Jealousy (2 page)

The werwulf growled. His shoulders came up, corded with muscle, and the shifting textures of his pelt blurred. If I could capture that on paper, maybe with charcoal—but who was I kidding? Like I had time for recreational werwulf portraiture.

His claws made grooves in the concrete, the hard sharp edges screeching as they cut through stone-hard flooring. You could just imagine those claws cutting through flesh, like a hot knife through butter.

I put my hand down. It looked very small and very pale, and when my fingers touched the thick ruff at the back of his neck, they sank in. Heat poured off him, and the sound of bones crackling filled the room as he tried, again, to change back into human form.

My heart leapt up into my throat and made itself at home. “You can do it,” I whispered. Just like I did every time. “Come on.”

Shaking filled him in waves. Graves stood in the doorway, outlined in pale fluorescent glare. He tilted back, glanced down the hallway, stiffened like he saw trouble coming.

“You can do it.” I tried not to sound like I was pleading. Ash leaned against me, almost knocking me off my feet, the way a dog will lean into its master’s legs. He also whined, way back in his throat, and the crackling sound got louder.

Bile crawled up in my throat. My hand turned into a fist in his fur, as if that would help. The marks on my left wrist twinged, sending a bolt of pain up my arm. Two little scabbed-over marks, where the fangs had gone in.

“It’s okay,” I coaxed. “It’s all right. Sooner or later it’ll happen. You can change back.”

I heard voices. Male, four or five of them. Boots hitting the ground, the clothwhisper of running. My fingers turned to wood, and Ash growled. The deep thrumming filled up the bare concrete cube, the shelf like bed with its thin mat he never slept on, the low wide toilet bowl, and the metal tray in the corner still sticky with blood—at least he’d been fed. The raw meat was all gone; he wasn’t hoarding it like he would if he was sick.

Well, sicker than he was already. There were marks on the walls where he’d flung himself.

A werwulf can dent stone or concrete. If he’s going fast enough, if he really wants to. The maybe-not-so-irrational fear returned. I pushed it away.

“Shhh.” I tried not to sound just-woke-up and scared. Probably failed miserably. “It’s okay. Everything’s all right.”

It was a lie. He probably knew it, too. His ruined mouth opened as he tilted his head up, inhaled as if he was going to howl again.

I flinched.

Graves half-turned, standing in the door. He drew himself up and dug in his pocket. Why he was wearing his familiar black coat even in the middle of the night was beyond me—he probably even slept in the thing. I was suddenly aware of my naked legs, and my boxers all twisted around. My feet were bare, and the chill from the floor bit them even though Ash pressed against me some more, the vital textures of shaggy pelt rasping against my skin, an unhealthy feverish heat dripping from him.

“She’s fine!” Graves’s yell cut through the sudden noise. “Calm down. Everything’s kosher.”

I hoped they’d listen to him. If they piled in here while Ash was still nervous, we’d have another Situation, and I was just too tired. We were at three nights in a row for Ash getting us out of bed, and I was starting to lose hope.

Starting? No, I was already there. It had seemed so simple while I was running for my life. Funny how getting to a safe place always complicates things.

Always assuming that the Schola Prima was a safe place. Safer than the little satellite school I’d been at. The one that had burned to the ground because of me.

I flinched again at the thought, and the two healing marks on the inside of my wrist twinged heatlessly. Ash made another whining noise. I tried to dredge up something more, something comforting, something that would help him. I
knew
he understood me talking to him, I just . . . I couldn’t find anything to say that seemed to help him.

Ash hunched, his ruined upper lip lifting. His jaw was still mangled from the silver-grain-loaded bullet I’d shot at him right after he bit Graves. The current theory—Benjamin’s theory—was that the silver was at once preventing him from changing and interfering with his master’s call.

I didn’t know what to think about that.

Here I was in a cell, clutching a werwulf’s ruff like he was a naughty cocker spaniel instead of almost eight feet of lethal muscle and bone, not to mention razor teeth and bad attitude.

“Calm down.” I didn’t have to work to sound weary. “Please, Ash. Come on.”

