Sangster clawed at his own forehead. “If the Scholomance is serious, serious enough to try to get rid of Alex, then he’s important to our mission.”
Armstrong turned to Carreras. “As much as I hate to say it, I agree. Look, they’re already gonna try to kill him every chance they get, so that’s nothing new.”
“Yeah,” said Alex brightly. “That’s nothing new.”
Armstrong seemed to think of a new angle. “Could this be about Montrose?”
“What’s Montrose?” Alex asked.
“That would be the man behind Chatterbox,” Sangster said. “And I have no idea if it’s related or not.”
Carreras nodded and finally said, “We need to find out what this Voice is up to. Alex stays with the school—wherever the school is.”
Alex opened his hands, Whaa? “I just said it’s my decision. . . .”
“Very good, sir,” Sangster said.
The supplies Sangster and Alex had to get were actually bigger than the van: a trailer full to the brim of cots and bedding, which they loaded from the dock of a store warehouse in Secheron with the help of various workmen brought in at Otranto’s behest.
When they left the warehouse, Alex saw that they were headed out of town. “This isn’t the way back to Village Hall,” he observed as Sangster drove.
“We’re not going back to Village Hall,” said the instructor.
“Where are we going?”
“Someplace safe.”
Twenty minutes later the van fell in line behind the caravan of buses pulling down a long, manicured drive that Alex recognized. He read the stone sign as they passed it on the driveway.
“LaLaurie School for Girls,” he said thoughtfully. “Of course.”
“Our sister school. It’s temporary,” Sangster said, “just long enough to see what kind of damage the fire caused and get us back open. But this was the only place available.”
Sangster drove around the buses and parked in the circular drive at the front of the mansionlike building. Alex blinked in wonder at a strange vision. A line of ten or so old-fashioned oil lanterns threaded out the entrance, held aloft by women and girls in uniform coming down the wide front steps. The light from the lamps danced across the courtyard and his heart leapt at the warmth of the gesture.
As Alex got out of the van, he paused.
Standing on the steps before him, holding up a lantern like a beacon at sea, was Minhi Krishnaswami.
“Welcome,” she said.
Chapter 4
Javi and the other RAs were drafted into the service of handing out bedrolls and pillows, and the boys all fell into line. Alex, Sid, and Paul took the bedding that was offered and walked, dazed and exhausted, following like ants into the gymnasium of LaLaurie.
They trudged in silence up into the building. Alex had thought previously that LaLaurie was like “Glen-arvon with more flowers,” and now, as his shoes echoed on the tile floor and he and Paul caught sight of one or two girls looking past doors that led up into stairwells and private rooms, LaLaurie reminded him of “Glenarvon except not on fire.”
“We are in foreign territory now, mate,” said Paul.
“Did you get to talk to Minhi?” Alex asked.
“Just for a moment,” Paul responded. “She had to get the hot chocolate.” Minhi had led the first group inside while Alex and his friends got into line.
Minhi was their friend already. She had come into their lives like one of the manga characters she loved, bending back Bill Merrill’s ear to stop a fight that Alex actually would have won anyway. She had defused a violent situation and introduced herself as “Minnie-with-an-h,” and they had instantly liked her. Besides all that, she had loaned Sid a stack of books. And then she and Paul had been kidnapped by vampires. The time in captivity had brought her close to Paul, and over the past month the gang—Paul, Sid, Minhi, and Alex, the four who shared the truth—had gathered together whenever they could find an excuse to meet up in town.
The three boys reached the entrance to the gymnasium and Paul let out a slow whistle. “Behold,” he said, “the Kingdom of Cots.”
The gymnasium had become a kind of hostel, with cots stretching in long rows. Some boys were already asleep, while others were gathering in groups around the cots. Alex saw sooty faces looking back at him all along the way. He was momentarily plagued by guilt at not seeing the loathed Merrill brothers. They were a couple of jerks, but no one deserved what Steven had gotten, and Alex especially didn’t like being the reason for it. “It looks like Gone with the Wind in here,” Alex said, thinking of the makeshift hospitals that had been set up during the American Civil War. He had seen that movie with his mother, who had a weakness for old movies, and he had been struck by the images of public halls being converted this way, with cots and sheets and, in that case and thankfully not this one, doctors with hacksaws.
