All Just Glass Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2011 by Amelia Atwater-Rhodes

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  Delacorte Press is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Atwater-Rhodes, Amelia.

  All just glass / by Amelia Atwater-Rhodes. — 1st ed.

  p. cm.

  Companion to Shattered mirror.

  Summary: Turned into a vampire by the boy she thought she loved, seventeen-year-old Sarah, daughter of a powerful line of vampire-hunting witches, is now hunted by her older sister Adia, who has been given the assignment to kill Sarah.

  eISBN: 978-0-375-89807-5

  [1. Vampires—Fiction. 2. Witches—Fiction. 3. Sisters—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.A8925Al 2011

  [Fic]—dc22

  2010003772

  Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

  v3.1

  All Just Glass is dedicated to mothers and families trying their best. They say we don’t choose our families, but I am one of the few who could never have chosen better than I received. I know how lucky I am.

  Along that line, I need to thank my sister Rachel for helping me revise the first chapter samples of All Just Glass (as well as Token of Darkness and Poison Tree). Rachel, you were my very first reader and editor, since I was in sixth grade and gave you Red Moon. Your honest support has always encouraged me to tackle new challenges and to be better than I ever would have been without you.

  Thank you as well and as always to my writing group, who took so much abuse as part of the revision process of All Just Glass. Bri, Sha, Mop, Zim and Mace … you put up with so much from me. I never could have brought AJG to this point without you.

  Finally, once more I must thank the Office of Letters and Light for bringing us NaNoWriMo. I spent about ten years trying to write All Just Glass. I finally put aside everything I had written and, without referring to any notes or prose from the past decade, went for 50k/30 days in November of 2008. I have never been happier with the results of slightly bending the rules.

  I HAVE A RENDEZVOUS WITH DEATH

  I have a rendezvous with Death

  At some disputed barricade,

  When Spring comes back with rustling shade

  And apple-blossoms fill the air—

  I have a rendezvous with Death

  When Spring brings back blue days and fair.

  It may be he shall take my hand

  And lead me into his dark land

  And close my eyes and quench my breath—

  It may be I shall pass him still.

  I have a rendezvous with Death

  On some scarred slope of battered hill,

  When Spring comes round again this year

  And the first meadow-flowers appear.

  God knows ’twere better to be deep

  Pillowed in silk and scented down,

  Where love throbs out in blissful sleep,

  Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath,

  Where hushed awakenings are dear …

  But I’ve a rendezvous with Death

  At midnight in some flaming town,

  When Spring trips north again this year,

  And I to my pledged word am true,

  I shall not fail that rendezvous.

  —Alan Seeger

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  CHAPTER 1

  SATURDAY, 5:52 A.M.

  THE RINGING IN her ears surely was the sound of the world shattering. It was louder than the November air whistling outside as it tore leaves the color of fire and blood from the trees, and louder than the hum of the Chevy’s engine as Adianna Vida pressed the gas pedal down further, accelerating past sixty … seventy …

  Pushing eighty miles per hour, she twisted the dial on her satellite radio, turning the music up in the hope that it would drown out every other sound and thought. She wasn’t even sure what she was listening to. It didn’t matter.

  She wondered if this was why Sarah had always been drawn to fast, flashy cars. Adia went for vehicles that drew no particular attention, cars she could get on short lease terms and trade in frequently, and she had always thought it was a little silly when Sarah picked out something that turned heads whenever she drove up.

  But that was the way Sarah was.

  Adia glanced at her instrument panel and realized the needle had just passed ninety. Where were the cops who were supposed to be patrolling this highway, anyway? Wasn’t there anyone out here still serving and protecting?

  She flexed her left hand, clenching her jaw to control a wince as she did so. Two of the fingers were broken. They wouldn’t wrap around the steering wheel. The arm was still sore from a minor fracture she had received half a week earlier. She would have double-checked that the hastily tied bandage on her arm was still in place, but she didn’t think it was a good idea to take her one good hand off the wheel, even to make sure she wasn’t bleeding again.

  At least the other guy looked worse … though that would have been more comforting if the “other guy” hadn’t been a large bay window and some kind of ugly garden statue she had hit on her way down.

  But it wasn’t a complete loss. She had learned what she had needed to learn.

  She had learned the last thing she had wanted to learn.

  Adianna Vida, now the only child of Dominique Vida, matriarch of the ancient line of witches, wished she were still ignorant. It had taken a hell of a fight, but she had finally, unfortunately, throttled the information out of someone.

  “Looks like she’s decided to live, witch,” a bloodbond had told her, the last word like a curse. “She’s staying with Nikolas and Kristopher. Not that you’ll find them. They’ve been hunted for more than a century. They know how to take care of themselves.”

