Jake strolled into the kitchen with wet hair, wearing my clothes. The T-shirt strained over his shoulders, trying to contain the massive mimic, and the pants had become capris.

His smile didn't falter when he spotted me, or as his gaze flicked to the weapon I held. "Where are Mother and the guys?" Jake glanced around.

"One's dead; the other two left." The adrenaline that had my heart racing made my voice tight as I spoke to the monster that murdered my dad.

Jake shrugged and blew a raspberry. "I told them we should stick together."

I shifted away from the island to give myself a straight shot at Jake in case he tried running. We wouldn't both leave here alive. "You're not very concerned about your mom."

"I'm sure Catriona and Shay are fine. Vaughn was the weak link there, so I guess he's dead, but I never cared for him anyhow." Jake stuck his hands in his pockets. "Oh, hey, thanks for the clothes. The ones I came in fit better, but that asshole stabbed me." He gestured at Dad's body. "Don't worry; I've healed, but with all the blood, I needed a shower. I'm a sloppy eater." He winked, and I tightened my grip on the knife as angry tremors shook my limbs.

"He's trying to unnerve you. Don't give him the advantage," Owen said.

My teeth ground together. "I won't."

"You won't, what?" Jake asked before understanding lit his expression. "Oh! You're talking to the buddy you have in your brain. I don't hear him, but Catriona said he fussed like a worried grandmother while you were knocked out." He chortled as though we were friends hanging out, and my blood boiled.

"We can still switch. Do it quickly, while he's cracking himself up," Owen said.

"No, I've got this. He's mine."

"Well, aren't you a confident little dessert?" Jake grinned and extended his claws, preparing to fight.

I waved him closer. "Come on, then."

He sauntered toward me, smirking when I stood my ground, and then swiping at me. I dodged fast enough that he barely grazed my shirt. When he came at me again, I knocked his claws away with my forearm as I stabbed his side with my other hand. The blade slipped in under his ribs, too low to hit his heart.

Jake grunted and held his injury. Blood spread across the front of his shirt as he stumbled, but stayed on his feet. Swinging the other arm, he aimed for my throat. I ducked, avoiding his claws, and punched the stab wound. Jake jerked away, then rammed his shoulder into me, pinning me against the cabinets.

My skull bounced off the wood, and Jake wrapped his fingers around my neck, holding me in place. His claws sliced into my skin and he leaned in until his hot breath drifted over my cheek. "How are you a hunter? You're just a little bitch like your old man, hardly putting up a fight."

As an obnoxious grin stretched his face. My pulse pounded in my ears, choking out whatever Owen tried to tell me. Jake's grip tightened, causing warm liquid to seep into the collar of my tee.

Holding his stare, I lifted the thin kitchen knife and slammed it through Jake's jugular to the handle. The tip of the blade gleamed red on the other side. His eyes widened as gurgling came from his windpipe. He coughed, spraying droplets of blood on me, but I was too angry to care.

He released me to reach for his wound, and I shoved him into the island. Before he could remove the weapon, I grabbed him under the jaw and bent him backward, smacking his head into the stone countertop with a resounding crack.

"You got him, Bash," Owen said. "Finish it! Go for the heart before he heals."

Owen's words rolled through me. Instead of following his command, I held Jake down and watched the crimson river cascading from his throat, forming a puddle on the light gray stone of the island. The puddle became a stream that followed the granite lines toward the fruit bowl Dad filled with apples yesterday.

Standing still, angry tremors shook my limbs. Looking away from Jake, my eyes landed on Dad's legs. Green stains covered the soles of his sneakers, and grass clippings stuck to the bottom of his jeans. He was probably inside, taking a break from yard work.

Dad would never be indoors all day; he'd find something outside to do. My vision blurred as a whimper escaped me.

Claws wrapped around my bicep, carving into the muscle. Jake grinned up at me with a mouth full of blood, but the stream had stopped flowing. He was healing over the weapon—smiling after what he'd done.

That was the last straw. I yanked the knife from Jake's neck and plunged it through his heart. His cheekbones protruded as the skin tightened and rotted away, but that wasn't enough. I jerked the blade out and stabbed him in the chest again, and again, and again. Each time, the resistance was less until there was nothing but dust.

"He's gone, Bash. You're done," Owen whispered.

The weapon clattered to the tiles, and I backed across the room. "Who's the bitch now?" I mumbled.

