Betrayals

by Lili St. Crow

  “See? I told you you’d want to see this. The agent who transcribed the call was a friend of mine and a good Kouroi.” He hunched even further, as if the weight of the world was bearing down directly on him. “He died alone, in terrible pain. He was betrayed. I didn’t believe him when he gave me the envelope and told me not to share it with anyone unless it was an emergency.”

  “So it’s an emergency now?”

  “I certainly think this qualifies, Dru.” Dylan took a sharp right at the end of the row of bookcases and kept going until we ended up at a heavy wooden door set in the stone wall. “I thought I would give this to Christophe. But you’ll probably see him before I do. If he’s still alive.” He gave me an odd look, his eyes shadowed.

  The urge to tell him that I’d already seen Christophe fought with the reasonable caution to keep my mouth shut. Everyone was lying, for God’s sake. Next I was going to find out that even Graves was fucking around with me.

  No. Not him. You know better. But Graves was okay hanging out with his wulfen buddies. They didn’t seem like bad kids to me, just stupid and aggressive. Hey, that’s boys for you.

  And if nobody was supposed to know I was here, where did that leave them?

  Dylan unlocked the door with a heavy iron key. “we’ve got about two hours until Kruger’s on duty to stand guard. I want to get you back in your room before then.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” The weird spinning sensation had filled up my chest again. God, I wish Dad was here. Or August. Or even Christophe. Just someone else to deal with this.

  I closed that thought away for the hundredth time, and followed Dylan through the door.

  I watched the sunset spill orange and gold through my bedroom window. The gun was on the bedside table, pointed carefully toward the blind corner behind the door. A copy of the transcript, three and a half pages covered in single-space typing, sat obediently near my bare feet.

  The date and time were military; I could tell just by looking. Strings of numbers marched across the top and bottom of each page. The text in the middle was even and close, little black ants marching on white paper.

  SFR-1: The information is well guarded.

  SFR-2: That’s none of your concern. Where is she? We are prepared to pay for the information.

  SFR-1: Keep your money. I just want the bitch dead.

  SFR-2: I can arrange that.

  It was my mother they were talking about. Calmly discussing killing her, like her death was just one more item on a grocery list. There was a mention of Dad, too, “the husband.” Nothing about me.

  Of course, according to the date, I would have been about five years old. Was I my mother’s secret?

  I squeezed my eyes shut so hard phantom yellow fireworks splashed in the darkness behind my lids. It was the most hurtful memory of all, even worse than Dad’s eyes, the whites rotting and the blue irises clouded as his dead body chewed at the air and shambled straight for me.

  This memory lay at the very bottom of a deep well inside my head, and dragging it out made my entire body shake just a little.

  “Dru,” she says, softly but urgently. “Get up.”

  I rub my eyes and yawn. “Mommy?” My voice is muffled. Sometimes it’s the voice of a two-year-old, sometimes it’s older. But always, it’s wondering and quiet, sleepy.

  “Come on, Dru.” She puts her hands down and picks me up, with a slight oof! as if she can’t believe how much I’ve grown. I’m a big girl now, and I don’t need her to carry me, but I’m so tired I don’t protest. I cuddle into her warmth and feel the hummingbird beat of her heart. “I love you, baby,” she whispers into my hair. She smells of fresh cookies and warm perfume, and it is here the dream starts to fray. Because I hear something like footsteps, or a pulse. It is quiet at first, but it gets louder and more rapid with each beat. “I love you so much.”

  “Mommy…” I put my head on her shoulder. I know I am heavy, but she is carrying me, and when she sets me down to open a door I protest only a little.

  It is the closet downstairs. Just how I know it’s downstairs I’m not sure. There is something in the floor she pulls up, and some of my stuffed animals have been jammed into the square hole, along with blankets and a pillow from her and Daddy’s bed. She scoops me up again and settles me in the hole, and I begin to feel faintly alarmed. “Mommy?”

  “We’re going to play the game, Dru. You hide here and wait for Daddy to come home from work.”

