I don’t have time to take in the sight of my big brother before his arms envelope me. He clutches me to him and I feel him tremble against me. I wrap my arms around him. I don’t realize I’m crying until I feel the warm wetness on his jacket under my cheek. I’m the taller one now. His frame is slightly stockier than mine. His curls tickle my neck and I feel his hands dig into my back.

          “We have to get inside,” a voice says from behind Aiden. It’s gruff and masculine. The guy who speaks is tall and muscled, with shoulder-length black hair. He stands with Asher as she hugs herself against the cold, his hands stuffed into his pockets. His scowl is menacing, his dark blue eye glittering like a chipped gemstone. His other eye, partially obscured by a flop of hair, is milky silver, and a scar runs though his brow above it. The milky eye doesn’t quite follow the blue one like it should—I think it’s blind.

          Aiden pulls away from me, his eyes lined with tears. He looks like me, with a similar square jaw, straight nose, and gray eyes. The beard he sports is dark brown like his hair, and trimmed short and neat. His curls, so much like our mother’s, are unruly. He blinks and shakes his head as if clearing his thoughts.

          “Right, sorry,” he mutters. He and the black-haired guy haul the manhole cover back to its spot, the scrape loud against the asphalt. We stand in a narrow alley, decrepit brick buildings towering over us. The rain has lightened to a drizzle. “Let’s head home,” Aiden says.

          He turns and walks quickly down the alley, the black-haired guy following close behind. Asher bumps my arm with her shoulder, silently urging me forward.

          “That’s Silas,” she whispers to me, gesturing to the black-haired guy walking with Aiden. “Second in command. He’s a psyche.”

          “A what?” I ask.

          “A psyche. He’s telepathic and telekinetic,” Asher answers. “You’ve never heard the term for it?” I shake my head.

          “No,” I say. “I didn’t know there were nicknames for this stuff.” Aiden turns, overhearing us. He walks backward down the alley.

         “Sure,” he says. “I’m what’s called a remedy. Healer. Ash is a furnace. Fire-user.” Aiden grins as he turns back around.

          Asher gives me a tilted smile. “You’ve got a lot to learn, Sasquatch,” she says, amused. I don’t ask about my own label; I’m not sure I want to know what to call myself and my ability. Putting a name to it makes it seem more real, like it’s a part of me that I’m proud of.

          Silas peers back at us over one broad shoulder as we come to the mouth of the alley. It spits us out onto a run-down street. Grass creeps up through cracks in the road, and empty storefronts leave little bits of glass on the sidewalks. The buildings around us are all ramshackle, broken windows draped with tattered sheets and walls half blown out. We cross the empty street to a building on the corner.

          The old hotel used to be grand, I gather, from the arching portico over the door and the flowerboxes in the windows. The brick is worn and faded, with great cracks and thick ivy climbing its side. Aiden pushes open a weathered wooden door and holds it open for us.

          Inside, the foyer is lit with strings of tiny lights zigzagging across the ceiling. A wide staircase spirals upward on the far side of what used to be the lobby. Tables and chairs spread across the space, and gathered in them are people, playing cards or just talking quietly. Most seem to be about my age, but there are some older people, their hair shot through with gray. Some of them notice us and wave, earning a wave from Aiden in return. It’s homey, unlike anything I expected to walk into.

          “Your room is just how you left it,” Aiden says to Asher. “Find a room for Finn and get yourselves cleaned up. I’ll have Cook make something good.” He gives Asher and me respectively a warm smile, and Asher gestures for me to follow her up the stairs. She kicks off her ruined high heels, carrying them by their straps.

          Up on the second floor, she turns down a hallway lined with white doors. Most of the doors have names printed on them in big letters, accompanied by little trinkets. Faded posters, dried flowers wound into bundles, little notes from friends pinned to the wood. Asher’s door has her name written in cursive in thick, swooping lines of black. Tacks pin small sheets of paper in a collage on the wood, with hand-scrawled notes to her. There are lots of We Miss You’s and Get Back Soon’s on the papers, little drawings of hearts and pressed flowers glued to the pages.

          Asher tosses her ruined shoes to the floor by her door and continues down the hall until we come to a door with nothing on it at the end of the hall. She pushes open the door and I follow her in. A small bathroom is just inside the door, and further in, a window streams light over a bed that looks so comfortable I consider falling into it without bathing.

          I hear the creak of pipes, and the shower turns on as Asher cranks the faucet. She emerges from the bathroom.

          “There are towels in here. I’ll have someone bring you some fresh clothes,” she says. I nod, wanting to say something but unsure what. She leaves me, closing the door between us.

           The shower entices me enough to forgo the bed for now. I strip down and pile my scrubs aside, ruined as they are. The water is warm on my skin. I watch as it wicks away the mud from my body, spiraling it down the drain.

          I hadn’t realized how cold I’d become, traveling through the rain and the drainage tunnels under the city. My skin prickles as warmth spreads through me. I wet my hair, combing the tangles with my fingers. I’m a bit tall for the shower, and I have to duck my head a little under the stream of water.

          When I finish, my skin is pink. I towel off and wrap the itchy cotton around my hips. I hear a knock as I emerge from the bathroom, and open it to see the black-haired guy from before standing before me with a bundle of clothes in his arms.

          “You’re Silas, right?” I ask. He nods. Above his milky, blind left eye, a scar cuts though his eyebrow. His other eye is dark blue, and flits up and down my form in a cursory assessment.

          “These are for you,” he says, sounding bored. He holds out a small folded stack of clothes; jeans, a tee shirt, boxer shorts, and a pair of socks and plain boots. “They might be a little small.” He thrusts them into my hands and I almost drop my towel.

          “Uh, thanks,” I mutter. Silas stuffs his hands into his pockets.

          “Dinner is soon. Mess hall is down by the front door where we came in,” he says. I’m about to thank him again, but he turns and leaves. I blink after him for a moment, but close the door and get dressed.

          The jeans are a tad short, but cuffing them up helps hide it. The soft tee shirt stretches over my broad shoulders. It’s been a long time since I wore regular clothes. As I open my door, I smell something cooking downstairs. I can’t tell what it is exactly—some kind of meat, and butter—but it makes my mouth water. The faint tinkle of laughter trickles up the stairs.

          I close the door to my room behind me and see Asher approaching from her room down the hall. She’s dressed in a pair of tight, ripped jeans and a top that falls off one shoulder, revealing a black bra strap and a sculpted collarbone. Her hair is clean and loose to frame her face.

          “You look better, Sasquatch,” she says, smirking. “Come on. Come meet everyone.”