“WHAT—” I BEGAN, LOOKING OVER HIS SHOULDER TO THE open air outside. A few hulking Deathstalkers stood just beyond the tent flaps.

“Someone told me you were here,” Killian said blandly.

“Who?” I asked. Was it Darek? And if so, how much had he said? My cheeks flared with heat.

Killian said nothing, thereby amplifying my curiosity and my fear. If he said something about me and Darek in front of Hardy—

“Excuse me, Killian.” I started to edge past him, wanting to escape, but he put a hand on my arm.

“Wait.”

“Get your fucking hands off her,” snapped Hardy, who’d caught up with me. His eyes narrowed with promised violence.

Fingers still circled around the crook of my elbow, Killian said, “I mean no harm,” in his sweet, honeyed Louisiana drawl. My nose filled with the scent of copper and salt as crimson ribbons of magic unfurled around him and licked at Hardy’s cheeks.

“Okay,” said Hardy. “Fine.” He didn’t sound happy, but he no longer looked like he was ready to throw Killian into orbit.

The worst thing about Killian, if you asked me, was that he didn’t look formidable on the outside. He was wearing his vest that marked him as a Deathstalker, but he seemed small and meek and forgettable. Close-fitting jeans underscored how skinny he was. Round, tortoiseshell glasses sat on the bridge of a nose that seemed just a tad too small to hold them. His dark brown hair was combed over to the side, tamed by hair product with a slight sheen. More nerd than badass—except he’d just stopped Hardy in his tracks with a mere thought.

“I was just about to go greet your father,” Killian said to me. “Would you like to join us?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my father on his feet, watching us. The room had gone silent. The air, stagnant. Outside, I could hear kids playing, screeching and laughing, unaware of the tension growing in the tent. What I wouldn’t give to be a child again, oblivious to this world we lived in. Instead, I was stuck between Hardy and Killian, watching Killian’s power slide toward me, knowing I was about to accept an invitation I was desperate to reject.

There was a brief scuffling sound outside, and then someone entered the tent on my left. The tent flaps fell shut, blocking out the noise and diffused light of the night.

I could smell Crowe’s magic before I could see him.

Killian released me. “Thank you for hosting this fine event, Crowe,” Killian said, and offered his hand. “Looks like you all have done a great job.”

Crowe stepped to my side. His fingers clamped over my shoulder, making me jump. Staring coldly at Killian, he raised his other hand and curled it into a fist while muttering under his breath.

Smoky-sweet skeins of venemon magic wended through the room, and everyone slumped in their chairs, their eyes closed. The only people still standing were Killian, Crowe, Hardy, and me. Even my father had succumbed to the spell.

Venemon magic could manipulate the human body, but I’d never seen anyone put an entire room to sleep. If Crowe had wanted to, he could have done it to me, too. I wasn’t sure why he hadn’t. And looking back and forth between the presidents of these two rival motorcycle clubs, I sort of wished he had. The tension was almost painful, and the sight and smell of their magic turned my stomach into knots.

“You think you can put me on the spot in public?” Crowe’s lip curled. “Think again.”

Killian clasped his hands behind his back. “I do believe this is entirely against the rules. Even if it is an impressive display of power.”

“So is mind-fucking one of my Devils,” Crowe said, jerking his head toward Hardy. “Would you like me to let him show you his magic?”

“He means no harm, Crowe,” Hardy said, but as he did, Killian’s magic shrank away from him. Hardy blinked. “But I could tear off his head and use it as a basketball if you want.”

“Touch him again with your power and I’ll let him,” Crowe said to Killian.

Killian gave Crowe a small, cold smile. “I was trying to be sociable. Just ask Jemmie.”

“Leave me out of this,” I grumbled.

“Oh,” said Killian, eyeing Crowe’s hand on my shoulder, “I think it’s too late for that.”

Crowe let go of me. He took a step forward, putting half his body in front of mine like a shield. “What the fuck do you want?”

“I was just inviting Jemmie to have a conversation with her father and me. In fact, you should all join us.” His eyes scanned the room. “My omnias seer, Ilya Vetrov, warned me that something was afoot. She didn’t say what, but she did say it would transpire at the festival.”

Crowe and Hardy exchanged looks over my head. “So you thought you’d come in here and stir shit up?” Hardy asked. “Make the prediction come true?”

Killian watched Crowe. “Should I be worried? The Deathstalkers are here for a peaceful gathering, just like almost everyone else. We have absolutely no desire to go to war with the Devils or any of the clubs—we came with the best of intentions, hoping to continue to mend fences and forge new alliances.” He gestured at the tentful of sleeping people. “But now I’m wondering if you lured us here to finish what the Devils started seven years ago when your father’s club nearly wiped us out of existence.”

