God Save the Queen

CHAPTER 2

IT RUNS IN THE FAMILYStrong hands grabbed my shoulders just as I was about to take a bite out of my reeking victim, who trembled beneath the blade I pressed against his heart.

“Don’t,” said a low female voice. “He probably tastes like shit, and you don’t want to go there.”

I thought about turning on her and maybe taking a bite out of her instead, but she was right. He would taste like shit, and I didn’t want to go there. I’d never bitten anyone, and I didn’t want to start with this piece of filth.

It was a struggle to clear the haze in my mind – the need. It was like having chocolate pressed against my lips and fighting the urge to take a bite, only multiplied by a thousand. I released the betty. As soon as I let go, his hands clutched at me, trying to pull me close again. Albert’s fangs. He wanted me to bite him. He even had a hard-on. Humans.

Up on my knees, I punched him in the face – hard – with the fist wrapped around my dagger, and knocked him senseless. His hands fell away, landing with a dull thud on the ground.

“Good choice,” said my blue-haired companion, offering me a hand up, which I gratefully accepted after sheathing the knife.

“Thanks.” I swiped my knuckles across my lip – it had stopped bleeding.

“I should be thanking you.” She smiled at me as though this kind of thing happened to her every day. Maybe it did, because I sure as Sunday wouldn’t be smiling if my face looked like that. “They probably planned to toss us in front of the next tourist bus.”

I glanced at her purple-haired friend, whose battered face was expressionless. “That would have made some Yank’s trip.”

She laughed. “Wouldn’t it, though?”

I stared at her. There was something familiar about her pale face. Her eyes – the one that was open – were almost the same greenish blue as her hair. She was about my height and I was certain I didn’t know her, and yet …

“Thanks for saving my arse,” she said, squatting down and rooting through the big betty’s pockets. Her search turned up a wad of pound notes. She quickly counted through them and offered me several.

“Not necessary,” I said, holding up my hands. It wasn’t that I was morally opposed to her robbing the bastard; I just didn’t need the money.

She shrugged, and I noticed dirt on the back of her black satin coat. Her companion’s too. “Did they … hurt you?” I asked.

She stood up, stuffing the money into the pocket of her tight black leather bloomers. Not sure how she managed to fit her hand in there, let alone all those notes. “Did they rape us, you mean? Nah.”

I frowned. “Why not? This one” – I kicked the still motionless betty near my feet – “obviously wanted a tickle. I’d have thought if he had a couple of unconscious halvies in his possession he’d take advantage.” Both of them were pretty. Her friend was downright gorgeous, even with a faceful of bruises. He had very fine chiselled features, dark green eyes and a nose that could cut butter. I took a second to appreciate his loveliness as he shoved his rotary into his trouser pocket. I hadn’t even noticed that he’d made a call.

Blue-hair pulled a pack of fags from her cleavage and offered me one. I refused. She lit up and took a deep drag before responding. “Fang fetish, most likely.” The clove-scented tang of her smoke drifted around her head. “You were just another filthy halvie till you fanged out, then he got all tingly for your aristo bits.”

I’d heard of humans like that before, but had never met one that I knew of – until tonight.

“Why did they nab you?”

She cast a glance at her friend, who shrugged. “Wrong place at the wrong time,” he said, but I could hear the lie in his voice. Fine by me. It wasn’t my business, and it wasn’t as though I’d side with the betties anyway. Every half-blood and aristocrat knew that humans couldn’t be trusted – not after the Great Insurrection. They despised us and wanted to see every one of us dead. Dede used to tell me I was a bigot, but it wasn’t prejudice. It was truth.

“You should at least let me pay for dry-cleaning.” She gave me a good look up and down. “Those stains will never come out.”

I glanced down. “F*ck it all.” She was right. My gown was ruined. Blood soaked the silk in a six-inch splodge, and there was dirt and grass stains from the Nosferatu impersonation I’d tried to pull. My face was bruised and bloody and my hair was probably a mess by now too. Lord knew my gloves were beyond repair. There was no way I could show up at Curzon Street looking like this. Vardan would be humiliated, but besides that there wasn’t any point – already the streets were filling with carriages and cars heading deeper into Mayfair. I was too late.

