by L. J. Smith
THE NIGHT WORLD…LOVE HAS NEVER BEEN SO DANGEROUS.
THE NIGHT WORLD isn’t a place. It’s all around us. The creatures of Night World are beautiful and deadly and irresistible to humans. Your best friend could be one—so could your crush.
The laws of Night World are very clear: humans must never learn that Night World exists. And members of Night World must never fall in love with a human. Violate the laws and the consequences are terrifying.
These are the stories about what happens when the rules get broken.
COMING SOON BY L.J. SMITH
Night World 2:
Dark Angel, The Chosen, Soulmate
Night World 3:
Huntress, Black Dawn, Witchlight
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
SIMON PULSE
An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
Secret Vampire copyright © 1996 by Lisa J. Smith
Daughters of Darkness copyright © 1996 by Lisa J. Smith
Spellbinder copyright © 1996 by Lisa J. Smith
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
SIMON PULSE and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
NIGHT WORLD is a trademark of Lisa J. Smith.
Library of Congress Control Number 2008925003
ISBN-13: 978-1-4391-0183-4
ISBN-10: 1-4391-0183-3
These titles were previously published individually by Simon Pulse.
Visit us on the World Wide Web:
http://www.SimonSays.com
CONTENTS
SECRET VAMPIRE
DAUGHTERS OF DARKNESS
SPELLBINDER
Secret Vampire
For Marilyn Marlow,
a marvel of an agent.
And with thanks to Jeanie Danek
and the other wonderful nurses like her.
CHAPTER 1
It was on the first day of summer vacation that Poppy found out she was going to die.
It happened on Monday, the first real day of vacation (the weekend didn’t count). Poppy woke up feeling gloriously weightless and thought, No school. Sunlight was streaming in the window, turning the sheer hangings around her bed filmy gold. Poppy pushed them aside and jumped out of bed—and winced.
Ouch. That pain in her stomach again. Sort of a gnawing, as if something were eating its way toward her back. It helped a little if she bent over.
No, Poppy thought. I refuse to be sick during summer vacation. I refuse. A little power of positive thinking is what’s needed here.
Grimly, doubled over—think positive, idiot!—she made her way down the hall to the turquoise-and-gold-tiled bathroom. At first she thought she was going to throw up, but then the pain eased as suddenly as it had come. Poppy straightened and regarded her tousled reflection triumphantly.
“Stick with me, kid, and you’ll be fine,” she whispered to it, and gave a conspiratorial wink. Then she leaned forward, seeing her own green eyes narrow in suspicion. There on her nose were four freckles. Four and a half, if she were completely honest, which Poppy North usually was. How childish, how—cute! Poppy stuck her tongue out at herself and then turned away with great dignity, without bothering to comb the wild coppery curls that clustered over her head.
She maintained the dignity until she got to the kitchen, where Phillip, her twin brother, was eating Special K. Then she narrowed her eyes again, this time at him. It was bad enough to be small, slight, and curly-haired—to look, in fact, as much like an elf as anything she’d ever seen sitting on a buttercup in a children’s picture book—but to have a twin who was tall, Viking-blond, and classically handsome…well, that just showed a certain deliberate malice in the makeup of the universe, didn’t it?
“Hello, Phillip,” she said in a voice heavy with menace.
Phillip, who was used to his sister’s moods, was unimpressed. He lifted his gaze from the comic section of the L.A. Times for a moment. Poppy had to admit that he had nice eyes: questing green eyes with very dark lashes. They were the only thing the twins had in common.
“Hi,” Phillip said flatly, and went back to the comics. Not many kids Poppy knew read the newspaper, but that was Phil all over. Like Poppy, he’d been a junior at El Camino High last year, and unlike Poppy, he’d made straight A’s while starring on the football team, the hockey team, and the baseball team. Also serving as class president. One of Poppy’s greatest joys in life was teasing him. She thought he was too straitlaced.
Just now she giggled and shrugged, giving up the menacing look. “Where’s Cliff and Mom?” Cliff Hilgard was their stepfather of three years and even straighter-laced than Phil.
“Cliff’s at work. Mom’s getting dressed. You’d better eat something or she’ll get on your case.”
“Yeah, yeah…” Poppy went on tiptoe to rummage through a cupboard. Finding a box of Frosted Flakes, she thrust a hand in and delicately pulled out one flake. She ate it dry.
It wasn’t all bad being short and elfin. She did a few dance steps to the refrigerator, shaking the cereal box in rhythm.
“I’m a…sex pixie!” she sang, giving it a foot-stomping rhythm.
“No, you’re not,” Phillip said with devastating calm. “And why don’t you put some clothes on?”
Holding the refrigerator door open, Poppy looked down at herself. She was wearing the oversize T-shirt she’d slept in. It covered her like a minidress. “This is clothes,” she said serenely, taking a Diet Coke from the fridge.
There was a knock at the kitchen door. Poppy saw who it was through the screen.
“Hi, James! C’mon in.”
