Chapter 5

”After injecting the mRNA serum into myself, I’ve unlocked the capability to visually detect electromagnetic radiation surrounding humans, represented in color form. From my previous research in the Wilds, these colors appear to be reflective of one’s innermost energy—their soul.”

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

FANTASIA

Itighten my grip on the bat, hissing at people to get out of my way. The lot of them move lazily, in slow motion, delayed to my warnings as I dart past.

At this hour, only tipsy barhoppers mill around Pub Path. The air is sticky, ripe. People stumble about the street, laughing and mingling in small groups. A few individuals scream into their cell phones or take videos, unbothered by the lack of privacy. Different tunes spill out into the street through open doors and windows, and I cringe at the hodgepodge of melodies.

Despite it being night, the city blazes with light. Pulsing colors pour out of various bars and clubs, making it hard to distinguish between the soul-shades wafting around the people as I search for the duo from the bar.

A dozen shades of blue. Various shades of green. Dusty pinks and royal purples. Some soul-shades are as bright as spitting flames, some as bland as a murky glass of Sharp Wing. And everything in between.

But no grey.

My eyes sweep over the congested street and overflowing bars, bouncing through the crowd. In the distance, a siren goes off. The aroma of fried food and sweat fills my nose, overpowering the stench of trash and musk.

An elbow jostles me out of the way, and I scowl. Then I spot them.

Just ahead, rounding into an alleyway between two towering, angular buildings, is the pair from the bar. Their grey auras are hazy and pale, as if their soul-shades are slowly fading away.

An image of my father’s face in his final moment pops into my head—the sadness, the guilt, the acceptance that shifted through his kind eyes before they went blank forever.

The day it happened, a knock on the door came, and he shouted frantically for me to hide. I dove into the closet but peeked through the louvered door in time to catch the men with palm prints on their chests storm our apartment. My mother screamed. My father shook his head in my direction.

I stayed quiet. Even as a stranger’s finger pulled a trigger, shattering my father’s skull.

Then they pulled the trigger once more, taking my mother, too.

Everything around me falls into a bleak silence.

My hands shake.

The bat starts to slip from my hand.

White-hot anger courses through my veins. My parents should still be alive.

Gripping tighter, I push thoughts of them aside.

I surge after the men, squeezing through the throng as I make my way to the alley. Slowing down, I step over a stack of soggy cardboard boxes, almost losing my balance in the process. My free hand meets rough brick as I use the wall for support to navigate the alley. Once I’m clear of the stacks of trash and a puddle of grease, I quicken my pace.

Within seconds, I catch up to the drunkards. But without the blazingly bright lights of the bars and clubs, the alleyway is a breeding ground for shadows, and I’m barely able to make out the dimming soul-shades of the men. About ten paces ahead, the two men stumble past a mountain of black trash bags. Before they can hang a right and go out of sight down another alleyway, I open my mouth to call out to them.

A leather-clad hand presses against my mouth, silencing me. I’m jerked to the side, held hostage behind an overflowing dumpster.

My chest tightens. Instinctively, I swing my bat backward, attempting to hit the asshole while I try to jerk out of his grip.

It doesn’t work.

My attacker digs his fingers into my wrist, hitting a pressure spot that causes my hand to spasm and the bat to fall from my hand. He catches it with preternatural speed before it hits the ground, then tosses it onto a pile of trash beside us. It lands atop the plastic with a soft whoosh, releasing a burst of rancid air.

I continue squirming, forcefully bringing my heel down onto his toes. But it seems to have no effect on him.

Throwing my elbows backward, I flail around desperately. The pressure against my mouth builds as his other hand wraps around my waist. I’m pulled against a firm body. He hugs me close to him, tightening his arms around me like iron chains. The scent of leather and grass fill my nostrils.

A newly familiar scent.

My heart drops.

“Quiet,” a low voice whispers in my ear. “Trust me.”

“Trust you?” At least, that’s what I try to say. Instead, it comes out as a muffled “shush shoo” against his leather glove.

“Stop for one second,” the voice says, growing irritated.

As I continue squirming, my captor sighs heavily. His warm breath tickles my ear.