I wouldn’t even be able to catch Church at home. By the time I got there he’d be underside. The lore about vampires despising the sun was true. Their skin was super-sensitive, just like their eyes and their ears, and would blister under ultraviolet light. They weren’t undead, though. The Prometheus Protein affected them on a cellular level, putting their bodies in a sort of stasis. They aged, but at an incredibly slow rate. No one knew just how long a vamp could live. Queen V had been born in 1819 and looked like she was in her late twenties, early thirties. The Church condemned all of us with plagued blood as demons, but science deemed us Homo Sapiens Yersinia. Rumour has it Her Majesty ate the previous Archbishop of Canterbury when he made the announcement, and had the Prime Minister appoint his successor over his still warm corpse.

Even if Church was still awake when I got to his house, he would be in lockdown for several hours. He was one of the many aristos who took to sleeping in an impenetrable, vault-like room as protection against attack after the Insurrection. As much as I wanted to talk to him about Dede, I had no choice but to go home and try to get some sleep.

“I’m sorry,” Blue-hair said. I’d almost forgotten that she was there. “If not for us, you’d be wherever it was you were supposed to be.”

I shrugged. “It’s not your fault.” Of course I had the uncharitable thought that if I had just minded my own business I could be with Church right now, but that was just wrong. I didn’t regret stopping to help them. I regretted not being able to do both.

I glanced up as the headlamps of an arriving motor carriage washed over the scene. “Is that for you?”

“Yes. Can we give you a lift?”

Her friend had already left us, gone to speak to whoever the car belonged to. Bit rude, but I was intrigued by the whole scenario. There was something surreal, slightly off about the whole thing. “No thanks … I’m sorry, I don’t even know your name.”

She smiled, and the familiarity of her features struck me once again. I knew her from somewhere. “My friends call me Fee.”

The name didn’t ring any bells. I offered her my hand. “Xandra.”

“Yeah,” she said, an odd light in her one good eye. “I know. Thanks again for helping us out. I owe you one.”

I probably should have been more surprised that she knew who I was, and at the weird way she looked at me, but I was thinking of Dede and her having to spend more time in Bedlam because I’d f*cked up. I shrugged. “You would have done the same, I’m sure.”

She arched a brow. “Are you? I appreciate the confidence.” Then she touched the brim of an imaginary hat. “I’ll bid you adieu, for I suspect our friends are waking up.”

She was right about that – the betties were stirring, and I had no desire to tango with them again. “Night, then. Don’t spend those funds all at once.”

A quick grin flashed in the darkness, and then she was off, running east across the grass. I turned on my heel and was hauling arse back to where the Butler sat waiting when a tickling sensation in the centre of my back had me glancing over my shoulder.

Fee and her friend stood beside the motor carriage – an antique Swallow, silver and sleek, engine a low purr. They were watching me, but it was the sight of the tall, well-built man with them that made the breath catch in my throat: Vex MacLaughlin – alpha of the UK wolves.

The halvies climbed into the vehicle, leaving me pinned under the weight of glowing yellow eyes. His presence was overwhelming even at this distance. Wolves were one step down from goblins on the ferocity scale. Many vampires, my father included, thought them barbarians, but I’d always been a sucker for a boy with fur. And the MacLaughlin, as he was known, was no boy. He was in the vicinity of two hundred years old, and had been made alpha after the Great Insurrection, when he’d continued to fight despite being wounded, and saved the lives of half a dozen aristos.

He’d apparently carried the former alpha to hospital during the attack only for the wolf to die under human care. No one knew if he was murdered or not, though most thought the latter. It was the MacLaughlin who, after the funeral of Prince Albert, decided there needed to be hospitals specifically for aristos. That was when the noble world saw the benefit of halvies as protection, and as professionals in aristo-friendly establishments. Scads of research went into growing my race. There were still three humans for every halvie, but we were doing all right.

