A Kiss So Deadly (Ivymoore Vampires Book 1) by Sylvie Wrightman (2)

“I don’t even know who you are,” I said, finally recovering from my shock. “I hardly hand over items to people to whom I’ve haven’t been properly introduced.”

 

“Seriously, princess?”

 

I narrowed my eyes at the curly-haired man. Princess?

 

“Fine,” the man conceded at last. “I’m George Vanderpool, second-lane racer for the Ivymoore Ravens. Make you happy?”

 

“Not really,” I said, crossing my arms. “I don’t understand why I’m supposed to hand the watch over to you. Why doesn’t Sargent come get it for himself?”

 

The man named George frowned in confusion. Then, a light of realization crossed his features. “You don’t know?”

 

“Know what?”

 

“That Sargent is in the infirmary.”

 

I felt a dull thud in my heart. “What? What for?”

 

George snorted. “You really are clueless. Look, it doesn’t matter what for. What matters is giving me the—”

 

“Excuse me,” I interrupted, “but it certainly does matter. I don’t make transactions with middlemen, thank you very much. I’ll return this to Sargent myself. He’s not unconscious, is he?”

 

“Well, no, but—”

 

“Then I see no reason why you are here, wasting my time with your stupid face and your stupider words.”

 

I turned briskly out of the alcove, returning to the corridor. Meanwhile, George called after me, in mocking tones, “Don’t forget to take him some flowers!”

 

In the school infirmary? What idiotic behavior had landed Jack Sargent there? Whatever it was, I was going to find out. I wasn’t about to let him slip by me without giving an explanation for his literal disappearance the night before.

 

❧

 

Pale winter sunlight streamed through the arched windows of the infirmary, illuminating a gentle drift of dust in the air. The high-ceilinged room was quiet, save for the occasional clink of Dr. Bellevue’s mortar and pestle as she worked on stock herbal antidotes. Only two patients occupied the Ivymoore infirmary this evening: a sleeping first year with a broken arm and, at the very far end of the room, Jack Sargent.

 

“He’s in a weak way,” Dr. Bellevue had warned after leading me to his bedside. “I wouldn’t talk too long for fear of tiring him out. What he needs is rest.”

 

I had nodded dismissively and then taken a seat by the bedside, in an uncomfortable hardback chair. Jack’s eyes were closed, and I knew I’d been told to wait until he woke, but I didn’t have the bloody patience for all that. I cleared my throat. Loudly.

 

His eyes fluttered open, filled with a sleepy haze. Then, a crooked smile followed.

 

“Did you bring me chocolates?” Jack asked hoarsely. “I adore chocolates. Especially chocolate-covered grapes.”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said, my gaze combing over his blanket-covered body. “I don’t even see anything wrong with you.”

 

Though I did notice something slightly different about him—a little streak of silver hair, just at his temple, that I had not ever seen before.

 

“I can’t walk,” Jack said nonchalantly. “It’s only temporary. Should wear off by late tonight, tomorrow at the latest.”

 

“You can’t walk? What’s wrong with you?”

 

“Nothing I haven’t handled my whole life,” said Jack. “I’m sure you’d find the details exceedingly boring. Anyway, you didn’t come to talk about me. You came to give me back my watch, since you were . . . unavoidably detained last night.”

 

“I simply couldn’t make it,” I said, unapologetically. Then I unzipped my satchel and removed something other than his wristwatch: a thick, spiral-bound notebook. “I don’t think it was fair of you to give me a meeting place a split second before you vanished into thin air. I never said I would come.”

 

“Fair enough,” said Jack, though his face suddenly screwed up in a wince.

 

My eyes widened. “Are you . . . in pain?”

 

“Nothing unbearable,” said Jack, smiling tightly. “Now what’s the notebook about?”

 

“Oh.” I rested the notebook on his bedside table, behind a small vase of yellow carnations. “Whitechapel assigned us a hefty essay today. It was a dense lecture, and I thought you’d be completely lost if you didn’t have the notes.”

 

Jack looked at me steadily, a strange expression forming on his face. “That was thoughtful.”

 

“It’s nothing,” I said quickly. “I only thought, you know, since I’m technically still your tutor. . . .”

 

“Thoughtful,” said Jack, “but a wasted effort. I’ve decided to drop the class.”

 

“What?!” My raised voice echoed on the high stone ceilings. “What do you mean, drop?”

 

“I’m not cut out for it. I know when I’ve put too much on my plate. Like you said, it’s just a matter of me making time to read the extra material, but that’s impossible with my current nightspeed schedule. I like school. I’m good at it, usually. But it’s not like Advanced Bloodraughts will help me in a career as a professional athlete.”

 

I frowned. “Still, it’s a shame for you to drop.”

 

“I’ll be all right,” said Jack. He dug his elbows into the mattress, pushing himself up against his pillow. “But now we’ve veered into small talk. How you must despise me. I’ll take my watch, and we’ll be done with it, shall we?”

 

But I wasn’t listening to what Jack had to say. I’d grown distracted. He was wearing nothing but a white, loose-fitting hospital gown, and I could now see more of the tattoo lining his collarbone. It swooped downward, its line thickening as it disappeared into his chest and under the low cut collar.

 

Jack noticed the source of my distraction.

 

“Like what you see?” he asked, producing an ungodly smirk.

 

“Yes,” I said, distractedly. Then, horrified, “NO! I mean . . . I mean, I’ll give you back your watch under one stipulation: I want to know how you vanished into thin air. It was an extremely disconcerting experience, and I think I deserve an explanation.”

 

“I suppose you do,” Jack said slowly. “Very well. Here it is: I didn’t vanish. I was there the whole time. I was there until you went back inside the gathering room, and then I returned to my bedchamber. It was as simple as that.”

 

“You’re still being enigmatic,” I said impatiently. “What I want to know is the how. Vampires can’t turn invisible; that sort of charmwork is impossible.”

 

“It wasn’t a charm,” said Jack. “It’s a condition. A medical condition.”

 

Finally, I put two and two together:  “You mean, it’s what landed you here in the infirmary.”

 

Jack shrugged. “Sometimes the effort takes a physical toll. It’s usually worth it, though. And last night, you maintained a sterling reputation, didn’t you? No gossip about what warmblood Jack Sargent was doing with blueblood Adaline Aldridge out on a snowy balcony. So . . . it was worth it.”

 

“How can you say that?” I demanded. “You can’t walk! You’re stuck in the infirmary for a full day at least, and you think that my reputation was worth it?”

 

“You thought your reputation was worth it,” Jack replied. “That was enough for me. I’ve been feeling guilty, you know, about the Mahogany Coffin. Thought I should make it up to you.”

 

I sank against the hard-backed chair. “You’re not going to tell me the details, are you? Of your . . . condition?”

 

“What do you think?”

 

Jack Sargent was fucking insufferable.

 

But what could I do? And why was I so damn curious in the first place?

 

With a heavy sigh, I pulled out his watch from my dress pocket. Gingerly, I placed it on the edge of his nightstand.

 

“There it is,” I said stiffly. “And don’t think I feel sorry for you. Or that I’m going to apologize that you’re in that hospital bed when this is all your own doing.”

 

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

 

I nodded curtly and rose to my feet. I’d said everything that needed to be said. Granted, I still wasn’t anywhere near satisfied with Jack’s explanation for last night, but there was no point in pulling teeth, especially when he appeared to be in pain. There was nothing left to do but leave.

 

So I did.

 

“Ada.”

 

Already halfway across the room, I grew deathly still. Very slowly, I turned back to Jack’s shadowy outline. No one called me Ada. No one. I was going to tell Jack that, but the words, suddenly sticky, caught in my throat.

 

“We’ll probably never speak to each other again,” said Jack, “so I thought I ought to tell you that, as far as aristos go, you’re not half bad.”

 

From an unidentifiable place inside, I felt the overwhelming need to laugh. What a ridiculous comment to make at a time like this.

 

“I suppose,” I said, “that as far as fangers go, you’re not half bad either.”

 

Jack closed his eyes. “Sweet Azazel, now I can die in peace.”

 

He was laughing at me again. I knew he was. But this time I didn’t snap or reprimand him. After all, it was the last time we would speak to each other. Instead, I merely tiptoed out of the infirmary and into the Ivymoore corridors.

 

❧

 

That evening, I found Desmond in the North Wing sitting room, surrounded by a gaggle of older boys who had elevated their fireside conversation to rowdy shouts and raucous laughter. They were talking about nightspeed. Lately, it seemed they were always talking about nightspeed: stats, scores, the latest predictions. Ivymoore had beaten the Knivlen Vultures this year, and we were favored to win the Usherian Eagles match in February. After that, only one obstacle remained between us and the national badge: our usual rival, Halthorpe Hall.

 

Under normal circumstances, Halthorpe was the given win. But since my early years at the university, Ivymoore’s nightspeed team had enjoyed an unprecedented season of success. For three years straight, we had secured the national badge. It was an impressive record, and even the most blueblooded of fans begrudgingly admitted that a good deal of this success was due to the talent of the team’s star player and captain, Jack Sargent.

 

Now, a group of such blueblooded fans—my boyfriend included—were engrossed in a conversation about the most recent nightspeed match.

 

“Emmett is legally blind by the looks of it,” a stout, black-haired man was saying. “Did you see that move Sargent pulled on him toward the end? Knivlen’s never had such a worthless third lane.”

 

I cleared my throat once, and then again, louder, when no one paid me any mind. On this second attempt, chairs creaked as the guys turned to look in my direction. I smiled tentatively at Desmond in the flickering firelight.

 

“So sorry to interrupt,” I said, “but I wondered if I might steal away my man?”

 

It had been a week since Desmond and I had had a proper date or even a lengthy chat, and I had a sudden new determination to spend this time with him.

 

Desmond, however, looked irritated by the request. He made no effort to move out of his deep-cushioned armchair, but rather crossed his feet on the ottoman before him.

 

“I’m busy, love,” he said. “The fellows and I are catching up. Nightspeed talk. I’m sure you’d find it dreadfully boring.”

 

Heat burned in my cheeks. Was Desmond really going to blow me off? What was wrong with him? He had spent little quality time with me in recent weeks, since Halloween, and even the conversations we did share together seemed forced and stilted. Hadn’t he bought a ring? Didn’t he want to marry me? And now for him to purposefully refuse me in front of his friends. . . .

 

This would not stand.

 

“Perhaps I could join you?” I offered, still maintaining a pleasant air.

 

Desmond chuckled. “Oh, come on. Like you could contribute one coherent remark. You’d be lost like a floundering fish. I know that the only thing you’re really thinking about during nightspeed is if the breeze is messing up your hair.”

 

What. The. Fuck?

 

How dare he talk about me that way, as though I were one of the brainless, giggling slags that lounged about the North Wing sitting room after hours, dead set on getting a snogging session with whichever boy was free? I was his girlfriend, and he was humiliating me in public.

 

“You seem to forget,” I said hotly, “that I have a working brain beneath this perfect hair.”

 

The other guys let out a long “ooooooh,” then turned their amused gazes back on Desmond, who had gone steely-eyed.

 

Oh no.

 

No, this was not good.

 

“Fine,” Desmond said through gritted teeth. “You’re right, sweetheart. We really are long overdue a private chat, aren’t we?”

 

My stomach sank straight into my ankles as Desmond got to his feet and circled around the ottoman to where I stood. He grabbed me at the elbow, his grip uncomfortably tight, and proceeded to march me away from the fireplace. I could hear his mates cackling behind him and dropping choice vulgarities as he jostled me out of the sitting room and into one of the North Wing’s dim, drafty stone hallways.

 

“You are way out of line,” he hissed, releasing me with a vicious jolt. I stumbled back a few steps, then righted myself with a proud arch of my brow.

 

“Am I?” I retorted. “How else was I supposed to get your attention? Don’t pretend that you haven’t been practically ignoring me all week.”

 

“I’ve been busy. You have, too. Anyway, I didn’t take you for the needy type.”

 

“I don’t consider wanting to chat with one’s boyfriend after seven days to be ‘needy.’ Don’t act like I’m crazy, Desmond. You’ve been distant lately. Admit it.”

 

But Desmond was laughing. There was something in his green eyes that unsettled me; something that reminded me of another set eyes. Alistair’s eyes. It was the look his older brother got at Aldridge family dinners, whenever he or Lenora got off on a tangent about the scourge of mortal-mades in England and how each one of them deserved to be blasted off the face of the earth.

 

“God, Adaline,” Desmond said, throwing up his hands. “You’re so paranoid. You think I’m cheating, don’t you?”

 

My throat went dry. I actually hadn’t once considered that Desmond would be cheating on me.

 

Not until that moment.

 

“Of course not,” I said. “ I just want to spend time with you. You’re my boyfriend. That’s what boyfriends do: hang out with their girlfriends. They don’t . . . belittle them in public.”

 

Desmond wasn’t laughing anymore. The frightening glint in his eyes had vanished. He looked thoughtful—remorseful even. At last, he spoke.

