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  No. I was anything but okay. It was becoming more and more clear my days were numbered—days of making it through the fall without getting sick, of leaving the past behind me, of leaving Asher. Of any kind of future with Creed.

  A light suddenly dawned in his eyes. “You’re jealous. You’re jealous of May.”

  “No, I’m not.” I couldn’t look him in the eye as I said it. So maybe I was jealous, even if that was only a tiny drop in the ocean that threatened to drown me. “I can’t understand why you want to stick with her when she totally abandoned us—I mean, you and Santos. You talk about family—”

  “If you think there’s something going on between me and May, then you don’t know anything about me.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “What did you mean?”

  What could I say—that I wanted him to want to protect me and only me? I knew it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t who Creed was, but it didn’t stop me from longing for it. I could sense him straining against my expectations, like that horse in the ocean. It turned a key in me, a muted click only I could feel.

  “Maybe May was right,” I said softly. “If you’re such a protector, then why didn’t you protect your mom?”

  The second I said it, I regretted it. What was a key in me was a knife in him. The closeness I had felt from him just moments ago withdrew, leaving a vacuum. His blue eyes went stormy. The soul of him, written right there on his face for me since the first time I’d seen him in the darkness of the club, recoiled and retreated into the locked chamber of his heart.

  “Creed, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  But it was too late. He was already backing away from me, in body and in spirit. “You don’t know anything about my mother. Or May. Or me. Nothing.”

  Chapter 34

  The night of the Halloween party, everyone from the normals to the most strung-out hipsters jammed into an abandoned warehouse building for what was sure to be an epic party.

  They took IDs and cover at the door, but Creed had a backstage pass—he was handling equipment for all three bands taking the stage, if you could call it that. Plywood sheets scattered across some crumbling concrete blocks, with a tangle of cables and extension cords.

  Creed dressed in his usual raggedy T-shirt, jeans, and army surplus jacket, though he had borrowed my black eyeliner to complete his look—either zombie or dead rock star. I didn’t ask. We weren’t talking much since the fight.

  I wore a shredded black lace number I’d smuggled out of St. Vincent’s under the potato coat. My skin had whitened as my cough wore on, dark circles spreading under my eyes. I could barely keep them open some days.

  That night, I tucked an inhaler and my cell phone against my ribs before stashing the coat in a bush. I ran through the rain into a totally different universe—one populated with the manic menagerie of the underground.

  A cough caught me off guard and shook me violently. It was cold in here, and then hot, with not enough air for the hundreds of people pouring in.

  “How do I look?” Santos appeared in a shiny pleather skirt and bustier with a weird, enormous thrift-store necklace, fishnets, and heels. I had to do a double take. He almost looked like May, except without the track marks and haunted pallor. He wore heavy makeup—lashes long and exaggerated, lips the color of dried blood. Actually, he made a prettier girl than May.

  “You look hot, actually.”

  Santos grinned. “Yeah?”

  I giggled. “Yeah. You make a pretty smokin’ girl.”

  Santos grabbed my shoulders and planted a crazy kiss on my lips. “You, too, beautiful. You know I love you. Oh, that reminds me.” He dug into his pocket and pressed a half-full bottle of amoxicillin in my hand. “Hard to get this time—sorry it took me so long.”

  I silently offered a prayer of thanks. This would keep the floodwaters in my lungs at bay just a little while longer, until I figured out what to do next.

  When Santos disappeared back into the crowd, I touched my lips and came away with a streak of red on my fingers. My skin still tingled, like in that kiss there had been some kind of farewell. A surge of missing came up in my chest—missing the squat house. Missing Santos coming up the stairs in the middle of the night and cuddling in a puppy pile with May and Faulkner. Missing the simple kindness of coffee made from old grounds. Missing Creed.

  The DJ worked magic on the crowd, first lulling them with hypnotic beats, then tearing them up with gut-wrenching guitar riffs. It seemed like everyone under the age of twenty-five was here, sweating and kissing and throbbing into this twisted night. It was illegal to smoke in restaurants and public buildings in Seattle, but in this dingy warehouse the lights bounced off a choke of haze.

