Reckoning (3 page)

“Hey.” Graves reached over. His fingers were warm. He pried my right hand off the wheel, one finger at a time, and didn’t seem to notice or care that my fingernails were lengthening. Sharp and deadly, a hell of a new manicure, the changed structures in my wrist aching as the claws slid free. “Hey. Dru. Dru-girl, come on. Breathe.”

“I think my grandmother knew what I was.” I managed to get the words out through the obstruction in my throat, but only barely. “But I never did. I had no clue.”

“Was it bad for you?” He slid his fingers between mine. Holding my hand, as if he’d never looked at me like I was some slimy thing from under a rock. As if he hadn’t spent the last three days getting on pretty much every nerve I had left, and me returning the favor. “Here, I mean?”

Tears pricked hot at my eyes. “Not here. Everywhere else, but not here. She, um, she died. I was twelve. I drove her to the hospital in the valley, and . . .” The words wouldn’t come. How can you tell someone what it’s like to have the whole world whacked away from underneath you?

You can’t. It just doesn’t happen. Sometimes people understand because they’ve been there.

And then I felt like an idiot, because Graves . . . well. He’d been living in the
mall
, for Chrissake. You don’t do that when your family life is highly satisfying and safe.

And even that had been taken away from him the instant Ash’s teeth had closed in his flesh. It was my fault in the first place, too.

Because Ash had been after me.

Graves leaned over, transferring my fingers to his right hand and awkwardly sliding his left arm around me. I was still in my seat belt, and he somehow wasn’t. He tightened up, and I leaned over into him. Took a deep breath, smelling cheap hotel soap and the last thing we’d stopped for—fried chicken in a supermarket deli, where I’d pushed the cart through the aisles and got everything we could afford that I thought we would need for the night. The bags in the back were still rustling a little as the breeze fingered its way through the car, a secretive sound.

Underneath the food, he smelled like wulfen and strawberry incense, male with moonlight mixed in. The tears were pushing out past every wall I had, hot and slicking my cheeks. My nose filled up, and I snuffled like a five-year-old.

“It’s okay,” he whispered. “It’s okay. I promise. Everything’s gonna be all right.”

I knew he was lying. Everything was not all right, and things were getting more fucked-up all the time.

But at least he said it. I was grateful for that, and it helped.

Besides, they were both depending on me. Ash could probably get away if the vampires found us, but Graves? Not likely. Not in the shape he was in.

I was the responsible one, and just because I’d been utterly sucking so far at
everything
didn’t mean the pressure was off.

It just meant I had to do better. We were safe for the moment, so I had to get my head together and start doing right.

Still, I stayed there for a couple minutes while the Subaru idled and the headlights glared at Gran’s house, my face turned awkwardly so I could bury my nose in Graves’s neck. I was all torqued around like a pretzel, but I didn’t care. He smelled safe and he held me, and
he kept repeating it.

“It’s okay, Dru. It’s gonna be okay. I promise. I’m sorry, everything’s gonna be fine. You’ll see.”

He said it like he was thinking
he
was the responsible one. And it felt so good I just let him do it. For a little while.

The key was
still under the north side of that granite boulder, the one Gran poured milk over every new moon. The walls were still solid, thank God. The place smelled mildewy, and Gran would’ve got on me to clean every damn corner before turning in.

First things first, though. I hiked out to the corner of the meadow with a flashlight and found the connection box; when I flipped the switch, the tiny light came on, a sweet green flash. I could’ve sobbed with relief. Gran didn’t believe in “payin’ for the fool ’lectricity,” and this tapline had been here for decades. It was a pure miracle it was still working. If it hadn’t been, well, I’d brought a can or two of gas for the genny, but that wouldn’t take us far.

I hiked back to the house and found Graves and Ash taking the dustcovers off of stuff. They were shaking them off the front porch, too, which meant Graves was thinking. “Nice place,” he said over his shoulder as he passed me with an armful of canvas sheeting, his torn coat flapping around his knees. His eyes gleamed green in the
dimness; the Coleman lamp I’d set on the kitchen table was feeble to say the least. “Good vibes.”