His head dropped. I didn’t even know what time it was; my internal clock was all messed up. He leaned against me even harder, his shoulder dropping to rub above my knees. I was jerked forward, my fingers still tangled in his ruff.

“Milady?” Benjamin’s voice. “Dru, are you in there? Are you all right?”

Ash growled. The sound rattled my bones.

“Cut it out, you overgrown fur rug.” I hauled back on him, achieving exactly nothing—he was way heavier than me—but he did stop making that noise. “That’s better. Yes, I’m fine.”

“You need to come out of there.” Shadows in the door—one of them had to be Benjamin.

The rest were probably his crew. The
djamphir
who’d been stuck with the task of “guarding” me. Great.

Graves leaned back against the doorjamb. His eyes were incandescent. He lifted a cigarette to his lips, flicked the lighter, and inhaled.

Oh, goddammit.
I sighed, tried not to roll my eyes.

“That stinks.” Benjamin took the bait. “Do you
mind
?”

Graves shrugged. Twin curls of smoke slid free of his nostrils. His silver skull-and-crossbones earring glinted in the dimness. “Nope. I sure don’t.”

Ash bumped against me. My feet were numb. Now came trying to get him up on the bed and not listening to the whining little noises he made when I closed the door and locked it so he couldn’t escape back to his master.

To Sergej. Even thinking the name sent a cold shiver through me. Some of the nightmares I was having lately—when I could sleep, that is—were of a slight teenage boy with coppery skin and honey-dark hair, smiling as something ageless and foul shone out of his black, black eyes.

I’d only seen Sergej once. But that was enough.

Graves exhaled more cigarette smoke. “Thanks for asking, though.”

“Can you two have your pissing match some other time?” I kept hold of Ash. It wouldn’t do much good if he decided to go seriously buggy, but if I kept my hand on him he kept calm.

I didn’t know what to think about that. I was stuck with less speed and strength and stamina because I hadn’t “bloomed” yet. I wasn’t a serious match for an upset werwulf without a gun and some running room—and even then it was a pretty chancy proposition.

Especially against a werwulf who had killed three or four suckers at a time.

But he never went ballistic as long as I was holding onto him. I still wasn’t sure if I was brave or really stupid, getting close enough to him to find out. And I’d escaped him before, hadn’t I? Shot him and boogied. Right after I’d killed a burning dog the size of a small pony.

Where had that girl gone—the badass Dru? Right now I was feeling a little less than awesomely tough. And more than a little confused.

“What’s he doing, Dru?” Benjamin’s tone was taut. I could almost see him outside the door, leaning forward, the spike of an emo-boy haircut swooping over his chiseled face. Some of the
djamphir
are so pretty it almost hurts to look at them. And it was hard to look without feeling rumpled and messy in comparison.

Not that I ever need any help feeling rumpled or ugly. Jeez. At least the plague of zits had passed me by lately.

Go figure. As soon as things most people don’t even know
exist
start trying to kill me, I get to stop worrying about pimples. Normally I’d say, okay, sure, as long as I don’t go pizza-faced.

But this wasn’t a joke. This was my life. And I was kind of wanting the zits back.

“He’s leaning up against me and trying to change.” It was out of my mouth before I thought about it. My free hand was up, touching my mother’s silver locket. The sharp edges of its etching scraped under my fingertips.

“He can’t change,” someone else said. “He’s Broken, right? That’s what that
means
.”

“Don’t tell him that,” Graves interjected sardonically. “I don’t think he believes it.”

“Keep being funny,
loup-garou
.” Benjamin was unimpressed. “Dru, you’re going to have to come out of there. It’s not safe.”

Well, it’s funny, but this is the place I feel safest. In a cell with a Broken werwulf.
I swallowed twice. Let go of the locket and ran my free hand back through my hair. Winced as I hit tangles. “He’s not going to hurt me. He only throws himself at the walls when I’m not around.”

“Milady. Please.” And he had that tone in his voice again, the pleading. Dylan used to sound like that, back at the other Schola.

Nobody had seen Dylan since the fighting broke out. And now that I thought about it, I didn’t think we’d ever see him again.

