The Vampire Book of the Month Club (13 page)

“
Know
what?” I ask, although I already suspect the answer, my face growing hot with the mounting suspense.

“Know this.” She tosses her cell phone across the table at me.

I manage to catch it before it knocks over my cup. I hit the on button, and the screen flickers to life.

It's a text from Wyatt. Before I read the message, I check the time stamp—7:22 p.m. on the day he disappeared.

He must have written her on the way to the photo shoot, just after—I'm talking seconds after—leaving the coffee shop.

The message is brief and intimate and stings with betrayal:

Abs, it finally hapnd. Just like u said it wld. Nora & I kssd. There wer firewks but . . . not bazooka blasts. You ok wit dat? Will c where it goz. Don't B angry. It had 2 happen sometime. W

“What? Why? When?” My stomach somewhere on the floor, my eyes blurry, my butt half in, half out of my seat.

“The day it happened.” She sighs, looking at me with new eyes that no longer smile. “So . . . why didn't
you
tell me? That night? When we had our big talk?”

“I wanted to. Really, I did. I just . . . What would you have rather heard? That I'd kissed Wyatt or that Bianca was a vampire?”

“How about both, Nora? I can take it, you know. I'm a big girl, remember?”

“It would have been nice if he'd told you
why
I kissed him,” I say, avoiding eye contact. I always thought Abby would be okay if Wyatt and I ended up together. Like he said, it had to happen sometime. Did Abby not understand that? Or did she still have such strong feelings for him that it could cost us our very friendship?

“You mean besides primal, throbbing lust? You mean besides the fact that you've wanted to kiss him ever since you met him? Or how about the fact that you hated every minute of the two short months Wyatt and I dated? Which one is it, huh?”

“None of the above.” I stare her down. “Actually, yeah, there
is
something other than that. Bianca was coming, I needed an alibi, he was there, and—”

“And rather than stopping to tie his shoe, or get a lash out of his eye, or help him with his homework, or show him how to work his cell phone, or a thousand and one other excuses you
could
have used, you chose to kiss him? My ex-boyfriend? To the point of fireworks? How could you?”

“But no bazookas,” I point out miserably. “And very, very little fireworks.” (Although I sure felt them.)

“Oh, well, you probably save your . . . bazookas for the second date!” She stands up, huffing, grabbing her backpack purse roughly off the back of her chair, where it snags. She yanks it free, and I can't tell which she's madder at: me for kissing Wyatt or her backpack purse for ruining her dramatic exit. (Sucks when real life doesn't follow a script, doesn't it?)

“You can't go, Abby. We said we'd stick together.”

“You have writing to do,” she says, looking down at my laptop. “And frankly, listening to you tap away at those keys all night would only make me want to smash your face in even more than I want to right now, which is pretty darn tempting as it is, so . . . Don't worry about me. A deal's a deal, right? You're doing your part. I'm on the sidelines. They're not going to try anything tonight.”

I shake my head, powerless to argue with her fiery logic.

She storms out, swinging her arms into the dark.

I watch as she crosses the street alone, enters our dorm building alone, and disappears into the elevator—alone.

My laptop is calling, the big white page on the screen begging to be filled with words, countless words, each one another step closer to Wyatt's freedom.

Scarlet Stain spits blood from her mouth, watching it pool on the dirty warehouse floor where she's being held captive by the man she's sworn to hunt down and eliminate.

The room is empty now, cavernous and vast, illuminated merely by large candles flickering in the corners. They light only the warehouse floor, dirty and littered with broken lightbulbs and dried-out rat carcasses.

She is comfortable; she is safe . . . but for how long?

Just outside the door, three of the count's most vicious vampire guards pace, just waiting for her to dare to try to escape. And how would she do that? They took her leather pants, her rubber boots, her white blouse, her backpack of weapons, her favorite dagger belt, even the monogrammed switchblade she always wore in her left sock.

She is bruised, battered, defenseless, and half-naked, crouching in the corner of her cage, a dented tray full of biscuit crumbs and refried beans her only sustenance for the last twelve hours straight.

But . . . but . . . they didn't find everything.

Sewn into the left strap of her sports bra is a simple pin, twice as thick as a sewing needle, half as sharp. In the right strap is its twin.

They are made of a special alloy, designed to elude metal detectors, even the portable wand kind Count Victus and his men waved over every inch of her half-naked body.

When the time is right, when the men are sleeping, when she has had enough, she will chew the bars from her bra and use them to pick the lock that has kept her in this cage for these past two days.

Her weapons are on a chair in the far corner of the room, twelve simple paces from where she sits. If she hurries, she can make it in four seconds flat. Once she has them, it will take her only twice that long to eliminate all three of the count's men.

But she will take her time with the count.

She will take all the time she needs to make sure his end is as painful as he deserves . . .

I rub my eyes, look up from the scene, and stare at Wyatt, hanging against the bars of his cage across the endless warehouse floor.

Two days have passed, long days of writing, toiling, sleeping in this chair, lighting candles, chugging endless cans of Jolt Cola from the little fridge beneath my desk.

Say what you will about Reece, but the man has an eye for detail.

I blink, rub my eyes again, and look up past the oriental screens, the flickering candles, the grimy warehouse walls to the windows high above. The sun is rising.

Another day is here.

I look at the page count on my latest chapter: 127.

Two days more, and I can get to two hundred pages no problem, finish off the book, and have Wyatt out of that cage.

Now if only Abby would return my texts.

I know she's mad at me, but this is serious.

Reece rouses from the corner where he's been napping, fully dressed, against two of the satin throw pillows. (I knew there was a reason there were so many of them.) He smiles and says, “Alas, I must take my leave. Big test in world cultures today. Wouldn't want to miss
that
.”

I yawn, stretch, rise, and announce, “I'm going with you.”

A cloud covers his face; he darts to a standing position. “I'd rather you write,” he scolds, ever the impatient taskmaster.

“Just for a little while,” I plead, all the while gathering my book bag, which stores the latest version of the manuscript on a flash drive. I defiantly stand in front of him. “I need to check on Abby.”

“I told you she's fine.” He sighs, rubbing his own face as if scrubbing it clean with his large, pale palms. “I told you yesterday morning and yesterday after school and last night, and I'm telling you now: Abby is fine. Stay here, finish the work, and—”

I wave the flash drive in front of his face, pat my laptop bag, and say, “I'll keep working—at school.”

“Fine,” he mumbles, leading the way out of the claustrophobic room that has become like a cell for us both.

I linger near Wyatt's cage on the way out, making sure the water pitcher at his feet is half full, the bowl of stew next to it empty, the crusty bread I insisted on (Wyatt's favorite) gone.

“You see,” Reece says, impatient to get going, “I'm keeping my end of the bargain. He's being well taken care of. There will be no repercussions when at last the book is finished, he is let loose, and we are free of each other.”

I look from Wyatt to Reece. “You mean that? This isn't one of those deals where I write not just one book for you but one hundred and one? Where you're in my life forever, haunting my dreams, shadowing my every move?”

“Only if you want me to be.” He inches near with those long, glistening fangs at the ready.

“Thanks,” I say, turning before Wyatt can see the lurid display. “I prefer my men slightly less lethal, thanks.”

We dash toward the Mercedes and get in. It cruises silently in the early light of dawn, taking us through the bleak streets that surround the warehouse.

I stifle a smile to learn that Reece's senses aren't defenseless. Sure, I wanted to check on Abby, absolutely. But there was an ulterior motive for the ride to school that day: the tinted windows make it difficult, but not impossible, to see the street names as we pass each one. I'd been careless, that first trip to see Abby at the café. Reese had insisted on driving me there, then picking me up later. I'd been so upset by the confrontation with Abby, I hadn't thought to follow my trail there or back. This time I would be smarter, calmer, more prepared. I had to be, just in case.

