Time passed; over the next week, Damien and I continued to train Gael, and he improved every day. I am beginning to forget the timid, frightened human I first came across in that forest; as Gael grows more comfortable here in Maris, he loosens up, talking less and less about where he came from and embracing his training with a new enthusiasm.

A new leader of the Bureau is being searched for, and as of now, Elliott is the interim. Gael, Damien, and I still watch him with the utmost caution, as I am sure he had something to do with his father's death. I speak nothing of it to Sloane, as she is taking a momentary break from her work to regain herself. It's clear that the loss of her father has devastated her, so it seems unfair to antagonize her brother. This doesn't mean, however, that I'm not on to him.

"Finn, please be careful with those throwing stars—Dame, watch him, please," I say, observing my brother with a wary eye. Damien nods in understanding and crosses the arena to him, sweeping him off his feet and throwing him over his shoulder. Finn laughs wildly, and I begin to tell Damien to put him down, but stop and shake my head with a sigh. Telling Damien to quit doing things that make him smile is stupid, so I don't.

"Okay," I say, turning back to Gael. It's early morning, and the smell of shampoo lingers in the damp curls in his eyes, which drip water onto the padded protection Damien lent him. The clothes are a bit tight on Gael, who is admittedly a bit stockier than the slight-built Damien, but fit him well enough to grant mobility. "Up," I order, and Gael's fists come up, partially hiding his face from me.

"Good," I commend. "Well, Gael, as you know, you're human—"

His eyebrows lift. "Quite obviously, Gemma; I've been here for at least two weeks now, and you are just now noticing—"

"Shut up," I snap. "What I was going to say is that most species have an advantage over you. Faeries can use the wrath of mother nature, witches and wizards can cast harmful spells, and vampires—"

"Can and will eat you," calls Dame from his seat against the wall. When I glance at him, he looks up at me from beside Finn, grinning.

"I was going to say that they're unusually quick, but fine."

"Quick? You mean my shazamming ability."

I narrow my eyes, trying to focus on Gael. "Dame—"

Gael is curious. "What is he talking about?"

I wish I could have stopped the question before it left his lips, but I'm already too late. Before I know it, Damien has left his seat beside my little brother and appeared in between Gael and me, a swirl of black air rising and then settling around him. It is, I must admit, kind of cool, but its coolness has worn off the longer I've known Damien.

"That, my friends," he says, "is called shazamming."

"That word was never officially coined," I say, prodding at Damien to get out of the way. He rolls his eyes, then turns and drops a wink at Gael before "shazamming" himself back against the wall. Finn gives an applause, and I just sigh and try to go back to training.

I motion for Gael to put his fists back up. "I'm saying that, even in spite of that, you should always be prepared for combat. I mean weaponless combat."

Gael gives a brisk nod, getting himself in a protective stance and bouncing on the balls of his feet. A few days ago, before I'd instilled the proper stance on him, he had looked like an idiot, but now—now he looks like a real hunter, and I feel myself grin in approval.

Gael notices. "Why are you smiling like that?"

I cough, feeling the blood rush to my cheeks. Brushing a flyaway hair back from my face, I reply, "No reason. Okay. Hit me, Gael."

He looks startled, dropping his fists and straightening. I hear Damien chuckling as Gael says, "Hit you?"

"Your punch must be deafening, or you won't be successful. I need you to hit me; that way I can, well, identify your weaknesses," I clarify, dropping my own guard down. Gael is still profusely denying me, shaking his head. "I am a healer, Gael. I'll heal."

"But it will still hurt—"

"That's assuming you're not a complete pansy," Damien says, then turns to Finn. "Do you think he's a pansy?" Once Finn has nodded, Damien turns a broad smile towards Gael and me again. "We think he's a pansy."

I roll my eyes, once again forgetting about Damien and focusing on the trainee in front of him. "You're not a pansy, Gael. Just hit me."

"Gem, I won't hurt you."

For once, there is silence from Damien's direction. I don't dare to glance at him, since I already know what he's thinking. He knows of the name Gem, and what it means to me, and I know he is either blatantly surprised or hostile. Actually, I know he is both of those things.

"Oh my God, you might seriously be a pansy," I say, stepping forward and gripping his fists. "Hit me. It's not like you're mad at me, okay? I'm asking you to."

Gael shuts his eyes, shaking his head for the five hundredth time, then just sighs, nodding. I let him go, and shortly after his fist slams into my cheek. I stagger back, putting my hand to my face, but there is no blemish or blood. I chuckle. "Oh, come on. You didn't even break skin! The least you did was stun me. We have to work on that."

"Yes, you certainly do."

All eyes in the training arena flit to the door at the honeyed voice, and all of them land on none other than Jeremiah. I draw in a breath, surprised to see him. The staircase is all shadows behind him, and he seems to materialize from the dark, his eyes icy blue.

Damien springs to his feet. "Mr. Gilby—"

Jeremiah holds up a pale hand, grinning at Damien. "Please, Damien. We're old friends, are we not? I'm Jeremiah to you."

I step towards Jeremiah, away from Gael. The voice of the man in the city echoes in the back of my head as apprehension builds in my throat: Jeremiah sent you? "J-Jeremiah,what are you doing here?"

