Boys That Bite

BOYS THAT BITE Mari Mancusi

Prologue

Sunshine and Rayne

You know, being bitten by a vampire one week before prom really sucks. On soooo many levels. Okay, fine. I'm sure it'd be equally sucky at other times of the calendar year as well. Photo day at school, for example. Bad time to sport a two-hole hickey on your neck. Easter would blow too—imagine trying to explain to your mom that you can't attend sunrise service because, well, you're allergic to the sun. And then there's Christmas. Sure, you'd sport a good chance of running into Santa, but could you resist the urge to snack on his jolly old jugular? Now that I think about it, there just ain't a good time to be bitten by a vampire. That said, you gotta understand. Three hours, twenty-five minutes, and thirty-three seconds ago JAKE WILDER asked me to prom! I mean JAKE WILDER, people! The hottest guy at Oakridge High School. The heartthrob leading man in every school play with soulful, deep brown eyes and drool-worthy bod. Every girl I know is officially In Love with him—even Mary Markson and she's practically married to her boyfriend, Nick. But, I ask you, who did the Sex God in question ask to the senior class prom? Uh, yeah, that would be moi. Seriously, if you had asked me three hours, twenty-five minutes, and thirty-TWO seconds ago whether Jake Wilder even knew my name, I'd have bet my iPod he hadn't a clue. (And it's a darn good thing I didn't make that bet, 'cause a day without twenty gigs of music at my fingertips is like a day without sunshine.) That said, I can't tell you what a total and utter bummer it is to be slowly morphing into a vampire one week before the big event. I'm getting ahead of myself here. Since you don't have a clue as to who I am, you probably don't care all that much about my imminent Creature of the Night transformation. (Mom always says I have the worst manners known to mankind, so I apologize in advance for my shortcomings.) So okay, all about me for a moment. My name is Sunshine McDonald. Yes, Sunshine, and if you think that's bad, I dread to introduce you to my identical twin sister, Rayne. I know, I know, Sunshine and Rayne—it makes you a little sick to your stomach, doesn't it? Well, you can blame our cruel, ex-hippie parents who (hello!?) grew up in the disco era and should have been hanging out at Studio 54, dancing the night away, instead of at the Harvest Co-Op broiling tofu. But, sadly, no. They preferred peace, love, and stupid baby names to hot dance tunes and bling. Of course, these days Dad's probably driving around in a hot red sports car while picking up honeys in Vegas. He left Mom to "find himself" about four years ago and has remained lost ever since. We occasionally get guilt-ridden birthday cards with the sincerest apologies and a crisp fifty-dollar bill stuffed inside, but that's about it. I miss him sometimes, but what can you do? Anyway, back to me. I'm sixteen years old. Five foot four, average weight, dirty blond hair. I've got muddy brown eyes that someday I'm going to hide with blue contacts and a billion annoying freckles that don't fade no matter how much lemon juice I squeeze on them. Mom says I got the freckles from Dad's Irish side of the family. Dad says I got them from Mom's Scottish ancestors. In any case, Rayne and I were cursed in the womb by the bad gene fairy and can't do anything about it. At school I do okay—an A/B student usually. I like English. Abhor Math. Want to be a journalist when I "grow up." I play varsity field hockey and have twice tried out for the school play, mostly to be up close and personal with Jake Wilder. I have now twice ended up as Heather Miller's understudy and the stupid girl is never sick. I'm talking winning-the-perfect-attendance-award-two-years-running never sick. To add insult to injury, she also has big boobs and throws herself at Jake on a daily basis. But anyway, I'm sure you're much more interested in the whole vampire thing than Heather Miller's chest. (Though you should see it—she looks like freaking Pamela Anderson!) Basically, the trouble all started when Rayne decided to drag me to a Goth club. Now for the record, I'm so not into Goth music or that whole scene AT ALL. Not that I'm a Britney lover, of course. I guess you could consider me a Norah Jones, Liz Phair type of girl. But Rayne, on the other hand, is a full-fledged Goth chick. If I ever saw her wear anything but the color black, I would seriously fall over in shock and awe. She listens to all this bizarre music that you'd never hear on the radio and loves dark, twisted movies that make absolutely no sense. For example, she's seen Donnie Darko fifty times and can quote seventeen Buffy episodes by heart. When a new Anne Rice book comes out, she camps overnight to be first in line to buy it. (Even though there are plenty of those sicko books to go around, trust me.) So anyway, two days ago Rayne tells me she saw this flyer at Newbury Comics for an all-ages Goth club up in Nashua, New Hampshire—about twenty minutes from where we live on the Massachusetts border. It's called, if you can believe it, "Club Fang," which has seriously got to be the most cheeseball name on the planet. Rayne, on the other hand, is so excited, I'm half convinced she's going to pee her pants. (Or her long, black skirt, to be exact—the girl wouldn't be caught dead in pants.) And because, as she reminds me, I've known her since birth, it's evidently my twin-sisterly duty to give up any Sunday night plans I might have had to go with her, since all of her friends are too busy. Lucky me.

