“Maybe I should go find Shanks.”

Hot embarrassment flooded me. Could he make it any more obvious that he didn’t want to hang around me? Still, I wasn’t giving up without a fight. “Okay. I mean, if you want to. If you do, I’m not gonna sleep though. I’ll go with.”

He straightened a bit, losing the slouch. “You don’t have to.”

“You think I want to be alone?” I sounded mad even to myself. “The only time I feel safe is when you’re around.”

Which was half a lie, too. Because I felt safe when Christophe hugged me, and when he told me he wasn’t going to let anything happen to me. It was like being with Dad again and knowing I had a place in the world.

But Graves sounded relieved, and that was worth any kind-of half-assed lie I could dredge up. “Oh.” His socks dragged as he shuffled across the carpet. “All right, then.” He paused by the foot of the bed. “You okay, Dru?”

I closed my eyes. Put my other arm up so I was hugging the pillow. “Peachy.” As long as you’re here, I guess. You’re about the only person I’m sure of. I’m just not so sure about some things to do with you.

“Okay.” He settled down on his side stiffly, careful not to touch me. The flaming in my cheeks became hot trickles of water between my eyelids. “Dru?”

“What?” I hated to snap at him, but my throat was full and my eyes were beginning to leak.

A long silence. Then he settled in, moving around a little on the bed the way a cat will turn around before it goes boneless. “Do you mean that?”

What, about liking you, or about feeling safe? “Of course I mean it.” I sniffed hard, pulling everything back up into my nose. “You’re the only good thing that’s happened to me since my dad got zombified, Graves. You want me to put it on a billboard?”

“I just asked. Jeez.” But he moved a little closer, tentatively. And when he put his arm around me, I didn’t move or protest. I just lay there stiffly until the relaxation started to feel natural. He breathed into my tangled hair, a spot of heat, and all of a sudden I was content just to be still.

It wasn’t quite swapping spit, but it was okay. It left me more confused than ever, though.

He fell asleep again after a little while. I could tell by his breathing.

Soon dusk came around, and the Schola woke up again. Nothing else scratched at my window, and I couldn’t tell whether I was relieved or unhappy about that.

I brushed my teeth again, tied my hair back, then turned the computer on once more and spent some time poking around. It was your basic intranet with a gateway to the Internet, but the security stuff was way more intense than it had been back at the other Schola. I had to verify three times with the information on the sheet next to the keyboard before it even let me near the Web.

I was betting my every keystroke was logged, so I didn’t visit anything fun or informative. But I was feeling sharper and more myself, so I poked around for more clothes. For me, this time. I’d been so strung-out earlier I’d just gotten Graves some stuff and called it good. Now I looked back at what I’d ordered and about slapped myself on the forehead.

Shopping while sleep-deprived is a Bad Idea.

I sat and compared prices and wondered where the Order’s money came from, while I spun the switchblade idly on the desk sometimes and thought about what I was doing.

I’m used to shopping for myself in army surplus stores or Goodwills or something. Getting stuff sent to you over the Net was always a big no-no while I was with Dad. All that stuff leaves a footprint, a happy little trail—and you have to pick it up somewhere; even P.O. boxes and those rent-a-box places need ID of some kind. You have to go back and actually get the stuff you’ve ordered, and when you do, whammo. There’s no better time for someone or something to hit you.

No, the Net’s only good for a few things. Research, though you have to apply the bullshit test and cross-check everything. Scams, because you can’t spit on the Net without hitting one. And the occasional entertainment. Nothing like people making fools of themselves for the world to see.

Sometimes I wonder what Gran would have thought of the digital age. Of course, it’s hard to get broadband down in the hollers and up on the ridges.

She probably would have just sniffed and called it more foolishness than normal. Which is pretty damning, considering what she thought of the whole human race.

I actually had some fun picking out more T-shirts for Graves. I got him a Captain America tee, and one that had a huge dinosaur and lasers screened on it, with the caption Look out! That velociraptor has a lightsaber! screaming across it. It made me laugh into my cupped hand, trying to keep it muffled because Graves was muttering a little bit and stirring in the bed. Plus a few plain black ones, large- size athletic fit, not medium, in case he kept bulking up the way he had been. Becoming loup-garou had made him way broader in the shoulders.

I knew his sizes from shopping at the other Schola. Before he went out with the wulfen and got kitted out, that was. Maybe they’d do it for him here, but just in case I got him socks and more boxer-briefs, too. He seemed like a tighty-whitey kind of kid when I met him, but I guess that had changed.

I was just sitting there, wondering whether or not to get him an athletic cup—you know, for sparring and stuff, but I had to weigh the embarrassment factor in—when there was a knock at the door. A nice polite three raps, a pause, two more taps.

What now?

My mother’s locket cooled abruptly, icy metal against my skin. I pushed myself up from the office chair. It squeaked a little bit, sliding across one of those hard plastic pads they put down to save carpets from the rollers. Then it hit me, and I froze, hunched halfway over.

Oranges and wax. Sliding across my tongue, reaching and touching that place at the back of my throat where the bloodhunger lived, right next to the place ordinary people don’t have. The little spot that warns me when danger or weirdness is right around the corner.

I glanced at the bed. Graves lay on his side, curled up as if I was still there, hugging my pillow. I swallowed hard, though I didn’t want to with that taste in my mouth. Hooked my fingers around the switchblade and straightened.

I felt ridiculous. It was probably a teacher or something. Or Shanks, or even Benjamin.

You know it’s not, Dru. Don’t you dare open that door.

The warding’s thin blue lines came into view inside my head, seen with the queer non-sight I didn’t realize other people didn’t have until I was about ten years old. I can remember the moment, too. I’d come home crying from the valley school because the kids had been picking on me, and Gran’s mouth had clamped together like a vise. Her disapproval hit me like a wave, and I’d had to admit that if I wanted the kids to tolerate me I shouldn’t have been listening to their little secrets with that muscle inside my head even if I thought everyone could do the same thing and just didn’t let on.

The problem wasn’t actually knowing. It was letting them know I knew.

People hate that. They hate it because they fear it. There are places in America where . . . but never mind. That’s too awful to think about.

Gran was big on privacy, and she’d had to let me learn the lesson the hard way. Because there just isn’t any other way if you’re born with the touch, she said. And she was right.

I fingered the release on the switchblade and eyed the door nervously. There was the bar on it, even if someone had the keys for the four or five different locks. Two of the locks didn’t have an outside keyhole, so that was all right.