by Хлоя Нейл
Ethan nodded at a wall of books across the room, a bank of yellowed volumes with red numbers on the spines.
“The complete Canon,” he said, and I understood then why the Canon was delivered to Initiate vampires in Desk Reference form. There must have been fifteen or twenty volumes on each row, and there were multiple rows on multiple shelves.
“That’s a lot of law,” I told him, my gaze following the line of books.
“It’s a lot of history,” Ethan said. “Many, many centuries of it.” He glanced back at me. “You’re familiar with the origin of the House system, of the Clearings?”
I was. The Desk Reference, while apparently not offering the play-by-play that the complete collection provided, outlined the basic history of the House system, from its origins in Germany to the development of the French tribunal that, for the first time, collectively governed the vampires of Western Europe, at least until the Presidium moved the convocation to England after the Napoleonic Wars. Both acts were attributable to the panic caused by the Clearings.
“Then you understand,” he continued at my nod, “the importance of protecting vampires. Of building alliances.”
I did understand, of course, having been handed to Morgan to secure a potential Navarre alliance. “The Breckenridges,” I said. “I’d have considered them allies. I’d never have imagined that he’d talk to me that way. Not Nick. He called me a vampire—but it wasn’t just a word, Ethan. It was a swear. A curse.” I paused, lifted my gaze to Ethan. “He said he’d come after me.”
“You know that you’re protected?” he quietly asked, sincerely asked. “Being a Cadogan vampire. Living under my roof.”
I appreciated the concern, but it wasn’t that I feared Nick. It was that I regretted losing him to ignorance. To hatred. “The problem is,” I said, “not only are they not allies—they’re enemies.”
Ethan’s brow furrowed, that tiny line back between his eyebrows. And in his eyes—I don’t know what it was, other than the heavy weight of something I was confident I’d prefer not knowing. I wasn’t sure where his speech had been going, maybe just an acknowledgment of vampire history, but it felt like he wasn’t sharing everything he might have. Something waited on the cusp.
Whatever it was, he shook it off, blanked his expression, and assumed the tone of Master vampire.
“I brought you here—the information is at your disposal. We know you’re powerful. Support that power with knowledge. It wouldn’t do for you to remain ignorant.”
I squeezed my eyes shut at the strike. When I opened them again, he was headed for the door, his exit marked by the receding sound of his footsteps on the marble floor. The door opened and closed again, and then the room was quiet and still, a treasure box closed off to the greater world.
As I turned back to the books and scanned the shelves, I realized his pattern. Whenever he began to see me as something more than a liability or a weapon, whenever we spoke to each other without the barrier of rank and history between us, he backed away, more often than not insulting me to force the distance. I knew at least some of the reasons he backed away—including his general sense of my inferiority—and suspected others—the difference in our rank.
But there was something else there, something I couldn’t identify. The fear in his eyes revealed it—he was afraid of something. Maybe something he wanted to tell me. Maybe something he didn’t want to tell me.
I shook my head to clear the thought, then checked my watch. It was two hours until dawn, the bulk of my evening having been taken up by Ethan, Nick, and my father, so I took the opportunity to give the library the perusal of a former researcher.
The books were organized into fiction and nonfiction sections just like a traditional library, every section organized, every shelf impeccably clean. There must have been thousands of volumes in the room, and there was no way a collection that large could be maintained without a librarian. I looked around, but saw no sign of a circulation desk or administrator. I wonder who’d been lucky enough to get that assignment. And more importantly, I wondered why I hadn’t been the obvious nominee. Books or a sword for an English lit student? Seemed like an easy call.
I searched the shelves for something readable and decided on a book of urban fantasy from the popular fiction shelf. I left the library after a geekily wistful goodbye, promising the stacks that I’d return when I had more time, then headed downstairs and toward the back of the House. I followed the long central hallway to the cafeteria area, where a handful of vampires munched on predawn snacks, their gazes lifting as I walked to the back door. I slipped outside to the brick patio that spanned the end of the House, then followed a path to the small formal garden. In the middle of the garden was a fountain illuminated by a dozen in-ground lights, and the light was just strong enough to read by. I picked a bench, curled my legs into the seat, and opened the book.
Time passed, the grounds quiet and empty around me. Since the night was waning, I dog-eared and closed the book and uncrossed my legs. As I stood, I glanced up at the back of the House. A figure stood at a window on the third floor, hands in pockets, facing the garden.
It was a window in Amber’s former room, the Consort suite beside Ethan’s, the rooms he’d cleaned out. She was gone, and so was the furniture; I couldn’t imagine that anyone but him would be in the room, much less staring into the garden.
I stood there for a moment, book in my arms, watching his meditation. I wondered what he thought about. Did he mourn for her? Was he angry? Was he embarrassed that he hadn’t predicted her betrayal? Or was he ruminating on the things that had happened tonight, worrying about Nicholas, Celina, and whatever war she might be leading us into?
The horizon began to purple. Since I had no urge to be caught in the sun, reduced to ashes because I’d been curled up with a paperback in the garden—or spying on my Master—I returned to the House, occasionally glancing up at the window, but he never changed position.
