Defiance (15 page)

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Authors: Lili St Crow

BOOK: Defiance
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I got the urge to glance behind myself every time, to see what they were looking at. Christophe, who had opened the door, glanced in, and told me it was safe with a short nod, stepped in after me. That was enough to get me moving. It was either that or be herded.
The chair at the head of the table didn’t get any more comfortable. When I dropped down, they still remained standing.
I guess Anna had trained them well. “Well, let’s get this over with.” I tried not to sound tired and bad-tempered.
As usual, the first to sit was Bruce. He lowered himself down in the seat to my left, his sharp dark face set. That was the signal for the rest of them. Slim blond Ezra had his usual cigar, but it was unlit. Mostly because I wrinkled my nose every time he fired the damn things up. He was in his usual jeans, starched-white dress shirt, and black suit jacket. It should have looked
Miami Vice
corny, but it didn’t. The fact that he’d hit the drift late and looked about twenty-five helped.
Alton’s dreadlocks moved like a live thing as he sat, slowly. He wore a cheery red and yellow rugby shirt, and his usual smile, shocking white against his ebony skin, was missing. I was so used to Alton’s sunny good temper, it was kind of a nasty surprise. Of all of them, I suppose he was the most cheerful.
Right next to him, Augustine’s chair scraped as he dropped down. He didn’t look too happy, either.
Kir and Marcus were off the Council because they’d helped Anna play her little games. Marcus hadn’t done it knowingly, but he still refused to come back and be a part of the meetings. Christophe was okay with that; I wasn’t so sure. Kir, on the other hand, had been packed off to teach in a satellite Schola.
Probably a reform one, too. Like the one he’d helped send me to.
That left two spots open. One was Christophe’s, of course. They’d asked him, and he made a big deal out of asking my permission and generally driving home that they’d accused him of being a traitor before all that. I guess he was bitter about the whole thing. It wasn’t like I blamed him, but if he kept rubbing it in, we were going to have more shouting matches in this windowless room.
Big
fun.
For the other seat, I’d suggested Augustine, and been surprised when he showed up at the next meeting, scrubbed and looking miserable as a kid on School Picture Day. He was Dad’s friend and fellow hunter, from the old days. Blond hair slicked back, his uniform of white tank top and red flannel clean as if I’d washed it myself that month I spent in his Brooklyn apartment, waiting for Dad to come back.
On my left-hand side, there was an empty chair. Christophe rarely sat down. Sometimes he prowled the Council room as if looking for an exit, sometimes he stood beside and slightly behind my seat. Tonight it was behind-the-chair. He hadn’t said a word since I’d closed Ash’s door.
Three chairs down—because he wouldn’t even sit next to Christophe—Hiro perched, ramrod straight. His coppery fingers rested on the glossy tabletop, and his mouth was a straight line. In front of him was an expensive-looking, cream-colored envelope.
My mouth dried up. I stared at it.
Since you have taken my Broken, I shall break another.
But Christophe had said this was about Anna, hadn’t he?
Hiro, of course, knew exactly what I was thinking. “It is a communication from the traitor.”
He wouldn’t even call her
Anna
. It was always “the traitor” or the sarcastic
Milady
, and the gleam in his dark eyes when he said it made me want to back up a couple steps. I was always glad he never looked at
me
like that.
I waited, but nobody said anything else. “And?” The single word fell like a rock into a quiet pond.
Hiro shifted, as if uncomfortable. “It is . . . addressed to you, Milady.”
“Okay.” I leaned forward, held my hand out. But it was Christophe who took two steps down the table, leaned across Hiro, and scooped the envelope up. He actually sniffed it, too, bringing it just under his patrician nose and inhaling deeply.
“No trace of
nosferat
.” But his face was set, his jaw an iron line. That expression was the one that made my heart do a little scared leap inside my chest.
