Reckoning

a poltergeist . . . or be Dad’s backup in a house with bleeding walls and howling voices even he could hear, a house that was the haunted equivalent of a Venus flytrap.

We’d brought out the little boy who’d wandered in there and returned him to his family, and they’d paid Dad for it . . . but I’d still be treated like a criminal if the cops ever picked me up and found out I was under eighteen. Locked up or locked down, no matter that I was more capable than plenty of so-called adults.

I could face down the king of the vampires in a burning warehouse, but they’d stick me in high school. If I ever came to the attention of the authorities, juvie would be the only place they’d think of putting me.

But it wasn’t just that. No matter how grown-up I tried to be, there was a place inside me where being grown-up didn’t reach. That place was scared and cold and abandoned, and I didn’t have the energy to push it down or keep it locked away right now.

Gooseflesh rose all over me in big shivering bumps, and it wasn’t helping by the way I was sweating even under the blast of air conditioning.

Fear-sweat.

A draft of sticky cinnamon scent boiled up from my skin. Why was I smelling like them? Like Christophe, with his apple-pie cologne, and Anna, with her flowery reek of spoiled carnations.

And that was another thing. I’d heard Anna clearly, inside my head. She’d all but forced me to drink her blood. What the hell was that? Nothing Gran ever said prepared me for something like this. Not even drinking from Christophe’s wrist while I almost died from a gunshot wound had given me a clue.

“Dru.” Graves reached through the space between seats. His hand closed around my shoulder, gently enough I could ignore the iron strength running underneath his skin. “Hey. I’m sorry. It’s okay, all right? It’s okay. Don’t.”

Ash whined again, in the very back of his throat. He was depending on me, and I’d gotten Graves into this too. I was sucking at getting them out and keeping them safe, despite trying as hard as I could.

No matter what I did, no matter how hard I tried, it just wasn’t enough.

Christophe glanced at me. There was a faint sound—he’d swallowed, audibly. “Graves.” He shifted a little in the seat, took a left. “I apologize.”

I put my head down on my knees. Tried to breathe deeply.

“No problem.” At least Graves didn’t sound angry. Or grudging. “I, uh, well. We’ll get to a hotel soon, right?”

Christophe hit the brakes, eased up. The car crept forward. “Very soon.”

“I’ll keep track of Ash. We’ll get room service. You take Dru and get her something good. Something nice, you know?” Graves squeezed my shoulder, but gently. I guess he was trying to be comforting.

Too bad I was past being comforted.

“I think she needs to rest for a while,” Graves continued. “She’s, uh, pretty broken up. About the house. The fire.”

I’m right here, I wanted to yell. Don’t talk around me, for Christ’s sake.

But I didn’t care. They could do whatever they were going to do. I had enough to deal with, keeping my stomach from emptying itself all over the dash. Keeping the screaming inside me locked down in my throat where it couldn’t come out and break every window in the car.

“She . . . has had a difficult time of it.” Christophe spaced the words evenly. Neutral.

The space inside the car relaxed. I kept breathing into my knees, my eyes shut tight. The engine purred along, smoothly, carrying us all.

We finally made a sharp right, tires bouncing a little.

Christophe let out a long breath. “Here we are. Four Seasons, at your service.”

“Swank. Can we afford this?” Graves actually sounded grudgingly impressed.

“Of course. Nice rooms, discreet staff, quiet. Just the thing.” Christophe brought the car to a stop, nice and easy. “Let me do the talking. Just stay behind me, and try not to look . . . well, never mind.”

I made up my mind I wouldn’t care. Breathed into the comforting hollow between my jean-clad knees, wished the dark could last forever.

“Dru.” Mocking and businesslike, Christophe was back to his old self. It was almost a relief. “We’re going to have to check in, kochana.”

Graves’s hand fell away from my shoulder.

I braced myself and looked up, blinking furiously.

It was swank. Money breathed out of the fake adobe, and there were valets already perking up to attention. The doorman, a tall man with chocolate skin and a snappy dark blue suit jacket, eyed our car. His tie was a vivid flash of red. All the colors were too intense, crowding in through my eyes and pressing into my brain.

Dad would hardly ever have stayed in a place this nice. He had some ideas about the constitutionality and advisability of valet parking. But occasionally, he’d take me so I knew what to expect and how to get in and out of a nicer class of hotels.

My voice wouldn’t work quite right. My cheeks were wet. “I don’t think I’m dressed for this.” We’ll stick out. Oh, God, will we ever stick out here.

“Don’t worry.” Awkward for the first time, Christophe actually patted my elbow. The awkwardness passed, and his face smoothed. He actually looked ready to handle this. “You look lovely. Stay here, let me open your door.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Christophe took control, quietly and efficiently. One look from him and the doorman and bellhops snapped to attention, the valet took our car, and our luggage—such as it was—was unloaded with alacrity. The desk clerk had murmured something about a standing reservation, and we’d been whisked upstairs inside of two minutes. Christophe tipped the bellhop, saying something in a low voice, and pushed me gently toward the huge granite-tiled bathroom to freshen up. Clean clothes arrived like a genie had ordered them, so as soon as I got out of the shower there was a new pair of designer jeans and a navy-blue silk T-shirt. I used the hotel soap with abandon, scrubbing away the sweat-film, and tried not to cry. It didn’t work. I was leaking.

The restaurant was Italian, within walking distance, and the type of place Dad wouldn’t have touched with a ten-foot pole. The kind where they have eight different sorts of forks ranked alongside your plate, sneering waiters, and a ties-are-not-optional dress code.

The “Italian” extended to a sort of indoor courtyard full of lush greenery. I guess you could even call it a grotto, what with the statues. Naked statues, in glaring white marble.

The expensively suited maitre d’ had held my seat and laid a green linen napkin decorously in my lap, discreetly not mentioning that I was on a slow leak. Christophe pretended not to notice, and as soon as he settled himself and the water glasses—actual goblets full of crushed ice and a paper-thin slice of lemon arranged just so—were filled, he picked up the menu and examined it critically.

I wiped at my cheeks. The tables were all screened off, either by potted plants or by trellises with climbing vines. All the trouble of air conditioning, and this place was still trying to coax plants to grow inside. I wondered who watered them, and a sharp high giggle died in my throat.

“The décor is awful,” Christophe finally said, evenly. “But the concierge swears the food is good. Do you want wine?”

I shook my head. My hair, still damp, slid against my shoulders. It wasn’t even worth tying back. The aspect was a warmth just under my skin, easing the cramping stiffness of sitting in a car all day.