The Wicked Within

FOURTEEN

FOR THE FEW HOURS I was in my bed I’d tossed and turned, unable to shut my mind off. And when it finally caved to exhaustion, my sleep was filled with images of the past that left me tired when I finally woke up.

I showered, blessing Crank for the hot water and knowing by the amount I had that I was the first to rise. The heat felt good on my skin. For a long time, I stayed under the spray. I’d come to the realization that despite the personal issues Sebastian and I were having, his abilities were essential in retrieving the Hands. I needed him.

Athena’s offer had screwed things up royally. Had she left things alone, I would’ve been able to get inside the jar and into the library, no problem. Now I’d need Sebastian to trace me inside the Novem’s study where the jar was kept—bypassing the security detail outside and the warded door, if such a thing was even possible. Once I was inside the jar, I’d talk to the Keeper. And then Josephine was next, and I needed Sebastian for that, too.

After my shower, I braided my hair and wrapped it into a low bun, then dressed quickly in a T-shirt and cargo pants before strapping on my gun and blade. I looked down the hall to Sebastian’s door, drew in a steady breath, and went to see if he had come home.

He hadn’t. No surprise.

After a quick biscuit grab in the kitchen, I left the house and caught the streetcar at St. Charles. I was the only passenger. The rocking motion on the tracks lulled me back into sleepiness. Before I knew it, I was at my stop on Canal Street. I walked quickly, trying to stir my blood and wake myself up, wondering what I would find today—Novem heads back at school? Armed guards still protecting the Cabildo?

When I got to the square, I knew immediately something was wrong.

A crowd had gathered across from the cathedral at the gate leading into the park. I edged closer as two people pushed ahead of me. One was Michel, the other Sebastian. The crowd parted for them and I saw another Novem head—Simon Baptiste—amid several musicians, artists, and fortune-tellers who worked in front of the cathedral, and a few students from Presby.

I shouldered through the crowd. Blood made a trail along the stone. My pulse kicked up. A body lay sprawled on the steps.

Shock swept through me. Josephine Arnaud lay flat on her back, arms and legs out, one of her expensive high heels hanging off one foot, her hose ripped, her clothes covered in blood. Her head had been separated from her body and placed a few inches from her neck, as though someone had put it there to make a somewhat complete picture. Or maybe a statement. Her usually perfect bun was disheveled, and her face was sunken and white. It looked as though all the blood from her body had trailed down the steps and into the drain nearby.

The sight stole my breath. Josephine was dead. I glanced up and met a pair of emotionless gray eyes. Sebastian. He was pale, his dark lips set in a grim line. What the hell had happened in the few hours between when I’d seen him go into her house and now? A slight tremble went through me. Sebastian hated his grandmother, but there was no way he could have done this or taken part in it. Beside him, Michel knelt down and shook his head.

As the crowd grew larger, Simon gestured to a person next to him and handed him a phone. “Call Bran. Get security down here.”

Michel got to his feet. While he and Josephine despised each other, he seemed worried and maybe even a little regretful at her passing. He put his arm around Sebastian’s shoulder and squeezed. A kid tried to angle by me. I caught her shoulders and steered her back toward the cathedral. “Hey!” she said. “I want to see.”

“Trust me, kid. You don’t.”

I ended up playing gatekeeper as more students arrived at Presby, but were then drawn to the scene. I noticed Sebastian doing the same as me to my right.

Bran appeared with several of his crew and started controlling the crowd and dealing with the scene. He posted several guards, then produced a sheet to place over the body. More Novem heads arrived along with many members of the Arnaud family, all looking pale and stunned by what had happened to their matriarch.

The bell rang and students were called into class.

The crowd thinned a bit, and I shifted to watch the crime-scene events play out as Sebastian came to stand next to me.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Do you know what happened?”

“No.”

After a few seconds in silence, I told him what I knew. “I saw you leaving Presby last night and followed you to her house. What’s going on, Sebastian?”

