Shoes never do. I’ve never spent long enough in a house that felt this unfriendly, I don’t know if they ever relax.
Still, I was beginning to call a truce with some of the knickknacks. They’d stopped looking like prissy little disapproving things and started to look a little easier with the idea of me. And when I came back after going down to the caf, at least it smelled a little bit more like a hotel each time instead of a crypt.
“Here.” I tossed the towel at Christophe, who caught it with a clean, economical motion. “Start talking.”
“What if I just came to see you?” He scrubbed at his hair, wiped his face and hands. The jacket squeaked a little. His hands were wet, and I saw deep red, dripping lines crisscrossing his palms and scoring his knuckles before he shook his fingers out. They were pale and perfect again when he held one up and examined it critically, exhaling.
My heart made a funny flipping movement. “Oh, please. You wouldn’t have waited if you really wanted to see me that bad.” And you wouldn’t be sneaking in through my window if everything was all right. I found a big plaid flannel shirt Graves had gotten on one of his shopping runs and shrugged into it, my fingers fumbling with the buttons. It smelled vaguely of cigarette smoke, boy, and harsh deodorant soap. Another odd flush of relief spilled through me. “Where have you really been? Driving here? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Touched that you care.” He rubbed behind his ear and grinned like a cat. The blond highlights sliding through his hair were darkened by the wet, but still visible. He shucked out of the jacket, too, and looked for a place to put it. I pointed at the creaking office chair in front of the computer and he hung it up, muscle moving under his thin black V-neck sweater.
I looked away at the drapes pulled closed over the window. It was pretty dark in here, and I was kind of happy about that.
But there was plenty not to be happy about in the dark, too. I flicked the bedside lamp on, an antique brass number with a blue stained-glass shade, and turned to find Christophe watching me.
His eyes were even bluer than the room, but oddly bleached.
Winter eyes.
“How old are you, anyway?” I didn’t cross my arms, but I did pick up the stiletto again. I did not try to push the blade back in, just held it loosely.
It made me feel better. My hair was all messed up and my boxers were on weird, but at least I felt equipped to handle this if I kept a grip on the knife.
Why? He’s not going to hurt me. The relief burst inside my chest again, but under it was the bald edge of fear. Now I’d seen what a djamphir could do.
It was stupid not to be frightened of them.
Christophe kept very still. He was staring at my breastbone, where my mother’s locket glistened.
When I moved a little bit, pulling the top of the flannel shirt closed, he finally examined my face instead. My cheeks were hot as stove burners.
“Just a little older than you, Dru.” He flicked a quick glance at the rest of the room again, like he expected there to be someone hiding in the shadows. “This reminds me of your mother’s room. She was the last svetocha we managed to save.” There, his tone said. Does that answer the question you were really asking? He shook the towel and glanced around the room again. A breath of pie scent touched my cheek. “She had books, lots of them. They’re probably in a holding room. Waiting for you.”
My hand made a tiny movement, wanting to touch Mom’s locket. I forced it down. “They won’t train me.” It burst out in a cascade I tried not to make into a whine. “You said they would. No combat training or anything, they treat me like I’m—”
“Glass?” He tilted his head. His rain-wet skin was perfect, like damp silk. “Like you’re fragile?
Precious? There are worse things, moj ptaszku.”
Not from where I’m sitting. “Look, I’m not going to get any better if they keep treating me like—”
I didn’t even see him move. One moment he was all the way across the room, with the towel in his hands and his head cocked. The next, he was nose to nose with me, a warm draft smelling of apples and spice pushing at my hair, kissing my cheeks.
I half-fell back, slashing up with the knife. Warm steel bands closed around my wrist and twisted.
My arm shrieked with pain, the knife plucked from my suddenly nerveless fingers, and my knees buckled. His other hand clamped at the back of my neck, under my hair. My shoulder wrenched, screaming as it twisted in a way it wasn’t built for.
Move it, Dru! Dad’s voice, filling my head. There was only one way out, and I took it, bending forward, kicking up to roll, my shoulder giving a high, hard pop of pain as Christophe’s fingers loosened. My bare foot hit his knee, heel grinding in. It was a good kick, and he let out a short, sharp sound like a laugh.
I hit the floor and rolled, came up in a crouch. The knife was nowhere to be seen, and Christophe bent his leg a little, shaking it out. He should have looked ridiculous on one leg, but instead he looked like a cat flicking one paw, the rest of him perfectly poised.
Stay down. If he comes at you, you’ve got a better chance of shaking him off. I flicked a glance at the door. No help there, it would cost me too many precious seconds to unlock, unbar, unchain it.
“Good,” he said. “Looking for escape, since I’m too fast. Very good. But I’m already here and you have no weapons, moj ptaszku. What do you do?”
No weapons my ass. There’s always a weapon. I cast around, found nothing but knickknacks for throwing, and heard the muffled beat of feathered wings again. They brushed the air of the room. My hair lifted on a faint breeze that seemed to come from nowhere, and I went very still.