“There was no need. And Ash and I have . . . history.” A small, tight smile. “Also, there is an emergency Council meeting. Your presence is requested.”
He said it like it meant required. I guess it kind of was. “This is about the shower, isn’t it.”
“Only tangentially. There’s information.” The pause was significant, but his expression didn’t change. “About Anna.”
Ash’s tension turned into sound. The subvocal growl was so low I felt it in my bones, and the blanket fell off the bed. He rolled his head back, looking at me, and his eyes were orange lamps.
“Leash the dog, Milady.” Christophe had stiffened perceptibly, and the aspect folded softly over him. His hair slicked down, darkening, and now his eyes were glowing, too. Cold, cold blue. “You seem to be the only thing keeping him calm.”
“Oh, please. I weigh a quarter of what he does in changeform. Like I’m going to stop him if he goes for you.” All the same, I hoped he didn’t. Of all the things that would just cap off the worst night I’d had in a while—and that’s saying something—it would be Christophe and Ash going at it in a cell. With me in it.
“If he comes for me, you’ll lose your Broken.” He managed to make it sound like a quiet statement of fact. “He is yours, now. Silver doesn’t account for this.” Christophe straightened and took one deliberate step over the threshold. Heel to toe, rolling through, so that he had his balance at every moment.
He was expecting Ash to do something.
The Broken werwulf went very still. He was staring at me, not at Christophe.
“I want to take him for a walk.” I didn’t mean right this moment, but I also didn’t want to be put off again. I stole another glance at Christophe’s face. My fingers ached in Ash’s fur, my fist clenched tight and sweating. The Broken still watched me, and his lip lifted silently. Sharp teeth, very white. And a lot of them.
“Not tonight, Dru. Please.” And how was it that Christophe could just ask me sometimes? If he did that more often, I wouldn’t get so frustrated.
My chin rose, stubbornly. That’s a look like a mule, Gran’s voice said in my memory, and missing her rose hard and fast in my throat. “Then when?”
“Tomorrow night. We’ll leave malaika practice. You’ve been going at it harder than I’ve ever seen a student work. I think you need a holiday.”
“Then it’ll take even longer. We aren’t ever supposed to relax, Christophe. You relax, and the night will hunt you down. Wasn’t that what you said?”
“What I say to you during practice doesn’t need to be repeated. It’s my job to push you, Dru. I have to be twice as hard as anything you’ll find out there. I’ve trained hundreds of Kouroi. Some of them are dead. I wonder, if I’d been more ruthless, pushed them harder, if they’d still be alive.”
But he wasn’t thinking about them, I’d bet. From the look on his face, I’d bet he was thinking of someone else. Someone with my hair, only sleek ringlets instead of frizz, and a heart-shaped face.
My mother. He’d trained her, too.
“And you want me to take a vacation.” Yes, I was being pissy. But he always had the goddamn answers. It was comforting, until it wasn’t.
Dad would’ve just told me to go do my katas and quit bitching about my bootstraps. I would’ve even done it.
Wouldn’t I? How would Dad have dealt with all this? He hadn’t even told me the most basic things about myself. About who or what I was, who he was, who Mom had been . . . but I hadn’t needed to know, had I? I’d known everything there was to know when I was his helper. His little girl.
Daddy’s little princess. Who had emptied a clip into the shambling corpse that used to be her father.
Of all the things that will fuck you up in the head, that had to be in a class all its own.
Christophe didn’t move. “I hope for the best, but I train you for the worst.” He let out a sigh. “The Council awaits your pleasure, Dru.”
“They can go on without me.” If I kept this up, that tone of painful patience would crack. I hadn’t managed to make him lose his shit yet, but I kept trying. I could almost feel him taking his temper in both hands, as Gran would’ve said.
His eyes were just as glowy as Ash’s, bright piercing blue. “No. They can’t. You’re the only svetocha we have. You are the head of the Order, even if most of your duties are ceremonial at this point. And information on Anna could lead to . . . other information. That you have expressed a great deal of interest in.”
