“Hey, Dru.” Dibs shuffled past, carefully not looking at me. Clashing, jangling silver dripped from his hands, but I was too busy hugging Nat to really see what he carried. “We were worried. Bobby almost had a heart attack.”
“Not me.” Shanks hopped up on the bed I’d been sleeping in, folding down into an easy crouch. “Benjamin, though, he looked about ready to have kittens. You went right out the damn window and vanished, Dru. Congrats on never being boring.”
Which was as close as he’d ever get to telling me he was happy to see me.
Nat sniffed and let up on me, patting at her cheeks. “Crap. Now my eyeliner’s probably ruined. We were worried, Dru. Don’t ever pull a boner stunt like that again, you hear me?”
So she wasn’t mad. Thank God. The terrible knot inside my chest eased slightly. “I’m so sorry—”
“Can we move it along here?” Christophe’s tone could have sliced solid granite. “This is an emergency.”
Dibs crouched next to Graves. The silver turned out to be thread-thin glittering restraints, and I swallowed a sick feeling as he quickly, efficiently had Goth Boy trussed up like a Christmas goose. “These work on wulfen.” Dibs ducked his head, talking to the floor. “Should work on him, too. Unless he convinces someone to take them off.”
“Which is why Nat and me’re here.” Shanks cocked his head. “Dru, what the hell happened?”
“He saved my life.” It was suddenly important to get that out first. “Came back with a gun while I was fighting off S-S-Serg—” I couldn’t finish the name. “Him. While I was fighting him off.”
“Come, children, let’s move.” Christophe had the shotgun, the two malaika hilts poking up over his shoulders. Nat was already buckling me into my own malaika-harness, and I caught sight of a familiar shoulder holster peeping out from under her blue linen jacket. Shanks scooped up the two duffel bags of gear and clothes, Nat’s quick efficient fingers gave a yank at the strap of my messenger bag to make it lay right, and she gave me a little shove toward the door.
“Dibs’ll handle the loup-garou,” she said. “Come on, you go right after Reynard. Hey, you know, he’s cute.”
“What?”
“Graves.” She fell into step behind me. “He’s cute. You didn’t mention that.”
“For Christ’s sake, Nat, he’s unconscious.” Something bitter crawled up into my throat. Was it . . . yeah, maybe a little. It was jealousy. I mean, Nat was so pretty.
Jeez. So not the time to be worrying about this, Dru.
Christophe checked the hall. “Stay close, milna.”
“No worries about that.” I wished for a gun, but if we ran across vampires the malaika were the better bet. Plus the fact that I was toxic now. That would help.
But Sergej had gotten close enough to Anna to get his fangs in. She was svetocha too. He got close enough to my mother to kill her, despite her toxicity to suckers. Still, I’d tangoed with the king of the vampires a couple of times now and came out ahead.
That doesn’t mean your chances are good next time. Don’t get cocky.
The hall was eerily silent, directionless lighting and a leggy expensive table with a flower arrangement down at the end. I wondered if anyone in the rooms around us had called down to the front desk because of the ruckus.
I glanced back over my shoulder. Shanks hefted the duffels easily, and blond little Dibs had Graves’s lanky form over his shoulder. Wulfen are way stronger than human beings, but it was still thought-provoking to see slim Dibs carrying Goth Boy like it was no big deal. Just a bulky package. Ash followed, padding silently in Dibs’s wake, his eyes still fixed on Graves.
Christophe headed away from the elevators, toward the service stairs. His shoulders were set, and the aspect flickered over him in deep swells like ocean waves.
“Christophe?” I whispered.
He tilted his head slightly, letting me know he was listening.
“Shouldn’t we wait for August?”
“He’ll be around. Quiet, kochana, let me work.”
Well, all right. Just because I wouldn’t see Augie didn’t mean he wasn’t around. Got it. Felt like an idiot. Great.
The stairs were like every other set of industrial stairs all over—concrete, layers of chipped yellow paint on the handrails, every sound magnified. The touch shifted uneasily inside my head, but whether it was everyone’s uneasiness, or the nervous adrenaline rabbiting under my heartbeat, or actual danger, I couldn’t tell. There was too much static. It was as if all the filters that had been on the touch before had been stripped away, and I couldn’t get a clear signal.
