Chapter 14

”Perhaps if I had chosen the field of thanatology rather than faeology, I could better prepare my family. Alas, I have not chosen to study death. Instead, I’ve chosen a study that shall lead me to my death.”

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

FANTASIA

The bike hums along at a leisurely pace as we wind through a sprawling park. Verdant land stretches out for what seems like forever on either side of us, vibrant and thriving under the care of the district’s gardeners.

Thick trees tower overhead, their trunks as wide as my kitchen and their branches casting shade over the road. Gardens filled with flowers I’ve never seen before dot the landscape in a riot of color. Sprinklers shower the plants in a cooling mist, droplets sparkling in the sunlight as we pass.

“You live in Sweetcreek?” I mutter. I guess I didn’t take him literally when he mentioned his house earlier. “Of-fucking-course you do.”

Between the rumble of the bike and the helmet muffling my words, the question is lost into the void.

But it’s a bit surprising, honestly, considering his lecture in the alleyway earlier. I swear, for a moment it felt like we were kindred spirits—both furious about the city’s shortcomings, how the PD is neglected, and how the citizens suffer because of it.

But in reality, Archer doesn’t care. He’s living free and easy out here in Sweetcreek. As a Nightcrawler, he’s already part of the problem—they’re notorious for causing havoc around the city—which means he’s partly responsible for the increase of Silver Scouts. The Nightcrawlers step all over people—and probably each other—desperate to climb out of the hole the rest of us get left in.

I’m willing to bet he’s not originally from Sweetcreek. In his mind, he likely thinks he worked his ass off to get here, but my perception is that he shit on his own people to become the very thing most of us hate.

“Well, shit. Being a gangster pays!” I shout.

The scenery gradually becomes less green as rows of connected homes, separated by garages, come into view.

Archer expertly maneuvers the bike into the driveway of a cinnamon-colored brick townhome. When he parks and turns the bike off, the newfound quiet is almost deafening.

After we detangle ourselves from the bike, we take off our helmets. I hand mine to Archer, then work my fingers through my knotted hair, trying to untangle the mess. He fiddles with the compartment beneath the seat, tucking the helmets away.

I inhale deeply, relishing the fresh air. The scent of blooming flowers soothes and delights me. Leaves rustle softly in the breeze, creating a gentle, peaceful melody. A few birds chirp in the distance. The earth-toned houses on either side of the street are nestled into the greenery, their pristine lawns softened by the natural beauty surrounding them. The neighborhood is well-maintained and carefully cultivated.

It’s serene, idyllic, as if the very air is inviting me to slow down and enjoy the simple beauty of nature. The complete opposite of the Packing District. Somehow, we’re still in Silver City, but it’s like an entirely different world. No armed Scouts walk the streets here, from what I can see. No drunkards stumble around midday. In the distance, a dog barks. Children’s laughter carries on the breeze.

The district is exactly how I remember it from my childhood. The nostalgia is almost overwhelming, and I find myself lost in memories of picking ashberries in the field with my mom and dad. We could never afford to live here, despite Dad’s government job at the lab, but we sure loved visiting and pretending we lived here.

Smiling, I glance down at my fingers, almost expecting to see them stained purple. I had so much fun trying to wipe berry juice on my dad’s face as a child. He’d pick me up, throw me over his shoulder, and tickle me until I couldn’t breathe.

“Tasia?” Archer’s voice caresses me back to the present. “Where’d you go?”

Heat spreads across my cheeks as I turn to face him. “Nowhere.”

He squints, giving me a contemplative look before shrugging. “I called out to you a few times, and you didn’t respond.”

This time, I’m the one who shrugs.

“You had a goofy grin on your face,” he says. His gaze flits to my mouth, lingering there a second before moving back up to my eyes.

“I was just…remembering something.”

“Anything worth sharing?”

“Not with you.” I step away, putting some space between us and crossing my arms defensively. “We’re not friends”

Archer’s body goes rigid. Regret washes over me. But it’s true. We’re not friends. He runs the Nightcrawlers. He lives in Sweetcreek.

He’s on top of the world, a rich kid who grew up and wanted to rebel so he joined the Nightcrawlers. We live in two different worlds.

Something akin to hurt flashes across Archer’s face. A muscle in his jaw tics, and he glances past me distantly.

