The Vampire Stalker

by Allison van Diepen

  I laughed. “You’re a quick learner.”

  He smiled. “You will have to teach me to correct my errors.”

  “It’s okay. The point of texting is that it’s fast.”

  “I see.” His eyes drifted over my face, and I wondered if he was about to say something else. Then he seemed to snap to alertness. “Let me walk you inside.”

  I found my keys and got out of the car. He entered the lobby with me.

  “I will contact you tomorrow. Good night, Amy.” And he strode out the door before I could plead with him to be careful.

  CHAPTER

  NINE

  LATER THAT NIGHT, the Evening Report logo swirled across the screen.

  “Good evening,” the broadcaster, Rockland Philips, said in his deep baritone. “Tonight on Evening Report: One of the most popular authors of our time sits down with Teresa Curry …”

  I settled back on the sofa as Elizabeth Howard’s bio came on. I knew all of it already. She was forty-three years old and had “dabbled in writing” since she was a child. Studied Creative Writing at Illinois State and taught high school English. Married Patrick Howard, a businessman in the tech industry. Spent years juggling teaching, writing, and eventually, mothering two kids, before getting her first book published five years ago.

  Not an unusual author bio. Nothing about psychic abilities or Otherworld channeling.

  Next the camera settled on Elizabeth Howard, elegant in a stylish navy pantsuit, her brown hair perfectly arranged on her shoulders, her makeup flawless. She had the look of wealth and success and intelligence. But something about her eyes looked wary, even nervous.

  The interview would be an hour long (with commercials, of course). I doubted they’d bring up the vampire killer controversy just yet — they’d hold their audience if they waited until later.

  The first question had my ears perked right away.

  Teresa Curry: “How did you come up with the idea for the Otherworld series?”

  Elizabeth Howard: “I know this is a terrible answer, but I have no idea how I came up with it. I hadn’t been planning on writing fantasy — the market seemed flooded with it already. But Otherworld and its characters just appeared in my head one day, and over the next few weeks, I couldn’t seem to get rid of them.” She pushed a lock of hair behind her ear, more a nervous thing than a necessity. “It didn’t feel like I was creating Otherworld. It felt like I was looking in on what was happening there. I know some writers hate it when I say that, but it was all a very intuitive process.”

  Wow. Elizabeth Howard’s explanation fit perfectly with Ms. P.’s theory: The author was watching the events in Otherworld rather than making them up.

  Teresa Curry: “Even though the series is meant for teens, your characters resonate with people of all ages. How did you manage that?”

  Elizabeth Howard: “I’m not sure. James Banks appeared in my head, this handsome young man who lived in a frightening world. I connected with him instantly. His heartache for Hannah, a beautiful vampire, was palpable. It was through James that I met all of the other characters, and eventually they started speaking to me directly, which is why I switched viewpoints. You could say the books developed organically. I would just sit down at my computer and watch events in Otherworld unfold.”

  Hmm. Interesting that she’d accessed Otherworld through James. That was natural, I suppose, since James was a kinder, more idealistic character who wore his emotions on his sleeve. Alexander, on the other hand, was reserved. You had to look twice as hard and listen twice as closely to know what he was thinking.

  No wonder most readers gravitated to James.

  The interview was interrupted by too many commercials. Footage of Elizabeth Howard at book signings was interspersed throughout, making me think she’d probably only sat down with Teresa Curry for all of twenty minutes. Finally, the interviewer edged closer to the topic everyone was waiting for: the vampire murders.

  Teresa Curry: “Some are saying that your books have fostered a certain fascination with the occult and vampirism. How do you react to that?”

  Elizabeth Howard: “My writing is pure fantasy, and should never be taken as more than that. Stories of any number of mythical creatures have been around since cavemen huddled in front of fires. My books are meant as entertainment, nothing more.”

  Teresa Curry: “What would you say to those who criticize you for glamorizing vampires and vampire culture?”

  The author twitched. I could tell that got her back up.