Was that why I hadn’t sensed the vampires before? I wished Gran was alive to tell me. Except she’d probably be pissed as hell about her house burning down, and . . .
My mother’s locket cooled, metal suddenly icy against my chest. I stopped dead on the stairs, head cocked. What was that?
A faint scratching, claws against concrete. But stealthy; they didn’t want to be heard.
Christophe had halted, too. His head was tilted, probably at the same angle mine was.
“Did you hear that?” Nat, whispering. There was a sound—she’d drawn her Sig Sauer.
Christophe muttered something, but so softly even I couldn’t hear him. Then, “Up. Go up. Robert?”
“Shit,” Shanks breathed. “You’re kidding.” But he turned sharply, pushed against Dibs. “You okay, Dibsie?” Ash hopped back two steps, staring.
“He’s too thin.” Dibs was careful not to bang Graves’s hanging head on the yellow-painted handrail; Ash somehow slid aside so he was behind Dibs. “I could carry him all day.”
“Don’t say that,” Nat chided, around a half-swallowed laugh. “Come on, boys. Less talk, more move.”
“Ash?” I whispered.
“Bad,” Ash whispered back.
Christophe almost ran into me. “Dru.” A fierce hot whisper in my ear. I was trying to focus past the sound of their movements. There was another sound—skitterings, and feather-brushings, and tiny little tapping. “We must move. Now.”
“I hear it,” I whispered back. “What—”
“Maharaj, most likely.” He pushed against me; the contact made my legs work again. He was always herding me around. “Don’t worry. I won’t let them near you.”
Gee, that’s comforting. I opened my mouth to whisper something, God alone knows what, because just then the lights died. The blackness was a wet towel against my eyes, and the scraping little slithers crested like a wave, a few floors down.
“Move!” Christophe whisper-yelled, and I grabbed for the railing. Judged where Nat was by the soundless warmth in front of me, matched her step for step. Christophe managed to be right behind me without tripping me, and when his hand touched my back, I didn’t jump. Flat-palmed, his fingertips just below my bra strap, the warmth from it flushed all through me and made my cheeks burn. He didn’t push, just kept his hand there, and I wondered how he was hanging onto the shotgun and negotiating the stairs at the same time with one hand off the rail, and—
The whispering slithers drew closer. Ash and Dibs both made small sounds, and I knew without being able to see that Shanks had transferred the duffels to one hand and moved up to help Dibs. A door banged open and suddenly it was just me and Nat and Christophe.
“Graves—” I didn’t have enough breath to yell.
“They’ll take care of him!” Nat tossed over her shoulder. “Move!”
Christophe was now swearing. At least that’s what it sounded like, a steady stream of filthy-sounding words in a foreign language. A chill moved along my skin, and I tasted that faint maddening ghost of citrus.
Vampires. Or just something big and dangerous.
Go figure—all I had to do was get scared enough running up a dark staircase and the touch came through loud, if not clear. Why was the danger candy failing me? Because I’d bloomed.
Great.
My sneakered feet slapped the concrete, and I gave up trying to be quiet. It d
idn’t matter now. Still, it was hushed, and I realized there had been no slice of light through a door when Dibs and Shanks peeled off.
Where are they taking him? Oh, God, take care of him, please. I know I’ve been sucking at the praying lately, but please, dear God, please—
“Next floor!” Christophe sounded only faintly out of breath. How fast were we going, anyway?
“Got it,” Nat barked back, and the tiptapping scraping behind us became a rumble. The handrail vibrated under my skating fingertips; Christophe pushed and I found a fresh burst of speed. We clambered around a tight turn, then Christophe shoved me across the landing, Nat hit the door like a bomb, and we burst out into dimness that seemed scorch–bright after the absolute black of the stairs. Emergency lighting glowed, and Nat skipped aside, gun up and braced, pointed behind us. Christophe shoved me again, so hard I almost lost my footing, and whirled. He tossed something small and gleaming metallic through the door behind us, just before it whomped back closed. A shower of metal from the hydraulic overhead hit the carpet in a patter—Nat had busted it off its hinges.