“Bang!” Ash nodded enthusiastically, bounding after him, pale bare feet slapping the polished floorboards. I found the moldering wooden-and-cardboard box of lightbulbs on its familiar shelf, right where Dad’d left it. Screwed the first one into the hanging cord over the kitchen table, and
voila!
The pleased exclamations from the boys made me feel like Edison himself.

The next step was priming the pump in the kitchen with a bottle of distilled water. When I worked the handle it made a gawdawful screeching, but I’d thought to bring some WD-40 and that made it just groan and shower rust flakes. After a few more pumps, though, things eased out. I worked it until a gush of rust-colored water came out, kept on until it turned clear and cold. Mineral-smelling well water, and plenty of it.

“Thank you, sonny Jesus,” I muttered. It was just what Gran would’ve said. “God willing and the well ain’t dry.”

Next thing—a fire in the potbellied iron stove. I worked the damper, hoped the chimney wasn’t blocked—fortunately there was a bit of a breeze, and I could feel the air moving past my fingertips. The stove was cleaned out, a neat fire laid among spiderwebs, so I just had to grab the matches and light her up. The draw was fine, and in a little bit I had a merry crackling blaze. Night would get cold around here even in spring, and all we had were sleeping bags. I wasn’t sure if moths would’ve gotten into Gran’s quilts too.

I’d solve that problem when I hit it, but even moth-eaten quilts would be better than none.

The boys had finished carrying everything in from the Subaru by then, and Ash let out a little cry of joy and wandered up to the stove, stretching his hands out like the fire was his personal friend.

The plates and skillets were dusty, but I just rinsed them off. Gran would’ve had my hide, but by this time I was yawning and working through mental mud. I locked the front door, told the boys to arrange the sleeping bags upstairs, and put together something easy—bacon, pancakes from mix, eggs. I could’ve made this in my sleep, and I pretty much did. When the boys tromped downstairs I was already coaxing the balky old electric stovetop and thanking God that I didn’t have to cook on the potbelly. I can do it, sure, but it’s no fun.

“More food?” Graves stretched, yawning hugely. Ash galumphed over to the stove and crouched, staring in through the grate at the fire’s orange and yellow crackle. His eyes ran with orange sparks, and his expression was such serene contentment it was hard to believe he was the same creature who’d been almost-eight feet of unstoppable Broken werwulf.

Now there was a thought I didn’t want. Could he change into his wulf form now? And once he did, could he come back?

Don’t borrow trouble, Dru
.

“I’m not complaining,” Graves added hurriedly. “Can I help?”

“You can check the icebox.” I pointed with one of Gran’s old wooden turners. “If it’s working, load the stuff from the cooler in there and put the cooler on the porch. And don’t bitch if you don’t like scrambled eggs; that’s all I’m making.”

“Won’t bitch. Scout’s honor.” He gave me a fey grin, green eyes lighting up. “Well, I was never a scout. Couldn’t afford it. But still.”

Well, ain’t we cozy
. I was beginning to get whiplash, he was going back and forth so fast between hating me and actually seeming to think I was okay. “I kind of wanted to be one too, but they don’t take girls.”

“What about Girl Scouts?” He opened up the ancient, tiny fridge and stuck his hand in. “Looks like it’s working. This is really cool.”

“Girl Scouts have great cookies. But too many girls. I don’t get along with girls.”
Except Nat, and she probably hates me now
. I poured pancake batter, heard a satisfying sizzle, and poked at the bacon. Considered cracking some eggs, decided to leave them for last. “I guess I never will.”

“There’s time. I don’t get along with chicks either. Well, except you. You’re, like, the only girl I’ve ever met who isn’t . . .”

Maddeningly, he stopped. I was too tired to even wonder what I wasn’t. There was a long list of things I wasn’t, starting with
cute
and probably finishing up somewhere near
lovable
.

