The Vampire Book of the Month Club by Rusty Fischer

remember . . . I’m here, whatever you need.”
    I smile, walk slowly back to my seat, and give her a reassuring wink when I’m finally sitting down, but she’s already gently snoozing.
    Abby looks over at me and whispers, “What was that all about?”
    â€œNothing,” I whisper back. “She just—”
    But Abby’s phone is vibrating, and I know what that means: another early call, some reshoots on her new movie, a photo shoot, whatever. We all know the drill by now.
    Even Mrs. Armbruster recognizes the telltale ringtone from Abby’s agent and has an office pass waiting for her by the time my best friend gathers up her big purse and clomps from the class, giving me a rushed smile over her shoulder before the real world takes her away.
    Once the door has closed behind her, Mrs. Armbruster is silently dozing again above her roll book. When the scattered clusters of cliques and plotters have gone back to their hushed conversations, Reece leans forward until his lips are mere centimeters from my ear.
    My entire body wants to bolt, to scream, but I force myself to sit straight and quietly and not move a muscle, lest he think I’m weak again.
    â€œAnd then there was one,” he says, breath oozing across the nape of my neck, caressing the very spot where he bit Bianca.
    â€œIf it’s the right one,” I say through gritted teeth, “one is all it takes.”
    And just like that, the bell rings. For once I’m the one with the last word!
    I rush from class on shaky legs, clear of the door and deep into the halls before Reece and Bianca can even rise.

Chapter 14

    A nd still, Reece beats me to my locker. How—when I left the room a full minute before he did—is anybody’s guess.
    He stands in front of it and won’t budge, even when kids on either side of him give us dirty looks and whisper not so subtly.
    Once they are gone, he asks, “Have you ever skipped school? In all your days at Nightshade Academy, have you ever once just . . . ditched?”
    â€œWhat do you think?” I ask, clutching my AP English book to my chest.
    â€œI think it’s a good time to start.” He leads me by the arm through the emptying commons and out toward the student parking lot.
    I don’t resist. I follow him willingly, eagerly, because of one thing: Wyatt.
    He must have him hidden somewhere. It’s the only explanation.
    He races across the lot, head down, hands in his pockets, the California sun bright and clear across what little of his pale skin remains not covered by his leather jacket, long skinny jeans, thick black boots, dark sunglasses, and backward baseball cap.
    I linger as he opens the door to a gleaming silver Mercedes, making him get in first to avoid any more exposure to the harsh light of day.
    â€œI thought your kind avoided the sun at all costs,” I murmur as I slide into the leather of the passenger seat and close the heavy door.
    â€œThe older you are,” he says, pushing a glowing blue button on the dashboard as the engine purrs to life, “the more resistant you are to the UV rays.”
    â€œResistant?” I ask as he cruises from the crowded parking lot of Nightshade Academy and out into the sparse midmorning traffic. “But not immune?”
    â€œNever immune, dear Nora. At least, not while one is still alive.”
    â€œWhere are you taking me?” I ask as we cruise past Rodeo Drive and into—and then quickly out of—Beverly Hills proper.
    It feels odd to be on the road—to be anywhere other than the marble-lined halls of Nightshade Academy—this early in the day.
    The sky above is a pristine California blue, little white clouds few and far between.
    The air has a hushed feel to it, and not just because we’re trapped in this coffin of a car. It’s like life is on hold, for everybody, until I get this mess sorted out.
    Traffic is still thick with go-getters hustling between