Vamplayers (15 page)

Now that we’ve made up, Zander seems calmer, at peace. He grabs my hand about halfway to my room. It’s so warm.

Everyone back at the Academy has such cold hands. It’s always a treat to hold a mortal boy’s hand.

“So, what do you do for fun around here?”

He laughs. “You mean, besides watch Grover eat popcorn and put together
Star Wars
replicas? You’re looking at it.”

What a nice life. What a normal, cozy, human life.

I know many girls would run at the sight of the first Yoda throw pillow. Not me. At this point I’ve had enough charmers, charlatans, slick talkers, and Vamplayers. Give me a tall, strapping, curly-haired, crooked-smiling, pug-nosed, Vader-boxer-shorts-wearing, good guy any day of the week.

I think of how unfair I’ve been to Zander by meeting with Tristan, leading him on, kissing him. Mission or no mission, it’s my job to help humans, not hurt them—not even their feelings.

If only I could go back in time, say no to Tristan, ignore him. I’m supposed to be less susceptible to a Vamplayer’s charms, not more.

Maybe the Academy is doing it wrong. Maybe they need a Simulator for deflecting the Vamplayers’ emotional seduction, not so much his fighting.

Still, I only have myself to blame. Deep down, I wanted to go with Tristan, wanted to be with him, my own kind, embracing the night, gorging on blood wine and the limitless potential of an evening spent with another immortal. How did I let this creep get to me after all the Vamplayers I’ve put down over the years?

“Careful,” Zander says, extricating his hand from my increasingly tightening grip. “I don’t know what you’re thinking about, but he must be some kind of a jerk to make you squeeze that hard.”

“Sorry.”

I have got to talk to Dr. Haskins about my anger reflex. As I age it’s getting stronger, not weaker.

“I do that,” I explain without explaining.

“Who were you thinking about?” he asks in the weak lamplight bordering the gothic stone walls.

“Nobody special.”

“I’m not blind, Lily. I know what Tristan’s jacket looks like.”

I shake my head and let him speak.

“I don’t blame you, okay?” He puts his big hands in front of him. “Let’s see.” He raises his left hand above his shoulder in a scales-of-justice motion. “You’ve got the smooth Euro trash player here.” Now he brings his other hand way low. “And the geeky dishwasher-slash-busboy-slash-financial-aid guy down here. I get it, okay? I do. I just, I don’t blame you.”

“Blame me for what?” I ask, but I’m not snappy anymore. I’m more curious.

He blushes and hangs his head, adorably. “Nothing. It’s just, Grover warned me about you.”

I slug him. “He did, huh? You mean Grover, expert in all things girl?”

“Yeah. If they’re zombies maybe. No, he said you were out of my league, that I should watch out or I’d, you know, get my heart broken.”

“Out of your league?” Secretly, I’m thanking Grover for at least thinking that much of me. “That’s why I was sitting alone at dinner tonight?”

“Not for long.” Suddenly his lean body is several inches closer than before.

I flinch at the memory of how charming Tristan was, at least until he turned not so charming. “It’s not easy, you know, being the new girl. Everybody’s watching, taking notes, comparing, testing you. I thought Cara and Alice had my back. They usually do, but I was vulnerable, okay? It was stupid, and I’m sorry.”

“No biggie.” He’s nonchalant, but I can tell he means it.

“No,” I say, touching his chest. “It is a biggie. I had a choice tonight. Hang out with some creep or with some really great guy. Obviously, I made the wrong one. I’m sorry.”

He grins, looking down at me, his back up against the wall (when did that happen?). He blinks, those chocolate eyelashes in slow motion, and says, “Now, which one’s the creep again? ‘Cause I’m confused.”

“Shut up.”

Before I know it, he’s scooped me closer, and his fingers are brushing my cheek, moving a lock of my hair out of the way so he can kiss me.

He is gentle, so gentle.

Even so, the fire rages inside: the ancient, primal, animal fire that ignites whenever my unnatural endorphins flow.

Even now, just swapping spit, he is in danger of swallowing part of me. Part of my eternal me.

And still the blood gurgles deep, bathing me in warm feelings as his hands slip easily around the small of my back to pull me in, closer, closer, as I lose myself against the rapid thumping of his heart.

He sighs into my throat, feathers my cheek and jawline with soft kisses. It doesn’t feel practiced or smooth, like it does with some guys, but exploratory and genuine, like he really wants to take his time and learn what it’s like to kiss me.

Little old me.

The Third Sister, finally first in somebody’s eyes.

I let him kiss me. I let him explore despite the late hour, the sparse, spooky setting, the former tapping-scratching. I want him to.

I explore as well, tracing his arm from his hand to his shoulder, caressing his neck as he moans softly, eyes closed, and pulls me to his lips once more.

The fire is more intense this time, building in cycles, getting dangerously close.

I can feel the fangs below my gum line quivering now, tingling, eager to dash forth and pluck the life from his jugular. It’s automatic; I almost can’t help it. My fingernails jut into claws, digging at the waistband of his baggy jeans.

“Yikes.” He yanks his head back, smacking the rough-hewn stone wall behind him. “Ouch,” he says, laughing, licking a drop of blood off his lip.

“Sorry,” I say, eyes downcast out of shame. I give my fangs—my stupid fangs—time to retract. “I get carried away.” (Well, that’s kind of an understatement.)

“I like that.” He tries to sound smooth, though I notice he’s not coming back for more. “Just remind me to bring my first-aid kit next time.”

“Jerk,” I say, slapping his arm as he drags me to my room.

His long legs outpace mine. His warm hands dwarf mine.

His smile is as bright as it was before I bit him.

Too soon we are at the door to my suite. Despite his slightly swollen lower lip, he leans in hesitantly once more.

