“We absolutely cannot do that.” Leon was the only one who spoke up. He had an amazingly deep

voice for such a mousy, fade-into-the-woodwork kind of kid. Benjamin felt old, but so did he. “If

the nosferat—or anything else—attack and get near you, we’re to fight them off. Or die in the attempt. We’re the last line of defense.”

“Bodyguards,” one of the blonds supplied in a clear tenor. “But why they chose us—”

“She doesn’t know enough to do the choosing yet, and they haven’t held Trials,” Benjamin said decisively. “Which leaves it up to us. Enough dawdling. Milady, the Council awaits.”

“Call me Dru.” I squeezed Graves’s arm, hoping he’d get the message. “But I’m not sure I need

bodyguards.”

As soon as I said it, I knew it was a lie. Maybe it was tact that made Benjamin sigh. He didn’t roll

his eyes or look pained, which was pretty damn magnanimous of him.

Of course I needed a bodyguard. Now that the suckers knew I was alive, now that we knew there

was a traitor in the Order, I needed bodyguards more than ever.

I just wasn’t so sure I could trust anyone. Other than Graves, that is.

And Christophe, a little voice inside me whispered. I ignored it.

“Fine.” I eased up on Graves’s arm, figuring he wasn’t going to go postal and coldcock someone.

He actually straightened, pulled on his sleeves like stopping had been his idea so he could adjust his

coat, and gave me another one of those telling little glances. “Then I suppose we’d better get going.

We’re probably already late.”

“Not late enough,” Leon muttered, and gave a queer little laugh. “But they’ll wait for a svetocha.”

I decided I didn’t like him much and pulled experimentally on Graves’s arm. He took a single step

back, and as soon as I let go of him he whirled back to the front as if he was in a military parade.

His chin was up, and a muscle in his cheek flickered.

Benjamin led us through more sunlight-striped halls, and it wasn’t just the lack of breakfast that was

giving me a bad feeling.

“Through there.” Benjamin pointed at the huge double doors. They were massive oak affairs bound

with iron, the wood deeply carved with slim lines. It took a moment for me to figure out the carvings formed a heavily stylized face with deep burning eyes. And a mouth open just far enough to

show fangs. The tiny space between the doors ran down the bridge of the long hooked nose, and my

temples throbbed for a moment. My mother’s locket was a warm reassuring weight against my

breastbone.

That face looked hungry, and I was suddenly very sure I didn’t want to go in there.