CHAPTER 37
I spent the rest of the night and all of the next day huddled in the basement, locked with Clayton’s still-as-death body in an unused janitor’s closet I’d found.
I’d done it. I’d let him drink. And the moment that it was over, I was certain I’d made a horrible mistake.
I’d condemned him. And I hated myself for it.
Worse, I was afraid he’d hate me, too.
Even worse than that, I knew that it wasn’t too late to end it.
And that was why I held a wooden stake in my hand, and part of me knew that I should use it. I couldn’t, though.
As horrible as I felt about dumping this whole undead trip on him, I wanted him with me. And I hated myself for being so selfish.
Round and round my thoughts went, ranging from Clayton to a pile of Stephen Wills’s ashes in the middle of the basketball court. The lousy little jerkwad had tricked me.
The blood he’d given me in the Bloody Mary hadn’t been his own. But I didn’t know whose blood it was—or even if my master vampire was in the school or even in the city.
I’d gotten my revenge, but I hadn’t gotten my reward. Worse, I’d made another vampire.
All in all, I wasn’t having a really great day.
I needed to fix this. Somehow, I had to find my real master. And somehow, I had to kill him.
Because the only way to make this right was to make Clayton human again. And the only way to do that was to turn myself human.
A chill curled down my spine, and I shivered, realizing that there was one other way. If Clayton killed me—his master—before he drank from a human, then his humanity would be restored.
In front of me, Clayton stirred, and I scurried forward to kneel beside him. “Hey,” I said. “It’s okay. I’m here. I’m with you.”
His eyes were wide, and I knew he was taking it all in. His improved vision. The new awareness in his limbs. “Am I—?”
“I’m sorry.”
I waited for him to say that it was okay. That I’d saved him and that he understood and that I’d done the right thing.
He didn’t say that, though, and even though I knew it wasn’t real, I thought I could feel my heart pick up tempo.
After a second, he reached out and took my hand. And when he smiled, I about melted with relief. After all, he was my boyfriend.
Let me repeat that, just in case you missed it: I, Elizabeth Frasier, had a real, live boyfriend. (Well, an undead boyfriend, anyway.)
I loved him. He loved me.
And vampires don’t go around killing the people they love . . . not even to be human again.
Do they?