Vamplayers (26 page)

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.

“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

Z
ander 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.

Dr. Haskins scores Zander on the paper held in her see-through clipboard.

I regard Tristan critically. (Okay, so I can’t help it!) He has matured beyond his years in his short time at the Academy, becoming a dominant force and a likely candidate for the Saviors at some point in the near future. That is, if as permanent First Sister I ever choose to let him out of the Sisterhood.

I keep my distance, mostly because Zander occupies all my time but also because I’ve grown wary of Tristan’s sleek, almost magnetic good looks and his predatory nature.

Although he’s appealing on paper, excelling in his coursework, rising to the top of his fencing and stake-wielding classes, he still wavers between good and evil like he did at Nightshade.

I’ll never be able to forget, let alone forgive, the sight of his bloody leg disappearing up into the air duct when we needed him most.

I don’t want to trust him, but I have to.

He and Zander share a love-hate relationship but a relationship nonetheless. Zander thinks he’s a stuck-up snob. Tristan agrees but hates Zander’s humanity.

I don’t know if it’s the Royal blood or simply the vampire blood running through his veins that makes Tristan prejudiced against mortals. Where once he and Zander shared a cordial relationship based on a mutual past at Nightshade, now they are increasingly competitive.

I expect it from Tristan, with his spoiled upbringing and Royal blood, but it’s surprising to see in Zander.

“Ouch,” he says, bringing me back to reality— and hard. Through the monitor I see Zander pat a stake that’s entered the wall about two inches, maybe less, above his head.

“Good reflexes on this one,” Dr. Haskins says.

Tristan rolls his eyes.

I stifle a smile.

Good for you, Zander.

Zander doesn’t let the booby trap stop him but instead doubles his efforts to clear the ruined dining room.

The monitor switches perspective. Zander is at the foot of the stairs. Our view comes from a security camera mounted in the ceiling at the top of the stairs.

He takes the first, tentative step. He crouches low, like I taught him, leaning on the handrail to avoid putting much pressure on the stairs themselves. He leaps deftly to avoid one booby trap, only to land on a second. The stake passes centimeters from his thigh.

“Ouch,” Tristan says, finger combing his vam-pirific hair. “A few inches higher and you’d have another Sister for your little club.”

I ignore him, as does Dr. Haskins.

Meanwhile Zander rushes up the stairs.

I can’t help but notice how much he too has changed during his brief stay at the Academy. Although he is still very much human, the one and only here at the Academy, he seems somewhat more than human.

The geeky but adorable softness he had at Nightshade is gone, replaced by a more muscular appearance. Must be all those late-night training sessions I put him through.

And if you think I’m just being naughty, we actually do train, thank you very much.

You know, mostly.

He looks grimmer as well. Perhaps it’s because unlike most humans, who only fantasize about Hollywood vampires, he knows that real monsters exist. That they look like you and me. Well, more like me. And that friends who die—good friends, real friends—don’t come back like at the end of Hollywood B movies.

But it’s more than that.

Dr. Haskins glances at me. I think she sees it too. She warned me once I got out of the Tank that while Zander and I could “dabble in romantic notions,” as she so sensibly put it, we could never “consummate” our love.

We haven’t, of course.

Not yet anyway, but that hasn’t stopped us from swapping spit on a regular basis.

And therein is the rub.

When I get excited at the taste of Zander’s lips, when my blood boils with the touch of his fingertips on my shoulder blades, my fangs tend to protrude. From time to time I nick him: his tongue, his gums, the inside of his cheeks. And once, only once, his neck.

He calls it fang play, but I feel horrible each time it happens. Truly, really horrible, and not only because I’m sure it hurts but because I think it’s gradually … changing him.

My saliva—gross, I know, but stay with me here—is also somewhat special.

Vampires don’t merely suck blood. We also secrete.

When our fangs go in, even a little, out comes a special venom through our saliva which thins the blood of our victims.

It’s easier, quicker to consume thinner blood. You know, the same way you let your milk shake melt a bit so it comes up the straw when you’re driving home, that big bag of burgers and fries riding shotgun.

Naturally, some of the saliva contains vampire DNA, and I think Zander here has had his fair share in the last few weeks. Maybe even more than his fair share, if you know what I mean.

Not that it means much in the grand scheme of things. I’d still have to turn him to make it official, but I can tell he’s changing, morphing into something more than human but not quite vampire.

I kind of like that.

I think he secretly does too.

He’s in the guest room now. One more room to go.

I stare at the big digital clock on the wall. Still four minutes left.

”Is it just me,” Tristan says, “or is he getting faster every time we do this?” He adds, “Not fast enough”—it wouldn’t be Tristan if he gave an actual compliment, especially to a human—”but faster.”

“We train every night after school,” I insist, forgetting Tristan has a way of turning everything innocent into something not so innocent, at least when it comes to Zander and me.

“Yeah, the same way porn stars train.”

“Silence,” Dr. Haskins says. “He’s in the master bedroom. It’s do or die time. I do hope he’s up for it.”

Zander crouches and moves through the room, his cap slightly askew, a tear in his track suit where the last stake barely missed.

Something catches my eye: a square of carpet, not like all the others, as big as a hamburger patty, maybe even smaller. Instinctively I know it hides a trap.

I’m hovering over the monitor, wanting to shout, “Look out, Zander. Watch out, honey. It’s a trap!”

He steps on it, feels the hiss, and leaps forward, but the stake catches the sole of his shoe and dumps him, face-first, into the carpet.

It looks like it hurts, but he rolls over, sits up, and seems okay. He stands and checks the bottom of his shoe, which is missing a chunk of rubber sole. He shakes his head and gets to work.

With eighty-seven seconds to spare, Zander reaches the square button on the wall, which signifies he’s cleared all six rooms, and pushes it soundly.

Immediately the curtains part, the glass door hisses, and Dr. Haskins steps out of the office and into the Simulation room.

Once she’s through it, the door hisses shut behind her.

I pace her office.

They confer.

Tristan looks on edge, as if he’s bet money on a horse race with a photo finish and is waiting for the official to tell him who’s won so he can collect or get out of Dodge.

Zander walks through the door and immediately reaches for my hand. I let him lead me into the hall and, with nowhere else to go, Tristan dutifully follows.

“So,” I say, racing to keep up with his frantic pace, “do tell. What’d she say?”