and popping.
Mack’s expression was half shock and half awe, his eyes glued to the inch-diameter strands of raw power. I dropped both hands, letting the electricity slip back inside me, pooled and waiting. He looked up to my eyes and recoiled a bit.
“Dude, your eyes…” he started, words falling away.
“Mack, nobody here knows how much juice I have. Caeco has a little idea, but even she doesn’t really know,” I said.
“Okay, okay, I’ll take on faith, especially after that,” he said.
“That was a fart in a hurricane.”
His face was blank for a moment, then it twisted in disdain. “Really? That was the best badass statement you could come up with? We gotta work on your verbal skills,” he said.
I reached over and gave him a tiny zap on his sock-covered foot. He jumped backward on the bed, giving me a Dude, really? look.
“Sometimes Mack, actions speak louder than words.”
“Ow… fucking oww, you skinny Bewitched warlock son of a bitch,” he said, rubbing his toe.
I laughed and dug out a notebook and pen for the seminar.
“Hey, what did you guys learn in your werewolf control class with Jenks?” I asked.
“Yoga.”
“Yoga? You’re bullsitting me, right?” I asked.
“Nope. Jenks says it teaches control, both of body and mind,” he said, changing his voice to make it deeper and more mystic sounding.
“That’s kind of funny.”
“Not if you saw old Delwood eyeing your lady while she nailed some of those bent-over poses,” he said.
He was right. It suddenly wasn’t funny, wasn’t funny at all.
Chapter 13
Gina made us all sit on the lower levels of the smallest classroom, forcing the class to be closer together. I deliberately sat so that my body blocked Delwood’s view of Caeco, suddenly seeing him as a new kind of threat.
“Okay, let’s start with a quick video montage of recent news,” Gina began, using a remote to turn on the giant sixty-five-inch monitor on the wall.
(Footage of mobs of people with protest signs outside of a building labeled Demidova Incorporated.
A news anchor with a scrolling banner under him labeled ‘Cure for Cancer, AIDS and Ebola?’
A Wall Street shot that morphs into a climbing graph of silver prices. A news graph showing the decline in attendance at NFL games and other public events.
A shot of Chris Gordon, Tanya, and team leaving a building on a cobblestone street at night, surrounded by men and women wearing black combat fatigues with POLICE across the back and little French-looking uniform caps, darkness lit by flashing emergency lights on European cars.
A swirling helicopter shot of the famous Battle of DC, the giant demon prince holding half a body in each taloned hand.
Another news anchor, female, with a caption indicating church membership was rising across the world in all faiths and denominations.
A man in a black robe wearing an upside down pentacle being interviewed under a sign for the New Church of Satan.
Blurry footage of a seven-foot white werewolf in beast mode, running through the fight-torn streets of Washington.
The cover of TIME magazine showing a full portrait shot of a beautiful blue-eyed woman with the headline ‘Tatiana Demidova: Heiress, Business Tycoon, Vampire?’
A screen shot of a blog page with the title ‘What Else Roams the Night?’
The video ended frozen on the final title and Gina turned to the class.
“So, what do you think?” she asked the class.
Silence. Finally, “About what? The video?” asked the same girl who had asked Chris so many questions just a few nights ago.
“About everything, Ilda. About how the world is reacting to proof of the supernatural. About what that means for all of you,” Gina answered.
“Listening to kids around the campus, I think most of the normal people are scared to death of demons and worried about weres and vampires,” T.J. said, glancing apologetically at the vampire girl sitting alone at the far end of the seating.
“Okay. Katrina, what do you think?” Gina asked the vampiress.
Sitting unnaturally still, the girl studied her in a way that would have made me uncomfortable. Then she spoke.
“I think it will complicate things. Probably make life more dangerous,” she said.
“How so?” Gina asked.
“Pointing out the healing powers of Darkkin blood will only make us targets.”
“Turn around is fair play,” one of the werewolves, Matthew, muttered.
“I know. Ironic, right?” Katrina agreed with an uncharacteristic display of animation, like a normal eighteen-year-old girl might. Then her face went cold again. “Of course, everyone will want a hunting license for werewolves now. I heard there are groups waiting for the next full moon.”
“Is that true?” the girl of the