V is for...Vampire Page 2

  Pop! The house went black.

  Eeeeeeeeeek! Lights-out! We’re in trouble! Lexie shrieked, not using her voice, but her bat skills of echolocation, to bounce the message to Hudson. Lights-out meant a visit from the Argos. And the Argos—who were the Livingstones’ liaisons between the Old World, from which they’d fled, and the New World, where they now lived as almost “normal humans”—came calling only when the news was bad.

  They’ve got nothing on me. I’ve been following all the vamp rules, bounced Hudson.

  Me too, bounced Maddy. I haven’t slain a mosquito in like six days. And Orville’s used to me messing up on the bug-blood issue.

  Maybe it’s just a power outage, Lexie bounced.

  But when the sconces flickered on again, Orville of the Argos was perched on the dining room table candelabra.

  Orville was an ancient, owl-like creature. By day, he worked in human form at Maddy and Hudson’s school as a janitor, where he kept watch on his world without being much noticed himself. As Orville of the Argos, he was their spokes-creature, and his words were their law. So when he spoke, the Livingstones listened, even if his voice was as scratchy as a dry leaf blowing down a drainpipe.

  “What have we done, Orville?” Even Lexie’s mother looked puzzled.

  Orville held up a crackled claw. “Nothing,” he rasped. “In fact, you Livingstones have been exemplary. Obedient to all the New World rules,” he said, with a doubtful glance at Maddy. “And I’m confident that some of you will soon achieve your dreams of fullblood mortality and leave this vestige vampire nonsense behind.”

  Under the table, Lexie crossed her extra-long fingers. She hoped Orville was talking about her especially. After all, Maddy and even Hudson had way too much vamp in them, what with Maddy’s bloodsucking ways and Hudson’s love of flying.

  “If we’ve been so good,” spoke Lexie’s father, “then why are you here, Orville?”

  “Yes, yes. I’m coming to that.” Orville frilled his neck ruff and reached up to peck some spinach off the chandelier. “I need to offer two Old Worlders a place to stay while their New World home and jobs are prepared upstate. Like you, they’ve become weary of the Old World and want a change of pace.”

  Everyone breathed a sigh of relief. Vampire Relocation Services was simple. The Livingstones had helped out in the VRS department plenty of times.

  “We welcome our ancient vampire kin,” said Lexie’s father. “Matter of fact, I just bought two new inflatable coffins. They’re somewhere down in the basement. I’ll just need to find the air pump, then we’ll be—”

  “No, no, no. These guests aren’t vamps. And it’s only for a week or so.” Orville chewed his claw.

  Bad sign, thought Lexie. What did he want to come out and say? Vampires, no. But from the Old World, yes . . . Lexie mulled over different possibilities.

  Werewolves? No, all Werewolf Relocation Services went to Pete Stubbe’s family. Ghouls? No. Most ghouls headed straight from the Old World to hang in the swampy Florida Everglades. Goblins and druids? No, druids and goblins liked the country. Selkies? No. Selkies liked the sea.

  “I don’t get it,” said Lexie. “Who are they?”

  Orville had gone from flustered to downright jittery. “As a matter of fact, they are, um, pixies,” he said. “Sorry. You’re the only ones I thought could handle them. It’s only for a week or so. Well, guess that’s it. Gotta dash.”

  Pop! The lights went out again. When they snapped back on, Orville had disappeared. Nobody at the table could speak from shock.

  Pixies, eek! In the Old World, they were considered the wildest houseguests of all—and with good reason, Lexie remembered. A couple of hundred years ago, Lexie’s uncle Mortimer and his pix wife, Bijou, had visited the Livingstones. Bijou had taught them the limbo and how to make crepes flambé, but she’d also hidden the teaspoons, mixed the salt with sugar, and stolen the buttons off their clothes.

  It had been an exhausting weekend.

  Of course, the rules were different here. Here, all ex- Old Worlders had to be on their best behavior if they wanted to stay. That was the deal, and Lexie was pretty sure that pixies were no exception.

  So why were Orville’s feathers in such a ruffle?

  3

  O PINING POETESS

  Finally,” Mina read, “for many centuries, the fountain has been a symbol of luck, friendship, and knowledge. Is there any better way to welcome friends and visitors to Parrish High School than with this symbol, splashing brightly right outside our school’s front door?”

