Authors: Kristi Cook
Mostly I’d revisited “Crying Kate” and “Expelled Cece,” studying the visions from every possible angle. “Expelled Cece” wasn’t happening till wintertime—there was a significant amount of snow on the ground outside our window, I’d discovered. There was plenty of time to worry about that one.
But “Crying Kate” was coming soon—this fall, for sure. Before the Halloween Fair dance, which meant it was imminent, unless I could find a way around it. Unfortunately, I had very little to go on. Still inside the vision, I shook my head. There was nothing new to see.
I opened my eyes, allowing myself to return to the present, to Dr. Byrne’s cramped office.
“How’d that go?” he asked, his chin propped in the palm of one hand, his elbow resting on the desk.
“Eh,” I answered with a shrug. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course. Anything.”
I took a deep breath before speaking, carefully considering my words. “What would you do if you saw something—something about a friend—that would only hurt them to know in advance. Something that … well, that your friend probably couldn’t do anything to prevent, anyway. Because it was … well, about someone else’s feelings. Something that can’t be controlled. Would you warn them anyway?”
“You mean like a shift in someone’s affection, something like that?”
“Yes, Dr. Byrne,” I said, amazed at his perception. “Something
exactly
like that.”
“You know, every time you call me Dr. Byrne, I want to look over my shoulder for my dad. I know it’s expected in the classroom, but maybe here during our sessions you could just call me Matthew. You called your old coach by her first name, didn’t you?”
“Sandra? Sure, but she isn’t a teacher.”
“Actually, she is. She teaches aerobics. A PE elective.”
“Really? I didn’t know that.” It made sense, considering she was always wearing perky little track suits. “So, Matthew, huh? You don’t look like a Matthew.” It just seemed too … I don’t know, traditional, maybe? Too biblical.
A slow smile spread across his face. “What
do
I look like?”
“I don’t know.” I studied him, considering the question. Dark hair, dark eyes. Chiseled cheekbones with a scruffy dayold beard. “A Zach, maybe? Or a Sam. You could probably get away with Matt, though.”
“My grandma calls me Matty,” he said with a wince. “And don’t even
think
about it.”
I held up my hands in surrender. “Hey, don’t worry. I don’t think I could say it without laughing.”
He raised one eyebrow. “For what it’s worth, you don’t look much like a Violet, either.”
I nodded. “Yeah, I know. My middle name is Ashton—my mom’s maiden name. I always liked it better.”
He studied me back, his head tipped thoughtfully, his index finger resting on his cheek. “Ashton? Yeah, I can see that. Anyway, to answer your question, I probably wouldn’t tell him—my friend, I mean—if I’d had a vision like you described. Have you had a lot of luck preventing things? Once you see them?”
“Not before I came to Winterhaven. But here … well, I’m comfortable warning people here about stuff I see. And I actually managed to prevent my gran’s housekeeper from slipping and breaking her hip last year. Of course, I
didn’t
see my gran having a stroke a few months later.”
“It’s annoying how we don’t see everything, isn’t it? What’s the point of saving someone from one calamity only to have someone else fall victim to another that we didn’t foresee?”
I let out my breath in a huff. “Exactly. Seriously, I just don’t get the point of it. This gift, I mean.”
“Well, what’s the point of any of them, really? Except to give us a slight advantage over more normal folks. Some think we’re representative of an evolved species. Maybe we are, I don’t know.” He shrugged. “I guess it’s come in handy now and then. I’d rather be Spider-Man, though.”
“Spider-Man? He wears tights, you know.”
With an easy laugh, he picked up a newspaper from his desk and tossed it toward me. “Unfortunate fashion choices aside, at least I could be useful in fighting crime. Did you see this?”
I picked up the paper and scanned the headline.
VAMPIRE STALKER STRIKES AGAIN
, it proclaimed in bold, black type. “Vampire Stalker? What do they mean, strikes
again
?”
He looked at me like I’d grown two heads. “Haven’t you been following the news?”
I dropped the paper to my lap. “Who has time to follow the news with the workload around here? What’s going on?”
“Three victims so far, all in Manhattan, all female. Puncture wounds to the neck, heavy blood loss. Thus the moniker.”
