At First Bite (2 page)

“Were you talking to someone?” Mom demands. But before I can invent a fib, she moves on to a new topic. “Why is your lipstick on like that?”

“Wha — I —” I glance at the mirror over my dresser. (Thankfully, the myth about vampires not showing up in mirrors is a false one.) Horrified, I see that some Sanga! is smeared around my mouth. I brush my hand quickly over my lips, and Mom nods approvingly. She always likes everyone to be as neat and pretty as she is.

My mother has big blue eyes and silky blond hair that she wears cropped short. She says we look alike, which makes me happy, but she says I have my dad’s chin, which I’m not sure is a good thing. I don’t know my dad very well: He and Mom divorced when I was little, and he lives in London. For as long as I can remember, it’s been me, Mom, and my older brother, Dylan, (and a rotation of nannies) living in this apartment. Mom was working as a big-shot judge downtown when she got the call from Los Angeles about the reality show. She agreed immediately: Mom loves the idea of a fancy, famous life. I’m sure having a vampire for a daughter doesn’t fit into that plan.

“It’s time for dinner,” Mom says, motioning to the door. “I ordered sushi — your favorite.”

“Yum,” I say halfheartedly; I wish I’d finished my Sanga!

As I follow Mom out of my room, I glance back at my bare walls and stack of boxes. It’s crazy to think that the movers will come first thing in the morning, and then Mom, Dylan, and I will board an airplane.

I feel a tingle of excitement — but then a chill of worry. Arabella’s warning lingers in my mind. I’ll have to ask her more about the Dark Ones as soon as possible. Otherwise, her words will continue to haunt me.

“Check out all the palm trees!” Dylan shouts the next day, rolling down the window of the airport taxi.
“Sick!”

I roll my eyes. “Stop trying to sound cool, Dylan,” I groan. My fifteen-year-old brother is a major dork. I’m talking computer obsessed, no social skills, bad dresser. If it weren’t for his blond hair and blue eyes, I’d swear we weren’t related.

But for once, I have to agree with him. Los Angeles is gorgeous. We’re zooming down a wide boulevard lined with tall green palms. The sky is cloudless, the air smells like flowers, and the sapphire ocean shimmers to our left. I let out a happy sigh. Arabella’s unsettling visit last night has slipped my mind.

“This area is called Santa Monica,” Mom explains from the passenger seat. “And this,” she adds as the cab comes to a stop, “is our new home.”

“Seriously?” I gasp. The house is big and cream colored, with a wraparound balcony. It looks, as Dylan would say, pretty sick.

“Seriously,” Mom laughs while Dylan whips out his iPhone and starts tapping away at the screen. I have no idea what he’s doing, but I don’t care. I’m in California! I burst out of the cab with my heavy duffel bag. The bright sunshine warms my shoulders, and I can’t wait to change out of my cords and turtleneck sweater.

After the driver unloads our luggage, we straggle up to the house and Mom unlocks the front door. As we step inside, I’m surprised by the sudden, hushed emptiness. Cobwebs dangle from ceilings, and a lonely shaft of sunlight slices the living room walls. Long, twisting hallways lead to dark corners. It’s a little spooky, and I shiver.

“Hey, check it,” Dylan says, holding up his iPhone. “I looked up the address online, and it turns out a movie was filmed in this house ages ago! A
horror
movie.”

“Really?” I ask, my stomach tightening. No wonder
the inside feels ominous. I can almost hear the faint echoes of screams, and I can picture a beautiful actress fainting by the doorway….

“Yeah, it was called
At First Bite,”
Dylan says, glancing at the screen. “So cool! Mom, why didn’t you tell us?”

“Whatever,” I snap. “It’s not cool, it’s
creepy”
When you’re basically
living
a horror movie, you don’t want to have anything to do with one. I’ve never heard of
At First Bite,
but the sound of it makes my teeth throb. I hope I won’t feel a fang start to form.

Mom shakes her head as she sets down her suitcase. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she tells me. “A million different movies have been filmed in a million different homes here. I know the space is unfamiliar now, but when our furniture arrives and we put down rugs, it’ll be
perfect.”

Perfect
is my mom’s favorite word. I like it, too. And I know she’s right. I was just being silly, getting weirded out by the new place. It’s time to relax and settle in. As if reading my mind, Mom tells Dylan and me to go upstairs and unpack.

“Okay, but I get dibs on the bigger bedroom!” Dylan hollers as he thunders up the stairs, the frayed laces on his Converse flapping.

“You’re pathetic!” I yell after him, but I follow close behind, my duffel bag swinging from my shoulder.

Dylan grabs the first room off the stairs, so I end up with a more private one down the hall. Best of all, it has a floor-to-ceiling window that opens up onto the balcony. I smile and step outside, and I see that I’m facing the beach. My heart leaps. Golden sand, crashing waves, and, in the distance, a Ferris wheel. I can see kids in shorts, carrying boogie boards and laughing.

