attention. August used a strange sort of fabric softener; it smelled lemony. “You gonna turn that up? I can’t hear it.”
“In a bit. This is not a good part for an impressionable young girl.” The last word came out as “goil.” His lips stretched in a wide, unsettling grin. If I wasn’t so used to him, I might almost have felt a moment of unease. But that was just Augie. He seemed to delight in squinching up his face in the weirdest possible ways. Just to keep things limber.
I folded a pair of his jeans. The blood had washed out just fine after some cold-water soaking. Even the greasy gunk ground into the knees had come out. Of course, it had been fresh when I got to it. “You want some coffee?” What I meant was, Are you going out tonight? But I didn’t dare ask, in case he decided to. Then I’d feel like I made him do it, and I’d wander around the tiny apartment cleaning things up or clearing a place to do some short t’ai chi. Wishing I could get out and run. Even just a trip to the corner bodega to get a pack of gum would have been fine. But no. August had stopped taking me anywhere, muttering something about smells. I was pretty sure I didn’t offend, what with a shower every day. So I didn’t ask any questions, just kept asking him to bring home a loaf of white so I could have a PBJ. I craved a PBJ like you wouldn’t believe.
I was so fricking tired of omelets.
“No thanks,” he said finally. “Staying in tonight.”
“Oh. Okay.” I found a pair of my jeans and folded them swiftly. Then one of August’s flannel shirts. I’d offered to iron them, but he got a weird look on his face and told me not to. I did some anyway, but when he came home and saw them he took the iron and put it somewhere.
Weird. But then, hunters are weird. Even Dad has his tics.
There. I’d thought about Dad. I’d never asked August when he was coming back. Sometimes a job will take awhile, right? I was sure he’d come back.
Wasn’t I?
I tried not to think about it. He’d always come back before. But . . . I was never sure, way down deep, if each time he did would be the last.
I looked at the television. For a guy with such a nice bit of plasma hardware, he didn’t watch a lot of it. When he did, it was always black-and-white movies. Why have a great TV if all you can see are shades of gray?
Someone banged on the door. My heart jumped into my throat like a jackrabbit on speed. I would have leapt to my feet, but August was already rising, grabbing his cigarette and taking one last drag before grinding it out. “Steady, princess.” He looked amused. “If there was trouble I’d be outside, leading it a chase. This is good news. I can smell it.”
Now I was folding a blue sweater. I carefully focused on the sleeves while August got the door. Please let it be him, I prayed. Please.
And then, wonder of wonders, God came through. I heard my father’s voice.
“Goddamn you, Dobrowski. Why do you have to live up three flights of stairs?” He stamped, as if his boots were full of snow.
August sounded amused. “It’s safe up here. You look like hell. Did you—”
Clipped and final. “I didn’t get him. Where’s Dru?”
August sighed. “Safe and sound. She’s obsessed with toast, of all things. Move, so I can shut the door.”
My eyes blurred. I let out a long breath, my shoulders sagging. My heart was thumping, a high hard gallop of happiness. I knew what luggage felt like at the airport the moment it was picked up, the instant familiar fingers closed on its handle.
It was Dad. He’d finally come back. He was here, and we were going to move on. Happiness filled me until I thought I would burst, and I swiped the tears away angrily. If I broke down crying he’d get That Look, like I was a weepy girl and he didn’t know what to do. But I couldn’t stop leaking. Now I could admit that I’d been afraid I would be stuck here forever.
Now it was safe.
I rolled the sweater up as if I was packing it in a box. He was here. It meant we were leaving.
I couldn’t wait.
White walls. Sunlight. It smelled of lemons, of furniture polish, of fresh air. My eyes drifted open, took this in. I stayed there, just looking, for a long while. Curiously, comfortably numb.
I heard someone breathing, and hot lightning-streak relief poured through me. Graves? Oh thank God. Do I ever have a lot to tell you.
I rolled over slowly. My back had stiffened up; so had my arms and legs. My neck twinged. I felt crusty and sweaty, my skin slipping against clean sheets. I was in my underwear and nothing else. Not even the bandage on my wrist, not even a bra.
How did that happen? The ceiling was white plaster, a repeating pattern of diamonds and roses sharply sculpted on it. The other Schola had been dirtier—grime in the corners, the mats in the sparring chapel used until they fell apart, the girls’ locker room musty around the edges. Even chlorine can’t kill that sort of funk.
But not here. Here at the Prima it was all bright and clean, and I wondered about that. I never saw anyone dusting. You’d think there would be an army of janitors.
There was a lamp on a white-painted nightstand with spindly legs. It had crystal chandelier-drops instead of a shade, and it was still burning. Little rainbows caught in the drops, light reflecting on the antique brass base. I pushed myself up on my elbow, staring at it like it was a spaceship or something.
Where the hell am I?
I hate waking up with that question. It’s cliché, sure, but it’s also a deep well of insecurity swallowing whatever rest you might have gotten during the night. My pulse leapt. I sat up slowly, clutching the pale cream top sheet and white down comforter to my chest. Cool air brushed my naked, dry-sweat-crackling back.
The room was small but perfect, one wall lined with stripped-pine bookshelves. The windows were huge, open, and full of afternoon sunlight falling past net curtains and a wide white satin window seat. A small white rolltop desk stood across the room, a clunky antique office chair of pale wood with its back to the window in front of it. A slightly open door showed white tile and what was probably a bathroom. Another door must’ve led to the hall because it was studded with locks and barred. A mirrored door to a walk-in closet was half-open, too, and I saw familiar clothes hanging in there. Big white dresser with a vanity mirror and a white-cushioned satin seat, the vanity’s surface curiously bare in front of the antique brass-curlicued mirror frame.
What the hell?
In the shadowed space between the desk and the bookshelves, Christophe sat on the floor. His head was tipped back, his throat stretched out, hair mussed artistically. His eyes were closed and his lips parted slightly. He was deeply asleep, and a shotgun—probably the one I’d seen him with in the Dakotas—lay across his lap. His hands lay limp and graceful, and he wore yet another thin black V-neck sweater and jeans. With his legs outstretched, the tips of his boot-toes fell apart slightly, the worn soles making a V and sunlight caressing their edges.
I reached up, touched my mother’s locket. Kept the covers clutched up to my chest while I looked around for some clothes. If all else failed I’d tear the sheet off the bed, but—
When I snuck another glance at Christophe, his eyes were open, blue fires in the shadow of the bookcase. His breathing hadn’t changed. Neither had a single muscle. He looked at me, and Jesus. A hot flush worked its way up from my neck, burned in my cheeks. The healed-up fang marks on my wrist filled with an odd tingling, and I forced my fingers away from the warm metal of the locket.
He was smiling faintly, too. Something about the smile made me vaguely uncomfortable. I swallowed hard.