“It’s stupid,” I said. “The name. Sounds like someone who stalks vampires.”
“Yeah, but you know how the media is. They love dramatic-sounding nicknames. You know, like the Zodiac Killer.”
I nodded in agreement. He had a point.
“Anyway, here’s the really weird part. The police have questioned all three victims, and none of them remember anything about the attack. It’s like it’s been totally wiped from their memory. The police think it’s some crazy, delusional guy who thinks he’s a vampire. Of course, we know it could be something else entirely.”
“You mean like an actual vampire,” I said, stating the obvious.
He nodded. “It
is
possible.”
“Well, from what I understand, this would be … well, unacceptable. Leaving the wounds visible like that …” I trailed off, shaking my head. “That’s not the way they do it. It’s not allowed.”
“I’m glad to hear they have rules, at least.”
My stomach lurched uncomfortably. “We shouldn’t be talking about this. Anyway, I’m no expert.” I handed back the newspaper.
He took it and laid it on the corner of his desk. “Clearly, you know enough. Anyway, just promise me you’re being careful.”
I looked up sharply, preparing myself for yet another lecture about the dangers of dating a vampire.
“I don’t mean like that,” he said, obviously misinterpreting my expression. “Though as a teacher and dorm master, of course I
do
mean like that, too.” He was actually blushing. “But I meant maybe you should stay away from Manhattan for the time being. At least until Spider-Man manages to solve the crime.”
“Or Batman,” I offered.
“Sorry, I’m purely a Marvel man. Anyway, what should we work on next, now that you’ve got the whole ‘recall’ thing down pat? Or have I fully served my purpose now?”
The truth was, I wanted to keep working with him. I’d come to enjoy our sessions together, the time spent with someone who shared my gift—even if he
was
a teacher.
A very young, very good-looking teacher,
I thought, remembering Aidan’s words.
“There must be
some
other skills you can teach me,” I said, feeling my own blush creep up my neck.
“Sure,” he said with a shrug. “I’ve got a few more tricks up my sleeve. We won’t be able to meet next Saturday, though. You’ve got the SATs.”
“Ugh, don’t remind me.”
“You’ll do fine, Violet. Your practice test scores were great.”
Surprisingly enough, they were. “Will you be proctoring it?”
“No, they like to have an empath proctor the actual test. Makes sense, really. Helps with the nerves. You’ll probably have Señora Díaz.” One of the Spanish teachers—I didn’t know her, but I’d heard good things about her.
“Well, I guess I should go,” I said, rising.
“Yeah, I guess so.” He stood, rolling his sleeves up as he did so, once again exposing the bottom edge of his tattoo.
“You’ve got a tattoo,” I said before I thought better of it. “Kind of edgy for a science teacher at a stuffy boarding school.” Again, my cheeks flamed. What had loosened my tongue like that? I mean, I guess I considered him kind of a friend at this point—an ally. But still …
“Hey, Winterhaven is anything but stuffy,” he countered, pushing up his sleeve farther, revealing the entire image inked onto his bicep. “But yeah, it really enhances my ‘professorial’ image, don’t you think?”
I took a step toward him, examining it. I’d been right—it was some sort of dagger. Almost like a medieval-looking cross, with a daggerlike blade. Layered atop it was an elaborately scripted letter
M. For Matthew
.
He was watching me closely, as if gauging my reaction. “That’s pretty cool,” I said at last. “I like it.”
“I’m glad you approve,” he said with a laugh, releasing his sleeve.
“I was kind of thinking of getting one myself. When I’m eighteen, I mean.” I stopped, totally taken aback. I had no idea where that idea had come from. It had literally just popped into my head as I said it.
Suddenly the need was there—a pressing, burning desire. I could see the image as clearly as if I were having one of my visions. A small tattoo on the inside of my right wrist. A stake—my smooth, shiny hawthorne stake—with a butterfly resting on it. I had no idea where the image had come from or what it meant. But I knew that I wanted it, that I
would
have it. Eventually.
“Well, then, here’s the best advice I’ve heard where tattoos are concerned: Figure out what design you want, and then wait a year. If after a year you still want that same image, then get it. And yeah, eighteen is the magic number.”
