We carted my things up to my new room in a couple of trips. The bedroom was serviceable, if somewhat masculine. Tolerable queen mattress, wood furniture on the heavy side. This crazy print of two people against a stormy sea sat atop the dresser, propped against the wall. The person on the left was merely a strip of face and neck, as if torn off the person on the right, whose missing strip revealed weird cables and balls. It was the kind of thing Ari would have dug, if not my style. At least the view to the backyard was nice.

The best part was the small ensuite bathroom. I would not have wanted to share with the boys and learn firsthand who missed the toilet seat when he peed.

Rohan took my laptop to give to Ms. Clara.

“Be sure to bring back a receipt,” I mocked.

He spread his hands in a “what are you going to do” way. “The Brotherhood is incredibly anal.”

“Well,” I deadpanned, “anal is the new black.”

He blinked slowly at me with a fascinated gleam in his eyes. I stumbled back a step, my knees hitting the mattress, but he simply held up the laptop. “Anything you don’t want people to see?” he asked.

I checked the heel of my shoe, as if that had been responsible for my lost footing, forgetting I wore flip flops. “You sound positively hopeful.”

“Just don’t want you to be embarrassed.” He paused in the doorway. “More embarrassed.”

I grabbed the closest thing handy, which happened to be a boot, and flung it at him. He rocked back on his heels, shaking with laughter, not even flinching as my footwear missed decapitating him by mere millimeters.

“Leave,” I ordered.

“Baruch wants you in the Vault,” he called back, my computer tucked under one arm.

I popped another Midol and hustled my ass downstairs.

“Yo, Tree Trunk. I’m–” I came to an abrupt stop at the sight of Drio waiting for me in sweats torn off at the knee and a white long-sleeved tee with perfectly placed holes that I swear he paid extra for. The overall effect was mouthwatering. Damn, these boys were annoyingly hot.

“Where’s Baruch?” I asked. My previous encounter with Drio had burned up my fear quota, leaving me irritated at his presence.

“You’re with me today.”

I crossed my arms. “Why?”

Drio cracked a smile at my suspicious tone as he pulled the door shut. “Because I scare you,” he said in a stereotypical vamp accent.

“Was that supposed to be a Count Dracula impression? Because you sounded more like Count Chocula.”

His brow creased in confusion. I opened my mouth to explain the difference. “No. I don’t care enough,” he said, crossing the room.

I was about to ask if I should follow but I got distracted by his pants sliding down his hip and the tantalizing glimpse of olive skin revealed. He caught them before things got interesting and tugged them up. Too bad. My dislike of him did not override my voyeuristic tendencies.

Though I hustled to catch up when I saw the vein in his forehead throb at my dawdling.

“Heard you ran into some trouble last night.” He flipped a small panel mounted to the wall open, revealing a flat black pad. “Good work pissing Asmodeus off, since it’s not like we have enough to do with Samson.”

I pulled off the elastic band I wore on my wrist and tied my hair up into a messy ponytail, choosing to ignore his sarcasm. “Here’s a question. Last night, Asmodeus compelled me. How do I fight back against–”

I gasped finding Drio with his hands around my neck. He wasn’t hurting me, but I hadn’t even seen him move. One second he was ten feet away, the next he was behind me.

“Against surprises?” he asked.

I screwed my eyes shut, my heart hammering. “Don’t flambé me.”

Drio dropped his hands.

I cracked open one eye to see him bring his thumb to the fingers of his right hand, shaking it in what even I recognized as an Italian gesture of frustration. “What are you talking about?” he asked.

“Your fire powers.”

He massaged his right temple. “What fire powers?”

I straightened my T-shirt with a sharp tug. “You know, your anger issues that manifest in some kind of elemental flame deal.”

His eyes narrowed. “My anger issues? Because I’m Italian, I must be a hothead? Got any other ethnic profiling?”

“Please. You being Italian has zip to do with it. You raging at me since day one on the other hand?” I spread my hands wide, encouraging him to make the tiny jump from A to B. My empirical evidence presented, I rocked back on my heels.

Drio glanced skyward with a pained look, as if seeking divine patience. Then he waved his hands at me. “No flames. Though I’d be happy to find some matches. My power?” He zipped across the room and back in a blink.

“Super speed?”

“Technically, I flash step. I’m not zipping across the city.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t sound so disappointed.”

I wasn’t disappointed; more confused about how this ability fit in to Ari’s theories about personality flaws and power manifestation. I’d have asked but the look on Drio’s face made it clear that he was not in a sharing mood. “How do you kill demons then? Flash stepping is hardly attack magic.”

Drio looked insulted at the question. “It’s still the same inherent Rasha magic. If a bystander stabs a demon in their kill spot, the demon wouldn’t die. But when a Rasha zaps that place, touches it directly, or funnels his magic through a weapon to hit that same spot?” He brushed his hands together in an “all done” gesture. “My magic works fine. I don’t need fire powers.”

“Fine. You weren’t going to immolate me. My mistake. What was your point?”

