The staircase to the belfry is behind an undersized doorway in the loft. I’d noticed it earlier but wrote it off as little more than a hiding spot for spiders, so I left it shut. I seriously consider following my gut when I finally heave the heavy metal from the frame, flipping the light switch just inside.
Cramped.
That’s what the staircase is. Narrow, enclosed with high stone walls. The main tower staircase is roomy compared to this. Practically cavernous. Just the thought of walking up those steps, knowing the walls are so close to my shoulders, makes sweat prick up on the back of my neck, stomach lurching with panic. I gulp as I stare into the dimly lit space, peering up the stairs to the door at the top. Five seconds if I sprint. Ten if I don’t. And I don’t even know what I’ll find once I reach it. Maybe it’s a closet, and I’m just trapping myself into the worst space imaginable.
Fingers flexing into fists, I square my shoulders.
And then I sprint.
Two steps at a time, swatting webs out of my way as I go, I dart up the staircase to the tall, industrial-looking door ahead, as if it’s the only thing that exists.
When I finally reach it, wrenching it open with constricted lungs and a hammering pulse, I’m not expecting what I find.
It’s… bright.
Brightly lit.
I stumble through, closing the door behind me as I gasp for air, letting the panic bleed out of me in waves. It’s not a closet, but instead, a large, busy space full of the clock’s inner workings. I peer openly into the musty space, instantly seeing that all the brass rods and cogs are dusty from disuse, probably jammed in a million different ways. I’d skimmed the manual, but seeing the sheer enormity of the guts up close is a whole different perspective.
I take the book from where I’ve had it tucked beneath my arm, intending to flip through the pages in an attempt to figure out what parts do what. Or what part stopped working? But I pause before my finger can dip between the pages.
Something is off.
The floor isn’t clean, which is why I can see the well-worn path leading toward the center of the room. I follow it without thinking, my mind full of the fact that this doesn’t feel like an abandoned chamber of an ancient clock tower. I can’t explain why, but it simply has this… energy. An odd buzz in the air, like someone’s been here more recently than fifty years ago. Maybe even more recently than last month.
It isn’t until I cross to the other side of the tower, ducking around cables and clock stuff, that I see the crates, open and visible to anyone who can manage to gain access to the highest room in Forsyth.
Guns.
Entire cases of them.
I stand there stunned for a long moment, even though I shouldn’t be surprised. Everyone knows the Dukes run the gun trade in this town. I just wasn’t expecting them to be…here. So close to campus. So fucking obvious. The Counts would never.
I crouch down to inspect a pistol, shiny and new-looking, and feel a zing of jubilation. I could take them all down with one of these babies. I test the weight in my hand, running my finger over the barrel, and feel an odd, raised spot to the metal, like it’s swollen and rough.
Looking up, I catch sight of a drill press in the corner. Some other complicated machinery sits beside it—the source of the buzzing I’ve been feeling—and suddenly, I’m reminded of Sy’s words earlier.
“You’re on filing duty this morning…”
Not filing papers, I suddenly realize.
Remy’s filing the fucking serial numbers off.
Gooseflesh springs up over my skin as I whip around, looking for signs of his platinum hair and gaunt cheeks. I don’t see anything, though. And that’s another problem. There must be a hundred guns here—maybe more—but not a single box of ammunition.
Irritated, I put the pistol back in its place.
Thump.
My eyes spring to the ceiling, muscles tense. Everyone knows there’s one last level to the tower. The belfry. A quick scan around the space doesn’t reveal a door or staircase, but there is a ladder. It’s in the southeast corner, illuminated by a weak bulb.
I climb it, fully appreciating how stupid it is to do so. The main living area of the tower is restricted for anyone but Dukes, but the belfry is basically considered Fort Knox. From the way people talk, the Dukes basically treat it as sacred. I don’t think I’ve even known anyone that’s been up here, unless you count Saul—and who does? At best, I’m admitting to poking my nose into places I don’t belong. It’d just be showing them that I’ve seen the guns, that I know too much now to be let free.
