Reckoning

creek down-away. I heard a high excited yip—Ash, delighted by something else.

I edged away from the sink like it had grown horns. Gooseflesh stood out all over me, hard little bumps, and the aspect smoothed down over me in waves of comforting, drenching heat.

If Gran was here, she’d set everything to rights. Some part of me had probably thought she would just appear, or that something would be here to save my bacon. I was always more comfortable with someone telling me what to do, so I could just follow the numbers and my training and . . .

But there was nobody and nothing left. Nothing to trust, nothing to depend on, and I couldn’t keep us here forever. Someone would find out about this house, probably sooner rather than later, and they would come riding in to yank it all away from me.

This ain’t gettin’ you nowhere, honeychile, Gran’s voice piped up, faraway and faint. I retreated to the table, turning to keep the windowsill in view like I expected something to move over there.

I grabbed the atlas. I needed to plan, not sit around whining or scaring myself. Thinking I heard her was like a dash of cold water, slapping me into functioning again.

If Graves couldn’t figure out if he loved me or hated me, maybe it was time for me to start fishing in a different pond. Except I didn’t have a different pond, since I’d pretty much accused Christophe of selling Graves out and told him I hated him.

Dadblastit, Dru girl, you’re woolgathering. Chop some wood, chase them chickens, or draw some water. Quit your mooning. Gran’s voice, sharp and clear, like she’d caught me hiding behind the coop. I flinched guiltily, because for a second I could’ve sworn she’d just waltzed in through the front door and took me to task.

God, I wish. I miss you so much. The dry rock in my throat wouldn’t budge.

Hell, I should have been worrying about hearing voices. That was the problem with the touch—you could go off the deep end and mistake shit for Shinola, as Dad would say. And maybe I should be worrying more about little things like keeping us alive and less about my seriously messed-up dating situation.

I hunched down in the rickety split-bottom chair, opened the atlas and propped up Dad’s contact book, and tried to do just that.

CHAPTER SIX

“I’ll be back in a couple hours,” I said an hour later, desperate, but Ash shook his head. He held onto the door handle, grimly, and there would be no way of getting into the car unless I crawled in through the other side. Then, if I tried to pull out, he’d either break the door handle, the door itself, or run after me. And he was wulfen. He could definitely keep up with the car unless we were on a straight shot of freeway, and he could find me in town if he really took a mind to. “Jesus, Ash, I’m just going into town! I won’t be gone long.”

Ash shook his head even more vigorously, greasy hair flying. Bits of leaves and twigs threaded through the dark matted strands, I still hadn’t found wherever he’d flung his shirt, and he was barefoot. Mud striped his chest. He’d seemed pretty happy, until I put my malaika in the back of the Subaru and my bag in the passenger seat. He’d let out a howl and bounded off the steps, nearly colliding with me, and grabbed the handle on the driver’s side.

Perfect. I wanted a hot shower, not just a sponge bath. Not to mention a club sandwich and some coffee that didn’t come from a percolator. I was pretty sure I could just be an object of gossip if I went into the diner in town, but Ash? He’d make me an object of outright speculation, no matter if I behaved correctly or not.

He inhaled, opened his mouth. “Noooooooo.” A long, drawn-out syllable. Then he changed it up. “Nonononono! Wif! Go wif!”

“For the love of Pete.” I put my hands on my hips, and for once I sounded like Dad when he was exasperated past bearing with a malfunctioning engine. Too exasperated even to swear, and that’s saying something. “You do not have to go with me. It’s just down to the two-bit town in the valley. I’ll be back in a couple hours, max. You stay here with Graves.” At least, I was thinking Graves was still around here. If he went wandering off in the woods and got lost, that would just put a capper on the whole day. I’d left his lunch under Saran wrap on the table, and the touch throbbed like a bad tooth inside my head, a feedback squeal from my own frustration.

The malaika were bulky, but I didn’t have a holster for either gun we had, and I didn’t have the patience to jury-rig something. Besides, during the day around here, I didn’t want a telltale bulge under my shirt. Country people understand guns, sure. But I wasn’t one of the locals anymore.

If I ever had been.

Ash dug his bare heels into the dirt and glared at me. Orange sparked in his irises. He set his chin and took a firmer grip on the door handle.

When he’d been almost-eight feet tall and all hairy, at least he’d been less trouble.

I tried for patience. “Look, you’re not even cleaned up. You’ve got dirt all over you. People will stare.” That’s a bad thing, in case you’re wondering.

His ruined chin thrust out further. Here in the sunlight, you could see the scars clearly. They were a reminder I could’ve done without. I remembered him trying to change back into a human shape, and the sobbing when he finally had a human throat again was the kind that will stick in your dreams. If I didn’t have so many other nightmares, it would’ve been a starring attraction.

Of course, I was dreaming other things nowadays. Things that might or might not have been happening. True-seeins, Gran called them, and I hadn’t been wrong yet.

If she was dead, ibn Allas, I would be, too. There was something in that scene I wasn’t getting, and I didn’t have time or energy for enough heavy brooding to figure it out. At the very least, Christophe suspected I wasn’t dead, and he wasn’t stupid. He’d found me before.

He would do it again. He’d probably also try to drag me back to the Order, where I was “safer.” No way, no day. I didn’t like the idea that someone in the Order could sell me—or, God forbid, sell Graves out—again.

And here I was wasting time arguing with a half-Broken werwulf who couldn’t even talk.

“Oh, what the hell.” I threw up my hands. “Get in, then. But don’t make any trouble, or I’ll . . .” I decided to leave the threat hanging. What could I do to him? A big fat pile of nothing, that’s what. At least when he was all tall and hairy, I didn’t feel so bad about locking him up somewhere safe and going about my business.

He didn’t waste any time. He was in the backseat in a trice, bouncing up and down so hard the springs groaned. “Settle down,” I told him. “We need this car.”

I opened the driver’s side door, did a sweep of the sun-drenched meadow. No sign of Graves, and the clouds stacking up to the west told me there would be rain before long. A spring storm, maybe. That would be all sorts of fun and mud. I could even smell it on the wind, grass and trees sensing a long drink coming and releasing their little perfumed cries of joy.

The touch throbbed uneasily inside my head. I tasted citrus, but only faintly, and it wasn’t wax-rotten. Trouble coming, but nothing specific enough for me to take any precautions. Best thing was to just get everything done as soon as possible, so we could leave in a hurry if we had to.

I’d left Graves a note under his plate. Went to town, be back in a bit. Keep the fire going. I thought of adding I’m sorry, but I didn’t. What did I have to be sorry for?

Other than getting him bit and dragged into this whole ungodly mess, that is. Still, he said he didn’t mind. Did that mean I only had to be sorry for liking him, or for getting him kidnapped and tortured by vampires, or what?

He liked being a part of the Real World. I don’t know if I exactly enjoyed it, but I knew I’d never want to be one of the oblivious. Did that make me an asshole?