"Ha! No one enforces that. Take me, for example. There I am, fresh from a wonderful performance as Oberon and feeling generous, so I agree to let the fan who has been sitting in the front row for the past ten shows back for a chat and an autograph. And what does she do? The crazy lady bites me. The next thing I know I'm staring up at her and she's saying that she has given me a very special gift and that now I am something called Vandervelde and she will make sure that I am offered a spot in the Danae because she has very powerful connec-"
He stops when he sees my face, which I'm sure is leeched of all color now that he's snipped the small thread of hope I was clinging to. He does his best to train his expression into something encouraging.
"But no, he is not supposed to, and I imagine he will not want to risk the Danae's displeasure. They do like enforcing rules even if they themselves do not follow them," he says before adding more brightly, "Worst-case scenario, he does make you a vampire, but you will still have to agree to marry him. Forced marriages have been held as unlawful in the vampire community for at least three decades."
"You mean centuries," James corrects.
"No, decades," Neville says cheerfully and then gives me a thumbs-up.
Yet another compelling reason for my Why I Should Not Become a Vampire list. The giddiness that came from finding out that everyone was still alive is starting to fade, slowly replaced by a simmering panic. A week is not much time. I need a plan. I need a plan and a big laser gun that takes out any vampires who want to marry me.
"We'll protect you," James says firmly, and while I admit that for a moment my heart melts like a microwaved Reese's Peanut Butter Cup, hiding behind vampire bunkers is only going to get me so far.
"There are five of us, and three of him if you include Ashley and Devon," I say. "There has to be a way that we can get him out of our lives for good."
At first no one says anything, and I wonder how I can be the only one who thinks Vlad has worn out his welcome on this planet.
"Before we can plan anything," Neville says, "we need to deal with-" The gong of the doorbell interrupts him, and the room falls silent; it's probably too much to hope that someone in this crowd ordered a pizza. One second Neville is sitting beside me, and the next he is at one of the small windows, leaning as far forward as it will allow. "I cannot tell from here," he says, "but I find it hard to imagine that he would ring the doorbell before coming to kill us."
I'm about to say that I wouldn't be so sure, but footsteps are already thundering up the stairs. James and Neville flank the door on either side, alert and ready to strike. Whoever is on the other side knocks lightly.
"Are you in there?" Violet chirps. "There is a woman at the door with a very large container. She is asking if Sophie is here, and would like to speak to James as well."
James looks at me questioningly.
"Um, yeah. Marcie knows you're living here," I say and then hold up my hands when he seems perturbed. "Sorry, but I kind of thought Vlad took precedence on the list of things to worry about."
Before he can answer, Violet knocks again. "Hello? I have told her I would return with a decision on whether or not she is to be admitted."
I'm sure that went over well. "We probably have a better chance of getting Vlad to leave town than getting Marcie to leave the door," I tell them.
"Okay," James says. "We'll be down in a second."
When we open the door, Marcie is doing her best to sweep fallen leaves off the porch with the side of her foot while holding a large foil tray of what I would guess is her famous baked ziti. As soon as she sees James she places it on the ledge and gives him a hug, rambling the whole time about how she knows he is a teenager now but she is going to do it anyway.
"I was so sorry to hear about your parents," she says when she pulls away. "Are you all right? Do you need anything? Sophie should have told me that you were back."
"I'm doing okay," James says, a little dazzled. "Thank you for the cake. And the card."
"Oh, you were always so polite," she says, and then looks at me for the first time. "Unlike some children I know."
So this is how she will wreak her vengeance; she will embarrass me to death. There's no great excuse for why I wouldn't have mentioned this to her, so I play the dumb teenager card. "Sorry," I say. "I forgot."
Marcie says nothing, just picks up the tray of ziti. "Can I put this in the kitchen?" she asks James, trying to peer around him.
"I'll do it," I say, eager to escape. After grasping the tray by its edges, I do my best to telegraph a message to James. If she steps foot in the house, we'll be lucky if she thinks James is a vampire rather than a serial killer.
