How did the Bloodletter know how to break it? How did she even know it could be broken if a mating bond has never been broken before?

How did I end up mated to Hudson? It’s one thing to have a mating bond break—which is supposed to be impossible. It’s another thing to have a new mating bond snap into place with a new person on the same afternoon—umm, impossible times a million, anyone?

As the familiar panic bubbles in my chest, I can’t help but be angry with Hudson for basically daring me to do this. It wasn’t fair. He has no idea what it’s like to live with panic attacks.

It’s not that I’ve never thought about these questions before. Of course I have—and a zillion other ones, too. And then I lock them away in a box as quickly as they come. But can anyone blame me? I’d do almost anything to avoid a panic attack. To lose control of myself so much that I can’t even regulate my own ability to breathe—it’s terrifying. And yes, maybe my coping mechanism is a bad one. That doesn’t mean anyone has the right to judge me on it, especially not Hudson, for whom sarcasm is an actual emotion…or twelve.

Besides, what am I supposed to do with the answers once I have them? Will they really change anything? Or will knowing just make things more difficult, one more painful thing to face? If I’ve learned anything in the last six months, it’s that every time I think things are okay—every time I think I’ve solved a problem—a bigger one shows up to kick my butt.

Seriously. What does Hudson really know about my life? I start to work up a heady level of righteous indignation, and it’s all aimed at Hudson’s too-strong-for-his-own-good jaw.

It’s barely been six months since my parents died—six months. Plus, I spent over half that time locked in stone with Hudson. And still, the number of things that have come at me would have been impossible to imagine if I hadn’t actually lived through them all.

Not to be dramatic, but is it any wonder I’m having panic attacks on a semi-daily basis now?

Since my parents died, I’ve moved thousands of miles away from the only home I’ve ever known. I’ve met my mate, found out I was a gargoyle, gained a bunch of enemies, fought for my place on a council I didn’t even know existed a few months ago, found the only other living one of my kind chained up in a cave where I also lost one of my friends, lost my mate, got bitten by one of my new enemies and almost died, and found my new mate—all while trying to graduate from high school.

Hudson can say I’m hiding from my problems all he wants, but from where I’m sitting? It looks like problems are doing a really good job of finding me whether I’m hiding from them or not.

But then I think about what Hudson said about the drawer getting filled up with bills until no more will even fit inside. And I think about Xavier dying, about Jaxon breaking up with me, about Cole hopefully rotting somewhere cold. About Hudson being mated to someone he wants to not be mated to so badly that he’s spending his evenings researching ways to break our bond.

That last one makes me pause. And swallow my indignation in one bitter pill.

My fear has left Hudson to try and solve our problems all alone. I maybe can’t deal with every question, but I can at least try to answer one.

But which one should I start with?

And then I think about the Bloodletter. I think about the Bloodletter a lot, along with the spell she somehow knew to give Jaxon to break our mating bond.

If someone went so far as to harm my bond with Jaxon…what else would they do to me? To Jaxon? To Hudson? And suddenly, it isn’t the panic attack these questions bring that seizes me. It’s the anger. If she knew how to tear Jaxon and me apart…then she owes us a spell to fix it, too. And some answers.

“You keep tossing and turning over there.” Macy’s voice is soft and sleepy. “What’s up?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“No worries. I don’t sleep much anymore anyway.” There’s a rustling of sheets, and then the small multicolored light by Macy’s bed clicks on. “What’s going on? I notice Jaxon hasn’t been around much lately… Nor has Hudson, come to think of it. You guys fighting?”

I take a deep breath and rip off the Band-Aid. “Jaxon broke up with me last week.”

Macy doesn’t say anything, just lays there in the semi-darkness, her steady breath going in and out for several minutes. She doesn’t ask me why I didn’t tell her, and I love her even more for that. Then she rolls over, holds my gaze, and just says, “I’m sorry.”

I shake my head, fighting back tears. I cannot talk about this tonight. I’m too exhausted to have a heart-to-heart with my cousin. And she must sense this because she asks simply, “Anything you want to do about it?”

