Betrayals sa-2 Page 6

  Of course, Graves had been the first one to approach me back in the Dakotas. I wasn’t sure what to think about that. It had been lucky, I guess. Maybe.

  Not so lucky for him, since he’d got bitten and ended up here.

  “You looked lonely.” He hunched over his plate, his long fingers almost but not quite touching the meat. “And they bet I wouldn’t do it, since I’m sub. Sometimes you have to show them they’re wrong, even the doms.”

  “Sub?” Doms? Oh boy.

  “I, um, was born that way. Born, not bitten, and born sub, too.” He blinked. “You don’t know about that, huh? Graves said you knew a lot, but not some stuff.”

  “He did, huh?” I shoved in another bite of egg. Dibs relaxed a little. “What else did Graves say?”

  “That if anyone messed with you, he’d call “em out. He got into it the first day he got here, proved he was dom. He sleeps in a top bunk.” Even though he was showing his teeth, Dibs’ expression was gentle. He scooped up one of the steaks and bit into it, teeth scissoring effortlessly through.

  Isn’t that interesting. “And you don’t?” I played with a line of syrup on my plate, dragging fork tines through it and swirling.

  “There’re lots of beds, but not every wulf sleeps in one. It’s complicated.” He took another massive bite. The meat splorched a little, and I felt distinctly queasy.

  Deal with it, Dru.

  But I remembered a werwulf’s teeth tearing through flesh and grinding down on Graves’ shoulder, and the thought made me feel green all over. Not a nice springtime green, either.

  “Hey, dogboy!” A yell from a passing djamphir, one of Irving’s friends, a slim dark-haired kid in a red shirt and jeans, slouching past with that eerie gracefulness. “Put your dish on the floor!” He sneered a little as he passed, elegantly.

  Dibs hunched up even further, and the ball of acid inside my chest boiled up as if something had been dropped in it. I slid my chair back, my legs tensing, but Dibs’ hand came down on my wrist with surprising strength.

  “Just let it go,” he whispered under the crowd noise. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

  “It does.” I tried to pull my hand away. “It means something.”

  A ripple ran through the caf. I turned my head, keeping the djamphir in sight. He dropped down at Irving’s table, one of the prime spots of cafeteria real estate, and laughed. His friends were laughing too. My braid bumped my back as I tried to pull away from Dibs again.

  Mark. Memory served up the djamphir’s name just as my free hand curled into a fist. I’m pretty sure his name is Mark. He even looks like a Mark. Go figure.

  “Wow. You really do care.” He laughed, a shaky little sound. “Just let it roll off. I’m not upset, see? You’ll just make trouble if you say anything. Keep your head down.”

  The tension simmered down a notch, but it didn’t leave me. My shoulders were a rigid bar under my T-shirt and hoodie, and I’d lost every ounce of appetite I’d had.

  “You don’t argue with them.” He let go of me, finger by finger. “Not over a wulf. They won’t make it hard for you, get it? They’ll make it hard for me. But don’t worry, the doms will take care of it. Sooner or later. They always do.”

  “Jesus.” I let out a long, shaky breath. It had bothered me before, the dismissive way Christophe treated Graves; as if he was somehow tainted. Somehow less. It bothered me here, too, the djamphir were the top of the food chain.

  I’d thought things would be different somehow. I’d thought the Real World didn’t play petty bullshit high school games. But here, it was just the same old thing. It was depressing. Could you ever get away from it?

  But picking a fight the day I’d decided to turn over a new leaf wasn’t a good idea. I should start this out right.

  Dibs was watching me anxiously, a vertical line between his golden eyebrows as they wrinkled together. He looked like a retriever I’d seen once, a sweet dog that lived in a trailer park outside Pensa cola. The way he tilted his head and chewed at the same time reinforced the impression.

  Scratch behind his ears, who’s a good boy? I swallowed hard, disgusted at the thought. I wasn’t like them, the dismissive, pretty djamphir boys. I’d always been an outsider.

  I stabbed at my pancakes like I was stabbing at the face of stupidity. “Do they all act that way? The djamphir?”

