13

He must be joking.

“No one leaves the Wars,” I say, waving my hand up, like duh. “It’s one of the rules. No one goes before their year is up.”

“No one has before.”

“No one who has left has lived before,” I say. I think back to my first day, when Jax cornered me in the basement. “The gangs always find you. And if they don’t find you, they’ll go after your family. Don’t desert. That’s a rule.”

“I know, I know. But I have a plan.” He takes my hand and gently pulls me back to the couch. We both sit, and he puts a hand on my knee. “Look, I’m working with the police. Not the Herons. I have my own plans. Just me.”

“What do you mean?”

There’s no time for me to respond. Aure glides back into the room followed by the two guys from before.

“Time’s up,” she says.

“A few more minutes.”

“Camille said five. You got five.”

“Fine,” he says. He gives me a look like I will fix this. “You can take Ms. Simons back to Stag territory.”

“Wait,” I say at the same moment Aure says, “Come on.”

A Heron—Jacob Fisher, according to the binders—takes my wrists and deftly tightens a zip tie around them. When the other Herons have all turned their backs, Matthew mouths the words I love you and I die on the spot.

We exit the dining room and go into a long hallway, then out into an enormous foyer. A glittering, curling staircase winds past yet another sparkling chandelier. Roses burst from gilded vases in little alcoves. Affluence imbues every piece of décor.

Aure pushes me from behind. “Hurry up.”

Just me. Not the Herons. What did Matthew mean by that? It’s horrible to realize I don’t know when I’ll see him again—it might not be for the rest of our year. I can’t go that long without knowing more, without understanding more. Because right now all I know is Matthew kept things from me when he said he loved me, and that doesn’t sound very much like love.

Tears slip from my eyes. Aure stiffens and she gives me what must pass as a sympathetic look. “You cried a lot as a kid, too.”

“You smiled more back then,” I fire back. Aurelia Saint-Helene. Of course she’d become a Young Heron. Her family and Matthew’s go way back. Even as a kid I remember her being prettier than I was, smiling and batting her eyes at the adults to get whatever she wanted.

But she was kind, too. One year when I was about six, Mom insisted on bringing a casserole to the Westons’ Christmas party, despite the hosts insisting that guests bring nothing. “You always bring something,” I remember my mom saying as her heels clacked on the sidewalk when we walked over. “It’s polite.”

I was ecstatic—her casserole was one of my favorite foods, and she rarely made it because it took so much prep. But the moment we stepped into the Westons’ house, all eyes swerved to our small family: me in a dress Mom got at Macy’s, my dad in a slightly wrinkled shirt he’d forgotten to steam, and Mom with her hands full of foil-covered casserole.

Our small Pyrex dish with burnt cheese at the edges stood out like a sore thumb on the table laden with luxurious delicacies—a huge roasted ham, miles of hors d’oeuvres, a triple-layer chocolate cake … and our casserole.

I was sent to eat and socialize with the other kids, who wasted no time in barraging me with questions.

“What is it?”

“No one else brought anything.”

“It looks like vomit.”

Seemingly above them all was Aure. When we were all allowed to grab food, she asked to be served the casserole and nothing else. We got back to the kids’ table and she took a bite, her eyes going wide.

“This is the yummiest thing I have ever eaten.” She smiled at me. A real smile. “Do you get to eat this every day?”

It’s one of those moments that comes back even when you don’t mean to think about it, like the time I called my fifth-grade teacher by her first name in front of the whole class or when I was learning to drive and backed into the neighbor’s fence by accident. Kindness was an emotion just as powerful as embarrassment or guilt, perhaps even more so.

Kindness, evidently, is also not a virtue afforded to the Young Herons, at least not to anyone who isn’t their own kind.

Back in the present, Aure exhales through her nose, scowling, and I brace for a slap or a punch, but her Heron restraint wins out. “You’re lucky you have somewhere to be or I’d teach you to keep your fucking mouth shut.” Then, her voice barely a whisper, “Maybe I’ll just stop by your house later. Right down the street from the Westons’, right?”

Mom and Dad. “No!” I shout, but Aure is done with me. She hands me back to Jacob and I swear his grip is tighter this time. I don’t stop pulling at the zip tie. “Aure, don’t. Please.”

“Be quiet.”

I should have kept out of this. No matter how much I try, I just make it worse. Leo, if you’re up there, look out for them, please. Please.

I’m led out onto the street. Instead of a limo, I’m to travel in a nondescript sedan. From the height of the buildings I can tell we’re somewhere between North Beach and the Financial District. Aure pushes a blindfold over my eyes before I can get a better look. I’m shoved into a car. Moments later, the front passenger side opens as she gets in.

“Take us to the drop-off point.”

Jax is going to be livid. Not only did the Herons take me—breaking the all-important rules—but also I gained nothing of use to him. I can’t tell him what Matthew said, can I? But Jax is my leader.

And I can’t be loyal to both of them at the same time.

