CHAPTER 1: GIRL IN RED

PERCY

Paris in deep winter looked like an unfinished painting. Shrouded in snow and thick mist, the deep red ochre of the houses around this area showed through the city's white canvas in impressionistic splashes of vibrance. The air was so crisp, I could watch the pale haze of my breathing billow away on the breeze.

I loved it here. Over the past seven years of running, out of the myriad of places I'd stayed, I had to admit that France had grown on me the most. Travelling was relatively simple, especially in Paris with its Métro system. There were plenty of old, abandoned places where I could squat. Even the language was nice; it was gorgeously ardent and easy to understand. Although I wasn't quite fluent, I was getting there.

Now I was reluctant to leave, even though I'd stayed still for too long already. False documents and false identities could only get you so far. And cities were a risk—there were cameras everywhere, their cold eyes hard and unblinking. One slip-up, and the past I had spent nearly half my life running from would return to drag me down again.

Across the city, I watched the sunrise. It crested, a flame-red flower blossoming on the horizon. Sharp shards of crimson sliced through the now-brightening sky. It was beautiful, I supposed, but every new sunset's arrival reminded me of my dwindling borrowed time.

Days were slipping through my outstretched fingers faster than I could seize them, each second a fine grain of sand rushing through an hourglass.

I dragged my feet as my thoughts spiralled, eyes trained on the ground. With every step, my dirty trainers stained a new, muddy footprint into the once white fresh snowfall. I should leave the day after tomorrow, after I'd gathered my things and re-dyed my hair. I would have to ask Helene for an early paycheck from the café.

By the time I'd finally crossed into the poorer fringes and suburbs of outer Paris, my fingers were blue from cold. I knotted them in the slightly-too-long sleeves of my jacket and tucked them under my arms. It was hard not to shiver.

I was a block away from my most recent home when it began to snow again. At first, the flakes remained gentle and fragile, but it wasn't long until the wind picked up and the snow cascaded down in great, choking sheets, drenching my clothes all the way through to my icy skin.

Soon enough, I made it to the entrance of my decrepit apartment building—a fire escape. The metal railings were laced with frost and freezing under my scarred hands, so I pulled my sleeves down to my palms so as not to touch the metal. I pulled myself onto the platform and started up the ladder, ignoring the unsettling way it swayed beneath my weight. I soon reached my apartment, the penultimate floor.

Apartment, I supposed, was a generous word to use to describe the place I squatted. I lived in one room, and there was no glass in the windows. A mangy, stained carpet sat stagnant on the floorboards and a small camping stove was shoved against the wall. If I wanted to take a piss, I had to go in the café restrooms two streets over. There was no bed frame but two mattresses lay on the ground a few feet apart. One of them was mine, but the other belonged to my friend, Piper.

She and I had met just six months ago when I'd first arrived here looking for someplace to stay. Piper was a struggling musician, and recently things had become so bad that she was reduced to busking on the streets—with the occasional gig in cafés and whichever bar would have her.

As soon as we met, we saw something kindred in each other—a pair of society's castaways. Although we never talked about our respective pasts, nowadays we were usually joint at the hip. Piper and I had a silent agreement: stay out each other's issues, but watch each other's back.

Just as homelessness pushed people apart, it also forced them together.

It was freezing—even within the apartment—so I left on my jacket and shoes. I threw myself down on my mattress and turned onto my back to stare up at the ceiling, tracing the jagged cracks with my eyes and subconsciously finding shapes in the worn plaster. I traced a cloud. A dog. A sword. Letting my mind wander, I pulled out the Jack Daniels cigarette case in my back pocket that had used to be my mom's and lit up a fag. I didn't even take a drag for a few moments, just allowed the cigarette's familiar weight between my fingers to soothe my unquiet thoughts. I placed it between my lips and breathed in, then out. The chalky smoke drifted up in curling white fingers towards the ceiling.

I startled when a harsh clank sounded outside. It was followed by a repeated thumping noise—someone was ascending the ladder. Nobody else except Piper and I knew about the route up here—when the building had fallen into disrepair, all the other doors had been sealed—so I assumed it was her.

