AGE FOURTEEN
It’s the night of mischief.
Commonly known as Devil’s Night.
My mother used to tell me that the gates of hell open tonight and the demons are allowed to roam the earth and spread their evil.
It was one of the few occasions I saw my mother excited, smiling, humming a happy tune.
She made it a habit to hand-sew me a costume and take me trick-or-treating while wearing a huge grin on her face.
That was my mother in a nutshell—innocently childish, irrevocably naïve, and stupidly in love.
And that love? It cost her her life.
And mine, in retrospect.
Because ever since she died four years ago, I’ve turned into the cynical little monster she tried to save me from becoming.
Maybe she didn’t try hard enough.
Maybe she didn’t care enough.
Because nothing she could’ve done would’ve made a difference. I have my father’s genes, after all.
The chilly autumn air penetrates my skin and embraces my bones with ominous persistence. As if that’s not enough, it blows my hair and jams it against my eyes.
Thanks to Mom, I was born with naturally bright, excruciatingly attention-grabbing red hair. At times, it resembles the horns of the devil.
Extremely fitting for this night, if you ask me.
“You stand out, and not in a good way, Aspen,” the blonde angel to my right says. Clearly fake, unless wearing a costume with wings makes you one.
Caroline is a friend I met in middle school when I first moved to her neighborhood after my mother’s death and Dad’s disappearance. We’ve been close ever since because her abusive household mirrors mine. We often find refuge in each other’s company, despite having extremely different personalities.
She’s the bubbly type who likes being at every party.
For instance, this one.
I didn’t really want to come. Not only am I an exemplary student who spends every free moment studying so I can get out of the custom-made hellhole my aunt and uncle have made for me, but I’m also not good with people.
However, after having a pan thrown at my back because I didn’t heat dinner to my drunken uncle’s liking, I was like “fuck it” and asked Caroline to give me the address to the party.
Obviously, I had to sneak out of the house by climbing down a tree from the attic I use as a bedroom.
My friend jacks up a hand on her tiny waist that serves as the wings’ belt holder. “When you said you were coming, I thought you’d be in a costume.”
“I don’t have one.” Nor do I want to hide behind anything. I already have a mask I wear in public; I don’t need another one.
“It’s Halloween. Everyone has a costume.” She throws her hands around, motioning at all the high school kids slipping into the mansion clad in their Halloween outfits. A myriad of colors, clichés, and the ultimate American fairy tale—or in this case, a nightmare.
It’s a hilarious parody of vampires, monsters, and the latest popular horror movies.
As for me, I’m wearing a simple black dress, my old sneakers, and a denim jacket my aunt got me from the local church donations.
Definitely not a costume. Unless dressing poor has become a trend, which wouldn’t be a surprise in circles like these.
Circles that Caroline does her best to cram herself into. She only befriends those of higher status, class, and definitely have a trust fund. It’s how she managed to get herself invited to this party at a preppy boy’s house.
Callie and I don’t attend the same high school as the owner of this place—no surprise there. He’s from the other side of town—the Upper East Side—and goes to a private school whose tuition could send me to college.
I don’t know him personally. Being from Harlem’s ghetto, we don’t usually get to mingle with people like them.
Caroline does, though. People have dreams of becoming doctors, lawyers, and astronauts. She has dreams of dating and marrying rich.
It’s a legitimate goal for those of us who’ve lived on scraps all our lives, go home at night looking over our shoulders, and never ever go out without pepper spray.
It’s the Cinderella complex of it all that doesn’t sit right with me. Why search for a man to give you a glass slipper when you could get it yourself?
Mom was completely and utterly into that fairy tale, and see where that got her.
“Look, Callie. I don’t have a costume, so if that’s a problem, I can just leave.” It’s an ego thing. I don’t like being belittled or mocked for who I am. That’s what’s landed me in trouble since I was little and often gets me a beating from my aunt or uncle.
They’re Mom’s brother and his wife who got custody of me after Dad was sent to prison.
