I really don't know what I was expecting from a meth lab beneath a church, but it wasn't this. 

                  My lab coat is really, really out of place.

                  After climbing down a damp, musty stairwell, the last thing I expected was a freaking club. Neon lights. Pulsing music. Velvet curtains.

                  And there is a long, long line.

                  I am at the very end. The walls on either side of me are narrow, almost shoulder to shoulder. 

                  I do not  fit in here.

                  Actually, I look exactly like the kind of maniac that is planning to sneak into a scientist's lab and steal their secret formula.

                 I quickly tug off my coat and toss it into the shadows. Ahead of me, I see a bouncer standing at a tapered stone doorway. Music and light and life vibrate from within that room―and I am suddenly curious.

                   There is a club in the basement of the Asakusa Temple.

                   Fine, I can be blasphemous sometimes―but this is a whole other level. This is hell's party, and it has rainbow strobelights. 

                   How . . . fitting.

                   I bounce back on my heels. I feel like I'm in a fever dream. When I closed that heavy stone door, sealing myself into the dark, I thought I was headed towards some kind of secret lair. Somewhere with a white lab and glass walls and high-class technology.

                    Honestly? I didn't picture a party. 

                    Beneath the lab coat, I am wearing black. A tightly-clinging turtle-neck shirt. Fitted pants. It must have been Maiko, I realize. 

                     I have to get into this party, but with a line-up that looks like it'll take another three hours . . . I'm out of ideas.

                     The girl in front of me is tall and thin, with raven-black hair. When she turns around, it takes me a moment to recover my breath. She is classically beautiful, and I swear I've seen her before.

                     "Hey," I say quickly. "Why is it so busy tonight?"

                     It seems like a safe question. It's not like I can ask, Where's the meth lab?  Or, Why is everybody lining up for a VIP club in Hell?  Or, How do so many people know about this place, when Okami has literally slaughtered a dozen people to hide the formula of this drug? 

                     Nope. Can't ask any of those.

                     The girl gives me an easy grin. I swear I've seen her before. The Japanese features, the ivory skin, the glittering black eyes . . . 

                     She reminds me of a panther.

                     A predator.

                     She says, "It seems like you've never been here before, then."

                     I think she recognizes me, too.

                     I see it in the way her eyes flicker, almost imperceptibly, and the way her smile becomes slightly sharper.

                     But I can't back down now. No matter who she is, I have to do this.

                     And I still have Veah's gun in my back pocket.

                     I can do this. 

                     "Lucky for you," the girl continues, "I'm going to be your ticket into this place."

                     "No," I say. No hesitation.

                     "No?" She must have been expecting me to accept with gratitude. Too bad. I have a mission to accomplish, but―

                     Whoever she is, every instinct in my body screams, Run! 

                     The last time I ignored my instincts, I ditched Veah and ended up straight in the arms of the Mafia. 

                     I almost signed away my own life.

                     That is so not happening again.

                     "No," I repeat. "Thank you."

                     Her face flushes with anger. Beautiful rage. But before she can say more, I am shoved into the stone wall. Hard. 

                     For a moment, I am hot with anger. Did she just push me?

                     But when I catch my breath, my shoulder aching, only a heartbeat later, I realize―it was a boy. He is barreling past the line―no, cutting through it. His strides are determined. Purposeful. Powerful. He doesn't give a damn, and it's clear no one is going to even stop him.

                      Asshole.

                      Before I can think better, I reach out and yank him by the arm.

                      In hindsight, I definitely shouldn't have done that.

                      And then I spin him around and snap, "Who the hell do you think you are?"

                      I really, really shouldn't have done that, either.

                      I take a step back when I realize the boy can't be any older than I am, but I don't let go of him. My fingers curl into the expensive material of his sleeve. 

                      The boy's eyes narrow. Black fury.

                      He is startlingly, strikingly handsome.

                      His lips are the blush-red of silk roses, and his jaw is the granite carving of Adonis. He has dark hair, but his eyes are several shades lighter. Hazel. He is . . . really handsome.

                      He is also still an asshole.

                      "Hey," I say angrily. "I'm talking to you. Who do you think you are?"

                      Yes, I really should have guessed that would be a bad idea. Considering the fact that I was literally standing on Mafia territory, in the basement of a church that only a select few people could have known about―Okami's inner circle.

                      Yes, bad idea. 

