The Wicked Within

TWELVE

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.”

As I undid one of her braids, Violet came back, pulling a large cardboard box filled with makeup and scavenged jewelry. She climbed onto the mattress, out of breath and happy, and started undoing the second braid.

“I’ll show you how to do a messy twist,” I said. “That’ll look pretty with your hair.” And it would. Crank had beautiful wavy hair.

“I like those stick things you put in yours sometimes,” she said. “Those kind of look girly and kick-ass.”

I laughed. “Now you’re talking.”

I lay in the bed later, hands tucked behind my head, staring at the plaster medallion on the ceiling as I relived the makeover Violet and I had just given Crank. Besides my last foster parents, I never had many ties to other kids or adults growing up. Being passed around from one foster home to another wasn’t exactly bond-inspiring. Now it felt like I had a family, sisters, two unruly brothers, and a father who loved me.

And Sebastian . . . I didn’t know what we were anymore.

I couldn’t help but wonder if deep down, no matter what he said to the contrary, he harbored resentment for me. I was the one who’d made him take blood, who’d given him the first taste. He’d been drained and starved to the brink of death. And I couldn’t watch him die. Of course, Athena had planned it all along, had put me in that cell with him, knowing the outcome.

But he’d never wanted my blood. He’d said he’d rather die.

Had our roles been reversed, I knew Sebastian never could have sat back and watched me die either. I pressed my palms to my eyelids, suddenly thinking of my mother and wishing like hell she were with me. I couldn’t remember her face, her smell, her laugh, anything. I had a vision of her in my head, but I’d been so young when she left me that I didn’t know if it was real or not. More like wishful thinking, a phantom I’d made up over the years.

A figment of my imagination. A ghost without a grave. My mother never had a proper funeral, thanks to Athena taking her body back to her temple.

Not liking the direction of my thoughts, I dressed and armed myself. Sleep wasn’t coming to me anytime soon, so I might as well get some work done.

I sat in the living room for a while, cleaning my gun and letting my thoughts wander. The front door opened. I stilled, staring into the hall.

Henri appeared.

“Hey.” I returned to my cleaning as he plopped onto the couch opposite me.

“Caught sight of your friends a little while ago,” he said.

“Friends?” Most of my friends were upstairs sleeping.

“Yeah, you know, the hot hunter and the ghost?”

I raised my brow. “Menai and Mel are still in the city?”

“Looks like. I was doing a little recon around the square. Keeping tabs on Josephine for you, and I saw them on Presby’s roof.”

My pulse leaped. “They’re zeroing in on the jar.”

“From what I hear, Athena has everyone looking for it,” Dub said, shuffling in with a yawn. “Overheard some big-time witch talking about it in Spits’s shop.” He slid into a chair and let his head fall back as though it was too heavy to hold up.

“Couldn’t sleep?” I asked.

“Bad dreams. Lots of fire.”

I returned the clip to my weapon and then shoved the gun in the holster. I stood, wrapping the holster around my waist. “Too many people will be after the Hands now.”

“Where are you going?” Henri asked.

The Hands are my golden ticket. I’m going to make sure Menai and Mel don’t get them before I do.”

Henri shot to his feet. “I’m going with.”

Dub waved us away, letting his eyes close again. “You kids have fun.”