Ninth Grade Slays (5 page)

He turned his twitching eyes to the long-legged blonde standing outside the theater. Her tiny feet were wedged into high heels, and her long, muscular legs reached all the way up to the small strip of cotton that passed for a skirt. He took a deep breath and focused on her. Ever so gently, he pushed with his mind.

She frowned. These heels were killing her feet, but whatever. Just as long as she looked nice for Brad. And so help her, if that snob Brenda Carlton took her seat by Brad one more time, it was hair-pulling time. Where was Brad, anyway? Oooh, there's a cute boy. Henry something. What's his name? He goes to Bathory, has an older brother. McMillan! God, he's hot. But what's with the scrawny, pale kid next to him? Word to the wise, honey, get a tan . . . and a gym membership.

Vlad pulled out of her mind with a snort. He glanced over at Henry, who was wearing an expectant look on his face. “So? What's she thinking?”

Vlad watched the girl and nodded. “She thinks I'm hot.”

Henry's eyes followed. “Nice.”

Vlad looked up at the clock on the wall. “Movie starts in ten minutes. We better get in line.”

Henry's eyes were locked on a short, curvy brunette who was walking out of a lingerie shop. “One more.”

Vlad groaned. “Okay, but that's it. I need some bloodshed after this.”

Henry chuckled. “It'll make you hungry. Seeing a gory movie always does. And my mom won't pick us up for another two hours. Have you considered that?”

“Don't care. I've been dying to see this for weeks. So let's go already.”

“One more and we'll go. I swear.” Henry nodded toward the brunette, who'd stopped to rifle through her purse. “Besides, Otis said to practice your telepathy. I'm helping.”

With an impatient sigh, Vlad looked at the young woman and mentally pushed with a dizzying rush of blood to the head.

Where on earth were her keys? If she didn't hurry, she was going to be late for her waxing appointment across town. Let's see, she bought a new blouse, new shoes, new bra. All she needed now was to pick up some tampo—

Vlad pulled out of her mind as fast as he could. He dropped his gaze to the floor and tugged Henry toward the Stokerton mall movie theater.

Henry looked from Vlad to the girl and back. “What is it? What was she thinking?”

Vlad shivered, trying to block out the girl's last thought from his mind. “Trust me. You don't want to know.”

“Henry!” A familiar squeal echoed down the hall from near the food court. Stephanie Brawn, her sister (whatever her name was . . . Vlad was beginning to think her name might just be “Stephanie's sister”), Carrie Anderson, and a group of fairly popular kids were standing in a group. The girls waved to Henry, sending a bolt of nausea through Vlad's stomach. Several of the guys nodded to him. Vlad shifted his weight from one foot to the other. What did they expect? It wasn't like his best friend was going to ditch him just like that. Not after plotting and planning to come see the goriest movie ever made, not after spending the entire day reading girls' minds, not after—

Henry slapped him on the shoulder. “Be right back, Vlad.”

And before Vlad could let out a troubled “dude!” Henry was swept away by his ever-growing popularity, and Vlad was left standing with his jaw on the floor. Almost immediately, he snapped his mouth shut and slid his thumbs in his front pockets, glancing around in an effort to appear cool and casual. He wasn't sure if it was working, but he was sure of one thing: Henry was totally treating him to junk food . . . if they ever managed to actually enter the theater.

Across the hall, a pale, skinny kid handed a flyer to a passing goth kid, who Vlad recognized as one of the goths he'd seen hanging out on the steps at Bathory High. Vlad almost waved but then realized how stupid that would be. He didn't actually know the guy; he'd only just watched him from his secret sanctuary in the bell tower. The two chatted about some new club for a minute, and then the goth who Vlad knew but didn't know walked into theater five.

At least
somebody
was going to see
Psycho Slasher Chain-sawGuy from Hell
.

Vlad glanced back at Henry, who looked to be sharing a secret with Stephanie's sister. The looks the other popular kids were giving Henry were shining and full of approval—it was so annoying. But that was Henry. Good-looking, smart, great grades, life of the party, tan, and perfect in every way. Vlad chewed his bottom lip thoughtfully and with a glimpse at the clock, groaned. They were going to miss it, the best movie of all time. All because Henry had to hang out with kids who'd never really be his friends.

