Now there was a thought I didn’t want. Could he change into his wulf form now? And once he did, could he come back?
“I’m not complaining,” Graves added hurriedly. “Can I help?”
“You can check the icebox.” I pointed with one of Gran’s old wooden turners. “If it’s working, load the stuff from the cooler in there and put the cooler on the porch. And don’t bitch if you don’t like scrambled eggs; that’s all I’m making.”
“Won’t bitch. Scout’s honor.” He gave me a fey grin, green eyes lighting up. “Well, I was never a scout. Couldn’t afford it. But still.”
“What about Girl Scouts?” He opened up the ancient, tiny fridge and stuck his hand in. “Looks like it’s working. This is really cool.”
“Girl Scouts have great cookies. But too many girls. I don’t get along with girls.”
“There’s time. I don’t get along with chicks either. Well, except you. You’re, like, the only girl I’ve ever met who isn’t . . .”
Maddeningly, he stopped. I was too tired to even wonder what I wasn’t. There was a long list of things I wasn’t, starting with
I brushed my hair back, wishing my ponytail would hold. Tomorrow I’d find some string and braid it up.
Braiding made me think of Nathalie at the Schola Prima again. I’d gotten along with her just fine, until I’d been a total bitch. Granted, I’d been getting ready to go rescue Graves . . . but still.
The longing to see Nat, her sleek head tilted to the side and her wide cat-tilted blue eyes considering an outfit or the mess my hair had become, shook me right down to my bones. I sniffed, wiped at my nose with the back of my hand, and turned the pancakes. Graves busied himself loading up the fridge. Ash rocked back and forth in front of the stove, humming tunelessly. Graves carried the cooler out on the front porch, and when he didn’t come back, I figured he was lighting another cigarette.
The way things were going, I might almost take up smoking myself. Dad would’ve killed me for even thinking about it.
But he was dead. He’d never take me up about anything ever again. My throat was sore, something stuck in it, but I just cleared it a few times and concentrated on cooking.
The ancient Folgers can for coffee grounds, eggshells, and vegetable scraps to go in the compost heap was rusted but still sound. I tossed the eggshells in and had a plate together in a trice. “Ash! Come on. Take this to the table. Graves, get him a plastic fork, and one for you too.” I felt like Gran, hollering from the kitchen.
“You gonna eat?” Graves ambled back in, his chin set stubbornly and his eyes dark. Almost black.
I looked back down at the skillets, the pop and fizzle of bacon filling my head for a moment.
“Yeah,” I lied. “But there’s work to be done first. Come on, you two. Tuck in.”
The wide loft held Gran’s big four-poster and my smaller corn crib, and the mattresses reeked of mildew even though we’d wrapped them in plastic. But the quilts, packed in mothballs and plastic, were still good. The moths hadn’t gotten at them at all.
I meant to carry my brand-new sleeping bag downstairs after a while. I thought if I sent the boys up to get settled and gave them enough time, they’d be out cold and I’d be able to sneak my bag downstairs and stretch it in front of the door.
Plus, there were things to do to close the house up for the night. I finished by warding the walls again, watching the faint blue lines running through the wood take on fresh life. They didn’t need to be redone so much as refreshed, and it was amazingly easy. I just had to remember to think
I was hungry, but my stomach had closed up tighter than a fist. The effort of warding made my head swim, and every bone in my body ached down deep. I sat down on the loveseat to rest, just for a second. It was an old horsehair thing, meant for company—Gran always sat in her rocking chair and I used the old hassock, or I sat at her feet while she knitted. The bare bulb in the kitchen gave off a mellow glow, and if I shut my eyes and inhaled, I could almost smell her.
Tobacco juice, a faint astringent old-lady smell, baby powder, and the musky yeasty scent of cooking good things and working hard all day. Her spinning wheel sat under a drop cloth I’d told the boys not to touch, but I could almost hear its hissthumpwhirr and her occasional soft mutters as she spoke to God or told me things.
I loved to listen to Gran talk. She was always rambling, said it was a product of living alone. Dad was never the chatty type, but days with Gran were a constant stream of information, admonition, attention.
She taught by example, but the talking was something else. A lifeline, maybe.
I folded over and pulled my feet up, lying on the dusty loveseat. It felt good, even if the thing was harder than the floor and slippery too. The fire glowed through the stove’s grate, and the good scent of seasoned wood burning—I’d banked it just before I warded everything—was like a warm blanket.
Blanket. I didn’t have one; I’d left them all upstairs. I was going to get cold if I settled here for long.
I didn’t care.
My eyes drifted shut. I was so, so tired. The wards in the walls hummed to themselves, and that was something new, too. I’d never
I told myself not to borrow trouble. Curled up even tighter on the love seat. It just felt so damn good to stop moving, to stop concentrating so fiercely on the next thing, and the next, and the next . . .
That was the first night I slept, really slept, since rescuing Graves. Every muscle in my body eased its useless tension, relaxing all at once. I went down into darkness, and there were no dreams.
Except one.
INTERMEZZO
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