The Wicked Within (12 page)

“Well,” I said, thinking out loud, “maybe this god can help us. . . . ”

Bran shot me a dark look. “Are you on meds, Selkirk? We’re not waking a god. Did you hear what I said? We’re talking
old
gods here. Primal gods. Supreme deities. The big dogs.” He parked his hands on his hips and let out a heavy breath. “If this god wakes and has it out for Athena, it’s gonna get messy. Trust me on that. The gods don’t care who they hurt to get what they want.”

“Speaking from experience?” I asked, thinking of Bran’s descent from an old Celtic war god.

“My grandfather would slice open my belly and wear my entrails as a necklace if it got him what he wanted. And that’s why I thank the heavens every night that he chose to Sleep. There’s no way you’re waking a god like that, Selkirk.”

“A god like what? Who is it?”

He scrubbed a hand down his face. “Look, gods can only speak like that through their descendants. Otherwise the god would have spoken to you directly. Zoe and her family are just a handful of those left related to the Egyptian pantheon.”

Sebastian let out a low whistle.

“Yeah,” Bran agreed. “Waking an old Egyptian god equals huge fucking mistake. You need to find another way to end your curse,” he said to me. “Because this way will mean the end for a lot of innocent people. We have enough problems with Athena. Her offer is going to make every power-hungry member of the council insane. And the news will leak, if it hasn’t already, and then we’ll have even more idiots to worry about.”

“I hate to break it to you,” Sebastian said, “but all the guards and the lockdown thing kind of waved a flag that something’s up.”

“I wasn’t allowed on the third floor of Presby,” I added. “The offices are off-limits—talk will start going around. Eventually someone will spill.”

“Yeah, well, the exterior guards weren’t my idea, but the majority vote won out on that one,” Bran said.

“What about the library?”

“It’s on lockdown until the council agrees what to do with the Hands. Until then, no one goes inside.”

“So there was no break-in,” I said, relieved. “A lockdown
only helps if the Hands are actually
in
the library.”

I exchanged a glance with Sebastian. We were the only ones, besides the kids, who knew the Hands might be misplaced. Quickly, I filled Bran in on the fact that the Hands were either missing or hidden within the library. I told him that the Keeper was doing inventory to find them, and that we suspected Josephine of hiding them within the library or taking them.

“You might have told me this sooner,” he said flatly. “Getting someone inside to see if the Keeper is done with inventory is going to be impossible now.”

“Yeah,” Sebastian said. “Already tried that last night. In the time it took me to leave the meeting, talk to Hunter, and get to the third floor, there were already guards posted.”

“That’s my job, Lamarliere,” Bran said. “As soon as Athena’s message was delivered, I texted my crew. They were inside the study, guarding the library before you and the other heirs left the meeting.” He paused, shaking his head and looking disgusted by the events unfolding. “We should have sent Zaria’s head back to Athena on a platter,” he said gruffly, before waving us off and heading back into the apartment.

Cold slid into me. Zaria had been Athena’s messenger.

I’d watched her drink Sebastian to the brink of death night after night in Athena’s temple. I’d watched her tempt him with the blood of one servant after another. And I’d watched
Sebastian, changed and blood drunk, hanging with Zaria and Athena like they were old friends. Or more.

Numbness settled into my psyche. The wind blew in from the Mississippi, making the low oak branches that stretched over us creak.

“It was Zaria,” I echoed with a sharp laugh. That’s who Gabriel was talking about. During our entire conversation back at the house, Sebastian had neglected to mention her.

My throat stung. Did she have some hold over him? “Were you even
going
to tell me you saw her again?”

He didn’t answer, and I wasn’t sure if he knew the answer himself. He’d had several opportunities to confide in me, and he’d chosen not to. As though it was a secret. As though I wasn’t part of his life. Well, to hell with that. To hell with him.

“I’m done,” I muttered, shoving past him.

I felt his eyes on me as I marched away, part of me angry, part of me hurting like hell and wishing he’d say something, call me back, give me some kind of explanation. . . . But he never did.

