The Vampire's Photograph (20 page)

My brain is racing past what she is saying. I'm imagining the training: us taking off for a mountain-top retreat and wearing robes and learning how to make objects float and only eating sushi and—

“No,” Kathleen says, and now I know for sure that she's reading my thoughts. “It's not like that. You have to learn about your Orani powers on your own. I can only get you started.”

I look over to see Kathleen holding out her hand. In her palm is a little rolled-up green paper. I take it. It's a sticky note. I peel it apart and unroll it. Inside is a small oval of red. It looks kind of like a jewel, but maybe more like a hard candy.

“It's a scarab,” Kathleen explains as I turn it over with my fingers. One side is curved and smooth, and the other is carved into the shape of a beetle. The surface is worn and scuffed. “It's a charm from ancient Egypt.”

“This thing is ancient?” I ask. I thought only movie heroes got to have ancient things.

“
Mmm
. Scarabs have been used to hold charms. This one is called a Conduit.”

I stare at the tiny beetle carving and notice there's a hole in the top.

“Oh, here.” Kathleen is holding out a tiny silver chain. “So you can wear it. Now…the sticky note tells you where to begin.”

I see writing on it:

CORNER OF MARKET AND 22ND, 3:17 P.M.

“What's this?”

“Listen carefully, Emalie. Go to that spot tomorrow. At that exact time, hold this scarab between your palms and blow on it gently. As you do so, relax your mind. Then your journey as an Orani will begin.”

“My journey? But—”

“Hey, guys!” We both turn fast, like guilty criminals, to see my dad and Zeke standing by the door to the office.

“Just a sec!” Kathleen says all cheery, but when she turns back to me, her face is dead serious. “Emalie, listen: Something big has begun to happen. Powerful forces are aligning. Your mom knew it, but…”

“But she left,” I say darkly, my words as sharp as the pain in my gut.

Then Kathleen's eyes get red and wet. “Emalie, no. Your mother would never have left you.”

I feel the world crowding around me now. “What do you mean?”

“Your mom's disappearance was not her idea…not at all. She was searching for someone named Selene,” Kathleen says. I want to respond, but my mouth and brain no longer work. Kathleen pats my shoulder. “Sorry, too much all at once. We'll talk more soon. Now that your dad has this job, I'll have a reason to see a lot more of you. In the meantime…Tomorrow. Will you take the conduit charm and do as I ask?”

“Okay.”

Kathleen suddenly smiles at me with a warm glow that makes me look away. “Thanks, Emalie.” And then she turns and starts back toward Dad, leaving me to carry the fifty-ton weight of everything I just heard all by myself.

I mean, wow.

I've been sitting down here in the basement tonight, flipping this little scarab beetle over in my hand, wondering about everything. I think I even went a good five minutes not thinking about how much I miss Dean, or even how much I might miss him = it.

It's exciting to have something new. That's how Dad's been acting too. I can't wait for tomorrow, to use these powers of mine. (Come on, really? Do I really have powers??) Maybe I should be scared or nervous, but I'm not. I've had enough of that lately.

January 4, 8:36 p.m.

Or maybe I should have been. Scared, that is.

I leave school as soon as the bell rings. I'll have to walk fast to get to the address in time, which is easy now that I have, well, no one to slow me down. (Careful! Dean trap!) It's a thick, cloudy day, and there's actually a warning for snow. That would be something. It barely ever snows in Seattle, and when it does, even just an inch can turn the world upside down.

The air is still, waiting, and wouldn't you know, as soon as I step off the bus in downtown Ballard, thick flakes are zigzagging their way to the pavement. The bus was actually on time today, which is like winning the lottery—it doesn't happen very much—so I actually have time to stop in to Cupcake Royale and get a babycake. My favorite: white cake with chocolate frosting. Eat the frosting in one lick, then pop the little cake in your mouth and be all fat-cheeked like a chipmunk for a minute, and always get noticed by some cute boy looking up from his iPod at just the wrong moment, but anyway…

Then I'm back outside and crossing over to Market and 22nd and it's really coming down. There's a tingle on my cheeks as the big flakes hit, but also in the air as everyone hunches and rushes. Do they feel the excitement of snow? Or just how it messes up their day?