Eighteen
. The year I would officially “come of age” as a
Sâbbat
, but he couldn’t know that. Five months from now, I realized, goose bumps rising on my skin. What would happen then? I had no idea, and I was more than a little afraid to find out.
H
ow was practice?” Aidan asked as I lowered myself to the grass beside him.
I blew out a long breath. “Fine, but I’m exhausted. The SATs yesterday just about killed me.” It had been a
long
day. I lay back against the cool grass, glad I was wearing a hoodie. It was finally starting to feel like fall.
The branches of a tree arched over us, its brilliant red leaves ruffling in the breeze. The crisp air smelled vaguely of smoke and leaf mold. Fall smells.
“I still can’t believe I actually sat the test,” Aidan said.
“I’m glad you did.” I sat up and reached for his hand, eyeing him appreciatively as I did so. He was wearing a black leather jacket with a black T-shirt beneath it. His long, jeans-clad legs were stretched out in front of him. As always, the sight of him made my breath catch in my throat. “Hey, have you gotten all your college apps done?”
“I still don’t see the point, but yeah, they’re done.”
I rolled my eyes. “The point is, you’re going to be cured by then.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Look how close you are, Aidan. I swear, you seem almost normal now. These past couple of weeks …” I trailed off, shaking my head.
There had been a definite shift in his personality—he was a little more possessive than before, less sure of himself, maybe. And despite his claim that he’d been sleeping soundly at night for the first time in more than a century, he somehow seemed fatigued. Less infallible. More …
human
. I was worried about him, even while I was relieved. It was a confusing combination of feelings.
“Have you even had to, you know”—I glanced around to make sure no one was within earshot, then dropped my voice to a whisper, just to be sure—“feed lately?”
“Not once,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ve had no real urge to feed.”
I gave his hand a squeeze. It felt different, I realized. Maybe a degree warmer than usual. “Well, you’re getting closer then.”
“The closer we get, the more out of reach it seems. I swear, sometimes I think I should just give up.”
“No way. You are
not
giving up. Not now.” He was going to find his cure, and we were going to go to college next year—together. We’d decided on several schools, an even half dozen: NYU, Columbia, Princeton, and Emory, plus St. Andrews in Scotland and the American University of Paris.
Personally, I thought the list seemed overly ambitious, but my guidance counselor insisted that given my grades and academic record, it was perfectly reasonable. I hoped she was right.
With a sigh Aidan turned my hand over and began tracing the lines on my palm with his index finger. “Do you know what I despise the most about myself?” He didn’t wait for my reply. “The fact that I have no talents—no true passions. Like you with your fencing, or Max with his music. During my mortal life I was way too spoiled, too lazy to bother. But since I was turned”—he shook his head—“I’ve had nothing
but
time. How easily I could have mastered something—a dozen somethings. I should have composed a symphony by now, painted a masterpiece, won an Olympic medal. I didn’t have a single extracurricular activity to list on my applications. Not one.”
I hated the despair in his voice. “I think you’re being way too hard on yourself, Aidan. Look at how much you’ve accomplished with your research. That’s got to count for something.”
“It’s not the same. I swear, if I were an adult I’d be one of those men who are completely obsessed with work. You know, the ones who only go home to shower and change their clothes. Speaking of which, I’ve got to head back to the lab in a little while. Dr. Byrne is meeting me and Jack to try out something new.”
“What about Tyler?” I asked.
“What about him?”
“Do you think he could help you guys? I mean, he’s been working with Jack, hasn’t he?”
He shook his head. “Too many people know my secret as it is—I can’t afford the risk. Dr. Byrne tiptoes around the word, but it’s clear he knows exactly what we’re dealing with.”
“Matthew would never tell,” I said with a shrug. “He wants to help, that’s all.”
Aidan’s sharp gaze met mine. “Matthew?”
Uh-oh.
“Dr. Byrne, I mean.”
“He’s ‘Matthew’ now? Just how close are you two?” His eyes were a stormy gray now.
“It’s his—I mean—that’s what he asked me to call him during our coaching sessions,” I stammered. “Just—never mind.”
“If I ever
do
get the urge to feed again, I know who to go after first,” he said through gritted teeth.