Vampire Academy: The Complete Collection: 1/6 (77 page)

“Why is that a problem if their ideas are good?” I demanded.

“Their ideas
aren’t
good. They don’t know their place. Some of us have started thinking of ways to protect ourselves from that and look out for each other. I think you’d like what we’ve learned to do. After all,
we’re
the ones who need to keep making decisions, not dhampirs and nobody Moroi. We’re the elite. The best. Join us, and there are things we could do to help you with Lissa.”

I couldn’t help it. I laughed. Christian simply looked disgusted.

“I take back what I said earlier,” he told them. “
This
is what I’ve been waiting for my whole life. An invitation to join your tree house club.”

Ralf, big and lumbering, took a step forward. “Don’t screw with us. This is serious.”

Christian sighed. “Then don’t screw with
me
. If you really think I want to hang out with you guys and try to make things even better for Moroi who are already spoiled and selfish, then you’re even stupider than I thought you were. And
that
was pretty stupid.”

Anger and embarrassment filled both Jesse and Ralf’s faces, but mercifully, Christian’s name was called just then. He seemed considerably cheered as we walked across the room. Nothing like a confrontation with two assholes to make you feel better about your love life.

Christian’s assigned feeder tonight was a woman named Alice, who was the oldest feeder on campus. Most Moroi preferred young donors, but Christian, being the twisted person he was, liked her because she was kind of senile. She wasn’t
that
old—sixties—but too many vampire endorphins over her life had permanently affected her.

“Rose,” she said, turning her dazed blue eyes on me. “You aren’t usually with Christian. Have you and Vasilisa had a fight?”

“Nope,” I said. “Just getting a change of scenery.”

“Scenery,” she murmured, glancing at a nearby window. Moroi kept windows tinted to block out light, and I doubted a human could see anything. “The scenery is always changing. Have you noticed that?”

“Not our scenery,” said Christian, sitting beside her. “That snow’s not going anywhere. Not for a few months.”

She sighed and gave him an exasperated look. “I wasn’t talking about the scenery.”

Christian gave me an amused smile, then leaned over and sank his teeth into her neck. Her expression grew slack, all talk of scenery or whatever she’d meant forgotten as he drank from her. I lived around vampires so much that I didn’t even think about their fangs half the time. Most Moroi were actually pretty good at hiding them. It was only in moments like these that I remembered the power a vampire had.

Usually, when I watched a vampire feed, I was reminded of when Lissa and I had run away from the Academy, and I’d let her feed off of me. I’d never reached the crazy addiction levels of a feeder, but I had enjoyed the brief high. I used to want it in a way I could never admit to anybody. In our world, only humans gave blood. Dhampirs who did it were cheap and humiliated.

Now, when I watched a vampire drink, I no longer thought about how good the high felt. Instead, I flashed back to that room in Spokane where Isaiah, our Strigoi captor, had fed off of Eddie. The feelings that stirred up in me were anything but good. Eddie had suffered horribly, and I hadn’t been able to do anything except sit there and watch. Grimacing, I turned away from Christian and Alice.

When we left the feeders’ room, Christian looked more vibrant and upbeat. “The weekend’s here, Rose. No classes—and you get your day off.”

“No,” I said, having almost forgotten. Damn it. Why did he have to remind me? I was almost starting to feel better after the Stan incident. I sighed. “I have community service.”

W
ITH SO MANY MOROI tracing their roots back to Eastern Europe, Orthodox Christianity was the dominant religion on campus. Other religions were represented too, and I’d say all in all, only about half of the student body attended any sort of services regularly. Lissa was one such student. She went to church every Sunday because she believed. Christian also attended. He did it because she went and because it made him look good and seem less likely to become Strigoi. Since Strigoi couldn’t enter holy ground, regular church service provided a small front of respectability for him.

When I wasn’t sleeping in, I showed up at church for the social aspect. Lissa and my friends usually hung out and did something fun afterward, so church made for a good meeting spot. If God minded me using his chapel as a way to further my social life, He hadn’t let me know. Either that, or He was biding his time before punishing me.

