As soon as we've entered the city hall, Sloane sweeps Gael away, telling Damien and I that his initiation will be in the main venue in half an hour. That leaves Damien enough time to swing me over to the bar, where—even though I remind him he drank a little before we left his apartment—he orders the bartender to give him the best glass of blood they own. For me, he gets a margarita, which sits untouched in front of me.

    Sloane was not lying when she said it would be a big turnout; people from all over Maris have gathered underneath the hall's spacious rotunda, which opens at the top to reveal the gleaming stars. Women and men of all species are dressed in their best party attire as they socialize and drink, awaiting Gael to appear on the stage where the band now performs. The whole place seems warm and lavish, the golden lights on the golden marble making all the difference.

    As a slow, atmospheric ballad begins to rise in the venue, twinkling chandelier light reflects in the alcoholic drink in front of me. I watch as a few couples begin to waltz, feeling myself smile a little.

    "Deer."

    My euphoria is torn from me with just a muttered word from Damien, and, startled, I turn away from the dancing guests and look at him. He adjusts his position on his barstool, leaning over the mahogany that separates him from the bar's selection of refreshments. I sputter, "What?"

    Damien sips the blood in his glass, swallows with a cough, and sets the wine glass back down. "I said it's deer. I despise deer blood."

    This makes my eyes narrow. "You should have told her to give you...I don't know. What do you like? Isn't all blood the same—"

    "Uh, no," Damien corrects, practically snapping. He shakes his head, as if I've made a horrible mistake. He taps at his glass with obvious disdain, pushing it lightly aside. "Blood from different animals tastes different. For instance, deer blood's bitter and reminds me of stomach acid. Cow blood has an exceptional balance of sweetness and sharpness. Pleasing but with a kick."

    Done with Damien's lessons on blood tasting, I just shrug and stir my margarita. The ballad ends, followed by a round of applause. "Tell the bartender to give you cow blood, then."

    Damien snorts, looking mournful. "That's okay. The bartender's a vampire, like me, and if deer blood is the best they've got here, I doubt they have any—but what about your margarita?" Damien's eyes have flicked from watching the dancers to looking at me with mild concern. "It's not good?"

    I stir it once more as a more upbeat song begins to play, and with a few hoots, the dancing speeds up. As for the Commission, I haven't seen them yet, but I know if they will be here, they'll certainly make an entrance. Between watching for them and watching people dance, I'm not worried so much about my margarita. "I don't drink, Dame."

    "Of course you don't. Miss Gemma goody-two-shoes, that's who you are," Damien says, and when I shoot him a warning look, he just smiles and hits himself on the forehead. "Duh. Who am I kidding?"

    At this, I fold my arms. "I am not a goody-two-shoes."

    "Oh, you're not? Someone who helps hopeless people in forests, regardless of their species or what they've been told about them, adopts them into their home, and trains them to be a hunter—so well, apparently, that they actually become one—is not a goody-two-shoes? Please, correct me if I'm wrong." 

    "Just because I'm better at doing the right thing than you are doesn't mean I'm a goody-two-shoes," I fight back.   

    "Oh, we're going to go there now? Better than me? Well, we'll see about that!" Damien downs his deer blood, spluttering, then grabs me by the wrist and pulls me to the dance floor without my consent. I barely have time to ask what he's doing before he's grabbed my hands and is pulling me along with him as we dance to the pounding beat of the music. Damien spins me, my dress flaring out like rays of the sun that is toxic to him. Before I know it, I'm euphoric again from the experience, giggling and dancing until every part of my body aches.

    Suddenly, the music cuts off, and all the dancers groan. Turning toward the stage, I expect to find Gael and Sloane standing there, but am surprised when I see Beckett the receptionist instead. As to when he became the host of this event, I'm not sure, but he taps the mic, gaining everyone's attention.

    "First of all, division director Sloane Capello would like to thank you all for attending this evening," Beckett says, hunching down slightly to reach the mic. This sentence receives a round of applause, which Beckett allows for a moment, but then he gives a short wave to signal the end of it. Clearing his throat, he begins again. "And now, let's give a warm welcome to the Commission, who have all decided to join us this evening!"

    The applause rockets to a roar, and I feel my posture go rigid as the four vampires saunter out onto the stage. Damien's hand appears on the small on my back, and he leans down to whisper, "Is everything okay with you?"

    "I'm worried about Gael," I confess, watching as the Commission simply stands still upon the stage, accepting their greeting. I watch all of them with wary eyes; Mathias, the apparent youngest of them all, with hair the same black as Damien's. There is Uriel, the vampire with the slim, bony face that has always terrified me. Beside him stands Leopold, the one most fangirl over because of his baby face. Last but certainly not least is the Commissioner Cassius, who resides over all of them, the main advisor, of sorts.

    Damien nods. "You think they'll be able to sniff him out?"

