I’m about ready to run screaming back onto the stage, when Teifert flips a switch and the room becomes bathed in a dull orange glow. I glance around, my breath catching in my throat. Suddenly, I’m too fascinated to leave, even if I now have an even better reason to do so.
Weapons. Lots of weapons. In fact, I’d bet my Dr. Marten combat boot collection that none of you have seen so many weapons in one place before. (Well, if you don’t count museums, which I don’t, as those are ancient weapons behind glass. Not the ready-to-chop-off-someone’s-head-at-a-moment’s-notice variety like these are.) There are intricate medieval swords, shiny axes (gulp!), and a large collection of jeweled daggers.
“Tools of the slayer,” Teifert explains. I glance over at him. Under this lighting he no longer looks like a dorky drama teacher. In fact, if I didn’t know better, I’d say he had some kind of weird glow about him. A glow of . . . power.
“I can use these?” I ask, running a hand along the helm of the sword. I start imagining myself wielding the mighty blade. Just like that cool senior Jen Taufman who belongs to the Society of Creative Anachronism and does medieval battle recreations on the weekends.
“Uh, no,” Mr. Teifert corrects, sinking all my dreams of becoming a twenty-first-century knight in shining armor. Figures. He pulls open a drawer and rummages around. “Not right away, anyway. To begin with, you’ll use this.”
I stare at the item in his hand. That? That’s all I get to vanquish evil and slay immortal creatures of the night?
“Uh, that’s just a chunk of wood, dude.”
“It’s a stake,” Mr. Teifert clarifies. “You must know about staking vampires, Rayne. Even Hollywood’s got that part right.”
I roll my eyes. “But those stakes are at least smooth. Pointy. Elegant almost. I bet you just found that thing outside on the ground in the woods.”
Mr. Teifert inspects the rough stick in his hand. “That’s because it’s not finished yet. Each slayer must carve her own stake. Embed it with her own essence. That’s what gives it its power.”
“Oh, joy. So not only do I have to go out and fight evil villains, but I have to take up woodworking, too?”
The drama teacher sighs deeply. “I never said becoming the slayer would be a field trip to a Backstreet Boys concert.”
“Good. Because I’d rather stab myself with an unfinished stake than attend one of those,” I inform him. “Die a slow painful death. It’d still be better. I can’t believe you think I’d like a band like that. I mean, I know you adults all think we teens look the same, but hello?” I gesture to my outfit. “Black-wearing, night-worshipping Goth girl here. I so have better taste than that.”
“Um, right. We’re getting off topic here,” Teifert interrupts. Good thing, too, cause I had a lot more to say on the subject. I mean, talk about insulting!
The drama coach holds out the stake. I take it, reluctantly, worried that the nasty thing is going to give me splinters. “Um, thanks,” I mutter, not quite sure of the appropriate response to the giftage of a piece of wood.
“Look, Rayne. Try to see the job as an opportunity,” Teifert tries again. Jeez. The man doesn’t give up. He’d make a great Army recruiter.
“An opportunity to murder innocent creatures of the night that pose absolutely no threat to the human race? Rock on.” There’s more than a hint of sarcasm in my voice, as you can probably imagine.
“Now that’s where you’re mistaken, little girl,” Mr. Teifert says, narrowing his eyes and going all authority figure on me. “Not all vampires are so-called ‘good guys,’ as you seem to believe. And those who are live a peaceful existence have no reason to fear our organization. It’s only the evil vampires that we wish to keep in line.”
“Okay, fine. Only the bad guys. What about my sister’s boyfriend?” I ask. “Is Magnus a goodie or a baddie?”
“We are pleased at Magnus’s rise to power. We feel he will be a great master, actually.”
Oh. Well that’s a relief. Don’t have to worry about pissing Sunny off. Nanovirus or not, dusting one’s sister’s BF would so be against the twin code of honor.
“Okay. So if I were to take this gig,” I say cautiously. “Not that I’m necessarily saying yes, but if I do, who’d be my first victim?”
Mr. Teifert reaches into his leather briefcase and pulls out a file. He flips through the pages until he comes to an eight-by-ten photo. He holds it up so I can take a look.
My eyes widen and a chill trips down my spine as I examine the photo. The vamp in question just looks evil. Seriously evil. He has jet-black hair—parted down the middle and hanging to his shoulders—a trim goatee, pure white skin, and piercing ice-blue eyes that seem to bore into my skull. Sort of resembles Trent Reznor from Nine Inch Nails. If Trent had huge fangs protruding from his bloodred lips, that is.
“Maverick,” Mr. Teifert whispers.
The name has power. Like the bad guy in Harry Potter. Hearing it sends chills down my spine. I stare at the picture. The eyes seem to taunt me. Begging me to come closer . . . closer . . .
“Okay, okay!” I cry, turning my head away. “I’ve seen enough.”
Mr. Teifert slips the picture back into the file. “Maverick owns the Blood Bar downtown. It’s an underground nightclub where humans can go and pay to have their blood sucked by a vampire.”