“Guys!” Minhi beckoned them from a table along the wall, where she was briefly visible through a clustered crowd of boys. Alex saw the steam rising off the Styrofoam cups they held, and he realized she was giving away hot chocolate.
He, Paul, and Sid picked up their step. When they got there, Minhi poured cups and handed one immediately to each of them.
“Thank you,” Sid said.
“Absolutely,” Minhi said. She reached out and hugged Paul, pecking him on the cheek.
Alex took the kiss Minhi gave Paul in stride. No big deal. Precisely why he wasn’t bothered by it. Not at all.
A girl next to Minhi cleared her throat, and Alex turned to the sound of papers rustling. The girl stood up from her place behind the table and said, “Please take one.”
“What’s all this?” Alex asked as he took the paper. The girl looked up with a tired but patient look. She wore a green, shimmery scarf, tied in a jaunty fashion around her neck. Her hair was brown and chin length, stiff and well arranged.
“This is everything you’re going to need to know for the next few days at least,” she said with an accent that reminded Alex of a Pedro Almodovar movie, husky and full of strange, slushy s’s and y’s that sounded like j’s: Thish izh everything jor going to need. As she spoke, the scarf danced briefly. She swept her arm toward the Kingdom of Cots. “This is where you’ll sleep. There’s a map on the sheet, and hours when you’ll have access to the showers in the back of the gym. We didn’t have much time but there are some . . . rules and instructions on what to do about classes.” She smiled very slightly, more with her eyes than her mouth.
Sid was looking at the paper. “Yeah, how are we gonna do classes? And where are the instructors sleeping? And—”
“Ah—right now the paper is all we have. If the answer’s not there it’s because no one’s told us yet.” Alex noticed that she sounded both compassionate and weary, as though she’d already said this too many times.
“Vienna, these are my friends,” Minhi interjected. “This is Alex Van Helsing, Sid Chamberlain, and this is Paul Messina.”
“Oh, this is Paul,” Vienna said, and she flicked her eyes up and down. “Eso es.”
“Vienna?” Alex asked.
“This is Vienna Cazorla,” said Minhi. “She’s my roommate.”
“Cazorla,” Vienna corrected, hitting the middle z with a th sound, Cathorla. She smiled briefly again, an entrancing and instantly vanishing phenomenon.
Alex tried to think of something good and came up with, “Cazorla, that’s Spanish, right?”
She nodded. The eyes again. Wow.
“But yet your first name is Vienna, that’s . . . unusual, isn’t it?”
“It is a strange world.” Vienna shrugged. Then she remembered her list and looked down, checking off the three boys’ names. She flipped through it for a moment and glanced up, gazing past them. “Is there no one else?”
“We’re the last,” Alex said. He started to say something profoundly stupid like we always save the best for last and by the grace of God he somehow did not.
“What about . . .” Vienna bit her li
p, searching her list.
For a moment Minhi and Vienna turned to each other, and Vienna looked back. “Do you know Steven Merrill?”
Alex felt the blood drain from his face. A jumble of responses flooded into his mind, and he stammered, “You . . . you’re looking for Steven?” The silent terror of Glenarvon? The one who got bitten by a vicious Glimmerhook?
“I don’t see either of them,” Vienna said to Minhi. By which she meant the Merrills.
Paul was looking at Minhi, with a sort of Wha—? look.
“They haven’t come in,” said Minhi. “Vienna and Steven are . . .”
“Old friends,” Vienna said. “From primary school.”
“Oh,” Alex said, trying to take in the strange revelation that the Merrills could have friends. He had thought their amusements ran more to the torturing puppies variety. But the arm-swinging joie de vivre had gone out of Vienna.
“Steven’s been injured,” Alex said finally. “His brother is with him at the hospital.”
