Home > Reckoning (Strange Angels #5)(4)

Reckoning (Strange Angels #5)(4)
Author: Lili St. Crow, Lilith Saintcrow

I perked up a little. He sounded more and more like himself, the farther we drove. Bitchy and annoying, but still himself. “I don’t drawl. Yanks just talk weird. Bite off all their words like they’re personally offended by each one.”

He rolled down his own window and sniffed, cautiously. How he could smell anything with all the smoking he was doing was beyond me. “I’m Midwest, babe. That don’t make me a Yank.”

The longer I grinned, the more natural it felt. “You’re above the Mason-Dixon, boy. That makes you Yank automatically.”

“Great. And I suppose you’re Johnny Reb.”

It stung, but I knew he had no idea. “Don’t say that kind of thing around here, okay? As a matter of fact, someone comes around, let me do the talking.”

“Yeah.” He held up a hand, examining it like he’d never seen it before. Took a drag, let the smoke curl out through his nostrils. “Do I have the wrong skin tone for this red neck of the woods, Dru?”

Are you trying to call me a racist, or just my folk? “Jesus.” I tried not to roll my eyes. “I’m more worried about the vampires finding out we’re here. You stick out, I don’t. Much, I guess.”

“Have you looked in the mirror lately? You don’t blend, kid.”

Perversely, I felt warmed. “So you noticed. I look like my mom a bit.”

I should’ve known it was too good to be true. “Some mom,” he muttered. “You look . . .”

I waited, but he didn’t finish the sentence.

All the good feeling drained away. He’d seen me drinking someone’s blood. He’d also seen me kick vampire ass. And he’d looked completely disgusted. Now this. Great. Just great. “What? Unwashed? Redneck? Uneducated? Toothless? Like my mama and daddy were cousins? Shut up, Graves. Until we get to the house, shut your goddamn Yankee-ass mouth and let me drive.”

He subsided, sucking on his cancer stick like it held the secret to world peace or something. Ash’s back and forth sped up a little. “Ash!” I barked. “Pick a side, sit down, and sit still!”

He did. Right behind Graves, cowering up against the window like he wasn’t sure if I was going to reach back and smack him. The silvery stripe in his hair gleamed in the uncertain dimness.

Great. Perfect. Just wonderful.

The house hove into view across the meadow. I was finding the driveway more by instinct than anything else; the meadow had reclaimed the ruts in a big way. Dad and I had only been back here once to close everything up. If we were lucky, the house would still be sound. If it wasn’t, well, it was only temporary. There are a lot of things you can just live with in summer.

Winter would be a completely different story. But by then we would be on the road to somewhere else. If we survived.

I didn’t want to think about it. Here was Gran’s, and Gran’s was safe, and for the time being that was enough. I’d kept this place like a card in my back pocket; it was my last best draw.

“You grew up way out here?” Graves sounded horrified.

“I told you to shut up.” But there was no heat to it. Of course he’d be horrified by the sight of Gran’s high narrow shotgun house, weathered boards festooned with creepers and kudzu, the pump out front still wrapped securely. There was another pump in the kitchen, and there was the crick if the well was low. Looked like nobody’d been at the cordwood, which should be nice and seasoned now. The chicken coop listed, its front door open and the fence around it pulled half-down. There’d probably been a few storms, and the fencing around the coop was one of Gran’s Perpetual Endeavors. Like baking biscuits or trying to civilize me into wearing a skirt.

The Packard slumped under a mound of creeping green in the carport; I could still remember driving down off the ridges with Gran’s terrible labored breathing in the passenger seat, bumping and swerving toward the hospital down the valley.

I blew out between pursed lips. The touch flexed inside my skull, and a tingle ran through every tooth I had. But especially the sharp upper canines.

Fangs. I ran my tongue over them carefully. They were just sensitive, not warning me. I hadn’t tasted the rotten wax-orange that would tell me danger was close. Instead I was just jumpy as hell, tetchy, and exhausted. Not to mention feeling a queer pain in my chest. Like my heart was deciding all this was too much hassle and it would just crack in half. Save the king of the vampires and everyone else the trouble of killing me by taking care of business at home, so to speak.

I squinted as we rolled to a stop, sliding the car into park. Yes, there were fine thin blue lines slipping through the physical fabric of the walls, knotting together and twisting in complex Celtic designs. The walls remembered Gran’s wards. She’d redone them every night and made me do them too, with her rowan wand and without, with candle and salt or just plain will. I could almost see the trembling of a candle flame behind the shuttered windows, a faint star of light.

My knuckles were white on the steering wheel, again.

All that warding, all those floor washes with yarrow and lavender, all those little tricks like doubling back and spitting to break a trail. All the times she questioned me—did I see anything or feel anything wrong? Was there anyone in town asking questions? All the care she took to scrub me down and keep me scented like something else.

It hit me all at once. She’d known what I was. Or she’d known something. She’d been protecting and training me as best she could.

   
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