"Fly away, little guy." A moth flutters along the ceiling, searching for a way out of this hell hole. Except, it's my hell hole, so I should just call it my apartment, my home. From the confines of my lumpy bed, I watch the creature bump along and feel sorry for it. Like the rest of us living outside Fallen City, there's no hope for escape.
The alarm goes off, and I jerk at the sound but don't move to turn it off. It's eight o'clock in the evening, and the sun has already set. My roommate and I sleep all day and work at night. It's part of the hustle, but I don't mind. Outside Fallen City, it's more beautiful at night in the Halo. The city's flaws are hidden by the neon lights.
The moth settles on the bare lightbulb overhead as though it knows there should be heat. I can't help staring as I ponder my recurring dream. It comes to me every time I go to sleep.
I'm flying and soaring through the air. My glorious and jet-black wings beat at my back, and all I feel is ecstasy. Like I'm born to fly.
And then there's a whooshing sound, and I'm struck by something heavy. I glance at my stomach to see blood soaking into my white nightgown.
Pain, sharp and serrated, causes me to cry out, and I press my hands against the wound.
That shift in my focus causes my wings to disappear.
I'm falling, falling, falling.
Thankfully, I wake before I hit the ground.
If I had a therapist, I'm sure she would tell me my dream is a manifestation of my desire to be more than what I am. To be an angel, like those living inside the wall.
I'd tell her to go to hell. I'd rather be a vampire or any variation of the supernaturals that live outside the wall. Angels are elitist assholes, and I'm neither of those things.
But it's more than that. Angels are the reason I'm in this mess in the first place. I hate them with a burning passion that's hard to describe.
Besides, being human is okay. I mostly stay away from the supernaturals who control various parts of the Halo, though I live in werewolf territory.
In my deepest thoughts, sure, I've considered what might happen if I let a werewolf or a vampire change me. The idea of being a hunter instead of common human prey is tempting. Not to mention the gift of immortality. But the thought of drinking blood or being forced to become a mindless wolf keeps me from following through.
Besides, living forever isn't what I'm after, not to mention a myth. Sure, supernaturals have the potential for long lives, but they have weaknesses too. Hell, more often than not, another supernatural uses that disadvantage like silver bullets or a stake to the heart against them, and they are killed, the same as anyone else.
But some people are desperate. I haven't reached that point. Not yet.
“Mirabelle Louise Taylor! Turn that fucking thing off. It's hurting my brain." My roommate, Ellie, tosses her pillow at the nightstand, sending the alarm clock crashing to the floor.
Sadly, it's still ringing, and I'd totally ignored the sound.
Ellie only calls me by my full name when she's pissed.
Oopsie.
"Holy shit, turn it off," she yowls again, pulling the covers over her head.
"Got it. Jeez. Keep your shirt on." I get out of my twin-sized bed and click off the racket.
Ellie sits up. "You ready for tonight?" Her hair is a mess of brown waviness. Make-up from last night streaks her face, including some red lipstick. When she's put together, she's very beautiful, willowy, even. Tall with a killer body and eyes the color of creamy caramel.
Ellie came to Fallen City to be an actress, as did eighty-five percent of all the law-breaking citizens in our region. There's no way I would ever become an actress. My life is already way too full of drama. Ellie did a commercial and a few small speaking parts in random movies, but they didn't pay the bills for long.
When we met at a club last year, she was homeless and hungry. I took her in. Gave her a place to stay and food to eat. When she found out what I did, she wanted in. She's already better at committing felonies than me, but I'm persistent, like a dog with a bone. We make a great team.
If I want something, I don't give up. My mom used to call me tenacious. That word sounds better than stubborn.
Being a criminal isn't the best job, but it keeps me from living on the streets. Sure, my career choice is considered a bane to society, and everyone involved is evil. I say they can fuck off. I do what I must to survive.
The only part I hate is that I'm not my own boss.
Fileze, the Werewolf Sleaze, owns me and has for the last eight years. When my mom went to jail, I was starving and living under a cardboard box. He plucked me away from certain death and taught me how to survive.
But I hate him too. He didn't save me out of the kindness of his heart. He saved me so he could own me. Every morsel of food he gave me and every blanket or clothing he provided came at a cost. According to Fileze, I'm nothing more than a commodity. Something he can use to get what he wants.
If he has a heart, it's shriveled and filled with only malevolence.
I'm still paying him back.
My last job under his thumb was supposed to be tonight, which is why Ellie asked. But the asshole changed the date to next week. Still, I will do whatever he has in store, and then I'll be free of him.
In the Werewolf Mafia, Fileze is middle management on the power chain. But he has the authority to make promises, and he made one to me. One which I intend to make sure he keeps.
But first, I need to get to work. Right before I fell asleep this morning, Fileze sent a text about the latest job. I grabbed my phone and met Ellie's hooded eyes.
"It's next week," I say and sigh.