“Fire in the hole!” Christophe yelled, and tackled me. Nat hit the floor at the same moment, rolling with sweet natural wulfen grace. My head bounced against carpet, all the breath knocked out of me, and there was a massive, grinding explosion.
What the hell? But I knew that sound even as I curled up and clapped my hands over my ears. Grenade.
Jesus. Where had he pulled that out from?
My ears rang, I shook my head. Choking smoke billowed; the door listed on its hinges. Then Nat was pulling me up, Christophe flowing to his feet with djamphir grace, his eyes burning blue in the gloom. He said something I couldn’t hear; I shook my head. My hair had gone all crazy.
My ears cleared all at once with a pop, as if I’d just come up out of the pool. “—fine,” Nat said. “No bleeding. Dru? You okay?”
I coughed, the acrid smoke tearing at my throat. “That was a grenade!”
“Pays to be prepared.” Christophe was actually grinning, a fey smile. “Come, that won’t hold them long. End of the hall, ladies. We’re going to fly.”
I had a sinking sensation he wasn’t kidding. Nat brushed at me, quick swipes like Gran when I’d come home dusty. “You all right? Dizzy?”
I managed to shake my head. “That was a grenade!” I repeated, like an idiot, and Nat grinned. The yellow in her irises glowed too, and I wondered what my own eyes were doing.
Come on, Dru. Do you really want to know?
I found out I didn’t. Nat got me going; we set off for the end of the hall. There was a window there, its curtains moving slightly on a breeze from nowhere. I smelled a sudden mineral tang, right before the sprinklers burst into cold drenching life.
“Oh, shit!” I half-yelped, and Nat laughed.
“This is going to ruin my outfit!” she yelled, and Christophe leveled the shotgun at the window. The door behind us creaked, and I snapped a glance over my shoulder.
Little dried husks of things were shoving themselves through the broken door. Smoke roiled. The things had long scuttling insect legs, hard shiny carapaces, and little red pinprick eyes.
The touch flexed inside my head. The things were a hex all right, but one so delicately built and so massively powered it was leagues beyond anything Gran had ever managed to teach me. I saw the thin blue and red lines holding it together, complex knots cradling threads of force growing like a living thing, self-referential and hungry. Like a virus, or a geometric cancer in the messy fabric of the physical world.
It was beautiful.
Cold water sprayed from the sprinklers, hissing as it met the insects. They swelled in a steaming wave, and the door crumbled. Nat dragged me along, laughing like she was having a great time. The shotgun’s roar was tiny compared to the massive noise of the grenade’s explosion, and the window shivered into a glittering fall of safety glass. The flower arrangement on the table underneath it exploded.
Nat let go of me. She screamed, the change rippling through her, and bulleted forward. She took the window and a good chunk of the wall on either side with her, flying out into the night. I dug in my heels.
Oh, hell no. No way!
Christophe pivoted. He glanced behind me and his face changed. His free hand jerked, and he lobbed another silvery thing underhand. I was trying to slow down, skidding against wet carpeting. But Christophe grabbed me, completing a full 360, and headed for the window. His arm was around me, he grabbed the waistband of my jeans, and I got a good faceful of his apple-pie smell. The blood-hunger woke, every vein in me lighting up like a marquee, and we hit the hole in the wall at warp speed.
Falling, weightless, I expected us to fall a lot longer but the jolt came before I was ready. Christophe took most of it, the aspect snapping over both of us like a stinging rubber band—djamphir can land very lightly, but I wasn’t ready. There was just so much I wasn’t ready for.
A huge grinding noise burst above us. We rolled, Christophe taking most of the momentum, and he might have been screaming. Or I might’ve. I don’t know, because the wall around the window twenty floors above us was a blossom of greasy orange flame. We fetched up against something, hard enough to jolt the breath out of me, and I walloped in a deep lungful of clean night air. The screaming stopped, my ears popped again, and I just lay there for a second.
It was a roof. We hadn’t fallen far—I mean, not far for a djamphir. Still, I could’ve killed us both by not being ready. I stared up at the fireball as it belched up, smoke streaming, and thought, That’s a helluva lot of noise.
Christophe, yelling something. He braced himself, and I realized I was staring over his shoulder because he was flat on top of me. For once, the thought didn’t make me blush. I was too busy looking at the fireball and the plume of black oily smoke.
He levered his weight aside, yelled again. “Are you hurt?”
I couldn’t find my voice. Shook my head, my hair moving against concrete. He grabbed the straps of my malaika harness and pulled me up, I kept staring, goggle-eyed. Fine thin threads of hexing unraveled, seeking hungrily, digging into cracks along the wall like veins. “Jesus,” I finally whispered, my lips shaping the sound, my fangs tingling as they lengthened, delicate little points.
He actually shook me. My head bobbled. “Dru.”
The snap of command pulled my chin down. He looked worried for a half-second before I blinked. The world came back into focus. Nat melted out of the shadows, her sleek hair ruffled and her linen jacket torn. The aspect smoothed down over me, an oil-balm working in through my skin, easing away hurts. Erasing the bruises.
“What?”
“She’s fine,” Nat snapped. “Let’s move.”
But Christophe paused. He still had his shotgun, for crying out loud, but his free right hand smoothed my hair back, tucking curls behind my ears. “All’s well, skowroneczko moja. I won’t let them catch you.”
That’s awful nice. I couldn’t make any words come. I just stared like an idiot. But he seemed okay with that. He touched my forehead, brushing lightly with the pads of his fingertips. Then a trailing down my cheek, very soft, infinitely . . . tender.
Yeah. Like he hadn’t just thrown us both out a window.
“Come now,” he said quietly, under the noise. I heard sirens, the whooping of a fire klaxon, and the rushing suck of flame devouring oxygen through every hole it could find, like a kid sucking on a straw. “We must move quickly.”
I found myself nodding. “No kidding.” I sounded calm and businesslike. It was a surprise, but I was imitating Dad. Had he ever felt this unsteady, this lost?
You’re not lost. Christophe’s right here.
It was more comforting than maybe it should’ve been. I grabbed Christophe’s hand, squeezed hard. His eyebrows came up, but he immediately looked away, scanning the rooftop. “Let’s go.”
And not a moment too soon, because a high chill hateful cry rose in the distance, slicing through all the other noise. It du
g into my brain with sharp glass spikes, and I flinched. Nat inhaled sharply, her head upflung, and she actually sniffed.
Testing the air.
“Nosferatu,” she breathed.
Yeah.
Christophe pulled me across the rooftop, my fingers linked in his. His skin was warm, and the touch drank in the fierce calm surrounding him. There was a fire escape and a breath of roasted garlic—the restaurant was around here somewhere. Nat was right behind me, crowding close.
Thank God Graves is out of this, I thought, and then I was too busy to think anymore. There was a fire escape going down into an alley, and as soon as we hit the alley we began to run.
Because another high, nasty whistling screech-cry echoed from far closer—the hotel’s roof, I was guessing. Christophe swore softly, and I put my head down and concentrated on keeping up.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The rest of that run is a patchwork of confusion in my memory. Bolting across streets, into alleys, up fire escapes, rooftops blurring underfoot, Christophe more often than not hauling me along because I wasn’t moving fast enough to suit him. I wasn’t about to complain.
It wasn’t dark, but it wasn’t light either. We stuck to pools of shadow, flitting from cover to cover, streetlights and city glow suddenly enemies instead of friends. The suckers wouldn’t use guns—not likely, Christophe said, but the Maharaj were another proposition. Once someone opened up on us with an assault rifle, and the sound of the bullets chewing into the street behind me still sometimes shows up in my dreams.
Christophe hanging and twisting to kick in a window, Nat blurring between changeform and girlshape as she ran, random reflections of light picking out iron grillwork on a balcony or the pattern of bricks on a restaurant’s facade. The moon, behind low scudding clouds and smiling like a diseased coin. The glow of Christophe’s eyes as he scanned a rooftop, Nat crouching and panting a little while she rested for ten seconds before we were off again, her hair ruffling in the breeze. A car’s headlights throwing our shadows against a graffiti-tangled concrete wall.
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