by Beth Bloom
“More,” Naomi whispered.
So I tilted the jug at a steeper angle and liquid came gushing out, all over the couch and carpet. I walked around pouring more on the coffee table, the walls, the curtains. Naomi pointed to the ceiling, where two wood beams crossed with two others.
“How?” I asked.
She grabbed the jug from my hands and climbed up on the kitchen counter so she was higher, then started dousing the old wooden crossbeams. Gas was dripping from the ceiling now, making puddles on the kitchen floor, a weird gasoline rain. The fumes were thickening, the smell was overwhelming. I was huffing chemicals, staggering around, hallucinating. I felt like laughing. Screw these jerks. Screw their empty truce. I gave the thumbs-up to Naomi, who shot me back a loopy, drugged smile. She wobbled across the kitchen counter, draining the jug all over everything, the fridge, the stove, more chairs, until the flow dribbled to a stop. It was empty. She shook it dry, then tossed it in the middle of the floor and laughed out loud.
Then I heard my own voice: “Do it.”
And I heard my own thought: Burn it down.
Naomi hopped off the counter onto the carpet, which was like a sponge now, soggy with gasoline, and we both stumbled toward the front door. The room reeked. I felt brain cells dying. I felt happy.
Then Naomi reached her lighter out toward the curtains and, with a flick of her thumb, sparked it.
Then we were outside, the fresh air in my lungs like a splash of cold water to the face. We slowly backed away, sobering up, watching the walls flame up, watching the curtains sizzle with pale blue fire. At first it was almost delicate the way the flames crawled and spread across the house, little tendrils of orange and yellow slipping through the paneling on the roof. Smoke began gently spewing into the sky.
I wondered how long we should wait before leaving. Until the entire house was roaring maybe? Longer? At some point soon, neighbors would notice, 911 would be dialed, fire trucks would arrive. I knew we needed to be gone by then. But Naomi was spellbound, engrossed in what we had created. What we were destroying. She never took her eyes off the fire, not even for a second. Not even to share a surreal high five, a humble victory dance, some small moment of bonding. She was rooted to the ground, her face lit up, drinking it in. It was sort of like we were watching Jurassic Park again, only way weirder and more illegal. I stared at her staring at the fire, trying to remind myself that it was really, truly over. Then Naomi’s face went white, her eyes went wide, she said, “Oh my God,” and stumbled back a few feet.
I turned toward the house and saw what she saw. Stiles. Standing in the living room. Looking like he always looked: shiny black hair, cold gray eyes, purplish lips. Seething with hate. His eyes pierced directly into mine, never blinking. Then he moved toward the window and reached his right hand out, pressing it against the glass, his five fingers a pentagram of pale skin. Stiles was dying again, and he knew it. He just stood there glaring at us, his face occasionally obscured by black plumes of smoke. Then he walked away, back into the house, out of sight.
I grabbed Naomi’s hand, and she clasped fingers with me. We took another step back together. The fire roared.
Naomi’s other hand was over her mouth. She made noises, not words.
“Did you see Sanders in there?” I asked, frantic.
“What?” Her face was still blank, her gaze still frozen on the spot where Stiles had stood, where his hand had left no mark on the glass.
“Sanders. Did you see him with Stiles?”
“What? I—I don’t think so.”
“Is he in there? He’s in there, right?”
“Where else could he be? Of course he is.” Naomi nodded. She kept nodding and nodding. “He’s in there.”
I was about to turn and drag Naomi down the driveway, but suddenly there was a loud banging sound. Stiles had slammed open the door and was standing in the doorway, smoke streaming out, staring at us. For once his clothes were actually messed up, dirty from the smoke and soot, and his hair was out of place, sticking up, not plastered and perfect. The mask was off. This was what he was. Mouth half-open, eyes lifeless and bitter, head slightly lowered like an angry animal. Just some predator.
