chapter THIRTY-SEVEN
A familiar white room, sunshine pouring through the skylights and my mother’s books on their familiar stripped-pine bookshelves, the bed white as an angel’s wings, the vanity’s mirror glowing and the Schola Prima utterly silent in its daytime sleep. I pushed myself up on my elbows, grimacing, but at least the worst of the dirt and dried blood was gone.
I felt warm all over. Hungry, but surprisingly good. And I was, true to form, almost completely unclothed. At least whoever had put me to bed had left me my panties.
I clutched the clean white sheet to my chest. The pounding of my pulse calmed down a little while I breathed, and the shaking came in waves. It was the trembles I used to get after a really bad time with Dad, like when I had to take him to the emergency room to get the big chunk taken out of his calf treated. After all the lies had been told and the doctors had whisked him away, I’d sat in a hard plastic ER chair and shook like this.
It meant everything was over.
After a little while, I got up. My clothes were still in the dresser and the closet; I grabbed a handful and headed for the white-tiled bathroom. My duffel lay inside the door, and my malaika were hung on their usual peg next to the vanity.
It was like I’d never left.
The bathroom was just the same—scrubbed clean, full of light, the towels smelling of bleach and fabric softener. I stood under the stinging spray for a long time—that’s one good thing about the Schola, the hot water never runs out. My hands looked different when I examined them. Longer, fingers tapered, my palms more cupped. My left palm was still red, faint flowerlike traceries where the blisters had been. It didn’t hurt when I squeezed it shut, though.
When I swiped the condensation from the mirror, the face that greeted me was . . . odd. It was pretty much the same as it had been since I’d bloomed. There was the definite heart shape now, my nose proud instead of gawky, my cheekbones higher, everything pared down.
But it was different, because I could see my mother in it. I could see Dad’s quirk of disbelief in my eyebrow, and Gran’s take-no-guff look when my chin set and my eyes flashed. My hair dripped as I studied myself, seeing them. I touched one cheek, running my fingers over it like I could reach through and touch one of them, or maybe all of them, if I just pushed hard enough.
Someone coughed out in the bedroom. I scrambled to get dressed, and as soon as I was decent I whipped the door open and piled out, scrubbing at my hair with a fresh towel.
Nat set the silver-domed tray down on the small table by the door. Her catlike blue eyes gleamed, every sleek hair in place and her outfit, as usual, perfect. The cream linen jacket hid the gun in its shoulder holster, but it peeped out as she half-turned, looking over her shoulder at me, and her slacks looked freshly ironed. “You’re probably all turned around,” she greeted me. “I figured you’d be awake soon, it’s been twenty—oof!”
I threw my arms around her, the towel hitting the floor with a plop. After a moment she hugged me back, so hard my bones creaked. I breathed her in, her strange musky perfume, and my eyes prickled.
I did not cry, though. I was done cried out.
“I’m sorry,” I blurted into her shoulder. “I was a dick to you, a total dick. I’m sorry. I promised if I came back I’d apologize. I’m so sorry, Nat. I—”
“Oh, Jesus, don’t be retarded.” But she was still hugging me, fiercely. “Because if you do, I’m going to cry, then you’ll cry, and we’re all—”
“All gonna cry,” I chorused with her, and burst into screamy laughter. She did too, and my heart blew up two sizes just like a balloon. She patted my back, and when we let go of each other she was actually sniffling.
“You had me worried there for a bit, kid.” She dabbed delicately under her eyes with her fingertips. “Don’t make my mascara run, dammit.”
“Sorry.” I tried to sound chastened. “Everyone. How is everyone? Christophe, Graves, Shanks, Dibs—everyone?”
“Fine. Well, all right. Let’s see, Dibs is snarling like he’s an alpha, Bobby’s highly amused and keeps saying he should’ve known you’d decapitate the king of the vampires, Benjamin and the crew are beside themselves and polishing their weapons. The Council wants to see you, and your friend Augustine says to tell you he’s going to make you some toast, for some reason.”
I half-choked on a laugh. It felt good to laugh, but painful, like popping a really righteous zit. “Graves?”
Her face changed a little. The laughter died in my chest.
“He’s . . . packing.”
“Packing?”
“He’s . . . well.” She shrugged, spread her hands. “He’s going on retreat. That’s what we call it.”
It was just like being punched in the stomach. And I should know. “What?”
Nat’s mouth turned down at the corners, uncomfortably. She actually fidgeted, shifting her weight. “It’s something wulfen do. When they’re, um, hurt bad, but not on the outside. Inside. Shanks has kin upstate; they sent word he was welcome to come. He’s . . . Dibs won’t say what happened. But, well, he had him.” She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders. “Sergej.” The name came out in a long sibilant rush.
And for once, it didn’t drive glass shards through my head. “He’s dead,” I said, numbly. “Or at least, I hope so. Christophe . . .”
