Strange Angels

CHAPTER 20

The truck was still parked cockeyed in the driveway, and the phone was ringing when we let ourselves in. Graves went straight to turn the heat up, and I reached the phone just as the tinny repeated shriek ceased. “Probably the school calling to tell on you,” he said, with his bitter little bark of a laugh.

There were a lot of missed calls lately, but the thought of that one sent a chill up my spine. “Jesus. I suppose you could pretend to be my dad.” I struggled out of his coat, now wet with slushy ice near the hem since he was so tall it dragged when I wore it. My shirt held a faint ghost of cigarette smoke now, too, as well as an even fainter ghost of deodorant.

“You’ve got some kinky ideas, Miss Anderson.” The heater wumped into life. I passed him in the hall and headed straight for the first weapons crate.

The gun came out of my bag, and I discovered I was sweating. What had I been thinking? It was loaded, one in the chamber, and the safety (thank God) on. Going to nice suburban schools meant I didn’t have to worry about metal detectors, but it was still stupid to pack heat to Foley High.

Dad called it “the rabbits”—when a hunter got stupid, blunted by fear or the walloping unreality of the Real World. I suppose a better term would be shell shock, or even monster shock.

I was about to strip the gun and set it back in the box when my head jerked up. A half-second later, the doorbell rang. I jerked around, my nostrils filling with the smell of coppery rust. It mixed uneasily with the sudden wax-citrus tang in my saliva.

Ohshit. And something occurred to me—it was broad daylight, sun splashing off the snow.

Suckers don’t go out during the day. So it was something else.

But what?

There was a fast, light flurry of taps on the door. And the shimmer of something weird behind it, clearly visible. The blue lines of warding weren’t visible, but I could feel them, thread-thin, running together and humming. Gathering themselves like blue lightning.

If whatever-it-was took two steps to the side, it could peer in the huge, uncovered window and see me crouching near a weapons crate, my frozen hands locked around a nine-millimeter and my legs suddenly cramping.

OhGod. Not right now.

But you don’t get to choose what comes after you, and when. If you did, life would be a lot simpler, wouldn’t it?

Graves appeared in the doorway to the living room. His eyes were wide, white-ringed, and he looked almost as scared as I felt. His cheeks were cottage-cheese pale under their even goldenness. For an ethnic boy, he certainly got pretty white.

“What do we do?” he mouthed, and I didn’t even try to pretend there wasn’t serious bad news standing on the porch.

I snapped a glance at the front window and the wasteland of snow that was the front yard. Jesus. I’ve got him to protect, too. He’s not trained for this.

I motioned him back with one hand, eased myself down to the floor, and began to crawl-slink along the carpet, gun in one hand. I checked and rechecked to make sure the safety was on, and was careful to point it away from my fool head.

More light taps. The sense of breathing, amused impatience welling up behind the door sent chills down my spine. Crawling over the discoloration on the carpet gave the chills more weight. There was a faint, rotting tang of zombie, not enough to make me gag but enough to make me wish I didn’t have to slither over it.

I made it to some halfass cover—a row of boxes to one side of the television. The angle was bad, but I could at least see a slice of the porch and, hopefully, whatever was at the door.

Dust got in my nose as I shimmied behind the boxes. The urge to sneeze filled my nose, trickled down my throat, and damn near made my eyes water. Do this right, Dru. You’ll only get one shot. I got my legs up under me as another flurry of taps hit the door.

I rose, carefully, slowly. Peered over the top of a box holding spare clothes and blankets.

The angle was indeed bad. But through the glass, I could see a moving shadow as whatever was out there shifted weight, probably from one foot to the other.

Assuming it had only two feet.

But weird stuff usually only came out at night. This was wrong, all wrong. I pointed the gun carefully, braced myself. The top of my head felt very, very exposed, poking above the boxes.

“Dru—” Graves half-whispered. There was a queer sliding noise, ending with a click.

What the hell was that? The shadow moved slightly.

“Dru—” Graves, again. Like we were in class and he was trying to pass a note or get someone to copy from.

Yeah, sure, like this kid’s ever copied. Puh-leeze. “Shut up,” I whispered, as quietly as I could. Should I take a shot through the wall? I thought the angle was better over here. Dammit.

“The door,” Graves whispered. “The locks are moving.”

Oh shit. I scrambled to my feet and launched myself over the boxes. It was an amazing leap—I don’t even remember my wet boots touching the floor on the other side. I piled into the hall past Graves, shoving him down and aside. The door, its locks rotating and clicking into the open position, the knob turning slowly and paradoxically too fast for me to stop it; I barely got the safety off, raised the gun as the door blew open, a wave of intense cold streaking down the hall.

The lightning-crackle of the warding didn’t even slow him down.

