Darkride (Book One of the Darkride Chronicles)

By Laura Bradley Rede

Ander McNair used to be the favorite son of a great monster-hunting family – until he was bitten by a werewolf and the hunter became the hunted. Now anything that makes his pulse race, even a kiss from his girlfriend Cicely, is enough to turn him into a monster. When he finally has his chance to earn his cure by killing a vampire prince, Ander finds he has to choose between his own past and the future of the girl he loves. Can a guy who’s not even human learn what it means to be a man?

Luke Marianez used to be an immortal vampire prince – until the witch he loved betrayed him and cursed him with the ability to die. Now he lives in the world of vampire blood bars where the waitresses are the drinks, and dreams about killing the last of the witch’s line so he can live forever. But revenge doesn’t just mean breaking the curse. He wants to break the girl's heart, too. Can Luke seduce Cicely without falling in love himself?

Cicely Watson doesn’t believe in werewolves or vampires. She’s not even sure she believes in true love. But she’s about to discover what every werewolf knows:

People change.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Laura Bradley Rede
• Release date: Dec 8, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465899651

Laura Bradley Rede

Laura Bradley Rede lives in Minneapolis with her wonderful partner, their three kids, two giant dogs, and a flock of chickens. She is Writers of the Future Award winner and author of the YA paranormal DARKRIDE and its sequel CROSSFIRE, as well as the NA paranormal KISSING MIDNIGHT. You can find her at www.laurabradleyrede.com.

Book preview

Chapter 1: Cicely

The boy is a mystery to me.

Zoe grins as she leans in to read over my shoulder. Um, who are you writing about, Cicely?

I swivel away from her on the wooden bleachers, covering my words with my hand. Hello? Who said you could read my notebook?

Hello yourself, says Zoe, Friends don’t let friends keep secrets. So, spill. Who’s the mystery boy?

No one, I say, It’s fiction. But I can’t keep myself from glancing at Ander. He is standing alone on the running track that circles the playing fields below us. As I watch, he stretches his long legs into a lunge, his eyes focused on the track ahead.

Zoe follows my gaze and laughs out loud. Come on, you don’t mean Ander? She shakes her head, her red-dyed pigtails bouncing. "Cicely, Ander does not qualify as a mystery man! For one thing, he is a total boy, completely what-you-see-is-what-you-get. For another, you two have been best buds for how long? Like, three years?"

Four, I say, Since I was twelve.

And you can practically finish each other’s sentences. He’s like the goofy, jock-boy, other half of your brain. So where’s the mystery there?

Nowhere I say, No mystery at all. So can we drop it?

Zoe’s eyes twinkle at me over the top of her cat-eye sunglasses. I don’t know, she says, Can we?

Yes. I shut my notebook. We can.

But I can’t. I know I can’t. There’s no use trying to explain it to Zoe—I can barely understand it myself. But the more I know about Ander, the more I have the sneaking suspicion that there’s something I don’t know.

I pull my eyes away from him and stuff my hands in the pockets of my jacket. It’s the third week of October in Monument, Minnesota, birthplace of cold, and evening is coming on fast. The woods that stretch out beyond the playing fields are flecked with the red and gold of sunset on bright fall leaves. It’s barely evening, but lately the days die young.

Most days around this time, Ander would be raiding our fridge, or salivating over a bacon double cheese-burger at Zoe’s dad’s café. But right now, for once, he isn’t thinking about food. His mind is completely focused on the run. I watch him crouch into position at the starting line. For a long second he stays coiled, tensed like an animal about to pounce. Then an imaginary starting gun sounds in his head, and he springs. Arms pumping, legs pressing, he tears down the track. This is the tenth time he’s run in the last half an hour, but you’d never know it to see him. He revels in his own speed, not the least bit tired of running.

And I’m not tired of watching. Frankly, I like what I see. But Ander and I are best friends—and he’s made it pretty clear that’s all we’re ever going to be: friends.

No matter how much I want to be more than that.

No matter how much it sometimes seems like Ander wants to be more than that, too.

Joking with Ander, play-fighting with Ander, splitting a sandwich with Ander—all that is allowed. But just watching Ander is a luxury I can’t usually afford. If he ever caught me watching him like this, if he knew I was crushing on him, he’d get the look—sad, serious, closed. I hate that look more than anything, so I keep my crushing in check.

But way up here in the bleachers, I let myself enjoy the view. Ander is tall, broad-shouldered, and muscled, built more like a football player than a runner. Off the track, you might expect him to be strong, but not fast, and certainly not graceful. And in everyday life, he’s not. I can’t count the number of times he has sloshed Mountain Dew on me, fumbled the dishes, capsized our canoe. But when he runs, everything changes. He’s wearing shorts and a t-shirt now, in spite of the cold, and with every stride I watch his muscles work. How does this overgrown puppy-boy, with his baseball mitt hands and his size zillion kicks, turn into a thing of beauty on the track? I don’t know. But somehow when he runs, the sloppy teenage boy is gone and something powerful and primal takes his place.