  “Yeah. I mean, except you. Graves said you were different. He said you—”

  “Hey, Dru.” Graves yanked out the chair on my other side and dropped into it. He smelled like cold air and cigarette smoke, his long black coat still carrying a chill from outside. A bloom of red up high on his cheekbones did good things for him, and his earring glittered. His eyes were sparkling, too. “Dibs. Nice to see you, man.”

  Dibs shut up so fast I was surprised he didn’t lose a chunk of his tongue. He busied himself with tearing at the steak and chewing, with a guilty hangdog look.

  “So you’re a dom, huh? Nice.” I stabbed my pancakes again. “Kinky.”

  “You’re the one who ties people up, babe.” Graves’ gaze flicked past me, touched Dibs, and returned. “What happened?”

  Dibs shrugged, took another mouthful.

  My tone was hard and dismissive. “Some djamphir asshole just catcalling, that’s all.” Stab, stab, the fork hit the plate hard. “I’m about due for class.”

  “I’ll walk you, we’ve got first period together. Glad you decided to show up.” He looked smug.

  Insufferably smug. His smile was a wide V, so big a dimple came out on his left cheek. He wasn’t so baby-faced anymore, and was that dark stubble spreading up from his chin? His hair was starred with little beads of moisture, it must have been raining outside.

  Yeah. He got to go outside and smoke, and then come back in and—

  Jesus. I grabbed the edge of the table with both hands. The fork mashed itself against fake wood.

  My teeth gritted together so hard my jaw ached. I’d been mad before, plenty of times. Kid-mad. This was a new feeling, and it swallowed me whole. I actually saw little sparkles of red around the corners of my field of vision, and my arm ached with the need to punch that fucking smile right off his face. Arm? No, my whole body vibrated with the urge.

  “Uh-oh.” Dibs’ chair scraped as he pushed back. “Graves? She smells red.”

  I shook. The wave of trembling passed through me. What the hell was I thinking? It was Graves.

  He was pretty much my only friend here. Was I really going to go ballistic on him? Over what?

  “She’s fine.” Graves just looked at me. His face didn’t seem nearly as smug now. Just thoughtful, and familiar. “She gets a little antsy sometimes, but she’s okay. Right, Dru?”

  And just like that, the rage evaporated, leaving only the sour little red-hot bubble in my chest. I found my voice. “Right. Antsy.” Where did that come from? What was that? “Jesus.” It came out sounding breathy and exhausted.

  The cafeteria was curiously hushed. Tension ran under the surface of that quiet before my ears popped and I relaxed a little bit more.

  “You’re wound pretty tight,” was all Graves said. “Hey, you should eat something other than that. Want some bacon?”

  Christophe visited me. I have to talk to you. The words died on my lips. Dibs crunched down on something next to me. It sounded like bone, and my stomach did a funny sideways jigging movement.

  “I, um, I’ll just stick with toast.” To prove it, I picked up a half-slice of sourdough covered in butter.

  It was cold, but I put it in my mouth and bit down. My teeth were tingling. It was a weird feeling, like they were waking up from novocaine. I mean, I’ve never had a cavity, but I can imagine.

  Graves nodded. A shadow of relief slid through his green eyes. “’Kay. Hey, we’re going out for burgers again after classes. Want me to bring you some?”

  No. It’ll be cold when you get here. I don’t want any grease, thanks. “Maybe a milkshake one of these days. I haven’t had a milkshake in a while
.”

  Not since he’d handed me one in a mall food court and asked me what was wrong. The memory pushed through my head, tinted with panic, and I let out another shaky sigh.

  “You got it. If you’re still awake when I get in.” His hair fell over his face as he nodded, the dead-black strings looking normal on him. His skin had cleared up, the caramel coloring nice and even. “Sure you don’t want any bacon?”

  Yeah, if I’m still awake when you condescend to come back? No thanks. I took another hurried bite of toast as Dibs cracked down on another bone and made a happy, humming little sound. I suppose I should have been ready for that. It was one thing to feel lonely because nobody would sit with you. It was another thing entirely to have a wulf chowing down right next door. “Nah, I’m good. Really.” I made the words come out through a mouthful of cold soggy toast and congealed butter, and told myself I’d better start eating my food while it was hot.

  Maybe I shouldn’t tell him about Christophe at all. I mulled over this until the bell for first period rang, and was still mulling over it hours later when I fell asleep in the gray light of predawn. Graves didn’t show up with that shake. But it wasn’t like I was expecting him to, either.

  Yeah, right.

  CHAPTER 7

  My second week at the Schola ended in a hard freeze. Temperatures plunged, especially at night when the stars became hard clear points in a naked inky sky. Ice dribbled over the windows, and I couldn’t even feel relieved that the constant fog had drawn back. All the wulfen were complaining because this kind of weather kept them indoors. And believe me, if you’ve never been stuck inside a room with twenty restless young wulfen while a teenage-looking djamphir drones on about the anatomy of suckers, well, you’ve missed a real party.

  A Schola classroom generally isn’t like a regular classroom. They’re concave, most of the time.

  The teacher stands in the bottom of the bowl, and the students sit on benches or couches in concentric circles. It was couches in first-period history class, which meant Graves was sitting right next to me, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He looked like he was paying attention, too, under the mess of dyed-black hair falling in his face. His nose jutted out, and his chin was set.

  The usual black coat strained at his shoulders.

  The intensity in his green eyes was new, though. I’d never seen him concentrate this fiercely.

  I still felt sorry for dragging him into this.

  On my other side, the only other djamphir student in the room leaned away from me, taking notes on a yellow legal pad. It was Irving, his curly hair slicked down a little. He’d apparently forgiven me for the sparring thing. He didn’t seem the type to hold a grudge.

  His friend in the red shirt wasn’t here, thank God.

  Everyone was freshly showered and bright-eyed for the first class of the evening, and it was so cold I was in layers, T-shirt, Graves’ flannel, and a blue wool sweater. I’d have preferred to be hanging out in front of the armory, but at least the lecture was something I hadn’t heard before. The teacher had thrown out the textbook and was teaching something new.

  “For the wulfen attacking, the primary target is usually the unprotected belly.” The instructor, a pale blond djamphir, had stopped staring at me. He still halted every once in a while, glancing at me and going completely motionless for a few seconds. It was eerie. “This bleeds a wampyr out, and has the added bonus of leaving a blood trail should the thing escape.”

  Irving raised his hand. “Why not the throat?” He looked like a bright student giving the teacher an opening. His eyes had lit up, and he leaned forward. “Wulfen claws are more durable than plenty of weapons.”

  “Good question.” The teacher nodded. I still hadn’t figured out his name yet. “Anyone?”

  A shaggy dark-haired wulf perched in one of the very back rows spoke up. “Throat’s too small a target.” His upper lip lifted for a moment, a gleam of teeth. “Plus, gets you too close to the thing. Arm’s length is safer.”

  “And?” The teacher’s eyebrows rose. Nobody said anything.

  I tentatively raised a hand.

  Immediately, every pair of eyes in the room fastened on me. “Yes?” The blond wasn’t sneering now. Instead, he was looking attentively at me, eyebrows raised.

  Oh Lord. I’m going to feel stupid. My heart was going a mile a minute. “Wulfen fight in packs?”

  I hazarded. “I mean, I haven’t seen much, but they seemed to be pretty good at fighting as a unit. I guess djam-djamphir—” I stumbled nervously over the word and immediately felt like a dumb-ass. “Well, I don’t see them working together a lot, not in a case like that.”

  “Very good!” The teacher beamed like I’d just handed him Christmas. “Striking for the belly is a strategy with greater returns if the creature is distracted by other team members. What are other strategies for distracting a wampyr?”

  I felt like I’d just won a prize. And this was real. It wasn’t like a stupid history class where they aren’t telling you the truth anyway, just the regular collage of corporate-approved lies to suck all the interest out of everything.

  No, this was about the Real World. How many times had I told Dad high school wouldn’t prepare me for anything? We’d gone round and round over it.

  The thought of Dad hurt, so I tried thinking about something else. Now I felt kind of bad about skipping all the time and fighting with him. Maybe if I hadn’t—

  I didn’t want to think that all the way through either. I sat up a little straighter.

