Blessed (14 page)

The vampire hunter (or whatever he was) sidestepped, dodging the full force of my blow, but I still knocked him off his feet, backward into the air. The flame died, and I glimpsed metal flying from his hand. He crashed into the chain-link fence surrounding the tennis court and fell to the ground, bleeding and unconscious.

Meanwhile, I landed hard, hitting my forehead on a stray tennis ball. Brushing myself off, I climbed to my feet and jogged to the fence.

The sophomores, who had ignored my order to vamoose, were weaving between the picnic tables toward me and the possibly heroic guy I’d just slammed into.

The Possum reached my side first. “Who . . . ?”

“Wow,” Aimee breathed a few seconds later. “He’s . . .”

“It was an accident,” I whispered. “I didn’t mean to kill him.”

“Don’t be hysterical,” Clyde said, checking for a pulse. “Nobody’s dead.” He gestured toward the smoldering ash where the vampire had been. “At least nobody who wasn’t dead in the first place.”

Aimee asked, “Quincie, did you hit your head?”

That’s when I saw the flashing lights of the police cars. Detectives Wertheimer and Zaleski burst out of an unmarked sedan, leading the charge in our direction.

“We’re okay!” I shouted, stepping between the cops and my friends. “Don’t shoot!” Not that I thought they would, but just in case.

Zaleski shouted for his officers to take five and stormed over. He looked even bigger and furrier outside at night than he had in my house. “What’re you kids doing out here?” He pointed to my victim. “Who’s that?”

“We think he might be a good guy,” I said.

“He’s breathing,” Clyde added, standing. “Out cold, though.”

Somebody radioed in for an ambulance while Zaleski explained that they’d gotten a call from a woman in Travis Heights who’d seen the fire from her rooftop deck. Then he questioned us about what had happened.

I didn’t offer much in the way of details.

We’d noticed the fire and decided to investigate.

I’d seen a burning figure. Yes, it had fangs. Yes, I was sure.

Yes, I thought that the unidentified injured man had been fighting him. (I left out our collision.)

Yeah, the three of us “young people” had been fooling around with magic — “A protection spell,” Aimee had blurted out.

Yes, we knew magic should be left to professionals and those for whom it was an integral part of their religious faith.

No, we didn’t want to risk making it rain toads or bringing the swing set to life or turning Clyde into a heaping bucket of goldfish.

God, I hated being talked at by grown-ups.

Meanwhile, Wertheimer, on a hunt for evidence, found the black-cherry tea light, the pile of smoking ash, and a “very pretty” sword. Even from a distance, it gleamed.

No torch, though, which was weird. Where had the fire come from?

As EMTs strapped the mystery guy onto a gurney, I volunteered to ride with him to the hospital. I had questions of my own to ask. Besides, I owed him an apology, especially since it looked like he might’ve been defending us from a pal of Brad’s.

Rare as vampires were reported to be, I seriously doubted that our all being at the park tonight was a coincidence.

“Not on your life,” Zaleski declared. “You kids should be getting home.”

“But —”

“Or, Miss Morris, I’m going to have a serious conversation with your new guardians about keeping better tabs on your whereabouts. Especially after dark.”

During English, Detective Zaleski had left a message on my cell, saying that last night the unidentified man had disappeared from the hospital. Even weirder, his sword had apparently vanished from the police station.

“Keep an eye out, will ya? Don’t get me wrong. Vigilante or not, he’s not in any kind of trouble for taking out that vamp. We just want to chat . . . ask him a few questions . . . maybe try to talk him into applying to the training academy.”

When I stopped by the school library after Chem, both copies of
Dracula
by Bram Stoker had been checked out.

“By Vice Principal Harding,” the librarian whispered from behind her desk. Obviously, he wouldn’t be bringing them back. “I’ll put replacements on order,” she added. “But if you’re in a hurry, you might try the public library or the Web. A book that old is in the public domain. You can read it on the Internet.”

After school, Miz Morales swung by Sanguini’s on her way to meet with a chocolatier. From the break room, I heard Nora loudly greet her at the back door.

Appreciating the warning, I skedaddled to the restroom, dumped the blood from my mug into the sink, rinsed it, popped a breath mint, and zipped back to the floral sofa.

By the time Miz Morales walked in, my orange highlighter was perched over my Econ textbook. After exchanging howdys, she said, “Are you okay, Quincie? It seems like you’re always at work. You study and take almost all of your meals here. . . .”

“That’s how it’s always been,” I reminded her.

With a reluctant nod, Miz Morales changed the subject. “Nora mentioned that she’s looking for a place to rent. And you know, your house is just sitting empty, costing money.” At my questioning frown, she added, “Sorry, love. The restaurant renovation didn’t come cheap, and just the expense of reprinting the menus . . . I’m afraid the insurance company is refusing to honor your uncle’s life insurance policy.”

