Bleeding Hearts Page 2

  Anyway, I distinctly remember my mother saying that prom was a Neanderthal throwback to debutante balls that signaled young ladies were eligible for marriage. Now all of a sudden she’s talking about growing orchids in the greenhouse so I can have a pesticide-free homemade corsage. I told her if I had to do sun salutations every time I eat chocolate, she has to do them every time she brings up the prom or anything lame like that.

  Any wonder I’m having so much fun having the crap kicked out of me by a vampire hunter?

  A girl in a red ponytail was jogging around the track below us, smiling. If I wasn’t careful, that would be me. I felt the sudden need for a chocolate bar.

  The sun was starting to sink behind a line of pine trees, leaving streaks of lilac and fire. The shadows were so long, they looked like dark fingers reaching out to touch everyone and everything.

  “I should get home,” I said regretfully.

  God. I was regretting having to leave Helios-Ra.

  I had to get my priorities back in line.

  Which would be easier to do if I could go over to the Drakes’ and hang out with Solange. But I had a curfew now, which sucked, and Solange was acting weird, which sucked more. And one of the many new rules implemented since my parents’ return was that my cousin and I had to be home before dark, period. If we wanted to go out after sunset, one of them had to drop us off and pick us up.

  Never mind that I totally knew more about fighting vampires than my peace-loving parents. Or that Logan’s girlfriend, Isabeau, had given us two full-grown, trained Rottweilers to protect us, plus the Drakes sent their human bodyguards by a couple of times a night. I named them Van Helsing and Gandhi. The dogs, not the bodyguards.

  We told Christabel that Violet Hill wasn’t safe at night, that there was some kind of gang war. It was easier than telling her the truth: that there were still too many Hel-Blar vampires in the area who were getting closer and closer to town. They were attacking livestock and, sometimes, people. They even freaked me out, and I’d grown up with vampires. They were feral, had a mouthful of fangs, and stank of rotten mushrooms and stagnant pond water. They didn’t know any logic or master but the hunger. An ordinary vampire had to bite you, drain you, and feed you their blood to change you. A Hel-Blar just had to bite you. Rumor had it their saliva alone was contagious, not just to humans but to other vampires as well. Regular vampires didn’t bite other vampires; it was considered revolting and in bad taste. Literally. Once a vampire had ingested human blood, it had no nutritional value to another vampire. It was just rude, however you looked at it.

  So the Hel-Blar were definitely the uninvited guests at the party. We avoided them as best as we could, but that was becoming difficult. There were more of them than ever before, thanks to vampire politics gone wrong. But at least they mostly came out at night, even the older ones who could theoretically survive sunlight.

  Which is why Christabel and I had a curfew now. It wouldn’t have been so bad if I could have gone to the Drake farmhouse. My curfew didn’t exclude me from visiting them.

  But Solange did.

  And frankly I was getting sick of her emo suffering.

  If she was sulking, she could damn well do it with me in the room. That’s what best friends were for. And if she was feeling guilty because I’d gotten a tiny cut to the back of the head, she could just get over it. As soon as I was able to drive over there and thump some sense into her, I would. Right now we did all of our arguing through texts and e-mails. Hardly satisfying.

  I tossed my damp towel into a laundry basket, grabbed my bags, and followed Hunter down the stairs. A few younger students passed us on their way into the gym. They stared at me like I was a museum exhibit. I only barely resisted the urge to yell “Boo!”

  “What’s with them?” I asked Hunter.

  “Are you kidding? You’re famous.”

  “I’m famous?” She must be joking. The Drakes were famous. Hunter was famous for stopping a Helios-Ra teacher who’d been poisoning students. I was just the mouthy best friend. “Give me a break. You’re the one who took down a teacher.”

  “Yeah, but you’re in with the royals even though you’re human.” Hunter shrugged as we hurried down the path toward the parking lot. I was running a little later than I’d thought. Cue parental breakdown now.

  “Please. The Drakes were banned from court for, what, a century? Two? All of a sudden they’re a big deal? You’re dating one of them—you have to know it’s not good for them to think that.”

  She grinned. “Yeah, Quinn’s ego doesn’t need the boost.”

