Jealousy (9 page)

It was early
afternoon by the time I switched the computer off. I stretched, yawned, padded for the bed and dropped down. That woke Graves up, where my clicking at keys and sometimes swearing under my breath hadn’t.

“Huh?” He half-sat up, and I took the chance to rescue one of the pillows from under his head. “Whaaa?”

“Nothing. Go back to sleep.” I squiggled around, getting comfortable. “I just finished, that’s all.”

“Okay.” He settled back down again, and I lay there for a few seconds feeling him move around before I opened my eyes and found him almost nose-to-nose with me. His silver skull-and-crossbones earring glinted at me. His irises were oddly luminescent, and a shadow of stubble spread over his jaw.

Weird. He kind of
was
getting hairy, but it was just a five o’clock shadow. I had the sudden urge to touch his jawline, a feeling so intense my fingers itched. The skin underneath, on the curve where his throat made a hollow before his collarbone and shoulder, looked so fragile. His lips were slightly parted, and we looked at each other for a long few seconds before he moved back slightly. “Sorry,” he half-whispered. “I haven’t brushed my teeth.”

“It’s okay.” I stayed where I was. He was still inside the personal-space boundary, the one that even friends don’t cross. “Look . . .” But I ran out of words and courage at the same time.

How did I get to be such a wuss?

“What?” He didn’t look irritated, just curious. And was he
blushing
?

He was. High flags of color stood out on his cheeks. The blush spread down his neck, and he went still all at once, like a dog sensing something dangerous or interesting about to happen.

If I could draw him just like this, in charcoal maybe on good paper, catching the way the light slid over his high cheekbones and touched his mouth, I would tear the picture out and keep it in my bag. The one that I keep for emergencies.

I grabbed every last failing scrap of courage I had left and leaned forward. The last time I’d tried to do this, I’d ended up plastering a kiss on his cheek. But since then, he’d admitted to being interested. Sort of.

I was about to find out.

Our mouths met. He was absolutely still, and a flash of hot embarrassment went through me.
Oh, crap. He didn’t mean it.

But then he moved, too. His arms came around me, and we sort of melted together. I’m no prude, really, I’ve had my share of kissing behind bleachers or awkward snatched moments of makeout in halls or band rooms, so I’m not completely hopeless. It was pretty quickly apparent Graves was a novice.

He learned quick, though. Some people just
get
kissing; others never will. He got it. There was none of the loose-mouth sloppy spit stuff some guys do, none of the mashing that happens when a guy thinks girls like to have their lips crushed against their teeth. Which, you know, jeez. Let a girl
breathe
, huh?

His arms tightened, and I was kind of worrying what to do about
my
arm, the one trapped under my pillow. But then he really got the hang of it and leaned even further in, his tongue doing some really interesting things I’d never even thought of, and I was feeling . . . was I? Yes.

I was feeling
safe.
Not the kind of safe where you know there are still bad things howling outside the door waiting to get in. No, it was the kind of safe where you sink down in your bed at the end of the day and know you can go to sleep and everything is going to be the same tomorrow.

He felt like home. Not like a scary roller-coaster ride, like Christophe.

Don’t think about that, Dru.
I did my best to shove Christophe out of my head. The thought went quietly.

I got my arm around him and tightened up, but just at that moment he broke away. I ended up with my face in his throat, so close I could smell a healthy boy who needed his daily shower and was just about to get right on that. It was a nice smell, and I filled my lungs with it.

But right under it was another aroma, just as delicious. A copper tang, with a hint of wildness and moonlit nights. It was the fluid in his veins, and my teeth tingled a little. The smell of his blood tickled that place at the back of my throat. The place normal people don’t have.

The place where the red thirst lives.

No. Jesus Christ.
I didn’t want to even think about what would happen if he found out I was growing fangs with my face so near his neck. Was that why he’d all of a sudden gone still again? Could he smell the bloodhunger on me?

Would Christophe smell it?

“Dru,” Graves whispered.

