Tenth Grade Bleeds (5 page)

After Vlad had drained three sausages, he sat back in his seat, surprisingly satisfied. Nelly smiled at him. “I'll take care of the dishes. Why don't you help Otis get ready?”

Vlad nodded and slowly turned his eyes to Otis, who had finished his meal some time before and was watching Nelly with a sad expression. Without hesitation, Vlad spoke to his uncle telepathically.
“You're going to miss her so much. I can see it in your eyes. Stay, Otis. Please.”

But Otis wouldn't hear it. Vlad felt a definite crunch in his head, a signal that Otis had cut him off. Vlad pursed his lips. Otis stood and pulled a watch from his pocket, noting the time. “Thank you, Nelly. It would be nice to spend a moment alone with Vladimir before I leave.”

Vlad and Otis wordlessly carried Otis's suitcases upstairs. Otis unzipped the largest suitcase, opened the large bottom drawer of the antique bureau Nelly kept in the corner of the library, and began moving neat stacks of his clothing from the drawer to his luggage. Vlad turned away, unable to watch his uncle choose to leave him and Nelly behind.

Otis's voice sounded raspy. “Would you mind gathering my toiletries together? They go in the smallest bag.”

Vlad grabbed the bag and walked into the bathroom. He took his time filling it—not that he was concerned with neatness or that Otis might fret over leaving his toothbrush behind. He just knew what was coming. It was goodbye. And he really, really didn't want to face it again. Every time Otis had left him behind, Vlad found it harder to be without him.

Not to mention the fact that whenever Otis wasn't around, people tried to kill him.

As he slipped Otis's shampoo into the bag and zipped it closed—slowly—his uncle appeared in the doorway, a meek smile affixed to his lips. “All set out here.”

Vlad handed him the toiletries bag, and Otis led him back out into the library. Once they were there, his uncle stopped, looking very much like he wanted to tell Vlad something, but he couldn't seem to find the words. After a long silence, he said, “Trust only yourself in this world, Vladimir.”

Vlad blinked, uncertain what Otis was talking about. Did he mean not to trust even him? Was it his way of saying he wasn't coming back? Vlad pushed the thought away and picked up one of Otis's suitcases. As he helped carry the bags down the stairs and out to Otis's car, he felt like someone had placed a cinder block on his chest. And the cinder block got heavier with every step he took.

Otis placed the bags inside his car and closed the trunk before joining Nelly on the porch. Vlad knew they were whispering, but didn't care to hear just what. Time seemed to move very slowly. It was like falling. Vlad knew it was happening, that pain was coming, but he just couldn't stop it. And then suddenly, Otis brushed his lips against Nelly's cheek and time picked up again. The hurt of his uncle leaving swelled up inside of Vlad and poured forth out his eyes in hot tears. Otis moved down the stairs and without missing a beat or uttering a sound, he swept Vlad into a tight embrace and spoke with his thoughts.
“I love you, Vladimir. I don't believe I've ever told you that, but I do. And I want you to know that no matter what the future holds, I will return to you. Nothing can keep me from you. You and Nelly are my family, more so than even Elysia itself.”

The tears poured down Vlad's cheeks. “Then why? Why can't you stay?”

Otis's breath was warm on Vlad's hair. It reminded Vlad too much of his father and those long ago moments when his dad would rock him back to sleep after a nightmare. “Vladimir, we've been through this. I can't endanger you anymore than I already have. This goes further than the crimes I am charged with, Vladimir. D'Ablo and I have a tense history, and he would gladly draw out my pain by harming everyone that I have come to hold dear.”

Vlad sniffled. The panicky feeling in his chest had started to subside, but only a little. “Why hasn't he found you yet? He has to know you'd come here.”

In Otis's eyes lurked dark secrets, and Vlad yearned to know what his uncle was keeping from him. But Vlad wasn't sure he was brave enough to ask. Otis said, “Vikas and other friends have been leading my enemies down false trails by placing drops of my blood around the world. And of course, I've placed glyphs all over Bathory to hide my presence here from D'Ablo himself, glyphs that I washed away earlier this afternoon. When I come back, I'll place more.”

Vlad dried his face on his sleeve. When he spoke, his voice cracked. “When will that be?”

