Chapter 51

WREN

A PARADIGM SHIFT.

That’s what philosophers would call a change like this.

Because I haven’t simply changed my mind about something. I’ve had a change of heart. Ponder that for a second. A man’s heart is his footlocker, where he keeps the key pieces of his identity. Where his very purpose and the traits that make up his character reside. His hopes, his dreams, and his nightmares. And Elodie Stillwater has come along, taken a knife to my chest, and removed my heart. She’s switched it out for another one entirely, and now I don’t know where the fuck any of my shit is. I don’t know who I am, or what I’m supposed to be doing, and quite honestly the whole thing is a fucking mess.

More than anything, I want it to be over.

I get the feeling this isn’t gonna be over for a very long time, though, if ever, and now I find myself in a position where I feel obliged to do something very rash.

That manila goddamn envelope. I tried to forget what I’d read, but the words are still there, burning brighter than the sun, whenever I close my eyes. It’s put me in the foulest fucking mood.

I cut through the rose garden, grinding my teeth so hard that they’ll probably be little more than dust by the time I reach the gazebo. The maze is both prison and sanctuary as I wind my way through the memorized pathway to its center, biting out curse words colorful enough to make steam blow out of my father’s ears. Pax and Dash are already waiting for me when I arrive at the small building hidden beneath the oak trees. Sprawled out on the steps that lead up to the front door, Pax takes one look at me and starts howling like a wolf. “Dear god, Jacobi, you look even saltier than usual. I take it your little meeting with the French whore didn’t go according to plan.”

With murder in my eyes, I turn and glower at Dash, who’s leaning effortlessly against the wall, plucking the petals from an unopened rosebud. “What?” he asks, feigning innocence. “I had to tell him something. He wanted to know why you bailed on our Albany College plans last night.

He’d been looking forward to that sorority party all month.”

“You could have gone without me,” I snarl. “I wasn’t stopping you.”

Dash pulls a pouty face. “I know, man, but, for some ungodly reason we both like having you around and it really wouldn’t have been the same if you weren’t there to ruin everybody’s fun. In the meantime, you’re bailing on us for the second time in twenty-four hours to go and see the same girl. We’re beginning to feel like you might be struggling a little with your priorities. Need I remind you that we’ve had your back for the past four years? We’ve lived together and gotten into a whole heap of shit together.” He holds his hands up. “We’ve done so many drugs in so many countries that I have stamps in my passport I don’t even recognize. I could have sworn I’d never been to Brazil. Anyway, the point is, we’re gonna need you

to rein this thing in a little. Just for a while, yeah?”

“Yeah. We need regular, normal, wicked Wren back this weekend.” I narrow my eyes, already sensing that something bad is on the horizon. “Why? What’s happening this weekend?”

Pax scrambles up, dusting off his jeans. He jumps down the steps, boots thudding when they hit the dirt, and he throws his arm around my shoulder. “It…” He pauses for dramatic effect, “is your birthday, you sneaky fuck! Do you think we’d forget? We’re having a last-minute Jacobi turns eighteen! party there’s nothing you can say or do to stop it.”

Christ. I had hoped they’d have forgotten about that. Chances are they would have—they’re not very good at remembering important dates at the best of times—but then Mercy showed up. And my sister isn’t one to let anyone forget her birthday. Unfortunately for me, we happen to share the same one. “We’re not having a party.”

“Yes, we fucking are.” Pax nods like he’s just parachuted a bunch of speed.

“We’re not having a party,” I repeat.

Dash crosses his arms in front of his chest. “Yeah, mate. We are.”

“We’re not. I need your help with something this weekend and I can’t wait. I’ve already bought the tickets.”

The boys look intrigued. “What tickets?” Pax asks suspiciously.

“Plane tickets. We need to leave the country for a couple of days. And you can’t tell anyone where you’re going, or we’ll all be fucked.”

Now I’ve got their attention. Got it. They love a covert trip more than anything else in the world. Including Riot House parties. “How long are we gonna be gone for?” Dashiell queries, pretending to scrutinize a loose thread hanging from the cuff of his shirt.

“Three days. We leave tonight.”

“Wow. Well, someone’s feeling presumptuous, aren’t they? What if we don’t wanna go on this little jolly of yours? What if we don’t wanna miss two days of school?”

“Then I’d have wasted thirty thousand dollars. And you’d be the most confusing person in the world, because who doesn’t want to miss two days of school?”

“We haven’t filled out the paperwork with Harcourt,” Pax points out, taking a smoke out of a dogeared pack and lighting it.

“I took the liberty of completing it on your behalf this morning.”

“Asshole,” Dash groans. “You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?”

“Come on, Lovett. Wouldn’t want to ruin my birthday now, would you?”

“That’s a low fucking blow.”

“At least it sounds like we’re flying first class,” Pax mumbles.

I grin. “Nothing but the best for my boys.”

