The heavy thud of the front doors echoed through the foyer.

Jocelyn closed the distance between them and wrapped her arms tightly around Ava. The familiar scent of Chanel No. 5 filled Ava's lungs. The smell hit a nerve deep in her chest. A sharp ache radiated behind her sternum.

Jocelyn rubbed Ava's back. "What happened to you? You are scaring me."

Ava buried her face in her mother's shoulder. She forced her breathing to hitch. She let the lingering adrenaline push hot tears into her eyes. She needed an excuse.

"I had a nightmare," Ava sobbed against the cashmere fabric. "When I was drowning in the fever. I saw Warren taking everything. I saw us on the street. I saw you..." She let her voice break. "I can't be weak anymore. I won't let them hurt you."

Jocelyn's grip tightened fiercely. The maternal instinct overrode the shock. She kissed the top of Ava's head. "I won't let them touch us. I promise."

Ava pulled back. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "Call Dad's old board members. The ones Warren sidelined. Tell them we are holding our ground."

Jocelyn nodded, her expression hardening. She turned and walked quickly down the hall toward the study.

Ava stood alone. She pulled the shawl tighter around her shoulders. She walked down the sweeping staircase and pushed open the glass doors to the sunroom.

The room was bright. In the center sat a black Steinway grand piano. The polished wood reflected the golden evening light.

Ava walked up to the bench. She did not sit down. She held her hands out in front of her face. She stared at her wrists. She flipped her hands over, looking at the pale skin over her veins. She remembered the blinding pain of Demarco's knife slicing through her tendons in the final months of her past life.

She flexed her fingers. The joints moved smoothly. The muscles contracted without agony.

She sat down on the leather bench. She lifted the fallboard. She rested her fingertips lightly against the cool ivory keys. Her muscles, still weakened by the massive fever, trembled slightly. The physical toll of her illness was undeniable, but her mind was a roaring inferno. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, filling her lungs to capacity.

Her hands crashed down on the keyboard.

She played Chopin's Nocturne in C minor, but she stripped away all the elegance. At first, her fingers fumbled slightly, stiff and uncoordinated, but as the fury took over, the music morphed. She hammered the keys. The tempo was frantic, aggressive, and violent. The heavy bass notes shook the floorboards. She poured the memory of the fire, the chemical burns, and the betrayal into her fingers.

Outside the glass doors, two maids stopped in the hallway. They stared through the glass, their mouths slightly open, shocked by the sheer auditory violence coming from the usually quiet girl.

By the time she reached the crescendo, her arms felt like lead. Her weak body was pushed to its absolute limit. She slammed her hands down on the final chord. She held the pedal down, letting the dissonant sound ring out until it faded into silence.

She instantly slumped forward, gasping heavily for breath. Her lungs burned for oxygen, and cold sweat dripped from her forehead.

She opened her eyes. She looked at her trembling hands again. Playing the piano was not enough. Having a sharp mind was not enough. She needed physical power. She needed to know how to break a bone, how to disarm a man, how to survive.

She stood up and closed the piano lid.

"Dinner is served, Miss."

Ava turned. Sam Jones stood in the doorway. He wore his standard black suit, but Ava noticed the way he stood. His weight was perfectly balanced on the balls of his feet. His hands rested loosely at his sides, fingers slightly curled. It was the stance of a man ready to draw a weapon.

Ava looked at him. "Thank you, Sam."

She adjusted her shawl and walked past him toward the dining room.

Ava walked into the massive French-style dining room. A crystal chandelier cast a warm, golden glow over the long oak table.

She pulled out the chair to the right of the head seat and sat down. Her stomach rumbled loudly. The fever had burned through her calories, leaving a hollow, gnawing ache in her gut.

A maid in a black-and-white uniform stepped forward. She placed a folded white linen napkin across Ava's lap.

"To start, Miss," the maid said softly.

She set a small porcelain plate on the table. In the center rested a dollop of Beluga caviar, surrounded by thin crackers and a smear of crème fraîche. Next to the plate was a small bowl of steaming seafood chowder. The rich smell of butter and kelp filled the air.

Ava picked up the small mother-of-pearl spoon. She scooped up a cluster of the black eggs and placed them on her tongue.

She pressed the caviar against the roof of her mouth. The eggs popped. A burst of intense, salty brine flooded her taste buds.

Instantly, a physical shockwave hit the base of her skull. Her vision went black.

The warm light of the dining room vanished. The air turned freezing cold. The pressure against her skin was immense, crushing her chest. She was underwater. Deep, dark water.

She felt the rough scrape of scales against her sides. She tried to breathe, but water rushed over her gills. Suddenly, a massive, rough rope net slammed into her. The coarse fibers dug into her flesh. Panic exploded in her brain. She thrashed wildly, but the net tightened, dragging her upward at a terrifying speed.

Ava gasped in the dining room. Her hands gripped the edge of the heavy oak table so hard her knuckles turned white.

