Vamplayers (4 page)

I would have brought the posters from my own walls, the ones I stared at every night before bed and every morning while I was getting ready for school, but when the Saviors came to rescue me that day, they weren’t exactly worried about saving my posters. Just my hide.

I bought them online at some great retro sites using my Academy expense accounts: old Rick Springfield and
The Breakfast Club
posters, album covers from the Go-Go’s and Madonna (“Like a Virgin” era). But I took them all down years ago.

When you become a Savior, they move you to the single dorms. No sharing a bathroom, no one borrowing your scarves or curling irons and never returning them.

Every Simulation Day I expect to come back to my room, grab my bags, and stroll on over to the Savior side of the dorms, never looking back. It hasn’t quite worked out that way.

I’ve had bare walls for two years. I’m thinking maybe it’s time to unroll Rick Springfield again. If I can’t even make it through Simulation House after all this time, I might be here awhile.

“Ooohh,” Alice says from the living room, nose still in the leather dossier. “Check it out, kiddies. We’re headed to scenic Ravens Roost, North Carolina, and a joint called the Nightshade Conservatory for Exceptional Boys and Girls.”

“That doesn’t sound right.” Cara abandons her packing to log on to our standard-issue circa 1992 computer. “Do they mean, like, short bus exceptional or gifted exceptional?”

“I can’t imagine Vamplayers going anywhere the kids aren’t picture perfect, you know?” I walk toward Cara to look at the screen.

She pulls up Nightshade Conservatory’s official website. “Ooohh, ritzy.”

That finally draws Alice from the couch.

Cara clicks on pictures of an old-school, castle-style campus with manicured grounds and great, high towers dotted with ornate stained glass windows and spooky gargoyles.

“Now that,” Alice says dreamily at my side, “looks like just the kind of place a Vamplayer would find attractive. And the kind of place where pretty, pretty boys flirt with pretty, pretty girls.” She does a little dance.

I see her in my periphery but refuse to acknowledge her.

“See if they have any photo galleries of the sports team,” she says. “I need to know if I should pack slutty or, you know, extra slutty.”

“Extra slutty,” Cara and I answer in unison.

“Hey,” she says, walking away to do just that.

Cara logs off, and we settle into the grim, dull routine of packing for our next assignment.

Chapter 4

T
he private jet lands on a small airstrip high in the mountains. A gloomy mist greets us as the fiftysomething pilot opens the door and helps the four of us down to the gray tarmac.

Dr. Haskins exits last, her crisp khaki traveling suit snug but not too seductive. She clutches a single matching handbag. She won’t be staying long. She never does.

A limo meets us beyond the airstrip. By the time our luggage is stowed and we’re all settled in the backseat, the tiny jet has already been refueled and turned around and awaits Dr. Haskins’ imminent return.

The drive to the Nightshade Conservatory for Exceptional Boys and Girls is winding and steep and lined with little except trees, boulders, and more trees.

“Hmm,” Alice says as we pass a small town nestled in the hills, “guess we won’t be sneaking out of our dorms too often around this dump.”

Dr. Haskins presses a small button to raise the soundproof divider between the backseat and the driver. “Alice makes a good point, girls.”

“She does?” Cara and I ask.

I’m dumbfounded.

Even Alice seems surprised. “I do?”

“Well, in a roundabout way, of course. Nightshade is extremely secluded. This road is the only way up or down. That town we passed is the last one for miles. Ten of them, to be exact. It’s called Ravens Roost, and about twelve hundred people live there, whose sole job is to serve and staff the Conservatory.” She gives us a look like it’s our fault the town decided to build itself halfway up a mountain in the middle of nowhere.

“The nearest hospital is twenty miles away at the bottom of the mountain. The nearest police precinct is five miles south of that. I don’t have to tell you that if an infestation started at the school, there would be little chance of stopping it before it affected all five hundred eighty students, one hundred forty-seven staff, and of course the good people of Ravens Roost. So we can’t have any screw-ups this time.” She looks at Alice purposefully before concluding, “And you have to sniff out the Vamplayer and stop him in his tracks before he turns a single student. Do I make myself clear?”

