I trusted them all.
Shanks punched Dibs on the shoulder, but very lightly. “You’ve already wasted half of it, Dibsie. Get going.”
Dibs stood there for a few seconds. A slow, very sweet grin lit up his entire face, and I blinked. In that one second, shy, blushing Dibs looked . . . well, almost handsome.
Then he turned on his heel and was gone, skirting the edge of the pool and vanishing into leafshade and sunshine. His hair blazed for a moment, but then branches moved to hide that gleam.
Shanks glanced at me. The orange in his irises fought with the fluid leaf-shadows. “Keep up, Dru-girl.”
I snorted. “You haven’t lost me yet, Robert.” It was what Christophe called him, just like he called Dibs Samuel all the time.
It was Shanks’s turn to make a little dismissive noise. He folded down, crouching, dark head cocked and the emo swoosh hiding his eyes. Readiness ran through the rest of them like oil over the surface of a plate, tension gathering. Nat rolled her shoulders twice, glancing at me. The last couple runs she’d kept pace right beside me, and once she’d grabbed my hand just as I was getting ready to launch myself over a couple of elevated trains.
Don’t ask. Anyway.
Shanks threw his head back and howled. The rest of them joined in, a rising chorus of high thrillglass baying, their throats swelling and their eyes lambent. Even under late-spring sun, that cry filled my head with moonlight and plucked deep below the conscious surface. It teased and taunted and tweaked and pulled at that . . . thing.
The low, furry, clawed thing inside all of us that remembers the joy of night-hunting.
My chin was up, my mouth open, and a spear of silver ice wound through their harmony, a svetocha’s distinctive cry. It was uncomfortably like a sucker’s glassine hunting scream, but I was helpless to stop it, and they never said a word about it.
Nat yanked on my arm, and the world turned over. It rushed underneath me, my boots touching down every so often, and my heart leapt against my rib cage like it wanted to escape. Feathers brushed every inch of my skin, and I hurled myself forward in the middle of the shifting, leaping pack of wulfen.
They closed around me even on daylight runs, arms pumping and the change rippling over them like clear heavy water, fur not quite breaking free of the surface. We poured around the edge of the Pond and the whole green length of Central Park unreeled underneath us like a treadmill’s belt. As always, it was oddly silent, just the wind in my ears, stinging my eyes, all of them suddenly welded into one creature running just for the heart-exploding joy of it. If you’ve ever seen a cheetah going all-out, maybe you can guess what I mean.
Breath tearing in throat, I jumped and my right boot skimmed the top of a granite boulder, barely brushing the moss. My leg uncoiled, pushed me forward like a slingshot. The rest of them leapt, Evan catching a tree limb and jackknifing, launching himself into clear air. He landed with sweet natural authority and was neck-and-nose with Shanks for a few steps, but he fell back as the leggy boy veered and we burst out of the Park’s green into the concrete jungle.
We ran, flashing through hot gold sun and gray exhaust-scorch shadow, and for a little while I could pretend someone else was running with us. A boy in a long black canvas coat, his green eyes alight and the change never quite breaking through his skin—because loup-garou use the Other for mental dominance, not for the physical morphing.
We ran, and the ghost of Graves ran with us. If tears slicked my cheeks, I could pretend they were stung free by the wind. We hit the Brooklyn Battery toll tunnel and poured through in merry violation of several laws, relying on sheer outrageousness to keep people from really looking as we blurred single file on the skinny walkway next to honking traffic. Nat right behind me, matching me stride for stride, every once in a while sending up her own peculiar cry that trailed off on a soprano note like crystal just before shattering. Cars whizzing slowly behind us, the glare of a summer day gone as some of the boys even veered out into traffic, playing tag-me with the cars whose drivers would only catch a glimpse or a flash of bright eyes or tossing hair. Brakes squealed, but we were already free of the tunnel, lunging up into sunlight, and the touch flamed inside my head.
