Not that they haven’t given it the old college try. They’ve strung flashing multicolored lights in the rafters and hung large white sheets from floor to ceiling, blocking the windows. They set fans behind these sheets so that they billow in the breeze. Slide projectors across the room cast eerie, nondescript images onto the white sheet backgrounds.
In front of the slightly elevated stage area, they’ve placed the pièce de résistance—a bondage cage. At least that’s what it’s supposed to look like. I think they just took some wire fencing and spray-painted it black.
Behind the “cage,” an obese DJ type with a scruffy beard rummages through records and large speakers pump out overblown Goth, industrial, and electronica sounds. They even have one of those cheesy smoke machines, which totally makes me start coughing the second we enter.
The other club kids don’t seem to mind the cheesiness or the smoke. Dressed uniformly in black, they sway to the music, doing a dance that to me resembles getting one’s foot stuck in the mud. They slowly, meticulously pull the foot out, only to have the other foot then seemingly get stuck as well, forcing them to repeat the whole process from the beginning.
“School!” Rayne shouts in my ear.
“Huh?” What does she mean, “school”? OMG—does she see someone from our high school? Oh, man, I’d be mortified if someone I knew caught me here in my current ensemble and word got out to my field hockey teammates. I’d never hear the end of it. “Who’s here from school?”
“No, I said, ‘it’s cool!’” Rayne corrects. Oh. Phew. Not that I agreed with her assessment, mind you, but at least it didn’t involve me having to hide behind one of those billowing sheets.
“I’m going to get a drink,” Rayne says, pointing to a small, makeshift bar on one wall. Unlike bars in real clubs, of course, this one only serves soda. Too bad. Not that I’m some alky, but in this case a beer might help dull the pain.
“Get me a Red Bull,” I tell her. Maybe a megadose of caffeine will be the ticket. Rayne nods and disappears into the fog.
I find a wall and make like a wallflower, wondering why on earth I agreed to this torture. We’ve been here five minutes and I already have a splitting headache. Not to mention, the stench of the masses makes me want to puke. Seriously, would it hurt to apply a little Secret to your pits before working up a sweat on the dance floor?
I try to give my brain the Pollyanna pep talk.
Okay, try to have a good attitude, Sunny. Rayne has done plenty for you. Stop being so selfish and go with the flow. Who knows, you might even have fun!
Yeah, right. Even Pollyanna-brain doesn’t believe that one. Best I will be able to manage is to fake a good time.
“Good evening.”
Oh no. A guy. Addressing me. I thought Rayne said everyone was gay here. I look up, ready to point to my tank top, when my gaze falls on the most gorgeous pair of eyes I’ve ever seen in my sixteen years on the planet. They are literally the color of sapphires. I mean, I’ve seen plenty of blue eyes in my day, but nothing like these.
Better yet, the eyes are attached to a face equally amazing. I quickly take stock: smooth skin, high cheekbones, sooty black eyelashes. Long brown hair, pulled back in a ponytail. I’m not normally into the long hair thing, but on this guy it totally works. He looks like a blue-eyed Orlando Bloom. (Pirates of the Caribbean Orlando, not LOTR and certainly not Troy, just FYI.) Best of all, unlike the other Gothed-out club kids, he isn’t wearing a stitch of black. Just a simple tight white T-shirt and a pair of low-rise jeans. No eyeliner either, thank goodness.
I scan the area, sure that “Orlando” must be speaking to someone other than me. Some supermodel to my right, perhaps. But I see no one in the general vicinity. Hmmm . . .
“H-hi,” I say, my words sounding squeaky and young. I hate my voice. Makes me sound like I’m ten. Rayne and I are identical twins and yet she has this sultry, raspy voice somehow. Maybe it’s due to her smoking, though, and I’m sorry, but if it’s a choice between eventual lung cancer and a squeaky voice, you can call me Minnie Mouse any day of the week.
Instead of replying, the guy reaches out and presses his palm against my cheek. His skin is cool, but his touch scorches my skin. His eyes study my face, then roam my body and I suddenly feel naked under his glare. I give an involuntary shiver and I can feel goose bumps popping up all over my arms. Wow. I can’t remember the last time a guy gave me actual goose bumps! Maybe never.
