Stolen Souls (boy x boy)

My leg is asleep and another psycho is trying to kill me.

I don't know why he wants to kill me. I don't even know how he found me. But I know he's here, in this abandoned school, ducking through the crumbling halls and shredding first-grade scribble art off the walls as he goes. "I know you're here. Come out before I find you."

An unplaceable hum buzzes in my ears and fluorescent bulbs crackle and hiss as they douse the school in hot light. The man's footsteps are slow and deliberate, clipped like hoofbeats. I hear them as clearly as I hear the thumping of my heart.

Run, I tell myself, you can do it!

But I can't. I can hardly move. I'm sprawled on the floor, clutching my knee to my chest, searching it for feeling. Nothing. I roll up the hem of my jeans and pull down my sweaty sock. My ankle is white, inhumanly white, blue veins racing just below my skin like silk threads. I swallow. Breathe in and out, slowly, slowly. I can do this as long as I keep my head in the right place. I can do this as long as I'm not afraid.

The lights flicker at the end of the school hallway. With fumbling fingers, I tuck my rose behind my ear, my breath so harsh and hot in the open air it feels like a wisp of steam.

"I know you're here, " the voice repeats, "come out before I find you." Soft and smooth, a hint of a chuckle at the end, like he's playing with me. Because he is playing with me. My drawing tablet lies flat at my side, the stylus rolled into a rut between shattered tiles. The hall reeks of disinfectant and decay.

"Screw you! And-and screw your gun, too!" I jam the last of my belongs into my knapsack, dropping my limp knee. It flops to the ground, no resistance, no feeling at all. I grit my teeth. Please, Lord in Heaven, not this. My leg can't be going dead on me. Not here. Not now. I swing the Batman-button-covered knapsack over my shoulders, the weight of textbooks sending me tumbling back like a turtle, minus a kicking leg. The clacking of buttons pierces the silence like needles in my eardrums. I swallow a cry and hobble up, scrambling for balance on one leg.

This has all happened before. If you ever stop by my house, I can peel away the layers of duct tape and show you the bullet holes in my window. I can't think of a single day someone hasn't tried to make me more hole-y than Swiss cheese.

But this. This is different.

I brace myself against a wall greasy with mold. Draw up a breath, pray quick and pray hard. Thump. Thump. THUMPTHUMPTHUMPTHUM-

I take off. My braid, stark white, swings over my shoulder, and I bounce off my good leg. Hopping like a lil' bunny rabbit, I sure must look intimidating. The flickering above my head comes quicker, more violent this time. I am shrouded in black before I'm blinded by sharp and sudden bursts of white. My leg trails as I stumble into the abyss.

That's what happens when my limbs fall asleep; they don't wake up for hours or days.

With a single click, the bars of fluorescent light explode above my head, raining down glass like shrapnel. I grab my face with my free hand. Drenched in freezing sweat, trembling, I'd scream if a killer weren't nearby. And all I can think is that my life isn't supposed to end this way, here, away from my friends, alone, a part of something I'm ashamed of. Me, fourteen, not even old enough to drive or smoke or drink myself skunk drunk. A shard of glass slices my ear as I stumble onward. I jerk my hand up. Ribbons of cold blood splash my fingers and side of my neck. I bite down.

Blood. There always has to be blood. Can't they try to kill me without the blood?

The school building expands into hallways like an ant farm, graffiti dripping on the few rusty, dented lockers left. I sniff. The place reeks of rust and rat droppings. Pink Graffiti curls around the remaining locker locks in an artist's swirling script. Paradigm. This is Paradigm. You can't escape the Paradigm. YOU CAN'T ESCAPE YOU CAN'T ESCAPE YOU CAN'T ESCAPE THE-

The rose slips from behind my bleeding ear in a swirl of silk petals. SNAP! I reel back. The flower lies scissored in pieces in the grinning, glittering teeth of a bear trap. My throat clamps up. Teardrop petals are scattered at my feet, ripped into ragged shreds, red like the cold blood dripping from my hands. The trap gleams.

I swallow hard.

A dented umbrella lies propped against the bashed-in door of a locker. I grab it, the iron hook bent at an odd angle and the hood just a wire frame stripped of its fabric. I lean my weight on the umbrella and it snaps in half.

A silent scream. My fingers catch a loop in a combo lock before I hit the ground, holding me up as I gasp. The jagged, hooked part of the umbrella dangles in my grasp and I clutch it hard. I don't want to use it as a weapon. Not only because it'll make a sucky weapon, but because violence isn't something I do. I'm a gentleman and gentlemen talk things out, even if the best they can talk out is "screw you and your gun!"

