God. None of them even talk like kids. I kept my eyes shut tight. Material rustled. The temperature dropped, almost as cold as it had been a few minutes ago while the vampires were stalking Ash and me.
Christophe’s fury was like a draft of air-conditioning against already-chilled skin. “If they come any closer, Red Queen, you will lose your pretty bodyguards.”
Silence. Tense, ticking silence. I pried my eyes open and looked over Leon’s shoulder.
Anna stood behind three slim dark-haired boy djamphir. All three had red T-shirts, and I had the not-so-nice idea she’d chosen them for their looks.
Not twins, but brothers, maybe. And in red shirts? Not a good choice. Hadn’t any of them ever watched Star Trek?
Two of them had 9mms pointed at Christophe. The one in the middle—I’d seen him before—just stood, hands loose and eyes empty, staring at him. Kir, Bruce, and Hiro stood aside, Hiro shifting his weight just a fraction forward. The idea that he might just throw himself at Anna returned, circled my pain-fogged brain.
Anna’s blue gaze locked with Christophe’s. Her heart-shaped face was bloodless-pale, and her hair was a perfect mass of clustered red-tinted ringlets. She was in silk again, a tightly laced old-fashioned dress with snow- white lace around the square neckline, more lace fountaining from the cuffs.
I got the idea she’d done her makeup up special for this. Not that she needed much. She was utterly and completely beautiful, except for the hate shining in her eyes.
It was like an old Western showdown. I wouldn’t have been surprised if there were tumbleweeds.
Bruce cleared his throat. “Actually, he’s not outside the Codes.”
Anna darted him a bright, venomous glance. “I am head of the Council, and —”
“You’re svetocha,” Hiro said flatly. “The Codes are in the keeping of the princeps of the Order. Which is Bruce, as provisional head of the Council.” He paused. A ghost of nasty satisfaction tinted his tone. “A full Trial is within his purview to declare.”
“Just a goddamn second.” Kir shifted his weight as if to step forward, thought better of it when Christophe’s cold attention settled on him. “How do we know he won’t vanish again?”
“I have no intention of vanishing,” Christophe informed him. “If you want to find me, you need look no further than wherever Dru is. Her quarters are not kept secret as Anna’s are, her Guard not given class waivers as Anna’s are, her person in jeopardy”—here he elegantly tilted his head, and Anna’s lip curled for a fraction of a second before her face smoothed—“and while she’s in class, she’s in with the general population rather than being given tutors like Anna was. What, precisely, is going on here? Be so kind as to enlighten me, Kir.”
“I am the head of the Order!” Anna surged forward, petticoats rustling, and pushed past the matched djamphir. “This is Reynard! He’s a traitor! He’s Sergej’s son!”
God, she really hates him. I concentrated on beating back the dizziness threatening to swallow me.
“He’s also within the Codes to request a full Trial, Milady.” Bruce’s tone was deceptively mild.
“Council meeting, then. We’ll vote.”
Bruce straightened, drawing himself up. His chin lifted a little. “It’s not a voting issue. But if you wish to call a meeting, by all means do so. We’ll have to wait until Milady Dru is able to attend or designates a proxy, though.”
I had the idea I should protest this, but Leon shook his head. Just a little.
I just wanted to see Graves. I got the idea he would help me sort this out. Or at least if he was here I could let go of consciousness and know that things would be okay when I woke up.
If I had to, I would beg him to just lie on the bed next to me and breathe. So I could know things were all right.
The realization hit me then.
He’d probably left, the way I’d been wanting to. He probably got tired of all this, of me, and left me behind. I’d promised not to leave without him, but he hadn’t promised.
“She’s not fit to be on the Council.” Anna’s teeth were clenched so tight the words had a hard time getting out. Red sparks danced in the back of her pupils, spinning. “Bruce, you cannot—”
“I can and I will. She’s svetocha; she has a right. Remember? Your own words will come back to haunt you, Milady. I think you’d best be quiet. Especially since I intend to inquire fully into Christophe’s accusations. I did not sign a directive to put Milady Anderson into the general population.”
“Traitors,” she hissed. “All of you. Traitors.”
“You bandy that word about so frequently.” Christophe leaned forward, all his weight on the balls of his feet. I recognized that stance. Dad looked that way when he was picking out someone for a fight. “Why is that, I wonder?”
“You and your little bitch—”
I slid over to the side, losing the battle with the darkness. Leon caught me, and at least he didn’t bruise me. “Fight later,” he said over his shoulder. “Or at least let me get her out of here. For Christ’s sake, she’s not even bloomed yet.”
For once, August showed no desire to leave when dusk came around. Instead, he settled down on the ancient flowered couch, smoking, loading clips, and staring at the television. He had it turned all the way down and a black-and-white movie played, the light flickering over every surface. I sat on the other end of the couch, folding laundry. He’d brought two big bags of it back from the laundry room downstairs, and while I was glad I didn’t have to trudge out to a Laundromat, I felt kind of weird about someone else washing my panties.
August had gone from once or twice letting me go out with him on sunny days to not letting me out of the house at all. He got takeout, or we ate omelets. I was beginning to get itchy, and if Dad hadn’t told me to stay put I would have at least snuck out on the roof at night. Just to get some air. All the movie posters on the walls were watching me with blank eyes.
There wasn’t even a plant in here. At least I could have talked to a philodendron or something. And the lack of natural light was really beginning to get me down. I’d taken to lying in front of the bedroom window, staring up and aching for some sun. But it was gray, the sky threatening snow. I was beginning to think sunshine was something I’d made up.
I held up one of August’s T-shirts. Ragged claw marks sliced the thin fabric. It was a wonder there was any shirt left. “What was this?”
“That? Oh. Just some trouble over in Manhattan.” He slid the bullets into the clip, each one going in smoothly. He didn’t have to look while he did it. His short Russian cigarette fumed in the ashtray, and I wrinkled my nose. On the screen, a very young Marlon Brando sat on a swing and fitted a girl’s white glove on his hand, looking up at a slim pretty blonde. “Got ’em cornered in a stairwell. Dark work.” August set the clip down, picked up an empty one. Muscle moved under the skin of his arm, left bare by a Rolling Stones T-shirt.
Dark work. Which meant I didn’t need to know any more. I nodded, knowing he’d see the movement in his peripheral vision. Tossed the shirt into my mending pile. He had a truly ancient Singer machine, and I’d started patching any clothes of his I could reasonably expect to. Usually T-shirt material is too thin to really repair, but I’d give it a try. At least I never had to ask twice for any supplies—he brought home exactly what I asked for every time. Except bread. He would never bring back any damn bread.
My hands moved without thought, too. I’ve folded so much laundry that I barely have to pay
