Vampire Crush (22 page)

“Now,” Vlad says. “Where were we?”

He advances toward me, and I instinctively take a step back. It’s difficult not to lunge at him again with the stake, but I know that a frontal attack is doomed to repeat failure. My only chance of success is if I wait until he is distracted.

“Once it is done, how wil we contact the Danae?”

Vlad sneers. “For al of their ‘secrecy,’ it is not difficult to figure out who among the families is a part. I wil contact them with word that I have information on Nevil e and then use that to explain—” He stops. “You do not care. I wil not let you stal any longer.”

He moves forward again, and I retreat until my back is against the tree. My mind wildly wonders if it is the same one as before as he stands in front of me and forces my head up.

“Is this real y worth it?” I blurt. “You’ve alienated al of your friends.”

“I wil have new friends,” he says. “It is as they say—to make an omelet, you must crack a few heads.”

“Eggs,” I say. “Crack a few eggs.”

“That does not make any sense,” he says impatiently, and then without even a three, two, one, he bends over and buries his fangs in my neck.

Like before, the pain is like a sudden fire as Vlad’s thumb digs into the hol ow between my neck and col arbone. But whereas before it was over like a lightning flash, now it seems to go on and on, until none of my senses are acting like they should. I see oceans of dul red and deep indigo. I smel junkyard rust, thick and undeniable. My fingers feel as though they sparkle.

Fingers,
I think through the gasping shock
. I am
supposed to be doing something with them.
Even though my muscles feel like cotton, I manage to lift my arm to my waist, wrap my palm around the handle, and tug it from my waistband. As I’m testing the point with my thumb, Vlad jerks at my shoulder, and I press down hard enough that I know I’ve torn it open, and here when I have no blood to spare. He’s grunting at my neck like a piglet, and even though my mind feels like a bal oon that’s escaped its owner, I would like to laugh at him for losing his perpetual air of civility; this is as distracted as he wil ever be. Slowly, careful y, I ease the jagged handle between us. I know that I wil have one chance, only one chance, and I can’t even check my aim.

The color begins to leech from the sky, and for a second the edges of my vision turn gray.
No. No, not yet.
Any second now Vlad wil be pul ing his head back, mouth smeared with blood, and offering me his own, and I wil take it because the only other choice wil be to die and let him have free reign on the world I’ve left.
One upward thrust,
I tel myself.
One upward thrust and then you can go to
sleep.
Closing my eyes, I take a ragged breath, picturing al the remaining energy in my body flowing upward, flowing to my arm, flowing to my fingers, flowing through the very wood.

I attack … and I feel flesh give. But nothing happens.
I missed,
I think,
I missed.
The only thing left to do is hope that vampires can’t exist without a liver. But then Vlad starts to choke, his fangs digging deeper and deeper with every heave until final y he tears his head back and looks me in the eyes, blood dripping from the corners of his mouth in a grotesque frown. And then everything is gray, gray forever, gray raining down on me, covering me in ash until my eyes burn and my skin itches.

“There,” I say to Devon and Ashley, who stand before me, impassive, just before my legs buckle beneath me. Staring up at the dreamy pink sky, I think that I have never felt so weak in my life. Not even after people made me run.
Wait,
should I be thinking deep thoughts?
My lashes flutter closed, and the
pumdrum
of my heart slows until I feel like eternity can fit between the beats. I start to hear things, a kaleidoscope of familiar voices. My dad. Marcie. Violet. Nevil e, which surprises me, because while he’s okay and everything, I don’t real y think we were ever that close. And then James. James. I think I smile. I want to smile. The ground expands beneath me, becoming pil owy, soft. It is a featherbed from which I never want to get up, and the further I sink, the less the cold bites my fingers and toes. If rain stil fal s on my face, I don’t feel it. At this point, I am not sure that I stil possess a nose or lips. I am a nude Mr. Potato Head. Don’t get me wrong, it feels nice. It feels gentle, it feels peaceful, it feels …

Smack!

