Vampire Crush(22)
Author: A.M. Robinson

Chapter Nine

Eventually, I crawl into bed, but I don’t sleep well. My dreams resemble a flickering black-and-white horror movie. I’m in a cave swatting bats out of my hair, then fending off spiders with a can of spray paint. Finally, I end up on a windswept moor with a silver and gray wolf. He asks me to dance. I refuse. He retaliates by chewing on my toes.

My eyes snap open. It would be nice if my brain could take this seriously.

The temperature dropped in the night, and while the rain is lighter now, it’s still heavy enough to drum against the attic roof. Wrapping myself in a faded afghan, I climb out of bed and shiver my way across the cold hardwood to the open window. Sliding behind my desk chair, I grasp the splintered frame and push down.

Suddenly, a hand snakes up from the darkness, and I jump back just as four fingers clamp over the sill. Stumbling over my desk chair, I crash to the floor, feet caught up in the netting of my afghan. I claw frantically at the mess around my legs as the hand becomes an arm and then a head and then a torso. A body vaults into view, filling the frame, blocking the outside light.

I have two options. Run downstairs with a rabid vampire in hot pursuit or lurch forward, close the window, and pray that the mixture of screen and glass is resistant to fists. So far the intruder isn’t even scratching at the screen. For an assassin, he’s taking his time, and closing the window might buy me more. Muttering "Close and lock, close and lock" like a mantra, I spring up and rush forward, hitting the window and pushing down with all my might until I hear a satisfying snick.

My attack brings more than I bargained for. Startled by my sudden appearance, the intruder loses his grip on one of the frame’s sides. He swings backward like a saloon door, one hand clutching the upper eave of the window, one foot balanced on the outside cement ledge, and all other limbs dangling in space. The full glow of the streetlight floods his face, and I find myself staring into James’s face – James’s very annoyed, very angry face.

For one crazy, hurtling second I heave a sigh of relief; if forced to choose, he is the better option. But then again, I would also rather drown than be eaten by snakes.

Before I can figure out the next course of action, James begins to move, and move strangely. He swings his body back to and fro until he has enough momentum to bring his other foot back on the sill. Steady once again, he crouches in front of me, a particularly nimble gargoyle. So much for getting the upper hand.

"Let me in," he says, the glass muffling his voice.

He’s soaking wet. His green shirt is plastered to his shoulders like a second skin, and beads of water race down his nose. I feel a twinge of sympathy, but then tell myself to snap out of it. Twinges of sympathy are better than being turned into an amnesia zombie.

"I don’t care to be mind-wiped, thank you," I say through the glass. Little clouds of steam appear and vanish between each word.

"I’m not going to mind-wipe you!" he says. "I just want to explain."

My eyes take in his frown, his narrowed eyes. "Don’t take this the wrong way," I say, "but you seem a little angry. Why should I believe you?"

"Because I am telling you that I won’t." I must still look skeptical, because he brings his palm up to the window, pushing down so hard that I can see the small traces of his heart line. "I swear."

I check his eyes and body language for signs of deviousness, but there are none. I bite my lip, torn. This is the moment, I think. This is the moment where you can make a very smart choice or a very stupid choice.

"Sophie," he pleads again when he sees me wavering. "You’ve known me my entire life. You have to trust me. I’m still . . . just, please."

Memories of the last week’s conversations flicker through my mind. It had all felt so normal, just like Old James and Old Sophie. Before I can think about it any more, I open the window halfway.

I am going to make the stupid choice.

"Listen," I say and then lean over to make sure that there’s no glass preventing him from hearing me clearly. "You can come in – but make any sudden movements and I swear I will run downstairs for the garlic. Marcie buys it in bulk. Already chopped, too, if that means anything."

His face breaks into a smile that would be more appropriate on the face of a lottery winner than someone I just threatened with prepackaged foodstuffs. He yanks up the screen without the slightest hesitation. If he’d wanted to bust in without asking, that barrier would have bought me a whole .42 seconds – a grim thought. His hands reach for the window next, but I bang on the glass until he lets go.

"I want a verbal commitment."

He dutifully parrots that he will under no circumstances fiddle with my mind. He caps it off with a Boy Scout salute.

"The salute was a bit much," I say, pushing the window the rest of the way up. I sweep my hand back in a welcoming gesture. "James, you may come inside."

"Aw shucks, Sophie, that’s swell. I sure do hope my manners are as nice as yours one day." He ducks through the window and closes it behind him.

"I thought I had to invite you in."

"Not really, no," he corrects before stooping over to shake out his wet hair.

I dodge to the side to avoid an inadvertent shower. "I’m pretty sure that – "

"You don’t." He stands up straight, surveying me as though he’s suddenly seeing me in a new, geeky light. "How many vampire movies have you watched?"

More than a few, if I’m being honest. In retrospect, I should have cried vampire that first day in the auditorium, but we’ll chalk that misfire up to general sanity. "Not that many," I mutter. "And there’s a pretty big consensus on the invite thing, I’ll have you know."

"Well, the consensus is wrong. And besides, if you thought I needed an invite to get in, why did you freak out at the window?"

It’s a valid point, but not one that I feel like acknowledging. "I didn’t freak out. I just thought you were the neighborhood pervert. He likes me. A lot," I say as he starts to smile. "What?"

"Did you wear the cape just for me?"

"Huh?"

He points to my shoulders. "The cape."

I look down. At some point in my terror I had seen fit to tie the afghan around my shoulders. Oh my God.

"It’s just something I wear sometimes," I shrug, untying the knot at my throat in what I hope is an offhand manner. Self-conscious, I cross the room to sit on the bed cross-legged, tucking my feet beneath my knees until not even the pink of a pinkie toe is visible.

"You don’t have to sit all the way over there," he says, raising an eyebrow in the way that always made me jealous back when I aspired to be an arch villain. "I don’t bite."