Jane Jones

by Caissie St. Onge

  twelve

  For a minute, I just stayed there, stunned and hiding in my clump of grass like a strange animal. I was really going to have to check out a church? I knew, rationally, that I could enter a church without bursting into flames like you might expect. In fact, a house of worship is a really logical place for a vampire to visit. It’s true that we cannot enter a home without first being invited, which I like to think of as just having impeccable manners. (Though it’s kind of hard to brag about your manners when you live off of unethically obtained body fluids. But I digress.) A church shouldn’t be off-limits to a vampire because it basically extends a blanket invitation where everyone is welcome. Still, the thought of marching right up to a house of worship and demanding to know what Ms. Smithburg had been doing there had me so keyed up that my fangs were out! Of course, my fangs were also chattering because I was scared witless. Which I understand was pathetic.

  I waited for a couple of minutes, just to make sure that I didn’t see that brown sedan doubling back for any reason. I figured that Ms. Smithburg was on her way to school, but she’d recently demonstrated an unpredictable streak I found very unnerving. When I was sure the coast was clear, I stood up, swinging my backpack onto my shoulders. I’d begun to cross the road toward the church, when a bent old man in a long black robe walked out of the weathered and peeling double doors and stood on the front steps. I froze in my tracks. Then the little old man, who I guessed had to be Father Kilcannon, pulled something from the billowing fabric at the side of his robe with a flourish, and I instinctively hit the ground to avoid certain, instant death from his stake-shooting crossbow or pistol full of silver bullets. When I uncovered my face and looked up to see what I’d narrowly avoided, a feeling of terror washed over me. There stood Father Kilcannon, brandishing a balding broom and sweeping the church’s stone stairs with all the ferocity you’d expect to see from a man in his eighties. Which isn’t very much. In fact, from where I stood, the dust seemed to be blowing right back to where he’d just swept, defeating the aged priest in this particular battle. I stood slowly and brushed myself off, glad to be alive but resolving to watch fewer Buffy reruns, since they were obviously making me paranoid. While I still wasn’t exactly sure who or what Ms. Smithburg was, I now felt that I could safely cross “vampire hunter” off the list of possibilities for this old guy. I looked both ways, though there wasn’t a car in sight, and crossed the street.

  When he finally saw me approach, Father Kilcannon looked up from his work and peered—with some difficulty, it seemed—at me. Although he hadn’t shot me with his broom, I was still rightfully wary. Was he a friend of Ms. Smithburg’s? Was it possible Ms. Smithburg had told him to expect somebody snooping around? Who was he? “Good morning, child,” he smiled. His voice, soft and scratchy, had that dreamy quality I’d recently become very familiar with, like Eli’s voice when I’d found him with Astrid and the school secretary’s voice when I’d finished with her. Something clicked in my mind like a tumbler on a lock when you can only remember part of the combination. My instincts, still smarting from the embarrassment of a few moments ago, told me it was okay to approach.

  “Good morning, sir,” I said, climbing the three long, squat stone steps that led to where he stood and extending my hand. “Are you Father Kilcannon?”

  The old man let the broom rest in his left hand, while accepting my gesture with his right. I knew instantly from his warm, slightly damp touch that he was no threat. I also got the feeling that, besides being old, he was also sick and very tired. Like he was being used up. I felt terrible to be using him further for my own purposes, but I had no choice. I concentrated and pushed some energy from my palm into his. It must have gotten his attention, because his eyes, which I could see were obscured by cataracts, tried to focus on mine. I asked again, “Are you Father Kilcannon?”

  “Yes, yes. I am, I am,” he replied flatly. I could tell it was an old habit of his, to answer like that, in a way that might have sounded playful once. “What can I do for you?”

  I continued holding his hand, which might have seemed creepy to someone who was fully aware, but Father Kilcannon just accepted it. I also grasped his forearm with my left hand and stared back into his eyes. “I’ve been researching your church for a project,” I said. “Would you be so kind as to show me around?” On my request, the elderly priest dropped his broom with a clack on the top stair and turned wordlessly to the double doors, pushing them open. He shuffled inside, and I followed close behind.