I kiss him prudishly, with a peck on the lips, nothing more, denying the hunger, the pain, the shame, the bliss, the heat threatening to rise from my toes, through my belly, and into my jaws. Before it’s too late, I push him away.

He sighs. “I’m glad you came tonight, Lily.” He strolls away.

“Me too.” I linger by the door like some lovesick teenager. “I’m glad I picked the good guy.”

He cups his hand behind his ear like maybe he can’t hear me so well. “What’s that? It sounded like you said you picked the good kisser. I’m glad you think so.”

As he walks all the way down the hall, he chuckles.

Oh, wait. That’s just me.

Chapter 21

C
ara and Alice are waiting up for me when I quietly enter the dorm suite, my lips still warm from Zander’s kiss, my dead heart still racing, my body all aquiver as the cells remember his warm, gentle touch.

They’re in my bedroom, each leaning against one side of the doorjamb and looking in.

I breathe a sweet sigh of relief. They are still my Sisters. They haven’t forsaken me after all.

Standing in the middle of the living room suite, I put my hand over my heart, mock gasp, and say, “You guys do love me.”

After Zander’s butterfly kisses and praying mantis hands, I’m all atwitter. I’m not usually so cheerful. Especially around two chicks who haven’t missed an opportunity to diss me all week.

Alice turns around first, almost snapping to attention like I’ve caught her reading my diary or something. Yeah, like I’d ever keep one of those around with a snoop like Alice for a Sister.

She is followed shortly by Cara, who moves so quickly it looks like it must hurt.

They share another one of those sneaky looks they’ve perfected recently. “Lily?” they say, as if I’m their mom getting home a day early from vacation. It’s not a happy-to-see-me sound.

“Yeah, I’m Lily. Remember me? I live here. Right here, actually.”

I walk toward my room, tired after the long night, exhausted really. They move closer together so I can barely see through their sleek, muscular shoulders. I imagine it’s a move they train the president’s bodyguards in. You know, the Filling the Door tactic or something wicked cool like that. It’s like they squeeze out all the light in the room. Even their heads inch toward one another’s, making them seem impenetrable.

What, are they taking night classes at the Academy or something? I’ll have to look into those when we get back.

The already surreal night has taken on cartoonish dimensions.

“What gives, you guys?” I chuckle.

I try to budge through them and fail. “I need to change and get some sleep. Come on, scram.”

“Well—” Alice begins hesitantly, avoiding my eyes.

Cara cuts her off. “We thought you’d be bunking with the boys tonight.” Her voice is a little firm, a lot decisive, and almost defensive.

“What? I’m not shacking up with some guy I just met,” I say good-naturedly, as if we’re in our own dorm back at the Academy, playing the fools after another Stake Training class. “You must have me confused with Alice or something.”

Not a laugh, not a chortle, not a guffaw. I practically hear crickets chirping in the audience.

Out of nowhere, their words begin tripping and whirring into one unbelievable development that, in a million years, I’d never see coming.

“Well, Bianca was so upset when she saw you wearing Tristan’s jacket earlier tonight and—”

“Where is Tristan’s jacket, by the way?”

“We kind of invited her to stay over.”

“Did he come back and get it? Because, I mean, you had it earlier.”

”And we felt so bad for the girl—”

“It looked expensive. I hope you didn’t lose it.”

“That we kind of gave her your room—”

“And she’s kind of in there—”

“Right now!”

Oh.

No.

They.

Didn’t.

I shove them aside.

They’re not bluffing. This is not a joke.

Bianca Ridley isn’t just in my dorm suite in the middle of the night. She’s not just in my
room
at two in the morning.

Bianca.

Ridley.

Is.

In.

My.

Frickin’.

Bed!

Touching my sheets.

Fluffing my pillows.

Invading my most personal of personal spaces.

“Are you guys out of your flipping
minds?’”

They don’t answer, don’t even flinch.

“You’ve got to be joking. Seriously? Guys? Can someone explain to me why Bianca Ridley is in my bed wearing my favorite nightgown?”

“We just did,” Alice says, as if their incoherent rambling about Bianca and Tristan and the almighty jacket could possibly explain, let alone excuse, the social indignity of these proportions.

“I didn’t want it.” Bianca sits up against my fluffy white pillows. All three of them. Even the sham I use just for show! She picks at one of the spaghetti straps on my favorite nightgown, the black one, the one that hugs my curves and drapes to the floor and scoops at the neck and doesn’t bunch up at my waist. The one I was hoping to wear, you know, when I was finally First Sister and invited to seduce the Vamplayer one of these days.

It’s defiled, wrecked, ruined.

What, they couldn’t have given her the ratty old XL T-shirt I sleep in when I haven’t done my laundry for a few days?

“I told them it was too big, Lily, but you know these two. So generous. They wouldn’t let me say no.”

“Oh, they’re generous, all right.” I grab my robe off the door and pick up a throw pillow Bianca obviously tossed on the floor. “And if my hands weren’t full, I’d give them something too.”

I huff past my Sisters and flop on the couch, burrowing my face deep in the cushions to choke back the tears. I grab the purely decorative throw as my blanket against the chill October air seeping through the windowsills.

I hear muffled conversation behind me, and it takes every ounce of my considerable willpower to not turn around and stare daggers at my room or launch an errant pillow at the girls’ heads.

Two sets of footsteps move along my bedroom floor, the pitter-pattering kind you hear on Christmas morning. Several sets of cheek kisses. (What? Those witches never kissed
me
to sleep before.) The door shuts.

Cara and Alice stomp to my side. No pittering and pattering or cheek kisses for me.

“What is
wrong
with you?” Alice hisses inches away from my face.