Antique metal lockers stood at attention between classroom doors, and the sounds of slamming lockers and drumming feet, as well as the occasional catcall, didn’t penetrate the bubble of whispering around me. I put my head down, as usual, and let my shower-damp hair slide forward, curtaining me. Dibs drew closer on my left, and Graves held his chin up, a bounce in his step and his earring swinging. He didn’t seem to mind the whispers or the looks.

Course, he probably got a fair share of both as a goth boy in a Dakota town. Stands to reason he’d have a good front to show the world. Sometimes he even reached down and took my hand, fingers slipping through mine. It was a touch I was both grateful for and confused by.

But not today. Today I went it alone.

I got another gulp of coffee down, inhaled at the wrong time, and almost sprayed it all over the floor. Being stared at will do that—make you clumsy.

“You okay?” Graves sounded worried.

“I got all my homework done.” My nose stung from coffee. I stared at my sneakers on the hardwood. One step, two steps, three steps. Leon cut traffic so I didn’t have to worry about running into anyone. “I think . . .”

I really think he’s going to change back, I almost said, but shut my mouth. It wasn’t the sort of thing to talk about in a hallway. Especially since anything I said would fall into a big rippling pond of quiet.

Each night Ash struggled, bones cracking, to change. And each night I thought he might really do it. Benjamin said he wouldn’t. Shanks shrugged. Graves said nothing, and Dibs wouldn’t even go near the hall that housed Ash’s room. He turned an interesting shade of white every time it was even mentioned.

I almost ran into Leon when he stopped. “Last stop, Grand Central, everyone out,” he said with one of his crooked little smiles. Seen in sunlight, his mousy hair took on threads of gold, brown, and ash-blond and was fine instead of lank. He had a sharply handsome face, and I was still trying to figure out how he did the fade-into-the-background thing. It didn’t seem natural.

“I’ll see you at lunch.” Graves took another puff off his cancer-stick. “We’ll do Para Bio together. It’ll be fun.”

I rolled my eyes. “You bet. Bye, guys. Thanks.”

“Ciao, Dru-girl. Don’t forget, Saturday we’re doing a run in the park. Graves’ll bring you.” Shanks waved, slung an arm over Dibs’s shoulders. “C’mon, boyo. Race you to Red Wing.”

“I won’t forget.” It was the third time he’d reminded me. But he was already gone. Just like that, heading for the wing where wulfen had their classes. The hall was emptying rapidly, no few of the boys sneaking glances at me. I waited, expectant.

Graves gave me a once-over, green eyes glowing. Apparently satisfied, he leaned in and pressed his lips to my cheek. A quick peck, then he straightened, turned on his heel, and walked off very quickly.

It was the same thing every day. As a public display of affection, it kind of left a little to be desired. Maybe he was taking it slow because of everything going on, or maybe he just . . . I don’t know.

Leon made a short, suppressed sound. The door squeaked a little as he leaned back, pulling it open and glancing inside. He waved a slim languid hand at me. “After you, Milady.”

God, I wish you wouldn’t call me that. But I just hitched my bag higher on my shoulder and stamped past him. It was hard to have a satisfying snit on when you were just wearing sneakers, but I tried.

Since I was a few minutes behind, everyone was already there. Even the teacher, Beaufort, a tall thin late-blooming djamphir in a faded blue-velvet jacket and striped hipster trousers.

Late drifters—they call puberty for djamphir boys “hitting the drift”—look like they’re in their mid twenties instead of solidly teenage. They also have something . . . I can’t quite explain it. A shadow around the eyes, or the occasional quick flicking restless movement as if they’re in pain. Augustine had done that too. At the time I’d just thought he was weird. A lot of human hunters have tics. Like Juan-Raoul de la Hoya-Smith, another one of Dad’s old friends. He hunts chupacabras and other stuff down Tijuana way. He also spits on the floor every time someone says something unlucky, and his idea of luck is . . . weird.

A ring around the moon? Bad luck. Hat on the bed? Major bad luck. Seeing a squirrel first thing in the morning? Good luck. Canadian geese? Good luck. But seagulls? Bad luck. He calls them “rats with wings.” But he loves pigeons. Go figure.

Beaufort made an odd movement, as if he wanted to bow and stopped himself just in time, straightening and pulling his cuffs down. Under the blue velvet, the teacher’s shirt was frilly and weird. It looked like threadbare silk. “Ah, hello. Hello.”

A rustling movement went through the boy djamphir. None of them had sat down yet; the sofas and easy chairs arranged in a double circle around the teacher all stood empty. And all of them were looking at me.

This never got any easier.

I picked a sofa in the second row and dropped down. Leon stood behind me, a silent reminder. I knew without looking that his hands were crossed, resting comfortably, and his head dipped forward a bit so his eyes were lost behind a thin screen of fine hair.

He seemed to make just about everyone uncomfortable.

They all sank gracefully down into their chosen seats. The other half of my sofa stayed empty. Just like always.

It was like having the plague.

The teacher cleared his throat. “Pass in your papers, please.”

I leaned forward. The kid who usually sat in front of me—hair the color of butterscotch and a fondness for really expensive silk button-downs in jewel tones—glanced back, took the plastic report binder I held out, and blushed bright crimson.

I tried not to sigh. Slid a yellow legal pad and a couple of pencils out of my bag, settled down, and waited. A sketch filled the edges of the piece of paper on top: blocks of masonry, grass shaded in at the bottom, and a huge empty space in the middle.

I could never seem to draw the middle. So all my notes were decorated with this odd churchlike ruin, hovering like a bad dream.

As usual, once he didn’t have to look directly at me, Beaufort seemed okay. “Very good, very good. Now, we left off with the first real attempt the nosferat made at domination of the civilized world, in 1200 BC. There are garbled legends of this time, mostly concerning the Sea People, though most of the archaeological evidence is spotty at best. So how do we separate fact from fiction?”

“Oral tradition,” a blond djamphir in the front row said. “Then cross-checking against the archaeological record and extrapolation from what we know of nosferat behavior.”

The teacher nodded. “Our oral tradition is very precise, specific, and unapologetic on one point. Once, the wampyr could move by day. Once, the sun was not a bar to them. They were weakened, certainly, by its presence—but it was not the deterrent it is today. So what happened?”

Silence. I glanced back over my notes. Nothing that might answer the question. Of course, I didn’t ever raise my hand—but I liked knowing before he called on someone else. Beaufort liked to give everyone time to digest and come up with something, too. He wasn’t one of those teachers who delights in catching kids out.

That was one thing I was getting used to here at the Schola. The grading was fierce and the teachers were smart, but they weren’t trying to play petty power games. At least not in the classrooms.

The answer surprised all of us. It came from over my right shoulder, and it was a sibilant hiss threading through the quiet of a thinking classroom.

“Scarabus.” Leon shifted his weight slightly; I almost felt the movement through the couch. “He rose from the sands and walked among them, killing where he chose.”