At First Bite (7 page)

I nod, feeling very official. Even if Paige’s performance is bad, I can make sure she
looks
perfect.

Sasha hands me an extra script to use for reference, and as people gather up their bags, I head backstage. I’ll have to be quick; I need to be home in
time for dinner, since Mom isn’t filming for once. I’m also starting to crave a Sanga!

It’s even quieter and darker here now, and I make a point of walking right around the headless mannequin. I glance up at the control booth to make sure Marc isn’t laughing at me, but there’s no one in there. Weird. I wonder where he went.

I’m opening the door to the costume room when I hear a strange sound. Not rustling this time, but more like … something being dragged.

My heart thumps as I turn and peer down the crooked hallway. There, in a slim shaft of light coming from the stage, I see Marc. He’s pulling a large white-and-red cooler out of a supply closet.

A very familiar-looking cooler.

Where did you get that?
I want to scream.
Whose is it?

But I can’t speak, or even move. I can only stare, my throat dry, as Marc kneels down and opens the cooler. He glances around furtively — it’s obvious he has no idea I’m right there — and takes out a very familiar-looking cup filled with red liquid.

Then, with the ease of someone who has done it many times before, he inserts a straw and takes a long drink.

I gasp. Then, for the second time that afternoon, I clamp my hand over my mouth to keep silent. Soundlessly, I slip inside the costume room. I stand amid the colorful clothes, dizzy, until I hear Marc stash the cooler away. I listen as he walks out onto the stage, saying hi to Gordon.

As if everything is normal. As if
he’s
normal.

But he’s not.

Marc Hirsh was drinking Sanga!, which can only mean one thing:

Marc Hirsh is a vampire.

I’m in a state of shock. Somehow, with trembling hands and a racing pulse, I manage to select the costumes for each scene and set them aside for Tuesday. Then I walk out of the empty auditorium and leave the school.

As twilight falls, I cut home through the bustling Third Street Promenade, passing the Apple Store and American Apparel. But not even the new skirts on display at J. Crew appeal to me. My thoughts are tumbling and twisting, toppling over each other.

Marc. How can it be? I don’t remember him from the initiation ceremony in New York. True, there were so many kids there, all clustered in a pitch-dark room, and I’d been too scared to study their faces.

What about Sasha? Is
she
a vampire, too? Maybe there’s a rule about twins. I really need to read the Handbook.

And do Sasha and Marc suspect the truth about me? There’s no way they could, right? I’m not as careless as Marc, bringing a whole Sanga! cooler to school.

Or maybe,
I think as I walk past palm trees tilting in the breeze,
I saw wrong.
Maybe it wasn’t Sanga! he was drinking but some juice.
I’d
been wanting a Sanga!, so it was on my mind. After all, there have been no other signs giving Marc away. I can’t even picture him shifting into a bat.

I unlock the door to our house — Vladimir’s castle — and kick off my espadrilles. As I climb the stairs to my room, one last thought, slippery and darker than the others, weasels its way into my head. If Marc
is
a vampire, maybe
he’s
the Dark One who attacked Mr. Bernal!

I remember how, at lunch on Monday, Marc showed up in the cafeteria late. He’d told Sasha he’d had something to do. Was that too much of a coincidence?

I have to tell Arabella that there’s a suspect. In my room, I call her, but I get her voice mail. I text her —
Dark Ones update!!
— but she doesn’t text back. I e-mail her and get a bounce-back message that
says she’s away from her desk, dealing with a Fashion Week crisis. Frustrated, I bang my hand on my own desk.
I’m
having a crisis! What if I was in serious danger from a Dark One?

I guess my mentor would be too busy partying with Calvin Klein to care.

“So what’s new with you?” Dylan asks me smugly over our dinner of chicken tacos from Baja Fresh. He’s finished telling Mom and me about a party he’s invited to in Malibu this weekend. I can tell he’s loving our recent role reversal.

I lift my chin and tell him and Mom the truth, that I’m now wardrobe master of the seventh-grade play. Dylan seems impressed, especially when I explain that it’s an adaptation of
At First Bite.
But Mom gives a small frown.

“I would hope you’d at least get to be onstage,” she says as she reaches for the guacamole. “Maybe even as an understudy? I’m sure you’d be
perfect.”

I sigh, wishing I could tell my mother the truth about me and at the same time wishing she would leave me alone. “It’s a great position,” I finally respond. “I hope you’ll come to the opening night next Friday.”

“It depends,” Mom says. “We’re supposed to be filming late that day. I’ll see what I can do.”

Before bed, as I’m preparing a Paige-worthy outfit for tomorrow, I get a text back from Arabella. At last!

What’s up, Ash?
it reads, and I can almost hear her impatience through the words.
Was there another attack?

Feeling a little sheepish, I write:

No. But I think there’s a vampire in my grade. Could possibly b a Dark 1.