  At first I thought Creed didn’t see me, he was so focused on his job. But then he spotted me in the outer rings of the pit. He nodded, then went back to his work.

  The first band took the stage late, ripping through their instruments in typical Seattle indie style. No one batted an eyelash when I found my way over to the keg and scored a free beer. Creed didn’t drink, which made me want a cold draft all the more. He leaned against the wall behind the stage, closing his eyes like he was listening to a lullaby. Even if the music sounded like it came out of a garage, maybe he could hear the hidden beauty of it, woven among the notes. I took the last swig of my beer and refilled it at the tap.

  Santos was working the crowd, laughing and talking to a thick figure in full bondage getup. My eyes kept wandering back to him in his costume. He looked as much like a real girl as May or me and nothing like the naked boy I remembered from the pool, bare and as dear to me as any of my own brothers.

  That seemed so long ago now. That was the night I’d first lied to them, and I’d been lying ever since.

  At last the band ended their set. Creed sprang into action, a tall shape moving in the darkness. The DJ went back to the pulsing techno.

  I weaved my way back among the bodies, watching for allies and enemies as I went. Some guy in a creepy clown getup grabbed my ass. “What’ll you do for twenty bucks?” he asked with a leering grin.

  What would May have said, now that she had given all of her powers to Maul? I ignored him and pushed past with my beer in hand.

  Creed frowned when he saw me. He looked out over the sea of heads. “May’s here,” he shouted through the throng of sound. “Maybe you can find her and see if she’s okay.”

  I stared at him. A retort died on my lips. For Creed, checking on May was only that: checking on her, nothing more. I suddenly felt ashamed for ever thinking anything else. I would tell him, as soon as the party was over. Maybe I would tell him the truth . . . about everything.

  For now, I just nodded.

  The second band started up, ramping the music to the next level. Neeta would have loved it. She’d be hovering around the merch table as soon as the show was over, chatting easily with the band. The table, piled with T-shirts, CDs, and buttons, was guarded by a werewolf and some kind of mutant punk video-game monster ready to put up a fight if someone like Santos tried to filch a sticker.

  Creed talked in low shouts with one of the organizers—the band was cutting their set short because of some argument between the lead and drums. I tried to catch Santos’s eye, but he’d disappeared. The bondage guy he’d been talking to was nowhere to be seen.

  I slipped around the edges of the smoky horde, the room spinning a little as I went. Noise from the string of giant speakers filled the space where warm, weirdly costumed bodies didn’t.

  No one noticed a skeletal girl in a slip as she staggered back and forth, grinning a bloody grin before letting her strap fall down one shoulder and pushing against one guy, then another.

  Nobody except me.

  May saw me watching and dropped the grin. “What the fuck do you want?” She gently laid a kiss on the shoulder of a buff tattoo guy and mouthed the words Be right back.

  As she teetered closer to me, I could smell a stench on her breath like an open grave. Sh
e looked around, but it was impossible to recognize anyone in the pounding sound and darkness. Maul could be everywhere and nowhere, like God or the devil. It didn’t matter if he was actually watching, as long as we felt like he was. Just like Asher.

  I caught her against me. “May—”

  But she cut me off in a high, frantic voice. “You’re gonna get me killed, ’Burbs. Don’t you get it? Maul is gonna fucking kill me, and all you want is to soothe your conscience. Just stay the hell away from me!”

  Tattoo Guy stepped in closer and put his arm around May, scowling in my direction. “You okay? I don’t wanna get involved in some cat fight.”

  May reeled and nearly fell down. “Back off,” she sputtered. “I’m gonna need a fix after this.”

  “May, don’t. Please.” It was so hot in here. My breaths came out in short, painful puffs.

