The Last Vampire

Chapter 1. Lorena

lorena

“Holy Pemberley.”

The words escape my lips like a breath as I stare up at the Victorian manor with its arched windows and pointy towers. The sprawling estate looks like it was ripped from the pages of my favorite nineteenth-century novels.

The stone walls are stained shades of gray, but from certain angles they look black.

The late-afternoon orange sun flares against the glass windows, setting the house’s insides ablaze.

Even though the start date for classes had to be pushed back for construction delays, nothing about this place looks unfinished or deteriorated.

“It’s so … stately.”

I turn to meet my best friend’s thickly lined eyes. She doesn’t mean it as a compliment. Salma was hoping for something slightly more decrepit and ominous.

I turn in a small circle, taking in the vast manicured lawns, adorned with metal benches, bronze busts, and sculptures of fanged lions, taloned peacocks, winged angels, and a tailed demon with horns. “What about that demon?” I ask.

“I’ve seen scarier,” she says.

I scan her black combat boots, ripped black stockings, black miniskirt, oversized black sweater, and dark purple lipstick. “You do realize the school uniform isn’t black and white like our old one, right?”

Salma has been wearing all-black since eighth grade—the same year she discovered Poe, Evanescence, and her mom’s deadly diagnosis.

“Mr. Santos emailed the director and said that I would be opting out of the requirement because I’m in mourning.”

Mr. Santos is what Salma calls the fake email address she created for her father years ago and provided to our old school. Since he’s always traveling, email is the best way to reach him.

“And you didn’t tell me?” I ask in surprise.

“I was waiting for her to respond, but she never did.”

“So how do you know you’re exempt?”

“Only one way to find out!” She bares her teeth in a would-be smile, but the mirth doesn’t reach her heavy brown eyes. They’ve been lightless since—

“You’re sure you don’t want me to go in with you, Lorena?”

We spin around at the sound of Ma’s voice. I’d almost forgotten she was still here, which is morbidly funny, considering her omnipresence in my life.

“We’re fine,” I say, a little too forcefully.

“I can’t believe we’re going to be apart,” says Ma, and while I won’t say it, I can’t, either. Salma and I have been attending the same private school in New York City since pre-K. We’ve never even been away to summer camp.

“Don’t worry, Tía Viv,” says my best friend. “We’ll look out for each other.”

“I know you will, Salmita,” says Ma.

Salma used to hate that nickname when we were younger, but her eyebrows don’t crease anymore when she hears it. Not since Tía Elena died.

Our mothers became best friends when they were about our age, so Salma and I have known each other since birth—literally, given that we were born on the same day.

“Well, this is it, then,” says Ma, sizing me up and down like she’s scanning my image and turning it into a memory. I get my curly hair and honey-brown eyes from her, but my tanner skin and right cheek dimple from Pa. His firm is working on a big case, so he couldn’t make the trip with us.

“We’ll call once we’re settled,” says Salma, and I can tell that she’s eager to get going.

“You better.” Ma pulls her into a tight embrace.

My best friend isn’t a hugger, so when she doesn’t let Ma go right away, I know this is harder for her than she’s letting on. I look around to give them some privacy.

Gangly trees line the path from the iron gates, their limbs balding in the unseasonable chill.

Driving over from the airport, we wound through dense forest for so long that I have no idea what direction we came from or how to get back to civilization.

I’ve never even visited a place this remote, so I can’t imagine living here.

According to the school’s website, until recently this manor was condemned. For centuries, the estate had been owned by the Huntington family, and when the last member died, they bequeathed it—along with their formidable fortune—to the founding of this school.

I survey the other families clustered in front of the castle-like home, saying their goodbyes, and I meet more than a few people’s stares.

Ma’s arms wrap around me.

“Clean slate,” she says, reminding me of what we’ve been discussing all summer. When we pull apart, she holds on to my hands. “I know it hasn’t been easy being my daughter.”

A ray of light from the falling sun makes her eyes glow like gold, and I wonder if mine are just as gilded. “This is your chance to prove to me—and yourself—that you are ready to make your own way.”