Is he running from something? Or to it?

I just wish he was running to me.

Well, maybe today will be different.

Ander rounds the final curve and flies into the straightaway. He presses a little harder once the finish line is in sight, putting on a completely unnecessary rush of speed that would leave anyone else in his wake. He bursts across the finish line and keeps going, full tilt, for a few more yards before finally, reluctantly, slowing to a jog. I don’t need a stop-watch to know his time was great. Ander’s the sort of athlete any coach would kill for—if he would only come to practice. Which he won’t.

Ander slows to a walk, grabs his thermos from the bottom bleacher, and takes a long swig.

Gatorade. Zoe shakes her head, The guy is constantly sucking down the jock juice.

Only because he can’t get it intravenous. Ander’s addiction to Gatorade is well known. He’s basically never without it. Sipping it is like a nervous habit with him, and he never, ever shares.

Ander’s slowly coming out of the zone. He looks up and notices us for the first time. I smile and give him a thumbs-up while Zoe golf claps. He breaks into a goofy grin and lopes in our direction.

The sleek, fast animal is gone. My usual doofus is back.

And you know? That’s fine with me. I tug my worn red hoodie a little tighter around me, shove my notebook in my bag, pick up my violin case, and make my way down the bleachers, my combat boots clonking on the wood. Zoe follows me, even more slowly, in her leopard-print platform clogs. Zoe, I say, It’s like zero degrees. Why are you wearing those shoes?

Duh, She says, They go with my coat!

This makes sense only in Zoe World, since the coat in question is lime green polyester, circa nineteen-seventy. It doesn’t go with her shoes, or with her cherry-red dress, or with her striped leggings, for that matter. But it does make my usual uniform—gray t-shirt, red hoodie, dark jeans, black boots—look boring as hell.

Luckily, Ander’s not the sort to care what anyone wears. The sweat pants he’s pulling on over his shorts are gray and worn at the knees. The sweatshirt is a size too small. It strains over his shoulders. He tugs it on, then reaches out a hand to help first me, then Zoe, down the last step.

Hey. He smiles. Thanks for hanging around.

Zoe shoots me a glance. Cissa wouldn’t have it any other way.

I give her the evil eye. I stayed after to practice in the music room. Hence the violin.

That? Ander scowls. I thought that was an uzi.

I pick up the violin case and pretend to shoot him with it.

He slaps a hand over his chest. Bullseye. Right in the heart.

Yeah. I know how that feels.

And then, says Zoe, Cicely insisted we come hang out on the bleachers.

Well, I smile, You know what a sports fan I am.

Ander laughs. Who won the last World Series?

America?

Not even close.

I shrug. All football teams look alike to me, what with the helmets and the grunting and the scoring goals.

Touchdowns, he says, "And the World Series? Baseball, by the way. And they’re all American teams."

Totally false advertising then.

Ander shakes his head.

I know, says Zoe, The smartest girl I know, but sometimes…

Okay, I say, You got me. Not so much a sports fan. I just came down to see if you wanted to walk home together.

Ander looks genuinely pleased. Sure. Zoe, you coming?

Zoe shakes her head. I’ll let you two have some alone time. I need to go get ready for my shift. Besides, you know I don’t walk through the woods.

I groan. Are we back to the Monument Monster? Again?

Cicely, it’s real! People have seen it!

Drunk people, I say, People with big imaginations.

Ander! She cries, Back me up!

Ander backs away instead. I’m not getting in the middle of this one.

Zoe crosses her arms over her chest. Well I, for one, believe.

You believe in everything, I remind her. Reincarnation, aliens, Santa Claus—

And you believe in nothing! I just don’t get it! You read constantly. You’re a musician. Shouldn’t you be more, I don’t know…intuitive or something?

I shrug. I read, but I know fact from fiction. And music is really just math.

Zoe groans and throws her hands up in frustration. I give up. How are we best friends?

How do any of us put up with her? Ander says. He’s stretching now, cooling down his muscles. He still looks exhilarated from the run. His pale blue eyes are glittery with adrenaline, his blond hair spiked with sweat. But I should probably get home. I need to hit the showers.

Yeah, I say, I wasn’t going to say anything but you have…man musk.

Ander laughs and spreads his arms wide to catch the crisp fall breeze. Or I could just air dry.

I fake a little choke. Could you stand down wind? I’m fond of breathing.

He gets a wicked glint in his eye. Come here.

No! I back up a step, No way! But I don’t actually try to get away. Instead I stand there protesting as Ander wraps his strong arms around me and nearly crushes me in one of his signature bear hugs. He does smell like sweat—but in a good way. He smells like shampoo, too, and that other smell I can never place—something sweet like cloves, but spicy. I try to breathe it in even while I’m pretending to gag. I squirm and struggle against his grip, which is futile because Ander is much taller than me and extremely strong. There’s no way I could get away from him, even if I wanted to.

