Bad Blood: (The Naturals #4) (Naturals, The)

“Sometimes, the hardest thing to be is the one who lives.”

Agent Starmans is downstairs patrolling the perimeter of the hotel. I dare you to moon him.”

YOU

You forget sometimes what it was like Before. Before the walls. Before the chains. Before the turning of the wheel and the bleeding and the pain.

Before the rage.

They bring photographs to show you what they did to Seven. They place another diamond around your neck.

Your fingertips gingerly touch the edge of a photograph—proof of death. There was blood. There was pain. You did this. Judge and jury, you held his life in your hands.

You did this. You killed him.

You smile

YOU

The child lies unconscious on the altar, her tiny limbs forming an X against the stone. So small. So fragile.

All must be tested. All must be found worthy.

Your own throat is raw, ringed with bruises. Your hands are shaking.

But the Pythia cannot show weakness.

The Pythia cannot falter.

Your hands close around the child’s neck. You tighten your grip. The girl is drugged. The girl is sleeping. The girl would feel no pain.

But the Pythia’s job is not protecting the girl.

You release your grip on the little one’s throat. “The child is worthy.”

One of the Masters—the one you call Five—reaches out and lays a hand on the girl’s forehead. One by one, the others follow suit.

“There is,” Five says, once the ritual has been observed, “one other matter that requires your attention.”

By the time the little girl wakes up on the altar, they’ve slammed your body against the wall. You don’t struggle as they chain your ankles and wrists.

The Pythia is judge. The Pythia is jury. Without order, there is chaos. Without order, there is pain

YOU

Soon.

Soon.

Soon.

Masters come, and Masters go, but the Pythia lives in the room

YOU

Soon.

Soon.

Soon.

Masters come, and Masters go, but the Pythia lives in the room

“There’s a field office in Denver,” Briggs said. “And I hear Michael has acquired a large house not far from your grandmother’s. Dean and Sloane are in. Celine Delacroix has thrown her hat in the ring. Lia’s holding out for a raise.”

“We don’t get paid,” I commented.

Director Briggs shrugged. “You do now. We’ve got a task force running down the remaining Masters emeriti. The director of national security would prefer to keep any teenagers in our employ away from it, given the attention the case is likely to attract. But you’re no longer minors, and there are other cases….”

“What about Agent Sterling?” I asked.

Briggs smiled ruefully. “I proposed. She keeps turning me down—something about the two of us having been down that road before.”

Judd smiled slightly. “Your grandmother,” he said. “She’s single?”