This could get me days in the elevator.
I spend about five minutes gnawing a thumbnail before deciding I have to see it.
At the top, I push up a heavy hatch, arms straining under the weight. I’m met with a gust of wind, blustery and warm as I rise out into the late morning air. The enormous iron bell that hangs overhead casts me in shadow, and I crawl on my hands and knees to get out from under it. I don’t realize how tight my chest is until I’m up here, inhaling air like a man dying of thirst would swallow water. I circle around the big bell and rush to one of the arched openings to suck it in. The air, the view, the openness of it all. As my muscles unwind, I take in the landscape below. It’s spectacular, looking out over the city, each of the four corners of Forsyth visible from such an extreme vantage.
I went to bible school when I was smaller—for, like, a dozen heartbeats. My father thought it’d be a good luck for us—Leticia and me. It wasn’t long before both of us were thrown out for having a ‘problem with authority.’ I got punished. Leticia didn’t. In any case, I spent enough time there to realize I’m not religious.
But if there is a heaven, it’d be just like this; no walls, open space as far as the eye can see.
I’m soaking it in, staring out over Forsyth with jubilant awe, when I hear, “I knew you’d come.” Jumping, I spin, startled at the voice behind me.
It’s Remy, just as I expected. He’s strolling up from the other side of the bell, leaning to casually rest against the support to the west-facing archway. He’s wearing a baseball cap, but it’s backward, haphazard locks of his hair twitching in the wind. Even if he doesn’t look as imposing as he had before, there’s still that empty wildness swirling in his eyes. His skin is paler in the sunlight, and although he’s looking right at me, the dark orbs of his pupils make it seem like he’s a million miles away.
This isn’t Remy at all.
It’s Maniac.
“You have class in twenty minutes,” I say, fidgeting nervously. It’s a passable ruse, the pretense that I’ve come up here to remind him, but if the lack of reaction on his face says anything, he isn’t buying it. “Nick never said I couldn’t come up here.” I press my back to the stone wall. “I just wanted some air.”
His eyes fall to my fingers, which are twining around the drawstring of Nick’s hooded sweatshirt. “You’re not supposed to be wearing that.”
I glance down at it—dark gray, bearing the tongue-in-cheek ‘FU’ insignia that always sells well around here—and shrug. “He basically forced it over my head yesterday. It’s not like I stole it or—”
“No.” Something crosses over his face, tight and frustrated. “I mean, this isn’t how it went. Not exactly. You’re not…” His head tilts, eyes narrowing. “Why aren’t you blonde?”
I pause, face screwing up. “Because I dyed my hair?”
The frustration smoothes out, leaving him with a bland expression. “It doesn’t matter. I think I found out how to go back.”
“Go back?” Now I’m the one who looks frustrated. “You’re not making any sense. Use your words!”
He lifts his arm and I finally see the flash of crimson. It’s running down his forearm to his wrist, over his palm, dripping from his lithe fingers. He watches the sluggish stream of blood, looking disinterested. “This obviously didn’t work—not completely.”
“Shit…” I start forward, though I don’t know why at first. I just know that Remy is standing in front of me with a huge gash on his arm, and for some reason, I need to fix it.
Nick is going to think I did this.
That’s what’s going through my mind as I lurch forward, snatching his wrist from the air. “Lift your arm, you fucking moron!” I raise it over his chest, hoping to stem the bleeding, but it’s heavy and limp and he’s looking at me with those fucking eyes.
“I’m just re-tracing the steps.” His fingers are suddenly grazing my jaw. “I saw you falling into the stars. I don’t remember what they said, but I heard you scream. You had… all this blood…”
It’s then that I realize he’s smearing it across my cheek. I drop his wrist and lurch back, frantically wiping it away. “What is wrong with you?!” But then a flash of light draws my attention to his other hand. A gleam of silver. A knife. I come to a slow, gradual realization, edging further away from him. “You did that to yourself.”