I hear it first, and then feel it eons later, like thunder after a lightning strike. There is a dul buzz in my ears, the cry of an exotic bird on repeat. It crescendos, sets a pattern.
Ohfeyohfeyohfeyohfey
and then a guttural whir of
Godododod
. I should have learned more about birds… . Then I could tel it to shut up in special bird language so I can sleep.

“Sophie! Sophie! God,” a voice says, and I realize that the sound has exploded into my name. “Sophie!”

This last bark is accompanied by the dul prodding of what can only be fingers on my shoulders and cheeks. I wince, and even that tiny movement is painful. I want to feel my cheeks to make sure that they haven’t split at the seams. The voice cal s my name again excitedly. “You need to drink this,” it says.

Why?

“Because I want you to stay here,” the voice insists. “Now drink. Please.” The final plea is accompanied by the sensation of something wet being dribbled onto my mouth.
Geez, okay,
I think, opening my mouth to let in something that feels like syrup. From above me comes a relieved sigh, and then I am drowning in the liquid, drinking it in. I am an old pro at this; when I was little I used to stand beneath rain showers and try to catch as many drops in my mouth as possible, and I do that now, only this is a monsoon and I have lost count. Al I know is that with every second I do this, I regain the feeling in my toes, my legs. I feel stronger. I feel like I have a nose again. I feel like I have two noses. Five noses.

When I can feel my eyes again, I open them. James is leaning over me with only one nose. But four eyes—no, wait, two.

Welcome back,
James says, his mouth stretched into a grin.
You suck at chess.

How did you get here?
I ask, the world stil spinning a bit.
I came to see you as soon as we got back, and you
weren’t home. So we came here and found Violet on the
way. She told me about Caroline.

Nice. You know, I don’t think I’m actually moving my lips
right now.

You aren’t. It’s a perk of your new condition.
What new condition?

A shadow crosses James’s face. He stands up, escaping my line of sight. I pul myself into a sitting position, feeling as though I could run a marathon. I have never felt as though I could run a marathon … and then it hits me.

I look to my right where the rest of the vampires watch the proceedings with solemn faces. Marisabel is hugging herself and looking a bit sick, although that might be because she is staring at the dust that used to be Vlad. And Violet … wel , Violet is clapping her hands. She runs toward me and throws her arms around my neck, smel ing of floral perfume and dirt.

“I am so happy that you are one of us now!” she cries into my shoulder.

“A vampire?” I say. Or ask. My thoughts are whirring so fast that I can no longer tel .

“You are! And we are going to have so much fun!” she crows before releasing me and bobbing back to the group. I look to James, who has crossed his arms and is now staring at the line of trees as though he has just noticed them for the first time.

What did you do?
I ask, saying it internal y without even thinking. He doesn’t respond, but the funny thing is that I can feel his mind there, the thoughts like lights through stained glass. I can feel the others’ minds as wel —dimmer, not as distinct, but there. And those are not the only lights I see. Tiny patches of heat weave through the undergrowth in a lazy, sporadic pattern. Slowly they take on the shapes of animals—a group of huddled mice, the compact figure of a bird taking shelter from the rain.

“I’m a vampire,” I say again, and then repeat it several times, each more accusatory than the last.

“It was the only way to save you,” he says softly. “Vlad took a lot of blood.”

“You were supposed to ask me,” I say.

Being a vampire is better than
dead
dead,
he says, anger flashing in his eyes.
That’s what you told me. You
said that there were worse things. I thought—

He stops when I stand up abruptly. I want to say that I would have rather died, but that’s not true, not real y. I would have liked to have not had to make a choice at al . “I think I’m going to go home now,” I say, doing my best to ignore James’s distressed stare or the way he tracks my every movement. I try to walk past him, but he reaches out and catches my wrist.

“What are you doing?”

“Sophie, you shouldn’t go home right now. We need to talk about how you are going to handle this. Your family …

they can’t know.”

“No! I am going home and I am going to see my dad and Marcie and Caroline.”