I’d seen photographs of what the humans did over those few days. I saw the bodies and the destruction – violence that only fuelled my prejudice. The only human I ever trusted was my mum, and she wasn’t a regular human – she’d been a plague carrier. A courtesan. They were special.

Vex MacLaughlin had yet to breed any halvies, but he certainly seemed to consider them part of his pack. He came to the rescue when they called. I couldn’t imagine my own father doing that. What were Fee and her friend to him that he’d come personally to fetch them?

I shook my head. None of my business. I’d turned to climb on to the Butler when a growl tore through the weakening dark and raced a cold finger down my spine. I looked up to see the alpha grabbing the betty I had almost bitten by the throat. For a second I thought he was going to kill the bastard, but he tossed him into the boot of the Swallow instead. The betty was big, but MacLaughlin lifted him like he was nothing more than a rag doll.

He slammed the boot shut before walking around to the driver’s door. He paused, and turned towards me once more, his rugged features impassive. Our gazes locked. He inclined his head – a slight nod – before sliding into the vehicle and tearing off down the street as the sun began to shove pale fingers across the sky.

What was that all about? I’d never know, and I had more important things to worry about.

Dawn was coming. Nothing for me to do but get the hell home, which I proceeded to do.

I dragged myself over the threshold with a sigh. Suddenly, I was very tired. I hadn’t eaten in hours and I needed my supplements. Our fast metabolism mean that half-bloods need to eat more often than humans. Sounds fun, but it ain’t. Try being in the middle of a tango with a bunch of betties and losing your momentum because your blood sugar’s bottomed out. Not pretty.

I locked the door behind me and fought a bout of dizziness. I wanted a steak, rare and juicy, but that would take too long. Instead, I settled on a sandwich – a big one – and bed. In fact, I’d eat the sandwich in bed.

I made straight for the kitchen, the rustle of my skirts the only sound. I washed the blood and dirt from my hands and went to work scrounging for food. I found thickly sliced bread in the cupboard and loaded it up with meats and cheese, vegetables and a thick layer of spicy mustard. While creating my masterpiece, I nibbled on stale shortbread biscuits. Starving halvies couldn’t be fussy.

Plate in hand, along with a small glass of creamy milk, I made my way back through the dimly lit house to the staircase. I’d taken a huge bite of the sandwich before I left the kitchen, so I was still chewing as I tried to negotiate the stairs without lifting the hem of my dress. I got all the way to the top before I realised I wasn’t alone. The smell of food had made me oblivious to other scents.

By the time I noticed, it was too late. I saw bright pink toenails two steps above me on the landing and came to a dead stop. I looked up, and swallowed.

“What the bloody hell happened to you?” my sister Avery demanded, hands on the hips of her snug black bloomers. “And why does your bedroom smell like a wet goblin?”

I’ve often thought my sister Avery resembled a walking mound of candy floss, with her pink hair and penchant for the same colour, but beneath that sweet exterior lived the soul of a fishwife.

“Yersinia?” she said, using the goblin name for their underground city. “Xandy, what the sweet hell were you thinking?”

I winced as a mug was slammed on the table in front of me. Deli cious-smelling Darjeeling sloshed over the side. Avery had dragged me to the kitchen to interrogate me, and if she was breaking out the Darjeeling, it was bad indeed. “I was looking for information on Dede,” I replied, wiping up the spill with a napkin. I had finished my sandwich and was thinking of dessert. Not more shortbread, that was for certain.

“Albert’s fangs,” my sister muttered, joining me at the table with her own cup. She rubbed her fingers violently across her forehead. Her nail varnish matched her toes. “That chit runs off, and every time you chase her like a damn puppy, but going to the goblins is beyond mental.”

Facing her across the table, I looked for some indication that we were even related. The matching green of our eyes was the only sign. How could she be so cold? Yes, Dede had always been something of a hellion – a handful – but that didn’t mean we shouldn’t worry, did it? Flighty she might be, but never cruel. For shit’s sake, she still slept with a stuffed bear.