  Graves gave me an unreadable glance. He didn’t bother to raise his hand. “Blood,” he said. The single word dropped into the room like a rock into a pond. “Spill enough and the animals go crazy.”

  A ripple ran through everyone. Irving made a single restless movement next to me. The couch creaked.

  The teacher’s mouth made a weird little twitch. He didn’t quite dart Graves a venomous look, but it was close. “The hunger.”

  “More like a thirst, actually.” Irving shifted again. I got the idea he was trying to get the teacher’s attention. “Why do we call it hunger, anyway?”

  “Putting a pretty face on it?” Graves suggested sweetly. I cottoned onto what he was doing a little too late, and the teacher actually stiffened.

  Oh Lord. Here we go. I sighed internally and threw a question in I wouldn’t have asked if I hadn’t been trying to distract everyone. “What I want to know is, why don’t I have it? And does it really make suckers go nuts?” I moved, and my elbow whapped into Graves’ side. Hard.

  I hoped it looked unintentional.

  The room went still again. I was almost getting used to the way everyone shut up whenever I asked a stupid question. At least I’d been learning for a few days now, even if Civics and Aspect Mastery were still total wastes of time.

  Maybe this wasn’t so bad.

  Blondie looked relieved, but he darted a little glance at Graves. Then at me, and I swear I saw a flash of anger. “Some svetocha have the bloodhunger, but not until blooming. And yes, even a small amount of vital fluid can drive a new nosferat, or an older one, into a state of severely diminished rationality. It depends on how long ago their last feeding was, and—”

  Feeding. Like, on people. I shivered, but didn’t have a chance to finish the thought. The low clear tones of a bell sliced through whatever Blondie had been meaning to say, and everyone in the room leapt to their feet.

  Shit. Restriction. Maybe it was a drill. I grabbed Graves’ arm, the decision made almost before I was aware I’d touched him. “Come with me.”

  “I’ve got to—” He tried to step away, stopped, and looked down at me.

  The wulfen were jamming up at the door, some of them half-changing already, fur running up over their bodies. Irving paused just at the door to look back, his aspect sliding through his curls with golden highlights as his eyes lit up. His lower lip was dimpled, the tips of his fangs just slightly touching the flesh. The teacher was already gone, vanish
ing on a wind that smelled of some fancy-dancy cologne.

  But he didn’t smell like a Christmas candle. Only Christophe. Who could I ask about that?

  I kept hold of Graves. “Please. I’ll go nuts if I’m locked up in my room again without anyone to talk to.” And I haven’t been able to get you alone, you’re always hanging out with the hairy boys.

  I do want to tell you about Christophe. Go figure. “Graves. Please.”

  He shrugged, shoulders lifting and dropping. “I’m supposed to go to the armory. It’s detention if I don’t show up.”

  What, you won’t get involved unless I’m getting beat up? And since when are you worried about detention, for chrissake? A sour taste filled my mouth. “Fine.” But I didn’t let go of his coat.

  Dylan would probably be along any second. “Go on, then.”

  “You don’t understand—” Maddeningly, he shut his mouth and glared at me, like I was the problem. The bell rang again, urgently, and he tore himself free and headed out the door, the coat flapping around his calves.

  Leaving me all alone in the empty classroom. My fingers stung, like from rug burn. My mother’s locket was a cold, heavy weight under my layered shirts.

  The bell finished ringing, and the weird staticky silence of the Schola under siege crawled into my head.

  The boys all had jobs when that bell rang. Battle stations, some of them in the armory passing out weapons, others meeting at predetermined points and waiting. The oldest students and the teachers went out to sweep the grounds.

  Last time, some of them had come back beat up pretty bad. Bleeding, even. From the suckers.

  I stood there for a few seconds, my hand scraped raw from the rough cotton of Graves’ coat, yanked free of my grasp. This made the fourth Restriction. Someone always showed up to take me back to my room.

  Not this time. Seconds ticked by, one after another. The fluorescents buzzed, and cobwebs in the upper corners drifted like seaweed. Some of the ceiling tiles were crumbling too.