Jealousy (28 page)

Dark work.
Which meant I didn’t need to know any more. I nodded, knowing he’d see the movement in his peripheral vision. Tossed the shirt into my mending pile. He had a truly ancient Singer machine, and I’d started patching any clothes of his I could reasonably expect to. Usually T-shirt material is too thin to really repair, but I’d give it a try. At least I never had to ask twice for any supplies—he brought home exactly what I asked for every time. Except bread. He would
never
bring back any damn bread.

I folded a pair of his jeans. The blood had washed out just fine after some cold-water soaking. Even the greasy gunk ground into the knees had come out. Of course, it had been fresh when I got to it. “You want some coffee?” What I meant was,
Are you going out tonight?
But I didn’t dare ask, in case he decided to. Then I’d feel like I made him do it, and I’d wander around the tiny apartment cleaning things up or clearing a place to do some short t’ai chi. Wishing I could get out and run. Even just a trip to the corner bodega to get a pack of gum would have been fine. But no. August had stopped taking me anywhere, muttering something about smells. I was pretty sure I didn’t offend, what with a shower every day. So I didn’t ask any questions, just kept asking him to bring home a loaf of white so I could have a PBJ. I craved a PBJ like you wouldn’t believe.

Now I was folding a blue sweater. I carefully focused on the sleeves while August got the door.
Please let it be him,
I prayed.
Please.

White walls. Sunlight.
It smelled of lemons, of furniture polish, of fresh air. My eyes drifted open, took this in. I stayed there, just looking, for a long while. Curiously, comfortably numb.

I heard someone breathing, and hot lightning-streak relief poured through me.
Graves? Oh thank God. Do I ever have a lot to tell you.

I rolled over slowly. My back had stiffened up; so had my arms and legs. My neck twinged. I felt crusty and sweaty, my skin slipping against clean sheets. I was in my underwear and nothing else. Not even the bandage on my wrist, not even a bra.

How did that happen?
The ceiling was white plaster, a repeating pattern of diamonds and roses sharply sculpted on it. The other Schola had been dirtier—grime in the corners, the mats in the sparring chapel used until they fell apart, the girls’ locker room musty around the edges. Even chlorine can’t kill that sort of funk.

But not here. Here at the Prima it was all bright and clean, and I wondered about that. I never saw anyone dusting. You’d think there would be an army of janitors.

There was a lamp on a white-painted nightstand with spindly legs. It had crystal chandelier-drops instead of a shade, and it was still burning. Little rainbows caught in the drops, light reflecting on the antique brass base. I pushed myself up on my elbow, staring at it like it was a spaceship or something.

I hate waking up with that question. It’s cliché, sure, but it’s also a deep well of insecurity swallowing whatever rest you might have gotten during the night. My pulse leapt. I sat up slowly, clutching the pale cream top sheet and white down comforter to my chest. Cool air brushed my naked, dry-sweat-crackling back.

The room was small but perfect, one wall lined with stripped-pine bookshelves. The windows were huge, open, and full of afternoon sunlight falling past net curtains and a wide white satin window seat. A small white rolltop desk stood across the room, a clunky antique office chair of pale wood with its back to the window in front of it. A slightly open door showed white tile and what was probably a bathroom. Another door must’ve led to the hall because it was studded with locks and barred. A mirrored door to a walk-in closet was half-open, too, and I saw familiar clothes hanging in there. Big white dresser with a vanity mirror and a white-cushioned satin seat, the vanity’s surface curiously bare in front of the antique brass-curlicued mirror frame.

In the shadowed space between the desk and the bookshelves, Christophe sat on the floor. His head was tipped back, his throat stretched out, hair mussed artistically. His eyes were closed and his lips parted slightly. He was deeply asleep, and a shotgun—probably the one I’d seen him with in the Dakotas—lay across his lap. His hands lay limp and graceful, and he wore yet another thin black V-neck sweater and jeans. With his legs outstretched, the tips of his boot-toes fell apart slightly, the worn soles making a V and sunlight caressing their edges.