I get to the corner and car wheels are spraying slush. A woman passing me slips in her silly heels and goes down to her knee. Flakes on my shoulders. Flakes on my hat. Flakes on my striped gloves that don't have fingertips. A gift from my grandma, BTW: no fingertips, that way you can text your friends in winter comfort! Too bad poor little me doesn't have a phone or any friends. Right now I just wish I had fingertips on my gloves.

But what poor little me
does
have is an ancient scarab charm…

I pull out the beetle and hold it in my fist. Then I check my wristwatch, the one I never wear because if I wear it I always check it, like time is a drug or something. 3:16. I wait.

A horn honks. A bus sloshes by. Flakes on my nose. Wet through my purple sneakers.

3:17. Okay. I hold up my hands, pressing the scarab between my palms. I try to clear my mind, but my mind is like that scrolling line across the bottom of the news channel: DEAN, OLIVER, IT'S YOUR FAULT!…MOM, ORANI, PORTAL, YOU'RE A MONSTER!…DEAN…

Re. Lax. Emalie. Somehow, I do, and close my eyes, and put my lips up to my hands and blow between them…

And it's hard to describe what happens next.

It's like someone turns up the volume, but it's not the sounds of the cars or the slush that gets louder, it's all whispering voices, everywhere, like I can hear everyone around this busy intersection, and my body is moving—no, I'm moving—my body is staying where it is, but I'm rushing through the whispers, across the street, among the snowflakes—

Then I stop. Now there's only one voice: “Can't believe he didn't like any of these gifts. Ungrateful brat. Why do kids have to become teenagers?”

I'm seeing the sidewalk on the other side of the street—walking out of Sonic Boom Records…

And I'm in someone else's head. That's the plain and simple truth. But it doesn't feel plain or simple. An older woman, walking along kinda bent over. “We should just save our money. If he doesn't like anything he gets for Christmas, then why even have it?” You'd think I might be laughing at hearing this, but I'm not, because I'm not just hearing this woman's thoughts; I'm feeling them. It's like her emotions are mine too. I am suddenly filled with this sad, empty feeling. It's almost like something I've felt before, but darker, more sour. Like something that's been left out in the rain and gotten all rusty—that's what this woman's disappointment feels like. I don't like it. I want better for her, but I also want to get that feeling out of my heart—

And then I'm back out in the whispers. Gliding between the snowflakes, a rush of wind and noise, then into another person—a man this time, by the mailbox, holding letters: “Just mail them, get it over with. Who cares if they're two weeks late? No one will read them anyway. Nobody cares about you…Is it noon yet? Hattie's should be open…” I'm swallowed up by his doubt, his shaking desire for the clear brown whisky in the tiny glass that he's imagining—

Back out and through the cold, the whispers seem like whipping winds, grabbing at me, into the next one—a small child: “Big cars, hold my hand, Mommy, carry me!” Her fear shakes me; the cars are big; they are scary—

Into the next one—a boy my age, walking very fast: “Can't let them find me. Can't let them know. If I can just find Selene. But how? Have to hurry…”

Wait a minute. Selene? I've heard that name before. Could it possibly be a coincidence? For the first time, I want to stay for a minute—

But then I'm out again, rushing, this time into a dark, cramped mind. I find myself looking out through a truck window. I'm in the driver's head. The truck is approaching the intersection. I can even see me over on the corner, standing there like I'm in a trance. And then I hear this man's thoughts: “There he is. That's the one. Come on, Murray, all you have to do is make it look like an accident. The snow is the perfect excuse. Okay, he's heading for the street. Gotta time this perfectly…” I look out of his eyes and see that boy whose head I was just in. The one who made me want to stay.

This man's mind is hot and crowded and dark, but suddenly, I am freezing cold. Because I know what's about to happen. This truck driver is about to…

“No!” I scream with all my power. The truck driver doesn't hear me, but suddenly I am rushing back through the wind, into another head—my head. I'm back.

