A scent?

I slammed my bedroom door shut and leaned against it, gasping for breath like I'd just run a marathon—which, let's be honest, I basically had. Evading my mom's interrogation was a full-contact sport, and I'd barely made it out alive.

My heart was still racing, and my cheeks were burning so hot I was surprised they hadn't set the curtains on fire.

Maeve's scent? What did that even mean? I mean, sure, demons had freakishly good senses of smell, but it wasn't like I'd been rolling around in her clothes or anything. Right?

I groaned and buried my face in my hands, sliding down the door until I was sitting on the floor. Maybe it was nothing.

Maybe Mom was just messing with me. She had to be, didn't she? But then again, Mom didn't really do jokes—at least, not the funny kind.

My curiosity started to itch, scratching at the back of my mind like an insistent mosquito. What if she was right? What if I really did smell like Maeve?