We nod, as we always do. We’ve heard this speech once or twice before.

“Who reported it?” Cara says, hands folded primly on her knees.

“Nobody. Our Information Gatherers have reported a dozen mysterious deaths in Ravens Roost in the last few weeks—farm animals mostly, a few family pets—but a local veterinarian grew suspicious and started logging in to one of those
I Think We Have a Vampire in Our Midst
blogs. You know we monitor all those. He and several hundred residents of Ravens Roost have filed formal complaints about the students of Nightshade, claiming they saw a mysterious figure appearing from the mountain about the time of the attacks and returning to Nightshade afterward. The Council of Ancients decreed we should run a mission, see if there’s anything to it.”

I tap the dossier on my lap. “There was no list of recent student admissions.”

She purses her lips and shakes her head. “Highly unusual, I know, but since Nightshade is private, I couldn’t locate the public records for new transfers. The headmistress wasn’t very … forthcoming, to say the least. I’m sorry. If anyone can sniff out the Vamplayer, it’s you girls.”

Her smile seems fake and insincere. Meanwhile, as our car climbs toward Nightshade, the mood in the car remains somber. And why shouldn’t it?

It’s a lot of pressure being one of only three girls responsible for nearly two thousand mortals and stopping a Vampire Armageddon, but it’s certainly nothing we haven’t faced or won’t again. I’m not sure why I’m so anxious this time, except that I was hoping to be a Savior by now.

Oh well, maybe next eternity.

The drive evens out to a more gradual climb, and soon I hear pavement instead of gravel beneath the tires. Outside the deeply tinted windows is a large stone fence that seems to circle the entire property. Beyond the fence are miles and miles of dense, tall forest. Within are a pristine lawn and the typical markings of a modern-day private academy: rugby and soccer fields, a basketball half-court, a full track, small sitting areas, a large paved quad with a fountain in the middle and natural stone benches all around.

As we approach the entrance, an old metal gate swings open with a yawning screech that seems fitting for such a gloomy, austere environment. It’s mid-October, but the manicured trees lining the drive to the Nightshade Admissions Office are not gloriously covered in autumn colors. They’re already stripped and bare, kind of like my hopes of being a Savior by now.

Alice’s eyes are wide, her tongue slightly out, as she observes the enormity of the school. It’s like she’s never done this before.

Ever the honor student, Cara is already scribbling in a little black notebook.

I peek at her sketch of the front gate, then sit back to enjoy the show. After all, when you’re Third Sister, nobody expects much of you.

The car stops.

Before we get out, Dr. Haskins opens her fist.

Inside are three small gadgets, charcoal-colored and no bigger than credit cards. Each has a small red button on top next to a thin LED screen.

”Here are your pagers,” she says. “Same drill as always: they work once and only once and in one direction: straight to my office. Use them in case of extreme emergency, and remember it will take a full team of Saviors at least four hours to get here, so handle them wisely and, if you use them at all, use them early.”

We take the pagers, secret them into our bags, and hope it doesn’t come to that.

Knock on coffin wood, I haven’t had to use mine all year.

Then again, there’s always a first time.

As if on cue, the driver opens the door and escorts each of us onto a paver-lined parking circle.

Dozens of windows gleam from within the gray stone walls of Nightshade. I don’t look up to make sure, but I feel hundreds of pairs of eyes checking us out as we walk slowly up four large, granite steps to a massive stone entryway. It’s like the feeling you get when someone reads over your shoulder in the subway.

Cara leans in and whispers, “I thought
we
were supposed to be the spooky ones.”

I stifle a snort.

Dr. Haskins cuts me a look as we follow her through the front door and into the grand entrance.

