Christophe’s hand jerked forward, but I snatched the earring away. Folded it in both my hands, as if I was praying. The silver was cold, but it warmed quickly. My mother’s locket was warm against my breastbone, too.
I let out another tiny sound. I couldn’t get enough air in.
“No.” Christophe grabbed my shoulder. His fingers dug in, and I could feel the prickle of claws through my hoodie. “No, Dru. Don’t even think about it.”
I brought my hands up to my mouth. Inhaled, smelled nothing but the faint fading tang of Ash’s vital, springy fur. Opened my palms a little, saw the earring’s gleam.
“It’s his.” That small, quiet voice couldn’t be mine. It burned my throat, squeezing its way out. “It’s Graves’s earring. He had it when I met him.”
In the American History classroom, in the Dakotas. Before he’d gotten bit. Before everything.
“Oh, fuck.” Augustine dropped back down in his chair. Of all of them, he’d been the only one to move. Bruce and Ezra watched me, a line between Bruce’s dark eyebrows and Ezra’s cigar finally laid on the table instead of in his nervous, slender fingers.
Hiro, on the other hand, was watching Christophe. Very closely.
I swallowed hard. “You can let go of me, Chris.” I didn’t even sound like myself. The very small, very calm voice was almost lost in the static filling my head.
“Not until I’m certain you won’t do anything silly.” He leaned down, and his fingers eased a little but didn’t let go. “Let me see.”
I shook my head. Clasped my palms together. Laced my fingers as if he was trying to pry them apart.
He was not going to take that for an answer, though. “Dru. Kochana. Let me see.”
I shook my head again. Wished he would shut up. The static was getting louder, and if I could just calm down a little, the touch might tell me something. If they would just all be quiet for a few seconds so I could shake the roaring inside my skull away.
“Let me—” Christophe’s other hand flashed forward, caught at my clenched fists. His skin was warm, but his fingers hurt, digging in with more than human strength.
“No. No!” I actually screamed, jerking away as far as I could. His fingers bit down again, and I felt bone creaking. My bones, the little ones in my hand and the ball of my shoulder.
Hiro’s chair scraped along the floor. The scraping became noise, a lot of it, and Christophe’s hand was ripped away from my shoulder. Someone was yelling. Confusion, my chair hit hard and bumping the table like a balky carnival ride. The earring dug into my palms, and I tried to clear my head. But there was too much noise—a deep thrumming snarl, and the sound of fist meeting flesh.
I opened my eyes. The world rushed in, full of smeared color, and I leapt out of my chair.
A thin amber tide of spilled coffee covered the floor. Christophe faced Hiro next to the table near the wall, the silver samovar on its side and chugging out a waterfall of more hot coffee. Bruce had hold of Hiro, while Augustine had grabbed Christophe’s arm. The aspect rushed and crackled over all of them like a forest fire.
Ezra was suddenly right next to me, appearing out of thin air with a little whispering sound.
I hate that. I let out a thin little shriek, which managed to distract everyone. Ezra caught the back of my hoodie, bracing me as I almost went over, and Christophe’s eyes flashed.
“Settle down!” Augustine shoved Christophe back against the table, and Bruce had all he could do holding Hiro back. Hiro leaned forward, his fangs out and the thrumming coming from his slim chest.
Djamphir don’t growl like wulfen. But when they make that sort of humming noise, they mean business. It’s more like a subsonic vibration than anything else, and it sounds like it can rattle china right out of the cupboard.
“You should probably calm them down.” Ezra made sure I was on my feet and stepped away. He lifted a silver Zippo, flicked it open, and scooped up his cigar.
Great. Thanks, that helps a lot. I found my voice. “Stop. Stop it.” Made sure the earring was safe in my left hand and stepped forward.
Normally, putting yourself between two crazy-angry djamphir isn’t the smartest thing to do. But I braced myself and slid between them, stepping in the tide of coffee. It sploshed against my sneakers. “Stop. Both of you. Stop it.”
