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  • Home > Mari Mancusi > Blood Coven Series > Night School (Page 36)     
    Night School(Blood Coven Vampire,book 5) by Mari Mancusi
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    I stare at her, horror slamming into my gut. “You told them,” I whisper hoarsely, suddenly realizing that anything Corbin might have figured out is nothing compared to what my sister’s changeling has already done.

    The changeling opens her mouth, but a sudden, commanding knock on the door is really all the answer I need.

    “Sorry to Rayne on your parade.” The changeling smirks. She blows me a kiss as the guardians push the door open, sending me flying to the floor. My palms skid against the hardwood, giving me one hell of a splinter. But I’m pretty sure that’s going to be the least of my problems soon.

    “Bye-bye,” the changeling chirps, heading for the door. “I’ll give your sister your regards back at fairyland.”

    I turn to the guardians, ready to fight. But before I can even scramble to my feet, they throw a silver net over my head. I know it’s real silver, too, since the metal fillings singe my skin—making it sizzle and smoke. Helpless, I fall to the ground, writhing in pain, knowing there’s nothing I can do. They’ve got me and they’ve got me good. And a moment later, I find myself swimming into blackness.

    18

    When I wake, I’m in four-points restraints—lying on my back with wrists and ankles cuffed to some sort of rollaway bed. Lifting my head, I strain to take in the room, desperate to figure out where the hell they’ve taken me. It appears to be some kind of mad scientist laboratory, complete with beakers and test tubes—their yellow and green concoctions boiling madly over red-flamed Bunsen burners, threatening to bubble over at any second.

    Definitely not a part of Riverdale I’ve seen before. If I’m still at Riverdale at all.

    After a brief scan of the room, my straining neck pangs in protest and reluctantly I settle my head back down on the bed, my gaze reverting to the dark, high-beamed ceiling draped in cobwebs. Large spiders seem to grin wickedly at me as they go about their work, as if laughing at my current predicament.

    I suck in a breath, hoping to calm my jangled nerves. Questions come, fast and furious, with no answers naturally following their query. Where am I? Why am I here? To be honest, I figured I’d be taken to some sort of Riverdale jail to await trial. Or that they’d simply stake me in the heart and be done with it.

    The changeling’s words suddenly ring through my ears. You’re very valuable, you know, she’d said. But valuable for what? That, as Hamlet would say, is the question.

    “Awake, are we?”

    A man with wild salt-and-pepper hair and thick bifocals steps into view. He’s wearing the traditional white coat, probably acquired from some mad scientist uniform shop, and has the requisite crazy-man look on his face to boot.

    I swallow hard. I’ve seen enough movies to know this is so not good.

    “Hello, Rayne,” he says in a screechy voice. “It’s great to finally meet you. I’m Dr. Franken.”

    I grimace. Dr. Franken? As in Frankenstein? Man, this place gets more cliché by the second. I mean, come on. If I’m going to die anyway, is it so much to ask for a little originality?

    Dr. Franken holds out a hand, as if to shake mine in greeting, then seems to remember that I’m tied up at the moment. He cackles. Mad scientist humor. Awesomeness.

    “Where am I?” I manage to choke out, trying to sound fierce, but succeeding only in sounding scared and helpless. “Release me at once!” I try again, without much more success.

    He chuckles. “All in good time, my dear,” he says, wheeling over a small metal table to the side of my bed. He picks up a syringe the size of a freaking turkey baster and connects it to a clear plastic tube. “But first I’m going to need a sample of your blood, if you don’t mind.”

    “Actually, I do mind. I appreciate you asking.”

    “Your objection is duly noted,” he replies. Taking a length of rubber off the table, he proceeds to tie it around my forearm. “It makes me wonder, though. Do you think Corbin minded when you took all that blood from him without asking?”

    Corbin’s name stabs like a dagger to my heart and my mind proceeds to treat me to a disturbing flashback of his glazed eyes, torn neck—blood spilling down and soaking his shirt collar. I wonder wildly what an interesting laundry detergent commercial something like that would make.

    New Tide with bleaching action! Perfect for getting rid of those pesky bloodstains!

    I shake my head, my stomach rolling with nausea. Maybe I deserve all of this. Hell, maybe I deserve worse. ’Cause let’s be honest here; I haven’t exactly been a class act recently.

    “What do you plan to do with my blood?” I ask weakly, wondering if he plans to take only a little or completely drain me dry. I know in some TV shows vampire blood becomes a powerful black market drug, but I don’t think it works that way in real life.

    In real life, the only use for vampire blood is to make more vampires. But why would Slayer Inc. want MORE vampires? Isn’t their whole mission in life to get rid of them?

    “Why, I wish to study it, of course,” he says brightly as he jabs the needle into my arm. I wince and force myself to watch as the thick, dark liquid drains from my body, down the tube, and into a plastic blood bag. “And hopefully someday make more of you.”

    Wait, what? My eyes fly from the syringe to his face. “Make more of me?” I repeat. “I mean, I know I’m awesome and all. But isn’t one Rayne McDonald enough?”

    “Oh, you yourself are much more than enough,” Dr. Franken replies, thankfully removing the needle and placing a cotton swab over the wound, binding it with white tape. “But your blood, on the other hand ...”

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