We broke south as soon as we hit the entrance, and Stuvy’s tangle flashed by in random bullets of impression—a dry cleaner’s, a boarded-up nightclub, a row of brownstones frowning as we tore down the street. My mother’s locket bobbed against my chest, a warm forgiving touch. The song of wind in my ears and the world unreeling under me shut away every nasty thought, every pain except the stitch threatening in my side and the sweet thrill of my heart working so fast it might explode with delight.
He almost made Coney Island. I almost had him, too, but he jagged right when we were half a block behind him, running all-out but not realizing he was boxed yet. Shanks leapt past me, clearing a bicycle rack and barely touching the street as he uncoiled, going airborne again. My breath came in high harsh rasps, my entire body sang, Gran’s owl gave a soft cry. The rest of them closed around me like a warm coat, and Shanks brought him down in Calvert Vaux Park with an ebullient whoop that was equal parts wulf and boy. They went rolling in dusty grass on the outskirts of an overgrown baseball diamond, a cloud of gold puffing up around them, and we all put on the brakes, skidding to a stop.
Beer for everyone, then. My sides heaved. Half of us bent over, gasping for breath. And when I looked around at all the faces, glowing with excitement and sweat and the poreless healthy shine of wulfen, it was a shock right below my breastbone when Graves’s green gaze didn’t meet mine. Nat flung her arm over my shoulders and Alex leaned against my other side, the prohibition against touching gone for a few brief seconds as everyone collapsed together in a heap.
But I wasn’t wulfen. I was still lonely.
Well, I’d had a half hour of not thinking about him. I guess it had to be enough.
* * *
The pizza parlor looked faintly familiar, even though I could swear I’d never been in there before. It was on the fringes of Augie’s old neighborhood, a dingy hole in the Brooklyn brick wall where the fat balding proprietor cracked bottles of Corona without demur for the boys. Nat and I stuck to club soda, because she didn’t like pop and neither of us liked beer.
Beer makes you, in her words, “muy, muy flatulent-o, kiddo.” And we would both crack up.
I leaned over the air hockey table, my fingers still greasy from the three slices of pepperoni-plus I’d bolted, and popped the puck back at her. The aspect was warm oil over my skin, my teeth tingled, and the bloodhunger was a rough spot at the back of my palate no matter how much club soda I washed it with. Nat was fierce when it came to air hockey, and she had a wulf’s speed and reflexes. With the aspect all unreliable, I had to jump to stay ahead of her, and she still beat my ass six times out of ten.
Those other four times, though, I killed her. And right now, I was on a winning streak.
She snapped the puck back at me, lips drawn back from her teeth and her blue crystal earrings bouncing. I was already there, the touch flaming inside my head, and the puck shot back, banked, and thwopped neatly into the goal right past her guard.
Nat snarled, and I grinned. It felt completely natural.
“Oh, you bitch.” Her eyes glowed, and I caught a glimpse of Shanks watching us from one of the booths. Evan jostled him and he jostled right back, still staring at Nat’s back.
Or, more precisely, a little lower than her back.
“You’re going down,” she continued. “Is someone looking at me?”
I’d say he’s trying to undress you visually, but that’s just me. “Totally. Or at least, looking at part of you.”
The puck spat back out, she popped it hard, leaning a little further over the table than was strictly necessary. With her jacket gone, creamy skin showed above in an indigo silk spaghetti-strap tank top, the shoulder holster looking just like a decoration. Muscle rippled decorously in her arms. “Great. He stares, but he won’t talk.”
She gave an eyeroll that could have won an award. “Wulf aside, svetocha, boys are stupid. Always were, always will be, world without end, amen.”
“So how do you get him to act interested? Or get a little closer?” Like I didn’t care about the answer. My heart cracked inside my chest, I shoved the feeling down and we spent about half a minute concentrating completely on the game. She finally slugged the puck past my defenses and straightened, grinning, as I let out a groan.
“Simple. He either steps up or he doesn’t get to play.” She shrugged. “What time is it?”
I twisted to check the clock over the front counter. “We’ve got plenty . . .” But my mother’s locket chilled against my chest, and I cocked my head. The touch thrilled through me, not scraping but tingling. Still . . . “Whoops. Trouble coming.”