And of course I don’t want to. What I want is for this to be a real hug. What I want is to stand up on my tip toes and kiss Ander’s smiling lips, to let him pull me even closer against his chest, run my nails through his sweaty hair.

But if I tried, Ander would run so fast, it would make his track time look like a stroll.

I know this from experience.

So I don’t even go there. Zoe! I yell, Save me! It’s got me! The thing has got me!

Zoe laughs and waves me away with her hand. You’re on your own with this one. She winks at me over Ander’s shoulder. I think you’re getting exactly what you deserve.

Zoe! I yell, Wait!

But she’s already turned towards the parking lot. Toodaloo, kid, she calls over her shoulder. Stop by the café if you want your free birthday latte.

Ander stops mid-tickle. What? It’s your birthday?

I smack him. You forgot?

He laughs. Of course not. Sweet sixteen.

And never been kissed, I finish mentally. Yes. So you should be nice to me.

Sweet sixteen. He seems to mull this over. "I should be nice to you."

His arms are still around me. His face, still flushed with laughing, is suddenly serious. My breath is ragged from struggling. It comes in little pants that make my chest rise and fall against his. His voice is husky. I should be nice. His blue eyes meet mine for an instant. Then he glances away. And so I’ll let you go.

He releases me so quickly I stumble back a step.

And he’s gone, a few long strides down the playing field before I’ve even recovered enough to follow. I have to run to catch up. Hey, I say, I thought I was walking you home.

He nods, but doesn’t say anything. He reaches up one big hand to massage the tension at the base of his neck, right where his birthmark—a dark blotch, shaped like an uneven star—shows above his collar. Home is a sore spot for Ander. I let him walk in silence for a few moments before I say, Um, is anything wrong?

No, he says, Nothing.

Good, I say, Because that would really bum out my birthday.

That brings him back a little. He slows until we’re in step, me taking two strides to every one of his. That I wouldn’t want to do.

So, I say, Home?

He forces a smile and grabs hold of the hood of my sweatshirt, flipping it up on my head. Into the woods, Miss Hood. It’s an old joke between us—red riding hood, because my red hoodie is my comfort item.

Right now in the evening light, my nickname seems to fit better than ever. Our school grounds remind me of a fairy tale. St. Agnes school itself is nothing to look at—a big tan box. But the old church building beside it, the one that serves as our school’s chapel, is different. Some rich eccentric brought it here bit-by-bit a century ago, a piece of old Europe transplanted on the prairie. It looks like a tiny cathedral, its gray stone walls twisted with gargoyles and saints, demons and angels. Behind it sits the church cemetery, surrounded by a wrought iron fence. Its five rows of gravestones remind me of boney fingers reaching out to stroke the dark back of the woods. They are pointing our way to the path that leads from the playing fields into the forest, and right now, I’m perfectly happy to follow.

I feel the shadows fall over me as the trees swallow us. Even the sound of my boots is muffled by the layer of leaves that upholsters the forest floor. I breathe in the loamy scent, feeling calmer.

Ander seems to feel better, too. He jogs a little ways ahead of me, then doubles back, high-fiving the trees as he comes. So, he says, Your birthday. What are you doing to celebrate?

I shrug. You know, helicopter ride, movie premier, champagne toast at sunrise. The usual.

His eyes are full of sympathy. Mom working, huh?

For the caterers tonight, then she has a wedding to do tomorrow, so I’m sure she’ll be busy. But she might make a cake.

Oh, he sighs, your mom’s cake! Damn, that’s good.

She’s a pro, I say.

So, he says, What are you going to wish for?

I’m suddenly glad for the shadowy darkness. It hides my blush. Same thing I wished for last year.

And you haven’t gotten it yet?

No, I say, Not yet.

Well, he says, Maybe this is your year.

Right now all I wish for is to be able to see the expression on his face, but the shadows hide it. Does he know I wished for him? Is there some hidden promise in his words? There can’t be. I mean, if he felt the same, why wouldn’t he just tell me? If he felt the same, why didn’t he kiss me back there, when his arms were already around me? He can’t feel the same. I put a little extra stomp in my boots, trying to crush out any spark of hope before it has the chance to catch. This is how I get hurt.

We walk for a while in silence. What is he thinking, I wonder? His face is unreadable in the half-light. Trying to see him makes my eyes hurt, and trying to understand him makes my brain hurt. Being best friends with Ander is like doing long division in your head all day. It’s like trying to follow a foreign film without the subtitles. How can Zoe say he’s straightforward when I feel like everything he says is in secret code?