The man’s body is solid with muscle, and I’m not strong enough to disentangle myself from him, even with my scrappy upbringing.

It doesn’t stop me from trying though. I flail, jerking my head back and trying to slam my skull into his nose. He outmaneuvers me.

A dark, hooded figure steps seemingly out of thin air and starts sauntering toward the men from the bar. My body melts, temporarily giving up the fight as I watch.

The figure moves unhurriedly toward the two drunkards.

The Reaper.

A long, dark robe covers his entire body, and a hood encases his head, making it impossible to get a look at his face. From this distance, he almost appears to be nothing more than an ominous shadow.

“Will you be quiet now?” my captor asks.

When I nod, he slowly removes his hand from my mouth. My breaths come in rapid, silent gasps as I watch the scene before me with wide eyes.

When the Reaper reaches the men, he pauses, turning his back to us. He tilts his head forward, and a faint hum fills the air. I squint, barely able to make out what’s happening. The grey fog surrounding the men wafts toward the hooded figure.

The Reaper is taking their souls…while they’re alive.

My body goes slack, and my knees give out. If it wasn’t for the stranger’s arm around my waist, I’d be on the ground. But he holds me steady.

Not again.

Bile rises in my throat. I swallow it down. He’s going to kill them. I can’t let that happen.

“Sto—!” The hand slaps back onto my mouth right as the Reaper pauses and looks in my direction. I’m yanked backward into a dark doorway, out of sight of the alley. I thrash against the man restraining me.

“For the love of Sirius,” my captor hisses. An annoyed grunt escapes him. “Believe it or not,” he mutters, “I’m sorry for this.”

There’s some rustling and a tiny clatter—like a piece of plastic hitting the floor.

“Muhh ah—” I try to respond through his leather-covered hand, using my fingers to pry it away. But there’s a prick on my neck, and my arms fall limp at my sides.

The world—already dark around me—melts into a void. The vigorous thumping of my heart fades to something shallower, steadier. And then I’m scooped up into strong arms while a stern voice mutters something that sounds like “Would’ve been easier if my glamour worked.”

The first thing that hits me when I wake up is how much my shoulders burn. When I try to move my arms, I find them bound behind my back. A weight surrounds my midsection and my ankles, tethering me to a steel surface.

Fear tiptoes up my spine, bringing me back to full consciousness.

I crack open my eyes, flinching at the bright orange light gently swaying overhead. Scanning the room, I desperately try to make sense of what the hell is going on. Brick walls surround me, and a dirt floor sits beneath me. I’m bound to a steel chair—alone—in what seems to be a basement or some small underground room.

“Hey!” I call out, relieved that there’s nothing covering my mouth. My tongue is dry, and my throat aches for water. I shudder. How long have I been out? “My boyfriend is looking for me. He’s going to find me, and he’ll fuck you up.”

It’s an empty threat, a desperate one. Anyone who knows my boyfriend, Reed, knows he’s probably partying with my roommates. I doubt he’ll even notice my absence.

Tears prick my eyes.

“Please!” I call out, my voice cracking.

Behind me, a door creaks open and clicks shut softly.

“You’re awake,” the same velvety voice from earlier says.

“No shit,” I mutter. “Let me go!”

“Thought your boyfriend was coming to save you?” he mutters.

“You’re a huge piece of—”

I trail off as the man steps into view.

The Gods-damned Phantom.

I groan, squeezing my eyes shut. When I reopen them, I get a good look at him. In this light, I can fully make out his features.

He’s not at all what I expected. The muscles and tattoos, yes, but not the head full of thick, dark, golden-blond hair. With the way it’s longer and messier on the top, he appears younger, more boyish than I’d expected. Maybe mid to late twenties. Barely any older than me.

The wanted sketches make him look older, rougher, and less appealing than he truly is.

His lips tighten with annoyance as he scrutinizes me.

It’s not the man’s attractiveness that gives me pause. I learned at a young age never to judge a book by its cover. My first foster father was a handsome man, too. But his fondness for beating up his wife and children revealed his cruel heart.

Pretty bindings sometimes hold together ugly interiors.

No, what strikes me is the genuine concern that takes over the Phantom’s eyes as he takes me in. His lips pull into a frown as his eyes roam over the position of my arms and the bindings around my ankles.

“That’s excessive,” he mutters, scratching the thin layer of scruff on his chin with his tattooed fingers.

“No shit.” I narrow my eyes at him. Where the hell does he get the right to act concerned?

He cocks his head, curiosity replacing the annoyance. “You’re just as feisty as you were in the alley earlier.”

“I’m fed up. I’m tired. I’m hungry. And I told you, I didn’t say shit to anyone about what I saw.”

“And what exactly did you see?”

“Nothing.” I clamp my lips shut, inclining my chin.

He studies me for a moment before kneeling and letting out a sigh. He eyes the ropes for a second, and then his fingers start working one of the knots. The light glints off his rings as he struggles with the rope. “For Gods’ sakes, Godric,” he mutters under his breath. “This isn’t what I had intended.”

I grunt. “Oh, so the whole shooting me up is fine, but tying me up is where you draw the line?”

An image of the last time someone injected something into my veins flashes through my mind. It was a few weeks before my parents’ deaths.

Our little secret, my Fantastic Fantasia, my dad said after giving me a shot.

I grit my teeth and stare at the Phantom with disdain. “What did you inject me with?”

His brow scrunches, but he doesn’t look at me. “A temporary sedative.”

My spine tingles with unease as I thrash against the bindings.

Finally giving up on the knot, he stands, sliding out of his black leather jacket and tossing it aside. His dark, V-neck T-shirt hugs his body, showing off his muscular chest—and his handgun. The prospect of danger sends an alarm blaring through my body. Still, I find this man less terrifying than the Scouts.

The Phantom pulls a matte-black knife out of his pocket, flicking it open. I flinch, but the ropes hold my limbs in place.

“Hold still,” he warns as he squats down in front of me. “Relax.”

His gaze finds mine, and I notice how deep and warm the golden coloring of his eyes is. It matches the gleaming hue surrounding his body almost perfectly.

How the hell does he have a golden soul-shade?

Racking my brain, I sift through the various colors mentioned in my father’s journal—it’s how I learned about my ability and what some of the auras mean. Sadly, he was killed before he finished his research, but gold was one of the few colors he confidently interpreted.

Golden hues represent a pure soul; they’re as rare as stars in the city sky. We might never see them, but they exist.

The Phantom leans closer, inspecting the ropes around my ankles. The muscles in his forearms flex in a mesmerizing manner as he starts sawing the bindings aggressively.

“Shit,” I mutter, turning my head away and squeezing my eyes shut. “Be careful.”

“Do you always curse this much?” he asks.

“Only when I’m kidnapped by a knife-wielding asshole.”

I make the mistake of glancing back down at the asshole in question. He pauses his slicing, resting back on his haunches, and a gleam of curiosity lights up his features. My stomach knots itself again, and I scowl. The corners of his lips turn up slightly, as if he’s amused.

“You’re not afraid of me.”

“No,” I say, narrowing my eyes.

“Earlier—in the alley with the dead girl—you weren’t afraid of me. It was the Scouts you feared.”

He holds my gaze, and the air between us becomes charged with something dangerous. He waits for my confirmation, but I force myself to look away, breaking the tension.

I blink and I’m eight again. The Scouts storm our apartment. They scream at my parents to get on their knees. A gun is raised to the back of my dad’s head.

Bang.

My body trembles. I’m stuck in that closet again, a prisoner to fear.

Alone.

With no one to call.

Nowhere to go.

Alone.

Even after the bodies were toted away, until the landlord came to pack up our stuff three days later and found me.

Alone.

Even in the overpopulated foster home in the city center.

I don’t remember time, and I don’t know what I did other than cry and sleep. But I will never forget the deafening silence and eerie numbness. It was as if my body shut down to protect me.

The Phantom continues sawing at the rope, and I count the timeworn, exposed bricks jutting out of the wall on my left to distract myself from the haunting memories.

Anything to distract myself.

Clearing the thickness from my throat, I force myself to ask, “Where are we?”

“Believe it or not,” he says, “I was saving your life. Then and now.”

“I don’t need your saving,” I mutter. “I needed you to not get me in this situation in the first place.”

“You think I’m the reason why you’re in this position?”

“No shit.” I frown. “You’re a serial killer. You killed that girl, and now you’re after me for catching you.”

It sounds ridiculous even to me.

He scoffs. “You’re a terrible liar. We both know you don’t really believe that.”

“Fine,” I say, gritting my teeth. But it’s only because of his soul-shade that I know he’s not the one who murdered the girl. I’d be hard-pressed to believe he’s hurt anyone…but then again, the fact that he knocked me out and had a crony tie me up is questionable.

Can I really trust the colors of the soul-shades after all? What if my dad’s interpretation was wrong?

The rope finally gives, freeing my legs. He grunts with success. I have half a mind to knee him right in his pretty mouth. I’m sure I can get the right angle and summon enough power to knock him out. Maybe even take a few of those pearly whites out in the process.

Fuck it.

I launch my knee toward his face, but he shoots up and takes a step back, getting out of reach right before I can make contact. I growl, squirming in the chair—my arms still bound behind me.

“Savage,” he says exasperatedly. “You do realize I’m trying to free you, right?”

Without waiting for a response, he rounds the chair and tugs on the rope around my wrists. Every time his fingers skim my skin, it sends sparks through me.

And each spark fuels my burgeoning fury.

“Hurry up,” I command.

“Savage and demanding.” He exhales a heavy breath and tugs a bit more forcefully.

The rough scraping sound of blade on rope fills the air, but it’s not enough to drown out the thumping of my pulse in my skull.

The longer I’m stuck here, unable to move, the more I feel like that broken little girl in the closet. The one I’ve spent the last thirteen years trying to heal.

He stands, but instead of moving to cut my arms loose, he leans his head to the side and regards me carefully. There’s a lengthy pause before he says, “You saw the Reaper.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He sighs. “No sense in lying.”

My lips tighten. When the Reaper inhaled my parents’ souls, I was the only one who saw. The room was flooded with Silver Scouts and other unnamed authorities that day, but no one noticed the dark, hooded figure hovering above my parents’ bodies.

No one saw their souls being stolen.

It was easy to repress the memory of the soul-sucking creature, considering I didn’t see him again.

Until tonight.

“I’m not going to tell anyone,” the Phantom says softly, pulling me from my thoughts. “That’s what you’re worried about, right?”

My brows shoot up in surprise before I neutralize the expression on my face.

Magic is banned in the city; I’d be executed just like my parents if the Scouts knew of my ability. It doesn’t matter that it’s artificial magic—injected by my faeologist father.

My heart squeezes at the thought of the betrayal from the man I loved. His final gift to me was a death sentence.

“Don’t act like you know me,” I say.

“I don’t know you. But I do know you’re one of the only other people who can see the Reaper.”

“How exactly can you see him?” When he doesn’t reply, I say, “Are you working with him? You keep showing up at the same time as him.”

“Of course I’m not.”

“You both have stupid nicknames, break the law, wear dark clothing—”

“I am not working with the Reaper.” He snorts, and it sounds half-annoyed, half-amused. “Work with me and you’ll see that for yourself.”

Work with him?

Despite his golden aura and our shared ability to see the Reaper, helping him would be helping the Nightcrawlers. I’m trying to stay off the Scouts’ radar. This is the last thing I need.

“Fuck that.”

“Eloquent. Your vocabulary reflects your intelligence, you know.”

I blink, processing the roundabout insult. “Excuse me if my intelligence isn’t up to your standards.”

Education is a luxury I can’t afford. Though, compared to most patrons I serve, I find that my intelligence is above average. All thanks to my father’s teachings. During the years I spent with him before his death, he would read me scientific journals and other research papers as bedtime stories.

The Phantom mutters under his breath and saws more forcefully. He tugs the rope, pulling my shoulder at an awkward angle. An electric tingle courses through my right arm.

“Ow! Watch it.”

“Do you want me to release you or not?” he asks. “Stop moving.”

I grunt in response. A second later, the ropes give, and I’m freed. A sharp pain lingers in my shoulder from being confined in an awkward position, and I shake out my arms, hugging them in front of me.

