Shaking my head, I hurry down the deck steps to the grass, wet with rain that ought to be icy to my bare feet but registers only as cool. “What happened?”
“We were practicing with swords.” Sierra gestures at her stick. “I guess maybe I got a little too into it.”
“Daryl failed to block,” says Sam in a matter-of-fact tone.
Ugh. I crouch by Daryl—who’s giving off a strong smell like Hostess chocolate cupcakes. Crap. He’s bleeding. “Hey. Let me have a look, ’kay?”
Sierra leans down and whispers, “Please make him forget? I don’t wanna get in trouble.”
“Did you try doing it the normal way first?” I ask.
She stares at me. “The normal way of making people forget stuff? I don’t have any sodium thiopental handy.”
I stop trying to pull Daryl’s hands away from his face and stare at my sister. “How the heck do you even know what that is?”
“You do remember who our father is, right? Movies.”
“I meant the usual way by apologizing. Perhaps bribing him with large amounts of chocolate.” Again, I tug at his arms. “C’mon, Daryl, let me see.”
He moans in pain.
“Sare, he’s a boy, not a moody girlfriend. Chocolate isn’t going to help.”
Sam holds a finger up. “I beg to differ. I am highly susceptible to bribes involving copious amounts of chocolate. Preferably dark.”
“Eww,” says Nicole. “Dark chocolate is nasty.”
“Says the uncultured heathen,” mutters Sam.
“Sierra, your brother is a dork.” Nicole rolls her eyes.
Daryl pulls his hands away from his face, revealing a split lip that’s gushing. I don’t think any of his teeth are damaged, but it’s difficult to focus on anything but the sight of blood. As hungry as I am, the bright red triggers an involuntary growl and a minor red flash in my eyes.
A soft, squeaky fart escapes the boy and most of the color drains out of his cheeks.
Oops.
Okay, that I will delete from his memory. With every ounce of my self-control, I resist the urge to act like an overly affectionate golden retriever and lick the blood off his face. That my first thought isn’t how weird and inappropriate licking him would look is a big ass warning that I’ve let myself go too far without feeding.
Daryl’s eyes glaze over as I erase his memory of seeing my eyes glow.
“Awesome,” whispers Sierra.
Once I’m sure the boy has lost any memory that I’m anything more than his friend’s extremely normal and boring older sister, I look up at her. That’s not what I made him forget. You should still apologize. He agreed to play swordfight with you, so if you get in trouble, so will he.
“Okay, it’s just a split lip,” I say, before pulling the boy upright. “C’mon, I’ll clean that up.”
Sierra follows as I guide Daryl into the house and the downstairs bathroom.
My hands shake a little from the war going on inside me. It’s so damn tempting to take a little taste, but I’m afraid of losing control. One bit of chocolate-flavored blood hits my tongue and I might end up having to give this kid the Transference because hunger wouldn’t let me stop in time. Sierra probably followed me because she noticed my reaction to the blood, knows I’m hungry, and hopes to blackmail me by offering not to tell the parents that I fed off Daryl if I make him forget she walloped him with a stick.
Sierra loves me, but she’s shrewd.
I wet a wad of TP and dab at Daryl’s face. It doesn’t look like she got him that hard. Teeth aren’t damaged. A few scratches on his cheek and a split lip. He could’ve hurt himself worse taking a spill off a bike.
“How bab if it?” mutters Daryl.
“Small cut and a fat lip. Don’t worry about the amount of blood. Cuts to the face and scalp bleed a lot.”
He nods.
“Sorry,” says Sierra. “You dropped your guard and I took the opening. Didn’t mean to hit you that hard. Only trying to get in before you defended.”
Daryl mumbles, “It’s okay. Accidents happen”–or at least the fat lip version thereof.
Relief melts off Sierra. “Maybe we should do something else instead of sword practice.”
He nods.
Pretty sure I know what happened. In the heat of the moment, Sierra mentally jumped back to fighting off the imp swarm to protect Sophia. ‘Playing with stick swords’ turned into a real life-or-death fight in her head. Once I get Daryl cleaned up and sent on his way, I hug her.