Christophe inhaled sharply as I edged between them, cutting off his view of Hiro. “Dru—”
“I need you guys to simmer down.” I aimed for a businesslike tone, but just got a shaky almost-squeak. “Anna would like it if you both killed each other, wouldn’t she? You’re playing right into her hands. Or someone else’s.”
I didn’t have to say whose.
Hiro’s face contorted once, his eyes glowing dark amber. His fangs had scraped his lower lip, and a thin trickle of blood ran down his chin. I swallowed, hard, and hoped the bloodhunger wouldn’t hit. If I started going crazy now, there was no telling what could happen. My shoulder throbbed—I was going to have a bruise there.
It would match the rest of me. This was turning out to be one sucky-ass night.
Hiro stared at me. I stared back, trying to plead with him silently. I don’t know what he saw, but his face changed and the aspect slid away. He straightened slowly. His hand came up, and he wiped at his chin. Bruce didn’t relax, though, locking his other arm, braced in case he lunged.
I nodded. Turned, splashing even more in the tide of spilled coffee. That was going to be a bitch to get cleaned up, and it might stain the hardwood. Not my problem right now, though. “Christophe.”
He didn’t look calm. Blue eyes fixed on Hiro, pale and cold and glowing, his fangs out and Augustine straining to hold him back. Augie’s foot slid a little in the coffee, and Christophe half-lunged forward. August shoved him back, but his hold was slipping.
I did the only thing I could think of. It wasn’t the best thing, mind you, but I think he deserved it.
I slapped Christophe.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It was a good hard crack, too, unwinding from my hip. The sound bounced off the walls, and Bruce let out a curse that would have made Dad proud.
The blow actually knocked Christophe’s chin to the side. Some sense came back into those mad blue eyes, and now he was looking at me instead of Hiro. Anger and readiness leaked slowly out of his body, but Augustine didn’t relax. If anything, he tensed more, like he was afraid Christophe was going to go postal on me.
Of all the things I was worried about right at the second, that wasn’t one of them. Which was oddly comforting.
A queer little smile touched Christophe’s lips. “Go ahead,” he whispered, as if it was just the two of us in the room. “Go ahead, kochana. Hit me again. I’ll let you.”
A chill walked down my back. He’d said something like that to my mother, a long time ago. I’d dreamed it, or seen it, or something.
Who did he think he was talking to now?
“Settle down.” Now I sounded more like myself. The earring dug into my palm. “I like Hiro. Leave him alone.”
Christophe’s shoulders dropped. His fangs retreated slowly, and it was so quiet I heard the crackle of his jaw structure shifting. His hair, slicked down under the aspect, ruffled a little like he’d run his fingers back through it. “My apologies.”
“Yeah, well, I won’t make you apologize to him. Even though you should.” I nodded at August. “He’s okay now. Aren’t you, Christophe? I can belt you again if you need it.”
The mark of my hand flushed briefly on his cheek, already fading. Blond streaks threaded back through his hair. A small movement went though him, like an animal settling into itself. “Save it for sparring practice.”
“Yeah.” I slid the earring, carefully, into the little coin pocket on my hip. “Sounds good. Now will you guys sit down and behave? It’s been a hideous day—or night, or whatever—and I’m tired.”
August slowly let go of Christophe, a finger at a time. The air was tight and hurtful, tense and nervous. The touch thr
obbed inside my head like a bad tooth, soaking up all the rage and hurt. It felt the way a house does right after a huge vicious fight but before someone starts cleaning up the broken stuff—thick, a little lonely, and a whole lot unsettled.
I waited until Christophe straightened. He tugged on his sweater sleeves, as if he was used to wearing a suit. I had a mad Technicolor flash of him pulling down snow-white cuffs, adjusting the fit of a black jacket with tails, and had to blink to clear it. Behind me, Hiro and Bruce were silent, but I could feel their readiness. It was just like those bars Dad used to take me into, the ones I’d find on instinct that would lead us to the Real World. I’d sit and sip my Coke, and he’d take care of business. A couple of times things had gotten hazy, and it had felt like this. Like a thunderstorm just about to let loose.
Once, and only once, Dad had drawn a gun and we’d left without what we came for.
