I couldn’t wait for vampire anatomy to be covered in the Paranormal Biology class. Right now we were on basic wulfen anatomy because it was closest to humans. But finding out how to use a crossbow on a sucker—wow. I mean, you never
want
to be face-to-face with a sucker. But still . . . a crossbow.
It really says something about you when that’s your idea of fun. Just what it says kind of isn’t nice, though.
I loaded the 9mm, checked it, raised it, and squeezed off three rounds.
The echoes died away. I hit the target button to bring it home. Nicely grouped and even, star-shaped holes. I laid the gun down carefully, checked twice, and we all took our ear protection off. The hole-starred target was unclipped and passed around.
Babbage held up the remains of a fired bullet, showing how it had fragged apart on contact. “This is what happens—when it hits tissue, it explodes. Why is this important?”
I could have answered in my sleep, but I didn’t. He called on a blue-eyed
djamphir
with a round babyface.
“Bleeding out,” Babyface said. I think his name was Bjorn or something, but I wasn’t sure. “They heal quick, especially if they’ve just fed and have a lot of fresh hemo in their systems. So, you gotta cause enough damage to drain ’em. Make ’em weak.”
“Even a weak
nosferat
is a dangerous one, though.” Babbage laid the bullet down. “So when you go in for the kill, keep your weapon handy. I repeat myself only because so many Kouroi have failed to do so and been uncomfortably surprised.”
Nobody laughed at that one. We’d all seen the pictures. Big, glossy 8x10s, bigger versions of the ones you’d see in forensic textbooks. Vampires are only messy sometimes when they feed. But when they kill a
djamphir
, they like to make a statement. There’s nothing like hating something that’s part of you to make you really savage.
Leon, over near the steel door, had settled back against the wall and half-closed his eyes. He’d probably heard this all a million times before.
“Now let me pose you a question—Matthew, do
not
touch that!” Babbage’s tone held a definite warning, and the boy yanked his fingers away from the .22 on the table.
Freaking amateurs. You keep your hands
away
from a gun unless you’re paying attention. It just works out better that way.
“Yessir,” Matthew mumbled. His spiky inky haircut was fashionable last year, but the sullen-frat-boy look he always wore never goes out of style.
Babbage continued while I toyed with my ear protectors. “You have a wounded vampire down, bleeding out quickly. What is the weapon of choice for dispatching it?”
“Anything that gives you reach,” Babyface muttered.
“I second that.” This from a tall lanky
djamphir
towhead with thistledown-fine hair. “Headshot, more shots to the torso to bleed, or
malaika
.”
Babbage nodded approvingly. I felt like I’d been pinched. Christophe had brought me a set of
malaika
—wooden swords, of all things—and promised to teach me how to use them. They’d probably burned when the redheaded vampire exploded my room at the old Schola.
Someone else asked before I could. “Do they still teach
malaika
anymore? I thought those were—”
“They’re still efficient.” Babbage glanced at me. A
djamphir
in the first row handed the paper target to me. The shots were nicely grouped, even if I did say so myself. “They are traditionally held to be a
svetocha
’s weapon, since a female’s greater reflex speed and coordination gives her an edge. Hawthorn is also deadly to the
nosferat
, for reasons you’ll learn in your chemistry and Sympathetic Sorcery classes.”
That perked my ears right up. “Sorcery?”
Babbage inclined his head. He leaned a hip against one of the tables, easily and obviously not resting any weight on it. “Surely you’ve noticed that a
djamphir
’s weapons are not all physical. We are in the process of rediscovering
djamphir
arts and processes that were lost when we were almost extinguished as a species.”
I almost hopped from foot to foot. “Are you talking, like, what kind of sorcery? Witchcraft? Ceremonial magic? Hexes, or—”
The interest in his sharp dark eyes mounted a few notches. “
Djamphir
sorceries are largely sympathetic and combat-based. They share some commonalities with standard European witchcraft. Asian and Middle Eastern
djamphir
, few as they are, have inherited some notable sorceries and resistances that we haven’t been able to study much, mostly because they are few and secretive. They are also fighting a war on both fronts, with the
nosferatu
and the Maharaj.”
