She blinked, snapping to attention, and then darted into one of the stalls. My reflection rolled its eyes at the line I’d fed her. It was more complicated than that. I planned on using my power for vigilante justice, for vengeance, and I wasn’t so sure whether that would put me in the “good” category or not.

After finishing with the braids, I gathered them with the rest of my hair, twisted a tight bun, and secured it with the plain black band from around my wrist. And then I went into the handicapped stall to change.

Six

“YOU’RE EARLY.”

I let the door to The Dungeon bang closed behind me and gave Bran a shrug. “I’m ready to train.” And I’d rather be worked into the ground than feel the sheer despair and helplessness I’d felt moments earlier in the bathroom. A good workout always helped put me back on track, even if it did come with a few bumps and bruises.

I dropped my bag by the door, went to the center of the room, and sat down to stretch. It took less than a minute for Bran’s shadow to fall over me. I glanced up. He crossed his arms over his chest and stared down at me with a gruff expression. “At least you’re wearing appropriate clothes this time.”

“Brought them with me.” The loose cargo pants and sport tank were oldies, but the most comfortable training gear I had.

“Get up.”

I got to my feet, cracked my knuckles, and gave him a cocky smile that I knew he’d appreciate. “Ready to have your ass handed to you, Ramsey?”

A slow grin split his face. “Bring it on, Snow White.”

“Snow White has black hair. Know your Disney movies.”

And so began thirty minutes of relentless physical training. Bran wanted me prepared to fend off any kind of attack, and I couldn’t exactly use my power if I couldn’t keep Athena’s minions or hunters from killing me first. It was all part of the training, he said. Blocks, kicks, punches. Offense. Defense. Learning to bend my enemy’s body parts in new ways that would stop them in their tracks.

Then came the blade training.

I was to the point where I could barely breathe, and my hand, wrist, and forearm burned with exertion and the constant vibration of steel meeting steel. Bran tossed his training blade behind him. It slid across the floor and hit the wall. He grabbed my shoulder with one hand and slugged me hard in the gut with the other.

I doubled over, dropping my blade, straining and gasping for air that wouldn’t come.

“NOW! RIGHT NOW!” He circled around me, intensity coming off him in heavy waves. “Use that shock, that one-second burst of fear! Tap into it at that moment when there is only reaction, then fling your energy, your emotions, back out. Your power will come with it. Don’t think about it; just do it.”

I raised a hand in surrender, still doubled over, unable to speak, the pain spreading through my torso in a severe cramp-style ache.

He continued circling. I knew he was coming in for another hit. Suck it up! If you can’t handle him, you can’t handle whatever Athena will throw at you! Tears blurred my vision, but I blinked them back and straightened.

And then I blocked.

“Use your power!”

We went round and round like that for what seemed like hours. I kept trying to use my power, to make something happen, but failed at every turn.

“Stop holding it in!” he yelled at me. “Stop relying solely on your physical defenses!”

Punch. Block. Jab. I couldn’t help it. I was human; this was what I knew how to do.

“When pain hits you, you strike back! You’re too in control, that’s your problem. Your ability to take the pain, swallow it, and stay focused is the problem.”

I dropped my defensive stance and let my arms fall limp at my sides. “What the hell kind of fighting is that?” I said irritably, trying to catch my breath at the same time. “That’s the first thing they teach you: Stay calm and focused. Now you’re telling me not to?”

He stopped moving and put his hands on his hips. “Yeah, that’s what I’m telling you, Selkirk. Even a baby could understand what I’m saying. I’ve got to break you down before I can build you back up. Fear and adrenaline are what stir your power. You have to get used to the feel of it, let it pass that damn wall of yours, and then we can work on focus and control.” He moved again.

A blur to my left. I saw it coming and blocked his first swing with my forearm, dropping down and spinning in anticipation of the next hit. But he came at me with a boot to the side of my knee.

I cried out with a sharp curse, my entire body dipping toward the pain. And yeah, it was there, that instant burst of shock, like a gasp of the heart. The moment Bran had been talking about.

I grabbed his ankle. Like a slingshot, the fear and adrenaline whipped through me and then back out through my grip. Strike. In an instant I felt the power surge out of me, snapping like an electrical current, so quick and terrifying that I released Bran and fell back, eyes wide and panting.

Holy cow.

