With slow, deliberate movements, Áine applied cream to her body and massaged it into her skin. Then she dried and brushed her hair before plaiting it. The rhythm of pulling the strands into a fishtail from the center of her forehead to her nape helped. She could leave it open, but it irritated the sensitive scar tissue.

Áine slid the wide lycra band on her head and tucked it behind her ears.

She groped through the hangers of her walk-in wardrobe for the familiar loose pants and a fitted vest. Everything was, she hoped, in black. No other color mattered to her. She did not trust Nessa and Mum to shop for her. She depended on Helen, who'd discovered Arachne. They usually dressed males, but had accepted both of them as clients.

'Why wouldn't they? Free publicity. Heck, they better pay you to wear their shit. They sent some complimentary stuff,' Lyssa urged.

She patted the items. There was a cashmere throw with sleeves. A leather overcoat. She selected the felted Vicuna wool coat. Designed especially for her, the brand sent them over for her to 'try something new'.

'You single-handedly brought hoods back into fashion. What a world we live in,' Lyssa grumbled.

Áine took it out of the cloth bag and threw it on. Lifting the collar up, she pulled the cowl over her head. Then she buttoned it up and tied the belt. Though she preferred looser fits, she liked the fitted cut and weight of the heavy cloth. Like an armor, it fell to her calves. As is, there was a nip in the air today. She wore the gloves, as people stared at them. Strangers—

'You are paranoid. If anyone stares, it's out of admiration. Haven't you heard? You, baby doll, are a siren. The tabloids love you.'

As if that was a compliment.

On the coat stand, she found the right walking stick, one with the metal raven head, and checked the clasp. Within it hid a silver-edged blade. She opened it and pulled it out of the teak shaft. The Roman Dolon was perfect for stabbing the brain through the eye or slashing the throat.

A shifter might or might not survive a well-timed stab.

'Be warned, my Were, lest you become what you detest,' Lyssa growled.

She wondered what that would be.

'A remorseless killer. You're no Wilford.'

As far as insults went, that was weak. There was no other Wilford, he was the Einstein and Stephen Hawk of the Shifter World. Also, a very handsome and distinguished Were, he'd set his beady eyes on their mum. Except their mother pretended he didn't exist.

"Would it make any difference if I was a remorseful killer? Killing is killing," she replied.

'If he had a heart, I'd suggest inviting him to hear you play the lament. That'd work better than a silver bullet, but he is as heartless as they come. Or you could sic me on him... but he's designed the laws to save himself. Even if I succeed, his loyalists will toss us... Guess where? Through Hell's Gates into Hellridge. Isn't that coming a full circle? We'll end up in the one place we best avoid.'

Spending their lifetime in the hellholes called the Abyss, the Peak, and the Mine was not a life goal. "Won't work. Pampered elite princesses like me aren't cut out for a life in prison. I'd prefer to attend parties, wear designer clothes, and look pretty."

'Guurrlll! Reality check time. Parties screech to an abrupt halt when you make an entrance. You dress like a plague doctor. Or the harbinger of doom. All you're missing is a scythe or a bird mask,' Lyssa brayed her mirth.

"Imagine how they'll react if they saw me."

The truth shut her Lycan for good.

Áine marched into the living room. "I'm going out," she announced.

"You do know weapons aren't allowed in the Inner Sanctum."

She'd like to see who stopped her. "Worried, Mum?" she asked with a wry smile. Even her forced levity didn't quite ring true.

"I am, but I also trust you, and I know a good lawyer who will argue diminished capacity. Why bother? Leon will handle him. We don't have to get involved."

The corners of her lips twitched. "Oh, we're involved. No. Strike that. I am involved. You are not. What did the verbose therapist that he pays say? I have to face my monsters and slay them." She drew out the rapine and swished it, slicing the air.

"Áine!" Mum protested, both amused and outraged.

Her mother—a violinist and pianist par excellence—was also a soprano. And she had the most evocative voices Áine had ever heard.

"Don't..." she whispered. Only Mum saw her for who she was—still a terrified child trapped in the night that defined her. "I'm a-okay," she lied and walked out.

The main door closed behind her with a thud.

Outside, Áine hoped if she told the same lie enough times, it would come true, and she'd believe it too. She was dandy when she created or played music, or Lyssa took over and around her mum.

The rest of the time, she pretended and played at normalcy like a tune imprinted on her brain. But the real her would lead her to the three underworlds.

'That's true. Not that the powers that be will notice I am sane. It's you who is feral,' Lyssa said. 'Am I the only one who sees the irony of this role reversal?' Me, the enlightened beast. You the dangerous, basket case.

Áine's hand closed over the dagger strapped to her thigh. Its belt bruised her flesh and left welts, but its presence hardened her resolve. If there was a next time, she would use it. She would not hide, but fight, and if she died, she would take those who hurt her with her.

'Baby doll, you were seven. Now you're a grown-ass adult with a beast. Me. Remember. No one touches what's mine. I mean you...'

"Maybe it wouldn't be a bad thing... if it cured what ails me. Oh, I am tempted, if not for the consequences," she confessed.

From the shoe rack, she found her flats, rather, skimmers as Nessa called them. Áine abhorred straps or laces, even zips with a passion she couldn't explain. She'd forgo footwear if she was up to scrubbing her dirty feet after she returned.

On the porch, she paused and sniffed the air and sensed something else. Her head turned, following the olfactory thread.