I reached up, touched my mother’s locket. Kept the covers clutched up to my chest while I looked around for some clothes. If all else failed I’d tear the sheet off the bed, but—

When I snuck another glance at Christophe, his eyes were open, blue fires in the shadow of the bookcase. His breathing hadn’t changed. Neither had a single muscle. He looked at me, and Jesus. A hot flush worked its way up from my neck, burned in my cheeks. The healed-up fang marks on my wrist filled with an odd tingling, and I forced my fingers away from the warm metal of the locket.

He was smiling faintly, too. Something about the smile made me vaguely uncomfortable. I swallowed hard.

“You’re safe,” he said finally. And there it was again—the gentle tone, not his usual faint mockery. He never sounded like that with anyone else around. “North wing. This was your mother’s room. I had them bring your clothes up. Your computer and everything else will follow, as soon as they’re scanned and pronounced safe.”

I just kept clutching the covers stupidly and staring at him.

“At sunset, they’ll hold my Trial. You needn’t worry, though. Everything’s going to be fine.” He still didn’t move, except for his eyelids, a rapid blink. “And by the way, good morning. Would you like some breakfast? Lunch? I suppose it’s lunchtime. For daywalkers, anyway.”

I had the unsettling sensation that the world had shifted out from underneath me again. “Graves. Ash. Shanks, Dibs. Are they okay?”

“The Broken is in the infirmary, sedated and restrained. He might even live. Robert and Samuel are both well; Samuel’s in the infirmary, too. He has quite a gift for medical work.”

Samuel? Oh, yeah. Dibs.
“Graves? And Benjamin, Leon, the guys?”

“Benjamin and his cadre are very well, all things considered, and standing guard at both ends of this hall. We’ll figure out a tutor schedule as soon as this unpleasantness is over, and—”

I didn’t care. “Graves. Where’s Graves?”
Tell me you’ve found him.
But I thought I knew.

I just wanted him to tell me I was wrong.

His mouth pulled down, just slightly, before the smile returned. It was a faint ironclad grimace this time. “Nobody’s seen him, Dru.”

My chest squeezed down on itself. “But . . .”

“Every teacher and student is on the lookout. Unless the wulfen are hiding him in the dorms somewhere, and Robert swears they’re not. We’ve accounted for everyone, wounded or whole, except him. No severe casualties from this attack, thank God.”

“Oh, God.” I found a word for what was boiling up in my throat.

It was the same old feeling.
Abandonment.
He’d left me behind, just like Mom and Gran and Dad. Where the hell would he
go
?

I realized with a jolt that it didn’t matter. Away from me, he was safe. I just never thought he would leave me behind. I honestly didn’t.

Except now I was horribly, awfully afraid that he had.

“Did something happen?” Christophe laid the question quietly in the sunshine-flooded room, and he sounded like he really wanted to know. “Between you two?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know. I guess. Look, I just . . . are those my clothes?”
And who took my bra off?
My cheeks were about as red as Kir’s hair, if the scorching in them was any indication.

Kir. Jesus. A cold shiver traced down my back. He was on the Council, and he was on Anna’s side. What if he’d—

Christophe was on his feet in an instant, the shotgun held loosely and expertly, pointed at the floor. I would have been worried about someone wandering around my room with a gun, but he was a professional. And to tell the truth, I was glad he was here.

He’d come back for me. Again. The intensity of the relief was pretty ridiculous. When you’ve spent your entire life being a piece of luggage for people to collect, even when you’re a
helpful
piece of luggage and you know they love you, you get to feeling like a golden retriever when someone comes home.

He swept the closet door open, laid the shotgun down carefully, and stepped inside. “Anything in particular, or just something to cover up? You had
nosferatu
blood on your clothes; Samuel cut them off so you could sleep a little more comfortably. I didn’t think you’d mind much.”

Did you look?
But it wasn’t the sort of question I could ask him. I could have played it as a joke with Graves, but not Christophe. For one thing, he was in my closet. For another, there was that shotgun. And I was still blushing and feeling like I’d done something wrong by passing out. “Oh. Okay. I, uh, wondered about that.”

“Here.” He emerged with an armful of clothes. “One of these, I think. Is there something specific you’d like to wear? Or will . . . here, look.” He slid them off his arm onto the foot of the bed. Six T-shirts, two flannels, a hoodie—Jesus. That was a quarter of my wardrobe right there.