Immortal With a Kiss (6 page)

I wanted to coax more from her. “Many scholars who have studied the Scriptures would disagree with you. Dante himself based his writing on extensive study of the
Summa Theologica
of Saint Thomas Aquinas.”

Margaret went absolutely purple. “This book is an utter waste of time,” she said in a tone so dismissive it set my teeth on edge. “Such stories are for those who cannot think for themselves. I am not one of those. I am different. We all are.” She looked to Vanessa, who smiled serenely back at her. I heard snickers from Lilliana and Therese. I knew exactly whom she meant by “we” and so did every other girl in the room.

That was when I noticed Eustacia. She alone appeared frightened. Not wary or excited like the others, but truly terrified. Perhaps I had gone too far, I suddenly thought. I ought to tread carefully. It was my first day, for goodness sake. “As much as I would like to pursue this line of debate, we must move on,” I said breezily, seeming to dismiss the topic with a flick of my wrist. “I thought the best way for me to get to know you all would be to have you write me a theme on your favorite subject.”

There were shocked faces, and then groans. From Margaret, a glare that made me grateful that looks could not indeed kill. But I ignored all of this, donning an expression of sublime equanimity I did not feel as I sat at my desk.

I had to collect myself, concentrate on processing the strange interchange with Margaret. While the class worked, I pretended to be writing, but kept glancing covertly at the five girls. How likely was it that this vampire—whatever its dealing with these particular girls—was the same one that had taken my mother?

But this did not make any sense. Laura had not been made
strigoii vii
while a student at Blackbriar. It was years later, after she’d married my father, a year or so before I was born.

As I had learned in my long hours of research in Denmark, vampires favored certain hunting grounds, and lived a nomadic existence traveling among them. Most of the local people never realized what it was that had come to their quiet worlds. They believed in pestilence, or plague. Some blamed innocents in accusations of witchcraft. If awareness of the monsters did arise, it died out in subsequent generations, becoming scarce-believed legends and superstitions.

But the vampire would return, safe under the cloak of faded memory and rationality. Therefore, it was entirely possible that the vampire whose reeking presence I could sense on these girls had been here back when my mother was a student. I resolved to find some local histories to see if I could unearth an accounting of past tragedies.

Yet, I was bothered by my theory. I knew the timing was not right, none of it. Even if my mother had been touched somehow as these girls were, why would her symptoms not emerge until more than five years after she had left Blackbriar? And would a vampire return within living memory of the locals? I had thought that was never done.

After the girls had handed in their themes, I ate a quick lunch and went for a walk. It always helped me to stride briskly when I was working out a particular problem. It was cold, however, much more so than I’d thought, and I soon became chilled. I refused to go back inside. I am afraid I was in something of a state, confused, and a little lonely. I would have given anything to have had Sebastian with me.

And Valerian. I walked faster, my breath coming in puffs of clean, white steam. Was he hunting Marius across the continent, into the jungles of Africa, or the sweeping Persian desert? Or was he sitting in a London parlor, sipping tea and flipping the pages of a book? I longed for his friendship, and the particular feeling his companionship gave to me. My little infatuation with Lord Robert Suddington had not altered that.

But I was alone. That was the heart of it. I should have been used to it, for I had a long acquaintance with the solitary state. Alone, even as a child. Motherless, odd, suspicious lest I manifest the madness of my mother. I, Emma, seemed destined ever to be alone.

Chapter Six

A
guilty conscience is the heaviest burden to bear. My father used to say that, an admonition I did not need for it was my usual impulse to maintain scrupulous honesty—or at least it used to be, before all this business with vampires started. I used to speak frankly as a habit, and disliked deceit of any kind.

Thus when the headmistress called me to her office unexpectedly a few days later, all the lies I had told to get myself this position sprung instantly to mind, and I had but one, urgent thought:
Caught!

She kept me waiting, and I used the time to contemplate the thorough humiliation I was sure awaited me. After a half hour, Miss Sloane-Smith glided in with an imperial air, and I stood, ready to take the storm on full force, for it was no less than I deserved.

However, what followed was not accusation and dismissal. She made her way to the desk and said: “You are faring well in your new post, Mrs. Andrews.”

She spoke it as if this displeased her, although I could not imagine why it would. I murmured a modest thanks.

“And how do you find your students?” she asked.

“Interesting,” I said. She said nothing more, so I filled the silence with, “I enjoy our discussions immensely.”

“Really.” Her tone was flat as she lifted her gaze to mine. “I am so glad you are enjoying yourself.”

I smiled, pretending I missed her sarcasm. “I doubt
The Inferno
is any young girl’s idea of pleasure reading, but they do engage in the discussion and practice their conversation skills. It is a good exercise.”

She sniffed. “There is no indication of anyone with intellectual leanings, I trust.”

I knew the correct answer was no. The girls were being trained to be appropriate foils for men to wax prosaic, an audience merely, never the orator. “We speak in terms of morality, at least how Dante envisioned it.”

