I lunged again, almost dragging him with me, and I realized what I wanted to do.
I wanted to knock all of them out of my way and put my face in the wounded werwulf’s throat.
I wanted to drink.
A roaring thirst crawled out from the middle of my throat, spread through my entire body. I was dry, cracking and burning, and the only thing that could quench the fire was the sweet red fluid I could smell all over. It tapped inside my head, whispered and cajoled, and my teeth turned achingly sensitive. I could almost feel them lengthening, sharp tickling crawling over the enamel. My hair tingled, and every inch of me was awake again. The persistent exhaustion of the last few sleepless days vanished, replaced with high, crackling energy.
Graves’ other arm came around my throat and he choked up as I writhed, pitching back and forth.
My teeth snapped together, making little clicking sounds. The wulfen snarled back, but Graves made that weird, world-shaking sound again and they stayed away.
I wish I could say I was relieved when Shanks rose up out of the middle of a knot of werwulfen, his face a mask of blood and his eyes blazing. But I wasn’t. I wanted to lick the stuff off his face and put my teeth in his throat, and I wanted to drink.
He snarled, Graves rumbled back. And I don’t know what would have happened if a flood of djamphir hadn’t burst through the door and surrounded me. They held me down as I started screaming, shouldering Graves aside. But he stayed, holding onto my hand even when my fingers bit down and bones in both our hands crackled.
It was the first time the bloodhunger had struck me. And now, oh God, I understood so much more.
Graves didn’t leave me, even though everyone was shouting. He stayed right there, making a noise over and over again, and I finally realized he was saying my name. The hunger crested, and when it finally retreated, I started crying. Graves was the one who pulled me close and hugged me. I was sobbing and shaking like a little kid, and some of them started telling him to leave, but he just shook them off and kept holding me.
I clung to him too. They couldn’t pull me away.
CHAPTER 13
Graves set the stack of books down on the wooden table with a thump. My teeth still ached. So did my entire body. But all in all, it was apparently no big deal at the Schola. Shanks was in the baths, and Graves was skipping whatever he was supposed to be doing, and I’d been told to “just go somewhere else and calm down.”
Yeah. Calm down. Two of the most useless words in the English language. But Dylan told me the danger was past, and I wasn’t going to go and bite someone. He said it was normal, because I was so close to blooming. And that I’d get used to it.
I wasn’t so sure.
He also said they hadn’t had a death “from student interactions” at this Schola for about sixty-two years, which wasn’t as comforting as it could have been either.
The library was full of the smell of dust and old paper. Barred windows let in sharp swords of golden evening light between heavy antique wooden bookshelves, the sun had finally come out, too late in the day to do any good. Nobody was behind the circulation desk.
It was a good thing. I could still smell the blood. My teeth were still sensitive, as if I’d just gone to the dentist’s. Every nerve in me was raw, and I sat with my arms cupping my elbows, hugging myself.
“It’s fucking crazy. You’re crazy,” Graves said flatly. “What are you going to do, tie him up in your room? They’ll kill him.”
At least he was talking about something other than me growing fangs and wanting to go all nosferat on someone. He just plain refused to discuss that, and I was grateful.
Well, as grateful as I could be with my brain refusing to work right and my hair changing color and Jesus God, what the hell was happening to me?
Who was I anymore? When I looked in the mirror, would I still see myself?
It was like vanishing into a funhouse to ask yourself that question, I mean, seriously ask yourself, in a funhouse where the horror is real and anything but fun, and see what happens. Asking yourself that sort of question makes everything inside you that’s not nailed down do a funny jigging dance.
I had precious little that was nailed down anymore.
If I focused on something else, I could probably get through this. “Something just doesn’t add up.”
At least I wasn’t lisping around fangs. My teeth were normal, but I kept running my tongue over them, testing. They felt normal. Except for the aching in them, and the thirsty place at the back of my throat. “He was this close to me, Graves. And he didn’t do anything but sniff me. I—”
“Shut up.” He dropped down into a chair and glared at me. “What the hell is going on with you, Dru?”
You mean, other than having my dad murdered, finding out I’m part sucker, getting chased and beaten up, and turning into a blood-craving fiend prepared to really, really hurt someone? Jeez, I’m pink. I’m perfect. I’m the picture of health. I opened my mouth to say something smart or at least less stupid than usual, but closed it again because, well, what could I say?
It was hopeless. I looked down at the mellow glow of the wood’s surface. Heat rose behind my eyes, the unsteady ball of rage caged in my ribs kicked up another notch, and I swallowed hard. Kept my temper down through sheer force of will.
Now that I knew what the bloodhunger did, would I ever be able to look at myself in the mirror?
Or at any of the djamphir without flinching?
“Come on.” He was still glaring at me, I could feel it. “Say something, Dru. Don’t just sit there and look like I’ve stabbed you. Christ.”
The sunshine faded as dusk took hold. I slumped back in the chair, hugging myself. The whirling inside me wouldn’t stop. I breathed in, breathed out, trying to make it slow down a little. If I freaked out now, what the hell else might happen?
Would I jump on Graves? Would my teeth get long and sharp, and would I want to put my face in his throat and drink?