She dropped her mallet with a clatter and scooped up her coat. “Back door. Right through there.”
Shanks was on his feet. The other wulfen scattered, and I hoped they’d paid for the beer. Nat and I were through the steaming-hot kitchen in a flash, bathed in the yeasty cheesy bubbling-tomato-and-oregano smell before she pushed me out through a door that gave onto an alley. A rusting Folgers can full of cat litter and cigarette butts propped the door a little open, and she was up the fire escape in a trice, pausing only to brace her legs and lean down, offering me one hand. I leapt and grabbed, she hauled me up, and we were on the roof in time to see a boy in a thin black V-neck sweater and jeans saunter down the sidewalk in front of the pizza place.
Christophe. Blond highlights slid through his hair, and if we were seeing him, it was probably because he wanted us to. Letting us know that he knew, keeping tabs on me.
Nat let out a soft breath.
My heart leapt up into my throat and did its best to strangle me. Nat shrugged into her jacket and tugged on my hand; I followed her without demur. The sun was sinking lower in the sky, and we’d be back at the Schola before dusk really got settled.
Even though I was glad to get out, I also couldn’t wait to go back to the only safety I had.
How was that for weird?
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Schola wakes up just slightly before dusk when the days get longer. There’s a sort of sound to the place, one you can’t quite hear with your ears. It’s the sound of attention, of awareness—and of possible violence.
I wasn’t concerned about that so much, though. Right now I was glad I’d had the pizza, and I was concerned about staying one step ahead of Christophe. The malaika-shaped stick slid through the air, almost kissing the front of my hoodie, and I leapt back like a cat finding a snake on the road, snapping a kick at his knee. It didn’t connect, but it did force him back a half-step. I flung myself away, falling and rolling, and came up with the stick he’d knocked out of my hands. Whirling, had to get more speed, slashing at empty air because he’d twisted aside. That was okay. I had enough room to breathe now, stepping back cautiously. Every time I shifted weight, it was to sure footing.
Arcus would be proud. Don’t lose your balance, girl! the wulfen teacher would always yell. Before Christophe showed back up, he’d been the one to start teaching me how to use what little I had against a Real World opponent.
I hadn’t seen Arcus in weeks now. Not since Christophe’s Trial. I sometimes wondered what he was doing. Yet another question I didn’t ask.
The gym was empty, collapsible wooden bleachers pushed up against the walls and the entire floor covered with mats. Shafts of dusky light peered down from high windows covered with chicken wire, dust dancing through the golden beams. I was grateful I was wearing jeans, because if I hadn’t I’d’ve lost some skin when I’d done the sliding-on-my-knees trick to get away from him.
He hadn’t mentioned me going out during the day. But he’d run me ragged through the first two malaika forms and now he was kicking my ass all over the gym. I got the idea the three things were related.
Christophe snarled as he dropped into first guard, sticks held firmly but not tightly. His upper lip lifted, and there was a thin trickle of blood from where I’d caught him on the face, threading down from his patrician nose. Lucky shot, maybe, but I was getting luckier all the time. The bruising and swelling might give me a slight edge, if I could just stay ahead of him long enough.
Oh, and kick his ass before he healed up. That too.
I didn’t snarl back, but I did grin, a wide animal baring of teeth that had nothing of amusement to it. My mother’s locket was a warm spot, tucked under my tank top. The bloodhunger teased at that special spot at the back of my throat, but it didn’t reach down and grab control of me. I was too busy. If I moved fast enough, I could hold the rage off. “Hurts, huh?”
“Not enough,” he barked. “More!” He darted forward, with that spooky blurring speed, and the sticks flashed. It sounded like popcorn, but with an extra crackle, wood groaning and popping as it smashed into more wood. Malaika have an edge, but these didn’t. Instead of slashing, this was a battering game—but I would be able to pick up a crowbar or a stick or anything, really, and have a chance of fighting something off. Plus, a lot of the moves were the same, building up muscle and instinct for the malaika.
