Jealousy

by Lili St. Crow

  I didn’t, but this was . . . God. The bed was reduced to splinters and matchsticks, the mattresses slit and springs dragged out. The carpet was shredded, bits of my and Graves’s clothing scattered around and splashed with vampire blood. The shutters were wrenched off the windows, the closet door smashed; the dresser looked like it had been hacked to pieces by an overenthusiastic lumberjack. And it stank of rotting vampire blood. Great splashes and gouts of it painted the walls, drying to black crusts. “How long were they in here?”

  “I dunno. They can do a lot of damage in a short amount of time, and if you’d been hiding in here . . .” Bobby shrugged. He kept giving Christophe peculiar looks, darting little glances from under his emo fringe. He also kept shrugging off my asking him if he was hurt. “Lucky Graves wasn’t in here, too.”

  “Are we sure he wasn’t?” Christophe asked mildly enough.

  Shanks gave him another one of those little glances. “No itty little bits of him around.”

  The thought made my stomach cramp. I pushed the bathroom door open a little. The toilet tank was hanging askew, shivers and shards of cold porcelain everywhere. Even the bathtub was cracked, and there was no mirror to speak of, just shards and slices hanging on the wall. “God.”

  “The destruction is rather biblical in scope, isn’t it? Especially when seen for the first time.” Christophe crossed to the window, looked at the shutters. The metal was blackened, hanging by scraps. “Did they enter through the window?”

  “Majority of them did.” Shanks paused. “Someone kindly marked it for them by ripping the screen off.”

  I gave a guilty start there in the bathroom doorway. Christophe was very still for a fraction of a second. Then he reached up deliberately and gave the shutter a push. “Marked it, you say?”

  “The screen was gone earlier. Stank of djamphir.” Shanks stared at the air over Christophe’s head.

  I curled my fingers around the doorjamb. I was clutching so hard my arm hurt, and the pain radiated down my abused back. I felt like I’d been dragged behind a couple of mad horses down miles of bad road, as the saying goes.

  I swallowed hard. “Christophe . . .” He’d come in the window of my room in the other Schola. Did Shanks really suspect him?

  “You were out in the hall? Pretending Dru was in here?”

  I finally found something to say. “That was my idea.”

  Christophe turned on his heel, leveled a stare across the room. “And a good idea it was, too. We can lose a wulfen more easily than a svetocha.”

  I hadn’t quite thought of it that way, and it made me even sicker. “Oh, God.”

  Shanks shrugged. “Don’t worry ’bout it, Dru-girl. Price a wulf pays for being in the Order.” But he was glaring right back at Christophe, and I had the uneasy feeling that the two of them were drawing lines in the sand.

  I cleared my throat. If I didn’t distract them both, something might happen. And I really wasn’t looking for any more excitement right now. I was plumb tuckered. “Will both of you quit it? We’re supposed to be figuring out where Graves is.”

  “Last place I saw him was stamping away from the locker room after gym.” Shanks had a good poker face; he didn’t mention the rest of it. “He looked pretty pissed. He didn’t show up in the dorms or Dibs would’ve known. It’s not like him not to come back for you.”

  Hearing someone else say that made me feel a little better. I blew out a long breath. “So where would you go, if you were so pissed off?”

  He shrugged, but at least he was looking at me now. Some of the hurtful tension leaked out of the damaged room. “I’d run for awhile. Get it worked off.”

  “So, outside?”

  “He was heading that way. For the east exit.”

  “Okay.” I gathered myself up. “Let’s go.”

  The east exit wasn’t locked. The door had been thrown open so hard it had dented the concrete wall outside, and the thingie on the top that kept it from slamming shut or opening too quick was busted. I didn’t have any difficulty imagining Graves stamping through and breaking it. The gym would have been deserted, too, thanks to Anna. Nobody to see him but Shanks, no reason for him to slow down.

  A cool late-afternoon breeze touched my cheeks as I pushed it open. Shanks whistled a little. “Boy don’t know his own strength.”

