Vamplayers

by Rusty Fischer

  Dr. Haskins scores Zander on the paper held in her see-through clipboard.

  I regard Tristan critically. (Okay, so I can’t help it!) He has matured beyond his years in his short time at the Academy, becoming a dominant force and a likely candidate for the Saviors at some point in the near future. That is, if as permanent First Sister I ever choose to let him out of the Sisterhood.

  I keep my distance, mostly because Zander occupies all my time but also because I’ve grown wary of Tristan’s sleek, almost magnetic good looks and his predatory nature.

  Although he’s appealing on paper, excelling in his coursework, rising to the top of his fencing and stake-wielding classes, he still wavers between good and evil like he did at Nightshade.

  I’ll never be able to forget, let alone forgive, the sight of his bloody leg disappearing up into the air duct when we needed him most.

  I don’t want to trust him, but I have to.

  He and Zander share a love-hate relationship but a relationship nonetheless. Zander thinks he’s a stuck-up snob. Tristan agrees but hates Zander’s humanity.

  I don’t know if it’s the Royal blood or simply the vampire blood running through his veins that makes Tristan prejudiced against mortals. Where once he and Zander shared a cordial relationship based on a mutual past at Nightshade, now they are increasingly competitive.

  I expect it from Tristan, with his spoiled upbringing and Royal blood, but it’s surprising to see in Zander.

  “Ouch,” he says, bringing me back to reality— and hard. Through the monitor I see Zander pat a stake that’s entered the wall about two inches, maybe less, above his head.

  “Good reflexes on this one,” Dr. Haskins says.

  Tristan rolls his eyes.

  I stifle a smile.

  Good for you, Zander.

  Zander doesn’t let the booby trap stop him but instead doubles his efforts to clear the ruined dining room.

  The monitor switches perspective. Zander is at the foot of the stairs. Our view comes from a security camera mounted in the ceiling at the top of the stairs.

  He takes the first, tentative step. He crouches low, like I taught him, leaning on the handrail to avoid putting much pressure on the stairs themselves. He leaps deftly to avoid one booby trap, only to land on a second. The stake passes centimeters from his thigh.

  “Ouch,” Tristan says, finger combing his vam-pirific hair. “A few inches higher and you’d have another Sister for your little club.”

  I ignore him, as does Dr. Haskins.

  Meanwhile Zander rushes up the stairs.

  I can’t help but notice how much he too has changed during his brief stay at the Academy. Although he is still very much human, the one and only here at the Academy, he seems somewhat more than human.

  The geeky but adorable softness he had at Nightshade is gone, replaced by a more muscular appearance. Must be all those late-night training sessions I put him through.

  And if you think I’m just being naughty, we actually do train, thank you very much.

  You know, mostly.

  He looks grimmer as well. Perhaps it’s because unlike most humans, who only fantasize about Hollywood vampires, he knows that real monsters exist. That they look like you and me. Well, more like me. And that friends who die—good friends, real friends—don’t come back like at the end of Hollywood B movies.

  But it’s more than that.

  Dr. Haskins glances at me. I think she sees it too. She warned me once I got out of the Tank that while Zander and I could “dabble in romantic notions,” as she so sensibly put it, we could never “consummate” our love.

  We haven’t, of course.

  Not yet anyway, but that hasn’t stopped us from swapping spit on a regular basis.

  And therein is the rub.

  When I get excited at the taste of Zander’s lips, when my blood boils with the touch of his fingertips on my shoulder blades, my fangs tend to protrude. From time to time I nick him: his tongue, his gums, the inside of his cheeks. And once, only once, his neck.

  He calls it fang play, but I feel horrible each time it happens. Truly, really horrible, and not only because I’m sure it hurts but because I think it’s gradually … changing him.

  My saliva—gross, I know, but stay with me here—is also somewhat special.

  Vampires don’t merely suck blood. We also secrete.

  When our fangs go in, even a little, out comes a special venom through our saliva which thins the blood of our victims.

  It’s easier, quicker to consume thinner blood. You know, the same way you let your milk shake melt a bit so it comes up the straw when you’re driving home, that big bag of burgers and fries riding shotgun.

  Naturally, some of the saliva contains vampire DNA, and I think Zander here has had his fair share in the last few weeks. Maybe even more than his fair share, if you know what I mean.

  Not that it means much in the grand scheme of things. I’d still have to turn him to make it official, but I can tell he’s changing, morphing into something more than human but not quite vampire.

  I kind of like that.

  I think he secretly does too.

  He’s in the guest room now. One more room to go.

  I stare at the big digital clock on the wall. Still four minutes left.

