The Wicked Within

In the girls’ bathroom, I leaned over the sink and used a paper towel to wipe the trickle of blood from my left nostril, courtesy of Bran’s elbow to the bridge of my nose. But I’d gotten the Big Guy in the solar plexus, and he’d had to hold up his hand to catch his breath.

I washed my hands and then unwrapped the thick bun at the nape of my neck. I finger-combed my long white hair, smoothed it back, and twisted it into a bun again, trying to make myself presentable and wondering why I cared. It wasn’t like my father hadn’t already seen me at my worst.

A faint bruise was forming beneath the inner corner of my eye. I leaned closer to the mirror with a sense of satisfaction, not minding the marks on my body or the aches in my muscles. They reminded me that I was strong. That I could hold my own, even against a Celtic demigod.

I did enjoy my training time at Presby.

I’d gotten admitted into Presby because I had something the Novem didn’t have—the ability to fight their worst enemy. The school was my resource. It held a wealth of information about the gods: their powers, their early history, and some of what had happened to them in the two thousand or so years since the decline of ancient Greece. The rest of the world only knew myths of the gods from ancient times, not what had happened to them in the ensuing two millennia. That particular history might be lost to the rest of the world, but it was not lost here. Not with the Novem. Not within the walls of Presby, where kids learned every day about the gods, their cyclical personalities, and the War of the Pantheons in the tenth century that tore them apart and culled the god population considerably.

Most everything I needed to learn—warfare, tactics, magic, healing, control, information, things I needed in order to face Athena—could be found at Presby.

As I left the bathroom and made my way toward the steps, I caught sight of Sebastian. In his old jeans, faded black concert T-shirt, and aloof vibe, he stopped me in my tracks. The fact that he didn’t try to look good, but managed to anyway, was definitely a plus in my book. And even though my instincts warned me that he was now a predator, I found it only added to the attraction.

He cleared the landing, a flash of surprise in his eyes. “Hey. What are you still doing here?” His face was flushed. A restlessness surrounded him.

“Bran had to move back my training.” Sebastian had missed lunch, and I hadn’t seen him in the hallways or in the one class we shared. I was pretty sure he’d never made it to school at all. Had he been at Michel’s going through his mother’s things?

“You doing okay?” I asked.

“Fine. Saw your father downstairs . . . ”

I hiked the strap of my pack higher onto my shoulder, knowing he wasn’t fine. “Yeah. Our dinner date. Never thought in a million years I’d say that.” That I’d found my father after all this time; the idea still took some getting used to.

His gaze softened. “I felt that way about my dad too. Funny we both have them back after so long.” After a pause, he leaned in and kissed me on the cheek. “See you later.”

The kiss surprised me. The open display of affection, the quickness of it. He was already four steps up the stairs when I called, “Have fun.” Sarcasm at its finest.

He paused, turning, his expression saying he’d rather have his toenails yanked off. And then he was gone, jogging up and into the shadows. He’d come and gone so quickly, I didn’t have time to tell him that since Bran had moved back training, I’d had the opportunity to visit the library and speak with the Keeper. He’d found no sign of the Hands yet, but inventory was still in progress. For now, it was a waiting game.

SIX

GOD, HE WAS SUCH AN Ass.

Guilt hounded him, sank into his body like a heavy weight as he jogged to the third floor. He could hear Ari’s footsteps retreating. He’d lied to her. He stood there and lied to her face, told her everything was fine. Fine. Was that word ever uttered in truth?

It was possible for Ari’s curse to be removed—needle in a haystack to make that happen, but it could happen. If only the same could be said for him. If only there was a way to go back . . .

But there wasn’t a way. Vampirism wasn’t a disease or a curse. It was a product of evolution, a divergence off the human family tree eons ago. Not every Bloodborn vampire drank blood. Not every half human, half vampire drank blood. Blood was simply the catalyst that changed the body. Humans who’d been turned into vampires were different; they had to have blood from the time of their turning and onward. But those born to vampire parents had a choice. If they could avoid the catalyst—ingesting blood—they’d never change. But it was so hard to resist. Most rarely did.

But he had. He’d resisted. There’d been no doubt in his mind that he’d never take blood. And then Athena came along. With the aid of Zaria, her vampire servant, they’d drained him, denied him food, tempted him with blood. Tempted him with Ari. And he hadn’t been able to resist her once she slit her skin and offered to save him.