“What now?” deadpans Sierra. “You don’t usually get clingy for no reason.”
No need burdening an eleven-year-old with my guilt that she’s facing a completely abnormal rest-of-childhood because of something that happened to me. “I’m proud of you for wanting to help protect Sophia and Sam from all the crap following me around these days.”
She hugs me back. “Don’t go away. It’s okay. I don’t mind the weird stuff.”
“I won’t.”
“Sweet.” She looks me in the eye. “Now can you stop being mushy before someone sees us?”
I laugh. “Sure.”
She heads out to the yard. A momentary trancelike state comes over me when my gaze falls on the bloody lump of TP in the waste bin. Both so I don’t try eating it, and the parents don’t ask about it—damn sure they’re going to become inquisitive upon noticing a bloody wad of paper—I decide to flush it.
And, yeah. Homework can wait. I need a snack, stat.
The best laid plans of mice and vampires often fall apart due entirely to circumstances beyond control. I had planned to fly in tonight, but despite being super sunny most of the day, Mom Nature decided to be annoying at night, dumping the kind of rain on us that soaks through clothes in seconds. Dashing from the front door to the driveway without an umbrella would’ve drenched me as bad as jumping into a lake.
If I had a waterproof bag, saving time and avoiding traffic might have tempted me to fly in a bathing suit and change at school, but no such bag. Flying is awesome. Flying in the rain, considerably less awesome. Sitting in class wearing saturated clothes is the exact opposite of awesome. So, I drive. That shaves time away from my studying since I have to leave the house earlier. At least I’m mostly caught up on work. This only means I won’t have as much free time tomorrow.
Professor Kendall is like the generic template from which the world generates university teachers. Like, if reality was a roleplaying game, he’s the dead average ‘professor’ character class with mediocre stats and all the usual proficiencies and feats. Add a bunch of humor and personality to this template, you get Professor Connolly. Add a pedantic drive for perfection, and you get Doctor Mercer. And so on.
The man’s not boring, but he’s not interesting either. Fortunately, I can’t fall asleep unless the sun’s out. Also, I kind of overdid it earlier when I flew into town before the rain started, feeding from two big dudes. I’m a little dazed from the vampire version of a food coma.
He hits us with a pop quiz, and I once again find myself in the Chinese Hell of Torturous Sounds that only vampire ears can hear. Today’s symphonic performance is brought to you by the letter B—for bodily functions. Gurgles, rumbles, squeaks, scratching, burps, and of course, a thermonuclear fart from the back row. I don’t know what the woman in front of me had for dinner, but it damn sure isn’t going down without a fight. Her stomach’s either trying to sing the background melody from The Lion Sleeps Tonight or that Day-O song from Beetlejuice.
That’s it…
I fish my earbuds out of my purse and drown the annoyances in music.
Naturally, Professor Kendall starts walking over to give me grief about it, as if I’m going to cheat on a pop quiz in English lit by calling a friend with a lifeline. Seriously? I lock stares and give him a compulsion to go back to his desk and ignore my music. He stops short, turns on his heel, and returns to his chair.
One advantage of mega-sensitive ears? I can have my music on at a barely-audible volume—to
normal people—so it sounds fine to me, but no one else can hear a thing. This room is so damn quiet, listening to music with headphones at normal volume would be basically playing for the whole class.
Shielded from distractions, I attack the test like old times. And okay, maybe I was a bit of a geek in high school, usually among the first three or four kids done with tests.
I abuse my powers twice in class tonight.
Professor Kendall was about to assign us to do an analysis of the underlying themes of Fahrenheit 451. While I have nothing against that book, the English teachers at my high school must have shrines set up to it. Every year for four years in a row, we had to do reports on it. So, nope. Not doing it five years in a row, even if the college-level version would’ve gone deeper. We’re going to analyze the underlying themes of Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep instead.
Yeah, I know, changing our assignment was a bit of a Dick move.
And argh! It’s still pouring when I leave the building after class.
Umbrella for the win. At least it’s not too windy.