When the service ended that Sunday, however, I had to stick around the chapel, because that was where my community service was going to happen. When the place had cleared out, I was surprised to see one other person had lingered with me: Dimitri.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“Thought you might need some help. I hear the priest wants to do a lot of housecleaning.”

“Yeah, but you’re not the one being punished here. And this is your day off too. We—well, everyone else—spent the whole week battling it out, but you guys were the ones picking the fights the whole time.” In fact, I noticed now that Dimitri had a couple bruises too—though not nearly as many as Stan had. It had been a long week for everyone, and it was only the first of six.

“What else would I do today?”

“I could think of a hundred other things,” I noted dryly. “There’s probably a John Wayne movie on somewhere that you haven’t seen.”

He shook his head. “No, there isn’t. I’ve seen them all. Look—the priest is waiting for us.”

I turned around. Sure enough. Father Andrew stood at the front, watching us expectantly. He’d taken off the rich robes he’d worn during service and now stood in simple slacks and a button down shirt. He looked like he was ready to work too, and I wondered whatever happened to Sunday being a day of rest.

As Dimitri and I approached to get our assignments, I pondered what could have actually made Dimitri stay here in the first place. Surely he hadn’t
really
wanted to work on his day off. I wasn’t used to puzzles with him. His intentions were usually straightforward, and I had to assume there was a simple explanation now. It just wasn’t clear yet.

“Thank you both for volunteering to help me.” Father Andrew smiled at us. I tried not to scoff at the “volunteering” reference. He was a Moroi in his late forties, with thinning gray hair. Even without much faith in religion, I still liked and respected him. “We aren’t doing anything particularly complex today,” he continued. “It’s a bit boring, really. We’ll have to do the regular cleaning, of course, and then I’d like to sort the boxes of old supplies I have sitting up in the attic.”

“We’re happy to do whatever you need,” Dimitri said solemnly. I repressed a sigh and tried not to think of all the other things I could be doing.

We set to it.

I was put on mop duty, and Dimitri took over dusting and polishing the wooden pews. He appeared thoughtful and intent as he cleaned, looking like he actually took pride in his work. I was still trying to figure out why he was here at all. Don’t get me wrong; I was happy to have him. His presence made me feel better, and of course I always loved watching him.

I thought maybe he was there to get more information out of me about what had happened that day with Stan, Christian, and Brandon. Or maybe he wanted to chastise me about the
other
day with Stan, where I’d been accused of jumping into battle for selfish reasons. These seemed like likely explanations, yet he never said a word. Even when the priest stepped out of the sanctuary to go to his office, Dimitri continued working quietly. I would have figured if he’d had anything to say, he would have done it then.

When we finished the cleaning, Father Andrew had us haul box after box of stuff down from the attic and into a storeroom at the back of the chapel. Lissa and Christian frequently used that attic as a secret getaway, and I wondered if having it cleaner would be a pro or a con for their romantic interludes. Maybe they would abandon it, and I could start getting some sleep.

With all of the stuff downstairs, the three of us settled on the floor and began sorting it all out. Father Andrew gave us instructions on what to save and what to throw out, and it was a relief to be off my feet for a change this week. He made small talk as we worked, asking me about classes and other things. It wasn’t so bad.

And as we worked, a thought came to me. I’d done a good job convincing myself that Mason had been a delusion brought on by lack of sleep, but getting assurance from an authority figure that ghosts weren’t real would go a long way toward making me feel better.

“Hey,” I said to Father Andrew. “Do you believe in ghosts? I mean, is there any mention of them in—” I gestured around us. “—in this stuff?”

The question clearly surprised him, but he didn’t appear to take offense at me calling his vocation and life’s work “this stuff.” Or at the fact that I was obviously ignorant about it all, despite seventeen years of sitting through services. A bemused expression crossed his face, and he paused in his work.

“Well . . . it depends on how you define ‘ghost,’ I suppose.”

