Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter
Thirty-One
A part of me still thinks I’m wrong. Maybe the Familiar’s mark is making me paranoid. Nocth did say it can drive people insane. But those memories, those flashes of that night, feel real. I wade down to the Cat’s Tail, taking the third staircase leading to the music hall.
He’s playing already, each note sharp like a cut, as if he’s running his bow over my veins, the strings drawing blood. I steady my breathing. I open the back door to the hall. Ife raises her brows when she sees me. “You could have waited for me,” she whispers. “Where did you run off to?”
“I felt a bit nauseous,” I whisper back.
I think back to Julia’s painting and compare it to my own memories. He had been wearing a plain white T-shirt and torn jeans. I watch him now as he puts his cello on its stand. His suit is perfectly cut, hair brushed back from his eyes.
His voice, as he delves into a lecture on one of his own experimental operas, has a suffocating quality to it now.
Does he remember me?
I think back to our first meeting. Him calling me to the front of the class, telling me his office was a safe place. Was he waiting for me to recognise him?
The lecture feels longer, each second dragging as both fear and expectation inch forward.
I didn’t know vampires existed until Penny found me.
Had I been of sound mind, I may have not believed her.
But when she offered me revenge, I travelled back down to London.
I followed her into the deepest corner of the abandoned convent where she kept her prisoners.
The first vampire I ever laid eyes on was a Convert, a woman with sunken cheeks and sharp fangs who Penny had kept alive just for me.
I always pictured that vampire, with her crimson eyes, her wild expression, as the first. As my gateway into this world. But she wasn’t.
It was Gustavsson.
People around us start to get up, benches screeching as they head out of the music hall. Ife puts her laptop into her bag, a tight curl falling over her face.
“Cassie, can I have a word?” his voice calls. I play with my watch and nod.
“Again?” Ife asks.
“Don’t worry,” I say. If she says something else, I don’t hear her, my ears ringing again. I push myself up. I have a gun and two rounds of bullets in my satchel. A stake, though I’d rather not use it today. If I want answers, I need him alive.
I try to remember. See it again. The hotel, the stage. But the night is still a blur. I try to bring Julia’s painting to life in my head, but it remains static. I reach the front of the classroom, and his eyes lock with mine. The back of my head tingles.
“Cassie,” he says, flashing me a perfect smile. “I read through your proposal. Ravel is interesting enough, but it would be a good idea for you to include a woman composer as well. You remember Campbell?”
My body feels heavy. Cold. My breathing is short. I need to focus.
He watches me far too intently, waiting for my reply. Why was he at my prom?
“I do,” I finally say, straining to make my voice sound normal.
The last student exits the class, door slamming, leaving us alone in the dim room.
A dozen possibilities flash through my mind. Ways to make him talk.
Silence lingers between us, every question I have dying in my mouth. Gustavsson looks away from me and shakes his head.
“I wish you wouldn’t look at me like that, Cassie,” he whispers. His voice, deep, velvety, crawls beneath my skin. He steps down from his platform, coming closer. “I’ve tried ignoring those looks from you,” he says in a hushed voice. “But it’s becoming unbearable.”
He’s too close. I step back until I feel a table against my lower back, while he puts one arm at my side, inhaling my scent.
My hand trembles. An old fear freezes me in place and leaves me unable to look away from him.
“You’re going to get me into so much trouble,” he whispers. He looks like he’s going to say more, do more, but suddenly he pulls away, glancing at the back entrance.
“Oh, Miss Astra,” he says. “To what do I owe your visit?”
I’m still frozen, skin crawling, and I don’t realise she’s here until she’s at the front of the class. It’s my first time seeing her in this candlelit hall, her hair gold instead of white. Relief floods through me as soon as I realise I’m no longer alone with him. She’s here.
“Get away from her,” Aliz says. Gustavsson takes another step back, raising both hands. His lips break into a crooked grin, an expression I’ve never seen him wear at the university, but one I saw prom night. “Ever look at her again, and you’ll regret it.”
Her hand takes mine, and my panic, everything that froze me in place, vanishes as she drags me away from him.
“I wasn’t aware the Astras were so friendly with humans.” His voice echoes against the frescoes on the vaulted ceiling, and Aliz’s eyes flash red.
“Don’t talk about my family,” she says.
Gustavsson is clasping his cello case, his smile cool now that it’s directed at Aliz.