The woods have begun to thin. Up ahead, through the trees, I can just see Ander’s house, as dark and elongated as the shadows around us. It’s the only house around, shielded by trees on every side. Ander used to joke that I was the girl next door, because my mom’s trailer is the next closest place, and we’re on the other side of the woods. Only the long gravel drive connects Ander’s house to County 13 and the rest of the world. Its gray paint is peeling and the porch sags, but there are yellow marigolds in the window boxes and a welcome mat by the front door.

I wonder who that welcome is meant for. I’ve never been invited in.

Without saying a word about it, we both stop a respectful distance from the yard, like there’s an invisible line I can’t cross. Well, Ander says, I guess I should go in. He looks up at the sky, then glances at the house. There’s a light on in the kitchen window. His uncle is home.

Yeah, I say, I guess you should. But neither of us goes anywhere. Ander takes a little swig of Gatorade. I take a deep breath. I almost hate to ask him, because I know he’ll have to say no. His uncle never lets him go out.

But I promised myself I’d ask him. It’s a new year and I’m starting it right.

Now or never, Cicely.

Do you want to go out tonight?

Chapter 2: Ander

Out? I say, With you?

Cicely’s cheeks are as red as her hoodie. Do you see anyone else here?

No. No, I don’t. It’s just me and Cicely. Me and my closest friend. Me and the girl I like.

More than like.

Alone.

Ander? She studies me.

I hesitate, a second too long.

Her gaze drops to the gravel at her feet. Listen, never mind. I—I’ll see you tomorrow.

She starts to turn away and I can feel the moment slipping. Soon it will be lost like everything else. I can see the hurt in her eyes. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s seeing Cicely hurt.

Especially when I’m the one doing the hurting.

Which is pretty much always.

Well, not tonight.

Wait! I say.

She stops but doesn’t face me. What?

I… Deep breath. I’d love to go out with you.

She turns back slowly. But…?

I smile. But nothing. I want to go out with you.

She studies me, suspicious. Won’t your uncle say no? I can see the struggle on her face: wanting to be happy, not wanting to get hurt. Well, maybe she won’t be hurt this time.

Parole for good behavior, maybe? I try to keep my voice light. What, are you trying to talk me out of it now?

No.

You should be, I think. Good, I say, Then you let me worry about my uncle. You just worry about where you want to go.

Seriously?

I hold my hand up. Scout’s honor.

A slow smile dawns on her face. She has such a great smile. I think that’s the Vulcan sign. You know, ‘live long and prosper.’

Even better, I say. So where to, oh sixteen-year old?

Well, oh seventeen-year old, my mom is working but she isn’t taking the car so if you don’t mind driving—

You only like me for my license.

Well, how else are we getting anywhere?

There’s my bike, I say.

Cicely frowns. She is not a motorcycle girl. Anyways, she says, You want to… go to a movie?

Go to a movie. It sounds like the most normal thing in the world. How can going to a movie possibly be too much to ask? I take a nervous sip from my Gatorade bottle. The familiar taste of the potion warms my throat. It tastes like hot mulled cider—if you mixed it with lemon-scented Pledge. Not exactly delicious, but I don’t care because it works—better than any other combination we’ve tried. Two months without an unpredicted turn. You can do this, I tell myself. After all, we were inches away from a kiss just now at school and Cicely walked away unharmed.

Um, Ander? She’s looking at me doubtfully again. I realize I haven’t spoken.

I was just thinking… I say, You aren’t going to want to see a chick flick, are you?

She laughs, relieved. I’ll let you choose.

Well, in that case. Pick you up at, say, eight?

Sure, she says, It’s a date. Her voice is intentionally casual, but when she looks up at me, I can see the question in her eyes. Is this a date?

I look her in the eye. It’s a date.

Her smile widens. See you then. She turns and walks away, quickly, as if she’s afraid I might change my mind, say psyche, take it all back. And I should. I know I should.

But I don’t. Instead, I watch her as she walks back towards the path, a little more bounce in her step than there was just a minute ago. At the edge of the tree line she stops, turns, and waves at me. Then she turns back again and her red-hooded figure is swallowed by the woods.

I stifle a sudden pang of worry. I always worry about Cicely, especially when she is out of my sight—which is stupid when you stop to think about it. Cicely is actually safest away from me. The only monster in the woods is right here.

Which is why I should never, ever have said yes. The reality of what I’ve done is beginning to sink in. Four years of pretending I’m not interested in Cicely, and I’ve undone it all with one little yes. Sure, the potion is working a little better—maybe even a lot better. I feel like I can keep it under control. But would I bet my life on it? No. And it isn’t even my life I’m betting.

I know what Michael would say. Don’t get cocky. Don’t get comfortable. Don’t drop your guard. If he had any idea that I promised to go out with Cicely, he would declare my judgment completely fucked and I’d lose everything I’ve earned in the last few months: the unsupervised afternoons, the running, and most of all, the time with Cicely.