  This is all wrong. Sometimes I hide in the closet to scare Daddy, but never in the middle of the night. And never in a hole in the floor, a hole I didn’t even know was there. “I don’t wanna,” I say, and try to get up.

  “Dru.” She grabs my arm, and it hurts for a second before her grip gentles. “It’s important, baby. This is a special game. Hide in the closet, and when Daddy comes home, he’ll find you. Lie down now. Be a good girl.”

  I protest, I whine a little. “I don’t wanna.” But I am a good girl. I snuggle down into the hole, because it’s dark and warm and I’m tired, and the shadow on Mommy’s face gets deeper. Only her eyes glitter, glowing summer-blue. She covers me up with a blanket and smiles at me until I close my eyes. Sleep isn’t far behind, but as I go down I hear something, and I understand she’s fitted the cover over the hole, and I am in the dark. But it smells like her, and I am so tired.

  I hear, very faint and far away, the closet door close, and a scratching sound. And just before the dream ends, I hear a long, low, chilling laugh, like someone trying to speak with a mouthful of razor blades, and I know my mother is somewhere close, and she is desperate, and something very bad is about to happen.

  My eyes flew open. Sunlight poured in a flood through the window, past the curtains.

  Things don’t just go wrong once. They go wrong far enough and then they explode and it’s impossible to put everything back together. If I was with Dad down South right now, we’d be either getting ready to go out and deal with something, poltergeist infestation, hex trouble, cockroach or gator spirits, you name it. Or he’d be getting ready to go out and I’d be cooking dinner, moving around the kitchen while he loaded clips or filled holy-water ampoules, and sometimes played Twenty Hunter Questions with me. He’d pop the questions and I’d answer, usually correctly. Each right answer would get me a smile and a Good girl, Dru. Now here’s another one for you.

  Everything from How do you take apart a poltergeist? to What are the rules in a bar full of Others? And if it took me more than thirty seconds of thinking, he wouldn’t let me flounder. He would jump right in and explain. Not like so many others who liked to call themselves teachers.

  Say it, Dru. Say it out loud.

  “No.” My own voice startled me. Here I was, sitting up here in this bedroom that was kind of pretty, yeah, but it was also cold and soulless and there was no safety in it. Dylan had just brought me back and plopped me down in here with the gun and the transcript, and a warning.

  Don’t trust anyone. If we’re attacked again, hide. Don’t let anyone know where you’re hiding until the all-clear sounds. Take the gun with you, and for God’s sake keep it hidden.

  And the point to this whole thing, delivered just before he closed my door.

  I’m going to try to find Christophe. He needs to know that this is a blackout zone, and that wampyr attacks have been increasing. We need to get you out of here.

  There I was, throwing a distraction across my own brain. Say it, Dru. You might as well.

  “He’s gone,” I whispered.

  Gran had pretty much raised me, until she let go and I was in free fall for that one awful night before Dad showed up to sign all the papers and collect me. I never knew how he’d known, but then again, she’d raised him, too. He hadn’t put much credence to “that backwoods foolishness,” but he still tossed salt over his shoulder when it spilled.

  You’d be a fool not to, when you’re hunting the things that go bump in the night.

  And he’d still sometimes known things. He didn’t
laugh when people talked about intuition. He also never really doubted mine.

  “He’s really gone.” It sounded even worse when I repeated it. It was like I had just fully realized I wasn’t dreaming, that I wouldn’t wake up from this and find him in the kitchen loading bullets in clips, or in his camp chair in front of the TV, or…

  No more driving with the windows down and the atlas in my lap, navigating him to where he needed to go. No more handing ammunition in through the broken windows while things skittered and leapt for him. No more playing the guessing game, figuring out which part of the Real World we were up against this time.

  No more listening to someone else breathing in the house in the middle of the night. No more seeing him slumped in his chair in front of the television, no more of his special pancakes on Sunday mornings or the immediate call when he stamped in the door. Dru? Dru, honey, you there?

