Voice of the Undead

by Jason Henderson

  She had run from the hospital and rented a boat and furiously swept herself to the center, in the shadow of the Prado Museum, surrounded by trees and dying light.

  The sound of tourists and picnicking families, the chirping of birds, the quiet stroke of the oars, all of it mocked her, normal and everyday, obscenely oblivious to her pain. Nothing was normal anymore.

  She barely noticed the girl on the shore; with her eyes she swept over the spiky blond hair and the white coat and didn’t look again. Vienna may have been aware the girl was watching her, but maybe that was something she realized only later. Vienna swore angrily as she rowed. There was no one to talk to. Her parents were in their own world. Her friends at school—there really wasn’t such a thing at the moment, because school was over, and when she returned she’d be at a new place, at LaLaurie School for Girls, and the cast would change.

  She missed Steven, the American she had known at Vogler Academy, her primary school in Switzerland. Steven was quiet, and he had always listened, but recently she had sent letters and he hadn’t failed to answer so much as failed to answer in any meaningful way. He was changing, and what had been silence in person had become a distant dryness on paper. No. There was no one left but her brother, and he was dying.

  Vienna moored the boat as it grew dark and walked past the Prado, down thin Madrid streets, past restaurant owners beckoning tourists to dinner, the expensive menús del día around the park, and farther back, where the locals gathered and drank and ate, better menus and better prices.

  She found herself in a small, cramped museum that had been a favorite of Carlos’s, one they had visited just before he headed north. She found herself wandering through the etchings of Goya, Los Caprichos, the capricious, the random, and evil. Garish faces and unhappy people, the accidents of life.

  And then she found herself in front of The Resurrection of Lazarus. It was a painting in the style of El Greco, elongated figures and vibrant, garish color. Vienna had seen countless paintings on the subject, but it had been Carlos who had drawn her to this one: Jesus before the tomb, Lazarus the dead, standing barely inside behind the rolled-away stone. Lazarus was wrapped head to foot in white shrouds, and as he looked out, walking toward the beckoning Christ, his face was ghoulish and green, and full of horror. It was a painting that spoke of shock and blasphemy. Lazarus was risen, barely able to comprehend: Who has done this thing? You who are so powerful, why have you done this? Did the people who love me so know what they have done? What a curse it is to return to this world?

  A minor Lazarus, but a shocking one.

  “That is one unhappy dead man,” the person behind her said, in perfect Spanish, and that was when she met Elle.

  Elle, whose eyes shone brilliantly and huge in a face of chalky white skin. Vienna found herself listening to her. Elle said, “I want to talk to you about your brother.”

  It only took an hour. Elle led her to a quiet café where she told her what she had in mind. She did not hypnotize and yet she was hypnotic.

  “We can save him,” Elle said, “but of course it’s forbidden, and all forbidden things have a price. There is a curse you must take on yourself in exchange for his.”

  Anything. She would do anything.

  “And one day, some day, we will ask a favor of you,” Elle said.

  An inkling of the limits of her blasphemy flashed across Vienna’s mind. “You’re going to ask me to kill someone,” she said.

  “Doesn’t have to be that,” Elle said in her curious casual way. “No, it will be a simple favor.”

  “When can you help Carlos?” Vienna said.

  “We can do it tonight,” Elle said.

  “He won’t die?”

  “He won’t,” Elle said, “not for a long time.”

  “When will your request come?”

  Elle reached under the table and took out a silver box, which she slid across the table, next to Vienna’s water glass. At her request, Vienna opened the box and saw inside, laid in black velvet, a shimmering green scarf. “The first one comes as soon as you say you’re in,” Elle said. “And that’s as simple as putting this little present on. The next request—we’ll let you know.”

  Carlos recovered. He recovered fast, with a voracious appetite. He healed like no one the doctors had ever seen before. It was with joy that she bade him good-bye in the fall, he teasing her about her newfound accessory, which she never took off, ever.

  And on the evening Vienna heard that the school across the lake had suffered a severe fire, she received her next instructions.

