I'll Mature When I'm Dead (19 page)

“In the past two days, a hundred and fifty-eight hikers have been killed in the woods around Creepstone.”

“Killed?” I queried. I felt a cold feeling shoot through my veins like an intravenous Slushie. “How?” I elaborated.

“It’s the darnedest thing,” marveled Pete. “All of them were violently dismembered, apparently by someone or something with incredibly savage strength. Some of the victims’ limbs were found as far as two football fields away from their bodies.”

I stared at him with a facial expression of shock.

“But how . . .” I began, searching for the words to complete the question that was even then forming in my brain. “How did
two football fields
get into the woods?”

Pete shook his head and shrugged, raising and lowering his shoulders to indicate he didn’t know the answer. “That’s got us stumped so far,” he expressed ruefully. “Also we can’t figure out what’s killing all these hikers. I mean, sure, we usually get two or three violent-dismemberment hiker deaths a week around here; that’s been going on as long as anybody can remember. But a hundred and fifty-eight dead in two days seems like a lot. Doc Smelkins examined all of the body pieces we were able to find, and he ruled out natural causes such as hookworm.”

“Then what could it be?” I persisted.

“Right now we’re working on the theory that it could be a bobcat, or a pack of unusually aggressive squirrels. But until we get this thing figured out, I don’t want you going out in the woods, OK?”

I nodded pensively, thinking. First Stewart had warned me not to go into the woods. Then Phil had also mentioned something about the woods . . . What was it?

At the thought of Phil, I allowed myself a small smile of happiness due to the fact that he is so incredibly beautiful and perfectly chiseled, and yet he still chose
me
—Me! With all my trademark quirks!—over all the other women in the world including Angelina Jolie. But then my forehead puckered into a frown as I remembered that Phil had mentioned that Denise the psychopathic vampire who was stalking me from the previous book had been sighted recently in the woods. Could she have something to do with the 158 slain hikers? Should I mention any of this to Pete? With all these people being slaughtered, and with him being responsible for the safety of the community, shouldn’t I tell him about the imminent danger so he could protect himself and all the other innocent human lives being threatened?

Nah. The more I thought about it, the more I knew what I had to do:
I had to go out into the woods alone
. It seemed crazy, like the plot of a bad horror movie where the teenage girl hears a scary noise in the basement, but instead of doing what anybody with an IQ higher than a Chicken McNugget would do, namely sprint out of the house, she goes down into the basement. But I knew I had to do it, because that’s what I always do with my trademark stubbornness: I place myself in grave plot peril when there is no coherent reason to do so. Some people may call this ridiculous, but I am guessing that “some people” have not sold 50 million books to date.

“I’m tired,” I informed Pete, yawning with my mouth for emphasis. “I think I’ll go up to my room now.” I leaned over to give Pete a goodnight kiss, only to trip forward with my trademark heartwarming clumsiness and head-butt him in the temple. He went down like a sack of gravel, out cold on the kitchen floor, eyes open, pupils dilated. I decided it was best to leave him there. I knew that he couldn’t do anything anyway. It was up to me. Only me. Me me me me me.

Just then the doorbell rang, interrupting my thought process. I wondered who it could be and decided to find out by opening the door. Doing so, I saw Sven Lindstrom, a tall, blond extremely handsome boy who’s captain of the Creepstone High football team and incredibly popular. He could have any girl he wanted.

Oh no,
I thought internally, knowing what was coming.

“I love you,” he emoted.

“Sven,” I spluttered, “I can’t—”

“I know,” he interrupted. “You already have Phil and Stewart. But I don’t care. I love you, and although I could have any girl I want, I will always love only you. If it makes a difference, in addition to being extremely attractive physically, I am a member of the supernatural-American community.”

“You
?
”
I expostulated. “I thought you were of Swedish descent!”

“I am,” he concurred. “But the males in my family carry a terrible curse. When we’re under great emotional stress, we turn into . . .” Unable to complete the sentence, he looked downward toward the ground.

