I stood there and watched as they receded down the Schola’s long driveway. The trees arched over, leafdapple shade like water pouring over the cars, and my fingers itched. For the first time in a long time I wanted to draw, and I knew exactly what I’d draw. I’d try to capture the way the leaves held the sunlight, the red of the brake lights crimson dots, like fangmarks.
What I couldn’t draw was the way my heart finished cracking and fell, and the feeling that took its place in my chest. A kind of emptiness, like a church in the middle of the week, full of murmuring space.
Sometimes you do grow up in an instant. I think that was the first moment I started thinking like an adult.
And I hated it.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Hiro laid a pair of my sneakers on the table right in front of me, his jaw set and his dark gaze level. His face might have been carved from caramel wood, and he winced a little if he moved too quickly.
I didn’t want to think about it.
“I don’t get it.” I sat, numb all over, in the high-backed wooden chair, my arms crossed defensively. “Why do I have to do this?”
“They’re envoys,” Bruce said again, patiently, his dark eyes worried. He magnanimously refused to note that my face was tear-streaked and I was visibly shaking. “The Maharaj wish to see you—”
“So they can have another crack at hexing me to death? Or poisoning me? I don’t think so.” I pulled more tightly into myself, leaning forward a little. The long mirror-shiny table in the Council room was just the same; the silver samovar glinting against the wall where food was usually arranged looked like an old friend. “Can’t you just talk to them? Like, you’re the one who’s really in charge. I’m just a figurehead.” And it’s probably a lot safer for everyone that way too. You know what the hell you’re doing. Mostly.
Bruce spread his hands. It was the first time I’d ever seen him in a white button-down that was less than perfectly pressed. His dark hair was messy, and his proud Middle Eastern face was about as close to haggard as a model-attractive djamphir could get. “They think you may be . . . one of theirs. Or related, somehow.”
“Great.” If I hugged myself any harder I was going to crack in half. “I don’t give a good goddamn what they—”
“Milady.” Hiro, softly and respectfully. But the single word cut through what I’d planned on saying. “Please. Listen.”
I wiped at my cheeks with the flat of my right hand. The rock in my throat didn’t get any smaller, no matter how many times I tried to force it down. “Fine.” I sounded ungracious, to say the least.
“Thank you.” He stood, slim and straight, his gray silk high-collared shirt unwrinkled and his eyes, as well, shadowed with exhaustion. It was the first time I’d seen that, either on him or on Bruce, and I suddenly wondered where the rest of the Council was. “Milady, you are able to do . . . certain things svetocha are not traditionally able to do. We were unsure where these talents came from; the djinni-children may believe you have some strain of their blood from your . . . human . . . side.” He took a deep breath, half-flinching again like his ribs pained him. “The Maharaj have severe prohibitions against harming a female who can use their particular sorceries. The fact that you were attacked, that you were harmed, creates a very large problem for them. A . . . debt, if you will. And that debt is a way we may pressure them into abandoning their former neutrality against, as well as their recent alliance with, the nosferat. This is an opportunity. One that is exceedingly rare, one we must press, and one we must ask you to accede to.”
I killed Sergej. Isn’t that enough? I shook my head. A single curl fell in my face, bounced. “I don’t want to talk to them.” Leave me alone. Jesus.
“You are the only one they will speak to, Milady. Especially since Reynard is . . .” A single shrug. Hiro was economical with his body language. Just one of those things that told you he was older, as djamphir go.
Way older.
“Christophe?” A sick thump in the pit of my stomach. I hadn’t even asked about him. “What’s wrong with Christophe?”
“Nothing.” Bruce almost twitched. “He’s simply resting. But he is unavailable.”