  The interior of the church was dilapidated and dreary, but I could tell it had once been grand. The cathedral ceiling soared higher than I would have guessed was possible from looking at the church’s exterior. The pews, badly in need of restoration, were softly tinted by the little bit of the day’s dim light that could struggle through the dirty prism of what had once been magnificent stained-glass windows. The altar floor was covered in worn and mildewed plum-colored carpet and behind the pulpit was a huge pipe organ that looked like it might crumble if you touched a single key. As we walked down the nave, still holding hands, I wondered how and why Ms. Smithburg would insinuate herself into a place like this. I squeezed Father Kilcannon’s hand and tugged his arm gently, so that he would face me, and I asked, “Do you live here?”

  “Yes, yes. I do, I do,” he answered, leading me past the lectern toward a set of swinging doors, then through them, into the small, dark vestry. We passed through another door at the back, but suddenly, it felt as if I’d smacked into a wall. But there was no wall. When my eyes adjusted, I saw that we were on the threshold of a tiny apartment at the rear of the building.

  “Father Kilcannon,” I said, “is this where you live?”

  The old priest nodded faintly.

  Shoot. Unless he invited me in, I wouldn’t be able to enter, but I wasn’t sure what the vampire protocol was for this kind of thing. Was the fact that I was glamouring him a big no-no? Could I simply ask him to ask me, or would that nullify his invitation? I had to try, but I decided it was safest to go the manipulative route. “Oh,” I said, “I couldn’t impose on you to show me your home.” Even hypnotized and vacant-eyed, the priest couldn’t ignore the hint I’d dropped.

  “No, child,” he said. “Come in. Come in.” And just like that, he led me straight through what had been an impenetrable barrier for me seconds before.

  The flat looked well appointed enough, but something wasn’t quite right. It didn’t look properly habitable. The lumpy sofa was covered with a big white tarp, as if it was just coming out of or going into storage. There was a sense of disarray that I wouldn’t expect to see in the home of a man who struck me as tidy and efficient. As Father Kilcannon took a step toward his living area, he stumbled off the edge of the platform by his front door and would have lost his balance if I hadn’t been holding his arm. But he said nothing.

  “Father,” I whispered, “you seem tired. I’d like to look around, but maybe you should lie down. Wouldn’t that be nice?” I felt confident that even though he seemed under the influence of something when I’d arrived, I now had him in my control enough to let him out of my sight for a little while. If I hadn’t eaten two helpings of breakfast that morning, who knows? He probably could have kicked my ass. I let go of his hand and opened a door I thought might lead to his bedroom. Something sharp hit me right between the eyes and before I knew what was happening, I was on the floor defending my life. When I finally got the better of my attacker, I stood up and discovered, to my horror, that I’d been fighting with a pair of antique skis and a long moth-eaten wool robe that had fallen onto me from what I now saw was an overstuffed closet. Maybe the priest wasn’t as tidy as I’d given him credit for. I stuffed the items back into their black recess, pushing my weight against the door until it latched closed again.

  When I warily turned the handle on the next door, I was relieved to find a bedroom behind it. What didn’t relieve me, though, was seeing that the small bed had been enclosed with heavy, wine-colored brocade li
ght-blocking drapes, not unlike those on my own canopy bed at home, but kind of glitzy and tacky for an elderly priest. When I flipped the wall switch, rather than a normal overhead lamp that Father Kilcannon might need to write a sermon by, the room glowed crimson. Every single light had been replaced with an infrared bulb. The effect was dramatic and chilling and, in my opinion, a little over the top. You can get bulbs nowadays that throw off a lot of heat without coloring your room like the bowels of hell. Suddenly, everything hit me like a runaway SUV. Ms. Smithburg, my history teacher and newly appointed tormenter, was a vampire too, and this was her lair. I was sure of it. She was a vampire with terrible taste in home décor who’d wormed her way into this poor old priest’s life. The only questions I had now were why and why me?

