Camdeboo Nights (16 page)

“You still thinking about that boy?” Myrna asked while she braided her hair.

How observant. Helen smiled and allowed herself to giggle. “Yes.”

“His parents must be hippies. There is a Waldorf school there, you know? I wanted to go to one but my dad wanted me to get a non-hippie education.”

“That’s what I thought. I don’t think I’ve seen him wearing shoes, either.”

They both laughed at this.

* * * *

Damon already had Etienne deeply engaged in a conversation when Helen arrived at breakfast.

“Why don’t you go sit with the other grade eights, Damon?” Helen shoved at her brother.

He flashed her a grin. “They’re boring. All they want to talk about is cricket. And, they’re all Afrikaans, too.”

Helen rolled her eyes. “Isn’t it enough that I have to put up with you on weekends? Now you’ve latched onto my friends, as well.”

Etienne sniggered. Arwen feigned interest in the book she cradled on her lap while nibbling at her toast, but she, too, glanced at Helen.

“It’s probably better if we stick together,” Etienne said. “Especially after yesterday.”

“See? Etienne has the right idea,” Damon said.

Helen grumbled to herself and took her seat on the bench next to Arwen. She wasn’t hungry today, a combination of the already warm day and the fluttering in her stomach. The slices of whole-wheat toast in the basket on their table looked bland, and would most likely share many characteristics with cardboard.

Etienne must have noted her lack of enthusiasm, for he said, “Have some cereal, then?”

“What is it today?”

“Oats.”

“
Bleuurgh
.” Helen stuck out her tongue. “I’d sooner shovel my brains out with a rusty spoon.”

“That can be arranged.” Arwen looked up from her book. Then Arwen frowned, her expression thoughtful. “You know, guys, I don’t want to be funny or anything, but I saw something last night.”

Etienne groaned. “Trust you to ruin a perfectly sunny morning with that, Arwen. It can’t be. The buildings aren’t even eight years old. The first matric class finished the year we started.”

Arwen leaned over the table, her hair falling into her face. “It’s not a ghost, although I thought so the first night. Since Monday I’ve been hearing footsteps when I go out for a smoke.”

“I thought you quit.” Etienne frowned.

“Don’t be such a mother grundy,” Arwen retorted. “It’s not like I’ve a pack-a-day habit, and I can stop any time I want to.”

“It’s still bad, and that’s what all the addicts say.”

“Well, you’re losing the thread. We’re not discussing my habit. Last night I sneaked out, thinking to see if there really is a spook or if it’s one of the other kids out when they shouldn’t.”

“Like you!” Helen laughed.

“Shurrup! Well, I went to the loo then took a longer route that cut back past the girls’ dorms. I saw someone standing beneath the grade ten windows.”

Helen’s heart constricted. Arwen’s dark gaze impaled her, as if her next words would have special importance. All the previous levity had evaporated.

“I saw a guy there. Skinny. Long hair. Just like Trystan.”

Helen’s hiss was so loud the chatter in the dining room diminished and more than one head turned in her direction.

Arwen sat back and brushed hair from her face, her mouth set in a smug smile.

What was Trystan doing all the way out here? Nieu Bethesda was more than fifty kilometers away. Helen’s skin turned cold.

“Oooh,” Damon said. “Creepy guy. Should have known something was up when he climbed onto our balcony on Sunday. Looks like Helen’s got herself a stalker.”

“Shut up! Idiot!” Helen lashed out and smacked the back of her brother’s head so hard her fingers stung.

“Are you sure it was him?” she asked Arwen. Okay, she wasn’t sure how she should feel about this latest development. At least she knew he was
really
interested in her. Almost too interested. Ugh. But when she was with him, she couldn’t get enough of him. What the hell?

The girl nodded.

“You’re not just making this up to give us the willies?”

Arwen shook her head, still giving that infuriating, knowing smile.

Chapter 18

Cutting-edge Remarks

Arwen knew the day would be unbearable the moment she opened her eyes. A dull, aching pressure formed behind her retinas and threatened to spill over into a full-blown migraine. The weather certainly wasn’t playing along. A day spent walking about in a pair of jeans and a heavy cotton golf shirt would do little to improve her mood–or her body temperature–but she’d rather die than don a pair of shorts.

The sky looked as if the sun had burned the color from it, the grasses on the flat-topped hills bleached from blond to almost bone-white. She’d much rather be in her room, at home in Nieu Bethesda, even if it meant putting up with her father, who’d had a case of the sulking fits since Friday. Typically, he had a problem with meting out punishment.

At home she could at least cocoon herself in darkness, draw her curtains across the sash windows so that she could give herself the illusion that she was anywhere but...

Where? Here?

She was in a pissy mood. That there was only one more night and day to get through until the weekend didn’t help, for yet another Monday would be around the corner before she’d blinked her eyes.

Lashing out at the people she considered her friends was not a great idea, but it gave her a small satisfaction to get some reaction. Besides, Trystan gave her the creeps.

She’d known of the existence of vampires for a long time. Her aunt Caitlin had told her many stories while she was growing up and something in her beloved aunt’s tone had spoken of authority.

Ghosts aren’t the problem. You can deal with them easily with a solid banishing ritual. In the case of the shuffling undead–the zombies–the clans who used to raise them exist only in Haiti and the most remote places in West Africa. For all we know, that knowledge has been lost with the last persecutions. But, Arwen, my dear, beware the vampires. They have been among the most avid of those seeking to control or destroy us. Their cruelty knows no bounds, for we number among the few who pose any threat to their existence.

