Chapter 28

”The city’s heart beats to the rhythm of forgotten songs, but the symphony lies within. Remember, all that glitters is not silver. I shall lay bear the truth in the end.”

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

FANTASIA

Sirens go off in the distance. Alarmed, I glance at Archer. That sound signifies the impending arrival of the Silver Scouts’ armored vehicles.

“Archer…” I say, scanning the streets down below for any sign of them. Panic rises into my throat.

“I know.” He grips my hand tightly.

“Archer!” a feminine voice yells. I turn to see Godric and a short redhead with a soft pink soul-shade—Pixel—exiting the building.

She runs to Archer’s side. “Are you guys okay?”

“We’re fine,” he says. “Where’s your date?”

“He left me!”

“Fucking Ministry scum,” Godric growls. “I told you, if he hurts you, Pixie, he’s a dead man.”

The siren gets louder, drawing closer, and we all bolt down the rest of the stairs toward Godric’s SUV.

We pile inside, with Pixel up front by Godric, and Archer, Scathe, and me in the back. I rip off my mask, and Archer does the same.

“Go!” Archer yells at Godric. “Get us out of here.”

Seconds later, we’re flying down the street, Godric flooring it.

In the chaos, I can’t help but think of my dad—his final moments, which will always haunt me, but also the words he left behind in his journal.

“Arlo,” I say to Archer, “he’s fae.”

“He owns the lab,” Archer mutters. “Of course.” He facepalms. “Why didn’t we see it earlier?” Then, he leans toward the front seat, saying loudly, “That’s why we couldn’t find a record of Mesmeric’s sale or new ownership. He must’ve glamoured his way in. Of course it’s him!”

“It’s probably how he got into your ma’s apartment,” Godric adds. “He has his own magic. Immunity to glamour himself, likely. He’s powerful, Archer.”

“That’s why the Scouts were impervious to our—” Archer glances at Pixel and cuts himself off.

Interesting. Does she not know about their abilities? Right now, she seems to be in shock, staring disinterestedly out the window.

If Archer’s right, and my dad created dreamdust, does that mean Arlo sent someone to steal his journals? So he could get more information from the drug’s original creator?

“I bet he glamoured my dad, Archer. I’m telling you, I know my dad. He was a good guy.”

His features pinch together, and he gives me a sad look. “Arlo is a new owner, Tasia. He wasn’t there when your dad worked—”

“We don’t know that. Like you said, there are no coincidences. And Arlo has a sketchy past. If it’s coming out now, it’s because he wants it out there. There’s a reason dreamdust is back on the streets now after all this time.”

“Why does Arlo want the dust?” Godric mutters as he cuts through someone’s yard to navigate us around a traffic jam. “Why your dad’s journals? If he was the one searching.”

“Because he’s looking for the original formula,” I surmise. “You said it yourself; this batch is different. I mean, look at the chaos it wreaks.”

The sirens grow louder, and a low, rumbling hum starts resonating through the SUV. Bright beams of light shine through the windshield. Three steel vehicles are rolling toward us. They’re cold-looking, with reinforced windows and tires designed for rough terrain. A mounted turret looms atop the square frame, and I shudder. What the hell could they possibly use that for?

Instinct has me ducking down below the windows, but the vehicles shoot past us toward Splendor Hall.

“You’re okay, Tasia,” Archer says, rubbing my back in small circles. “You’re with me. I got you.”

Scathe whines, putting his paw on my leg.

I sit up straight in my seat and close my eyes, willing my heart to settle down. It’s as if it beats to the rhythm of chaos these days.

That thought sparks remembrance of something my dad said in his journal.

The city’s heart beats to the rhythm of forgotten songs…

My dad’s words play on repeat in my mind. If the journals hadn’t been stolen, I’d comb through the pages again. Read for anything I might’ve missed.

“Wait,” I whisper, remembering that I took a photo of one of the pages.

I pull out my phone and search for the photo I took.

Dad’s neat handwriting stares back at me.

The city’s heart beats to the rhythm of forgotten songs, but the symphony lies within. Remember, all that glitters is not silver. I shall lay bear the truth in the end.

Dad’s writing is straightforward throughout the rest of the journal. If this wasn’t his handwriting, I’d almost think it was written by someone else. Something seems off about it…as if it’s some sort of puzzle.

Like I told Archer the other day, the first line could be a roundabout reference to me, but I don’t understand what it might mean.

The second line is an ancient proverb…implying that not everything is what it appears. Sometimes looks are deceiving.

And the third line… He’ll lay bare the truth? It sounds like he’s admitting he’ll share—

Wait.

I reread the final line my dad wrote. I shall lay bear the truth in the end.

In Dad’s entire journal, I don’t remember seeing a single word misspelled. He was a meticulous man. A perfectionist with an eye for detail.

“Archer,” I say, frantically tapping his leg. “Look.” I point to the misspelled word. “He wrote b-e-a-r instead of b-a-r-e.”

Archer squints at the page. “You think it means something?”

“It’s out of character for him.” I take a breath, calming my racing pulse. “His handwriting here is just as neat and tidy as the rest of the journal. It doesn’t appear rushed or sloppy, so I don’t think it’s an accident.”

The car rolls to a stop.

My head snaps up, and I notice we’re at Archer’s house.

“Zeke’s on site,” Godric says, staring at his cell phone. “I’m dropping Pixel off in the city and meeting him up at the hall.”

“Keep me updated,” Archer says. He opens the door, placing one foot on the ground. “I’m staying with Scathe and Tasia until we figure out what’s going on.”

He exits fully, holding out a hand for me. I accept it, sliding out of the car with his assistance. Scathe jumps out after.

Godric wastes no time speeding off. Clearly he has things to take care of with the Nightcrawlers.

“I need to go to my apartment,” I say to Archer as we step toward his house.

“Not safe.”

I knew he would say that. His first instinct is to protect me, keep me away from any harm. It’s the primitive side of him. However, I’ve noticed I can get through to him by appealing to his logical side.

“It’s a lot safer tonight than it will be tomorrow or the next day,” I argue.

“After what happened at—”

“The majority of Scouts will be deployed to the hall, trying to figure out what happened. They’re not looking for me while this is going on. Now is the best time to go. After this, the streets will be flooded with Scouts. I need to get to my apartment. Tonight.”

He strokes his jaw, his muscles tense. “What’s so important that you need to risk your safety?”

“My bear.” The teddy bear my dad gave me when he was still alive. “It’s the only thing I can connect to the message my dad left for me.”

He nods. “Fine.”

I tilt my head. “You’re not going to tell me it’s a stupid idea? Or that it’s a reach?”

“Why would I do that?” He studies me. “If you think he left you a message, I’m inclined to believe you. It’ll also be up to you to decipher the meaning, all things considered.”

“All right then.” I try to keep the relief off my face, but I’m glad Archer’s starting to trust me as much as I trust him.

“Let me get my bike.” Archer heads to the garage while I run into the house to change.

Scathe follows me like a silent shadow. His presence is reassuring.

Upstairs, in Archer’s room, I exchange my dress for a pair of sweatpants and a light hoodie. It’s still muggy outside, but the hood seems like a safe option if I end up needing to hide myself. Not caring to wash my makeup off right now, I throw my hair into a braid, locate some socks, and bolt down the stairs to slip into my boots.

As I head back outside, the night’s events keep replaying in my mind. Everything happened so quickly. Arlo Osiander knows who I am. What I am.

Did he know my father?

Or worse, was he responsible for my father’s death?

Archer wheels his motorcycle out of the garage. “Let’s make this quick,” he says. “I don’t want to be on the streets long.”

Scathe lets out a long, low whine that grabs our attention.

“You’re not coming,” Archer says.

Scathe pins his ears back and growls.

“I know.” Archer pauses, and a silent stare-off ensues between them. “Okay, point made. You’re right. I’m wrong.” Another pause. “I’m not telling her that.”

“Archer?” I say carefully, not wanting to interrupt whatever weird silent conversation he’s having with his dog.

He turns to me, pink lining his cheeks, as if he’s just remembering I’m there. “Scathe is…”

“Struggling with separation anxiety?” I offer when he doesn’t finish his sentence.

He scratches the back of his neck. “Something like that.” Then, with a frown, he pivots toward the garage. “Give me a second. I’m going to get his sidecar so he can come. He’s right. His venom saved us last time. I’d feel better knowing you have both of us.”

Turning on his heel, he darts over to the garage and yanks the door up. I watch the street for any sign of movement, listening for distant sirens. A few seconds later, Archer emerges, wheeling out a matte-black pod that sits on a single wheel. It has a seat inside with a protective windshield in front.

It takes him a few minutes, but he attaches it to the side of his motorcycle. As soon as that’s accomplished, Scathe jumps in. Archer reaches into the storage compartment of his bike, pulling out a small helmet and attaching it to Scathe’s head. It has a little visor that flips down, protecting his eyes.

It fits perfectly.

The sight is so adorable, my chest pinches.

“You have to be kidding me,” I say, giggling. Even with all the darkness in the world, there are moments of utter happiness. Seeing a dog wearing a helmet is one of those moments.

Unable to resist, I snap a photo of Scathe, then bend over to give him all the good-boy loves.

Straightening, I turn to Archer and point at him. “You and I are having a talk after all this.”

“I hope we have many talks,” he says with a wink.

“I’m serious!” I give him a look that means business. “I’ve ignored your weird”—I glance around and drop my voice to a whisper—“weirdness long enough. I have questions.”

