Jessica's Guide to Dating on the Dark Side, Page 2

  His gaze followed my fingers, and I thought maybe he was revolted by the fact that I was bleeding. Yet I swore I saw something quite different than disgust in those black eyes. . . . And then he ran his tongue slowly across his lower lip.

  What the hell was that?

  Tossing the pen at him, I spun around in my seat. I could change schools, like that girl who messed with Faith. Go to Saint Monica’s. That’s the answer. It’s not too late. . . .

  The seating chart made its way back to Mrs. Wilhelm, and she read through the names, then glanced up with a smile that was directed just past my desk. “Let’s take a moment to welcome our new foreign exchange student, Lucius . . .” Frowning, she referred back to her chart. “Vlades . . . cooo. Did I say that correctly?”

  Most students would have just muttered, “Yeah, whatever.” I mean, who really cared about a name?

  My early-morning stalker, that’s who.

  “No,” he intoned. “No, that is not correct.”

  Behind me, I heard the scrape of a chair against linoleum, and then a shadow loomed over my shoulder. My neck prickled again.

  “Oh.” Mrs. Wilhelm looked slightly alarmed as a tall teenager in a black velvet coat advanced up the aisle toward her. She raised a cautionary finger, like she was about to tell him to sit down, but he strode right past her.

  Grabbing up a marker from the tray beneath the whiteboard, he flipped off the cap with authority and scrawled the word Vladescu in a flowing script.

  “My name is Lucius Vladescu,” he announced, pointing to the word. “Vla-DES-cu. Emphasis on the middle syllable, please.”

  Locking his hands behind his back, he began pacing, as though he was the teacher. One by one, he made eye contact with each student in the room, obviously summing us up. I sensed from the look on his face that we were found wanting somehow.

  “The Vladescu name is rather revered in Eastern Europe,” he lectured. “A noble name.” He paused in his pacing and locked onto my eyes. “A royal name.”

  I had no idea what he was talking about.

  “Does it not ‘ring a bell,’ as you Americans say?” he asked the class in general. But he was still staring at me.

  God, his eyes were black.

  I flinched away, looking to Mindy, who was actually fanning herself, totally oblivious to me. It was like she was under a spell. Everyone was. No one was fidgeting, or whispering, or doodling.

  Almost against my will, I returned my attention to the teenager who’d hijacked English lit. It really was almost impossible not to watch him. Lucius Vladescu’s longish glossy black hair was out of place in Lebanon County, Pennsylvania, but he would have fit right in with the European models in Mindy’s Cosmopolitan magazines. He was muscular and lean like a model, too, with high cheekbones, a straight nose, and a strong jaw. And those eyes . . .

  Why wouldn’t he quit staring at me?

  “Would you care to tell us anything else about yourself?” Mrs. Wilhelm finally suggested.

  Lucius Vladescu spun on his booted heel to face her and capped the pen with a firm snap. “Not particularly. No.” The answer wasn’t rude . . . but he didn’t address Mrs. Wilhelm like a student, either.

  More like an equal.

  “I’m sure we’d love to hear more about your heritage,” Mrs. Wilhelm prompted, admitting, “It does sound interesting.”

  But Lucius Vladescu had returned his attention me.

  I slunk down in my seat. Is everyone noticing this?

  “You shall learn more about me in due time,” Lucius said. There was a hint of frustration in his voice, and I had no idea why. But it scared me again. “That is a promise,” he added, boring into my eyes. “A promise.”

  Yet it sounded more like a threat.

  Chapter 4

  “DID YOU SEE how the foreign guy was looking at you in English lit?” Mindy cried when we met up after school. “He’s gorgeous, and he is so into you! And he’s royal.”

  I squeezed her wrist, trying to calm her down. “Min . . . before you buy a gift for our ‘royal’ wedding, I have to tell you something scary about the so-called gorgeous guy.”

  My friend crossed her arms, skeptical. I could tell that Mindy had already made up her mind about Lucius Vladescu, basing her opinion entirely on broad shoulders and a strong jaw. “What could you know about him that’s scary? We just met him.”

