I turned to Mallory with an evil grin. "How about we find out how much of the vampire myth is actually myth? Don't vampires have to have an invitation to be in someone's home?"
"I love the way you think," Mal said, then went to the door and opened it. "Helen," she said, "I want you out of my house."
Something stirred in the air, a sudden breeze that blew through the doorway and ruffled Mallory's hair—and raised goose bumps along my arms.
"This is incredibly rude," Helen said, but yanked her satchel up. "Read the book, sign the forms. There's blood in the refrigerator. Drink it—a pint every other day. Stay away from sunlight and aspen stakes, and come when he commands you." She neared the door, and then, suddenly, like someone had flipped the switch on a vacuum, she was sucked onto the stoop.
I rushed to the doorway. Helen stood on the top step, glasses askew, staring back at us in disheveled shock. After a moment, she straightened her skirt and glasses, turned crisply, and walked down the stairs and toward the limo. "That was—very rude," she called back. "Don't think I won't tell Ethan about this!"
I gave her a pageant wave—hand cupped, barely swiveling.
"You do that, Helen," Mallory dared. "And tell him we said to fuck off while you're at it."
Helen turned to look at me, eyes blazing silver. Like, supernaturally silver. "You were undeserving," she sniped.
"I was unconsenting," I corrected and slammed the heavy oak door shut with enough force that it rattled the hinges. After the scritch of rocks on asphalt signaled the limo's retreat, I leaned back against the door and looked at Mallory.
She glared back. "They said you were on campus by yourself in the middle of the night!" She punched my arm, disgust obvious on her face. "What the hell were you thinking?"
That, I thought, was the release of the panic she'd suffered until she learned that I was coming home. It tightened my throat, knowing that she'd waited for me, worried for me.
"I had work to do."
"In the middle of the night?!"
"I said I had work to do!" I threw up my hands, irritation rising. "God, Mallory, this isn't my fault." My knees began to shake. I moved the few steps back to the couch and sat down. Repressed fear, horror, and violation overwhelmed me. I covered my face with my hands as the tears began to fall. "It wasn't my fault, Mallory. Everything—my life, school—is gone, and it wasn't my fault."
I felt the cushion dip beside me and an arm around my shoulders.
"Oh, God, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm freaked out. I was so scared, Mer, Jesus. I know it's not your fault." She held me while I sobbed, rubbed my back while I cried hard enough to hiccup, while I mourned the loss of my life, of my humanity.
We sat there together for a long time, my best friend and I. She offered Kleenex as I replayed the few things I could remember—the attack, the second set of vampires, the cold and pain, the hazy limo ride.
When I'd sobbed my body empty of tears, Mallory stroked the hair from my face. "It'll be okay. I promise. I'll call the university in the morning. And if you can't go back . . . we'll figure something out. In the meantime, you should call your grandfather. He'll want to know you're okay."
I shook my head, not yet ready to have that conversation. My grandfather's love had always been unconditional, but then again, I'd always been human. I wasn't ready to test the correlation. "I'll start with Mom and Dad," I promised. "Then I'll let word trickle down."
"Tacky," Mallory accused, but let it go. "The House, I guess it was, did call me, but I don't know who else they contacted. The call was pretty short. ‘Merit was attacked on campus two nights ago. In order to save her life, we've made her a vampire. She'll return home tonight. She may be dizzy from the change, so please be home to assist her during the first crucial hours. Thank you.' It sounded like a recording, to be real honest."
"So this Ethan Sullivan's a cheapo," I concluded. "We'll add that to the list of reasons we don't like him."
"Him turning you into a soul-sucking creature of the night being number one on that list?"
I nodded ruefully. "That's definitely number one." I shifted and glanced over at her. "They made me like them. He made me like them, this Sullivan."
Mallory made a sound of frustration. "I know. I am so effing jealous." Mal was a student of the paranormal; as long as I'd known her, she'd had a keen interest in all things fanged and freaky. She put her palm to her chest. "I'm the occultist in the family, and yet it's you, the English lit geek, they turn? Even Buffy would feel that sting. Although," she said, her gaze appraising, "you will make damn good research material."
I snorted. "But research material for what? Who the hell am I now?"
"You're Merit," she said with conviction that warmed my heart. "But kind of Merit 2.0. And I have to say, the phone call notwithstanding, this Sullivan's not a cheapo about everything. Those shoes are Jimmy Choo, and that dress is runway-worthy." She clucked her tongue. "He's dressed you up like his own personal model. And frankly, Mer, you look good."
Good, I thought, was relative. I looked down at the cocktail dress, smoothed my hands over the slick, black fabric. "I liked who I was, Mal. My life wasn't perfect, but I was happy."
"I know, hon. But maybe you'll like this, too."
I doubted it. Seriously.
CHAPTER TWO - RICH PEOPLE AREN'T NICER—THEY JUST HAVE BETTER CARS