The Path of Razors

by Green, Chris Marie

  Della didn’t say a word. She had been trained better.

  Mrs. Jones swept out a hand, dismissing Della’s report. “Perhaps it was a caretaker who came by to monitor you with one of their modern, fancy machines. I believe they have items that can even catch sight of you through a slit in the window curtain. Who knows? They do take care to cover their presence as much as possible, even when it comes to giving off a scent.”

  A custode?

  Once, Della had seen the consultants during a trip to the main Underground, in a forbidden area where she had accidentally found herself among such darkness. Oppression.

  Yet she hadn’t felt any of that here in the hotel at all.

  Mrs. Jones glided to a vanity mirror, glancing this way and that, then smiled as she ran her hand over a high cheekbone.

  “The custode was no doubt in the midst of tracking last night’s intruders,” she said. “Before your Wolfie left to hide himself in one of his flats around the city for the time being, he suggested that perhaps all of us might attempt to hunt the attackers with our own predatory senses. But I reminded him that it might be best to play it safe at the moment. After all, Frank the vampire and his group did best you girls once, and I’d rather you and Wolfie were tucked in neat and tidy until the custodes can find the scoundrels and enlighten us as to their purposes. Besides, our contracted associates have their own means of effective searching, so it’s hardly worth worrying about their success.”

  Della knew that the mysterious custodes worked on their own, wandering the fringes of the Underground and taking care of any troubles that arose outside, and when she imagined that one of them might’ve been so close, every hair on her arms stood on end.

  From the far bed, Polly spoke. Next to her, Violet remained staring at the ceiling.

  “What do you mean by ‘custode,’ Mrs. Jones?”

  The older vampire smoothed her brown hair back into its bun, then turned away from the mirror. “Perhaps Della would be kind enough to give you the details she learned last night. I’m off to see to Mihas ... Wolfie”—she amended almost sharply—“and there, I’ll tie up the loose ends that your absences at Queenshill will cause.”

  Noreen the Curious sleepily asked, “How will you go about explaining that, Mrs. Jones?”

  The housematron gave the redhead a smile, although Della noticed it was laced with something she thought to be poisonous.

  “As far as the school knows, you four have left campus on a scholarly trip.”

  “Shall we call our parents to tell them where we’ll be?” Noreen added.

  Polly made a disparaging sound. “Not likely they’ll care.”

  Noreen’s sagging shoulders confirmed that. None of their parents cared, and that had led to the decision to become part of the Underground, where they belonged and were appreciated by Wolfie.

  Mrs. Jones’s smile turned into one of sympathy for Noreen. “I’ll contact your parents about your ‘field trip’ and take care of every other detail. I’ve whipped up a story about a most beneficial jaunt to study the cathedral in Durham. You’ve all decided to work there with me on an in-depth study for a few days, for the yearly project Queenshill requires of its students.”

  “And when shall we see Wolfie again?” Noreen asked.

  Mrs. Jones raised her chin, her gaze flaring, and it made Della recall how she had stumbled upon their housematron and Wolfie kissing last night.

  “As soon as these motley attackers are seen to,” Mrs. Jones said, her voice tight, “life as we know it shall resume.”

  Motley was putting it mildly. Besides the vampires, there had been human servants, including a hard female who had got Della in some manner of a mental hold.

  “Mrs. Jones,” Della ventured. “It seems as if our territories are rather unguarded. What if the intruders are affiliated with bad vampires ... ?”

  They had all been taught not to talk of Undergrounds or other blood brothers—who had a rumored tendency to overtake other communities—in the open.

  Mrs. Jones sighed, clearly spent by Della’s continued fretting.

  “I’m eager to return home, myself,” the housematron said. “Wolfie’s place”—she meant the main Underground at Highgate—“is being watched by a custode even as we speak.”

