Chronicles Vladimir 01 - Eighth Grade Bites Page 6

  He’d do better to spend a few more weeks watching his new teacher and seeing if the odd feeling in his stomach would go away.

  Vlad stepped outside, pulling the door closed behind him. His toe caught the edge of the welcome mat, sending him stumbling. With a grumble, he kicked the mat. But before it slid back into place, he spotted a strange symbol carved into the wood of the porch. With a gaping mouth, he pulled the mat back again.

  Three slanted lines slashed across the porch—all encased in what looked like parentheses.

  7

  FEEDING TIME

  KATE DONAHUE BRUSHED STRANDS of hair out of her eyes, sweeping them back from her sweaty face as her feet met the pavement in rhythmic, slapping steps. Glancing at her watch as she made her third round of the track that outlined Bathory Park, she grunted. Robert would be irate that she’d gone for a run after dark.

  She rounded a park bench and, brushing her hair out of her face once more, slowed her steps to cool down. She pressed her fingers to her neck and counted her pulse beats silently.

  One . . . two . . . three . . .

  Except for Kate, the park was empty. Large pools of light from the streetlamps spotted the lush grounds. Kate breathed in through her nose and out through her mouth; her breath was released into the air in the form of wispy clouds.

  Eight . . . nine . . . ten . . .

  She wiped the sweat from her eyes with the back of her hand. When she pulled her hand away, she saw a man, dressed in black, standing by the nearest streetlight. Kate felt her heart jump and mentally slapped herself. Robert’s panicky concerns were making her edgy.

  Thirteen . . . fourteen . . . fifteen . . .

  She slowed her steps even more and then began to stretch her calves. Her muscles were on fire with a pleasant burn. She took a healthy swallow from her water bottle and glanced in the direction of the man, who hadn’t changed his posture or expression, but now seemed to be standing ten feet closer.

  Kate took another drink and slipped her bottle back into her duffel bag. She picked the bag up and, with another glance at the man in black, turned toward the parking lot. Maybe Robert was right. Maybe even a little slice of nowhere like Bathory wasn’t safe all the time. She passed under another pool of light and her water bottle tumbled out of her bag. It smacked the paved path and popped open. With a groan, Kate bent down and stuffed it back into the bag with a grumble.

  “Excuse me, madam.”

  With a curse under her breath, Kate looked up at the man and smiled as pleasantly as she could manage. “Yes?”

  A flash of skin—pale, smooth, flawless skin—passed before her eyes, and the man had her by the throat. He dragged her away from the light, toward the nearby grove of trees. Kate kicked and tried to scream, but couldn’t find the breath to call for help. She dug her heels into the grass, to no avail. He pulled her along as if she weighed no more than a heavy backpack and slammed her against the trunk of a large maple tree. His fingers were still pressing into her neck, but he relaxed them enough for her to breathe.

  Kate’s lungs burned as she gasped for air. “What do you want? I’ll do anything! Just please don’t hurt me!” Her words were mangled whispers, as if her voice box had been damaged beyond the ability to voice the terror she was feeling.

  The man opened his mouth wide, exposing a pair of long, white, slick fangs. Kate screamed her whispers of protest.

  He pinned her against the tree, and though she wriggled, he sank his teeth easily into her smooth neck and drank.

  Her heartbeat slowed in her ears. She could feel herself sliding down the tree trunk as the strength left her body. Tears coated her cheeks. “Why are you doing this?”

  The man pulled away with a low chuckle. “Because I enjoy it. Besides, like any living creature, I must feed.”

  Kate fell to the ground and lifted the great weight of her head so that she was looking up at her attacker. She couldn’t run. She could barely speak, but she had to buy time until help arrived. “Please don’t kill me,” she sobbed. “I’ll give you anything.”

  The man in black paused and glanced over his shoulder, as if checking for passers-by. “There is nothing you have that I want, except your blood.” He crouched then and tilted her head to the side, examining her wounds with childlike fascination before bending closer to resume his meal.

