Disclaimer: As always, nothing in this story belongs to me. If it did, there would be more than five books in the series, that's for sure. ;)
A/N: It looks like there are still a few of you reading this, which is fantastic! Thanks for all the kind comments, individual responses are up at the end of the chapter.
Chapter Sixteen
Not long later, I dragged myself back into the cafeteria. "Dru," Dibs said when he'd spotted me, reaching out as if to take my arm, but then apparently thinking better of it. "You shouldn't be here."
"How many died?" I asked shortly, ignoring his comment. My clothes were stiff with dried sweat and God-only-knew-what-else, and I could feel the stringiness of my hair as it plastered to my neck and shoulders. My arm—although sore—had finally managed to heal itself, and I was able to move it again, albeit somewhat stiffly.
Dibs frowned, pale blue eyes clouded with worry. "Dru, you're just torturing yourself. Why don't you head up and see how Graves is doing?"
Part of me hated him for that comment—the way he could offer advice so calmly. I was torn between my frantic need to watch as the doctors examined Graves, and my equally desperate urge to burn the image of every injured soldier into my memory. You did this, I reminded myself, staring out across the room. You started this war.
As if reading my mind, Dibs's sharp gaze softened slightly. "This isn't your fault, Dru."
"Yeah." I sucked in a deep breath, wondering if the sting of Augie's death would still be there in the morning. Something told me it would.
I climbed up the stairs slowly, agonizingly, as if one wrong move would tear apart my fragile self-control. I froze mid-step when Christophe appeared at the top of the staircase, his eyes meeting mine.
"Dru, skowroneczko moja, we should talk."
I leaned against the railing heavily, feeling a heady wave of fatigue wash over me. "Not now, Christophe."
He descended the stairs, keeping a careful watch on my face. "You're upset."
"Of course I'm upset. August is dead."
A pained look crossed his face, and I belatedly remembered that Augie had been the one who brought in Christophe all those years ago. Well, so much for breaking the news tactfully. "He died heroically, kochana. It was the way he would have wanted it."
I sank to the stairs, wrapping my arms around my knees and staring at the steps below me. "He shouldn't have died at all. Sergej knew we were coming."
"What makes you say that?"
"He released Graves as soon as we got there, didn't he?" I could feel my body shaking, and I tightened my hold on my knees. "Goddammit, Christophe! I told you I didn't want anybody else in on this, and you ignored me. You jeopardized the entire mission."
He sat down on the step next to me, spreading both long-fingered hands across his knees. "I did what I had to do to keep you safe," he said, after a moment of consideration. "I don't pretend it was the ideal decision. I warned you war is ugly, moj maly ptaszku."
I laughed bitterly, the sound harsh in the empty stairwell. "So that makes it okay?"
"No. But August understood the risks, as did all of the soldiers in the forest today."
"Did they?" I turned to him. His face was partially shadowed as he leaned forward, throwing into sharp contrast the angles of his face. Once again, I couldn't help but notice the unearthly beauty of him—the cold elegance of his expression. Looking at him, no one could mistake Christophe for human, not at that moment.
A chill ran through me when I realized this was my future, what I was already in the process of becoming. Hadn't I felt it already, only the day before as I'd held Anna down? I could feel my anger at Christophe draining away, replaced only by a cold, numb feeling.
"I have the suspicion," Christophe said quietly, "you aren't telling me everything."
"No," I agreed, slumping forward and pressing my forehead into my hands. "But isn't that how we work, Christophe?"
There was a troubled silence, and when he spoke, Christophe's voice was cautious. "I may not always tell you everything—but Dru, I've never lied to you."
"That's not the same thing as being honest with me, though, is it?" I lifted my head, squinting at him in the bright light, and I knew from his sick expression that I'd hit a nerve.
"I've always been honest about my feelings for you." He scooted closer to me, close enough that I could see the glints of gold in his hair and feel the warmth of his breath on my face. "Isn't that enough?"
