The Vampire's Photograph (6 page)

Emalie muttered softly in a mocking tone,
“Afford a digital.”
She shook her head.

Oliver stayed in the corner until their sounds and scents had faded. Then he crept a few feet closer, stopping as he reached a display of cut-out snowflakes hanging from the ceiling.

Emalie was still fiddling with her camera. “What's with you?” she muttered at it.

Oliver studied the snowflakes, thinking they were a bit simplistic-looking to be displayed in public. If he had set about making a paper snowflake, it would have been so much more ornate and detailed—then again, he'd had a few decades more practice with scissors and paper.
What are you doing?
he suddenly shouted at himself. Why was he thinking about snowflakes when he needed to talk to Emalie? But how to start? Would he try to scare her, or reason with her? Would he tell her that he was a vampire? And how would she react? Maybe, since she was trying to prove that vampires existed, she'd be excited. Or maybe she'd be terrified and take off, and what would he do then?

“Oh, Emalie—” Ms. Davis had returned to lock the door. “Didn't know you were still here. You really need to get going.”

“Sorry,” said Emalie. She stuffed her camera into her beat-up canvas backpack and slid off the stool. As she walked out, Ms. Davis gave her a perplexed glance before reaching in and flicking off the lights.

Oliver dropped to the floor and kicked the nearest stool. A perfectly good opportunity and he'd blown it.
You're a lamb, just like Bane says!
he yelled at himself. Then he looked to the classroom clock: not even five thirty. He still had a while before school started.

Oliver headed back down the hall. He left out the back door and circled around the school. There was Emalie, walking up the street, alone. Oliver followed her, staying just over a streetlight-length behind her. She headed up the block, then turned and started across the ball fields.

Oliver couldn't believe this girl was still alive with all the dangerous things she did. Crossing these fields alone in the dark? This was probably too dark a place to try introducing himself. He needed somewhere better lit. Oliver darted along behind her, moving from an old tree to the swings, to the basketball hoop, making sure there was some cover for him to blend into if she turned around, but she didn't.

Emalie passed through a border of trees, leaving the park, and stopped at the next street corner. She stood in a cone of light, mist falling on her, looking up and down the street, almost like she was deciding which way to go. Now she started fiddling in her bag. Oliver reached the edge of the fields. This corner would be a good spot, well enough lit that she might give him a chance. He started up the sidewalk—

A city bus pulled up. Emalie had drawn a bus pass from her pocket. The doors swung open and she stepped on board. Oliver was frozen. What now? Maybe he should just turn around, give up. But instead, as the bus pulled away, Oliver broke into a run. He leaped into the air and soared upward. Pushing against the
forces
as hard as he knew how, he reached the top of the streetlights at the height of his jump, then arced downward, landing on top of the bus—

Only his jump wasn't perfect, and he immediately slid off the roof. Looking down, he saw the blur of pavement rushing up toward him. He grabbed at the side of the bus, tightening his grip on the forces, and just managed to hang on. He threw his body against the side, exhausted, and immediately spectralized as best he could, because many heads were peering out the windows just above him, wondering what all the racket had been.

The bus traveled a mile before Emalie got off. Oliver dropped from the side and sat down on the bus stop bench to rest, letting her go ahead of him. His muscles burned, and his mind ached from concentrating. Finally, he got up and followed Emalie's scent up a side street to a tiny, one-story house.

Unlike its neighbors, Emalie's lawn didn't have any plastic, light-up Christmas figurines. There were no cheery lights strung on the trees or along the gutters, either. Oliver started up the walk, noting the overgrown yard on either side. Except for the light from the windows, this place almost resembled a vampire house.

He climbed carefully onto the porch, staying away from the rectangles of light. Inside, he saw a living room crowded with half-unpacked boxes. A tiny, artificial Christmas tree stood atop one stack. Its lights weren't plugged in. There was a crooked floor lamp by a table piled with dishes and papers. A man sat there, scratching his head and looking over a stack of bills. “Hey!” he shouted suddenly. There was no reply from the rest of the house. “I thought your
friend
said that the hot water was included in the rent!” Again, no one answered. The man drank from a beer bottle beside him, then shook his head. He had dark bags under his eyes. “Margie!” he shouted now. “Stop ignoring me!”

