Vamplayers

by Rusty Fischer

  “That’s the idea.”

  I feel the car round another bend, and the sound of soft dirt on the tires turns to chugging gravel.

  “The healing waters don’t just fix you. They’re supposed to make you better than before.”

  I smile.

  She must be looking because she asks, “What?”

  “Nothing. Well, it’s like that old TV series. ‘We can make her better, faster, stronger.’ Remember?”

  “Bionic Woman”

  I nod.

  The car cruises to a halt, and I hear Dr. Haskins shift into park, gather what sounds like a purse, and slide her keys out of the ignition.

  There is a slight pause. “You can take that off now.”

  I do and blink at the late afternoon light filtering through the heavily tinted windows.

  “Wow.” I’m looking at the architectural monstrosity in front of us.

  “Indeed,” she says, smiling.

  This isn’t a mansion so much as a palace, a place fit for kings, queens, and I suppose Ancients. Vampires who have been alive so long they know what it was like to ride horses to work, to see London pre-bridge, to visit Paris pre-Eiffel Tower, to walk in Washington pre-White House. You get my drift. Ancients.

  The building is as long as a bus terminal and at least six stories high. The façade is dismal and gray and dotted with lead-paned windows full of maroon curtains.

  It looks like an old English manor, but it’s so much bigger. Like a giant tomb but so much prettier.

  There is no one to greet us as Dr. Haskins opens her car door, or so it would appear.

  The minute we get out of the car, however, gunmen emerge from a series of animal topiaries scattered along the long, curving drive.

  They are large, pale men with identical long black hair and black fatigues. The uniforms are tight, but their many pockets make them look baggy. Epaulets are on the shoulders, and each soldier wears a black beret.

  I smile, despite my grim surroundings, thinking of the bright pink beret Cara bought me the day I officially became a Sister.

  The servicemen don’t approach the car but observe it warily, each standing in front of his appointed topiary: an elephant, a giraffe. Three more emerge from a family of gigantic ducks.

  “Sentries,” Dr. Haskins says as we approach the mansion’s huge front doors. “They’re like the personal guard for the Ancients.”

  I nod.

  I’ve heard of the Ancients and, to a lesser extent, the Sentries for years but never actually seen one.

  Until now.

  The closer we get to the door, the closer the Sentries get to us.

  Dr. Haskins reaches for the handle, and a Sentry moves to stand in front of her.

  “IDs,” he says bluntly, fangs out, skin so pale and white it might as well be made from milk.

  We whip out our Vampire Citizen IDs like driver’s licenses for the living dead, featuring not our pictures but samples of our DNA. He scans them with a device no bigger than a cell phone, obviously likes what he sees, and opens the door. “After you.”

  “Now what?”

  Half the Sentries lead us through the longest hall I’ve ever seen.

  I’m talking, the entirety of Nightshade Conservatory for Exceptional Boys and Girls could fit in this entryway.

  “Now,” she says grimly, “we pay the piper.”

  Chapter 36

  Six Ancients are gathered in a semicircle of antique chairs in the middle of a gargantuan room that makes the entrance hall look like a guest bathroom. I want to shout just to hear the echo off the walls. On each of their heads, the hair is either completely gone or silky white and sparse, the skin so paper thin and pale you can almost see through it to the flat, black veins dead and useless beneath.

  Their eyes are shrunken and opaque, so white they might all have cataracts, like my great-grandmother did a few months after she moved into the nursing home in Florida.

  Their fangs are permanently out, like those sports cars with pop-up headlights that stop going down over the years. They are yellowed by time and perhaps use.

  The Council of Ancients are dressed all in white. White linen, to be precise. The clothes hang on them like hand-me-downs on a third grader. Drawstring pants, pirate-type shirts with ties at the neck and puffy sleeves, slip-on shoes like your great-grandfather might wear.

  They sit in high-backed chairs with velvet, padded seats.

