Teifert turns back to me. “So you believe now? That with your stake you have the power to slay vampires?”
“Hell yeah, I believe. Just call me Raynie: Vampire Slayer. Able to kill vampires in a single bound.” I wave my stake around again, but it fails to light up this time. I’m probably not concentrating hard enough. Gotta remember that when the zero hour comes around.
“Good. I’d like to have additional training sessions with you, but I’m not sure there’s time,” Teifert says. “How have your investigations into Maverick been going? Have you learned anything?”
“Well, sort of, though we definitely need more info before some conviction,” I say hesitantly. “There seems to be some kind of disease going around. We saw some donors of a high-ranking vampire in the Blood Coven at the bar one night—”
Teifert raises an eyebrow. “We? Are you working with someone? It’s highly irregular for a slayer to have a partner.”
I roll my eyes. “Uh, what about Buffy? She had that whole Scooby gang on her side and that didn’t seem to hurt her odds.”
“Repeat after me, Rayne. Buffy. Is. A. TV. Character. She. Is. Not. Real.”
Sigh. “Look. If you must know, I’m working with one of Magnus’s guys. General Jareth. Don’t worry, he’s on our side. After all, the vamps want to know what’s going down at the Blood Bar as much as we do.”
“Jareth, huh?” Teifert says thoughtfully. “I think I remember reading about him. He caused some trouble for Slayer Inc. back in the day.”
“Trouble?” Oh, great. Me and my big mouth. What if they suddenly want me to dust Jareth? I could never do that. I wonder if this has something to do with whatever secret Jareth is hiding. . . .
“Never mind. It’s all in the past, anyhow,” Teifert says with a dismissive wave. “So fine, you’re working with Jareth. And what have you two found?”
“Okay, like I was saying, one night we saw those two donors of a high-ranking coven guy and the next day those same donors turned up dead. And their vampire, Kristoff, is weak and sick and has lost most of his powers. I mean, it could be unrelated, but . . .”
Teifert scratches his chin. “Interesting,” he muses. “Perhaps Maverick is trying a less direct approach to infiltrate the coven.”
“What do you mean?”
“What if he were somehow infecting the donors purposefully? So they could bring the disease back to their masters. By weakening the inner core of Magnus’s coven, a takeover could more easily be accomplished.”
“Wow. That’s pretty elaborate.”
“These vampires have thousands of years to plot this kind of thing. They can afford to come up with detailed plans because there’s no need to rush.”
“I guess that’s true.”
“So what do you plan to do next?”
“Well, Jareth and I took a sample of the donor’s blood and he’s having it analyzed in the lab now.”
“That’s something, I suppose. But what we really need is a sample of the virus itself,” Teifert says. “You should go down to the Blood Bar and find out where they store these viruses and bring one back to me. Hopefully this way we can develop an antidote before too many vampires are infected and Maverick is able to stage his coup.”
“Uh, yeah, sure. That should be easy.” I make a face, in case he can’t hear the total sarcasm in my voice. “I’m sure they’ll be happy to let me borrow one, once I show my library card.”
“Rayne, you are the slayer. Vampires fear you, not the other way around. Just bring your stake with you. It gives you your power. With it, you’ll easily be able to defeat anyone who stands in your way.”
“Okay, okay. Stake will be at arm’s reach at all times.” I tuck the chunk of wood into the back of my sweatpants. “Just like this, but with a much classier outfit.” Could you imagine me wearing Juicy Couture down to the Blood Bar?
“Rayne, this is serious business,” Teifert scolds. “Do not take your duties lightly. If Maverick is to take control of the Blood Coven, he could conceivably unite the vampires against the humans and start a war. A war that mankind is unlikely to win.”
Nice, huh? Talk about putting on the pressure. The fate of the world lies in my hands. Suddenly I feel very weary and depressed.
23
MONDAY, JUNE 11, 4 P.M.
Mike Stevens Must Die
Monday. Did I ever mention how much I hate my school? Well, not the school itself. I’ve got nothing against the bricks or mortar or climbing ivy. It’s the cretins that inhabit it that make me want to slit my wrists on a daily basis.
For one thing, everyone’s a clone of everyone else. All the girls with their flat-ironed hair, baby doll T’s, and low, low-rise jeans. And the guys—they literally have no idea other clothing stores besides Abercrombie and Fitch even exist.
My friend River and her parents moved away to Boston a year ago. She says there are tons of cool skaters and Goths at her new school. That everyone’s open-minded and there aren’t really any cliques. Here at Oakridge, we’ve got nothing but cliques. And certainly no Goths besides me. So I’m the designated freak, basically, and everyone knows it.
It’s a lonely life, but it’s still better than shopping at American Eagle.
I usually don’t care. In fact, if anything, I’ve always enjoyed being unique. An individual. But today feels different for some reason. Instead of mocking the cheerleaders who stride through the corridors in giggling packs, or the lovebirds who press against the lockers, making out and hoping the teachers won’t walk by, or the jocks who “go long,” passing the football to one another down the hallways, I notice myself envying them all. They look so blissful. So content in their pathetic, shallow high school existence.