 

“You’re right,” he said. “I have been neglectful.”

 

Hope spread in my chest, coating over my ribs like slow-poured honey. Desmond understood. All it had taken was an unpleasant confrontation for him to see that—

 

“But that’s no excuse for you to contradict me.”

 

The pleasant sensation in my chest evaporated. “W-what?”

 

“You contradicted me in front of my peers. That sort of behavior is not acceptable. Really, didn’t your mother teach you better? You seem to have recently taken this idea into your head that you can do whatever you want around me—even without me, with absolutely no ramifications. But that’s not how this works, Adaline. Especially if you and I are to be married one day.”

 

I stared at my boyfriend, a shock jolting through my system. Why now, of all possible times, was he talking about marriage?

 

“Do you know what the duties of a wife are?” Desmond asked, his voice turning soft and sibilant. “To honor. To respect. To obey. I’ve been understanding. I’ve allowed you your little flirtations with schoolwork—”

 

“You’ve allowed me? Desmond, what is this about?”

 

“Who was he?” Desmond growled. “The fanger who had his filthy paws all over you in Port Erin. Who was he?”

 

I opened my mouth, dumbfounded. No sound came out. I hadn't thought that anyone had known about Mahogany Coffin, that anyone had found out. Only Clarissa had seen, and she would never tell a soul about Jack Sargent.

 

“W-why does it matter who it was?” I stammered. “He was just some stupid guy who thought he was being noble. I didn’t want him around me. I was—”

 

“Drunk,” finished Desmond. “How do you think I like that? When I have to hear from one of my mates that my girlfriend got pissed and then manhandled by a filthy mortal-made?”

 

“I d-didn’t know. We were celebrating Clarissa’s engagement. I got carried away. And you were busy hanging out with your mates instead of me.”

 

“This isn’t my fault,” Desmond spat. “How do you think I felt, cleaning up those nasty rumors about you? Justifying your behavior? How do you think it felt to hear about your indiscretion from someone else? You can’t behave that way. Not as my girlfriend.”

 

A frigid tear scorched down my cheek. “I didn’t mean for you to have to deal with it. I didn’t know you’d been angry at me all this time. Why didn’t you just tell me?”

 

“I’m telling you now, aren’t I?” The anger had left Desmond’s voice, but the indignation hadn’t. He stepped in closer, wrapping a hand around my wrist. “Listen to me. If you are going to be with me, I cannot have you acting out of line. No drinking. No making a spectacle of yourself. No disrespecting me in front of others. And no cavorting with people that I don’t deem appropriate.”

 

The tears that had been so freely falling moments before suddenly dried up. I wiped away the last of them with a trembling hand.

 

“Excuse me?” I whispered.

 

“You heard me. I know it may be unpleasant to hear, but someone has to rein you in. Believe me when I say that it’s for your own good. Now wash up your face. No one looks attractive after a cry like you’ve had.”

 

He didn’t wait for me to reply. He swiftly turned heel and left me alone in the candlelit hallway. I stared after him with red eyes and a hollow chest.

 

How. Dare. He.

 

I wanted to spit in his face. I wanted to dark charm him. I wanted to run after him, drag him in front of his mates, and break up with him then and there. How was that for disrespect?

 

I didn’t do any of those things. Already, cool rationality was creeping back into my mind. I couldn’t break up with Desmond Prescott. Not now, just when Clarissa had delighted the family with her big news. My mother would despise me forever if I were to call things off, especially when Desmond seemed on the verge of making her final unclaimed daughter an offer. What would all of Hortense Aldridge’s society friends say? I couldn’t bring that sort of disgrace onto my family.

 

But I wasn’t going to sit silently by and abide by Desmond’s controlling rules, either. Obey him? The arrogant prick. A lot of nerve he had to talk about obedience when he and I hadn’t even made out in a full week.

 

I would show him. I could do anything I wanted, go anywhere I wanted, be with whomever I wanted—and his stipulations would be given no consideration whatsoever. I was a free vampire.

 

And I could think of no better way to prove my freedom than to storm out of the North Wing chambers and head straight for the infirmary.

 

When I arrived, I slammed open the double doors, ignoring Dr. Bellevue’s fervid instructions that I keep quiet, and crossed to Jack’s sick bed in long, determined strides.

 

“Jack Sargent,” I said, “you and I are going to cavort.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

9

Rebellion, Within Reason

 

“Cavort?”

 

Jack Sargent was not in the state I had expected to find him in. For one thing, he was standing. When I had left him earlier that evening, he’d been flat on his back, unable to walk due to his bizarre “condition.” It appeared that he’d made a full recovery.

 

For another thing, Jack wasn’t wearing a shirt. He had stripped from his hospital gown, which lay rumpled on equally rumpled sheets. His trousers hung loose on his hips, and his shirt was nowhere on his body, but rather clenched in his right hand.

 

Oh, sweet Azazel.

 

I had been meaning to take him by surprise. I was going to be the one who stunned Jack into silence with my wild demand and my even wilder plan. But now demands and plans alike flew out of my mind. Jack Sargent was standing in front of me, half-naked, and I could finally see the whole of his tattoo.

 

The tendrils of ink on his collarbone had only been the beginning. Lines swooped downward and upward, too, from his navel, sideways from his ribcage. All lines converged at his heart, where there was engraved the black outline of a small, lithe bird. A bird. Of all the things to have tattooed above your heart! And yet somehow, despite the prosaic nature of the drawing, it looked incredibly enticing on Jack’s chest. Perhaps because Jack’s chest was marvelously fit.

 

Stupid chest.

 

Stupid nightspeed workouts.

 

Stupid Jack.

 

What had I come here for again?

 

Jack repeated his query a second time: “Cavort?”

 

He was looking at me as though I had lost my mind. That was a definite possibility.

 

With difficulty, I ripped my eyes away from Jack’s bare skin. I shook my head, trying to regain my thoughts. Desmond. Yes, that was why I was there. I was absolutely livid at Desmond, and I was going to make him pay by explicitly disobeying one of his “orders.”

 

“I’m not allowed to cavort with you,” I said. “So I’m going to cavort with you.”

 

Jack was silent for a long time. He used the time to resume what he had been doing before my interruption: putting on his shirt. When he was through, his hair was an unspeakably mussed mess, but he himself looked a little more enlightened than before. He even looked a little . . . amused.

 

“Cavort,” he said. “Do you . . . know what that word means?”

 

I crossed my arms. “Of course I know what it means. It means to spend time with someone else. To fraternize.”

 

“I mean,” said Jack, “I’m not sure you’re aware of the . . . sexual implications.”

 

My eyes grew wide. “Wha—no. No! I didn’t mean anything like that. It’s just what Desmond said when—“

 

Jack’s eyebrows shot up. “So this is about your boyfriend.”

 

Damn. I hadn’t meant to let on that much.

 

“No,” I said. “It’s about me.”

 

“Oh. Like everything else.”

 

“Shut up!” I stamped my foot. “Are you going to cavort with me, or not?”

 

Jack smiled at me—a slow, assessing smile. “Adaline Aldridge,” he said. “You’re flirting with me.”

 

“Ladies of the House of Aldridge don’t—”

 

“Oh, but they do. They do flirt. They get drunk, too. And they use pawns to get back at their boyfriends.”

 

I didn’t know what to say. How could I possibly reply to that?

 

Jack shook his head, gathering an overstuffed satchel from the bedside and slinging it across his chest. “Because that’s what I am to you, isn’t it? A pawn. A fanger for you to toy around with. I bet you didn’t even consider the possibility that I don’t want to play your high-browed games.”

 

The honest truth? I hadn’t. There was never any question in my mind that if I asked Jack Sargent to spend time with me, he would. I was better than him in every way—in rank, in wealth, in blood, in talent. Why wouldn’t he want to do what I asked?

 

“If you want to turn rebel without a cause,” Jack said, “good for you. You want to teach your boyfriend a lesson? Fine. Just do it on your own time.”

 

With that, he pushed past me, leaving me in stunned silence.

 

But not for long.

 

I turned and hurried after him, incurring an exasperated whisper from Dr. Bellevue to keep quiet. I didn’t catch up with Jack until he was well out into the dark corridors.

 

“Wait!” I ordered. “Wait, you insufferable—please. Please, wait?”

 

Jack stopped. Slowly, he turned to face a huffing, puffing me. Why was it that he always managed to see me at her most undignified?

 

I swallowed once, hard, and again, harder still, in an attempt to regain my voice.

 

“I shouldn’t have asked it that way,” I finally whispered. “That was presumptuous of me.”

 

Jack snorted. “You think?”

 

“It’s just that I don’t quite know how to behave around people like you. There are no set rules, there’s no protocol to follow.”

 

Jack stepped closer to me, under the light of one of the corridor’s flickering torches. “I’ll give you a starter tip: Treat us like equals.”

 

I wrinkled my nose. “But, you’re not—“

 

“I said,” Jack interrupted, “treat me like an equal. It doesn’t matter if you think I am or not. Talk to me like one of your society friends. Go ahead.”

 

I sighed. Just how badly did I want to make Desmond suffer? Was it worth this?

 

“Fine,” I said, at last. I chose my next words very deliberately. “Jack Sargent, I’d very much like to spend time with you.”

 

“Why?”

 

I bit my lip. There wasn’t much point in lying, was there?

 

“Because Desmond says I can’t, and I want to prove to him that I can do whatever the hell I want.”

 

“Thought so,” said Jack. “And if I were to agree to—what was that word you used?”

 

“Cavort,” I muttered.

 

“Right. What exactly does your definition of ‘cavort’ entail?”

 

“I have thought this through,” I said proudly. “I wouldn’t be simply using you. It could be a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

 

Jack looked suspicious. “Mutually beneficial, how?”

 

“I’d like to know more about nightspeed. The rules, that statistics, that sort of thing. Desmond thinks that I’m too dense to understand it, and I’m going to prove him wrong. In return, you’ll receive my help.”

 

“Your help?” Jack looked genuinely surprised. “Why would I need your help?”

 

This was the tough part. I took a breath and then proceeded. “I think you’re giving up too easily. You worked hard to get into Whitechapel’s class, and I don’t think you should drop it just yet. So, if you promise to teach me about nightspeed, I promise to get you top marks on your next Advanced Bloodraughts exam.”

 

“I won’t cheat,” Jack said, sounding unusually harsh.

 

“I didn’t say you’d be cheating. But if you can’t be disciplined enough to do the required reading, I can still help you out. Provide some insights I wouldn’t share merely as your tutor.”

 

“How selfless of you.”

 

“Perhaps,” I replied. “All the same, that’s my offer. I don’t know why I’ve made it, though, since you seem so dead set on refusing me anyway.”

 

Jack shifted his weight uneasily from one foot to the other. After a long silence, he spoke.

 

“Why me? Why do you want to . . . uh, cavort with me, of all people?”

 

“Desmond heard about Mahogany Coffin,” I said, wincing at the memory. “He didn’t just tell me not to hang around your sort. He told me not to hang around you.”

 

Jack nodded slowly. “And that’s the only reason?”

 

I frowned. “Well, of course that’s the only reason.”

 

It took me a long moment to realize that Jack had extended his hand toward me, as though he expected me to shake it.

 

“Then it’s a deal,” he said. “I’ll cavort with you in return for a passing grade on Whitechapel’s next exam.”

 

“Deal.” Gritting my teeth, I took his hand, shook it, and then promptly extracted my fingers and wiped them on my skirt.

 

I caught Jack watching me.

 

“What?” I demanded.

 

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

 

“You look better,” I casually observed.

 

“I feel better.”

 

“I suppose this means you’ll be in class tomorrow morning?”

 

“I suppose it does.”

 

“I’ll hand you a note then,” I said. “More information about our . . . arrangement. But don’t expect me to speak to you in public.”

 

“Certainly not.”

 

Why was he grinning?

 

“Sweet dreams, Ada,” Jack Sargent told me.

 

Then he set off down the corridor, whistling a slow, bittersweet melody.

 

❧

 

South Wing Turret, 7 o'clock tonight.

 

After carefully folding the note, I placed it on Jack’s desk, just under a slat of splintered wood. Then I took my seat. I didn’t look back to see when Jack entered the classroom. I didn’t glance around once during Professor Whitechapel’s lecture on how to defend oneself against lethal respiratory charms. I placed all my bets on Jack seeing and reading the slip of paper without my surveillance.

 

I hadn’t known anything for certain until after class, as I bustled out into the corridors with the other students, bottlenecking at the doorway. It was normal to bump shoulders on the way out, and today proved no exception. Only today, I felt the distinct pressure of a hand against mine. There was a flash of golden hair in my periphery. Then I became aware that I was holding a slip of paper—the same slip that I had snuck Jack.

 

He had written a response on the opposite side of the paper:

 

7:30

 

He would request a later time.

