Read Online The Reformed Vampire Support Group by Catherine Jinks - Free Book Online
Authors: Catherine Jinks
Ads: Link
computer, because Mum had always discouraged Horace from coming around. She’s never been able to stand Horace. ‘That slimy little bastard belongs in aspittoon,’ was how she once expressed her feelings about him.
When he spotted my David Bowie poster, Horace smirked.
‘This bedroom hasn’t changed much,’ he remarked. ‘Anyone would think you were still fifteen.’
‘Anyone would think
you
were still eight,’ I snarled, as Dave settled into my office chair and booted up the machine in front of him. ‘Just keep your greasy mitts off my things, will you?’
‘Why do you still have a bed up here, when you sleep downstairs in an isolation tank?’ Horace queried. It was the sort of question you should never ask a vampire. It was hurtful. It was
cruel
. You might as well ask a paraplegic why she keeps her old sports equipment.
But despite the fact that Horace had hit a nerve, I wasn’t about to let him know it. I folded my arms and said, ‘Why do
you
still bother brushing your hair, when no one would possibly want to look at your ugly mug anyway?’
Horace narrowed his eyes. Before he could think of a comeback, Dave interrupted us.
‘Come on, guys,’ he pleaded. ‘Lay off. I know it’s hard, but show some respect, eh?’
‘For Casimir?’ Horace scoffed, and Dave regarded him gravely.
‘Casimir’s dead, mate. We could all be dead soon, if we don’t stop wasting time.’ Dave shifted his attention. ‘You want to log on, Nina?’
‘Only if nobody looks,’ I said, then glowered at Horace.
Dave got the message, of course. He averted his gaze. But I wouldn’t enter my password until Horace was safely out in the corridor. It was Horace, after all, who once terrified the rest of us by pretending to be an obsessed fan of the Bloodstone Chronicles. Having ‘discovered’ my street address, he kept sending me creepy letters until Mum and I were on the point of moving house. And when he finally came clean, he didn’t apologise or anything. Oh,no. According to Horace, he’d only been trying to demonstrate how risky it was, publishing books when you were a vampire.
After that, I decided never to cut him any slack ever again.
So he was only allowed back in after Dave had launched an online search for silver bullets; within minutes, we were all three peering at the official website of an American company called Ranger’s Inc.
You could order Ranger’s Inc. silver bullets over the Internet, for fifteen dollars each plus postage.
‘Here it is,’ said Dave. ‘Here’s the trademark. This is where he got ’em – whoever he might be.’
‘But who else buys them?’ It troubled me that the demand for silver bullets was big enough to sustain a viable business. ‘I mean, surely
every
customer isn’t a vampire slayer?’
‘Of course not,’ Horace rejoined. For a moment I actually thought that he might have something insightful to contribute. But then he drawled, ‘Most of these people must be after werewolves. Though they probably wouldn’t draw the line at shooting the odd vampire. What do you reckon, Dave?’
Horace has an irritating habit of teasing people as a form of stress relief. He was certainly teasing Dave, who had always maintained that werewolves might very well exist, though not necessarily in the form that populates most films and comic strips.
No one else shared this opinion. Not back then.
‘Well … I reckon if there
are
any werewolves out there, they’d better watch out,’ Dave replied. (As usual, he didn’t rise to the bait.) ‘Someone must be buying silver bullets, because this mob don’t seem to supply anything else.’
Further investigation, however, uncovered the fact that Ranger’s Inc. silver bullets were being promoted not as ammunition, but as ideal gifts for police officers, computer programmers and recentlydivorced men. It was possible to buy your silver bullet in a velvet-lined box, or attached to a silver chain. Special requests were also catered
When he spotted my David Bowie poster, Horace smirked.
‘This bedroom hasn’t changed much,’ he remarked. ‘Anyone would think you were still fifteen.’
‘Anyone would think
you
were still eight,’ I snarled, as Dave settled into my office chair and booted up the machine in front of him. ‘Just keep your greasy mitts off my things, will you?’
‘Why do you still have a bed up here, when you sleep downstairs in an isolation tank?’ Horace queried. It was the sort of question you should never ask a vampire. It was hurtful. It was
cruel
. You might as well ask a paraplegic why she keeps her old sports equipment.
But despite the fact that Horace had hit a nerve, I wasn’t about to let him know it. I folded my arms and said, ‘Why do
you
still bother brushing your hair, when no one would possibly want to look at your ugly mug anyway?’
Horace narrowed his eyes. Before he could think of a comeback, Dave interrupted us.
‘Come on, guys,’ he pleaded. ‘Lay off. I know it’s hard, but show some respect, eh?’
‘For Casimir?’ Horace scoffed, and Dave regarded him gravely.
‘Casimir’s dead, mate. We could all be dead soon, if we don’t stop wasting time.’ Dave shifted his attention. ‘You want to log on, Nina?’
‘Only if nobody looks,’ I said, then glowered at Horace.
Dave got the message, of course. He averted his gaze. But I wouldn’t enter my password until Horace was safely out in the corridor. It was Horace, after all, who once terrified the rest of us by pretending to be an obsessed fan of the Bloodstone Chronicles. Having ‘discovered’ my street address, he kept sending me creepy letters until Mum and I were on the point of moving house. And when he finally came clean, he didn’t apologise or anything. Oh,no. According to Horace, he’d only been trying to demonstrate how risky it was, publishing books when you were a vampire.
After that, I decided never to cut him any slack ever again.
So he was only allowed back in after Dave had launched an online search for silver bullets; within minutes, we were all three peering at the official website of an American company called Ranger’s Inc.
You could order Ranger’s Inc. silver bullets over the Internet, for fifteen dollars each plus postage.
‘Here it is,’ said Dave. ‘Here’s the trademark. This is where he got ’em – whoever he might be.’
‘But who else buys them?’ It troubled me that the demand for silver bullets was big enough to sustain a viable business. ‘I mean, surely
every
customer isn’t a vampire slayer?’
‘Of course not,’ Horace rejoined. For a moment I actually thought that he might have something insightful to contribute. But then he drawled, ‘Most of these people must be after werewolves. Though they probably wouldn’t draw the line at shooting the odd vampire. What do you reckon, Dave?’
Horace has an irritating habit of teasing people as a form of stress relief. He was certainly teasing Dave, who had always maintained that werewolves might very well exist, though not necessarily in the form that populates most films and comic strips.
No one else shared this opinion. Not back then.
‘Well … I reckon if there
are
any werewolves out there, they’d better watch out,’ Dave replied. (As usual, he didn’t rise to the bait.) ‘Someone must be buying silver bullets, because this mob don’t seem to supply anything else.’
Further investigation, however, uncovered the fact that Ranger’s Inc. silver bullets were being promoted not as ammunition, but as ideal gifts for police officers, computer programmers and recentlydivorced men. It was possible to buy your silver bullet in a velvet-lined box, or attached to a silver chain. Special requests were also catered
Similar Books