The car rolls up and down the city’s famous hills until I know we’re way past downtown. We stop suddenly, and someone else gets in the backseat with me. Holy shit. Horrible images flash in my mind—Aure said I had somewhere to be. Who got in the car? I’m as helpless as I was the night I was recruited. They’re gonna knock me out, or worse …

“What’s going on?” I say, plastering myself to the door behind me. “Who are you? Someone answer me!”

“Calm down, Stag,” says a new voice.

The blindfold is lifted off my eyes and I’m face-to-face with Camille Sakurai. She holds a gun idly in her hands.

“What the fuck—” I say, jerking back as far as I can.

I struggle to breathe as my brain takes in the most absurd details—her perfect manicure, the jasmine of her perfume, and her painstakingly curled hair.

“I don’t have a lot of time for you, so I’ll cut to the chase. I know you and Weston are, like, close, but I don’t want him forgetting what side he’s on,” she says. “I let him see you tonight because Alex has literally saved my life at least twice and I owed him. But this is it.” She sets the gun down in her lap, but keeps it pointed in my direction. “I don’t know what Jax has said to you, but the Stags are nothing. He made them up. So stop thinking you are a part of anything bigger. You are nothing.”

She yanks the blindfold down again, nails scraping my forehead.

I swallow. If we were truly nothing, the Young Heron leader wouldn’t have bothered to pull some shit like this herself. They’re scared. My heart soars so high I almost laugh—I have something to tell Jax after all.

Sometime later, we come to a stop. The door beside me opens and I’m pulled out. Wherever I am, it’s quiet. And cold. The sound of a crosswalk speaker echoes from somewhere nearby. The zip tie is snipped, but awkwardly so that the scissors catch my skin, too.

“Ow!” I say, covering the cut with my other hand, but I don’t have more than a second to get my bearings before Aure slams the door and the car speeds off.

I pull the blindfold off. I’m in a neighborhood on a hill—which doesn’t narrow it down very much, because hello, San Francisco—and all is still, save for a gray sedan working its way up the street toward me. The driver stares at me, as if trying to decide my purpose for being there. If only you knew, pal. Walking toward a nearby crosswalk, I pass the Parkmerced library branch.

I’m back at Stonestown.

Reaching into my pocket, I grab my phone and turn it back on. Someone must have turned it off during the ride there. I text Jax.

Safe. Headed back.

He replies immediately.

See you here.

See you here?

Well, fuck you, too, Jax. I wonder if he was even worried.

It’s not that far of a walk—just a cold one—back to Holloway House. Besides, at this point I’m craving the solitude so that I can think. My once-perfect hair is ruined by the wind and misty air, and I don’t care.

“Stupid, Valerie,” I mutter to myself. “What an idiot, getting dressed up.”

Matthew wants me out of the gangs. Safe. A part of me knows I should be worried about his safety just as much, but I can’t muster the feeling. He hasn’t left the Heron headquarters—he’s safer than anyone else in the Wars. I bury my face into my coat and exhale, trying to get warm.

At least I’m not going back empty-handed. Our protest worked—at least enough that Camille is giving the Stags more than a passing glance.

I trudge past a burnt-out house. An old teddy bear stares up at me from the pile of sooty debris in the driveway. It looks like one that Leo had.

Classic Matthew, taking care of others without being asked. I check my wrist where the scissors sliced my skin. A well of dark blood runs down the side of my hand, and I lick my finger to try and clean the wound. It stings, but not any more than how passive Matthew was in front of Aure. But he had to play a part for the other Herons, otherwise they’d know something bigger was up, right?

It sucks to doubt. It sucks not to be able to remember every detail of what happened and what he said. Instead all I see is Aure touching his shoulder as she left the room.

Shivering, bewildered, and exhausted, I round the last corner to the house. This time I know to look for Jaws—arms folded and dressed in all black—in the shadows of the porch. I give him a nod. He returns it.

I open the door, and Kate flies off the couch. “Oh, thank God!” In a blink, she’s wrapped me in a hug. “Fucking Herons. You okay?”

“I’m fine. They just wanted to talk.”

“Still,” she says. “Takes balls to break the rules like that. Jax!”

Our leader joins us in the living room, Micah right on his heels.

“What’d they want?” Micah asks.

“To talk,” I reply. He didn’t ask if I was all right.

Jax, apparently satisfied with my being alive, gets a beer from the fridge. “What did Weston say?”

I straighten up. “Nothing that matters. But I think I figured out Camille’s second. It’s Aurelia Saint-Helene.”

Jax shrugs. “We knew that. Next.”

Shit. “Camille talked to me.”

That gets him, and he cocks his head to the side. “About what?”

“She told me the Stags should keep out of Heron business. That we’re nothing.”

Micah glances at Jax, his expression a mix of confusion and awe. “If Camille truly thought we were nothing, she wouldn’t have bothered to tell you.”

“The protest must have caught their attention,” says Jax. “Rather, the attention of their fat-cat parents whose business partners weren’t able to get in.” He nods to himself, thinking.

