Defiance

light it. “A drop box in Newark, an old one. Nothing else in it, and the teams retrieving drop items are on alert. We don’t know what other information she’s passed to the nosferat. No tracks, no scent.”

“Probably one of her Guard delivered it.” Hiro’s lip curled. “I would not have suspected them of professionalism.”

“We trained them and made them loyal to her.” Bruce’s faintly English accent made the words crisp. “She did the rest. They’re not to blame.”

That was enough to get Hiro going on an old argument. “The retainers are not to blame, certainly. It will not make their punishment any less—”

“Here we go again,” August muttered. “Just open it, Dru-girl. Let’s see what she’s got up her sleeve.” Everyone looked at him. He sat bolt upright, and he still looked profoundly uncomfortable. But it was nice having him here.

“Let’s argue once we actually know what it says, all right?” They all shut up, and I tore at the thick paper. Christophe wouldn’t have handed it over if there was anything on it likely to be triggered, but I still used just my fingertips. A ghost of spice clung to it—Anna’s peculiar flower scent, like carnations on the verge of going bad. It made me think of curly red ringlets and her delicate little fangs, the high-heeled boots with the tiny buttons marching all the way down, the silk dresses and the high gloss. She’d pretty much always looked like a model, or an illustration in some fantasy magazine.

Except for when she was trying to kill me. Then her face had contorted and flushed, and she’d had an assault rifle spewing fire while she screamed. Not a nice picture.

I sighed, yanked the folded sheet of matching paper out of the savaged envelope, and flicked it open. That same childlike block printing, neat little sentences.

You think you know everything, but you don’t. If you want to rescue your friend, come visit me. Alone.

It was signed with a huge, florid calligraphy A.

There was another sheet of paper—cheap copy stock, a satellite photo you could pull off the Internet. One building was circled with thick red Sharpie. I took it in, noticed an address typed at the bottom.

Gee. Subtle.

Christophe leaned over my shoulder. “Trap. Not even worth the paper it’s printed on.”

I stared at the address, marking it in my memory. There was something else in the envelope. I tweezed it out, delicately.

A silver earring, just the post part, no back. The skull and crossbones swung as I held it up, and my heart twisted like a sponge in a merciless, bony hand. I made a tiny little sound, like I’d been punched.

“What the hell’s that?” Augustine leapt to his feet.

Christophe’s hand jerked forward, but I snatched the earring away. Folded it in both my hands, as if I was praying. The silver was cold, but it warmed quickly. My mother’s locket was warm against my breastbone, too.

I let out another tiny sound. I couldn’t get enough air in.

“No.” Christophe grabbed my shoulder. His fingers dug in, and I could feel the prickle of claws through my hoodie. “No, Dru. Don’t even think about it.”

I brought my hands up to my mouth. Inhaled, smelled nothing but the faint fading tang of Ash’s vital, springy fur. Opened my palms a little, saw the earring’s gleam.

“It’s his.” That small, quiet voice couldn’t be mine. It burned my throat, squeezing its way out. “It’s Graves’s earring. He had it when I met him.”

In the American History classroom, in the Dakotas. Before he’d gotten bit. Before everything.

“Oh, fuck.” Augustine dropped back down in his chair. Of all of them, he’d been the only one to move. Bruce and Ezra watched me, a line between Bruce’s dark eyebrows and Ezra’s cigar finally laid on the table instead of in his nervous, slender fingers.

Hiro, on the other hand, was watching Christophe. Very closely.

I swallowed hard. “You can let go of me, Chris.” I didn’t even sound like myself. The very small, very calm voice was almost lost in the static filling my head.

“Not until I’m certain you won’t do anything silly.” He leaned down, and his fingers eased a little but didn’t let go. “Let me see.”

I shook my head. Clasped my palms together. Laced my fingers as if he was trying to pry them apart.

He was not going to take that for an answer, though. “Dru. Kochana. Let me see.”

I shook my head again. Wished he would shut up. The static was getting louder, and if I could just calm down a little, the touch might tell me something. If they would just all be quiet for a few seconds so I could shake the roaring inside my skull away.

“Let me—” Christophe’s other hand flashed forward, caught at my clenched fists. His skin was warm, but his fingers hurt, digging in with more than human strength.

“No. No!” I actually screamed, jerking away as far as I could. His fingers bit down again, and I felt bone creaking. My bones, the little ones in my hand and the ball of my shoulder.

Hiro’s chair scraped along the floor. The scraping became noise, a lot of it, and Christophe’s hand was ripped away from my shoulder. Someone was yelling. Confusion, my chair hit hard and bumping the table like a balky carnival ride. The earring dug into my palms, and I tried to clear my head. But there was too much noise—a deep thrumming snarl, and the sound of fist meeting flesh.

I opened my eyes. The world rushed in, full of smeared color, and I leapt out of my chair.

A thin amber tide of spilled coffee covered the floor. Christophe faced Hiro next to the table near the wall, the silver samovar on its side and chugging out a waterfall of more hot coffee. Bruce had hold of Hiro, while Augustine had grabbed Christophe’s arm. The aspect rushed and crackled over all of them like a forest fire.

Ezra was suddenly right next to me, appearing out of thin air with a little whispering sound.

I hate that. I let out a thin little shriek, which managed to distract everyone. Ezra caught the back of my hoodie, bracing me as I almost went over, and Christophe’s eyes flashed.

“Settle down!” Augustine shoved Christophe back against the table, and Bruce had all he could do holding Hiro back. Hiro leaned forward, his fangs out and the thrumming coming from his slim chest.

Djamphir don’t growl like wulfen. But when they make that sort of humming noise, they mean business. It’s more like a subsonic vibration than anything else, and it sounds like it can rattle china right out of the cupboard.

“You should probably calm them down.” Ezra made sure I was on my feet and stepped away. He lifted a silver Zippo, flicked it open, and scooped up his cigar.

Great. Thanks, that helps a lot. I found my voice. “Stop. Stop it.” Made sure the earring was safe in my left hand and stepped forward.

Normally, putting yourself between two crazy-angry djamphir isn’t the smartest thing to do. But I braced myself and slid between them, stepping in the tide of coffee. It sploshed against my sneakers. “Stop. Both of you. Stop it.”

Christophe inhaled sharply as I edged between them, cutting off his view of Hiro. “Dru—”

“I need you guys to simmer down.” I aimed for a businesslike tone, but just got a shaky almost-squeak. “Anna would like it if you both killed each other, wouldn’t she? You’re playing right into her hands. Or someone else’s.”

I didn’t have to say whose.

Hiro’s face contorted once, his eyes glowing dark amber. His fangs had scraped his lower lip, and a thin trickle of blood ran down his chin. I swallowed, hard, and hoped the bloodhunger wouldn’t hit. If I started going crazy now, there was no telling what could happen. My shoulder throbbed—I was going to have a bruise there.

It would match the rest of me. This was turning out to be one sucky-ass night.

Hiro stared at me. I stared back, trying to plead with him silently. I don’t know what he saw, but his face changed and the aspect slid away. He straightened slowly. His hand came up, and he wiped at his chin. Bruce didn’t relax, though, locking his other arm, braced in case he lunged.