Worse, did I hurt them?

I glance down at myself, checking for blood—something I’ll probably do every time I wake up for the rest of my life now, courtesy of Hudson’s little werewolf-hunting expedition. So, thanks for that, Hudson. I appreciate the mental scars.

“Sorry, I didn’t think he’d bleed so much. It was just a little prick. Then again, so is he.”

Oh God. I didn’t imagine it. Damn. I close my eyes and lie back down, praying that none of this is actually happening. That it’s all just a really bad dream.

“Stop talking to me!” I order.

“Why on earth would I do that now that you can finally hear me? Do you have any idea how boring it gets in here? Especially when you spend so much of your time mooning all over the place about my loser brother. It’s nauseating, really.”

“Yeah, well, feel free to leave anytime you want,” I suggest.

“What do you think I’ve been trying to do?” Exasperation colors his tone. “But you got pissed off about that, too, even though it was your idea. No offense, Grace, but you’re a hard woman to please.”

This isn’t happening. It can’t be. The body snatching was bad enough, but now I have to deal with this disembodied voice in my head, too? And not just any disembodied voice but one that belongs to a psychopath with a full-on British accent? How is this my life?

“Hey now, I resent that. I’m not disembodied. At least not completely.”

“I see you’re not even going to argue about the psychopath part.” I shake my head in astonishment.

“It’s called picking your battles. You should try it sometime. You might end up in the infirmary less. Just saying.”

The fact that he might be right about this one specific comment only annoys me more. “Is there a point to this conversation?”

“Grace,” he says softly. “Open your eyes.”

I don’t want to do it. I don’t even know why, except that I really, really don’t want to.

But at the same time, it’s sort of a compulsion. The kind that I know is going to hurt later—like when I chipped my tooth in seventh grade and couldn’t resist touching it with my tongue, even though I knew it was so sharp, it would cut me. That’s what it feels like listening to Hudson tell me to open my eyes.

“Wow, so I’m a toothache now?” He sounds insulted. “Thaaaaanks.”

“If you were a toothache, I’d go to the dentist and let her drill you out of my head,” I tell him, my voice filled with the frustration I can’t get away from. “Without novocaine.”

“You’ve got quite the mean streak in you, Grace. Does it make me a masochist if I admit that I like it?”

Ugh. Seriously? I can stand the voice in my head. I can maybe even put up with the fact that that voice belongs to Hudson. But the sexual innuendo is going to make me vomit.

I finally stop fighting myself and decide to open my eyes if it means it will shut him up, even for a second. Then really wish I hadn’t because—

Holy hell. He’s right there, one wide shoulder resting against the icy wall near a lamp, long legs crossed at the ankle, obnoxious smirk on his ridiculously pretty face. He’s got the signature Vega high cheekbones and strong jawline, but that’s where the similarity to Jaxon ends. For where Jaxon’s eyes may be as black as a starless night, Hudson’s are an endless blue sky. Thick eyebrows, the same shade of rich dark brown as his short hair, slant downward, his gorgeous eyes narrowing as he takes in every detail of my reaction. And that’s when I realize, Jaxon might ooze power and danger in his every movement, but Hudson has always been the real one to fear. Jaxon was a blunt weapon next to his brother, who seems to be cataloging my every weakness, every nuance and emotion, with surgical precision. This guy would know exactly how to hurt you the most—and you’d never see it coming.

Nothing in the world could have stopped the shiver that slides down my spine.

I wouldn’t be surprised if he turned around and there was a sign plastered across the back of his silver-gray dress shirt spelling out villain in huge black letters.

That’s how perfect he is at looking bad. At being bad. And that’s before I even notice that his free hand is shoved negligently into the pocket of a pair of expensive-looking black dress pants.

Because of course it is. Looks like the devil really does wear Gucci…

“These are Versace,” he answers, indignation ripe in his tone.

“Who cares?” I demand as my brain finally catches up with my observational skills. “Have you been standing there all along?”

“Yes, Grace, I’ve been here all along,” he tells me with a long-suffering sigh. “No offense, but where else would I be? We’re kind of attached, in case you didn’t notice.”

“Believe me, I’ve noticed.”