  “Does anyone, really?” Christophe reached over my shoulder, bracing the door. “But yes, quite impressive. Still don’t feel like talking, Dru?”

  “It’s none of your business, Christophe.” God, he could irritate me even when I was happy he was here.

  “It could be my business. So many things happened yesterday, you see. Only a fool wouldn’t believe them connected—”

  “Djamphir don’t take no for an answer,” Shanks muttered. He slid past us and stepped out into the westering sunlight. It gilded his dark hair and touched his hollow, shaven cheeks while he grabbed the door and pulled it wide, out of Christophe’s grasp.

  A concrete path dipped away, down toward a copse of ornamental trees, bisecting strips of manicured lawns. Another path peeled off toward a baseball diamond that looked major-league ready, its chalked lines startlingly white and the dugouts freshly painted. The bleachers even looked clean.

  Christophe stiffened, but he shut up. I stepped out onto the path and realized it had been far too long since I’d gone outside. The last time I’d felt the wind all over me was weeks ago, hurried little gulps of air while Benjamin had taken us out clothes shopping.

  After a long thirty seconds or so, Christophe spoke up again. “Dru. It’s near dusk.”

  I closed my eyes. A pendulum would only tell me what I wanted to hear, so it was useless. Tarot cards might’ve been a bit better, but still . . . they wouldn’t say anything useful. I was too shook up and wanted too much, too badly.

  But there were other ways of finding out what you needed to know. If I could just clear my head a little bit.

  “Dru—” Christophe again.

  “Be quiet.” I heard my own voice, a queer faraway murmur. “It’s not dusk yet.” The whisper of feathered wings filled my ears, brushed my face. It was like a big fluffy powder brush, just touching the skin.

  I went to a makeup counter in a high-end department store in Boca Raton once, while Dad was doing an ammo run six blocks away. The lady there had brushed some expensive powder all over my face just like this, her fingertip just lightly under my chin, and she smelled like warm perfume and hairspray. Without the hairspray it was almost like my mother, and after a little bit I’d started fidgeting and in the end made some half-embarrassed excuse and got away while she was trying to sell me eye shadow. This reminded me of that.

  Shanks drew in a soft breath. Christophe was utterly silent behind me, but warm tendrils of apple-pie scent curled across the cold rain-washed breeze.

  I smelled wet earth waking up after winter, the river sending up a flat tang of oily water, the city all around the Schola Prima’s grounds in a tide of concrete and exhaust, the classrooms full of chalk dust and the war of young and old. Sap rising in the trees, the hardy green smell of grass’s first spring growth mowed in the morning.

  The wingbeats crested, like a little feathered thing in my hand, its heart beating frantically. Gran said it was no trick to charm sparrows out of the sky; you had to charm them and return them safely, that was the trick.

  No use doing what you dunno to undo—or even if’n you kin undo. You mind me now, Dru.

  My hand jabbed out, index finger pointing. I opened my eyes and the world rushed in so hard I had to squint against it. Darts of sun speared my eyes, and I had to blink to focus. Hot tears swelled up, trickling down my cheeks.

  The lump in my throat wasn’t mine. It was Graves’s. I could see him, a shadowy ghost in the gathering dusk, like powder on a moth’s wings. He left a scorch on the air, like a hot kettle set on a counter. It was helpless anger, a ball of rage I would never have suspected him of feeling. He was always so . . .

  You don’t
know anything about this kid, Dru.

  He stamped away toward the baseball diamond, coat flapping silently. Phantom pins and needles slid through my fingers and toes. I leaned forward, saw him veer away from the baseball field. He crouched and sprang, his hands jetting out, grabbed the top railing of the bleachers, and cleared it in a swoop of graceful authority no human body would have been able to pull off.

  He’d taken to being loup-garou like a duck to water.

  He stood up on the bleachers, irresolute, his head tipped back as if he was watching the sky. It would have been dark and cold—the middle of the Schola’s “day.” Shanks would have been inside, trying to calm me down and get me to my room.

  The ghost of Graves hunched down, a supple movement. His attention focused outward now, alert. His hair stood up in long curling spikes, vital and powdery black at this distance. You couldn’t see his roots.

