Read Online Isle of Night by Verónica Wolff - Free Book Online

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.
    â€œMy 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.
    â€œOur 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?
    â€œYou 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.
    And yet, some primal instinct in the back of my mind warned me to be very, very careful. I held still, expectantly, and I watched.
    The chatter exploded again, but this time a broad laugh pealed above the din. I stood on my tiptoes to see. It was Mimi.
    Headmaster Fournier grew still as stone and just as cold. His eyes swept the crowd—dancing over me for one chilling moment—and then rested on Mimi. “Do I amuse you?”
    â€œYeah,” she said in that tone of bored outrage that bad girls have perfected through the ages.
    â€œThen please”—he stretched his hand out, beckoning—“come join me. . . .” He raised his eyebrows, waiting for her name.
    â€œMimi.” She’d thrust her jaw