Below the pearls, at her mother’s throat, blooming.
Veronica puts her fingers to her mother’s skin, and when they come away wet and red, she isn’t sure what to think except for blood.
No no no no no, Veronica thinks, and suddenly she is trying desperately to remember the first aid class the Vixens were forced to sit through. In case any of them ever had an accident while there was no teacher around, they’d been told, but the instructor had been so unbearably dull and Veronica had whispered to Betty throughout the whole thing, giggling in the back row of the bleachers.
Think, think. “Okay,” Veronica says, like speaking it aloud will make it all work. “Find a pulse. First thing, find a pulse, make sure they’re breathing.” Veronica takes a deep breath herself, but when she puts two fingers to her mother’s neck her hand is shaking.
She feels no pulse, no throbbing, beating blood. But—
Veronica shifts on her knees, shuddering as she touches blood again, and she tries not to think about it too much as her fingers feel something else. Lower down, right beneath where her mother’s pulse should be—
She leans in, eyes wide, to see what she surely can’t be feeling but yes, right there—
Two small puncture wounds in her mother’s throat.
“Holy—” Veronica scrambles back. No. That can’t be real.
She turns to her father’s body now, and beneath him the imported cloud-white rug is stained a deep, foreboding red. “Daddy.” Veronica does the same check on him, and it’s exactly the same: two punctures, oozing blood, right there in his throat.
Veronica spins away from him, from her mother, from the dead bodies of her parents lying there before her.
Phone. Phone—911—pick up the phone, Veronica—
She has to slide back, find her clutch where she dropped it on the floor upon seeing her parents, but when she has it she scrabbles to find her phone inside. Her hands shake as she dials those three numbers, and as she holds the phone to her ear, listening to it ring and ring and ring, she watches her parents and tries to keep from shattering into a thousand pieces.
“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”
The voice on the other end is tinny and faded as the phone slips from Veronica’s cold fingers and lands on the floor with a loud bang, an instant spiderweb of cracks shooting across the now-dark screen.
My parents—
My parents are dead.
Veronica clutches her knees to her chest. They are dead; she’s sure of that. Living people need a pulse. Living people need to be warm, to move, to breathe. She’s been sitting here for however long now and neither of them have shown any sign of life remaining. Not a twitch of the fingers, or a fluttering of movement behind closed eyelids. No spark of soul, no firing of neurons or anything deep inside their brains.
So they are dead.
That much is clear to her, however much Veronica wishes it wasn’t. But the marks—
Veronica looks blankly at her shattered phone, the voice on the other end of the line silenced. My parents are dead, is what she should have told the operator, but maybe it’s good that she didn’t get that far. Because then what? When they asked what had happened, what was Veronica going to tell them?
She presses up against the closest couch, leaving smears of blood on the dark leather. There is only one creature that makes that kind of mark on people, and it doesn’t exist. It is a thing of fairy tale and myth, of creepy midnight bonfire stories, of Halloween costumes.
That much is clear to Veronica, too, but those wounds on her parents …
“They don’t exist,” she says aloud, her voice a breathy gasp in the silence of the study. “It’s not real, this isn’t real, none of this is—”
And then the silence is broken.
There’s a noise behind her, something that sounds almost like a laugh, vibrating through Veronica’s bones, and she whips around.
REGGIE MANTLE drives too fast.
Always has, always will, probably, no matter how many times the sheriff pulls him over. It’s not like he’s ever going to get in any real trouble for it. At least, not when he’s still a vital member of the Bulldogs. It’s a cliché, sure, but the football team is like royalty in Riverdale.
So as long as Reggie keeps making plays and they get to state championships again, he can keep up his favorite illegal pastime.
He’s taking a bend in the windy road that leads to the Lodge house when his phone buzzes.
For a split second his heart sinks. If this is Veronica canceling—well, put it this way: It wouldn’t be the first (or fifth, or even tenth) time she’s done it.
Yet for some reason, Reggie keeps going back for more. His friends roast him for it, but they just don’t get it. This thing he and Veronica have—maybe it’s not a relationship in the traditional sense of the word, but there’s something about her.
Yeah, there’s something, all right, Moose and Turtle and Chuck all say whenever they bring it up, laughing at him. Something like short skirts and a superior attitude, huh, Reg?
Taking the next bend, Reggie smirks to himself. It’s not his fault he’s so easy to read.
He keeps the car steady on the road with one hand on the wheel and uses the other to check his phone.
The text is only from Moose: Party at the abandoned bunker, it reads. Come by later.
Reggie tosses his phone back onto the passenger seat and drums on the dashboard. Ronnie might be up for it, after their date. At least it’d be a way for him to get some more time with her.
The moon’s high in the sky above, the glow of it lighting the way. He should tell Ronnie to bring a change of shoes, because those heels she likes to wear? They are not meant for walking through woods to old fallout shelters.
He reaches for his phone again, stretching his arm and clawing the phone back to his hand. Maybe a jacket, too, he muses as he begins to type with one hand. It’s early fall still, warm enough, but also cool enough in the evenings and at night to need additional layers. Besides, a cold Veronica is a Bad-Mood Veronica, and he doesn’t want that.
