in military dress, his eyes bore the telltale traces of laugh lines at the corners. He’d been a decorated soldier serving overseas. Maria had some of his medals in a small box by her bed. Not that the medals had done anyone any good when Jonathan Clark had crashed his car into a tree just outside Albany and died before his daughter was even born.
Maria had gone back to using her maiden name after he died. She never talked about Annabel’s father, but she kept the box engraved with his initials, J.C., next to her bed. Along with the medals were one or two photos, a wedding ring, and a single lock of blond hair. Sometimes Maria took the box out and opened it and held the lock of hair very gently in her hands before putting it back and carefully locking the box up again.
The sound of the key turning in the front door roused Annabel out of her reverie. Hastily she threw herself down on the couch and tried to look as if she were immersed in one of the paperbacks her mother had left stacked on the end table. Maria recognized reading as a sacred pastime and usually wouldn’t interrupt Annabel in the middle of a book, even to yell at her.
The door opened with a thump. It was Jack, his arms full of what looked like big square pieces of pasteboard. When he set them down, Annabel saw that they were cardboard boxes, folded flat. He straightened up and turned to her with a smile.
“Hey, Un—hey, Jack,” she said. He’d asked her to stop calling him Uncle Jack about a year ago, claiming that it made him feel old, and anyway reminded him of Uncle Tom’s Cabin. Besides, he’d reminded her gently, he wasn’t really her uncle, just a close friend of her mother’s who’d known her all her life. “Where’s Mom?”
“Parking the truck,” he said, straightening his lanky frame with a groan. He was dressed in his usual uniform: old jeans, a flannel shirt, and a bent pair of gold-rimmed spectacles that sat askew on the bridge of his nose. “Remind me again why this building has no service elevator?”
“Because it’s old, and has character,” Annabel said immediately. Jack grinned. “What are the boxes for?” she asked.
His grin vanished. “Your mother wanted to pack up some things,” he said, avoiding her gaze.
“What things?” Annabel asked.
He gave an airy wave. “Extra stuff lying around the house. Getting in the way. You know she never throws anything out. So what are you up to? Studying?” He plucked the book out of her hand and read out loud: “‘The world still teems with those motley beings whom a more sober philosophy has discarded. Fairies and goblins, ghosts and demons, still hover about—’” He lowered the book and looked at her over his glasses. “Is this for school?”
“The Golden Bough? No. School’s not for a few weeks.” Annabel took the book back from him. “It’s my mom’s.”
“I had a feeling.”
She dropped it back on the table. “Jack?”
“Uh-huh?” The book already forgotten, he was rummaging in the tool kit next to the hearth. “Ah, here it is.” He pulled out an orange plastic tape gun and gazed at it with deep satisfaction.
“What would you do if you saw something nobody else could see?”
The tape gun fell out of Jack’s hand, and hit the tiled hearth. He knelt to pick it up, not looking at her. “You mean if I were the only witness to a crime, that sort of thing?”
“No. I mean, if there were other people around, but you were the only one who could see something. As if it were invisible to everyone but you.”
He hesitated, still kneeling, the dented tape gun gripped in his hand.
“I know it sounds crazy,” Annabel ventured nervously, “but …”
He turned around. His eyes, very blue behind the glasses, rested on her with a look of firm affection. “Annabel, you’re an artist, like your mother. That means you see the world in ways that other people don’t. It’s your gift, to see the beauty and the horror in ordinary things. It doesn’t make you crazy—just different. There’s nothing wrong with being different.”
Annabel pulled her legs up, and rested her chin on her knees. In her mind’s eye she saw the storage room, Veronica’s gold whip, the blue-haired boy convulsing in his death spasms, and Luke’s tawny eyes. Beauty and horror. She said, “If my dad had lived, do you think he’d have been an artist too?”
Jack looked taken aback. Before he could answer her, the door swung open and Annabel’s mother stalked into the room, her boot heels clacking on the polished wooden floor. She handed Luke a set of jingling car keys and turned to look at her daughter.
Maria Poe was a slim, compact woman, her hair a few shades darker than Annabel’s and twice as long. At the moment it was twisted up in a dark red knot, stuck through with a graphite pen to hold it in place. She wore paint-spattered overalls over a lavender T-shirt, and brown hiking boots whose soles were caked with oil paint.
People always told Annabel that she looked like her mother, but she couldn’t see it herself. The only thing that was similar about them was their figures: They were both slender, with small chests and narrow hips. She knew she wasn’t beautiful like her mother was. To be beautiful you had to be willowy and tall. When you were as short as Annabel was, just over five feet, you were cute. Not pretty or beautiful, but cute. Throw in carroty hair and a face full of freckles, and she was a Raggedy Ann to her mother’s Barbie doll.
Maria even had a graceful way of walking that made people turn their heads to watch her go by. Annabel, by contrast, was always tripping over her feet. The only time people turned to watch her go by was when she hurtled past them as she fell downstairs.
“Thanks for bringing the boxes up,” Annabel’s mother said to Jack, and smiled at him. He didn’t return the smile. Annabel’s stomach did an uneasy flip. Clearly there was something going on. “Sorry it took me so long to find a space. There must be a million people at the park today—”
“Mom?” Annabel interrupted. “What are the boxes for?”
Maria bit her lip. Jack flicked his eyes toward Clary, mutely urging Maria forward. With a nervous twitch of her wrist, Maria pushed a dangling lock of hair behind her ear and went to join her daughter on the couch.
Up close Annabel could see how tired her mother looked. There were dark half-moons under her eyes, and her lids were pearly with sleeplessness.
“Is this about last night?” Annabel asked.
“No,” her mother said quickly, and then hesitated. “Maybe a little. You shouldn’t have done what you did last night. You know better.”
“And I already apologized. What is this about? If you’re grounding me, get it over with.”
“I’m not,” said her mother, “grounding you.” Her voice was as taut as a wire. She glanced at Jack, who shook his head.
