The last vampire

CHAPTER 1 — MIDNIGHT TOWN [LONG VERSION] Deandre's mother died on a Tuesday. He was 10. He remembered it not because of the funeral, but because of the phone call. A police officer with a flat voice said, "Car accident. On the highway. She didn't suffer." His father had left when Deandre was 4 years old. He didn't even remember his face, just that he smelled like cigarettes and left the front door open. For seven years, Deandre lived with his mother's sister in Durban. She was kind but she never wanted him. When he turned 17, she got a letter. From his grandfather. His mother's father. A man his mother had said was dead. The letter said: "Send him to me before he turns 18. It's time." So he was put on a bus with one suitcase. Midnight Town was not on most maps. The bus driver had to ask for directions twice. When Deandre finally got off, the air was wrong. It was 5 in the afternoon in summer but the town was already in shadow, as if the sun avoided it. The pine trees around the town were too tall and they didn't move in the wind. His grandfather was waiting by an old truck. He didn't look like a grandfather. He looked 55, maybe, but his back was straight, his eyes were grey and cold, and his skin was too smooth. He didn't hug Deandre. "Deandre," he said. "You look like her." The house was at the very end of Old Mill Road, where the road turns into forest. It was a two-story wooden house that had never been painted. All the windows had heavy curtains. Inside, it smelled like old books, cold stone, and blood that had dried a long time ago. His room was upstairs. It had clearly been his mother's room. There was still a faint name carved into the desk: LINDI. That night, his grandfather made rules. 1. Never go into the basement. The door is locked for a reason. 2. Never go into the woods behind the house after 9 p.m. 3. You will go to Americans Academic tomorrow. You will come straight home. 4. Don't ask about the mark on your wrist. Deandre looked down. On his inner wrist, a mark he had since birth — like a black crescent moon with a line through it — was suddenly darker than it had ever been. At 2:14 a.m., Deandre woke up. The house was silent, but not empty. He could hear his grandfather downstairs, talking to someone. There was no other car outside. Deandre crept to the top of the stairs. "...his mother tried to break the curse by leaving. It didn't work," his grandfather was saying. His voice was shaking. "His blood is waking up. In 26 days he turns 18. If the Council finds him, they will kill him. If Owen finds him, worse." A second voice answered. It didn't sound human. It sounded like many voices speaking at once. "He is the last of the Original Line. The Forgotten Clan. When he turns, every supernatural creature in a hundred miles will smell it. You cannot hide a king forever." Deandre's blood went cold. Last? King? He stepped on a loose board. CREEK. Silence downstairs. "Deandre?" his grandfather called, but his voice was different now — deeper, with an echo. Deandre ran back to his room and locked the door. He looked out the window at Midnight Town. Every single streetlight in the town was flickering on and off, on and off, in perfect rhythm. Like a heartbeat. And under his skin, his veins suddenly glowed faint black for a second, then faded. 26 days left