[Strange Angels 02] - Betrayals Page 4

  A lot of effort to spend if I wanted to walk outside into a raw, blustery little plot of ground with gravel paths and leafless, pinched-looking things that might have been rosebushes, in spring, that is.

  If I really, truly wanted to wander around thorny stabbing vines under a gray sky.

  Instead of bars, there were heavy iron shutters, with little hearts and crosses punched out in even rows marching down their lengths.

  I left those open. When they were closed, the entire room got still and, well, dead.

  My eyes opened slowly. The warning retreated. Had it been Gran? Whoever it was was trying to tell me something very important.

  Taptaptap. Tap. Taptap.

  A cool bath of dread started at my scalp and slid down the rest of me. The sound was familiar, fingers drumming impatiently on glass. Memory mixed with dreaming, conspired to pull me under as the pillow turned hard and hot against my cheek.

  There was a zombie at my back door. Its eyes swung up, and they were blue, the whites already clouding with the egg-rot of death. Its jaw was a mess of meat and frozen blood; something had eaten half its face. Its fingertips, already worn down to bony nubs, scraped against the window.

  Flesh hung in strips from its hand, and my stomach turned over hard. Black mist rose at the corners of my vision, and the funny rushing sound in my head sounded like a jet plane taking off.

  I’d know that zombie anywhere. Even if he was dead and mangled, his eyes were the same.

  Blue as winter ice, fringed with pale lashes.

  The zombie’s gaze locked with mine. It cocked its head like it had just heard a faraway noise.

  I let out a dry barking sound and my back hit the wall next to the hallway, smacking my hip against a stack of boxes.

  Dad bunched up his rotting fist, the meat chewed away from finger bones by something I didn’t want to imagine or even think about, and punched his way through the window.

  I sat straight up, gasping for air, fighting free of the heavy blankets. Threadbare sateen sheets slid sweat-slick against my skin, turned into wet fingers clutching me at hip and ankle. My fists balled up and I hit nothing but air, the scream dying in my throat. The soft brush of feather-muffled wings filled the room for a moment, but Gran’s owl, the bird that had sat on her windowsill while she died, the bird that had warned me of danger and led me to Dad’s truck a week and a half ago, didn’t show up.

  Something is very wrong here, Dru. You should beware. But the voice receded as soon as I lunged into wakefulness, and I found I was clutching my mother’s locket in one damp hand.

  I blinked again, trying to separate dream from reality.

  Tap. Taptap. The sound was real. And it was coming from my bedroom window.

  I rolled out of the bed, hit the floor hard. Teeth clicking together, lucky I didn’t have my tongue between them. My hands were too clumsy and slow, patting the top of the nightstand for a weapon.

  At home I’d have a gun. But here, there was nothing but the silver-loaded stiletto, all the weapons were signed into the sparring chapel or the armory, including the gun I’d had when they rescued me.

  Except for the switchblade that had been forgotten in my pocket, the one I didn’t tell anyone about.

  It just seemed like a good idea not to, that’s all.

  I pressed the button for the suicide spring. The blade snicked free and the tapping stopped.

  I blinked, fisted sleep-crusties away with my free hand. Thin swords of pale winter daylight shifted position as whatever was outside my window moved.

  Daytime. Of course it was, that’s when the Schola sleeps, because that’s when it’s safe. Or at least, safe from nosferatu. Some of the older werwulfen students haunt the grounds during the day, running patrols in human and not-so-human form. I thought maybe a few of the djamphir teachers did too, but I hadn’t bothered to ask. It had seemed enough just to sleep during the day and be up all night, even when my body clock had a little trouble adjusting.

  My breath turned stale in my throat. I crouched beside my bed, weighing my options.

  Click. The window catch snicked up. The stiletto turned itself in my hand, blade flat against my wrist and forearm. Silver loaded along the blade would hurt just about anything evil, and I would at least give a good lick or two in any fight. I took in a deep lungful of still, dusty air, my heart crawling up into my throat but a strange sense of calm descending on me.

  Everything else in this place left me at sea. But something weird threatening to crawl into my bedroom window?