James Rasmussen came in, taking off his wraparound Ray-Bans. Looking at him, Poppy felt a pang—as always. It didn’t matter that she had seen him every day, practically, for the past ten years. She still felt a quick sharp throb in her chest, somewhere between sweetness and pain, when first confronted with him every morning.
It wasn’t just his outlaw good looks, which always reminded her vaguely of James Dean. He had silky light brown hair, a subtle, intelligent face, and gray eyes that were alternately intense and cool. He was the handsomest boy at El Camino High, but that wasn’t it, that wasn’t what Poppy responded to. It was something inside him, something mysterious and compelling and always just out of reach. It made her heart beat fast and her skin tingle.
Phillip felt differently. As soon as James came in, he stiffened and his face went cold. Electric dislike flashed between the two boys.
Then James smiled faintly, as if Phillip’s reaction amused him. “Hi.”
“Hi,” Phil said, not thawing in the least. Poppy had the strong sense that he’d like to bundle her up and rush her out of the room. Phillip always overdid the protective-brother bit when James was around. “So how’s Jacklyn and Michaela?” he added nastily.
James considered. “Well, I don’t really know.”
“You don’t know? Oh, yeah, you always drop your girlfriends just before summer vacation. Leaves you free to maneuver, right?”
“Of course,” James said blandly. He smiled.
Phillip glared at him with unabashed hatred.
Poppy, for her part, was seized by joy. Goodbye, Jacklyn; goodbye Michaela. Goodbye to Jacklyn’s elegant long legs and Michaela’s amazing pneumatic chest. This was going to be a wonderful summer.
Many people thought Poppy and James’s relationship platonic. This was
n’t true. Poppy had known for years that she was going to marry him. It was one of her two great ambitions, the other being to see the world. She just hadn’t gotten around to informing James yet. Right now he still thought he liked long-legged girls with salon fingernails and Italian pumps.
“Is that a new CD?” she said, to distract him from his stare out with his future brother-in-law.
James hefted it. “It’s the new Ethnotechno release.”
Poppy cheered. “More Tuva throat singers—I can’t wait. Let’s go listen to it.” But just then her mother walked in. Poppy’s mother was cool, blond, and perfect, like an Alfred Hitchcock heroine. She normally wore an expression of effortless efficiency. Poppy, heading out of the kitchen, nearly ran into her.
“Sorry—morning!”
“Hold on a minute,” Poppy’s mother said, getting hold of Poppy by the back of her T-shirt. “Good morning, Phil; good morning, James,” she added. Phil said good morning and James nodded, ironically polite.
“Has everybody had breakfast?” Poppy’s mother asked, and when the boys said they had, she looked at her daughter. “And what about you?” she asked, gazing into Poppy’s face.
Poppy rattled the Frosted Flakes box and her mother winced. “Why don’t you at least put milk on them?”
“Better this way,” Poppy said firmly, but when her mother gave her a little push toward the refrigerator, she went and got a quart carton of lowfat milk.
“What are you planning to do with your first day of freedom?” her mother said, glancing from James to Poppy.
“Oh, I don’t know.” Poppy looked at James. “Listen to some music; maybe go up to the hills? Or drive to the beach?”
“Whatever you want,” James said. “We’ve got all summer.”
The summer stretched out in front of Poppy, hot and golden and resplendent. It smelled like pool chlorine and sea salt; it felt like warm grass under her back. Three whole months, she thought. That’s forever. Three months is forever.
It was strange that she was actually thinking this when it happened.
“We could check out the new shops at the Village—” she was beginning, when suddenly the pain struck and her breath caught in her throat.
It was bad—a deep, twisting burst of agony that made her double over. The milk carton flew from her fingers and everything went gray.
CHAPTER 2
“Poppy!” Poppy could hear her mother’s voice, but she couldn’t see anything. The kitchen floor was obscured by dancing black dots.
“Poppy, are you all right?” Now Poppy felt her mother’s hands grasping her upper arms, holding her anxiously. The pain was easing and her vision was coming back.
As she straightened up, she saw James in front of her. His face was almost expressionless, but Poppy knew him well enough to recognize the worry in his eyes. He was holding the milk carton, she realized. He must have caught it on the fly as she dropped it—amazing reflexes, Poppy thought vaguely. Really amazing.
Phillip was on his feet. “Are you okay? What happened?”
“I—don’t know.” Poppy looked around, then shrugged, embarrassed. Now that she felt better she wished they weren’t all staring at her so hard. The way to deal with the pain was to ignore it, to not think about it.
“It’s just this stupid pain—I think it’s gastrowhatchmacallit. You know, something I ate.”
Poppy’s mother gave her daughter the barest fraction of a shake. “Poppy, this is not gastroenteritis. You were having some pain before—nearly a month ago, wasn’t it? Is this the same kind of pain?”
Poppy squirmed uncomfortably. As a matter of fact, the pain had never really gone away. Somehow, in the excitement of end-of-the-year activities, she’d managed to disregard it, and by now she was used to working around it.
