It wanted to move through the rooms, feeling out the magic, caressing the inchoate power.Not now,I said silently, willing it to stay down. The first rule of the monster was not letting the monster be seen by strangers, especially since Georgia had already seensomething.
But the monster believed it had been pushed down enough this trip, and it didn’t want to retreat again. Not when the magic was so enticing. It fought me for access, trying to shove my consciousness down so it could stand in my place.
“Tell me about yourself,” Georgia said while I fought in silence and couldn’t spare the strength to form words.
I stared down at the dough, pushing the bread, folding, folding, folding, like every pleat and turn would diminish the monster.
I’d let it breathe, I thought, anger rising. I’d given it space. And this was the thanks I got.
Silence was stretching between me and Georgia, and I was growing desperate. How long ago had she asked me about myself? How long had I been staring at this dough, trying not to let the claws push through?
I promise,I told the monster.I’ll give you room. I’ll let you breathe. I’ll let you run and fight. But not now, please.
Push. Fold. Fold.
Finally, it relented and loosened its grip. I’d been tense—my legs and torso braced in the battle—and its release nearly had me pitching forward.
Push. Fold. Fold.
The second rule of the monster was not discussing the monster with strangers. So I forced myself to smile, made a production of stretching a ball of dough to stretch the gluten. Not ready yet.
“Sorry,” I said, the only word I could manage, and hoping my voice was casual, but still not meeting her eyes. “Did you say something? I think I got a little carried away with the kneading. It’s not ready yet.”
“Apparently,” she said, her tone careful and very unconvinced. “I was just saying you should tell me about yourself.”
Push. Fold. Fold.
“Well,” I said, “you probably know all the interesting bits.”
There was a moment of silence while, I guessed, she debated whether to call me out or let it go, at least for now.
“I know how to do my homework,” she said, her tone a little lighter now, and I relaxed incrementally.
“I spoke with my sister yesterday,” she continued, “and she gave me the details. It’s not often the would-be brings around a date.”
I nearly smiled at “the would-be.” “How often?” I wondered.
“Never, actually.”
“Hmm,” I said mildly, though I was thrilled to be the only. I liked those odds.
“I’m twenty-three,” I said, answering her previous question. “Bachelor’s degree. Both parents live in Chicago and are associated with Cadogan House. I’m not. I love coffee, am very good with a sword, and enjoy long walks on very dark beaches.”
Georgia looked up at me, grinned. “You have a handout to pass around with all that on it?”
“Laminated card.”
She chuckled. “Cute. Connor’s a good one, or he’s become a good one. To tell you the truth, I wasn’t sure how good he’d turn out when he was younger. Not because he was wild—kids shouldbe a little wild. But he was cocky. You need self-confidence to be Apex, not cockiness. Cockiness gets you in trouble. Gets the Pack in trouble. But he seemed to settle down.”
“He’s changed a lot,” I said. “We didn’t like each other growing up very much.”
“He was a little brat.”
I chuckled. “He always called me ‘brat.’ I wasn’t spoiled. I was lucky and privileged, and I liked playing by the rules. He liked doing whatever he wanted to do, and because he was the prince, they usually let him. Sorry,” I added, wincing. “That sounded insulting to his parents.”
“Not insulting,” she said. “Honest. Not because he’s a Keene, but because he’s a shifter. We aren’t what you might call helicopter parents. We want our kids to follow creeks, get scraped knees, learn about beestings the old-fashioned way. Part of that’s our connection with the world. Part of that’s how we believe kids learn—by experiencing, not by being told.
“He did a lot of his learning by himself or with the help of his friends. Some who were good, some who were bad. For some, it takes tragedy to make that change, to move to that next stage. Hurting themselves or someone else to realize they can be something different. I’m glad he didn’t have to learn that way.”