Eighth Grade Bites (7 page)

He saw pictures of his parents' wedding, of their popular Halloween parties, of their lips locked in happy, wedded bliss. He ran his hand across one photograph of Tomas crouching in front of Mellina's swollen, pregnant belly. His hands cupped her tummy. Vlad's smile faltered some and he closed the album.

This was all he had left of his family. Pictures and memories.

He lay back on the dusty floor. Moonlight shone through the windows, painting the darkest areas of the room in pale blue. The candle's flame flickered and, just as the first tear squeezed from Vlad's eye, the light went out. Vlad lay in the darkness and released his pain the only way he knew how. He cried.

At some point, he must have fallen asleep.

Vlad rubbed his eyes. He stood and slipped out onto the ledge, leaving the photo album behind with the rest of his treasures. The town was still very dark. Vlad looked down, hoping to catch another glimpse of his fellow nightwalkers, but the goth teens had gone.

He was alone.

As he floated down to the ground, Vlad looked back up at the belfry. It was the highest point of Bathory, and each time Vlad went there, he was the closest he'd ever been to leaving the small town behind. He darted between the houses and paused once his front door was in sight.

Mr. Craig's house was only two streets over, directly behind Henry's. He slipped between the houses and smiled at the sight of Mr. Craig's tiny bungalow. The porch glowed dimly from the streetlight on the corner, a welcoming hue of white on the stark black of night. He stepped onto the porch and rang the bell. As childish as he knew it was, he was half hoping, half expecting Mr. Craig to open the door and lecture him on why it was rude to visit someone's home in the middle of the night. But no one answered.

The screen door screeched as he pulled it open. He knocked loudly on the inner door, then stopped as it opened inward. Vlad looked over his shoulder at the quiet street. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. The police had been here a zillion times, so Henry had said, but they might have missed something—they had to have missed something—or Mr. Craig would have been found by now. And why was the door left unlocked? Bathory cops were bumbling idiots, sure, but didn't they know how to lock up a possible crime scene?

Beside the door sat a dark mahogany hat tree, adorned with Mr. Craig's jacket and scarf. An umbrella was looped over one of the pegs. Vlad moved through the hall with slow, sure steps. The house smelled like dust, as if no one had been here to fill the air with the scent of pine cleaners and bleach in a long time. He half expected to see cobwebs. But he was sure the scent was a trick of his wild imagination.

Vlad's shoes moved soundlessly over the bare wood floors as he approached the kitchen at the end of the hall. A closet door stood open, blocking his path, so he closed it. A painting hung on the wall opposite him of a red-haired woman holding a sword in front of her chest. Her eyes were closed as if she were sleeping, which made no sense, what with the raging fires painted around her. He wondered if it was a painting of Joan of Arc, the famous French heroine Mr. Craig had told him about at the beginning of the school year.

Up ahead, something moved.

Vlad didn't know what, or who, it was, but something had crossed the open door at the end of the hall. It may have been black, but he couldn't be sure, as there was only a little light illuminating his view.

Swallowing his fear, Vlad took a step toward the door, where the . . . thing . . . had been. “Hello?”

A rustling sound answered him, followed by gunshots.
Bang! Bang!
Vlad ducked, covering his head with his arms, as if flesh alone could protect against bullets.
Bang! Bang!
Risking a shot to the head, Vlad lowered his arms and tried to get a clear view of his assailant. No one stood at the end of the hall, and a glance over his shoulder showed the similar lack of anyone by the front door, armed or otherwise.
Bang! Bang!

Vlad rolled his eyes and stood. He moved into the kitchen and pulled the back screen door closed. The banging ceased.

Some hero he was.

After an extensive search of the living room, dining room, and kitchen, Vlad decided to continue his search upstairs. So far, nothing seemed amiss at all. But Vlad couldn't bring himself to believe Mr. Craig would just vanish without a word to him. They'd been more than student and teacher—they were friends. He turned on his heel and walked back down the hall to the stairs near the front door. In the darkness, the coat tree looked a bit like a skeleton.