But they might be worse than him.
However, I never lower my head, never let them make me feel small. I stare into their beady, vicious eyes, even as they hit me.
Which naturally makes them angrier and they beat me harder. Often with a belt or the nearest object.
“No, you’re my ride or die. You have to stay.” Callie rummages in her fur bag. “Besides, you’re beautiful as shit. It’ll be their loss if they don’t have you at their party.”
She pulls out a black feather mask, straps it on my head, and fixes my hair so it’s framing my face. Then she removes my denim jacket and throws it behind one of the decorated bushes.
“Hey! It’s cold.” And that’s actually the only good jacket I have.
“You can handle some cold for fashion. Also, that thing makes you look like a hillbilly.” She fusses in her wonder bag again and brings out some cheap red gloss, then takes extra care to apply it to my lips. After she’s done, she studies her creation with the critical eye of an amateur artist. “Perfect. You look like a bad bitch.”
“Really, Callie? Red?”
“It goes with the hair. If anyone asks, you’re a witch.”
Hell no.
But I don’t tell her that as she grabs me by the hand and drags me toward the house. She stops before the entrance and stares at me over her shoulder. “Remember, we’re sixteen or seventeen. Almost everyone here is a senior and we can’t be considered too young. Besides, we look the part anyway.”
That, we do. Caroline and I hit puberty two years ago, and ever since, we’ve been developing breasts and asses that earn us creepy looks from grown men—including our male teachers.
In school, she’s the blonde bombshell. I’m the hellion redhead.
She slips the strap of my dress off my shoulder so that it teases more of my cleavage, then interlinks her arm with mine. “Let’s snatch some rich boys.”
“You do realize they’ll throw us out the moment they find out we’re from Harlem, right?”
“Shhh.” She inspects our surroundings. “There’s no reason for them to know.”
“They will eventually.”
“Maybe by then, it’ll be too late.” She gives me a sly smirk and flips her hair.
I drop the subject, partly because we arrived at the entrance. But mainly because there’s no speaking logic to Caroline when it comes to her boy-hunting endeavors.
A sullen-faced doorman gives us a once-over before allowing us in.
Caroline is like a kid on Christmas morning, running from one place to another—with me in tow. She fawns over the black and orange decorated grand hall, the waiters in every corner, the upbeat music, the high-end costumes.
Everything.
She’s practically drugged with all the luxury and is currently reaching cloud nine.
To say I’m not intimidated myself would be a lie. I’ve always disliked places that make me feel out of my depth. Places where I hold the importance of an insignificant insect that can be crushed at any time and won’t be remembered.
That’s the prominent emotion coursing through me right now.
I want to go back.
Or disappear somewhere where I’m not under a microscope.
I thought escaping Aunt Sharon and Uncle Bob’s house was all I needed, but this scene is probably not what will make me feel better.
So I take a drink—or two. Okay, maybe three.
It’s diluted alcohol anyway, but it tastes like rosemary and something exotic. Definitely better than the beer Caroline stole from her alcoholic father so we could try it.
That was no different than unsanitary water mixed with the stench of cigarettes.
Caroline smacks my hand when I reach for another drink. “Don’t look so desperate.”
“Uh, hello? I only came for the drinks and food, Callie.”
“Then do that in a corner, not where everyone can see you acting like a ghetto rat.”
I stare her square in the eye. “You’re a ghetto rat yourself.”
“I don’t act like it.”
“When was the last time you had a proper meal, Miss I Don’t Act Like It?” When she doesn’t reply, I scoop up some luxurious-looking snacks and push them against her mouth. “That’s what I thought. Now, eat before your stomach starts making embarrassing noises.”
She grumbles something, but she does eat, and then accompanies me on the mission to be full for days to come.
After a while, though, her focus returns to her previous mission, and she rakes her gaze all over the crowd.
“Maybe desperate should’ve been your costume, not an angel.”
