“Upstairs.” I scooped the gun up. “And move slowly.”

One blue eye sparkled at me. The blood was already drying. The heater was on—God, the bill was going to be sky-high this month. “If I wanted either of you dead, I’d just leave you to the wolves. ’Tis their season, after all.”

Yeah. Sure. Whatever. “I’ll keep the gun just in case. What are you doing here?”

“I thought I’d pay you a visit, my dear. Since you’re so interesting.”

My mouth shifted into high gear, leaving my brain behind. “You know, you’re the second guy in a few days to call me that. You should be more creative.”

Good one, Dru.

“I do hate to be imitated.” He was hauling Graves up the stairs like the kid weighed nothing. “He’ll be fine, if you’re wondering. He’ll sleep for a couple hours and wake up disoriented and hungry. I hope you have meat in the house.”

Does bologna count? “Um, okay. Are you a hunter?” I trailed along behind him, suddenly wishing I could see Graves’s face. And unless I was going nuts—which was a distinct possibility—this kid smelled just exactly like a fresh-baked pie. It was a good smell, and it made me hungry.

“Among other things.” He reached the top of the stairs, sniffed, and carried Graves into my room. “My, isn’t this cozy. I’ll bet he sleeps here.” He dumped the kid on the cot and covered him up with a few quick yanks on an Army blanket. Scratchy but warm, and it would forgive the snow melting from Graves’s clothes.

His face looked less wary when he was asleep, and the unibrow wasn’t that noticeable. His mouth gapped open a little, like a toddler’s, and I pointed the gun at Christophe.

“Okay. Slowly. Back away from him.”

He spread his hands, a flash of irritation crossing his blood-smeared face. “Why do you make me repeat myself? I just told you I don’t want to hurt either of you. You’re a babe in the woods. Who is this kid, your pet?”

I could barely believe it, but I outright bristled. If I had hackles, they would have gone straight up. “He’s my friend.” And you’re not. “I think we need to have a little chat.”

“I agree.” His shoulders slumped a little, as if he was tired. “Do you have a washcloth? I’d like to get the blood off my face.”

It was a pretty reasonable request, I decided. “Downstairs. Kitchen.” But I covered him with the gun the entire way.

I’d hit him once, after all. And here in the house I’d already shot a zombie. Maybe this smartmouth blue-eyed apple-pie boy would be next.

Without the blood on his face, and in full light, Christophe turned out to be not just sharp-nosed but sharply handsome, too. The sweater, snowmelt weighing it down, clung to his torso. He was in good shape, and strong—I was going to have a bruise above my knee where he’d plugged me.

I kept him covered with the gun from one side of the breakfast bar while he wiped himself off, rubbing at his hands and passing the washcloth over his face. His chin was a little sharp, but he had great cheekbones. “That isn’t necessary,” he said, his back to me, glancing up out the window to the backyard. He didn’t say a damn thing about the plywood-and-blanket baffle over the destroyed door. I wondered if he could smell the zombie.

“You’d better start talking,” I informed him the third time he rinsed his hands. “I don’t have all day.”

“You might have all day, but you certainly don’t have all night.” He turned and leaned against the counter, his hair lying down a bit more now but still artistically mussed. Those blue eyes scored holes of brilliance in his face, and his elegant mouth made a small movement as if he tasted something on the borderline of bad. “Are you expecting visitors?”

What? “No.” I was going to re-ward the doors and windows, and I think I’d better as soon as I get you out of here. “But you’re not asking the questions, bucko. I am. Why don’t you explain how you know my father and what exactly you are?”

He shrugged, and the heater shut off. I almost jumped out of my skin. “I’m djamphir. I hunt nosferatu. I suppose human hunters don’t know much about us—at least, the amateurs probably don’t.” He grinned, and I found myself disliking him intensely. “And I know your father because he set me back months. I had almost finished preparing a trap for Sergej, but then your father had to come blundering in with his vendetta and ruin the whole thing. He’s dead, then? I thought as much when I saw them take him.”

“You saw it? What happened? And who the hell is Sergej?” I couldn’t pronounce the name the way he could, like it was in another language. It sent the same glass dagger through my head, and the house creaked sharply as it settled on itself.

He rolled his eyes, a very teenage movement, but oddly strained. “Sergej, the Princeps. He’s old, and nasty. He’s the nosferat Dwight Anderson’s been hunting these twelve years.”

Hearing him say Dad’s name was bad. Hearing him say that was . . . well, it was worse.

Dad was hunting a sucker? No way. He always told me that was bad, bad news. That you couldn’t pay him enough. “Dad’s been hunting other things.” My heart gave a single hurting leap, like a spike driven through my chest. “I don’t think he ever went after a sucker.” But . . . I could be wrong. There was that town north of Miami. Dad got the heebies really bad on that one.

And then there was that month I spent with August. I had a thought about that, something I should really do, but what Christophe said next knocked it right out of my head.

“Your father was a gifted amateur. It was your mother who was the real hunter.” He was still looking at me steadily, as if weighing my reaction. A slant of winter light through the window brought out all the sharp detail on his face, the nap of his sweater, the glow in his eyes. “What do you remember about her?”

We’re going to play the game, Dru.

I swallowed drily. My mouth was watering. The cinnamon and spice smell was downright distracting, especially since it covered up the faint omnipresent tang of zombie.” Not much. She died when I was five.”

“She was murdered when you were five.” He folded his arms and watched my face like something was growing there. “You didn’t know?”

My palms were sweating, my heart going a mile a minute. What the hell do you think you know about me? “How the hell do you know? You’re as old as I am.”

He seemed to find that funny. At any rate, a pained little smile crossed his sharp face. “I’ve got my own ways and methods, Miss Dru. And I’m going to be hanging around for a little bit. I’m your guardian angel. You really don’t know what you are, do you?”

Irrational, nameless anger welled up behind my breastbone. Who did this guy think he was, anyway? I said I’d be asking the questions here. Why do I feel more like he’s questioning me? “Yeah, guardian angel. Riiiight.” I didn’t think I could get any more sarcastic, but I gave it a try. “I told you, I’m hungry, tired, and pissed off. That about covers it. I don’t get what you’re hinting at.”

“Do you know what svetocha is? No, of course not.” His hand turned into a fist around the bloody washcloth. It was weird to see the difference between the white-knuckle clutch and his interested, bland expression. “I’d give a lot to know how your father thought he was going to handle you once you reached maturity. Or how he hid you. But if I know what you are, chances are someone else does too. They’ll want to capture you—or kill you. Either way, you won’t be running around loose for long. And if Sergej catches you, you might wish you were dead.”

Oooh, was that supposed to be a threat? I summoned up my best I don’t give a shit attitude, the one I used when in a Real World bar with Dad. “Why, because I know about the Real World? Whatever.” I was getting tired of standing behind the breakfast bar. I wanted something to eat and I wanted to take a very hot shower, and I wanted my skin to stop running with chill prickles of foreboding. “I think it’s time you left.”