  ”Is it just me,” Tristan says, “or is he getting faster every time we do this?” He adds, “Not fast enough”—it wouldn’t be Tristan if he gave an actual compliment, especially to a human—”but faster.”

  “We train every night after school,” I insist, forgetting Tristan has a way of turning everything innocent into something not so innocent, at least when it comes to Zander and me.

  “Yeah, the same way porn stars train.”

  “Silence,” Dr. Haskins says. “He’s in the master bedroom. It’s do or die time. I do hope he’s up for it.”

  Zander crouches and moves through the room, his cap slightly askew, a tear in his track suit where the last stake barely missed.

  Something catches my eye: a square of carpet, not like all the others, as big as a hamburger patty, maybe even smaller. Instinctively I know it hides a trap.

  I’m hovering over the monitor, wanting to shout, “Look out, Zander. Watch out, honey. It’s a trap!”

  He steps on it, feels the hiss, and leaps forward, but the stake catches the sole of his shoe and dumps him, face-first, into the carpet.

  It looks like it hurts, but he rolls over, sits up, and seems okay. He stands and checks the bottom of his shoe, which is missing a chunk of rubber sole. He shakes his head and gets to work.

  With eighty-seven seconds to spare, Zander reaches the square button on the wall, which signifies he’s cleared all six rooms, and pushes it soundly.

  Immediately the curtains part, the glass door hisses, and Dr. Haskins steps out of the office and into the Simulation room.

  Once she’s through it, the door hisses shut behind her.

  I pace her office.

  They confer.

  Tristan looks on edge, as if he’s bet money on a horse race with a photo finish and is waiting for the official to tell him who’s won so he can collect or get out of Dodge.

  Zander walks through the door and immediately reaches for my hand. I let him lead me into the hall and, with nowhere else to go, Tristan dutifully follows.

  “So,” I say, racing to keep up with his frantic pace, “do tell. What’d she say?”

  Zander yanks off his ski cap and scratches his long, curly hair. “She said I beat Tristan’s time by seven whole seconds.”

  “Impossible,” Tristan says, but I detect the smallest trace of pride in his voice.

  Zander rushes ahead to the cafeteria, calling out over his shoulder, “Come on. I’m starved!”

  “I don’t know why he’s in such a hurry.” Tristan sighs. “The only thing on the menu is blood.”

  Zander is already inside the cafeteria, the doors still swinging in his wake.

  I grab Tristan’s arm,
slowing him down in the hallway, and ask, “Why are you so hard on him? He’s only a kid. A human kid. Can’t you see he looks up to you?”

  He grits his teeth. “What do you see in him, Lily? He’s just a … a mortal.”

  “I like him no matter what he is. Why can’t you?”

  “I should think you’d know.” He fiddles with his wide disco collar.

  “I do know, Tristan, okay? I’m not blind. But what we had was one kiss. And I wasn’t the one who ruined it. Yes, I felt something for you, but—”

  “Felt?” He reaches for my arm.

  I let him. “Feel, felt, what’s the difference? I’m with Zander. It happened. I’m happy. Why can’t you let me be happy?”

  “Is that what you really want?”

  “Is that so hard to believe?”

  He releases me.

  I take two steps closer to the cafeteria.

  “Things change.” He turns around and walks away. “I’ll be here when they do.”

  “If they do,” I shout at his back, hoping I sound convincing.

  He waves over his shoulder, a dismissive gesture.

  I’m so mad I could toss a stake at one of his strutting butt cheeks this very minute.

  I control myself and head toward the cafeteria. I hear cheers and hustle through the door to see what’s happening.

  Two wheelchair-bound vampires blow party horns and toss confetti into the air with their bandaged hands. There is a small cake on one of the empty cafeteria tables with a single candle burning in its center in honor of Zander making it through Simulation House.

  Zander bends to gently peck Alice’s and Cara’s cheeks.

  He blows out the candle and offers cake to the vampires, who easily turn it down.

  Cara smiles, though weakly. Her skin is coming along nicely, though bandages still cover her knees, ankles, elbows, and wrists, joints where the healing process takes the longest.

  I bend to kiss her nearly bald head.

  “Hey, you.” Her voice is scratchy. Her vocal cords are still threading together while the healing process comes to completion.

  “What’s the verdict?” I sit on the edge of a cafeteria table.

  Zander playfully tries to get Alice to eat a slice of cake.

  She sees me, stops laughing for a moment. I nod at Alice and she turns back to Zander; I can’t tell if she’s satisfied or smug. I guess, with her, I’ll never know.

  “Dr. Haskins says I should be good to go by the end of the month.”

  I pat her bandaged knee. “Still Second Sister?”

