“You know what? Do whatever you want with the black. The fact that it’s dull and is going to ruin your painting is your problem—”

“I’m sorry, could you say that a little louder, please?” I put a hand to my ear in the universal “I can’t hear you” gesture.

“I said it’s dull.”

“No, not that part. The part about it being my painting. Mine. Can you say that again?”

“Whatever,” he huffs. “I was just trying to help.”

“Yeah, I know. What is it about guys that always makes them want to help—even when no one is asking for it?”

“Do what you want,” he answers, and when he doesn’t say anything else, I think maybe I’ve gone too far. But when I sneak a quick peek at his face, I realize he’s working almost as hard as I am not to grin. Which is absurd, I know. I want him out of my head more than anything, but I have to admit that now that he can’t take control of my body anymore, arguing with him is a ridiculous amount of fun.

With that thought in mind, I grab the darkest red I can find and mix a glob of it into my black. And then wait for the explosion.

It takes about five seconds, which is four seconds longer than I expected, but then Hudson all but screeches, “Are you kidding me with this? Are you trying to blind me?” and I know I’ve scored a direct hit. Another point for me.

Sure, the tally currently looks something like this: Grace 7, Hudson 7 million, but I’ll take the win.

At least until I remember that I’ve got something to ask him.

“Oh, hey. I’ve been meaning to ask. Now that we’re actually working on the spell to get you out of my head… Where did you put the werewolf canine and the athame?”

“Top shelf in your closet. In a bag, far right.”

“Up there? Why would you hide them there?”

“Because I didn’t want you to find them somewhere and totally freak out before you knew where they came from.”

“Good call,” I admit grudgingly.

I keep painting, ignoring Hudson’s objections. I’m still not sure what I’m painting yet, but I know that there’s a compulsion inside me to get it on canvas. Part of me wonders if it’s a memory from those four months I was trapped in gargoyle form, if it’s something important that I don’t remember. But another part of me figures that’s just wishful thinking. That I’m so desperate to regain that piece of my life that I’m seeing portents of good things, even if they don’t actually exist.

Delusional much, Grace? Why, yes, I am. I step back and look at what I’ve done so far.

The background is complete, and looking at it feels strange because it’s unfamiliar but also good—because something deep down inside me is whispering that I’ve gotten it just right.

And to be clear, that something isn’t Hudson. It’s deeper, more primal, and I keep hoping if I paint enough, it will unlock everything else.

I’m cleaning the black off my brush, thinking about what comes next, when a text hits my phone. My hands are covered in paint and I almost don’t get it, but I change my mind at the last second.

And then gasp when I see the text is from Jaxon—and that I’m nearly an hour and a half late for our date.

41

Turns Out the Devil

Wears Armani

Unfortunately, there’s a whole a string of texts from Jaxon—several from six thirty, one from seven o’clock, and then three that just came in.

Jaxon: Running late? I’ve got a table set up at the back of the library, near the study rooms

Jaxon: Why are vampires like wizards?

Jaxon: Because they’re neck-romancers

Jaxon: Sorry, I couldn’t resist

Jaxon: You okay? Did you fall asleep?

Jaxon: Hey, I’m not sure if you fell asleep or if you’re painting, but I’ve found some interesting stuff

Jaxon: Can you text me when you get the chance, just so I know you’re okay?

Jaxon: Miss you

I feel awful. I can’t believe I forgot to meet him. I was looking forward to seeing him all day, and then I got so wrapped up in my painting that it totally slipped my mind. I tell myself it’s because my brain is on overload and the last thing I want to do is spend a bunch of time trying to figure out how to take on the Unkillable Beast and how not to die. To be fair, it’s a valid argument, but that doesn’t mean I feel any less shitty about not showing up.

“I’m sure baby brother will survive being stood up,” Hudson tells me, and there’s an edge to his voice that wasn’t there just a few minutes ago. “You should keep painting. You’re really on a roll.”

“Despite the fact that I used the wrong black?” I answer, barely paying attention as I fire off a text to Jaxon, apologizing and telling him that I’m coming.

“Sorry to be so particular, but Armani black is a very specific color.” He looks like he swallowed a lemon and it would be funny if I wasn’t in such a hurry.

I shove my phone in my backpack and start cleaning up as fast as I can. Which isn’t nearly fast enough, considering how big of a mess I’ve made mixing paint. “Who said I was even thinking about Armani black?”