Peter Gabriel came to mind, his lyric about working just to survive. Ethan did that. Day in and day out, he kept watch over more than three hundred Cadogan vampires. We were a kind of kingdom, and he was the lord of the manor, the figurative and literal Master of the House. Our survival was a responsibility that fell upon his shoulders, and had since Peter Cadogan’s death.
It was, I realized, a responsibility I trusted him with. Ethan’s biggest fault, at least so far as I was aware, was his inability to separate that responsibility from everything else in this life.
Everyone else in his life.
And so, on a night in late May, I found myself standing on the lawn of a Hyde Park mansion of vampires, staring up at the stone-framed visage of a boy in Armani, an enemy who’d become an ally. Ironic, I thought, that I’d given up one ally today, but gained another.
Ethan ran a hand through his hair.
“What are you thinking about?” I whispered up, knowing he couldn’t hear me.
Where was a boom box when you needed one?
CHAPTER 11
IN WHICH OUR HEROINE IS SENT TO THE PRINCIPAL’S OFFICE
I woke with a start, sitting straight up in bed. The sun had finally set, allowing me the few hours of consciousness I’d be afforded each day during my first summer as a vampire. I wondered if life would be different in the winter, when we had hours and hours of darkness to enjoy.
On the other hand, we also had lake-effect snow to enjoy. That was going to make for a lot of cold, dark hours. I made a mental note to find a warm spot in the library.
I got up, showered, ponytailed my hair, and put on the training ensemble I’d been ordered to wear today. Although I wasn’t officially on the clock, and had Mallory’s not-going-that-far-away party and a follow-up date with Morgan to look forward to, the Cadogan guards and I were scheduled for a group training exercise so that we could learn to be better—or at least more efficiently violent—vampires.
The official workout uniform was a black mid-torso sports tank with crisscrossing straps and snug
hip-waisted, yoga-type pants that reached mid-calf. Both, of course, in black, except for the stylized silver C on the upper left-hand side of the tank.
It might not have been a terribly interesting ensemble, but it covered a lot more skin than the outfit Catcher forced me to wear during his training sessions; sand volleyball players got to wear more clothing.
I slid on flip-flops for the walk downstairs, grabbed my sword, and shut the door behind me before making my way through the second floor to the main stairway, and then up to the third.
Lindsey’s door was open, her room as loud as it had been two days ago, an episode of South Park now blaring from the tiny television.
“How do you sleep in here?” I asked her.
Lindsey, in the same outfit as me, her blond hair in a low ponytail, sat on the edge of her bed and pulled on tennis shoes. “When you’re forced unconscious by the rising of the sun, it kinda takes care of itself.”
“Good point.”
“How was your date with Ethan last night?”
I should have known that was coming. “It wasn’t a date.”
“Whatevs. You’re hot for teacher.”
“We were in the library.”
“Oh, nookie in the stacks. Figures you’re the type to have that fantasy, grad school and all.” Her feet clad in running shoes that had seen many, many better days, she hopped off the bed and grinned at me. “Let’s go do some learnin’.”
Downstairs in the Operations Room, Lindsey and I took a peek at our folders (empty) before filing toward the gigantic room at the end of the hall. This was the Sparring Room—the place where I challenged Ethan during my first trip to Cadogan House. It was high-ceilinged and boasted fighting mats and an arsenal of antique weaponry. The room was also ringed by a balcony, giving observers a firsthand view of the action below.
Today, thankfully, the balcony was empty. The room, however, was not. Guards milled about on the edges of the fighting mats, and a pissed-off-looking sorcerer stood in the middle in white martial arts-style pants, the circle tattoo blue-green across his abdomen. In his hands was the handle of his gleaming katana, overhead lights glinting from the pristine blade.
I was behind Lindsey and nearly stumbled into her when she stopped short and gave a low whistle in Catcher’s direction. She glanced back at me. “Speaking of being hot for teacher. He’s still dating Carmichael, right?”
“Very much so.”
She muttered an expletive that drew a chuckle from Juliet and a low, possessive growl from Luc. “That is a damn shame.”
“Can you at least pretend to be professional today?”
Lindsey stopped, glanced back at Luc. “You show me professional, and I’ll show you professional.”
Luc snorted, but his expression was gleeful. “Sweetheart, you wouldn’t know professional if it bit you on the ass.”
“I prefer my bites in other places.”
“Is that an invitation?”
“If only you were so lucky, cowboy.”
“Lucky? Hooking up with me would be the luckiest day of your life, Blondie.”
“Oh, please.” The word was spoken with such sarcasm that she stretched it into a couple of syllables.
Luc rolled his eyes. “All right, you’ve had your fun, now get that ass on the mat, if you can spare us a few minutes.” He walked away before she could respond, moving around to wrangle other guards into position.
At the edge of the mats, as we peeled off our shoes, I gave her a sideways glance. “Torture isn’t kind.”
She gave an acknowledging nod, smiled back. “True. But it sure as hell is amusing.”
