The Becoming of Noah Shaw (The Shaw Confessions Book 1)

MY FOOTSTEPS ECHO DULLY ON the stairs as I head up past the second floor, and the third, straight to the roof. The sun’s dying, being swallowed up by the screaming spires of New York’s skyline and the thick twilight that’s already begun to fall. I check for new texts—none—but I do scroll through the images Mara sent. Some scratch at a vague memory I once had, but can’t reach now. It’s more than unsettling—I’ve never had to pore over books or notes or paintings or anything to remember every detail. I turn over my palm, the one I cut to show Goose. The slash in it is closed, but the wound is still red, angry. My mind turns back to the list.

Suspected original

Artificially induced

Lenaurd protocol

The last two, a twisted attempt to create the kinds of abilities that we have naturally, which resulted in Jude. His sister, Claire, must’ve been a failed . . . experiment, or whatever we are. But we’re not all the same, as Daniel pointed out. If one believes what my father did, then Mara and I are different because we’re two sides of a coin. But the others on the list, Jamie and Stella excepted, are all dead now.

Possibly Stella, too, even. I’m leaning over the glass-enclosed roof deck, the vertigo nearly sickening. The sight of the street so far below is viscerally appealing.

And then, remembering my mother’s journal—even suicidal ideation appears to be genetic, in my case. My legacy, as it were. I’d stolen a pack of cigarettes Goose kept in the kitchen and withdrew one to light it. Haven’t done in a while, and the smoke filling my lungs is almost—comforting.

“Bum a fag, mate?”

The voice is obvious, but the phrasing sounds so wrong to me now. Too much time here. “Thought you preferred rolling your own?” I say to Goose as he glides up to the railing and looks out at the city with me.

“I did,” he says. “I do. Haven’t got any papers left though, and you’ve stolen my spare pack, so. Let’s have it.”

I pass it to him, and he shakes one out, gesturing for my lighter, then cupping his hands around the flame. He sucks in a lungful of smoke. “Fuck, that’s satisfying.”

“Is Mara downstairs?” I ask. He draws his light eyebrows together, then shakes his head.

“She didn’t come back with you?” My heart quickens.

“No, we got hungry, they had no food in the house, wanted to hit up a pub, I stayed for a bit but the place wasn’t quite up to scratch, so, I came back.”

I check my mobile. Nothing new from Mara. I text her.

He takes a long drag. “Think I saw a rat in their kitchen.”

“You’ve been spoilt.” I exhale smoke through my nose.

“Horribly. Got out just in time.”

I check my phone again at the exact instant it vibrates. Not Mara, though. Jamie.

Dude, you’re gonna wanna come downstairs

He added a grimace emoji at the end of the sentence, instead of a full stop.

I flick my cigarette over the side of the tower.

Goose grins. “What, no smoking in the house?”

“Mara hates it.”

“Americans. Such Puritans.”

“Aren’t they just?” I say as we descend to the living room to see Mara sprawled out on one of the sofas.

My heart stops for an instant until I hear her laughter. I glance up at Jamie. “Don’t look at me. She was sober when I left.” He escapes faster than is humanly possible.

I take Mara by the forearm, lift her up to standing. Dreamy smile on her face, she swoons backward into my arms.

“You’re cute,” she says. Fuck’s sake. I look at Goose; he shrugs innocently. Mara’s limp and smiling, still, her lids at half-mast.

“What’s wrong with you?” I ask.

“Nothing you can’t fix,” she says, voice sliding into sultry.

“I’ll leave you to it, then?” Goose backs away, but not before I ask, “Did you take anything?”

“Really, mate?”

“Indulge me.”

A head shake. “They did mention something about getting high though.”

“And you left her?”

Eye roll. “It wasn’t anything to do with drugs, it was about their, Gifts, or whatever. They said using them can get them high sometimes.”

Sublime. “Are you mental? That’s even worse.”

“Do you really keep her on that tight of a leash, mate?” Goose hardly knows Mara, of course, and while I completely, completely understand why he wouldn’t believe the implications, right now my overwhelming impulse is to shake him.

“Fuck right off.”

“Happily. Enjoy your evening, old chap.”

Mara waves good-bye, still back-bent in my arms. I swing her forward onto the sofa.

“Ow!”

“What?”

She pouts. “I bit my tongue. Kiss it better?”

“Tempting, but, no. What did you do tonight, darling?”Content rights by NôvelDr//ama.Org.

“I learned how to practice using . . .”

“Practice using . . . heroin? Coke?”

“Using. My. Gift.”

“Are you aware of what your supposed Gift is?”

“Yes,” she says, dragging out the word, turning her eyes on me.

I don’t know how seriously to take this, as she’s clearly out of it, and Goose is practically clueless. “So, what? You thought you’d engage in a spot of casual murder this evening?”