Sure enough, half a minute later Piper McLean poked her dark-haired head in, hefting a guitar case behind her. Her eyelashes were white with snowflakes and her grey jacket was soaked through. A bitter scowl tore at her mouth. "Je le déteste," she muttered—I hate him—as she clambered in through the window sill. She landed square on the balls of her feet and dug out her flip phone, already typing away.

I propped myself up on my elbows to watch in amusement, raising my cigarette to my lips as my friend paced back and forth.

"Il est…Il est…" Piper gave a guttural groan of frustration and threw her phone down as hard as she could on the mattress. She backed into the wall and slid down it with a heaving sigh, plopping onto the floor. She stretched her legs out before her and looked me straight in the eye. Piper's voice was thickly accented, her words halting as she switched from French to English; it was her second language. I'd helped her learn this year. "Percy, why are men such arrogant idiots?"

I blew smoke across the room at her. She scowled, flapping a hand to disperse it. "Couldn't tell you," I replied in English. "Is this about Marceau?"

Piper didn't answer the question, just held out a hand, palm up, and beckoned. "Cigarette, please." I obliged and tossed her one. She lit it herself with a baby pink lighter. Only once she'd smoked it for a moment, finding a rare bliss, did she acknowledge the question. Piper leant her head against the wall and closed her eyes and said, "Marceau d'Arco is a lying, cheating piece of merde." She lowered her voice and muttered darkly, "J'espère qu'il mourra seul…" I hope he dies alone.

I rolled my eyes and replied in French: "I told you he wasn't worth it."

Piper smirked, following suit in the same tongue. "No man is, apparently." She stared at her cigarette for a second, transfixed by the faintly glowing embers. She tapped it on her knee, sprinkling loose ash. "You know, I performed for the Les Cariatides bar owner today. Asked if he'd hire me to sing Tuesday evenings."

"He like your voice?"

"Yeah. I thought he was going to sign me, too, but then his wife walked in and threw a fit when she saw my track marks." She raised her arm in emphasis, where under the tatty fabric of her coat there was a myriad of dark, inflamed scars outlining her veins. "Well, she just couldn't have an addict 'staining their reputation.'"

I winced. "Sorry. I know you wanted the job."

Piper fidgeted with her cigarette. "Je m'en fiche."

I decided not to press. "So, you'll be here for a while longer, yeah?"

Piper's mouth quirked in a smile. "Mhmm. Gonna live out the rest of my pathetic life here with you." She cocked her head and pretended to think. "Although, I do get free fags every time I see you. It's like you've got an infinite supply." She grinned, saluting me with her cigarette. "It isn't all bad. Even if this is a shit-hole."

I feigned hurt. "Hold on, shit-hole? Pfft, I don't know what you're talking about." I sat up straight and gestured around. "This place is clearly the height of luxury."

Piper laughed. "Yeah, right. Luxury. It's luxury for pigs."

"Not everyone was a rich brat in their youth, McLean." I snorted derisively. "At least we've got a room."

Piper dodged the low blow. "We're squatting. This isn't even a room, this is a graveyard waiting to happen." She shivered and glanced up. "The roof could collapse on us right now and nobody would ever know."

"Whatever. This is nice compared to some places I've stayed."

Piper went quiet at the offhand mention of my past and said nothing more. Then she seemed to remember something. She stuck her cigarette in the corner of her mouth and, reaching over her legs, pulled her guitar case towards her. She unclasped it and flipped it open, heaving out her guitar.

After a second of fiddling with the tuning pegs, she adjusted her grip and began to play. Her fingers, rubbed red and raw from plucking and strumming nylon strings every day for hours on end, started their intricate dance across the fretboard. Piper began to coax a gorgeous melody out of the guitar, head bouncing along. The notes swam through my every heartstring, each one more overwhelmingly innocent and beautiful than the last.

I recognised the song; it was the guitar instrumental of Reason To Love You, a song we'd written together. I was good with lyrics as my mom, Sally, had always liked to play the piano and sing anywhere she could when we'd been on the run. She could never write the novel she'd always wanted to have published, so she wrote songs instead. I remember the long days of travelling, just after we'd first disappeared, when we'd sit together on buses and trains and write lyrics together in her notebook. The sound of my mom's singing and the soft, worn texture of her notebook's leather against my fingertips was one I would carry with me for the rest of my life.

