The Wicked Within

Celtic war god, and one of the nine Novem heads that ruled the city. And he was my instructor of all things kick- ass.

Except today, when I was turning cups and little women to stone.

This should have been my last class of the day, but training had been pushed back until after school due to a conflict in Bran’s schedule. It was nearly dark outside, and my stomach was grumbling. And turning things into rock for thirty minutes had worn on my nerves. I wanted to hit something, to sweat, to take the Big Guy down a peg or two—or at least enjoy the attempt.

“This is the last one,” I warned him before closing my eyes.

I drew in a deep breath and pictured the book in my mind, focusing on my center and opening myself up to my power. I called it, drawing it, letting it grow and electrify my entire body. It was a creepy, slithery sensation that took some getting used to.

Directing the energy down my arm and out my hand was a simple thing this time. The power snaking under my skin made me rub my arm and hand when I was done.

Bran didn’t seem impressed. “You’re a regular circus act, Selkirk. I should start taking you to parties.”

“Yeah, we’d make a good pair. Stone girl and meathead,” I said flatly. “We could even charge.” I glanced at the clock as Bran snorted. “I’m meeting my father in fifteen.”

Bran unfolded his arms and moved his head from side to side, stretching his neck. He cracked his knuckles and nodded toward the clock on the wall. “Think you can last for ten?”

With a wide smile, I shrugged out of my jacket and dropped it on the table. “All I need is five.”

* * *

Sparring with Bran was less like training and more like being trapped in the ring with a maniacal giant. There was always a moment that began with my inner voice saying, “Oh shit, what did you get yourself into?” But then everything quieted and my reflexes took over. In the end, I wasn’t sure who was more sadistic—him for doling it out or me for taking it and coming back for more.

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