Make sure to bring some sneakers. And don’t worry: it’s for a surprise you’ll like, he types, tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth in concentration. Driving and texting simultaneously: Sure, everyone’s always trying to stop it, but few realize how hard it is to actually do.
Be there in 5, he finishes, and tosses the phone again. He has a good feeling about tonight. Like something big’s finally about to happen.
THE LAUGH FROM the corner of the office reverberates, and a frozen finger of fear runs up Veronica’s spine.
Then a figure appears before her, a calm grin across his face.
“What have you done?” Veronica’s words come out breathy, panicked, as she scrambles backward, trying to retreat from danger.
This man is danger. Her internal alarm system is going wild, and she’s not stupid—here are her parents, dead, and here is a stranger inside her home, and it doesn’t take much to put the pieces together.
“What have you done?” Veronica repeats, the question that isn’t really a question shrill and piercing as she stares up at the stranger. “You killed them. You killed them!”
The man in front of her is tall, white, with eyes like a thunderstorm and one perfect curl sweeping over his forehead. He looks young, maybe midtwenties; too young to be one of her father’s business associates. Yet here he is, in sharp black pants and a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, and an expression on his face that shows he isn’t afraid of Veronica at all, or her screaming, or what he’s done.
Veronica notices it a split second later: His shirt is not all white.
The cuffs, the collar, a drop on his chest: all bloodred.
“Veronica,” the man says, and his voice is low, a twisted smile within it. “So glad you could join us.”
“Get away from me.” Veronica struggles to her feet, bloodied hands slipping as she grabs for support, or a weapon—something, anyt
hing, that she can brandish to show this monstrous creep that she means business. “Get away.” When she’s steady she holds her hands up and takes a slow step backward. “Get out of my house. I’m going to call the cops, and they’re going to be here so fast, so you should leave, now, unless you want to end this night in handcuffs.”
Veronica tries to hide the shake in her hands and her voice. Great threat, V. Her phone is still on the floor where it landed before, and unusable, and besides that—
This man just murdered two people. I don’t think he’s afraid of the cops.
I don’t think he’s afraid of anything.
Veronica swallows, hard. She wishes she could say the same about herself, but her heart is hammering so violently it feels like it’s going to burst right out of her rib cage and land heavily in the already bloody mess in front of her. “Go!” she says, willing herself to sound stronger, more controlled. “Leave.”
The stranger laughs, a throaty sound from his wide-open mouth, and Veronica sees two rows of perfect white teeth.
Then she sees the sharp teeth that cap off each row—canines longer than any normal human should possess.
Long, needle-sharp fangs so ready to rip into her.
No no no no no.
That’s the running refrain in Veronica’s mind when she squeezes her eyes shut. When I open them, all of this will be gone. When I open them, my parents won’t be dead. When I open them, I won’t see this man standing in front of me, because monsters like him are not real, Ronnie. They are. Not. Real.
She opens her eyes.
The stranger is only an inch from her face. “Boo,” he says.
Veronica screams, a raspy cry of panic as the man—no, not man, vampire—grabs her and laughs. He grips her by the shoulders and shakes her, like that’ll stop her noise, and Veronica can already feel the bruises blooming beneath her skin.
“Come, little Lodge,” the vampire says, and this close his breath is sharply metallic, coppery. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”
He’s going to kill me, she realizes. He’s going to use those fangs, he’s going to rip my throat open with them, and I’m going to die, all while Reggie freakin’ Mantle is coming to pick me up.
I’m going to die, and when I’m gone Reggie’s going to turn me into some lovesick dead girlfriend, isn’t he?
It’s that stupid thought that does it. Reggie’s going to show up here and find her dead, and he’ll tell the story a thousand times: how he was on his way to her and if he’d just been a few minutes earlier she could still be alive, and everyone will think he’s so pure of heart, and, worst of all, they’ll think Veronica actually wanted to date him.
“Hell no,” she says, half to him but mostly to herself. “I am not going out like this.” And without warning she rams her knee as hard as she can between the vampire’s legs.
It’s a classic move, if a little cliché, one that Veronica learned in the self-defense class she actually did pay attention in. But it’s effective—the vampire buckles the slightest amount, only for a second, but it’s all the time Veronica needs.
She uses the distraction to wrench one arm free, about to wriggle from his grasp, but then the vampire forces her back, up against her father’s desk.
“You want to fight?” he says, and makes a tutting noise. “I expected better, Veronica. Your father told me such wonderful things about you.”
“He did?” Veronica is sidetracked instantly—all she ever wants is for Daddy to compliment her, say he believes in her, tell her how proud he is. She’s the heir to the Lodge empire, after all—one day she wants to run it all, and she wants him to know she’s going to be good.
The realization punches her hard in the gut, the air rushing out of her in one shocked breath.
Her dad is dead. She’ll never get to prove anything to him, not anymore.
“Oh, yes.” The vampire grabs hold of Veronica’s chin, forcing her to stare at him. His hands are cold, but there’s a hum beneath them, like the quiet sound of a power line. “He told me all about how beautiful and well-behaved you are. I guess he was right … about one of those things.”