My hand was numb. I was trembling so hard that I couldn’t even sit up straight, so instead I balanced myself with my palms flat on the floor. This had been the goal, but, goddamn, it scared the shit out of me.

Bran sat a few feet away from me, pant leg rolled up, eyeing his ankle and calf, the skin nearly white. After a few seconds he released his leg and shot me a triumphant grin. “Better.”

He pushed to his feet and held out a hand to me. I took it and let him pull me up. “Again tomorrow,” he said, dismissing me, and then walked to his table for a drink.

That was all the praise I got? Better. I shook my head, smiling despite the aches and pains, because as tough as Bran acted, he was a good guy. And in the last fifty minutes he’d taught me things with a blade and my body that I never knew were possible.

I went to my bag, grabbed the bottled water I’d gotten from the cafeteria earlier, and downed most of it. Then I sheathed my blade, pulled on my jacket, and left the room.

My thoughts turned to Athena. With my training started, my other objective was to get inside her head, figure out her weaknesses and where she might have taken Violet.

And for that, I needed Michel’s help.

The Lamarliere House was in the French Quarter, so I didn’t have too far to walk from Presby, down St. Peter Street to Royal, where Michel’s three-story house loomed on the corner.

My legs were still weak and shaky, and the sweat on my skin was starting to dry, leaving me feeling cold. Already the aches and pains from my training were settling in. Tomorrow the soreness would be almost unbearable. I made a mental note to stop at the drugstore near Canal Street and grab some Advil on my way home.

The “before dinner” crowd had yet to trickle into the streets, but there was still activity, still music drifting from open doors, tourists shopping, and the clip-clop of hooves on asphalt.

I breathed in deeply, loving the scent of sun-warmed bricks and all the different aromas from the bakeries and restaurants.

In the thirteen years since the Novem bought the ruined city, the Quarter had been completely restored. It was now a very expensive tourist destination, carefully overseen by the Novem and one of their biggest sources of income, one that swelled during Mardi Gras. Once the sun went down, another parade would start and the sidewalks would be crammed with people.

I noticed a few looks and frowns thrown my way as I headed toward the enormous house on the corner, pretty sure it had something to do with the blade sheathed at my side. No doubt to them I was just another strange kid in New 2 with dyed white hair, combat boots, and a fake short sword strapped to her thigh.

If only they knew the truth.

I smiled at the tourists I passed, hopped onto the sidewalk, and rang the bell. The door opened. The butler took one look at me, let me inside, and then led me to the second floor, the main living area of the house.

I’d only been here once, after escaping Athena’s prison. I’d heard the Novem heads talking about me in Michel’s library like I was some sort of weapon to be used or gotten rid of—not a pleasant memory—and I’d fled to the GD.

I waited as the butler opened the tall French doors leading outside. Ferns hung between the wrought-iron framework that supported the courtyard balcony, and at each end, steps curved down to the ground below.

I took vague note of the large patio and a rectangular yard of green grass, which led into a pretty English-style garden complete with a pool and a small cottage/pool house. But the grandeur of Michel’s courtyard took second stage.

Sebastian was standing in the center of the yard.

My hands curled slowly around the iron railing as I stared at his profile. I wished like hell the chaos I felt inside would go away. It was there every time I saw him—excitement, anxiety, warmth, happiness, worry. . . .

The butler left me there, returning inside and closing the doors.

Michel stood in front of Sebastian, about ten feet away, and spoke in low, muted tones. I watched, stunned, as a ball of sheer blue light formed over Sebastian’s outstretched hand. It was the size of a soccer ball. He played with it, moving his hand up, over, and away from it as it hovered in front of him.

Michel’s calm, instructional voice continued. I strained to hear his words.

Sebastian lifted the orb over his head and passed it from one hand to the other, then brought it back down and placed it in front of himself at chest level. His movements looked graceful, like tai chi, controlled as though he was pulling . . . something . . . from the air, the earth, shaping the light. Only the ball didn’t grow bigger, but rather condensed, growing smaller and brighter.

Michel’s voice came again, this time more stern.

Sebastian stilled. The blue light was now the size of a tennis ball. He cradled it, cupping his hands around it as the light grew brighter, and then he drew it back and pitched it at his father.

I held my breath.

Michel’s hands went up, palms flat to meet the ball of blue light. Upon contact, the light exploded, curving around him before dissipating away into nothing. He’d been pushed back a few feet, and that seemed to impress him. He came forward and clapped Sebastian on the shoulder.