She smiles at my dry sense of humor. “Don’t know about you, bitch, but I’m getting out of that hellhole even if it’s the last thing I do.”
“I’m getting out, too.”
“Wanna bet who’s going to do it first?”
“We can do it together.”
“Not with your ‘I’m gonna do it myself’ attitude. Now, help me hunt.”
I definitely don’t, and keep stealing food and drinks behind her back. What? I’m malnourished at home and started working part-time to pay for my meals. The drinks, however, are an extravagance I’m allowing myself in order to forget and bide my time until I can leave.
My chance comes when Caroline finds her prey for the night—a blond guy in a fallen angel costume.
As soon as she hits it off with him, I slip out of their little group before she shoves me at one of his friends.
I pull the strap of my dress over my shoulder, cradle a plate of pastries and a drink, then disappear out back.
The night’s air stabs my bare arms and I consider looking for my jacket.
Stuffing my face with some chocolate cake, I start my way through the vast, dimly lit garden.
My steps are wobbly due to the massive amount of alcohol I’ve consumed, but that doesn’t stop me from taking a sip of my drink anyway.
I feel light and free, and I don’t have the brain capacity to think about my life.
Maybe alcohol isn’t so bad, after all.
Hushed male voices catch my attention and I freeze when I hear, “…It’s Devil’s Night. They won’t suspect we burned it.”
Shit.
I was definitely not supposed to hear that.
I must hiccup, because there’s a pause before someone roars, “Who the fuck is there?”
My legs twitch and I don’t think about it as I run, causing the drink to spill all over my hand, then I hide behind the bushes.
My breathing shatters when footsteps approach my hideout. If they find me, I’ll be in huge trouble.
I’m very familiar with being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’ve experienced it first-hand and have the mental and physical scars to prove it.
I also used it to my advantage and made my father disappear from my life.
Some would call me too cunning for my age; but when you come from the wrong side of the tracks, the first thing you learn is to survive.
Even if it means locking away your abusive father.
“I’m sure I heard them go this way,” one of the male voices says and I shrink into my hiding place.
My mind crowds with fight-or-flight options and just when I’m considering where to escape to, a leaf crunches right next to me.
I stare up at the larger-than-life shadow hovering not far from me. Even though I’m partially camouflaged by the decorative tree, I’m almost sure he can see me.
“No one’s here,” he says with a calm that chills me to my rattling bones.
His face is veiled by the darkness, but I’m pretty sure he’s wearing a mask. Before I can make him out, he turns around, and the sound of retreating footsteps echoes in my ears like a symphony gone wrong.
My shaky fingers release the plate and cup. They hit the grass with a muted thud, the alcohol slowly soaking into the ground.
Despite my plans to stuff myself full so that I don’t feel hunger for a few days, I abandon my haul and inch toward the back door. I have no doubt they’ll continue searching for me until they find me.
My hands are clammy as I retrieve my phone. My teeth chatter—not sure if it’s due to the cold or the haunting fear—and my vision is blurry, partly because of the alcohol, partly because of the unusual kick of adrenaline surging through me.
Bodies are special like that, they know danger, even if our minds are oblivious to it.
I retrieve my old phone that Uncle Bob got for me. To say that made me suspicious would be an understatement, but he told me they needed to know where I was at all times and that if they called and I didn’t pick up, they would kill me.
Sure enough, there are five missed calls from them. I wince at the thought of a beating, but it’s better than being in this unfamiliar place.
Ignoring them, I type a text to Caroline. She said she received her phone as a gift from a boy she was talking to, and her father has been trying to sell it ever since.
Aspen: There’s been a complication. Let’s leave.
No reply.
Aspen: I’ll wait at the back door for fifteen minutes, then I’m taking the subway home.
Aspen: Callie, please. Let’s go home. I’m scared—
I delete the last text before sending it.
So what if I’m trembling all over? If I’m sweating? If I feel like throwing my guts up? I’m not a weakling.
