A Drop of Red (29 page)

And on we go,
Wolfie said.

From the direction of his mind-talk, Della realized that he had taken a turn.

Through and through,
he added.

He’d taken another turn.

Were they . . . ?

She could see light objects versus dark by now and . . . Yes. They were in a maze—the walls a towering combination of brick and iron grillwork.

As they moved round another corner, she saw the purpose for the iron.

An ecstatic male had been tied with leather strips to the grillwork. He had stubble on his face, and Della realized that this was no teen—he was a young man.

Below him, a girl in humanlike form and garbed in the skirts of a tavern wench was nuzzling his waist. Thus far, she had used her fangs only to inflict superficial cuts, which she licked as if they were lines of candied syrup.

As they passed the scene, a hunger within Della—one never quite satiated—fisted brutally.

She turned her gaze away, only to notice an enthralled Violet clutching Wolfie’s arm.

Della knew Polly and Noreen had felt the same pangs, and she wondered if Wolfie was giving this tour in order to stoke their appetites. It would be just like him to tease like this.

Farther into the maze, they passed more couples.

Then trios who had gone beyond scratching and into gnawing.

Then quartets who were feasting on the males, whose eyes had glazed over even as their skin was peeled away like waxen wrappers.

Food,
the girls thought as one.
Always hungry, never full.

Just as they had all but doubled over from their cravings, a breath of light brought them out of the maze and into another room where blood haunted the air to a lesser degree.

This one was bright and looked as if it belonged in Versailles itself.

As Della slowed her pulse from what she’d seen in the maze, she took in the pastoral scenes lining ceilings and the half-masked girls who reclined in silken, gilt-edged corners. Most of them wore voluminous skirts and powder in their upswept hair.

Yet all of them had razor blades they were whisking along the flesh of blissful males who were, perhaps, in their later twenties.

Witness a favorite pastime for our older recruits,
Wolfie mind-said.
You’ve probably guessed that these boys aren’t getting anything they haven’t asked for in the world above.

The class tilted their heads at Wolfie, and he laughed at their innocence.

We find some of our more special treats in fetish clubs,
he said.
And if we determine that they won’t be missed, they come down here and never go anywhere else again.

Oh,
Della thought along with Polly and Noreen.

Wolfie had never taken
them
to any such clubs.

Wolfie laughed again.
New experiences, darlings. You will enjoy them.

Even so, when he turned his attention back to the razor-bearing girls, Della saw his smile lessen from when he’d lavished a gaze on them.

Did he spend so much time with their class
because
of their innocence? And once they moved from school to the Underground, would his interest fade in them, as well?

Would he love the next class better?

Della watched as a girl sliced along the belly of a man, lapping her way down and down his skin while making his flesh glow in delicious reds.

Shivering in anticipation—or perhaps it was in fear of losing Wolfie’s affection if she should become as worldly—Della let go of Noreen’s and Polly’s hands, sidling closer to him.

He tweaked her chin, then walked them round and round more rooms: cottages, pirate ship cabins, castle chambers. . . . Every luscious fantasy a schoolgirl might dream of during a lecture.

As they strolled out of the harem room, Della was so swept away that she said out loud, “You spent time in all these places before you modeled your Underground after them, Wolfie?”

“Most, my darling.”

She sighed. “I should love to hear even more stories about your life and times.”

Pausing, he looked deep into her eyes, and she saw the adoration she craved there. Appreciation.

He touched her cheek, running a thumb over her skin, and Della leaned into his palm.

Then Violet swept by on her way to the closed door, brushing against Della in a hardly subtle warning.

Wolfie chuckled, shaking his head.
You girls.

But before he let them out, he said, “Keep up now. Hurry along after me. There’s much entertainment and sustenance to be had back at the main masque before you leave, and I know you’ve been exceptionally hungry recently.”

When he opened the door, Violet went first, delivering a glare so ugly to Della that she almost shrank away.

But she didn’t.

Not with the afterglow of Wolfie.

Once in the dark hall, she realized that they were so far from the masque that the drums were nothing more than faint blips.

Then Della sensed . . . something.

All of them did.

Energy. Malice. Misery.

It was almost as if damp, shivering bodies were pressed against them, and Noreen and Polly crowded Della, as if this would combat the sensation.

But Wolfie had warned them to keep up, and as he sped away toward the sound of drums, they followed, more than happy to leave the awful awareness behind.

They arrived back at the masque entrance to the cheers of the other girls, and Noreen and Polly trailed Wolfie inside.

But before Della could do the same, Violet thrust the banner curtain in front of her, blocking the entrance. Then she veered close, her nostrils flaring.

As if she’d smelled fear on Della, she pulled back, her eyes aglint.
You’re still frightened of me, Della. Good.

Stand aside, Violet,
she said, clinging to the last of Wolfie’s touch. Wanting to find him and the others again.
You don’t scare much of anyone these days.

Violet’s gaze seemed to click to pale slits, and whip quick, the other girl planted her foot on Della’s chest and shoved.

Della flew through the air, darker, darker, the blackness becoming thicker, way, way back past all the rooms—

Slamming into a wall, she heard Violet’s echoing giggles, far away, while the pitch-dark wrapped her in what felt like a clammy rag.

Reeling, Della fumbled round her, feeling rock, using it to stand as she swayed to her feet.

Gradually, her head cleared, leaving humiliation.

Now that Blanche had left, Violet would be bored, and she would return her attention to the weakest member.

Della could either take it or—

Out of nowhere, two figures appeared in front of her.

Two pairs of unblinking red eyes accompanied by an electric whining sound that made Della press her hands to her ears and open her mouth in soundless surprise.

But just as quickly as it’d happened, Della felt arms wrap round her and zoom her away, out of the viscous pressure of the darkness and back to the noise of the masque.