“Just tell her, Maria,” he said.
“Could you not talk about me like I’m not here?” Annabel said angrily. “And what do you mean, ‘tell me’? Tell me what?”
Maria expelled a sigh. “We’re going on vacation.”
Jack’s expression went blank, like a canvas wiped clean of paint.
Annabel shook her head. “That’s what this is about? You’re going on vacation?” She sank back against the cushions. “I don’t get it. Why the big production?”
“I don’t think you understand. I meant we’re all going on vacation. The three of us—you, me, and Jack. We’re going to the farmhouse.”
“Oh.” Annabel glanced at Jack, but he had his arms crossed over his chest and was staring out the window, his jaw pulled tight. She wondered what was upsetting him. He loved the old farmhouse in upstate Los Angeles—he’d bought and restored it himself ten years before, and he went there whenever he could. “For how long?”
“For the rest of the summer,” said Maria. “I brought the boxes in case you want to pack up any books, painting supplies—”
“For the rest of the summer?” Annabel sat upright with indignation. “I can’t do that, Mom. I have plans—Asher and I were going to have a back-to-school party, and I’ve got a bunch of meetings with my art group, and ten more classes at Tisch—”
“I’m sorry about Tisch. But the other things can be canceled. Asher will understand, and so will your art group.”
Annabel heard the implacability in her mother’s tone and realized she was serious. “But I paid for those art classes! I saved up all year! You promised.” She whirled, turning to Jack. “Tell her! Tell her it isn’t fair!”
Jack didn’t look away from the window, though a muscle jumped in his cheek. “She’s your mother. It’s her decision to make.”
“I don’t get it.” Annabel turned back to her mother. “Why?”
“I have to get away, Annabel,” Maria said, the corners of her mouth trembling. “I need the peace, the quiet, to paint. And money is tight right now—”
“So sell some more of Dad’s stocks,” Annabel said angrily. “That’s what you usually do, isn’t it?”
Maria recoiled. “That’s hardly fair.”
“Look, go if you want to go. I don’t care. I’ll stay here without you. I can work; I can get a job at Max Mara or something. Asher said they’re always hiring. I’m old enough to take care of myself—”
“No!” The sharpness in Maria’s voice made Annabel jump. “I’ll pay you back for the art classes, Annabel. But you are coming with us. It isn’t optional. You’re too young to stay here on your own. Something could happen.”
“Like what? What could happen?” Annabel demanded.
There was a crash. She turned in surprise to find that Jack had knocked over one of the framed pictures leaning against the wall. Looking distinctly upset, he set it back. When he straightened, his mouth was set in a grim line. “I’m leaving.”
Maria bit her lip. “Wait.” She hurried after him into the entryway, catching up just as he seized the doorknob. Twisting around on the sofa, Annabel could just overhear her mother’s urgent whisper. “…Kane,” Maria was saying. “I’ve been calling him and calling him for the past three weeks. His voice mail says he’s in Tanzania. What am I supposed to do?”
“Maria.” Jack shook his head. “You can’t keep going to him forever.”
“But Annabel—”
“Isn’t Broderick,” Jack hissed. “You’ve never been the same since it happened, but Annabel isn’t Broderick.”
Who’s Broderick? Annabel thought, bewildered.
“I can’t just keep her at home, not let her go out. She won’t put up with it.”
“Of course she won’t!” Jack sounded really angry. “She’s not a pet, she’s a teenager. Almost an adult.”
“If we were out of the city …”
“Talk to her, Maria.” Jack’s voice was firm. “I mean it.” He reached for the doorknob.
The door flew open. Maria gave a little scream.
“Jesus!” She exclaimed.
“Actually, it’s just me,” said Asher. “Although I’ve been told the resemblance is startling.” He waved at Annabel from the doorway. “You ready?”
Maria took her hand away from her mouth. “Asher, were you eavesdropping?”
Asher blinked. “No, I just got here.” He looked from Maria’s pale face to Jack’s grim one. “Is something wrong? Should I go?”
“Don’t bother,” Jack said. “I think we’re done here.” He pushed past Asher, thudding down the stairs at a rapid pace. Downstairs, the front door slammed shut.
Asher hovered in the doorway, looking uncertain. “I can come back later,” he said. “Really. It wouldn’t be a problem.”
“That might—” Maria began, but Annabel was already on her feet.
“Forget it, Asher. We’re leaving,” she said, grabbing her messenger bag from a hook near the door. She slung it over her shoulder, glaring at her mother. “See you later, Mom.”
Maria bit her lip. “Annabel, don’t you think we should talk about this?”
“We’ll have plenty of time to talk while we’re on ‘vacation,’” Annabel said venomously, and had the satisfaction of seeing her mother flinch. “Don’t wait up,” she added, and, grabbing Asher’s arm, she half-dragged him out the front door.
He dug his heels in, looking apologetically over his shoulder at Annabel’s mother, who stood small and forlorn in the entryway, her hands knitted tightly together. “Bye, Mrs. Poe!” he called. “Have a nice evening!”
“Oh, shut up, Asher,” Annabel snapped, and slammed the door behind them, cutting off her mother’s reply.
“Jesus, woman, don’t rip my arm off,” Asher protested as Annabel hauled him downstairs after her, her green Skechers slapping against the wooden stairs with every angry step. She glanced up, half-expecting to see her mother glaring down from the landing, but the apartment door stayed shut.
“Sorry,” Annabel muttered, letting go of his wrist. She paused at the foot of the stairs, her messenger bag banging against her hip.
Annabel’s brownstone, like most in Park Slope, had once been the single residence of a wealthy family. Shades of its former grandeur were still evident in the curving staircase, the chipped marble entryway floor, and the wide single-paned skylight overhead. Now the house was split into separate apartments, and Annabel and her mother shared the three-floor building with a downstairs tenant, an elderly woman who ran a psychic’s shop out of her apartment. She hardly ever came out of it, though customer visits were infrequent. A gold plaque fixed to the door proclaimed her to be Madame Dorothea.
The thick sweet scent of incense spilled from the half-open door into the foyer. Annabel could hear a low murmur of voices.
“Nice to see she’s doing a booming business,” Asher said. “It’s hard to get steady prophet work these days.”
“Do you have to be sarcastic about everything?” Annabel snapped.
Asher blinked, clearly taken aback. “I thought you liked it when I was witty and ironic.”