I know I should be questioning why this random guy has approached me in a nightclub and evidently feels it’s no big deal to reach out and touch me so intimately, but I can’t find the words to voice any objections.
“I’m Magnus,” he says in a breathy, dangerous voice with a distinct hint of English accent. “I believe you were expecting me?”
My heart sinks. Damn it, I knew he had the wrong girl. He probably has some blind date he’s searching for and mistook me for her. (Though why a guy of his caliber would have to go on a blind date is beyond me. Any date with 20/20 vision would snatch him up at first sight!)
Wait a second here. If he doesn’t even recognize his date-to-be, what kind of hold does this chick have on him, anyway? They’re obviously not yet a couple, which in my book makes him fair game. I look around, making sure there’s no crazy possessive blind date type hovering nearby, ready to claw out my eyes for stepping into her territory. But the coast seems clear.
“Hi, Magnus,” I say, having to shout over the music. “I’m Sunny.”
He cocks his head, a confused look on his face. Then he touches a finger to his ear and smiles at me. Ah. I get it. He can’t hear me over the music. Just when I’m about to retry my intro with a louder voice, he takes my hand and pulls me toward the club’s exit.
I can feel my heart pounding in my chest—a billion beats a minute would be an understatement of tempo at this point. Where is he leading me? Should I follow or break away? I scan the room for Rayne—to at least let her know I’ll be right back—but she’s nowhere to be seen.
We step outside into the crisp night air. It’s rather chilly out here, even for New Hampshire in May. The club’s bouncer eyes us suspiciously for a moment before turning back to continue flirting with the cute blond jailbait to his right. Magnus leads me down the front steps, still holding my trembling hand in his.
“Uh, where are we going?” I ask, stopping short. After all, no matter how cute this guy is, I know absolutely nothing about him. And logical Jiminy Cricket voices in my head warn of the dangers of following a random stranger out of a nightclub.
He turns and smiles again and my defenses crumble. Surely someone with such a beautiful smile couldn’t be dangerous, right?
“It’s a bit difficult to hear you in there,” he says at last. Wow, I so love his accent! “I thought we could come outside for a little chat.”
Okay, a chat. As in a talk. Talking is good. Talking doesn’t involve anything Mom wouldn’t approve of. Not that I care what Mom would approve of, I remind myself. I mean, I’m sixteen years old—practically an official adult. I’ve really got to stop the goody-two-shoes routine I’ve got going on all the time.
“So um, do you come here often?” I ask, trying to make conversation. Too late I realize how clichéd I sound.
He chuckles softly, and I feel my face heat. That’s another pain-in-the-butt thing about having light skin and freckles. I blush like nobody’s business and there’s no hiding it. Hopefully the darkness around us will reduce its fire-engine-red glare.
I want to say more, to redeem myself for my idiotic question, but my tongue just doesn’t seem to want to work right. What the hell is wrong with me? My brain says I should be freaking out, but my heart says to go with the flow. After all, how often does a gorgeous guy just walk up to you in a nightclub and start talking? I mean, sure, it may be an everyday occurrence for, say, Lindsay Lohan, but it so doesn’t ever happen to little old me.
We walk behind the building, where there’s a parking lot and a single streetlamp casting
a yellowish glow on the vehicles. Magnus stops walking and smiles at me. I lean against the building’s brick wall and give him a shy smile back.
Now what? I hope he’s not expecting some intellectual conversation, because I don’t think I can manage it at this very instant.
But verbal discussion seems far from his mind as he takes a step closer, his knee brushing against my inner thigh. The sudden body contact invokes a slightly nauseated feeling in the pit of my stomach. But nauseated in a good way, if that’s possible.
He brings a hand to my face again, this time tracing my cheekbone with a smooth finger. His eyes search mine, as if they can see into my very soul. The whole thing is so unnerving and dangerous and sexy, I swear I’m going to fall over and faint.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispers. “And so innocent.”