Sometimes I’m not sure if she can hear how condescending she sounds. I meet Salma’s asymmetrically arched eyebrows, and I know she’s thinking the same thing.

“Okay, Ma. Love you.”

“Love you,” and as I start to walk away, she adds: “Make smart choices!”

I roll my eyes since Ma can’t see my face, but when I try to share a look with Salma, there’s a small comma between her eyebrows. And I hate that as long as Ma doesn’t forgive me for what I did, Salma won’t forgive herself.

We roll our suitcases across the cobblestones toward the manor’s open front doors, and many of the conversations around us lull as we approach.

Salma nudges me with her shoulder, and I follow the direction of her gaze. A couple of women up ahead are trading words while darting glances at Ma. Of course Viviana Navarro can’t set foot on a school campus without being recognized.

When I look behind me, a woman is already introducing herself to my mom, holding Ma’s new book in her hands, a purple hardcover titled The Parental Pardon: We Can Forgive Our Children, But Can We Forgive Ourselves?

“… thought Huntington had cut ties with Viviana Navarro.”

I straighten when I hear Ma’s name, and I spy a platinum-blond woman speaking. “Are we sure about sending our children to the same school as this mommy influencer?”

“I can’t believe her daughter was accepted after that video,” says her friend.

The two of them look at me and go quiet, as if just realizing I might be within hearing range. I keep my face stoic, but Salma raises her hand and waves to them.

When they wave back, Sal folds down her fingers, leaving just the middle one up.

The women’s fake smiles melt into grimaces, and I look down to tame my grin as I loop my arm around Salma’s elbow. Together, we approach the open double doors waiting to swallow us.

“Name?”

A woman with a deep voice is holding a clipboard. She’s the tallest person I’ve ever seen, and her bloodred hair makes her presence even more striking. Beside her, a pair of women are seated at a table with alphabetically arranged envelopes.

“Lorena Navarro.”

Red’s brow arches like my name means something. Her irises are so dark I can’t make out the pupils. From the way they suck me in, her eyes could be black holes.

“So you are,” she says at last, without even consulting the list she’s holding.

A large envelope is thrust into my hands by one of the seated women, and when Red looks away, I remember to blink. Then Sal introduces herself.

“Salma Santos.”

Once she gets her envelope, the two of us cross through the towering doorway. I feel a tingle in the back of my neck like I’m being watched, and when I peer back at Red, our eyes lock again.

I quicken my pace, pulling Salma forward as we enter a foyer the size of a small museum enshrouded in textured burgundy wallpaper. The space is furnished with a low-hanging chandelier and wood-trimmed couches and armchairs with dark velvet cushions.

Since the hall has been cordoned off with red ropes, we have no choice but to corral ourselves in here.

Only a few people are seated, while others are examining the massive fireplace with its elaborately wrought stone mantel and the series of black-and-white portraits along the far wall framed in burnt gold.

“Still no service.”

I glance at Salma, who’s looking down instead of up. She shows me her phone screen so I can see that she has zero bars.

“I’m sure there’s Wi-Fi.”

“I don’t see any networks.”

The front doors slam shut with a BOOM that reverberates like an explosion, cutting off every conversation.

“Hello to Huntington’s founding class! Welcome to your new home.”

Red stands in front of the unlit fireplace, and she’s easily the tallest person here. “I am Director Minaro, and I want to start by congratulating you on beating the odds and forming part of this special academy.”

Our classmates break into polite applause, but I don’t join them. Salma’s and my acceptance wasn’t earned; it was negotiated.

Minaro looks right at me like she’s thinking the same thing, and I turn to see if Sal notices. But she’s still scanning for networks.

“Hold on to your good cheer,” says the director, her gaze drifting across the room, “because you will like me less when you hear this next part.”

Now Salma looks up, and we trade bemused expressions.

“I am sorry to report that we are having problems getting cellular service and a Wi-Fi connection installed.”

“I knew it!” Salma cries out, stomping one of her heavy combat boots on the floor. She’s not the only one—a rush of reactions gusts through the place like an angry gale.

“You’re joking!”

“I’m not staying here.”

“Screw this—”