Vampire Crush(61)
Author: A.M. Robinson

What did you do? I ask, saying it internally without even thinking. He doesn’t respond, but the funny thing is that I can feel his mind there, the thoughts like lights through stained glass. I can feel the others’ minds as well – dimmer, not as distinct, but there. And those are not the only lights I see. Tiny patches of heat weave through the undergrowth in a lazy, sporadic pattern. Slowly they take on the shapes of animals – a group of huddled mice, the compact figure of a bird taking shelter from the rain.

"I’m a vampire," I say again, and then repeat it several times, each more accusatory than the last.

"It was the only way to save you," he says softly. "Vlad took a lot of blood."

"You were supposed to ask me," I say.

Being a vampire is better than dead dead, he says, anger flashing in his eyes. That’s what you told me. You said that there were worse things. I thought –

He stops when I stand up abruptly. I want to say that I would have rather died, but that’s not true, not really. I would have liked to have not had to make a choice at all. "I think I’m going to go home now," I say, doing my best to ignore James’s distressed stare or the way he tracks my every movement. I try to walk past him, but he reaches out and catches my wrist.

"What are you doing?"

"Sophie, you shouldn’t go home right now. We need to talk about how you are going to handle this. Your family . . . they can’t know."

"No! I am going home and I am going to see my dad and Marcie and Caroline."

"Not yet," he says, tugging at my wrist. I let myself be dragged in for the embrace. The material of James’s T-shirt is soft against my cheek. Listening to him, it almost feels like it’s going to be okay. If he just keeps talking, if I don’t ever have to think about the next step, it will be okay.

But then James pushes me away and stares at my chest. Before I can ask what is wrong, he presses his hand over my left breast.

"Hey!" I slap at his hand, but he ignores it and presses harder.

"Your heart," he says in wonderment.

"Yes," I say slowly, "it’s there." I don’t know where he gets off acting like he’s the one who has been drained and refilled today.

He meets my gaze. "It’s beating."

"Yes, it is."

Grabbing my wrist again, he clamps both thumbs across the purplish ghosting of veins. "Sophie," he says louder. "It’s beating."

"We’ve established that, James."

"Sophie – ," he repeats, but is cut off when Neville’s voice rings out behind us.

"Vampire hearts don’t beat." He nudges James’s thumbs out of the way, and then looks at me with identical wonder. No one could still be human after that exchange. I have seen people turn with half that amount. He gives a short laugh. Vlad was right.

Ripping my wrist away, I put fingers to my neck to test it. It’s true. My skin bumps against the pads of my fingers in a happy, gentle rhythm. I could sing. I could dance. I could do a freaking cheer. And then I come to another realization: My skin is smooth, unblemished.

"You healed," James says, answering my question. "You heard my thoughts. I’ve watched your eyes follow the animals . . . But you are breathing. You are alive," he says aloud, but is followed by something that I know – I know – he would never want anyone to hear.

It’s not fair.

An awkward silence falls, a silence that lasts until the sound of approaching footsteps make everyone tense.

"Where are Devon and Ashley?" I snap and instinctively crouch down, feeling a new strength coiled and waiting in my muscles.

"Beneath your feet," James says.

I glance down, stepping back when I realize that I’m standing in what looks like the remains of two giant campfires. Gross.

"We took them out first," Violet chirps and then nods toward the picnic table. "When you were sleeping on the ground.

I am saved from having to find anything intelligent to add by Caroline bursting into the clearing. Her hair is a mess, her clothing is more torn than not, and she’s clutching what must be the biggest stick she could find in the woods. She drops it when she sees me. I am enveloped in another hug. Today may not have turned me into a vampire, but I am apparently now a hugger.

"I got in my car and drove halfway home before coming back," she says in my ear before raising her head. "Wait. Is everything fine?"

"It’s over," I say, not liking the note of uncertainty in my voice. "Well, the Vlad part."

"I was so scared. I felt horrible," she says.

Thank god I don’t have to explain things to Mom and Fred.

The thought comes out of nowhere. I blink and look at Caroline, who’s still smiling at me with genuine relief. As much as I’d like to think it was my imagination, I have the sinking feeling that I am going to have to get used to the unedited version of people’s thoughts for at least the near future.

"Let’s go home," I say, turning to find the others. James has moved away and joined their group. They are busy discussing particulars – how to get Vlad’s car back to the house when his keys "dusted" along with him, among other things. Caroline tugs at my hand, pulling me toward the trees. And after a few more seconds, I let her lead me.

Chapter Twenty

Caroline drives us home. She has questions – But why did Vlad want me? Was James like them? – and she deserves answers. After all, she is taking this vampire hostage thing like a pro; and a part of me suspects that it’s because it answers all of her questions about why her relationship with Vlad failed. Too exhausted to find a starting point, I promise to tell her later, and after a few failed attempts to prod the story out of me, she gives up and focuses on the road. It is difficult to keep from staring at her neck. Not because of the wound, which has finally ceased to bleed, but because I can see the gentle glow of light winding out of her collar and traveling up her neck. I try to blink it away, hoping it will disappear like the after flash of a surprise picture, but it remains.

When we pull into the driveway, she uses the rearview mirror to arrange her hair over the bite marks and then reaches into the backseat. Tossing a blue shirt in my lap, she starts to pull off her own.

"Why do you have several changes of clothes in the back of your car?" I ask.

"You don’t?" she says after she’s pulled off her own switcheroo. "Maybe you should."

I cast a rueful look at what was once my favorite shirt. "You know, maybe you’re right." I change into the navy polo and then study our front door and its folksy, suburban wreath. "What are we going to tell them?"