The Liverly

VI

Scarf still firmly wrapped around my neck from the day before, a buffer so I don't attack myself again, I sit down in front of the vampire books and breathe in and out several times, slowly, trying to calm my racing heart. I have to do this. I have to push through. I grab the first book on the stack, hands shaking slightly, which I glare at to no avail. I take another breath and open the book.

I read it. The information inside is cliché, how vampires are made, how to kill them, what they eat. It's the stuff you see in the movies, but it's still information. We never had a chance before. We never tried to stab him or shove him into the sunlight. We were too weak.

That's the problem, isn't it? We weren't strong enough. Even my dad, who always seemed so strong. He could lift us up. He gave my piggyback rides until I was a teenager. He tossed Gracie above his head and would carry her and me sometimes. He was our hero, our protector, but how could he even hope to fight against something like a vampire?

And mom. What could she do? She was weaker, smaller, than dad. She was a powerful voice and mind, but what can that do against someone who is dragging your husband or child away?

I sigh, set that book aside, and pick up the next one. It's the same as the other one, just some variations in how the stakes have to be of certain wood and the vampire a specific type of vampire to turn you. The third book looks more fictional than the others. It's written as though it's a journal from someone. I scan the pages and pause when I reach the heading "Vampire Hunters." Tracing the word with my finger, I wonder. Do hunters exist?

Why wouldn't they? If vampires exist, obviously hunters have to exist. There has to be someone out there who can help me, otherwise this world would be overrun with bloodsuckers. "Why is this so complicated?" I mutter, setting the book down next to the other library books and flopping on my back. Tyrell stomps up the stairs and appears in the doorway. He looks at me laying like a blob on the floor and grins, shaking his head, then makes exaggerated motions with his hands as if to waft the smell of the food toward me. My stomach growls because it knows he brought food. He comes into the room and plops down on the floor next to me, setting the food and cup of water down. Roast beef sandwich (probably covered with cheeses under that bun) and a salad. My mouth starts watering immediately, and bolt upright to get to the food faster.

Tyrell looks around my room and reaches for my sketchbook which is sitting next to the library books. "You mind?" he asks.

I shake my head as I eat, too busy to talk while I'm stuffing my mouth with sandwich.

He flips through the book and pauses on a few to nod appreciatively. Near the back, he pauses then busts out laughing. "Hey, that's Caleb at the kitchen table! When did you draw this?"

"A couple of days ago. He was passed out, and it was too good of an opportunity to pass up." I lean over to look at the picture and snort. I forgot how goofy he looked sprawled out on the table, face smooshed against the tablecloth.

"How long did he stay like that?"

"He was like that when I went downstairs and woke up when my eraser hit him in the face."

Tyrell laughs and asks, "Why did you throw it at him?"

"I didn't!" I said, indignantly, laughing too. "I was erasing something and it flew out of my hand and thumped him. He woke up, stared at his soggy cereal, then left when Karen showed up."

"Kar—oh, Ms. Husby. You call her Karen, too? Caleb does. I always think it's so weird to call your mom by her legal name."

"She's not his mom," I say after I can talk normally again.