  I turned, expecting Father Kilcannon to be right behind me, but he wasn’t. I panicked. Whirling away from the bedroom door and scanning the tiny apartment, I couldn’t see him. As I ran for the door back to the vestry, something in the corner of the apartment stopped me in my tracks. There, lying in a heap, was Father Kilcannon. I let out a small moan of dread and crossed the floor one agonizingly creaky step after another. Then, as I looked down at his crumpled, ancient body, I saw that he was breathing. In fact, he was snuggled up on a pile of tatty pillows with newspapers scattered all around and a threadbare blanket drawn up to his waist. When I hadn’t been paying attention, he’d taken my advice about lying down to rest and he’d done it in the little rat’s nest Ms. Smithburg must have set up for him when she’d glamoured him out of his own bed. I was repulsed but relieved that the old man was safe, at least for the moment. I stepped away from him into the center of the living area to catch my breath.

  Feeling a bit dizzy from my revelation, I plopped down on the tarp-covered sofa, hard. I hadn’t expected it to be comfortable, but when I felt a sickening stiffness, I leapt up in uncomfortable surprise. My mouth, normally dry to begin with, became impossibly arid as I stared down at the sheet covering the sofa. I attempted to swallow, unsuccessfully trying to calm myself as I reached down with a shaking hand to grasp the white dropcloth. I held my breath and yanked the sheet, sending puffs of dust swirling all around me, and what I saw caused me to scream like I was a mortal in a movie being chased by a fiend. Lying there, with his hands crossed over his chest, was the leathery and moldering corpse of a man who seemed to have been dead for quite some time.

  Embarrassed at how I’d reacted, I covered my mouth with my hand. I glanced over at Father Kilcannon, who merely stirred and sighed in his sleep. Then, gathering my courage, I leaned in closer to the poor dead man to see if I could easily determine where that biatch Charlotte Smithburg had bitten and drained him. My eyes skimmed over his neck but saw no wounds. I leaned deeper and cocked my head to examine his wrists but couldn’t readily see any punctures. I was overwhelmed. For all of my years of being what I was, and for all of the times that I had almost become a nearly deceased decaying heap, I had successfully avoided ever seeing an actual dead body. Now that I was just inches from one, I finally understood what it was about being a vampire that I hated so very much. I wasn’t a monster, but certain vampires among us were, and they always would be. Unless something changed drastically, I would never get the chance to show anybody who I really was, because vampires would always be associated with greed and the kind of destruction I was looking at now.

  More sad than afraid, I allowed my gaze to settle on the man’s face so that I could remember him and maybe anonymously report his death to the authorities at some point. I don’t know why, I guess because I’d seen it done in a movie or something, but I put my hand out to touch his cheek and the moment I did, I felt a small but sharp charge in my fingertips and the man’s eyes snapped open, staring up at me. If I thought I’d been scared before, I was obviously mistaken, because now it was as if my feet were nailed to the floor and although my mouth had opened to scream, no sound came out. However, the man, who I’d thought was dead and wasn’t, managed to open his mouth and make a sound. And a smell. It was kind of a raspy, rattling, “Ahhhhhhhhhhhrrgghh,” accompanied by the slow but sure emergence of yellowed and rotting fangs. Turns out I was wrong about him being dead and about him being a man! Usually I like to try to learn from my mistakes, but this time I didn’t really feel like sticking around to find out what else I might have misjudged.

  I bolted from the rectory and back through the church and didn’t stop until I was blocks away. I had never seen a vampire in that condition before and hadn’t even been aware that one could exist like that, but I was sure that if he had been in any shape to stop me he would have. Now that he’d seen me, whoever the hell he was, and now that I knew about Ms. Smithburg, the time for hoping it was all a big misunderstanding had come to an abrupt close. I got on the next bus back to Port Lincoln. It looked like I might be able to make it to school that day after all.

  thirteen

  Arriving at Port Lincoln High after my morning recon mission at my history teacher’s secret church lair, I let myself into the school through the same side door I’d crept out of, and then back into, when I’d met with Timothy the day before. It seemed like years ago that I’d been so afraid to miss one class; now here I was just hours later, a hard-boiled truant. I stepped into the hallway, struck by how silent the passage was. Although it was ninety minutes before the first lunch bell, there wasn’t a soul in sight, which kind of weirded me out. Maybe the school had been evacuated due to a dangerous gas leak. I sniffed the air, picking up nothing but the stale scent of yesterday’s sloppy joes mixed with a ridiculous amount of hair product. While it smelled lethally toxic, I knew it was harmless.