The fire was raging all around him, but he didn’t move. It was a duel without weapons. A silent showdown. We were only fifteen feet away, but the sun was out so he was stuck, stranded in the doorway, inferno on one side and sunshine on the other. We were burning. He was burning. And in the bedroom, still asleep or passed out or hopefully already dead, Sanders was burning too. He just had to be.
The smoke grew denser, billowing out into the California air, adding to the smog. The flames crackled and popped as they consumed the roof and the walls. A window somewhere shattered from the heat. Naomi squeezed my hand. And a single low guttural growl ripped through Stiles’s mean teeth. He felt it for real. He was mortal again.
Then, strangely, he seemed to calm down. His lips curled into a small, knowing smile. It was the freakiest thing I’d ever seen. He held the expression for a minute and then turned and slammed the door.
Neither of us spoke. The whole house was dissolving in a web of red and orange and yellow flames, the sky darkening with huge clouds of choking smoke. This was the end.
“We should go,” I said.
Naomi pulled her hand from mine and slipped it into the pocket of her sunflower print dress. “Yeah.”
It was hard to take our eyes off the blaze, but finally we did. We walked side by side up the driveway toward the street, saying nothing.
Then out of nowhere Naomi said, “I know what James would’ve given up. I mean, I could guess.”
“What?”
“His spot at the school.”
Then James could stay. He wouldn’t have to go back east.
Naomi looked at me out of the corner of her eye, and my face must’ve looked too blissed, too blessed. “Now he doesn’t have to give it up, though. That place is the best thing for him, for all of us.”
Maybe.
“Have you ever thought about the future?” Naomi asked.
James. Whit. James. “Sure.”
“Like how this will all end for you?”
“What do you mean?”
She caught my eyes. “Are you going to become one too?”
“I hadn’t really thought about it.” It was sort of true. I sort of hadn’t.
“Better start,” she said.
“Yeah.”
Naomi was done here. The gasoline was gone. The lighter was in her pocket. She was walking away from it all, at the end of the driveway, already climbing on the bike, ready to go home.
But I wasn’t quite ready yet. I wasn’t bored with this yet. Whatever. Okay.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
For their editorial insights, professional support, and superb guidance, thanks to Ann Behar and Tara Weikum. For inspiration, motivation, and the endlessly useful phrase “rookie mistakes,” thanks to Jennifer Cacicio. For believing in me since literally day one, thanks to my mother. And, lastly, I’m grateful to my best friend and beyond, Benjamin Shearn, without whom the film of this book would not already be cast.
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About the Author
M. BETH BLOOM is a musician, video artist, and writer. Her fiction has appeared in StoryQuarterly and Dave Eggers’s Best American Non-Required Reading series. She lives in Los Angeles.
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Credits
Cover art © 2012 by Francesca Bortoli
Cover design by Michelle Taormina
Copyright
HarperTeen is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
DRAIN YOU. Copyright © 2012 by M. Beth Bloom. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downl
oaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
www.epicreads.com
* * *
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication
Bloom, M. B., (date)
Drain you / M.B. Bloom.—1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: Even after Quinn Lacey learns that the coast of Southern California is crawling with vampires, she still tries to keep her job at the video store, convince her parents that she is eating well, and rescue her best friend from a fate worse than death.
ISBN 978-0-06-203686-5 (pbk. bdg.)
[1. Vampires—Fiction. 2. Los Angeles (Calif.)—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.B816153Dr 2012
2011016551
[Fic]—dc23
CIP
AC
* * *
12 13 14 15 16 LP/RRDH 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
First Edition
EPub Edition © MAY 2012 ISBN: 978-0-06-203687-2
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Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Contents
Part One
1. Sheets
2. Ice Cube
3. Headdress
4. Sleepover
5. Sunday
6. Stuff
7. Invitation
8. Reveal
9. Games
10. History
Part Two
11. Living
12. Burr
13. Confetti
14. Quake
15. Aftershock
16. Success
17. Kitten
18. Gang
19. Burn
Acknowledgments
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About the Author
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher