His lips twitch into the tiniest smile. "Tell me more, vampire expert."
I choose to ignore the subtle mockery in his voice as long as this makes him feel better. "You could get all bumpy when you want to, er, drink." I watch him, nervous that he can sense my lingering uneasiness with his new diet, and then point to my forehead. "Like a Klingon. Or an allergy victim."
"You sure do know a lot about vampires," he says, leaning close enough that our shoulders touch again.
"I know a normal amount," I say, embarrassed and more than a little distracted. "I can find you twenty people who know more. Most of them have book deals." I suddenly remember something else. "Oh! Oh! You could've lost your soul."
"Lost my soul?"
"Yeah. And while it doesn't completely rule out romance, it makes it trickier."
"We wouldn't want that."
"Nope," I agree before realizing that the atmosphere has suddenly turned . . . crackly? I don't know. What I do know is that his eyes are warm as he leans forward; this is either a kiss or a very slow head-butt. And as much as I would like to make out right now on this card table, I don't think that I can add another Serious Life Development to the pile. Not with everything else swirling around me.
"Vlad wants to marry me!" I blurt when he is only inches away.
He pulls back, obviously uncertain how to react. "Congratulations?" he tries.
"No, I mean, I want to figure out this Vlad thing before I can think of . . . anything else," I say.
"Oh," he says. "Okay."
"Right."
"Yes, right."
There's a moment of awkward silence. "So . . . any great ideas? I think that we should tell him there's a one-day boot sale in an abandoned warehouse and then pour molten lava on him from way high up in the rafters."
James just looks at me with an expression that I am choosing to interpret as admiration. "You are an interesting person, Sophie McGee," he says. "A strange, interesting person."
Says the teenage vampire who only buys furniture he doesn't actually need. "What's your idea then? Preferably something that can be done by Monday."
"Why Monday?"
"School."
"You're kidding me."
"There's a soccer game that I have to cover."
"So find someone else to do it."
"Yeah, because pawning off articles is going to look really good when Mr. Amado is about to pick editor in chief. Anyway, since he thinks he's already found me, maybe he won't even go."
"Do you really want to risk it?"
Truth be told, the thought of meeting Vlad again post-proposal makes my skin crawl more now than when I thought he just wanted to kill me. I don't want to risk it. Considering that so far the only thing that's slowed him down at all is Caroline, my house might be the safest place yet. But still.
"We can come up with something. All we need to do is . . ." I trail off, realizing that maybe it's presumptuous to think that the other vampires will want to help me. But when I say so, James just shakes his head.
"It's not that. Neville wants to fix this, and I'm pretty sure Marisabel would be first in line to help take Vlad down. Violet will probably just fight in whatever direction you point her."
"Then-"
"We're out of blood," he says. "Last night took a lot out of us, and I barely had enough just to make sure that everyone healed. We can't even think about going up against Vlad until we're at full strength."
"Oh," I say. "What do you guys normally, uh, do about that?"
"We've never done much of anything," he says. "Vlad handled all of that stuff. He liked to hit up blood drives-there are usually a lot of volunteers and people are a little more lax with their records. But first we have to find one, and then we have to get there. Just stay at home for the next couple of days," he says. "And then we can all come up with a plan."
"I hate hiding."
"You're not hiding," James says, "you're playing the long game. Think of it like a giant game of chess, only one with vampires instead of bishops."
"Fine," I say, reluctantly agreeing to lay low but leaving out the most important thing: I've always been horrible at chess.
Chapter Sixteen
I call Mark Echolls on Sunday to ask if he can cover the soccer game on Monday because I'm going to be out for "personal reasons," aka crazy vampires. The crushing silence that follows my request does not bode well.
"Look, Mark," I say, "I know that you're mad-"
"Do you know what the musical people made me do last week? They made me try on a basketball jersey, sing a song with them, and then attempt to harmonize."