Which is why I have to go in the house right now and act like nothing happened. Saying yes to Cicely might not have been the smartest thing I’ve ever done, but I’ll deal with it on my own.

I walk onto the sagging front porch and rap on our front door. I know they are both home—Michael’s big white van is parked beside Danny’s rusty, orange Toyota—but I also know Michael will have the place locked up.

Who’s there? Michael asks from the other side of the door.

As if he can’t smell me. It’s me, I say.

I hear the scraping of the locks as Michael undoes each one. Four of them. There are four on the outside, too, just in case.

Michael opens the door. Even though he probably just got up, he’s already impeccably dressed in his usual dark suit and crisp white shirt, his black hair neatly combed. Ander, he says, Come in.

I walk past him, catching a whiff of his scent mixed with the incense from the little Buddhist altar in the corner and the smell of eggs frying in the kitchen. How are you? he asks.

It’s never a casual question. Michael is already studying me, his dark eyes taking a practiced inventory.

I'm fine, I say, a little defensive.

He nods cautiously. You look fine. He wrinkles his nose. A bit… sporty, perhaps.

And you look like you’re dressed for a funeral, I say. What’s your point?

It doesn’t hurt to look respectable for work.

Even if your work’s not that respectable, I think.

He takes hold of my hand, pressing his cool fingers against my wrist to take my pulse. It’s a totally unnecessary move—Michael could probably hear my pulse from a few feet away if he made the effort—and I wish he wouldn’t do it. His touch makes every muscle in my body tense. I've been living with Michael for six years, but I still can't get used to letting a vampire touch me. Just the thought of him feeling the blood pounding under the skin…I take a deep breath and let it out, willing myself to stay calm. It won't do me any good to get worked up. If I seemed unstable, Michael might stay home from work tonight, and then there’d be no chance of taking Cicely out.

The thought of Cicely sends another rush of adrenaline through me.

Michael scowls. Your pulse is high. Is the new potion not holding its own?

I take my hand back. I've been running is all.

Michael regards me for a long moment. If the potion isn’t working, Ander—if you’ve developed a tolerance, or if something’s happened to stress it—

Michael, let the kid off the hook. He's cool. Danny comes into the kitchen balancing a tray full of bacon, eggs, and toast. He looks much more like someone who just got up. He’s still in his t-shirt and yoga pants, his dreadlocks pulled back in a loose knot. There’s a bruise on his throat, mostly hidden by the deep brown of his skin. He’s just worked up about breakfast.

I am now, I say. The smell of the bacon is enough to make me drool. Although you do know that normal folks have breakfast in the morning.

Danny laughs. Normal is overrated. Go on, take a seat.

But I know better than to move on without Michael’s seal of approval. Can I?

Michael nods. You pass. I can tell he still has some reservations. His vamp instincts must be working overtime. But, as usual, his mood has softened now that Danny is in the room.

Michael seats himself at the head of the kitchen table. He takes a paper napkin from the pile and places it formally in his lap. So, he says, Tell us about your day.

I shrug and swing a chair around backwards to straddle it. Michael gives me a look and I swing it around again, right. Nothing much to tell. School was all right. Ran afterwards. I pause. Cissa walked me home.

Michael and Danny exchange a little look. And how is Miss Cicely Watson?

She's fine, I say.

She stayed late to walk with you? Michael doesn’t look up from buttering his toast, but I can hear the mistrust in his voice.

She stayed late to practice violin.

Danny grins. Is that what you kids are calling it these days?

Michael frowns. Don’t even joke.

We kids, huh? You know you’re only ten years older than me, right?

Age is meaningless. He gives Michael’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze as he passes behind him, on his way back to the kitchen. Danny doesn’t ever sit for long.

You have to say that, I say, You’re bonded to an old man.

May-December romance, Danny sing-songs from the kitchen. What’s a couple of centuries in the face of love? I’m an old soul. He glides back into the kitchen, smiling, and sets a glass of orange juice down in front of Michael.

Thank you. But Michael’s attention is still on me. Age is meaningless in some cases. But not… he looks pointedly at me, …in others. And when you’re seventeen, it is sometimes very hard to resist temptation, even if you know the consequences.

Please, I say, Not the talk. Not again.

I just think it bears repeating, Ander. No matter how good a potion may be—

And the ones Michael makes are really good, Danny adds.

—it has its limitations. And aside from the full moon, the thing most likely to make you change is what?

I sigh. Passion. Anger. Lust. But—

All the things teenage relationships are full of. It only takes one slip—

I know. I know. My life is like a fairy tale, in reverse. In fairy tales, a kiss can turn a beast into a prince, but with me it’s the other way around. One kiss can wake the wolf.

Oh, Michael, let him be. Danny smiles at me sympathetically. They were only walking home. The kid’s gotta have friends, right? I mean, why are we doing all this—the potions, the school—if not to have a normal life?

