Betrayals

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 to 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—

No, the voice of instinct whispered. They were there, but they’re not now. For whatever reason.

I had a sudden, vivid mental image, playing itself inside my head the way a song will get stuck between the ear and the brain.

Concrete-gray lion padding softly through forest-dappled sunlight, hard muscles under worn-smooth skin. The lion turned its heavy neck and lifted its head, blind stone eyes searching, and its mouth opened. Needle-sharp, slivered teeth packed close, and it exhaled, ruffling leaves on the forest floor. It senses eyes upon it, and confusion plucks inside its cold, massive head. The eyes are of a Ruler, but far away, and the stone mane curls upon its shoulders with a sound like wet clay sliding against itself….

The image faded. I shook my head to clear it. I had to stay sharp, because the roof was steeply pitched all around me, and the slate was damp in places. I could slip and tumble for a long way before falling off the edge, and that wouldn’t be any fun for anyone.

I clutched my bleeding hands to my chest and wished I’d thought of gloves. But then I’d lose out on traction. Sometimes you just have to suck up the damage.

I was doing a lot of that lately.

The wind whistled across peaks and valleys of slate tiling. Some tiles were missing, and some sagged, but all in all, the roof looked pretty solid. My hand twitched, and I kept my fingers away from the locket with an effort. I let out another sharp breath, this time in wonder. My heart banged once, twice, settled into a high, hard galloping run. It took a moment of thought before I realized I wasn’t scared.

No, the feeling was actually happiness. It swelled behind my pulse and pushed my arms out, fingers spread as a huge disbelieving grin wrinkled up my face. I’m sure I looked like a moron, balancing on a ridgepole and holding my arms out like a circus performer. But here, with the wind keening past me and the trees choking up on the Schola’s gray bulk, I felt… well, I felt free. For the first time in a long time.

Up here, there was nothing but me and the wind. And a tingling in my teeth, as a feeling I was sure was the aspect blurred through me. This time it was a warm, comforting glow, banishing the pain.

My hands stopped bleeding, and when I looked down at them, the ladderlike cuts had scabbed over.

The flat-copper smell of my own blood washed away on fresh rainy air, but I thought I caught a thread of warm perfume. When I fisted my hands, lightly, they didn’t hurt much and the scabs didn’t tear.

Wow. I wondered why it didn’t work for the bruises and aches inside me. But they were muted now too. The aspect tingled through me, retreated with a sound like owl wings.

Is this what blooming feels like? I wished I could ask someone. Gran had told me about The Facts of Life pretty early, and Dad had told me in his gruff way what he thought I should know, which boiled down to don’t be stupid and don’t buy cheap tampons; we’ve got money.

This “blooming” thing was like having puberty questions all over again and having nowhere to go to do some, you know, research. Maybe the library had something for curious girl djamphir. I laughed, a short disbelieving sound, and felt more like myself than I had for weeks.

After a little while standing there like an idiot, it occurred to me that I’d better start looking for a way down. I had a plan, after all, and it didn’t include hanging out up here all day. So I stopped staring at the woods and the sky and breathing in the odd cold rain-soaked happiness. It still stayed with me as I studied the lay of the rooftops, trying to see it like the hollers and ridges around Gran’s house. If you could get a vantage point, you could work out your way just about anywhere, with a compass and some common sense, that is. All I’d need up here was the sense.

How much sense I had climbing around on a roof, I don’t know. But I took a good look, and the fist inside my head opened up a little, sending out little bits of questing awareness. I waited for the tingle that would tell me it was safe to go, and would also tell me which road to take.

You can’t ever rush something like that. It’s the same reason why you can’t ask a pendulum anything you really, really want to know about. The wanting makes a screen in front of the real answer, which might be something you’d prefer not to hear. So you’ve got to go still and quiet, as unattached from the answer as possible. It’s different from really needing intuition in a pinch, when you have to just shut out the screaming all around you and listen for the still small voice of certainty.