A light flicked on in the corner of Oliver's vision. Looking around the edge of the porch, he saw that it was coming from the basement, casting a small rectangle against the neighboring house. The light flicked off, replaced by a faint red glow. Oliver vaulted the railing and crouched to peer through the window.

Emalie stood in a small, square space, its walls made of boxes. She was leaning over a sink, and was lit only in red and shadow. Distantly, Oliver heard the man upstairs shout, “Come on, Margie!” to no reply. Emalie glanced up at the ceiling, frowning, then pulled earphones out of her vest pocket and slipped them on.

She bent back to the sink, where she picked up a pair of tongs and began shaking a piece of paper that was lying in a shallow tray of liquid. Oliver noticed a string along the wall with many photos hanging by clothespins. Oliver hadn't ever seen a darkroom before, but he understood basically what was happening. He watched through the window, with Emalie, as the paper she was shaking began to darken, and an image took shape. There was a wall, and something intricate and made of glass—a chandelier.

Now Oliver recognized the ceiling from the first floor of his house.

She was developing the photo of him.

He stood up, about to look for a way inside—

When something sharp nudged him in the back, directly behind his heart.

“Don't move, demon,” said a low voice.

Chapter 5

The Photograph

OLIVER FROZE. HE COULD
already smell that the object was wood. And yet, he could also hear his enemy's short, quick breaths, and could smell that he was desperately scared. With his keen vampire memory of scents, it only took Oliver a moment to figure out who this was.

In a lightning motion, he leaped straight up into the air, flipped overhead, and landed behind his assailant. He grabbed his arm and twisted it around his back.

“Ahh!”

The broken length of tree branch fell to the ground. Oliver pushed his attacker forward, pinning him against the foundation of the house.

“No!” Dean gasped, looking up at Oliver, wide-eyed. “I didn't mean it, I—”

Oliver bared his teeth. He wasn't actually sure what he was going to do next, but he definitely planned on terrifying Dean.

“Please don't kill me!”

“Stop it!” Emalie raced around the side of the house. She had her own wooden weapon. It looked like the handle of a hammer, and it had been whittled to a sharp point. “Get away from him!”

Oliver let go and stood up. He thought about leaping up to the rooftop and taking off, but Emalie flicked a flashlight beam squarely on him. He winced and shielded his eyes.

Dean stayed slumped on the ground. He coughed weakly, pulling at the collar of his wool sweater.

“Dean!” Emalie cried, but she didn't go to him. She stayed a few steps away, flashlight and stake pointed at Oliver. She glanced back at Dean, her brow furrowing angrily. “What were you thinking?”

Dean gathered his long arms and legs together and warily got to his feet, fixing his sweater and rubbing his short, black hair back into place. “I…I was just coming over for homework. I brought the Chinese.” He gazed dejectedly at the grass, where a bag of Chinese food boxes lay spilled. “But then I saw him. I…I just thought I could—”

“Well, you can't,” Emalie scolded. Her eyes turned to Oliver. “You're no match for a vampire.”

Oliver tried to think of what to say. She knew what he was. It probably shouldn't have surprised him.

“You're the one from the house,” Emalie continued, catching Oliver even more off guard.

“Yeah,” was all he could manage to say.

She looked at him oddly, and what she said next surprised him. “Come inside.”

“Emalie!” Dean blurted, but Emalie flashed him a stern look, turned and started around the house. “This is crazy,” muttered Dean. He almost took a step, then stopped, instead motioning to Oliver. “You first.”

Oliver shrugged and walked around the house, listening carefully to see if Dean tried to pick up his weapon. He didn't bother, instead gathering the Chinese food before catching up. “Emalie! Are you sure about this?” Dean called after her. Emalie didn't answer. “She's out of her mind,” Dean groaned quietly.