He never really referred to Graves by name. It was kind of insulting.
I patted Ash’s head with my free hand, smoothing down the hair. He was still as stone, his teeth bared, watching me. It didn’t scare me as much as it should have. Stray curls fell in my face. I wished my hair was down all the way; it would hide my expression. “They liked it better with Anna running things. At least she knew what the hell to do all the time.”
“She was just as profoundly uncertain as you when she first arrived.” Choosing his words so, so very carefully. And he was tense, his shoulders stiffening.
“And I’ll bet you helped her get right over that, didn’t you. You’re so helpful.” Yes. I was being a total bitch, okay? I just couldn’t stop myself.
He’d gone just as still as Ash. “I did what duty required.”
“Is that what you’re doing here, too? What duty requires?”
He actually sighed at me. “No. Right now I’m understanding your anger and loneliness as best I can, as I overlook your daytime games.”
My chin set stubbornly. “You don’t know what it’s like to be cooped up in here all the time.”
“Which is why I let you go during the day, and only follow at a distance. For your safety.”
“Let me go. Like I’m a prisoner.”
“Why don’t we address what is truly troubling you, kochana?”
Oh, there was no way I wanted to do that. “Sometimes,” I addressed the wall opposite me, not looking at either of them, “I could really hate you, Christophe.”
“You act out with me because it’s safe.”
Oh, goddammit. What do you do when someone says something like that? I snuck another glance at him, and all the tension had gone out of his shoulders. The aspect had left, too. He just stood there, as if I wasn’t holding on to a pile of kickass werwulf, as if we were alone in this narrow cell. His hands dangled, loose and empty, and he was staring right at me.
At my face. Where every little thing I was feeling was probably written in neon capitals. And underlined.
“Of all the words I could pick to describe you . . .” I was about to say, safe isn’t one of them. But that would be a lie, wouldn’t it. He wasn’t the kind of safe I felt when Graves was sleeping in the same room, where I knew I would wake up and things would be all right.
No, Christophe was the kind of safe that had teeth. Where you know that the bad things are outside the door, but none of them are as bad as the thing inside standing guard over you. He was like a roller-coaster ride, or a twister. Not comforting at all.
Except it is kind of comforting when the twister’s on your side.
“Which one would you choose?” He was still staring.
I patted Ash’s head. “I guess obnoxious would be a good one. Move it, kid.”
The Broken werwulf obediently stepped aside. He edged back, trying to slip between me and Christophe without being too obvious about it. I reached out, snagged his ruff, and pulled gently. “Over here. Don’t think I don’t see that.”
He was stiff and resistant, but I finally got him on my other side. I spread the blanket out on the shelf bed. “I’ll be back. Have a good night, okay? And don’t worry. You’re showing more skin than ever. You’ll change back. I know you will.”
Yeah. Right. But Christophe didn’t say anything, and Ash gave me one long extraordinary look. Like he understood, and he believed me. And like he wanted to say something, but he couldn’t. His jaw crackled as he opened his mouth, showing all his teeth in
a yawn. A sound came out from the bottom of the well of his throat, and I could swear to God, again, that he was trying to say my name.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Council were all standing when I came in the door. They usually did that.
I got the urge to glance behind myself every time, to see what they were looking at. Christophe, who had opened the door, glanced in, and told me it was safe with a short nod, stepped in after me. That was enough to get me moving. It was either that or be herded.
The chair at the head of the table didn’t get any more comfortable. When I dropped down, they still remained standing.
I guess Anna had trained them well. “Well, let’s get this over with.” I tried not to sound tired and bad-tempered.
As usual, the first to sit was Bruce. He lowered himself down in the seat to my left, his sharp dark face set. That was the signal for the rest of them. Slim blond Ezra had his usual cigar, but it was unlit. Mostly because I wrinkled my nose every time he fired the damn things up. He was in his usual jeans, starched-white dress shirt, and black suit jacket. It should have looked Miami Vice corny, but it didn’t. The fact that he’d hit the drift late and looked about twenty-five helped.