I feel watched on the way from the school building to the parking garage, but don’t see anyone obviously staring at me. My guess is the same dude from the movie theater has picked up my trail again, but he’s not showing himself this time. Either that or the spirit Sophia let out of the jar is sniffing me out. Not sure why he’d mess with me, unless my ‘aura’ or whatever is unusual to him. Maybe he’s never seen a vampire before? I really don’t like the feeling of having to keep my head on a swivel while walking around alone at night. That should have ended when I became a vampire. Let some creep grab me now and see what happens to him. But, the idea of another vampire—or something darker—becoming a possible threat to me hadn’t occurred. Maybe my safety isn’t as iron-clad as it might seem.
But honestly, I’ve been laying really low in terms of vampire stuff. My involvement with the local undead is limited entirely to Aurélie dragging me to those fancy parties. It still bugs me that they have brain-zonked mortals hanging around like living snacks, but it’s not like they murder them. One or two might end up hospitalized due to losing a little too much blood, but they survive.
My non-involvement with the ‘scene’ here should mostly protect me from some other vamp getting their fangs in a twist over something I did. So, there really is no good reason for this guy to be shadowing me.
Shadowing.
Good idea. I should ask Glim to sniff this guy out the next time I see him. Maybe he can discover what’s put a target on my back this time.
Nothing jumps out at me on the walk to the Sentra. The parking garage is packed since everyone tried to avoid having to leave their car on the uppermost floor, out in the rain. My Sentra is on the small side, so I squeezed it into an end spot on the third level that’s probably not supposed to be a parking space. The lack of a ticket or notice on the window is a good indication no one cared about me parking there—or maybe the security staff is lazy.
Anyway, time to go home.
Getting into the car requires a little flying and an open window. Fully leaving the parking space requires me backing straight up, hopping out, grabbing the front bumper, and dragging the nose around toward the aisle. The corner of the garage doesn’t have enough room for a K turn. Maybe the security guy had been too mystified at how someone got a car into that space to begin with that he figured I deserved to be able to use it without a penalty.
Shrug.
Still no sign of anyone following me, though that sense of someone staring at me remains. I stand beside the car looking around for a bit, but he’s staying out of sight. No point standing here, so I give up and decide to go home.
I’m on edge for the first few minutes of the drive. Darkness doesn’t hinder my ability to see, but the rain is ridiculous and it sounds like a million tiny hammers beating the crap out of the roof. You know how some people—moi included—turn down the music in the car while looking for a parking spot? Yeah, I want to turn down the rain so the roar isn’t so distracting, but I can’t. The constant din is as unnerving as it is distracting. Ahead of me, the world’s a blur of red lights and the blinding glare of oncoming traffic. Since driving gives me no choice but to stare toward the headlights of approaching cars, I need to throttle back my eyes. This, of course, makes the road ahead dimmer and scarier.
It’s almost a good thing my friends are all too busy to hang out during the week. The ride is slow and nerve wracking enough without the pressure to hurry up because I’m late for something. In fact, it’s damn tempting to stash the car somewhere and fly home even if I end up soaked. Wouldn’t be so bad going home. No need to stay in wet clothes there like I’d have to do in class.
Wobbly lights in the oncoming lane don’t look like they’re pointing quite in the proper direction.
It hurts, but I focus in that direction, trying to see past them. The front end of a semi clarifies out of the rain-blurred night, swerving out of its lane. For a brief instant in near-frozen time, I can clearly make out a panicky youngish driver just sitting there, paralyzed by indecision… his truck veering into my lane.
With total disregard for what might be on my right, I yank the wheel and swerve one lane over. Accelerated reflexes are the only reason I don’t plow headfirst into a Peterbilt going way too fast for wet roads. Miraculously, there’s no car in my way. The Sentra slips past the tractor-trailer’s bumper with so little room to spare that I’d have wet my pants if I still had normal biology. The rapid lane change causes my tires to lose their grip on the paving, sending me sliding toward the edge of the road. I crank the wheel to the left, succeeding only in throwing the car into a sideways slide, still heading for the ditch.