The man is silent now, but still, I run. I round a corner, leg dragging. Another bear trap snaps shut, triggered by a button rattled off my little gray knapsack. I jump.

Briefly, I consider ditching the bag, but my drawing tablet and textbooks are buried inside. Not only would I have to explain to my parents how I lost them in an abandoned school building, but I'd also have to explain how I got lured into an abandoned school building in the first place. And, well, short answer: something kind of illegal.

A glimmer catches my eye. At first, I don't believe it's even there. Like I'm seeing things. But when I do, I tremble with happiness, enough to squeal. There it is, a shimmery nameplate on a rusty steel door: the janitor's closet, it says. The door is wedged open on a cement block just enough for me to see a crack of cozy darkness.

I breathe out. My salvation. Mirage or not, I balance on my good leg and skitter toward it. But I miscalculated the angle of the door and how much of me I can squeeze through it. My laces catch on the corner. Something pops in my knee.

I hit the ground hard.

Head tucked to my chest to keep my neck from snapping, curled up so my knapsack takes the brunt of the impact instead of my face. Something cracks underneath me. I freeze.

Not my drawing tablet. Please don't be my drawing tablet. Be a textbook, a thermos, my spine.

But apparently, that shouldn't be my first concern. The door slams behind me, leaving me alone in the dark. Exposed. Vulnerable. My leg twisted at an awkward angle and my poor, precious drawing tablet maybe busted beneath me. I reach for my bag in the darkness.

My friends will miss me soon. I don't want them to look for me. I don't want them to know what I've been doing.

The umbrella's splintered edges cut my fingers. More blood, eerily cold, trickles down my skin. Someone chuckles behind me. The chuckle of a serial killer, if serial killers chuckle at all, more sneer and "sucks to be you" than "hey, that's funny."

I whip around, no better options to take, heart plunged in my gut. So this is it. Where it ends.

Hands grasp my neck, fingers long and cold. They snake around my throat, thumbs and forefingers gauging shallow pockets into my flesh. I scream and fight back one-handed, screwing the non-violence thing, slashing at his arm more like a lil' kitten than a lil' bunny rabbit. I thrash and dig my own fingers into my neck to push him away. It doesn't help. My vision cuts into triangles, blotches of black blooming before my eyes the more he squeezes. The other twitching hand clutches the umbrella hook.

The man drops me with a bored huff. White eyes roll back in the dark. "You can't fight, " he says. I scooch back on my butt and the man yanks me toward him by my ankle. I can't scream because I can't remember how vocal boxes work. And when I do, my voice is a whisper.

"I don't want to fight." I'm shaking. Can't help it. I'm being toyed with and this guy is bent on killing me. Thump. Thump thump. Thump. Footsteps. My heart leaps. The man's hand falls away, but I can't run. Without a wall for support, I can't even get up.

"And your blood, " the voice drones on, "smells remarkably unappetizing."

I squeak out a laugh, still touching my neck, trying to breathe. My knapsack sinks underneath me and I slide back on it, kicking out my good leg to propel myself closer to the door. A terrible getaway plan, but it's all I have.

"What's that supposed to be mean?" Keep him stalled. Keep him stalled.

"I'm unimpressed, " the voice answers flatly, and he lunges. I roll out of the way, squirming as fast as I can with one working leg. Dust finds its way into my hair and under my nails and my mind can hardly process it all so fast, only offering me 'crap, crap, crap, crap, ' in quick succession. I dodge each blow he throws, his fists driving into the floor. Crack, crack, crack! I roll, kick, and talk real fast.

"What do you want? Why are you trying to kill me? Why is everyone trying to kill me? Could you please, please, answer me!"

He smacks me, so much strength my body arches up and slams back down, all the wind knocked out of me. I cry out.

The door explodes open, filling the room with smoke. Gray and thick, it smothers me. I hold my breath and my head spins. There's always supposed to be a way out, but where's mine?

"Freeze, freeze, freeze!" the people shout outside, but my attacker doesn't. I've never felt strength like this, like a guy who's more freight train than muscle. He snatches up my arm and shoves me clear across the floor so I skid like I'm a hockey puck. This time, I definitely hear a crunch. But I don't think it's from my drawing tablet.

I think it's from my wrist.

My brains pounding in my head from the sheer pressure of the situation, the pain is an after-thought. Less than an after-thought, actually. The smoke clouds my vision and fills my lungs so I squeak and gasp. But the people hold flashlights, and through the darkness, I see the man, well, kid, clearly. Teen, lanky, tall. His straight black hair tumbles over his ears, his eyes a green so striking they remind me of a cat's. Draped in a black trench and equally black scarves, he looks like he's going to a funeral. But this I take in quickly, my eyes drawn up elsewhere.

He has fangs.