 

7:30 then. I was going to meet with Jack Sargent at 7:30 that evening. In secret. I was meeting with a warmblood in secret, in a dirty, drafty, abandoned turret of the castle. And instead of that thought making me nauseated or exceedingly uncomfortable, it only sent my heart racing.

 

What was the matter with me? I couldn’t actually fancy Jack Sargent, could I? The only reason why I felt this way was because Desmond had been acting like such a bastard recently. In a few weeks, I’d impress him with my nightspeed knowledge and convince him that I was not the sort of girl who needed reining in. In the meantime, I would have my fun breaking his rules—and that included meeting up with a fanger.

 

A fanger I most certainly did not fancy.

 

❧

 

 

That night, when Clarissa and Lilith were readying to go to the dining hall, I told them I wasn’t feeling well, and that I was going to visit Professor Ivanov’s office. Ivanov was Ivymoore’s resident medical draughtmaker, and she was known for her exceptional remedial teas. It wasn’t too far-fetched of an excuse for my absence. 

 

When I returned later that evening from the South Wing turret, I would explain to Clarissa and Lilith that Professor Ivanov and I had gotten carried away in conversation. That wasn’t a stretch either; I was on good terms with every professor in the school.

 

I had planned everything perfectly.

 

I wondered if “perfect” was the right way to go about things, since “cavorting” was such a sloppy, spontaneous word. Then again, just because I was rebelling didn’t mean I had to be sloppy about it, surely. Just like my future, this specific evening had a set plan and set parameters.

 

The only real variable was Jack Sargent.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

10

Cavorting

 

“Wait. Robbins is a third lane cyclist, right?”

 

“Halthorpe’s best third lane cyclist. The trouble is, she’s flanked by Adams, and they put Adams on the cycle because he’s stock, all brawn. He’s downright terrifying to meet in the corridors—could knock any guy down just by slapping him too hard on the back. But you can’t put your stock in a beater merely based on physique. A third lane has to be clever, has to know when to strike and when to hold back. Robbins knows that. The trouble is that Adams always manages to sabotage her best moves.”

 

“So, you think that’s the Crows’ greatest weakness? Adams?”

 

Jack nodded and took a slow sip of cider. “Without a doubt.”

 

As I’d anticipated, Jack had been late, even for his own requested time change. What I hadn’t anticipated was that he would arrive with two freshly brewed, piping hot mugs of marrow mead.

 

“Drafty up here,” he’d explained, taking a seat on the frigid stone bench across from me.

 

I couldn’t help but smirk at that comment; the cold only affected Jack, not me. I didn’t have any remotely warm blood capable of being chilled. The turret certainly wasn’t the most comfortable place for a clandestine meeting, but it was very . . . well, clandestine. That’s why I’d chosen it. No one came up here during the wintertime. It was dark and dank and outfitted with nothing but stone benches, making it inhospitable to any blueblood; it was also far from the warmth of the school’s fires and grates, making it more inhospitable to a mortal-made. I had dressed accordingly in my thickest fur coat and fine, elbow-length leather gloves. But I didn’t need that warmth any more than I needed hot marrow mead. All the same, I felt a strange sort of gratitude toward Jack for the kind gesture, and I’d set about drinking my mead so eagerly that I burnt my tongue in the process.

 

Meantime, as previously agreed upon, Jack had launched into a detailed explanation of nightspeed basics, beginning with the current team line-ups within Ivymoore. I listened attentively, asking for clarification and elaboration when necessary and sipping my marrow mead at intervals.

 

Jack was a patient, thorough instructor, I discovered. The way he explained things was engaging, but it wasn’t so weighed down with nightspeed jargon that I felt like a fool for asking questions. I also discovered that I officially liked the way that Jack talked. The lower class lilt that had once grated on my nerves, the way he said his vowels all wrong—it had somehow become . . . endearing. And his eyes, I decided, weren’t the color of dirt after all. They really were like cocoa. And I did like cocoa very much. . . .

 

“Adaline?”

 

“Hm?” I looked up, startled, and realized to my embarrassment that I hadn’t heard a word Jack had said for the past minute straight.

 

He quirked a smile at me, and I noticed for the first time just how much his freckles stood out against his pale skin, especially over the bridge of his nose.

 

“I'm boring you,” he said.

 

“What? No! No, not at all. It’s been fascinating, really. My mind just drifted away for a moment.”

 

“All the same,” Jack said, “I’ll take it as a sign to shut up. Enough nightspeed talk for the night, eh?”

 

To my horror, Jack got to his feet.

 

No. He had practically just shown up! There was no way this interaction could count as proper cavorting.

 

“Hang on!" I said, with far too much panic in my voice. “What about my end of the deal?”

 

Jack frowned down at me. “Sorry, but I don’t feel much in the mood for studying. I didn’t bring any of my books, either. We could just meet up another time, when—”

 

“No,” I cut in. “Now is the perfect time. It doesn’t require books or parchments or even in your brain. I told you I had an insight that would help you do better in class. Though perhaps ‘insight’ wasn’t the best word for it.”

 

As I hoped, that caught Jack’s interest. With a curious expression, he sat back down. Only this time he didn’t take the bench across from me. He sat right by my side. I tensed as I felt his coat sleeve brush against mine.

 

“It’s really more of a tool,” I continued, stooping to unfasten my satchel. From the inside pocket, I removed a heavy, transparent stone. I nudged Jack’s elbow, motioning for him to open his hand. When he did so, I deposited the stone into his keeping. “It’s extremely rare. The work of witches in Massachusetts. I saved up quite a bit of allowance to buy mine at a haberdashery in Canterbury.”

 

I chewed my lip, watching him closely. “Do you know what it is?” The look on Jack’s face already told me that he didn’t, so I went on. “It’s a Synop. Novels, essays, anthologies—you place the Synop atop whatever it is you’d like to have summarized. It only takes a few moments. Then when you open the book back up, all the important bits—the main points, the notable names and dates, that sort of thing—are highlighted in lavender ink. It’s a marvelous invention, really. I bought it during sixth year, and it’s been a lifesaver. Helped me to cram for loads of exams. It isn’t cheating; it’s just a study aid. But considering your particular dilemma—you know, how little time you have to do the reading—I thought it could come in handy. It doesn’t mean you won’t have to study anymore, but it will make studying much less time consuming.”

 

I realized that I had been talking a mile a minute, descending into little more than a ramble. Promptly, I shut up. I had told Jack all he needed to know, really. There was no need to wax eloquent.

 

“Thank you.”

 

I looked up in alarm. Jack’s voice—the voice I’d come to like so much, that seemed constantly on the verge of laughter—was now hoarse. I noticed, to even more alarm, that his face was bright red. Had I done something to embarrass him? Or worse, embarrass myself? I tried to think back on what I had said.

 

Why, oh why, had I rambled?

 

“Thank you,” Jack said again, closing his fingers over the Synop. “That was really thoughtful of you. It’s exactly the sort of thing I could use.”

 

I nodded briskly, glad to see that some of the tell-tale mortal-made pink was fading from Jack’s cheeks. “I thought so.”

 

“Don’t you need it, though?”

 

I tilted my chin in a careless, dismissive way. “It’s helpful, but not essential. You’re welcome to use it to study for Whitechapel’s exam, but I’ll want it back by next week.”

 

“Deal.” Jack gingerly pocketed the stone in his jacket. “You okay? You’re breathing kind of, erm, oddly.”

 

I realized that I was, in fact, breathing much more rapidly than usual, in short, staggered gasps. What was wrong with me? Was it just because I was sitting so close to him? Jack Sargent could not be making me literally lose my breath.

 

“Quite all right,” I said easily, patting at my chest. “The air’s just a bit thin up here, isn’t it?”

 

“Mm. Mhm.” Jack glanced at the stone-cut, arched windows high above our heads, which were completely open to the elements. It was snowing again, and every so often a gust of wintry wind blew a puff of snowflakes into the turret.

 

He leaned in closer to me. I could feel the warmth radiating off his cheek, just inches from my own csystallinely cold face.

 

“You know why no one comes up here, don’t you?” he asked, voice lowered to a dramatic whisper.

 

“Because it’s so cold, of course.”

 

Solemnly, Jack shook his head. “You haven’t heard the stories, then.”

 

“What stories?”

 

I knew that I was taking the bait, but I was too curious to care. Also, I wanted an excuse to keep Jack closer to me for a little while. I found that I liked his strange warmth; I was so unaccustomed to it in my aristo circles.

 

Just a little while longer. . . .

 

“They say,” Jack whispered, “that it all began when she was only eighteen. Her name was Winifred Hopp. She had hair the color of—” he wrinkled his nose in realization “—well, like yours I suppose. And lips as red as blood. She was a solitary girl. She had no friends to speak of, kept to herself. But there were some students who watched her sneak up to this turret, time and time again. Some said she came up here to cry out of loneliness, others that she simply came to think. But the truth is, on the days she went up to the turret, she was never alone.”

 

A strong breeze rustled through the windows, sending in a fresh spray of snowflakes. I clutched my coat closer, not from cold but from intrigue.

 

“She was meeting someone,” said Jack, his voice even lower and darker than before. “She was meeting a boy, and no ordinary boy, either. This particular boy had died twenty years earlier.”

 

“W-what?”

 

Jack nodded dramatically. “A ghost. She fell in love with the ghost of the South Wing turret. The two of them were madly, passionately lost in adoration for each other. But of course, their love could never be consummated. As for the boy, he could never leave the turret, the place where he had jumped to his death twenty years before. Young Winifred drove herself mad over her inability to be with the one she loved. She lived in pure misery. That is, until the day two first years were goofing off, exploring the castle, and discovered her lying in a pool of her own blood.”

 

“What?!”

 

“She had killed herself, they said. But had she? No one really knows for sure if it was Winifred who slashed her own throat, or if it was her lover, the boy ghost, who had contrived a way for them to be together . . . forever. That much remains a mystery. But what people know for certain is that sometimes, in the very dead of night, you can hear the voices of them both—Winifred and her ghost lover—crying out in the South Wing. They even say you can conjure their spirits up if you come up to the turret and say her name.”

 

I realized far too late that, without knowing how or when, I had gripped Jack’s arm. And I was still gripping it. Hard.

 

Flustered, I let go, just as Jack leaned in, placed his lips to my left ear, and whispered, “Winifred.”

 

I shrieked.

 

Jack burst out laughing, pulling away with a wicked grin.

 

“YOU!” I shouted, smacking him across the shoulder. “You little—what a terrible story to tell!”

 

Jack kept laughing so hard that tears formed in his eyes and began to run down his flushed cheeks.

 

“God, Ada,” he snorted. “If you could see your face right now.”

 

“I hate you!” I said, shoving at his chest.

 

His hands caught mine, stilling them against his collarbones. Then his laughter stopped. Our eyes met, his still shining from merriment, but now darkening with something else, something I couldn’t place.

 

I really did need to tell him not to call me Ada.

 

“Jack,” I whispered.

 

But that was all.

 

He leaned in closer. I held my breath. I closed my eyes. . . .

 

And then he pulled away, dropping my hands from his. My eyes fluttered open only in time to see Jack shake his head with a rueful smile.

 

“You’d better get back in time to kiss your boyfriend goodnight.”

 

Reality swept over me, harsh and nerve-rattling. I shook my head, as though that could clear it of every unwanted emotion within. “Y-yes,” I said, unsteadily. “Yes, I’d better.”

 

I cleared my throat and gathered my things, willing my heart to please, please slow down. I was grateful for one thing at least: Unlike Jack, I was incapable of blushing.

 

Jack and I parted ways at the bottom of the turret stairwell, and I hurried back to my dormitory, prepared to tell the girls my airtight lie about Professor Ivanov. They bought it, hook, line, and sinker, and we chatted afterward as though nothing in all the world was amiss.

 

It was only after lights were out and curtains drawn, as I stared at my canopy and listened to the delicate snores of Lilith, that I allowed myself to think about it.

 

What exactly had happened in that turret? Had Jack Sargent been about to kiss me? More importantly, had I been ready to let Jack Sargent kiss me? Impossible. It was only the dark of that turret and Jack’s silly ghost story that had made me temporarily lose my head. These secret meetings were meant to prove a point to myself and to Desmond, not to satisfy my curiosity about any part of Jack’s anatomy, including his lips.

 

All the same, I decided that I ought to set some boundaries for the next time we met. For one thing, I wouldn’t sit so close to him again.

 

Yes. That ought to help tremendously.

 

One thing was certain: I had to meet with him again. It wouldn’t count as proper cavorting if we only cavorted once.

 

So we met again in South Wing turret, later that weekend, this time during the day. There were no more ghost stories, and no more close-proximity-of-lips. The new-and-improved cavort was strictly educational.

 

The next week, Jack scored the fourth highest mark in Whitechapel’s class on the exam. And in return for an extended loan on the Synop, I requested more nightspeed informational sessions. It was a perfectly symbiotic relationship that stretched on from one week to the next, well into December.

 

But it was more than just a symbiotic relationship, and it was more than just an attempt to get back at Desmond. The truth was, I began to genuinely enjoy my time with Jack.

 

That was impossible, though, wasn’t it? To enjoy spending any time in close proximity to a mortal-made? Nothing about it matched up with what I had believed for my entire life. Was this the punishment for cavorting? Perhaps Jack did have a warmblood disease, and I had caught it, and the symptoms included laughing at Jack’s jokes and allowing my eye to wander along his biceps when he wasn’t looking.

 

I knew that I would have to cut things off soon. Since Desmond’s and my big blowout, the two of us had made up in the way that we typically made things up: Desmond hadn’t apologized, and neither had I. We had just met in an empty corridor and snogged for the first time in two weeks, and Desmond had told me that my hair looked lovely in torchlight.

 

I was still angry with him. I still didn’t like the fact that he’d given me a list of commands, as though I were a wild animal to be tamed. But everyone had their flaws, I reasoned, and though Desmond was conceited and high-handed, I could be an absolute pill when I wanted. I owed it to my family to marry a well-off blueblood, and I wasn’t a beauty like Lenora or Clarissa; I couldn’t afford to be picky in my flaws. More than that, I really did like Desmond when he wasn’t being a domineering idiot.

 

On an early December night in the dining hall, Desmond had joined me for dinner and been a complete gentleman. He was attentive, asking me questions about school and nodding at my answers in rapt attention, just like the Desmond I had known when we had first started dating my second year. We discussed holiday plans—he would be going home to the Prescott’s country estate, while I spent most of my holiday with the extended Aldridge family at Ironweld Place—and he commiserated with me when I confided that I would much rather be going back to Onyx House. I didn’t much care for the extended family—Aunt Judith in particular; that woman acted as though she had a fire poker perpetually shoved up her ass.

 

When dinner was over, Desmond escorted me back to the North Wing, his arm draped possessively across my shoulder. All the while, I tried to remind myself why I was upset with Desmond. Was this pleasant evening his attempt to make up for his bad behavior a month ago? If so, maybe we should’ve fought more often.

 

We came to a lingering stop outside the sitting room door, and Desmond leaned in for a customary goodnight kiss.

 

But when our lips met, I gave a sudden, instinctual shiver.

 

Desmond pulled back with a frown. “Something wrong?”

 

“No! Not at all.” I fiercely shook my head. “Just a draft.”

 

I fled to the safety of my bedroom and proceeded to be sulky and short-tempered with the girls, despite the fact that both Lilith and Clarissa were in the best of spirits. Or perhaps it was because the girls were in such good spirits that I felt so irritated.

 

“The two of you didn’t fight again, did you?” Clarissa asked.

 

“No,” I muttered. “No, everything should be perfect. It just isn’t.”

 

“I think you’re just impatient,” Clarissa said, eyes twinkling. “He bought that ring at the beginning of autumn! Silly boy, putting you through all this anxiety. It’s only nerves.”

 

“Oh, stop moping on about boyfriend troubles,” groaned Lilith. “Prescott isn’t ever going to let you go, Linnie. He knows what a catch you are.”

 

Lilith jumped onto the bed and then sprawled out lazily, her hand draped over my back. The girl really had no sense of personal space.

 

“A real topic of interest,” she said, “is that Xavier and I got lost in the corridors today. And yes, that is absolutely a euphemism.”

 

“Spare me your euphemisms and Xavier’s pretty ass,” I growled, like a feral creature.

 

Lilith prodded at my back. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, dear heart, but you look like death. I think someone needs her beauty sleep.”

 

Lilith was right. I knew that I must have looked miserable, and I felt even more miserable for being miserable for no apparent reason and for treating those around me so equally miserably.

 

I stoked my resolve right there, with my face buried into a satin pillow. 

 

Something had to be done.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“In the face of the ‘modern’ and increasingly popular idea that mortal-mades deserve equal treatment or rights, a true vampire will do his part to fight valiantly, in word and deed, against the corruption of the vampiric world and will continue to maintain a pure, untarnished bloodline. True vampires, too, are invaluable to the cause of bearing and training heirs. Vampires who fail to comply with this mandate should be regarded as traitors and cast out to live as though they were base warmbloods themselves.”

 

- The Silent Scourge: On the Dangers and Depravity of Mortal-Mades

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

11

Discovery

 

“So then Jones pops out of the rubbish bin, the cycle goes flying, and Vanderpool tears out of the locker rooms, screeching like the Furies are on his heels.”

 

I had been giggling for a minute straight. I covered my mouth, shoulders still quivering from laughter as Jack wrapped up his masterful retelling of the latest nightspeed team prank.

 

“Ow,” I moaned, once I’d recovered enough to produce words. “I’ve got a stitch in my side, you bastard.”

 

Jack just smiled placidly, arms folded behind his head. He was sprawled out on the stone bench across from me, a box of chocolate-covered grapes—his favorite mortal treat—resting on his stomach.

 

“I’m glad you think it’s funny,” he said. “It was really disruptive to practice. There’s no way we’re going to be in shape to take the national badge by spring if they keep on in this undisciplined way. You’d think they were a bunch of first years, the way they carry on.”

 

I shook my head. “You may sound like a perfect stick in the mud, Jack, but I know that you think it’s just as funny.”

 

The edge of Jack’s lip quirked, ever so slightly. “Maybe a little.”

 

For the past couple of meetings, “cavorting” with Jack had begun to entail more than swapping nightspeed stats for study tips. We would speak for hours about everyday topics, from school to the dining hall’s menu, and I would return to bed, pleasantly exhausted from conversation, falling into a sleep where the nightmares of old never reached me. I had practically made a gift of the Synop to Jack. I didn’t have too much need for it unless I was assigned two simultaneously difficult essays or exams, and if that occasion ever arose, I was sure that Jack would give the Synop back to me in a heartbeat. I trusted him.

 

I trusted a mortal-made. Abstractly, I knew how preposterous that was. But in practice, when it was just me and Jack, it didn’t seem so far-fetched. I knew Jack to be true to his word. I knew that he would always be kind to me, even when I was less than kind to him. And I wasn’t sure I could say as much about any other human being in my life, including my own family.

 

That’s why cutting things off would be so hard. The truth was simple: I would miss him.

 

A more horrible truth was this: I never craved Desmond’s company. I never lay awake thinking of all the things I had to remember to tell him the next time we spoke. I felt that way about Clarissa, and about Lilith, too—friends who meant a good deal to me. But now I felt it about Jack, of all people. I found myself wishing that we didn’t have to keep our meeting clandestine, in this turret. I wished that I could simply plunk myself down beside him in the dining hall and chat like friends. I had come to genuinely care about his opinions. So why didn’t I feel that way about Desmond? And why was I preparing to cut things off with Jack for Desmond’s sake?

 

Because that's what needs to be done, whispered the voice of reason.

 

And it was right. Jack and I couldn’t go on meeting like this forever. Secrets always got found out sooner or later in a place like Ivymoore. It wasn’t that I felt guilty about my meetings. This had always been about payback, about proving to myself that Desmond didn’t control my life. But now I’d proven that most thoroughly, and now Desmond was acting so much nicer and more attentive; he was probably on the verge of a Christmastime proposal. Which meant I couldn’t go on meeting with Jack in good faith. Any relationship with a boy like him had no place in my world. It had to end.

 

So why couldn’t I find the words to end it?

 

“Ada?” Jack said slowly, tilting his head back to get a better look at me.

 

I had never corrected him about the nickname. Each time he said Ada, the word sounded so intentional, so carefully handled. No one who called me “Linnie” could lend my name that much magic. So why would I ask Jack to stop doing something so pleasant?

 

“You okay?” he asked me. “You’ve been quiet tonight. Not that I mind, considering you’re usually harping on how completely irrational nightspeed is or how I’m the scum of the earth, so—”

 

“I never said that!”

 

Jack just gave me a look that said “good as.”

 

I knew he was right.

 

“I’ve just been thinking,” I murmured. “We leave for the holidays tomorrow—”

 

“Whoa! Really?” Jack sat up in mock alarm, his hair a laughable mess of blond sticking up in every direction. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

 

“Just shut up and let me finish,” I said, more coldly than I’d intended.

 

Jack shut up and stared wide-eyed at me like an obedient puppy. He was adorable. I didn’t even try to deny that anymore. But acknowledging Jack’s adorableness was not helping me in the slightest with my task.

 

“What I was saying before you so rudely interrupted,” I said, “is that we leave for the holidays tomorrow, and—and—and—”

 

And you and I can’t ever see each other again.

 

Why was that so hard to say?

 

Jack, meantime, had gone from looking adorable to looking petrified.

 

“Ada,” he said, “are you having some kind of fit? Is there a remedial draught that I need to administer? Do I need to find a trusted adult?!”

 

“NO!” I yelled. “Dammit, Sargent, you’re ruining everything!”

 

“Oh.” Jack frowned.

 

“I just wanted to say that—that—that I bought you a fucking Christmas present, okay?”

 

Where had that come from?

 

Jack was staring at me. Just staring.

 

I shoved a strand of hair behind my ear and wished that I could sink into the ground right then and there, in a puddle of gloop. Could I have deviated any further from the script? I never bought Christmas presents for any of my friends at Ivymoore, including Lilith, and I certainly would never buy one for Jack Sargent.

 

“Um,” said Jack, scratching at the bridge of his nose. “Um.”

 

“It’s nothing,” I said quickly, deciding to commit to my already absurd lie. “Just a very little something. Minuscule! I don’t even have it with me, so I don’t know why on earth I told you, but I just wanted to show you that I’m not always the bitchy aristo-posh that you think I am, and I do appreciate the fact that you’ve taught me so much about nightspeed, and just because I say nasty things to you all the time doesn’t mean that I don’t—”

 

“Hey.”

 

I reeled to a stop. My hands, I realized, were trembling. I clasped them in my lap.

 

Jack was leaning toward me, across the divide between our benches. His eyes were bright, shining. Full of life. Not the dull color they’d been when I’d seen him weeks ago in the infirmary.

 

For all our meetings, Jack had never brought up his visit to the infirmary, and neither had I. I knew he meant to stay tight-lipped about it. That didn’t mean I wasn’t curious, though. Did he suffer from some mortal affliction I wasn’t familiar with? Was it chronic? Was it embarrassing?

 

Why was I thinking about that now?

 

Why was I thinking about it ever?

 

“Thanks,” Jack said, his face very close to mine. “I’m sure that, whatever it is, whenever I get it, I’ll really like it. And I’m sure it’ll probably be worth more money than I’ll make in my entire lifetime, so I’ll promptly sell it on the black market for hard cash.”

 

A month ago, that remark would’ve earned Jack a derisive glare. Now, I laughed, in spite of myself.

 

“I feel bad, though,” said Jack. “I didn’t get you anything.”

 

“But you don’t have to,” I replied. “I wouldn’t expect it from you. You’re poor.”

 

Jack gave me the look.

 

It had taken me a few meetings to catch on, but I soon realized that Jack always gave me the same look whenever I said something that he found, for whatever reason, offensive. It was that look like he was waiting for the punch line of a bad joke.

 

“You know,” he said, “we poor folk give gifts too.”

 

“Of c-course,” I stammered. “I’m sorry, of course you do.”

 

A month ago, I would never have apologized either.

 

What in Azazel’s purgatory was happening to me?

 

“I should go,” Jack said then, gathering his things. “Still haven’t packed an inch of my trunk for the trip home.”

 

That didn’t come as a surprise, but it still amazed me. I really didn’t see how anyone could live the way Jack Sargent did, so last minute, always late to everything, constantly unkempt. My own suitcases had been packed for the past three days.

 

“Goodbye, Jack,” I told him. “Happy Christmas.”

 

Jack nodded. “Happy Christmas, Ada.”

 

He disappeared from the threshold and down the dark, spiraling stairwell.

 

I remained in the tower long after he’d left, silently berating myself for my startling inability to properly finish a sentence.

 

❧

 

“I thought this day would never come,” Clarissa sighed, pressing her fingertips to the ferry cabin’s frosted window. “Two whole weeks without schoolwork and filled instead with you.”

 

Clarissa was, of course, gushing to Vance. But I really wished she didn’t have to do so in front of an audience. At this point, I couldn’t tell if Clarissa was sitting on Vance's lap or if they were both just in a very long embrace, but the long and short of it was that it was getting increasingly difficult these days to tell where Clarissa began and Vance ended. As they leaned in to kiss, I gave a consternated yelp.

 

“I draw the line at snogging, you two!”

 

Clarissa blushed. Vance backed sheepishly away. Miracle of miracles, the two actually took their own seats, side by side, and resigned themselves to holding hands.

 

It was official: Clarissa was going to spend the entire first week and a half of the winter holidays with Vance and his family at Carrington Manor. The remaining few days she would spend at Onyx House. I faced a crueler fate. I was doomed to spend the beginning of my holiday with all the extended relatives at Aunt Judith and Uncle Ezekiel’s townhome in London.

