The Wicked Within

FIVE

“WELL, THAT WAS A TOTAL failure. Good job, Selkirk.”

I shot Bran an exasperated glare. “Thanks.” The table was not supposed to turn from wood to rock. A little mess-up on my part—too much power when I’d tried to turn a simple plastic cup to stone.

Cup and table were now fused together.

The only good thing about today’s lesson was the realization that the training was working. It was getting easier and easier to call upon my power. And to control it. I stared at the table. Well, most of the time. Would that I’d had this extra training before—

My feet were swept out from under me. I was airborne for two seconds before I slammed onto the mat, the breath knocked from my lungs. “Jesus!”

A frowning face came into view. “You want to daydream, then don’t waste my time, Selkirk. I have better things to do.”

He didn’t offer me a hand up, just stepped back, crossed his arms over his chest, and waited for me to get up. “I wasn’t daydreaming.” One brown eyebrow arched. “Okay. Fine. I was. Sort of. But it was still about training,” I muttered, getting up.

“Oh, this should be good. What about training?”

I really didn’t want to share, but since he asked, telling him would be a hell of a lot easier than skirting around what was on my mind. “I was just wishing I’d had more time to train before I went to rescue Violet and my father from Athena’s temple.” I’d been unprepared, and so much had gone wrong. Henri getting shot, Sebastian being turned into a vampire . . .

An unsympathetic, slightly bored expression crossed Bran’s tanned face. “So what were you supposed to do exactly? Not go? Say, ‘Gee, sorry, guys, but I’m going to take a few weeks to hone my skills; hope you’re not dead by the time I’m ready to rescue you’? Athena not torturing and threatening to kill your father and Violet until you were good and prepared to face her . . . that would’ve been convenient, wouldn’t it?” He rolled his eyes. “Sometimes you can’t wait. Can we get back to work now, or do you need more psychobabble from Dr. Bran?”

There were just some people in life you wanted to hit and hug, laugh with and scream at. Bran was one of those people. He got under my skin at every opportunity. He took great pleasure in egging me on, pissing me off, and knocking me down. And then he’d display pride when I got back up and kicked his ass.

He tossed a leather-bound book on the table. “Do this one.”

With a sigh, I picked it up. “Little Women?”

An evil grin split his face.

I shook my head, biting back my own smile. Bran had wormed his way into my heart with his tough-as-nails attitude, insight, and sick sense of humor. He was a demigod, a leader and a warrior. He was the grandson of a Celtic war god, and one of the nine Novem heads that ruled the city. And he was my instructor of all things kick-ass.

Except today, when I was turning cups and little women to stone.

This should have been my last class of the day, but training had been pushed back until after school due to a conflict in Bran’s schedule. It was nearly dark outside, and my stomach was grumbling. And turning things into rock for thirty minutes had worn on my nerves. I wanted to hit something, to sweat, to take the Big Guy down a peg or two—or at least enjoy the attempt.

“This is the last one,” I warned him before closing my eyes.

I drew in a deep breath and pictured the book in my mind, focusing on my center and opening myself up to my power. I called it, drawing it, letting it grow and electrify my entire body. It was a creepy, slithery sensation that took some getting used to.

Directing the energy down my arm and out my hand was a simple thing this time. The power snaking under my skin made me rub my arm and hand when I was done.

Bran didn’t seem impressed. “You’re a regular circus act, Selkirk. I should start taking you to parties.”

“Yeah, we’d make a good pair. Stone girl and meathead,” I said flatly. “We could even charge.” I glanced at the clock as Bran snorted. “I’m meeting my father in fifteen.”

Bran unfolded his arms and moved his head from side to side, stretching his neck. He cracked his knuckles and nodded toward the clock on the wall. “Think you can last for ten?”

With a wide smile, I shrugged out of my jacket and dropped it on the table. “All I need is five.”

Sparring with Bran was less like training and more like being trapped in the ring with a maniacal giant. There was always a moment that began with my inner voice saying, “Oh shit, what did you get yourself into?” But then everything quieted and my reflexes took over. In the end, I wasn’t sure who was more sadistic—him for doling it out or me for taking it and coming back for more.

In the girls’ bathroom, I leaned over the sink and used a paper towel to wipe the trickle of blood from my left nostril, courtesy of Bran’s elbow to the bridge of my nose. But I’d gotten the Big Guy in the solar plexus, and he’d had to hold up his hand to catch his breath.

I washed my hands and then unwrapped the thick bun at the nape of my neck. I finger-combed my long white hair, smoothed it back, and twisted it into a bun again, trying to make myself presentable and wondering why I cared. It wasn’t like my father hadn’t already seen me at my worst.

A faint bruise was forming beneath the inner corner of my eye. I leaned closer to the mirror with a sense of satisfaction, not minding the marks on my body or the aches in my muscles. They reminded me that I was strong. That I could hold my own, even against a Celtic demigod.

I did enjoy my training time at Presby.

I’d gotten admitted into Presby because I had something the Novem didn’t have—the ability to fight their worst enemy. The school was my resource. It held a wealth of information about the gods: their powers, their early history, and some of what had happened to them in the two thousand or so years since the decline of ancient Greece. The rest of the world only knew myths of the gods from ancient times, not what had happened to them in the ensuing two millennia. That particular history might be lost to the rest of the world, but it was not lost here. Not with the Novem. Not within the walls of Presby, where kids learned every day about the gods, their cyclical personalities, and the War of the Pantheons in the tenth century that tore them apart and culled the god population considerably.

Most everything I needed to learn—warfare, tactics, magic, healing, control, information, things I needed in order to face Athena—could be found at Presby.

As I left the bathroom and made my way toward the steps, I caught sight of Sebastian. In his old jeans, faded black concert T-shirt, and aloof vibe, he stopped me in my tracks. The fact that he didn’t try to look good, but managed to anyway, was definitely a plus in my book. And even though my instincts warned me that he was now a predator, I found it only added to the attraction.

He cleared the landing, a flash of surprise in his eyes. “Hey. What are you still doing here?” His face was flushed. A restlessness surrounded him.

“Bran had to move back my training.” Sebastian had missed lunch, and I hadn’t seen him in the hallways or in the one class we shared. I was pretty sure he’d never made it to school at all. Had he been at Michel’s going through his mother’s things?

“You doing okay?” I asked.

“Fine. Saw your father downstairs . . . ”

I hiked the strap of my pack higher onto my shoulder, knowing he wasn’t fine. “Yeah. Our dinner date. Never thought in a million years I’d say that.” That I’d found my father after all this time; the idea still took some getting used to.

His gaze softened. “I felt that way about my dad too. Funny we both have them back after so long.” After a pause, he leaned in and kissed me on the cheek. “See you later.”

The kiss surprised me. The open display of affection, the quickness of it. He was already four steps up the stairs when I called, “Have fun.” Sarcasm at its finest.

He paused, turning, his expression saying he’d rather have his toenails yanked off. And then he was gone, jogging up and into the shadows. He’d come and gone so quickly, I didn’t have time to tell him that since Bran had moved back training, I’d had the opportunity to visit the library and speak with the Keeper. He’d found no sign of the Hands yet, but inventory was still in progress. For now, it was a waiting game.