Page 22 of What Happened on Roslyn Street?
I stand, moving to my suitcase. I haven’t unpacked yet, something Margaux will probably pester me about. I should do something about it, but I don’t, rummaging through my suitcase and throwing clothes on my bed.
“Then, today will be the first memorable Wednesday.” I lift off my pajama shirt and smoothly change into my daywear.
“Why is that?” Margaux asks.
“Today”—I slip into my skirt—"is the day I learn more about Caldwell. Is that exciting enough for you?”
“No.” She yawns, sitting upright. “It will be exciting when I can drive a stake through his dead heart. Until then, this is all rather boring.”
A thought comes to me.
“Have you ever”—I swallow—“killed one of your kind?”
“No,” she says. “I’ve never killed anyone.”
“Not even in a feeding incident?”
“No!” she snaps. “Control is easierfor dhampirs. We’re taught to resist our thirst from a young age. It’s the turned ones you have to keep an eye on… especially when they’re newly turned.”
“Noted.” Mentally, I file it away with the other vampire facts I’ve picked up. Bloody tears, dhampirs versus vampires, stakes, and immortality. Anything to help me find the killer. “Which do you think Caldwell is?”
“He’s likely a dhampir,” she says. “Most vampires on campus are. Full vampires are either old enough that they already have a degree, or they have other things to worry about. The undead have lives, too, you know.”
The more I learn about Margaux’s secret life, the less I like it.
“That’s all it takes?” I ask. “A stake?”
“Yes,” she says. “Before you berate me about it being a cliché, please know it’s too early for me to care.”
I sit at the edge of my bed and slip on my socks, then my boots. “Go back to bed, then.”
“Youcannotgo out this early!”
“They’ll open for breakfast in…” I take out the watch. “Thirty minutes or so.”
“What will you do until then?”
“Investigate.” I smile cheekily.
Margaux inspects me through narrowed eyes before flopping onto her bed and rolling over on the other side. “Don’t die.”
“I can’t promise that.”
She lets out a loud, frustrated groan, but she doesn’t stop me as I leave.
Margaux is right. I should have some kind of defense. I don’t have a stake, but I stow a freshly sharpened pencil in my pocket alongside the watch. It’ll have to do.
Later, when she’s had more sleep and a cup of coffee, I’ll ask Margaux if a ruler would be a better weapon.
I return to the scene of the crime—still blocked off by yellow tape, of course. The nearby greenhouse is blocked off as well, and I fight the urge to sneak inside. The last thing I need is to draw more attention to myself. Professor Sexton has already seen me disappearing after a murder. It can’t be good for my reputation.
I look for clues until the sun rises. Other students are meandering around campus. Despite the time I put in, I don’t find anything. No trinkets, no footsteps, and no blood. Everything returns to normal.
I guess I’ll have to return to normal, too.
My body is heavy as I carry myself to the dining hall, filled with the sting of failure. Finding the watch was enough to make me buzz, and I had hoped to keep the trend going. The watch in my pocket grows heavier along with me, but I ignore the feeling as I enter the room.
It’s surprisingly empty. I can’t blame the others for hiding.
