do.”
“Can I think about it?” she asked.
“Of course,” he said.
Then he disappeared.
The next night, he told her a little more about the thing that was after him. It had almost gotten him once before, but he had been able to get away. But now it was back to finish the job. It had tracked him down. Hannah listened to the boy’s story. The more he talked, the closer she felt to him. He was running out of time, he said. He was growing weaker and weaker and one day he wouldn’t be able to resist its call. He would walk out to meet his doom, helpless against the creature’s will.
Something thumped on the window hard, breaking the spell of his speech. They both jumped. The glass vibrated, but held and didn’t shatter. Hannah could sense the thing was back. It was out there. It was close. It wanted to feed.
She turned to him, reached out for his hand. Her eyes were wide and frightened. “I’m sorry, but I … I can’t.”
“It’s all right,” he said mournfully. “I didn’t expect you to. It’s a lot to ask.”
The light blinked off, and he was gone.
Hannah thought about him all the next day, remembering his words, his desperation to get away from the creature in the night that was hunting him. How alone he had looked. How scared. He looked like how she had felt when her father had told her he was leaving them, and her mother had had no one to turn to. That evening, before going to bed, she put on her cutest nightgown—a black one her aunt had brought back from Paris. It was black and silk and trimmed with lace. Her aunt was her father’s sister and something of a “bad influence” (again her mom’s words). She had made a decision.
When he appeared at three in the morning, she told him she had changed her mind.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Yes. But do it quickly before I chicken out,” she ordered.
“You don’t have to help me,” he said.
“I know.” She swallowed. “But I want to.”
“I won’t hurt you,” he said.
She put a hand to her neck as if to protect it. “Promise?” How could she trust this strange boy? How could she risk her life to save him? But there was something about him—his sleepy dark eyes, his haunted expression— that drew her to him. Hannah was the type of girl who took in stray dogs and fixed broken bird’s wings. Plus, there was that thing out there in the dark. She had to help him get away from it.
“Do it.” She decided.
“Are you sure?”
She nodded briskly, as if she were at the doctor’s office and asked to give consent to a particularly troublesome, but much-needed operation. She took off her glasses, pulled the right strap of her nightgown to the side and arched her neck. She closed her eyes and prepared herself for the worst.
He walked over to her. He was so tall, and when he rested his hands on her bare skin, they were surprisingly warm to the touch. He pulled her closer to him and bent down.
“Wait,” he said. “Open your eyes. Look at me.”
She did. She stared into his dark eyes, wondering what he was doing.
“They’re beautiful—your eyes, I mean. You’re beautiful,” he said. “I thought you should know.”
She sighed and closed her eyes as his hand stroked her cheek.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
She could feel his hot breath on her cheek, and then his lips brushed hers for a moment. He kissed her, pressing his lips firmly upon hers. She closed her eyes and kissed him back. His lips were hot and wet.
Her first kiss, and from a vampire.
She felt his lips start to kiss the side of her mouth, and then the bottom of her chin, and then the base of her neck. This was it. She steeled herself for pain.
But he was right, there was very little. Just two tiny pin-pricks, then a deep feeling of sleep. She could hear him sucking and swallowing, feel herself begin to get dizzy, woozy. Just like giving blood at the donor drive. Except she probably wouldn’t get a doughnut after this.
She slumped in his arms and he caught her. She could feel him walk her to the bed, and lay her down on top of the sheets, then cover her with the duvet.
“Will I ever see you again?” she asked. It was hard to keep her eyes open. She was so tired. But she could see him very vividly now. He seemed to glow. He looked more substantial.
“Maybe,” he whispered. “But you’d be safer if you didn’t.”
She nodded dreamily, sinking into the pillows.
In the morning, she felt spent and logy, and told her mother she felt like she was coming down with the flu and didn’t feel like going to school. When she looked in the mirror, she saw nothing on her neck—there was no wound, no scar. Did nothing happen last night? Was she indeed going crazy? She felt around her skin with her fingertips, and finally found it—a hardening of the skin, just two little bumps. Almost imperceptible, but there.
She’d made him tell her his name, before she had agreed to help him.
Dylan, he’d said. My name is Dylan Ward.
Later that day, she dusted the plaque near the fireplace and looked at it closely. It was inscribed with a family crest and underneath it read “Ward House.” Wards were foster children. This was a home for the lost. A safe house on Shelter Island.
She thought of the beast out there in the night, rattling the windows, and hoped Dylan had made it to wherever he was going.
Sword Point
by Maria V. Snyder
AVA GLANCED AT the grimy alley.
Odd. A famous establishment located in the armpit of Iron City.
She hitched her equipment bag higher on her aching shoulder and headed toward the building. Since she lived in the suburbs across town, it had taken her over an hour to reach this place by bus. Ava pulled her coat’s hood over her head as cold raindrops dripped from the night sky.
An unsettled feeling rolled in her stomach. She should be ecstatic and thrilled. This was a dream come true. Perhaps the combination of the location and the rainy Monday had doused her excitement.
A prickle of unease raised the hairs on her arms. She paused, certain someone was watching her, but the teenager lounging on a stoop across the street had his hoodie pulled down over his face as if asleep.
When she spotted two large blue eyes staring at her, she smiled in relief. A young boy peered at her through the dirty window of the building next to the Academy. He hid behind his mother when Ava drew closer.
Through the window, Ava recognized a karate dojo. Parents sat in folding chairs as their children, clad in oversized uniforms with bright colored belts, kicked in unison. A young man with a black belt wove between them, correcting postures or giving praise. His shoulder-length hair had been pulled back into a ponytail, revealing a tattoo on his neck. The two black marks resembled Chinese calligraphy.
Ava lingered by the window, observing the lesson. I’m not procrastinating. I’m learning. That shuffle-kick is very similar to fencing footwork.
The teacher paired the children, and they practiced kicking into a pad. Ava caught the teacher’s attention,
