The Vampire Book of the Month Club (10 page)

“Yeah, my point is, he knew I was upset,” I say. “He knew he left me hanging and . . . and . . . after what happened, he would have called. I just know it.”

“After
what
happened? What
happened
?” And she is angry. Angrier than I thought she would be.

I'd sat there for hours, clutching my knife, waiting for Reece to appear out of the mist and fly at my throat to finish the job.

Waiting for Bianca to break down the door and gouge out my eyes with those desk-writing claws of hers.

Waiting for them both to tag team me with vampire wrestling moves until I was in pieces on the dorm suite floor.

When they didn't, I let my mind stray to Wyatt, to his kiss, his warm, soft lips, his rough but tender hands, the way he'd expertly pulled me to him, the way his large hands felt on the small of my back, the swell of heat beneath his shiny track pants . . . and how I would tell Abby.

When I would tell Abby.

What I would say, what tone I would use, how loud or how soft, where I'd be standing when I said it, and how long I'd wait after she got home.

I'd even said a few lines out loud, you know, the way they do in cheesy movies—or vampire books:

“It just happened, Abby.” (Followed by my sad face.)

“We didn't mean to hurt you, Abby.” (Said with a hand on her shoulder.)

“You're not mad, are you, Abs?” (Said in an indignant tone.)

And always, in my imagination anyway, she was kind and understanding and gentle.

The Abby who took being a B-movie star in stride, who signed autographs for hours after dinner on the rare nights she had off from her busy shooting schedule, who'd gladly loan me the most expensive outfit in her closet for a book signing and not care a whit if I brought it back with Sharpie stains all over the sleeves.

I never considered this Abby: the jealous Abby, the still-in-love-with-Wyatt Abby.

Suddenly her eyes are alive and suspicious—and she's waiting for an answer.

And I know if I don't give her one—right now—that will
be
her answer. She'll know immediately what she already clearly suspects.

In a split second, I blurt out my confession. “We didn't see Bianca's reflection in my locker mirror today after school!”

I wasn't going to tell Abby.

Not this, anyway.

I wasn't going to tell her about Bianca—about our proof.

She hadn't believed me in food and culture class, and I figured one revelation was enough for the night. But in my exhaustion, my fear, my shame, I confessed to something unbelievable over something . . . wonderful.

“Oh, this again?” she says casually, reaching for the white bag with the red-and-green Veggie Heaven logo on the side. “Seriously, give it up. So she dissed you in front of Reece. Big whoop. It's happened a million times before; it'll happen—”

“It's more than that,” I say even as she divvies up our standing midnight-after-work order: two small bags of broccoli bites and spinach puffs for each of us. “It's real this time, and it's not just me. Wyatt saw it too.”

I sink my teeth into a broccoli bite. It's so good, so hot and real, that it reminds me I haven't had anything to eat or drink since half a biscotti—Wyatt stole the rest—at Hallowed Grounds.

That was hours ago. Long, lonely, scared, anxious hours.

Abby finishes off her spinach puffs and starts in on the broccoli bites, saying around a mouthful of both, “Now you're involving
him
in your paranoia?”

“Well, yeah, I didn't mean to, but . . . I was scared.”

“OK, I get that. So what do you think you saw that has you sitting up with a pathetic butcher knife in your hands at 12:30 in the morning? Just like, I might add, a character in one of your books.”

“Bianca had no reflection, Abby. She wasn't there. I mean, she was standing right there, and we could see her with our eyes, but when we looked in the mirror, she wasn't there.”

“There . . . where? When?”

“After school today! Wyatt and I were hanging out by my locker waiting. I have that big mirror in my locker, you know, and when Bianca showed up, we both looked—no reflection. She was there, right behind me. I should have been able to see her and, poof, nothing was there. I didn't want to rely on my own eyes, so I asked Wyatt to look. He saw it too. It was like we could see right through her, to the lockers behind her, the doors, the track field beyond, but only in the mirror.”

