form in. None of the three or four gyms I’d gone to sparring practice in had more than a three-tub

girls’ locker room.

Because svetocha were so rare. I shifted my weight nervously and tried to figure out what she

would want from me now.

Maybe I’d get a chance to tell her Christophe wasn’t my thing.

Yeah. That’d be real fun all the way around. And the more I thought about it the more I knew

Graves was right. She wouldn’t believe that.

Sweat itched all over me, and I pulled my T-shirt down. There was a scrape of rug burn on my forearm, past my elbow. Or would you call it mat burn, since I’d gotten it scrambling to get up while

Arcus—

“Hello, Dru.”

I half-turned, and there Anna stood in a pair of clinging pink sweats and a red tank top. Slim and

pretty, her curling red-tinted hair pulled artlessly back and her fangs dimpling her candy-glossed

lower lip as the aspect slid over her. The curls lengthened and loosened. She looked like an ad for

Victoria’s Secret workout gear.

I slouched shapelessly. Sloppy gray T-shirt, green knit shorts I’d borrowed from somewhere, and

my socks were probably dirty, too. They even felt gray against my toes, and my sneakers were new

but already showing signs of hard use. I don’t believe in getting clothes that just look pretty or

that’ll fall apart—they have to stand up to a lot of abuse.

Dad was real big on dressing for efficiency.

Anna surveyed me from head to foot, and my mother’s locket cooled against my chest. I’d tucked it

under the T-shirt, but I never took it off. I could replace the chain if it broke during sparring, but I

didn’t want to lose the locket by setting it down somewhere.

It was all I had left. And I suddenly didn’t want her greedy little blue eyes on it.

We were in here with just each other. I couldn’t see her bodyguards, and I wished like hell someone

had stayed behind to watch this.

It didn’t look like it would end well. This sort of thing never does. I know what it feels like right before it starts.

Like thunderstorms threatening, prickling against the skin. Only this one felt like a hurricane just

looking for a place to come to shore.

“What the hell do you want?” I didn’t have to work to sound unwelcoming. The space at the back of

my palate that warned me of danger dilated, roughening, and this time the taste of rotting wax oranges was spoiled by a copper tang. The pressure of fangs against my lower lip turned probingly insistent. They were sharp, but I didn’t want to open my mouth and show them off.

She stepped forward, and I dropped into stance without thinking about it. Weight balanced, arms