“Turn into what?” I pressed.

He raised his head and his piercing blue eyes bored into mine, although not literally.

“Zamboni machines,” he blurted.

“No,” I reacted in horror.

“Yes,” he whispered hoarsely. “We transform, then break into skating rinks and resurface them repeatedly, whether they need it or not. We can’t stop ourselves.”

“I thought that was just a myth,” I intoned wonderingly.

“I wish,” he regretted.

I was afraid to ask the next question, but I could not stop myself, because of my trademark inability to cease emitting dialogue.

“What if there’s no ice rink around?” I interrogated.

Tears streamed from his handsome Nordic eyes as a look of shame crept across his chiseled face like a fast-moving caterpillar of emotion.

“We’ll do frozen ponds, or even driveways,” he sobbed ashamedly. “Any reasonably level ice-covered surface.” He put his head in his hands, sobbing. He had really nice hair.

“Sven,” I commiserated, touching his shoulder with my hand. He was muscular, like Phil and Stewart. One thing about these attractive male supernatural beings: In addition to being crazy about me, they are in excellent physical condition. “It’s not your fault,” I added. “You can’t help being what you are,” I added further.

Feeling the touch of my hand touching him, Sven raised his head and looked at me with an expression that I had seen before in the past.

Not again,
I reflected mentally.

“Marry me,” he urged.

“Sven,” I sighed. “I can’t. I—”

“I will make you happy,” he broke in persistently. “I will love you and worship you forever. And as God is my witness, you will never again have to contend with bumpy or pitted ice.”

It was very tempting. But I knew, from previous experience with supernatural hunks who found me irresistible, that if I led Sven on—if I gave him even the slightest reason to hope that he could have me—I would only break his heart and probably place him in mortal danger of being killed. I knew I had to make it completely, undeniably clear to him that he had absolutely no chance, or his life would be ruined, and it would be all my fault.

“Maybe,” I declared.

“Really?” he exclaimed, his eyes lighting up with joy like twin blue spherical orbs equipped with some kind of internal illumination.

“Yes,” I allowed. Then, with my trademark unbelievably annoying emotional incoherence, I added: “No.”

A look of confusion settled on Sven’s perfectly chiseled Slavic cheekbones, unless I’m thinking of Nordic. I’m pretty sure it’s one of those.

“Wait a minute,” he puzzled. “I’m not sure whether you’re saying yes, or no, or maybe.”

“I am,” I affirmed.

“You are
what
?” he pressed.

“Yes,” I clarified.

“What?” he chagrinned.

Before I could answer, I felt a jolt as I suddenly remembered something:
the main story line
. Somehow, I had to get back to it.

“I’m sorry, Sven,” I apologized. “I’m about to get myself in grave plot peril so I have to go.”

“But . . .” he commenced.

“Maybe next book,” I curtailed, closing the door in his perfectly chiseled Slavic (or Nordic) (I should look this up if I get time before this is published) features.

Through the door I heard a wail, followed by groans of pain, followed by clanking, followed by a motor starting, followed by the whooshing sound of sidewalk ice being resurfaced in an emotional manner.

But I had no time to think about Sven. Right now I had to think about how anguished I was, with all these powerful feelings swirling around inside me like a smoothie being blended from a variety of emotional fruits as I stepped over Pete’s body, nearly losing my footing in his drool puddle as I prepared to go out into the woods with nothing to protect me except my various attractive supernatural boyfriends. I did not know what peril I was about to face. All I knew was one thing, the most important thing of all:

Whatever happened, it would involve me.

I stumbled through the woods, tripping with clumsy endearingness over the logs that lay everywhere, like the corpses of dead trees knocked down by gravity. It was getting dark, and I knew that Phil would be out looking for me with his tawny eyes nestled in the chiseled perfection of his face. Stewart would also be looking for me in his lanky way with his bulging, rippling muscles or giant snout, depending on what form he was in. I knew that if Phil and Stewart ran into each other, they would probably get into a supernatural high-speed fight, and one or both of them could be badly injured or even killed, and it would be my fault because they were both so crazy mad in love with me.

