The Chronicles of Vladimir Tod: Twelfth Grade Kills

by Heather Brewer

  A scent was on the air—one of adrenaline and spirit and blood. Vlad followed that scent into the park and, standing in the shadows, watched a woman making her laps around the track.

  She was running at a steady clip, though Vlad had no idea why she thought it was a good idea to exercise in the middle of the night—even in this town. Her footfalls slapped the pavement in a rhythm that matched closely the rhythm of her heart. Vlad watched her as she rounded the bend, heading straight for him now. He stepped backward, deeper into the shadows.

  He didn’t know what he planned to do. He only knew that she wouldn’t see it coming, that she would be the end to a means, that his terrible thirst, his unbearable hunger would be satiated at last.

  He licked his lips as she approached, and just as she stepped within a few feet of him, Vlad looked at her, really looked at her.

  She was a person.

  A real, live person. With a family. With friends.

  What was he thinking?

  Her steps slowed as she caught sight of him. Her eyes widened in surprised fear. Alarm shot through her veins, both shaking Vlad and filling him with disgust. Disgust with himself for what he’d been about to do.

  He forced a smile and said, “You should be careful out here. Bathory’s not as safe as you might think. Have a good night.”

  Then he did what had seemed impossible only seconds before.

  He turned around and walked away, his stomach rumbling in protest.

  “Vladimir Tod?”

  A word, four letters, shocked and foul, crossed his lips as he turned back to face the woman.

  He wasn’t at all surprised to see her pulling a silver-tipped stake from the holster on her thigh. But he was surprised to see her whip into action and run straight for him without so much as a blink.

  She raised the stake, and Vlad looked up at it, hating that stupid piece of wood, that thing that had caused him so much stress. It was a symbol, the stake. And to Vlad it was a symbol of hatred, of absolute refusal of peace.

  It was also a distraction technique, because as Vlad was watching the stake, thinking quickly of a plan of defense, the Slayer woman whipped around, sweeping Vlad’s legs with a kick. Vlad fell backward, but caught his balance just before he fell. As he stumbled, she brought the stake forward. Vlad reached up in a blink, gripping her wrist, eyeing her down.

  He could snap it. Snap the bone and cause her real pain. He knew it and, more importantly she knew it too. But she still wouldn’t stop, and her eyes slanted into a defying glare.

  Vlad weighed his options—fight or flight—and in the end, he pushed her backward several yards, releasing her without harm, and turned to leave. It was over. Vlad didn’t want to fight. There would, if he and Joss didn’t come up with a solid plan of action, come a time when he would have to face the Slayer Society. But not now. Not if he had anything to say about it.

  His stomach rumbled its protests. The woman’s veins were full of a delectable B negative, and it was calling out to him, taunting his thirst.

  Behind him, he heard the woman’s feet running softly over the ground. She was coming at him again. She would not stop, would never stop. And as she got closer, the monster inside of him screamed with hungry delight. Fresh blood, enough to satiate his immense hunger, and it was being delivered to him by someone who probably deserved to be bitten.

  A sudden jolt went through Vlad. The realization of what he was thinking, of what he was about to allow himself to do.

  Pushing the monster back deep down inside, and without putting a conscious effort into his actions at all, Vlad moved. Fast. In blinding speed, he turned and approached the Slayer, spinning around, lifting his leg chest high. He kicked the Slayer back, sending her flying from him. He had time enough to notice that she was still gripping the stake when she hit the large oak across the park with full force.

  She crumpled to the ground, unconscious and unbitten.

  Another four letter word—a different one this time— crossed Vlad’s lips, but for a different reason. Because not only was Joss right about Slayers heading to Bathory ...

  ... they looked like regular people, which would make them impossible to pick out of a crowd. They could hide out in the open. And there would be a lot of them.

  18

  ECHOES FROM THE PAST

  VLAD WAS SITTING ON NELLY’S BACK STEP, listening to the sounds of night around him, punishing himself for having even considered feeding from the source. Forcibly. Without consent.

  There was something wrong with him.

