meet the wulfen in the park and run with them. Like you belonged.

Good luck with that, though. Instead, I pushed myself upright, ready to drop back down on the bed

if my legs got squidgy on me.

They didn’t. They held me up like they always did.

I bounced a little bit on my toes, testing them even more. I felt . . . strangely good.

Except for everything that was looming over me. Graves disappeared. Ash and Augustine lying in

the infirmary. And Anna . . .

I shook my head, my hair slithering against Christophe’s sweater. I didn’t want to think about that.

I made it over to the dresser, found a fresh pair of jeans and underthings. Made it to the closet and

picked a black T-shirt and a charcoal hoodie. Stood there for a few seconds. There was one red Tshirt I’d grabbed on clearance at Target, a splash of color against the dark fabrics I preferred.

I carried it into the bathroom, stuffed it into the trash basket. Eased myself under some hot water,

the cast-iron bathtub a little slippery and the curtain on its hoop bolted to the wall rustling every

time I moved under the water. Had my mother stood here? Soaped herself and marveled at vanished

bruises? My skin was pretty perfect, only a ghostly shadow remaining where the worst had been, if

you knew where to look.

Had she been raised djamphir, or had her dad kept it a secret? I touched the locket’s warm curve,

rinsed myself off. She wanted a “normal” life. What would she have taught me to do if she hadn’t

been murdered?

It kept ending up with Anna. How could you hate someone so much? It didn’t even seem human.

Yeah. I liked sucking blood. How human was that?

I still felt okay when I got out of the shower and dried off, treating my body like it was a wild horse

that might throw me at any moment. I felt morning-hungry, and I wanted coffee, but maybe not a

banana latte. Most of all I wanted to make sure Ash and August were okay and get started on finding Graves. I didn’t know what I’d say to him because . . .

Christophe.

The memory of lightning went through me again. The healed-up fang marks on my wrist gave another heatless twinge. How would I explain that to Graves?

Did I even need to? Would he care? Would he be relieved?

If I left here, what would Christophe do?

I braided my hair. It felt like my hands were shaking, but they weren’t. My canvas bag was still sitting on the counter next to the pretty leaf-bowl of the sink. I scrounged a ponytail holder and

thought about the roll of cash hidden in there. It was no big trick to get more. Dad taught me how.