“You mean besides primal, throbbing lust? You mean besides the fact that you’ve wanted to kiss him ever since you met him? Or how about the fact that you hated every minute of the two short months Wyatt and I dated? Which one is it, huh?”
“None of the above.” I stare her down. “Actually, yeah, there is something other than that. Bianca was coming, I needed an alibi, he was there, and—”
“And rather than stopping to tie his shoe, or get a lash out of his eye, or help him with his homework, or show him how to work his cell phone, or a thousand and one other excuses you could have used, you chose to kiss him? My ex-boyfriend? To the point of fireworks? How could you?”
“But no bazookas,” I point out miserably. “And very, very little fireworks.” (Although I sure felt them.)
“Oh, well, you probably save your . . . bazookas for the second date!” She stands up, huffing, grabbing her backpack purse roughly off the back of her chair, where it snags. She yanks it free, and I can’t tell which she’s madder at: me for kissing Wyatt or her backpack purse for ruining her dramatic exit. (Sucks when real life doesn’t follow a script, doesn’t it?)
“You can’t go, Abby. We said we’d stick together.”
“You have writing to do,” she says, looking down at my laptop. “And frankly, listening to you tap away at those keys all night would only make me want to smash your face in even more than I want to right now, which is pretty darn tempting as it is, so . . . Don’t worry about me. A deal’s a deal, right? You’re doing your part. I’m on the sidelines. They’re not going to try anything tonight.”
I shake my head, powerless to argue with her fiery logic.
She storms out, swinging her arms into the dark.
I watch as she crosses the street alone, enters our dorm building alone, and disappears into the elevator—alone.
My laptop is calling, the big white page on the screen begging to be filled with words, countless words, each one another step closer to Wyatt’s freedom.
Chapter 17
Scarlet Stain spits blood from her mouth, watching it pool on the dirty warehouse floor where she’s being held captive by the man she’s sworn to hunt down and eliminate.
The room is empty now, cavernous and vast, illuminated merely by large candles flickering in the corners. They light only the warehouse floor, dirty and littered with broken lightbulbs and dried-out rat carcasses.
She is comfortable; she is safe . . . but for how long?
Just outside the door, three of the count’s most vicious vampire guards pace, just waiting for her to dare to try to escape. And how would she do that? They took her leather pants, her rubber boots, her white blouse, her backpack of weapons, her favorite dagger belt, even the monogrammed switchblade she always wore in her left sock.
She is bruised, battered, defenseless, and half-naked, crouching in the corner of her cage, a dented tray full of biscuit crumbs and refried beans her only sustenance for the last twelve hours straight.
But . . . but . . . they didn’t find everything.
Sewn into the left strap of her sports bra is a simple pin, twice as thick as a sewing needle, half as sharp. In the right strap is its twin.
They are made of a special alloy, designed to elude metal detectors, even the portable wand kind Count Victus and his men waved over every inch of her half-naked body.
When the time is right, when the men are sleeping, when she has had enough, she will chew the bars from her bra and use them to pick the lock that has kept her in this cage for these past two days.
Her weapons are on a chair in the far corner of the room, twelve simple paces from where she sits. If she hurries, she can make it in four seconds flat. Once she has them, it will take her only twice that long to eliminate all three of the count’s men.
But she will take her time with the count.
She will take all the time she needs to make sure his end is as painful as he deserves . . .
I rub my eyes, look up from the scene, and stare at Wyatt, hanging against the bars of his cage across the endless warehouse floor.
Two days have passed, long days of writing, toiling, sleeping in this chair, lighting candles, chugging endless cans of Jolt Cola from the little fridge beneath my desk.
Say what you will about Reece, but the man has an eye for detail.
I blink, rub my eyes again, and look up past the oriental screens, the flickering candles, the grimy warehouse walls to the windows high above. The sun is rising.
Another day is here.
I look at the page count on my latest chapter: 127.
Two days more, and I can get to two hundred pages no problem, finish off the book, and have Wyatt out of that cage.
