Ninth Grade Slays (8 page)

Sometimes you just have to be alone to think, and sometimes the best place for thinking isn't home.

He had no idea what Otis had planned for him in Siberia, or whether or not he'd get along with a vampire he'd never met before. Other than Otis and his dad, he hadn't had much luck in that regard. What if Vikas didn't like him? Or worse, what if Vlad didn't like Vikas? It would be really hard to learn about vampire skills from a guy he couldn't stand sharing breathing space with.

Vlad released a nervous sigh and crossed the street. The moon hung full in the sky. It was golden, as if someone had dipped it in honey. His path to Bathory High was well lit and unoccupied. Thank glob for small favors, as his Aunt Nelly would say.

After reaching the back of the building, and making sure he hadn't been followed, he paused to listen to the goth kids who were gathered on the front steps. A girl's voice rose above the others. “I'm telling you, Sprat, it's haunted. That's why they closed the old church. This preacher just went nuts back in the 1800s and started killing people when they came in for confession. He did away with three whole families before they caught him, kids and all. Some even say he drank their blood out of the communion chalice.”

Vlad suppressed a chuckle. He'd heard this story before, from Henry's older brother, Greg. It was just another tool for the upperclassmen to mess with the incoming freshmen. Usually, the story was accompanied by some kid dressed like a vampiric priest jumping out of the shadows. Greg had assured him that that was the worst of it—a quick scare, a few laughs, and life would go on. All the freshmen had to pay their dues. This was just one of the many collection methods.

Vlad peeked around the corner at the goth kids and smiled. If only they knew there was a
real
blood drinker among them.

The girl sighed with a note of irritation. “If you don't believe me, just wait and watch.”

Vlad looked around to make sure no one could see him, and then concentrated until his body lifted from the ground. Levitating: not quite as cool as having a driver's license and your own car, but a close second.

For a moment, he had the urge to descend on the goths, fangs fully elongated, asking them in a spooky, gravelly voice how long it had been since their last confession. Despite how funny their reactions might be, he thought better of it and floated up four floors to the abandoned belfry of Bathory High, stepping in through one of the open arches.

Moonlight poured through the arched windows, lighting the way for Vlad to locate his lighter and candles. He crammed three into wax-covered candlesticks and lit them before flopping onto his dad's old office chair and running his fingers over the soft leather. It hadn't been easy getting the chair up to the belfry. He'd managed to wheel it from his old house to the high school without much trouble, but lugging the large chair up four stories while levitating had proven challenging, to say the least. In the end, he'd sworn A LOT, and then taken a screwdriver to the chair. After it was split into five pieces, he'd carried each piece up separately and reassembled it in the belfry.

It was tough but well worth it. After all, every bloodsucking fiend needs a sanctuary. And if Dracula could have a coffin, Vlad could have a comfy chair.

Lining the wall to his left were several stacks of various books he'd brought here to help pass the midnight hour. Most were older, classic novels—like
Alice's Adventures in Wonderland
, which had seriously freaked Vlad out as a kid and still did. Who wouldn't be scared by the tale of a girl falling into a bizarre world infested with talking animals and a queen with a thirst for blood?

Well, the queen, at least, Vlad could relate to.

But several of the books were from newer authors, and quite a few had been banned in both the school and the town library. Vlad couldn't understand the logic behind banning books. Tell kids they can't do something and then be surprised that your efforts drove them to do whatever you didn't want them to? Some grown-ups could be so inherently stupid. Try banning homework sometime. You might start seeing those straight A's so many parents long for.

Vlad shook his head. What was he thinking?

Atop the nearest stack of books sat a leather journal engraved
The Chronicles of Tomas Tod
—his dad's journal. Since he found it last year, Vlad had read the diary over a hundred times and could now recite passages from it by heart. Beneath it lay Vlad's own journal, in which he scribbled his private thoughts and experiences, hoping in some small way to emulate his father. The composition notebook he used as a journal was nearly full of entries and frayed at the edges, but Vlad hadn't saved up enough cash to buy a refillable leather version yet.

