Alex Van Helsing Voice of the Undead - By Jason Henderson Page 0,16

recognized as much by her faraway look as by the scarf she still wore.

Paul shook his head. “We don’t know a bloody thing.”

“That is totally true,” whispered Alex. “It’s insane. We got a speech yesterday telling us not to, I don’t know, run around naked or something.”

“I would recommend against it.” Minhi nodded solemnly.

“I’m thinking it’s not something guests would do,” said Alex. “But there actually wasn’t a list.”

Vienna looked up and leaned over. “I will bet you by the time the week is out? You will have a list.”

She speaks, thought Alex, and he thought instantly of Steven Merrill, who was also always silent, and now was—jeez—still in the hospital, he could only assume. He looked around and did not see Bill. For a moment it all came flooding back. And then Ms. Daughtry began to teach.

This wasn’t a perfect setup; in lit, Sangster had been teaching Idylls of the King and Daughtry had been teaching William Blake’s Songs of Innocence and of Experience. The guests toed the line: Blake it was. Alex marveled at the idea that while he had been settling into the Kingdom of Cots and Otranto had been calling the ends of the earth to summon hundreds of uniforms, the instructors had been laboring into the night merging their syllabi.

“Those of you from the Glenarvon contingent,” said Ms. Daughtry, “may not be familiar with Blake, and I’ll spare you the week we just spent on his biography. But the Songs has a lot to say about us, as human beings, as thinkers, as students together. Mister Sangster!”

Sangster was seated behind her to the left, thumbing through the book, and looked up as if startled. She didn’t look back at him, but continued, “Would you care to share with the class something appropriate from Blake?”

Sangster nodded and rose, thumbing through a copy of the book. “I would choose . . . I would choose . . .”

“You do know the book?” she asked, smiling.

“It’s funny,” Sangster replied. “I think the message of this morning is ‘The Divine Image.’”

Someone cleared his throat. All eyes turned to see Bill Merrill standing in the doorway.

Bill looked haggard—he was still muscular from countless hours at soccer practice and beating smaller students senseless, but his cheeks were hollow and his eyes were lined with mottled blue. Bill handed Sangster an official-looking note, probably from the office, and Sangster nodded. Alex made out, Like to take a seat? and Bill slowly made his way to an empty desk.

Vienna sat up with interest and waved at Bill as he sat. She leaned over, whispering about Steven. Bill gestured back with open hands, I’ll tell you later.

Sangster said, “For those of you who want to send a card to Steven, I think you can give them to Bill. I understand some of the students are organizing a visit if any of you want to go.”

Several people patted Bill on the shoulder. Alex was thinking about Steven once coldcocking Paul on the side of the head to distract Alex so Bill could punch him in the nose, and of the Glimmerhook landing on Steven’s back.

Ms. Daughtry spoke, bringing the class back to form. They went over Blake, but Alex felt befuddled by the obscene and forced normality of trying to have a class when students were homeless and Steven was in the hospital. He kept dropping into the lecture and then zoning out until finally she said, “Before we wrap I need to catch you all up on the Pumpkin Show.”

The what? The boys in class were obviously lost as to the meaning of this, but the girls chattered sotto voce to one another. Ms. Daughtry continued, “This is a LaLaurie tradition, so those of you who are new get a chance to join us at our best—well, our best next to Christmas.”

Minhi whispered to Sid, “You’re going to love this.”

“Starting this week, with available slots after school, students will be presenting original works—generally written, but if you choose you can sign up to sing, dance, display a collage; it doesn’t matter. The theme is the autumn season.”

“You mean like Halloween?” Sid asked, a little too excitedly. “Like, vampires and ghosts?”

Daughtry opened her hands. “Whatever suits. Vampires, ghosts, meandering stories about the decay of the fall; we get a fair amount of those. The theme is the season; the prize is the Plaque,” she said almost wistfully. “Next to the library you’ll find a case displaying the names of our winners going back to 1945.