I frown. God, I hate when people say that. I mean sure, technically I am innocent, Innocent with a capital I. But what royally sucks is that it’s evidently so easy to tell this about me at first glance. Like, what, am I wearing some big V on my chest or something? Rayne is my identical twin and NO ONE ever says SHE looks innocent. Oh, no. The boys think she’s all seductive. Kick-ass, even. But never innocent.
“I’m not that innocent,” I declare, too late realizing that I’m quoting Britney. I really need to keep my mouth shut until I can count on it to say something intelligent, witty, and interesting.
“It’s not an insult,” he murmurs, his finger drifting to my ear and tracing the lobe. “I find it very, very attractive.”
Did I mention how utterly hot he is? And how turned on I am? And how utterly incapable I am of responding to anything he says?
“Oh. Well, um. Thanks. I guess.” I laugh my stupid laugh—the one I always break out when I’m nervous. It resembles a donkey’s bray and I’m not all that fond of it.
He leans in closer, his mouth so close I can feel his breath on my face. He smells of mint and something spicy I can’t identify. “Are you sure you want this?” he asks, searching my face again.
I scrunch my nose, puzzled. Am I sure I want what? This whole encounter really gives me the feeling that I’m missing out on some vital piece of information. By the way he’s looking at me, though, I’m getting the feeling he’s asking if I’m sure about kissing him. And the answer to that question is hell yeah.
“I’m sure,” I murmur, hoping my voices sounds husky like Demi Moore’s. Like Rayne’s. “Very, very sure.”
He smiles. “Okay, then. Let’s do it.”
I close my eyes and next thing I know I can feel his full lips brush against my own. Chills erupt in every crevice of my body and the goose bumps return with a vengeance. Now I’m no kissing expert, mind you (in fact, I’m a bit embarrassed to admit I’ve only made out with three guys in my entire life), but even I can tell this is an amazing, once-in-a-lifetime kiss. The way his lips press against mine, as if he’s starving and hasn’t eaten for days. As if he desires something that only my mouth can provide. My lips part, and I can’t withhold a soft moan of pleasure. I hope he doesn’t think I’m total slut girl for letting him kiss me like this. I mean, I barely know him. But something about this seems so right.
His lips abandon my mouth and kiss a trail down to my neck. I love being kissed on the neck. It is a total turn-on for some reason. The ultralight wisp of his lips brushing against my—
OWWWW! “What the—?” I jump back, horrified.
OMG! Did he just BITE me?
3
The Contract (Signed in Blood)
My hands fly to my neck. I can feel hot blood bubbling from the wound. “What the hell did you do that for, asshole?”
He doesn’t even have the decency to look apologetic. Just plants his hands on his hips and frowns. “You said you were sure,” he says in a decidedly pissed-off voice. “Damn it, I hate when you kids change your mind at the last minute.”
“Sure that I wanted to kiss you, not let you munch on my jugular,” I retort. “What ever gave you the idea that—” I catch him glancing down at my Bite Me tank. Oh. I cross my arms over the writing. “That wasn’t meant to be taken literally.”
“Look, you knew there was going to be mild discomfort during the initial procedure. It clearly states that in the contract you signed.” Now he looks exasperated.
“Contract? What freaking contract?” This guy is insane. Gorgeous, but clearly and utterly insane.
To my further shock, he reaches into his book bag and pulls out a thick stack of papers, bound with a black binder clip. He holds them up and points to the bottom of page one.
“Con-tract,” he says slowly, as if addressing a small child.
When did Mister Tall, Dark, and Charming turn into Major Jerk-Off?
“Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I never signed any—”
He flips to the last page and points to a signature. “Signature, ” he says in the same patronizing tone. I barely resist the urge to slap him. My neck is burning at this point. What did he eat before kissing me, wasabi?
I squint at the signature line, trying to figure out what he’s talking about. I gasp as I see my sister’s scrawled handwriting at the bottom of the contract.
“What the—?” I whisper. I try to yank the contract from his grasp. He holds on tight—guy’s got a killer grip. I look up, staring him down. “What is this?”
He runs a hand through his long brown hair, which has come loose from its ponytail. He looks wild and dangerous and angry. “You know damn well what it is. You went through the class. The testing. You signed your name, for hell’s sake!”
