I’d asked him what the hell would happen if I shot him by mistake, and he grinned at me and told me not to be silly. It was kind of like Dad.

Not really.

Brooklyn breathed outside the window. The kitchen looked out onto a blank brick wall. But there was a ledge outside, and August had made me look out at the handholds going up to the roof or down to another window in a hall two floors below. No sunlight ever got in here, but the bedroom window sometimes had some. It was like living in a hole. And he never let me go outside for very long, and never alone.

The touch told me it was August. And that something was wrong.

The door scraped open. He must have been fumbling with his keys. That wasn’t like him.

I bolted for the door. There was a gun on the spindly little table right beside it, tucked behind a dusty vase of artificial flowers. He was a hunter, like Dad, so he was always prepared. And he’d taken me through where all the weapons were, just in case.

August spilled through the door, shoving it shut behind him and almost overbalancing. I caught him, and I smelled something coppery.

I knew blood when I smelled it, even at this age. “Jesus Christ.” I found out I was saying it over and over again, found something different to say. “What happened?”

He shook his head, blond hair moving oddly, as if it was wet. Was it raining out there? I didn’t know. August was tall, muscle-heavy, and almost tipped both of us over as his legs gave out. He was muttering in Polish. At least, I guessed it was Polish. As if he was drunk. But he wasn’t drunk.

He was hurt bad, and there was nobody here to help him except me.

“What?” I had to know if he’d been followed, or what. Dad had never come home this beat-up. August’s familiar white tank top was torn and dirty, dyed bright red. His jeans were a mess of ribbons, and he held his blue plaid shirt over his chest with one arm. His boots were soaked and dark. I started dragging him toward the bathroom. “August, dammit, what happened?”

He shook free of me and scrambled for the bathroom. I ran through all the first aid I know—I can handle pretty much anything short of a gunshot wound, really. First I had to find the damage, then stop the bleeding, check him for shock—

“It’s all right.” He made it to the bathroom door, a slice of white tile behind him. The entire apartment was suddenly too small. I mean, it was a cracker box anyway: one bedroom, the kitchen and dining room the size of a postage stamp and papered with movie posters, the tiny bathroom with its claw-foot tub. “Looks worse than it is. Bring vodka.” His accent—half Brooklyn, half Bronx, all Bugs Bunny—cut every vowel short. But something else was rubbing through the words, too. The song of a different tongue.

I made it back into the kitchen on shaking legs. If we had to blow this place, he wouldn’t have asked for vodka. Relief burst through me.

After all, he’d come back. He went out almost every night to hunt. I guessed New York was pretty dangerous, all those people crammed together and the things that go bump in the night hiding in all the corners. I wished I knew a bit more about the things that inhabited here—rat spirits, certainly. Hexes and voodoo, certainly. Sorcery, you bet. Other predators. There were probably werwulfen too, but Dad never messed with those. And August wasn’t like Dad; he didn’t tell me anything about what he did. I wasn’t his helper.

Missing Dad rose like a stone in my throat. I grabbed the Stoli bottle from the freezer, sloshed it, and decided to put a fresh one in. Before I carried it into the bathroom, I uncapped it and took a healthy swallow. It burned the back of my throat, cold fire.

I knocked on the bathroom door. “Augie?”

No sound for a long moment. I had a vivid mental image of him standing in front of the sink, bent over halfway, his lips pulled back from his teeth and a haze of red spreading out from—

He jerked the door open. “Brought the vodka?”

His hair was dry, springing up in soft golden spikes. I didn’t think about it. I was more concerned with him bleeding, so I pushed into the tiny bathroom and grabbed the Medikit in its green nylon bag. “Where’s the worst of it?”

He screwed the cap off the vodka and took a long pull. If he found out I was sneaking gulps he might have gotten mad. But then, I didn’t think he’d notice. Dad never noticed I’d been sneaking Jim Beam. It tasted foul, but it did steady you. Gran always said a bit of hooch was good for the nerves. Her people had been rumrunners back in the day.

I pushed the flannel shirt aside. He winced. There were claw marks, but the blood didn’t look to be all his. He was only scratched, the scratches flushed and angry, diagonally across his chest. One of them jagged down like something had tried to eviscerate him, but it petered out. He was lucky.

“Jesus. What did this?” My hands moved all on their own, opening the Medikit and sitting it in the dry sink. I grabbed his shoulder. He sank down on the toilet. Thank God the lid was down. We had a running battle going on over that. He was male, after all.

“Nasty things. Nothing a nice girl needs to know about, eh Dru?”

I rolled my eyes, opened up the cabinet, and got the peroxide down. He took another shot of vodka. “Is it raining out there?”

He shook his head, still swallowing. His throat moved. He closed his eyes, but not before I got a flash of color—yellow, like sunshine.

But August’s eyes were dark. I didn’t know then that he was djamphir . Whenever I thought about it, it made sense. He’d been struggling to keep the aspect down so I wouldn’t ask him questions, and I’d been oblivious.

Hey, I was young. And I didn’t even know djamphir existed. I’d heard of suckers, of course—everyone who interacts with the Real World knows about them. But Dad never said a word about half-sucker vampire hunters. I never had a clue.

I had the scissors and was cutting his tank top before he realized it. “Settle down,” I told him, slapping his left hand away. “Let me look. I patch up Dad all the time.” When I glanced up, he was looking at me, and his eyes were dark again.

“It’s no problem, Dru. I heal quick.”

He did. They were already fading, the claw swipes on his chest. “Jesus.” I ripped open a packet of gauze. “I’m going to clean them anyway. You never know.”

“If it makes you happy.” He shrugged, wincing, and lifted the vodka bottle again.

He stayed long enough to change into fresh clothes and smoke one of his weird foreign cigarettes while I fixed an omelet. He lived on eggs and vodka. Said it kept him young. I mean, he was what, twenty-five? At least, he looked twenty-five. God knows how old he is. If I ever see him again, maybe I’ll ask.

Then he told me to stay inside, stocked up on ammo again, and was gone inside twenty minutes. Leaving me staring at a pile of bloody clothes, the ashtray with a still-smoking butt, two spent clips that needed to be refilled, and his plate on the table.

At least he’d promised to bring home some bread. Maybe just to shut me up, I dunno.

I bolted for the window in the bedroom. Sometimes if I was quick enough I could catch a glimpse of him on the street, moving with his head up and a spring in his step. Sometimes he might as well have vanished as soon as the apartment door locked.