Oh, Jesus. Every time we have to talk, I end up more confused than before. I can’t take this. “Not now.” I bounced up, swiping at my eyes. “Come on, Ash. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It was another Subaru, but blue, and newer than the one we’d stolen. Power windows, power locks, plenty of cargo space, and it smelled faintly of vanilla from the air freshener hanging from the rearview. Dawn was gray in the east, the whole world was greenjuice fresh, and it was going to be another scorcher. You could just tell by the way your clothes stuck to you as soon as you stepped outside.
I didn’t know if Christophe had slept. I’d curled up in the bed furthest from the door and fell into a darkness so deep I couldn’t even remember any dreams. When I’d closed my eyes Christophe had been standing looking out the window; when I opened them he was in a chair at the table, writing on the legal pad. A chunky silver watch gleamed on his wrist, and the window was just graying up with the sunrise. He glanced up, and saw that I was awake.
We were out the door fifteen minutes later.
I folded my hands around the paper latte cup. Christophe turned the air conditioning up a bit. The tires made a low sweet sound on the road, and if I shut my eyes, I could almost pretend I was driving with Dad.
But the silence with Dad had never been this angry, or this dangerous.
Ash curled up on his half of the backseat, impossibly small. Graves hunched in his seat, holding an americano and staring out the window like the answer to world peace was in the passing scenery. I lasted about twenty minutes before flipping the radio on to fill up the silence, twisting the dial until I found an oldies station. Graves lasted about a half hour after that before he cracked the window and lit a cigarette. Christophe restrained himself, but I saw his jaw set.
It was a ways to California. Something told me this was gonna be a long trip.
“God,” I moaned, with feeling. “Not pizza. Please. I can’t take more fast food.”
“What’s wrong with pizza?” Graves wanted to know. “Lots of cheese, bubbling grease, pepperoni—”
“Ugh.” I laced my fingers over my stomach. “No pizza, Christophe. No burgers either. I want to eat somewhere nice.” My conscience pinched. “If we can afford it. Or hell, let’s get a place with a kitchenette and I’ll cook.”
Yeah, I was desperate.
Christophe squinted through the fall of afternoon sunlight. It was hotter than hell, and the air conditioning wasn’t helping as much as it could. Trapped in the car for ten hours with a few bathroom breaks, lunch had been McDonald’s, and I was about ready to go nuts. It would have been hilarious if I was watching it on TV.
“Don’t worry about that. We’ll go somewhere nice,” Christophe said wearily. “As soon as we find shelter for the night. We’ve made good time.”
“Thank God.” I realized I was sounding whiny, but right at that point I didn’t care. I wanted out of the car, and I wanted a real meal. I’d settle for something unfried, or something that bore a resemblance to actual food rather than hockey-puck patties on anemic buns paired with soggy-ass extruded potato starch.
“In fact . . .” Christophe checked the exit numbers and eased us off the highway. “We can arrange pizza for the wulfen and I can find you some decent Mexican food. At least, if my memory serves me.”
It sounded like heaven. “We can all do Mexican.” I wasn’t about to leave Ash somewhere he could get into mischief.
“Whatever you want.” He didn’t sound too thrilled with the notion, and he brought us to a stop at the light at the end of the ramp.
Graves coughed. “Pizza’s fine. I’ll run herd on Ash.”
Say what? I didn’t twist around in the seat to look at him, but it was close. “We should stick together. The vampires.”
“They won’t be after us. Besides, suckboy and I don’t get along. We might as well split up for a bit.” There was the click of a lighter.
How much was he going to smoke? I shifted in my seat again, all cooped up and itchy. “How much have you smoked today?”
“What are you, my mother?”
Well, if you’re going to be snide . . . “Do wulfen get lung cancer?” I addressed the question to the windshield. Tucked a curl behind my ear.
“Never.” Christophe stared at the stoplight, waiting for the left-turn arrow to change to green. “Most don’t like the smell of burning, though.”
