Vampires Never Get Old - Zoraida Cordova Page 0,87

the other girl seems nervous, too. Tense, like she’s holding her breath.

But she doesn’t pull away.

Jules hesitates, thinks they should either be closer together or farther apart.

Ben never said what they were supposed to do.

Sixty seconds isn’t much time.

Sixty seconds is forever.

Calliope smells good, of course she does, but it’s not her lotion or her ChapStick.

It’s her.

Jules’s senses flare and narrow until all she can smell is the other girl’s skin, and her sweat, and her blood. Blood—and something else, something she can’t place, something that sends warning bells ringing dully through her head.

But then Calliope kisses her.

Her mouth is so soft, her lips parting between Jules’s own, and there are no fireworks. The world doesn’t stop. She doesn’t taste like magic or sunshine. She tastes like the grapefruit soda she was drinking, like fresh air, and sugar, and something simple and human, and people talk about the world falling away, but Juliette’s mind is racing, is here, aware of every second, of Calliope’s hand on her arm, of her mouth on her mouth, of the coat hanger digging into her neck, and she doesn’t understand how people simply kiss, how they live in the moment, but Jules is so painfully here.

There is the subtle ache in her mouth, the shallow longing of her teeth sliding out. And in that moment, between the fangs and the bite, she thinks of how she’d rather go to a movie, rather enjoy the scent of Calliope’s hair, the murmur of her laugh, rather stay in this closet and keep kissing her.

Just two human girls tangled up.

But she is so hungry, and her mouth hurts so much, and she is not human, and she wants to be more.

Juliette’s mouth drops to the other girl’s neck.

Her teeth find skin. It breaks so easily, and she tastes the first sweet drops of blood before she feels the tip of a wooden stake drive up between her ribs.

I

[Friday]

Juliette’s mouth is a work of art.

That’s the first thing Cal noticed.

Not the canvas, exactly—the way her bottom lip curves, the twin peaks of the top—but the way she paints it. Today at school, her mouth was the color of blackberry juice, not quite purple, not quite pink, not quite blue. Yesterday, it was coral. Last week, Cal counted burgundy, violet, and, once, even jade.

The colors stand out against the stark white of her skin.

Cal knows she shouldn’t spend so much time looking at the other girl’s mouth, or at least not at her lips, but—

A dinner roll hits her in the side of the head.

“What the hell!” she snarls.

“Dead,” announces Apollo.

Theo points his knife. “Just be glad it wasn’t buttered.”

Cal scowls at her older brothers as they go back to shoveling food. She’s never seen anyone eat the way they do. But then again, they’re built like the gods they’re named after. Built like heroes. Built like Dad.

He’s on the road, on a long haul—that’s what they call a distance hunt. He’s a trucker, too. It’s good cover, but she misses him. His broad arms, his bear hugs. The way he can still pick her up, like he did when she was little. How safe she feels surrounded by his arms. Cal used to trace the black bands that wrapped his forearms, feeling the raised skin beneath her fingers. One for every kill. Used to draw lines on her own arms in Sharpie, imagine earning her first mark. First kill.

She doesn’t like it when he’s gone this long. She knows there’s always a chance—

This time she sees the roll coming, plucks it out of the air and winds up to throw it back, but Mom catches her wrist. Calliope looks at Mom’s right forearm, wrapped in delicate threads of ink.

“Not at the table,” she says, plucking the roll out of Cal’s fingers. And Cal doesn’t bother pointing out one of her brothers threw it first, because she knows that doesn’t matter. Rule #3: Don’t get caught.

Theo winks at her.

“Where’s your head at?” asks Mom.

“School,” says Cal, and it’s not a lie.

“Settling in?” asks Mom, but Cal knows she means “blending in,” which is a totally different thing. She knows that moving around is part of the job; she’s been to a dozen schools in half as many years, and every time, the warnings are the same. Just blend in. But in high school, the two feel contradictory.

Blending in, it’s standing out. It’s knowing yourself, and owning yourself, and Cal does, but thank god they’re too old for show-and-tell because