Free Blessed by Cynthia Leitich Smith Page A

She shrugged. “I did fill out a form for an interlibrary loan on an interesting-looking book published in the 1860s by some Hungarian professor. But it’ll take at least six weeks for it to come in. Then we’d have to find a translator.”
    We didn’t have six weeks. We had, damn, less than three. It wouldn’t help to whine about it, though. Nope, I was the one in charge. I had to maintain the morale of the home team. Speaking of which . . . “What’s wrong?”
    Aimee had begun quietly crying. “My cousin and I — she’s a food critic for Tejano Food Life, we hit the Sanguini’s launch party on Friday night. I only went because Travis was supposed to be working, and . . .”
    Oh, God. “You ordered the chilled baby squirrels.”
    So that was it. Aimee was dying right here in front of me. She had been all along. And unlike the hundreds of other victims, she knew it.
    “Brad may be a monster, but his honey cream sauce . . .” Aimee wiped her eyes, smearing the heavy black liner. “I practically licked the plate clean.”

I’d felt too self-conscious to defrost the chicken legs in front of Clyde and Aimee, and then, just as the sophomores were leaving, the Moraleses had returned home.
    At midnight, in desperation, I jumped from Kieren’s window to the front yard, ran to Sanguini’s, let myself into the kitchen, and opened the fridge — empty.
    Sergio must’ve cleared it out earlier that day.
    Damn. No more blood wine. No more crutch.
    Fearful of what might happen if I came across a potential victim, I quickly returned to the Moraleses’ house. No way could I start The Banana without waking up Meara, but after dawn, I would drive to the nearest twenty-four-hour grocery store.
    At 4:30 A.M ., I paced nude on the white Berber carpet, my bare skin prickling in the darkness. My stomach clenched. My throat felt as if I’d swallowed sawdust.
    Just down the hall — one door, two — Meghan would be so defenseless. No.
    What about the dogs outside? At Kieren’s window, my fingernails extended, tap, tap, tapping the glass. Hide the bite in the fur, and who would see? I didn’t have to take it all. I could stop. Drink the mama German shepherd. Save the puppies. No.
    Escape. Quick, out the window, down the tree! Go night-crawling. Why had I come back to the house? How long could it take to find a homeless person? Might as well put them out of their misery. Why should Mitch have all the . . . No.
    I glanced at my backpack, remembering the two small bottles of holy water, tucked inside its zippered pockets. Morning would be better. It would. Heaven’s light shining high in the sky, even if it’d never shine for me.
    I could last a few hours. Try to rest. Yes, sleep would solve everything.
    In the upstairs bathroom, I grabbed a full bottle of NyQuil from the medicine cabinet and chugged it down. Then I shut myself in Kieren’s closet, a hand gripping the handle of each plastic jug of blessed water.
    A breath before sunrise, I sank my fangs, deep and eager, into my own thigh.

I found Aimee in the sophomore hall. There was a KEEP AUSTIN BATTY bumper sticker displayed at an angle on her locker. “Hey, how’re you doing?”
    For so long, it had been just me and Kieren. I didn’t know how to act around a new friend, especially one facing this particular nightmare.
    “I didn’t mean to freak out on you yesterday,” she replied. “You’re under enough pressure, and I know you’re trying hard to fix everything so I don’t . . .”
    “I won’t give up,” I promised, trying to project confidence. “We’ll find a cure.”
    “Well,” Aimee said, “even if we don’t, maybe it’s not all bad. Look at you. You’re okay, aren’t you? You seem totally normal to me.”
    My thigh still smarted, though the puncture wounds had almost immediately scabbed over, and I’d learned better than to push my luck — or anyone else’s — again. Feeding on my own blood had sated my appetite, but I couldn’t get by that