Long, white ones, growing slowly from the side of his mouth. It all feels like a horrible dream, but I know it isn't. Nothing is. This is real, this kid with fangs who wants me dead, this smoke driving the air from my lungs, these shouts of strangers outside the closet I'm trapped in. The boy gives me a smirk and lunges for the side of my neck. I jab the umbrella out, survival instinct kicked into autopilot. I don't want to die. I don't want to die!

The creature shrieks.

I hear a crunch. When I look up, I see a flash of the twisted iron hook driven down the side of his mouth. He spits out. The umbrella drops. The flash of sudden red in his eyes, the way all his features screw up, it takes all the courage in the world for me not to scream.

I jerk my arm in front of my face and his fangs make contact. They sink into my flesh, scissoring right through my sleeve and muscle. I'm a mess, my shuddering breath, violent tremors, and frigid sweat to prove it. Still, I fix him with a steady look, shaking on the inside, trying not to let it show on the outside. "Well?" I ask. He pulls back, his eyes wide and his lip curled.

He spits. A spray of red hits my raised hands. I don't even blink.

"Your blood! What the hell, kid?"

I shrug and shoot him the biggest grin I can muster when I'm about to go into some sort heart-stopping mind-numbing panic attack. I'm not high, my brain says over and over again, I'm not high. My chest is tight like it's wound up of steel springs. "Type O. I'm the Universal Donor, you know."

He hits me, closed-fist. My head snaps to the side and the bones in my neck make a sudden 'crick' sound. It stings. A string of spit flies. Lying there, gasping, I glimpse chunks of something shiny swimming in my blood. Glinting clusters, melting and easing the puddle to a soft pink sheen. I blink. There's ice in my blood. Why is there ice in my blood?

The rescuers storm in, only three pairs of feet. Tight dark pants. Combat boots that lace to their thighs. They point their flashlights at the fanged creature. The light is a dark purple, incredibly hot. It makes my limp leg blister and my heart squeeze like it's melting in my chest.

The creature howls and tumbles back.

I look up into the light, about to puke, bleeding out and still struggling to breathe. "UV light, " a smooth voice offers. I can't see the speaker; the light is too bright. "The type the sun gives off."

I nod weakly.

Rough gloved hands grab me by the wrists and yank me out of the janitor's closet, dragging me across the broken tile floor in a trail of my own blood. I'm really sick of it, the blood, I mean.

They drop my arms. My head lolls back and I risk a second of closing my eyes. Coming here was a bust idea, even if it meant getting some of that sweet, sweet elixir of the gods. I'm about to smile and thank the heroes for saving me, but out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glint of metal.

I make it out quickly. A crowbar raised above my head. My hands snap up, but I'm weak from blood loss, my entire sleeve covered in blotches of red that keep growing and growing. I'm too slow, still wheezing, still struggling to piece together what, exactly, is happening. Something hard cracks across the base of my neck.

The pain jolts up my skull in a smolder. My head hits the floor. I can't even choke out a whimper. Bummer.

"Delinquent, " huffs a woman.

"Villain, " says a man.

"Shiro, " a boy breathes. And I recognize the voice. The smooth, easy flow of words. The deepness. The tinge of Spanish accent. I recognize who's speaking immediately.

Jules Cervantes.

Sophomore. Bio partner. Mayor's son.

And so I curse myself as I drop from consciousness.

I'm not high, I tell myself when I wake up, I'm not high and this is not a delusion. Everything I remember from the school, whether it be the bear traps or the fanged guy, they were all real.

I rock myself, knees cupped to chest, face shoved in knees. I'm not high. I'm not high. The words form a rhythm between my ears. First murder attempts, now kidnappings. People just won't let a guy be.

My elbow is bandaged, my face bloodied. I'm lying on a clean white bed, my head propped up against a pillow, my wrists bound together in front of me. Which is dumb. You don't cuff someone from the front, everyone knows that. I scheme up a few cool escape plans with intricate distractions and exploding cans of butter soup, but then I remember my useless leg.

I groan and flop back on the pillows.

The room my captors/saviors left me in is yellow. Walls coated in thick, butter-yellow paint that smell eerily of wilted flowers. A tall black grandfather clock stares back at me, face cracked and hands bent at odd angles. Tick tock. The sheets are white beneath me, crisp and firm. Sounds float from the bathroom.

"Freaking... vampires..." Garbling. Running water. "Screw them. Screw them and their guns."

I sit up and scan the room. There's a matching desk and chair set covered in intricate carvings so ornate I take a few seconds to make out what they're of: roses. Petals and thorns, woven around the legs and back of the pieces in elegant nests. I feel a light punch in my chest. The rest of the room, besides the clock and bed and a few paintings, is empty.