  “Actually, I saw him earlier this morning,” I said. “That guy—Lucius—was at the bus stop. Staring at me.”

  “That’s it?” Mindy rolled her eyes. “Maybe he takes the bus.”

  “He didn’t get on.”

  “So he missed the bus.” She shrugged. “That’s stupid, but not scary.”

  Mindy wasn’t getting it at all. “It’s weirder than that,” I insisted. “I . . . I thought I heard him say my name. Just as the bus pulled up.”

  Mindy looked puzzled.

  “My old name,” I clarified.

  My best friend sucked in her breath. “Okay. That could be a little weird.”

  “Nobody knows that name. Nobody.”

  In fact, I hadn’t even shared much of my past with Mindy. The story of my adoption was my closely guarded secret. If it ever got out . . . people would think I’m a freak. I felt like a freak every time I thought about the story. My adoptive mother, a cultural anthropologist, had been studying an off-the-wall underground cult in central Romania. She’d been there with my dad to observe their rituals, in hopes of writing one of her groundbreaking insider journal articles about unique subcultures. However, things had gone wrong over in Eastern Europe. The cult had been a little too strange, a little too offbeat, and some Romanian villagers had banded together, intent on putting an end to the whole group. By force.

  Just before the mob attacked, my birth parents had entrusted me, an infant, to the visiting American researchers, begging them to take me to the United States, where I would be safe.

  I hated that story. Hated the fact that my birth parents had been ignorant, superstitious people duped into joining a cult. I didn’t even want to know what the rituals were. I knew the kind of things my mom studied. Animal sacrifices, tree worship, virgins tossed into volcanoes . . . maybe my birth parents had been involved in some sort of deviant sexual stuff. Maybe that’s why they had been murdered.

  Who knew? Who wanted to know?

  I didn’t ask for details, and my adoptive parents never pressed the issue. I was just happy to be Jessica Packwood, American. Antanasia Dragomir didn’t exist, as far as I was concerned.

  “Are you sure he knew your name?” Mindy asked.

  “No,” I admitted. “But I thought I heard it.”

  “Oh, Jess.” Mindy sighed. “Nobody knows that name. You probably just imagined the whole thing. Or else he said a word that sounds like Antanasia.”

  I looked at Mindy crosswise. “What word sounds like Antanasia?”

  “I don’t know. How about ‘nice to meetcha’?”

  “Yeah, right.” But that did kind of make me laugh. We walked toward the street to wait for my mom to come pick me up. I had called at lunch to tell her I was not taking the bus home.

  Mindy added her last two cents. “I’m just saying maybe you should at least give this Lucius a chance.”

  “Why?”

  “Because . . . because he’s so tall,” Mindy explained, like height was proof of good character. “And did I mention European?”

  My mom’s rusty old VW van rattled up to the curb, and I waved to her. “Yes. It’s so much better to be stalked by a tall European than an American of average height.”

  “Well, at least Lucius is paying attention to you.” Mindy sniffed. “Nobody ever pays attention to me.”

  We reached the van, and I opened the door. Before I could even say hi, Mindy shoved me aside, leaned in, and blurted, “Jess has a boyfriend, Dr. Packwood!”

  Mom looked puzzled. “Is that true, Jessica?”

  It was my turn to shove Mindy out of the way. I climbed in and slammed the do
or, shutting my friend safely on the other side. Mindy waved, laughing, as Mom and I pulled away from the curb.

  “A boyfriend, Jessica?” Mom asked again. “On the first day of school?”

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” I grumbled, clicking on my seat belt. “He’s a creepy foreign exchange student who’s stalking me.”

  “Jessica, I’m sure you’re exaggerating,” Mom said. “Male adolescents are frequently socially awkward. You’re probably misinterpreting innocent behaviors.”

  Like all cultural anthropologists, Mom believed she knew everything about human social interactions.

  “You didn’t see him at the bus stop this morning,” I argued. “He was standing there in this big black cloak . . . And then when my finger bled, he licked his lip . . .”

  When I said that, Mom hit the brakes so hard that my head nearly smacked the dashboard. A car behind us honked angrily.

  “Mom! What was that about?”