I think of how he gave Remy money. How he helps the addicts. How he himself lost someone he cared about, and I sigh, reconsidering my attitude. If he were here, Dad would tell me to treat everyone with kindness, especially those who don’t seem to deserve it, because deep down, they’re the ones who need it most.

“My dad…” I take a deep breath, finding it difficult to form the words. Though I think about my parents daily, I never speak about them with anyone. “He was a great guy. My mom was sick all my life—mentally. She wasn’t really there most days. Dad did everything for us. He was my superhero.” I chuckle. “I told him that once when I was little, and he started calling me Fantastic Fantasia. Said I was his superhero.”

Archer’s face softens. When he doesn’t say anything, I continue. “He was a good guy, and he’d do anything for the people he loved.” When I blink, an image of him on his last day—frantically telling me to hide—pops up in my mind. My throat gets thick, and I swallow the grief down. “He was murdered. Unfairly and unjustly.”

“Tasia…” Archer says softly. He reaches up and rubs the back of his neck, his face stern. “About your father—”

“There you are, Mister Acciai!” says a high-pitched voice, making me jump.

Archer’s gaze locks onto something behind me, and he strides past me, saying, “Excuse me. I’ll be right back.”

Turning, I catch sight of an older lady hobbling across the street, her wild mane of grey curls bobbing around her head. She smiles warmly at Archer.

“Nice to see you, Mrs. Vannickle,” he says.

“Sure it is.” She grips his arm tightly. “A minute to spare for your elders?”

“For you?” He pats her hand gently. “Always.”

Folding my arms in front of my chest, I remain next to the bike. They cross the street and walk two houses over, into the driveway of a cherry-wood townhouse, where another elderly lady stands at the trunk of a car.

He says something to Mrs. Vannickle, but I’m too far away to make out what words are exchanged. Whatever he says causes her entire body to soften, and she claps him gently on the bicep and nods her head. The three of them laugh and carry on a conversation for a while before Archer reaches into the trunk, pulls out a couple of paper bags, and treks toward the house.

I frown at the unexpected tenderness he’s displaying. Guilt builds in my chest. I shouldn’t have snapped at him. Maybe I should trust him—take his gold soul-shade more seriously.

Soon, Archer and the old lady return to the car for another round of groceries. As if he can sense my gaze on him, he looks my way. I freeze, offering him an awkward wave. He holds up an index finger, indicating he’ll be just a minute. I give him a thumbs-up, which seems to satisfy him, and he heads back into the lady’s house with her groceries.

Boredom and curiosity get the best of me, and I casually stroll toward his bike. I locate the button to pop open the compartment and press it. The lid opens, and I peer into the storage area. What else does he store in here?

“The hell you doin?” a gruff voice says from behind me, and I squeal, jumping back from the bike and spinning around.

A tank of a man crosses the yard, coming straight toward me. He’s almost as tall and wide as a doorframe, with thick muscles straining against his T-shirt. The leash he’s holding goes taut as a blur of black fur barrels toward me.

I put my arms up, screaming when a pair of hefty paws hits my chest and knocks me backward onto the grass. Then I’m being assaulted by a slobbery tongue.

“Scathe!” Archer yells.

I can’t help the giggles that escape as I battle to get out from under the massive dog, who whines excitedly.

“Stop, stop,” I gasp out between laughs, trying to shield myself from the onslaught of sloppy, wet kisses.

“Scathe, heel!” Archer commands from beside me.

The dog jumps off me.

Pushing myself up onto my elbows, I use the hem of my shirt to wipe slobber off my face. With the dog at his side, Archer stands glaring at the bodybuilder-man. They exchange words, but I ignore them, my eyes widening as I get a good look at the oversized creature with onyx-colored fur and piercing ice-blue irises.

“You okay, Tasia?” Archer asks, worry wrinkles marring his forehead. He extends a hand, which I accept. “I’m so sorry. Scathe is—”

“I’m fine.” I wave him off, squatting down to pet Scathe’s neck. His tail thumps happily in the grass. In a baby voice, I say, “He just wants some loves, doesn’t he?” I glance up at Archer. “Is he a Belgian Shepherd?”

“Eh.” Archer cups the back of his neck, glancing at his dog. Scathe whines, and Archer shakes his head, scowling at him. “Something like that.”

The muscly man grunts. He steps beside Archer and Scathe, glowering down at me. “She was busting into your bike.”