                      But right now, I am so tired of letting people shove me around. My mother. My stepfather. The Mafia.

                      Nothing that has happened up to this moment has really been because of a choice I made.

                      The handcuffs.

                      The Yakuza.

                      The assassination attempt against me.

                      Going to Tokyo, faking my death―none of it was my choice. 

                      But coming down here . . . choosing to be a part of Veah's plan . . . for the first time, I can finally say I've done something because I wanted to. Because my heart was in it.

                      This is something I am willing to die for.

                      So being here, tonight―I am standing up for myself. And I'm not going to let some conceited asshole shove me around. Not when I feel confident.

                      "Hello?" I snap. "Are you okay, or?"

                      (Again, terrible idea. I was in the middle of the fucking Mafia's secret circle.)

                      The dark fury smooths away from the boy's face, as easily as butter. If we were anywhere but an underground club on the holy ground of a church in Japan, I would have imagined him as shy. A little mysterious. He looks like the kind of person who embodies dark academia, with that long trenchcoat and his charming, wicked smile. 

                       I can even picture him in a library, surrounded by thick leather books, bent over the ancient pages of a dead language.

                       He's not so much handsome, I think, as beautiful. 

                       He is still just looking at me.

                       Looking―like he is devouring.

                       I should probably be scared. 

                       His hazel eyes are bright. All that anger is gone. He only looks pleased now―pleased and eager, as though he has been waiting for me all night long.

                       "Hello? You shoved me into a wall?"

                       "You . . . are magnificent, dear," says the boy. 

                       I think we've attracted an audience. The people in the queue are watching us, curious and fascinated and horrified.

                       "Seriously? I'm magnificent?" 

                       The boy pries my hand off of his sleeve. But he doesn't shove me away, he brings it upwards. Brushing his lips over my knuckles. "Did it hurt?" he whispers.

                       "Did what hurt?"

                       "Falling from heaven?"

                       I snatch my hand back. "No, but it hurt when you shoved me into a goddamn wall! Who are you?"

                       "I am Bastian Aubert," says the boy. "And you must be . . ."

                       "None of your business?"

                       ". . . Aphrodite herself."

                       I am suddenly struck with a realization. The line into this stupid VIP club has to be at least an hour long. At this point, I have two options.

                       The girl who I recognize . . . or Bastian Aubert, Asshole Extraordinaire.

                       The memory of that girl's sharp, glinting gaze . . . no. Not her.

                       That leaves me with . . .

                       "Bastian," I repeat.

                       His rosy lips curve. He offers me a hand. "Shall we?" 

                       He is nodding to the bouncer, and I have a feeling we will be let through without a second thought. Whatever is waiting for me in that club . . . whatever Okami is hiding . . . I have to get to the bottom of this.

                       I have to get in there.

                       So I take his offered hand and I mutter, "We shall."

                       "I see you've met Bastian."

                       I am leaning over the shiny countertop of the bar. Twirling the glass stem of an empty drink. It has been almost an hour.

                       There are no secret lairs. There are no mad scientists. 

                       No bags of crystal meth. No evil murderous villains, cackling in the dark.  

                       Across the room of the club, through the haze of pink smoke, I see the asshole who brought me in. He is slender and tall, and not even twenty years old. I still have no idea who he is, so I turn to the boy who spoke, curious.

                      "I'm Elliot," the boy offers. "I'm assuming you're with Bastian, right?"

                      "How'd you know?"

                      "If you weren't now, you would be soon. Whatever Bastian wants, he gets. Simple. And he loves gingers."

                      "Gingers?" I hiss.

                      "Especially curvy ones. An ass like that is pretty rare here in Japan. If Bastian hadn't staked a claim, you'd probably be getting offers from men all night."

                       "Excuse me?"

                       Elliot raises both hands. He is holding a wine glass in his left, and on his right . . . That is a really strange tattoo. 

                       It reminds me of one of some of the ink patterns Veah has.

                       Coincidence, I remind myself. 

                      "I'm gay," Elliot explains. "And . . . besides, it'd be really hard not to notice."

                      "Well, looks like we have something in common."

                       "You check out your ass?"

                       "No!" I hiss. "The other part."

                       "Oh," Elliot says, grinning. He is so friendly I can't help but relax a little. "You're gay."

                       I take a sip of my new drink. Something strawberry-flavoured. "So how do you know Bastian?"

