The Violet Hour (3 page)

I thought about the last time I’d seen him. How he’d leaned me up against the side of the carriage house and pressed his body into mine. My face tilted up to the warmth of the sun. His breath against my lips. Before the gardener happened along and interrupted what most certainly would have been the single greatest moment of my life.

Adam.

Little glints of gold in his dark hair caught the sun; it was like seeing a mirage in the desert. He held his hand up to shield his eyes, and they flicked up and down over me. No smile of recognition lit up his face, no dimple appeared on his right cheek. The skin around his left eye was bruised, ringed in fading purple. I wondered if it was a souvenir of his kidnapping, or if he’d been fighting one of the lost boys. Either way, I knew he wasn’t as tough as he pretended to be.

“Harlow,” he said. His dark blue eyes skewered me.

Not the friendly greeting I was hoping for.

I only had two friends. My heart couldn’t bear losing one of them for a second time. I shifted uncomfortably, suddenly feeling every inch the awkward little girl I once was.

Adam hopped on his board and rode it down the curve, flipping it at the bottom and jumping off. He stalked toward me. Even the way he moved was somehow different. I toed the dirt with my Converse, unsure what to say or do.

“I’m so happy you’re back.” I instinctively reached to hug him.

He flinched, backing away. My heart dropped. I waited for the smooth line of his jaw to pull up into a smirk, a smile, an anything that said he was only joking—but he was expressionless.

“Yeah. I am.”

Why was he looking at me like I’d just killed his dog? Everything about him screamed
stay away
.

“You’re not living here, are you?”

“Look, Harlow, I don’t really feel like talking about this. Not to you. Why don’t you just ask Mercy if you want all the juicy details.”

All traces of the Adam I’d known had been swept away, vacuumed up, and scrubbed out with bleach. I stood there awkwardly while a menagerie of eavesdroppers smoked cigarettes and whispered from the periphery. Everyone was enjoying the show—Harlow Wintergreen, daughter of the Patriarch. Making a fool of herself.

“Where are your parents?” I finally asked.

“Probably dead. Happy?”

“What?” I stuttered.

“Go back to the compound, Harlow.”

He turned and walked toward the sagging porch. I practically fell over. His parents were probably dead? Why would that make me happy? I wanted to run after him, throw my arms around him, make the hurt written all over his body disappear. But he’d rejected me. In a weird way, it almost felt like he
blamed
me. I turned and ran, before I’d give them the satisfaction of seeing me cry.

Two weeks later, Adam was back on the compound, glued to the General’s side just like his own father had once been. It looked like Mercy had been right about his one-eighty after all—since if there was anyone Adam should hold responsible for his parents’ abduction, it would be the man who’d started the Fellowship in the first place. Yet Adam was now more devoted to my father than ever, and it was me he held at arm’s length.

Three months had gone by since his return, and still he barely looked at me. For reasons I couldn’t fathom, he preferred Mercy’s company. Mercy, who he once dismissed as “supermodel-marshmallow: flash where it doesn’t count, fluff where it does.” Then he gave me a feline grin and leaned toward my ear. “I don’t really go for that.”

In reality, there was more to Mercy than met the eye. She wasn’t at all the ditz she pretended to be, something I’d known since we were playmates as little girls. Maybe Adam had finally discovered it too.

Still, he’d agreed to come out with me to Koenji. And there was only one way to find out if there were still any feelings for me behind those tortured eyes. It was time to bring the counterattack. No mercy.

TOKYO PUNK

Forty minutes later, Dora and I were skulking in the lobby by the service elevators, hiding behind an arrangement of calla lilies so massive it looked like it had been FTD’d straight down the beanstalk. The hotel seemed to be made entirely of reflective surfaces, all smooth black marble and mirrored walls.

There was a zero percent chance the Ministry would look favorably on four members of the VisionCrest royal family melting into the Tokyo night unchaperoned, but the penalty for being caught couldn’t be too bad. I was already sentenced to isolation, and they couldn’t keep us all hidden away. It was worth the risk if I could get even one minute alone with Adam.

