Page 141 of On Edge

He left me downstairs, walked away without looking back, the disgust clear on his face. And then, he came here and put this here for me.

Why?

It's not you he wants, dear Sis.

But he left mehissweater.

I clutch it to my chest, confused and furious and emotionally drained. My fingers shake as I pull it on over me. It's too big, of course, the sleeves hanging past my hands, the hem reaching my thighs.

But it's warm.

And it smells like coming home.

Breathing it in and hating that it makes me feel better, that even after he looked at me like he did and left me on the sitting room floor, alone…this stupid piece of clothing makes me feel like he cares.

I crawl into bed wearing it, too exhausted to sort through my feelings and try to understand what it means. Who knows what’s going through his head? I’ve given up trying to figure him out.

Closing my eyes, I try not to dream of Nell.

He was mine first.

31

TROY

Two Years Ago.

The Secret Passageway,

Corner of Fleet Street and Bell Yard

The girl who has been asking about me in London’s most degenerate places pauses at the entrance to The Old Bank of England Pub, softly illuminated by streetlights, shrouded by thick and heavy rainfall.

She reaches into her bag and takes out an umbrella. Her blonde hair, a wig, obviously, even stuffed under a cap, and cherry-red lips stand her out around here. That designer black mac might as well be a mark painted on her back, screaming to every lowlife in this shithole, that here stands a rich, easy target.

Lucky for her, I’m the monster stalking her tonight.

The moment she steps from the pub’s camera view into the dark, I’m on her. My hand finds her delicate throat, closing tight as I drag her into the alleyway. I shove her against the exposed brick. Now she’s in my domain, where the walls are scrawledin graffiti behind her head, and the stench of piss mingles with her lavender perfume. Even the rainwater that runs down the drainpipe next to us drowns out any noise she tries to make. Not that anyone would come running. Even the pigs prefer to stay away.

So why the fuckisshe here? Does she know this ismyHell that she’s wandered into?

“Who are you?” My voice is distorted behind the demon mask, the one I reserve for hunting, making it low and grating. “And why are you asking for Sweeney Todd?”

Her doe-eyes widen, brown, I note, even in this shit lighting. I cock my head, waiting, knowing how frightening the demon mask can look in amber streetlights, all sharp angles and hollow eyes. Beneath my thumb, her pulse hammers against her throat like a trapped bird’s wings.

But she doesn’t answer.

She’s terrified.

I apply pressure. Not enough to damage that pretty throat, but enough that she realizes how fragile her life is and that it’s in my hands.

“Please,” she mouths, trying to speak, clawing at my hand around her neck.

I pull back a touch. “Tell me who the fuck you are before I rip it out of you.”

“Nell.” She gasps it out. “I’m Nell.”

“Nellwho?”