LOGINWHEN I OPEN MY EYES AGAIN, IT’S DARK. THE MIDLEVEL HEADACHE that has been my loyal golden retriever companion is finally gone. In its stead, a dragon-worthy migraine pummels at my temples, clear proof that I’m dead and my corpse was sold to med students for skull-trepanning practice.And yet.If I were waking up in any other angle of the observable universe, I’d be rolling off the bed and lurching toward the toilet, ready to vomit my stomach lining. But whoever brought me here had the good foresight to deposit me in the only place where I’m not constantly surrounded by hostile, belly-churning stimuli.Zane’s room.The scent of him has a morphine-like effect on me. I bury my face in the pillow, take several deep, lung-filling breaths, and use the bathroom. On my way to the living room, I make a pit stop on the bed, inhale a few more times, and walk down the hallway feeling like new.I expect— no, I want to find Zane alone. Instead, I count six more people, maxing out every sittable s
“How angry are you, Anna?” Irene asks. “At this man who murdered your family in cold blood? He took away your childhood and your home and didn’t even stick around long enough to make sure that you were taken care of. If he hadn’t killed Fiona, the three of us could have been together. There would have been no orphanage. No Vampyres. No Northwest. You could have been happy. But Zane took that away from you. So let me ask you one more time . . . How angry are you?”“I’m not— ” I start, shaking my head— and then stop.Slowly, I let my eyes settle on Zane. His quiet expression betrays none of the turmoil I’m feeling. How angry am I?A lot. A lot.“Here.” The knife makes its way into my hand, already unfolded. “This man was angry, and he hurt you and your family. Now that you are angry, what will you do, Eva?”This is a dream. A nightmare. I can’t be awake as I clutch the plastic handle and walk around Irene’s chair, dazed but determined. But I know what I must do.I know that it’s right.
IHOLD MY BREATH. STAY PERFECTLY STILL. MY MUSCLES COIL, AS if to keep my body from breaking open, stop my organs and blood from pouring onto the floor.Then Zane says, “I’ve been suspecting it for a few days,” and I fall apart.“What?” I sound reedy.Maybe that’s why Zane ignores my question. Doesn’t look at me. Continues his conversation with Irene, composed, detached, like the topic is only mildly diverting. Broken boilers. The weather. Him, killing my mother.“And yet you didn’t tell her. How self-serving of you.”“I wanted to be certain, before informing her that one or more of her parents were high-profile figures in a cult with a sky-high body count.”Irene sneers. “Now you know for sure.” She points at me with a flourish. “Tell her what happened that night. The Favored would like to know, too, wouldn’t we, friends? All we had to go by were the rotting corpses.”“Very well.” Zane takes a deep breath. Turns to me. Lifts his bound hands onto the table, leaning over his elbows, and
Zane steps inside. He’s drenched in rainwater, hands tied in front of his body. His forearms and neck are smeared with blood, green swirled with red. Some of it trickles slowly down his temple, where it mats his thick hair.Just below, a deep cut dissects his right cheekbone. He’s wearing a black shirt and black pants, which makes it impossible to tell whether he was injured in any vital spot.I can’t believe he came alone. After what he said about his mother, he made the same mistake. He’s so outnumbered, even he can’t make it out of this.And yet his smirk and “Thank you for having me” fill me with some temporary optimism, even after three more Weres walk inside behind him.It’s Jess and her two friends, clearly proud to be delivering the Alpha of the Northwest. They bend their heads to Irene. When she invites Zane to take a seat, the younger man pushes him and sends him staggering forward.The boy gets to gloat for about three seconds. Then Zane spins around, uses his bound hands t
The letter is not addressed to me. It’s the first thing I notice— the Dear Irene in unexpectedly round, neat handwriting. Mine is slanted and messy, hard to make out. Looks like an ECG line, Seraphine always says. You make people work for every damn letter. No one should have to expend much effort to know that you want them to buy zucchini. As if she ever once went grocery shopping.But this, this is bubbly. Girly.My mother’s.Dear Irene,I don’t know if or when you’ll receive this letter. I don’t know if you’re alive. It’s been approximately three weeks since we went our separate ways. Like we agreed, I’ll be vague about names and locations, in case the Northwest intercepts our communications. Without going into detail, I dearly hope our time apart has been less eventful for you than for us.Originally, it was just C., P., E., and me. A few days later, we encountered three other Favored on the run and joined forces. A larger group of adults allows for more night shifts to ensure
I didn’t mean to upset you. I just wanted you to know that you are one of us. Will always be.” Her smile is apologetic. Young. “Irene sent me up to help you prepare for your Heat.”“Prepare?”“She said it’s coming soon.”My stomach drops. My mind races with horrifying possibilities. “Prepare how?”“The ceremonial markings.” She picks up a small jar full of a thick black liquid. When she holds it closer, I realize that it might be closer to a dark blue. Or green. “Don’t worry, the dye will stain lighter.”“Stain . . . what?”“Your skin. Are you not familiar with the tradition?”“I’ve been a Were for about twenty minutes.”“Oh. Well.” She glances at the door, clearly considering getting Irene.“I— I don’t care about traditions, I mean.” I bite my tongue. To punish myself. “No need for the markings.”“But Were customs are important. And if you don’t . . . Irene might be angry.” In the slight tremble of her lips, I hear what Nele doesn’t say. At me. And I don’t want that. Irene is a stan
My eyes roll in the back of my head, and I’ve never felt anything so violently, madly, painfully good—“Lucien.” I’m scared of how intense it is. But he lets out a wordless groan, bites my collarbone, and I know he feels exactly like I do, the pleasure brutal, pulsating, impossible to stop.“My bea
Present dayIF SUCH A THING AS AN IDEAL NIGHT TO DIE EXISTED, IT WOULD not be this one.There’s so much wrong with it. I could bitch about the recent rainstorm, the weak garlic-clove-sized moon, the uncharged phone sitting on my nightstand. The main issue, though, is that I’m wearing no more than t
He sucks in an incredulous breath. Warmth crawls into my stomach, up my backbone. I pull off my shirt, and he follows me eagerly with his hands and his mouthHe nips at my collarbone, sucks at my nipples, nibbles at my breasts. With every touch I feel like we’re slowly being welded together—until h
I don’t see Lucien for the following three days.Or: I do see Lucien. Several times. Constantly, even. But it’s never Lucien, the guy who hung out with me on the roof and drew me baths and once pulled back my hair to stare at the tips of my ears and then mouthed pretty to himself. It’s always Luci