I fixed him with a glare. “What’s wrong with him? Did it . . . did I hurt him? The blood, did it—”
“He’s resting. He’s survived worse.” Bruce sighed. It wasn’t a Dylan-worthy sigh, but it was close. Dylan had been a world-champion patient-suffering sigh-er. “Milady. Dru. Please. A formal alliance with the Maharaj—not just a truce—will save lives. Djamphir lives, wulfen lives, and that means human lives as well. I know your loup-garou has left—”
It was like a pinch on a fresh bruise. “Don’t talk about him.” I gingerly uncurled my arms. Reached for my sneakers, suddenly glad it was Hiro who had gone up and gotten them. I didn’t feel like I could face Nat right now. “How come the Maharaj think I’m . . .” I let the question trail off. Two great Houses, Sergej hissed in my memory, and I shuddered.
Great. Djamphir were part sucker, and now they were thinking I was part something else. Where was the human part of me supposed to fit, I wondered?
“Because you killed one of your attackers with his own sorcery.” Bruce grasped the back of a chair—the one just to my left, the one Christophe sometimes sat in at Council meetings. When he wasn’t up pacing the room like a caged animal. “And later, something about a smokedog, a kuttee, sent to track you. I do not know the whole, Dru. They will not speak unless it is to you. You are our hope.”
I never asked for this. It was too late, though. This was what I had.
Everything inside me shifted sideways another little bit and settled unexpectedly. I wasn’t used to the whirling sensation fetching up against something, but it did. It held fast, like catching your jeans on a stubborn nail.
I killed Sergej. Yeah, Christophe helped . . . but I was the one that did it.
But it wasn’t just that. I’d bled to buy Dibs and Christophe some more time. I’d done the right thing. It was what Dad might’ve called “findin’ out where ya iron’s at” and Gran would have just nodded with the particular line to her mouth that meant she was pleased.
I had done that. The nail I fetched up against was knowing, without a doubt, that I’d done them proud.
The Council room was silent and breathless, no windows, just the door to the antechamber with its couches and fireplace. I always thought djamphir would want some light and air, until I figured out that it was too easy to take a shot or send a sucker through some plate glass.
My fingers fumbled with the laces. I could almost feel Hiro staring at me. My hair fell down, curtaining my face. I couldn’t hide forever, though, and when I had my shoes tied I looked up. “Sergej.” The name didn’t burn now. It was just a word. “He thought that, too. That I was maybe one of them, I think.”
They exchanged a Significant Look. Bruce’s shoulders hunched a little. “Hiro and I will be there.” He sounded, of all things, defensive. “There is nothing to fear. You won’t see Augustine, but he will be there too. There will be others, in Shadow. You’re safe now.”
“Until there is another to take Sergej’s place,” Hiro murmured.
I froze, staring at him. Well, it had to be too good to be true, didn’t it? That was the way adulthood rolled. I was beginning to get the idea.
“Yes,” he continued, pitiless. “There are always more, Milady. We have barely managed to hold them back. Now, with the nosferat confused and the Maharaj perhaps willing to come to an accord . . . we could do much more. You are young, and it is not right to ask, but we are asking.” He put his hands together, as if he was about to make one of those funny little bows of his. “We would even beg you, svetocha. Help us.”
My head dropped forward. I stared at my hands. My fingernails were bitten down, just like my mother’s. I smelled cinnamon, a thread of warm perfume drifting up from my skin, and I wondered if they smelled it too. The touch brushed inside my head, soft feathers. “Where’s the rest of the Coun
cil? Alton and Ezra?”
Bruce let out a short, pained breath. “Alton was in Houston. Ezra was coordinating in Atlanta. Neither of them have reported in.”
“That’s not good.” My fingers tightened. My hands turned into fists, knotting up in my lap, an ache sliding up my bones and settling in my shoulders.
“There’s still hope. Dru—” Bruce, pleading, and all of a sudden I couldn’t stand it anymore.
“I’ll do it. I’ll talk to them.” I didn’t recognize my own voice, that new, flat, grown-up tone. “If it’s that important, I’ll do it.”
There really wasn’t any choice. If—when Graves came back, I was going to have something to show for all this. And all of them—the dead who had struck through me to end Sergej—pretty much demanded that I step up, and keep stepping up, for as long as I could.
For as long as I had to.