If he ever looked at me like that, I’d find a wall to put my back to. Pronto. “Well, hand it over. I’m sure pretty much everyone here has read it except for me.” But I was wrong about that. Christophe laid it gently in my outstretched palm, and it was still sealed.
Dru Anderson
was written on the front in block letters, curiously childlike printing in fountain pen, the edges of the letters bleeding faint blue.
“How was this delivered?” Christophe wanted to know.
Ezra shifted in his chair, toying with the cigar. He looked like he
really
wanted to light it. “A drop box in Newark, an old one. Nothing else in it, and the teams retrieving drop items are on alert. We don’t know what other information she’s passed to the
nosferat
. No tracks, no scent.”
“Probably one of her Guard delivered it.” Hiro’s lip curled. “I would not have suspected them of professionalism.”
“We trained them and made them loyal to her.” Bruce’s faintly English accent made the words crisp. “She did the rest. They’re not to blame.”
That was enough to get Hiro going on an old argument. “The retainers are not to blame, certainly. It will not make their punishment any less—”
“Here we go again,” August muttered. “Just open it, Dru-girl. Let’s see what she’s got up her sleeve.” Everyone looked at him. He sat bolt upright, and he still looked profoundly uncomfortable. But it was nice having him here.
“Let’s argue once we actually know what it says, all right?” They all shut up, and I tore at the thick paper. Christophe wouldn’t have handed it over if there was anything on it likely to be triggered, but I still used just my fingertips. A ghost of spice clung to it—Anna’s peculiar flower scent, like carnations on the verge of going bad. It made me think of curly red ringlets and her delicate little fangs, the high-heeled boots with the tiny buttons marching all the way down, the silk dresses and the high gloss. She’d pretty much always looked like a model, or an illustration in some fantasy magazine.
Except for when she was trying to kill me. Then her face had contorted and flushed, and she’d had an assault rifle spewing fire while she screamed. Not a nice picture.
I sighed, yanked the folded sheet of matching paper out of the savaged envelope, and flicked it open. That same childlike block printing, neat little sentences.
You think you know everything, but you don’t. If you want to rescue your friend, come visit me. Alone.
 
It was signed with a huge, florid calligraphy
A
.
There was another sheet of paper—cheap copy stock, a satellite photo you could pull off the Internet. One building was circled with thick red Sharpie. I took it in, noticed an address typed at the bottom.
Gee. Subtle.
Christophe leaned over my shoulder. “Trap. Not even worth the paper it’s printed on.”
I stared at the address, marking it in my memory. There was something else in the envelope. I tweezed it out, delicately.
A silver earring, just the post part, no back. The skull and crossbones swung as I held it up, and my heart twisted like a sponge in a merciless, bony hand. I made a tiny little sound, like I’d been punched.
“What the hell’s that?” Augustine leapt to his feet.
Christophe’s hand jerked forward, but I snatched the earring away. Folded it in both my hands, as if I was praying. The silver was cold, but it warmed quickly. My mother’s locket was warm against my breastbone, too.
I let out another tiny sound. I couldn’t get enough air in.
“No.” Christophe grabbed my shoulder. His fingers dug in, and I could feel the prickle of claws through my hoodie. “
No
, Dru. Don’t even think about it.”
I brought my hands up to my mouth. Inhaled, smelled nothing but the faint fading tang of Ash’s vital, springy fur. Opened my palms a little, saw the earring’s gleam.
“It’s his.” That small, quiet voice couldn’t be mine. It burned my throat, squeezing its way out. “It’s Graves’s earring. He had it when I met him.”
In the American History classroom, in the Dakotas. Before he’d gotten bit. Before everything.
“Oh,
fuck
.” Augustine dropped back down in his chair. Of all of them, he’d been the only one to move. Bruce and Ezra watched me, a line between Bruce’s dark eyebrows and Ezra’s cigar finally laid on the table instead of in his nervous, slender fingers.
