Untamed City: Carnival of Secrets. Melissa Marr
you.”
The pause was slight, but she heard it. Us and you. Her mother wasn’t a witch, and Adam wasn’t her bio-dad, so she wasn’t an us. She also wasn’t really able to be a them. She might be human, but Adam was a witch. That meant she was caught living among the witches, preparing to fight daimons with only a human’s defenses. Sometimes, guiltily, she admitted to herself that this wasn’t the life she wanted. A stray thought of Kaleb flitted through her mind, but she knew without asking her father that he’d never agree to her changing her training or workout schedules so she had time to date.
Steadily, she sighted, fired, and moved to the next target. Then once she reached the end of the row, she worked her way back. Mallory hated the ease with which the semiautomatic discharged bullets. It felt like everything went too quickly, but if the paper targets in front of her were daimons, she knew she’d appreciate that extra speed.
Adam began calling numbers. “Target three, eight, two, one, eight, six.”
As he called them, she aimed and fired. It was an exercise that required reaction and focus. Admittedly, it was easier with the 9mm in her hand, but she still felt tense.
She switched guns, sliding the 9mm into an under-the-arm holster and transitioning to the .357 that she wore in a thigh holster. The familiar weight of it was all she needed to summon that meditative space where the world was reduced to hand-gun-target. She had learned hand-to-hand skills, but her father insisted that most daimons had superior training and more physical strength than a human could counter. She had to be proficient with weapons too. Witches had magic; daimons had physicality; and humans had guns.
She emptied the last chamber in the revolver and glanced at her father. The furrow in his brow said what he didn’t: he wasn’t happy about her switching guns.
“I’m more comfortable with this.” She lowered the barrel so it aimed at the ground.
Adam said nothing as she opened the cylinder and discharged the empty casings. He remained quiet as she pulled six bullets from her jeans pocket and reloaded. When Mallory closed the cylinder, he said, “I should never have bought you that gun. If I’d started you with the nine mil, you wouldn’t use this as a crutch. The revolver was to be a starter, like training wheels.”
She gestured at the targets. “I’m capable with both guns. I just like this one better.”
When he didn’t reply, she walked over to the targets. Using the barrel as a pointer, she tapped the first target. “Not one outside the ‘preferred zone.’ Tight.” She went down the line, tapping each paper in the row. “I can use the nine; I just don’t like it as well.”
Adam sighed. “If you knew what they were like, Mals . . .” He shook his head. “I hope you never have to face them alone, but if you do, you’ll be grateful for a clip, and hopefully you’ll be packing an extended clip.”
She softened at his worried look. “I know, and I will be prepared. Promise.” For a brief moment she considered asking him questions she had never verbalized, but like every other time she’d considered it, the questions skittered away before she could speak them. She wanted to know why she’d never met daimons, why she couldn’t go to his office, why they couldn’t find a way to live a different life, but her tongue wouldn’t form the words. A band seemed to tighten around her chest.
Good daughters don’t question. They obey.
Her father held her gaze, and when she didn’t speak, he nodded once. “I need you to be prepared.”
Mallory straightened her shoulders and met her father’s gaze. “I won’t let you down.”
He ejected the clip from the 9mm and replaced it with an extended clip. “Notice that it took a moment to reload this. Sometimes a single moment makes a difference. Daimons aren’t like witches or humans, Mallory. You can’t forget that.”
“I won’t,” she promised. The pressure around her chest faded.
He held the 9mm pistol out to her.
Lips pursed, she accepted it. Daimons might be more capable at hand-to-hand, but she wasn’t planning on allowing any of them close enough for that to matter.
“Empty it,” he ordered.
Mallory aimed and emptied half the clip. After fifteen bullets tore through the existing holes in the target, daylight shone through the center of the paper as if it were an open window. She did the same thing to a second target, and then lowered the gun. Maybe if she was good enough, her father would let her take a little time to go out, to at least build a friendship with Kaleb instead of settling for a few moments when they crossed paths. She glanced at Adam.
He nodded. “Again.”
SEVERAL HOURS AND SEVERAL clips later, Adam and Mallory returned to the three-bedroom house they rented in Smithfield, yet another of the interchangeable towns in the middle of the country. Like almost every other house the past few years, this one was nondescript. It was nice, clean, and in good order, but it was anonymous in a way she sometimes hated. The walls were white, and the carpets were beige. There were no houseplants or bric-a-brac that said “this is a home.” Takeout menus were held to the front of the fridge by strips of tape, clips, and magnets. It added to the already generic feel of the house.
It had been five years since they’d had a real home.
Since Mom left.
That was the real difference: Selah had turned whatever rental they’d had into an actual home. She’d bought paint and rollers, and she’d spent days turning a plain house into a real home. Boring white walls became a different color in each house. “Make it an adventure,” she’d said. One house had ceilings painted like a sky, blue with big, fluffy clouds. Another had a tree painted on Mallory’s bedroom wall. Selah had added hooks for her robe and her coat at the ends of two big branches. Beige carpet was covered with rugs, the splashes of color Selah pulled from battered boxes to make boring space into flower-strewn fields or calm ponds. Claiming a house was a game, one they’d played over and over in new towns. Now that it was just Mallory and Adam, the walls of every house were white, and the only color on the carpet was from the stains left by the last residents.
Mallory walked into the dining room and sat down. Mutely, she put both guns on the weathered wooden table, and then she proceeded to wipe down first her .357 and then the 9mm. She’d been handling guns since she was seven, and the process—much like the routine of aiming and discharging her weapons—was reassuring. It was a cue that things were normal, that her life was unchanged even as the houses she slept in year after year changed.
“We have to move again,” Adam said from the doorway to the dining room.
She paused. “When?”
“Now.” His mouth was a grim line.
“Now,” she repeated. “Like tonight, now?”
“No.” He gave her a smile that did little to soften the tension in his expression before saying gently, “I called the company movers. They’ll be here on the fifteenth.”
Childish hurt warred with years of practicality. Adam wouldn’t decide that they needed to go again, especially on such short notice, if he didn’t think it was essential, but she felt betrayed. They’d spent hours together, and he hadn’t mentioned it until now.
“That’s my birthday,” she said with as little inflection as she could manage. She didn’t—couldn’t—mention Kaleb, but the thought of never seeing him again tore at her. Her gaze was carefully fixed on the gun she wiped clean.
“I know.” Adam walked into the room and hugged her. “I’m sorry.”
She closed her eyes like the child she couldn’t be. It was silly to make a big deal over a date on the calendar, but she still clung to the foolish dream that her mother would show up on her birthday. There was no reason to believe she would, but Mallory had held on to the hope that her mother would walk back through the door and into their lives some birthday