Heaviness settled in my stomach as my shoulder blades hit the refrigerator, and I slid to the floor. With my knees drawn up, I rested my elbows on them and pressed my palms against my temples. From this angle the top of Dad's light brown hair showed around the corner of the island, and rage filled me. "I'll kill them all."

"Yeah, we will, but you've done plenty for now. Switch. I'll get this taken care of."

My throat constricted as tears blurred my vision. "What'll we do with my dad?" My voice cracked and my chest grew tighter. I gasped for breath.

"Whoa, settle down before you pass out. Should you count stuff?"

"This isn't a panic attack. Dad is dead!" My words broke into a cry and I brushed my fingers into my hair, tugging it until it hurt, and then I pulled harder. But the physical pain was no match for what I felt inside. It wasn't even a minor distraction. I covered my eyes, blocking the overwhelming sight of the room.

"They're gone. Both of them." I bawled until my head ached and I ran out of tears. Lifting the collar of my T-shirt, I found a clean spot and wiped my face dry. Then I sat there wallowing in the all-consuming loss threatening to eat me alive.

"I'm so sorry, Bash," Owen whispered.

I nodded but couldn't respond. What was I supposed to say? It's okay?

I didn't have the energy to lie or be polite. It didn't matter, anyway; Owen understood.

"Switch with me. I'll clean everything, and we'll take Marc to my place. You're still bleeding; Lilla can help with that."

My mouth fell open. "If she didn't start all of this, there'd be nothing to help with!"

"I know, but she's the only witch we have handy."

"We don't need her." The back of my neck heated as anger replaced my heartbreak. Being in the kitchen was stifling. I stomped to the living room.

"We do need her. She'll heal you and cover things with Marc. She made a stupid, selfish mistake, but it was hundreds of years ago, and we'll need her help to clean it up."

"If it wasn't for her mistake, my parents would be alive." I kicked the end table, knocking the lamp over. The bulb burst with a loud pop and I stood staring at the slivers of thin glass scattered across the carpet.

After a minute of silence, Owen said, "I'm not saying we should trust her, but our goals are the same. If she can establish a story for the town about your dad and heal you, then we need to use her abilities."

In my head, I knew he was right, but my heart wasn't ready to be reasonable. "Fine. If we have to."

"Okay, good. Switch."

Several minutes passed before I calmed enough for Owen to take over. "Alright," he said. "I've got this. Try to zone out. You shouldn't be here."

"Yeah, sure." I scoffed. "I'll just think about something else."

***

For hours, Owen worked with efficiency, and I struggled to zone out as much as possible. Every time I'd accidentally catch sight of what was happening, I'd wish I hadn't.

First, I glimpsed Jake's remains and my bloody clothes being stuffed into a trash bag. Good. That was all he deserved.

I withdrew into my mind until the strong scent of bleach broke through, and I caught a brief view of the sparkling clean kitchen. Owen had removed all traces of fighting. Somehow the normalcy made things worse, and I checked out again.

The weight of Owen's sorrow dragged me to awareness as he gently wrapped Dad in the king-sized comforter from his bed. It hurt, but it was all we could do.

I urged myself to stop paying attention, imagining I sat in an empty gray room with white noise as the only sound. There was no one and nothing to remind me of what happened. I let the hollowness take over.

"Bash, I'm all done," Owen said, as the tailgate slammed shut. He'd showered and put on clean clothes. My wounds didn't seem to be bleeding anymore.

Owen climbed in, started the engine, and reached for the cell he'd left on the seat. "Three texts and a missed call; all from Emily."

When I didn't respond, Owen read the messages aloud. "She said, 'okay, do you have to work?' Then a while later she asked, 'is something wrong?' The third text was an hour ago, asking if you're alright."

The phone rang in my hand, and Emily's picture lit up the screen. Still, I didn't react—I couldn't find the will to care.

"She's worried," Owen said. "You always answer texts right away, and it's been hours."

I waited until the ringing stopped. "What am I supposed to tell her? Just shut it off. I can't deal with that now."

Owen did as I asked and tossed it on the seat. His concern needled me, but I didn't care about that either. I needed this night to end. "Don't get pulled over."

"I haven't gotten a ticket in almost fifty-one years."

"That'd be more impressive if you weren't stuck at home for fifty of those."

Owen smiled. "It's still true. Are you alright?"

"I don't want to talk about it. Let's do what we have to, and then focus on killing Catriona. Okay?"

"Yeah, man. It's a plan."

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