H.T. Night's 8-Book Vampire Box Set (125 page)

“Designs?”

“Looking at her funny. Thinking. Like maybe
she’s about old enough to get in on the action.”

I pulled my fingers inside the window and
pretended I was wiping my mouth. The blood was bitter and tainted,
but intoxicating nonetheless. “Have you ever visited
Cloudland?”

“A couple of times. I really don’t like it
because all the girls go out of their way to kiss my ass so that
they get on his good side. Plus they’re all spaced out on peace and
love and that type of crap. Plus whatever he’s putting in the punch
bowl. It’s just wrong.”

“Would he be opposed to you bringing your
boyfriend down to meet him?”

“At Cloudland?”

“Yeah.”

“It would probably throw him off, but I’m
pretty sure he’d be okay with it. Especially if we just popped
in.”

“All right.” I said. “Are you up for
it?”

“You’re serious?”

“As a corpse.” I pulled into the school
parking lot, feeling a slight rush from more than just the blood.
When I feed, I take on some of the victim. It’s one of the
unfortunate side effects of my lifestyle, and in this case, the
victim had definitely been on speed.

“But I didn’t do this to date you,” she
said, running her eyes over me as if maybe that wouldn’t be such a
bad thing.

“I’m not saying we’ll be dating for real.
But we will need to pull it off around your family a couple of
times before we go out and meet Dad. Your dad will be less
suspicious of me if he thinks I’m just a goofy eighteen-year-old
trying to get into his daughter’s pants.”

“You’re not a goofy eighteen-year-old? And
you don’t want in my pants?”

“Oh, I’m goofy. Let’s just leave it at
that.”

She was looking at me curiously as I took
out a piece of paper from my glove compartment and wrote my number
down for her. I was used to people looking at me curiously, but it
always made me nervous—like I was an insect they wanted to swat
with a newspaper, or maybe a snake to trap behind glass. I gave her
my cell number and she looked at it, and then promptly snorted with
laughter.

“Why does it say ‘Wal-Mart’ above it?”

“Because it’s better—and safer—than writing
‘Spider for Hire.’”

She snorted again. “But Wal-Mart? That’s so
lame.”

“Not any lamer than being named Parker.”

“Jerk,” she said and slapped my arm.

“Well, if we’re dating, I’d better drive you
home, so your dad can look out the window and see us.”

It had started raining. Big surprise for
Seattle. The light patter on the roof of the car was always
pleasant. Even after all these years of living, I loved the sound
of rain. A few minutes later, following her directions, I pulled up
in front of her two-story house.

It was upper middle class, and a Volvo wagon
was parked outside. So Mr. Cole was the practical, safety-minded
sort of psychotic religious fanatic. But it made me wonder why he
forced his daughter to ride public transit.

When I stopped the car, she paused with her
hand on the door handle. “So, you said ‘for hire.’ What will this
cost me?”

She wore a little smirk as if she suspected
it had something to do with the remark about getting in her
pants.

The rain drummed rhythmically, hypnotically.
Light from her front porch reached us weakly, illuminating her
pretty face. “We’ll work something out.”

“That sounds creepy.”

“Not like that,” I said, although she had no
room to call anyone else “creepy.” After all, she was the daughter
of a serial-killing cult leader. “Sometimes I ask for favors.
Depends on how much I trust you. We’ll see.”

“What kind of favors?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get
there.”

She suddenly leaned over and kissed me
lightly on the cheek. “Wow. Your skin is cool.”

“I’m a cool dude.”

She rolled her pretty brown eyes. “See you
tomorrow...boyfriend.”

She winked and dashed off to her house.

Chapter Four

I looked at my test again and couldn’t
fathom that there was actually a question that this second-rate
high school could find in U.S. History that I would not know.

“In 1906, who was the Speaker of the
House?”

First of all, who cares? Seriously? How was
this question going to help any U.S. citizen get further in life?
It was almost as if Mr. Harris, my history teacher, threw this
question out there because he was tired of me acing every test.

I looked at the clock; it was five minutes
before 10 p.m. I had to come to terms with the notion that, for the
first time in my life—or at least my new unlife—I didn’t know the
answer to a question on a test.

