My eyes snap open. I feel like I only closed them for a second, but now daylight’s struggling through the gaps in the boarded-up window and I can’t remember where the night went. I’m still propped up against the wall, wrapped in the sleeping bag. I wince as I stretch my legs out, then notice a thin figure standing across the room.
Celene looks as beaten and bruised as I feel, though she’s the one who was shot, so she wins. She has a hand to her shoulder and she’s peering at the clippings on the wall. I can’t see her face. Is she wearing the same inscrutable expression she always does? Or has the wall undone it somehow?
Her head turns slightly as my movements rustle the sleeping bag, but she doesn’t face me.
‘This all seems so long ago.’ Her voice is husky with pain and exhaustion. ‘You really must think I’m a monster.’
I can’t deny that; I did, for the longest time, and I’m still not sure I think otherwise. Just because she seems different doesn’t mean she is. She’s still the person who committed all those atrocities in the nineties. Death followed her, just like it follows me. The only way I can stop it is by killing Mara and – if Dominic was right – my mother. A chill prickles through me.
‘What’s it like? Killing somebody?’ I ask.
Celene contemplates the wall. ‘I’m not comfortable talking about that.’
‘Because you feel guilty.’
‘Because I don’t consider myself to be the same person who did those things.’
‘But you are.’
‘It’s not as easy as that.’
Not for the first time, I wonder what it would take to push her over the edge. Make her lose her temper.
‘Don’t you ever think about the things you did? How many people died?’
Celene doesn’t reply and I think maybe we’re done talking about that, but then she murmurs something so quietly I lean forward to hear.
‘I was an angry person then. I hated everybody. The people I killed, I didn’t see them as people. They were a job and hurting them felt good. I suppose I wanted them to suffer the way I had.’
She doesn’t explain what she means by that. How she suffered, if she really did, and I’m not sure I want to hear about it. It’ll sound like lies anyway. Like her trying to explain away the terrible things she did. How she’s the real victim. Yeah right.
The articles on the wall stare at me. Stories of wanton slaughter. On one occasion, she killed teenagers, but most of her victims were criminals, people who knew exactly what they were getting into by allying themselves with mobsters.
‘Seems to me a lot of them deserved it,’ I say.
‘No. They didn’t.’
I remember what Frances said to me when she first showed me the derelict house I spent the first four years of my life in.
It’s important for a person to know where they come from.
Even if they come from the worst place possible.
Especially then.
My past is standing in the room with me.
Has Celene accepted hers? Or is it a tug of war inside her? Does the guilt hit her in waves, late at night, ice water rushing into her mouth so she chokes? Can’t breathe? Begs for mercy?
‘You knew where I was,’ I murmur.
Celene turns and looks at me. Ashen and slightly bent over, like somebody’s hollowed her out. Her hand absent-mindedly goes to her wounded shoulder. At her questioning look, I drag the photo album across the floor.
‘I should’ve guessed you’d find it,’ she murmurs.
‘You took all these. Some are from when I was a kid.’ I try to keep my voice level but the stew of confused emotions keeps threatening to bubble over. ‘You’ve known where I was my whole life.’
‘There’s a–’
‘It looks like stalking. And fear. And not wanting to accept responsibility for anything.’
I can’t tell if I’m just imagining Celene swaying slightly, as if my accusation has rushed at her in a gust that her weakened state can’t withstand.
‘Imagine if I had approached you,’ she says wearily. ‘Just imagine if I had done that when you had this… view of me.’
My gaze switches to the wall behind her and I hate myself for understanding where she’s coming from, at least a little bit. If she’d approached me out of the blue when I was younger, I don’t know how I’d have reacted. Probably with my fists. Somebody would’ve called the police. Troll would’ve attempted to tackle her to the ground and then he’d have ended up even worse off than he did anyway.
‘It would’ve been suicide,’ I say.
Celene doesn’t say anything, though she could gloat over the fact that she’s right. It sort of annoys me that she doesn’t.
‘By the time I found you, you were already with a foster family. I hoped you’d be happy, have a good life, be raised by decent people.’
‘Ha.’
‘I couldn’t interfere. I lost any right to you the moment I left you. You stopped being mine.’
Would she be proud of the shard of ice in me that she created, despite her absence? The spider in my mind whispering and watching and constantly looking out for danger?
Celene trails over to her sleeping bag and slides to the ground, still clutching her shoulder. She grimaces, going even greyer than before, but she doesn’t say anything about the pain. She nudges the album with her boot, then grabs it and picks it up, turning to the first page.
‘Your past is a part of you. Always and forever.’
I want to ask if she regrets leaving me, missing out on knowing me, always keeping her distance, but the words get trapped in my throat and I can’t find a way to release them.
‘I tried outrunning mine,’ Celene continues, staring down at the album. ‘I tried hiding. Now I have to tackle it head on.’ She pauses. ‘It won’t be enough. I’ll never escape my past, not until it chases me down and buries me in the dirt.’
Does she have the same nightmare as me? Soil cramming into her mouth?
There are no comforting words and I’m not sure she deserves any.
Celene reaches into her pocket and pulls out a phone.
‘What are you doing?’ I ask.
‘If Frank’s alive, he’ll have tried to contact me.’ She slips the phone back into her pocket. No Frank.
‘So it’s just us,’ I say, getting to my feet. ‘What time does the party kick off at Vinter’s?’
‘Seven.’
‘Which gives us a couple of hours to get ready. Come up with a plan. Make ourselves pretty.’
‘You’re not coming, Rumer.’
I don’t say anything. Instead, I sidle up to her and squeeze her injured shoulder. She flinches.
‘Oh yeah, taking down Mara and his men is easy when you’re in such good shape.’
Her gaze burns into me but she knows I’m right.
‘You won’t get past the front door without an invite,’ she says.
‘I’m not going as a guest.’ I’ve been thinking about this ever since she told me about the party. I’ve never been to anything like it, but I’ve seen enough movies to know how these things work. Big parties like Vinter’s require a lot of people. Decorators, chefs, waiters. Luckily, I’m pretty good at being invisible.‘Vinter’s place is airtight. You won’t make it over the garden wall.’
‘Trust me.’
‘And even if you get in, somebody will notice. Mara definitely will.’
‘Which is why I’m not going anywhere near Mara. I’ll be in the back, watching, ready to help you.’
‘And just how are you planning on getting inside?’
‘Leave that to me.’
Celene’s gaze doesn’t break from mine. I’m not asking her permission. I’m offering her a plan she hasn’t considered. And she can’t stop me going. If she says no, I’ll go anyway, and then she’ll have no control over me whatsoever.
She probably already suspects that.
And she’s right. I’m going to that party but I won’t be hiding out back.
I’ll be searching Vinter’s for the Crook Spear.
Then I’ll use it to get Bolt back.