Under Suspicion

A cold chill slid over my bare neck and I shivered despite my coat. The girl with the ponytail was a hairsbreadth away from me now, the tip of her nose brushing against my hair. I watched her fingertip curl around my wrist, then draw a fine line toward my elbow.

 

“Go!” Avey yelled, but in the same instance that delicate finger turned into a circulation-cutting grip on my arm. I winced, paralyzed, stunned, and appalled by her strength. I felt the blood throb in my veins; I felt the tip of ponytail girl’s hair as she angled her head and bared her fangs.

 

A high-pitched, girlish scream pierced the drop-dead silence. I was stunned to find that the howl wasn’t coming from me. It was coming from Steve, and fading quickly as his fat little legs propelled him toward the door.

 

I tried to wriggle, but I was held tight. The cold from ponytail girl’s marble-hard, lifeless chest seeped through my coat to my skin.

 

“Let her go, Devora,” I heard Avey cry. “It’s illegal. And Sophie’s practically one of us!”

 

“You mean she’s practically killing us,” Devora hissed back.

 

I whimpered and then squeezed my eyes shut, when I felt the warm prick of fangs against the thin skin on my neck. I felt the pierce—two thick, hot pinpricks as Devora began to sink her fangs into me as her fingers tightened around my arms, making my hands go numb. I squeezed my eyes shut as my stomach rolled over and my knees weakened. I thought I would crumple to the floor, but was instead pushed against the counter with such force that I lost my breath. Groaning, I felt my ribs protest against the pressure. My forehead smacked against the granite countertop—and Avey’s damp polishing cloth—and black spots flooded my eyes. I sank down to the cold tiled floor, stunned as Devora flew backward, the ridged soles of her black-stacked motorcycle boots in the air. The vamps who were sitting and sipping at the crowded tables around Poe’s barely gave a hint of recognition as Devora landed between two chairs with a thud, howling and clawing at the figure who was wriggling on top of her. I huddled against the counter and watched as Devora flailed uselessly against her attacker, who, with hands securely around Devora’s throat, turned to me and called over her shoulder, “Are you okay, Sophie?”

 

I blinked at Nina, shocked as my fashion-forward best friend sat astride Devora, holding her taut without so much as upsetting a hair on her head.

 

I opened my mouth to speak, to thank Nina, but nothing came out—save for a strangled, whimpering gurgle. Nina pinned her knees firmly on Devora’s chest and asked, “What the hell were you doing to my best friend?”

 

I coughed and found my voice. “It’s okay, Nina. I’m fine. When did you—when did you get here?”

 

Nina ignored me, leaned forward so she was nose to nose with the terrified girl, and told her, “If I ever see you around Sophie again, I will personally break your neck, set you on fire, grind your bones with a sledgehammer, and sprinkle them over a scone. Do you understand me?”

 

Devora made no attempt to move. Her eyes remained big and fixed on Nina. “Yes,” she said finally, “I get it.”

 

Nina straightened up. “Now I’m going to stand up, and Sophie and I are going to walk out of here, and all three of us are going to pretend none of this ever happened. Except, of course, for my non-idle threat against your afterlife.”

 

Nina hopped up and sauntered over to me, hunching down and examining my neck. “Doesn’t look too bad,” she said, offering me a stack of napkins. “But no reason to go sending up food smells in here.”

 

I pressed the wad of napkins to my neck and followed Nina out of Poe’s. Even in the cold night air, my fingers started to warm up and regain their circulation, but my arms still throbbed from being gripped and pinned to my side.

 

Once on the sidewalk Nina stopped and turned to me. “Do you have a death wish, Sophie? What the hell were you doing alone in Poe’s?”

 

“I wasn’t alone,” I said, feeling the bite of anger. “Steve was with me.”

 

Nina wrinkled her ski jump nose. “Steve Steve?”

 

“I called everyone. And besides, I thought his smell would distract them.”

 

Nina rolled her eyes and fished in her suitcase-sized Marc Jacobs bag. “Well, you didn’t call”—she checked the readout on her phone—“oh, look at that. You did.”

 

I pulled the napkins from my neck and glanced at the bright red spots dotting them. “Does it look okay?”

 

Nina glanced at my neck. “It’s barely a scratch, but two seconds later and you would have been dinner. What were you thinking?”

 

Nina and I fell into step. “I was worried about you.”

 

Nina cocked an eyebrow. “You—Sophie Lawson, breather—were worried about me hanging out in a vampire coffehouse?”

 

I tossed the soiled napkins in a trash can. “I wasn’t worried about you there.” I stopped and cornered Nina. “Neens, I need to talk to you. It’s about Harley.”

 

Nina eyed me with a wry smile. “If you’re going to give me the sex talk, you’re about one hundred years too late.”

 

I clapped my palms over my ears. “Ew, Nina, boundaries.”

 

“Fine. Talk to me about Harley.”