“What is this?” she asks with that here-she-goes-again tone, getting up and tossing our empty fast-food wrappers into the trash before grabbing two Jolt Colas from the fridge. “Another scene from one of your books? You're trying out some new material on me? Or should I say
old
material, because I don't mean to rain on your picnic, but that's like really bad movie stuff. And I should know, girl. I'm the queen of bad movies. Even the writers for
Zombie Diaries
wouldn't touch that old shtick with a ten-foot pole. Not being able to see a vampire in a mirror. Nora, you of all people should know better.”

She harrumphs back into her seat and slides me a cold Jolt, old-time saloon-style, the glistening red-and-yellow can skidding down the entire length of the coffee table as if it were wearing roller skates.

I pick it up and suck at it greedily, suddenly thirsty, the triple caffeine rocketing through my veins like a freight train—on speed and acid—heading straight for my already frazzled brain.

“Abby, please listen to me. I know how stupid this sounds; trust me. I know how much it sounds like something out of some stupid vampire book. There's no other way to say the impossible without it sounding impossible. But you
have
to believe me. I'm not making this up. It's not some vendetta against stupid Bianca, whom I couldn't care less about, whatever you and Wyatt think. It's not even about Reece. This is about vampires, real vampires, in our school. It's about our safety. It's about life and death.”

I tell her the rest as we finish our sodas: about Reece in the shadow of Bianca's locker, his fangs, his threats in the lobby stairwell. I show her the fresh bruises on both of my biceps from where he held me tight against the rough concrete wall. I tell her that's why I was sitting there with a knife when she came in.

I can tell she doesn't believe me, thinks I'm being hysterical. But whether she's concerned about vampires or about my sanity, either way she's on red alert.

Fueled with enough green veggies to make Popeye proud and enough caffeine to fuel a shuttle to the moon and back, we pledge to stay up all night and keep a constant vigil on the front door.

We
almost
make it.

W
yatt
is
missing.

Abby and I race to homeroom the next morning, late because we both stayed up so late waiting for him, late because Abby's alarm clock was covered by six pillows and a goose-down-filled duvet, late because she had to stop for coffee on the way. His seat is empty by the time we burst into Mrs. Armbruster's room a full six minutes after third bell.

No, that's not entirely correct. His seat isn't empty, because Reece is using it as a footstool.

“Get off!” I shout, slapping his feet away before I sit down.

“Testy,” he says, looking refreshed and at peace as he keeps his size-twelve boots right where they were.

Bianca is at his side, dutiful but not looking quite so hot.

Whatever deterioration she started yesterday is still going on today, only . . . double-time.

Her hair is limp, the roots dirty and brown in the center of her scalp.

Her skin is pale, bordering on gray, her eyes dark where they were once green, yellow where they were once white.

She covers them quickly with big Gucci sunglasses when she sees me studying her, but it's too late. Her hand is shaking, and I see moisture on her palms and armpits.

I think back to the vampire lore I studied to write Better off Bled #2, which features a pivotal scene in which Scarlet is forced, chained to the wall, by Count Victus to watch a friend of hers
turn
, the vampire term for becoming one of them. I described then the same symptoms I'm seeing now: limp hair, dull eyes, excessive sweating, shallow breath, a change in eye color, pale skin as the human body is literally transformed into the living dead.

According to my research, it is supposed to take seventy-two hours, meaning Bianca is already halfway there, presuming Reece turned her the day she went missing.

I almost feel pity for her, what she must be going through, the changes in her body—the pain and discomfort—as her dead cells are overtaken by silent predators, blood-hungry cells taking over and changing everything, inside and out.

Then I imagine how much stronger, more vicious and evil she'll be tomorrow, and the image quickly fades.

I take my seat, breathing heavily, sliding forward to distance myself from Reece and Bianca.

I'm not alone. Even Bianca's once-faithful girlfriends—
minions
, I call them, while Abby prefers the term
posse
—have distanced themselves, taking seats on the other side of the room.

It's as if they think whatever she has might be catching.

