After I pass the final street lamp, the only light left is what pours out from the lower floor of Vlad’s house. I see floor-to-ceiling windows, gray, rickety shutters, and a wraparound porch that is illuminated by a single jaundiced light. Moths flutter around it in a vibrating nimbus, and every once in a while one kamikazes into the huddled mass of bodies crowding the doorway. Going by turnout alone, I’d say Vlad’s party is a success.
I join the group crowding the porch. A girl in a simple one-piece suit to my left is crying, “But this is the only bathing suit I have!” while her pixyish friend clumsily pats her on the back and stares longingly at the party beyond. Her suit is a size too large, but at least it’s a two-piece. She bites her lip before turning back to her distraught friend. “Why don’t you go buy one at Wal-Mart and then meet me back here?” she says. “Or we can, like, cut yours.”
I’m jostled to the front of the pack before I can hear her decision. Looking up, I find myself staring into the brown eyes of Devon—or perhaps Ashley—now on guard duty. It’s the first time that I’ve seen one without the other, and it’s an unsettling feeling. D’Ashley’s eyes rake over my body, narrowing when they hit my offending piece of clothing. He points at my shirt and then jerks a thumb to the side.
I grasp the hem, wondering why I’m the only one who’s showing any resistance to the forced disrobing. Overtaken by a sudden fit of stubbornness, I pause halfway and tug my T-shirt back down. I wait for D’Ashley’s next move. After a few seconds of cartoonish confusion, he makes a motion suggesting that my time is up and I should move out of the way to let in the less difficult guests. When I make no sign of complying, he grabs my shoulder and starts to push me from the porch. Suddenly a hand clamps down on my shoulder.
“Hey, Sophie,” James says, sidling up beside me. He looks disgustingly attractive in dark blue jeans and a smoky gray T-shirt. I wasn’t expecting him to be here, so my reply is a mixture between “Hello,” “Huh?” and “Excuse me?” I sound like a thing that just gurgled its way out of the swamp. He’s nice enough to pretend that I have spoken English.
“Ready to go in?” he asks, and then turns to D’Ashley. “She’s with me.”
There is no way I am taking anything off now, not with James standing less than two feet away from me. I grab the dangling ends of my bikini top and waggle them at the hulking bodyguard. “I have my suit on. See?”
D’Ashley starts to shake his head, but a burst of laughter draws his attention to a point behind me. A new gang of students, about twenty in all, are stumbling up the hill. Fear flashes across the large boy’s face; I don’t think he was prepared for bouncer duty, and the students are becoming restless.
“Are you going to let us in or what?” James says, making a point to look at his watch and shake his arm like it’s burning a hole under his sleeve. “Looks like you’ve got a lot of people left to check. Vlad won’t be happy if it’s ten o’clock and half of his guests are still waiting at the door.”
The threat of Vlad’s displeasure does the trick. D’Ashley gives a terse wave.
We slip in, pushing through a crush of people cluttering up the foyer. At first I check backs and stomachs for any marks, but the bodies are packed so tightly that it starts to feel claustrophobic. I struggle my way to the bottom step of the ornate staircase that leads to the dark second floor. It smells musty, like fall leaves after a rainstorm. Still, this is better than drowning in a swimsuit calendar.
“Thanks for that,” I say when James steps up the stairs beside me, and then, because I can’t resist, “I thought you were going to the movies with Amanda.”
“Nah,” James says, and I have to distract myself to hide what I am sure is a glow of pleasure. I look away to do a quick scan of the room. Girls outnumber the boys three to one, and the small number of males present wear their friend status like lodestones around their necks. Most of them hide in corners, staring into their plastic red cups like they might offer up what to do next. As for the girls, a few of them have grass hula skirts—whether vampire provided or not, I don’t know—but as expected, I am the only person not showing any real skin.
“If you want to remove your protective shell,” James says, “you won’t hear any complaints from me.”
