“I’m not saying that’s bad,” she said neutrally. “You’re a threat, and you need the same. I know, because I live it. All vampires do. That’s why we keep to our own but for cheap thrills and one-night stands. Anyone less a risk than ourselves isn’t enough to keep up, keep around, keep alive, or understand. Only those born to it are capable of understanding. And you.”

I didn’t like this. I didn’t like it at all. “I have to go,” I said, shifting my weight to stand.

The palm of her hand flashed out, hitting the side of the van to bar my way and stop me cold. “Face it, Rachel,” she said when I looked up, frightened. “You’ve never been the safe, nice girl next door, despite everything you do to be that person. That’s why you joined the I.S., and even there you didn’t fit in, because, knowing it or not, you were a possible threat to everyone around you. People sense it on some level. I see it all the time. The dangerous are attracted by the lure of an equal, and the weak are afraid. Then they avoid you, or go out of their way to make your life miserable so you’ll leave and they can continue deluding themselves that they’re safe. You trusted Nick knowing he might betray you. You got off on the risk.”

I swallowed a surge of denial, remembering the misery of high school and my history with bad boyfriends. Not to mention my idiotic decision to join the I.S., and then my even more idiotic attempt to quit when Denon started giving me crap runs and the thrill was taken away. I knew I liked dangerous men, but saying it was because I was equally dangerous was ludicrous…or would have been if I hadn’t just spent yesterday as a wolf/witch hybrid courtesy of a demon curse that my blood kindled, and I now sat in a brand-new Rachel skin with no freckles or wrinkles.

“So you’re a threat,” Ivy said, the scent of cocoa rising between us as she sat on the boxes across from me. “So you need the rush of possible death to keep your soul awake and turn you on. That’s not bad. It just says you’re one powerful bitch, whether you know it or not.” Tilting forward, she handed me the chipped mug. “Dangerous doesn’t always equal untrustworthy. Drink your cocoa and get over it. Then find someone to trust who’s worth trusting you back.”

Jaw clenched, I looked at the mug in my grip. It was for me? I had made her cocoa the night Piscary had raped her: mind, body, and soul. I pulled my eyes up her tight jeans and her long shapeless black sweater that hung mid-thigh.

“That’s why I wait,” she whispered when our eyes met.

I took a hasty breath when I realized the unseen scar beneath my new skin was tingling.

Ivy must have sensed it, for she stood. “I’m sorry,” she said, reaching for the door.