  No more chili nights or warm arms over my shoulder, no more reassurance in the middle of the night when I woke up screaming, it didn’t happen often after I was about fourteen, but it was nice to know he was there, you know?

  He was really, truly gone. I was all alone here, and what I thought would be a safe place was turning out to be a snakes’ nest. Like that little store we’d been in before heading to the Dakotas.

  The one with the copperheads and cottonmouths in glass aquariums, stinking and making that awful ratcheting noise.

  Cottonmouths are mean, too. They’ll jump you with no warning. They hit the sides of the aquariums with dry thumps the entire time I was in there, while Dad was closeted with the owner.

  Had he been getting Christophe’s phone number? What else had he been doing?

  I rubbed at my wet cheeks. I hate crying. It fills up your head with stupid and makes your entire face hurt. I folded up the transcript, leaving damp tear marks on the edges of the paper.

  The malaika were still under my bed. Right next to them were Dad’s billfold and a blot of darkness I grabbed and pulled out. It was my black canvas bag, still dirty from the snowy mess of the Dakotas. I’d packed it carefully while Graves and I were clearing out the house and Christophe was on the phone, arguing with someone about coming to pick me up.

  That felt like a lifetime ago. Back when I’d still been thinking things could be fixed, maybe, if I just coped hard enough.

  Cash, both in my wallet and in the little space under the flap at the bottom of the bag, a sort of secret compartment Dad had shown me how to sew in and use. ID, both in the wallet and under the flap. A fresh clip of nine-millimeter ammo under the flap. ChapStick, my Yoda notebook, a comb, two pens, a handkerchief, a clean pair of underwear and a bra, and a small bar of hotel soap.

  Hey, you never know.

  The black book with Dad’s contacts, because I’d thought it would be a good idea to keep it with me. But if August had disappeared, who else could I call? And it wasn’t like there was a phone here. I hadn’t even seen one in Dylan’s office. Shanks had talked about phonetime, but I had no idea where to even find a line to the outside world.

  I was as isolated as a prisoner.

  Compass, road map for Florida, and another for North and South Dakota. Neither map would do me any good, but the compass would be useful. Mini flashlight, I flicked it on and off, checked for the extra batteries. It still worked. Those were good things to have.

  Travel-size bottle of ibuprofen, small bottle of holy water, bottle of salt. I slid the switchblade in one of the smaller pockets sewn along the back of the bag. It rattled against two large silver dollars and four or five iron nails. Well, they’re steel, actually, but the iron content makes them a good defense against all sorts of things. Revenants, some apparitions, fairies, you name it.

  I shivered, thinking of fairies. People who think they’re all sweetness and wings should pray they never run across a sidhe with a bad temper and the ability to steal years from your life. And pray that they never hear silver horns in the dead of night, echoing against the hills as hoofbeats rattle on a lonely stretch of road and the Wild Hunt looks for a victim. Gran taught me about never, ever messing with fairies.

  I was even scaring myself at this point, but it felt good to be doing something. To be planning, instead of just being buffeted along with what everyone else wanted me to do. This preparation was something I could have done in my sleep.

  Dad’s billfold went in the secret compartment under the flap. I folded the transcript one more time and slid it into Dad’s little black book. Then I picked up the nine-millimeter and checked the clip once more. It was habit. I tore up a pillowcase from the blue bed and wrapped the gun, so something couldn’t press against the trigger. I put the wrapped gun in the bag and wished I did indeed have a holster.

  Wishing wouldn’t get me one, though.

  Come on, Dru. Think. Think hard, and think fast. How would Dad put it? Think logically.

  My logic-thingy wasn’t working too well lately. But I’d give it the old college try.

  Anna wanted me to think Christophe had betrayed my mother. But he’d saved me, so that didn’t make much sense. She also thought I was stupid. Just showing me two pictures of the house we’d lived in Before wasn’t going to make me not trust Christophe.

  Unless…

  Things exploded behind my eyes, my brain finally making some connections. Oh shit.

