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Connaître les règles non écrites du feutre

M. COLOGNE: Je l'ai déjà dit mort. Ils avaient envoyé les documents à travers. Ou vous pouvez aller avec une grande paire noir, gris,lunettes carrera, ou blanc qui ira avec tout ce que vous avez dans votre placard. Vous pouvez avoir la même polyvalence et choix que vous avez avec un de vos autres accessoires. Vous pouvez porter votre Mango Vêtements et lunettes sachant que vous regardez bien, correspond à votre tenue, vous prenez soin de protéger vos yeux, et vous porter le meilleur ..

Teardrop était Jessup aîné et avait été un chef de manivelle plus mais il avait un laboratoire vont mal et il avait mangé l'oreille gauche de sa tête et brûlé une cicatrice fondu sauvage le long de son cou au milieu de son dos. Il wasn assez oreille nœud restant à accrocher des lunettes de soleil sur. Les cheveux autour de l'oreille a disparu, aussi, et la cicatrice sur son cou a montré au-dessus du col.

2. Équipement de protection est indispensable pour tous les amateurs de vélo. Les casques doivent répondre correctement pour assurer une protection maximale. Donc,isabel marant chaussures, la meilleure analyse est de regarder 2014. Pour 2014,lunettes gucci soldes, environ 4 millions $ dans une entreprise publique coût de retraite d'entreprise et l'héritage ne sera plus absorbée par la contribution de la Croix accessoire Division.To le décomposer dans nos prévisions pour 2014, nous sommes attendons notre division optique de contribuer environ 114 millions de dollars en chiffre d'affaires et environ 20 M $ de la marge opérationnelle. Y compris les quelque 4 millions de dollars des coûts,sac gucci pas cher, le résultat opérationnel total pour l'ensemble de l'entreprise sera d'environ 16 millions de dollars.

Maintenant, si vous avez des migraines, vous n'êtes pas de chance. Il ya beaucoup de bons médicaments là-bas qui aident vraiment. Ils ne sont pas susceptibles de vous ou de votre compte bancaire guérir, car ils peuvent être très coûteux. Quand elle vous regardait dans les yeux, vous avez eu ce sens qu'elle connaissait et se souciait de vous, que la mère de John avait ainsi. Au début, elle avait de la difficulté. Ce n'était pas nécessairement entre eux.

  Andrew Garfield: Quand il n'est pas en super-héros Spiderman costume rouge et bleu, The Amazing Spider-Man star avait l'air fabuleux dans des vêtements décontractés. Il a souvent été repéré dans des vestes sportives, casquettes de baseball et maigre denim.Ryan Gosling: L'acteur fait le tapis rouge excitant en se présentant en costume de velours,ray ban soldes, chaussures de selle ainsi que des pantalons.

Alors, comment voulez-vous empêcher les cancers de la peau des paupières? C'est à la fois simple et à la mode: porter des lunettes de soleil ronde de l'année. Choisissez des lunettes de soleil qui bloquent 99 à 100% des rayons UVA et UVB et choisir une lentille polarisée à réduire l'éblouissement de la lumière réfléchie sur l'eau, ou la lumière que vous rencontrez lors de la conduite. Et choisissez une taille de lentille suffisante pour protéger les yeux, les paupières et les régions avoisinantes ».

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Jetez un oeil à ces photos que j'ai extraite de la vidéo. J'ai remarqué quelques détails vraiment étranges. Je ne suis pas sûr de savoir comment cela fonctionne dans la plupart des comtés ou des paroisses mais suppléant un civil à agir comme un shérif est une généralement une question grave, surtout si le civil suppléé va porter une arme ..

Cette information privilégiée est également utile pour toucher les groupes qui achètent la voiture,chaussure louboutin, mais en plus petit nombre. Volvo est heureux que les femmes aiment leurs produits,louis vuitton pas cher, en particulier les femmes ayant des enfants qui mettent la sécurité au sommet de leur liste de souhaits automobile. Mais Volvo élargit également la portée ventes aux femmes célibataires qui jugent de sécurité élevé sur leurs listes de courses,isabel marant shop online, malgré ne pas avoir des enfants ..

Bande-annonce de la comédie d'horreur The Revenant. Ce sondage comédie d'horreur intéressante a volé un peu sous le radar, mais vous semble prometteur. Une horreur zombie film / comédie sur copain Joey et son ami vampires Bart qui revient d'entre les morts comme un revenant: un zombie qui doit articuler de boire du sang pour arrêter la décomposition de son corps ..

Doggles et lunettes de soleil de chiens semblables ou des lunettes sont recommandés par Zigler vétérinaire Professional Corporation pour les chiens souffrant de kératite superficielle chronique (pannus). Les professionnels expliquent qu'en raison de ses causes immunitaires liées, les animaux avec la maladie chronique bénéficient grandement de la restriction des rayons UV. Il va de soi qu'il existe d'autres raisons liés à la santé de l'œil pour l'utilisation de lunettes de soleil et des lunettes de chien semblable ..

Accessoiriser un bikini est plus facile que vous pouvez penser. Vous avez juste besoin de choisir les bons accessoires sans eux portaient tous à la fois. Trop peut dominer l'apparence de votre bikini .. Dans la présente étude, les participants qui buvaient plus de trois tasses de café par jour régulière ont eu une réduction de 17% leur risque de développer BCC par rapport à celles qui buvaient moins d'une tasse par mois . La consommation de café a été étudiée chez les 5 groupes: Moins de 1 tasse par mois, 1 tasse par mois à 1 tasse par jour,lunettes Timberland soldes, 1 à 2 tasses par jour, 2 3 tasses par jour et plus de 3 tasses par jour. L'étude prospective de 110 000 professionnels de la santé inclus jusqu'à 24 ans de suivi.

Nous savons tous que notre comportement est une conséquence de la somme de nos expériences. Nous devenons qui étaient sont cause de ce que nous avons appris et que nous avons été. Dans l'étude de cette idéologie, la pression Dr implacable de quilleurs de l'Australie, en particulier Brett Lee, était trop pour l'Angleterre dans une finition pulsatoire à la dernière seconde de la série de VB à Melbourne. Lee a pris trois guichets dans les overs 48e et 50e de nier l'Angleterre après leur objectif de victoire était apparu à portée de main. Australie ont pris la série, avec le dernier tiers à Adelaide maintenant inutile ..

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Les effets à long terme du rayonnement UV comprennent ptérygion,lunettes de soleil vogue, soit une croissance dans le coin de l'œil et pinguecula ou mieux connu comme la conjonctivite, est l'inflammation de la dernière tendance conjunctiva.The est de porter des lunettes de marque à l'air cool et hip. Cependant, il ya d'autres points que vous devez considérer lors de l'achat d'une bonne paire de lunettes de soleil. Toujours certains objectifs, qui sont gris ou de couleur foncée pour bloquer 100% de tous les types de rayons UV.

L'avenir est ici maintenant, avec l'avènement de lunettes vidéo portables très élégantes qui permettent aux utilisateurs de regarder un film ou jouer à leur jeu vidéo préféré sur un écran virtuel de 40 pouces, même lors de vos déplacements comme monter dans un bus, en train ou en parc. Ces lunettes sont légères et agréables à porter et peuvent être connectés à des lecteurs multimédia portables. Ces dispositifs sont des éléments merveilleux à vendre sur votre boutique en ligne pour être sûr de lister gadgets compatibles, des capacités de mémoire et d'autres fonctions que vos acheteurs potentiels voudraient sûrement l'expérience ..

Cependant,isabel marant shop online, comme nous vieillissons et notre peau vieillit, le soleil ultraviolets (UV) devient plus nuisible que bénéfique. Si exposé au soleil, en particulier dans la heures 10 heures-14 heures, la volonté déchirer et bleu, et la guérison prendra plus de temps que d'habitude. Cette condition est connue comme sundamage qui devient alors froissé et décoloré ..

Cela a toujours été un peu de douleur et a donné lieu à des verres couverts en bas âge les traces de doigts. Mais avec mon nouveau clip magnétique sur, c'est encore pire. Parce que l'aîné n'a plus qu'à effleurer mes lunettes de soleil et le clip magnétique se soulève,lunettes de soleil guess, soit pendaison précaire du bord du cadre ou de tomber au sol tout ..

Ceux-ci peuvent être retournées haut en bas avec un simple mouvement du poignet,lunettes de soleil dolce gabbana, ainsi engager et dégager votre musique ne sera pas obtenir de la manière de votre événement sportif. Le Thump est daigné pour les sports à impact élevé, de sorte que vous pouvez être sûr qu'ils vont rester sur place sur votre tête et sont sûrs de porter pour la plupart des sports. Le Thump est même livré avec un câble USB portable afin que vous pouvez brancher à votre PC ou Mac.

Lunettes de soleil polarisées absorbent l'éblouissement réfléchi et passer la lumière utile à vos yeux si vous voyez plus de poissons et de la structure sous la surface. La vérité est que j'utilise des lunettes de soleil Ray Ban polariser ils sont cher mais ça vaut le coût supplémentaire pour moi,tod's soldes. Assurez-vous que vous utilisez des bandes de glisser sur les lunettes de soleil de sorte que vous ne perdrez pas par-dessus bord ..

Le tir est un autre intérêt, qu'il a développé à l'âge de 15 ans. Un détenteur du record national dans le tir au pigeon d'argile, il a également empoché une médaille d'or en cas de ball-trap de l'équipe pour l'Inde au Championnat de tournage Open de Singapour en 2007. Remise en forme physique et la prise de vue ne nécessairement aller de pair et nous avons un bon nombre de tireurs qui pourrait faire avec plusieurs kilos de moins.

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Tout le monde, même Steve Ballmer, connaît l'informatique personnelle,ghd pas cher, la pierre angulaire de son écosystème se déplace vers des appareils portables légers,lunettes armani pas cher, élégants qui pèsent onces, non livres. Michael Dell n'a pas pu construire une seule et n'a ni Microsoft. Les deux ont vu ce qui allait arriver, mais ne pouvait pas produire un produit que tout le monde voulait.

C'est ce que j'appelle bling bling! quelqu'un derrière moi dit. Il est vrai; J'ai vu beaucoup d'Israéliens se pavaner leurs étoiles sur la route du camp, portant leurs chaînes comme les rappeurs, si celui-ci était le plus accrocheur. Vous un dur? Je silencieusement demandé au gamin maigre avec la star scandaleux.

Horaires d'ouverture: tous les jours,nike pas cher, 12 heures et 19 heures 14:30 lanternes 11pmWinking et les meilleurs musiciens classiques arabes de Marrakech mettre dans l'ambiance, mais c'est le menu qui vous fait vraiment tomber en amour ici. Spécialités traditionnelles réconfortantes comme la cuisine berbère avec de la citrouille sont lents cuits à la perfection caramélisé,lunettes julbo pas cher, et inspirés des inventions comme le safran infusé agneau à l'orange raviveront votre romance avec tajines après les versions étriqués souk. Revenez demain pour apprendre les secrets de la dada (chef), suivis par un interne hammam lacé avec des herbes et des épices.

Vous n'avez tout simplement pas mourir tout de suite, il ya cette mort très lente et chacun est différent. Vous n'êtes pas tous ensemble. Chacun d'entre nous aura très faim parce que tout sera détruit. IFTN peut également révéler en exclusivité la troisième saison sera de déplacer la production de Redhall immobilier la semaine prochaine, une maison de campagne privée située à Carrickfergus Antrim. Production se déplacera ensuite à la réserve naturelle pondage Quoile à Downpatrick, qui est situé de chaque côté de la rivière Quoile. Les concepteurs de décors sont en train de construire une jetée pour ces scènes, qui a été décrit comme «assez délicat et aller dur, comme un bateau de la lumière sera utilisé pour les scènes ..

Il aide le portefeuille. L'argent sain et l'épargne. Maintenant, ce sont deux choses qui plairaient beaucoup de mamans .. euphémismes de l'événement en fonction bénéficient généralement l'espérance de vie d'une mouche à fruit. La plupart meurent avec la mémoire de ceux qui l'entourent à leur création, sinon plus tôt. Seuls les vieux de la vieille savent pourquoi un pet était autrefois connu comme un une heure en Australie (car avant la Seconde Guerre mondiale, un canon a été tiré à ce moment de la journée de Fort Denison dans le port de Sydney,lunettes de soleil Ralph Lauren, une pratique qui n'a pas repris pour près de la moitié un siècle).

Personnes rencontrées ont Round joues pleines et les lunettes de soleil qu'ils portent doivent faire leurs fromages air maigre et étroit. Un visage rond nécessite nuances qui définiront leurs caractéristiques un peu plus, comme faire les joues semblent plus ou les yeux semblent plus écartés. Guidez-les pour essayer des styles de cadre étroites ou angulaires .

CB.TheHellboundHeart

　　I long to talk with some old lover's ghost
　　Who died before the god of Love was born.
　　- John Donne, Love's Deitie
　　

ONE
　　
　　So intent was Frank upon solving the puzzle of Lemarchand's box that he didn't hear the great bell begin to ring. The device had been constructed by a master craftsman, and the riddle was this-that though he'd been told the box contained wonders, there simply seemed to be no way into it, no clue on any of its six black lacquered faces as to the whereabouts of the pressure points that would disengage one piece of this three-dimensional jigsaw from another.
　　Frank had seen similar puzzles-mostly in Hong Kong, products of the Chinese taste for making metaphysics of hard wood-but to the acuity and technical genius of the Chinese the Frenchman had brought a perverse logic that was entirely his own. If there was a system to the puzzle, Frank had failed to find it. Only after several hours of trial and error did a chance juxtaposition of thumbs, middle and last fingers bear fruit: an almost imperceptible click, and then-victory! - a segment of the box slid out from beside its neighbors.
　　There were two revelations.
　　The first, that the interior surfaces were brilliantly polished. Frank's reflection-distorted, fragmented-skated across the lacquer. The second, that Lemarchand, who had been in his time a maker of singing birds, had constructed the box so that opening it tripped a musical mechanism, which began to tinkle a short rondo of sublime banality.
　　Encouraged by his success, Frank proceeded to work on the box feverishly, quickly finding fresh alignments of fluted slot and oiled peg which in their turn revealed further intricacies. And with each solution-each new half twist or pull-a further melodic element was brought into play-the tune counterpointed and developed until the initial caprice was all but lost in ornamentation.
　　At some point in his labors, the bell had begun to ring-a steady somber tolling. He had not heard, at least not consciously. But when the puzzle was almost finished-the mirrored innards of the box unknotted-he became aware that his stomach churned so violently at the sound of the bell it might have been ringing half a lifetime.
　　He looked up from his work. For a few moments he supposed the noise to be coming from somewhere in the street outside-but he rapidly dismissed that notion. It had been almost midnight before he'd begun to work at the birdmaker's box; several hours had gone by-hours he would not have remembered passing but for the evidence of his watch-since then. There was no church in the city-however desperate for adherents-that would ring a summoning bell at such an hour.
　　No. The sound was coming from somewhere much more distant, through the very door (as yet invisible) that Lemarchand's miraculous box had been constructed to open. Everything that Kircher, who had sold him the box, had promised of it was true! He was on the threshold of a new world, a province infinitely far from the room in which he sat.
　　Infinitely far; yet now, suddenly near.
　　The thought had made his breath quick. He had anticipated this moment so keenly, planned with every wit he possessed this rending of the veil. In moments they would be here-the ones Kircher had called the Cenobites, theologians of the Order of the Gash. Summoned from their experiments in the higher reaches of pleasure, to bring their ageless heads into a world of rain and failure.
　　He had worked ceaselessly in the preceding week to prepare the room for them. The bare boards had been meticulously scrubbed and strewn with petals. Upon the west wall he had set up a kind of altar to them, decorated with the kind of placatory offerings Kircher had assured him would nurture their good offices: bones, bonbons, needles. A jug of his urine-the product of seven days' collection-stood on the left of the altar, should they require some spontaneous gesture of self-defilement. On the right, a plate of doves' heads, which Kircher had also advised him to have on hand.
　　He had left no part of the invocation ritual unobserved. No cardinal, eager for the fisherman's shoes, could have been more diligent.
　　But now, as the sound of the bell became louder, drowning out the music box, he was afraid.
　　Too late, he murmured to himself, hoping to quell his rising fear. Lemarchand's device was undone; the final trick had been turned. There was no time left for prevarication or regret. Besides, hadn't he risked both life and sanity to make this unveiling possible? The doorway was even now opening to pleasures no more than a handful of humans had ever known existed, much less tasted-pleasures which would redefine the parameters of sensation, which would release him from the dull round of desire, seduction and disappointment that had dogged him from late adolescence. He would be transformed by that knowledge, wouldn't he? No man could experience the profundity of such feeling and remain unchanged.
　　The bare bulb in the middle of the room dimmed and brightened, brightened and dimmed again. It had taken on the rhythm of the bell, burning its hottest on each chime. In the troughs between the chimes the darkness in the room became utter; it was as if the world he had occupied for twenty-nine years had ceased to exist. Then the bell would sound again, and the bulb burn so strongly it might never have faltered, and for a few precious seconds he was standing in a familiar place, with a door that led out and down and into the street, and a window through which-had he but the will (or strength) to tear the blinds back-he might glimpse a rumor of morning.
　　With each peal the bulb's light was becoming more revelatory. By it, he saw the east wall flayed; saw the brick momentarily lose solidity and blow away; saw, in that same instant, the place beyond the room from which the bell's din was issuing. A world of birds was it? Vast black birds caught in perpetual tempest? That was all the sense be could make of the province from which-even now-the hierophants were coming-that it was in confusion, and full of brittle, broken things that rose and fell and filled the dark air with their fright.
　　And then the wall was solid again, and the bell fell silent. The bulb flickered out. This time it went without a hope of rekindling.
　　He stood in the darkness, and said nothing. Even if he could remember the words of welcome he'd prepared, his tongue would not have spoken them. It was playing dead in his mouth.
　　And then, light.
　　It came from them: from the quartet of Cenobites who now, with the wall sealed behind them, occupied the room. A fitful phosphorescence, like the glow of deep-sea fishes: blue, cold, charmless. It struck Frank that he had never once wondered what they would look like. His imagination, though fertile when it came to trickery and theft, was impoverished in other regards. The skill to picture these eminences was beyond him, so he had not even tried.
　　Why then was he so distressed to set eyes upon them? Was it the scars that covered every inch of their bodies, the flesh cosmetically punctured and sliced and infibulated, then dusted down with ash? Was it the smell of vanilla they brought with them, the sweetness of which did little to disguise the stench beneath? Or was it that as the light grew, and he scanned them more closely, he saw nothing of joy, or even humanity, in their maimed faces: only desperation, and an appetite that made his bowels ache to be voided.
　　"What city is this?" one of the four enquired. Frank had difficulty guessing the speaker's gender with any certainty. Its clothes, some of which were sewn to and through its skin, hid its private parts, and there was nothing in the dregs of its voice, or in its willfully disfigured features that offered the least clue. When it spoke, the hooks that transfixed the flaps of its eyes and were wed, by an intricate system of chains passed through flesh and bone alike, to similar hooks through the lower lip, were teased by the motion, exposing the glistening meat beneath.
　　"I asked you a question," it said. Frank made no reply. The name of this city was the last thing on his mind.
　　"Do you understand?" the figure beside the first speaker demanded. Its voice, unlike that of its companion, was light and breathy-the voice of an excited girl. Every inch of its head had been tattooed with an intricate grid, and at every intersection of horizontal and vertical axes a jeweled pin driven through to the bone. Its tongue was similarly decorated. "Do you even know who we are?" it asked.`
　　"Yes." Frank said at last. "I know."
　　Of course he knew; he and Kircher had spent long nights talking of hints gleaned from the diaries of Bolingbroke and Gilles de Rais.
　　All that mankind knew of the Order of the Gash, he knew.
　　And yet...he had expected something different. Expected some sign of the numberless splendors they had access to. He had thought they would come with women, at least; oiled women, milked women; women shaved and muscled for the act of love: their lips perfumed, their thighs trembling to spread, their buttocks weighty, the way he liked them. He had expected sighs, and languid bodies spread on the floor underfoot like a living carpet; had expected virgin whores whose every crevice was his for the asking and whose skills would press him-upward, upward-to undreamed-of ecstasies. The world would be forgotten in their arms. He would be exalted by his lust, instead of despised for it.
　　But no. No women, no sighs. Only these sexless things, with their corrugated flesh.
　　Now the third spoke. Its features were so heavily scarified-the wounds nurtured until they ballooned-that its eyes were invisible and its words corrupted by the disfigurement of its mouth.
　　"What do you want?" it asked him.
　　He perused this questioner more confidently than he had the other two. His fear was draining away with every second that passed. Memories of the terrifying place beyond the wall were already receding. He was left with these decrepit decadents, with their stench, their queer deformity, their self-evident frailty. The only thing he had to fear was nausea.
　　"Kircher told me there would be five of you," Frank said.
　　"The Engineer will arrive should the moment merit," came the reply. "Now again, we ask you: What do you want."
　　Why should he not answer them straight? "Pleasure," he replied. "Kircher said you know about pleasure."
　　"Oh we do," said the first of them. "Everything you ever wanted."
　　"Yes?"
　　"Of course. Of course." It stared at him with its all-too-naked eyes. "What have you dreamed?" it said.
　　The question, put so baldly, confounded him. How could he hope to articulate the nature of the phantasms his libido had created? He was still searching for words when one of them said:
　　"This world...it disappoints you?"
　　"Pretty much," he replied.
　　"You're not the first to tire of its trivialities," came the response. "There have been others."
　　"Not many," the gridded face put in.
　　"True. A handful at best. But a few have dared to use Lemarchand's Configuration. Men like yourself, hungry for new possibilities, who've heard that we have skills unknown in your region."
　　"I'd expected-" Frank began.
　　"We know what you expected," the Cenobite replied. "We understand to its breadth and depth the nature of your frenzy. It is utterly familiar to us."
　　Frank grunted. "So," he said, "you know what I've dreamed about. You can supply the pleasure."
　　The thing's face broke open, its lips curling back: a baboon's smile. "Not as you understand it," came the reply.
　　Frank made to interrupt, but the creature raised a silencing hand.
　　"There are conditions of the nerve endings," it said, "the like of which your imagination, however fevered, could not hope to evoke."
　　"...yes."
　　"Oh yes. Oh most certainly. Your most treasured depravity is child's play beside the experiences we offer."
　　"Will you partake of them?" said the second Cenobite.
　　Frank looked at the scars and the hooks. Again, his tongue was deficient.
　　"Will you?"
　　Outside, somewhere near, the world would soon be waking. He had watched it wake from the window of this very room, day after day, stirring itself to another round of fruitless pursuits, and he'd known, known, that there was nothing left out there to excite him. No heat, only sweat. No passion, only sudden lust, and just as sudden indifference. He had turned his back on such dissatisfaction. If in doing so he had to interpret the signs these creatures brought him, then that was the price of ambition. He was ready to pay it.
　　"Show me," he said.
　　"There's no going back. You do understand that?"
　　"Show me. "
　　They needed no further invitation to raise the curtain. He heard the door creak as it was opened, and turned to see that the world beyond the threshold had disappeared, to be replaced by the same panic-filled darkness from which the members of the Order had stepped. He looked back towards the Cenobites, seeking some explanation for this. But they'd disappeared. Their passing had not gone unrecorded however. They'd taken the flowers with them, leaving only bare boards, and on the wall the offerings he had assembled were blackening, as if in the heat of some fierce but invisible flame. He smelled the bitterness of their consumption; it pricked his nostrils so acutely he was certain they would bleed.
　　But the smell of burning was only the beginning. No sooner had he registered it than half a dozen other scents filled his head. Perfumes he had scarcely noticed until now were suddenly overpoweringly strong. The lingering scent of filched blossoms; the smell of the paint on the ceiling and the sap in the wood beneath his feet-all filled his head. He could even smell the darkness outside the door, and in it, the ordure of a hundred thousand birds.
　　He put his hand to his mouth and nose, to stop the onslaught from overcoming him, but the stench of perspiration on his fingers made him giddy. He might have been driven to nausea had there not been fresh sensations flooding his system from each nerve ending and taste bud.
　　It seemed he could suddenly feel the collision of the dust motes with his skin. Every drawn breath chafed his lips; every blink, his eyes. Bile burned in the back of his throat, and a morsel of yesterday's beef that had lodged between his teeth sent spasms through his system as it exuded a droplet of gravy upon his tongue.
　　His ears were no less sensitive. His head was filled with a thousand dins, some of which he himself was father to. The air that broke against his eardrums was a hurricane; the flatulence in his bowels was thunder. But there were other sounds-innumerable sounds-which assailed him from somewhere beyond himself. Voices raised in anger, whispered professions of love, roars and rattlings, snatches of song, tears.
　　Was it the world he was hearing-morning breaking in a thousand homes? He had no chance to listen closely; the cacophony drove any power of analysis from his head.
　　But there was worse. The eyes! Oh god in heaven, he had never guessed that they could be such torment; he, who'd thought there was nothing on earth left to startle him. Now he reeled! Everywhere, sight!
　　The plain plaster of the ceiling was an awesome geography of brush strokes. The weave of his plain shirt an unbearable elaboration of threads. In the corner he saw a mite move on a dead dove's head, and wink its eyes at him, seeing that he saw. Too much! Too much!
　　Appalled, he shut his eyes. But there was more inside than out; memories whose violence shook him to the verge of senselessness. He sucked his mother's milk, and choked; felt his sibling's arms around him (a fight, was it, or a brotherly embrace? Either way, it suffocated). And more; so much more. A short lifetime of sensations, all writ in a perfect hand upon his cortex, and breaking him with their insistence that they be remembered.
　　He felt close to exploding. Surely the world outside his head-the room, and the birds beyond the door-they, for all their shrieking excesses, could not be as overwhelming as his memories. Better that, he thought, and tried to open his eyes. But they wouldn't unglue. Tears or pus or needle and thread had sealed them up.
　　He thought of the faces of the Cenobites: the hooks, the chains. Had they worked some similar surgery upon him, locking him up behind his eyes with the parade of his history?
　　In fear for his sanity, he began to address them, though he was no longer certain that they were even within earshot.
　　"Why?" he asked. "Why are you doing this to me?"
　　The echo of his words roared in his ears, but he scarcely attended to it. More sense impressions were swimming up from the past to torment him. Childhood still lingered on his tongue (milk and frustration) but there were adult feelings joining it now. He was grown! He was mustached and mighty, hands heavy, gut large.
　　Youthful pleasures had possessed the appeal of newness, but as the years had crept on, and mild sensation lost its potency, stronger and stronger experiences had been called for. And here they came again, more pungent for being laid in the darkness at the back of his bead.
　　He felt untold tastes upon his tongue: bitter, sweet, sour, salty; smelled spice and shit and his mother's hair; saw cities and skies; saw speed, saw deeps; broke bread with men now dead and was scalded by the heat of their spittle on his cheek.
　　And of course there were women.
　　Always, amid the flurry and confusion, memories of women appeared, assaulting him with their scents, their textures, their tastes.
　　The proximity of this harem aroused him, despite circumstances. He opened his trousers and caressed his cock, more eager to have the seed spilled and so be freed of these creatures than for the pleasure of it.
　　He was dimly aware, as he worked his inches, that he must make a pitiful sight: a blind man in an empty room, aroused for a dream's sake. But the wracking, joyless orgasm failed to even slow the relentless display. His knees buckled, and his body collapsed to the boards where his spunk had fallen. There was a spasm of pain as he hit the floor, but the response was washed away before another wave of memories.
　　He rolled onto his back, and screamed; screamed and begged for an end to it, but the sensations only rose higher still, whipped to fresh heights with every prayer for cessation he offered up.
　　The pleas became a single sound, words and sense eclipsed by panic. It seemed there was no end to this, but madness. No hope but to be lost to hope.
　　As he formulated this last, despairing thought, the torment stopped.
　　All at once; all of it. Gone. Sight, sound, touch, taste, smell. He was abruptly bereft of them all. There were seconds then, when he doubted his very existence. Two heartbeats, three, four.
　　On the fifth beat, he opened his eyes. The room was empty, the doves and the piss-pot gone. The door was closed.
　　Gingerly, he sat up. His limbs were tingling; his head, wrist, and bladder ached.
　　And then-a movement at the other end of the room drew his attention.
　　Where, two moments before, there had been an empty space, there was now a figure. It was the fourth Cenobite, the one that had never spoken, nor shown its face. Not a he now saw: but she. The hood it had worn had been discarded, as had the robes. The woman beneath was gray yet gleaming, her lips bloody, her legs parted so that the elaborate scarification of her pubis was displayed. She sat on a pile of rotting human heads, and smiled in welcome.
　　The collision of sensuality and death appalled him. Could he have any doubt that she had personally dispatched these victims? Their rot was beneath her nails, and their tongues-twenty or more-lay out in ranks on her oiled thighs, as if awaiting entrance. Nor did he doubt that the brains now seeping from their ears and nostrils had been driven to insanity before a blow or a kiss had stopped their hearts.
　　Kircher had lied to him-either that or he'd been horribly deceived. There was no pleasure in the air; or at least not as humankind understood it.
　　He had made a mistake opening Lemarchand's box. A very terrible mistake.
　　"Oh, so you've finished dreaming," said the Cenobite, perusing him as he lay panting on the bare boards. "Good."
　　She stood up. The tongues fell to the floor, like a rain of slugs.
　　"Now we can begin," she said.
　　

TWO
　　
　　1
　　"It's not quite what I expected," Julia commented as they stood in the hallway. It was twilight; a cold day in August. Not the ideal time to view a house that had been left empty for so long.
　　"It needs work," Rory said. "That's all. It's not been touched since my grandmother died. That's the best part of three years. And I'm pretty sure she never did anything to it towards the end of her life."
　　"And it's yours?"
　　"Mine and Frank's. It was willed to us both. But when was the last time anybody saw big brother?"
　　She shrugged, as if she couldn't remember, though she remembered very well. A week before the wedding.
　　"Someone said he spent a few days here last summer. Rutting away, no doubt. Then he was off again. He's got no interest in property."
　　"But suppose we move in, and then he comes back, wants what's his?"
　　"I'll buy him out. I'll get a loan from the bank and buy him out. He's always hard up for cash."
　　She nodded, but looked less than persuaded.
　　"Don't worry," he said, going to where she was standing and wrapping his arms around her. "The place is ours, doll. We can paint it and pamper it and make it like heaven."
　　He scanned her face. Sometimes-particularly when doubt moved her, as it did nowher beauty came close to frightening him.
　　"Trust me," he said.
　　"I do."
　　"All right then. What say we start moving in on Sunday?"
　　
　　2
　　Sunday.
　　It was still the Lord's Day up this end of the city. Even if the owners of these well-dressed houses and-well-pressed children were no longer believers, they still observed the sabbath. A few curtains were twitched aside when Lewton's van drew up, and the unloading began; some curious neighbors even sauntered past the house once or twice, on the pretext of walking the hounds; but nobody spoke to the new arrivals, much less offered a hand with the furniture. Sunday was not a day to break sweat.
　　Julia looked after the unpacking, while Rory organized the unloading of the van, with Lewton and Mad Bob providing the extra muscle. It took four round-trips to transfer the bulk of the stuff from Alexandra Road, and at the end of the day there was still a good deal of bric-a-brac left behind, to be collected at a later point.
　　About two in the afternoon, Kirsty turned up on the doorstep.
　　"Came to see if I could give you a hand," she said, with a tone of vague apology in her voice.
　　"Well, you'd better come in," Julia said.
　　She went back into the front room, which was a battlefield in which only chaos was winning, and quietly cursed Rory. Inviting the lost soul round to offer her services was his doing, no doubt of it. She would be more of a hindrance than a help; her dreamy, perpetually defeated manner set Julia's teeth on edge.
　　"What can I do?" Kirsty asked. "Rory said-"
　　"Yes," said Julia. "I'm sure he did."
　　"Where is he? Rory, I mean."
　　"Gone back for another vanload, to add to the misery."
　　"Oh."
　　Julia softened her expression. "You know it's very sweet of you," she said, "to come round like this, but I don't think there's much you can do just at the moment."
　　Kirsty flushed slightly. Dreamy she was, but not stupid.
　　"I see," she said. "Are you sure? Can't...I mean, maybe I could make a cup of coffee for you?"
　　"Coffee," said Julia. The thought of it made her realize just how parched her throat had become. "Yes," she conceded. "That's not a bad idea."
　　The coffeemaking was not without its minor traumas. No task Kirsty undertook was ever entirely simple. She stood in the kitchen, boiling water in a pan it had taken a quarter of an hour to find, thinking that maybe she shouldn't have come after all. Julia always looked at her so strangely, as if faintly baffled by the fact that she hadn't been smothered at birth. No matter. Rory had asked her to come, hadn't he? And that was invitation enough. She would not have turned down the chance of his smile for a hundred Julias.
　　The van arrived twenty-five minutes later, minutes in which the women had twice attempted, and twice failed, to get a conversation simmering. They had little in common. Julia the sweet, the beautiful, the winner of glances and kisses, and Kirsty the girl with the pale handshake, whose eyes were only ever as bright as Julia's before or after tears. She had long ago decided that life was unfair. But why, when she'd accepted that bitter truth, did circumstance insist on rubbing her face in it?
　　She surreptitiously watched Julia as she worked, and it seemed to Kirsty that the woman was incapable of ugliness. Every gesture-a stray hair brushed from the eyes with the back of the hand, dust blown from a favorite cup-all were infused with such effortless grace. Seeing it, she understood Rory's doglike adulation, and understanding it, despaired afresh.
　　He came in, at last, squinting and sweaty. The afternoon sun was fierce. He grinned at her, parading the ragged line of his front teeth that she had first found so irresistible.
　　"I'm glad you could come," he said.
　　"Happy to help-" she replied, but he had already looked away, at Julia.
　　"How's it going?"
　　"I'm losing my mind," she told him.
　　"Well, now you can rest from your labors," he said. "We brought the bed this trip." He gave her a conspiratorial wink, but she didn't respond.
　　"Can I help with unloading?" Kirsty offered.
　　"Lewton and M.B. are doing it," came Rory's reply.
　　"Oh."
　　"But I'd give an arm and a leg for a cup of tea."
　　"We haven't found the tea," Julia told him.
　　"Oh. Maybe a coffee, then?"
　　"Right," said Kirsty. "And for the other two?"
　　"They'd kill for a cup."
　　Kirsty went back to the kitchen, filled the small pan to near brimming, and set it back on the stove. From the hallway she heard Rory supervising the next unloading.
　　It was the bed, the bridal bed. Though she tried very hard to keep the thought of his embracing Julia out of her mind, she could not. As she stared into the water, and it simmered and steamed and finally boiled, the same painful images of their pleasure came back and back.
　　
　　3
　　While the trio were away, gathering the fourth and final load of the day, Julia lost her temper with the unpacking. It was a disaster, she said; everything had been parceled up and put into the tea chests in the wrong order. She was having to disinter perfectly useless items to get access to the bare necessities.
　　Kirsty kept her silence, and her place in the kitchen, washing the soiled cups.
　　Cursing louder, Julia left the chaos and went out for a cigarette on the front step. She leaned against the open door, and breathed the pollen-gilded air. Already, though it was only the twenty-first of August, the afternoon was tinged with a smoky scent that heralded autumn.
　　She had lost track of how fast the day had gone, for as she stood there a bell began to ring for Evensong: the run of chimes rising and falling in lazy waves. The sound was reassuring. It made her think of her childhood, though not-that she could remember-of any particular day or place. Simply of being young, of mystery.
　　It was four years since she'd last stepped into a church: the day of her marriage to Rory, in fact. The thought of that day-or rather, of the promise it had failed to fulfill-soured the moment. She left the step, the chimes in full flight, and turned back into the house. After the touch of the sun on her upturned face, the interior seemed gloomy. Suddenly she tired to the point of tears.
　　They would have to assemble the bed before they could put their heads down to sleep tonight, and they had yet to decide which room they would use as the master bedroom. She would do that now, she elected, and so avoid having to return to the front room, and to ever-mournful Kirsty.
　　The bell was still pealing when she opened the door of the front room on the second floor. It was the largest of the three upper rooms-a natural choice-but the sun had not got in today (or any other day this summer) because the blinds were drawn across the window. The room was consequently chillier than anywhere else in the house; the air stagnant. She crossed the stained floorboards to the window, intending to remove the blind.
　　At the sill, a strange thing. The blind had been securely nailed to the window frame, effectively cutting out the least intrusion of life from the sunlit street beyond. She tried to pull the material free, but failed. The workman, whoever he'd been, had done a thorough job.
　　No matter; she'd have Rory take a claw hammer to the nails when he got back. She turned from the window, and as she did so she was suddenly and forcibly aware that the bell was still summoning the faithful. Were they not coming tonight? Was the hook not sufficiently baited with promises of paradise? The thought was only half alive; it withered in moments. But the bell rolled on, reverberating around the room. Her limbs, already aching with fatigue, seemed dragged down further by each peal. Her head throbbed intolerably.
　　The room was hateful, she'd decided; it was stale, and its benighted walls clammy. Despite its size, she would not let Rory persuade her into using it as the master bedroom. Let it rot.
　　She started toward the door, but as she came within a yard of it, the corners of the room seemed to creak, and the door slammed. Her nerves jangled. It was all she could do to prevent herself from sobbing.
　　Instead she simply said, "Go to hell," and snatched at the handle. It turned easily (why should it not? yet she was relieved) and the door swung open. From the hall below, a splash of warmth and ocher light.
　　She closed the door behind her and, with a queer satisfaction the root of which she couldn't or wouldn't fathom turned the key in the lock.
　　As she did so, the bell stopped.
　　
　　4
　　"But it's the biggest of the rooms..."
　　"I don't like it, Rory. It's damp. We can use the back room."
　　"If we can get the bloody bed through the door."
　　"Of course we can. You know we can."
　　"Seems a waste of a good room," he protested, knowing full well that this was a fait accompli.
　　"Mother knows best," she told him, and smiled at him with eyes whose luster was far from maternal.
　　

THREE
　　
　　1
　　The seasons long for each other, like men and women, in order that they may be cured of their excesses.
　　Spring, if it lingers more than a week beyond its span, starts to hunger for summer to end the days of perpetual promise. Summer in its turn soon begins to sweat for something to quench its heat, and the mellowest of autumns will tire of gentility at last, and ache for a quick sharp frost to kill its fruitfulness.
　　Even winter-the hardest season, the most implacable-dreams, as February creeps on, of the flame that will presently melt it away. Everything tires with time, and starts to seek some opposition, to save it from itself.
　　So August gave way to September and there were few complaints.
　　
　　2
　　With work, the house on Lodovico Street began to look more hospitable. There were even visits from neighbors, who-after sizing up the couple-spoke freely of how happy they were to have number fifty-five occupied again. Only one of them made any mention of Frank, referring in passing to the odd fellow who'd lived in the house for a few weeks the previous summer. There was a moment of embarrassment when Rory revealed the tenant to have been his brother, but it was soon glossed over by Julia, whose power to charm knew no bounds.
　　Rory had seldom made mention of Frank during the years of his marriage to Julia, though he and his brother were only eighteen months apart in age, and had, as children, been inseparable. This Julia had learned on an occasion of drunken reminiscing-a month or two before the wedding-when Rory had spoken at length about Frank. It had been melancholy talk. The brothers' paths had diverged considerably once they'd passed through adolescence, and Rory regretted it. Regretted still more the pain Frank's wild life-style had brought to their parents. It seemed that when Frank appeared, once in a blue moon, from whichever corner of the globe he was presently laying waste, he only brought grief. His tales of adventures in the shallows of criminality, his talk of whores and petty theft, all appalled their parents. But there had been worse, or so Rory had said. In his wilder moments Frank had talked of a life lived in delirium, of an appetite for experience that conceded no moral imperative.
　　Was it the tone of Rory's telling, a mixture of revulsion and envy, that had so piqued Julia's curiosity? Whatever the reason, she had been quickly seized by an unquenchable curiosity concerning this madman.
　　Then, barely a fortnight before the wedding, the black sheep had appeared in the flesh. Things had gone well for him of late. He was wearing gold rings on his fingers, and his skin was tight and tanned. There was little outward sign of the monster Rory had described. Brother Frank was smooth as a polished stone. She had succumbed to his charm within hours.
　　A strange time ensued. As the days crept toward the date of the wedding she found herself thinking less and less of her husband-to-be, and more and more of his brother. They were not wholly dissimilar; a certain lilt in their voices, and their easy manner, marked them as siblings. But to Rory's qualities Frank brought something his brother would never have: a beautiful desperation.
　　Perhaps what had happened next had been inevitable; and no matter how hard she'd fought her instincts, she would only have postponed the consummation of their feelings for each other. At least that was how she tried to excuse herself later. But when all the self-recrimination was done with, she still treasured the memory of their first-and last-encounter.
　　Kirsty had been at the house, hadn't she?, on some matrimonial business, when Frank had arrived. But by that telepathy that comes with desire (and fades with it) Julia had known that today was the day. She'd left Kirsty to her listmaking or suchlike, and taken Frank upstairs on the pretext of showing him the wedding dress. That was how she remembered it-that he'd asked to see the dress-and she'd put the veil on, laughing to think of herself in white, and then he'd been at her shoulder, lifting the veil, and she'd laughed on, laughed and laughed, as though to test the strength of his purpose. He had not been cooled by her mirth however; nor had he wasted time with the niceties of a seduction. The smooth exterior gave way to cruder stuff almost immediately. Their coupling had had in every regard but the matter of her acquiescence, all the aggression and the joylessness of rape.
　　Memory sweetened events of course, and in the four years (and five months) since that afternoon, she'd replayed the scene often. Now, in remembering it, the bruises were trophies of their passion, her tears proof positive of her feelings for him.
　　The day following, he'd disappeared. Flitted off to Bangkok or Easter Island, some place where he had no debts to answer. She'd mourned him, couldn't help it. Nor had her mourning gone unnoticed. Though it was never explicitly discussed, she had often wondered if the subsequent deterioration of her relationship with Rory had not started there: with her thinking of Frank as she made love to his brother.
　　And now? Now, despite the change of domestic interiors, and the chance of a fresh start together, it seemed that events conspired to remind her again of Frank.
　　It wasn't just the gossip of the neighbors that brought him to mind. One day, when she was alone in the house and unpacking various personal belongings, she came across several wallets of Rory's photographs. Many were relatively recent: pictures of the two of them together in Athens and Malta. But buried amongst the transparent smiles were some pictures she couldn't remember ever having seen before (had Rory kept them from her?); family portraits that went back decades. A photograph of his parents on their wedding day, the black and white image eroded over the years to a series of grays. Pictures of christenings, in which proud godparents cradled babies smothered in the family lace.
　　And then, photographs of the brothers together; as toddlers, with wide eyes; as surly schoolchildren, snapped at gymnastic displays and in school pageants. Then, as the shyness of acne-ridden adolescence took over, the number of pictures dwindled-until the frogs emerged, as princes, the other side of puberty.
　　Seeing Frank in brilliant color, clowning for the camera, she felt herself blushing. He had been an exhibitionist youth, predictably enough, always dressed d la mode. Rory, by comparison, looked dowdy. It seemed to her that the brothers' future lives were sketched in these early portraits. Frank the smiling, seductive chameleon; Rory the solid citizen.
　　She had packed the pictures away at last, and found, when she stood up, that with the blushes had come tears. Not of regret. She had no use for that. It was fury that made her eyes sting. Somehow, between one breath and the next, she'd lost herself.
　　She knew too, with perfect certainty, when her grip had first faltered. Lying on a bed of wedding lace, while Frank beset her neck with kisses.
　　
　　3
　　Once in a while she went up to the room with the sealed blinds.
　　So far, they'd done little decorating work on the upper floors, preferring to first organize the areas in public gaze. The room had therefore remained untouched. Unentered, indeed, except for these few visits of hers.
　　She wasn't sure why she went up, nor how to account for the odd assortment of feelings that beset her while there. But there was something about the dark interior that gave her comfort; it was a womb of sorts, a dead woman's womb. Sometimes, when Rory was at work, she simply took herself up the stairs and sat in the stillness, thinking of nothing; or at least nothing she could put words to.
　　These sojourns made her feel oddly guilty, and she tried to stay away from the room when Rory was around. But it wasn't always possible. Sometimes her feet took her there without instruction to do so.
　　It happened thus that Saturday, the day of the blood.
　　She had been watching Rory at work on the kitchen door, chiseling several layers of paint from around the hinges, when she seemed to hear the room call. Satisfied that he was thoroughly engrossed in his chores, she went upstairs.
　　It was cooler than usual, and she was glad of it. She put her hand to the wall, and then transferred her chilled palm to her forehead.
　　"No use," she murmured to herself, picturing the man at work downstairs. She didn't love him; no more than he, beneath his infatuation with her face, loved her. He chiseled in a world of his own; she suffered here, far removed from him.
　　A gust of wind caught the back door below. She heard it slam.
　　Downstairs, the sound made Rory lose his concentration. The chisel jumped its groove and sliced deeply into the thumb of his left hand. He shouted, as a gush of color came. The chisel hit the floor.
　　"Hell and damnation!"
　　She heard, but did nothing. Too late, she surfaced through a stupor of melancholy to realize that he was coming upstairs. Fumbling for the key, and an excuse to justify her presence in the room, she stood up, but he was already at the door, crossing the threshold, rushing toward her, his right hand clamped ineptly around his left. Blood was coming in abundance. It welled up between his fingers and dribbled down his arm, dripping from his elbow, adding stain to stain on the bare boards.
　　"What have you done?" she asked him.
　　"What does it look like?" he said through gritted teeth. "Cut myself."
　　His face and neck had gone the color of window putty. She'd seen him like this before; he had on occasion passed out at the sight of his own blood.
　　"Do something," he said queasily.
　　"Is it deep?"
　　"I don't know!" he yelled at her. "I don't want to look."
　　He was ridiculous, she thought, but this wasn't the time to give vent to the contempt she felt. Instead she took his bloody hand in hers and, while he looked away, prized the palm from the cut. It was sizable, and still bleeding profusely. Deep blood, dark blood.
　　"I think we'd better take you off to the hospital," she told him.
　　"Can you cover it up?" he asked, his voice devoid of anger now.
　　"Sure. I'll get a clean binding. Come on-"
　　"No," he said, shaking his ashen face. "If I take a step, I think I'll pass out."
　　"Stay here then," she soothed him. "You'll be fine."
　　Finding no bandages in the bathroom cabinet the equal of the staunching, she fetched a few clean handkerchiefs from his drawer and went back into the room. He was leaning against the wall now, his skin glossy with sweat. He had padded in the blood he'd shed; she could taste the tang of it in the air.
　　Still quietly reassuring him that he wouldn't die of a two-inch cut, she wound a handkerchief around his hand, bound it on with a second, then escorted him, trembling like a leaf, down the stairs (one by one, child) and out to the car.
　　At the hospital they waited an hour in a queue of the walking wounded before he was finally seen, and stitched up. It was difficult for her to know in retrospect what was more comical about the episode: his weakness, or the extravagance of his subsequent gratitude. She told him, when he became fulsome, that she didn't want thanks from him, and it was true.
　　She wanted nothing that he could offer her, except perhaps his absence.
　　
　　4
　　"Did you clean up the floor in the damp room?" she asked him the following day. They'd called it the damp room since that first Sunday, though there was not a sign of rot from ceiling to skirting board.
　　Rory looked up from his magazine. Gray moons hung beneath his eyes. He hadn't slept well, so he'd said. A cut finger, and he had nightmares of mortality. She, on the other hand, had slept like a babe.
　　"What did you say?" he asked her.
　　"The floor-"she said again. "There was blood on the floor. You cleaned it up."
　　He shook his head. "No," he said simply and returned to the magazine.
　　"Well I didn't," she said.
　　He offered her an indulgent smile. "You're such a perfect hausfrau," he said. "You don't even know when you're doing it."
　　The subject was closed there. He was content, apparently, to believe that she was quietly losing her sanity.
　　She, on the other hand, had the strangest sense that she was about to find it again.
　　

FOUR
　　
　　1
　　Kirsty hated parties. The smiles to be pasted on over the panic, the glances to be interpreted, and worst, the conversation. She had nothing to say of the least interest to the world, of this she had long been convinced. She'd watched too many eyes glaze over to believe otherwise, seen every device known to man for wheedling oneself out of the company of the dull, from "Will you excuse me, I believe I see my accountant," to passing out dead drunk at her feet.
　　But Rory had insisted she come to the housewarming. Just a few close friends, he'd promised. She'd said yes, knowing all too well what scenario would ensue from refusal. Moping at home in a stew of self-recrimination, cursing her cowardice, and thinking of Rory's sweet face.
　　The gathering wasn't such a torment as it turned out. There were only nine guests in toto, all of whom she knew vaguely, which made it easier. They didn't expect her to illuminate the room, only to nod and laugh where appropriate. And Rory-his hand still bound up-was at his most winning, full of guileless bonhomie. She even wondered if Neville-one of Rory's work colleagues-wasn't making eyes at her behind his spectacles, a suspicion that was confirmed in the middle of the evening when he maneuvered himself to her side and inquired whether she had any interest in cat breeding. She told him she hadn't, but was always interested in new experiences. He seemed delighted, and on this fragile pretext proceeded to ply her with liqueurs for the rest of the night. By eleven-thirty she was a whoozy but happy wreck, prompted by the most casual remark to ever more painful fits of giggling.
　　A little after midnight, Julia declared that she was tired, and wanted to go to bed. The statement was taken as a general cue for dispersal, but Rory would have none of it. He was up and refilling glasses before anyone had a chance to protest. Kirsty was certain she caught a look of displeasure cross Julia's face, then it passed, and the brow was unsullied once again. She said her good-nights, was complimented profusely on her skill with calf's liver, and went to bed.
　　The flawlessly beautiful were flawlessly happy, weren't they? To Kirsty this had always seemed self-evident. Tonight, however, the alcohol made her wonder if envy hadn't blinded her. Perhaps to be flawless was another kind of sadness.
　　But her spinning head had an inept hold on such ruminations, and the next minute Rory was up, and telling a joke about a gorilla and a Jesuit that had her choking on her drink before he'd even got to the votive candles.
　　Upstairs, Julia heard a fresh bout of laughter. She was indeed tired, as she'd claimed, but it wasn't the cooking that had exhausted her. It was the effort of suppressing her contempt for the damn fools who were gathered in the lounge below. She'd called them friends once, these half-wits, with their poor jokes and their poorer pretensions. She had played along with them for several hours; it was enough. Now she needed some cool place, some darkness.
　　As soon as she opened the door of the damp room she knew things were not quite as they had been. The light from the shadeless bulb on the landing illuminated the boards where Rory's blood had fallen, now so clean they might have been scrubbed. Beyond the reach of the light, the room bowed to darkness. She stepped in, and closed the door. The lock clicked into place at her back.
　　The dark was almost perfect, and she was glad of it. Her eyes rested against the night, their surfaces chilled.
　　Then, from the far side of the room, she heard a sound.
　　It was no louder than the din of a cockroach running behind the skirting boards. After seconds, it stopped. She held her breath. It came again. This time there seemed to be some pattern to the sound; a primitive code.
　　They were laughing like loons downstairs. The noise awoke desperation in her. What would she not do, to be free of such company?
　　She swallowed, and spoke to the darkness. "I hear you," she said, not certain of why the words came, or to whom they were addressed.
　　The cockroach scratches ceased for a moment, and then began again, more urgently. She stepped away from the door and moved toward the noise. It continued, as if summoning her.
　　It was easy to miscalculate in the dark, and she reached the wall before she'd expected to. Raising her hands, she began to run her palms over the painted plaster. The surface was not uniformly cold. There was a place, she judged it to be halfway between door and window, where the chill became so intense she had to break contact. The cockroach stopped scratching.
　　There was a moment when she swam, totally disoriented, in darkness and silence. And then, something moved in front of her. A trick of her mind's eye, she assumed, for there was only imagined light to be had here. But the next spectacle showed her the error of that assumption.
　　The wall was alight, or rather something behind it burned with a cold luminescence that made the solid brick seem insubstantial stuff. More; the wall seemed to be coming apart, segments of it shifting and dislocating like a magician's prop, oiled panels giving on to hidden boxes whose sides in turn collapsed to reveal some further hiding place. She watched fixedly, not daring to even blink for fear she miss some detail of this extraordinary sleight-of-hand, while pieces of the world came apart in front of her eyes.
　　Then, suddenly, somewhere in this ever more elaborate system of sliding fragments, she saw (or again, seemed to see) movement. Only now did she realize that she'd been holding her breath since this display began, and was beginning to become light-headed. She tried to empty her lungs of the stale air, and take a draught of fresh, but her body would not obey this simple instruction.
　　Somewhere in her innards a tic of panic began. The hocus-pocus had stopped now, leaving one part of her admiring quite dispassionately the tinkling music that was coming from the wall, the other part fighting the fear that rose in her throat step by step.
　　Again, she tried to take a breath, but it was as if her body had died, and she was staring out of it, unable now to breathe or blink or swallow.
　　The spectacle of the unfolding wall had now ceased entirely, and she saw something flicker across the brick, ragged enough to be shadow but too substantial.
　　It was human, she saw, or had been. But the body had been ripped apart and sewn together again with most of its pieces either missing or twisted and blackened as if in a furnace. There was an eye, gleaming at her, and the ladder of a spine, the vertebrae stripped of muscle, a few unrecognizable fragments of anatomy. That was it. That such a thing might live beggared reason-what little flesh it owned was hopelessly corrupted. Yet live it did. Its eye, despite the rot it was rooted in, scanned her every inch, up and down.
　　She felt no fear in its presence. This thing was weaker than her by far. It moved a little in its cell, looking for some modicum of comfort. But there was none to be had, not for a creature that wore its frayed nerves on its bleeding sleeve. Every place it might lay its body brought pain: this she knew indisputably. She pitied it. And with pity came release. Her body expelled dead air, and sucked in living. Her oxygen-starved brain reeled.
　　Even as she did so it spoke, a hole opening up in the flayed ball of the monster's head and issued a single, weightless word. The word was: "Julia."
　　
　　2
　　Kirsty put down her glass, and tried to stand up.
　　"Where are you going?" Neville asked
　　"Where do you think?" she replied, consciously trying to prevent the words from slurring.
　　"Do you need any help?" Rory inquired. The alcohol made his lids lazy, and his grin lazier still.
　　"I am house-trained," she replied, the riposte greeted with laughter all around. She was pleased with herself; off-the-cuff wit was not her forte. She stumbled to the door.
　　"It's the last room on the right at the end of the landing," Rory informed her.
　　"I know," she said, and stepped out into the hall.
　　She didn't usually enjoy the sensation of drunkenness, but tonight she was reveling in it.
　　She felt loose-limbed and light-hearted. She might well regret this tomorrow, but tomorrow would have to take care of itself. For tonight, she was flying.
　　She found her way to the bathroom, and relieved her aching bladder, then splashed some water onto her face. That done, she began her return journey.
　　She had taken three steps along the landing when she realized that somebody had put out the landing light while she was in the bathroom, and that same somebody was now standing a few yards away from her. She stopped.
　　"Hello?" she said. Had the cat breeder followed her upstairs, in the hope of proving he wasn't spayed?
　　"Is that you?" she asked, only dimly aware that this was a singularly fruitless line of inquiry.
　　There was no reply, and she became a little uneasy.
　　"Come on," she said, attempting a jocular manner that she hoped masked her anxiety, "who is it?"
　　"Me," said Julia. Her voice was odd. Throaty, perhaps tearful.
　　"Are you all right?" Kirsty asked her. She wished she could see Julia's face.
　　"Yes," came the reply. "Why shouldn't I be?" Within the space of those five words the actress in Julia seized control. The voice cleared, the tone lightened.
　　"I'm just tired..." she went on. "It sounds like you're having a good time down there."
　　"Are we keeping you awake?"
　　"Goodness me, no," the voice gushed, "I was just going to the bathroom." A pause; then: "You go back down. Enjoy yourself."
　　At this cue Kirsty moved toward her along the landing. At the last possible moment Julia stepped out of the way, avoiding even the slightest physical contact.
　　"Sleep well," Kirsty said at the top of the stairs.
　　But there was no reply forthcoming from the shadow on the landing.
　　
　　3
　　Julia didn't sleep well. Not that night, nor any night that followed.
　　What she'd seen in the damp room, what she'd heard and, finally, felt-was enough to keep easy slumbers at bay forever, or so she began to believe.
　　He was here. Brother Frank was here, in the house-and had been all the time. Locked away from the world in which she lived and breathed, but close enough to make the frail, pitiful contact he had. The whys and the wherefores of this she had no clue to; the human detritus in the wall had neither the strength nor the time to articulate its condition.
　　All it said, before the wall began to close on it again, and its wreckage was once more eclipsed by brick and plaster, was "Julia" then, simply: "It's Frank"-and at the very end the word "Blood."
　　Then it was gone completely, and her legs had given way beneath her. She'd half fallen, half staggered, backward against the opposite wall. By the time she gathered her wits about her once more there was no mysterious light, no wasted figure cocooned in the brick. Reality's hold was absolute once again.
　　Not quite absolute perhaps. Frank was still here, in the damp room. Of that she had no doubt. Out of sight he might be, but not out of mind. He was trapped somehow between the sphere she occupied and some other place: a place of bells and troubled darkness. Had he died? Was that it? Perished in the empty room the previous summer, and now awaiting exorcism? If so, what had happened to his earthly remains? Only further exchange with Frank himself, or the remnants thereof, would provide an explanation.
　　Of the means by which she could lend the lost soul strength she had little doubt. He had given her the solution plainly.
　　"Blood," he'd said. The syllable had been spoken not as an accusation but as an imperative.
　　Rory had bled on the floor of the damp room; the splashes had subsequently disappeared. Somehow, Frank's ghost-if that it was-had fed upon his brother's spillage, and gained thereby nourishment enough to reach out from his cell, and make faltering contact. What more might be achieved if the supply were larger?
　　She thought of Frank's embraces, of his roughness, his hardness, of the insistence he had brought to bear upon her. What would she not give to have such insistence again? Perhaps it was possible. And if it were-if she could give him the sustenance he needed-would he not be grateful? Would he not be her pet, docile or brutal at her least whim? The thought took sleep away. Took sanity and sorrow with it. She had been in love all this time, she realized, and mourning for him. If it took blood to restore him to her, then blood she would supply, and not think twice of the consequences.
　　In the days that followed, she found her smile again. Rory took the change of mood as a sign that she was happy in the new house. Her good humor ignited the same in him. He took to the redecoration with renewed gusto.
　　Soon, he said, he would get to work on the second floor. They would locate the source of dampness in the large room, and turn it into a bedroom fit for his princess. She kissed his cheek when he spoke of this, and she said that she was in no hurry, that the room they had already was more than adequate. Talk of the bedroom made him stroke her neck, and pull her close, and whisper infantile obscenities in her ear. She did not refuse him, but went upstairs meekly, and let him undress her as he liked to do, unbuttoning her with paint-stained fingers. She pretended the ceremony aroused her, though this was far from the truth.
　　The only thing that sparked the least appetite in her, as she lay on the creaking bed with his bulk between her legs, was closing her eyes and picturing Frank, as he had been.
　　More than once his name rose to her lips; each time she bit it back. Finally she opened her eyes to remind herself of the boorish truth. Rory was decorating her face with his kisses. Her cheeks crawled at his touch.
　　She would not be able to endure this too often, she realized. It was too much of an effort to play the acquiescent wife: her heart would burst.
　　Thus, lying beneath him while September's breath brushed her face from the open window, she began to plot the getting of blood.
　　

FIVE
　　
　　Sometimes it seemed that eons came and went while he lingered in the wall, eons that some clue would later reveal to have been the passing of hours, or even minutes.
　　But now things had changed; he had a chance of escape. His spirit soared at the thought. It was a frail chance, he didn't deceive himself about that. There were several reasons his best efforts might falter. Julia, for one. He remembered her as a trite, preening woman, whose upbringing had curbed her capacity for passion. He had untamed her, of course, once. He remembered the day, among the thousands of times he had performed that act, with some satisfaction. She had resisted no more than was needful for her vanity, then succumbed with such naked fervor he had almost lost control of himself.
　　In other circumstances he might have snatched her from under her would-be husband's nose, but fraternal politics counseled otherwise. In a week or two he would have tired of her, and been left not only with a woman whose body was already an eyesore to him, but also a vengeful brother on his heels. It hadn't been worth the hassle.
　　Besides, there'd been new worlds to conquer. He had left the day after to go East: to Hong King and Sri Lanka, to wealth and adventure. He'd had them, too. At least for a while. But everything slipped through his fingers sooner or later, and with time he began to wonder whether it was circumstance that denied him a good hold on his earnings, or whether he simply didn't care enough to keep what he had. The train of thought, once begun, was a runaway. Everywhere, in the wreckage around him, he found evidence to support the same bitter thesis: that he had encountered nothing in his life-no person, no state of mind or body-he wanted sufficiently to suffer even passing discomfort for.
　　A downward spiral began. He spent three months in a wash of depression and self-pity that bordered on the suicidal. But even that solution was denied him by his newfound nihilism. If nothing was worth living for it followed, didn't it, that there was nothing worth dying for either. He stumbled from one such sterility to the next, until all thoughts were rotted away by whatever opiate his immoralities could earn him.
　　How had he first heard about Lemarchand's box? He couldn't remember. In a bar maybe, or a gutter, from the lips of a fellow derelict. At the time it was merely a rumor-this dream of a pleasure dome where those who had exhausted the trivial delights of the human condition might discover a fresh definition of joy. And the route to this paradise? There were several, he was told, charts of the interface between the real and the realer still, made by travelers whose bones had long since gone to dust. One such chart was in the vaults of the Vatican, hidden in code in a theological work unread since the Reformation. Another-in the form of an origami exercise, was reported to have been in the possession of the Marquis de Sade, who used it, while imprisoned in the Bastille, to barter with a guard for paper on which to write The 120 Days of Sodom. Yet another was made by a craftsman-a maker of singing birds-called Lemarchand, in the form of a musical box of such elaborate design a man might toy with it half a lifetime and never get inside.
　　Stories. Stories. Yet since he had come to believe in nothing at all it was not so difficult to put the tyranny of verifiable truth out of his head. And it passed the time, musing drunkenly on such fantasies.
　　It was in Düsseldorf, where he'd gone smuggling heroin, that he again encountered the story of Lemarchand's box. His curiosity was piqued once more, but this time he followed the story up until he found its source. The man's name was Kircher, though he probably laid claim to half a dozen others. Yes, the German could confirm the existence of the box, and yes, he could see his way to letting Frank have it. The price? Small favors, here and there. Nothing exceptional. Frank did the favors, washed his hands, and claimed his payment.
　　There had been instructions from Kircher, on how best to break the seal on Lemarchand's device, instructions that were part pragmatic, part metaphysical. To solve the puzzle is to travel, he'd said, or something like that. The box, it seemed, was not just the map of the road, but the road itself.
　　This new addiction quickly cured him of dope and drink. Perhaps there were other ways to bend the world to suit the shape of his dreams.
　　He came back to the house on Lodovico Street, to the empty house behind whose walls he was now imprisoned, and prepared himself-just as Kircher had detailed-for the challenge of solving Lemarchand's Configuration. He had never in his life been so abstemious, nor so single-minded. In the days before the onslaught on the box he led a life that would have shamed a saint, focusing all his energies on the ceremonies ahead.
　　He had been arrogant in his dealing with the Order of the Gash, he saw that now; but there were everywhere-in the world and out of it-forces that encouraged such arrogance, because they traded on it. That in itself would not have undone him. No, his real error had been the naive belief that his definition of pleasure significantly overlapped with that of the Cenobites.
　　As it was, they had brought incalculable suffering. They had overdosed him on sensuality, until his mind teetered on madness, then they'd initiated him into experiences that his nerves still convulsed to recall. They had called it pleasure, and perhaps they'd meant it. Perhaps not. It was impossible to know with these minds; they were so hopelessly, flawlessly ambiguous. They recognized no principles of reward and punishment by which he could hope to win some respite from their tortures, nor were they touched by any appeal for mercy. He'd tried that, over the weeks and months that separated the solving of the box from today.
　　There was no compassion to be had on this side of the Schism; there was only the weeping and the laughter. Tears of joy sometimes (for an hour without dread, a breath's length even), laughter coming just as paradoxically in the face of some new horror, fashioned by the Engineer for the provision of grief.
　　There was a further sophistication to the torture, devised by a mind that understood exquisitely the nature of suffering. The prisoners were allowed to see into the world they had once occupied. Their resting places-when they were not enduring pleasure-looked out onto the very locations where they had once worked the Configuration that had brought them here. In Frank's case, onto the upper room of number fifty-five, Lodovico Street.
　　For the best part of a year it had been an unilluminating view: nobody had ever stepped into the house. And then, they'd come: Rory and the lovely Julia. And hope had begun again....
　　There were ways to escape, he'd heard it whispered; loopholes in the system that might allow a mind supple or cunning enough egress into the room from which it had come. If a prisoner were able to make such an escape, there was no way that the hierophants could follow. They had to be summoned across the Schism. Without such an invitation they were left like dogs on the doorstep, scratching and scratching but unable to get in. Escape therefore, if it could be achieved, brought with it a decree absolute, total dissolution of the mistaken marriage which the prisoner had made. It was a risk worth taking. Indeed it was no risk at all. What punishment could be meted out worse than the thought of pain without hope of release?
　　He had been lucky. Some prisoners had departed from the world without leaving sufficient sign of themselves from which, given an adequate collision of circumstances, their bodies might be remade. He had. Almost his last act, bar the shouting, had been to empty his testicles onto the floor. Dead sperm was a meager keepsake of his essential self, but enough. When dear brother Rory (sweet butterfingered Rory) had let his chisel slip, there was something of Frank to profit from the pain. He had found a fingerhold for himself, and a glimpse of strength with which he might haul himself to safety. Now it was up to Julia.
　　Sometimes, suffering in the wall, he thought she would desert him out of fear. Either that or she'd rationalize the vision she'd seen, and decide she'd been dreaming. If so, he was lost. He lacked the energy to repeat the appearance.
　　But there were signs that gave him cause for hope. The fact that she returned to the room on two or three occasions, for instance, and simply stood in the gloom, watching the wall. She'd even muttered a few words on the second visit, though he'd caught only scraps. The word "here" was amongst them. And "waiting, " and "soon. " Enough to keep him from despair.
　　He had another prop to his optimism. She was lost, wasn't she? He'd seen that in her face, when-before the day Rory had chiseled himself-she and his brother had had occasion to be in the room together. He'd read the looks between the lines, the moments when her guard had slipped, and the sadness and frustration she felt were apparent.
　　Yes, she was lost. Married to a man she felt no love for, and unable to see a way out.
　　Well, here he was. They could save each other, the way the poets promised lovers should. He was mystery, he was darkness, he was all she had dreamed of. And if she would only free him he would service her-oh yes-until her pleasure reached that threshold that, like all thresholds, was a place where the strong grew stronger, and the weak perished.
　　Pleasure was pain there, and vice versa. And he knew it well enough to call it home.
　　

SIX
　　
　　It turned cold in the third week of September: an Arctic chill brought on a rapacious wind that stripped the trees of leaves in a handful of days.
　　The cold necessitated a change of costume, and a change of plan. Instead of walking, Julia took the car. Drove down to the city center in the early afternoon and found a bar in which the lunchtime trade was brisk but not clamorous.
　　The customers came and went: Young Turks from firms of lawyers and accountants, debating their ambitions; parties of wine-imbibers whose only claim to sobriety was their suits; and, more interestingly, a smattering of individuals who sat alone at their tables and simply drank. She garnered a good crop of admiring glances, but they were mostly from the Young Turks. It wasn't until she'd been in the place an hour, and the wage slaves were returning to their treadmills, that she caught sight of somebody watching her reflection in the bar mirror. For the next ten minutes his eyes were glued to her. She went on drinking, trying to conceal any sign of agitation. And then, without warning, he stood up and crossed to her table.
　　"Drinking alone?" he said.
　　She wanted to run. Her heart was pounding so furiously she was certain he must hear it. But no. He asked her if she wanted another drink; she said she did. Clearly pleased not to have been rebuffed, he went to the bar, ordered doubles, and returned to her side. He was ruddy-featured, and one size larger than his dark blue suit. Only his eyes betrayed any sign of nervousness, resting on her for moments only, then darting away like startled fish.
　　There would be no serious conversation: that she had already decided. She didn't want to know much about him. His name, if necessary. His profession and marital status, if he insisted. Beyond that let him be just a body.
　　As it was there was no danger of a confessional. She'd met more talkative paving stones. He smiled occasionally-a short, nervous smile that showed teeth too even to be real-and offered more drinks. She said no, wanting the chase over with as soon as possible, and instead asked if he had time for a coffee. He said he had.
　　"The house is only a few minutes from here," she replied, and they went to her car. She kept wondering, as she drove-the meat on the seat beside her-why this was so very easy. Was it that the man was plainly a victim-with his ineffectual eyes and his artificial teeth-born, did he but know it, to make this journey? Yes, perhaps that was it. She was not afraid, because all of this was so perfectly predictable...
　　As she turned the key in the front door and stepped into the house, she thought she heard a noise in the kitchen. Had Rory returned home early, ill perhaps? She called out.
　　There was no reply; the house was empty. Almost.
　　From the threshold on, she had the thing planned meticulously. She closed the door. The man in the blue suit stared at his manicured hands, and waited for his cue.
　　"I get lonely sometimes," she told him as she brushed past him. It was a line she'd come up with in bed the previous night.
　　He only nodded by way of response, the expression on his face a mingling of fear and incredulity: he clearly couldn't quite believe his luck.
　　"Do you want another drink?" she asked him, "or shall we go straight upstairs?"
　　He only nodded again.
　　"Which?"
　　"I think maybe I've drunk enough already."
　　"Upstairs then."
　　He made an indecisive move in her direction, as though he might have intended a kiss. She wanted no courtship, however. Skirting his touch, she crossed to the bottom of the stairs.
　　"I'll lead," she said. Meekly, he followed.
　　At the top of the steps she glanced round at him, and caught him dabbing sweat from his chin with his handkerchief. She waited until he caught up with her, and then led him halfway along the landing to the damp room.
　　The door had been left ajar.
　　"Come on in," she said.
　　He obeyed. Once inside it took him a few moments to become accustomed to the gloom, and a further time to give voice to his observation: "There's no bed."
　　She closed the door, and switched on the light. She had hung one of Rory's old jackets on the back of the door. In its pocket she'd left the knife.
　　He said again: "No bed."
　　"What's wrong with the floor?" she replied.
　　"The floor?"
　　"Take off your Jacket. You're warm."
　　"I am," he agreed, but did nothing, so she moved across to him, and began to slip the knot of his tie. He was trembling, poor lamb. Poor, bleatless lamb. While she removed the tie, he began to shrug off his jacket.
　　Was Frank watching this? she wondered. Her eyes strayed momentarily to the wall. Yes, she thought; he's there. He sees. He knows. He licks his lips and grows impatient.
　　The lamb spoke. "Why don't you..." he began, "why don't you maybe...do the same?"
　　"Would you like to see me naked?" she teased. The words made his eyes gleam.
　　"Yes," he said thickly. "Yes. I'd like that."
　　"Very much?"
　　"Very much."
　　He was unbuttoning his shirt.
　　"Maybe you will," she said.
　　He gave her that dwarf smile again.
　　"Is it a game?" he ventured.
　　"If you want it to be," she said, and helped him out of his shirt. His body was pale and waxy, like a fungus. His upper chest was heavy, his belly too. She put her hands to his face. He kissed her fingertips.
　　"You're beautiful," he said, spitting the words out as though they'd been vexing him for hours.
　　"Am I?"
　　"You know you are. Lovely. Loveliest woman I ever set eyes on."
　　"That's gallant of you," she said, and turned back to the door. Behind her she heard his belt buckle clink, and the sound of cloth slipping over skin as he dropped his trousers.
　　So far and no farther, she thought. She had no wish to see him babe-naked. It was enough to have him like thisShe reached into the jacket pocket.
　　"Oh dear," the lamb suddenly said.
　　She let the knife lie. "What is it?" she asked, turning to look at him. If the ring on his finger hadn't already given his status away, she would have known him to be a married man by the underpants he wore: baggy and overwashed, an unflattering garment bought by a wife who had long since ceased to think of her husband in sexual terms.
　　"I think I need to empty my bladder," he said. "Too many whiskies."
　　She shrugged a small shrug, and turned back to the door.
　　"Won't be a moment," he said at her back. But her hand was in the jacket pocket before the words were out, and as he stepped towards the door, she turned on him, slaughtering knife in hand.
　　His pace was too quick to see the blade until the very last moment, and even then it was bemusement that crossed his face, not fear. It was a short-lived look. The knife was in him a moment after, slicing his belly with the ease of a blade in overripe cheese. She opened one cut, and then another.
　　As the blood started, she was certain the room flickered, the bricks and mortar trembling to see the spurts that flew from him.
　　She had a breath's length to admire the phenomena, no more, before the lamb let out a wheezing curse, and-instead of moving out of the knife's range as she had anticipated-took a step toward her and knocked the weapon from her hand. It spun across the floorboards and collided with the skirting. Then he was upon her.
　　He put his hand into her hair and took a fistful. It seemed his intention was not violence but escape, for he relinquished his hold as soon as he'd pulled away from the door. She fell against the wall, looking up to see him wrestling with the door handle, his free hand clamped to his cuts.
　　She was quick now. Across to where the knife lay, up, and back toward him in one fluid motion. He had got the door open by inches, but not far enough. She brought the knife down in the middle of his pockmarked back. He yelled, and released the door handle. She was already drawing the knife out, and plunging into him a second time, and now a third and a fourth. Indeed she lost count of the wounds she made, her attack lent venom by his refusal to lie down and die. He stumbled around the room, grieving and complaining, blood following blood onto his buttocks and legs. Finally, after an age of this farcical stuff, he keeled over and hit the floor.
　　This time she was certain her senses did not deceive her. The room, or the spirit in it, responded with soft sighs of anticipation.
　　Somewhere, a bell was ringing...
　　Almost as an afterthought, she registered that the lamb had stopped breathing. She crossed the blood-spangled floor to where he lay, and said:
　　"Enough?"
　　Then she went to wash her face.
　　As she moved down the landing she heard the room groan-there was no other word for it. She stopped in her tracks, almost tempted to go back. But the blood was drying on her hands, and its stickiness revolted her.
　　In the bathroom she stripped off her flower-patterned blouse, and rinsed first her hands, then her speckled arms, and finally her neck. The dowsing both chilled and braced her. It felt good. That done, she washed the knife, rinsed the sink and returned along the landing without bothering to dry herself or to dress.
　　She had no need for either. The room was like a furnace, as the dead man's energies pulsed from his body. They didn't get far. Already the blood on the floor was crawling away toward the wall where Frank was, the beads seeming to boil and evaporate as they came within range of the skirting boards. She watched, entranced. But there was more. Something was happening to the corpse. It was being drained of every nutritious element, the body convulsing as its innards were sucked out, gases moaning in its bowels and throat, the skin dessicating in front of her startled eyes. At one point the plastic teeth dropped back into the gullet, the gums withered around them.
　　And in mere moments, it was done. Anything the body might have usefully offered by way of nourishment had been taken; the husk that remained would not have sustained a family of fleas. She was impressed.
　　Suddenly, the bulb began to flicker. She looked to the wall, expecting it to tremble and spit her lover from hiding. But no. The bulb went out. There was only the dim light that crept through the age-beaten blind.
　　"Where are you?" she said.
　　The walls remained mute.
　　"Where are you?"
　　Still nothing. The room was cooling. Her breasts had grown gooseflesh. She peered down at the luminous watch on the lamb's shriveled arm. It ticked away, indifferent to the apocalypse that had overtaken its owner. It read 4:41. Rory would be back anytime after 5:15, depending on how dense the traffic was. She had work to do before then.
　　Bundling up the blue suit and the rest of his clothes, she put them in several plastic bags, and then went in search of a larger bag for the remains. She had expected Frank to be here to help her with this labor, but as he hadn't shown she had no choice but to do it herself. When she came back to the room, the deterioration of the lamb was still continuing, though now much slowed. Perhaps Frank was still finding nutriments to squeeze from the corpse, but she doubted it. More likely the pauperized body, sucked clean of marrow and every vital fluid, was no longer strong enough to support itself. When she had parceled it up in the bag, it was the weight of a small child, no more. Sealing the bag up, she was about to take it down to the car when she heard the front door open.
　　The sound undammed all the panic she'd so assiduously kept from herself. She began to shake. Tears pricked her sinuses.
　　"Not now..." she told herself, but the feelings would simply not be suppressed any longer.
　　In the hallway below, Rory said: "Sweetheart?"
　　Sweetheart! She could have laughed, but for the terror. She was here if he wanted to find her-his sweetheart, his honeybun-with her breasts new-washed, and a dead man in her arms.
　　"Where are you?"
　　She hesitated before replying, not certain that her larynx was the equal of the deception.
　　He called a third time, his voice changing timbre as he walked through into the kitchen. It would take him a moment only to discover that she wasn't at the cooker stirring sauce; then he would come back and head up the stairs. She had ten seconds, fifteen at most.
　　Attempting to keep her tread as light as possible, for fear he heard her movements overhead, she carried the bundle to the spare room at the end of the landing. Too small to be used as a bedroom (except perhaps for a child), they had used it as a dump. Half-emptied tea chests, pieces of furniture they had not found a place for, all manner of rubbish. Here she laid the body to rest awhile, behind an upended armchair. Then she locked the door behind her, just as Rory called from the bottom of the stairs. He was coming up.
　　"Julia? Julia, sweetheart. Are you there?"
　　She slipped into the bathroom, and consulted the mirror. It showed her a flushed portrait. She picked up the blouse she'd left hanging over the side of the bath and put it on. It smelled stale, and there was undoubtedly blood spattered between the flowers, but she had nothing else to wear.
　　He was coming along the landing; she heard his elephantine tread.
　　"Julia?"
　　This time, she answered-making no attempt to disguise the tremulous quality of her voice. The mirror had confirmed what she feared: that there was no way she could pass herself off as undistressed. She was obliged to make a virtue of the liability.
　　"Are you all right?" he asked her. He was outside the door.
　　"No," she said. "I'm feeling sick."
　　"Oh, darling..."
　　"I'll be fine in a minute."
　　He tried the handle, but she'd bolted the door.
　　"Can you leave me alone for a little while?"
　　"Do you want a doctor?"
　　"No," she told him. "No. Really. But I wouldn't mind a brandy-"
　　"Brandy..."
　　"I'll be down in two ticks."
　　"Whatever madam wants," he quipped. She counted his steps as he trudged to the stairs, then descended. Once she'd calculated that he was out of earshot, she slid back the bolt and stepped onto the landing.
　　The late afternoon light was failing quickly; the landing was a murky tunnel.
　　Downstairs, she heard the clink of glass on glass. She moved as quickly as she dared to Frank's room.
　　There was no sound from the gloomed interior. The walls no longer trembled, nor did distant bells toll. She pushed the door open; it creaked slightly.
　　She had not entirely tidied up after her labors. There was dust on the floor, human dust, and fragments of dried flesh. She went down on her haunches and collected them up diligently. Rory had been right. What a perfect hausfrau she made.
　　As she stood up again, something shifted in the ever-denser shadows of the room. She looked in the direction of the movement, but before her eyes could make sense of the form in the corner, a voice said: "Don't look at me."
　　It was a tired voice-the voice of somebody used up by events; but it was concrete. The syllables were carried on the same air that she breathed.
　　"Frank," she said.
　　"Yes..." came the broken voice, "it's...me.
　　From downstairs, Rory called up to her. "Are you feeling better?"
　　She went to the door.
　　"Much better," she responded. At her back the hidden thing said: "Don't let him near me, " the words coming fast and fierce.
　　"It's all right," she whispered to him. Then, to Rory: "I'll be with you in a minute. Put on some music. Something soothing."
　　Rory replied that he would, and retired to the lounge.
　　"I'm only half-made," Frank's voice said. "I don't want you to see me...don't want anybody to see me...not like this..." The words were halting once more, and wretched. "I have to have more blood, Julia."
　　"More?"
　　"And soon."
　　"How much more?" she asked the shadows. This time she caught a better glimpse of what lay in wait there. No wonder he wanted no one to look.
　　"Just more, " he said. Though the volume was barely above a whisper, there was an urgency in the voice that made her afraid.
　　"I have to go..." she said, hearing music from below.
　　This time the darkness made no reply. At the door, she turned back.
　　"I'm glad you came," she said. As she closed the door, she heard a sound not unlike laughter behind her, nor unlike sobs.
　　

SEVEN
　　
　　1
　　Kirsty? Is that you?"
　　"Yes? Who is this?"
　　"It's Rory..."
　　The line was watery, as though the deluge outside had seeped down the phone. Still, she was happy to hear from him. He called up so seldom, and when he did it was usually on behalf of both himself and Julia. Not this time however. This time Julia was the subject under discussion.
　　"There's something wrong with her, Kirsty," he said. "I don't know what."
　　"Ill, you mean?"
　　"Maybe. She's just so strange with me. And she looks terrible."
　　"Have you said anything to her?"
　　"She says she's fine. But she isn't,montblanc john lennon. I wondered if maybe she'd spoken with you."
　　"I haven't set eyes on her since your housewarming."
　　"That's another thing. She doesn't even want to leave the house. That's not like her."
　　"Do you want me to...to have a word with her?"
　　"Would you?"
　　"I don't know if it'll do any good, but I'll try. "
　　"Don't say anything about me talking to you."
　　"Of course not. I'll call in at the house tomorrow-"
　　("Tomorrow. It has to be tomorrow. "
　　"Yes...I know. "
　　"I'm afraid I'll lose my grip, Julia. Start slipping back.")
　　"I'll give you a call from the office on Thursday. You can tell me what you make of her."
　　("Slipping back?"
　　"They'll know I've gone by now. "
　　"Who will?"
　　"The Gash. The bastards that took me..."
　　"They're waiting for you?"
　　"just beyond the wall.")
　　Rory told her how grateful he was, and she in turn told him that it was the least a friend could do. Then he put down the phone, leaving her listening to the rain on the empty line.
　　Now they were both Julia's creatures, looking after her welfare, fretting for her if she had bad dreams.
　　No matter, it was a kind of togetherness.
　　
　　2
　　The man with the white tie had not bided his time. Almost as soon as he set eyes on Julia he came across to her. She decided, even as he approached, that he was not suitable. Too big; too confident. After the way the first one had fought, she was determined to choose with care. So, when White Tie asked what she was drinking, she told him to leave her be.
　　He was apparently used to rejections, and took it in his stride, withdrawing to the bar. She returned to her drink.
　　It was raining heavily today-had been raining now for seventy-two hours, on and off-and there were fewer customers than there had been the week before. One or two drowned rats headed in from the street; but none looked her way for more than a few moments. And time was moving on. It was already past two. She wasn't going to risk getting caught again by Rory's return. She emptied her glass, and decided that this was not Frank's lucky day. Then she stepped out of the bar into the downpour, put up her umbrella, and headed back to the car. As she went she heard footsteps behind her, and then White Tie was at her side and saying: "My hotel's nearby."
　　"Oh..." she said and kept on walking. But he wasn't going to be shrugged off so easily.
　　"I'm only here for two days," he said.
　　Don't tempt me, she thought.
　　"Just looking for some companionship..." he went on. "I haven't spoken to a soul."
　　"Is that right?"
　　He took hold of her wrist. A grip so tight she almost cried out. That was when she knew she was going to have to kill him. He seemed to see the desire in her eyes.
　　"My hotel?" he said.
　　"I don't much like hotels. They're so impersonal."
　　"Have you got a better idea?" he said to her.
　　She had, of course.
　　
　　He hung his dripping raincoat on the hall stand, and she offered him a drink, which he welcomed. His name was Patrick, and he was from Newcastle.
　　"Down on business. Can't seem to get much done."
　　"Why's that?"
　　He shrugged. "I'm probably a bad salesman. Simple as that."
　　"What do you sell?" she asked him.
　　"What do you care?" he replied, razor quick.
　　She grinned. She would have to get him upstairs quickly, before she started to enjoy his company.
　　"Why don't we dispense with the small talk?" she said. It was a stale line, but it was the first thing that came to her tongue. He swallowed the last of his drink in one gulp, and went where she led.
　　This time she had not left the door ajar. It was locked, which plainly intrigued him.
　　"After you," he said, when the door swung open.
　　She went first. He followed. This time, she had decided, there would be no stripping. If some nourishment was soaked up by his clothes then so be it; she was not going to give him a chance to realize that they weren't alone in the room.
　　"Going to fuck on the floor, are we?" he asked casually.
　　"Any objections?"
　　"Not if it suits you," he said and clamped his mouth over hers, his tongue frisking her teeth for cavities. There was some passion in him, she mused; she could feel him hard against her already. But she had work to do here: blood to spill and a mouth to feed.
　　She broke his kiss, and tried to slip from his arms. The knife was back in the jacket on the door. While it was out of reach she had little power to resist him.
　　"What's the problem?" he said.
　　"No problem..." she murmured. "There's no hurry either. We've got all the time in the world." She touched the front of his trousers, to reassure him. Like a stroked dog, he closed his eyes.
　　"You're a strange one," he said.
　　"Don't look," she told him.
　　"Huh?"
　　"Keep your eyes closed."
　　He frowned, but obeyed. She took a step backward toward the door, and half turned to fumble in the depths of the pocket, glancing back to see that he was still blind.
　　He was, and unzipping himself. As her hand clasped the knife, the shadows growled.
　　He heard the noise. His eyes sprang open.
　　"What was that?" he said, reeling round and peering into the darkness.
　　"It was nothing," she insisted, as she pulled the knife from its hiding place. He was moving away from her, across the room.
　　"There's somebody-"
　　"Don't. "
　　"-here."
　　The last syllable faltered on his lips, as he glimpsed a fretful motion in the corner beside the window.
　　"What...in God's...?" he began. As he pointed into the darkness she was at him, and slicing his neck open with a butcher's efficiency. Blood jumped immediately, a fat spurt that hit the wall with a wet thud. She heard Frank's pleasure, and then the dying man's complaint, long and low. His hand went up to his neck to stem the pulse, but she was at him again, slicing his pleading hand, his face. He staggered, he sobbed. Finally, he collapsed, twitching.
　　She stepped away from him to avoid the flailing legs. In the corner of the room she saw Frank rocking to and fro.
　　"Good woman..." he said.
　　Was it her imagination, or was his voice already stronger than it had been, more like the voice she'd heard in her head a thousand times these plundered years?
　　The door bell rang. She froze.
　　"Oh Jesus," her mouth said.
　　"It's all right..." the shadow replied. "He's as good as dead."
　　She looked at the man in the white tie and saw that Frank was right. The twitching had all but ceased.
　　"He's big," said Frank. "And healthy."
　　He was moving into her sight, too greedy for sustenance to prohibit her stare; she saw him plainly now for the first time. He was a travesty. Not just of humanity, of life. She looked away.
　　The door bell was ringing again, and for longer.
　　"Go and answer it," Frank told her.
　　She made no reply.
　　"Go on," he told her, turning his foul head in her direction, his eyes keen and bright in the surrounding corruption.
　　The bell rang a third time.
　　"Your caller is very insistent," he said, trying persuasion where demands had failed. "I really think you should answer the door."
　　She backed away from him, and he turned his attentions back to the body on the floor.
　　Again, the bell.
　　It was better to answer it perhaps (she was already out of the room, trying not to hear the sounds Frank was making), better to open the door to the day. It would be a man selling insurance, most likely, or a Jehovah's Witness, with news of salvation. Yes, she wouldn't mind hearing that. The bell rang again. "Coming," she said, hurrying now for fear he leave. She had welcome on her face when she opened the door. It died immediately.
　　"Kirsty."
　　"I was just about to give up on you."
　　"I was...I was asleep."
　　"Oh."
　　Kirsty looked at the apparition that had opened the door to her. From Rory's description she'd expected a washed-out creature.
　　What she saw was quite the reverse. Julia's face was flushed: strands of sweat-darkened hair glued to her brow. She did not look like a woman who had just risen from sleep. A bed, perhaps, but not sleep.
　　"I just called by"-Kirsty said-"for a chat."
　　Julia made a half shrug.
　　"Well, it's not convenient just at the moment," she said.
　　"I see."
　　"Maybe we could speak later in the week?"
　　Kirsty's gaze drifted past Julia to the coat stand in the hall. A man's gabardine hung from one of the pegs, still damp.
　　"Is Rory in?" she ventured.
　　"No," Julia said. "Of course not. He's at work." Her face hardened. "Is that what you came round for?" she said. "To see Rory?"
　　"No I-"
　　"You don't have to ask my permission, you know. He's a grown man. You two can do what the fuck you like."
　　Kirsty didn't try to debate the point. The volte-face left her dizzied.
　　"Go home," Julia said. "I don't want to talk to you."
　　She slammed the door.
　　Kirsty stood on the step for half a minute, shaking. She had little doubt of what was going on. The dripping raincoat, Julia's agitation-her flushed face, her sudden anger. She had a lover in the house. Poor Rory had misread all the signs.
　　She deserted the doorstep and started down the path to the street. A crowd of thoughts jostled for her attention. At last, one came clear of the pack: How would she tell Rory? His heart would break, she had no doubt of that. And she, the luckless tale-teller, she would be tainted with the news, wouldn't she? She felt tears close.
　　They didn't come, however; another sensation, more insistent, overtook as she stepped onto the pavement from the path.
　　She was being watched. She could feel the look at the back of her head. Was it Julia? Somehow, she thought not. The lover then. Yes, the lover!
　　Safely out of the shadow of the house, she succumbed to the urge to turn and look.
　　In the damp room, Frank stared through the hole he had made in the blind. The visitor-whose face he vaguely recognized-was staring up at the house, at his very window, indeed. Confident that she could see nothing of him, he stared back. He had certainly set his eyes on more voluptuous creatures, but something about her lack of glamour engaged him. Such women were in his experience often more entertaining company than beauties like Julia. They could be flattered or bullied into acts the beauties would never countenance and be grateful for the attention. Perhaps she would come back, this woman. He hoped she would.
　　Kirsty scanned the facade of the house, but it was blank; the windows were either empty or curtained. Yet the feeling of being watched persisted; indeed it was so strong she turned away in embarrassment.
　　The rain started again as she walked along Lodovico Street, and she welcomed it. It cooled her blushes, and gave cover to tears that would be postponed no longer.
　　
　　3
　　Julia had gone back upstairs trembling, and found White Tie at the door. Or rather, his head. This time, either out of an excess of greed or malice, Frank had dismembered the corpse. Pieces of bones and dried meat lay scattered about the room.
　　There was no sign of the gourmet himself.
　　She turned back toward the door, and he was there, blocking her path. Mere minutes had passed since she'd seen him bending to drain energy from the dead man. In that brief time he had changed out of all recognition. Where there had been withered cartilage, there was not ripening muscle; the map of his arteries and veins was being drawn anew: they pulsed with stolen life. There was even a sprouting of hair, somewhat premature perhaps given his absence of skin, on the raw ball of his head.
　　None of this sweetened his appearance a jot. Indeed in many ways it worsened it. Previously there had been scarcely anything recognizable about him, but now there were scraps of humanity everywhere, throwing into yet greater relief the catastrophic nature of his wounding.
　　There was worse to come. He spoke, and when he spoke it was with a voice that was indisputably Frank's. The broken syllables had gone.
　　"I feel pain," he said.
　　His browless, half-lidded eyes were watching her every response. She tried to conceal the queasiness she felt, but knew the disguise inadequate.
　　"My nerves are working again," he was telling her, "and they hurt."
　　"What can I do about it?" she asked him.
　　"Maybe...maybe some bandages."
　　"Bandages?"
　　"Help me bind myself together."
　　"If that's what you want."
　　"But I need more than that, Julia. I need another body."
　　"Another?" she said. Was there no end to this?
　　"What's to lose?" he replied, moving closer to her. At his sudden proximity she became very anxious. Reading the fear in her face, he stopped his advance.
　　"I'll be whole soon..." he promised her, "and when I am..."
　　"I'd better clear up," she said, averting her gaze from him.
　　"When I am, sweet Julia..."
　　"Rory will be home soon."
　　"Rory!" He spat the name out. "My darling brother! How in God's name did you come to marry such a dullard?"
　　She felt a spasm of anger toward Frank. "I loved him," she said. And then, after a moment's pondering, corrected herself. "I thought I loved him."
　　His laugh only made his dreadful nakedness more apparent. "How can you have believed that?" he said. "He's a slug. Always was. Always will be. Never had any sense of adventure."
　　"Unlike you."
　　"Unlike me."
　　She looked down at the floor; a dead man's hand lay between them. For an instant she was almost overwhelmed by self-revulsion. All that she had done, and dreamed of doing, in the last few days rose up in front of her: a parade of seductions that had ended in death-all for this death that she had hoped so fervently would end in seduction. She was as damned as he, she thought; no fouler ambition could nest in his head than presently cooed and fluttered in hers.
　　Well...it was done.
　　"Heal me," he whispered to her. The harshness had gone from his voice. He spoke like a lover. "Heal me...please."
　　"I will," she said. "I promise you I will."
　　"And then we'll be together."
　　She frowned.
　　"What about Rory?"
　　"We're brothers, under the skin," Frank said. "I'll make him see the wisdom of this, the miracle of it. You don't belong to him Julia. Not anymore."
　　"No," she said. It was true.
　　"We belong to each other. That's what you want isn't it?"
　　"It's what I want."
　　"You know I think if I'd had you I wouldn't have despaired," he said to her. "Wouldn't have given away my body and soul so cheaply."
　　"Cheaply?"
　　"For pleasure. For mere sensuality. In you..." here he moved toward her again. This time his words held her; she didn't retreat. "In you I might have discovered some reason to live."
　　"I'm here," she said. Without thinking, she reached across and touched him. The body was hot, and damp. His pulse seemed to be everywhere. In every tender bud of nerve, in each burgeoning sinew. The contact excited her. It was as if, until this moment, she had never quite believed him to be real. Now it was incontestable. She had made this man, or remade him, used her wit and her cunning to give him substance. The thrill she felt, touching this too vulnerable body, was the thrill of ownership.
　　"This is the most dangerous time," he told her. "Before now, I could hide myself. I was practically nothing at all. But not anymore.
　　"No. I've thought of that."
　　"We must be done with it quickly. I must be strong and whole, at whatever cost. You agree?"
　　"Of course."
　　"After that there'll be an end to the waiting, Julia."
　　The pulse in him seemed to quicken at the thought.
　　Then he was kneeling in front of her. His unfinished hands were at her hips, then his mouth.
　　Forsaking the dregs of her distaste, she put her hand upon his head, and felt the hair-silken, like a baby's-and the shell of his skull beneath. He had learned nothing of delicacy since last he'd held her. But despair had taught her the fine art of squeezing blood from stones; with time she would have love from this hateful thing, or know the reason why.
　　

EIGHT
　　
　　1
　　There was thunder that night. A storm without rain, which made the air smell of steel.
　　Kirsty had never slept well. Even as a child, though her mother had known lullabies enough to pacify nations, the girl had never found slumber easy. It wasn't that she had bad dreams; or at least none that lingered until morning. It was that sleep itself-the act of closing the eyes and relinquishing control of her consciousness-was something she was temperamentally unsuited to.
　　Tonight, with the thunder so loud and the lightning so bright, she was happy. She had an excuse to forsake her tangled bed, and drink tea, and watch the spectacle from her window.
　　It gave her time to think, as well-time to turn over the problem that had vexed her since leaving the house on Lodovico Street. But she was still no nearer an answer.
　　One particular doubt nagged. Suppose she was wrong about what she'd seen? Suppose she'd misconstrued the evidence, and Julia had a perfectly good explanation? She would lose Rory at a stroke.
　　And yet, how could she remain silent? She couldn't bear to think of the woman laughing behind his back, exploiting his gentility, his na?veté. The thought made her blood boil.
　　The only other option was to wait and watch, to see if she could gain some incontrovertible evidence. If her worst suppositions were then confirmed, she would have no choice but to tell Rory all she'd seen.
　　Yes. That was the answer. Wait and watch, watch and wait.
　　The thunder rolled around for long hours, denying her sleep until nearly four. When, finally, she did sleep, it was the slumber of a watcher and waiter. Light, and full of sighs.
　　
　　2
　　The storm made a ghost train of the house. Julia sat downstairs, and counted the beats between the flash and the fury that came on its heels. She had never liked thunder. She, a murderess; she, a consorter with the living dead. It was another paradox to add to the thousand she'd found at work in herself of late. She thought more than once of going upstairs, and taking some comfort with the prodigy, but knew that it would be unwise. Rory might return at any moment from his office party. He would be drunk, on past experience, and full of unwelcome fondness.
　　The storm crept closer. She put on the television, to block out the din, which it scarcely did.
　　At eleven. Rory came home, wreathed in smiles. He had good news. In the middle of the party his supervisor had taken him aside, commended him for his excellent work, and spoken of great things for the future. Julia listened to his retelling of the exchange, hoping that his inebriation would blind him to her indifference. At last, his news told, he threw off his jacket and sat down on the sofa beside her.
　　"Poor you," he said. "You don't like the thunder."
　　"I'm fine," she said.
　　"Are you sure?"
　　"Yes. Fine."
　　He leaned across to her and nuzzled her ear.
　　"You're sweaty," she said matter-of-factly. He didn't cease his overtures, however, unwilling to lower his baton now that he'd begun.
　　"Please, Rory-" she said. "I don't want this."
　　"Why not? What did I do?"
　　"Nothing," she said, pretending some interest in the television. "You're fine."
　　"Oh, is that right?" he said. "You're fine. I'm fine. Everybody's fucking fine."
　　She stared at the flickering screen. The late evening news had just begun, the usual cup of sorrows full to brimming. Rory talked on, drowning out the newscaster's voice with his diatribe. She didn't much mind. What did the world have to tell her? Little enough. Whereas she, she had news for the world that it would reel to hear. About the condition of the damned; about love lost, and then found; about what despair and desire have in common.
　　"Please, Julia"-Rory was saying-"just speak to me."
　　The pleas demanded her attention. He looked, she thought, like the boy in the photographs-his body hirsute and bloated, his clothes those of an adult-but still, in essence, a boy, with his bewildered gaze and sulky mouth. She remembered Frank's question: "How could you ever have married such a dullard?" Thinking of it, a sour smile creased her lips. He looked at her, his puzzlement deepening.
　　"What's so funny, damn you?"
　　"Nothing."
　　He shook his head, dull anger replacing the sulk. A peal of thunder followed the lightning with barely a beat intervening. As it came, there was a noise from the floor above. She turned her attention back to the television, to divert Rory's interest. But it was a vain attempt; he'd heard the sound.
　　"What the fuck was that?"
　　"Thunder."
　　He stood up. "No," he said. "Something else." He was already at the door.
　　A dozen options raced through her head, none of them practical. He wrestled drunkenly with the door handle.
　　"Maybe I left a window open," she said and got up. "I'll go and see."
　　"I can do it," he replied. "I'm not totally inept."
　　"Nobody said-" she began, but he wasn't listening. As he stepped out into the hallway the
　　lightning came with the thunder: loud and bright. As she went in pursuit of him another flash came fast upon the first, accompanied by a bowel-rocking crash. Rory was already halfway up the stairs.
　　"It was nothing!" she shouted after him. He made no reply but climbed on to the top of the stairs. She followed.
　　"Don't..." she said to him, in a lull between one peal and the next. He heard her this time. Or rather, chose to listen. When she reached the top of the stairs he was waiting.
　　"Something wrong?" he said.
　　She hid her trepidation behind a shrug. "You're being silly," she replied softly.
　　"Am I?"
　　"It was just the thunder."
　　His face, lit from the hall below, suddenly softened. "Why do you treat me like shit?" he asked her.
　　"You're just tired," she told him.
　　"Why though?" he persisted, childlike. "What have I ever done to you?"
　　"It's all right," she said. "Really, Rory. Everything's all right." The same hypnotic banalities, over and over.
　　Again, the thunder. And beneath the din, another sound. She cursed Frank's indiscretion.
　　Rory turned, and looked along the darkened landing.
　　"Hear that?" he said.
　　"No."
　　His limbs dogged by drink, he moved away from her. She watched him recede into shadow. Lightning, spilling through the open bedroom door, flash-lit him; then darkness again. He was walking toward the damp room. Toward Frank.
　　"Wait..." she said, and went after him.
　　He didn't halt, but covered the few yards to the door. As she reached him, his hand was closing on the handle.
　　Inspired by panic, she reached out and touched his cheek. "I'm afraid..." she said.
　　He looked round at her woozily.
　　"What of?" he asked her.
　　She moved her hand to his lips, letting him taste the fear on her fingers.
　　"The storm," she said.
　　She could see the wetness of his eyes in the gloom, little more. Was he swallowing the hook, or spitting it out?
　　Then: "Poor baby," he said.
　　Swallowed, she elated, and reaching down she put her hand over his and drew it from the door. If Frank so much as breathed now, all was lost.
　　"Poor baby," he said again and wrapped an embrace around her. His balance was not too good; he was a lead weight in her arms.
　　"Come on," she said, coaxing him away from the door. He went with her for a couple of stumbling paces, and then lost his equilibrium. She let go of him, and reached out to the wall for support. The lightning came again, and by it she saw that his eyes had found her, and glittered.
　　"I love you," he said, stepping across the hallway to where she stood. He pressed against her, so heavily there was no resisting. His head went to the crook of her neck, muttering sweet talk into her skin. Now he was kissing her. She wanted to throw him off. More, she wanted to take him by his clammy hand and show him the death-defying monster he had been so close to stumbling across.
　　But Frank wasn't ready for that confrontation, not yet. All she could do was endure Rory's caresses and hope that exhaustion claimed him quickly.
　　"Why don't we go downstairs?" she suggested.
　　He muttered something into her neck and didn't move. His left hand was on her breast, the other clasped around her waist. She let him work his fingers beneath her blouse. To resist at this juncture would only inflame him afresh.
　　"I need you," he said, raising his mouth to her ear. Once, half a lifetime ago, her heart had seemed to skip at such a profession. Now she knew better. Her heart was no acrobat; there was no tingle in the coils of her abdomen. Only the steady workings of her body. Breath drawn, blood circulated, food pulped and purged. Thinking of her anatomy thus, untainted by romanticism-as a collection of natural imperatives housed in muscle and bone-she found it easier to let him strip her blouse and put his face to her breasts. Her nerve endings dutifully responded to his tongue, but again, it was merely an anatomy lesson. She stood back in the dome of her skull, and was unmoved.
　　He was unbuttoning himself now; she caught sight of the boastful plum as he stroked it against her thigh. Now he opened her legs, and pulled her underwear down just far enough to give him access. She made no objection, nor even a sound, as he made his entrance.
　　His own din began almost immediately, feeble claims to love and lust hopelessly tangled together. She half listened, and let him work at his play, his face buried in her hair.
　　Closing her eyes, she tried to picture better times, but the lightning spoiled her dreaming. As sound followed light, she opened her eyes again to see that the door of the damp room had been opened two or three inches. In the narrow gap between door and frame she could just make out a glistening figure, watching them.
　　She could not see Frank's eyes, but she felt them sharpened beyond pricking by envy and rage. Nor did she look away, but stared on at the shadow while Rory's moans increased. And at the end one moment became another, and she was lying on the bed with her wedding dress crushed beneath her, while a black and scarlet beast crept up between her legs to give her a sample of its love.
　　"Poor baby," was the last thing Rory said as sleep overcame him. He lay on the bed still dressed; she made no attempt to strip him. When his snores were even, she left him to it, and went back to the room.
　　Frank was standing beside the window, watching the storm move to the southeast. He had torn the blind away. Lamplight washed the walls.
　　"He heard you," she said.
　　"I had to see the storm," he replied simply. "I needed it."
　　"He almost found you, damn it."
　　Frank shook his head. "There's no such thing as almost," he said, still staring out of the window. Then, after a pause: "I want to be out there. I want to have it all again."
　　"I know."
　　"No you don't," he told her. "You've no conception of the hunger I've got on me."
　　"Tomorrow then," she said. "I'll get another body tomorrow."
　　"Yes. You do that. And I want some other stuff. A radio, for one. I want to know what's going on out there. And food: proper food. Fresh bread-"
　　"Whatever you need."
　　"-and ginger. The preserved kind, you know? In syrup."
　　"I know."
　　He glanced round at her briefly, but he wasn't seeing her. There was too much world to be reacquainted with tonight.
　　"I didn't realize it was autumn," he said, and went back to watching the storm.
　　

NINE
　　
　　The first thing Kirsty noticed when she came round the corner of Lodovico Street the following day was that the blind had gone from the upper front window. Sheets of newspaper had been taped against the glass in its place.
　　She found herself a vantage point in the shelter of a holly hedge, from which she hoped she could watch the house but remain unseen. Then she settled down for her vigil.
　　It was not quickly rewarded. Two hours and more went by before she saw Julia leave the house, another hour and a quarter before she returned, by which time Kirsty's feet were numb with cold.
　　Julia had not returned alone. The man she was with was not known to Kirsty, nor indeed did he look to be a likely member of Julia's circle. From a distance he appeared to be in middle age, stocky, balding. When he followed Julia into the house he gave a nervous backward glance, as if fearful of voyeurs.
　　She waited in her hiding place for a further quarter of an hour, not certain of what to do next. Did she linger here until the man emerged, and challenge him? Or did she go to the house and try to talk her way inside? Neither option was particularly attractive. She decided not to decide. Instead she would get closer to the house, and see what inspiration the moment brought.
　　The answer was, very little. As she made her way up the path her feet itched to turn and carry her away. Indeed she was within an ace of doing just that when she heard a shout from within.
　　The man's name was Sykes, Stanley Sykes. Nor was that all he'd told Julia on the way back from the bar. She knew his wife's name (Maudie) and occupation (assistant chiropodist); she'd had pictures of the children (Rebecca and Ethan) provided for her to coo over. The man seemed to be defying her to continue the seduction. She merely smiled, and told him he was a lucky man.
　　But once in the house, things had begun to go awry. Halfway up the stairs friend Sykes had suddenly announced that what they were doing was wrong-that God saw them, and knew their hearts, and found them wanting. She had done her best to calm him, but he was not to be won back from the Lord. Instead, he lost his temper and flailed out at her. He might have done worse, in his righteous wrath, but for the voice that had called him from the landing. He'd stopped hitting her instantly and become so pale it was as if he believed God himself was doing the calling. Then Frank had appeared at the top of the stairs, in all his glory. Sykes had loosed a cry, and tried to run. But Julia was quick. She had her hand on him long enough for Frank to descend the few stairs and make a permanent arrest.
　　She had not realized, until she heard the creak and snap of bone as Frank took hold of his prey, how strong he had become of late: stronger surely than a natural man. At Frank's touch Sykes had shouted again. To silence him, Frank wrenched off his jaw.
　　The second shout that Kirsty had heard had ended abruptly, but she read enough panic in the din to have her at the door and on the verge of knocking.
　　Only then did she think better of it. Instead, she slipped down the side of the house, doubting with every step the wisdom of this, but equally certain that a frontal assault would get her nowhere. The gate that offered access to the back garden was lacking a bolt. She slipped through, her ears alive to every sound, especially that of her own feet. From the house, nothing. Not so much as a moan.
　　Leaving the gate open in case she should need a quick retreat, she hurried to the back door. It was unlocked. This time, she let doubt slow her step. Maybe she should go and call Rory, bring him to the house. But by that time whatever was happening inside would be over, and she knew damn well that unless Julia was caught red-handed she would slide from under any accusation. No, this was the only way. She stepped inside.
　　The house remained completely quiet. There was not even a footfall to help her locate the actors she'd come to view. She moved to the kitchen door, and from there through to the dining room. Her stomach twitched; her throat was suddenly so dry she could barely swallow.
　　From dining room to lounge, and thence into the hallway. Still nothing, no whisper or sigh. Julia and her companion could only be upstairs, which suggested that she had been wrong, thinking she heard fear in the shouts. Perhaps it was pleasure that she'd heard. An orgasmic whoop, instead of the terror she'd taken it for. It was an easy mistake to make.
　　The front door was on her right, mere yards away. She could still slip out and away, the coward in her tempted, and no one be any the wiser. But a fierce curiosity had seized her, a desire to know (to see) the mysteries the house held, and be done with them. As she climbed the stairs the curiosity mounted to a kind of exhilaration.
　　She reached the top, and began to make her way along the landing. The thought occurred now that the birds had flown, that while she had been creeping through from the back of the house they had left via the front.
　　The first door on the left was the bedroom: if they were mating anywhere, Julia and her paramour, it would surely be here. But no. The door stood ajar; she peered in. The bedspread was uncreased.
　　Then, a misshapen cry. So near, so loud, her heart missed its rhythm.
　　She ducked out of the bedroom, to see a figure lurch from one of the rooms farther along the landing. It took her a moment to recognize the fretful man who had arrived with Julia-and only then by his clothes. The rest was changed, horribly changed. A wasting disease had seized him in the minutes since she'd seen him on the step, shriveling his flesh on the bone.
　　Seeing Kirsty, he threw himself toward her, seeking what fragile protection she could offer. He had got no more than a pace from the door however, when a form spilled into sight behind him. It too seemed diseased, its body bandaged from head to foot-the bindings stained by issues of blood and pus. There was nothing in its speed, however, or the ferocity of its subsequent attack, that suggested sickness. Quite the reverse. It reached for the fleeing man and took hold of him by the neck. Kirsty let out a cry, as the captor drew its prey back into its embrace.
　　The victim made what little complaint his dislocated face was capable of. Then the antagonist tightened its embrace. The body trembled and twitched; its legs buckled. Blood spurted from eyes and nose and mouth. Spots of it filled the air like hot hail, breaking against her brow. The sensation snapped her from her inertia. This was no time to wait and watch. She ran.
　　The monster made no pursuit. She reached the top of the stairs without being overtaken. But as her foot descended, it addressed her.
　　Its voice was...familiar.
　　"There you are," it said.
　　It spoke with melting tones, as if it knew her. She stopped.
　　"Kirsty," it said. "Wait a while."
　　Her head told her to run. Her gut defied the wisdom, however. It wanted to remember whose voice this was, speaking from the binding. She could still make good her escape, she reasoned; she had an eight-yard start. She looked round at the figure. The body in its arms had curled up, fetally, legs against chest. The beast dropped it.
　　"You killed him..." she said.
　　The thing nodded. It had no apologies to make, apparently, to either victim or witness.
　　"We'll mourn him later," it told her and took a step toward her.
　　"Where's Julia?" Kirsty demanded.
　　"Don't you fret. All's well..." the voice said. She was so close to remembering who it was.
　　As she puzzled it took another step, one hand upon the wall, as if its balance was still uncertain.
　　"I saw you," it went on. "And I think you saw me. At the window..."
　　Her mystification increased. Had this thing been in the house that long? If so, surely Rory must-.
　　And then she knew the voice.
　　"Yes. You do remember. I can see you remember..."
　　It was Rory's voice, or rather, a close approximation of it. More guttural, more selfregarding, but the resemblance was uncanny enough to keep her rooted to the spot while the beast shambled within snatching distance of her.
　　At the last she recanted her fascination, and turned to flee, but the cause was already lost. She heard its step a pace behind her, then felt its fingers at her neck. A cry came to her lips, but it was barely mounted before the thing had its corrugated palm across her face, canceling both the shout and the breath it came upon.
　　It plucked her up, and took her back the way she'd come. In vain she struggled against its hold; the small wounds her fingers made upon its body-tearing at the bandages and digging into the rawness beneath-left it entirely unmoved, it seemed. For a horrid moment her heels snagged the corpse on the floor. Then she was being hauled into the room from which the living and the dead had emerged. It smelled of soured milk and fresh meat. When she was flung down the boards beneath her were wet and warm.
　　Her belly wanted to turn inside out. She didn't fight the instinct, but retched up all that her stomach held. In the confusion of present discomfort and anticipated terror she was not certain of what happened next. Did she glimpse somebody else (Julia) on the landing as the door was slammed, or was it shadow? One way or another it was too late for appeals. She was alone with the nightmare.
　　Wiping the bile from her mouth she got to her feet. Daylight pierced the newspaper at the window here and there, dappling the room like sunlight through branches. And through this pastoral, the thing came sniffing her.
　　"Come to Daddy," it said.
　　In her twenty-six years she had never heard an easier invitation to refuse.
　　"Don't touch me," she told it.
　　It cocked its head a little, as if charmed by this show of propriety. Then it closed in on her, all pus and laughter, and-God help her-desire.
　　She backed a few desperate inches into the corner, until there was nowhere else for her to go.
　　"Don't you remember me?" it said.
　　She shook her head.
　　"Frank," came the reply. "This is brother Frank..."
　　She had met Frank only once, at Alexandra Road. He'd come visiting one afternoon, just before the wedding, more she couldn't recall. Except that she'd hated him on sight.
　　"Leave me alone," she said as it reached for her. There was a vile finesse in the way his stained fingers touched her breast.
　　"Don't, " she shrieked, "or so help me-"
　　"What?" said Rory's voice. "What will you do?"
　　Nothing, was the answer of course. She was helpless, as only she had ever been in dreams, those dreams of pursuit and assault that her psyche had always staged on a ghetto street in some eternal night. Never-not even in her most witless fantasies-had she anticipated that the arena would be a room she had walked past a dozen times, in a house where she had been happy, while outside the day went on as ever, gray on gray.
　　In a futile gesture of disgust, she pushed the investigating hand away.
　　"Don't be cruel," the thing said, and his fingers found her skin again, as unshooable as October wasps. "What's to be frightened of?"
　　"Outside..." she began, thinking of the horror on the landing.
　　"A man has to eat," Frank replied. "Surely you can forgive me that?"
　　Why did she even feel his touch, she wondered? Why didn't her nerves share her disgust and die beneath his caress?
　　"This isn't happening," she told herself aloud, but the beast only laughed.
　　"I used to tell myself that," he said. "Day in, day out. Used to try and dream the agonies away. But you can't. Take it from me. You can't. They have to be endured."
　　She knew he was telling the truth, the kind of unsavory truth that only monsters were at liberty to tell. He had no need to flatter or cajole; he had no philosophy to debate, or sermon to deliver. His awful nakedness was a kind of sophistication. Past the lies of faith, and into purer realms.
　　She knew too that she would not endure. That when her pleadings faltered, and Frank claimed her for whatever vileness he had in mind, she would loose such a scream that she would shatter.
　　Her very sanity was at stake here; she had no choice but to fight back, and quickly.
　　Before Frank had a chance to press his suit any harder, her hands went up to his face, fingers gouging at his eye holes and mouth. The flesh beneath the bandage had the consistency of jelly; it came away in globs, and with it, a wet heat.
　　The beast shouted out, his grip on her relaxing. Seizing the moment, she threw herself out from under him, the momentum carrying her against the wall with enough force to badly wind her.
　　Again, Frank roared. She didn't waste time enjoying his discomfort, but slid along the wall-not trusting her legs sufficiently to move into open territory-toward the door. As she advanced, her feet sent an unlidded jar of preserved ginger rolling across the room, spilling syrup and fruit alike.
　　Frank turned toward her, the bandaging about his face hanging in scarlet loops where she'd torn it away. In several places the bone was exposed. Even now, he ran his hands over the wounds, roars of horror coming as he sought to measure the degree of his maiming. Had she blinded him? She wasn't sure. Even if she had it was only a matter of time before he located her in this small room, and when he did his rage would know no bounds. She had to reach the door before he reoriented himself.
　　Faint hope! She hadn't a moment to take a step before he dropped his hands from his face and scanned the room. He saw her, no doubt of that. A beat later, he was bearing down upon her with renewed violence.
　　At her feet lay a litter of domestic items. The heaviest item amongst them was a plain box. She reached down and picked it up. As she stood upright, he was upon her. She loosed a cry of defiance and swung the box-bearing fist at his head. It connected heavily; bone splintered. The beast tottered backward, and she launched herself toward the door, but before she reached it the shadow swamped her once more, and she was flung backward across the room. It came in a raging pursuit.
　　This time he had no intention beyond the murderous. His lashes were intended to kill; that they did not was testament less to her speed than to the imprecision of his fury. Nevertheless, one out of every three blows caught her. Gashes opened in her face and upper chest; it was all she could do to prevent herself from fainting.
　　As she sank beneath his assault, again she remembered the weapon she'd found. The box was still in her hand. She raised it to deliver another blow, but as Frank's eyes came to rest on the box his assault abruptly ceased.
　　There was a panting respite, in which Kirsty had a chance to wonder if death might not be easier than further flight. Then Frank raised his arm toward her, unfurled his fist and said: "Give it to me."
　　He wanted his keepsake, it seemed. But she had no intention of relinquishing her only weapon.
　　"No," she said.
　　He made the demand a second time, and there was a distinct anxiety in his tone. It seemed the box was too precious for him to risk taking it by force.
　　"One last time," he said to her. "Then I'll kill you. Give me the box."
　　She weighed the chances. What had she left to lose?
　　"Say please," she said.
　　He regarded her quizzically, a soft growl in his throat. Then, polite as a calculating child, he said, "Please."
　　The word was her cue. She threw the box at the window with all the strength her trembling arm possessed. It sailed past Frank's head, shattering the glass, and disappeared from sight.
　　"No!" he shrieked, and was at the window in a heartbeat. "No! No! No!"
　　She raced to the door, her legs threatening to fail her with every step. Then she was out onto the landing. The stairs almost defeated her, but she clung to the bannister like a geriatric, and made it to the hallway without falling.
　　Above, there was further din. He was calling after her again. But this time she would not be caught. She fled along the hallway to the front door, and flung it open.
　　The day had brightened since she'd first entered the house-a defiant burst of sunlight before evening fell. Squinting against the glare she started down the pathway. There was glass underfoot, and amongst the shards, her weapon. She picked it up, a souvenir of her defiance, and ran. As she reached the street proper, words began to come-a hopeless babble, fragments of things seen and felt. But Lodovico Street was deserted, so she began to run, and kept running until she had put a good distance between her and the bandaged beast.
　　Eventually, wandering on some street she didn't recognize, somebody asked her if she needed help. The little kindness defeated her, for the effort of making some coherent reply to the inquiry was too much, and her exhausted mind lost its hold on the light.
　　

TEN
　　
　　1
　　She woke in a blizzard, or such was her first impression. Above her, a perfect whiteness, snow on snow. She was tucked up in snow, pillowed in snow. The blankness was sickening. It seemed to fill up her throat and eyes.
　　She raised her hands in front of her face; they smelled of an unfamiliar soap, whose perfume was harsh. Now she began to focus: the walls, the pristine sheets, the medication beside the bed. A hospital.
　　She called out for help. Hours or minutes later, she wasn't sure which, it came, in the form of a nurse who simply said, "You're awake," and went to fetch her superiors.
　　She told them nothing when they came. She had decided in the time between the nurse's disappearance and reappearance with the doctors that this was not a story she was ready to tell. Tomorrow (maybe) she might find the words to convince them of what she'd seen. But today? If she tried to explain, they would stroke her brow and tell her to hush her nonsense, condescend to her and try to persuade her she was hallucinating. If she pressed the point, they'd probably sedate her, which would make matters worse. What she needed was time to think.
　　All of this she'd worked out before they arrived, so that when they asked her what had happened she had her lies ready. It was all a fog, she told them; she could barely remember her own name. It will come back in time, they reassured her, and she replied meekly that she supposed it would. Sleep now, they said, and she told them she'd be happy to do just that, and yawned. They withdrew then.
　　"Oh, yes..." said one of them as he was about to go. "I forgot..."
　　He brought Frank's box from his pocket.
　　"You were holding on to this," he said, "when you were found. We had the Devil's own job getting it out of your hand. Does it mean anything to you?"
　　She said it didn't.
　　"The police have looked at it. There was blood on it, you see. Maybe yours. Maybe not."
　　He approached the bed.
　　"Do you want it?" he asked her. Then added, "It has been cleaned."
　　"Yes," she replied. "Yes, please."
　　"It may jog your memory," he told her, and put it down on the bedside table.
　　
　　2
　　"What are we going to do?" Julia demanded for the hundredth time. The man in the corner said nothing; nor was there any interpretable sign on his ruin of a face. "What did you want with her anyway?" she asked him. "You've spoiled everything."
　　"Spoiled?" said the monster. "You don't know the meaning of spoiled. "
　　She swallowed her anger. His brooding unnerved her.
　　"We have to leave, Frank," she said, softening her tone.
　　He threw a look across at her, white-hot.
　　"They'll come looking," she said. "She'll tell them everything."
　　"Maybe..."
　　"Don't you care?" she demanded.
　　The bandaged lump shrugged. "Yes," he said. "Of course. But we can't leave, sweetheart." Sweetheart. The word mocked them both, a breath of sentiment in a room that had known only pain. "I can't face the world like this." He gestured to his face. "Can I?" he said, staring up at her. "Look at me." She looked. "Can I?"
　　No.
　　"No." He went back to perusing the floor. "I need a skin, Julia."
　　"A skin?"
　　"Then, maybe...maybe we can go dancing together. Isn't that what you want?"
　　He spoke of both dancing and death with equal nonchalance, as though one carried as little significance as the other. It calmed her, hearing him talk that way.
　　"How?" she said at last. Meaning, how can a skin be stolen, but also, how will our sanity survive?
　　"There are ways," said the flayed face, and blew her a kiss.
　　
　　3
　　Had it not been for the white walls she might never have picked up the box. Had there been a picture to look at-a vase of sunflowers, or a view of pyramids-anything to break the monotony of the room, she would have been content to stare at it, and think. But the blankness was too much; it gave her no handhold on sanity. So she reached across to the table beside the bed and picked up the box.
　　It was heavier than she remembered. She had to sit up in bed to examine it. There was little enough to see. No lid that she could find. No keyhole. No hinges. If she turned it over once she turned it half a hundred times, finding no clue to how it might be opened. It was not solid, she was certain of that. So logic demanded that there be a way into it. But where?
　　She tapped it, shook it, pulled and pressed it, all without result. It was not until she rolled over in bed and examined it in the full glare of the lamp that she discovered some clue as to how the box was constructed. There were infinitesimal cracks in the sides of the box, where one piece of the puzzle abutted the next. They would have been invisible, but that a residue of blood remained in them, tracing the complex relation of the parts.
　　Systematically, she began to feel her way over the sides, testing her hypothesis by pushing and pulling once more. The cracks offered her a general geography of the toy; without them she might have wandered the six sides forever. But the options were significantly reduced by the clues she'd found; there were only so many ways the box could be made to come apart.
　　After a time, her patience was rewarded. A click, and suddenly one of the compartments was sliding out from beside its lacquered neighbors. Within, there was beauty. Polished surfaces which scintillated like the finest mother-of-pearl, colored shadows seeming to move in the gloss.
　　And there was music too; a simple tune emerged from the box, played on a mechanism that she could not yet see. Enchanted, she delved further. Though one piece had been removed, the rest did not come readily. Each segment presented a fresh challenge to fingers and mind, the victories rewarded with a further filigree added to the tune.
　　She was coaxing the fourth section out by an elaborate series of turns and counter turns, when she heard the bell. She stopped working, and looked up.
　　Something was wrong. Either her weary eyes were playing tricks or the blizzard-white walls had moved subtly out of true. She put down the box, and slipped out of bed to go to the window. The bell still rang, a solemn tolling. She drew back the curtain a few inches. It was night, and windy. Leaves migrated across the hospital lawn; moths congregated in the lamplight. Unlikely as it seemed, the sound of the bell wasn't coming from outside. It was behind her. She let the curtain drop and turned back into the room.
　　As she did so, the bulb in the bedside light guttered like a living flame. Instinctively, she reached for the pieces of the box: they and these strange events were intertwined somehow. As her hand found the fragments, the light blew out.
　　She was not left in darkness however; nor was she alone. There was a soft phosphorescence at the end of the bed, and in its folds, a figure. The condition of its flesh beggared her imagination-the hooks, the scars. Yet its voice, when it spoke, was not that of a creature in pain.
　　"It's called the Lemarchand Configuration," it said, pointing at the box. She looked down; the pieces were no longer in her hand, but floating inches above her palm. Miraculously, the box was reassembling itself without visible aid, the pieces sliding back together as the whole construction turned over and over. As it did so she caught fresh glimpses of the polished interior, and seemed to see ghosts' faces-twisted as if by grief or bad glass-howling back at her. Then all but one of the segments was sealed up, and the visitor was claiming her attention afresh.
　　"The box is a means to break the surface of the real," it said. "A kind of invocation by which we Cenobites can be notified-"
　　"Who?" she said.
　　"You did it in ignorance," the visitor said. "Am I right?"
　　"Yes."
　　"It's happened before," came the reply. "But there's no help for it. No way to seal the Schism, until we take what's ours..."
　　"This is a mistake," she said.
　　"Don't try to fight. It's quite beyond your control. You have to accompany me."
　　She shook her head. She'd had enough of bullying nightmares to last her a lifetime.
　　"I won't go with you," she said. "Damn you, I won't-"
　　As she spoke, the door opened. A nurse she didn't recognize-a member of the night shift presumably-was standing there.
　　"Did you call out?" she asked.
　　Kirsty looked at the Cenobite, then back at the nurse. They stood no more than a yard apart.
　　"She doesn't see me," it told her. "Nor hear me. I belong to you, Kirsty. And you to me.
　　"No," she said.
　　"Are you sure?" said the nurse. "I thought I heard-"
　　Kirsty shook her head. It was lunacy, all lunacy.
　　"You should be in bed," the nurse chided. "You'll catch your death."
　　The Cenobite tittered.
　　"I'll be back in five minutes," said the nurse. "Please go back to sleep."
　　And she was gone again.
　　"We'd better go," it said. "Leave them to their patchwork, eh? Such depressing places."
　　"You can't do this," she insisted.
　　It moved toward her nevertheless. A row of tiny bells, depending from the scraggy flesh of its neck, tinkled as it approached. The stink it gave off made her want to heave.
　　"Wait," she said.
　　"No tears, please. It's a waste of good suffering."
　　"The box," she said in desperation. "Don't you want to know where I got the box?"
　　"Not particularly."
　　"Frank Cotton," she said. "Does the name mean anything to you? Frank Cotton."
　　The Cenobite smiled.
　　"Oh yes. We know Frank."
　　"He solved the box too, am I right?"
　　"He wanted pleasure, until we gave it to him. Then he squirmed."
　　"If I took you to him..."
　　"He's alive then?"
　　"Very much alive."
　　"And you're proposing what? That I take him back instead of you?"
　　"Yes. Yes. Why not? Yes. "
　　The Cenobite moved away from her. The room sighed.
　　"I'm tempted," it said. Then: "But perhaps you're cheating me. Perhaps this is a lie, to buy you time."
　　"I know where he is, for God's sake," she said. "He did this to me!" She presented her slashed arms for its perusal.
　　"If you're lying"-it said-"if you're trying to squirm your way out of this-"
　　"I'm not."
　　"Deliver him alive to us then..."
　　She wanted to weep with relief.
　　"...make him confess himself. And maybe we won't tear your soul apart."
　　

ELEVEN
　　
　　1
　　Rory stood in the hallway and stared at Julia, his Julia, the woman he had once sworn to have and to hold till death did them part. It had not seemed such a difficult promise to keep at the time. He had idolized her for as long as he could remember, dreaming of her by night and spending the days composing love poems of wild ineptitude to her. But things had changed, and he had learned, as he watched them change, that the greatest torments were often the subtlest. There had been times of late when he would have preferred a death by wild horses to the itch of suspicion that had so degraded his joy.
　　Now, as he looked at her standing at the bottom of the stairs, it was impossible for him to even remember how good things had once been. All was doubt and dirt.
　　One thing he was glad of: she looked troubled. Maybe that meant there was a confession in the air, indiscretions that she would pour out and that he would forgive her for in a welter of tears and understanding.
　　"You look sad," he said.
　　She hesitated, then said: "It's difficult, Rory."
　　"What is?"
　　She seemed to want to give up before she began.
　　"What is?" he pressed.
　　"I've so much to tell you."
　　Her hand, he saw, was grasping the banister so tightly the knuckles burned white. "I'm listening," he said. He would love her again, if she'd just be honest with him. "Tell me," he said.
　　"I think maybe...maybe it would be easier if I showed you..." she told him, and so saying, led him upstairs.
　　
　　2
　　The wind that harried the streets was not warm, to judge by the way the pedestrians drew their collars up and their faces down. But Kirsty didn't feel the chill. Was it her invisible companion who kept the cold from her, cloaking her with that fire the Ancients had conjured to burn sinners in? Either that, or she was too frightened to feel anything.
　　But then that wasn't how she felt; she wasn't frightened. The feeling in her gut was far more ambiguous. She had opened a door-the same door Rory's brother had opened-and now she was walking with demons. And at the end of her travels, she would have her revenge. She would find the thing that had torn her and tormented her, and make him feel the powerlessness that she had suffered. She would watch him squirm. More, she would enjoy it. Pain had made a sadist of her.
　　As she made her way along Lodovico Street, she looked round for a sign of the Cenobite, but he was nowhere to be seen. Undaunted, she approached the house. She had no plan in mind: there were too many variables to be juggled. For one, would Julia be there? And if so, how involved in all of this was she? Impossible to believe that she could be an innocent bystander, but perhaps she had acted out of terror of Frank; the next few minutes might furnish the answers. She rang the bell, and waited.
　　The door was answered by Julia. In her hand, a length of white lace.
　　"Kirsty," she said, apparently unfazed by her appearance. "It's late..."
　　"Where's Rory?" were Kirsty's first words. They hadn't been quite what she'd intended, but they came out unbidden.
　　"He's here," Julia replied calmly, as if seeking to soothe a manic child. "Is there something wrong?"
　　"I'd like to see him," Kirsty answered.
　　"Rory?"
　　"Yes..."
　　She stepped over the threshold without waiting for an invitation. Julia made no objection, but closed the door behind her.
　　Only now did Kirsty feel the chill. She stood in the hallway and shivered.
　　"You look terrible," said Julia plainly.
　　"I was here this afternoon," she blurted. "I saw what happened, Julia. I saw. "
　　"What was there to see?" came the reply; her poise was unassailed.
　　"You know."
　　"Truly I don't."
　　"I want to speak to Rory..."
　　"Of course," came the reply. "But take care with him, will you? He's not feeling very well."
　　She led Kirsty through to the dining room. Rory was sitting at the table; there was a glass of spirits at his hand, a bottle beside it. Laid across an adjacent chair was Julia's wedding dress. The sight of it prompted recognition of the lace swath in her hand: it was the bride's veil.
　　Rory looked much the worse for wear. There was dried blood on his face, and at his hairline. The smile he offered was warm, but fatigued.
　　"What happened...?" she asked him.
　　"It's all right now, Kirsty," he said. His voice barely aspired to a whisper. "Julia told me everything...and it's all right."
　　"No," she said, knowing that he couldn't possibly have the whole story.
　　"You came here this afternoon."
　　"That's right."
　　"That was unfortunate."
　　"You...you asked me..." She glanced at Julia, who was standing at the door, then back at Rory. "I did what I thought you wanted."
　　"Yes. I know. I know. I'm only sorry you were dragged into this terrible business."
　　"You know what your brother's done?" she said. "You know what he summoned?"
　　"I know enough," Rory replied. "The point is, it's over now."
　　"What do you mean?"
　　"Whatever he did to you, I'll make amends-"
　　"What do you mean, over?"
　　"He's dead, Kirsty."
　　("...deliver him alive, and maybe we won't tear your soul apart.')
　　"Dead?"
　　"We destroyed him, Julia and I. It wasn't so difficult. He thought he could trust me, you see, thought that blood was thicker than water. Well it isn't. I wouldn't suffer a man like that to live..."
　　She felt something twitch in her belly. Had the Cenobites got their hooks in her already, snagging the carpet of her bowels?
　　"You've been so kind, Kirsty. Risking so much, coming back here..."
　　(There was something at her shoulder. "Give me your souls " it said.)
　　"I'll go to the authorities, when I feel a little stronger. Try and find a way to make them understand..."
　　"You killed him?" she said.
　　"Yes."
　　"I don't believe it..." she muttered.
　　"Take her upstairs," Rory said to Julia. "Show her."
　　"Do you want to see?" Julia inquired.
　　Kirsty nodded and followed.
　　It was warmer on the landing than below, and the air greasy and gray, like filthy dishwater. The door to Frank's room was ajar. The thing that lay on the bare boards, in a tangle of torn bandaging, still steamed. His neck was clearly broken, head set askew on his shoulders. He was devoid of skin from head to foot.
　　Kirsty looked away, nauseated.
　　"Satisfied?" Julia asked.
　　Kirsty didn't reply, but left the room and stepped onto the landing. At her shoulder, the air was restless.
　　("You lost," something said, close by her.
　　"I know, " she murmured.)
　　The bell had begun to ring, tolling for her, surely; and a turmoil of wings nearby, a carnival of carrion birds. She hurried down the stairs, praying that she wouldn't be overtaken before she reached the door. If they tore her heart out, let Rory be spared the sight. Let him remember her strong, with laughter on her lips, not pleas.
　　Behind her, Julia said, "Where are you going?" When there was no reply forthcoming, she went on talking. "Don't say anything to anybody, Kirsty," she insisted. "We can deal with this, Rory and me-"
　　Her voice had stirred Rory from his drink. He appeared in the hallway. The wounds Frank had inflicted looked more severe than Kirsty had first thought. His face was bruised in a dozen places, and the skin at his neck plowed up. As she came abreast of him, he reached out and took her arm.
　　"Julia's right," he said. "Leave it to us to report, will you?"
　　There were so many things she wanted to tell him at that moment, but time left room for none. The bell was getting louder in her head. Someone had looped their entrails around her neck, and was pulling the knot tight.
　　"It's too late..." she murmured to Rory, and pressed his hand away.
　　"What do you mean?" he said to her, as she covered the yards to the door. "Don't go, Kirsty. Not yet. Tell me what you mean."
　　She couldn't help but offer him a backward glance, hoping that he would find in her face all the regrets she felt.
　　"It's all right," he said sweetly, still hoping to heal her. "Really it is." He opened his arms. "Come to Daddy, " he said.
　　The phrase didn't sound right out of Rory's mouth. Some boys never grew to be daddies, however many children they sired.
　　Kirsty put out a hand to the wall to steady herself.
　　It wasn't Rory who was speaking to her. It was Frank. Somehow, it was FrankShe held on to the thought through the mounting din of bells, so loud now that her skull seemed ready to crack open. Rory was still smiling at her, arms extended. He was talking too, but she could no longer hear what he said. The tender flesh of his face shaped the words, but the bells drowned them out. She was thankful for the fact; it made it easier to defy the evidence of her eyes.
　　"I know who you are..." she said suddenly, not certain of whether her words were audible or not, but unquenchably sure that they were true. Rory's corpse was upstairs, left to lie in Frank's shunned bandaging. The usurped skin was now wed to his brother's body, the marriage sealed with the letting of blood. Yes! That was it.
　　The coils around her throat were tightening; it could only be moments before they dragged her off. In desperation, she started back along the hallway toward the thing in Rory's face.
　　"It's you-" she said.
　　The face smiled at her, undismayed.
　　She reached out, and snatched at him. Startled, he took a step backward to avoid her touch, moving with graceful sloth, but somehow still managing to avoid her touch. The bells were intolerable; they were pulping her thoughts, tolling her brain tissue to dust. At the rim of her sanity, she reached again for him, and this time he did not quite avoid her. Her nails raked the flesh of his cheek, and the skin, so recently grafted, slid away like silk. The blood-buttered meat beneath came into horrid view.
　　Behind her, Julia screamed.
　　And suddenly the bells weren't in Kirsty's head any longer. They were in the house, in the world.
　　The hallway lights burned dazzlingly bright, and then-their filaments overloading-went out. There was a short period of total darkness, during which time she heard a whimpering that may or may not have come from her own lips. Then it was as if fireworks were spluttering into life in the walls and floor. The hallway danced. One moment an abattoir (the walls running scarlet); the next, a boudoir (powder blue, canary yellow); the moment following that, a ghost-train tunnel-all speed and sudden fire.
　　By one flaring light she saw Frank moving toward her, Rory's discarded face hanging from his jaw. She avoided his outstretched arm and ducked through into the front room. The hold on her throat had relaxed, she realized: the Cenobites had apparently seen the error of their ways. Soon they would intervene, surely, and bring an end to this farce of mistaken identities. She would not wait to see Frank claimed as she'd thought of doing; she'd had enough. Instead she'd flee the house by the back door and leave them to it.
　　Her optimism was short-lived. The fireworks in the hall threw some light ahead of her into the dining room, enough to see that it was already bewitched. There was something moving over the floor, like ash before wind, and chains cavorting in the air. Innocent she might be, but the forces loose here were indifferent to such trivialities; she sensed that to take another step would invite atrocities.
　　Her hesitation put her back within Frank's reach, but as he snatched at her the fireworks in the hallway faltered, and she slipped away from him under cover of darkness. The respite was all too brief. New lights were already blooming in the hall-and he was after her afresh, blocking her route to the front door.
　　Why didn't they claim him, for God's sake? Hadn't she brought them here as she'd promised, and unmasked him?
　　Frank opened his jacket. In his belt was a bloodied knife-doubtless the flaying edge. He pulled it out, and pointed it at Kirsty.
　　"From now on," he said, as he stalked her, "I'm Rory." She had no choice but to back away from him, the door (escape, sanity) receding with every step. "Understand me? I'm Rory now. And nobody's ever going to know any better."
　　Her heel hit the bottom of the stair, and suddenly there were other hands on her, reaching through the banisters and seizing fistfuls of her hair. She twisted her head round and looked up. It was Julia, of course, face slack, all passion consumed. She wrenched Kirsty's head back, exposing her throat as Frank's knife gleamed toward it.
　　At the last moment Kirsty reached up above her head and snatched hold of Julia's arm, wrenching her from her perch on the third or fourth stair. Losing both her balance and her grip on her victim, Julia let out a shout and fell, her body coming between Kirsty and Frank's thrust. The blade was too close to be averted; it entered Julia's side to the hilt. She moaned, then she reeled away down the hall, the knife buried in her.
　　Frank scarcely seemed to notice. His eyes were on Kirsty once again, and they shone with horrendous appetite. She had nowhere to go but u￠. The fireworks still exploding, the bells still ringing, she started to mount the stairs.
　　Her tormentor was not coming in immediate pursuit, she saw. Julia's appeals for help had diverted him to where she lay, halfway between stairs and front door. He drew the knife from her side. She cried out in pain, and, as if to assist her, he went down on his haunches beside her body. She raised her arm to him, looking for tenderness. In response, he cupped his hand beneath her head, and drew her up toward him. As their faces came within inches of each other, Julia seemed to realize that Frank's intentions were far from honorable. She opened her mouth to scream, but he sealed her lips with his and began to feed. She kicked and scratched the air. All in vain.
　　Tearing her eyes from the sight of this depravity, Kirsty crawled up to the head of the stairs.
　　The second floor offered no real hiding place, of course, nor was there any escape route, except to leap from one of the windows. But having seen the cold comfort Frank had just offered his mistress, jumping was clearly the preferable option. The fall might break every bone in her body, but it would at least deprive the monster of further sustenance.
　　The fireworks were fizzling out, it seemed; the landing was in smoky darkness. She stumbled along it rather than walked, her fingertips moving along the wall.
　　Downstairs, she heard Frank on the move again. He was finished with Julia.
　　Now he spoke as he began up the stairs, the same incestuous invitation:
　　"Come to Daddy. "
　　It occurred to her that the Cenobites were probably viewing this chase with no little amusement, and would not act until there was only one player left: Frank. She was forfeit to their pleasure.
　　"Bastards..." she breathed, and hoped they heard.
　　She had almost reached the end of the landing. Ahead lay the junk room. Did it have a window sizable enough for her to climb through? If so, she would jump, and curse them as she fell-curse them all. God and the Devil and whatever lay between, curse them and as she dropped, hope for nothing but that the concrete be quick with her.
　　Frank was calling her again, and almost at the top of the stairs. She turned the key in the lock, opened the junk room door, and slipped through.
　　Yes, there was a window. It was uncurtained, and moonlight fell through it in shafts of indecent beauty, illuminating a chaos of furniture and boxes. She made her way through the confusion to the window. It was wedged open an inch or two to air the room. She put her fingers under the frame, and tried to heave it up far enough for her to climb out, but the sash in the window had rotted, and her arms were not the equal of the task.
　　She quickly hunted for a makeshift lever, a part of her mind coolly calculating the number of steps it would take her pursuer to cover the length of the landing. Less than twenty, she concluded, as she pulled a sheet off one of the tea chests, only to find a dead man staring up at her from the chest, eyes wild. He was broken in a dozen places, arms smashed and bent back upon themselves, legs tucked up to his chin. As she went to cry out, she heard Frank at the door.
　　"Where are you?" he inquired.
　　She clamped her hand over her face to stop the cry of revulsion from coming. As she did so, the door handle turned. She ducked out of sight behind a felled armchair, swallowing her scream.
　　The door opened. She heard Frank's breath, slightly labored, heard the hollow pad of his feet on the boards. Then the sound of the door being pulled to again. It clicked. Silence.
　　She waited for a count of thirteen, then peeped out of hiding, half expecting him to still be in the room with her, waiting for her to break cover. But no, he'd gone.
　　Swallowing the breath her cry had been mounting upon had brought an unwelcome side effect: hiccups. The first of them, so unexpected she had no time to subdue it, sounded gun-crack loud. But there was no returning step from the landing. Frank, it seemed, was already out of earshot. As she returned to the window, skirting the tea-chest coffin, a second hiccup startled her. She silently reprimanded her belly, but in vain. A third and fourth came unbidden while she wrestled once more to lift the window. That too was a fruitless effort; it had no intention of compliance.
　　Briefly, she contemplated breaking the glass and yelling for help, but rapidly discarded the idea. Frank would be eating out her eyes before the neighbors had even shaken off sleep. Instead she retraced her steps to the door, and opened it a creaking fraction. There was no sign of Frank, so far as her eyes were able to interpret the shadows. Cautiously, she opened the door a little wider, and stepped onto the landing once again.
　　The gloom was like a living thing; it smothered her with murky kisses. She advanced three paces without incident, then a fourth. On the fifth (her lucky number) her body took a turn for the suicidal. She hiccuped, her hand too tardy to reach her mouth before the din was out.
　　This time it did not go unheard.
　　"There you are," said a shadow, and Frank slipped from the bedroom to block her path. He was faster for his meal-he seemed as wide as the landing-and he stank of meat.
　　With nothing to lose, she screamed blue murder as he came at her. He was unashamed by her terror. With inches between her flesh and his knife she threw herself sideways and found that the fifth step had brought her abreast of Frank's room. She stumbled through the open door. He was after her in a flash, crowing his delight.
　　There was a window in this room, she knew; she'd broken it herself, mere hours before. But the darkness was so profound she might have been blindfolded, not even a glimmer of moonlight to feed her sight. Frank was equally lost, it seemed. He called after her in this pitch; the whine of his knife accompanying his call as he slit the air. Back and forth, back and forth. Stepping away from the sound, her foot caught in the tangle of the bandaging on the floor. Next moment she was toppling. It wasn't the boards she fell heavily upon, however, but the greasy bulk of Rory's corpse. It won a howl of horror from her.
　　"There you are," said Frank. The knife slices were suddenly closer, inches from her head. But she was deaf to them. She had her arms about the body beneath her, and approaching death was nothing beside the pain she felt now, touching him.
　　"Rory," she moaned, content that his name be on her lips when the cut came.
　　"That's right," said Frank, "Rory."
　　Somehow the theft of Rory's name was as unforgivable as stealing his skin; or so her grief told her. A skin was nothing. Pigs had skins; snakes had skins. They were knitted of dead cells, shed and grown and shed again. But a name? That was a spell, which summoned memories. She would not let Frank usurp it.
　　"Rory's dead," she said. The words stung her, and with the sting, the ghost of a thought
　　"Hush, baby..." he told her.
　　- suppose the Cenobites were waiting for Frank to name himself. Hadn't the visitor in the hospital said something about Frank confessing?
　　"You're not Rory..." she said.
　　"We know that," came the reply, "but nobody else does..."
　　"Who are you then?"
　　"Poor baby. Losing your mind, are you? Good thing too..."
　　"Who, though?"
　　"...it's safer that way."
　　"Who?"
　　"Hush, baby," he said. He was stooping to her in the darkness, his face within inches of hers. "Everything's going to be as right as rain."
　　"Yes?"

　　"Yes. Frank's here, baby."
　　"Frank?"
　　"That's right. I'm Frank."
　　So saying, he delivered the killing blow, but she heard it coming in the darkness and dodged its benediction. A second later the bell began again, and the bare bulb in the middle of the room flickered into life. By it she saw Frank beside his brother, the knife buried in the dead man's buttock. As he worked it out of the wound he set his eyes on her afresh.
　　Another chime, and he was up, and would have been at her...but for the voice.
　　It said his name, lightly, as if calling a child out to play.
　　"Frank."
　　His face dropped for the second time that night. A look of puzzlement flitted across it, and on its heels, horror.
　　Slowly, he turned his head round to look at the speaker. It was the Cenobite, its hooks sparkling. Behind it, Kirsty saw three other figures, their anatomies catalogues of disfigurement.
　　Frank threw a glance back at Kirsty.
　　"You did this," he said.
　　She nodded.
　　"Get out of here," said one of the newcomers. "This isn't your business now."
　　"Whore!" Frank screeched at her. "Bitch! Cheating, fucking bitch!"
　　The hail of rage followed her across the room to the door. As her palm closed around the door handle, she heard him coming after her, and turned to find that he was standing less than a foot from her, the knife a hair's breadth from her body. But there he was fixed, unable to advance another millimeter.
　　They had their hooks in him, the flesh of his arms and legs, and curled through the meat of his face. Attached to the hooks, chains, which they held taut. There was a soft sound, as his resistance drew the barbs through his muscle. His mouth was dragged wide, his neck and chest plowed open.
　　The knife dropped from his fingers. He expelled a last, incoherent curse at her, his body shuddering now as he lost his battle with their claim upon him. Inch by inch he was drawn back toward the middle of the room.
　　"Go, " said the voice of the Cenobite. She could see them no longer; they were already lost behind the blood-flecked air. Accepting their invitation, she opened the door, while behind her Frank began to scream.
　　As she stepped onto the landing plaster dust cascaded from the ceiling; the house was growling from basement to eaves. She had to go quickly, she knew, before whatever demons were loose here shook the place apart.
　　But, though time was short, she could not prevent herself from snatching one look at Frank, to be certain that he would come after her no longer.
　　He was in extremis, hooked through in a dozen or more places, fresh wounds gouged in him even as she watched. Spread-eagled beneath the solitary bulb, body hauled to the limits of its endurance and beyond, he gave vent to shrieks that would have won pity from her, had she not learned better.
　　Suddenly, his cries stopped. There was a pause. And then, in one last act of defiance, he cranked up his heavy head and stared at her, meeting her gaze with eyes from which all bafflement and all malice had fled. They glittered as they rested on her, pearls in offal.
　　In response, the chains were drawn an inch tighter, but the Cenobites gained no further cry from him. Instead he put his tongue out at Kirsty, and flicked it back and forth across his teeth in a gesture of unrepentant lewdness.
　　Then he came unsewn.
　　His limbs separated from his torso, and his head from his shoulders, in a welter of bone shards and heat. She threw the door closed, as something thudded against it from the other side. His head, she guessed.
　　Then she was staggering downstairs, with wolves howling in the walls, and the bells in turmoil, and everywhere-thickening the air like smoke-the ghosts of wounded birds, sewn wing tip to wing tip, and lost to flight.
　　She reached the bottom of the stairs, and began along the hallway to the front door, but as she came within spitting distance of freedom she heard somebody call her name.
　　It was Julia. There was blood on the hall floor, marking a trail from the spot where Frank had abandoned her, through into the dining room.
　　"Kirsty..." she called again. It was a pitiable sound, and despite the wing-choked air, she could not help but go in pursuit of it, stepping through into the dining room.
　　The furniture was smoldering charcoal; the ash that she'd glimpsed was a foul-smelling carpet. And there, in the middle of this domestic wasteland, sat a bride.
　　By some extraordinary act of will, Julia had managed to put her wedding dress on, and secure her veil upon her head. Now she sat in the dirt, the dress besmirched. But she looked radiant nevertheless, more beautiful, indeed, for the fact of the ruin that surrounded her.
　　"Help me," she said, and only now did Kirsty realize that the voice she heard was not coming from beneath the lush veil, but from the bride's lap.
　　And now the copious folds of the dress were parting, and there was Julia's head-set on a pillow of scarlet silk and framed with a fall of auburn hair. Bereft of lungs, how could it speak? It spoke nevertheless-"Kirsty..." it said, it begged-and sighed, and rolled back and forth in the bride's lap as if it hoped to unlodge its reason.
　　Kirsty might have aided it-might have snatched the head up and dashed out its brains-but that the bride's veil had started to twitch, and was rising now, as if plucked at by invisible fingers. Beneath it, a light flickered and grew brighter, and brighter yet, and with the light, a voice.
　　"I am the Engineer," it sighed. No more than that.
　　Then the fluted folds rose higher, and the head beneath gained the brilliance of a minor sun.
　　She did not wait for the blaze to blind her. Instead she backed out into the hallway-the birds almost solid now, the wolves insane-and flung herself at the front door even as the hallway ceiling began to give way.
　　The night came to meet her-a clean darkness. She breathed it in greedy gulps as she departed the house at a run. It was her second such departure. God help her, her sanity that there ever be a third.
　　At the corner of Lodovico Street, she looked back. The house had not capitulated to the forces unleashed within. It stood now as quiet as a grave. No, quieter.
　　As she turned away somebody collided with her. She yelped with surprise, but the huddled pedestrian was already hurrying away into the anxious murk that preceded morning. As the figure hovered on the outskirts of solidity, it glanced back, and its head flared in the gloom, a cone of white fire. It was the Engineer. She had no time to look away; it was gone again in one instant, leaving its glamour in her eye.
　　Only then did she realize the purpose of the collision. Lemarchand's box had been passed back to her, and sat in her hand.
　　Its surfaces had been immaculately resealed, and polished to a high gloss. Though she did not examine it, she was certain there would be no clue to its solution left. The next discoverer would voyage its faces without a chart. And until such time, was she elected its keeper? Apparently so.
　　She turned it over in her hand. For the frailest of moments she seemed to see ghosts in the lacquer. Julia's face, and that of Frank. She turned it over again, looking to see if Rory was held here: but no. Wherever he was, it wasn't here. There were other puzzles, perhaps, that if solved gave access to the place where he lodged. A crossword maybe, whose solution would lift the latch of the paradise garden, or a jigsaw in the completion of which lay access to Wonderland.
　　She would wait and watch, as she had always watched and waited, hoping that such a puzzle would one day come to her. But if it failed to show itself she would not grieve too deeply, for fear that the mending of broken hearts be a puzzle neither wit nor time had the skill to solve.
　　
　　