Now if only Abby would return my texts.
I know she’s mad at me, but this is serious.
Reece rouses from the corner where he’s been napping, fully dressed, against two of the satin throw pillows. (I knew there was a reason there were so many of them.) He smiles and says, “Alas, I must take my leave. Big test in world cultures today. Wouldn’t want to miss that.”
I yawn, stretch, rise, and announce, “I’m going with you.”
A cloud covers his face; he darts to a standing position. “I’d rather you write,” he scolds, ever the impatient taskmaster.
“Just for a little while,” I plead, all the while gathering my book bag, which stores the latest version of the manuscript on a flash drive. I defiantly stand in front of him. “I need to check on Abby.”
“I told you she’s fine.” He sighs, rubbing his own face as if scrubbing it clean with his large, pale palms. “I told you yesterday morning and yesterday after school and last night, and I’m telling you now: Abby is fine. Stay here, finish the work, and—”
I wave the flash drive in front of his face, pat my laptop bag, and say, “I’ll keep working—at school.”
“Fine,” he mumbles, leading the way out of the claustrophobic room that has become like a cell for us both.
I linger near Wyatt’s cage on the way out, making sure the water pitcher at his feet is half full, the bowl of stew next to it empty, the crusty bread I insisted on (Wyatt’s favorite) gone.
“You see,” Reece says, impatient to get going, “I’m keeping my end of the bargain. He’s being well taken care of. There will be no repercussions when at last the book is finished, he is let loose, and we are free of each other.”
I look from Wyatt to Reece. “You mean that? This isn’t one of those deals where I write not just one book for you but one hundred and one? Where you’re in my life forever, haunting my dreams, shadowing my every move?”
“Only if you want me to be.” He inches near with those long, glistening fangs at the ready.
“Thanks,” I say, turning before Wyatt can see the lurid display. “I prefer my men slightly less lethal, thanks.”
We dash toward the Mercedes and get in. It cruises silently in the early light of dawn, taking us through the bleak streets that surround the warehouse.
I stifle a smile to learn that Reece’s senses aren’t defenseless. Sure, I wanted to check on Abby, absolutely. But there was an ulterior motive for the ride to school that day: the tinted windows make it difficult, but not impossible, to see the street names as we pass each one. I’d been careless, that first trip to see Abby at the café. Reese had insisted on driving me there, then picking me up later. I’d been so upset by the confrontation with Abby, I hadn’t thought to follow my trail there or back. This time I would be smarter, calmer, more prepared. I had to be, just in case.
Straight up Rouse Street.
Left on Andover Lane.
Right on Oliver Street.
Another right on Principal Avenue.
Left on Archibald Street.
Right on Ninth Avenue.
Another right on Lavender Lane until we’re on the recognizable surface streets of Beverly Hills at last.
I note each one while managing to look bored and distracted for Reece’s benefit, memorizi
ng the street names in order by making a little mnemonic device for myself, you know, the same way you remember the order of the planets: Ralph and Ollie Partied All Night Long.
I have no idea what good it will do me, but it makes me feel better to at least know the general area, just in case Reece decides to go back on his deal.
“What page are we on today?” he says, clearly breathing a sigh of relief as we pass Rodeo Drive and enter the nicer part of town again.
“Ninety-seven,” I bluff, none too eager to give him any information he doesn’t deserve.
“Not bad,” he says, impressed.
What would he have thought if I’d told him I was actually thirty pages further along?
“So at this pace”—he does the mental math—“you’ll be done by Monday morning.”
“Or Monday afternoon, maybe Tuesday morning. Endings are the hardest,” I warn, trying to buy myself a little time to formulate some kind of plan.
He nods knowingly. “Of course they are.”
We glide into the student parking lot on a whisper, and I race for the door the minute he pulls into a spot.
I am out of the car and into the commons area before he turns off the ignition, racing to homeroom without stopping at my locker, without checking in with Principal Chalmers or my guidance counselor, without even using the bathroom.