“I lost it in all your…” He made the international symbol for “blah blah blah” with one hand. “For the record, I don’t agree with you being here. But Rohan said you deserved it since the make-up artist was your idea and you did pretty well last night. Even if your one-on-one leaves something to be desired.”

Had Rohan said something not in conjunction with the fight to Drio? I shook it off with a “Let’s do this.”

“We wouldn’t even have to do this if Rohan wasn’t so damn stubborn,” Drio said.

“Stubborn?” I jabbed his side when he didn’t answer. “About what? The difference of opinion between him and the Brotherhood on how to proceed with the mission?”

Drio did a double take. “He told you that?” I didn’t even have to fudge the truth about not knowing specific details because Drio was in a mood to rant.

“It’s a no-brainer,” he said. “Forrest Chang, the director of Hard Knock Strife is a huge Fugue State Five fan. He contacted Rohan to do the theme song.”

Interesting.

“That doesn’t mean Rohan would have the chance to buddy up with Samson.”

“Invite King to sing as a cameo. Get in close to the bastard that way. We’ve tried everyone else in his inner circle. No go.” Frustration tightened the corners of his eyes. “It would be so easy for Rohan to get to know Samson. Who’d question a rock star hanging around a bunch of actors?” He pinched his lips together. “But he refuses to step back into that role.”

“I think he’s afraid of what he could slip back into becoming.” Given what Rohan had told me, the scars ran deep, evidenced by the fact that he refused to take on something that would move this assignment forward.

Drio slapped his palm flat against the center of the pad mounted on the wall. “You two have gotten chatty. Why don’t you talk some sense into him?” A red light scanned him as he studied me.

If I managed that, the Executive would adore me. Desperate as I was to get Ari confirmed, I couldn’t use Rohan like this. It was a million kinds of wrong. “Let’s pursue the make-up artist avenue first,” I said.

Part of the wall slid away, revealing a smaller room within the larger Vault, its floors and walls made of iron. Drio motioned me through the concealed door. Ignoring my tiny frisson of fear, I stepped inside, the wall sealing shut behind us.

A beautiful Korean woman sat in the middle of the space, duct-taped to a thick iron chair bolted to the floor. Her eyes bugged out, darting around as she strained against the tape covering her mouth and binding her feet and hands to the arms and legs of the chair.

She turned a pleading look on me.

“Oh my God!” I took a step forward to help her but Drio knocked me back with a sigh.

Flashing over to her side, he did some Vulcan neck pinch thing and she transformed into a sleek white fox with multiple tails. Mostly transformed. Her hands, feet, and face–all the bits touching the tape, stayed human. The overall effect was somewhat disconcerting.

“Nine,” he said, seeing me count her tails.

I inched closer. “What is she?”

“King’s make-up artist, Evelyn. Also a kumiho. A master illusionist usually plying her tricks to seduce men.”

“But this one puts hers to use on King?”

“That’s the theory.”

“How did you know she was a demon?”

He tugged me forward, shoving my face inches away from her neck. “Smell.”

This close to her, I accessed my magic just in case, a low level hum under my fingertips, but despite her growling and thrashing, she was bound fast. I sniffed, blinking at the faint smell of strawberries.

“It’s her natural scent,” Drio said. “She can’t disguise it.”

I walked around Evelyn, who was struggling against her bindings. “How did you get close enough to smell her?”

“My natural charm.”

I poked at a binding. “Duct tape? That holds them?”

He shrugged. “Specially threaded with iron and salt fibers.”

“What are you going to do with her?”

His smile bloomed, both terrifying and sexy. “Have some fun.”

Evelyn’s tails thumped in syncopated agitation against the floor.

I glanced at the demon. “Do I need to worry about sexual misconduct?”

Drio shot me a disgusted look. “I don’t do that,” he replied in a hard voice. “Even to demons.” Just regular torture then.

“This isn’t about using her to get close,” I said.

“No. She’s going to share what she knows about King.” He pushed up his sleeves.

The demon’s eyes flashed red.

Time to go. I had no desire to watch his methods of fact finding.

“Pussy,” he snickered, pressing his hand against the scanner mounted inside the small room to open the iron door on this side.

“You ate your siblings in the womb, didn’t you?” I said, pausing in the doorway.

Drio licked his lips with relish.

Riiiight.

I stepped into the Vault, the wall sliding shut between us. On my way upstairs, I ran into Baruch, coming out of Ms. Clara’s office, clad in black nylon workout pants and a tank top.

Wonder if they’re tearaway. Bet Ms. Clara knows.

“Not interested in seeing Drio work?” he asked.

“I’m skipping today’s session of ‘Creative Sadism with Batshit Crazy.’” I jogged up to my room, finding a note from Rohan ordering me to the library for study time. First, I allotted myself a few minutes to shower off that unpleasant encounter and root through my still-packed clothing for skinny jeans and my navy tunic embroidered with a brilliant dragonfly. Rohan didn’t make an appearance in the library, though he’d set out some books on the long table for me to dive into.

I tried to study. I took notes and everything, in between glances toward the hallway at every footfall and voice. It’s not that I care if Rohan shows up, I told myself, as I read a particularly gruesome passage about the damage a se’irim could do, it’s just that he should be showing a bit more responsibility in overseeing my studying. What if I have a question about a demon that needs answering?

