He stepped away from me and Ethan. He did not even cast a glance over his shoulder at our united front. He opened the door and joined all his bright-ringed shadows outside.
I could feel Ethan’s heart beating too hard and too fast, like a fist hammering on a door, a prisoner desperate for freedom.
“I’m sorry,” Ethan breathed into my hair. “I never meant to mess up this badly, I never, never meant to draw you into all this. That’s why I treated you like I did on the show. I don’t want you associated with any of the trouble I’ve caused. I’m so sorry.”
He didn’t seem to realize the implications of all he had said on television: that people truly would think he was guilty of conspiring with rebels. He’d led a charmed life, easy and luxurious. He’d never had to face horror and death. He could not help being na?ve, expecting there to be no consequences forever. I could not help wanting to shield him from those consequences.
“It’s okay,” I breathed back. “It’s going to be okay.”
But I had lost the power to convince other people of a lie, and I had never been able to convincingly lie to myself.
I covered the back of his hand with mine, and he laced our fingers together. We stood like that for a little time, skin to skin, our hearts finding the same rhythm.
“It’s too late to go back to school,” Ethan said. “Let’s go home, you and me. We can talk about all this. I have some stuff to tell you that I don’t want Uncle Mark to hear, and my dad will come home soon. He will help me.”
“How often has Mark hit you?” I asked.
“Never,” said Ethan. “He never has before. My dad would never stand for it. My father loves me, Lucie. He’s not a good man, but he loves me. He’ll stop my uncle. You’ll be safe.”
“I’m not worried about myself.”
“I’ll be safe too,” said Ethan. “Come on. We’re going home, and it’s going to be okay.”
I made a mistake then. Yet another mistake.
I believed him.
CHAPTER TEN
e went the way we had gone a hundred times before, past the doorman and through the double doors, into the gleaming elevator and up until we could cross the shining marble floor. I was shaken, holding Ethan’s hand tightly, but it was a comfort to be somewhere familiar.
Ethan’s key turned in the lock. A flare of light followed as it clicked open and the mahogany door followed, and I stepped over the threshold into the apartment. I was already thinking of the luxurious softness of the cloud-colored couch, of resting and being consoled by wealth that felt like security, and Ethan’s arms.
Behind me, Ethan fumbled and dropped his keys. The tiny jangling sound of metal on marble made me spin around as if it had been the sound of a sword scraping from a sheath. It was only Ethan, though, stooping to pick up the keys with an apologetic smile on his face.
I turned away again. The walls were windows, clear glass, and it seemed as if the city was spread out at my feet. It looked bright but small, a child’s toy town, not full of human unrest and danger. The other city, the Dark city, my old home, was nothing but a black ribbon on the edge of the Light.
“Sorry about that,” said Ethan, swinging the door shut. “I just—I saw my father’s coat hanging there, but I thought my father was wearing it when he left today.” I turned back toward him and saw him pause, hope and fading sunlight warm on his face. “Maybe he’s already back. Dad? Dad!”
Ethan’s call echoed off the high ceilings. The large chandeliers, each crystal in them lit with magic to create a huge, coruscating proof of wealth, tinkled overhead.
That sound was the only answer he received.
Ethan glanced back at the coat on its hook. I saw his face change.
“Dad,” he said, his voice sharp with alarm. He set off for the kitchen, calling for his father. I stood there and let him search.
Ethan was wrong about which coat his father had taken to work, I told myself. We had the apartment to ourselves, that was all. We were alone together and could make a plan. His father would be home soon, ready to shield Ethan from any threat.
That was what I told myself. Except Ethan came back from the kitchen shaking his head.
“Dad!”
“Wait,” I said, but Ethan didn’t wait.
He was already running down the corridor toward the bedrooms and I was running after him, fast enough that I seemed to outrun all the assurances I was giving myself. All possibilities of comfort seemed left behind, trailing me uselessly like ghosts.
We burst in through the door of Charles Stryker’s bedroom. It had a vaulted white ceiling, skylights set like a cupola in the center. The wall on one side was all mirrors, and the wall on the other was all windows, and in the wall facing us was an entrance I had never seen before: a hole that led to a shadowy passage.