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“You know what depression is, you dumbfuck?” I close my eyes, painfully pulled into a memory of dragging my brother out of his bed to the shower. I remember the stink of sweat and alcohol which had clung to his skin and his sheets.

I wish I did shit differently.

“Yes,” Josh says, blinking since I hadn’t focused entirely when I’d asked.

“What kind of stove do you have, Josh?”

“Gas.”

“Alright, listen up.” I know he has no choice as I tighten my hold on his mind. “You’re going to drive straight home. Don’t stop to talk to anyone. Obey all traffic laws. When you get there, I want you to turn on the burners—high. Then I want you to put all the flammable shit in your kitchen on top. Paper towels, dish rags, paper plates. Understand?”

He nods. He’s lucky I might have use for him later, otherwise I’d just kill him.

“Only after your ceiling is on fire are you allowed to leave.”

When he doesn’t move, I tell him to get in the car as I shoot off a text to Margot.

Bill had a house phone. Someone named Charlie. That’s all I have for now.

You call her yet? Schedule that second date? :P

Too busy telling her ex to set his house on fire.

Wtf. Seriously?

He’s annoying.

Just double checked. They have a cat.

Fuck.

I know they live in a small subdivision and someone will call the fire in the second they see smoke, so the cat will probably be fine. Still. I glance around to make sure no one is nearby, and I use my abilities to catch up to the car leaving the parking lot. When he rolls his window down, I snag his phone from him.

“Before you set the kitchen on fire, take your cat outside,” I order as I text his “wife” about his fears of fatherhood and his impending breakdown. I give her the details of her rideshare driver Josh called to take her home.

He’ll be there at the end of her appointment, waiting in a black BMW.

* * *

“The photographer madeyou look fucking hot, bud,” Margot says in opening.

“Clarke posted the pictures?” I ask. Unlocking my apartment, I toss my helmet on the counter. I’d returned the borrowed BMW after dropping off Alexa, and I was grateful to have the bike back. She’d been absolutely fucking useless, and it had felt nice to drown out my thoughts with the roaring engine. I lean across the bar, snagging my phone charger. I’d only called Margot to tell her Alexa was useless, but my phone was about to die—and she showed no signs of shutting up anytime soon.

“Only a few last night. The rest will be posted this weekend, apparently.” Margot whistles. “I mean, Gwyn looks hot as hell, but I already knew that. You sure Clarke isn’t a sorcerer? Sorceress?” She puts on a thick French accent. “Sorcière? What the fuck is the gender-neutral term for that?”

“Whatever the word is, I’m relatively certain they’re a human.”

“How do you know? You bite Clarke too?” Margot asks, voice dipping low. When I remain silent, she knows why. “You still feeling it?Fuck, I’m jealous as a dog at a steak dinner.”

“You say the weirdest shit sometimes.” I sigh, rubbing my hand through my beard. “I think it’s passed.”

“You never told me what it tasted like.”

“Yes, I did.”

“No, you said a bunch of weird bullshit about what it was like, how it made you feel. Not how it tasted.”

“It’s the same thing. Gwyn—she tasted warm and cold and like Christmas morning and like all sorts of crazy shit.” I think for a minute, debating on telling her about the overwhelming taste that had set me fucking alight. Made me worry I was going to suck her dry without stopping. A fledgling wouldn’t have been able to stop themselves, and I had to fight every instinct within me. God, the taste of it had nearly toppled everything, and the excuse I had made was pathetic.