Reckoning

My heart cracked. I hunched there on my knees, my mouth ajar, stunned.

I hadn’t been smart enough or fast enough. How had the vampires found me? How had Christophe found me?

And where had Graves been all this time?

I found out I was crying again. The bloodhunger curdled inside me, and thick, hot tears mixed with cold rain. I was covered in mud, and I’d just managed to lead the vampires to the only thing I had left.

Was there anything I wouldn’t destroy just by breathing near it?

I bent over, hugging myself, and sobbed while the storm retreated.

CHAPTER NINE

Christophe drove like he’d been born in the hills, blue eyes narrowed and the mud drying on him as the storm retreated. He worked the wheel, hit the brake as we bounced through a rill of runoff, the light now regular rainy-day gray filtering through the mud-spattered windshield. Graves lit a cigarette and coughed in the backseat. Ash hunched behind me, making a little whining noise every once in a while. At least he was having no trouble shifting back and forth between wulf and boy.

Hurrah for him.

Christophe swore passionlessly as the car skidded, twisted the wheel again. Pale skin showed beneath the rents in his jeans and sweater. I wiped at my cheeks with the flat of my muddy hand. The broken window let in a steady stream of cold wet air, and the rain was slowing. Soon it would stop altogether, the sun would come out, and steam would rise in white tendrils from every surface. The roads would look like streams of heavy fog. Juicy green pressed close against the car, no longer pale and leprous under queer yellowgreen stormlight.

“They broke right in,” Graves said again, exhaling hard. “Right in, and the place was burning. Jesus.” Cigarette smoke mixed with the reek of decaying vampire blood, the fresh copper of other blood, the gritty dark scent of mud. And thin threads of spice, both from Christophe and me.

I was smelling like that place in the mall with the big gooey cinnamon buns. The ones your blood sugar spikes just walking past. Christophe, as usual, smelled like pie filling. I suppose it might’ve been okay, because it calmed the bloodhunger down. How I could smell anything after so much wet and crying, I don’t even know.

But there was also the reek of unwashed werwulf and the thin colorless odor of rage seeping into every surface. The mixture was enough to give you a headache, and my temples throbbed.

Christophe stared through the windshield. A muscle in his cheek ticked steadily. I kept looking at him in little sips, stealing his face. Even covered in mud and blood and rotting black, he was beautiful. Not girl-pretty, or the type of boy-pretty that means a guy’s too busy checking his hair in the mirror to pay attention to anyone else. No, Christophe just . . . worked, the planes of his face coming together in a harmony that made him complex and wonderful all at once.

Like that old saying, a sight for sore eyes. My eyes were sore, from crying. Glancing at him made it better.

Right now he looked dangerous, too. He was pale, and his jaw was set so hard it wasn’t too big a stretch to imagine his teeth shattering.

He’d only said two things. Are you hurt?

And, when I’d stammered that I wasn’t, he’d looked right through me, his jaw working and his eyes cold. Get in the car.

Just as I thought about it, Christophe spoke. “Loup-garou.”

Graves exhaled hard, again. Another puff of cigarette smell. It made my nose and eyes water uselessly. “Yeah?”

“If you must smoke, hand me one.”

“Sure thing, man.” Graves’s hand came over my shoulder; Christophe took the cigarette without looking. He stuck one end in his mouth, cupped his palm around the other. A flick of something in his hand, and he inhaled smoothly. Exhaled a stream of smoke.

He’d just lit it without a lighter. Dad’s old friend Augie used to do something pretty much like that. It was a great trick. Maybe someday they’d teach it to me.

Ash whined deep in his throat.

“I know,” Christophe said. “Peace, Silverhead. All is well in hand.”

I swallowed. My dry throat clicked. “Christophe.”

He tilted his head, slightly. Under the mud and water, blond highlights slipped through his hair. His fangs had retreated. “Milady.” Quietly. He took another drag, twisted the wheel savagely as we bumped through a shallow stream. He looked like he knew where we were going.

I was glad someone did.

How did you find me? What’s going on? Where’s the rest of the Order? Are you still mad at me? First things first. “I’m sorry.”

He gave me one very blue, almost-startled glance. “For what, milna?”

Oh, Jesus Christ. “For . . . for telling you I hated you. For accusing you. For —”

“It is—” He swore again, breathlessly, and hit the gas. We bumped through a screen of underbrush and hit what looked like another overgrown rumrunner’s road, and immediately the car settled down. I had a deathgrip on the door, though, and didn’t loosen up. Tears still leaked down my cheeks. Wiping them did no good. My head ached, pounding dully, and my eyes burned. The aspect had settled into soothing warmth, spreading over my skin and working in layer by layer.

He paused, continued. “It is of no consequence.” He relaxed slightly. “You don’t smell like blood. Are you hurt?”

I told you I wasn’t. But I took stock, looked down at myself. I was covered in filth. The upholstery in here was never going to recover. Safety glass jolted free from my window, tinkling, as we hit a series of washboard ruts. “I’m okay. How did you find—”

“You can hide from the Order, moj maly ptaszku. You can even hide from my father, God willing. But me? No. Not from me.” Amazingly, he grinned. It was a fey expression, eyes glittering and lips pulled back; it was like he was sparring again. And enjoying himself. “Just glad I reached you in time.”

I tried loosening up on the door. No dice, my fingers didn’t want to let go. “The Order—”

“Would you like to call in? They will be overjoyed to hear from you.” Why did he sound so goddamn amused?

Everything I wanted to say rose up inside me, got tangled up, and settled in my throat like an acid-coated rock. Christophe gave me another glance. With the cigarette, he looked a little older, nineteen-twenty instead of a youngish eighteen. Djamphir are mostly too graceful and pretty to be believable. Even smeared with mud and guck, his clothes torn up and the rage burning in him, he looked great. He looked completely in control of the situation.

Thank God. Relief made every tight-strung nerve in me go loose, all at once. “What, so someone there can hand one of us over to the vampires again? No thanks.”

On the other hand, the Order was good protection. Mostly.

He shrugged, mud crackling as it dried on him. His hair dripped on his shoulders, the blond highlights slipping back through it as his aspect slowly retreated. “I shouldn’t have trusted Leontus. The fault is mine.”

Well, I wasn’t about to start throwing stones. “I trusted him too.” My voice caught. I decided to leave it at that.

“Where are we going?” Graves piped up.

Christophe shrugged. “To clean up and rest. Milady needs food, and—”

“Don’t call me that.” The words bolted out of me. I hung onto the door as if I was drowning. “Jesus, Christophe. Please.”

“What, no taste for formality?” We jolted over more washboard ruts, but the road was much drier. Of