And I know what I have to do.

I hurry back into the room, kneeling down to unzip my duffel bag. When I start my new school tomorrow, I will have the world’s best tan.

Ten minutes later, with Mom’s permission, I am flip-flopping across the sand in my pink bikini, a towel tucked under one arm. The beach is crowded, which is no surprise. It’s a Sunday, and according to Dylan (and the weather app on his iPhone), unseasonably warm for mid-January. People are dozing in loungers or playing volleyball

When I find an empty spot, I spread out my towel, lie down, and breathe in the salty air.

Ahh.

This is heaven. It’s been about eight hours since I left cold, slushy New York, but it feels like a lifetime ago.
Maybe,
I think recklessly as I stretch my arms over my head,
I won’t even
be
a vampire here anymore. Maybe everything that happened in New York was like a bad dream.

After all, who can dwell on things like bats and blood when the sun is this strong and seagulls are cawing overhead? I’m not even craving the Sanga! that’s stashed in one of my suitcases back at the house.

Not really, anyway.

I take my cell phone out of my bag and text Eve and Mallory:

Arrived in LA. Lying on the beach. JEALOUS
?

Grinning, I hit
SEND
and stretch out again, the sun beating down on me. Maybe it’ll warm my skin enough so that when people touch me, they won’t think I’m freezing. Still, I wonder if I should put on more sunblock. I slathered on a little SPF 15 back at the house.
In a minute,
I think, digging my toes into the sand.
I’ll just rest and —

“Excuse me?”

A boy’s voice breaks into my dreamy thoughts.

Annoyed, I blink a few times. A boy about my age is standing by my towel, wearing board shorts, a baseball cap, and a T-shirt that says
S.M.A. BEARS.
He’s kind of cute, with curly brown hair, caramel-colored skin, and big brown eyes. I’m surprised I didn’t hear him approach, but maybe, happily, my vampirehearing isn’t so sharp anymore.

“Yes?” I ask, sitting up and smiling. Wouldn’t Eve and Mallory
really
be jealous if they knew I’d already found a possible crush?

“Well,” the boy says shyly, shuffling his feet. “I don’t mean to bother you, but, um … it looks like you’ve got a really bad burn.”

“What are you talking about?” I snap, annoyed again. I glance down at my arms. They do look sort of red, but that’s because I’ve got on my pink-tinted sunglasses.

I bristle. Who does this boy think he is? In New York, people know better than to bug random strangers out of nowhere.

“Maybe you should go to the lifeguard station,” the boy is saying, not noticing my glare. “They have some special ointment if you want —”

“No, I don’t
want
anything,” I interrupt. “Leave me alone.” This boy has
no
idea who he’s messing with.

His face falls and he shrugs. “Okay, okay,” he says, taking a few steps back. “Sorry about that.”

“You’d better be,” I mutter, watching him walk off down the beach. In a huff, I reach for my tote bag, ready to move to a different spot. But as soon as my hands make contact with the bag’s handle, an intense pain shoots up from my palms.

“Ouch!”
I cry. Confused, I whip off my sunglasses and stare down in horror at my hands, which are bright red. As are my arms … my gaze travels down … and my legs … my heart is thudding. I jump to my feet, which look like twin lobsters.

The boy was right. I have an awful sunburn. But how? I haven’t been out here that long! I wonder if other people are noticing how burned-to-a-crisp I am. Panicked, I glance around. I have to get back to the house immediately.

I grab my tote bag and towel —
ouch!
— shove on my flip-flops, and start running across the sand. Suddenly, I’m dying for a Sanga!. I snuck one in New York this morning, but I shouldn’t have gone this long without another. My throat is dry and my stomach is growling and I really, really hope I won’t start to bat-shift. I feel like I’m about to collapse as I ring the bell to my new house.

When my mother opens the door,
she
looks like she might pass out. Her face goes white and her eyes bug out of her head.

“What on
earth
have you done?” she demands, grabbing my arm —
ouch!
— and pulling me inside. “Come, see for yourself,” she adds, all but dragging me into the first-floor bathroom. She turns me toward the mirror …

… and I scream.

It’s so much worse than I thought. My entire face is the color of a cherry tomato. It looks like someone splashed red paint across my collarbone and shoulders. Even my
eyeballs
look sunburned.

And I have to start a new school like this.

At that thought, I scream again. Talk about a horror movie.

“What’s going on?” Dylan asks, appearing outside the bathroom. “I heard a scream —” He pauses, then doubles over in a fit of hysterical laughter. “Ba-ha-ha-ha!” he howls. “Hey, Ash, I think you have something on your face…. No, I mean … How was it, chillin’ on the surface of the sun?” He can barely catch his breath between his dumb jokes.