1

Goth Me Up-Bay-Bee

Give me one good reason why I should go tonight." It's Sunday evening, five p.m., and I'm desperately trying to get out of the big Club Fang outing my sister's got planned for us. I'm not holding out much hope, though. After all, it's a proven fact in life that what Rayne wants, Rayne gets. Period. End of story. Rayne rolls over from a lounging position on her four-poster bed, props her head up with an elbow, and gives me her best pout. "Quit your whining. It'll be totally fun and you know it. Besides, I went to see Dave Matthews with you and you can't possibly imagine how painful that was for me to endure. My ears still haven't recovered." My identical dramaholic rubs her lobes with two fingers, as if they're still causing her pain. Puh-leeze. "Whatever." I shove her playfully, and she falls back onto the mattress. "As if it's a chore to hear that dreamy voice." "Chore, no. Cruel and unusual punishment worse than death? Now you're getting warmer." Rayne jumps up from the bed and makes a beeline for her closet. "So you're going. It's decided." She rummages through the hangers, face intent. "Now we need to find you something to wear." Danger! Danger! "Oh no you don't!" I cry. "I may be forced to go to this stupid club, but I'm so not undergoing some extreme Goth makeover. There's nothing wrong with what I have on." I stand up and model my tank/jeans/flips combo, which has always served me well. Rayne turns to look at me for a second—long enough to give me a once-over and roll her eyes—then turns back to her closet. She pulls out a long black skirt and black sweater. "I'm not wearing a sweater to a nightclub," I protest. "I'll sweat to death!" "Fine. Jeez. It was just a thought." She crams the outfit back into the overflowing closet, exchanging it for a black (surprise, surprise) tank top. Now while as a rule, I'm totally a tank top type of girl, I tend to stay away from ones made out of vinyl. "No effing way." I shake my head. "People will think I'm into S&M and start trying to whip me or handcuff me to the stage or something." Rayne emits her patented sigh of frustration at my protest, but thankfully returns the bondage outfit to the closet. I, in turn, sit back down on the bed and wonder whether I should be concerned that my twin owns an outfit like that to begin with. "How about this?" she asks. She pulls out a very cute spaghetti tank with the words Fashion Victim written on the front. "It seems rather appropriate." I throw a pillow at her. "Only in the most ironic of ways, of course," she amends with a giggle. "Or, there's always this one." She exchanges the tank with another—this one pink with white writing that says Bite Me! "Where'd you get that shirt?" I ask curiously. "It doesn't seem like your type of thing. It's not even black." She shrugs. "Some vampire let me borrow it a while ago. I keep forgetting to give it back." "Vampire?" I raise an eyebrow. While I knew Rayne ran with a different crowd, I hadn't realized they fancied themselves creatures of the night. "We're swapping clothes with the undead now?" I guess that would explain all the black. Rayne snorts. "I just borrowed a T-shirt, smart-ass. But for the record, yes. There's like this whole group of them in Nashua. They look like Goth kids, but they're really members of an ancient vampire coven." "You've got to be kidding me," I groan. "Why would anyone want to pretend to be a vampire anyway? Like why is that so cool? Do they go around drinking each other's blood or something?" Rayne gives me a noncommittal shrug, which tells me she actually thinks it is cool, but isn't about to admit it to me. I consider teasing her, but then decide the "live and let live" theory of sisterhood is the best plan of action at this point and drop the subject. After all, I have to hang out with her all night. Having her mad at me is only going to make things that much more painful. "Okay, I'll wear the Bite Me shirt," I say to appease her. At least it's not black. "It'll be my standard response to anyone who tries to hit on me." I giggle. "Someone can come up and be like 'Hey babe, what's your sign?' and I'll just point to my shirt." Rayne laughs appreciatively and tosses me the tank top. "Of course they might think you're pointing to your boobs in a 'have at 'em, big boy' kind of way." "Ew!" "Don't worry," my sister says, swapping her T-shirt for a long, black princess dress ornamented with a ton of lace. Where does she find this stuff? "Most of the boys will be gay, I'm sure. All the good ones are, especially in the Goth scene. You don't get many hetero guys who dig wearing eyeliner." She snorts. "So, little angelic twin of mine, I'm quite confident that your virtue will remain intact, no matter which T-shirt you wear." Here she goes again. I knew we couldn't have a whole conversation without Rayne's infamous "Sunny the Innocent" digs. My precious little twin lost her virginity last year and has been bragging about it ever since. You'd think she won an Olympic sex medal or something. But I'm sorry. Meeting some grungy skater dude at camp and sneaking out to do it on the floor of the boathouse is so not my idea of a fulfilling first experience. Call me a girly-girl, but I want my first time to be all candles and roses, not splinters and knee burns. To each her own, I guess. "So anyway," Rayne continues, taking my silence as license to carry on teasing me, "you can be well assured, your innocence is safe at Club Fang." I giggle in spite of myself. She sounds like a saleswoman. "Is that printed on the flyer?" "Absolutely," Rayne declares confidently. "Money-back guarantee."

