Chapter Ten
She didn’t truly believe that he would keep his word. It felt much more like he intended to make her drop her guard, then
do something he wouldn’t have any trouble disposing of. Like trap her somewhere for all eternity or thrall someone else into
doing it for him. Really, it made no sense to go to the place he proposed they meet, in a letter she found in her drawer the
next day. She cracked the actual wax seal and read it there, in script that now seemed disturbingly old-fashioned: six in the morning, in the abandoned east wing theater.
Like some sort of university version of Phantom of the Opera.
He was probably going to drop a chandelier on her head.
But she knew why she went anyway. It was exactly like he’d said.
She was ravenous. And for all the things she could see behind her eyes, the moment she thought of him teaching her anything.
That magic he had done, in the maze. The beauty and brilliance of it, in his hands. How it had bent to his will, with almost
no effort expended at all. He was undisputedly an expert, a virtuoso, a genius. And not even a human one, either. He was made
out of the place magic came from. It was in his body and his soul. His lessons, even reluctantly given and probably half-heartedly
conceived, would be invaluable.
And not just to her.
To Anaya.
She could share whatever he offered with her.
She simply couldn’t pass even a chance at that up.
Though she took precautions. She used the iron filings she’d mixed with Vaseline on her own throat, her wrists—anywhere she
could think that might seem tempting to him. The iron fork she’d pinched from the dining room went in one pocket of her pinafore
dress, the iron nail she’d found in the other.
Then finally, she did the riskiest thing.
She set up the letter. The one that would drop into the drawer that sent things, if she wasn’t back in time to stop it. Addressed
to Professor Cobble, because Cobble seemed kind. He seemed understanding. The lecture before last, he had tapped his lectern,
and told that horrible Henry Godwin to cease trying to bespell her notebook.
It was at least possible that he might listen to what she’d written, if she suddenly disappeared. That he might make sure
Harker didn’t hurt anyone else—and in a way that didn’t unsettle her. He won’t have him beheaded, she found herself thinking, as she wrote the thing. Because try as she might, she couldn’t shake how horrible that idea
seemed. It haunted her, somehow.
Though of course she didn’t let it show in her words to Harker. She didn’t tell him that she’d taken great care in her letter
to Cobble. That she’d erred on the side of Harker doesn’t know what he’s doing. Instead she detailed her plan in great and gleeful detail. To my not quite mortal enemy, she began. Then ended it on: just in case you were planning on something other than what you claim this will be.
And was surprised when he wrote back almost immediately.
Oh, what a disappointment it would have been, little bookworm, if you had given me anything less. I do hope you intend to continue living up to my high expectations of your seething hatred and distrust of my every move.
Yours faithfully,
Yes, Immortal Is the Right Word to Use Now
Though her surprise was even greater when she got to the end, and a bubble of laughter rose up. She had to crush it down,
hard. Smother it in its sleep. Now was not the time to find him amusing. It was the time to crumple that letter up into a
tiny ball, and toss it, and then go to the east wing theater, with a face like stone.
Impenetrable, ready for anything, hand already on that nail in her pocket, as she eased the creaky, half-collapsing door open,
and just let herself peer through the crack she had made. No body parts going past the threshold, no making a racket. One
look, and nothing else.
But one look did nothing for her. All she could make out was a long stretch of wooden floor, slightly warped with age and
disuse and probable damp. And a stripe of a velvety-looking crimson curtain, tattered at the hem but still somehow sumptuous.
It made her think of baroque performances, where everyone wore makeup so thick it gleamed and moved in unsettling ways.
In fact, for a second she could almost see it.
She could hear the slightly discordant music.
She shut her eyes, and she was there on a seat amid rows of them, in the dusty darkness, as performers parted over-lipsticked mouths, to show their disturbingly large teeth.
They cavorted and capered, in a play she could almost see the title of.
A word from the Underneath, something someone whispered to her, and when he did, he put his hand over hers, and she knew.
She knew then that they were going to end the night tangled together in—
“I wasn’t sure you would really dare come.”
Her eyes snapped open the second she heard him speak. Heart already racing, half of her sure she’d dropped the ball already.
But he just stood there, hands in his pockets, in the sliver of space she’d revealed when she opened the door a crack. Like
he’d done no more than step to the left, so she could see him. And even after she had, he didn’t make a move.