 

I wasn’t fond of 66 Ironweld Place, even though it was a grand house in a fashionable part of my favorite city on earth. Perhaps it wasn’t Ironweld Place I disliked so much as all the relatives who would be staying inside of it. I felt as though I always had to be on my best behavior, as though I were constantly being judged and found wanting. And this Christmas, what would everyone say about the fact that Clarissa was engaged, while Desmond was still dragging his feet?

 

Aunt Judith in particular would have some choice words to say to me. If I were honest, I would admit that I was genuinely frightened of my aunt. She reminded me too much of Lenora—or perhaps Lenora reminded me too much of Aunt Judith. Either way, both women had a fiery temperament and a short fuse. I’d witnessed more than one argument between my aunt and uncle that had ended in Aunt Judith throwing a priceless vase across the room, shattering it into pieces. When the holidays came around, I made it a point to stay out of her way.

 

To make matters worse, Clarissa wouldn’t be there to hide away with me in our shared room and make laughing remarks about how much makeup Aunt Judith caked on her face and what a complete killjoy our Great Uncle Maurice was.

 

At least I would have some time to spend with my father. Mortimer Aldridge was an important man—a vampiric judge who had tried some of the most high profile cases in England over the past thirty years. But he was also, simply, my father. I couldn’t wait to tell him how well I’d done in classes that term. I was going to make him so damn proud come spring, when I aced my exams and graduated Ivymoore at the top of my class.

 

And of course, there was also the prospect of Desmond’s visit.

 

He had promised to visit Onyx House the day before I headed back to Ivymoore, and both Clarissa and Lilith had wagered that this was the day Desmond intended to propose.

 

“It’s perfect,” Clarissa had told me, “because your loving family will be there to celebrate!”

 

That was one way to think about it.

 

I preferred not to think about it at all.

 

I didn’t like that fact that every time I imagined Desmond down on one knee, my heart filled not with undying love but with queasy dread.

 

Even at that moment, stuck in a ferry cabin as a third wheel to Clarissa and Vance’s sweet nothings, I hadn’t exactly been missing Desmond since he’d excused himself to use the loo. It wasn’t that I didn’t want Desmond by my side, but having him gone meant I was able to relax my posture and concentrate more fully on my draughts textbook.

 

“Linnie, honestly,” whined Clarissa. “Final exams aren’t till May. Why spoil your holiday by studying?”

 

“I’m just nervous,” I said, looking over the paragraph I’d been reading and re-reading for the past three minutes.

 

“I wouldn’t worry quite so much as you do,” Vance said. “You wouldn’t be in the Sanguine League if you weren’t already an excellent student.”

 

“Take a cue from Lilith, darling,” said Clarissa. “She’s spending her entire two weeks at Ivymoore snogging Xavier Eddleton. Now that’s how one ought to spend one’s holidays. It’s the season of love!”

 

That comment alone made me sick to my stomach. I got to my feet.

 

“Don’t leave, darling!” Clarissa cried. “I promise, Vance and I will behave.”

 

“No, it’s not that,” I said. “I just need to walk about for a bit. Stretch my legs.”

 

“But we’re nearly—”

 

“Clara,” Vance interrupted, squeezing his fiancée’s elbow. “If Adaline wants to go, let her go.”

 

I caught the sultry, wordless exchange between the two, and immediately wished I hadn’t.

 

“I’ll be back in ten minutes or so,” I said, hoping they’d take the hint and that I wouldn’t find them in a compromising situation upon my return.

 

The winter air was more noticeable in the passageways of the Pale Maiden. Harsh December wind blew hard against its portholes, sending a shuddery, creaking sound through the boat. Outside, a choppy blue sea trundled along. We would be making port in Liverpool in less than a half hour. After that, Clarissa and I would take different mortal trains, hers bound for the Peak District and mine for London. 

 

Every so often, as I strolled down the length of the ferry, I snuck glances into the cabin windows. I saw a pair of first years playing a game of vampire's hangman, their mouths rimmed with red from ferry-made blood smoothies. I saw a group of final years I knew all sleeping soundly, their heads lolling against headrests or each other's shoulders.

 

I didn’t ever catch a glimpse of Jack Sargent, though I knew he had to be somewhere on this boat.

 

Not that I was looking for Jack Sargent.

 

Why would I be doing that?

 

I continued to stroll until I spotted a group of first year boys ahead of me. They were gathered together, exchanging low whispers and snickers, and it wasn’t until I drew closer that I realized they were eavesdropping on someone in one of the toilets. I rolled my eyes and pushed past them with a look of disapproval.

 

“Sick,” whispered one of the guys, before descending into a snort-filled laugh.

 

“Hey,” another hissed frantically. “Let’s get out of here, they’re coming out!”

 

They suddenly bolted, shoving past me and tripping over themselves to get away.

 

Curiosity got the better of me. I turned around to see what the boys had been whispering about. I can’t say why exactly I did that. Afterward, I would wonder if maybe I’d suspected it all along. Maybe deep inside, I knew that something was off, that something sordid had been happening close by. I should’ve turned heel and continued on my stroll. But I didn’t. I remained strangely rooted in the passageway, staring at the toilet door as the lock slid open and the occupants emerged.

 

Occupants, because there had been two people in the stall. The first was a tall, leggy brunette that I recognized: It was the infamous Georgiana Harper, who had garnered a reputation for sleeping her way around Ivymoore. Georgiana glanced cautiously around, first to her left and then directly at me. She froze, the unmistakable look of panic marring her pretty features. Quickly, she turned around as though to escape right back into the toilet stall from whence she’d come. But it was too late, because the second occupant had already stepped out behind her, still in the process of tucking his shirt into his slacks.

 

It was Desmond.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

12

Confrontation & Contraband

 

“Adaline Lyra Aldridge, do you hear me? Don’t presume that you can sneak food from the kitchen once we’ve all gone to bed. Supper now, or no supper at all.”

 

Silence.

 

Then, “Adaline, have you heard a word I’ve said?”

 

In response, I threw a massive copy of Encyclopedia Vampirica at my locked bedroom door. I heard my mother’s huff of exasperation on the other side, then the click-clack of heels as Hortense Aldridge made her way back downstairs to join the rest of the House of Aldridge for supper.

 

Under normal circumstances, my mother wouldn’t have stood for this type of behavior. She would’ve broken down that guest bedroom door, marched inside, and dragged me downstairs screaming, if need be, to save face with the extended relatives. But my mother knew. Everyone in this house knew. In all likelihood, every single passenger on the Pale Maiden knew.

 

It had ended in a shouting match, after all.

 

❧

 

“Don’t ever touch me again, you bastard!”

 

“Adaline, love, if you’d only let me explain—”

 

“What is there to explain? What other possible explanation can you give? I saw it with my own eyes.”

 

Desmond burst into a frenzied laugh. “You think that I care about Georgiana Harper? That what happens between us means anything? She’s not the one I want to marry!”

 

My cold blood had nearly crystallized at that. “What happens between you? You mean you’ve two have done this before. You’ve been doing it.”

 

“Linnie—”

 

He reached out his hand in another failed attempt to catch me by the wrist. I shirked away, my eyes blazing.

 

We had attracted an audience. Georgiana Harper had slipped away the moment the first shouts had been exchanged, leaving me and Desmond alone to have it out. But we didn’t remain alone for long. The passageway soon filled with students readying to disembark, who had become distracted by the live drama playing out before their eyes. Others had opened their cabin doors to peer out with nosy interest.

 

“You’re overacting,” Desmond told me. “Men have physical needs, Adaline. That doesn’t mean that I’m not completely devoted to you in my heart.”

 

“Shut up,” I whispered.

 

It was too much. Too much to take.

 

“Please—”

 

I gripped my hands into fists, the rest of my body trembling. “It’s over, Desmond. Give your ring to some girl who’s willing to obey your commands while you whore around. I’m not.”

 

There had been boos and catcalls, then, from the more uncouth onlookers. I knew that the ugly stares and remarks were all directed at Desmond, the clear wrongdoer in this scenario. But that didn’t help ease the mortification I felt rising from the pit of my stomach. I felt limp and empty.

 

I had just broken things off with Desmond Prescott, and I had managed to do it in front of everyone.

 

❧

 

I gripped my legs to my chest, resting my chin atop my knees and staring out the window at the snow-covered streets of London. From downstairs, I could hear the faint clink of silverware and the murmur of polite familial conversation in 66 Ironweld Place.

 

How could I show my face down there? Lenora was at the table, and worse still, Alistair Prescott himself. How could I look Desmond’s own brother in the eye after I had publicly called things off?

 

I resigned myself to the fact that I would starve to death.

 

I wished more than anything that Clarissa could be there with me, not so far away north at Carrington Manor. Now was the time I needed my sister the most.

 

Instead, all Clarissa had been able to offer me was a flood of worried questions as we disembarked the Pale Maiden. We arrived at the Liverpool dock only minutes after my argument with Desmond had ended, and I had been forced to exchange rushed goodbyes with Clarissa and Vance. Remaining behind to sort things out would mean they would miss the last train of the day.

 

By the time my mother had found me at the Victoria train station, she had already managed to hear the news. Scandal always traveled quickly amongst the blueblooded set.

 

Mother hadn’t spoken a single word to me on our chauffeured drive to Ironweld Place. When we had arrived, I hadn’t even bothered to greet Aunt Judith and Uncle Leonard. I’d run up the stairs to my customary guest bedroom, bolted the door, and had a good cry on the bed. Then, I had refused all outside contact with stalwart resolve, including my mother’s most recent attempt to entice me down to supper.

 

No, I had made up my mind.

 

I would starve to death before showing my face to the family. I was utterly humiliated. Clarissa had snagged a wealthy, noble, and exceedingly respectable man for a husband. And me? I’d dated a cheater, and she’d broken up with him in the most public, indecorous way possible.

 

I had never felt so worthless in my entire life.

 

I despised my guest-room-turned-self-inflicted-prison-cell. The walls were painted blood red, and the drapes were made of heavy, black velvet. Even on the sunniest days, there was always a heavy, oppressive grip on this room. The portraits of humorless, hollow-eyed ancestors didn’t help the mood, either. Clarissa usually shared the room with me, and we would giggle together at the sour expressions of the portraits. But now, there was nothing to giggle about. If anything, I would have trouble sleeping tonight, knowing that all of those haughty ancestors were watching me—and judging me just as harshly as my live relatives downstairs.

 

Clarissa had promised to call me, but there was no chance of speaking to her now. There was no telephone in my room, let alone a private line, and I couldn’t possibly emerge, not even to speak to my sister and assuage her worries.

 

Jack was right, I thought miserably. I really am self-centered. All I can ever think about is myself, my problems.

 

Jack.

 

He had been aboard the Pale Maiden. I hoped against hope that he hadn’t heard the gossip. What would he think of me? Making such a spectacle of myself in public, breaking up with my boyfriend of two years for the world to see in such a maudlin melodrama. I’d been so unrefined, so completely devoid of class or composure. . . .

 

But Jack wouldn’t care.

 

The thought pierced my mind, silencing all other frenzied worries.

 

No. Jack wouldn’t care that I’d made a spectacle of myself. He wouldn’t care that I hadn’t retained my pristine reputation, wouldn’t care what blueblood onlookers would say behind my back. All he would care about was if I was okay.

 

And I wasn’t okay.

 

I wanted to escape back to the Isle of Man, to Ivymoore and the South Wing turret, so I could distract myself with Jack’s energetic rambles about nightspeed stats and the best new cycle on the market. I wanted a warm mug of marrow mead and Jack telling me stupid ghost stories and giving me the occasional lopsided smile.

 

He wouldn’t care that I’d tainted the Aldridge family name. I could imagine exactly what he’d do; he’d smile placidly at me, like nothing in the world was really that big of a deal, and say, “No one will remember it after a week.” He would be kind to me.

 

Stupid kindness.

 

Stupid Jack.

 

I groaned, sinking my face into my hands. How messed up could I get? I’d just found out that my boyfriend was cheating on me, publicly broken up with a man who was practically my fiancé, alienated myself from my entire family, and all I could think about was . . . a fanger? Could my priorities be more out of line?

 

I fell asleep in my travel clothes, and when I woke three hours later, I winced against the lights of the room, still turned on. A trail of unsightly drool had dribbled and caked on my cheek, and I hastily scrubbed it away. My neck was sore from having slept on it funnily, but with a good deal of concerted effort, I managed to pick myself up off the bed and change into a fresh set of nightclothes.

 

It was at that point that nature reared its ugly head. Maybe I would have to be cut off from phone lines, and maybe I would have to starve, but I wasn’t yet ready to unceremoniously urinated on the floorboards of my room. I needed a toilet.