Yes, I do, and an idea begins to form in my head. “Do you think I could get an appointment with the Bloodletter?”

“The Bloodletter?” Macy sounds surprised but must clue in on what I’m thinking pretty quickly because she adds, “I don’t know about an ‘appointment,’ but I’m pretty sure you could convince Jaxon to take you.”

“What if he won’t? I don’t have a clue how to get there on my own.”

“He’ll take you.” She sounds a lot more confident than I feel after the conversation Hudson and I had this evening. “Your mating bond is as important to him as it is to you.”

“Last week, I would have agreed, but now…” I think about the coldness in his eyes when he told me we needed a break. “Now I’m not so sure.”

“Well, I’m sure enough for the both of us,” Macy says. “Text him and ask him to take you this weekend. If nothing else, she owes you both an explanation.”

I tend to think she owes us more than that, since her spell destroyed my life. Then again, that could just be me…

I roll over and grab my phone. But instead of texting Jaxon, I text Hudson.

Me: Hey, want to go somewhere with me this weekend?

There’s no response, and I realize it’s late; he’s probably already gone to bed. But then three dots appear, meaning he’s texting a response, and I can’t help that my heart picks up a beat.

Hudson: Define somewhere

I smile. Of course that’s what Hudson would reply.

Me: Does it matter?

Hudson: If you’re planning a coup d’état of a small country, yes. If you want to make snow angels, no.

Me: Sorry. No coup

Me: I want to go see the Bloodletter

No response. I force myself to stare at my phone until three dots appear again.

Hudson: I’m free now…

Of course he is. I mean, it’s not insulting at all that he’s so eager to break our bond that he’s willing to drop everything to do it.

Me: Saturday

Hudson: Or now

I send him the eye roll emoji.

Me: I won’t change my mind.

Me: And I’m inviting Jaxon, too

Hudson: Maybe I was too hasty about the snow angel thing…

I burst out laughing, because how can I not?

Me: I’ll see you in class

Hudson: “Pain and suffering are always inevitable”

Me: I thought Crime and Punishment was too light for you

Hudson: Apparently I’m feeling optimistic

Me: Good night

Hudson: Good night, Grace

I hold my phone for a few more seconds, waiting to see if Hudson will text something else. When he doesn’t, I think about texting Jaxon a heads-up about Saturday, then decide I can just talk to him in class tomorrow. Texting a boy the week after he breaks up with you reeks of desperation, especially when it’s after midnight.

“From the size of the grin you’re wearing, I’m guessing he said yes,” Macy says.

She thinks I was texting Jaxon. I know I should correct her, but the truth is, I don’t have it in me tonight to explain Hudson is just as eager to break up with me as Jaxon was.

18

In a Class of

Their Own

Macy and I wake up ten minutes before the bell rings.

Which is no big deal for Macy, who does a little glamour and is ready to go. I, on the other hand, am pretty much completely screwed. Normally I love being a gargoyle, but I have to admit, this no-magic-works-on-me thing is a total drag sometimes…especially when it means splashing ice-cold water on my face because I don’t have time to wait for it to warm up past forty degrees.

“Come on, Grace, let’s go!” Macy calls from her spot next to the door, and I fight the urge to flip her off. It’s not her fault she can’t do a glamour on me, after all—she’s tried numerous times. Any more than it’s her fault that she looks perfectly put together while I look like a monster-movie reject after the fight scene.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” I tell her as I sling my backpack over my shoulder and grab a purple rabbit-ear scrunchie from my desk drawer. I fasten my hair into a ponytail as we walk out the door and am glad we left before I could look in the mirror. Especially since I’m pretty sure the purple polo I grabbed off my closet floor in a panic is the one I threw there last week after realizing a stain didn’t come out in the laundry.

Fantastic.

Because the only thing worse than walking into a room full of monsters looking like you just rolled out of bed is walking into a room full of them looking like you never even made it to bed.