I’m so mad I’m shaking. I feel like I could cry, but I don’t want to give my brother the satisfaction. Instead,
I grab a magazine from my tote bag —
ouch!
— and fling it at his head. Unfortunately, he ducks.

“Dylan, leave your sister alone,” Mom barks. As he scoots away, still laughing, Mom turns to me, looking disappointed. “I don’t understand, Ashlee,” she says crisply. “Haven’t I taught you about proper skin care?” She sounds furious, like I chose to become a human fire engine on purpose. “I’m just glad I negotiated to not have you or your brother appear on the show,” she mutters to herself.

“Mom, I don’t know how this happened!” I wail. But deep down, I have a sneaking suspicion. I may have read about it in a book or seen it in a movie, but yes, I am pretty sure that vampires are supposed to stay out of the sun.

Except it doesn’t make sense — back home, I could go out on sunny days and be fine. True, I was bundled up in a scarf and coat, since I’ve only been a vampire since the end of October. My thoughts are swirling, but I know there’s one person I can turn to.

“I’ll be right back,” I tell my mom frantically. “I have to, um, call Eve.”

“Wait —” Mom says, then shakes her head. “Fine. I need to pick up the new car from the dealer
anyway. I’ll stop at the drugstore on the way back to see if I can find something to fix this.”

“Thanks!” I say, darting around her and dashing up the stairs. I’m relieved that she’ll be gone for a while.

In my room, I take out my cell phone —
ouch! —
but before I can send a text, I see I have one waiting for me. A reply.

Sweet! Send us pix of ur tan. We’re having hot cocoa & ice-skating! Eve & Mal

I feel a stab of hurt. I can never send my friends a picture of my (not exactly tan) self. But most of all, it bothers me that they’re together, having cozy fun without me.

Whatever. I have more important things to deal with. I tap out a simple message, wincing as my sore fingers hit the keys:

EMERGENCY!

One endless minute later, my phone buzzes with an incoming call.

“What’s wrong?” Arabella asks, her voice taut with worry. “What did you see? How badly are they hurt? Were there other witnesses?”

“Arabella, I look like a monster and you never told me that I wasn’t supposed to go sunbathing and
now I have to go to school —” I stop babbling as her words sink in. “Wait,
what
did you say?”

Arabella sucks in a breath. “What did
you
say? You told me there was an emergency! I thought you were calling about …” She drops her voice to a whisper.
“Dark Ones.”

“Oh.” I’d somehow forgotten all about Arabella’s haunting warning. “That. Well, yeah. No. I got a bad sunburn.”

There’s a moment of silence, and I suspect Arabella is taking her deep yoga breaths, which she sometimes does when she’s angry.

Then she speaks, slowly and carefully. “Ashlee, I’m at the office on a Sunday. Fashion Week is right around the corner, and things are crazy. Now, don’t tell me you went to the beach or wore a bikini or just slapped on some SPF 15 or something?”

Now it’s my turn to be silent. “All three,” I finally whisper.

“Ashlee!” I hear her rings knock as she slaps her hand on her desk. “You’re a vampire now. Our skin is very, very sensitive to sunlight, unless we’re in bat form. In colder climates, it’s not a problem. But you have to promise me that you will wear SPF 75 if you go to the beach. And it’s best to wear long
sleeves and pants if you’ll be outside for a while. Oh, and sun hats.”

“Sun hats?” I feel like crying again.

“Yes,” Arabella says. “You should know this, Ashlee. It’s in the Handbook.”

Right. Arabella gave me the Transylvanian Vampire’s Handbook back in November. I skimmed it, but it was totally boring. Right now, it’s packed alongside my Sanga! cooler in my giant purple suitcase — the one Mom thought was suspiciously heavy this morning.

“Anyway, I need to go,” Arabella is saying. “But remember, sweetie: SPF 75. Read the Handbook. And call me if you see anything —”

“Suspicious. I know, I know.” I sigh, then tell Arabella good-bye and hang up.

My stomach growls as I walk over to the suitcases that Mom must have brought up while I was out. I open my purple one —
ouch!
— and take out my Sanga! cooler. Once I’m finally sipping the sweet drink, I sink down onto the floor and rest my back against the wall. So much for my not being a vampire in LA.

I glance inside the suitcase, ignoring the black leather cover of the Handbook. My eyes drift
mournfully over some of my wonderful warm-weather outfits. The blue-and-white romper; the yellow dress with the green trim; the lavender tank top … All fabulous options for my first day at Santa Monica Academy.

But not anymore.

Reluctantly, I pick up my phone and call my mother. She answers on the first ring.

“Hi, Mom,” I say, forcing the words out. “Are you at the drugstore yet? I think I’m going to need a sun hat….”