Deadly Offer by Caroline B. Cooney

that up?
    “At the party,” he said, “make your choice clear by putting your arm around the shoulder of your choice. Then turn your choice to face those hemlocks that the sun goes down behind every night. When I see upon whose shoulder your arm rests, I will know who follows Celeste.”
    She picked up the chair and hurled it at him. An arm snapped off the chair, but the arms of the vampire were unharmed. She threw the chair again and again, until it was nothing but splinters.
    The vampire was long gone.

Chapter 9
    T HE TOWER WAS A black cone in a velvet sky. Black needle-tips of swaying hemlocks surrounded the tower like evil lace. Shutters banged with an oddly eager rhythm, as if something inside hoped to get out.
    But no one heard.
    Music screamed from every corner of the house, and the throbbing drum was the only beat the party guests heard.
    The house was overflowing with teenagers.
    Cars were parked everywhere.
    In spite of the cold and the dark, a sizable group danced on the wide, pillared porch that circled most of the house. Some wore coats, some shivered in shirts. Several wrapped themselves and a chosen friend in a blanket and danced double.
    In the kitchen, liters of soda were emptied so quickly they hardly seemed to have been swallowed—just absorbed into the party atmosphere.
    In the living room, kids sat on the floor watching a movie Becky had brought. In the family room, they lay on their backs on the rug, giggling hysterically at the jokes from a comedy show Ryan had recorded. On the stairs, kids sat in layers, like children playing school, moving up one or down one, laughing and talking about life and football victories. In the side yard, three members of the football team replayed especially precious moments of yesterday’s game.
    And what a game it had been! All the requirements of football had been met: It had been a beautiful day, blue-skied and chilly. The stands were packed. Beyond the stadium, autumn leaves were orange and red. The cheerleaders were brilliant, their uniforms as gaudy as circuses. The team was superb, their routines executed perfectly, their kicks as high as the goalposts.
    And they won, of course.
    It’s true, thought Althea. Winning is everything. And I am among the winners.
    It seemed to Althea that the house had been waiting for this evening. That, at last, the house could cast off doom and dark and return to the laughter for which it had surely been built. Its wide halls were meant for hand-holding couples, not ancestral portraits gathering dust. Its echoing parlor was meant for doubling the volume of music. Its huge kitchen was designed to feed dozens.
    Althea circulated. She laughed here, chatted there, joined this group, and brought more chips and dip to that group. She sat briefly on the stairs finding an empty step just below Ryan, who gave her a backrub. It started off masculine and athletic, as if repairing muscles, and became softer, smoother, the harsh digs becoming affectionate strokes. She leaned back against him and held his hand in hers. He cupped her chin, tilted her head back, and they regarded each other upside down.
    The house vibrated with music. Each area seemed to have been assigned to a particular sort of music: a hip-hop room, an indie-rock room, even a “Memories of Elvis” room. Everybody turned all this music up good and loud, and here in the stairwell it came together in one great chaotic throb. Speech was impossible.
    The night before at Michael’s had been wonderful. No kisses, but lots of friendly flirting. No best friends, but lots of loving laughter.
    Being popular was temperature raising. Her cheeks glowed, her heart was full. She was hot with victory and joy. She was hoarse from cheering.
    Ryan bent close over her cheek, and she held her breath, waiting for his kiss. But instead, he shouted in her ear, “I went upstairs. I hope you don’t mind. I wanted to look into the tower room.”
    The tower room. A draft swirled down the long