That has to be a good thing, right? For a beat I’m hopeful, then Jax asks, “What about Weston? You talk to him?”

I swallow. “He was worried about me.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“What did you talk about?”

It’s as if there’s no one in the room but Jax and me. His eyes stay trained on me, like they were the night we met, or like an animal watching its prey. Without warning Jax throws his beer to the side, the can clanging against the hardwood floor as Kate yelps, then turns and dives into Mako’s waiting arms.

“You tell me what he said, Valentine,” Jax roars. “Right now.”

I lift my face. I’m not prey. I’m a Stag, too. I can look bold, even if I’m freaking out inside. “He wanted me to leave the Stags.”

“What?”

“He wanted me to leave the Stags. That’s what we talked about. Then Aure came in, pushed me around, and put me in the car again.”

There’s a moment of calm before Jax loses it. “Are you fucking serious?” He laughs. “Shit. What an idiot. You can’t join the Herons. Not now.”

“I know,” I say quietly. Maybe I should look at him, but I can’t take my eyes off the dented can on the ground.

“For fuck’s sake, Valentine,” Jax says as he settles down. “You didn’t get anything, did you? This could have been your big shot.”

“We know Camille got shit for the protest,” Mako chimes in, his arm still around Kate’s shoulders.

“Still,” our leader replies. “She was in a Heron safe house and only confirmed something we could have already assumed.”

This is worse than being yelled at. He’s right, I should have used this to my advantage. Instead I was too excited to see Matthew that I forgot what really mattered, at least in Jax’s eyes. My heart and head can only be pulled in so many directions.

Right now, that direction is straight down.

Jax goes back to his room without a word, leaving the rest of us standing around awkwardly. Micah puts his hand on my shoulder but I shake him off, fighting the tears gathering in my eyes.

“I’m going to bed,” I say.

I slam the door behind me, tears streaming down my cheeks. As I stomp down the stairs, I’m surprised to hear it open up again behind me. Nianna follows me down.

“What do you want?” I say.

“I saw the way your eyes lit up when you first got that message.” She pauses. “And now you’re acting all defensive. You still care about Weston, don’t you?”

“Yes? Maybe.” I shrug. “Honestly I don’t know. And what does it matter?”

“It matters because I’m still not sure you should have been recruited.” Her nails dig into her arms. “If what you feel about Weston is true … I mean, would you kill him?”

“What—”

“If Jax ordered you to kill Matthew Weston—if he gave you the order, the opportunity. Gave you the gun. Would. You. Kill. Him?”

“That’d never happen.”

“There,” she says. “That’s answer enough.” She turns to go.

“What? Nianna, wait. What the hell is wrong with you?”

“You’re what’s wrong,” she says. “You’re still loyal to them. To Weston. You joined the Stags—the Stags—not some halfway bullshit where you get to decide which gang suits you best that day.”

“I don’t do that,” I say. “I’m a Stag. I know that. It’s what I wanted. And if you must know I’m pretty fucking pissed at Matthew right now, so it’s not like I’m going to change my mind at any point.”

“I don’t believe you. You wanted to be a Heron. And you know what? I bet you’d have fit right in with all their nice things, all their fancy parties. You’ve never wanted for anything, have you? Not like the rest of us. Never had to sleep in a shelter, never wondered if you’re gonna get kicked out of your house. Never been kicked out of your house. Always had two parents who loved you.”

“I can’t help what I was born into,” I say. “Neither can you, neither can Jax. Neither can anyone. So what?”

“So, at the end of the day you still want your nice cushy life with Matthew,” she fires back.

“Things are different now,” I say. “I’ve changed. I don’t want that anymore.”

Nianna rolls her eyes. “Sure you don’t.”

“Look, I want to make things right. I want to find the guy who killed my brother. And now that I know how the Herons are screwing people over, yeah, I want what’s fair for everyone.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it. You need to fucking decide—are you in or out?” She shakes her head, arms crossed and tight like a coiled snake before it strikes. “Because right now you’re not a Stag,” she snaps. “You’re a Heron with the wrong fucking tattoo.”

She storms away and slams the garage door shut.

“Oh, come on,” I shout.

Nianna answers my shouting with silence. I stagger into my space, taking stock of what’s just happened. If Matthew were on his knees in front of me, and the gun was in my hand, I couldn’t shoot. I absolutely would not, could not. Bitter and broken as I am, my answer would still be no.

Every bone in my body is desperate for rest, but I can’t bring myself to sit still. Part of me wants to cut, but the other clings fast to the advice Lyla always gave me: to reach out, instead. But who do I reach out to? A pang of aloneness strikes me like lightning—a blinding pain of not knowing what to do, or who I can turn to … but I know who I’d want to turn to.

So I make up my mind. I grab my cash and my phone and order a cab. And I keep moving. Keep going, don’t stop until I’m in the taxi and it’s whirling north and I know that when Jax finds out he may, actually, kill me.

But I don’t care.

I’m going home.