Page 27

The day after the Farley’s incident, the papers have a field day with us again. The headlines are jarring.

Brutal Slaying of Seven by Wolves

Bayou Brutality in the time of the Wolf

Wolfpack Slaughterhouse

Knowing the real story is gut-wrenchingly painful. Like getting sucker punched over and over, no end in sight. I’m running on zero sleep, too afraid to close my eyes in the darkness of my bedroom during the short hours before dawn.

And then there’s my face to contend with. For the next several days, I slink into the bathroom before Mellie wakes to paint over the purple bruise, faintly handprint-shaped, on my right cheek. The dark bags beneath my eyes, as well. Not even my dreams are safe…

“Kat, wake up! Kat, you’re dreaming.”

My eyes fly open, darting around the bedroom. My paranoia is high—it’s the second time in one night Mellie has roused me from the grips of a nightmare. She plucks worriedly at the sweat-soaked bedsheets tangled around me.

“Kat, are you okay? Are you ill?” She bends low and brushes the back of her hand to my sweaty cheek, checking my temperature. I flinch from the contact, the ghost of Craig’s slap rising from the dead .

“What…?” Mellie leans closer, eyes narrowing. “What’s that on your cheek?”

I roll onto my right side to hide the evidence. There are smears of face paint on my pillow.

“Kat, is that—”

“It’s nothing.” The tenor of my voice tells her the discussion is over. “I’m sorry I woke you. I’m fine now. Let’s go back to sleep.”

Only faintly reassured, she slips away. Once her breathing evens out, I steal from my bed to clean my face, then carefully reapply paint to conceal the bruise once more, blending carefully.

It’s a good thing, because when Mellie rises in the morning, her sharp eyes go straight to my face.

I feign sleep, right cheek deliberately exposed, the barest crack between my lid and lashes.

The worried lines on her face disappear, ready to believe it was a trick of the light. Nothing more than shadows.

People are primed to see only what they want.

But the newspapers…those are a different story.

Far more difficult to ignore and certainly unable to be muted.

Sensation sells, the darker the better. Circulars fly off newsstands at unprecedented rates, eyeballs hungrily devouring every word on streetcorners, at dining tables, on the streetcar, everywhere.

Paul says the newspapers should give us a cut for all the issues we sell.

“Maybe you should make that your next great business venture,” I tell him bitterly.

“Maybe I will,” he answers. “Doesn’t your little boyfriend’s family own the paper? Could be fun.”

But it’s not the press consuming Paul. It’s revenge.

He’s single-minded, possessed by fury. All of it directed at the Magpies.

He begins plotting their imminent downfall, but we’ll have to wait before striking.

Abe is out of commission with his bruised ribs.

It will be a long recovery before he’s back to full strength.

Almost a week after the attack, I’m out with Matthew when we stroll by a shoddy, hastily erected newspaper stand. They’ve been cropping up out of the woodwork to meet the rise in demand.

Matthew pauses to scan the graphic headlines, almost all of which are still focused on bayou crime and the infamous Wolfpack. He shakes his head.

I loop my arm through his and shift my weight, feeling the reassuring, cold steel of the dagger in my boot. I’ve not left home without the weapon since the incident at Farley’s. I will never be caught unprotected again.

Eventually, if only to get Matthew to stop reading the cruel recounts, I speak up. “What do you know about them?” I ask. “The Wolves.”

“More than you’d think.”

My heart stutters as I turn to him. For one terrifying moment, I half expect him to say he knows. About me. About Paul. About everything. Matthew is so quick; it really wouldn’t take much for him to put it together. I’m dancing very close to the sun indeed.

“I know they’re like ghosts,” he says. “They broke into Astor Manor, which should have been impossible.”

I let out a subtle whoosh of breath.

“I know they’re ruthless. That I’ve stitched up more people than I can count who ran afoul of their knives. That I haven’t been able to save them all.”

I fight to keep my expression neutral. “You don’t really know them, Matthew. No one does. I’m sure they have their reasons.”

“It’s hard to think of reasons for why seven people are dead, Kat. And countless others too. I don’t have any reasons to offer family members when I can’t save their loved one. It’s just…it’s hard, you know? It’s hard all around.”

“I can’t even imagine,” I tell him. “I can’t imagine doing what you do.” Because I can’t.

We’re silent for a moment before I offer one more piece of wisdom. One more disguised piece of my puzzle.

“They’re from the Catacombs, Matthew. Like me. It’s different there. You can’t imagine the choices you have to make every day, just to survive.”

We stroll onward without another word, my mind soothed only by the press of the dagger-tip, soft as a lover’s kiss, into my skin with every step.