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The red dot climbed over my hoodie like a tiny, patient bug.
It started at my hip. Crossed my ribs. Paused right over my heart.
I didn't wait to see who was holding the gun.
I ran.
My bike was still leaning against the dumpster where I'd left it, one wheel bent from getting clipped by a cab three weeks ago. I grabbed the handlebars, kicked off hard, and nearly ate pavement because my hands were shaking so bad.
Behind me, tires hissed over wet asphalt.
Not a shot. Not yet.
That somehow made it worse.
The dead guy was on the ground behind the restaurant. I knew that. I had watched his eyes go blank. I had felt his fingers loosen around my wrist.
And now I had his creepy black ring welded to my finger.
I pedaled out of the alley, cut through a loading dock, and jumped a curb into traffic. A delivery truck blasted its horn at me.
"Hey! Watch it, psycho!"
"Yeah, sorry! Sorry!"
I wasn't sorry. I just needed everyone to keep moving. Cars. People. Buses. Anything between me and whoever had put that red dot on my chest.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
I almost ignored it.
Then it buzzed again.
Nico from Dispatch.
I swerved into the narrow space between a parked van and a dumpster, pulled my bike behind it, and answered.
"Mara?" Nico said. "Where the hell are you? You marked the order delivered, then your location started doing weird little circles. Did you crash again?"
"No."
"You sound like you crashed."
"I'm fine."
"That means no. You still have the insulated bag? Because if you lost another one, they dock it from your pay."
I looked down. The stupid orange delivery bag was still strapped across my back. It had somebody's cold dumplings inside it.
For one dumb second, that made me want to laugh.
A man had died in front of me. Somebody was hunting me. My finger had turned into a jewelry crime scene.
And I still had pork dumplings to deliver.
"I have it," I said.
"Good. Finish your route. And Mara?"
"What?"
"Try not to get stabbed this time."
He hung up.
I stared at my phone.
Then I heard the low growl of an engine roll past the end of the lane.
I shut the screen off so fast I almost dropped it.
The black SUV moved through the intersection ahead.
No plates on the back.
Windows blacked out.
It didn't turn toward me.
It kept going.
I waited anyway.
Five seconds.
Ten.
My lungs burned. Rainwater dripped off the van roof onto my neck. The city smelled like fryer grease, exhaust, and wet cardboard.
My left hand throbbed.
I looked at the ring.
It was matte black, except for a thin silver line curved through the stone like a crescent moon. It looked too old for a mall jewelry store. Too smooth. Too perfect.
I grabbed it with my right hand and twisted.
Nothing.
"Come on," I whispered.
I twisted harder.
The ring didn't move.
My finger did.
A sharp pain shot from the knuckle straight up my arm. I sucked in a breath and nearly yelled.
The silver crescent flashed.
Then the ring sank.
Not fell off.
Sank.
I watched black metal slide into my skin like it was dropping through dark water.
"Nope. Nope, no, no, no."
I clawed at my finger.
The ring vanished under my skin, leaving a black crescent wrapped around the base of my finger. The mark pulsed once.
I slapped my hand against the side of the van.
It hurt. Good. Real pain. Normal pain.
The mark stayed.
"You have got to be kidding me."
I dug my nails into it. Nothing. I rubbed at it with the sleeve of my hoodie until my skin went red.
Still there.
A thin line of black slid under my skin toward my wrist.
I froze.
The line stopped.
Then it curled back into the crescent like it had never happened.
I remembered the dying man's fingers crushing my wrist. His mouth moving. My own voice coming out of him.
Moonbug.
Nobody called me that.
Not since I was six.
Not since Mom disappeared and every adult in my life suddenly decided they had no idea what she had meant by it.
My throat tightened.
I shoved my hand into my pocket and pulled my bike out from behind the van.
I needed to get home.
No. Bad idea.
If they had followed me from the alley, they could follow me home. My apartment had one lock that stuck in winter and a downstairs neighbor who thought every woman under thirty owed him a smile.
I needed somewhere public.
Somewhere with lights and people and maybe a bathroom sink.
The all-night laundromat on Bell Street had both.
I rode there fast enough that my bad wheel rattled like it might come loose. Every black car made my stomach jump. Every time headlights swept over me, I ducked my head.
By the time I shoved through the laundromat door, my calves were cramping.
The place was mostly empty. Three rows of washers. Buzzing fluorescent lights. A little kid asleep across two plastic chairs while his mom folded towels with one hand and scrolled her phone with the other.
A guy in pajama pants stared at the spinning machines like they had personally betrayed him.
Normal people.
Good.
I walked straight to the back bathroom and locked myself inside.
The mirror above the sink had a crack running through the middle. My face looked split in half.
Wet hair stuck to my cheeks. There was dried blood on my hoodie sleeve. Not mine, I hoped.
I turned on the faucet full blast.
The water came out rusty for a second, then clear.
I shoved my left hand under it.
Nothing happened.
I pumped soap into my palm. Scrubbed until the skin around the mark burned.
Still there.
"Wash off," I muttered. "Just wash the hell off."
I scrubbed harder.
The black crescent warmed under my skin.
Then the bathroom lights went out.
I jerked back from the sink.
The hand dryer clicked on by itself.
Hot air blasted against my knees.
"Okay. Not funny."
The dryer shut off.
For half a second, the cracked mirror showed somebody standing behind me.
A woman.
Long dark hair. Blue fire crawling up the walls around her.
Mom.
I spun around so hard my shoulder hit the stall door.
Nobody.
Just a toilet. A stained tile floor. The hand dryer ticking as it cooled down.
My chest squeezed tight.
I gripped the sink.
"Mom?"
Nothing answered.
Then somebody knocked on the bathroom door.
Three soft taps.
I swallowed.
"Occupied."
No answer.
Another knock.
This one slower.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
I checked the lock. It was turned. The little metal sign said OCCUPIED.
"I said occupied."
A man's voice came through the door.
"Mara Voss. Open up."
Every hair on my arms rose.
I backed away from the door.
"Wrong bathroom."
He laughed softly.
Not a nice laugh. Not even close.
"You left the alley fast. Good instincts. Your mother had those too."
My hand went to the black mark.
"Who are you?"
"Open the door and I'll tell you."
"Yeah, that's not happening."
The doorknob turned.
Once.
Twice.
The lock held.
I looked around the bathroom like maybe a hidden window had appeared since I came in. Nothing. One tiny vent near the ceiling. No way out.
My phone had one bar.
I opened the emergency screen with shaking fingers.
The man outside said, "Don't call anyone. You think city cops are going to help you?"
I stopped.
He knew exactly what I was doing.
"You're stalking me in a laundromat bathroom," I said. "I feel like cops would be pretty into that."
"Not after they see what you did to Elias."
My stomach dropped.
"I didn't do anything to him."
"He died with your blood all over him."
"That was his blood."
"Sure."
The knob stopped moving.
Quiet pressed against the door.
Then his voice came lower.
"Show me your hand, Mara."
I stared at the black crescent on my finger.
"No."
"I don't need the whole thing. Just the mark."
"Still no."
"You don't know what you're carrying."
"And you do?"
"Enough to know it's worth more than this block. More than this neighborhood. Hell, more than most of this city."
I let out one short, ugly laugh.
"My blood is worth a city? Is that your line?"
"Your blood opened it."
My laugh died.
The man on the other side of the door made a pleased little sound.
"There it is," he said. "You really don't know."
Something scraped against the lock.
Metal on metal.
I backed up until my thighs hit the sink.
"What opened?"
"Ask your mother."
The lock snapped.
The door shoved inward three inches before I threw my shoulder into it.
A boot appeared in the gap.
Big black boot. Polished toe. Expensive.
I slammed the door again.
The boot withdrew.
Then the door hit me so hard the deadbolt ripped out of the frame.
I stumbled sideways.
The man walked in smiling.
He looked maybe thirty-five. Clean-shaven. Grey coat that probably cost more than my rent. No mask. No rush. His blond hair was neat despite the rain outside.
His eyes were the worst part.
They were too pale. Almost silver.
He held a slim black knife between two fingers.
"There she is," he said.
I grabbed the first thing my hand hit.
The toilet plunger.
He stared at it.
I stared at it too.
"Don't," I said.
His smile widened.
"Is that really your plan?"
"It's a flexible plan."
He took one step closer.
I swung the plunger at his face.
He caught the handle.
Just caught it.
Like I had handed it to him.
"Jesus," I breathed.
He yanked. I lost my grip and crashed into the stall door.
The knife flashed up.
I threw my left hand out without thinking.
The black crescent burned.
The hunter stopped.
Not because I hit him.
Because the mark lit up.
Black light spilled between my fingers. Thin at first. Then darker than the bathroom shadows. It crawled over my skin in little veins.
The man went very still.
His grin came back, but now it looked nervous around the edges.
"Oh," he said.
The bathroom mirror cracked again.
A new line split across it with a sharp pop.
I looked at my hand. "What the hell is this?"
"Don't move."
"You broke into a bathroom with a knife, and now you're giving me safety tips?"
"I said don't move."
He reached toward me.
The black light snapped across the gap.
It touched his wrist.
His skin blistered instantly.
He hissed and jerked back. The knife hit the tile.
I didn't wait.
I shoved past him.
He grabbed for my hoodie. His fingers brushed the back of my neck, cold and hard.
Then somebody outside yelled, "Hey! What the hell is going on in there?"
The laundry mom.
Bless her.
I burst through the bathroom door and nearly ran into her. She held a basket of towels against her chest. Her eyes went huge when she saw the blood on my sleeve and the guy behind me.
"Call nine-one-one," I said.
The hunter came out after me, his wrist red and smoking under his coat cuff.
He was still smiling.
That was somehow worse.
"Mara," he said, almost gentle now. "You can't outrun this."
I backed toward the front door.
The kid on the chairs woke up and started crying.
The mom fumbled for her phone.
The hunter didn't even look at her.
He only looked at my hand.
"Your mother bought you time," he said. "That little mark proves the bill is due."
I pushed through the laundromat door and ran into the street.
A horn screamed.
Brakes shrieked so loud my whole body locked up.
A black sedan skidded sideways across Bell Street, stopping inches from my knees.
The rear passenger door swung open.
Inside, a man's voice said, "Get in, Mara. Right now."
And behind me, the hunter started laughing.