  Elizabeth Howard: “First of all, I don’t think the vampires in these books are glamorized. Hannah wishes to be anything but a vampire, and refuses to drink human blood. As for Vigo, he’s a sociopath. I don’t think anyone would want to emulate him.”

  Teresa Curry: “But it appears someone is doing just that. Two teenage boys were killed in Chicago last weekend by someone, or more than one person, imitating a vampire. Your second book, The Mists of Otherworld, came out just one week prior. Do you think it’s a coincidence?”

  Elizabeth Howard: “I don’t know. I honestly don’t.”

  Teresa Curry: “If whoever committed these murders is watching now, what would you say to him?”

  The camera zeroed in on Elizabeth Howard’s face. It was a brilliant, heart-stopping moment. Suddenly she looked more like a deer in the headlights than a glamorous author.

  Elizabeth Howard: “I’d tell him to turn himself in … so that he can get the psychological help he needs.”

  Vigo would not like hearing that. Not one bit.

  The next day Katie and Luisa were buzzing about the Evening Report interview. My stomach kept flip-flopping as I thought of the New York book signing. I felt awful that I hadn’t told my friends about it — they’d be so jealous if they knew I was going to meet Elizabeth Howard.

  The plan was for Ms. P. and Alexander to pick me up Saturday morning at four thirty. If we didn’t get slowed down too much by rush-hour traffic, we would be in Manhattan by the late afternoon. Since the book signing was at seven, we knew we wouldn’t be able to get a legitimate place in line — we’d probably have to camp out for that — but we figured it would give Alexander enough time to find us a way in.

  When I got home from school, Madison was over, as usual. She and Chrissy were painting their nails. I hadn’t even kicked off my shoes when Madison asked, “Are you coming to the party tonight?”

  I rolled my eyes. She wanted me to say “What party?” and then hear all about the party I hadn’t been invited to. I wasn’t going to play along. “Actually, no. I’m going to bed early because I’m heading to New York at four thirty in the morning.”

  Chrissy looked up from her nails. “Really? You didn’t tell me that.”

  For a moment, I paused. Did Chrissy actually want to know what was going on in my life? “Elizabeth Howard’s doing a book signing. Alexander and I are driving down.” I chose not to mention that Ms. P. was coming.

  “Hmm,” Chrissy said. Which, from her, was approval.

  Madison, however, didn’t seem impressed. “We’re going to Brian Kowalski’s. He’s celebrating the track team’s win. So, were you invited?”

  Not this again. I didn’t bother to answer. As I headed into the kitchen to grab a snack, Madison called after me, “Too bad! His parents are out of town and it’s gonna rock!”

  Then I heard her go “Ouch!” Chrissy must have elbowed her or something. Madison wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, so she hadn’t clued into the fact that Chrissy wouldn’t want me knowing that bit of information. She certainly wouldn’t want Mom knowing it.

  As I rummaged through the cupboards searching for a snack, I wished I could say something to stop Chrissy from going out tonight. Not only was a Brian Kowalski party bad news, there was a vampire out there. But I knew that if I tried to convince her to stay home, it would only make her want to go more.

  I grabbed an apple and a handful of crackers, then headed to the computer. “I hope the party revs up before
Chrissy’s ten o’clock curfew,” I said over my shoulder.

  So this is what writer’s block feels like.

  Two hours later, I was still staring at the computer screen.

  I thought that with Alexander Banks in my world, my fan fiction would flow like never before. Talk about wrong.

  Now that I knew Otherworld was real, I couldn’t go there anymore. Whenever I opened one of the books for inspiration, all I saw was cold, dark reality.

  Forget it. I’d try again another time.

  I went to the kitchen, where Mom was making homemade mac and cheese. I knew it was her favorite comfort food because she tended to make it on Friday nights when she was staying in, and often accompanied it with a glass of wine.

  “Smells good.” I gave her a kiss. “Where’d they go?”

  “She’s having supper at Madison’s.” I could tell Mom wasn’t too happy about that.

  “More for us.” Glancing at the darkening sky outside the kitchen window, I was glad that Chrissy and Madison had left well before sunset. But it would be dark when they headed to Brian’s. I’d worry until Chrissy got home.