“Not yet,” he says, tugging at my wrist. I let myself be dragged in for the embrace. The material of James’s Tshirt is soft against my cheek. Listening to him, it almost feels like it’s going to be okay. If he just keeps talking, if I don’t ever have to think about the next step, it wil be okay. But then James pushes me away and stares at my chest. Before I can ask what is wrong, he presses his hand over my left breast.

“Hey!” I slap at his hand, but he ignores it and presses harder.

“Your heart,” he says in wonderment.

“Yes,” I say slowly, “it’s there.” I don’t know where he gets off acting like he’s the one who has been drained and refil ed today.

He meets my gaze. “It’s beating.”

“Yes, it is.”

Grabbing my wrist again, he clamps both thumbs across the purplish ghosting of veins. “Sophie,” he says louder. “It’s beating.”

“We’ve established that, James.”

“Sophie—,” he repeats, but is cut off when Nevil e’s voice rings out behind us.

“Vampire hearts don’t beat.” He nudges James’s thumbs out of the way, and then looks at me with identical wonder.
No one could still be human after that exchange. I have
seen people turn with half that amount.
He gives a short laugh.
Vlad was right.

Ripping my wrist away, I put fingers to my neck to test it. It’s true. My skin bumps against the pads of my fingers in a happy, gentle rhythm. I could sing. I could dance. I could do a freaking cheer. And then I come to another realization: My skin is smooth, unblemished.

“You healed,” James says, answering my question. “You heard my thoughts. I’ve watched your eyes fol ow the animals … But you are breathing. You are alive,” he says aloud, but is fol owed by something that I know—I know—he would never want anyone to hear.

It’s not fair.

An awkward silence fal s, a silence that lasts until the sound of approaching footsteps make everyone tense.

“Where are Devon and Ashley?” I snap and instinctively crouch down, feeling a new strength coiled and waiting in my muscles.

“Beneath your feet,” James says.

I glance down, stepping back when I realize that I’m standing in what looks like the remains of two giant campfires. Gross.

“We took them out first,” Violet chirps and then nods toward the picnic table. “When you were sleeping on the ground.

I am saved from having to find anything intel igent to add by Caroline bursting into the clearing. Her hair is a mess, her clothing is more torn than not, and she’s clutching what must be the biggest stick she could find in the woods. She drops it when she sees me. I am enveloped in another hug. Today may not have turned me into a vampire, but I am apparently now a hugger.

“I got in my car and drove halfway home before coming back,” she says in my ear before raising her head. “Wait. Is everything fine?”

“It’s over,” I say, not liking the note of uncertainty in my voice. “Wel , the Vlad part.”

“I was so scared. I felt horrible,” she says.

Thank god I don’t have to explain things to Mom and
Fred.

The thought comes out of nowhere. I blink and look at Caroline, who’s stil smiling at me with genuine relief. As much as I’d like to think it was my imagination, I have the sinking feeling that I am going to have to get used to the unedited version of people’s thoughts for at least the near future.

“Let’s go home,” I say, turning to find the others. James has moved away and joined their group. They are busy discussing particulars—how to get Vlad’s car back to the house when his keys “dusted” along with him, among other things. Caroline tugs at my hand, pul ing me toward the trees. And after a few more seconds, I let her lead me.

Caroline drives us home. She has questions—But why did Vlad want me? Was James like them?—and she deserves answers. After al , she is taking this vampire hostage thing like a pro; and a part of me suspects that it’s because it answers al of her questions about why her relationship with Vlad failed. Too exhausted to find a starting point, I promise to tel her later, and after a few failed attempts to prod the story out of me, she gives up and focuses on the road. It is difficult to keep from staring at her neck. Not because of the wound, which has final y ceased to bleed, but because I can see the gentle glow of light winding out of her col ar and traveling up her neck. I try to blink it away, hoping it wil disappear like the after flash of a surprise picture, but it remains.

When we pul into the driveway, she uses the rearview mirror to arrange her hair over the bite marks and then reaches into the backseat. Tossing a blue shirt in my lap, she starts to pul off her own.

