POV: Bea Sharpe

The heavy bag exploded under my fists, sand spilling across the gymnasium floor like blood from a fresh wound.

I stood there breathing hard, my knuckles raw despite the protective wrapping, sweat dripping from my face onto the rubber mats that had absorbed years of supernatural aggression. The clock on the wall read 5:47 AM—I'd been at this for over an hour, trying to beat the memories out of my system through pure physical exertion.

It wasn't working.

Every ...