  Elle provided Vienna with a target, always intended to be someone who could write and who could get in front of the students of LaLaurie. Elle had a handful of candidates—had even made sure Vienna roomed with one—but none of them was quite the perfect vessel for the Ultravox virus. Within hours of the fire, when it became clear that boys would be moving to LaLaurie, a stack of new dossiers landed in Elle’s lap. And when she came across Sid’s dossier Elle rejected all of the previous candidates. Sid studied vampires, had even read some vampire writing, and his head would already be seeded with keywords and phrases. He would be susceptible, even if only slightly more so, to the kind of subconscious suggestion that Ultravox planned to utilize. And he spent a great deal of time writing. Sid would be perfect. All that was left was for Vienna to watch for an opportunity.

  Chapter 23

  Vienna and Alex found Sid, Paul, and Minhi coming out of class and hurried them in the opposite direction of the moving crowds.

  Sid was already walking with them but looked back. “Don’t we have to get to class?”

  “Oh, we’re being all kinds of truant today,” Alex said. They snuck out the side exit and headed across the lawn to New Aubrey House, where no one would be working until the afternoon.

  As Alex started a fire in the fireplace of the small, dusty study, Minhi beheld the scuffs and smudges all over Vienna with shock. “What happened to you?”

  “I lost my head,” said Vienna.

  Alex stoked the fire and looked back at Sid and his backpack. “Do you have the book?”

  Sid somehow knew the one he was talking about and fished it out. It was dog-eared and full of papers he had stuck in it. Sid laid it on the table. “Yep.”

  Alex explained bluntly. “The book is a plant,” he said. “It’s magic, vampire magic. The kind that powerful vampires have access to, just as powerful as the spells that keep the Scholomance entrance hidden. But this magic was aimed at us—at students. Sid, I’m really sorry, but the book has a sort of virus in it, and it’s been passing through you to students at LaLaurie.”

  “It’s my fault,” Vienna said. “I gave you the book.”

  “Randomly?” Sid asked evenly. He had a pale, sick look about him.

  “No,” she said. “The vampire girl—Elle—made me do it. She saved my brother’s life and demanded that I do her a favor in return. That favor was to make sure that someone used the book in the Pumpkin Show.” She looked miserable. “I’m so sorry; I had no idea what she had planned.”

  Minhi visibly shrank from her friend, but Alex held up his hands, as if somehow he could take fear away by waving his fingers. “It’s not Vienna’s fault,” Alex said. “We all know what the Scholomance is capable of. You all know—actually, I guess you don’t know all of it.” He looked at Minhi. “When you woke up this morning, was there anything strange?”

  Minhi looked sheepish. “I’m sorry?”

  “There was, wasn’t there?”

  “Dirt. There was dirt. I couldn’t explain it, but there didn’t seem to be any reason to bring up to you that my feet were dirty.”

  Alex folded over in his head how deep he felt like going into the narrative of the last twenty-four hours and finally said, “The stories Sid has been writing using the outlines in the book have put a posthypnotic suggestion in some of our heads. Which some would be: girls. It seems to have only affected girls, and I’m not sure why. Last night, Minhi, you and a lot of
other girls walked into the woods. And came back and didn’t remember a thing.”

  “I went into the woods?” Minhi asked. She pulled her jacket closer. “What did—what did I do there?”

  “Nothing permanent,” Alex said.

  “Were you there?” Paul asked. There was an edge of betrayal in his voice.

  “Yes,” Alex answered. “And so was Elle. Elle was trying to give them . . . more instructions. I disrupted her and everyone went home,” he summed up.

  “Oh my God,” Minhi said. “What are we going to do?”

  “The book is by Ultravox, isn’t it? The guy on the train, who nearly talked you into throwing yourself off?” Sid said, rising to pick up the leather volume. “It says David Cracknell is the author.”

  “A pseudonym.” Alex nodded. “His real name is Jonathan Frene.”

  Sid snorted in frustration. “Gyahhh.”

  “What?” Alex asked.

  “Again with the superhero names throwing us off. Ultravox he’s gotta go by. And Cracknell. But Jonathan Frene? As in Algernon Blackwood’s The Transfer?”