I really shouldn’t have had so many drinks and put myself in a vulnerable position, where I can’t even defend myself or run properly.
The rustling of leaves reaches me first, followed by thudding footsteps. The next thing I know, two guys are approaching me. I can’t see their features, because the one in the purple suit has his face painted as the Joker and the one in all black is wearing an “Anonymous” mask.
Joker approaches me with purpose, but Anonymous stays back, a hand in his pocket and the other toying with an unlit cigarette. For some reason, I think I should be worried about him the most. Not only because he’s taller and way buffer, but also because those who wield the actual power often stay in the background.
“Told you I heard someone here,” Joker says, his voice resembling a frat boy from an Ivy League college.
My feet automatically falter and I hit 911 on my phone, but before I can call, Joker snatches it and throws it out of my reach. “That’s not a wise choice.”
“I didn’t see anything…” I whisper, fruitlessly trying to control the tremor in my voice.
“Oh, yeah?” He grabs me by the arm, his meaty fingers sinking into my flesh. He smells like foul cologne that should be a crime to wear. “We’ll have to take insurance.”
“Insurance?”
“You’ll let us have our way with you as a show of obedience, won’t you?”
“No.” It takes everything in me to stare into his glimmering eyes in the darkness instead of hyperventilating. “Let me go.”
“Wrong choice.” The sadism in his voice freezes me for a second.
Only a second, though.
Adrenaline kicks in my veins, and I can see straight through to where this is headed.
It’s my sixth sense. Predicting scenarios before they come along. It’s not that I have witch blood, as many of my classmates say. It’s that I’m really good with connecting patterns and seeing the bigger picture.
And the picture currently says that I’m the prey in this scenario. And I have to do something about it if I don’t want to be eaten.
When I twist my arm in the Joker’s hold, he tightens his grip and pulls me down. I try to stay upright, I really do, but he’s strong and I’m so drunk that I don’t feel the thud until I’m flush with the grass.
The bruise on my back from the pan hitting it earlier throbs, and I open my mouth to scream for help, but he slaps a firm palm over it.
The stench of his cologne and sweaty male musk gags me as he maneuvers himself above me. While he’s searching for a comfortable position, I lift my knee and hit him in the balls.
He jerks away with an animalistic wail and I use the chance to crawl from beneath him.
“You fucking bitch!” He grabs his hurt genitals and yanks me back by the hair. The world is ripped from under my feet, but before I can hit the ground, he pushes me forward and I slam against a tree trunk.
“You’re going to regret messing with me, bitch.” His repulsive voice fills my ears and the putrid smell of alcohol is the only thing I can breathe. At this point, I have no clue if it’s coming from him or me.
“Go ahead, you rotten piece of shit,” I spit out from between chattering teeth. “You think I’m scared of you or your fragile masculinity that you need to show by assaulting me? Show me your worst, asshole. See if I fucking care!”
“This bitch…”
He pulls my hair until he nearly rips it from its roots, and tears sting my eyes. I bite my lip hard enough that I swallow the pungent metallic taste of blood.
But I don’t whimper, don’t show him my pain, and I definitely don’t beg. Assholes like him, my aunt, my uncle, and my father are all the same.
They want to display their power by latching onto those who are weaker than them, but I’m not my mother.
I won’t be a victim or a statistic.
I won’t give them the satisfaction of seeing me suffer.
“Enough.”
My spine jerks at the single authoritative word from the third, inactive party in the scene.
It’s the same voice from earlier. The one who definitely saw me but told his friends there was no one.
Anonymous.
The Joker breathes heavily. “But she—”
“I said. Enough.” His tone exudes more command than earlier. I was right to assume he holds the power, because the Joker pulls on my hair harder and with apparent frustration, the way a subordinate would do in front of their boss.
The way Dad’s underlings shivered in front of him.
“I have to teach her a lesson,” he says low enough that even I’m barely able to hear him.
“When I say enough…” The sound of firm footsteps is accentuated by the violent silence lurking in the air. “I mean fucking enough.”
