“You know what? I just remembered, I do have a lighter. It’s—aha!” Quick as I can, I yank my crucifix free and thrust it out at him. “Get back, demon of the night!”
Gold light flickers in his eyes and he recoils, flinching at the sight of the cross. Then his features settle into an annoyed frown. “‘Demon of the night’? That’s very offensive.”
“I don’t care! You were going to eat me!”
“August, if I had any intention of harming you, I’d have done it the second the door opened—before you knew I was here. I certainly wouldn’t have waited for you to get safely into the sunlight before deliberately announcing myself.” He plucks the cigarette from behind his ear, tucking it into his mouth. Then he produces a book of matches—which he had all along—and lights up. “Believe it or not, vampires are not all brainless killing machines.”
“Exactly what a brainless killing machine would say,” I snap. “And what was all that … seduction stuff? You were trying to mesmerize me!”
“I wasn’t mesmerizing you, I was flirting with you.” Jude’s gaze travels over me again. “I happen to like flirting with cute boys.”
“Stop it!” I stammer, my throat flushing with heat again. “Stop playing vampire mind games with me, okay? We had paranormal safety train—”
I don’t finish, because his eyes shimmer this beautiful color, and my thoughts suddenly go all warm and gooey. Jude’s lips look really soft, I finally seem to notice, and his knees are even sexier than I first thought. There’s a clink of metal as the crucifix slips from my fingers and hits the pavement, and I start walking toward the expanding shadow of the overhang. He wants me. And I want him to take my—
He blinks, the trance breaking just like that, and I stumble back again with a sharp gasp. Scooping the crucifix up off the ground, I thrust it at him like a sword, my hands shaking. “What the hell was that?”
“That’s what it feels like to be mesmerized,” he answers coolly. “The only reason you’re still standing over there and I’m still standing over here is because I need you to understand that I don’t mean you any harm.”
“Oh, sure, because you’re one of the ‘good’ ones?” I scoff.
“There’s no such thing as a good vampire, August.” The blunt candor of his reply actually surprises me. “Just like there’s no such thing as a good person. All of us are capable of violence and selfishness under the right circumstances.”
“You eat people,” I remind him, perhaps stupidly. “We’re your food, not your friends. Why should I believe that you don’t want to hurt me?”
“Because you and I need to have a conversation about something very important.” His impish demeanor is gone, and now his tone is all business. It sends a chill clear down to my toes. “Something very bad and very dangerous is happening, August Pfeiffer, and it directly concerns you.”
“That’s ridiculous.” I back away from the ring of sincerity in his voice. If he’s bullshitting me, he’s spent a lot of time practicing his delivery, because he sure sounds convincing. “I’ve heard enough, so—”
“You haven’t heard anything.” Jude steps forward, right to the very edge of the shadow that protects him. “The reason I came to Fulton Heights was to find you and warn you. Darkness is coming, August. The world as you know it, as we all know it, could be coming to an end. And you might be the only one who can stop that from happening.”
Another church giggle bursts out of me, because this speech is not only grandiose, but absurd—the oldest and corniest trick in the book. I can’t even factor a polynomial, but I’m the key to saving the universe? “Oh, right, sure! Evil forces more powerful than I could possibly imagine, time running out, blah blah blah, and one gullible kid in a shithole suburb of Chicago is the Chosen One who will save mankind. Obviously. When do we get started?”
Jude shakes his head, his expression somber. “Not chosen, August. No one gets chosen for this. You’re just in the worst possible place at the worst possible time.”
The shadows are even longer now, the sun a broken flare barely cresting the treetops, and soon the daylight will vanish altogether. I back away farther, quick steps toward the bike rack. “Well, look, this has been super fun, but—”
“What do you dream about at night?” Jude demands, not moving a muscle. “Death? People from historical periods you don’t recognize?” I freeze, and he must see that he’s hit a nerve, because he presses ahead. “Have you experienced unfamiliar memories or lost time? Have you noticed any changes in your body?”
“We’re done,” I declare, my voice thin and trembling. How could he possibly know about my nightmares and my disappearing two hours? “Okay? This is over. Just … stay away from me.”
