She didn’t know who, or what, to believe.
Her first day back at school had been harder—much harder—than she’d anticipated. Now she was feeling ragged and raw, like any little thing could set her off into screaming. She felt like she might snap in two. She was still on somewhat restricted driving rules, and anyway, she wasn’t sure she was up for getting behind the wheel just yet. So she would have to ask her mother for a ride to Crow’?s concert.
As she padded down the carpeted stairs, she reminded herself that Crow had always seemed decent and honest—sometimes too honest—from the first days she’d spent with him.
Either way, based on what she’d promised the Furies, there was practically no one she could talk to about this. He was one of her only potential allies. ?And he seemed to know more than he let on. Meeting him on his own territory? It had to be worth a try.
Thankfully, her mother was thrilled that Em actually wanted to leave the house after so many days of hiding in her bed, and eagerly agreed to drive her out that night, making Em promise a million times to call if she couldn’t get a ride back home. “I’ll come get you, no matter how late it is, okay, honey?”
Em hugged her mom, assuring her she’d be fine, and got out of the car.
“Em?” Her mom called her back.
She turned and ducked into the open passenger-side window. “Yeah, Mom?”
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Her mother looked older then, grasping the steering wheel with thin hands. “I feel like I’m losing you.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Em said firmly. “And being here tonight? It’s what I need.”
Her mom offered a tight smile. “I’m trusting you, Em. Call if you need to.”
As she watched her mom’s car disappear around a bend, Em readied herself to talk to Crow. She wasn’t going to let him pull his sleepy-eyed caginess on her, not tonight. She wanted answers. How much did he know? If he’d been lying to her before, she was going to find out the truth now. If this was all head games, it needed to end.
And if it was something more, well . . . she’d find a way to make it stop. Somehow.
The chilly spring air felt great against Em’s always-burning skin and it fueled her forward as she pushed open the heavy wooden door and walked into the Armory. She was on a mission.
The club’s crazy architecture fit right into her mood—dark, gothic, dramatic—and the music from The Slump, who were already midset when she arrived, wrapped around her like a warm cloak. The place was really an old church that had been repurposed into a music venue; pews still served as seating around the downstairs stage (what used to be the altar), and a long mahogany bar ran the length of one entire side wall, lit by ornate iron sconces. A spiral staircase led from the foyer to a velvet-draped balcony level, where dark corners and metal poles clashed with the piety depicted on the stained-glass windows. There were so many places where people could hide. Do things and not be seen.
Em felt a sudden tightness in her throat. How many people had confessed their sins here? How many people had asked, and been granted, forgiveness?
And would Em ever get that chance?
She was surprised to feel tears burning the back of her eyes, and she blinked quickly. She was dying to talk to Crow, but he had just begun a set, so she leaned against the back wall, fiddling with her UNDER 21 wristband and listening to Crow strum the opening notes of a new song. False start. He leaned his lanky body over the strings to tune them. When he did, a piece of his long black hair fell into his eyes. She felt a bizarre itch in her fingers—like she wanted to reach up there and brush the hair out of his face herself.
He started up again. This time the notes were good, strong, powerful. Crow’s voice was powerful too: liquid and dark, like something you wanted to drink. Crow owned the stage. Once he got going, it was impossible for Em to take her eyes off of him. All thoughts of the Furies were temporarily defused, as though they were floating up to the Armory rafters along with the ringing notes of Crow’s chords.
The last song was one he’d just written, he announced before he started playing—it was called “Vision.” He took a swig from his beer. “I think it’s going to be part of a series,” he said cryptically before playing the first chord. He grimaced; it hadn’t come out just right. For a second he looked up with a mad glint in his eye and Em flinched, reminded of his YouTube breakdown that had gotten more than two hundred views. He didn’t even feel a need to hide it. . . .
But then he leaned over and tried again. Once he started singing, his lyrics were poetic and somewhat mournful; Em found herself leaning forward to catch every word.
“Haunted by my dreams
Like startled birds so fast
With visions of the future