Max shook his head. "I hate to tell you, but life isn't always like this for us. You came into our world at a really bizarre time. I wish I could tell you this kind of high-concept shit goes down every couple of months, but it doesn't. So pardon me if the Pollyanna shtick doesn't make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside."

Our world? That stung more than the aspersions he cast on my optimism. I might not be as old as he or Nathan and I'd never been a part of the Movement. Sure, there were things I didn't know, but I was learning. I'd killed Cyrus—even if it hadn't stuck—and Yd kept the Soul Eater from devouring Nathan. I'd willingly been possessed by the soul of his dead wife to break an evil spell. I might not have a vampire extermination record as impressive as Max's, but I thought I'd earned some pretty impressive street cred.

The thought that I might be wrong, that I may not have seen anything yet, froze the marrow in my bones.

Chapter Five
Defenses

Max woke at the sound of Bella's scream.

He'd been curled up at the end of her bed like a dog—he'd hoped in her post-possession panic she wouldn't notice—where he'd fallen asleep watching over her.

There was no time to berate himself for napping on the job. Bella clawed at the blankets, then her clothing, shrieking in utter panic.

Grasping her shoulders, he called her name, shaking her lightly. "You're okay, baby. I'm here. I'm here."

Her pupils changed size as she tried to focus. Frowning, she pushed back the hair that had escaped from her long braid. "I know. That is why I was screaming."

The fact she could make a wisecrack bolstered his faith that she would be all right. At least, for now. "You scared the bejesus out of me."

"That is what I was going for." Her voice broke a little, as though she might cry. Of course, she didn't. Max was reasonably sure werewolves were born without tear ducts. Or hearts.

"Can I have a glass of water?" Her voice was hoarse, probably from screaming. She'd always sounded like that, after they'd—

He didn't just force the thought aside. He clubbed it unconscious, threw it into a crawl space and watted it up alive.

He grabbed a bottle of water from the bedside table—he'd come prepared—and twisted the top off before handing it to her. Partly to see the look of annoyance on her face when she realized he thought her weak and incapable of caring for herself, partly because he took bizarre satisfaction in caring for her. He waited until she'd gulped down half the water before asking, "Are you okay?"

She nodded. "I am fine. I am sore all over for some reason, but I am fine."