The weight that’s been crushing me from the back suddenly disappears.
Thwack.
I gasp as Anonymous drives his fist in the Joker’s face and sends him flying.
He doesn’t move.
The Joker, I mean. He’s inert on the ground and my heart nearly spills onto the grass beside him.
My strap falls off my shoulder again and my face is on fire, but I can’t focus on that right now.
“Is he…dead?” I don’t know how I speak so calmly when I’m pretty sure I should be panicking.
“Just unconscious,” Anonymous says with dismissive neutrality that only psychopaths have.
After I slowly get up, I inch closer to my phone that’s lying on the grass, flashing with a text. Probably from Caroline. However, Anonymous reaches it first in a few purposeful strides.
He flips it around, slides it in his pants pocket, then points at his unmoving friend. Though maybe friend is an exaggeration, considering he knocked him out with a single punch. “He might be a weakling, but he’s right. Calling 911 here is extremely unwise and borders on reckless foolishness.”
“I won’t then. Can I get my phone back? I want to go home.”
“The night is still young.” He approaches me with deliberate ease. “What are you supposed to be tonight? A witch?”
“Femme fatale.”
I can’t see his face that’s hidden behind the stupid mask, but there’s a pause and I swear his eyes gleam in the dim light. They look dark blue, like the mystical depths of a merciless ocean.
“Here’s how it’ll go, femme fatale. You’ll keep me company until Devil’s Night is over.”
“Why would I?”
“Either that or I’ll lock you in some basement where no one can find you until the cleaning staff comes along. Which, if I remember correctly, can take a few days depending on whether or not the homeowners need something from the basement.”
My hand balls into a fist, but I slowly release it when his attention slides to it. I see what he’s doing, but those intimidation tactics won’t work on me. Not when I learned them all from my father.
“Shouldn’t there be a third option, where you, I don’t know, just let me go?”
“Not when you could land us in trouble.”
“I have no interest in what I heard and I value my life enough not to tattle on you. So give me my phone and we can be out of each other’s hair.”
“I like your hair, so I don’t mind staying in it.” He’s in front of me in a second and I’m slammed face-first with his smell. It’s a mixture of cedarwood, smoke, and premium cigarettes. European cigarettes that my father used to get specifically from Italy.
But that’s not the only thing I’m crushed with. There’s also his presence. I thought he was tall earlier, but now, he’s towering over me, easily pinning me in place with his sheer size and those broad shoulders that no teenager should have.
His fingers brush through my hair and I’m pretty sure it’s about to catch fire and we’ll have an actual witch accident on our hands.
“Is it natural?” he asks whimsically, sounding utterly fascinated with the mere act of having his fingers in my hair.
I jerk back, startled. “Don’t touch me.”
To my surprise, he drops his hand to his side. He doesn’t take it as a challenge to his masculinity like the Joker did.
And that makes my muscles lock together.
I can deal with assholes, but how do I deal with assertive ones who flip between respecting my boundaries and crushing them on a whim?
There’s no pattern to his madness and that’s the most dangerous thing about this stranger.
“You still need to spend time with me. That, or the basement.”
“I want it to be in a public place.” If I can’t control the situation, then I can at least strive for the next best thing—a place where I can create commotion and escape.
“Afraid I’ll pounce on you?”
“It’s just insurance.”
“You’re in no position to ask for any insurance, but I’ll be benevolent and grant you that wish if you answer my question.”
“What?”
“When he”—Anonymous cocks his head in the Joker’s direction but doesn’t look at him—“had the power over you, why did you provoke him? Logically, you should’ve begged.”
“Logically, that wouldn’t have gotten me anywhere. How many women do you think begged and cried in situations like that and still got assaulted? Countless is the answer. I refuse to show that scum or any other jerk weakness.”
“Even if you get hurt for it?”
“Especially then. I’d rather swallow my poison.”
