Fang Girl Read online

  HELEN KEEBLE

  Dedication

  To Eljas Oksanen, who read every draft

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Credits

  Copyright

  Back Ad

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  Just because I like vampires doesn’t mean I’m stupid. Okay, so my bookcase groans under the weight of paperbacks with moody black-and-red covers. So I’ve seen every episode of Buffy and The Vampire Diaries three times over. So I hang out a lot at Fang-Girls.net—the fansite for all things vampire. But despite all that, I don’t mistake fantasy for reality. I never, not once in all my fifteen years, thought vampires were actually real.

  Until, of course, I woke up dead, six feet underground, in my coffin. That’ll convince pretty much anyone.

  “Oh, crap,” I said, rubbing my forehead where I’d banged it against the lid while trying to sit up. I performed a quick inventory. Yep—coffin, churning thirst, not breathing, fangs. I could practically hear the ominous music swelling as I reached the inevitable conclusion. I was a vampire, a creature of the night—

  Hang on. I could hear ominous music swelling. At least, slightly tinny and rather repetitive ominous music, reverberating in the close confines of the coffin. From my vast store of vampire-related trivia, I identified it as the opening theme from Francis Ford Coppola’s Dracula movie, as interpreted by ringtone.

  I was a vampire, and … someone was trying to call me?

  When my parents had said that not even death could pry me from my mobile phone, I’d thought they were joking. I wriggled around in the narrow coffin until I could reach the ringing handset. I instantly knew it wasn’t mine—my phone was small and sleek, with a USB stick dangling on the charm strap. This felt like a brick, bristling with extra battery packs. The glow of the screen seemed dazzlingly bright in the darkness, making my eyes water. UNKNOWN CALLER, it said. I stabbed the CALL button. “Uh …” How did you start a conversation when you were dead? “Hello?”

  “Xanthe Jane Greene,” said a woman’s voice, undercut by the crackle of interference. “At last.”

  So she knew me. I, on the other hand, had never heard her before. “Who are you? What’s going on? Why—?”

  “Time enough for all that, my darling!” She laughed—an amazing laugh, soft and supple, like a cat arching into my hand. “We have all the time in the world. And as for who I am … I’m your dearest friend, of course.” Somewhere above my head came the scrape of a shovel biting into earth. “Don’t worry, darling. I’ll soon have you out.”

  In my books, only two sorts of people ever dug up vampires … and I was pretty certain that someone looking to plant a stake through my chest wouldn’t phone to chat first. Which meant—“You’re my sire, right?”

  “Indeed.” The sounds of digging were getting closer. Her voice dropped into a low purr. “And you are my masterpiece. I’ve been looking forward to this day for—oh, blast. Not now!” There was a clatter, as though she’d dropped the shovel. The phone went dead.

  “What? What?” My dry voice cracked. I hammered at the lid. There was a bit of give to it now, but before I could brace my legs to push properly, the whole coffin shook under the weight of someone jumping down onto it.

  “Listen, darling.” The woman’s voice was clearer now, with nothing between us but the coffin lid and a thin layer of dirt. “I’ve got to lead this idiot off. Find somewhere to hide, and I’ll contact you as soon as I can. Wait for me!”

  “But—” The coffin lid rattled as she sprang back out of my grave. I heard the muffled sound of running footsteps—two pairs—followed by the unmistakable crack of gunfire. I froze, huddled in a ball with the phone clutched between my hands.

  Then—silence.

  If there were two sorts of people who came to dig up vampires, I was guessing that the other sort had just turned up. Vampire hunters. There were always vampire hunters. And even now one of them could be dusting my sire.

  I squirmed until my feet were planted solidly against the top of the coffin. It creaked, resisting me—then, it flew open, and a whole load of earth fell right into my mouth. I’d intended to burst forth with a dramatic cry and fangs agleam, but it ended up being more of a splutter and a stagger.

  Coughing and spitting, I struggled out of my grave. I did not immediately catch fire, turn to dust, or have an acrobatic blonde Buffy-wannabe put a stake through my chest. So far, the first day—night—of my unlife was off to a good start.

  Blinking watering eyes, I risked a quick glance around, expecting a crossbow bolt or a silver bullet to come whizzing toward me at any second. The ground rolled away before me, covered with close-cropped grass and sheep droppings. A couple of small trees overhung the collapsed pit of my grave. A full harvest moon rode high among thin streaks of cloud, casting a fine bright light that let me see for miles across the low, gentle slopes of the South Downs.

  Both vampire hunters and other vampires were conspicuous by their absence.

  “Baa,” said something behind me. I was running before I’d even properly registered the sound. And by running, I mean running. I shot down the hill as if rocket propelled. Wind roared past my face, carrying with it the sharp, rich scents of earth and grass. A wonderful sensation of warmth spread outward through my chest from my silent heart. No hunger, no thirst; no lungs heaving; no ache of muscles or burn in my joints. I was barely making an effort.

  Ah yes. Vampiric superspeed. Of course.

  Awesome.

