Chapter 9

ON THE WAY OUT I stop to say goodbye to Jade.

Jade looks up from the latte he's making.

"What are your plans for the rest of the night?" He asks.

"Home. YouTube. Dinner," I answer. What I don't mention is that by YouTube I mean I'll be lounging around in my pjs crying over Fable music videos. And by dinner I mean pistachio ice cream. Probably a whole tub.

With mom and dad working in the kitchens until late every Friday, I basically have free reign.

"Sounds fun. That reminds me though..." he leans across the counter, tucking a loose strand of sandy blonde hair behind his ear. "Why didn't you go with your friends to the concert? I thought you loved Fable. Like, a die-hard super fan."

There's no sarcasm in his voice.

One of the things I admire most about Jade is how he's so accepting, and he actually makes an effort to see from other people's point of view. I doubt he listens to Fable – he told me once that he mostly listens to old retro stuff from the 80s – but he's never once mocked me for listening to them.

Compared to Alix, he's basically Prince Charming.

"I do love them. I really wanted to go..." I don't know how to say it without sounding like a neurotic wreck. "It's complicated. Crowds, screaming."

His face suddenly changes. Jade knows the whole story. My parents told him. "Of course. I forgot. Sorry."

"It's ok," I try to reassure him, feeling extremely stupid. Jamie's right. I really am ruining my own life.

"Anyway, I'll head off then."

"Sure, see you next Friday." Jade winks at me.

I turn around to pick up my guitar where I've leaned it against the counter. It's gone.

I look up and see that the guy with the dark sunglasses from earlier is standing right next to me, holding my guitar, his face hidden in the shadows of his hoodie.

"Excuse me, but why are–" I begin, before he cuts me off.

"Just follow me. Don't make a scene," he says, and strides out the door with my guitar before I can protest. I look across the counter but Jade missed it – he's already left his spot and is delivering a latte to a table on the opposite side of the cafe.

I have no choice but to follow the guitar-thief outside and get my property back myself.

The guy is waiting outside the front door when I walk out.

What's the hell is he doing?

I'm losing my patience quickly. For a moment, seething anger eclipses my natural timidity, and I forget to be shy.

"Give it back," I say, practically spitting out the words. I can feel my whole body shaking – whether it's from fear or rage, I don't know, and I don't care. He has no clue what this guitar means to me. I'm not going to let him take it without a fight.

I squint my eyes in the gathering twilight, trying to make out his features. It's not easy, with his face hidden in the shadows of his hoodie.

There are a couple of people walking down the street, so if he tries to run away with the guitar I'll yell. He's tall and could probably easily overpower me, but he's just standing dead still, staying put. Staring at me through those dark shades of his.

Scary.

The handle of my guitar case is still firmly clenched in his hand. His head is cocked slightly to the side, like he's trying to figure something out. Trying to decide on something. For a moment I'm reminded of a cat watching its prey, and I can feel my heartbeat speed up ever so slightly. Danger.

Then he turns away and holds his free hand up in a half wave, looking down the road. A signal. Oh my god. He's part of a gang. He's calling his friends.

"Give it back," I say, stepping forward and getting ready to fling myself at him. "Now."

"Why?" He asks. "You don't need it. Not where we're going."

The words sink in. He's going to take me somewhere. Him and his gang. He intends to kidnap me. My body tenses, but before I can spring into action and sprint away, I remember that he's still got my guitar. I swallow down my fear, trying to hide the shakiness creeping into my voice.

"Look, just give me back my guitar, " I say between clenched teeth, still trying to make out his features in the shadows. I can't figure out how old he is – he could be anywhere from his late teens to early twenties.

"No," he says.

He's looking down the road in the direction he signaled. I have to get my guitar back now.

"Give it back, or I'll scream," I say.

His quiet laughter sounds almost mocking. "Go ahead. It's not going to change the situation. Your guitar is coming with me, and so are you."

He's taller than me, and I know it's hopeless, but I lunge at him. He dodges me so quickly that I don't realize he's grabbed my wrist and pinned my back against him until I hear his cold, bored voice right next to my ear.

"Fine. Have it your way then," he says. "It's not like I need the trouble."

He releases my wrist roughly, and I swipe my hand up at his face as I stumble backwards and land on the sidewalk.

I managed to knock his shades off, and they clatter onto the concrete next to me.

He bends down to pick them up, inspecting them for a moment while I scramble up on to my feet. He mutters a few words that sound like "disgusting" and "ruined", before tossing the shades into the bushes that line the front of the Night Owl. His eyes flash angrily in my direction.

Without the glasses, I can see his eyes. Cold, dark hazel eyes glinting with disdain.

He pushes back his hoodie.

I find myself looking into a face I know better than my own reflection.

Oh my god. It's Felix Lockhart.