“Yes. No. I don’t know. I guess. Look, I just . . . are those my clothes?” And who took my bra off?

My cheeks were about as red as Kir’s hair, if the scorching in them was any indication.

Kir. Jesus. A cold shiver traced down my back. He was on the Council, and he was on Anna’s side.

What if he’d—

Christophe was on his feet in an instant, the shotgun held loosely and expertly, pointed at the floor. I

would have been worried about someone wandering around my room with a gun, but he was a professional. And to tell the truth, I was glad he was here.

He’d come back for me. Again. The intensity of the relief was pretty ridiculous. When you’ve spent

your entire life being a piece of luggage for people to collect, even when you’re a helpful piece of

luggage and you know they love you, you get to feeling like a golden retriever when someone

comes home.

He swept the closet door open, laid the shotgun down carefully, and stepped inside. “Anything in

particular, or just something to cover up? You had nosferatu blood on your clothes; Samuel cut them

off so you could sleep a little more comfortably. I didn’t think you’d mind much.”

Did you look? But it wasn’t the sort of question I could ask him. I could have played it as a joke

with Graves, but not Christophe. For one thing, he was in my closet. For another, there was that

shotgun. And I was still blushing and feeling like I’d done something wrong by passing out. “Oh.

Okay. I, uh, wondered about that.”

“Here.” He emerged with an armful of clothes. “One of these, I think. Is there something specific

you’d like to wear? Or will . . . here, look.” He slid them off his arm onto the foot of the bed. Six Tshirts, two flannels, a hoodie—Jesus. That was a quarter of my wardrobe right there.

“Christophe . . .”

It was the first time I’d seen him even close to flustered. “Don’t worry, I won’t look. See?” He

backed up two steps, turned as if he was on parade, and headed for the closet. Scooped up the shotgun and crossed to the window. Stood in the sunshine, the blond highlights in his shaggily cut hair

lighting up.

I’d never seen him in full sun before. The blond streaks turned to gold, and the texture of his skin

glowed. The light bounced off the metal of the shotgun’s sawed-off barrel. His head was down, like

he was looking out the window.

Some of what he’d said sank in. My mother’s room. There were books on the stripped-pine bookshelves. Hers?

Do that again. . . . Go ahead, Beth. I’ll let you. The dream rose up in my head. Was it what Gran