Eighth Grade Bites Read online

  Henry was waiting for him in the bedroom, but before Vlad could show off his curious find, Aunt Nelly called up to them, “I’m home. Who wants hamburgers?” They bolted down the stairs, stomachs growling, and proceeded to help Nelly prepare their evening meal. Once the table was set and the fries had come out of the oven, she placed a bottle labeled KETCHUP on the table. When Henry reached for it, she stopped him and handed him a different bottle. “Use this one, dear. That one’s for Vlad.”

  Vlad proceeded to squirt a healthy glob of blood onto his plate, dipped a fry in it, and bit off the end. His hamburger was raw, and the blood from it had seeped visibly into the bun. He picked it up in both hands, feeling his fangs extend at the scent of it, and tore off a bite. Henry watched in disgust as the blood dripped from Vlad’s bun to his plate, but Vlad responded only by chewing. Years of watching Vlad eat had apparently not been enough to keep Henry from getting grossed out.

  It was dark outside, but after their meal, the boys settled onto the porch with a drink and watched the stars peek slowly out from behind their velvet-sky blanket. On their way out the door, Nelly had handed Henry one of those juices that come in the foil bags, with the sharp-ended straw poked into one end. She’d handed Vlad a drink of blood in the same manner. They enjoyed their drinks and the lingering sounds of approaching night for several minutes before Vlad spoke. “I wonder who will sub for Mr. Craig. We can’t possibly get stuck with the principal for much longer.” It was one of a thousand things running through his mind. He certainly didn’t want it to be Mrs. Bell, with her blue hair, crooked teeth, and equally crooked, painted-on eyebrows. For some strange reason, she always smelled like aftershave and sore-muscle cream. It really made you wonder about her after-school activities. “Mrs. Bell took over for two weeks when Mr. Craig’s brother died last year.”

  “Can’t be her. She’s teaching full-time at the high school now.” Henry had cupped a moth in his hands and was watching it fluttering against his palms.

  Vlad took the last sip from his drink and set the container on the steps. Remembering the cylindrical object he’d found upstairs, he slipped it from his pocket and held it out for Henry’s perusal. “Check this out. Found it up in the attic.”

  Henry released the moth, and as he slid the object out of Vlad’s palm, Vlad felt a strange urge to close his hand and pull the cylinder away. Henry turned it over in his hands, admiring the engraved symbol on the bottom. “What is it?”

  Vlad reached out and plucked it from Henry’s hand. “No clue.” He slid it back into his pocket and felt an instant blanket of comfort surround him.

  Henry yawned and stretched his arms up toward the night sky. He had big, dark circles under his eyes.

  Vlad yawned, too. Six in the morning came awfully early, and tomorrow he had the annoyance of some substitute teacher to deal with. With a stretch, Vlad moved up the steps and into the house, the promise of sleep heavy on his weary eyelids.

  4

  THE SEARCH CONTINUES

  A MAN DRESSED ENTIRELY IN black looked from the crumpled newspaper photograph in his gloved hand to the boy up ahead of him who was timidly crossing the street, clutching a bag from the Stop & Shop in one hand and wearing an old thirty-five-millimeter camera around his neck. Returning his attention to the photograph, the man nodded in satisfaction and moved stealthily up the street after the boy.

  The boy proceeded into a dark alleyway. The moon was full and high, casting a cool blue over the town of Bathory. Long shadows stretched across the street.

  The man in black stuffed the clipping back into his pocket and quickened his pace.

  The Stop & Shop bag hung limply from the boy’s hand. With his other hand, the boy fiddled with the lens cap of his outdated camera, watching it far more closely than he watched where he was walking.

  The man swung around him, standing in the boy’s path.

  It wasn’t until the boy collided with the strange man that he noticed his presence. The bag fell from the boy’s hand as he stumbled. “Oh jeez, sorry. I . . . I didn’t see you there.” He smiled weakly, apologetically, up at the stranger.

