Except I didn’t like Christophe that way, did I? I’d told Graves flat out that I didn’t. That he scared me in some weird deep-down way.

A change of subject would be a great idea, I decided. It was stuffy in here, and I was sweating. My ears were beginning to ring. “Why did you come all the way out to that reform Schola to see me? You could have brought me here.” There was a whole Schola burned down, wulfen and djamphir dead, and here she was, pretty as a picture and pulling all sorts of strings.

She eyed me like I’d made an embarrassing bodily noise. “I thought the Council was going to bring you here.” It sounded flat and unconvincing. “We’re still trying to find out how you ended up out in the boondocks.”

It had the brassy bitter taste of a lie the liar doesn’t really expect you to swallow. Christophe had tried to send me here to the Prima. Dylan himself had tried to get word out that I was upstate and in danger.

I stared at her, she stared at me, and I had just opened my mouth to inform her she was lying, when the outside door flew open hard enough to bang on the walls on either side.

I leapt up, my bag spilling off the couch. Anna laughed. It was a high breathless titter.

Hiro stalked into the room, his aspect on and his fangs out. His gaze made one brief pitiless arc over everything in sight—Anna lounging, me with crimson cheeks, breathing hard, and probably looking guilty as hell—and he checked, coming to a complete stop.

Kir trailed behind him. Bruce followed, looking thoughtful. And, once he saw me, palpably relieved.

“Milady.” Again, Hiro made it clear—I wasn’t sure quite how—that he was talking to me. “Forgive the intrusion.”

I swallowed what felt like a good chunk of my heart. The sense of danger returned, the reek of waxed oranges bursting on the back of my palate. “Yeah. I, um. There’s a Council meeting?”

“No.” Bruce’s relief turned to perplexity. “But . . . did you want to call one?”

Call one? What the hell for? I shook my head. “No, I . . . wait, there’s no meeting?”

It wasn’t until Hiro was already halfway across the room, bearing down on me, that I realized I was scrubbing my left wrist against the hem of my hoodie. Quick as a striking snake, his fingers closed around my wrist, and he dragged it away from my body.

I almost dropped my weight down into my knees, bracing myself to tear my arm away. But he looked down at the marks, pushing my sleeve up. “These are old. Weeks old.” He darted a single, malicious glance at Anna. “Let me guess. Reynard.”

“What?” Bruce crowded him aside. Inhaled sharply. “Why didn’t you tell us you were marked?”

“He . . . uh, well . . . Christophe had to. The suckers were coming to kill us. He asked if he could borrow something from me. I didn’t know it was . . . that.” Memory swallowed me whole, and I shuddered.

. . . Christophe jerked his head back, fangs sliding free of my flesh, and something wrapped itself tightly around my wrist, below his bruising-hard grip on my forearm. He exhaled, shuddering, and Graves tried to pull me away again. My arm stretched like Silly Putty between them, my shoulder screaming, and I couldn’t make a sound.

The winter blue of Christophe’s irises clouded, dark striations like food coloring dropped in water threading through the light. They still glowed even more intensely, in a way that shouldn’t have made sense. “Sweet,” he hissed, and made an odd hitching movement. His chin dipped, and his fingers tightened bruising-hard on my wrist, like he was going to do that again.

I wanted to scream, couldn’t. Nothing worked. My body just hung there, frozen and unresponsive.

“Christophe.” Shanks sounded nervous. “Um, Christophe?”

The world trembled on a knife edge. Blackness crowded in around the corners. My head tipped further back. Graves held me up, both arms around me now. It was work to breathe. In, out; in, out, my ribs almost refused to rise. There was air outside my face, but it was just so hard to bring it in. Instead, the sea of atmosphere pushed down on me, crushing.

“Jesus,” Graves whispered. “What did you do to her?”

“How much did he take?” Hiro asked quietly.

Over his shoulder, Anna’s face floated. She was white. Not pale, like she usually was. White. As if she’d just seen a ghost. Red pin-pricks flickered in the depths of her pupils, and there was a sudden overwhelming certainty that if Hiro wasn’t between us she would want to talk to me. Right up close.

Right up hard.

“She’s with him,” Anna hissed. “A traitor, right under our nose. Just like Eliza—”

Hiro let go of me and turned sharply. He actually bumped me, he turned so fast, and I stumbled back, almost falling on the couch. Bruce’s hand closed around my upper arm, bruising-tight, and his other hand shot out, wrapping in the back of Hiro’s high-collared gray silk jacket-shirt. The material gave a weird slippery sound, like it was straining.

“You accuse so easily, Anna.” Hiro was cold, cutting-calm. Roaring filled my ears. I felt light-headed. “And yet—”

Kir was suddenly there, between the svetocha and Hiro. His fangs were out, red hair thickly streaked with pure gold as the aspect touched him. A deep thrumming sound tightened all the available air, turned it to soup. Bruce’s stance hardened, and he gave me an unreadable glance.

“Let’s all be reasonable here,” he said quietly. His tone sliced through the growling, and I realized the weird skritching sound was the silk threads in Hiro’s jacket stretching and tearing a little at a time. “Dru.”

Wait. She was about to say Elizabeth. Did she know Mom? My legs had turned to wet noodles. I stood up, though, sweating and shaking. “Yessir?” As if he was Dad, and we were in a bar with a bunch of Real World baddies and someone had just made the mistake of messing with him.

“How much did Reynard take? It hurt, didn’t it? How many times?”

“I . . .” I hated thinking about it. The shaking got worse. “Three. Mouthfuls. Gulps, whatever.”

Anna let out a hissing sound, like a kettle near full steam. Her face contorted and smoothed, and Hiro leaned forward a little more. Sooner or later that jacket was going to rip, and God alone knew what was going to happen.

“That’s all right then.” Bruce’s grasp on me gentled. “You certainly have led an eventful life, Milady.”

“How do we know she’s—” Anna began.

“You don’t want to finish that sentence.” Hiro cut across her words. Some essential tension leaked out of him, though, and Bruce obviously felt it too. Because he let go of Hiro’s jacket and braced me. I was going to have a bruise on my arm, though. I could just tell.

“We don’t doubt a svetocha’s word.” Bruce was looking up over my head when he said it, but his jaw was set. A muscle flicked once in his cheek, and his hawklike face had settled into a cruel, beautiful picture, each plane and line pared down. His aspect wasn’t on, but I sensed it running under the surface, like a current under still black bayou water.

“That’s right.” Hiro straightened his sleeves. I don’t know how he did it, but he seemed a few inches taller. “We don’t doubt a svetocha’s word.”

Anna looked like she’d been slapped. Rosettes of feverish color bloomed high up on her perfect cheeks. Her fangs peeped out, and I swear to God I heard a cat’s hiss, too. The prettiness she wore like a shield slipped, and for half a second something ugly showed underneath it.

Then she was gone, moving too quickly to be seen. There was a sound like paper tearing and nasty chittering laughter in its wake as she did the trick I’d first seen after Christophe drove Ash off in the snow, what seemed like a million years ago and miles away.