This time, I was the first to look away, hauling myself up with the handrail. Coward. "I don't know, Christophe," I replied, as honestly as I could. "I don't know a hell of a lot, these days."
He sighed, closing his eyes and rubbing his temples. I couldn't help but think of my dad, then, and the way he would avoid looking at me when he was too tired to argue anymore. Sort of the way Christophe was looking now. "Go to your wulf, malutka. I'll find you in the morning."
When I finally returned to the dorms, I found a group of three djamphir murmuring amongst themselves in the front room. As I entered, all three heads shot up.
"Milady," one murmured as he stepped forward, inclining his dark head. He had short curly hair and wore wire-rimmed glasses—presumably a fashion choice, since djamphir vision is flawless. He also wore a soft-looking red sweater, pushed up at the elbows, and his golden skin glimmered in the firelight. "My name is Callum. We've been overseeing the loup-garou since your return to the Schola. Are you sure you wouldn't prefer having him housed in the infirmary downstairs? We can easily arrange that."
"No. He stays here." My voice was flat, leaving no room for argument, and his mouth clamped shut immediately. "How is he?"
A second djamphir glided forward, this one tall and slim with skin the color of mocha. His eyes were liquid dark, like chocolate, and he spoke in a low, musical voice. "Milady, though the physical damage has been extensive, we have reason to suspect the majority of his wounds are psychological."
"Meaning what?" I snapped, crossing my arms and fighting the urge to grab the locket at my throat.
The dark-haired djamphir cleared his throat, looking nervous. "His injuries indicate he was likely held in a tatra, a stone cube limiting one's movement. The damage on both his hands is consistent with that of a victim attempting to claw their way out."
Oh, God. I felt a wave of nausea crash over me, and reached out to grab the back of a nearby sofa to steady myself. "Keep going."
"The scarring around his neck indicates that he was chained using an inside-out collar. This technique is used—"
"Yes, yes, I know what it's used for!" My fingernails dug into the fabric, and I could feel myself trembling. Oh, Graves, what did I get you into? "What about talking? Why isn't he talking?"
Callum answered then. "Loup-garou do not fully change, milady. At most, their bodies grow in size and their jaws extend to accommodate larger teeth. We suspect it's a combination of his inability to shift his jaw back to normal and the mental damage inflicted during his confinement."
The room seemed to swim before my eyes, but I shook myself, hard. "What can we do?"
"Right now, we can do very little." Callum glanced at me apologetically. "We were forced to sedate him. I'm afraid his ability to separate reality and fantasy has been permanently compromised. "
"No." I licked my lips, shaking my head adamantly. "No, that's not possible. He recognized me in the woods, I know he did. He said my name."
The doctors exchanged a Meaningful Look, but otherwise remained silent. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that they didn't believe me. I gave in, reaching up and curling my fingers around my mother's locket. "I—thanks for your help, but I think you should go now."
I unlocked the door to my room with fumbling hands, not bothering to look up as they left. They're wrong, I thought desperately as I shoved the door open with my shoulder. He's still in there.
They'd left a single light on, a small lamp resting on my desk in the shape of an intricately designed oak tree. It cast peculiar shadows around the room, making the indistinct form on the bed appear even more distorted. I collapsed on my knees beside the bed, smoothing back the tangled hair from Graves's face as I studied him.
Now that I was closer, I could see the ragged scar tissue lining his throat like a necklace. Or a collar, a voice finished in my head, making me clench my jaw. Nearly forgetting to breathe, I reached out with one hand to trace the marks with my fingertips. What I did to Anna wasn't enough, I thought viciously, pulling my hand back and staggering to my feet.
The regret I'd felt only moments ago had been washed away with rage, clean and intense. This, then, was the svetocha inside of me, the same monster I'd felt as I held the knife to Anna's face. Was this what my mother had run away from—not Anna or the Order, but herself?
My jaw ached, the recognizable warm-oil sensation of the aspect flowing through me as I imagined the crunch of a skull beneath my boot—Anna's skull. It didn't horrify me nearly as much as it should have.