“Very good. And what of Miss Kingston? It is up to you to see she does not prove impertinent.”

She meant Margaret. “Indeed, she is challenging each and every day. But I can manage her.”

She sniffed, her eyebrows twitching to indicate a grudging approval. “The girl is incorrigible. Her family is new money, you know. Crude people, made their fortune in trade.” Her look of distaste turned sly. “But they are very wealthy.”

The conversation lapsed, and I assumed it was over. “Very well, then,” I murmured and made to step past her to exit the room.

She held up her hand. “There is another matter,” she said with a twitch of her pointed nose, and I knew that whatever it was, it was the true reason why she had summoned me. I also saw she was deeply displeased and doing a poor job of covering it. “I have received an invitation to a dinner party being given at Holt Manor. I was not aware you had made the acquaintance of Lord Suddington.”

At the sound of his name, my heart gave an unexpected and slightly thrilling little leap. “We dined together at the Rood and Cup several times while I was staying there.”

“Indeed.” The single word could have frozen seawater. “It seems he regards you two to have struck up something of a friendship. He and I have known each other for some time, of course. We are distantly related, cousins, and our families have been involved with the Blackbriar School for generations. His father was a member of the board of trustees at the time I was appointed headmistress and Lord Suddington has been an enthusiastic member of the board since he returned to the area.”

“I did not realize.”

She preened. “Did you not realize he is an important man in the county? Well, he most certainly is, and as such he is very attentive to his social duties as a leader of the community. His guest lists are unfailingly comprised of local luminaries. And yet, for some reason, he has seen fit to invite you to his upcoming dinner party.”

My surprise was too great to hide. “How kind of him.”

“Well, it is not done, you see, the staff socializing freely with the local gentry. Now we have quite a situation, as you have seen fit to flout convention. I do not wish to be rude, but it needs being said: he is quite above your station. But as Lord Suddington made this especial request, I am prepared to make an exception and give you permission to attend.”

I could see that making this concession galled her. She could not hide it, nor did she much bother. I had to content myself with the secret knowledge that my fortune could buy and sell this school, and my family pedigree dwarf whatever accolades she could boast for hers. I smiled inwardly at the irony: when Alyssa spoke of such things, I thought her a snob. Yet here I was, doing the same thing to soothe my bruised pride.

Miss Sloane-Smith narrowed her eyes at me. “I trust you will dress appropriately. You no doubt have something suitable.”

Consideration of my many fine gowns almost cracked a smile on my tightly controlled features, but I caught myself. “I am sure I can find something. May I know the date?”

“Thursday next. I will let you know what time to be ready.” When her eyes flashed, I realized she was more than merely upset about keeping the social hierarchy of power here at the school intact. She was
jealous
. Was she in love with Suddington?

“That is all,” she said, and I all but dashed through the doorway, pulling it closed behind me. Just before it latched, I paused. Perhaps I was making a mistake. Pride aside, I should not accept the invitation to Suddington’s party. I was not at Blackbriar to engage in diversions such as dinner parties. My pleasure at Suddington’s having remembered me in the invitation had clouded my better judgment. Yes, attending was definitely a poor move. I pushed the door I had almost closed and stepped inside, my mouth open to beg Miss Sloane-Smith’s pardon.

But she was bent to pull a slender volume from beneath a large bookcase. I waited, suddenly unsure. She might be angry at my intrusion. I hesitated, then stepped quietly back so that I could knock on the door. But before I could fully retreat, she straightened and found me standing there.

I expected her to be angry. In fact, I did not blame her. But her startlement went far beyond the annoyance my intrusion deserved. She gasped and fell back, whipping the book she had just retrieved behind her back in a transparent, almost childish effort to conceal it.

“What are you still doing here?” she demanded. Her voice rang with indignation.

I opened my mouth. This was a terrible mess. “I think it best to decline the dinner invitation,” I said. “I would not wish an exception to be made just for me.”

“It is not important what you wish,” she snapped sharply. “Lord Suddington has made his request and you will honor it. You will not disgrace this school or me.” Narrowing her eyes, she said, “Make certain, however, that there is no cause for him to seek to include you in future gatherings.”

I nodded and backed out, rather like a slave leaving the presence of a barbarian queen, grateful to have escaped with her head. Then I turned, and while my pride forbade me to rush unduly, I confess I did not tarry as I hurried to my room.

I was halfway up the stairs when the first, subtle brush whispered in my mind. My head came up sharply, and my first thought was:
Marius!
I had felt that lurid touch before, a disgusting blend of hateful pleasure and torment. A terrible dread filled me.

After a minute I realized that this, however, was not his presence. This was more subtle, the touch of a glance, the kind one feels when finding a stranger’s gaze on you. Not quite the claxon alarm of true danger, although the discomfiture of unseen eyes was enough to rattle my nerves, but a sensation so deeply and thoroughly unsettling . . .