  Paul raised a hand. “Mind cluing us lesser intellects in, mate?”

  “It’s a classic—very old—vampire story,” said Sid, pacing before the fire with the book. “The Transfer tells the story of Jonathan Frene, a man who sucks the energy out of everyone he comes close to. He’s a psychic vampire. He nearly kills the narrator’s family.”

  Alex’s interest was piqued. “How do they defeat him?”

  “They don’t.” Sid looked into the fire. “He’s a blank. All he is is what he takes. All he feels is what he makes others feel. In the end, he’s sucked away himself by a more powerful psychic force.”

  “What kind of psychic force?”

  Sid thought for a moment, clearly trying to explain it. “A dead spot,” he said. “I mean, it’s an allegory. They drag him to a place that’s desolate and can’t grow anything and all the energy flows out of him.”

  “Anyone know where I can get one of these allegories?” Alex clasped his hands. “And can you put it on a crossbow?”

  Sid clenched his fists. “I can’t believe it!”

  “Hey, hey,” Paul said.

  “I thought I was . . .” He shook his head, trailing off. His eyes were big and sad. “I mean, I thought I was good.”

  “You are good,” Minhi said. “It’s an outline book. It can’t give you mad writing skills.”

  “I agree,” Alex said. “Sid, I talked to people who know about this. The book passed a virus of sorts through you. But Minhi’s right; the talent behind the stories; that would be your own. It’s just a crutch,” Alex said.

  Sid looked at the book for a moment, flopping it over on the love seat. “Then I don’t need it,” he said. He turned and threw it into the fire.

  They all watched the book for a few minutes as the flames caught the edges. It writhed and curled as if alive, but unlike Vienna’s scarf, this was just an effect of old paper and leather and fire.

  “Then that’s that,” Alex said. “Frene is not getting in this way again.”

  “Not through us, he’s not,” Paul said.

  “What now?” Minhi asked, looking at Alex. She was sitting on the edge of the couch as if ready to spring, but there was nowhere to spring to.

  Alex sat back, feeling totally exhausted. He’d gotten almost no sleep the night before. “The Polidorium wants to know why Ultravox hypnotized a bunch of girls. They’re working on it.”

  Sid picked up his backpack, shaking his head. “I’m going to have to write an all-new story for the last round. I don’t even know when there’ll be a chance to do it. Certainly not until after the ball.”

  “The ball!” Alex slapped his forehead. “My God, is it me or do we keep an insane calendar?”

  “All I know is if we don’t eat lunch I’m going to strangle someone,” Paul said.

  “Good, because I’m starving,” Alex said.

  As they walked back to the cafeteria, Alex felt his cell phone buzz in his pocket and retrieved it, reading a text message. He turned to Vienna and said, “Listen—do you like motorcycles?”

  Chapter 24

  After lunch and class, Alex and Vienna walked to the woods, Alex carrying a duffel bag. Once out of sight of the school Alex pulled two motorcycle helmets from the bag and led her to the Ninja. Vienna eyed the machine warily. It had room enough for an extra person, at least a smallish extra person.

  “Just keep your feet back and don’t touch the exhaust,” Alex said, handing the extra helmet to her. He had kept the extra helmet (another loan, gift, whatever, from the Polidorium) in his new footlocker and frankly expected it to remain unused. As Vienna put it on, the black plastic covered everything but the green scarf. He had the impression of headless Vienna again, a ghoulish thought that was so bizarre it almost made him laugh out loud.

  He kept the Ninja to a leisurely speed on the road to Secheron Village, watching the trees and light traffic whiz past. Vienna kept her arms wrapped around his waist.

  “Where are we going?” Vienna shouted in Alex’s ear. He could barely hear her over the sound of the engine.

  “To see a friend,” Alex shouted back.

  “Why do you keep your motorcycle hidden in the woods?” Vienna asked, and even over the roar of the engine he could hear the charming j in jor motorcycle.

  “I haven’t figured out yet how to explain it,” Alex answered. “It’s kind of for work.”

