Reckoning sa-5 Read online

  What the fuck? Here we were knee-deep in rotting vampire, gunfire getting closer all the time, God alone knew how we were going to get out of here even if that was the Order coming for us, and he wanted to have this discussion with me?

  “We need to get out of here.” A wave of exhaustion crashed through me, and I swayed. “I don’t feel so good. Come on, Christophe. We’ll talk later.”

  “Now is all I have, Dru. It’s all I’ll ever have.” But his fingers curled around my left forearm, gently this time. “But you’re right. This way. You can’t see, can you.”

  “No.” I stumbled after him. “Christophe, look. It’s not a contest. It’s not—”

  “Dru.” Kindly, now. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have asked. Shut up.”

  Well, wasn’t that a fine how-do-you-do. But I couldn’t just be quiet. It was too dark, and if I stopped talking I had the idea that he might just vanish, leaving me down here. Alone. And blind. “How can you see?”

  He pulled me aside; I sensed something in our way. It was probably a mound of corpses, and I almost lost the battle with my stomach there and then.

  A jagged little laugh burst out of him. “It’s one advantage Kouroi have over svetocha. Even the darkness brings no relief.”

  He was back to being maddening and cryptic. The relief that flooded me was probably pointless, but it still made me stagger.

  He steadied me. “Dru?”

  “I’m fine. I just . . . you sound like you. Like normal. It’s good.” And to top it all off, my eyes welled up again. Two fat tears trickled down my cheeks, sliding through a crust of crap I immediately added to the long and growing list of things I never wanted to think about again. “I like it,” I added lamely, trying not to sound like I was having a complete and total meltdown. Not to sound like I was shaking, and crying, and sick, and scared out of my mind, and feeling dirty all the way down to my bones.

  Christophe actually paused, down there in the dark. “You . . .” He let out a long, shaky breath. “Once again, kochana, you save me from myself.” He laughed again, but it was a sound so sharp it could cut. It actually hurt to hear. “Come, this way.”

  I tried to cry quietly while I followed him. But I don’t think I managed.

  * * *

  I blinked furiously when he pushed a huge heavy door open, the hinges squealing. Even the dim light beyond was scorching, and I let out a little hitching sound of relief. The gunfire was in the opposite direction, but it was moving closer.

  And this was actual, honest-to-God daylight. Cloud-filtered sunshine falling through small round windows like portholes high up on the stone walls. “Oh, sweet Mary and sonny Jesus,” I blurted. It was one of Gran’s favorites wouldja-look-at-that expressions, with a heavy dose of boy-am-I-glad.

  Christophe glanced at me. We both looked like hell, dipped in seventeen different flavors of gunk and nastiness. But he was almost pristine under it, with the same old air of I could just step out of all this grime and be perfect again in a heartbeat. It was hard to believe he’d had his ribs smashed in and the rest of him battered to a pulp.

  “Wow. You’re okay.” I could have smacked myself for Stating The Lamely Obvious once again. The warmth in my stomach stuttered, and I swayed.

  Christophe gave a slight, pained nod. “He had stolen quite a bit. I managed, it seems, to steal some of it back.”

  Oh, okay. Great. Fantastic. Wonderful. “You know your way around here?”

  “Logic, svetocha.” He peered down the hall, blinking as well. “This is the way I was brought in. I marked it in memory. Come.”

  We set off down the hall, my shoes squishing and Christophe’s bare feet leaving black marks. He didn’t let go of my arm, and I didn’t mind. The touch of his skin on mine, even through the dirt, sent a warm current through me. We stepped out into the sunlight, and I made another relieved little noise. I couldn’t help myself.

  “Sunlight, and I am not in the aura-dark.” Christophe glanced up. “Clouds are breaking. Just in time.”

  I opened my mouth to ask him just in time for what, but before I could there was a howl and a scrabbling sound. The other end of the corridor had another iron-bound wooden door, and something hit it with incredible force. Gunfire thundered, loud and close, and Christophe pushed me against the wall. My shoulder hit with a bruising jolt, and he was in front of me, his shoulders up and his claws lengthening, the deadly tension in him making the touch resound like a brass bell inside my head.

  “Dru.” Christophe didn’t glance back. “Don’t worry. If this is nosferat, the sunlight will hamper them.”

  I nodded stupidly, realized once again that he couldn’t see me. “We’ve done the hard part.” My voice shook. My tough-girl card was so definitely going to get pulled. “This will be easy.”

  And amazingly, Christophe laughed. The door shivered, splintering. Long cracks popped free of its surface.

  When it flew open, I was ready for anything other than what happened.

  Ash landed on all fours, and was halfway down the hall before he dug in with his claws, stone shrieking. His eyes danced, he was shirtless, muscle moving under his pale skin. Grass stuck to his hair, and he wore a wide feral grin.

  “BANG!” he yelled, and the wulfen flowed in behind him, shifting through changeform and back into boyshape. And there was Nat, skidding to a stop, her sleek hair ruffled and the relief bursting over her beautiful soot-streaked face like a sunrise. Shanks, his head wrapped in a glaring-white bandage, flowed out of changeform and threw his head back, letting out a howl that rattled the thick glass in the porthole windows.

  The ruins of the door were still quivering when August stepped through, his blond hair lighting up as the daylight intensified. And there, right behind him, supple quick Hiro appeared, his short black hair lifting up in vital spikes as the aspect crested over him and he lifted something to his mouth. It was a comm cell, I realized, and his dark eyes glowed as his lips shaped the words.

  She’s here. We found her, repeat, we found her, she’s alive. Stand-by for retrieval protocol.

  I burst out sobbing and stumbled away from the wall. Nat’s arms closed around me, and the rest of the wulfen took up Shanks’s howl. It was a joyous sound, high and glassy, uncomfortably like the suckers’ hunting-cries.

  But this time I welcomed it, even as it raised the hair all over me and pulled at the raw aching places inside my head, still smoking and tender from all that hate and death.

  It meant I was safe, and I gave myself up to the shaking and the crying so hard I couldn’t speak as they closed around me and started carrying me away.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  It was a whirlwind. Across a square of cracked concrete, then out into a cornfield under a cloudy late-spring sky. The young corn was flattened, and I felt a brief burst of regret. It smelled nice and green, and the clouds were breaking. The sunlight, welcome as it was, seemed pale.

  There were helicopters, their downdraft battering at even more corn. I was lifted in like a sack of potatoes, then there was Nat and Ash on either side of me and Christophe across, the ground falling away as the bird accelerated. I leaned on Nat, who reeked of smoke and the clean healthy musk of werwulf, her cat-like blue eyes glowing as she put her arm around me and touched my hair, hugging me a little every now and again. I sagged against her and half passed out, not caring. Everything inside me went all gooshy, all the tension and the pain and the struggle running out like water.

  I only roused myself once. “Graves? Dibs?” I had to shout over the noise. It took me a couple tries.

  Nat leaned close, her breath hot on my ear. “We found ’em. Everyone’s okay. Relax!”

  And I did. I sagged into her, and across the way, Christophe’s eyes glowed. The aspect slid over him in a wave, his hair slicking back and his fangs peeking out from under his top lip, but I didn’t care.

  The heat from Graves’s blood was gone. I’d used it all up. That was okay. I’d done what I set out to do.

  My eye
lids fell down, and I was gratefully, finally gone.

  * * *

  I heard voices, but it didn’t matter. I was numb. I didn’t feel like being in charge of anything anymore. I just drifted in a pleasant gray haze.

  “. . . in shock,” someone said. “She’s bloomed, we don’t have to type her. Get the transfusion kit!”

  “But that would—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Christophe snarled. “This? This is hers. Get the kit, now!”

  Sound of movement. It was comfortable where I was, nice and soft, nothing scary. I didn’t even mind that I couldn’t move. It was just . . . drifting.

  It felt good.

  “Dru?” Christophe, very close to my ear. “Dru, kochana, little one, hold on. Don’t go. Fight it.”

  Fight what? There wasn’t anything around here to fight. I’d taken care of all the important stuff.

  Now I could rest.