  Clearly finished with the conversation, Mrs. Jones began heading toward the door. “While I unsnarl matters, perhaps you ladies will study your French? Mademoiselle would be terribly upset with me if I didn’t see to your tutoring on our ‘trip.’ ”

  Polly rolled off her mattress, her bobbed strawberry blond hair askew from her rest. She went to her overnight bag and sifted through it. “Books here and accounted for. I’m only hoping that Noreen didn’t pack that awful perfume, too.”

  “Perfume?” Noreen asked.

  “That jasmine stink.”

  “I don’t wear perfume, much less a fragrance more suited to my grandmum.”

  While Polly shot Noreen a doubtful glance, Mrs. Jones narrowed her eyes, then took a deep breath, as if testing the air in the room.

  Della did the same. She had noticed much earlier that the jasmine scent that had been so abundant lately was absent, yet she didn’t know what to make of the fact.

  With no further remark, Mrs. Jones smiled indulgently at her charges, then swanned the rest of the way to the door. As she turned the handle, she aimed one last glance back at Della.

  A sharp glint lit through the dimness, and Della grabbed the armrests of her chair.

  Mrs. Jones had looked at her in such a way last night. A visual cut. A never-ending reminder that she would be watching whenever Della least expected it.

  As the elder vampire exited, Noreen hopped down from her own bed. Violet stayed lying on her back on the other, her gaze all but boring a hole in the ceiling.

  “You’d think,” Polly said as she continued tearing through her duffel, “that in our haste to leave Queenshill, we could’ve at least left the bloody books behind. I could’ve done without the load while Mrs. Jones forced us to make double time here.”

  “We never did gallop so fast,” Noreen said, fetching her books from her bag. “But, mind that as long as we obey, we’ll be cared for. It’s the golden rule.”

  Della rose from her chair, and both Polly and Noreen stood straight, clutching their books. There was a new respect in the way they looked at Della now, and she couldn’t help wrapping herself in it.

  Violet clearly noticed the change in atmosphere, because when she finally spoke, her tone sliced.

  “All hail to Della.”

  Noreen lowered her head and drifted closer to Polly, who looked as if she were trying valiantly not to glance at Violet, her best friend.

  Yet Della was done with always bowing to Violet. “We can carry on one of two ways, Vi. We can be civil about our situation and make life easier in this small room. Or we can make this place a lot more crowded by going at each other once more.”

  Violet turned her burning purplish gaze to Della. “Pity there’s a lack of tree branches here for you to impale me.”

  “Pity that branch didn’t go through your heart when I slammed you into it.”

  The room seemed sucked of air. Noreen and Polly stood closer to each other, inching away from Violet’s bed now.

  Their former leader sat up, her sable hair spilling over the shoulder that Polly and Noreen had been forced to heal last night after that branch had run through it.

  Now her voice came out as a warning hiss. “I wonder if your words would be so brave, Della, if Mrs. Jones were still in the room. If Wolfie were here.”

  “Both of them know what happened between us.” Della took a breath, exhaled, almost not wanting to say what came out of her mouth next. “And neither of them rebuked me. In fact, they seemed quite pleased that I stopped taking your rubbish and fought back.”

  She didn’t add that Wolfie had even appeared proud, that he had even mentioned that Della would make a fine soldier for the dragon—the ultimate master who would one
day rise and lead all the Undergrounds in a battle to dominate the world.

  Violet was shaking her head. “You don’t truly believe that Wolfie will stand for your behavior, do you, Della? Mrs. Jones is going to come back, and she’s going to punish you for what you did.” Her voice had grown thick. “She’s going to have such grand fun chaining you and making you a good girl. She’s only waiting ... only drawing out her pleasure.”

  Although Della thought this might be true, she would not allow the fear to consume her. She would not allow Violet or the other girls to see the panic in her mind, either, so she kept her thoughts closed.

  Della tilted her head, coming off braver than she had ever dreamed. “Wolfie doesn’t care, Violet. No matter how much you adore him or need him to love you back, he won’t.”

  “That’s crap.”