When we were barefoot, we stepped onto the mats and did some perfunctory stretching, then moved back to the edge and stood in a line before Catcher. We descended to our knees and sat back in the seiza position, left hands on the handles of our swords, ready to listen.
When we were ready, Luc moved to stand beside Catcher, hands on his hips, and surveyed us.
“Ladies and . . . ladies,” Luc said, “since the sexual harassment has already started, I assume you’ve recognized that we have a special guest. In two weeks, we’ll be evaluating you on your katana skills, memory of the Katas, ability to execute the moves. In lieu of kicking each other’s asses, enjoyable as that would be for me, Catcher Bell”—he inclined his head in Catcher’s direction—“a former Keeper of the Keys, is going to show you how it’s done. As Cadogan guards, and under my auspicious leadership, you are, of course, the best of the best, but he’ll make you better.”
“Top Gun,” I whispered to Lindsey. We’d started pointing out Luc’s ubiquitous pop culture references, having decided that because he cut his fangs in the Wild West, he’d been entranced by movies and television. You know, because living in a society of magically enhanced vampires didn’t require enough willing suspension of disbelief.
“He’s no longer a member of the Order,” Luc told us, “but a civilian, so no need to salute him.” Luc chuckled to himself, apparently amused by the throw-in. A couple of the guards laughed for effect, but mostly we groaned.
Lindsey leaned over. “You called it. Nice ass,” she whispered, “but original, he ain’t.”
I was proud that Luc at least rated a “nice ass.”
Catcher stepped forward, and the gravity of his gaze—which landed consecutively on each of us—shut down the snark immediately.
“You can jump,” he said, “but you cannot fly. You live at night, because you cannot stand the sun. You are immortal, but a splinter of wood, carefully placed, will reduce you to ashes.” The room went noticeably silent. He walked to the end of the line, began slowly pacing back. “You have been hunted. You have been exterminated. You have lived, hidden, for thousands of years. Because, like humans, like the rest of us, you have weaknesses.”
He raised his katana, and I blinked as the blade caught the light, gleamed. He stopped in front of Peter. “But you fight with honor. You fight with steel.”
He took another step, stopped in front of Juliet. “You are stronger.”
Another step, and he was before Lindsey. “You are faster.”
He paused before me. “You are more than you were.”
My skin pebbled with goose bumps.
“Lesson number one,” he said. “This is not swordplay. Call it that around me and risk the consequences. Lesson number two. You’ve been lucky so far—you’ve had peace for nearly a century, at least amongst the Houses, but that’s gonna change. Celina’s out, Celina’s narcissistic, and Celina, maybe now, maybe later, will do damage if she can.” Catcher tapped a finger against the side of his head. “That’s the way she operates.”
He lifted his katana, held it horizontally before him. “This is your weapon, your safety net, your life. This is not a toy, capiche?”
We nodded collectively.
Catcher turned, walked to another edge of the mat, and picked up the sheath for his katana. He sheathed the blade, then grabbed two bokken—wooden training swords that roughly echoed the shape and weight of the katanas—and came back again. He spun one bokken in his hand, as if adjusting to its weight. The second, he pointed at me. “Let’s go, Sunshine.”
Damn, I thought, not eager to be the focus of Catcher’s lesson, especially in front of an audience, but I stood up and unbelted my own katana, then bowed respectfully before stepping into the middle of the mat. Catcher handed me the extra bokken.
“The next time we do this,” he told the band of guards, who all looked a little too eager to watch me fight, “we do it blindfolded. Your senses are all good enough that you should be able to fend off an attack even without your visual acuity. But today”—Catcher bladed his body, one foot before the other, knees bent, both hands around the handle of his sword—“you may use your eyes. Standing position,” he ordered, indicating that I could defend his attack without having to rise and act out the unsheathing of my sword.
I mirrored his stance, two sword lengths between us, bokken raised over our heads.
When we’d completed the first Kata, we went back to our starting position, then worked through the remaining six. He seemed generally pleased with my work, at one point stepping back and making me repeat the final three Katas against an invisible opponent to check my form. He was an exacting teacher, with comments about the angle of my spine, the placement of my fingers around the handle, whether my weight was appropriately distributed. When we were done, and after he’d made comments to the group, he turned back to me.
“Now we spar,” he said, eyebrows arched in challenge.
My stomach sank. It was easy enough to hide multiple vampire personalities when I was wearing fancy clothes or walking around the block. It was going to be a lot harder in the middle of a sparring round when a wooden sword was being aimed at my head. That was just the kind of thing that got her attention.
I blew out a breath and bladed my body again, my sword before me. I wiggled my fingers, adjusting their positions on the blade, trying to keep my heart from racing in anticipation of the coming battle.
No. Correction: battles.
Between me and Catcher, and between me and her. The vampire inside.
“Ready. Set. Fight,” Catcher said, and attacked.
He came at me with his arms raised, and brought the katana down in a clean, straight slice. I pivoted out of the way, bringing my own sword horizontal and swinging it around in a move that would have sliced his belly open. But for a human, Catcher was fast, not to mention nimble. He spun around in the air, his body at an angle, and avoided the slice of my bokken.