Isle of Night (10 page)

Movement caught my eye. Lilac was approaching. She already had a mini posse following her. A bunch of mindless electrons buzzing around her radioactive core.

But then I realized. If this was my last chance, it was
their
last chance, too. Lilac and her ilk were just as desperate as me. And that meant Lilac had secrets. She and I had
something
in common; I just couldn't imagine what.

She climbed in—gracefully, I might add—and glowered at me. Gaze shifting to Ronan, she held up her parka. “Could you toss this in the back for me?” Her tone was saccharine sweet.

At his nod, she whipped it right at my face. The metal nub at the end of the hood string snapped me in the eyes.

“Oops!” Smiling, she gave an innocent shrug.

That was it. I
would
find a way out of this place. When he'd talked me onto the plane, I'd thought I'd be in for some cool schooling, but this was brainwashed-cult crap, and I was
not
down with it.

It was only a matter of time before I annoyed someone as badly as Mimi had, and I refused to have my guts spilled in front of an audience of Barbies. My last stop would
not
be on some vampire's dinner plate.

Once everyone settled, I leaned close to Ronan's ear. “How do I get out?”

“Shush,” he hissed. “You can't get out.”

As the other girls loaded in, I considered my situation. I was more helpless and alone than I'd ever been in Florida, only now I was surrounded by things that wanted to eat me. The driver put the truck in gear and drove. I felt as desolate as the bleak, gray world outside my window.

I called my mom's picture to mind, taking strength from the memory of her yellow hair, that bright yellow pantsuit. It seemed that, yet again, I'd be forced to make my own way, in a world bled dry of color.

Ronan was wrong—I
would
get out. I'd survived the most difficult and loveless of childhoods, and I'd survive this, too. I leaned close again, and felt him bristle. “So Watchers aren't allowed to leave the island? Ever?”

“Of course,” he said, his voice tight with tension, “Watchers are allowed to leave.”

“Then how do I become a Watcher?”

He cleared his throat to speak in a hoarse whisper, and I had to strain to hear him over the chatting and posturing of the girls. “First, you stay alive. And then you must prove yourself better than all the others.”

We pulled onto a rough, cobbled drive, and the truck jostled Ronan's body into mine. I inhaled sharply. I trusted this guy about as far as I could throw him. I would
not
be affected by the warm press of his thigh on mine. I
would
focus.

I'd focus and excel and stay alive. Long enough to escape.

“You're here.” Ronan nodded to a forbidding structure that made me nostalgic for the fortress we'd just left. It was a rambling old mansion of pale reddish stone. Each window was a narrow Gothic archway rising to a fine point. A colonnade of lanky towers, chimneys, columns, and turrets gave the impression of a spindly, ethereal thing, reaching skyward.

“
That's
my dorm?” As I got out, my eyes went to the clusters of bad girls spilling from the other SUVs, cursing their fates. “It's like Hogwarts in Gangland.”

“This is the edge of the quad.” Ronan pointed to the tops of some other buildings just beyond the dorm. “There's the Acari dorm, Initiate housing, academic buildings, and a chapel.”

“Chapel?” I was dying to walk alongside the building for a better view, but something told me that'd be frowned upon. “You're shitting me.”

He rolled his eyes. “Annelise, your language leaves something to be desired. And, no, I'm not exaggerating. There is a chapel, though it hasn't seen a priest in my lifetime.”

A tall black girl emerged from the building. Spotting Ronan, she approached us, a warm smile on her face.

“Here comes one of the Proctors now.” He pointed her out, but he needn't have.

She'd stood out the moment she glided from the dorm. Dramatically so. She was gorgeous—what else?—but in a fierce, self-possessed way. Though she looked only about nineteen or twenty, something about her seemed much older. She wore a sort of catsuit in an austere navy color, instead of the gray Acari tunic. I knew without asking that I was looking at the uniform of an Initiate.

“Amanda.” The warmth in Ronan's voice made me do a double take. A spurt of irrational jealousy made my belly lurch, and I swallowed it down.

“Ronan,” she replied with humor in her voice. She turned her attention to me, studying me with a speculative tilt to her head. “This one of yours, then?” She spoke in a thick Cockney accent.

I couldn't take my eyes off her. Dreadlocks twined to her shoulders, but not in a Rasta way. It was more at tastefully bohemian, like a latter-day Lauryn Hill.

“Aye, one of mine,” Ronan said. “There are just two this time. I . . . lost one. During the Induction.”

“Let me guess. This would be Annelise. Though you prefer Drew, don't you?”

I could only nod lamely, totally awed. Above and beyond her clothes and her hair, there was something in Amanda's bearing that set her apart. Like she'd been tested and proven worthy. I saw it in her stature, in the steel of her dark eyes, and in the taut lines of her body visible beneath her clothing.

Lilac appeared from nowhere, shouldering past me. “Hope you survive the night, Charity.”

Her pack knocked me and I stumbled. I heard her trilling laugh, feeling my cheeks burn deep crimson.

Amanda chuckled, a rich, throaty sound. “Don't mind her, dolly. There's a slag like that in every batch.”

A laugh escaped me, like an awkward, relieved puff of air. Was this Proctor someone I could trust? I forced myself to remember I could trust no one. Least of all one of the Initiates the headmaster warned us about.

But Ronan seemed to like her. And, not too long ago, she'd have been just like me—a clueless girl in one of those SUVs. I remained on guard, but let myself be cautiously optimistic.

We watched Lilac prowl around the other girls like a lioness hunting for fresh meat.

“Who's she?” Amanda asked.

“Lilac.” I rolled my eyes to show how ridiculous I'd thought
that
name sounded.