Well, if you’re going to go out, you might
as well go out with a bang. In the available spot, I put “Robert
Pattinson.”

I walked to the front of the class and
handed Mr. Harris the test, staring the old fogey down.

“May I help you, Mr. Walsh?”

“Well played, sir,” I said. “Well
played.”

Mr. Harris smiled at me through the corner
of his mouth, knowing that he’d gotten the best of me. He and I
both knew what he’d done. I turned around and made zero eye contact
with anyone on my way back to my desk.

“Hey, diphead,” a voice from behind me
echoed. It was Frank Manciti. The class bully who thought he could
intimidate the undeveloped smart kid. Yes, even night school has
bullies.

It was now my turn to play the fool for this
idiot and appear weak. People thought I was weird and creepy
already and this guy was leader of the lot. To be honest, I was
tired of him throwing things at me and calling me names like
Butthead and Scum Bubble. Unfortunately, I couldn’t waste my secret
on this imbecile so I let him be the gooch.

“Quit it,” I mumbled.

“What was that, Taylor Swift?” he
quipped.

Taylor Swift? What did that even mean?

“Hey, Mini Albert Einstein, turn around so I
can talk to you.”

Frank wanted me to turn around so he could
see my expression as he insulted me. Little did he know I could see
his every movement and didn’t need to alter my positioning. Staring
ahead, but in my mind’s eye watching his every move, sensing his
presence. I looked towards the chalkboard like a poker player not
giving away what’s in his hand. I could see his smug face on his
dirty blonde head. He was looking at his buddies for approval. He
was holding a pencil in his right hand. It was a matter of seconds
before the pencil would be routed in my direction.

I was tired of allowing him to hurl things
and just taking it. It was time I took a stand. I could see Parker
looking at me and, to be honest, I didn’t want to appear wimpy
after my big show on the drug addict the night before.

I was going to do something, and it would be
subtle but would make my point. It was just a matter of waiting for
Franky Spanky to throw the darn pencil, and just like in a bad
script for a John Hughes film, he flung the pencil at my head.
Without looking, I caught the pencil somewhere near my neck, spun
it once in my hand, and flipped it back at him. The graphite tip
whistled one inch past his fat head and stuck into the wall.

“Holy crap, did you see that?” shouted
someone from the back. “He flippin’ caught the pencil and threw it
back without turning around.”

“No way, dude. That’s impossible,” a
long-haired stoner sitting next to Frank responded.

Now it was time to turn around. I’d had
enough fun using the eyes-behind-my-back trick, which I had
recently mastered to obvious perfection.

Frank, I think, was having a hard time
processing what had just happened. He looked from the pencil, which
was still wobbling in the wall like an arrow in a bullseye, to me.
Finally, he said, “Did you throw that at me, putz?”

“Throw what?” I asked, as clueless as a
class nerd could sound.

Frank looked at his buddies seated around
him. “Did one of you douche bags throw that?”

They all shook their heads. Frank pulled the
pencil out of the back wall and scoped it to see if it was the same
bit of lumber he had just tossed in my direction. I think his worst
fears were confirmed. Some of the color drained from his face. He
slumped back in his chair and waved me off. “Just turn around,
Nancy Pants,” he said. “Nobody’s talking to you.”

I did just that and grinned my ass off. I
looked over to my left and there was Parker looking at me, shocked.
She mouthed silently How? I just shrugged my shoulders as if to
say, I got lucky!

The bell rang. I grabbed my backpack and
went straight to my car. I’d DVR’d “Real World Road Rules
Challenge” on MTV, which was my weekly treat. I wanted to hurry
home and for once in my life just veg out.

I made my way to the school parking lot. The
parking lot was pretty small, which made sense since it only housed
20 students at night. I reached into my left pocket and took out my
keys.

“How did you do that?” Parker asked me from
fifteen feet away. I had sensed her following me at a distance, too
nervous to get too close.

“I got lucky.” I liked the sound of that.
Maybe it would be my little catch phrase. Every hero needed
one.

“No one is that lucky. Are you some kind of
circus performer?”