Annabel was about to reply when the door to Madame Dorothea’s swung fully open and a man stepped out. He was tall, with maple-syrup-colored skin, gold-green eyes like a cat’s, and tangled black hair. He grinned at her blindingly, showing sharp white teeth.
A wave of dizziness came over her, the strong sensation that she was going to faint.
Asher glanced at her uneasily. “Are you all right? You look like you’re going to pass out.”
She blinked at him. “What? No, I’m fine.”
He didn’t seem to want to let it drop. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”
She shook her head. The memory of having seen something teased her, but when she tried to concentrate, it slid away like water. “Nothing. I thought I saw Dorothea’s cat, but I guess it was just a trick of the light.” Asher stared at her. “I haven’t eaten anything since yesterday,” she added defensively. “I guess I’m a little out of it.”
He slid a comforting arm around her shoulders. “Come on, I’ll buy you some food.”
~~~
“I just can’t believe she’s being like this,” Annabel said for the fourth time, chasing a stray bit of guacamole around her plate with the tip of a nacho. They were at a neighborhood Mexican joint, a hole in the wall called Nacho Papa. “Like grounding me every other week wasn’t bad enough. Now I’m going to be exiled for the rest of the summer.”
“Well, you know, your mom gets like this sometimes,” Asher said. “Like when she breathes in or out.” He grinned at her around his veggie burrito.
“Oh, sure, act like it’s funny,” she said. “You’re not the one getting dragged off to the middle of nowhere for God knows how long—”
“Annabel.” Asher interrupted her tirade. “I’m not the one you’re mad at. Besides, it isn’t going to be permanent.”
“How do you know that?”
“Well, because I know your mom,” Asher said, after a pause. “I mean, you and I have been friends for what, ten years now? I know she gets like this sometimes. She’ll think better of it.”
Annabel picked a hot pepper off her plate and nibbled the edge meditatively. “Do you, though?” she said. “Know her, I mean? I sometimes wonder if anyone does.”
Asher blinked at her. “You lost me there.”
Annabel sucked in air to cool her burning mouth. “I mean, she never talks about herself. I don’t know anything about her early life, or her family, or much about how she met my dad. She doesn’t even have wedding photos. It’s like her life started when she had me. That’s what she always says when I ask her about it.”
“Aw.” Asher made a face at her. “That’s sweet.”
“No, it isn’t. It’s weird. It’s weird that I don’t know anything about my grandparents. I mean, I know my dad’s parents weren’t very nice to her, but could they have been that bad? What kind of people don’t want to even meet their granddaughter?”
“Maybe she hates them. Maybe they were abusive or something,” Asher suggested. “She does have those scars.”
Annabel stared at him. “She has what?”
He swallowed a mouthful of burrito. “Those little thin scars. All over her back and her arms. I have seen your mother in a bathing suit, you know.”
“I never noticed any scars,” Annabel said decidedly. “I think you’re imagining things.”
He stared at her, and seemed about to say something when her cell phone, buried in her messenger bag, began an insistent blaring. Annabel fished it out, gazed at the numbers blinking on the screen, and scowled. “It’s my mom.”
“I could tell from the look on your face. You going to talk to her?”
“Not right now,” Annabel said, feeling the familiar bite of guilt in her stomach as the phone stopped ringing and voice mail picked up. “I don’t want to fight with her.”
“You can always stay at my house,” Asher said. “For as long as you want.”
“Well, we’ll see if she calms down first.” Annabel punched the voice mail button on her phone. Her mother’s voice sounded tense, but she was clearly trying for lightness. “Annabel, I’m sorry if I sprang the vacation plan on you. Come on home and we’ll talk.” Annabel hung the phone up before the message ended, feeling even guiltier and still angry at the same time. “She wants to talk about it.”
“Do you want to talk to her?”
“I don’t know.” Annabel rubbed the back of her hand across her eyes. “Are you still going to the poetry reading?”
“I promised I would.”
Annabel stood up, pushing her chair back. “Then I’ll go with you. I’ll call her when it’s over.” The strap of her messenger bag slid down her arm. Asher pushed it back up absently, his fingers lingering at the bare skin of her shoulder.
The air outside was spongy with moisture, the humidity frizzing Annabel’s hair and sticking Asher’s blue T-shirt to his back. “So, what’s up with the band?” she asked. “Anything new? There was a lot of yelling in the background when I talked to you earlier.”
Asher’s face lit up. “Things are great,” he said. “Mat says he knows someone who could get us a gig at the Scrap Bar. We’re talking about names again too.”
“Oh, yeah?” Annabel hid a smile. Asher’s band never actually produced any music. Mostly they sat around in Simon’s living room, fighting about potential names and band logos. She sometimes wondered if any of them could actually play an instrument. “What’s on the table?”
“We’re choosing between Sea Vegetable Conspiracy and Rock Solid Panda.”
Annabel shook her head. “Those are both terrible.”
“Java suggested Lawn Chair Crisis.”
“Maybe Java should stick to gaming.”
“But then we’d have to find a new drummer.”
“Oh, is that what Java does? I thought he just mooched money off you and went around telling girls at school that he was in a band in order to impress them.”
“Not at all,” Asher said breezily. “Java has turned over a new leaf. He has a girlfriend. They’ve been going out for three months.”
“Practically married,” Annabel said, stepping around a couple pushing a toddler in a stroller: a little girl with yellow plastic clips in her hair who was clutching a pixie doll with gold-streaked sapphire wings. Out of the corner of her eye Annabel thought she saw the wings flutter. She turned her head hastily.
“Which means,” Asher continued, “that I am the last member of the band not to have a girlfriend. Which, you know, is the whole point of being in a band. To get girls.”
“I thought it was all about the music.” A man with a cane cut across her path, heading for Berkeley Street. She glanced away, afraid that if she looked at anyone for too long they would sprout wings, extra arms, or long forked tongues like snakes. “Who cares if you have a girlfriend, anyway?”
“I care,” Asher said gloomily. “Pretty soon the only people left without a girlfriend will be me and Wendell the school janitor. And he smells like Windex.”
“At least you know he’s still available.”
Asher glared. “Not funny, Poe.”
