The Wicked Within

knew sooner or later you would come home where you belong. You are Arnaud now. This is always who you were meant to be.”

He threw an arm over his face and laughed. She refused to see him for what he truly was. Not a child of two Bloodborn parents, but a halfling. Mistborn. His father, Michel, was a warlock, head of the Lamarliere family and, like Josephine, one of the nine ruling Novem elite. He hated the way she looked down at his father, even despised him, glad when Michel had disappeared ten years ago. What kind of sick person found happiness in a child losing a second parent so shortly after the first? But Josephine had been ecstatic. She’d thought he was all hers, to mold and groom. She conveniently disregarded the true nature of his birth and had called him one of her own.

He’d fought and rebelled against her for ten years, vowing never to become what she was.

And now look at him.

He’d never wanted to take blood, to lead this kind of life, to be an Arnaud. But he’d never been given a choice. Athena had seen to that. She’d forced his first taste of blood upon him, and after that, there was no turning back.

But he couldn’t blame Athena for the choices he made now. Tonight he’d skipped out on Ari and the kids. He wondered how long they’d waited before leaving for the bayou without him.

Guilt turned his blood-high sour.

If his father, Ari, the kids saw him as he’d been only moments ago . . . He’d lose them. He’d rather die than show them this side of him, the out-of-control side, the side that didn’t care. The predator. The killer.

“Bastian.” Josephine wanted his attention while she lectured him.

He let out an annoyed sigh, removed his arm from his face, and glared at her. “Go to hell.” Then he rolled over and gave her his back, knowing, despite how he felt about his grandmother and this place, he’d come back here to feed again and again.

THREE

DURING OUR RETURN JOURNEY THROUGH the labyrinth of the bayou, I eyed the ever-darkening sky with concern, tension keeping me ramrod straight. Twilight fell as the boat cleared the bayou and sped up the wide channel to the Mississippi, but I didn’t breathe a sigh of relief until we were docked and on solid ground.

The four-mile hike back to our house was done in silence and absolute awareness of the darkness surrounding us. I took note of every sound, every smell, every strange feeling. And no matter what, we never stopped moving.

By the time we neared the house, my face was cold, my feet hurt, and my muscles were sore. Banging echoed through the neighborhood, the sound growing louder the closer we came to the Italianate mansion we called home.

Hammer on wood.

It had to be Crank, seeing as how she was the fixer of the bunch. She was the only one among us who wasn’t supernatural in some way, and the only one who could fix an engine or a busted pipe, or rig the electricity to work. If not for her, there would be no working fridge, no flushable toilet or running shower. We still had to boil drinking water, and parts of the mansion were rotting away and off-limits, but Crank was indispensable.

I pushed open the squeaky gate, ducked under the vines, and headed to the front door. Inside, Crank was sitting on the grand, curved staircase, replacing a broken board in one of the stairs. Dub sat a few steps above her, watching and slapping a long baguette into his palm as if it were a mighty stick. He glanced up as we filed through the door. “Any luck?” he yelled over the hammering.

“Long story,” I said tiredly.

Crank stopping hammering, lifted her head, and shoved her cabbie hat back from her forehead with her knuckles. Three nails dangled between her lips. Her head jerked in greeting. I returned her gesture with a smile, liking her capable, no-nonsense demeanor. Despite being twelve, Crank ran the mail for the Novem, taking correspondence in her old modified UPS truck across the Pontchartrain to Covington and picking up any incoming mail.

She was the first person I’d met from New 2. She’d picked me up in Covington and gave me a place to stay while I looked for answers about my mother and my past.

“C’mon. Move,” Dub begged her, nudging her in the back with the baguette. Her frown made him sigh loudly and run a hand over his short blond Afro. “I’m telling you this thing is hard enough. C’mon. Let me try.”

Giving up, Crank rolled her eyes and handed Dub a nail, and we watched as he tried to drive it in with the baguette. The head of the nail stuck to the bread. He lifted it and shrugged. “A spike works too.”

“Told you.” Crank resumed her work as Dub slid down the banister. “We got food on the stove. Y’all hungry?”

Henri eyed the baguette. “Not if that’s your idea of supper.”

“Is it wrong of me to want to whack someone with this thing? I’m telling you, it’ll do some damage.”

Violet was already skipping into the kitchen, so I snatched the baguette from Dub’s hand and followed. “I’m starving.”

“Hey!” Dub leaped for it, but I held it high. I was still taller than him, but give him a few more years . . . Already his lanky preteen frame and wide shoulders hinted at the tall, substantial physique to come. With that suede-colored skin, those light eyes, and that blond hair—he was going to be striking. I laughed as he jumped and grabbed my arm, sending us crashing into the hall table.

“Mon Dieu,” Henri muttered. “Children. Must I be the only mature one in this house?”

Dub and I paused at Henri’s words, then looked at each other and laughed—“Yes”—and resumed our game of keep-away.

Finally I showed mercy and let Dub have his weapon.

“Uh-huh.” He pointed the loaf at me. “You fear the smack-down. Don’t deny it. I know you know who I am.”

“You’re insane.” Shaking my head, I made for the kitchen and the large stainless-steel pot on the stove. The scent of oysters, tomatoes, and spices made my stomach growl. Steam rose from around the lid. As I got a spoon, the house suddenly became quiet. The entire time Dub and I had been goofing around, the hammering had continued. But now it stopped. No footsteps coming into the kitchen, no Crank. No noise at all.

I glanced over my shoulder. Henri stood by the table, a full bowl of stew in his hand, his attention on the archway. He, too, was listening. I met Dub’s stare. The humor was gone. His hand tightened around his baguette. Violet, however, sat at the table, nonchalantly sipping stew from her spoon.

I crept into the dining room, which opened to the foyer as Henri went through the other doorway, which led into the hallway.

An eerie scratching sounded outside the dining room window. Thuds echoed on the porch.

The doorknob rattled. My breath caught. Damn it. I ran for the foyer as the front door burst open. Creatures with hairless, leathery gray skin, gnarled limbs, and rows of sharp teeth flooded inside. At least seven of them. Athena’s minions. Her killers.

“Ari!” I swung around at the sound of Crank’s shout. Her hammer swung end over end, right for my head. I ducked. It swooshed over me and slammed into the skull of the minion by the door.

Holy shit.

Breathless, I swallowed, giving her a stunned look as one of the creatures caught me from behind. Its teeth sank into my shoulder. I screamed, the pain instant, but so was the anger. I reached back and grabbed its leathery head, threw my weight forward, and yanked it over me, slammed it against the floor, pulled my blade from its sheath, and stabbed it in the chest.