Gran always harped on it, actually, how the pendulum would sometimes tell you just what you wanted to hear, and hang the rest. Common sense, she’d say over and over again. Ha! Common as hen’s teeth, maybe. Got to apply that old meat twixt your ears, honey.

A wave of homesickness crashed into me, so sharp and hot it almost rocked me back on my heels.

I longed to be back in Gran’s narrow little house up in Appalachians, listening to the whirr and thump of her spinning wheel on a cold evening, smelling whatever she’d cooked for dinner and the floor and window washes she was always using. Yarrow, lavender, wild rose, constant scrubbing.

But there was also that time in the evening when it was too dark to work outside, when Gran would spin and I would half-lay on the old love seat and stare at the iron stove. It was warm and safe and I never had to wait for Gran to come get me. She was always there.

The tugging tingle in my solar plexus came. I studied the roof some more and saw the way down.

It didn’t look like much; I’d have to zag over a couple of sharp slopes, and there was a bit of a drop onto a long, gallery-type roof. I could hop down from there in a protected angle, using a set of, were those dumpsters? Had to be, yeah, that would be right behind the kitchen. Maybe I could even peek in and see who was doing the cooking behind that screen of steam.

What about getting back up? You’re so smart, what about getting back into the Schola?

Getting in wouldn’t be a problem. I’d just bang on the front door for a while. They’d let me in, right?

I thought of the missing stone lions and wasn’t too sure. But it was too late to back out now. I’d figure something out.

I checked my scabbed hands one last time and got going.

It wasn’t hard to get into the boathouse. A plain wooden door, a latch that had once probably held a padlock rusted wide open. I looked for any sign of habitation, didn’t find it. Pushed the door gingerly with my foot, wincing at the screech of rusted locks, and stepped in. The stiletto had eased itself out of my pocket, and I wished I had a gun instead, to sweep the place.

The entire structure was completely dilapidated. One boat had sunk, rotting, under the glassine water lapping at the central well. Another hung overhead on rusting chains, looking like it hadn’t been touched in easily twenty years or so. Holes glared in its sides, and the chains didn’t seem too solid.

Coils of rope moldered in the corners. The place smelled like rot and mildew, and the flat iron tang of snowmelt river water. The floor sagged underneath my feet with each cautious step.

And on the other side of the bay where the rowboat wallowed at the sandy bottom under a blanket of clear heavy weight, he just appeared.

Christophe stepped out of the shadows, his blue eyes alight. Not a blond-highlighted, expensively cut hair was out of place. His hands dropped down to his sides, as if he’d been holding them up.

What had he been planning on doing? Did he think I was an enemy?

Everything boiled up inside of me and I let out a high-pitched, girly sound. The switchblade clicked open at the same time.

Great. Just great. All the practicing I’d done for this moment failed me utterly, and I stood there next to a pile of slumping, damp-eaten lumber and stared at him. “You lied to me!” I sounded like I’d been punched, hard.

“Hello is usually considered a more appropriate greeting.” He lifted one shoulder, dropped it. A breath of apples and cinnamon reached me, hit the back of my throat, and tickled the bloodhunger. “And what am I supposed to have lied to you about, Dru?”

Each time I saw him, it was like I’d forgotten how his face worked together, every line and plane proportionate. “A sixteenth, you said! You said you were called a half-breed, but you were technically a sixteenth!”

“What? A lecture on genetics?” But his face clouded. He obviously guessed where this was going.

For one long second I considered how satisfying it would be to hit him, to unleash the ball of rage behind my ribs and see if he could still smack me around so easily. “Sergej.” The name sent a glass spike of hatred through my head. “Your father.”

Christophe went utterly still, his eyes burning. His thumbs were hooked in his jean pockets, but his hands were tense and his shoulders rigid under the usual black sweater. He stared at me for a little while, his head cocked like he’d just had a good idea and was running it through before he swung into motion.

