Almost to Die For (14 page)

She seemed to see through that a little. “I know it’s not your favorite thing to hang out with your mom, but we can make it fun, can’t we? Maybe rent one of those anime shows you like so much?” Mom pointed at my shirt hopefully.

“Sure,” I said. It took all my acting skills not to gag.

She patted my shoulder, and I felt a surge of magic well up. Dark and heavy, like a gathering storm, the power tasted of metal and clinked like chains. But just as it nearly seeped into me, trapping me, the magic withdrew. “See you tonight?”

I nodded, not trusting my voice. Had Mom just considered compelling me? Was she seriously going to put a magical fetter on me to force me to obey? Unreal. There was no freaking way I was coming home tonight! I held on to my smile, however, as I picked up my backpack and let Mom open the door for me.

“See you,” I lied.

M
y hand shook as I handed over five dollars for a latte. The cashier gave me a curious look, but didn’t ask. I scurried over to a table to wait for them to call my drink. Checking my wallet, I had about ten dollars and some change. Not a lot to run away on, but what was I going to do? The feeling had been unmistakable. Mom was about to use her magic to control me.

So she didn’t actually, but she thought about it—powered up, even. That was beyond uncool. That was screwed up.

And all for what? To protect me from the scary vampires, who, as far as I could tell, just liked to sit in trees and talk. Okay, so Elias admitted they drank blood, but it was all part of some ceremonial hunt, right? Nothing evil.

Not like my mom.

Shit.

At least I had my cell phone. Even though it was forbidden at school, I’d tucked it into my pocket this morning out of habit. I stuffed it into my backpack, wondering if I was seriously considering being homeless tonight.

I was so lost in thought I almost missed my drink. Grabbing it, I headed for the bus stop. My bus picked me up on Summit, about three blocks from my house and conveniently located a half of one from the coffee shop. The morning had a nip to it, like it was intent on becoming autumn after all. I could see the steam rising from the hole in the lid of my cup, and I regretted not grabbing a coat, especially since the air smelled of rain.

I waved at the sullen skater dude who shared my stop. He always wore tattered cutoffs and had that spray-painted board leaned up against one leg. His hair was a rat’s nest of product and genuine grease, but, despite the studied hoodlum look, I knew he lived in a huge mansion just up the street. His folks were probably filthy rich. I thought his name was Ted and that he might be a senior at Stassen, but we had an unspoken agreement not to converse outside of grunted hellos. Sipping my coffee, I leaned my butt against the cold concrete wall and tried to scan my history book. The words kept bouncing off my brain.

Finally, I turned to Ted or Thad, and said, “Like, if I couldn’t go home tonight, do you know where I could spend the night?”

He gave me a go-away scowl.

“So it’s all just for show, huh? That tough look?”

That needled him enough that he shrugged. “There’s that place downtown. For homeless people. What’s it called? Catholic Charities?”

I frowned. A shelter? That seemed kind of extreme, and, no offense, but it seemed kind of wrong to expect the Catholics to harbor a half vampire on the run from witches.

“Yeah, okay,” I said, disappointed.

He looked at me, as though considering something. Then he said, “I know some guys, right. They squat in that big three-story house that’s been for sale forever—you know the one, on the corner of Grotto?”

I did know the one. It was just up the street. I remembered it as a huge Federal-style house with columns and thick, granite bricks. I wasn’t sure that was any safer than going to a shelter, but I was starting to feel like I had some options. “Thanks,” I said gratefully.

“Don’t mention it,” he said, pulling his board up under his arm as the bus’s brakes squealed to a stop in front of us. “But if you go, tell them Nate sent you.”

“Nate.” Okay, so not Ted. I thought I’d remember that if it became necessary. “Got it.”

 

 

BEFORE THE FIRST BELL, TAYLOR was waiting at my locker. Ironically, someone had scrawled “Witch Bitch” in black Sharpie in large block letters on the red finish. “Wow,” I said drily. “Look, apes know how to rhyme. We should call
Scientific American
or
National Geographic
or somebody.”

In solidarity, Taylor smiled at my feeble joke. Today, her
hijab
was hot pink. She wore sparkly lipstick to match. Surprisingly, it looked awesome with her nut-brown skin. “With all the excitement about Nikolai, I kind of forgot about Thompson.”

Hell, I’d forgotten about both.

“Did you bring Nik’s CD?” Taylor asked hopefully. “I’d love to see it. Is it cool?”

“Yeah, it is,” I said as I popped open the combination and started organizing my books for the day. Precalculus first period. What evil had I done to deserve math at nine o’clock in the morning? Math I could do, but first? Ugh.

“Sorry, things were kind of crazy this morning, and I left it at home,” I told Taylor’s anxious face. I left a ton of things I needed behind, like a toothbrush and a change of clothes. I couldn’t seriously not go home tonight, could I?

“Yeah, say, how did your religious test go?”

“I flunked.” Closing the locker, I stared at Thompson’s poetry sullenly. It should really say “vamp tramp,” since I wasn’t a witch anymore. “Big-time.”

“Oh. Well.” She looked at her hands, which were twiddling. Then she brightened. “Hey, at least you got a boyfriend out of the deal.”

Had I? “He hasn’t called yet,” I reminded her. “I’m not sure he will.”

Taylor gave me a sidelong sly grin. “When he does—and he will—Bea is going to flip.”

