“By the way,” Mindy interrupted my thoughts. “You look really good today. Is that a new outfit?”
I tore my gaze away from Lucius and Faith and smoothed my crinkled skirt over my knees. “Yeah, do you like it?”
“Definitely. Purple is a good color on you. And the V-neck—very sexy.”
“Too sexy?”
“No. Just right. You should wear stuff like that more often. You look . . . exotic. Like a gypsy or something.” She stared at my head. “And did you do something to your hair?”
I rumpled my curls. “I used this ‘curl polisher,’ instead of trying to flatten my hair down every day. I guess I’m tired of fighting nature.”
“Looks great.” Mindy nodded, assessing me. “Shiny. And different from what everybody else is doing. Kind of cool.”
A sharp cry rang out, and I looked to its source just in time to see Faith Crosse topple toward the ground, taking down the entire pyramid. Her squad fell one by one like shrieking dominoes beneath her.
Pretty much everyone on the gym floor ran over to gawk or help. And the first person at the scene of the accident, extending his hand to help Faith to her feet, was none other than Lucius Vladescu.
One by one, the other cheerleaders scrambled up and checked themselves for injuries. Although like everyone else, Faith seemed to be okay, Lucius held her arm and walked her toward the locker room, where they paused, talking.
“Well, well, well.” Mindy observed. “If you are dumping Jakey for Lukey, you’d better act fast, because it looks like you just might have competition. Look at her—getting him to play white knight to her damsel in distress!”
I nearly laughed at that. For one thing, Faith had been with football player Ethan Strausser for as long as anybody could remember. More importantly, Lucius would never abandon me for another girl, no matter how skinny her butt looked in her flippy cheerleader skirt. He liked women with curves. And he was pledged to me.
But as I watched, Faith and Lucius laughed loudly, as they had in my bedroom. Then she gave him a flirtatious little shove, and he grinned down at her, looking less burdened somehow than he had in the past. More relaxed in his posture. More . . . free.
“Yup.” Mindy chuckled. “If you want Lukey, I’d get a move on. Faith’s drooling over him like he’s a Prada bag that somehow turned up in a sale bin at Wal-Mart. Discount priced and ready to move—right onto her arm.”
“No, that’s crazy,” I protested.
But then again, I’d thought vampires were a crazy concept just a week or so ago.
What did Lucius mean when he said, “late in the game”?
As I watched Lucius and Faith talking, joking together, an unfamiliar sensation like hot pins—jealousy—started to prick at my heart. Another feeling welled inside me, too. A possessive feeling. A strong, proprietary sense that bordered on anger. A sense of ownership. Of my right to Lucius.
My fingers curled around the bleacher seat, squeezing.
And suddenly, for the first time ever, I got thirsty.
Really, really thirsty.
For something I’d never craved before. Just like my vampire sex guide had warned me.
Chapter 29
“I’M TOTALLY BEAT.” Mike Danneker yawned, gathering up his books and snapping his laptop’s screen shut. “I can’t take any more math.”
“Just a few more problems,” I urged him, opening one of my more challenging calculus texts. “We could do these sample word problems . . .”
“No way,” Mike said. “And you should go home, too, Jess. You’re gonna burn out, studying this hard. The competition is still a few weeks away.”
“Which is exactly why we need to practice.”
Mike stood, shouldering his laptop case. “See you, Jess. Get some rest.”
He strolled off through the aisles, leaving me alone deep in the heart of Woodrow Wilson’s library. I turned a page in my notebook, trying to focus. Maybe I was tired: The whole idea of numbers seemed difficult. I was having a hard time training my mind on the problems. Maybe because I couldn’t stop thinking about how I’d just recently been in the gym, thirsting for blood.
As I stared at my book, my mind once again drifting far away from limits, derivatives, and integrals, I heard voices and footsteps in the maze of stacks.
“We should just buy papers off the Internet.”
Frank Dormand.
“No way. Three guys got caught last year, and two of them lost their football scholarships. They missed a whole year of college ball.”
