Bitten by a vampire

My sister is a vampire and it’s my fault. When I saw Ennis dead on the living room floor, I wasn’t thinking anything except that I couldn’t lose anybody else. In hindsight, it was selfish. I didn’t think about what it would mean for her, how she would change. I begged Rafe to turn her, to save her. And he told me, flat out, “I can turn her, but I won’t be saving her.” I should’ve appreciated his honesty at that moment, because like all vampires he’s a master manipulator and a murderer. But he hadn’t killed Ennis. Some other vamp had done that. It was Rafe’s fault, though. He’d been checking up on us for the last seven years—in other words, stalking Ennis. We’d moved out of his territory and onto another vamp’s turf a long time ago. But he couldn’t stay away. Vampire love is kind of (sorry, for the pun) forever. And he’d led the other vamp right to us. I’d only learned vampires were real the night before when Rafe had shown up to warn Ennis that the local bloodsucker knew about us. Ennis had freaked out on him, threatening to kill him if he came anywhere near us again. We should’ve listened to him. We should’ve left town. But we didn’t. And the next night, we were attacked. I came into the living room to find the local beast of a vamp with his beefy hands wrapped around Ennis’ neck, throttling her. When he saw me, he dropped her without a second glance. But before I could run or wet myself, he was being tossed through the patio doors, crashing into the backyard. Then Rafe was tearing the umbrella from the table and driving the pole through the vamp’s chest. Slowly, he’d crumbled into a pile of dust. Just like the movies. But changing a mortal into an immortal isn’t like the movies—the ones that have the “sire” giving the victim a taste of his vampire blood and, presto-chango, new vamp. A person drained by a vamp does need blood to be turned, but not vampire blood. Finally giving into my pleas, Rafe held out his hand. “Nico, give me your arm.” I hesitated. “Do you want this or not?” Rafe said through his vampire teeth. The only things that changed about him were the fangs and his eyes. They were blue, but a bleached hue, the irises almost white. I thrust out my arm. His hand curled around my wrist, all the way around. I gritted my teeth and tried to act tough. His hand wasn’t cold, his grip wasn’t a vice, but it was firm. “This won’t hurt,” he said. “I don’t care,” I lied. “Just bring her back.” It happened so fast. One second he was looking at me with his freaky washed-out eyes, and the next, his mouth was on my wrist. He was right. It didn’t hurt. In fact, it felt good. As a fourteen-year-old boy, I was accustomed to awkwardness. But I was unprepared for how embarrassing it was to enjoy having my blood drained. Just as I grew light-headed, he shoved me away, onto the couch. I slumped there, clutching my wrist to my chest and trying to catch my breath. Blood gurgled in his throat, my blood. “It’ll heal.” He gathered Ennis closer, turning his face away. Then he gave her what looked like a deep kiss. Blood trickled down her jaw and onto her favorite silk blouse. And I thought how pissed she would be about the stain. I wasn’t thinking very clearly. When he pulled back, he wiped the blood off her cheek with his thumb. A tint of red smeared her lips like she’d been eating strawberries. Rafe closed his eyes. When he turned back to me, they were their usual preternatural blue. “How’s your wrist?” Blood trickled down my forearm, but there weren’t any bite marks. He didn’t wait for me to answer. “Eat something. Take a shower. Lie down.” “I can’t eat,” I said. “I’m not going to be able to sleep.” “Try,” he said, weary. “And have a cookie or something. Haven’t you ever donated blood?” “I’m too young,” I snapped. He looked at me appraisingly. “I suppose you are.” He stood, lifting Ennis as he did. She draped over his arms, as lifeless as ever. He started down the hall, toward her bedroom. “But...” I trailed after him. “Did it work?” “If it did,” he said, “you don’t want to be there when she wakes up.” “Yes, I—” “No,” he said, “you don’t.” He shut the bedroom door. A moment later, the lock clicked. Vampires are liars, but sometimes they tell the truth.