  Sarah was still alive.

  No, not Sarah. The creature who existed now looked like Adia’s little sister, but she wasn’t a witch anymore; she was a vampire. She had woken at sundown and had hunted. No one had been able to tell Adia who the victim had been, but Sarah’s change had been traumatic, which meant the first hunt would have been fierce. She had probably killed.

  And then she had decided to live as a vampire.

  To continue as a vampire, at least.

  Which proved it really wasn’t Sarah, right? A daughter of Vida waking to find herself a monster should have ended it at that moment. She should have known that stopping herself then, before the vampiric power twisted her too badly, was the only way she could protect the helpless victims she would inevitably end up hurting in the future. But she hadn’t.

  Before Adia could learn any more, another bloodbond had leapt forward and sent them both through the window. Adia had wanted to fight at that point but had already found the information she needed, and knew that Dominique would disapprove of her lingering.

  Realizing she was approaching her exit, she slowed—probably more abruptly than she should have, but who cared? It was six in the morning on a Saturday, and she hadn’t seen another car in nearly half an hour. She was almost home, and when she pulled into the driveway, she would have to be fully under control.

  She turned the radio down to barely a whisper, until she could hear the mournful wind again. In front of her mother’s house, the trees were already nearly bare, except for a few golden leaves they still managed to cling desperately to. She sympathized; some part of her had been ripped away, as well, when she had let her sister die.

  It took her two tries to get the car door open with the damage to her arms. The frigid air that rushed in to replace the warmth in the car was bracing and helped her calm her thoughts. She managed not to limp as she approached the front door.

  Her mother was waiting for her in the kitchen, at the antique oak table where Adia had spent countless hours as a child studying ancient Vida laws.

  Forty years old, Dominique had been the only child of her father’s second wife. She had survived the deaths of her parents, her sister, a niece and a nephew closer to her age than her sister had been, and Sarah and Adia’s father, and all Adia had ever seen from her was stoicism a
nd the grim acceptance that a hunter’s life was dangerous. Her practical short blond hair had occasional bits of gray and her Vida-blue eyes were perhaps a little more tired, but she still stood as if carrying the weight of the world were simply a task she had to accept.

  And at that moment, she wasn’t alone.

  Adia’s cousin, Zachary, had a spread of weaponry in front of him and was in the process of cleaning and polishing the collection of knives as Adia walked in. His blond hair and immaculate appearance were a marked contrast with the slightly scruffy features and dark hair of Michael Arun, who was flipping through the heavy tome of pictures and notes on known vampires.

  Michael was from another line, but he was still a witch. The Arun line wasn’t known for self-control or following all the rules, and Adia had never quite been able to relax her guard around Michael because of the vampiric taint to his aura, but at least he was a hunter. The Vida and Arun lines had fought side by side for generations, so his presence wasn’t surprising, despite the hour. Most vampire hunters were nearly as nocturnal as their prey.

  Adia was startled, however, to see Hasana Smoke sitting stiffly across the table from Zachary and staring pale-faced at the weaponry as her daughter Caryn read a paperback romance novel in the corner. Smoke witches, though every bit as respected as Vidas, were healers. They wouldn’t engage in a fight even to protect their own lives, and they usually showed up at the Vida household only if someone was hurt.

  More unusual still was the presence of Evan Marinitch. Nearing fifty, Evan had a lean body that made him seem younger. He was at that moment perched on the counter, hazel eyes brimming with fatigue and disapproval. The Marinitch line sometimes included hunters, but that wasn’t their primary vocation. They were mostly scholars. Though technically kin to the Vida, Arun and Smoke lines, the Marinitch line kept to itself most of the time.

  All the surviving lines were represented. Had Dominique called them to witness Sarah’s trial, only to have them arrive just to hear about her death?

  How had everything happened so fast? Two weeks before, Sarah had been complaining—softly, when Dominique couldn’t hear—about having to move from New York City to the small suburb of Acton, Massachusetts. Ten days ago, Adia had discovered that Sarah was being socially polite with two of the vampires who attended her school. The relationship had grown dangerously close before Adia even realized it was happening.

  Two days ago, Dominique had bound Sarah’s powers in anticipation of a trial for crimes against the line. Alone and without her magic, Sarah had gone up against one of the infamous vampires of the modern age in an attempt to clear her name.

  And then … Adia looked at the clock on the mantel. Just twenty-four hours ago, Adia had walked away and let that creature change her little sister into a monster. He had claimed that it was the only way to save her life, and in that moment, Adia had let herself believe the lie that her sister could still be saved.

  But twelve hours ago, that monster had awoken and fed, and now—

  Oh, god.

  Adia had memorized pages and pages of Vida law, and now at last the one that mattered came to mind. The other lines weren’t here to witness a trial.

  “Adia, what have you learned?” Dominique asked.

  Hasana looked over her shoulder at Adia and her eyes widened. She shot to her feet. “You’re injured—”

  Adia shook off the healer’s concern and answered Dominique’s question.

  “According to numerous sources, Sarah has chosen to … live.” She hesitated before the last word, knowing that it wasn’t exactly what she meant. “She has fed, and is now staying with Nikolas and Kristopher, wherever they are.”

  Hasana sagged with relief. Evan closed his eyes with a wince, undoubtedly knowing what was coming. Zachary nodded, his expression remote, and Michael paled. Michael Arun had always been a mystery to Adia, but he and Sarah had been close. They had even dated for a while, before deciding they were good partners when hunting but weren’t compatible romantically.

  Dominique didn’t even blink. Impeccably controlled as always, she simply said, “Well.”

  She stood, and her gaze swept the assembled witches.

  “My daughter is dead,” she announced. “I know her killers.”

  She placed on the table a pencil drawing of the twin vampires Nikolas and Kristopher, provided by the fiends themselves. The one called Kristopher had courted Sarah with drawings. He had befriended her, and Sarah had let him, despite Adia’s begging her to be careful. She had always been headstrong.

  “As a child of Macht, I am invoking the Rights of Kin,” Dominique said. Adia had known that it was coming, but she still consciously had to keep her expression controlled so she wouldn’t flinch. “Please witness.”

  Now Hasana paled visibly. Apparently, she had finally caught up to the rest of them. A Smoke witch’s training was not as intensive as a Vida’s. They were taught to heal and tended to be less aware of the laws that governed all their lines, but Hasana’s reaction made it clear that she recognized the name.

  “Dominique, don’t do this,” Hasana said. “Or at least give yourself some time to reconsider. Sarah isn’t—”

  “Sarah is dead,” Dominique said flatly. “There is a vampire out there wearing her shape, her skin, but that creature is no witch, no Vida.”

  Zachary spoke first, as the eldest of the Vida line after Dominique. He said simply, “Witnessed.”

  “Is this truly necessary?” Evan asked.

  “Yes,” Zachary replied.

  Evan Marinitch drew a breath and said, “Witnessed.” He swallowed thickly. “We have only one hunter in our line this generation. My son. I will see that he joins you.”

  “Dominique, please,” Hasana begged. All eyes turned toward her, the witches waiting. “Think about—”

  “No,” Dominique interrupted, her blue gaze cold as ice. “My line has been savaged this generation.” She swept the room with her eyes, catching each gaze in turn. “Rose was bled dry as part of a sick game after she walked into a trap, after her husband was stabbed with his own knife by a bloodbond who claimed she was allied with SingleEarth, and their daughter Jacqueline was slaughtered despite having tried to give up our ways. Her son Richard, who was only a child, was taken—and god only knows what happened to him—and never seen again.” Zachary was one of the few who held Dominique’s gaze as she referred to the events that had brought him, an orphan, into their household when Adia had been a baby. “And then the father of my children was tortured to death and dropped on our front steps.”

  Hasana looked away. Caryn seemed about to argue, but her mother put a hand on her shoulder; the young witch shook off the touch and stormed out of the room.

  Still, Dominique was not done.

  “Through the generations we have played it safe, and not sought personal vengeance—and now we who stand in this room are the last of the Vida line. The least we can do for our fallen kin is destroy the creature inhabiting Sarah’s skin before it can use her shell to commit crimes no Vida could ever condone. So I call on the ancient laws now to help me, so I can bury my daughter and let her rest in peace.”

  No one said another word; there was no point in arguing. This was a formality, not a choice to be debated.

  At last, Hasana choked out the word: “Witnessed.”

  They turned to Michael next. Like the Vidas, the Arun line had faced hardships recently. They had never been prolific, and in the past century many had been born completely human, with no power to speak of. Michael was the last witch of his line. When he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper.

  “Witnessed.”

  The Rights of Kin were one of the oldest of the Macht witches’ laws, spoken by the very first Vida after her mother was brutally slain before her eyes, and passed down orally for centuries before written language was developed. They applied to every living line descended from that ancient tribe but had not been called upon in more than a thousand years.

  When witch-kin is slain, there shall be no safe haven, no higher law to protect the guilty. Every hunter shall turn her blade to the task, and there shall be no rest until those responsible have been slain. These are the Rights of Kin.