Oh, that is so not even a concern right now. “You shouldn’t worry. You’re the only decent boyfriend material I’ve found in, like, sixteen states.”

“You’re picky.” There was the sarcasm. Goth Boy was himself again.

“I have good taste, okay? I like you, Graves.” I stopped myself from saying Edgar again, with an effort of will.

“I like you too. I just, we should be careful. See what happens. Okay?”

Sure. All right. “Okay.” What does that mean?

Apparently it meant he was going to untangle himself from me. Which he did. He slid off the bed, not looking at me, and headed for the bathroom. I watched him walk away, in that weird way guys have when they’re feeling you watch them. I should have said something, but what? What the hell could I say?

He shut the door, and I lay there for a few seconds breathing, before he turned the water on and I heard him brushing his teeth.

Had he just suddenly figured out he was kissing someone who could get fangs? I mean, werwulfen had big scary teeth too, but . . .

Oh, Lord. I’d just had my first kiss with Goth Boy, and that was good. But I had no idea whether he thought it was good, or if I’d just gotten the brush-off. See what happens? What did that mean? And he was my best and only friend right now. The only person I was really sure of, here.

I rolled over, stuffed the pillow under my head, and closed my eyes. When he came back from the bathroom, I just lay there breathing like I was asleep. He stood by the side of the bed for a little bit, probably wishing he had somewhere else to roost, then eased himself down and stayed on his side. The space between us had just gotten bigger than it ever was, and in a completely new way.

The more I thought about it, the more it didn’t get any easier to figure out.

Great.

I stared at the fall of heavy golden late-afternoon sunlight through the window for a little bit, my back against Graves’s. Neither of us had climbed under the covers, and I hate the feeling of sleeping in jeans. Everything gets twisted around and pulled up, crawls into cracks it’s not supposed to, and you end up feeling like you’ve been sleeping on nails.

I lay there, breathing softly. The sunlight flickered because a shadow moved across the window. A faint scratching sound, and I tensed, muscle by muscle.

The shadow bobbed again, and I pushed myself up, even my elbows creaking with exhaustion. Graves muttered and moved beside me, and the shape in the window froze. Golden light poured past it, and all I could see reflected on the blue carpet was a distorted blur.

I grabbed for the switchblade on the pretty, postage-stamp-sized blue night table, knocking over the lamp. It fell with a crash, Graves sat up and swore; the shadow disappeared with a final scratching sound. I leapt out of bed, the switchblade snicking free, and was halfway between the bed and the window before I realized yanking it open and sticking my head out might not be a good idea.

“What the hell—” Graves said in a slurred, sleepy voice.

I grabbed the sash anyway and tugged the window open, the switchblade almost squirting free of my sweating fingers. A cool spring afternoon drenched in honey light poured in, and the garden a story below was starred and speckled with new growth on old thorny bushes. There would be roses in awhile, and if I was still here it might be nice to open the window on a clear day and smell them.

Instead I inhaled, dragging in the cool breeze. Grass, sunlight, the edge of soft rain last night and more rain on the way, the aroma of the earth waking up after a long nap. I had to snatch my left-hand fingers away from my mother’s locket, the chain doing weird things because it had rotated while I half-slept and the catch was stuck in the locket’s loop. It was warm, not icy like it would have been if something dangerous was around, and I wondered if it had ever heated up or cooled down for Dad.

I also caught a breath of warm apple spice, and the fang marks on my left wrist gave a throbbing flare of heat.

Oh. “Hello?” I whispered. Tried to look everywhere at once.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Graves’s voice almost broke. He scrambled off the bed, and I thought I saw something across the square of the garden glinting, a reflection from deep in the shadow of the wall. There were other windows, all of them blank. Of course: no other svetocha except Anna and me.

Where did she sleep? Did I even want to know?

I stood there in the flood of sunshine and felt cold. The breath of spiced apples was blown away on a brisk, green-smelling wind. Gems of water sparkled on the garden, each one perfectly placed.

I lowered the switchblade. Christophe? I opened my mouth to say his name, shut it again.

Because Graves was right next to me, fisting at his eyes. “What’s up?”

“I thought I saw something.” I swallowed hard, used the windowsill to push the blade back in until it clicked. “In the window.”

“Oh.” He blinked a couple times, rubbed at his hair. “Anything there?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I was asleep.” The lie tasted like ashes. I knew I hadn’t been.

“What exactly did you think you saw?” He was pale under his coloring. “A dreamstealer? Something else?”

The thought of a dreamstealer and having seizures again after it stole my breath was enough to make all remaining sleepiness jump out the window. My shoulders hunched. “Just a shadow.”

He leaned forward, peered out. “A drop straight down. And nothing above to hang onto. But that doesn’t mean anything lately, does it?” He sniffed, inhaling deeply, passing the air through his nose the way I’ve seen people in fancy restaurants smell wine. And gave me an odd, very green sideways look. “Huh.”

“What?” The lump in my throat wasn’t just my heart.

“I dunno.” He pulled the window down. “Think we should lock the shutters?”

I think it was Christophe. The words trembled right on my lips. I shook my head. The air always feels dead when you barricade windows. Like you’re under siege. Or buried. “I dunno.”

“Okay.” He stayed where he was, sunlight edging his threadbare T-shirt and touching his jeans, bringing out the blue in the denim. He leaned forward, like he wanted to get a little closer. “You all right? You look a little . . .”

Stupid? Silly? Sleepy? “Fine.” I almost flinched away, stamped back to the bed, tossed the switchblade on the nightstand. The lamp was okay. I picked it back up and settled it where it belonged. Then I dropped down into the bed’s softness and wished again that I was wearing boxers. “Sorry to wake you up.”

I was also getting to the point of being sorry I’d kissed him. What the hell had he meant? But that was useless to think about.

He stood there, irresolute. I got comfortable, putting my arm under the pillow, busying myself with getting settled. My wrist throbbed like a bad tooth.

If I’d known what would happen when Christophe bit me, would I still have done it? He’d needed my blood to save us. Even Shanks agreed about that.

But still, I wondered. There were other things I wondered about, too.

Like what he’d said, alone in a wulfen’s room with the darkness covering everything and the bloodhunger burning in my throat. If I need a reason now, Dru, it will have to be you.

As uncomfortable situations go, thinking about a bossy djamphir while a loup-garou you’ve just kissed and been rejected by stands there and stares is pretty high on the scale. Jesus. I never used to have problems like this.

Graves slumped near the window. His face was shadowed; I couldn’t see his expression.

“You might as well come on back and get some rest.” I tried to sound gracious. “I mean, jeez. Unless you want to sleep on the floor.”