her distance as she rolled her bike. Sangster shouted into his Bluetooth to the others.
“See if there are any vampires left in the village. I doubt it because of the sunlight, but make sure there aren’t any hiding indoors. Armstrong? Get with communications; find out what the deal was with that dish thing.”
The three of them gathered in the restaurant and stood next to a brick wall, surrounded by empty tables with white linens. Some of them had been overturned.
“All right, Astrid Gretelian,” Sangster said. “Answers.”
“You don’t have to talk to me that way.” Astrid frowned. “I just saved your friend.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m Astrid—”
“She’s new at school,” Alex interrupted. “I met her this morning. She said she’s from the Netherlands, and I think that’s right.” He watched the girl with a mixture of distrust and admiration. She had saved his life, surely, but this morning she had pretended to be…what? Had she pretended anything at all?
“And she’s a witch,” Sangster said evenly.
A witch. Alex took the word like a slap to the face even though it wasn’t aimed at him, because it was the second time that word had come into his life in any real, magical way in a short time. His mother was a witch.
Alex thought of his mother, Amanda, who had thetall, blond model good looks of a Swedish pop star—the same good looks his own twin sister had, but of which he judged he had inherited precisely none. His mom was many things—a charitable organizer, a professor sometimes, a deft manager of five children, and through it all she carried an ironic and whimsical tone that seemed to armor her against any kind of upset. She could be funny and sometimes cruel, but she was loving.
And yes, a witch, and not the let-me-figure-out-who-you’re-going-to-marry-with-this-Ouija-board kind, but a let-me-shut-these-windows-with-my-mind kind. But Amanda had given up an active life of witchcraft when she had married an agent of the Polidorium, Alex’s dad.
Astrid was a witch like his mother. She had beaten back the Queen with magic words and swung a weapon that didn’t act like anything he’d ever seen.
But Alex didn’t sense any static coming off Astrid. If she were evil, somehow, if she were something dark, wouldn’t his brain be buzzing?
He looked at her again, his eyes suddenly widening. Holy crap, do you know my mom?
“What is Claire?” Sangster asked, bringing Alex back to reality. Alex wasn’t sure if Sangster was testing her or trying to figure out the real answer.
“Claire Clairmont,” Astrid said. “Born in 1798, halfsister of Mary Shelley and lover of Lord Byron.”
“And according to history, she died an old spinster governess,” Sangster added.
Astrid put her bony hands on her hips, looking impatient. “Well, according to history, John Polidori died a feeble drug addict in 1821, but we know better , don’t we?”
Sangster betrayed no emotion, but Alex knew the gears in Sangster’s head had to be turning as much as his own were. The fact that John Polidori, a British writer who had first identified Lord Byron as a vampire, had gone underground and founded the organization they worked for was far from common knowledge. How could she know this? But by itself it didn’t prove anything; even Minhi knew that much about the Polidorium, and Astrid had spent the night talking to Minhi.
Astrid went on. “Claire Clairmont was obsessed with Lord Byron, and after his death traveled to Russia in the 1820s. There she allowed herself to be recruited based on the power of her inborn abilities to seduce, and she learned the magical arts. But it was all for her own purposes: she wanted eternal life, with Byron, with whom she made an undead, unholy pact. She made him a more powerful vampire and sacrificed herself. But at the right time, he would revive her and they would rule together.”
“Rule together?” Sangster seemed to be trying todecide whether he found that
“See if there are any vampires left in the village. I doubt it because of the sunlight, but make sure there aren’t any hiding indoors. Armstrong? Get with communications; find out what the deal was with that dish thing.”
The three of them gathered in the restaurant and stood next to a brick wall, surrounded by empty tables with white linens. Some of them had been overturned.
“All right, Astrid Gretelian,” Sangster said. “Answers.”
“You don’t have to talk to me that way.” Astrid frowned. “I just saved your friend.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m Astrid—”
“She’s new at school,” Alex interrupted. “I met her this morning. She said she’s from the Netherlands, and I think that’s right.” He watched the girl with a mixture of distrust and admiration. She had saved his life, surely, but this morning she had pretended to be…what? Had she pretended anything at all?
“And she’s a witch,” Sangster said evenly.
A witch. Alex took the word like a slap to the face even though it wasn’t aimed at him, because it was the second time that word had come into his life in any real, magical way in a short time. His mother was a witch.
Alex thought of his mother, Amanda, who had thetall, blond model good looks of a Swedish pop star—the same good looks his own twin sister had, but of which he judged he had inherited precisely none. His mom was many things—a charitable organizer, a professor sometimes, a deft manager of five children, and through it all she carried an ironic and whimsical tone that seemed to armor her against any kind of upset. She could be funny and sometimes cruel, but she was loving.
And yes, a witch, and not the let-me-figure-out-who-you’re-going-to-marry-with-this-Ouija-board kind, but a let-me-shut-these-windows-with-my-mind kind. But Amanda had given up an active life of witchcraft when she had married an agent of the Polidorium, Alex’s dad.
Astrid was a witch like his mother. She had beaten back the Queen with magic words and swung a weapon that didn’t act like anything he’d ever seen.
But Alex didn’t sense any static coming off Astrid. If she were evil, somehow, if she were something dark, wouldn’t his brain be buzzing?
He looked at her again, his eyes suddenly widening. Holy crap, do you know my mom?
“What is Claire?” Sangster asked, bringing Alex back to reality. Alex wasn’t sure if Sangster was testing her or trying to figure out the real answer.
“Claire Clairmont,” Astrid said. “Born in 1798, halfsister of Mary Shelley and lover of Lord Byron.”
“And according to history, she died an old spinster governess,” Sangster added.
Astrid put her bony hands on her hips, looking impatient. “Well, according to history, John Polidori died a feeble drug addict in 1821, but we know better , don’t we?”
Sangster betrayed no emotion, but Alex knew the gears in Sangster’s head had to be turning as much as his own were. The fact that John Polidori, a British writer who had first identified Lord Byron as a vampire, had gone underground and founded the organization they worked for was far from common knowledge. How could she know this? But by itself it didn’t prove anything; even Minhi knew that much about the Polidorium, and Astrid had spent the night talking to Minhi.
Astrid went on. “Claire Clairmont was obsessed with Lord Byron, and after his death traveled to Russia in the 1820s. There she allowed herself to be recruited based on the power of her inborn abilities to seduce, and she learned the magical arts. But it was all for her own purposes: she wanted eternal life, with Byron, with whom she made an undead, unholy pact. She made him a more powerful vampire and sacrificed herself. But at the right time, he would revive her and they would rule together.”
“Rule together?” Sangster seemed to be trying todecide whether he found that
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