    "They have been around centuries longer than you," I say. "Why wouldn't they be able to? The reason..." The Commission exits the stage with their slow, graceful gait, escorted to an executive table near the edge of the venue. Letting myself relax a little, I turn to look at Damien fully. "The reason Marisians think about humans as they do—ruthless monsters written about in old fairy tales—is because of those four vampires, Dame. They're the reason all hell would break loose if anyone knew."

    Damien poises a light hand on my cheek, frowning. "I know, Gemma. Don't worry—"

    He's cut off by Beckett's voice again. "Thank you, Commission. Now welcome director Sloane Capello and Maris's newest hunter, Gael Echeart!"

    After freezing up at the Commission's entrance, and thawing a little once I could no longer see them over the crowd, I go still again. Sloane, in her floor-length navy blue evening gown, waltzes onto the stage, followed by a very red-looking Gael. Applause washes around the room again as Sloane smiles at Beckett, taking his place at the mic stand. Gael stands awkwardly beside her, his eyes searching the room.

    When our eyes lock, I realize who he was searching for. While his expression is one of excitement, I also see worry and apprehension, and can't keep myself from smiling. My own initiation was not a good experience, either; Father had just died weeks before, and even if I should have been happy that I was finally taking the path of life he wanted for me, I wasn't able to shake the feeling that something was wrong. That my father should have been there, smiling at me from the crowd as I smiled at Gael now.

    Sloane clears her throat and begins to speak, her voice just as elegant as the rest of her. Sloane has always been a role model for me, even if she's only a few years older than me, the youngest Capello. I have always longed to have her double beauty, both outside and inside, her intelligence, her poise—just to list a few. I notice her begin to twirl the curls in her hair and can't keep myself from giggling, since she only does that when she's nervous. I'm beginning to see she is, in terms of stage fright, no better than Gael. "Thank you all, again, for coming to celebrate this wonderful young man. Gael has only been training to be a hunter for a fortnight, but he has shown his worth in the capture of Elliott Capello and Jeremiah Gilby. The case would not have been resolved if not for his help. In the field of hunting, we need more courageous, quick-thinking fighters who will strive to assist even if they have little else to give."

    I'm so focused on Gael and Sloane that Dame's voice in my ear makes me start with surprise. "Sloane doesn't know why Jeremiah and her brother were in the Ancient Forest, does she? You didn't—"

    "I told her what Jeremiah's plan was, what with his business and with Elliott in a position of power," I whisper to Damien, keeping my eyes on Sloane, who continues endorsing Gael. "I told her we were stopping an order of business of his that night. So, no, as to Gael's..." I look around, not daring to say human or anything like it in a crowd of Marisians. I'm not prepared for the reaction, should anyone hear, whether it be a loud gasp that starts a riot, or even a furtive inquiring glance. "As to Gael's, um, role last night, Sloane's oblivious. She just knows it was an act of bravery for him to, you know, join us when he was barely trained."

    "Good," Damien commends. "That's all she needs to know."

    I exhale. "Dame, I hate lying to her."

    I look at Damien, standing beside me, and for a second he looks as if he's about to say something else. Then, as Sloane's voice rises in the rotunda, louder than before, he just frowns sympathetically and pats my head. "So thank you, Gael Echeart, for adding your legacy to the hunting division of the Bureau. I would hereby like to welcome you to your new life," Sloane says, then turns to face Gael as applause sounds again. Beckett comes from the corner of the stage, holding both a badge and a weapon, which he hands off to Sloane.

    Sloane, with a wide smile, offers both the hunting badge and the dagger to Gael, and that's when I realize this might have been a bad idea. The badge, the blade—I remember standing on stage and completing the ritual myself, digging the knife into my palm, my blood dripping over the golden emblem of the Bureau. I had healed, shortly after my blood had dropped from my skin. But Gael wouldn't.

    "Oh, God," I say, the words a mere exhale. "He has to get off that stage, Damien. This—This will expose him!"

    "Gael, member of the healers, take this blade and drip your blood over your badge, so that it may be yours and yours forever—"

    "Damien!"

    A few guests nearest me look at me strangely now, but Damien just nods in understanding, soon vanishing from my side. Before I can question how disappearing is going to keep Gael from being mauled after Maris realizes he's human, I lay eyes on Damien, who is standing in the shadows of the stage, watching Gael and Sloane with intent.

    Now Gael is wide-eyed, having realized the same thing I just have, if I had to guess. Knowing Damien is there, closer to him than me, I just nod, mouthing at him to carry on. My heartbeat begins a slow but sure acceleration; if there's any way for the Commission to become suspicious of Maris's newest hunter, this is it.

    Gael, amid the dead silence of the entire venue, digs the dagger into his skin. I don't have to own the ears of a vampire to hear the skin as it splits, blood welling from the opening like water spluttering from an old pump. Tilting his hand over his new badge, Gael lets the blood drip, and then the applause roars up again like a flame.

