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him long ago.” She scoffs, “He told me the trip was for work, but he packed way too many T-shirts. And the girlfriend was all giddy when she came over for the good-bye dinner. Bitch.” She frowns at the wall, then turns back to me. “So do whatever you want. My dad’s house is your house.”
    I glance at the nice clothes, then at her, trying to decide. I have a good hour and a half before Ava leaves for practice.
    “I’m gonna go shower in the master bedroom,” she says. “For, like, an hour.” She sighs and pulls clothes from the closet, then leaves without another word.
    I stand in the middle of the room for a second—but just a second—before I slip my shoes off, my hoodie, my shirt and pants, leaving them in the middle of the floor. Then I go look for the shaving supplies.
    I’m not sure how long I’m in the shower—the hot water feels so damn good. I wash my hair three times with the mango shampoo and scrub my skin until it turns red. I’m going to need new bandaging for my hand, but I don’t care.
    When the temperature of the water finally turns lukewarm, I step out of the glass enclosure, reveling in the billows of steam around me. I grab a towel and bury my face in the cotton, captivated by the spring smell. It’s like drying myself with a cloud.
    The teeth marks on my hand are almost completely healed now. Apparently demon bites aren’t like regular bites, because I know I don’t have any super healing powers.
    And then I notice something else. My mark. It’s different. The part that winds up past my wrist is halfway to my elbow now; it’s grown thinner vines and more shapes and curves.
    I stand there staring at it, completely stumped. Could the demon bite have done something to it?
    Damn. More questions. Wonderful.
    I decide for now to stick it all in the dusty file called “My Screwed-up Life.” There are plenty of more pressing things to worry about at this point—like Ava approaching her twelfth birthday.
    I wrap the towel around my waist and open the bathroom door, heading for my new clothes. My feet stop. So does my heart.
    Rebecca’s lying on the bed, on her side, looking at a magazine. In her underwear.
    Her fucking underwear.
    She looks up and smiles. “You must’ve been really dirty.” Her eyes travel over my torso, and she bites her bottom lip as the heat of her intention fills the space between us.
    I make myself study the floor, but it’s too late. The image of her is burned in my brain: hair falling in damp strands around her face like amber seaweed, black lace panties against milky white skin, a smooth belly with a monarch butterfly tattoo on her ribs, just below her breast.
    And . . . God. Oh, God.
    She’s a virgin.
    This girl is offering herself to a stranger, and she’s a virgin.
    Someone who’s had sex carries soul marks on their neck, chest, or shoulders—a palm print for each partner, like a brand.
    Rebecca’s skin is white as snow.
    I grab the clothes off the bed and go back into the bathroom, shutting the door behind me.
    Shit shit shit.
    It takes a million deep breaths to get control of myself. I lean on the counter and think about demons and guts and blood. I can’t get dressed until the horrors overwhelm the burning—which takes way too long for my own comfort.
    When I come back out, Rebecca’s fully clothed.
    I’m sort of relieved.
    She won’t look at me, though. She’s pissed again.
    “Thanks for the shower,” I say.
    She runs a brush through her hair in jerky strokes. “Are you gay or something?”
    I bark out a laugh. I can’t help it. “No.”
    Her shoulders tense. I see in her eyes that there’s only one other reason I’d reject her offer—she’s not pretty enough.
    I let myself step a little closer. “Screwing me won’t help you feel any better.”
    She sits on the edge of the bed and stares at the floor. “I just can’t pretend anymore. I don’t want to be alone. I feel like doing something insane.”
    I try to convince my