After a moment to myself, I climb the steps to the main floor. My temples ache, and even rubbing them does nothing; something happened between Gael and I there, and it is now my utmost intention to find out what it was. I don't care how long it takes to talk to him, to get him to quit denying it, and quit running away from me as he just has.

    I enter the kitchen to find Mother and the two boys feasting on a vanilla cake. Damien just sits beside Gael, observing, still steaming and resigned. It seems an odd time for cake to me, but apparently it isn't to my mother; as soon as she lays eyes on me, she raises her arms and beckons me over, shoving a slice at me. I eye the spongy body in front of me with suspicion before glancing up at her, one of my eyebrows arched. "Why?"

    Mother shrugs, looking on at Gael and Finn, who are both too busy devouring their treats to notice her staring, with a quiet maternal admiration. "Gael's been training hard, and you and Damien have been, well, training hard—if you know what I mean—and I thought you all deserved a treat."

    I just sigh and begin to diminish my cake by the forkful. The kitchen is awkwardly silent save for the clinks of forks against porcelain, and I spend this time trying to get Gael to look at me. He won't, no matter how much my eyes burn into him, but I know he knows of my presence—there is a flush along the bridge of his nose that was not there before.

    Damien heaves a sigh, leaning his cheek into his palm as he watches Gael shovel his face with Mother's baked good. "I don't believe I remember what cake tastes like," he says, and I know the sorrow in his voice is fake, as there is a smile in his eyes. He is simply speaking to speak, and I can only thank him for ending the strangling quietude.

    Mother does not know he's acting, and is already on to cutting a slice for him before anyone can stop her. "You can try a piece if you like."

    Dame shrugs apologetically. "I could, I suppose, but I'm not in the mood for eating dirt today." He flicks a cake crumb from the counter onto Gael's plate, sighing again.

    Mother sets down her knife, frowning. "Oh," she says, her voice dull.

    "Oh, Miss Armistead—no!" he says, startled. I can't help but giggle as he struggles to correct his mistake; he sometimes forgets that he's the only vampire my mother has had much contact with, and therefore she doesn't know much about his kind. "It's not your cooking—er, baking—it's just my...appetite. My tongue only has a taste for—"

    "Blood," finishes Gael, setting down his fork, done with his share. He still averts his eyes from mine. He doesn't say the word as if it spooks him, simply as if it's an obvious fact. For this reason, I guess, Dame stares at him for several strange moments before speaking again.

    "Uh, yes, what he said," he manages. "For once, the human's right."

    "Gael," I correct.

    Damien rolls his slim eyes and blows a raspberry at me, but I barely notice him: Gael has turned his eyes toward me, for the first time in several long moments. There's a look of appreciation there, a silent thank you for reminding Damien that he has a name. Then the flush returns to his cheeks, and his eyes flit to the counter. "Everything else tastes like dirt, then?" Gael asks Damien.

    "Dirt, air, paper. I think flavorless is a better word."

    "That's unfortunate."

    "Is it?" Dame asks, and his eyes get that dreamy look, like they've been covered with glass. It's a dangerous expression, I have learned; whenever Damien thinks about his past, it frustrates him.

    I drop my fork, trying to break him free of it. "Damien—"

    "I...I don't think I've ever known anything else. I just know the taste of blood; all the time I try food—other people's food—all I want to do is spit it out. But there must have been a time—"

    "Damien, stop," I urge, and now all attention has swiveled to me. The crimson of Damien's irises is as intense as the flame of a lit match, and as I say his name again, the glossiness in them drains.

    Damien shakes his head, rubbing his eyes. "Um, sorry. I should...be quiet."

    For a moment, the five of us sit in an awkward silence, Finn blinking his big eyes at Dame, until a phone on the counter rings, startling us all. I search around in my own pockets until I hear Damien mutter "Daylights," and reach to answer the vibrating device on the counter.

    He answers, "Damien Sung."

    All of us sit, watching, as his eyebrows furrow and his eyes widen. "Yes, she is. What? Sloane—slow down—okay, okay. Gemma and I are on our way. Sloane, please calm down, alright? Okay. Just hold on. Bye."

    When Damien sets his phone back down again, his hands are trembling, his eyes wide. The last time I have seen him so in shock was the night my father was killed; whatever Sloane called about must be serious. "Dame? Is everything okay?"