“Over what?” Bea stood beside Taylor and didn’t even spare me a glance.

“Nikolai asked Ana out on a date,” Taylor spilled excitedly.

I could have kicked her.

“Not yet. Not exactly,” I mumbled. I expected Bea to turn on me in fury or horror, but she continued to talk only to Taylor. It was like I wasn’t even there. What was this? Shunning?

“Nikolai Kirov? ” Bea asked like we knew a ton of guys named Nikolai. “From my coven?”

Oh, it was
her
coven now, was it?

Taylor looked confused. She glanced at me for confirmation, but I was busy trying to force Bea to notice me by giving her the spooky eye. “Um, I guess,” Taylor said. “I’m talking about the senior from last year who’s in a metal band. That guy. The hottie.”

Unbidden, the physical sensation of Nikolai’s finger brushing the skin above my breast came back so strongly that I shivered. For the first time in my life, I had a sudden and deep desire to hurry to math class. “Yeah, well, you two talk among yourselves. I’ve got to go. The bell is going to ring any minute.”

Bea looked at me then, and I thought she might say something. I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear it, though. So I shouldered my bag and left the two of them standing by my vandalized locker gossiping about Nik or me or both. I actually couldn’t wait for the mind-numbing experience that was precalc because I didn’t want to think about any of this any more.

 

 

AFTER PRECALCULUS CAME GYM, A class I shared with Thompson. Did I mention the bad karma that was my schedule?

In the locker room, I changed into my shorts and T-shirt. Unfortunately, my fresh outfit was sitting on top of the laundry basket. In my hurry to flee from Mom, I completely forgot to grab it. All I had was the stinky crumple at the bottom of my backpack left over from last week. With a face, I got into it. At least everyone looked pretty miserable. We all marched into the gymnasium like prisoners heading into the yard for exercise.

Our gym teacher was Mr. Johnson. He was a thousand years old, perpetually grumpy, and the coach for football, naturally. He had us warm up for whatever hell he planned to put us through with a jog around the edge of the room, and a lot of drill-sergeant shouting about sissies. Thompson wasted no time coming up beside me and jabbing his elbow into my side. Miraculously, I didn’t stumble. It was kind of a weak effort on his part too, so I chided him sarcastically, “Is that the best you can do? ”

To my surprise a couple of the other girls shouted, “Yeah!” and “Bully!” and “We saw what you did, jerk!”

I’d forgotten about the unpopularity spell. Thompson looked back at me with pure hatred burning in his eyes. I take it his day had sucked so far too. Alas, he probably planned to take it out on me. My day was going to suck even bigger.

As luck would have it, Thompson might have something else to expend his aggression on: floor hockey. I was actually kind of excited when I saw Mr. Johnson bring out the pucks and sticks; I wasn’t half bad at floor hockey, myself.

Of course, first I had to endure the picking of sides, every unpopular kid’s worst nightmare. One of Thompson’s buddies got picked to captain team one. Some cheerleader got the other honor. I expected to be the last one standing, but as the names got called, I started to realize it was coming down to two: me and . . . Thompson.

And Thompson’s buddy just called
my
name.

Holy shit.

Thompson looked ready to explode. He skulked over to the cheerleader’s side, knuckles dragging.

Completely oblivious to Stassen High School history being made, Mr. Johnson called us to get started. We got our sticks, chose positions, and soon the puck went down. Despite the spell, Thompson took the part of goalie, a pretty good gig in my opinion.

At the whistle blow, furious scrabbling began. Since Thompson was stuck by the net, I kind of got into it. I let myself get lost in the game—the running, hooking, and passing the puck around the smooth polished floor.

I was almost having fun when Thompson’s buddy slap-shot the puck high into the air. Like a true jock, Thompson stopped it from going into the net . . . with his face.

The flat plastic disk caught him hard on the scalp. Something crunched. Thompson swore up a blue streak. Blood splattered.

Action screeched to a halt. Everyone stared at the copious amount of blood coming from Thompson’s head. It was clear the cut was superficial, but man, it was a gusher. I was close to the net, because I was expecting to help angle the puck into the goal. My nose twitched. I detected a strong odor of copper and salt.

And it smelled . . .

Tasty?

W
hat happened next was one of the strangest moments in my life. I couldn’t even tell you how I ended up holding Thompson’s face in my hands with my palms gently cradling his cheeks. Or how my lips found their way to his bloody cheek . . .

The only thing I remember with any clarity was how hot his flesh felt beneath my own and the divine taste of his blood. The blood was exquisite, like the first time you experience chocolate—only better because it ignited all my senses. My nose was filled with its heady smell. My body trembled, flushing with excitement and desire. Time slowed and my vision seemed sharper, more focused. I felt incredibly alive.

And really, really hungry.

If Thompson hadn’t pulled away in abject horror, I would have licked every drop from his face and then slurped the floorboards. . . .

Oh, my God.

I just, like,
tasted
Thompson.

In front of everyone in gym.

Thompson stared at me. Mr. Johnson’s mouth hung open in an ineffectual O. My arms were still open wide as if I wished to give Thompson a hug. Someone muttered about getting the janitor. The words broke the silence enough for people to begin to react. There were “ewww’s” and “Gross!” and “Was she kissing him?” and “Look at all the blood.”

I was looking all right. I was seriously considering licking my fingers, which had gotten smeared when I cradled Thompson’s face.