“Then why ask a silly question?”

I roll my eyes at him. “I’m so sorry. I’ll stop asking silly questions if you stop—oh, I don’t know—hijacking my body to try to kill people.”

“I already told you, it was just supposed to be a little prick. It is not my fault werewolves have such abysmal tempers.” He lifts one dark, perfect brow. “But I’ve got to say, you are a feisty one. Do you really think Jaxon can handle you?”

“It’s none of your business what Jaxon can and can’t handle.”

“So that’s a solid no, then?” This time, he flashes a sly little smile that should be obnoxious but somehow only ends up making his already perfect face look even more perfect.

“Aww, you think I have a perfect face?” He turns his head to the side to emphasize his sky-high cheekbones and chiseled jaw. “What’s your favorite feature?”

“You weren’t supposed to hear that.”

“I’m in your head, Grace. I hear everything.”

“But I see you over there, and your lips are moving.” All of a sudden, his words register. “Everything?”

He holds up one finger. “First, only you can see me. Your mind is manifesting me. And two…” His smile gets even slyer. “Everything.”

I duck my head so he can’t see the heat scorching my cheeks. “I have no idea how to respond to that.”

“No worries.” Hudson winks at me. “I’m used to girls being speechless around me.”

I groan. “I wasn’t worried.” And are you really going to keep doing this?

“Doing what?” He pastes a mock-innocent look on his face.

“Commenting on my thoughts, even when I’m not talking to you.” I groan again and flop back onto the bed.

He grins. “Consider it extra motivation.”

“For what?” I demand.

“I don’t know.” He pretends to study his nails. “Getting me out of your head, maybe?”

“Believe me, I don’t need any extra motivation. The sooner I get you gone, the sooner I never have to see you again.”

I brace myself for his next sarcastic remark, figuring it will be a doozy. But for long seconds, he doesn’t say anything at all. Instead, he pulls a ball out of thin air and starts tossing it up in front of his face and then catching it again.

Once, twice, then again and again. At first, I’m grateful for the silence—and the peace that comes with it. But the longer it goes on, the more antsy I become. Because the only thing worse than knowing everything Hudson is thinking is knowing nothing that he’s thinking. I can’t help but guess he’s plotting to murder me like I’m plotting to murder him right now.

Eventually, though, he turns his attention back to me. “See,” he says with another of those deadpan looks of his, “I told you, you had a mean streak.”

Then he tosses the ball up in the air yet again.

“Yeah, well, I’d rather have a mean streak than an asshole streak,” I tell him.

“Everyone has an asshole streak, Grace.” He looks me straight in the eyes when he says this, and for the first time, it feels sincere. He feels sincere. “The only difference is whether or not they’re honest enough to let you see it. And those who aren’t? Those are the ones you need to watch out for.”

“Why does that feel like a warning?” I wonder aloud.

“Because you’re not some pathetic little human anymore. You’re a gargoyle, and when it comes to how people feel about gargoyles—knowing one, owning one, possessing one—nothing and nobody is quite what they seem.”

“Including you?” I shoot back, even as a shiver works its way down my back at his warning.

“Obviously me,” he agrees, sounding bored and annoyed. “But my point is, I’m not the only one.”

I don’t know how to respond to that, don’t know if he’s just messing with my mind or if there really is some truth to what Hudson is saying. Before I can decide, he steps away from the wall. But instead of coming toward me, he moves farther back into the shadows of the room.

“Here comes one now,” he whispers deep in the recesses of my brain.

“What do you mean?” I ask, just as softly.

He shakes his head, refuses to say anything else.

And it’s not until I turn away, not until the Bloodletter calls my name, that I realize that the ball Hudson tossed up in the air? It never came back down.

34

This Place Isn’t

Big Enough for

the Both of Us

“Grace, are you awake yet?” The Bloodletter’s voice seems farther away than expected.

“I’m awake,” I tell her, pushing myself into a sitting position and leaning back against the pillows. “I’m sorry. Hudson…”

“What about Hudson?” the Bloodletter asks, leaning forward with watchful eyes.

For the first time, I realize that the shadows were hiding bars that are between her and me. Even worse is the realization that I’m on the wrong side of those bars.