    He shakes his head, struggling to speak. "Not at all, Gemma. A...a factory in the city has burned down...and Sloane's father was in it."

Any hope that this is all some sort of sick dream vanishes when we reach the city. Police tape has been drawn around the perimeter of a building cloaked in ash, if one can even call it a building at all. What is left of what was once a factory is mere black, crumbling structures, threatening to fall over. Smoke still hangs in the air, causing me to cough as I shove through the throng of people watching the scene in horror. Sirens wail as firefighters and Bureau officials search the wreckage for survivors, for clues, for anything.

    At the front of the crowd, I duck under the police tape, where a city official grabs me. I flash a badge at them, but there is no need—Sloane appears in front of me. "They're with me," she manages in a small, clipped voice. "Leave them."

    Damien and Gael have both come with me; I told Gael he should stay home, but he insisted on coming for a reason I still don't know. I was flustered enough that I quit arguing and let him accompany Dame and I. I'm just hoping I won't regret the decision.

    "Oh my God, Sloane," I say, once we're away from the police tape and the crowds of city dwellers and newscasters. I hug her to me, giving her back a few reassuring pats. I know what she is feeling right now; to lose a father is to lose a piece of yourself, a piece you may never gain back. It kills me to see her hurt as I have. "Are you okay? Do you need anything?"

    After I release her, Sloane sinks down to a seat on the curb, accepting the blanket a firefighter offers her. She uses it to wipe her nose and her wet eyes, sniffling without control. "I don't understand how this could happen," she mourns as I take a seat beside her, Dame kneeling down in front of her. I can only see Damien's blazing red eyes beneath his black hood; the sun is still out, and even though I told him Sloane would understand, he insisted on coming to see her, no matter the cost—which was clothing himself in the heaviest, most modest clothes that he owned. If he flipped that hood back, it would be the end of him.

    Damien strokes Sloane's cheek with a gloved hand. "I'm so sorry," he whispers to her. "You don't deserve this."

    Sloane grabs Dame's hand as he starts to take it away, pressing it to her cheek and squeezing her eyes shut. Another tear streaks down her cheek, quickly turning black with the soot caked on her face. "I talked to him, just before this happened...he was here to see how the factory was doing; it had just gotten a major update. I want to believe it was an accident, but..."

    She trails off, opening her eyes, looking at Damien in sudden disbelief. She drops his hand suddenly, startled. "Dame! You can't be here! The sun—"

    He chuckles, his teeth white in the shadows his hood creates. "Forget about me, boss. I'm here for you."

    Sloane grins, though it looks like it pains her. For a moment, her eyes lift to Gael, who stands behind Damien, and her eyebrows furrow, but then she just presses her hands to her face and weeps. I rub a hand down her back, her shoulders shuddering as I do. Her voice is barely audible as she says, "Some people are saying that someone started the fire, but who would...who would want to kill my father? He never did anything...I haven't even talked to Elliott; he doesn't know—"

    As Sloane succumbs to another round of sobbing, I look up to see Gael motioning me over with wide eyes; I can't imagine why he suddenly wants to speak with me, when he was so avidly avoiding me earlier, but something about the apprehension is expression draws me to my feet. I get up, whispering to Damien to stay put, and approach him.

    "What is it?" I ask him, my voice quiet.

    "I think Elliott does know," Gael tells me, and when I look at him strangely, he takes my wrist and pulls me to the other side of the wreckage, away from Sloane and Dame. There is an alley between the next building and where the factory used to be, and when I glance at it, there is a figure looming around in the shadows. I try to discreetly squint, and when I realize who it is, my breath hitches.

    Gael is correct; Elliott is there in the alley, clearly trying to avoid being seen. I watch as his eyes land on Sloane, and sorrow settles in his expression, if only for a second. "Gael," I say, looking at him and trying to breathe, "you don't think..."

    "I'm praying that this is just a stupid assumption, but...I don't think it is," he confesses. He pauses, seeming to realize his thumb still rests against my wrist, then drops his touch from mine with a short cough. "We saw Elliott the other night; something is up with him."

    "But why would he kill his father?"

    Gael shakes his head. "I don't know, but maybe it's something we should figure out. And his sister..." He glances at Sloane, a pained expression in his face, before turning back to me. "Oh, God. Please let me be wrong."

    "Gael, we'll figure this out, okay? If anything, I'll go confront him at this moment," I say, but when I turn to the alley again, I stop.

    Elliott has disappeared.