  “Please. You have such goddamn nice manners, ’Burbs. You and Creed can go take care of each other off in the sunset while me and Santos fall off the edge of the fucking planet. It’ll be so much easier for you then.” She turned to Tattoo Guy with a ghostly smile. “C’mon, let’s get outta here. You got something to ease my pain, or do I have to move on?”

  “Yeah, I got something.” He reached into his pocket and flashed a bag of white.

  “May?”

  But she wasn’t paying attention to me anymore, only the carrot dangled in front of her and whatever she hoped to bring back for Maul. Invisible or not, I had failed.

  Chapter 35

  Creed stood in the darkness with an electric guitar, practicing for the moment he’d get to take the stage. He didn’t need to hear about May now—or about the drugs. I would tell him everything later, after he’d had one moment to shine.

  As the beer flowed more plentifully and money and various substances exchanged hands, the crowd worked into a frenzy waiting for the headliners, Gravity Echo, and their new breakout hit “Countdown to Fate.” There were the die-hards, the ones who knew Gravity Echo had started in a trailer and played grungy house parties and the Croc long before they played Neumos, Chop Suey, and then the Showbox, the pinnacle venue for Seattle bands. Then there were the groupies who’d just discovered “Countdown to Fate” after widespread airplay and an MTV spot, and who were suddenly obsessed with the front man’s bed head and the drummer’s drink of choice (Tanqueray and tonic, I knew from Neeta).

  I stood on tiptoes to see if Santos had come back, but I couldn’t see him. Everything—the lights, the faces, the stage—had become blurry and bright.

  “Please, let Creed be great,” I whispered. There were music people here. Recording labels. Radio stations. One word from any of them, and he could live out his dream.

  Where would that leave me? There were street powers, but not for me. What I needed were concrete survival skills, and I had none.

  Weird images popped into my head—of the church lady with the potato coat and a fistful of soup and cookies. Of the New Ho’s guy with the zigzagging eye. Creed and Santos trusted him. They had skills, living close to the ground, but not on the streets. Was that even possible for me? Was there somewhere in the middle I was missing?

  The crowd thrashed, high on things natural and unnatural, as the second band finished its last song. The guy Creed had been talking to took the stage and screamed out, “Babel Sky, everybody! Give it up for Babel Sky!”

  A cheer rose on the heels of smoke and ash, and a cold ripple ran through me again. A bead of sweat rolled into my eye, reminding me of the blood that had dripped down my face when Maul hit me.

  The band started packing up their equipment with Creed’s help. The drummer stayed behind and the bassist lingered, waiting to see what was going to happen, if the equipment boy had more mettle than winding cords and hauling gear.

  Then the emcee shouted over the crowd, “Now I’ve got something totally different for you—a local guy who’s been part of the music scene for a long time, even though you’ve never heard of him. This guy is going to go places, people. So pay attention and remember the name: Street Creed. You first heard it here, motherfuckeeeers!”

  Creed was alone on the stage while the entire room—five hundred people, maybe more—held their collective breath to see if this tall, skinny kid had something to say that no one had heard before. He was grubby as hell with his hair hanging in his face, but his eyes shone like light piercing darkness. I could barely listen because I was trying to swallow the closure in my throat.

  Creed stood there, taking it all in. I started to get nervous for him. Any second now, the crowd would let out the breath of air in a groan, and he would miss his chance to dazzle this dangerous, electric mass. The sound system screeched, sending a ripple through the audience.

  Then his eyes landed on me, and he smiled.

  “Triste.” His voice sounded like a whisper, reminding me of the first time he’d ever said my name. “This is for you.”

  Creed laid into the borrowed electric guitar with the fierce vulnerability I had seen when we were closest, and now he had invited five hundred people in. The exhale of the crowd never came, only a gasp—deeper and deeper as they realized what they were a part of. Something true and fresh and entirely new.

  And then he started to sing.

  Even I couldn’t anticipate the rawness of his voice or the way he could spellbind an audience, though I’d heard him play on the street and sing to me, alone on the mattress of the squat house. He sang about the color of skin, and of longing, and of dust falling. He sang of kisses and ashes.

