I had never killed anything other than the occasional spider or mosquito. Hati was a man, a wolf, a monster, and I had snuffed his animating spark, or his spirit, or whatever it was that had brought him to life. Did it matter whether he was myth or real, magic or flesh and bone? I had wanted him dead, and the result was the same. I kept asking myself if I regretted killing him, if I felt bad about it, but I never did. I still don’t. Was that wrong?

At the end of the day, I managed to look myself in the face without cringing. Nothing else mattered.

I crouched in the yard and studied my hands, my smooth palms, which had held fire and flames and bent them to my will. The transmutation had drained me, and in the days since, I had managed nothing but a pitiful glow from my fingertips. A cold ball of dread resided in my gut and would likely stay there until my fire returned to its full potential. I had no idea how long that would take, how long I would be vulnerable and defenseless.

Not a question you can answer today, Solina. Quit wasting time. Every minute you stay here, you’re putting yourself in more danger.

To satisfy my need for diligence, I circled the lot one more time. I didn’t want a doubtful voice whispering in my ear when I left the lake: Are you sure you didn’t miss something? Are you sure…? After my second inspection, I realized the big black truck was gone, the one Thorin had left at the Aerie for me, the one Skyla, Inyoni, Kalani and I had driven on a cross-country sprint from Mendocino to Oneida.

In the end, Thorin had provided resources, supported my decisions, and honored my wishes. A cooperative Thorin was hard to dismiss and even harder to resist. Letting him get close meant trusting he wouldn’t compromise my independence or manipulate my plans in ways that best suited him. It meant believing he had not only his own interests at heart but mine, too. Not sure I’m willing to take that chance on him. Not until I know myself better. Not until I can stand on my own and face him as an equal.

Maybe Nate McNairy had taken the truck to remove evidence. Maybe Thorin had managed to track it, despite having insisted the truck was a ghost, untraceable. Maybe Skyla had used it to escape from Nate, and she was on the run, same as me. The idea of Skyla as a fugitive was a hopeful one, and I clung to it because it meant she had survived.

Other than the absence of the truck, I found nothing worth noting. After shushing the questioning voice in my head, I returned to the driveway and climbed into the backseat of the cab that was waiting for me—meter running, of course—while I conducted my investigation. A rental car would have been more economical, but it required identification and paperwork. Coming back to Oneida Lake was dangerous enough, but Skyla was worth that risk. Coming back to Oneida Lake and leaving a trail would have been suicidal. Sacrificing myself to save the world was a noble idea, but dying because of lazy mistakes was just plain wasteful.

And I don’t want my life—or my death—to be a waste.

“Where to now, miss?” the driver asked.

“Take me back to where you got me,” I said.

The taxi had picked me up from a bus station in Syracuse, the closest depot on Greyhound’s route.

The cab driver fiddled with his GPS and said, “Okee dokee. You got money to burn, I guess?”

“Not a lot of money. Just a whole lot of worry.”

Chapter Two

Five weeks later…

The sour odors of alcohol and sweat infused my work shirt. My deodorant and body wash had fought gallantly on my behalf, but the arrival of a celebrating men’s softball team and a spilled glass of cheap gin had struck the conquering blows. Spills and stains had defeated me before and probably would again unless my fairy godmother showed up and worked a miracle on my behalf. In my experience, magic was rarely so benevolent. I was better off relying on myself.

The bar smelled nothing like my family’s bakery with its signatures of vanilla, yeast—the bread kind, not the beer kind—cinnamon, butter, and warm sugar. Even the cleaning solutions and rubber floor mats supplied their own distinct notes. I missed my bakery, but not as much as I probably should have, considering I had once been resigned to spending the rest of my life there, pinned under the weight of my parents’ expectations. A lot had changed since then. Metamorphic things. Immortal things.

I swiped a rag over the old wooden bar top, clearing smudges and spills. Then I reached for a nearby mop and bucket to do the same for the floors, another chore added to a long and exhausting day of doling drinks, fencing grabby-handed advances, and placating obstinate drunks. A glance at the overflowing tip jar cheered me up, though.

“Hey, Sabrina,” Nikka said as she passed me on her way to the front door.

Her casual use of my false name felt like nails on a chalkboard, but the precaution was necessary for not just my safety but hers, too.

“You gonna be much longer?” she asked.

“Nah,” I said. “Just finishing up.”

“Five, ten minutes?”

“Something like that.”

“Then what?”

“What do you mean?”

“Then what are you going to do?”

“Uh.” I racked my brain for items on my to-do list that I might have overlooked, but mopping up and totaling the register receipts were the last chores in my nightly routine. “Then, nothing, I guess. I’ll go to bed.”

“You always go to bed.” Nikka pursed her lips into a pretty pout.

“I don’t think the boss would be too happy if I passed out from sleep deficiency during my shift tomorrow night.”

“The boss isn’t happy that you go home rather than going out with her when she asks you to dinner.” Nikka winked, and her bright smile contrasted beautifully against her Mediterranean skin.

Nikka’s father had bequeathed Stefanakis Spirits and Suds to her before his death several years before. As far as I could tell, she kept the bar alive and thriving with a little know-how and twice as much hard work.

“The boss should get used to disappointment.”

Nikka’s smile drooped. “C’mon, Sabrina. Today makes a month since you came to work for me. We should celebrate. I mean, what’s the big deal?”

The big deal was the hundreds of pounds of psychotic baggage I lugged around. If Nikka knew about the hot mess that was my life, she’d run away screaming. I was doing her a favor. I was an anathema to friendships. Skyla would have testified to that if I could find her.

“Bacon and waffles at that all-night diner down the street, my treat,” Nikka said. “We don’t have to do any friendship bonding rituals or anything.”

“Nikka—” I started.

She raised a hand to stop me. “Don’t say it. I’ve heard it already. See you tomorrow, Sabrina.” Nikka started for the door.

I almost let her go, but regret and loneliness welled up from the empty places in my heart. The emotions were so overwhelming that I responded before my common sense could kick in and counteract them. “Wait,” I said.

Nikka froze but didn’t look back.

“Just breakfast, right?”

“And a coffee or two.”

“They do chocolate-chip waffles?”

Nikka pivoted on her heel and let loose a brilliant smile. “They will if I have anything to say about it.”

At the diner, Nikka sat across from me and guzzled her coffee. She set down her mug, burped, and patted her stomach. Then she smiled in a self-satisfied way.

“Okay,” I said, laughing, “I totally apologize for not agreeing to this sooner. I think I needed a good sugar high.”

Nikka leaned forward and grinned. “You should trust my wisdom more often.”

“Oh, I trust your wisdom.”