Crowe’s gaze could have cut diamonds. “Don’t play the innocent with me. We both know what you did to my father last year.”

“My condolences on the loss of your father,” Killian said. “But I had nothing to do with it, as I explained to Agent Carmichael when he interviewed me last year.”

My eyebrows shot up. “What?”

“Your father was assigned to investigate the allegations that Michael Medici’s death was foul play,” Killian explained. “He closed it for lack of evidence. Didn’t he tell you?”

I looked over at Dad, who was slumped over a table, snoring softly. “No,” I murmured. Because he never told me anything. Then again, we rarely spoke at all.

“Or maybe you screwed with his head a little,” Crowe snarled. “That’s what you love to do, isn’t it?”

“If you’re trying to provoke a fight, it’s not going to work,” Killian said. “The Deathstalkers are straight, and we’re not here to seek revenge. It took us years to rebuild, and I’m not going to endanger my people.”

“You’re so full of shit,” Crowe muttered. “And if any of you put even a toe out of line over the next three days, you will answer to the Devils.”

“I’ll do what’s necessary to protect my club.” Killian’s voice was harder now, and he looked bigger, more dangerous. “If you’re planning something, we’ll be ready.”

The air was charged, like lightning might strike at any moment. My nose burned with barely restrained magic, including the minty sting of my own. I put a hand on my stomach as Crowe leaned forward and Killian stood up straighter, both prepared to meet the other’s power with wrath. “Please,” I whispered, though I wasn’t sure what I was actually asking for.

The tent flaps opened again, and Darek walked in. The sight of him standing next to Crowe made me feel like I was walking a tightrope across the Grand Canyon.

“Whoa,” he said, looking around the room. “Did someone spike the punch?”

“Who the hell are you?” asked Crowe.

“That’s Derwood,” said Hardy at the same time Killian said, “Darek.”

“Derwood?” Darek asked. “Ouch.”

“Darek,” Killian continued without taking his eyes off Crowe, “go tell Ford, Ren, and Quincy that we’re meeting an hour earlier, and I’m sure you’ll find Brenda, Dallas, and Armand right outside.”

“Yeah,” said Darek, giving Crowe a nervous look. “Out cold.”

Killian’s lips pursed in apparent annoyance. “Get them back to our tent as well, as soon as Mr. Medici here sees fit to rouse them.”

“Sure thing, boss,” Darek said, his eyes meeting mine for a brief moment before flicking away.

It didn’t escape Crowe’s attention, though. His eyes narrowed as he watched Darek slip back through the tent flaps.

“Remember that the Syndicate is watching you, hmm?” said Killian. “What would they think of what you’re doing right now? Wake the babes, Crowe, and let them drink. It seems we have nothing more to say to each other.”

Crowe scowled, stuck his hand through the tent flaps, presumably to wake the Deathstalkers he’d sedated outside, then turned to the room and broke the spell with a simple flick of his fingers. People’s heads snapped up, shaking off the effects of the magic. Murmurs swept through the tent as everyone tried to figure out what had happened.

Crowe leaned in to Hardy. “Spread a rumor. I don’t care what it is. Just make the suspicion go away so people stop asking questions.” To me he said, “You’re coming with me.”

He grabbed my hand and yanked me out of the tent, shoving past Killian and into the cool night air. Three members of the Devils’ League stood at the tent entrance, watching Darek and the other Deathstalkers march up the path toward their tent in the northern section of the field.

“Jackson, come. The rest of you, stay,” was all Crowe said to his men, and they obeyed.

In the amount of time I’d been inside the beer tent, the festival numbers had swelled. Magic hovered in the air like a dust cloud, sparking and glittering. My head swam and my nose itched. Alcohol buzzed in my veins, dulling the intensity but also making it hard to discern one type of power from another.

Maybe it was the added heat of the night, or the escalating tension, but right now I felt like I was about to explode with too much stimulation. Or maybe it was Crowe’s hand in mine, turning my insides out. Venemon blood had the ability to amplify a kindled person’s own magic, but did skin-to-skin contact have the same effect?

Crowe dragged me to the parking area, away from the gathering. We wove through the parked cars, to the back of the field, where a second driveway was hidden in the trees. Crowe’s car sat parked beneath an oak tree, facing the exit, prepared for a quick escape should he need one.

He dug the keys from his pants pocket and tossed them at Jackson, who caught them. “Drive Jemmie home.”

“What?” I wrenched my hand out of his grip as Jackson unlocked the car and slid into the driver’s seat. Probably knowing we didn’t want to be overheard, he shut himself inside.