  Next to each Ancient is a cane with a silver tip. Behind each chair is a black-clad Sentry standing at the ready, uniform stiff, spine stiffer, beret like a black cherry on top of an evil sundae.

  Two chairs are aligned in front of the Ancients. They are smaller than the chairs the Ancients sit in but no less formal.

  Four Sentries, their guns at the ready, guide us to our seats.

  They remain at attention long after Dr. Haskins and I sit.

  The hall is quiet, deathly so.

  The way my chair creaks when I shift my weight sounds like fireworks on the Fourth of July.

  The ceiling must stretch two or three stories high, with great, iron chandeliers hanging on chains long enough to lasso a bull … even if that bull lived in the next county. Hundreds of white candles flicker in the snappy, damp breeze filling the room, though the big bare windows lining the wall are closed.

  No one speaks for quite some time.

  Dr. Haskins, for one, is particularly subdued.

  I’m so used to seeing her in charge of the Academy, her spine straight, her glasses in place, her hair up, her clipboard clutched, it’s odd and the slightest bit unsettling to see her looking so meek in the chair next to mine.

  She stares ahead at some point directly over the Ancients’ heads.

  I admit there is much to look at.

  Huge tapestries billow down, bursting with violent hunting scenes in vivid splashes of color.

  There are old white Englishmen on big white horses hunting small orange foxes in the wild green forest, gray wolves hunting white sheep in the tan fields, even an enormous black bear hunting salmon in a rushing blue stream. All feature blood, buckets of it.

  I can’t tell which is worse, staring at the endless violent depictions or the wizened faces of the Ancients beneath them.

  Time passes. Who knows how much? I get the feeling time isn’t quite the same for vampires this old. No clock ticks, no feet move, no chair legs scrape against the slate floor. There’s only the steady flickering of candles and the endless passage of time.

  A firm voice issues from one of the Ancients sitting in the middle. “Dr. Haskins, kneel before the Ancients to plead your case.”

  “Master,” she says, her voice subdued and oddly reverent. She stands, quickly crouches, then kneels. “I come here today with great sorrow in my heart, for I readily confess that I have broken one of the Ancient laws.”

  “Which law did you break?” another Ancient from the end of the row says, his lips barely moving.

  “Master, I have committed that great sin known as ignorance.”

  “Explain yourself,” says another Ancient.

  “My student here was sent to stop an infestation. I—”

  “We know the particulars,” an Ancient bellows. “What was thy part in all this?”

  “Master, I killed a Royal.”

  There is no gasp, no sound of shock or outrage, only a murmuring among the six pale faces.

  A clear voice interrupts. “Go on.”

  “It was no one’s fault, Master. Lily here called for backup. I provided it. There was no time for her to relay to me that the target was a Royal. I shot her, sirs, through the heart.”

  “You know the penalty for killing a Royal?” they ask.

  “Of course.” She gasps.

  I want to reach down and pick her up and run out of this place. I don’t, of course, but I want to.

  “And are you prepared to accept that penalty, Dr. Haskins?”

  The slightest pause. “Yes, Master.”

  I close my eyes
out of fear, but a rippling in the air forces me to open them.

  An Ancient stands before us, right next to Dr. Haskins.

  “Rise, Dr. Haskins, and receive your punishment.”

  On trembling knees my headmistress rises, formally greeting the Ancient with a dry kiss upon each hand.

  He says quietly, “Your punishment, Dr. Haskins, is to learn the error of your ways. Even if it takes you all eternity to do so. To make the Afterlife Academy better than it was, so this kind of mistake never happens again. We don’t condone what the Royal known as Bianca was doing, nor can we condone killing a Royal without punishment. From now until we decree the Sisterhood disbanded, I charge you with making the program the best it can be.”

  She bows and quickly leaves the room.

  The Ancient turns to me. His face is grim, but his eyes are gentle. “Identify yourself.”

  “Lily Fielding.” My voice sounds like its old self again. Okay, maybe a bit more trembly than usual, but you sit in front of a thousand-year-old vampire and see how steady your nerves are.