  “I can give you money. Take my car. Anything, please.”

  “Unless you can provide me with the Tod boy, you have nothing for me.”

  “Vladimir Tod?” Kate spoke quickly in strangled whispers, though her throat burned and ached.

  The man paused.

  “I know his aunt. I see her every Tuesday at the Stop & Shop.”

  The man relaxed his grip on her and sat back on his haunches. “And the boy? Where does he live?”

  “With her, as far as I know.” Kate swallowed. She could taste her own blood. She managed to croak out, “Will you let me go?”

  “No. I’m still hungry.” After a pause the span of a heartbeat, the man latched his mouth firmly to her open wound. He drank until the sky above became a blur of blackish blue, and as he walked away, Kate watched his shoes move two steps through the fallen leaves before she passed into the oblivion of death.

  8

  THE BOOK

  MR. OTIS STOOD BEFORE the class, a black, pointy hat resting comfortably atop his head. “Everybody knows about witches, right? I’m sure you’ve read about them in one fairy tale or another. Hansel and Gretel, Snow White, The Wizard of Oz—they all had witches. Green-faced, warts on their noses, black cats hanging around all the time. Generally not very nice old ladies. Not exactly the grandma’s house you want to go to for milk and cookies.

  “In recent years, witches have come into a much better light than those with poisoned apples, or an obsession with gaudy footwear, due to a popular book series set at a magic school. Much of our discussion will be . . .” Mr. Otis paused with his arm raised before the blackboard, clutching a bit of chalk. His pose matched that of Meredith, who was raising her arm with a question. “Yes, Meredith?”

  Meredith was looking extremely feminine today, Vlad noted with a wistful sigh. Her hair was swept up into the slight curl of a ponytail, which was tied with a blush-pink ribbon that matched her dress. She lowered her hand and parted her lips, shimmering with berry-pink lip balm, to speak. “I’m sorry, Mr. Otis, but you’re wrong about witches.”

  Mr. Otis returned the chalk to the long aluminum tray that ran beneath the blackboard. He seemed more intrigued than annoyed at her interruption, and when he smiled at her, Vlad could tell his interest was genuine. “Am I?”

  Meredith brushed a stray brunette curl from her cheek. “My friend Catherine and her family practice witchcraft. There’s really nothing mythological about it.” To emphasize her point, Meredith removed her berry lip balm from her desk and glossed her lips.

  Mr. Otis looked from Meredith to the chalkboard. He pinched his chin between his thumb and the knuckle of his pointer finger and looked the class over a moment before speaking. “Indeed. You are absolutely correct.” His lips curled in a smile. “However, there is a stark difference between the reality of witchcraft and what the Grimm Brothers would have you believe. It is the mythical variety that we will be focusing our attention on today.” He returned to the board and paused. “In truth, I believe that all of the creatures we are studying have existed or do exist, in some form or another.”

  Sylvia Snert didn’t bother raising her hand, nor did she even attempt to hide her doubt. “You think werewolves are real?”

  “As a matter of fact, Miss Snert, I know that they are. Lycanthropy is the psychological belief that one is, in fact, a werewolf. It is well documented and still prevalent even today. And an entire family in Mexico has been reported to suffer from a rare genetic mutation that causes furlike hair to grow all over their bodies. It is known as the ‘Werewolf Disorder.’ ”

  Sylvia snorted. “And vampires? Are they real, too?”

  Mr. Ot
is closed his eyes for a moment and then opened them again; irritation mixed with his tone. “Of course. Take our own Mr. Tod, for example.”

  Vlad couldn’t breathe. Every eye in the class was on him. He shrank down in his seat, trying to be invisible. If he succeeded, he’d have to remember to take a trip to the girls’ locker room, just for Henry’s sake.