Vienna’s eyes grew wide and she brought her hand to her lips. She flipped the sheets, clearing her throat again. “I’ll make a note of it.” Abruptly she smiled awkwardly at Minhi and scurried away, disappearing out of the gymnasium entirely.
Paul watched her go. He said to Minhi, “A friend of yours is a friend of theirs?”
“Do you really want to get into this now?” Minhi asked.
Chapter 5
In the Kingdom of Cots the refugees slept fitfully, Alex and Sid and Paul next to one another. Sheets were strung from metal pipes that had been rolled in, making the place look even more like a wartime hospital than it had before.
There were countless basic necessities that everyone was slow to realize he was missing—Alex, for instance, needed contact solution because he’d been wearing his contacts for two days. They were the extended-wear kind; he could keep them in for two weeks if need be, but ever since he’d gotten them he’d been in the habit of taking them out every night, anyway. It went with preparing for bed as surely as did brushing his teeth and changing into pajamas; on went the glasses.
Alex was pretty sure his glasses had melted clean away in the fire. He would need to go into town and get a new prescription and some new glasses, any glasses. Just for some normalcy.
Breakfast in the morning was brought into the Kingdom of Cots on long tables, and Headmaster Otranto addressed them as they filed like zombies through the line for bread and juice.
“This is not a permanent solution,” Otranto said.
“Sir, when are we going back to the school?” Javi the RA asked cautiously. Alex leaned against the wall, sipping his orange juice. When indeed.
“Ah, yes,” Otranto said. He thrust his hands in his pockets. “It will take some time. There is considerable damage to Aubrey House and the inspectors have only begun to look at it. And unfortunately before we can repair, there are certain requirements that we will have to meet, requirements that we were allowed to ignore as long as no new construction was going on. I’m talking about things you may not keep track of, air conditioning, old insulation in the ceilings. The answer is, months.”
Everyone was stunned. Alex looked back at the cots and hanging sheets and the students’ looks of horror.
“If we’re lucky,” Otranto continued. “So. It is time we discuss what we are going to do now. This school, LaLaurie School, was founded in 1834 by the same American and French investors who founded Glen-arvon, converting a number of grand houses left in a patron’s will. There is one house that has not been used in over seventy-five years. It has rooms enough to house us. Some of you who have been in double rooms will now be in triples—we can’t help that.” Alex glanced around again and judged that tripling up might not be necessary: There were already fewer students anyway. Some boys had trickled out in the wee hours. Alex had even seen Fred Schunk, another of the RAs, shaking Otranto’s hand, a valet in the hall behind him holding what was left of Fred’s stuff.
Another boy, a senior Alex had never met, raised a hand. “Sir? What caused the fire?”
Alex stiffened and shot a look at Sangster, who stood calmly nearby.
Otranto scratched the back of his neck. “It’s not final, but I can say that this morning the inspectors brought me a burnt-out electrical plug. So at this point it looks like a wiring mishap.”
Alex blinked. Sangster nodded an impossibly tiny nod, a micro-expression that said, We’ve got this covered. The Polidorium: good friends to have, and likely terrible enemies.
Otranto continued, “The Board of Regents at Glenarvon has released sufficient funds for us to prepare the house to live in. This will be done with workers and with the help of the students, and I trust all of you will volunteer to assist in the effort.”
Otranto looked around. “Am I correct?”
Paul whispered, “What do you think that place looks like? A bunch of rotten beds, covered in sheets? If there are beds.”
“Am I correct?” Otranto said again.
Alex loved the thought of the boys of Glenarvon forced to do manual labor. Loved it. He had spent his life choosing things that didn’t fit the family name (the public version, not the secret, thought-to-be-fictional one). He abandoned the violin as soon as he could ditch the lessons, hating the gentility of it and the incessant repetition of “The Children’s Waltz.” He was expected to learn to sail, and did, though he preferred to use his muscles in other ways, entering more and more dangerous pastimes. He was always amazed that “people like us” would spend hours in a gym but couldn’t be bothered to lift a couch. So he was eager to see these guys at work.
Alex leaned forward. “Absolutely.”
This broke the silence, and many more boys spoke up.
