Tenth Grade Bleeds (14 page)

Vlad did. “So do you accept my apology?”

“Of course.”

A rush of relief filled Vlad—a rush that was cut short by Henry turning back toward the popular table. “Wait. Where are you going?”

Henry shrugged, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I told you. I'm sitting with Chelsea today.”

A thousand words ran up Vlad's throat, but only a few managed to escape. “Chelsea Whitaker is quite possibly the most obnoxious person on the planet. Why would you want to hang out with her?”

Henry paused. A good long pause too. At least he had to take a second to think about it. “We have stuff in common.”

“Like what, other than the fact that you're both human? And I'm still not all that sure about Chelsea.” Vlad snorted at his wit, but when he looked in Henry's eyes, all the humor drained out of his body. That was it. Exactly it. Chelsea was human. Henry was human. And Vlad . . . Vlad was not.

His mouth went dry from the sudden onset of shock and anger. “You know, you're a real piece of work, McMillan. I guess you're more like your cousin Joss than I realized.”

Henry scowled with contempt. “Are you done? Or are you planning on ordering me to sit, stay, and roll over for your amusement,
master
? ”

Vlad stepped closer and jabbed his finger into Henry's chest. “I'll give you an order. You do whatever you want to do. But you'd better choose right now—either me or Chelsea.”

“Fine.”

To Vlad's horror, Henry turned and rejoined the popular crowd.

Vlad turned in a huff and left the lunchroom. He slammed the school doors behind him, and was halfway across town before he realized where he was going.

His old house looked exactly as it had the last time he'd visited—cold, dark, empty, haunted. Not haunted by ghosts, but with thousands of happy moments and memories, all spoiled by the horrific reality of his parents' passing.

He moved around to the back door, knowing it would still be unlocked, and opened the screen. Before he went inside, he took a deep breath—both for bravery and to bring with him a little piece of the outside world, the world where he was slowly getting past the pain of their demise, the world where he was beginning to feel safe once again.

The floorboards creaked slightly as he made his way inside, and that familiar acrid stench of smoke invaded his nostrils. He wasn't exactly sure why he'd come here, only that he needed to be somewhere alone, somewhere that reminded him of who he was. He climbed the stairs and walked into his father's office. Papers still littered the floor from when he and Henry had searched the office two years before. A fine layer of dust now covered them. Vlad sneezed, and the sound of it echoed through the house.

He ran a hand over the surface of his father's desk, then whispered angry words that only his father could answer. “Who am I, Dad? What am I? Am I a vampire? A human? Both?”

He hesitated a moment, choking back horrified tears, then added, “Neither?”

His concern, the same concern that haunted his dreams, was that he would never really fit in anywhere. And he couldn't help but wonder if Henry's recent detachment was just another reminder that he wasn't one hundred percent anything, only two halves . . . incomplete.

Sometimes he wondered if he would ever be whole.

Disgusted at the mess he and his potentially-former best friend had made, he knelt on the floor, plucked several papers from the floorboards, and stacked them neatly in an empty file box. The least he could do was put everything back in order. Besides, he was technically skipping school, so he needed something to do while he was hiding out until the last bell rang. With any luck, the school wouldn't call Nelly. After his recent detention, he was pretty sure she'd come down hard on him for walking out in the middle of the day. Normally Vlad would have stuck it out, but today's events called for truancy. After all, it wasn't as if it would have done him any good to sit through physical science with Chelsea after Henry had chosen her over him.

Most of the papers Vlad had gathered up were boring—old tax returns, receipts for furniture, photocopies of various things that Vlad didn't recognize. But then he came upon something he very much did recognize—his father's handwriting. All it was was a simple list of things to buy, but what made the corners of Vlad's mouth lift in a small smile was the note at the bottom:
Buy roses for M, bring chocolate for V.
Whenever his dad had to go into Stokerton to make purchases that weren't available in Bathory, he'd always bring Vlad's mom a dozen of the sweetest blood-red roses he could find, and he'd bring Vlad a small gold box of delicious milk chocolates. It was just one of those things, one of those tender things that had made Tomas such a loving and attentive husband and father.