  My hands were shaking. I held up one of them. Even my fingers were jittering. I grabbed for the locket and rubbed it with my thumb, hard, like I could polish away the fear.

  Showing me two pictures was useless. Unless she wanted to find out what I remembered about that house. She’d been watching me very carefully while trying not to look directly at me.

  And why the hell would she come all the way up here herself, especially since it was so dangerous for a svetocha? Bodyguards and tutors, and here I was locked in a room for them to decide what to do with me.

  For Anna to decide? Or for Sergej to decide? Did it matter?

  Well, Dru, there’re two words that apply. Fuck that. That about covers it.

  But what about Ash? And what about Christophe, asking me to wait? Could I depend on him to come back for me?

  It doesn’t matter. You can’t help either of them if you’re dead. Blondie’s on duty to watch you at the moment, but as soon as it’s dark it’ll be time for the first class of the evening and he’ll be gone. You’ll have a chance.

  A chance to do what, though? What could I do? I wasn’t about to go crawling around the roofs at night.

  At least I knew Christophe was alive. I could be the only person that did know that for sure, and still, anything could happen to him in the next few days.

  And there was the fact that Christophe could be using me for bait. Everything inside me rose up in revolt at the notion, because every time I thought of him I felt his warmth against me and smelled a ghost of his apple-pie self. Maybe I should just wait around for—

  Dru, you’re counting on other people to save you. That’s not going to happen. I let out a shaking breath. This one’s all about you.

  But what about Graves?

  Shit. That’s the only hole in this plan. But if I wasn’t around, would he be so much in danger?

  And he was happy here, even if it was a reform school. Graves was just peachy hanging out with his hairy friends.

  His hairy friends who liked blaming me for even being born. Jesus. A band of shadow was moving up the window as the sun sank, the light taking on that golden-honey cast of the best hour to capture it, if you could. I’d never been much into photography, but I remembered drawing in this light while Gran spun thread or finished dinner, sometimes singing in her queer atonal way, other times muttering imprecations at chicken broth or vegetables. I missed both things, her singing, and the steady hiss-thump of the antique spinning wheel. It was probably sitting under a dust cloth in the corner near the fireplace right where she’d left it. The house, mine under the terms of the trust, was closed up nice and tight, and I had the keys right on my key ring, tha
t was still probably with the truck Christophe had hidden.

  But there was another key ring, and I knew exactly where it was. In a metal box buried under the north side of a big granite boulder, the one Gran poured fresh milk over every new moon.

  She also bolted the door every new moon. They left her house alone. That’s another reason why I always shiver when I think about fairies.

  There’s nothing like waiting for the night to make you really nervous. The plan came together inside my head, and I was really wishing I had access to a car, any car. How did the food get to the school? Who did all the laundry?

  It was a fine time to wish I’d been looking around instead of moping up here in my room or skipping classes. Then again, I wouldn’t have been taught anything worthwhile if I’d attended class, now would I. They were actively trying to prevent me from learning something.

  So. No car, just me. There was one lonely country road dipping away from the school, hitching up with the county highway a good distance away. Far enough away that I hadn’t seen it from the roof of the Schola.

  Two unpainted lanes of blacktop, with a deep ditch on either side, ribboning through the woods and occasional fields. It joined up just north of the town the wulfen were always running to. I could buy a map there and…

  Then what? You don’t know anyone around here, and anyone you contact is going to be a question mark. If August was a part of the Order, maybe some more of Dad’s friends were too.

  And if he’s vanished, what’s to say the others won’t as soon as you call them for help?

  My head hurt trying to think about all of it. But the absolutely essential first step was getting out of here. Once I was on the move, I could figure everything else out.

  Graves and Christophe had both pointed out it was easier for the vampires to kill me when I was away from a Schola, even a small one.

  But they’d have to find me first.

  I got up, left the bag on the bed. What do you wear when you’re running for your life? Layers, boots because your feet are your lifeline and sneakers are too flimsy, and wool. Graves’ shirt had vanished in the laundry. It gave me a funny feeling to think about it.