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My face burns red as blood rushes to it, and that mental barrier that's supposed to keep people from blurting out what's on their mind at inappropriate times snaps in half. "Not qualified? What could you possibly know about my qualifications? Or anything about me at all? You haven't asked about my work history or seen my resume. You have no idea what I'm capable of." I stand, to the surprise of all four of them, and walk to Sebastian, shoving my resume in his face. "I'll have you know I'm more than qualified to work for you. In fact, I'm overqualified. I graduated from Harvard's MBA program with honors. I was Managing Director of the last company I worked for. I'm probably more qualified than you to run your business, whatever the hell it is. You should be working for me." As soon as the words are out, I regret them, but it's too late. Words, once spoken, cannot be reined in. They take on their own life, which is why it's so important we choose with care which ideas or words we give birth to. My father tried to teach me that, but I'm clearly still learning the lesson.

Sebastian shoves the resume aside. "And where did you get your law degree?" he asks with ice in his voice.

"What?" I ask, confused.

"If you're more qualified than me to run my business, you must have a law degree. After all, we are a law firm. Where did you get your law degree? I don't see it on your resume."

"This is a law firm?" I ask, more confused than ever. "What kind of law firm does interviews at midnight?"

Derek shoots Sebastian a stern look and takes the resume from him. "We offer our services to a niche clientele. One you will have to become familiar with, should you choose to accept this job."

"Who are your clients? Vampires?" I say with a laugh, but none of them smile. Sebastian smirks and leans back in his chair. I want to smack that grin off his beautiful, perfect face. Derek narrows his lips and glances at the others. This is too weird. "It was a joke. I obviously don't think your clients are vampires. Sheesh. Tough crowd."

Still, nothing but uncomfortable stares and awkward silences.

"She's not the one," Sebastian says again, and I'm stung by his rejection, despite my qualifications, despite the connection I thought we had on the train, and despite the fact that I'm not even sure I want this stupid job.

I ignore my flash that's pushing me to stay and glare at Sebastian. "You're right. I'm not the one. This would be a huge step down in my career. Perhaps if your creepy receptionist gave me an inkling of what this interview was for, I could have spared us all the waste of time. Good day."

I grab my bag and make my way to the door, pulling it open in one harsh movement, but then I stop and glance back at Sebastian, leveling him with my stare. "Harvard," I say.

He narrows his eyes at me, confused.

"My law degree," I clarify. "It's from Harvard as well. I didn't put it on my resume because I didn't take the bar, and I was never told what kind of firm this was." And with those closing words, I storm out and slam the door behind me.

The moment I do, tension builds inside me, buzzing on my skin, in my head, like spiders hatching within my body. I've felt this before, in the past, when I ignored my flash, but it will go away. I just need to get out of this soulless building and away from these men who make me crazy in too many ways.

But the tension doesn't fade as I walk the halls. It builds. It builds so much it scares me. I search for a bathroom and see a door ajar down the hall. My brain feels like it's swelling and tears prick my eyes at what's to come. This hasn't happened in so long. Not since…not since that day. I thought this was under control.

I knock gently on the door and it opens slowly. I expect to see any number of things—a broom closet, a standard office or waiting room, but what I find is nothing that should exist in this building.

It's as if I've been transported to a castle in an age of magic and wizards. The room is windowless and covered on one wall with floor to ceiling shelves filled with leather-bound books that look like they should be under glass at an important library. Another wall has shelves full of jars with different colored powders, roots, and other strange objects. In a corner sits a round table carved from jade and etched with ancient symbols. A fire burns in the center, though I see no source to feed the flames. And the flames are blue, rather than the standard red or orange. While I know blue flames can occur in nature—wood saturated with sea salt can produce blue flames—I don't know of any that can dance atop solid stone like that. Must be a chemistry trick, though why it would be in a law office is beyond me.

The room smells of spices and wood and earth. Against another wall is a desk covered with scrolls, with books and jars resting above it on shelves. A large chair sits in the center of the room in front of a blazing stone fireplace with a strong fire burning within. There's no chimney, no way for any of this to work.

"Hello there, dear, can I help you?"

I jump at the sound and turn to see Matilda standing in the doorway.

The pressure in my brain is building. I don't have much time to find somewhere private. Damnit.

Black spots appear in my vision. Light dances before my eyes as pain explodes in my head. I only have time to say, "Help, please!" as my eyes fill with tears and I grip my skull and sink to my knees, a sob escaping my throat.

Matilda rushes over. "Oh, my dear, it's all right, love. Come now." She rests a cool hand on my forehead. "You're burning up!"

I know. I always do when these hit.

And it's not over yet. It's just starting.

She helps me to the chair, supporting my body weight as sweat slicks my skin, and I shiver. I am both cold and hot. The pain hasn't reached its climax yet and I'm not looking forward to when it does. I won't be able to stop what happens next, and that terrifies me.

"I have to leave," I say between breaths, grinding the words out through the pain.

"Of course you can't leave. Not in this condition."

I reach for my bag, knowing I don't have enough time to get out of here, hoping I still have the strip of leather I used to carry just in case. I fumble, my sketchbook falling out, still opened to the page of Sebastian's sketch. Matilda notices it but says nothing as I find what I'm looking for and stick it into my mouth to keep from screaming.

Just in time, too.