Vlad watched Henry talk to the girl and flexed his mind. Not a lot. Just a little. Then suddenly, he was silently floating among Henry's thoughts.

Henry finished whispering that he'd loved tasting her strawberry lip gloss yesterday after school and pulled away. He was sure to wink at Stephanie, who was turning red from jealousy over him flirting with her little sister. Henry had no idea what her name was . . . just that she was pretty easy when it came to kissing, and that she didn't talk much, which, if you think about it, must be pretty difficult to do when you're making out all the time.

Vlad rolled his eyes. Didn't Henry think about anything but girls? He took a deep breath and focused, just like Otis's instructions had said.

Henry raised a single finger to his nose, and then flicked a booger across the hall.

The girls jumped back in disgust. The boys laughed but mumbled a collective, “We've gotta go.” Henry was left standing there with his forehead creased, wondering just why he'd picked his nose like that in front of his friends.

Henry flashed a glance at Vlad. His shock melted into a look of horrified understanding.

Vlad's smirk quickly faded.

“Henry . . .”

Henry moved past him, toward the theater. “Don't. Just don't.”

Weighed down by guilt, Vlad slowly followed.

Then Vlad smirked. Maybe next time Henry ditched him, he'd make him dance the macarena.

After spending the last of their cash on two tickets, an extra-large popcorn, Milk Duds, Sour Skittles, chocolate-covered raisins, gummy worms, and two “Giganto” sodas,

Vlad and Henry gathered up their feast and headed into number nine, where the goriest movie ever was about to begin. The theater was incredibly dark, and on the way up the stairs, Vlad almost lost sight of Henry, but then he heard the crunch of popcorn under his feet ahead of him and figured he'd do the Hansel and Gretel thing. After a moment, his eyes adjusted, and he focused on a pair of long, shapely, miniskirt-wearing legs that were climbing the stairs in front of him. On the back of the woman's knee Vlad could just barely make out a thick blue vein. When she took a step, it pulsed slightly. Vlad's fangs shot from his gums. He clamped his mouth shut and forced his attention away from the woman's delectable-looking veins. He stared at the floor, the other moviegoers, anything that wasn't sending waves of dire hunger through his stomach. Once he reached the seat beside Henry, his thirst had calmed some.

The previews were starting. Vlad reached for the Milk Duds and chuckled at Henry, whose face was hovering just inches from the top of the popcorn bucket. His eyes were locked on the screen, and he was shoveling popcorn into his mouth until his cheeks resembled that of a squirrel stocking up for winter.

On the screen, a young guy with long hair ran through the woods with a panicked scream. There was a moment of silence and then a loud shriek, followed shortly by an enormous amount of blood splashing against the camera. Henry gasped. Vlad's stomach rumbled.

Two hours later, the boys walked out of the movie theater with gaping mouths. Henry dropped the empty popcorn tub in the trash. “That was awesome! For once, the ads were right—that
was
the goriest film ever made.”

Vlad took one last sip of soda and sat the empty cup on top of the overflowing trash can. “Just remember that if Nelly asks, we saw
SpyGuy 009: Die Again Tomorrow Forever
.”

Henry's brother, Greg, was standing just outside the movie theater door, wearing a smirk. "About time. I thought
SpyGuy 009
got out over a half hour ago.”

Vlad beamed. “It did. We saw
Psycho Slasher Chain-saw Guy from Hell
.”

Greg nodded approvingly. “I saw that last Friday. That scene with the hedge clippers? Brutal.”

“I thought Mom was picking us up.”

Greg shrugged. “You thought wrong.”

The three of them made a large loop away from the hedge near the wall and walked toward Greg's car. Vlad glanced over his shoulder at the hedge, still picturing the gory movie scene involving hedge clippers, and shuddered.

He couldn't imagine what it would be like to be hunted down and gutted. Hunted down, yes. But gutted? The thought gave Vlad a shiver.

