“I know who you are, Rayne,” Mr. Teifert says, scratching his balding head.
I raise an eyebrow. “Oh. Then maybe an explanation of why you dragged me in here might be in order, don’t you think?”
He nods. “Yes, yes, of course.” He takes a deep breath. “Now brace yourself. This may be a little difficult to take in at first . . .”
Um, he isn’t going to tell me he’s in love with me, is he? That would be extremely gross. I mean, sure, I dated my English teacher for two weeks last semester, but he was a sexy twenty-two-year-old Australian who liked Nietzsche. Mr. Teifert’s practically ancient—at least forty, I’d say—and so not sexy or cute or Australian. Besides, once I caught him singing show tunes, so I’d been thinking he might bat for the other team.
“What I’m going to tell you may come as a bit of a shock,” he continues in an extremely serious tone.
Jeez, enough with the drama, drama-teacher guy.
“Shock. Awe. I gotcha. Spit it out.” After all, I’m late for class. Not that this would normally bother me.
He clears his throat. “Very well then. Once a generation a girl is born who is destined to slay the vampires.”
I stare at him. “You know about Bertha?” I ask incredulously. “You know about vampires?” Okay, he’s right. I am shocked. And awed. And all that. I had no idea this geeky old balding teacher had any clue about the Otherworld. I guess that’s why he acted so weird when Sunny and I were joking around in the auditorium last week.
“Bertha, um, has had some blood pressure problems,” he stammers. “She’s temporarily retired from the slaying biz.”
“I see . . .” I say slowly. Too much drive-through super sizing for Bertha between slays, I guess.
“No, I don’t think you do,” Mr. Teifert says. “What I’m trying to tell you, Ms. McDonald, is that you are next in line.”
“Next in line?” I swallow hard, not liking where this is going. “Next in line for what, exactly?”
Mr. Teifert smiles and holds out his hand. “Congratulations, Rayne McDonald. You are the chosen one. Slayer Inc.’s new official Vampire Slayer.”
To be continued . . .
Mari Mancusi, Boys That Bite
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