Jealousy

by Lili St. Crow

  “Wait. The aura-dark.” I remembered that term faintly. “What is that?”

  Nobody breathed or moved for a long few seconds. I was getting used to that, whenever I asked a really basic question. They took all these things for granted, since most of them had been raised djamphir . It kind of made me wonder what I’d be taking for granted if Mom was still alive.

  Now there was an uncomfortable thought.

  Beaufort looked up over my head, and a faint tinge of pink touched his cheeks. “It is what happens when a djamphir drinks blood. After a certain point, the, ah, the nosferat part of our heritage rises to the surface. We gain more strength, more speed—and less ability to withstand sunlight. It burns us just as it burns them, when we give in to the craving.” His mouth pursed. “We’ll cover more of that later, Milady. With your permission?”

  So that was why Christophe had hidden from the sun after biting me. I nodded, pulled my jaw back up. Closed my mouth with a snap. Gee, I was just learning new things all over. I wished I had my hoodie on. Gooseflesh crept up my arms, spread down my back.

  “Without the King, the Court scattered and gradually lost their ability to walk during the day. Which brings us back to the point of this lecture. Why do you suppose Scarabus had to hide his sister?”

  I just knew I was going to say something snide. “For snacking later?”

  There were a couple of gasps, one horrified chuckle, and several snorts. A few of the boys looked down at their notepads or books, one or two of them with bright crimson cheeks.

  I never used to wise off in class. Things were just changing all over.

  If Beaufort’s mouth could have turned down any further, he would have looked like a commercial for bitter beerface. “No, Milady. Because the thing that allowed the Vampire King—and therefore the rest of the wampyr—to walk during the day was regular ritual infusions of svetocha blood. Which is, incidentally, what makes svetocha such high-priority targets for both us and them.” The grimace eased up into a mirthless grin, one that showed his white, white teeth as the aspect ran through him again. The fangs look different when they’re exposed and lengthening. Thicker, with a distinctive curve. “Svetocha have become increasingly rare ever since, for reasons we’re still working to understand.” He finally turned away from me, his eyes roving the class. “Over the course of four centuries after the killing of the King, the Court scattered. Human populations were also on the move, and a pale copy of the original Court settled in Greece, since Egypt and, by extension, the Hittite empire proved . . . unwholesome. Unfortunately, though, Scarabus and his followers could only train so many djamphir; casualties were high, and the wampyr had the upper hand until fairly recently, when the Treaty with the wulfen was made.” He glanced at the clock over the door. “I think that’s enough lecture for today. Open your books to page 285, please, and—”

  I dug for my book, but the roaring in my ears drowned out most of what he said next. The marks on my wrist had mostly healed by now. They were just two innocent little bruised-looking divots, right where the radial pulse beat. Marks from Christophe’s teeth.

  I didn’t take. I only borrowed. Remember that.

  He could have killed me. I remembered the ripping, tearing, awful sensation as something more than blood was pulled out of me. And that was only three long, hellish gulps. And after that he’d called up fog to shield us and hunted the vampires chasing us and—

  “Milady?” Beauforte’s voice. “Be so kind as to read us the first passage on page 285.”

  “Yeah.” I flipped two more pages. “Sure. All right. Two eighty-five.”

  My eyes wandered and I had something caught in my throat. But I got through three paragraphs on something about the patterns of vampire migration during the Peloponnesian War and wasn’t called on for the rest of the class. I made it through by just putting my head down and staring at the pages, my eyes blurring. I’d catch hell for it on quizzes next week, but Jesus. Remembering someone sucking your blood—and soul—out of you isn’t comfortable.

  What would it be like to have that happen until you died?

  I shifted uncomfortably every time I thought about it, and by the time class was over I was so ready to get the hell out of there. So it came as a complete surprise when the silk-button-down boy in front of me turned around and leaned over the back of his couch. “Hey.”

  The book went jammed back into my bag. I grabbed my hoodie, shrugged into it. “Yeah?”

  So I didn’t sound very welcoming. So what?

  “You, um, wanna have some coffee? Sometime?”

  What? I stared at him like he was speaking a foreign language, and the shuffling noise in the room as everyone got ready to go crested. Then I realized what he was asking me, for whatever reason.

  Words finally occurred to me. “I guess so.”

  Now why did you say that, Dru? Like you’ve got time for a coffee klatch. But hell, it was the first time someone had said anything to me that they didn’t absolutely have to. And yeah, I was the new girl. Always be cautious of the first guy who talks to you—that’s the rule for new girls. I could have recited it in my sleep.

