Page 1 of Pistols & Peonies

CHAPTER 1

Violet

“How much farther?” I pant, lungs burning as Charlotte drags me by the hand through the abandoned warehouse district on the fringes of the Chicago city limits. We sprinted three blocks to get here, ducked past the no trespassing signs to slip in through a hole in the chain-link fence, and now we’re weaving between rows of decrepit buildings that look one strong gust of wind from toppling down. Not exactly what I pictured when Char asked if I wanted to do something fun tonight, but here we are.

The whole vibe of this place is creepy as fuck. Forgotten and crumbling, cloaked in shadows and decay. Every cracked window and sagging rooftop feels like the perfect backdrop for a seedy drug deal or a bloody mob hit. If I wasn’t high on adrenaline, I’d be seriously considering turning back.

“Almost there!” Charlotte whispers, flashing me a sly grin over her shoulder. Her hazel eyes are bright, her pulse pounding so hard I swear I can feel it through her grip on my hand. Or maybe that’s mine. Either way, she’s clearly getting off on the thrill of breaking every rule we were raised on, which is exactly why we make the perfect partners in crime.

Gravel and broken glass crunch under our boots, totally destroying the stealthy approach Char thinks we’re maintaining. Meanwhile, I’ve had my head on a swivel since climbing out of her car, scanning the shadows for movement, teeth, or trouble. One of us has to be on the lookout if we don’t want to get caught, and as much as I love her, my best friend has the survival instincts of a golden retriever.

“It’s the big one, see?” she hisses, jerking her chin toward a massive warehouse ahead.

I peer past her at the building that dwarfs the others. It’s all concrete and corrugated steel, half the windows blown out and boarded up. There’s movement inside– just a subtle ripple in the dark– but it’s enough to make me hunch my shoulders and tug the hood of my sweatshirt lower over my face.

Char keeps pulling me forward, hugging the shadows.

“You sure about this?” I mutter.

She stops dead and whips around, pinning me with a hard look. “Don’t even start, Vi. You said you wanted to see what this was all about, so here we are. If you wanna bail, then bail, but I’m going in there to see Rogue.”

“I’m not bailing,” I scoff, scowling back at her. “But for the record, I’m here as moral support, not to sign up for the cause.”

“You say that now, but once you hear what they have to say…”

“Let’s just hurry up and get inside,” I interrupt, feeling far too exposed out here. “This place gives me the creeps.”

She huffs a laugh and spins back around, dragging me along as she picks up pace toward the warehouse. It isn’t long before we reach a metal door on the east side, my heart skipping a beat at the low rumble of voices emanating from inside.

Char raises a fist and knocks– two quick taps, then two slower ones– and the door pops open with a metallic squeak. A girl with piercings up both ears and half her head shaved peers out through the gap, sizing us up. Char beams a smile and tugs her sleeve down to reveal a hastily drawn marking on her wrist, which the girl glances at before nodding, swinging the door wider, and stepping aside. We’re in.

My pulse ticks in my throat as we slip past her and down a dark, narrow hallway. Char’s hand stays clamped around mine, warm and grounding. At the end of the hall, we emerge into the main space of the warehouse, the ceiling crisscrossed with string lights that cast the room in a dim, golden glow. It’s packed with bodies, heat, and movement– easily a hundred people altogether, the raw energy of the crowd palpable. I recognize a few faces, but pretend I don’t. We’re all committing treason just by being here.

I can’t help but wonder how many of these people are true believers and how many are just thrill-seekers bored of the daily grind. I definitely fall into the latter camp.

“This is bigger than I thought,” Char whispers, eyes widening in awe.

“Too big,” I murmur, glancing around. “Whatever happened to subtlety?”

A makeshift stage made up of shipping pallets occupies the far end of the room, and a couple people are standing atop it, their heads bent together, eyes darting across the crowd like they’re tracking sparks waiting to ignite.

“There’s nothing subtle about change,” Charlotte scoffs as she snatches two paper cups from a crate and hands me one. “See how many people are tired of Alpha’s shit?”

“I see a lot of people who are gonna be in deep shit if he catches wind,” I grumble, taking a sip. Vodka, no chaser. It burns all the way down.

Char rolls her eyes at me, lips glossy with liquor. “That’s the whole point, Vi. Revolution isn’t for cowards.”

I roll my eyes right back at her, but something wriggles inside me, sharp and restless. Maybe it’s pride; the wild sense of standing on the edge of something bigger than yourself. Or maybe it’s dread; a sense of unease creeping in to warn me that none of this will end well. Either way, I don’t let go of her hand as we snake our way through the crowd, keeping to the edges.

I take everything in– the humid press of bodies, the smell of sweat and cheap alcohol, the jittery pulse of nerves that skitters through the room every time someone laughs too loud. There’s a low current of fear here, too. It’s in the way people flinch when the doors rattle; the way conversations die when someone stares a little too long. Everyone’s on high alert, every instinct pulled taut.

We find a spot along the wall, close enough to see the stage but far enough back to pretend we’re just spectators instead of accomplices. Char leans in, breath warm against my ear. “Do you think he’s here already? Rogue?”

I shake my head, even though my pulse jumps. “If he’s smart, he’ll stay anonymous.”

“He does,” she huffs, eager– almost desperate– to defend the nameless, faceless leader of this movement she’s spent months obsessing over. “He always wears a mask and distorts his voice. Nobody knows his real identity.”

I wrinkle my nose. “So why show up here and risk blowing his cover?”