  Yeah, said that other voice—the one that only spoke when he was feeling ravenous-something was wrong, and that something was that he was hungry. He was a hungry vampire. What else did he expect?

  A little self-control. That’s for sure.

  But he wasn’t just beating himself up over considering drinking from that Slayer woman in the park—or even over attacking her and knocking her unconscious. He was also waiting. Waiting for answers.

  After he’d left the park, he’d returned to Nelly’s house. And as he’d placed his shoes inside the coat closet, he couldn’t help but notice something wrapped up in a plastic bag and tucked in the very back of the closet. Curiosity had gotten the better of him, and he’d peered inside the bag. What he found had shaken his world and brought a flood of questions to the tip of his tongue. Questions that only Otis could answer.

  He’d paced the kitchen for almost an hour, his thoughts flitting from one strange equation to another, with nothing adding up in Otis’s favor. At last, with a deep breath, he walked out the back door, sat down on the step, and reached out with telepathy to his uncle. “Otis, are you sleeping? ”

  Moments later, Otis creaked open the back door and poked his head out. “What’s the matter, Vladimir, couldn’t sleep?”

  He patted the step beside him. “Have a seat, Uncle Otis. There are some things I need to talk to you about.”

  Otis nodded, the smile slipping from his face, as if he knew this were coming. He took a seat beside Vlad and they watched the night for a while. The stars were bright and shining, and the sky was so full of them that it almost seemed like there were too many stars in the sky, too much brightness in the world when Vlad’s thoughts were so dark and shadowed. Vlad glanced at his uncle and said, “I was attacked by a Slayer tonight.”

  He could see Otis visibly tense, but his uncle’s tone remained as calm as could be. “Are you all right?”

  Vlad nodded. He decided not to mention how close he’d come to draining the woman dry. There were, of course, far more important things to discuss. Things that had been plaguing Vlad ever since he’d opened the bag at the back of the coat closet. “Uncle Otis ... I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. And some things you’ve told me over the years don’t quite add up.”

  His uncle didn’t respond, merely folded his hands together and kept his eyes on the ground in front of him. It seemed to Vlad an act of contrition, like he were guilty of just about anything Vlad would accuse him of, and was a little bit relieved that he’d been found out.

  Taking a deep breath, Vlad continued. “A few years ago, you told me that my dad had been a vampire for a hundred years before you made the change. Then a couple years later, you gave me a letter describing the day you were turned. You made it sound like you were both turned into vampires that day.”

  Otis was very still, as if waiting for Vlad to force him to speak.

  Vlad raised an eyebrow at his uncle. “So which story’s true?”

  At first, Otis said nothing. But then he spoke—his voice hushed and raspy—and Vlad knew that Otis felt badly. About what, he had no idea. “Both, Vladimir. Both stories are true. But that doesn’t mean I should have shared either with you.”

  “How can they both be true?”

  “Tomas was made a vampire one hundred years before I was taken to the Bastille. At the time, I thought he was also human—I didn’t believe in such things as vampires back then. Like most humans, I was blissfully unaware
of what lurks in the shadows of the night. Like most humans, I was a fool.” He swallowed hard then and, gathering his thoughts, said, “Your grandfather, Ignatius, was a cunning man, but he was also cruel. He’d made Tomas a vampire and used him as his slave, you see. Tomas was miserable, and so alone. He’s suffered, Vladimir. Your father has suffered more than anyone I’ve ever known.”

  Vlad took it all in, but was still left with a question poised on the tip of his tongue. “What happened? What happened exactly that day in the Bastille?”

  “There is a law in Elysia. We can only change willing humans into vampires. It was a law created to limit the vampire population. A strange law, considering a vampire would have to reveal himself in order to gain permission.” He shook his head, as did Vlad, both marveling over the many inconsistencies in Elysian law. “Ignatius had arranged for my and Tomas’s imprisonment. I lived what I thought were my final days in that cell, with only the company of the man who would become your father. I thought I was doomed, Vladimir, and in the end I made a choice.”

  A sinking feeling entered Vlad’s chest. His dad had lied. His dad had tricked Otis into becoming a vampire.