“She’s never been gone this long before,” I defended. “Not without ringing me.”

Avery arched a brow, looking at me as though she thought she knew the inside of my head. “So this is about you, then? Dede hasn’t checked in with mama bird so something has to be wrong. Face it, Xandy, she’s selfish and spoiled and right now she isn’t thinking of anyone but herself. She’ll show up in a few days wondering what all the fuss is about.”

“Something has happened to her,” I protested. “The goblin prince—”

“You spoke to the prince?” Avery’s eyes were huge, cheeks chalk-white. “Were you trying to get yourself eviscerated? I swear on Albert’s grave, when Dede comes back I’m going to smack her senseless. And you … I don’t know what to do about you. You’re not our mother, Xandy, it’s time you stopped acting like it.”

My hands tightened around the mug. “Dede’s in Bedlam.”

My sister went still. “You’re lying.” And there was our family resemblance: instantaneous denial.

“That’s what the prince told me. And you know they don’t lie.”

“We need something stronger than tea.” Avery left the table to open a cupboard by the sink. She took out a bottle of whisky, and two glasses from the cupboard above. She returned to the table, uncapped the bottle and poured a double for each of us. Neither of us spoke until we’d each taken a deep swallow. It burned, but it cleared the last of the shock in my system. Unfortunately, we metabolised alcohol quickly.

“Was it because she went hatters on Ainsley?” Avery asked, rolling her glass between her palms along the tabletop.

I stopped toying with my own glass. “You knew?”

She nodded, not quite meeting my astonished – and pissed – gaze. “I was there with the Ashworths. I was the one who pulled her off Ainsley.” Both she and Dede were part of the Peerage Protectorate – privately contracted guards for aristo families. They were different from the Royal Guard in that it was the RG’s job to protect everyone of rank, with emphasis on the royal family and their guests. We covered gatherings and events – such as the Queen making a public appearance – while the PP were private guards who made themselves available whenever their clients wanted.

“You knew and you didn’t tell me?” I could have slapped her, but I didn’t seem to have any fight left in me. I’d used it all up betty-bashing. I was tired right down to my bones.

She shrugged. “Val and I thought it was for the best not to tell you about it.”

“Val knew too?” I could believe Avery keeping this from me, because she thought I stuck my nose too far into her business – Dede’s too – but Val? My brother was only a year older than me and we were usually unified when it came to family.

“He was the arresting officer.”

My shoulders sagged. “Bollocks.” Val was Special Branch, a division of Scotland Yard that dealt with aristo- and half-blood-related crimes. Of course they would have been called. “It must have killed him to take her in.”

Avery made a scoffing noise just before slugging back the rest of her drink. “Not to mention how humiliating it must have been for a chief inspector to have his sister behave in such a manner.”

I bristled. “I doubt that was foremost in Val’s mind.”

My sister shrugged. “You can bet he thought it later. It’s an embarrassment for all of us.” Then she sighed, and it was as though all the anger drained out of her. “I never thought she’d end up in Bedlam.”

There was something in the way she said it that made my jaw clench. “No. Of all of us, I’m the one you’d expect to go hatters.”

She shifted uncomfortably, even as she rolled her eyes. “Don’t be stupid.”

It was no secret that my mother had been hauled off to Bedlam when I was ten. I’d grown up knowing that insanity ran in my blood. Sometimes I felt as though it nipped at my heels. So maybe I was overly sensitive to the subject, but not this time.

I pushed back my chair. “I’m going to bed.” I didn’t wish her a good day, or even take my dishes to the sink. Sod her.

“Xandy!” Avery called after me. “Xandy, come on. I didn’t mean it!”

I waved her off, but didn’t stop, didn’t speak. I just kept walking. Of course she meant it – she just hadn’t meant for me to realise it.