Alton’s dreadlocks moved like a live thing as he sat, slowly. He wore a cheery red and yellow rugby shirt, and his usual smile, shocking white against his ebony skin, was missing. I was so used to Alton’s sunny good temper, it was kind of a nasty surprise. Of all of them, I suppose he was the most cheerful.
Right next to him, Augustine’s chair scraped as he dropped down. He didn’t look too happy, either.
Kir and Marcus were off the Council because they’d helped Anna play her little games. Marcus hadn’t done it knowingly, but he still refused to come back and be a part of the meetings. Christophe was okay with that; I wasn’t so sure. Kir, on the other hand, had been packed off to teach in a satellite Schola.
Probably a reform one, too. Like the one he’d helped send me to.
That left two spots open. One was Christophe’s, of course. They’d asked him, and he made a big deal out of asking my permission and generally driving home that they’d accused him of being a traitor before all that. I guess he was bitter about the whole thing. It wasn’t like I blamed him, but if he kept rubbing it in, we were going to have more shouting matches in this windowless room.
Big fun.
For the other seat, I’d suggested Augustine, and been surprised when he showed up at the next meeting, scrubbed and looking miserable as a kid on School Picture Day. He was Dad’s friend and fellow hunter, from the old days. Blond hair slicked back, his uniform of white tank top and red flannel clean as if I’d washed it myself that month I spent in his Brooklyn apartment, waiting for Dad to come back.
On my left-hand side, there was an empty chair. Christophe rarely sat down. Sometimes he prowled the Council room as if looking for an exit, sometimes he stood beside and slightly behind my seat. Tonight it was behind-the-chair. He hadn’t said a word since I’d closed Ash’s door.
Three chairs down—because he wouldn’t even sit next to Christophe—Hiro perched, ramrod straight. His coppery fingers rested on the glossy tabletop, and his mouth was a straight line. In front of him was an expensive-looking, cream-colored envelope.
My mouth dried up. I stared at it.
Since you have taken my Broken, I shall break another. But Christophe had said this was about Anna, hadn’t he?
Hiro, of course, knew exactly what I was thinking. “It is a communication from the traitor.”
He wouldn’t even call her Anna. It was always “the traitor” or the sarcastic Milady, and the gleam in his dark eyes when he said it made me want to back up a couple steps. I was always glad he never looked at me like that.
I waited, but nobody said anything else. “And?” The single word fell like a rock into a quiet pond.
Hiro shifted, as if uncomfortable. “It is . . . addressed to you, Milady.”
“Okay.” I leaned forward, held my hand out. But it was Christophe who took two steps down the table, leaned across Hiro, and scooped the envelope up. He actually sniffed it, too, bringing it just under his patrician nose and inhaling deeply.
“No trace of nosferat.” But his face was set, his jaw an iron line. That expression was the one that made my heart do a little scared leap inside my chest.
If he ever looked at me like that, I’d find a wall to put my back to. Pronto. “Well, hand it over. I’m sure pretty much everyone here has read it except for me.” But I was wrong about that. Christophe laid it gently in my outstretched palm, and it was still sealed. Dru Anderson was written on the front in block letters, curiously childlike printing in fountain pen, the edges of the letters bleeding faint blue.
“How was this delivered?” Christophe wanted to know.
Ezra shifted in his chair, toying with the cigar. He looked like he really wanted to light it. “A drop box in Newark, an old one. Nothing else in it, and the teams retrieving drop items are on alert. We don’t know what other information she’s passed to the nosferat. No tracks, no scent.”
“Probably one of her Guard delivered it.” Hiro’s lip curled. “I would not have suspected them of professionalism.”
“We trained them and made them loyal to her.” Bruce’s faintly English accent made the words crisp. “She did the rest. They’re not to blame.”
That was enough to get Hiro going on an old argument. “The retainers are not to blame, certainly. It will not make their punishment any less—”
“Here we go again,” August muttered. “Just open it, Dru-girl. Let’s see what she’s got up her sleeve.” Everyone looked at him. He sat bolt upright, and he still looked profoundly uncomfortable. But it was nice having him here.