“Von Straubing?” The Proctor's face was suddenly veiled. Even though this woman was a veritable stranger, I knew enough about body language to tell something was up.

“What?” I demanded. I could tell she was wary of telling me something. “What is it?”

“Sorry, dolly. I'm afraid Lilac's your roommate.”

CHAPTER TEN

C
racking the door, I braced myself. It wasn't every day a girl got to bunk with her archenemy. If I hadn't already decided to get the hell out at the first opportunity, the privilege of rooming with Lilac for the next year would've been enough to drive me to
swim
to the mainland. And that from a girl who didn't know how.

I pushed it open a bit more and shut my eyes in horror at the hideous creaking sound it made.
Note to self: There'll be no sneaking in and out of this room.
On a sharp exhale, I shoved it open all the way.

All my caution was for naught. Lilac hadn't even been there yet.

I stepped in and looked around at what I imagined resembled your average military-school dorm room—if you were in the Bavarian army. While regular kids in regular schools had things like Target bedspreads and
Twilight
posters, we'd been issued a bed on a simple, unpainted iron frame, a dresser that looked like it belonged in a monk's cell, and a desk that I'd wager had been haphazardly hewn from a giant oak by someone short on time. A pile of blue-gray woolen blankets were folded atop white sheets. I didn't need to feel either to know how coarse they were.

I shrugged. At least we didn't have to suffer bunk beds.

I needed to hide my iPod and photo—how I longed to take a quick peek at my mother's smiling face—but where on earth could I stash them without Lilac finding out? I wouldn't put it past her to rifle through my stuff, and I had the dreaded feeling that I'd be wearing my iPod and picture in my panties for the rest of the semester.

I eyed the desks. Each had a stack of books on them, and I made a beeline to each one in turn, immediately deducing which was mine. The elementary German grammar workbook had Lilac's name all over it. I chuckled to myself.
Good luck with that, von Slutling.
She also got a book on Norse culture and one of those English-lit tomes that contained every story ever written, printed on paper thinner than onion skin.

My pile left a lot to be desired, though. I fought not to be too disappointed. I mean, what'd I expect? A first-edition Byron or something?

Yeah,
I realized. I kinda had. I mean, if these vampires were old—and I assumed they were—wouldn't they have some really old, really cool books?

All I'd been issued was something on Norse mythology and a Spanish-English dictionary. The Norse stuff was cool, yes, but not enough to occupy me for a week, much less a semester. What was I going to be studying, anyway?

Going to the dresser, I automatically opened and shut the drawers out of habit, and was surprised to find something tucked away in the bottom drawer. A lovely handcrafted box, painted red, with a crane etched in black on the lid. I thought it looked Japanese.

I carefully pulled off the lid—someone had gone to a lot of trouble to make the top and bottom fit together perfectly—and I gasped. Four throwing stars sat nestled atop a swath of black velvet. I could tell it was old. Not that the fabric was threadbare; it just
looked
ancient.

I traced my finger over the stars. They were a dull, steely color, with six razor-sharp points. I tested a tip with my thumb and then smudged the flat of the blades. My touch didn't leave so much as a fingerprint. A shiver ran up my spine.

The door swung open, and I slammed the box and the drawer shut.

Lilac looked at me with suspicion, her gaze jumping from me to my hand on the dresser, then back again. “It's not like I'm thrilled about this, either, Chari—”

“Would you stop calling me that?” Standing straight, I pulled my hand back and fisted it at my side.

She sauntered in. Dumping her kit bag on the floor, she went to her desk, grunting when she rifled through her pile of books. Wandering to her dresser, she opened the drawers just as I had. When she reached the bottom drawer, she paused, chuckling to herself, and then slammed it shut again.

Did she get throwing stars, too?

“Why are you staring at me?” She kept her back to me as she spoke. “You're not some kind of dyke, are you?”

I couldn't deal with this right now. I had to get out of there before I said something I regretted. Curfew was eight p.m., but I didn't think that meant we weren't allowed to leave the room. Snagging my Norse mythology book, I left.

I figured I had at least a few hours to burn until Lilac went to bed, and so I took myself on a tour of the dorm. Clutching my book to my side, I walked purposefully, being careful not to make eye contact with any of the other girls who appeared in the halls.

The building had four floors. Each was exactly alike, with sixteen rooms per floor, except for the ground level, which had only fourteen rooms and a large foyer. Each floor shared four bathrooms, two on either side of the hallway. A kitchenette and common area with couches and a fireplace were at the far end of each hall.

From what I spied through an open doorway, two rooms on the end of each hall were actually suites with their own bathrooms. I assumed each was occupied by a Proctor. That meant two Proctors per floor, for eight Proctors total.

I did the math. One hundred girls. Fifty rooms occupied, plus eight Proctor suites. That left four empty.

Maybe I could land myself a single room.

Yeah, right.
Somehow I got the feeling that Lilac or I had to die in order for either of us to be granted a single. The thought gave me a chill. I hoped my roomie wouldn't come to the same conclusion and murder me in my sleep.

I went back up to the second floor, but our light was still on. Even though it was late and I was beat, I decided to give it a bit longer until Lilac was asleep. Putting on my jammies and tucking into bed in front of her was something I was going to need to work up to. Instead I plopped down on a couch in the common area.

The dorm felt empty, like everyone was in for the night. It was peaceful, and the couch uncharacteristically cozy, covered in wide-wale corduroy colored a deep burgundy. The iPod jammed into my belly as I settled in and I pulled it out, deciding it was safe to risk it. I smoothed my mother's photo over its hard surface, getting strength from that wide-eyed stare. She'd have rocked a navy blue catsuit—I could tell.