I was getting answers, but they were too slow. Babbage was good about answering though. He never looked at me like I was a moron. “What are the Maharaj? I’ve heard of them, but—”
“You’ll hear more about them in the fourth—or is it fifth?—semester of Paranormal Biology. The short answer is,
djamphir
are the products of unions between vampires or
djamphir
and human women. The Maharaj are a clan of descendants of human women and beings referred to as
jinni
.”
“I thought everyone knew that,” someone said.
I rolled up the target tighter. Didn’t look away from Babbage’s face. Sometimes a trace of irritation flickered over his chiseled features. Like now.
“If one has been raised
djamphir
, of
course
one knows.” He was a master of putting faint but deadly sarcasm into a few little words. “Those who are saved might not, and curiosity is a sign of intelligence.”
Saved. As in, snatched from the suckers and brought into the Order. Like me.
The silence was so thick you could cut it with a spoon. I suppressed the urge to cough or smile nervously, looking down at the target as I twisted it tighter and tighter. A paper cone, like the waxed kind you put snow cones in.
I hadn’t had a snow cone in
ages
. Dad used to love the raspberry-flavored ones. A bony hand squeezed my heart.
Uncomfortable silence filled the room. I finally looked away, at the chipped concrete floor. Babbage cleared his throat. “Apparently, human women are quite irresistible.”
A ripple of male laughter stung the air. The target crumpled in my fist.
“I think that’s enough for right now, though,” he continued smoothly. “Now it’s time for target shooting. Milady, if you’ll check everyone into their lanes and disburse the ammo, we’ll have practice for the rest of the session.”
I swallowed hard and started handing out ammo, going through the checklist with every kid. Leon’s eyes were open and dark, and he regarded me as if I’d just done something extraordinary.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
As soon as
I stepped out into the hall, I knew it was going to be something I wouldn’t like. Leon stiffened, his head coming up. There was Kir, red hair combed back and That Expression on his sharp face. Even his freckles looked serious. I’d given up wondering how a freckle-faced teenager could look so much like a disapproving granny.
There went my half hour or so to catch up before Aspect Mastery. Great. I was going to be tanking on quizzes next week like mad.
“Come with, okay?” I said as Kir approached. The students separated to give him room
—
I’d noticed that about the Council members. Everyone seemed to
know
they got space while walking down the hall. “I have Aspect Mastery in a half hour.”
“I don’t think—” Leon began, but I stepped away from him, walking to meet Kir. The two of them didn’t like each other much. I mean, I was totally on Leon’s side, but last time they’d almost had a dustup. I didn’t want to find out what would happen if Leon could make the redheaded granny lose his temper.
“Milady.” Kir, in jeans and a white button-down, looked easy and classic. He didn’t glance over my shoulder, but his entire body shouted that he was aware of Leon, glowering from behind me.
That was the Schola Prima. Love and happiness everywhere.
I hitched my bag up on my shoulder. “Let me guess. Council meeting.”
Kir shrugged. His eyelashes were coppery. For a moment he looked like he wanted to say something, his mouth opening and the lines of his face softening. Then he shut up, shook his head slightly, turned on his heel, and set off down the hall.
If Bruce came to pick me up I could look forward to some small talk. He was approachable in a way the others weren’t. Hiro was generally the nicest and didn’t blink no matter how many questions I asked—even if his answers were more like riddles. Kir, though, didn’t say a word. He spent the meetings looking at me with a puzzled expression, like I was a dog sitting up and talking instead of barking on the floor where I belonged.
He set a quick pace, too, and I struggled to keep up. Kept my head down and stretched my legs. At least while he was clearing traffic and I was hurrying, I didn’t have to really think. It was like tagging along after Dad.
Not really.
Leon brought up the rear, drifting in my wake. He didn’t even look out of breath. We arrived at the carved door in a shorter time than I’d thought possible. It opened, and Kir stepped aside. “Milady.”
