“And the kids?”

“Kids are pretty rare. It’s not easy for vamps to have children, but it happens sometimes. The kids grow up normally, but when they reach adulthood, their bodies stop aging. That’s why most Born vamps look to be in their early twenties.” He went to say more, but then hesitated and shook his head. “You sure you want to know all this?”

“Yeah. It’s interesting.” I gave a small laugh. “In a mind-blowing sort of way.”

“Just be glad you didn’t have to take Mr. Fry’s molecular biology class, wherein all things human and doué are explained, all the way down to the genome level.”

“Total snooze-fest, huh?”

“Yeah.” He grew quiet.

I bit my lip, thinking over Sebastian’s words for a moment. “But you’re only half vampire?”

He propped his elbows on the table and leaned in. “I’ll give you the short version. You’ve got full-blooded children, who are called Bloodborn. They’re seen as nobility; they’re the most powerful and the most annoying. I’m talking egos the size of Mount Everest. The children of a human and a vampire are called Dayborn. There are different traits among them, different strengths and weaknesses. Dayborns don’t need blood to survive like Bloodborns do. Though there is a moment as they hit adulthood where the urge is there. If they take blood,” he added, shrugging, “they’ll need it from then on just like a Bloodborn would.”

“Do they usually? Take it, I mean?”

Sebastian nodded, his expression going dim and the volume of his words lowering. “Blood is hard to resist for any vampire, no matter their birth.”

The weight of his admission sat between us for a long moment. I cleared my throat. “And that’s what you are, Day-born?”

He glanced away. His Adam’s apple moved with a tight swallow. “No. My other half is Lamarliere. So not quite human, either. A witch’s DNA is slightly different, just like vamps and shifters, but they only tend to pass their power down maternally, through the female line.”

“So . . . that would make you what, then?”

“I’ve always been partial to freak of nature.”

“Ha,” I shot back, smiling. “That one’s mine.”

He dipped his head, as though giving up his claim on the title. “Seriously, though, when I was little, my dad snuck me to a hidden library in the Presbytère, one that the students never see. One that houses some really old shit. He took out this stone tablet and said it told the story of a child like me. My dad called her Mistborn.”

“Mistborn,” I repeated.

“Yeah. Because mist hides what’s inside. And that’s sort of how I am. A big question mark, see? No one can say what traits, curses, or needs I’ll have until they manifest themselves. Some have needed blood to survive. Some never need it. Some can control it.”

“Oh.” Warmth crept up my neck, and I shifted in my chair. “So, um, which type are you?”

He shook his head and then stared beyond my shoulder, his gaze unreadable. “I don’t know. No telling if or when the need will strike.”

Well, that was comforting. My grip on the cup increased. “How many of you are there?”

He held up both hands and sat back. “You’re looking at it.”

“One. You’re the only one.”

“In North America, yeah. There are a couple more in the world, I think. Like I said, we don’t happen very often.”

“But what about Crank? She’s your sister.”

“Jenna isn’t my sister, Ari. Not by blood.”

“But . . .” I frowned.

He paused, thinking of the right words. “This place kind of makes you band together. You find others like yourself, others you know you can trust with your life, and you become family. That’s what Violet is learning. That’s why she stays now more than she goes.” He shrugged, seeming uncomfortable with sharing so much and showing that he had a heart. “Jenna lost her parents and then her brother. It damaged her a little. When I found her, she was still sitting by his body. She thought I was him, and she went with me. I never tried to reason with her. Never saw the need to hurt her more. This is how she copes. She makes up things.”

My chest tightened at his words. “How did he die?”

“Not sure. I found them in Midtown, the business district. The ruins. You should never go there at night, or alone no matter what time of day it is. That place is a haven for predators. I think that’s why the Novem leaves it alone. They’d rather let the bad among us have the ruins than run the risk of them branching out into the Quarter or the Garden District.”

He gazed out the rain-streaked window. “Looks like the rain has stopped.” I didn’t press him, and part of me knew it was because I didn’t want to answer his questions when the time came. Maybe he’d show me the same courtesy. “You want to go to the market? I told the others I’d pick up food for dinner.”

“Sure.”

It was a short walk from the café, across the square, and to the French Market near the river. The sun came out as we entered the covered space. Tourists and locals had taken refuge from the rain, and the inside teemed with shoppers. The bright colors of vegetables and fruits, meats and cheeses, plants and garden ornaments occupied the space. Sebastian seemed to know what he was shopping for, but I chose a slower route, taking things in, browsing, looking at everyone and wondering who was human and who was not, wondering if—because I was doué—I could somehow tell the difference.