Ethan Strausser.
“So what, we’re supposed to find a bunch of books on the League of Nations?” Dormand asked. “Like I give a shit?”
I heard volumes being pulled off shelves.
“Why don’t you just get Faith to write ’em for us?” Dormand added. “She’s smart.”
My ears pricked at Faith’s name.
“She’s been a total bitch lately,” Ethan said. “I don’t know what the hell is wrong with her.”
“She’s hanging out with Vladescu,” Frank said, spitting out Lucius’s name like it was a gnat that had flown into his mouth. “He’s probably rubbing off on her, the bastard.”
How much are Lucius and Faith hanging out? How often? And what are they doing? Possessiveness and jealousy rippled through me again. I tried to remember: When was the last time Lucius had mentioned the pact? Courtship? It struck me that I wasn’t really sure. How can I not be sure?
“That freak thinks he owns the damn school because he can make a few shots from center court,” Ethan groused.
“There’s something wrong with that guy,” Dormand noted. “He’s not normal.”
I sat frozen in my seat, intent upon my eavesdropping. Frank and Ethan couldn’t really know anything about Lucius, but it bothered me to think that two of the school’s biggest morons were starting to discuss the fact that Lucius was different. I wasn’t sure why it bothered me—two stupid goons certainly couldn’t be a threat to someone as self-possessed and physically strong as Lucius—but I was unnerved a little.
“You’re just pissed because he smacked you down in front of everybody, banging your thick head on a locker,” Ethan noted.
“Yeah. And if he’d just about strangled you, you’d still be pissed, too.” Dormand paused. “I’m telling you. There’s something different about him. When he grabbed me . . . I don’t know . . . it felt weird.”
“What, did you get hot for him?” Ethan joked. “What the hell do you mean, it felt weird?”
I expected a macho jerk like Dormand to go berserk over what Ethan was implying. For once, though, Frank seemed almost thoughtful. “Shut up, man,” he said. “You didn’t feel it.”
I heard the sound of books being slammed back onto the shelves. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” Ethan said. “I’ll get somebody else to write the paper.”
As they walked away, I heard Dormand add, “Vladescu—someday that guy’s gonna get what he deserves. He is not right. And one of these days, I’ll put my finger on it . . .”
Dormand’s voice trailed off as they left the library.
I stared into space, trying to tell myself that the vague unease I felt was totally unjustified. But for some reason, I didn’t really believe that. Frank Dormand was a relentless bully, as surely as Lucius was a vampire. I’d been the object of Frank’s taunting for as long as I could remember. I knew how he could latch on to a target, refusing to let go. . . .
What if Frank starts looking into Lucius’s life? His past? What he is? Can Dormand find out anything?
No.
The notion was almost silly. Frank Dormand couldn’t even find a book on the League of Nations in a high school library. He’d never figure out that Lucius was a vampire. Never in a million years.
And even if he did, what was the worst that could happen? Lebanon County wasn’t Romania. It was a civilized place. People didn’t form mobs and murder their neighbors with stakes, for god’s sake. The idea was laughable. Lucius wo
uld be fine.
So why didn’t I feel better as I closed my books, giving up on math—slamming the cover on logic and reason—for the night?
Chapter 30
DEAR VASILE,
December in Lebanon County, Pennsylvania, would quite “blow your mind,” to use the expression I have determined to be my favorite of all those I’ve acquired during my extended stay. Is it a good thing to have one’s mind “blown”? Or a bad thing? Even in context, it is sometimes difficult to tell—although I quite enjoy trying to conjure the visual imagery. Heads exploding. Exposed brains on tables, caressed by the breeze from electric fans. That sort of thing.
Remaining on the subject of visual stimulation: December is celebrated quite heartily here in the United States. Aggressively, one might say. Every conceivable surface is corseted with strands of twinkle lights, buildings are smothered beneath greenery, and a mass mania for erecting oversized, inflatable, waving “snowmen” in front of homes erupts amid the populace. It’s quite a hysteria—and the evergreen trees are not just a myth, Vasile. People really do purchase them, in abundance. They are for sale everywhere. Imagine paying for the privilege of dragging a filthy piece of the forest into your living area for the purpose of bedecking it with glass balls and staring at it.
