“Graves? Yeah. He just needs to run off the rage.” Shanks shrugged. “He’d come back to a burning

house for you. Did it once already.” He turned on his sneaker heel and stalked for the bathroom.

“What do you mean, he came back?” I remembered the Schola burning, and I remembered

Christophe dragging me out. But Graves—

“He was the one who made us go back to pick you and Christophe up. We would have been hell and

gone if not for him.” The bathroom door shut, and Shanks said something I couldn’t hear over the

plashing of water.

Every inch of me ached. My heart hurt worst of all. I was beginning to think it was normal to feel

like it was being pulled out of your chest all the time. The toilet flushed after a little while, but at

least the wulfen were tactful. Whatever they were arguing about, they were doing it quietly. Dibs

sounded worried, Shanks determined.

I pushed myself off the edge of the bed, made my legs straighten. Got my hoodie on, zipped it up.

Stood swaying for a few moments. The sleeping bag was neatly rolled up and pushed against the

night table on this side, and his pillow was tossed back up on the bed. Graves’s T-shirts, including

the “velociraptor with a light saber” one—which he’d looked pleased over—were still hanging up

in the closet, half of the drawers in the huge antique dresser holding them as well. I’d gotten used to

the sound of his breathing in the room with mine. Ever since Dad had shown up dead but still walking, Graves had been the one person I could depend on.

What exactly was I afraid of?

The same thing I was always afraid of, I guess. That I’d be left behind somewhere—like in the hospital corridor after Gran died, just repeating over and over again that Dad was coming, that he

would know what to do, that he was on his way, and hoping like hell it was true.

Dad had shown back up and taken care of everything, but I was always afraid one day he wouldn’t.

And one day . . . he hadn’t quite come back. Shambling into your kitchen as a zombie and trying to

kill your daughter doesn’t really qualify as a grand return.

And Graves . . . he was thinking I was like his mother, or something? Had he just decided I was too

much trouble to deal with? Or what? Shanks said he’d come back once he got rid of the anger.

That’s what wulfen do—they run it off.

It’s either that or hunt something down and eat it. Everyone should be glad they usually go for the

former. Except most normal people will never ever even hear of stuff like this.

The weight in my throat, prickling behind my eyes, was loneliness.