Jealousy

“Unless what?” I peeked out from under the washcloth.

“I don’t know what happened between you and him. But if something did happen, could he possibly have left the Schola?” Quietly, gently, like he was afraid of me breaking down again.

Hearing him say what I’d been thinking only made it worse. “He wouldn’t.” I bristled immediately. It was like defending Dad. You do it because you have to, even if you don’t believe it. “He wouldn’t leave me.”

I just couldn’t stand Christophe saying it.

It wasn’t like Graves to ditch me. It just wasn’t. He’d been sticking like glue since the Dakotas. It’s you and me against the world, he’d said. Don’t you dare leave me behind.

Come and find me.

I settled on what I hoped, as stupid as that was. “Something must have happened to him.” The words stuck in my throat. “God.”

“If he’s still at the Schola we can find him. It will take time, though. Do you want a search of every room?”

It won’t do any good. “They won’t do that.”

“If you ask, they will.” Like, The sky’s blue, or Vampires drink blood. With a healthy helping of duh, Dru. “They’ve been trained to leap when a svetocha speaks.”

“Anna.” Like it was a dirty word. It was getting to be. I almost flinched when I said it, as if she would suddenly pop out of thin air. “Christophe?”

“What?”

I sensed him leaning forward. It’s weird to feel someone’s attention on you that way, like you’re the only thing in the world they’re listening to. Most of the time people are distracted, or just thinking about what they’re going to say next. Not a lot of them actually listen, and never to me. Adults figure I don’t have anything real to say, boys are too busy with their own stuff, other girls are light-years away at the mall or the classroom or something. None of them gets what it’s like to break a hex or clean out a nest of roach spirits.

Or to have every person or thing you ever thought was stable and real taken away, one at a time. While vampires snarl and try to kill you.

I searched for something to say. “Do I smell weird?” I opened one eye a slice, peeked at him.

His eyebrows were all the way up, his cold eyes open for a moment instead of walled off. “What?”

“I, um. Some of the wulfen, they tell me I . . . smell. And you, well.” You smell like a Christmas candle, but in a good way. Only, if it comes from blood I’m not sure I like it so much.

“You’re very curious and perceptive, moja księżniczko.” He coughed slightly. I know that sound; it’s an adult getting ready to talk about Birds and Bees. “You do smell very nice. Spice, and salt. It’s very pleasant. It means, well, when a svetocha reaches blooming age, which is different than physical maturity—”

If he started talking in euphemisms I was going to scream. “That’s good. What about you? None of the other boys smell like you do.”

“I should be proud of that.” But his face had closed up again, the faint businesslike mockery back in place.

“If you’re not going to answer what I’m really asking, Christophe, just say so.” Now I regretted bringing the whole thing up. I balled up the washcloth and sighed, levering myself creakily to my feet. Washed out and emptied, everything inside me was shut down. It was a different kind of numbness, and one I liked. Even the thought of Dad didn’t hurt so much. Like pinching your leg when it’s fallen asleep. “What time is it?”

“Three o’clock. Dru—”

“I want to see Ash. Then I want to look for Graves.”

“You should rest. Tonight might be difficult.”

My chin lifted. It was the “stubborn mule” look Gran chided me for so often. “I’m not the one on trial.”

He nodded as if he’d expected that. “True. But you could be a little kinder to me, little bird.”

I’m supposed to be nice to you? Then I felt guilty. He’d saved my life, more than once. I wouldn’t even be standing there in a white bedroom full of directionless light—because the sun was hiding behind clouds, and the skylights were full of blind glow—if it wasn’t for him. The locket on my chest twitched a little as the old familiar anger tried to rise. It wasn’t real anger, it was just comfortable. Right now mad was about all I knew how to do.

Even though I couldn’t truly feel anything. The crying had washed it all away. The panic-inducing, really terrible thought was still in the bottom of my head. How do you deal with something like that?

Work, I decided. There’s got to be something I can do until tonight. “I want to go to the infirmary,” I said quietly and clearly and tossed the washcloth down in the middle of the lake of drying coffee. The breakfast tray stood abandoned by the front door. “And I want to look for Graves. If he’s here, I can find him.” And if he’s not, I want to know. I want to know if he’s just kicked me like a bad habit.

“Very well.” He rose gracefully, and I had to look away. The white cloth soaked up coffee, turning a weird stained-brown. I felt bad about it for a second. I mean, I’ve been raised to clean up my own mess. Dad was big on keeping things neat. and Gran was all about everything in its place.

But they weren’t here, and I was a ghost. I almost expected to lift my hand and see the light go right through it. I’d cried everything right out of me.

I looked around for shoes. The closet had one lone pair of sneakers in it. Good luck, I guess. I almost groaned when I bent over to pick them up. If I lived to middle age I’d have so many back problems, damn.

But I might not ever look any older. The boy djamphir didn’t, except for something in their eyes. And how old was Anna?

I didn’t want to think about it.

I couldn’t even imagine being fifty and trapped inside this skinny teenage body.

The last twelve hours caught up with me with a wallop. I leaned against the closet door’s jamb and tried to catch my breath. Warm oil slid down my skin, the aspect rising like ribbons of heat through tepid bathwater when you twist the knob again to add more. The hurt all through my muscles retreated, and my teeth tingled.

It was too bad the aspect couldn’t do anything about the aches inside me. I sniffed a little bit. A crying jag will leave your nose raw and messy, but my nasal passages opened up, and underneath the lemon and fresh air in the room there was the distinct note of dust and spiced apple pie.

“Am I on trial with you, too?” Christophe asked softly.

Yes. No. I don’t know. “I trust you,” I said again. It felt like a lie. “I just . . . none of this is designed to make me a happy camper, all right?”

“Of course.” He sounded like he wanted to say something else, but let it go.

Smart of him. I got myself into my sneakers, took a few deep breaths, and the aspect retreated. I couldn’t feel the fangs anymore when I turned around and faced him.

“Let’s go.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Djamphir and wulfen both heal pretty quickly. So the infirmary isn’t a place you want to end up. If you’re hurt so bad you have to go there, it’s probably not going to end well.

Ash wasn’t in one of the curtained enclosures in the middle of the big vaulted space. He was in one of the stone-walled rooms along the sides, wrapped in white bandages and strapped down to what looked like an