  The man smiled, careful to keep his fangs hidden behind closed lips. “It’s quite all right. Edgar Poe, isn’t it?”

  Eddie brushed some grime from his jeans and checked his camera for damage. “Yeah. Uh . . . well, Eddie, actually. Nobody but, uh . . . my mom calls me Edgar. Why? Do I know you?”

  A large vein on Eddie’s neck pulsed, sending a pang of hunger through the man’s stomach. “Eddie, I was wondering if you could assist me.”

  The boy looked wary, but he didn’t run.

  The man slipped his hand into his pocket and withdrew the newspaper clipping. He held it up for the boy to see. “Do you recognize the boy standing next to you in this photo?”

  Eddie glanced at the clipping. “Uh . . . yeah. I guess. Vlad Tod, right?”

  The man licked his lips. The boy smelled like AB negative. Rare. Delectable. The champagne of blood types. “Where could I find him?”

  Eddie shrugged and plucked the bag from the ground. “I . . . I don’t know. The junior high, I guess.” He stepped around the man and continued down the alleyway.

  The man’s stomach clenched once in hunger. He grabbed Eddie’s shirt collar and opened his mouth wide, exposing his glistening fangs. “Don’t you walk away from me! Tell me where he is. Now.”

  Eddie’s eyes widened with sudden terror. “What are you?”

  The man lifted Eddie from the ground and pulled him closer, until his fangs were just inches from Eddie’s small face. “I’m the boogeyman, Edgar. And I’ve come for your soul. Now tell me where I can find Vladimir Tod.”

  At first, the only sound coming from Eddie was the drizzle of liquid dripping from his jeans to the ground below. Then Eddie screamed.

  “Edgar!” From the house at the end of the alley came a high-pitched, screeching voice that could only be Eddie’s mother. “You’d better get home right now, Edgar! If I have to tell your father . . .”

  The man released Eddie and slipped unnoticed from the alley, regretfully walking away from a warm meal and the information he needed about Tomas’s son.

  5

  OTIS OTIS

  VLAD ADJUSTED THE SUNGLASSES on his nose and walked up the steps to the school. He was thankful to have Henry with him. For some reason, the bullies kept their distance whenever Henry was around. Bill and Tom moved past them on the steps, but neither said a word. Principal Snelgrove was waiting at the top of the stairs, eyeing Vlad with his little mouse eyes. He twitched his nose, and Vlad chuckled out loud. The principal had hated Vlad since the first day he had been enrolled at Bathory. Bill and Tom had given him a welcoming shove down the hall, and Vlad bumped into Mrs. Kumus, who fell forward and subsequently broke her nose. It had been an accident, of course, but ever since that day, Principal Snelgrove had watched Vlad with his suspicious little rodent stare and twitched his nose distrustfully. Henry smiled as they passed the mouse man. “Good morning, Mr. Snelgrove.”

  Principal Snelgrove nodded, his eyes barely leaving Vlad before they’d returned again. “You’d do well to emulate your friend here, Mr. Tod.” When they passed him, Vlad suppressed another chuckle. Mr. Snelgrove smelled like cheese.

  At Mr. Craig’s classroom door, Henry bid Vlad good-bye and wandered off down the hall. It was strange having different teachers this year, but they still sat together at lunch, goofed their way through study hall, and walked home together after school. It wasn’t as much time together as either would prefer, but it would have to do. Vlad crossed the threshold of Room 6 and held his breath for a second, hoping that when he looked at the teacher’s desk, he wouldn’t see anyone trying to emulate crabby Mrs. Bell by glaring at him from behind her cat-eye-shaped glasses.

  To Vlad’s relief, the desk was unoccupied.

  He walked to the back left corner of the class and, after dropping his backpack beside his desk, sat down with a weary sigh. Whoever had decided that school shoul
d start so early in the morning and last all day long needed to be hunted down and forced to watch hours of educational television without the aid of caffeine.