Screaming, I mash myself against the door, trying to use my vampiric flight to push the car while steering into the skid. The tires catch a grip, straightening the Sentra out with only a little bit of fishtailing. Too frazzled to think about doing anything else, I pull onto the shoulder and stop.
The door mirror lets me see the taillights of the semi receding into the distance. He, too, appears to have regained control of his rig, put it back in the proper lane, and didn’t even slow down. For a moment, I’m pissed at him for not stopping… but then I second-guess myself. We had a near miss. No one got hurt, not even paint scratched. Are drivers required to stop for that? Admittedly, that should have been a nasty accident. During the day or if I’d been mortal, I’d have gone flying out the windshield and probably landed in the sleeper box of that truck.
Did that ghost Sophia set loose just try to kill me or was that merely a newbie driver letting his rig get away from him in the rain? I could sit here for hours pondering unanswerable questions like what happened here, or where wads of pocket lint come from. Or why drive-through ATMs have braille on the keys, or why the Kardashians are famous.
Sigh. Some things humanity will simply never understand.
Anyway, I might as well get going before a cop decides to check out why I’m sitting on the side of the road.
Driving from Seattle to Cottage Lake should normally have been about a thirty-minute trip, but it takes me over an hour to get home.
Seriously considering that waterproof bag.
Vampires are not made for night driving in the rain. At least, not on highways where oncoming traffic is a magma flow of headlights. Despite it only being like a twenty-foot walk from car to door, I still pop the umbrella, finally noticing how badly my hand is shaking. Not sure if it’s adrenaline given my altered biology, but it feels the same. Narrowly avoiding a head-on collision with a giant truck at night shouldn’t rattle me as bad as it did. It couldn’t have killed me or even inflicted any injuries I wouldn’t have recovered from in a few hours.
Still shaking, I quietly make my way down to my room, scooting past the ’rents watching the evening news. After changing into my sweats, I flop on the bed and send Hunter a ‘call?’ text. There’s no way focus on homework is going to be possible at least for an hour. Maybe longer.
My phone rings.
“Hey,” I say.
“Is something wrong?” asks Hunter.
“I miss hearing the sound of your voice.”
“You sound a little freaked out. What happened?”
Eyes closed, I imagine myself leaning against him. “Bad ride home. Almost got into an accident but it wasn’t my fault.”
“Crap. Are you okay?”
That makes me chuckle. “Yeah. Even if I did crash, it wouldn’t have hurt me… much. Not sure why I’m freaking out about it.” I explain what happened and even tell him about the spirit.
“Doesn’t make sense to me that the spirit would go after you. I mean, not unless you’re a distant descendant of someone responsible for arresting and executing him.”
“Uhh.” I twirl a strand of hair around my finger. “Not that I’m aware of. But he died in the 1700s. I suppose it’s possible. My dad’s side of the family has roots in England, but I’m pretty sure my grandfather’s great grandfather was already in the US. Even if I am related to someone who caused that guy to be hanged, would the spirit even know or care? Besides, I’m already dead.”
“I dunno how long a ghost carries a grudge for, but wouldn’t he be angrier at the people who put him in the jar?”
“Maybe. No point stressing out over it. If something else strange happens, then I’ll worry. So what have you been doing?” I hold a foot up, debating toenail polish. Been awhile. Meh. Screw it. November. No one’s gonna see it anyway.
Hunter rambles about school, work, and his mom. She’s started a second job at night, part time. That means he’s gotta stay home to watch Ronan or bring him to Mi Tierra while he works. Usually, the kid does his homework there, so he’s not too bored when he’s sitting around the back room.
Eventually, it gets late enough that Hunter should go to sleep. He wants to stay on the line talking, but I shoo him off to bed. Hearing his voice has let me calm down enough to consider schoolwork despite—I think—a vampire stalking me and a semi nearly flattening me all the same night. Next to having an imp living in the house and a sister capable of doing magic, neither of those should seem strange.
Ordinary Problems of a College Vampire (Vampire Innocent Book 7) Page 11