  I knew how to deal with this. It was familiar. Once in Louisiana we’d tangled with a voodoo king, and we’d had a hex climb in through the window carrying roach spirits. But I’d seen Gran’s owl before and told Dad, so when the window had broken with a silvery tinkling sound and the first huge roaches spilled through, we were ready.

  When whatever-it-was came through the window, I was going to be ready.

  This was what I’d been waiting for, without even realizing it. Everything else was just treading water. This, with my heart in my throat and my entire body suddenly awake and tingling with fear, was real.

  And I didn’t have to think about being alone or lonely when I was afraid.

  I was still crouching there, my tank top twisted and the boxers I’d been sleeping in crawling up my crack, when I realized the thin blue lines of energy running through the walls weren’t sparking and crackling. It had been a job to do the warding without Gran’s rowan wand, but I’d managed.

  The wand was, after all, only a symbol, as Gran had endlessly reminded me. Ain’t nearly as good as the will behind it, Dru. You just remember that.

  She was always saying something like that. You just remember, Dru. Just remember.

  That was the trouble. I was starting to get stuff I’d rather forget stuck in my head on repeat. Stuff like a zombie at my kitchen door, or a small dark space full of stuffed animals and the smell of drowsy little-girl fear.

  What would wards not react to? There was a short list of things. I began running through them frantically.

  The window opened. A breath of chill, rain-laden air puffed past the curtains, and they separated just enough for him to shimmy through. His boots landed on the carpet, the window closed with a slight squeak, and he turned around. Weak gray daylight touched his sleek dark hair, the blond highlights slipping through and retreating like fingers combing the silk-heavy strands.

  His eyes swept the room once, then settled on me. Burning winter-blue eyes, glowing in the half-dark. He was in a hip-length, rock-star leather jacket, and he passed one hand back through his hair, shaking it down as water flung itself free. That cold blue gaze came to rest on me, and I suddenly smelled apple pies baking.

  “Hello, Dru.” His mouth curled up in a grin. I had forgotten how the planes and angles of his face all worked together, making him not handsome but just… right. How his eyebrows slanted up a little, and how his shaggy haircut looked expensive and relaxed all at once. “Have you been a good girl? Your guardian angel wants to know.”

  I stared at Christophe, my mouth open slightly, and realized how ridiculous I probably looked just as he slid the curtains closed and the room turned dark.

  “Jesus,” I whispered. “Where have you been?” It was about the most useless question in the world, and it came straight out of my mouth.

  “Out and around, around and about.” He paced across the room with long, springing strides, stopped at the door, and touched the chain lock, the deadbolt, and the bolt I’d shot home before lying down to sleep. “Very good, barring your door and warding your walls. You’re not such a careless little bird now.”

  I wasn’t ever careless! But there were more important things to open my mouth about. Every single question I hadn’t been able to get answered in the past week and a half fought for place in the line, but they lost out to two inconsequentials. “Where’s my truck? And all my clothes?”

  Well, maybe not inconsequential, but I could’ve asked something else.
Like, Why didn’t you tell me about the bloodhunger? Or, Was this my mother’s room? Or even, Why does it seem like they were waiting for me here? What did you tell them? Why won’t they teach me anything real?

  Christophe turned on one heel, surveyed the rest of the room, and finally looked back down at me again. I still crouched right by my bed, the knife ready in my fist. “I have taken good care of everything of yours, little bird. The truck is in a storage facility downstate under another name, safe and sound.” He raised one elegant eyebrow, slightly. “They didn’t give you any clothes? Or an expense account?”

  My cheeks turned so hot I’m surprised they didn’t glow. I straightened, suppressing the urge to pick at my boxers. Fixing a wedgie is so not the way to look competent. “Of course they did. But I was sleeping.”

  “All safe in a little blue nest. I wonder why they put you here?” He shook himself again, water spattering. He was soaked. “Did you miss me?”

  Oh, for chrissake. I set the knife down on the elegant little nightstand and pulled the hem of my tank top down. “I’m going to get you a towel, and I’m going to get some clothes on. Then we can—”

  One very blue glance, before he pushed his hair back with stiff fingers and gave the rest of the room a once-over. “A towel would be nice, but you don’t need to bother getting dressed. You’re not going anywhere.”