I found out I’d snaked my leg between his and curled us up together like kudzu tangling on a fence. There was definitely something happening below his belt, and confusion swamped me. Did he not like me? Could he help it? What was
with
him, anyway?

I stayed where I was, breathing deep and fast, hoping the tingle in my teeth and the dryness in my throat would go away. It was like that old dream of walking down the school halls and finding out you’re naked.

“Dru?” He sounded like he had something caught in his throat. “Look, I’m sorry. I just . . .”

I would wriggle away, I told myself. In just a second. A hot flush suffused me, like the cloudiness in water when you drop the macaroni in. My teeth went back to normal; I swallowed several times.

“I like you too much,” Graves said into my hair. He wasn’t letting go of me. As a matter of fact, his arms tensed, and I ended up with my face all the way in his throat. Thank God I had a hold of myself now. I could still smell the blood in him, but it wasn’t overpowering. “I mean, nobody else’s ever been even close to interested in me, all right? I, uh. I just mean I, if you’re, you know, not wanting to do this . . .”

The relief crashing through me made me hug him, hard. So hard he lost his breath, so hard my bruises and aches came back. It felt like we were back in Dad’s truck in the Dakotas, clinging to each other for dear life. Both of us shipwrecked and holding on to whatever we could.

He was the only thing that hadn’t whirled away when everything started spinning. He was the only thing nailed down, and I was not letting go. Not ever, not if I could help it.

“I like you,” I muttered against his pulse, moving my lips carefully so my teeth didn’t get any funny ideas. “I like you a
lot
, Graves.”
You’re all I’ve got, now. When it gets right down to it.
“I, you know, I just really like you.”

Then I could have kicked myself.
Way to go, Dru. “I like you” is all you can say?

“Things are messed up.” His breath was a warm spot in my hair. “You know. I don’t want to, well, pressure you.”

Oh, that is so not even a concern right now.
“You shouldn’t worry. You’re the only decent boyfriend material I’ve found in, like, sixteen states.”

“You’re picky.” There was the sarcasm. Goth Boy was himself again.

“I have
good taste
, okay? I like you, Graves.” I stopped myself from saying Edgar again, with an effort of will.

“I like you too. I just, we should be careful. See what happens. Okay?”

Sure. All right.
“Okay.”
What does that
mean
?

Apparently it meant he was going to untangle himself from me. Which he did. He slid off the bed, not looking at me, and headed for the bathroom. I watched him walk away, in that weird way guys have when they’re feeling you watch them. I should have said something, but what? What the hell could I say?

He shut the door, and I lay there for a few seconds breathing, before he turned the water on and I heard him brushing his teeth.

Had he just suddenly figured out he was kissing someone who could get fangs? I mean, werwulfen had big scary teeth too, but . . .

Oh, Lord. I’d just had my first kiss with Goth Boy, and that was good. But I had no idea whether
he
thought it was good, or if I’d just gotten the brush-off.
See what happens?
What did that mean? And he was my best and only friend right now. The only person I was really sure of, here.

I rolled over, stuffed the pillow under my head, and closed my eyes. When he came back from the bathroom, I just lay there breathing like I was asleep. He stood by the side of the bed for a little bit, probably wishing he had somewhere else to roost, then eased himself down and stayed on his side. The space between us had just gotten bigger than it ever was, and in a completely new way.

The more I thought about it, the more it didn’t get any easier to figure out.

Great.

I stared at the
fall of heavy golden late-afternoon sunlight through the window for a little bit, my back against Graves’s. Neither of us had climbed under the covers, and I hate the feeling of sleeping in jeans. Everything gets twisted around and pulled up, crawls into cracks it’s not supposed to, and you end up feeling like you’ve been sleeping on nails.

I lay there, breathing softly. The sunlight flickered because a shadow moved across the window. A faint scratching sound, and I tensed, muscle by muscle.