Vlad froze.

On one of the pegs hung a rumpled, purple silk top hat.

Vlad slipped the hat off its peg and looked inside. Embroidered in shiny black thread were the initials
O.O.
—Otis Otis. His forehead creased in wonder and disbelief. Why had Mr. Otis lied about knowing Mr. Craig? Vlad looked around, suddenly wondering if he was alone in the house. He was almost positive the hat hadn't been hanging there when he'd entered.

With a glance at the stairs, Vlad quietly returned the hat to its peg. Was Mr. Otis in the house right now? Nelly was right, Vlad didn't know the guy, but could he trust him? What business did he have running around Mr. Craig's house in the middle of the night? Vlad looked at the stairs again. He should march right up and demand to know what Mr. Otis was doing here.

Vlad took a step toward the stairs and paused. What if Mr. Otis had something to do with Mr. Craig's disappearance? What if he was returning to the scene of the crime?

The noble thing would be to leave the house and head straight for the police station to tell them everything he knew.

But what did he know?

Only that what looked suspiciously like Mr. Otis's hat had been hanging on Mr. Craig's hat tree when Vlad had gone into the house to look around. Vlad doubted very much it would be enough to convince that idiot Officer Thompson of anything. Plus, Vlad might get in serious trouble for breaking curfew . . . not to mention breaking and entering.

He'd do better to spend a few more weeks watching his new teacher and seeing if the odd feeling in his stomach would go away.

Vlad stepped outside, pulling the door closed behind him. His toe caught the edge of the welcome mat, sending him stumbling. With a grumble, he kicked the mat. But before it slid back into place, he spotted a strange symbol carved into the wood of the porch. With a gaping mouth, he pulled the mat back again.

Three slanted lines slashed across the porch—all encased in what looked like parentheses.

K
ATE DONAHUE BRUSHED STRANDS of hair out of her eyes, sweeping them back from her sweaty face as her feet met the pavement in rhythmic, slapping steps. Glancing at her watch as she made her third round of the track that outlined Bathory Park, she grunted. Robert would be irate that she'd gone for a run after dark.

She rounded a park bench and, brushing her hair out of her face once more, slowed her steps to cool down. She pressed her fingers to her neck and counted her pulse beats silently.

Except for Kate, the park was empty. Large pools of light from the streetlamps spotted the lush grounds. Kate breathed in through her nose and out through her mouth; her breath was released into the air in the form of wispy clouds.

She wiped the sweat from her eyes with the back of her hand. When she pulled her hand away, she saw a man, dressed in black, standing by the nearest streetlight. Kate felt her heart jump and mentally slapped herself. Robert's panicky concerns were making her edgy.

She slowed her steps even more and then began to stretch her calves. Her muscles were on fire with a pleasant burn. She took a healthy swallow from her water bottle and glanced in the direction of the man, who hadn't changed his posture or expression, but now seemed to be standing ten feet closer.

Kate took another drink and slipped her bottle back into her duffel bag. She picked the bag up and, with another glance at the man in black, turned toward the parking lot. Maybe Robert was right. Maybe even a little slice of nowhere like Bathory wasn't safe all the time. She passed under another pool of light and her water bottle tumbled out of her bag. It smacked the paved path and popped open. With a groan, Kate bent down and stuffed it back into the bag with a grumble.

“Excuse me, madam.”

With a curse under her breath, Kate looked up at the man and smiled as pleasantly as she could manage. “Yes?”

A flash of skin—pale, smooth, flawless skin—passed before her eyes, and the man had her by the throat. He dragged her away from the light, toward the nearby grove of trees. Kate kicked and tried to scream, but couldn't find the breath to call for help. She dug her heels into the grass, to no avail. He pulled her along as if she weighed no more than a heavy backpack and slammed her against the trunk of a large maple tree. His fingers were still pressing into her neck, but he relaxed them enough for her to breathe.