"Really, Nessa? Why, pray, are you spying on me? Go inside. You'll find Mum's in one piece and making tea."

"What? I was admiring Jo's roses. Got to go," Nessa squeaked before running off, crashing through the underbrush.

'Of all the people, they left Nessa to keep an eye on you? The company you hobnob with are a flock of squawking chickens, without a gray cell amongst the lot. This one is the worst, a clumsy quokka. Her bubbliness is yuck. It's creepy, like she's on a happy pill.'

Áine clicked her tongue. "What would you have her do? Wallow in self-pity. She copes with the hand fate dealt her. I don't."

'True, but I fail to understand why you associate any of them except Helen. She's smart, but that could be why she steers clear of you,' Lyssa argued. 'The rest, they're trouble.'

"Helen's working."

There was no denying Hera, Mara, Zahra, and even Nessa enjoyed their notoriety and even chased it. Helen and Sasha, well, they were high-profile individuals. Like her, their profession put them under the spotlight. Nessa, without seeking fame, was a poster child of the modern New World. Not to mention her beauty drove males insane.

'I'm glad someone is working. We'll need a brilliant attorney if you keep losing it.'

Yet Lyssa seemed unconcerned by such a dire eventuality that'd affect her too.

'So now that you won't let sleeping dogs lie and end up unemployed, you'll need another job. I have a status and lifestyle to maintain unless you plan to live off Mum indefinitely,' Lyssa taunted.

Áine rolled her eyes and climbed down the six steps leading to the driveway. Of all the things plaguing her, she also had to deal with a snob of a Lycan. Quitting was not an option. Even if she worked full time in Archives, the mind-numbingly boring job paid a pittance.

'And they'll take your precious fiddle away, too, if you can't pay for its insurance. And you lose the contract with Arachne. The royalties won't be enough.'

Exactly. She couldn't quit, so she'd confront the monster who planned to throw her into hell through Hell's Gates. Oh,she'd bet her line on who set this up and why; but she was not allowing him to manipulate her anymore.

She waited on the pavement by the stone-cobbled road. A few of her neighbors could actually afford cars. She wasn't risking getting run over.

"Why doesn't he just die?" she hissed, wishing to be rid of the bane of her existence. "He's lived long enough..."

"You called for a ride to the Colosseum, Ms. Áine Ravena McMort?" said a youngish werewolf, yipping as the buggy stopped beside her.

She nodded and reached out to find the handle. She sensed him hop out and move towards her. She raised her hand. "Please don't touch me. I'll manage."

"Sorry," he said, clearly embarrassed.

In silence, they drove to her destination.

"We're here."

Áine alighted the solar-paneled buggy and offered him her expense card. It beeped when he placed the reader under the chip.

"No charge; but I had to register the trip." He cleared his throat. "I attended the summer solstice the day you played... it was beautiful."

"You can now download Spring Frenzy from the greennet," she replied.

"I did when I felt it was all getting too much, it helps."

'Ah, teenage angst! So precious,' Lyssa snickered.

"There is an extended version coming out soon. Ping me. I'll send you a discount code."

He thanked her, but didn't move away. Instead, he hesitated before asking, "Áine. Ms. McMort, why do you cover your face?"

The frequent question made her smile. She had a face only a mother could love, and it even reduced Mum to tears, which is why she kept it covered up. No one deserved the trauma of actually seeing her.

"Because the music matters. I don't. Farewell, young wolf, and, no, I don't sign autographs."

"Oh!" Though disappointed, he rallied. "Maybe someday. I'm a big fan of your work and the IT Girls, I mean, Pack. You all rock!"

"Thanks, I guess."

'The It Girls?' howled an outraged Lyssa.

Her friends were running her reputation, but she enjoyed the secondhand ignominy. The others were famous, young, beautiful, unattached, or from successful bloodlines. More so, they had made a name for themselves. They were the cream of the crop, so to speak. Nowadays, they were either loved or despised in equal measure.

She tagged along because they grew up together, as the earliest female pups in Roma. Commoners called them the Elites, heirs to distinguish families of a society that rejected nobility. And Mum was another reason why Áine got bunched with them.

'Fiddling...' Lyssa coughed. 'Dressing like death. Mysterious.' She paused to preen. 'Or coz of me. The only female winner of the gladiatorial games three years in a row. I beat Sasha... a Ghural. No easy feat. Also voted 'The Beast of 2024'.'

Áine snorted as she ignored the hovering driver who was expecting heavens only knew what from her.

In the cool shadow of the massive building looming in front of her, two males approached them.

"Scram! This is a no-parking zone," one barked.

The other, politer, warrior said, "Áine Ravena McMort? ID please. You're expected."

"Of course I am," she grumbled.

The glorified guards scanned the microchip embedded in her wrist. Then they stepped away. Neither frisked her. They wouldn't dare.

The lingering weariness of her breakdown gave way to rage again. She gripped her cane. This bastard had it coming. The other she hoped never to encounter again unless it was to shank his sorry ass.

'Baby doll, this is a bad idea.'

Of course, it was, but what other choice did she have?

Herod Oppenheimer would not destroy her life a second time. Or threaten her livelihood. He definitely would not dictate her future. Someone had to tell him that... and it best came from her.

The doddering senile arsehole thought she feared him. It wasn't that. Her grip on her hidden weapon tightened. She was more worried about what she'd do if their paths crossed again...

What's wrong with Áine? Did you catch it?