Just before the microwave beeps, I hear a creaking sound behind me. Her coffin lid has moved up an inch, and although I can’t see her eyes through the dark, I know she’s watching me. I remain still.
What if she attacksme?
What if the garlic in my blood isn’t enough to keep her away?
“Something smells weird,” she croaks, voice like sandpaper.
“I got my period,” I say, calm, before pulling out the bowl in which I’m sterilising the cup. She drops the lid of her coffin again, not saying another word, our room falling into silence. I head to the shower, my stomach clenching. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m hungry or because I want to throw up. Probably both.
When I step back out into the room, the light is on, the curtains separating our sides of the room drawn open. The false window behind her coffin shows a caramel sunrise, half hidden by clouds. Astra stands next to her coffin, wearing a surgical mask the same shade as her hair, spraying down the walls with some kind of air freshener.
“I told you my senses are stronger,” she says, voice muffled by the mask. “This is why I didn’t want a human as my roommate.”
I should probably be offended. But my cramps keep my temper in check. “Go back to bed,” I say.
“Do you need painkillers?” she asks, pressing her mask tighter. “I think there is a pharmacy just outside Ambrose Hall.”
Is she beingnice? That’s even more unsettling than her taunting. “No,” I say again, and Astra narrows her eyes.
“I’m so disappointed, Cassie,” she says, pulling her mask down. She sniffs the air, making a face. “I don’t know what perfume you were wearing the day you arrived, but it smelledamazing.” My heart skips a beat as she talks. I know I was late taking my garlic supplements, but I didn’t think she would have picked up on the scent. “I did think that if that was what my human roommate was going to smell like, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, after all.”
“Is that so,” I say, trying to not let my temper show on my face.
“Butthis…” She points in my general direction, scrunching her nose. “Too metallic.”
“Thanks,” I say. If this is how she’s planning on getting under my skin, it most certainly won’t work.
“When are you going to wear that perfume again?” she asks, leaning on the wall.
“Maybe the day you move out of my room,” I say.
She smiles, and it doesn’t reach her eyes.
The full moonis hidden behind a curtain of rain clouds. I need to focus. The sooner I finish my mission, the sooner I’ll get away from her.
I pointed Jannet out to Ife in Gustavsson’s class, and she said we needed more names, more faces. If we only report Jannet and tell administration where the Red Ribbons are holding their meetings, they’ll simply find a new spot, and a new name. “At least three,” Ife said. But there’s no way I’m risking another visit down to the gallery, not so soon.
I spend a good half hour amongst the history books of the fourth floor of Kinsnet. Professor Gustavsson mentioned thatThe Book of Blood and Rosesmay also contain spells from old grimoires, so it won’t hurt to start looking in that area.
After searching every floor for anything resembling a witch’s manual, I make my way to the front desk and try to appear normal as I mutter the wordgrimoire.The vampire librarian, a girl who looks no older than sixteen, types into an old computer. “The archive,” she says with a melodic Inverness accent. “Over there.”
She gestures to a collection of bookcases, all pretty bare, and between them, a white door with the wordsTasglann Kinsnetabove it. I glance back at the librarian, and she nods.
The metal door groans, revealing nothing but shadows. I step down onto a metal staircase, and a fluorescent light flickers on aboveme.
The archive is a fraction of the size of the library. It has metal pipes along the ceiling and far too many bookcases. They’re all on wheels,with red turnstiles, most of them clustered together. Long lists are printed above and below the turnstiles. The stairs have a thick coat of dust, and I cough as I make my way down. More lights switch on as I cross the room, and by the time the last light switches on, filling the room with a buzzing sound, it’s far too bright.
I should have looked down here ages ago, but there’s something eerie about the archive. It’s too cold, though it’s missing the damp of the tunnels. There’s something clinical, hospital-like, to the place. I breathe out, trying to remind myself that I’m a mere staircase from Kinsnet’s grandiose hall. Halfway through the archive, I finally find a list with the wordGrimoiresprinted on it, followed by a series of numbers that I’m sure will make sense once I getin.
The bookcases are pressed together, so to access it, I turn the turnstiles three rows away, slowly making my way back. As soon as the aisle opens, the stench of mould and dust hits my nostrils. The last turnstile squeaks, not used in years, if not decades. I give myself a shoulder’s width of space, take another glance at the list, and step into the narrow aisle.
The tomes in here areancient.Some are wrapped in plastic, with signs ofdo not touchstuck on their spines. Others are like works of art, miniature engravings on dark leather. They all have strange titles.The Book of Lions,The Frog Catcher,or, rather ominous,Read This and Perish.For a split second I think I’ll findThe Book of Blood and Rosestucked in beside them. I grab the first two, carefully placing them on the floor, before taking another one, calledBeiteag’s Book of Spells.
I open the latter, and before I can make out the first word, the lights die with a sudden clang.
“Great,” I say. These three books should be enough. I can’t see anything, but I can still feel the books beside me. Just as I shove them into my satchel, I hearit.
The turnstile turning, the wheels of the bookcase in front of me squeaking, getting closer.
