My concentration is shot for the rest of the day. When I’m not trying to figure out what James is caught up in, I’m watching the door for Violet. It opens halfway through Ms. Walpole’s lecture on body paragraphs, and my spine goes rigid. For once I am actually relieved when it is only Vlad, late to class again. After a few excuses about losing himself in a library book and a round of awkward staring, she waves him to his seat. From my spot at the back of the room, I can see his wavy blond head, the tops of his shoulders, and one lean, muscular arm. Every time Ms. Walpole turns around, he slips out a ragged piece of lined paper and hunches over. He’s writing something, and for once it’s not in that little journal he slips in and out of his back pocket.
When the bell rings, Vlad scoops up his belongings in one arm and weaves through the departing students to stand in front of my desk. I blink up at him through the fluorescent light.
“You are Sophie, correct?” he asks, sounding bored with the question. He pulls out the wilting piece of paper he scribbled on all period and flicks it at me. “This is for you.”
I look down to find my list of questions, which are now accompanied by answers written in a tight, florid hand.
“Thank you,” I say, trying to keep my voice even despite my boiling hatred. Now is probably not the time to tell him he writes like a girl.
“I did it as a favor to James, nothing more,” Vlad says and then arches one pale eyebrow. “Anything else that you would like to know? My favorite rainy day activity, perhaps?”
“No, that’s it.” Jerkface. “Thanks again.” Standing up, I start to brush by him, but where a normal human being would twist to avoid a butt bump, he stays rooted in place. Sucking in my stomach, I refuse to let him fluster me. I smile, a bit of bravado he acknowledges with a surprised quirk of his pale eyebrows. Ha. I’m almost in the clear when my bag catches on the back of a chair.
Damn. As I’m working on untangling it, my neck begins to tingle like I’ve been sitting too long in the sun. I look up to find Vlad eyeing it, nostrils flared, with more interest than he’s ever given any other part of my anatomy. This is the last straw.
“Could you move?”
His gaze snaps up to meet my eyes before he gives a smile that’s part sardonic, part self-mocking, and no parts apologetic.
“My apologies,” he says, his voice so full of laughter that I’m surprised he doesn’t bust a gut right there. When I walk out, I don’t turn around.
The bell rings before I make it to my locker, so when I get there I’m so rushed that I almost miss the folded piece of paper that falls at my feet. There’s something chicken-scratched on the front.
Sophie,
Do you know how many people I had to ask before I found someone who knew where your locker was? I told you—loner. Here are Marisabel’s answers to your questions. See you at 6.
—James
Well, I have my answers. Now I just wish I had a better idea of what possible connection he could have to all of this.
I stuff the questions in my folder since I’m already late to journalism. Luckily, Mr. Amado is already in full newspaper mode and doesn’t seem to care. After making an offhand comment about being glad that I could join the class, he tells me that he’s about to start the progress check. I slide into my seat next to Lindsay, who is studying her folders with a queasy expression.
“Since your finished articles are due next Tuesday,” Mr. Amado says, “you should have all of your fact-gathering done. Lindsay and Sophie, I’m starting with you. Let’s see it.”
We pull out our info. I make a hasty excuse for the state of Vlad and Marisabel’s interviews.
“That’s okay,” he says. “Today we just want the info. Lindsay?”
Lindsay hands over her typed responses, still silent. Mr. Amado flips through them and then frowns. “There are only three here. Have you talked to all of your subjects?”
She clears her throat. “I still . . . I still haven’t been able to find James.”
“He hasn’t come to school yet?”
“The attendance records show that he was here today. But he wasn’t in my math class like his schedule said he should be.” She turns my way. “The only new person was Ted.”
“Ted?” Mr. Amado asks. “I must have missed him. I’ll look into it. But you should know that this might set you behind schedule. Good work, Sophie.”