Why a tree? If one needed to display glass balls—and I highly discourage it—why not just a case of some sort? A rack?
Honestly, I’ve expended so much energy defending vampires against charges of “irrationality.” Had I known about the ubiquity of the temporary in-house evergreen, I would have said, merely, “Yes, perhaps I am irrational. But I keep my trees where they belong. Out-of-doors. You tell me, who is the sane one?”
But enough about “the holidays.” (Ho-ho-hold my head under water until I drown and am freed from yet another round of “Jingle Bells”!) I write primarily to report that I have very little to report. I seem to be healed, and I have mastered the art of sleeping in “social studies” class. (Drone on, Miss Campbell! I have circumvented your nefarious attempt to make tedious World War I one of Earth’s most dramatic conflicts: mustard gas! Trenches! The obliteration of no less than four empires!)
Oh, yes. You might be interested—or perhaps not—to know that I have also made a friend. A quite iniquitous girl, Vasile. I feel rather confident that the “jolly old elf” St. Nick has inked her firmly on his “naughty” list. (A reference too obscure for you, no doubt. Just trust me: She is rather a fascinating creature.) Her name is Faith Crosse. While often “cross,” she is as “faithless” as one can imagine. You know I love irony.
I suppose that is all from “stateside.”
I would wish you a “merry Christmas,” but really, I feel certain that the only thing you would like less than the holiday would be the state of “merriness.”
You nephew,
Lucius
P.S. Rest assured that, although I have not addressed it in the body of my letter, I received your thunderous, if belated, response to my suggestion that we release Antanasia from her vampiric responsibilities. Nor did I fail to comprehend your wrath at my assertion that I “chafe at the bit.” Indeed, your meaning was very clear when you wrote in your reply that you would “make me miss the bit when the whip was applied.” Equine imagery is so vivid. All points are taken under careful consideration. But do I comply with your directive to continue my aggressive pursuit of Antanasia? It is difficult to tell from Romania, isn’t it? The distance rather “blows one’s mind,” does it not?
Chapter 31
“JESSICA, IS THAT YOU?” Lucius asked. I heard the door to the garage apartment close, followed by the sound of snow being stomped off feet.
“Hey.” I peeked out from the kitchenette. “You’re here early.”
“And you’re here . . . at all.” He tossed his coat on the leather chair. “I thought we had permanently resumed our traditional residences.”
“We did.” I popped back into the kitchenette, stirring a boiling pot. Crap. I’d hoped to be further along with dinner by the time he got back from school. “Why are you home already?”
“Basketball practice was preempted by the snow. In the Carpathians, we would call this the equivalent of ‘a dusting.’ A ‘minor inconvenience.’ Here, it seems to be cause for panic in the streets. Looting and rioting for the last loaf of ‘Wonder Bread’ at the grocery store, as though you couldn’t get a pizza delivered if on the brink of starvation.” Lucius sniffed the air. “I repeat: Why are you here? And what is that smell?”
“I knew you were tired of vegan casseroles, so I made you a rabbit,” I said. “I saw them in your freezer when I was living out here.”
He caught up short for a second. “You did what?”
“I cooked a rabbit.”
“Actually, it’s referred to as ‘hare,’” Lucius corrected, joining me in the kitchenette. “And if you don’t know what to properly call it, how did you know what to do with it?”
“I found this cookbook on your shelves.” I held out the battered, stained reference. “See?”
Lucius frowned, reading. “Cooking the Romanian Way. In English! I’d forgotten I brought this.” He glanced at me and smiled wryly. “Our cook sent this for your parents, anticipating that they would adjust their menus to meet my tastes—certainly never expecting that I’d find myself in the home of vegans who would never deign to accommodate even a royal Romanian’s passion for flesh.”
