“For the wulfen attacking, the primary target is usually the unprotected belly.” The instructor, a pale blond djamphir, had stopped staring at me. He still halted every once in a while, glancing at me and going completely motionless for a few seconds. It was eerie. “This bleeds a wampyr out, and has the added bonus of leaving a blood trail should the thing escape.”
Irving raised his hand. “Why not the throat?” He looked like a bright student giving the teacher an opening. His eyes had lit up, and he leaned forward. “Wulfen claws are more durable than plenty of weapons.”
“Good question.” The teacher nodded. I still hadn’t figured out his name yet. “Anyone?”
A shaggy dark-haired wulf perched in one of the very back rows spoke up. “Throat’s too small a target.” His upper lip lifted for a moment, a gleam of teeth. “Plus, gets you too close to the thing. Arm’s length is safer.”
“And?” The teacher’s eyebrows rose. Nobody said anything.
I tentatively raised a hand.
Immediately, every pair of eyes in the room fastened on me. “Yes?” The blond wasn’t sneering now. Instead, he was looking attentively at me, eyebrows raised.
Oh Lord. I’m going to feel stupid. My heart was going a mile a minute. “Wulfen fight in packs?”
I hazarded. “I mean, I haven’t seen much, but they seemed to be pretty good at fighting as a unit. I guess djam-djamphir—” I stumbled nervously over the word and immediately felt like a dumb-ass. “Well, I don’t see them working together a lot, not in a case like that.”
“Very good!” The teacher beamed like I’d just handed him Christmas. “Striking for the belly is a strategy with greater returns if the creature is distracted by other team members. What are other strategies for distracting a wampyr?”
I felt like I’d just won a prize. And this was real. It wasn’t like a stupid history class where they aren’t telling you the truth anyway, just the regular collage of corporate-approved lies to suck all the interest out of everything.
No, this was about the Real World. How many times had I told Dad high school wouldn’t prepare me for anything? We’d gone round and round over it.
The thought of Dad hurt, so I tried thinking about something else. Now I felt kind of bad about skipping all the time and fighting with him. Maybe if I hadn’t—
I didn’t want to think that all the way through either. I sat up a little straighter.
Graves gave me an unreadable glance. He didn’t bother to raise his hand. “Blood,” he said. The single word dropped into the room like a rock into a pond. “Spill enough and the animals go crazy.”
A ripple ran through everyone. Irving made a single restless movement next to me. The couch creaked.
The teacher’s mouth made a weird little twitch. He didn’t quite dart Graves a venomous look, but it was close. “The hunger.”
“More like a thirst, actually.” Irving shifted again. I got the idea he was trying to get the teacher’s attention. “Why do we call it hunger, anyway?”
“Putting a pretty face on it?” Graves suggested sweetly. I cottoned onto what he was doing a little too late, and the teacher actually stiffened.
Oh Lord. Here we go. I sighed internally and threw a question in I wouldn’t have asked if I hadn’t been trying to distract everyone. “What I want to know is, why don’t I have it? And does it really make suckers go nuts?” I moved, and my elbow whapped into Graves’ side. Hard.
I hoped it looked unintentional.
The room went still again. I was almost getting used to the way everyone shut up whenever I asked a stupid question. At least I’d been learning for a few days now, even if Civics and Aspect Mastery were still total wastes of time.
Maybe this wasn’t so bad.
Blondie looked relieved, but he darted a little glance at Graves. Then at me, and I swear I saw a flash of anger. “Some svetocha have the bloodhunger, but not until blooming. And yes, even a small amount of vital fluid can drive a new nosferat, or an older one, into a state of severely diminished rationality. It depends on how long ago their last feeding was, and—”
Feeding. Like, on people. I shivered, but didn’t have a chance to finish the thought. The low clear tones of a bell sliced through whatever Blondie had been meaning to say, and everyone in the room leapt to their feet.
Shit. Restriction. Maybe it was a drill. I grabbed Graves’ arm, the decision made almost before I was aware I’d touched him. “Come with me.”
“I’ve got to—” He tried to step away, stopped, and looked down at me.
The wulfen were jamming up at the door, some of them half-changing already, fur running up over their bodies. Irving paused just at the door to look back, his aspect sliding through his curls with golden highlights as his eyes lit up. His lower lip was dimpled, the tips of his fangs just slightly touching the flesh. The teacher was already gone, vanishing on a wind that smelled of some fancy-dancy cologne.
But he didn’t smell like a Christmas candle. Only Christophe. Who could I ask about that?
I kept hold of Graves. “Please. I’ll go nuts if I’m locked up in my room again without anyone to talk to.” And I haven’t been able to get you alone, you’re always hanging out with the hairy boys.
I do want to tell you about Christophe. Go figure. “Graves. Please.”
He shrugged, shoulders lifting and dropping. “I’m supposed to go to the armory. It’s detention if I don’t show up.”