2

Club Fang

Club Fang turns out to be pretty much what I'd pictured, but mind you I didn't have very lofty expectations for the place. Since it's held in a building that by day serves as a Knights of Columbus hall, there's only so much the promoters can do to Goth it up at night and still be able to tear things down in time for the Veteran's Brunch at six a.m. Not that they haven't given it the old college try. They've strung flashing multicolored lights in the rafters and hung large white sheets from floor to ceiling, blocking the windows. They set fans behind these sheets so that they billow in the breeze. Slide projectors across the room cast eerie, nondescript images onto the white sheet backgrounds. In front of the slightly elevated stage area, they've placed the piece de resistance—a bondage cage. At least that's what it's supposed to look like. I think they just took some wire fencing and spray-painted it black. Behind the "cage," an obese DJ type with a scruffy beard rummages through records and large speakers pump out overblown Goth, industrial, and electronica sounds. They even have one of those cheesy smoke machines, which totally makes me start coughing the second we enter. The other club kids don't seem to mind the cheesiness or the smoke. Dressed uniformly in black, they sway to the music, doing a dance that to me resembles getting one's foot stuck in the mud. They slowly, meticulously pull the foot out, only to have the other foot then seemingly get stuck as well, forcing them to repeat the whole process from the beginning. "School!" Rayne shouts in my ear. "Huh?" What does she mean, "school"? OMG—does she see someone from our high school? Oh, man, I'd be mortified if someone I knew caught me here in my current ensemble and word got out to my field hockey teammates. I'd never hear the end of it. "Who's here from school?" "No, I said, 'it's cool!'" Rayne corrects. Oh. Phew. Not that I agreed with her assessment, mind you, but at least it didn't involve me having to hide behind one of those billowing sheets. "I'm going to get a drink," Rayne says, pointing to a small, makeshift bar on one wall. Unlike bars in real clubs, of course, this one only serves soda. Too bad. Not that I'm some alky, but in this case a beer might help dull the pain. "Get me a Red Bull," I tell her. Maybe a megadose of caffeine will be the ticket. Rayne nods and disappears into the fog. I find a wall and make like a wallflower, wondering why on earth I agreed to this torture. We've been here five minutes and I already have a splitting headache. Not to mention, the stench of the masses makes me want to puke. Seriously, would it hurt to apply a little Secret to your pits before working up a sweat on the dance floor? I try to give my brain the Pollyanna pep talk. Okay, try to have a good attitude, Sunny. Rayne has done plenty for you. Stop being so selfish and go with the flow. Who knows, you might even have fun! Yeah, right. Even Pollyanna-brain doesn't believe that one. Best I will be able to manage is to fake a good time. "Good evening." Oh no. A guy. Addressing me. I thought Rayne said everyone was gay here. I look up, ready to point to my tank top, when my gaze falls on the most gorgeous pair of eyes I've ever seen in my sixteen years on the planet. They are literally the color of sapphires. I mean, I've seen plenty of blue eyes in my day, but nothing like these. Better yet, the eyes are attached to a face equally amazing. I quickly take stock: smooth skin, high cheekbones, sooty black eyelashes. Long brown hair, pulled back in a ponytail. I'm not normally into the long hair thing, but on this guy it totally works. He looks like a blue-eyed Orlando Bloom. (Pirates of the Caribbean Orlando, not LOTR and certainly not Troy, just FYI.) Best of all, unlike the other Gothed-out club kids, he isn't wearing a stitch of black. Just a simple tight white T-shirt and a pair of low-rise jeans. No eyeliner either, thank goodness. I scan