Silver Shadows

CHAPTER 3 Sydney

I COULD FORGIVE THE ALCHEMISTS their light-show shock tactics because once I was able to see reasonably well again, they offered me a shower.

The wall in my cell opened up, and I was greeted by a young woman who was maybe five years older than I was. She was dressed in the kind of smart suit that Alchemists love, with her black hair pulled back tightly in an elegant French twist. Her makeup was flawless, and she smelled like lavender. The golden lily on her cheek shone. My vision still wasn’t at full capacity, but standing beside her, I became acutely aware of my current state, that I hadn’t truly washed in ages and that my shift was little more than a rag you might use to scrub the floors.

“My name is Sheridan,” she said coolly, not elaborating on whether that was her first or last name. I wondered if she might be one of the people behind the voice in my cell. I was pretty sure they’d worked in shifts, using some sort of computer program to synthesize it so it always sounded the same. “I’m the current director around here. Follow me, please.”

She turned down the hall in her black leather heels, and I followed wordlessly, not trusting myself to say anything yet. Although I’d had some freedom of movement in my cell, I’d also had limitations and hadn’t done a lot of walking. My stiff muscles protested against the changes, and I moved slowly behind her, one agonizing barefoot step at a time. We passed a number of unmarked doors along the way, and I wondered what they held. More dark cells and tinny voices? Nothing seemed to be marked as an exit, which was my immediate concern. There were also no windows or any other indication of how to get out of this place.

Sheridan made it to the elevator long before I did and waited patiently for me. When we were both in, we went up one floor and emerged into a similarly barren hall. One doorway led to what looked like a gym bathroom, with tiled floors and communal showers. Sheridan pointed to a stall that had been supplied with soap and shampoo.

“The water will last for five minutes once you turn it on,” she warned. “So use it wisely. There’ll be clothes waiting for you when you’re done. I’ll be in the hall.”

She stepped outside the locker room, in a seeming show of offering privacy, but I knew without a doubt I was still being watched. I’d lost all illusions of modesty the moment I got here. I started to strip off the shift when I noticed a mirror on the wall to my side, and more importantly, who was looking back from it.

I’d known I was in bad shape, but seeing the reality of that face-to-face was an altogether different experience. The first thing that struck me was how much weight I’d lost—ironic considering my lifelong obsession with staying thin. I’d certainly met that goal, met and blown past it. I’d crossed from thin to malnourished, and it showed not just in the way the shift hung on my thin frame but also in the gauntness of my face. That hollow look was intensified by dark shadows under my eyes and a paleness in the rest of me from lack of sun. I looked like I’d just recovered from some life-threatening disease.

My hair was in bad shape too. Whatever decent job I thought I’d been doing at washing it in the dark was now proven a joke. The strands were limp and oily, hanging in sad, messy clumps. There was no doubt I was still a blonde, but the color was dull, made much darker now by the dirt and sweat that scrubbing with a washcloth just couldn’t get off. Adrian had always said my hair was like gold and had teased me about having a halo. What would he say now?

Adrian doesn’t love me for my hair, I thought, meeting my eyes. They were steady and brown. Still the same. This is all exterior. My soul, my aura, my character … those are unchanged.

Resolved, I started to turn from that reflection when I noticed something else. My hair was longer than the last time I’d seen it, a little over an inch longer. Although I’d been well aware my legs needed a good shaving, I’d had no sense in the cell of what the hair on my head was doing. Now, I tried to remember how fast hair grew. About a half inch a month? That suggested at least two months, maybe three if I took the poor diet into account. The shock of that was more horrifying than my appearance.

Three months! Three months they’ve taken from me, drugging me in the dark.

What had happened to Adrian? To Jill? To Eddie? A lifetime could’ve passed for them in three months. Were they safe and well? Were they still in Palm Springs? New panic rose in me, and I staunchly tried to push it down. Yes, a lot of time had passed, but I couldn’t let the reality of that affect me. The Alchemists were already playing enough mind games with me without my helping them.

But still … three months.