Yes, I think, if you want to call this normal. Danny wouldn’t know normal if it bit him.

Besides, says Danny, I really like Cicely.

So do I, Michael says, That’s why I’m giving this speech.

I take another swig of potion, then help myself to another heaping plateful of bacon and eggs. I shovel a hot forkful into my mouth before anyone can ask me any more questions about my day. Even with all the practice I've had in the past six years, I am still not great at keeping secrets. If we chat too much about Cicely, I’m likely to accidentally remind them of her birthday. Then they might guess we have plans and I know where that will lead: lockdown.

We eat in silence for a while—or, rather, I eat. Michael picks politely at his food. He can eat human food just fine, but he tends not to. He has more than enough opportunity to feed at work. He’s only eating now because he knows Danny loves to feed him. Of course, like all thralls, Danny is happiest being the meal, not cooking it, but Michael and Danny don’t do feedings in front of me. Instead we do this family-at-the-dinner-table thing, which is, in some ways, equally weird.

You aren’t eating enough, Michael says to Danny. You’re working tonight. You need your protein.

Danny takes another mouthful of egg before waltzing back to the kitchen, taking away dishes, fetching more Tabasco sauce for the eggs, making breakfast look like a choreographed routine. More than once, I catch Michael watching him with the loving, appreciative look that always makes me feel like a third wheel. Danny catches it, too, and puts a little extra sashay in his dancer’s walk, batting his long lashes at Michael as he clears his things away. They’re devoted to each other, of course. They pretty much have to be. They’re a bonded vampire and thrall. Their lives depend on each other.

And my life depends on them. Because if it weren’t for Michael’s centuries of experience with potions, I’d never stand a chance of living in human society. Heck, I probably wouldn’t stand a chance of living at all, and if I did, it would be as a monster, not a passing-for-ordinary teenager. This house is the closest thing I have to a home now and Michael and Danny are the closest thing I have to a family. So, even though my whole childhood I was brought up to think of bonding as disgusting, I make it work. And even though this house is strange—with the locks on the doors and the bars on the bedroom windows, with Michael’s Buddhist altar and his library full of books, and Danny’s canary-yellow kitchen—I try to be grateful. After all, when I met Michael, he was living in a four-by-six cage. I know that, if things were a little different, that could be me.

You’re quiet. Danny studies me as he pours me my third glass of juice. What’s on your mind?

Nothing.

I can tell he doesn’t believe me, and I’m relieved when the phone rings. I’ll get it, I say quickly, half hoping it’s Cicely.

But Michael stops me. Don’t, he says, It’s Five.

Danny looks up from the egg sandwich he’s been making for himself. You’d think it was you who was the psychic and not her! How can you be sure it’s Five?

Only because she’s called three times already.

Danny’s expression is suddenly serious. Did she see something?

She won’t say. I mean, she’s had a vision, but she won’t say what it is unless we pay her.

How much?

Too much.

I look guiltily at my nearly empty plate. It’s my fault we’re always out of money. Between the cost of my potions and my school tuition, I’m the reason we’re always broke. That and the fact that I’m literally eating us out of house and home.

Well, not at the moment. My appetite’s gone. The bacon and eggs in my stomach seem to be tying themselves in knots. What if Five had a vision of me sneaking out? What if she’s calling to tell Michael that I plan to break the rules and go on a date? What if she’s seen me hurt Cicely tonight?

The phone stops ringing.

I’m sure it’s nothing, Michael says. You remember last time. We paid her and she had no specifics. The vision was practically useless.

Still, says Danny, What if this is different? Maybe we should come up with the cash, dip into the emergency funds—

No. Michael’s tone is final. He considers the emergency fund sacred. That’s our run money, he always says. We’ll need it if we ever have to leave in a hurry.

The thought of it makes me feel cold.

Danny is up and bustling around the table, clearing away the dishes like they’ve personally offended him. He bangs the serving spoon into the frying pan with a loud clatter. She has some nerve, charging you! Where the hell would she be without you two? Still locked up in a Hunter’s compound, being experimented on and—

She doesn’t owe me anything, I say. It’s tempting to rewrite history and pretend I’m just the guy who set Five and Michael free, but the truth is, I’m part of the reason they were there in the first place.

You were just a kid. You weren’t responsible, Danny reminds me kindly. I nod, but I don’t really agree, I just want the subject closed. Danny wasn’t there. He doesn’t get it.

Michael does. He’s been there since the beginning. Which makes it hard to lie to him.

So, Michael says, leaning back in his chair, I assume you’re in for the night?

I glance at the clock. Two hours until eight. Two hours before I’m supposed to be locked in my room. Two hours before I’m supposed to pick Cicely up for our first date. I think about Cicely, waiting for me.

Yeah, I say, I’m in.

Chapter 3: Luke

Is that the girl? I ask, although I know it is. I can smell it.

