“She’s spoiled and manipulative, but not a—”

“She opened fire on a mass of Kouroi and another svetocha, Bruce!” The machines let out sparking,

staticky, unhappy sounds. “She betrayed one of our own—more than one—to Sergej! When will

you see?”

“This will not bring Elizabeth back!”

Silence. And with the silence, a gathering, rising growl. I shrank further against Christophe until I

realized the sound was coming from him. My mother’s locket was warm and quiescent against my

chest.

Footsteps, and the door closing. The sense of presence leached out of the room, and Christophe

made a short violent movement, carrying me with him, gaining his feet and making a harsh sound

of effort. My nose bumped his collarbone, and one of the machines gave a strangled squeal, stopped

its beeping. The one keeping track of my heartbeat kept going, though. My pulse raced, high and

fast and hard. It felt like I was on jet fuel, or maybe too much caffeine.

Christophe wrapped his arms around me and put his face in my hair. We stood like that, my shaky

legs gradually gaining strength. I swallowed several times, the bloodhunger prickling at that spot on

the back of my palate. He still smelled like apples and cinnamon and heat. Each time I inhaled, the

scent would stroke across that sensitive spot, and a shudder would go down me. The machine keeping track of my pulse would send out another cascade of beeps.

“What happened?” I finally whispered.

“You should have stayed with Leontus,” he whispered back. “The seats would have given you cover.”

I didn’t know why I was surprised. “You knew she’d do something like this?”

“No. I thought it was likely. She’s deconstructing.”

Is that what you call it? I tried, gently at first, to push myself away from him. He didn’t let go. We

struggled like that for a little while, me halfhearted, Christophe finally sounding amused.

“You can’t stand up on your own. Stop pushing me.” But he set me down on the operating table. It

moved a little, like it didn’t want to support me, but he held me there until I could balance myself.

When I braced my unwilling legs against the floor it even felt kind of stable.

I clutched the torn T-shirt together over my chest and blinked. All of me was rubbery and aching despite the heat in my core, the feeling of well-being spreading out in waves.

I didn’t want to think about what was in my stomach, providing those waves.

“Here.” Christophe made a sudden movement. It took me a second before I realized he was pulling

his sweater off over his head. “It’s dirty, but . . .”

And then he offered it to me.

I wasn’t sure where all the blood I used to blush came from, especially now. But I flushed a deep,

deep red and started stammering something.