The blue-eyed boy’s fingers closed around my wrist, and he casually twisted the gun free. It clattered on the floor, thankfully not going off.

There’s one thing to be said for your dad leaving you a fifty and a reminder to do your katas. When a bad guy busts into your house and grabs you, you can punch him in the face hard enough to make him stagger back, blood pouring from his patrician nose.

Red blood. Not black, and not sheened with the opalescent slug-trail of sucker blood. Memory clicked inside my head—the drips on the snow that night had been red blood too.

Suckers bleed black; there is no hemoglobin left in them. It was why they needed fresh transfusions all the time. I hadn’t thought of it before, too tired and scared to think anything like straight.

Too late now.

What the hell?

He stumbled back, his hair no longer dark-wet and sleek but light brown and shaggy, and I took a step, foot coming down solid and other leg bending, knee jackhammering up, and I got him a good one in the nuts—or would have if his arm hadn’t swept down and smashed right above my knee, harder than anything human had a right to hit, deflecting my knee just a little bit. A burst of apple-pie scent came out of somewhere and hit me in the face.

Graves finally let out a yell. The blue eyes flickered past me, but I was already moving. Dad always said that the nut shot was great if it went through, but a girl always had to have a backup—because a guy won’t expect you to go for the nuts and for something else.

I guess since the groin is the center of a guy’s world, he rarely guesses it isn’t the center of yours.

My fist, already folded up, headed for his throat like an express train. Next came the open palm, the heel of the hand striking just under the nose and driving up so the nasal promontory broke and slid into the brain. If I could just move fast enough.

Work it, Dru! Harder! Harder! Dad’s voice, yelling—but there was no time for that, because there was a shattering roar behind me and something bulleted past, something long and lean, moving faster than it had any right to, hard to look at because it was blurring like clay under fast-running water. It hit the blue-eyed boy and threw him back at least six feet, and they were still going when the boy’s head clipped the lintel and they tumbled out the door, onto the porch, and out of sight.

What the—? But I was already moving, forgetting the gun and tearing for the front door. The noise was immense, a growling roar mixed in with high-pitched but unmistakably male laughter, along with thumping that shook the whole house.

That was Graves. Hairy and moving like a bullet on speed.

He wasn’t supposed to change! It seemed to take forever to reach the door, and by that time they had shattered the porch railing and dumped off into the front yard. There was a sickening crack! and an amazing fountain of snow jetted up.

“Stop it!” I screamed, but they weren’t paying any attention. There was so much snow it was hard to see what was happening, but it looked like the blue-eyed boy had Graves—or what had been Graves—by the scruff and was flinging him around.

I took three steps, launched myself off the porch, and flew just like Supergirl, fists outstretched. I tackled the blue-eyed boy hard, all the breath driven out of me and my shoulder giving a huge burst of pain, and knocked him ass-over-teakettle. We went down in a tangle of arms and legs, and I gave the kid a good sock in the stomach before I realized what he was yelling.

“I’m here to help you, fucking morons!”

I rolled free, snow stinging my hands and face, and leaped to my feet just as Graves launched himself again. Time slowed down; my hand shot out and grabbed a fistful of his wild, curly hair—wilder and curlier now. He wasn’t furry all over, but he was changed, something inhuman shining out through his burning-green eyes and the air hardening and shimmering around him like heat off a black sidewalk.

I gave a huge yank, only mildly concerned at the fact that I shouldn’t have been able to move fast enough to catch him. The world had gotten very, well, basic, and the fact that this new kid was bleeding red had just truly made its way through a haze of adrenaline.

Better not rabbit anymore, Dru. Come on. Control the situation.

My abused shoulder gave a howl, but I held on grimly; Graves’s legs flipped out from under him, and he let out a sound like that dog in the cartoons reaching the end of his chain and getting roinked but good. I let out a hurt little cry, my fingers cramping, and Graves hit the ground, his hair—vital, curly, springing with harsh life—slipping free of my hand.

“Where the hell did you get that?” the blue-eyed boy snarled. His face was a mask of blood, the right half already puffing up and discolored from my first punch. He was, again, not dressed for the weather—a black V-neck sweater about as thick as a piece of paper, jeans, and black sneakers caked with snow. I caught another breath of a good, spicy apple smell, and wondered if one of the neighbors was baking.

Sunlight gilded his hair, bringing out blond highlights in the brown. It looked like a new, expensive shaggy cut, and when Graves snarled at him he snarled back, lips peeling back and exposing teeth that were only bluntly human. They both made rumbling sounds—Graves like a huge-ass, very pissed-off dog, and Blue Eyes like metal rubbing against itself.