I'm woozy for a moment, eyes popping open, still blurry. I manage to drop the scarab back around my neck, thinking: Where's the boy?!

There. He's on the other side of the intersection. Waiting for the WALK light. It blinks from red to white. The boy starts going into the crosswalk with some others, but he's walking faster. He gets out ahead.

I turn to the left. The truck. It's short and white, wipers pushing snow out of the way. Inside, the silhouette of the thick driver. The murderer. It's not slowing down as it reaches the red light. I can hear its engine roaring louder.

“Hey!” I shout into the street.

The boy has his chin tucked in the collar of his frayed brown coat. He's hunched and hurrying. He doesn't hear me. The truck rumbles right into the intersection.

I run. Leaping off the curb, slipping in the slush but still moving. “Watch out!” I scream.

Finally, he looks up, sees me. His eyes go wide. Looking left, all I see is truck headlights and a wet metal grill.

Somewhere close by, a man shouts: “Hey look out!”

“What?” the boy says and then I am slamming into him, as hard as I can. Our chins hit and pain floods my head, and we're flying backward, stumbling and falling, and I think: You won't get far enough…The truck will run you down—

But then we are crashing into a woman, tumbling and hitting the pavement.

“Ow! What are you—”

I hear the roar and twist around. The truck is passing within inches of our feet. For a second, I see the driver staring out his window at us, scowling, confused. Then the truck speeds away.

“What are you doing?” the boy is gasping underneath me. I look down and see that his face—kinda cute—is inches from mine…and I roll off and to my feet as fast as I can.

He sits up, his jacket soaked. He has gloves with no fingers too, but that's because his are old and torn. His hair is dark black. There are people crowding around us.

“Are you two okay?”

“That truck almost ran those kids down!”

He looks at me with wide brown eyes.

And I panic and get out of there. The whole minute is catching up with me. I can barely breathe. My chin is killing me and I'm shivering all over. I push through the crowd and head for the sidewalk. I am just stepping out of the street, still breathing hard, when I hear: “Wait!” The boy grabs my arm. “Stop.”

I almost don't, but then I do. We stare at each other. I want to ask him why someone would be trying to kill him. I want to ask him about those thoughts he was having, but then it feels almost wrong to know his thoughts. And wouldn't I sound crazy saying those things to him?

But then he has crazy things to say to me: “Do I know you?”

“No,” I reply, “Not really…I, um…”

“You just saved my life, didn't you?”

Like an idiot, all I can do is shrug. “Yeah.”

I'm not sure what I expect him to say, but it's not what he says: “You're the one who knows the vampire kid.”

The words freeze me. “What? You mean…” I lower my voice. “Oliver?”

“Yeah.”

“I—I don't. I mean, not anymore. I—”

But now this boy is looking at me differently. He almost looks…worried. And he's thinking hard.

“What's your name?” I ask.

“Horacio,” he says.

“I'm Emalie,” I tell him, even though he doesn't ask. “Who was trying to kill you just then?”

“I—I'm not sure. They've been after me since I had the vision. Every time I leave the house…”

“What vision?” I ask, but he's still looking at me like I'm something weird. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I should go,” he says. “I have to keep looking.”

“You mean for Selene?” I ask, remembering his thoughts. “Who is that anyway?”

But now I've done it, because Horacio is backing away from me, looking shocked. “How did you know that?”

“Sorry—I heard it…Heard you think it.”

He starts to respond and I figure he'll say I'm crazy, but again, it's more surprises: “You have to stay with him.”

“Who?” I ask.

Horacio is reaching the crosswalk again. “The vampire.”

Okay. Huh? “What? Why?”

The light blinks to WALK. “Just, if you don't, it'll be your fault.”

“What will be?”

Horacio looks at me one last time, so worried. “The end of the world,” he says, then rushes across the street. All I can do is stand there, letting him go, stuck with another five tons of confusion to sort out by myself.

January 22, 10:08 p.m.

Hey.

Haven't been able to write in a while. I thought maybe I'd wait until I'd figured out what happened in that intersection. What Horacio meant. Thought it would come to me and I'd fill page after page.

So far, it hasn't.