  He nods weakly and takes Dr. Haskins’ chair, moving it slightly so we can see each other.

  “What is your crime, Lily Fielding?”

  “I-I-I was the reason Dr. Haskins killed a Royal, sir.”

  “Indeed, you were.” His hands look like a skeleton’s as he rests them on his baggy linen pants. “However, you also did us a great service by not allowing Nightshade to be infested.”

  I open my mouth to agree, but it seems in bad form, so I close it again.

  “Am I to understand that you also alerted a human to your true existence?”

  I nod, looking him in the white, gauzy eyes. “Two, actually, but one got turned into a vampire, so …”

  He stands, gently touching my arm and bringing me with him.

  “Lily Fielding, this Council sentences you to a lifetime as a Sister. You shall continue saving young girls from rogues who would seduce them for their own means. You will not, alas, become a Savior. What’s more, you will be forever bound to this mortal in your charge. This, this … Zander … person. You told him our secrets. Therefore, he is your responsibility. Do you understand? If he helps us, you reap the rewards. If he harms us, you will take the blame.”

  I nod, since he seems to be waiting for a response.

  “It is a great responsibility to have someone’s life in your hands. Let us hope you take it seriously and show him that not all vampires are bad.”

  I nod again, and he drifts slowly back to the Council.

  “Go, Lily.” His voice echoes as clearly, as closely, as if he were still standing in front of me. “Go and accept your punishment, and make the Council proud.”

  The Sentries lead me from the great hall, a walk that seems to take many long hours.

  A part of me is wistful. Another part is hopeful that in this new world I can play a role to help humans and vampires understand one another.

  Before the great doors open, I turn to cast my gaze on the Ancients once more. They have already left the room, their chairs as silent and empty as the sentence they have imposed.

  I turn toward the heavy doors, a Sentry on each side, and face my future.

  Chapter 37

  The Healing Room is bleak and quiet and staffed by vampires so old and neglected they might as well be zombies. With fangs. And doctor’s scrubs. And more old man slippers (the Ancients must get a discount).

  Alice and Cara lie on marble slabs next to each other, naked except for muslin cloths covering them from chest to midthigh.

  There are no healing waters, no mineral baths.

  Here the Healers attend to them 24-7, rubbing them constantly with sponges and solutions, massaging their skin with creams and lotions, feeding them blood through an IV tube in each wrist, literally nursing them to health.

  They don’t look good.

  Cara’s skin is no longer a beautiful, sexy mocha but an ashy gray. That is, where she’s not scarred like a burn victim. Her head is not bald, exactly, but gone are her beautiful cornrows and long, delicate lashes.

  I cringe to see her this way, but I have to admit she looks better than the last time I saw her.

  They’ve come so far, from rib cages and barely attached femurs to living flesh and bone. Ugly and rough as it is, it’s amazing.

  Alice is in worse shape, her skin mottled and likewise gray, her calves covered in flesh so thin it’s like that see-through half guy in anatomy class, the one whose liver and lungs you take out and put back in wrong (at least I always do).

  She shakes like she’s having a bad dream, and when I go to brush her forehead softly, it’s almost on fire.

  They make no noise.

  I tremble.

  Dr. Haskins puts an arm around my shoulder and steers me out of the room.

  “They’ll be fine, Lily. Another few weeks you’ll forget all about what you saw.”

  ”I’ll never forget what I saw. Never.”

  “Good,” she says, back to headmistress mode. “Let’s hope not. You heard your sentence?”

  “I did.”

  We are walking down the great hall, toward the main entrance, no longer flanked by Sentries now that our private visit is over.

  “Then you know there is no more chance of your becoming a Savior.”

  “I know.”

  “There is a silver lining.” She pauses. “As permanent headmistress of the Afterlife Academy for the Exceptionally Dark Arts, I would like to make you permanent First Sister.”

  I stop, twist one of my soft shoes on the varnished floor. “Do you mean it?”

  She halts. “Of course I do.”

