Arabella took Runa’s other arm and led her into the warehouse.

I turned around and walked over to where Ragnar and Alessandro sat at the table. Ragnar watched me approach.

“Your sister is worried about you,” I told him.

“He’ll be fine,” Alessandro said.

“He asked her if he was a werewolf.”

Ragnar sighed. “It’s a quote from a book. ‘When war knocks on your door, bringing suffering and death, good men turn into savage wolves.’ Am I a wolf now?”

“It depends on your definition of a wolf.” I sat on the bench. “Sometimes wolves go rabid. They slaughter everything they see just because they can. But most wolves kill only to eat or to defend their pack. You seem like more of the second type to me.”

“It’s my fault.” Ragnar turned to me, his eyes clear and lucid. “If I hadn’t tried to kill myself, none of this would’ve happened.”

His memories had come back. Hell of a timing.

“That’s ridiculous,” I told him. “None of this is your fault in any way.”

“If I didn’t collapse like some stupid baby, Runa wouldn’t have asked you for help. People wouldn’t have attacked your home. They wouldn’t have tried to kill your family because of us.”

“You’re being a dramatic fifteen-year-old,” Alessandro said, his voice harsh.

Ragnar drew back as if slapped.

“Guilt is a luxury and right now you can’t afford it,” Alessandro continued. “Do you want to be an adult or a child? Children require comfort even in a crisis, because they can’t understand how urgent things are. In a child’s world, it’s all about them: how this affects me, how this makes me feel, why is life so unfair? An adult sees a problem and tries to fix it. They think of other people and they plan their actions aware of the consequences. They understand that there will be time to deal with grief and loss after the danger is over.”

“So how do I fix this?” Ragnar asked, his face grim.

“Survive,” Alessandro said. “The enemy is trying to kill you and your sister. If you live, you win.”

Ragnar shook his head. “That’s not enough.”

“It’s plenty for now,” I told him.

“What do you want to do?” Alessandro leaned closer to the boy. “Do you want to go over and kill the people who murdered your mother?”

“Yes!”

“You can’t. Not yet. You’d die and they would win. That’s also part of adulthood—adults understand their limitations.”

“I did fine,” Ragnar squeezed through clenched teeth.

Alessandro looked at the bodies. “Their faces tell me that your sister is too caught up in making her enemies suffer. And that trail of vomit over there tells me you hesitated. You made them sick first. Was it hard to kill them?”

A tear swelled in Ragnar’s left eye. He swiped at it, his face a rigid mask.

“Don’t be ashamed,” Alessandro told him. “That’s good. That’s what separates us from them. It should be hard. Killing another human being is the hardest thing you will ever do. But to fight in this war, your kills must be instantaneous. Any hesitation gives your enemy an opening to end you. You die, they win. Acknowledge to yourself that you hesitate. Don’t engage unless you must. Remember your job. You must live through this.”

“To do what?” Ragnar stared at the corpses.

“To train and practice to make sure that the next time someone comes for your family, you will be ready. Your sisters will need you.”

Ragnar jumped off the table and went inside.

“Harsh,” I told him.

“That’s what he needs right now. Trust me,” Alessandro said. “If he has a goal, it will keep him looking forward. Thinking about what already happened and what he could’ve done about it will just drive him mad.”

He got up and walked away. I took in the street full of corpses one last time and went into the warehouse, to the warm light and sounds of my family.

It took us half an hour to settle Runa down. In the end, Mom gave her a sleeping pill. Runa took it with her tea and then fell asleep at the kitchen table. Bern carried her to her room. Leon took Ragnar and two beers to the Hut of Evil to check out his gaming setup. I hadn’t seen Heart. He was definitely around, supervising, examining the lay of the land, and giving orders, and Mom had spoken to him. I would see him tomorrow. The last thing he needed right now was me underfoot.

Shadow had acted like I was gone for a century. She stood on her hind legs and scratched at my thigh. She made small, happy doggy noises and wagged her tail so much, it was a wonder it didn’t break off. She also trailed me wherever I went. I had gotten Lawrence’s bones out of the car, put them into a plastic bin, and carried the bin into the motor pool, and she’d managed to trip me twice.

Grandma Frida turned at our approach. Her eyes narrowed. “Girl, you’re all beat up.”

I’d counted on everyone being too busy to notice. Leave it to Grandma to zero in on my scratches like a homing missile. “It’s just torn clothes.”

Grandma Frida raised her finger and pointed. “Laceration. Abrasion. Puncture. Several punctures. Chunk of hair missing.”

I dropped the bin and grabbed my hair. “Where?”

Grandma reached out and touched the left side of my head. “Right there. You’re bleeding and you look like you’ve gone through a shredder.” She wrinkled her nose and sniffed. “And you stink like accelerant and smoke. Has your mother seen you?”

“Mom has her hands full. I’ll just take a shower . . .”

“Take off that rag and sit.” Grandma Frida pointed to a stool.

I dropped the torn trench coat to the floor and sat. Grandma Frida took one look at me and reached for the first aid kit.

There were times in life when alcohol really hurt.

“Actually, it’s been proven—ow—that treating wounds with—ow—rubbing alcohol slows the healing. A saline wash is so much better. Ow, ow, ow!”

“Saline wash is for your eyes. Alcohol is for getting arcane goo out of holes in your skin. Be a big girl and deal.”

Ow.

By the time I told her the story and my wounds were treated, it felt like I had no skin left. Or rather I had skin, but it was on fire.

“Where’s your Italian now?”

“In the old fire station building. He isn’t mine.”

Grandma Frida chuckled. “I think boatneck.”

“What?”

“For your wedding dress. It would be very flattering on you.”

“Grandma!”

Grandma Frida rubbed her hands together in anticipation. “I never canceled my subscription to Brides magazine.”

I jumped off the stool. “I’m not going to sit here and listen to this.”

Grandma Frida hugged me. The familiar scent of engine oil and gunpowder enveloped me.

“You’re doing great, sweetheart. I know you think nobody notices, but we all do. You go take that shower now.”

I hugged her back and went to the door.

“What do you want me to do with your bin?” She pointed at Lawrence’s plastic coffin.

“Could you lock it in the cage for safekeeping. Don’t open it.”

“Will do,” Grandma promised.

I snuck upstairs into my room before my mom also noticed my punctures, went to the bathroom, stripped off my torn clothes, and stepped into the shower. I didn’t even look at myself in the mirror. The sharp sting of open cuts let me know exactly where I was hurt.

Shadow assumed a devoted vigil outside the shower door.

The hot water hit me, sending a fresh pulse of pain through my wounds. I cried out and cringed. Body wash was going to suck.

Gobs of translucent bug ichor splatted on to the tiles of the shower floor. I reached up and touched my hair. It was like sticking my fingers into half-set Jell-O. Ugh. I poured way too much shampoo into my hand and started working it into my hair.

Tomorrow I would have to meet with Heart and figure out how much our new security was going to cost us and where we were going to get the money for it. I had a pretty good idea of how to get some quick cash for the deposit but I knew Grandma Frida wasn’t going to like it.

Finally, the water ran clear. I stepped out, smelling of lemon and lavender, dried my hair with a towel, and carefully wrapped another big, soft, fluffy white towel around myself. I only whimpered twice as I did it. I was a big girl and I dealt.

My dog was gone. Well, her devotion was short-lived.

I dragged my brush through my hair. It got stuck. Great. This would take a while.

I walked out of the bathroom, keeping my movements small to prevent the towel from rubbing me too much and trying to not rip all my hair out with my brush.

Alessandro lay on my bed, petting Shadow.

I squeaked and hurled the brush at his head.

He snatched it out of the air. “Stop throwing things at me.”

“Stop being in my room. Stop being on my bed. I’m wearing a towel!” And why had I just pointed that out?

He took a slow look from my feet all the way to my eyes. “Yes, you are.”

All of my thoughts derailed. My body recalled how it felt to be held by him in every vivid detail. Safe, and warm, and exciting. His carved chest under my cheek, his washboard stomach, the heat of his body, his arms around me . . .