  But it had worked out fine last time, with Graves. Or not so fine, considering he’d kissed me once and decided he didn’t want to go further. And this guy looked so hopeful, and his blue eyes were warm and shy.

  “I mean, sure,” my mouth replied independently of my brain. “Like when?”

  He looked surprised but covered it well. “Um. Huh. Well, when are you free?”

  Leon made a stifled noise behind me. I ignored him. “Weekends, mostly. Except this Saturday, I’m, uh, busy. So, um, Sunday? Like around one or so? We can meet in the caf.”

  Way to play hard to get, Dru.

  He looked like I’d just given him Christmas. “Yeah.” He stuck his hand over the back of the couch. “I’m Zeke.”

  I barely pressed his warm fingers. Some guys go for the squeeze to prove they’re manly, but he wasn’t one. The touch didn’t leap to show me anything about him, either. “Dru.”

  “I know.” He gave me a grin, dropped my hand, grabbed his books, and beat it out the door. I would have been insulted, but the way he was blushing was kind of cute.

  “The ice,” Leon said to thin air over my head, “has now officially broken.”

  I rolled my eyes, hauled myself to my feet. Said nothing. Sometimes, if you just ignore him when he gets all sarcastic, he shuts up.

  Today was not one of those times.

  “I suppose you wouldn’t care to come out to coffee with any of us.” He was still talking to the air above my head, his arms folded.

  Oh, Jesus. I kept my hand down with an effort. I was playing with Mom’s locket more and more often now. “Nobody ever asks me. I spend every day with you guys. What the hell?”

  A single shrug, and he turned on his heel. “You’re going to be late. And you should be ready for that sort of reaction, Milady.”

  “Why? What’s so wrong with a cup of coffee? Nobody else bothers to talk to me.”

  “I really do believe you are a babe in the woods sometimes.” He took two gliding strides, cocked his head like he expected me to follow. “You’re svetocha, Milady. One girl, out of a total of two, in a school full of restless, hungry boys raised and schooled to be Kouroi. And . . .” A quick look around, his fine hair ruffling. The room had emptied. “Wherever you cast your glances, there will be trouble. Some have used that type of trouble to further their own ends.”

  Did he mean that I’d already made trouble, or something else? Guess which one my money was laid on.

  “You mean Anna,” I said flatly.

  He gave me one of those Significant Glances a guy gives when he thinks you’re dumb but you’ve hit on something anyway. “I mean that your time is more precious than you know. Especially if they hold Trials.”

  Trials. I’d finally found out what that meant, even though Benjamin didn’t want to talk about it. Where they slug it out over who gets to be in a particu
lar group—in this case, one of my bodyguards. I didn’t like the notion. I mean, I can see the benefit of someone who will successfully beat the shit out of someone else as a bodyguard, but . . . it just didn’t seem right.

  Besides, someone had tried to kill me in a Schola before. Several times. What’s to say that whoever won the Trials wouldn’t be someone who would try to put me in front of the suckers again? Or even . . .

  Once I started going down that mental road, I started wondering about Benjamin and his entire crew. What if one of them had a reason to hate me? I saw them every day. Their rooms were right next to mine.

  I ate lunch with them, for Christ’s sake.

  “I’m not looking to hold Trials.” I hitched my bag up on my shoulder and headed for the door, my empty latte cup crumpling in one fist.

  He got there first, swept the heavy door open, and glanced out into the hall. “Very wise of you. Or not.”

  “My thoughts exactly.” I pushed past him, out into the hall, and stamped away.

  It was going to be one of those days.

  Of all my classes, Basic Firearm Safety was probably my favorite. Maybe because the first time I’d shown up, the lean dark unsmiling instructor—Babbage—had asked me what I knew about guns. I played a little dumb, asked him what he meant, and he smirked and showed me a table with a range of handguns, four different rifles, an AK-47, and a crossbow. There was ammo set off to the side, and he asked me if I had any idea what to do with any of it.

  In front of the class, I checked, loaded, and laid each handgun; clipped the magazine into the AK-47; and was loading the rifles when the teacher coughed and said, “Well, I guess we know who my assistant this semester will be.”

  Everyone had laughed, and I’d finished loading the rifles too. There was no reason to stop, and it felt good to have my hands performing movements they knew by heart.

  I didn’t touch the crossbow, though. It looked like a polycarbon recurve, not a compound. The arrows were weird, with a head I’d never seen before. Even the gang down in Carmel who went out to clean sucker holes—the only time I ever heard of humans taking on suckers and winning—used guns, more guns, and flamethrowers. Nothing even close to a crossbow, for Christ’s sake.

  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 h
and 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.”