His eyes move from my cheek to the knife, and he lifts it, inspecting the blade. “It was supposed to wake me up.” Shrugging, he raises the blade and calmly slashes another cut into his skin. “It’s not like I’m an expert on my own psyche. I usually pay people to take care of it. It’s just…” The frustration comes back, carving a divot between two angry brows. “It’s really confusing in here sometimes.”
I take a deep breath, teeth clenched. “Remy, you’re off your meds. I saw you spit them out. That’s why you take them, right? It’s why Sy gives them to you? Because you’re cr—” His eyes spark in a way that makes my mouth slam shut. Gently, so as to not provoke the armed lunatic, I finish, “Because you’re sick. You’re just not yourself. You don’t know what you’re doing.”
“Oh, I know exactly what I’m doing.” He lifts a bloody finger, tapping his temple. “Got it all figured out. I’ve just been stuck in here too long. It’s adapting, tricking me into thinking it’s real. But it’s not.”
I throw my hands up, exasperated. “Stuck in where?!”
“The dream!” he snaps, face transforming into a furious pinch. “You did this. Drawing on you, sleeping with you…it made me dream. This is all your fault. You fell into the stars and left me up here! Where the fuck did you expect me to go?!”
I pull my hair back from my cheeks and breathe. Because this? This is actual insanity. I’m standing in front of a madman. “Remy,” I try, keeping my voice even and calm, “you’re not yourself.”
“Then why,” he demands, shooting forward, “why do I keep remembering the stars and the blood?”
I jump back, startled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Only, I realize, maybe I do. Blonde hair, blood, the night sky? Grasping at straws, I ask, “Are you talking about what happened the night you broke into the brothel?”
His pale lips mash into a tight purse. “This is the problem. No one ever listens to me. They’ll look, but they won’t hear. Everyone wants to see my brain. Everyone wants to look at the paintings and the drawings and the fucking tattoos! But no one wants to hear it.” Looking away, he starts pacing a small circuit in front of the bell, muttering in an agitated voice, “How do I even know?! How do I know the brothel actually exists? Maybe I created you just for this, because I’m telling myself to wake up.” He freezes, whipping his wild green eyes to me. “Fuck, of course. It explains everything. That shitty tattoo on your leg? I couldn’t finish it because I ran out of ideas. They’re not stars. They’re not, like, infinite, you know?”
Feeling at a loss, my attempt to be firm falls as limp as his arm had before. “Remy, this isn’t a dream. You’re awake, you’re—you’re right here.”
He lets out a laugh that sounds relieved, tipping his face up toward the sun. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Maybe I’ve been dreaming about this for months. Fuck, maybe I’ve been dreaming it for years. You showed me the stars because you know I need to wake up, and maybe when I do…” His head jerks back, like he’s just been physically hit, eyes unblinking as they fix to mine. His face goes dark with such a terrible sincerity that it makes my stomach plummet. “Maybe when I wake up, Tate will be alive.”
My blood turns to ice. “Who…who’s Tate?”
His jaw works around a soundless reply as he stares at me, hard and wide-eyed, like I’ve just horrified and awed him all at the same time. “Maybe I never left. Maybe that’s why it hurts.” Fingers pressing into his temple, he let out a slow exhale. “But we can make it stop. Can’t we? You should know what the stars said.” When all I do is shake my head, completely lost, he leans over the edge and gestures for me to look. “See? Down there. Don’t you see?” I slowly move next to him and peer over. There’s nothing down below but a terrifying drop and hard pavement, which is made all the more obvious when a gust of wind catches the brim of his hat, sending it over. Watching its fluttering descent, I draw back, stiffening when his hand lands on my back, pressing down. “You know how this ends, don’t you?”
My heart pounds, feet scuffing the stone as I struggle backward. “Remy, let’s go back downstair—”
“I have to wake up now.” He moves abruptly, arms and legs fluidly pulling him up onto the ledge. He rests a hand on the arch, looking so casual about it. So calm. “If I wake up, then maybe we can be together again.” He looks at me, green eyes piercing, and the thing is, he’s crazy. He really fucking is. But he looks at me and all I see in his face is a bottomless despair. “The four of us. Like it should be.”