“And I’ll give you all the answers.” He steps forward, placing a hand on my waist and dropping a kiss on my forehead. “After we get your bear.”

We put our helmets on and straddle the bike. I wrap my arms around Archer’s body, nestling into his back. Unlike last time, I let myself melt into him, reveling in the feel of his strong muscles, gripping him as tightly as possible. It’s insane how quickly a night can go from perfect to shit.

One moment, I have this beautiful specimen of a man inside of me, worshiping me, and the next we’re running for our lives.

“Ready?” he yells over the soft purr of the engine.

“Yes!” I call back.

We take off, flying down the road. Once again, a rare sense of freedom takes over my body. It’s as if I’m weightless, soaring through space and time. I’m untouchable, invincible.

We slice through the night, toward the inner city. In the distance, the city’s glow emerges, a tapestry of twinkling lights.

I glance at Scathe, who’s staring straight ahead, his tongue lolling out. For a moment, everything falls away. I’m just a girl, on the back of a guy’s bike, hanging out with him and his dog.

With each second that passes, the distant lights grow brighter and the ragged skyline grows sharper. Soon, we’re winding our way through the great labyrinth of glass, metal, and asphalt, greeted by the restless city center.

Streetlights and neon signs brighten our path, and vehicles and pedestrians appear on the streets alongside us. The skyscrapers seem to swallow us up as we head deeper into the city.

We pull into my apartment complex and park. The motorcycle’s hum fades into silence while I swing a leg over the side and dismount. Warmth radiates through my inner thighs, and my legs continue to vibrate.

“I’ll be right back,” I tell the boys as I pull the helmet off and hand it to Archer.

Scathe whimpers.

“He’s going with you,” Archer says.

“No,” I say sternly. “You two need to stay here, in case we need to dip. I’ll be quick.”

Staying vigilant, I throw the hood up over my head and tuck away my bright hair. I pat Scathe on the helmet before turning to bolt up the stairs.

Tonight, the building is mostly quiet, no parties raging on. The knot in my chest loosens. Without knocking, I use my key and enter my old apartment. It’s dark, other than a neon-green light seeping out of Stace’s open door.

Not wanting to alert anyone to my presence, I sneak toward my room. As I pass through the living room, a shadow moves in the kitchen to my right, startling me.

“Reed?” I whisper, squinting at what looks like my ex-boyfriend’s silhouette by the sink. I flip the switch on the wall, wincing at the onslaught of fluorescent brightness that washes over us. His teal soul-shade billows out around him, and I exhale heavily, relieved after everything I’ve seen tonight.

Reed’s reddish hair sticks up in all directions. There are bags under his eyes and a stress wrinkle in his forehead.

After connecting with Archer—giving him my all—I no longer have even a flicker of attraction toward Reed.

I do, however, harbor great concern for the friend I once had.

“The hell, Tasia?” he rasps.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

He mumbles something incoherent.

I glance at Stace’s door. Did she hear me enter? When I face Reed again, his tired expression morphs into something else entirely. Concern slithers down my spine. “Are you all right?”

The whites of his eyes are bloodshot, indicating he’s on something. Again.

I sigh, my shoulders drooping. Reminding myself that I can’t help someone who doesn’t want to be helped, I hustle to my room to grab my bear. Reed doesn’t follow me, which is just as well. I don’t have time to worry about him.

The small space is almost unfamiliar to me now. The bed is rumpled, as if someone recently slept there. My few remaining belongings are scattered around the floor. I kick a pair of jeans away, sifting through my clothes and blankets.

Where the hell is my damn bear?

Seconds later, it hits me. The night I slept at The Rising Star, I snagged my bear and used it as a pillow.

“Shit,” I groan, fighting the urge to rub my face. All my makeup from the masquerade is still on, and I’d rather not smear it.

Pulling out my phone, I shoot a text to Mellie, asking if she’s seen my bear. I wait a few seconds, and when the dots don’t appear, I stuff the phone back into my pocket. I’ll just have to check. If it’s not there, I’ve lost it.

I take one last look around my room. At the lopsided mattress resting on the floor. The chipping plaster. The single window overlooking the parking lot. Compared to Archer’s old apartment, it’s depressing. He might’ve lost his family, too, but his apartment is filled with photos and memories. Filled with love.

This place isn’t my home. I don’t know where I belong, but it’s not here.

I text Archer, letting him know everything is good but I need a little more time. For the next ten minutes or so, I pick up the mess in my room, double-checking for anything I might want to take with me. After witnessing the casualties tonight, my stuff all seems so invaluable or meaningless. So replaceable. Nothing in this room matters as much as the people around me.

Like Archer.

And he seems to thrive on caring for the people around him, protecting them. So maybe I’ll just start fresh and let Archer take care of me after all.

With what feels like finality, I turn the light off and exit the room, shutting the door behind me. Something tells me I won’t ever sleep here again.