To Catch a Vampire Read Online Free

destinations unknown, one of you wearing lingerie.”
    “It’s not lingerie, it’s a weapon. And hopefully, Will won’t find out. I’m tired of pulling those two apart. I feel like I’m back at elementary school.”
    “We used to just let them go at it. It was funny.”
    Poof ! Nancy, teenage teleporter, appears like magic dressed literally head to toe in black. Black hair cut like Bettie Page’s, thick black-framed glasses, sweater, Capri pants, and Mary Janes. She’s going through a black phase now, which in my opinion is a vast improvement on the polka dot phase last month. My black sweater hangs on her rail-thin body. I’ve been looking for that. The past two months have made me realize I’m happy I never had a sister. “Hey,” she says. “What you up to?”
    “What the hell are you doing teleporting? What if your tutor saw?” Irie says.
    “She’s gone. Chill. I’m not, like, totally brain dead. I’ve been sent to get Bea. George wants you. What’s going on? He wouldn’t tell me. What’s that for?” she asks, pointing to the bustier. “And why did Oliver leave me a note asking me to let you, like, borrow my clothes?”
    “He what?”
    “Yeah. Like all my Goth shirts, even my chains and stuff. I left them on your bed. But they’ll all, like, be too tight on you.”
    “That’s probably the point,” Irie says.
    “The point of what? What does she know that I don’t?” Nancy asks.
    “Nance, you know about as much as I do.” I climb off the bike and pick up my secret weapon. “George in the briefing room?”
    “Yeah,” Nancy replies.
    “I’ll drop off my slut clothes later,” Irie says as I walk out.
    “Yeah, because they’re so gonna fit me,” I call back.
    The gym takes up half of sub-basement two, with the gun/skills training center taking up the other half. There is a small concrete cell where Will wolfs out once a month, but I hate going in there. It smells. I walk through the tiny hallway to the elevator. Up one floor to sub-basement one, home to our briefing room and Oliver’s bedroom, the only room in the house I haven’t been in. I won’t even take a peek. I’m sure red satin lines the walls with a black silk bed taking up half the room. The briefing room is the first door on the left, which is where George awaits me.
    Dr. George Black, Ph.D., the man who runs the whole F.R.E.A.K.S. show. He does the research, deals with the bureaucracy, and makes a mean Chimichanga. He’s been part of the team for over forty years. First as a consultant, then as the head of the F.R.E.A.K.S., a clandestine offshoot of the FBI. Technically, we don’t exist, but here we are, smack dab in the middle of the country like Area 51. (Not that I’ve been there; I’ve asked, but I’m not allowed to take a tour.)
    George sits at the head of the long table, his face obscured behind the file marked “Classified,” so only his gray hair shows. He looks up when I clear my throat. “Sorry,” he says. “I was just familiarizing myself a bit more with the case.”
    “What?” I ask, sitting across from him. “You didn’t prep it?”
    “Afraid not. Oliver left it on my desk this morning with detailed instructions as to hotels and supplies. I have to say, he does a better job than I do.”
    “I doubt it. So, what’s the deal? Am I acting as trashy bait or what? Let me guess, he’s cast me as either a stripper or a hooker. Or possibly a stripping hooker?”
    George points the remote in his hand at the projector on the back wall, and the lights dim. We use this room to watch movies sometimes with our feet up on the table—only time we can get away with that.
    Up pops a picture of a thirty-something woman standing behind a bar with enough booze to supply a frat party. George flicks to the next slide of a teenage girl. Pretty, skinny, dressed in a long blue gown with a clean-cut boy standing next to her in a tux. The next picture is of an African American man in his forties sitting on a