5

KILLER AT LARGE

THE VAMPIRE SLAYER flipped open the latches on the old wooden case and ran his fingers over the soft velvet lining inside. One by one, he removed his tools and laid them gently on the cotton cloth he'd spread on the floor for inspection. It was nearly time to begin his hunt. He had to be sure he was prepared.

He hefted the weight of the silver crucifix in his hand before laying it down on the cloth. He followed it with three bottles of serum, the rosary, the small hatchet that had been a gift from his grandfather, and the wooden stake—a beautiful instrument carved from ash and tipped in pure silver. He wondered, yet again, how many of the undead his great-great-uncle had taken down with this same stake. The slayer always thought about him whenever he opened the case. After all, the vampire killing kit had been invented by his great-great-uncle, Professor Ernst Blomberg, and passed down through the family since the mid-1800s. It was a longstanding tradition, as was keeping your slayer trade secret from everyone in the family other than those who had slain before you and those who would slay after you. There were over a hundred slayer families, of course, but only one slayer per generation ever joined the Slayer Society. And only a slayer could recognize the traits of the next slayer in his family line.

Thinking back to the day he learned he was next in line, the slayer realized that he should have been pleased to be part of an ancient and honored tradition. But neither honor, nor notoriety in the Society's close-knit circle, had convinced him to surrender to fate—it had been Cecile. Dear, pretty Cecile, with her blonde curls framing her tiny, freckled face, and her large green eyes, which had sparkled like emeralds.

It had been an unusually dark, quiet night, and the lack of the usual household noises had woken him. From down the hall, he heard a tiny whimper. Cecile—his darling baby sister, probably having a nightmare. As any good sibling would, he crept down the hall to check on her, but what he found still haunted him to this day. It was what had driven him to accept his post as a vampire slayer. It was what pushed him on, every moment of every day, to hunt down the beasts and take their lives.

He had turned the doorknob slowly, and the door swung open. Looming over a pale, unconscious Cecile was a vampire—her blood dripping from it fangs. After that, his memories were a blur. But he remembered clearly that it had been the day of her funeral that he'd been sworn in as a slayer, and just before the final blow in every battle with a vampire, he'd uttered the words, “For you, Cecile.”

He looked over his tools. They were all in fine order. Apart from being a little low on holy water, the slayer was ready. He turned the stake over in his hands and smirked at a passing memory of an old film, in which a slayer was portrayed as a bumbling fool with a sack full of splintered wood. How ridiculous. A true slayer needed only one stake to take a blood drinker down. One stake and good aim. The heart is a small organ and, what's more, hidden behind the ribs. If you don't hit it just right, you're going to have a very angry vampire on your hands. And nobody wants that.

He remembered one of his first slayings with a sigh. It had gone well. He'd staked the vampire. No fuss, no muss. But after he turned to collect his tools he heard a noise. Whistling. He turned back to the undead monster. The whistling got louder. Something was wrong.

The vampire sat up.

Apparently, he'd missed the heart and punctured a lung. It was a rookie mistake, the first and only time he'd missed the heart. Lesson learned. A punctured lung was enough to slow down an older vampire but not enough to kill it. The more the vampire exerted itself to stand, the louder it whistled. It was like doing battle with the little engine that wants to drink your blood. He staked the monster again and had burned the body, just to be safe.

He slipped the stake back into its spot in the walnut case and moved on to the other tools, wiping each off with the corner of the cloth before returning it home. These tools were his partners, his compatriots. He'd carried this case with him since he was ten years old and would one day pass it on to another member of his family—perhaps a nephew, a niece, or even one of his own children. There was no telling. Only a slayer could identify another slayer, and he had not yet seen another in his bloodline younger than himself.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut, suppressing a yawn. Outside, the sun was just peeking over the horizon. There was time for rest, and then, after another quick review of the small town of Bathory, he would begin his hunt for the vampire he'd been hired to kill.

6

HALLOWEEN

VLAD PULLED THE black hood over his head and regarded his reflection in the mirror. The only costume that could top last year's was going as the one thing everyone—both humans and vampires—were afraid of.