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It was like an old Western showdown. I wouldn’t have been surprised if there were tumbleweeds.
Bruce cleared his throat. “Actually, he’s not outside the Codes.”
A
“You’re svetocha,” Hiro said flatly. “The Codes are in the keeping of the princeps of the Order. Which is Bruce, as provisional head of the Council.” He paused. A ghost of nasty satisfaction tinted his tone. “A full Trial is within his purview to declare.”
“Just a goddamn second.” Kir shifted his weight as if to step forward, thought better of it when Christophe’s cold attention settled on him. “How do we know he won’t vanish again?”
“I have no intention of vanishing,” Christophe informed him. “If you want to find me, you need look no further than wherever Dru is. Her quarters are not kept secret as A
“I am the head of the Order!” A
God, she really hates him. I concentrated on beating back the dizziness threatening to swallow me.
“He’s also within the Codes to request a full Trial, Milady.” Bruce’s tone was deceptively mild.
“Council meeting, then. We’ll vote.”
Bruce straightened, drawing himself up. His chin lifted a little. “It’s not a voting issue. But if you wish to call a meeting, by all means do so. We’ll have to wait until Milady Dru is able to attend or designates a proxy, though.”
I had the idea I should protest this, but Leon shook his head. Just a little.
I just wanted to see Graves. I got the idea he would help me sort this out. Or at least if he was here I could let go of consciousness and know that things would be okay when I woke up.
If I had to, I would beg him to just lie on the bed next to me and breathe. So I could know things were all right.
The realization hit me then.
He’d probably left, the way I’d been wanting to. He probably got tired of all this, of me, and left me behind. I’d promised not to leave without him, but he hadn’t promised.
“She’s not fit to be on the Council.” A
“I can and I will. She’s svetocha; she has a right. Remember? Your own words will come back to haunt you, Milady. I think you’d best be quiet. Especially since I intend to inquire fully into Christophe’s accusations. I did not sign a directive to put Milady Anderson into the general population.”
“Traitors,” she hissed. “All of you. Traitors.”
“You bandy that word about so frequently.” Christophe leaned forward, all his weight on the balls of his feet. I recognized that stance. Dad looked that way when he was picking out someone for a fight. “Why is that, I wonder?”
“You and your little bitch—”
I slid over to the side, losing the battle with the darkness. Leon caught me, and at least he didn’t bruise me. “Fight later,” he said over his shoulder. “Or at least let me get her out of here. For Christ’s sake, she’s not even bloomed yet.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
For once, August showed no desire to leave when dusk came around. Instead, he settled down on the ancient flowered couch, smoking, loading clips, and staring at the television. He had it turned all the way down and a black-and-white movie played, the light flickering over every surface. I sat on the other end of the couch, folding laundry. He’d brought two big bags of it back from the laundry room downstairs, and while I was glad I didn’t have to trudge out to a Laundromat, I felt kind of weird about someone else washing my panties.
August had gone from once or twice letting me go out with him on su
There wasn’t even a plant in here. At least I could have talked to a philodendron or something. And the lack of natural light was really begi
I held up one of August’s T-shirts. Ragged claw marks sliced the thin fabric. It was a wonder there was any shirt left. “What was this?”
“That? Oh. Just some trouble over in Manhattan.” He slid the bullets into the clip, each one going in smoothly. He didn’t have to look while he did it. His short Russian cigarette fumed in the ashtray, and I wrinkled my nose. On the screen, a very young Marlon Brando sat on a swing and fitted a girl’s white glove on his hand, looking up at a slim pretty blonde. “Got ’em cornered in a stairwell. Dark work.” August set the clip down, picked up an empty one. Muscle moved under the skin of his arm, left bare by a Rolling Stones T-shirt.
Dark work. Which meant I didn’t need to know any more. I nodded, knowing he’d see the movement in his peripheral vision. Tossed the shirt into my mending pile. He had a truly ancient Singer machine, and I’d started patching any clothes of his I could reasonably expect to. Usually T-shirt material is too thin to really repair, but I’d give it a try. At least I never had to ask twice for any supplies—he brought home exactly what I asked for every time. Except bread. He would never bring back any damn bread.
My hands moved without thought, too. I’ve folded so much laundry that I barely have to pay attention. August used a strange sort of fabric softener; it smelled lemony. “You go
“In a bit. This is not a good part for an impressionable young girl.” The last word came out as “goil.” His lips stretched in a wide, unsettling grin. If I wasn’t so used to him, I might almost have felt a moment of unease. But that was just Augie. He seemed to delight in squinching up his face in the weirdest possible ways. Just to keep things limber.
I folded a pair of his jeans. The blood had washed out just fine after some cold-water soaking. Even the greasy gunk ground into the knees had come out. Of course, it had been fresh when I got to it. “You want some coffee?” What I meant was, Are you going out tonight? But I didn’t dare ask, in case he decided to. Then I’d feel like I made him do it, and I’d wander around the tiny apartment cleaning things up or clearing a place to do some short t’ai chi. Wishing I could get out and run. Even just a trip to the corner bodega to get a pack of gum would have been fine. But no. August had stopped taking me anywhere, muttering something about smells. I was pretty sure I didn’t offend, what with a shower every day. So I didn’t ask any questions, just kept asking him to bring home a loaf of white so I could have a PBJ. I craved a PBJ like you wouldn’t believe.
I was so fricking tired of omelets.