“Damn vampire hearing,” she muttered.
“Thanks,” he said, but she just kept on walking.
I fought a grin. “You should sleep,” I scolded.
“So should you.”
“I’m serious. Dawn’s coming. Don’t you need to...I don’t know, find a coffin or something?”
He smiled—that quiet, crooked smile that still made my stomach flip. “You’re not as funny as you think you are.”
“Moi?” I pressed a hand to my chest. “Of course I am. You’re just too ancient to understand my cutting-edge humor.”
He laughed, then pulled me close. “I told you. Coffins are a myth. And I don’t burn in sunlight. Yet. And I need very little sleep. In other words, I’m fine. You, however...”
He trailed off, and I shrugged. “I’m always fine.”
“Liar.”
He was right. But what was I supposed to say? That the prophecy had carved itself into my brain and wouldn’t stop echoing? That I was terrified—both of dying, and of being the reason everyone else did?
Instead of answering, I kissed him. Soft and slow and desperate in a way I couldn’t quite articulate. He kissed me back, his cool hands cupping my face, and for a few seconds, the prophecy didn’t matter. The murder didn’t matter. The new students and the investigation and the weight of everything pressing down on us—none of it mattered.
Then he pulled back, resting his forehead against mine.
“Remember—whatever this is, we face it together. Okay?”
“Together.” I agreed. “Always.” Then he walked me to my door, pressed one last kiss to my forehead, and disappeared down the hallway. I watched him go, this impossible boy who’d chosen to love me despite everything.
With a yawn, I slipped into my room, crawled under the covers, and stared at the ceiling, sleep eluding me.
The door will bleed. Only living shadows can seal the wound.
Whatever was coming, at least I wasn’t facing it alone.
6
KATE
Istood on the front steps of the mansion, coffee in hand, and my game face on. Three new students were about to arrive, and despite what had happened last night, they deserved a headmistress who had her act together.
Eric flanked me on one side, Cutter on the other. Honestly, we must have looked like the world’s most intimidating welcome committee—which, to be fair, we kind of were.
“Smiles, guys,” I said. “Let’s wait an hour or two before we scare them off.”
“Van’s here,” Eric said, nodding toward the curve in the street.
I straightened, setting my coffee cup on the stone balustrade as the white van turned off the road and into the long, curving driveway.Showtime.
The van bore the new Forza West logo on the side—a stylized sword that could pass for an abstract design if you didn’t know what you were looking at. Our cover story was a private training academy for competitive fighters and aspiring stunt performers. The kind of place that attracted intense kids with unusual skills.It held up to casual scrutiny and explained away most of the odd things that might otherwise raise eyebrows.
Marcus waved from his spot behind the wheel, then pulled to a stop at the base of the steps and climbed out, scratching his light beard, then stretching after the long haul from the LAX airport pickup. He looked tired, but I saw him go on alert the moment his eyes met mine. I fought a grimace. I really was too easy to read.
Now, however, wasn’t the time. Not with the three kids piling out, all blinking in the afternoon sun.
The first was a girl—small, mousy brown hair, hugging herself like she was trying to disappear. Sophie, according to the intake files. Fifteen years old, parents killed in a demon attack on their Iowa farm. She’d survived by instinct and luck and a pitchfork.
The second looked like trouble walking. Trevor. Seventeen, from Seattle. Headphones clamped over his ears, shoulders hunched, and a file that noted he had problems with authority, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing for a Hunter. But it could make training a challenge.