the area, sure that "Orlando" must be speaking to someone other than me. Some supermodel to my right, perhaps. But I see no one in the general vicinity. Hmmm . . . "H-hi," I say, my words sounding squeaky and young. I hate my voice. Makes me sound like I'm ten. Rayne and I are identical twins and yet she has this sultry, raspy voice somehow. Maybe it's due to her smoking, though, and I'm sorry, but if it's a choice between eventual lung cancer and a squeaky voice, you can call me Minnie Mouse any day of the week. Instead of replying, the guy reaches out and presses his palm against my cheek. His skin is cool, but his touch scorches my skin. His eyes study my face, then roam my body and I suddenly feel naked under his glare. I give an involuntary shiver and I can feel goose bumps popping up all over my arms. Wow. I can't remember the last time a guy gave me actual goose bumps! Maybe never. I know I should be questioning why this random guy has approached me in a nightclub and evidently feels it's no big deal to reach out and touch me so intimately, but I can't find the words to voice any objections. "I'm Magnus," he says in a breathy, dangerous voice with a distinct hint of English accent. "I believe you were expecting me?" My heart sinks. Damn it, I knew he had the wrong girl. He probably has some blind date he's searching for and mistook me for her. (Though why a guy of his caliber would have to go on a blind date is beyond me. Any date with 20/20 vision would snatch him up at first sight!) Wait a second here. If he doesn't even recognize his date-to-be, what kind of hold does this chick have on him, anyway? They're obviously not yet a couple, which in my book makes him fair game. I look around, making sure there's no crazy possessive blind date type hovering nearby, ready to claw out my eyes for stepping into her territory. But the coast seems clear. "Hi, Magnus," I say, having to shout over the music. "I'm Sunny." He cocks his head, a confused look on his face. Then he touches a finger to his ear and smiles at me. Ah. I get it. He can't hear me over the music. Just when I'm about to retry my intro with a louder voice, he takes my hand and pulls me toward the club's exit. I can feel my heart pounding in my chest—a billion beats a minute would be an understatement of tempo at this point. Where is he leading me? Should I follow or break away? I scan the room for Rayne—to at least let her know I'll be right back—but she's nowhere to be seen. We step outside into the crisp night air. It's rather chilly out here, even for New Hampshire in May. The club's bouncer eyes us suspiciously for a moment before turning back to continue flirting with the cute blond jailbait to his right. Magnus leads me down the front steps, still holding my trembling hand in his. "Uh, where are we going?" I ask, stopping short. After all, no matter how cute this guy is, I know absolutely nothing about him. And logical Jiminy Cricket voices in my head warn of the dangers of following a random stranger out of a nightclub. He turns and smiles again and my defenses crumble. Surely someone with such a beautiful smile couldn't be dangerous, right? "It's a bit difficult to hear you in there," he says at last. Wow, I so love his accent! "I thought we could come outside for a little chat." Okay, a chat. As in a talk. Talking is good. Talking doesn't involve anything Mom wouldn't approve of. Not that I care what Mom would approve of, I remind myself. I mean, I'm sixteen years old—practically an official adult. I've really got to stop the goody-two-shoes routine I've got going on all the time. "So um, do you come here often?" I ask, trying to make conversation. Too late I realize how clichéd I sound. He chuckles softly, and I feel my face heat. That's another pain-in-the-butt thing about having light skin and freckles. I blush like nobody's business and there's no hiding it. Hopefully the darkness around us will reduce its fire-engine-red glare. I want