The Chronicles of a Public Bus (part 2.09)

Friday, 13:30, route 31

Snow glitters from all directions, reflecting light onto the grey clouds overhead. The road ahead has been cleared by the day’s traffic, but driveways and sidewalks are left unshoveled, and only a few yards have already lost their pristine white to the stomping of children and romping of those children-at-heart. Fingerprint smudges coat the bus’s windows in a thick residue of excitement, and Divinity contributes to this residue by resting her hands and forehead on the glass and squealing in anticipation.

“We’ll get to mess around in your backyard, right, Drake?” she asks. “I rarely get to play in the snow.”

Willow bites her lip. “Divinity, that’s not why we’re going to Drake’s house. We have important things to talk about, and Martin already wants to add some more discussion onto the pile. Plus I already injured him during dodgeball, and I don’t want to almost knock out any more teeth.”

“Relax, Willow,” Drake says. “We can play outside first thing and then have our discussion over cake and cocoa.”

Divinity lights up in devilish glee and dives into her backpack for some scrap paper and a pencil, muttering about the surface area of Drake’s back yard and how much compacting snow requires to be useful. How she knows any of these things is beyond Drake and Martin, but Willow groans and lowers her head to her backpack, already aware of the fact that Divinity always knows more than she should.

A beat of silence follows before Martin tilts his head to raise an eyebrow at Drake. “And no one is going to tell me why this girl knows the dimensions of your yard?”

“I know Willow’s too,” Divinity adds, prompting Willow to curl over so much her head disappears under the top of the seat.

Drake shrugs. “It’s her thing,” he says. “Everyone’s business is her business unless you do a really good job keeping it secret.”

“And you still think it’s wise to tell her everything about being powerful folk?”

“I’m right here,” Divinity points out. She leans back until her head tips backwards and her soft chin juts toward the ceiling, waving a sheet of notebook paper with scraggly sketches and scribbled numbers crisscrossing the lines. Drake pulls his hand from his backpack to avoid a papercut on the knuckles.

“I see that,” Martin replies, “but I was not aiming to converse with you, and this is a delicate situation.”

Chuckling, Drake shoots Divinity a pleading smile. “It’s not really that delicate. There are plenty of powerful folk in the world. But Divinity, if Martin wants you to not listen, maybe you shouldn’t. You two just met, remember?”

“Ugh, fine.” As if she might conjure a frog out of thin air, Divinity wiggles her arms and her paper as she turns back to the front. The edge of the paper glides over Willow’s black hair and towards her ear, and suddenly she tenses.

“Ow!” Willow claps a hand to her cheek and jolts into the aisle. Her backpack almost topples from her lap.

The scent of blood is like a red flood of smokestack fumes. Martin can sense every particle, every trace of iron hidden under Willow’s pale skin, and his stomach roars in voracious greed. He coughs and pinches his nose, and when Drake widens his eyes in alarm, Martin glares at his friend.

His change is not dramatic like Willow’s or Drake’s. His pupils elongate, his bared canines are slightly disproportionate, and his skin is tinted by a sickly grey, but he grows no claws, and his ears stay the same. Martin doesn’t even change in size.

Yet somehow, he is all the more terrifying—a monster with the exact face of a friend.

“Um, M-Martin?” Drake stammers. He glances at Willow with her hand still cupped to her face, hair gathered over one shoulder to keep it from the papercut. Martin’s eyes are locked on the bare skin of her neck. Next to her, Divinity twists around, almost in slow motion.

Martin lunges.

Willow’s head is shoved nearly off her shoulders, and Martin’s right hand grips her scalp. His teeth burrow into the bloodstream. A ruby droplet dribbles down his chin.

Though Willow yelps in surprise, only the closest passengers notice the commotion. Some titter and back away, and others inch closer, straining their necks to better view the situation and possibly offer assistance. A few pull out cell phones to snap pictures or call the authorities.

Drake leaps to block his friends from view, and Divinity hurls her paper and pencil into the air to try prying Martin and Willow part.

“Get off her!” Divinity hisses at the vampire. “Willow is your friend, remember? So get a hold of yourself before you end up regretting this.”

Whimpering, Willow reaches over her shoulder and drags her fingers through Martin’s short, fuzzy hair and down his forehead. Her form flickers like a strobe light between human and monster, and a patch of snowy fur sprouts on her neck. Someone’s phone camera flashes.

Divinity stands in her seat, and the bus screeches to a stop. As she shakes her fist at the crowd, the bus driver clicks on his microphone.

“What is going on back there?” he asks, but no one answers. Instead, Divinity points and shouts about a privacy law.

“I demand that you delete that picture right now, or I will call the police and have them confiscate the data for you! All powerful folk reserve the right to remain publicly anonymous until they commit a crime, and first bite is always excused.” Seething, Divinity climbs over Willow and pushes Drake back into the seats. “You’re a heck of a lot stronger than I am,” she whispers, “so see if you can get those two apart.”

“I’m not that strong!” Drake protests. When Divinity ignores him, he sighs. “Not compared to those two anyways.” He falls into the seat and works on pulling Martin’s fingers free from Willow’s hair before resting a shaking hand on Martin’s shoulder.

In the front of the bus, the driver rises and steps onto the plastic floor, thick shoe soles clunking. Passengers settle, quieting and hushing each other as he passes. By the time he works his way to Divinity, the bus is silent.

The absence of noise triggers a wave of thoughts in Martin’s head. His eyes, unblinking and wide in feral rage, soften. His jaw relaxes, and an odd taste—like a mixture of mint ice cream and pistachios—streams from his fangs. He focuses on the blue veins in the wrist before his eyes, surprised that they no longer inspire the dread and hunger he’d noticed the day before.

“Martin?” The voice is close and calming and warm and…

Willow’s.

Martin jerks his head up and realizes with a wince that something wet is dripping down his chin. He rubs his palm against the liquid and finds the lighter skin of his hand dyed red. Two tiny black-crimson dots mark Willow’s neck. He did that.

Drake’s hand feels cold on Martin’s shoulder. Drake will never forgive him, never ever ever. The new girl who has swiveled her head to watch but still has her arms outstretched to prevent people from coming closer, she’ll never forgive him. Rick will not let him and his dad ride the bus anymore.

“I-I didn’t mean…” Martin has no words. His teeth don’t fit the same way they used to. Willow really did knock out the original canines when she nailed him in dodgeball. He’s all vampire now.

Rick approaches, and Divinity’s arms drop, limp as a ragdoll’s.

“Martin,” Rick says, voice low, like a teacher comforting a boy terrified of starting kindergarten, “would you like me to call your dad?”

Martin nods.