At First Bite (11 page)

“Well, can you blame him?” I say, then feel a flash of guilt. “I mean, um, she wasn’t very good.”

Sasha and Marc laugh, and I realize there’s no point in pretending about Paige anymore. “She was
terrible.”
Sasha sighs. “Not that I’m sure I’ll be much better….”

“You will be,” Marc assures his sister, and she gives him a grateful smile.

“I can’t believe Mr. Harker allowed her to be cast as the lead,” I muse out loud as I sit back down on the bed. “He’s such a perfectionist about everything else.”

Sasha nods. “It’s because he was out sick during the casting, and the teacher filling in for him didn’t care who got cast. Paige basically just demanded the role.”

A small bell is ringing in my head. “Mr. Harker was sick?” I ask.

Marc looks at me, his eyes growing wide.

“Yeah,” Sasha says. “He was sick a lot during the first semester. The flu and stuff. That’s why he never got around to casting understudies either.”

“Oh my God,” I whisper. I jump up again, my heart pounding. “That’s it, you guys! That’s it!”

“What’s it?” Sasha asks.

Marc stands up, nodding at me. “I can’t believe it never occurred to me before.”

Everything is clicking together. I remember how cold Mr. Harker’s hands were when he moved me aside in the costume room. I’d figured he was nervous. But no.

“He was a child actor, right?” I say, motioning to the computer. “I bet if we checked online, we’d see that he stopped acting around the age of twelve….”

“When he could no longer show up on film,” Marc finishes for me, sitting back down and clicking over to IMDB.

“Hang on,” Sasha says, looking from me to Marc. “Are you saying Mr. Harker is a vampire? That
he’s
the Dark One?”

It’s difficult for me to grasp the idea, too. I’ve always liked Mr. Harker. I can’t imagine him hurting people. But there’s no getting around it.

“He has to be,” Marc says, glancing back at me and Sasha. “Dark Ones get sick if they go too long without human blood. Mr. Harker probably got recruited by some local Dark Ones, back in the fall. Maybe he resisted attacking humans at first, and that’s why he kept getting sick. But now he’s never sick at all. Not since we got back from break and Mr. Bernal was attacked.”

“And it wasn’t Ms. Anderson who said that Mr. Bernal should be taken away,” I gasp, remembering. “It was Mr. Harker.
He
hinted to Ms. Anderson that Mr. Bernal was crazy.”

“What about the surfer?” Sasha asks, looking a bit skeptical. “Was Mr. Harker behind that attack, too?”

“I’m not sure,” I say, reaching into my bag and taking out my cell phone. “But I have to text my mentor and tell her we solved the mystery.”

“Yeah, I should call Mom,” Marc says, pulling his own phone out of his jeans pocket. “Maybe we can have the Council go to Mr. Harker’s house right now —”

“Guys, wait!” Sasha exclaims, and Marc and I lower our phones. “This is
all
just based on our speculation. We’re going to need actual proof if we want to accuse Mr. Harker of these horrible crimes.”

“Well, how are we going to get proof?” I ask, feeling helpless. “None of the victims saw him — just a bat.”

Marc looks at me and Sasha, his jaw set in that determined way. “Then we have no choice, do we?” he says. “We’ll have to set a trap.”

The next day, I feel more like a zombie than a vampire. I stayed at Sasha and Marc’s house until late, going over the plan. We filled in Mrs. Hirsh when she got home, but it took a lot of convincing to get her to agree to it. When
I
got home, I sent an epic e-mail to Arabella, telling her everything. So I only slept a few hours.

In homeroom, Mr. Harker looks as tense and tired as I feel, which is a good thing: He doesn’t seem to notice how Sasha and I recoil every time he glances at us. I wonder if being a Dark One is taking a toll on him — or if he’s just preoccupied with the play.

The play seems to be on everyone’s mind. As I walk the halls, I spot kids tearing down
At First Bite
posters and talking about “bad influences” and
“vampire wannabes.” Clearly, word has spread beyond the online article.

I now get the need for vampires’ secrecy: If people knew what was
really
going on, there’d be mass hysteria.

At our lunchtime run-through in the auditorium, Mr. Harker makes an announcement. “As you may have heard,” he says, “there’s been some recent, uh, controversy about our play’s subject matter.” He clears his throat, and Sasha, Marc, and I exchange meaningful glances. “But please know that the show
will
go on.”

This time, the three of us exchange relieved glances. We need the show to go on; otherwise, our plan is useless.

“Good!” Carmen pipes up. “Because guess who might be making a guest appearance in the audience tonight?” She pauses dramatically, then squeals,
“Paige!”

“She was released from the hospital earlier than expected!” Wendy chimes in.

I see Sasha swallow hard, and I know she’s not thinking about our scheme right now. Paige will be watching Sasha’s performance like a hawk, ready to
pounce on any mistake. The same goes for the costumes, of course.

As if we needed more stuff to worry about tonight.

While the cast runs through their lines, the crew goes backstage to set things up. I quickly prepare everyone’s costumes for each scene, and then I take care of
other
business. I drag the headless mannequin down the narrow hallway, positioning it near the prop closet. I drape Vera’s lace apron over it and stick a few pins in its body. Marc, watching from the control booth, gives me the thumbs-up sign. We’re ready.

The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur. When the final bell rings, I head for the auditorium, racked with nerves. Out of habit, I text Eve and Mallory:

Opening night in a few minutes! Wish me luck!

I realize with a smile that I’m finally not lying to my friends about my extracurricular activities. But I am leaving out a big part of what else is going to happen tonight.

The air backstage is crackling with nerves and excitement. Wendy is barking orders into her headset microphone, Gordon is climbing the ladder to the control booth, and Mr. Harker is checking the
set decorations onstage. I’m relieved he’s out of earshot.

I feel a huge thrill when I see some of the cast members bustling around — in costume! They look terrific: James is dapper and dashing in his dark suit, and Carmen is elegant in the purple dress I picked out for Mila’s first scene. She even stops me as I walk past, putting a hand on my arm and saying, “Thanks, Ashlee. I love all of Mila’s clothes.”

Her expression is earnest, and I can tell that this is her way of apologizing for what happened in the costume room on Tuesday. She and Wendy haven’t spoken to me since then, but they haven’t been overtly cruel either. Maybe I’m back on track with them. I’m happy, but I have to find Sasha, so I thank Carmen and hurry off.

I bump into Sasha coming out of the girls’ dressing room. She looks stunning in Vera’s white lace dress, with her curls piled up on her head. But her face is a chalky gray.

“Are you having second thoughts?” I ask, reaching out to squeeze her hand. It’s a natural gesture, one I don’t think twice about. A gesture you’d make toward a friend.

“No,” she chokes out. “I mean —” She clears her throat. “I’m kind of freaked, yeah. But we
have
to do this. And it will be okay.”

“It will,” I tell her, thinking
I hope so.
“Sorry my hands are cold,” I add. “Probably not too comforting, huh?”

She laughs. “Are you kidding? I live in a house of cold-handed people. It’s actually very comforting.”

I laugh, too, feeling some of my nervousness fade. Just then, Marc appears, looking calm and steady.

“Mom texted me,” he whispers. “They’re all arriving in the auditorium now.”

At that moment, Mr. Harker ducks in from the stage. “The audience is starting to come in!” he calls. “Cast, take your places in the wings. Crew, please do any last-minute checks.”

“This is it,” Sasha murmurs, drawing in a big breath. I catch myself — and Marc — doing the same. The three of us look at each other, knowing we have to be brave.

“Good luck, guys,” Marc says, giving Sasha a hug before she runs off to the wings. Then he turns to me and gives my hand a quick squeeze — cold on cold. For some reason, this friendly gesture makes my
cheeks get very hot. He grins at me before bounding up the ladder to the control booth.

I step toward the curtain. I know I should be making sure no one’s shoes are scuffed or buttons are missing. But I can’t resist — I tug aside the heavy velvet and peer out into the crowd.

My stomach leaps. Despite (or maybe because of) all the protests and controversy, the auditorium is
packed.
Every seat is filled, and people are chattering in anticipation. The production assistants are passing out glossy programs, and I feel a burst of pride, knowing my name is listed in them under “Wardrobe Master.”

I squint, wondering who’s out there. Mom? Paige? Some big-shot agents?

But then Gordon dims the lights, Marc starts up the spooky music, and a hush falls over the crowd.

Showtime.

I scurry away from the curtain, heading to my post outside the costume room.

From there, I hear the play beginning. Sasha, her voice carrying beautifully, says, “The year was 1789 …” and I can picture her, standing beneath the lone spotlight. Right away I know she’s going to be awesome. I guess she inherited her dad’s acting genes.

I look around. Mr. Harker is watching the play from the wings. Wendy is outside the prop closet, eyeing Marc and Gordon in the booth. Everything is in place.

Then I hear it: our cue. Sasha says, loudly: “The guests for the ball will be arriving soon, and I must retire to bed.”

The music is supposed to boom dramatically, but Marc — as planned — presses a button and a Rihanna song blares out.

I hear the audience laugh nervously. Mr. Harker balls his hands into fists, looking furious. Wendy, as we knew she would, storms toward the control booth and hisses up to Marc,
“What
did you just do?”

Marc is already clambering down the ladder. I hear him whisper to Wendy, “Sorry — I’m not feeling well — can you take over for a sec?”

There’s no way Wendy can refuse, not when her reputation as a flawless stage manager is at stake. She grudgingly agrees and asks me if I can handle any prop issues in the meantime. I nod and watch as she climbs up the ladder in her UGGs. She sits down beside Gordon and puts on the giant earphones. Neither of them will be able to hear anything that goes on backstage.

So far, so good.

Marc nods at me, and he runs off toward the stage-left wings. There, he and Sasha explained to me last night, is a small secret door that allows people to enter undetected from the auditorium. That’s where Marc will be meeting his mom and the two other Council members. Hopefully, the audience won’t notice a few people — vampires — sneaking backstage.

“Good night then, Vladimir!” I hear Sasha say. It’s time for her to walk offstage and time for Vladimir and the rest of the cast to start the ballroom scene.

I watch as Sasha appears in the wings, flushed and glowing.

“You’re doing great,” Mr. Harker tells her, but he sounds tense.

“The music mistake threw me off,” Sasha whispers as we’d planned. “Can you talk me through my next scene? I just have to grab my apron off the mannequin.”

“Of course,” Mr. Harker says, and together they walk away from the wings. I step back and disappear into the shadows, grateful for the all-black outfit every crew member has to wear.

“Where’s Ashlee?” Mr. Harker hisses, looking around. “And where is that ridiculous mannequin?”

“It’s here,” Sasha says, leading him down the narrow hallway. She stops in front of the mannequin. Then, as we rehearsed it last night, she reaches out a finger and pricks it on one of the pins.

“Ouch!” she whisper-cries. As Mr. Harker and I look on, a ruby red drop of blood seeps to the surface of her skin.

Nothing happens at first, and I feel like I can’t breathe.

What if we judged Mr. Harker wrong? What if Sasha pricked her finger for nothing? What if we’re not going to catch the Dark One tonight after all?

And then, in a heartbeat, Mr. Harker begins shifting.

His shifting is fast, and focused. Razor-sharp fangs dart out of his mouth. Long, leathery wings unfold from his shrinking body His eyes glow dark red. He is no longer Mr. Harker, kindly English teacher and play director. He is a merciless, hungry vampire bat.

Sasha doesn’t scream — she’s seen bat-shifting many times before. But then the bat lunges at her and she stumbles back, ducking behind the mannequin.

A horrified shriek builds in my throat.
He’s still going to get her — we shouldn’t have put her in danger — where are the others?
By now, Marc and the Council members should have arrived. What if something went wrong and they don’t show up?

Suddenly, I know what I have to do.

I step out from the shadows. “Mr. Harker!” I say.

The bat jerks around. Clearly stunned to see me, he immediately shifts back, becoming a young teacher in jeans once more. Sasha leans against the wall behind the mannequin, breathing rapidly and holding her finger.

I frown at Mr. Harker. “You’re a Dark One!” I whisper, all my shock and anger bubbling to the surface.

To my surprise, Mr. Harker blinks at me calmly. “And you’re a vampire, Ashlee,” he says. “I knew it. I knew it when I saw your reaction to living in Vladimir’s castle that first day in homeroom. And when your eyes turned red as you were shifting. I was glad when you signed up for the play. I even wondered if, over time, I could become like a second mentor to you.”

“Never,” I retort in disgust. “I’d never want to be like you —”

“But being a Dark One is natural,” he says silkily, and I realize this is how Dark Ones recruit their
members. “Vampires are meant to feast upon human blood. Not trifle with small wild creatures, or worse, that Sanga! abomination.” He shudders.

“Sanga! is delicious,” I hiss, offended.

Mr. Harker stares longingly at Sasha’s bloody fingertip. I want to tell her to run. But before I can, Mr. Harker’s eyes turn red again and fangs creep out of the corners of his mouth. Within an instant, he’s bat-shifted once more. This time, the bat zips around the mannequin, shooting straight for Sasha’s neck.

Sasha’s eyes are huge with fear and she’s holding out her arms, as if that could stop him.

But I can.

I concentrate with all my might.
You can do this, Ashlee.
I visualize the wings sprouting from my body, my ears growing long and pointy. I remind myself of how I shifted back behind the palm tree.
You can do this.

And I do. I bat-shift.

By now, the Dark bat has Sasha cornered, and his fangs are mere inches from her throat. So I zoom forward, flapping my wings hard, and drive myself between them. For a second, Mr. Harker and I face off, two bats hovering in the narrow hallway while Sasha cowers and the music soars onstage.

Then, mercifully, I hear footsteps. Voices. People are running from the stage-left wings. I spin around in midair and see Marc. He’s leading five determined-looking vampires, including his mother, and …

Arabella!

It’s really my mentor, here in Los Angeles, her red curls flying behind her as she races toward us. I’m so happy to see her that I instantly start shifting back.

“You there! Dark One!” one of the Council members — a tall, bearded, and imposing man — booms in a deep voice. “We are from the Los Angeles Vampire Council. Shift back immediately.”

I look over to see Mr. Harker obeying. His wings lengthen into arms and his feet hit the dusty floor.

“Nothing — nothing happened,” he stammers, lifting up his hands as the crowd closes in around him. “I’m innocent.”

“We
saw
you,” hisses Mrs. Hirsh. “You were about to attack
my daughter.”
She grabs a trembling Sasha and pulls her into a fierce hug.

I want to run over and hug Arabella, but I’m frozen with fear and uncertainty.

Sasha looks much calmer now. She hugs her mom back, then dabs at her fingertip, checking to make sure the bleeding has stopped. Then she says, “Mom,
I’m okay. Promise. I need to go back onstage.” Glaring at Mr. Harker, she grabs Vera’s apron off the trusty mannequin and runs to the wings.

Never once did I doubt that Sasha would be the right girl for the job. Mrs. Hirsh was concerned, of course, but Marc and I had both insisted that she was tough enough — and familiar enough with vampires — to step up to the task. Sasha had agreed.

A moment later, I hear her speaking her lines onstage like a true professional. I wonder if the audience has any clue about the drama unfolding backstage.

“We have five vampire witnesses, Dark One,” the bearded man is saying. He steps close to Mr. Harker, whose face pales. “You cannot lie to us. Confess.”

“Actually, make that seven vampire witnesses,” Arabella says, glancing from Marc to me. She grins at me and I grin back. I notice then that there’s a handsome guy about her age standing next to her — it’s her boyfriend, Beau!

“You’re a vampire?” Mr. Harker asks Marc, looking startled, and Marc nods proudly.

Mr. Harker sways on his feet, sweat beading on his forehead. “I — I — please forgive me, Council. I was led astray. Other Dark Ones in the region made me
into one of them. I never intended to attack so often, and I certainly never wanted to harm children.”