I allowed Piper's playing to wash over me, the swelling chords burning in the back of my throat. The lyrics clawed against my lips, begging to be let out.

And when there came a lull in the song, I obliged them, beginning on the hook.

"Why would you stay when I wasn't your first? Why would you kiss me when I was your worst? Why did I give you my heart, when it was mine? Why did I think we could stand the test of time?" My voice cracked with the strain and emotion, but it sounded like a musician's vice.

Piper's eyes lit up. It'd been a long time since we'd played together, and she cut in with ardour. The English words didn't come naturally to her, and they were thick in her mouth, but that somehow made the song sound strangely enchanting. She came in on a high note. "My darling, I love you, why don't you care? You know that for you, I stripped soul and body bare. My darling, I miss you, why won't you return? Just afford me an answer, it's all I deserve!"

Piper's voice was crystal clear and shone like glass. She had a way of cutting the listener into pieces and then sewing them back together with her singing. She gestured for us to sing together, and we did, harmonising the chorus. "Give me a reason to smile again! Give me a memory to never forget. Give me a kiss that'll set me alight. Look after my heart for me, keep me alive!

"Give me the reason why you upped and left. Give me the reason you said I was best. I'll give you a chance; just say why you lied. Because when you ran, you know, part of me died…" Piper laughed aloud, despite the song's sorrow, evoking a new, lilting melody from her guitar I hadn't heard before. She looked so elated, I was reminded of why she wanted to become a musician so badly.

"Remember that day I swore to stay, together or apart? Remember that evening we danced in bar after bar? Remember that night we slept right under the stars?"

"You can't just say you love me, then forget about the scars…About the scars, and my broken heart…"

In the last verse, our voices dipped low and quiet. Piper's hand stilled flat against her guitar strings, silencing them, letting our voices seize the limelight. Only I sang the lyrics — Piper simply vocalised. Our different styles complimented the song.

"Give me a reason to love you again. Remember those nights that I'll never forget? I'll find you a ring that'll bind you to me; forget about reason, it'll work, you wait and see…" The song ended. I trailed off with a final fervent note that hung in the cool, smoke-riddled air. Several heartbeats later, I realised I'd forgotten to breathe.

Piper laughed. She didn't even sound tired. "That was amazing!" she said. "Jackson, you have to sing with me tonight in the bar. We should be a duo. S'il vous plaît! Please!"

A grin split my face as I nodded. I'd hardly remembered what a perfect catharsis music was for me. Right then, anyone could have asked me to come conquer the world with them, and I would've agreed.

We pulled up to the bar, our cab's wheels screeching on the snow-slick gravel road. "Merci," I smiled, pouring a fistful of change into the driver's outstretched palm. Piper and I clambered out, slamming the doors behind us, and the car sped off into the night.

Piper bumped my shoulder as we stepped onto the sidewalk, adjusting her guitar behind her. "You ready?" she asked in French. Her lipstick was darker than tar and her eyelids were coated in a shimmering, almost holographic silver that set off her vibrant eyes. She wore her signature, slightly trashy black dress that was slit to the waist, and her bare neck was strapped with a simple matching choker. Even despite the ugly red track marks on her forearms, she looked incredible. Every inch the performer I knew she was made to be.

I swallowed my nerves. "Born ready," I lied. Fidgeting with the hem of my suit, I stared up at the run-down bar. Dozens of Friday-night clubbers staggered in through the door, laughing and chattering, a drink clutched in one hand and a friend in the other.

Piper grinned. "Come on," she said. "Let's go make them love us."

We strode in with the crowds. The inside of the bar was just as derelict as the outside, but that somehow worked in its favour—the general worn, second-hand quality of the place created a unique quirk and vintage allure. Dozens of chairs and tables were congregated around the perimeter of the bar, surrounding a makeshift dance floor. Several old-fashioned jukeboxes lined the walls and a large stage was raised at the front, but no one was performing just now. At 10:45, that was where we would sing.

