Reckoning

since. Maybe they weren’t overt, like Christophe’s, but they were just as real. “Say something.”

Yeah, sure. Like I had a whole list of things just lying around to say. My mouth opened. “Ash? Shanks? Dibs?”

He flinched as if I’d hit him. “Dibs is here. The others . . . I don’t know.”

I let out a shaky breath and settled for the obvious. “How do we get out of here?” I even sounded halfway normal, instead of scared out of my mind.

He twitched a little, and the green glow in his irises dimmed for a moment. His whole body tensed, shoulders hunching and the clarity of the change blooming around him. The Other shone out for a brief moment, and sweat sprang up on his caramel skin. Under his coloring, he was pale. A shudder wracked him, and he dug his fingers into the stone like he was going to start kneading bread.

“Dru.” As if reminding himself who I was. “You gotta trust me.”

I don’t have a whole hell of a lot of options. I nodded. Curls fell in my face. “Okay.”

That brought up a ghost of a smile. It wasn’t anything close to my Goth Boy, but it made me feel a hell of a lot better. Relieved, even. My arms and legs actually went weak for a second, and I sagged against the wall.

He stared at me for another long moment. “They’ve got him. Reynard. Christophe.”

I actually gulped. “Is he—”

“Alive. Thought I’d warn you. It’s pretty bad. But you gotta trust me, Dru. I’m Broken, but . . . please.”

“I already said okay.” The urge to roll my eyes was incredibly strong. “Graves—”

“Never figured out why you did.” He hunched even further. “Tell me. Now, while I can hear you. Why did you even . . . why me?”

For a second I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. Then it hit me.

If I had a chance to tell him something, this was it. And it couldn’t be like all the other times, when everything I ever wanted to say to him jammed up in my chest like a ball of snarled yarn and I ended up spitting out something so stupid it made me cringe for days afterward to even think about it.

Make it count, Dru. I searched for the words. And, wonder of wonders, they came.

“Because you’re brave,” I told him. “You’re the bravest person I’ve ever met. Because you didn’t walk off when it looked like I was in trouble. Because you stuck around even though the Real World’s scary and Ash bit you. Because you made everyone come back to that first Schola while it was burning, to get me out. Because you came back the last time we tangoed with him.” With Sergej, I meant, and Graves shuddered. Hurry up. The words tumbled out over each other, faster and faster. “Because I get you. I like your jokes and I like you and I feel like I can handle anything when you’re around. Because . . .” I took a deep breath and took the plunge. “Because you’re beautiful and I love you. Even if you drive me up the goddamn wall with the back-and-forth and not wanting to be my boyfriend or anything. Okay? That’s why. Because you’re a rock, Graves. You’re a total . . . rock.”

Oh, crap. I started out good and ended up lame. Story of my life.

Graves crouched there, looking at me. His face worked like the gears behind it had gotten snarled. His eyes flamed green, and the high-voltage humming going through him was so loud I was afraid everyone in the world would hear it. He stared for what felt like forever while I tried to think of something else to say. The chain rattled as I shifted, and that shook him out of whatever he was thinking.

“Trust me,” he repeated, and was gone in a heartbeat. The door clanged shut, the bolt shot home, and I slumped against the wall.

“I do.” My whisper barely stirred the air. I thought about this for a few minutes, and I found out I was shaking. My hands vibrated like I was holding onto a weed whacker and my legs gave out. I sat down on the shelf-bed with a thump that clicked my teeth together, hard.

I waited for him to come back. But after a little while, I started working on the chain again. I trusted him, sure.

But it would be even better if I was ready to go when the time came.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

I got exactly nowhere. When Sergej came back, he had a black-eyed Graves lock my other wrist down with a short chain attached to a wheelchair. Then he edged closer to me, stretching out his hand, and did something—and the cuff on the chain attached to the wall unfolded in complex clockwork. The touch shivered uneasily, and my stomach growled. I felt light-headed but clear.

And thirsty. The bloodhunger scraped at the back of my throat. I could smell it in both of them—the candy-rotting reek of red blood cells dying inside Sergej’s veins and the sweet red fluid in Graves’s.

“Poor little dear, growing weaker.” Sergej retreated to the door. “Hungry, are we? And thirsty too, I’ll wager. But you’re ever so much more tractable this way.”

Just give me an opening, asshole, and I’ll show you “tractable.” I glanced at Graves, but his face was set and pale, and those black holes where his eyes should be were creeptastic. I lowered myself gingerly into the chair and decided not to say anything.

At least now I was chained to a wheelchair instead of a wall. The chain might be durable and the cuff made of something space age, but wheelchairs are pretty fragile when it comes down to it. Things were looking up.

At least, they were looking up until Graves clumsily buckled the leather restraints over my wrists and ankles. The vampire stood and watched, clicking his tongue occasionally when Graves slowed down. Goth Boy was sweating a little, tiny diamond drops of water standing out on his skin. He kept his head down, his hair shaken into his face.

When it was done, Sergej whooshed past and was out in the hall in an eyeblink. Graves grabbed the back of the wheelchair and began pushing. After the dim stone cube, the hall was a glare, and I blinked several times. Hot water swelled in my eyes as they adjusted. The hall sloped up, and the wheelchair squeaked as Graves set off, following Sergej’s soundless steps. But his right hand came down and touched my shoulder. For a second his fingers dug in, a brief squeeze. Then he took it away.

I was shaking again. Sitting down, though, meant I could put my game face on. My left hand squeezed against itself, knotted up into a fist, and the spike of raw blistered pain was welcome. Even though my hand wasn’t healing from the Frisbee hex, I wasn’t going to complain. Not while it gave me a tool I needed to fight off Sergej’s snakelike stare.

The hall went up, and up, and spiraled. The stone gave way to regular walls, but it still felt underground. Dead air and the sense of weight pressing down on you, all over your body, echoes not quite behaving the way they should. Graves was breathing hard, slowing down as he pushed the chair. Sergej didn’t glance back, but he made another one of those clicking sounds, like he was hurrying up a horse or a dog.

Graves sped up a little. I concentrated on breathing, and on not hearing the soughing of blood in his veins. On not feeling the bloodhunger rasp against the back of my throat, my veins drying out like red sand. The emptiness in my middle, worse than hunger.

I’ve been hungry before. I’ve been plenty scared, too. But this . . . this was . . .

The hall ended in a pair of doors. Big dark wooden doors bound with rusting iron, spattered with crusted, metallic-smelling fluids I didn’t want to look at. Sergej reached up, his slim hands shocking–pale against the rough black wood, and pushed. The golden electric light ran down his curls, and if not for the quicksilver inhuman grace of his movements he would’ve made a pretty picture. He shoved, casually, and the heavy doors swung wide.

A burst of warmer air slid down the hall. The touch filled my head with shadowy pictures, sounds coming through static.

Screaming, begging, please don’t, no. Bright eyes glazed with avid glee over the black of the hunting-aura, claws shearing through bone, blood hanging in the air before it splashed on white and black tiles.