“Yeah, that’s right,” I said sarcastically.
“I’m a circus performer by day and a high schooler at night,
because I promised my parents I would get a proper education. And
clown school was full.”

“Okay, maybe not a circus performer, but
there’s definitely something more to you than you’re letting on.
Not every high school student goes by the name of Spider, either,”
she smiled. “Let’s get some coffee.”

“We might have a problem. I think there
might be a shortage of coffee shops around here.”

“Very funny.”

It was funny because Seattle is the
coffeehouse capital of the world. But she understood. Jokes are
better when you don’t have to explain them, and she’d finally
caught on that I’m a witty guy. At least when I’m not ripping
somebody’s neck open and sucking out their life.

“C’mon,” she said. “I know a place called
‘Bo Knows Coffee!’”

“Who’s Bo?” I asked.

“I don’t know. I guess he was some kinda
sport’s star from the 80’s.”

“Alright, I’ll go. But let’s make it
quick.”

“Oh, does the Spider have a web to weave?”
she joked.

“Not exactly, I just want to watch a TV
show.”

“Are you kidding? You would rather watch a
stupid show than spend time with a beautiful woman?”

I snorted. “Beautiful woman?”

“Well, what would you call me?”

I smiled. She wasn’t a woman yet, but she
was half right. I never had a girl care if I thought she was
pretty.

“You’re cute,” I said, patting her head,
“like a tarantula.”

“Man, you’re weird.”

“They don’t call me Spider for nothing,” I
said. “Get in and let’s go.”

Chapter Five

I wish we’d made it to the coffee shop,
because I suspected we would have had one of those long, revealing
conversations where we both learned more about each other’s deep
dark secrets.

Except no one ever knew my secrets. So I
guess it would have been a superficial chat at best, throwing away
ten bucks on mocha lattes.

Instead, her cell rang before we were barely
out of the parking lot. She hadn’t carried it the night before, as
if she didn’t want to be reached. A conveniently timed woman of
mystery.

“Oh, crap, it’s my dad,” she said, checking
the incoming number.

“Aren’t you going to answer it?”

“He’ll ask me what I am doing. After you
dropped me off last night, he was all in my face. I guess he saw
your car. Or saw that you were a boy.”

Boy. I had to grin. I guess I looked that
way, especially to an older human.

“He probably saw that little kiss you gave
me,” I said. “I hope you told him my intentions were purely
honorable.”

“Well, I don’t know your intentions.” The
phone quit purring after the fifth ring.

“Sure, you do. You want me to kill your
dad.”

She swatted me. “No, I want you to make him
stop killing girls.”

I’d slowed a little to look at her, but
before I could punch the accelerator, a Volvo wagon swerved in
front of us, tires squealing. It blocked my lane, sliding sideways,
and I recognized it from Parker’s driveway.

So much for the “safety-minded” thing.

I could have sped up and driven around, but
that would have been dangerous. Even though the night school was on
a side street, it was still pretty urban. And despite my
preternatural powers of the night, when I was behind the wheel I
was just another dude driving a car.

I braked as the Volvo door opened and under
the sodium-vapor lights, I got my first look at the alleged cult
leader named Erasmus Cole.

He had a commanding presence, a few inches
over six feet, with dark, curly hair and a swarthy complexion. As
he stormed toward my Mustang, he moved with athletic power and
grace, a man with purpose. As I sized him up, I realized he
wouldn’t be as simple to handle as a meth-head wanting free
money.

I assumed he’d come to my side, so I opened
my door to meet him halfway. I’d gone toe-to-toe with a few girls’
dads in my past—after all, I’d been a teen boy an awfully long
time—and usually they just wanted to show their daughters they were
standing up for them and watching their backs. In other words, all
sizzle and no steak.

A couple of them had been psychos, though,
and saw family members as property, and from such sick thinking
sprang abuse, incest, and emotional distress.

I wasn’t ready to fill out my scorecard on
Erasmus Cole just yet, though I’d researched his cult a little in
the wee hours of the previous morning. And, of course, his smiling
visage had been featured on the cult’s website, the gentle man who
offered a peaceful and blissful alternative to the hectic,
soul-destroying ways of modern life.