Fear Her Wrath III: It Runs on Blood

Chapter 17

After another hour or so of cruising through the clouds over Marbrose City while I hung on for dear life and tried not to freeze to death, the zeppelin finally returned to the roof of 220 Hayes Avenue, and I was able to climb down the docking tower to safety. The ground—or roof—under my feet never felt so good—or it would have if my limbs weren't completely numb. I somehow managed to slip back into Izzy's room without being seen, and I found her still asleep—sprawled over the bed in a way that convinced me I was sleeping on the floor.

As I wrapped myself in a blanket and wiggled my toes to make sure I really hadn't caught frostbite, an involuntary suspicion passed through my mind. Actually, it had been growing, maybe subconsciously, ever since I'd found out who Izzy Malek really was. There was a perfectly good explanation for why Don Montagnese wouldn't let anyone touch that new vigilante—a reason that he would never make public. I looked over at Izzy's bag and backpack, which were piled up next to the bed. It couldn't hurt to check, right? Just to be sure? I got slowly to my feet and crossed the bedroom on tiptoe to lean over my sleeping friend. She was out cold. There was nothing stopping me from finding out the truth.

"Alright, Izzy," I said as I unzipped her carryall. "Here's hoping I'm wrong."

I reached into the bag and started feeling around. At first, it just looked like the sort things you might bring for a weekend away—clothes, deodorant, homework. But then, underneath a school textbook, my fingers touched cold, smooth metal. I pulled the object out of her bag, and I had to stifle a despairing groan. I was holding the mask worn by Don Montagnese as Ivpiter Sangvinevs—either the original or an exact reproduction. Worse, there were speckles of blood on it. Izzy Malek wasn't just Don Montagnese's daughter Corinne—she was also Tourniquet, my newest problem as guardian of the Fen.

"Ballet," I muttered to myself. "That really should have tipped me off."

I snapped a picture of the mask with my phone, then put it back where I'd found it and zipped up her bag. Her not knowing that I knew gave me an advantage. Besides, there was nothing I could do tonight. Izzy definitely wasn't going anywhere, and I needed sleep. Badly. That fluffy carpet on the floor was starting to look really comfortable.

I could figure out this insanity in the morning.

I awoke to the light of mid-morning streaming into Izzy's bedroom. I was curled up under a nice, comfy blanket, still exhausted from the night before, but I couldn't go back to sleep. I kept thinking about everything I learned about Izzy over the past 24 hours. Her being Don Montagnese's prodigal daughter had been enough of a shock. The fact that she was also—for lack of a better word—a serial killer... well, I didn't know what to do with that. I almost wished it made sense, like when I found out Simon was really Psychosis. I mean, Izzy was difficult, and a little selfish, and needy, but that didn't add up in my mind to being a murderer. Somehow, after a weekend full of revelations, there were things I still didn't know.

"Oh, god..."

And Izzy was also awake. Her head of wild hair had finally breached all bounds of civilization, and her eyes were bloodshot and puffy. Having once experienced a hangover, I knew exactly how she was feeling right now.

"Well," I said, "have you learned your lesson?"

"Yeah, totally not worth it," she groaned. "@$#%. Can you get me some water? Just... ask someone. They'll show you the way to the kitchen."

I bumped into Dalton Reaves on the landing over the main stairs, and he directed me to the kitchen. Izzy was still in bed by the time I got back, rubbing the sides of her head in a vain attempt to soothe the weird, uncomfortable, groggy feeling that came from waking up way earlier than you planned after drinking way more than you should.