At the top of the stairs, the door opened to reveal a very alarmed woman with a crossbow. I recognized her long black hair and exotic features. It was Bella, the assassin from General Breton’s office. The clothes she wore were familiar, as well. They were mine.

She raked an appraising glance over Cyrus and me, then flipped the bow against her shoulder in a less-intimidating stance. “You must be Carrie.”

I nodded and opened my mouth to speak, but an earsplitting scream interrupted me.

The werewolf’s brow creased in gentle concern. “It sounds worse than it is. I have administered a decoction of herbs to soothe him, but they have not taken effect.”

I mumbled a numb “thank you.” The scream had jarred me. I’d never heard it outside of my head before.

Max emerged from the hallway, wiping his hands on his jeans. “He’s fed, at least.” He froze at the sight of us, an indecisive smile playing tug-of-war with his lips. “You’re back.”

“I know.” It probably seemed cruel of me not to rush immediately to Nathan’s side, but I couldn’t. Not after what had happened—what I had let happen—in the car.

Max frowned at me, as if he picked up on my guilty vibe. True to his damned awesome perception, he turned to Cyrus. “Hey, I’m Max.”

Cyrus betrayed nothing, a skill honed to perfection over seven centuries of intrigue and manipulation. It was like a program that clicked on automatically, and I was secretly thankful for it.

He took Max’s hand and shook it firmly. “We’ve met before. When you and your friends broke into my house and murdered me.”

Max’s good-natured smile never wavered, but I saw Cyrus’s knuckles turn white in his grasp. When he released him, Cyrus surreptitiously wiggled his fingers.

Max cleared his throat. “Nathan’s been asking for you.”

“Then he’s…” I didn’t know how to phrase the question, so I looked helplessly to Bella, who seemed, strangely, more compassionate than Max.

“No, he’s still possessed. He just got a whole lot more lucid when we shot him with the tranq dart,” Max said, throwing the bloody towel over his shoulder. “He’s messed up, physically. He’s just a mass of bruises. And he’s terrified. Maybe you could help calm him down.”

As if on cue, another scream rent the air.

“Yeah.” I wiped my sweating palms on my jeans and threw a quick glance to Cyrus. “Stay here. Max will play nice.”

I expected some comment as I walked down the hall, something to either buoy my spirits or knock me down a peg for being such a lousy fledgling. But I should have known better. Max would scold me privately, after the hard part of all this was finished.