This is an odd place to keep a prisoner. I lean over, stretching my arms as far as they can go. I kick a little with my good leg to give some resistance. Will Kite and Roslyn be looking for me? They have a lot to think about. It might take a few more hours, maybe even a day or two for them to get worried.

Not that they should be. I may be struggling to maintain a B in AP Art History, but getting out of life-threatening situations? That's an A++ course in my book.

"Dude, " I call over my shoulder, "what am I doing here?" I reach out my trembling fingers and snag the back of the chair. From there, I sling my body across the bed, over the edge. The chair tips. I flip and hit the floor. Throbbing pain sizzles under my skin from so many places it's undiscernable. I lie there for a second, assessing damage, red bleeding through the tan gauze of my bandages.

So this whole escape thing might be harder than I thought. I take a deep breath and blow out of my nose.

A door creaks. I lift myself up just enough to see the approaching set of polished black boots slip out from the bathroom. Raise my gaze over the guy's body. Something flutters up in my chest.

"Jeez, Shiro, " Jules says through a full mouth, his cheeks puffed out and his fingers curled around a red toothbrush. "You really can't just sit there and look pretty, can you?"

I shoot him a painful smile. "Not my specialty. I'm better at lying on the floor in a puddle of blood, it seems. Speaking of which, fanged guy-"

Jules garbles, white foam spilling down his chin. Shrugs. "I don't have the clearance to say anything."

I feel a coldness creep through my muscles, binding to my bones. I try to keep up the smile, sitting up completely now, my head pounding like someone's taking a sledgehammer to it from the inside. "I think that's unfair, Jules. Also, you know, these." I hold up my bound wrists. The cuffs gleam, a sharp glint in the gold glow of a low-hanging fixture. "Why these?"

He shrugs again and wipes his mouth with sleeve. "Procedure." There's still a little spittle on his chin, but he eyes me up and down with a professional smile to match mine. I'll admit, Jules is a good-looking guy. His black hair falls to the nape of his neck and his equally black are impossible to read. Olive skin, broad shoulders, tall frame, he's the type of guy you either want to be or want to date. Secretly, I've always wanted a little of both.

"Sorry, Shiro. You're just going to have to deal." He kneels to my eye-level. "Need a little help?"

"I need to know why I'm here." The muscle under my jaw twitches. A kid with fangs attacked me. Jules and two other people knocked me out and brought me here. I'm grateful they saved me, I really am, but waking up in handcuffs puts a damper on the whole 'grateful' mood.

They're keeping me here as a prisoner. They aren't police. Jules is, like, fifteen. Tops. Maybe fourteen if it's true he skipped a grade. He has no right to hold me here, though I don't want to b pushy about it since the saving me part was pretty neat of him and his crew.

Jules shrugs, spins on his heel, and heads back to the bathroom. "Dunno, " he calls. A pause. I wait and I hear him spit. "I'm supposed to guard you and make sure you don't escape, but I honestly care more about my dental hygiene than you at this point." I glance around. Paintings line the walls, all generic in the way your eyes sort of learn how to skim over. Sailboats. Eagles. The stuff you find in office halls. "Don't be offended by that by the way, I'm just saying you seem pretty low maintenance is all." Gold drapes hang behind the bed's headboard. A window. "Shiro?" A chance at escape. I crawl, two hands, one knee, my heart lodged up in my throat. Kite invited me to a party tomorrow. I won't miss it. My knapsack is gone, but I think it's time I stopped worrying about that, though the thought of leaving my drawing tablet is as painful as leaving a child. "Shiro?"

The squishy carpet muffles Jules' footsteps, but I still hear them, as soft as they are. The curtains are stiff. I reach out and brush them aside. The moon is high in the sky, spilling white light down on my crumbling city. The mountains block out everything past our twisted water towers and apartment buildings, but I can imagine a glittering city lying outside it. A city with superheroes and expensive colleges. A city with lots of people. Different people. All mingling, mixing up their ideas, learning from each other.

And my mind drifts, if only for a second. When I turn eighteen, I'll leave this withering city and enroll in Starlight University, Starlight City's university for the best and brightest. I'll find a way. I'll work hard. I'll force myself in, write and draw and solve so much they can't ignore me.

"Star!" Jules shouts. I wince. See, that's my name. Dad wanted to name me 'Milton' and Mom wanted to name me 'Grayson, ' so they played rock-paper-scissors over it.

In the operating room.

During labor.

And they both lost.

Which is supposedly impossible, not only the playing during labor but also tying in rock-paper-scissors, but my parents play with black holes and big rips and freeze deaths, so that isn't uncommon for them.