31

CB.TorturedSouls

  Book One
   The Secret Face of Genesis
　　
   I
　　He is a transformer of human flesh; a creator of monsters. If a Supplicant comes to him with sufficient need, sufficient hunger for change-knowing how painful that change will be-he will accommodate them. They become objects of perverse beauty beneath his hand; their bodies remade in fashions that they have no power to dictate.
　　Over the years, over the centuries, indeed, this extraordinary creature has gone by many names. But we will call him by the first name he was ever given: AGONISTES.
　　Where would a Supplicant find him? Usually in what he calls 'the burning places': deserts, for instance. But sometimes he can be found in 'the burning places' in our own inflamed cities: places where despair has seared away all belief in hope and love.
　　There he moves, silently, irreproachably, his presence barely more than a rumour. And there he waits for those who need him to come to find him.
　　When a Supplicant presents him or herself there is never coercion. There is never violence, at least until the Supplicant has signed over his or her flesh. Then yes, there may be some second thoughts, once the work begins. The truth is that on many occasions a Supplicant has begged to die rather than continue to be 'empowered' by Agonistes. It hurts too much, they tell him, as his scalpels and his torches work their terrible surgery upon him. But in all the time he has been wandering the world Agonistes has only ever granted the comfort of death to one Supplicant who changed his mind. That man was Judas Iscariot, who whined so much Agonistes hanged him from a tree. The rest he works on despite their complaints, sometimes for days and nights, coming back to his labours when a piece of flesh has healed and he can begin on the next part of the surgery.
　　There are some minor compensations for all this pain, which Agonistes will sometimes offer his Supplicants as he works. He will sing to them, for instance, and it is said that he knows every lullaby written, in every language of the world; songs of the cradle and the breast, to soothe the men and women he is remaking in the image of their terror.
　　And, if for some reason he feels particularly sympathetic to the Supplicant, Agonistes may even give his victim a piece of his own flesh to eat: just a sliver, cut with one of his finest scalpels, from the tender flesh of his upper thigh, or inner lip. According to legend, there is no food more comforting, more exquisite, than the flesh of Agonistes. The merest sliver of it upon the tongue of the Supplicant will make him or her forget all the horrors they are enduring, and deliver them to a place of paradisical calm.
　　Then once his client is soothed Agonistes continues his work, cutting, infibulating, searing, cauterizing, stretching, twisting, reconfiguring.
　　Sometimes he will bring a mirror to show his Supplicants what he has so far created. Sometimes he will announce that he wants the results to be a surprise; and so the Supplicant is left to imagine, through the haze of pain, what Agonistes is turning them into.
　　
   II
　　It is an art, what Agonistes achieves.
　　He claims it is The first Art, this creation of new flesh, being the art God used to call life into being. Agonistes believes in God; prays to Him night and morning: thanking Him for making a world in which there is so much hopelessness and such a profound hunger for revenge that Supplicants will seek him out and beg him to reconfigure them in the image of their monstrous ideal.
　　And it appears that God apparently finds no offence in what Agonistes does, because for two and a half thousand years he has walked the planet, performing what he calls his holy art, and no harm has come to him. In fact he has prospered.
　　Some of the people who went under his knife, like Pontius Pilate, have a place in our culture's history. Many are anonymous. He has transformed potentates and gangsters, failed actors and architects; women who've been cheated by their husbands and come seeking a new form to greet their adulterer in their marriage beds; school mistresses and perfumiers, dog-trainers and charcoal burners. The mighty and the insignificant, the noble and the peasant. As long as they are sincere Supplicants, and their prayers sound genuine, then Agonistes will be attentive to them.
　　Who is he, this Agonistes? This artist, this wanderer, this transformer of human flesh and bone?
　　In truth, nobody really knows. There is a heretical volume in the Vatican Library called 'A Treatise on the Madness of God', written by one Cardinal Gaillema in the mid-seventeenth century. In it, Gaillemia argues that the account of the Creation of the world offered in the Book of Genesis is wrong in several particulars, one of which is relevant here: on the seventh day, the Cardinal argued, God did not rest. Instead, driven into a kind of ecstatic fugue state by the labours of His Creation, God continued to work. But the creations He summoned up in His exhausted state were not the wholesome beasts with which He had populated Eden. In one day and one night, wandering amongst the fresh glories of creation, He summoned up forms that defied all the beauty of his early work. Destroyers and demons, these were the antithesise the wholesome forms that He had made in the first six days.
　　One of the creatures Jehovah created, the Cardinal claims was Agonistes. That's why Agonistes can pray to His Father in Heaven, and expect to be listened to. He is-at least according to the Cardinal Gaillema's account-one of God's own creations.
　　And there is no doubt that in his perverse way Agonistes serves a function. Over the years, over the centuries, he has been the answer to countless prayers for deliverance from powerlessness.
　　The words may change from prayer to prayer, but the meat of them is always the same:
　　"O Agonistes, dark deliverer, make me in the image of my enemies' nightmares. Let my flesh be the stuff from which you carve their terrors; let my skull be a bell which sounds their death-knell. Give me a song to sing, which will be the song of their despair, and let them wake and find me singing it at the bottom of their beds."
　　"Unmake me, unknit me, transform me."
　　"And if you cannot do that for me, Agonistes, then let me be excrement; let me be nothing; less than nothing."
　　"For I want to be the terror of my enemies, or I want oblivion."
　　"The choice, Lord, is yours."
　　
　　
   Book Two
   The Assassin Transformed
　　
   I
　　The city of Primordium was founded before any of the great cities of myth or history. Indeed, it is according to many sources, the first city ever built. Before Troy, before Rome, before Jerusalem, there was Primordium.
　　Until recently it was ruled by a dynasty of Emperors, whose long tenure had steadily produced a capacity for cruelty that would have challenged the worst excesses of Rome's corrupted Caesars. The Emperor Perfetto XI. for instance, who controlled Primordium for sixteen years until the Great Insurrection, was a man familiar with every corruption of mind and spirit. He lived in excessive luxury, in a palace he believed impregnable, caring little or nothing for the two and three quarter million people who occupied Primordium.
　　In the end, that was his undoing.
　　But we'll come to that.
　　
   II
　　First, let me tell you about Zarles Kreiger, who came from the lowest strata of the city. As a child, it was common for him to eat at the Vomitorium, where-as in ancient Rome-the rich food disgorged by the wealthy and overfed could be purchased for a small amount of money, and consumed a second time. It was Kreigcr's good fortune that such a life of poverty did not kill him. By some physical paradox, experiences that would have reduced most men to shadows of their former selves, served to strengthen Zarles. By the time he was thirteen he was already larger than all his older brothers. And along with his physical prowess came something else: a curiosity about how the infinitely corrupt city in which he lived actually worked. Without understanding the trap in which he was caught, he reassured, he would never be able to escape from it.
　　At the age of fourteen he became a runner for a gangster in the East City called Duraf Cascarellian, and quickly elevated himself in the criminal's employ, simply because he was willing to do anything requested of him. In return, Cascarellian treated Keiger like a son; protecting him from capture by sending men out after Kreiger to clean up after one of his murders. Kreiger was a messy killer. Not for him the simple slit across the throat. He liked to use scythes, first disembowelling his victims then strangling them with their own entrails.
　　
　　Now such behaviour does not go unnoticed for long, even in a city as filled with excesses as Primordium. And Kreigcr's reputation was increased considerably by the fact that the hits Cascarellian was having him make were often political. Judges, congressmen, journalists who were critical of the Emperor: these were often Kreiger's victims. Personally, he cared not at all about the affiliation of his victims. Blood was blood as far as Kreiger was concerned, and he took the same pleasure in it whether it poured from the flesh of a Republican or a Royalist.
　　Then he met a woman called Lucidique, and all that changed.
　　
   III
　　Lucidique was the daughter of a Senator who had been lately complaining in open forum about the fact that the city was running into a state of decadence. The Perfetto Dynasty was using the people's taxes to fund its own pleasures, the Senator argued: it had to stop.
　　The order quickly came down from the Emperor: rid me of this Senator. Cascarcllian, not giving a damn about the philosophical issues, but happy to oblige his Emperor, sent Kreiger out to kill the political troublemaker.
　　Kreiger went to the Senator's estate, caught him in the garden amongst his roses, gutted him and carried him inside. He was in the act of arranging the Senator's body on the dinner table, when Lucidique entered. She was naked, having just come from bathing. But she was also prepared for the intruder. She carried two knives.
　　She circled Kreiger, an he stood amongst the blood and the innards of her father.
　　"If you move I'll kill you," she said.
　　"With two table knives?" Kreiger said, slicing the air with his scythes. "Go back to your bath and forget I was here."
　　"This was my father you just murdered!"
　　"Yes. I see the resemblance."
　　"I would have thought a man like you would have thought twice about taking a knife to my father's throat. He wanted to overthrow the Empire so that you and your like would not be exploited."
　　"Me and my like? You don't know anything about me."
　　"I can guess," Lucidique said. "You were born in filth, and you've lived in filth so long you don't even see what's going on right in front of you."
　　Kreiger's expression changed. "So perhaps you do know a little," he said his voice uneasy. The woman's confidence unnerved him. "I will leave you to mourn your father," he said, retreating from the table.
　　"Wait!" the woman said. "Not so quickly."
　　"What do you mean: wait? I could kill you in a heartbeat if I wanted to."
　　"But you don't want to, or you would have done it."
　　"What's your name?"
　　"Lucidique."
　　"So then, what do you want from me?"
　　"I want you to come with me, into the filthiest streets of Primordium."
　　"Believe me, I've seen them."
　　"Then you show me."
　　
   IV
　　It was the strangest walk a man and a woman ever took together. Though Kreiger had washed the Senator's blood from his face, hands and arms he still stank of murder. And here he was, walking beside the daughter of the man he'd just murdered, wrapped in dark linen.
　　Together, they saw the worst of Primordium: the disease, the violence, and the grinding, unrelieved poverty. And every now and then Lucidique would point to the walls and the towers of the Emperor's Winter Palace, any one room of which contained sufficient wealth to clear the slums of the city, and feed every starving child.
　　And for the first time in many, many years Kreiger felt some measure of real emotion, remembering circumstances of his own up-bringing, left to sit in the open sewers of Primordium's streets while his mother sold her drug-riddled body to one of the guards of the Emperor's guards. There was anger in him as he walked. And it steadily grew.
　　"What do you want me to do?" he said, frustrated by what he felt, and his own helplessness. "I could never get to the Emperor."
　　"Don't be so sure."
　　"What do you mean?"
　　"You're right, the Dynasty is untouchable as long as you're just a man; a scabby little assassin hired to kill overweight Senators. But suppose you could be more than that? Then you could bring the Dynasty down."
　　"How?"
　　Lucidique gave Kreiger a sideways glance. "It's nothing I can show you here. Besides, I have a father to bury. If you want to know more, then meet me tomorrow night outside the Western Gates. Come alone."
　　"If this is some kind of trap..." Kreiger said, "...some way to revenge your father...then before they take me I'll cut out your eyes."
　　Lucidique smiled. "You make such pretty love-talk," she said.
　　"I mean it."
　　"I know. And I wouldn't be so stupid as to conspire against you. Quite the reverse. I believe we were meant to know one another. I was meant to walk in on your killing my father, and you were meant to hold your hand off and not kill me. There's some connection between us. You feel it, don't you?"
　　Kreiger looked at the dirty street between them. The night had been filled with feelings he had not anticipated experiencing. And now here was another; admitting to the strange intimacy he felt for the daughter of the man he'd murdered.
　　"Yes," he said. "I feel it." Then, after a long silence: "What time tomorrow night?"
　　"Sometime after one." Lucidique told him. "I'll be there."
　　
   V
　　The following day the streets of Primordium were alive with gossip and speculation: the death of the Senator had started all kinds of rumours. Was this murder the first indication that the Emperor would put up with no more moves towards democracy in the city? Believing this to be the case many members of the Senate left Primordium hurriedly, in case they were next on the Emperor's hit list. There was a general sense of unrest, everywhere.
　　And in Kreiger, a profound sense of anticipation.
　　He had barely slept, thinking of what had happened the night before. No, not just the night before. Thinking about his life: where it had led him so far, and where-if Lucidique's promise were a true one-it would go after this.
　　Every now and then he'd glance towards the walls of the palace (which had twice as many guards patrolling them today as yesterday) and wonder to himself what she had meant about finding a way for one man to bring down a Dynasty?
　　
   VI
　　At one o'clock in the morning, a mile outside the West Gate of Primordium, he sat on a stone and he waited. At nine minutes past one, a pair of horses approached (not from the city, from which direction Kreiger had expected her to come, but from the Desert, which lay, vast and largely uncharted, out to the West and South-West of the city.)
　　They drew nearer, and dismounted.
　　"Kreiger..."
　　"Yes?"
　　"I want you to meet Agonistes."
　　Kreiger had heard rumours about this man Agonistes. It was the kind of story that was exchanged between assassins, more of a legend than a reality.
　　But here he was. As real as the woman who'd brought him.
　　"I hear you want to make Primordium a Republic," Agonistes said. "Single-handed."
　　"She persuaded me it was possible," Kreiger replied. "But...I don't believe it is."
　　"You should have more faith, Kreiger. I can make you the terror of Emperors, if you want it badly enough. It's up to you. Make up your mind quickly, for I have better business elsewhere tonight if you don't require my services. I can hear a hundred prayers pouring out of Primordium at this very moment; people wanting me to give them the power to change their world."
　　Lucidique put her hand up to Kreiger's face. "Now the moment's here, I see you don't want it," she said. "You're afraid."
　　"I'm not afraid!" Kreiger said. He thought of his mother, dead of the pox, of his brothers killed in the street as children by noblemen passing on horses, of his sister, in the asylum, never to be sane again.
　　"Take me," he said.
　　"You're sure?" Agonistes asked him. "Remember, there's no way back."
　　"I don't want to go back. Take me. Change me."
　　He glanced at Lucidique. She was smiling.
　　"Take the horses," Agonistes told her. "We won't need them."
　　So together, Kreiger and Agonistes turned round and headed into the desert.
　　
   VII
　　The next day Lucidique buried her father. The rumours quietened down a little in the city, but there was still an undercurrent, subtle but pervasive: Primordium was in a very volatile state; like an explosive, which might be set off with a jolt.
　　Eight nights after Agonistes had taken Kreiger out into the desert, Lucidique-whose father's house lay close to the palace-woke to the sounds of screams.
　　She got up, and went to the window. There were lights burning in all the palace windows. The gates were flung wide. Guards were running around in confusion.
　　She dressed, anonymously, and went down into the streets. The din had woken the city; and though the Emperor's guards were riding back and forth, attempting to enforce an on-the-spot curfew, nobody was attending to them.
　　Lucidique went into the palace. The screams had died down now; to be replaced by half-whispered prayers.
　　But it didn't take her very long to discover what the creature who had once been Zarles Kreiger had wrought. There was death on every side. And his slaughter had been indiscriminate: men and women, yes; but also their children, their babies; their unborn babies.
　　The Perfetto Empire ceased to rule Primordium that night. There were none left alive to do so. Kreiger had killed them all.
　　As Lucidique stood in the Great Hall of the Palace, in a pool of blood that reached to the walls, she caught a reflection. She looked up.
　　There he was. Kreiger, remade. THE SCYTHE-MEISTER. There was almost nothing left of the man she'd known: Agonistes' handiwork has transformed the humble assassin into something that would haunt the nightmares, and the streets, of Primordium, for many years to come.
　　He approached her. She wondered if this was her last moment; if he intended to kill her as efficiently as he'd dispatched all the rest. But no. He simply leaned down and whispered in her ear:
　　"...you cannot imagine..."
　　Then he left the carnage behind him, and wandered out into the night, pausing only to wash his blades in one of the many fountains in the courtyards.
　　
　　
   Book Three
   The Avenger
　　
   I
　　Zarles Kreiger was human once. An assassin working for the gangster Duarf Cascarellian, Kreiger was a man who would do anything for a price. But there are some tasks that have an unforeseen price, and this proved to be one of them. Caught red-handed by the Senator's daughter, the exquisite Lucidique, Kreiger was persuaded that he in his turn had been a victim. The rulers of the city in which they all lived-the vast, degenerate city-state of Primordium-were the truly guilty souls; and until the dynasty was brought down life would continue to be a bloody confusion in which men like Kreiger acted like rabid animals and women like Lucidique lost their loved ones.
　　It had to stop. And Lucidique knew how. She persuaded Kreiger to put himself into the hands of an ancient entity called Agonistes, who would traumatically reconfigure him.
　　He did as Lucidique suggested, and after eight days and nights out in the desert, he returned to Primordium as The Scythe-Meister: a powerful engine of destruction, who in a matter of hours brought the Perfetto Dynasty to a close.
　　Before disappearing into the desert, he had three words for Lucidique, three teasing words:
　　"...you cannot imagine..."
　　
   II
　　They called that night-the night the Emperor and his family were murdered-the Great Insurrection. In its wake, a host of minor insurrections took place, as old enmities erupted. Powerful figures who'd used the decadent reign of the Emperor Perfetto as a cover for their corruptions-judges, bishops, members of the clergy, guild and union leaders-found themselves unprotected, and face to face with the people they'd exploited.
　　Even those amongst the criminal classes who had private armies to protect them against this very eventuality were fearful now.
　　Take, for example, Duarf Cascarellian. He wasn't by any means a stupid man. The fact that his assassin, Zarles Kreiger, had disappeared the night of the Insurrection made him highly suspicious that Kreiger's fate was tied in with the almost supernatural fall of the Emperor. Indeed one of Cascarellian's spies, who had been a guard at the palace the night of the slaughter, had seen the creature everyone called The Scythe-Meister washing his weapons in one of the Palace's many fountains. The informant had escaped the massacre without harm coming to him, and reported that unlikely as it seemed the semi-mythical figure of The Scythe-Meister bore a subtle but undeniable resemblance to Zarles Kreiger.
　　Was it possible, Cascarellian wondered, that the missing assassin and The Scythe-Meister were somehow the same person? Had some incomprehensible sea-change been worked upon Kreiger, turning him into this unstoppable avenger? And if so, what part did Lucidique-who had been seen in a brief exchange with The Scythe-Meister-play in the process?
　　
   III
　　Cascarellian did not sleep well any longer. He had nightmares in which The Scythe-Meister broke down his doors, as it had broken down the doors of the Emperor's Palace, killing his lieutenants, as it had slaughtered the palace guards, and finally come to the foot of his bed-as the killer had come to the Emperor's bed, pulling him from limb to limb.
　　He decided the best way to protect himself from this unknowable force was through Lucidique. He sent three of his sons out to take had the Senator's daughter captive, ordering them to do as little as possible to arouse her wrath. In his heart (though he would never have admitted this to anyone, not even his priest) he was a little afraid of Lucidique. She needed to be treated with more respect than he was used to proffering women.
　　Unfortunately, his offspring weren't as smart as he was. Though they'd been told to respect their captive, they took the first opportunity to test the limits of their father's patience. Lucidique was taunted, abused, humiliated. No doubt worse would have come her way had Old Man Cascarellian not returned from his day of business early, interrupting his sons' taunting of the woman.
　　Lucidique instantly demanded to know why she was being held. If Cascarellian intended to kill her, why the hell didn't he get on with it? She was sick and tired, she told him. Of him, of his sons, of life itself. She'd seen too much blood.
　　"You were at the Palace, weren't you? The Night of the Great Insurrection?"
　　"Yes. I was there."
　　"You have something to with this creature: this Scythe-Meister?"
　　"My business, Cascarellian."
　　"I could give you to my sons for half an hour. They'd have it out of you!"
　　"Your sons don't intimidate me. And neither do you."
　　"I don't wish to make you uncomfortable. You're here under my protection; that's all. Do you know what it's like out there on our streets? Pandemonium! The city is coming apart at the seams!"
　　"Do you think holding me here is going to protect you from what's coming your way?" Lucidique said.
　　A look of superstitious fear crossed Cascarellian's face. "What's coming my way?" he said. "You know something about the future?"
　　"No." Lucidique said wearily. "I'm not a prophet. I don't know what's going to happen to you and frankly I don't care. If the world ends tomorrow, I don't think you'll be judged very kindly, but-" she shrugged, "-why should I care? I won't be there to see you suffer in Hell."
　　Cascarellian had grown pale and clammy while Lucidique spoke. She only half-knew what she was doing to him, but she took a certain pleasure in it. This was the man who'd orphaned her; why not enjoy his superstitious fear?
　　"You think I'm a stupid man?" he said.
　　"To be afraid the way you're afraid now? Yes. I think that's pitiful."
　　"I don't want your contempt." Cascarellian said, with a strange sincerity.
　　"I have enough enemies."
　　"Then don't make one of me." Lucidique said. "Let me go. Let me see the sky!"
　　"I'll take you out, if that's what you want."
　　"You will?"
　　"Yes. We'll go wherever you like."
　　"I want to go out into the desert. Away from the city."
　　"Really? Why?"
　　"I told you. I want to see the sky..."
　　
   IV
　　The next day, a convoy of three cars wound through the chaotic streets of Primorduim and headed for the West Gate. In the first car, two of Cascarellian's best men-loyal bodyguards who'd seen him through many attempts upon his life. In the back car, the three brothers, wondering aloud (as they increasingly did these days) if a kind of lunacy had overtaken their father. Why was he indulging this woman Lucidique in her whims? Didn't he understand that she had every reason to hate him, to plot against him?
　　In the middle car, chauffeured by Marius, Cascarellian's driver for three decades, sat the Don himself, accompanied by Lucidique.
　　"Satisfied?" he said to her, once they were outside the gates, and in sight of the open sky.
　　"A little further, please..." she said.
　　"Don't think you can fool me, woman. You may be cleverer than most of your sex, but you won't escape me, if that's your thought!"
　　They drove on in silence for a distance.
　　"I think we've come far enough. And you've seen enough of the sky for one day!"
　　"Can't I just get out and walk?"
　　"Walking now, is it?"
　　"Please. There's no harm in that surely? Look...open ground in every direction."
　　Cascarellian considered this for a moment. Then he called the convoy to a halt.
　　A dust storm was on the horizon, slowly approaching the road.
　　"You'd better be quick!" the Don told her.
　　Lucidique watched the approaching wall of sand, then glanced round at the men who were getting out of the cars; particularly the brothers. They smiled slyly as they eyed her. One of them flicked his tongue between his lips, the obscene inference plain.
　　It was the last straw. Lucidique turned her back on him-on them all-and began to walk towards the sand-storm.
　　A chorus of warnings instantly erupted behind her. "Don't take another step!" one of the brothers said, "Or I'll shoot you!"
　　She turned to him, her arms opened wide. "So shoot! she said.
　　Then she turned again and strode on.
　　"Come back here, woman!" the Don yelled. "There's nothing out there but sand."
　　The wind from the storm was whipping up Lucidique's hair now. It was like a dark halo around her head.
　　"Do you hear me?" the Don called after her.
　　Lucidique looked over her shoulder.
　　"Come walk with me," she said to him.
　　The old man drew hard on his cigar, and then went after the woman.
　　His sons set up a chorus of complaint: what was he doing? Was he out of his mind?
　　He ignored them. He simply followed in Lucidique's footsteps across the sand.
　　She glanced over her shoulder at the old man, who wore a curious expression. In some strange way he was happy at that moment; happier than he'd been in many years, with the wind hot against his face, and the beautiful woman calling to him to come with her-
　　Seeing that he was obeying her, she returned her gaze to the sandstorm, which was now no more than a hundred yards off. There was something moving at its heart. She was not surprised. Though she hadn't planned the reunion that lay ahead she had nevertheless known in her heart that it was coming. Her life since she'd stepped into her father's death-chamber, and seen Kreiger at work, had been like a strange dream, which she was somehow shaping without conscious effort.
　　She stopped walking. Cascarellian had caught up with her and seized her arm. He had a knife in the other hand. He pressed it to her breast.
　　"So that's where he is!" said Cascarellian staring at the dark giant in the heart of the storm. "Your Scythe-Meister."
　　As he spoke, the sandstorm picked up a sudden spurt of speed and came at them-
　　"Don't come any closer!" the Don warned the creature in the storm. "I'll kill her."
　　He pressed the knife into Lucidique's skin, just enough to draw blood.
　　"Tell him to keep his distance," he warned.
　　"It isn't Kreiger. It's a man called Agonistes. He has God's finger-prints upon him."
　　The heresy of this made Cascarellian's devoted stomach turn. "Don't talk that way!" he said, and with a sudden spurt of righteousness he drove the knife into her heart. She reached out, and touched the wound, then with her finger bloody grazed his forehead. A death mark.
　　Cascarellian let the body drop to the ground and ordered a quick retreat to the cars before the storm reached them. This grim business wasn't finished, just because she was dead. He knew that. It was just beginning.
　　
　　He turned the house into a fortress. He had the windows sealed, and blessed with holy water. He bricked up the chimneys. He had guards and dogs patrolling the place night and day.
　　After a week he began to believe that perhaps his faith and his gifts of money to the diocese, buying congregations praying for his safety, were having some effect.
　　He started to relax.
　　Then, on the afternoon of the eighth day, a wind came out of the West: a sandy wind. It hissed at the sealed doors and the windows. It whined beneath the floorboards. The old man took two tranquilizers and a glass of wine, and went to sit in his bath.
　　A pleasant torpor overcame him as he sat in the warm water. His eyes fluttered closed.
　　And then her voice. Somehow she'd got in. She'd survived the knife to her heart and she'd got in.
　　"Look at you," she said. "Naked as a baby."
　　He grabbed his towel to cover himself, but as he did so she stepped out of the shadows and showed herself to him, in all her terrible glory. She was not the Lucidique he'd known; not remotely. Her whole body was transformed. She'd become a living weapon.
　　"Oh Jesus help me..." he murmured.
　　She reached forward and she castrated him with one sweep of her scythe. He clamped his bloody hands to his empty groin and stumbled out to the landing, calling for help. But the house was silent from roof to cellar. He called his sons' names, one by one. None came. Only his old dog Malleus answered his call, and when he trotted through from the kitchen he left red paw-marks on the white carpet. He was eating something human.
　　"All dead." Lucidique said.
　　Then, very gently, she took hold of the back of Cascarellian's neck, the way a mother-cat catches hold of an errant kitten, and lifted him up, effortlessly. The blood from his vacant groin slapped against the carpet.
　　She put her blade to his chest and cut out his heart. Then she let his body tumble back down the stairs.
　　
　　Later, when the wind had dropped, and she could see the stars clearly, she went out into the street, leaving the door to the Cascarellian mansion wide open so that atrocity there should be soon discovered. Then she headed out, through a variety of back streets and alleys, to the West Gate, and thence into the waiting desert.
　　
　　
   Book Four
   The Surgeon of the Sacred Heart
　　
   I
　　With the Emperor and his family dead at the hand of The Scythe-Meister, and the head Don of Primordium, Duraf Cascarellian, slaughtered by Lucidique (along with most of his sons and bodyguards) an uneasy peace had settled on the city. The minor brawls and battles that had erupted after the Great Insurrection quietened down. It was as though nobody wanted to draw attention to themselves; not with so many murderous forces abroad in the city's streets.
　　The Military junta that had taken charge of the running of the city during this crisis was headed by a triumvirate of Generals: Bogoto, Urbano and Montefalco. They were no better nor worse than any of their type: men who'd risen to the top of their belligerent trade by showing the greatest propensity for cruelty and control.
　　But beneath the institutionalized sadism and their manic capacity for violence, two qualities long hidden in the hearts of the three Generals, there also lay qualities that they would have been ashamed to confess they possessed. One, a sickly sentimentality (focused upon their mothers in the cases of Generals Bogoto and Urbano, and upon girls of six or seven in the case of Montefalco). Second, a startling capacity for superstition.
　　It went undiscussed, but they each knew the other was touched by a profound fear of the uncanny. And there was no city presently more inundated in unholy matters than Primordium. Rumour was rife here; and its subject was seldom rational. The stories that were passed around the soldiers' campfires (and sooner or later reached the Generals' ears) were of unnatural horrors: things that defied reason. Tales of monsters that had been bred from the loins of the Scythe-Meister; of the vengeful ghosts of children; of succubi, their sexual attributes discussed in clammy, but arousing detail.
　　
　　One night, after some very heavy drinking, the three men vented their fears.
　　"It is my belief," Urbano said, "that this damned city is haunted."
　　The other two men nodded grimly.
　　"What do you suggest we do about it?" Bogoto asked.
　　It was Montefalco who replied. "Well, for a start...if I had my druthers I'd burn the illegal immigrant quarter to the ground. It's they who engage in most of these unholy goings-on."
　　"But the work-force..." Bogoto said. "Who'd empty our shit cans? Who'd bury the lepers?"
　　Montefalco had to concede the point. "At least we could target any element we suspect of intercourse with demonic forces."
　　"Good. Good." said Urbano. "Vigilance."
　　"And punishment," Montefalco went on. "Swift, draconian measures-"
　　"Public executions."
　　"Yes!"
　　"Burnings?"
　　"No, too theatrical. Shootings are clean and fast. And they don't smell."
　　"That bothers you?" said Bogoto.
　　Montefalco shuddered. "I loathe the smell of burning bodies," he said.
　　
   II
　　While the Generals debated the relative merits of this kind of execution or that, Lucidique was sleeping-or attempting to sleep-in the house which her father had built many years ago for her mother. Her slumbers were uneasy. So many memories. So many regrets.
　　Often in earlier, simpler times, when sleep eluded her, she would go out walking. Now, of course, she could not go by day. The transformation of her body that had been wrought by Agonistes had resulted in a physique which was strong, supple and powerful, but which terrified many who laid eyes on her. When she did go out-even in the blackest night-she did her best to keep to the quiet back-alleys of Primordium where she would not be seen.
　　
　　Tonight, having given up on sleep, she went wandering in these alleys, and became aware that she was being followed.
　　After a little distance she sensed the rhythm of the step, and realized that she knew who her pursuer was. It was Zarles Kreiger, the assassin turned Scythe-Meister.
　　She stopped, and turned.
　　The Scythe-Meister was standing a little distance from her. His flesh had the same sickly luminescence that hers did; a bacterial brightness that was part of Agonistes' handiwork. The rawer the wounds (and there were parts of both their transformed bodies that were designed to never heal) the brighter the luminescence with which they burned.
　　"I thought you'd left the city," she said to him.
　　"I did. For a while. I went out into the desert. Meditated on my changed state."
　　"And did you learn anything from your meditations?"
　　Kreiger shook his head.
　　"So you came back?"
　　"So I came back."
　　
   III
　　A few days after the three Generals had exchanged their fears about the presence of unsacred powers in Primordium, Montefalco brought them together again for a midnight journey.
　　"Where are we going?"
　　"There's a man called Doctor TALISAC who has been conducting experiments on my behalf for several years now."
　　"What kind of experiments?" Urbano wanted to know.
　　"I hoped he would perfect me a soldier. Make a fighting machine that was not susceptible to fear."
　　"Has he succeeded?"
　　"No. Not so far. Nor do I have great hope for him now. He's addicted to many of his own medications, and...well, you'll see for yourself. But there was one failure of his which might be useful to us now."
　　"A useful failure?" Bogoto said, somewhat amused by the paradox.
　　"We need a creature that will drive the unholy elements out of Primordium. I believe he has such a creature."
　　"Ah..." said Urbano.
　　"So will you see this creature with me?"
　　"Where is he?"
　　"I have him hidden away in what used to be the Hospice of the Sacred Heart, on Dreyfus Hill."
　　"I thought the place was empty."
　　"That's the impression I intended to give the world. If anybody ventures in there I have them killed and thrown in the canal."
　　"Is that what happened to the nuns?"
　　Montefalco smiled. "Nothing so humane, I'm afraid," he said. "Soldiers can be brutish if left to their own devices."
　　The subject was left there, and the three headed up towards Dreyfus Hill.
　　
   IV
　　Zarles Kreiger stretched out naked on Lucidique's bed. She looked at him admiringly: at the plethora of scars; at the intricate way the machinations of his flesh had been bound to Agonistes' own creations. Silver bonded with bone and nerve; gold and bronze the same.
　　She climbed on top of him. Arcs of electricity leapt between them: nipple to nipple, eye to eye.
　　What a time this was!, she thought. Here she was mating with the man who had taken her father's life. In a sense there was something even more taboo about their intimacy. They were both the offspring of the same father. Both Agonistes' children.
　　"I wonder if he'd approve?" Lucidique said.
　　"You mean Agonistes?"
　　"Yes."
　　Kreiger didn't speak. It was Lucidique who realized what her lover's reference to Agonistes implied.
　　"You saw him in the desert?"
　　"Yes."
　　"And he sent you back here?"
　　"Yes."
　　"To find me?"
　　"To be with you. He said you were the only thing that would make me happy."
　　
   V
　　The Hospice of the Sacred Heart was an enormous edifice, its upper floors in darkness. But the Generals didn't have to wait long for a guide. After a few minutes a female dwarf-who introduced herself as Camille-came with candles. She escorted the uniformed trio through the echoing cloisters (which were heaped with huge mounds of dirt) and down two flights of steep stairs into Doctor Talisac's laboratory.
　　His workspace had been dug out of the earth so as to accommodate the scale of the Doctor's experimentation and still preserve the secrecy of his location. In place of tile there was hard trodden earth beneath the Generals' boots, and the walls were beaten dirt. The place stank of cold earth: which served to complete the scene. For if the stench was that of the grave, so were many of the sights before them. The dead were Talisac's raw materials, and they lay everywhere around, in various states of amputation. He was an uneconomic consumer. In many cases the corpses were lacking only a limb, or a portion of a limb; an eye, in one case, lips in another.
　　"So where is he?" Urbano demanded to know.
　　Camille pointed the way over a carpet of corpses to a dank corner of the immense chamber, where Talisac awaited them.
　　He looked, to the Generals' astonished eyes, like one of his own victims; a terrible, implausible experiment in the extremes to which a human carcass might be put.
　　He hung by his mouth from a device whose purpose was beyond the Generals' comprehension, his mouth hooked up, as though he were a fish. In his perversity, or his genius, or both, he had created some kind of external womb for himself. A semi-translucent bag hung from the lower portion of his abdomen, down between his spidery legs. There was life inside.
　　"A Mongroid," Camille whispered.
　　Montefalco took his eyes off the foul sight of the womb and its twitching contents, and addressed its owner.
　　"Talisac?" he said. "We need something from you."
　　Talisac turned his fluttering eyes in Montefalco's direction. When he spoke the maimed form of his mouth meant that what he said was virtually incomprehensible. It took Camille to translate it.
　　"He says: What? What do you need?"
　　"We need a fiend to put fear into the heart of the Devil himself." Montefalco said. "A beast amongst beasts. Something to scour the city of its monsters by being still more monstrous."
　　Talisac made a strange sound-which might have been laughter; shaking as he hung from his hooks. The creature in his womb responded to its parent's movement by spasming.
　　"How the hell did he come by that thing?" Bogoto murmured to Urbano behind his hand.
　　"Don't whisper," Camille snapped. "He hates it."
　　"He was wondering how Talisac got himself pregnant?" Urbano said.
　　This time Talisac pressed his lips into service, in order that he answer for himself. The reply was a single word:
　　"Science." he said.
　　"Really?" Urbano said, sufficiently reassured to step over some of the mutilated bodies to examine Talisac more closely. "Well I'm pleased to hear that. I would have been distressed if there's been some sexual impropriety here."
　　Again, Talisac laughed, though none of the Generals were in the mood to see the humour of the situation. His laughter spent, he spoke again. This time Camille's services as a translator were required.
　　"He has a golem he thinks would suit your purposes very well," the dwarf said. "He only asks one thing in return..."
　　"And what's that?" Montefalco said.
　　"That you shouldn't attempt to hurt any of his children."
　　"Meaning that?" Montefalco said, nodding towards the twitching womb.
　　"Es." said Talisac. "Is my ur chile."
　　"What did he say?" Urbano said to Camille.
　　"He said it was his child," Camille replied.
　　Montefalco shrugged.
　　"No harm will come of this Mongroid, if we are given a fiend of our own." Montefalco said. "I will personally guarantee that."
　　"Good." said Camille. Then, without Talisac speaking again, she added: "He would prefer if you did not come here again together. Only General Montefalco."
　　"You'll get no argument from me on that account." Bogoto said, waving the horror away as he retreated. "If he gives us our monster, then he can give birth to a thousand little brats as far as I'm concerned. Just keep them the hell away from me."
　　
   VI
　　Lucidique lay on the blood and sweat stained bed beside her lover, and watched the moon through the window.
　　"This can't last for long, you know. This thing between us."
　　"Why not?"
　　"For two such as us to find some happiness together?" she said. "It's against nature. You killed my father. I should hate you."
　　"And you put me through hell at Agonistes' hands. I should hate you."
　　"What a pair we make."
　　"Maybe we should go back out into the desert." Kreiger said, "We'd be safer there."
　　Lucidique laughed. "Listen to you. Safer! Isn't the world supposed to be afraid of us? Not the other way round."
　　"I just want to hold on to this...hope that I feel."
　　Lucidique reached across the bed and ran her blade along Kreiger's arm. "We can't leave Primordium," she said.
　　"Why not? It's going up in flames, sooner or later. Let it burn."
　　"But love, we started the fire, you and me. We should stay and watch it to the end."
　　Kreiger nodded. "If that's what you want."
　　"It's the way things have to end.
　　"End? Why do you say that?"
　　"Hush, love. It'll be better this way, you'll see." She leaned over and kissed him. "Do it for me."
　　"That's as good a reason as any I ever heard," Kreiger said.
　　"So you'll stay?"
　　"I'll stay."
　　
　　
   Book Five
   The Haunter of Primordium
   
   I
　　Having made the arrangement with Talisac to provide them with a creature, the three Generals-Bogoto, Urbano and Montefalio-returned to Military Headquarters and waited. Bogoto was the most anxious of the three. He'd seen his share of battle scenes; bodies blown to pieces, the stink of burning hair and bone in the air: but the grotesqueries of Talisac's laboratory had left him sickened and nervous.
　　He decided to do what he often did when his life became difficult: he drove across the city in the night to seek the comfort of a woman called Greta Sabatier, a reader of fortunes. Though he would have been appalled if he'd thought any of his fellow Generals knew it, Sabatier's advice had been behind much of what Bogoto had done over the years: who he'd favoured amongst his subordinates, and who he'd demoted; even, on occasion, how he'd run some of his military campaigns. And as events in Primordium had steadily become more crazed, Bogoto had come to rely more and more upon Sabatier's wisdom. Her cards, he had come to believe, carried vital clues to his fate. In a world where madness was constantly in the air, and nothing and no one could be trusted, it made a paradoxical sense to seek illumination from a woman who read the future from a pack of dirty cards.
　　"You've seen somebody powerful," Greta told him that night, tapping one of the cards she'd just turned over. "I can't tell if it's a man...or a woman."
　　Bogoto pictured Talisac, hanging up from his hooks, with that vile womb of his hanging down between his legs.
　　Sabatier was studying his face.
　　"You know this person I'm talking about?"
　　Bogoto nodded.
　　"Well then you don't need any warning from me. He, or she-which is it?"
　　"It's a man."
　　"Well he has friends...allies...it's hard to be sure exactly who or what they are...the cards are very ambiguous. But there's harm from this source, whatever it is."
　　"Harm to me?"
　　"Harm to the world."
　　"Huh."
　　"That matters less to you, yes?"
　　"Of course. Do you think I should consider leaving the city?"
　　"Well...you're a military man. It's not the first time I've seen death in your cards, General."
　　This was the first time Greta had ever made mention of the General's profession. Whether she knew it from the cards or from the broadsheets in which he was regularly eulogized was anybody's guess.
　　"But I don't think I ever saw it so near to you," she went on, looking at the cards.
　　"I see."
　　"So yes, I think you should consider leaving. At least until this unsettled period is over astronomically."
　　"So it's not just the cards, it's the stars too?"
　　"They're all reflections of one another: cards, stars, palms. It's the same story wherever you look.
　　She sorted through the cards as she spoke, and now dropped one down on the table in front of General Bogoto. It was called The Tower, and it represented-in a simplified, even crude, form, a tower struck by lightning. Its upper half was erupting, raining down rubble, and bodies; the lower half was cracked and ready to topple.
　　"This is Primordium?" Bogoto said.
　　"It's the city's future," Greta replied, nodding. "Or at least one of them."
　　"So will you be leaving too?" Bogoto said, thinking to catch the woman out. Greta was as old as the antiquated table she read her cards upon and her legs were a good deal less reliable. She'd never leave Primordium; or so he thought.
　　"Yes, I'm leaving. This will be the last time you see me, General, unless you should come to Calyx."
　　"You're moving to Calyx?"
　　"Tomorrow. Before things get any worse."
　　
   II
　　The house on Diamanda Street, which had once belonged to the murdered Senator, had gathered itself quite a reputation of late.
　　There were lovers there, it was rumoured; several of them. Night and day, passers by heard the sound of lovemaking: the sighs, the sobs, the irresistible demands.
　　The houses nearby were all virtually deserted, their owners having fled Primordium for safer cities; or better still, for the country. Life on a pig-farm might be boring, but at least it had a chance of being long. Nevertheless people came to Diamanda Street of late, simply to hear the noise of pleasure out of the lamp-lit home. No, not just to hear. There was a feeling about the place, which got under people's skin. The energy seeping out from open windows, was enough to make the fireflies assemble in their many tens of thousands each dusk and describe elaborate arabesques in their pursuit of one another, the air so thick with their passion, and their light so insistent, that the house was festooned with their flight paths, which lingered long after the deed was done and the insects lay exhausted and extinguished in the long grass.
　　Sometimes the human voyeurs, who lingered in the shadows of the nearby houses, hoping to catch a glimpse of the lovers, were granted what they were here to see. As the strange force of the lover's din suggested, they were not natural creatures, not by any means. They seemed to be hybrids; one third human, one third metallic, one third the no man's land between flesh and devices made to strip it and slash it and scour it. They bled as they rose from their nuptial sheets; but smiled, kissing one another's wounds as though they were inconsequential, as though these flaps and sores and gougings were proof of devotion.
　　Word got round, quickly enough. It didn't take long for the General Montefalco to hear about the house on Diamanda Street, and the reputation it had got for itself. He went to the location, late one night. Things were in full swing: the air filled with weaving lights, the houses moaning and shaking. Then shrieks of terrible joy out of the fire-lit interior, and shadows on the blinds, moving from room to room as the momentum of the lovers' passion carried them around the house.
　　Montefalco had never seen, heard or felt anything like it before. A wave of something like superstition passed through his body, weakening his bowels and making his hair, which was a quarter inch from widow's peak to nape, stand on end.
　　He started to retreat from the house, clammy-palmed. As he did so he heard a voice behind him. He turned. It was Urbano. He looked like a man who had just discovered some truly terrible thing about himself, or God, or both.
　　"These we kill," Montefalco said, very calmly.
　　General Urbano began to nod, but the motion was too much for his sickened system. He puked a yellowish puke, which spattered his immaculately polished boots. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his mouth; then he said:
　　"Yes."
　　"Yes?"
　　"Yes. These we kill."
　　Later that night, Montefalco went back to see Talisac. He went alone, which turned out to be a wise move. Neither Urbano nor Bogoto had the guts for what awaited him there.
　　The place had deteriorated considerably in the forty-eight hours since he'd last stepped over the threshold; the bodies were still everywhere, but they were in a new condition. It looked as though all the moisture, all the energy, had been sucked out of them, leaving them withered. The eyes had gone from the sockets and the lips had been drawn back from the teeth, giving them all the look of blind, squealing monkeys.
　　The flesh on their torsos had withered to bones; as had the meat on their arms and legs. The skin itself was now like a thin layer of dried tissue, covering the structure of the bone. When the dwarf Camille appeared to greet Montefalco, and kicked a couple of the corpses aside, they rolled away from her kick like so many paper mannequins.
　　"Is it done?" Montefalco asked her.
　　"Oh yes, it's done," Camille said with a twinkling smile, "and I think you're going to be very pleased."
　　A voice emerged from the shadows, speaking words Montefalco could not comprehend.
　　"He's asking me to unveil it," Camille said.
　　The General scanned the dirt-walled room, looking for what 'it' might be; and there at the end of the chamber he saw a monumental form, covered with a threadbare tapestry obviously brought down from the floor above.
　　"That?" he said, not waiting for confirmation before approaching it. As he strode through the bodies, they cracked beneath his heels, erupting into dust and fragments. Soon the room was filled with spiralling bits of pale human stuff.
　　Montefalco grabbed hold of the tapestry. As he did so, Camille named the thing-'VENAL ANATOMICA."
　　The General pulled the tapestry off and revealed it.
　　As might have been guessed from its scale beneath the carpet, it was of heroic size, nine feet tall or more. It had death's face, and was equipped with a variety of medieval murder weapons. There were nails crudely hammered into its shoulder and leg. Blood had coagulated around the nails, but when Anatomica began to move (as now it did) fresh blood bubbled up from the wounds and ran down his body.
　　"Does it know me?" the General asked.
　　"Yes," said Camille, "it is ready to obey your instructions." Talisac spoke, and Camille translated! "He says he has no loyalty to its Creator, only to you, General Montefalco."
　　"That's good to hear."
　　Montefalco beckoned to it.
　　"Come on then."
　　The creature made a hesitant step. Then another.
　　"Can I come with you?" Camille said.
　　Montefalco looked down at her nakedness. "Only if you cover yourself up," he said.
　　She smiled, and then went away to fetch herself a flea-bitten fur coat.
　　They went out into the night together: the three of them. The General, the Dwarf and Venal Anatomica.
　　Daybreak wasn't far off. Neither was the end of certain things. Though Greta Sabatier had been killed by the bandits on the road to Calcyx-a fate she had not foreseen-she had been right about that much. An age was coming to an end: and it was the Age of Lovers.
　　
　　
   Book Six
   The Second Coming
   
