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TWENTY-THREE
THE WEATHER WARMED UP ON the day of my molnija ceremony. In fact, it was so warm
that a lot of the snow on campus began melting, running down the sides of the Academy's stone
buildings in slim, silvery streams. Winter was far from being over, so I knew everything would
just freeze up again in a few days. For now, though, it felt as though the entire world was
weeping.
I had walked away from the Spokane incident with minor bruises and cuts. The burns from the
melting flex-cuffs were the worst of my injuries. But I was still having a hard time dealing with
the death I'd caused and the death I'd seen. I'd wanted little more than to go curl up in a ball
somewhere and not talk to anyone, except maybe Lissa. But on my fourth day back at the
Academy, my mother had found me and told me it was time to receive my marks.
It had taken me several moments to grasp what she was talking about. Then it occurred to me
that in decapitating two Strigoi, I'd earned two molnija tattoos. My first ones. The realization
had stunned me. All my life, in considering my future career as a guardian, I'd looked forward
to the marks. I'd seen them as badges of honor. But now? Mainly they were going to be
reminders of something I wanted to forget.
The ceremony took place in the guardians' building, in a large room they used for meetings and
banquets. It was nothing at all like the great dining room at the resort. It was efficient and
practical, like the guardians were. The carpet was a bluish gray shade, low and tightly woven.
The bare white walls held framed black-and-white photos of St. Vladimir's through the years.
There were no other decorations or fanfare, yet the solemnity and power of the moment were
palpable. All the guardians on campus—but no novices—attended. They milled around in the
building's main meeting room, hanging out in clusters but not talking. When the ceremony
started, they fell into orderly ranks without being told and watched me.