                      But Elliot is cut off, just as he opens his mouth.

                      There is some kind of commotion happening in the booth where Bastian is sitting. Shouts. Anger. Panic―flaring.

                       "What's going on?" I whisper, setting down my drink.

                       When I look back, Elliot is gone.

                       Okay, that was definitely not strange. At all. 

                       For a moment, my heart clenches. I really wish Veah were here. But I still have her gun, and I have a mission. Maybe this will help.

                        There is a blur―a tangle of fists.

                        Everyone in the booth has emptied out, except a single girl. The one I recognized from earlier.

                        "Watch this," Bastian whispers, his breath against my ear.

                        "What?"

                        There is a crowd gathered close to the booth now. 

                        The girl is spasming.

                        "Oh, my God," I say, fumbling for the phone I don't have. "We have to call someone―we have to get help―"

                        Even if she was a bitch earlier, even if she's some evil villain, it's not right just letting her have a seizure. She clearly needs help―

                        But Bastian's grip is suddenly tight―unyielding―on my wrist.

                       "Do you believe in magic?" he breathes.

                       There is powder on the table.

                       A trail of crystal blue.

                       It's barely a smudge on the edge. I almost miss it. But this has to be it. This has to be what everyone has been talking about. The Wyvern. 

                       And whoever this girl is . . . I think someone force-fed it to her.

                       We must have gotten it wrong. There is a new batch being delivered, Maiko said. But we thought that meant there was a lab, a team of scientists . . . 

                       A new batch.

                      They must have ordered it to the club.

                      "We have to get help!" I say frantically, trying to tug my hand away. But Bastian doesn't let go. The warm skin of his jaw lingers over my neck, his lips touching my throat. 

                      "Magic," he says.

                      "No!" I say, trying to shove him away. "It's the Wyvern―"

                      At that―Wyvern―he stiffens.

                      Pulling back.

                      "How do you know that word." It is not a question. It is a demand, and it is dangerous.

                      I try to wrench away from his grip, but it is impossible. He is too strong, too cold, and the way he is looking at me, like I said something I shouldn't have said, like I know something I shouldn't have known . . . 

                      Then I hear the shattering of glass.

                      "It's magic," Bastian says.

                      I can't tear my eyes away.

                      There is blood leaking from the girl's nose. Smearing her upper lip. There is broken glass sprinkled between her fingers, and I hear the sound of something else breaking―but it isn't the cup.

                      Her body cracks at unnatural angles. Her neck snapping to the side.

                      I can't bring myself to speak. To breathe.

                      It's already too late.

                      "That," Bastian says, "is Pierce Nakamura. She was a model on every runway you can think of. But she was also an enemy. She works for the Cais, you see, and her showing up tonight . . . well, that was a mistake."

                      This is what they do their enemies, I think, as Pierce arches her back.

                      "This is the transition," Bastian tells me, in a low, seductive voice. "All it took was a trace of Magic in her cup. I wonder what she'll become . . ."

                      "This is going to kill her," I hiss.

                      I will not be able to do anything but watch.

                      With a final, desperate try, I yank myself out of Bastian's hold. Rushing into the booth, crawling over the velvet seats until I am close enough to Pierce that I can hear her heavy breathing, that I can see the jutting shards of her bones through the skin.

                     And I know it's useless. I know there is no way she can hear me. With all this music and shouting and cheering, I don't even know why I try. I scream, "Veah!" 

                     She said she would be listening.

                     It's worth a shot.

                     Quickly, I move towards the girl, trying to do anything, to help―

                     But she collapses the moment I touch her.

                     "Oh, my God," I say. "She's dead."

                     Bastian, from across the table of the booth, only smiles.

                     "Kill her!" someone in the crowd shouts.

                     But she's already―

                     I turn around. Too late, I realize he is not talking to me.

                     I was wrong. Pierce isn't dead. 

                     She lunges for me, madness glazing her eyes, that once-beautiful face now salivating with bloodlust.

                     I scramble out of the booth, right into Bastian's arms.

                    "Stay there," he orders Pierce, and she does.

                    "What's happening?" I say. Too shrill.

                    "There are only a handful of people who know this drug as the Wyvern," Bastian says. His voice is a caress. "On the street, we call it Magic. Magic―because, like the elements, it can go one of four ways."

                      "Four ways?"

