He moves forward again, and I retreat until my back is against the tree. My mind wildly wonders if it is the same one as before as he stands in front of me and forces my head up.

"Is this really worth it?" I blurt. "You've alienated all of your friends."

"I will have new friends," he says. "It is as they say - to make an omelet, you must crack a few heads."

"Eggs," I say. "Crack a few eggs."

"That does not make any sense," he says impatiently, and then without even a three, two, one, he bends over and buries his fangs in my neck.

Like before, the pain is like a sudden fire as Vlad's thumb digs into the hollow between my neck and collarbone. But whereas before it was over like a lightning flash, now it seems to go on and on, until none of my senses are acting like they should. I see oceans of dull red and deep indigo. I smell junkyard rust, thick and undeniable. My fingers feel as though they sparkle.

Fingers, I think through the gasping shock. I am supposed to be doing something with them. Even though my muscles feel like cotton, I manage to lift my arm to my waist, wrap my palm around the handle, and tug it from my waistband. As I'm testing the point with my thumb, Vlad jerks at my shoulder, and I press down hard enough that I know I've torn it open, and here when I have no blood to spare. He's grunting at my neck like a piglet, and even though my mind feels like a balloon that's escaped its owner, I would like to laugh at him for losing his perpetual air of civility; this is as distracted as he will ever be. Slowly, carefully, I ease the jagged handle between us. I know that I will have one chance, only one chance, and I can't even check my aim.

The color begins to leech from the sky, and for a second the edges of my vision turn gray. No. No, not yet. Any second now Vlad will be pulling his head back, mouth smeared with blood, and offering me his own, and I will take it because the only other choice will be to die and let him have free reign on the world I've left. One upward thrust, I tell myself. One upward thrust and then you can go to sleep. Closing my eyes, I take a ragged breath, picturing all the remaining energy in my body flowing upward, flowing to my arm, flowing to my fingers, flowing through the very wood.

I attack . . . and I feel flesh give. But nothing happens.

I missed, I think, I missed. The only thing left to do is hope that vampires can't exist without a liver. But then Vlad starts to choke, his fangs digging deeper and deeper with every heave until finally he tears his head back and looks me in the eyes, blood dripping from the corners of his mouth in a grotesque frown. And then everything is gray, gray forever, gray raining down on me, covering me in ash until my eyes burn and my skin itches.

"There," I say to Devon and Ashley, who stand before me, impassive, just before my legs buckle beneath me. Staring up at the dreamy pink sky, I think that I have never felt so weak in my life. Not even after people made me run. Wait, should I be thinking deep thoughts? My lashes flutter closed, and the pumdrum of my heart slows until I feel like eternity can fit between the beats. I start to hear things, a kaleidoscope of familiar voices. My dad. Marcie. Violet. Neville, which surprises me, because while he's okay and everything, I don't really think we were ever that close. And then James. James. I think I smile. I want to smile.

The ground expands beneath me, becoming pillowy, soft. It is a featherbed from which I never want to get up, and the further I sink, the less the cold bites my fingers and toes. If rain still falls on my face, I don't feel it. At this point, I am not sure that I still possess a nose or lips. I am a nude Mr. Potato Head. Don't get me wrong, it feels nice. It feels gentle, it feels peaceful, it feels . . .

Smack!

I hear it first, and then feel it eons later, like thunder after a lightning strike. There is a dull buzz in my ears, the cry of an exotic bird on repeat. It crescendos, sets a pattern. Ohfeyohfeyohfeyohfey and then a guttural whir of Godododod. I should have learned more about birds. . . . Then I could tell it to shut up in special bird language so I can sleep.

"Sophie! Sophie! God," a voice says, and I realize that the sound has exploded into my name. "Sophie!"

This last bark is accompanied by the dull prodding of what can only be fingers on my shoulders and cheeks. I wince, and even that tiny movement is painful. I want to feel my cheeks to make sure that they haven't split at the seams.

The voice calls my name again excitedly. "You need to drink this," it says.