  Otis shook his head. “Don’t think poorly of him. It was my choice to make and I don’t regret it at all. Ignatius—your grandfather—was a horrible man, and though Tomas had initially resisted his devious plan to gain my permission, he soon realized that while he might not have been strong enough to escape Ignatius alone, he might be strong enough with a brother there to back him up. He would be free, finally, of a tyrannical father, of the man who planned to enslave us both.”

  “The way it’s been told to me, after I turned, Tomas attacked Ignatius, calling to me to assist and I did. Even then we were inseparable, you see. We fought, but I have no memory of it. Ignatius had wounded me—a fledgling, just a babe, not at all capable of facing a vampire as old or as strong as Ignatius—so terribly that I almost perished. But Tomas fended our father off and took me to Siberia, where Vikas tended to my wound.”

  Otis’s eyes were wide and sad. A tiny muscle in his jaw twitched as he turned to face Vlad. “So yes, both stories are correct. But if you hold any ill will at all against your father, I shall never forgive myself for telling these tales to you. He is a good man. I owe him my life.”

  Vlad opened his mouth. He was about to say that he couldn’t possibly be angry at his dad for having followed the whims of his insane creator. His dad had been afraid, and besides, the entire act had given Vlad Otis. And that wasn’t anything he regretted at all.

  But then the sound of raised voices edged its way around the corner of the house. Vlad and Otis exchanged glances, then moved wordlessly around to the front of the house to see what was going on.

  What they saw had Vlad’s jaw on the floor.

  Enrico was standing in the street, merely feet from Tomas—his eyes wide with lunacy, a sword in his hand. His fangs were bared, despite the fact that they were in public, where any human might see them.

  They were arguing in Elysian code. Unable to understand the language in its spoken form, Vlad glanced at Otis, hoping he’d translate. But Otis had set his jaw and stepped forward, interrupting. “Gentleman, this conversation was unavoidable, but must it take place where any human can peer out their window and witness? Yes, Enrico, your beloved son has perished. But it was at the hand of a Slayer, and due to his own actions. You cannot blame Tomas for that.”

  “I don’t, Otis. I don’t blame him.” Enrico shook his head, and then cast a cold glance on Vlad. “I blame his son.”

  Then something happened that made Vlad realize that he was probably the only vampire there that hadn’t been aware of what was really going on, what Otis and Tomas were really trying to prevent.

  Enrico moved behind Vlad with lightning fast speed, pressing the sharp blade to his throat. One small move and he would be beheaded.

  The blade was cold and the cold was only warmed by the slight trickle of blood down Vlad’s neck as Enrico pressed the sword into him in a warning to Tomas and Otis. “One move and I’ll decapitate him. You both know I will.”

  Enrico was crying. Vlad could hear it in his voice, feel it against his cheek. Then he whispered, “I have to do this, Vladimir. I am sorry, but my son ... my son was everything to me. Without him, I cannot go on.”

  Raising his voice he cried out into the night, “I want justice!”

  Then he whispered it again into Vlad’s hair, all sense of reason gone. “I want justice.”

  Tomas didn’t step forward—in fact, both he and Otis seemed frozen to the spot—but he did raise a sharp eyebrow at Enrico. “If it’s justice that you want, I suggest you seek it in the blood of the Slayer Society.”

  Vlad swallowed hard, then winced as the blade sank into his skin a bit deeper. He hoped like hell his dad had some idea of what he was doing. Turning his head slightly, he looked at Enrico. “Please, Enrico. It wasn’t me. I ... I loved Dorian. He was a good friend to me. I cried when he was killed.”

  Enrico’s crazy, metallic laughter filled the air. Vlad could hear the madness on its edges. Apparently, he really had lost his mind. Vlad’s fingers trembled, giving his whole body a cue to shake in fear as well.

  Crazy vampires were terrifying, and more dangerous than he ever wanted to witness.

  Enrico’s laughter died down at last. “You cried. You cried when my Dorian was taken from me. But did you tell me when I came to see you that day with Em? Or did I have to learn of my son’s demise—his murder—” Enrico gripped a handful of Vlad’s hair, “—through a casual conversation with Cratus?”