And then I was born, presumably kicking and screaming for them to pick already, dammit, and there was the five-point star for a birthmark on the side of my neck. So, my parents were like, 'yeah, Star, sounds like a normal name that won't get our son bullied for life.' Thus, the train-wreck 'Star Grayson Milton Shirozaki' became a thing. But call me Shiro, if you're so kind.

I slide the window up, fragile wire mesh brushing my fingers. I'm at a sprawling height, floors and floors of complex plunging into darkness below. If you stare hard enough, you can make out waves of the river's glistening black waters, smooth like glass. It's a long drop, but that's okay. I'm not afraid to take a fall.

I'm afraid of never leaving the ground.

Jules appears at my side, silent as a shadow minus the squishy footsteps. He's just that type, the type who will never bring attention to himself if he can help it, even if he is one of the more popular kids. He slaps his hand on the mesh. "Dude, don't jump. That's going to hurt."

I shrug. "I'll throw myself out the window if you don't tell my why I'm here."

He slams down the glass pane on my fingers. I hold my breath and try not to shout, another pain on top of all the others. "Jules?" My voice cracks as I shove the window back up, yanking my cuffs. In the glass, his face is red, but the evidence of a smirk is still there. I wince and grind my teeth down, willing the throbbing to stop. "That kind of hurt."

"Oh." He pats me on the head. I've been attacked, kidnapped, and now Jules Cervantes is patting me on the head. I bite the inside of my lip and say, very slowly, in the type of voice that drips, "I don't like being patted." He pauses, sighs, and resigns to running his hand down my shoulder. I shiver. "I don't like being petted either."

"Jeez, you're sure being snarky today."

I glare at him. I'd say he would be too if he had been kidnapped by lunatics, but I guess that would be being snarky. So I lean back, fumbling to cross my arms with the cuffs on. My fingers are still red and raging.

He yawns. "You're under arrest."

"You aren't the police."

"So?" He plays with his sleeve. Won't even look at me.

My voice is strained. "You can't arrest me if you're not the police."

Jules smirks. "We have more jurisdiction than the police."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Bull-spittle." I turn and gnaw my pounding fingertips, easing the pain with another layer of pain. "I'm going home. Thank you for saving my life, but it's late and I'll see you Monday."

He straightens up, shoulders rolled back, and he smiles, all cute and coy. Leans so close he looms. But he can't intimidate me. After being bitten by a dude with fangs, Jules Cervantes is a puppy. "You can't walk, Shiro." His voice is a smooth, low purr.

"And?" My leg is limp and as useful to walk on as a flipper, but I can deal with that. My hands reach out, groping for the chair. I catch the seat, push it back upright, and lean my weight against it. Jules watches wide-eyed as I stretch my arms in front of me and hobble toward the door. I think I might e a little green. I haven't eaten in hours. I don't even know how long I've been asleep, probably an hour or two, and I don't know where I am, except probably in a high-rise. Jules races after me and snatches my elbow with a jerk of his shoulder.

"I'm not supposed to let you go." I take another hop. For a second, I don't even process what he said. And when I do, I snort.

"You're not supposed to let me go. I don't like being kidnapped, okay? You aren't the police and I don't know who your 'we' is, I was attacked by a guy with fangs and I'd like to take some time to process that. At home. With Starbucks-"

"Aha!" He yanks me back, kicks out the chair, and shoves me in it. I land hard on my butt, the cushion too thin to keep a jolt from rippling up my spine. I wince. "You drink coffee!"

I feel myself blush. "That's illegal in Spiral City. I don't-"

"You do. You're a coffee drinker. And a minor. You're a criminal and you're under arrest."

I roll my eyes. "I have a feeling you just made that excuse up." He shrugs and pats me again on the head. I hiss. This kid knows how to drive a guy bonkers. "But I think this is a little more illegal than coffee-drinking, the kidnapping, I mean.

"Sirius, Kath!" Jules calls over his shoulder. "The prisoner woke up, and he's being rowdy."

I scowl. "Rowdy?"

Jules grins. He has dimples, light ones that deepen when he smiles. I shift, a growing clenching sensation around my heart. Prisoner. "Rowdy in a very Shiro-y way, anyway."

This all feels like a prank. Jules Cervantes is holding me hostage. The quiet kid. The cute one. My shoulders hunch, hunger pains washing through my stomach. "You can't even get an 'A' on a test without cheating off me."

"Huh?"

"Some thanks. Kidnapping me like this-"

"I'm not-"

"Don't think I haven't seen you looking over my shoulder. I never said anything because I get it, Biology is tough. If you needed the help, then that was fine. Grades are-"

"Shiro, shut up! Grades aren't what you should be thinking about right now, and-and why do you care so much about them, anyway?" Jules' arms flail up and he nearly backhands me out of the chair, face flaming. I stiffen.