  Meredith entered the room, brightening Vlad’s day with the endearing smile on her face. She was chatting with Kara Metley, one of her two best friends. Melissa Hart was the missing link today. They were normally an inseparable trio, but Melissa had been placed in Mr. Crumble’s class this year, with Henry—an arrangement that suited Henry perfectly, as he had developed a secret crush on Melissa at last year’s Snow Ball, when she slapped a boy for trying to kiss her.

  Henry was a strange boy.

  Meredith glanced at Vlad, who shrank back in his seat and hoped she hadn’t noticed he’d been watching her, and then sat at her desk. As if on cue, Kara sauntered over to his desk and dropped a note in front of him with a smile. She turned and took her place behind Meredith.

  Vlad’s heart took up residence in his throat. He unfolded the sheet of paper with what he considered to be casual grace and tried his best to decipher Kara’s scrolling, feminine handwriting. The note’s single question drove a large splinter into Vlad’s self-esteem. It was short, sharp, and caused Vlad great pain.

  Does Henry like Meredith?

  Ouch.

  And there was a tiny heart over the i in Meredith’s name.

  Double ouch.

  He folded the paper back up and slipped it into the front pocket of his backpack. He’d answer it later when he had a clearer head and a lighter heart. Or . . . maybe he’d just forget he ever saw it.

  The door to the classroom swung open, and seconds later a tall, thin man wearing a rumpled purple top hat and a three-piece suit walked in. Under his black jacket he wore a pewter-colored vest over a crisp white shirt. Hanging from the vest’s pocket was a gold pocket-watch chain. In his hand he carried an old leather doctor’s bag.

  After dropping his bag on the teacher’s desk, he turned to the class with a bright smile. His blue eyes twinkled. “Good morning, class. I’m Mr. Otis, and I will be substituting for Mr. Craig during his absence. As my first name is the same as my last, you may call me by either, providing the obligatory title ‘mister’ precedes your choice.”

  Mr. Otis looked about the classroom, as if waiting for someone to interrupt him. When no one did, he cleared his throat and continued. “It’s unfortunate that we’ve been brought together under these circumstances, as Mr. Craig was . . .” He made a clucking sound with his tongue and sat on the corner of the desk. “. . . is . . . such a fine and clearly admired teacher. But as regrettable as the situation is, I will do my best to inform and educate you in an entertaining manner.”

  Ever curious, Kara raised her hand. She didn’t wait to be called on, but rather made her presence known with a question. “Do you know Mr. Craig?”

  Mr. Otis paused for a moment, wet his lips, and said, “I’m afraid I haven’t had the pleasure.”

  Kara wasn’t quite done with her assault and, with a toss of her hair, asked, “How long have you been a teacher?”

  “A long time.” He turned his back to the class and began rummaging through his bag. When he turned back, his smiled had eased. He was holding what looked like a seating chart—a checkerboard of students’ names. “Very long indeed. Most recently I was a full-time mythology teacher at Stokerton High, but I’ve taught a variety of subjects all over the world.”

  Out of curiosity, Vlad raised his hand, but before he could lift it more than a few inches above his desk, Mr. Otis nodded to him. Vlad dropped his hand. “So you teach English, too?”

  “No. Well, that is to say, not until today.” He reached into his bag again and withdrew a stack of papers. He divided the stack into fifths and dropped them on the desks in the front of the classroom. Familiar with the routine, the students took one paper and passed the rest back. “But no worries. I’ve already come up with a lesson plan that I’m sure you’ll find both informative and entertaining.”

  Chelsea Whitaker didn’t bother to turn around in her seat; she merely flung the last paper in the stack over her shoulder at Vlad. The paper flipped in the air and fluttered to the floor. Vlad picked it up and gave the bottom of Chelsea’s seat a light kick before scanning the page, which was a list of assignments and something called “special classroom goals.” There were dates typed neatly beside each assignment. Vlad wrinkled his forehead. The dates went all the way to the end of the school year. How long did this guy think he was staying?

