Prom Nights From Hell: Five Paranormal Stories. Meg Cabot

go of the lip I’ve started chewing. “Is that why your dad—”

      “He wasn’t always like that,” she says, not looking at me. “He used to be different, when Mom was here. He … he thinks he can find a chemical cure for it.” She sinks onto the bed beside the dress. “He doesn’t want to believe that there’s only one way to get her back. And that’s killing the vampire who made her into one.”

      “Drake,” I say, sinking down onto the bed beside her. It all makes sense now. I guess.

      “No,” Mary says with a quick shake of her head. “His father. Who happened to stick with the original family name of Dracula. His son just thinks Drake sounds a little less pretentious and more modern.”

      “So … why were you trying to kill Dracula’s kid, if his dad is the one who …” I can’t even bring myself to say it. Fortunately, I don’t have to.

      Mary’s shoulders are hunched. “If killing his only kid doesn’t get Dracula to come out of hiding so I can kill him, too, I don’t know what will.”

      “Won’t that be, uh … kind of dangerous?” I ask. I can’t believe I’m sitting here talking about this. But I can’t believe I’m in Mary-from-U.S.-History’s bedroom, either. “I mean, isn’t Dracula, like, the head of the whole operation?”

      “Yes,” Mary says, looking down at the photo I’ve laid between us. “And when he’s gone, Mom will finally be free.”

      And Mary’s dad won’t have to worry about finding a cure for vampirism anymore, I think, but don’t say out loud.

      “Why didn’t Drake just, uh, turn Lila tonight?” I ask. Because this has been bothering me. Among other things. “I mean, back at the club?”

      “Because he likes to play with his food,” Mary says emotionlessly. “Just like his dad.”

      I shudder. I can’t help it. Even though she’s not exactly my type, it’s not pleasant to think of Lila as some vampire’s midnight snack.

      “Aren’t you worried,” I ask, hoping to change the subject a little, “that Lila’s just going to tell Drakenot to show up at the prom since we’ll be there waiting?”

      I say we and not you because there is no way I’m letting Mary go after this guy alone. Which I know Veronica would think is sexist, too.

      But Veronica’s never seen Mary smile.

      “Are you kidding me?” Mary asks. She doesn’t seem to notice the we. “I’m counting on her telling him. That way he’ll show up for sure.”

      I stare at her. “Why would he do that?”

      “Because killing the exterminator’s daughter will totally raise his crypt cred.”

      Now I’m blinking at her. “Crypt cred?”

      “You know,” she says, tossing her ponytail. “It’s like street cred. Only among the undead.”

      “Oh.” Strangely, this does make sense. As much as anything else I’ve heard this evening. “They call your dad the, um, ‘exterminator’?” I’m having a hard time picturing Mary’s dad wielding a crossbow the way she did.

      “No,” she says, the smile vanishing. “My mom. At least … she used to be. Not just vampires, either, but evil entities of all kinds—demons, werewolves, poltergeists, ghosts, warlocks, genies, satyrs, loki, shedus, vetelas, titans, leprechauns—”

      “Leprechauns?” I echo in disbelief.

      But Mary simply shrugs. “If it was evil, Mom killed it. She just had a gift for it. … A gift,” Mary adds softly, “I really hope I’ve inherited.”

      I just sit there for a minute. I have to admit I’m a little stunned by everything that’s gone down over the past couple of hours. Crossbows and vampires and exterminators? And what in the world is a vetela? I’m not even sure I want to know. No. Wait. I know I don’t want to know. There’s a humming noise inside my head that won’t stop.

      The weird thing is, I kind of like it.

      “So,” Mary says, lifting her gaze to meet mine. “Do you believe me now?”

      “I believe you,” I say. What I can’t believe, actually, is that I do. Believe her, I mean.

      “Good,” she says. “It would probably be better if you didn’t tell anybody. Now, if you don’t mind, I need to start getting things ready—”

      “Great. Tell me what you need me to do.”

      Her face clouds with trouble. “Adam,” she says. And there’s something about the way her lips form my name that makes me feel a little crazy … like I want to throw my arms around her and race around the room at the same time. “I appreciate the offer. I really do. But it’s too dangerous. If I kill Drake—”

      “When you kill him,” I correct her.

      “—chances are, his father is going to show up,” she goes on, “looking for revenge. Maybe not tonight. And maybe not tomorrow. But soon. And when he does … it isn’t going to be pretty. It’s going to be awful. A nightmare. It’s going to be—”

      “Apocalyptic,” I finish for her, a slight shiver going down my spine as I speak the word.

      “Yes. Yes, exactly.”

      “Don’t worry,” I say, ignoring the shiver. “I’m all set for that.”

      “Adam.” She shakes her head. “You don’t understand. I can’t—well, I can’t guarantee I’ll be able to protect you. And I certainly can’t let you risk your life like that. It’s different for me, because—well, because of my mom. But you—”

      I stop her. “Just tell me what time I’m picking you up.”

      She stares at me. “What?”

      “Sorry,” I say. “But you’re not going to the prom by yourself. End of story.”

      And I must have looked really scary or something as I said it, because even though she opens her mouth to argue, she closes it again when she gets a look at my face, and only says, “Um. Okay.”

      Still, she has to add, “It’s your funeral,” just to have the last word.

      Which is fine with me. She can have the last word.

      Because I know now that I’ve found her: my future partner in the inevitable struggle to survive in post apocalyptic America.

       Mary

      THE MUSIC IS POUNDING in time to my heartbeat. I can feel the bass in my chest—badoom, badoom. It’s hard to see across the room of writhing bodies, especially with the flickering light show coming down from the ballroom’s ceiling.

      But I know he’s here. I can feel him.

      And then I see him, moving across the dance floor toward me. He’s holding two glasses of bloodred liquid, one in either hand. When he gets close enough, he hands me one of the glasses, then says, “Don’t worry, it’s not spiked. I checked.”

      I don’t reply. I just sip the punch, grateful for the liquid—even if it is a little too sweet—because my throat is so dry.

      The thing is, I know I’m making a mistake. Letting Adam do this, I mean.

      But … there’s something about him. I don’t know what it is. Something that sets him apart from all the rest of the dumb jocks in school. Maybe it’s the way he saved me back at the club when I lost my nerve, his shooting at Sebastian Drake—progeny of the devil himself—with a ketchup-filled squirt gun.