Chapter 13

”Excluding instances of exceptional rarity—gold symbolizing purity, black denoting malevolence, and grey indicating death—subtle hue variations appear to correspond with minor variances in individual personalities, offering minimal substantive insight. Unveiling the intricate nuances between shades and personality traits necessitates an extensive longitudinal study…”

-Excerpt from the personal journal of Dr. Claude Foster, Director of Faeology at Mesmeric Labs

FANTASIA

Ihave no idea where we’re going, but I follow Archer, opting to lean into the whole trust thing.

We emerge from the tunnels a short while later, and the rumble of cars on the road reverberates down the alleyway. Somewhere out of sight, a man sings out of tune, the words slurred. I squint against the sudden onslaught of midday sunlight. Turning, I’m relieved to see that the metal storm door we just pushed through is still in place, surrounded by weathered brick. Maybe I was confused when I thought the door disappeared last time.

“Where the hell are we?” I whisper, peering around the alley. I don’t recognize the buildings.

The cement path before us is long and wide, littered with rubble and broken glass. It leads to the street, and it reeks of rot—urine and feces baking in the sun. Muggy air grips us tight in its fist, the tall buildings refusing to let a breeze through to clear it out.

Bile rises in my mouth, but I bite it back.

“A few streets over from The Rising Star,” Archer says.

“Downtown,” I mutter.

Between us and the road, a couple of makeshift tents are clustered together between trash bins, pressed up against the exposed brick, and a handful of half-conscious people are lying about. Junk is strewn all around—old shoes, empty food containers, broken furniture.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“Somewhere safe, to eat and rest and figure out a plan.”

“This doesn’t look safe,” I whisper.

A weathered man grins toothlessly at me from where he sprawls next to a shelter made of blue tarp and stacks of bricks on the dirty cement. He winks, catcalling me and lifting an amber bottle in my direction.

Unease swirls in my gut.

Automatically, I scoot closer to Archer, wrapping my hands around one of his firm biceps. He tenses briefly under my touch before relaxing.

“Be patient,” he says, placing his hand atop mine and giving it a reassuring squeeze. “We’re going to my house.”

I nod, accepting that I’ll figure it out when we get there.

“Gods,” I mutter as I almost trip on a piece of trash. “This place is a dump. I can’t believe they live like this.”

Archer’s stride stutters, and he gives me a sidelong glance. “I’m sure they feel the same.”

“They ended up here because of their own actions.” I wave my hand around, gesturing toward the beer bottles and needles that lie on the ground in surplus.

He halts and glances down at me, brows pulled together tightly.

“So that inherently means they must enjoy living like this?” The hardness in his voice catches me off guard. “Are you saying they deserve to spend their entire lives like this because of a bad decision or two somewhere along the line?”

“That’s not at all what I said.”

“You implied it,” he says in a low voice.

Frustration heats me from the inside out, and my fingers automatically tighten around Archer’s bicep. He winces when my nails dig in. I make a face and loosen up but don’t apologize out loud.

“Don’t put words in my mouth,” I say. “Please.” We walk a few steps in silence, and then I add, “No one in the PD deserves the shit they’re dealt. But here we all are. Best we can do is make better decisions with the few choices we have. Being born into poverty isn’t a valid excuse for letting your entire life go to shit.”

“Nice vocabulary,” Archer mutters, and I roll my eyes.

“I grew up in foster care not too far from here. I could’ve easily ended up rotting away in an alley, too.” I used to choose the easier path—using alcohol, drugs, and sex to numb myself. Had I not chosen to sober up and throw myself into work and art, I could’ve easily ended up in this alley.

Or worse, dead in a ditch somewhere.

I don’t have much—and working for it was hard as hell—but I chose the harder option for myself.

“You’re speaking from a place of privilege.”

“Privilege?” I mutter, yanking on his arm to make him stop again. I unlink myself from him, leveling him with a serious stare. “My parents were murdered, I was abused in foster care for years, and I almost ended up on the streets myself. How is that privileged?”