Otis sighed, and with a glance back at Nelly, he withdrew the keys from his pocket. “I don't know. Soon, I hope. But I must leave now. Before D'Ablo realizes I am here.”

Vlad blurted, “Will you at least come back for my birthday?”

“I will absolutely try. But no promises.” Otis opened the driver's-side door and slid into his seat. He gunned the engine to life and shut the door, then rolled his window down and smiled.

“Practice your glyphs. If you run into any problems, you know how to reach me.” He tapped his temple twice before backing out the driveway and heading down the road that would lead him out of town.

Vlad could only watch helplessly.

Time passed, but Otis's car still kept shrinking.

Just like Vlad's insides.

He turned and made his way into the house, headed straight upstairs, and lay on his bed.

He couldn't recall having fallen asleep, but suddenly his chest tightened in panic and he sat bolt upright, his eyes searching the now pitch-dark room for his alarm clock. It was 2:00 A.M.

Vlad wondered where Otis was by now—if he'd already boarded his plane in Stokerton and was on his way to Siberia or if he'd changed his mind and had headed back to Bathory to stay. He reached out, just like Otis taught him, and tried to detect Otis's presence. To his delight, he sensed that a vampire was near. Maybe two doors down.

Vlad sighed in relief. He pushed, just as he had this morning, but couldn't see his uncle. In fact . . . it didn't even really feel like Otis at all. He wasn't sure how he knew it, but he was growing fairly certain that the vampire that was now as close as his front porch wasn't his uncle. Vlad held his breath for a moment and reached out with his mind.
“Otis?”

But Otis didn't answer.

The vampire was inside his house now, maybe on the stairs. Closer, closer. Vlad jumped from his bed and spun around, certain the vampire he sensed was in his very room, but all he could see was dark. His heart rammed against his ribs, in a flying panic, but Vlad didn't dare scream—he couldn't endanger Nelly by drawing her into his room with a strange vampire. His breaths came out in rapid puffs, as if the air had suddenly chilled.

And that's when gloved hands clamped slowly onto his shoulders.

Vlad froze, speechless. The vampire, whoever it might be, was right behind him.

“Vladimir Tod. How I have been looking forward to seeing you again.”

Vlad knew that voice. It was cold, cruel, and in every nightmare he'd had since the end of his eighth-grade year.

D'Ablo.

V
LAD TURNED TO FACE THE INTRUDER, the vampire responsible for so much of his pain and terror over the past two years, and set his jaw as best he could. His heart slammed against his ribs in solid, terrified beats. He was screaming on the inside, but his lips remained totally silent as he defiantly stared D'Ablo down, his left eyebrow starkly raised as if the vampire's intrusion had only been a minor surprise. Vlad didn't speak, didn't even try, because he knew if he opened his mouth, his screams would find their way up and out and into the world. Instead, he pretended that he wasn't scared out of his mind and scanned the room with his peripheral vision for anything that could be used as a weapon.

The corners of D'Ablo's thin lips curled up in a smile. He held his hands outward, as if to show that he was unarmed. But he was always armed with his fangs and vampiric strength—something Vlad's ribs refused to forget after their encounter in his eighth-grade year. Of course, if D'Ablo was always armed, so was Vlad. But Vlad wasn't exactly comforted by that knowledge.

D'Ablo's smile eased. “I'll dispense with the pleasantries. After all, it's ridiculously apparent that we share . . . distaste for each other.”

Vlad snorted. Distaste. That was a good one. Nice and understated.

“You have something that I want.” D'Ablo regarded him for a moment, as if waiting for him to ask what. Then, seeing that Vlad had no intention of speaking, he continued. “ Tomas's journal.”

At this Vlad's other eyebrow rose in surprise. “My dad's journal?”

Then a crease formed on his forehead as his eyebrows fell. “Why? What do you want it for?”

“Sentimental reasons. A small memento, is all.” D'Ablo tightened his gloves on his hands.

The air between them grew thick with tension.

Vlad shook his head slowly. “No way. You can't have it.”

D'Ablo didn't look surprised at all. In fact, he looked like that was the reply he'd been expecting. “You may not be aware of this fact, but Tomas and I were extremely close before he abandoned all of Elysia for the likes of you. I respected him, revered him, even. And now that he has died—an act that is so rare for a vampire to undergo—I find myself missing my old friend more than I had anticipated.”

D'Ablo's expression changed then, but only slightly. A brief blip of honest pain crossed his eyes. Seeing it made Vlad take a step back.

D'Ablo took a step closer. “You have hundreds of items to remember Tomas by. Give me this. Give me his journal.”

Vlad chewed his bottom lip thoughtfully. On one hand, he had the feeling that D'Ablo might be giving him a chunk of heartfelt truth—something that freaked him out completely. On the other, if he handed the journal over, something in his gut said that it was a trick and that he'd be paying for it in one horrible way or another. After all, D'Ablo was probably the biggest jerk Vlad knew, vampire or otherwise. So why trust him?

“I know you and Tomas were close, actually,” Vlad said. “He was even your vice president, as I heard it. Your righthand man on the Stokerton council. I'm sure you two must have been close.”

“We were.”

“Of course that makes it even more twisted that you've tried to kill me. Twice now, isn't it ?” He looked at D'Ablo, whose expression changed dramatically at the jibe. It was almost as if this fact had never occurred to him. He looked somewhat pained. For a moment, Vlad pitied him. He shook his head again. “Not the journal. You can take something to remember him by, but not that.”

D'Ablo grew quiet, and Vlad really didn't think he was mulling over what else of Tomas's belongings he might be interested in taking back with him to his office in Stokerton. It was more likely that D'Ablo was debating exactly how to manipulate Vlad into giving him what he wanted. Or maybe how to kill him. Attempted murder would definitely be the more familiar path.

D'Ablo's features tensed. His hands, gloved in their usual shiny black leather, tightened into fists and then loosened again. When he spoke, his words were hushed and crisp. “Is there no way that I can persuade you?”

Vlad felt himself relaxing a bit. It couldn't be mind control that was easing his muscular tension—Otis had taught him well not only how to detect such attempts, but also how to block them. And it certainly couldn't be confidence, as he was freaking out on the inside and it was all he could do not to run screaming into the night. Whatever it was, Vlad didn't trust it. He met D'Ablo's eyes with a cold gaze. “Why are you trying to
persuade
me at all? Why don't you just attack me and torture me until I tell you where it is? What's with this bizarre attempt at decency?”

And there it was, in D'Ablo's cold, steel gray eyes. Vlad didn't need telepathy to see it or understand it—not that D'Ablo would allow him even a glimpse of his twisted mind, Vlad was certain. But he could see it, the reason that D'Ablo was talking to him instead of attacking him on sight.

He really believed that Vlad was the Pravus.

And part of him, small as it might be, was afraid of that. And it looked like D'Ablo hadn't yet figured out a way to take Vlad's life because of that fact. After all, his attempts at both ripping Vlad to shreds and trying to turn him into a walking shish kebab via wooden stake had failed miserably.

Vlad straightened his shoulders, releasing the lungful of breath he'd been holding. “ Tell me why you want it, exactly.”

An impatient light flashed across D'Ablo's eyes. Poised on his tongue was a blatant lie. “Simply to remember him by.”

Vlad knew better. If D'Ablo wanted the journal, there was a solid reason for it—one that wasn't merely sentimental. “And if I offered you some pictures or a few of his favorite books?”

D'Ablo shook his head, a wave of low laughter escaping him. He'd grown tired of this game. In a blink he was inches in front of Vlad, squeezing his leather-covered hand tightly around Vlad's throat, until Vlad could feel his lungs tighten in panic. Vlad tore at D'Ablo's hands, but his attacker held fast, whispering bluntly into his ear. “ The journal or your life, boy. I'll give you some time to think it over.”

Then, just as suddenly as he'd attacked, D'Ablo released his grip and turned toward the door. Vlad coughed and gasped as air entered his lungs once again. D'Ablo's hand was on the knob when he managed to choke out, “That's not gonna be easy if the Pravus can't be killed.”

D'Ablo smirked and opened the door. He met Vlad's eyes and shook his head. “That's not what I meant. But you'll see soon enough.”