He motions over to the bench, where I left the half-carved chunk of wood. I roll my eyes.

"Can't I get a real weapon?" I whine, walking over to the stake and picking it up with some reluctance. "A sword maybe? Or a big two-handed axe like Buffy?"

"By carving this stake, you have embedded it with your slayer essence," Teifert explains, completely ignoring my request for sharp metal objects of death. "Now, it has bonded itself to you and will only work when wielded by your hand. Each stake is unique to its slayer."

"Sort of like the wands in Harry Potter?" I can't help but ask.

"When you take this weapon into your hands, you will feel the essence of the tree from which it was taken. You will be filled with the power of that mighty oak. The strength will flow through you and make you one with Mother Earth. Only then will you be able to find your center. And get the job done."

"Huh." I roll the stake around in my palm. "And to think this looks like something you grabbed out in the schoolyard."

"Hold up the stake, Rayne," Teifert commands. "And concentrate on its power."

I sigh, then do what I'm told. Otherwise I'll probably be here all day. I raise the stake above my head and focus my eyes on it.

And then things start to get weird.

As I stare at the stake, the world around me starts to lose focus and the wood starts to take on an almost unearthly glow. I watch in awe as it morphs right before my eyes from a chunk of unpolished wood into a sleek, sharp instrument, smooth as gla.s.s. I wave it around, hesitantly at first, then with growing a.s.surance. So cool. So, so cool. I wish you could have seen it.

"Am I making it do that?" I whisper. From the corner of my eye I can see Teifert's nod.

"You are the chosen one. The slayer. As I said, we don't make mistakes."

"Wow, that's pretty amazing." I step forward, toward the punching bag, and then stab the wood into it, with all my might.

The stake slides through the tough leather like a knife through b.u.t.ter. Whoa! Now we're talking.

I pull the stake out. It's no longer glowing. I turn to Teifert. "Okay, I believe you now," I say. "Who knew I had all this power in me?"

"Who knew you were going to stab the punching bag?" Teifert grumbles, not looking at all impressed by my feat. He walks over to the bag and examines the hole. "Do you know how expensive these things are to replace?"

"Dude! I've just been given magical superpowers to slay vamps and all you care about is your Visa bill?"

Teifert turns back to me. "So you believe now? That with your stake you have the power to slay vampires?"

"h.e.l.l yeah, I believe. Just call me Raynie: Vampire Slayer. Able to kill vampires in a single bound." I wave my stake around again, but it fails to light up this time. I'm probably not concentrating hard enough. Gotta remember that when the zero hour comes around.

"Good. I'd like to have additional training sessions with you, but I'm not sure there's time," Teifert says. "How have your investigations into Maverick been going? Have you learned anything?"

"Well, sort of, though we definitely need more info before some conviction," I say hesitantly. "There seems to be some kind of disease going around. We saw some donors of a high-ranking vampire in the Blood Coven at the bar one I night-"

Teifert raises an eyebrow. "We? Are you working with someone? It's highly irregular for a slayer to have a partner."

I roll my eyes. "Uh, what about Buffy? She had that whole s...o...b.. gang on her side and that didn't seem to hurt her odds."

"Repeat after me, Rayne. Buffy. Is. A. TV. Character. She. Is. Not. Real."

Sigh. "Look. If you must know, I'm working with one of Magnus's guys. General Jareth. Don't worry, he's on our side. After all, the vamps want to know what's going down at the Blood Bar as much as we do."

"Jareth, huh?" Teifert says thoughtfully. "I think I remember reading about him. He caused some trouble for Slayer Inc.

back in the day."

"Trouble?" Oh, great. Me and my big mouth. What if they suddenly want me to dust Jareth? I could never do that. I wonder if this has something to do with whatever secret Jareth is hiding. . . .

"Never mind. It's all in the past, anyhow," Teifert says with a dismissive wave. "So fine, you're working with Jareth. And what have you two found?"

"Okay, like I was saying, one night we saw those two donors of a high-ranking coven guy and the next day those same donors turned up dead. And their vampire, Kristoff, is weak and sick and has lost most of his powers. I mean, it could be unrelated, but..."

Teifert scratches his chin. "Interesting," he muses. "Per-haps Maverick is trying a less direct approach to infiltrate the coven."

"What do you mean?"