 

With extreme caution, I creaked open my bedroom door, listening hard for any signs of life downstairs. There were no more voices coming from the parlor or the dining room. The hallway candelabras had been snuffed out. It seemed that everyone in Ironweld Place had retired for the evening. So as quietly as I could, I snuck from my room and carefully slipped into the washroom, where I finished readying for bed. Then, with as much care as before, I tiptoed back to the guest room. My hand had just touched the doorknob, when a low voice said my name.

 

I cried out and whipped around, raising my hands high. The light from the bedroom spilled onto a sharply angled jaw, hollowed cheekbones, and piercing eyes.

 

Lenora.

 

She emerged from the shadows of the hallway, smirking triumphantly at me, as though she had just won an argument.

 

“Won’t even hug your sissy hello?” Lenora said in a deep, mocking voice that had made my blood curdle since we were girls. “How very rude. I know you were raised better.”

 

I remained where I was. I couldn’t tell what Lenora’s mood was, and I didn’t want to find out the hard way. Lenora had been temperamental even as a girl, and her sudden mood swings had resulted in more than a few bruises, cuts, and broken bones over the years.

 

“I wasn’t feeling well earlier,” I said, cautiously. “I’m sorry.”

 

“Oh, I can only imagine how badly you've been feeling,” Lenora said, jutting out her lower lip. “What an ordeal you had to endure on that ferry! Poor darling.” 

 

I didn’t move an inch, didn’t say a word. Lenora was leading up to something; I could hear it in the rising, brittle timbre of her voice.

 

“Alistair got quite a laugh out of the whole account. He says that his fool of a little brother deserves some rough handling every now and then. I’m so glad that he could find the humor in your little fiasco.”

 

In a sudden whip of motion, my back was against the wall and Lenora’s hand was pressing against my throat, the nails of her fingers pinching in tightly.

 

“But I don’t find the humor,” Lenora said through clenched teeth. “Was this your Christmas present to us? To draw shame on the House of Aldridge?”

 

I wheezed in a raspy breath, but Lenora’s grip was doing a good job of prohibiting most of my access to air.

 

“It wasn’t my shame,” I managed. “Desmond was the one who—”

 

Lenora stared dispassionately at me from under her drooping eyelids. She released her grip, and I reeled in a gulp of air.

 

“You’re that naïve,” said Lenora, her blood red lips forming a slow smile of realization. “Poor ickle Linnie. She still believes in true love.”

 

“I don’t believe in anything of the sor—”

 

“Quiet!”

 

Something coiled at the top of my throat—a physical, cottony presence that rendered me mute. I glared at Lenora. This was not the first time that my older sister had used charmwork against me, and I was certain that it would not be the last.

 

“This isn’t the reunion I wanted for us,” Lenora pouted, “but someone has got to talk sense into you before Aunt Judith gets you alone. Believe me, Linnie sweet, she and Mum won’t be nearly so nice as I am. Better for you to accept your fate now.”

 

Lenora stepped closer, reaching out a hand. I flinched, but in the end, she only patted my cheek affectionately. “I think you already know what it is you need to do to set things right.”

 

With a wave of her wrist, she removed the muffling charm. My mouth felt dry and papery, and I swallowed several times before trying to speak again.

 

“If anyone s-s-should be setting things right, it’s him. He’s the one who—”

 

Lenora waved her hand as though already bored with my reply. To further prove her point, she yawned. Loudly.

 

“Oh dear,” she said, in a lazy drawl. “I see that Mum and Auntie are going to need to have the talk with you after all. What a shame. I was trying to spare you suffering. I really was. I see now that it can’t be helped.”

 

I could do nothing but stare as Lenora slunk gracefully down the hallway, toward the stairs, her posture flawless and her chin held high.

 

“Nightie night, darling,” she called in a whisper, as the darkness swallowed her whole. “Ever so glad to see you again.”

 

13

No Place Like Home

 

 

I woke to harsh, pale sunlight.

 

I had forgotten to draw the bedroom curtains the night before, too distracted by my chilling exchange with Lenora.

 

What had Lenora meant? She’d spoken as though our mother and Aunt Judith had some kind of dastardly plan in store for me. But why? Surely they weren’t going to punish me for breaking things off with a cad. Desmond was the one who had behaved badly. So why did I get the distinct impression from everyone else in this family that I was the one at fault?

 

I threw off my thick, velvet duvet. This morning I had given up my scheme of locking myself inside my room for the duration of the Christmas holiday. The harsh light of dawn made clear to me that I would have to face the relatives eventually, and besides, the scent of fresh blood broth wafting under my door was too much for my already flimsy resolve. Better to get it over with now, I reasoned, in return for a hot breakfast.

 

I hastily slipped into one of my more casual dresses, then invested the minimal amount of time required to make my hair and face presentable. It was as I was primping that I noticed the title of one of the many books stacked on the corner bookshelf.

 

The Silent Scourge, it read. And beneath that was the subtitle: On the Dangers and Depravity of Mortal-Mades.

 

The book was an Aldridge family staple, and I had spent much of my childhood flipping through its pages. Now I approached the book, taking it down and placing it on the bed. I opened it onto the first page, intent on reminding myself why I believed what I did about mortal-mades, and why it was therefore so silly to be thinking about Jack Sargent the way I had been doing the past few days. The only trouble was that none of the book’s passages even remotely resembled the person I knew Jack Sargent to be. The more I read of its contents, the more unsettled I became. In the end, I slammed shut its cover and tossed it under the bed. Then I headed out.

 

When I arrived in the dining room downstairs, ready to play nice with the family, I was surprised to find only one figure at the table. He was reading a copy of The Sanguinary Sentinel, but he held the paper so low that I could recognize his features. He was dark haired and dark eyed, and his face was an exemplar of the Aldridge patrician beauty. He was quite young for a father of three grown daughters. Any stranger would not have guessed him over the age of forty-five, and they would be right. Mortimer and Hortense had married young. That was commonplace in the House of Aldridge.

 

I cleared my throat, and my father looked up from his paper.

 

“Ada,” he said in his deep, clear way.

 

“Father.”

 

I couldn’t read his expression. He didn’t look angry, but he didn’t look particularly pleased to see me, either. I steeled myself and drew nearer, sinking into a seat across from him at the table.

 

“You’ve risen with the sun, I see,” he said. “I asked cook to fix me a bowl before I left. I have business this morning, in the city.”

 

It made sense now, why the dining room was so deserted. I had not checked my bedroom clock, but I realized that it must have been very early, only just past dawn, and that the rest of the family had not yet woken.

 

Anxiety gripped hard at my gut, and I forced out words before I could lose the courage:

 

“Are you angry with me, Father?”

 

My father raised his eyebrows just a fraction of an inch. “I find that anger is a most inefficient emotion,” he said. “It upsets one’s digestion, circulation, and mental health—all to no productive end. So no, I have not indulged myself in anger against you, Adaline.”

 

He folded his paper in a perfect half and set it aside, next to his bowl of yet untouched blood broth.

 

“I do not bother myself with anger,” he continued, “because I have faith that you will make the right decision. Mistakes can be righted. You will right yours, and matters will carry on as they always have done.”

 

I gripped hard into the armrests of my mahogany chair. “What . . . mistake am I expected to right?”

 

Father’s eyes narrowed. “Your public altercation with Desmond Prescott, naturally. That was poor judgment on your part, but what is past is past. You will send him a letter this afternoon explaining the error of your ways and begging for his forgiveness. If we act quickly, I believe a real crisis can be averted. Prescotts aren’t known for having nearly as much pride as us Aldridges, and that boy knows that he’s incapable of making a match better than you.”

 

I stared at my father in mute horror. Though I had not experienced my nightmares for nearly a full month, I wondered if they were back. And if so, this was the worst of my dreams by far. I pinched my wrist hard under the table.

 

Nothing changed.

 

I was horrifically awake.

 

“Father—” I began, my voice weak.

 

“I really must be going,” Father said, rising to his feet. “I fear I’ve lost my appetite. Do ring for cook to take my bowl away.”

 

“But you told me I was different!”

 

My shout drowned against the thickly papered dining room walls. Father turned to face me.

 

“I beg your pardon?”

 

“You told me,” I said, forming each word with effort, “that I wasn’t like Lenora or Clara. That I saw things, really saw them, and that I could make something of myself. So I have. I’ve made top marks. I’m at the head of my class. Talk to any of my professors; I’m their favorite. I could find a real career with my scores—maybe even a position serving the High Council. Isn’t that what you wanted? Perhaps it’s different for the others, but I hardly see why I need to marry Prescott in order to support myself. I did what you asked. I worked hard. Shouldn’t that make you proud?”

 

I had never once mentioned the conversation that my father and I had in his study when I was only nine. I had never let on how deeply his words had affected me that day. Now I had blurted it all out in the most mangled, unceremonious way imaginable.

 

“Adaline,” my father began, but he stopped short and fell into a long silence. At last, he spoke again. “Your efforts at Ivymoore have not gone unnoticed. You have made good use of your natural talents. But you mustn’t delude yourself into thinking that you are an exception to this family’s expectations. Your duty to us, first and foremost, is to marry well and to carry on the bloodline. It always has been. I trust you will act accordingly.”

 

He left before I could answer, closing the room’s double doors behind him with a heavy clank. Even if he had lingered, I wouldn’t have been able to form an intelligible reply. I felt as though I had been physically slapped across the face. My breathing shallowed out.

 

Father had always been the one who understood me best.

 

No one else in this family had realized how much my studies meant to me, how deeply I wanted to make something of my mind and not just my womb. I thought that my father supported me, had known what mattered most to me. But in one reply, he had dismissed all of those hopes.

 

He was no longer proud of me.

 

I had disappointed him, as I had all the rest of the Aldridges.

 

I was foolish to think, in that moment, that things could not get any worse.

 

❧

 

“Do you see how simple Judith and I have made it? All it requires is a simple bit of copying in your own hand. Then we can send it out and put this misstep behind us.”

 

Somehow, I had found myself in this position: sitting before a writing desk, trapped in Aunt Judith’s dressing room. Upon discovering that I had voluntarily left my room that morning, Aunt Judith—terrifying Aunt Judith—had swooped down on me like a bird of prey and dragged me upstairs. Now I held in my hand a letter, written in my mother’s precise penmanship.

 

Dearest Desmond,

 

I cannot begin to express my deep regret over what passed between us yesterday afternoon. I behaved poorly, and it pains me to think of the shame I brought on both our families’ names by attempting to end our relationship in a public setting. I write to you with a distressed and remorseful heart, and I beg that you will forgive my hastily spoken words. Our love is not a bond to be so easily broken by one misunderstanding. Please, my love, forgive me. Please write that you will.

 

All my heart,

Adaline

 

Despite the cold chill in my gut and the unshakeable feeling that I was still inside a nightmare, I felt the urge to laugh out loud at the sheer imbecility of the letter. At the same time, I felt the heavy weight of my aunt’s and mother’s gazes on me, awaiting a compliant response.

 

“For one thing,” I said crisply, “Desmond would never believe that this letter was from me, even in my own handwriting. I’ve never seen so many silly embellishments since cousin Poppy’s debutante gown.”

 

“If that isn’t how you write,” sniffed my mother, “then it’s how you should write. A proper lady must be deferential.”

 

“For another thing,” I said, “I simply won’t copy it.”

 

At that, Aunt Judith made a high-pitched, particularly unpleasant sound of outrage.

 

“Do you hear the way she addresses you, Hortense?” she cried, fixing an irate glare on me. “Such disrespect. Such willful disobedience. I warned you that you were too lenient raising your girls. Now see what has come of it? Of all the cheek!”

 

My mother looked to me, clearly mortified by her older sister-in-law’s bad opinion. “You’ve already made one colossal mistake,” she told me, in a dangerously low voice. “Don’t you dare make it worse.”

 

“What mistake?” I demanded, rising to my feet and turning on the two of them with a vehement glare. “He’s the one in the wrong. Why can’t anyone acknowledge that? He was cheating on me. If that is not grounds for ending a relationship, then what is?”

 

“Oh, don’t be so hopelessly naïve, Adaline!” Aunt Judith shouted over me. “Did you really expect for your future husband to be faithful?”

 

I stared at my aunt. “That,” I said, very slowly, “is the very essence of marriage. That is why vows are exchanged, for fidelity.”

 

Aunt Judith snorted. Then she burst into outright laughter. My mother had gone very pale. She was looking at me with tired eyes.

 

“Honestly, child, you try my patience,” laughed Aunt Judith. “Do you think my husband has been completely faithful? Do you think that I have been faithful to him? Or your own father! Do you think he’s only warmed your mother’s bed?”

 

“Judith—” My mother began in a taut, quiet voice.

 

“No, she’s old enough to hear it!” shouted Aunt Judith, before turning back on me with an almost wild stare. “What a warped little idea of fidelity you have, child, to expect that your future husband will want your body, and yours only, for the rest of his life. Such an expectation isn’t even natural. What is natural, and what must be expected, is that you and your husband will remain married, that you will produce heirs, and that you will always, always protect each other’s honor.”