“He had been technically dead for a while.” I picked up my planner book from the coffee table, wishing I was in charge of my own finances. Then I glanced down at my Econ text and reconsidered.

“At least,” Miz Morales assured me, “the company is being discreet. I’m sure that once Sanguini’s is open regularly again, the books will look better, but —”

“You’re going to rent out my house?”

“You can have a few days to get used to the idea.”

“Will I be able to take your journal home with me this weekend?” Mrs. Levy asked after English class on Thursday.

I waited until the other students had left. “I can’t think of anything to say.”

“You can’t?” Mrs. Levy leaned back in her chair. “Quincie, this is your journal. It’s perfectly acceptable if you need to write about your uncle or Kieren. I just need to see some words on each page.”

I did not want to have this conversation. “Kieren?”

“I get it,” she said, tapping a pen. “You’re not the kind of soggy girl who falls apart because the boy that she cares about suddenly isn’t around anymore. You have your own life, your own goals, and other people who matter to you. That’s good. It is. But you’re still a person, and, well, not to pry, but anyone could see that you two . . .”

That we loved each other. Yeah. I already knew that.

On Friday evening, vintage dresses — black and red, chiffon and velvet, satin and silk — hung from a freestanding brass coat hanger that Miz Morales had positioned in Kieren’s room. Art Nouveau and gothic filigree costume jewelry lay artfully beside tassel teardrop hair sticks on the denim comforter. I picked up a headband with a small peacock feather attached.

“It’s called a fascinator,” Miz Morales informed me.

Good Catholic Wolf that she was, having spied me wearing Kieren’s crucifix seemed to have quieted Meara’s lingering suspicions. A few days earlier, I’d accepted her offer to help me augment my work wardrobe, and in classic wedding-planner mode, she’d eagerly taken off with my sizes and measurements.

Sanguini’s wasn’t merely a restaurant. It also doubled as a venue for the slinkiest, most glam gothic fashion show in the Southwest. Our seductively spooky hostess, Yanira, along with the waiters, bussers, and ladies and gentlemen of the bar, elevated an otherwise kitschy food-service concept to magnificent theater and cosplay.

Owner or not, I played a nightly role that might be best described as “catchall” — restocking the wait stations, cleaning spills, clearing tables, running food, replenishing hand towels and toilet paper. Not the most glitzy job, but I still had to look like I belonged.

Miz Morales had access to an endless array of eclectic stores and hefty discounts. Her choices for me were on the demure side, not that I minded. Not that I was about to emphasize to my maternal werewolf guardian that — after food and atmosphere — my restaurant’s WMD was sex appeal. Of course she’d probably figured that out for herself.

I had to admit I was having fun. It wasn’t so much playing dress-up as doing it with Kieren’s mama. I soaked up her affection, her approval.

Miz Morales held up an off-the-shoulder, sleeveless red velvet party dress with rhinestone buttons up the bodice, likely worn for a holiday wedding.

“I like it,” I said. “The material’s so heavy, though. I may turn into a sweat monster.” That wasn’t true. I’d noticed that neither heat nor cold bothered me as much as they used to, though I could sweat. But it had sounded like a human thing to say.

Around the coat hanger, I studied a black lace, empire-waist gown overlaid on a black silk slip. Lovely, but when I tried it on, the material bagged at my bust.

“I’ll get that altered for tomorrow night,” Miz Morales promised.

The last dress — a vintage black chiffon, fell an inch below the knees. The room didn’t have a mirror, so neither I nor (luckily) Meara could check out my semitranslucent reflection. But I spun, delighted by how the skirt swirled around my legs.

I only wished Kieren could’ve seen me.

When I had been drunk on blood wine, my work wardrobe had skewed more toward the sleazy than sexy, and he’d made his feelings about that known. But tonight my ensemble suggested a sassy sophistication. Like the young woman I wanted to be.

“You look too innocent for Sanguini’s,” Miz Morales observed.

I grinned. “Not for long.”

After showering, I blow-dried my hair straight and used an environmentally horrifying amount of hair spray to hold it in a swoosh shape down my back.

Then I slipped the black chiffon dress on, accenting it with the fascinator, earrings, a pair of sheer black thigh-highs, Kieren’s crucifix, and my red cowboy boots.

Tucking the vial of holy water along the base of my bra, I called it done.

“Voilà!”
I announced. “One spine-chilling Cinderella.”

Meara had waited in the bedroom to coo over me, and for a moment, it felt sort of like having Mama back again. Certainly, I’d never played dress-up with Uncle D.

Roberto knocked on the bedroom door before peeking at my ensemble. “Wow,” he said. “Who killed
The Lawrence Welk Show
?”

I had no idea what he was talking about.