The Hearts We Sold(48)

Dee tried apologizing, but Gremma waved her off, said that if Dee needed time to go run drugs or smuggle goods through some art gallery, that was her business.

Dee probably should have felt bad about Gremma’s anger. But she didn’t.

All she truly felt was panic.

Utter, mind-numbing panic.

Cora was right. She shouldn’t be alive; she wasn’t alive, not really.

She was a girl held together by knitted yarn and magic.

Terrified, Dee had taken one of the jam jars from the dining hall. That evening, she washed out the jar in the dorm bathroom, swirling it with hand soap and rubbing out the specks of seeds with paper towels. When she was sure it was clean and dry, she dropped her knitted heart inside.

It was stupid. Probably ineffectual. But she felt better with the heart protected.

But the more time passed, the more she became aware of the hollowness in her chest. She was empty, carved out.

She couldn’t do this. She needed her heart; she needed out.

I could get Gran’s money, she thought. Try to get it without my parents. The bank might let me have it. She could give the Daemon’s money back, shove the username and password for that ridiculous bank account into his hands and demand her heart back. She’d never heard of a demonic refund, but she wouldn’t let him refuse.

And with Gran’s money, she could pay for one semester of Brannigan. After that… well.

She’d figure something out.

James had been texting her since Cal’s death. Little texts, the kind that she didn’t feel obligated to respond to. They were simple little statements like, Apparently I’m banned from that art gallery because one of my guests took an ax to a restroom door?

And the next day he texted, Sold all the paintings at the gallery. Apparently I’m not banned anymore because I’m the first one to sell out.

And then, the day after that, Spilled oil all over my leather jacket. I don’t suppose you know how to get paint out of leather?

This time, she did text back. Fire, was all she sent, and that was met with a smiley face.

Nearly a week later, she got another text.

I went to Cal’s funeral.

The words appeared on her phone. Simple, small words. But then again, all the worst statements were like that, weren’t they?

It was always the small words that did a person in.

She texted back. I’m sorry. Was it bad?

It was a stupid thing to say. Of course it was bad. Funerals were never good.

Yeah, was James’s reply. His grandfather was there.

Dee closed her eyes, felt her throat close up. She had to escape this. She would not be another Cal, mangled from the inside out, dead because she made the wrong deal.

With shaking fingers, she hit James’s number on her phone.

He answered after only two rings.

“Yes?” said James.

She breathed. Forced herself to count to three on the exhale. “Is your car fixed yet?”

No hesitation on his part. “Yes. Four brand-new tires. Got the good kind, too. We could take the car up Mount Hood if you like.”

She tried to smile, but her lips only twitched. “Um. Would you—would you mind driving me to the bank?”




It was four forty-five when they pulled in front of her bank—a local credit union she hadn’t visited in ages. The sky was overcast, and the light felt dim despite sunset being a few hours away. Dee pulled her jacket around her. Her skin felt too tight, stretched over her bones, and she knew she kept scratching at the back of her neck.

“Do you need me to come in?” James asked. He had remained silent throughout the drive, as if sensing her unease.

“No,” she said.

A pause. “Do you want me to come in?” he asked.

Another pause, this one longer. “Yes,” she said, barely a whisper. It was stupid, but having someone at her side made her feel braver as she stepped from the car.

I chose this, she thought, and pushed the bank doors open.

With the exception of the damp mildew of the Daemon’s building, banks all smelled the same to her—clean and sterile, with just a hint of metal. The clerk was a woman, her eyes worn and smile just a little weak. It was the end of the day, after all, Dee thought.

Dee slid her bank card under the glass barrier and said, “I’d like to withdraw all the funds from my account, please.”

This was the hard part. Waiting. Waiting to see if the bank would let her have the funds without a parent’s signature, if this trip was all for naught, or if she would walk out of this building with money enough to secure her future for just a little longer.

The woman typed away, and James murmured, “Making a withdrawal?”

“Rumpelstiltskin clause,” she replied. “I give back what he gave me, I get my heart back.”

He tilted his head. “I don’t think that’s how the Rumpelstiltskin clause is supposed to work. That’s a straight refund, not a tricksy back door.”

“Well, whatever,” said Dee. “I’m going to try.”

James smiled. “And that’s what I like about you.”

She didn’t have an answer to that, but luckily that was when the clerk turned back to her. “I’m sorry,” she began to say, and Dee’s stomach plummeted. This wasn’t going to work—she’d need a parent’s permission.