Dance with a Vampire (Vampire Kisses 4)

"What are you two talking about?" I asked.

"Our subject for Project Vampire," Henry replied matter-of- factly. "He's lying upstairs."

"Are you crazy?" I asked.

The two boys pulled their chairs toward mine and leaned in to me like they were about to divulge a major secret.

"The truth lies in the proof," Billy Boy pronounced. "One, I saw a green-eyed bat hanging outside my room. Valentine has green eyes."

"Two," Henry chimed in. "Valentine was looking for my treehouse. Then one day, hanging on a limb we found blood-filled amulets."

"Three," Billy Boy added. "Valentine is from Romania."

"Four, he was living in a cave."

"Five," my brother continued. "Valentine's deathly allergic to garlic."

"Six," Henry added. "He tried to have us become blood brothers."

"Seven, he tried to bite me," Billy Boy argued.

"I tried to bite you last year!" I countered.

Billy Boy stopped and geared up for his verdict. "We think Valentine is a vampire."

"That project has gone to your head." I laughed. "Then this won't matter," my brother challenged, extending his hand toward his nerd-mate's backpack. "Henry..."

The wunderkind unzipped his navy blue sack. He held out a small rectangular mirror.

"When Valentine comes down," Billy Boy said, "then we'll see. Or we'll observe what we don't see."

The boys stared at me proudly like two nerdy Sherlock Holmeses.

I was floored. Billy and Henry, the nerd-mate super-sleuths, were on the cusp of proving that Valentine was indeed a real vampire.

I'd been spending the last few weeks trying to keep Valentine away from the boys for their protection. Now I'd have to keep the nerd-mates away from Valentine and Alexander--for the vampires' safety.

"Why don't we take a look around this mansion," Henry said, rising.

"Why don't we not," I ordered, pointing to the Victorian chair. "Here--read this," I said, handing him a fifty-pound book on Stonehenge, pyramids, and UFOs. "Maybe this will help you conclude that Valentine is an alien."

After the boys exhausted themselves by perusing old dusty books, Henry busied himself playing games on his cell phone.

"In the cave," my brother began, "I heard you call me Billy. Not Nerd Boy. Not Billy Boy."

"So, what of it?"

"I know you are capable of calling me by my real name."

"Your real name is William. Is that what you want me to call you?" "How about plain old 'Billy.'"

"Fine. From now on," I said, "it's 'Plain Old Billy.'"

My brother wrinkled his nose at me, then shook his head. "My turn," he said, reaching for Henry's phone.

The two boys watched Star Trek on Henry's cell while I peered out the window into the moonlit night. I began to piece together Valentine's motive for arriving in Dullsville.

According to Valentine, he turned up in town to look for his siblings. He'd been hoping to find Jagger and Luna still there. When Valentine found it empty of coffins, he searched the treehouse for clues to their whereabouts.

There Valentine must have found Jagger's hidden tombstone etchings that I had come across earlier. But what was it about the etchings that would provide a clue to Jagger and Luna's location?

I remembered Valentine and Billy Boy holding them when I discovered Valentine in my brother's room.

"Billy, didn't you and Valentine search the Internet for the location of Valentine's gravestone etchings?" I asked.

"Yes, one was from Romania and one from the cemetery here in town, but not the one you showed me in the cave. You busted into my bedroom when we were about to do a search. Why?"

Instead of answering, I turned to my brother's nerdmate. "Henry--does your cell phone log on to the Internet?"

The geeky techno wizard rolled his eyes like I was so yesterday.

"Just for kicks," I began, "would you search for the name Maria Maxwell?"

Henry quickly got online and tapped in the name of Valentine's great aunt to the hundredth degree. I waited for the cybergeek's response.

"There is a Dr. Maria Maxwell in Spokane. She has a Web site. Do you want to look?"

"Any other listings?" I asked.

"A Maria Maxwell completed the Chicago Marathon in October 2001."

"Too young."

"A Maria Maxwell who wrote a children's book."

"In 1800?"

"No, in 1976."

"Try using the birth date we found on the etching. Maybe she's buried in a small town in Romania."

"Maria Maxwell," he said as he typed. "1844."

We waited for a moment, but it seemed like an eternity. The tick tock of the grandfather clock looming in the hallway loudly drummed to the throbbing rhythm of my own heartbeat.

"Here is a link for the standard news archives-- obituaries-- nineteen twenty-two--"

"Let me see," I said anxiously.

Henry angled the phone so we could both read the tiny screen.

It read: "Maria Maxwell. Born in the small town of Sighisoara, Romania. Immigrated to America and settled in Greenville Village, where she lived out her ninety-eight years. Loved by all. Beloved aunt to ten nieces and nephews, all of whom remain in Romania."

"Where is Greenville Village?" I wondered aloud. "Scroll up to the city's newspaper." Then Henry showed me, plain as day on the small cell phone screen.

It was the Hipsterville Ledger.

Finally, I heard the morbidly slow shuffling of Jameson's footsteps plodding down the grand staircase. I caught up to the butler in the hallway on his way to check in on us in the parlor.

"How is Valentine?" I asked the creepy man.

"He's coming along, Miss Raven. I gave him some Romanian smoothies. Alexander is attending to him. How are you and the boys?"

Henry and my brother poked their heads out the parlor doorway.

"We're fine."

"Can I use your phone?" I asked.

"Of course you may. There is one in the study."

I didn't want to use Henry's cell and have any traces of my call linked to his phone. The boys were on to Valentine's identity enough as it was without my help.

"Would you boys like some smoothies?" Jameson asked politely as he headed for the parlor.

All I could think of were the bloodred Romanian smoothies I saw him carrying up to Valentine. "Make them American ones," I suggested seriously.

The nerd-mates eagerly followed Jameson into the kitchen, eyeing the portraits and lit candles in the hallway. Once in the study, I found an antique phone sitting on a grand oakwood desk. I picked up the heavy black phone, which had a cord and dials instead of push buttons and a battery.