Straight up Rouse Street.

Left on Andover Lane.

Right on Oliver Street.

Another right on Principal Avenue.

Left on Archibald Street.

Right on Ninth Avenue.

Another right on Lavender Lane until we're on the recognizable surface streets of Beverly Hills at last.

I note each one while managing to look bored and distracted for Reece's benefit, memorizing the street names in order by making a little mnemonic device for myself, you know, the same way you remember the order of the planets:
Ralph and Ollie Partied All Night Long
.

I have no idea what good it will do me, but it makes me feel better to at least know the general area, just in case Reece decides to go back on his deal.

“What page are we on today?” he says, clearly breathing a sigh of relief as we pass Rodeo Drive and enter the nicer part of town again.

“Ninety-seven,” I bluff, none too eager to give him any information he doesn't deserve.

“Not bad,” he says, impressed.

What would he have thought if I'd told him I was actually thirty pages further along?

“So at this pace”—he does the mental math—“you'll be done by Monday morning.”

“Or Monday afternoon, maybe Tuesday morning. Endings are the hardest,” I warn, trying to buy myself a little time to formulate some kind of plan.

He nods knowingly. “Of course they are.”

We glide into the student parking lot on a whisper, and I race for the door the minute he pulls into a spot.

I am out of the car and into the commons area before he turns off the ignition, racing to homeroom without stopping at my locker, without checking in with Principal Chalmers or my guidance counselor, without even using the bathroom.

Abby is there, safe and sound.

Safe and sound, that is, sitting cozily next to her new BFF, Bianca Ridley.

“Abby!” I gasp, glad that Mrs. Armbruster's not yet in the room.

“Nora!” she says giddily, her eyes, skin, and hair not her own.

Nothing is like it was. Nothing will ever be the same. Not now, not ever, not for any of them.

Her voice sounds slurred.

“What's going on here?” I ask, standing in front of them, hands on my hips, like a mother who's caught both her daughters sneaking in after curfew.

The class is nearly deserted, just a few early worms sitting in the corner, playing football with one of those triangular pieces of paper. They stand, their chairs sliding across the floor as they instinctively cluster in the farthest corner of the room from us.

“Wassup wit you?” Abby asks, making odd hand gestures, like some old-time hippie dancing to Jimi Hendrix in a muddy cow pasture.

“What? What does that even mean?” I snap, mad at myself for leaving Abby alone with Bianca and Reece.

“It means,” Abby drolls, eyes and mouth half open, brain obviously completely shut down, “wassup wit—?”

“I
know
what it means.” I sigh. “I just don't know why you're saying it.”

Abby looks up at me, squinting, as if the light above my head is hurting her eyes, and then shakes her head like,
Dude, where's my brain?

I watch her closely, beginning to tremble in earnest as I notice all the telltale signs: limp hair, pale skin, sweaty armpits, dry lips.

I reach for her hair, yank her head around, and see the bruised bite marks at the nape of her neck.

A wave of grief passes through me, so strong my knees literally tremble.

I look at Abby's wan face, her dazed eyes, and feel like crying, like yelling, like tearing the room apart vampire by vampire.

And it's all my fault, every last bit of it.

I knew I should have kept Abby by my side, every minute of the day, every second.

How could I have been so stupid?

Now my best friend, my only friend, at this overachieving school for overachievers is gone forever—lured to the dark side with two quick bites from that witch Bianca.

All because I thought I could handle my business. All because I thought I was in control.

Nora Falcon, big, bad, best-selling writer.

“Trust me, Abby,” I'd said. “I know what I'm doing. You'll be safe at school, with teachers and counselors and Principal Chalmers around.”

“Trust me, Abby,” I'd said. “The dorm is off limits. They won't try to get to you there. Why? Because Reece
said
so!”

And while I was tapping away at my breezy little keyboard, lulled into a creative state by flickering candles and the calming presence of two hundred silk pillows, Abby had been slowly transforming, morphing, dying—and then being reborn.