“I don't think I have a name,” I said as the big man—Reece's dad if I'd overheard the conversations correctly—stood up. He snorted at me, adjusted himself, and put his steepled hands to his lips.
“Everything has a name, petite fée,” Fionn told me as I took a deep breath and read truth into his every word. “We da fae—if you lost your name, then someone probably stole it. That, or you done gone and hid it from yourself.”
Fionn walked away and left me to contemplate his words.
Stole it.
Or hid it.
Either way, I was intrigued.
For years, I'd known nothing but darkness. And not the sort of darkness with stars, not like shadows cast by a smiling sun. True darkness. Real and complete. It was a void, that darkness—at least most of the time. I learned to shut out the pain and the horror, to close my eyes and drift away.
My mind was my sanctuary, a playground of memories that skipped and teased, that twirled away from me like dancers on a ballroom floor. I hid from the whips and the chains, the shackles and the acrid scent of burnt flesh by running as fast as I could after them, trying to catch them like fireflies.
Sometimes, I caught them.
“Ciarah O'Rourke, you get your ass back in here and clean this fucking house!” My mother's voice followed me out the front door and down the steps, into the rain where her shouting was finally drowned out by the rush of water.
Compared to the stink of the city, the rain smelt refreshing, cool and clean against my face. I knew Mom was still standing on the stoop of our house, eviction notice in hand, screaming into the night, but I didn't care anymore.
I was getting the hell out of there—for good.
Nineteen years old and nothing to show for my life, not even a high school diploma. My mom was a heroin addict and her boyfriends were bad enough to make up for the few good ones I'd managed to have. But I could never keep them. They always left and moved on without me.
Well, now look who was moving on?
Crossing the road, I headed toward Frenchmen Street—the only spot in downtown New Orleans that the locals liked to hang out. Bourbon Street was just fucking gross.
Dressed in knee-high leather boots, tight jeans, and an old jean jacket I made my way toward my favorite bar, this charming little dump called Spirits. I was going to have one last night of fun in town—after all, I did love New Orleans—and then I was going to leave.
It wasn't that this place didn't hold any opportunities, just that I needed a change of scenery. I'd been living here my whole life with a toxic family and missed opportunities. I was too comfortable living in the familiar squalor of my own existence.
All I needed was a change.
I just didn't expect to get the one that fell in my lap, violent and bloody and awful.
I didn't expect to die.
Sliding into my usual spot at the end of the bar, I handed the bartender my flawless fake ID then ordered a hurricane. Pulling out my phone, I powered up the screen and started tapping out a message to my current boyfriend, asking him to come and meet me for a drink. Right before hitting send, I hesitated. If I was leaving this town, I was leaving Brad and all his baggage behind, too.
Deleting my message, I started again. This time, it was a short and sharp break-up message. Thanks for the memories, sort of thing. The last thing I needed was Brad and his psychotic ex-girlfriend causing drama before my new life had even begun. Just the fact that he'd remained friends with the girl was strange enough, but at the end of the day I didn't really care enough about Brad to be jealous. He was hot, and fucking exceptional in bed, but that was about the end of it.
When Brad's message came back, it was nothing terribly surprising. Just a bunch of profanity about what a shitty human I was, but that wasn't exactly news to me. I knew I was a shitty human. So were a lot of people. At least I was trying to do something to change it though.
One hurricane turned into three, and before I knew it, I was making out with a sexy, green-eyed biker in the hallway to the bathrooms. As small as I was, it never did take much to get me drunk and those hurricanes packed a punch.
“We should take this back to my place,” the guy panted in my ear as we came up for air. I blinked up at him through the haze of rum and considered what he was saying. Did I want to fuck a stranger tonight? He was more than handsome enough for it, and if his kissing skill was any indication of what was to come, then I had no doubt he'd perform in the bedroom …
But he wore a leather jacket with a motorcycle club patch on the back—one with a skull and wings that everyone knew to steer clear of—and my mama didn't raise no fool. A useless heroin addicted waste of oxygen she may be, but one thing she did right was teach me to always be suspicious.
“No.” I squinted at him, feeling the numbness in my lips from my intoxication. “No, I think I'm done for the night. This was fun, though.”
Pushing off the wall where we had just been climbing all over one another, I slipped past him as he gaped in surprise. Clearly, not the sort of guy that had ever heard no from a girl.
Less than a minute after leaving Spirits, the sexy, well-muscled biker was already forgotten, and I made my way a little unsteadily down the street toward the Mississippi. As antiquated as it seemed, I was departing the city of my youth by boat.
Seems funny, that after nineteen years in New Orleans—a city well-known for its crime—I'd never once felt afraid when walking the streets at night, and that night was no different.
Taking a turn off Decatur, I ducked through an alleyway which took me through to the empty French Market. It was one of my favorite nighttime make out spots when I couldn't go home because I knew Mom would be smacked out on the couch, so when I saw a shadow moving to the left of me, I thought nothing of it. Probably another couple making out in the darkness.
Such was my confidence that night that I never saw it coming until it was too late. Until that shadow stepped out into my path and slid a blade into my stomach like a warm knife through butter. Until that knife ripped upward to my sternum and my guts spilled onto the cold concrete at my feet.
My knees buckled, no longer able to hold my weight and I crashed to the ground in a cold shock of pain and blood. There was just so much blood.
“Don't worry, Ciarah,” the familiar voice sneered, “stomach wounds are nasty things. They take ages to actually kill a person.”
“Caroline,” I croaked, her name like a curse on my lips. I didn't need to ask why. Brad's ex had always given me the creeps, and obviously my dumping him by text tonight had tipped her over the edge.