"'Cause I'm just nerdy like that." Because I'm trapped. Because I want to get out of here. Because I'll never escape this city, the gangs, my parents'disappointment in their frail, sickly son. But you wouldn't understand that. "And shouldn't you be interrogating me or something?"

Jules runs his hands through his shiny black hair, chewing his lip. I hate to be one of those 'stormy-eyed' people, but Jules' is kind of a 'stormy-eyed' guy at the moment. They've gone all cloudy and dim. I lean forward, resting my wrists on my knees. Footsteps sound out by the door but I don't think I care about those anymore.

"Shiro, " Jules starts, swinging onto the desk and kicking out his legs like a child. He's dressed all in black, a vision of teenage angst. "We aren't kidnapping you. It's not like that."

"Really?" I plop my chin in my hands. "Then what is it like, then?"

The door whips open. I don't look up. Just stare intently into Jules' eyes like I'm looking into the fabric of his soul so he squirms while I wait for his reply. Like a bug under a microscope. Like me.

He flicks his eyes away, legs kicking. "We're here for the protection of Spiral City. We're going to make you take some tests."

My fingers clench into fists. "What if I don't want to?" I should cooperate, nod, say "sure, as long as you don't bite a chunk out of my arm, " but I can't bring myself to do it, not until I understand why they locked me up in here.

He tugs my ear. Jerkwad. I'm wondering why I ever liked this guy in the first place. "Just play along, huh?" I yank my head away and toward the shadowy people draped in the doorway. They wear black boots though they're inside, black trenches though it's warm, and black sunglasses though the moon is high in the sky.

"No." My voice shakes. A creeping edge of panic rises in me with a flutter in my stomach and a heart pounding so hard I think my ribs will cage. I rise on one leg and bat Jules away, cuffs jangling. "I don't have to play along. I have my rights."

"No, you don't, " Jules says. He grabs my arm. I glare at him, stand my ground. My breathing comes in shallow gasps, heat creeping up my neck and flushing my cheeks. They have the wrong guy, whoever they think I am. I drink a little coffee, and that's quasi-illegal for minors in Spiral City, but all-nighters don't run on willpower alone and I'm not a bad guy. I like cats and have a stuffed rabbit I keep in my room. I draw. Most of my time is spent on homework or tutoring my friends. Whoever Jules and his buddies are looking for must be dangerous, and I'm not dangerous.

"What?" I ask blankly.

"Shiro, you don't have any rights."

I hold up my hands. My pitch rises so high my throat goes raw. "What? No. Yes. Yes, I do." I jerk my hands toward the window and nearly split my wrists on the cuffs. "For what it's worth, rights apply to every living person in the world." The people in the doorway whisper, but they give us space. Jules leans forward and taps my sleeve in what I think is an attempt at comfort, but I can't tell; he still won't look me in the face. His eyes are trained on the carpet, his foot tapping out a nervous, quiet rhythm.

"You don't have rights because you're not alive."

Sometimes, people say things so jarring their very words pluck you right out of this reality and into one where all will solve itself if you throw up your hands, shout "I quit!" and quit.

Telling someone they aren't alive has that effect. It's so ridiculous that, well, you know you're alive. That's obvious. But at the same time: what? What do you mean? Is that metaphorical? Are you saying I'm in a coma? Are you being poetic and telling me I'm dead inside and my soul is blacker than the heart of whoever thought Farmville was a good idea? Or is this the Matrix? Because if this is the Matrix, well, screw it. I'm taking the blue pill. I want to wake up in my bed so I can go to Kite's ritzy party and finish my homework. No, no iron-hard search for the truth here.

The room spins around like that cursed teacup ride at Disney World, and I squeak. "Whaaa?" The sound that comes out isn't even a word or a question. It's the sound of someone being smothered.

Jules smirks as if shutting me up is an Olympic sport and he just won himself gold. It makes sense, more sense than a guy like him would ever let on. He's an athlete: a hockey player, a runner, a soccer guy, and though he tries not to draw attention to himself, he swung himself the title of Student Council President and Debate Champion just this year. For someone who doesn't care about grades, he sure is an overachiever. He likes to win.

For a second, the room is quiet, Jules smirking, the people in black trenches looking bored like all people wearing black trenches do, and me, standing there, the links in my handcuffs dangling limply from my wrists. I hop back, breathe in, and try to form a response. "Nope." There. That's something. "I quit. I'm done. I'm sorry." I stumble back and awkwardly grope for the window. An arm of the chair pokes my back, sending a splinter of pain through my spine. I grit my teeth while the others look on. Jules tries to suppress a chuckle, but he sucks at it and sounds like he's half laughing, half choking on a furball.