The Wellington Academy, the school where all half-bloods were trained and educated, was located in the St James’s sector, not far from the gates of Buckingham Palace. Some of the old-timers still referred to it as the Old Admiralty, but it hadn’t been used as such for almost eighty years. A statue of the great man stood high on a pedestal in the courtyard, flanked by the Academy and the Royal Guard House.

I stood a moment before this statue, peering up at it from beneath the brim of my brolly. Wellington was a legend not only for his victory over Napoleon, and his tragic death during the Great Insurrection, but for being one of the few human nobles to be turned into an aristocrat. Not just any human can be turned – a fact that continues to elude many of the betties running around the city. Being “made” takes a great deal of physical and psychological strength, not to mention a genetic inclination towards the aristocracy on the part of the plaguee. Only a powerful full-blood can do it. Noble crypts are filled with the dusty remains of those who failed to survive the change.

I wished I had known him. Hell, just to see him in the flesh would have been amazing. Church used to tell me stories of Wellington and his bravery during the Insurrection. Those stories were what so many of us aspired to.

I knew halvies who had gone on to do amazing things. I wasn’t one of them. My father was disappointed that his only child to make the Royal Guard had yet to earn a commendation – not that he’d ever come out and be so cruel, but he couldn’t hide it from me. I was very strong, and one of the best fighters to ever emerge from the Academy, but I had yet to distinguish myself. We lived in a time of relative peace, so the chances of me doing so were slim.

But thinking about it only served to make me pouty and disagreeable, so I stopped staring at the likeness of a long-dead vampire and walked the short distant to the Academy entrance.

James, the yellow-haired guard at the desk, smiled when he looked up and saw me. “Hello, Miss Alexandra. What brings you by this gloriously wet Wednesday?”

“It is lovely, isn’t it?” Unlike aristos, half-bloods could stand in the sun and not get fried, but most preferred a grey day to a sunny one. Lucky were those of us who lived in Britain. “I’m here for the old man. Do you know where I can find him?”

He consulted his computer. “You’re in luck. He’s got a group in the gymnasium. Do you recall the way?”

“Unless you’ve moved it,” I replied with a grin. I’d spent fourteen years of my life at this place; I’d know my way blindfolded. “Best to the wife and offspring, James.”

The gymnasium was on the ground floor. All teaching rooms and the cafeteria were on the first two floors – the floors that didn’t have windows, but were illuminated with artificial daylight. When the building was renovated in 1933, it was decided to make the basement, ground and first floors light-tight as a safeguard should the humans ever attack again. This not only protected the few aristo professors on the staff, but in the event of an emergency could provide shelter for London’s entire nobility.

That absence of daylight was the only reason Church, being fully plagued, could teach here. On days that he taught, he arrived via the school’s private underground railway just before sunrise. He was yelling at a couple of wrestling young halvies when I entered the gymnasium. The place smelled of sweat and blood, both fresh and old. It wasn’t exactly a pleasant scent, but it was a familiar one that awakened many good memories – like the first time I bested Rye in a fight. Thinking of Rye was bittersweet, though not nearly as painful as it once had been. He had been my friend, my mentor and my first love, and then he’d been taken away from me by a mob of murderous humans. But thinking of him hurt, so I pushed thoughts of him out of my head, and approached the ginger-haired dictator barking out orders to his students.

The first time I’d seen Churchill I’d been a little girl, and he had seemed a giant to me. In reality he and I were about the same height. He had a strong, unyielding face that was as quick to grin as it was to scowl, and though he was of a fairly lean build, he was the deadliest aristocrat I’d ever met. His only weakness was a slight speech impediment that one daft Year 8 kid always seemed to mention within the first three days of class.

His mother was American – one of the wealthy heiresses who had bought their way into the aristocracy in the late 1800s. There wasn’t a high population of plagued on the other side of the pond, but aristo men had a bit of a reputation for carousing, so that genetic material made its way into many human women over the centuries. The plague was strong, and could exist quietly for generations within a family, just waiting to be exposed to similar genes.