“Very soon, you’re going to run out of ways to explain the things you don’t understand.” He tosses something at me underhand. It’s a perfect throw, but I have no coordination, and the object hits me square in the chest, almost dropping to the ground before I get my hands on it. “When you’re ready for answers, get in touch. Anytime.”
Looking down, I find a disposable, plastic cell phone in my hand—a burner. “Do you honestly think…”
But I trail off when I glance back up again, because there’s no point in finishing. The light hasn’t disappeared entirely yet, but Jude has. He’s gone.
3
The three things I actually enjoy about my crappy hometown are as follows: 1) Colgate Woods, a nature area adjacent to our once-thriving industrial neighborhood; 2) The sight of Boyd Crandall in his underpants; and 3) Sugar Mama’s, an ice-cream-parlor-slash-café, because everything about it is life-changing. Their Nutella gelato? Life-changing. Their peppermint s’mores mocha? Life-changing! Their gorgeous barista with the cute butt and dreamy blue eyes? Life. Changing.
His name is Gunnar, he is sixteen, and he lives in Wilmette—which is about ten minutes away and even smaller than Fulton Heights. He has light brown surfer hair and a cool dude-necklace, and he works Monday and Thursday nights, plus alternating Wednesdays. Which is why I make Adriana meet me for regular and carefully scheduled study sessions at Sugar Mama’s each week.
It’s been five days since a mysterious vampire ambushed me to say I’m supposed to save the world from Darkness with a capital D, and as yet the sun keeps shining. Since then, I’ve only had one terrible nightmare—a normal one, about spiders—and no more weird blackouts, or whatever it was that happened in the art room. I also passed my algebra quiz by the skin of my teeth, so if there really is some sort of curse on my head, it’s failing at its one job.
I’m not trying to sound flippant. I spent roughly forty-eight hours panicking about the possibility that Jude—whoever he is—could be telling me some version of an actual truth. Because, I mean, here’s the thing: Either he honestly believes I’m the key to fending off Doomsday, which is scary … or he was lying in order to trick me, specifically, for some reason. Which is possibly even scarier.
When I get to Sugar Mama’s, Adriana is already at our usual table by the plate glass windows looking out on Main Street, nursing her usual order: a scoop of amaretto ice cream drowned in at least four shots of espresso. I give her a wave and get in line, and when I reach the front of it, Gunnar looks up at me and smiles—and it’s a huge smile, one that reaches his perfect, dreamy eyes. “Hey, it’s my favorite customer!”
I try not to moan out loud. He’s probably straight, and he’s probably just being nice—and I’m probably a sad, moonstruck gay boy trying too hard to read the tea leaves of his friendliness. It makes me afraid to flirt with him, lest I poison the well and can never return to my favorite hangout again; but every time I see him I wish I had the courage to try anyway just to see if maybe I really am his favorite.
“Hey! It’s the best barista!” I exclaim, which is … pathetic. Patheticness is my chief export now. “How’s, um…” Desperately, I search for something to ask about, but my mind is a wasteland. Again. “… your week going?”
“You know, it’s just
going.” He does a dude-shrug, bobbing his head a little, and I die inside on an endless loop.
“Awesome! That’s totally cool!” Honestly, if that Darkness wants to end the world as we know it, now would be a great time. “So, um, I’d like a—”
“Medium two-pump s’mores mocha with a dash of peppermint, an extra shot of espresso, and a toasted marshmallow,” he finishes with a grin that melts me just like Linda Hamilton in that nuclear blast from Terminator 2.
“Yes, wow, exactly,” I sputter in a high, tiny voice. I was going to ask for whipped cream instead, but if Gunnar the Sexy Surfer-Barista wants to toast my marshmallow, I will allow it. When I pay, our fingers touch, and he winks—he winks for some reason—and my coffee and I float all the way across the room to where Adriana is waiting.
“Hey, it’s the best barista!” She greets me in an overly enthusiastic tone of voice, and I settle into my chair, pushing my glasses back up my nose with a cool expression.
“You mock, but he winked at me, Adriana.” I wave my receipt in front of her. “And he didn’t even charge me for the toasted marshmallow.”