  He was singing about us.

  When he finished, they cried out for another. Creed hid a smile, as if he’d been waiting for this—hundreds of people, all of them waiting to hear what would come out of him next.

  I wanted to know for the rest of my life.

  The music hypnotized me, exhilarated me, choked me, and let me breathe again all in the same phrase. He was rough and then gentle, intimate and untouchable. It gave me a chill to know I knew him. I belonged here, with him.

  One second I couldn’t feel my body, and the next someone was clutching my shoulder roughly, nails digging into my flesh and spinning me into the darkness of the crowd.

  There stood May, as if a tomb had swallowed her up and spit her back out.

  “Trissssste, you gotta come with me,” she slurred, spittle gathering at the corner of her mouth.

  Creed’s voice tripped, but he kept singing. Had he lost me in the crowd? The thought made me dizzy.

  “May, what are you doing here? Just . . .”

  “No, lissen. Yougotta . . . juss . . . now.” Her demands came out in halting, hazy speech.

  She staggered a little and caught herself against a Stormtrooper, who coldly removed her from his arm and went back to watching Creed—exactly what I wanted to do.

  “You’re high,” I spat. “Just go find Maul or whoever you’re seducing now and just let me—”

  “You donunderstannn . . . Something happen . . . you gotta come. Please.” She clutched my shoulder again with surprising strength. “Get Creed, too.”

  The anger was pumping in my veins where Creed’s words had been just a moment ago, and I felt the loss of them acutely. “In case you hadn’t realized, he’s up onstage playing his music for this entire crowd. You picked the wrong friends. So no, I don’t think I’ll be going with you right now.”

  “Pipe down,” growled the Stormtrooper. “Take it somewhere else.”

  I wiped the sweat from my forehead. It was so cold in here all of a sudden.

  May wasn’t letting go—she was digging in deeper and pulling me toward the door. “Please! Sssss . . . antossss! You gotta come!”

  The room lurched to a stop and made me want to throw up. “Santos? What happened?”

  “You gotta come. L-l-l-lot of blood.”

  Santos. Oh, God. The bondage figure, and Santos rocking his tight skirt and bustier before disappearing out of the throng, flashed through my head.

  I followed May, determined to get
through. She tripped and splattered onto the concrete amid a circle of dark figures who stepped back to avoid her fall. I helped her to her feet, feeling more and more desperate. I couldn’t hear Creed’s music anymore, only the pounding of my eardrums.

  Santos.

  Blood.

  May lurched outside and into the network of alleys connecting the warehouse district.

  A small, furry figure darted across our path, dotted with gravel and murky puddles. Pallets and rotting furniture littered the way. I shivered in the cold and wished I had the potato coat now. Any second it might start raining again, and I was almost naked in the shredded black dress.

  May dragged me behind a reeking trash heap to where a figure lay on the ground.

  I didn’t recognize the face. It was beaten so badly that even in the darkness, I could see where bones met bones and crushed skin opened into a pool of black. The body was crumpled—skin bruised and torn in unnatural directions.

  But the worst was the mouth. Lips were cracked and teeth broken where no words could save them, no matter how fast or furiously they streamed.

  I knew that skirt, those legs, ending in a pair of shabby red pumps.

  A sob escaped, and I realized it was mine. And May’s, too.

  “We have to get Creed,” she choked out. “We have to get him we hafff to get himimim.” Her words disappeared into sobs. “I’ll go back, I’ll get him. You stay here. Maybe we can—mmmaybe there’s time—can you . . .”

  CPR. I knew CPR. Was he still alive? Was there enough of him left to help him start breathing again?

  I knelt down and touched his skin. Still warm. There wasn’t much of a nose to grab on to. Not much I could do. I put my fingers against his neck, praying, Please, God, let him be okay. I pressed against his chest, willing it to move up and down.

  May collapsed to the ground.

  No one was coming.

  Blood leaked out of Santos into an oily puddle and spread like smoke. And then I noticed it.