Part 7 (1/2)

”Yeah, she's not even cute.”

”Oh please, she's the best girl on the team and you all know it,” I interject. ”And she's been perfectly dedicated since she joined. So she's having a bad day. Give the girl a break.”

I get a few reluctant grumbles of agreement. Good.

”Well, I'll go talk to her,” Mandy says. ”See what's wrong.”

”Let me,” I say quickly. The last thing Cait needs is to be trapped in a locker room with someone she thinks will sprout fangs and claws at any given moment. ”I'll calm her down.”

”Fine. But get back fast. We've got a lot of ground to cover this afternoon.”

I nod and walk briskly toward the locker-room door, ready to comfort poor Cait. She must be freaking out. I remember how hard Sunny took the whole ”vampires are real and I'm going to become one in a week” shock that first night at Club Fang.

It's amazing how some people can live their whole lives perfectly oblivious to what's beneath the surface reality of our world. But once you've discovered the truth, there's no turning back.

I push open the locker-room door and once again am suddenly overwhelmed by the smell of fresh blood. I double over, hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath and control my almost unstoppable urge to run to its source and dig in. The thirst consumes me: My throat's suddenly dry as a church group dance and my nostrils strain toward the smell. Jareth warned me about this. The longer I go without drinking real blood, the more power it will have over me. But this is the worst yet.

I manage to suck a few shallow breaths through my mouth, as they taught us to do in Blood 101 cla.s.s, and swallow hard before righting myself.

I'm okay. I can control the bloodl.u.s.t. It has no real power over me.

I stumble to my locker where I keep a secret stash of synthetic. I fumble with the combination, rip open the door, and grab the sports bottle. I gulp the fake blood down, rejoicing as the thick red liquid coats my throat and settles my stomach. Ah, much better.

A moment later my head's clearer. Only then can I focus on the fact that smelling blood in a high school locker room could be something I need to be concerned with. I mean, sure, it might just be someone's time of the month, but for some reason I don't think it's that simple in this case. Where is the blood coming from? And, more important, where's Cait?

”Cait!” I cry, eyes darting from one end of the room to the other. ”Are you okay?”

There's no answer. Just the drip, drip, drip of a leaky shower. Other than that, complete silence.

Fear grips my heart. What if one of the werewolves didn't turn back to a cheerleader when daylight hit? What if it's after Cait? What if it's already found her and managed to rip her apart? Could the blood that I smell actually be coming from Cait's mutilated, dead body?

Panicked, I start whipping back shower curtains, running through rows of lockers, and pulling open bathroom stall doors.

She has to be in here somewhere. The only exit- through the window broken by the wolves last night-has been boarded up.

I reach the handicap stall and yank the door open.

Oh. My. G.o.d.

I stare down, eyes bulging with shock and horror. Cait's sitting on the toilet, fully dressed, with her forearm out in front of her. And it's covered in tiny b.l.o.o.d.y cuts.

At first I think somehow this is related to the werewolves, but then I notice the razor blade she's trying to hide behind her back.

”What are you doing?” I cry. ”Are you trying to kill yourself? I'm calling 911!”

”No!” she says, jumping up, blood droplets splattering everywhere, some landing on my own cheering sweater as she grabs my arm. Argh. I feel like I'm going to pa.s.s out from the irresistibleness of the sight and smell of fresh blood- getting the nearly overwhelming urge to just latch onto her wound with my little fangs and start sucking away.

Sometimes being a vampire is really sick.

”Rayne, stop!” Cait begs, her eyes as wide and frightened as I'm sure mine are. ”I'm not trying to kill myself! I swear.”

I stare at her, suspiciously, while my insides war for blood-drinking dominance. ”Cait, you're sitting in the bathroom holding a razor. You're bleeding. What else would you be doing?”