  “They will be completely insufferable if humans start acting like groupies.” I raised my eyebrows. “I am not a groupie,” I pointed out fiercely.

  “I know.” She held up her hands placatingly.

  “Okay then.” I rummaged around for my keys.

  “You are the first nonstudent ever to be allowed on campus for classes in over fifty years, though.”

  “Go me.” I unlocked the door and slid into the driver’s seat. “Heard from your grandpa yet?”

  “No,” she replied quietly. “He’s still not talking to me.” He was old-school Helios-Ra and he just couldn’t stomach the fact that his vampire-hunter granddaughter was dating a vampire, Drake or otherwise. I felt bad for her. He was the only family she had. She just shrugged and tried not to look like it was bothering her. “Be careful,” she said.

  “Always am.”

  She snorted so loudly I was surprised there wasn’t a small tornado. “Lucy, I’ve only known you for a few weeks, but careful is one thing you’re not.”

  “Yeah, yeah. You all need to get a new speech.” The engine sputtered a little but eventually turned over. Frankly, it was a miracle every time it started. I should so use that on my dad to convince him to buy me a new car. You know, for safety’s sake.

  I waved at Hunter and sped off down the driveway, stopping to punch in my number code so the security gate lifted. Despite the events of the last few weeks, the drive home was uneventful. I passed the usual farms and pumpkin patches and apple orchards. The mountains loomed impressively, the snowcaps looking almost purple at this time of night. Speaking of which, twilight was hitting fast and hard tonight. I dialed home on my cell phone. Christabel answered.

  “I’m just down the street,” I told her. “Tell my parents not to freak out.”

  “They just called,” she said. “They’re in town. Your mom’s making your dad go to some Buddhist relaxation meditation thing.”

  “Did you tell them I was home?” I turned onto our street.

  “I told them I saw your headlights in the driveway.”

  “Thanks, Christa. Be there in five.” I switched off and counted to three out loud. “One … two … three.” The phone rang, right on cue. I answered it, rolling my eyes. “I’m in the driveway, Mom,” I said, pulling up to the garage. “Tell Dad to stop hyperventilating.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. I learned how to punch someone’s jugular.”

  “I’m so proud.” Her tone was as dry as stale crackers. “Look after your cousin.”

  “Mom, she’s two years older than I am. She can take care of herself.”

  “She’s going through a hard time, Lucky.” Even the phone crackled disapprovingly at her use of that hated nickname.

  “I know,” I said quickly. “I only meant that I’m sure she’s fine.”

  “Okay. We won’t be home too late. Don’t eat ice cream for dinner.”

  “I won’t,” I promised. I meant it, too, but only because Mom bought us tofu ice cream. Yuck. Even more gross than drinking blood, if you asked me.

  The porch light was on and I could see Christabel behind the living room curtain, curled up on the couch with a book. The girl read more than anyone I’d ever met. Even when we were little, she preferred the library to the beach. The slamming of the car door echoed, disturbing old man Jeffries’s incontinent poodle across the road. She barked at me through the window
. Gandhi barked back once from inside our house; the poodle whined and fell silent.

  I glanced around before heading toward the house. I hated that all of a sudden the night felt dangerous, suspicious. I used to love sitting out in the garden and watching the stars, but now I had to worry about being mauled to death by Hel-Blar. A shudder in one of the bushes made me pause. My heart hammered loudly, slowly. I sniffed but couldn’t smell mushrooms or mold. Still, maybe the Hel-Blar had learned to use cologne. I couldn’t smell that either, though. I reached for the vial of Hypnos Solange’s uncle Geoffrey had given me. It wasn’t inside my sleeve. It was in my bag. I’d forgotten to reattach it after my class with Hunter. Stupid.

  I reached for another weapon. At least my purse was handy and well stocked.

  I nearly staked a stray cat.

  He hissed at me, back arching, fur like iron spikes. I stumbled back, swearing.

  “Sorry!” I told him. “Life is probably hard enough, living out of garbage cans and hiding from dogs, without some girl waving a pointy stick at you. I promise I’ll leave you some milk, okay?” He hissed again, then sat back and licked his butt. Charming. “I don’t know if that means I’m forgiven, but could you do that somewhere else?”