“I wondered about that.” Now I could casually turn my head, glance in the backseat. But Graves was staring out the window, his chin set stubbornly. “Come on, Graves. Mexican. I bet Christophe can even get us margaritas if he smiles at the waitress.”
For some reason, that was the totally wrong thing to say.
“Underage drinking—” Christophe began.
“He makes my stomach hurt.” Graves interrupted flatly. “Jesus, Dru. Give me some space.”
“Space?” Fine. “I’ll give you all the space you want, Edgar.”
The instant it was out of my mouth I regretted it.
The arrow turned green, Christophe hit the gas. He was wearing a very slight smile. The golden light of late afternoon was kind to him.
Graves said nothing. I didn’t dare look back now. I was already kicking myself.
But the anger had my mouth, and it wasn’t backing down. “They had a file on you back at the Schola Prima.” There. An explanation, to smooth things over. Maybe.
He wasn’t looking for explanation. “Must’ve been good reading.”
“I didn’t read it. I just heard your first name.” I felt defensive, and I deserved it.
“You were at school with me, you must’ve heard it before then.”
It was official. He was looking for a fight. I was about half-tempted to give him one, too. “I didn’t pay attention.”
“Yeah.” Now he sounded vindicated. “I know. Still don’t.”
I pay attention when you say you love me. Then I pay attention when you get all rejective on me. I pay plenty of attention, Graves. You just can’t make up your stupid little mind. It took a monstrous effort to keep the words behind my teeth.
“Be the bigger person,” Gran was always saying. But she’d never had to put up with this.
“That’s enough.” Christophe slowed down, getting a little closer to the back bumper of the Ford Explorer in front of us than I liked. “There’s a good hotel around here. Be quiet so I can find it, children.”
“We’re not children.” Graves bristled.
“Compared to me, you might as well be, psychological standards for djamphir trapped in teenage bodies notwithstanding.” Christophe could’ve sounded more dismissive, maybe. If he tried. He glanced up at the signs around us, sighed.
Just like Graves could’ve sounded nastier, maybe. If he’d tried. “Including Dru?”
“Milady Dru is startlingly mature.” Christophe hung a right. Concrete rose up around us, and we slid into welcome shade. Air conditioning doesn’t help sometimes when it’s really humid. “And she has plenty of time.”
“What, to grow into dating you?” Graves actually laughed, a bitter little bark both like and unlike the sarcastic half-snort he’d used before. When he was a normal kid. Or at least a human kid.
Even I couldn’t believe he’d said it. I sucked in a breath. Christophe slowed down, changed lanes, and the air inside the car was even more tense. Ash was completely silent, and I would’ve bet anything he was watching Graves and Christophe with bright interest, tipping his head back and forth like he was observing a tennis match.
“I’m not—” I began.
“That’s really none of your business, loup-garou. Milady Dru does as she pleases, and owes us no explanation.”
I really wish you wouldn’t call me Milady. How the hell had this gotten so serious all of a sudden? “Look—” I began.
“I’d say it’s my business.” Graves exhaled smoke again. I smelled exhaust, concrete, and anger; my head began to hurt. “I’d say it’s most definitely
my business.”
“And I would say you’re lucky to still be breathing, dog.” Christophe took another turn, left this time, stamping on the gas like it’d personally offended him. “After what I caught you doing.”
“What?” I twisted in my seat, stared at Christophe. “Come on, both of you. This isn’t the time—”
“Go ahead.” Graves’s cigarette was fuming and his eyes were dark again. Tension rippled under his skin, the Other shining through. “Tell her whatever you want. God knows half the shit that comes out of your mouth is a lie by omission anyway. Maybe I should tell her what I know, huh?”
“Certainly. Tell her what you think you know.” Christophe simply checked the street signs. Traffic started closing around us. The air conditioner blew a steady stream of chill at me, but it wasn’t helping with the hot tension in here. “And I shall tell her that you were preparing to leave her to the tender mercies of Sergej’s assassins. Running away with your tail between your legs—”
I lost my temper. “Both of you shut up!” The car actually rocked on its springs, as if Christophe had touched the brakes. Ash let out a whimper. My mother’s locket was a spot of soothing heat, and I found out I was outright clutching it. Like a maiden auntie with a string of pearls.
Wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles, they both shut their fool mouths. I couldn’t even feel good about it.
Tense-ticking silence. My stomach revolved, acid eating through me. We crept through traffic. “This has to stop,” I said, finally. “Or I’ll ditch both of you and go on the run alone.” Or with Ash. He shoplifts, but at least he keeps his mouth shut. “You’re making it easier for the vampires every goddamn time you do this. I’m tired of it. Both of you can just go to hell as far as I’m concerned.”
Something occurred to me just then. We had a whole continent to drive across. This was only the first day.
The Schola Prima was looking better and better all the time. At least there I had tutors and occasionally some time to myself. When I locked my door and hid under my bed, that is.
Of course, there I’d had to worry about who would sell me to the suckers next. And worry about Graves, missing and presumed tortured. And Christophe pushing me in the sparring room, and outside it shoving me in every direction except the one I wanted to go. Now Gran’s house was gone, my last best card gone up in smoke. Nowhere left to go, nowhere to hide, nothing even remotely approaching a safe harbor.
“Shit,” I muttered. I pulled my knees up onto the seat, hugged them. If I could just curl up small enough, maybe I could stop the feeling of the world spinning out from under me again. Since that cold Dakota night when I’d dreamed of Gran’s owl and didn’t tell Dad the next morning, the whole world had started whirling faster and faster. Every time I thought I found something solid, it was yanked away.
Time to grow up, Dru.
Except I’d never felt like a kid. Maybe with Gran, but she never believed in sugarcoating anything. I’d felt grown-up all this time, especially since she . . . died.
No matter how grown-up I felt, though, things kept knocking me around.
The rest of the world didn’t think I could drive, or drink anything stronger than a Shirley Temple, or even vote or run my own life. Even though I could canvass the occult network in pretty much any city in the US, take out a poltergeist . . . or be Dad’s backup in a house with bleeding walls and howling voices even he could hear, a house that was the haunted equivalent of a Venus flytrap.
We’d brought out the little boy who’d wandered in there and returned him to his family, and they’d paid Dad for it . . . but I’d still be treated like a criminal if the cops ever picked me up and found out I was under eighteen. Locked up or locked down, no matter that I was more capable than plenty of so-called adults.
I could face down the king of the vampires in a burning warehouse, but they’d stick me in high school. If I ever came to the attention of the authorities, juvie would be the only place they’d think of putting me.
But it wasn’t just that. No matter how grown-up I tried to be, there was a place inside me where being grown-up didn’t reach. That place was scared and cold and abandoned, and I didn’t have the energy to push it down or keep it locked away right now.
Gooseflesh rose all over me in big shivering bumps, and it wasn’t helping by the way I was sweating even under the blast of air conditioning.
Fear-sweat.
A draft of sticky cinnamon scent boiled up from my skin. Why was I smelling like them? Like Christophe, with his apple-pie cologne, and Anna, with her flowery reek of spoiled carnations.
And that was another thing. I’d heard Anna clearly, inside my head. She’d all but forced me to drink her blood. What the hell was that? Nothing Gran ever said prepared me for something like this. Not even drinking from Christophe’s wrist while I almost died from a gunshot wound had given me a clue.
“Dru.” Graves reached through the space between seats. His hand closed around my shoulder, gently enough I could ignore the iron strength running underneath his skin. “Hey. I’m sorry. It’s okay, all right? It’s okay. Don’t.”
Ash whined again, in the very back of his throat. He was depending on me, and I’d gotten Graves into this too. I was sucking at getting them out and keeping them safe, despite trying as hard as I could.
No matter what I did, no matter how hard I tried, it just wasn’t enough.
Christophe glanced at me. There was a faint sound—he’d swallowed, audibly. “Graves.” He shifted a little in the seat, took a left. “I apologize.”
I put my head down on my knees. Tried to breathe deeply.
“No problem.” At least Graves didn’t sound angry. Or grudging. “I, uh, well. We’ll get to a hotel soon, right?”
Christophe hit the brakes, eased up. The car crept forward. “Very soon.”
“I’ll keep track of Ash. We’ll get room service. You take Dru and get her something good. Something nice, you know?” Graves squeezed my shoulder, but gently. I guess he was trying to be comforting.
Too bad I was past being comforted.
“I think she needs to rest for a while,” Graves continued. “She’s, uh, pretty broken up. About the house. The fire.”
I’m right here, I wanted to yell. Don’t talk around me, for Christ’s sake.
But I didn’t care. They could do whatever they were going to do. I had enough to deal with, keeping my stomach from emptying itself all over the dash. Keeping the screaming inside me locked down in my throat where it couldn’t come out and break every window in the car.
“She . . . has had a difficult time of it.” Christophe spaced the words evenly. Neutral.
The space inside the car relaxed. I kept breathing into my knees, my eyes shut tight. The engine purred along, smoothly, carrying us all.
We finally made a sharp right, tires bouncing a little.
Christophe let out a long breath. “Here we are. Four Seasons, at your service.”
“Swank. Can we afford this?” Graves actually sounded grudgingly impressed.
“Of course. Nice rooms, discreet staff, quiet. Just the thing.” Christophe brought the car to a stop, nice and easy. “Let me do the talking. Just stay behind me, and try not to look . . . well, never mind.”
I made up my mind I wouldn’t care. Breathed into the comforting hollow between my jean-clad knees, wished the dark could last forever.
“Dru.” Mocking and businesslike, Christophe was back to his old self. It was almost a relief. “We’re going to have to check in, kochana.”
Graves’s hand fell away from my shoulder.
I braced myself and looked up, blinking furiously.
It was swank. Money breathed out of the fake adobe, and there were valets already perking up to attention. The doorman, a tall man with chocolate skin and a snappy dark blue suit jacket, eyed our car. His tie was a vivid flash of red. All the colors were too intense, crowding in through my eyes and pressing into my brain.
Dad would hardly ever hav
e stayed in a place this nice. He had some ideas about the constitutionality and advisability of valet parking. But occasionally, he’d take me so I knew what to expect and how to get in and out of a nicer class of hotels.
My voice wouldn’t work quite right. My cheeks were wet. “I don’t think I’m dressed for this.” We’ll stick out. Oh, God, will we ever stick out here.
“Don’t worry.” Awkward for the first time, Christophe actually patted my elbow. The awkwardness passed, and his face smoothed. He actually looked ready to handle this. “You look lovely. Stay here, let me open your door.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Christophe took control, quietly and efficiently. One look from him and the doorman and bellhops snapped to attention, the valet took our car, and our luggage—such as it was—was unloaded with alacrity. The desk clerk had murmured something about a standing reservation, and we’d been whisked upstairs inside of two minutes. Christophe tipped the bellhop, saying something in a low voice, and pushed me gently toward the huge granite-tiled bathroom to freshen up. Clean clothes arrived like a genie had ordered them, so as soon as I got out of the shower there was a new pair of designer jeans and a navy-blue silk T-shirt. I used the hotel soap with abandon, scrubbing away the sweat-film, and tried not to cry. It didn’t work. I was leaking.
The restaurant was Italian, within walking distance, and the type of place Dad wouldn’t have touched with a ten-foot pole. The kind where they have eight different sorts of forks ranked alongside your plate, sneering waiters, and a ties-are-not-optional dress code.
The “Italian” extended to a sort of indoor courtyard full of lush greenery. I guess you could even call it a grotto, what with the statues. Naked statues, in glaring white marble.
The expensively suited maitre d’ had held my seat and laid a green linen napkin decorously in my lap, discreetly not mentioning that I was on a slow leak. Christophe pretended not to notice, and as soon as he settled himself and the water glasses—actual goblets full of crushed ice and a paper-thin slice of lemon arranged just so—were filled, he picked up the menu and examined it critically.