“The four of us?” I ask, waving a finger in a round gesture that’s meant to encompass the Dukes and me. It’s only then that I notice I’m trembling. “I think we can probably do that downstairs, away from the—you know—horrifying drop to our gruesome deaths?”
His laugh is a jagged, broken sound. “You? No, not you. You’ll be gone, back to your snake hole in my brain. But Tate will be here.”
He sways, legs and arms loose. Too loose. Without thinking, I lunge forward to grab his hand. “Remy, look at me. This isn’t a dream. You’re having some kind of episode. You don’t know what you’re—”
“I know. I have to wake up now.” His green eyes drop to the ground below the tower, pale lashes brushing the tired hollows beneath his eyes. I can hear it from all the way up here. Traffic. Distant sirens. The static of voices and wind and life.
And I know that he means to jump.
People think I’m a murderer. They’re wrong, but it’s not something I can shake off with a few impassioned refusals. It’s going to take time, proof, preferably a whole-ass body of evidence. If Remy takes some batshit swan dive from this tower, I’m through here. I have his blood on my face, my hands. No one will believe I’m innocent. And I might not understand it, but Remy is beloved. To DKS. To Nick. Jesus, to Sy.
This isn’t just a few days in the elevator.
This is my dead body being shoved in there for transport.
Eleven days.
“Remy, look at me,” I order, keeping my voice firm. This is some fucking nonsense, which means there’s only one way to deal with it. Better nonsense. I wait until his distracted eyes pass over mine to say, “You’re right. The stars talked to me. I know everything.”
His attention snaps to me, as sharp as the blade in his hand. “They did?”
Nodding, I carefully take the knife from his loose grip, tucking it into my hoodie pocket. “They said you’d come up here. They told me to tell you the truth. Don’t you want to hear it first?”
His eyes move from me to the street below, a seed of skepticism on the wrinkle of his brow. “I already know the truth.”
I shake my head. “Fine, I’ll keep it to myself.” It’s a risky bluff, but I turn to walk away, pulse hammering in my head as I brace for the sound of his jump. I’ve seen someone die before. Once. But I was too young to remember it. In the recess of my mind, I wonder if it felt like this. Was I scared? Did I try to stop it?
Did I fail?
Instantly, I hear the soles of his designer shoes meeting the stone. “Wait! The stars.” Turning, I raise an eyebrow at his impatient expression. “Where are they? Why can’t I see them?”
Because it’s daytime, you fucking lunatic?
I keep my sarcasm to myself for once, knowing what I need to do. “You need to go lie down. Have another dream. You liked that before, didn’t you?” At least that’s how it seemed the other day when Nick was congratulating him about it, as if such a feat were impressive and new.
There’s another strong gust of wind that blows his hair into his eyes, platinum locks brushing his cheekbones. He turns to toss a glance over his shoulder at the ledge, fingers twitching. “Go to sleep so I’ll wake up?” He actually has the nerve to sound incredulous, like this is the craziest thing he’s heard all day.
“Not exactly. Come on.” I reach out for his bloody hand, watching his eyes flick to the movement. I keep my movements slow, placating, coaxing him away from the edge. “I’ll show you the stars. I’ll tell you everything.” All I want to do is get him away from this belfry—away from the ledge and air and deadly drop. I want it so badly that I don’t even think twice about offering, “You can draw on me again. You can fix my snake, make me how you want.”
His first step is reluctant, but the second is solid and sure, allowing me to pull him toward the bell. He follows without protest or question, ducking down to the hatch when we reach it, and I try to ignore the twist in my gut when he pauses there, glancing up at me like I hold all the answers to the universe.
“I think I did a pretty good job with you,” he says, face cast in the shadow of the bell. Then he’s down the ladder, giving me a moment of reprieve to brace my palms against my knees, chest shuddering in relief.
“Yeah,” I say, unsure if he can hear me, “you did a really good job.”