She turns deep red, leaning back against the wall and sinking down to a seated position. I scramble down on my knees and grab her arm for a better look. It's then that I notice the scars. There have to be hundreds of them. Crisscrossing up and down her arm-tiny silver threads, permanent reminders of past cuts from days gone by. Either she's attempted and failed suicide many, many times before or . . .

”You're a cutter!” I whisper, horrified and fascinated all at the same time.

I've read about girls like her. Those who get comfort from self-mutilation. When they get stressed or upset or scared or helpless they reach for a razor. The physical pain is supposed to soothe them emotionally. A lot of Goths and Emos do it for attention-for some pathetic reason they think it's cool- but real cutters simply can't help themselves.

Cait bursts into tears and wrenches her arm away from my grasp, pulling down her sleeve to cover the cuts and scars.

”Please don't tell anyone!” she cries, tears streaming down her cheeks, smudging her makeup. ”It's so embarra.s.sing.”

”Embarra.s.sing?” I stare at her. ”Cait, it's dangerous! You could seriously hurt yourself. Even if you don't mean to. You need to stop.”

”I... I can't stop.” Her blush deepens and she stares down at her lap. ”I've . . . I've tried. I just can't.”

Wow. This is more serious than I thought. Poor Cait. Suffering in secret for G.o.d knows how long. I grab her and pull her into a hug, trying to ignore the blood that's pulsating from her arm and radiating desire to all the pleasure sensors in my brain.

”Drink!” the vampire in me begs. But I ignore it. I have to.

”You can stop. But maybe you need help. We can get you some. Maybe your mother could get you an appointment with- ”

”No!” Cait says, pulling away from the hug, her eyes wide as saucers. ”Not my mother. She'd kill me!”

”If you don't get help, you're going to end up killing yourself.”

Cait hangs her head. ”I know,” she says. ”But please don't tell my mother. She was so happy when I made the cheerleading squad. For the first time in my life she's actually proud of me. I don't want to disappoint her again.”

I squeeze my hands into fists, frustrated beyond belief. How stupid some parents are! Forcing their children to live the lives they want them to lead, even if those lives are far from what the children actually want for themselves. And for what? So the parents can look good when bragging about their offspring at c.o.c.ktail parties? So they can relive their own glory days through their children? All her life Cait's been belittled by her mom. For not being cool enough, not being pretty enough, not being good enough to become a cheerleader like she was. No wonder the girl's mutilating herself. She has to release the pressure somehow.

”Cait, if your mom loves you she's going to understand you need help,” I say, crossing my fingers that this is true. ”Cutting is a sickness. Like diabetes or cancer. You can't help it. And you can't cure it on your own. You need help. Surely she will get that and find you some. And if she's disappointed in you-well, that's her problem. Not yours. You're awesome. You rock. Anyone who doesn't see that is a blind-a.s.s moron who should be shot.”

Cait giggles a bit through her tears. ”Maybe you're right,” she says. ”I don't know. I just- Well, I just don't want to let my mom down, you know? Since my dad died, I'm all she has in the world.”

”Maybe you could start by going to a school counselor or something. I think they have to be confidential, right? Unless you tell them you want to kill yourself, which I don't think is what's going on here. In any case, they could at least point you in the right direction and maybe help you figure out the best way to eventually break the news to your mom.”

Cait opens her mouth to speak, but at that moment the locker-room door bangs open. Great. Just what I need. An interruption right before Cait promises she'll go get help.

”Rayne?”

Ah, even better. An interruption from my dear friend Mandy.

”I'll get rid of her,” I say to Cait. ”Get back in the bathroom so she doesn't see you.”

Cait obeys, closing the stall door behind her. I breathe a sigh of relief. The last thing Mandy needs to see is Cait in this state-crying and bleeding. She'd probably use it as an excuse to kick her off the squad.

Mandy turns the corner and I jump in front of the stall door. She frowns. ”What are you doing?” she demands, hands on her hips.

I gaze at her with wide, innocent eyes. ”Nothing, Mandy,” I say. ”Nothing at all.”