“Why do you have several changes of clothes in the back of your car?” I ask.

“You don’t?” she says after she’s pul ed off her own switcheroo. “Maybe you should.”

I cast a rueful look at what was once my favorite shirt. “You know, maybe you’re right.” I change into the navy polo and then study our front door and its folksy, suburban wreath.

“What are we going to tel them?”

She smiles with some of the old bubble. “Please. Leave it to me.”

And so I do, nodding every time there’s a pause in Caroline’s story about how I found her at Amanda’s and there was a flat tire, and that’s why I’m al grimy. I am distracted by the way I can feel the concern rol ing off of my father. By the time I pick up Caroline’s random
They are so
buying it
, I’m rattled enough to beg leave to go upstairs, where I take an hour-long shower. I feel safe there, where the tile is bright white and unchanging, and where I am free of al thoughts but my own.

I check my pulse a lot in the days that fol ow. I check in class, I check at the dinner table, I check at stoplights. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night with my fingers already at my neck or on my wrist. There is always that moment of panic when I can’t locate it, when I think that the fluke is final y over and that I am going to suddenly feel the points of fangs jabbing at the corners of my mouth. But then I find it. I always find it, beating fast and strong and human.

My “side effects” don’t go away. Whatever balance was tipped by James’s impromptu blood transfusion does not find its equilibrium. My family, teachers, and classmates now glimmer like glowworms, even under fluorescent lights, and I am stil a satel ite for stray thoughts. I know that this is not normal; I know that I should be looking into what it means and who (and what exactly) I am. Sometimes I watch my father as he putters around the house, wondering how much he knew or knows and finding it hard to believe that a man who owns a snowman tie could have ever been wrapped up in anything remotely supernatural. Occasional y I even try to listen in on his thoughts, before guilt makes me stop. I wonder more about my mother in this week than I have in the last five years, but I am stil not ready to crack it open. I tel myself tomorrow, and then tomorrow I tel myself next week.

Mr. Amado doesn’t choose me as editor in chief. While there’s a moment where it makes me want to pick up and hurl something at the wal —or at least stake Vlad al over again—I know that Lindsay deserves it more than I do, if only because she played the game fair and honest the entire way through. She’s already promised me that she’l include any investigative article I want to write. I am tempted to test that with vampires, but I think I’m vampired out. Or at least that’s what I’m trying to convince myself of these days. James does not come to school in the next week, nor does he appear outside my window. I try not to be disappointed, but I won’t say that seeing the empty chemistry stool isn’t a kick in the gut. Every night I try not to squint at his house, and every night I fail. A part of me longs to confront him, but after my shocked words during the brief time that I thought I was a vampire, thrusting my mortality in his face now seems like the ultimate insult.

But then one night I’m up late working on my French homework, trying to figure out how to tel Pierre, who is always lost, how to get to the
boulangerie
when I catch a smal glow of light in the corner of my eye. Holding my breath, I peer out the window, the tiny flicker of hope shrinking with every second that passes.
Come on, come
on,
I think, wil ing it into existence. My face is mere inches from the glass when it flares again. I am out of my chair so fast that I stumble over the legs, knocking my knees against the armrests. Lately I’ve been misjudging the time it takes to complete actions, to get from point A to point B. Right now, however, I don’t care. I thunder down the stairs with no regard for who I might be waking.

The night air is cool, crisp; fal has sprung. Kicking up leaves, I cut across the yard and duck through the hole in the fence, expecting to find James waiting for me on the porch, but the porch is empty. Confused, I walk to the side of his house and check the window only to be met with the same infuriating lack of James. This is the proof I’ve been waiting for. Tomorrow I wil cal the asylum. “I am losing my mind,” I say aloud to no one in particular.

“No, you’re not,” James’s voice says from above me. I look up again to see his face hanging over the eaves of the highest window.

“You’re on the roof,” I say, stupidly. It’s nice to know that whatever other changes I have experienced this past week, my powers of stating the obvious are stil intact. He smiles and holds out his arms. “So I am.”

