Vampires Never Get Old - Zoraida Cordova Page 0,12

it’s over I feel wrung out. I hobble over and collapse in the nearest booth, panting. Wishing for a cold glass of water, but I’m too tired to walk over and get one.

And I wait.

And … nothing.

I wait thirty minutes, and then thirty minutes more, and there’s no movement in the parking lot, no dimming lights, no chill. Just me and some scary stories and my wretchedness. I press my cheek against the cool Formica and let the tears leak from my eyes. After a while, I sit up and use my cleaning rag to wipe the tears away.

I get up, my bones feeling a thousand years old. Make it to the car. Drive the empty streets home. Check in on my mom.

I collapse into bed, no different than I was when I started this awful day.

* * *

He comes the next day. I’m back at Landry’s Diner. It’s late, a half hour until closing, when I notice him. He’s in the booth farthest from the door, the four-seater by the jukebox where I’d wept like a little kid the night before. He’s wearing a black cowboy hat, which is what I spot first, and a dark denim jacket. He’s got boots on, not unusual around these parts, and they’re propped up on the opposite seat. They’re black, too, and the leather catches the light and makes them gleam.

The brim of his hat is pulled down to cover his face, so all I catch is a sliver of pale skin and a slice of easy grin as I approach him.

“Kitchen closes in thirty,” I say when I’m standing in front of him. I’m on server duty because it’s Neveah’s night off. I hold up my order pad, pen poised.

“Nothing I want is on the menu,” he says, his voice a soft drawl. He tips up his hat, shows his face, and I suck in a startled breath. If you asked me to describe him, I couldn’t do it. But the curve of his lips, the narrow slide of his nose, the sharp cut of his cheeks. It was a kind of perfection—that much I know.

“Are you on TV?” I blurt. Because no one who looks like this boy has ever come to Blood River before.

He laughs, and even that’s beautiful, like the rush of a cold wind on the first day of autumn or the roll of thunder on a hot summer night.

“Naw,” he says. “I’m not on TV.”

I look over my shoulder, for what I don’t know. A witness, a hidden camera. Jason and the twins playing a trick on me.

“You called to me, Lukas,” he drawls, “don’t you remember? You called me with my song and that dusty heart of yours.” He throws out his arm expansively. “You called all of us.”

I look behind me, again, and sure enough, walking down the aisle are three more boys, all a little older than me. They’re all wearing cowboy gear, hats and boots and broken-in denim, except for one kid who’s got on a backward baseball cap and oversized jeans.

“Allow me to introduce my brothers,” he says. “This is Jasper, and next to him is Willis. And that there is Dru. And I,” he says, with a tip of his hat, “am Silas.”

“Are you the…?” But I can’t bring myself to ask. I’m afraid if I say it aloud, they’ll laugh at me. Or disappear.

“What’s good in this joint?” Jasper asks, rattling a menu. He’s got a deep voice and some kind of accent I can’t quite place. His skin is the same shade as mine, and he’s got a head of dark hair under his hat.

“Menu’s about the same everywhere we go,” Willis says, laughing. His skin’s a shade darker that Jasper’s, and tight black curls peak from underneath his hat. His voice is high, nervous, and his black eyes flicker around the room.

“That it is, brother,” Silas says with a grin. He slaps a hand on the table. “Let’s go somewhere else.” He tilts his head. “Won’t you come with us, Lukas? Come share a meal.”

“Me?” I ask.

The boys laugh—well, Jasper and Willis do. The third boy, a redhead, says nothing. He seems agitated, knee shaking under the booth table.

“I-I’ve got to lock up,” I stutter.

“Then do that,” he says. “We’ll wait to eat with you.”

This makes Willis laugh and the redhead shake his head, but I don’t get the joke.

Then they’re all moving toward the entrance, languid and graceful as cats. I watch them go, convinced I’m