“Hey, kid.”
Devonte kept his gaze on the wall.
“I brought someone to see you.”
Her father, after a keen look at the boy, lifted his head and sucked in air through his nose hard enough she could hear it.
“Where are the clothes he was wearing when they brought him in?” he asked.
That drew Devonte’s attention, and satisfaction at his reaction slowed her answer. Her father’s eye fell on the locker and he stalked to it and opened the door. He took out the clear plastic bag of clothes and said, with studied casualness, “Linnford was here asking about you today.”
Devonte went still as a mouse.
Stella didn’t know where this was going, but pitched in to help. “The police informed me that Linnford’s decided to not press assault charges. They should move you to a room with a view soon. I’m scheduled for a meeting tomorrow morning to decide what happens to you when you get out of here.”
Devonte opened his mouth, but then closed it resolutely.
Her father sniffed at the bag, then said softly, “Why do your clothes smell like vampire, boy?”
Devonte jumped, the whites of his eyes showing all the way round his irises. His mouth opened and this time Stella thought it might really be an inability to speak that kept him quiet. She was choking a bit on “vampire” herself. But she wouldn’t have believed in werewolves, either, she supposed, if her father weren’t one.
“I didn’t introduce you,” she murmured. “Devonte, this is my father. I called him when I saw the crime scene photos. He’s a werewolf.” If he was having vampire problems, maybe a werewolf would look good.
The sad blue-gray chair with the ripped Naugahyde seat that had been sitting next to Devonte’s bed zipped past her and flung itself at her father—who caught it and gave the boy a curious half smile. “Oh, I bet you surprised it, didn’t you? Wizards aren’t exactly common.”
“Wizard?” Stella squeaked regrettably.
Her father’s smile widened just a little—a smile she remembered from her childhood when she or one of her brothers had done something particularly clever. This one was aimed at Devonte.
He moved the chair gently between his hands. “A witch’s power centers on bodies and minds, flesh and blood. A wizard has power over the physical—” The empty bed slammed into the wall with the open locker, bending the door and cracking the drywall. Her father was safely in front of it and belatedly she realized he must have jumped over it.
He still had the chair and his smile had grown to a wide, white grin. “Very nice, boy. But I’m not your enemy.” He glanced up at the clock on the wall and shook his head.
“Someone ought to reset that thing. Do you know what time it is?”
No more furniture moved. Her father made a show of taking out his cell phone and looking at it. “Six thirty. It’s dark outside already. How badly did you hurt it with that chair I saw in the photo?”
Devonte was breathing hard, but Stella controlled her urge to go to him. Her father, hopefully, knew what he was doing. She shivered, though she was wearing her favorite wool suit and the hospital was quite warm. How much of the stories she’d heard about vampires was true?
Devonte released a breath. “Not badly enough.”
On the tails of Devonte’s reply, her father asked, “Who taught you not to talk at all, if you have a secret to keep?”
“My grandmother. Her mother survived Dachau because the American troops came just in time—and because she kept her mouth shut when the Nazis wanted information.”
Her father’s face softened. “Tough woman. Was she the Gypsy? Most wizards have at least a little Gypsy blood.”
Devonte shrugged, rubbed his hands over his face hard. She recognized the gesture from a hundred different kids: he was trying not to cry. “Stella said you’re a werewolf.”
Her father cocked his head as if he were weighing something. “Stella doesn’t lie.” Unexpectedly he pinned Stella with his eyes. “I don’t know if we’ll have a vampire calling tonight—it depends upon how badly Devonte hurt it.”
“Her,” said Devonte. “It was a her.”
Still looking at Stella, her father corrected himself. “Her. She must have been pretty badly injured if she hasn’t come here already. And it probably means we’re lucky and she is alone. If there were others, they’d have come yesterday or the day before—they can’t afford to let Devonte live with what he knows about them. Vampires haven’t survived as long as they have by leaving witnesses.”
“No one would have believed me,” Devonte said. “They’d have locked me up forever.”
That made her father release her from the grip of his gaze as he focused his attention on Devonte. The boy straightened under the impact—Stella knew exactly how he felt.
“Is that what Linnford told you when his neighbors came running to see why there was so much noise?” her father asked gently. “Upscale apartment dwellers aren’t nearly as likely to ignore odd sounds. Is that why you threw around so much furniture? That was smart, boy.”
Devonte was nodding his head—and he straightened a little more at her father’s praise.
“Next time a vampire attacks you and you don’t manage to kill it, though, you shout it to the world. You may end up seeing a psychologist for the rest of your life—but the vampires will stay as far from you as they can. If she doesn’t come tonight, you tell your story to the newspapers.” Her father glanced at Stella and she nodded.
“I know a couple of reporters,” she said. “‘Boy Claims He Was Attacked by Vampire’ ought to sell enough papers to justify a headline or two.”
“All right, then.” Her father returned his attention to her. “I need you to go out and find some wood for us: a chair, a table, something we can make stakes out of.”
“Holy water?” asked Devonte. “They might have a chapel here.”
“Smart,” said her father. “But from what I’ve heard, it doesn’t do enough damage to be worth running it down. Go now, Stella—and be careful.”
She almost saluted him, but she didn’t trust him enough to tease. He saw it, almost smiled, and then turned back to Devonte. “And you’re going to tell me everything you know about this vampire.”
Stella glanced in the room next to Devonte’s, but, like his, it was decorated in early Naugahyde and metaclass="underline" no wood to be found. She didn’t bother checking any more but hurried to the security door—and read the note taped to it.
“No, sir. She lived with them—they told me she was Linnford’s sister.” Devonte stopped talking when she came back.
“Jorge’s been called away, he’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Her father considered that. “I think the show’s on. No wooden chairs?”
“All the rooms in this wing are like this one.”
“Without an effective weapon, I’ll get a better chance at her as a wolf than as a human. It means I can’t talk to you, though—and it will take a while to change back, maybe a couple of hours.” He looked away, and in an adult version of Devonte’s earlier gesture, rubbed his face tiredly. She heard the rasp of whisker on skin. “I control the wolf now—and have for a long time.”
He was worried about her.
“It’s all right,” she told him. He gave her the same kind of keen examination he’d given Devonte earlier and she wondered what information he was drawing from it. Could he tell how scared she was?
His face softened. “You’ll do, my star.”
She’d forgotten that he used to call her that—hated the way it tightened her throat. “Should I call Clive and Steve?”
“Not for a vampire,” he told her. “All that will do is up the body count. To that end, we’ll stay here and wait—an isolation ward is as good a place to face her as any. If I’m wrong, and the guard’s leaving isn’t the beginning of her attack—if she doesn’t come tonight, we get all of us into the safety of someone’s home, where the vampire can’t just waltz in without invitation. Then I’ll call in a few favors and my friends and I can take care of her somewhere there aren’t any civilians to be hurt.”
He looked around with evident dissatisfaction.