“Bonjour,” I greeted them, trying to walk the line between friendly and cool. “Quel bordel, n’est-ce pas?” I thought it a clever yet insouciant version of Some mess, huh?
They froze, staring at each other in wide-eyed shock. Pixie didn’t even deign to look at me. But Bangs turned her head slowly and in a thick accent informed me, “You will not speak to us. ”
And like that, they resumed their chatter as though I weren’t even there.
Suddenly, I felt ill. More than that, I wanted to disappear. Apparently, not even sharing an effed-up, life-altering experience like this was enough to make me friend material. Not even a crazy island in the middle of nowhere counted as enough in common where Weird Smart Girl was concerned.
Snow began to drift down. The temperature seemed to have done a nosedive, much like my outlook.
I zipped my parka back up. Mid-forties, my ass. So much for our driver’s charming local wisdom.
“It’s like that scene in the Santa movie. ” An American voice cut into my thoughts. Could I please, for once, get away from the Christmas references? I stole a look, spying a matched pair of brunettes with vaguely New York accents.
“You mean the one where all the kids get off the train—”
“Except he doesn’t look like Santa,” Brunette Thing One interrupted.
I followed her line of sight. The most beautiful man I’d ever seen was stepping onto the massive platform I’d spotted in the shadow of the standing stones. The throngs of girls had obstructed my view, with only the sight of his shoulders and chest rising above the crowd to tell us any sort of stage was even there.
“Hel-lo,” Thing Two purred. “He can stuff my stocking anytime. ”
“Ick,” I heard myself grunt.
They spun on me, and the shorter of the two snarled, “Shut it. ”
I held her stare for a moment, then turned to face the stage full-on. It appeared that many of these girls’ so-called gifts were bitchiness and spite.
Though I did have to hand it to them—this was one pretty extraordinarily perfect guy. Chin squared off just right, a naughty glint in his eyes, and a head of tousled hair featuring about a hundred shades of gold, he reminded me of a pale California dude. Early twenties, I guessed.
I found myself smiling at him. I imagined I wasn’t the only one. I stepped closer.
He beamed back at the crowd, and the sensation was of a gentle heat radiating over us. “Hello, lovelies. ”
My hand flew to my belly. His voice seared me through, sexy and deep, with the hint of a barely there French accent.
And I wasn’t the only one affected, either. An awed hiss swept over the crowd. He chuckled, obviously used to this sort of adoration.
“My name is Claude Fournier”—his accent grew thick when pronouncing his name, and I just about swooned—“but you shall call me Headmaster Fournier. ”
Headmaster? He was the youngest headmaster I’d ever seen. Or I guessed he would be, if I’d ever seen a headmaster before.
He began to stroll the few steps back and forth along the length of the platform. “We use many formal terms of address, and you will soon learn all of them. Tradition, you see, is the cornerstone on our isle, and though many of you might find our manners . . . passé”—he gave a little flourish with his hand—“if you embrace the old ways, you will soon find yourself a muchimproved young lady. ”
Young lady? Something was wrong here. My smile faltered, and by the hum of murmured comments around me, I imagined I wasn’t the only one chafing at Mister Old-Fashioned. I wondered how such a hot guy came to be so stodgy. Maybe it was an affectation to distract people from the fact that he was the youngest headmaster on the planet.
“Our old ways, you see, are quite old. ” He gave us a wicked, pouting smile that made my instincts jangle in warning. “We live by a code. Only those who abide by our principles succeed. Our standards are high; our expectations, higher. But a few will exceed expectations. They are the girls who shall flourish. ”
What sort of bizarro finishing school was this? I forced myself to focus on his words, not his looks. All this talk of manners and traditions—something was amiss.
Oh, crap. Was this some sort of wacked-out reform school my stepmother had masterminded? I’d heard nightmare stories of boot camps for bad kids. I studied the girls to my left and right. They all had that same hard edge that I’d seen in Mimi and Lilac. Something cold and defensive in their eyes.
I shivered. Did I have that flat-eyed stare? Did I look like a bad girl?
“You see”—he paused dramatically, and the ambient whispering stopped as all eyes returned to him—“we are Vampire. ”
You could’ve heard a pin drop.
I looked around, searching for a camera crew. I’d known the guy was too hot to be normal. Headmaster, my ass. He was an actor. Ashton Kutcher was going to pop out any minute, letting us know we’d been punk’d.