It is, my lord. Marcus shifts uneasily beside me. Cicely Watson. But I don’t think—

Good. I smile at him. "You shouldn’t. But you should stop calling me ‘my lord.’"

Yes my—Master Luke.

Just Luke, I say, While we’re here.

About that. Marcus runs a nervous hand through his short brown hair. Do you think it’s wise for you to be here, so close to her?

Why would it be unwise?

It’s just that the ceremony is still days away. Shouldn’t we wait until closer to the hour?

It isn’t like seeing the bride before the wedding.

I am busy watching the girl. She is almost parallel to us now on the little path that snakes through the woods. She is wearing an over-shirt with a hood the red of a bright Autumn leaf. Her pants are dark. Her boots look like they should belong to a man. None of it is anything Deirdre would wear. Her face is probably nothing like Deirdre’s, either, although I can’t be sure. Her hood is up, hiding her features.

It’s just…I don’t think Queen Constanza would approve if she knew we were here. Marcus’ voice is barely a whisper, as if he thinks just saying the queen’s name will somehow bring her here.

Which is exactly why we won’t tell her. I fix him with a meaningful look.

His gaze skates to the ground. Of course, sir.

I turn my attention back to the girl. A thorn by the side of the path catches the leg of her pants and she bends to free it, her long, dark hair spilling forward to hide her face. She reaches up and tucks a lock back into her hood. For the briefest second I see a flash of her white skin, her cheek, the curve of her ear. What is she wearing in her ear? I ask, trying to distract myself.

Headphones. She is listening to music.

Music.

Perhaps that explains the happy bounce in her walk, the way she swings the violin case at her side. She is light on her feet in spite of the heavy boots. I tilt my head to the side, straining to hear the song, but catch only the soft pounding of a drum, like a heartbeat.

Recorded music. A phonograph.

In a manner of speaking.

She can’t hear us then, I say, and take a few steps closer.

Marcus catches hold of my arm. You mustn’t!

"Quitalo!"

He lets go of my arm, but his voice is still pleading. Please.

It amuses me to tease him. I point down to my feet. Aren’t these shoes called sneakers? What good are they if I don’t get to sneak? I take a few more exaggeratedly sneaky steps.

Marcus follows. What if she sees us?

I shrug. Well, what if she does? Marcus looks ordinary enough in his sweater and pants—jeans, they are called. He has told me my clothes are formal for a boy my age, but they would still pass. We could easily be young humans of sixteen or seventeen. Marcus must have been about that when he died, and the torpor has kept me from aging. I want to have a closer look.

I start to follow the girl, moving silently through the undergrowth. Marcus trails me reluctantly, whispering. You’ve only just woken. Your hunger must be intense. And with all due respect, your self-control will not be at its best. If you were to yield to temptation and take the girl too soon—

I spin soundlessly and grab him by the throat. My voice, however, is calm. Do you take me for an idiot?

He shakes his head as best he can. No, he chokes, No!

I tighten my grip. "No, master."

No, master!

He doesn’t try to fight. He wouldn’t win if he did. Marcus is ancient for his kind.

I let him go. Good.

He rubs his throat.

I have no intention of killing the girl too soon. I am perfectly aware that her death would be meaningless outside of the ceremony. I’m not about to squander our only chance at a cure.

I understand. You would not kill her. But even if you only took a taste…no one would blame you, my lord, but under the circumstances, the risk of bonding would be so high. And given your…history…

My history has nothing to do with it. I have no intention of bonding with her. I have no intention of even biting her. I simply wish to see where she lives, while she lives.

The girl is turning off the main path onto an even smaller trail. At the end of it, where the trees thin, I can see a small metal box of a house, and beyond that must be the road. I can hear a car rush past. The air here is saturated with the sickly-sweet scent of human food baking. A clothes-line is strung between the trees not far from the house. I watch Cicely walk past it, her figure momentarily silhouetted in front of the clean, white sheets. She has a lovely silhouette, small and slight, but strong. I cannot help but admire it.

Then the sheets billow towards us as the wind shifts and all admiration is washed from my mind as her scent spills over me, momentarily overpowering even the scent of the human food. I shut my eyes and drink it in: Warm. Salty. Thick.

Four or five yards separate me from the girl, at most. That could be bridged in a matter of seconds. She would certainly try to run into her house, but humans are so slow, and wearing those heavy boots…or she might not even get the chance to run. Listening to her phonograph, she might not hear me until I was on her. Then I could take her easily, run her down like a wolf runs a deer. I could be on top of her before she knew it, my teeth finding the sweet spot on her neck where her pulse races close under thin white skin, her heart pounding hard under my weight. I can almost feel the pop of fangs puncturing flesh, the warm rush of blood filling my mouth, warm liquid seasoned with cold revenge…

Master Luke? Marcus sounds afraid. But I’m not watching him. I’m watching Cicely Watson. Some instinct has made her pause at her front door, as if she can feel the intensity of my gaze. She turns and peers into the shadows and, although I know she cannot see us, I can see her perfectly.