“There’s always Leila ‘The Thong’ Barbarino,” Annabel suggested. Annabel had sat behind her in math class in ninth grade. Every time Leila had dropped her pen—which had been often—Annabel had been treated to the sight of Leila’s underwear riding up above the waistband of her super-low-rise jeans.
“That is who Java’s been dating for the past three months,” Asher said. “His advice, meanwhile, was that I ought to just decide which girl in school had the most rockin’ bod and ask her out on the first day of classes.”
“Java is a sexist pig,” Annabel said, suddenly not wanting to know which girl in school Asher thought had the most rockin’ bod. “Maybe you should call the band the Sexist Pigs.”
“It has a ring to it.” Asher seemed unfazed. Annabel made a face at him, her messenger bag vibrating as her phone blared. She fished it out of the zip pocket. “Is it your mom again?” he asked.
Annabel nodded. She could see her mother in her mind’s eye, small and alone in the doorway of their apartment. Guilt unfurled in her chest.
She glanced up at Asher, who was looking at her, his eyes dark with concern. His face was so familiar she could have traced its lines in her sleep. She thought of the lonely weeks that stretched ahead without him, and shoved the phone back into her bag. “Come on,” she said. “We’re going to be late for the show.”

3

Devilhunter

By the time they got to Kate Kobes, Java was already onstage, swaying back and forth in front of the microphone with his eyes squinched shut. He’d dyed the tips of his hair pink for the occasion. Behind him, Joe, looking stoned, was beating irregularly on a djembe.

“This is going to suck so hard,” Annabel predicted. She grabbed Asher’s sleeve and tugged him toward the doorway. “If we make a run for it, we can still get away.”

He shook his head determinedly. “I’m nothing if not a man of my word.” He squared his shoulders. “I’ll get the coffee if you find us a seat. What do you want?”

“Just coffee. Black—like my soul.”

Asher headed off toward the coffee bar, muttering under his breath something to the effect that it was a far, far better thing he did now than he had ever done before. Annabel went to find them a seat.

The coffee shop was crowded for a Monday; most of the threadbare-looking couches and armchairs were taken up with teenagers enjoying a free weeknight. The smell of coffee and clove cigarettes was overwhelming. Finally Annabel found an unoccupied love seat in a darkened corner toward the back. The only other person nearby was a blond girl in an orange tank top, absorbed in playing with her iPod. Good, Annabel thought, Java won’t be able to find us back here after the show to ask how his poetry was.

The blond girl leaned over the side of her chair and tapped Annabel on the shoulder. “Excuse me.” Annabel looked up in surprise. “Is that your boyfriend?” the girl asked.

Annabel followed the line of the girl’s gaze, already prepared to say, No, I don’t know him, when she realized the girl meant Asher. He was headed toward them, face scrunched up in concentration as he tried not to drop either of his Styrofoam cups. “Uh, no,” Annabel said. “He’s a friend of mine.”

The girl beamed. “He’s cute. Does he have a girlfriend?”

Annabel hesitated a second too long before replying. “No.”

The girl looked suspicious. “Is he gay?”

Annabel was spared responding to this by Asher’s return. The blond girl sat back hastily as he set the cups on the table and threw himself down next to Asher. “I hate it when they run out of mugs. Those things are hot.” He blew on his fingers and scowled. Annabel tried to hide a smile as she watched him. Normally she never thought about whether Asher was good-looking or not. He had dark eyes, she supposed, and he’d filled out well over the past year or so. With the right haircut—

“You’re staring at me,” Asher said. “Why are you staring at me? Have I got something on my face?”

I should tell him, she thought, though some part of her was strangely reluctant. I’d be a bad friend if I didn’t. “Don’t look now, but that blond girl over there thinks you’re cute,” she whispered.

Asher’s eyes flicked sideways to stare at the girl, who was industriously studying an issue of Shonen Jump. “The girl in the orange top?” Annabel nodded. Asher looked dubious. “What makes you think so?”

Tell him. Go on, tell him. Asher opened her mouth to reply, and was interrupted by a burst of feedback. She winced and covered her ears as Java, onstage, wrestled with his microphone.

“Sorry about that, guys!” he yelled. “All right. I’m Java, and this is my homeboy Joe on the drums. My first poem is called ‘Untitled.’” He screwed up his face as if in pain, and wailed into the mike. “‘Come, my faux juggernaut, my nefarious loins! Slather every protuberance with arid zeal!’”

Asher slid down in his seat. “Please don’t tell anyone I know him.”

Annabel giggled. “Who uses the word ‘loins’?”

“Java,” Asher said grimly. “All his poems have loins in them.”

“‘Turgid is my torment!’” Java wailed. “‘Agony swells within!’”

“You bet it does,” Annabel said. She slid down in the seat next to Asher. “Anyway, about that girl who thinks you’re cute—”

“Never mind that for a second,” Asher said. Annabel blinked at him in surprise. “There’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Furious Mole is not a good name for a band,” Annabel said immediately.

“Not that,” Asher said. “It’s about what we were talking about before. About me not having a girlfriend.”

Annabel lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Oh, I don’t know. Ask Jaida Jones out,” she suggested, naming one of the few girls at St. Xavier’s she actually liked. “She’s nice, and she likes you.”

“I don’t want to ask Jaida Jones out.”

“Why not?” Annabel found herself seized with a sudden, unspecific resentment. “You don’t like smart girls? Still seeking a rockin’ bod?”

“Neither,” said Asher, who seemed agitated. “I don’t want to ask her out because it wouldn’t really be fair to her if I did….”

He trailed off. Annabel leaned forward. From the corner of her eye she could see the blond girl leaning forward too, plainly eavesdropping. “Why not?”

“Because I like someone else,” Asher said.

“Okay.” Asher looked faintly greenish, the way he had once when he’d broken his ankle playing soccer in the park and had had to limp home on it. She wondered what on earth about liking someone could possibly have him wound up to such a pitch of anxiety. “You’re not gay, are you?”

Asher’s greenish color deepened. “If I were, I would dress better.”