I stripped off my poor excuses for clothes and stepped into the stall, pulling the curtain closed behind me. When I turned the water on and it came out hot, it was all I could do not to sink to the floor in ecstasy. I’d been so cold for the last three months, and now here it was, all the warmth I could want. Well, not all the warmth. As I turned the temperature up full blast, I secretly wished I had a bathtub and could just sink into this heat. Still, this shower alone was glorious, and I closed my eyes, sighing with the first contentment I’d experienced in a very long time.

Then, remembering Sheridan’s warning, I opened my eyes and found the shampoo. I applied it to and rinsed my hair three times, hoping it was enough to get out the worst of the grime. It’d probably take a few more showers to ever be fully clean again. After that, I scrubbed my body with the soap until I was raw and pink and smelled vaguely antiseptic, then just gloried in standing under the steaming water until it turned off.

When I stepped outside, I found clothes folded neatly on a bench. They were basic scrubs, loose pants and a shirt like you’d find hospital workers or—more fittingly—prisoners wearing. Tan, of course, since the Alchemists still had taste levels to maintain. They’d also given me socks and a pair of brown shoes, kind of a cross between loafers and slippers, and I wasn’t surprised to find they were exactly my size. A comb completed the gift set, nothing fancy, but enough to attempt some semblance of neatness. The reflection that peered back at me now still didn’t look good, exactly, but it certainly looked improved.

“Feeling better?” asked Sheridan, with a smile that didn’t meet her eyes. Whatever strides I’d made in appearance felt lame beside her stylish grooming, but I consoled myself with the thought that I still had my self-respect and ability to think for myself.

“Yes,” I said. “Thank you.”

“You’ll want this too,” she said, handing me a small plastic card. It had my name, a bar code, and a picture from much better days on it. A little plastic clip on its back allowed it to attach to my collar.

She led me back to the elevator. “We’re so happy you’ve chosen the path to redemption. Truly. I look forward to helping you on your journey back to the light.”

The elevator took us to another floor and a new room, this one with a tattooist and a table. Whatever comfort I’d taken from a hot shower and real clothes vanished. They were going to re-ink me? But of course they were. Why rely on physical and psychological torture alone when you could have the added element of magical control?

“We just want to do a little touchup,” Sheridan explained cheerily. “Since it’s been a while.”

It had been less than a year, actually, but I knew what she and the others really wanted to do. The Alchemist tattoos contained ink with charmed vampire blood woven with compulsion spells to reinforce loyalty. Obviously, mine hadn’t worked. Magical or not, compulsion was basically just a strong suggestion, one that could be overridden if the will was fierce enough. They were probably going to double their usual dose in the hopes of making me more compliant so that I’d accept whatever rhetoric they were now going to subject me to.

What they didn’t know was that I’d taken steps to protect against this very thing. Before being taken, I’d created an ink of my own—one made with human magic, something equally appalling to the Alchemists. From all the data I’d gathered, that magic negated whatever compulsion was in this vampire-derived ink. The downside was, I hadn’t had a chance to inject that ink into my tattoo and provide that extra layer of protection. What I was counting on was the claim from a witch I knew that the very act of practicing magic would protect me. According to her, wielding human magic infused my blood, and that would counteract the vampire blood in the Alchemist tattoo. Of course, I hadn’t really had a chance to practice many spells in solitary confinement and could only hope what I’d done in the past had left its mark permanently on me.

“Become one of us again,” said Sheridan, as the tattooist’s needle pricked the side of my face. “Renounce your sins and seek atonement. Join us in our battle to keep humans free of the taint of vampires and dhampirs. They are dark creatures and have no part of the natural order.”

I tensed, and it had nothing to do with the needle piercing my skin. What if what I’d been told was wrong? What if magic use wouldn’t protect me? What if, even now, that ink was working its way through my body, using its insidious power to alter my thoughts? It was one of my greatest fears, having my mind tampered with. I suddenly had trouble breathing as that idea crippled me with terror, causing the tattooist to pause and ask if I was in pain. Swallowing, I shook my head and let him continue, trying to hide my panic.