We both watch as he walks over to Neal and asks him whether or not he’s managed to expand on the fact that yes, blood had been stolen. I shoot Lindsay an apologetic look that she won’t return. Instead she concentrates on cleaning out her folders, lining up her papers with the precision of a drill sergeant before slipping them back in.
“Lindsay, I—”
“I’m going to work in back today,” she says quickly, abandoning me to set up shop next to the computers.
I spend the rest of the period thinking of ways to apologize, working out elaborate fantasies where I play the Good Samaritan, the best of which is where I give a five-hundred-dollar donation to Greenpeace in her name and then let her know by spelling it out in cupcakes across her lawn. Deep down, however, I know that the only way to make this right is to admit that I lied, direct her to James, and let her yell at me. Five minutes before the bell rings, I ready myself to catch her as she exits the classroom, but she heads to Mr. Amado’s desk early. He scribbles something on a pink hall pass, and she’s out the door. I guess this giant rock of guilt will be camping out in my gut for a little while longer.
I stay in the journalism room after school lets out to work on my articles, spreading the responses from Vlad and Marisabel out on the table next to my computer.
Full name: Vladimir Roman Smithson
Age: The common age for one at this school
How many brothers and sisters do you have? What are their ages? Seven. Deceased.
Favorite Color: Gray
Favorite Animal: Wolf
Favorite Hangout: This is a stupid question.
What are the top five songs on your playlist? This is a nonsensical question.
Scar you’re most proud of and where it came from? Left arm, swordfight with my father.
If you were a car, what car would you be and why? I am not a car, nor do I wish to be one.
If you could only have one book on a deserted island, what would it be? The Prince and The Lost Daughter.
When you were little, who was your favorite superhero? Casanova.
Are you a morning or night person? Night.
What’s the weirdest thing you eat at home? No comment.
What is the greatest problem in the United States? Elitist groups.
What one word would you put on your gravestone? Impossible.
What do people like best about you? Whatever I tell them to like.
These bogus answers hardly seem worth the trouble, not to mention that I didn’t ask the dumbface what two books he’d take to a desert island. Marisabel’s are even worse. She answered most of the questions with “I don’t know” and the rest with doodled flowers. That’s it, I think, crumpling the pages into one tiny ball of suck. I’m done banging my head against this stone wall; I don’t care if I have to begin my article, “Vlad likes three things: fencing, himself, and killing off his siblings.” I don’t care if I have to lie and—oops—report that Vlad likes finger painting with dolphin blood in his spare time. We’re now entering full investigative mode.
I spend the next few hours tweaking my data, fleshing out Vlad’s non-answers with anything I’ve heard floating around the hallways, not caring at this point how accurate this information is. By the time I look up from my computer, it’s already a quarter to six, so I shut down my documents and head to the front exit. The sun is still bright enough that the windshields of the few remaining cars in the lot wink light back at me. One of them is Vlad’s Hummer, its shadowy bulk looming behind my Jeep like a closet monster.
I’ve got ten minutes before James is set to show up—time to figure out who these people are, once and for all. After checking to make sure that the parking lot is deserted, I peer through the Hummer’s windows, but the tinting means I can’t see anything except for the light shining in from the opposite side. I tug at the handle in frustration, astonished when the door pops open. Unlocked. An invitation to snoop.
The first thing I find is a shopping bag full of clothes with the security tags still attached; some of them have rips down the side as though someone had tugged too hard while trying to remove them. Whatever else they might be, they’re definitely A-plus shoplifters, but that still doesn’t tell me enough. I need names; I need dates; I need anything that could pass as a cold, hard fact. I shove the dresses and pants back in the bag and check the glove compartment, but it’s empty; there’s not even a car registration.
I move to the back, cursing when the movement causes the heavy door to creak shut behind me. I find a week’s worth of unfinished worksheets on the floor and a small cooler nestled behind the driver’s seat. I’ve hardly seen any of them eat lunch, so it’s odd that they’d be packing snacks. I wrestle off the top, but it’s empty.
“Who’s with me?” says a dim voice. Vlad’s voice.