Many of the heiresses who came over didn’t survive the change – they hadn’t known about the biological factors necessary for it to take – and of the few who did turn, only a handful managed to carry full-term pregnancies. Of those, only two had been born alive.

Church obviously had been one of the healthy births, but Queen V decreed that ‘making’ aristos only muddied the bloodline, and that was the end of the American heiresses. He had the glowing pale skin of a vampire, the thick, shiny hair and bright eyes, but he wasn’t quite one of them because his mother hadn’t been born to the blood.

A small group of halvies watched their classmates fighting. It was a good-size class for a senior year – seven bright-haired, bright-eyed half-bloods full of piss and vinegar and ready to take on the world. They stood straight and eager in their training uniforms of loose trousers and tunics. The girls all wore flexible corsets that allowed them to move without restriction.

“Marlborough, you fight like a human,” Church growled, his rich voice reverberating through the gym as he berated the student. “Where’s your pride, man?”

“Still building strength through belittlement, I see,” I said as I drew close.

My mentor’s back stiffened beneath his dark green waistcoat and pristine linen shirt. His head slowly turned towards me. His charges watched me with open mouths – even Marlborough and his sparring partner had paused in their exercise to see who dared speak to the old man in such a way.

Churchill’s scowl turned to a grin when his gaze met mine. “Aren’t you a sight? Class, meet the best student I ever had the privilege of training – Leftenant Alexandra Vardan of the Royal Guard.” The way he said it made me sound like something special and I preened under the compliment.

I waved at the kids, who were staring with open awe now. I might not have a commendation, but I had broken records during my time at this place, and held them to this day. “Hullo.” Then to Church, “Sorry to interrupt your class, sir. I wonder if I might have a word?”

A twinkle lit his pale blue eyes. “Of course you may.”

“Thank—”

“Right after you help me show this lot how to really fight.”

That shut me up – for a second. Suddenly I was quite aware of myself. “Are you serious, sir?”

“Couldn’t be more so. Come on now, put your outerwear in the corner and help me demonstrate.”

He had no dominion over me any more. I was no longer his student, but I did what he told me without protest, and quickly. I draped my long leather coat over the back of a chair and rejoined the group. There was nothing special about my clothes – snug black and white striped bloomers with a vest-like black corset, and my usual arse-kicking boots, but the kids continued to stare. My hand went self-consciously to the fading bruises on my face that I’d tried to cover with make-up.

Churchill chuckled – not at the barely discernible marks, but at me. “I believe my students noticed your tattoo, Alexandra.”

When I graduated from the Academy, Rye had taken me out and we’d got matching tattoos of fanged skulls with crowns on the back of our right shoulders. We thought we looked so bad-ass.

“Did it hurt?” one of the girls asked, nodding at my shoulder.

I was an unfortunate victim of what Avery referred to as “spastic brow syndrome” but I managed to keep my amusement hidden despite raising a brow. The girl could survive being hit by a lorry and she wanted to know if a tattoo hurt?

“It was more annoying than painful,” I replied honestly. “I had to sit still for a long time.”

“Something Alexandra’s never been very good at,” Church informed them with a smile. “Enough stalling, Vardan. Let’s fight.”

Churchill was one of the few peers who didn’t use the Protectorate when he went out, although he sometimes had a halvie accompany him for show. It was considered gauche for an aristo to fight, which made it even stranger that Church taught halvies. What was the point of being so powerful when you couldn’t be bothered to defend yourself?

It didn’t really matter, I supposed. No amount of physical strength was going to do you any good against sunlight and silver. That was where halvies came in. We weren’t as strong, but neither sunlight nor antibiotics would kill us. The latter might make us sick and weak, but it wasn’t deadly.

I stepped on to the mat with Church, who had removed his cravat and rolled up his sleeves to reveal muscled arms dusted with ginger hair. I was still smarting from the fight with the betties the night before, and as an aristo, Churchill was a lot stronger than I was.

I was about to get my arse kicked well and good.

“Alexandra, show the class the correct way to bring someone down when they charge you,” he instructed before lowering his upper body to do just that.

