Sparrow reached down and plucked up another shot of Jameson’s—one in a long row of them—and tossed it down her throat to the encouraging shouts of the college boys around her. The wire bone of her padded bra dug into her flesh, but she didn’t care. It was doing its job to attract buyers, pushing her small breasts up into twin white mounds over the low edge of her T-shirt. Her tattoos and kohl-smeared eyes just made her seem more exotic to the boys goading her into downing the next shot.
Sparrow snorted a laugh and reached for the glass but the bartender leaned over and grabbed her hand.
“That’s enough.”
“Fuck that,” she said, squinting up at him. He was cute enough, hell they were all cute enough. She’d take any of them. What did it matter anymore anyway? She should just give it up and be done with it.
“I’m serious,” the bartender said, leaning in to take the drink from her fingers. “Folks drop dead, pounding shots like that.”
“I can handle it. Really. I never get too drunk. I mean, I just can’t ’cause I’m . . .”
“You’re what?” asked a soft voice over her shoulder. “What are you?”
She lurched around on the stool, and gasped, the alcohol in her veins like frost.
Hawk smiled at her and inclined his head. His hand began to stroke her neck, the tattooed knot throbbing to life under his fingers. It prickled and then stung like nettles, and she flinched at the pain.
“Leave me alone,” Sparrow said, sobriety waking her to his danger.
“Come back with me.”
“No,” she whispered.
“Hey, dude, who said you could join the party?” a beefy-faced boy snarled at Hawk. “Why don’t you fuck off and find someone your own age, asshole.” He put a hand on Hawk’s shoulder, trying to spin him around.
Effortlessly, Hawk snagged the boy’s hand and quickly snapped it back at the wrist. As the boy shrieked in sudden agony, Hawk turned, driving his weight against the wrist bones until the boy stumbled to his knees trying to escape the fierce pain.
“That’s it,” the bartender shouted. “Get out, you and the girl. You’re done here.”
Sparrow needed no more prompting but slid off the stool and pushed her way through the crowd of angry college students gathering at the bar behind her. She heard the threatening shouts and turned once to look.
Despite the warnings from the bartender, Hawk continued to hold the boy’s bent-back wrist captive, sneering as he writhed in pain. Someone grabbed a book and smashed it across the back of Hawk’s head. Hawk relinquished his hold on the boy’s wrist but as he lurched forward, he drove his knee into the beefy face under him. Blood gushed on the boy’s startled face, his mouth agape with missing teeth.
An angry chorus of shouts rose from around Hawk.
Sparrow tore out of the bar, and began sprinting down the street. Fear pumped through her veins, burning away the last of her drunken haze.
“Stupid girl, stupid girl,” she huffed in time to her pounding footsteps.
Ducking beneath the trees, trying to hug the shadows, too afraid to turn around again, too afraid that she would see Hawk loping after her, she kept running. She knew it wouldn’t take long for him to extricate himself from the bar. A thrust of a dagger under an arm or the inside of a thigh, and they would all be slipping in blood. All except Hawk.
She swerved quickly off of the sidewalk and staggered into the park, hoping to lose him in its sheltering darkness. Throwing herself onto the grass, she crawled beneath a tall shrub, chest heaving, bits of dirt and decayed leaves speckling her damp lips. She reached into her purse, hand fumbling for the little silver dove. When she found it, she closed her fingers around its smooth body. It wasn’t much, but it was all she had.
For long minutes she lay hidden beneath the leaves, listening to the ragged sound of her own breathing. Then everything grew quiet as her breathing slowed, deepened. Now all she heard were the comforting night sounds of small creatures scratching in the dirt, or nesting in the secret shelter of the branches.
Still she waited, unmoving until long after the faint silver of moonlight descended behind the trees. Obviously, Hawk hadn’t followed her; or at least, he hadn’t found her. She was too good at merging into nothingness.
Finally, as the first stretch of pearly daylight inched above the horizon, Sparrow crept out from beneath the shrubs. Dusting off the dirt and twigs that clung to her clothes, and with a silent curse, she reached up under her T-shirt and unhooked the clasp of her bra. Sliding her arms briefly out of the sleeves, she removed it and stashed it beneath the shrub.
“Never again,” she said. She’d been stupid and rash, not once but twice in the last few days. The first time she’d nearly drowned in humiliation while the second had threatened her life and injured an innocent boy. “No more,” Sparrow said. She’d go back to the garden and rip the heart out of the fucking arum.
* * *
BABA YAGA’S HOUSE, DESPITE ITS usual gloom, was now a welcoming sight. Sparrow bounded up the porch steps two at a time, glancing quickly over her shoulder before she entered the house. The street was empty, the gray smudge of early morning light throwing the tops of the trees in sharp relief.
Satisfied she’d not been followed, Sparrow went in and closed the door firmly behind her.
She didn’t see the gleam of neon green eyes peering at her from the tall stand of yews across the street, or the tall figure emerging from the shelter of the trees. Even if she had seen, she might not have known enough to be afraid.