  Della shrugged, as if extending this argument would only sap her of precious energy. Then she turned her attention to fetching her French book from her own bag as Polly and Noreen lingered in anxious silence. Hunger was beginning to growl within her, and her skin, which had pores that could open to suck in blood if she wished to go that route, tingled.

  She had not eaten in a while....

  Violet sensed Polly’s and Noreen’s discomfort. “You two. Are you just going to stand there like dolts? Are you going to tolerate her cheek?”

  Della slid them a glance, and she didn’t even have to remind them, mind-to-mind, of who had won the face-off between her and Violet last night.

  Noreen stepped away from Polly and toward Della, coming to stand behind her.

  Violet went even paler than her normal shade.

  Then she fixed her gaze on her best friend.

  “Polly?” she asked in a threatening hiss—the sort of sound that had sawed at Della in the past, excising a vital part of her own being and leaving her to search for what was missing.

  Vampire or not, that was how girls such as Violet operated. That was how they fed and grew and ruled.

  Polly looked from Violet to Della. From Della to Violet.

  And when she held her book over her chest and quickly moved over to the table near Noreen and Della, Violet grasped the duvet on her bed, her nails growing into sharp curves.

  “You’re all going to regret this,” she said.

  Then she sent Della a lowered look of such rancor that Della decided to sit in a chair near the wall so her back would not be facing the other girl.

  But she couldn’t dismiss what she had seen on her classmate’s face. A decision that Della couldn’t quite read.

  A terrible judgment that they all might have to pay for.

  Pinches of caution swept up and down her flesh, yet she acted as if Violet were nothing.

  Instead, she opened her French text and began running through verb tenses with Polly and Noreen.

  Not too long afterward, Violet rose from the bed and went to the loo, where she slammed the door behind her. Water from the tap ran like a tumble of furious curses, but Della shut down her senses and ignored all the agitated sounds.

  Yet, five minutes later, she noticed that the water was still running.

  Be right back, she mind-thought to Polly and Noreen.

  They remained in their chairs while Della went to check on Violet.

  When she reached the loo, she found the door locked, so without much fuss, she busted it open, only to find the tiled room empty save for a heating vent’s grill that was unscrewed and leaning against a wall, as if quietly coaxed off.

  Her nerves jittered as she glanced at the open vent.

  Do you know what’s in store for you, little girl?

  Would Mrs. Jones blame Della and the others for allowing Violet outside when it was forbidden? And what might happen if Violet was caught by the intruders before the custodes could catch them?

  She used her mind to see if she could find Mrs. Jones or even Wolfie nearby, but both were out of range.

  No fear, Della. No fear.

  Anger took the place of all the empty, horrified places within Della, and she calmly shut off the water tap, knowing what she must do now, even without being told.

  How dare Violet put them all at risk.

  How dare she continue to try to hurt all of them.

  Believing that Wolfie and Mrs. Jones could not possibly blame her for taking this situation in hand, Della walked into the main room, where Polly and Noreen watched her. Then she went to the window, where she threw open the curtains to the coming dawn, which would bring a sun that didn’t hurt her kind unless the privilege of facing it was abused.

  All the while, rage kept the fear at bay: fear of punishment, fear of having this vampire life taken away when it was all she really had.

  Then Della closed her eyes and used an ability inherited from her creators.

  She thought about ravens, calling every bird within distance to her aid.

  THREE

  THE VAMPIRE HUNTERS

  Also Just Before Sunrise

  WHEN Costin punched the wall downstairs in the lab room of headquarters, he did it with a yell of rage that barely covered the crunch of his knuckles and the crash of plaster turning to dust.

  But the sound of his frustration was nothing next to the yell that pushed out of Dawn.

  “Costin!” She was near raw, pissed-off tears—she could feel them rising up—and that made her even angrier.

  She broke out of her shadowed corner, where she’d managed to find a slice of peace while the team debriefed about last night’s trip to Queenshill. As they’d traded observations and theories about the schoolgirl vampires who may or may not have been involved with a new Underground, Costin had gained enough strength to come out of his exhausted rest and emerge from the bedroom.