When he finished, I didn’t think I felt different. I still loved Adrian and my Moroi and dhampir friends. Was that enough? Or would the ink take time to work? And if my magic use hadn’t protected me, would my own strength of will be enough to save me? Obviously, I’d overcome the previous round of re-inking. Could I do it again?

Sheridan escorted me out when the tattooist released me, chatting away as though I’d just been to a spa and not subjected to an attempt at mind control. “I always feel so refreshed after that, don’t you?”

It was kind of unbelievable to me that she could act so casually, like we were friends out for a walk, when she and the others had left me starving and half-naked in a dark cell for months. Did she expect me to be so grateful for the shower and warm clothes that I could forgive everything else? Yes, I realized moments later, she likely did. There were probably plenty of people who emerged from that darkness and were willing to do anything and everything for a return to ordinary comforts.

As we journeyed up another floor, I noticed that my head felt clearer and my senses seemed sharper than they had in months. Probably with good reason. They wouldn’t be subjecting me to that gas, not with Sheridan around, so this was likely the first pure air I’d breathed in a long time. Until now, I hadn’t realized what a shocking difference there was. Adrian could probably reach me in dreams now, but that would have to wait. At the very least, I could practice my magic again, now that my system was no longer polluted, and hopefully fight off any of the tattoo’s effects. Finding an unwatched moment to do that might be easier said than done, though.

The next corridor we entered had a series of identical rooms, doors open, revealing narrow beds inside. I continued keeping track of everything we passed, each floor and room, still searching for a way out that didn’t seem to exist. Sheridan led me inside a bedroom with the number eight written outside.

“I’ve always thought eight was a lucky number,” she told me. “Rhymes with ‘great.’” She nodded toward one of the two beds in the room. “That’s yours.”

For a moment, I was too taken aback by the idea of a bed to recognize the larger implications. Not that it was very comfortable-looking—but still. It was leagues away from my cell floor, even with its hard mattress and thin sheets made of a material similar to my old shift. I could sleep in this bed, no question. I could sleep and dream of Adrian. …

“Do I have a roommate?” I asked, finally taking note of the other bed. It was hard to say if the room was occupied since there were no other signs of personal belongings.

“Yes. Her name is Emma. You could learn a lot from her. We’re very proud of her progress.” Sheridan stepped out of the room, so apparently we weren’t lingering. “Come on—you can meet her now. And the others.”

A hallway branching off of this one took us past what looked like empty classrooms. As we headed toward the corridor’s end, I became aware of something my dulled senses hadn’t experienced in a while: the scent of food. Real food. Sheridan was taking us to a cafeteria. Hunger I hadn’t even known I possessed reared up in my stomach with an almost painful lurch. I’d adapted to my meager prison diet so much that I’d taken my body’s deprived state as normal. Only now did I realize how much I craved something that wasn’t lukewarm cereal.

The cafeteria, such as it was, was only a fraction of the size of Amberwood’s. It had five tables, three of which were occupied with people in tan scrubs identical to mine. These, it seemed, were my fellow prisoners, all with golden lilies. There were twelve of them, which I supposed made me lucky thirteen. I wondered what Sheridan would think of that. The other detainees were of mixed age, gender, and race, though I was willing to bet all were American. In some prisons, making you feel like an outsider was part of the process. Since this one’s goal was to bring us back to the fold, they would most likely put us with those of shared culture and language—those we could aspire to be like if we only tried hard enough. Watching them, I wondered what their stories were, if any of them might be allies.

“That’s Baxter,” said Sheridan, nodding toward a stern-faced man in white. He stood in a window that overlooked the dining area and was presumably where the food came from. “His food is delicious. I know you’re going to love it. And that’s Addison. She oversees lunchtime and your art class.”

It would not have been clear to me that Addison was a “she,” if not for that introduction. She was in her late forties or early fifties, wearing a suit just as prim if less stylish than Sheridan’s, and was stationed against the side wall with sharp eyes. She kept her hair shaved close to her head and had a hard-angled face that seemed at odds with the fact that she was chewing gum. The golden lily was her only ornamentation. She was pretty much the last person I would’ve expected for an art teacher, which in turn led to another realization.

“I have an art class?”