My chest hurt. I hugged myself harder.
“Come on.” His tone gentled. “What are you doing? You keep shoving everything down like this and you’re going to give yourself an ulcer or something. I’m here, okay? I’ve taken everything this place could throw at me. I’m not going anywhere.”
That just made me feel worse. He was here because of me. Great. “Do you ever want to go home?” I had to fight to keep the words steady. My chest hurt. It was the same old pain, the breathless feeling of sitting in a hospital corridor once Gran was dead, just repeating over and over, My dad is coming, he’ll take care of it. He’s on his way. And hoping it was true.
Praying it was true. But this time I was left behind for good. There was nobody coming to get me.
Not in any good way, at least.
And the sooner I started dealing with that the better. But oh God, the thought scared me, way down deep.
He was quiet for a long few moments. “Shit no,” he finally said. “Look, I don’t know if you caught this, Dru, but I don’t have a fireplace and picket fence to go back to. I was homeless, okay?”
I’d suspected, but it was a different thing altogether to hear it out loud. “You had—”
“That room at the mall? Fuck, what kind of kid lives in the mall? Here at least there’s enough food. There’s a bed I earned, and I’m keeping it. Nobody’s trying to peddle my ass or beating me because he’s drunk.” He inhaled sharply, blew the air out. “At least here, there’s rules. Werwulfen and vampires I can handle. It’s the adults back in that other world I can’t. They… At least here the evil has reasons. It’s not just…” He searched for the word, his face twisting in on itself for a second as he struggled to articulate. “It’s not just senseless.”
What happened to my dad was senseless. I didn’t say it. How could you say something like that to someone? “You wanted to be a physics professor.” My throat had closed up; I could only whisper.
“Yeah, well, things change. Now I want to be here.” Another long, seconds-t
icking pause. Dust danced in one fading gleam of gold coming through a low window, following long lazy swirls down to the ground. “With you.”
I stared at the motes suspended in the air, all dancing to music nobody could hear. I read somewhere once that dust could even be bits of exploded stars, falling to earth. How far does a bit of star-stuff fall and float before it gives up and just gets pulled into any planet’s orbit?
Did it matter?
The sun slid below the edge of the horizon, and the Schola sighed, settling into itself.
“I don’t know who I am anymore.” The words were throttled halfway out, died in the library’s silence. I expected the world to crack open and the sky to fall once I said it.
Nothing happened. The library still held its breath, and Graves still stood there looking at me.
“Nobody does, Dru.” It was the same quiet, oddly adult tone he’d used that first evening, sitting in the mall and asking me just how bad everything was and if I needed a place to sleep. “It’s called growing up.”
The whirling inside me had gone down a little. I could finally unreel my arms from around my chest. I pushed my hair back. The curls felt weird, not frizzy but silky, clinging to my fingers. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, well.” Was he blushing? “I’m never going to live it down that a girl knocked Bobby on his ass defending me. Jeez.”
Something tight-sprung inside me eased a little bit. The rage retreated. There was enough room to breathe, and I took in a sharp deep lungful. “Well, next time I’ll let him mess with you. Happy?”
“Yeah, well. I had him handled, but still. Anyway, you wanna take half these books?”
The world was seeming manageable again. How did he do that? “What for?”
“Well, if you’re so interested in rehabilitating Broken werwulfen, these seem like a reasonable place to start. haven’t you been in here before?”
“Once or twice.” But you’re right, this is a good idea. Dad always said research is what saves you.
Yeah, right on schedule, the most uncomfortable thought in the room was moving into my head and calling it home. I should start charging uncomfortable thoughts rent. Except what would they pay me in? Probably something even worse.
“you’ve been going to class more.” He separated the stack into two equal piles, and it was official. He was blushing. High flags of color stood out on his face, so deep they were damn close to maroon. An ugly bruise was spreading up his jawbone, too.
I’d thought he was half-ugly before. Unfinished-looking. It was hard to believe. “Yeah, well, nothing else to do.” I took the pile he pushed toward me. “Doesn’t it bother you? That I… well, that I wanted to… suck his blood?”
His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. The silver earring winked mischievously at me, catching a stray gleam of sun. “Nah. You wouldn’t, you’d have stopped yourself.”
I wasn’t so sure, and I opened my mouth to tell him so.
“Besides,” he said, flipping open the first huge leather-bound book with a thump, “it’s kind of hot.” A smile hovered around the corners of his mouth, fighting to stay hidden.
What? I stared at him for a few seconds. My jaw had officially dropped. “You’re insane.”
“Pot calling kettle, anyone? Start reading.”
I wasn’t sure I’d be able to concentrate, but I did. The sensitivity in my mouth retreated, and after a little while I couldn’t smell the blood anymore. After another while I could actually read the page in front of me without the tears welling up and making all the words blur. I made like I was brushing dust off my cheeks, when I was really smearing hot salt water over them.
Graves didn’t say anything about me leaking. But he didn’t turn a page for a long time either.
When it was time to go to his last class of the night he walked me back to my room first, carrying a double armful of books that we piled on my bed. I finally fell asleep with one of them propped against the headboard, and slept all the way through until morning’s faint blush against the sky.
