Ash sagged against my legs. My teeth tingled, the aspect enfolding me. Christophe dropped the

stake. It clattered on the floor, and he stalked forward. I would have backpedaled, but the wall was

behind me and there was nowhere to go, especially with pound upon pound of deadweight wulfen

on my lap.

He went to his knees, splashing in the vampire blood. Steam rose as the black ichor ate at fabric. I

wanted to haul Ash out of it. I didn’t have the strength or the leverage.

Christophe reached over the Broken wulf and grabbed my bruised shoulders, his fingers sinking in.

His face contorted, and he yelled something at me. I just stared. Besides, he was speaking in some

weird foreign tongue, the same one that tinted his English when he was sleepy or upset.

And they say I have an accent just because I grew up with Gran and below the Mason-Dixon. Let

me tell you something: People up North bite off every syllable like they want to chew it to death instead of tasting it proper.

Christophe inhaled sharply, throat working as he swallowed. Tried again, and this time the words

were recognizable English. “Are you hurt?”

I took stock. I ached all over. My teeth felt like lightning was running through them. The warm-oil

feeling of the aspect bathed the hurt and the bruises, but it couldn’t erase them completely.

He shook me. My head bobbled. He kept yelling. “Goddamn you, Dru, are you hurt?”

I finally shook my head. Found my voice. “Ash. Ash.” My hands were full of the Broken’s pelt, and

I didn’t like the way he was just lying there against me. You can tell when someone’s hurt bad by

the way they slump, not even unconsciously holding themselves together.

“Thank God,” Christophe whispered and pulled me away from the wall. He got his arms around me,

and I smelled spiced-apple pies. The smell filled my nose. He pressed his lips against my aching

temple and was saying something in a ragged, broken tone, but I didn’t care. Ash was caught between us, bleeding and unconscious.

I wanted to cry. But my eyes were full of hot graininess, and all I could see, my head tilted at a

weird awkward angle, was a high curving arc of vampire blood, splashed smoking against the gray

stone wall.

Jealousy

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

It took three glowing-eyed djamphir, all of them torn-up and bloody, to pick up Ash and start carrying him away. I pulled against Christophe’s hands. “No, please—no, I’ve got to go with him, no—”

“Stay still.” Christophe dabbed at a scratch on my forehead, one I couldn’t remember getting. “No

broken bones, no bleeding. Dziękuję Bogu, moj maly ptaszku . . .” Blue eyes sharp, he glanced at

my face. The blond highlights had slid back through his hair as his aspect retreated. The fox had