Darkness Becomes Her

“Violet!” I screamed.

Nineteen

THREE DAYS HAD PASSED. THREE DAYS OF NO SLEEP AND NIGHTmares and worry. Violet was gone. No one knew how to get her back. And no one had seen or heard from Athena.

Three days of going to the cemetery, calling for Pascal, searching every tomb, every crevice to find him. Violet would want that, and I owed her. I’d go every day until I found him.

Sebastian had spent the last two days in his room, banging on his drums, filling the house with such intense fury that it was difficult to stay there when he played.

Michel had sent a small force to the River Road plantation to rescue my father, but as expected, the prison was gone, like it had never existed. It’d been hard for Michel to do even that much. My father had killed innocent ????? and humans of power in the name of Athena. But his love for my mother had changed him, had given him the power to go against the goddess. And he’d been paying the price for all these years. Now, because of me, he’d pay even longer.

I replayed that moment in the prison over and over in my mind. I’d been right there, ready to release him. I should’ve done what I knew was right when I’d had the chance. I could’ve demanded the keys back from Michel. I should have put up a fight, refused to go until all the prisoners were released.

The regret and guilt stuck like poison thorns in my side. I had to find him.

It was almost a relief to leave New 2, to get away from the memories, to jump into the mail truck with Crank and drive over Lake Pontchartrain to Covington, the border town, where Bruce and Casey were waiting to meet us.

“You sure you want to do this?” Casey asked me, her arms tight around my neck. She set me back, and I took the moment to memorize her face. Round. Kind. Bright blue eyes that showed every single emotion she had. Eyes that were now brimming with tears.

They knew only that I’d found a strong lead on my father, and I needed to jump on it now before I lost the trail. “I have to do this. I have to find my father.”

Bruce was next. He pulled me into a bear hug, into a cloud of aftershave, a spicy clean mix that made me breathe in deep. I squeezed the soft flannel-clad shoulder. “Take care,” he murmured. “Remember your training. We’ll expect regular check-ins.”

I stepped back and nodded.

“The paperwork won’t be final for sixty days, but I guess the Novem has strings, because they sure as hell pulled some to get permission to transfer guardianship,” Casey said. “We’ll let you know when everything is final.”

“Thanks.”

Michel Lamarliere would soon be listed as my legal guardian. At least for the next six months, until I turned eighteen.

The Sandersons helped me transfer my belongings from their SUV to the mail truck. I didn’t have much — two trash bags full of clothes and shoes, and a couple of boxes with some books and other things I’d collected over the years.

“I put a picture album in one of the boxes,” Casey said, fighting back tears.

Bruce shut the back of the truck, and they both wrapped me in another hug. Bruce’s voice whispered in my ear. “There’s a little something in there from me, too.” From the tone of his voice, I’d say it was something of the personal protection variety. “We love you, kiddo.”

My throat closed, but I managed to say, “Same here.”

As far as good-byes went, this was the hardest. I forced down the rise of tears and kept my composure as we drove away. It was only after Crank had dropped off the mail and retrieved the new bags, and we were headed back down the neglected highway, that I swiped a few tears from the corners of my eyes.

The last rays of the sun spread over the surface of the lake, turning it into a shimmering mirror of deep blues, purples, and oranges. The skyline of New 2 blinked on the horizon, sending me back to the first time Crank and I had driven over the bridge and into the Crescent City. Only this time we didn’t head toward the GD. This time we made for the French Quarter.

The truck slowly, and illegally, navigated Royal Street, mindful of the pedestrians and the carriages. Almost dark. Almost time for another Mardi Gras parade and another ball. Things that meant very little to me.

Crank parked outside of the Cabildo. “I’ll wait for you here.”

I nodded, took a deep breath, put on my game face, and jumped from the truck.

My black boots slapped onto the pavement. The ????? blade swung against my jeans, secured in a brand-new sheath, with a smaller concealed sheath around my boot that contained Violet’s very sharp, very wicked-looking dagger. I was making a statement. I had the blade, and I wasn’t keeping it secret. The sides of my hair had been braided and were gathered, with the rest of my hair, into a tight bun at the nape of my neck.

I popped a small bubble with my chewing gum as I opened the thick wooden door and went inside.

The Novem’s Council of Nine had gathered.

On the second floor, I ignored the receptionist, one hand resting on the hilt of the ????? blade, marched down the corridor that held so much history, and crashed the meeting.

Nine faces turned in my direction. Seven of those I’d yet to meet, but from what I’d gleaned from Henri, Sebastian, and the others, I wouldn’t have trouble putting the names to the faces.

No one, however, seemed surprised to see me.

Deep breath.

All I had to do was think of Violet, of us laughing and running down First Street in our masks and gowns, of her voice telling me that I was beautiful, of the image of her jumping Athena and stabbing The Bitch in the heart, and I found my strength.

I grabbed a spare chair from the corner and dragged it over the hardwood floor, letting it screech, hoping it’d send chills down the spines of the council members. At the large oval table, I spun the chair around and sat down.

Slowly I met each pair of eyes.

The heads of the three witch families: Lamarliere, Hawthorne, and Cromley. The three vampire families: Arnaud, Mandeville, and Baptiste. And the three demigod/shape-shifter families: Deschanel, Ramsey, and Sinclair.

Another deep breath. Another small bubble popped.

“I’d like to enroll in the Presbytere,” I said.

Josephine, in her expensive cream-colored suit, barked a laugh. But no one laughed with her.

After a long moment, Michel spoke up. “I don’t see why that should be a problem.”

“Of course you wouldn’t, Michel. Tell us, Ari, what interest could you possibly have in attending the Novem’s school?”

“Well, I’m here to stay. And the way I see it, you need me. All of you need my help. War is coming to New 2.”

“We have power,” Soren Mandeville said. “And we have enough to protect the city and the people in it.”

“In the past, maybe. But this time you have nothing”— my harsh gaze pierced Josephine, promising retribution for the betrayal of my father, for turning him over to Athena when he sought protection within the Novem—“or no one to trade for peace.”

“We have you,” Josephine said quietly.

“Please, Josephine,” Rowen Hawthorne said. “We have already agreed to provide sanctuary to Miss Selkirk. We have already fought with Athena and sealed our role in this war. Threatening this young woman is. . redundant.”

“You offer to fight, to be part of this battle. And all you want in return is sanctuary and schooling?” Bran Ramsey asked suspiciously.

“I want knowledge.” I sat forward, elbows on the table and heart hammering. “I want to learn everything