  I turned away, my palms damp from the adrenaline surge. All this fear was contagious and I didn’t like it one bit. I wiped my hands on my leggings.

  “Were you just apologizing to a cat?”

  I didn’t have time to recognize the voice. I only heard noise where there shouldn’t have been any. More adrenaline sparked through me and I felt like my insides had just been electrocuted. I leaped off the porch, somersaulted in the grass, and jumped to my feet, slightly dizzy.

  Right in front of my smirking boyfriend.

  I didn’t lower my stake. Instead I waved it menacingly. “You scared the crap out of me, Nicholas.”

  “And that was your gut reaction?” he teased, arching an eyebrow. “Gymnastics?”

  “Shut up,” I grumbled. He just grinned. He was wearing dark jeans and a black shirt with a black tie. He looked good, as always. The adrenaline turned into a much more interesting chemical reaction. “Hi.”

  “Hi.” He closed the distance between us, avoiding the pointy end of the stake still clutched in my hand. “Are your parents home?”

  “No.”

  His grin turned seriously delicious. “Good.”

  And then he leaned in to kiss me. I met him halfway, with a grin of my own. His lips were gentle, soft. His arms slid around me, one hand digging into my hair, the other resting on my hip. I leaned in closer, nibbling at his lower lip. He sucked in a breath that made me feel wild and beautiful even though I was still kind of flushed and sweaty from the gym. Vampires didn’t need to breathe; they just did it out of habit, especially young ones like Nicholas. Whenever he made that strangled sound, I knew I was doing something right.

  And then I really couldn’t gloat anymore because the kiss went dark and deep and I couldn’t think at all. I felt the kiss everywhere—on my lips, in my belly, even in my toes. I tingled. I ached. There was nothing but his mouth and his hands. Suddenly the night felt infinitely more dangerous and infinitely more beautiful. It was all shooting stars and moonlight.

  And then he pulled away and I had to struggle to find my breath again.

  “Ready?” he asked, his voice a little rough.

  “Huh?”

  “Ready to go inside?” he explained, one corner of his mouth lifting up. It was surprisingly distracting.

  “Inside?” I repeated dumbly.

  “Movie night, remember?”

  I swallowed. My knees felt weaker than they had after four laps around the evil jogging track at the Helios-Ra campus. “Right.”

  “Lucy?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Your house is this way.” His pale eyes laughed at me.

  I’d been heading for the garage door.

  I shoved him, laughing. “Oh, shut up.”

  Chapter 2

  Christabel

  Lucy and her boyfriend were laughing when they came into the living room, where I was reading Jane Eyre for the six hundredth time. It was my security blanket, characters I knew and loved, red bedrooms full of ghosts and the dark moors. Van Helsing was asleep on the other end of the sofa, his huge, heavy head on my foot. He’d gotten up to look out the window and sniff the front door when Lucy came home and then went right back to his favorite napping spot.

  “Hey,” Lucy said. “Thanks for covering for me with the parentals.” Gandhi trailed after her, sniffing the hem of Nicholas’s pants and wagging his tail. For ferocious guard dogs, they sure had no problem with boyfriends.

  “It’s barely eight o’clock at night and they’re all freaky that you’re not home yet. It’s not like you live in the ghetto.” I paused, folding the top corner of the page to keep my place. My dad used to wince every time he saw me do that, but I think books should be loved to pieces. They should be as worn and soft as flannel. “Does Violet Hill even have a ghetto?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Then what’s up?” Besides the fact that my mother was trying to kill me. There was no other explanation. Not only had she sent me to Violet Hill, the weirdest little backwoods town in the middle of nowhere, but she’d done it one month into my last year of high school.

  In a place where everyone else had grown up together.

  In a place with virtually no bookstores (at least none with more than one floor and windows not crammed with crystals and incense), one movie theater, and more vegan juice bars than coffeehouses. It just sucked.

  I already missed home. I missed the anonymity of the crowded streets, libraries with rare books, and the fact that you could hop on the subway and end up anywhere.

  Most of all I missed my mom.