  In her front-row desk, Lexie mouthed along with Mina as she recited Lexie’s speech for the rest of the ninth-grade classroom.

  “If we pitch in with fund-raising,” continued Mina (and Lexie), “we can make this dream come true. Also, all future coins tossed into this fountain will go to establish Parrish’s very own . . . poetry department?”

  Mina’s voice trailed off into a question at the last sentence. She frowned and flipped the page. Lexie held her breath, watching Mina’s eyes scan the speech for all that nasty stuff that Mina had insisted Lexie put in about poor Mrs. Yoder. At the last minute, Lexie had deleted it and added her own brilliant idea for the poetry department.

  But if Mina was mad, she didn’t look it. She looked confident. She pushed aside her speech and rested her elbows on the podium. “One last thing. If I am your class president, I, Wilhelmina Pringle, do solemnly swear to get rid of icky Mrs. Yoder. My sources tell me she doesn’t even work here. That’s right, Yoder’s only a volunteer! So if Yoder can bully her way into this school for free, well, let’s toss her right back out again, no charge. Access denied!” She slammed the flat of her hand like a gavel against the wood.

  In the back of the room, Mina’s friends cheered and applauded.

  “You may sit down now, Mina,” said Mr. Fellows. “Next speech, no mudslinging. Crossing guards and volunteers deserve our respect, and Mrs. Yoder is both.”

  “Uh-oh, we’re twice cursed.” Mina made a face, and everyone laughed.

  Lexie saw Neil Needleburger mop his damp forehead. Unfortunately, Neil’s speech had been sweet, smart, and sooo dreary. Even Lexie had sneaked out some of her chemistry homework to finish right in the middle of it.

  “Ace speechwriting, honey,” said Mina as she caught up with Lexie in the hall later that day. “That coins-in-the-fountain touch was cute—but I think we should use those coins to fund an adorable little spa instead, for post-gym workouts.” She snapped her fingers. “Oops! I forgot to say my idea number five, to change our school mascot from Boris the Brown Badger to Kaylee Milquetoast.” She shook back her curls. “But I think I clinched it.”

  “Oh, yes, you totally clinched it,” crooned Loo. “Kaylee Milquetoast would be the fantastickest school mascot. She’s my favorite pop singer-actress-model in the whole, entire—”

  “Mina?”

  Lexie’s heart bounced. Dylan Easterby was standing behind them. Over the summer, Dylan had shot up so tall that he and Lexie were now the same height. Which meant that they both looked down at Mina.

  “Yes?” Dylan’s tallness made Mina look extra cute. But same-size couples were also cute, weren’t they? Lexie had to hold on to that hope.

  Lexie could hardly remember a time when she wasn’t in love with hunky Dylan. She’d even sent him a postcard this summer called “Ode to My Amber-Eyed Athlete” that was so chock-full of pent-up Dylan-y desire, she hadn’t been brave enough to sign her name to the bottom.

  They’d been back at school for over a month, and Dylan still hadn’t asked her about it, so she guessed maybe he hadn’t recognized her handwriting or her ruby red, lip sticked kiss print.

  Maybe if I recite a single line, thought Lexie, then Dylan will recognize me as the pining poetess?

  “O Easter would be joyous, if Easterby were mine—” she began softly, but Dylan was already talking to Mina.

  “Thanks for that note you put in my locker,” he said. “It was . . . inspiring.”
<
br />   Note? What inspiring note? Lexie’s blood raised a couple of degrees. Mina could pick a cute font easy, but she could barely stack two words together. Something was up.

  “Sure, Dylan. Anytime.” Mina’s voice was music. Her special Dylan-loving voice. The old Lexie—the one who had been enemies with Mina—had always hated that voice. “Catch up with you later?”

  “No prob. Bye, Mina. Bye, Loo, bye, Lex.” Dylan paused, as if he might want to say something extra to Lexie. She waited, breath held. But then all he did was amble off to rejoin his friends.

  “Poor Dylan. He was freaking out about soccer,” explained Mina. “So I had to psych him up. You know how it is.”

  “Totally,” agreed Loo.

  “I’ll stop by your house after my ballet lesson this afternoon to get your ideas for the next speech.” Mina rewarded Lexie with a dimpled smile. “Okay, honey?”

  “No problem,” Lexie managed.

  But on the way home from school, she couldn’t hold in her jealousy. “Pete, answer honestly. Is Mina Pringle inspiring?”

  “Mina Pringle is an air-breathing land slug,” answered Pete, “and, sadly, she’s going to slither her way to victory over Neil Needleburger in this election. Poor Needler. The kid’s such a policy wonk, and he hasn’t got a chance.”

  “Dylan Easterby’s a rock star on the soccer field. He doesn’t need Mina’s inspiration.” Lexie fumed. She couldn’t rid her mind of that scene at school. Dylan had seemed so . . . impressed by Mina. What could she possibly have written? And why hadn’t Lexie thought of it instead? There had to be a thousand poetic sentiments for “psyching up” an athlete that she could have written for Dylan. A spunky sonnet for practice. A plucky couplet for victory. An airy haiku for defeat.

  Lexie’s fingertips itched to scribble down a few.

  Pete had turned quiet. He never liked it when Dylan Easterby’s name came up. “Later,” he said.

  “Bye.” But as Lexie turned the corner, she wished Pete had stayed with her. Because even with her super-sharp, see-in-the-dark, vestige-vampire vision, she couldn’t exactly believe what she was seeing. She had to blink. Rub her eyes. Look at her feet, count backward in Japanese, shi, san, ni, ichi, and look up again.

  Nope. Her eyeballs didn’t lie. Their building had been painted.

  And not just any color. All five stories were now a violent and disturbing shade of . . .

  Pink.

  4

  BLIX AND MITZI

  Pink? Pink? A bedroom color splashed all over the outside? It was like wearing your underpants on your head. What kind of crime was this? Who could do such a thing?

  Lexie touched a finger to her front door. It was as if the whole townhouse had been poured over with stomachache medicine.

  Right down to the pink gargoyles at the windows. And the pink lion-head door knocker.

  All pink. Pink, pink, pink.

  And was that pink glitter on the roof?

  “‘I know not who these mute folk are who share the unlit place with me.’” Lexie spoke the snip of poem by somber Yankee poet Robert Frost, though she already had her suspicions.

  Before she had a chance to take out her phone and snap a pic of the pink house to send to her parents, who spent their afternoons walking dogs for their dog-walking business, Wander Wag, or in band practice with their band, the Dead Ringers, the front door flew open and a bubble-gum pink mummy ran out the door, nearly mowing Lexie down.

  “Help! Help!” hollered the mummy. “They’re pinking up everything! They’ll pink you, too!”

  Hudson’s voice, Lexie realized, though her brother was barely recognizable, wrapped head to toe in pink toilet paper. He was now galloping down the street. Uh-oh, thought Lexie. It looked like Hud was going to get batty. Hudson changed into a bat only if the conditions were exquisitely dark and peaceful or incredibly panicky. And now he was freaked out.

  Sure enough, by the end of the block, Hudson swooped into the air, transformed. Snips and scraps of toilet paper floated from the sky like an extra-absorbent early snow.

  Lexie ran inside, her boots sliding on the pink glitter that covered the floor.

  From upstairs came the sounds of giggles and whispers.

  “What’s happening here?” she called out.

  “S’tahw gnineppah ereh?” shrilled a voice.

  Backwardsian? Now Lexie knew, for sure. Those dreaded pixies had arrived.

  “Come down now, pixies,” she commanded. “Seixip, won nwod emoc!” Lexie had studied backwardsian in the Old World, and she was fairly fluent, except she sometimes messed up and spoke right to left.

  In a blink, three pixies stood before her. The girl pix was all pink, with a floss of pink hair, thin pink wings, and strawberry pink lips. The boy pix was purple, with violet wing freckles and a spiky cowlick.

  The third pixie was a foot and a half taller than the other two, and she was dressed in a rather hideous, throw-uppy shade of green.

  “Blix,” he introduced himself.

  “Mitzi,” chirped the little pink pixie.

  “Spitzi,” said the septic green pixie, who, on closer scrutiny, didn’t look very pix at all.

  “Ouch!” squeaked Spitzi—whom Lexie had recognized as an imposter—as Lexie twisted off her fake plastic ear.

  Lexie sighed. “Maddy, why are you dressed like a pixie?”

  “It’s for Hallo-month, duh.” Maddy grabbed for her ear. “I was inspired by our houseguests, Mitzi and Blix. They’re so awesome, I turned pix. Though I personally prefer a gorier getup.”

