Jealousy

That’s the thing about the Schola Prima dorms, even the cushy wing where svetocha are supposed to sleep. Behind the scenes it’s concrete industrial, just like every other school. Just because I had my own room didn’t make it any less, well, school-like.

And just because there was a whole wing for svetocha didn’t mean that there were any more. Just me. And one other, but I hadn’t seen her since the other Schola—the reform school someone had stashed me at—went down in flames.

Down two flights, a hard right, my shoulder banged into a door frame, but I just kept going. This hall wasn’t even carpeted, so everything echoed, and the doors on either side had barred observation slits.

There wasn’t a guard at his door. The whole hall shook as he threw himself against the walls and howled again.

I grabbed the knob; it refused to turn. “Shit!” I yelled, and Graves shouldered me aside. He’d thought to grab the key ring from the nail down the hall. The key went in, he twisted, the door opened, and I piled into the room, nearly colliding with almost seven and a half feet of very upset werwulf.

Ash hunched down, long clawed paw-fingers splayed as they touched bare concrete. The howl cut off in midstream, like he was surprised. The white streak on his lean narrow head glowed in the reflected fluorescent glare of the hall.

I sucked in a deep breath. My hair hung in my face, a wild curling mass, and I felt the same leap of irrational fear I did every time I came in this room. Or maybe it was totally rational fear. Someone could sweep the door shut and lock it, and then I’d be in here with a werwulf who’d tried to kill me the first time he met me.

And of course, he could always totally lose his shit and go all, well, crazyass werwulf on me again. But after he’d saved my life a few times, I was beginning to think maybe he wouldn’t.

“It’s okay,” I managed, though my lungs were on fire and my throat threatened to close up. I could still taste the peppermint toothpaste they’d given me. “It’s okay, Ash. It’s okay.”

The werwulf growled. His shoulders came up, corded with muscle, and the shifting textures of his pelt blurred. If I could capture that on paper, maybe with charcoal—but who was I kidding? Like I had time for recreational werwulf portraiture.

His claws made grooves in the concrete, the hard sharp edges screeching as they cut through stone-hard flooring. You could just imagine those claws cutting through flesh, like a hot knife through butter.

Gee, that’s great, Dru. Why don’t you meditate on that for awhile?

I put my hand down. It looked very small and very pale, and when my fingers touched the thick ruff at the back of his neck, they sank in. Heat poured off him, and the sound of bones crackling filled the room as he tried, again, to change back into human form.

My heart leapt up into my throat and made itself at home. “You can do it,” I whispered. Just like I did every time. “Come on.”

Shaking filled him in waves. Graves stood in the doorway, outlined in pale fluorescent glare. He tilted back, glanced down the hallway, stiffened like he saw trouble coming.

“You can do it.” I tried not to sound like I was pleading. Ash leaned against me, almost knocking me off my feet, the way a dog will lean into its master’s legs. He also whined, way back in his throat, and the crackling sound got louder.

Bile crawled up in my throat. My hand turned into a fist in his fur, as if that would help. The marks on my left wrist twinged, sending a bolt of pain up my arm. Two little scabbed-over marks, where the fangs had gone in.

Another great thought. Jesus, Dru. Cut it out.

“It’s okay,” I coaxed. “It’s all right. Sooner or later it’ll happen. You can change back.”

I heard voices. Male, four or five of them. Boots hitting the ground, the clothwhisper of running. My fingers turned to wood, and Ash growled. The deep thrumming filled up the bare concrete cube, the shelf like bed with its thin mat he never slept on, the low wide toilet bowl, and the metal tray in the corner still sticky with blood—at least he’d been fed. The raw meat was all gone; he wasn’t hoarding it like he would if he was sick.

Well, sicker than he was already. There were marks on the walls where he’d flung himself.

A werwulf can dent stone or concrete. If he’s going fast enough, if he really wants to. The maybe-not-so- irrational fear returned. I pushed it away.

“Shhh.” I tried not to sound just-woke-up and scared. Probably failed miserably. “It’s okay. Everything’s all right.”

It was a lie. He probably knew it, too. His ruined mouth opened as he tilted his head up, inhaled as if he was going to howl again.

I flinched.

Graves half-turned, standing in the door. He drew himself up and dug in his pocket. Why he was wearing his familiar black coat even in the middle of the night was beyond me—he probably even slept in the thing. I was suddenly aware of my naked legs, and my boxers all twisted around. My feet were bare, and the chill from the floor bit them even though Ash pressed against me some more, the vital textures of shaggy pelt rasping against my skin, an unhealthy feverish heat dripping from him.

“She’s fine!” Graves’s yell cut through the sudden noise. “Calm down. Everything’s kosher.”

I hoped they’d listen to him. If they piled in here while Ash was still nervous, we’d have another Situation, and I was just too tired. We were at three nights in a row for Ash getting us out of bed, and I was starting to lose hope.

Starting? No, I was already there. It had seemed so simple while I was running for my life. Funny how getting to a safe place always complicates things.

Always assuming that the Schola Prima was a safe place. Safer than the little satellite school I’d been at. The one that had burned to the ground because of me.

If it was safe, Christophe would be here. Wouldn’t he?

I flinched again at the thought, and the two healing marks on the inside of my wrist twinged heatlessly. Ash made another whining noise. I tried to dredge up something more, something comforting, something that would help him. I knew he understood me talking to him, I just . . . I couldn’t find anything to say that seemed to help him.

Ash hunched, his ruined upper lip lifting. His jaw was still mangled from the silver-grain-loaded bullet I’d shot at him right after he bit Graves. The current theory—Benjamin’s theory—was that the silver was at once preventing him from changing and interfering with his master’s call.

I didn’t know what to think about that.

Here I was in a cell, clutching a werwulf’s ruff like he was a naughty cocker spaniel instead of almost eight feet of lethal muscle and bone, not to mention razor teeth and bad attitude.

“Calm down.” I didn’t have to work to sound weary. “Please, Ash. Come on.”

His head dropped. I didn’t even know what time it was; my internal clock was all messed up. He leaned against me even harder, his shoulder dropping to rub above my knees. I was jerked forward, my fingers still tangled in his ruff.

“Milady?” Benjamin’s voice. “Dru, are you in there? Are you all right?”

Ash growled. The sound rattled my bones.

“Cut it out, you overgrown fur rug.” I hauled back on him, achieving exactly nothing—he was way heavier than me—but he did stop making that noise. “That’s better. Yes, I’m fine.”

“You need to come out of there.” Shadows in the door—one of them had to be Benjamin.

The rest were probably his crew. The djamphir who’d been stuck with the task of “guarding” me. Great.

Graves leaned back against the doorjamb. His eyes were incandescent. He lifted a cigarette to his lips, flicked the lighter, and inhaled.

Oh, goddammit. I sighed, tried not to roll my eyes.

“That stinks.” Benjamin took the bait. “Do you mind?”

Graves shrugged. Twin curls of smoke slid free of his nostrils. His silver skull-and-crossbones earring glinted in the dimness. “Nope. I sure don’t.”

Ash bumped against me. My feet were numb. Now came trying to get him up on the bed and not listening to the whining little noises he made when I closed the door and locked it so he couldn’t escape back to his