Vlad folded the note and was about to tuck it into his pocket when he noticed a single word scribbled on the back of the list.

He read the word again, silently wondering what that word was doing on a list that had belonged to his father, let alone scribbled in his own handwriting. But then, maybe that was what Tomas had meant in his journal when he'd written that he had “suspicions” about his son. He must have known what an oddity it was for a human and a vampire to procreate, so of course he would have wondered if Vlad was the Pravus.

Tomas wasn't the only one. Vlad couldn't help but wonder if the story was true, if he were some subject of ancient prophecy.

But there was no way to know, as Vlad wasn't too keen on the idea of testing out the checklist of traits that only the Pravus would have. Sunlight? No, thank you. Immortal? He wasn't touching that with a ten-foot stake.

But one thing was for sure.

He had to learn as much about that prophecy as he could.

I
GNATIUS STARED UP AT THE SKY in blissful contentment. Not only was it a new moon, but the sky was overcast with thick black clouds, ensuring that his hypersensitive allergy to the sun's rays would not emerge tonight. It would make for a luxuriously long ending to his hunt for the boy, and he would take his time with every stroke of his blade. The boy would bleed quickly, but the cuts would be oh so slow.

Nothing could stop the hunter tonight. No glinting of the sun's light off the surface of the moon. No concerns about the boy's human ward witnessing his actions. Ignatius had listened to her thoughts as she left the house an hour before—a double shift at the hospital would keep her away all night.

Now there would only be the boy, and the delicious slicing of his pretty skin.

But he had to be careful. He was famished, which always made for a better hunt, but it also increased the temptation to feed off the hunted during his cutting sessions. And he'd be damned if he was going to taint his palate with the bitter crimson of an arrogant half-breed. Better that he should complete his hunt on a full stomach than run the risk of draining his flawed captor.

As if in answer to his needs, a girl passed him on the sidewalk, her skin pale, purple streaks through her dark hair. Ignatius recognized her at once as one of the human children who frequented the front steps of the local high school each evening. Her name stuck on his tongue. It was a time, not a name, and had reminded him instantly of the smell of autumn and cool breezes. October.

He turned, following her quietly, daydreaming about the moments following his meal. He'd steal into the boy's home stealthily and make his way up the stairs to his bedroom. Then, with a turn of the knob, enter the boy's resting place.

October turned the corner, oblivious to the vampire following her.

Once he was in the boy's room, Ignatius would unsheathe his favorite blade and, with its tip, draw the covers down, away from the sleeping boy's form. And then . . .

“What are you doing?” A voice from the shadows. Ignatius hung back, lost in his fantasy, but not so lost that he would expose his presence and lose his meal.

October slowed her steps, but by her posture it was clear she'd been expecting the intruder. “I'm going home. What's it look like?”

Another human, a boy with silver hair, stepped from the shadows, his lips pursed. “It looks like you've been inviting a dork like Vladimir Tod to hang with us without even asking my opinion.”

She shrugged coldly. “I don't need your permission, Kristoff. If you don't like him, you can find other people to hang out with. Besides, he's not a dork. I think he's interesting.”

Kristoff snarled. “Interesting? He's boring. And about as far from being goth as you can get.”

“I don't choose my friends because of labels. I choose them because they intrigue me.” She raised a stark eyebrow, her posture suddenly very defensive. “You used to be so open-minded, Kristoff. What happened to you?”

After a long, silent moment, the boy shrugged, sighing. “There's just something about him. I don't know what it is. But I don't like it.”

“So don't like it. But give him a chance. The way I gave you a chance,
David.
”

Kristoff winced at the mention of his non-goth name and walked away without another word.

In waiting, Ignatius's thirst had become dire. He had to feed, quickly, and get to his task. The sun would be up in five hours. He would need at least a quarter of that for the journey back to Stokerton. It wasn't as much time as he'd hoped for, but his recent fast had weakened him, making waking from rest a drawn-out chore. But that was about to end.

He closed the gap between himself and the girl, and with a quick glance around them at the darkened windows of the houses that lined the street, he closed his hand around her arm. To his surprise, the girl threw her arm up, slamming her elbow into his Adam's apple. Ignatius stumbled back for a moment, recoiling from the shock of pain. As he recovered, she spat out, “Don't even think about it, pervert. I've been in self-defense classes since I was five.”

Ignatius considered engaging her in conversation, toying with her until the moment of her demise, but there was no time. He needed her blood far more than he needed her fear. With vampiric speed, he moved close to her, knocking her off her feet. He could smell her blood rushing through her veins in excited fear, and his hunger raged through him. He leaned closer, opening his mouth, exposing his fangs. The girl's eyes were squeezed tightly closed. She kicked and thrashed uselessly, completely unaware that her life was about to be stolen away by a creature she'd only seen in her dreams. Ignatius brushed his lips against her throat, ready to bite down, savoring the moment for all its worth.

A bright light blinded Ignatius's too-sensitive eyes. It was false light, but too bright for his vision to handle. He stumbled, then ran blindly into the darkness, hoping he was heading in the direction of the Tod boy's home. Let it be finished then, hungry or not. Behind him he heard what sounded like a human police officer comforting the girl.

By the time he reached the boy's home, his vision had cleared. He stood across the street, watching for a moment, hoping to savor his duties at least a little. He stepped forward, beginning to cross, but that same light that had assaulted him flickered in the corner of his eye. Down the street, a police car shined its searchlight between houses, seeking him out.

Begrudgingly, Ignatius turned from the boy's home and fled. It would be safer to wait, and give the boy who would be Pravus one more night of peaceful rest. Or at least, a few more hours.

As he whipped through the town, it occurred to Ignatius that a more direct approach would be called for. And that the next time he encountered Vladimir Tod, his violent tactics wouldn't just be fueled by a sense of duty and justice . . . but by revenge for having made him wait this long.

T
HE DARK FIGURE STABBED THE BLADE into Vlad's side and forced it as deeply as he was able, inciting an anguished scream from Vlad. But when the man twisted the dagger, forcing the wound to open further, Vlad began to think he would lose his mind. He could barely see now, practically blinded from the pain. Pain that was unending, unyielding, and could only be measured by peaks and valleys of torment.

The smell of his own blood—sweet, metallic—filled his nostrils. He would die on this table, of that there was no doubt. But death would be a tender release at the end of this boundless torture.

The man leaned closer, but Vlad could not make out his face. His words weren't a voice so much as a sizzle, like bubbling liquid on hot steel. “I will never stop.”

At his final spoken word, he twisted the blade again, this time wrenching it until it pulled through Vlad's flesh.

Vlad shrieked, and edged ever closer to the thin line between sanity and madness.

 

 

Vlad gasped and sat up in bed, bathed in sweat, his throat raw as if he'd been crying out in his sleep. The nightmares were getting worse.

He sat there for a few seconds, shuddering breaths shaking his already trembling body. It took him a moment to realize that he wasn't tied to a table somewhere but in his soft, warm bed, safe and sound. He turned on the lamp beside his bed and glanced around the room, just to be sure. But somehow, knowing that his dreams were not his reality didn't make him feel any better.

Before the details slipped from his memory, he grabbed his journal from the nightstand and scribbled down every last moment he could recall of the horrific nightmare, as he had almost every night since his birthday party. As he scribbled the last words down, a picture flashed in his mind—too similar to the weird, external camera view he'd experienced with Otis. A dark figure, standing outside in the snow, watching his house. Vlad tensed as the image left his mind.