Chapter 1

As cold rain pattered on my head, I studied the boy.

"Boy" wasn't the right word for someone who emanated such a menacing, skin-prickling intensity. For someone with a presence that couldn't be ignored, the air around him suffused with an indefinable threat. He was a nameless enigma unlike anyone I'd ever seen before.

But with several more years before "man" could describe him, "boy" was the best label I had.

Broken glass crunched under my boots as I ventured into the narrow gap between buildings, darkness swallowing the orange glow of nearby streetlights. Gang tags and graffiti marked the bricks on either side of me as I cautiously approached.

The boy leaned against the wall in a recessed doorway, a dim security light casting his face into shadow. I couldn't make out his eyes, but I could feel his gaze.

I stopped in front of his alcove, frigid droplets dripping off my chin. A shiver ran down my spine all the way to my toes as a soft stillness enveloped me—an ominous moment of warning I couldn't interpret.

I should have stayed out in the rain.

Stepping into the doorway, I pressed my back against the wall opposite him and swiped my sopping bangs off my forehead. The boy didn't speak, merely observed my presence like I was an unexpected piece of furniture in a familiar room.

We sized each other up. He wore a leather jacket, its hood deep. Sturdy pants. Heavy boots similar to mine. His broad shoulders suggested that, even at six feet tall, he hadn't reached his full height. Stark shadows clung to his face, aging him, but his jaw hadn't hardened yet.

Around my age, I decided. Fifteen or sixteen.

His gaze roved over me, then he lifted his hand toward his mouth, something small pinched between his fingers. A red spot glowed as he drew on a blunt. His shoulders relaxed as he exhaled hazy smoke.

I wrinkled my nose, then hesitated. A cautious, confused sniff as I tried to identify the unfamiliar scent. It had a medicinal tang I hadn't expected.

Silently, he offered the blunt.

I reassessed his features. The dark ring under his lower eyelid: a fading black eye. The shadow on his right cheek: a half-healed bruise. The mark on the back of his hand: an angry red burn. The split in his lower lip… almost identical to the throbbing split in mine.

Without deciding to, I reached out. My fingers brushed his as I took the roll of brown paper. I put it between my lips—where his lips had been moments before—and inhaled its citrus-scented smoke, relieved when I didn't burst into a coughing fit.

As the rain gradually lessened and its noisy patter diminished, we passed the blunt back and forth, saying nothing. What was there to say? We weren't here because we wanted to be. If we could've been somewhere else, we'd already be gone.

In the new quiet, other sounds reached my ears: the low rumble of voices leaking from the building. A deep male tone called out, accompanied by a burst of masculine laughter. A higher-pitched female voice answered, sharp with cutting amusement, and more laughter followed.

The boy's gaze drifted to the door. I wondered which voice went with the fist that had bruised his face and split his lip.

I wondered what my face looked like to him.

And I wondered why it mattered.

I passed the stub of his blunt back to him. Another roar of laughter from the other side of the door scraped my ears.

"Do you ever think about just killing them?"

The question was out of my mouth before I knew I was speaking. The boy's gaze turned to mine. No confusion. No shock. He knew exactly what I meant.

He drew on the blunt, and a swirl of smoke accompanied his reply. "All the time."

His low voice had a raspy edge that I liked. A slight accent tinged it, but I couldn't pin it down from a few words.

An odd, shivery lightness swept up my torso. "Have you ever tried?"

"No." Eyes locked on mine, he dropped the stub and ground it into the pavement. "Not yet."