You have to think in circles, he was always telling me. These circles, like a propeller, are your defense. This circle, with your feet, you move in. That way you’re ready for movement in any direction.
I drove him back across the mats, and for the first time I got the idea he wasn’t holding back and being careful. Warm oil covered my skin, my teeth tingled, and I felt the dainty points of my own fangs touching my lower lip.
Svetocha don’t get big fangs, oh, no. We get cute little ones. They look pretty useless, but they’re damn sharp. You have to get real close to get them in something, though.
Sometimes I wondered about that.
Right now, though, I wasn’t wondering. The world was slowing down, covered in clear plastic goop, and I was flying. It wasn’t like running with wulfen—nothing was like that—but it kept me from thinking.
When I was fighting Christophe, I didn’t have to think. I just had to move and do my best. He knew I was giving everything, and he never accused me of doing any less.
Even if he was expressing his displeasure, so to speak.
CRACK. One of his sticks went flying; he snatched his hand back as if I’d burned him, and I read his intent in the way his weight shifted. Flung myself forward, sticks blurring; he warded me off and had to step in the opposite direction. If I could keep him away from his left-hand stick, I might have even more of a chance.
The snarl turned into a smile. He wiped at the blood with the back of his hand, the sleeve of his black sweater smearing it. I could smell it, copper and cinnamon, taunting that place at the back of my palate where the bloodhunger lived. The hunger stretched inside my bones, glass nails turning as a crackling jolt of pure fury ran through me, and the sticks blurred as I moved much faster than I should have been able to. My footsteps were drumbeats against the mats; Christophe backed up, his eyes turning incandescent and the aspect folding lovingly over him. His fangs were out, his hair slicked down, and his remaining stick blurred through a figure-eight, battering away my attack.
The bleachers were coming up soon, no room for him to retreat unless he did something fancy, and if he did, I was going to have to react within a split second. I pressed him, sticks going like a high techno beat, and the world narrowed to a single point of concentration.
We weren’t just sparring now. No, it had ended up like usual—with me honestly trying to hurt him. The anger was back, boiling through my bloodstream, spurred by the smell of copper.
The bloodhunger reliably pushed me into the aspect. It also frightened me. I could really hurt someone when I did this. I’d almost killed Shanks back
at the reform Schola, because I’d totally lost it.
But under the glow of the aspect, Christophe just looked intent and thoughtful.
And pleased.
“Hit me!” he yelled. “Hit me, Dru!”
I damn well did my best. Drove him back almost onto the bleachers; they rattled as he leapt, his back foot kissing the wooden surface and propelling him outward. He flew over me, but I was tracking. I knew where he was going to land; I whirled and lunged. Hit him twice on his way down, his body twisting to try and avoid the blows. Good solid hits, enough to crack a rib.
He landed and spun, foot flicking out. I met it squarely with my left-hand stick, the right curving down to smack him on the thigh. I could’ve gone for the nut shot, but it would have left me no recovery path. I might not have needed it with him curled up on the ground, but that was one of Christophe’s sayings—always leave yourself a recovery.
Dad would have approved. But I was too busy to feel the way my heart wrung itself down at the thought. That was another reason why I didn’t try to get out of sparring with Christophe, even if I was already tired from running over half the city during the afternoon when I should’ve been sleeping.
Because when I got going this fast, and I tried to hurt him, it made me forget—for just a few minutes a night—everything nasty and painful. Everything bad.
The aspect turned to a cloak of warm prickles instead of oil, my teeth aching and sensitive, and he spun in midair. It was one of the things human bodies aren’t supposed to do, but he’s djamphir. Physics and gravity don’t mean the same things to him that they do to—
I didn’t see how he hit me. One second I was kicking his ass while he was in midair, the next dynamite went off inside my head. I came to with my ears ringing and Christophe’s arms around me as he knelt on the mats.
“You’re getting better. No, don’t try to get up.” He pushed a curl out of my face. “Just lie still for a moment.”
Defiance sa-4 Page 6