  “He bears the first name of the most famous vampire of all, Vlad Tepes—also known as Vlad the Impaler. A Romanian prince who was known to take his supper among his tortured enemies and drink their blood with his meal as if it were a fine wine. He was a vicious, cruel, ingenious man.” Mr. Otis flipped open a book on his desk and regarded Sylvia with a stern glance. “But Vlad’s day will come. Today we are talking about witches.”

  Vlad relaxed and straightened in his seat. He smiled when Sylvia shot him a glare. It was pretty cool to know you shared a name with somebody famous—even if they were famous for human slaughter.

  The rest of the day flew by, with Vlad daydreaming during most of it. When the final bell rang, Vlad slipped his books quickly into his backpack and, hoisting it over his shoulder, rushed toward the door. If he hurried, he might make it to the corner before Bill and Tom noticed his exit. Despite his mind-reading episode with Tom several weeks ago, their antics had continued, if not worsened. Vlad had had his books knocked out of his hands and his backpack run up the flagpole more times than he could count. He didn’t care to repeat the experiences.

  Mr. Otis was still at his desk, pen in hand, that now-familiar scrawl scribbled out on several papers in front of him. “Could I have a word with you, Vlad?”

  Vlad hesitated, wondering if Mr. Otis had seen him in Mr. Craig’s house the other night. He hadn’t noticed anything particularly suspicious since then, but he’d been watching. Vlad dropped his bag on the floor, contemplating whether Bill and Tom would wait for him after school. They’d done it before and would again, he wagered, but there was no way he could rush off when his teacher had told him to stay. “Am I in trouble?”

  Mr. Otis raised his eyebrows in surprise. “No, no. Nothing like that. I merely wished to speak with you about a personal matter.”

  “Oh yeah?” Vlad had no clue what sort of personal matter his teacher might want to discuss with him.

  Then it hit him.

  Maybe Mr. Otis wanted to reveal that he had known Mr. Craig, that he knew something about Mr. Craig’s disappearance, or worse, that he’d been involved. Vlad’s imagination seized every resource in his brain and flashed chilling images of abduction and murder through his mind. Some of the scenes were quite grisly and made his stomach twist and turn. He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again, his imagination’s wanderings once more under control.

  Mr. Otis shifted in his seat, as if the subject of personal matters was making him uncomfortable. “I met your aunt yesterday at the market. She inquired about my perhaps joining you both for dinner some evening, but I told her I’d like to discuss it with you first. Does that make you uncomfortable at all?”

  Of course it made him uncomfortable. And a little nauseous, too, considering that his aunt had asked his teacher on what could be considered a date. But it would be the perfect opportunity to get Mr. Otis to spill his guts on just why his top hat was hanging in Mr. Craig’s house. Vlad picked up his bag again and swung it over his shoulder. “I don’t mind, but I should warn you . . . she’s a terrible cook.” Vlad smiled and so did Mr. Otis. “I better go, though. Henry’s waiting.” He turned and slipped out the door, hoping that Henry was indeed waiting for him or, at the very least, that Bill and Tom weren’t.

  Vlad rolled over and cursed at the alarm clock on his night-stand. It was almost two in the morning, and he still couldn’t sleep.

  He picked up the large book he’d found weeks ago in the attic and moved toward the door. The book was several inches thick; the leather of its cover felt old and warm in his hands. Two big buckles were strapped across the front. Vlad ran his fingers over the locks thoughtfully and wondered, not for the first time, what the pages contained. A rebel floorboard near the door betrayed him and squeaked loudly under his foot. He placed his ear against the door and listened. Nothing. The door creaked as he pulled it open and peered into the dark library. It was empty, but for the sleeping presence of Amenti.

  Amenti was curled up in the leather wingback chair in the corner. She raised her head, blinked, and meowed at Vlad, her tone that of a question. “It’s just me, Amenti.” He slid open the candle drawer as quietly as he could.

  “What are you doing up?”