"You can't quit life, Shiro. That's just not how it works."

"I can make it work. I'm good at making things work." The words come out in a jumble, mushed up in my mouth so they sound like a string of random syllables. I shove the window open again, but this time, it isn't for a peek.

I'm going to jump.

Jules grabs my arm, but I hop off on the ball of my good foot. My heart beats in my throat, and all I can think is that I have to escape these people. I have to get away. "Hey, dude!" He pulls me back, but I kick out the screen and writhe out of his grasp. I see the mesh tumble down and a glint of its white painted frame as it flutters into the dark. The folks in black trenches act. They lunge for me, Jules tugging so hard I feel a flutter of panic my arm will pop out of its socket. My legs are already out. It's a long drop, I can see that from here, but I'm not killing myself, not really.

It all kind of depends, I guess. I'm a bit more versatile than I should be. I mean, not super-hero versatile. The temperature rises too high, I'm screwed. My limbs fall asleep, I'm screwed. My hair, once pitch black, is now whiter than tissue paper. My eyes, once brown, are now a bright blue, almost electrically so. And I'm not strong either. Most of my muscle and fat has melted away. I'm mostly bones held together in a pale skin pack at this point.

My sickness, though, it just makes me a little less adverse to, I don't know, death. Bullets and poisons don't quite seem to have the desired effect. I mean, I'm pretty sure I can still die. It's just harder.

But I'm pretty alive. Even after all that's happened and what Jules says, I can't find a way to make me being undead sound plausible, metaphorically or physically or any other -lly.

I kick one more time, but Jules slings me back. I hit the floor hard, gasping, sputtering to recollect myself. The others swear and grumble softly under their breaths as if I'm causing too much trouble and they just want to get whatever it is they brought me here for over. I don't blame them. I just want to go home. I still have that drawing due in for art class, and of course, Kite won't have it if I'm not there tomorrow. Being kidnapped, ha! What an excuse. "So you're not letting me jump out the window?"

"Um, no." Jules props me up again so I'm leaned against his shoulder. "We just want some answers. Chill out."

I draw in a breath. "If you want answers or whatever, you can ask. Kidnapping and telling me I'm undead doesn't help much. I mean, I'm busy." Sort of lies. Sort of truths. I was actually just trying to buy a tin of instant coffee packets off a guy when the fanged person tried to rip out my throat. So even with school, I'm not too busy. But I want to sound cool and relaxed and casual when in all reality I'm not cool or relaxed or casual at all. On the inside, I'm trembling like a fool. On the inside, my stomach's all twisted up and my throat's tighter than Jules' black hipster jeans.

The woman flicks up her sunglasses, a trace of a smirk on her lips. She flicks her head to the man and he walks out. My fists get clammy and hot. She sits there for a second, eyeing me with the detachedness of someone looking through a store window at merchandise they don't particularly care for, and the man strolls right back in, just a little skip in his step. My stomach drops into my toes.

He has my knapsack.

The woman smiles politely. "If you cooperate, we'll replace your tablet. And no one will have to know where you were."

As if on cue, the man unzips the little gray knapsack and holds up my drawing tablet, its screen smashed in. I wince. My poor, precious baby. He also holds up a crumpled twenty from the bottom of my bag, a twenty for the coffee I meant to buy. I blush. Though it isn't the quasi-illegal thing I did that concerns me the most, it's my tablet. I'll do anything to get it back in working order. I'm really easy to bribe.

"Oh, okay." I push Jules away and plop down on the bed. He watches me, raises an eyebrow, and glances at the woman. Her smirk grows even wider. I realize it was never aimed at me in the first place.

"Soft power, Jules." She lifts her fingers in a graceful motion, like a maestro leading an orchestra. "You see? You can stake vampires through the heart anytime, but if you're trying to negotiate with people, you have to attack psychologically, carrot and stick style."

Jules snorts. "Shiro isn't a person." But he pulls a pen from his back pocket and scribbles everything she said on his arm in thick black ink. The muscles in my jaw throb from staying clenched for so long, and they only hurt more the harder I bite down. Stake vampires through the heart. Shiro isn't a person. I'm not high, I tell myself, I'm not high. Though I'm starting not to believe even that.

"What is it you dragged me into?" The words come out in more of a strained, tired growl than a question because if I speak any clearer I think the lump in the back of my throat will bring tears to my eyes. And wouldn't that make me look intimidating? I'm already a scrawny, barely five-foot-four fourteen-year-old.I look weak enough without adding sobbing my guts out to the list.

The woman flashes me a toothy smile, slapping the lenses of her sunglasses against her open hand. "I'm sorry. I'm Kath, and the grumpy kid is Jules, my apprentice. The guy over there with your bag is Sirius, and he's just so cool he won't sit and speaking cramps his style." She leans in and drops her voice to a whisper. "He even refuses to wear a shirt."

