“I don’t think you can.” Sylvain looked stark, his face white as bone. “I don’t think anyone can.”
“Sylvain—” Matthew started, but the other boy was already sliding off the bed, landing barefoot on the polished wooden floor. Still not looking at Matthew, he began to button his shirt in earnest.
And paused. Matthew watched him, breath caught, as Sylvain’s dark eyes narrowed. He bent down and picked up something that gleamed a dark silver, holding it up to the light to examine it.
It was a knife. Not a particularly elegant one—it looked as if it had been swiped from the captain’s table at dinner. “I don’t suppose this is yours?”
“Of course not.” Matthew shook his head. “My attacker must have dropped it. But—”
“What use would a vampire have for a knife?” Sylvain’s dark eyebrows knitted together. “I think I might know who it was.” He flicked his gaze to Matthew. “Nowwill you come with me to question someone?”
“Now?” Matthew looked down at himself. For a moment, he contemplated going shirtless to the vampires’ lair, but his seminude splendor would probably only make him look more like a potential tasty treat.
“We ought to go now,” Sylvain said, with dry practicality. If Matthew had not known better, he would have thought he’d hallucinated the last ten minutes of passionate kissing. And even more, that he’d hallucinated Sylvain’s fadedparabataimark, and the anguish that had passed over Sylvain’s face when he realized Matthew had seen it.
Sylvain pointed at a tangled mass of linen among the sheets. “Your shirt’s there, if you’re looking for it.”
Matthew didn’t particularly want to get dressed and go interrogate a vampire. He wanted to stay and talk to Sylvain. But he knew when circumstances had him beaten. With a sigh, he began to get dressed.
* * *
Sylvain, of course, already knew where the vampires were berthed—down among the second class cabins, where a hallway had been set aside for the use of the theater troupe.
The hall was entirely dark, without a single lamp lit. Vampires could see at night, of course—and so could Shadowhunters, with the application of a rune—but the sight was still eerie. A reminder that the creatures who inhabited this space were alien, with needs that were not human needs.
Sylvain led the way, edging along the corridor wall, Matthew just behind him. Both carried seraph blades that had not yet been named; Matthew’s blade hung at his side, the dull color of smoked glass. His hand rested on the cool hilt.
He gazed up and down the corridor. No patches of light showed beneath the various closed doors. Sylvain came to one of them and pressed his ear to the door before taking out his stele and carving an Open rune into the chipped wood.
The door swung wide; Sylvain scrambled inside silently, followed by Matthew. Sylvain shut the door while Matthew took a witchlight rune-stone from his pocket and raised it above his head, illuminating the room.
It was fairly bare—a wooden bed that looked as if ithad never been slept in, the bedspread, embroidered with the anchor symbol of the Black Star Line, smooth and unwrinkled. There was a desk and chair, a sink and vanity, and an oval mirror that had been turned to face the wall.
Interesting. This was the room of a vampire who hadn’t been a vampire for very long. Vampires could see themselves in mirrors, contrary to some myths, but it was often difficult for them at first because they were so changed: the new pallor to their skin, the veins that showed when they were hungry, the pin-sharp tips of fangs: they were troubling to look at in the beginning. Before one got used to it. One could get used to anything, Matthew had learned.
Along one wall was a rack of clothes, hung with costumes: chiffon peeked out, and glittering, sequinned sleeves. Matthew was admiring a slightly moth-eaten velvet opera cloak when Sylvain said, “Viens ici, Matthew. Look at this.”
There was something aboutviens icithat just sounded a great deal more enticing than the Englishcome here. Matthew dropped the cloak and joined Sylvain, who was gazing down at a leather-covered album. The kind people pasted old photographs and dried flowers into.
And indeed, as Sylvain turned the pages, Matthewsaw sepia-tinted photographs dating back more than a decade. Photographs of a family. A stiff father, bearded and uncomfortable-looking; a round-faced woman in the brocaded fashions of twenty years past. A little girl with blond curls in a white dress, and a boy a few years older, in knickerbockers and a suit jacket, a serious expression stamped on his face.
“Melody Morrow,” Matthew murmured, as the pages turned and the boy and the girl aged into teenagers: the girl’s hair no longer fell past her shoulders, but had been smoothed into a chignon at the back of her head. The boy had become a man, with sideburns and an even more serious expression. “And her brother.”
Something white, tucked behind one of the photographs, caught Matthew’s eye. He tugged it free, unfolding it to find a scrawled letter, addressed to Melody Morrow.
My dear sister,
I know that when you first broke the news to me of your changed nature, I responded unkindly. I have rethought my position. I know I told you that it would be better for everyone if it were believed that you were dead, but afterconsulting with a priest who believes he could exorcise the demon from you, I beg you to consider this course of action. I know you think I care only for the Queen of Night, but I assure you that I am doing this because it is the only way I can think of to get my sister back.
With hope,
Bartholomew
Sylvain wrinkled his nose curiously. He had been reading over Matthew’s shoulder, which was rather pleasant. “The Queen of Night? Who is that?”
“No idea.” Matthew folded up the letter and set it back behind the photograph—just as the door to Melody’s room burst open.
In the doorway stood Orville Cole, but the small, self-effacing man seemed greatly changed. His eyes flashed with anger, his lips drawn back from his teeth. He seemed almost feral, snarling as he launched himself at Matthew. Matthew yelled, mostly in surprise, as the onslaught knocked him to the floor.
