Revenant Read Online Free PDF

me?”
    “No. No. Not at all. But would that mean another-” I stop. A teacher walks by. I pause until he’s out of sight before continuing the thought. “Would that mean there’s another vampire in Portland?”
    Dodger’s voice is calm, but I can see a flash of fear in her eyes. “I don’t know.”
    Awkward silence.
    “So... stake through the heart, right?” I ask.
    “Stake through the heart or burn them to a crisp. Can also tear their head off. They don’t really die, but it’s hard to be dangerous when you’re headless.” She chuckles, I only feel a little queasy. I get the image of Dodger, my best friend, the closest one I’ve ever had, ripping someone’s head off. It’s just wrong. I guess it shouldn’t be, because I saw her kill that man yesterday. But she was defending me. That whole series of events feels more like a dream than memory anyways.
    “Can that be enough doom and gloom for the day, Scout?” Dodger says. “Let’s get lunch.”
    I accompany her into the cafeteria, where food smells like its packaging and middle-aged, apathetic women in hairnets scoop portions onto your tray. There’s a bit of variety, as the school is mandated to offer at least two different kinds of fruits and vegetables. Luckily for them, pizza and the lettuce slices on burgers count as vegetables.
    So we pass through the lunch line. I pick out a chocolate milk and bag of chips. My go-to “avoid the shitty cafeteria food yet still eat” strategy. All around us, there’s the buzz of conversation. The two kids in front of us gossip about someone sleeping with someone else. The two behind us make small talk about the latest episode of a TV show. It seems only Dodger and I are silent.
    We exit the lunch line and make our way into the cafeteria, Dodger’s rain boots making the distinctive squish sound of water and rubber on linoleum. It suddenly feels two or three degrees colder, so I balance my lunch tray in one hand and zip up my hoodie in the other. We sit at our usual table with our usual circle of friends. They’re already in the middle of a conversation when we come in.
    “Hello, all,” I say. I’m trying to sound like my normal self, but it’s feeling more like channelling an alter ego than being me.
    “Hey Scout,” says Brianna, a freshman. “Did you see Secret Life last night?”
    “Oh, nope. Must’ve missed it.”
    “Missed Secret Life? Why?” she gasps. “Were you on a date?”
    “What? No! No of course not. I just missed it.”
    “But you never miss Secret Life!” she says.
    “I did last night,” I say with the same conversation ending tone my mother takes with me. Brianna lets it go, and I lazily pop a chip in my mouth. The conversation at the table turns to something unfamiliar to me, which I’m thankful for. I really don’t feel like talking right now. I start to zone out, with the conversation at my table at the surrounding ones being reduced to simply a droning buzz that I drown out in my own tide of thoughts.
    My mind finds its way to the feeling of my fingers on the bowstring last night. I think of how tough and awkward it felt at first, and how easy it became. I remember how it felt to see that arrow fly and how impressed my father seemed with me. My fingers have a thin red line spreading across them, perfectly in between the wrinkles marking two joints. I feel this deep longing to be back in that basement, bow in hand, drawing and shooting until that red line becomes a permanent mark. A testament to a skill. Natural had been the word my father used. You’re a natural.
    I’m yanked back into the real world by the sound of Dodger’s voice.
    “Petrichor.”
    “Huh?” says the table.
    “The smell of the ground after rain. It’s called petrichor,” she says. She must’ve been jumping in on a conversation, but I don’t know for sure. I’m guessing she didn’t just blurt out a random fact, though truth be told if any of my friends would do a thing like that, it would be