After living in New York City my whole life, I'm a pro at navigating the tricky sidewalks and unhelpful signage. I find the subway system in minutes. It's almost deserted, so I assume it's at least past midnight. The tunnel makes creepy hollow noises as I walk through it, passing people sleeping on benches and loitering with cigarettes.
The money Adrienne gave me pays my fare and leaves me with some spare change, which I run between my fingers as I board the subway. I collapse in a seat by the corner, watching the other boarding passengers anxiously. The city is filled with criminals, and even more pressing is the terror that Asher or his friends will come after me. Maybe they'll drag me back kicking and screaming and tie me to that chair to finish what they started.
I run my fingers along the back of my neck as the train grinds through the tunnels. Anyone watching me would think I'm scratching an itch, but I rub the tattoo etched into my skin. It's not raised like Asher's is—mine lies flat, and I can't identify its shape without looking at it.
We pull up to Prince Street Station less than ten minutes later, and I brush my hand against the white brick pattern on the wall as I exit the train. Next to me a woman's wristwatch, tinted brown from grime, says that it's just after two in the morning—no wonder I'm exhausted.
Thanks for coming, Gabi. Adrienne's voice filters through me again, like I walked through a ghost. It's a short walk to headquarters.
I've only ever been in Soho in the light of day, and at night the unfamiliar territory disturbs me. Every one of my footfalls on the sidewalk sends shivers up my spine, and even though I'm immune to most of the riffraff in the city, the hairs on the back of my neck stand on edge whenever someone gets too close. A giant scaffold spans the sidewalk in front of me, trapping me even more.
Go seven blocks down and take a left on 6th.
I follow Adrienne's instructions, snuggling into my thin sweatshirt. I don't remember changing into it or the jeans and boots I'm wearing, but I'm grateful I'm wearing them instead of my pajamas. For the most part I keep my head down, stopping only to drop my last thirty cents into a homeless man's plate on the sidewalk.
Soon the only light comes from street lamps and the few lit windows from apartments. Fire escapes crawl up the buildings in spindly formation, casting strange shadows over the sidewalk. When I pass a boarded-up building I scurry faster. I wonder if I took a wrong turn.
But Adrienne slips inside my head again, soothing me. We're the apartment directly to your left. Someone will meet you at the door.
I'm so tired I roll over on my ankle as I cross the street, barely dodging a van that bumps its way down the road. When I reach the building I climb the steps and slump against the dirty brick. These headquarters definitely aren't as well cared for as Nathan's, and they don't look spacious enough to run a major operation, but right now I'm too exhausted to care.
There's a lot of trees in this part of town, and the apartment Adrienne directs me to is on top of a store that looks like it sells fruits and flowers during the day. I climb wrought iron steps and am about to knock on the door when it swings open. Standing on the other side, in a doorway lit only by a tiny lantern above our heads, is the boy who broke into my room.
He isn't wearing a hood anymore; in fact, he looks completely normal aside from his strangely colored eyes and the spray of freckles across his dark skin. He's wearing sweatpants and a New York Yankees t-shirt, and his smile is warm and welcoming.
"Hey, Gabi. I'm Emery. I know you're probably exhausted. We'll let you get to sleep and tomorrow you'll get the grand tour, okay?"
I'm not sure if I should trust him—he's the one who shattered glass and threw my drawers off their tracks and stole a book from me. But it's so late it's officially morning, I can barely keep my eyes open—much less stand—and he's offering me somewhere to sleep. There's no way I can refuse.
"Thanks," I say.
He takes me by the elbow and leads me down a hallway, past closed doors that must open into other units. Floorboards creak under my feet as he guides me up a rickety few stairs to another series of doors. From his pocket, he pulls out a ring of keys and unlocks a door to my right.
"I'll come get you in the morning," he says. "Get some sleep."
He hands me the key and my fingers close around it, barely registering the cool metal against my fingertips. Then I step into the room and he closes the door behind me.
I lock the bolt and flip the switch to my left. The grimy lights whir and flicker before they turn on, illuminating a studio with two twin beds and a nightstand. A tiny kitchenette sits on the side opposite a window, where thick black curtains obscure the view.
The room is small, but the white paint makes it seem a little more spacious. There's no belongings, no knick-knacks or toiletries or any sign that someone else lives here. I'm too tired to take in much else.
Since I don't have a change of clothes, I take out my contacts before dropping into the bed closest to the door. The mattress is hard and the duvet's thin, but the pillow gives me somewhere to put my head. I shut my eyes and feel total bliss revive my sore muscles. That's my last thought—total bliss—before shards of navy tingle before my eyes and the ink spills out in front of me all over again.
And then I'm dreaming.
I have no idea what time it is when I wake up the next morning.