“You know, you look nothing like your sister,” he says. Before Aliz can push out another word, he adds, “We are related, did you know that?”
“What?” Aliz asks, her voice still sharp. I breathe out, trying to keep up with the conversation.
“You and I. Almost three hundred years ago, your sister blessed me with eternal life.” He looks down at his hands, turning them as though he’s seeing them for the first time. “She fell madly in love with me, though her love was fickle.”
Aliz looks stunned. I am, too. Her fingers are tight against mine, and I can’t tell if she’s furious or afraid.
I recall the story he told during his first lecture. A mysterious aristocrat heard him play, stalked him for a year, and gifted him with eternal life. The reason why Gustavsson knows what he does about The Book of Blood and Roses, then, is because he once lived with the woman who wrote it.
“We’re not related,” she finally says. “My sister sired many vampires.” This time, when she starts walking, Gustavsson doesn’t say anything. Though I can still feel his gaze on the back of my neck as we leave.
She doesn’t let go of my hand as we walk through the tunnel, taking the first turn we find, down into a darkened and quiet stairway. Then she pulls me into her arms.
“What made you come here?” I whisper, feeling safe against her chest.
Aliz hesitates. “It’s strange,” she says, not loosening her grip. “But somehow, I could sense that you were in danger.” Her fingers stop on my neck, resting against the Familiar’s mark. A shiver runs across my skin, welcoming her touch.
I look up, chest warming when her eyes meet mine. Then she’s glancing down at my lips, leaning closer. I clear my throat, and though I don’t want to, I pull back. “We should be careful,” I whisper. “If anyone sees us like this, you could get in trouble.”
“I like trouble,” she says and lifts my hand to kiss my knuckles. She pulls me close, and my racing heart starts to calm as I breathe against her neck. My eyes sting, but I have to keep my emotions to myself. This isn’t something I can explain to her.
We go back to Tynarrich, walking a few metres apart to avoid anyone noticing our proximity. Knowing she’s near keeps my fear at bay.
But I can’t shake off the sickening dread, crawling deeper in my skin, as Gustavsson’s voice and his crooked smile linger in my mind.
Later that evening, when Aliz goes to class, I head to Elia’s place.
I send her a photo of Julia’s mural, along with a link to Gustavsson’s profile in Tynahine’s intranet. Despite having an entire library on campus, half of Elia’s house is filled with books.
“I’ll have to check other sources,” she finally says, her voice low and careful.
“But based on what you’ve told me, he might be a Vassal.
” I tense when I hear that word. The Vassals are the murderous Convert cult Nocth told me about.
The ones responsible for Aliz’s sickness.
Elia must have noticed the change in my expression, because she asks: “Aliz’s memories haven’t come back, have they?
” she asks. I stare at her. How can Elia know about Aliz’s missing memories? Somehow, I’m not surprised.
“They—they did. But Nocth was able to—”
“Put another bandage on them?” Elia’s voice is sharp. “When will Faust realise that Aliz will never grow up if he keeps sheltering her like this?”
“You didn’t see her,” I say. “She was vomiting blood.”
Elia’s gaze softens. “There has to be another way,” she says. “I refuse to believe amnesia is the only cure.”
“Did you ever see Gustavsson before?” I ask, getting her back on topic. Elia looks at me then, brows creasing. “Before he reached Tynahine?”
“Should I have?” she asks.
“He claims that he was sired by Ada Astra.” I expect to see her eyes widen with surprise, but instead Elia makes a face tinged with disgust.
“She loved making fledglings,” she says.
“Whenever our relationship was going through a rough patch, she’d disappear somewhere across Europe and bring back a newly turned vampire to make me jealous.
” She swallows, looking down. “I stopped caring after the sixteenth century, so I’m assuming, if what he said was true, that he must have been one of her later conquests.
” Elia stares at the printed picture. “When your sire dies, a piece of you dies with them. They can become vicious after that sort of loss. I know I did. So perhaps Ada’s death is what made him join the Vassals. ”
I stare at her. I knew Elia was a Convert, yet at the same time, I can’t imagine her ever being human.
“Why would a Vassal ever go to Wishaw?” I ask. She looks at me, not hiding her confusion. “That’s my town,” I elaborate, and Elia nods.
“Scouting. He may have gone on a tour of every prom in Britain.”
“Scouting for—”
“Blood party victims,” Elia says. “You said your parents were killed by vampires.”
“Yes,” I say.
“How long after your prom?”