Ash felt a flare between them. That persistent, vague awareness of Hargreaves’ consciousness, no matter how Ash tried to ignore it: her whereabouts, her physical condition, her indomitable will, and her mood lurking beneath, which was nearly always black.
Black as the hair that still hung full and thick around her shoulders. Black as the shadows around her electric eyes. Black as the lipstick bleeding at the edges of her mouth. Black as the chipped nails that crowned her nicotine-yellowed fingertips, the fingers that somehow stayed elegant and slender, despite all her self-abuses.
Black and thick as tar. Thick enough Ash could drown in it if she let herself. She felt the pull of it now, and she knew Hargreaves felt Ash’s mind biting back, like a leash pulled on both ends.