I feel refreshed. Not just well-rested—I feel like I've slept for days and days, like I've gotten a massage and a bubble bath and maybe even a facial all in the past few hours. My brain's also fuzzy, like it's a smudged window the power washers on Westchester would hose down on a Friday afternoon.
For a few breaths I forget about what happened last night. But slowly and then all at once, it hits me. Asher. The rope. The knife.
I fall back down on my pillow, staring at the chipped paint in the ceiling above me. There's such a swarm of emotions pressing against my chest that I almost can't feel any at all. I pull one out of the knot and inspect it. Hurt. Then confusion and fear and anger, all bottled up and barely distinguishable.
I don't know where to go from here. There's so much I need to figure out: why Asher acted the way he did, what my dream powers can really do. And even if these aren't incentive enough to stay, I have people inside my head. Nathan who invaded that first dream and Adrienne who speaks through my mind—they won't go away just because I choose to go back home. This is a part of me whether I like it or not, and the only place I can stay involved without my life being in danger—I'm clearly not safe in Nathan's penthouse—is here, with Emery.
Now that I have some a shaky game plan, I feel better. I cross the studio and find a small but surprisingly nice bathroom with a miniature granite shower and all-white fixtures. There's a copper basket on the counter with a toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo, and some other essentials—Emery must have been expecting me.
I brush my teeth and hair before digging further into the basket and stumbling across a box of contacts. I don't have my prescription memorized, but based on the label—which has my name on it—I assume they're for me. My hand hovers over the box, not sure if I should take it. How do these people know everything about me, down to my prescriptions?
Eventually, it comes down to a matter of being able to see or not, so I put in the contacts and finish getting ready. Just as I'm rubbing in some citrus lotion I found next to the shampoo, someone knocks on my door.
On my way across the room, I pass a floor-length mirror next to the kitchenette. I catch a glimpse of my reflection: other than my rumpled clothes, I'm in good shape for someone who spent last night traipsing across New York after being tied down to a chair.
I check the peephole just in case it's Asher, but don't see anyone at all in the dingy hallway. Now the knocking sounds like it's coming from near my bed, but that's impossible unless it's a leaky pipe or noisy neighbors.
"Gabi."
The voice, which I think is Emery's, is muted, like it's filtered through the wall.
"Between your bed and the bathroom door. There's a white space of wall. Run your hand down it—there's a gap that you can pull. It's a door."
I wrinkle my nose but do as he says. Flakes of paint wedge under my fingernails as I search for an opening. When I'm halfway down the wall my finger catches, and I dig out the shape of a door.
Emery must help push it from behind because it opens easily, swinging out into my room. It bumps gently against my bed, knocking a scratch into the wooden frame that joins a collection of similar marks. Just beyond Emery, a dimly lit hallway dissolves into blackness.
"Had good dreams?" he asks passively, digging his hands into my pockets.
I shrug. "I don't think I dreamt at all."
But something has changed. I look at Emery and I feel different than I did before, like there's a thought in the back of my head I can't grasp. It's tiny thought commanding me not to look away.
"I know you had a rough night," he says. "I want to apologize again for breaking into your apartment. We didn't want to hurt you. Like Adrienne said, we did what we could to keep the book away from Asher."
"What's so bad about Asher? I mean, I know he tied me to a chair and knocked me out last night, but big picture. What's he trying to do?"
Emery steps over the threshold, shutting the door behind him. It dissolves into the wall again, invisible as ever. "We don't know. We're hoping to find out, but right now we don't know much about him. We're hoping maybe you know some stuff?"
"Not really. Everything went over my head."
That's a lie—I picked up bits and pieces of information at those barstool meetings the last few days. I know Asher's power; I know the address of the apartment. But an instinctive part of me still wants to protect him. That part of me is trying to reconcile the person I thought he was with how he acted last night—and that part isn't one hundred percent sure I can trust Emery.
"Too bad." He an accent I can't place—maybe Boston—that makes him pronounce his vowels weird. "You want to change out of your old clothes? Not that you don't look riveting, but they've got to be dirty."
"I didn't really pack for this."
His lips spread out into a wide smile, wrinkling his cheeks. "Obviously not. We put some clothes in your size in the closet."
I still feel funny when I look at him, so I'm grateful to turn around and open the closet doors. I pick out a pair of leggings and a red sweatshirt and step into the bathroom to change. Emery leans against the wall texting, his enormous frame taking up most of the space between my bed and the kitchenette.
"Ready?" he asks when I reemerge. "You've got a busy day. We'll get you all filled up with some breakfast and then it's off to Marisa."
"Marisa?"
"She's the boss around here." Emery's finger finds the catch in the wall as if it's second-nature. He pulls open the door and waves for me to step through. "Let's go."
"Where are we going?"
He opens the door wider, his arm stretching into the hallway as if he's showing off some prize on a game show. "Headquarters."