It was a dingy, seedy bar, located between two spindly tall buildings that seemed to block out the sky above. Orange light filtered through the grimy windows, one of which still had wood planks hammered over its exterior because of an unfortunate encounter with a brick some years back. The sign above the door had been torn off, but it didn’t matter; everyone who wanted to knew how to find this place. I shoved the door open, pushing harder where I knew it stuck and scraped against a broken floorboard and inhaling the familiar scent of cheap, strong drink.

The bar was never empty and never full. Some of the patrons must have lived here, or close to it, the way I always saw them sitting at the same tables, having the same roundabout conversations with themselves. Old and battered gas lamps sat on each table, filling the air with shadows against the wall. I ignored them, just as they ignored me—we weren’t here to drink for companionship, or reassurance, or to have someone to shout at, or anything of the sort. I didn’t want to deal with another nightmare and their intangible influence. Not tonight, not now.

And if I wanted that, I shouldn’t have lived in the Outscape. I sat at my usual stool and before long the bartender sidled over to me. His name was Eddie McGrady and he was terribly suited to his job. Even as he approached, my jaw began to ache, and there was the always-unpleasant phantom sensation that my teeth were working themselves loose from my gums. Why Eddie McGrady had, with that sickening nightmare, chosen to open a bar was beyond me—but I was glad for it, that it stayed cheap and easy and they didn’t care who I was.

He raised an eyebrow at me. “The usual?”

“Something stronger if you’ve got it.” I sighed. “I don’t know what. Something with a kick hard enough to get up and start playing soccer.”

It was the smile of a barkeep he offered me—open and honest without conveying anything at all, without asking anything of why I needed it. “We have something in the back, been fermenting long enough. Don’t know what it’ll do to you if you drink enough.”

I laid some bills on the table. “Great.”

“And her?”

“What?” Robin had followed me—of course she had. Where else would she have gone? She was standing awkwardly next to the barstool which was almost as tall as she was, with one hand pressed over her mouth. She had a pained expression and was staring at Eddie, feeling, no doubt, that her own teeth were beginning to peel free, one at a time. But she was a kid, so she should be used to the feeling. “She’ll have my usual too. No, wait, that’s wrong,” I said. “Do you have anything like juice? Soda water?”

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It wasn’t a smile this time. “I’ll see what we have,” he said. “But this isn’t a place for her.” He swept up the money in a practiced motion and disappeared into the backrooms.

Robin still had her hand over her mouth. “How are you going to drink anything?” she mumbled. “Not when—it hurts, Starling.”

“You get used to it,” I snapped. “There’s nowhere better.”

“When? When am I going to get used to it? How long?”

I slammed a hand on the bar counter. It wasn’t loud, but it got her attention. She froze. “You know what it’ll take? Not pulling stupid stunts like whatever the hell that was. Talking with a Watcher nightmare? How did you think that was going to work out? You would have gotten us all killed. If you want to get used to this damn city, Robin, you’re going to need to survive it without me to pull you back from the brink.”

“I—didn’t mean to. I couldn’t not...it was a nightmare!” she said. “You know what they feel like.”

McGrady brought my drink out and slid it across the bar. He didn’t have anything for Robin and I didn’t press it. I swirled the clear liquid around before taking a swill—it burned at my throat and tasted of nothing so much as pure, undiluted alcohol. “I do,” I said. “And you saw what I didn’t do, which was wake that thing up and start spilling everything I knew to it. You have to shut it out, kid, you have to be better than that. And you learn quick or you don’t learn at all, and right now?” Another drink. It was tasting worse and feeling better. “You’re not learning.”

Her response was cut off by a long, drawn-out glissando on the bar’s rickety piano. I grinned. Sunday Tannous was the other half of the reason I came back to this place, the dark-haired woman who kept the music flowing while she could still see straight. She got free drinks for it, which meant it often didn’t last long. She finished her warmup, flicked her hair back, and started one of her usual songs, a high and rolling melody with an irregular beat.

Robin shook her head, as if to clear it. “What’s wrong with the music?” she asked quietly.

“What do you mean, what’s wrong with it?”

“I mean—it’s not right,” she said. “It doesn’t feel right. I don’t know how else to describe it, Starling, I’m not trying—I’m not trying to do anything wrong. I’m trying to learn,” she said, and there was bite to it. “So tell me.”

I took another drink. “You know sleep paralysis?”

“Yeah. I think.”

“That’s what she is. That’s her nightmare. It’s not her music that sounds strange to you, it’s its effect. That kind of song should animate you, but cause it’s Tannous playing it freezes you to your seat instead.”

“I don’t like it,” she said.

“It’s the best you’ll get here.”

“That doesn’t make me like it.”

And that was the problem, really. What it all boiled down to. She didn’t know how to live in the Outscape, how to adapt to it—and I didn’t have the time or the patience or the safety to teach her. Drakon didn’t want me dead yet, I thought, but it was only a matter of time, and Jabberwock would take the chance when it came. Conjager or Zamir couldn’t protect me from the city forever.

I’d thought Robin could be more than a danger, a liability. And maybe that would be true enough, in time. But neither could I escape the fact that the Outscape was my city, my only home. It wasn’t Robin’s. It wouldn’t be Robin’s for a very long time.