Reckoning

The air conditioning was silent, and the room was an ice cube. I didn’t mind. Clean and dry, I snuggled under the comforter, crisp white sheets like a cloud, the pillow just right and my knees pulled up.

It felt great.

Graves sprawled in a chair near the window, his legs loose and easy, his head tipped back so far it looked like it might fall off. A glimmer of green showed between his eyelids every once in a while. Ash was curled up on the floor, under a comforter pulled from the other bed, the whole messy package wedged into the furthest corner from the door.

Christophe sat cross-legged and straight-backed on the floor at the foot of the bed closest the door, his head bowed as if he was meditating. The shotgun lay in front of him, its blued barrel gleaming slightly in the dark. His malaika were arranged, one on either side of him. It should’ve looked ridiculous.

It didn’t.

My tongue stole out, touched my lips. My right hand was curled around my mother’s locket. Every once in a while I would rub my thumb over the sharp etching on its back, the weird runic symbols I couldn’t decipher. It was usually soothing.

Right now, not so much.

A flash of green from beneath Graves’s eyelids. Like he was checking the room.

“Graves?” I whispered.

He didn’t move.

“I can tell you’re awake.” I moved a little bit. The pillow scrunched itself up even more perfectly. “Why don’t you lay down?”

He sighed. But quietly. Ash was breathing in deep soft swells, sometimes making a little murmuring sound like a kid in a dream.

“First place they’ll shoot if they come through the door,” Graves murmured. “Plus, I wanna think. Go to sleep.”

Great. The two boys who could talk to me both wanted to “think” and the one with the kindergarten vocab was dead asleep. I guess by the time I got changed and brushed my teeth they’d done all the talking; at least, it looked like Christophe had explained whatever he was going to. Because Graves’s face had set itself and his shoulders had come up, and he looked at me dark-eyed and sullen like I’d done something awful.

Again.

The only thing I’d done was go to dinner and get poisoned. Was he going to blame me for that?

The room was dark, but the bathroom light was on and the door pulled mostly to. So I could see Graves’s jawline, stubble showing up on his planed cheeks. He still looked a little gaunt; it pared his face down to the bone and showed his high cheekbones. The suggestion of epicanthic folds around his eyes made him exotic, and his hair was a wildly curling mess in the humidity. And the way his mouth turned down at the corners was just as grim as Christophe’s.

“Can’t you talk to me while you’re thinking?” I couldn’t help myself. “Please?”

He sighed again and shifted in the chair. “’Bout what?”

Abruptly I was conscious of Christophe, sitting so straight and still, facing the door. He was probably listening. What could I say to Graves with him there?

I rolled over onto my back, stared at the ceiling. The sprinklers were recessed, but you could still tell it was a hotel room. It was the way it smelled, mostly. And the give of the mattress underneath me, unfamiliar even if comfortable. “Never mind.” The words stuck in my throat. “Sorry.” I shut my eyes, hard, tried to count the tracers of color whirling in the dark.

Graves shifted in the chair, a whisper of cloth. “You know, I’d been waiting for a chance to talk to you. That day. When I saw you skipping.”

I threw my arm over my eyes. Mostly it was to hide the stupid smile that showed up, my lips stretching before I could stop them. “After Bletch nailed you to the wall in American History?”

He groaned, but softly. “Don’t remind me.” And there was my sarcastic Goth Boy. “Best day of my life was when you gave her a heart attack.”

That managed to kill the smile. I’d hexed that teacher and almost killed her. The touch thrummed softly inside my brain. I was getting used to it feeling so . . . big, like I could probably drop out of my body and see the whole city if I wanted to.

Why hadn’t it warned me about poison in my drink? Whatever the seal-sleek brown boy had sprayed in my face was probably an antidote. At least, if it was some other slow-acting thing . . . Christophe said it was okay, to quit worrying and rest.

Why hadn’t Christophe known something was off?

“I didn’t mean to.” Well, I had meant to hurt the teacher, but not the way it ended up. “So you’d been waiting? To talk about what?”

“Just to talk to you. You weren’t the usual sort of new girl, Miss Anderson.” Now he was smiling, I could tell. “Figured you’d be interesting. To say the least.”

I was now toasty warm all over. My arms and legs were heavy, relaxing. “I felt bad Bletch had picked on you.” A short silence. “That was the day Dad . . . disappeared.”

“No shit.” Now he sounded thoughtful. “So you just . . .”

“Waited for him to come back. When he did . . . he was a zombie.” I’d never said it quite so baldly before.

Like a kid, I hadn’t wanted to make it true by saying it out loud. Because if you don’t say it, there’s still a chance God, or someone, or anyone will notice the mistake and fix it.

“Goddamn. Now I feel stupid, offering you cheeseburgers.”

Oh, Lord. How could I explain? “You saved my life.” Quietly, as if it was a secret. “If I’d been at home when Ash showed up, and that burning thing . . . well.” I paused, but Ash didn’t stir. He just made another one of those soft sleepy-time noises. “It wasn’t just a cheeseburger.”

“Really?” Graves shifted in his chair again. “Good. I mean . . . good. That’s good.”

The tight knot inside my chest eased. As long as he was here, I could handle it. I could even handle the funny unsteady feeling all over me when I thought about sitting in that chair unable to breathe or move.

Maharaj. There’s bound to be a reason why they’re a third-year subject. That sort of stuff is seriously bad news. “I’m scared,” I whispered.

“We all are.” Graves sounded very sure. “Just go to sleep, Dru. We’re all together. It’ll be okay.”

I don’t know if he was lying, or just trying to soothe me, or what. But it worked. I rolled back onto my side, and before I could think of anything to say, darkness took me. I fell into a soft, restful sleep like a down blanket. Just before I tipped over the edge, though, I heard Christophe’s voice. But different, without the businesslike mockery.

“Loup-garou?”

“Yeah?” Graves replied.

“Thank you.”

The darkness, just then, was kind.

* * *

Ash’s growl dragged me up out of unconsciousness, just like a hook will drag a fish. I sat straight up, my right hand shot out, and I had both my mother’s malaika by the time my sock feet hit the floor.

“Quiet!” Christophe snapped, and wonder of wonders, the deep thrumming cut itself short. My heart hammered, and I began to wake up. Copper filled my mouth.

“What—” I began to whisper.

The phone, all the way across the room on a business table with a modem jack and a pile of stationery, not to mention a vase of silk irises, shrilled. I let out a shriek, Ash whirled—he was crouched in the corner, his irises glowing orange in the dim predawn gray—and leapt. He landed on the bed, the mattress groaning sharply, and hunched his thin shoulders. He’d wormed his way out of his T-shirt again, and his pallid narrow chest gleamed.