I pushed the memory away. “Will you simmer on down? Both of you?” There. That was just the right tone. Polite but firm.
Christophe inclined his head. The blond was back in his hair, thick streaks and highlights. “Of course.”
I turned back to Hiro. Who was already stepping back, shaking off Bruce’s steadying hand. The blood on his chin had disappeared, but I could still smell it. The inside of my mouth was dry, and my throat ached. The bloodhunger turned over uneasily inside my bones and, thankfully, retreated.
Hiro bowed slightly, inclining from the waist. I couldn’t help myself—every time he did that, I bowed back. He always looked pleased when I did, and you know, when in Rome, right? If it kept him happy, okay. I felt like an idiot doing it, but I’d feel like an idiot for not doing it, too. Might as well be polite.
“Forgive me.” Hiro stepped back, mincingly. Headed for his seat, with stiff shoulders and his usual graceful glide. “I thought he meant you harm.”
Oh, great. That’s really smoothing the waters there, Hiro. I didn’t blame him . . . but still. The urge to say Christophe would never hurt me rose to my lips, but I swallowed it. “Well, um. Never mind about that. Let’s just sit down and discuss this.”
“What is there to discuss?” Christophe stalked away behind me. Now he was going to pace like a caged tiger. “You are not to even think of risking yourself anywhere near that location. We should send teams to look it over and pick up any traces. Two combat units and two sweep teams, as well as a tracker.”
“Steady on, Reynard.” Bruce let out a heavy sigh. “It’s a trap for whoever goes near it.”
Christophe rounded on him. “This could be her first mistake. And better we send Kuoroi than my kochana gets it in her head to take a look. Anna wants her dead. I will not let—”
“Christophe!” I actually yelled, grabbing the back of my chair like I was going to pick it up and swing it. He was working himself up but good, and once he did that, good luck calming him down.
He stopped dead, staring at me. And chalk one up for the surprise-o-meter, because he actually looked haunted. Shoulders hunched, spots of fevered color high up on his cheekbones, and his hair messed up. Had he been running his hands back through it? That was really unlike him. Or maybe it was the aspect, but that was weird, too.
“Sit. Down.” I pointed at the chair to the left of mine. “Now.”
It was kind of gratifying, the way he immediately stalked around the end of the table. Hiro stiffened as Christophe drew near, but Chris just kept going, pulled out the chair, and dropped down. Laid his hands flat on the table, palms down and slightly cupped, fingers held close together. Like he wanted to curl them into fists, but didn’t dare.
Bruce coughed slightly. The sound fell dead into tense, thick air.
“Now. Let’s get this straight.” I folded my arms. It felt good to be standing. Like I was in charge. I don’t get that feeling very often. “If I’m not going near this place, then nobody else is either.”
Ezra’s jaw dropped. Cigar smoke threaded out from his nose. Augustine muttered something I was sure was a gutter-Polish curse word. Hiro actually slumped down into his chair, sagging.
“That’s a very bad—” Bruce began carefully.
I ran right over the top of him. “So that’s decided. I’ll take Ash, and Shanks. And Hiro. Christophe will get teams together to cover us, and he’ll monitor from outside.”
There was a faint skritching sound. Christophe’s fingers flexed, and his claws dug into the glossy tabletop. “No.” Just the single word, his jaw set stubbornly. His eyes half–lidded, burning blue. Bruce slowly rose from his chair again, like a tired jack-in-the-box.
My knees felt mooshy, but I kept right on going. “She didn’t kill me last time, when she had the advantage of surprise.” I congratulated myself for saying it so calmly. “This time we’re forewarned and forearmed. With both Hiro and Christophe there, not to mention Shanks and Ash, nothing’s going to get to me. Not even suckers.” Not even Anna.
“Milady.” Hiro had lost a great deal of his color under his caramel tone. He looked pretty ghastly. “Please, reconsider.”
“You’re all telling me I’m the head of the Order.” Very logical, once I thought about it. I only wondered why I hadn’t played this card before. “Right? I’m the head; what I say goes. Well, this is what we’re doing. Anna wants me there? Fine. Alone? Not a chance.” I took a deep breath, bracing myself. “If she wants another crack at me, maybe we can make this a trap for her. And then she’ll tell us where Graves is, and we’ll pick him up.” If he’s still . . . No, don’t think that. We’re going to rescue him.