I brushed my hair back, wishing my ponytail would hold. Tomorrow I’d find some string and braid it up.

Braiding made me think of Nathalie at the Schola Prima again. I’d gotten along with her just fine, until I’d been a total bitch. Granted, I’d been getting ready to go rescue Graves . . . but still.

The longing to see Nat, her sleek head tilted to the side and her wide cat-tilted blue eyes considering an outfit or the mess my hair had become, shook me right down to my bones. I sniffed, wiped at my nose with the back of my hand, and turned the pancakes. Graves busied himself loading up the fridge. Ash rocked back and forth in front of the stove, humming tunelessly. Graves carried the cooler out on the front porch, and when he didn’t come back, I figured he was lighting another cigarette.

The way things were going, I might almost take up smoking myself. Dad would’ve killed me for even thinking about it.

But he was dead. He’d never take me up about anything ever again. My throat was sore, something stuck in it, but I just cleared it a few times and concentrated on cooking.

The ancient Folgers can for coffee grounds, eggshells, and vegetable scraps to go in the compost heap was rusted but still sound.
I tossed the eggshells in and had a plate together in a trice. “Ash! Come on. Take this to the table. Graves, get him a plastic fork, and one for you too.” I felt like Gran, hollering from the kitchen.

“You gonna eat?” Graves ambled back in, his chin set stubbornly and his eyes dark. Almost black.

I looked back down at the skillets, the pop and fizzle of bacon filling my head for a moment.

“Yeah,” I lied. “But there’s work to be done first. Come on, you two. Tuck in.”

The wide loft held Gran’s big four-poster and my smaller corn crib, and the mattresses reeked of mildew even though we’d wrapped them in plastic. But the quilts, packed in mothballs and plastic, were still good. The moths hadn’t gotten at them at all.

I meant to carry my brand-new sleeping bag downstairs after a while. I thought if I sent the boys up to get settled and gave them enough time, they’d be out cold and I’d be able to sneak my bag downstairs and stretch it in front of the door.

Plus, there were things to do to close the house up for the night. I finished by warding the walls again, watching the faint blue lines running through the wood take on fresh life. They didn’t need to be redone so much as refreshed, and it was amazingly easy. I just had to remember to think
up
high enough to get the second story involved. I could almost hear Gran muttering to herself while she followed me around the open room that was the entire first floor, checking my work.

I was hungry, but my stomach had closed up tighter than a fist. The effort of warding made my head swim, and every bone in my body ached down deep. I sat down on the loveseat to rest, just for a
second. It was an old horsehair thing, meant for company—Gran always sat in her rocking chair and I used the old hassock, or I sat at her feet while she knitted. The bare bulb in the kitchen gave off a mellow glow, and if I shut my eyes and inhaled, I could almost smell her.

Tobacco juice, a faint astringent old-lady smell, baby powder, and the musky yeasty scent of cooking good things and working hard all day. Her spinning wheel sat under a drop cloth I’d told the boys not to touch, but I could almost hear its hissthumpwhirr and her occasional soft mutters as she spoke to God or told me things.

I loved to listen to Gran talk. She was always rambling, said it was a product of living alone. Dad was never the chatty type, but days with Gran were a constant stream of information, admonition, attention.
Do it this way, hold that end up, good girl . . . I could tell him, now what’s the price of cotton, but he wouldn’t listen . . . Yes, you look like your daddy, that’s a look like a mule, fetch me my scissors and go check the coop for eggs. My, you’re good at findin’ eggs, it’s a true talent, Dru-baby. Come now, no use wastin’ sunshine
.

She taught by example, but the talking was something else. A lifeline, maybe.

I folded over and pulled my feet up, lying on the dusty loveseat. It felt good, even if the thing was harder than the floor and slippery too. The fire glowed through the stove’s grate, and the good scent of seasoned wood burning—I’d banked it just before I warded everything—was like a warm blanket.