Chapter Text
Prologue
I’d started with the best intentions, honest.
Okay, so maybe you don’t believe me, but it was true at one point. I think. Right and wrong have gotten really hazy these days.
Life hinges on the choices we make. The good ones, the bad ones, and especially the foolish ones. I thought I’d once heard Harry say something to that effect. He was full of philosophical tidbits like that. Or maybe I was thinking of Confucius and just misattributing it to Harry. They were both wise and venerable and said shit that went way above my head. I doubted Harry would look as good in a Hanfu.
I think that’s what it’s called. She hasn’t been talking to me for a while, and she’s the expert on these things.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
So many choices were made that day. Mine. Harry’s, my parents’. I should have argued with mom when she asked me to take out the trash. If I’d been a normal teenager and complained about my chores, maybe it wouldn’t have played out the way it did. If I hadn’t been so enamored of Harry Dresden, terrified of being embarrassed in front of him, I might have put up more resistance. If I hadn’t humored little Harry and brought him outside with me, maybe I wouldn’t have done it.
Choices, choices, choices. She’d have me believe that this was all predestined, that our meeting was fated. I’m not sure I believe it. Why would I choose to go on like this, if I really thought that God intended it? That it wasn’t my choice to be exactly where I am now?
I’d had choices. When the car came squealing down the highway past our house, I could have picked up Harry and gone inside. Chicago was a big city with a deserved reputation for crime. The Carpenter house was situated in a good, white-bread suburban community, but that didn’t mean squat if someone started shooting. Something had flown out of the tinted window as the car sped past. Not a bullet or pipe bomb. That spinning shape had been far more dangerous than any explosive. The shape sailed over the white fence posts and landed directly in our yard.
By the time my brain had pieced together what I was seeing, little Harry was already toddling toward it, chubby hands outstretched to seize the metal that glinted darkly in the sprigs of bright green grass that made up the yard.
That moment is frozen forever in my head. I remember how painfully sharp my heartbeat felt inside of my chest, how bile had scalded my throat. I replay it over and over in my mind. Maybe I could have grabbed him and pulled him away. He was only two, and barely over thirty pounds. That could have been my choice.
I could have shouted a warning, freezing him to the spot with the terror in my voice. That had been a choice too.
But I hadn’t. My feet had carried me forward, acting on a fierce protective instinct to preserve my little brother’s life. Sunlight glinted innocently off of the raised sigil, looking for all the world like an abandoned, antique coin. I made my choice with the best of intentions, beating my little brother by only seconds. His hand came down on mine, pudgy fingers curling around my pinky with a whine.
And my hand made contact with a Blackened Denarius.
Chapter One
The L chugged past the building on its usual southbound path, rattling the windows as it went. Everything in this building shook when the trains passed. I steadied the flower pot as it tried to jump once more to its carpety death. It was the only splash of color in the apartment, so I couldn’t really fault Rosanna for keeping it. I just wished she’d put it somewhere else, instead of the windowsill just above my head.
I sat up, stretching my sore muscles. Sleeping on the floor in a secondhand sleeping bag had been quite a departure from what I was used to (three square a day, a soft bed, and dad’s smile—God I missed him) but it was better than being on the streets. I wasn’t so sheltered that I didn’t have an idea what happened to girls like me if they wandered Chicago’s streets alone, so I’d called a friend to ask a favor. I hated to land on Rose and Ken the way I had, but what choice did I have?
I’d felt something the moment my hand touched the ancient metal. A presence had brushed against me, and I’d been preparing for the fallen’s hostile takeover of my mind ever since.
Only it hadn’t happened. Well, not as far as I could tell, anyway. I wasn’t stupid enough to believe it was gone for good. But maybe my haste had saved me the worst of the struggle?
I stood, tiptoeing around piles of dirty laundry. Most of it was Ken’s, but I’d still do it anyway as soon as everyone was up. They’d both told me that I didn’t have to bother. They’d also tried to offer me the only bed in the tiny studio apartment, and I’d refused. Rosie told me I could crash as long as I’d wanted, without worrying about rent.