“Well, there’s plenty of ‘flesh’ on the menu tonight,” I promised. “I’m making the sour lamb soup, too.” I took the book from him, opened it, and jabbed my finger at the page I’d marked. “This recipe.”
Lucius perused. “How in the world did you secure ‘minced levistan,’ in Lebanon County, Pennsylvania?”
“I checked on Transylvaniancooking.com. You can substitute tarragon.”
“The ‘sour lamb’ must be the smell,” Lucius said, wrinkling his nose. “That will linger. And if your parents learn you cooked meat, woe to you.”
“Hey, I’m trying to be nice here!”
Lucius laughed. “Yes. By providing me a nice case of trichinosis. Hare are notorious carriers. The inexperienced should not dabble with game.” He lifted the lid on the potted hare, which was stewing away, then glanced at me, one eyebrow arched. “You did clean this little beast, correct?”
“Like . . . wash it in the sink?”
“Remove the innards. I see something floating in there . . .”
“There were innards?”
Lucius grabbed a slotted spoon and stirred around in the pot. “Now I believe we’ve identified the source of the odor. I would say this is a spleen,” he announced, fishing out something that looked slippery. “Nasty little organ. Not the most palatable part of anything. Even starving cats won’t ingest spleen.”
“I guess we should just dump the hare,” I said glumly. The dinner wasn’t turning out as well as I’d hoped.
“Actually, Jessica, as much as I appreciate the effort . . .”
There was a knock on the door.
“Excuse me,” Lucius said, heading to answer it.
“Um, sure.” I peeked in the pot. There were other slippery things starting to bubble around in there, too, as the hare broke down. Yikes. Who knew?
The door squeaked open.
“Luc! Hey!”
Feeling something like a kick to my gut, I slammed down the lid of the pot. I knew that falsely chipper voice.
Faith Crosse.
What is she doing here?
“Did you have any trouble with the snow?” Lucius inquired.
I smelled pizza over the stench of the spleen.
“No, it’s no big deal to me.” Faith laughed. “I borrowed my dad’s Hummer. If I was in an accident, I wouldn’t be the one killed.”
What a humanitarian. I moved to the entrance to the kitchenette, leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, watching them.
“Finally, a Lebanon Countian who understands how to handle a scattering of frozen precipitati
on,” Lucius said, approvingly. “And might I add that you’re looking lovely, as usual. Although it really goes without saying.”
Ugh. I was going to throw up and not from eating organ meats.
“Oh, Luc.” Faith balanced the pizza box like a waitress, freeing one hand to clasp his forearm flirtatiously. “You always say the right thing.”
“And you have brought the right thing,” he said, unburdening her of the pizza. “This is one local delicacy that I have honestly come to appreciate.”
“It sure smells better than whatever’s cooking in here.” Faith glanced around, seeking the source of the odor, and noticed me. “Oh, hi.” She wrinkled her nose. “I was just saying something stinks in here.”
“It sure does,” I agreed.
Lucius brushed past me, carrying the pizza into the kitchenette.
“As I was about to say, Jessica, dinner would be somewhat inconvenient this evening, as I’ve invited Faith over to study.”
“Study?” I felt more stewed than my rabbit. More sour than the lamb soup.
“Yes,” Faith said. “Lucius asked me to be his partner in English lit.”
Partner? For what? And if there is any partnering to do, why wasn’t I asked? I looked to Lucius, knowing there was betrayal in my eyes. Wanting him to see it. But he was avoiding me.
“Yes, recall how I volunteered to do my ‘mandatory oral book report’ on Wuthering Heights?” he asked. “Well, after sitting through endlessly stultifying—and seldom edifying—presentations by our classmates, I thought it might be interesting to condense the novel into a small play. Highlight the dramatic parts.”
“I’m going to be Catherine,” Faith noted.
“I guess that makes you Heathcliff,” I said to Lucius, barely masking the unhappiness in my voice.