ST. DENIS INSTITUTE FOR IMPLACABLE CHILDREN

Chapter One, In Which Two Vampires Arrive at Boarding School

Saint Denis Institute had not enrolled sanguisuge students since 1899, nearly a hundred years ago, but neither did they turn them away. Vampires were simply infrequent acquaintances in any circumstance, as they kept a natural isolation that bordered on elitism. Thus, when the D’aureville siblings arrived, in uniform, on the fifth day of the semester, they were received rather warily and left quite alone. Revenant Students – immortals – were rare of themselves, but these students were also those whose names appeared on both lists, the second list, of course, being “Supervised Students.” Supervised students were those “with the well-managed but nonetheless existent potential to harm a classmate.” St. Denis prided itself on its open arms, and all ‘supervised students’ felt little to no exclusion from their more harmless peers. The innocuous members of the student body consisted of students gifted with “invisibility, premonition, visions, mild morphing ability, telepathy, and like talents of undangerous nature.” The others included “sirens, werewolves, witches, faeries, and –” indeed, “vampires, or those with the instinct and/or ability to maim or kill.” The siren students’ place on the list was merely a formality and occasionally questioned, as only a siren with highly refined skill could use her song for violence, and such malicious intentions would mean disaster even from a less gifted student. Witches and fairies were no more threatening, for while they possessed particular persuasion over sorcery, any malignant spells were strictly against the rules, and few students were trained enough to manage anything with serious consequences. Werewolves were usually considered the most dangerous hosted at St. Denis, and had prompted the line “well-managed.” And well-managed they were, for St. Denis boasted iron-wrought holding cells equipped for containing students in transformation, as well as an astronomy professor whose job description included the watchful charting of the moon phases.

Vampires, though, were somewhat different. They were the only ones of the lot which were, at all times, disposed to kill instantly. There were no symptoms of their inclination to attack. And they were the only ones with ambition, even temptation, to kill.

The D’aurevilles were a brother and a sister. Evidently of the Slavic vampire family, they were slender as birch trees, with skin like white marble, hair like fine white flax, and eyes as black as ink bleed. Lucius was the older one, and Amie Laure was his sister.

Despite anxieties, the D’aurevilles proved to be polite, well-mannered, even cordial children, with an aptitude to make friends and excel academically. Lucius seemed to achieve an adeptness, which neared excellence, in everything he tried, but never so much as to render him outstanding in any particular field. He was never first, but often second, and with such consistency that he was not even resented as a rival.

Amie Laure rose to considerable prominence among her peers by charm and cheerfulness until she seemed to be everyone’s friend. Like her brother, Amie Laure never gained so much gravity that the dynamic of St. Denis shifted, but just enough to be a little star-dusted. Thus they slipped like silver needles into the tapestry of St. Denis Institute for Implacable Children, seemingly not so Implacable after all.

And so things went. Only a few subtle niceties now separated them from their peers. For one thing, they took their meals alone, but together. St. Denis was in practice supplementing their students’ diets, and was therefore unperturbed by the task of supplying Lucius and Amie Laure. By inventing a student which required regular blood transfusions (sickle cell disease, said the headmaster, isn’t it horrible?), and assuring all parties that a respectable and efficient school nurse was supervising the administration, the procuration of bags of blood from the Churlington blood bank was handled. Lucius and Amie Laure took it in discreet silver canteens, through straws, sitting on the stone steps which led to the library, and when a gaggle of students passed them, late for lunch hour, they both respectfully turned their faces as to upset no one.

For another thing, they didn’t like sunlight and lounged mostly in the shade. Friends and acquaintances alike were obliging – classmates offered to switch Amie Laure spots if she was ever seated by the window, and Lucius’ friends could often be seen carrying their blazers over his head to shade him when they trekked across the courtyard.

More pleasant peculiarities were their lack of shadow or reflection; this was almost a party-trick, and was employed once as a prank: Lucius’ friends convinced him to approach Professor Hidegard from behind in the lavatory. With nothing behind him in the mirror, he thought himself alone - until, of course, Lucius slipped several cubes of ice under his collar (a particularly menacing Seer in the group had suggested pouring a pint of blood, but Lucius had refused point-blank).

Neither D’aureville played sports for their school, and it took some cajoling from Lucius’ friends before they realized why. Both were simply too strong and too fast; this went unobserved until Amie Laure’s friend lost a sheet of quite tricky sums in the wind. Amie Laure went after it, and much of the courtyard watched wonderingly as she flew across the green field like a fleet deer, her white-gold hair flashing in the sun like snow.

There were disadvantages of vampire-hood, too, however. The first of these was experienced in a rather somber way. Lucius had made many friends, but his particular friend was John Asbury, a tawny werewolf student just one month his junior, and also his dorm mate. John suffered during the full moon. The transitions were difficult and painful, and he dreaded them. On one evening before the moon rose, after particular anxiety on the part of John (though he did his manly best to suppress it), Lucius offered to come to the holding cages and sit with him. John was awestruck, both at Lucius’ courage and show of camaraderie, and he accepted with a sincerity which surprised and touched Lucius. They put on their coats and scarves and went down together, John much upheld by Lucius’ companionship. Lucius leaned against the bars of the holding pen and talked to John as the moon rose behind the Alps, telling him about a hunting trip with his father to pass the time, until John faded into his fever.

When John awoke in the darkest part of dawn, he could see Lucius draped unconscious through the bars, his white skin shining in the darkness, his blonde head bowed. Both of his arms, which extended into the cage, were mangled and pitted with gashes and gnawings, purple against his paleness. John had screamed for help, and two professors had unlocked John’s cage and carried Lucius away.

John was inconsolable in the hospital wing. He told one professor through sobs, “I’ve bitten him, I’ve bitten him so he’ll be infected.”

The professor pushed John’s sweaty bangs off his forehead and said gently, “No, John. He doesn’t have blood. He can’t be infected. It was the iron that did it.” The bars of the holding cage were iron, and Lucius didn’t know. It had made him quite ill – so ill, in fact, that he did not wake up for several days. Many came to see him, John and Amie Laure prominent among them. On the day Lucius woke, John was there. Lucius looked like a cadaver, for he was white as the hospital sheets, with that yellow hair on his brow. He opened his black eyes, saw John, and seemed to jerk.

“John,” he said, his voice steady, though his throat seemed to tighten, “go find me something I can drink. Go quick.” John did as he bid, noticing how Lucius held onto the bedframe. He came back from Nurse Paddy’s office with a pint of blood and handed it to Lucius. Lucius took it with trembling hands, tore the plastic corner off the bag with his teeth, and drank it like it had been bagged milk. It was nearly black in the bag, but quite red around his mouth when he finally stopped. He had not eaten for nearly a week, and John knew he’d had to control himself so as not to bite John the moment he woke up.

Lucius had the scars on his arms for the rest of his life, and he and John were the best of friends from then on.