“Let’s argue once we actually know what it says, all right?” They all shut up, and I tore at the thick paper. Christophe wouldn’t have handed it over if there was anything on it likely to be triggered, but I still used just my fingertips. A ghost of spice clung to it—Anna’s peculiar flower scent, like carnations on the verge of going bad. It made me think of curly red ringlets and her delicate little fangs, the high-heeled boots with the tiny buttons marching all the way down, the silk dresses and the high gloss. She’d pretty much always looked like a model, or an illustration in some fantasy magazine.
Except for when she was trying to kill me. Then her face had contorted and flushed, and she’d had an assault rifle spewing fire while she screamed. Not a nice picture.
I sighed, yanked the folded sheet of matching paper out of the savaged envelope, and flicked it open. That same childlike block printing, neat little sentences.
You think you know everything, but you don’t. If you want to rescue your friend, come visit me. Alone.
It was signed with a huge, florid calligraphy A.
There was another sheet of paper—cheap copy stock, a satellite photo you could pull off the Internet. One building was circled with thick red Sharpie. I took it in, noticed an address typed at the bottom.
Gee. Subtle.
Christophe leaned over my shoulder. “Trap. Not even worth the paper it’s printed on.”
I stared at the address, marking it in my memory. There was something else in the envelope. I tweezed it out, delicately.
A silver earring, just the post part, no back. The skull and crossbones swung as I held it up, and my heart twisted like a sponge in a merciless, bony hand. I made a tiny little sound, like I’d been punched.
“What the hell’s that?” Augustine leapt to his feet.
Christophe’s hand jerked forward, but I snatched the earring away. Folded it in both my hands, as if I was praying. The silver was cold, but it warmed quickly. My mother’s locket was warm against my breastbone, too.
I let out another tiny sound. I couldn’t get enough air in.
“No.” Christophe grabbed my shoulder. His fingers dug in, and I could feel the prickle of claws through my hoodie. “No, Dru. Don’t even think about it.”
I brought my hands up to my mouth. Inhaled, smelled nothing but the faint fading tang of Ash’s vital, springy fur. Opened my palms a little, saw the earring’s gleam.
“It’s his.” That small, quiet voice couldn’t be mine. It burned my throat, squeezing its way out. “It’s Graves’s earring. He had it when I met him.”
In the American History classroom, in the Dakotas. Before he’d gotten bit. Before everything.
“Oh, fuck.” Augustine dropped back down in his chair. Of all of them, he’d been the only one to move. Bruce and Ezra watched me, a line between Bruce’s dark eyebrows and Ezra’s cigar finally laid on the table instead of in his nervous, slender fingers.
Hiro, on the other hand, was watching Christophe. Very closely.
I swallowed hard. “You can let go of me, Chris.” I didn’t even sound like myself. The very small, very calm voice was almost lost in the static filling my head.
“Not until I’m certain you won’t do anything silly.” He leaned down, and his fingers eased a little but didn’t let go. “Let me see.”
I shook my head. Clasped my palms together. Laced my fingers as if he was trying to pry them apart.
He was not going to take that for an answer, though. “Dru. Kochana. Let me see.”
I shook my head again. Wished he would shut up. The static was getting louder, and if I could just calm down a little, the touch might tell me something. If they would just all be quiet for a few seconds so I could shake the roaring inside my skull away.
“Let me—” Christophe’s other hand flashed forward, caught at my clenched fists. His skin was warm, but his fingers hurt, digging in with more than human strength.
“No. No!” I actually screamed, jerking away as far as I could. His fingers bit down again, and I felt bone creaking. My bones, the little ones in my hand and the ball of my shoulder.
Hiro’s chair scraped along the floor. The scraping became noise, a lot of it, and Christophe’s hand was ripped away from my shoulder. Someone was yelling. Confusion, my chair hit hard and bumping the table like a balky carnival ride. The earring dug into my palms, and I tried to clear my head. But there was too much noise—a deep thrumming snarl, and the sound of fist meeting flesh.
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