  “Sorry, Jessica,” she said, looking a little pale. She stepped on the gas again. “It was just something you said . . . about getting cut.”

  “I cut my finger, and he practically drooled over it, like it was a ketchup-covered French fry,” I shuddered. “It was so gross.”

  Mom grew even paler, and I knew something was up.

  “Who . . . who is this boy?” she asked as we pulled up to a stop sign near Grantley College, where my mom taught. “What’s his name?”

  I could tell she was trying hard to sound unconcerned, and that made me more nervous.

  “His name is . . .” Before I could say Lucius, though, I spotted him. Sitting on the low wall that surrounded the campus. And he was watching me. Again. Sweat broke out on my forehead. But this time, I was pissed. Enough is enough, already. “He’s right there,” I cried, jabbing my finger at the window. “He’s staring at me again!” It was not “socially awkward behavior.” It was stalking. “I want him to leave me alone!”

  Then my mom did something unexpected. She pulled over to the curb, right next to where Lucius waited, watching. “What is his name, Jess?” she asked again as she unbuckled her seat belt.

  I figured Mom was going to confront him, so I grabbed her arm. “Mom, no. He’s, like, unbalanced or something.”

  But my mother gently peeled my fingers from her arm. “His name, Jess.”

  “Lucius,” I answered. “Lucius Vladescu.”

  “Oh, goodness,” Mom muttered, looking past me at my stalker. “I suppose this really was inevitable . . .” She had a queer, distant look in her eyes.

  “Mom?” What was inevitable?

  “Wait here,” she said, still not looking at me. “Do not move.” She sounded so serious that I didn’t protest. Without another word, Mom climbed out of the van and strode directly toward the menacing guy who’d tailed me all day. Was she crazy? Would he try to run away? Go berserk and hurt her? But no, he slipped gracefully off the wall and bowed—a real bow, at the waist—to my mother. What the . . . ?

  I rolled down the window, but they spoke so softly I couldn’t hear what they were saying. The conversation went on for what seemed like eons. And then my mother shook his hand.

  Lucius Vladescu turned to go, and Mom got back in the van and turned the key.

  “What was that all about?” I asked, dumbfounded.

  My mother looked me straight in the eye and said, “You, your father, and I need to talk. Tonight.”

  “About what?” I demanded, a prickly feeling in the pit of my stomach. A bad prickle. “Do you know that guy?”

  “We’ll explain later. We have so, so much to tell you. And we need to do it before Lucius arrives for dinner.”

  My jaw was still on the floor when Mom patted my hand and pulled out into traffic.

  Chapter 5

  MY PARENTS NEVER got a chance to explain what was happening, though. When we got home, my dad was in the middle of teaching his tantric yoga class for oversexed, over-the-hill hippies, out in the studio behind the house, so Mom told me to go ahead with my chores.

  And then Lucius arrived early for dinner.

  I was in the barn mucking out stalls when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a shadow cross the open barn door.

  “Who’s there?” I called nervously, still jumpy from the day’s events.

  When there was no answer, I got the bad feeling my visitor was our dinner guest. Mom invited him, I reminded myself as, sure enough, a tall European exchange student strode across the dusty riding ring. He can’t be that dangerous.

  Mom’s endorsement aside, I kept a firm hold on my pitchfork. “What are you doing here?” I demanded as he approached.

  “Manners, manners,” Lucius complained in his snooty accent, kicking up little puffs of dust with each long stride. He arrived within a few feet of me, and I was struck again by his height. “A lady doesn’t bellow across barns,” he continued. “And what sort of salutation was that?”

  Is the guy who spied on me all day lecturing me on etiquette? “I asked you why you’re here,” I repeated, clutching the pitchfork a little tighter.

  “To become acquainted, of course,” he said, continuing to appraise me, actually circling me, staring at my clothes. I spun around, trying to keep him in view, and caught him wrinkling his nose. “Surely you’re eager to get to know me, too.”

  Not really . . . I had no idea what he was talking about, but the head-to-toe survey of my person was not cool. “Why are you staring at me like that?”

