Strange Angels

Graves sniggered weakly. I got him up on the porch and kept moving back. It felt uncomfortably like Christophe was herding us.

Blue Eyes grinned, still examining us both. He moved like he had all the time in the world, gliding like oil over the snow. “He’s going to fall asleep soon. That was his first change, wasn’t it? How long ago was he bitten? And by what strain?”

My breath made a cloud in front of me. Graves slumped against my shoulder. It was hard to believe he had just been running around growling like an Alsatian moments ago. “I’ll ask the questions, Chris. You just give answers. What the hell are you? And if you didn’t kill my father, who did?”

“You really don’t listen, do you? I’m djamphir. Called a half-breed, but technically more like a sixteenth. We’re the product of unions between women and nosferatu. Surely you’ve heard of that.”

My stomach turned over hard. Holy shit. “Actually, no. Not really.” Only in movies. Really bad movies.

“Well, where have you been hiding, Miss Dru?” He was up the steps in one bound, his feet touching lightly, like ballet slippers. It was like watching a cat levitate. “I suppose you don’t know what you are, either.”

I could not get the thought of apple pie out of my head. Gran always served hers with a slab of cheese; Dad liked it that way. “I know what I am. I’m cold and hungry and pissed off. Thanks.” I reached blindly for the knob, meaning to sweep the door closed and shut him out on the front porch, and hesitated.

The door hadn’t done a fat lot of good five minutes ago. Still, the way he was grinning through his mask of blood wasn’t encouraging.

I backed up. The gun was on the floor, too far back for me to kick the door closed and get to it. “If you’re evil, you’re barred from my house.” My throat was dry. Graves picked that moment to go completely limp against me, and instead of being ready to kick ass, I was suddenly in danger of going down into yet another inglorious heap. My back ran with hot pain, and my shoulder wasn’t too happy.

Christophe stepped over the threshold, swept the door closed, and caught Graves’s other arm. In one efficient trice, he had taken all of the weight and was maneuvering Graves with dancerlike grace. It looked like Gene Kelly hauling around a doll full of sand. “Where do you want him?”

“Upstairs.” I scooped the gun up. “And move slowly.”

One blue eye sparkled at me. The blood was already drying. The heater was on—God, the bill was going to be sky-high this month. “If I wanted either of you dead, I’d just leave you to the wolves. ’Tis their season, after all.”

Yeah. Sure. Whatever. “I’ll keep the gun just in case. What are you doing here?”

“I thought I’d pay you a visit, my dear. Since you’re so interesting.”

My mouth shifted into high gear, leaving my brain behind. “You know, you’re the second guy in a few days to call me that. You should be more creative.”

Good one, Dru.

“I do hate to be imitated.” He was hauling Graves up the stairs like the kid weighed nothing. “He’ll be fine, if you’re wondering. He’ll sleep for a couple hours and wake up disoriented and hungry. I hope you have meat in the house.”

Does bologna count? “Um, okay. Are you a hunter?” I trailed along behind him, suddenly wishing I could see Graves’s face. And unless I was going nuts—which was a distinct possibility—this kid smelled just exactly like a fresh-baked pie. It was a good smell, and it made me hungry.

“Among other things.” He reached the top of the stairs, sniffed, and carried Graves into my room. “My, isn’t this cozy. I’ll bet he sleeps here.” He dumped the kid on the cot and covered him up with a few quick yanks on an Army blanket. Scratchy but warm, and it would forgive the snow melting from Graves’s clothes.

His face looked less wary when he was asleep, and the unibrow wasn’t that noticeable. His mouth gapped open a little, like a toddler’s, and I pointed the gun at Christophe.

“Okay. Slowly. Back away from him.”

He spread his hands, a flash of irritation crossing his blood-smeared face. “Why do you make me repeat myself? I just told you I don’t want to hurt either of you. You’re a babe in the woods. Who is this kid, your pet?”

I could barely believe it, but I outright bristled. If I had hackles, they would have gone straight up. “He’s my friend.” And you’re not. “I think we need to have a little chat.”

“I agree.” His shoulders slumped a little, as if he was tired. “Do you have a washcloth? I’d like to get the blood off my face.”

It was a pretty reasonable request, I decided. “Downstairs. Kitchen.” But I covered him with the gun the entire way.

I’d hit him once, after all. And here in the house I’d already shot a zombie. Maybe this smartmouth blue-eyed apple-pie boy would be next.

CHAPTER 21

Without the blood on his face, and in full light, Christophe turned out to be not just sharp-nosed but sharply handsome, too. The sweater, snowmelt weighing it down, clung to his torso. He was in good shape, and strong—I was going to have a bruise above my knee where he’d plugged me.

I kept him covered with the gun from one side of the breakfast bar while he wiped himself off, rubbing at his hands and passing the washcloth over his face. His chin was a little sharp, but he had great cheekbones. “That isn’t necessary,” he said, his back to me, glancing up out the window to the backyard. He didn’t say a damn thing about the plywood-and-blanket baffle over the destroyed door. I wondered if he could smell the zombie.

“You’d better start talking,” I informed him the third time he rinsed his hands. “I don’t have all day.”

“You might have all day, but you certainly don’t have all night.” He turned and leaned against the counter, his hair lying down a bit more now but still artistically mussed. Those blue eyes scored holes of brilliance in his face, and his elegant mouth made a small movement as if he tasted something on the borderline of bad. “Are you expecting visitors?”

What? “No.” I was going to re-ward the doors and windows, and I think I’d better as soon as I get you out of here. “But you’re not asking the questions, bucko. I am. Why don’t you explain how you know my father and what exactly you are?”

He shrugged, and the heater shut off. I almost jumped out of my skin. “I’m djamphir. I hunt nosferatu. I suppose human hunters don’t know much about us—at least, the amateurs probably don’t.” He grinned, and I found myself disliking him intensely. “And I know your father because he set me back months. I had almost finished preparing a trap for Sergej, but then your father had to come blundering in with his vendetta and ruin the whole thing. He’s dead, then? I thought as much when I saw them take him.”

“You saw it? What happened? And who the hell is Sergej?” I couldn’t pronounce the name the way he could, like it was in another language. It sent the same glass dagger through my head, and the house creaked sharply as it settled on itself.

He rolled his eyes, a very teenage movement, but oddly strained. “Sergej, the Princeps. He’s old, and nasty. He’s the nosferat Dwight Anderson’s been hunting these twelve years.”

Hearing him say Dad’s name was bad. Hearing him say that was . . . well, it was worse.

Dad was hunting a sucker? No way. He always told me that was bad, bad news. That you