Vamps (11 page)

I
t was very late by the time Cally started home. As if having to deal with students who hated her guts and faculty who thought she was trash wasn't bad enough, the commute to and from her new school was a bitch and a half.

She stood on the platform in Williamsburg for a long moment and stared after the taillights of the departing J train. She looked around, hoping to catch sight of Peter, then shook her head, chiding herself for being so stupid. Getting involved with a Van Helsing was the last thing she needed. It made as much sense as a mongoose falling for a cobra or a mermaid longing for a fisherman. Nothing good could possibly come of it.

Cally could still remember when she was four years old and fell off the top of the jungle gym at the playground and broke her arm. She had cried for a
minute, more in surprise than from the pain, then jumped up and started playing again as if nothing had happened.

Her grandmother, who was watching from the sidelines, quickly hurried Cally away, explaining to the other adults that she was rushing her grandchild to the nearest emergency room. Instead of going to the hospital, they took a cab back home, where Granny sat her down at the kitchen table and explained the differences between Cally and other children.

“You have to be careful when you're playing with humans, little one,” her grandmother said. “They look the same as you, but they're very different. When they fall down and hurt themselves, humans can't get better right away like you do. You have to understand this. If you hurt yourself in public, you can
never
let them see you get better. You have to pretend you're still hurt and get away as fast as you can.

“If the humans find out what you are, they'll take you away from me and your mother. No matter how nice they seem, it's very, very important that you
never
reveal what you really are to anyone, especially to humans.”

Her grandmother's warning still ringing in her ears, Cally slung her Diesel book bag over her shoulder and headed down the metal stairs that led to the streets below. Even though it was late, she needed to
pick up a few things for herself and her mom before returning to the apartment. On reaching the bottom of the stairway, she jogged across the street and into the all-night market on the corner.

She grabbed one of the shopping baskets stacked just inside the door and set about finding what she needed: toilet paper, fingernail polish, a box of cup-cakes, a bottle of Yoo-hoo, and, lastly, a bouquet of fresh-cut flowers. As he packed her things, the cashier eyed her school blazer, pleated skirt, and penny loafers with open interest.

“So—are you just dressed up like a naughty Catholic schoolgirl or are you the real thing?” He grinned salaciously.

“Get bent, sicko,” Cally said, flipping him off as she snatched up the plastic grocery bag and marched out the door, swinging the bouquet of flowers in one hand. Cally had just one more errand to run before she could return home for the night.

Surrounded on all sides by businesses and apartment buildings, Rest Haven Cemetery had originally been laid out in the 1830s. A wrought-iron gate, its top lined with forbidding metal spikes, allowed passersby a brief glimpse of the cool green lawns, shade trees, and weather-worn monuments on the other side. Heavy-duty chains were wrapped about the locked gate like a chrome python, protecting the dead behind its walls
from vandals, drunks, and junkies looking for a place to sleep it off.

After checking up and down the street to make sure she wasn't being watched, Cally took a running jump, landing solidly atop the wall. She paused for a second to make sure nothing had fallen out of her grocery bag before dropping to the grass on the other side.

She had always loved how Rest Haven seemed to be so far removed from the grime and noise of the city. With its birds, squirrels, and old oak trees, the half acre reminded her more of Granny's summer cabin in the country than a graveyard.

She silently wound her way through the moonlit headstones to the graves of her grandparents, which were covered by a blanket of scarlet leaves from a nearby hawthorn tree. Their granite headstone was shaped like two hearts linked by a descending dove.

Although the name on the left-hand side of the monument had undergone two decades of exposure to the elements, it was still perfectly legible:
CYRIL MONTURE
, 1925–1988. The inscription on the other side was far more recent:
SINA OSTERBERG MONTURE
, 1931–2006.

“Hi, Granny; hi, Grandpa. I brought you some new flowers,” Cally said as she removed the withered snapdragons from the memorial vase and put in the fresh bouquet.

As she swept the leaves from her grandmother's
grave with her hand, she caught a familiar scent on the wind. Cally looked over her shoulder at a large monument carved in the shape of a weeping angel collapsed in grief over the bier of a loved one.

“Why are you here? Who's with you?” she asked.

A shadow separated itself from one of the angel's wings and stepped into the dim light reflected from the street. “There's no need to be scared,” Peter Van Helsing said, reaching toward her. “I'm here alone.”

“This is getting ridiculous!” Cally unexpectedly found herself wanting to cry. “It was weird enough that you tracked me to the club—but how could you have known I would be here, of all places?”

“What can I say? I was raised to be a stalker.” He shrugged apologetically. “You were so upset last night, you left before I could explain things to you. I don't want to see you hurt, Cally Monture.”

“That's funny—you were trying to kill me when we first met.” She snorted. “Wait a minute—I never told you my last name.”

“I know a lot about you and your family, Cally.”

“Why should I believe a word you say?”

“I realize you have every reason not to trust me. But maybe you'll believe your own eyes.” Peter reached inside his jacket pocket and took out an old photograph, its edges slightly foxed with age. “I slipped this out of one of my father's files. If he knew I had it, he'd kick my ass. It's a picture of your grandmother with my
father, Christopher Van Helsing, and his then-protégé, Ike Grainger.”

Cally stared in stunned disbelief at the picture Peter handed her. The woman looking out at her was younger than she could remember her grandmother ever being, but there was no mistaking her smile and the gleam in her eyes. She was standing in between a tall, handsome man with wavy, auburn hair not unlike Peter's and a heavyset African American youth who she recognized as the older vampire hunter she'd fried in the park.

“When was this taken?”

“About thirty years ago,” Peter replied. “Not long after my father took over the Institute from my grandfather.”

“I still don't understand,” Cally said in a puzzled voice. “What was Granny doing with your father?”

“Don't you see? She was one of the Elites—those who are trained to use the supernatural in order to hunt vampires. According to my father, Sina was one of the best.”

“This has to be bogus!” Cally said hotly, shoving the picture back into his hands. “I bet you Photoshopped it! You're crazy! My grandmother wasn't a vampire hunter—”

“Your grandmother was a
witch
, Cally,” Peter said firmly, grabbing her wrist. “She was a white witch who used her powers to fight for the greater good, but she was a witch nonetheless. More importantly, she was a
human. As is your mother.”

“That's it—I'm not going to listen to any more of this garbage!” Cally snapped as she picked up the sack of groceries at her feet. “You are insane, do you know that? Now leave me alone!”

“No! I'm not letting you go until you listen to me!” Peter said, pushing her back so that he pinned her against the hawthorn tree. The grocery sack fell to the ground, its contents spilling across a nearby grave.

Although she could have easily broken free of his grip, Cally couldn't bring herself to. She stared up into Peter's face. She could feel his breath on her cheek as the ripe, warm smell of him filled her senses. She looked up into his eyes and saw herself reflected in them, as if she was somehow trapped inside his head.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked.

“Because I want to help you.”

She gave a bitter laugh. “Since when do Van Helsings want to help vampires?”

“Because you're
not
a vampire, Cally. No vampire would have sicced a rat on a human and then turned around and tried to save him the way you did. And since when do vampires eat junk food?” He pointed to the snack cakes lying on the ground. “How long have you been trying to pass, Cally? Six months? A year?”

Cally's first instinct was to lie to Peter as she had lied to every other human in her life. From that day she'd fallen in the playground, her grandmother had
drummed into her that she must never tell the truth about herself to others, no matter what. Lying was a reflex action. She opened her mouth to deny his accusations but found herself saying:

“Almost two years.”

Cally was shocked by how good it felt to actually admit the truth. Since her grandmother's death, she hadn't been able to truly talk to anyone, but she dared to try to tell Peter.

“The junk food's for my mom, not me. I started metabolizing blood three years ago. Granny began weaning me off solid food after she found out about her cancer. She knew I could drink only blood if I was going to pass for one of them after she died.”

Cally gripped his hand more tightly. “I won't lie to you, Peter—sometimes I get so tired of pretending to be something that I'm not, I want to just chuck it all.”

“You don't
have
to keep living a lie, Cally. You can come with me to the Institute. I'll see to it that your mother's properly taken care of. You won't have to worry about looking after her anymore.”

“You want me to become a Van Helsing?” Cally was shocked. “I could never do something like that!”

“You're a hybrid, Cally. How long do you think you can continue passing for a true-born now that you're at Bathory Academy? They're bound to find out the truth about your parentage sooner or later.”

“How do you know about the school?” she gasped.

“Come on; give me
some
credit, will you?” Peter smiled crookedly. “I know the uniform when I see it. My ancestor burned down the original school, after all. You don't have to worry about accidentally betraying its location to me. The Institute's known about it for decades. Besides, it's too heavily fortified now for us to try anything like that again…not to mention it's really hard to explain driving stakes through the hearts of teenage girls to the police.”

She looked over her shoulder at her grandmother's gravestone, gleaming like a diadem in the pale moonlight. “But if what you say about my grandmother is true, she had her reasons for keeping me away from the Institute. As much as I want to be with you—I can't do what you're asking of me.”

Peter took a deep breath and let it out again. “I suspected that would be your answer.” He handed her a card. “Here, take my number. If you want to reach me, all you have to do is call.”

“Thanks.” Cally smiled, slipping the card into the pocket of her blazer.

“My father is a great man,” Peter said, an uneasy look crossing his face. “But he is also driven. He's been looking for you for a long time, Cally. Hybrids make the best vampire hunters because they can pass among vampires as one of their own. My ancestor was proof of that. My father wants to use you as a weapon against his enemies.

“But now all I know is that I don't want to see you hurt by anyone—and that includes my father.” He looked down into her face, his eyes brimming with anguish. “Do you understand that I would betray everything and everyone I've ever known for you?”

Even though she knew it was the worst thing she could possibly do, Cally reached up and cupped Peter's face in her pale hands, pulling his mouth to hers in a deep, sensuous kiss. After a time, with his strong arms embracing her, Peter ground his hips against hers, their breathing growing deeper with each gyration.

As their passion grew, so did Cally's hunger, tormenting her with its raging thirst. She broke free of Peter's questing tongue and pressed her trembling lips against his throat. She could taste the sweat that beaded his skin like mercury and feel the throb of his jugular vein as it pulsed against her fangs. She was tempted to take just the tiniest nip. Just a love bite, really. After all, she probably couldn't turn him into one of the undead even if she wanted to. The real danger lay in her getting carried away and drinking too long and too deep….

“No!”
Cally cried out as she abruptly tore herself free of the embrace. “I'm sorry, I can't do this.” She quickly gathered up her dropped groceries. “I have to go. I'll call you later.”

Peter watched in perplexed silence as Cally effortlessly scaled the wall surrounding the graveyard. As she
disappeared over the side to the pavement below, he heard a dry, fluttering sound and saw a moth battering itself against the streetlight outside the gate. He frowned and quickly looked away.

 

Sheila Monture was snoring lightly in front of the flat screen by the time Cally got home. Cally picked up the half-eaten container of Chinese food and empty bottle of Ancient Age lying on the chaise lounge and tossed them in the kitchen trash. Then she took her grandmother's old afghan blanket out of the front closet and carefully draped it over her mother's sleeping form.

She bent over and placed a kiss on Sheila's upturned cheek, then headed back to the bathroom and turned on the shower.

She stood with her eyes closed under the pulsing jet spray for a half hour, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't banish the image of her grandmother smiling into the camera as she stood next to the sworn enemy of the vampire race. Meanwhile Peter's words echoed over and over inside her head: