Chapter I

The sun's rays could not penetrate the inky darkness that poisoned the alleyway like a black cloud. Even the boisterous sounds from the market square seemed muffled by the void. Filmy water puddled along the base of one wall, fouled by decades of accumulated grime. One puddle at the alley's mouth managed to catch a small flash of light, reflecting in bruise-colored hues the brightly colored scene mere feet away.

A large boot suddenly splashed through the puddle and sent the images scattering. The boot's owner ran straight out of the alley and collided with the girl walking past. He bumped into her shoulder, and she spun wildly, dropping her brown paper packages.

“Hey! Watch where you're --” She shouted after him, but he was already gone, snaking out of sight through the startled crowds. The girl cursed under her breath and bent to collect her packages, long auburn hair falling like a curtain around her face. She straightened, and was about to continue on her way when she froze. She cocked her head to one side, listening. A sound, very faint, but audible. There was something in the alley.

Someone, she thought to herself, instantly feeling panic's icy grip tightening around her chest. She listened more intently and recognized the sounds from within not as those of menace, but of a creature in pain. Thinking immediately of the man who had almost knocked her down, she hesitated. Torn, she chewed on her bottom lip. The right thing would be to offer any help she could, but the prudent thing would be to steer clear of any danger. She heard the sound again and gripped her packages more tightly. Oh all right, she thought, and took a tentative step into the mouth of the alley.

Almost immediately, the roar of the crowds in the square disappeared, swallowed up by the gloom. The cry came again, this time more recognizable: a wet, choking cough. She took another step, and another, until she had reached the back end of the alley. Blinking furiously to adjust eyes that had been squinting in the daylight mere seconds ago, she struggled to see what lay ahead. She heard the cough once more, inches away. She looked down. Her hands flew to her mouth and her packages tumbled to the grimy concrete. A man was sitting slumped against the crumbling brick wall – more of a boy really, hardly older than she. The girl gasped. Protruding from his stomach was the long, curved blade of a knife.

* * *

She knew she should be screaming; the sound was clawing at her throat, begging to be released. She clamped her lips shut and started to pace, hardly daring to glance at the boy at her feet. She whirled about suddenly and squatted down next to him, eyes wide, lips parted in the questions she didn't want to ask. Her bottom lip quivered and she raked her hands through her hair, chewing on her lip again.

“That's not a very good habit, you know. You might hurt yourself.”

Her head snapped up, hands falling slowly to rest on her knees. She scanned the walls around her but saw no one.

“Relax, I'm right here, and unless you fall on top of me I'm not going to hurt you.”

Forgetting her initial repulsion, the girl dropped from her squatting position and sat down hard on the cold concrete. “You,” she said, so quietly the boy barely heard her. “You're. . .alive? But-but-there's a knife in your stomach!” He rolled his eyes.

“Yes, I can see that,” he said, succumbing to another coughing fit. He spat, and a thin red line trickled from the corner of his mouth. He lifted his hand to wipe it away but couldn't manage to raise it more than a few inches. He lapsed into another bout of coughing, black hair falling forward into his eyes as he jerked forwards. The girl reached out and grabbed him by the shoulders, easing him gently back against the wall. He took a few rattling breaths and regarded her with the clearest blue eyes she had ever seen. She shook her head before she lost herself in them.

“I need your help,” the boy said. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “I need you to grab the knife -- with both hands, you don't look too strong -- and pull it out. Understand?” He opened on eye and peered at her. She gaped back at him, open-mouthed.

“What? Pull it. . .No, no you need a surgeon!” she said, tugging at her hair. “You need to be in a hospital, I'll call someone, I'll get help, let me just --”

“No.” He cut her off. “It has to be you. No hospitals, no other people. Now come on, it's not that hard. Do I need to repeat myself? Grab knife. Remove. End of story. Come on!”

“Stop yelling at me!” she screamed, grabbing the sides of her head. “I. . . this is ridiculous. This isn't real. How did this happen? How are you still alive? And I'm not stupid, either. Do you have a death wish? If I pull that knife out, you're going to bleed all over the place, and, most likely, you're going to die.”

“I probably am,” he said, dipping his head. “Please,” he whispered, “you have to do this for me. I've been suffering her for far too long already.” When he saw her wince and start chewing on her lip again, he rolled his eyes. “Please!”

“All right! All right.” She tucked her legs underneath her and sat up on her knees, and then shuffled forward until she was kneeling right beside him. Even in the inky darkness of the alley, she could tell how pale his skin was, how colorless his lips were. He's dying, she thought, and I'm about to speed up the process.

The boy's eyelids slid shut as her slim hands closed around the handle of the knife. She readjusted her fingers and shifted her weight. Closing her eyes, she tightened her grip. Just as quickly, her eyes snapped open again, and she let go of the knife as though it had burned her.

“Oh for the love of -- what is wrong with you?” the boy asked, his breathing shallow.

“I can't do it just yet,” she said, wiping her hands on her jeans. They were slick with blood.

“What do you mean you can't do it? Want me to say 'one, two, three, go'? Ready? One, two, three, go!” The exertion had propelled him almost to an upright sitting position, and a fresh wave of blood flowed out over the handle of the knife. He fell back, groaning.

“No! I just. . .What's your name?” she asked, feeling suddenly foolish. He just stared at her. “You heard me! Tell me your name. Tell me or I won't help you.”

He grinned, shaking his head. “You are a piece of work, you know that? Fine. I tell you my name and you remove this knife from my gut. Agreed?” She nodded. “Fine,” he said. “My name is Damian.” She gave him a small smile, and he continued. “Care to tell me yours before you forcefully remove a sharp object from my person?”

“Charlie,” she said. At his raised eyebrow, she quickly added, “It's a nickname, short for Charlotte. But if you ever call me that, so help me --”

“All right, understood,” Damian said, raising his palms a few inches. “If you insist. Charlie.”

Charlie sighed, flashed him a smile, and yanked the knife free.

* * *

Damian roared and thrashed as Charlie tried to remove his jacket. She wadded it up and pressed it against the gaping wound below his ribs. He shouted some creative swear words that even Charlie had never heard and squeezed his eyes shut, kicking and rolling. Charlie held him down firmly, and eventually he fell still, panting as though he had just run a marathon.

“Ow!” he howled, glaring at her.

“What?” she shouted right back. “You told me to pull it out! I did exactly as you asked!”

“I didn't think you'd just yank it out like that when I wasn't paying attention!”

“Well, it's out now, isn't it? And -- hang on a minute, why are you still alive?” she asked, peering at him.

“Excuse me?” Damian sat up, still leaning against the wall behind him. He raised an eyebrow at her. Charlie reached for his jacket, and he folded his arms protectively across his middle. Glaring at him, she tugged at the jacket. He released it and rolled his eyes. Charlie peered at his abdomen, concern and rapid confusion flitting across her features.

“Wait. . .what's going on? Damian?”

He sighed, gently removed her hands, and pulled down his black t-shirt, covering the wound. Already, the hole was closing as new skin knit itself together and sealed the puncture. “I'm fine,” Damian said. He abruptly stood up, and, after pausing to steady himself for a few seconds, grabbed his bloodstained jacket and marched from the alley.

Charlie remained seated on the concrete for a few seconds, brow furrowed. She stared after Damian before collecting up her packages and stumbling along behind him. She emerged into the sunlit square blinking and disoriented. Passers-by didn't give her a second glance as they went on their way. They paused only to glance among the variety of items being sold at the stalls lining the square. Charlie whipped her head from side to side, hoping to catch a glimpse of the boy who, moments before, seemed certain to die.