“That’s okay. I’m here as more of an observer.”
“I figured you weren’t here for the company.”
I study his face in the shadows cast by the sharp angles of the stairway. Except for that one time during chemistry, I’ve never seen him looking less than healthy and refreshed. Now he’s leaning back against the railing and studying me with a smile. I’ve missed talking to him, I realize. I’ve missed it a lot.
Feeling exposed, I glance to the top of the long stairs. The other half of D’Ashley is standing there like a golem, his arms crossed over his chest as he stares down at us.
“What’s he doing there?”
Reluctantly, James follows my gaze. “Vlad doesn’t want people going upstairs.”
“Why?”
“He’s got this thing about people touching his stuff.”
“That’s all?”
“Pretty much,” James says. “There aren’t any giant wall diagrams that say, ‘This is My Evil Plan,’ if that’s what you’re thinking.”
That is what I was thinking.
“Let’s go up,” I say, suddenly inspired. “He might let me through if I’m with you. We could find out more about who he’s looking for and what the Danae wants with her.”
He looks away. “I knew this was a mistake,” he mutters.
Frustration takes over. “Then why do you keep helping me? First with the journalism project, and now with the party. You have to know why I’m here.”
He opens his mouth but then seems to be at a loss for words. “I don’t know,” he finally says. “Vlad told us we had to come, and I saw you standing there and maybe I just thought that the party would be more interesting with you in it,” he says before the sincerity is ruined with a twitch of his lips. “I mean, there was that party at Morgan Michaels’s house in sixth grade where you drank all that orange soda and then left when everyone started playing kissing games.”
“I didn’t leave,” I say, even though I’m pretty sure I did.
“It was right when we started. I remember.” Something warm has crept into his eyes. There’s a brief second where my body feels carbonated, but then I think I hear the burst of Vlad’s laughter above the din, and it reminds me that no matter how much we skip down memory lane, the cold truth is that we are still at odds. I can’t keep doing this; it’s distracting, and it only makes me want things that are impossible.
“I have to go,” I say and head down the stairs. He calls out behind me, but I’ve already squeezed between a girl in a nautical-themed suit and a senior wearing a kiwi wrap over her black string bikini. I dart through a doorway on the right, where raucous shrieks mark the hub of the party.
The room’s high ceilings and large windows make it a coveted living room, or at least it was once. Between the shuffling feet of party guests, I catch glimpses of the dark, couch-shaped patches where furniture must have once protected the burgundy carpet from decades of sun. The cream wallpaper is stained along the top border, and in many places it curls at the edges. A tattered Victorian couch sits in the corner, covered in gray velvet and missing a few buttons, and folding refreshment tables are set up at the far end of the room. The Hawaiian theme isn’t going to win any decorating contests; the room looks more like Dracula’s dungeon than a balmy island getaway. A limp sign, with ALOHA written in crooked yellow letters, wilts over the punch bowl, and a few dejected leis hang off the ornate chandelier that hovers above the sea of bobbing heads. Ambiance is obviously a low priority when you have young girls to kidnap.
I make my way to the refreshment table, trying to figure out my game plan as I go. Avoiding Vlad’s notice is priority number one, although I still need to keep an eye on him in case he targets anyone in particular. And then there’s the litt
le black book. Now that I’ve infiltrated his home base, there might be a chance to get my hands on it.
I pick up a flimsy paper plate and survey the meager offerings. Not surprisingly, vampire catering leaves something to be desired. Generic cheese puffs lie scattered around a bowl of congealing ranch dip that still holds the shape of the can it came from. The carrots should be a safer option, but instead of being cut into stick form, someone has sliced them into tiny coin-sized discs. How appetizing. I pick up a carrot medallion and start to nibble, swiping a cup from the leaning tower to my right and heading toward the punch. It looks orange, sugary, and unnatural—normal enough. I’m tentatively ladling some into my glass when someone comes up beside me.
