Betrayals

still crouched right by my bed, the knife ready in my fist. “I have taken good care of everything of yours, little bird. The truck is in a storage facility downstate under another name, safe and sound.” He raised one elegant eyebrow, slightly. “They didn’t give you any clothes? Or an expense account?”

My cheeks turned so hot I’m surprised they didn’t glow. I straightened, suppressing the urge to pick at my boxers. Fixing a wedgie is so not the way to look competent. “Of course they did. But I was sleeping.”

“All safe in a little blue nest. I wonder why they put you here?” He shook himself again, water spattering. He was soaked. “Did you miss me?”

Oh, for chrissake. I set the knife down on the elegant little nightstand and pulled the hem of my tank top down. “I’m going to get you a towel, and I’m going to get some clothes on. Then we can —”

One very blue glance, before he pushed his hair back with stiff fingers and gave the rest of the room a once- over. “A towel would be nice, but you don’t need to bother getting dressed. You’re not going anywhere.”

Silence filled the room. He looked steadily at me, I looked back, and the flush died on my cheeks.

The smell of apple pies filled up the space between us, and I suddenly was pretty glad I wasn’t bleeding anywhere, or even scabbed up. I knew how strong and fast Christophe was. If he decided to go all bloodhungry on me, what chance did I have?

Which all of a sudden made me think of something else. What if Irving had been taking it easy on me? Or if he hadn’t, and Christophe was stronger, why the hell was he that way?

How old was this djamphir who’d rescued me? He was pretty obviously an “advisor,” and they tend to be older.

Like, way older.

“There’s a lot of things you didn’t tell me.” I tried not to sound accusing. I was suddenly very aware of the tank top clinging to me and cool air touching exposed skin. My legs felt very long, very skinny, and pretty unshaved.

Hey, I wear jeans all the time. You couldn’t pay me to wax, and who has time to drag a razor over everything every day? When we’d lived below the Mason-Dixon I’d kept up with it, but moving up with the polar bears and finding out I was a lot deeper in the Real World than I’d ever guessed didn’t leave me with a lot of time for hair removal.

I thought I might make some time from now on, though. My cheeks were so hot I was amazed steam wasn’t rising off the skin.

“Dru.” He took two steps toward me, his boots crushing the carpet. “I didn’t have time for a lot of niceties. You realize that, right?”

I crossed my arms over my chest. Jeez, it was cold in here all of a sudden. And had he always smelled this good? Was it a cologne? Eau de Christmas Pie? “I guess,” I said finally. There hadn’t exactly been time for a lot of note taking, but he still could have told me a few things.

Would I have believed him? All I had to do now was look around this pretty little room and think of the bars on the other windows. Or of the first Restriction, when the bell jangled and everyone leapt for their stations, and Dylan dragged me up to this room and told me to lock the door.

But why? I’d wanted to know, and Dylan had showed his teeth, fangs curving down as his aspect slid over him.

Because this isn’t a drill, he’d said. And you are what we’re going to die for if they break through the outer defenses. Now lock your door.

Christophe shook his head again. Water flew like jewels. “A towel would be nice, Dru.”

“Yeah, sure. Fine.” I stamped barefoot toward the door between two bookshelves. I had my own bathroom, while the boys in the dorms had to make do with communal ones. And I still couldn’t figure out who cleaned it, though it wasn’t as old-grungy as the caves downstairs. And I don’t make much of a mess, either.

Living with Dad taught me that much, at least.

The towels were blue too, and a little threadbare. Bright blue like a summer sky. The color of our truck, the color of Dad’s eyes, warmer than Christophe’s, even when bloodshot after a night of sipping Beam, or when he was in what he called a “damn bad mood.”

I had to stop and take a deep breath. Right next to the squirrelly panic-feeling of being left behind again was a hot wash of relief, as vivid as oil paint. It was a familiar feeling, the relief I felt each time Dad showed back up to collect me.

What did I have to be relieved about? Nothing except the fact that someone had come back for me.

When you’ve spent your life waiting to be collected like a library book or a piece of luggage, the intensity of that relief gets a little ridiculous.

But at least Christophe hadn’t forgotten about me.

I grabbed a bath sheet and stamped back out. Christophe hadn’t moved. He was staring at the empty bookcases with a peculiar look on his face. I’d tried to make them look a little less empty by arranging some of the knickknacks, including a blue glass elephant with its trunk lifted, on different shelves. My books, my CDs, my mattresses, everything was in the truck. Nothing here was mine. It didn’t even smell right, when a place hasn’t been lived in for a while, you can tell. The air itself gets stale. Moving into a place where nobody’s been breathing for a while is like trying on shoes that don’t fit quite right and hoping they’ll wear in.

Shoes never do. I’ve never spent long enough in a house that felt this unfriendly, I don’t know if they ever relax.

Still, I was beginning to call a truce with some of the knickknacks. They’d stopped looking like prissy little disapproving things and started to look a little easier with the idea of me. And when I came back after going down to the caf, at least it smelled a little bit more like a hotel each time instead of a crypt.

“Here.” I tossed the towel at Christophe, who caught it with a clean, economical motion. “Start talking.”

“What if I just came to see you?” He scrubbed at his hair, wiped his face and hands. The jacket squeaked a little. His hands were wet, and I saw deep red, dripping lines crisscrossing his palms and scoring his knuckles before he shook his fingers out. They were pale and perfect again when he held one up and examined it critically, exhaling.

My heart made a funny flipping movement. “Oh, please. You wouldn’t have waited if you really wanted to see me that bad.” And you wouldn’t be sneaking in through my window if everything was all right. I found a big plaid flannel shirt Graves had gotten on one of his shopping runs and shrugged into it, my fingers fumbling with the buttons. It smelled vaguely of cigarette smoke, boy, and harsh deodorant soap. Another odd flush of relief spilled through me. “Where have you really been? Driving here? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Touched that you care.” He rubbed behind his ear and grinned like a cat. The blond highlights sliding through his hair were darkened by the wet, but still visible. He shucked out of the jacket, too, and looked for a place to put it. I pointed at the creaking office chair in front of the computer and he hung it up, muscle moving under his thin black V-neck sweater.

I looked away at the drapes pulled closed over the window. It was pretty dark in here, and I was kind of happy about that.

But there was plenty not to be happy about in the dark, too. I flicked the bedside lamp on, an antique brass number with a blue stained-glass shade, and turned to find Christophe watching me.

His eyes were even bluer than the room, but oddly bleached.

Winter eyes.

“How old are you, anyway?” I didn’t cross my arms, but I did pick up the stiletto again. I did not try to push the blade back in, just held it loosely.

It made me feel better. My hair was all messed up and my boxers were on weird, but at least I felt equipped to handle this if I kept a grip on the knife.

Why? He’s not going to hurt me. The relief burst inside my chest again, but under it was the bald edge of fear. Now I’d seen what a djamphir could do.

It was stupid not to be frightened of them.

Christophe kept very still. He was staring at my breastbone, where my mother’s locket glistened.