Abby is there, safe and sound.
Safe and sound, that is, sitting cozily next to her new BFF, Bianca Ridley.
“Abby!” I gasp, glad that Mrs. Armbruster’s not yet in the room.
“Nora!” she says giddily, her eyes, skin, and hair not her own.
Nothing is like it was. Nothing will ever be the same. Not now, not ever, not for any of them.
Her voice sounds slurred.
“What’s going on here?” I ask, standing in front of them, hands on my hips, like a mother who’s caught both her daughters sneaking in after curfew.
The class is nearly deserted, just a few early worms sitting in the corner, playing football with one of those triangular pieces of paper. They stand, their chairs sliding across the floor as they instinctively cluster in the farthest corner of the room from us.
“Wassup wit you?” Abby asks, making odd hand gestures, like some old-time hippie dancing to Jimi Hendrix in a muddy cow pasture.
“What? What does that even mean?” I snap, mad at myself for leaving Abby alone with Bianca and Reece.
“It means,” Abby drolls, eyes and mouth half open, brain obviously completely shut down, “wassup wit—?”
“I know what it means.” I sigh. “I just don’t know why you’re saying it.”
Abby looks up at me, squinting, as if the light above my head is hurting her eyes, and then shakes her head like, Dude, where’s my brain?
I watch her closely, beginning to tremble in earnest as I notice all the telltale signs: limp hair, pale skin, sweaty armpits, dry lips.
I reach for her hair, yank her head around, and see the bruised bite marks at the nape of her neck.
A wave of grief passes through me, so strong my knees literally tremble.
I look at Abby’s wan face, her dazed eyes, and feel like crying, like yelling, like tearing the room apart vampire by vampire.
And it’s all my fault, every last bit of it.
I knew I should have kept Abby by my side, every minute of the day, every second.
How could I have been so stupid?
Now my best friend, my only friend, at this overachieving school for overachievers is gone forever—lured to the dark side with two quick bites from that witch Bianca.
All because I thought I could handle my business. All because I thought I was in control.
Nora Falcon, big, bad, best-selling writer.
“Trust me, Abby,” I’d said. “I know what I’m doing. You’ll be safe at school, with teachers and counselors and Principal Chalmers around.”
“Trust me, Abby,” I’d said. “The dorm is off limits. They won’t try to get to you there. Why? Because Reece said so!”
And while I was tapping away at my breezy little keyboard, lulled into a creative state by flickering candles and the calming presence of two hundred silk pillows, Abby had been slowly transforming, morphing, dying—and then being reborn.
After a few seconds of awkwardly staring at the top of her desk while I inspect her bite marks, Abby mumbles something like, “Heywuzyougonnadowhy?” It starts out sounding vaguely pitiful, like when a kid wakes up in the middle of the night, but by the end she’s almost snapping, barely hissing, like she’s waking up to who she is, regardless of who I am.
It’s not a pretty sound. It’s an even worse sight.
Bianca reaches out a hand to stop me, and I jab it with a pencil, the point going all the way into her skin and drawing blood.
Suddenly Abby is on red alert, the earlier torpor gone, her eyes bright and wide as she hisses, licking her lips.
I smack her—hard—on the cheek. “Snap out of it!”
Bianca hisses but not at the blood on her hand. She’s hissing in my direction, her fangs just barely restrained enough to stay beneath her lips, her eyes a violent, raging yellow, her claws digging at the surface of her desk one more time.
She starts to stand, and I kick at the top of her desk, tipping it and her onto their sides. There’s nothing Bianca hates worse than being embarrassed, let alone toppled.
Abby watches, looking at me with half-open eyes, as if trying to recognize me. Or remember me.
Bianca doesn’t struggle long, and the chair is but a minor inconvenience. She snaps to attention and roars, slipping through the desk’s arms and legs and desktop like a salamander emerging from a crack in the sidewalk. Once up and out of the desk, she reaches my side in a blink.