I didn’t think of my training, I thought of fighting. Instead of trying to throw him or deflect, I pulled back my fist and jobbed him hard and fast between the eyes just before he could grab me. He went down like a stone.

The class gasped. So did I.

I moved to stand over him, lying on his back on the mat. “Are you all right, sir?”

Churchill grinned. “That was unexpected. Well done, Alexandra.”

I barely had time to enjoy my self-satisfaction. He grabbed my ankles and pulled my feet out from underneath me. I hit the mat with a loud “oomph”, the breath knocked right out of me. Served me right. I should have known better than to assume he wouldn’t retaliate or to believe I’d bested him.

Once he had me down, it was a pretty short fight. Grappling was not my strong point. Vampirism aside, my opponent was male, better trained and stronger than me. As a woman I had to be more than strong and skilled. I had to be fast and limber, both of which were much easier to achieve on my feet. On the floor, I was no match for Church.

I had to take pride in the fact that I had at least knocked him down. Once.

“You’ve improved.” He delivered the compliment with a bit of a frown. “I actually had to work for it.”

I grinned at the genuine surprise in his voice. “You’re the one who taught me, old man.” It was odd, but when I fought Church, I felt like I was stronger than I’d been before, when in actuality I was most likely weaker. I’d forgotten to take my morning dose of supplements. This forgetfulness wasn’t like me – proof of how preoccupied I was with Dede. Did they give halvies their supplements in Bedlam, or were they allowed to weaken, making them easier to control? I didn’t want to think about it.

Afterwards, when Church had dismissed his students and we were alone, he gave me biscuits and made me coffee in his office – a large oak-panelled room stuffed with books and trophies, photos and stacks of papers needing to be marked. An old stained-glass lamp stood in the corner behind his desk. I picked up a framed photo taken on my graduation day. In it he had his arm around me, both of us grinning like idiots, while I held up my diploma and letter of acceptance into the Royal Guard. It had been the happiest day of my life.

I was the only student he had a photo of in his office. He used to have one of Rye, but put it away after the murder.

“You didn’t come all the way here just so I could show off to my students,” he remarked good-naturedly, giving my shoulders a squeeze before seating himself in the brocade wing-back chair behind the sturdy desk. “What’s wrong?”

He knew me too well for me to bother trying to sugar-coat it. I put the photo back and took a chair on the other side of the massive desk. “I heard a disturbing rumour and you’re the only person I can think of who will tell me whether or not it’s true.”

He steepled his fingers against his mouth. “All right. What is it?”

I cradled my coffee in my hands. The caffeine and sugar were already dancing in my blood. “Is Dede in Bedlam?”

He stared at me a moment, his expression suddenly grave. There was no need for him to speak – I could see the answer in his eyes – but he chose to do so regardless. “Drusilla’s predicament is something you should discuss with His Grace.”

I hated it when he used my father’s higher rank as a way of avoiding talking to me. He did it when Rye died as well – even though he had been the one who had been there when it happened.

“I want to discuss it with you. You won’t diminish or leave out details you think I’m too fragile to hear.”

He glanced away, but almost immediately turned his attention back to me. Church always looked me in the eye. “This isn’t how I wanted you to find out, but yes, I’m afraid your sister is in Bedlam.”

It wasn’t a shock. Inside I had known he’d reiterate what the goblin prince had already told me. And it pissed me off. “Apparently I’m the only person who knew nothing of her arrest. What a relief to find out now, after days of worrying.”

He winced. What I lacked in grappling skills I made up for in bite.

“Your father thought it best if we waited a few days to tell you.” Of course he had. “He knew you would want to see Drusilla, and what the poor girl needs right now is rest.”

Meaning what? That I would agitate her? “What she needs is her family.” And by that I meant she needed me.