Arabella responds quickly:

OK. Don’t jump 2 any conclusions, tho. Am going off the grid 4 a few days. Too much work & boyfriend’s bday. XOXO.

I sigh and crawl onto my air mattress. So my mentor’s not going to be much help. But I do have somewhere else I can go for answers. Flicking on my bedside lamp, I crack open the Vampire’s Handbook. A plume of dust rises up from the first page, reminding me that I’ve barely glanced at the book since November.

I skim the Table of Contents.
Chapter One: Adjusting to Your New Life. Chapter Two: The Art of Bat-Shifting. Chapter Three: Identifying a Fellow Vampire.

Aha! I flip to Chapter Three, knowing that I really need to study Chapter Two at some point. Chapter Three has a long list of factors that I’m already all too familiar with —
skin cold to the touch; invisibility
in photographs; sensitivity to the sun.
There’s one part that notes that siblings and fraternal twins are rarely both vampires, so that probably rules out Sasha.

It also says that though vampires are secretive, they will admit their condition to another vampire if asked.

Okay. I decide that tomorrow, I’ll gather my courage, corner Marc in the hallway, and demand:
Are you, or are you not, a vampire?
If it turns out I’m wrong, I’ll just laugh and say working on the play is giving me ideas. And if I’m right … well, I don’t know. I’ll have to wing it. Like a bat. I smirk then shut off the light.

But on Friday, I can’t put my plan into action. In homeroom, I hear Sasha telling Gordon that Marc is sick and stayed at home.

“He came down with a cold after rehearsal,” she’s saying as I take my seat. “I hope I don’t catch it.”

I’m so intent on eavesdropping that I almost miss Paige, Carmen, and Wendy walking right by my desk.

“Hey,” Paige says pointedly, nodding at me. Carmen and Wendy nod as well.

I’m stunned.
Paige acknowledged me!
And she didn’t call me Rash-lee. I can’t help the smile that spreads over my face. I knew becoming wardrobe
master was the right move. I even notice Carmen cast an admiring glance at my Tory Burch flats as she takes her seat. It’s all I can do not to clap and cheer. I’m so close to being where I want to be.

“That’s too bad,” Gordon is saying to Sasha. “He’s supposed to meet me at noon tomorrow at the Apple Store.”

“Maybe he’ll be better by then,” Sasha replies.

I remember something Arabella said to me on Monday night: that Dark Ones who go too long without human blood can get sick. It’s been several days since the attack on Mr. Bernal, so if Marc is really a Dark One, there will be another attack … soon.

On Saturday, I sleep in. Our furniture finally arrived last night, so I luxuriate in my big, comfy bed. The long weekend stretches out ahead of me. Back in New York, I know, Eve and Mallory will be shopping at Bloomingdale’s, but for once, I don’t feel like I’m missing out. There are plenty of things to do here in LA, like seeing the Hollywood Walk of Fame, or, as Mom suggested last night, hitting up Rodeo Drive.

I’m about to go downstairs and remind Mom of these plans when the wail of sirens outside makes me jump. I realize then that I’d been hearing the
sirens, distantly, all morning. But in my fog of drowsiness, I didn’t pay attention.

I slip on my terry-cloth sweatpants, pink hoodie, and flip-flops before stepping out onto my balcony. It’s an overcast, slightly chilly day. But the air still smells sweet, like flowers and oranges. Across the street, by the entrance to the beach, I see police cars, news vans, and a crowd of concerned-looking people.

A finger of worry pokes me. It could be a shark sighting, or maybe a skateboarder fell and skinned his knee (is it so wrong of me to picture Dylan?). But a niggling feeling in my gut tells me it’s something more sinister. Something that I’ll find important.

I go over to my computer and pull up Google. I type in
Santa Monica
and the word
attack.
A second later, a news item pops up. The headline makes my jaw drop:

SURFER FOUND ON SANTA MONICA BEACH WITH SEVERE NECK WOUND; IN STABLE CONDITION AT HOSPITAL.

“Oh no,” I whisper. My eyes dart over the article, taking in random phrases.

In what was believed to be a wild animal attack, a twenty-one-year-old surfer was bitten this morning…. The young man recalls “a dark, winged thing, like a bird, maybe” flying at him before he blacked out….
He was found in an odd “frozen” state and suffered significant blood loss but was able to communicate…. Police have no leads.

I shrink backward in my chair, terror gripping my throat. There’s no way this is a coincidence. Every detail is too similar to Mr. Bernal’s attack.
I was right,
I think as I stand up in a panic.
Marc was sick, and he attacked again.
It makes sense that he’d hunt someone on the beach, since that’s clearly a place he hangs out.

Somehow I feel responsible, as if I should have done something to prevent this. As if I need to do something now.