Kate's lungs burned as she gasped for air. “What do you want? I'll do anything! Just please don't hurt me!” Her words were mangled whispers, as if her voice box had been damaged beyond the ability to voice the terror she was feeling.

The man opened his mouth wide, exposing a pair of long, white, slick fangs. Kate screamed her whispers of protest.

He pinned her against the tree, and though she wriggled, he sank his teeth easily into her smooth neck and drank.

Her heartbeat slowed in her ears. She could feel herself sliding down the tree trunk as the strength left her body. Tears coated her cheeks. “Why are you doing this?”

The man pulled away with a low chuckle. “Because I enjoy it. Besides, like any living creature, I must feed.”

Kate fell to the ground and lifted the great weight of her head so that she was looking up at her attacker. She couldn't run. She could barely speak, but she had to buy time until help arrived. “Please don't kill me,” she sobbed. “I'll give you anything.”

The man in black paused and glanced over his shoulder, as if checking for passers-by. “There is nothing you have that I want, except your blood.” He crouched then and tilted her head to the side, examining her wounds with childlike fascination before bending closer to resume his meal.

“I can give you money. Take my car. Anything, please.”

“Unless you can provide me with the Tod boy, you have nothing for me.”

“Vladimir Tod?” Kate spoke quickly in strangled whispers, though her throat burned and ached.

The man paused.

“I know his aunt. I see her every Tuesday at the Stop & Shop.”

The man relaxed his grip on her and sat back on his haunches. “And the boy? Where does he live?”

“With her, as far as I know.” Kate swallowed. She could taste her own blood. She managed to croak out, “Will you let me go?”

“No. I'm still hungry.” After a pause the span of a heartbeat, the man latched his mouth firmly to her open wound. He drank until the sky above became a blur of blackish blue, and as he walked away, Kate watched his shoes move two steps through the fallen leaves before she passed into the oblivion of death.

M
R. OTIS STOOD BEFORE the class, a black, pointy hat resting comfortably atop his head. “Everybody knows about witches, right? I'm sure you've read about them in one fairy tale or another.
Hansel and Gretel, Snow White, The Wizard of Oz
—they all had witches. Green-faced, warts on their noses, black cats hanging around all the time. Generally not very nice old ladies. Not exactly the grandma's house you want to go to for milk and cookies.

“In recent years, witches have come into a much better light than those with poisoned apples, or an obsession with gaudy footwear, due to a popular book series set at a magic school. Much of our discussion will be . . .” Mr. Otis paused with his arm raised before the blackboard, clutching a bit of chalk. His pose matched that of Meredith, who was raising her arm with a question. “Yes, Meredith?”

Meredith was looking extremely feminine today, Vlad noted with a wistful sigh. Her hair was swept up into the slight curl of a ponytail, which was tied with a blush-pink ribbon that matched her dress. She lowered her hand and parted her lips, shimmering with berry-pink lip balm, to speak. “I'm sorry, Mr. Otis, but you're wrong about witches.”

Mr. Otis returned the chalk to the long aluminum tray that ran beneath the blackboard. He seemed more intrigued than annoyed at her interruption, and when he smiled at her, Vlad could tell his interest was genuine. “Am I?”

Meredith brushed a stray brunette curl from her cheek. “My friend Catherine and her family practice witchcraft. There's really nothing mythological about it.” To emphasize her point, Meredith removed her berry lip balm from her desk and glossed her lips.

Mr. Otis looked from Meredith to the chalkboard. He pinched his chin between his thumb and the knuckle of his pointer finger and looked the class over a moment before speaking. “Indeed. You are absolutely correct.” His lips curled in a smile. “However, there is a stark difference between the reality of witchcraft and what the Grimm Brothers would have you believe. It is the mythical variety that we will be focusing our attention on today.” He returned to the board and paused. “In truth, I believe that all of the creatures we are studying have existed or do exist, in some form or another.”

Sylvia Snert didn't bother raising her hand, nor did she even attempt to hide her doubt. “You think werewolves are real?”