Hiro, on the other hand, was watching Christophe. Very closely.
I swallowed hard. “You can let go of me, Chris.” I didn’t even sound like myself. The very small, very calm voice was almost lost in the static filling my head.
“Not until I’m certain you won’t do anything silly.” He leaned down, and his fingers eased a little but didn’t let go. “Let me see.”
I shook my head. Clasped my palms together. Laced my fingers as if he was trying to pry them apart.
He was not going to take that for an answer, though. “Dru.
Kochana.
Let me see.”
I shook my head again. Wished he would shut up. The static was getting louder, and if I could just calm down a little, the touch might tell me something. If they would just all be quiet for a few seconds so I could shake the roaring inside my skull away.
“Let me—” Christophe’s other hand flashed forward, caught at my clenched fists. His skin was warm, but his fingers hurt, digging in with more than human strength.
“No.
No!
” I actually screamed, jerking away as far as I could. His fingers bit down again, and I felt bone creaking.
My
bones, the little ones in my hand and the ball of my shoulder.
Hiro’s chair scraped along the floor. The scraping became noise, a lot of it, and Christophe’s hand was ripped away from my shoulder. Someone was yelling. Confusion, my chair hit hard and bumping the table like a balky carnival ride. The earring dug into my palms, and I tried to clear my head. But there was too much noise—a deep thrumming snarl, and the sound of fist meeting flesh.
I opened my eyes. The world rushed in, full of smeared color, and I leapt out of my chair.
A thin amber tide of spilled coffee covered the floor. Christophe faced Hiro next to the table near the wall, the silver samovar on its side and chugging out a waterfall of more hot coffee. Bruce had hold of Hiro, while Augustine had grabbed Christophe’s arm. The aspect rushed and crackled over all of them like a forest fire.
Ezra was suddenly right next to me, appearing out of thin air with a little whispering sound.
I
hate
that. I let out a thin little shriek, which managed to distract everyone. Ezra caught the back of my hoodie, bracing me as I almost went over, and Christophe’s eyes flashed.
“Settle
down
!” Augustine shoved Christophe back against the table, and Bruce had all he could do holding Hiro back. Hiro leaned forward, his fangs out and the thrumming coming from his slim chest.
Djamphir
don’t growl like wulfen. But when they make that sort of humming noise, they mean business. It’s more like a subsonic vibration than anything else, and it sounds like it can rattle china right out of the cupboard.
“You should probably calm them down.” Ezra made sure I was on my feet and stepped away. He lifted a silver Zippo, flicked it open, and scooped up his cigar.
Great. Thanks, that helps a lot.
I found my voice. “Stop. Stop it.” Made sure the earring was safe in my left hand and stepped forward.
Normally, putting yourself between two crazy-angry
djamphir
isn’t the smartest thing to do. But I braced myself and slid between them, stepping in the tide of coffee. It sploshed against my sneakers. “
Stop.
Both of you. Stop it.”
Christophe inhaled sharply as I edged between them, cutting off his view of Hiro. “Dru—”
“I need you guys to simmer down.” I aimed for a businesslike tone, but just got a shaky almost-squeak. “Anna would like it if you both killed each other, wouldn’t she? You’re playing
right
into her hands. Or someone else’s.”
I didn’t have to say whose.
Hiro’s face contorted once, his eyes glowing dark amber. His fangs had scraped his lower lip, and a thin trickle of blood ran down his chin. I swallowed, hard, and hoped the bloodhunger wouldn’t hit. If
I
started going crazy now, there was no telling what could happen. My shoulder throbbed—I was going to have a bruise there.
It would match the rest of me. This was turning out to be one sucky-ass night.
Hiro stared at me. I stared back, trying to plead with him silently. I don’t know what he saw, but his face changed and the aspect slid away. He straightened slowly. His hand came up, and he wiped at his chin. Bruce didn’t relax, though, locking his other arm, braced in case he lunged.

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