And what I see stops me in my tracks. Her full lips. The puzzled crease of her brow. The way she tilts her head to remove a white cord from her ear and listens.

It’s uncanny.

Master Luke? Is something wrong?

I lick my lips and force the fangs to retract. My voice is hoarse. I didn’t expect her to look so much like Deirdre. I almost say like my Deirdre, but of course that’s ridiculous. Deirdre was never mine.

Well, yes. Marcus looks confused, The ceremony only works because they are of the same bloodline.

Bloodline. The mere mention of the word blood makes my throat burn. Marcus is right, I think, I am tempting fate. History repeats itself, they say.

Of course, I say, I knew that. I think we should go.

Yes, of course, He looks endlessly relieved. You need to hunt. We have plenty of time before dawn. He sets off quickly, obviously eager to put distance between us and the girl.

But I watch for a moment more, until she disappears into the little house, letting the screen door slap shut behind her. I’ll see you again, Miss Watson, I whisper, And soon. Her bloodline brought death to mine, and I will return the favor. But the ceremony is still a week away and I am going to make the most of the time.

Because it’s not enough to make her heart stop beating.

I intend to break it first.

Chapter 4: Cicely

Mom! I yell, I’m home!

I don’t really need to yell, since our trailer isn’t very big. It also isn’t very new and, with my mother working as much as she does, it doesn’t even qualify as very clean. But it smells delicious. I take a deep breath. It smells like cake in here!

My mother comes out of the kitchen, wiping her floury hands on her paisley dress, her frizzy blond hair—so not like mine—pulled back under an old bandana.

Baby! What time is it? I totally lost track! She catches me up in a hug, and for a second, I’m surrounded by her scent: frosting and butter and patchouli. I breathe it in as she stands back to brush the streaks of flour off my sweatshirt. How was your birthday?

Fine, I say, although fine doesn’t begin to cover it. What should I say? Startling? Remarkable? Borderline miraculous? All the way home, I’ve been running the instant replay of my conversation with Ander, lingering in slow-mo over the last, crucial seconds, when he says It’s a date. I’m tempted to tell my mom all about it, just to make it seem more real.

But Mom will never believe Ander’s uncle would let him go out, and she’d never be okay if she knew Ander planned to sneak out to meet me. So I keep my birthday plans to myself. Instead I say, The cake smells great!

My mother’s brow furrows. About that, sweetie. What you’re smelling are the cupcakes for my catering job. They called this afternoon to order three dozen more, and I ran late at the bakery… She sighs. The thing is, honey, I didn’t get a chance to make your cake yet. Oh, Cissa! I’m so sorry.

I force a smile. Hey, I say, No big deal.

Well, it is a big deal! You’re turning sixteen! And I promise tomorrow we’ll go out and do something—

Mom, I say, It’s cool. We both know we can’t afford to go out and do much of anything. The salad bowl on the coffee table is full of unpaid bills. The paying jobs have to come before anything else.

But my mother is wringing her hands. It’s just that I know how the other kids at your school celebrate their sixteenth birthdays. I mean, I worked that Lyla Jansen’s sweet sixteen just last week. She got a car, Cicely! A convertible!

I shrug. I knew what I was getting into. St. Agnes is the only private prep school around and it draws in every rich kid in the county. When I applied for my scholarship, I knew I would be one of the only poor kids there.

I just wish we could afford to buy you things, is all. My mother sits down heavily on our sagging couch and I hear the springs creak.

If I really wanted anything, I say hopefully, I could always get a job.

My mother looks at me sternly. And sacrifice study time? You’ve got to keep that scholarship, hon. And there’s college applications next year, and you have to keep up with the music. She gives my violin case a loving pat. I don’t want you to let that go, just because we can’t spring for lessons right now.

I’m not letting anything go.

She smiles. I know. When have you ever? But that’s the other thing, Cicely. You have to have a little free time to be a teenager.

Zoe has a job, I remind her for the thousandth time.

Her father owns the café, she says. That’s different. And Ander doesn’t have a job.

That’s different, too. She knows as well as I do Ander’s uncle would never let him get a job. And Ander probably couldn’t keep a job if he had one.

My mother sighs. I didn’t want to talk about jobs. I was just trying to say I wish I could buy you something nice.

She’s trying to be sweet, but she’s bringing me down from my asked-out-by-Ander high. I sigh, too. And I’m trying to say I don’t care about presents. I don’t care that there’s no cake. I—

Oh, I never said there wasn’t any cake! My mother is up off the couch and bustling to the kitchen. I just said I couldn’t make you one special! Here, clear me a spot on the coffee table, would you?

A spot for what? But she’s already out of the room. I can hear her clanking around in the kitchen while I push aside last Sunday’s paper, stack the