Carry On

And then pain.

And then nothing …

I must have passed out.

When I woke up, I was in my mother’s quarters, and Father and Fiona were casting healing spells over me.

When I woke up, my mother was gone.

44

SIMON

Baz lifts his hand to the board and writes Vampires, and then, On a mission from the Humdrum, and then, one fatality.

I don’t know how he can do this—talk about vampires without acknowledging that he is one. Pretending that I don’t already know. That he doesn’t know I already know.

“Well, not just one fatality,” I say. “There were also the vampires, weren’t there? Did your mother kill them all? How many?”

“It’s impossible to say.” He folds his arms. “There were no remains.” He turns back to the chalkboard. “There are no remains, in that sort of death—just ashes.”

“So the Humdrum sends vampires to Watford—”

“The first breach in school history,” he says.

“And the last,” I add.

“Well, it’s got a lot harder, hasn’t it?” Baz says. “That’s one thing we can give your Mage—this school’s as tight as a drum. He’d hide Watford behind the Veil if he could.”

“Have there been any vampire attacks since then?”

Baz shrugs. “I don’t think vampires normally attack magicians. My father says they’re like bears.”

They.

“How?” I ask.

“Well, they hunt where it’s easiest for them, among the Normals, and they don’t attack magicians unless they’re starving or rabid. It’s too much fuss.”

“What else does your father tell you about vampires?”

Baz’s voice is ice: “The subject rarely comes up.”

“Well, I’m just saying”—I square my shoulders and speak deliberately—“it would help in this specific situation if we knew how vampires worked.”

His lip curls. “Pretty sure they drink blood and turn into bats, Snow.”

“I meant culturally, all right?”

“Right, you’re a fiend for culture.”

“Do you want my help or not?”

He sighs and writes Vampires: Food for thought on the board.

I shove the last bite of roll into my mouth. “Can vampires really turn into bats?”

“Why don’t you ask one. Moving on: What else do we know?”

I get off the bed and wipe my hands on my trousers, then take a bound copy of The Record off my desk. “I looked up the coverage of the attack—” I open the book to the right place and hold it out to him. His mother’s official portrait takes up half the page. There’s also a photo of the nursery, burned and blackened, and the headline:

VAMPIRES IN THE NURSERY

Natasha Grimm-Pitch dies defending Watford from dark creatures.

Are any of our children safe?

“I’ve never seen this,” Baz says, taking the book. He sits in my chair and starts reading the story out loud:

“The attack took place only days before the autumn term began. Imagine the carnage that would have occurred on a typical Watford day.…

“Mistress Mary, the nursery manager, said that one of the beasts attacked Grimm-Pitch from behind, clamping its fangs onto her neck after she neatly decapitated another who was threatening her very own son. ‘She was like Fury herself,’ Mary said. ‘Like something out of a film. The monster bit her, and she choked out a Tyger, tyger, burning bright—then they both went up in flames.…’”

Baz stops reading. He looks rattled. “I didn’t know that,” he says, more to the book than to me. “I didn’t know she’d been bitten.”

“What’s Tiger, tiger—?” I stop. I don’t trust myself to say new spells out loud.

“It’s an immolating spell,” he says. “It was popular with assassins … and spurned lovers.”

“So she killed herself? Intentionally?”

He closes his eyes, and his head hangs forward over the book. I feel like I should do something to comfort him, but there’s no way to be comforted by your worst enemy.

Except … Hell, I’m not his worst enemy, am I? Hell and horrors.

I’m still standing next to him, and I bump my hand against his shoulder—sort of a comforting bump—and reach for the book. I pick up reading out loud where he left off:

“Her son, 5-year-old Tyrannus Basilton, was shaken, but unharmed. His father, Malcolm Grimm, has taken the boy to the family home in Hampshire to recover.

“The Coven is convened in an emergency meeting as of this writing to discuss the attack on Watford; the escalation of the dark creature problem; and the appointment of an interim headmaster.

“There have been calls to close the school until our struggles with the dark creatures are sorted—and even suggestions that we join the Americans and Scandinavians in mainstreaming our children into Normal schools.

“There are more articles about that,” I say, “about what to do with Watford. I’ve read a few months’ worth. Lots of meetings and debates and editorials. Until the Mage took over in February.”

Baz is staring past me into nothing. His hair is in his eyes, his arms are folded, and he’s holding his own elbows. I try the comforting thing again—actually resting my hand on his shoulder this time. “It’s okay,” I say.