Shadow Lake Vampire Society - Wendi Wilson Page 0,2

else within earshot that they were wrong. They were lying. They were covering something up.

I yelled at my mom when she tried to calm me. I pushed her away from my hospital bed, screaming and scratching and thrashing from side to side. A buff orderly pulled her back before inserting a syringe into the plastic tubing that led to my I.V.

As my movements calmed and my brain grew sluggish, I tried to yell some more. But the words came out garbled and indecipherable.

I tried to tell them about the footsteps. I tried to tell them it couldn’t be a bear, or any other animal because those feet were wearing boots. I could still hear the thump-thump-thump of them as they crossed the floorboards above me.

It wasn’t a bear. Or a mountain lion, or any other animal.

I didn’t care what logistics said. I didn’t give a shit that science proved a human couldn’t have done what had been done to my dad. No amount of authenticated tests or lab reports were going to convince me otherwise.

No in-depth therapy sessions were going to make me see the light and accept the fact that I’d been mistaken. I knew what I heard.

And bears don’t wear boots.

Chapter Two

If my lasting emotional trauma didn’t kill me, high school socialization might.

Once again, my cell phone buzzed, vibrating my hand with its urgency. Coco’s name popped up as the message came through. Coco had been texting me on and off all afternoon. I read through the last few messages again.

Coco: We R going. Get dressed.

Me: Yyyyyy? ☹

Coco: Humans are social creatures and need interaction. GET DRESSED!

Me: Fine. But don’t expect Bubbly Piper.

Coco: Lol. Bubbly Piper isn’t a thing. I’ll be there in 20.

Twenty minutes. I had twenty minutes to get up, brush my hair, and wrangle my appearance into something presentable to a bunch of sexed-up teenagers. Glancing at the book on my nightstand and the soft bed with a snuggly cat dozing in the center, I considered faking sick, but Coco would definitely know. We’d been best friends for eight years, ever since she found me in the school library’s Roald Dahl section. Since then, we’d bonded over our love of books, Supernatural, crafts, and home-cooked brownies, as well as our general disdain for most of our peers.

But now that we were nearly done with our school experience, Coco made the rash decision that we should participate.

I hated participating.

But I loved Coco.

Groaning, I hauled myself up, causing Bagel the cat to give me the side-eye for disturbing her slumber. Trust me, sis. This wasn't my idea.

My closet wasn’t exactly filled with the latest fashion, but I managed to find shorts and a clean t-shirt that were acceptable. Then I tackled my wavy brown hair, smoothing its bumps and whorls into a hairdo that was high school girl compliant. Final touches of mascara and lipstick finished the look. Giving myself a once over, I left my room and headed down the hall to wait for Coco in the kitchen.

When I got there, Mom was at the sink washing dishes. She turned when she heard me approaching.

“What is this? Hair brushed? Makeup applied? I can hardly believe my eyes.” She blinked in mock surprise, coming over to examine me with sopping wet hands.

“Don’t get soap on my shirt,” I complained, taking a step back. “And don’t get excited, either. Coco is making me go.”

Mom cocked her head, long strawberry blonde hair cascading over one of her toned arms. She’d really gotten into fitness after Dad died. Yoga classes were her nightly addiction. “Well, thank goodness for Coco.”

“You can get her a “My Favorite Daughter” mug later.” I slumped into the kitchen chair.

Mom came forward and planted a kiss on my head. “You’re my favorite daughter.”

“Only daughter,” I corrected.

“So…where are you two going?” Mom returned to the sink but stood with her back to it, keeping her eyes on me. She was always doing that, appraising me like if she didn’t watch carefully I might break apart.

“It’s the start of Water Wars.”

Mom frowned. “Huh? Water what?”

“Water Wars is this tradition where the seniors split into teams and attempt to tag each other with water. It’s a last-man-standing type of game, but really I think it’s just an excuse for a wet t-shirt contest on school grounds.”

“Are you participating?”

I shook my head. “Just watching.”

“Sitting on the sidelines,” she mumbled.

“Don’t.” Blood began to pound in my ears as she brought up our ongoing argument, the same one we’d been having for

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