  Silence filled the room. He looked steadily at me, I looked back, and the flush died on my cheeks.

  The smell of apple pies filled up the space between us, and I suddenly was pretty glad I wasn’t bleeding anywhere, or even scabbed up. I knew how strong and fast Christophe was. If he decided to go all bloodhungry on me, what chance did I have?

  Which all of a sudden made me think of something else. What if Irving had been taking it easy on me? Or if he hadn’t, and Christophe was stronger, why the hell was he that way?

  How old was this djamphir who’d rescued me? He was pretty obviously an “advisor,” and they tend to be older.

  Like, way older.

  “There’s a lot of things you didn’t tell me.” I tried not to sound accusing. I was suddenly very aware of the tank top clinging to me and cool air touching exposed skin. My legs felt very long, very skinny, and pretty unshaved.

  Hey, I wear jeans all the time. You couldn’t pay me to wax, and who has time to drag a razor over everything every day? When we’d lived below the Mason-Dixon I’d kept up with it, but moving up with the polar bears and finding out I was a lot deeper in the Real World than I’d ever guessed didn’t leave me with a lot of time for hair removal.

  I thought I might make some time from now on, though. My cheeks were so hot I was amazed steam wasn’t rising off the skin.

  “Dru.” He took two steps toward me, his boots crushing the carpet. “I didn’t have time for a lot of niceties. You realize that, right?”

  I crossed my arms over my chest. Jeez, it was cold in here all of a sudden. And had he always smelled this good? Was it a cologne? Eau de Christmas Pie? “I guess,” I said finally. There hadn’t exactly been time for a lot of note taking, but he still could have told me a few things.

  Would I have believed him? All I had to do now was look around this pretty little room and think of the bars on the other windows. Or of the first Restriction, when the bell jangled and everyone leapt for their stations, and Dylan dragged me up to this room and told me to lock the door.

  But why? I’d wanted to know, and Dylan had showed his teeth, fangs curving down as his aspect slid over him.

  Because this isn’t a drill, he’d said. And you are what we’re going to die for if they break through the outer defenses. Now lock your door.

  Christophe shook his head again. Water flew like jewels. “A towel would be nice, Dru.”

  “Yeah, sure. Fine.” I stamped barefoot toward the door between two bookshelves. I had my own bathroom, while the boys in the dorms had to make do with communal ones. And I still couldn’t figure out who cleaned it, though it wasn’t as old-grungy as the caves downstairs. And I don’t make much of a mess, either.

  Living with Dad taught me that much, at least.

  The towels were blue too, and a little threadbare. Bright blue like a summer sky. The color of our truck, the color of Dad’s eyes, warmer than Christophe’s, even when bloodshot after a night of sipping Beam, or when he was in what he called a “damn bad mood.”

  I had to stop and take a deep breath. Right next to the squirrelly panic-feeling of being left behind again was a hot wash of relief, as vivid as oil paint. It was a familiar feeling, the relief I felt each time Dad showed back up to collect me.

  What did I have to be relieved about? Nothing except the fact that someone had come back for me.

  When you’ve spent your life waiting to be collected like a library book or a piece of luggage, the intensity of that relief gets a little ridiculous.

  But at least Christophe hadn’t forgotten about me.

  I grabbed a bath sheet and stamped back out. Christophe hadn’t moved. He was staring at the empty bookcases with a peculiar look on his face. I’d tried to make them look a little less empty by arranging some of the knickknacks, including a blue glass elephant with its trunk lifted, on different shelves. My books, my CDs, my mattresses, everything was in the truck. Nothing here was mine. It didn’t even smell right, when a place hasn’t been lived in for a while, you can tell. The air itself gets stale. Moving into a place where nobody’s been breathing for a while is like trying on shoes that don’t fit quite right and hoping they’ll wear in.

  Shoes never do. I’ve never spent long enough in a house that felt this unfriendly, I don’t know if they ever relax.