So what if my heart was cracking? I looked up, scrubbing at my cheeks again, and blinked. Took a deep breath, then put my palms flat on the table and pushed myself upright. Rolled my shoulders back and settled them, and I didn’t have to even look at Bruce to see the relief written on his face. Hiro dipped forward—one of those little bows of his, and it was a wonder how he could look so damn respectful while he was doing it. Respectful, but completely aware of his own kickassery at the same time.
I couldn’t help myself. Every time he did that, I bowed back. When in Rome, right? And he smiled each time, too, a patient grave smile. I suddenly realized why it was familiar—because Gran had smiled that way sometimes too, when I’d done something that must have reminded her of Dad.
And there was another new thing: it didn’t hurt to think of them. Well, at least not as much. The ache was still there, but it just . . . it was different. Less sharp. I’d done what I set out to do, right?
Some part of me must’ve thought that would fix everything. Things just don’t get fixed, though. Things get broken, and sometimes they stay that way.
You just have to glue them together and hope it holds.
“Fine,” I said again. “All right. Let’s get it over with.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
After all that, the Maharaj were pretty much anticlimactic. It was in the huge, glass-roofed room I’d been in once before, when Christophe was on Trial and Anna had emptied an assault rifle at me. This time I sat in the high-backed, red-hung chair on the dais, and the shadows around the edges of the room were full of the staticky sense of something watching that told me there were not just one or two djamphir doing the little “don’t look here” trick they’re so fond of.
The sleek seal-headed Maharaj boy who had poisoned me actually got down on his knees; the other two—dark-eyed, proud-nosed, both with the same gold earring and the same scent of spice and dry burning sand—swept me bows that were right off an old pirate movie.
Leander—and yes, I remembered his name; he’d poisoned me, you don’t forget that—begged my forgiveness in between a long string of foreign words. He even called me “Rajkumari Faulk,” and I twitched like I’d been stuck with a pin.
Because “Faulk” was Gran’s maiden name.
Bruce had warned me, so I let Leander get all the way to the end before accepting with a nod that was supposed to be queenly but was probably just scared stiff instead. At that point Hiro moved forward, and they eyed him the way cobras might eye a mongoose. There was some diplomatic blather, a schedule set up for further talks, and the “provisional agreement” was that the djinni-children and the Order were allies against the nosferat and other things.
I just had to sit there, gripping the chair arms, braced for anything that might occur. Anything other than what actually happened.
The Maharaj bowed twice more at me, backed away about ten feet, and bowed again. Then a djamphir teacher I recognized materialized out of thin air with the familiar sound of nasty chattering laughter and escorted them out of the room.
I managed to cover up the violent start that gave me. But only just.
And then it was done. Piece of cake.
I was at Christophe’s bedside when he woke up that evening, as dusk filled the windows and the Schola began to wake up as well. Benjamin, his dark hair still emo-swooped across his forehead, was right outside the door, standing guard. It was like I’d never left.
Except everything was different.
“Relax,” I said as soon as Christophe’s eyes opened, pale cold starving blue. “Everything’s copacetic. The Council debriefed me and there’s another diplomatic thingie scheduled for tomorrow.”
He blinked, staring up at me. It was a private infirmary room, windowless and bare except for the bed. Wulfen and djamphir both heal pretty quickly. If you’re hurt enough to need the infirmary, it’s really bad. But also, Christophe didn’t have a room of his own. He moved around a lot, kept things hidden.
I could see why.
His eyes were very blue. He blinked, once, and it was like a light switch flicking. I could see the thoughts sliding together inside his skull. “The Maharaj.”
I nodded. Leaned the chair I’d snagged out in the infirmary proper back on two of its legs, balancing. “We had the first meet this afternoon. Something about me being able to throw hexes; I tangled with a couple of them in Dallas. It’s a big deal if they kill a girl who can throw a hex, I guess. They think Gran’s family might’ve been a bastard branch, or something.” I swallowed, hard. “Anyway, Bruce and Hiro will do all the talking tomorrow. I just have to sit there and not get kidnapped or murdered. Should be fun.”