Why?

"Because I want you to stay here," the voice insists. "Now drink. Please." The final plea is accompanied by the sensation of something wet being dribbled onto my mouth. Geez, okay, I think, opening my mouth to let in something that feels like syrup. From above me comes a relieved sigh, and then I am drowning in the liquid, drinking it in. I am an old pro at this; when I was little I used to stand beneath rain showers and try to catch as many drops in my mouth as possible, and I do that now, only this is a monsoon and I have lost count. All I know is that with every second I do this, I regain the feeling in my toes, my legs. I feel stronger. I feel like I have a nose again. I feel like I have two noses. Five noses.

When I can feel my eyes again, I open them. James is leaning over me with only one nose. But four eyes - no, wait, two.

Welcome back, James says, his mouth stretched into a grin. You suck at chess.

How did you get here? I ask, the world still spinning a bit.

I came to see you as soon as we got back, and you weren't home. So we came here and found Violet on the way. She told me about Caroline.

Nice. You know, I don't think I'm actually moving my lips right now.

You aren't. It's a perk of your new condition.

What new condition?

A shadow crosses James's face. He stands up, escaping my line of sight. I pull myself into a sitting position, feeling as though I could run a marathon. I have never felt as though I could run a marathon . . . and then it hits me.

I look to my right where the rest of the vampires watch the proceedings with solemn faces. Marisabel is hugging herself and looking a bit sick, although that might be because she is staring at the dust that used to be Vlad. And Violet . . . well, Violet is clapping her hands. She runs toward me and throws her arms around my neck, smelling of floral perfume and dirt.

"I am so happy that you are one of us now!" she cries into my shoulder.

"A vampire?" I say. Or ask. My thoughts are whirring so fast that I can no longer tell.

"You are! And we are going to have so much fun!" she crows before releasing me and bobbing back to the group. I look to James, who has crossed his arms and is now staring at the line of trees as though he has just noticed them for the first time.

What did you do? I ask, saying it internally without even thinking. He doesn't respond, but the funny thing is that I can feel his mind there, the thoughts like lights through stained glass. I can feel the others' minds as well - dimmer, not as distinct, but there. And those are not the only lights I see. Tiny patches of heat weave through the undergrowth in a lazy, sporadic pattern. Slowly they take on the shapes of animals - a group of huddled mice, the compact figure of a bird taking shelter from the rain.

"I'm a vampire," I say again, and then repeat it several times, each more accusatory than the last.

"It was the only way to save you," he says softly. "Vlad took a lot of blood."

"You were supposed to ask me," I say.

Being a vampire is better than dead dead, he says, anger flashing in his eyes. That's what you told me. You said that there were worse things. I thought -

He stops when I stand up abruptly. I want to say that I would have rather died, but that's not true, not really. I would have liked to have not had to make a choice at all. "I think I'm going to go home now," I say, doing my best to ignore James's distressed stare or the way he tracks my every movement. I try to walk past him, but he reaches out and catches my wrist.

"What are you doing?"

"Sophie, you shouldn't go home right now. We need to talk about how you are going to handle this. Your family . . . they can't know."

"No! I am going home and I am going to see my dad and Marcie and Caroline."

"Not yet," he says, tugging at my wrist. I let myself be dragged in for the embrace. The material of James's T-shirt is soft against my cheek. Listening to him, it almost feels like it's going to be okay. If he just keeps talking, if I don't ever have to think about the next step, it will be okay.

But then James pushes me away and stares at my chest. Before I can ask what is wrong, he presses his hand over my left breast.

"Hey!" I slap at his hand, but he ignores it and presses harder.

"Your heart," he says in wonderment.

"Yes," I say slowly, "it's there." I don't know where he gets off acting like he's the one who has been drained and refilled today.

He meets my gaze. "It's beating."

"Yes, it is."

Grabbing my wrist again, he clamps both thumbs across the purplish ghosting of veins. "Sophie," he says louder. "It's beating."