So now it's just the happy couple, feet up on Wyatt's chair, as Mrs. Armbruster clears her throat. “Nora,” she says, imperiously, as she does everything. “Might I have a word up at my desk, please?”

Abby looks at me questioningly before I get out of my seat and trudge to the teacher's big, oak desk, acutely aware that I haven't bathed in twenty-four hours and barely had time to brush my teeth, let alone match my socks, before rushing out of the dorm that morning.

“Nora,” Mrs. Armbruster whispers, a concerned look on her face as her bifocals rest on her large, pendulous breasts, “have you seen Wyatt this morning?”

I shake my head, afraid if I speak, my voice will crack and give Reece that much more ammunition.

“Well”—Mrs. Armbruster sighs, her sad, hazel eyes looking tired and wan—“I'm very concerned. He's such a sweet boy, and I know he has many demands on his time—you all do, and don't I know it—but he always gets to homeroom on time. And you, too, and Abby. And now you're rushing in late, looking like something the cat dragged in, barking orders at that horrible Bianca and that dramatic new student, Reece.

“Is everything quite all right? I know it can be stressful, all these grown-up demands on you, your talent, your time—and you're still just children, the way I see it. We have excellent counselors here, if you're . . . troubled. Or if Wyatt is, or if you're troubled
because
Wyatt is.”

I smile, looking into her eyes surrounded by deep laugh lines and lit by kindness.

Is she ready to hear that vampires really exist?

That they go to her school?

That they sit in the back of her classroom?

“No, it's just typical teenage drama, Mrs. Armbruster. Promise. We'll straighten it out on our own time, and we won't disrespect you by being late again.”

Mrs. Armbruster frowns, shakes her head. “It's not me I'm worried about, dear. Just remember . . . I'm here, whatever you need.”

I smile, walk slowly back to my seat, and give her a reassuring wink when I'm finally sitting down, but she's already gently snoozing.

Abby looks over at me and whispers, “What was
that
all about?”

“Nothing,” I whisper back. “She just—”

But Abby's phone is vibrating, and I know what that means: another early call, some reshoots on her new movie, a photo shoot, whatever. We all know the drill by now.

Even Mrs. Armbruster recognizes the telltale ringtone from Abby's agent and has an office pass waiting for her by the time my best friend gathers up her big purse and clomps from the class, giving me a rushed smile over her shoulder before the real world takes her away.

Once the door has closed behind her, Mrs. Armbruster is silently dozing again above her roll book. When the scattered clusters of cliques and plotters have gone back to their hushed conversations, Reece leans forward until his lips are mere centimeters from my ear.

My entire body wants to bolt, to scream, but I force myself to sit straight and quietly and not move a muscle, lest he think I'm weak again.

“And then there was one,” he says, breath oozing across the nape of my neck, caressing the very spot where he bit Bianca.

“If it's the right one,” I say through gritted teeth, “one is all it takes.”

And just like that, the bell rings. For once I'm the one with the last word!

I rush from class on shaky legs, clear of the door and deep into the halls before Reece and Bianca can even rise.

A
nd still, Reece beats me to my locker. How—when I left the room a full minute before he did—is anybody's guess.

He stands in front of it and won't budge, even when kids on either side of him give us dirty looks and whisper not so subtly.

Once they are gone, he asks, “Have you ever skipped school? In all your days at Nightshade Academy, have you ever once just . . . ditched?”

“What do you think?” I ask, clutching my AP English book to my chest.

“I think it's a good time to start.” He leads me by the arm through the emptying commons and out toward the student parking lot.

I don't resist. I follow him willingly, eagerly, because of one thing: Wyatt.

He must have him hidden somewhere. It's the only explanation.

He races across the lot, head down, hands in his pockets, the California sun bright and clear across what little of his pale skin remains not covered by his leather jacket, long skinny jeans, thick black boots, dark sunglasses, and backward baseball cap.

I linger as he opens the door to a gleaming silver Mercedes, making him get in first to avoid any more exposure to the harsh light of day.