 

I was too horror-stricken to think properly. I sputtered out words, unable to control the direction they took.

 

“But—but how can there ever be honor if there isn’t . . . how can you say . . . but this isn’t my fault!”

 

I was sobbing. Aunt Judith looked on with a look of mild disgust, entirely unsympathetic.

 

“Copy the damn letter, Adaline,” she said, holding out the fresh sheet of stationary and the ballpoint pen that had been laid out before me. “Copy it now.”

 

“No!” I said, backing away. “I won’t. I won’t apologize to him. I won’t grovel. I won’t beg him to take me back. Can’t you see how wrong that is? Why aren’t you taking my side?” Tears blinded me as I turned toward my mother. “Mummy, why aren’t you taking my side?”

 

But my mother wouldn’t meet my desperate gaze.

 

“Judith,” she said to my aunt, “I can’t—”

 

“Oh, shut up, Hortense!” Aunt Judith snapped back. “It’s clear that you can’t maintain even a semblance of discipline. You’re far too soft with her, and that’s what caused this problem in the first place.”

 

I wiped furiously at my eyes. I simply couldn’t believe that this was happening. That this was real.

 

“What do you expect me to do?” I asked my aunt. “You want me to marry him? You want me to have his children while he takes mistresses to our bed? How can you want that for me, Mum? How can you?”

 

“You are the stupidest girl!” Aunt Judith shouted, grabbing hold of my elbow. “Don’t you understand your situation? No other prospective suitor will want you after this. What man wants a wife he cannot control, who will slander him in public? More than that, you and Prescott were as good as engaged, and there is no doubt you’ve slept together. You’re damaged goods.”

 

“But I haven’t—!”

 

Aunt Judith’s nails pinched into my elbow so hard that I broke off in a pained cry.

 

“You. Will. Marry. Him,” she growled. “You will copy that letter. You will beg for forgiveness. You will marry that man, and you will make it your highest priority to satisfy his needs. If you do a good job of it, perhaps he won’t find it so very necessary to take a mistress. Whatever the case, you will bear and raise his children, and you will be a good and obedient wife, and you will never again bring shame on this family’s name!”

 

I stared through my tears at my mother, who had remained so silent and still. I willed her to say anything, do anything.

 

“Mum, you can’t want this,” I whispered. “Why would you do this to me? Why?”

 

But my mother still did not meet my gaze. “We all have a duty to perform, Adaline. And this is yours. Do not disgrace me by refusing.”

 

I shook my head in slow, dizzying disbelief. I was immobile for only a moment more. Then resolve shot through me, and I shrugged violently out of Aunt Judith’s grip.

 

“I won’t,” I said thickly. “You can’t make me.”

 

“Oh can’t I?” My aunt’s smile was eerily calm when she uttered the compulsion charm:

 

“Obey.”

 

❧

 

When I roused, I was in a pleasant haze.

 

Slowly, I became aware of the oaky smell of firewood and of the warm duvet wrapped about my shoulders. I yawned and pushed myself up to rest against the thick, goose down pillows on the guest bed. I hadn’t slept so well or so sweetly in ages. I knew that I had woken from a wonderful dream, though the details of it escaped me. I smiled lazily and rubbed at my eyes.

 

And then it all came back.

 

No. Azazel, no. Surely, it had just been one of my terrible dreams. Aunt Judith could be harsh, demanding, and judgmental; she could even be cruel when she wanted, but she couldn’t have done what I distinctly remembered her doing.

 

She couldn’t have cast a dark charm. A compulsion charm.

 

She couldn’t have cast it upon her own niece.

 

I looked down at my left elbow, the one that the Aunt Judith from my memories had gripped so relentlessly. What I saw there shot ice through my veins.

 

Five small, greenish-brown bruises marked my skin.

 

“No,” I whispered out loud. “She couldn’t have. Mother wouldn’t have let her.”

 

I scrambled out of bed and to the bedroom door. I turned the knob, but the door remained closed. It had been locked from the outside.

 

“No, no, no.”

 

I raised a fist to beat at the sealed door.

 

And then I stopped myself.

 

That was a bad plan. Even if I did make it out of my room, what did I intend to do? Was I going to stomp into Aunt Judith’s quarters and demand that she recall the letter that she had forced me to write to Desmond? Was I going to go plead with my mother, who clearly had done nothing to prevent her own daughter from enduring an illegal compulsion charm? Was I going to seek out comfort from my father, who in the end thought that my marriage status was of more importance than my general wellbeing?

 

I dropped my hand and sank to the floor with a single, agonized sob. I had learned all about compulsion charms in school—their effects, origin, and the exact date that all their forms had been ruled illegal. What I had never learned was what to do when a trusted relative used one on you and then proceeded to lock you in your bedroom.

 

If only Clarissa were there, I thought, desperately. If Clarissa had been there, none of this would have occurred. She would never have blamed me for my fight with Desmond; she would have stood up for me, would have suggested another solution.

 

But Clarissa wasn’t there. She was far away from London, safe at Carrington Manor with her beloved fiancé, like a good daughter. And Lilith was up at Ivymoore with her dishy new boyfriend, Xavier. Neither of them knew what I was going through. Neither of them might ever find out.

 

There was only one clear thought in my mind, one that pierced through all of the confusing, terrifying mess of the past forty-eight hours: 

 

I have to get out.

 

My body began to move, though I had not willed it to. For one terrifying moment, I thought that I still might be under the compulsion charm, but I grew more reassured when I realized that I was packing my satchel with clothes. Surely Aunt Judith wouldn’t be forcing me to run away from home; my muddled mind must have merely been suffering from the aftereffects of the dark charm.

 

I have to get out. The thought rattled in my mind, repeating itself over and over again. I had no plan, no set course of action, and that terrified me. I always had a plan. Now all I had was an imperative:

 

Leave, leave, leave.

 

I tried the latch of my window. It opened unexpectedly, and a gust of bone-chilling wind shot through the room, sending me staggering back.

 

They had been so careless about locking me up. They had probably never considered that I would actually leave. I could hear Aunt Judith’s rationale in my mind:

 

“She’ll wake up and realize what a fool she’s been. Trust me, Hortense, she will come out of that room of her own volition and thank us for showing her the error of her ways.”

 

That was just what Aunt Judith would say, and everyone—my mother and father and Lenora included—would believe her.

 

How little they knew me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

14

Refuge

 

“Two scoops, or three?”

 

The vendor gave me a toothless smile, his brass shovel held high above the vat of blood cubes.

 

“Just two, please,” I said, tucking my hands deep into my coat pockets.

 

I had forgotten gloves, though I guessed such a misfortune was bound to occur when you packed and ran away from home all in the course of five minutes.

 

It wasn’t that I needed gloves to warm my hands the way a mortal would; it was more about the fashion, and the fact that I was walking around a dirty city. And what a city it was. I’d run for block after block upon crawling out the second-story window of 66 Ironweld Place. When I finally gathered my senses, I oriented myself, and I made my way to Coffin Street—the one place in South Kensington that catered toward those of the vampiric persuasion. Some shops here were mortal, but plenty weren’t—including Coffin Street Books and the quaint little inn situated just above it.

 

After gathering my wits, I’d gone into the inn and checked into a tiny, one-window bedroom. At least I’d had the presence of mind to not rent a room at the Cape and Crown, down the road. The fancy vampire-minded hotel would be the far more obvious choice for an Aldridge woman, and once my family began making inquiries as to my whereabouts, I was certain that they would eventually end up searching there. I chose to be inconspicuous. I had even given the innkeeper a phony name; I was now one Louisa Kirke.

 

With my lodging settled, I went out into the city once more, intent on finding blood for my growling stomach. I only had a total of seven pounds, twenty pence left in my change purse. I hadn’t anticipated one night’s stay at an inn to cost almost all the money I’d taken out of Ironweld Place. Blood cubes weren’t my top choice in cuisine; they were just all that I could afford with the remaining change in my coat pocket.

 

I wondered what Clarissa would think if she could see me, wandering unchaperoned around mortal London, ordering street food.

 

How quickly this Aldridge woman had fallen.

 

The vendor finished shoveling the second scoopful of cubes into a thick paper cup, and he handed it over to me with a wink. I gave a stiff nod in return, then stepped back into the crowded street, holding the cup close to my chest like a treasured possession.

 

Christmas was only two days away, and the streets were bustling with customers, all intent on buying last minute gifts. I was thankful for the chaos. It allowed me to slip through the crowd without quite so much paranoia as I would have felt were my face more readily visible and identifiable. It had almost been a full day since I had escaped my locked bedroom. Surely, my family had to be looking for me by now, and the sooner I could escape from a public street—no matter how crowded—and into my rented room, the better.

 

At least, that had been my mindset when I finally reached the front doorstep of Coffin Street Books. Then I had caught a glimpse of a vaguely familiar face behind the window display. I frowned, a blood cube on my tongue, trying to place the burly, auburn-haired boy. A faint scar ran along his cheek.

 

Then I remembered.

 

It was George Vanderpool, second lane racer for the Ivymoore Ravens. He was the warmblood who had called me a princess several weeks back—the one who’d told me that Jack was in the infirmary.

 

Jack.

 

A sudden memory burst into my mind, and with it came an irrepressible instinct. I hurried up the steps and, rather than continue up the stairwell to the inn, I went inside the bookshop itself.

 

George was still standing near the window display, squinting at a dusty, pocket-sized book. He was so intent on reading that he didn’t notice my approach until I took the book out of his hand, turned it over to look at its cover—Nightspeed Through the Ages: A Condensation—and handed it back to him with an expectant look.

 

“What do you want?” said George. He looked irritated, but also a little scared.

 

“You know who I am, don’t you?”

 

“Sure. You’re Adaline Aldridge. We’ve talked bef—”

 

“I’m aware,” I interrupted. “Look, Jack lives in London, doesn’t he?”

 

Jack had told me once, during our third or fourth turret meeting, that he had moved to London from York when he was eight years old. I had never cared enough to ask what part of the city he lived in, but that single piece of information now seemed like the most important fact in the wide world.

 

“Uh,” said George, “yeah? I was at his place yesterd—”

 

He broke off with a sudden look of suspicion.

 

“Wait. Why do you care?”

 

“Where in London?” I pressed. “Where does he live?”

 

George guffawed. “Azazel, you must think I’m dense. Why would I tell you where Jack Sargent lives?”

 

I crossed my arms. “Why wouldn’t you?”

 

“Are you serious? What would compel me to tell Adaline Aldridge the street address of a mortal-made that she is widely known to loathe? I know your sort. You screw around with people like us for fun, think we’re punching bags for dark charms. Well, I’m not about to facilitate you and yours going all homicidal on Sargent's ass. Why would I?”

 

Mere days ago, I would’ve had a vehement retort for George Vanderpool. I would’ve laughed in his face, would’ve defended my family name from any accusation that we dabbled in dark charms.

 

I would have done all that before—before my own aunt performed a compulsion charm on me.

 

Now, I remained silent, blinking at George with a hollowed-out feeling in my chest. He was right, wasn’t he? He had every right to distrust me and my kind.

 

Unless.

 

Unless I said the one thing that it was unthinkable for my kind to say.

 

I steadied my nerves, lowering the naturally haughty tilt of my chin. Then I said, “Because Jack is my friend.”

 

George fixed me with a blank stare.

 

“Uh. Come again?”

 

“Or at least, I’m his friend,” I went on. “I know you don’t have any reason to think so, but I actually care about Jack’s wellbeing. I would never want him to come to harm. I swear it.”

 

George looked at a loss for words. “Why exactly are you telling me this?”

 

“Because I need to talk to him.” I was embarrassed by the desperate tone my voice had taken on, but I was in too deep to stop. “Do you think that I’d be making a fool of myself in front of you if I wasn’t serious?”

 

George’s brow creased. “I dunno. You could just be a really good liar. Anyway, if you’re his friend, why don’t you know where he lives?”

 

I lowered my gaze. “Because I’m selfish, and I never ask Jack questions about himself.”

 

George smirked. “Now there’s the first thing you’ve said that I don’t doubt. All right, come on.”

 

“What?” My heart sped up in anticipation. “Really? You’ll take me there?”

 

George gave me an ugly look. “No, I’m not going to take you there. You could still be a complete psycho dead set on burning Sargent alive in his own bed. But I am going to do something really generous, so you should probably start thanking me now. Come on. We’re gonna place a call.”

 

❧

 

I stood on the busy street corner, watching George’s every move and casting furtive, cautious glances around. We had turned off Coffin Street and were now in thoroughly mortal London. I felt out of my element in the swarming crowd, and I folded my arms in a protective gesture. I felt vulnerable and overwhelmed, and I really wished that George would hurry up with his business in the bright red telephone box.

