"In the cave, it was Valentine who touched my neck. I found him doing the same to my brother. At first I thought he was planning to bite us." I paused. "Instead, he was reading our thoughts," I continued.
"How do you know?"
This time I didn't answer.
"Valentine is gifted. He's reading more than your thoughts; he is recording your soul. In the Underworld we call him a 'blood reader,'" Alexander explained.
I took a deep breath. I was ready to confess my hesitation—before Alexander heard it from the menacing vampire—that though I'd always wanted to become a vampire, when I thought I was going to be turned, I became confused. "I think Valentine—"
"Enough of him," Alexander said, brushing my hair off my shoulder. "I can read mortals, too," he continued with a sexy smile. "Though I have my own way."
Alexander pressed his lips against mine. I could feel my heart race more quickly than at the touch of any preteen vampire.
12 Blood Brothers
The next evening, Alexander refused to let me search for Valentine. Instead he elected to hang out with the Madison family in our home. Like a gothic guardian he kept a watchful eye, ensuring no bloodsucking visitors would skip through our front door.
Observing Alexander protect my unsuspecting family made him even dreamier in my eyes than he already was.
The following day, I spent study hall in the cafeteria. The lunch ladies were sorting trays and preparing meals for four hundred hungry students. The smell of schoolhouse chili filled our study hall. I was stretched out over a table, resting my head against my backpack when I overheard a soccer snob talking to Jenny Warren at the table next to me.
"Did you hear about Trevor?" he asked her.
"No, tell me."
"There was this freaky kid hanging at Hatsy's Diner last night. He kept staring at Trevor and when Trevor confronted him, the kid tried to choke him."
Two majorly thin brunette soccer snob groupies were sitting at a table behind me. "Well, I heard the coffin boy jumped him and held a knife to Trevor's throat," one said.
"I thought it was a lightsaber," replied the other.
"Quiet down there," Mr. Ferguson chided.
By the time I gathered my belongings, I had overheard the same story five different ways.
I rose and walked over to Mr. Ferguson, who was grading English papers. "I need to be excused," I said.
"Why are you taking your backpack?" he asked skeptically. "Are you planning on not returning to study hall?"
"Listen, if I leave it here, students will fill it with garbage."
"That was you?" Mr. Ferguson asked, surprised. "I heard about that the other day in the teachers' lounge."
I rolled my eyes.
"You'll need a hall pass," he said, opening his briefcase.
"That's okay, I already have one," I said, pulling a blank one out of my back pocket.
I hurried down the hall, passing Mr. Wernick, our intimidating security guard, who was sitting on a chair reading Sports Illustrated. It was rumored Mr. Wernick used to be a prison guard.
"Raven—," he said, rising.
"I'm going to the ladies' room."
"I'll need to see your hall pass." He slowly rose from his chair as if his legs were not used to carrying his weight.
I unfolded the pass and presented it to him.
"It doesn't have a date on it," he said, glaring down on me.
I was ready for him to read me my rights.
"Really?" I asked, faking shock. "Mr. Ferguson must have forgotten."
Mr. Wernick grabbed a pen from his shirt pocket and signed the pass. "Good for today only."
I took my pass back, annoyed that he had ruined my golden ticket.
I continued down the hallway and turned the corner. I peered into Mr. Hayden's algebra class and noticed Trevor sitting in the fifth row, flirting with a cheerleader.
I hung out in the restroom for what seemed like an eternity and returned to Trevor's class just as the bell rang.
Mr. Hayden's classroom door opened and students burst into the hall.
Trevor, still fixated on the pom-pom girl, whizzed right past me.
"Trevor," I called to my nemesis. But he didn't hear me.
I caught up to him and pulled his backpack strap until it fell off of the soccer snob.
"Hey, jerk!" Trevor spun around and stopped in his tracks. "Oh, it's you."
"As much as I hate to admit it, I need to speak with you."
"Take a number," Trevor said, and walked on.
"What did you do to Valentine?" I asked, catching up to him.
"Who's Valentine?"
"You know who—the Goth kid at Hatsy's."
"Oh, that punk?"
"People are saying he tried to choke you. But I know that's not what happened. Is it?"