Finally, he spoke. “Who told you?”

I swallowed hard, lowering the knife. Its blade winked once in the hard, thin light. Oh God. Did you help kill my mother? Tell me. I have to know. I have to know something, anything, for sure. “Who? Oh, nobody. Just Anna. Another svetocha like me. Was that something you forgot too? She said—”

“Ah. Anna. Spreading her poison.” A silent snarl drifted over his face. “I didn’t ask to be born into my bloodline, Dru. Just like you didn’t ask to be born svetocha.” He showed his teeth, blond highlights sliding back through his hair as the aspect folded over him. “You should be grateful, though. My father’s strength passed on to me, and it’s the reason you’re still breathing enough to fling accusations.” He straightened. “What are you doing here? Someone should be watching you during the day.”

Yeah, right. Like someone’s supposed to watch me when it’s Restriction. That’s really been working out well. “I got out of my room. Didn’t you leave this?” I dug the note out of my pocket, suddenly wishing I could fold up the knife again. “The night I was…attacked?”

“Attacked? And… Anna.” The aspect kept his hair dark, and his teeth didn’t retract. “Tell me.”

“I want to know—” My heart was in my throat again.

I didn’t even see him move. One moment he was all the way across the boathouse. The next, the silvery screen of water over the sunken rowboat rippled, and he was right in front of me. I jerked back, my shoulders hitting the door, and his nose was inches from mine. His hands thudded onto the wood behind me, his wrists against my abused shoulders. Apple scent drifted around me.

Jesus. He was so fast. And his eyes were burning. The aspect retreated, blond sliding in his hair as a stray band of sunlight caressed it. “What do you think you want to know? If I wanted to betray you, kochana, I could have. Easily. If I wanted to hurt you, I would have already done it. I could have…” He paused. His fingers came down, wrapped around my wrist. The knife lifted, and he held it with the point just over the left side of his chest. “There. There’s the spot. Between those two ribs and twist, if you can. Don’t hesitate, Dru. If you honestly think I’m a danger to you, push the knife in. I’ll help.” His lips skinned back from his teeth, and his fingers tensed on mine. He jerked the knife forward, and I surprised myself by yanking back. I couldn’t let go, he was holding it too hard. My scraped fingers gave a flare of red pain, subsided.

He tried again, pulling. The point touched his sweater. The same paper-thin black V-neck he always wore, whether it was hip-deep in snow in the Dakotas, or freezing here. “Go ahead.” His breath touched my face. “Every djamphir is technically a sixteenth. Any more than that and we’re nosferatu; any less and we’re malformed things, not even human. Something about the gene pairs; I don’t claim to be a scientist. It was a joke. But feel free to use your little knife, kochana.”

I tried uncurling my fingers. He wouldn’t let me. We stood like that, him tugging forward and me pulling back, until he let go of my hand. Spread his palms against the wood behind my shoulders and leaned in. “Satisfied?”

My mouth opened. The knife dropped and dangled in my nerveless hand. I couldn’t find a damn thing to say. He waited, and the sound of water whispering away under half the boathouse’s floor, touching its rotting pilings, was a cold silken whisper.

I dropped my eyes. Looked at his throat. His Adam’s apple moved as he swallowed. When he spoke, it was the same business-like, mocking tone he’d used when I first met him.

“Now, let’s talk about something useful. Attacked? When? Tell me about that first. Then Anna.”

He plucked the note from my nerveless fingers, held it to his nose, and inhaled. But he didn’t step back, and the note vanished into his back pocket. Just like that, it was gone. “Ah. Dylan. Sneaky old man. This was our meeting place, once.”

“I—what? Jesus.” What was Dylan doing leaving notes on my pillow? But it solved one riddle.

Christophe leaned back toward me, his hands on either side of my shoulders again. “He’s reassuring me of his loyalty. Touching. As well as giving you a reason to slip your leash during the daytime, which I’m not so sure I like. Now start talking. When?”

