dominance. I’d seen him hold a roomful of angry wulfen back with that voice. I’d seen him press a

fellow wulf down into a crouch with just the weight of his will alone.

He was full of surprises, my Goth Boy.

The steam in the air shredded away in shapes with sharp teeth and pointed noses. I tore myself away

and grabbed at my own arm, a fresh bruise rising under the old one. “Ow!”

He drew himself up, shoulders straining under the black fabric of his coat. “Who?”

He sounded just like my grandmother’s owl. The thought hit me sideways with unreliable, unsteady,

panicked hilarity. I choked down a laugh that felt like a sob. “Graves, we have got to get out of here.

Please. Let’s just go.”

Because I knew something else; I’d known it even when we started whaling on each other. It would

be her word against mine, and she wouldn’t have come down here without a good story in place to

cover her ass. The fact that Shanks had seen the whole thing wouldn’t help in front of the Council—

he was a wulf.

Not a djamphir.

Besides, you don’t ever be the first one to tell. It’s not Dad’s code. It’s kids’ code, learned every day

at lunch and recess. Anna could break it—she was an adult, even though she looked my age.

But me? I couldn’t. I didn’t want to tell. I wanted to get the hell out of here. Sooner rather than later.

Like now.

Graves’s eyes glowed, sharp green. He obviously didn’t believe me. “Who?” The word rattled the

mirror against the wall, its plastic brackets chattering. The steam streamed away, surrounded us like

the white flying bits inside a snow globe. The kind that you shake while it plays a stupid song from

some forgettable saccharine Disney movie.

“Don’t worry about it.” I shrugged my hoodie further up, zipped it all the way to my chin. “Let’s

just go. I’ve got money; we can get off the grounds before they even know we . . .” I ran out of

words, staring at him. “Please.” I searched for more to say. “Please, Graves. I have to get out of

here.”

He stared at me, deathly pale under his even caramel coloring. When he did that, he looked almost

gray. His mouth set itself in a thin line, and his hair all but stood up, snapping with vitality. His earring glittered, a sharp dart of light.

“You’ve got to calm down.” I sounded pale and unhealthy even to myself. “Graves. Please. You

have got to calm down. I need—”

He lifted one hand, a fist. His index finger popped out accusingly, and he pointed at my face. There

was a faint crackling sound as he bulked up. He wouldn’t get hairy, but he does definitely sort of