Dora and I stayed shifty-eyed, looking for Watchers. True to Adam’s word, there were none lurking. Even though I wasn’t taking any chances on ruining my big night, I hated cowering in the calla lilies like a fugitive. Adam and Mercy were late, and my mind ran wild with all the reasons they could be lagging.

I started second-guessing my outfit, the thought of Mercy’s pearl necklace and sweater-set look making me pull at my fishnets. I might as well wear a flashing neon sign that said
desperate for attention!
Maybe Adam was going for something more … normal, these days.

“Stop doing that or you’re going to rip them right off your legs. You look tough.” Dora eyed me approvingly. For her, that was high praise.

I parted the sharp-edged leaves of the arrangement with my fingertips, just in time to hear the elevator ding and see Adam amble into sight. Mercy was right behind him, rocking a miniskirt and platform heels. So much for the pearls—maybe she was the one who’d changed. If it were possible, Adam looked even more delicious than ever in a tight black Sex Pistols shirt and gray-wash skinny jeans. He looked casual-amazing, like he might go skateboarding or make out with a fashion model … he just couldn’t decide.

Dora elbowed me in the ribs when she saw his shirt, like it was some kind of sign from the universe.

“Ow!”

Adam caught me peeking out from behind the fronds. He bent over a bit and squinted as I let them snap back into place.

“Harlow? Are you hiding in the flower arrangement?”

Dora tugged at my hand and we did our best to step out casually from our hiding place, as if we’d just been getting a closer look at the shrubbery. She looked at me and said, “And
that
is how photosynthesis occurs.”

Mercy’s face was a mixture of amusement and horror. Her pity was infinitely worse than her scorn. Adam was unreadable, as usual.

“You ready to hear some awesome music?” I asked.

“If it’s not awesome, we’re totally switching and going to a dance club,” Mercy said.

Adam and I exchanged a look, and for a split second it was like old times—Mercy wouldn’t know good music if it bit her in the ass. As I looked away, I swore I saw the corners of his mouth turn up for a second. That tiny gesture gave me a boost of hope. Was it possible he was coming back around?

“Um, guys … hang on just a minute longer, if you don’t mind.” Dora glanced down at her phone and then looked past Adam and Mercy like she was expecting someone.

As if on cue, Stubin Mansfield materialized from behind the black granite column closest to us and walked right up like he owned the place. He pushed the sleeves of his pea-green cardigan up to his elbows and shook one knee and then the other, like he was limbering up for the 100-yard dash.

Stubin was the son of a low-level Sacristan and a total know-it-all. That was pretty much all I knew about him, other than the odd fact that my best friend had apparently invited him along. The kids of the Sacristans, who made up the majority of our Ministry group, usually kept their distance from the kids of the higher echelons. It was just how it was.

“Hey cats and kittens, what sort of Meow Mix are we getting into tonight?” Stubin asked, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to be hanging out with us.

“We’re going to a punk club. That sweater looks awesome—is it vintage?” Dora was fawning. She never fawned.

“Yeah, I bought it cuz it matches my eyes. And aren’t you just a chick biscuit tonight,” Stubin responded. There was so much Velveeta on that comment, I could barely hold back the gag reflex. Dora was looking at him like he was some kind of celebrity.

I forced a smile.

Stubin looked pointedly at Adam. “Surprised you’re willing to risk the Patriarch’s wrath by sneaking out on the town with his daughter. Though I guess I shouldn’t be.”

Adam looked at him with confusion for a second, likely recognizing his face but not knowing his name. He wasn’t used to being challenged, even by the people who knew him well. He blinked, and then he smiled wider than I’d seen since he returned.

“I guess we have that in common, sweater guy. I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced. I’m Adam Fitz.”

He held his hand out to Stubin, who was so flummoxed he visibly wavered between charmed and irritated. He offered up a wary handshake.

“Stubin Mansfield. I know who you are.”