“Where are you?” she said to herself, squinting. Suddenly she spotted him; on the other side of the square, the boy's black cargo pants and black t-shirt stood out from the vibrant colors around him. Charlie hurried across the open center, trying to keep him in her sights without bumping into anyone. By the time she had reached the other side, though, he had disappeared again, down one of the man side streets. Muttering to herself and cursing under her breath, Charlie tore after him, hampered by the bulky packages.

Something's not right, she thought, this can't be happening. No one gets up and walks away from an injury like that! But Damian, he seems to be running away! Where is he?

She rounded another corner sharply and almost collided with the man leaning against the wall. “Oh my gosh, I am so sorry,” she said, sidestepping quickly. Charlie looked up and did a double-take. “Damian?” He only rolled his eyes at her, but that made her all the more furious. “Hey!” she shouted as he started moving again, “what is wrong with you? You can't just. . .just get up and walk away like that! First of all, that shouldn't even be possible, I saw you, I saw the knife!” She paused, realizing that she had left the knife in the alley. “And secondly, how did it get there in the first place? Why would someone stab you like that? Who are you? What are you doing--”

“Has anyone ever told you that you talk to much?” Damian asked, rounding on her. She almost walked straight into him he had turned so quickly. “What do you think I'm doing? I am going back to my hotel room, where I am going to get myself some coffee and take a nap. Then I am getting out of this city and moving on to the next one. Not,” he added, turning down another side street, “that any of this is any of your business!”

Charlie followed hard on his heels, indignant. “What are you talking about? I think some of this is my business! I mean, without me, you would be stuck in that stupid alleyway, wouldn't you? You'd still be sitting there with a knife in your gut; you should thank me!”

“You want me to thank you?” he called over his shoulder. “Fine! Thank you for butting in on a situation that has nothing to do with you.” He threw his arms up in the air and sped up, shaking his head. A large, silver ring glinted on the thumb of his right hand, and a leather bracelet encircled his wrist. Charlie fumed. Damian, seeming not to notice the waves of anger that she was directing at his head, continued on, maneuvering skillfully through the pedestrians surrounding him. Charlie stumbled on behind him, trying to see over the pile in her arms.

Upon reaching a tall, crumbling building, Damian ducked inside. Charlie almost didn't see him turn; she caught the door with her foot and edged in backwards, using her shoulder to prop open the door. She gazed at the room around her. She was in a hotel lobby, packed tightly with overstuffed sofas and dust-covered side tables. The lamp overhead glowed a dull orange, giving the place even more of a dilapidated feel. Had she been able, had both of her hands not been holding the packages, Charlie would have grasped one of the protective charms hung around her neck. Her mother had called her superstitious -- among other, unprintable names -- but Charlie didn't care; they were comforting. The lobby was empty save for a tired looking woman behind the desk, chewing absently on a piece of gum.

“What can I do for you?” she trawled in a thick, Boston accent. Charlie blinked at her. The woman's face was so caked with make-up that she might have had a completely different face underneath. Charlie wasn't that surprised, though. This was San Francisco; she'd seen her share of weird. “Sugar, can you hear me? Do you speak English?” The woman shook her cigarette at Charlie, who jumped.

“What? Oh, yes, yes I understand. Um, the boy who just came in here. . .You wouldn't be able to tell me which room he's staying in, would you?” She bit her lip as the woman settled back in her chair.

“I'm going to give you some advice, sugar, pay attention. You stay away from boys like him, you hear? You're a pretty girl, nice red hair, big grey eyes, tall. . .You seem sweet. I don't know what that boy told you, but he's trouble, sugar, trouble. They all are. Trust me,” she said, jabbing her cigarette butt viciously into a metal ash tray.

“E-excuse me?” Charlie said, frowning. “Oh. . .oh! You think that I -- oh, no, never, not him, I mean, no, it's not what you think. He's just. . .a friend of mine,” she finished, lamely, hoping the lie wasn't too blatant.

“Well, for your sake, sugar, I hope it stays that way, “she said, lighting a fresh cigarette. “He's on the third floor in room 306.”