"What if he were somehow infecting the donors purposefully? So they could bring the disease back to their masters. By weakening the inner core of Magnus's coven, a takeover could more easily be accomplished."

"Wow. That's pretty elaborate."

"These vampires have thousands of years to plot this kind of thing. They can afford to come up with detailed plans be-cause there's no need to rush."

"I guess that's true."

"So what do you plan to do next?"

"Well, Jareth and I took a sample of the donor's blood and he's having it a.n.a.lyzed in the lab now."

"That's something, I suppose. But what we really need is a sample of the virus itself," Teifert says. "You should go down to the Blood Bar and find out where they store these viruses and bring one back to me. Hopefully this way we can develop an antidote before too many vampires are infected and Maverick is able to stage his coup."

"Uh, yeah, sure. That should be easy." I make a face, in case he can't hear the total sarcasm in my voice. "I'm sure they'll be happy to let me borrow one, once I show my library card."

"Rayne, you are the slayer. Vampires fear you, not the other way around. Just bring your stake with you. It gives you your power. With it, you'll easily be able to defeat anyone who stands in your way."

"Okay, okay. Stake will be at arm's reach at all times." I tuck the chunk of wood into the back of my sweatpants. "Just like this, but with a much cla.s.sier outfit." Could you imagine me wearing Juicy Couture down to the Blood Bar?

"Rayne, this is serious business," Teifert scolds. "Do not take your duties lightly. If Maverick is to take control of the Blood Coven, he could conceivably unite the vampires against the humans and start a war. A war that mankind is unlikely to win."

Nice, huh? Talk about putting on the pressure. The fate of the world lies in my hands. Suddenly I feel very weary and depressed.

23

MONDAY, JUNE 11, 4 P.M.

Mike Stevens Must Die

Monday. Did I ever mention how much I hate my school? Well, not the school itself. I've got nothing against the bricks or mortar or climbing ivy. It's the cretins that inhabit it that make me want to slit my wrists on a daily basis.

For one thing, everyone's a clone of everyone else. All the girls with their flat-ironed hair, baby doll T's, and low, low-rise jeans. And the guys-they literally have no idea other clothing stores besides Abercrombie and Fitch even exist.

My friend River and her parents moved away to Boston a year ago. She says there are tons of cool skaters and Goths at her new school. That everyone's open-minded and there aren't really any cliques. Here at Oakridge, we've got nothing but cliques.

And certainly no Goths besides me. So I'm the designated freak, basically, and everyone knows it.

It's a lonely life, but it's still better than shopping at American Eagle.

I usually don't care. In fact, if anything, I've always enjoyed being unique. An individual. But today feels different for some reason. Instead of mocking the cheerleaders who stride through the corridors in giggling packs, or the lovebirds who press against the lockers, making out and hoping the teachers won't walk by, or the jocks who "go long," pa.s.sing the football to one another down the hallways, I notice myself envying them all. They look so blissful. So content in their pathetic, shallow high school existence.

And I, I realize suddenly, am totally and utterly alone. I can put on a brave front, ridicule them, whatever, but at the end of the day I'm the one who's the joke. Because they're happy and I'm not. They're free and I've got the weight of the world on my shoulders. All this time I've thought myself superior to them, but really I'm more pathetic.

As I walk down the hall, I feel the stares of the other students burning into my backside. They're laughing at me. They think I'm a weirdo. A loser. And I hate to say it, but maybe they're right. I mean, my own father doesn't even think I'm worthy of a birthday cake. And he was there at my conception.

Anger churns deep in my gut. I harden my face to match their stares, forcing myself not to cry. Screw them all. I don't need them. I don't need Dad. I don't need anyone.

And then I run into Mike Stevens.

I hate Mike Stevens more than anyone at my school. If I'm the designated freak, he's the designated golden boy. Captain of the varsity football team, even though he's a junior. Student body president. Ash blond hair and sparkling green eyes. And a c.o.c.ky smile that says he knows he's worshipped by half the school and feels he deserves everything life's dished him.

When we were in elementary school and everyone was like everyone else and there were no cliques, Mike Stevens and I used to play in the mud together at recess. When we were six, he kissed me.

That was a long time ago. We don't bring that up much. Actually, ever. In fact, I'm not sure he even remembers, which is probably a good thing.

These days we'd rather hurl mud at each other than play in it. And today he had the perfect weapon. My hickey.

It's not a hickey, of course. It's a bite mark from a vampire. But that's not something I can convince Mike of, obviously.

Sigh. I thought the mark had faded enough to stop wearing a turtleneck, but evidently not.

"Hey, my little Goth princess," Golden Boy says to me after first period, leaning against the row of lockers. I pull out my books and stuff them into my black book bag, trying to ignore him, even though he's positioned himself directly in my line of sight. He's all cargo pants and Patriots jerseyed out as usual. "Who's the lucky guy?"

"Not you, that's for sure." I growl. I am so not in the mood for this today of all days. Not when I already feel so lousy about life, the universe, and everything.

He laughs. "Of course not. I don't do freaks."

"Good. Because I don't do Muggles."

At first I think he may miss the literary reference, but evidently even this illiterate fool has read Harry Potter. Those books are just way too popular. I may have to give them up for something more obscure.

"So, witch, which warlock gave you the hickey then?"

"It's not a hickey."

"Oh, really," he says sarcastically. "What, did you burn yourself with a curling iron like Mary Markson seems to do every Monday morning?"

Mary Markson and her boyfriend, Nick, have been going out for eons. They're totally most likely to get married. And she does have a tendency to show up to school with a lot of unsavory neck bruises. She insists she's just clumsy with the curling iron, but since she never has any actual curls to back up the claim, we're all a bit doubtful.

"No. Not a curling iron burn. I got bit by a vampire if you must know."

He rolls his eyes. I knew I was safe to say that. He'd never believe me in a million years. "Ah. So that's your type. I should have guessed."

"No. You shouldn't have guessed. You shouldn't have even noticed. What, are you staring at me from across the halls now?

Stalking me?" Ever since I humiliated him in seventh grade (don't ask) he's made it his life's mission to make mine a living h.e.l.l.

Sunny thinks he secretly has a crush on me. Which is just. . . ew.

Mike frowns. Evidently I've struck a nerve. "Please. Your hickey is so big Blind Mr. Bannon the Biology teacher could see it."

"Good. I want the whole world to see the bite of my dark lover."

Jareth is not, of course, my dark lover. Or even my light one. Or any kind of lover, unfortunately. (As much as I might want him to be.) But I can't exactly back down and let Mike win.

"So when do you turn into a vampire then?" the stupid jock queries.

"I'm not going to turn into a vampire, moron. I've just been bitten. I'd have to drink the blood of a vampire to turn into one.

Duh. And they don't just let anyone do that. There's a waiting list."

"A waiting list? There's actually enough of you freaks out there for a waiting list?" He bends over, hands on knees, and laughs and laughs.

Grr. Did I mention I hate this guy? I notice a few students have stopped in the hallway, pretending to chat, but really wanting to take in the scene. The Goth girl against the jock boy. It's good reality programming. But I'm just not in the mood.

"Dude, don't you have some cheerleaders to seduce or beer to chug? Some nerd to copy off of? I know your life's lame and all, but certainly you must be able to think of a better way to waste it than talking to me."

He opens his mouth to reply, then I see him glance over at our audience. He seems to decide against what he was originally going to say and instead retorts, "Whatever s.k.a.n.k," extra loud, to make sure everyone hears him insult me.

Then he hacks up a loogie and spits on me-ACTUALLY SPITS ON ME-before turning to walk away.

I'm so furious I don't even think. I just drop my books and my bag and run after him, slamming my entire body weight against his retreating back and managing to knock him off balance and onto the floor. My hands take on minds of their own as I punch and slap over and over as he struggles to get out from under me. But he's no match for my super slayer strength. If only I had my stake.

I wonder if it works on Muggles.

The fight only lasts a minute or two before Monsieur Dawson, the French teacher, pulls me off of Mike.

"Arretez!" he commands. "Allez au bureau du princ.i.p.al!" The guy never speaks English. Which is kind of annoying for those of us who take Spanish. But in this case, even foreign-language-challenged me has a pretty good idea what he's saying.

"It's not my fault. She just jumped me. For no reason. Crazy freak!" Mike says, shooting me daggers.

Angrily I smooth out my skirt and glare back at Mike. b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Now I've got detention and Mom's going to be so p.i.s.sed at me.