My blood turns to ice. I hit the ground and lie as flat as possible, praying that the tinted windows and large seats will shield me from view. There’s the scrape of feet against gravel and the soft thud of someone leaning against the car only inches from my head.
“The more we stand outside in the light, the worse it will be,” Neville says impatiently, his voice vibrating through the metal behind me and making it hum.
“The car stays here as long as I do. Crack a window and wait in the vehicle or walk home. You choose.”
My breath hitches. Don’t wait in the car. Please, don’t wait in the car.
“We’ll walk,” Neville says, and I almost choke on the relief. “This is not wise. Especially if you think you are close.”
“Close?” Vlad gives a short, strangled laugh. “Hardly. At this point we are close to starting over.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean,” Vlad says darkly, “I chose incorrectly. It’s not Caroline.”
A weighty silence surrounds the Hummer on all sides. Caroline’s not what? The girl of his dreams? America’s Next Top Mob Member?
“Not her?” Neville says, and unlike Vlad, his voice is downright chipper. “Well, then perhaps this is the perfect time to rethink what we’re doing here. I, for one, think that you might be better off forgetting the Danae and staying here. People seem to rather like you,” he says, “and there are so many things to do. Do you know that there is a club devoted entirely to the creation of little walking machines that fight one another? Amazing. I’m almost tempted to—”
A growl splits the air. The car tips from the force of someone being slammed against it, and the movement causes the passenger-side door to creak open. If anyone walks around to the other side, they will see me. I tuck my feet as close to my body as possible and bite my tongue to stay silent.
“I apologize if I gave the impression that this is a group decision,” Vlad says with threatening precision. “We are not here to join organizations or socialize with lonely girls in the washroom. If I find that you are doing so, you will be out. And I would like to see you all take care of yourself, I really—”
He stops sharply when the car starts to ding, warning that there is an open door. Oh God. Blood rushes into my ears, thrumming so loudly that for second I don’t hear anything. I look up, but all I can see is the swirl of Neville’s reddish hair pressed against the window.
“What is that?” Vlad asks.
“It is the Humdinger. Violet left the door ajar again,” Neville says. The car rocks as he pushes away from Vlad and walks around the back. I’m trying to think of excuses, but my mind goes blank as he pulls open the door enough to shut it. I can see his arm up to the elbow, the tattoo on his forearm standing out in stark relief to his pale skin. If he moves forward three more inches, I’m done for.
“Oh, I do not care about the Danae, or the girl, or this horrible place!” says a tremulous voice that I recognize as Violet’s. I look at Neville’s tattoo, the central “D” staring at me like an ominous eye. “D.” Danae. It’s a possibility. Now I just have to get out of here.
“I am sorry that I left the door open,” Violet continues, “but it has been such a horrific day and I would very much like to go home.”
Neville shuts the door without looking inside. “Then let’s go.”
There’s a lull, and then the fading crunch of gravel as they walk away.
“Where were we?” Vlad says smoothly when we can no longer hear anything. “Ah yes, into the woods.”
The foliage crashes as several people plunge into the trees, followed by the snapping of twigs. I wait for all sounds to cease before screwing up enough courage to sit up and check that the coast is clear. When it is, I scramble out of the car and gulp down the fresh air. Leaning against the bumper of my Jeep, I try to process what I’ve overheard. A quick check of my watch tells me that it’s 6:05. James is late, and to be completely honest, I’m a little iffy now about giving him a ride home. I should peel out of here now, grateful that I’ve survived one close call.
I should.
Before I have time to second-guess myself, I step into the brush. Midwestern woods are many things, but scary is not one of them—they’re about as intimidating as your grandmother’s afghan. The predominance of pine trees gives them a nice scent, and even though that means you come out able to freshen a car, it’s nice not to worry about big, slavering animals that want to chew on your face. That’s why I’m caught off guard by the sudden chill that eclipses me the second I move out of the evening sun. The trees are top heavy enough to smother most of the evening light, casting their thick trunks into gloom.