Piper swept past me, squealing. She flat-out ran towards the bar counter where a barmaid had leapt over the table to get to her, knocking over several wine glasses in the process. "Oh mon Dieu! Roxanne!" The pair of girls flew at each other and melted into a tight hug.

Roxanne laughed aloud. "McLean! Jesus, it's been forever. How're you holding up?" She smoothed down her nimbus of thick black curls, a shy smile tugging at her mouth. "You look beautiful, by the way." To my surprise, Roxanne sounded American. Like me, she wasn't Parisian.

Piper blushed. "I'm good, thanks. You look amazing too." She switched to English for the barmaid, although I figured Roxanne would probably speak at least a little French anyway if she worked here.

I stepped in beside them both, brow cocked. "Pipes, who's this?" I asked.

Roxanne cut in before Piper could reply. "My name's Roxanne. You're American too?" She gestured loosely at her mouth, meaning my accent. Her lips were dusted gold, as were her bare, brown shoulders.

I nodded, returning her warm smile. "Yeah. I've only been staying in Paris for six months." It was true, actually. I was American; I'd lived in New York seven years ago, before Mom and I ran. Even if my false documents did currently say I'd been born in Paris.

Roxanne grinned. "Neat. What's your name? Are you a friend of Piper's?"

"I'm Percy," I answered. "And yeah, I guess. We met when I first arrived in Paris."

"He's performing with me," Piper supplied. She patted her guitar lovingly. "I need an extra voice for the songs I'd like to do, and Percy is amazing."

Roxanne folded her arms, smiling. "Oh, really?" She tossed her hair and met my eyes. "I bet you're not as good as me."

"Oh, he's not," Piper said in all seriousness. I gasped, feigning offence, and we all laughed. Roxanne offered us a couple free beers, but I declined—I didn't drink. I had too many secrets to risk it, and anyway I hated to lose control. Piper grabbed Roxanne's arm and dragged her off to the dance floor, laughing. I watched them with a sad smile as they danced together, spinning around each other like two planets caught in orbit, destined for chaotic, beautiful collision.

I wondered what the history was between those two.

Someone tapped my shoulder. I tensed and spun around, startled. My fingers instinctively curled into a fist.

A young man stood behind me. His hair was black. His hands were adorned with several silver rings, and both his right ear and brow were studded. When he brushed a fallen lock of hair out of his eyes, I blanched. His irises were red—darkly crimson, like distilled blood.

He smiled, and I was seized by the desire to turn away from his face. Though he was good-looking, his features were too rigid. His face was a mess of thick, sprawling lines and deep contours, his lips dark and curved. To look at him was like staring into a spotlight.

"Salut," the young man said, extending a ringed hand for me to shake.

After a heartbeat's hesitation, I accepted it. It was cold as death beneath mine. I recognised him, I swear to God. "Bonjour," I answered, voice hesitant as I summoned the French. "Désolé, on se connaît?" Sorry, do we know each other?

The stranger smirked and switched easily to English. "Don't remember me, pretty boy?"

Everything clicked. I stumbled back, trying to ignore the hammering in my heart. "Cupid—what are you doing here?"

Cupid laughed. "I could ask the same." His voice was heavily accented, almost italicised. "Well, I'm not here for you, if that's what you're asking." He inclined his head, baring his pearl-white teeth in a dangerous grin. "Though it's nice to bump into a childhood friend."

Digging my nails into my palms, I gave a sour laugh. My whole body was tense. I wanted to kill this jerk. "Wow, you're still the same bitchy little kid I remember. Seven years and you haven't changed at all."

"What, changed like this?" He reached up and tugged on a strand of my muted red hair. I slapped his hand away in disgust and he chuckled. "That dye job's pretty good, Jackson. Did you do it yourself?"

I rolled my eyes and studied him with contempt. "Why're you really here, then? Still leashed to your daddy?" I sneered. "Do you still run around getting your hands dirty for him?"

He waved a hand, unfazed. "That's family business. It's nothing to concern you." His eyes gleamed cruelly. "Speaking of family, how's your mother?"

