The way a tiger or a cobra looks beautiful—deadly, complex, and dangerous all at once. “Let me go,” he whispered fiercely. “August. Let go of me, or I will kill you.”
I shook my head before August could reply. “No way, no day, Christophe. Augie, you just keep hold of him. I’ll shoot you both, I swear to God I will.”
Christophe twitched; Augustine tightened up on him. They both stared at me. Christophe was breathing raggedly, his ribs flaring. Spots of ugly flush stood out high on his flour-pale cheeks.
He looked pretty uncomfortable. I was having trouble caring.
The hiss-growl in Christophe’s chest petered out. When he spoke, it was level and cold. “He is Broken, Dru.” He twitched again; August hauled him back. “Sergej is looking through his eyes—”
“Then we’ll take him along and un-Break him.” I swallowed hard, only tasted bitterness and the peculiar I’ve-slept-long-enough-to-have-bad-breath that tells you it’s early or late enough for no sane person to be awake and moving around. “I did it for Ash. I can do it for Graves.” It was pure bravado—I didn’t even know how I’d brought Ash back, but I was so not going to let Christophe do whatever it looked like he was fixing to do to my Goth Boy.
Don’t you point that gun if you ain’t prepared to shoot, Dru. Dad’s voice, steady inside my head, the first time he took me out to plink at cans with a .22 rifle.
Sweat stood out on August’s pale skin. “He’s not completely Broken. He’s fighting Sergej. And nasze ksizniczki will not thank you if you harm him. We have restraints. We’ll take him along. Put the gun down like a good girl, Dru. Longer we spend here, worse it gets.”
I shook my head. Curls fell in my face, but the gun was steady. An owl’s soft passionless call echoed in my head for a brief moment, and feathers touched my face and wrists. My aspect trembled over me like oil heated in a griddle, just before it starts smoking. Think fast, Dru. “You two are going to back up. You’re going to wait in the hall. I’ll get dressed and get us packed. Ash’ll help me. Then we’ll—”
“No.” Flat and final, from Christophe. “Let go of me, Dobrowski.”
I piped up in a hurry, just in case August decided to do as he said. “You are so not giving any orders right now, Chris. You’re gonna wait in the hall. I’m not letting you do anything to Graves.” Not if I can help it. And right now I’m the one with the gun.
But am I really going to shoot him?
I didn’t want to find out. Still, the longer I stood there, the more sure I was that if August let go of Christophe, things were going to get hell-in-a-handbasket in a helluva hurry.
Ash peeked up over the edge of the bed. “Bad,” he said softly. “Bad now.”
Well, at least he wasn’t trying to tell me what to do. “You just stay right where you are,” I told him. If he decided to go crazy, we were looking at a Situation. I gave Christophe my best level stare—Dad’s level staredown before the throwin’ down. I searched for something to say, settled on the absolute truth. “I am not going to let you hurt him.”
Christophe struggled once more, but August choked up on the chickenwing and held him. Just barely, though. Augie kept sweating, great beads of water standing out on his skin, but Christophe looked all too ready to keep going until he was free to tango.
And I didn’t want to shoot him. I didn’t.
But for Graves, I would. Certainty settled under my skin, and I hoped it showed on my face. I wanted Christophe to believe me and settle down.
Maybe it was Mom’s voice that came out of me next, I don’t know. Maybe I just decided to try another tack. Maybe the touch plucked it out of the air and laid it in my brain.
“Christophe. Please.” Very soft, very reasonable. Not even caring if I was begging. “Help me. If you care about me at all, help me.”
I stared into his mad, cold blue eyes, searching for the Christophe I knew. The one who held a knife to his own chest in a dilapidated old boathouse, his fingers scorch-hot against mine, and told me not to hesitate if I really thought he was a threat. The one who had leapt into a burning Schola for me and fought off the nosferat afterward