“Most of us cannot.”
The admission feels personal. Like this is the first thing he’s said to me that’s cost him something.
When he doesn’t offer more, I adopt a more neutral tone. “What does that mean?”
He shakes his head, like he’s not going to explain. “Onebloodline possesses that power,” he says, and I realize he is shaking his head not in answer, but in defeat.
This time, he doesn’t elaborate, and I get the sense he’s done sharing.
But my curiosity is too strong to stop asking. “Only one vampire family can turn humans?”
He doesn’t nod in assent, nor does he correct me.
I feel completely stumped. In none of the vampire stories I’ve heard of have I come across this bit of mythology.
“Are you one—?”
“No,” he says quickly, like this is a sore subject. “I am not.”
It reminds me of how I react when I get asked about Ma, as if my whole body rejects the line of questioning.
I feel weirdly let down by his answer.
It’s not that I wanted to become a vampire, exactly. I thought about it peripherally, but I didn’t give it actual consideration. I was busy just trying to survive.
Yet the possibility was still there. It’s like a door had opened to a much larger universe that was too overwhelming to look at directly, so I kept it at the edge of my vision—but now that the door to that universe has shut, I wish I’d gotten an eyeful first.
“Who are they?” I ask, not expecting him to answer. And even if he does, it’s not like I’ll know them.
“The Stokers.”
The heaviness of this conversation lifts a little, and I wonder if he’s messing with me. “As in,Bram Stoker?”
I’m nearly smirking, but the vampire looks into my eyes as if he could suck the information from my brain.
“Who?”
“I guess he’s after your time,” I say, walking toward the stacks. “Come on, I’ll show you.”
I hurry down the stairs, and by the time I make it to the first level of the library, I’m out of breath. William is leaning against the wall, already waiting for me by the door.
“He was an author,” I say, striding up to a table stacked with all twelve books we’ll be studying in English this year. “He even mentionsdeath-sleep,” I say, suddenly remembering where I came across that term before.
The vampire sees me reaching for a copy ofDracula,and he plucks it first.
He flips through the book’s pages hungrily. A few minutes and a third of the story later, he asks, “What is this?”
“Only the most famous vampire novel ever written.”
I can’t believe it was actually penned by Count Dracula! Just imagine how this would change every critic’s interpretation—
“Published in 1897,” says William, still leafing through the book. “This Bram Stoker need not necessarily have been a vampire. Perhaps he was someone who wanted to make sure our history was never forgotten—so he hid fact in fiction.”
“But the lore isn’t even accurate, right?”
William looks up from the book.
“If it revealed everything, it would not be a secret.”