I couldn’t do it. How could I be any more of a burden than I already was? How could I take their bed when Rosanna, only a few years older than I was, was three months pregnant? I sat alone all day while they worked to pay the outrageous one thousand dollars in rent they owed every month for this crummy little place. Of course I was going to do my part. I spent my dwindling supply of quarters in the basement of the complex, washing and drying Ken’s work shirts.
I set the coffee percolating and sighed, leaning against the counter. There wasn’t a lot I could do. Unless I wanted to walk the mean streets of Chicago and sell what the good Lord had given me—not a choice I was desperate enough to consider yet—I was short on options. I could legally work in the good ol’ U.S. of A at the tender age of fourteen, but there were child labor laws that cracked down on how much I could do. It wasn’t like I was going to be contributing much to the rent check.
There were less legal ventures I could pursue that didn’t involve prostitution, but I was too nervous to seek them out unless things got desperate. Homeless shelters were definitely out. I’d volunteered at a lot of those with the church, and I was afraid someone would spot me. What if they told my father? I didn’t need to be within a hundred miles of Michael Carpenter, Knight of the Cross until I had a handle on this whole Denarius situation.
There was only one way I knew of to get rid of a Fallen. I shivered, despite the heat radiating off the coffee pot. It felt fundamentally wrong to think about my father that way. He couldn’t kill me, could he? No matter what I became?
Maybe I’d escaped the worst. I’d slipped the coin into my pocket and out of little Harry’s reach, storing it for safekeeping. Then I’d grabbed his arm—with my off-hand, so afraid I’d taint him with my touch—and ushered him inside the house, shutting the door hastily in his shocked little face. Then I’d dashed across the yard, pausing only to open the gate. Saint Mary of the Angels was further away than I’d thought, having only traveled there by car before. Father Forthill hadn’t been there when I’d gotten in, and a disgruntled nun had escorted me back to his office. It had been in a state of cozy disarray, and it had taken me close to fifteen minutes to find what I’d needed. The embroidered cloth was thin, and I folded it carefully over the deceptively small coin.
If he’d found it there, it had to be back at the Vatican by now. Maybe the distance could keep the evil of the Fallen from tainting me.
Probably not.
“You’re up early.”
I jumped. I’d been so focused on the steady drip-drip of the percolator that I’d completely missed her soft footfalls.
Rosanna smiled wearily. She didn’t look pregnant. Of course, at only nine weeks she wouldn’t, especially with the first. The more children you had, the easier it became to tell. In pictures, my mother barely showed at six months. By the time Hope had been born, we could spot the growing baby bump as early as the fourth.
She was shorter than me, with a head of dark curls, and she had to stretch to reach the cabinets of the little kitchenette. I almost took pity on her and opened it myself, but refrained. Rosanna wasn’t an invalid and didn’t like to be reminded how short she was. When she’d finally retrieved a chipped coffee mug from the cabinet, she fished the milk carton out of the fridge and sighed.
“We’re nearly out. I guess we need to go shopping soon.”
“You don’t get paid for another week,” I pointed out. “I can get the groceries if you-”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Molls.” Rosanna cut me off before I could finish the thought. “I’m not making you pay for anything. You’re doing too much as it is. I’m not stealing your last dime after you got kicked out of the house. Stay here and get back on your feet. Ken and I will be fine.”
I had to bite the inside of my cheek. I was racking up a tidy little sum of half-truths, wasn’t I? My mother and I hadn’t been getting along of late, and Rosanna knew it. When I’d turned up on her doorstep, disheveled and in tears with nowhere else to go, she’d made the only logical leap. It wasn’t as if I could sit her down and explain the real reasons I’d run away from home.
“I can pony up five dollars for milk. I’ve still got twenty bucks.”
