Reckoning

least whoever had put me to bed had left me my panties.

I clutched the clean white sheet to my chest. The pounding of my pulse calmed down a little while I breathed, and the shaking came in waves. It was the trembles I used to get after a really bad time with Dad, like when I had to take him to the emergency room to get the big chunk taken out of his calf treated. After all the lies had been told and the doctors had whisked him away, I’d sat in a hard plastic ER chair and shook like this.

It meant everything was over.

After a little while, I got up. My clothes were still in the dresser and the closet; I grabbed a handful and headed for the white-tiled bathroom. My duffel lay inside the door, and my malaika were hung on their usual peg next to the vanity.

It was like I’d never left.

The bathroom was just the same—scrubbed clean, full of light, the towels smelling of bleach and fabric softener. I stood under the stinging spray for a long time—that’s one good thing about the Schola, the hot water never runs out. My hands looked different when I examined them. Longer, fingers tapered, my palms more cupped. My left palm was still red, faint flowerlike traceries where the blisters had been. It didn’t hurt when I squeezed it shut, though.

When I swiped the condensation from the mirror, the face that greeted me was . . . odd. It was pretty much the same as it had been since I’d bloomed. There was the definite heart shape now, my nose proud instead of gawky, my cheekbones higher, everything pared down.

But it was different, because I could see my mother in it. I could see Dad’s quirk of disbelief in my eyebrow, and Gran’s take-no-guff look when my chin set and my eyes flashed. My hair dripped as I studied myself, seeing them. I touched one cheek, running my fingers over it like I could reach through and touch one of them, or maybe all of them, if I just pushed hard enough.

Someone coughed out in the bedroom. I scrambled to get dressed, and as soon as I was decent I whipped the door open and piled out, scrubbing at my hair with a fresh towel.

Nat set the silver-domed tray down on the small table by the door. Her catlike blue eyes gleamed, every sleek hair in place and her outfit, as usual, perfect. The cream linen jacket hid the gun in its shoulder holster, but it peeped out as she half-turned, looking over her shoulder at me, and her slacks looked freshly ironed. “You’re probably all turned around,” she greeted me. “I figured you’d be awake soon, it’s been twenty—oof! ”

I threw my arms around her, the towel hitting the floor with a plop. After a moment she hugged me back, so hard my bones creaked. I breathed her in, her strange musky perfume, and my eyes prickled.

I did not cry, though. I was done cried out.

“I’m sorry,” I blurted into her shoulder. “I was a dick to you, a total dick. I’m sorry. I promised if I came back I’d apologize. I’m so sorry, Nat. I—”

“Oh, Jesus, don’t be retarded.” But she was still hugging me, fiercely. “Because if you do, I’m going to cry, then you’ll cry, and we’re all—”

“All gonna cry,” I chorused with her, and burst into screamy laughter. She did too, and my heart blew up two sizes just like a balloon. She patted my back, and when we let go of each other she was actually sniffling.

“You had me worried there for a bit, kid.” She dabbed delicately under her eyes with her fingertips. “Don’t make my mascara run, dammit.”

“Sorry.” I tried to sound chastened. “Everyone. How is everyone? Christophe, Graves, Shanks, Dibs— everyone?”

“Fine. Well, all right. Let’s see, Dibs is snarling like he’s an alpha, Bobby’s highly amused and keeps saying he should’ve known you’d decapitate the king of the vampires, Benjamin and the crew are beside themselves and polishing their weapons. The Council wants to see you, and your friend Augustine says to tell you he’s going to make you some toast, for some reason.”

I half-choked on a laugh. It felt good to laugh, but painful, like popping a really righteous zit. “Graves?”

Her face changed a little. The laughter died in my chest.

“He’s . . . packing.”

“Packing?”

“He’s . . . well.” She shrugged, spread her hands. “He’s going on retreat. That’s what we call it.”

It was just like being punched in the stomach. And I should know. “What?”

Nat’s mouth turned down at the corners, uncomfortably. She actually fidgeted, shifting her weight. “It’s something wulfen do. When they’re, um, hurt bad, but not on the outside. Inside. Shanks has kin upstate; they sent word he was welcome to come. He’s . . . Dibs won’t say what happened. But, well, he had him.” She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders. “Sergej.” The name came out in a long sibilant rush.

And for once, it didn’t drive glass shards through my head. “He’s dead,” I said, numbly. “Or at least, I hope so. Christophe . . .”

“Yeah, Reynard explained. Said Graves put everything on the line, broke free of Sergej’s hold long enough to give you . . . what you needed.” A flush crept up her cheeks. “And that you took him on and cut his head off. Congratulations. But Graves is still . . . hurt. It’s different for wulfen, Dru. Sometimes you can get hurt inside, and you need to go away and sort it out.”

Every inch of good feeling I’d managed to scrape together ran out like water from a busted glass. “He’s leaving?”

Was it possible for her to look any more uncomfortable? She actually wouldn’t meet my eyes, looking down like the floor was suddenly the most interesting thing in the world.

“Nat.” I crossed my arms over my stomach. “Please.”

“He might already be gone.” She still wouldn’t look at me. “He didn’t want you to see him, thought it would be easier—”

Oh, no. No. Shit all over that. I was past her, suddenly, grabbing for the doorknob. It wasn’t locked, so I yanked the door open and ran out into the hall. The touch lit up inside my head, and I swear I could taste his blood again, sliding down my throat. Moonlight and that strawberry incense, and something that wasn’t an identifiable taste. It was just him, my Goth Boy, and I pounded down the corridor, hearing shouts behind me. Nat, and of course Benjamin and the others.

It didn’t matter.

I just ran.

* * *

Have you ever had that dream where you’re running, but you can’t move fast enough? Where the entire world is wet concrete, glorping around you, while you’re searching for something and knowing you won’t ever find it? Heart pounding, stitch grabbing your ribs with clawed fingers, the breath tearing in and out of your lungs while everything around you is suddenly, eerily slow?

But I had the touch, and I burst out the front door of the Schola just as the black SUVs were rousing themselves. Two of them, just starting to pull away.

“No!” I yelled, skidding to a stop. “NO!”

The brake lights popped on. They sat there and idled for a few seconds. My hands were fists at my sides, and my cheeks were wet. My hair was probably an unholy mess, and my feet throbbed. Of course—I was only in socks. Goddammit.

“No.” I stared at the cars. The touch settled, feathers brushing up and down my entire body. “No. Please, no.”

The second SUV’s engine cut off. The back passenger door opened, and he slid out slowly.

Like an old man.

Black jeans, black T-shirt, boots, no long black coat now. Instead it was a hip-length leather jacket, probably borrowed from Shanks.

My sock feet crunched in gravel. I was off the steps in a heart-beat, and he met me halfway. I grabbed him like he was a lifering, and I realized the yelling was me.

“No, goddammit, you can’t leave, not just like that, you