I glance wildly around my room. I could text Arabella, but it’s unlikely she’d get back to me. I could call the police, but then I’d run the risk of everyone discovering
I’m
a vampire. I could look in the Handbook, but I don’t even know where I put it — a lot of stuff got misplaced last night in the shuffle of moving in my furniture. I could — I could — I close my eyes, overwhelmed. Then, in the next instant, there’s nothing I
can
do.

Because I’m transforming into a bat.

I know I shouldn’t have panicked. But it’s too late. My teeth have already lengthened into sharp fangs, and my body is shrinking upward as my arms
become wings. I feel my eyes burn red and my claws take shape. I’m morphing much faster than I ever have before. Within seconds, the mirror on my wall shows a bat in my bedroom.

At least, I console myself, I’m alone. I’m not in school, or with friends, and there’s no one I have to hide from….

“Ashlee?”

Except for my mother.

I hear her coming down the hall and can smell her expensive moisturizing cream.

“Ashlee, I hope you’re not still sleeping,” she says in a singsong. “It’s almost noon, and I was thinking we could go shopping on Rodeo Drive!”

I flash to an image of my mom, impeccably dressed and groomed, walking into Chanel with a bat perched on her shoulder. I almost want to laugh.

I hear Mom’s hand on the doorknob. I’m reminded of my last night in New York, when Arabella narrowly escaped by flying out my window….

I glance at the still-open doors to my terrace. I take a breath, flap my wings, and propel myself outside, into the cool air. I hear Mom entering my now-empty room. “She must have gone to the beach,” she murmurs to herself. “I hope she wore sunscreen.”

I do fly toward the beach, since it’s straight ahead. Although it’s not sunny, there are a few people dotting the sand. It’s bizarre — and a teeny bit cool — to see them beneath me: little colorful figures lying out on towels. Then I see a group of police officers and realize I’m in danger. The surfer said he was attacked by a “dark, winged thing.” If someone happens to glance up at the sky, they’ll see just that. They’ll see me.

I can’t linger here. And I can’t go home either, since Mom could still be in my room. I hover for a moment, thinking, and then it hits me: In homeroom yesterday, Gordon said he and Marc were meeting at the Apple Store at noon. I’m not far from the Third Street Promenade. If I head over there, I can check to see if Marc is healthy-looking again — and maybe I can pick up some other clues, too.

Suddenly, for the first time ever, I’m glad that I’m in bat form. It will give me the chance to move quickly and spy on Marc, as long as he doesn’t look up.

I make an abrupt turn, and my stomach does a weird swooping thing, kind of like the time I rode the roller coaster at Coney Island with Eve. But I keep flying ahead. I’ve never been in bat form outside during the daytime, and it feels sort of nice to have the
wind in my face. Yes, I’m worried that any minute I’ll shift back and fall out of the sky. But behind my fear is a sense of freedom and wonder. I’m as tall as the palm trees!

The Third Street Promenade is crowded with shoppers. My gaze scans over parents, toddlers, elderly couples … and then lands on a boy about my age, with curly dark hair. He’s really here, wearing his
S.M.A. BEARS
shirt and making his way toward the Apple Store.

Marc, the Dark One.

He does look healthy, strolling along as if he didn’t commit a horrific act this morning. The human blood must have cured him. I gnash my teeth in anger, convinced of his guilt.

Without thinking, I swoosh down low, and as Marc opens the door, I follow him inside. I’m totally concentrated on my target, watching as he walks —

“Bat!”
someone screams at top volume.

“Oh my God, how did it get in?”

“Catch it!”

It takes me a split second to understand that the object of everyone’s freak-out is me. How could I have been so stupid? My heart pounds as I zoom around, desperate to escape. Some shrieking person
is holding the door open, and I shoot through it and back onto the street. I notice a shaggy palm tree nearby and I dart behind it, shaking.

You need to shift back,
I tell myself. The angry Apple hordes could be on their way to find me.
Close your eyes, breathe, and imagine yourself shifting back. Just do it.

And somehow, I do. My legs begin to lengthen out, and my claws uncurl and become feet again. My hair spills over my shoulders as my face returns to normal size.

I draw in a steadying breath and look down at myself, taking stock. I appear to be a twelve-year-old girl again, back in my sweatpants, hoodie, and flipflops. I did it! I actually controlled my shifting back. I smile in disbelief, and relief. Does this mean that one day I’ll be able to control my bat-shifting? I can only hope so. Either way, I have to tell Arabella!

Still cautious, I step out from behind the palm tree. It doesn’t seem like anyone from the Apple Store has chased me; they probably were just glad to see the bat leave. I feel a swell of pride, and I stride back to the store. I might not be in disguise anymore, but I can still spy on Marc from a distance.

I’m reaching for the door when someone taps me on the shoulder.

“How’s your forehead, dear?”

I give a start, then turn to see a pudgy woman smiling at me. She’s wearing slacks and a T-shirt, not light blue scrubs, so it takes me a second to realize it’s Nurse Murray.