“Are you going to come down?” I ask. I should be much more annoyed with him than I am. I promise to start as soon as my brain stops going
happyhappyhappyhappy-happy
.

“Nope.”

Or I can start being annoyed now. “Wel , as fun as it is to stare up your nose, I have French homework to finish.”

“I think that you should come up,” he suggests.

“And I think
you’re
losing your mind.”

“Try it,” he insists, walking to the corner of the house and pointing to the roof of the covered porch. “Grab the ledge and then boost yourself up.”

I stare at the item in question, which is a good four feet above my head. “I think you overestimate my jumping skil s.”

James’s only answer to that is to smile.

I decide to humor him. Crouching down, I attempt to leap toward the gutter. No one has ever been more shocked than I am when I feel the ridge of metal beneath my fingers and hear the creak of it bending beneath my weight.

“Now pul yourself up. Er, quickly please. You’re kind of destroying my house.”

Stil in shock, I manage to swing a leg up and then crawl onto the roof of the porch. Brushing my hair back behind my ears, I peer over the edge.

“One more to go,” James says, and this time I trust that I can make it. It turns out that this is a misguided instinct.

“Can I get a little help here?” I say as I hang with one heel on the roof of James’s house and the other one dangling in the breeze.

He grabs my arm and hauls me up, hard enough that I bump into his chest. For a second his arms rest at my waist, and my heart beats fast between us. But then I get a flash of thought—
so alive
—and I pul back, embarrassed and uneasy. James was right; this new vampire thing is kind of a bitch.

James clears his throat and takes a seat on the highest point. “It wil get easier.”

“Jumping onto roofs?”

“Sure. That and everything,” he says, and I realize that the reassurance wasn’t just meant for me. It was meant for him as wel .

We sit in silence for a few moments, and I study the neighborhood from my new bird’s-eye view. The streets are quiet. Every once in a while a car passes with a gentle
whoosh
, but for the most part we seem to be the only ones awake. The moon is a pale sliver.

“I am sorry for what I said in the woods,” I final y say when I work up the courage. “I am glad that you saved me, and I would’ve been glad even if it did turn me into a ful vampire. I was just in shock. And I’m sorry because it
is
unfair, and you have every right—”

“Stop,” he says.

The shortness of his interruption makes my stomach sink; it was too soon to come over here. I peer over the side of the roof as I try to figure out my exit strategy. It’s stil a little daunting to think that I should ever just leap off a roof.

“Maybe we should talk later,” I say, but before I can do anything, he grabs my hand.

Idiot, that’s not what you meant.
The thought cuts into my own, and it takes me a moment to realize that’s not my thought—it’s his.

“Then what did you mean?” I ask, and I can tel that I’ve thrown him.

“Okay, that real y is kind of annoying,” he says before his face turns serious. “What I meant to say is that you shouldn’t apologize. I was jealous, but that doesn’t mean I’m not happy that you’re alive.
Never
apologize for that.”

I look at him, not knowing what I could possibly say through the wel of emotion that has decided to gather in my throat.

“And if I ever act like you should,” he continues, “you can total y throw things at my head.”

I manage a shaky laugh. “Just then?” I joke, but it has no edge at al because I am too busy looking at him. After al these days of being surrounded by slightly neon people, it’s nice to be next to someone who is nice and non-shiny.

“You, on the other hand, look like a weather map,” he says.

It’s al I can do not to pul my hand away; this is not something that I am going to get used to, not the mind reading or the idea that James pictures me as a warm front. “Real y?” I ask, more disappointed than I want to be.
At least he didn’t say that I’m the color of a baboon’s butt.
He snorts, and I realize that he’s stil tuning in.

“Stop listening!”

“Sorry,” he says, not sounding sorry at al . After a while he says, “I wasn’t being serious. There’s just a slight glow.”

“Why can’t I hear you as wel as you can hear me?” I ask, because it’s true. I only seem to hear him when we are touching.

“I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe it’s because you’re not a ful vampire.”