“Yes, of course,” said Sheridan. “Creativity is very therapeutic for healing the soul.”

There’d been a very soft murmur of conversation when we’d entered, one that had come to a complete stop when the others had noticed us. All eyes, detainees and their supervisors alike, swiveled in my direction. And none of them looked friendly.

Sheridan cleared her throat, like we weren’t already the center of attention. “Everyone? We have a new guest I’d like to introduce you to. This is Sydney. Sydney has just come from her reflection time and is eager to join the rest of you on your journeys to purification.”

It took me a second to realize “reflection time” must be what they called my solitary confinement in the dark.

“I know it will be difficult for you to accept her,” Sheridan continued sweetly. “And I don’t blame you. Not only is she still very, very shrouded in darkness, but she has been tainted in the most unholy of ways: through intimate and romantic contact with vampires. I understand if you don’t want to interact with her and risk that taint yourselves, but I hope you’ll at least keep her in your prayers.”

Sheridan turned that mechanical smile on me. “I’ll see you later for communion time.”

I’d been nervous and uneasy since getting out of my cell, but as she turned to leave, panic and fear of a new sort hit me. “Wait. What am I supposed to do?”

“Eat, of course.” She looked me over from head to toe. “Unless you’re worried about your weight. It’s up to you.”

She left me there in the silent cafeteria, with all those eyes staring. I’d stepped out of one hell and into another. I’d never felt so self-conscious in my life, put on display for these strangers and having my secrets revealed. Frantically, I tried to think of a course of action. Anything to get me away from the stares and one step closer to getting out of here and back to Adrian. Eat, Sheridan had said. How did I go about that? This wasn’t like at Amberwood, where the front office assigned veteran students to help new ones. In fact, Sheridan had gone out of her way to all but discourage them from helping me. It was a brilliant tactic, I supposed, one meant to make me desperately try for the others’ approval and perhaps see someone like Sheridan as my only “friend.”

Thinking through the psychology of the Alchemists calmed me down. Logic and figuring out puzzles were things I could deal with. Okay. If they wanted me to fend for myself, so be it. I looked away from the other detainees and walked steadily up to the window, where chef Baxter still wore a grimace. I stood in front of him expectantly, hoping that would be enough. It wasn’t.

“Um, excuse me,” I said softly. “May I have …” What meal had Sheridan said this was? I’d lost all track of time in solitary. “… some lunch?”

He grunted by way of response and turned away, doing something out of my sight. When he came back to me, he handed over a modestly filled tray.

“Thank you,” I said, taking it from him. As I did, my hand lightly brushed one of his gloved ones. He exclaimed in surprise, and a look of distaste crossed his features. Gingerly, he removed the glove I’d touched, threw it away, and replaced it with a new one.

I gaped for a few moments in surprise and then turned away with my tray. I didn’t even attempt to engage with the others and instead sat down at one of the empty tables. Many of them continued staring at me, but some resumed their meals and whisperings. I tried not to think about if they were talking about me and instead focused on my meal. There was a small portion of spaghetti with red sauce that looked like it had come from a can, a banana, and a pint of 2 percent milk. Before coming here, I would never have touched any of it in my daily life. I would’ve lectured on the fat content of the milk and how bananas were one of the highest-sugar fruits. I would’ve questioned the meat quality and preservatives in the red sauce.

All of those hang-ups were gone now. This was food. Real food, not mushy, tasteless cereal. I ate the banana first, barely pausing to breathe, and had to slow myself so I didn’t finish the milk in one gulp. Something told me Baxter didn’t give seconds. I was more cautious with the spaghetti, if only because logic warned me my stomach might not react too well to the abrupt change in diet. My stomach disagreed and wanted me to cram it all in and lick the tray. After what I’d been eating these last few months, that spaghetti tasted like it had come from some gourmet restaurant in Italy. I was saved the temptation of eating it all when soft chimes suddenly sounded five minutes later. Like one person, all the other detainees stood up and carried their trays over to a large bin monitored by Addison. They emptied the trays of remaining food and then stacked them neatly on a nearby cart. I scurried up to do the same and then trailed behind the others as they left the cafeteria.