He let out a deep sigh and shook his head. “Come on.” We walked to one of the long benches and sat down. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands linked as he stared down at the gray flagstones. “I go to her house to feed.”

“But I thought your dad was helping you with that.”

“He was. He was helping me, but . . . he doesn’t understand. What it’s like. What I need. How much I need it.” He sat back and scrubbed both hands down his face. “It’s like a drug, and I’m so far gone. . . . And for the record, I want to kill Zaria, not sleep with her, or feed from her, or whatever Gabriel told you.”

Gabriel had mentioned sex and blood. The sex I didn’t believe, but the blood, given Sebastian’s secrecy, who the hell knew? “Look, I know what she did to you. I was there. But it’s hard not to start questioning everything when I’m left in the dark,” I muttered lamely.

As more Arnauds flocked to the scene, tensions rose. Wails and murmurs of disbelief filled the square. Several groups huddled together, some casting speculative glances Sebastian’s way. He was her heir, after all.

Sebastian didn’t seem to notice any of it. “They’re going to fall apart now.”

“What?”

“The Novem. They’re already fracturing, taking sides. Athena’s offer is too tempting. And now . . . Half of them already suspect my grandmother knew about the Hands way sooner than any of them did. They’ll think whoever killed her did it to get information or the Hands themselves. They’ll start pointing fingers at each other.”

“Did you see Josephine last night?”

“She called me into her office and lectured me about family responsibility and traditions. But that was it.” He paused. “I was able to go through some of my mother’s things yesterday too.” Before he’d come home and worn himself out playing the drums.

“Find anything?”

“Actually, yeah. Sometime before the War of the Pantheons, Josephine’s grandfather was captured by Athena. The family never saw him again, so my guess is he didn’t survive. The Arnauds have been sworn enemies of Athena ever since.”

I remembered what the River Witch had said about Josephine and her family, about how her grandfather was instrumental in helping the Capetians rise to the French throne in the tenth century. The fact that Athena had captured and possibly—most probably—killed him was a good reason for Josephine to despise Athena.

“Who could’ve done that to her?” I asked, gesturing to the murder scene.

“I don’t know. She was powerful. But no more than Simon or my father. Any one of the Novem could have done it if they lured her under false pretenses and struck her off guard.”

“Your grandmother was smarter than that.” I might have hated her for what she’d done to my mother and father, but I had to give her props—she was intelligent and extremely cunning. It suddenly occurred to me that my father had a very strong motive for ending Josephine’s life. Her murder might not have had anything to do with the Hands.

But that notion seemed wrong somehow. He’d just started his life here and was getting to know me. I didn’t want to believe he’d be willing to risk everything at this stage. But then, after what she did to my family, I couldn’t really blame him if he’d confronted her and that’s what happened.

Heated voices drew my attention. Michel and Simon were arguing. Bran put a hand on Michel’s shoulder. The fracturing of the Novem was already starting.

“If someone does have the Hands now,” Sebastian said, “and takes them to Athena, we’re just exchanging one powerful psycho for another.”

“No matter what she offered,” I said, “I can’t believe Athena would give up her powers. She has to be lying, setting a trap instead.”

I leaned closer to him, dropping my voice. “Can you trace through walls and into the study?” I’d only ever seen him trace outside, never through anything.

“I’ve been practicing. Last night I was able to get inside the office next to the study.”

“What about the wards?”

“Depends on where I go in, I think.” He studied Presby. “I’m not sure, though.”

“They’re distracted,” I said. “This might the only opportunity to see if the Hands are still inside the jar. . . . ”

Then fear went through me. What if he tried tracing into Presby and couldn’t, what if he slammed into the wall, or worse, got stuck in it? It’d kill him. Somehow I knew he was thinking the same. And then he was gone, a rush of air slapping me in the face.

Shit. I swung my gaze to Presby, heart leaping into my throat.