  Some little part of my brain was leaping up and down, trying to point out that not many vampire hunters said “baa,” but I was having too much fun running to stop now. I quickened my pace, and it was as easy as shifting gears on a bicycle. When I looked down at my feet, they were flickering over the ground almost too fast to see, and—

  I ran straight into the wooden fence at the foot of the field.

  It didn’t knock the breath out of me, seeing as how I wasn’t breathing to start with, but I did have to spend a few minutes lying flat on my back, convincing myself that I wasn’t dead. Or rather, deader. Sitting up, I prodded at my ribs, but nothing seemed broken. I was lucky that it had been a rail fence, rather than barbed wire, or I would have shredded myself into vampire linguine. I was even luckier to have caught myself across one of the horizontal rails—a foot to the left, and I would have hurled myself onto an upright support. Staking myself on my first night as a vampire would have been terminally embarrassing.

  “Baa,” said the sheep again. It had ambled down the hill after me, and was now regarding me from some way off as if waiting to see what entertaining thing I would do next. I could make out every detail about it, down to the fine hairs on its ears.

  I stared hard at the sheep, trying to see if I could vie
w the movement of its blood through its skin, or sense the beating of its heart, or see the aura of its warmth glowing against the night. It stared back at me, looking resolutely like an ordinary sheep. I guess I wasn’t that sort of vampire. Or maybe sheep didn’t have auras.

  I ran my dry tongue over my weird teeth. Sheep did have blood, and I was suddenly very, very thirsty.

  That’s when it truly hit me: I was a vampire. A real, live—well, actually not—bloodsucking vampire.

  Holy crap. I put my head between my knees—I wasn’t sure if that could help with shock if you weren’t alive, but it was worth a try—and tried to sift back through my memories. I was pretty sure I would have remembered being bitten by a vampire, but the last thing I could recall before waking up in the grave was … sitting in the backseat of Alice’s mum’s Volvo. I wasn’t really friends with Alice—I wasn’t really friends with anyone down here yet, as my family had only moved in two weeks ago—but we both played the violin and sat next to each other in the orchestra, and her family lived down the road from mine, so her mum had offered to give me a lift back from practice. We’d been coming up one of the twisty little country lanes, and I was trying to make Alice like me by laughing at all her jokes and agreeing that the boy she liked probably fancied her back, and then—a sudden lurch, my seat belt abruptly strangling me, and—nothing.

  I must have died in a car crash.

  In all my books, movies, and TV shows, I’d never heard of someone becoming undead through being hit by a vampire’s car. Not even in fanfic.

  But however it had happened, I was definitely a vampire. I stood up and dusted myself off, then looked around. On the other side of the fence, a narrow country lane snaked away, leading from the Downs toward the south coast. I could hear the distant roar of cars on the main road. Lacking any better option, I started to walk toward the sound. Vampires were urban creatures, after all, and the nearest thing to urban around here was the grubby seaside town of Worthing. It wasn’t much, but it was better than an open sheep field. I could go and hide in … in the sewers, I guessed, since there were only two places feral vampires tended to hang out, and Worthing was really, really short on decadent Goth nightclubs. I’d hole up and wait for my sire, and then … then …

  Then I guessed I’d have to start my new life. Unlife. On the plus side, there would probably be stylish clothes and amazing psychic abilities and really hot guys in leather trousers. On the negative side, I’d probably never see sunlight again, or eat chocolate, and I might slowly spiral into a sinkhole of angst and despair until someone staked me. And I didn’t have any money. Or a change of underwear. Or a way to have a shower. And—my stomach rumbled—it was looking increasingly likely that I was going to have to eat raw sheep.

  And I wasn’t going to be able to see my family ever again.

  My vision went a bit misty, and my lower lip started to tremble. I blinked the tears back. Vampires didn’t cry. Vampires were cool. Deliberately, I thought of all the things I’d be leaving behind. No more constant moving. No more always being the new girl, trying to break into social cliques. As a vampire, I’d be the queen bee with a constant circle of admirers. No more worrying that my exam results wouldn’t be good enough to get into university, or whether I was getting fat. I was going to be slender and gothically beautiful forever.

  Well, I was going to be fifteen forever. That kind of sucked. Why couldn’t I have been turned next year?

  Never mind, I told myself firmly. I was a vampire. This was going to be great. I’d get to hang out with other vampires, who would be effortlessly elegant and would treat me like an adult. No more fights with my mother over my spending habits. No more annoying little brother stealing my eyeliner. No more embarrassing dad wearing yellow spandex in public and making me go out with him on bike rides. No more, no more.

  I stopped, tears streaking my face.

  “Well, screw that,” I said, and punched my home number into the mobile phone.

  Chapter 2

  The phone rang eight times, which was just long enough for me to have second thoughts. I was a vampire. What was I doing? But even as my thumb hovered over the END CALL button, there was a click on the other end. My dad’s mumbling, sleep-slurred voice said, “Mmfgh?”

  “Daddy?” Despite myself, the words came out high and trembling, a little-girl voice.

  “Wha?” I could picture my dad flopped face-first into his pillow, phone mashed against one cheek. It usually took four cups of tea or two espressos to haul him up to full consciousness. “Whozit?”