After Baxter’s reaction to touching my hand, I tried to save the other detainees the trouble of being near me and kept a respectful distance apart. We bottlenecked in the narrow hall, however, and the maneuvers some of them did to avoid bumping into me would’ve been comical in any other circumstances. Those not near me went out of their way to avoid eye contact and pretend I didn’t exist. Those forced to avoid contact fixed me with icy glares, and I was shocked to hear one whisper, “Slut.”

I’d braced myself for a lot of things and expected to be called any number of names, but that one caught me off guard. I was surprised by how much it stung.

I followed the crowd into a classroom and waited until all of them had sat down at desks, lest I choose the wrong one. When I finally selected an empty seat, the two people nearest me moved their desks away. They were probably twice my age, again giving it that twisted yet sad, comical quality. The suited Alchemist leading the class looked up sharply from his table when he heard the movement.

“Elsa, Stuart. Those aren’t where your desks go.”

Chagrined, the two of them slid their desks back to their neat rows as the Alchemist love of orderliness trumped its fear of evil. From the glares Elsa and Stuart gave me, though, it was clear they were now adding their reprimand to the list of sins I was guilty of.

The instructor’s name was Harrison, again making me wonder if that was a first or a last. He was an older Alchemist with thinning white hair and a nasally voice whom I soon learned was here to teach us about current affairs. For a moment, I was excited, thinking I’d get some glimpse of the outside world. It soon became clear to me that this was a highly specialized look at current affairs.

“What are we looking at?” he asked as a gruesome image of two girls with their throats ripped open appeared on a giant screen at the front of the class. Several hands went up, and he called on the one that had gone up first. “Emma?”

“Strigoi attack, sir.”

I’d known that and was more interested in Emma, my roommate. She was close to my age and sat so unnaturally straight in her desk that I was certain she was going to have back problems later on.

“Two girls killed outside of a nightclub in St. Petersburg,” Harrison confirmed. “Neither of them even twenty.” The image changed to another grisly scene, this of an older man who’d obviously been drained of blood. “Budapest.” Then another image. “Caracas.” Another still. “Nova Scotia.” He turned the projector off and began pacing in front of the classroom. “I wish I could tell you these were from the last year. Or even the last month. But I’m afraid that’s not true. Anyone want to hazard a guess when these were taken?”

Emma’s hand shot up. “Last week, sir?”

“Correct, Emma. Studies show that Strigoi attacks have not decreased since this time last year. There’s some evidence they might be increasing. Why do you think this is?”

“Because the guardians aren’t truly hunting them down as they should be?” That, again, was from Emma. Oh my God, I thought. I’m rooming with the Sydney Sage of re-education.

“That’s certainly one theory,” said Harrison. “Guardians are much more interested in protecting Moroi passively than actively seeking out Strigoi for the good of us all. In fact, when suggestions have been made to increase their numbers by recruiting at younger ages, the Moroi have selfishly declined. They apparently have enough to consider themselves safe and feel no need to help the rest of us.”

I had to bite my tongue. I knew for a fact that wasn’t true. The Moroi were suffering from low guardian numbers because there was a shortage of dhampirs. Dhampirs couldn’t reproduce with other dhampirs. They had been born in an age when humans and Moroi freely mixed, and now their race was continued by Moroi mixing with dhampirs, which always resulted in dhampir children. It was a genetic mystery even to the Alchemists. I knew from my friends that guardian ages were a hot topic right now, one that the Moroi queen, Vasilisa, was passionate about. She was fighting to keep dhampirs from becoming full-fledged guardians until they were eighteen, not out of selfishness, but because she thought they deserved a chance at adolescence before going out and risking their lives.

I knew now wasn’t the time to share my insight, though. Even if they knew it, no one wanted to hear it, and I couldn’t risk telling it. I needed to toe the line and act like I was on the road to redemption in order to secure as many privileges as I could, no matter how painful it was to listen as Harrison continued his tirade.