  When he’d entered the lab, he’d barely been restraining his agitation, but Dawn had seen the simmer under the ice-cool way he’d come to lean against the wall.

  She’d asked how he was doing, and he’d confessed that he’d been upstairs trying to expel Jonah, the entity he shared his body with. When that hadn’t worked, he’d attempted to escape his host altogether, even though he knew it wouldn’t be of any use because the days when he could leave this body to use his full powers were gone.

  As he’d relayed that, Costin had lost his composure, going for the wall before Dawn could even react.

  But now, after it was too late—and wasn’t that always the case?—she went to Costin and took his bloodied hand in hers.

  Yet it wasn’t like she could assuage him or anything. Jonah had permitted Costin, a Soul Traveler, to basically borrow his body: Jonah sheltered him, lent him physical form so Costin, who existed as an immaterial being, could complete his mission to win back his soul for good. But Jonah had gradually learned how to take over their shared body.

  Damn the guy, he’d learned real well, and it was tearing Costin into all kinds of pieces.

  The good news was that Costin was in control of his host right this minute, but Dawn suspected that was only because Jonah was biding his time until the whim to take over seized him again.

  The topaz gaze, which signaled Costin was in charge for now, burned feverishly, his dark hair slouching over his forehead, half shrouding his eyes while he watched Dawn inspecting his hand. She tried not to grimace at his bent, injured fingers.

  “I want him out,” Costin said, and to hear that kind of torture in The Voice—a deep, fingernails-over-bare-skin tone that had always held such great power over her—just about slayed Dawn.

  As if to balm her anguish, guilt seeped through her, silencing her. Over a year ago, she’d been the one who’d locked Costin into Jonah’s vampire body. But she could even trump that fact because, after the Queenshill trip last night, when Jonah had hijacked his and Costin’s body and taken it out of secure headquarters so he could prove to the team that he could also fight, she’d made a deal with him: the team would allow Jonah to aid in their missions, and in turn, he would let Costin out on occasion.

  A trade-off so that the
y could effectively continue to track and then wipe out the Undergrounds.

  A devil’s bargain.

  But she was used to making deals that involved a catch. Hell, she’d been the genius who’d turned Jonah and Costin into a vampire in the first place. It’d been the only option that would allow Costin to continue destroying the blood brothers.

  It’d been the only way to save him.

  While she wordlessly ran her fingers over his knuckles, she avoided Costin’s intense gaze. God, but she could still feel it on her, so she watched while the bones under his skin subtly undulated, his injuries mending.

  She only wished Costin’s powers could also heal all those deep-down inner wounds he would always carry.

  A stream of jasmine floated by, and she lifted her face to the scent, thankful for a distraction. Breisi, her favorite Friend spirit. One of many deceased vampire hunters who’d chosen to stay on and fight with Costin until the end.

  “Broken?” Breisi asked while circling around Dawn and her boss.

  Costin’s answer strung the atmosphere together even tighter. “Not for too long.”

  “Bully for vampire healing.” By now, Dawn’s inner swell of anger and remorse had receded to a burn in her throat. Good thing, too, because tears were a waste. “It’ll be interesting to see how long it takes for you to heal all the way.”

  “Yes, interesting.” Costin eased his hand out of her palm, but it left streaks of blood behind. His breathing quickened, as if the aroma got to him. “It never grows old, being this ever-changing experiment.”

  Dawn tried not to take offense to that. No matter how much he tried to hide it, she knew Costin—a crusader who’d despised the monsters he hunted—couldn’t reconcile himself to his vampiric state, much less her dominance over him. Ever since she’d exchanged blood with Costin in L.A. to keep him from expiring, she’d technically become his master. Of course, she’d had to kill her own maker to end his Underground, and that had turned her into a human again, but Costin didn’t exactly have the option to do the same with his master.