He returns my stare without any hint of emotion. “Why didn’t you end up here?” he asks, voice low.

“Because I chose not to.”

“What did you choose instead?”

I think for a second. “Working.”

“And you don’t think that’s a privilege?”

“Work is exactly what it sounds like. Money isn’t just handed to me. I earn it. I learned to spend my time—and my money—wisely.” And I chose art over drugs. Oil pastels over drinking.

“Many of these people don’t have the choice of working. They don’t have the strength to choose to live differently.” He sighs, giving me a look that can only be interpreted as disappointed. “Your resources and opportunities might not have been ideal, but you had access to more than most.”

“I understand where you’re coming from, but I still chose the hard path.”

“Not everyone has the opportunity, or the strength, to choose.” His voice cracks, and he clears his throat. His mouth twists into a wounded grimace. “Your strength, Tasia, is something I admire greatly about you. I sensed it the first night we met. I’m glad you were able to take a different path, but you’re greatly mistaken if you don’t view it as a privilege.”

He strides away, his shoulders slumped more than usual, leaving me with a lump in my throat and fire in my cheeks.

For a second, I watch him go. Then, without the lens of judgment, I re-examine the alley. Now, rather than seeing people who chose drugs or drinking, chose not to work, or chose the “easy way out,” I see it in a new light.

What if Jeremiah hadn’t taken a chance on me?

What if I hadn’t had Reed’s friendship?

What if Stace and Alisha hadn’t let me room with them?

Moreover, what if any one of these people here in the alley had had the same opportunities I did? What I said to Archer earlier is true: we’re all one decision away from a different life. But we can only make decisions based on the resources and opportunities given to us.

And that is the true privilege.

The realization sends an earthquake of guilt and gratitude through my body.

“You’re right!” I shout, my voice hoarse. Archer stiffens, straightens his shoulders, then turns to look at me. I jog to catch up to him. “You’re right. I’m—sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to me. Just try to give grace to your neighbors.”

My cheeks heat further, and I nod. “Did you struggle?”

“No,” he says, glancing away. “Someone close to me did.”

“Did they find their way out?”

His gaze meets mine, hardening. “They died.”

My heart drops. I open my mouth to reply—

“Not you again, asshole,” someone says abruptly. A man shuffles up to us, his dark hair greasy, his face streaked with dirt, and his white tank stained with sweat. A dusky blue hue encompasses his body. “I toldya, I’m not coming home with ya, boy.”

Archer’s demeanor shifts. His muscles relax, and his face softens into a look of amusement. “Remy.”

“Asshole.”

I glance back and forth from the two men. “Aren’t you going to scold him for his language?” I ask Archer.

He chuckles but doesn’t say anything, only reaches into his jacket, pulling out a few silvers and placing them in Remy’s hand. At first, the man refuses, but Archer insists.

“You need to eat,” Archer tells him. “You’re all bones and sarcasm these days.”

Remy mutters to himself, frowning. He gives me a slow once-over. “Finally got a wife?”

“Nope,” Archer says.

“Shame. Got good birthing hips, this one.”

I gasp, not expecting that comment. “You—”

“Remy,” Archer says before I can lay into the man. “Apologize to the lady.”

Remy scoffs. “Ain’t no way. That’s a compliment.”

Archer steps forward, jaw clenched tight, and leans close to Remy. “I said, apologize to the lady. Now.”

Remy’s face goes slack, his eyes glossing over. He turns to me. “I’m sorry, ma’am.”

Archer adjusts his jacket, stepping back and giving a nod. “Thank you.”

Remy nods, shakes his head, then resumes scowling. “I toldya, I’m not coming home with ya, boy.”

My brow scrunches. “Uh…?” I stare at Archer. What the fuck was that about? “You have weird friends,” I mutter.

Archer ignores us both, reaching into an inside pocket of his jacket and pulling out a phone. He hands it to Remy. “Been looking for you so I could give you this. Call me if you need me. Godric and I are both programmed in there.” He pats the man on the shoulder. “Stay out of trouble. I’ll be back tonight.”