I glance at the guy just to confirm he isn't wearing a shirt. She may be a kidnapper, but at least Kath is honest. I let out a shaky laugh. "Okay. Who are you guys?"

The woman, Kath, plops down beside me. "Credem." She doesn't add anything to that at all, just yanks out my left hand, flips a small red cardboard box from her belt, and dumps its contents into my palm. Little white crystals. Salt. A whole pile of it, gleaming under the gold light. "How much?"

"Huh?"

"How many grains?"

I look at her and blink slowly. Her face is serious. I have to try. "Uh, like, a couple thousand? I don't know."

Jules huffs, crossing his arms over his chest all haughty-like. I feel myself go stiff. I'd like to see him try to count out salt. Kath grins a little at him and wipes all the salt away, onto the sheets. I watch her grace. It's eerie how flowy she moves, like she's underwater, but look at all the same.

She holds up a thin gold cross necklace from around her neck. "Are you averse to this?"

"I'm Catholic." Which is sort of true. My mom's Catholic. My dad's Presbyterian. I go to Sunday sermons and Sunday mass. It gets a little crazy sometimes, but it's worth it.

"Oh." She drops the cross back under her shirt. "Well, do you sparkle?"

It's so unexpected I laugh. My face burns and I kick and howl and hiccup so hard my insides feel like they'll split in two. Jules hisses, scowling at me so hard you'd think I murdered his father. "P-Pardon?"

"Do you sparkle in the sun?"

"I don't think so, though I wish I did." I perk up a little. I'm brimming with curiosity at this point. What does she think I am? Why is she asking me these questions in the first place? "Do you?" I ask. "Because that's really cool."

"Disrespectful, " Jules mutters. "Disrespectful, insolent-"

I hobble into a weak standing position and look back at Jules. He seems to hate me. So suddenly, too. "What's your problem? You were fine a few minutes ago." My mind is spinning, and all I want, other than to go home, is to understand what they're doing and why I'm here. "Or are you just so moody-"

"Vampire, " he seethes, his earlier apathy sapped. "I know you're a vampire."

"Jules, " Kath starts.

"And I know you're crazy!" The zingers are flying now, as terrible as they are. I really need to read up on witticism. It seems I'm better at word vomit at this point.

"Kids have gone missing." Jules steps to me. "It isn't funny, I'm not crazy, and if you're feeding off them I'll-"

"Are you delusional?" I drag myself toward him so we're toe to toe. "What proof do you have? What have I ever done to deserve this, Jules! Tell me. I'd like to know. Besides." I spit. "What proof do you have that vampires are even real?"

I mean, sure, a fanged dude attacked me and tried to drink my blood. But still.

Jules flicks his flashlight out from the holster on his belt, a sharp object in his hand. Kath stands up. "Proof, " he says with a humorless laugh. "You want proof." He aims it at my face and pushes the button like a gunman pulls a trigger. I don't feel much of an effect, not at first.

But then I do.

A pang stabs through my chest, ripping it in half it feels. The pain tears up my face and down my back. I bite back a scream and stumble back. It intensifies. Suddenly. Out of nothingthens. Pains in my legs, arms, fingers, toes. Aches that bring vile to the back of my throat and dizziness to the back of my head. And it just gets worse.

And worse.

And worse.

Bursts of black and red spiral in front of my eyes. Crack, crack, crack... I hear the sounds between my ears, from inside myself. Spasms race up and down my body. "Stop, stop, stop!" I hold up my hands. Liquid cold flows through my veins. I feel like, like I'm melting.

Like I'm melting from the inside.

Thoughts come in violent, fragmented jolts. UV light. The sun. Melting.

I vomit in the back of my mouth. Melting in the sun. There's only one creature I can think of that melts in the sun.

And I can't be one of them.

"Proof, " Jules says. The long thing in his hand glints. I drop like a weight and hit the ground in a trembling ball, my entire body so cold I'll freeze. My joints are being torn apart, ripped in two like a wishbone. I swallow.

He thinks I'm a vampire.

He thinks I killed people.

He's going to stake me through the heart.

I roll on my back, clamp my mouth closed to keep from screaming, and lunge for the window.

Jules, Kath, and Sirius grab for me, but they're a second too late. My fingers find the edge. I scrabble over the sill, queasy, few thoughts in my head except, 'Well, crap, now I can't get my drawing tablet back.' And of course, the usual:

So this is how I'll die. From a fall, from my organs melting into ice water, from light poisoning, if that's a thing.

Well, what can you do?

I tumble out the window and fall into the empty sky.