"We've established that, James."

"Sophie - ," he repeats, but is cut off when Neville's voice rings out behind us.

"Vampire hearts don't beat." He nudges James's thumbs out of the way, and then looks at me with identical wonder. No one could still be human after that exchange. I have seen people turn with half that amount. He gives a short laugh. Vlad was right.

Ripping my wrist away, I put fingers to my neck to test it. It's true. My skin bumps against the pads of my fingers in a happy, gentle rhythm. I could sing. I could dance. I could do a freaking cheer. And then I come to another realization: My skin is smooth, unblemished.

"You healed," James says, answering my question. "You heard my thoughts. I've watched your eyes follow the animals . . . But you are breathing. You are alive," he says aloud, but is followed by something that I know - I know - he would never want anyone to hear.

It's not fair.

An awkward silence falls, a silence that lasts until the sound of approaching footsteps make everyone tense.

"Where are Devon and Ashley?" I snap and instinctively crouch down, feeling a new strength coiled and waiting in my muscles.

"Beneath your feet," James says.

I glance down, stepping back when I realize that I'm standing in what looks like the remains of two giant campfires. Gross.

"We took them out first," Violet chirps and then nods toward the picnic table. "When you were sleeping on the ground.

I am saved from having to find anything intelligent to add by Caroline bursting into the clearing. Her hair is a mess, her clothing is more torn than not, and she's clutching what must be the biggest stick she could find in the woods. She drops it when she sees me. I am enveloped in another hug. Today may not have turned me into a vampire, but I am apparently now a hugger.

"I got in my car and drove halfway home before coming back," she says in my ear before raising her head. "Wait. Is everything fine?"

"It's over," I say, not liking the note of uncertainty in my voice. "Well, the Vlad part."

"I was so scared. I felt horrible," she says.

Thank god I don't have to explain things to Mom and Fred.

The thought comes out of nowhere. I blink and look at Caroline, who's still smiling at me with genuine relief. As much as I'd like to think it was my imagination, I have the sinking feeling that I am going to have to get used to the unedited version of people's thoughts for at least the near future.

"Let's go home," I say, turning to find the others. James has moved away and joined their group. They are busy discussing particulars - how to get Vlad's car back to the house when his keys "dusted" along with him, among other things. Caroline tugs at my hand, pulling me toward the trees. And after a few more seconds, I let her lead me.

Chapter Twenty

Caroline drives us home. She has questions - But why did Vlad want me? Was James like them? - and she deserves answers. After all, she is taking this vampire hostage thing like a pro; and a part of me suspects that it's because it answers all of her questions about why her relationship with Vlad failed. Too exhausted to find a starting point, I promise to tell her later, and after a few failed attempts to prod the story out of me, she gives up and focuses on the road. It is difficult to keep from staring at her neck. Not because of the wound, which has finally ceased to bleed, but because I can see the gentle glow of light winding out of her collar and traveling up her neck. I try to blink it away, hoping it will disappear like the after flash of a surprise picture, but it remains.

When we pull into the driveway, she uses the rearview mirror to arrange her hair over the bite marks and then reaches into the backseat. Tossing a blue shirt in my lap, she starts to pull off her own.

"Why do you have several changes of clothes in the back of your car?" I ask.

"You don't?" she says after she's pulled off her own switcheroo. "Maybe you should."

I cast a rueful look at what was once my favorite shirt. "You know, maybe you're right." I change into the navy polo and then study our front door and its folksy, suburban wreath. "What are we going to tell them?"

She smiles with some of the old bubble. "Please. Leave it to me."

And so I do, nodding every time there's a pause in Caroline's story about how I found her at Amanda's and there was a flat tire, and that's why I'm all grimy. I am distracted by the way I can feel the concern rolling off of my father. By the time I pick up Caroline's random They are so buying it, I'm rattled enough to beg leave to go upstairs, where I take an hour-long shower. I feel safe there, where the tile is bright white and unchanging, and where I am free of all thoughts but my own.