I stepped on through, into the shabby sitting room. It wasn’t until the doors had clicked shut behind me that I realized Kir hadn’t followed. I stood there for a second, my bag strap sliding down my shoulder, and when the doors on the other side of the room ghosted open I was as ready as I was going to get.
Some part of me was expecting this. I smelled spice and perfume, and the flash of red jerked me up short like a watchdog on a chain.
Anna, framed in the door, stared at me. I stared back.
She looked a bit thinner, but what would make someone else haggard was only glamorous on her. It was the first time I’d seen her in anything other than an old-time dress. She was in fashionably frayed designer jeans and a scrap of red silk that had to be a top more expensive than any sane person would pay for. She was pale, bare arms and cleavage in a peeping-out red lace bra. I’m no bodybuilder, but Dad would have taken one look at Anna’s arms and pronounced them “weedy.” It wasn’t his most damning adjective, but it was close.
She was actually even smiling, heart-shaped face open and bright. “Well, hello there, stranger!”
I swear to God, she
chirped
at me.
A brief uneasiness filled me. I thought of stepping backward, decided it was better to show no fear. It was an article of faith with both Gran and Dad that showing fear was a good way to madden an already unpredictable person or animal.
“Hey. Kir said there was—”
“I asked him to bring you a little early. Girl time, you know.” She strolled into the room casually, dropped down on one of the leather couches. It didn’t even creak, receiving her the way it would a queen. “It gets so, well,
tedious
. Just boys hanging around.”
Something about the way she said it told me she didn’t find it boring at all. No, it sounded like she was expected to perfunctorily bemoan it, while looking at her nails and smirking that pleased little half-smile.
I stood there, not wanting to come any further into the room. Had no idea what I was going to say next, but my mouth up and took care of that for me. “Where’re your bodyguards? I never see them with you.”
And they all wear red shirts, don’t they? I’ll bet they do. And tight jeans.
“Oh, them.” She waved a hand. “They’re around. I don’t need them in here with a fellow
svetocha
, of course. They watch from in Shadow when I don’t want to be bothered.”
“In Shadow?” I repeated stupidly.
She waved one elegant hand. The cameo on a black ribbon at her slim white throat shifted a little. “We
can
go unnoticed, you know. And surely you’ve noticed that you only have to state a wish before they leap to obey? Such good little boys. I’ve trained them that way. It was hard work, but I managed.”
“Huh.” I eased a little farther into the room. Maybe the sense of danger before hadn’t been from her specifically.
Well, she hated Christophe. But it was easy to see how someone could. He was just so . . .
. . . what? I tried to come up with a word, but all I could think of was the boathouse at the other Schola. Where he’d held the knifepoint against his chest and said,
Don’t hesitate
. And where he’d put his arms around me, and I’d felt safe. Not the type of safe I’d felt with Graves, but still.
The fang marks on my wrist burned. I sat down on another couch, one with a straight shot for the door. This was the one Hiro most often perched on, his quick dark eyes taking in everything in the room.
I kind of wished he was here now. I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“That’s one thing about a Schola, Dru. Someone’s always watching.” A bright sunny smile. “
Always
. It’s like a big . . . security blanket.”
Funny, it didn’t sound like a security blanket. It sounded like a threat. Her bright blue eyes were on me, but I didn’t sense anything other than lazy contentment swimming through the windowless room. The fire—there was always a fire in here—crackled companionably. The
touch
was quiescent inside my skull, and I relaxed a little bit.
But if it hadn’t been Anna giving me the sense of danger before, then
who
? Or what? One of the Council?
The traitor, maybe? Everyone seemed to be so sure it was Christophe. Except me, and maybe the wulfen whose lives he’d saved. I was supposed to find out who wanted me dead here, but I wasn’t having any luck.
Jesus, I wish Dad was here.
“Anna.” I decided a frontal assault would be best, so to speak. “Can I ask you something?”
“You just did.” She made another lazy, hand-waving gesture. “But go ahead, dear.”
What the hell are you playing at?
But I chose something else instead. “Why do you hate Christophe?”