A cold, killing calm washed over me. I stepped forward and hissed, "Shut your mouth before I punch it shut."

Cupid had the nerve to laugh. "Down, dog. It's not my fault your darling mommy offed herself—"

Seething, I swung at him, a thousand profanities roaring inside my head. My knuckles smacked against bone, against tender lip. Cupid staggered, clutching his cheek. Massaging his jaw, he slowly drew himself up, a violent smile stretched across his face. "Oh, Jackson. You shouldn't have done that."

I snarled, "Why not, asshole?"

"Because," he said, voice sweet as honey, dripping with a threat barely contained, "right now, our enemies are the same. I have no reason to whisper about you, bunny. Yet."

A cool, liquid fear pooled in my lungs. I swallowed it. "Cupid, I…I'm not caught up in that anymore. I've cut my ties. I'm clean."

"Oh, you are?" He shrugged exaggeratedly, smile toxic. "So you learnt an entirely new language for the hell of it? You crossed continents for fun? You say you're not running from anything, bunny. So are you meaning to tell me," he leant close, and I suddenly could not shake the feeling of being cornered, "that you really just like the look of this lovely red hair and those perfect silicon blue eyes? That you don't wear them to cover your natural green and black?"

I twitched, trying to check my flight response. Cupid was now so close I could see the greenish bruise forming where I'd punched him. He took my collar in his hand, pulling me close, and knotted his fingers deep into the fabric. Slowly, he leaned forward next to my ear. I tensed. Every nerve in my body screamed at me to flee.

Cupid was silent for just a few seconds, but—as frozen as I was in my terror—it felt like hours. When he finally spoke, the words were low, dangerous, their warning implicit. His breath was disgustingly hot against my jaw. "You smell of war and running, Jackson. He'll sniff you out eventually. Mark my words." With a serpentine smile, Cupid stepped back. Inclining his head in mock respect, he melted back into the crowd.

I realised I'd been forgetting to breathe. With a shuddering gasp, I tried to control my breathing, curling my scarred hands into fists so they wouldn't shake. I'd run out of time. I was going to get caught. He was going to find me, I knew it—

Someone said my name, and I turned to find Piper and Roxanne standing behind me. They were smiling, oblivious, their eyes alight. Piper's arm was curled around Roxanne's waist, a thumb hooked neatly through her belt loop. "So, it's nearly eleven."

I said nothing, but glanced up at the stage. It was empty. Waiting. "It's, uh…it's time, huh?"

Roxanne grinned up at Piper, pulling her close for a moment. "You'll be amazing," she murmured. Then, disentangling herself from Piper, she took my shoulders and shook me hard, fire in her eyes. "You got this, Jackson. Don't be a wimp." I squared my shoulders, trying not to look helpless.

Piper smiled gratefully at Roxanne, then turned to me. "Alright, let's go," Piper said, adjusting her guitar case on her shoulder. Together, we headed toward the stage.

"Bonsoir à tous! Prochaine performance: Piper McLean et Percy Jackson!"

I peeked from backstage. No one was paying attention anyway, thank God. Everything was going to be fine.

I turned to Piper, who was busy tuning her guitar. "Do I look okay?" I asked.

Piper nodded distractedly, barely sparing me a glance. She pressed an ear against her guitar's wooden body as she fiddled with the pegs, turning them expertly this way and that. "Mhmm. You look good. Okay," she gave a satisfied smile. "I think that's alright. Are your hands warmed up enough?"

"Yeah."

"Ready to get out there?"

"...Yeah."

Piper punched my arm playfully. "No need to be so nervous. Just have a good time. They're not paying us much for this, you know." She laughed, reaching up to smooth down my unruly hair. Then, without warning, she walked out onto the stage.

I hurried to follow, plastering a show business smile on my face. I looked out at the audience, squinting against the dazzlingly bright stage lights. Most of the audience paid our arrival no heed, either unbothered by the music or too drunk to care, but a small fraction clapped politely. One screamed, "McLean!"It sounded like Roxanne.

A keyboard waited centre stage. I sat down at it, tilting the microphone toward my chin level.

