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Julian sat on the stoop and tried to enjoy what he knew would probably be his last peaceful moments for a good long while. He was going to bring one of his most hated enemies into the heart of his existence.
Whose vengeance was this anyway?
Edward snapped his fingers, and a woman walked through the door.
“What is this, Grand Central?” Alex asked.
Edward, who’d always had a problem with sarcasm—probably because of his English-as-a-second-language issues—frowned. “This is Los Angeles. Grand Central is in New York, is it not?”
Alex rolled her eyes and caught the ghost of a smile on the newcomer’s face.
The woman was tiny, and that wasn’t just because Alex stood five-nine barefoot. She was petite, too, in a way Alex could never be, her youthful face framed by dark hair with a slash of white at the temple. Her eyes were clear blue, and held an honest, earnest expression Alex wanted very much to trust.
“I’m Cassandra,” the woman said. “Your friendly New Orleans voodoo priestess.”
Alex’s desire to trust evaporated. “Sure you are.”
Cassandra’s only answer was a widening of her smile, which convinced Alex more than any bones in the nose would have.
“Voodoo?” Alex glanced at Edward. “You finally lost that last marble, didn’t you?”
Cassandra choked.
The lines in Edward’s forehead deepened. “I do not understand why everyone is always discussing my marbles, or lack of them. I have not had any marbles since I was a boy.”
“Got that right,” Alex muttered, and Cassandra began to cough.
Edward pounded her on the back, more in irritation than to be helpful. “Move along,” he ordered. “Alex has been holding off the demon thus far, but I worry it will overtake her soon.”
Alex worried about that, too. She could practically hear their human hearts beating; she sensed the swoosh of blood through their veins. The scent of warm flesh made her stomach cramp and her mouth water.
On top of that, her own skin felt too small, her teeth too big. She kept hearing howls and growls, but they weren’t real; they were in her head. Every once in a while she flashed on a forest, on prey, and her pulse accelerated in anticipation of the kill.
And there would be a kill. There had to be.
“Do something,” she managed.
Cassandra got down to business, pulling bottles and vials and bags of what appeared to be grass out of her backpack; then she removed a clay bowl and set it on the table.
Tossing in a little of this and a little of that, she sang a song Alex had never heard before in what seemed to be a combination of French and something else. As she did, the sounds in Alex’s head faded.
“Come here,” Cassandra said.
Alex cast a quick glance at Edward. He had his gun pointed at her head. “Touch her and I will shoot you.”
“You’re under the delusion that I care if I live or die.” Alex strode closer to Cassandra.
“You might not care,” Edward said, “but the demon does. It wants to kill. It will fight what we mean to do.”
“Just say no,” Cassandra quipped, then she lifted a dagger.
Alex took a quick step back, the scent of the silver burning her nostrils. But Cassandra slashed her own palm before grabbing Alex’s. A jolt, reminiscent of the stun gun, went all the way through her.
Cassandra released Alex, and she fell to the ground, dizzy with the crackle, the scent, of flames that weren’t, the raging of a battle that was going on inside. She felt like a cartoon, as if her skull should be shaping and reshaping while the demon within poked and kicked and battered to be free.
Edward was right. It wanted h
er to kill. Them. Now.