   I
　　In his bunker of dirt and corpses Talisac waited alone, while his body-which was a thing without precedent-twitched and jumped and spasmed.
　　There was a child inside of him; the MONGROID, the infant of the Second Coming. Or so he'd come to believe, after the years he'd spent experimenting upon others, and himself. It wasn't until he had created an homunculus that would be to all intents and purposes his child, its flesh made up of the same DNA as his, that he had come to believe there was something holy in the imminent arrival. It was another Virgin Birth.
　　In only a matter of hours now, the child would be in his arms.
　　He would have no one to share the triumph of what he'd achieved, but so be it. He'd been alone all his life, even in the company of his fellow human beings. Alone with his ambition, alone with his failures, alone with the strange dreams that came to find him in the middle of the night; dreams of his child, speaking to him, telling him that the world was going to end, but that it wouldn't matter, because they'd be together, Man and Child, to the End of Time.
　　He could feel the child struggling to get out now. He could hear its tiny, high-pitched voice as it worked to free itself.
　　The pain was excruciating; a vicious hallucinogen. He sobbed and he screamed; the Convent had never heard such cursings as it heard now.
　　But finally the womb tore as the Holy Child scrabbled with his little hands, his little nails, and in a gush of blood-tinged fluids the Mongroid was disgorged onto the ground amongst the corpses.
　　
   II
　　"Kreiger?"
　　Lucidique went to the window and called down into the garden around her father's house. Zarles Kreiger, The Scythe-Meister, who had lately become Lucidique's lover, had gone out into the garden to bring her some perfumed flowers. The bedroom stank of the pungent oil that their violently transfigured bodies gave off. It was a bitter and unpleasant smell; not the salty smell of natural sex.
　　But the garden was full of sweet smelling flowers that would conceal the bitterness; and some of the strangest scents were those of blossoms that opened after dark. It was now almost two in the morning; and the smells that rose from the darkened garden were giddyingly strong.
　　She called Kreiger's name again. Then she seemed to see him; a dark presence moving through the bushes.
　　If it was indeed Kreiger, why didn't he answer her call? Perhaps it wasn't him.
　　Keeping her silence now, she crept down the stairs and went out into the garden.
　　There was a gentle, balmy breeze tonight: it made the bushes and trees churn. The garden was large, and its layout complex, but she'd been playing here since she was a child. She could have found her way down its narrow, labyrinthine paths and around its rose patches and secret groves with her eyes closed.
　　She went directly to the place where she thought she'd seen the man when she'd been up at the bedroom window. Despite the sweetness of honeysuckle and the night-blooming jasmine, her nostrils caught the scent of something else, somebody else, in the vicinity. There was a stink that was not the bitter smell of her own body, or that of Kreiger. This was something else. Something that made her think of disease, of corruption, of death.
　　She stood very still. Something moved through the bushes close by. She saw its form, silhouetted against the starless sky: a vast misshapen head, armoured shoulders, the chest of an ox. Whatever it was, it walked with a pronounced limp, dragging its left leg. The closer it came to her the stronger the smell of corruption became. This trespasser was the source; no doubt of that.
　　Then, from the darkness close by, the sound of her lover's voice:
　　"Lucidique! Get away from here! Quickly!"
　　There was something broken in his voice.
　　"What's happened to you?" she said, afraid of the answer.
　　Hearing her voice, the trespasser looked in her direction. A hood of flesh slid slickly back from the upper half of its face. revealing its skeletal features. This was-like them-a monster. And yet it was not like them. Not Agonistes' handiwork, at least. Not the product of the unsung architect of Eden.
　　This trespasser was a charnel-house child if ever there was one. It was made of parcels of rotten flesh and nerve and bone, all nailed together and given foetid breath.
　　She retreated as it strode towards her. She knew how to kill; that was not in doubt. But the creature still made her afraid. It was a powerhouse; and indifferent, she guessed, to any pain she might be able to cause it.
　　"Go!" she heard Kreiger yelling to her.
　　Her eyes flittered in his direction, and by the light shed from the bedroom window she saw him, on the ground, blood pouring out of him.
　　"Christ!"
　　She started towards him, but the trespasser moved to intercept her, its vast hands eager to tear out her throat.
　　But she wasn't going to flee the garden; not with her lover lying there in the dirt, bleeding from a hundred places. Instead she turned and led the limping slaughterer away from Kreiger, dodging through the darkened garden, using her knowledge of its layout to double the distance between them.
　　Still it came after her, throwing its weight through the tangle of thorny bushes, emitting a guttural din as it did so, like the noise of some immense mechanism that imperfectly copied the sound of a tormented animal; a bull, perhaps, beneath the slaughterer's hammer. It was horrible to hear.
　　She had come to the place where she hoped to outwit her pursuer: a tree which she had climbed a thousand times as a child, and now climbed again, so quickly that by the time the trespasser came in sight of it she was already concealed in its verdant canopy.
　　Now, she thought, if the beast would only wander beneath the tree, she could perhaps kill it. Drop out of the branches and cut open its throat. Even if it was something that was made from mortuary slops, it drew breath; and if she could open its throat from ear to ear, it would be dead as any other slitted thing.
　　But about six feet from the tree the creature stopped, and sniffed the air, looking around suspiciously. Did it sense that there was a trap laid for it here? She couldn't believe it had the wit to be so cautious. And yet it had halted, hadn't it? And now it retreated from the tree, loosing a low, barely audible noise in its throat, limping off into the darkness.
　　She carefully parted the foliage, to see if she could discover what it was up to. There was some sound from the direction in which she'd come, and then an audible moan from Kreiger.
　　Oh God, no, she thought. Don't let the trespasser be smart enough to use Kreiger as bait...
　　Her fears were realized a moment later, as the creature reappeared between the thorn bushes, dragging a heavy burden behind him. It was Kreiger, of course. This lover of hers, who was now reduced to little more than a sack, hauled behind the nameless fiend, had been a terror in his own right not so long ago. As the assassin Zarles Kreiger he'd once haunted the city of Primordium from the shanties to the chateaus. Then, after the transformation worked upon him by Agonistes, as the Scythe-Meister, he'd wiped out the ruling class of the city in one scarlet night.
　　But now look at him! His face was torn open, as though the fiend had simply put his fingers into Kreiger's mouth (whose lips Lucidique had kissed an hour before) and ripped it apart like a paper bag. The rest of his body had been just as cruelly treated; the flesh torn away from its seating, exposing the breastbone and the ribs and the long bone of his thigh. The loss of blood from these wounds was traumatic. It was a wonder Kreiger was still alive. But plainly-having been surprised in the garden while peacefully flower-picking-he'd fought back until he had no strength to fight with, at which point his attacker had simply waited in the garden while one of its two victims slowly bled to death, knowing the other would appear given time.
　　And so she had. No doubt the creature had expected to dispatch her in a heartbeat; now it was obliged to coax her out of her hiding place with this bloody hostage. It grabbed Kreiger's neck and lifted him up by one hand, thrusting his broken face towards the tree. Kreiger's head lolled on his neck; his eyes rolled back into their sockets. He was as close to dead as made no difference.
　　Then his killer lifted its other hand and beckoned to the woman in the tree. As it did so it twitched Kreiger's head back and forth, like that of a doll. For Lucidique it was agonizing beyond words to see her lover, a man who had brought down a dynasty, bobbing around like a ventriloquist's doll. It made her lose all reason. Though she knew the trespasser below had the physical power to kill her, she could not watch Kreiger's last moments played out as a humiliating puppet-show.
　　She leapt from the tree with a shriek of rage, and before the creature could bring down its visor of flesh, she had slit both of its eyes with her weapon, blinding it.
　　It dropped Kreiger, and let out a roar that sounded pleasingly like panic. She ducked under its flailing arms and went to Kreiger.
　　He was dead.
　　She glanced back at his killer, who was indeed in a state of child-like terror. His roar had turned into howls that were close to descending into whimpers.
　　She could have wounded it again easily enough; and perhaps, after a dozen woundings, or two dozen, she might have claimed its life. But she didn't have any time to waste with the blinded thing. She needed to take Kreiger somewhere he had a hope of resurrection.
　　Out into the desert. Out to find Agonistes.
　　She lifted her lover's body up over her shoulders (he was lighter than she'd expected; troublingly so, as though the mass of his life had gone from him and would never be returned, even by a miracle). She would not let such pessimism linger in her mind however. Leaving the blind trespasser to rage amongst the roses, she headed to the forecourt of the house. She gently laid the corpse in the back of the car, and then drove out of the city, in search of a sandstorm.
　　
   III
　　Talisac looked down at the creature that had spilled from his body: his Mongroid. He'd seen prettier things, but then he'd seen uglier too. It had more self-reliance than any creature five minutes old should reasonably have; it walked, crab-like, on four hands; it made rudimentary attempts to express itself.
　　He called it to him, as he might a dog, but it wouldn't come. It was too interested in the bodies that lay everywhere about the chamber, examining them with its inverted head, sniffing at the ranker examples. It seemed to have a well-formed head, as far as Talisac could make out. There was some family resemblance there, he thought.
　　He had given up trying to draw its attention, but now-paradoxically-its eyes came to rest on him, and with its ungainly, sideways gait it approached him. It cast a glance around the charnel house as it did so, and its thought processes were perfectly clear. It was making the first distinction of its young life: between the living and the dead.
　　"That's right..." Talisac said, attempting an encouraging tone, "...they're dead. They're no use to you. I'm the one you have to help. I'm your father."
　　How much of this-if any-the Mongroid understood, Talisac had no idea. Very little, he guessed. But they had to begin somewhere. It would be a long, weary business, rearing this thing. He had hoped to give birth to something more praiseworthy; something he could show Montefalco, and thus be funded for further, more ambitious researches.
　　Now, he would have to do some fast-talking to get the General to see his vision of things. The crab homunculus produced from his sac of semen and sea-water was very far from the perfect, vicious child he'd hoped to produce: a hymn to the glories of testosterone.
　　But never mind, there would be others. In time he'd subdue this one,focus t25, and vivisect it to see if he could work out where the errors lay. Then he'd try again.
　　The creature had come to a halt a few yards away from him, and was studying the sac from in which it had been contained for seventeen weeks. Blood still dripped from it, onto the dirt floor. It scuttled over and put its tongue to the pool, tasting the fluid.
　　"No," Talisac said, faintly revolted by its display. "Don't do that."
　　He didn't want it getting some unnatural appetite; for blood, or flesh, or whatever other juices ran from him freely as he hung there. He was altogether too vulnerable in his present state.
　　"Bad." he said, effecting a tone of disgust. "Bad."
　　But the creature wasn't interested in being forbidden anything. It was a creature of instinct, and its instinct told it that there was a meal to be had here. It traced the source of the pool to the hanging corpse of flesh that had been its makeshift womb.
　　He didn't like the look in the creature's eyes at all. Nor did he like the way its belly was distending, as though its aroused appetite was awaking a change in its anatomy.
　　The Mongroid was pulling on the loose bloody tatters of his flesh now, its belly skin still swelling obscenely.
　　"Camille!" Talisac yelled, forgetting in his fear that the dwarf had left in the company of General Montefalco. He was alone.
　　And now, as he swung there, helpless, the belly of his offspring split open, revealing a vast mouth, completely arrayed with glistening teeth.
　　"Jesus! Oh Jesus!"
　　They were the last words Talisac uttered.
　　Using it's four hands to spring up towards the womb from which he had so recently been delivered, the thing closed its gaping jaws on the groin of its parent, its teeth digging deep into Talisac's flesh. The cries to Jesus became a solid shriek. The Mongroid took a healthy mouthful of gut and manhood and womb, and dropped down to the ground again to devour what it had bitten off.
　　Talisac's innards, with their lower half removed, simply fell out of his body: uncoiling innards followed by liver and kidneys and spleen.
　　The genius of the Hospice of the Sacred Heart stopped screaming.
　　
   IV
　　Thus in one night Primordium lost two of the monsters that had haunted its streets, and gained two new ones.
　　Venal Anatomica-or The Blind One, as he became known, was, in truth, something of a joke. Despite his bulk, and his phenomenal strength, he never developed the compensating skills that often come after a blinding. He lived always as though he had just been blinded. Always flailing, always raging, always violent.
　　Montefalco took care of him, however, out of a bizarre sense of loyalty. He ordered that anyone found taunting the once mighty Venal Anatomica be summarily shot. After a dozen such casual executions, the message made it out to those who liked to torment the creature. The Blind One was left alone to haunt the city's graveyards, often digging up and eating the recently dead.
　　
   V
　　Lucidique never found Agonistes. Though she drove for several days, looking for the sandstorms where he hid himself, the desert was preternaturally still. Not a breeze to move so much as a grain of sand; much less a storm.
　　After a week, when The Scythe-Meister's body was beginning to smell, she dug a hole with her bare hands, and put him in it. Even as she sat there beside the mound, keening, she thought she heard Agonistes calling her name, and got up, ready at a moment's notice to reclaim Kreiger from his dry bed, and let the genius of Eden work his Lazarene magic on her lover.
　　But it was not the Resurrection she had heard. It was just a trick of the wind. Indeed, not once in the next forty-one years, during which time Lucidique seldom strayed more than a quarter of a mile from the place where Zarles Kreiger was laid, did Agonistes appear.
　　
   VI
　　Then one day, waking to the same bright sky she'd woken to for over four decades-she was seized by a desire to see Primordium.
　　The house her father had built was still standing, she was surprised to find; left by authorities too superstitious to knock it down. She occupied it again, and after a few nights of sleeping on the bare boards overcame her fear of memories that would unknit her sanity, and moved up into the stained, ancient bed where she and Kreiger had made love all those years before.
　　There were no nightmares. He was with her, here, more than he'd ever been in the desert. He held her, in her dreams, and he whispered mischiefs to her, that sometimes she acted upon, for old time's sake. Blood she let freely, when it pleased her to do so. Nobody was safe from her. She would have happily murdered a saint if he'd looked at her in some fashion that irritated her.
　　And one night, just for the hell of it, she killed the three Generals, Montefalco, Bogoto and Urbano, who were by now fat and old and put up little protest at her arrival.
　　Another night, she went to find Kreiger's killer, The Blind One.
　　She found him in the cemetery, weeping from his slit eyes, the weary tears of a man who weeps every night, but knows no cure for them. She watched him for a while, while he wept and ate the dead. Then she left him to his suffering.
　　It was cruel, of course, to let him live, when she could have put him out of his misery with a well placed blow. But why should she dispense mercy, when no one had ever been merciful to her? Besides, it pleased her to know that there were three monsters in Primordium. The Mongroid (whom she'd also gone to view in his excremental kingdom) in the sewers, Venal Anatomica in the charnel houses, she in her father's mansion. I had a certain neatness.
　　Sometimes, when she became lonely, she thought about going out into the desert, and lying down beside Kreiger's mummified corpse; letting the sand smother her. But something stopped her from doing it. Perhaps she'd have to watch the city of Primordium burn down first; or feel insanity creeping up her spine.
　　Until then, she would live out her destiny, in blood and tears and loneliness; in the knowledge that she was named in the prayers of tens of thousands of God-fearing citizens every night, who begged the Lord to keep them and their faces safe from her. 
　　It was a land of immortality.