The vision did not stop. Blinding white spotlights pierced her eyes. She was slammed onto a hard wooden deck. The air burned her lungs. A shadow loomed over her. A sharp, freezing pain sliced through her abdomen. The blade ripped her open from tail to throat. The agony was absolute.

The mother-of-pearl spoon slipped from Ava's fingers. It hit the porcelain plate with a sharp clink.

Ava's eyes snapped open. She was drenched in cold sweat. Her chest heaved violently as she sucked in the air of the dining room.

"Miss Ava?" The maid stepped forward, her eyes wide with alarm. "Are you unwell?"

A violent wave of nausea hit Ava's stomach. The taste of the brine mixed with the phantom sensation of blood. She slapped her hand over her mouth, shoved her chair back, and ran.

She sprinted down the hallway and slammed the bathroom door open. She dropped to her knees in front of the marble toilet. Her stomach violently contracted. She vomited the caviar and stomach acid until her throat burned and her ribs ached.

She stayed on the floor, panting. She reached up and flushed the toilet. She pulled herself up using the edge of the marble sink. She turned on the cold water and splashed it over her face.

The freezing water shocked her system back to reality. She looked at herself in the mirror. Her skin was gray. The blood vessels in her eyes were bright red.

It wasn't a hallucination. The pain was too specific, too physiological.

She grabbed a thick towel, wiped her face, and walked back to the dining room. The maid was reaching for the plates.

"Leave it," Ava ordered.

She sat back down. She stared at the bowl of seafood chowder. She picked up a silver spoon. Her hand trembled slightly. She scooped up a piece of shrimp covered in thick broth. She forced it into her mouth and swallowed.

The vision hit instantly. Boiling water. Her skin turning instantly rigid. The excruciating, suffocating heat cooking her alive.

Ava dropped the spoon. She grabbed the edge of the table and squeezed her eyes shut until the phantom pain faded.

She opened her eyes. She looked at her hands. She had brought something back from the fire.

The morning sun cut through the tall windows of the dining room, casting long shadows across the floor.

Ava sat at the table wearing a simple gray tracksuit. The exhaustion from yesterday was gone. Her eyes were sharp, focused, and analytical. She had a black leather notebook open next to her silverware.

The French head chef stood nervously at the end of the table.

"You asked for this, Miss?" he asked, gesturing to the plates the maid had just set down.

"Yes," Ava said. "Leave me."

The chef bowed and quickly exited the room.

On the table sat two plates. One held a bowl of organic apple salad, tossed with lemon juice. The other held a thick cut of A5 Wagyu beef, seared medium-rare. Blood pooled slightly around the edges of the meat.

Ava picked up her silver fork. She needed to establish the rules of this mutation.

She stabbed a piece of the crisp apple. She put it in her mouth and chewed slowly. She swallowed.

Nothing. Just the sweet, acidic taste of the fruit. Her heart rate remained steady.

She picked up a pen and wrote in the notebook: Plants - No trigger. Safe.

She set the pen down. She picked up the heavy steak knife. She pressed the serrated edge into the Wagyu, cutting a small piece from the center. The pink flesh was marbled with thick white fat.

Her pulse accelerated. Her mouth went dry. She knew what was coming, but she had to know the limits.

She put the beef in her mouth. The rich fat melted against her tongue.

The dining room vanished.

The smell of ammonia and dried blood filled her nose. The sound of heavy machinery and terrified lowing echoed in her ears. She was moving forward on a metal conveyor belt. The metal walls pressed tightly against her sides, restricting her movement. Pure, animalistic terror flooded her veins.

A loud mechanical clack sounded above her.

A massive jolt of electricity slammed into the center of her forehead. The pain was blinding. It shattered her consciousness. Her muscles locked into rigid spasms.

Ava's teeth clamped down hard on her own tongue. The metallic taste of her own blood filled her mouth. The steak knife slipped from her grip and clattered onto the floor.

She grabbed the edge of the table, her knuckles white. She forced her throat to swallow the meat.

As the beef hit her stomach, the slaughterhouse vanished.

Ava slumped back in her chair. Sweat dripped down her neck, soaking the collar of her tracksuit. Her chest heaved as she dragged oxygen into her lungs.

She reached for the crystal glass of ice water and drained it in three massive gulps.

She picked up her pen. Her hand shook violently. She pressed the nib against the paper and wrote: Mammals - Death trigger. Extreme pain.

She stared at the words. The mechanism was clear. She absorbed the residual bio-electric memory stored in the nervous system of the animal.

She looked at the bloody juice on the plate. A cold realization washed over her. If she tasted animal blood and saw its death... what would happen if she tasted human blood at a crime scene? Would she see the murderer's face?

Her heart hammered against her ribs. This wasn't a curse. It was an intelligence weapon.

She closed the notebook. She wiped her mouth with the linen napkin.

She reached over and pressed the silver call button on the table. A maid appeared seconds later.

"Find Sam Jones," Ava said. "Tell him to meet me in the study immediately."