That’s what happens when
nosferatu
attack. Final things, things you can’t take back. There was a whole mess of things I couldn’t take back, starting with the morning I woke up and didn’t tell Dad I’d seen my grandmother’s owl.

My heart hurt, a sharp piercing pain. If I could just ignore it and deal with what I had in front of me right now, maybe it would go away.

“I’m not moving.” The stubbornness caught me by surprise, set my jaw and made both hands curl into fists. Fur rasped against my fingers, and if I was pulling his hair, Ash didn’t make a sign that he noticed. “Dawn’s coming. Once the sun’s up he’ll be better.”

“You should—” Benjamin stopped dead. Maybe because Graves had drawn himself up, taking another drag off the cigarette. Maybe because Ash growled again, and I surprised myself by tapping him on the top of his narrow head with my free hand. But gently, as if I was mock-hitting a boy I liked or something.

“Stop that.” I took a deep breath. The growl had stopped.
I just bonked a werwulf on the noggin. Jeez.
“You could bring me a blanket or something. This floor’s cold.”

A beat of silence, then footsteps. Someone padding off to get me a nice little blankie. It wasn’t Benjamin because he spoke again. “Very well. But we’re staying here, Dru. Just in case.”

Like I don’t know that. I leave my room for any reason, all of you show up.
“You should go back to sleep. Or whatever you were doing.”

“We’re your Guard. This is what we’re doing.” Patiently, as if talking to an idiot. Benjamin was almost as good at that tone as Dylan had been.

My heart gave another funny little hurt squeeze. It’s been doing that a lot lately, except when I’m busy running for my life. But the pain went away when I swallowed, blinked, and focused on the problem in front of me.

“Jailers, more like.” Graves didn’t bother to say it softly. He kept leaning through the door, and the cigarette smoke he exhaled smelled like anger. “Leave her alone.”

Ash growled again. I dug my fingers in, and the rumbling petered out once more. The marks on my right wrist twinged again, but not painfully. “Stop it, Graves. Jeez. All of you, just
quit
it.”

It was looking to be another long wait for dawn.

As soon as
the sun came up, Ash lifted his head from my lap. He flowed away, curled up under the metal shelf, and promptly went to sleep instead of just lying there with his eyes open and nervousness running through him.

My legs were stiff and numb. Graves had smoked his way through half a pack, field-stripping each butt under his boot. The plaid blanket they’d handed in through the door hadn’t helped me much. I was so cold my teeth threatened to chatter, but I crawled over and spent a minute or two tucking the Broken werwulf in. He’d rip the blanket to shreds when dusk hit, but it couldn’t hurt.

At least, I was hoping it couldn’t hurt.

The silvery streak up the side of his head had gotten longer, pale wiry hairs a different texture than the rest of his fur. The messed-up part of his jaw made me wince every time I looked at it. Wulfen are allergic to silver in a big way; the wound was raw but not seeping anymore. It was healing slowly, I guess—and when it did heal over, what would happen? There was still silver lodged in there.

I didn’t know nearly enough. Story of my life, I guess. When I was with Dad it hadn’t seemed to matter—he was the one who knew what we were dealing with and told me what to do. But since he’d shown up with a serious case of zombie it had been painfully apparent that I didn’t know even a quarter of what I needed to, in order to deal with the Real World.

And I was beginning to wonder if he’d really known all I thought he did.

It was an uncomfortable thought. Almost, well, blasphemous. Even if I’m not a big believer in anything other than holy water. I’ve seen holy water work against roach spirits and some kinds of hexes.

The rest of the God trip I’m not so sure about. There’s just too much nastiness happening to people who don’t deserve it.

Graves field-stripped the last butt under his boot sole and ground the cherry against the concrete. The ash made a black mark. “Hand up?”

“Nah.” I used the shelf-bed to push myself up. Ash made a sleepy sound, chuffing out a breath, and stilled. “Thanks, though.” Four numb-drunk steps across the room, then I had to grab for the doorjamb because the muscles in my legs started to wake up, pin-and-needling. “Ouch.”