Page 131 of Wicked Hungry

A small figurine of a wolf.

“This is beautiful,” I say, wiping away tears. “It must have taken weeks to carve...“

She nods.

“You knew?”

She shakes her head. “If only. I suspected, but I had to be sure. I hoped that I was wrong somehow. Th

at you weren’t a predator. Was that so terrible?”

“I tried to control the hunger, Mom. I really tried. But I couldn’t.”

“I love you, Stanley. I’m your mother. I need to accept you the way you are.”

“How long have you known?”

“I wasn’t sure until just now. But I’ve suspected for weeks. Months, really. You probably hate me right now.”

I don’t even know anymore. I feel this terrible numbness thinking about Karen. Where is she now, and what are they doing to her body?

“I don’t hate you,” I say finally. “I’m too tired to hate anyone right now.”

She folds me in her arms and I let her hold me, and Max purrs softly at our feet.

Chapter 42: MOURNING IN THE MORNING

They find her body very early on Saturday. I don’t know what the Sisters of the Night have done to it, but there’s no autopsy. Stated cause of death is drugs, which isn’t so far from the truth. I mean, if she hadn’t taken the supplements, she’d still be here, right?

Part of me wants to tell her parents the truth at the wake on Sunday. But if they couldn’t understand the Karen that they thought they knew, they’ll never understand the Karen of these last few weeks that they never got a chance to know. This Karen who suddenly was spending so much time outside after dark.

There are a few other students there, but besides Enrique and Jonathan, no one I know, no one who knew the real Karen. I think it’s curiosity that brings them, and the idea that hey, it could have been them who died. There are none of the sisters of the night, either. I don’t think they like being in the funeral home, with the crosses all over the place, but maybe I’m wrong about that. Maybe they can’t enter it at all. But even on Saturday I can feel them outside, in their dark glasses and trench coats, paying their respects. I wish I could talk to them, too, but really, I had enough trouble talking to Karen.

I wish I could tell her parents about the real Karen, but right now, Monday morning, at her funeral, as she’s being lowered into the earth, they’ve been hurt quite enough, thank you. It’s all her mother can do to stand upright, supported by her husband, her brother, and, behind her, her father.

Grandfathers aren’t supposed to bury their granddaughters.

The undead aren’t supposed to die.

It’s a good time for tears, but I’m all cried out.

I’m there all in black — black slacks and a long black t-shirt. My father suggested I wear a dark suit; he was ready to go buy me one the other night when we heard the news—not about her death, but about the arrangements, the wake on Sunday and the early Monday funeral. Karen’s parents are thoughtful and don’t want us to miss too much school. But I told my father that Karen would have wanted me to wear what I’m wearing now, and after all, the service is for her, isn’t it?

Her teachers are all here, and my assistant principal, Mr. Piper. Does the man have no shame? Is he even a man?

I stare at him until he looks away, but really, what is his role in all this anyway?

Now isn’t the time for these questions, but they need to be asked. And in the back, is that Gary Frumberg? I feel a chill in my spine. Has he... changed? It’s him, anyway, and Blaine Whelan stands behind him, with his wife. I’m too upset to care, though.

A priest intones something, but the words float over me. Jonathan and Enrique have my back, a small comfort. The sisters of the night are everywhere, in the crowd around us, in the woods around the burial plot. How can no one notice so many vampires? Perhaps not all eyes are attuned to that type of thing, and really, my own focus is on the casket. Which is now at the bottom of quite a deep hole. I hope that they’re right, that she’s really dead. Which sounds like an awful thing to hope, doesn’t it? But she’s really being buried now.

I get to throw the third clump of dirt onto the casket, right after her mother and father. Just one clump of dirt and one red rose. Does it hurt to think I was her best friend, the only boy she kissed, the way I ignored her these last few weeks? Sure, but not as much as seeing her die, as seeing her buried with these lies about drug abuse and overdose.

The earth makes a dull thud on the casket. Maybe this is all one big joke and the coffin’s empty, and she’s really out there among the sisters, having one last laugh.

I finger the friendship bracelet on my arm. The hemp is rough, scratchy. Can she really be gone?

But then I hear them wail. I flinch, I can’t help it, and in the distance a dog starts barking furiously. But the rest of the people here at the funeral don’t seem to notice anything.