I tapped a theology book with my finger. “The whole point of this is that when you die, you go to heaven or hell. That makes ghosts just stories, right? They’re not in the Bible or anything.”

“Again,” he said, “it depends on your definition. Our faith has always held that after death, the spirit separates from the body and may indeed linger in this world.”

“What?” A dusty bowl I was holding dropped out of my hand. Fortunately, it was wood and didn’t break. I quickly retrieved it. That was
not
the answer I’d been expecting. “For how long? Forever?”

“No, no, of course not. That flies in the face of the resurrection and salvation, which form the cornerstone of our beliefs. But it’s believed the soul can stay on earth for three to forty days after death. It eventually receives a ‘temporary’ judgment that sends it on from this world to heaven or hell—although no one will truly experience either until the actual Judgment Day, when the soul and body are reunited to live out eternity as one.”

The salvation stuff was lost on me. The “three to forty days” was what caught my attention. I completely forgot about my sorting. “Yeah, but is it true or not? Are spirits really walking the earth for forty days after death?”

“Ah, Rose. Those who have to ask if faith is true are opening up a discussion they may not be ready for.”

I had a feeling he was right. I sighed and turned back to the box in front of me.

“But,” he said kindly, “if it helps you, some of these ideas parallel folk beliefs from Eastern Europe about ghosts that existed before the spread of Christianity. Those traditions have long upheld the idea of spirits staying around for a short time after death—particularly if the person in question died young or violently.”

I froze. Whatever progress I’d made in convincing myself Mason had been brought on by stress instantly vanished.
Young or violently
.

“Why?” I asked in a small voice. “Why would they stay? Is it . . . is it for revenge?”

“I’m sure there are some who believe that, just as some believe it’s because the soul has trouble finding peace after something so unsettling.”

“What do you believe?” I asked.

He smiled. “I believe the soul separates from the body, just as our fathers teach us, but I doubt the soul’s time on earth is anything the living can perceive. It’s not like in the movies, with ghosts haunting buildings or coming to visit those they knew. I envision these spirits as more of an energy existing around us, something beyond our perception as they wait to move on and find peace. Ultimately, what matters is what happens beyond this earth when we attain the eternal life our savior bought for us with his great sacrifice. That’s what’s important.”

I wondered if Father Andrew would be so quick to say that if he’d seen what I’d seen.
Young or violently
. Both had applied to Mason, and he had died less than forty days ago. That sad, sad face came back to me, and I wondered what it had meant. Revenge? Or could he truly not find peace?

And how did Father Andrew’s theology about heaven and hell fit with someone like me, who had died and come back to life? Victor Dashkov had said I’d gone to the world of the dead and returned when Lissa had healed me. What world of the dead? Was that heaven or hell? Or was it another way of referring to this in-between state on earth that Father Andrew was talking about?

I didn’t say anything after that, because the idea of a revenge-seeking Mason was so startling. Father Andrew sensed the change in me, but he obviously didn’t know what had brought it about. He tried to coax me out.

“I just got some new books in from a friend in another parish. Interesting stories about St. Vladimir.” He tilted his head. “Are you still interested in him? And Anna?”

Theoretically, I was. Until we’d met Adrian, we’d only known of two other spirit users. One was our former teacher, Ms. Karp, who’d gone completely nuts from spirit and become a Strigoi to stop the madness. The other person was St. Vladimir, the school’s namesake. He’d lived centuries ago and had brought his guardian, Anna, back from the dead, just as Lissa had me. It had made Anna shadow-kissed and created a bond between them too.

Normally, Lissa and I tried to get our hands on everything we could about Anna and Vlad, in order to learn more about ourselves. But, as incredible as it was for me to admit, I had bigger problems right now than the ever-present and ever-puzzling psychic link between Lissa and me. It had just been trumped by a ghost who could possibly be pissed off over my role in his untimely death.

“Yeah,” I said evasively, not making eye contact. “I’m interested . . . but I don’t think I can get to it anytime soon. I’m kind of busy with all this . . . you know, field experience stuff.”