  She shoots a competitive look at Alice and nods. For now.

  “And you?” I ask, wagging a finger at Alice.

  She scratches the bandage over her healing scalp. “A few more weeks and I’ll be giving you and Cara a run for your money.”

  I smile.

  It feels weird, being First Sister, knowing Alice resents it and Cara maybe disagrees with it.

  It is what it is, and this time there’s nothing Alice or Cara can do about it.

  Despite their actions at Nightshade, I still love my Sisters. I’m thankful Dr. Haskins had the presence of mind to ship what was left of their bodies to the Healing Center. And I’m glad they returned here a few days ago.

  Cara looks at the silent cafeteria door. The missing member of our group has yet to materialize.

  “Tristan’s not coming?” she says quietly, not wanting to announce the fact to Zander.

  I shrug. “He says he’s feeling threatened.”

  “Uh-huh. What’d I tell you about bringing your work home with you? It never ends well.”

  “Where was he supposed to go?” I ask.

  “You know,” Cara adds, “since you’ve already got your hands full with Zander, why don’t you give me a shot at your sloppy seconds?”

  Be my guest.

  I look up to find Zander cluelessly helping himself to another slice of cake a few feet away.

  Alice, sensing blood in the water, wheels herself over with bandaged hands, wincing slightly. “What am I missing?”

  Cara sends me a shut up vibe, but I ignore her. This gossip is too spicy to resist. “Oh, nothing. Cara here was just putting in an order for one plate of Tristan to go.”

  “Not if I get to him first,” Alice says, and I’m sure she’s serious.

  Trouble is, so is Cara. “Come on, Alice. You’ve already dated half the guys here. Why don’t you give a Sister a break?”

  “With a hunk like that,” Alice says, “the only thing he’s breaking is hearts.”

  “Cheesy,” I say.

  Cara nods. “So cheesy.”

  “Hey, what can I say? He inspires the poet in me.”

  Cara looks glum. “Yeah, well, right now the only one inspiring him is Lily, and she won’t have anything to do with him.”

  “I didn’t say that,” I whisper. “I just … we have a history and not a good one. I’m not ready to put that behind me yet.”

  “Girl,” Alice says, rolling her eyes, “I’d put that behind me any day of the week!”

  “Gross.” Cara laughs.

  “You know what I mean, Alice.”

  Just like that, Zander is back, sucking his frosting-covered thumbs, a spot of blue icing on his thick, human lips.

  ”Who we talking about?” he says.

  But I know he’s far from a fool.

  “We have presents!” Alice hands him a small wrapped box, about the size of a CD.

  Cara hands him one too. It’s longer and shaped like, well, shaped like what it is.

  He opens Cara’s first, revealing his very own monogrammed stake. Zander is branded into the side.

  “Now we each have one,” Cara says.

  He makes an ahhhh face before ripping into Alice’s. It’s a bright pink beret. He looks at Alice and Cara, who, with some difficulty, are putting their own pink berets on their mostly bald heads.

  They turn to me, and mine is already on. Hey, a First Sister always comes prepared!

  “Whoa,” Zander says, reluctantly pulling his hat onto his head. “Tristan and I were discussing this, and there’s no reason we can’t rename the group.”

  “To what?” Cara says.

  “I dunno. We were thinking something along the lines of the Brotherhood of Badass Boyfriends or something. Waddya think? Alice? Cara? Work with me here.”

  Alice and Cara wisely take the matter into consideration, conferring in their old talkative way.

  Zander wanders, and I walk alongside him. His beret is cockeyed atop those delectable curls. Sometimes I miss the boy Zander was, even as I’m lusting for the man he has become.

  He grins, hands behind his back. “You ready for a little competition?”

  “You ready to be a Sister?” I tease.

  “Only if it means spending more time with you.” He bats his eyelashes.

  “That’s sweet,” I say, slugging his shoulder.

  “Want something really sweet?” he says, bringing his finger around. It’s covered in frosting.

  “Uhhm, I would love nothing more than to lick that finger clean, Zander, but not here.” I make a scrunchy face at Cara and Alice to prove my point.

  “Come on.” He pushes the finger closer to my face. “No one’s watching.”

  “You walked through that grimy Simulation House. You know how many germs are in there?”

  “You’re a vampire, Lily. You can’t die.”

  “Ah, but you can, and that’s exactly what will happen if you keep shoving that nasty finger in my face.”

  He keeps pushing it, pushing it, until I bend his arm behind his back.

  And that is where Cara catches us, snapping her digital camera, smiling, the Sisterhood complete and with a couple new Brothers to boot.

 

 

 
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