The Eternal Kiss: Vampire Tales of Blood and Desire

“Here, Mr. Nairhoft,” said a voice from the far table in the corner.

Becky turned around to see who had spoken, as did Robin, and Mr. Nairhoft. Actually, everyone in detention swiveled their heads to see who was denying Mr. Nairhoft the occasion to be his usual unpleasant self.

A boy about her age, sitting at a table by himself, wearing a black leather jacket, faded jeans that were more gray than black, and a T-shirt in the same condition, waved a yellow pencil in the air.

“She can use this one.”

He said it almost defiantly … like he was daring Mr. Nairhoft to come over and take it himself.

“Mr. Dugan, surely you haven’t completed all of your long overdue assignments,” Mr. Nairhoft said, folding his arms.

“I’ve completed all I’m going to,” the boy replied, matching Mr. Nairhoft’s tone exactly. The boy looked at Becky. “Want this?”

Becky nodded and stood up slowly, her frustration with her own pencil, assignment, Mr. Nairhoft and detention forgotten as all the attention shifted from her onto the boy.

“Becky, no,” Robin hissed in a whisper.

The boy’s eyes went back to Mr. Nairhoft’s as he held the pencil out for Becky to take.

Ryan Dugan wasn’t just a bad boy, he was the bad boy; everyone knew it. Always in trouble, always getting sent to the principal’s office, always in detention. There was even a rumor that last summer he wasn’t in summer school like he usually was, but in Mariposa Juvenile Detention Center three towns over.

And Ryan never, ever gave you anything without expecting something in return.

It felt good though, doing something Mr. Nairhoft couldn’t really complain about, even though she was technically breaking the “don’t leave your seat without permission” rule. Still, Mr. Nairhoft had asked if anyone had a pencil she could use, and Ryan did, so she was going to take it no matter what everyone else thought. Really she just wanted to see the look on Mr. Nairhoft’s face as she took the pencil from Ryan with a quiet “thank you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Ryan said with a big grin. He winked—actually winked—at Mr. Nairhoft as he held onto the pencil before letting Becky take it. “Wouldn’t want you to get in any more trouble now, would we?”

Becky shook her head, stunned, and hurried back to her seat where she sat down quickly and bent her head over her assignment. She wondered if he knew what had landed her in detention. He sounded like he knew. Like he knew, and approved.

Becky’s mouse-brown hair hid her blue eyes enough that it kept Mr. Nairhoft from seeing that she was secretly glancing at Ryan while she pretended to work. Her eyes went to the clock on the wall. Twenty minutes of detention left, then she could get home to Nana.

Ryan sat back, clasping his hands behind his head as he leaned against the wall. Mr. Nairhoft berated the boy until he was blue in the face, said something about “another week’s worth of detention!” and stalked away to harass another student he didn’t think looked busy enough.

Ryan just grinned and caught Becky looking at him. He winked at her.

Becky blushed and bent her head back over her paper, trying not to think about how much time she had left to sit there.

Or that Nana might be setting the house on fire.

* * *

Everyone else had someone to pick them up when detention was finally over—even Robin, whose dad looked unhappy as Robin got in the car, even though he smiled wanly at Becky.

Although Becky would have been perfectly happy taking the bus, Nana used to drive her to and from school, when Nana could still be trusted to drive. Nana hadn’t driven in about three years. They’d taken away her license when Becky was eleven. Not that Nana was that old; there were plenty of drivers on the road older than Nana, but they could remember which house was theirs and which gear made the car reverse, and where they were going.

Nana couldn’t.

The doctors called it “early onset senile dementia,” but everyone knew that was just a polite way of saying that Nana was really too young to have Alzheimer’s, even though it was obvious that she did.

The school buses only ran before detention, not after, so that meant someone had to pick you up, or you had to walk home. Becky offered Robin and Mr. Turnbull a little wave of apology—after all, Robin wouldn’t have gotten into trouble if it hadn’t been for her—and then shouldered her backpack and turned quickly away to begin the long walk home before Mr. Turnbull could offer her a ride. There was just no way she wanted to be in the car with that much tension, and she really needed to clear her head before getting to her house. Who knew what disaster would be awaiting her today.

The last thing Becky wanted was for Nana to catch on that she’d been in detention, and if she saw Mr. Turnbull dropping her off, Nana would probably notice how late Becky was getting home. That is, if Nana even noticed. If there was anything good about Nana losing it, it was that Becky could get away with a lot more than most of the kids in her grade.

Becky didn’t see any smoke coming from the general vicinity of her—well, Nana’s —house, or hear fire engines, so it seemed pretty safe to take a little time to breathe on the way home. She lost herself in thought as she walked, remembering all the little “funny” things she and her Nana used to laugh about, like Nana putting her keys in the fridge, or putting toilet paper on the paper towel rack. Then things had started to get scarier, like Nana leaving the gas stove on, or forgetting to turn off the water she was running in the stoppered sink for the dishes and flooding the kitchen.

I don’t suppose I should complain too much to Robin about Nana, Becky thought as she pulled her jacket around her. Because she could have given me up for adoption or something, after Mom and Dad died in the crash, and she didn’t. Becky sighed deeply. She looked after me all these years, so it’s only fair that I look after her now.

Becky picked up her pace. October was cold, and it wasn’t even Halloween yet. It was getting dark earlier and earlier these days, and when it got dark, it got colder, and she wanted to get home. It was getting close to dinnertime and Nana needed to eat, and if Nana got hungry when Becky wasn’t there, she’d try to cook for herself. Becky really didn’t want to spend another night in the emergency room explaining to the doctors how Nana burned herself again.

“First time, huh?”

Becky stopped in her tracks. She knew that voice. It was the same one she’d heard earlier, in detention.

Ryan Dugan stepped out from behind a tree that bordered the sidewalk she was on. He leaned against the trunk, brought a little box out of the pocket of his leather jacket, and flipped open a small, silver—

“Is that a lighter?” Becky asked, scowling.

“Yeah,” Ryan said, bringing a cigarette to his lips. “You got a problem with smokers?”

“Way to add to the bad-boy stereotype there,” Becky said, raising an eyebrow at his tone. “How did you get ahead of me anyway?”

“Back alley,” Ryan said, lighting his cigarette. “You know … the stereotypical bad-boy escape route.”

He pointed back over her shoulder.

“If you cut through the gym and across the playground you can hop the fence and skip most of the block,” he said, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

Becky fanned the cloud with her hand and wrinkled her nose.

“Where do you get the money for those anyway?” she asked.

“What is this, the Spanish Inquisition?” Ryan countered. He put a hand to his chest at her look of surprise that he’d mentioned precisely what had been on her assignment. “Wow, how about that? I actually do learn in school. Mr. Hair-off has a particular interest in the history of Spain, and he gives all the first-timers that assignment. So unless you want to learn more about the conquistadors and the Inquisition, I’d keep out of trouble if I were you.”

Becky wanted to laugh at Ryan’s use of the name everyone called the toupee-wearing Mr. Nairhoft behind his back, but thought it would only encourage him.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” Becky demanded, shifting her backpack nervously.

“You have my lucky pencil,” Ryan reminded her, holding out his hand.