  Mom must’ve been thinking along the same lines. “I gave her money for a cab. I don’t like her taking the bus at night. Not with that crazy around.”

  Mom and I had dinner together at the kitchen table. It was just as well that Katie and Luisa were busy tonight — Katie had a hockey game and Luisa was rehearsing for a play next month — because I was too distracted to do much socializing. I listened as Mom told me about the latest drama at work. I reminded her that I was going to New York super-early tomorrow morning for the Elizabeth Howard signing, and Mom reminded me to call her when I arrived.

  A few minutes before ten, Chrissy called.

  “Honey, if you wanted to sleep over you should have told me before,” Mom said into the phone, sounding annoyed. “You don’t even have your pajamas, do you?”

  I signaled to Mom that I needed to talk to her. Now.

  “Just a sec,” Mom said to Chrissy, then turned to me.

  I took a deep breath. “Madison told me they were going to a party. They might already be there.”

  I knew that Chrissy could hear me, but I figured there was no point in pretending. Had she really thought I would cover for her if she stayed out past curfew? I wondered about that myself. Maybe I would have, if I weren’t so worried about her being out late with a vampire on the streets. Then again, maybe not. Thirteen is way too young for a Brian Kowalski party.

  Mom’s lips tightened. “Come home right away, Chrissy. And take a cab, as I told you.”

  I heard Chrissy whining into the receiver. “Don’t argue with me, Chrissy,” Mom said. “And you’d better be back by curfew or else you’ll be grounded.”

  Chrissy’s whining turned to shouting, and then a dial tone. Mom put the phone down, defeated.

  “I can’t trust a word she says anymore,” she said, shaking her head sadly. “She’s changed so much since your father left.”

  I sat down beside her on the couch. “She needs more time to adjust.”

  “Your father should spend more time with her. With both of you.”

  She rarely talked about my dad, but I could tell she resented him. It wasn’t fair that she had to handle Chrissy all by herself.

  We sat there for a while, making little jokes about what antics Chrissy might pull when she got home. Ten o’clock came around, and she didn’t arrive. When eleven o’clock came, it was clear Chrissy had chosen to pull another antic entirely. The later it got, the more we worried. Mom called Chrissy’s cell several times, but got no answer.

  By midnight, we were downright panicked.

  “Do you know where this Brian lives?” Mom asked me. “I’ll get a cab there.”

  “Wait, I have an idea. Let me make a phone call.”

  From my bedroom, I called Alexander’s cell.

  He answered quickly. “Is everything all right?” I could hear traffic behind him.

  “My sister’s out way past her curfew, and Mom and I are worried. Where are you?”

  “Fifteen minutes from your apartment. I’ll be right there. Wait for me inside.” He hung up.

  I breathed a sigh of relief, then went back to the living room to tell my mom he was coming.

  “He has access to a car? Great. Tell him I appreciate it.”

  If I picked up Chrissy from the party, it wouldn’t be nearly as embarrassing as if Mom did. I hoped that would take some of the steam out of her anger.

  When I got into the car a few minutes later, Alexander asked, “Do you know where she is?”

  “I’m pretty sure she’s at a party on Campbell Street. It’s not far, just off LaSalle.”

  “I know where it is. Do we have any reason to believe she’s in danger?”

  “No. It’s just that she got into a fight with Mom on the phone, and I wanted to make sure she got home okay. I hope I wasn’t disturbing …”

  “I didn’t have Vigo in my sights,” he said quietly.

  As he drove, I had the strange realization that I’d missed him, even though I’d seen him just yesterday. Is that what love is, I wondered? When you want to be with someone every moment? The thought startled me. I’d fallen for the character of Alexander Banks, not the guy himself … right?

  Within ten minutes, he’d turned onto Campbell Street.

  “It’s a big white two-story. There it is. Two down on the left.” I’d helped Katie deliver papers in this area a few years back. Brian’s house was the biggest one on the block, and there’d always seemed to be a party going on.