  I swallowed hard, forcing my voice back down into its usual register. “Dad, it’s me.” Silence, so long that I wondered if he’d fallen asleep again. “Dad?”

  “I’m asleep,” he said, sounding wide-awake. “I’m dreaming.”

  “Um, no, Dad, it’s really me. Look, I know this is going to sound really crazy, but I don’t have time for long explanations, so please just bear with me. See, the thing is—” I stopped. There was a strange sound, like broken static, coming from the phone. I took it away from my ear to glare at the screen, but the signal bar showed full strength. “Dad? Can you hear me? There’s some sort of interference—”

  “Who is this?” My mother’s familiar sharp tone made my stomach flip with habitual guilt, even though I hadn’t done anything wrong (rising from the dead didn’t count, in my opinion). Her voice came through crystal clear, though that weird sound was still in the background. “What did you say to my husband, arsehole?”

  “Mummy?” Again, the little-girl squeak. God, I sounded so pathetic. I was glad there weren’t any other vampires around.

  For the first time in my life, I witnessed my mother at a complete loss for words. Figured that I’d have to be dead to experience it. In the pause, I realized that the dry, harsh sound in the background had to be Dad, crying. Another first—but a much less pleasant one.

  “Xanthe?” whispered my mum.

  For once, my stupid first name didn’t make me wince. “Hi,” I said, unable to come up with anything less inane. “Um.”

  When my mother spoke again, she sounded as calm as a frozen river. “You are a sick, sick person, and I am phoning the police.”

  “No, wait—crap!” I stared at the phone in disbelief. She hung up on me! My own mother! I tried redialing, but all I got was the shrill beep of the busy tone. I started entering Dad’s mobile number—but then a much better idea occurred to me.

  This time the phone barely managed one ring before it was picked up at the other end. All the commotion down the hallway must have woken him up. “Hey,” I said in greeting.

  There was only the briefest of pauses before “Hey, Janie.”

  I grinned. Nothing fazed my little brother. “Hi, Zack.” Perhaps my parents had subconsciously had to admit that “Xanthe Jane Greene” might have been a mistake, because when it came to naming their next child, they’d gone for the slightly more normal “James Zachariah Greene.” Unfortunately, this had turned out to be the wrong way round again. “Look, first of all, if Mum catches you and makes you hang up, you gotta ring me back, okay? She threw an absolute fit when I tried to talk to her.”

  “Well, you are meant to be dead,” he pointed out reasonably. “Are you, by the way?”

  “Sort of. It’s complicated.” I hesitated, trying to find a good way to put it, but in the end I just blurted out, “I think I’m a vampire.”

  Another fractional pause. “Awesome.”

  “Well, yeah. But I nearly got stuck in my grave, and I only escaped because a woman who I think is another vampire came to dig me up, only she seems to have been chased off by vampire hunters, and now I’m in a sheep field. Where the heck did you guys bury me?”

  “It’s not a sheep field,” Zack said, sounding rather wounded. “It’s a real pretty countryside spot, with views and song sparrows and—and, you know, all that ecological stuff. We thought you’d like it.”

  “I’m sure it’s very attractive. Just not from six feet under.” I swi
veled on my heels, scanning the dark countryside. “To be honest, it would have been more useful if you’d buried me somewhere near a bus stop. Can you get Mum or Dad to come pick me up?”

  “Hang on, I’ll go look.” I heard the creak of his bedroom door. “Um, I’m not sure they should be driving right now, actually.”

  “Great. Now what?” I rubbed my forehead with one muddy hand, trying to think. It was a good thing Zack was taking this so well.... “Hang on. You and your weird Goth friends wouldn’t have had anything to do with this, would you?”

  “Steampunk,” he corrected me, indignant. “It’s totally different!”

  “Zack,” I said warningly. “Did you feed me to a vampire?”

  “No!”

  “It’s just that you don’t seem to be surprised by the whole coming-back-from-the-dead thing.”

  “You’re my big sister. I knew you couldn’t really be gone forever,” he said, with a twelve-year-old’s utter, simple certainty in the order of the world. “Uh, hang on a sec.” An earsplitting burst of static made me wince. Evidently a scuffle was going on—I could hear Zack whining, “But, Muuuum!”

  “James, you give that here right now!” My mother’s voice got louder as she claimed possession of the phone. “Right. Now listen here,” she snarled in my ear. “I don’t know what kind of sick—”

  “In January you were home sick for nine days and I made you a special playlist and lent you my iPod,” I said, speaking as fast as I could. “Your favorite soup is parsnip and Stilton. Um, um.” I grasped for something else that only I would know. “And behind the set of old Good Housekeeping cookbooks you have a collection of erotic bondage novels that I’m not supposed to know about—” I heard a crash. “Mum? Mum?”

  “Hi,” said Zack’s voice cheerfully. “She’s out cold. What did you tell her?”

  “Nothing. Is Dad there?”

  There was a rustle, then, “Xanthe? Baby?” said Dad. He sounded quavery, lost.