“That’s not my name, dude. That’s my sister’s. Now why don’t you tell me what’s really going on here?” Oh Lord, what has Rayne gotten herself into now? Some kind of weirdo cult?
Magnus frowns. He glances down at the contract and then up at me. “Your sis—?”
“Magnus?”
I jump a mile as I hear my sister’s voice cut across the parking lot. Speak of the devil.
“Oh, Magnus, are you out here? Rosa said you might be out here. I’m ready, you know. Ready and willing, baby,” she says, easily mastering that sultry voice thing I was attempting a few minutes before.
I glance over at Magnus, who has suddenly lost his confident swagger and looks like he’s sweating bullets. I mean, the guy wasn’t all that tanned to begin with, but now he looks positively glow-in-the-dark white. He stares at me, then behind me. I turn around and see Rayne approaching.
“Sunny, what are you doing talking to Magnus?” Rayne asks disapprovingly as she approaches. “He hasn’t . . . told you anything weird, has he?”
“Rayne, what the hell is going on here?” I demand.
“There’s . . . two . . .” Magnus the once-smooth lover stammers. “But I thought . . .”
“Rayne is my twin sister,” I explain to him, marveling at how in control my voice sounds.
“But you look . . . I thought . . .” Magnus trails off.
Rayne’s face drains of color. “Oh no,” she cries. “You didn’t!” She places a hand on my shoulder and yanks me around to face her, peering at my neck. “Oh no!” she cries. “No, no, NO!”
“Will someone please tell me what is going on here?” I demand, hands on my hips. This has gone way too far. “And I mean, now!”
“Now Sunny, don’t get mad, but . . .” Rayne begins, her voice trembling.
I shoot her an angry glare. “But WHAT, Rayne?”
“I, uh, think you’ve accidentally been turned into a vampire.”
4
A Bloody Bad Case of Mistaken Identity
“A vampire?” I cry. “Is this your idea of some kind of sick joke?”
Rayne shakes her head. “No joke, Sun. But a serious problem.” She turns to Magnus. “How could you have screwed this up? You’re supposed to be my sponsor. And you can’t even tell when it’s not me?”
Magnus moans, then leans over and starts spitting onto the pavement. Attractive. I can’t believe five
minutes ago I thought he was hot and sexy. Someone I wanted to hook up with. At this point, I’d sooner kiss the Cryptkeeper.
“You look exactly alike,” he whines. “How was I supposed to know?” He closes his hand into a fist. “Lucifent is going to kill me.”
“Um, technically aren’t you already dead?” I ask in my sweetest voice. I’m so over this game already.
He turns around to shoot me an evil-looking glare. “I take it you were absent the day they covered ‘figure of speech’ in school?”
I raise an eyebrow. “At least I showed up when they taught us not to bite the other kindergarteners.”
“Guys, please!” Rayne interrupts. “Stop arguing. This is serious. It doesn’t matter why this all happened. Just that it did. And that we’ve got to make it unhappen. Sunny can’t turn into a vampire. She’s got field hockey play-offs next week.”
For the record, field hockey would be the least of my concerns were I to turn into a vampire for real. I’d be thinking bigger picture: like the fact that the whole “sleeping all day, hunting humans all night” gig might be a deal breaker at all the colleges I’m planing to apply to.
Magnus hocks another loogie on the sidewalk. Ew.
“Uh, do you mind the whole spitting thing?” I ask, backing up to put distance between me and his spray zone. “It’s really grossing me out.”
He looks up. “I’m trying to remove all traces of your blood from my mouth. You weren’t tested first. Who knows what kind of diseases you could be carrying?” he says, a horrified look washing over his face. “You don’t have AIDS, do you?”
Of all the . . . Gah! This guy is pissing me off big time. It’s not like I freaking asked him to start munching on my jugular. It’d serve him right if I did have some weird communicable disease.
Rayne rolls her eyes. “Puh-leeze. Sunny’s pure as the driven snow, Mag. Total Virgin with a capital V. So unless she has some hidden heroin addiction she hasn’t told me about, I think you’re clear. And,” she adds with a smirk, “I’m pretty sure she’s not a smackhead. After all, she doesn’t exactly have that waiflike heroin chic thing going on, now does she?”