Adam shrugged and looked at the rest of us. “We’re all acquainted then. Let’s rock.”

We hustled after Adam through an unmarked door that led into some sort of service hallway. He pushed through another door into a dark alley, the nearby smell of exhaust and the whir of traffic beckoning to us. Mercy picked her way gingerly behind Adam, trying and failing to catch his arm as she dodged little pools of street sludge. I watched her like a hawk and secretly wished for her to bite it, even though I knew I shouldn’t. Dora was giggling behind me as Stubin whispered something she couldn’t possibly find funny. It felt lonely.

A moment of doubt tugged at me. Willed me back to the safety of my hotel room. There were a million ways this mostly innocent outing could go horribly wrong. I was risking disaster going out when the voice was running loose. It could sneak up on me at any moment, and there was no telling what might happen. But I forced myself to keep moving forward.

There was a minivan cab waiting at the end of the alleyway. Adam must have called for it. He looked over his shoulder and caught my eye. There was something there: an entreaty, a dare, or a warning. I couldn’t tell which.

The cab door swung open automatically as we approached. Only in Japan. Adam took the front and the rest of us piled in back.

“So, where are we going, exactly?” Adam asked.

“Koenji. MegaWatts,” I said.

Adam turned to the driver. “
Nippon no panku no genten ni tachite kudasai
. MegaWatts.”

He was speaking Japanese. It was impossible not to crush on him when he busted out unexpected intellect like that.

“I didn’t know you spoke Japanese!” Mercy gushed, tipping forward. She wasn’t going to fade into the background like a wallflower. “What did you say?”

Adam looked over his shoulder and smirked. “Take us to the origin of Japanese punk.”

“The origin of Japanese punk?” She looked confused.

“MegaWatts—it’s a club where the punk movement started in Japan,” he told her.

“It’s a livehouse,” I corrected.

“Ahh,” she said, like she had any clue what that meant.

“In Japan, they call a show a
live
, and so a venue is called a
livehouse
,” Adam explained. His eyes met mine, an almost-smile playing at his lips. My heart beat a little faster.

“Personally, I prefer classical.” Mercy sniffed.

“MegaWatts is like the CBGB of Japanese punk,” Stubin chimed in enthusiastically from the way back.

“You know about CBGB?” Adam asked him, incredulous.

Adam and I had learned all about the epicenter of the old-school New York punk scene by digging through the confiscated scrapbooks of some once-famous Fellowship member. We’d found the scrapbooks molding alongside the punk rock vinyl—there was all kinds of interesting stuff in the bunker beneath my house. Most of the high-ranking Ministry members were once celebrities, academics, or politicians.

“Yeah, my dad used to be, like … in a famous punk band or something. He had a stage name but refuses to tell me what it was. Sometimes he talks about the old days.” Then Stubin seemed to think better of it and added, “Mostly just to say how glad he is to be reformed by the Fellowship.”

Adam and I exchanged a look of disbelief. Dorky Stubin Mansfield’s dad was probably the original owner of our stolen records and the frontman of one of our favorite bands. The silent connection between Adam and me was back, and stronger than ever.

“Harlow’s the punk rock princess. You’ll have to tell her some of your dad’s stories.” Dora nudged Stubin playfully. “My girl’s got mad taste.”

“She certainly does,” Adam agreed, turning to face forward in his seat.

This time I was sure. I didn’t know what had changed, but he was definitely smiling when he said that.

MegaWatts was decidedly off the beaten path. We got out of the cab on a street that looked like its overhead wires were supporting the telecom infrastructure of Southeast Asia. There was a small chalkboard A-frame sign perched on the street, right outside a 7-11 knockoff and a porn shop. It said “MegaWatts” in English, and a list of other things in Kanji characters—bands, presumably.

There was a collection of gutter punks hanging outside—disaffected Tokyo teenagers who I instantly identified with on some misfit level. Adam opened our door and Mercy climbed out in front of me. He held her hand as she climbed out; jealously sawed at me like a dull blade. She slipped her hand into the crook of his arm.