Otranto was satisfied. “That too is not a permanent solution. Glenarvon will be repaired. Even now we are assessing the damage. Glenarvon will not die on my watch,” he said flatly.
“What do we do now?” Paul called. “What about classes?”
“Class assignments are posted on the board,” Otranto said, pointing at a bulletin board that someone had installed overnight. Alex saw rows of yellow legal paper there. “What you do now is get back to being students. We are guests of LaLaurie, but we are Glenarvon still.”
Sangster cleared his throat. Otranto looked back and said, “Mr. Sangster will now pass on another word.”
Sangster came forward and pointed at a number of giant cardboard boxes on the stage. “Those are uniforms.” Alex looked and saw the RAs beginning to haul out hundreds of pairs of slacks, shirts, and sport coats and lay them on the edge of the stage. “In a minute we’ll start calling names; come forward and pick up your clothes. If your shoes do not fit, trade or hang tight and we’ll get more. You will be issued a footlocker—those are over there—and three uniforms each; laundry day is Thursday. At the end of the line after the uniforms are supplies: towels, T-shirts, underwear. By ten o’clock this morning, I want you all looking like soldiers. Here’s why,” he said, and stopped, thrusting his hands into his pockets. “We are guests.” He repeated the word emphatically. “Guests. I don’t have time to tell you guys what I mean by that because there are a million things that’ll flow through your heads over the next few days, some good, some pretty damn stupid. So remember it: guests. We are overwhelming the space, the materials, and likely soon the patience of the ladies of LaLaurie. This means that I am demanding of you that you think at every moment, Is this what a guest would do? And if so, do it. And if not, I beg of you, don’t.” He smiled. That gave everyone enough of a release of tension to laugh.
“Yeah, I know. It’s an adventure. Keep your cots squared away, do whatever our hosts ask. Be polite, be cool, make friends. I know it doesn’t seem like it, but it’s all gonna be fine.”
Alex got three uniforms that appeared to fit, and a pair of shoes that didn’t, so they clopped when he wore them. He wandered around until he found someone whose shoes were too tight, and that was that.
He realized that
his possessions now consisted of a towel, pajamas, underwear, and three identical sets of a T-shirt, button-down, pants, and one jacket.
On Monday, with everyone still fumbling around in complete confusion, they were forced to go back to class. It was a mercifully short half-day schedule, compressed to allow for familiarizing and starting late, with classes coming in half-hour sessions.
At ten o’clock, Paul, Sid, and Alex wandered until they found the right class. The room was crammed full with desks, and they saw Minhi in a row at the back. As they took their seats, Alex understood. Every last class had been shuffled and merged.
Literature was taught together by Sangster and Ms. Daughtry, LaLaurie’s assistant headmistress and a lit expert to match Sangster. They didn’t alternate sentences or anything; rather Sangster was to lecture on one topic and Daughtry on the other.
“Did you know we’d be in class together?” asked Minhi. Next to her was Vienna, who Alex recognized as much by her faraway look as by the scarf she still wore.
Paul shook his head. “We don’t know a bloody thing.”
“That is totally true,” whispered Alex. “It’s insane. We got a speech yesterday telling us not to, I don’t know, run around naked or something.”
“I would recommend against it.” Minhi nodded solemnly.
“I’m thinking it’s not something guests would do,” said Alex. “But there actually wasn’t a list.”
Vienna looked up and leaned over. “I will bet you by the time the week is out? You will have a list.”
She speaks, thought Alex, and he thought instantly of Steven Merrill, who was also always silent, and now was—jeez—still in the hospital, he could only assume. He looked around and did not see Bill. For a moment it all came flooding back. And then Ms. Daughtry began to teach.
This wasn’t a perfect setup; in lit, Sangster had been teaching Idylls of the King and Daughtry had been teaching William Blake’s Songs of Innocence and of Experience. The guests toed the line: Blake it was. Alex marveled at the idea that while he had been settling into the Kingdom of Cots and Otranto had been calling the ends of the earth to summon hundreds of uniforms, the instructors had been laboring into the night merging their syllabi.
Voice of the Undead Page 4