“God, don’t you just hate it when he does that? It’s fucking terrifying when you smile.” Dash’s shoulders sag in resignation, though. He’s coming with me on my little sojourn. And if Dash is in, then so is Pax. The guy in question rubs a hand over his shaved head. “Fine. We’ll go where you command, no questions asked. But we are having a party when we get back, Wren. I get the feeling you’re gonna owe us one after this. And there had better be fucking strippers.”



Cosgrove’s is a squat, ugly building on the outskirts of Mountain Lakes—a bar, managed by a short, balding guy called Patterson, who has the misfortune of looking like Danny De Vito. The guy’s in his late fifties, has a penchant for polishing a glass at least three times before putting it back on a shelf, and does not like me in the slightest. Primarily because I’m underage and shouldn’t be drinking in his bar. But also, because I’m his boss.

He complains murderously under his breath when he sees me walk through the door into the empty establishment, his beady, almost black eyes boring a hole into the countertop as he studiously ignores me. “We’ve been over this,” I say, sitting myself down on a stool in front of him. “Pretending I don’t exist won’t make me go away. It’ll make me mad. Madder,” I say, correcting myself. “And I’m sure neither of us wanna be dealing with that today.”

“Shouldn’t you go lurk out the back?” Patterson grumbles. “Sheriff King likes to come in here drinking on a Saturday afternoon.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“He might. Wouldn’t wanna risk getting this place shut down now, would you?”

I laugh, theatrically pointing out the sea of empty seats that surround me. “Hell, Pat. Wouldn’t want to jeopardize the roaring trade we’ve been doing of late? It’ll make zero difference to me if this place closes its doors to the public. It didn’t make money before I bought it, and it hasn’t made a dime since either. You should be grateful I keep you gainfully employed on the off chance that I might wanna get out of the house.”

Patterson’s mouth twists to one side. He opens up the register and begins to count the money inside it, shuffling through rumpled bills and the same coins I’m sure have been sitting inside it since the dawn of fucking time. “I need more money for the float,” he says.

I squint at him, laying my hands flat on the bar; the wood splintered, the varnish worn off years ago. I should do something about the general state of disrepair in here, but Cosgrove’s is a dive bar. The cracks in the walls and the fact that you run the gambit of getting a splinter whenever you order a drink, well, that’s all just part of the charm of the place. “You do get how a float works, right? It’s there to make change for paying customers, not for you to dip into every time you wanna buy a pack of smokes.”

Patterson just glares at me. Mountain Lakes isn’t a thriving town. Used to be a logging town before the surrounding forests were designated national parkland. Now, the only real industry here is the pulp mill three miles beyond the town limits. And Wolf Hall, of course. The people who don’t work at the mill, tend the gardens, cook in the kitchens, clean the hallways at the academy, work odd jobs, or in, the stores along the main street to get by. It’d be fucking easy to replace Patterson. I could have someone else here, grateful for the job, inside half a fucking hour and the grumpy old bastard knows it. Like I said, though. The tumbledown, broken, worn patina of the place was a selling point when I decided to buy the bar, and Patterson’s curmudgeonly snark was a part of that, too.

“Forty bucks should do it,” he says flatly.

I pull a hundred-dollar bill out of my wallet and flick it across the bar at him. “I want a shot of whiskey in front of me in the next thirty seconds, asshole. And I swear to god, if you try and pour that lighter fluid from the rail for me again, I will end your sorry existence.”

He pockets the hundred instead of putting it into the till, which I say nothing about because, at this stage in the proceedings, I find his open belligerence entertaining more than anything. He steps up onto the wooden box he keeps behind the counter and takes down the bottle of Johnny Blue from the highest shelf Cosgrove’s has. Instead of pouring me a fifty mil pour in a shot glass, Patterson flips over a rock glass and free-pours four fingers of the burnt golden liquid into it, smiling sarcastically. And yes, the man has perfected the art of the sarcastic smile. He’s one of only a few people I’ve ever seen accomplish the task.

I lift the glass to my mouth, eyeing the one hundred and twenty dollars worth of whiskey he just so artlessly dumped into it, and I smile my most savage smile. “You are a fucker aren’t you, Pat?” The whiskey leaves a trail of fire down my esophagus, but it’s a smooth burn. One that glows rather than bites. I manfully swallow down the rest of the whiskey, polishing the lot off in two mouthfuls, and then slam the glass down on the woodwork.

“Having a hard time up there on the mountain?” the bartender asks, without the faintest hint of sincerity in his voice. “They run out of fois gras?

Has the champagne stopped flowing out of the faucets?” “Fuck you, man.”

“I can imagine how difficult it must get for you poor kids up there, having to brush your h and wipe your asses. Must be pure torture. They really oughta hire some extra serfs to cater to our little princeling’s more intimate needs.”

“If you don’t quit with the vitriol, I’ll lock you in the beer cellar again.”