“Maybe we should go,” my aunt suggested to Devon. “Have you been?”
I waited desperately for Devon’s answer. Though he was older than the combined ages of two average clubsters at the nightspot, I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d checked it out.
I was intrigued to hear his response.
“There’s supposed to be an underground club inside. A real vampire hangout.” He laughed.
Alexander and I locked eyes.
“We didn’t see that when we were there,” my aunt admitted. “Sounds like fun.”
“It’s just something I heard,” he said to me.
How would Devon know about the vampire hangout? I could only fathom he must have visited it himself.
We continued on and passed a booth with blown-glass ornaments and figures.
“We’ll catch up to you,” I called to my aunt, and pulled Alexander inside.
Alexander studied the artisan blowing glass into a tiny elephant.
“I have strong suspicions about Devon,” I whispered.
“What do you suspect?” he asked, mesmerized by the flaming torch.
“That he’s a…” Then I turned his face toward mine and mouthed the word vampire.
Alexander laughed and returned to watch the artisan sculpt the tiny trunk.
“It’s possible,” I persisted.
“Yes it is.”
“See? Then you believe me! Devon doesn’t like to have his picture taken, and Aunt Libby says his stares are hypnotic. He didn’t show up until after sunset, and now he’s talking about vampire clubs.”
“So what if he is?”
“Then we have to warn her.”
All at once Alexander wasn’t interested in the sculpture. “You don’t want your aunt dating a vampire?” His midnight eyes couldn’t hide the sadness inside him. I was making Alexander feel that same awful feeling I’d felt when Scarlet didn’t acknowledge me or when my classmates ostracized me. After all, Alexander was a vampire, and I’d just told him I didn’t want my own aunt dating someone of his kind.
“I didn’t mean…” I said, reaching out to him.
“But you did,” he argued flatly.
“No—that’s not what I meant.” Then I realized I had meant it. My eyes welled up with tears.
Alexander led me away from the crowd and in between two booths. He sidestepped a puddle of Coke while I despondently plunged right into it.
He brushed away a tear that had trickled down my cheek.
“I didn’t mean to offend you,” I began. “I’d never—”
“I know,” he said, then continued in a soft voice. “Raven, you have reason to be concerned. It’s not like dating someone outside your religion, class, or comfort zone. Vampires by nature are deadly to mortals. It’s what I’ve been trying to tell you since we met.”
“That’s why I said what I did. But you aren’t like that. So maybe Devon isn’t, either.”
“First of all, we don’t know what Devon is or isn’t.”
“If he is and he’s like you, then it would be awesome!”
“Or he could be like Jagger. That’s why I’m protective of you. Don’t you understand?”
“But Alexander, there are vampires who are just like you.”
“What do you mean?”
I was ready to tell Alexander everything about the underground club when Aunt Libby interrupted. “You have to see this painting,” she said, grabbing my arm. “You won’t believe it!”
Unrelentingly she dragged me through the crowd, weaving in and out of festival-goers until we finally stopped at a booth in front of the firehouse.
On an easel, beside a painting of a vase full of flowers, was a picture of me. Dressed in my scarlet and black corset prom dress, wearing lace gloves, and carrying a black parasol, I was standing outside the Mansion. Three bats hovered around me—one with green eyes, a smaller one with blue eyes, and one with one blue and one green. Up behind me at the attic window, the curtain was slightly pulled back and a silhouetted figure watched over me.
In the corner of the painting was a big blue ribbon.
“This looks exactly like you!” Aunt Libby remarked.
Devon examined it, then me. “It certainly does.”
“It is me!” I exclaimed.
“Who painted this?” Aunt Libby asked the festival volunteer. “We have to find this person.”
“There was no information on the artist. Usually they attach a picture, website, and bio. But the artist must have wanted anonymity.”
“It looks flawless, like a photograph,” my aunt observed.
“We’ve been getting inquiries and requests to buy it all day.”
“You can’t sell it,” my aunt began, “until we find out more about it.”
“It does bear an uncanny resemblance to you,” the volunteer commented. “Do you know any artists?”
Devon, my aunt, and the volunteer searched the painting for a signature. I stood in awe while Alexander hung back.
“Here it is!” my aunt exclaimed, like she’d just spotted an egg on an Easter hunt. In the corner, embedded in a spider’s web, was the name “Sterling.”