  He stopped circling. “Are you cleaning stalls? Is that feces on your shoes?”

  “Yeah,” I said, confused by his tone. Why did he care what is on my shoes? “I muck the stalls every night.”

  “You?” He seemed baffled—and appalled.

  “Somebody has to do it,” I said. Why does he think this is his business?

  “Yes, well, we have people for that, where I come from. Hired help.” He sniffed. “You—a lady of your stature—should never do such a menial chore. It’s offensive.”

  When he said that, my fingers tightened again on the pitchfork—and not out of fear. Lucius Vladescu wasn’t just intimidating. He was infuriating. “Look, I’ve about had it with you creeping up on me, and your attitude,” I snapped. “Who do you think you are, anyhow? And why are you following me?”

  Anger and disbelief flickered in Lucius’s black eyes. “Your mother still hasn’t informed you, has she?” He shook his head. “Dr. Packwood vowed that she would tell you everything. Your parents are not so good at keeping promises.”

  “We . . . we’re supposed to talk later,” I stammered, my outrage fading a little in the face of his obvious anger. “Dad’s teaching yoga . . .”

  “Yoga?” Lucius gave a harsh laugh. “Contorting his frame into a series of ridiculous configurations is more important than informing his daughter about the pact? And what manner of man practices such a pacifist pastime? Men should train for war, not waste their time chanting ‘om’ and blathering about inner peace.”

  Forget the yoga and the blathering. “Pact? What pact?”

  But Lucius was staring at the beamed ceiling of the barn, pacing around, hands clasped behind his back, muttering to himself. “This is not going well. Not going well at all. I advised the Elders that you should have been summoned back to Romania years ago, that you would never be a suitable bride . . .”

  Whoa, there. “Bride?”

  Lucius paused, turning on his heel to face me. “I grow weary of your ignorance.” He moved closer to me, leaning down and peering into my eyes. “Because your parents refuse to inform you, I will deliver the news myself, and I shall make this simple for you.” He pointed to his chest and announced, as though talking to a child, “I am a vampire.” He pointed to my chest. “You are a vampire. And we are to be married, the moment you come of age. This has been decreed since our births.”

  I couldn’t even process the “getting married” part, or the thing about “decreed.” He’d lost me at “vampire.”

  Nuts. Lucius Vladescu i
s completely nuts. And I’m alone with him, in an empty barn.

  So I did what any sane person would do. I jammed the pitchfork in the general direction of his foot and ran like hell for the house, ignoring his yowl of pain.

  Chapter 6

  “I AM SO not undead,” I wailed.

  But of course, no one paid attention. My parents were too focused on Lucius Vladescu’s injured foot.

  “Lucius, sit down,” Mom ordered, looking none too happy with either of us.

  “I prefer to stand,” Lucius replied.

  Mom pointed firmly at the ring of chairs around the kitchen table. “Sit. Now.”

  Our injured visitor hesitated like he was going to disobey, then, muttering under his breath, took a chair. Mom yanked off his boot, which bore the visible imprint of a pitchfork tine, while my dad puttered about the kitchen, searching under the sink for the first aid kit while he waited for the herbal tea to brew.

  “It’s just bruised,” Mom announced.

  “Oh, good.” Dad crawled out from under the sink. “I can’t find the bandages, anyway. But we can still have tea.”

  The lanky self-proclaimed bloodsucker who had commandeered my seat at the kitchen table glared at me. “You are very lucky that my cobbler uses only the finest leather. You could have impaled me. And you do not want to impale a vampire. More to the point, is that any way to greet your future husband—or any guest, for that matter? With a pitchfork?”

  “Lucius,” my mother interrupted. “You did catch Jessica off guard. As I explained to you earlier, her father and I wanted to speak to her first.”

  “Yes, well, you certainly lingered over the task—for seventeen years. Someone had to take charge.” Lucius pulled his foot from Mom’s grasp and stood up, limping around the kitchen with one boot on, like a restless king in his castle. He picked up the container of chamomile, sniffed the contents, and frowned. “You drink this?”

  “You’ll like it,” Dad promised. He poured four mugs. “It’s very soothing in a stressful time like this.”