The Hearts We Sold(61)

“Why isn’t this place closed down?” said Dee, barely able to make herself heard above the sound of the rain on the umbrella.

James grimaced. “Because the weather doesn’t care if people are dying in car accidents or if people need jobs or help or even a nose job. The desperate don’t stop being desperate just because it’s raining.”

It was true. And more than that, the rain seemed to have sluiced away any pretense—no one was here to flirt with danger or seduce a supernatural being with pretty limbs. The only people here were those with haunted eyes, who gripped at plastic ponchos with shivering fingers or clutched at umbrellas. They came because there were no other options.

Fairy tales with all the shine taken away from them were simply stories of desperation. Of hungry wolves devouring children and jealous stepsisters who hacked off their own toes to fit inside a glass slipper.

James and Dee shuffled beneath the umbrella like two particularly uncoordinated competitors in a three-legged race, and once they found themselves beneath the first tarp, the scent of moisture and heat and bodies was stiflingly close. Dee stumbled and was grateful when James pulled her against him, his arm tight around her waist.

Dee glanced through the multitudes of people for Cora—the one-armed grocer with the raspberries, the old woman with the tarot readings, and a young black man who moved with a slightly awkward step. Dee thought she glimpsed a flash of metal in the gap between his shoe and the hem of his jeans. A pretty girl with nut-brown hair was speaking quietly with the man, but when Dee saw it wasn’t Cora, her gaze moved on.

“Maybe she isn’t here,” said James. He sounded uncertain, but hopeful.

“Maybe,” replied Dee. She was still eyeing the passersby, peering through the plastic hoods and umbrellas. It was difficult finding anyone in this mess, never mind a petite teenage girl. But perhaps they were wrong—perhaps Cora was simply at another market, buying normal things. Perhaps the Daemon was in his bank, counting his hearts or whatever demons did in their spare time.

James jerked hard on her sleeve and said hoarsely, “He’s here.”

A slender, elegant figure strode through the crowds. He wore a heavy woolen pea coat over his suit, and for once, the umbrella in his hand looked utterly normal.

And then Dee saw the figure prowling behind him. Cora moved with significantly less poise. Her unzipped coat flapped in the wind, and as a gust lifted the fabric, Dee caught a glimpse of something silver tucked into Cora’s back pocket. For a moment, she didn’t recognize it—but then years of movie watching came back to her and she recognized the shape of the object.

“Cora’s got a gun,” said Dee. Her voice slid up a few octaves.

“What?” James’s jaw clenched. His next words came out through his teeth. “How—where would she even get a gun?”

“She’s eighteen, isn’t she?”

James cursed quietly. “And the Daemon’s found his target.”

Sure enough, the Daemon walked up to a produce stand and the teenage girl Dee had seen earlier, the one with the nut-brown hair, gazed up at him, mouth slightly agape.

Dee took a step forward, trying to see better, but the crowds flooded in before her. She grimaced, dodged the sharp edge of someone’s umbrella, but in the chaos she found herself pushed back. When the crowds parted again, she blinked.

There was no sign of the Daemon or the girl.

“Where’d they—” Dee began to say, but James was already moving.

“He’ll need a moment of privacy, or this mob would… well, mob him,” James said as he walked. “Where’s Cora?”

A scan of the crowd. “Gone,” said Dee. “This—this isn’t good.”

They fought their way to the edge of the tarps, where the market ended. Together, they stood on the cusp of darkness, and Dee felt her breath freezing in her lungs. This was the moment when the wise would turn back.

“James.” She breathed his name and he turned to face her.

Her every instinct told her to run, that people were not good, that letting him in would only lead to more hurt.

She hated that part of herself, hated that little voice that told her that anyone who might want her was either flawed or insane.

But James was neither. He was kind and brave, and he had the fashion sense of a raccoon that had blundered into a discounted bin of used clothes. But it was just another part of him, and she found she liked that part of him as well.

Standing on the edge of that darkness, she felt the stirrings of reckless want. A wild sort of bravery beat within her, taking up the hollow space in her chest where a heart should have resided.

She might not be alive—but she wanted to live.

“Can I try something?” she asked. The words spoken aloud helped drown out her inner voice.

James looked at her. His face was serious when he answered, “Anything.”

Her fingers fumbled for his shoulder, and she angled him toward her. He looked confusedly at her, but then Dee rose on the tips of her toes. She grabbed his jacket in her fist.

When she kissed him, his mouth tasted of rainwater, fresh and sharp, and the heat of his mouth was a startling contrast to the chill along her skin. He made a soft sound of surprise, but then a groan rose in his chest.

This was nothing like their first kiss—all hesitancy and fumbling attraction. It was raw and needy, a desperate desire for reassurance before stepping off a ledge into the unknown. His left hand, the one not holding the umbrella, found the small of her back and pulled her closer. He felt sturdy, warm, and solid. She tried to draw some of his wild courage into herself, and he responded in kind, his lips moving hungrily against hers. It was heady, this knowledge that he wanted her, that he had seen all of her broken edges and still thought her desirable.