“Another factor may be that the Moroi themselves are aiding the increase in the Strigoi population. If you ask them, most Moroi will claim they want nothing to do with Strigoi. But can we really trust that, when they can so easily turn into those vile monsters? It’s practically a stage of development for the Moroi. They live ‘normal’ lives with children and jobs, then when age starts to catch up with them … well, how convenient to just drink a little longer from their ‘willing’ victims, claim it was an ‘accident’ … and poof!” The number of air quotes Harrison used as he spoke was truly mind-boggling to follow. “They turn Strigoi, immortal and untouchable. How could they not? The Moroi are not strong-willed creatures, not like humans. And certainly not strong-souled. How can such creatures resist the lure of eternal life?” Harrison shook his head in mock sadness. “This, I’m afraid, is why Strigoi populations aren’t dropping. Our so-called allies aren’t exactly helping us.”

“Where’s your proof?”

That voice of dissent was a shock to everyone in the room—especially when they realized it had come from me. I wanted to smack myself and take the words back. I’d barely been out of imprisonment for two hours! But it was too late, and the words were out there. My own personal interest in the Moroi aside, I couldn’t stand when people posited speculation and sensationalism as facts. The Alchemists should’ve known better, having trained me in the arts of logic.

All those eyes fell on me again, and Harrison came to stand in front of my desk. “It’s Sydney, correct? So charming to have you in class so fresh out of your reflection time. It’s especially charming to hear you speak so soon after joining us. Most newcomers bide their time. Now … would you be so kind as to repeat what you just said?”

I swallowed, again hating myself for having spoken, but it was too late to change things. “I asked where your proof was, sir. Your points are compelling and even seem reasonable, but if we don’t have proof to back them up, then we’re nothing but monsters ourselves, spreading lies and propaganda.”

There was a collective intake of breath from the rest of the detainees, and Harrison narrowed his eyes. “I see. Well then, do you have an explanation backed by ‘proof’?” More air quotes.

Why, why, why couldn’t I have just stayed quiet?

“Well, sir,” I began slowly. “Even if there were as many dhampir guardians as Strigoi, they wouldn’t be evenly matched. Strigoi are almost always stronger and faster, and while some guardians do make solo kills, often they need to hunt Strigoi in groups. When you look at the actual dhampir population, you see it’s not a match for the Strigoi one. The dhampirs are outnumbered. They aren’t able to reproduce as easily as Moroi and humans—or even Strigoi, if you want to call it that.”

“Well, from what I understand,” said Harrison, “you are an expert at reproduction with Moroi. Perhaps you’d be personally interested in helping increase those dhampir numbers yourself, yes?”

Snickers sounded from around the class, and I found myself blushing in spite of myself. “That wasn’t my intent here at all, sir. I’m just saying, if we’re going to critically analyze the reasons why—”

“Sydney,” he interrupted, “I’m afraid we won’t be analyzing anything, as it’s obvious you aren’t quite ready to participate with the rest of us.”

My heart stopped. No. No, no, no. They couldn’t send me back to the darkness, not when I’d only just gotten out.

“Sir—”

“I think,” he continued, “that a little purging might make you better able to participate with the rest of us.”

I had no idea what that meant, but two burly men in suits suddenly entered the classroom, which must have been under surveillance. I attempted another protest to Harrison, but the men swiftly escorted me out of the room before I could make much of a plea to my instructor. So I tried arguing with the henchmen instead, going on about how there was clearly some sort of misunderstanding and how if they’d just give me a second chance, we could work all of this out. They remained silent and stone-faced, however, and my stomach sank at the prospect of being locked away again. I’d been so condescending toward what I viewed as the Alchemists’ mind games with creature comforts that I hadn’t realized how dependent I’d already grown on them. The thought of being stripped of my dignity and basic needs again was almost too much to bear.

But they only took me down one floor this time, not back to the level with the cells. And the room they led me to was painfully well-lit, with a larger monitor at the front of the room and a huge armchair with manacles facing it. Sheridan stood nearby, looking serene as ever … and she was brandishing a needle.

It wasn’t a tattooist’s needle either. It was a big, wicked-looking thing, the kind you used for medical injections. “Sydney,” she said sweetly, as the men strapped me down in the chair. “What a shame I have to see you again so soon.”