Then I saw Max, standing in the parlor of what used to be my room, and I jolted. This must have been the night we came to kill Cyrus. I knew he'd been delivered to Dahlia's room. But why would she remember him? That had been months ago, and as I'd witnessed, Dahlia was fairly Cyrus-centered then.

The guards who'd wrestled him up the stairs pushed him through the door and slammed it behind him. In true Max fashion, he flashed a huge grin despite the fact his arms were bound behind his back and he was completely vulnerable at the hands of his enemy.

Dahlia didn't waste much time looking at him. She turned back to whatever she had been doing, which involved a mortar and pestle, a Bunsen burner and a beaker, and a huge, leather-bound book with handwritten lines. She took a carafe of blood that rested to her right and poured a glass, then removed the beaker from the heat and mixed the contents with the blood. The scent of burned cloves stung my nostrils, and my stomach clenched with dread.

With little ceremony, Dahlia picked up the knife—an athame, as she thought of it—and the blood, and approached Max. She cut the plastic tie holding his hands and gave him the glass. "Drink."

"Yeah, honey, I wasn't really looking forward to turning into a toad tonight." He tried to hand the glass back. "I mean, I'm sure you're a wonderful cook and all—"

"Helping the—" Max began, only to be cut off again by Dahlia.

"Drink it or I'll kill you." She went back to her book, but I couldn't read the writing before she snapped it shut. "I was saving it for Cyrus, but he doesn't seem to have any interest in helping the cause."

"Drink it or I'll kill you." She turned to watch him finish off the glass, then strode forward and wrapped her arms around his neck. He resisted her a little, but she rose on her tiptoes to kiss him. "Now fuck me."

Max obliged with relish, and Dahlia was no slouch, either. We were going to have to have a serious talk when I saw him next. He'd never mentioned any of this to Nathan or me. Normally, I wouldn't care to hear details of Max's sex life, but Dahlia was the enemy. He should have at least mentioned that he'd had sex with her.

When they were done—her memory skipped mercifully ahead—she ordered him to get dressed, and pushed him toward the door. The rushing sound started in my ears again, and I was pulled out of the scene. I was back in Dahlia's room, sprawled on the floor, with a wicked hangover.

"See everything you needed to?"

The voice startled me enough that I sat up despite the splitting pain in my skull. Dahlia glared at me, her eyes accusing slits, but she did not move. "Get out."