"I'm sorry, but-"
"I don't even care about journalism!" he says, loudly enough that the phone buzzes a little. "Having an excuse to talk to those girls is the only reason I take that dumb class in the first place. Without the paper angle, I'm just the creepy dork who sits on the sidelines."
"So . . . you'll do it?" I ask hopefully.
There's a long pause, but eventually he mutters yes. "What about Thursday's tennis match?" he asks.
That would mean that two of the stories on my page were written by someone else. One is acceptable, two could make me look like a slacker when it comes time to count the bylines.
"I'll let you know," I say.
"Whatever," he says and hangs up before I can even say thank you.
Ten years of being a perfect-attendance nut makes faking sick on Monday a breeze. Even though I'm still on her bad side, Marcie doesn't question me when I tell her that I'm too nauseated to go to school, just sends me back upstairs with Sprite and a packet of crackers. Monday passes without incident, but when the doorbell rings on Tuesday night, I'm gripped with fear that it's Vlad reneging on our agreement. Caroline's glower when she comes up to tell me that I have a visitor doesn't help.
"James Hallowell is here," she says and then makes a point to stomp loudly down the stairs. I've obviously violated some secret sister rule, but right now I'm too relieved to worry about it; if James is here, it has to mean that the vampires are stocked up and ready to plan. Since the "Hey! It's my birthday" T-shirt I got on my last trip to Se?or Miguel's with a chocolate stain over one boob is not my most flattering outfit, I wiggle into jeans and a gray hoodie and then hop downstairs. I find him on the couch in the living room, doing his best to fend off Marcie's offers of leftover lasagna. It's never a battle anyone wins.
"I'll tell you what," Marcie is saying, her head poking out of the kitchen. "I'll put some in a Tupperware container."
"Really, don't worry abou-nope, nope, she's gone," he says and lets his head fall back against the cushion in defeat. But he smiles when he sees me. "Hey. Want to come over for some lasagna?"
Considering Marcie has been allowing me nothing but Saltines and some oatmeal that she found at the back of the cabinet, yes, I do. But I have a feeling that will hurt my case if I have to finagle another day at home.
"Using the doorbell," I say. "I'm impressed."
He shrugs. "It was time. Next, car horns."
I plop down on the cushion next to him. "So do you have a plan?"
"Sort of," he says. "There's a drive at a high school a couple of hours away, but it's not until Thursday and we need a car."
"You can take mine," I say even as my stomach twists into a tighter knot of worry. Thursday is the day of the tennis match, which means that I'll have to ask Mark Echolls to cover for me again. I try to reassure myself that there are other things I can do to impress Mr. Amado, but it's getting harder and harder to believe that I can possibly have a chance after all of this.
My thoughts are interrupted by James asking me what is wrong, and for once I don't talk about the journalism assignments-it's not like I can ask people to donate blood sooner. So instead I get up to grab my keys off the helpfully labeled hook on the doorway. "You should probably get it after nine," I say. "My dad will already be gone and Marcie spends most of Thursday mornings doing errands. But if anyone notices, I'll figure out some kind of excuse."
"Got it," he says, and then comes to meet me at the doorway. "See you Thursday?"
"You're leaving?" I ask, fighting off a twinge of disappointment as I hand the keys over.
"Marcie told me you were sick and that I couldn't stay long. I don't want to blow your cover," he says, but he leans against the door and looks around. "Your house is exactly the same. It's nice."
The low light of the front hallway is making him look very warm and touchable. I don't know if it is because I am going stir-crazy, but I suddenly wonder if I was insane not to take all of my kissing chances when I had them. Amusement flickers over his face.
Dammit. "Did you hear that?"
"Hear what?" he asks innocently, but I notice that he moves a little closer. Before I can decide what to do, however, a disgusted huff sounds from my left. Caroline is standing at the foot of the stairs, looking like she's caught us rolling around on the hardwood floor rather than standing side by side.