  “Where’d they go?” Lexie twirled in a circle. Blix and Mitzi had sprung off. From the dining room came sounds of glass tinkling and pixie snickers.

  “You were supposed to show them to their gilded cage. Why didn’t you do that the second they arrived?” Orville had delivered a pix-holding cage to the house that morning. It had its very own swing bar and scratching post. According to Orville, a pix couldn’t truly relax unless it was caged or in hiding.

  “Yeah. I tried. But these pixies wanted a more open swing,” explained Maddy as she followed Lexie into the dining room, where Blix and Mitzi, who’d shrunk themselves to half their size, now perched on the chandelier, swinging it so hard that its prisms were dropping plop plip plunk like crystal raindrops onto the dining table.

  “Get off the chandelier, pixies!” Lexie commanded. “I’m not going to say it backwards. And change our house from pinkstone to brownstone before my friend comes over.”

  In response, the pixies giggled. Lexie fumed. She hated giggling in any form but especially pixie form because it sounded so devious.

  Maddy tugged at her arm. “You’re making it worse,” she hissed. “Have you forgotten about pixies? Anger confuses them. Hudson asked Mitzi how to improve his mummy costume for Hallo-month, and that’s when she turned him pink. She wanted to be helpful, but Hudson got upset, which made Mitzi turn more things pink. Like, the whole house.”

  Lexie took a steadying breath. “The Old World books will tell us how to calm them.”

  “Cupcakes work best,” said Maddy. “I already looked it up. You can woo a pix with homemade butterscotch cupcakes, a soothing tune, flattery, and nectar. I don’t think that our supermarket carries nectar. But cupcakes, praise, and singing are easy enough.”

  The last thing Lexie wanted to do, with Mina coming over any minute, was appease a pixie. But she didn’t have much choice. And she liked to bake. She dashed out to the kitchen and began to throw together the ingredients for cupcakes.

  “I’ll help,” said Maddy as she got out the butter, eggs, flour, salt, and butterscotch flavoring.

  “And I’ll check on the pixies,” said Hudson, who’d returned to perch on the kitchen windowsill. “By the way, I’ve been keeping my jigsaw puzzles in the oven. So careful before you preheat.” Then he swooped off.

  Lexie chucked the puzzles out of the oven and stuck in the cupcakes. Maddy mixed the frosting and licked up most of it.

  “Update,” rep
orted Hudson, swooping back in. “First, the good news. The spell wore off, and our house is brown again. Now the bad news. The pixies are still swinging from the chandelier. Also, Mitzi asked me if you were mad.”

  “Obviously.” Lexie snorted. “The most popular girl in my class is coming over any sec, and my home is a plague of persnickety pixies.”

  “Shh!” Maddy pressed a finger to her lips. “They’ve got better hearing than us. You need to flatter them, not diss them, remember?”

  Lexie sighed. “Darling houseguest pixies!” she called out. “You enchant us with your shrill giggles!”

  “You sound insincere,” said Hudson. “You need to sell it, Lex. They knew when I was feeling anti-pix.” He stared at his pink hands and sighed.

  Lexie threw down her pot holders and stormed into the dining room. “Scrumptious pixies, you have brought light and laughter into our home,” she began, and then, hands folded, recited: “‘Come away, O human child! To the waters and the wild. With a faery, hand in hand, for the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand. ’ ” She took a little bow. “The Stolen Child” was one of her favorite poems by the pixie-sympathizing Irish poet William Butler Yeats.

  From above, Blix stared down at her. His eyes clouded from glittering lavender to an angry indigo. “Me Blix no poems me hates.”

  “Sorry,” said Lexie, trying not to sound hurt. What was up with this pix? His eyes swirled like kaleidoscopes. And did the eye swirling have anything to do with the itchy feeling between her shoulder blades?

  A twitch, a shimmy, and a gravity-defying hop confirmed the worst—the pix had just spelled Lexie with a pair of flimsy, mothlike wings.

  Briiing. Doorbell. Lexie jumped.

  “You two keep praising the pixies,” she commanded her siblings. “I’ll answer that.”

  With a pounding heart, she fluttered out to the hall, pulling on her overcoat to hide her chintzy pix wings. It could only be one person: Mina.