H
E WATCHED HER WALK AWAY,
her long stride eating up ground, widening the space between them. She hadn’t gotten far, but it seemed like a canyon had opened up between them. His fists clenched at his sides, so tight his short fingernails cut into his palms. Every part of him screamed to go after her. But his body wouldn’t move.

How could he make amends, open up, and explain?

Earlier in the day, he’d gone through his mother’s things. And all he’d wanted to do afterward was drown out the memories, the hurt. . . . So he’d gone to his grandmother’s to feed. For the first time since Athena’s temple, he’d fed on a person and not a bag of blood. Had he been attracted to his donor? No. Had he wanted more from her than her blood? No. Well, maybe not before or after. But during, who could say? He wasn’t sure. He’d been lost in a world of euphoria.

Afterward, it had felt so damn wrong. Anger and confusion sent him home to pound out his frustrations on the drums. He was losing his mind, losing his perspective, his understanding of right and wrong. . . .

Ari had gone pale at Zaria’s name. Asshole that he was, he didn’t elaborate on Zaria’s appearance at the council meeting or how he felt about seeing her again. Maybe he
wanted
Ari to see that he was different now. He wasn’t the kind of guy she should be interested in at all. She was right before. She deserved better. Someone who embraced others, who needed others. It wasn’t right to hold her, kiss her, or care about her—not when he was like this.

How could she accept what he was, what he had to do to appear normal, and not like some goddamn animal? And yet a small voice told him he hadn’t given her a choice. He was making it for her.

With a curse, he grabbed the iron bars behind him, wanting to rip them apart. When they groaned, he reared back. The iron bars were bent. He was so much stronger than he used to be. It was easy to forget that.

Shoving away from the bars, he decided to head over to Café Du Monde. Maybe a coffee would settle him.

The apartment building’s main door opened.

Zoe stood there, holding on to the door, as though afraid to step outside. She glanced behind her nervously, and Sebastian knew she’d snuck down the stairs.

He waited.

“There’s a message for you, too.”

Goose bumps pricked his skin.

He crossed the street, every nerve leaping to life. She leaned in close, then glanced left and right before whispering, “Wake me up. Wake me up, and I’ll set you free.”

Zoe’s words made the hairs on the back of his neck electric. A shudder went through him as she gave him one last look before darting back upstairs.

I
AVOIDED EVERYONE IN THE
house when I got home. I threw my pack on my mattress and paced the room, wanting to take the vial of Athena’s blood from my dresser and smash it against the wall. Instead I dropped to the floor, trying to work through my emotions with push-ups, then sit-ups and crunches, followed by lunges. For an hour, I worked my body. But I couldn’t seem to turn off my brain no matter how hard I pushed myself. I was drenched with sweat and it still wasn’t enough.

Aggravated, I changed into shorts, pulled on my sneakers, strapped on my blade and firearm, and headed out for a run. I’d run until I was too damn exhausted to think or care anymore.

I burned through several blocks before slowing to a steady
pace. Soon the constant strike of my feet on pavement and the rhythmic sound of my breathing were the only things I heard in my head. By the time I made it back to the house, my muscles were limp and shaky. After a long drink in the kitchen, I went upstairs, using the railing to pull myself up the steps, and into the shower.

After, I stared at the cracked mirror over the dresser, regarding my reflection in the aged glass. A solemn face peered back at me of a girl who didn’t know what the hell she was doing. I tried to put Sebastian from my mind, pulled on my pajamas, and climbed into bed.

The next thing I knew, I was jerking awake to the sound of soft knocking. My door cracked open, light spilling inside as Crank stuck her head in. “You asleep?”

“No,” I answered, sitting up and scooting back toward the headboard. “You can come in.”

She left the door ajar so light could come in from the hallway, then came in and sat on the end of my bed, drawing her legs under her. A few seconds passed as she bit her lip, staring down at the blanket, seeming to struggle with her words. “So you’re like a girl and everything. . . . Duh. Stating the obvious, Crank. I know you’re a girl.” She pulled her cabbie hat off and toyed with it. “What I mean is that you look like one.”

“Okaaay.” I had no idea what she was getting at.

“You’re still tough, but you
look
like a girl. You look pretty.” She glanced at me. “I’m a girl. But I don’t look pretty.”