Maybe. For al my attempts to drown myself in normalcy, questions are starting to seep in. Lately, I’ve been trying to remember al of the things Vlad ever said and trying to sort the legitimate from the delusional. I should have taken his dumb book when he offered it to me.

“Then what am I?”

“You’re Sophie,” James says. “That’s al that matters to me. That’s al that matters to anyone.”

“Do you think the other vampires wil stay?”

“Marisabel is already gone.”

“What?”

“She left a few days ago. She said there were too many memories here, and she wanted to try things on her own for once.”

“But where wil she go?” I ask.

“She said that she’d figure something out.”

“So Violet and Nevil e are staying?”

“You couldn’t pry Violet away with a stick. And Nevil e apparently has some part in the musical. Troy or something? I don’t know. He’s very excited.”

It’s a little strange how happy I am to hear that Violet wil be staying, even though it means that the Neal problem is stil … wel , the Neal problem.

“What about Vlad?”

“He’s dead, Sophie.”

“I know that. But aren’t people at school going to wonder where he went?” I ask.

“There never were any records. Vlad used his powers to convince people that he should be there, I’l be able to convince people that he shouldn’t. And after al , there aren’t any parents to report him missing.”

“So you’re staying?” I ask, because while al signs point to this, I just need for him to say it.

James looks at me, his eyes dark with emotion. So is the rest of his face because, you know, it’s the middle of the night. But his eyes are darker. I swear.

“Where else would I go?” he says softly.

“I don’t know. I thought you might want to get away from …

reminders.”

He looks up at the sky, at the stars above. “When I came back I thought that living in my old house would make everything feel … I don’t know, corrected somehow. I thought I would feel like nothing had changed. And then when it didn’t feel like that, I hated it. I hated every single brick and shingle. But it doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Why?”

He looks at me, gaze intent. “Because when I’m with you, I stil feel like me. And maybe that’s enough.”

His words elate me—there is no other good way to describe this—and it causes severe technical difficulties between my brain and my mouth. But maybe that’s because I’m not supposed to talk. This time I have no trouble closing the distance. My kiss lands southeast of its target, but he corrects my tactical error. It’s not perfect. Sure, his lips are cooler than the average guy’s and I think that I may be sitting on his hand, but under the very strange circumstances I think this is a happyish ending. And you know what? Kissing on rooftops is kind of awesome.

Acknowledgments

Vampire Crush
wouldn’t be here without the help of a crew of amazing people, including Cristina Hoepker, its earliest cheerleader and official godmother; Meghan Deans, who is not only a critique-giver extraordinaire, but who also wins the prize for enduring more lunches where the main discussion topic is “Vampires and Writing About Them”

than anyone, anywhere; Lindsay Ribar, whose enthusiasm has been invaluable; Preeti Chhibber, future publishing star (just you wait); Amy Spalding, generous giver of many Google chat pep talks, and Jenny Jackson, without whose patience and understanding this book would never have been finished. Not to mention the other wildly intel igent readers of early drafts: Laura Brett, Tina Brilej, Lindsey Cuddeback, Mara Dabrishus, Emily Giglierano, Marjorie Hakala, Marisabel Hoepker, Mol y Jacobs, Alaya Johnson, Laura Lancaster, Chris Lough, Robin Kel er, Liz Kies, Chrissy Marcum, Jessica Sison, and Nikki Wood. My eternal gratitude to the team at HarperTeen: Erica Sussman, the most talented editor anyone could ask for; Tyler Infinger, who I’m sure has helped in more ways than I know; Alison Klapthor, designer of the kick-ass cover; and Jessica Berg, crackerjack production editor. At Levine Greenberg, thanks should go to Beth Fisher, who helped get Sophie to Germany and Russia, and Victoria Skurnick, the world’s best first boss and an even better agent. And, final y, a mil ion bil ion thank yous to Sue Robinson, aka Mom, who is not only endlessly inspiring, but who patiently wrote down my stories when I was four and never once edited out the exploding Christmas geese, and to Gary Robinson, aka Dad, who not only read my teen vampire romance, but who finished it first.