He blinked. His right shoulder was a huge mass of bandaging. “Eh, Dru.” The “New Yahk” wheeze

cut every vowel short like it personally offended him. “Good to see you, sweetheart.”

I grabbed at his hand. I couldn’t talk. Everything I wanted to say crowded up in my throat, got

jammed, and I let out a sound like a sob.

“Oh, don’t do that.” For a moment he was the old August, a crooked smile that said he was laughing

at the world, his eyebrows lifted just a little. You could see a flash of what he was when he laughed,

through his swollen face and the fog of sedation. “What do I got to do to get you to bring me a bottle of vodka, girl?”

A half-sob, half-laugh jolted out of me. I was so relieved I swayed next to the bed. “I can’t buy vodka, Augie. I’m sixteen.”

“That never stopped you.” He grinned, but his eyes were drifting closed. One leg was bigger than

the other under the covers—probably bandaged, too. “Make me an omelet, sweetheart. I’m beat.

Been a long night.”

“Sure I will.” I’d make him fifty omelets, by God. “What happened to you, Augie?”

“Soon’s you called me I started thinking.” His eyes closed, then snapped open as he struggled to

stay awake. “Then, nobody knew about you. Couldn’t find you for weeks. But Dylan called, and

that’s when things got inneresting.”

“He’ll be debriefed once he’s well enough,” Christophe murmured. “Dru—”

“Met him in Pomona. He had a copy of the transcript, told me where to find the rest of it. Whole

place was jumping with nosferat. We got taken.”

“That’s enough.” Christophe said, more firmly. “I should get her into bed, Augustine. We’ll talk later.”

“Sergej,” Augustine whispered, and I went cold. My teeth threatened to chatter, and a shard of pain

lodged itself inside my skull. “Sergej had some of the pieces. Got us both. Dylan . . . we got separated. Poor kid.”

I all but choked. So Dylan had been alive after the other Schola burned down. Relief warred with

fresh worry, fought over me like two dogs with a bone. I was shaking and sweating, and suddenly

aware that I couldn’t smell too good.

“I found the other stuff, and then . . . but I was being watched. Everyone I visited had a piece, but

they got swarmed after I left. Nosferatu didn’t want us to know, and we were burned. Every one of

us, burned bad.”

I held my breath. “Burned” isn’t good. It’s what you say when one of your own betrays you.

When you’re given to the enemy.

Don’t let the nosferatu bite. . . . Oh, that’s easy. I’ll take care of that. A prearranged signal, from the

very location.