The shadow bobbed again, and I pushed myself up, even my elbows creaking with exhaustion. Graves muttered and moved beside me, and the shape in the window froze. Golden light poured past it, and all I could see reflected on the blue carpet was a distorted blur.

I grabbed for the switchblade on the pretty, postage-stamp-sized blue night table, knocking over the lamp. It fell with a crash, Graves sat up and swore; the shadow disappeared with a final scratching sound. I leapt out of bed, the switchblade snicking free, and was halfway between the bed and the window before I realized yanking it open and sticking my head out might not be a good idea.

“What the
hell
—” Graves said in a slurred, sleepy voice.

I grabbed the sash anyway and tugged the window open, the switchblade almost squirting free of my sweating fingers. A cool spring afternoon drenched in honey light poured in, and the garden a story below was starred and speckled with new growth on old thorny bushes. There would be roses in awhile, and if I was still here it might be nice to open the window on a clear day and smell them.

Instead I inhaled, dragging in the cool breeze. Grass, sunlight, the edge of soft rain last night and more rain on the way, the aroma of the earth waking up after a long nap. I had to snatch my left-hand fingers away from my mother’s locket, the chain doing weird things because it had rotated while I half-slept and the catch was stuck in the locket’s loop. It was warm, not icy like it would have been if something dangerous was around, and I wondered if it had ever heated up or cooled down for Dad.

I also caught a breath of warm apple spice, and the fang marks on my left wrist gave a throbbing flare of heat.

Oh.
“Hello?” I whispered. Tried to look everywhere at once.

“What the fuck are you
doing
?” Graves’s voice almost broke. He scrambled off the bed, and I thought I saw something across the square of the garden glinting, a reflection from deep in the shadow of the wall. There were other windows, all of them blank. Of course: no other
svetocha
except Anna and me.

Where did
she
sleep? Did I even want to know?

I stood there in the flood of sunshine and felt cold. The breath of spiced apples was blown away on a brisk, green-smelling wind. Gems of water sparkled on the garden, each one perfectly placed.

I lowered the switchblade.
Christophe?
I opened my mouth to say his name, shut it again.

Because Graves was right next to me, fisting at his eyes. “What’s up?”

“I thought I saw something.” I swallowed hard, used the windowsill to push the blade back in until it clicked. “In the window.”

“Oh.” He blinked a couple times, rubbed at his hair. “Anything there?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I was asleep.” The lie tasted like ashes. I knew I hadn’t been.

“What exactly did you think you saw?” He was pale under his coloring. “A dreamstealer? Something else?”

The thought of a dreamstealer and having seizures again after it stole my breath was enough to make all remaining sleepiness jump out the window. My shoulders hunched. “Just a shadow.”

He leaned forward, peered out. “A drop straight down. And nothing above to hang onto. But that doesn’t mean anything lately, does it?” He sniffed, inhaling deeply, passing the air through his nose the way I’ve seen people in fancy restaurants smell wine. And gave me an odd, very green sideways look. “Huh.”

“What?” The lump in my throat wasn’t just my heart.

“I dunno.” He pulled the window down. “Think we should lock the shutters?”

I think it was Christophe.
The words trembled right on my lips. I shook my head. The air always feels dead when you barricade windows. Like you’re under siege. Or buried. “I dunno.”

“Okay.” He stayed where he was, sunlight edging his threadbare T-shirt and touching his jeans, bringing out the blue in the denim. He leaned forward, like he wanted to get a little closer. “You all right? You look a little . . .”

Stupid? Silly? Sleepy?
“Fine.” I almost flinched away, stamped back to the bed, tossed the switchblade on the nightstand. The lamp was okay. I picked it back up and settled it where it belonged. Then I dropped down into the bed’s softness and wished again that I was wearing boxers. “Sorry to wake you up.”

I was also getting to the point of being sorry I’d kissed him. What the hell had he
meant?
But that was useless to think about.

He stood there, irresolute. I got comfortable, putting my arm under the pillow, busying myself with getting settled. My wrist throbbed like a bad tooth.