I could have slept longer, but I had something to do.
CHAPTER 14
I took a shower, braided my hair back. The hall felt weird. I stood on my side of the door, my hand spread against its chill heaviness, and felt someone outside listening intently. It was the same feeling I used to get right before I told Dad a certain motel or house wasn’t safe.
He’d never argued.
So that left just one option. I didn’t like it, but it was better than sitting around moping.
Weak sun slid through the stamped holes in the iron shutters. I pushed them as wide as they would go, struggled with the window. I had to walk a fine line between wrenching it open and trying to be quiet about it. A drench of cold air heavy with the promise of rain flooded through, and I glanced down into the dead rose garden.
The paving-stone paths looked very hard from up here.
It was a long way to fall. I swallowed, hard. Wish I had a rope. Jeez.
But if Christophe had done this, I could too. The worst that could happen was a broken leg and a bunch of questions, right?
I’d never broken a bone before. And those questions had teeth. Everything here had teeth.
This is a stupid idea, Dru.
But I was going to do it anyway. With someone watching my door, I had to. I couldn’t take the chance of anyone, friendly or otherwise, following me. And I had to know if it was possible to escape the Schola during the day.
I grabbed the window frame and put my foot up, made sure it was secure, and hauled myself carefully up to stand on the sill. Told myself not to look down, instead studying the stone wall and the roof overhang. It looked like slate tile and the angle would make it tricky. No gutter, either. That was both good, gutters could tear away from the roof, and bad, because I wouldn’t have anything to curl my fingers around but the roof’s edge.
I turned my back on the dead garden, bracing myself on the sill. Reached up and back with one hand.
This is a bad idea. Figure something else out.
The trouble was, there was nothing else. And Christophe had done this. I’d be damned if I didn’t at least try. Not to mention that if I pulled this off, I would have an escape route already scoped. And it would be the last path anyone would expect me to take.
Less speed, less strength, less stamina since I hadn’t “bloomed.” But I’d bet I was outweighing everyone around me in the brain category. It was all I had.
Then why are you going to do something this stupid?
I told that voice of reason to take a hike and wrapped my fingers around the edge of the overhang.
The angle wasn’t really bad, just kind of bad. I shut my eyes and breathed in, out, slate gritty and cold under my hands. The red crisscross slashes on Christophe’s hands suddenly made sense now, as I’d known they would.
My other hand found the roof edge too. I played the action over and over in my head, the way Dad taught me to practice rifle shots. Half of it’s in getting it clear inside your noggin, Dru girl, and the body will know what to do when the time comes. See it behind your eyes, feel yourself doing it.
I’d only have one shot at it. My arms tensed, relaxed, practicing. I stilled the movement of myself inside my skin, focusing inward. Listening.
My heartbeat thudded, a comforting rhythm. My breathing evened out, soft and deep. The wet braid touched my back, moving as my body balanced itself on the sill, weight forward on the ball of my right foot. Heels hung out in space, the cool morning breeze pushing past me into the room.
Breathe in, breathe out. Feeling the tingle along my skin. Little tiny muscle movements that make up balance, you never stand completely still. If you did, you’d fall over. Stillness is a constant adjustment, a series of tiny little corrections, like steering a car.
Dad taught me that.
The thought stung, whipped through me, and every muscle fiber tensed. I heard wingbeats, feathers brushing air and whispering against my face. I didn’t have t
o lean back too far; it was almost like pulling myself out of a swimming pool.
The slate edges bit deep into the meat of my hands. I let out a sharp breath, got a knee up. Good thing I was wearing jeans. I found myself scrabbling up the slope of the roof, hunched over and thanking God I’d worn sneakers instead of boots. The soles gripped, and my fingernails splintered on the slate as I drove them in hard.
Oh crap. The slope was incredibly sharp, and I made it to the crest and straddled the ridgeline.
The big muscles in my legs were shaking. My arms, including the deep bruises on my shoulder, throbbed heavily. I was a song of pain, and the healing capability of the baths wasn’t helping as much as I wished it would. My hands cried out, palms full of hot wetness and fingertips scraped raw.
But I got myself arranged so I wouldn’t fall off, and I raised my head. The wind hit my face, full of the peculiar smell of being high up, and I saw.
Today there was no fog.
The countryside folded away on all sides, trees choking-close except where two-lane blacktop ribboned in from what I knew from my trip here was a county highway. This was the highest point for a ways around. There was a blue smudge far, far to the south that I thought might be the Alleghenies, but could have been just a fog or cloud.
Down the hill a stream came meandering past, glittering dull silver in the overcast. Clouds were shredding away, and we’d have some full sun before long when they burned off. I saw the boathouse, a run-down shack that didn’t look sturdy enough to hold up in a sharp breeze. The Schola turned a cold shoulder to it, its wings raked back like a bird of prey. A gray one with a sharp beak, settled and dozing in its nest.
I couldn’t quite see the big circular driveway, but I saw the vine-draped pedestals at the end of it and blinked, rubbing my eyes. I could’ve sworn there had been stone lions there—