Her eyes narrow. “No,” she says, and her voice sharpens a bit. “I didn’t kill anyone.”

“Then what did you do? And what, precisely, did Leo and Sophie do while you were at it?”

A slow, one-shouldered shrug. “They helped me. Showed me how they started practicing to make the stronger.”

“And you think that’s a good idea for you. Really.” I look at this slip of a girl and wonder, fleetingly and for the first time, if I help her undress tonight, will there be someone else’s blood on her skin? Or just on her hands?

“I think it’s good to learn how to control it,” she says.

“Surely.” She’s still drunk with whatever energy’s coursing through her—I don’t know that I’m making out the tenor of it. I hear one rhapsodic note wavering above the rest. But it is wavering. If it’s Mara, it’ll wear off soon enough. And while she’s like this, I wonder . . .

Daniel and I have both shied away from the slightest implication that Mara could be responsible for what’s happened to the others, so it didn’t occur to me to bring up my conversation with Stella with him.

But now, here, alone with Mara like this—her tongue might be loose enough to trust.

“Where’s your scalpel?” I ask.

Her spine straightens at the word. “What?”

“Where is it?”

Her shoulders lift into a shrug. “I don’t have one, why would I—”

This time, I do hear her sound change. Liar, liar. “Is it on you?”

That wicked smile. “Maybe.”

“Well,” I say, “Isn’t this a dangerous game.”

Mara’s eyes take on that cat-slant. “I’m not playing.”

I take her by the wrist, lift her up to standing. She’s sober enough that she doesn’t sway. Much.

“Put your hands on the wall,” I say, and tip my head toward it.

She arches an eyebrow.

“Go on, then.”

She crosses the living area carefully, but makes it to the wall. She splays her palms against the flat white paint, and I stop inches from her body.

“Spread your legs.”

She laughs, full throated, sounding more and more like herself, which means I’m running out of time before she kicks back in and outsmarts me. “Is this foreplay?”

“If you’re lucky,” I say, and crouch down to her ankles. I run my hands up beneath the cuffed hem of her torn jeans, then over them in a neat line up to her hips. Nothing. I shift and trace my fingers along the inseam—she shivers just before I reach where she wants them most. I switch to her stomach, running them up over her shirt just before I reach her breasts, then under. My head is tilted down to hers, a few strands of my own hair mingling with her dark waves, my rough jaw meeting her smooth cheekbone. It’s our only point of contact—our bodies aren’t touching at all—but the charge is explosive, the air searing white, edging out every other thought that isn’t her. I stop because I need to find that scalpel, if it exists, and if I don’t look now—

She feels me hesitate, turns, gives me a look; a dare. “What?”

My eyes drop to her chest. I catch her smile.

“Looking for something?” Can’t tell if she’s mocking or serious, still high or dead sober.

“Do you have something for me to find?” I ask.

She takes my hand, weaves her fingers through mine, and leads me upstairs. The city’s lit beyond the glass, but the moon is full and outlines her curves in shadow and light. I close the door behind us, and she pushes me up against it with the full force of her.

Her mouth is on mine, her hands on my waist and in my hair—there isn’t one false move, one wrong note. Every movement, every touch, every kiss is where I want it and how I want it, like she’s inside of my head, unspooling my thoughts and following along. I begin to lift the hem of her shirt, and she traces her lips along my neck, tilts her head up, and whispers, “I’m going to shower.” Bites my earlobe with those sharp little teeth. “Come with?”

It might’ve been the teeth, or her flawless execution of my fantasy, but I tug on her tank, lowering it. “Wait,” I say. The half grin on her mouth falters. I press myself against her, push her back against the bed.

“I’m really dirty—”

“I know,” I say.

“No, seriously—”

We edge up to the bed until she’s standing up against the mattress. Looks up at me through a fringe of dark lashes, her gorgeous face half hidden in a tumble of hair.

“Turn around.”

I wonder if she’ll refuse. She doesn’t. She tucks away a smile though, intimate, full of mischief.

“Bend over,” I say.

She obeys, to my surprise, bending at the waist over the edge of the bed, stretching her feline outline in front of me. I slip my hands up beneath her shirt, then lower. Dip them into the loose waistband of her jeans, then lower. My breath hitches at the sensation of cold steel slicing through my fingertip. My hand curls around the scalpel tucked into the elastic of her underwear. God knows how she’s managed not to stab herself—or me—before now.

I hear the smile in her voice, smudged by her cheek pressed against the bed. “How did that get in there?”

“Yes. How?”

She turns over, still bent at the waist, chest rising and falling as she bites her lip.

“Why do you have this?” I ask, like I’m asking why she chose to wear those jeans today.

“It makes me feel safe,” she says plainly.

I turn it over carefully, wondering if this is, as Stella said, what she used to cut down her enemies. I turn over Mara’s lie as well.

It’s a trophy. I can’t deny it, not even to myself.

“Hey.” She stands, and since I haven’t moved, she’s up against me, her knee between my legs. She tilts her head up to kiss me, and with one hand, reaches for the scalpel, which is now behind my back.

I press my palm against her breastbone and step back, needing the distance, needing a breath. Mara backs up, bounces lightly onto the bed.

“Noah,” she says, and the sound of her voice seizes my heart even now. She blinks slowly, her eyelashes dusting her cheekbones. She looks like art, a living sculpture. And then she speaks.

“Come to bed,” she says silkily.

I bend down to her ear, feel her smile against my cheek. “Sleep it off, sweetheart.”

Then I leave the room, leaving a trail of blood behind me.

Oh God, Simon. My hands shake, my words—I can scarcely bring myself to write this, though it’s been a fortnight already. But I must. You would want to know; and I believe you do know my thoughts as I write them. Perhaps it will give me some measure of peace.

The night began so beautifully. Her wedding was glorious—her dress like no other. She looked so rare and exotic and exquisite, her husband could not take his eyes from her, and neither could anyone else. I thought to-night, having invited everyone who matters from society, they would finally understand: The colour of her skin does not make her any less. If anything, the way the spun gold in her white dress reflects the bronze of her skin, they should have seen that she was more. So much more. More beautiful, more elegant, more intelligent, more accomplished—more. The blondes and brunettes in their common dresses with their common conversation and common skills were no match for my daughter—I have come to think of her that way, husband. My daughter. The one I always wanted and never had.

The authorities showed up near dawn. They were shown into the sitting room, their hats and coats still on, dripping, puddling rainwater onto the floor.

When you died, they allowed Mrs. Dover to take their hats and coats, and they sat with me while I cried.

This night, they did not let me sit.

Mrs. Dover woke me, knocking quite loudly on my door, opening it before I could answer. She stood there as I awakened, carrying her candle. I felt as though I’d been caught in tar, my dreams still staining my mind with blood.

“What is it?” I asked, my voice husky with sleep.

“I’m sorry, my lady, you must come downstairs at once.”

The panic I felt, Simon! “Is it the boys? Elliot, Simon, are they—”

“They’re sleeping, they’re well,” Mrs. Dover assured me. It’s—the police, my lady. They refuse to tell me their business. They refused Albert as well. They demand your presence immediately. Come now, let’s get you dressed, all right?”

I didn’t answer, but I stood, trembling, and allowed her to slip on whatever clothing she could over my dressing gown; my fingers were frozen. I felt a terror I couldn’t yet grasp, but I felt it.

Mrs. Dover led me down the stairs, arm in arm, as if I were feeble. When we reached the brightly lit sitting room, my eyes skimmed their faces, some of which seemed to mirror mine, which terrified me further.

“Lady Shaw,” one of them began. “There’s been”—he struggled for the appropriate word—“there’s been a murder.”

My hand covered my mouth. Mara. My Mara.

“Is it my—” I almost said “daughter.” “Is it my niece?” She was Mrs. Christensen now.

The inspector met my gaze directly. “Her husband, Mr. Christensen, I’m afraid. The servants heard nothing, but one reported passing their bedroom earlier than usual, unable to sleep, and said that though she heard nothing, she felt compelled to check on them. When she knocked on their door and received no answer, she took it upon herself to fetch the master key, and unlocked it. Her screams woke the house.”

“Mr. Christensen was found in their bed. Mrs. Christensen was not,” a different inspector said.

“I don’t understand,” I insisted. “Was she taken? Kidnapped? Could her husband simply be ill or—”

“There was blood. On the bed.”

“Well, naturally,” I said, losing all sense of propriety. “It was their wedding night!”

“No, my lady.” The inspector looked down, embarrassed. “There was much of it. And none in him.”

“We must find my niece at once!” I insisted. “She’s in danger!”

“One of the other servants reported seeing her in her travelling cloak leaving the house at about that hour. We are searching for her now, rest assured.”

But I could not rest, not that night nor any thereafter. I will not mourn her, cannot believe that she has died. I cling to the desperate hope that she had been stolen, somehow, but was alive, and we would be reunited someday in life.

But there are whisperings, Simon. That she fled in the night with a demon. That she was a demon, one we had foolishly welcomed into our home and let settle into our family to feed on our kindness and generosity and love like a tick, until she’d grown full, and found someone else to feed on.

I cannot believe it. I must not. But God forgive me, husband, I dream it. A vision covered in blood in her dressing gown, staring down at her new husband—it haunts me every night.

I am cursed.