I loaded the 9mm, checked it, raised it, and squeezed off three rounds.

The echoes died away. I hit the target button to bring it home. Nicely grouped and even, star-shaped holes. I laid the gun down carefully, checked twice, and we all took our ear protection off. The hole-starred target was unclipped and passed around.

Babbage held up the remains of a fired bullet, showing how it had fragged apart on contact. “This is what happens—when it hits tissue, it explodes. Why is this important?”

I could have answered in my sleep, but I didn’t. He called on a blue-eyed djamphir with a round babyface.

“Bleeding out,” Babyface said. I think his name was Bjorn or something, but I wasn’t sure. “They heal quick, especially if they’ve just fed and have a lot of fresh hemo in their systems. So, you gotta cause enough damage to drain ’em. Make ’em weak.”

“Even a weak nosferat is a dangerous one, though.” Babbage laid the bullet down. “So when you go in for the kill, keep your weapon handy. I repeat myself only because so many Kouroi have failed to do so and been uncomfortably surprised.”

Nobody laughed at that one. We’d all seen the pictures. Big, glossy 8x10s, bigger versions of the ones you’d see in forensic textbooks. Vampires are only messy sometimes when they feed. But when they kill a djamphir, they like to make a statement. There’s nothing like hating something that’s part of you to make you really savage.

Leon, over near the steel door, had settled back against the wall and half-closed his eyes. He’d probably heard this all a million times before.

“Now let me pose you a question—Matthew, do not touch that!” Babbage’s tone held a definite warning, and the boy yanked his fingers away from the .22 on the table.

Freaking amateurs. You keep your hands away from a gun unless you’re paying attention. It just works out better that way.

“Yessir,” Matthew mumbled. His spiky inky haircut was fashionable last year, but the sullen-frat-boy look he always wore never goes out of style.

Babbage continued while I toyed with my ear protectors. “You have a wounded vampire down, bleeding out quickly. What is the weapon of choice for dispatching it?”

“Anything that gives you reach,” Babyface muttered.

“I second that.” This from a tall lanky djamphir towhead with thistledown-fine hair. “Headshot, more shots to the torso to bleed, or malaika.”

Babbage nodded approvingly. I felt like I’d been pinched. Christophe had brought me a set of malaika—wooden swords, of all things—and promised to teach me how to use them. They’d probably burned when the redheaded vampire exploded my room at the old Schola.

Someone else asked before I could. “Do they still teach malaika anymore? I thought those were—”

“They’re still efficient.” Babbage glanced at me. A djamphir in the first row handed the paper target to me. The shots were nicely grouped, even if I did say so myself. “They are traditionally held to be a svetocha ’s weapon, since a female’s greater reflex speed and coordination gives her an edge. Hawthorn is also deadly to the nosferat, for reasons you’ll learn in your chemistry and Sympathetic Sorcery classes.”

That perked my ears right up. “Sorcery?”

Babbage inclined his head. He leaned a hip against one of the tables, easily and obviously not resting any weight on it. “Surely you’ve noticed that a djamphir’s weapons are not all physical. We are in the process of rediscovering djamphir arts and processes that were lost when we were almost extinguished as a species.”

I almost hopped from foot to foot. “Are you talking, like, what kind of sorcery? Witchcraft? Ceremonial magic? Hexes, or—”

The interest in his sharp dark eyes mounted a few notches. “Djamphir sorceries are largely sympathetic and combat-based. They share some commonalities with standard European witchcraft. Asian and Middle Eastern djamphir, few as they are, have inherited some notable sorceries and resistances that we haven’t been able to study much, mostly because they are few and secretive. They are also fighting a war on both fronts, with the nosferatu and the Maharaj.”

I was getting answers, but they were too slow. Babbage was good about answering though. He never looked at me like I was a moron. “What are the Maharaj? I’ve heard of them, but—”

“You’ll hear more about them in the fourth—or is it fifth?—semester of Paranormal Biology. The short answer is, djamphir are the products of unions between vampires or djamphir and human women. The Maharaj are a clan of descendants of human women and beings referred to as jinni.”

“I thought everyone knew that,” someone said.

I rolled up the target tighter. Didn’t look away from Babbage’s face. Sometimes a trace of irritation flickered over his chiseled features. Like now.

“If one has been raised djamphir, of course one knows.” He was a master of putting faint but deadly sarcasm into a few little words. “Those who are saved might not, and curiosity is a sign of intelligence.”

Saved. As in, snatched from the suckers and brought into the Order. Like me.

The silence was so thick you could cut it with a spoon. I suppressed the urge to cough or smile nervously, looking down at the target as I twisted it tighter and tighter. A paper cone, like the waxed kind you put snow cones in.

I hadn’t had a snow cone in ages. Dad used to love the raspberry-flavored ones. A bony hand squeezed my heart.

Uncomfortable silence filled the room. I finally looked away, at the chipped concrete floor. Babbage cleared his throat. “Apparently, human women are quite irresistible.”

A ripple of male laughter stung the air. The target crumpled in my fist.

“I think that’s enough for right now, though,” he continued smoothly. “Now it’s time for target shooting. Milady, if you’ll check everyone into their lanes and disburse the ammo, we’ll have practice for the rest of the session.”

I swallowed hard and started handing out ammo, going through the checklist with every kid. Leon’s eyes were open and dark, and he regarded me as if I’d just done something extraordinary.

As soon as I stepped out into the hall, I knew it was going to be something I wouldn’t like. Leon stiffened, his head coming up. There was Kir, red hair combed back and That Expression on his sharp face. Even his freckles looked serious. I’d given up wondering how a freckle-faced teenager could look so much like a disapproving granny.

There went my half hour or so to catch up before Aspect Mastery. Great. I was going to be tanking on quizzes next week like mad.

“Come with, okay?” I said as Kir approached. The students separated to give him room— I’d noticed that about the Council members. Everyone seemed to know they got space while walking down the hall. “I have Aspect Mastery in a half hour.”

“I don’t think—” Leon began, but I stepped away from him, walking to meet Kir. The two of them didn’t like each other much. I mean, I was totally on Leon’s side, but last time they’d almost had a dustup. I didn’t want to find out what would happen if Leon could make the redheaded granny lose his temper.

“Milady.” Kir, in jeans and a white button-down, looked easy and classic. He didn’t glance over my shoulder, but his entire body shouted that he was aware of Leon, glowering from behind me.

That was the Schola Prima. Love and happiness everywhere.

I hitched my bag up on my shoulder. “Let me guess. Council meeting.”

Kir shrugged. His eyelashes were coppery. For a moment he looked like he wanted to say something, his mouth opening and the lines of his face softening. Then he shut up, shook his head slightly, turned on his heel, and set off down the hall.