The iron gates of Kensington Manor loomed above Dejah, intricate black metal twisted into shapes that were supposed to be vines but looked more like snakes. The Bugatti idled behind her, a low growl in the quiet suburban street.

Standing by the gate pillar was Julian Montgomery. He was pacing back and forth, clutching a bouquet of wilted roses that looked like they had been bought at a gas station. His suit was wrinkled, his tie loosened.

He looked up when he heard the car door slam. His eyes widened when he saw the Bugatti, then narrowed into slits when he saw Dejah.

"Where the hell have you been?" Julian marched toward her, his face twisting into an ugly scowl. "Jenna has been waiting at the hospital for hours! She fainted, Dejah! She fainted because of the stress you caused her!"

He reached out and grabbed Dejah's wrist. His grip was clammy and desperate.

"You selfish little brat," he hissed. "We thought you ran away. And here you are, hopping out of some sugar daddy's car?"

Dejah looked down at his hand on her wrist. She didn't pull away immediately. She didn't have the strength to fight him directly, but she didn't need to. She stepped in closer, disrupting his center of gravity, and rotated her forearm against the joint of his thumb.

She jerked her arm up. Julian's grip broke instantly. He stumbled back, looking at his hand in shock.

"You... you pulled away?" He looked offended. "You never pull away."

"I'm not donating," Dejah said calmly.

Julian's face turned red. He jabbed a finger toward the tinted window of the Bugatti. "Is that it? You found some rich guy to pay your way so you don't have to save your sister? You're disgusting."

Dejah stepped closer to him. She could smell the stale alcohol on his breath and something else beneath it. She looked at his collar.

"Julian," she said, her voice low. "You smell like her. Synthetic rose and bergamot. And there is a faint smudge on your left collar. It's barely visible, but I can see the pigment."

Julian froze. His hand flew to his neck, covering the spot. "You're crazy. You're hallucinating."

"You say Jenna fainted from stress," Dejah continued, relentless. "But hypoxia from intense physical exertion-like making out in a car with the heat on-can also cause fainting. Were you comforting her, Julian? Or were you celebrating my upcoming surgery?"

"Shut up!" Julian screamed. The embarrassment was too much. He raised his hand, palm open, aiming for Dejah's face.

She didn't flinch. She watched the trajectory of his arm. She calculated the intercept point. She prepared to catch his wrist and use his own momentum to drive him into the pavement.

But she didn't have to.

The driver's door of the Bugatti opened. Casimir Vanderbilt stepped out. He didn't rush. He unfolded his tall frame with a lazy grace, leaning back against the door.

"Montgomery," Casimir said. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried across the pavement like a crack of thunder. "I didn't know the Montgomery family raised men who hit women. That's... disappointing."

Julian's hand froze in mid-air. He spun around. When he saw who was speaking, the blood drained from his face so fast he looked like a corpse.

"Mr. Vanderbilt?" Julian's voice cracked. He lowered his hand slowly. "I... I didn't know it was you. I mean... I thought..."

"You thought she was with someone you could bully," Casimir finished for him. He walked over to where they stood. He didn't touch Dejah, but he stood close enough that his presence formed a wall between her and Julian. He draped an arm casually along the air behind her shoulders, a possessive gesture that didn't require contact.

"She is my guest," Casimir said. "Do you have a problem with my guest, Julian?"

"No," Julian stammered. "No, sir. It's just... Jenna... she's sick..."

Casimir laughed. "The piano girl? The one who plays like a robot and smiles like a shark? Please. Spare me the sob story."

Julian looked like he wanted to argue, but the name 'Vanderbilt' was a weight he couldn't lift. The Vanderbilts owned half the city. The Montgomerys just rented space in it.

"I'll... I'll go," Julian mumbled. He shot Dejah one last look of pure venom. "This isn't over, Dejah."

He scuttled to his sedan and drove off, tires squealing.

"Pathetic," Nate called out from the car window. "Total beta energy."

Dejah turned to Casimir. "I didn't need your help."

"I know," Casimir said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a black card. It had no bank logo, just a single phone number embossed in gold. "But watching him squirm was entertaining. Take this."

"I don't need your charity."

"It's not charity," he said, pressing it into her hand. "It's an investment. I have a feeling you're going to cause a lot of trouble, Dejah Kensington. And I want a front-row seat."

Dejah took the card. She didn't say thank you this time. She turned and walked toward the gate.

The walk up the driveway felt longer than usual. The gravel crunched under Dejah's sneakers-cheap canvas shoes she had found in the garage months ago. The manor stood against the night sky, a monument to excess and bad taste.

She reached the massive double doors. She pushed. Locked.

She knocked. Silence.

She waited.

Finally, the side door-the service entrance-creaked open. Mr. Henderson, the butler, stepped out. He was a man who had perfected the art of looking down his nose, even though he was shorter than most of the guests.

"Miss Dejah," he said, clasping his hands behind his back. "Mrs. Kensington has given strict instructions. After 6:00 PM, you are to use the servants' entrance."

Dejah checked her watch. "It's 6:05."

"Rules are rules," Henderson said, a smug smile playing on his lips. "Just because you've been out gallivanting doesn't mean you've earned the front door privileges."

Dejah stepped toward him. Henderson didn't move. He expected her to beg. He expected the old Dejah.

She focused. She let the mask slip. She didn't touch him. She just projected.

It's called Sakki in the East-Killing Intent. It wasn't magic; it was a biological broadcast. She dilated her pupils, dropped her chin, and focused her gaze entirely on his carotid artery. She visualized the blade entering, the spray, the gurgle. The micro-movements of her facial muscles and the shift in her pheromones signaled 'predator'.