The only thing left to do now was try like hell to get a handle on it. For newbies like him, his near-constant desire for blood was normal. It’d take years to master control, years for his body to calm the hell down. He knew that. He knew all this . . . chaos . . . was normal. He just didn’t want it. And he sure as hell didn’t want Ari, or his father, or the kids to start looking at him differently. More than anything, he didn’t want to see fear or disgust in their eyes.

He was torn between hiding his blood lust and saying fuck it, letting them all see. But he couldn’t risk losing them. He knew intimately what it was like to lose, to suffer that kind of loss. First his mother, then his father, for a decade. After the day he’d had, going through his mother’s things, it only made his decision clearer. He didn’t want to chance it, not again. Not with everyone he cared about.

At the third-floor landing he paused, staring at the large doors that led into the assembly room. All nine members of the Novem council were inside. They were the heads of the prominent families who had long histories in New 2. Three from the vampire families of Arnaud, Mandeville, and Baptiste; three from the witch families of Hawthorne, Cromley, and Lamarliere; and three from the demigod/shifter families of Ramsey, Deschanel, and Sinclair.

The heirs would be inside as well. The next-in-lines. Some were too young to realize what a massive responsibility it was to be head of a family, like Bran’s daughter Kieran. And some were far older than Sebastian, with families of their own, such as Nikolai Deschanel’s grown son, Hunter. But others, like Gabriel Baptiste and his three cronies, were bloated on their own importance. If that was what the Novem had to look forward to, the council would not last long once the heirs took control.

Sebastian drew in a deep breath, placed his hand on the door, and entered. All eyes shifted in his direction. The Novem heads sat around a large oval table, while the heirs sat on chairs along the walls.

He met his father’s intelligent gray eyes and dipped his head. He could feel Josephine’s dark stare, feel her satisfaction, and he knew if he looked at her now, he’d see the small smile playing on her lips, the smile that said, “I’ve won. You’re mine.”

Whatever.

He went to the empty seat, wanting to get this over with as quickly as possible, when a chair grated across the hardwood floor and a figure stood. Sebastian froze. Shock crashed through him, lighting every nerve. His heart started to pound. The figure turned and looked right at him.

Zaria.

Memories flashed through his head, unbidden and unstoppable. Zaria offering him her wrist, tempting him every night in Athena’s temple until he broke, until he became a monster. Her eyes traveled up and down his body, and then her lush red lips drew into a knowing smile.

Rage incinerated everything but his desire for revenge.

He was at her throat before he knew what had happened.

The council surged to their feet as his fingers closed around Zaria’s throat. She didn’t fight back. Her gaze remained glued to his, amused, calculating, challenging. He was going to rip her fucking head off.

“Bastian,” his father’s calm voice reached through the dazed fury. It was a sad tone, a tone that said he understood his son’s pain. Michel knew what had happened to Sebastian, and he knew what it was like to be Athena’s prisoner. He understood completely.

Another hand clasped his shoulder, and he shrugged it off violently. Someone grabbed his arm in a steely grip. It was Bran. He could smell him. His senses were on overdrive. All around him, he knew where everyone stood, who was holding back and who wanted to pull him from the bitch in his grasp.

He was panting. Red clouded his vision.

“You going to do it or not, Bastian, my love?” Zaria crooned.

The sound of her voice sickened him. He fought for control, fought to rise up from the rage and find his voice. “What do you want?” he ground out, his fingers easing on her throat.

“I didn’t come here for you. I can see how upset that makes you, darling. I’m here on business. Athena’s business.”

His grip went tighter at the goddess’s name.

“Sebastian. Let her go, son. This is not the time.” Then his father’s voice dropped to a chilling tone directed at Zaria. “There will come a time, that I promise you.” His voice went gentle again. “Your revenge must wait, Bastian. Another time, another place.”

Michel’s words finally sank in. Another time. Another place. But soon. Soon, she’d pay for her hand in torturing him, in wrecking everything. He shoved Zaria back with enough force that she struck the table and went sprawling over its surface. Anger filled her cheeks. Yeah. She didn’t like that, looking weak. She straightened, righting her blouse and skirt.

Bran and Michel blocked his path, but he angled through them without a word and slumped into his seat. So many eyes were on him, but he didn’t care. His heart still raced and adrenaline still flooded his system. His knee bounced relentlessly.

After everyone found their seats again, the meeting proceeded.

“Well,” Rowen Hawthorne said as she tucked a strand of long blond hair behind her ear, “that was fun. Now that we’re all here . . . ” Her attention went to Zaria. “Our surprise visitor has come via synagraphus, or safe-conduct,” she said for the benefit of the younger heirs unfamiliar with the Latin term. “I hand it over to you.” ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">