The school’s headmistress waits for us, smiling. A refreshingly young woman, she sports a suit snug enough to give Dr. Haskins a run for her money. She stands next to a large, round oak table that holds a vase of breathtaking fresh flowers.

The foyer is massive, as big as Simulation House itself. Its floors are marble. Its granite walls are lined with banners, most as big as movie screens and hanging from long metal rods with gold tassels on the ends, depicting old English hunting scenes: foxes, beagles, white horses, and men in red jackets.

Beyond the foyer I hear the typical high school sounds: lockers slamming, shoes squeaking, laughter, conversation, a book dropped, papers rustling, someone shouting playfully, “Give it back, Rufus!”

The two women give each other a quick, pumping power shake. No hugs for these two.

Dr. Haskins introduces each of us.

Headmistress Holly smiles but does not shake our hands. “Ladies,” she says, though mostly to Dr. Haskins, “follow me.” She turns on her heel and marches down a marble hallway, her shoes clacking endlessly through the twists and turns.

I glimpse a few students on our journey, probably student aides since we seem to be in some kind of administrative wing. There is no uniform at Nightshade, and in fact the kids we see look like any kids we’ve ever seen anywhere: pale and hungry, long and limber, wary and whispering of “the new kids.”

I resist the temptation to wave. Alice’s voice echoes in my mind from a dozen missions or more:
You’re too nice, Lily. That’s why you’re the Third Sister. Don’t even smile until week two; everybody knows that!
I can’t help it. Her advice makes me smile all the more.

We stop at a huge wooden door with a pointy top and two big, black metal bands about halfway up. Its iron handle is long and thin, like in some old medieval castle.

The headmistress opens it and ushers us in.

For a room with such a big door, her office is surprisingly small.

The two grown-ups stand and smile, then sit across from each other, a tidy desk between them.

We Sisters stand awkwardly aloof in the back as the two headmistresses make polite chitchat (“How was your flight?” “I love that scarf”).

I check out the walls. They are full of the obligatory diplomas and credentials plus a handful of framed glossies of pretty Headmistress Holly shaking hands with local politicians and a few old celebrities.

A barred window to my right overlooks a solemn courtyard. Movement below captures my attention. I move closer, trying not to be too obvious.

A tall, striking young man with long black hair and a black trench coat lights a cigarette.

I smile. All kids everywhere are the same. Iron gates, early curfews, and efficient headmistresses can’t keep them from lighting up whenever they get the chance.

He does it pretty cavalierly for a student, though, not even bothering to see if anyone’s looking.

Someone is.

A figure with a luxurious auburn mane slinks into view. She’s dressed in black leggings and a black thigh-length sweater that hugs every curve (she’s got plenty). A gray scarf is wound around her elegant neck.

Though they stand apart and never once touch, the two look intimate. I watch smoke ooze from his mouth as he speaks.

Maybe that’s why she stands just a little too far away. I know I would.

They smile often, though, and their body language implies intimacy either already shared or about to be any damn moment.

With his large, pale hands, he tosses away one cigarette and immediately lights another. He offers it to her.

She demurs.

He laughs, smoke rising from his open lips.

She slaps his shoulder playfully.

Of course, there is nothing particularly menacing about a drop-dead handsome guy smoking in a courtyard with a beautiful girl, but something about this guy stands out as vaguely, well, vampirific.

Here’s the thing about the Vamplayers we Sisters hunt down: they’re cool.

And not only in a jock, hot, player, rich, funny, or smart kind of way.

They are beyond cool.

You know high school guys, right? They’re basically all the same. Some are cuter than others, some taller, some shorter, some better dressed, some less so. But the cool ones are always still just high school cool. Maybe you don’t know it until you graduate or he dumps you and starts dating your best friend or you see him drunk for the first time or he gets too grabby at a keg party and then lies about you to all his friends the next morning—but high school cool is not the same as cool-cool, you know?