Voices echo in front of me. “Ingrate” cuts through the murmur, and I stop—individual words mean that I’m too close. We walk this way until the pale orange light shining out of the leaves in front of me suggests that they’ve reached the central clearing. I stretch my ears as far as they will go. When it sounds like Vlad is no longer moving, I crouch behind the largest bush I can find, located about ten feet to the left of the makeshift trail. Trying not to make any noise, I peer through the branches.
Vlad is pacing back and forth, pausing every so often to kick at rocks and twigs on the ground. “Can you believe him?” he seethes. “He said that he wanted to help, and then what do I hear today? Maybe I should forget about the Danae and stay here because people like me, as if that is so difficult to believe.”
“I told you from the beginning that I thought he was weird,” Marisabel says from where she’s stretched across a pitted picnic table.
“And I told you it was fine!” Vlad snaps.
Marisabel just shrugs, rolling on her back to stare up at an open copy of Twilight. Her long brown hair cascades over the edge. It sways as she shakes her head back and forth.
“This is not right at all,” she says. “Edward is dreamy, though. Maybe you could get some tips.”
“Oh, could I?” Vlad asks, playful, before stalking into view and twisting the book out of her hands. Pages flapping, it sails over her head and crashes into the trees behind her.
Marisabel pushes herself up and frowns at the spot where it disappeared. “Hey! That was Jennifer Pierson’s.”
Vlad dips into a mocking bow. “Do offer her my condolences. Tell her I will provide her with a new one should we ever achieve our main objective,” he says and then starts to pace. “Can you believe them? Neville does nothing but attach himself to any organization that will have him, and Violet . . . yesterday Violet asked if I wanted to participate in a ‘quiz’ that will tell me what my ‘best fall look’ is,” he says. “What does that even mean?”
“Mine is eggplant,” Marisabel offers absently. “And scarves.”
“So what if I need a little real refreshment?” Vlad continues. “It’s the least I deserve after everything I’ve done to make this work. Do you know how difficult it was to get everyone registered? How much power it took out of me?” he insists. “Not to mention the constant questions from the attendance office. Despite the vacant expressions on their faces, the adults here are not nearly as dull as I would like. Today one of the old crones in the office started asking questions. I had to stare into her shriveled eyes for five minutes before she went back to her work.” He stops to kick a clod of dirt, hard enough that it shatters against a tree. “I felt drained all day. It took all of my willpower not to tear into that girl in English.”
My spine stiffens. He’s talking about me. He’s talking about tearing into me. As refreshment. I can’t tell if it’s my building sense of unease that’s making it hard to comprehend this, or if he’s really saying what I think he’s saying. But that would mean . . . No. No more Buffy reruns. Ever. I try to force my mind back to the conversation, determined to come up with a non-insane explanation.
“What girl?” Marisabel asks. So far she’s been mostly silent, but now he has her full attention.
“Oh, you know,” Vlad says. “The unadorned, forthright one who dresses like she is preparing to slaughter a pig.” After Marisabel’s blank look, he adds, “The one James trailed after all day. The one with all the ridiculous questions.”
The insult seems to appease her; she settles back on the table like a content tiger. “If the blond one isn’t it, who’s next?”
“I do not know,” Vlad says, kicking a stick this time. “Perhaps one of the friends. I will start again tomorrow. But for now—dinner!” he says, his voice suddenly bright. “Try that bush; I thought I saw something earlier.”
He claps his hands and fixes his gaze across the clearing. I peer around the lowest branch just in time to spot Devon and Ashley hefting two large branches from the scattered leaves. When they start to thrash the bushes, my stomach lurches; the chance that they’re beating the brush in the hopes that chicken nuggets will emerge, screaming and running for their lives, is slim to none. It makes sense, my brain insists, and starts to fill in the pieces. The weirdness. The strange staring contests. The lack of parents. The wonder that is Violet. James’s warnings. The empty cooler. And the missing blood. Oh God, the missing blood. How could I be so stupid? They’re vampires, or at least under a number of severe delusions.