Piper adjusted her own mic, smiling and chatting to the audience, who laughed along with each joke. She was good at this. I stayed silent, content to be secondary. Flexing my fingers, I placed my hands gently on the keyboard, shifting my feet on the electric pedals. I took a few deep breaths and looked up at Piper, ready for a cue. Then, when she quietly counted us in: "Un, deux, trois, quatre," I began to play.

The song started tentatively, my fingers barely brushing the keys, cautiously shallow. I played, and Piper strummed and sang—her gorgeous, swelling trill cut ribbons through the air, spiralling higher and higher with each verse. My hands roamed this ivory sea of black and white, coaxing out a vibrant, easy melody. My heart sat in my throat. I could hardly breathe.

I came in. My voice joined hers, the French words full and rich on my tongue. Adrenaline licked the walls of my veins; it took all my effort to not speed up, to stay in tempo. Eventually, we fell into the music.

For the first song, I didn't look up from the keyboard, even for a second. Though the bar wasn't that full, it felt as though a hundred thousand eyes were on me, finding my faults, stripping me down in front of them. It wasn't until partway through the second that I dared glance up and acknowledge the audience. When I did, it wasn't that bad. Some people just watched, most danced, and others laughed and smiled at us, bobbing their heads to the rhythm as they sipped their drinks.

We played song after song and though the clubbers became drunker and drunker with every one, they still seemed to love us. I gained a little confidence, even making some witty comments between songs. My voice was straining a bit, but I sang louder than ever. It was the good kind of strain, anyway.

After what felt like lifetimes we finally reached our last song. When Piper announced that our gig was nearly over, we were rewarded by raucous cheering, clapping and cries of "Non, continuer!" No, carry on!

Dozens of new people were congregating at the foot of our stage. Some staggered, dancing drunkenly, raising their cups in salute. I couldn't contain a smile. Despite all this endless running, I'd finally found my scene.

Piper took off her guitar, ducking her head as she pulled off the strap. Removing the mic from the stand, she blew a kiss across the bar to where Roxanne leaned against the counter. Roxanne caught it, pressing her lips against her fingers where the air-kiss had landed.

A red-hot blush blossomed on the tips of Piper's ears. I winked at Roxanne, stifling a laugh. She winked back.

This time, I counted us in, and we plunged into the final song. It was slow, gorgeously lyrical. Every word was thick with assonance. The piano accompaniment was simple; my hands drifted over the keys, entirely certain. And my voice was as sure as my hands—my pitch dipped low, then high, mimicking the rise and fall of a feather caught in a fluctuating breeze. As I sang, my eyes drifted over the audience.

I saw her then.

A girl, swathed in a sleek red dress. It was ragged and ruined, torn to her hip.

My heart twisted in my chest. Those eyes. Bitterly grey, they were like liquid steel, sharp as unyielding ice. I hated them, I loved them, I couldn't decide. It was easier to look at the silken, pale blonde of her riotous hair, twisted loosely in a careless bun aside her cheek. A gorgeous, black ink tattoo sleeve hugged the outside of her left arm—a curling wing.

She looked right at me. Her gaze cut me to pieces, but I'd be damned if I'd look away. A shifting beam of limelight lit up her face in a haze of gold, catching on her lashes. They were delicate and white as death. So feather-like, they framed and softened the cruel severity that was her eyes.

Her face was half shadow, a masquerade of harsh contours and angled planes—but her full, doll lips shattered the illusion. Against her slashing jaw and cheekbones, they looked out of place, a blossom of innocent beauty in the girl's unkind face.

I knew without a doubt that she was not beautiful. No. In her shoulders, her mouth, in the lines of her face lay the tightness of pain and weariness. In her clenched, bruised knuckles there was a silent threat. I was afraid to smile at her. I was afraid to want her. I was afraid of her.

She is not beautiful, I said to myself. She is forbidden. Look away. And I did, tearing my gaze from hers. A cool flood of relief washed through me.

Piper and I finished the song, and the audience screamed our praises, a crescendo of applause: "Je t'aime! Je t'aime!" But amidst the chaos, the girl in red didn't clap. She was stone silent.