“You didn’t want the toasted marshmallow.”
“Not the point!” I sniff primly. Hazarding a glance back at the counter, I realize Gunnar is looking directly at me, and our eyes meet, and I freeze, and I give him a totally deranged smile and a stiff wave and then turn back to Adriana. “Oh no. Oh no no no. We made eye contact.”
“I’m sorry it had to end this way,” she sympathizes. “What should I sing at your funeral?”
“He thinks I’m a psycho for sure now.” My face is melting like the toasted marshmallow I definitely did not want. “Is he still looking? Tell me he’s not still looking.”
“He’s not looking anymore.”
I glance back, and he is totally still looking. “Adriana!”
“I’m sorry!” Her giggle fit, however, belies the words. “I was trying to make you feel better! I didn’t think you’d turn around again. And anyway, he’s not looking at you like he’s scared. More like you’re … interesting.”
“I don’t know what that means. Is it good?”
“It’s good,” she confirms. Then she nudges me. “So, what’s been going on with you, Auggie? You’ve been acting weird this past week—and you never got back to me about when to have dinner with my abuela. She’s thinking tomorrow night, if you’re free.”
Picking up my spoon, I poke at the marshmallow floating in my mocha like a bloated corpse. After I fled school last Wednesday, Adriana was the only person I wanted to tell about Jude and his cryptic warning. But by the time I got home, my chest heaving and my stomach all crampy, I couldn’t figure out how to raise the subject in a way that didn’t scare me to death. I wanted someone to tell me that the whole thing was preposterous, but … what if she didn’t? What if she took it seriously? What if I had to take it seriously?
Nightmares happen, right? I mean, last week wasn’t the first time I had dreams about death and stuff—but blinking and missing two whole hours of my life? That’s brain tumor shit, and just thinking about it makes my blood turn slushy. For five days I’ve reminded myself that vampires are known tricksters, that mesmerism is only the tip of the iceberg when it comes to their machinations for luring humans to their doom. The earliest written accounts talk of the undead rising from the grave and returning to their former homes, preying on loved ones’ willingness to believe in miracles, for a quick bite.
This Jude dude could have drugged me, or hypnotized me somehow—stolen two hours of my life, so I’d be frightened and susceptible when he showed up three minutes later to tell me I’m Mr. Worst Possible Time—all with the goal of making me a more exciting meal than the usual bite-and-run. It was a ruse. He’s an immortal monster looking to amuse himself and fill his eternal hours of free time. That’s it.
For Adriana, I finally muster up an answer. “Dinner with your grandma sounds great. And sorry I’ve been weird. More vampire bullshit.”
She shakes her head in disgust. “I know the volunteer hunting squads were a total disaster, but it’s ridiculous that the city thinks a few patrol cars rolling around at night with sun lamps and holy-water squirt guns is actually doing anything!” Stirring what remains of the ice cream in her cup, she asks, “What was it this time? More dead animals?”
Before I can answer, I’m saved by the bell over the front door, which jingles as someone we know walks in. I skipped the independent study on Thursday, unable to face the sketch I did and the questions Mr. Strauss has about it, so this is the first time I’ve seen Hope Cheng in nearly a week. Grateful for the distraction, I wave to get her attention; but she’s already headed our way, a shy smile on her face, her eyes focused on Adriana.
“You made it!” my best friend exclaims as Hope sits down beside her. Something passes between them, and I shift awkwardly in my seat, feeling inexplicably like someone watching his bus leave without him.
“Hey, Hope.” I cock an eyebrow. “Um, fancy meeting you here?”
“I told her we’d be studying if she wanted to drop by,” Adriana says, her cheeks a little flushed, and she offers me a shrug. “I knew you wouldn’t mind.”
I fight the urge to frown, because now I want to mind. Obviously, I’m cool with Hope, but I’d been working up to telling Adriana about Jude—and instead, I’m suddenly the third wheel on what looks like a practice date. Ugh, and ugh, because I’m super happy for them—but I can’t help it: I’m also jealous.
