Say it, Dru. Say it out loud.
“No.” My own voice startled me. Here I was, sitting up here in this bedroom that was kind of pretty, yeah, but it was also cold and soulless and there was no safety in it. Dylan had just brought me back and plopped me down in here with the gun and the transcript, and a warning.
Don’t trust anyone. If we’re attacked again, hide. Don’t let anyone know where you’re hiding until the all-clear sounds. Take the gun with you, and for God’s sake keep it hidden.
And the point to this whole thing, delivered just before he closed my door.
I’m going to try to find Christophe. He needs to know that this is a blackout zone, and that wampyr attacks have been increasing. We need to get you out of here.
There I was, throwing a distraction across my own brain. Say it, Dru. You might as well.
“He’s gone,” I whispered.
Gran had pretty much raised me, until she let go and I was in free fall for that one awful night before Dad showed up to sign all the papers and collect me. I never knew how he’d known, but then again, she’d raised him, too. He hadn’t put much credence to “that backwoods foolishness,” but he still tossed salt over his shoulder when it spilled.
You’d be a fool not to, when you’re hunting the things that go bump in the night.
And he’d still sometimes known things. He didn’t laugh when people talked about intuition. He also never really doubted mine.
“He’s really gone.” It sounded even worse when I repeated it. It was like I had just fully realized I wasn’t dreaming, that I wouldn’t wake up from this and find him in the kitchen loading bullets in clips, or in his camp chair in front of the TV, or…
No more driving with the windows down and the atlas in my lap, navigating him to where he needed to go. No more handing ammunition in through the broken windows while things skittered and leapt for him. No more playing the guessing game, figuring out which part of the Real World we were up against this time.
No more listening to someone else breathing in the house in the middle of the night. No more seeing him slumped in his chair in front of the television, no more of his special pancakes on Sunday mornings or the immediate call when he stamped in the door. Dru? Dru, honey, you there?
No more chili nights or warm arms over my shoulder, no more reassurance in the middle of the night when I woke up screaming, it didn’t happen often after I was about fourteen, but it was nice to know he was there, you know?
He was really, truly gone. I was all alone here, and what I thought would be a safe place was turning out to be a snakes’ nest. Like that little store we’d been in before heading to the Dakotas.
The one with the copperheads and cottonmouths in glass aquariums, stinking and making that awful ratcheting noise.
Cottonmouths are mean, too. They’ll jump you with no warning. They hit the sides of the aquariums with dry thumps the entire time I was in there, while Dad was closeted with the owner.
Had he been getting Christophe’s phone number? What else had he been doing?
I rubbed at my wet cheeks. I hate crying. It fills up your head with stupid and makes your entire face hurt. I folded up the transcript, leaving damp tear marks on the edges of the paper.
The malaika were still under my bed. Right next to them were Dad’s billfold and a blot of darkness I grabbed and pulled out. It was my black canvas bag, still dirty from the snowy mess of the Dakotas. I’d packed it carefully while Graves and I were clearing out the house and Christophe was on the phone, arguing with someone about coming to pick me up.
That felt like a lifetime ago. Back when I’d still been thinking things could be fixed, maybe, if I just coped hard enough.
Cash, both in my wallet and in the little space under the flap at the bottom of the bag, a sort of secret compartment Dad had shown me how to sew in and use. ID, both in the wallet and under the flap. A fresh clip of nine-millimeter ammo under the flap. ChapStick, my Yoda notebook, a comb, two pens, a handkerchief, a clean pair of underwear and a bra, and a small bar of hotel soap.
Hey, you never know.
The black book with Dad’s contacts, because I’d thought it would be a good idea to keep it with me. But if August had disappeared, who else could I call? And it wasn’t like there was a phone here. I hadn’t even seen one in Dylan’s office. Shanks had talked about phonetime, but I had no idea where to even find a line to the outside world.
I was as isolated as a prisoner.
Compass, road map for Florida, and another for North and South Dakota. Neither map would do me any good, but the compass would be useful. Mini flashlight, I flicked it on and off, checked for the extra batteries. It still worked. Those were good things to have.
Travel-size bottle of ibuprofen, small bottle of holy water, bottle of salt. I slid the switchblade in one of the smaller pockets sewn along the back of the bag. It rattled against two large silver dollars and four or five iron nails. Well, they’re steel, actually, but the iron content makes them a good defense against all sorts of things. Revenants, some apparitions, fairies, you name it.
I shivered, thinking of fairies. People who think they’re all sweetness and wings should pray they never run across a sidhe with a bad temper and the ability to steal years from your life. And pray that they never hear silver horns in the dead of night, echoing against the hills as hoofbeats rattle on a lonely stretch of road and the Wild Hunt looks for a victim. Gran taught me about never, ever messing with fairies.
I was even scaring myself at this point, but it felt good to be doing something. To be planning, instead of just being buffeted along with what everyone else wanted me to do. This preparation was something I could have done in my sleep.
Dad’s billfold went in the secret compartment under the flap. I folded the transcript one more time and slid it into Dad’s little black book. Then I picked up the nine-millimeter and checked the clip once more. It was habit. I tore up a pillowcase from the blue bed and wrapped the gun, so something couldn’t press against the trigger. I put the wrapped gun in the bag and wished I did indeed have a holster.
Wishing wouldn’t get me one, though.
Come on, Dru. Think. Think hard, and think fast. How would Dad put it? Think logically.
My logic-thingy wasn’t working too well lately. But I’d give it the old college try.
Anna wanted me to think Christophe had betrayed my mother. But he’d saved me, so that didn’t make much sense. She also thought I was stupid. Just showing me two pictures of the house we’d lived in Before wasn’t going to make me not trust Christophe.
Unless…
Things exploded behind my eyes, my brain finally making some connections. Oh shit.
My hands were shaking. I held up one of them. Even my fingers were jittering. I grabbed for the locket and rubbed it with my thumb, hard, like I could polish away the fear.
Showing me two pictures was useless. Unless she wanted to find out what I remembered about that house. She’d been watching me very carefully while trying not to look directly at me.
And why the hell would she come all the way up here herself, especially since it was so dangerous for a svetocha? Bodyguards and tutors, and here I was locked in a room for them to decide what to do with me.
For Anna to decide? Or for Sergej to decide? Did it matter?
Well, Dru, there’re two words that apply. Fuck that. That about covers it.