Jealousy

from the caffeine. “I think some of them were trying to keep me a secret. But maybe not in a good way.”

Because the more I thought about it, the more the Council’s reactions didn’t make sense. Neither did Anna’s. It was like she was trying for damage control. Why? Because here I was at the Schola Prima, her stomping ground, instead of stuck out in the back of beyond at a reform school? She was probably way, way used to being the only girl in town.

I couldn’t really think clearly about it, could I? Because she just grated on me. She wasn’t just your garden variety teenager, either. If she was old enough to know Christophe she was an adult, even if she looked like a cheerleader. And why had she come all the way out to the other Schola? Trying to trap Christophe, for some reason? Did she really think he’d betrayed my mother? It seemed like a lot of people thought so.

Except Dylan, maybe. And me.

Don’t hesitate, Christophe had said, holding the knifepoint against his chest. Pulled hard, as if he was going to stab himself. He swore he hadn’t betrayed my mother. And he’d been there, in that dark room at the werwulfen compound.

If I need a reason now, Dru, it will have to be you.

I trusted him, didn’t I? But he’d left me here. Alone. Again.

Or maybe not alone because Graves was right beside me, thinking. Absorbing what I’d said. That was one thing I liked about him—you didn’t have to spell anything out for him. He got there on his own with only a hint or two. But where he ended up this time surprised me. “You don’t seem too surprised to see another one of you wandering around.”

“She’s not like me.” It came out all in one breath, immediate and insistent. Thin blades of light slid between the heavy velvet drapes. The windows had steel shutters on the inside, too, just like the ones at the old Schola. Only these looked more durable, and had a pattern of hearts stamped into them—and another iron bar I could brace them with, with its brackets sunk into the stone wall. “Look, Graves . . .” I decided to just keep the Edgar thing to myself for right now. If he’d wanted me to call him Eddie, he would’ve told me.

“What?” Now he sounded annoyed.

I saw her at the old Schola. She wants me to hate Christophe, and you know . . . I can’t even say what I’m thinking to myself. “I don’t know what to do.” Admitting it out loud was probably the scariest thing I’d done in the last week, and that was saying something.

When Dad was alive, I knew what to do. He told me, and he never let me flounder. When he showed up all zombified, things started spinning hard, but Graves had been there. And as long as I was focusing on keeping Goth Boy out of trouble, the not-knowing had seemed more manageable. Plus, I’d been the one with the books and the guns and some knowledge of the Real World. He’d been a civilian. Now we were both in the same leaky boat, and I didn’t want him to know I had no idea where we were going.

Graves let out a long breath, closing his eyes. A thin line of dark-brown hair showed at his temples. Roots. The black-dyed bits were growing out. “Right now we catch some sleep. Then I go find Bobby and Dibs and see what they say. Then we find out how to work that computer and those credit cards and get you some clothes.” He paused, added an afterthought, glancing at me like he expected me to disagree. “And me, too.”

It was a pretty good plan, one I should’ve come up with. “But what if . . .” I stopped. The vampires probably hadn’t found me through the Internet, for Christ’s sake. No, they’d been told where to find me. Christophe had as much as said so, and so had Dylan. “Then what do we do?”

“Watch and wait.” He yawned hugely. I could almost see his tonsils. “Tell Shanks and Dibs the score so they can watch you when I can’t. I don’t trust those djamphir.”

“I don’t either.” But what choice do we have? And here he was, thinking he was going to be protecting me now. I wasn’t sure I liked that. If I wasn’t taking care of him, well, what did he need me for? “Graves?”

“What?” Now he sounded truly aggravated. He flung his arm over his eyes, almost hitting me with his elbow. I didn’t even move—he could have cracked me a good one and I’m not sure I would’ve moved.

“I’m glad you’re here.” A flush was working its way up my throat, staining my cheeks. I had another thing or two I wanted to talk to him about, but the time never seemed right.

It never does. And how do you tell a half-werwulf Goth Boy that you really like him, especially when he seems pretty determined not to hear? I mean, he knew, right? I’d as much as told him. And here he was.

“Yeah.” Another jaw-cracking yawn. “Now be a good girl and don’t get into trouble for a bit, okay? I’m bushed.”

Irritation flashed through me; I swallowed it. It tasted bitter, and I decided to go brush my teeth. He didn’t say anything else when I slid off the bed, and by the time I reached the bathroom door again he was snoring.

I didn’t blame him. Sleeping in hallways was probably not good for him.

I stood in the middle of the thin swords of sunlight spearing toward the carpet, my arms loosely crossed like I was hugging myself. Looking at him. With his arm over his face and his mouth agape, all you could see was part of his nose and the stubble. He sprawled across the bed, a black blot on all the blue. Chapped hands and tangled hair, and his jeans were developing holes in the knees. His T-shirt rucked up, showing a slice of belly ridged lightly with muscle, a line of light furring marching down from his belly button and vanishing under the edge of a pair of black boxer-briefs.

I looked away, toward the door. My cheeks burned. All the locks were turned, and I’d dropped the bar into its brackets. I was alone in here with him. The flush spread all over me, from my toes up into my hair. My internal thermostat was shorted out in a big way.

Well, I wasn’t going to be sleeping. So I should probably do something useful, like brush my teeth and get some clothes ordered for Graves.

It looked like I was going to be here for awhile.

* * *

I was in the little box of a kitchen when Augustine came back. Two weeks and I’d just gotten him to buy some bread. I once tried for flour so I could make it, but he’d hustled me out of the grocery store like I’d made some sort of strange bodily sound. I was just putting the pan from my dinner—beans and biscuits, since he’d finally brought back some flour last night—in the hot soapy water when I heard the scratching at the door.

I froze and looked at the end of the counter where the snub-nosed .38 sat. If you are in here, sweetheart, and you think it may not be me coming back, you use one of these.

I’d asked him what the hell would happen if I shot him by mistake, and he grinned at me and told me not to be silly. It was kind of like Dad.

Not really.

Brooklyn breathed outside the window. The kitchen looked out onto a blank brick wall. But there was a ledge outside, and August had made me look out at the handholds going up to the roof or down to another window in a hall two floors below. No sunlight ever got in here, but the bedroom window sometimes had some. It was like living in a hole. And he never let me go outside for very long, and never alone.

The touch told me it was August. And that something was wrong.

The door scraped open. He must have been fumbling with his keys. That wasn’t like him.

I bolted for the door. There was a gun on the spindly little table right beside it, tucked behind a dusty vase of artificial flowers. He was a hunter, like Dad, so he was always prepared. And he’d taken me through where all the weapons were, just in case.

August spilled through the door, shoving it shut behind him and almost overbalancing. I caught him, and I smelled something coppery.

I knew blood when I smelled it, even at this age. “Jesus Christ.” I found out I was saying it over and over again, found something different to say. “What happened?”

He shook his head, blond hair moving oddly, as if it was wet. Was it raining out there? I didn’t know. August was tall, muscle-heavy, and almost tipped both of us over as his legs gave out. He was muttering in Polish. At least, I guessed it was Polish. As if he was drunk. But he wasn’t drunk.

He was hurt bad, and there was nobody here to help him except me.