“Sorry. I just…” For the first time since I first saw him, he looks totally discombobulated. Like he’s said too much but also not enough. I almost ask him what’s wrong, but then I remind myself that we’re not friends. That he’s just a guy squatting in my brain for a while, and he’s not even a very nice one. I don’t actually owe him anything.

I speed up my cleaning, determined to get to the library before Jaxon totally gives up on me. I expect Hudson to snark the entire time—it is his favorite pastime, after all—but he’s strangely silent after the Armani comment. Which I’m grateful for, because it lets me focus entirely on getting the supplies put away.

I’m just about done when the door to the art room flies open on a gust of wind. Cold air fills the room, and I whirl around, wondering what new threat I’m facing—only to find Jaxon standing there, watching me with a small smile and unfathomable eyes.

“I’m so sorry!” I tell him, rushing forward to greet him as he slams the door closed behind him. “I totally got carried away with my painting and I lost track of time. I didn’t mean to—”

“Hey, don’t worry about it.” He looks me up and down, his smile growing as he takes in my paint-covered artist’s smock. “I like this look.”

I give him the same kind of once-over he just gave me, taking in the frayed jeans and the black designer T-shirt. “The feeling is definitely mutual.”

“Oh yeah?” He wraps me in his arms, and I feel a warmth deep inside me—sexy and comforting and exciting all at the same time. “I’m glad to hear that.”

“You smell good,” I tell him, burying my nose in the bend between his neck and his shoulder for several long seconds. And he does, fresh and bright and so, so amazing.

“Yeah, well, I can say that feeling is mutual, too.” He scrapes a fang across the sensitive skin beneath my ear. “Very, very mutual.”

“Tell me you’re not serious,” Hudson says with a yawn. “Tell me this isn’t the pinnacle of your scintillating conversations.”

Why don’t you take a nap or something, I hiss at him even as I pull away from Jaxon.

“You ready to go?” Jaxon asks.

“Yeah, just give me a minute to get the rest of the supplies put up.” I take off my apron and store it in my cubicle, then finish putting the bottles of paint back in the cabinet.

Five minutes later, we’re walking through the tunnels—tunnels that seem nowhere near as frightening when Jaxon is by my side, talking about what he’s found in his hour-and-a-half search through the library’s magical databases.

“I’ve spent most of tonight trying to identify what the Unkillable Beast is,” he tells me as we make it to the rotunda with the huge bone chandelier hanging from the ceiling. “There are so many different versions throughout the last several hundred years, almost like it’s more fairy tale than real monster, that it’s hard to get a read on what we’ll be facing if we go up there. Except for the fact that almost no one makes it back alive—and those who do can’t agree on what they’ve seen.”

“Is there anything similar in the different accounts?” I ask, focusing on the conversation and not on the fact that I’m about to pass the tunnel where Hudson’s ex-girlfriend tried to murder Jaxon and me. “I mean, besides the ‘everyone gets dead’ thing?”

I think about asking Hudson what he remembers about that night—if anything—but decide it doesn’t matter. Besides, what if he wants to take a field trip to the scene of his reincarnation? Show-and-tell isn’t really my thing, especially not down here.

“I don’t remember anything,” Hudson tells me quietly as he strides alongside us, one hand casually sliding along the stoned and jeweled walls. He’s a few inches ahead, so I can’t really see his face. “I didn’t put her up to it, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

I’m not thinking anything, I answer, though that’s not quite the truth. It’s hard not to be afraid of Hudson when I’m down here, harder still not to be angry with him. Maybe what happened wasn’t his fault, but it’s hard to imagine that he and his persuasive power didn’t have some small role to play in the fact that Lia was obsessed with bringing him back.

“The stories do have a few things in common,” Jaxon answers, his arm tightening around me as if he senses my disquiet.

Which only makes me feel worse about being such a baby, so I swallow the lingering fear. I shove it down deep inside me and concentrate instead on something I do have the power to change. “Like what? Have you figured out exactly how to find it yet?”

I remember him saying in the caves that the Beast is somewhere near the North Pole. Though I don’t see why he couldn’t have a nice summer home somewhere in Greece or Egypt, L.A. or Miami? Anywhere that has warm weather and a beach would be good with me right now, because after that trip to the Bloodletter’s, I am ready to get away from the snow for a while.