My cheeks heat as I stand. “It wasn’t what it—” I pause. Gods, I sound just like Reed. It wasn’t what it looked like, I swear. “I’ve never seen a motorcycle up close. I was just curious.”

The stranger narrows his eyes at me, and I swear the man doesn’t blink once as we have a silent standoff for a good thirty seconds.

Archer laughs in spite of his friend’s harshness, and all the tension leaves my body. Unfazed, he treks toward the house, waving us after him.

“Don’t touch his shit,” Archer’s friend says. He shoots one last glare at me, slamming the compartment shut, then joins Archer.

I jolt, backing away from the bike. “Okay, grumpy,” I mutter.

Archer laughs with his friend as they head toward his house, and I hesitate to follow. When they reach the front door, Archer pets Scathe, then glances back, giving me a reassuring smile. My heart squeezes. The lazy golden glow hovering around him seals the deal for me, and my feet move on their own accord. I cross the lawn and ascend the few stout porch steps to his front door.

As we step inside the house, we’re greeted by a charming entryway with a small bench, extra dog leashes hanging on a hook, and what I assume is a closet door. The spacious, open-floor plan allows me to see through the house and out the sliding glass doors all the way to the large, fenced-in backyard. My attention snags on the only piece of real furniture: a sofa sitting awkwardly against one of the walls, still adorned with a price tag. Ripped cardboard lies scattered around it, as if someone recently unboxed it and put it together.

Shifting my gaze to the left, I check out the modern kitchen, which boasts an array of shiny appliances and an impressive amount of cupboard space. The staircase, tucked into the far side of the kitchen, curves out of sight as it ascends to the second floor.

I guess he’s just moved in, since everything is so fresh, pristine, and downright bare.

Archer kneels beside the dog and unhooks the leash, hanging it on the hook by the door. His face takes on the cutest grin as he scratches the dog’s neck animatedly.

“That’s my good boy. Daddy wubs you.”

I stifle a laugh. “Daddy?” I mouth to his friend, whose lips quirk in response.

After a minute, Archer turns his attention to me, beaming. “This is Scathe.”

Reaching down, I mindlessly scratch the dog’s scruff. “No shit.” Archer makes a huffing sound. “Sorry—I know. Language,” I say before he gets a chance.

At this, the stranger makes a humored noise under his breath.

Archer gestures toward the guy. “And this is Godric—a good friend.”

The name sounds familiar, and I mull it over in my mind for a moment before gritting my teeth and saying, “You’re the asshole that tied me up.”

“And you’re the asshole who was going to get us all killed by freaking out in front of the Reaper.”

I squirm, hating the amount of information he has on me. But clearly he can also see the Reaper, which is telling. If Archer trusts him, I suppose I should, too. Not like I have a choice.

“Touché.” I nod at Godric. “I’m Tasia.”

“I know who you are.” Godric gives me a curt nod in return, all traces of his previous amusement gone.

Taking a moment to study the man, I notice the cobalt hue around Godric’s body. I’m still not sure what the colors mean—Dad was killed while he was still studying the personality traits associated with different shades—but these days, I’m relieved when a soul-shade is anything but grey.

Godric clears his throat, and I quickly avert my eyes so I’m not staring at him like a weirdo.

I turn to Archer instead and am mesmerized by the movement of his body as he sheds his leather jacket and bends down to untie his boots. My eyes hungrily roam his dark T-shirt that hugs his toned chest. His fingers nimbly work the laces, and his forearm muscles flex as he pulls off his boots one at a time. Among the plethora of ink script and detailing, I catch a glimpse of the name “Sofia” on the tender skin of his inner left arm.

My traitorous stomach churns in an unusual and unwelcome bout of jealousy.

The heat of Godric’s gaze bores into my side. I straighten up and turn toward the main space before he can call me out for ogling Archer.

“Nice sofa,” I say awkwardly, trying to alleviate the tense energy swirling through the room.

“Thanks,” Archer says. “It’s a customizable Yvonné. It’s made from sustainable materials and is entirely modular.”

I blink at him.

“It’s a sofa,” Godric and I say at the same time, in the same tone.

This causes Godric’s stoic demeanor to crack. He starts to laugh but quickly smothers it with a fake cough. “I’ll be out back with the mutt.”