On the stack next to the journals was a framed photo. Vlad smiled at the photograph within. “Hey, Dad.”

He pulled a snack pack out of the brown crumpled bag he'd been carrying and then fished around inside for the spoon he'd taken from the kitchen. His fangs elongated at the scent of blood, and he did nothing to will them back inside his gums. Sometimes, you just gotta let it all hang out.

He peeled the plastic wrap from the top of the small, plastic container and scooped a big spoonful of slushy blood into his mouth. The smell of late summer roses drifted in through the open arches from Mrs. Kipling's award-winning flower garden across the street. Vlad relaxed back into his dad's chair and finished his snack—his thoughts never far from what Otis had told him the last time they spoke regarding his late-night rendezvous, that D'Ablo had many friends, so to be on his guard.

And Vlad
had
been on his guard. He spent his entire summer looking over his shoulder and making sure he wasn't being followed by anyone with fangs. It was exhausting. There had been no sign whatsoever of vengeful vampires on the prowl in Bathory. He was beginning to think Otis was paranoid.

He ran a finger across inside of the plastic container and licked it clean.

On the floor beside his dad's old chair lay the book Otis had insisted he read—the
Compendium of Conscentia
. But Vlad had affectionately begun referring to it as the
Encyclopedia Vampyrica
. It was several inches thick. On its cover were a strange symbol and two locks that could not be opened with a key. He picked it up and placed his hand on the book's cover. The glyph on the book, as well as the tattooed symbol on the inside of his left wrist—two straight lines with three slashes between them, all encased in what looked like parentheses—glowed brightly, and the locks clicked open with ease.

He flipped to the sticky note about a third of the way into the book and read the second paragraph with halting clarity.

A multitude of vampiric councils guard and keep Elysia and bound our brethren to each of the three-hundred-and-thirteen laws. Each council is composed of a president, vice president, secretary, academic affairs officer, incident control officer, events coordinator, and treasurer. The Elysian laws were laid out by the original Elysian council, which formed in the early Paleolithic period—gifting us with power in numbers and the societal requirement of law and order.

Vlad sighed. Even vampire history was boring.

He flipped back several pages to another sticky note and ran his finger over a word that had continually surfaced in the book. Otis had told him time and time again not to concern himself with it. But there was a problem with that. Vlad was already quite concerned with the word.

Pravus
.

Last year, as he perched in a tree above the heads of Otis and D'Ablo, Vlad had heard D'Ablo refer to him as the Pravus. He hadn't thought of it much at the time, but several passages referring to the Pravus in the vampire text had sent Vlad's imagination wandering. He'd thrown himself into his studies and could almost read the Elysian code without any trouble at all, but still those passages eluded him. Almost as if he wasn't supposed to be reading them.

The voice of the goth girl drifted in through the windows. “Kristoff! Andrew didn't mean it.”

“Oh, he meant it. And he can bite me!”

At this, Vlad's ears perked up. Apparently, Andrew was this year's priest. Vlad crept out onto the ledge.

The goth kids were no longer sitting in their usual spot on the steps. Now the tall, silvery-haired goth was standing over the smallest of the group—a boy with mesh gloves and spiky hair that drooped slightly at the ends. Vlad crouched, perching on the ledge, and leaned forward a bit. The goth girl was standing beside the other two, with her pale hands held out pleadingly between the two boys. A fourth goth was slouching against the light post, watching the scene with an air of disinterest.

The boy on the ground shrugged. “Sorry, Kristoff. I didn't think you'd take it so personally.”

“I'm not taking any crap from you, Andrew!” The silver-haired goth straightened and stepped back, slipping his hands into his trench coat's pockets. “Save your stupid pranks for Sprat. Not me.”

Vlad chuckled and moved back inside. Kristoff, huh? That's funny. When Vlad and Kristoff were in the seventh grade, his name had been David and his hair had been blond.