“Sort of,” she temporized. “But—”
That was enough for Poppy’s mother. She gave Poppy a little squeeze and headed for the kitchen telephone. “I know you don’t like doctors, but I’m calling Dr. Franklin. I want him to take a look at you. This isn’t something we can ignore.”
“Oh, Mom, it’s vacation.…”
Her mother covered the mouthpiece of the phone. “Poppy, this is nonnegotiable. Go get dressed.”
Poppy groaned, but she could see it was no use. She beckoned to James, who was looking thoughtfully into a middle distance.
“Let’s at least listen to the CD before I have to go.”
He glanced at the CD as if he’d forgotten it, and put down the milk carton. Phillip followed them into the hallway.
“Hey, buddy, you wait out here while she gets dressed.”
James barely turned. “Get a life, Phil,” he said almost absently.
“Just keep your hands off my sister, you deve.”
Poppy just shook her head as she went into her room. As if James cared about seeing her undressed. If only, she thought grimly, pulling a pair of shorts out of a drawer. She stepped into them, still shaking her head. James was her best friend, her very best friend, and she was his. But he’d never shown even the slightest desire to get his hands on her. Sometimes she wondered if he realized she was a girl.
Someday I’m going to make him see, she thought, and shouted out the door for him.
James came in and smiled at her. It was a smile other people rarely saw, not a taunting or ironic grin, but a nice little smile, slightly crooked.
“Sorry about the doctor thing,” Poppy said.
“No. You should go.” James gave her a keen glance. “Your mom’s right, you know. This has been going on way too long. You’ve lost weight; it’s keeping you up at night—”
Poppy looked at him, startled. She hadn’t told anybody about how the pain was worse at night, not even James. But—sometimes James just knew things. As if he could read her mind.
“I just know you, that’s all,” he said, and then gave her a mischievous sideways glance as she stared at him. He unwrapped the CD.
Poppy shrugged and flopped on her bed, staring at the ceiling. “Anyway, I wish Mom would let me have one day of vacation,” she said. She craned her neck to look at James speculatively. “I wish I had a mom like yours. Mine’s always worrying and trying to fix me.”
“And mine doesn’t really care if I come or go. So which is worse?” James said wryly.
“Your parents let you have your own apartment.”
“In a building they own. Because it’s cheaper than hiring a manager.” James shook his head, his eyes on the CD he was putting in the player. “Don’t knock your parents, kid. You’re luckier than you know.”
Poppy thought about that as the CD started. She and James both liked trance—the underground electronic sound that had come from Europe. James liked the techno beat. Poppy loved it because it was real music, raw and unpasteurized, made by people who believed in it. People who had the passion, not people who had the money.
Besides, world music made her feel a part of other places. She loved the differentness of it, the alienness.
Come to think of it, maybe that was what she liked about James, too. His differentness. She tilted her head to look at him as the strange rhythms of Burundi drumming filled the air.
She knew James better than anyone, but there was always something, something about him that was closed off to her. Something about him that nobody could reach.
Other people took it for arrogance, or coldness, or aloofness, but it wasn’t really any of those things. It was just—differentness. He was more different than any of the exchange students at school. Time after time, Poppy felt she had almost put her finger on the difference, but it always slipped away. And more than once, especially late at night when they were listening to music or watching the ocean, she’d felt he was about to tell her.
And she’d always felt that if he did tell her, it would be something important, something as shocking and lovely as having a stray cat speak to her.
Just now she looked at James, at his clean, carven profile and at the brown waves of hair
on his forehead, and thought, He looks sad.
“Jamie, nothing’s wrong, is it? I mean, at home, or anything?” She was the only person on the planet allowed to call him Jamie. Not even Jacklyn or Michaela had ever tried that.
“What could be wrong at home?” he said, with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Then he shook his head dismissively. “Don’t worry about it, Poppy. It’s nothing important—just a relative threatening to visit. An unwanted relative.” Then the smile did reach his eyes, glinting there. “Or maybe I’m just worried about you,” he said.
Poppy started to say, “Oh, as if,” but instead she found herself saying, oddly, “Are you really?”
Her seriousness seemed to strike some chord. His smile disappeared, and Poppy found that they were simply looking at each other, without any insulating humor between them. Just gazing into each other’s eyes. James looked uncertain, almost vulnerable.
“Poppy—”
Poppy swallowed. “Yes?”
He opened his mouth—and then he got up abruptly and went to adjust her 170-watt Tall-boy speakers. When he turned back, his gray eyes were dark and fathomless.
“Sure, if you were really sick, I’d be worried,” he said lightly. “That’s what friends are for, right?”
Poppy deflated. “Right,” she said wistfully, and then gave him a determined smile.
“But you’re not sick,” he said. “It’s just something you need to get taken care of. The doctor’ll probably give you some antibiotics or something—with a big needle,” he added wickedly.
“Oh, shut up,” Poppy said. He knew she was terrified of injections. Just the thought of a needle entering her skin…
“Here comes your mom,” James said, glancing at the door, which was ajar. Poppy didn’t see how he could hear anybody coming—the music was loud and the hallway was carpeted. But an instant later her mother pushed the door open.