  Nelly’s voice startled him and he fumbled, nearly dropping the mysterious tome on his foot. Steadying his hands, Vlad smiled sheepishly at her. “Couldn’t sleep. What about you?”

  She offered a chastising head shake, and then her smile bloomed. “Me neither. Want some tea?”

  By tea she meant, of course, microwaved blood in a teacup, but Nelly had such a sweet way of making him feel completely normal. Not that being a vampire was bizarre or anything, certainly not abnormal. But sometimes, when he was putting on his sunblock in the morning or when Henry would describe the incredible lasagna his mom made, he felt a small pang of jealousy for humans. They had it so easy. Try worrying about your fangs popping out at inopportune moments or having to avoid garlic because one taste could make you deathly ill or forcing yourself to stay awake all day even though down to the cellular level, you were more of a night person. Oh yeah—humans had it way easy, as far as Vlad was concerned.

  He followed Nelly down to the kitchen, where she dropped the kettle on the stove and heated up a cup of tangy blood for Vlad in the microwave. Vlad dipped a chocolate-chip cookie into his cup and bit into it. Something about the taste of chocolate and blood mixed together in his mouth just felt right. Vlad sipped from his cup and picked up another cookie.

  Nelly dunked a tea bag into the steamy water in her mug. She ran a curious finger over the symbol on the front of the book. “What are you reading? I don’t remember this. Is it one of mine?”

  “I found it in the attic. I’m not reading it, though.” He pointed to the locks with his cookie, still tinged deep red with his “tea.” “It’s locked and I have no idea how to open it.”

  Nelly tapped the cover. “I’ll just bet you this was one of your father’s. Tomas was always collecting strange old books.”

  “This was the only one I found up there.”

  Nelly wasn’t listening. She was up and rummaging around in a drawer, mumbling to herself the way she did whenever she was looking for anything. With a triumphant squeal, she turned back to Vlad and dropped a ring of keys on the table. “Your parents gave me copies of all their keys on the off chance they lost any of them. I’ll just bet you it’s on there.”

  Vlad sucked down the last of his tea and, shoving two more cookies into his mouth, grabbed the book and keys and headed back upstairs to his bedroom. He flopped on the bed with the book in hand. There were more than a dozen keys on the ring, and Vlad shuffled through the ones he recognized, as there was no use trying them: keys to the house, the garage, the lockbox where Mom had kept things like birth certificates and Social Security cards, the cars. That left ten keys. Vlad slipped the first one in and turned it. Nothing. He moved through them one by one until there was only one key left to try.

  The remaining key was longer than the rest, and its tip was shaped like a woman’s head. At least, it looked like a woman’s head to Vlad. She had round, pudgy cheeks and pursed lips. On her head was a small crown. He placed the tip of the key against the lock.

  It was too big.

  Cursing under his breath, Vlad tossed the keys onto the bed, running his hand through his hair in frustration. He pulled the book closer and ran a finger along the shape on the cover. The glyph glowed brightly at his touch. Vlad pulled his hand away with a gasp.

  The symbol darkened.

  Vlad looked from the book to his hand and back, and with a curious eyebrow raised, he placed his palm against the glyph. I
t flashed, as if charged by his touch. He tried to pull his arm away, but his hand was glued to the spot. Frowning, he pulled again. His hand wouldn’t budge. The locks clicked, and as they popped open, the light dimmed and released Vlad’s hand. He rubbed his palm, debating whether or not he should look inside when the outside was so bizarre.

  Nudging the straps aside, he opened the front cover and was greeted by a line of strange symbols. He flipped through the pages—some had strange drawings of weapons and altars; most were filled with paragraphs of a bizarre symbol language that Vlad couldn’t understand. With a sigh, he rolled onto his back.

  The book slipped off the bed and made a rather loud thump on the floor. Vlad reached for it, pausing with interest at the page that had fallen open in the book’s descent.