  Otis took a bold step forward. In response, Enrico tightened his hold on Vlad’s hair and yanked it back, exposing his bleeding neck. It was a wordless warning: stay back, or I’ll kill him faster. Then Enrico loosened his grip some and said, “My pain is immeasurable, and without you, Vladimir, this pain would not be.”

  Vlad swooned. His world became a blending of colors and sound. Just when he thought he might black out, everything came into focus again.

  He was seeing clearly. He knew what he had to do.

  Vlad reached up with his right hand and gripped Enrico’s wrist. The moment his thumb brushed Enrico’s Mark, a surge of power shot through Vlad, the power of the Pravus. After all, a Mark was merely a glyph by another name, and glyphs had a tendency to heighten and unleash Vlad’s Pravus gifts.

  At least, that was a theory. Every time he touched a glyph, his eyes glowed. Every time he touched a glyph, he felt more powerful than he had before. So, it was a theory. But one he was willing to bet on.

  Vlad focused on his hand, willing it to become hot—hotter than ever before. The glow from the Mark traveled down Enrico’s arm, until it enveloped the blade with a heat that even Enrico could not withstand. He cried out, dropping the sword.

  And Vlad was free.

  The sword was no longer pressed against his throat. Enrico was no longer standing behind him, holding him prisoner.

  Enrico was no longer standing, period. The moment his weapon had fallen, Tomas and Otis were on him, pinning him to the ground. Once Enrico was under control, Tomas stood again and moved toward Vlad, but cautiously, as if Vlad might cause him harm if he moved too quickly. He plucked Enrico’s sword from the ground and turned it over in his hands, then met Otis’s eyes. “It seems there may be something to this Pravus prophecy after all.”

  19

  THE TRUTH HURTS

  VLAD WAS SITTING ON THE COUCH, staring at the floor between his feet, wondering if his family, the closest vampires to him, were ever going to shut up and explain to him exactly what had just happened.

  Because Vlad knew but couldn’t understand. And it scared the hell out of him.

  His hands were shaking.

  Once Tomas had collected the sword, Otis tapped into Enrico’s mind, calming him, soothing his tortured thoughts with mind control, putting him to sleep for the time being. Vlad’s dad then placed a call to Enrico’s brother, who promised to come co
llect him immediately. Then he and Otis had ushered Vlad silently across town, not wanting to wake Nelly, wanting to be alone to discuss whatever it was that had occurred. And that meant going to the house on Lugosi Trail, where Vikas was waiting. Where Vlad was now sitting, waiting for answers.

  He only wished they would stop arguing already and get on with their explanation.

  “What other explanation is there for the things that Vlad is capable of, Otis?” His dad sounded completely aggravated, frustrated with Otis’s stubbornness.

  “What is he capable of? No more than any other vampire, Tomas. Vladimir is as normal as they come.” Otis was trying his absolute hardest to remain calm, to keep any twinge of tension from his voice, but his tone was slipping.

  Tomas looked as if his brother had just slapped him. “You can’t be serious. What about his speed? What about his unconscious control? His vampire detection? His mind control? From what Vikas tells me, Vlad is skilled beyond any of us.”

  Otis shook his head. He looked frazzled, desperate. “You’d like to think that, Tomas, but I assure you, Vlad is an ordinary creature of the night. He is nothing at all like the so-called prophecy describe.”

  “What about his eyes, Otis?” Tomas had leaned forward, meeting his brother’s gaze. Otis winced, as if not wanting to be reminded. Tomas’s voice was calm, collected, kind, but insistent. “They flash iridescent purple at the oddest times. Much like Dorian’s eyes used to flash iridescent blue.”

  Vlad’s voice came out scratchy and rough. “What happened to me?”

  As if noticing him for the first time, all eyes fell on Vlad.

  “What happened to me just now? And what happened to Enrico? Did I actually burn him just by thinking about it?” His heart had sank into his stomach. He had a horrible feeling that he’d injured Enrico somehow.

  Tomas and Otis exchanged glances, but it was Vikas who decided to reply. “You don’t know how you burned Enrico, Mahlyenki Dyavol?”