I felt guilt gnawing at the pit of my stomach from within like a family of angry gastrointestinal ferrets. I wished I could die. I wished that a big electrical thing of lightning would come shooting down from the sky and kill me, or at least that an editor would cut out some of these interminable monologues about my feelings.

But I knew that could never happen, as it would be a violation of my contract. And so I continued to stumble endearingly forward as total darkness fell over the woods while a full moon rose into the sky to provide visibility for the climactic action sequence.

I came to a clearing completely surrounded on all sides by the dark forbidding woods. I walked into the clearing as the cold wind blew my hair around into a big trademark mess, although fortunately I don’t care about hair or makeup because the last thing I need to do is make myself even
more
irresistible. With a feeling of even greater foreboding than usual, I kept walking forward, putting one leg in front of the other in an alternating sequence.

Suddenly, I saw movement at the far edge of the clearing. I stopped and stared. A chill slithered up my spine like an ascending iguana wearing tiny booties made from pieces of Fudgsicle as I saw the terrifying shadowy figure step menacingly into the clearing. With a shock of recognition I recognized who it was:

Barbara Walters.

No, sorry, there I go with my trademark endearing nearsightedness. As the shadowy figure drew nearer, I realized with a second shock of recognition that although she wore her hair the way Barbara Walters does, it was actually somebody far more dangerous; somebody who had been subtly foreshadowed in previous chapters:

Denise.

“So,” she hissed, gliding vengefully forward as if on gliders.

I took a step back and stumbled over something. I screamed in horror as I realized that it was a human thigh—part of what had only days ago been a living, breathing hiker who, if he had been a male and cute and had met me, would probably have wanted to marry me. But now that was never to be, I reflected sorrowfully as I fell backward and landed on my back. I looked up to see Denise standing over me, her vampire eyes glowing with redness like two hot eyeball-sized coals.

“Please,” I pleaded.

“So,” she hissed again, and in that instant I realized that she was not big on dialogue. She bared her teeth, revealing her needle-like fangs, which glinted brightly in the moonlight like some kind of sharp highly reflective things used in a simile. I squinched my eyes shut, preparing myself to be killed in a horrible manner, which I knew I deserved after causing so much pain because of my uncontrollable irresistibility. The dramatic tension mounted to a fever pitch as I waited to feel Denise’s teeth plunge vengefully into my neck and suck my blood out like a giant supernatural mosquito. I wondered how much it would hurt, and how long it would last before I was dead, and who, if anybody, would take over as narrator.

And just then it happened, a dramatic turn of events so unexpected and shocking that nobody could have predicted it in a million years without having read the previous books. I heard a snarling sound and opened my eyes to see that Denise, instead of attacking me, was fighting for her life. And the person she was fighting against—the person who, against all odds, had appeared at the last possible instant to rescue me, was:

Barbara Walters.

No, I am leavening the narrative with humor. It was really Phil. In the moonlight he looked more perfect and tawny-eyed and chiseled and gorgeous than ever. I still could not believe, as I watched him bite off Denise’s right ear and, with characteristic godlike gracefulness, spit it into the woods, that he found me—Me! (Me!)—so attractive. I sighed, anticipating the moment when he was finished disassembling Denise so I could finally kiss his perfectly sculpted lips, despite the risk of frostbite.

But my fantasy was interrupted when his eyes flashed me an alarmed look of tawny ominousness.

“Run away!” he commanded.

“Why?” I questioned.

“They’re coming!” he explained.

“Who’s coming?” I prompted.

“They are,” he elaborated as he pointed toward the edge of the clearing with Denise’s left arm.

I looked in that direction, and my mouth gaped open as I saw them emerging from the woods:

The Gambinis.

They were a family of ancient and powerful vampires whom I had encountered in the previous book. They controlled all of the vampire activity in the world, as well as a large sector of the waste-management industry. It goes without saying that they were all really good-looking and obsessed with me.