“Yeah, Reynard explained. Said Graves put everything on the line, broke free of Sergej’s hold long enough to give you . . . what you needed.” A flush crept up her cheeks. “And that you took him on and cut his head off. Congratulations. But Graves is still . . . hurt. It’s different for wulfen, Dru. Sometimes you can get hurt inside, and you need to go away and sort it out.”
Every inch of good feeling I’d managed to scrape together ran out like water from a busted glass. “He’s leaving?”
Was it possible for her to look any more uncomfortable? She actually wouldn’t meet my eyes, looking down like the floor was suddenly the most interesting thing in the world.
“Nat.” I crossed my arms over my stomach. “Please.”
“He might already be gone.” She still wouldn’t look at me. “He didn’t want you to see him, thought it would be easier—”
Oh, no. No. Shit all over that. I was past her, suddenly, grabbing for the doorknob. It wasn’t locked, so I yanked the door open and ran out into the hall. The touch lit up inside my head, and I swear I could taste his blood again, sliding down my throat. Moonlight and that strawberry incense, and something that wasn’t an identifiable taste. It was just him, my Goth Boy, and I pounded down the corridor, hearing shouts behind me. Nat, and of course Benjamin and the others.
It didn’t matter.
I just ran.
Have you ever had that dream where you’re running, but you can’t move fast enough? Where the entire world is wet concrete, glorping around you, while you’re searching for something and knowing you won’t ever find it? Heart pounding, stitch grabbing your ribs with clawed fingers, the breath tearing in and out of your lungs while everything around you is suddenly, eerily slow?
But I had the touch, and I burst out the front door of the Schola just as the black SUVs were rousing themselves. Two of them, just starting to pull away.
“No!” I yelled, skidding to a stop. “NO!”
The brake lights popped on. They sat there and idled for a few seconds. My hands were fists at my sides, and my cheeks were wet. My hair was probably an unholy mess, and my feet throbbed. Of course—I was only in socks. Goddammit.
“No.” I stared at the cars. The touch settled, feathers brushing up and down my entire body. “No. Please, no.”
The second SUV’s engine cut off. The back passenger door opened, and he slid out slowly.
Like an old man.
Black jeans, black T-shirt, boots, no long black coat now. Instead it was a hip-length leather jacket, probably borrowed from Shanks.
My sock feet crunched in gravel. I was off the steps in a heart-beat, and he met me halfway. I grabbed him like he was a lifering, and I realized the yelling was me.
“No, goddammit, you can’t leave, not just like that, you just can’t! You can’t just leave me!”
“Calm down,” he began, but I ran right over the top of him.
“Calm down? I don’t think so! What the hell are you thinking? What the f*cking hell is wrong with you? You can’t just leave me here and ride off into the sunset, for f*ck’s sake! What do you think you’re—”
“Dru.” He tried to untangle himself, but I held on grimly. “Come on. Take a breath. Let me explain.”
“I wish you would!” I yelled. I grabbed the front of his jacket and actually shook him. His hair swung, I shook him so hard. “I wish you goddamn well would explain, for once!”
“Dru.” Sharp, now. “Shut up.”
I did. I held onto his jacket and planted my feet. Stared at the notch of the top of his sternum, where the collarbones met it. Coppery skin on his throat, vulnerable because he’d just shaved. There were two little red marks on his throat, but I didn’t want to look at them. They were right over his pulse, and I’d put them there. So I just stared at that notch instead.
Silence. It was a beautiful summer morning, and my heart was on fire and cracking at the same time.
“Is it because I suck blood?” I said, finally. In a very small voice. “Because that’s disgusting. I know.”
His fingers curled around my shoulders. It was his turn to shake me, twice, my head bobbling a little bit. “No. Dru, dammit, look at me. Look.”
I looked up.
His eyes were still green. But there were huge dark circles under them, and his jaw was set. He looked like he was in pain, and his cheeks were hollowed out.
He looked awful.
But the corner of his mouth tilted up slightly, and there was a shadow of the Graves I knew. He let go of me long enough to dig in his coat pocket, and when he pulled out a battered pack of Pall Malls I wasn’t surprised.
I let go of him. He lit up, inhaled deeply, and offered me the smoke. I shook my head, my nose wrinkling, and the small smile got a bit larger.
Just a bit.
When I was just about to grab him and start screaming with frustration again, he lowered the cigarette. Twin dragons of smoke curled out of his nostrils. “It’s not you.” His shoulders hunched. “Cliché. Sorry. I wanted it to be easier on you. Because I . . . there’s some things you can’t fix, Dru. You’re great at fixing things. If anyone could do it, you could. But you can’t do this one.” A long pause, and he swallowed, hard, his Adam’s apple bouncing. “You can’t fix me. I’m broke.”
“You’re not making any sense.” The rock in my throat made it hard to talk.
