“That’s what it feels like to be mesmerized,” he answers coolly. “The only reason you’re still standing over there and I’m still standing over here is because I need you to understand that I don’t mean you any harm.”
“Oh, sure, because you’re one of the ‘good’ ones?” I scoff.
“There’s no such thing as a good vampire, August.” The blunt candor of his reply actually surprises me. “Just like there’s no such thing as a good person. All of us are capable of violence and selfishness under the right circumstances.”
“You eat people,” I remind him, perhaps stupidly. “We’re your food, not your friends. Why should I believe that you don’t want to hurt me?”
“Because you and I need to have a conversation about something very important.” His impish demeanor is gone, and now his tone is all business. It sends a chill clear down to my toes. “Something very bad and very dangerous is happening, August Pfeiffer, and it directly concerns you.”
“That’s ridiculous.” I back away from the ring of sincerity in his voice. If he’s bullshitting me, he’s spent a lot of time practicing his delivery, because he sure sounds convincing. “I’ve heard enough, so—”
“You haven’t heard anything.” Jude steps forward, right to the very edge of the shadow that protects him. “The reason I came to Fulton Heights was to find you and warn you. Darkness is coming, August. The world as you know it, as we all know it, could be coming to an end. And you might be the only one who can stop that from happening.”
Another church giggle bursts out of me, because this speech is not only grandiose, but absurd—the oldest and corniest trick in the book. I can’t even factor a polynomial, but I’m the key to saving the universe? “Oh, right, sure! Evil forces more powerful than I could possibly imagine, time running out, blah blah blah, and one gullible kid in a shithole suburb of Chicago is the Chosen One who will save mankind. Obviously. When do we get started?”
Jude shakes his head, his expression somber. “Not chosen, August. No one gets chosen for this. You’re just in the worst possible place at the worst possible time.”
The shadows are even longer now, the sun a broken flare barely cresting the treetops, and soon the daylight will vanish altogether. I back away farther, quick steps toward the bike rack. “Well, look, this has been super fun, but—”
“What do you dream about at night?” Jude demands, not moving a muscle. “Death? People from historical periods you don’t recognize?” I freeze, and he must see that he’s hit a nerve, because he presses ahead. “Have you experienced unfamiliar memories or lost time? Have you noticed any changes in your body?”
“We’re done,” I declare, my voice thin and trembling. How could he possibly know about my nightmares and my disappearing two hours? “Okay? This is over. Just … stay away from me.”
“Very soon, you’re going to run out of ways to explain the things you don’t understand.” He tosses something at me underhand. It’s a perfect throw, but I have no coordination, and the object hits me square in the chest, almost dropping to the ground before I get my hands on it. “When you’re ready for answers, get in touch. Anytime.”
Looking down, I find a disposable, plastic cell phone in my hand—a burner. “Do you honestly think…”
But I trail off when I glance back up again, because there’s no point in finishing. The light hasn’t disappeared entirely yet, but Jude has. He’s gone.
3
The three things I actually enjoy about my crappy hometown are as follows: 1) Colgate Woods, a nature area adjacent to our once-thriving industrial neighborhood; 2) The sight of Boyd Crandall in his underpants; and 3) Sugar Mama’s, an ice-cream-parlor-slash-café, because everything about it is life-changing. Their Nutella gelato? Life-changing. Their peppermint s’mores mocha? Life-changing! Their gorgeous barista with the cute butt and dreamy blue eyes? Life. Changing.
His name is Gunnar, he is sixteen, and he lives in Wilmette—which is about ten minutes away and even smaller than Fulton Heights. He has light brown surfer hair and a cool dude-necklace, and he works Monday and Thursday nights, plus alternating Wednesdays. Which is why I make Adriana meet me for regular and carefully scheduled study sessions at Sugar Mama’s each week.
It’s been five days since a mysterious vampire ambushed me to say I’m supposed to save the world from Darkness with a capital D, and as yet the sun keeps shining. Since then, I’ve only had one terrible nightmare—a normal one, about spiders—and no more weird blackouts, or whatever it was that happened in the art room. I also passed my algebra quiz by the skin of my teeth, so if there really is some sort of curse on my head, it’s failing at its one job.
I’m not trying to sound flippant. I spent roughly forty-eight hours panicking about the possibility that Jude—whoever he is—could be telling me some version of an actual truth. Because, I mean, here’s the thing: Either he honestly believes I’m the key to fending off Doomsday, which is scary … or he was lying in order to trick me, specifically, for some reason. Which is possibly even scarier.
When I get to Sugar Mama’s, Adriana is already at our usual table by the plate glass windows looking out on Main Street, nursing her usual order: a scoop of amaretto ice cream drowned in at least four shots of espresso. I give her a wave and get in line, and when I reach the front of it, Gunnar looks up at me and smiles—and it’s a huge smile, one that reaches his perfect, dreamy eyes. “Hey, it’s my favorite customer!”
I try not to moan out loud. He’s probably straight, and he’s probably just being nice—and I’m probably a sad, moonstruck gay boy trying too hard to read the tea leaves of his friendliness. It makes me afraid to flirt with him, lest I poison the well and can never return to my favorite hangout again; but every time I see him I wish I had the courage to try anyway just to see if maybe I really am his favorite.
“Hey! It’s the best barista!” I exclaim, which is … pathetic. Patheticness is my chief export now. “How’s, um…” Desperately, I search for something to ask about, but my mind is a wasteland. Again. “… your week going?”
“You know, it’s just going.” He does a dude-shrug, bobbing his head a little, and I die inside on an endless loop.
“Awesome! That’s totally cool!” Honestly, if that Darkness wants to end the world as we know it, now would be a great time. “So, um, I’d like a—”
“Medium two-pump s’mores mocha with a dash of peppermint, an extra shot of espresso, and a toasted marshmallow,” he finishes with a grin that melts me just like Linda Hamilton in that nuclear blast from Terminator 2.
“Yes, wow, exactly,” I sputter in a high, tiny voice. I was going to ask for whipped cream instead, but if Gunnar the Sexy Surfer-Barista wants to toast my marshmallow, I will allow it. When I pay, our fingers touch, and he winks—he winks for some reason—and my coffee and I float all the way across the room to where Adriana is waiting.
“Hey, it’s the best barista!” She greets me in an overly enthusiastic tone of voice, and I settle into my chair, pushing my glasses back up my nose with a cool expression.