When I get to the kitchen, I flip the wall switch. Yellow light floods the room, exposing a grimy tile floor and a row of empty shelves to my left, their contact paper curling up at the edges. I set the ziti down next to a familiar maroon cake pan-Marcie's previous offering-just as the refrigerator rattles to life. I stare at the metal handle, suddenly gripped by a perverse curiosity. After a few futile seconds, I give in, and then wish that I hadn't. One dark red pouch sits by the meat tray, looking lonely and viscous.
"Marcie went back next door," James says from behind me, and I whirl around to find him leaning against the entryway, watching me calmly. I slam the door shut, embarrassed to be caught rudely poking around in his refrigerator, but he just asks me if I want a drink. "I have water. Well, water and . . . I have water." While I'm still struggling to overcome my shame, he moves to the cabinet and grabs a novelty mug that says, "Don't Let the Bastards Get You Down." After filling it, he hands it to me. "This was left here, by the way. It's not a personal motto."
I take a sip. The water has a metallic edge, and I'm pretty sure that's dust I'm tasting on the rim, but I am nervous enough that I drink it anyway. "So how were you able to get rid of Marcie?"
"She spotted Neville and Marisabel on the stairs, and I told her we were busy working on a group project for school," he says. "I don't think she really bought it, but I still have enough sympathy points that she wasn't going to challenge me. But you might not want to ever go home."
I can only imagine. I look around for a place to sit down, but there are no chairs, only a precarious-looking folding table set up in one corner. Crossing my fingers that it doesn't collapse beneath me, I jump up and joke that maybe I could stay here.
He takes a seat beside me. "Why not?" he says. "Everyone else is. Just don't say that you want the bedroom with the purple curtains."
"I would definitely want the one with the bed," I say and then realize how that sounds. I wonder if I will ever be able to flirt intentionally, as opposed to just accidentally.
"Really?" he says, a little too innocently.
I can do this-I can say something flirtatious and mean to. "Or maybe not. You were always horrible at sharing your things," I tease, but then realize that was just an insult said with an eyebrow wiggle.
James leans in close enough that our arms touch and he smiles, slow and deliberate. "I've gotten better."
I think all of my internal organs just evaporated. "Why do you have a bed if you don't sleep?" I blurt. "It looks new."
"Yeah, that's not where I thought this conversation was going at all," he says before settling back against the wall. "I ordered it. I mean, I sit on it. And sometimes if I close my eyes and lie still for a long time I can . . . blank out for a little bit. It feels like sleeping." He rubs his eyes. "I guess I should get used to it."
In the midst of all the fighting, and preparing, and fielding my stepmother, we haven't had a chance to think about Vlad's big party revelation. "Do you want to talk about it?" I ask.
"What's there to talk about?" he asks bitterly. "I was stupid enough to believe Vlad, and then I was stupid enough to follow Vlad. It serves me right."
"But that doesn't mean-"
"It's fine, Sophie," he says in a way that suggests it's not fine at all.
Unsure of what to say, I look around the room. The previous owner left a decorative plate over the window. Pumpkins dance around the rim, and the central figure is an apron-wearing turkey. Someone went a little crazy at a Yankee Peddler Party.
"I should take that down," he says. "It's weird. And sometimes I think it's staring at me." Realizing that he's answered an unspoken thought again, he shoots me an apologetic look. "Sorry. Your opinion on the plate was very strong."
It's a little eerie how much I've started to take the mind-dropping in stride. "There are worse things, you know."
"Than inheriting turkey apron plates?"
"No! Worse things than being a . . . well, you know."
He doesn't answer at first, and I assume I've tried to push too far again. But then he says, "Like what?"
I hate it when people ask for examples. "Well, you could be dead dead, for one thing. And don't even say that would be better," I order before he has a chance to say anything stupid.
"I wasn't."
"Good. And you could be one of those vampires who looks like Batboy and has to sleep in the dirt of his homeland."