“Just hold on a minute.” I reached down. Graves had struggled up to sit on his haunches in the snow. He was still actually growling, a low deep thrumming sound that rattled my teeth. Just to be safe, I put a hand on his head—not that I’d be able to stop him if he launched himself now, but it was worth a try. “Graves? Hold on a second, please.”

“He can’t hear you,” Blue Eyes said. “The beast has him.”

“Screw you,” Graves snarled, and I was really happy to hear that.

Werwulfen don’t talk. Not in their animal form, anyway—the streak-headed one hadn’t been able to do much more than make weird noises. Their mouths aren’t made right for talking once they shift into their other form.

Talking was a good sign, and it meant not-werwulf. But that was definitely what he’d been bitten by, he hadn’t changed in twelve hours, and he’d been a virgin, right?

It should have meant he was safe. But Graves was doing all sorts of things he wasn’t supposed to. I wished again I knew more about all this, instead of just what Dad and I could piece together with the help of some moldering leather-bound books passed from hunter to hunter and kept behind the counters of real occult stores, not brought out until a hunter presents his bona fides.

Books I should have been spending some serious time with instead of moping, by the way.

“Just everyone hold on. Hang on for one red-hot second.” I dug around in my memory, pointed at Blue Eyes with my free hand. “You. Christophe, right?”

He actually gave me a correct little half-bow, spreading his arms, and I began to feel a little faint. Because even though he didn’t have fangs now and his hair was sticking up, powdered with snow, he still rested on the top crust of a drift like a feather. My eyes struggled with what my brain was seeing, gave up, attacked the problem again, and decided since he was standing in a flood of bright sunlight, he was Something Else.

But you saw the fangs, Dru!

“What the hell are you?” I wished I hadn’t ditched the gun, but told myself again that it had been a good idea—one of the few good ideas I’d had in the last couple days. What was I going to do, start shooting in broad daylight? That would have been a fine how-do-you-do. The wind shifted, and I smelled apples again. My mouth watered.

His smile stretched, became a model of lunatic good cheer. “I could ask you the same thing, little girl. Why didn’t you tell me who you really were?”

“You knew my name.” I struggled with the lunatic urge to pat Graves’s head. Just stay still for a second; let me question him.

“The name is not the thing,” Christophe said, tipping his head back a little and addressing the cold blue sky. The sky that was, in fact, the exact shade of his eyes.

Go figure.

His gaze swung back down to me, and he shrugged. “Should we move this conversation inside? That is, if you can keep a leash on your little lapdog there.”

Graves stiffened, but he didn’t move. The thrumming growl coming from him petered out, and he rose, slowly, his heels coming down and the rest of him unfolding fluidly. “What is he, Dru?” Thank God, he sounded at least reasonably calm. “He doesn’t smell right.”

“Look who’s talking.” Christophe folded his arms. He should have looked ridiculous with snow plastered all over him, but somehow he didn’t. “I told you, I am djamphir. I am of the Kouroi. I hunt the beasts that fill the night. And you, Miss Anderson, are like and unlike. Why didn’t you tell me what you were?”

“You killed my father.” But I didn’t sound so sure. I wasn’t so sure, now. “What, I was supposed to trade baseball cards with you?”

“I didn’t kill your dear Papá. I warned him away, but he was determined. He had a bone to pick with Sergej.” His face twitched, a shadow rolling over it as I watched, fascinated. “Don’t we all.”

“Sergej?” The name sent a thin glass spike of pain through my skull. My skin chilled, and I realized we were all standing out in the goddamn snow. “Who’s that?”

Christophe stared at me like I’d just asked what oxygen was. Then he bent over, wheezing, and I realized he was laughing.

You know, I thought I’d gotten used to weird, but this is something else. I’d dropped my arm. Now I grabbed Graves’s sweater and pulled him back. He came without resisting, his head dropping forward like a little boy’s. “I don’t feel so hot,” he said, very softly, and coughed.

“I’m not surprised.” My teeth were gritted so hard the words had to struggle free. “I think we have some reading to do.” I didn’t want to turn my back on Laughing Boy, so I had to walk backward, high-stepping to get my feet out of the snow. The front yard looked like a tornado had hit it. Thank God nobody was home in the middle of the day to see this.

I almost went down hard on the porch steps; Graves grabbed the railing and we swayed drunkenly. Step by step, we retreated up, Graves leaning on me heavier and heavier. The vitality was running out of him like water out of a broken cup. Laughing Boy stopped wheezing and watched this with interest.

“I don’t suppose you’ll invite me in.” He grinned, the same feral grimace that had bared his teeth earlier. They were so white, pristine.

But they weren’t fangs. Not now.

“Nope.” I beat Graves to the punch, just in case he didn’t know that was a really bad idea and decided to say something.