My flesh began to prick. My breathing was coming heavily, and I turned sharply down the hallway toward my room, arrowing into it without closing the door behind me. I reached out a trembling hand to open the window. My fingers fumbled, and a voice called my name. I spun to see a shadow in the hall.

“Emma.” It was Ann Easterly coming toward me. Her room was next to mine. “Are you headed to luncheon?”

I closed my eyes briefly, gathering my strength. Whatever had been present was gone. Clearing my throat, I said, “Yes. Of course. I just wanted to freshen up.” I wanted just a little time to myself. After patting my face dry and smoothing my hair, I joined Ann, who was waiting for me in the hallway.

“Sunday is our day off,” she said as we descended the stairs I had climbed only moments before. “Some of us teachers spend the afternoon in the village browsing the shops and taking tea at Mrs. Brixton’s tea and coffee room. Do you think you would like to join us?”

“Thank you,” I said, thinking that my preference would be to enjoy Mrs. Danby’s cooking and perhaps catch a glimpse of Lord Suddington. But I knew I could not take the time for either indulgence when there was so much upon which to concentrate here at the school. “I will let you know by the end of the week,” I assured her.

When we entered the dining hall, we were immediately met with confusion. The students were out of their tables, appearing agitated and talking too loudly. The teachers were not at their place at the large staff table by the French doors.

“What . . . ?” Ann murmured beside me.

But I was in motion, having noticed plump Mrs. Boniface standing among a group of girls. She was openly weeping as she comforted a young student in a similar state of distress.

“My God,” I muttered. “Something terrible has happened.”

A
gatha Thompson was dead. Mrs. Brown had found her lying on the floor of the conservatory when she’d arrived to water her plants after morning classes. The doctor had been called to determine the cause of death.

The news tore through the school like a blast of fire, igniting a flurry of tears and fainting spells among the girls. Though I suspected the majority of these were histrionics, done with the flourish to which only an adolescent girl can do justice, the place was in chaos. We teachers were required to be a calming force and it fell to us to funnel pots of tea and barrelfuls of sympathy to the student population to keep them consoled.

Dorothea Brown was in shock. I pressed a cup of tea into her hands. “It must have been terrible for you, being the one to find her,” I said with deep sympathy.

She looked at me searchingly. “It was her heart,” she murmured. “I saw how pale she’d been of late. And she said she’d not been sleeping well. The other morning she was not herself. I should have insisted—”

She broke off, and I put a comforting hand on her arm. My gaze caught the group of coven girls watching us. There were five of them now: the four from my class—Margaret, Vanessa, Lilliana, and Therese—had been joined by another, Marion Tilman. They were standing apart from the others and they remained placid, unmoved. Their remarkable composure sent a chill through my veins.

I moved to the headmistress, who was poised in the center hallway in readiness for the arrival of the doctor. “I can wait here for the doctor if you like,” I told her kindly. “You must be needed elsewhere.” In truth, I was desperate to see Agatha’s body and thought I might get a glimpse of the corpse if I were to be permitted to take the doctor to where it lay upstairs in Miss Thompson’s bedchamber.

Miss Sloane-Smith shook her head in that definitive way of hers. “There is nothing any one of us can do.”

When the ruddy-faced doctor arrived, Miss Sloane-Smith rushed him toward the stairs. “Thank you for coming, Dr. Kellum,” I heard her say. “She has been laid in her bed.”

He hesitated, his heavy-lidded eyes watery in the light spilling through the windows. “Have her brought down here,” he said in a hard, gravelly voice. “My gout is bad enough. I cannot climb all those stairs.”

The headmistress was caught off guard. “But we cannot move her out into the open, not with the girls . . .”

He sighed. “Very well.” With his blue-veined face betraying his irritation, he mounted the steps with a ponderous gait, leaning heavily on the banister. I watched his laborious progress, taking silent exception to his coldness and weariness that seemed to border on boredom.

Kellum’s pronouncement of Miss Thompson’s death took only a few moments. I heard his heavy tread slowly proceeding back down the stairs and through the hall. He exited without making any formal farewell to anyone. I could observe him climbing into his carriage where, hardly settled in his seat, he produced a flask and tipped back his head to take a deep draught. The carriage lurched forward, taking him away and leaving us to the dead.

No, not “us.” It was up to me alone to do what I must as only I was equipped to.

The knowledge sat heavily on me. That day was monstrously long. That night, as I waited for the great house to fall asleep, I sat on the edge of my bed and weighed my options. While I knew it was rare that a vampire would transform its victim—contrary to how the legends had every victim rising itself from the dead—I had been surprised before. It was my job to be sure—for Agatha Thompson’s sake, for all our sakes.

From my mother’s portmanteau, I retrieved the items I needed. The timing was wrong. The night was, of course, the vampire’s time. But I could not wait until dawn and risk being seen. I gingerly drew out the rough stake hewn to a sharp point by my own hand, the flat-headed mallet, the cross, the vial of water blessed by a confessed saint, all of which I had used before. I inspected the tools of my craft, arranged them in my sack, and blew out the lamp. For this task, I required darkness.