I’d gotten lucky. Fate or God or whatever had been looking out for me. When I’d raided the donations bin in front of a thrift store, I’d found t-shirts and several pairs of jeans that fit me. There’d been a fifty tucked into the back pocket of a bedazzled pair of Levi’s. It had been slowly eaten away by the machines downstairs and my need for a few necessities. Though practical, I couldn’t bring myself to steal the underthings I’d found in the bin as well. Call me crazy, but wearing someone else’s used socks and underwear squicked me out.
Rosanna shook her head. “Just focus on finding a job, okay? We’ll be fine.”
I turned back to the coffee pot, trying to hide the angry tears gathering in my eyes. I was completely useless.
This was just ridiculous. I was too old to be coddled by Rosanna and Ken. I wasn’t their kid sister who needed minding. I’d been riding their couch for weeks, putting them in danger when, not if, the Fallen showed its ugly face. I couldn’t work regular hours until I was fifteen or sixteen. I couldn’t stay here and be a layabout for another year or two. I wanted to do something.
A shout rent the air, and I winced. If I strained my ears, I could make out our downstairs neighbor screaming obscenities at his wife. Unfortunately, the sound of James Pearson shouting was as common in these parts as the rumble of the trains.
“They’re starting early,” Rosanna commented, pouring herself a generous measure of Folger’s dark roast. She measured out a spoonful of milk and stirred it into her coffee thoughtfully. “The screaming doesn’t usually start until he gets home at six.”
I nodded, not trusting my voice. I knew this sort of thing was common. But knowing that marriages weren’t always happy, and that abuse happened disturbingly often was different than hearing it. I’d gone to sleep more than once listening to Ava Pearson sobbing a floor below.
And there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. Useless. It seemed to be the word of the day lately. I was a passive waste, a leech bleeding my friends dry.
Rosanna tossed her spoon into the sink and leaned against the counter. “Don’t be so glum, Molls. It’s all gonna work out.”
I forced a smile and lied yet again. “I’m sure you’re right. We’ll all be fine. Just don’t forget to go to your meeting after work.”
Rosanna was officially four months sober, but I wasn’t sure how long it was going to last. She’d promised me she’d quit when she found out about the baby, but until recently I hadn’t been there all the time to be sure she followed through. Unless she was shooting up in the bathroom at work, she’d kept her promise.
“I won’t, mom,” Rosanna said, rolling her eyes.
Ken woke up and greeted us both blearily. Rosanna prepared oatmeal—apparently, my cooking was so awful that she didn’t trust me with microwaved water and oats anymore—and we shared a quiet breakfast, occasionally punctuated by a shout or a thump from the floor below.
Shouldn’t I be doing something to stop that? My father would.
Ken and Rosanna left for work half an hour later, and I debated overruling her decision and going to the store anyway. After all, milk was a staple of the kitchen. All my mother needed to whip up a multitude of tasty dishes was a carton of eggs, a jug of milk, and bags of sugar and flour. They’d be needing milk sooner rather than later. A quick jaunt to the store wouldn’t hurt anything except my limited budget.
I sighed and filled the hamper. Ken was a slob, and the small bedroom they’d cordoned off with an old shower curtain was piled high with dirty clothing. Rosanna had vetoed the shopping trip. I was living here on her good graces, and I should probably respect the decisions she made. I’d walk to the library later and put in applications for a few hours. First, there was laundry to do.
The apartment complex was bleak. For such an expensive place, it really was a dump. The white tile floors hadn’t seen a buffer in years, the stairs creaked, and the walls were paper thin. The only mark I could tally in its favor was its lack of roaches.
Light filtered in through dingy windows as I made my way downstairs to the basement. I’d brought the detergent, a bag of change, and a book, ready to camp out on the folding table for the next hour or two. Even though there were about twenty machines, the residents of the complex would still trash or steal your clothing if it wasn’t closely guarded.
To my surprise, I found someone already inside the laundry room. Usually, the only person who did their laundry this early was Mrs. Cook, an elderly woman who lived with her son on the first floor. A young woman was sitting on the table in my usual spot, her knees drawn up to her chest, reading a book. She looked up from her copy of Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets like she’d been caught doing something illegal. She stuffed it quickly into her own basket.