“I’m not like a nosferat, you know.” Christophe moved forward smoothly, his feet still not denting the snow. How did it get all over him if he can do that? “I don’t need an invitation to step over your threshold.”

Yeah, you came right in past the wards and the threshold. “I bet you say that to all the girls,” my mouth replied, with no real direction from me. Graves sniggered weakly. I got him up on the porch and kept moving back. It felt uncomfortably like Christophe was herding us.

Blue Eyes grinned, still examining us both. He moved like he had all the time in the world, gliding like oil over the snow. “He’s going to fall asleep soon. That was his first change, wasn’t it? How long ago was he bitten? And by what strain?”

My breath made a cloud in front of me. Graves slumped against my shoulder. It was hard to believe he had just been running around growling like an Alsatian moments ago. “I’ll ask the questions, Chris. You just give answers. What the hell are you? And if you didn’t kill my father, who did?”

“You really don’t listen, do you? I’m djamphir. Called a half-breed, but technically more like a sixteenth. We’re the product of unions between women and nosferatu. Surely you’ve heard of that.”

My stomach turned over hard. Holy shit. “Actually, no. Not really.” Only in movies. Really bad movies.

“Well, where have you been hiding, Miss Dru?” He was up the steps in one bound, his feet touching lightly, like ballet slippers. It was like watching a cat levitate. “I suppose you don’t know what you are, either.”

I could not get the thought of apple pie out of my head. Gran always served hers with a slab of cheese; Dad liked it that way. “I know what I am. I’m cold and hungry and pissed off. Thanks.” I reached blindly for the knob, meaning to sweep the door closed and shut him out on the front porch, and hesitated.

The door hadn’t done a fat lot of good five minutes ago. Still, the way he was grinning through his mask of blood wasn’t encouraging.

I backed up. The gun was on the floor, too far back for me to kick the door closed and get to it. “If you’re evil, you’re barred from my house.” My throat was dry. Graves picked that moment to go completely limp against me, and instead of being ready to kick ass, I was suddenly in danger of going down into yet another inglorious heap. My back ran with hot pain, and my shoulder wasn’t too happy.

Christophe stepped over the threshold, swept the door closed, and caught Graves’s other arm. In one efficient trice, he had taken all of the weight and was maneuvering Graves with dancerlike grace. It looked like Gene Kelly hauling around a doll full of sand. “Where do you want him?”

“Upstairs.” I scooped the gun up. “And move slowly.”

One blue eye sparkled at me. The blood was already drying. The heater was on—God, the bill was going to be sky-high this month. “If I wanted either of you dead, I’d just leave you to the wolves. ’Tis their season, after all.”

Yeah. Sure. Whatever. “I’ll keep the gun just in case. What are you doing here?”

“I thought I’d pay you a visit, my dear. Since you’re so interesting.”

My mouth shifted into high gear, leaving my brain behind. “You know, you’re the second guy in a few days to call me that. You should be more creative.”

Good one, Dru.

“I do hate to be imitated.” He was hauling Graves up the stairs like the kid weighed nothing. “He’ll be fine, if you’re wondering. He’ll sleep for a couple hours and wake up disoriented and hungry. I hope you have meat in the house.”

Does bologna count? “Um, okay. Are you a hunter?” I trailed along behind him, suddenly wishing I could see Graves’s face. And unless I was going nuts—which was a distinct possibility—this kid smelled just exactly like a fresh-baked pie. It was a good smell, and it made me hungry.

“Among other things.” He reached the top of the stairs, sniffed, and carried Graves into my room. “My, isn’t this cozy. I’ll bet he sleeps here.” He dumped the kid on the cot and covered him up with a few quick yanks on an Army blanket. Scratchy but warm, and it would forgive the snow melting from Graves’s clothes.

His face looked less wary when he was asleep, and the unibrow wasn’t that noticeable. His mouth gapped open a little, like a toddler’s, and I pointed the gun at Christophe.

“Okay. Slowly. Back away from him.”

He spread his hands, a flash of irritation crossing his blood-smeared face. “Why do you make me repeat myself? I just told you I don’t want to hurt either of you. You’re a babe in the woods. Who is this kid, your pet?”

I could barely believe it, but I outright bristled. If I had hackles, they would have gone straight up. “He’s my friend.” And you’re not. “I think we need to have a little chat.”

“I agree.” His shoulders slumped a little, as if he was tired. “Do you have a washcloth? I’d like to get the blood off my face.”

It was a pretty reasonable request, I decided. “Downstairs. Kitchen.” But I covered him with the gun the entire way.

I’d hit him once, after all. And here in the house I’d already shot a zombie. Maybe this smartmouth blue-eyed apple-pie boy would be next.