  He leapt forward. A burst of static boiled inside my head. My face jerked aside as if I’d been slapped. I pitched forward, Christophe grabbed at my arm but I evaded him, and I was halfway down the path before I realized I was moving. The pins and needles should have made me clumsy, but they didn’t. I ran past the bleachers, was just in time to see the ghost of Graves streaking toward another small stand of oaks.

  He ran like the running was joy to him. Wulfen move fast and fluid, and he did it without getting hairy. His coat snapped behind him, a faraway sound, and he plunged into the stand of trees just seconds before I did.

  The trees crowded close around a small clearing, and the grass here wasn’t mowed. Shade and light whirled together, there was a snap! inside my head, and everything . . . stopped.

  Darkness dilated in the evening air. The oaks drew close, whispering with their fresh new green leaves, and I caught a confused jumble of activity before Shanks bolted into the clearing and nearly collided with me.

  He yelled something unrepeatable and leapt away, almost hitting a tree. I jolted back into my body and stared at him.

  “Don’t do that!” he yelled. “Jesus!”

  “I lost it!” I yelled back. “I almost had it!”

  “What the—” But he shut up as Christophe stepped past him, appearing out of thin air with a whispering sound.

  “This is not a good idea.” The djamphir’s eyes glowed blue in the shade. Light does funny things this close to dying altogether; the shadows moved like live things over Christophe’s pale skin and turned Shanks into an umber statue. “Come back inside, Dru.”

  I searched for the internal tingle that would tell me the touch was willing to show me more.

  Nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch.

  Until a soundless flash filled the whole clearing, lighting it up inside my head like kliegs on a football field. I stalked past Shanks and stopped, kneeling in front of a weird thorny bush. It might even have been a rosebush, but it looked blasted and half-crushed.

  A tiny strip of material, no bigger than my pinkie finger, clung to it. Heavy black cotton, from a long black coat. I gingerly tweezed it free, held it up. It had dried stiff, probably because it’d gone through dew falling. “He came this way. Can we—”

  “I don’t smell much.” Shanks hunched his shoulders miserably. “They cut the grass earlier today, but I . . .”

  I waited, but he just spread his hands. The entire clearing was a thick soup of shadows and a chill that wasn’t just evening creeping up. It was cold, and I smelled intent, like a hex brewing in a dark corner.

  My hand turned into a fist around the scrap of material.

  “Maybe he just needed to go out and get his head clear.” But Shanks didn’t sound like he believed it.

  “There’s nothing we can do now.” Christophe’s hands dangled loosely by his side, but his entire body shouted, Ready to move. “Please, Dru. Inside is better. Especially this close to dark.”

  “You can’t smell him?” I tried not to sound like I was begging Shanks.

  “Enough to know he came this way. That’s all. He could have just brushed up against it, but he can see in the dark. Like we can.”

  I let out a deep, frustrated sigh. Heard footsteps in the distance, and was that Leon calling my name? I guess you really can’t go anywhere in the Schola without being watched.

  Who had been watching me all this time? What hadn’t I seen?

  “Fine.” But I stuffed the strip of material in my pants pocket. When I had some time to think I could probably figure something out.

  Come and find me.

  It wouldn’t be the first time I’d found someone with just a scrap of cloth. Once you have that physical link, it’s the easiest type of finding.

  I let Christophe lead the way out of the stand of trees. The sun was heading for the horizon, disappearing behind buildings.

  Time for a Trial.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  In the very center of the Schola Prima’s main building, the one all the wings come off of like they’re a spider hugging its web, is a huge open space with a glass roof. I say glass roof when what I really mean is a dome big enough to host a Deep South gun show underneath, made of huge glass panels webbed with stone supports. It was probably a marvel of architecture, but it looked like it might come crashing down at any moment. The space underneath it was stone-floored, except for long runners of dusty red rugs. A high dais in the center held seven iron chairs, three on either side flanking a huge confection of spikes and a big red cushion, hung with swathes of crimson silk.