He waited for her to make one first.
To step inside—and she did. She slipped through and shut the door behind herself. Carefully, and with her eyes never on anything
but him. Then she stood like he was, hands in her pockets, her battered little Mary Janes positioned primly together, face
as expressionless as she could make it.
And only after she was satisfied that she had made the right, slightly defiant, and ready-for-anything impression did she
speak. “Well, I do have my little safety net now. So it didn’t seem like such a dangerous thing to do.”
“This will always be a dangerous thing to do, bookworm. And especially when hunger exponentially increases, the more time
a vampire spends in the company of the thing they hunger for.”
“If that’s the case, how do you even expect to do these lessons?”
“By making them fast enough and brutal enough to beat the clock, of course.”
“That’s ridiculo—” she started to say. But before she could even get to the end of the word, he cut in with one she already
recognized all too well. “Draw,” he said, like a whipcrack. And this time, she had no time to grab a thing. No chance to put a book in front of her. There
wasn’t even a book to be had.
All she could do was lurch to the left, hard enough that she went down on one knee.
The bone there brayed at her; some muscle in her side definitely got twisted in a way it didn’t like.
But the mess that came out of his wand missed her by what felt like a millimeter.
She honestly thought she felt heat kiss her flailing arm.
Before the bust of some old dead man burst into flames, behind her.
For a second all she could do was stare at it, agog. But the only thing he had to say about it was this: “Well, at least you
can sense a spell when it’s coming for you, and dodge in the correct direction. Even if you can’t instinctively shield.”
“You just almost fucking incinerated me to prove that?”
“Don’t be dramatic. I didn’t almost incinerate you. I aimed for your hair.”
“My hair is on my head, Harker. If one burns, the other does, too.”
“Not when I can put it out this quick.”
He flicked the wand still in his hand at the bust. And sure enough, the fire winked out, like it had never been there at all.
Still amazing to witness, after a month of seeing similar feats in the halls and her dorm and all over the grounds. But even
so, she couldn’t respond with anything but fury. “Or you could have remembered I can’t even gather, and told me how to first.”
“You don’t need to gather to feel magic coming for you. Ordinary people sidestep it all the time, without even knowing they’re
doing it. And you aren’t ordinary, so your sense is keener. Now, let’s see if we can juice you into doing something more than
dodge. Ready?”
No, she went to say.
But he didn’t even wait for her to answer.
He just snapped that wand at her again. And this time, she knew it wasn’t fire he was throwing.
Somehow, she knew it was worse. It was something much worse, and it was aimed right at her heart, and she just wasn’t fast enough.
She could feel it—exactly as he’d said—but she
was too slow. She wasn’t going to make it; all she could do was throw herself onto the ground and squeeze her eyes tight shut
and hope.
And god, this time she felt it do more than kiss.
She got pressure, sizzling over her left shoulder. The sense of something sharp, the snick sound of something being sliced. When she looked, she honestly expected to see blood. And instead she watched as the strap
of her dress suddenly drooped, and slid, and finally settled into two separate pieces, on either side of her body.
Shouldn’t have worn a bra that shows through this blouse, she thought mindlessly. “My fucking dress, you absolute arsehole,” she spat.
Much to his amusement.
“It really shouldn’t be something you’re mourning.”
“Of course I’m mourning it. Unlike what you’re probably used to, this isn’t one of many.”
“You know I’m a vampire, and you still think I’m a wealthy prick?”
There is no concept of money in Calabaraia, she thought automatically.
Though she couldn’t bring herself to concede.
“If you don’t want me to, maybe you shouldn’t act like one.”
He spread his hands. “But when you do, you fit in. And it’s not as if I can afford to not.”
“So that’s the reason for the captaincy, and all the holding court.”
“Well, you can’t deny it makes for good cover. And I do need a hell of a lot of it. Doubly so, when delicious meals are suddenly on the floor in front of me, hearts beating like
jackhammers, skin showing through their flimsy little blouses.”
She grabbed that split strap when he said it. Tried to pull it back over herself, so he couldn’t see. Though it wasn’t as
if she’d ever actually seen him look. And he didn’t look now, either. He held her gaze, as he let his tongue curl up, over