The compass makes an odd whirring sound as I walk, but when I draw it out, nothing seems to be off.
Unfortunately, night has already fallen, so I don’t have the tunnels to myself. But the reactions of Tynahine’s alumni are not what I’m used to. There are no heads snapping around. No deep inhales or noses pressing to my neck, breathing me in. No whispers ofIs that Type-S?Only one in ten thousand have it, which means we’re in incredibly high demand. Perfect prey—or a perfect trap.
I’ve never been near a vampire without being in danger.
But here, they barely even noticeme.
I need to map as many of these tunnels as I can. I make my way out of the crowd, scribbling the name of each tunnel into a notebook. Most of them are simply numbers, others don’t have names at all. I find one of the old ones, narrow but dreadfully long, with a sign on the bricks that readsCat’s Tail.And as I walk along it, counting my steps and following the compass, the line I draw in my notebook does in a way resemble a feline’s tail.
I pull out my phone, glancing at my schedule. Two more classesbefore I’m done for the night. My options for the first hour are: the Vampire Tradition in Music; Ethics and Immortality; or Gaelic Dialects of the Supernatural.
That wordsupernaturalstops me in my tracks. I wonder if there are other beasts out there that I’ve not faced before. Kelpies, selkies. Maybe even witches. But something about those monsters feels too otherworldly when compared to vampires. Plus, Penny would have told me if there were other creatures lurking in the shadows, right?
As I try to make my way back to the modern halls, I notice Penny’s compass twitching, and it twitches faster when I take stairs, of which there are too many. Staircases shoot out in every direction, some leading to bricked-up tunnels, others to empty classrooms and laboratories.
I come across dusty jars filled with murky green liquid, hiding what I suppose one might call acollection.Severed fingers, fetuses, eyeballs, all labelled with neat handwriting that looks centuries old.
One abandoned classroom is filled with paintings, packed frame to frame, without leaving an inch of wall visible. Their golden frames carry inscriptions dating the paintings back to the fifteenth century. The ceiling here is higher than in other classrooms, painted with frescoes of moonlit landscapes. And at the centre, slightly out of place, a large table surrounded by a dozen chairs. Something about the gallery doesn’t quite make sense until I lean on the mahogany table.
The canvases and frames are covered in dust, thick paint cracked. There’s even pale mould crawling over the faces of some old vampires, filling the air with a stuffiness that’s thicker than that of the rest of the tunnels. But the table feels like silk beneath my fingers, not even a speck of dirt onit.
I flash my torch over it, taking in the ornamental engravings running across the side. The chairs, upholstered with red velvet, are also clean. As are the candles in the centre, slightly tilted upon a golden, seven-armed candelabra. Someone has used this room recently.
For what?Near the end of the table, on the floor, a sheet of yellowing paper reads:Minutes of the Red Ribbon Society.I pick it up,tucking it into my satchel. I’ve never heard of the Red Ribbon Society.
I glance back at the wall of paintings, and one catches my eye.
It’s the smallest, yet at the same time, the most detailed. A woman with white hair wearing a lace ruffle collar above a black velvet dress.
For a split second, I think it’s Aliz Astra. But her skin is too pale, and her eyes, instead of black, are piercing blue. The inscription reads:Ada, Dreamwalker of Rome. 1582.The Astras are Hungarian. So, the resemblance must be purely coincidental.
When I look at the compass, the needle is spinning. My own hands are steady, but just to be sure, I place it on the ground, waiting. But it doesn’t stop. “For fuck’s sake,” I hiss under my breath. I shake the compass, as though that will somehow make it stop. I’m going to have to find a different way to avoid getting lost. Like Ariadne and her golden thread. Maybe if there was a monster for me to kill in these tunnels, I wouldn’t find the search quite so frustrating.
As I walk down another staircase, I hearit.
Low, somber string music echoes off the tunnel walls. I look back the way I came, at the darkness and silence.
The sound isn’t a full orchestra. It’s a single instrument, a cello. I follow the sound along the damp tunnel. It’s the sort of music you’d have your casket lowered into your grave to. Penny listens to a lot of classical music, but during our long drives to and from vampire clubs, I’ve never heard anything like this.
The plain walls of the tunnel widen, and the ceiling gets higher as stained-glass windows puncture old rock. The dim glow of candles within is barely enough to illuminate the roses which decorate the panes.
Strange place for a church,I think, but I soon realise there’s nothing sacred about the underground structure. The codeU-34is painted above the wooden doorframe, and I recognise it as the code for one of the electives on my syllabus: the Vampire Tradition in Music.
I’m five minutes late, but since I’m already here, I might as well go inside. I strain my eyes against the stained glass and spot long tables,identical to those in Integration, with pew-like benches behind them. At the very front, up on a platform, is a figure with a cello between their knees.
Drawn-out notes snake beneath the old solid wood doors. I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping the door won’t creak when I push it inwards.
The door jolts and I find the already-damp air weighed down even further by burning wax and incense. I step in as quietly as I can, just as the cello music staggers to a halt. For a moment I expect the cellist to shout, or maybe hiss, considering they’re most likely a leech. But they don’t seem to have noticedme.
“Over here,” a familiar voice whispers. Two rows behind the door, at the very back, is Ife. I shouldn’t be relieved to see her, yet her kind eyes are a welcome sight in the dim lecture hall. She pats the free space next to her on the bench. I take a careful breath and nod, trying to be quiet as I drop my bag on the tiled floor.
A few of the neighbouring students, all vampires, shoot me furtive glares. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m late or because I’m human. My eyes slowly adjust to the chapel-like room, with its high-vaulted ceilings ornamented with crumbling frescoes of mythological figures. And then I finally focus on the cellist. The candles on the desk behind him give him a golden aura.
His fair hair falls in soft waves, just below his chin. He’s pale, with milky skin even lighter than his white shirt, and it must be because of that snowy complexion that I can make out his green eyes. His white shirt is cut by a pair of red suspenders, and I see a blazer hanging on top of his cello case.
I swallow. I can’t tear my eyes from him.
And then he speaks, as if he was waiting for me to sit.