“You’re in no condition to drive, but it’s time for you to go home,” Crowe said as soon as the car door closed. “I’ll make sure Owen knows you’re safe.”

“You’re not the boss of me, Crowe.”

He closed the distance between us with one stride and towered over me. “Go home. You’re drunk. Count yourself lucky that I’m not going to make sure Owen knows that, too.”

“I’m not drunk,” I lied. If Dad knew, he’d probably use it as an excuse to put a containment barrier spell around the house—his version of grounding. “I had two drinks, for God’s sake.” Or was it three…?

“You were drunk when you got here,” he snapped. “You’re fooling no one, Jemmie. You’re a mess, and you can’t protect yourself. You have no business being here at all.”

“What the hell?” I tried to shove him away, but he didn’t budge. “Half the people here are already drunk, Crowe. It’s a freaking party! And you’re not in charge of me.” My eyes were stinging with the humiliation. “I’m not a child, and I can stay if I want.”

“No, you can’t,” said Crowe. “You heard Killian—he’s up to something—”

“You’re the only one who was making threats in there!”

“He murdered my father,” Crowe thundered.

“Or maybe it was an accident,” I shouted back. “And maybe you just want an excuse to burn down the world.”

Crowe staggered back like my shove hit him a minute late. His shoulders heaved and his fists clenched. “Jane predicted something significant would happen at this festival. And Killian—”

“He said his seer made the same call. Why would he say that if he was planning something himself?”

“Because he’s a twisted asshole who likes to play with people’s minds,” said Crowe. “And I needed him to know—”

“Why did you keep me awake when you put almost everyone else to sleep?” I blurted out.

Crowe ran his tongue along his bottom lip. “You need to understand the threat.”

“And that threat is you?”

“Jemmie, go home. Just go home. I have too many people to protect, and you’re a liability. Sober up, figure yourself out, and practice your magic, because you have no place here if you don’t.”

“You don’t understand,” I mumbled. “I can’t just—”

“If you can’t do it, then maybe you should get the hell out of Hawthorne,” he said roughly. “You’re only going to get hurt if you stay.”

I blinked fast, fighting tears I was not going to shed in front of him. “That’s what you want?”

His breath shuddered from his chest, and he looked away. “Yeah.”

“All because I had a few drinks. All because I won’t do magic on command.”

“How about both?”

“Why do you even care?”

As he brought his eyes to mine again, his voice was slightly gentler. “No one drinks like you do unless they’re hiding from something, and I think you’re hiding from your magic.”

I sighed. “That’s not how it is.”

“Bullshit. Is it your dad? You stopped practicing right around the time he left. I remember Alex telling our mom.” His voice had lost its sharp edges, but his words still packed a punch. “There’s no shame in having the same kind of magic he does. There’s no shame in using it.”

“Quit trying to psychoanalyze me. You suck at it.”

“Am I wrong? I’ve known you your whole life, Jemmie Carmichael, and you’ve never been chickenshit about anything except your own power.”

“It’s none of your business.” I bit back a bitter comment about how he had made sure of that when he started kissing other girls right in front of me.

“It is my business when it affects the Devils—we have to protect you because you can’t protect yourself. You can’t help protect Alex, either, and Lord knows she needs it sometimes.”

For a moment, we just stared at each other, and I remembered what Crowe had said to Hardy while I eavesdropped, about how I was a distraction, something that would slow him down. Shame wound so tightly around me that I couldn’t breathe. Crowe was right: I didn’t belong here. I was a disappointment to everyone. I was failing my best friend. And suddenly I wanted to be a million miles away.

Maybe living in a dreck world, far away from Hawthorne and the kindled community, was exactly where I belonged. Sometimes, when I thought about it, when I really considered it, it seemed like a welcome relief.

I let out a breath. “Fine. I’ll go home. But Alex—”

“Boone is with her, and he’ll be taking her home soon.”

“And you? What are you going to do?”

He smirked, the seriousness suddenly gone. “Now you care whether I live or die?”

I’ve always cared, you idiot. I turned away and looked at the car, where Jackson waited inside, his head bowed over his phone. “Just don’t go around picking fights.”

He snorted. “I’ll try. Think about what I said, all right? Stop hiding and face whatever you’re scared of. Whatever it is, I’m guessing you’re strong enough to deal with it.”

My back still to him, I rolled my eyes. Then I climbed into his car and Jackson turned the engine over, the roar of it like a jet plane in the intimate press of the forest.

As Jackson drove away, I checked the side mirror and was disappointed to see the reflection on the glass empty save for the silvery paint of moonlight on the trees.