The Wicked Within (Darkness Becomes Her) by Keaton Kelly

Author:Keaton, Kelly [Keaton, Kelly]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon Pulse
Published: 2013-09-16T14:00:00+00:00

FOURTEEN

FOR THE FEW HOURS I was in my bed I’d tossed and turned, unable to shut my mind off. And when it finally caved to exhaustion, my sleep was filled with images of the past that left me tired when I finally woke up.

I showered, blessing Crank for the hot water and knowing by the amount I had that I was the first to rise. The heat felt good on my skin. For a long time, I stayed under the spray. I’d come to the realization that despite the personal issues Sebastian and I were having, his abilities were essential in retrieving the Hands. I needed him.

Athena’s offer had screwed things up royally. Had she left things alone, I would’ve been able to get inside the jar and into the library, no problem. Now I’d need Sebastian to trace me inside the Novem’s study where the jar was kept—bypassing the security detail outside and the warded door, if such a thing was even possible. Once I was inside the jar, I’d talk to the Keeper. And then Josephine was next, and I needed Sebastian for that, too.

After my shower, I braided my hair and wrapped it into a low bun, then dressed quickly in a T-shirt and cargo pants before strapping on my gun and blade. I looked down the hall to Sebastian’s door, drew in a steady breath, and went to see if he had come home.

He hadn’t. No surprise.

After a quick biscuit grab in the kitchen, I left the house and caught the streetcar at St. Charles. I was the only passenger. The rocking motion on the tracks lulled me back into sleepiness. Before I knew it, I was at my stop on Canal Street. I walked quickly, trying to stir my blood and wake myself up, wondering what I would find today—Novem heads back at school? Armed guards still protecting the Cabildo?

When I got to the square, I knew immediately something was wrong.

A crowd had gathered across from the cathedral at the gate leading into the park. I edged closer as two people pushed ahead of me. One was Michel, the other Sebastian. The crowd parted for them and I saw another Novem head—Simon Baptiste—amid several musicians, artists, and fortune-tellers who worked in front of the cathedral, and a few students from Presby.

I shouldered through the crowd. Blood made a trail along the stone. My pulse kicked up. A body lay sprawled on the steps.

Shock swept through me. Josephine Arnaud lay flat on her back, arms and legs out, one of her expensive high heels hanging off one foot, her hose ripped, her clothes covered in blood. Her head had been separated from her body and placed a few inches from her neck, as though someone had put it there to make a somewhat complete picture. Or maybe a statement. Her usually perfect bun was disheveled, and her face was sunken and white. It looked as though all the blood from her body had trailed down the steps and into the drain nearby.

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