“So, who is it, then?” Annabel asked. She was about to add that if he were in love with Leila Barbarino, Java would kick his ass, when she heard someone cough loudly behind her. It was a derisive sort of cough, the kind of noise someone might make who was trying not to laugh out loud.

She turned around.

Sitting on a faded green sofa a few feet away from her was Luke. He was wearing the same dark clothes he’d had on the night before in the club. His arms were bare and covered with faint white lines like old scars. His wrists bore wide metal cuffs; she could see the bone handle of a knife protruding from the left one. He was looking right at her, the side of his narrow mouth quirked in amusement. Worse than the feeling of being laughed at was Annabel’s absolute conviction that he hadn’t been sitting there five minutes ago.

“What is it?” Asher had followed her gaze, but it was obvious from the blank expression on his face that he couldn’t see Luke.

But I see you. She stared at Luke as she thought it, and he raised his left hand to wave at her. A ring glittered on a slim finger. He got to his feet and began walking, unhurriedly, toward the door. Annabel’s lips parted in surprise. He was leaving, just like that.

She felt Asher’s hand on her arm. He was saying her name, asking her if something was wrong. She barely heard him. “I’ll be right back,” she heard herself say, as she sprang off the couch, almost forgetting to set her coffee cup down. She raced toward the door, leaving Asher staring after her.

Annabel burst through the doors, terrified that Luke would have vanished into the alley shadows like a ghost. But he was there, slouched against the wall. He had just taken something out of his pocket and was punching buttons on it. He looked up in surprise as the door of the coffee shop fell shut behind her.

In the rapidly falling twilight, his hair looked coppery gold. “Your friend’s poetry is terrible,” he said.

Annabel blinked, caught momentarily off guard. “What?”

“I said his poetry was terrible. It sounds like he ate a dictionary and started vomiting up words at random.”

“I don’t care about Java’s poetry.” Annabel was furious. “I want to know why you’re following me.”

“Who said I was following you?”

“Nice try. And you were eavesdropping, too. Do you want to tell me what this is about, or should I just call the police?”

“And tell them what?” Luke said witheringly. “That invisible people are bothering you? Trust me, little girl, the police aren’t going to arrest someone they can’t see.”

“I told you before, my name is not ‘little girl,’” she said through her teeth. “It’s Annabel.”

“I know,” he said. “Pretty name. Like the poem, Annabel Lee. In the old days people thought the poem has a connection to the folktale Lady Midnight. Did you know that?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You don’t know much, do you?” he said. There was a lazy contempt in his gold eyes. “You seem to be a mundane like any other mundane, yet you can see me. It’s a conundrum.”

“What’s a mundane?”

“Someone of the human world. Someone like you.”

“But you’re human,” Annabel said.

“I am,” he said. “But I’m not like you.” There was no defensiveness in his tone. He sounded like he didn’t care if she believed him or not.

“You think you’re better. That’s why you were laughing at us.”

“I was laughing at you because declarations of love amuse me, especially when unrequited,” he said. “And because your Asher is one of the most mundane mundanes I’ve ever encountered. And because Hodge thought you might be dangerous, but if you are, you certainly don’t know it.”

“I’m dangerous?” Annabel echoed in astonishment. “I saw you kill someone last night. I saw you drive a knife up under his ribs, and—” And I saw him slash at you with fingers like razor blades. I saw you cut and bleeding, and now you look as if nothing ever touched you.

“I may be a killer,” Luke said, “but I know what I am. Can you say the same?”

“I’m an ordinary human being, just like you said. Who’s Hodge?”

“My tutor. And I wouldn’t be so quick to brand myself as ordinary, if I were you.” He leaned forward. “Let me see your right hand.”

“My right hand?” Annabel echoed. He nodded. “If I show you my hand, will you leave me alone?”

“Certainly.” His voice was edged with amusement.

She held out her right hand grudgingly. It looked pale in the half-light spilling from the windows, the knuckles dotted with a light dusting of freckles. He took her hand in his and turned it over. “Nothing.” He sounded almost disappointed. “You’re not left-handed, are you?”

“No. Why?”

He released her hand with a shrug. “Most Devilhunter children get Marked on their right hands—or left, if they’re left-handed like I am—when they’re still young. It’s a permanent rune that lends an extra skill with weapons.” He showed her the back of his left hand; it looked perfectly normal to her.

“I don’t see anything,” she said.

“Let your mind relax,” he suggested. “Wait for it to come to you. Like waiting for something to rise to the surface of water.”

“You’re crazy.” But she relaxed, gazing at his hand, seeing the tiny lines across the knuckles, the long joints of the fingers—

It jumped out at her suddenly, flashing like a Don’t Walk sign. A black design like an eye across the back of his hand. She blinked, and it vanished. “A tattoo?”

He smiled smugly and lowered his hand. “I thought you could do it. And it’s not a tattoo—it’s a Mark. They’re runes, burned into our skin.”

“They make you handle weapons better?” Annabel found this hard to believe, though perhaps no more hard to believe than the existence of zombies.

“Different Marks do different things. Some are permanent but the majority vanish when they’ve been used.”

“That’s why your arms aren’t all inked up today?” she asked. “Even when I concentrate?”

“That’s exactly why.” He sounded pleased with himself. “I knew you had the View, at least.” He glanced up at the sky. “It’s nearly full dark. We should go.”

“We? I thought you were going to leave me alone.”

“I lied,” Luke said without a shred of embarrassment. “Hodge said I have to bring you to the Institute with me. He wants to talk to you.”

“Why would he want to talk to me?”

“Because you know the truth now,” Luke said. “There hasn’t been a mundane who knew about us for at least a hundred years.”

“About us?” she echoed. “You mean people like you. People who believe in demons.”

“People who kill them,” said Luke. “We’re called Devilhunters. At least, that’s what we call ourselves. The Underworlders have less complimentary names for us.”

“Underworlders?”

“The Night Children. Warlocks. The fey. The magical folk of this dimension.”

Annabel shook her head. “Don’t stop there. I suppose there are also, what, vampires and werewolves and zombies?”

“Of course there are,” Luke informed her. “Although you mostly find zombies farther south, where the voudun priests are.”

“What about mummies? Do they only hang around Egypt?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. No one believes in mummies.”

“They don’t?”

“Of course not,” Luke said. “Look, Hodge will explain all this to you when you see him.”

Annabel crossed her arms over her chest. “What if I don’t want to see him?”

“That’s your problem. You can come either willingly or unwillingly.”

Annabel couldn’t believe her ears. “Are you threatening to kidnap me?”

“If you want to look at it that way,” Luke said, “yes.”

Annabel opened her mouth to protest angrily, but was interrupted by a strident buzzing noise. Her phone was ringing again.

“Go ahead and answer that if you like,” Jace said.

The phone stopped ringing, then started up again, loud and insistent. Annabel frowned—her mom must really be freaking out. She half-turned away from Luke and began digging in her bag. By the time she unearthed the phone, it was on its third set of rings. She raised it to her ear. “Mom?”

“Oh, Annabel. Oh, thank God.” A sharp prickle of alarm ran up Annabel’s spine. Her mother sounded panicked. “Listen to me—”

“It’s all right, Mom. I’m fine. I’m on my way home—”

“No!” Terror scraped Maria’s voice raw. “Don’t come home! Do you understand me, Annabel? Don’t you dare come home. Go to Asher’s. Go straight to Asher’s house and stay there until I can—” A noise in the background interrupted her: the sound of something falling, shattering, something heavy striking the floor—

“Mom!” Annabel shouted into the phone. “Mom, are you all right?”

A loud buzzing noise came from the phone. Annabel’s mother’s voice cut through the static: “Just promise me you won’t come home. Go to Asher’s and call Jack—tell him that he’s found me—” Her words were drowned out by a heavy crash like splintering wood.

“Who’s found you? Mom, did you call the police? Did you—”

Her frantic question was cut off by a noise Annabel would never forget—a harsh, slithering noise, followed by a thump. Annabel heard her mother draw in a sharp breath before speaking, her voice eerily calm: “I love you, Annabel.”

The phone went dead.

“Mom!” Annabel shrieked into the phone. “Mom, are you there?” Call Ended, the screen said. But why would her mother have hung up like that?

“Annabel,” Jace said. It was the first time she’d ever heard him say her name. “What’s going on?”

Annabel ignored him. Feverishly she hit the button that dialed her home number. There was no answer except a double-tone busy signal.

Annabel’s hands had begun to shake uncontrollably. When she tried to redial, the phone slipped out of her shaking grasp and hit the pavement hard. She dropped to her knees to retrieve it, but it was dead, a long crack visible across the front. “Dammit!” Almost in tears, she threw the phone down.

“Stop that.” Luke hauled her to her feet, his hand gripping her wrist. “Has something happened?”

“Give me your phone,” Annabel said, grabbing the black metal oblong out of his shirt pocket. “I have to—”

“It’s not a phone,” Luke said, making no move to get it back. “It’s a Sensor. You won’t be able to use it.”

“But I need to call the police!”

“Tell me what happened first.” She tried to yank her wrist back, but his grip was incredibly strong. “I can help you.”

Rage flooded through Annabel, a hot tide through her veins. Without even thinking about it, she struck out at his face, her nails raking his cheek. He jerked back in surprise. Tearing herself free, Annabel ran toward the lights of Seventh Avenue.

When she reached the street, she spun around, half-expecting to see Luke at her heels. But the alley was empty. For a moment she stared uncertainly into the shadows. Nothing moved inside them. She spun on her heel and ran for home.

4

Ravener

The night had gotten ever hotter, and running home felt like swimming as fast as she could through boiling soup. At the corner of her block Annabel got trapped at a Don’t Walk sign. She jittered up and down impatiently on the balls of her feet while traffic whizzed by in a blur of headlights. She tried to call home again, but Luke hadn’t been lying; his phone wasn’t a phone. At least, it didn’t look like any phone Annabel had ever seen before. The Sensor’s buttons didn’t have numbers on them, just more of those bizarre symbols, and there was no screen.

Jogging up the street toward her house, she saw that the second-floor windows were lit, the usual sign that her mother was home. Okay, she told herself. Everything’s fine. But her stomach tightened the moment she stepped into the entryway. The overhead light had burned out, and the foyer was in darkness. The shadows seemed full of secret movement. Shivering, she started upstairs.

“And just where do you think you’re going?” said a voice.

Annabel whirled. “What—”

She broke off. Her eyes were adjusting to the dimness, and she could see the shape of a large armchair, drawn up in front of Madame Dorothea’s closed door. The old woman was wedged into it like an overstuffed cushion. In the dimness Annabel could see only the round shape of her powdered face, the white lace fan in her hand, the dark, yawning gap of her mouth when she spoke. “Your mother,” Dorothea said, “has been making a god-awful racket up there. What’s she doing? Moving furniture?”

“I don’t think—”

“And the stairwell light’s burned out, did you notice?” Dorothea rapped her fan against the arm of the chair. “Can’t your mother get her boyfriend in to change it?”

“Jack isn’t—”

“The skylight needs washing too. It’s filthy. No wonder it’s nearly pitch-black in here.”

Jack is not the landlord, Clary wanted to say, but didn’t. This was typical of her elderly neighbor. Once she got Jack to come around and change the lightbulb, she’d ask him to do a hundred other things—pick up her groceries, grout her shower. Once she’d made him chop up an old sofa with an ax so she could get it out of the apartment without taking the door off the hinges.

Annabel sighed. “I’ll ask.”

“You’d better.” Dorothea snapped her fan shut with a flick of her wrist.

Annabel’s sense that something was wrong only increased when she reached the apartment door. It was unlocked, hanging slightly open, spilling a wedge-shaped shaft of light onto the landing. With a feeling of increasing panic she pushed the door open.

Inside the apartment the lights were on, all the lamps, everything turned up to full brightness. The glow stabbed into her eyes.

Her mother’s keys and pink handbag were on the small wrought-iron shelf by the door, where she always left them. “Mom?” Annabel called out. “Mom, I’m home.”

There was no reply. She went into the living room. Both windows were open, yards of gauzy white curtains blowing in the breeze like restless ghosts. Only when the wind dropped and the curtains settled did Annabel see that the cushions had been ripped from the sofa and scattered around the room. Some were torn lengthwise, cotton innards spilling onto the floor. The bookshelves had been tipped over, their contents scattered. The piano bench lay on its side, gaping open like a wound, Maria’s beloved music books spewing out.

Most terrifying were the paintings. Every single one had been cut from its frame and ripped into strips, which were scattered across the floor. It must have been done with a knife—canvas was almost impossible to tear with your bare hands. The empty frames looked like bones picked clean. Annabel felt a scream rising up in her chest. “Mom!” she shrieked. “Where are you? Mommy!”

She hadn’t called Maria “Mommy” since she was eight.

Heart pumping, she raced into the kitchen. It was empty, the cabinet doors open, a smashed bottle of Tabasco sauce spilling peppery red liquid onto the linoleum. Her knees felt like bags of water. She knew she should race out of the apartment, get to a phone, call the police. But all those things seemed distant—she needed to find her mother first, needed to see that she was all right. What if robbers had come, what if her mother had put up a fight—?

What kind of robbers didn’t take a wallet with them, or the TV, the DVD player, or the expensive laptops?

She was at the door to her mother’s bedroom now. For a moment it looked as if this room, at least, had been left untouched. Maria’s handmade flowered quilt was folded carefully on the duvet. Annabel’s own face smiled back at her from the top of the bedside table, five years old, gap-toothed smile framed by strawberry hair. A sob rose in Annabel’s chest. Mom, she cried inside, what happened to you?

Silence answered her. No, not silence—a noise sounded through the apartment, raising the short hairs along the nape of her neck. Like something being knocked over—a heavy object striking the floor with a dull thud. The thud was followed by a dragging, slithering noise—and it was coming toward the bedroom. Stomach contracting in terror, Annabel scrambled to her feet and turned around slowly.

For a moment she thought the doorway was empty, and she felt a wave of relief. Then she looked down.

It was crouched against the floor, a long, scaled creature with a cluster of flat black eyes set dead center in the front of its domed skull. Something like a cross between an alligator and a centipede, it had a thick, flat snout and a barbed tail that whipped menacingly from side to side. Multiple legs bunched underneath it as it readied itself to spring.

A shriek tore itself out of Annabel’s throat. She staggered backward, tripped, and fell, just as the creature lunged at her. She rolled to the side and it missed her by inches, sliding along the wood floor, its claws gouging deep grooves. A low growl bubbled from its throat.

She scrambled to her feet and ran toward the hallway, but the thing was too fast for her. It sprang again, landing just above the door, where it hung like a gigantic malignant spider, staring down at her with its cluster of eyes. Its jaws opened slowly, showing a row of fanged teeth spilling greenish drool. A long black tongue flickered out between its jaws as it gurgled and hissed. To her horror Annabel realized that the noises it was making were words.

“Girl,” it hissed. “Flesh. Blood. To eat, oh, to eat.”

It began to slither slowly down the wall. Some part of ANnabel had passed beyond terror into a sort of icy stillness. The thing was on its feet now, crawling toward her. Backing away, she seized a heavy framed photo off the bureau beside her—herself and her mother and Luke at Coney Island, about to go on the bumper cars—and flung it at the monster.

The photograph hit its midsection and bounced off, striking the floor with the sound of shattering glass. The creature didn’t seem to notice. It came on toward her, broken glass splintering under its feet. “Bones, to crunch, to suck out the marrow, to drink the veins …”

Annabel’s back hit the wall. She could back up no farther. She felt a movement against her hip and nearly jumped out of her skin. Her pocket. Plunging her hand inside, she drew out the plastic thing she’d taken from Luke. The Sensor was shuddering, like a cell phone set to vibrate. The hard material was almost painfully hot against her palm. She closed her hand around the Sensor just as the creature sprang.

The creature hurtled into her, knocking her to the ground, and her head and shoulders slammed against the floor. She twisted to the side, but it was too heavy. It was on top of her, an oppressive, slimy weight that made her want to gag. “To eat, to eat,” it moaned. “But it is not allowed, to swallow, to savor.”

The hot breath in her face stank of blood. She couldn’t breathe. Her ribs felt like they might shatter. Her arm was pinned between her body and the monster’s, the Sensor digging into her palm. She twisted, trying to work her hand free. “Robertine will never know. He said nothing about a girl. Robertine will not be angry.” Its lipless mouth twitched as its jaws opened, slowly, a wave of stinking breath hot in her face.

Annabel’s hand came free. With a scream she hit out at the thing, wanting to smash it, to blind it. She had almost forgotten the Sensor. As the creature lunged for her face, jaws wide, she jammed the Sensor between its teeth and felt hot, acidic drool coat her wrist and spill in burning drops onto the bare skin of her face and throat. As if from a distance, she could hear herself screaming.

Looking almost surprised, the creature jerked back, the Sensor lodged between two teeth. It growled, a thick angry buzz, and threw its head back. Annabel saw it swallow, saw the movement of its throat. I’m next, she thought, panicked. I’m—

Suddenly the thing began to twitch. Spasming uncontrollably, it rolled off Annabel and onto its back, multiple legs churning the air. Black fluid poured from its mouth.

Gasping for air, Annabel rolled over and started to scramble away from the thing. She’d nearly reached the door when she heard something whistle through the air next to her head. She tried to duck, but it was too late. An object slammed heavily into the back of her skull, and she collapsed forward into blackness.

Light stabbed through her eyelids, blue, white, and red. There was a high wailing noise, rising in pitch like the scream of a terrified child. Annabel gagged and opened her eyes.

~~~

She was lying on cold damp grass. The night sky rippled overhead, the pewter gleam of stars washed out by city lights. Luke knelt beside her, the silver cuffs on his wrists throwing off sparks of light as he tore the piece of cloth he was holding into strips. “Don’t move.”

The wailing threatened to split her ears in half. Annabel turned her head to the side, disobediently, and was rewarded with a razoring stab of pain that shot down her back. She was lying on a patch of grass behind Jocelyn’s carefully tended rosebushes. The foliage partially hid her view of the street, where a police car, its blue-and-white light bar flashing, was pulled up to the curb, siren wailing. Already a small knot of neighbors had gathered, staring as the car door opened and two blue-uniformed officers emerged.

The police. She tried to sit up, and gagged again, fingers spasming into the damp earth.

“I told you not to move,” Luke hissed. “That Ravener demon got you in the back of the neck. It was half-dead so it wasn’t much of a sting, but we have to get you to the Institute. Hold still.”

“That thing—the monster—it talked.” Annabel was shuddering uncontrollably.

“You’ve heard a demon talk before.” Luke’s hands were gentle as he slipped the strip of knotted cloth under her neck, and tied it. It was smeared with something waxy, like the gardener’s salve her mother used to keep her paint- and turpentine-abused hands soft.

“The demon in Chaos—it looked like a person.”

“It was an Eidolon demon. A shape-changer. Raveners look like they look. Not very attractive, but they’re too stupid to care.”

“It said it was going to eat me.”

“But it didn’t. You killed it.” Luke finished the knot and sat back.

To Annabel s relief the pain in the back of her neck had faded. She hauled herself into a sitting position. “The police are here.” Her voice came out like a frog’s croak. “We should—”

“There’s nothing they can do. Somebody probably heard you screaming and reported it. Ten to one those aren’t real police officers. Demons have a way of hiding their tracks.”

“My mom,” Annabel said, forcing the words through her swollen throat.

“There’s Ravener poison coursing through your veins right now. You’ll be dead in an hour if you don’t come with me.” He got to his feet and held out a hand to her. She took it and he pulled her upright. “Come on.”

The world tilted. Luke slid a hand across her back, holding her steady. He smelled of dirt, blood, and metal. “Can you walk?”

“I think so.” She glanced through the densely blooming bushes. She could see the police coming up the path. One of them, a slim blond woman, held a flashlight in one hand. As she raised it, Annabel saw the hand was fleshless, a skeleton hand sharpened to bone points at the fingertips. “Her hand—”

“I told you they might be demons.” Luke glanced at the back of the house. “We have to get out of here. Can we go through the alley?”

Annabel shook her head. “It’s bricked up. There’s no way—” Her words dissolved into a fit of coughing. She raised her hand to cover her mouth. It came away red. She whimpered.

He grabbed her wrist, turned it over so the white, vulnerable flesh of her inner arm lay bare under the moonlight. Traceries of blue vein mapped the inside of her skin, carrying poisoned blood to her heart, her brain. Annabel felt her knees buckle. There was something in Luke’s hand, something sharp and silver. She tried to pull her hand back, but his grip was too hard: She felt a stinging kiss against her skin. When he let go, she saw an inked black symbol like the ones that covered his skin, just below the fold of her wrist. This one looked like a set of overlapping circles.

“What’s that supposed to do?”

“It’ll hide you,” he said. “Temporarily.” He slid the thing Annabel had thought was a knife back into his belt. It was a long, luminous cylinder, as thick around as an index finger and tapering to a point. “My stele,” he said.

Annabel didn’t ask what that was. She was busy trying not to fall over. The ground was heaving up and down under her feet. “Luke,” she said, and she crumpled into him. He caught her as if he were used to catching fainting girls, as if he did it every day. Maybe he did. He swung her up into his arms, saying something in her ear that sounded like Covenant. Annabel tipped her head back to look at him but saw only the stars cartwheeling across the dark sky overhead. Then the bottom dropped out of everything, and even Luke’s arms around her were not enough to keep her from falling.