  Kara apparently had the same thought, as her hand shot into the air again. “How long will you be teaching us?”

  Mr. Otis scanned the class, his eyes serious. He didn’t speak.

  Chelsea hissed in Kara’s direction, “Don’t be stupid. He’ll be here until Mr. Craig comes back.”

  “You mean if he comes back.” The entire class fell silent at Meredith’s words. It wasn’t disbelief that held their tongues, but amazement that someone had the guts to say aloud what they all feared. Meredith’s cheeks flushed and she brushed a tear from the corner of her eye. Kara reached out and patted her hand after flashing Chelsea a glare.

  Mr. Otis cleared his throat again, drawing everyone’s attention. “Chelsea is quite right.”

  Of course she was. Chelsea was captain of the Cheer Squad. She was right about everything . . . or thought she was, anyway. Vlad was pretty sure Chelsea wasn’t bright enough to even find her way to school each day without the assistance of her pom-pom-carrying friends and the promise of being drooled over by every thickheaded jock in the school.

  Mr. Otis glanced in Vlad’s general direction, plucked his watch from his vest, and flipped it open. He closed it with a snap and returned it to his pocket. “I will teach here for as long as I am needed and only as long as your teacher, Mr. Craig, remains missing. If that matter is settled, we can move on to our lesson plan.” He turned to the chalkboard and drew a series of unrecognizable squiggles that were supposed to be, Vlad surmised, key points about the assignments they’d be working on. “As your teacher normally assigns you essays to test your composition skills, I will do the same. However, as I’ve already explained to Principal Snelgrove, I will be combining this task with my area of expertise—mythology. Each week we will study a different mythological creature, and at the end of the year, should you still be blessed with my presence, there will be a test on composition, grammar, punctuation—and mythology.”

  Vlad squinted at the board. One of the words looked something like dimagom, but that couldn’t be right. The next looked a bit like weneranlvs. Vlad squinted harder and then looked at the paper in his hands. At the bottom was a list of mythological creatures. The first was dragons. He looked back at the board: dimagom. That could be dragons, he supposed. And weneranlvs looked suspiciously like the next word on the list: werewolves. Forgoing Mr. Otis’s atrocious handwriting, Vlad read down the list.

  Unicorns, griffins, centaurs, faeries, gnomes, trolls, mermaids, nymphs, banshees, zombies, witches, vampires . . .

  Vlad stopped at the word vampires and smirked. It ought to be interesting to hear what the rest of the class thought of him. Well, most of them, anyway. There were a few whose opinions he couldn’t care less about.

  In front of him, Chelsea was snickering at a note Sylvia Snert had passed her. Across the top of the page was scrawled Sylvia’s loopy handwriting.

  This guy is a freak!!!

  Chelsea whipped out her pen and scribbled something down on the note, but her shoulder blocked Vlad’s view. Chelsea held the note out to Sylvia. Without a word, Mr. Otis slipped down the aisle between their desks and retrieved it. He stood in front of her and unfolded it, reading it silently with no hint of a reaction in his eyes. To Vlad’s amazement, he turned and dropped the note on Sylvia’s desk, returning to the front of the classroom as if nothing had happened.

  “I realize that it will be a challenge for all of us to adapt to our new circumstances. Some of you may adjust more easily than others. Some of you”—he smiled at Sylvia as she read Chel
sea’s note—“may think I’m a freak. While others”—his eyes moved to Chelsea, who was blushing brighter than the sun—“may think I’m intriguing. Hot, some might say.”

  Mr. Otis raised his eyebrows. Laughter burst from the classroom, and Chelsea’s face blushed even brighter. “But whatever you think of me so far, please try to keep an open mind, and if there is any way at all that I may be of assistance to you, please, don’t hesitate to approach me.” His eyes met Vlad’s for a second and then moved across the room.