“Yo, Soph, what’s up?” Neal Garrett says, resplendent in neon green swim trunks. He grabs a cheese puff and pokes it into the ranch dip. “Cool party, huh?”
“What are you doing here?”
“I came with my girlfriend,” he says proudly. After checking to make sure no one’s listening, he leans down to whisper, “We’re playing hide-and-seek. She’s kind of bad at it, though, so I thought I’d take a breather and let her think that it’s taking me a long time.” He pauses. “What are you doing here? You never struck me as the party type.”
“It’s a long story.”
“I’ve got time,” Neal says. “I’m counting to ninety-one thousand.”
I open my mouth to tell him that it’s not important when I spot Violet charging toward us angrily. She’s not wearing anything so revealing as a bathing suit, but she’s gotten into the spirit of the evening by wrapping a flowered sheet around her body like a toga. It makes her stumble a little as she bears down on us. Neal yells her name, his voice a mixture of surprise and pleasure.
“What are you doing?” he says. “You’re supposed to be hiding!”
“I was sitting in that dusty old cupboard forever,” she pouts.
“The cupboard in the study? But you hid there the last time! And the time before that.”
Violet shrugs; I’m not surprised that her favorite part of hide-and-seek is being found.
“Is the cupboard upstairs?” I interrupt.
“Sophie!” she cries, delighted. “I thought you would not come.” When she notices that my eyes have slid to where she has looped an arm through Neal’s elbow, she giggles. “Oops,” she says. “We have been keeping it a secret, but you can be the first to know. Neal and I are courting.”
“Congratulations,” I say, my stomach sinking. A serious talk about not turning one’s boyfriends into vampires is on the horizon, but right now I need to focus on Vlad. “Can I, uh, play hide-and-seek with you?”
Violet lights up. “Of course!” She orders Neal to start counting again. “And this time I won’t be in the cupboard,” she says, and then grabs my hand and pulls me through the crowd.
When we reach the top of the stairs, D’Ashley stands, an efficient sentry. Violet slips beneath his arm without hesitation, but when I try to do the same, I feel the heavy weight of his hand on my shoulder.
“Oh, do let her in, Ashley. Neal is probably at fifty by now!” she yells and follows it up with a kick to the shin. Clearly disgruntled, he lets me pass, and I am plunged into the darkness of the hallway.
Chapter Thirteen
Violet’s eyes adjust to the gloom far quicker than mine, or at least I assume so because she’s running down the hallway while I’m still clutching at the wall. “I am going to hide in the cupboard,” she says excitedly before dashing into what must be the aforementioned study.
Dust pervades the air, and I try not to cough as I grasp the handle of the door closest to me. Apart from a few scattered drop sheets that lie wadded in the corners, the first room is empty. The second turns up more dust bunnies, and the third is filled with a collection of tattered couches and armchairs that were most likely granted a last-minute reprieve from the garbage truck. They are arranged in a cheery circle, almost as if the vampires spent their evenings in discussion. An old TV is pushed to one side, and beneath it are stacks of DVDs. Unable to resist, I sort through them to find that Vlad has amassed every high school comedy imaginable, from John Hughes to 10 Things I Hate About You and beyond. This is what he was using as research to infiltrate our high school? That almost frightens me as much as anything else.
It strikes me that I haven’t come across any beds, and I don’t find any in the fourth and fifth rooms either, although clothing hangs in the closets: velvet for Violet, knee-length skirts for Marisabel, and a row of white shirts for Neville. I realize that I never asked James if he sleeps. I hope so; the image of him sitting alone in his old bedroom, awake, all night every night, makes my throat constrict. No wonder he didn’t want to go home that night, I think, and I feel a rush of overdue guilt.