Veronica bristles.
Beautiful? Well-behaved?
How about smart, Daddy? How about creative and business-minded?
“Men,” Veronica says, disgust mixing with her grief. “You’re all so shallow I’m surprised you don’t drown in it.” That doesn’t even make sense, she knows, but it’s fine. All she wants is to keep him talking, keep him going long enough to find something she can use as a weapon.
The hand she got free is casting around the desk behind her. Papers; a half-smoked cigar; a handkerchief—
The vampire grips her chin harder and brings his face down, level with hers. When he smiles, Veronica sees those sharp fangs again, and she swallows.
Come on, Ronnie, come on—
“I have big plans for you,” he says. “We’re going to be friends, you and I.”
—pencil, key chain, letter opener—
Letter opener.
Veronica closes her fingers around her newfound weapon at the same moment the vampire forces her head back, exposing her throat. He yanks at her pearls; they scatter, the sound of them hitting the floor like bullets and—
Go, now, do it.
He bites her right as Veronica brings her arms down and drives the sharp letter opener into his back.
Veronica hisses as the pain rips through her neck and up the side of her face; it’s like his teeth are molten metal, slicing her and burning her at the same time. The shock of it narrows her vision; she can feel herself beginning to blur, but she can’t give in; she can’t give up.
With all the energy she has left, Veronica twists the letter opener and rams it as deep into the vampire as she can, and he rears back, releasing Veronica as he searches for the weapon. “You little—”
Veronica doesn’t stay to catch the end of that. With one hand clasped to her bloody neck, she takes off.
As she runs, she’s aware of the pulsing beneath her fingers and the vampire’s thudding steps behind her and that she’s leaving her parents behind. But she has no choice—not if she wants to survive.
She uses the only advantage she has: her knowledge of the house. Behind a panel in the upper hall is a set of stairs that goes straight to the garage. That’s where Veronica runs, crashing into the panel and leaning all her weight on it so it turns. When she’s in, she pushes it closed again and rushes down the stairs. Get to the car, she tells herself. You need to get away, Ronnie. Come on, keep going. Help will come next.
She knows the vampire isn’t far behind; he’ll see the blood on the wall, or he’ll find the other way to where she is. She can’t think too hard about it. She just has to get away.
Veronica grabs the set of spare keys hanging from a hook on the wall and slides into her car, faintly registering the blood she’s smearing across the cream upholstery.
Oh, I’m definitely going to need that new Jag now.
The garage door is opening painfully slowly, and Veronica revs the engine, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. “Hurry up, hurry up,” she says under her breath, and glances in the rearview.
Two thunderstorm eyes, tinted deep red now, stare back at her.
“Crap.” Veronica punches the gas and rips out of the garage, the bottom of the garage door scraping along the roof of the car, and unsure of whether what she’s seeing in the mirror is real or her imagination. Heart pounding so fast she can barely feel each individual beat, she careens down the driveway and fishtails out onto the road.
Veronica drives fast and direct, along the dark road that leads from her house back into the main cluster of Riverdale. It’s quiet and lonely on this stretch: no lights, no houses to pass by. Just the woods on either side of her and the rain-slick road beneath the wheels.
After a couple of minutes, her heart begins to slow. There’s nothing behind her, nothing in front of her.
“Okay,” she says, slumping down
a little. “You’re okay.” Not true: The adrenaline’s kept the worst of it from her, so far, but she can feel the wound in her neck, where he sank those fangs into her flesh. It’s an aching, burning sting, and with each pulse of her heart, even slowing as it is, a little more blood seeps from the wound.
She closes her eyes, just quickly, just to blink the haze of panic from them. Just gotta keep driving until I’m far enough away. Then I can get this wound fixed up. Then I can be okay, for real.
Veronica lifts a hand from the steering wheel and gingerly touches her fingers to her neck, sucking in a sharp breath at the jolt of pain that flashes through her body at the touch.
When she takes her hand away, she can feel the wetness of blood coating her skin, and she glances down to see how bad it is. How deep the red is.
But when she looks back up it’s at bright lights, heading straight for her.
Veronica wrenches the wheel, but her hands are sticky with the combination of her parents’ blood and her own, and she swerves exactly the wrong way. “Crap, no, no!”
Everything turns in slow motion, the second before the collision stretching out to minutes, hours. She hears the screech of her own tires, feels the air swirl around her and the bite on her neck burning, the rhythmic pulse sending more blood out. Move, she’s trying to tell her body, except where is there for her to go? And what can she do to avoid what’s about to come?
It’s too late.
As time clicks back into place, Veronica sees the driver of the other car.
Face frozen in surprise, eyes wide and still pretty, even as he careens toward doom.
It’s Reggie. Of course it’s Reggie. On his way to pick her up—who else would be on this stretch of road at this time?
“Reggie—” She starts to call for him, but her words are lost in the violent grinding of metal on metal.
The impact tosses Veronica forward. She tries to shield herself, arms over her head, but it’s all too fast now, and the sky above her is pricked with so many stars … Or is that a thousand tiny fragments of glass?
That’s the last thing she thinks before everything goes static.
Interview with the Vixen Page 2