The hundreds of books surrounding me mocked me in response.

Adopting a less formal study position, away from the table and onto a couch, didn’t help me focus. Nor did twisting myself upside down, my head hanging to the floor.

Screw it.

Corralling a laptop I found in a cherrywood cabinet, I logged on, seeing what I could find on Samson King, wanting something that would help Drio. Samson’s bio before he hit big–which happened with his first role–was pretty sparse. That gelled if he was a demon, since it would be fake. Out of curiosity, I checked the meaning of his name. I was always curious if a person’s name meaning correlated to them. Like Nava meant “beautiful” so bulls-eye, Mom and Dad.

Samson meant “sun.” I leaned back against my chair. Sun King. Hang on. Leo had mentioned that King had spent time in France. During a trip with my family to France a few years ago, I’d learned that Louis XIV had called himself the Sun King. He’d been a live large, divine-right conferring narcissist and maybe Samson had modeled himself on this guy. Or, actually picked up few tips from him, since many demons had long life spans.

I drummed my fingers on the tabletop, waiting for the page to load in order to get verification for what I was thinking. Here it was. The original Sun King had been a ruthless bastard whose rule had established France as one of the pre-eminent powers in the world. I leaned back in my chair, fingers steepled together. Since it appeared this sun king had similar aspirations, maybe this tie to Louis would reveal what type of demon Samson was, or offer more specificity on the master plan.

I leapt out of my seat, sprinting down to the Vault, then back up the stairs with a frustrated growl, since I didn’t have access yet to open the door. Kane did though, and I dragged him with me, insisting that he had to get me to Drio now.

He let me in to the Vault and I pounded on the wall concealing the iron room until the angriest of all Rasha answered. Purple goo was smeared across Drio’s temple, and his hair was matted with sweat.

Not wanting Evelyn to hear, I whispered my theory into Drio’s ear.

The tight expression on his face sent my stomach plummeting into my toes, doubt at my brilliance slithering through me. Then he gave a sharp nod, his eyes glinting dangerously, and returned inside, the wall whooshing shut behind him.

“Nee?” Ari called out from upstairs.

I sped up so fast to meet him that I practically got lift off, throwing myself into his arms. Hugging him and the overflowing pile of bedding he carried.

“This way,” I sang, tugging him up the stairs to my room. “Guess what?” I nattered on about Evelyn and my Samson realizations. “Dump the bedding on the mattress,” I said.

He stood in the doorway, stock still, clutching the linens.

“What?” I glanced around in confusion.

“Your room.”

“Uh-huh.” I tugged him forward. “You’re not going to get cooties, bro.”

He flung the sheets down. “This was supposed to be my room. You got my room.”

“I did?” I screwed up my face in puzzlement. He’d never mentioned he’d be moving in.

Ari jerked his chin at the painting. “Magritte. That didn’t tip you off?”

I flinched at the anger threading his voice. Examining the art hadn’t been a top priority in my short time here. Not sure what I could say to make it better, I opted to go with the tried and true. “Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

I blinked at him.

“You’re enjoying this. Your training.” He waved a hand at me. “Your little realizations.”

“My little…?” I unclenched my fists. “I am sorry, Ari. But you know what? I can only apologize so many times. None of this is my fault. I’m doing my best here.” I picked up the fitted sheet, shaking it out to unroll it.

He snorted.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Doing your best?” he sneered. “You’re loving this. You’re happy.”

I popped the corner of the sheet onto the mattress with a violent snap. “God knows we can’t have that. There’s only one Katz twin allowed that emotion.”

“Hey, don’t put your fuck-ups on me,” he retorted.

“Then don’t put other people’s on me!”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Enjoy your room.” He stalked out.

“Oh, I will!” I threw my pillow against the far wall with a scream. I stomped across the room to retrieve it for scream two, glancing out the window. Ari and Kane were having some kind of intense conversation at the front of the house. At least Kane had put a shirt on. It rode up as he gestured with sharp, angry jabs.

Ari was really going for the gold in pissing people off because while Kane was still speaking, my brother slammed into the Prius and drove off. Kane punched one of the front porch pillars.

Feel your pain, dude. I could clock my passive-aggressive brother for walking out before we’d finished our fight. I threw everything out of my containers looking for my damn phone to call Ari’s cell and hash this out once and for all, before I remembered that Ms. Clara still had it. Great. No phone, and now my room looked like a hurricane had torn through it.

The frenzy left me exhausted. Heaving a sigh, I bent down to pick up the pillow, my head jerking up at a shout from outside.

Rohan sprinted up the driveway, favoring one ankle, his shirt torn. No, not just his shirt. His arm was a twisted mass of glistening, ripped open flesh that I could see from the third story.

The pillow tumbled out of my hand to the floor.

I threw the window open to find out what had happened.

The noise made Rohan look up at me. I don’t know if it was my twin sense or something about his stricken expression clear to me even three floors up as his eyes met mine but I knew.

Something horrible had happened to Ari.