There’s a pause, a long one that nearly makes me fidget, before he releases a humming sound. “Interesting. Maybe you really are a femme fatale. You should be careful, though. If you gaze into an abyss for long, the abyss gazes into you.”
My lips part. “Nietzsche.”
“Beyond Good and Evil.” He motions at his pocket. “You have the quote on the back of your phone case.”
“It’s a favorite of mine. How do you know Nietzsche?”
“That should be my question. Aren’t you too young to read him?”
“Aren’t you too quick to assume I’m young?”
“How old are you then? Oh, forgive me. I forgot that it’s a blasphemy to ask the age of a woman, not to mention a femme fatale.”
I smile despite myself. Then I quickly hide it.
I can’t be fooled by his obvious manners or his eloquent way of speaking. It’s how the rich get what they want.
Besides, he just knocked someone out, which means he’s prone and used to violence.
Definitely not someone I should allow myself to get comfortable in the presence of.
“I’m sixteen,” I say, all businesslike, and it’s not only because of what Caroline told me. Being young is a vulnerability where I come from. “How about you?”
“Seventeen.”
“You don’t look seventeen.”
He laughs and either the sound has some black magic or I’m too drunk, or both. Because the tingles it causes escape the confines of my ears and flow in my blood.
“You don’t even know what I look like.” He taps his mask. “Maybe I’m a scarred monster underneath.”
I lift a shoulder. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“Is that so?”
“Yeah. You’d have to be a monster in one way or another to save me, watch as I’m about to get assaulted, then play a knight in black armor right at the end, just to indulge in violence. Oh, and you like Nietzsche. One has to have achieved a certain level of weirdness to be a Nietzsche fan.”
“First of all, I didn’t save you. I just pretended I didn’t see you in order to avoid complications. Joker amateur wasn’t about to assault you if you hadn’t provoked him. And I’m no knight, sweetheart. I only interfered to learn why you provoked him when you could’ve used a different approach. As for punching him, that wasn’t violence. Violence is being punched back. The act was a mere display of authority as a response to his audacity of questioning my orders. Oh, and I’m not a Nietzsche fan just because I read him.”
Damn it.
I’m out of my depth here. For the first time in forever, I feel like I can’t handle someone.
Definitely not when I’m drunk and my inhibitions seem to be disappearing to someplace I can’t reach.
I try to hide that, though. Playing nonchalance like it’s my favorite game. “Then who are you a fan of?”
“Myself.”
“Wow. Narcissus called and he wants his arrogance status back.”
He laughs, the sound equal measures easy and haunting in the silent darkness. And for some reason, I think I could listen to that tenor of his voice all night long.
“What if I decline to return it?”
I lift a shoulder. “Congratulations for your narcissistic status. You might need a reality check about how your achievements and talents hold little to no value, and using others doesn’t make you grandiose.”
“Then what does it make me?”
“Subhuman.”
“Subhumans are those who allow themselves to be used.”
“Let’s blame the victim, shall we? A tale as old as time.”
“A victim chooses to be a victim, whether by desperation or other circumstances. A lamb walking into the forest is well-prepared to be eaten.”
“No lamb wants to be eaten. They walked into the forest for the food they need in order to survive.”
“And the wolf eats the lamb, also to survive.”
“Your predator mentality is revolting.”
“And your blush is cute.” He motions at my neck with a smirk in his voice. “It’s visible even in the darkness.”
I touch my nape, feeling more heated than when he said the words. “Stop looking.”
“On the contrary, now is when I’ll keep looking. I’m bored and you’re interesting, so this should be a fun night, don’t you think?”
Before I can answer, the ground is pulled from beneath my feet for the second time today. But this time, I’m flung over a shoulder.
His shoulder.
Hard, sturdy, and so broad, it actually fits my waist.
And then he’s marching with sure, purposeful strides in the direction of the mansion.
“What are you doing?” I ask, mortified, as the blood rushes to my head.
“I told you, sweetheart. You’re spending time with me tonight.”
