Vampires Never Get Old - Zoraida Cordova Page 0,51

moment there is no running. No breaking free. There are no more photos or yelling at my brother or advice from my dad or hearing my mother complain about how no one helps her with laundry, and if I live, I promise, I promise I will help her and do my chores and turn my A- into an A+.

A hand grips my ankle and I fall. I’m on my back, kicking and thrashing against a sea of hands and teeth.

Then it stops.

I sit up. The door is open. The music is gone. Between the mob of vampires and me is a girl with long, black hair. Her wine-dark lipstick is carefully drawn and her fangs are bared. I take a moment to note Brittany’s fitted frock coat, the dark gray leggings beneath that slip into black knee-high boots, and the surprising hint of pink blooming around her wrists.

“Surprise question mark?” I say, and for a moment I swear she wants to laugh.

Then her eyes shift and narrow, slicing across the room like a blade. A rough growl leaves her lips, “Mine.”

“You have no right—” Imogen starts.

“Defy me,” Brittany says. A few vampires move behind Brittany, cowing their heads. But the rest stay behind Imogen.

“I’ll do one better,” Imogen says, her moon-pale skin shimmering when it catches the faint light. She lifts her skirt and drags out a wicked-looking dagger.

“Cheap trick,” Brittany says, and then lunges.

The two women meet in a fury of fists and blocks, but, empty-handed, Brittany is at a disadvantage. I swing over the bar and search for something she can use as a weapon. I find a tiny knife for cutting lemons and a hammer.

“Brittany!” I throw the hammer, and she catches it without missing a beat, blocking a brutal jab of Imogen’s knife just in time. They fight as though they’re dancing, each movement as smooth and practiced as if the whole thing were choreographed. It’s so beautiful, I can’t look away.

“Grab the girl!” someone shouts.

“Oh, me,” I say, connecting the dots way too late. “I’m the girl.”

I climb back on top of the bar, searching frantically for a safe place to hide, but before I can do anything, Brittany leaps. With one hand, she grips the candelabra and swings. The ceiling groans in protest and I hear something snap as she strikes out with one foot to kick the vampire coming straight for me.

“Get out of here, Theo!” Brittany shouts as she lands.

“I can’t leave you!”

I can’t explain why I do it, but I run for Brittany instead of for my life.

I see the horror on her face before I know what’s happening. The ceiling shrieks above me as the candelabra comes crashing down, and a sharp pain pierces my neck.

* * *

THEO: what’s the best birthday gift you’ve ever gotten?

BRITTANY: i don’t celebrate.

THEO: if you did, tho, hypothetically. when were you born?

BRITTANY: hypothetically? i was born april 27th

* * *

BRITTANY

The candelabra presses against Theo’s neck, and I know before I pull it off her it that it has pierced her skin. I toss it aside as though it doesn’t weigh as much as it does. It clangs loudly as it lands, and Theo whimpers. I kneel at her side, gently lifting her head into my lap. There is a smear of red on her chin, and she looks up at me with tearful eyes.

“It’s nice to meet you,” she says with a humorless smile.

“Sorry I was late.” My voice is distorted, as though squeezed through a sieve. I press a hand to the wound on her neck, attempting to staunch the flow of blood, but this is a death wound. There is no time for anything but a swift goodbye.

Imogen stands near, her focus pooling around me like the blood beneath Theo’s neck and shoulders. But the room is still. Theo is not my kill but she is my catch. And vampires in my city always respect the catch.

Blood warms my lap. It spills onto the floor in a constant stream, pooling beneath Theo’s head in a way that reminds me of a scarlet flower. I focus on that and not on the dying, gasping girl in my arms.

“You’re actually a vampire,” Theo says, and in her eyes I see questions and theories and so much more than she’s able to say right now. She only has a few words left. She chooses two: “Make me.”

The not-hunger feeling crouched beneath my ribs returns. It expands and expands, ballooning painfully inside me. And, suddenly, I