Her father had remained tight-lipped on the topic, but he’d shown her his scars. Dozens of bite-marks covered his arms, the flesh pale and drawn tight over long-healed wounds.

“I was lucky,” was all he said.

There had been great rejoicing when first Caitlin, then Aunt Sonja returned from Cape Town. She’d heard Szandor discuss how they’d be safer here, in low tones with her mother.

Arwen didn’t bother asking her parents if she could eventually go study fine art at the University of Cape Town. She had a pretty good idea what the answer would be.

Yet she couldn’t spend the rest of her life rotting in Nieu Bethesda, either. So what if she was having a case of sour grapes? Dog in the manger.

Instead, she derived great pleasure in scowling at her fellow students. Since the incident with Odette’s card-burning trick, they’d all been giving her a wide berth. The annoyance and the building pressure inside her smoldered and Arwen imagined projecting all her negativity to create a black bubble of residual rage to protect her from the people around her. She fancied the crowds did part before her.

Like Moses and the Red Sea. She smirked at the thought.

The headache was to blame for her needling Helen. When she saw how her friend’s face turned ashen at her remarks she felt a small stab of guilt, but not much.

Etienne caught up with her on the way to assembly, however.

“Why’re you trying to scare Helen like that?”

Arwen grimaced, debating whether she should say anything.

Served Helen right for not listening to her in the first place.

“I’m not lying, Etienne. Trystan is bad news.”

“That’s your opinion. Helen likes him. She’s gone through tons of shit with her parents’ divorce, her mom being ill, having to adjust to a new town, a new school and new friends.”

“What are you trying to imply? Shouldn’t friends look out for each other?”

Etienne had no answer for that, but he didn’t lose his scowl, either. He hefted his sling bag and stomped after her. She should really slacken her pace because his short legs couldn’t keep up, but right now she enjoyed knowing the little boy ran after her. Soon they were lining up to file into the hall and her friend couldn’t say any more on the topic, for which she was grateful. More than enough gossip did the rounds without half the school listening in on their furiously whispered conversation.

None of them would understand, anyway. Mention of ghosts was bad enough without having to bring up the topic of vampires.

Although, strictly speaking, no one was allowed to speak while they queued for their seats, a steady buzz of low conversation filled the hall. Up in the rafters, a pair of feral pigeons flapped about. They must have entered through one of the many small, rectangular windows lining the wall, near the eaves.

“What I was saying,” Etienne murmured while he stowed his bag beneath his chair, “was that you could have found a more diplomatic way to break the news or voice your concerns. She’s clearly quite nuts about the guy.”

Serious and blue, his gaze bored into hers, and she couldn’t prevent her cheeks from heating. Damn Etienne for always dredging up her conscience to make her blush.

“I can’t un-say what I said at breakfast.”

“Well, at least make an effort to reassure her. Why don’t we sit down at break to discuss, in a reasonable manner, a way to get to the bottom of this claim of yours? Maybe you are just seeing things.”

“There were footprints. He wasn’t wearing shoes last Friday. Damon says he wasn’t wearing shoes on Sunday, either. There were muddy toe-prints.”

“Well, here comes Helen now.”

Arwen managed a tight smile, which Helen returned, but she still looked shaken, her eyes wide and a tremor in her hands.

Cadaverous Ms. Engelbrecht led them in the singing of the school’s anthem, in a key set too low for the girls and too high for the boys. Everyone mumbled along to yet another plodding hymn that one of the music students pounded out on the piano. Ms. Engelbrecht clutched at the podium, her head bobbing while she sang, her piggy little gaze darting up at the assembled students at the end of every verse.

Arwen contented herself by pulling faces at Damon, who sat four rows down with the rest of the grade eights. He kept turning around during the prayer and Arwen kept sticking out her tongue, delighting in a sudden bout of immaturity. This was far preferable to pretending to pay attention. She glared right back at one of Odette’s minions, who kept shooting her venomous glances.

“Is there a problem, Miss Wareing?” Ms. Engelbrecht’s sharp, nasal voice cut through the drone of the Bible reading, leaving a thick silence in its wake.

Aw, shite.

Arwen shrank in on herself as all three-hundred-and-something faces present swiveled in her direction. Her headache throbbed in sympathy with her racing heart.

Damn it, she’d certainly cooked things now.

Etienne’s snort of disgust sounded awfully loud in the quiet.

“I said, Miss Wareing, is there a problem?”

Even as she shook her head, Arwen tried to squirm deeper into her seat. If ever she’d needed the floor to open and swallow her, now was the time.

“You can stand up for the rest of assembly, Miss Wareing, and you can come see me in my office afterward. Yes, and you as well, Etienne. You think it’s funny to dishonor God while others worship?”

Muffled sniggers broke out in patches throughout the hall. Ms. Engelbrecht glared and they were quickly quelled.

“You’d better stand,” Helen muttered, nudging Arwen. “I’ll stand with you.”

“Wha–”

Helen pinched her, hard, and Arwen sprang to her feet, surprised when Helen followed. Etienne looked up, grinning like mad, but of course even while standing, he remained hidden behind the students seated in front of him.