Over the summer, I downloaded one of those gay dating apps. I know you have to be eighteen to use them, but it’s not like they send the FBI to your house to check, and all I really wanted was to see who was out there. My big fantasy was that I would—surprise!—find a secret profile for Boyd, thus beginning a real-life romantic comedy for us. Or a porno. I was not going to be particular on that point.
But I’d wasted both my time and the storage space on my phone, because there was literally no other guy in Fulton Heights on that app. The nearest profile was over ten miles away, and the dude was in his fifties. So I shut it down and deleted it, and I accepted that Adriana and I would be friend-dates to every school dance until graduation and beyond. But maybe that dream was unrealistic, too.
“Yeah.” I find my voice at last, along with a friendly smile. “Of course I don’t mind. What do you want to drink? I’ll place your order.”
“Oh, you don’t have to do that.” Hope looks somewhat aghast at the idea of inconveniencing me. “I have money—”
“Give Auggie the money and let him do it,” Adriana cuts in. “Seriously, he wants to.” Nodding at the bar, she adds, “He has sort of a crush on the barista.”
Hope notices Gunnar for the first time, and her eyes go wide as she takes in his perfect perfectness. “Oh. Wow. Uh … I think I have sort of a crush on the barista, too.”
“Take a number.” I snatch Hope’s money and get up from my chair. “Fair warning, though: Adriana’s grandmother is a witch, and I’m going to ask her to help me put a love and/or sex whammy on Gunnar, so you better act fast.”
Adriana frowns. “My abuela is not going to help you put a sex whammy on someone.”
“What if I say ‘pretty please’?”
“What if you just show her his picture?” Hope suggests, her eyes still on the lithe, broad-shouldered boy behind the counter. “I mean, I’m a hundred percent gay, and even I kinda want to put the sex whammy on him.”
“But, see, though?” I sit back down. “What if I show Ximena his picture and she decides she wants to put the sex whammy on him for herself?”
A yelp of unbridled panic escapes from deep in Adriana’s throat. “Can we please stop talking about sex and my abuela?” At the next table over, a mother with three young kids turns to glare at us, and Adriana lowers her voice. “I hate my life so much. Auggie, what’s your vampire drama?”
“Vamp— Wait, what?” Hope does a double take, her gaze skittering between us. She’s not originally from Fulton Height
s, and like all newcomers, she still freaks when she hears the v-word.
The problem is, I don’t really know Hope very well. She moved here from Minnesota at the beginning of the school year, and she lives with her uncle, but I haven’t spent much time with her outside of our independent study. I don’t know if I want to bare my deepest, scariest thoughts about Jude and what’s either a potentially deadly brain tumor or else a dire, unearthly terror with my name on it. After a pause that lasts a hair too long, I confess a lesser truth.
“They’ve been finding dead animals in my neighborhood,” I report at last, and Adriana sighs heavily, as if she’d known it all along. “Vampire snacks. Mostly birds and rabbits, but a stray cat turned up over the weekend, and I guess some stoners found a deer in the woods on Saturday. Bone dry.”
“A deer?” Adriana startles.
Contrary to myth, vampires don’t need to drink a lot of blood; they like to eat, of course, and it gives them strength—but as far as anyone knows, starvation is not among the things that will kill them. So generally, they just take what they need and move on; but a two-hundred-pound deer has about as much blood as a similarly sized human, and for it to be completely exsanguinated …
“How many bite marks?” My best friend’s face is ashen.
“The reports didn’t say.” I squirm a little. “But cops were going door to door yesterday, telling everyone on my street to be careful—keep your pets inside, don’t open the door to strangers, avoid going out after dark … the usual.”
“‘Avoid going out after dark’?” Hope repeats, her voice thin. “It’s dark now; it gets dark at, like, five-thirty! And nobody came to my neighborhood about this! Why did—”
“Hey, it’s okay—there’s no reason to panic.” Adriana gives Hope’s arm a comforting squeeze … and then leaves her hand there. Very smooth. “It’s a standard response to a spike in vampire-related activity. It happens sometimes, but it usually doesn’t mean anything.”
“Usually?” Hope isn’t terribly comforted, and Adriana shoots me a worried look.
The Fell of Dark Page 3