patching up August, too, more than once. My shoulders sagged. “Do you have any aspirin, Dibs?”

“Ibuprofen’s probably better. We should ice this.” He still looked troubled, beginning to wrap my

wrist. “Shanks doesn’t mean djamphir are bad.”

He was always like that, looking to smooth over everyone’s feelings. Said it was part of being a

“sub”—submissive and born that way. The only time I ever saw him with his back up was when he

was bandaging someone.

“She knows what I mean, Dibsie.” A cold breeze touched the dark wulf’s hair, mouthed at his

sweater. “I never thought I’d miss reform school.” He played with the curtains, his fingers flicking

at the velvet. Took a deep lungful of night air, rolling it around in his mouth like champagne.

“Huh.”

Dibs glanced up. His hands paused, the Ace bandage half-wrapped. His eyes widened, and he

sniffed, too.

Tension threaded through my aching muscles. I couldn’t smell anything but my own snot, since I’d

been crying so hard. “What?”

Shanks cocked his head. It reminded me of the RCA dog on some of Gran’s ancient record sleeves

when he did that. “Dunno. Just . . . smells unsettled. Could be you, though. Whenever you get upset,

the spice comes out.”

“Spice?” This conversation was getting better and better.

“You smell like cinnamon rolls,” Dibs volunteered helpfully. “All svetocha are supposed to smell

different—some flowery, some spicy. It’s pretty strong on you. They smell that way whether or not

they’ve fed.”

“Whoa. Back up. I smell?” Heat rose up from my throat, touched my bruised cheeks. Blushing

again. At least I wasn’t sobbing like a baby.

All things considered, I was doing pretty well. I might earn my tough-girl card back if this kept up.

But ouch. I didn’t want to earn it this way.

“It’s not an insult!” Dibs sounded half-panicked. “He’s not saying you’re a—”

“Just chill.” Shanks stood in the window. “I’m not saying you’re a glutter.”

“A what? You know about me, Shanks. Give me a vowel or something.” I mean, I was learning by

leaps and bounds, and I’d known about the Real World pretty much all my life, but what Dad and I

had been able to piece together was nothing compared to everything the Order had. Things even a

baby werwulf would take for granted were news to me.

The blond werwulf finished wrapping my wrist, with prissy exactitude. “A glutter’s a djamphir who

drinks like the vampires do. It makes them stronger. But they’re not supposed to do it. And we can

smell them, glutters.”

I was beginning to get a very bad feeling about this. “But I’ve never—”

“Svetocha smell because they’re, um, when they get to puberty, they . . . ” Dibs looked over his

shoulder. Shanks said nothing, but his shoulders quivered slightly.

Was he laughing?