  I was here because I needed to get some answers, and the only way that was going to happen was if I confronted Ms. Smithburg, aka Charlotte Smithburg, covert undead sneak, vampire to vampire. The questions of where exactly and when exactly and how exactly I would find her kept pounding in my ears as I mounted the stairs. I needed to get to my locker and unload some things from my heavy backpack while I gathered my thoughts.

  “And where are you headed?” a deep voice intoned behind me. I turned on the bottom stair to see a male teacher whose stern face I recognized from the halls but didn’t know by name.

  “To my locker,” I said, controlling the quaver in my voice.

  “And why are you not at the pep assembly where you’re supposed to be?” he asked, lowering his chin and raising his eyebrow at me. A pep assembly? That explained why this place was such a ghost town. As if on cue, I heard a dull roar coming from the gym. Probably cheering in response to a stirring speech delivered by one of the coaches of some sport or other, if I remembered correctly from the thousands of rallies I’d been forced to sit and roll my eyes through. I breathed a miniature, undetectable sigh of relief as the teacher approached me, giving me a look that was more menacing than was absolutely necessary, in my opinion.

  “And?” This guy liked to say “And” a lot. I could tell he was relishing our encounter so far, and I was surprised when he stopped short of delivering a sinister chuckle and rubbing his hands together. Just a few days ago, this fella would have had me squirming, but today, I saw him for what he was: a sad figure who’d studied and gone to college and worked his way up through the school system so he could fulfill his dreams of nabbing wayward students in corridors. He obviously got some cheap thrill from it, and I pitied him. But not that much.

  “Oh,” I said, digging into my backpack and groping for just the right thing. “I have a pass.” Inside my bag, I tore a pink hall pass from the pad that I’d liberated from the secretary’s desk and held it out. It was blank, but I knew that wouldn’t be a problem.

  “Let me see it,” said Mr. Intimidating Eyebrow, reaching for the paper in my hand. As he grabbed it, I made sure that my fingers brushed the back of his hairy hand. Ew. The little snap of electricity that passed between us caused him to look up at my face and then I cocked my eyebrow right back at him.

  “I’m excused,” I told Mr. IE, “for the r
est of the day.”

  He stared at me with glamoured-glassy eyes and a slack mouth. “You are excused,” he said, as if he’d just remembered something he should have known all along. I could have just left it at that, but there was something else I wanted to say. I tried to think of words so eloquent and poignant that they would echo through this man’s subconscious long after I walked away from him and the memory of our exchange was forever lost.

  “Don’t be a jerk to kids,” I said. It wasn’t poetic, but it would do the job. Mr. Intimidating Eyebrow didn’t look so intimidating anymore as he nodded and turned away from me. I smiled with satisfaction as he lumbered back from whence he came, never to bother another pep-assembly avoider again.

  The second floor was as empty as the first, silent except for the faint chanting and fight-song singing I could hear drifting up through the vents from the gymnasium. I stepped softly and arrived at my locker, dialing the combination and lifting the latch as quietly as I could, opening the metal door slowly and without making a sound. I was all set to dump some junk, then impulsively rush into my next rash decision, when I saw two rectangles of folded notebook paper alone at the bottom of my otherwise neat locker. I’d seen plenty of notes passed and pocketed in my many years of high school, but I’d never, ever been the recipient of one. In fact, I’d recently noticed that texting had all but replaced the paper notes that kids used to exchange. Not that anyone ever texted me either, but still, I’d felt a little nostalgic pang of loss for what I thought was the passing of the passing of those old-fashioned notes. Now here it looked like I’d gotten two.

  I picked up the little paper bundles and unfolded the first. It was written in a spidery, ornate hand that was almost too ostentatious to be believable. It read: