Page 34 of You’re So Vein

I did. But now that it’s nearly here, I’m having second thoughts. Komal has rallied all the village shopkeepers against me, so very few of them are opening with night hours, which means the few that do will be crowded with vampires. What if Hannah has an episode? What if they find out the truth about her?

But I promised her. How can I break yet another promise, when she’s so excited?

“I’m sure I will.” I turn the page.

“Maybe you caught something off that woman from the council?” Hannah asks, as if reading my mind. “You’ve been feeling strange since you got trapped in the cupboard with her.”

I lean back in the chair, raking my hand down my face. It would be like Komal to have some rare ailment that can pass from humans to Upyr. And I’m probably dying and she’ll host a dance party on my grave.

I’ve already tried several remedies from this book. I mixed my blood with camel’s milk. (Have you ever tried to find camel’s milk in a British supermarket?) I painted sigils on my face. I performed a humiliating dance under the full moon that had Hannah bent double with hysterics.

If I can’t find anything else to try, I’ll have to do the one thing I swore I’d never do: contact the Dusk Court. They have a library of obscure vampire medical texts that will surely provide answers.

But I’m hoping it doesn’t come to that.

Pulling out my phone, I find Komal’s number on the council contact form and type out a message.

Augustin: Are you in any way afflicted with some kind of magical malaise?

A few moments later, my phone buzzes with a reply.

Komal: Durant, if that’s you, I’m pleased to see you know how to operate a phone.

Komal: And also, what the hell kind of question is that? I’m the picture of health. It’s not my fault if you’re allergic to the sheer magnetism of my presence.

Komal: If you’re hoping for a last-minute reprieve before our big debate, it’s not going to happen. I’m taking you DOWN, coffin-boy.

Komal: And you forgot your shopping list.

She follows this last text with a photograph of a crumpled Post-it note.

I think for a few minutes, then type:

Augustin: Coffin-boy? I’ll have you know I am a coffin-MAN.

Thank you for the list. I knew I’d forgotten my favourite garlic bread.

A moment later, my phone beeps with another message.

Komal: To ease your delicate constitution, Mr Coffin-MAN, I prescribe the Victorian curative of convalescing by the sea, staring wistfully out of a window, and writing terrible poetry. Far, far away from here.

I stare at her message. It’s clearly a joke. Why is Komal Ahuja joking with me? I recall the wild fear in her eyes as I held her in the closet, the way she clung to me in the dark like I alone could save her. And the way she felt like liquid in my arms when we danced (before I knocked her into the grass).

I start typing. “You may win at charm, at smiles and spin. You rope unsuspecting voters in. But when it comes to putting Argleton right, you have no chance, for I’ll win the night…”

“What did she say?” Hannah leans across the table. “You’re texting lots!”

Frantic, I hit delete on the absurd little poem.

What am I doing? Why am I attempting to joke with someone who so obviously hates me?

“Nothing.” I toss down my phone and pull the book toward me. “She said nothing useful.”

TO BOLDLY GARDEN WHERE NO GORILLA HAS GARDENED BEFORE

Maisie Collins

Argleton Gazette