She groans, falling back against her pillow. "What a dick."
"Agreed. But Fileze has a job for us to do tonight. We are supposed to meet him at The Den at eleven." I'm bummed, and I'm sure Ellie can hear it in my voice. But I can't help myself. Fileze told me that after I do whatever big job he has lined up for me, he'll give me two streets to run. That's huge. I'll be able to pick my own crew. Not only that, but I'll be the first human to run a team. That's saying something.
"Nooooo," Ellie groans, burying herself under the covers. Disappointment filters along her features.
"Did you have something better to do tonight?" I asked, grabbing my stuffed Pikachu and clutching it against my stomach.
She moves the blanket off her face. "Nothing serious," she says, but I sense that isn't true. Still, I don't pressure her. She's entitled to her secrets, just like I'm permitted mine.
"Pretty sure our job tonight is a break and take situation, but we'll get more details when we meet with Fileze." My eyes search for the moth, but it's gone. I glance at the one window in our tiny apartment and see it's fluttering against the glass.
Moving rapidly, I scoot around Ellie's bed and push it open.
"No point trying to escape. You know Fileze will just find you," Ellie says mournfully, thinking I'm abandoning our apartment. But I wouldn't do that.
I grit my teeth, wishing she wasn't right and knowing she is.
"Good luck, little buddy," I say as the moth finds the exit and flies away. "You're going to need it." I linger at the window, envious of the moth.
"Who the hell are you talking to?" Ellie sits up, pushing her hair off her face.
"Nothing. No one," I hiss. A pigeon swoops down from someplace above the window, its wings overshadowing the moth. In an instant, it has the moth in its sharp beak and swallows it down before flying away.
I gasp at the instant tragedy as my gaze lands on the enormous golden atrocity of a wall surrounding Fallen City. Made to keep out all except those the angels deem worthy. The wall is also used as a warning. Those who betray the angels and their laws are hung by their arms and legs on the wall. Like how hobbyists pin their latest butterfly treasure to a matte poster. Many times the supposed criminal isn't dead and can be heard moaning or begging for mercy. Much like a horrific piece of live art.
"Do you think he intends to let you leave?" Ellie asks, her eyes filled with doubt.
"I hope so." I swallow and move back over to my bed, sitting on it. In my line of work, mental preparedness is essential.
Ellie rubs her eyes.
"Soon enough, I'll be free from him, and I'm taking you with me." I try to sound optimistic, but I feel like the moth, and sooner or later, a monster with black wings will swoop down and swallow me whole. My throat gets dry.
Ellie and I have discussed her coming with me more than once. She'll be on my crew because Fileze is a complete slimeball. No way, I'd leave her with him.
"Is your final job going to be with the same mark?" Ellie asks, turning on her side so she can look at me.
"That's what he said." I shrug and try to convince myself that more time means more information and preparation. What do I know so far? Not a lot. My mark is male, and I'm to meet him for fun and drinks, which I know means Fileze expects me to do whatever it takes to steal the jewel he wants, including sex.
Doing something so intimate with a stranger isn't high on my list, even by my low standards, but I'll do whatever it takes to be free of Fileze. The jewel is a big deal, too—worth millions, maybe even billions of dollars, especially to the angels.
Effing angels.
Mom said they killed my dad. Plus, they're the reason she was incarcerated and died in prison.
At least she didn't hang on the wall, I think and shudder.
"I don't suppose Fileze sent you a picture of your mark?" She covers her mouth as she yawns.
"Nope." That part makes me nervous, but there's still time. With a mark, I'm usually given a portfolio full of information at least a week in advance. I'll ask Fileze for more when we meet tonight. But I can't shake the feeling that the job next week will change my life forever.
"I'll shower first," I say, getting out of bed and flinging my pink comforter across the mattress in an attempt to make it.
"Great, I'll get some more sleep."
Grunting, I grab my shower case and head into our tiny bathroom. At least it has a shower. That's more than a lot of places around here.
The saying, life's a bitch, then you die, has been our motto for too long. Not that we had a choice.
Once I'm undressed, I check my reflection in the mirror. My hair is long and honey-blond, while my eyes are blue—well, kind of a greenish-blue. But that isn't why I look at myself. I turn my head, angling my neck to see my fake tattoo. The seven-pointed star sits near my right ear, and it's slightly smeared, even though I use waterproof eyeliner. After my shower, I'll have to fix it.
Not that I like the tattoo. But it's a sign I'm human. As decreed by the fucking angels, every mortal child is given the same mark the day of their birth. Sadly, it never took with me, and I've been drawing mine on daily since I can remember.
More than once, as a child, my mom tried to tattoo the star on me herself. The trauma has imprinted itself on my soul. But the ink never stayed for longer than a few days.
The only reason I'm still alive is that the doctor who helped my mom deliver me had mercy on us. He would hang on the wall as proof he was a traitor if anyone found out.