  I knew it was for the best. She needed treatment; she was getting worse and I just couldn’t take care of her anymore. When my uncle came to stay with us after his hippie van broke down, I could read it in his face. He was worried. I didn’t tell him that was the best Mom had been in weeks. After she got fired from her job at the office supply store, she lost nearly a week to a case of cheap wine. At least she drank the cheap stuff. Not that she had any choice—it wasn’t as if she could afford the expensive stuff. Anyway, she tried. She really did. But she just couldn’t seem to get better on her own. And Uncle Stuart was one of those peace-and-love family types. Before I knew it, my bags were packed and I was in the back of the patchouli wagon on the way to Violet Hill.

  Lucy shrugged. “You know parents.” She had no idea. “We’re going to watch movies. Are you in?”

  I shook my head, getting to my feet. “I’ll go read in my room.”

  “I know for a fact that you’ve read that book a hundred times,” Lucy pointed out.

  I read a lot. I love books. If they came in a bottle, I’d be a drunk too. I’d bloat myself on the wine of Wordsworth, the gin of Charles Dickens, the licorice liqueur of Edgar Allan Poe.

  I bet you can already guess I don’t have a boyfriend. But to quote Pride and Prejudice for a moment: “Adieu to spleen and disappointment! What are men to rocks and mountains?”

  Besides, guys are scared of me. Oh, I catch them looking sometimes. I have long, curly reddish-blond hair, and for some reason it mesmerizes them. I may as well be wearing a bikini. But then they see the ripped jeans, the combat boots, and the Edgar Allan Poe poem I’m reading (because I love it and not because it’s homework), and all of a sudden all the long blond hair in the world just isn’t enough.

  Of course, Simon, my best friend back home, says it’s got nothing to do with any of that. He claims it’s because I stare at guys as if they’re stupid. Can I help it? Am I supposed to giggle and flirt when they say something dumb? Simon says yes. I say no.

  Thus, no boyfriend.

  Also, I use words like “thus.”

  I can’t help it. I love old books best of all, with their wordiness and intricate descriptions of gas lamps and pickpo
ckets. I like historical fiction and poetry too. Not those trendy vampire books though; they just get on my nerves. But Bram Stoker’s Dracula’s all right. Jane Eyre is my favorite book of all time. And I’ve been cultivating a very satisfying literary crush on the poet Percy Bysshe Shelley. I love that his wife, Mary Shelley, who wrote Frankenstein, kept his heart after he died in a handkerchief on the mantel and fought with fellow poet Byron over who should get to keep it.

  I mean, really. What guy could compete with that?

  Especially in this little hick town.

  “You don’t have to go,” Nicholas added. He was so still, I’d almost forgotten he was there. He smiled his serious smile. “If you stay, Lucy’s bad movie choices will be outnumbered. I might actually get to watch something other than a John Hughes or zombie movie.”

  “Hey!” she exclaimed. “B movies are an art form.”

  “Sorry.” I smiled back at him apologetically. I’d watched enough movies with Lucy to know some cute guy would be either shirtless or mangled to death in a deserted cabin in the woods. The one time I tried to get her to watch Pride and Prejudice, she hadn’t been able to sit still. Granted, it was the six-hour version, but come on. What’s not to love?

  I went down the hall, hung with gilt-edged paintings of various Indian gods with multiple arms. My room was the same as the rest of the house: simple wooden furniture; a handmade quilt on the bed; and a clutter of carved wooden boxes, incense holders, and yoga magazines in baskets. There was even a macramé holder for the spider plant in the window. But there was lots of space for my books and nothing smelled like stale wine. It was nice. Even with Van Helsing’s doggy breath. He liked to follow me around.

  It was also eight o’clock on a Friday night, and there was no reason in the world why I should be locked up while Lucy and Nicholas made out in the next room. I used to spend summers here roaming around with Lucy. I should be able to find my way even after all this time. After Dad died and Mom went to pieces, I wasn’t able to leave her alone for an entire summer. She’d have forgotten to eat or pay the rent or take out the garbage. And then our secret would have been out. It was just easier if I stayed home. And I didn’t usually think about this stuff. I just did what needed doing and got good grades so no teachers or social workers would notice us.