The Wicked Within

How could he make amends, open up, and explain?

Earlier in the day, he’d gone through his mother’s things. And all he’d wanted to do afterward was drown out the memories, the hurt. . . . So he’d gone to his grandmother’s to feed. For the first time since Athena’s temple, he’d fed on a person and not a bag of blood. Had he been attracted to his donor? No. Had he wanted more from her than her blood? No. Well, maybe not before or after. But during, who could say? He wasn’t sure. He’d been lost in a world of euphoria.

Afterward, it had felt so damn wrong. Anger and confusion sent him home to pound out his frustrations on the drums. He was losing his mind, losing his perspective, his understanding of right and wrong. . . .

Ari had gone pale at Zaria’s name. Asshole that he was, he didn’t elaborate on Zaria’s appearance at the council meeting or how he felt about seeing her again. Maybe he wanted Ari to see that he was different now. He wasn’t the kind of guy she should be interested in at all. She was right before. She deserved better. Someone who embraced others, who needed others. It wasn’t right to hold her, kiss her, or care about her—not when he was like this.

How could she accept what he was, what he had to do to appear normal, and not like some goddamn animal? And yet a small voice told him he hadn’t given her a choice. He was making it for her.

With a curse, he grabbed the iron bars behind him, wanting to rip them apart. When they groaned, he reared back. The iron bars were bent. He was so much stronger than he used to be. It was easy to forget that.

Shoving away from the bars, he decided to head over to Cafe Du Monde. Maybe a coffee would settle him.

The apartment building’s main door opened.

Zoe stood there, holding on to the door, as though afraid to step outside. She glanced behind her nervously, and Sebastian knew she’d snuck down the stairs.

He waited.

“There’s a message for you, too.”

Goose bumps pricked his skin.

He crossed the street, every nerve leaping to life. She leaned in close, then glanced left and right before whispering, “Wake me up. Wake me up, and I’ll set you free.”

Zoe’s words made the hairs on the back of his neck electric. A shudder went through him as she gave him one last look before darting back upstairs.

TWELVE

I AVOIDED EVERYONE IN THE house when I got home. I threw my pack on my mattress and paced the room, wanting to take the vial of Athena’s blood from my dresser and smash it against the wall. Instead I dropped to the floor, trying to work through my emotions with push-ups, then sit-ups and crunches, followed by lunges. For an hour, I worked my body. But I couldn’t seem to turn off my brain no matter how hard I pushed myself. I was drenched with sweat and it still wasn’t enough.

Aggravated, I changed into shorts, pulled on my sneakers, strapped on my blade and firearm, and headed out for a run. I’d run until I was too damn exhausted to think or care anymore.

I burned through several blocks before slowing to a steady pace. Soon the constant strike of my feet on pavement and the rhythmic sound of my breathing were the only things I heard in my head. By the time I made it back to the house, my muscles were limp and shaky. After a long drink in the kitchen, I went upstairs, using the railing to pull myself up the steps, and into the shower.

After, I stared at the cracked mirror over the dresser, regarding my reflection in the aged glass. A solemn face peered back at me of a girl who didn’t know what the hell she was doing. I tried to put Sebastian from my mind, pulled on my pajamas, and climbed into bed.

The next thing I knew, I was jerking awake to the sound of soft knocking. My door cracked open, light spilling inside as Crank stuck her head in. “You asleep?”

“No,” I answered, sitting up and scooting back toward the headboard. “You can come in.”

She left the door ajar so light could come in from the hallway, then came in and sat on the end of my bed, drawing her legs under her. A few seconds passed as she bit her lip, staring down at the blanket, seeming to struggle with her words. “So you’re like a girl and everything. . . . Duh. Stating the obvious, Crank. I know you’re a girl.” She pulled her cabbie hat off and toyed with it. “What I mean is that you look like one.”

“Okaaay.” I had no idea what she was getting at.

“You’re still tough, but you look like a girl. You look pretty.” She glanced at me. “I’m a girl. But I don’t look pretty.”

My heart gave a painful squeeze. “Crank . . . ”

“I don’t, okay? I’m always in these damn clothes, always have grease and dirt all over.” She flipped one of her braids. “I can never do anything else with my hair. I don’t want to look prissy, but I want to look like a girl, you know?”

Violet came waltzing in wearing a gold half mask adorned with a fringe of beads that hung over her cheeks and brushed the tops of her lips. The beads swung against her skin as she climbed onto the bed and settled next to me, her back against the headboard and her legs straight out. “Continue,” she said with a regal wave.

Pink stained Crank’s cheeks. Her slim fingers fiddled with her hat. “So anyway . . . I want you to fix me.”

“Fix you?” I blurted. “Crank . . . You don’t need fixing. There is nothing wrong with you.”

“Just . . . can you do it?” She waved a hand at herself. “Make all this better?”

Violet tilted her head to stare at me, waiting for my answer.

“Okay,” I said. “You want to tell me why, though?”

I knew enough to know that this request hadn’t come out of the blue. Something had happened to make Crank notice herself, and not feel good about what she saw. If someone had said something mean to her, I swore I’d make them hurt. Bad.

“No,” she answered.

“It’s ’cause Dub likes this girl from the Marigny,” Violet said.

“It is not!”

“She’s thirteen, lives on Frenchmen Street above Spits’s new shop, and has big boobs.”

Crank gaped, her face turning beet red. “That is not true, Violet. I mean about him liking her,” she said miserably. “She really does have big . . . you know.”

I wanted to hug her. Sometimes it was easy to forget that under all that self-confidence and grit was a young girl named Jenna who’d lost her mother and father when she was little, and her brother a few years ago in the ruins. She had no one to look up to, to learn from. No guidance. No big sister to follow around, to steal her makeup and play in her closet. Crank was twelve, and I knew she was wondering why her body hadn’t begun to change like this girl from the Marigny.

“Is anyone harassing you?” I had to ask. “Is this really about Dub?”

She gnawed on her bottom lip for a long moment before shooting Violet a glare. “No. And yes, but I swear to God if either of you say anything or act differently, I’ll put motor oil in your stew and not fix anything around here for a month.”

Violet placed her hand over her chest. “Promise.”

“Me too,” I said. “Motor oil tastes like crap.”

They laughed.

“It’s my birthday,” Crank admitted quietly. “I’m thirteen today.” She looked up and gave me an unhappy smile.

I hugged her, set her back, and said, “Well then, let the birthday makeover begin.”

Violet jumped to her feet, exclaiming in delight that she’d be back with accessories, and then flew off the