20

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CH.NakedCameTheManatee

　1. BOOGER-Dave Barry
　Saturday night, Coconut Grove.
　It was the usual scene: thousands of people, not one of whom a normal person would call normal.
　There were the European tourists, getting off their big fume-belching buses, wearing their new jeans and their Hard Rock Cafe T-shirts, which they bought when their charter bus stopped in Orlando. They moved in chattering clots, following their flag-waving tour directors, lining up outside Planet Hollywood,replica mont blanc pens, checking out the wall where famous movie stars had made impressions of their hands in the cement squares, taking videos of each other putting their palms in the exact same spot where Bruce Willis once put his palm.
　Eventually they'd be admitted, past the velvet ropes, get an actual table, order an actual cheeseburger. This, truly, was America: eating cheeseburgers with other European tourists.
　Outside, the pulsating mutant throng was gearing up for the all-night street party, fashion bazaar, and freak show that the Grove becomes on weekend nights. Squadrons of young singles-bodies taut, hair perfect, clothes fashionable, minds empty-relentlessly roamed the CocoWalk Multi-Level Shopping and Pickup Complex, checking each other out, admiring themselves. Everywhere for blocks around, there were peddlers peddling, posers posing, gawkers gawking, drunks drinking, bums bumming, and hustlers hustling. Traffic had already congealed into a dense, noisy, confused mass of cruising tourist-bearing rickshaws, blatting Harleys, megawatt-booming cruise cars, and the pathetic, plaintively honking fools who actually thought they could drive through the Grove on a Saturday night. It was just getting started. It would go on until dawn, and beyond.
　Sitting on the porch of her snug, hurricane-weathered cottage nestled beneath a pair of massive ficus trees not three hundred yards away, Marion McAlister Williams listened to the distant din wafting toward her on the South Florida night. She could still hear pretty well, and she could think as well as anybody-better than most, in fact. Not bad, when you considered that she was 102 years old, had come to Miami on a sailboat when Coconut Grove was a two-family, no-road hamlet, and Seminoles fished the bay.
　Not much fish to catch in there now, she thought bitterly, not much life at all in that poor overused, over-dredged public sewer. Oh, she'd done what she could. She'd written that book, back in the forties, way ahead of her time; she'd told the world what the movers and shakers of South Florida were doing to the bay. The book got a lot of attention, won her a couple of big awards. After a while even the movers and shakers noticed, started inviting her to dinners, giving her plaques, calling her a South Florida Treasure, like she was some kind of endangered turtle. Then they'd pat her on her frail, stooped shoulders, send her off home, and go right back to screwing up the bay.
　From her porch, she could smell the water, close by to the southeast. She wondered, as she often did, what was going on out there, away from the lunacy of the Grove, in the dark.
　
　A mile or so down the coast, where rich people live in huge, expensive, fashionable, professionally decorated, truly uncomfortable homes, Booger flippered his massive blob of a body slowly through the murky water just offshore. Of course, he didn't know he was called Booger by the boat-dwellers in the Grove, where he spent most of his time. Being a manatee, he wasn't big on abstract concepts such as names. He also hadn't figured out, despite several collisions and one painful propeller-inflicted wound, that he should try to avoid motorboats.
　And thus, although he could sense it coming, he made no effort whatsoever to avoid the beat-up old outboard-powered skiff racing directly toward him in the dark. And since the two men in the skiff were (a) running without lights and (b) arguing, they did not notice Booger's bulk dead ahead, almost all of it just below the surface, just like the iceberg that caused all that trouble for the Titanic.
　
　"This ain't no damn computer, I can tell you that for damn sure," Hector was saying, from the front of the skiff. He was frowning at the wooden crate sitting on a seat cushion and strapped to the seat with a pair of bungee cords. He kicked aside the scummy towrope at his feet and leaned down to poke around in the straw between the slats of the crate for a clearer glimpse at the plastic-wrapped, roundish object, hard and smooth like some kind of metal, pressing up against the wood.
　"How the hell do you know?" asked Phil, from the stern, where he had his hand on the outboard tiller.
　"Because it ain't even got a power plug," said Hector. "Computers got power plugs."
　"What the hell do you care what it is?" said Phil. "We take it to the rich man's dock, we give it to the rich man, he gives us the other five thou, we're gone. Ten thou, total, five each, minus my boat expenses, easy money. You got a better plan? You maybe wanna rob another UPS truck?"
　This was a reference to Hector's last major moneymaking idea, which was to snatch a box at random from the back of a UPS van parked on Kendall Drive. Unfortunately, Hector, who was also the getaway-car driver, had tried to get away a little too fast; he'd driven directly into a Lexus making a left turn across traffic, causing it to smash into a Jaguar. As it happened-this was, after all, South Florida-both the Lexus and the Jaguar were being driven by well-known, highly successful, politically connected narcotics traffickers, so Hector and Phil had gotten into big trouble with the law. They'd wound up doing eighteen months in jail.
　The box they had stolen from the UPS truck-Phil would never let Hector forget this-turned out to contain dirty undershorts that a University of Miami prelaw student was sending home to his mom for laundering.
　"Very funny," said Hector. "Ha ha. But you tell me, why'd the Cuban tell us it's a computer if it ain't? And that wasn't no local Cuban neither. That was a Cuban Cuban, from Cuba. That was a Cuban navy boat following his boat. It was running with no lights, trying to stay outta sight, but I saw it."
　"Hector, you told me that fifty-three times, and I still don't care. I don't care if he was from Mars, OK? Ten thou is ten thou."
　"I think it's nuclear," said Hector quietly. He pronounced it "nuke-u-lar," like Walter Cronkite.
　"It's what?" asked Phil.
　"Nuclear. Like a bomb. The way the Cuban handled it, you know? The way he was, so, like, scared of it. And did you see him open that little door in it, just before he put it in the crate? There was some kind of numbers in there, man."
　"Computers got numbers," noted Phil.
　"These ain't computer numbers," said Hector. "These are little lights, like glowing numbers."
　"Only number I care about," said Phil, "is ten thousand dollars. You can buy a lot of underwear for that."
　Hector said a very bad thing to Phil.
　
　Back in the heart of the Grove, city of Miami rookie police officer Joe Sereno was trying to explain to an extremely large, extremely drunk male tourist that, no matter what the system was back in his hometown, the system here in Miami was, if you had to urinate, you did it in some kind of enclosed toilet facility. You did not do it out in public. You especially did not do it off the second-floor balcony of the CocoWalk complex.
　"Sir," Sereno was saying, "why don't you-"
　"I got the right to remain silent!" the tourist announced. He virtually never missed The People's Court.
　"Sir," said Sereno, "I'm not arresting you. I'm just asking you to zip up your-
　"ANYTHING I SAY CAN AND WILL BE USED AGAINST ME!" bellowed the large man. The fast-growing crowd of onlookers cheered. Many were aiming video cameras. This was excellent entertainment, even better than the Hare Krishnas.
　Joe Sereno sighed. This was not what he had in mind when he joined the police department. He wanted to make a difference, to do something useful, to fight crime, for God's sake, not to spend his nights chaperoning the block party from hell, baby-sitting a bunch of morons who-
　"I HAVE THE RIGHT TO AN ATTORNEY!!!" the large man screamed. "SOMEBODY GET ME ... what's his name."
　"Perry Mason?" suggested a voice from the crowd.
　"NO, DAMMIT! THE OTHER ONE!"
　"Johnnie Cochran?"
　"YES! HIM! SOMEBODY GET ME JOHNNIE COCH ... COCH ... Cocchhuurrrrgggghhh ... "
　Although he was a rookie, Sereno had worked the Grove long enough to see what was coming, and thus stepped back quickly enough to avoid the sudden eruption. Not everyone on the sidewalk below was so lucky. Bedlam erupted as the crowd, screaming, surged away from the area directly underneath the puking giant. A rickshaw, coming around the corner, was knocked over by the fleeing mob, sending an older couple sprawling into the street, directly into the path of a Harley-Davidson, whose driver turned right sharply in an effort to avoid them, hit the curb, and was launched across the sidewalk into the fountain.
　Sereno sprinted for the stairs, glancing at his watch. Nine o'clock, straight up.
　The night was young.
　
　Another boring night, Fay Leonard thought, as she locked up her dive shop on South Dixie Highway. She was beginning to wonder about the shop. It had seemed like such a good idea-a chance for her to make a living doing the one thing she truly loved. Problem was, she wasn't doing any diving; she was always running the shop. It ate up her days, and it was starting to eat up her nights. Like, tonight, she had to take two full sets of rental scuba gear over to a charter boat at Dinner Key Marina, which meant driving into the Grove, which was of course going to be a zoo on a Saturday night.
　Lugging the heavy air tanks out to her pickup truck, she thought, All this work, carrying all this gear around, and I don't even get to use it.
　
　Still sitting on her porch, Marion McAlister Williams sat upright, coming abruptly out of her doze. She glanced around; nothing amiss.
　And yet something was wrong. She knew it. Something out in the bay. She knew that bay, knew it better than anybody else, knew things about it she could never explain. And right then, right that second, she knew something was going wrong. Bad wrong.
　She clutched her chair and listened to the night, listened hard, but all she heard was the Grove din, and frogs.
　But there was something. She knew it.
　
　Just an inch or two below the bay surface, Booger felt the pressure wave of the approaching skiff. He'd had that feeling before, and he felt vaguely uncomfortable about it, but even if he'd known enough to get out of the way, there wasn't really any time.
　"Tell you one thing," Phil was saying. "If I did steal somebody's underwear, you can bet it would at least be clean underwear."
　That did it. Hector, enraged, rose in the front of the skiff, turned toward Phil, pointed, and shouted, "YOU KNOW WHAT YOU CAN DO, PHIL? YOU WANT TO KNOW WHAT YOU CAN DO? YOU CAN-"
　But Hector never did get to tell Phil what he could do, because at precisely that moment the skiff rammed into Booger and came to an extremely sudden stop. Hector, however, kept right on going, right off the bow, still pointing vaguely in the direction of Phil, who sprawled, face first, to the floor of the skiff.
　The force of the collision likewise hurled Phil's and Hector's mystery cargo forward, splintering the flimsy fiberglass where the bungee cords were attached to the seat. It slammed against the bow with a crunching sound, then launched into the air in an explosion of bilge water and towrope; then the whole mass splashed into the bay about thirty feet in front of the skiff, the seat cushion floating upside down and the crushed crate dangling a few feet below from the bungee cords, trailing yards of towrope.
　Into this mess swam a very alarmed Booger, moving away from the skiff as fast as a manatee can move. His snout passed directly under the floating cushion, so that as he surged forward, the bungee cords secured the flotsam firmly to his massive body. Booger continued to flipper frantically forward in the gloom, saddled with the awkward weight of trash.
　Booger barely noticed it. His brain-such as it was-was focused entirely on one idea: getting out of there, to someplace safe. And being a creature of habit, he knew exactly where he was going.
　Like so many others on this particular night, Booger was headed for Coconut Grove.
　
　2. THE BIG WET SLEEP-Les Standiford
　Rand Avenue, 10 PM, a Saturday night. John Deal sat in his car opposite a tiny neighborhood market, a mile or more from his destination on the far side of Coconut Grove. He was locked in a dead stall, part of an endless line of unmoving traffic, gripping and ungripping the wheel of the vehicle he had come to refer to as the "Hog."
　The Hog had begun its automotive life as a Cadillac Seville-but it had long since been transformed into a kind of gentleman's El Camino, the passenger cabin cut in half, a tiny pickup bed created where the back seat and trunk had been. Not the sort of thing the folks at Cadillac would approve of, but it wasn't Deal's fault. He'd had to take it in payment on a construction project gone bad; now he couldn't afford anything else.
　The fact that he was stuck in gridlock was his fault, however. Trying to make his way through the Grove on a Saturday night-what had he been thinking of? He should have gone farther north on U.S. 1, made his way back down to Janice's apartment through the twisty little streets that the Saturday Night Drive crowd hadn't discovered yet. But he'd been distracted, rehearsing his speech, reminding himself to stay composed no matter what Janice said or did ... and now look what he'd done to himself.
　He glanced in the mirror at a chopped and channeled Accord that had nosed up to within inches of his rear bumper: there seemed little chance of backing up, making a U-ey out of this line. Worse, a relentless kind of music was blaring from the Accord, its pulsing bass line so powerful that Deal's mirror vibrated, sending the black Accord into a shimmering mirage image, settling back into sharp definition, then blurring again. Horns ahead and behind joined the chorus.
　Deal noticed an old black man sitting on a backless kitchen chair outside the market, a cigarette burning between his fingers. His doleful gaze locked with Deal's for a moment, then turned away. Deal felt as if he'd been marked, somehow:
　Another Yuppie lemming, a guy so rich he could afford to fart around with a perfectly good Cadillac car, on his way through shantytown, headed for the mindless glitz up ahead.
　He could get out, Deal thought, leave the Hog where it was, take a seat beside the old guy, try to convince him otherwise. Explain how he was on his way to see his estranged wife, convince her to come back home again, how he was having trouble with his finances, how we were all in this mess together, just like the Benetton ads said. The old guy could give him his blessing, they could wear colorful sweaters together and be friends.
　Sure. And pigs could sing the Hallelujah Chorus.
　He did get out of the Hog, though, leaving the door wide open as he stepped up into the Hog's bed for a better look at what might be happening. Slow was one thing, but they hadn't moved at all, not for a good ten minutes.
　What he saw filled him with dismay. The junction of Main and Grand, a kind of mini-Times Square just opposite the multileveled CocoWalk mall, was bad enough on a normal Saturday-endless streams of pedestrians ignoring the signals, la-de-dah-ing through the inching traffic, stopping to chat with the drivers, dodging rickshaw drivers and bikers weaving through it all. But this was way beyond normal.
　A pulsing, unmoving throng had jammed the intersection. A roar wafted down the line toward him, and he caught a glimpse of a huge, naked man being borne aloft on the uplifted arms of the crowd. Then he saw another figure bouncing atop the crowd-a policeman, he realized. Beer foam shot in streamers from cheering onlookers massed at the CocoWalk railings. Cans arced down, bottles, what looked like a shoe. Then shirts, other articles of clothing fluttering in the breeze.
　Another roar from the crowd as a topless girl jumped onto the hood of a car and began an energetic boogie. Deal stepped down from the bed of the Hog, got back in the driver's seat. The mob would make its way right down the line of stalled traffic, he thought. How many of them would it take to lift the Hog, tip it over, turn it into a trampoline?
　Deal felt a jolt, then realized the Accord behind him had popped his bumper. He glanced in the mirror. The driver of the Accord, a kid with a ball cap turned backward, was leaning halfway out his window, talking to someone in a car headed in the opposite direction. The Accord bumped him again, hard enough to rock Deal in his seat. The kid was still talking, oblivious.
　Deal glanced ahead. There was a bona fide pickup truck in front of him, with what looked like a pile of scuba gear in the back. The crowd was going to love that, he thought-dive naked, dive free. He also noted that the pickup had moved slightly, allowing him a couple feet of clearance. Deal checked the mirror again, dropped the Hog in reverse.
　He eased back until he felt his bumper engage the Accord's, then gave the Hog some pedal. He felt resistance, pressed down harder. The Hog's engine growled, all eight cylinders getting seriously involved. He heard a cry-maybe his tires', maybe the kid's-saw through the mirror that smoke was rising from the Hog's rear tires, saw that the kid had lost his balance, was tumbling out his window as the Accord lurched backward.
　When he figured he had made enough room, Deal let off the gas, dropped the Hog into drive, leaned hard on the wheel. The Hog turned neatly on its redone suspension, swung about, darted into a gap that had formed as the line of traffic heading out of the Grove began to move. Deal stopped, rolled down his window, motioned to the startled driver of the pickup with the scuba gear. A remarkably attractive woman, he noted. Like him, she seemed old enough to have known better.
　"Turn around," he called, motioning to the space that had opened in front of the Hog. She hesitated, staring uncertainly at him. This was Miami, after all. He ignored the wild chorus of horns behind him. "It's a riot," he said. "You don't want to go that way."
　She craned her neck for a look just as the pop-pop-pop of gunfire erupted from somewhere. That did it. She threw the truck in reverse, chewed rubber all along the space where the Hog had been. She stopped just short of the still-driverless Accord, dropped into low, and swung the pickup around in front of Deal. In the next instant she was speeding away toward U.S. 1, the scuba gear dancing, a hand and slender arm waving a thank-you as she disappeared. Something about the little drama left Deal with a curious pang, but the horns were deafening at his back and he didn't have long to consider it.
　He floored the Hog, roared past the stalled traffic himself. The kid who had been driving the Accord was just struggling up off his hands and knees. You think that was something, wait till you see what's coming next, Deal thought, then had to yank the Hog into an abrupt turn to avoid a new bottleneck headed out of the Grove.
　He found himself traveling down an unfamiliar narrow lane now, a tunnel boring through a dense overhang of ficus, Florida holly, and strangler fig. He was forced into another turn and another-like running a maze-and was still trying to brush aside the image of the striking woman behind the wheel of the dive truck. Was it someone he'd met? he wondered. Or someone he wished he had? In the next instant, he was clutching the wheel tightly as the Hog bottomed out in a huge, rain-filled pothole, spraying water like a Donzi off its prow.
　The filthy water was just clearing from his windshield when Deal saw the man, or what he presumed was a man. Though the whole thing couldn't have taken more than a few seconds, Deal's mind registered details with the precision and clarity that only impending disaster can bring. The figure stood in the middle of the gloomy tunnel of foliage, arm upflung in surprise, face twisted in the glare of the Hog's headlights. He seemed to be draped in a tangle of old shrimp netting which itself was studded with still-dripping seaweed, battered lobster-trap buoys, and the assorted detritus you'd expect to find floating the backwaters of the nearby bay these days. There was something odd about the guy's face, a lopsided quality that suggested he'd already had one accident in the not so distant past. He held a broken oar in his other hand-something he might have been using as a cane, or a makeshift crutch, and which had probably saved his life.
　The man-the ancient mariner, Deal found himself thinking-vaulted backward, using the point of the oar for leverage, just as Deal slammed on the brakes. The Hog seemed to sail on imperturbably for a moment, until the water sloughed off the linings of the brakes. When they did catch hold, it was with a vengeance. He felt the heavy rear of the car rip loose from the pavement and whip around violently, a force like a giant hand pressing him back in the seat. He was sure that next he'd feel the muffled thud of mariner body meeting sheet metal, but the moment passed, and instead he caught a glimpse of the man's astonished face peering at him as the Hog shot past.
　The pale, distorted face receded as if Deal were the stationary one; he watched helplessly as the man was yanked into oblivion by some otherworldly force. Then the front end of the Hog tipped up abruptly, and Deal felt himself plunging down into his own abyss. There was a crunching sound, metal against rock, another, and another, a jolt as his head rammed the roof, a second as it bashed against the wheel.
　He was seeing only bright flashes of light now, had lost all sense of orientation. Upside down, sideways, going forward, or back? Impossible to know. He heard a tremendous splash, felt another jolt and a momentary weightlessness before gravity finally caught up with him. Gentle rocking now, and then a slow but steady descent. The smell of seawater, brackish rot, odor of the grave, he thought.
　He was in the water and going down. Groggy, he felt his hands grope blindly, frantically for the handle of the door. He sensed a great coolness envelop his chest, his groin, his neck. Strange objects bumped at his face, slid away, curled back again. He felt the door lever slide into his grasp like some odd creature from the deep. He pulled. Kicked reflexively at the door, felt resistance, unlatched his seat belt in a kind of daze.
　He felt release then, free drifting in water that was cool and somehow warm at once. His limbs were heavy now, his head lolling in the current. Whatever instinctual source of energy had enabled him to escape had expended itself. He floated beneath the surface, his consciousness teetering, sensing that soon he would open his mouth and take that great last gasp that would fill his lungs with water and sink him like a stone. Worst of all, there was nothing he could do about it, not one thing.
　He felt the pressure building in his chest, accompanied by a mounting fire in his brain. He willed his arms to move, his legs to kick, but the signals flew off down blind trails, leaving him adrift, rudderless, a ship with a captain shouting orders from the bridge and no one left in the engine room. As he drifted into darkness, he dreamed that something-a hand, or perhaps a diver's fin-came to brush against his chest, and then he became aware of a great presence swelling up beneath him. In this dream or vision, he began to rise through the murky water, picking up speed, spiraling upward toward some brilliant pool of light. Aside from the rather hackneyed image of the light, it seemed a lovely dream to him, one in which he felt his face break the surface of the water as if it were a tangible membrane, a passage into some other world, where he could gulp down air like any other man, and simply live and be.
　
　"Just lie still, you." The woman's voice came to him from the darkness. A small voice, ancient, and yet carrying the authority of its years. He blinked his eyes, realized that it wasn't just darkness, that in fact he couldn't see. He raised his hands in a panic, felt hers pull him down.
　"You've got some nasty bumps and cuts there," she said. "I've got a poultice resting. It's not to be disturbed."
　Deal felt the pressure of cloth, at his face. Yes, maybe he could detect a nimbus of light. He blinked again, felt his lids rustle at the bandages, smelled vague medicinal odors.
　"Hospital," he heard himself mumble.
　She laughed. "There won't be any hospital tonight, unh-uh. They got the whole of Coconut Grove cordoned off, they do. Waitin' for the fuss to burn itself out."
　Deal heard distant shouts, chanting, the double boom of a shotgun. He felt a wave of dizziness sweep over him. He lay back, remembering, trying to comprehend all that had happened.
　"Where am I?" he managed, at last. He groped about him, felt crisp sheets, a blanket, realized his clothes were gone, that he was wearing some kind of flannel gown. A lady's nightgown? It couldn't be. Surely it couldn't.
　"Keep your hands off those bandages, now, or I'll tie 'em down, you hear me." Deal nodded, rested his hands on his chest.
　"You're one lucky boy," she cackled. "Lucky old Booger took a liking to you, lucky I was there to pull you out."
　"Booger?"
　"He's a manatee," she said. "He's the last sane creature that lives in these parts, and that includes me. All the fuss erupted downtown, I went over to have a chat with Booger, see if maybe he thought this was a sign."
　"A sign?" Deal's head was swimming again.
　"The beginning of the end," she said. "Booger and me got a running bet. Hundred and two, I think I'll be around to witness it, he says we got a ways to go yet. I found him in his little grotto, keeping you propped up on a chunk of boat seat."
　The dream was coming back to him now. The vague presence, being propelled upward, toward a pool of light he'd taken for the light. He shook his head.
　"Did you have a flashlight with you?" he asked.
　"You think I can see in the dark?" she snorted. "Here, raise up some. I want you to take a drink of this."
　He felt a wiry hand under his neck, sensed something warm and steaming at his lips. The smell was bitter, even searing. "What is it?" he said.
　"Swamp yarbs," she said. "Now drink it, or I'll hold your nose and pour it down you."
　Deal sensed it wasn't a bluff. He was so weak he had no doubt she was capable of doing exactly what she said. He nodded, helped her guide the cup to his lips.
　Despite its wretched smell, the brew tasted amazingly good. Licorice, he thought. And something earthy. With an unidentifiable blend of herbs. It was bracing. And just as quickly, soporific. He was drifting again by the time his head hit the pillow.
　"Booger showed me what you floated in on," she said.
　"I don't know what you mean," Deal said.
　"What you had tied to that boat seat," she said.
　Deal shook his head. "I ... I fell into the water," he said.
　"Course you did," she said. "You wrecked your boat and damn near drowned."
　"No," he said. He felt himself spiraling. "I didn't."
　"Carrying a thing like that, I'd hate to admit it myself," she said.
　Deal wanted to protest again, but he was just too tired.
　"I showed it to Booger, though," she cackled. "Fried his apples, I'll tell you. See there, I told 'im. Here comes the end of the world, Booger, just like I said."
　He hadn't the slightest idea what she was talking about, but she'd get no argument from him. Not this night. She was still cackling when he went under for good.
　
　3. BISCAYNE BLUES-Paul Levine
　Just how much is a whiplash worth?" John Deal asked, twisting awkwardly in his cervical collar.
　"That depends on whether Dr. Scheinblum is sober when he testifies," his lawyer, Jake Lassiter, answered.
　Deal hadn't been in court since an action film star had sued him over a broken pump motor in a custom-built Jacuzzi. Lassiter had won the case, cleverly arguing that the tub hadn't been intended for a dozen persons, eleven of whom happened to be strippers from Club Plutonium, bobbing for apples and whatnot in the foamy water.
　Deal had nearly been late this morning. Though a native of Miami who had built houses in virtually every neighborhood, he had become lost on a stretch of Eighth Street-Calle Ocho-recently renamed Olga Guillot Way. A few blocks to the west, the same street was called Celia Cruz Way, then Loring P. Evans Memorial Boulevard. He'd turned north on what had been a familiar avenue, now renamed General Maximo Gomez Boulevard, and followed a Porsche with the personalized plate LAWYER. Like boasting about having the clap, Deal thought.
　Heading downtown, he'd vaguely wondered how he could get the street sign contract for the city, something he figured would keep him as busy as a coffin maker in a spaghetti western. The construction business was slow, and Deal was hoping for a decent settlement on his personal-injury claim, at least enough to lift the subcontractors' liens on his latest job and get his backhoe out of hock.
　Once on Flagler Street, Deal had paid a shoeless guy five bucks to clean the windshield and watch over the rental Taurus in a rubble-strewn spot under the I-95 ramp. Walking two blocks to the courthouse, he'd woven through a crowd of demonstrators who were protesting conditions on a Caribbean island that Deal could not place on a map. On the courthouse steps, the Voodoo Squad, two janitors with buckets and brooms, were gathering up a dead chicken, a goat's head, and a cake with frosted icing, all intended to cast various spells on judges and juries. Overhead, the turkey vultures circled in the updrafts, while inside, their double-breasted, dark-suited cousins hustled clients at the elevators.
　Now, as the day wound down, Deal sat in a fourth-floor courtroom, listening as his lawyer wrapped up his opening statement. He hoped this was a good idea. He'd let Jake talk him into it only because his debts were piling up so high, but now, listening to Jake's best over-the-top, never-overestimate-the-intelligence-of-the-jury histrionics, he was having his doubts. Well, too late now. He didn't know what strings Jake had pulled to get the case to court so fast, but here they were.
　"An unprotected hazard!" Jake Lassiter thundered, moving closer to the jury box where he planted his 225 pounds like an oak among saplings. "A death trap! A terrifying plunge into darkness and fear!" Lassiter paused and studied the jury. By Miami standards, it was a typical collection of strangers: a tattooed lobster pot poacher, a nipple ring designer with a shaved head, a santero who chanted prayers to Babalu Aye during recess, a cross-dressing doorman from a South Beach club, and two Kendall housewives who nervously clutched their purses. "Thank heavens for John Deal's extraordinary physical condition," Lassiter proclaimed reverently, "and thank heavens for his fervent will to live."
　Not to mention a manatee named Booger, Deal thought. He hadn't told Lassiter he'd been saved from drowning by a barnacle-encrusted sea mammal, then nursed back to health by a 102-year-old woman who brewed medicinal potions from swamp grass. And of course, he hadn't mentioned the box.
　The box.
　The best he could figure, it must have been attached by the bungee lines to the manatee named Booger. Somehow Deal had gotten tangled in the bungee when he'd floated out of the Hog into the cold, wet darkness. It had all been too weird.
　"The city of Miami recklessly maintained a hazard at its marina," Lassiter told the jury. "The city breached its duty of reasonable care in failing to properly light the street and failing to warn of the sheer drop-off to a watery grave."
　"Objection, Your Honor!" shouted Russell B. Whittaker III. The city's insurance lawyer jumped to his feet and tugged at his suspenders. "That's closing argument, not opening statement."
　"Sustained," Judge Manuel Dominguez announced gravely, then shot a look at the wall clock. He hated to miss the first game at Miami Jai-alai. "Move it along, Mr. Lassiter." Maria, the court clerk and the judge's favorite niece, held up eight fingers, alerting Lassiter to his remaining time. The judge's secretary, Ileana Josefina Dominguez-Zaldivar, slipped into the courtroom from chambers and whispered something into the judge's ear, though she probably didn't call him "Your Honor." Ileana was his older sister, and insisted on calling the judge Manuelito, even in court. Lassiter took a slow turn to gather his thoughts. Victor, the bailiff, sat in the back row of the gallery. A handsome if vapid lad, he was the judge's son-in-law, and he was happy to be in uniform after flunking the police academy entrance exam twice and the firefighters' test four times.
　The courtroom door squeaked open. Britt Montero, the Miami News reporter with the luminous green eyes, peered in, didn't find anything worthy of a two-column headline, and left. Back when Lassiter had been in night law school, having finally been cut by the Dolphins after a few undistinguished years on special teams, he had had a date with Britt, but she'd stood him up for a three-alarm fire.
　He faced front. Time to crank it up again. "The evidence will show that John Deal is a building contractor of impeccable reputation who has been injured through no fault of his own," Lassiter rumbled on. "You will hear the testimony of Dr. Irwin Scheinblum, a respected physician with forty years' experience in two states."
　Deal smiled to himself. Hadn't Lassiter called Scheinblum a senile, alcoholic quack who'd lost his license in Rhode Island-something about penile enlargement surgery that had resulted in a net loss-before hanging out his shingle on Coral Way? The courtroom door squeaked open again, and Deal glanced in that direction. The man who walked in looked familiar. Dark hair, short and muscular, with a mustache, a vaguely Hispanic look. Where had he seen him before?
　"Yes, ladies and gentlemen," Lassiter continued. "Dr. Scheinblum will describe Mr. Deal's severe musculo-skeletal-ligamentous trauma."
　In other words, whiplash.
　This morning, Deal thought. I saw him this morning when I did the U-ey on Eighth Street, or whatever the hell it's called now. He was in the black Camaro right behind me. Deal turned again, stiffly, his neck flaring with pain. He squinted and envisioned the man at night, draped in a tangle of old shrimp netting, leaning on an oar on the little street running along the marina. The guy he'd almost flattened seconds before his beloved and battered Hog had plunged off the dock. What the hell was he doing here?
　Jake Lassiter sipped his Grolsch and tried not to look toward the table closest to the bay. "Him?"
　"Yeah," Deal said. "He's following me."
　The guy sat alone near the end of the wooden deck at Scotty's Landing in the Grove. At a table next to him, two Yuppie insurance lawyers in white shirts and yellow ties were trying to score with two young women from the all-female America's Cup team.
　A light breeze stirred from the east, and a three-quarter moon was rising over Key Biscayne. Jake Lassiter and John Deal were drinking beer, eating grilled dolphin, and preparing the next day's testimony.
　"No, no, no! Your neck isn't simply sore," Lassiter told him. "It throbs. It aches. The pain is excruciating. Every breath is torture, every movement torment. Get it?"
　"Yeah, my life is a living hell," Deal said dryly.
　"That's good, John. Have you done this before?" Deal shrugged and looked toward the table nearest the bay, where the guy's face was hidden behind a copy of Diario las Americas.
　"Could be an insurance investigator," Lassiter said, "making sure you're not doing the lambada at Club Taj."
　Deal crumbled some crackers into his conch chowder. "No. He was there the night I went off the dock."
　"There was a witness? Why the hell didn't you tell me?" He studied his client a moment. "John, I may not be the best lawyer in town, but ... "
　"Don't belittle yourself, Jake."
　"No, it's true. I'm one of the few lawyers in the country who wasn't asked to comment on the O. J. Simpson case, even though I'm probably the only one to have tackled him."
　"For a second-string linebacker, you're not a bad lawyer, Jake, but as I recall, you usually missed tackling him."
　"Thanks. But you gotta trust me now. What else have you left out?"
　Now Deal told him everything. The traffic jam that turned into bedlam in Coconut Grove, then wheeling the Hog down a side street, the specterlike vision of the man draped in the shrimp net, then the plunge and crunching descent into the black, brackish water. By the time he told about the manatee, the old woman, and the box, it was a three-beer story.
　"What should we do, Jake?" Deal asked, finally.
　"Shula would go with the play-action fake, get the corner to bite, then throw deep. But me, I just buckle up the chin strap, lower the head, and slog straight ahead."
　"What the hell's that supposed to mean?"
　"Watch."
　Lassiter stood and headed to the guy's table, carrying a fresh Grolsch, a sixteen-ouncer with the porcelain stopper. "Hey, buddy, I wonder if you would move."
　The guy glared at him and looked around. There were no empty tables. "Move? Where?"
　"Hialeah, Sopchoppy, I don't care. You're crowding my friend."
　The guy stood up, barely reaching Lassiter's shoulders. He had the thick neck and sloping shoulders of a bodybuilder. A tattoo of a scorpion was visible on his right forearm. "My name is Hector," he said, without smiling, "and your friend has something I want very much."
　"What, a personality?"
　At the next table, one of the Yuppie lawyers was boasting about tossing out a paraplegic's lawsuit because the statute of limitations had expired.
　"Your thieving friend stole something from me," Hector said angrily.
　"Yeah, well, under the law of the sea, the Treaty of Versailles, and the doctrine of finders keepers, what he found belongs to him."
　Hector grinned, but there was no humor in it. "No, cabron, it belongs to me."
　"Look, Hector, I'm going to count to ten, and when I get there, you're gone. One ... two ... three ... C'mon, make yourself scarce. Cuatro ... cinco ... seis ... Hey, Hector, vete! Seven ... eight ... nine ... "
　Suddenly, Hector slammed a size 10-EEE cowboy boot on Lassiter's instep. The pain shot through his ankle and radiated up his leg. Before Lassiter could recover, Hector threw a short right back, sinking it deep into his gut. The lawyer doubled over, retched, and an explosion of grilled dolphin, coleslaw, and beer showered the Yuppie lawyers.
　Deal got painfully to his feet and hobbled over, but Hector was already halfway to the dock, where a Boston Whaler sat idling, a young man at the wheel. Hector leapt into the boat, which took off, engine roaring in the no-wake zone.
　Deal knelt down next to Lassiter, who was on one knee. "You look worse than I do, counselor."
　"On the other hand," Lassiter said, wheezing, "there is something to be said for the play-action fake."
　
　The moonlight streaked across the dark water, a highway reaching toward the horizon. A light breeze blew from the southeast, and the dive boat rocked gently at anchor. The twinkling lights of Key Biscayne condos were visible to the west. Jake Lassiter sat in the captain's chair, his bandaged foot resting inside an open cooler filled with beer and ice. John Deal removed his cervical collar and kneaded the muscles of his aching neck, then popped three Advil. It had been a long day.
　"I can't believe you didn't even open it," Lassiter said.
　"The old woman told me not to, said I'd be better off just to get rid of it."
　"It could be jewels, drugs."
　"Ebola virus," Deal added.
　Lassiter shook his head. "No. It's gotta be something valuable. Why else would Hector want it so much?"
　Deal shrugged and looked over the rail into the water. Seventy feet below, a Boeing 727 sat on the sandy bottom, an artificial reef for the fishermen and divers. "If the storms last month haven't stirred up everything, we'll know soon enough." In the dark water below, a light was growing brighter. "Can you trust her?" Deal asked.
　"I've known Fay Leonard since she was a kid catching lobsters bare-handed off Islamorada. She's a good diver and a good friend."
　"So the two of you aren't ... "
　He let it hang there.
　"Ancient history, John. Ancient history."
　There was a splash, and suddenly Fay was behind the boat. She spit out the regulator and slid her face mask on top of her head, and once again Deal had the powerful sense that he knew her from somewhere. It had been itching at him since they'd first met, but ... well, it'd come to him. With her free hand, she slung a net onto the dive platform. Inside the net was a round metal canister wrapped in plastic. Lassiter hobbled toward the stern, his foot throbbing, and Deal walked stiffly to meet him. Fay came halfway up the dive ladder. "It was just where you said it would be, John, in three feet of sand just under the cockpit."
　Fay pulled herself onto the dive platform, removed her tank, mask and flippers, then, without a word, peeled off her one-piece suit. She was a lithe, tanned, athletic woman in her early thirties, with sun-bleached hair tied back in a ponytail. "Jake, I'm going to take a swim," Fay said. "The water's beautiful."
　"Don't you want to see what's-"
　"No, you boys play treasure salvors. There's a big old manatee out there who wants some company. Just yell when you want to head back in."
　She slipped gracefully into the water, the moonlight reflecting off her long limbs as she swam into the darkness. "I must be getting old," Lassiter said, " 'cause I'd rather see what's in that box than go skinny-dipping with Fay Leonard."
　"As I recall, she didn't exactly invite you."
　"Sure she did, John, in a woman's roundabout way."
　"The way I heard it, she'd rather swim naked with a manatee."
　Lassiter thought about it a moment and said, "Fay was always partial to linemen."
　"C'mon," Deal said. "Let's do it."
　They huddled over their prize,, Deal unwrapping the plastic, Lassiter holding a flashlight. It took less than a minute. Underneath the plastic, a shiny steel canister the size of a hatbox. A wheel lock secured a door built into the top. Deal strained to turn the wheel counterclockwise. "It's stuck," he said, his face reddening.
　Together they pulled, and after a moment, the wheel turned and the small door opened with a whoosh. Inside, a circle of tiny green lights immediately flashed red, and a blast of frigid air escaped. In the center of the lights, a second door with a simple slide latch led to another compartment.
　"Well, counselor, here goes," Deal said.
　They both held their breath. They were unaware of Fay Leonard swimming fifty yards away in the darkness, the giant manatee Booger alongside. They were unaware of the Boston Whaler with two men aboard, anchored directly in Fay's path. They were unaware of anything and everything in the whole wide world and the deep blue sea, except what treasure might rest in front of them.
　Deal slid the latch and opened the interior door as Lassiter shone the flashlight inside.
　"Uh-oh," Lassiter said.
　"Oh Lord," Deal said.
　Lassiter exhaled a tense breath. "Turn it over."
　"No, you."
　"C'mon. It's not alive."
　"You're the ambulance chaser, Jake. You've seen stuff like this before."
　"No I haven't."
　Wincing, Lassiter reached into the compartment and grabbed the human head by its thick, graying hair. "It's cold," Lassiter said. "Like it's being preserved."
　He turned the head over, faceup, then dropped it back into the canister.
　And there it was.
　Bushy beard and all.
　Staring at them with wide-open eyes, a startled look on that familiar face.
　The face of Fidel Castro.
　
　4. THE L.A. CONNECTION-Edna Buchanan
　Moments earlier, Britt Montero had been hungry and feverish, battling deadlines and the blues, yearning to go home, desperate and exhausted, her brain an overloaded computer about to crash. But she never could resist a ringing telephone. And Jake Lassiter knew exactly what to say.
　"Have I got a story for you!"
　She felt the adrenaline pump and her brain cells kick back into life. Her blood began to tingle. She loved to hear those words, but still, she reacted with caution.
　"Have you been drinking, Jake?"
　"Hell, yeah," he said. "You would be too. I've got John Deal here ... "
　She pinched the bridge of her upturned nose and tried to ignore the distant drumbeat of an impending headache. "Isn't he the one that wrecked that entire showroom full of exotic cars ... ?"
　"Yep, that's him, he's a client of mine."
　It did not surprise Britt that John Deal needed a lawyer.
　"Did your jury just come in?"
　"No ... "
　"Then call me tomorrow."
　"This isn't about him, not directly anyway." Jake lowered his deep voice for dramatic effect. "This story is so big that when word gets out, there will be riots in the streets, power grabs, and the whole damn revolution will come down."
　"What are you talking about?"
　"You've got to see this to believe it."
　"Where are you?"
　"Crandon Park Marina. Can you meet us here right away? And, uh, could you grab a couple of recent pictures, close-ups, of Fidel Castro from the newspaper morgue and bring them with you?"
　"Castro? What is this? If you're putting me on, Jake ... "
　"Scout's honor, this is dead serious, in fact it could be a matter of life or death. Uh, check the wires too, before you leave. See if anything unusual is coming out of Havana."
　Britt hung up and punched the send button on her computer terminal, booting into the editing system her story about the lovesick bag boy who had taken an entire Kendall supermarket and its shoppers hostage with his father's 12-gauge shotgun.
　Beyond the big bayfront windows of the Miami News building, the panoramic Miami Beach skyline and its twinkling lights beckoned alluringly, but she knew there was no going home soon. Her apartment on the Beach might as well have been a thousand miles away. The west drawbridge of the Venetian Causeway had been stuck in the open position since noon. On the MacArthur span, the remains of a house and several cars were scattered across the eastbound lanes. In order to save one of the last historic pioneer homes from demolition, the city had decided to move it to a new location, but the house had toppled off the wide-load flatbed and smashed into a million pieces. Several South Beach-bound motorists, startled by a house dead ahead as they ascended a fast-lane rise at fifty-five miles an hour, lost control, compounding the problem. The Julia Tuttle Causeway, two miles north, was also closed to traffic. A Hollywood movie crew had rented it for the night to shoot a high-speed chase scene for a new action epic.
　Maybe Jake really had a great story, Britt thought hopefully. She loved this job. Every day was like Christmas morning. Full of surprises, stories unfolding, always the possibility that the big one would break today. So far, today had brought only two threatening letters and three obscene calls from faithful readers, while another had left chicken entrails on the hood of her new T-Bird in the News parking lot. She fervently hoped they were chicken entrails. Then came the assignment, followed by a major skirmish with the assistant city editor from hell.
　Still steamed about the assignment, she drove south through the soft night to meet Jake, half listening to the crackle of her portable police scanner. Enthralled city, tourism, and newspaper executives were eager to cooperate with the moviemakers on location.
　Final Deadline, a major action flick, would star movie hero Dash Brandon as a government agent under cover as a newsman for a major Miami newspaper. Britt's assignment, and she had been given no choice but to accept, was to help the star research his role by having him accompany her on the police beat for a week.
　Unimpressed by Hollywood types, Britt resented the intrusion. But so far, the assignment hadn't been too bad, she thought, turning east across the Rickenbacker Causeway, windows open, the salt breeze bracing. The jet-lagged star wearied quickly. Summoning his limo, he had departed between the mini-riot that had broken out during a police raid on a Hialeah cockfight and the high-speed pursuit of three carloads of teenage smash-and-grabbers across the Broad Causeway from Bal Harbour.
　
　Fay had fought hard, but Hector and Phil, despite the obvious difficulties in holding on to a slippery, wet, naked body, had succeeded in wrestling her aboard. Before Lassiter and Deal, stunned by the contents of the shiny steel canister, realized what was happening, Fay was shrieking and struggling on the deck of the Boston Whaler. Hector managed to cuff the surprisingly strong and agile woman to the handrail, but as he grinned victoriously, she landed a vicious kick to his crotch. He dropped to his knees, moaning. Phil gunned the engines, cut the running lights, and throttled into the darkness, as Lassiter and Deal collided painfully, cursing and fumbling in their haste to start the engine of their dive boat.
　"Did you see that big feesh?" groaned Hector, still sitting dazed and wet on the deck.
　"That shows how much you know about fishing," Phil jeered. "That was a barrel."
　"It was a manatee, you jerks," Fay gasped. "Touch me and I'll rip your faces off. Who the hell are you?"
　"Your friends have something that belongs to us," Hector said. "Here, cover yourself with this." He blushed and looked away as he draped something around her shoulders.
　"This is a fishing net, you idiot! Where are we going?" she demanded.
　Booger, buffeted about by the wake, experienced a vague sense of something amiss. It had begun as Fay flailed and grappled on the deck of the dive boat, thrashing about like a slick mermaid in the moonlight. Then he was alone, with neither a playmate nor a swimming partner. Miffed and lonely, he followed at a distance, hoping she would come back.
　
　Britt spotted Jake on the dock. The tall, sandy-haired ex-football jock was limping, and lugging a metal canister the size of a hatbox and what appeared to be a woman's one-piece bathing suit slung over his arm. The man in a neck brace who was trailing behind him had to be Deal, she thought. Both looked grim.
　"What happened to you two?"
　"That's not important," Jake said, wincing as he led the way. "Did you bring the pictures?"
　"Kidnapping?" Britt said, as they trooped into Jake's kitchen. He lived in the Grove, in a small coral rock house with no air-conditioning. They had gone there in her T-Bird after a brief but vicious argument about who would drive. Jake's foot was bandaged, and although Britt could not clearly recall the specifics of Deal's destructive swath through the exotic-car showroom, she suspected that it would be safer to skydive without a chute than travel anywhere as his passenger.
　They sat at the table and filled her in on Fay's abduction.
　"We have to call the FBI," she said, concerned.
　"No cops," Jake said. "Bring in any kind of badge and that'll get Fay dead. I know those guys. That's why we called you."
　"Jake, I'm no Rambo. What can I do?"
　"Look, Britt, nobody in Miami has better contacts. We need you to check something out for us. Quietly. You'll have to sit on it for a few days, but then you'll have the story of a lifetime, and hopefully we'll have Fay back, and maybe a little something extra for our trouble."
　Deal nodded and popped a handful of Advil. "Those lowlifes on the boat know who we are," he muttered. "We'll be hearing from them soon, without a doubt. We need to know who they're working for, what the hell we're dealing with here."
　"They'll probably contact us, to arrange a swap," Jake said.
　"Swap?"
　"That's what we have to show you." Jake swept an accumulation of beer cans and pizza crusts off the cluttered tabletop and placed the metal canister in the center.
　Opening the box, he lifted the lid, curling his wrists as he did so, as though unveiling a rare work of art.
　The room was so hot that they could feel the whoosh of cool air, as though somebody had opened a freezer. But it was something else that prickled the hair on the back of Britt's neck. Could be it be the faint, stale aroma of cigar smoke?
　Britt stared into the expressionless eyes. Fidel Castro was the man who had killed her father, stood him in front of a bullet-pocked wall on San Juan Hill and ordered his execution by firing squad when she was only three years old. "Think it's really him?" she whispered.
　They could not be sure from the photos she had brought.
　"Was there anything unusual on the wires out of Havana?"
　Britt shook her head. "Rumors are always sweeping Miami that Castro is dead, dying, or in Switzerland having sheep-glands injections to maintain his virility." Jake raised his eyebrows.
　"Don't laugh," Britt said. "He has quite a reputation."
　She stared into the canister. "I've never actually seen the man in person."
　"Nor I," Jake said.
　"What about Magda Montiel Davis?" she said. "She'd know him." Davis, a local lawyer, had kissed Castro, gushing like an infatuated schoolgirl at a reception in Havana. She had had no inkling at the time that Cuban cameras were rolling, that Fidel would gleefully sell the footage to Miami television stations, and that enraged exiles would greet her return with threats of death, bombs, and mob violence.
　All three studied the frozen face.
　"What's Mickey Schwartz doing these days?" Jake said thoughtfully.
　Schwartz had built a successful three-decade acting and modeling career based on the fact that he was a dead ringer for Castro. His most recent gig was a Florida lottery commercial in which he wore fatigues and blew contented smoke rings after using dollar bills, presumably lottery winnings, to light his cigar.
　"This could be him," Jake said, and closed the container. "Wre don't want it to thaw out."
　"Good thinking," Deal said.
　"Maybe Castro was dying," Britt suggested, "he knew it and wanted to be frozen until they could cure what killed him. There's a doctor into cryogenics here in Miami."
　"Why wouldn't they send his entire body?" Deal said. "It would be easier to revive than finding him a whole new body."
　"Maybe somebody screwed up," she said. "Remember that pop singer from Caracas? He intended to have his body frozen but there was an accident with a circular saw during the packaging. All they could salvage was his head. It's still frozen here somewhere."
　"This isn't getting Fay back," Jake muttered, painfully pacing the length of the small kitchen. He paused at the refrigerator to take out a beer, and tossed one to Deal. Britt passed, no longer hungry, or thirsty. Her mind was racing. Maybe this was the big one.
　"Well, I tell you," she said, after peering again into the metal container. "It's either him or Mickey Schwartz."
　"Why would those guys so desperately want the head of Mickey Schwartz?" Jake asked.
　They stared at one another.
　"Unless they want to pass it off as Castro," she said. "Every time there are rumors of Castro's demise, Little Havana erupts. Juan Carlos Reyes has offered a million-dollar reward for proof that Castro is dead."
　Reyes, a politically connected Miami millionaire, was determined to become the next president of Cuba.
　"W7hat exactly happened when they took Fay?" Britt was taking notes.
　"She went skinny-dipping with a manatee."
　Deal interrupted. "Do you think it could be the same manatee ... ?"
　"What?"
　They told Britt the story of Deal's near-death experience and his amazing rescue from a watery grave. "Not too many manatees left these days," she said, "especially ones that would rescue a human."
　"Doesn't the Navy use them?" Deal said.
　"No, that's dolphins. They're smarter," Britt answered, noticing that his pupils appeared dilated.
　"The old lady that pulled me out said she chats with him."
　"That manatee is our only witness," Jake said. "Maybe we ought to go get the dive boat and find him."
　Britt rolled her eyes. "What do you plan to do, let him sniff her bathing suit?"
　Jake shrugged. "It works with police dogs."
　
　Marion McAlister Williams was rocking in the dark on her front porch when they arrived, almost as though she had been expecting them. "He's out there," she said, nodding, "and something's wrong."
　They went to the grotto. Booger was there, circling, in a state of agitation.
　Booger experienced an unreasoning feeling of dread. He sensed trouble, cries for help, mortal danger. He swam as fast as he could, powerful flips of his tail propelling him southward. Dawn streaked the sky as the trio in the dive boat trailed him around a mangrove outcropping to a wooden boat dock with a million-dollar yacht appended to it.
　Britt felt an odd sense of deja vu. Like a Lassie movie, she thought, with Timmy trapped down the well.
　"I know who lives here," she said, squinting at the house. "I think it's some city official."
　Jake idled down the Evinrude. As they let the boat coast, they heard a splash as something hit the water.
　"Hurry!" Britt cried out.
　Booger dove nose-down to where a burlap bag was sinking to the silty bottom.
　Burrowing beneath the sack, the gentle giant rose, bursting through the surface of the shining water, showering those aboard with spray.
　"Oh, shit," Lassiter said.
　If Booger had found Fay, or what was left of her, it wasn't much.
　Deal reached out, caught it, then gingerly dropped the sopping sack onto the floor of the dive boat.
　They gasped collectively when it moved.
　Something inside was alive.
　"Could be a snake," Jake warned.
　Cautiously, he loosened the thick twist tie that sealed the sack. Small, high-pitched sounds emerged.
　Then he upended the bag and dumped the contents onto the deck.
　Six drenched calico kittens crawled in all directions, mewing loudly for their mother.
　"That's who lives here!" Britt said. "The Miami Beach city manager! I should have known." The man had been seething ever since his scheme to pay bounty hunters thirty-five dollars a head to exterminate the city's stray cat population had gone awry. "Damn," said Lassiter.
　Booger dove and surfaced, dove and surfaced again, then struck out for open water, as though somehow aware that he had saved the furry little creatures now using the back seat of Britt Montero's new T-Bird for a litter box.
　
　After a pit stop for Kitten Chow at an all-night convenience store, it was nearly eight a.m. Britt would only have time for a shower and a cup of coffee. She was not tired, she had never been more awake. This could be the big one, the event Miami had awaited for more than three decades. The phone rang just as she was leaving.
　Hoping it was Jake with word on Fay, she felt her heart sink when she heard the deep-throated growl that had launched a thousand fan clubs. Damn, she had forgotten screen star Dash Brandon.
　"You're up early," she said, trying grimly to shake off a kitten fastened by its needle-sharp claws to the right leg of her linen slacks.
　"Tell you the truth, dollface, I haven't slept yet. Been partying in South Beach since I left you. You been to one a these foam parties? A trip. I met up with some of the crew, and we need your help."
　"You must be too exhausted to join me today," she said, trying without success to sound regretful.
　"Yeah, but we need to see you. It's important." He sounded serious. "Meet us for lunch tomorrow."
　"I usually don't eat lunch," Britt said. "It's tough to eat anything on deadline." She pushed back her hair impatiently, watching a kitten dig industriously in her potted begonia. "And I'm pretty busy right now."
　The movie star refused to take no for an answer. "Didn't they say you were assigned to help me?" he pouted.
　
　5. THE OLD WOMAN AND THE SEA-James W. Hall
　Marion McAlister Williams was naked in the moonlight. Her body wasn't what it used to be. But name something that was. Especially something 102 years old. She was ankle-deep in Biscayne Bay standing in the soft marl of her own small beach, gazing out at a prairie of moonlight that glazed the still water. It was two in the morning on Tuesday. The Grove was quiet, the sky was densely salted with stars, there was no breeze, no mosquitoes, no boats moving across the water, no birds coasting low, not even the plaintive warble of the owl who lived in her stand of gumbo-limbos and strangler figs.
　Marion waded deeper into the bay. The water was the same heat as her flesh. She might have been melting into a sea of warm blood, dissolving, as she went deeper, the water to her deflated breasts, to her neck, lifting her. She lay back, let it hold her up to the moon, an offering, this woman who had seen enough of this world, what it had become, its garish pleasures, its quick and easy gratifications, its incessant noise pulsing like fevered blood. She let the tide carry her body, buoyant as a funeral pyre, let it take her out into that luminous water, so bright tonight it was as if a tablecloth of iridescent silk were floating on the surface of the bay, a cloth that was miles across.
　Marion McAlister Williams was nearly the oldest thing in Miami. Older than any tree, older than any building or car or house or boat or stick of wood. She was older than the streets, older than the bridges or boardwalks or seawalls. She was older than anything but the water or the rocks or the land. Though she had to admit, one or two sea turtles still lurking in the bay might be nearly as old.
　Marion drifted farther out, nearly a mile from the shore, effortless and serene, her arms spread wide, taking the last of the outgoing tide. She would float out there during the slack hour, then ride back in with the welling tide. She might have to swim a stroke or two to reach her shoreline again, but usually not. She knew the currents, the small silent streams and eddies that snaked through the bay. She knew the cycling seasons of their movements. As regular as airplane schedules, step aboard, ride out, hover for a while, and ride back in. She had been doing it for most of a century. One of the virtues of age. What you knew, you knew well. What you didn't, no longer mattered.
　Ears underwater, she could hear the ripples of noise, the subtle pings and gurgles of passing creatures. She knew some of their names, some family lineages. There was also a deeper sound, a nearly mystical hum in the bay that vibrated far below the surface, a quiet throb of power that somehow fed her, renewed her strength on these nightly swims. She'd dared to reveal this to her granddaughter some months back, calling it a "soft drumroll of energy," and the girl, a modern woman, skeptical and tough-minded, had fired back that Marion was probably only hearing the chug of sewage as it pumped from the city's vast network of toilets and drainpipes beneath the bay across to Virginia Key.
　The slack hour passed without event, and Marion sculled the water, readjusted her body into a fast-moving channel so she could begin her return voyage. As she glided back toward the shore she was joined, as she so often was, by Booger.
　Tonight Booger pressed close to her, scraped her arm with one of his barnacles, drew blood. Her skin was papery these days, easily torn. They glided along together, soundless, and the fleshy sea cow continued to bump her, continued to urge her forward with something like impatience. Marion did not resist. Long ago she'd abandoned the need for overmanaging her destiny.
　There was nothing she absolutely needed to do anymore. She had won her prizes, taken her bows, had shaken the hands of a half-dozen presidents. Now her most reliable pleasures came from these nightly rides, from giving herself over to the vagaries of the natural world. So she let Booger speed her along to the shallows just off her beach. It was there that she had made a habit of grooming Booger, clearing him of the flotsam and jetsam that he regularly snagged in his journeys around the bay.
　She let her legs dangle down, caught the bottom, then trudged up to the shore, shedding water like sparkling confetti. Booger bobbed nearby, his skin silvered by the moon. Tonight he was even more of a mess than usual. He looked like a honeymoon car with strings of tin cans dragging behind him. Fishing line was wrapped around his fins, twigs and broken driftwood trapped in the line. There were two plastic six-pack holders caught on a notch near his back flipper, and knotted to them was a mooring line that trailed off behind him for twenty feet.