  Still, I was beginning to call a truce with some of the knickknacks. They’d stopped looking like prissy little disapproving things and started to look a little easier with the idea of me. And when I came back after going down to the caf, at least it smelled a little bit more like a hotel each time instead of a crypt.

  “Here.” I tossed the towel at Christophe, who caught it with a clean, economical motion. “Start talking.”

  “What if I just came to see you?” He scrubbed at his hair, wiped his face and hands. The jacket squeaked a little. His hands were wet, and I saw deep red, dripping lines crisscrossing his palms and scoring his knuckles before he shook his fingers out. They were pale and perfect again when he held one up and examined it critically, exhaling.

  My heart made a funny flipping movement. “Oh, please. You wouldn’t have waited if you really wanted to see me that bad.” And you wouldn’t be sneaking in through my window if everything was all right. I found a big plaid flannel shirt Graves had gotten on one of his shopping runs and shrugged into it, my fingers fumbling with the buttons. It smelled vaguely of cigarette smoke, boy, and harsh deodorant soap. Another odd flush of relief spilled through me. “Where have you really been? Driving here? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. Touched that you care.” He rubbed behind his ear and grinned like a cat. The blond highlights sliding through his hair were darkened by the wet, but still visible. He shucked out of the jacket, too, and looked for a place to put it. I pointed at the creaking office chair in front of the computer and he hung it up, muscle moving under his thin black V-neck sweater.

  I looked away at the drapes pulled closed over the window. It was pretty dark in here, and I was kind of happy about that.

  But there was plenty not to be happy about in the dark, too. I flicked the bedside lamp on, an antique brass number with a blue stained-glass shade, and turned to find Christophe watching me.

  His eyes were even bluer than the room, but oddly bleached.

  Winter eyes.

  “How old are you, anyway?” I didn’t cross my arms, but I did pick up the stiletto again. I did not try to push the blade back in, just held it loosely.

  It made me feel better. My hair was all messed up and my boxers were on weird, but at least I felt equipped to handle this if I kept a grip on the knife.

  Why? He’s
not going to hurt me. The relief burst inside my chest again, but under it was the bald edge of fear. Now I’d seen what a djamphir could do.

  It was stupid not to be frightened of them.

  Christophe kept very still. He was staring at my breastbone, where my mother’s locket glistened.

  When I moved a little bit, pulling the top of the flannel shirt closed, he finally examined my face instead. My cheeks were hot as stove burners.

  “Just a little older than you, Dru.” He flicked a quick glance at the rest of the room again, like he expected there to be someone hiding in the shadows. “This reminds me of your mother’s room. She was the last svetocha we managed to save.” There, his tone said. Does that answer the question you were really asking? He shook the towel and glanced around the room again. A breath of pie scent touched my cheek. “She had books, lots of them. They’re probably in a holding room. Waiting for you.”

  My hand made a tiny movement, wanting to touch Mom’s locket. I forced it down. “They won’t train me.” It burst out in a cascade I tried not to make into a whine. “You said they would. No combat training or anything, they treat me like I’m—”

  “Glass?” He tilted his head. His rain-wet skin was perfect, like damp silk. “Like you’re fragile?

  Precious? There are worse things, moj ptaszku.”

  Not from where I’m sitting. “Look, I’m not going to get any better if they keep treating me like—”

  I didn’t even see him move. One moment he was all the way across the room, with the towel in his hands and his head cocked. The next, he was nose to nose with me, a warm draft smelling of apples and spice pushing at my hair, kissing my cheeks.

  I half-fell back, slashing up with the knife. Warm steel bands closed around my wrist and twisted.

  My arm shrieked with pain, the knife plucked from my suddenly nerveless fingers, and my knees buckled. His other hand clamped at the back of my neck, under my hair. My shoulder wrenched, screaming as it twisted in a way it wasn’t built for.

  Move it, Dru! Dad’s voice, filling my head. There was only one way out, and I took it, bending forward, kicking up to roll, my shoulder giving a high, hard pop of pain as Christophe’s fingers loosened. My bare foot hit his knee, heel grinding in. It was a good kick, and he let out a short, sharp sound like a laugh.