Vlad squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again, suppressing a yawn, and then flipped open the book again and continued where he'd left off.

All of Elysia is bound to the same laws. Crimes are reported to the nearest council, and prisoners are held until their trial, where evidence will be examined and they will be given the opportunity to defend themselves. If a member is found guilty of breaking a law, they shall be subject to whatever punishment their ruling council deems fitting.

Common forms of punishment are lashes by a leather whip, banishment, and community service. Death sentences are far more brutal—examples of this are dismemberment, excessive exposure to sunlight, being drained of all blood by another vampire, and being drawn and quartered by four stallions of the council's choosing.

After the trial, a blood party follows, where the prisoner's punishment is carried out and the participating council and witnesses celebrate the glory of Elysia by consuming mass quantities of the best human blood available, followed by slices of sponge cake. This tradition goes back to the invention of sponge cake, which had been a favorite of then council president, Peter Plogojowitz.

Bored with his studies, Vlad withdrew Otis's letter from his pocket and read it over again, as well as the enclosed list, which had a smaller, hastily scribbled note on the bottom.

Please be careful
,
Vladimir. My associates inform me that a vampire slayer may be headed for Bathory. Lay low. Don't tell Nelly
,
I'd hate to alarm her (and sharing further information with her about the ways of
Elysia would be criminal)
,
and don't go anywhere alone—bring your drudge with you at all times.

Vlad read over the note several times. On his third pass, the weight of his uncle's words slammed against his chest, stealing his breath.

He was being hunted.

He read the note one more time and glanced nervously around the belfry, then blew out the candle and sat in the dark until his eyes adjusted to the dim light of the moon.

The fact the vampire slayers actually existed might have been something Otis could have mentioned as a nasty possibility before he drove off at the beginning of the summer. Or even at the beginning of his letter. Something about a stake-carrying jerk with a hatred of vampires didn't strike Vlad as a P.S. kind of thing. It was pretty crucial information, considering Vlad was Bathory's only resident blood drinker.

Until Otis's warning, Vlad had confined his belief in vampire slayers to movies and television. After all, who would believe in a guy who stalks the night with a crucifix and a wooden stake? Might as well believe in werewolves or the boogeyman. The idea that a person might exist who hunted and killed vampires, for whatever reason, sent his stomach flip-flopping. The best thing he could do was to keep to himself and familiar faces. If a slayer was headed for Bathory, he might not even notice Vlad. If he did . . .

Vlad shivered.

He folded the letter, slid it back into the envelope, and hoped that Otis would return to Bathory before the slayer could become an issue.

He kissed the tips of his fingers and touched his hand to the picture of his dad. He looked around the dark room once before stepping out onto the ledge and floating down to the ground. He was tempted to take to the treetops in order to avoid bumping into anyone who might be looking to impale him with a wooden stake, but he felt kind of tired. The last thing Vlad needed was to fall from a tree. While Vlad healed at an abnormally fast rate, it still hurt whenever he got scrapes and bruises. The rib D'Ablo had broken last year had been no picnic, either. Six days of almost constant pain.

It had felt like an eternity.

Vlad floated down to the ground, rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, and yawned. From the corner of his eye, he thought he saw a flicker of lightning, but when he looked up, all he could see were clear skies. The sensation that he was being watched crept up his spine like cold, skeletal fingers. He dropped his hands and looked around, but he didn't have to look hard. A dark figure was standing across the street, his eyes on Vlad.

The slayer.

Vlad had to will his body to keep still and not bolt down the street in a screeching panic. It was very likely the guy was just out for a late-night stroll, wondering what a kid his age was doing hanging out at the high school at almost two in the morning. Perfectly normal. Nothing to worry about.

But just to be sure . . .

Vlad pushed with his mind. Suddenly he was standing across from the school, watching a boy who was most certainly not a boy.
Yes . . . this is the one. And once I have his blood . . .