Remy curses at Archer as we walk away, but he keeps the phone. Archer chuckles under his breath.

I can’t stop stealing glances at Archer. There’s a lot to unpack from that interaction.

“Who’s Remy?” I ask as we head toward the street.

Archer sighs, running a hand over his scruff. There’s an extended pause, as if he’s debating what to say. “Just a man who made some bad decisions and hasn’t had an opportunity to make better ones. Yet.”

“He’s someone special to you,” I guess.

Archer sucks in a sharp breath. “He’s Godric’s father.” There’s a moment of quiet contemplation before he goes on. “They pretend otherwise, but there’s years of resentment built up between them. Remy’s been an addict—alcohol, narcotics—since Godric was young. He never wanted to be a dad.”

“You visit him though?”

For a second, I don’t think he’s going to respond. Then he gives me a long look. “I’m helping him—and a few others.”

“Other addicts?” I say softly.

He nods.

“The person you lost—they were an addict, too?”

A deep furrow appears in his brow. Staring straight ahead, he shakes his head. “They deserved better,” he says through clenched teeth.

“Who?” I ask.

He doesn’t reply, but anger radiates from him like steam from a manhole. Whatever I said—whatever he thought I was implying—seems to have triggered him. But I don’t think it’s me he’s mad at.

After a few more steps, he lets out a long sigh.

My eyes flit to his face, but he shakes his head subtly without looking my way. I wait for him to respond, but when he doesn’t, I return my attention to the path ahead.

A scrawny cat scurries past, and I squeeze Archer’s arm, tugging him to a stop. Whipping around, I squint, trying to locate its little calico frame, but it’s already long gone.

After a few moments of watching silently, hoping the little guy will poke his head out, I accept that he won’t be making another appearance.

When I turn back to Archer, I catch him studying me.

“What?”

“Do you have any pets of your own?” he asks, his soft tone surprising me, especially after the strange, tense encounter we just had with Remy.

“I wish.”

His eyes crinkle at the edges as he grins. “You like dogs.”

“Wild guess?”

“I saw your doormat.”

I chuckle. “Always wanted a dog. Never had one.”

He hmphs, kicking a pebble as we turn out of the alley and step onto the sidewalk beside one of the main roads.

Cars and bikes whiz by, and our conversation immediately ceases as we’re surrounded by a cacophony of accelerating engines, aggressive honking, and loud chatter.

Archer jerks his head at a parking garage across the street and starts jogging toward it. I follow him.

A few cars honk at us as we weave through the congested traffic, but we make it to the enclosed garage unscathed.

We cross the pale concrete floor, our footsteps thundering loudly in the mostly empty space. There are a few dozen cars parked here, but no people. We bypass the first ramp and head for an elevator that’s tucked off to the side. Once we’re inside it, Archer punches the button for the fifth floor while I fan myself.

“It’s not even summer and I’m sweating my tits off,” I complain. This earns me a chuckle. “You have a car?”

My parents had one, but it was repossessed by the city when they died, since I was too young to take over the lease. When I got old enough to drive, I never even bothered to learn. But I couldn’t afford a lease even if I wanted one.

“Nope,” Archer says, once again offering me nothing. He grins, staring straight ahead as the elevator carries us upward.

“Okay then,” I mutter. “Keep your secrets.”

Again, he chuckles, running his fingers through his mussed-up hair.

The elevator doors ding open, and he strides out without looking back. I scurry behind him, struggling to keep up with his quick pace. We pass a few weathered vehicles that have seen better days and a couple of newer, shinier cars that likely belong to Sweetcreek folk who work here in the city’s heart.

Archer leads me to a sleek, matte-black motorcycle parked in a secluded corner.

My feet turn to stone, and my mouth drops open. “We’re riding this thing?”

He shoots me a lopsided grin. “Is that all right with you?”

“Uh, hell yes.”

Right as I’m about to ask if he has a helmet, he hits a button near the rear of the seat. The seat pops up, revealing a storage space. He pulls two helmets out, handing one to me. I eagerly accept it.

