It turns to run.

“Don’t you want to play?” I call, but it keeps running. “Darn it.”

I chase after it, up over the hill and down the grassy slope on the other side. When it tries to run through the playground, two of its arms get caught in the hanging rings of the jungle gym. It screams, howling into the night like a bear caught in a steel trap.

As I leap through the air, landing on its back with my legs around its waist, I sigh. “Not even putting up a fight. Where’s the fun in that?”

The beast struggles more, trying to wrench its arms from the rings and dislodge me from its back. Pathetic.

My fangs drop, I lean forward over its bulging shoulder and sink a bite into a meaty forearm. I barely even have a moment to enjoy the huntress high, as the venom flows from my fangs into its bloodstream, before it vanishes beneath me.

I crash to the soft, wood chip–covered ground on my hands and knees. Why do they always have to be so easy when I’m eager for a throwdown? I need to get this angry energy out of me before I explode. Normally I would go take it out on the punching dummy at the loft, but it’s ashes by now.

Well, if the monsters want to go down easy, I think as I stand and dust off my knees, maybe Nick will be a challenge. And he’s next on my list.

Back in my car, I yank open the glove box and pull out the spare phone. Mine got fried when I jumped into the bay with my sisters, but hopefully the SIM card survived the dunk. I dig the card out of my old phone, dry it off on my pants, and then place it in the backup phone. I’m relieved when the phone powers up, but my recent calls list is blank.

Fine. Even if my SIM card didn’t record the call, I have his number saved from when he called before.

I labeled it ANNOYING JERKWAD.

At least the annoying jerkwad called to warn us.

My brain drifts for a second, imagining what might have happened if he hadn’t made that call. Only a few seconds later—I quickly shake the thought out of my mind. It’s too unthinkable. He did make the call, my sisters and I are safe, and now he’s going to tell me what he knows.

Whether he wants to or not.

When Nick first appeared in my life two weeks ago, I thought he was a puzzle. A guy who wouldn’t take no for an answer, who wouldn’t back down from me, and who was somehow immune to my hypnotic eye power. Now I know he must be something more, someone involved in this as more than just an innocent bystander.

No one else knows my phone number. No one else could have made that call, warning me to get out of the loft. It must have been Nick.

I dial the number.

He picks up on the fourth ring.

“Hello?” He sounds sleepy.

I grit my teeth. Seriously? He went back to sleep after that?

“Where are you?” I demand.

“What?”

“Where. Are. You?”

There’s silence, some shuffling, and then, “Gretchen?”

“Of course it’s Gretchen,” I snap. “Didn’t you think I’d be calling back?”

“Calling back?” he echoes.

“Or did you think I’d be dead?”

“Dead?” His voice clears in an instant. “What’s going on?”

“Tell me where you are,” I demand for the last time. “Right now.”

To my surprise, he actually gives me the address. I floor the accelerator, reaching for my spare gear under the passenger seat as I go. Within five minutes, I’ve restocked my pockets and I’m speeding into a parking spot behind the wooden apartment building on Twin Peaks. The slope is killer, but he must have a great view of the city. If I weren’t about to pound his face into the dirt, I’d be jealous. It’s a great spot to do a monster sniff test.

I don’t notice him standing outside, waiting, until he walks up to my window and knocks on the glass.

Without hesitation, I pull the handle and shove, sending Moira’s door into Nick’s hip and knocking him to the ground. I jump out, take my advantage—he’s got several inches of height on me, so I’ll take whatever I can get—and straddle his waist. I clamp one hand around his wrists and reach into my cargo pocket with another, pulling out a zip tie.

“What the hell are you doing?” he demands, bucking and trying to knock me off. “What happened?”

I don’t say a word. I slip a zip tie around his wrists and yank, tugging it not quite tight enough to cut off circulation, but enough to secure his hands.

“Gretchen,” he says, resting his blond head back against the pavement, giving up on trying to get free, “tell me what’s going on.”

He sounds almost reasonable, like he’s not at all shocked that I’ve tackled him to the ground and tied him like a prize pig. I shouldn’t be surprised. He knew the explosion was coming, which means he knows who—and what—I am.

Maybe I should give him a tiny bit of credit for saving our lives.

A tiny bit.

“We’re going for a drive,” I explain. “Either you can get in the passenger seat under your own power, or I’ll put you there myself.”

He studies me for a second, watching me with those midnight-blue eyes. I can’t tell what’s going on in his mind—can I ever?—but he just nods and says, “I’m good.”

I push back to my feet, yank him to his, and then follow him around the car. He pulls open the door and climbs in without argument. Well, that’s something going right.

When I get back in the driver’s seat, I can feel his eyes on me. He’s waiting for me to say something, but I’m so angry I don’t know what to say. All that built-up energy—the leftover fear and adrenaline—is vibrating inside me and I feel like a rubber band pulled almost to the snapping point. Maybe keeping my mouth clenched shut will make him spill more than he would otherwise.