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and flexed his fingers and it almost looked like he was in pain. “Always here. Always crawling and clawing to get to the surface. It’s a constant fight to keep it under control.”
    “But you said you can control it, right?”
    Lips curling into a slight sneer, he leaned forward and said, “You’re not feeling particularly violent, are you?” He held my gaze, and there was something about his expression. Something challenging. It made the air drop in temperature, sending chills up and down my spine, but also sent little tickles wiggling in my stomach. Awesome and terrifying all at once. “It’s part of me, so it’s always there. A little bleeds into the air regardless of my control, and I’m afraid Klaire’s dream was spurred by that.”
    “So then, yes to the pissy beams? You caused her dream.”
    I didn’t know Lukas from a hell hole in the wall, but the guy looked like he wanted to scream. Taking a deep breath—he did that a lot—he said, “ What is a pissy beam, and why do you keep accusing me of doing it?”
    “Chill. Pissy—angry. Same thing. Now about the dream?”
    “The anger was there already. Wrath just pulled it to the surface and intensified the feeling.”
    He still hadn’t done anything about his hand. It was bleeding all over his jeans now. If he let it go much longer, he’d look like an extra from the set of 300.
    I gestured to the homemade first aid kit on the coffee table I’d pulled from the bathroom. We had a dozen just like it floating around. My bedroom, the trunk of Mom’s car—anywhere it might be needed. There was even one stashed in the back yard under a faux trapdoor covered in leaves. Grandpa hadn’t been a boy scout as far as I knew, but he’d taught Mom to always be prepared. You never knew when a little triage might be needed. “So what did all that have to do with the glass?”
    He set the bottle of peroxide down and popped the lid on the box, eyeing the contents as though unsure what to do with them. After a minute, he pulled out a roll of gauze. Without cleaning the wound, he began wrapping his hand. I guessed when you had an ancient evil living inside you, infection was the least of your worries.
    “When Wrath feeds, I feel the anger. It’s brief—a few moments at the most—but it’s powerful.”
    “So…you broke the glass because you were angry?”
    He ripped the gauze and tucked the lose end in tight. “I broke the glass because Klaire was angry.”
    “If anger is always leaking out, how come I’m not mad? Or at least annoyed?”
    He shrugged. “Some people are more susceptible. For Klaire, the anger was already there. My presence just brought it to the surface. You are surprisingly even.”
    “Even?” I tried not to laugh. Even was the last thing anyone would ever call me. Snarky. Impulsive. Destructive. Never even .
    “Most people have at least a small amount of anger festering. In some cases, it’s deeply hidden but always there. You just seem…happy. Content.”
    “What can I say, I’m livin’ the good life. Nothing to complain about.”
    He smiled. “Your grandfather was like that. He was so different from everyone else. Quiet.”
    “Quiet?”
    “Peaceful to be around. Not a spark waiting to be ignited. I didn’t have to try as hard to keep Wrath at bay when I was around him.”
    Peaceful. Another word never used to describe me. Poor guy. He was clueless. Totally cute—but clueless. “So you can pull anger from people who are already pissed. Can you make happy people angry?”
    “Of course. But why would I?”
    “Um, because you’re Wrath?”
    His lip twitched. For a long minute we just stared at each other.
    With a deep breath, he said, “I’m not Wrath. It may inhabit my body and cause certain…side effects, but I am still me. I still retain free will.”
    Setting down the roll of gauze, he examined his hand, wiggling each finger in turn. Content with his work, he repeated his earlier question. “Who is Damien?”
    “Tell