The sun was peeking over the horizon, painting the dawn with streaks of yellow, orange, and pink as I pulled into the underground garage of my apartment building. The twelve-hour shifts at SIA were killers, but rogues didn't work the same hours as humans. The majority of activity was between seven in the evening and seven in the morning, necessitating two twelve-hour shifts a day. We rotated on a two-week basis, two weeks of nights, two weeks of days, four days off between shift changes.

Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I crossed the parking garage to the side door that led directly into the foyer, stopping to check my letter box before taking the elevator to the third floor. The building itself was an old hotel originally built in 1912 that had been renovated into boutique apartments. I'd bought my two-story, two-bedroom place three years ago and I loved it. Twelve-foot ceilings, hardwood floors, exposed brick, granite and stainless steel kitchen, luxury spa bath, and a skyline view just blocks from the river. My apartment was my refuge from the world, and I guarded my privacy with great zeal and a state of the art alarm system.

Disarming said alarm, I dropped my bag on the coffee table by the door and leaned down to unzip my boots. I breathed a sigh of relief as I kicked them off, leaving them where they fell by the front door. Padding to the kitchen, I grabbed a popsicle from the freezer and headed upstairs, unzipping my jacket as I went. A narrow walkway ran the length of the upstairs area of my apartment, consisting of two bedrooms with a gorgeous-sized bathroom sandwiched between them. Besides my bed, my bath was my most favorite place to hang out. Placing the popsicle on the wooden stool next to the bath, I flipped on the faucet, leaving the bath to fill as I stripped out of my clothes on the way to my bedroom.

There she was, my goddess of a bed, a magnificent creation of wrought iron with a white tufted headboard. The covers were a mess, a tumble of white comforter, silver sheets, and bronze pillows. I rarely bothered making my bed, a small rebellion against the years at the orphanage and the rigorous rule we were under. I tossed my clothes on the old armchair in the corner where they hung precariously on top of the bundle of clothes already there. Stepping out of my underwear and unsnapping my bra, I tossed them in the laundry hamper. Okay, I admit it, I treat my underwear with more respect than the rest of my clothes. I'm hooked on matching sets, any color, lace, push-up, bandeau, you name it, I have it in my collection. It's my secret little pleasure the rest of the world doesn't need to know about.

Hitting the remote for the stereo, Nonono's “Pumpin Blood” filled the room, the electro-pop beat holding a hint of darkness. I pinned my hair into a messy knot on top of my head and cranked the music up louder, dancing around the room, losing myself in the music, gyrating down the hallway to the bathroom. My reflection in the bathroom mirror caught my eye and I stopped for a minute to eye myself critically. At five foot eight, I was leaning toward the tall side of average. Thanks to years of training with the SIA, my body was fit and lean, breasts not too big or too small, a perfect B cup. My skin was paler than I'd like, but then I was either working nights or inside a lot of the time, so I didn't get to spend a lot of time basking in the sun's glow. I could see why the nuns had called me Raven. My hair was literally jet black, so dark that in places where the light hit it, you would swear it had indigo highlights. My brows were equally dark, as were the thick, long lashes I'd been blessed with. Everyone got distracted by my hair, but I thought my eyes were my best feature by far. Not just green, but an emerald green, and with how thick my lashes were it looked like I permanently wore eyeliner.

I'd copped a lot of shit from the other kids when growing up. I was pretty and I attracted a lot of attention because of it. Then they found out I was different and the attention changed into something darker, uglier.

Filling the bath with hot, scented water, I eased myself in, flexing a foot to flick the taps off. Neck resting on the rim, I leaned my head back, staring up at the ceiling as the steam wafted around me. Thoughts drifted through my head, replays of the day, old memories, plans for the future, all mixed up with no patterns or order. I remembered the first time I'd ever had a bath. I was twelve years old and the foster family I'd been placed with had a bathtub. Prior to that, I'd endured lukewarm, bordering on cold, showers at the orphanage, and while I'd worked my way through quite a few foster families by the time I reached twelve, they were the first ones I'd been with who'd had a bathtub. The sensations had been delicious, sinking into the hot water, feeling my muscles relax. It was soothing and comforting and I was hooked.

I'd only stayed with them a month. Their biological daughter, a year older than me, felt threatened. Again I think it was because of my looks. All the kids were scared their parents were going to love me more than them. I could have told them it would never happen, but kids can be cruel. She'd hacked off my hair when I was asleep. When I woke and discovered what she'd done I'd levitated her into the air and held her there, my fury powering my abilities to extraordinary levels. Her parents had burst into the room at all the screaming and understandably freaked out. And off I went to the next foster home.

Annoyed at the memories, I pulled the plug and stepped out of the bath, wrapping myself in a large fluffy towel. Drying off, I finished my popsicle and slipped into bed, naked. I couldn't be bothered wearing nightclothes; I tossed and turned so much I always ended up so tangled they cut into me painfully, pulling me awake. I closed my eyes to the sound of the city around me—traffic starting to hum outside, voices, the noises of a world waking up. I was used to sleeping during the day. The day-to-day of everyone else's life had become my white noise. With a sigh, I let slumber take me.