Jesus, Sophie, the guy’s name is Vlad.
I bite my tongue to stop from giving a hysterical little laugh, and tell myself that when I get home I’ll be able to work out a far more rational explanation. But right now? I need to leave. Fast. Devon and Ashley are only a quarter of the way around the clearing, so there’s time. Boosting myself into a crouch, I glance backward. Twenty more feet and I’ll be out of immediate hearing range, at which point I will sprint back to my car.
Suddenly I hear a rustle, followed by an excited cry. The leaves crunch as a small ball of fur makes a startled beeline for my bush. The rabbit bursts between the leaves and then crouches at its base, terrified and trembling. Before I can react, I hear the sound of two very large men barreling in my direction. If I run now, they will see me. No question. I stare into the rabbit’s glassy eyes, hypnotized by fear. Think, think, think. “Here’s my contact!” I will say. “That will teach me to stop making out so much after school.” Insert nervous chuckle; try not to faint dead at their feet.
Devon and Ashley bend down to peer under the hanging leaves of the bush, and the rabbit darts to the side, running for better cover. Their shadows move, and I hear a shrill squeak, followed by a sickening snap and Vlad’s shout that he wasn’t supposed to kill it yet. Even though I want to vomit, the rabbit’s flight has given me my chance to escape. I ready my legs to launch myself forward just as a swish of footsteps sounds to my right.
“Hello?”
Lindsay’s voice echoes in the startled silence. Launching myself back at the bush, I frantically shove branches out of the way so I can see clearly. Crap, crap, crap. What is she doing here?
Lindsay stands in the center of the clearing, clutching a blue binder to her chest like it’s the last life vest on the Titanic. Next to Vlad and the two giants, she appears even tinier than usual. Her auburn hair catches the last glimmers of sunlight, throwing her pale face into even sharper contrast. She looks nervous, and very, very vulnerable. All except for the determined jut of her chin.
“I’m looking for James,” Lindsay says, hugging the binder tighter and moving back a few steps when Vlad starts to approach. “Well, information about James, really. I heard you mention him earlier in the halls, and I wondered if you could tell me a little bit about him.” She takes a deep breath. “Just a few things. It’s important.”
Vlad looks almost jovial. “Important?” He moves closer, forcing Lindsay to retreat to the edge of the trees, before he throws a playful look at Marisabel. “I fear I know very little. James is a private soul. How about the rest of you?”
Devon and Ashley shake their heads, their most communicative gesture to date. They’re standing rigidly, hands behind their backs. Marisabel doesn’t answer at first, just looks at him for a few long seconds.
“Vlad, don’t do anything you will regret,” she says softly.
“I am only trying to assist a fellow schoolmate,” he says with grating innocence and then leans over so he’s more on Lindsay’s level. “So,” he purrs. “What is your name?”
“Lindsay Allen,” she says weakly, having now completed what appears to be a total body meld with her binder.
“And tell me, Lindsay Allen, do you have any distinguishing marks on your person?”
Disarmed, Lindsay’s wariness evaporates. “What?”
Vlad waves a hand in the air. “Any birthmarks, moles, rashes that spell out your mother’s maiden name . . . you know, marks!” He frowns down at her uncomprehending face. “How do you say it? Ah, yes, ‘work with me here.’ ”
Lindsay pushes her shoulders back and pulls herself up to her full height. “This was a bad idea. I’m going now. Sorry to bother you. Please let James know that I am looking for him.”
“I will take that as a ‘no,’” Vlad says and then grabs her arm before she can move. “Not so hasty. I have a final question for you.”
Lindsay orders him to let her go, her voice high, her cool composure cracking. She tugs against his grip, but Vlad just pulls her closer. Leaning down, he acts like he’s about to whisper in her ear, but his next question rings out clear and strong.
“Do you think that anyone will miss you?”