  The driveway was full of cars, so he parked a couple of houses down.

  “I’ll run in,” I said. “It might take me a couple minutes to find her.”

  “I would like to come in as well.”

  I thought about it, and figured I could use the backup if Chrissy gave me a hard time. “Fine, but be nice, okay?”

  “Of course.”

  We walked up to the front door and rang the doorbell. Nobody answered, probably because they couldn’t hear it above the blaring music. I tried the handle, and the door opened.

  The house was pretty dark and bursting with people. Red bulbs must have been put in the lamps, a pitiful excuse for atmosphere.

  “Do you see her?” Alexander shouted in my ear.

  I ducked my head into the living room, looking around. “I don’t think so.”

  He let me lead. I squeezed through the people crowding the hallway. He took my hand and squeezed through after me. At the feel of his hand on mine, a giddy feeling swept through me. For a second, I let myself imagine what it would be like to be going to a party with Alexander as my boyfriend.

  There were sweaty people everywhere, and I tried not to touch them as I moved forward. I glanced back to see Alexander, whose lips were pursed with disdain. Definitely not his sort of party.

  I figured we’d check the basement, then the upstairs bedrooms. If we could even get through. There was a mass of people blocking the basement stairs, and no one paid any attention to my “Excuse me!”s.

  Then Alexander stepped in front of me. With two big sweeps of his arms, he pushed everyone out of the way. Startled partiers stumbled back, falling over one another.

  Some kid said, “Hey! What was that?”

  Alexander glared at him. The kid cowered.

  Taking my hand again, Alexander led me down the stairs. The basement was even darker than upstairs, and it took my eyes a few seconds to adjust.

  I walked up to one of the couches, scanning the people, catching sight of her long blond hair. There she was, in a darkened corner. A guy was kissing her.

  “Chrissy!”

  She jumped. I recognized the guy from school. He was a senior named Reuben Torres, one of the jock squad, and a notorious girl-izer.

  “She’s in eighth grade, Reuben,” I said, disgusted.

  He shrugged. “So?”

  I felt something hard shove past me. It was Alexander. He grabb
ed Chrissy’s hand and yanked her to her feet. “Time to go home, Christina.”

  Reuben got to his feet. “Hey! What if she ain’t ready to leave?”

  Alexander looked him over. Then he placed a hand on Reuben’s chest and nudged him. Reuben flew back into the couch.

  Alexander waited to see if Reuben was going to come back at him, but Reuben was slumped on the couch, dazed.

  I held on to Chrissy’s arm and followed Alexander up the stairs and out the front door.

  “Where’s Madison?” I asked my sister. “We’ll take her home, too.”

  “She wasn’t feeling well, so she left,” Chrissy replied, not meeting my gaze.

  She slid into the backseat of the car. I noticed the skirt she was wearing — it was Madison’s, and insanely short.

  “Drop me off at Madison’s,” she told Alexander, like he was her driver.

  “I’m dropping you off at your home.” He power-locked the doors.

  “What do you care what I do?”

  “I don’t concern myself with your tomfoolery. But your mother and sister do, and I am indebted to them.”

  She didn’t miss a beat. “So are you actually dating my sister?”

  I almost laughed. Chrissy knew she was in deep trouble, but she still had to get an update on my love life.

  Before I could answer, Alexander said, “We have mutual admiration for each other, I hope.”

  I glanced at Alexander, my stomach somersaulting, then glanced ahead at the road.

  “Mutual admiration?” Chrissy sneered. “What does that mean?”

  “It means we have a lot in common,” I said quickly.

  “Oh, I get it. He’s a big book nerd who doesn’t have a life, too? Does he know you’ve never had a boyfriend?”

  Thanks, Chrissy. He already thought I was odd for calling myself Mrs.AlexanderBanks online. He didn’t need to know that I’d never had a boyfriend.

  “Your sister is brilliant and beautiful,” Alexander snapped. “Your childish behavior is an insult to her.”

  Chrissy kicked his seat. “Whatever!”

  Alexander didn’t respond, only put the car in gear and drove off.