Eleventh Grade Burns by Heather Brewer Page A

damage or scar you at all?”
    “With enough blood, healing is possible, even from the likes of the sun. But you ... you didn’t burn at all. Did you, Master Pravus?” His eyebrows went up. It was as if he were defying Vlad to once again insist that he wasn’t the child the prophecy had spoken of.
    Vlad set his jaw. “No.”
    “So you’ve finally accepted that you are the Pravus?”
    “Yes.” What did D’Ablo want, anyway? It wasn’t like they were friends or anything. “I’m assuming you didn’t come here to chat, so what is it you want, D’Ablo?”
    D’Ablo chuckled under his breath. “You know what I want. My ritual is not yet complete.”
    Vlad froze. The ritual. D’Ablo had said that the last part of the ritual required Vlad’s sacrifice. He darted his eyes to the front door of The Crypt and silently wondered if he could outrun D’Ablo, or if D’Ablo would chase after him if he did. “So you’re here to kill me?”
    D’Ablo sighed, somewhat troubled. “Unfortunately, no. It seems I’ve misplaced my dagger. In order for the ritual to be completed correctly, the dagger is required. But never fear, Master Pravus. I am here to offer you a truce.”
    Before Vlad could bite his tongue, he snapped, “In your dreams, D’Ablo. That is never going to happen.”
    D’Ablo raised an eyebrow. “I am no threat to you without the dagger, and if I cannot be the Pravus I can at least assist him.”
    Vlad shook his head, filled with loathing. “You’ve ‘assisted’ me enough. Almost into an early grave.”
    D’Ablo held his palms out, pleading. “Hear me out.”
    Vlad turned back to the club, tossing bitter words over his shoulder as he left. “Bite me.”
    He’d barely taken a breath before D’Ablo was beside him, wrapping his hand tightly around Vlad’s throat. Vlad tried to inhale, but couldn’t. D’Ablo lifted him slowly off the ground and growled into his ear. “Of course, there’s always the appeal of killing you just to silence that mouth. All it would take is a snap.”
    He squeezed tighter before letting Vlad go. A warning.
    Vlad coughed, rubbing at his sore neck. In a hoarse, raspy voice, he called after D’Ablo, who was once again disappearing into the shadows, “You’ll never be the Pravus, D’Ablo. I don’t care what any ritual says. And a truce? You’re out of your mind.”
    “A snap, Master Pravus.” He chuckled again, causing Vlad to shiver. “A snap.”

12
    NOBODY
    A SOUND TO VLAD’S RIGHT, SHARP AND FAMILIAR. Vlad turned his head toward it, as did D’Ablo. Dorian was standing there, an expectant smirk on his face, his hand held up as if he’d just snapped his fingers. “Nothing? I did snap, after all.”
    At the sight of him, Vlad’s chest grew tight. Fear. Intense fear. He was now standing in the presence of the two most dangerous vampires he’d ever encountered, both of whom wanted his blood for one reason or another. He swallowed the lump in his throat and fought back the urge to run.
    D’Ablo’s jaw tightened. “Dorian. I wasn’t expecting you.”
    “So I presumed. If you were, you likely wouldn’t have been threatening this boy. This boy, in particular, now would you?”
    Dorian tilted his head, his eyes slanting. It was as if D’Ablo had been caught playing with one of his toys. Vlad shrank back, revolted. Is that what he was to vampirekind? Just an object to argue over, just a freak who might fulfill their needs?
    D’Ablo flicked his gaze to Vlad with a warning. “I assure you, it was no mere threat.”
    No surprise there. D’Ablo hadn’t exactly been shy about trying to kill Vlad in the past.
    “You’re telling me.” Dorian took what seemed like a casual step closer to D’Ablo, then another, and another. With each, D’Ablo appeared a bit more on edge. It was nice to see him afraid, for once. “You’re actually telling me that you would kill Tomas’s son? You, who once preached that Tomas was deserving of a seat on the Council of