But no one stood out. New 2 was also a haven for pagans, Wiccans, and alternative lifestyles, so the cut of one’s clothes or the jewelry pierced into one’s skin didn’t mean anything.

Giving up on my detection attempts, I browsed the stalls, taking in the scents of coffee and bread, of freshly cut flowers, and even the smell of the river, which wound through the market on an occasional breeze.

Mardi Gras booths had been set up to sell beads, masks, and costumes. Soon I found myself lost in a rainbow of colors and tight spaces, leaving Sebastian behind as he haggled over a bag of potatoes. The Mardi Gras beads were cold to the touch and flowed through my hand like water. The masks were beautiful, yet haunting and seductive.

A black velvet, gold-lined mask with small, furry black feathers caught my eye, and I immediately thought of Violet. I knew she’d love it, and I could picture it sitting atop her head. I dropped my backpack onto the floor and pulled out some cash.

At another stall, I bought beignets for Dub and Henri and a metal mind puzzle for Crank. Once that was done, I wondered what Sebastian might like, and if it would seem weird to everyone that I’d bought gifts in the first place.

Near the end of the long covered building, I browsed through a line of scarves blowing in the breeze. A strong gust went through, causing a section of scarves to wrap around my face and neck as I turned back to search for Sebastian. I spun out of their satiny caress and ran straight into a hard body.

“Oh. Sorry.”

No response. No movement or the slightest flinch. My stomach dropped as foreboding stilled my heart. I glanced up.

Another black T-shirt. Another blond-headed giant. Another freaking-ass blade and shield.

My hand itched for the gun in my waistband, but there were people nearby. I hesitated, caught totally off guard.

I shouldn’t have hesitated.

He grabbed my arm, pivoted, and jerked me out the end of the market.

“Hey!” I pulled back, my adrenaline spiking. “Sebastian!” I dug in my heels and pulled hard, using my other hand to unwrap his tight fingers. “Let me go!” He didn’t, and I almost tripped when he yanked me harder. He had both of my wrists pinned in his hard grip, dragging me toward the river.

My eyes met the vendor in the scarf booth. The way he slunk back into the darkness of the booth, eyes down, made me wonder if this was a normal thing. Couldn’t be. I yelled again, hoping to alert the tourists, but we were several feet away already and the boats on the water and the noise from the market must’ve drowned out my screams.

Seeing the water gave me a sudden, horrifying thought— he was going to drown me. I pulled hard, leaning down to bite his hand. He let up enough for one of my hands to escape, and I used it to punch him hard, connecting with his left cheekbone.

I pulled the gun from my waistband, but as I brought it up, his free hand slapped down on my wrist, holding my arm out to the side, the gun away from its intended target. I struggled, but was no match for his size and strength. Time to rethink my strategy. Our gazes locked. My mouth curved into a smile, throwing him off guard for a split second; at the same time I raised my knee and slammed it into his groin. His hold on my wrists increased, but he groaned and bent over. Perfect position for me to knee him in the face. Which I did.

He cried out and cursed in the same odd language the other guy had used. Then he straightened, face red, nose trickling blood, veins engorged in his temples. I saw the head butt coming, but didn’t have a chance in hell to stop it.

My vision wavered and then bled into blackness.

The soft hum of an engine. The rhythmic rocking and splashing against the fiberglass siding of a boat brought me slowly back to reality.

The bristles of the blue turf that lined the floor of the boat had scratched my cheekbone raw. A fine, wet spray blew over me, cold and refreshing, giving me the extra jolt I needed to clear my head. I didn’t move, but saw the legs standing at the controls as the boat bounced over the waves of what had to be the Mississippi.

My gun was gone. I didn’t need to move to feel the absence of its metal grip against my skin, but at least my backpack had made the trip. It sat on the bench near the controls. Inside was the dagger. And if I didn’t have my gun, the dagger was the next best thing.

As soon as I straightened, bracing my hands on the turf for balance, a throb of pain mushroomed through my head. Breathe. Breathe through it. The nauseating motion of the boat wasn’t helping my chances of getting to my feet. Shit. I eyed the backpack, deciding the best course of action would be to nix the dagger attempt and knock the kidnapper off the boat using surprise and my body weight.