something glittered far back in the depths of her eyes. Her boots hit the carpet and she rose gracefully from the chair, silk whispering as her dress fell in choreographed folds. The table held her reflection lovingly, but distorted it oddly as she moved. She passed behind Kir’s chair, and I could

swear the slim redheaded young man flinched as her shadow drifted over him.

She came to a halt at the end of the table, and I squared my shoulders as we sized each other up.

The taste of waxen oranges faded, and I smelled her warm spicy perfume.

Her baby blues dropped to my feet, came back up. Measuring me all the while. When she spoke, it

was as if we were the only people in the room. “I’d like it if we were friends, Dru.”

“Me too,” I lied, with feeling. If they think you’re stupid enough to be taken in, you can get enough

running room for escape.

Always let your enemies underestimate you. Dad taught me that. I wasn’t sure if she was an enemy

or just one of those antimatter girls. She was another djamphir and a svetocha to boot. She was in

just as much danger from the suckers as I was. We should stick together, at least as far as we could

while being on different ends of the social spectrum.

My chest hurt. I realized I was holding my breath, and exhaled. The touch throbbed inside my head,

but everything in the room was so tense and mixed-up I couldn’t tell where the current of . . . what

was it? Fear? Bloodhunger? Rage? But nobody looked even remotely upset in here. Just uncomfortable. Kir’s face had gone pasty. His freckles stood out, glaring.

I thought of the flash of red I’d seen down the hall. Benjamin had thought it was a svetocha, and I’d

been sure it was Anna, but both she and Christophe smelled like spice.

Would Christophe be messing at my door, though? Or maybe it had been the traitor. A djamphir I’d

never seen, but who smelled like them?

“Good.” She held out one slim white hand, her nails perfectly manicured and coated in candy-apple

lacquer. It matched her lipstick, and her eyeliner looked professionally done.

I could never in a million years have that high gloss. As soon as I put my hand out and touched hers,

bracing myself for whatever the touch would tell me, I felt dirty. Like I’d just come in off the playground, covered in muck, and was now standing in the middle of the adults while I hoped they

wouldn’t notice the smudges and scrapes.

The touch rang like a gong inside my head. Whirling images, none of them pausing long enough to

be absorbed. She gave my hand one limp shake, then drew back with a patient smile. That smile, by

the way, was directed up over my shoulder.

At Graves.