The covers slid as he pushed himself up on his elbows. At least when he passed out, nobody undressed him. He was still dirty, but he looked tons better.
I leaned back in the chair. It squeaked a little. Don’t do that, Gran would’ve said. Fall right on your ass, Dru-girl. You mind me, now.
“Are you well?” He finished sitting up, gingerly, testing his body’s responses.
I shrugged. Who knew what would happen or who would try to kill me next if someone decided I was even more of a freak than I already was? Besides, Gran couldn’t be Maharaj. She was a backwoods hexer, and she’d been human all the way.
But would you have known if she wasn’t? And how can you do some of the things you can do? Leander sounded pretty sure, and he even knew Gran’s maiden name.
I told that little internal nagging voice to shut up and go away, shrugged. “I’ll deal.” I gave it a beat, decided to add more. “Graves is gone.”
Christophe blinked again. That was all the response I got.
Well, great. “He’s got some things to work out.” It sounded lame. “So do I. So . . .”
“Dru.” He slid his feet out of the bed. Still barefoot, his jeans flayed at the knees and stiff with crusted stuff I didn’t even want to think about. “You don’t have to. You’re tired, and—”
I shook my head. My braid bumped my back. I could probably fight another clutch of suckers with my hair done this tight. “I gotta do this while I got the courage, Chris. So just listen, okay?”
He went still, perched on the edge of the bed. He just watched me, his face closed. Shuttered.
Guarded, like he was afraid of what I might say.
I lost my nerve. “You probably want to get cleaned up or something, right?” Or pee. Because all I want to do when I wake up after almost-dying is find a commode.
He shook his head a little, a brief economical movement. “It can wait.”
Well, dammit, there went that escape. The chair’s front legs thudded down. I leaned forward, bracing my elbows on my knees.
“Okay,” I began. “You’re too old for me. You’re scary. It’s creepy that you were so all over my mom and now you’re all over me. And you . . .” You watched my father go down that hall, I wanted to say. But all of a sudden, it didn’t seem right. Dad had shot him, if the vision was a true-seein and not just a really vivid nightmare. Visions were like that, they twisted together dream and reality, and Gran always warned me not to trust what couldn’t be
verified.
But still.
I couldn’t punk out now. So I licked my lips nervously and plunged ahead. “You were there when my father died. Weren’t you.”
It wasn’t a question.
Christophe actually flinched. “If I could have saved him—”
“You probably would have.” I nodded, and he shut up. “Because you owed it to my mom. Right?”
A single nod.
“I couldn’t figure out if you wanted me so bad because you thought I could kill Sergej, or if it was me. Something really about me.”
That got to him. He flinched again, and I held up a hand. Wonder of wonders, he stayed quiet. But his jaw was clenched so tight he was fixing to shatter his teeth.
My imagination just works too damn well.
I had to continue now. I couldn’t just leave it like that. “But every time I’ve been really in trouble, you’ve been there. You probably tried to break me out of that Sooper-Sekrit Vampire Hideout all by your lonesome, didn’t you? That’s how he caught you.”
Another nod. He watched me like I was a snake getting ready to bite, and I was suddenly so tired.
Grown-up shit is hard.
“You told Dibs to hook up the transfusion. You didn’t care if it killed you. I needed blood, you were going to save me, it was that simple. Right?”
“Tak,” he breathed, then shook himself. “Yes. That simple. Dru.” Soft, like he was pleading.
“Christophe.” All the air ran out of me, I had to gasp it back in. “I get that you’re interested, okay? But I’m not . . . ready. For anything. With anyone. Okay? I don’t even know what I’m going to do tomorrow when I wake up.” Besides be grateful if nobody tries to take my head off or shoot me or drain my blood, that is. “I’ve got no damn clue at all. So, you can either be okay with that, or I can transfer to another Schola. I’ve talked to Bruce about it. He’ll have kittens, and Hiro will have penguins, and August will completely throw a fit, but I’ve made up my mind. It’s up to you.”
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