He crosses the living room and opens the sliding glass door, letting Scathe dart through the house and out into the yard to chase after some birds.

“Are you gonna take that tag off?” I ask Archer once we’re alone, nodding toward the sofa.

“I’ve been meaning to. I just…” He shrugs a shoulder, his face reddening.

“Did you just move in or something?”

“No.” He frowns, mindlessly rubbing at the back of his neck. “I’ve been here a few years.”

“Then where’s all your stuff?”

He glances at his sofa, then back to me, shrugging. “I have plenty of stuff.”

I snort.

“I have a house, clothes, my bike, and Scathe,” he says. “It’s all I need.”

Yet he’s apparently rich as hell and lives in Sweetcreek. It doesn’t add up, but I’m not here to interrogate my new boss.

I cough, rubbing my still aching throat. He frowns, his eyes tracking the movement.

“So what’d we come here for?” I ask.

He scratches his chin, and my eyes are drawn to his thick fingers and the ink that lines them.

“You need a place to stay.” He waves a hand around the open space. “Welcome.”

My heart drops. “Here? With you?” I laugh incredulously. “You don’t even have furniture.” I’m not counting the couch.

“It’s a two-bedroom, two-bath, with plenty of space…”

“Hell no.”

He studies me for a beat, the heat of his golden eyes burning into me. “You are incredibly stubborn.” Then he bursts out laughing, running a hand over his face and stepping closer to me. “I’m trying to offer a solution here.” He stretches out his arms, giving a dramatic shrug, as if he’s at a loss. “It’ll make it easier on us both.”

I eye the open space again, considering how peaceful it’d be to live here—away from Reed, Stace, and Alisha and their incessant partying. And it would put distance between me and the Scouts; they frequent the city center, where the majority of the crime is, not Sweetcreek.

“I need you to answer something first,” I say, trekking over to his sofa and perching on the armrest. He watches me like a hawk.

“Sure. Anything.”

“Don’t say that unless you mean it.”

“Fine. Anything I’m comfortable answering,” he amends.

“Were you raised here? In Sweetcreek?”

He presses his lips together, contemplating his answer for a beat. “No,” he says softly. “I was born and raised in the PD.” My eyebrows fly up. I’m surprised—not at his answer but at the fact he’s giving it to me so freely and honestly. He rubs his jaw and glances away. “Right by that alley we popped out of today.”

It inspires me to know Archer grew up like me but managed to claw his way out of the worst part of the city to build a better life for himself. We hold each other’s gazes for a moment. A sense of kinship, a mutual understanding, blooms in the space between us.

“Fine,” I say, slapping my thighs. “I’ll live with you since you’re so desperate for a roommate. What’s the catch?”

He inclines his chin. “Catch?”

“Yeah. I can’t afford rent on a place like this, not even with the salary you’ll have me on.”

“No catch.”

“Oh come on. I’m not taking a handout. And I’m not owing you shit.”

I’d be a fool to be indebted to anyone—especially some guy I don’t even know.

He pauses, his eyes twinkling with amusement. His glances past me, toward Scathe and Godric outside, then back to me.

“Be my date,” he says, “to an event this weekend.”

“An event?” He nods, and a slow smile overtakes my face. “Archer Acciai, are you asking me out?”

His cheeks flush as he scratches the back of his head and looks away. “It’s—I—we can—”

“I’m only teasing you,” I say, chuckling at his apparent nervousness. “Yes. I’ll be your date.”

“Obviously it’s not a real date. Think of it as work.”

My heart drops. “Yes. Yes of course.” I force a smile. “Your fake date.”

He winces, giving me a bashful look. “When you say it like that—”

I cut him off by raising my hand. “Say less. I’m in.”

My dad used to say that if something seems too good to be true, it probably is. But damn it, maybe it’s my time to finally catch a break. Despite my skepticism about Archer’s intentions, I’ll take what he’s offering.

A smile forms on his lips, but he runs a hand over his jaw as if trying to stifle it. Pushing off the wall, he strides past me. Our arms brush, and all my little hairs stand up. I suppress the shudder that runs through me at the contact.

Turning to watch him go, I try not to ogle. But those jeans fit him just right. Everything, from his pristine posture to his dangerous, confident gait, lights me up from the inside out.

Heat blossoms on my cheeks, and I’m glad he’s not facing me.

Sirius save me, living with a man like him just might kill me.