The wingbeats of my pulse paused. The pins and needles stabbing static fuzzed through the scene, but I focused, just like holding the pendulum over Gran’s kitchen table and searching for the little internal tickle that would make it answer questions.

I couldn’t get enough of seeing her again. She was breathing easily, and she pushed away a stray curl with the back of her hand, the malaika held as easily as a butter knife. She was so graceful. I saw, as if I had a pair of binoculars, that her fingernails were bitten down, too.

Just like mine.

She looked so young. In the picture Dad carried in his wallet, the shadows in her eyes were darker, and she seemed older. Right now she looked, well, like a teenager.

Every little girl thinks her mother is the most beautiful woman in the world. But my mother was. She really was.

Her mock-glare turned into a set expression, mouth firm and eyebrows drawn together a little. “I feel like an idiot, stuck up on here. Why can’t we practice inside?”

Christophe’s face was unreadable, but he was tense. The tightness in his shoulders, the way his feet were placed just so, told me all about it. “The sunshine does you good. First form, again. Concentrate, Elizabeth.”

She rolled her eyes and turned away.“Wish you’d just call me Liz.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

He sounded just the same—half-mocking, light and sarcastic. But something in his tone made me look at him, and just for an instant his face was naked. The aspect was on him, fangs touching his lip and his hair dark and slicked-down.

Christophe stared at my mother like he wanted to eat her.

But my mother had looked up at the destroyed roof of the chapel. Her tone had turned soft and distant, like she didn’t even remember he was there with her. “I mean it. I want to go home.”

“You are home.” He dismissed it with three words, and why was he looking at her like that? It was almost indecent.

“She hates me.” A quick, sideways grimace. “You don’t get it, Chris.”

He straightened. Stepped to the very edge of the wall’s shadow. Anger crackled around him. But his face didn’t change, and his tone was just the same. “Her hatred means less than nothing.”

“You train me out here so she won’t see it. Because you’re her steady.”

“I’m not her steady. It’s useful for her to think so, though. First form, Elizabeth.”

If he wanted her full attention, he’d gotten it. She actually frowned at him, and I remembered how she used to look when something wasn’t going right. When she smiled, the world lit up, but when she looked serious, almost grim, her beauty was more severe. She shifted her weight uneasily. “How can you be so cold?”

Christophe folded his arms. “First form, Elizabeth.”

“The girl’s crazy about you, youngblood.”

For once, Christophe actually looked puzzled. “Youngblood?”

“God, you’re such a goon. She thinks you’re a fox.” My mother laughed, and the sunlight got brighter. “But you are, right? Reynard.”

A long pause, while he watched her. She swung the malaika, but halfheartedly.

Finally, he stepped back into the shade. “This is serious business. You have a gift for these, and—”

“Forget it.” She dropped both of them with a wooden clatter and hopped down off the square block of stone in one coordinated movement. “Every day it’s the same thing. Why don’t you just go back and play with Anna instead? I’m sick of all these games.”

“It’s not a game. It’s deadly serious, and the sooner you—”

“Bye.” She waved her fingers over her shoulder as she stalked away toward me. My heart swelled to the size of a basketball inside my ribs, and a burst of that static went through the entire scene.

NO! I wanted to yell, but couldn’t make my lips work. The buzzing roared through me. I forced it away. I want to see!

Static flew like snow. It cleared enough for me to see Christophe, his hand around my mother’s wrist as she pulled away from him. She twisted for the thumb to break his grip; he caught her shoulder with his other hand. She tore away again, her hair flying and a pair of dainty fangs visible as her mouth opened, yelling something.

She slapped him. The sound was a rifle crack, buzzing and blurring at the edges. They faced each other, my mother’s chest heaving and her eyes full of tears as if he’d hit her.

Christophe smiled. It was a wide bright sunny grin, as if he’d just been kissed. A handprint showed on his pale cheek, vividly flushed. “Do that again,” he said quietly. “Go ahead, Beth. I’ll let you.”

Her lips moved, but I didn’t hear what she said. Because the static was worse, pouring down like a river of white feathers, and the buzzing had become a roar rattling through me, the pins and needles now knives and swords. The line holding me taut at the scene snapped, and I—

—fell with a thump as Ash howled and scrabbled at the door. He was making a noise like stones grinding together, the growl rising and falling as his narrow ribs flickered. He backed up, claws clicking, and flung himself at the door again.

I sat up, clipped a bruise on my shoulder on the shelf-bed. Rubbed at it. “Augh. Ow.” Blinked furiously.

Ash whirled. The growl spiraled up, and I froze.

He stared at me, his eyes orange lamps. Then he paced back two steps deliberately, crowding the corner behind the door. He lifted one paw.

My mouth was dry, my eyes sandy, and I suddenly wanted to pee like nobody’s business. I hadn’t thought of that when I’d had this bright idea, and peeing in the metal toilet in the corner just was so not going to happen.

Plus I hate sleeping in my clothes. It always pinches everywhere when you wake up.

Ash’s arm jabbed forward, and he pointed his claws at me. Then, very slowly, he pointed at the door. Still growling, his lip lifting and the gleam of ivory teeth under his nose.

I half-choked, grabbed the shelf-bed, and levered myself to my feet. I’d stiffened up but good. My internal clock was whacked up, but I thought it was before dawn.

Ash pointed at me, at the door. Under the growl, an inquisitive, pleading sound went up at the end. It was beyond me how he could make two sounds at once.

“Shut up!” I said sharply.

He did.

We stared at each other. He hunched down, his head cocked, and I tasted rotten, waxen oranges. They poured over my tongue, tickled the back of my throat, and I knew something bad was happening.

Ash whined softly in the back of his throat. Hunched down even more, the way a dog will when he needs to go out at night but thinks you’ll yell at him if he asks too loud. I considered spitting to clear my mouth, but I knew it wouldn’t get that taste away.

“Okay,” I whispered. “Okay.” I dug for the key with clumsy fingers. Froze again when he moved.

The Broken werwulf went utterly silent and crouched, facing the door.

Footsteps I shouldn’t have been able to hear, up above in the silent mass of the Schola Prima. The touch quivered inside my head, each footfall distinct against the fabric of the night.

They were wrong—landing too heavily, or too lightly. I knew, in that soundless way the touch lays information inside my brain, that they were vampires.