it’s quite difficult to spot a vampire even when you know what to look for.
Unfortunately, the only sure way to get a Vamplayer to show his true colors is to expose them yourself. So unless I want to blow my cover first, and way too soon, it’s really a guessing game until Alice, Cara, and I weigh all the evidence and risk outing ourselves to reveal his true identity.
Like I said, we’re not quite there yet.
I glide over to the right, not because I’m scared of him exactly but to get a better look.
He doesn’t glance over but continues loping down the track.
I subconsciously pick up the pace in gradual increments.
His black jacket with two broad white stripes on each arm is open to his waist, revealing a white V-neck T-shirt that hugs the curves of his manly chest the same way he hugs the inside corner as we round the far end of the track. His shoes are top of the line and match his track suit, as if he ordered the set online or perhaps got them for free while modeling for GQ.
For another two laps, he matches me stride for stride, his firm body making light work of mile two.
I’m not even close to capacity (yes, vampires are incredibly fast), but I’m keeping it on the down low in case (a) any mere mortals are watching and (b) Tristan isn’t the Vamplayer, however unlikely that seems.
He says little more as we run, apparently growing more winded with each lap. I smile. If he’s acting, he’s not half bad. I mean, I genuinely believe he’s tired.
Finally he slows down, then stops a lap later, his hands on his knees, his breathing labored.
I stop too because, let’s face it: it’s just plain rude to keep running when your partner’s about to pass out on you.
He’s so good, pretending to be exhausted. He’s even sweating, a rare skill among Vamplayers, though not entirely unheard of, I suppose. Not that, as Third Sister, I know everything there is to know about Vamplayers, but here are the basics.
Vamplayers aren’t a particular breed of vampire, necessarily, just a very special type. Just as in the mortal world, we all have our roles in the vampiric world. There are the Scavengers, loner vamps who walk the earth feasting on beast and man alike. There are the Saviors and the Sisters, the hunters and the protectors. There are the Ancients, the rule makers who oversee our communities and enforce our laws.
There are Royal vampires, those vamps who were born of two vampire parents, not made like the rest of us. There is even a superior race of Original vampires; the first of our kind, nearly godlike creatures rarely seen. Very few of the Originals remain. Instead, their bloodline lives on in the cells and DNA of the Royals.
And then there are the Vamplayers: normal vampires who just happen to enjoy wreaking havoc on the mortal world by turning typical, suburban, innocent high schools into hotbeds of brand-new vampires, fresh for the feasting.
Like all guys, some Vamplayers are strong; some are weak. All are drop-dead gorgeous and have an insatiable bloodlust for young nubile flesh. A few have even been Royals, though Cara, Alice, and I have never had the displeasure of battling one so strong as a born vampire. Most are just like us, regular old vampires only nastier, greedier, and far sneakier. Like this one, maybe, with his sweaty brow and trying to act like he can’t outsprint some poor, mortal girl six laps to her one.
“You all right?” I say with a slightly superior tone, standing tall, hands on hips, barely breathing, though Tristan doesn’t need to know why.
“Sure,” he says, voice strong—at least between gasps. “Fine, great!”
I laugh, grabbing a towel from along the chain link fence bordering the track. I toss it his way.
“Thanks. I’m good.” He throws it back, a little harder.
I shrug and pretend to dry off, though my skin is already quite parched since—that’s right—vampires don’t sweat.
He stands, pressing his hands at the small of his back and leaning over
Unfortunately, the only sure way to get a Vamplayer to show his true colors is to expose them yourself. So unless I want to blow my cover first, and way too soon, it’s really a guessing game until Alice, Cara, and I weigh all the evidence and risk outing ourselves to reveal his true identity.
Like I said, we’re not quite there yet.
I glide over to the right, not because I’m scared of him exactly but to get a better look.
He doesn’t glance over but continues loping down the track.
I subconsciously pick up the pace in gradual increments.
His black jacket with two broad white stripes on each arm is open to his waist, revealing a white V-neck T-shirt that hugs the curves of his manly chest the same way he hugs the inside corner as we round the far end of the track. His shoes are top of the line and match his track suit, as if he ordered the set online or perhaps got them for free while modeling for GQ.
For another two laps, he matches me stride for stride, his firm body making light work of mile two.
I’m not even close to capacity (yes, vampires are incredibly fast), but I’m keeping it on the down low in case (a) any mere mortals are watching and (b) Tristan isn’t the Vamplayer, however unlikely that seems.
He says little more as we run, apparently growing more winded with each lap. I smile. If he’s acting, he’s not half bad. I mean, I genuinely believe he’s tired.
Finally he slows down, then stops a lap later, his hands on his knees, his breathing labored.
I stop too because, let’s face it: it’s just plain rude to keep running when your partner’s about to pass out on you.
He’s so good, pretending to be exhausted. He’s even sweating, a rare skill among Vamplayers, though not entirely unheard of, I suppose. Not that, as Third Sister, I know everything there is to know about Vamplayers, but here are the basics.
Vamplayers aren’t a particular breed of vampire, necessarily, just a very special type. Just as in the mortal world, we all have our roles in the vampiric world. There are the Scavengers, loner vamps who walk the earth feasting on beast and man alike. There are the Saviors and the Sisters, the hunters and the protectors. There are the Ancients, the rule makers who oversee our communities and enforce our laws.
There are Royal vampires, those vamps who were born of two vampire parents, not made like the rest of us. There is even a superior race of Original vampires; the first of our kind, nearly godlike creatures rarely seen. Very few of the Originals remain. Instead, their bloodline lives on in the cells and DNA of the Royals.
And then there are the Vamplayers: normal vampires who just happen to enjoy wreaking havoc on the mortal world by turning typical, suburban, innocent high schools into hotbeds of brand-new vampires, fresh for the feasting.
Like all guys, some Vamplayers are strong; some are weak. All are drop-dead gorgeous and have an insatiable bloodlust for young nubile flesh. A few have even been Royals, though Cara, Alice, and I have never had the displeasure of battling one so strong as a born vampire. Most are just like us, regular old vampires only nastier, greedier, and far sneakier. Like this one, maybe, with his sweaty brow and trying to act like he can’t outsprint some poor, mortal girl six laps to her one.
“You all right?” I say with a slightly superior tone, standing tall, hands on hips, barely breathing, though Tristan doesn’t need to know why.
“Sure,” he says, voice strong—at least between gasps. “Fine, great!”
I laugh, grabbing a towel from along the chain link fence bordering the track. I toss it his way.
“Thanks. I’m good.” He throws it back, a little harder.
I shrug and pretend to dry off, though my skin is already quite parched since—that’s right—vampires don’t sweat.
He stands, pressing his hands at the small of his back and leaning over
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