to say more, to redeem myself for my idiotic question, but my tongue just doesn't seem to want to work right. What the hell is wrong with me? My brain says I should be freaking out, but my heart says to go with the flow. After all, how often does a gorgeous guy just walk up to you in a nightclub and start talking? I mean, sure, it may be an everyday occurrence for, say, Lindsay Lohan, but it so doesn't ever happen to little old me. We walk behind the building, where there's a parking lot and a single streetlamp casting a yellowish glow on the vehicles. Magnus stops walking and smiles at me. I lean against the building's brick wall and give him a shy smile back. Now what? I hope he's not expecting some intellectual conversation, because I don't think I can manage it at this very instant. But verbal discussion seems far from his mind as he takes a step closer, his knee brushing against my inner thigh. The sudden body contact invokes a slightly nauseated feeling in the pit of my stomach. But nauseated in a good way, if that's possible. He brings a hand to my face again, this time tracing my cheekbone with a smooth finger. His eyes search mine, as if they can see into my very soul. The whole thing is so unnerving and dangerous and sexy, I swear I'm going to fall over and faint. "You're beautiful," he whispers. "And so innocent." I frown. God, I hate when people say that. I mean sure, technically I am innocent, Innocent with a capital I. But what royally sucks is that it's evidently so easy to tell this about me at first glance. Like, what, am I wearing some big V on my chest or something? Rayne is my identical twin and NO ONE ever says SHE looks innocent. Oh, no. The boys think she's all seductive. Kick-ass, even. But never innocent. "I'm not that innocent," I declare, too late realizing that I'm quoting Britney. I really need to keep my mouth shut until I can count on it to say something intelligent, witty, and interesting. "It's not an insult," he murmurs, his finger drifting to my ear and tracing the lobe. "I find it very, very attractive." Did I mention how utterly hot he is? And how turned on I am? And how utterly incapable I am of responding to anything he says? "Oh. Well, um. Thanks. I guess." I laugh my stupid laugh— the one I always break out when I'm nervous. It resembles a donkey's bray and I'm not all that fond of it. He leans in closer, his mouth so close I can feel his breath on my face. He smells of mint and something spicy I can't identify. "Are you sure you want this?" he asks, searching my face again. I scrunch my nose, puzzled. Am I sure I want what? This whole encounter really gives me the feeling that I'm missing out on some vital piece of information. By the way he's looking at me, though, I'm getting the feeling he's asking if I'm sure about kissing him. And the answer to that question is hell yeah. "I'm sure," I murmur, hoping my voices sounds husky like Demi Moore's. Like Rayne's. "Very, very sure." He smiles. "Okay, then. Let's do it." I close my eyes and next thing I know I can feel his full lips brush against my own. Chills erupt in every crevice of my body and the goose bumps return with a vengeance. Now I'm no kissing expert, mind you (in fact, I'm a bit embarrassed to admit I've only made out with three guys in my entire life), but even I can tell this is an amazing, once-in-a-lifetime kiss. The way his lips press against mine, as if he's starving and hasn't eaten for days. As if he desires something that only my mouth can provide. My lips part, and I can't withhold a soft moan of pleasure. I hope he doesn't think I'm total slut girl for letting him kiss me like this. I mean, I barely know him. But something about this seems so right. His lips abandon my mouth and kiss a trail down to my neck. I love being kissed on the neck. It is a total turn-on for some reason. The ultralight wisp of his lips brushing against my— OWWWW! "What the—?" I jump back, horrified. OMG! Did he just BITE me?