Oliver followed Emalie through a narrow door into the basement, weaving between piles of boxes to the cramped darkroom space, lit only in red. She returned to the sink as if Oliver wasn't there. Dean squeezed by, keeping a wary eye on Oliver, and put the food on a rusty washing machine along the wall.

“What's your name?” Emalie asked, bent over the sink.

“I'm Oliver.”

“Oliver?” Dean mumbled. “That's not a very demonlike name—” Oliver glanced at him. He didn't even try to make a menacing face, but Dean immediately went pale. “Sorry,” he said quickly. “It's a fine name.”

“I'm not exactly a demon,” Oliver started. “I—” But then he stopped. He didn't need to explain himself! He just needed to tell Emalie what he'd been meaning to all evening. “Look, Emalie, you're in danger.”

Emalie didn't even seem surprised that he knew her name. “Why?” She started running water from the tap.

“The vampires know about your article.”

“See?” Dean said accusingly. “I told you!”

This made Emalie stop. “How do they—how do
you
know about it?”

“Well…” Oliver explained as briefly as he could: how he attended the very same school at night, how his classmates had seen her story, and how they'd reacted. He left out the torment he'd taken for the mere possibility that he knew her. “If this gets out to the rest of town—”

“Whoa,” said Dean, “What do you mean ‘town'? H…how many vampires are there?”

“In this city,” asked Oliver, “or this world?”

“W…world?” Dean sputtered.

Oliver decided not to overwhelm Dean with the latest census, which had this world's vampire population at almost a million. “There are about five thousand in Seattle.”

“Five
thousand
?” Dean gasped. “That's—but, you'd need to kill people—to eat—there'd be hundreds of —”

“Not really,” explained Oliver. “Vampires don't usually kill people. They just feed for a while, then give the humans a potion that erases their memory. And there are salts that hide the bite wounds and make them heal almost overnight.” Then Oliver thought to add, “You might have already been bitten and not even know it.”

Dean rubbed nervously at his neck. “H…how many humans have you bitten?” he asked.

“I—” Oliver felt weird talking about all this.
Then why am I?
he wondered to himself. He wasn't sure, really. But he didn't feel like there was any harm in it. “None,” he said. “I mean, you don't, until you're older.” He glanced worriedly toward Emalie, wondering if any of this was going to go too far and freak her out, but she was still working over the sink, almost like Oliver was no more important than whatever was packed in all these boxes.

“How much older?” Dean continued.

“It depends,” Oliver said.

“Well, how old are you?”

Oliver wondered what to tell them. He looked thirteen in human years, and felt and acted thirteen as well, but the truth was, he was sixty-three years old. Vampires were thought to live forever, but what seemed like forever to a human was actually just very slow aging. A vampire ages about five times slower than a human. But wouldn't they think it was creepy if Oliver told them he was almost five times older than they were? Then again, why should
he
care if they were freaked out? Still, Oliver decided on the easier number anyway. “Thirteen,” he said, then returned to the reason he was here. “Listen, if you publish that photo of me, the vampires will— Well, just don't.”

“I knew it!” Dean said stiffly. “We're dead!”

Emalie didn't answer. Oliver was starting to wonder what was wrong with her. “I'm serious,” Oliver said.

“Is that what you came here to do?” she asked, still not turning around.

“Me? What?”

“To kill us?” Emalie stood up from the sink.

“No,” Oliver stammered, “I…I just came to tell you to stop.”

“Why?” Emalie asked, turning around finally. She looked at him seriously. Her eyes were startlingly clear. Whatever trace of fear Oliver thought he smelled wasn't showing on her face. And her gaze was making
him
feel weird.

“Um…” He wasn't sure how to answer her question. Telling her that he'd only come to save his own neck would make him sound selfish. Wait, why did he care how he sounded to these humans? This was ridiculous! But when he didn't answer, Emalie started talking again.

“Well, it doesn't matter,” she said, holding up the photo from the sink, her face falling in frustration. “There is no picture. See?”

Oliver studied the photo in Emalie's hand. It showed his ceiling, with the cockeyed chandelier in sharp detail, but with only a big blurry spot beside it, where Oliver should have been.