“Sergej.” His face twisted for a moment. “He was inside my head, Dru. It wasn’t the vampires that burned your grandmother’s house. It was me.”
I just stared at him, my mouth ajar.
“Christophe caught me. I couldn’t . . . I couldn’t fight him off. Not all the way.”
“But I . . .” I fixed that! I cleaned it away!
I wanted to yell it. But deep down, I knew better.
You can scrub and scrub, but sometimes something doesn’t just go away. It . . . it stains you. Like finding your father’s ambulatory corpse on your back step, and shooting him over and over because he means to kill you.
He was a zombie, right? He would have killed me.
But he was my dad, and I’d done that. I’d done it, and something inside me was yanked sideways. There wasn’t any going back, and there wasn’t a way to feel clean again.
Maybe it was the touch telling me this. Frustration swamped me, hot and harsh. “It’s my fault.” My hands twitched. I wanted to grab him again, but I restrained myself. “If I hadn’t—”
“Don’t.” A subvocal thunder slid out of him, a wulfen’s warning growl. I froze. “Don’t you dare. Sometimes shit just happens, Dru. It’s not your fault. It never was.” He tossed the cigarette, a flick of his fingers sending it in a perfect arc. The sunshine beat down on both of us, the dead dyed-black mass of his hair swallowing it.
When he took my shoulders again, it was gentle. He drew me forward and slid his arms around me, and I hugged him. He was too skinny, feverish–hot with a loup-garou’s heightened metabolism. A thin sick tremor ran through him, like a high-voltage wire right before it snaps.
“Listen,” he said into my hair. “I’m only gonna say this once, so listen good.”
I nodded, breathing him in, my face in his chest. Squeezed my eyes shut.
His breath was a warm spot in my wet hair. The breeze swirled around us, full of the green growing of summer and cut grass. “I’m coming back. But I got to fix myself. The wulfen, they’ll help. But here’s the thing, Dru. I’m not worth you.” He took a deep breath, and the way his arms tightened made the protest die in my throat. “But I’m gonna be. I told you before, but you didn’t understand. Hell, you might not understand now. But you’ve got to trust me on this one.” His arms tightened. “You have got to let me go. Can you do that?”
It’s not fair! I wanted to stamp and scream and hit something. Instead, I swallowed, hard. Had to try twice before the words would come. “Do you promise? To come back?”
“I promise.” He sounded sure, at least.
“Do you swear?” So I was five years old again. So what?
“I swear. I . . .” He tensed, and I felt him swallow convulsively, too. “I’ve got to be worth you, Dru. I’ve got to get strong, so nobody can use me like that again.”
“Please.” There was nothing else I could say. “Graves. Please . . .”
But when he stepped back, I let him go. It tore inside me, way down deep where all the worst hurts settle. He took another step back, the gravel crunching, and when I finally looked back up at him, it was a shock to see.
The tears trickled down his cheeks. His eyes were red-rimmed, but his jaw was set. He opened his mouth, shut it. Opened it again, and what came out shocked me even more.
“I love you. Okay? I promise.” Another step back, his green gaze holding mine. “Hey.” His throat worked, like he was catching the words halfway and pulling them back. “Dru. What’s that short for, anyway?”
I actually felt my heart break. It cracked right in half, and a sobbing little laugh that sounded like a cry came out. Got caught at the back of my palate, right where the bloodhunger lived. I forced it down.
“I’ll tell you when you come back,” I managed. It was all I could say.
I guess it must have been the right thing. Because he turned on one heel and headed back for the open passenger door, head up, stepping like he was walking on quicksand or something that might throw him at any moment.
He grabbed the door. But just before he got in, he looked back over his shoulder, and that soundless flash of communication passed between us.
Once, in Dad’s truck in a snowstorm, I’d clung to him. Because we were both wrecked, and when you’re wrecked, the only thing you can do is hold onto whatever you can.
Hold on hard.
We were still shipwrecked, Graves and me. But that look told me everything. He was still holding on. As hard as he could.
It just wasn’t enough.
He ducked down, the door slammed, and the brake lights flashed. There was a pause, but then the SUVs rolled away, bumping up onto the paved drive. Two cars meant guards. He’d probably get wherever he needed to safely.
I stood there and watched as they receded down the Schola’s long driveway. The trees arched over, leafdapple shade like water pouring over the cars, and my fingers itched. For the first time in a long time I wanted to draw, and I knew exactly what I’d draw. I’d try to capture the way the leaves held the sunlight, the red of the brake lights crimson dots, like fangmarks.
What I couldn’t draw was the way my heart finished cracking and fell, and the feeling that took its place in my chest. A kind of emptiness, like a church in the middle of the week, full of murmuring space.
Sometimes you do grow up in an instant. I think that was the first moment I started thinking like an adult.
And I hated it.