Defiance (24 page)

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Authors: Lili St Crow

BOOK: Defiance
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So it was up on the bed, sliding the window open—it looked down onto the street, and I’d spent so many mornings that whole month Dad was gone laying on the bed and craning to get a glimpse of the sky—while the phone rang again.
I checked the street—clear. Knocked the screen out with one well-placed kick.
“Dru!”
Christophe was yelling into the phone now.
“Dru, please, please pick up!”
Time to go.
I launched myself feetfirst through the window as the ghost of wax-orange danger candy filled my mouth.
CHAPTER TWENTY
 
Iran until the
danger candy faded completely and I was just left with the copper taste of adrenaline. Then I hopped on the subway—no reason not to, now; they could start chasing me now that I was prepared—and rode toward Times Square until the crowd got thick. It was closer to the Schola Prima than I liked, but there was plenty of crowd cover and it was the last place they’d look for me.
Or so I hoped.
I surfaced, found an all-night diner, and ordered coffee and a club sandwich, keeping a watch out the window at the crowd flowing by while I bolted the food and looked over the printouts and maps.
I picked out the neighborhood on both Augie’s and Christophe’s maps, looked at likely ways in and out. I tried to consider the whole thing like Dad would. Angles of attack, the getaway—I’d have to find a car. Or something.
Worry about that when you get on-site. Can’t do nothin’ here, and if you steal a car now and take it there you’re askin for trouble. Calm and easy, Dru-girl, just like I taught you.
Had Dad ever guessed what he was training me
for
? Or did he just not think much about it one way or the other? Yet another pile of questions I’d never get an answer to.
I found myself reaching up to touch Graves’s earring, fingering the skull, running the edge of a crossed bone under my thumbnail.
Don’t worry
,
I’m on my way. I’m coming.
But then I worried, too, while I downed the last of the coffee and neatened everything up, stuffing it back in my bag with the ammo. What if they’d moved him? How old was the intel? If the place was crawling with vampires . . . Well, I was fast enough to kill one of them, wasn’t I?
But more than one? And Sergej, too?
You need a better plan, Dru.
One started to take shape as I paid the bill and hit the streets. I kept moving, and it evolved inside my aching head. Here I was, two
malaika
strapped to my back and a long black coat wandering around, and nobody paid any attention. True, it was night in the city, and there were weirder things than me on the street.
Most of them were even human.
Some of it could have been the touch throbbing inside my head, keeping me moving. I heard soft wingbeats through the crowd noise and sometimes caught a glimpse of the owl. Perched on a blinking
Girls Girls Girls
sign, circling at the end of a street, floating down to land on the hood of a parked car. I even caught it filling itself out like a charcoal sketch with quick strokes, leading me in a wandering zigzag pattern that kept me away from trouble, and also away from the green quiet of Central Park, vaguely north and east for a little while.
All this time I’d thought it was Gran’s owl. But now I felt the beat of its heart and the wind through its feathers, and I knew it was a part of me. Just like I’d known in the gym facing Anna. When the owl had hit her animal aspect, the tortoiseshell cat crouched at her feet, with the sick crunch of continents colliding.
So I’m an owl, Christophe is a fox, and Anna’s a cat. And Graves is
loup-garou
. Funny.
Only it wasn’t.
Sometimes flashes of that night come back to me, mostly when I’m trying to fall asleep and I get that weird sense of falling. I’ll jolt awake, expecting to be on the pavement again, sliding past groups of hard-faced young men on corners or melding with a flow of tired adults flooding down subway steps, seeing my reflection—pale cheeks, hair pulled back, the twin hilts of the
malaika
poking up over my slim shoulders, the coat flapping around my ankles. I hung around the edges of the Pier raves for a long time, moving in aimless circles as trance and electronica throbbed through the air, then sometime after three I slid through the quiet of Battery Park like a ghost and started working my way north and east, cutting around the Schola Prima’s slice of Manhattan like it had plague. Risky to stay this close, but again, the last place they’d look for me.
I ate a couple more times, too. It was like I couldn’t get full, and I was always finding those carts that sell pretzels or chicken satay or burritos, especially near Midtown. I wasn’t worried about money; I was worried about the huge hole under my ribs that just kept getting bigger. When I turned onto deserted streets I could hear a little crackling, like static. It was coming from under my skin, and I wasn’t sure if I should be worried.
I moved with the crowds through the arteries of the city. Safety in numbers, and I liked the hustle and bustle. Even in the dead of night, something was happening somewhere. This is why the Real World hunts mostly in cities. I mean, there’s rural Real World, too, but it’s a different flavor. The nastier, sharper-edged stuff lives in the urban jungle.
The worst hours were between three and five in the morning while I was walking with vague intention, the long slow hush before dawn. I wandered around, pretending Dad was picking my plan apart, making it as good and solid as I could and hoping I’d covered everything.
Back at the Schola it would be time to tuck Ash in and retreat to my room, let Nat brush my hair, and look forward to Christophe knocking on the door. I got antsy, working my way across the river toward Queens, and stopping every once in a while as the ghost of waxed oranges slid across my tongue. That was another thing to worry about—the aura wasn’t as strong. Everything else was, but the danger candy was only a ghost of itself, and I couldn’t think it was because I was safer.
I found a working phone booth about twelve blocks from the mansion. It was harder than it sounds—now that there’s cell phones, the pay ones are going out of style in a big way.
Dad groused about that sometimes. It wasn’t any harder to get an untraceable cell phone, but there was still the problem of triangulating from the towers that receive the call. Not really any worse than a pay phone, but Dad was old-school.
My heart made a funny ripping motion inside my chest, but I was too busy to worry about the pain. Story of my life. If I ever slowed down all the crap piling up would make me cry for a week, probably.
I plugged in quarters—I had plenty of those, though I’d given the rest of my change away—and dialed. Normally I keep numbers in my Yoda notebook, not my head. But this one I’d fallen asleep reciting for a while because it was my personal drop line for the Order, the number that would light up their switchboard like a distress flare.
Which meant that the call would be traced. After all night keeping to the shadows and hoping nobody would catch me, I was about to say
here I am, come get me
.
I listened to it ring, cleared my throat, and tried to look everywhere at once. The street was a nice one, this particular convenience store across the street from Flushing Park’s bruised green in good shape and the lines in the parking lot freshly painted. All the trash was picked up, and it didn’t smell like old-man urine, which meant this was a Relatively Nice Part of Town.
I guess when you’re near a graveyard, nice is relative.
Two rings. Three. Four. It picked up, and there was a series of clicks. Then, silence while they started tracing my location.
“Goddammit,” I said to the listening quiet. “Say something.”
“Dru.” Augustine sounded incredibly weary. “What the hell you doing?”
What do you think?
“Rescuing Graves. Christophe knows where. Have him bring backup. I’m going in at first light, which is—” I checked the sky. “Very soon. The more they distract whoever’s holding my Goth Boy, the safer I’ll be.”
“Dru-girl, sweetheart, listen to me. Something’s going on. You’re in trouble, and—”
“Damn right I’m in trouble, August. I’ve been going along trusting Christophe, and all he does is lie to me. I’m
done
. If the Order wants anything out of me, they’ll do what I tell them, starting
right now
. And what I’m telling them to do is to get Christophe to admit he knew where Graves is. And to come and help me rescue him. Otherwise they’re going to be out one more
svetocha
.” I wet my lips with a quick nervous flick of my tongue, watching the street. The sky was turning gray in the east; I could
feel
dawn approaching as if a thousand little tiny threads were pulling against my flesh. The crackling under my skin was intense, almost to the point of pain.
“Please, Dru. Please just listen—” Now Augie was pleading with me, the way he never had when I lived with him. Of course, I’d been young then. He hadn’t had to plead; he’d just told me what to do and I did it.
Screw that. I was about to start misbehaving in a big way.
“I ain’t listening to
jackshit
,” I informed him, every inch of me alert. For the first time, I heard the ghost of Dad’s slow sleepy accent in my voice. “I listened for a long time and got nothing but
lied to
, Augustine. You go tell them. Or maybe they’re listening and they already know.” I recited the address, reeling it off like I was right in front of it. “I’m going on in, and I’m getting Graves. If you guys want to come play, fine. If not, then kiss your
svetocha
goodbye.”
I hung up. Hung on to the phone, shaking. My legs were rubbery. I lifted my hand and heard the crackle again. Little things moved in my wrist, popping and sliding. The bones were shifting. Kind of like a wulfen’s when they go into changeform, but with a queerly musical tinkle to it. Like bells.
Holy shit.
I swallowed hard. I had a plan, and I had to stick to it.
I stepped out of the booth’s three-quarter enclosure and sniffed. Smelled nothing but car exhaust, wet green from the trees and lawns, and the dirty smell of a city. People jammed together like rats, except out in this piece of town the holes were nicer. Still, out here the mansion would have smaller homes pressing against its walled grounds, trying to get in. Property values out here were probably enough to give people heart attacks.
I sniffed again. There was a faint breath of rotting.
Nosferat.
There were suckers in the neighborhood.
There was a thin thread of cinnamon, too, weaving under all the other smells and tying them together. Not tinted with apples, like Christophe, or carnation-flowery, like Anna. This was like big gooey cinnamon buns, and it reminded me of my mother’s warm perfume.
That
was the wrong thing to think. Because it made the night much bigger and darker, pressing between the streetlights and against the store’s fluorescent glare. Even though dawn was coming, it was still awful dark.
A snap-ruffle of muffled wingbeats, and the owl coasted in. It landed on the gas station’s sign, mantled once, and looked at me. Blinked one yellow eye, then the other. Its talons skritched a little, a small sound under the drone of faraway traffic, the murmur of the city, and the thrumming at the very edge of my consciousness.
The touch slid free of my head. Uneasy static, a thunderstorm approaching. I tasted wax oranges, but only faintly. A brief glass-needle spike of pain through my head, and I was back in myself, staring up at the owl like it was going to tell me something.
Well, I wouldn’t be surprised if it did. But still.
I reached up to touch the skull-and-crossbones earring. My mother’s locket was a chip of ice against my breastbone, safe and snug under my T-shirt and hoodie. Graves’s coat flapped around my ankles in the uneasy breeze. Goose bumps spread over me. The air itself was electric.
Come on, Dru. Time to do the throwin’ down, not just the starin’ down.
I headed for the edge of the parking lot. The owl called softly, but when I glanced up it had taken off, a soft explosion of feathers.
I stepped out of the light and into the darkness before dawn. Twelve blocks to the mansion they were holding Graves in, if they hadn’t moved him.
Then it was showtime.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
 
Things went okay
enough for the first few minutes. I dropped down on the other side of the high brick wall and didn’t immediately glance up to see what Dad was doing. I’d almost forgotten what it felt like to be out at night, sneaking around somewhere the Real World was rubbing through the fabric of the everyday.
No. I hadn’t forgotten. I’d just forgotten what it felt like to do this with Dad, him taking point and me doing backup and sweep–behind. The comfort of knowing that I just had to wait for orders and let training do the rest.
A thin film of rotten, waxed oranges slid over my tongue. I swallowed hard, the aspect smoothing down over me in deep waves of sensation. Christophe had marked this entrance in red pencil on the satellite photos, along with a couple other routes.

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