I told him the whole thing, stealing little glances at his expression. It was a type of relief to spill it all out, like lancing an infection or popping a zit. It’s also kind of hard to talk with a djamphir staring you in the face. Especially when the aspect keeps flickering through him, and his canines are touching his lower lip, dimpling softly. His entire body tensed when I got to the part about Ash and the sucker. I was busy thinking of what I’d do if he got angry, could I dump him in the water and run for it?

My voice faltered when I got to Ash sniffing me. Just… sniffing me. After he’d torn a couple of suckers apart, suckers who said the Master wanted something.

It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out the “Master” was Sergej. Or to figure out what he wanted with “the little bitch.”

“Master,” Christophe whispered. “You’re certain? Certain it was him?”

I nodded. He was so close it was hard to breathe. It was exactly like being next to an oven baking a really spicy apple pie. “He bit Graves, I’d know him anywhere—”

“Master,” he repeated, then grabbed my shoulders. I was confused, but then I found myself caught in a bear hug, his arms around me and his chin atop my head. He wasn’t as tall as Graves, but he was wiry-strong and very warm, burning through his clothes. “He must have killed them all, or Sergej would have sent more. It’s only a matter of time now.” It sounded like he was talking to himself, and I was frozen. I hadn’t been this close to anyone except Graves lately, and there was a weird feeling to it.

A weird, warm feeling. Warm all over, like being dipped in oil. It was kind of like Dad’s infrequent hugs when I’d done something really well. But there was something else to it. Dad hadn’t smelled like apple pie and he hadn’t hugged me so hard my bones creaked, and breathed into my hair. Christophe’s breath was a warm spot on my head, he’d tucked his chin to the side now, and his hands spread against my back. The locket, caught between us on my breastbone, was a hard lump of warning.

“Dear God.” His arms didn’t tighten, but he was still tense. I was trying to figure out what exactly the feeling was.

Then it hit me. It was safety. Christophe wasn’t about to let anyone hurt me. I don’t know when I’d started believing that rather than being afraid of him, but there it was. It was like I felt when I heard Dad’s truck rumbling into the driveway in a strange new house, coming back to get me. Like someone was going to Deal With Things, and I could relax a little and just go with it.

Like I knew my place in the world again.

We stood like that for a little while, Christophe and me. I breathed in the smell of apple pies and everything else fell away. The boathouse creaked a little in the thin sunlight, and I couldn’t see anything because my face was buried where his neck met his shoulder, my nose in the slight hollow just above his collarbone.

I didn’t mind as much as I thought I would.

“Listen to me,” he finally said, as if I’d been arguing with him. “Are you listening, little bird?”

My voice wouldn’t work right. I made a tiny little nod instead, because, how’s this for weird, I didn’t want him to let go of me. He’d pulled back a little, just with his lower half, and I was afraid the scorch in my cheeks would set fire to the rest of me, because I had an idea why.

Wow. Oh wow.

“I’ll take you to a safe entrance. Go back up to your room, don’t worry if someone sees you. At this point, it doesn’t matter. I have to ask you to wait, Dru. I’ll be gone for a day, perhaps as many as three or four; there are arrangements I must make for your escape. Will you trust me?”

You know, if he’d asked me this way the first time, serious instead of mocking, his voice almost breaking, I would have handed over my car keys. Or maybe I was just thinking that now, because he was so close and because he was shaking. We both were. The trembling spilled through me like wind through aspen leaves.

“Anna said you betrayed my mother. Told S-Sergej where to find—” The sentence died because he squeezed me, hard. I was almost afraid my bones would break. The breath huffed out of me, against his neck.

“I would never,” he snarled, “have done that. Never. Do you understand me? God and Hell both damn it, Dru. I couldn’t save her, but I’m going to save you. I swear it.”

And you know, I believed him.

What girl wouldn’t?