I stare at the sword. The words reach me, but they don’t make sense.
“Callisto?” I never thought I’d say that word in here, in front of her.
“I take you’ve heard of the hunters,” she says, a grin stretching her lips. She jumps up, swinging the sword around without a care in the world. “Well, guess what. They were originally our bodyguards!”
Penny told me Callisto was formed tostopvampires. To protect humanity from them.
Sensing my confusion, Aliz continues. “My father was a bit of an astronomer during the fifteenth century. Even though their discovery was attributed to Galileo, my father was the first to identifyJupiter’s four largest moons. And he named four factions of his staff after them. Blood of Io were the servants, Europa the gardeners, Ganymede his cupholders, and Callisto his hunters.”
I listen to this, stunned. It can’t be. “And your father saw himself as Jupiter?” I ask, and Aliz winces.
“I guess so,” she says.
“What happened then?” I ask. “To Callisto.”
“A falling-out,” Aliz says, leaning against the false window, the night’s first stars glittering behind her. “My sister was going to take over the family—she was destined to be the new head. Her plans differed from Blood of Callisto’s. So, they killed her.”
“Callisto killed your sister?”
I remember that phone call with Penny. The tension in her voice. Does she know the truth about Callisto’s origins? I rub my head. It doesn’t make sense. According to her, Callisto was founded by Catherine Lovelace roughly two hundred years ago. But according to Aliz, we date back to the fifteenth century.
“They drugged her and took her out into the sun,” Aliz says, drawing me out of my thoughts.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Don’t be,” she replies, resting the silver sword atop her coffin. “I wasn’t born yet.”
“Whenwereyou born?” I ask.
“How old do you think I am?” she counters.
I take a step closer; she takes one back, surprised.
“Hm…” I reach up to touch her face, turning it to see her features a little clearer. “Two thousand?”
She blinks. “Not bad,” she says, and grasps my hand, her cool fingers keeping it pressed to her cheek. “You’re off by just a few.”
I gawk at her, “A few?”
“I’m twenty-four.”
“Twenty-four!”
“Are you a parrot?” she asks, leaning down. I finally snatch my hand free from hers, taking a step back. “I’ve still got another six years of aging left. Then I’ll be stuck looking like this for eternity.”
“Wow,” I whisper. “I was wrong.”
She snorts. “Yeah. And you?”
“Twenty-two,” I say.
“All right, let’s see if you’re allergic to silver,” she says.
She lifts the sword again, and I feel the blade beneath my chin, tilting my headup.
“I don’t get it,” she says in a low voice. “You get all flustered when I hold your hand, but now, with a fucking sword at your throat, you’ve got no reaction?”
“Maybe it’s because you’re scarier?” I reply.
