The Dark and Hollow Places (23 page)

I wonder if they’ll ever catch or just slowly shimmer out as winter and the horde march on.

Even from here I can hear the Unconsecrated, their collective moans drifting across the river on the frigid wind. Generally, cold weather should slow them down, but the City’s always warmer than other places, retaining ambient heat trapped in narrow streets. And while the plague rats may be slower, they’ll still overwhelm a human. There are just too many.

I lean against the wall of the structure enclosing the stairwell, letting it break the worst of the cold air blowing from the river. From here all I can see are the tops of the old skyscrapers in the City, and I blur my eyes, trying to visualize
how it once must have been. Not naked steel but gleaming towers bursting with life.

The City must have held such promise then. So many hopes.

I’m yanked from these thoughts when the door from the stairwell opens and a figure moves out into the snow. I stay by the wall, hiding myself in the shadows. As soon as he takes a step I recognize Catcher. At the sight of him my stomach tingles, warmth flooding my body.

He glances around but doesn’t notice me as he strides to the low wall at the edge of the roof. For a moment he glances across the river at the City like I was. And then he opens his arms wide and tilts his head back, staring at the sky while white swirls around him and the heat of the skin on his neck burns any ice that dares touch him.

He looks … beautiful. And as if he can hear my thoughts he turns, lowers his chin and finds me in the shadows. Snowflakes brush against his lips and melt. They catch in his hair and eyelashes. He smiles, his grin lopsided and free, and it feels like all this is just for me.

Heat radiates through my limbs. Nothing exists in this moment but the two of us and the clean crisp snow. It’s too much, and I turn away from him, burying my face in the collar of my coat. But then something soft clips my arm in a powdery explosion.

I hesitate and another snowball brushes my side, falling apart on impact. Catcher holds up his hands as if to say he had nothing to do with it, but I can see that his fingers are red and puckered, wide troughs of snow dug up around his knees where he packed together the snowballs.

And then he laughs, the sound of it breaking the silence.
It’s infectious, and soon I’m laughing too as I stoop and start collecting handfuls of powder, packing and smoothing them. Catcher scrambles to find cover but there’s nowhere to go on the barren roof and I pelt him. He huffs with mock outrage.

It’s his turn to chase me, and I shriek with laughter as I dodge his first attack, only to catch a snowball to my hip as I’m twisting to fire one off at him. We chase each other around in circles, scooping up snow and not even bothering to pack it before tossing it.

I’m out of breath from laughing and running and dodging. Snow crystals glitter around us, the frozen taste of them coating my lips. I give up all pretense of trying to make snowballs and just shovel snow at Catcher until he grabs me around the waist, pinning my arms to my sides. We’re both crying with laughter as he spins me, the last gasp of the sunset light setting each flake into brilliant glowing color.

Catcher’s cheeks are pink, his eyes bright and I can feel the heat radiating through his damp clothes. It’s freezing outside and I want to push closer to him, to take that warmth into me. We’re twirling so fast now that the force of it tries to pull us apart, but he holds me tighter, snowflakes spiraling around us. I let my head fall back and revel in the joy that erupts from every part of me for the first time in so long.

Finally, he stops and we stand there hiccuping and gulping frigid air. He reaches out absently and tucks a wet strand of hair behind my left ear, his fingertips just barely brushing my jaw. For a minute I forget to tense, forget to care that the hair was there to cover my scars, to hide me. For a minute I feel normal.

I don’t let hesitation crowd my mind. Instead I let the buoyant freedom of the moment overwhelm me and I stretch up onto my toes and push my mouth against his.

I barely feel him under me, barely get a taste of the heat before he shoves me away. I stumble from the force of it, throw my hand against the wall behind me to catch myself. I’m so shocked I can’t speak and he only stares at me, horrified.

“Don’t ever do that,” he wheezes. “Don’t ever kiss me.” He’s wiping at his mouth with his hands as if my lips were poison.

I can’t look at him. I turn away, mortified by his utter rejection.

Just like that, all the insecurities slam back into me. It’s like walking down stairs in the dark and thinking there’s one step left when there isn’t—instead you stutter and fall off balance on solid ground.

For a moment I hope that maybe we can just pretend it never happened. That I didn’t try to kiss him and that he didn’t push me away. I want nothing more than for this to be possible but I know it’s not.

I start for the stairwell door, my back stiff, but he stops me with his words.

“I’m infected,” he says harshly. “I could infect
you
! Don’t you understand that? Don’t you even care about yourself enough to avoid that risk?” He paces, frustrated and angry, while I stand clutching the doorknob. I feel like nothing, as if I don’t exist, and the taste of it is sharp-edged and bitter.

It doesn’t matter why he can’t kiss me—only that he’s rejected me so thoroughly. I inhale deeply, welcoming the biting cold into my lungs. If only it could freeze me inside. I don’t understand why I’m still out here, why I haven’t stomped down the steps escaping from him and this moment.

“I care,” I whisper, turning just enough to see him from the corner of my eye.

He stops pacing and looks at me, holds out a hand and then lets it drop. Emotions war across his face. “I’m sorry, Annah,” he says softly. He’s standing in the shadows, the remnants of the evening having faded while we were playfully chasing each other around the roof.

“You have to understand that I’m dangerous. It doesn’t matter what you or I want. Don’t you see that?” He’s almost begging.

Not knowing what else to do, I nod.

“I can’t do this,” he says, but I hold up a hand to stop the excuses. I’ve let this entire evening spiral out of control. A control I’ve spent the last several years perfecting. I can feel the anger I’ve been holding back too long swelling.

Teeth clenched so that I don’t say something I may regret, I whip open the door and step toward the darkened stairwell.

“Annah, wait,” Catcher calls after me, but I don’t listen. The rage simmers, rising up my throat like a hum. Words swirl in my head, hateful words directed at me and at him. This is who I am—broken glass and bile. I got too comfortable, let down my defenses.

“You don’t understand.” He chases after me, and just as I wrench the door closed he grabs it, holding it open.

I spin on him, eyes flashing. “I understand fine. I’m not good enough. Everyone wants Abigail. Beautiful, perfect Abigail and not me.”

He reaches for me and I rip my arm from his grip. His eyes narrow with what looks like confusion.

“Her name’s Gabry,” he says, which sets my skin on fire as if I’ve been scolded.

I scream in frustration. “She’s Abigail! She’s always been
Abigail! That’s who my sister is. Pretty, flawless Abigail while I’m ugly, scarred Annah.”

He stands dead still, the snow swallowing all noise around us. I gulp in the frozen air.

“Why do you do this to yourself?” he finally asks, his expression a mixture of pity and concern. Heat pours off him and radiates in the air between us. I cross my arms over my chest and step down onto the next stair.

“Do what?”

He raises his hands as if to grab my shoulders and then pulls at the back of his neck instead. “Why do you always want people to see you as ugly?”

His words drain my anger, leaving only the pain behind. If all the air were sucked from the world and turned my body inside out, it wouldn’t hurt as much as his words at this moment. “What?” I intend for the question to come out as a growl but instead it’s only a whisper.

I step down onto the next stair and then another, but he advances, looming over me as I descend into the darkness. “You don’t ever let anyone see who you really are, and whenever anyone gets close or even thinks about getting close, you thrust your scars in their face like they’re some sort of badge. A way to ward people off. It’s like you want them to see only the worst parts of you. Like you think you’re ugly.”

“I
am
ugly!” I roar at him. “What are you not seeing?” I scrape my hair back from my cheeks. “This isn’t beauty!” I scream at him, tilting my neck to the light struggling through the door. He’s now the one backing up the stairs and I keep climbing until we’re out in the snow.

“Look at me!” I rip off my coat and then my shirt until I’m just wearing a short tight tank top, my skin on fire from rage.

The scars stand out like white streaks tearing my skin. Over my shoulder and down my ribs. Across my hips and snaking along my abdomen, trailing down into my pants.

“Annah,” he says, holding up his hands and turning his head as if I’m naked.

“No!” I shout at him. “You wanted to know why I force people to see how ugly I am. It’s because that’s who I am. It’s
all
I am.”

I grab his hand and press it to my sternum. His touch is scorching hot and he closes his eyes.

“Annah,” he says again, a plea and a warning.

“You
look
at me, Catcher,” I growl at him.

He stares down at me, his eyes glistening. I’m panting with rage and humiliation and regret as it dawns on me what I’m doing.

Catcher’s fingers curl against me ever so slightly, the pad of his thumb whispering along one of the scars on the top of my left breast.

I choke back the resentment that crawls up my throat as I yank myself away from him and grab for my shirt and coat. His hand still hovers in the air where my body used to be.

Furiously I turn around and shove my arm through the damp frigid sleeve of my shirt while I stumble away. I want to explain to him about all the times I’ve been taunted for the way I look. About the men who would see me walking through the City and who would shy away when they saw the scars. As if the marks made me worthless.

But how could he understand? He’s beautiful, with high cheekbones and blond hair that falls over his eyes. A crooked smile that burrows inside even the coldest heart. Broad shoulders and long fingers and a heat that’s all-consuming.

Nothing mars his face. His skin is smooth and warm and soft.

He doesn’t understand what it’s like for me to see my sister—so perfect in every way—and how Elias wants her and not me. As if I never could be good enough.

And now Catcher too.

“I think you’re beautiful, Annah,” he says.

I scowl. “I’ve heard those words before,” I choke out, buttoning my shirt crookedly. I don’t dare look at him. I don’t tell him Elias told me that just before leaving me. Just before running away and finding someone else to love.

I throw open the door to the stairwell again, frigid snow seeping through my clothes and burning my skin. “It’s nothing but a lie,” I tell him. I make the mistake of glancing up at him as I stumble down the steps. He stands in the middle of the roof, his hand extended as if he can still feel my flesh under his own.

I
’m lying in my bed trembling with the emotions raging through me while I try to find warmth under a dozen quilts. I cringe as I remember the things I said to Catcher. As I remember twirling with him under the snow and how I ruined it all.

I don’t understand how I can know so little about love and how it works. How I can be so bad at it when it’s all I’ve ever wanted.

All I’ve ever known is about leaving or being left.

I’m beating my fist against a pillow in frustration when there’s a knock at the door and my sister walks into the room. I can tell just from a glance that she knows something’s going on.

Without a word she hands me a tin mug of steaming tea and sits on the chair by the window. The only light in the room seeps in from the hallway, yet even so I can see that her white-blond hair is braided, wisps escaping around her head
like down feathers. I resist the urge to raise my hand to my own dirty hair and let the tea scald my tongue and burn its way to my stomach. Ever since she’s been back, that little string between us has grown tighter—my awareness of when she’s near and what she’s feeling.

“You’ve been crying,” she says.

Seeing her sitting there, I think about the Forest. Over and over again I think about her on the path. I relive walking away from her and leaving her. The bright red blood dripping along her shin and the sound of her voice calling me.

I see her falling and I’m not there to grab her before she hits the ground. If I’d just been standing next to her, if I’d just been there for her I could have caught her. I could have protected her. We could have made it back to the village and grown up safe and loved.

“What was it like to have a mother?” I ask her. Our mother died giving birth to us, so even if we had gone back we’d have never known her. It would have always been just the two of us and our father, Jacob.