idiot?”
Dad shook him off. “What the fuck—”
Christophe shook his sleek dark head, the aspect laying on him in a crackle of static electricity. His fangs were out and snow clung to his knees, clumping on his boots. “Get out of here. Go.”
“You’re him. The man on the phone.” Quick as a wink, Dad had the gun raised. “She told me—”
“Elizabeth told you somewhat of me, yes. But I’m not what you think.” Christophe shoved him, hard. “Get out of here. He will rise soon, and you’re worse than helpless here. Go home!”
“I don’t have a home,” Dad spat back. “They took my home when they killed her, goddammit! All I’ve got . . .” But he stopped there, eyeing Christophe suspiciously. Maybe he’d been about to say something about me? I longed to know. “What are you doing here?”
The door at the end of the hall quivered hungrily. Run! I wanted to yell. Both of you, quit arguing and RUN!
“Paying my debt to Elizabeth Lefevre.” Christophe’s smile wasn’t nice at all. In fact, it was chilling. “You’re all that remains of her. A stupid, silly human.”
Dad regarded him narrowly, his blue eyes at least as cold as Christophe’s. “Then let’s go down there and kick some sucker ass.”
“You’re worse than useless. Come on.” Christophe moved forward, as if to grab Dad and drag him out by force. I silently cheered, static buzzing through me as the vision held.
I’d wanted to know, of course. I’d wanted to know what happened to Dad. And not-wanted at the same time. I’d already seen what happened when vampires killed. The pictures of the blasted oak tree in front of the yellow house we used to live in, something not even human-shaped anymore hanging in the branches, still whirled through my nightmares.
Dad pulled the trigger. A burst of white noise rammed through the image, and my scream lodged in my throat like a rock. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, couldn’t cry out. I was a fly trapped in amber, howling on the inside while Christophe’s body jerked, bright red blood flying.
Dad’s bootheel scraped as he turned and took off down the hall. He was a big man, but he was light on his feet. He vanished through the door as Christophe struggled back up to his feet, face twisted with pain and eyes burning.
“NO!” Christophe yelled, and another burst of static roiled through the image. I held on, my mental grasp slipping as the vision fought me.
No. I want to see. Stubbornness rose inside me. I have to see!
Christophe pushed himself up. Gunfire popped and crackled behind the door, yelling and a rising glassy roar. Christophe’s hands turned into fists. He stood there for a long ten seconds, head cocked as blond highlights slipped through his hair, the aspect flaring and retreating, indecisive. Snow fell from his knees, hitting the floor without melting, and his face was a mask.
Then he turned and walked away, while my father’s dying screams echoed from behind the door that was even now closing like a Venus flytrap on its prey.
I sat straight up, clawing at thin cold air. Metal clashed. My wrist was jerked back as I tried to roll off the hard surface, and I ended up halfway on the floor, my arm stretched above me like I was performing an enthusiastic wave.
What the hell?
A dim stone cube of a room greeted me. An iron door, a shelflike metal toilet, no windows. Light leaked in around the door, through the barred rectangle of an observation slit. Electric light, nice and golden, but not nearly enough of it.
The clashing metal was a short chain attached to the wall and hooked up, probably to keep me from falling off the bed. If I unhooked it, I could just reach the toilet.
Which I did. Hey, you’ve got to be practical when you’re chained to a wall. At least it flushed.
I smelled faintly of cinnamon rolls, and my skin was still sticky from Dallas citysweat. My mouth tasted like zombie dust, but all in all I felt oddly good.
I shuddered, stretched the chain and my arm as far as they would go, and couldn’t peer out the slit in the door.
Dammit.
I was in sock feet, my T-shirt, and jeans. My hair was unbraided, a wild curling mass.
There went all my gear. Again. Dad was always going on about caches and gear, and about how replacing shit was the cost of seriously being on the run. Looked like he was right.
Not that I’d doubted him.
I rattled the chain, examined the plate it was attached to. Bolted to the wall, nice and solid. I even lay on the bed, got both my feet up, wrapped my hands in it, and pulled. My blistered hand shrieked with pain, but I kept at it. The chain groaned a little, but the plate stayed solid. I braced myself carefully, then, inch by inch, put more pressure on the chain. The aspect grew warmer, closing around me until thin curls of steam rose from my skin in the damp chill.
The chain creaked; my breathing quickened. I finally had to loosen up a little. The hook the chain was hung on might have given me some leverage, but it was pretty flimsy. Looked like it could snap . . . but maybe I could tear it out and turn it into a weapon?
Yeah. I’ll stab them to death with an itty-bitty hook. Great idea, Dru. I lay there and contemplated the chain. The cuff clung to my wrist, so small it wouldn’t slip off over my hand even if I tried to take some skin with it. Featureless, light, powdery-silver metal, but it was strong. My claws couldn’t even scratch it, and my wrist ached after trying.
The bolt on the door clanged, a huge echoing sound. I found myself crouching on the bed, my back against the wall and the chain rattling musically. A burst of thick cinnamon boiled up as the aspect coated me, my jaw crackling a little as the fangs slipped free. My mother’s locket was a chip of ice against my breastbone.
The door creaked theatrically as it opened, and a tall figure stepped through. His eyes were black, pupil and iris both swallowing the light coming in from behind him. I blinked twice, not quite believing it.
“Graves?” I whispered.
A flash of green filled his irises, was gone as soon as it appeared. Swallowed by the darkness. His hair was freshly dyed, too. Dead black, hanging over a gaunt, expressionless face. A black dress shirt with pale bone buttons, sleeves rolled up to show muscle in his forearms. New jeans, and a pair of black Converse sneakers. He stood there, head cocked like he had a good idea, those dead eyes focused about three feet above me and his mouth a straight line instead of tilted in a half-sardonic, half-pained smile.
The touch chilled through me, crackling like ice cubes dropped into boiling water, and another shadow moved.
He was shorter than Graves, and curly-headed. A faint hint of swarthiness to his skin, and his profile was purely classic. You could see the similarity to Christophe when he turned his head, both of them in perfect, old- fashioned proportion. Like statues buried in dark volcanic ash for a long, long time. Preserved.
He didn’t look any older than eighteen—until his gaze, sucking-dark from lid to lid, hit you like a wall of floodwater, battering away all resistance.
My left hand seized up in a cramp, and the bolt of pain up my arm was a lifeline. My mother’s locket was so cold I had a vivid mental image of the metal freezing against my skin. Of ripping it free, a centimeter at a time, and the blood running down . . .
“Little bird,” Sergej said. His accent was far more pronounced than Christophe’s, and he sounded absolutely, chillingly jolly. Like he was having a hell of a good time. “Securely caged. You see, I’ve learned not to underestimate you.”
Bullshit you have. My mouth was dry. I heard the click as I swallowed, convulsively. “I don’t think you have.” After all, I’m still breathing.