A giddy warmth floods through me at the realization that I’m no longer contained. I’m one step closer to getting out of here.

When the man steps back into sight, I quickly bring my knee up, connecting with his junk.

“Sirius A!” he swears, taking the North Star’s name in vain. “My balls!”

Without hesitation, I bolt around the chair and spring toward the door. But there’s no doorknob. No handle. No hinges to take apart. Just a solid slab of steel built into the brick.

I pound on it. What the hell is this place?

Whirling around, I find the man doubled over, his tan cheeks flushed a deep red as he cups his crotch.

With a quick lunge, I scoop up his abandoned knife, angling it toward him.

“Let me out of here,” I demand.

He clenches his teeth, glaring at me. “That’s what I was doing!” He releases his privates, waving his arms up in the air with disbelief. “I asked Godric to keep an eye on you, not tie you to a damn chair. You’re not a prisoner.”

I grip the knife so hard my knuckles go white, then put my back against the door, keeping as much space between us as possible.

He adjusts his jeans, shaking his head at me.

“Yet you were the one who injected me with—whatever it was that knocked me out,” I say.

“To save your life, woman!” he yells in exasperation, running a hand through his blond waves. His face scrunches in a way that makes him appear almost conflicted. “I wasn’t going to let you die.”

I fucking hate this guy.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I block out the memory of the needle piercing my skin. I have no desire to explain to this gangster how he has managed to somehow dredge up all of my past traumas in one evening.

Instead, I say, “But you let those men die!”

“They were already dead.”

“No they weren’t. Their soul-shades were—” I clamp my lips shut, my stomach twisting.

A beat passes, and he raises an eyebrow quizzically. “Soul-what?”

“Never mind.”

He steps closer to me. When I recoil, he frowns and releases a sigh of resignation before retreating to his corner on the other side of the chair. “How many times have you seen the Reaper?”

I hesitate, weighing my answer. “Once before tonight.” Before he can reply, I ask, “People normally don’t see him, right?”

“No.” For several seconds, he studies me, head cocked. “Humans normally don’t possess such an ability.”

“Yet you do?”

He shrugs. “Perhaps I’m like you.”

Shifting my weight to my other foot, I peruse the soft golden color wafting lazily around him. “You can…see things you shouldn’t?”

His lips part, and his eyes glint with interest. “Something like that.”

As desperate as I am to conceal my truth, I’ve never met anyone else with an ability like mine. Magic is what others would call it, if they knew—although I hate referring to it as that, because it’s artificial. The little information I have on my ability, magic, and the fae comes from my father’s teachings. Most of it I read about in his personal journal after his death.

Even by telling this guy I’ve seen the Reaper, I’ve revealed too much, but I didn’t realize until now how freeing it is to admit it aloud to someone—someone who gets it.

But that someone is a gangster.

Fear pricks at my neck. In the wrong hands, this information could get me killed.

Until I know what his intentions are, playing aloof might be my best option. He doesn’t need to know about how I got my ability.

“And who exactly are you?” I ask. Under my breath, I add, “Other than a kidnapper, abuser, torturer, and Sirius knows what else.”

“Other than all those aforementioned labels?” His eyes flick to the blade in my hand, then back to my face. I blink, waiting for him to continue. When I don’t respond, his smile grows. I hate the way my stomach tingles at the sight. “I’m a Nightcrawler.”

“No shit.” I steel my shoulders, standing taller. “A gangster.”

“Among other things.” He smirks, and my cheeks heat.

“A gangster who criticizes my vocabulary,” I mutter.

“You shouldn’t judge.”

“Take your own advice, buddy.” I shake my head in disbelief. Turning, I scan the door. How the hell does it open? “You said you were letting me go.”

“After we talk.”

Dread fills me. I face the gangster, tightening my grip on the knife. He gestures toward the chair. But there’s no way I’m sitting back down. Now I understand why he doesn’t seem worried about me being free of the ropes or wielding his knife. Wherever we are, it’s Nightcrawler territory. I’m not getting out of here unless he wants me to.

I swallow the lump in my throat. “And what does Silver City’s most notorious gang leader want with me?”

“For now?” His eyes gleam with interest. “Well, I only want to talk, soul-seer.”