I stopped my chopping and turned to look at Finnegan Lane. At fifteen, Finn was two years older than me, with a mop of dark brown hair and eyes that reminded me of wet grass. He was tall, with a solid chest that was already filling out. Nothing like my long, gangly, spider-thin arms and legs.

Finn perched on a stool in front of the cash register and sucked up the last dregs of the triple chocolate milkshake I’d made him. Finn didn’t like me much, seeing me as competition for his widowed father’s time, attention, and affection.

I’d hoped my small bribe would at least make him tolerable while we waited for Fletcher. It had worked. Finn had been too busy gulping down the rich, sweet concoction to mock me.

For a change.

It had been three months since Fletcher Lane had taken me in, and my life had become as normal as it was ever going to get. During the day, I attended school under the name Gin Blanco, catching up on what I’d missed while I’d been living on the streets and hiding from the Fire elemental who’d murdered my family. After school, I came straight to the Pork Pit to help Fletcher cook and clean and earn my keep. He might be putting a roof over my head, but I was determined to work for it as much as I could. Not a glamorous life by any means, and nothing like the soft, warm comfort I’d had before, but it had a thin illusion of safety. Something I appreciated now more than ever.

Only one thing bothered me—Fletcher’s late-night jaunts. About once a month, he’d disappear. Sometimes for a few hours, other times for a few days. He never said where he went or what he did, and I didn’t ask. But I knew blood when I saw it, and Fletcher was often covered with it. Fresh, sticky, wet blood. Spattered all over his clothes, as though he’d just killed someone. Something else I knew about, even at thirteen.

My eyes drifted back to the clock: 10:07. Fletcher had vanished as soon as I’d come in this afternoon, saying he’d be back by seven, more than three hours ago. He’d never been this late before. What would I do if he didn’t come back?

Where would I go? Back on the streets most likely, begging for food, clothes, and shelter once more. My stomach twisted a little tighter—

The front door of the restaurant jerked open, making the bell chime. My heart lifted. A moment later, a pair of long arms tossed Fletcher Lane inside. He flew through the air, hit a table, flopped off it, and landed hard. Fletcher groaned and coughed. His blood flecked all over the clean floor I’d spent the afternoon mopping.