Grabbing the hand towel from its rack in the bathroom, I soaked it in lukewarm water and started wiping the blood off Graves's face as best I could. As far as I could tell, he was still dressed in the same t-shirt and jeans he'd been wearing weeks ago, though they were so thoroughly caked in dirt and blood it was difficult to be sure.
"Jesus," I muttered, kicking off my shoes and crawling onto the bed. Luckily, it was a fairly big bed, so I wasn't in immediate risk of rolling off, at least.
On Christophe's list of Top Ten Things That Will Get Dru Killed, I figured sleeping next to a werewulf who's just been tortured was pretty high up there. But it's Graves, a small voice in my head insisted. Graves would never hurt me.
Besides, I reasoned, feeling my eyelids grow heavy, he's sedated, right?
That was the last thought I had before succumbing to the deep, peaceful darkness of sleep.
# # #
After what felt like only a few short, blissful moments of slumber—but in reality was probably closer to several hours later—my eyes snapped open as I rolled off the bed, body tensed. I landed in an L-shaped fighting stance, grabbing the switchblade from my end table in one fluid movement. It took my sleep-muddled brain a moment to catch up with the rest of my body, though.
Graves was growling, thrashing around on the bed and tearing through the comforter like tissue paper. I winced—I'd actually sort of liked that one—but backed up until I could feel the wood paneling of the wall digging into my lower back.
"Graves?" I asked carefully, knuckles whitening as I gripped the switchblade. "Graves, it's me, it's Dru. You're having a nightmare. Graves!"
The bed, which has actually pretty sturdy looking, had begun to shake. Could he knock the thing down on top of himself? I wondered. Just as this thought occurred to me, a desperate pounding began on the door.
"Dru!" Christophe shouted from the other side. "Dru, open the blasted door!"
I mentally cursed, fighting the urge to bang my head against the wall. Apparently, Christophe had opted not to stay in his own room, and instead had been sleeping on one of the couches in the front room. Just my luck.
"I'm fine!" I shouted over the snarls emanating from the bed, though I made no move to open the door. "Goddammit, Graves, wake up! You're having a dream!"
He abruptly froze, chest heaving. He stared in my direction, wild-eyed, but not like he really saw me. Whatever he was looking at, Goth Boy was the only one who could see it. I licked my lips, feeling my muscles gradually loosen. "Graves? You okay?"
Christophe's thumping on the door continued as I shuffled closer to the bed, kneeling on the floor. "Hey," I said softly, not quite daring to touch him yet. "It's okay. Everything's going to be okay."
It was, to my knowledge, the first time I had ever knowingly lied to him, and it tasted like ashes on my tongue. He didn't turn to look at me, though, just stared straight ahead with the same blank, dead stare. I closed my eyes, rubbing my forehead with the heel of one palm. "It's okay, Christophe," I called out over my shoulder. "Everything's fine."
I wish, I finished grimly to myself.
TBC
A/N: Thanks for reading, everyone! If you have the time to drop me a review, they're muchly appreciated. I expect to have the next chapter up over the weekend, so keep an eye out Saturday evening/Sunday morning-ish.
Shadow-wolf78: Thanks! Graves is a pretty fun character, though he's not quite back to normal yet, is he? :(
Lena-Nicole-10: I know! I do actually enjoy August's character in the books. *sniffles*
razzle-dazzle1606: Glad I made your day! And I know, poor Augie. Poor Dru, for that matter. Girl has a tendency to lose her parental figures. :(
Misguidedfriends beautifulmess: The wulfen are pretty awesome, aren't they? They always seemed to have more of a sense of humor (at least to me) than a lot of the djamphir in the books.
K: Thank you! Imitating another writer's voice is surprisingly tricky, so I'm glad to hear that it's working.
Dust Mikkie Tedmik: Thanks for reading! I know, people really seem to be dropping left and right, don't they?