Now there’s only one room left, and I begin to lose faith that my brilliant hide-and-seek spying technique will turn up useful information. When the last door swings open to reveal one lonely rocking chair, my heart sinks. I do a loop around the room anyway, hoping that the thump of music downstairs is loud enough to cover the creak of floorboards. The chair is positioned to face the window, and the high vantage point of the house means that the sitter has a vaulted view of the neighborhood down below, with its slanted roofs and twinkling house lights. It’s as majestic a view as you’re likely to find in suburbia.
I wander to the far wall and slide open the closet door, pushing when it sticks. There is clothing here, as well, but while the other closets were a jumble of styles and owners, this is organized to the level of neatness normally associated with former military men, serial killers, and Marcie. To the right are shirts and jackets, all covered in plastic and arranged by color. I recognize the black jacket that Vlad wore on the first day of school, and look down to find the pair of pointed boots from that afternoon in the woods gleaming up at me in the dark. An unbidden shiver shoots through my body, and it takes a moment to regain my composure.
His jeans hang on the left side, and while they aren’t covered in plastic, they each have an individual hanger, back pockets facing outward. This proves that old maxim that people who hang their jeans up are to be feared, even if I just made that maxim up.
I start to push the door closed, thinking that I would have learned more hiding in the cupboard with Violet, when a bulge in the back pocket of the outermost pair catches my eye. At first I don’t believe what I’m seeing. But no—Vlad’s journal is still there, stuffed in the back pocket of his jeans. He left his plans for vampire domination in his other pants.
I pull it out so forcefully that the jeans fall off the hanger. I rearrange them, heart pounding, and then open the pages with trembling fingers. Vlad’s cramped, flowery handwriting covers every bit of paper, with lines squeezed into the margins or running up the spine and dead-ending in the corners. I go to the rocker and let the small bit of light from outside pour down over the yellowed pages.
The first few pages are just a list of names and dates, beginning with “Anton and Evangelique Mervaux (d. 1815, burned)” and ending with “Christiana Jones (d. 1999—killed).” Beneath that Vlad has written question marks of all sizes, some scored so deeply that he’s torn through the page. If what Marisabel told me was right, this must be the list of the girl’s descendants that he’s been piecing together through the years—but if he knows where it ends, why is he here?
Next comes a series of journal entries, the first of which dates from 1966. They are terse reports of research, mentions of lost children, dreams of what life will be like once he is Danae and can get revenge on all the vampires who have snubbed him, and complaints about being Unnamed. There are years of time in between entries, years, and a small part of me can’t help but admire Vlad’s tenacity; the longest I ever pursued a story was one month.
I stop at an entry of unusual length.
March 13, 2000
New Orleans
Third appeal to join the Society of the Divine One denied, even with fake identity. Broke into thei
r archives. The last descendent was (obviously) female, recorded death in Canada. No further research done. Obviously a society of incompetence to which I would not want to belong anyway. Three-year gap from Christiana’s last sighting in Michigan unexplored. Previous flights had been limited to months. Why three years?
The next few entries outline his theory. Christiana stayed in Michigan because she had fallen in love and become pregnant. What’s more, he thought that she had given birth to a child, the next descendent of this family tree that everyone thought had died out a long time ago. But soon after arriving here, she adopted an alias that he has still not been able to discover, although her child would have to be anywhere from fifteen to seventeen.
November 23, 2009
New York Upstate Wilderness
Truly, everything is coming together. Met a vampire named Neville, who bears the mark of the Danae and who seems very interested in my work. This is my link to them; this is the sign I have been waiting for.
The following entries all detail his preparations to bring the group here, which included glamouring people out of their money and possessions and being blood-drive bandits. My heart skips a little when James’s name first appears.
April 11, 2010
New York Upstate Wilderness
Violet’s new conquest, James, has actually turned out to be useful for reasons other than to stop her incessant sulking. He is not only familiar with the location of the girl, he may have attended school with her during his early years. At first he seemed reluctant to return, but was convinced by yet another example of particularly clever thinking on my part. “Well used are those cruelties that are carried out in a single stroke.”
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