My heart gave a painful squeeze. “Crank . . . ”

“I don’t, okay? I’m always in these damn clothes, always have grease and dirt all over.” She flipped one of her braids. “I can never do anything else with my hair. I don’t want to look prissy, but I want to look like a girl, you know?”

Violet came waltzing in wearing a gold half mask adorned with a fringe of beads that hung over her cheeks and brushed the tops of her lips. The beads swung against her skin as she climbed onto the bed and settled next to me, her back against the headboard and her legs straight out. “Continue,” she said with a regal wave.

Pink stained Crank’s cheeks. Her slim fingers fiddled with her hat. “So anyway . . . I want you to fix me.”

“Fix you?” I blurted. “Crank . . . You don’t need fixing. There is nothing wrong with you.”

“Just . . . can you do it?” She waved a hand at herself. “Make all this better?”

Violet tilted her head to stare at me, waiting for my answer.

“Okay,” I said. “You want to tell me why, though?”

I knew enough to know that this request hadn’t come out of the blue. Something had happened to make Crank notice herself, and not feel good about what she saw. If someone had
said something mean to her, I swore I’d make them hurt. Bad.

“No,” she answered.

“It’s ’cause Dub likes this girl from the Marigny,” Violet said.

“It is not!”

“She’s thirteen, lives on Frenchmen Street above Spits’s new shop, and has big boobs.”

Crank gaped, her face turning beet red. “That is
not
true, Violet. I mean about him liking her,” she said miserably. “She really does have big . . . you know.”

I wanted to hug her. Sometimes it was easy to forget that under all that self-confidence and grit was a young girl named Jenna who’d lost her mother and father when she was little, and her brother a few years ago in the ruins. She had no one to look up to, to learn from. No guidance. No big sister to follow around, to steal her makeup and play in her closet. Crank was twelve, and I knew she was wondering why her body hadn’t begun to change like this girl from the Marigny.

“Is anyone harassing you?” I had to ask. “Is this really about Dub?”

She gnawed on her bottom lip for a long moment before shooting Violet a glare. “No. And yes, but I swear to God if either of you say anything or act differently, I’ll put motor oil in your stew and not fix anything around here for a month.”

Violet placed her hand over her chest. “Promise.”

“Me too,” I said. “Motor oil tastes like crap.”

They laughed.

“It’s my birthday,” Crank admitted quietly. “I’m thirteen today.” She looked up and gave me an unhappy smile.

I hugged her, set her back, and said, “Well then, let the birthday makeover begin.”

Violet jumped to her feet, exclaiming in delight that she’d be back with accessories, and then flew off the bed and out the door. Crank and I exchanged smiles. Then I got started. “The most important part of a makeover is to stay . . . you. You’re a fixer, a driver, a hell of a mechanic, right? So we don’t want to lose that, just change your look a little. If you end up liking it, great, but if you’re more comfortable the way you were, then don’t sweat it. Sometimes the most attractive thing about a person is that they’re comfortable in their own skin. They own who they are, you know?”

Crank looked down at her stained overalls. “These
are
comfy. . . . ”

“Then leave them. They’re tough, and guys like a girl who can take care of herself. I bet whenever a guy sees you with a wrench in your hand, he’s instantly intrigued. Like, who is that girl?

“So, some days maybe you lose the hat or do your hair different. Maybe add a little mascara if you want to go that route—just don’t overdo it. Sometimes subtle changes are best. It’ll make him want to figure out what you did differently. That can be
more powerful than something glaringly obvious, you know?”

“I have mascara,” Violet said, returning mid-exchange and dumping an armful of gowns on the bed. “I have a whole bunch of makeup in my room.”

Crank wrinkled her nose at the gowns. “So not wearing those.”

“They’re not for you, silly,” Violet said. “They’re for me.” And then she was off again, her tiny footsteps echoing down the hall.

“It would look cool to try some bracelets, a little bling,” I suggested. “A nice contrast to the overalls. Something that says tough, but feminine, too.”

Crank seemed excited and hopeful. I scooted closer to her. “First let’s see what we have to work with here.”