The laughing and drums seemed a world away, even though they were right there.

In her blurry gaze, Wolfie, her rescuer, stood in front of her, his hands on her temples as he looked her over, his hair clouding round him in the light.

Della,
he said, his mind-voice like thunder.

His pique shook her as the other girls stayed back.

He squeezed her head with just enough strength that she couldn’t bring herself to speak.

Violet tells me you got lost,
he said.

Behind him, Violet came into view, blocking her thoughts from everyone. But the glare she leveled on Della was open enough.

Don’t you dare tell what really happened,
it said.
Or else . . .

Della thought about the upcoming nightcrawl they’d been promised, perhaps tomorrow if they were good. Thought about the wonderful night they could enjoy here.

Food. Delectable food.

She looked away from Wolfie and straight at Violet, making certain the other girl knew just how far she would go for the group.

How much punishment she was willing to take if it led to rewards.

I got confused with my direction,
she mind-said.
But I was about to catch up, Wolfie.

This is no place to ever get confused,
he said.
We have others at work around the Underground. They leave me to my business, and I leave them to theirs.

Della closed her eyes as Wolfie let her go. She wished he would glimpse into Violet’s thoughts to see if she was lying, but there was no reason when Della herself had covered for her.

Violet could always manage a lie with almost anyone, except for the one who punished them.

When Della opened her eyes, she found that Wolfie was already back to his careless self, scanning the masque as a starving man would set his sights on a feast. The pull of the festivities was too much for him to resist as he linked arms with Noreen and Polly, leaving Violet alone with Della.

The drums beat in earnest as the other girl circled to Della’s back. There, she inhaled, exhaled, causing the hair on Della’s neck to part with each breath.

Della turned round, nose to nose with her, finally standing up when, all the time before, she’d remained down.

Violet tried to hide her surprise, acting pleased instead.
You thought of the group before yourself, Della. Bravo.

Are you
challenging
me, you prat?

Della only smiled as she turned round to join the masque.

But that smile withered once she realized she’d just stepped into the spot Blanche, Briana, and Sharon had left vacant.

EIGHTEEN

THE SCHOOL FOR FiNE YOUNG GiRLS

DAWN
fought the London traffic while driving the team’s modified Kia Sedona to Queenshill for a 1:00 PM appointment.

Earlier, just before classes had been scheduled to start, a Friend had come down to headquarters, letting the team know that some girls in what they’d begun to call the Fang High Uniform had been seen sneaking back into the dorms and were now in school.

It was all Dawn could do to keep her foot from stomping down on the gas pedal.

But . . . relax, she told herself. The girls would still be there when the team arrived.
Patience.

Besides, the team had plenty to get done as they made their way to Queenshill. Since returning to headquarters last night, they’d all worked on individual research projects and slept, so this was the first time they’d been able to catch up as a group.

Right now, Kiko was sitting shotgun on the front-left side of the vehicle, looking at Dawn every once in a while like she might all of a sudden bust out into major puppet-master mayhem again. It’d been his job to dig up background on the school and its nearby city, and he was updating them.

“So here’s the scoop. St. Albans was named after the first British Christian martyr in the Middle Ages. A real bloody tale, which is appropriate, I guess. He wasn’t a Christian at first, but he gave shelter to a cleric who was running from the Roman authorities, who were themselves persecuting Christians, as we know from a little book called the Bible. Alban was so moved by his guest that he converted, and when the bad dudes came to make an arrest, Alban pretended to be the cleric while the guy escaped. Then Alban wouldn’t deny his new faith to the Romans, so it was bye-bye for him with a swing of an executioner’s blade—that is, after the first executioner was converted by Alban and then refused to kill him. The poor schmuck who took the first executioner’s place was miraculously blinded for putting Alban to death.”

Wearing another modest business suit, Natalia scooted forward from her spot in the back. She’d tried to cover the bump on her head with foundation and powder, but the wound still peeked through.

“Vampires in a saint’s city?” she asked.

Dawn kept one hand on the wheel. “Queenshill is only on the outskirts, so the irony isn’t as delicious.”

“Anyway,” Kiko said, “pilgrims would come through town to pay their respects to St. Alban at his shrine, so there’s been lots of traffic over the ages. But the city has a lot more going for it than that. Down by St. Michael’s village, there’re actual Roman ruins. Verulamium—that’s what it was called way back when. And there’s even a haunted old house on Market Place.”

Natalia tapped her full lips with a pen, and Dawn noticed that Kiko noticed.

Then the new girl said, “London, in itself, has its share of storied places that might draw a vampire or two. Why would they prefer St. Albans?”

Kiko handed her some color printouts. “I don’t have a good answer, but just take a look at Queenshill. Note the chimeras on the building’s ledges. They don’t call them gargoyles because gargoyles technically spout water, you know? But tell me a vampire wouldn’t be into all that. Besides, the school is far enough removed from the city that it might serve as a decent hiding place for gathering vamps.”

Natalia made a disgusted sound as she scanned the printouts and their chimeras.

Clearly not a fan of the grotesque.

Taking the papers back, Kiko said, “As for Queenshill, there was this eccentric millionaire named Thomas Gatenby, whose family made its fortune off the slave trade. Near the end of the nineteenth century, he suddenly got a conscience and established this school for girls. Later, his fortunes seemed to just disappear.”

“I wonder,” Dawn said, “if Thomas Gatenby was a pseudonym for one of our blood brothers.”

“You never can tell.” Kiko sent her one of those random I-can’t-believe-you-made-a-guy-your-marionette looks again, then glanced out the window. “For all we know, based on Frank’s follow-up with Justin Abberline, every girl in that school might be a vamp, and that could lead to a master who maybe did donate the land they live on.”