She has me by the throat and up against the wall before I know what’s happening. My feet are two, maybe three, inches off the ground and kicking against the cinder-block wall as I gasp for air.
The kids clustered in the corner are standing up now, their faces pale and panicked, half of them looking tempted to rush to my side, the other half trying to climb through the wall at their backs. I don’t blame them for hanging back; I wish I were that smart!
I kick out with both feet, connecting with Bianca’s waist and sending her thick red belt to the floor.
Bianca only presses harder, her face a mask of venom and bliss, her smile sticky across her fangs as they begin to jut, farther and farther, out of her upper jaw.
“Two seconds,” she hisses, licking her lips and eyeing the soft, white meat of my throat. “Two seconds is all it would take me to end you, Nora Falcon!” Her hand presses even tighter against my throat. I swallow harder than I ever have, see the room go faint, then tan, then gray . . . then all is black.
Black, like Bianca’s eyes.
Black, like Reece’s heart.
Black, like Abby’s unwritten—but quite doomed—future.
Chapter 18
I come to in my writing chamber, on a bed of huge satin throw pillows. Candles flicker in every available space, the jumble of black and red décor assaulting my eyes.
I gasp, reaching for my throat, still sore, and cough for probably two minutes straight. Tears run down my face, but there’s no way to control them. They gather on my upper lip and get coughed away. Just breathing feels like it should take an act of Congress. What I wouldn’t give for a cough drop!
I wonder for a minute if I’m paralyzed, if Bianca made good on her threat and snapped my neck. But no. I can wriggle my toes and feel my butt, which is sore and quite asleep after who knows how long of lying in this room.
The warehouse is empty . . .
No, that’s not quite right.
As I lift my tired arms and rub my dry eyes, sounds start to emerge from the darkness just beyond the screens.
Unnatural sounds.
I listen closely and can just make them out: scraping and clattering and then a triumphant squeal.
I look past the open entry betwe
en the screens, blink my eyes clear, then blink again. Abby has just snatched a rat—you read that right, a rodent—from under a discarded hard hat, dented and rusty with age, and is sinking her new fangs into its rough, trembling hide.
“Abby!” I shout.
But my best friend’s eyes are glazed over in ecstasy, and she’s not taking any messages from mere mortals anymore—not when there are living rodents to devour instead.
At her side, Bianca kicks the hard hat away in disappointment. “No fair. Beginner’s luck.”
At their feet lie several discarded rat carcasses, all fresh, all quite sucked dry, scattered like crushed beer cans at a tailgate party.
“You guys are sick.” I struggle to my feet. “I hope you both catch vampire rabies and—”
From the chair at my desk Reece urges, “Be still,” in a voice that leaves no room for argument. “You lied to me,” he says calmly, tapping a thick stack of printed pages sitting next to my closed laptop. “You said you’d only written ninety-seven pages. I count over a hundred and twenty-seven here.”
“You lied to me.” I stand on wobbly legs, glaring at him but pointing toward the opening in the screen with one trembling finger. “You said Abby was quite safe. Look at her now. Is that what safe looks like to you?”
We both turn our heads to find Abby and Bianca fighting over a fresh rat.
“Ah, but I didn’t lie, sweet Nora.” He turns away from my BFF and pierces me with those dark-chocolate eyes. “I wager this is the safest Abby has ever been in her entire life.”
I hate to admit he has a point.
“But why?” I ask, edging closer, not wanting her to hear the desperation, the failure, in my panic-stricken voice. “I’ve done everything you asked. Everything. I’m not just on schedule; I’m ahead of schedule. I’m writing your book, using your word list, in all the right places. Check it. It’s all right there in your hands. Look for yourself.”
“Your point?” His tongue slithers across a fang.
“My point, Reece, is that you didn’t have to turn her.” My voice cracks, the tears fall. “She’s nothing to you. She’s everything to me. Everything, and now that’s all gone.”
The Vampire Book of the Month Club Page 10