“This is so cool!” I say, giddy with excitement.

Butterflies erupt in my stomach, and I bounce between my feet, unable to contain myself.

Archer chuckles heartily as I place the helmet over my head. It’s so heavy that I feel like a bobblehead—about to tip over.

My helmet slides a bit to the side, and he frowns. “Take it off for me?”

He sets his own helmet down on the bike, and I do as he says, handing mine to him. He peers inside it, scrutinizing it for a moment before fiddling with something I can’t see.

“Here.” He steps close to me, lifting the helmet up and over my head. He situates it gently, ensuring it doesn’t slide anymore.

The heat from his body radiates toward me, and I catch a whiff of his scent—musky and masculine, like leather, but with a soft undertone of something earthy. All the little hairs on my arms stand up. My eyes lock onto his. He holds my stare, not making a move to step back.

“How does that feel?” he murmurs.

“Good.” The word comes out raspy, so I clear my throat. “Better. Thanks.”

Quickly, I flick the visor down, hoping to cover the flush that’s aggressively taking over my face. Stepping back, I eye his motorcycle. It’s all black—Archer’s preferred aesthetic apparently—with round, curvy lines, and thick, sturdy tires. Modern, new, and definitely fast by the looks of it.

“So no car, huh?” I ask.

“It’s easier to navigate the city like this,” Archer says.

I quirk a brow. “You mean easier to outrun the Scouts?”

His responding grin is wholly mischievous.

My gaze shifts from the bike to him, and I’m grateful for the tinted visor in front of my face, because now I can gawk at him, fully and unabashedly.

He’s damn sexy next to his bike, dressed in all black, with his tousled dark-blond hair and tatted fingers. His jeans, leather jacket, and combat boots make sense now—protection from the road, should he crash.

It’s less about style and more about safety and practicality.

A knot forms in my stomach, and I find myself unexpectedly worrying about his safety. I hope he doesn’t ever have to put his denim and leather to the test.

“Looks expensive,” I say awkwardly, trying to fill the silence.

He bites his lip and glances away, rubbing the back of his neck as if he’s embarrassed. The response is so cute and innocent, so not what I expected, that laughter bursts out of me. I shake my head, then laugh even harder at how the weight of the helmet slows my movement down.

He grins, and his features come alive. My breath stutters, catching in my throat. Sirius save me, he is damn handsome.

He doesn’t respond to my comment, so I quickly turn away from him, saying, “Put your damn helmet on.”

He does as I tell him. Then he swings a leg over the bike and settles onto the seat. He presses a button and squeezes the handles, and the engine purrs to life. Unlike some of the motorcycles I’ve heard roar past, this one isn’t very boisterous.

“Get on!” he calls over the bike’s seductive hum.

Gingerly, I throw a leg over the bike and plant my ass as far back as I can possibly get without falling off the seat. I clutch the back of his jacket in my fists.

His body shakes with laughter. He releases the handles, reaching back to grab my wrists. Then, tugging my hands around his body, he plants them on his abs.

“Keep your arms around my waist and hold on tight!” he yells. “And scoot forward so you don’t fall off!”

Gritting my teeth, I slowly move forward until my body is flush against his. I tighten my arms around him and lean forward. His belly expands with a deep breath. Then all the air rushes out, and he goes still.

“Ready?”

“Yes!” I call back.

“Hang on tight!”

Before I can gather my thoughts, the bike vibrates to life and takes off, shooting through the parking garage.

“Oh my Gods!” I shriek with glee as I squeeze him even harder.

My head grows heavy with the inertia.

He slows for each turn, weaving us down the ramps and out onto the main road. The world whizzes past as he accelerates. The hair peeking out from the bottom of the helmet whips around my face, getting knotted. I can only giggle.

Adrenaline courses through my veins, and my heart pounds so frantically that I’m convinced Archer can feel it against his back.

Gods, I’ve never felt like this before.

So alive.

So free.

So untouchable.

I squeeze myself against him, giving him a silent thanks for this small gift.