 

George had explained to me on our way here that he intended to ring Jack and allow me to talk to him over the phone. If Jack really wanted to see me, George said, then Jack could give me his address himself. I was impatient with George, but I really couldn’t fault him. I supposed that, from his perspective, the plan made perfect sense.

 

I watched George from outside the box with baited breath, waiting with him for someone to pick up on the other line. Then, it seemed, someone did pick up, and George began to talk animatedly. I tried desperately to lip-read through the glass door, but to no avail. All I picked up were nonsense words like “sparrow” and “mulch”.

 

Then I began to spend my time worrying.

 

What if Jack didn’t want to talk to me? The thought hadn’t even occurred to me until now. But really, what possible motivation would Jack Sargent have to talk to Adaline Aldridge on the telephone? Let alone invite me to visit his house. What had I been thinking? Had Aunt Judith’s compulsion charm permanently damaged my brain? What would I even say to Jack, if he did speak to me?

 

I know I’ve been a complete bitch to you, but I’m all out of money and have run away from home, so would you mind putting me up in your mortal house for the winter holiday?

 

This was bad. This was so very bad. This was all happening because I didn’t have a plan in place. Now I was floundering about, confused and upset and making really stupid judgment calls.

 

George had turned his back to me, hand cupped over the receiver as though he was engaged in an immensely private, serious conversation.

 

I should just walk away, I told myself. I should leave it be. Or I should open that telephone booth and tell George to forget about it.

 

Yes. I’d just open that door and—

 

The door swung open and George leaned out, motioning me forward with a crooked finger.

 

“Switch places,” he said, offering the phone to me. “Miracle of miracles, he actually wants to talk to you.”

 

With no small degree of wonderment, I approached him. I took the phone, then skirted past George to slip inside the booth. He closed the door behind me and folded his arms, mouthing the words at me. These I understood perfectly: I’m watching you.

 

Creep.

 

Then I remembered that Jack was waiting on the other line. I held up the phone to my ear.

 

“Hello?” I said. “Hello?”

 

I heard nothing.

 

“Hello?” I said again, louder this time.

 

Then I heard it—very faint, but unmistakably a voice calling “hello” back.

 

I frowned. The voice wasn’t coming from the end of the phone I had pressed to my ear. It was coming from—

 

Oh. From the other end. I quickly spun the phone around to the proper position, but a quick glance outside at George’s laughing face told me that my mistake had not gone unnoticed. I gave George a dirty look and turned my back to him. Two could play this game.

 

“Hello?” I tried again, and this time Jack’s voice came through the earpiece, loud and clear.

 

“Ada?”

 

That word. That single word sent a shiver through my body. I closed my eyes and rested my forehead against the cold windowpane of the booth.

 

“Jack.”

 

“Are you okay? George said you were, um, acting really odd.”

 

Talking to a mortal-made of my own volition. Asking for the address of a fanger. Calling such said fanger my friend.

 

Yes, that was extremely odd behavior for Adaline Aldridge.

 

“It's just that I—I don’t know what to do. I don’t even know why I’m talking to you, or why I spoke to George in the first place, or why I thought that any of this was a good idea. I’m just—I’m not in a very good place right now, and Clarissa and Lilith aren’t here, and even if I called them, they would just tell me to go back home, or worse still they would tell Mum and Dad where I am. And it’s the most ridiculous thing on earth, but all I’ve been able to think about for the past few days is—I mean, I just kept thinking about you. Isn’t that ridiculous? And I thought—I thought—”

 

“Okay, don't hyperventilate. Just let me get this straight: Did you run away from home?”

 

I sniffed. “Well, that’s a very childish way of putting it, but yes. Yes, I suppose I did.”

 

“Bloody hell.”

 

“It isn’t funny!”

 

“I didn’t say it was funny.”

 

“But your voice was doing the thing.”

 

“What thing?”

 

“Where it sounds like you’re laughing at me.”

 

“I’m not aware of the thing,” Jack said slowly, “but I promise I’m not laughing at you. Look, do you have any money? A place to stay?”

 

I stared nervously at the telephone, tapping my finger against the metal change flap. “I have blood cubes,” I whimpered.

 

Jack was silent on the other line for a long moment. “Do you want to stay with me, Ada?”

 

A shiver passed through me again. “I—I don’t really know.”

 

“I think,” said Jack, “that may be why you called. Unless you know of another reason?”

 

I closed my eyes. A single tear leaked out.

 

“No,” I said hoarsely. “I can’t think of one.”

 

“Could you put George back on?”

 

“What? W-w-why?”

 

“Because,” said Jack, “I need to ask him a really big favor.”

 

“Oh. Okay.”

 

“And Ada?”

 

That word. My eyes fluttered open. “Yes?”

 

“It’s all going to be okay. Promise.”

 

“You can’t promise that.”

 

I turned and motioned for George through the glass.

 

He opened the door and, without bothering to switch out again with me, merely pulled the phone out by its cord. He cradled it against his ear as he finished lighting a cigarette already poised in his mouth.

 

“Yeah, mate? So, psycho? Should I drop—?”

 

He went silent. Then his eyes flitted up to mine. His voice lowered.

 

“Are you high? You know who you just talked to, right? What? What?! Are you fucking kidding me, Sargent? You couldn’t pay me enough pounds sterling to—wait, how much? Would I get that from you in writing?” George glanced up again at me, as though he were working out an accounting error. “Yeah, yeah, no, I hear you. I’ll take care of it. Sure. What? No. Why the fuck would I tell the mates about this? Makes you look like a deranged bleeding heart. Of course I won’t tell them. Uh huh. You too.”

 

He hung up the phone with a harsh clack. Then he took a long drag from his cigarette and shook his head at me.

 

“Looks like your sweet-talking paid off, princess,” he said. “Come on. You’ve got yourself a personal escort to Sargent's place.”

 

❧

 

First, I had to return to the inn on Coffin Street. I checked out with the innkeeper, ignored George’s snicker when the woman addressed me as “Ms. Kirke,” and gathered the few things that I had packed into my runaway satchel. Then I followed George back out, down Coffin Street and into mortal London. It was only when George came to a stop in a deserted brick alley that I began to get nervous.

 

“What are we doing here?” I demanded.

 

“Duskstriding?” George looked sheepish when he said it, like he already knew what a bad suggestion it was.

 

Duskstriding was not for all vampires, and certainly not for the faint of heart. It required cutting a hole into the eternal void of time with sheer will, using the strongest charmwork your blood could muster, then walking through that dark chasm until you ended up at your desired location, on the other side. While the concept was simple enough, the execution could be brutal. Plenty of people got hurt—darktorn—on their journeys. Even aged vampires who had plenty of experience—which George and I were not—risked getting lost forever in the void, should their minds wander. Yes, duskstriding was a downright magical and efficient form of transportation, but I had my reservations. I’d only done it a dozen or so times, beginning with third year training sessions at Ivymoore, and only when it was truly necessary.

 

“No, we’re not,” I said, with conviction. “I’m not risking an accidental tumble into the eternal void today, thanks very much. If you’d just give me the address, I could go myself—”

 

“No,” George cut in. “I don’t trust you with it.”

 

We then proceeded to glare at each other.

 

It was a very long mutual glare.

 

At the end of it, George sauntered to the end of the alley and hailed a passing bus.

 

I had never ridden on a mortal bus before, and afterward, I had no intention of ever riding one again. The interior was abysmally ratty, and the patrons were, without exception, unsavory.

 

All the same, the bus took me and George where we needed to go, which was London’s East End. I stared out the window as we passed by dirtied storefronts and sooty brick facades. Spray-painted murals and bare-branched trees bordered less than pristine looking shops. This was a far cry from South Kensington.

 

And it certainly wasn’t Ironweld Place.

 

The bus came to a grinding, balance-upsetting halt alongside a stretch of brick townhomes. There was nothing remarkable about this neighborhood. In fact, it struck me as particularly drab. But this, it turned out, was our stop.

 

George motioned for me to follow him onto the sidewalk. It was flurrying outside, and snow collected on my coat before warming and beading into drops of water. I pulled up the hood of the coat to shield my hair from the damage. Not that it would do much good; I was well aware that I looked disheveled and sleep-deprived. Maybe once Jack got a good look at me, he would change his mind and send me away. . . .

 

“It’s that one,” said George, motioning to a townhouse with a green door. “Jack told me to let you go alone, but I’ll be watching.”

 

“Okay.” I nodded, suddenly and nauseatingly aware of how very real this was becoming.

 

I was in the bloody East End, outside a fanger’s home.

 

Outside Jack Sargent’s home.

 

In the silence that followed, George narrowed his eyes at me.

 

“What,” he said, “I don’t get a 'thank you'?”

 

I narrowed my eyes right back at him.

 

“He’s paying you to help me, isn’t he?” It wasn’t really a question. I had heard George’s end of that telephone conversation; I knew what Jack must have done to convince his friend to help. “Why should I thank a hired hand?”

 

George gaped. “Well, aren’t you a fucking piece of work? Jack was right; you really are a self-serving, arrogant little posh.”

 

A deep chill settled in my chest. I closed my eyes.

 

“He called me that?” I asked weakly.

 

“Yeah,” said George, “and he wasn’t far off the mark.”

 

“No.” I folded my arms and stared down at my patent leather boots. “He wasn’t.”

 

This was clearly not the response that George had been expecting. He took a step closer to me.

 

“Look here,” he said, voice flinty around the edges. “You dark charm him, mess with him, do anything to hurt him, and I will end you, Aldridge. Got it?”

 

I looked up in surprise. That wasn’t the response I’d been expecting, either. It was a stupid threat for someone like George Vanderpool to make, since I was certain that I could take him out in a charm duel. All the same, it was clear that he meant what he’d threatened.

 

“Got it,” I muttered.

 

Then I left George behind and climbed the front porch of Jack’s house. The green paint on the front door was peeling, and the flower boxes nearby were filled with dead, brown ivy. Hardly hospitable.

 

I steeled myself and rapped loudly on the door.

 

Just a few moments later, it opened, and I found myself face-to-face with a young, square-jawed man with golden hair and deep brown eyes.

 

I stared. Then I stammered.

 

This man wasn’t Jack.

 

But he looked so much like him.

 

Same square jaw. Same golden, messy hair. Same soft brown eyes. Only this version of Jack Sargent looked slightly older, and he had far more ruddy color in his cheeks. I knew, from sight alone, but also from intuition—he was a full-blooded mortal.

 

Jack’s lookalike gave me a quick once-over and then leaned back to shout into the house, “Oi, Jack! Strippogram for you!”

 

There was a loud clatter from somewhere upstairs, followed by the rapid, thundering sound of footsteps taking the stairs three at a time.

 

Then he appeared, running toward the door, scarlet-faced and out of breath.

 

“I told you to let me get it, you prat,” said Jack, shoving at the taller version of himself.

 

That must be his brother, I thought. I didn’t know he had a brother.

 

In fact, I realized with sudden mortification that I knew absolutely nothing about Jack’s family.

 

“Sorry about that,” Jack said to me, still hitching in stray breaths. “Nelson enjoys being an asshole every so often.”

 

The man named Nelson grinned at the accusation. He looked immensely proud of himself.

 

I just nodded mutely, my eyes wide. Jack’s expression changed, and he reached out a hand, as though to steady me. Did I look faint? He must’ve really taken a good look at me by now and been horrified by what he saw. This was the moment of truth: when I found out whether or not Jack really wanted me in his house.

 

“You look freezing,” he said, motioning for me to come inside. “C’mon. I’ve put some mead on the stove.”

 

Relief poured over me like a bath of piping hot water. I managed a smile and followed Jack inside, glancing over my shoulder in time to see George Vanderpool edging away from the front steps. Jack hadn’t even spotted his friend.

 

Was it because he’d only had eyes for me?

 

Sure, Adaline. My common sense could barely contain its snicker. With your hair in its current state? Keep dreaming.

 

I first walked into a cramped sitting room, outfitted with mismatched furniture. Then I followed Jack and Nelson deeper in to the house, keeping my hands shoved in my coat pockets and noting that it was barely warmer in this place than it had been outdoors.

 

“I’m s-sorry to be an imposition,” I stammered. “I really haven’t been thinking properly, and I didn’t consider how inconvenient. . . . I mean, are you sure your parents are all right with this?”

 

There was a taut silence after the question. I saw Jack and Nelson exchange a glance over my head.

 

“Ada,” Jack said slowly, “my parents are dead.”

 

I sank down onto the one ratty couch nearby. I could feel my cheeks burning. Jack’s parents were dead? How could I have not known that? I’d just assumed that he had two normal, if poor and uncultured, mortal parents. I’d never thought to ask if they were alive. I really didn’t know anything about his family.

 

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

 

Jack shrugged. “It’s okay. You didn’t know. Our Mum died having me. I never knew her. And Dad passed away three years ago. Accident at the factory. Luckily, Nelson was old enough then to take care of me. We’ve been living together ever since.”

 

Nelson smirked over at Jack. “I keep him in line,” he said. “Little freak.”