Church leaned across the desk, placing his hands over my icy ones. Contrary to popular belief, vampires ran hot rather than cold. “Listen to me,” he commanded in a gentle tone that nevertheless would not be refused. “Your sister attacked a peer of the realm in front of witnesses. Not only that, but she began to insist – in front of these witnesses – that Ainsley’s heir was her child. She humiliated Lord and Lady Ainsley in addition to the physical violence.”

Oh, Dede. I thought she had given up that nonsense. “Did you see this first hand, or is it hearsay?”

He looked at me with pity – much the same way the goblin prince had gazed upon me the night before. Nausea writhed in my stomach. “Yes,” he said softly. “I was there. You must believe me when I tell you that Drusilla was not herself. She was like an animal, Alexandra. A wild animal. They had to shock her to remove her from the premises.”

I closed my eyes. Shocking was pretty much the only sure-fire way to incapacitate a halvie without doing any physical damage.

“She’s not hatters, Church. She just wants to believe her baby didn’t die.” I think she also clung to the hope that Ainsley would leave his wife for her, but I wisely didn’t mention that.

Strong hands squeezed mine. “But it did, and she must accept that if she ever hopes to return to the world.”

I scowled. “If? Is there some question as to whether or not she’ll be released?”

He nodded, mouth grim. “Alexandra, Lord and Lady Ainsley only agreed not to press charges if Drusilla submitted to treatment. It’s obvious the poor girl is deluded and needs professional help. She will get that at Bedlam.”

I swallowed, throat unbearably tight. “She’ll die in there.”

A second’s silence. Gentle fingers tenderly brushed one of the bruises on my face before sliding down to cup my shoulder. “You say that because of what happened to your mother, but there’s no reason to believe that Drusilla won’t recover with the proper treatment. If you go raging in there spouting how a travesty of justice has been committed, you won’t be helping your sister.”

He knew me so well, but not as well as he might think. If I managed to make myself enter the nightmare that was Bedlam, I’d only rage to disguise my pants-pissing terror. My mother had been swallowed whole by that place. They never cured her.

I was wary of humans. I was afraid of goblins. I was terri-f*cking-fied of Bedlam.

“What if they can’t help her?” I asked, my mother’s face lingering in my mind.

He squeezed my fingers again. “You cannot think that. You must remain hopeful. Drusilla is a Vardan, with all the strength that comes with that lineage. She will persevere.”

This reminded me of after Rye had been killed. I’d been nighon inconsolable. Church had looked at me with that same loving determination and told me that I would get through that awful time, that I would mourn and eventually recover. I hadn’t believed him then, but the years had proven him mostly right. I could only trust that he would be right about Dede as well.

“Thank you,” I said.

He nodded. “Meanwhile, why don’t I ring the hospital tonight? See what I can find out for you?”

I liked that he hadn’t called Bedlam an asylum. “You don’t have to do that.”

Church’s face took on a vaguely amused expression. “I’m well aware of that fact. Perhaps I want to do it for you – and for Drusilla.”

A sudden knock at the door kept me from replying. We both looked at it in surprise – like the last two people on the planet discovering there was a third.

“Come in!” Church bellowed.

The heavy oak door swung open, and the last two people I expected to see entered the office. It was Avery, and with her our brother Val, who was tall and smart in his black uniform. People were always amazed that we were related, as Val favoured his mother’s Japanese heritage more than his English. His indigo hair was slightly mussed – an oddity for him – and his Asian eyes the same green as mine, were rimmed with red.

One look at the pair of them and I knew something wasn’t right. They looked so… crushed.

“What is it?” I asked, rising to my feet. My chest felt tight, as though my heart hadn’t enough room to beat.

“It’s Dede,” Val said, his usually stoical expression marred by sorrow.

“What of her? Christ, Val, don’t lead with something like that and then make me wait.”

“She’s …” He stopped on a sob.

Avery put her arm around him as she stepped forward. She looked me dead in the eye – hers were as red as Val’s – and I knew then that I didn’t want to hear what they’d come all this way to tell me.

“No,” I said.

A tear trickled down Avery’s smooth cheek. “She’s dead, Xandy. She killed herself.”