  “Does everyone ride a motorcycle at your work?” She laughed, giddy.

  “Even the bad guys. Elle has a Ducati; it’s pretty sweet. Well, she did. It blew up. Don’t think about that.”

  They came up behind an old, tiny Peugeot and buzzed around it, picking up speed, and after that there was not a soul until they hit the village. No killer Mercedes or worm bombs or anything.

  They swept into Village Square at around four thirty and cruised uptown, along the street where he had chased Elle, to the marina. Sangster was waiting at the café on the marina, sitting at a gleaming steel table with someone Alex did not recognize right away.

  As Alex parked he studied the man with Sangster—about fifty, silver hair and a mustache, blue suit and a trench coat, gray eyes. Then it hit him.

  Sangster laid down his menu, gesturing at two empty chairs. “Alex, Vienna,” he said, as he and the other man both rose. “Please sit.”

  “Mr. Sangster.” Vienna shook his hand.

  Sangster introduced them. “This is Vienna Cazorla and Alex Van Helsing. You’ve heard of both of them.”

  “Of course,” the man said, taking a pair of small wire glasses out of his pocket and putting them on before shaking their hands.

  “And this is Professor Nathan Montrose of Oxford University.” Sangster sat back down.

  Alex shook the professor’s hand and kept his eyes on him as he backed into his chair. They sat in silence for a moment. Alex finally said, “Uh, well, I’m glad you’re alive.”

  Montrose’s mouth moved into a smile and then he laughed heartily, clapping his hands as he repeated it to Sangster. “He’s glad I’m alive. Very good. Very good. Me too.”

  Vienna cleared her throat, which Alex took to mean, Clue me in, anyone?

  “This is the guy from the woods,” Alex said.

  “Oh, my,” Vienna gasped. She clapped her fingers together and brought them to her lips. “Professor, I didn’t know what was going to happen. I’m so sorry.”

  Sangster patted her forearm. “It’s all right. The professor reported in this morning and told us what had happened. That’s when we put it together.”

  “Put what together?” Alex asked. He still couldn’t figure out why Sangster would want them to meet what he had thought had been a random victim. But now it appeared that the Polidorium knew him.

  The professor said, “Vienna, is it?” She nodded and he continued, “You were just a pawn for the Scholomance.”

  Sangster said, “Professor Montrose is an expert on the
Scholomance and has been conducting research for us in England. He’s been the target of several assassination attempts because he’s building a—let’s just say a new tool that will prove very useful.” Alex guessed Sangster was referring to Chatterbox.

  “All in half a lifetime’s work.” The professor smiled.

  “Ultravox was here to assassinate you so that the expert behind the database would be out of commission,” Alex said. “Assassinate you using teenagers.”

  “Right,” said Sangster.

  Alex thought about the events in the woods. “But why?” he asked. “I mean, why couldn’t Elle have just done it?”

  “Right now we’re going on the because-it’s-dramatic theory,” Sangster said. “I know it’s unsatisfactory.”

  “Let me see if I understand this theory,” Alex said. “The Scholomance knows that Professor Montrose is coming to Geneva. They want to assassinate him. So they bring in Ultravox to perform the assassination, and Ultravox devises a plan to recruit teenagers at the local girls’ school. He creates a vocal virus, a hypnotic spell, for them all to hear, and ensures that the book with the virus in it is put into the hands of someone who will be speaking to them all.”

  Montrose flopped over a pair of gloves on the table. “And then once the virus is in their heads, Ultravox gives them the instructions. His voice is essentially unignorable. No one can overcome it, Alex. His voice threads the brain with his will, until you can’t hear anything else.”

  “But there are boys at LaLaurie now. Boys are bigger. If Ultravox wanted to use students, boys might have given them a physical edge,” Alex said.

  “You’re forgetting that you guys weren’t supposed to be at LaLaurie,” Sangster said. “The plan to pass the book to someone presenting to students was keyed on LaLaurie. It was aimed at girls.”

  “What happened to the book you were given?” Professor Montrose interjected, leaning forward.