    As Sloane goes to the mic for a final word, Damien emerges from the shadows and throws an arm around Gael's shoulders, hurrying him to backstage. Sloane glances at both of them with brief skepticism before finishing her sentence and following.

    My heart still pounding in my chest, I turn and melt to the back of the crowd, wondering if Gael is really as safe as I thought.

The ceremony guests, soon after Gael's risky initiation, funnel into an extravagant dining room, set up for serving dinner. The band from before follows, playing music amongst the clinks of metal and porcelain. The dining room is as bright as the main venue, a luxurious chandelier above our heads illuminating the meals of the guests' choice: The healers, the wielders of magic, and shapeshifters all have a similar omnivorous diet, werewolves enjoy large quantities of meat, faeries enjoy salads that nature, their essence, has gifted them, and vampires have their solitary blood-drinking habit.

    At only one section of long table draped with white cloth, I enjoy my meal along with Gael, Damien, and Sloane. I'm too busy chowing down on my beef wellington and conversing with Gael to notice Damien sucking down glass after glass of blood (upon Sloane asking for it on behalf of him, servers found cow blood), and by then I'm too late to stop him. Before I know it he's a vampire's version of drunk, way too euphoric and giggly to function. He laughs with too much enthusiasm, even at things that aren't funny, knocking over his glass and getting blood all over his dress shirt, dancing overzealously to music with a slow beat...the list of ways Dame is embarrassing himself goes on.

    I decide to get him out of here when he jumps on the table, startling numerous people, and begins to belt out the lyrics along with the singer. With a brisk apology to Sloane, I grab his arm and drag him outside, Gael not far behind me.

    Out the nearest door brings us to the garden at the back of city hall, the bright colors of the flowers dulled by the night. It's not terribly cold out here, but I am without sleeves and it's beginning to feel like it. I watch with slight disgust as Damien continues singing, then stops to hurl into the nearest rose bush.

    "Poor roses," I say, when I feel Gael arrive beside me. When he drops the jacket of his suit around my shoulders without me having to ask, I briefly peck his cheek and thank him.

    "You were shivering," he says. Now, Damien is rolling around on the lawn, flailing his arms and still singing with vigor and without pitch. The last time I've seen him like this had to have been at least two years ago; he's well aware of his tolerance level and of how much blood will get him intoxicated and stumbling, so he has no excuse.

    "How's the hand?" I ask, taking a seat on the garden's outdoor steps. Gael takes a seat beside me, moonlight shining in his eyes as he lifts his hand to show me his bandage.

    "Could be better, I guess," Gael says. "It stings."

    "I'm really sorry about that," I tell him, cringing just thinking about watching him slice his own hand open. I had totally forgotten that part of the ceremony; it was something all hunters had to do, regardless of their species. Most saw healers directly after to fix the problem, but if Gael is a healer, as everyone thinks he is, he shouldn't have that issue. "I should've thought about it, you know, prepared you."

    He offers a warm smile that makes me feel as if I don't need his jacket. "You prepared me in all the ways that count."

    All I seem to be able to do is return that smile back to him; being this close to him is as comfortable as it was in my basement, and I wonder if now would be the time to bring that back up, to question him until he confesses—but, no, here, in this peaceful night with only the moon and stars as witnesses, it seems unfair to speak of anything but the present. It may be dark, but the darkness only gives the beauty of the garden soul, despite the drunk vampire that is rolling around in it.

    Instead of saying anything, I just take Gael's bandaged hand in my own. There are no words between us as I fold my hand over the cut, using the skill I've been born with. Mother had been the parent that had taught me to heal others; it takes practice, energy, certainly not as effortless as healing myself, but if I focus and harness what is inside of me, it becomes easy.

    When I'm done, I unwrap the bandage, revealing Gael's unblemished palm, no scab, scar, or blood.

    Gael inhales, looking down at his hand, then back up at me. In this light, his eyes are green-blue and shadowy, but it doesn't hide the surprise in them. He prods at his hand, smile growing wider than before. "This—wow. That's a gift, Gem. A real gift."

    "Birthright, more like it," I reply. "Lots of people in Maris can do that, Gael, it's not like it's special—"

    "It is," Gael interrupts, taking my hand again. He grips it firmly in his, our entwined fingers resting on his knee, interlaced caramel and chocolate, and just as sweet. "It is to me. Thank you."

    "Of course, Gael," I say, and he politely unfurls his fingers from mine, just as Damien staggers up to us, the gel in his hair having lost its effect. The black strands tumble back into the sea of red that is his eyes, curling above his eyelashes.

    "Gemma," he says, a lazy, lopsided smile playing at his lips as he points at me. "Have I...told you...that you look absolutely ravishing? Your mother picked a very...very...very good...dress..." With a shaky exhale of breath, Damien takes another staggering step forward, collapsing in my lap and beginning to snore. The blood, of which he has obviously had enough of for one night, spills from his mouth like drool, right onto the skirt of my dress.

    "Well," I say, petting Damien's head as he sleeps, "it was a very good dress."