The Divine Comedy || bloodlines

Washington

ARIANA

August, eleven years old

ARIANA HAD NEVER been to Washington D.C. before; she didn't think the others had either. From their rooftop camp, she could make out the white, columned buildings and green grass that reminded her of New Rome. Though the air could have been cleaner and the stars more glittery, it managed to evoke the echo of home. That enough she was grateful for.

"When do you think they'll be back?" Jason asked, his small voice coming from somewhere behind her. "Scouting doesn't take this long, right?"

Ariana rested her arms against the edge of the roof, sighing against the concrete banister. It was a laughable protection element, only extending up to her ankle—if you tripped, there would be no recourse from the fall. At least it was a wide building with a space for them to camp, and you could jump to the next with little difficulty.

"I don't know," Ariana answered with little enthusiasm, her own ignorance grating at her. "Bryce said they'd also stop for food if they had time."

"Oh, yeah." A small pause. "I finished setting up camp by the way."

A glance over her shoulder revealed it to be little more than a few sleeping bags laid in a circle. It would be the first time they slept out in the open, now that she thought of it. They had stayed in trains, buses, and motels as they tried to journey across the country, but never in such an unprotected place. Ariana didn't like it, but they had no money for a hotel in a city like this.

"Great," Ariana said. And, as an afterthought, "thanks."

"No worries." Jason's expression was lit by the moon, silver rays lighting his hair and arms. It appeared above the back of his head, a halo, like clouds and lightning did. "Hey, uh, can I ask you a question?"

You just did, Ariana was tempted to reply. She bit her tongue and nodded, turning to face him as she sat. She prepared herself to drown out his words, to offer a half-assed answer that really answered nothing at all, but the words caught her off guard.

"Why do you hate me so much?"

Ariana's eyebrows rose in genuine surprise, a pink heat coming to her face. Embarrassed that her hatred had been caught, or embarrassed that such a young voice was asking it to someone older.

In her gut, there laid an answer. Because he was better than her, and because he'd saved her ass half a dozen times since they'd left California alone. Because monsters targeted him first, and because Isolde looked at him with praise and at Ariana with criticism. Because everything came easy to him. Because there was now a coin in his hands, a magic gift, which he'd received in his sleep. Because he looked like the ghost Ariana had been both running from and chasing for years.

But Ariana couldn't tell him any of that. It was stupid and petty, born of insecurities she was more ashamed of than anything. He didn't deserve her anger, aimed at things he couldn't help.

"I don't hate you," Ariana said, and the sentiment felt like embers on its way out—fire still dying on her tongue. She wondered if, one day, she'd say those words and they wouldn't feel like a lie.