Jeremiah blinks, his expression one of fake hurt. He exhales, leaning back on his heels and raking a hand back through the golden strands of his hair. His eyes shift from blue to brown-black, a storm rolling in over an arctic ocean. "I expected a nicer greeting from the girl I trained so faithfully by. And, Gemma—I'm terribly sorry about what happened to your father—"

"Your apology's a bit overdue, Jeremiah," Damien spits, his voice acidic. Jeremiah's gaze flits to him, contemptuous, but Dame doesn't seem in the least bit shaken. He folds his arms, lowering his head. "Just tell us what you're doing here. In case you've forgotten, none of us really talk much anymore."

"Oh, I know," Jeremiah replies. "Old friends, I said."

Damien chuckles coldly. "Ancient."

"Damien," I say, my voice stern. His eyes flicker to me, the color in them seeming to lighten from a dark maroon to a light rose flower. I can tell it's up to me to draw him back; he's just as suspicious of him as Gael and I are, but he's less capable of controlling his flares. "Sorry," I say to Jeremiah. "Dame's always had a bit of a temper"—at this, he snorts flippantly, but Gael mutters to him to shut up— "so, is there something you need?"

"Yes, thank you. The Bureau's hunting division has been notified that you both are training a new initiate, and Sloane has sent me to see him. I imagine this is the one we're looking for?" Jeremiah gesticulates toward Gael, who freezes up like he's been tranquilized. I don't know why, but Gael never seems to be able to play it cool.

"Yes, this is, uh..."

"Gael Echeart," states Jeremiah for me, stepping towards Gael. He tours around him as if he is a sculpture on display, his color-changing eyes raking him over with manifest condescension. "I know."

"How, exactly?"

Jeremiah stops scrutinizing Gael for a second to look at Damien again. "I'm sorry, Damien?"

"Don't act ignorant, Jeremiah," says Damien, plastering a fake smile on his face that only lasts for a second. "How do you know his name, that we're training him? Gemma and I have said nothing—"

"I have ears and eyes everywhere, Sung," Jeremiah replies promptly, his voice as bitter as wine. He clears his throat, adjusting his tone to its usual milky coolness. "That shouldn't be a problem, unless there's something to hide? But you wouldn't lie to the Bureau, would you, Damien?"

Damien narrows his eyes at Jeremiah, his frown deepening, and I'm lucky enough to get there in time to keep Damien from springing at him. I stand in front of him, a hand held back, and smile congenially at Jeremiah. "Well, of course not, Jeremiah," I reply, kicking Damien in the leg. He grunts, but straightens when Jeremiah glimpses the both of us.

Jeremiah grins toothlessly. "I didn't think so. So, Mr. Echeart, what species do you belong to?"

"Uh," stammers Gael. Jeremiah's back is to Damien and I, so I mouth at Gael: healer. It's what he looks most like, anyway; unlike the other species, healers don't have defining features, which is a feature all in its own. "Healer," Gael manages.

"And how did you come across your friends here?" Jeremiah says, swinging around to face us again.

"I...met them in the city a few weeks ago," Gael says, shoving his hands in his pockets. I can tell he's struggling; his gaze keeps fleetingly failing to meet Jeremiah's, as if it's an arduous task to maintain eye contact. "I've always wanted to be a hunter, and both of them have been kind enough to teach me—"

"Is there a reason you're not training at the headquarters, Mr. Echeart?"

"It is not a good idea for Gael to be there," I tell Jeremiah. He looks at me from underneath his golden-white eyelashes, his eyes chartreuse. "Most trainees are much younger than him; we're trying to abstain from as much awkwardness as possible."

Jeremiah emits a short, humorless laugh. "Right," he says. He steps away from Gael and starts toward the staircase again, sliding his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "Well, it appears you have been training him on the down low. You have to understand why the executives are a bit suspicious."

"There's nothing to be suspicious about," I say. "We're just recruiting."

Another tight-lipped grin spreads across Jeremiah's face. "We appreciate that, Gemma, we really do, but we have to see if Mr. Echeart is even worthy of initiation. I mean, he didn't even complete our thorough application process."

Damien steps out from behind me, but I grip his wrist. He grunts in frustration with me, but says, "Jeremiah, Gael is—"

"Exceptional? Well-behaved? Yes, Damien, I believe he is. The Bureau is not so sure, however."

Gael ignores his compliment, his voice dripping concern. "What...what do you mean by that?"

"In order to see if his training is worth continuation, we've organized a test, of sorts. Next week, we want him in the Ancient Forest at dark. If he passes, you may continue preparing him to become a hunter. If not..."

"He'll pass," I say. "We've trained him well."

Jeremiah nods in my direction. "I don't doubt that you have. I hope to see you around, Gemma," he says, then his eyes flit to Damien. "Damien. Farewell."

With that, Jeremiah turns, disappearing up the staircase. Chills shake me to my core, and I turn away from the staircase, pushing my hands up into my hair and trying to breathe.

Damien, standing behind me, says the same sentence he always does: "I don't trust that guy."

I get the feeling he's speaking for all of us.