“Don’t tell my papa,” she begged.
I set the hamper on the folding table next to hers and considered her curiously. I’d never seen her before, I was sure of it. Still, there was a nagging sense of familiarity. She looked about my age. She couldn’t have been much over sixteen, at any rate. Her wild red hair looked like it had never seen a brush.
“I won’t,” I assured her. “Who are you?”
She glanced around and licked her lips nervously. “Mercy Pearson.”
Ah, that would explain the familiar face. Mercy was her mother in miniature, right down to the riot of freckles across her nose.
“I’m Molly.” I extended a hand. “Molly Carpenter.”
Mercy stared at my hand in trepidation, as though I might haul off and smack her. My stomach gave a queasy little roll when I realized that was exactly what she thought I’d do. I let my arm fall limply back to my side and turned away. I didn’t want her to misinterpret the disgust and anger as meant for her.
“I’ve never seen you around before,” I noted, unloading the smelly spoils from my basket.
“I’m homeschooled,” Mercy said after a moment of awkward silence. She’d apparently decided to trust me. It was progress, at least.
I dumped in detergent and started the washer. Then I hopped onto the top of the washer next to Mercy’s. “My parents thought about homeschooling us, but with seven kids it would be a lot of time and effort.”
Mercy smiled faintly. “That’s a lot of siblings. You must never get lonely.”
Heartache twisted in my chest like a knife. Lonely. That was precisely the word to use. I was so damn lonely. I’d been sitting in Rosanna’s apartment for weeks, struggling with the weight of the snap decision I’d made. I’d saved Harry and damned myself. Even if the fallen hadn’t taken me over yet, there was an irreversible taint from touching that coin. Why else would the Knights be so diligent not to expose themselves to them?
“Yeah,” I muttered dully. “Something like that.”
Mercy let her knees dangle over the side of the table and for the first time I saw what she was wearing. An unwilling grin stretched my lips. “You’ve gone to SplatterCon?”
Mercy’s answering smile was shy but genuine. “Twice. Mom takes me when we can afford it.”
“That’s so cool. My parents won’t...wouldn’t let me go until I turn sixteen.”
Mercy didn’t seem to notice my slip. “We got to meet Roger Corman. I have his autograph on my copy of The Masque of the Red Death.”
She sighed happily and wrapped her arms around her torso. Only then did I notice the green-yellow of fading bruises on her upper arms. She caught me staring and hastily changed the subject.
“Do you want to go with us this year? If you pay for a ticket, I think mom will be happy to drive us. She’s been telling me to make friends for ages.” She paused, looking uncertain once more. “I mean...if you want to be friends. I understand if-”
“I’d love that," I said, cutting her off mid-sentence. Her reticence broke my heart. I had to at least try.
I coaxed her into talking about the little things and discovered we had more in common than I thought. She loved Harvest, the most recent film by horror master Darby Crane. There was a rumor circulating that he might make a sequel in a year or two.
The conversation came in spurts. Mercy was a nervous girl, and with her upbringing, I could see why. I wanted to smuggle her to the Carpenter house. She’d be safe there. More than safe, she’d be loved. No child deserved to feel fear in their own home.
In no time at all, our laundry was washed, dried, and folded in our separate baskets. I found myself reluctant to part with Mercy. It was the longest I’d spoken to anyone since leaving my parent’s house.
“Mercy!” I called after her as she trooped out, laundry basket under one arm. She glanced back at me.
“Yes?
“It may be none of my business, but you can land on us anytime. We live in room 314.” I felt a pang of guilt even as I made the offer. It wasn’t my apartment. I didn’t really have the authority to extend the invitation. I pushed the feeling aside. Rosanna couldn’t begrudge me this. Mercy was in need, just like me.
Mercy’s face softened. “I’ll keep that in mind. Have a good day, Molly.”
“You too.”
And for the first time since leaving home, I felt like I just might.