  Two guesses whose that is, and the first one don’t count. Hot bile crawled up my throat. I shuffled along behind Christophe, Leon right behind me, and kept my head down, glancing up in quick spurts.

  The wide spaces were filling up with djamphir, most of them older. The younger ones trickled in and stood near the back, and I saw one or two wulfen lingering near the exits. They were gone as soon as I looked twice, craning my neck.

  The chairs faced south, and in front of them, set to the left, was a sort of enclosure. Waist-high railings of dark antique wood, carved with crosses and hearts, marched in a square around hard pew benches. Christophe opened a little gate-thingie and pointed me in with a half-bow. “If you please, skowroneczko moja. Stay here.”

  Leon followed me, and when I settled down in the first row, he chose the seat right behind me and a little to the left. Christophe leaned on the railing in front of me. “Whatever happens, Dru, don’t worry. I don’t think anyone can harm you with the entire Order in attendance.”

  I didn’t say anything. Who knew how many of them had some grudge against me, for whatever reason? Anna hated me, and seeing Christophe wasn’t guaranteed to put her in a good mood either.

  I had other things to worry about, too.

  If Graves was here we could have a whole conversation in a split second just by giving each other one of those Significant Looks. It’s not just anyone you can do that with.

  But there was that scrap of material in my pocket. As soon as I was alone, I could clear my head out and see if it could lead me anywhere. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d found someone using the touch.

  It would, however, be the first time I’d found someone without Dad.

  “I mean it,” Christophe persisted. “You’re safe. I promise.”

  More djamphir trickled in. I could feel their eyes on me. New girl again, for the three thousandth time. Christophe watched my face, searching it like he expected to find gold there.

  “Don’t worry about me,” I finally said. “Really. I’m more worried about you.” And even more worried about where Graves is.

  “Are you?” A fey smile lit his face, and I caught my breath. It was a shock to see him look so happy. “Well, then.”

  Leon leaned forward, I felt the movement even though he didn’t touch me. “Here comes Benjamin. Don’t look surprised.”

  Benjamin stamped across the stone, his face a thundercloud. He pushed past Christophe, through the little gate, and dropped into the pew on my other side. “Goddamn it.” It was a jail-yard whisper; his
lips barely moved. “Nobody knows anything. What the hell is going on?”

  “Have you found Graves?” I didn’t care if everyone heard me. “Please tell me you found him.”

  I knew he hadn’t even before he shook his head, dark eyes moving over the crowd. “His personal effects are still in your chamber, Milady. Torn apart and spattered with nosferatu ichor, but still there. Wherever he went, he didn’t take his clothes with him. Shanks was the last person to see him. Can’t find hide or hair of him anywhere. Thomas and George are still looking, but you won’t be lacking protection. I’ve got two other crews on standby, and I’ll vouch for them personally.”

  My face tightened up on its bones. If they had what the hell in the dictionary, my expression right then would be the perfect picture. “I know he left his clothes. There was a place, outside the gym—” The words stumbled over each other, trying to get out in time to tell him that I’d seen where Graves went right after—

  “Shh.” Benjamin made a quick shushing motion with his left hand. “I think something’s . . . no, I guess not. Not yet.”

  A hush fell over the assembled djamphir. The crowd had grown while I wasn’t looking. The glass dome above filled with sunset, pink clouds and orange glow like a blind multicolored eye. Just figures that the ceiling would be staring at me, too. Jesus.

  Every time I looked around there were more djamphir. When there’s a whole sea of them looking at you, you can get to see some faint similarities in bone structure, no matter the skin color. Bright eyes, and whispering passed through them. The aspect went in waves over the crowd, fangs peeping out and hair changing shades.

  Have you ever heard a cornfield on a breezy afternoon? Or been out on the Great Plains and seen waist-high grass when the wind moves over it, brushing it like hair? Watching the aspect in a crowd is vaguely like both. I hunched my shoulders. But Christophe was right in front of me, leaning on the barrier, and every once in awhile a stray breath of apple-pie scent would brush me.