Dora looked at me pointedly. What could I do but act oblivious?

“I can’t believe we’re actually here,” I said.

“Me either.” Stubin nodded vigorously. “Super cool.”

I examined the grungy half-lit entrance, the thick crowd spilling out of the club. It was do-or-die time. I knew I shouldn’t be out on the town in my tenuous mental state, but my common sense was drowning in the thumping bass of the club—and in the idea that maybe,
just maybe
, my Adam might return to me.

“So are we just gonna stand here? Let’s go in,” Mercy said.

“Hell yeah. Let’s do it,” Adam said.

Dora grabbed Stubin’s arm and they plunged into the crowd together. Mercy, Adam, and I followed after.

We forced our way down the sticky stairs and, within seconds, were entombed in a low-ceilinged black box that smelled like steamed gym socks and stale beer wrapped in a million decibels of skull-pounding grindcore. Beat-up leather jackets and peroxide mohawks were everywhere. The walls were covered with crudely painted anarchy symbols and it smelled like cigarette smoke. It was so loud I could barely hear myself think.

I stayed right on Adam’s heels, immediately losing sight of Dora and Stubin. Panic rose in my throat, but I resisted the urge to pinch the back of Adam’s T-shirt. I wasn’t sure if our tenuous reconciliation extended to physical contact, and Mercy had staked a claim on his arm. The three of us traced the curves of the crowd, weaving our way through clumps of Japanese teenagers.

The air curved in on me like a sinusoidal sound wave. I knew that feeling—that trapped feeling. The one that often preceded something worse.

I actively ignored it. Maybe if I didn’t acknowledge it, nothing would happen. Club-goers bounced off my shoulders, causing electric explosions of sight and sound in my head. Another bad sign. Why had I set this in motion when I knew what could happen? Now I was stuck—either back down and be an even bigger freak than I already was, or stick it out and hope for the best. Unfortunately, my best wasn’t very good.

Adam halted before the thickest part of the crowd, on the fringes at the back of the room. At the front of the room there was a teeny-tiny stage where a shirtless Japanese rocker, with chicken legs in skinny jeans and row upon row of studded belts, was screaming into a scratchy microphone. The spikes of his glo-hawk grazed the ceiling as the band’s drummer energetically pounded the sticks behind him like the cymbal might go out of style at any moment. I stood at Adam’s side, my knees knocking as I surveyed the rolling knot of tangled bodies bouncing to the music. For a second I thought he was going to plunge right in, but he looked at me and hesitated.

“This is probably far enough for now,” he said.

I nodded. “Yeah, let’s start here.”

“I’m going to the bar,” Mercy announced, like she went clubbing all the time. “What do you want, babe?”

Babe
? Adam turned to her with a quizzical look, like even he couldn’t believe she said it.

“I don’t drink,” he said.

That was a lie. I drank with him twice in the carriage house. Once, playing Truth or Dare, he dared me to kiss him and I chickened out. I wished he would dare me now.

Unfazed and completely fearless, Mercy walked away. Oh, to have her confidence.

Adam turned his attention to me, searching my face like he was looking for something he’d lost. He looked away. Then back to me. Like he didn’t know how to talk to me anymore. The feeling was mutual.

“Is it what you expected?” he finally asked.

I was keenly aware of his hand, inches from mine. He might have been asking about the club, but it almost felt like he was asking about us.

“It may be just the teeniest bit more intense than I imagined,” I admitted.

He started laughing, and for the first time since he’d disappeared, his smile was genuinely for me.

“No joke. This is insane,” he said.

“Right?” I laughed as kids bounced by like pogo sticks right in front of us. It felt good to let go a little.

Suddenly the entire room seemed more vibrant, more alive than it had been only moments before. My anxiety and fear were replaced with the slamming bass of possibility, which vibrated through my bones.

Adam’s eyes scanned the crowd. He was taller than pretty much everyone in here.

“So, Japanese guys have an art form that’s, like, based on using cheesy pickup lines to snag cute girls,” he commented.