The Wicked Within

“And look at the situation we were in. You were tortured and starved. That you were able to stop . . . with me . . . that says a lot. Aren’t you getting better at control?”

He didn’t answer.

“You wouldn’t hurt me.”

His forehead touched mine, and he shook his head. “I would. I’m only a couple of weeks old. I would.”

“Do you feed from others?”

“I have. I am what I am. Accept it or not,” he said defensively, “this part of me is not going to change.

“I want to accept you, but it’s kind of hard when you haven’t told me how you feel, what you need. How can I accept anything if you won’t let me in, Sebastian? I don’t know anything about it, when you need to feed, who you do it with, if you have feelings for that person when you do. . . . None of it.”

He moved closer again, pressing his hips to mine, wrapping his arms around me. I couldn’t hold in my feelings. “I don’t like it. I feel like we were damned before we even began.” I hated picturing him holding someone else, putting his mouth on their skin.

Granted, I got that he was afraid he’d lose control with me because I meant something to him. And yes, he was only a couple weeks old and playing it safe. He was a good guy, to worry about hurting me. But taking what he needed from others—I didn’t have to like it. And I didn’t understand why he couldn’t open up and let me in.

Sebastian was the first guy I wanted to be in a relationship with. I hadn’t known him all that long in the scheme of things, but we sort of made up for time in that we’d been through things most people would never go through in a thousand lifetimes. The horrors and triumphs we’d faced linked us. We had a strong bond. But our relationship was just beginning. We’d connected, and I’d wanted to see what would come of that connection. But where I was once hopeful, now I was not.

“I don’t like it either, Ari. Just . . . let me work it out, okay?”

“Damn it.” I pushed him away. “No, it’s not okay. You want to touch me like this and I’m supposed to be okay with it after you’ve been holding someone else? I’m supposed to just agree with whatever you want while you keep me in the dark?” I jerked open the door. “Maybe I need to work out some things too, like whether or not that’s okay with me. Oh, no wait. Don’t need time to figure it out. It’s not okay!”

I slammed the door, but it met his hand again as he followed me out of the room, ready to fight.

A horn blasted from outside.

Someone was laying on the car horn out front like it was nobody’s business. Pretty sure it was Crank outside, I marched into my room to grab my weapons.

By the time I was done and downstairs, Sebastian was already walking out the front door. As I crossed the foyer, Henri and Dub’s arguing carried from the kitchen—something about the proper way to chop potatoes.

Outside, Crank’s truck was parked halfway up on the curb.

“About time!” she called, leaning out of the truck. “Hurry up, will you!”

I finished strapping my blade to my thigh and pushed through the gate.

“Get in. One of your teachers told me to come find you and bring you to the square.”

“Bran?” I took a guess, lifting my hand to model his height. “Big guy . . . ”

She popped a bubble with her gum and leaned her forearms on the huge steering wheel. “Yeah. Big dude. Brown hair. Nice tats.”

I nodded. “Did he say what he wants?”

“Nope, but it sounded pretty urgent. So, he wants you to come. Like pronto.”

I walked around to the open passenger side and got in. Sebastian knelt in the empty space between our seats, holding on to them both for support. I wanted to tell him not to bother. Bran hadn’t asked for him. But one glance told me he was coming whether I liked it or not.

As we sped out of the GD, Gabriel’s words still mocked me, and my fists clenched. Next time I saw him, things were going to get ugly.

TEN

THE BRAKES SCREECHED AS THE truck came to a rocking stop in front of Jackson Brewery. “You want me to wait for you guys?”

“No,” I answered, getting out. “You’d better head back home and stop Henri and Dub from killing each other.”

She rolled her eyes. “They at it again?”

“Yeah. Something about chopping potatoes.”

“Oh, Lord. Knives involved? Yup, I’d better get back. He’s down there at 520-B.”

After Crank left us in a cloud of exhaust, I crossed Decatur and started down St. Peter, the wide street between the Pontalba Apartments and the park of Jackson Square. Sebastian was a few steps in front of me, his shoulders hunched against the cool night air. The gnarled tree limbs stretched from the park over the street, and the late hour added a creepy quality to the night.

Sebastian stopped at one of the tall brown doors sandwiched between the ground-floor shops. He rang the buzzer to apartment B.

Footsteps thudded down the stairs. Heavy ones. The door opened and Bran’s shadow loomed large. “About time.”

“You’re welcome,” I responded in a tired tone. “What’s going on?”

He lifted an eyebrow; I wasn’t my usual snarky self. “The kid who lives upstairs has been sitting in the corner, speaking in tongues for the last two days. And seems your name’s come up.”

“My name,” I repeated, surprised.

“Not your given name. She’s mentioned your other name. God-killer. I think it’s a message or some sort of prophetic warning. Come on, I want you to talk to her, see if you can figure out what she wants.” Turning away, Bran muttered, “God knows, now that the shit has hit the fan, we can use all the help we can get. . . . ”

I frowned, not understanding what he meant.

Bran led us inside the tall, narrow space, then up an equally narrow staircase to the second-floor apartments. He paused at the door marked B, looking a little stressed, which was very unlike him.

The apartment was pretty swanky. Jackson Square was lined on two sides by matching apartment buildings. They were known as some of the oldest apartments in North America, and home to many of the Novem families. High ceilings, heavy crown moldings, and expensive furniture—only the best for the Novem, while the rest of the population outside the French Quarter had to make do with spotty electricity and unsafe drinking water.

The instant we stepped inside, I was hit with a thick aura of tension and power. It raised the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck. In the living room, a couple sat on a couch, huddled together, holding hands, looking the very picture of concerned. Bran took the chair next to the couch and leaned close to them.

“I don’t know about this,” the mother said through tears, and I wasn’t sure if her quick glance at me was one of fear or dislike. Probably both. It wasn’t like I was going to hurt her kid or anything. I didn’t even want to be there.

“We talked about this,” the father said. “Whether it upsets Zoe or not, it might get a reaction, wake her up, something. We have to carry her to the bathroom and change her like a baby, Trish. This can’t go on.”

From the ensuing conversation, I learned that for two days Zoe had stayed in the corner of her room, facing the wall and rocking. She’d been uttering a language no one seemed to understand, mixed with a smattering of English and a few other languages.

One word had caught their attention: god-killer. And that had led them to confide in Bran, and Bran to summon me. Anxious to get the introduction over with, I cut into the conversation as Bran tried to convince the mother this was the right thing to do. “We’re just going to go in and say hi.” Sebastian and I headed down the hall before anyone could say otherwise.