Bloodlines (Bloodlines, #1)(3)

“I have no problem with using the older girl,” said Barnes. “But keep the younger one around until the others get here, in case they have any objections.” I wondered how many “others” would be joining us. My father’s study was no stadium. Also, the more people who came, the more important this case probably was. My skin grew cold as I wondered what the assignment could possibly be. I’d seen the Alchemists cover up major disasters with only one or two people. How colossal would something have to be to require this much help?

Horowitz spoke up for the first time. “What do you want me to do?”

“Re-ink Sydney,” said Stanton decisively. “Even if she doesn’t go, it won’t hurt to have the spells reinforced. No point in inking Zoe until we know what we’re doing with her.”

My eyes flicked to my sister’s noticeably bare—and pale—cheeks. Yes. As long as there was no lily there, she was free. Once the tattoo was emblazoned on your skin, there was no going back. You belonged to the Alchemists.

The reality of that had only hit me in the last year or so. I’d certainly never realized it while growing up. My father had dazzled me from a very young age about the rightness of our duty. I still believed in that rightness but wished he’d also mentioned just how much of my life it would consume.

Horowitz had set up a folding table on the far side of my father’s study. He patted it and gave me a friendly smile.

“Step right up,” he told me. “Get your ticket.”

Barnes shot him a disapproving look. “Please. You could show a little respect for this ritual, David.”

Horowitz merely shrugged. He helped me lie down, and though I was too afraid of the others to openly smile back, I hoped my gratitude showed in my eyes. Another smile from him told me he understood. Turning my head, I watched as Barnes reverently set a black briefcase on a side table. The other Alchemists gathered around and clasped their hands together in front of them. He must be the hierophant, I realized. Most of what the Alchemists did was rooted in science, but a few tasks required divine assistance. After all, our core mission to protect humanity was rooted in the belief that vampires were unnatural and went against God’s plan. That’s why hierophants—our priests—worked side by side with our scientists.

“Oh Lord,” he intoned, closing his eyes. “Bless these elixirs. Remove the taint of the evil they carry so that their life-giving power shines through purely to us, your servants.”

He opened the briefcase and removed four small vials, each filled with dark red liquid. Labels that I couldn’t read marked each one. With a steady hand and practiced eye, Barnes poured precise amounts from each vial into a larger bottle. When he’d used all four, he produced a tiny packet of powder that he emptied into the rest of the mix. I felt a tingle in the air, and the bottle’s contents turned to gold. He handed the bottle to Horowitz, who stood ready with a needle. Everyone relaxed, the ceremonial part complete.

I obediently turned away, exposing my cheek. A moment later, Horowitz’s shadow fell over me. “This will sting a little, but nothing like when you originally got it. It’s just a touch-up,” he explained kindly.

“I know,” I said. I’d been re-inked before. “Thanks.”

The needle pricked my skin, and I tried not to wince. It did sting, but like he’d said, Horowitz wasn’t creating a new tattoo. He was simply injecting small amounts of the ink into my existing tattoo, recharging its power. I took this as a good sign. Zoe might not be out of danger yet, but surely they wouldn’t go to the trouble of re-inking me if they were just going to send me to a re-education center.

“Can you brief us on what’s happening while we’re waiting?” asked my father. “All I was told was that you needed a teen girl.” The way he said it made it sound like a disposable role. I fought back a wave of anger at my father. That’s all we were to him.

“We have a situation,” I heard Stanton say. Finally, I’d get some answers. “With the Moroi.”

I breathed a small sigh of relief. Better them than the Strigoi. Any “situation” the Alchemists faced always involved one of the vampire races, and I’d take the living, non-killing ones any day. They almost seemed human at times (though I’d never tell anyone here that) and lived and died like we did. Strigoi, however, were twisted freaks of nature. They were undead, murderous vampires created either when a Strigoi forcibly made a victim drink its blood or when a Moroi purposely took the life of another through blood drinking. A situation with the Strigoi usually ended with someone dead.

All sorts of possible scenarios played through my mind as I considered what issue had prompted action from the Alchemists tonight: a human who had noticed someone with fangs, a feeder who had escaped and gone public, a Moroi treated by human doctors.... Those were the kinds of problems we Alchemists faced the most, ones I had been trained to handle and cover up with ease. Why they would need “a teenage girl” for any of those, however, was a mystery.

“You know that they elected their girl queen last month,” said Barnes. I could practically see him rolling his eyes.

Everyone in the room murmured affirmatively. Of course they knew about that. The Alchemists paid careful attention to the political goings-on of the Moroi. Knowing what vampires were doing was crucial to keeping them secret from the rest of humanity—and keeping the rest of humanity safe from them. That was our purpose, to protect our brethren. Know thy enemy was taken very seriously with us. The girl the Moroi had elected queen, Vasilisa Dragomir, was eighteen, just like me.