No matter what.
“No,” Christophe repeated. He was looking pretty sick as well. He and Hiro with the empty chair between them made quite a pair. Bruce stood behind his chair, clutching it like he was expecting the floor to sink. He was chalky too. Ezra’s mouth was still open, his cigar fuming. The thing stank, but at least it and the spilled coffee covered up the copper tang of blood. August rubbed at his face, like he was tired.
“You really think she’ll show up if you just send a bunch of boys?” I shook my head. My hair was drying out a little, but it was still damp enough to make me shudder a little. “No way. I played bait last night, I’ll play bait on this, too.”
“Dru . . .” Christophe, changing it up a little with the one-syllable words.
“That’s what we’re doing. Make the arrangements. I don’t want to be caught by surprise like I was last night.” It wasn’t very nice, but I wasn’t feeling very nice right at the moment. As a matter of fact, I was feeling like a huge raving bitch.
And I didn’t care.
I made my hands let go of the carved chair back. “I’ll want a progress report tomorrow night, as soon as I’m up. Bruce, you can bring it to me before classes start.”
I chose to walk down the side that had Bruce and Ezra, because I didn’t think I’d get past Christophe without something else happening. I made it almost to the door before there was a splintering crack from the table.
“Dru.” Christophe’s voice, very soft. “We should discuss this.”
I waved one hand over my shoulder. “Nope. Don’t think so. See you later.”
I yanked the door open and made my escape before they could figure out who was supposed to follow me around now. Once I hit the hall outside the second set of doors, I was running.
I didn’t look back.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I flipped every single lock on the door, settled the bar in its brackets with shaking hands, and turned around. Put my back against the door and let out a long, quivering breath. The wards flexed and trembled, bright blue, sliding soundless through the walls.
That was not fun. So not fun.
It was only four-thirty in the morning. Just about time to start winding down. Nathalie would be along soon, or she’d go to the room where I was supposed to be studying to pick me up. I felt bad about leaving her hanging, but Jesus.
I needed some time alone in the worst way. They didn’t leave me alone much except to sleep. It got
a little . . . overwhelming, having someone on me all damn night and day. Always someone watching, some danger, something I hadn’t thought of, having to keep my face composed and my thoughts to myself all the time. I was used to Dad giving me some space, at least. And at the other Schola, well, I could feel them watching, but I didn’t see them much. It was different now.
Everything was.
My mother’s room looked different, too, with the lights off and the breathless dark of early morning covering its skylights. Like a stage set, the white bed floating ghostlike and the books all closed, shadowed doors. The bathroom glimmered, and the wide white window seat looked like the edge of a bleached skull.
I shuffled across the room. My sneakers were going to smell like coffee until I could wash them, so I dropped down on the floor next to the white bed and stripped them off, flung them in the general direction of the closet, and grabbed the pair sitting next to the small nightstand. I got a good look at the empty space underneath the bed and had a sudden, disturbing thought.
Is that my mother’s mattress? Oh, God.
The dizziness came, sweeping over me in a dark sparkling wave. I folded my knees, rested my forehead against the hardwood, and tried to control my breathing. The shallow gasps I was hearing were from me, I realized, and the reality of the past few hours hit me like a sucker punch.
I rolled over on my back, digging in my change pocket. The earring was warm, and I tweezed it delicately out. My stomach hurt; I was making little noises in between the gasps.
The bed was neatly made, but I crawfished up to it and reached. Nathalie made it tight enough to bounce a quarter off of—Dad would have approved—and I had no idea how she did it with the coat in there all the time.
I wormed my hand between the top and bottom sheets, pulling everything askew. My fingers touched rough heavy canvas, and I yanked and pulled until I’d got the length of black material free. With the earring in my sweating fist, I hugged the balled-up lump the coat made and buried my face in it. Willed the shaking to stop and the touch to show me something, anything. To give me some hope.
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