  A sting, on the inside of my arm. It felt familiar, and for a moment I was back in the wheelchair, strapped down, and the darkness was folding around me. Cold and dark, the absence of anything—

  “Dru!” Graves, his voice hoarse and cracked. “Dru! Goddammit, don’t! Don’t!”

  “Get him out of here,” someone said.

  “No.” Christophe’s voice cut across his. But it was wrong—he sounded breathless, disconnected. Like something was wrong. “Let him call her. She’ll listen.” A gasp. “Give her everything. As much as she needs, do you hear me?”

  “What if it drains you? What if you die?” Dibs, now. I felt a faint flash of interest—so he was okay? And he wasn’t stuttering? But there was that thing in my arm, and a burning spreading through me, pins and needles in my fingers and toes.

  I didn’t like it. I wanted the numbness back.

  “I don’t care, Samuel.” Christophe sighed, a tired sound. “I don’t care. Everything, do you hear me? Every drop.” The words slurred. “Take . . . as much as . . .”

  The gray around me flushed pink. It crept up like the dawn, and the pins and needles swept through me. They hurt, jabbing into flesh that had been drowsily warm just a few minutes ago, and I felt something hard underneath me.

  “He almost drained her.” Dibs, but not sounding terrified. “By transfusion. Then Graves . . . he made her drink, like he said. She got enough to get her through whatever happened down there, but she’s in shock and it’s—”

  “Reynard!” Another familiar voice. Bruce, with his English accent, the sort-of head of the Order. I mean, technically I was the head, but he took care of everything while I was being trained. I could almost see him, his proud nose and caramel skin, his preppy jeans and starched dress shirts.

  Check that. I could see him. The pink haze drew back, shapes looming up like rocks through fog. It was a room, oddly familiar with its sturdy walls and a gurney in the center of its stone-flagged floor, hospital machines standing at attention. The shape on the gurney was so still, and I saw without any real surprise a mop of curling hair and my own face tilted to the side, my mouth slack and everything about my body unfamiliar. I was so still, and so pale even through the pink tint.

  I looked just like Sleeping Beauty.

  Christophe sat next to the bed. Dibs checked the needle in his arm, and a thin ribbon of crimson slid across the small folding table, up to the hollow of my left arm. Dibs glanced up, worried, and Bruce took two steps into the room. He looked horrified.

  The body on the gurney twitched. The pins and needles stabbed through me, rising up my arms and legs. It hurt, and the pink tone deepened. Other colors began to steal in.

  On the other side. Graves leaned against a machine measuring a slow, erratic pulse. He had my other hand, and he leaned down, whispering into my ear. I couldn’t hear it, but it looked important. I strained to hear, but the other djamphir crowding into the room started murmuring. Hiro was there in his usual high-collared silk shirt, his arms folded, leaning against the wall near the door while his dark gaze focused on Christophe.

  “He’s determined to kill himself to save her,” he said quietly. “Let him, Bruce. He’s earned it.”

  A trio of dark-haired djamphir in white medical coats hovered uncertainly. Ash crouched in the corner, staring straight at the unspace my not-body occupied, his gaze disturbingly direct. He rocked back and forth, his hands flat on the floor, and someone had at least managed to get the grass out of his hair.

  “We can’t afford to lose either of them.” Bruce ran his hands back through his dark hair. It stood up wildly, and that was wrong. He was always so calm. “The Maharaj will only negotiate with her. And it’s that Divakarun brat, the one Christophe cultivated.”

  “Negotiate what?” Hiro sounded interested, but he was watching Christophe.

  “They think she might be one of theirs. Or related, or something. I can’t even begin to guess.” Bruce took another step. “Good God, what a mess.”

  Christophe slumped in the chair. The bruises were just shadows, but he hadn’t cleaned up and a mask of filth still clung to him. Even through the rosy haze I could see his color graying out, and that wasn’t good.

  He swayed, and Dibs steadied him. The blond wulfen glanced at the machines, booping and beeping along. “Pulse still erratic. Her respiration’s down too. Graves, is she responding? At all?”

  The excruciating tingle jolted all the way up my arms, suddenly. The body on the bed twitched again. My head tipped back, almost colliding with Graves’s. He jerked back, but his lips kept moving. His bruises were fading too, and his eyes flashed green for a moment. But there were heavy lines scored on his face. He looked older now—eighteen instead of maybe-sixteen-honest, except for the lines slicing down from the outside of his nostrils, bracketing his mouth. That looked a lot older, shocking when compared to the rest of his face.

  He leaned in again, and with his free hand, he reached up, smoothing the hair away from my face. I tried to feel his fingers, couldn’t.

  Dru?

  The directionless voice went all through me. It wasn’t Gran, or Dad, for once. If I’d been in my body I would’ve jumped. As it was I jerked again, and the machines started beeping again.

  “Pulse is up.” Dibs leaned forward, hovering over Christophe. “Just a little more.”

  “More,” Christophe slurred, a long sigh of a word. “More. Everything.”

  Dru. My darling, my brave little girl. The voice came again, wrapping around me with the comfort of a silken blanket. Now is not your time.

  I was suddenly aware of my lips. The body on the bed sighed. Every djamphir in the room went still.

  “Mommy?” A child’s voice, as if I was five years old and lost in a dream, and a sudden hot flush of embarrassment went through me. The machines went crazy, and Dibs let out a nervous sigh.

  Christophe half-fell sideways. Dibs caught him.

  “No more!” Bruce said, sharply. “It’s killing him!”

  “Leave it.” Hiro had Bruce’s arm, and the tension between them bloomed a hurtful crimson. “Can’t you see it’s what he wants?”

  Dru. My mother’s voice again, not sharp, but commanding. Now isn’t your time. Go back.

  I struggled. I didn’t want to go back into that body on the bed. Here I was free. I could go toward that voice, and something inside me—maybe it was the touch, but I don’t think so—told me that if I did, clear rational light would break over me and this room would fade, and there would be something like flying. That light would enfold me, and they would be there. All of them. All the people I missed, all the people who hadn’t come back for me.

  I hesitated for an endless moment. Christophe slumped further, and the rosiness of the scene faded. Now it looked like one of those hand-tinted old-timey photographs, faint blushes of color where the light hit, except for the scarlet ribbon between his arm and mine, looping in complicated swirls. That ribbon glowed with its own light, and Dibs glanced worriedly at my body on the bed, a line between his blond eyebrows.

  “I’m taking him off,”
Dibs announced. “He can’t take much more of this.”

  “Don’t.” Hiro just said it, flatly, the way he would tell someone not to step in a pile of something foul.

  “Hiro—” Bruce objected, surging forward.

  The Japanese djamphir pulled him back. “Let him choose the manner of his death, Stirling. It is the least we owe him. He’s lucky.”

  “Lucky?” Dibs actually rounded on them, his eyes sparking orange. “I’m taking him off—”

  Christophe’s lips peeled back; his gums were bloodless, his fangs shrinking. He was losing his solidity, his outlines fuzzing. Graves’s fingers tensed in my hair as the machines went wild, beeping frantically.

  And now I could hear what he was saying to that body on the bed. My body.

  “Please. Don’t go.” He kept repeating it, over and over again. “Please, Dru. Please. Don’t go. Please.”

  And I knew that tone, the pleading, the fear that was sitting like a spiked ball in his chest. He’d been left behind too, maybe more than I had.

  If I left now, who would pick him up?

  My good girl, my mother’s voice whispered. Live. Go back, and live.

  I smelled her, then. Warm perfume and spice, her hair falling in my face as she picked me up. I was a little girl, nestled in her strong arms, and she was everything good and bright and clean. Every little girl thinks her mother is the most beautiful woman in the world, but mine was.

  She really was.

  I love you, baby. It faded, that light and the sense of her presence, but I could still feel her arms around me. I love you so much. I am always with you.

  The room spun around me, like soapy water sliding down a drain. Whirling, the earth’s rotation twisting everything, my unbody compressing as darkness ate the edges of the vision. Static roared in my ears, and I tilted, slid, spun, time stretching as Christophe’s eyes opened halfway and he stared as if he could see me too. His arm lay on the small table, the bright red ribbon unfurling from it, but his other hand reached out, toward me. Fingers outstretched, pleading.