“Drug overdose,” she says. I can’t tell if there’s judgment in her voice or if the shame and guilt is all on my end.
Is that who I am? I frantically probe my aching, uncooperative brain for confirmation, but it’s completely blank.
“You were dead when the ambulance arrived. You must have a guardian angel. If whoever called had waited any longer, the EMTs wouldn’t have been able to revive you.” She pats my hand gently, careful to avoid the IVs and various devices attached to me. “You didn’t have any ID on you, so we’ve got you listed as a John Doe. Do you happen to know your name?”
My mind stays unnervingly blank. As far as it’s concerned, I was born the minute I opened my eyes in this hospital room. No name, no past, just pain.
I shake my head slowly, and she gives me a sympathetic smile.
“It’s not uncommon. In most cases, your memories should return, but based on the injuries you came in with, you might be better off if some things stay forgotten.”
I swallow hard and the beeping of the heart monitor gets faster. She pats my hand again.
“The doctor will be in shortly to examine you. Unfortunately, without any identification and no health insurance, we can only keep you until you’re stable, and then we have to send youalong to the local shelter. So relax for now, but try real hard to remember if you have any family members we might be able to track down, okay?”
I nod again, the pain turning into a stark numbness.
She leaves the room, her words replaying in my head on a loop…
CHAPTER 1
Present
GHOST
You might be betteroff if some things stay forgotten…
Seven years later, and I think that nurse might have been right.
After all this time, there are three things I’ve been unfortunate enough to remember. The first thing is what my body remembers: Craving. A craving that could kill me and already did once. That doesn’t seem to matter to the deepest, darkest parts of my brain that still wake me up in the middle of the night after dreams of being high, sweat dripping down my back and my blunt fingernails digging into my skin.
Even now, as I slink through the shadows between two buildings, keeping an eye on the windows on the top floor for any sign of light or movement like I’ve been doing for hours already, I can feel that subtle itch under my skin that never quite goes away. Without looking away, I reach into the pocket of my jeans. With my leather gloves on it’s a little tricky to get a hold of the piece of candy that’s tucked inside, but I manage it witha little bit of wiggling. I unwrap the butterscotch and lift the bottom of my black mask to pop the candy into my mouth.
Sugar doesn’t quite scratch the itch, but it takes the edge off. I roll the hard candy back and forth on my tongue, listening to the traffic noise from the street only a few yards away. No one can see me dressed all in black, lurking in this dark alley with the rats and trash. I’m invisible, and there’s something familiar about that feeling, even if I can’t remember why.
I haven’t seen any sign of anyone inside the penthouse all night, and I’m tired of waiting. I brace my hands on the closed lid of the dumpster and hoist myself up with a quiet grunt, my breath puffing against the wool mask covering my face. It’s a short jump from there to the bottom rung of the fire escape. It barely even rattles as I catch it and pull myself up. This really is a nice building if the fire escape isn’t a damn death trap. That’s what you get on this side of Wildcliff though. Go a few blocks south and if there’s a fire, people are more likely to jump out their windows than risk their lives on the fire escape. I’m not even sure my buildinghasa fire escape. I’m willing to bet that’s against city fire codes, but like everything else in Wildcliff, if you slip a wad of cash into the right hands, it’s not a problem.
I slink up the metal ladders to each small landing one by one, as quiet as I can. Blue lights from TV or phone screens glow inside a few apartments, but no one is looking out their window at one o’clock in the morning. Even if they did, all they would see is a shadow for a few seconds before I’m gone, climbing up to the next landing before their eyes can adjust to the dark.
The second thing I remembered after I left the hospital and in the years since my overdose is a face. One single face that doesn’t reach down into the deep, dark well of hatred that’s inside me and stir the waters. I have no clue who he is, but like with my cravings, I wake up some nights from dreams that turn to vapor before I can catch them, and all I can see is his face.Young, innocent, protective, with a familiar smile twisting on his lips. I just wish I could remember who he was. A boyfriend? A friend? A brother? All I have are guesses. I’ve spent the better part of a decade grasping for anything more than flashes of his face, but the harder I try to remember, the further away it feels. So I’ve stopped trying. I take it for what it is now—a small comfort in an ocean of rage and suffering.
I reach the last landing before the roof and stop for a second to catch my breath, tugging my mask up an inch so I can get some fresh air that doesn’t smell like sickly sweet butterscotch and sweat. I check that my pistol is still tucked safely into the back of my jeans. Not that I plan to use it tonight, but it’s good to have just in case. I’ve been watching the apartment for hours, so Iwon’thave to use it. I’ve hurt plenty of people in the last seven years, but never anyone who didn’t deserve it. And breaking into apartments isn’t about revenge or settling a score, it’s a simple matter of survival. I need money, and the kinds of people who own penthouse apartments in buildings like this one have more than enough to spare. There’s a good chance they won’t even miss the things I take, and if they do, they’ll file an insurance claim and cash a fat check. Excuse me if I don’t lose any sleep over it.
I tug my mask back into place and swing my backpack around to pull out the screwdriver inside. No matter how nice the building is, all window latches are about the same. Easy enough to break if you know how to find the weak spot. Before I set to work on that though, I nudge the glass just to check. It creaks quietly and inches open. I chuckle under my breath and stuff the screwdriver back into my bag. It’s even easier to get in when people don’t bother with basic safety precautions.
I push the window open as far as it will go, pausing to listen for any movement. The apartment remains silent, so I swing one leg in through the frame, and duck inside.
I find myself in a spacious living room decorated with expensive leather furniture and wood floors that are so brightly polished they gleam in the moonlight. Yeah, whoever lives here isn’t likely to miss the few pieces of jewelry or expensive knickknacks I’ll stuff into my backpack and sell at one of the seedy pawn shops where the owner never asks where anything came from. A couple of overpriced baubles and I’ll have my rent and food covered for months, leaving me free to focus on doing my service for the city.
If you really think about it, I’m like Robin Hood. Stealing from the rich so I can spend the rest of my time ridding Wildcliff of the worst kinds of monsters.
The third thing I remembered is the one thing I wish more than anything had stayed lost. Every single second of that night is seared into my mind. The jeers, the smell of their breath on my face, their hands all over me as I gasped for air, trying to tell them I was dying, and the horrible realization that they knew and didn’t care. I remember their faces too, every last one of them. They don’t bring me an ounce of comfort like the other face does. This is the memory that turns me into a monster just like them. Except I’m a monster that hunts to kill. I won’t rest until every last Sleepless Reaper is dead and their clubhouse is burned to the ground.
I creep through the apartment, eyeing artwork and other items that are too large to take down the fire escape. I’m not worried though. I’ll find a set of diamond cufflinks or a stash of gold jewelry somewhere. The bathroom or the bedrooms are usually the best bet.
A floorboard groans in the dark and I stop, holding my breath and listening. Did I cause the creak or is someone else actually in the apartment? A cat maybe? I wait for a minute, then when everything stays silent, I take another step, and then another. All is quiet, so I let myself relax again, just a little. Myeyes adjust to the dark, and I spot the entrance to a hallway a few feet away.
It’s amazing how light I can be with a pair of sturdy boots on my feet. Chalk it up to years of practice creeping around expensive apartments just like this one. The hallway is even darker than the living room, with no windows to let any moonlight or city lights in. Another creak raises the hair on the back of my neck. There’s a bedroom door to my left, open a crack, just enough for me to see a large bed, bathed in moonlight, the sheets messy like someone got up and didn’t bother to make it.