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By the way Elena was choosing not to wrap her arms around her, Zuri was sure that they hadn’t had sex when she was apparently drunker than she realized.

With a groan, she rolled out to her feet without looking back. She didn’t want to see Elena’s face looking up at her from a familiar place. She was done making fucking mistakes.

By the armchairs, Marisol was curled into a lump under a blanket, not a single part of her visible. The sight was a fist clenching around Zuri’s stomach. She hated that she was sleeping on the floor.

The desire to leave the house, just for a quick trip, followed her to the bathroom. While she brushed her teeth, she considered the danger of darting to the sporting goods place near the highway. It might be an hour round trip, but then Marisol would have an air mattress to sleep on.

She was in the shower when she discarded the idea. It was too dangerous. For all she knew, a legion of vampires were waiting to snatch her the moment she was on the wrong side of her wards. It was stupid to go out alone, and neither of her begrudging roommates were going to be any help.

Could she dare have something delivered? Could it be so dangerous just to grab a package from the gate?

In the small mirror above the pedestal sink, Zuri looked at herself wrapped in a towel. Instead of asking her reflection what the fuck she was doing, she found her curl reactivating spray. Using her finger, she coiled the curls that had gone flat or frizzy. Without all of her products, there was only so much spring she could manage.

A fresh T-shirt and leggings later, Zuri was heading for the kitchen to make coffee. By the aroma and the empty mess of pillows and blankets on the floor, it was obvious that Bambi had beat her to it.

A strange sound from the bed forced her attention in that direction before she crossed into the kitchen. Elena, steak knife in hand, threw the blade at a cutting board leaning against the extra plastic chair.

“What are you doing?” she asked, instead ofwhat the hell did you talk Bambi into now?

Elena flung the knife. It spun nearly too fast to be seen before it lodged in the very edge of the cutting board with a nerve-racking thud. “It’s a new form of meditation,” she said when she looked over at Zuri and grabbed another knife from the mismatched pile at her side. “Extremely relaxing.” She flipped the knife by the blade, caught it by the handle, and threw it at the board. This time, she hit closer to the center.

“You’re going stir crazy,” Zuri said, her voice flat despite the fear clawing at her chest.

She knew Elena wasn’t bored. She was devising ways to protect herself, to regain control. Vampires were all about power. They craved it, they wielded it, they reveled in it.

No matter what Elena said, those centuries of backstabbing and power grabs had left vampires cold and calculating. Elena was different. Or at least she had been. But even she couldn’t hold on to her position forever, not like this.

Zuri’s stomach twisted. If Elena didn’t heal, she’d be ripped apart by her own kind. They’d smell her weakness, sense the opportunity, and they’d pounce. She couldn’t let that happen.

The time crunch was a vise around Zuri’s chest, squeezing the air from her lungs. She had to heal Elena. Now.

Fuck. Knowing that didn’t change anything. Marisol’s magic was still a mystery, a chaotic force that she couldn’t control, couldn’t direct. And Zuri’s own magic wasn’t designed for this. It wasn’t meant to heal vampires.

Desperation gnawed at the edges of Zuri’s mind, pushing her towards a dangerous idea.

“Bambi, let’s go,” she barked when she walked into the kitchen, startling Marisol who was about to cut into a watermelon from her patch.

“What? Go where?” She was dressed in yesterday’s tank top, bandage visible under the loose garment along with her braless cleavage.

Zuri couldn’t get distracted. “I booked us a mani-pedi,” she snapped, charging out of the house.

Mind moving too fast for conscious thought, Zuri barreled for the greenhouse without slowing to get in the golf cart. She wanted to run. Run out of her skin. Run into the future when this nightmare could be behind them. Run back to routine and certainty and normalcy.

“Hey, wait for me,” Marisol shouted.

Zuri didn’t slow down. She yanked open the greenhouse door, the humid air thick with the scent of damp earth.

Marisol was only a moment behind her. “What are you doing?”

Zuri ignored her, her mind racing ahead. She grabbed a small clay bowl from a shelf, then crossed to the rain barrel in the back.

From a small metal box, she pulled out the items wrapped in a faded purple cloth. With a deep, steadying breath, she called on her ancestors as she unveiled their relics. A worn leather-bound recipe book, black sand from a remote Cuban beach, a tarnished silver necklace, a half-empty bottle of whiskey, a long cigar. Each object was a connection to the generations of witches who came before her.

Zuri set out all the artifacts. She poured a small amount of whiskey into an empty bowl and lit it. Flames ignited over the surface, sending a sweet, smoky aroma into the air. Then, she placed the bowl of rainwater next to the impromptu shrine.

“What’s all this for?” Marisol asked.

“I’ve been trying to teach you from the outside,” she replied, her voice low and steady. “But the answers we need, they’re already inside you. Buried deep in your memories, in your blood.”