                      "The first," Bastian breathes, "is death. There is a one-in-four chance it will kill you instantly."

                      From the crowd, someone throws a knife onto the table. It slides towards Pierce. I hear a voice roar, "Cut a lock of your hair!"

                      Pierce grabs the knife. With a shaking hand, she shears off a lock of hair.

                     "The second," Bastian continues, "is the hallucinogenic effect. It will paralyze you. Your dreams will come to life around you, and you will be helpless."

                     Somewhere in the back of the club, a voice yells, "Take off your shirt and get up on that table!"

                     A whistle. "Give us a show, baby!"

                    Pierce stands up on the table and undoes her leather jacket. Her shirt puddles on the booth seat. In her bra, she circles the edges of the table with a model's stride, swaying her hips.

                    To anyone else, it might be hot. Seductive. 

                    But I can't look away from her eyes, and she is terrified.

                    "The third," Bastian says, "is a state of adrenaline, rushing into your bloodstream. Giving you strength and speed you never dreamed of. Like superpowers. It's where the name Magic comes from."

                     "So death, hallucinations, and adrenaline." I hesitate. "What's the fourth?"

                     Bastian's lips curve into a wide, artful smirk.

                     From deep in the crowd, I hear someone holler, "Pick up the knife, baby!"

                     Pierce picks up the knife.

                     "The fourth," Bastian whispers, "can be used as biological warfare. While the drug is in your system, you can be commanded to do anything. You are susceptible to any orders and any demands. You will obey everything that you are told."

                      "That's what's happening to Pierce," I realize. "Oh, my God―we have stop this―we have to―"

                     Without warning, Bastian claps a hand over my mouth.

                     I scream, I bite against his palm―but he doesn't move. He doesn't even flinch.

                     I am helpless to stop it as another voice from the crowd shouts, "Drag the knife across your throat!"

                     I should have known. 

                     I should have guessed. 

                     This is much worse than I imagined it.

                     Because if this drug gets sold to Europe, like Veah said it would, then this will be all over the world. A one-in-four chance.

                      Death. 

                      Hallucination. 

                      Adrenaline.

                      Susceptibility.

                      Do you believe in magic? 

                      I kick and writhe in Bastian's grip, but it is no use. 

                      Pierce drags the knife across her own throat.

                      Yes, I think, almost hysterical. I do believe in Magic. 

                      This is what Okami does to her enemies. If Bastian knows, if he suspects what I am, then I have no doubt he will do the same to me. Pierce's blood sprays over the club's walls, and there is the sound of cheering. How did they know Pierce was from the Cais? How did they figure it out?

                     I'm not getting out of here alive, I think.

                     I just saw a girl drag a knife across her own throat because someone told her to. 

                     If Bastian figures out I'm not who I say I am . . . 

                      And that is when I smell it: smoke.

                     Veah.

                      I called her name. I called her name, but I didn't think she would hear―

                      If anyone in there hurts you, I will burn this church down to the ground.

                      I hear her before I see her. "Kaya!"

                      "Veah!"

                      Bastian's arms around me jerk in surprise. I hear the faint whisper of his horror. Heaven Tanaka. But I can barely hear him over the sound of my own blood roaring, the relief singing in my veins.

                     "Holy fuck. She's here," someone says. "Chimei-tekina megumi." 

                     Fatal Grace. I don't know enough about Japanese to understand everything, but I've picked up something along the way: the swear words.

                     The sight of Veah alone seems to be enough to make the entire crowd panic.

                     Bastian sounds horrified. "Do you know her?"

                     Someone yells, "Run!" 

                     Bastian's arms tighten over me. Chaos erupts in the club.

                      And I can't help it. I smile, because my girlfriend is going to burn down a church for me.

>>>

Honestly, I don't even know who's awake right now. It's 11:58 p.m. and I'm mildly delirious, but I can't wait. I hope y'all are ready.

Also... here's my little side note. When I first started writing Heaven's Crime, the first few chapters really only had like five or six votes. When I hit ten on one of these chapters, I was pretty amazed. So, now, I would just like to thank all of you. And I am so, so grateful to those of you have given this book a chance - even while I'm still in the process of writing it. 

You have no idea how much it means to me that you're here for the story of Kaya and Veah. But just so you're emotionally prepared, this book is almost over. We have about five chapters to go, so I'm wishing you luck.

I love you. Yes, you.

From the moon and back,
Sarai