  I smile, then frown. “Oh, I guess it only makes sense, considering the shape Alice and Cara are in.”

  She shakes her head. “I said permanent First Sister, Lily. This has nothing to do with the shape Alice and Cara are in. You may not believe this, but I actually do work in that office of mine. Part of my work is to find out what happens on your missions. Since Alice and Cara were obviously out of commission and you were in the Tank, I took it upon myself to interview the only living witnesses to your latest mission.”

  “You mean Zander?”

  “And Tristan. Both assured me you acted like a consummate professional, calmly, rationally keeping things together. Tristan was particularly impressed with how, even when you could have escaped, you chose to face certain death to rescue Zander. And, of course, Zander had nothing but positive things to say about you. I would say that’s First Sister material, wouldn’t you?”

  I shake my head. “I only did what you trained me to do, which is to support my First and Second Sisters. It wasn’t their fault what happened. You weren’t there. You didn’t see Bianca in her prime. She was all-powerful. She lured them away, tricked them. Otherwise they would have never turned on me like they—”

  But I can tell she already knows all this.

  She pats my hand and says, “Be that as it may, on this mission you were the only one to act like a First Sister, and so shall it be.”

  I nod, then allow the beginnings of a smile to lift the corners of my lips. “Okay”—I shrug—”if you insist.” Inside I’m cheering, leaping, yelping, clicking my heels like a leprechaun who’s finally found his pot of gold.

  “That’s not all,” she says, walking again toward the grand front doors. “I would like to propose we make a few other changes to the Sisterhood of Dangerous Girlfriends.”

  “Really? Like what?”

  “Well, for one, I’d like to put your friends Tristan and Zander to good use.”

  “How would that work?” I ask, picturing them in pink berets. “I mean, we’re Sisters, right?”

  “I’d like to send you, all five of you, as a team on your next assignment. I think it would be helpful in the future to have boys in the Sisterhood, in case, for instance, you run up against another Vampress.”

  “Sounds good,” I say, wondering how Tristan and Zander will feel about being called Sisters.
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  “Might mean a name change.”

  “No way.” I gasp. “You can’t stop calling us Sisters because I screwed up one assignment.”

  Nearly to the front door, she chuckles dryly. “Your call, of course, but you might want to check with your Brothers first.”

  “Didn’t you hear? I’m permanent First Sister. I don’t have to check with nobody for nothin’.”

  She laughs.

  I stop her before opening the door. “Dr. Haskins?”

  “Yes?”

  I look around, see no Sentries gawking, and ask, “What is the punishment for killing a Royal?”

  She nods grimly, looks around, and says very quietly, “Exile.”

  “Exile? That’s it? I thought they’d, like, kill you or something.”

  “Oh, Lily, exile is worse than death. It’s like being a wild animal.”

  I look at Dr. Haskins’ modern glasses, her well-coiffed hair, her sleek suit and shiny heels, and I see how exile could be worse than death to a woman like her. “Well, then, here’s to not being exiled.”

  She smiles and pulls something out of her jacket pocket. “One last tiny detail,” she says, holding up the blindfold for our long trip home to the Academy.

  EPILOGUE

  Zander enters the Simulation House, his stakes up and at the ready, his long, curly locks shoved tight under a black watch cap. (Bummer.)

  He looks sleek and athletic in his black track suit and sneakers.

  As we’ve been practicing every day since they let me out of the Tank, he pivots in three directions to clear the foyer: front, back, side.

  I mouth good boy to the glowing security monitor.

  He walks carefully but not slowly into the living room.

  “So far so good.” Dr. Haskins’ expression is pinched.

  “Good being the operative word,” says Tristan, looking stiff and polished in his charcoal slacks and dress shirt, unbuttoned, his broad chest marble pale and hairless underneath. He peers from Zander on the security monitor to me looking down at it, cheering him on silently with crossed fingers (on each hand).

  “Pathetic,” he whispers, seeing my cheerleaderlike enthusiasm.

  I stick out my tongue.