Henderson's smile faltered. His eyes widened. He took an involuntary step back. His hands started to shake. He couldn't explain it, but his lizard brain was screaming at him that he was standing in a cage with a tiger. The air around them seemed to drop ten degrees. He struggled to breathe.

Sweat broke out on his upper lip. "I..."

The front door clicked and swung open. Kathryn stood there, her face a mask of fury.

"Henderson! What is taking so long? Let the ungrateful girl in!"

Henderson practically collapsed with relief. He scrambled aside, bowing low. "Yes, Madam. Sorry, Madam."

Dejah walked past him. She didn't blink.

The foyer was blindingly bright. Crystal chandeliers dripped from the ceiling. Kathryn stood in the center, arms crossed.

"You have some nerve coming back here," she hissed. "Jenna is suffering because of you."

"I am not her organ farm," Dejah said quietly.

Kathryn gasped. "We fed you! We clothed you for fifteen years!"

"You fed me scraps and clothed me in hand-me-downs," Dejah corrected, looking around the opulent hall. "While you bought Jenna a Steinway."

Kathryn opened her mouth to scream, but stopped. She saw Dejah's eyes. The same coldness that had terrified Henderson made her pause. She felt it too-the shift in the power dynamic.

A maid came down the stairs, carrying a pile of Dejah's clothes-her few t-shirts and jeans.

"Since you want to act like a stranger," Kathryn said, regaining her composure, "you can sleep like one. The Sterling family is arriving tomorrow. Their patriarch needs the guest suite on the second floor. Your room."

"Where am I supposed to sleep?"

Kathryn pointed a manicured finger upward. "The attic. The storage room. It fits you better."

Dejah looked at the maid, then at the stairs leading up to the dusty, uninsulated attic. A slight smile touched her lips, invisible to them. The attic had the only skylight access to the roof. It was exactly what she needed.

"Fine," she said.

She didn't argue. She didn't cry. She took the clothes from the maid and walked past Kathryn.

The attic was perfect. It was isolated. It had a skylight that opened onto the roof. It was the perfect staging ground for a ghost.

Dejah was halfway up the stairs when the sound of a car engine roared outside. Not a normal car. The deep, throaty growl of the Bugatti.

Kathryn froze. "Who on earth..."

The front door, which Henderson hadn't fully latched in his panic, was pushed open.

Casimir Vanderbilt walked in.

He didn't ask for permission. He walked into the Kensington foyer like he owned the deed to the land. His presence sucked the air out of the room. He was wearing a dark trench coat that swirled around his ankles.

Kathryn turned, her face going through a rapid transformation from anger to shock to fawning delight.

"Mr. Vanderbilt?" she squeaked. "Oh my goodness. What a surprise! To what do we owe the honor?"

Casimir ignored her. His eyes scanned the room until they landed on Dejah, standing on the staircase with her bundle of clothes.

"I forgot to give my friend something," he said.

Kathryn blinked. "Friend? You mean... Dejah?"

Casimir walked past Kathryn as if she were a piece of furniture. He came to the bottom of the stairs. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, orange plastic bottle. It was a generic bottle of vitamins, probably something he had in his glove box for hangovers.

"Dr. Lowe said your blood sugar drops," Casimir said, his voice smooth, intimate. "You need these."

Dejah looked at the bottle. She knew it was a prop. She knew he was playing a game. But she played along.

"Thank you," she said, taking the bottle.

Casimir turned slowly to face Kathryn. The charm vanished. His face became a mask of aristocratic disdain.

"Mrs. Kensington," he said. "I couldn't help but overhear at the gate... something about a service entrance?"

Kathryn paled. "Oh, that... it's just a misunderstanding. House rules..."

"Rules?" Casimir raised an eyebrow. "You make a friend of the Vanderbilt family use the servants' door? Are you implying that my company is... unclean?"

"No! No, never!" Kathryn looked like she might faint. "It was Henderson! He's confused!"

Casimir looked at Henderson, who was cowering by the door. "I don't like his face," Casimir said simply. "I'd hate to see it again if I come to visit Dejah."

Henderson dropped to his knees. "Please, sir!"

Casimir turned back to Dejah. He winked. A quick, almost imperceptible gesture. "Call me if the accommodations aren't to your liking, Dejah."

"I will," she said.

He turned and walked out, leaving a wake of terrified silence behind him.

Kathryn stared at Dejah. Her eyes were wide, calculating. She was doing the math. The spare part had suddenly acquired a very powerful shield.

"Go to your room," she whispered, her voice trembling.

Dejah continued up the stairs.

Inside the attic, she tossed the vitamins on a dusty table. She locked the door. She went to the window and watched the red tail lights of the Bugatti fade into the night.

"Useful," she muttered.

She went to the corner of the room where she had stashed her emergency kit years ago-a loose floorboard under an old rug. She pulled out a black tactical bodysuit and a backpack.

She sat in front of a broken mirror. She needed to disappear. She pulled out a small tub of theatrical silicone paste. She applied it to the bridge of her nose and her cheekbones, altering the way the light hit her face. In the dim lighting of the underground, shadows were more important than reality. She bound her chest tight with bandages, flattening her silhouette. She pulled on a short, choppy black wig and darkened her eyebrows.

She practiced her posture. She rolled her shoulders forward, adopted a slight slouch, and changed her center of gravity.

In ten minutes, Dejah was gone. In the mirror stood a sickly, street-smart boy.

She opened the skylight. The cold air rushed in.

She climbed out onto the roof. It was time to go to market.