Insufferably smug. His smile was a wide V, so big a dimple came out on his left cheek. He wasn’t so baby-faced anymore, and was that dark stubble spreading up from his chin? His hair was starred with little beads of moisture, it must have been raining outside.
Yeah. He got to go outside and smoke, and then come back in and—
Jesus. I grabbed the edge of the table with both hands. The fork mashed itself against fake wood.
My teeth gritted together so hard my jaw ached. I’d been mad before, plenty of times. Kid-mad. This was a new feeling, and it swallowed me whole. I actually saw little sparkles of red around the corners of my field of vision, and my arm ached with the need to punch that fucking smile right off his face. Arm? No, my whole body vibrated with the urge.
“Uh-oh.” Dibs’ chair scraped as he pushed back. “Graves? She smells red.”
I shook. The wave of trembling passed through me. What the hell was I thinking? It was Graves.
He was pretty much my only friend here. Was I really going to go ballistic on him? Over what?
“She’s fine.” Graves just looked at me. His face didn’t seem nearly as smug now. Just thoughtful, and familiar. “She gets a little antsy sometimes, but she’s okay. Right, Dru?”
And just like that, the rage evaporated, leaving only the sour little red-hot bubble in my chest. I found my voice. “Right. Antsy.” Where did that come from? What was that? “Jesus.” It came out sounding breathy and exhausted.
The cafeteria was curiously hushed. Tension ran under the surface of that quiet before my ears popped and I relaxed a little bit more.
“You’re wound pretty tight,” was all Graves said. “Hey, you should eat something other than that. Want some bacon?”
Christophe visited me. I have to talk to you. The words died on my lips. Dibs crunched down on something next to me. It sounded like bone, and my stomach did a funny sideways jigging movement.
“I, um, I’ll just stick with toast.” To prove it, I picked up a half-slice of sourdough covered in butter.
It was cold, but I put it in my mouth and bit down. My teeth were tingling. It was a weird feeling, like they were waking up from novocaine. I mean, I’ve never had a cavity, but I can imagine.
Graves nodded. A shadow of relief slid through his green eyes. “’Kay. Hey, we’re going out for burgers again after classes. Want me to bring you some?”
No. It’ll be cold when you get here. I don’t want any grease, thanks. “Maybe a milkshake one of these days. I haven’t had a milkshake in a while.”
Not since he’d handed me one in a mall food court and asked me what was wrong. The memory pushed through my head, tinted with panic, and I let out another shaky sigh.
“You got it. If you’re still awake when I get in.” His hair fell over his face as he nodded, the dead-black strings looking normal on him. His skin had cleared up, the caramel coloring nice and even. “Sure you don’t want any bacon?”
Yeah, if I’m still awake when you condescend to come back? No thanks. I took another hurried bite of toast as Dibs cracked down on another bone and made a happy, humming little sound. I suppose I should have been ready for that. It was one thing to feel lonely because nobody would sit with you. It was another thing entirely to have a wulf chowing down right next door. “Nah, I’m good. Really.” I made the words come out through a mouthful of cold soggy toast and congealed butter, and told myself I’d better start eating my food while it was hot.
Maybe I shouldn’t tell him about Christophe at all. I mulled over this until the bell for first period rang, and was still mulling over it hours later when I fell asleep in the gray light of predawn. Graves didn’t show up with that shake. But it wasn’t like I was expecting him to, either.
Yeah, right.
CHAPTER 7
My second week at the Schola ended in a hard freeze. Temperatures plunged, especially at night when the stars became hard clear points in a naked inky sky. Ice dribbled over the windows, and I couldn’t even feel relieved that the constant fog had drawn back. All the wulfen were complaining because this kind of weather kept them indoors. And believe me, if you’ve never been stuck inside a room with twenty restless young wulfen while a teenage-looking djamphir drones on about the anatomy of suckers, well, you’ve missed a real party.
A Schola classroom generally isn’t like a regular classroom. They’re concave, most of the time.
The teacher stands in the bottom of the bowl, and the students sit on benches or couches in concentric circles. It was couches in first-period history class, which meant Graves was sitting right next to me, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He looked like he was paying attention, too, under the mess of dyed-black hair falling in his face. His nose jutted out, and his chin was set.
The usual black coat strained at his shoulders.
The intensity in his green eyes was new, though. I’d never seen him concentrate this fiercely.
I still felt sorry for dragging him into this.
On my other side, the only other djamphir student in the room leaned away from me, taking notes on a yellow legal pad. It was Irving, his curly hair slicked down a little. He’d apparently forgiven me for the sparring thing. He didn’t seem the type to hold a grudge.
His friend in the red shirt wasn’t here, thank God.
Everyone was freshly showered and bright-eyed for the first class of the evening, and it was so cold I was in layers, T-shirt, Graves’ flannel, and a blue wool sweater. I’d have preferred to be hanging out in front of the armory, but at least the lecture was something I hadn’t heard before. The teacher had thrown out the textbook and was teaching something new.