Vinny

Driving was nothing like Mario Kart. Admittedly, I'd half-expected it to be, but when I got behind the wheel and started the engine and put my foot on the gas, I realized that all of the tournaments Cian and I used to play had taught me nothing.

My heart was thudding within my chest, pulsing in my throat. I wasn't sure if it was because I had no idea what I was doing, or if it was because I had no idea what was wrong with my brother. I was terrified of what I was going to see when I got there, but getting there was just as terrifying. If not more so.

My first task was maneuvering myself out of the driveway, which took about five hours of reversing and then driving and then reversing again. It might have taken a shorter amount of time if I didn't limit my movements of the steering wheel, but I was afraid if I jerked it more than an inch, I'd go veering right into a tree.

On the road, the most difficult part was staying focused. My mind wanted to wander towards Cian, towards Lucie, towards even her mother and the conversation we'd had. It was all I could do to draw it all back to center, to focus on staying within the speed limit and not killing myself or anyone else. I tried to recall all the traffic rules I'd known before I died, but in the end, as long as I knew what the colors red and green meant, I was okay.

And I was okay.

I parked at Caprice's nightclub, stumbling from the driver's seat and heaving a long breath. I was more than a bit dizzy; I wasn't sure if I ever wanted to do that again.

In the daytime, the area around Caprice's nightclub seemed significantly more subdued, the blaring neon signs dimmed, the voices softer, the crowds thinner. The old theater, the Destiny, was a few blocks away. It rose through the morning fog, and a lump in my throat formed at the sight of it.

Jamming the keys down into my pocket, I made my way to the sidewalk, breaking into a jog. I called Cian's name, pausing at each alleyway. I passed Caprice's club, then the barbershop beside it, then the local grocery store even further down the street. No matter how many times I called his name, I never got a response.

Even in the cool breeze off the bay, the sun's rays yet to bring much sweltering heat, I was sweating. My shirt clung to me; I picked at it, using it to fan myself. Biting my lip, I made a promise to myself: I was not going home. Not until I found him.

And then I was going to demand answers.

I was about seven or eight blocks from Black Winged when one of the alleyways finally housed who I was looking for. Cian was there, cowering against the brick, his shoulders shuddering. I stopped for a moment, startled. I'd never seen him so helpless, so shaken—but there he was, a feeble form curled in on himself, only his golden hair peeking up above his slouched shoulder..

"Cian," I said, and he froze. "Cian! Thank God, I found you."

I cast a perfunctory glance at the street, just to make sure I wasn't being watched, then ducked into the alleyway. The sunlight was extinguished like the wick of a candle; shadows loomed from every corner.

The closer I got to him, the more the stench hit me. It was bitter, like acid, yet layered with something that smelled unnervingly like rotting flesh. I fought to the urge to pinch my nostrils closed, kneeling beside my brother and placing a hand to his arm.

I drew it back just as quickly as I'd put it there. It came away sticky, red. "Whose blood is this?"

Cian tried to furl himself tighter, mumbling something incomprehensible.

"Cian," I urged. "Whose blood is this?"

"I don't know," he said. "I said I don't know."

"Sit up," I told him. He didn't move. "Sit up, Cian. Let me look at you."

Slowly, as if it hurt him to do so, Cian unraveled himself, letting his arms down and stretching his legs out. His cellphone was still clutched in his fingers, his nails caked with blood. When he said he'd been covered with the stuff, he hadn't been lying. It stained his shirt and jacket, clung to the strands of his hair, splashed across his face.

The weirdest thing was that there didn't seem to be a single scratch on him.

"It's not yours," I said, sitting back. Cian's eyes flashed with something along the lines of hurt. "Is it?"

He gritted his teeth as if to say something, then shook his head.

I breathed his name, shutting my eyes for a moment. "Cian..."

"I didn't hurt anyone," he explained, folding his legs underneath him. He mopped a hand underneath his eyes. "I didn't. I told you; I just woke up here. There was no one else."

"That's not an explanation. You do realize that's not an explanation, right? You expect me to believe that blood came from nowhere?"

Cian's face settled into a scowl. "I didn't call you so you could chastise me."

"Yeah, well I'm your little brother. I'm supposed to be a pest," I countered. There was the slightest of smiles on his face, but it faded just as soon as it had appeared. "And you're serious? You don't know how you ended up here?"

Cian shook his head. "I...I don't."

I got to my feet, dusting my hands off. I'd already decided Cian was too much in shock to drive; I'd have to do the very thing I had pretty much just decided I never wanted to do again.

Cian's eyes were on me; I turned, giving my surroundings a quick survey. I couldn't see much in the lack of light, but my eyes caught on something. There was a dumpster a few feet from us, and if I squinted, I could just make out an odd lump beneath its lid. I swallowed.

Turning back to my brother, I reached a hand down to him. He looked up at me, his eyes more black than blue in the darkness. "Can you make it back to the car on your own? It's at Caprice's club."

Cian took my hand, allowing me to hoist him up. For a split second, the sleeve of his hoodie fell down towards his elbow, revealing a flicker of ink black against his pale skin. Before I could ask, he'd tugged it back down again, turning away from me. "I don't need you to baby me, Vince. I'll be fine."

"Don't expect me to not express some sort of concern. You would too if you found someone in an alleyway, covered in blood that's not even theirs."

"Vinny," he warned. "It's not as bad as it looks."

I rolled my eyes. "It looks pretty awful. Like, actually hideous."

"Vinny—"

"Go back to the car," I ordered, pointing towards the street. "Lay low and try not to be seen, and move fast. I'll be there soon."

He took a step, then halted in place again. "And what are you doing?"

"I'm just going to look around here for a little," I answered, not bothering to offer a lie. I wasn't too good at lying, especially not to Cian. "There's something I have to check on."

My eyes trailed to the dumpster. When I looked back again, Cian was gone.

Taking in a long breath, I squared my shoulders and approached the festering bucket of trash. The stench was stronger here, of things decaying and rotting and spoiling, the buzz of flies rising to a painful crescendo that seemed to hum in my nerve cells themselves. If I'd eaten anything this morning, it surely would have come back up.

I closed my eyes, hesitating a moment.

I flipped the dumpster's lid up, immediately wishing I hadn't.

Nestled within piles of ugly brown apple cores, blackened banana peels, and old tuna cans was a human body, or at least what I could see of it. A limp, dead arm reached up through the black trash bags, clawing for the last of the light, its bluish-pink skin slashed open, still bleeding in slow, clumping trickles. I placed a hand to my mouth, gagging, scrambling backwards. I collided with the ground, palms scraping against concrete.

No. He couldn't have.

But I just didn't know anymore.

I forced myself back to my feet, risking one more glance. It was worse the second time. Some of what I had thought was blood was much too dark to be so; it was the same bitter substance I'd found in Cian's bedroom, the color of ink, the sting of acid.

I slammed the dumpster shut and made for the street, my strides twice as quick.

Cian was falling, and falling fast.

And it was my job to catch him.