　Marion dragged the line hand over hand, hauling the heavy mass across the soft bay bottom. It was a wonder that Booger had been able to swim at all so entangled in trash. She hauled it out of the water and held it up to the soft moonlight. Splintered wood and elastic cords and another nest of snarled fishing line that ensnared a silver canister.
　Marion patted Booger, told him to wait, then walked up the shore to her chikee hut, where she kept a razor-edged fillet knife for just such tasks as this. She came back to Booger, cut him free of his clutter of trash, gave him a stroke along his broad slick forehead, and watched him turn and wrallow away into the night.
　
　Hector and Phil took Fay to their hideout. Actually, it was an efficiency apartment off Tigertail Avenue in the Grove. But Hector liked calling it their hideout even though they hadn't had to hide out in it yet, 'cause they hadn't succeeded in doing anything bad enough to be pursued.
　Hector had found the apartment, liked the view of the pool, and given the manager first and last month's rent on the spot. Then he'd found he couldn't afford it, and asked Phil if he wanted to share the rent. Phil, recently split from his wife, had said sure. So they'd laid out two pool floats on the middle of the living room floor, the red one for Hector, the blue one for Phil, and called it home. Fine by Hector. Pool floats were better beds than he'd had at the Dade County Jail or Raiford. Better than when he was growing up in Havana, sleeping on the mud floor of the little barn. A goat for a roommate, chickens for companions.
　This apartment was a perfect spot for spying on the babes who used the pool. Lots of them, secretaries mainly, a couple he'd gotten to know lately. Or at least he'd said a couple of words to them and given them a tongue flick. That tongue flick almost always worked on the average woman. But no luck so far with the fussy secretaries.
　"Hey, man," Hector said. "I got an idea what we can do with this pretty lady she doesn't tell us what she knows."
　Phil was sitting up on the kitchen counter, legs dangling. They didn't have furniture yet, so counter-sitting was about it for taking a load off your feet, except for the floats, and you couldn't use them too much or they'd spring more leaks.
　Phil was staring at Fay, a weird look in his eyes. Fay was dressed in the yellow plastic foul-weather gear they'd found on the Whaler. Looking cute. Pouty lips, with some bite in her green eyes.
　Hector liked women with sharp teeth, women who liked to bite. He liked teeth marks on his shoulders. He liked giving them back, a nice oval bruise on their inner thighs. Yeah. Hector had a way with women.
　Phil told Hector to stop looking at Fay that way. And Hector said a very bad thing to Phil. Phil said a very bad thing back to Hector. Hector said two very bad things. And Phil replied with three very bad things.
　"Knock it off," Fay said. She stalked around, staring at each of them. Hector smiling at her, trying to decide where he wanted to plant his first teeth marks.
　"Now," Fay said. "Which of you idiots is going to tell me what this is all about?"
　"You tell us, pussy boots," Hector said. "That's what you here for. You here to tell us whatever we ask you." Phil said a very bad thing. And Hector replied in kind.
　"OK, dammit, what's going on, Phil?" Fay said. "What the hell are you doing hanging out with this creep?"
　Hector spun around. "Hey, man. How come she know your name, Phil? She said your name, man. How she know that? You tell her your name, you stupid moron breath?"
　Phil said a very bad thing.
　Fay said, "I asked you a question, Phil."
　"So did I, Phil. How she know your name, man? You know this broad?"
　"She's my wife," Phil said.
　Under his breath Hector said a very bad thing. Then he said three very bad things out loud.
　"Ex-wife," Fay said. "Ex, Phil, ex. And this is why. This, right here, what's going on this very minute, this is exactly why you don't live at home anymore. This is why it's finished."
　
　Marion lugged the silver canister up to her house. She laid it on the glider on her front porch and went inside to shower and dress. Her windows were all open and the first cool breezes of the new season were sighing through them tonight. She dressed in long khaki pants and a plaid flannel shirt. She put on her brogans and rubbed some lavender-scented face cream into the grooves that lined her cheeks. She put a Band-Aid on the cut that Booger had given her.
　She went back down to the porch and sat down in a wicker rocker across from the glider. Something had shifted inside her. She had felt it happen earlier. Some tectonic realignment that was sending tremors up to her flesh. She quivered with excitement for the first time in decades.
　Quivering was dangerous at her age. But quiver she did. She had something in her possession that was worth something to the world at large. She sensed it. She knew that the placid young man she had pulled from the bay and nursed with Sawgrass Juice had found a similar canister and was queerly excited by its existence.
　She was not sure what it meant. Canisters washing ashore? Perhaps hundreds or even thousands of silver containers drifting along the bottom of the bay. She knew she was onto something. Something of major proportions. A shipwreck out in the Gulf Stream, the canisters just now working their way to shore? Some high-tech note in a bottle thrown out from a passing spaceship? This was something new. Rejuvenating. Something that might just rescue her from the doldrums of old age.
　She watched the bay brightening, saw the raspberry clouds out beyond Stiltsville, like streaks of jam across a doughy sky. She stiffened when she heard a car door slam nearby. But then relaxed, for she had recognized it. She looked out at the dawn and sighed to herself. She had made it another day. Another miracle. And now this, a second miracle. A new adventure.
　She stood up, stepped to the edge of the porch. Her granddaughter was coming down the long sandy path. A beautiful young woman. Hard to believe she was carrying Marion's blood and marrow, so full of tough energy as she came striding up to the porch and halted. Her young face was seamed with worry.
　"I need help, Granny."
　"Not even a hello?"
　"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. It's just that I'm so ... oh, I don't know what I am at the moment. Hello, Granny."
　"Hello, Fay. Now what's the matter, dear?"
　But Fay was no longer holding Marion's gaze. Her eyes had shifted to the glittering canister and her mouth was working soundlessly, words without breath.
　
　6. HEADING TO HAVANA-Carolina Hospital
　Another cigar-smoking Don Johnson look-alike is all I need tonight, thought Mike Weston, as he exited the 1956 Buick nicknamed El Frankenstein by the driver. He wondered how a car could run with so many dead parts and why Cuban government officials were the only ones who didn't know Miami Vice had been canceled ten years ago. It had taken Mike two hours to get from the Jose Marti International Airport to the house in El Vedado. This time, they had insisted the meeting be on the island. He was told it would take place in one of Robert Vesco's mansions, abandoned since he'd fled the country for the safer haven of Libya.
　Mike had lived in Miami for a while, so he was prepared for his Cuba visit. Same difference, he said to himself, as he approached the front gate. This house and others in the neighborhood reminded him of those in Coral Gables, with their red tile roofs, quaint iron works, and privileged Cubans.
　Robertico Robles walked in a few minutes later. Mike smiled and returned his enthusiastic handshake. Something about Robertico's slick attitude made Mike think this one would not be as easy to convince as the others. He was glad Robertico was amenable to using English. Even though Mike spoke Spanish rather fluently-one of the reasons he had been chosen for the job-he always preferred to negotiate in English. He thought it gave him the edge. They sat down in what must have been a library in the back of the house. Because of the empty shelves, their voices echoed throughout the room.
　"So, Mike," began Robertico, without wasting time-something Mike found unusual in a Cuban-"what has happened to the canisters? The surgeon hasn't received them."
　"I know," said Mike.
　"We used your people," continued Robertico, still maintaining an almost offhand tone, "and now the goods are gone."
　"I know, I know, let me explain," said Mike.
　"Fidel is getting anxious. I'm not sure how much longer he'll wait before calling off the deal," Robertico said, his voice rising for the first time.
　"We had an unexpected accident along the way, with a manatee-"
　"A what?" interrupted Robertico.
　"A manatee, you know, a sea cow," said Mike. "Anyway, we have it under control. We know where the canisters are. We just need a little more time to recover them without anyone else finding out."
　"I don't know anything about sea cows, or land cows," said Robertico. "All I know is a deal is a deal and this is the second time you guys have messed up."
　"Yes," agreed Mike.
　Robertico was getting agitated, fidgeting with a button on his white double-breasted jacket. Mike couldn't help but notice the canary-yellow T-shirt underneath.
　"When we met last month with El Maniz, he assured us this would be an easy operation," said Robertico.
　It took Mike a few seconds to realize who Robertico meant by the Peanut Man: the former president who doesn't quit. The one who keeps on going and going ...
　Robertico continued, his face flushing red. "Without the head, there is no proof that he is dead. And without proof, the deal is off. Fidel will stay put. As long as his enemies know he lives, power is his only protection."
　"Yes, I know," Mike interrupted. He felt the sweat flowing from his armpits. "But this is only a small detour. Most of the work is done."
　"Of course," said Robertico, "especially since we supplied you with the head to begin with."
　"You didn't expect us to do that?" Mike said, seeing an opportunity to regain the momentum. "After all, we just don't do that sort of thing in the States. Now you, on the other hand ... "
　"Sure, sure," said Robertico, waving his hand dismissively. "But let's stick to the point."
　"Well, we never anticipated Castro would reject the head after we altered it."
　"Of course he rejected it. There was something missing," said Robertico, lifting his cigar high in the air.
　"Yes," said Mike. "But it was such a small detail. We didn't think it was important."
　"Not important! Anyone close to him would have noticed," said Robertico. "The head has to be perfect."
　"It will be perfect," said Mike, nodding.
　"But now you have lost it."
　"We'll get it back, I assure you. Give us another week," insisted Mike.
　"Forty-eight hours. That's all he'll agree to. If Fidel doesn't have the head fixed and in his hands in forty-eight hours, the deal is off!" With that Robertico took a deep puff from his cigar, as if in slow motion, and walked out.
　This was one tough bird, Mike mumbled to himself.
　
　Fay rushed the words out, her eyes fixed on the silver canister on the glider.
　"Granny, where did you find that canister?"
　The glittering object was pulling at Fay; she had seen it before.
　"Booger found it in the water and I lugged it up from the beach, just now."
　"You went swimming by yourself again?" said Fay, turning her attention back to Marion, who was sitting on the wicker rocker.
　"You don't expect me to wait until one of you shows up, do you, dear?"
　"Oh, I know, Granny, I'm sorry," said Fay, as she reached down to give Marion a kiss. "Since I opened up the dive shop, I haven't had a chance to come."
　"Don't worry, dear," said Marion. "But tell me what's the matter. You look troubled."
　"I need your help, Granny. But I want to know about the canister. Have you opened it yet?" asked Fay, unable to contain her curiosity. She yanked the strands of her blond hair tighter in the ponytail as she looked back at the canister.
　"No. To tell you the truth," said Marion, "I was too excited to open it. But that can wait, Fay. Tell me what's wrong."
　"Oh, it's Phil again," said Fay. She didn't look so tough as she rested her body against the weathered siding on the porch. The dawn's salmon hues colored everything, including Fay, with a delicate touch.
　"Phil? I thought you weren't even talking to him."
　"I'm not," said Fay. "It's very complicated, Granny. The bottom line is, he's gotten himself mixed up in some shady business with Cubans-he lost some merchandise he was being paid to deliver. I promised to help him, and he let me go. I know, I shouldn't have, and it's all over between us, but I think he's really afraid of these Cubans coming after him."
　"Let you go?"
　"It's a long story, Granny, and I'd rather not get into it."
　Marion was not surprised. This would not be the first time Fay had bailed Phil out of a jam. She remembered another time Phil had gotten involved with shady business. It had had something to do with a crooked Miami commissioner accused of accepting kickbacks from the Society for the Salvation of Sea Rigs. Phil had been one of the people caught breaking into his office attempting to gather proof. The commissioner had gotten reelected and Fay had called her to post bail for Phil. Marion remembered she had made the promise then never to get involved in her granddaughter's private affairs again.
　"What merchandise?" Marion asked Fay.
　"He doesn't know, but I think it might have something to do with this canister you found," said Fay, pointing to the glider.
　"This canister? How can it be?" said Marion.
　"I can't explain it, Granny. I just know."
　"Well then, let's open it, dear."
　"Yes," said Fay, as she approached the shimmering object swaying hypnotically on the glider.
　Marion knew something thrilling was awaiting her. The young man had disposed of the first canister without even knowing what was inside. Now here was a second, slightly different from the first in the tint of the metal, but definitely similar. What could it be this time? She was about to find out.
　Fay, too, knew this canister matched the one she had hauled out of the bay for Jake. Now she wished she had never gotten involved. But it was too late. She held her breath as she pulled the wheel lock on the top. After a few seconds, it snapped open. There was just enough morning light to make out what was inside.
　"Another one," said Marion, almost disappointed-sounding. Fay, struck by a wave of nausea, found herself unable to breathe, much less speak. The air took on a red tint and she reached to her grandmother's frail shoulder for support.
　"Oh dear," Marion said, struggling to steady her. "I should have warned you."
　Now Fay found her voice, though she still felt ill. "What do you mean another one, Granny?"
　"Another head. The first canister had a head in it too."
　"The first canister?" asked Fay in amazement.
　"The one that floated up with the young man."
　"What young man, Granny? You aren't making any sense."
　"The other day, I rescued a young man out of the water and he had a canister just like this one."
　"But who was he? What was he doing in the water?"
　"I don't know, dear. Just a nice young man who floated up on the bay. And if I'm not mistaken," said Marion, leaning over to get a better look, "his canister had the head of this same fellow."
　"What do you mean the same fellow? There can't be two heads of the same fellow.
　"I tell you it's the same man. I'm sure of it," Marion said. Her head was beginning to hurt, and she was feeling that vertigo she felt when she stood up too long.
　"Granny," Fay said in a whisper. "Don't you know who this is?"
　"No, dear, who?"
　Fay told her.
　"Oh my," Marion said. "I thought he looked familiar."
　Marion felt the porch spin lazily around her; she was about to lose her balance. She grabbed the arms of the rocker and slowly, very slowly, put her 102-year-old body to rest. Perhaps, she thought, this was more excitement than she had bargained for.
　
　Back in the office, Britt Montero, an emotional wreck, collapsed at her desk. She had not rested since Jake Lassiter's call. Her mind was screaming. She tried to gather her thoughts as she took a sip from her Daffy Duck Christmas mug. Coffee was the only thing she knew could calm her. She had already drunk two espressos and one cafe con leche at the Beach, but she needed more. Britt had served herself a mug of freshly brewed Colombian supreme blend from Publix. As she breathed in the aroma, feeling it filtering her thoughts, she wondered: Of all the reporters in town, why had Jake Lassiter called her? She wasn't the only one who could have identified that head, the head.
　But she didn't dwell on that point. She wanted the story. She was dying for the story. Castro dead! It could lead to riots. Too much was at stake; she had to be sure.
　As she refilled her Daffy Duck mug, Britt considered the loose threads, mulling over all the questions. Was this really Fidel's head? For that matter, was it anybody's head? The thing she'd seen in Jake's canister looked human to her, but maybe she hadn't looked at it closely enough. And how about the stale aroma of cigar smoke that had wafted up from the canister after Jake had opened it? Hadn't she read somewhere that Fidel had quit smoking? It was all so confusing. She needed more coffee.
　Britt tossed back her wavy hair, away from her forehead; she needed to lay out a plan. The caffeine finally kicked in, and the hive on her left arm began to itch. It always itched when she was deep into a good story.
　Suddenly, she decided what to do. She picked up the phone and dialed the number-a number everyone wanted and only she possessed. Just like the man whose number it was: Big Joey G., pudgy and bald, yet unassailable. Last seen coming out of the house of his private masseuse off Biscayne Boulevard. If this was as big as she thought it was, he would know something, she thought. And he owed her one.
　It only took three international calls and two beeper pages for him to answer her on his cellular. He wouldn't divulge much, yet she was sure he knew more than he let on. But he did say something that jolted her. There wasn't one canister, he'd heard, there were two. And Big People were after them. He wouldn't explain any more, but he warned her to be careful.
　Britt thought it was just like Big Joey G., always saying just enough, never completing the picture. That was his modus operandi: leave them curious.
　After hanging up, Britt immediately called Jake.
　"Lassiter, this is Britt. I need to see you and Deal ASAP."
　"Deal is out," answered Lassiter.
　"What do you mean?"
　"I mean he's out. We won! The city was afraid of a big loss, and settled his suit for nine point two million. Deal took the deal."
　"Did you say nine million?"
　"That's what I said. Anyway, he decided this other thing was a bad omen-he doesn't want anything to do with it. He left it with me and wouldn't even tell me where he was going."
　"Incredible. Where was his sense of civic duty?" said Britt. "In any case, I have news for you. Can you come down to the office?"
　"No, I'm too far. Give me thirty minutes and I'll meet you at the Fishbone Grill, in the Grove," said Lassiter.
　"I'll give you forty-five."
　Britt hung up the phone, distraught and exhilarated at the same time.
　Forty-five minutes gave her just enough time to stop at the city morgue first. She had an idea. But as she grabbed her purse, the phone rang.
　"Montero, Miami News."
　"Is this Miss Britt Montero?"
　"Yes, can I help you?" answered Britt impatiently.
　"Miss Montero, this is Fay Leonard. You don't know me well, but I have something to tell you. It's about-a head."
　This was getting to be a busy night, Britt thought. She sat down to listen.
　
　7. THE LOCK & KEY-Evelyn Mayerson
　Britt found Fay Leonard in the back of the Fishbone Grill beside a chalkboard that announced Chilean salmon as the catch of the day. Except for a few grizzled men with creased and sunburnt necks speculating on the depths to which Pat Riley would ream out the Heat, the restaurant was empty.
　Fay rapped her rugged nails on a polyurethane table. She and Britt knew each other slightly through their pioneer families. The difference between them was one of strata. While Fay's mother and father were able to trace their Miami roots respectively to a wrecker who had created his own wrecks by placing decoy lights and to a carpenter who had fashioned driftwood coffins, Britt's claim to founder status was only matrilineal.
　"I thought it would be better," said Fay, "if we did this before Jake got here. He complicates things, if you know what I mean. It's all that busted cartilage. Whenever he moves, he clicks. It's distracting when you're trying to have a conversation."
　Britt slung the wooden chair away from the table and sat astride it. "You sounded pretty frantic, Fay. What is it you want to tell me?" And weren't you supposed to be kidnapped? she thought to herself.
　"My ex is missing."
　"I'd say that's good news."
　Fay looked around her, then leaned across the table. "This is serious, Britt. Before his disappearance, Phil told me that he was afraid that Cubans were coming after him."
　"Tell him to stop renting leaky flotilla boats."
　"It's nothing like that. Phil is afraid of Cuban Cubans. The last time I saw him, he was talking crazy about karate-trained guys in black shirts and some kind of business deal gone sour. I know what you're thinking, it sounded crazy to me, too. Except that what he did to me was even crazier."
　The pieces of Fay's abduction suddenly came together like metal filings on a magnet. "Wait a minute. You mean it was your ex-husband who kidnapped you?"
　Fay leaned back. "How did you find out that I was kidnapped?" Her eyes narrowed. "Of course. Jake. I should have figured. Look, Britt, it's a long story. Let's just say that I have this head that came out of a canister. And it resembles Castro. My grandmother's got it on ice, but it's beginning to thaw. She says she saw another one just like it, but I don't know whether to believe her. Old people get confused. On the other hand, I retrieved another canister myself. Whatever it's all about, it's big. Miami could lose half its population. And dummy Phil is somehow connected. I'm scared. I'm scared for Phil."
　Britt struggled to maintain a poker face, hoping that her eyebrows had not given her away. Big Joey G. was right. There really were two canisters. But that was the least of it. Britt had seen more gore and carnage than most doctors. She had heard more startling confessions than most priests. But this one had grabbed her right in the throat. It was a minute before she could make herself say anything. She wanted it to sound as hard-boiled as possible.
　"People usually want to give me a story. It looks like you're here to get one."
　Fay bit open a cellophane package of oyster crackers. "I can scuba-dive to three hundred feet, Britt, but I'm over my head with this. I didn't know who else to talk to. I thought of the cops, except with Phil's rap sheet, they'll drag their feet and that could get him killed. And it all sounds so bizarre."
　"Can you trust your grandmother not to talk?"
　"My grandmother is very closemouthed. She's kept more secrets about Miami than a scow has barnacles."
　"Exactly how do I come into this picture?"
　"You're on the street, Britt. And Jake trusts you. I was hoping you would know what to do."
　Britt knew only that the safest course was to play it out, see where it led, treat the whole scary series of events as a developing story. She collected her facts. Joey G. had also said there were two canisters. Britt had seen a head herself. Was it the same head, or were there two?
　The evening was warm. Britt rolled the sleeves of her T-shirt, revealing slender yet well-muscled arms. "And a manatee found it, right?"
　"Yes," said Fay. "Sort of a pet. We call him Booger. Poor guy got tangled up in it. He's always into one jam or another. The way we met, Booger swam west through a canal and got trapped in the Everglades. My grandmother strong-armed the water management people to slow the current of the canal. That's how he was able to retrace his swim back into Biscayne Bay." She paused. "Britt, how could there be two heads of Castro?"
　"Two heads that look like Castro," Britt corrected. "Castro has at least two doubles."
　Fay removed the rubber band from her ponytail and shook her hair free. "If you were going to kill Castro, why would you need to kill his double?"
　"Maybe you didn't want his double to capitalize on his death."
　"And," said Fay, "why preserve the heads in canisters?"
　Britt shrugged, then stood and slung her purse over her shoulder. "Actually, when you called I was on my way to the morgue to see if there were any headless bodies."
　"You think ... "
　"I don't know what I think. Follow me in your car. It's easy to find, One Bob Hope Road. You can't miss it."
　Britt turned to the blackboard, picked up a piece of chalk, and beneath the catch of the day wrote: "JAKE, MEET US AT THE MORGUE. TRY NOT TO THROW UP LIKE YOU DID LAST TIME."
　
　Jimmy's Bronx Cafe was packed to the gills and rocking. Fidel Castro sat at the head table, threw up his hands and smiled. "Life changes," he said, and the crowd roared.
　When it was over, his aides whisked him away to a stretch. He waved as the car pulled out. "I love these people," he said. "Fat cats snubbed me, true. But I took my case to the people. Angela Davis, Danny Glover, Mortimer Zuckerman, Ramsey Clark, Spike Lee, they can't all be wrong."
　"And that lawyer woman. Don't forget her," said the aide beside him.
　"Is she still here?"
　"We can't get her to leave."
　"Charm can be a burden. What about the other matter?"
　"There are difficulties, Jefe. The cargo is missing."
　"Missing? You mean like Che's hands?"
　"Something like that."
　"Don't talk missing! Don't use that word. It's been thirty years since Che was captured and killed. I will never forget the photograph of that beautiful, restless Argentine, the bloody desecrated stumps of his hands."
　The aide felt sweat running down his shirt. "The situation of the misdirected items is temporary, Fidel. Let me assure you that we expect immediate retrieval."
　"Must I do everything myself?" Fidel pounded his chest with a sharp rap. It hurt. He reminded himself of what the doctor had said, that now that he was close to seventy, chest pounding could lead to arrhythmia. Life changes, he thought.
　He remembered that The New York Times had called him a Cold War apparition, and he sulked while the limo snaked its way through gridlock. Then he said, "I'm going to Miami."
　The man next to him turned in surprise. "Fidel, Comandante en jefe, with all due respect, are you crazy? To Miami? How would you go?"
　"The way I went before. Incognito."
　"You mean the Lubavitch rabbi suit?"
　"Don't be stupid. You expect me to wear that long black coat in the tropics? And you can forget about the fur hat."
　"That's precisely my point. So what does that leave?"
　Fidel's eyes shone. "It leaves the people. We'll do as we just did in the Big Manzana. By day, we'll stay in Overtown, or in Liberty City. Whatever. I'll shave my beard. By night, we'll blend. Find out the name of that Chinese restaurant I heard about in South Beach, the one with the transvestite waiters. I particularly want to see the one they call Shelley Novak. I always admired Kim Novak. For a gringa, she was very Cuban. You couldn't see the mustache, but you knew it was there."
　Fidel Castro waved his hand. "But the most important thing is, what shall I tell El Maniz about the missing cargo? Save me from these gringos with their missions. If Senor Peanut wants to get away from his wife, tell him to get a divorce. Involving himself in complicated matters of state ... " He reached for a cigar. "If we could somehow put him together with the one who won't leave me in peace, what a pair, no?"
　
　Jake Lassiter entered the windowless, brightly lit morgue. His swollen knee hurt. He tried not to limp. Overhead, a buzzing fluorescent was starting to go. Jake didn't know how Britt did it. He could never get used to the smell of formaldehyde or the partially masked odor of rotting flesh.
　In the center of the room, Britt and Fay stood beside a metal table where a waxen cadaver lay over a trough. The women were talking to a medical examiner wearing steel mesh gloves, who was weighing a liver on a scale.
　Jake brightened; the pain in his knee subsided. Attractive women and the pursuit of truth were not mutually exclusive and it was good to hone one's skills.
　Fay heard him first. "Jake is coming," she said. "He's like the crocodile in Peter Pan. "
　"I never saw the movie," said Britt. "I was too busy hating my mother."
　Jake strode toward the women, then stopped abruptly, legs spread apart like the Colossus of Rhodes. He averted his eyes from the fluids running down the trough of the metal table, looked up instead at the buzzing neon light. "That's the second time you stood me up, Britt." Getting no response, he dropped his voice. It was low and husky. Women liked its sound. "You here to find a match for the head?"
　Fay turned away from the medical examiner, spoke into her chest. "Heads," she mumbled. "At least there appear to be two."
　Jake turned on his high-voltage Jake Lassiter laser beam stare. "No kidding?"
　"But that's not why we're here. There's more."
　"More heads?"
　Fay's eyes glistened. "This is no time to kid around. Phil is missing."
　"I hope you'd worry about me if I was missing."
　"It's a human rights thing, Jake. It isn't a contest. As far as I'm concerned, you and Phil are both ancient history, so don't ask me the question you always ask, the one-to-ten scale. The answer is, as I've told you before, even when it's bad it's good."
　They left the morgue after they had been assured by the medical examiner that although there were hip joints and quarter rounds washing up daily on the shores of Baker Haulover, so far there were no bodies without heads.
　Jake decided on a positive approach. "We don't need the bodies. Let's work with what we have. And what we have is a couple of heads that look like Castro. Are they really Castro? Who knows? We need an ID on at least one of the heads. You can do it with photographs or dental records if you can get them, but a positive nail takes DNA."
　Fay nodded her head. "We need to get an expert. Does anyone know Barry Scheck?"
　"I met him once," said Jake. "At a Bar convention. It was at a plenary session on prokaryotes and nucleopeptides. But I doubt he'd remember me."
　Britt fished something out of her memory. "You know Pupi Alvarez, the TV anchor? Pupi has a cousin by marriage, her name is Lilia something. According to Pupi, Lilia had a thing with Castro when she was young. She was a singer, played the Nacional Hotel before the Revolution. She met up with some of Castro's people, they took her into the mountains. Lilia didn't come down for two years. And get this, they said she kept a lock of Castro's hair."
　Fay wrinkled her nose. "I thought only santeros did that. Why would she keep his hair?"
　"It's a trophy thing."
　Jake hooked his thumb into his belt. "You think she still has it?"
　"Only way to find out," said Britt. "I'll put in a call to Pupi. Find out where she lives."
　Surrounded by sea cucumber and spider crabs, Booger fed among the swaying, strap-bladed turtle grass. Earlier, a marine biologist had tried to entice the manatee with lettuce in order to attach a radio transmitter and a yellow float to the creature's tail. Weary of impediments, and translating the event as danger, Booger rolled out of her grasp. Now, having forgone the lettuce, he was hungry.
　Booger ate his fill, including the narrow-bladed shoal grass, then swam toward shore to wait for the one in the diving mask to swim beside him and stroke his neck. He lay in the mud flats listening for outboard motors. A human with a familiar scent drifted toward him. Booger raised his snout, then wallowed toward the floating figure, discovering with a few playful taps that it was all wrong. The scent he'd known had turned, been tainted with death.
　After a while, he began to toy idly with the floating thing, a bloating body whose blood had settled in the extremities and whose limbs flopped lifelessly. Weary of having to push the corpse into the currents, Booger nudged it away and continued his vigil.
　The crumbling neighborhood, long since severed from its purpose by a cloverleaf expressway, lay baking in the sun. A gray mockingbird darted after a spill of corn flakes from a thicket of hubcaps and vines. Even in the late afternoon, heat shimmered from the asphalt like a mirage, while an empty Metrorail car glided silently above. Over the boarded-up storefronts and empty lots strewn with torn mattresses and rusted, red-tagged chassis, hung the smell of car fumes and jasmine.
　They pulled up in Fay's pickup truck in front of a sun-silvered frame bungalow. A boy in a Marlins baseball cap and high-top Air Jordans stood on a cinder block spray-painting a wall with a $2.99 can of orange Krylon.
　Watching the tagger were a knot of children of varying sizes. All movement ceased as Britt, Fay, and Jake stepped down from the cab of the truck.
　"Something must be gonna happen," said one child.
　"Jump-outs!" yelled another.
　The boy in the Marlins cap looked down in disdain from his surreal abstraction of hypodermics and coffins. "They look like undercover to you? Since when do undercover swivel they heads? More like they came to get a bump to keep them awake."
　"Watch the truck," said Jake, pitching a five-dollar bill.
　"Five is for the cab," said the boy in the baseball cap. "The flatbed and the aerial is gonna cost you ten."
　
　Lilia Sands's skin was the color of vanilla. Tight black, gray-streaked ringlets molded the curve of her well-shaped skull. Wrapped in a flowered silk kimono, she had clearly once been beautiful. Now she was comely, or handsome, or whatever euphemism people assign to women who are over the hill.
　Lilia Sands regarded Jake in frank assessment. "Didn't you used to play ball?"
　"Linebacker."
　"You look more like a tight end to me," she said.
　Britt smiled, glad that Jake was getting his comeuppance, then decided to cut to the chase. "Pupi Alvarez told us that you once knew Castro."
　"Yes, I knew him. It was a long time ago. I was with him in the Sierra Maestra Mountains. Hiding out from Batista's planes in ferns higher than your head, with the smell of coffee blossom coming from somewhere below."
　Fay jumped in the way she dove. "Forgive the question, but we heard ... someone said that you and Castro were intimate."
　Lilia laughed. "Did you ever sleep with a man on a cot? For two years? You, him, and his hobnailed combat boots? That's more than intimate. You have to be into revolution to do that."
　Fay imagined the permutations of bedding on an army cot. Jake was doing the same, while Britt maintained the ferret's focus that was her stock-in-trade.
　"We heard you saved a lock of hair," said Britt. "If you have it, it's very important."
　Jake intercepted the ball. "We need it," he said. "It could be evidence."
　"What kind of evidence are you talking about?"
　The throb of a pumping bass rumbled from a cruising car. Britt glanced outside, then stepped away from the window. "We can't tell you. We're asking you to trust us."
　Lilia continued to regard her visitors with a jaundiced eye.
　Britt played the Latin connection card. "Trust me."
　Lilia Sands evaluated the young woman before her, especially the tawny skin that hinted of the Caribbean. She remembered that the crime reporter had gone to bat for a former player for the L.A. Raiders by the name of D. Wayne Hudson, a friend of Lilia's son.
　"I might have what you're looking for. Somewhere back here."
　Britt followed Lilia behind a tinkling beaded curtain to a bedroom with a chest of drawers. In the second drawer was a cigar box that smelled of patchouli. Lilia opened the box. Nestled in tissue paper were locks of hair of varying lengths and colors.
　Lilia smiled. "I got around," she said. She raked the locks with long, well-manicured fingernails and fished out a strand bound in a red and gold Montecristo wrapper.
　There was a knock at the front door.
　Lilia called through the beaded curtain, "Somebody see who it is."
　Jake and Fay exchanged glances. Could Hector or whoever he worked for have followed them? The rap was sharp and insistent.
　"I'll get it." Tensing his body for a straight buck up the middle, Jake threw open the door.
　The boy in the Marlins baseball cap and high-top Air Jordans stood on the threshold. "Where's Miss Lilia at?"
　Lilia swished her way past Jake. "What's happening?"
　The boy handed her a crumpled slip of paper. "Old man in cutoffs and sandals say to call this number."
　Lilia turned from the boy and slipped the paper in the folds of her kimono. "It's a message," she said.
　"Who from?" asked Jake.
　"Garcia," she replied.
　
　8. STRANGE FISH-Tananarive Due
　Lilia Sands worked her overpainted face into a frown. "Garcia? Which Gar-cia? Do you know how many Garcias there are in the Dade County phone book?" She studied the young messenger, who was orbiting her as though he expected a tip. I'll give you a tip, all right, kid, Jake Lassiter thought. You'd better earn that ten bucks I just gave you and go back outside to keep an eye on Fay's pickup.
　"What's his first name?" she asked the boy.
　He shrugged. "He said you'd know."
　Lilia smiled, then delicately raised her fingertips to her temple as if to brush away imaginary perspiration.
　"Ah . . ." she said, with a long, rapturous sigh. "That Garcia."
　Jake shifted his weight from one sore leg to the other. Time out, he thought. He, Britt, and Fay had come to Lilia's for a lock of Castro's hair-the real Castro's hair. So, they had what they'd come for. No need to tango here all day. Even a pit bull reporter like Britt had to know when it was time to move on.
　"Look, Miss Sands," he said, surprised at his own politeness, "we can bail out of here if you need to catch up on your phone calls."
　"This will interest you," Lilia said, holding up her index finger to silence Jake. (Watching, Fay and Britt both took mental note of this tactic in case it might come in handy someday.) Lilia cradled the receiver of her black novelty telephone, which was shaped like a baby grand piano. Each time she pressed a key, a tone sounded; she was dialing a laborious version of "When the Saints Go Marching In."
　Long-distance, Britt noticed.
　Off key, Fay decided.
　Damn annoying, Jake thought.
　"It's me. Put him on," Lilia said abruptly, in Spanish, and then she smiled and nodded, her green-flecked brown eyes wide with pleasure as she listened to an indiscernible voice. Hanging up, she surveyed her waiting audience as though she were reliving a finale number onstage at the Nacional.
　"I shouldn't tell you this ... " Lilia began.
　But you will, Britt thought, perking up. Sentences that began with "I shouldn't tell you this" were verbal foreplay, and satisfaction was never far behind.
　"You didn't hear this from me, and don't ask who told me-but Miami is about to have an important visitor from Cuba. Believe me, when he comes, the people's reaction will make Nelson Mandela's reception in Miami look like the papal visit. He's coming soon, within days. He didn't say exactly when."
　"Give me a break," Jake said, not buying it.
　"It can't be," Fay said.
　"It is," Lilia said, beaming.
　Britt's brain was turning somersaults. Not one head, but two, and Fidel was still alive? And, apparently, intending to set foot in a city that nourished itself on fantasies about the day he would drop dead? Home to weekend commandos who would love to help him do just that, with a million-dollar price tag on his head?
　Castro is Coming! Britt was already thinking in headlines. This was top-strip, front-page, WW II type. She'd need to get on the phone and pull some favors with her sister-in-law's bureaucrat uncle in Havana to get confirmation.
　Britt's delight at the whiff of a huge story warred with her disappointment that the man who killed her father was still breathing. "I can't believe he's alive," she said.
　"Si, como no," Lilia said. "Of course he's alive. But if he's planning to come to Miami, he's obviously lost his head."
　Silence. The three of them started.
　"What do you mean?" Britt asked first.
　Lilia circled her finger around her ear. "You know ... loco."
　The proportions of this story were growing in light-years, Britt realized. They'd been fearing riots if people thought Fidel was dead? What about the riots when word got out that he was about to enjoy a big plate of arroz con polio in the glare of fluorescent lights and mirrors at La Carreta?
　Did that phone call mean that this woman, a disenchanted revolutionary, was still maintaining her own special brand of diplomatic relations with Fidel Castro? And if that was the case, exactly how "inside" was her mysterious tipster on the phone?
　Britt, having a hunch-and her hunches were rarely wrong-fixed a probing gaze on Lilia.
　"Listen," Britt said, "on a scale from one to one hundred, if I ask how confident you are of that tip-how close your source is to Castro himself-where would it rank? Tell me that and we'll be out of your life."
　Lilia smiled a wide smile. She was reliving memories that had wiped thirty years from her face; there was no mistaking that despite politics, she was in love.
　"One hundred and ten."
　Right again, Britt thought. Fidel had been on the phone.
　Guess who's coming to dinner, Britt told herself, already writing her story's lead in her head.
　"Doesn't make sense," Jake said, holding the door open for Fay and Britt as they walked outside into the liquid afternoon heat. His hulking form stood high above the two women. "If Castro comes here, Miami's welcoming committee is going to grind him into hamburger. Or picadillo anyway. He won't last two hours."
　"Maybe that's what he wants," Britt said. "Think about it. Phony heads. A staged assassination. A reward for proof of his death. And where better than Miami? Everyone expects people to get killed in Miami."
　Fay, following them to the curb, was silent. She noticed that her pickup was now tagged KING in bright orange paint across the cab, and the kid had vanished. Jake cursed loudly, but Fay wasn't worried about her truck. She had other things on her mind.
　There was no mistaking that Pulitzer lust glazing Britt's eyes, so Fay figured her friend would head straight for the newspaper, where she'd be no help-and Jake was content, saying something about getting a beer. Him and his damned Grolsch. It figured. He'd always been too eager to punt on fourth down instead of going for it, she recalled from their brief courtship.
　To her, something just didn't add up. Even if those creepy Castro heads were part of some fake assassination scheme, how had one of them found its way into her grandmother's hands by way of Booger, the manatee? And they still weren't any closer to figuring out what had happened to Phil, her ex-husband, who'd been mixed up in bringing the heads in the first place.
　It would be funny if it weren't so pathetic, Fay thought. She could have told whoever had hired Phil that the guy couldn't be trusted to bring back the change from the grocery store, or even the groceries, much less deliver valuable cargo.
　The poor jerk had already tried to kidnap her to get the heads back once he lost them, and now they'd somehow led to his disappearance. He was a loser, but he was her loser, and it had touched her to see him so shaken. Her stupid mothering instinct had drawn her to Phil in the first place, like a moth to a burning stick of dynamite. She should have listened to her grandmother and gotten a puppy instead, and she wouldn't be in this mess now.
　Granny.
　A thought made Fay shiver slightly, despite the hostile midafternoon sun: If Castro's heads had put Phil in danger, wasn't her grandmother in danger too?
　Granny had tucked the lone metal canister with Castro's head on the bottom shelf of her refrigerator-"Just in case it starts to thaw," she'd said, patting it like a leftover pot roast. "I'm not too fond of dead flesh at room temperature, Fay. Even a head of state."
　Fay wasn't crazy about dead flesh at any temperature, especially disembodied flesh. As soon as she got to a phone, Fay decided, she would give her grandmother a call, just to hear her voice. That way, maybe she could shake off the feeling, which had snaked its way around her middle, that something was terribly wrong.
　
　It was a body.
　Fishing off the bay at Peacock Park in Coconut Grove on Sundays, all day on Sunday, standing on the same spot of fine white sand beside his favorite clump of sea grape trees, Vernon Sawyer had seen enough floaters over the years to know one from a distance. And this one was bobbing only fifteen yards out, just beyond his plastic red and white cork, a patch of unexpected shade for a school of minnows that had just vanished underneath it.
　That was the thing about this park, which seemed to Vernon like a tiny strip of paradise for the common man. There was more to it than the neatly planted rows of coconut palms, or the view of the legion of rich folks' sailboats docked across the way. You never knew what you would find here, whether it was a squatters' campsite built from plastic wrapped around a trio of palm trees or an unforgettable conversation with a vagrant who'd seen the world and who understood its workings, inside his unkempt head, better than any coiffed, overfed politician he might ever meet.
　That was why Vernon came here, for the surprises. It sure wasn't for the fish.
　Today's surprise, the body, was fairly fresh, hardly any swelling, not puffed the way bodies get when they've been in the water for days. Once, Vernon had seen a brother who'd ballooned so big that his skin had peeled off white, except in spots.
　Not this one. Not her.
　It was a woman, a white lady, he could see that. She looked almost serene, bobbing facedown in the rust-colored water as though she were embracing it. Her white hair fanned around her head like a lace wedding veil. Her lifeless body was clothed in a pair of soaked khakis and a dark shirt, maybe plaid.
　Shame, Vernon thought. She'd preserved a quiet dignity like this, floating undisturbed, never mind the empty water jug and plastic bag drifting beside her. Soon, with all of the flashing sirens and strangers' hands pulling on her, probing her, she'd be just another corpse. Her spirit might be at rest, but her body's work for the day had just begun.
　The current was lulling her and her entourage of trash toward him, so Vernon decided to fish her out himself. He was a fisherman, after all, even if all he used was a cane pole baited with bread, and even if he couldn't remember the last time he'd caught anything living. He wasn't afraid to touch bodies; they were just vessels, more or less, like the empty Coke bottles and crushed cigarette packages strewn across the water's edge.
　Vernon yanked his line out of the water, and his suspicion was confirmed. The bait was long gone. Some crafty little bugger had taken it without so much as a ripple. Anyone who doesn't think fish are as smart as people don't know many fish, Vernon thought.
　He cast the line out as far as he could, aiming for the back of the dead woman's shirt collar, then gently pulled on it to see if something would catch.
　Something did. He must have snagged her skin or clothing, because the line went completely taut when Vernon pulled. He'd have to stand up for this one, he decided. Even an old woman's body, waterlogged, weighed much more than he'd counted on.
　By the time the cane pole snapped in half, the body was close enough for Vernon to wade out and grab the pudgy, lifeless fingers. "Thatta girl," Vernon mumbled, gripping her tight to guide her from her floating grave.
　Rolling the corpse over, breathing just a bit hard from the ordeal, Vernon almost didn't recognize her at first.
　She was more bloated than he'd thought, her face roundish and smoothed nearly free of the most familiar wrinkles. And the eyes he'd known had always flickered and danced; he'd never seen these cloud-gray dead eyes on this particular face before.
　Strange as it was, the first thing he recognized was the smile. It was the same one he'd seen nearly every Sunday for ten years; the ready, thin-lipped smile that had brought them from being strangers to damn near being friends who shared only a love for the park. Friends enough that he'd warned her time and again about swimming out here by herself, a woman her age, old enough to be his mother. And friends enough that he had to swallow back hard and clamp his teeth shut when he realized that even though the smile was still there, his friend was long gone.
　"Darn you, Marion," he whispered, brushing a glistening gum wrapper from her matted hair. "What've you gone and done now?"
　
　Fay didn't want Britt to hug her too long, because then the comforting numbness of the shock might wear off, and she wasn't ready for that yet. Right now, she felt like she was in the middle of an elaborate movie scene at the edge of the bay, and the stunt double for her grandmother, entombed in a black body bag inside of the ambulance beside her, was the victim of some freak accident on the set. That fantasy was almost keeping her from shaking at all.
　"Kid, I'm so sorry," Britt said. Then, instinctively, Britt knew she had to snap out of human mode and let her machinery take over. Poor Fay wouldn't be any good to her if she crumbled into an emotional wreck. Marion McAlister Williams had been much more than Fay's grandmother; she was the whole city's surrogate guardian, its conscience, and now she'd been found dead as if she'd been choked by the trash she'd decried for so long. Everyone would want answers, and Britt had to find some fast.
　Britt paused, her pen in midstroke from scribbling wildly in her notebook. Between the impending Castro visit and Marion McAlister Williams's sudden death, she was juggling two huge stories, possibly three, depending on what was going on with those heads. Should she phone her editor for backup?
　Yeah, right, she thought. "What did the police say to you?" Britt asked Fay, regaining her senses.
　"They aren't saying much," Fay answered in a hollow voice. "All I know is, a fisherman pulled her out of the water about an hour ago. That guy over there. He's giving a statement."
　"Do you think she went swimming?"
　"Not with her clothes on. No way. She's the one who taught me, 'It's naked or nothing.' Britt, I'm thinking ... "
　Britt nodded. "I know. It's connected to the Castro heads. I'm thinking the same thing. So's Jake. He's already headed for her house. We're all over this. Don't worry."
　Suddenly, something broke through Fay's frozen thoughts to bring her attention to the water. She'd seen something moving out there, something big. Another body? Had her grandmother's murderers killed Phil, too?
　But when she saw the dark gray head pop out of a wake, she realized it was only Booger. He was everywhere, like a swimming spirit guide. Booger had probably been witness to the whole horrible business from beginning to end. All of the answers were right there behind those doleful, dull black eyes. If only manatees could talk ... At least Flipper could splash and make frantic chattering sounds, Fay thought. Eventually, the kid and his dad had always figured it out: Danger. This way. Hurry.
　With Booger, nothing.
　Then Fay felt the shock thinning. Her grandmother was gone. "Britt," she said, barely a whisper. "I've lost her."
　Britt stared at her friend's wide, wondering eyes, framed by strands of blond hair blown across her forehead. For the first time in a long time, Britt couldn't think of a snappy comeback.
　"Um ... excuse me. Miss, are you Marion's granddaughter?"
　It was the black fisherman, shading his eyes from the glare of the sunset with one hand as he stood before them, his features grim. Gazing at the dark, tallish man with salt-and-pepper hair, Fay realized she'd seen him around, fishing with a bamboo pole.
　Fay could only nod.
　"You're the one who found her," Britt said. "Boy, do we need to talk to you. Hope you don't mind."
　"Don't mind a'tall," the man said, smiling sadly. "Marion was a fine, fine lady. I'm just so sick about the circumstances. Always told her to be careful, but I never in a million years expected her to drown. Not Marion."
　"She didn't just drown," Fay said with certainty.
　"That's why we have to ask you questions. We're sure she had some help."
　The man's face went slack with surprise. "You don't say? Well, I'll be damned. The police didn't say anything like that, about a murder. In that case, I hope I haven't made a mistake. I guess I've been holding on to something you might call evidence."
　"What do you mean?" Britt asked.
　The fisherman looked nervous, glancing back toward the police officers crowded around the open ambulance door. "Well ... I didn't think it was right to give it to them. I wanted to wait for someone from the family. Thought that would be the proper thing."
　"What?" Fay asked.
　"You see, miss ... I know Marion was dead when I pulled her out of the water. I took her pulse to be sure, but I knew. Even the police say she'd probably been in there some time, maybe a full day. But when I found her, she had the tiniest smile on her face. You can't see it now. It was gone, last I checked. But we were friends, your grandmother and I. This might sound funny, but it was like she'd saved that smile for me. And after I pulled her out, I was sitting beside her, looking at her, sorry she was gone, when I felt something land on my hand."
　Seeing their rapt faces, the fisherman looked slightly embarrassed. He averted his glassy eyes. "I figured the police would lock me in a nuthouse if I told them this next part. Your grandmother's hand had moved, dropped on top of mine. And she was still dead as could be. That's the gospel truth. I looked down, and her palm was wide open. I don't know how she did it, but she'd been holding on to something, and it was right there in her hand. It was like she wanted to make sure I would find it. I knew it must be important."
　With that, the fisherman gently reached for Fay's wrist, holding her palm upright, and pressed his hand into it. As Britt leaned over to stare with unbridled curiosity, Fay felt something tiny, sharp, and slightly cold pass from the fisherman's callused hand to the soft of her palm.
　"Take it," he said. "I'm sure it must be for you."
　
　9. SOUTH BEACH SERENADE-Brian Antoni
　Fay squeezed the object in her hand as she felt a tidal wave of emptiness wash over her. She tried to calm herself by staring into the fisherman's kind eyes as she felt her own eyes start to water, and she thought how water, this water in front of her, had been her Granny's life. The fisherman hugged her, as he whispered into her ear, "She wanted to go, child, anyone who dies with such a sweet smile on her face wants to go."
　Fay knew what was in her hand. She didn't even have to look at it. She shoved it into her pocket. She knew what she had to do, but it would have to wait until tomorrow.
　The door to Marion's house was unlocked, as usual.
　Everything looked as it always had. She went straight for the refrigerator and opened it. Two Joe's take-out containers, a half-empty bottle of prune juice, a head of lettuce in a bag marked "Booger." And a big empty space in the middle. No canister.
　The phone rang. She picked it up without saying a word. After a minute, she said, "Jake, the head's gone."
　Jake put down the phone and sat down at the kitchen dinette, stared at the canister on the table, wondered how long before they came for this one, too.
　
　John Deal sat on the Havantur bus, thinking of how long he'd dreamed of the day he could buy a big Hatteras and live happily ever after in the Bahamas. Now that his dream had come true, he suffered from an overload of fun, sun, rum, sex, drugs, suffered from too much marination in gin-clear salt waters, his head like an olive in a martini. He felt trapped in a picture postcard, paradise-overdosed. He'd come to Havana to try to snap himself out of it, get a shot of reality. The tour guide, whose name was Dogma or Dagma, spoke English with a heavy Russian accent. Deal couldn't understand anything she said. He gave up when she pointed to a pineapple finial on a rooftop and said, "The pineapple resides on that edifice because it's the symbol of tropical fruit."
　As they drove around the city, John Deal got more and more depressed. I didn't need this much reality, he thought. It was like driving through South Miami after Hurricane Andrew. Buildings, some of the most beautiful he had ever seen, were in ruins. Everyone seemed dazed, like zombies.
　The bus stopped in Havana Viejo. Deal trailed the walking tour, looking into the almost empty stores. An emaciated old black woman said out of the corner of her mouth, "If you're a reporter, tell them we're starving," and kept walking. Prostitutes in spandex with badly bleached hair called out to him. Some of them looked so young, like little girls masquerading as whores for Halloween. Hustlers harassed him, asking him what he needed. Cocaine? Putas? Muchachos? He answered, "Nada, nada, nada."
　Deal couldn't deal with it anymore. He craved a drink or two or three, as he stumbled on La Bodequita del Medio. The bar of the cavelike restaurant was covered with graffiti and pictures of Hemingway. He wondered if there was any bar in the world where Hemingway hadn't drunk. He read a sign that said "Home of the Mojito," so he ordered one, as a tough-looking young man dressed like Dick Tracy walked over and sat next to him at the bar. "I'm Mike Weston from Miami," he said, holding out his hand. John shook it.
　"You here for the babes," Mike said, "right?" John just looked at him. "Havana is the best place for putas in the world. In Miami," Mike went on, "chicks think they're too good for you even if they're dogs. In Cuba, for five dollars you can get Claudia Schiffer. And they're pure. They don't got AIDS. Any fifteen-year-old chick can be yours for five dollars. Some only want soap."
　Deal tried to imagine being desperate enough to have sex with someone who only wanted to get clean, wondered how long the embargo would last if the Miami Cubans knew what it was doing to their own people.
　"Got to go now," Mike said, leaving to join a group of men who had just entered the bar. They sat at a table in the back surrounded by Cuban soldiers.
　Deal rubbed his eyes. One of the guys looked like Juan Carlos Reyes, that deluded rich guy who thought he was president of Cuba in exile. He was sure the pudgy bald guy at the head of the table was Big Joey G. One other guy at the table looked familiar.
　Deal tried to place him as he tossed back another mojito, and then it hit him. It was that Cuban guy, Hector, in Miami. The guy who'd forced him off the road into the bay, then followed him around when he had the head. Hector didn't look too thrilled about being with this particular group. And there was a pasty-faced Anglo-looking guy beside him who looked just as unhappy.
　Deal faced dead ahead now, shaking his head, sipping his drink. He was gonna sit there till they left. He didn't want to be recognized. Time went by in slow motion. Then Deal felt a tap on his shoulder. His heart stopped. He turned around. It was Mike Weston. "Hey, man, you want to come with me and score some Schiffers?" he asked.
　
　Lilia Sands sat in her house in Overtown, on her plastic-covered velvet settee, the one that no one was allowed to sit on. She was dressed in her favorite nightgown, the one with the silk and feathers and lace, the one she called her wedding dress, the one she wanted to be buried in. Light from the huge moon over Miami flowed through the window. There was something in the hot air. Lilia could feel it, could taste it. It was the tropics; it was her youth; it was Cuba. She was sure the air she was breathing had blown up from her beloved Cuba. Her fingers stroked her guitar.
　Lilia drifted back, flowed with the air back to Cuba, back to the day her parents had given her to the nuns because they had no food to feed her because of Batista, back to the day the nuns had shaved her head, and taken her one dress, the one made from the train of her mother's wedding gown. She'd sat naked in front of the convent window, tears streaming down her face as she touched the luxurious pile of black hair on the floor that would soon be made into a wig, unable to make herself put on the coarse black habit. She remembered caressing her long swanlike neck, her perfect soft breasts, her hand following the flow of sweat down, caressing her belly, touching the only hair she had left. But before she could escape into herself, a cold, hard hand had clapped over her mouth. She'd tried to scream but nothing came out.
　As the man in the trademark olive fatigues bounced along Miami's potholed Overtown streets in the back of the white stretch limo, he strained to remember. He wanted to get the details perfect by the time he arrived at Lilia's house: He had seen her in the moonlight, an image so beautiful that it hurt, causing a throbbing pain in his groin. She'd looked like some kind of angel, some kind of Madonna, some kind of whore sitting in the convent window. She was everything, she was nothing, she was Cuba. And as Columbus had said when he landed on the island, "No man has ever seen a land as beautiful as this." No man had ever seen a woman as beautiful as Lilia. He couldn't help himself. He'd stripped off his clothes, his body the white of sweet condensed milk, hard, trembling with anticipation. He'd climbed the statue of the Virgin de la Caridad del Cobre, grabbed a rose trellis, not even feeling the thorns of the rosebushes cutting into his skin, and left tiny dewdrops of red blood on the white window-sill as he climbed into Lilia's room.
　Now the limo was passing the vacant lot beside the small house where Lilia lay back on the settee, strumming the guitar, singing to her memories, to the moon.
　Lilia remembered that at the exact moment she had felt the hand on her mouth, she had felt the lips on her bald scalp, then a warm tongue licking, licking, licking like a kitten licking cream. And with each lick she'd melted with pleasure, so much pleasure that she knew in her heart that there was nothing she wouldn't do for this nameless, faceless man. And he'd removed his hand from her face to swallow her mouth with his and he'd tasted of the brown caramel sauce on flan. Then he'd pulled away from her and held out his arms and he looked like Jesus on the cross, those same suffering eyes and the blood dripping from his rose-pricked body, and he'd said, "I, Fidel Castro, on this Good Friday in the year of Our Lord one thousand nine hundred and fifty, will turn you, my queen, into a woman and will begin my destiny of turning Cuba into a real man, one that would never starve his children."
　And then Lilia remembered how Fidel had taken her in his arms and laid her down on the hard little nun cot and it was like it was made out of the finest down, and then, Dios mia, sweet heart of Jesus, he entered her, the intense pleasure-pain of it, and the nuns broke out into a chorus of "Ave Maria," and birds started to sing even though it was nighttime, and all the glass in the convent shattered and the rosebushes pushed out such a rose smell that spread throughout the island, causing all the men in Cuba to grow with desire and all women to weep with satisfaction. He made love to her for three days and three nights and when he tried to leave she grabbed his hair and bit his left earlobe, taking a notch of flesh between her teeth, tasting his blood. But his strength was too great. As he finally broke free and his hair gave way, she was left with a lock in her hand and a piece of his ear in her mouth.
　Lilia heard the churn of the limo's big gringo engine as it stopped in front of her house. She dropped the guitar and rose to her feet, drawn up by some unseen force. Outside, the sunroof of the limo slid open and he sprang through, like a jack-in-the-box, like a God lit up by a shaft of moonlight, and at the exact same time, the candle she was burning to Ochun flared.
　Lilia felt her feet start to move before she could even think, and she was out the door, in the street, and she entered and he was there, her love was there and beautiful and the years had been kind to him and she could hardly breathe as he said, "I told you I would come and get you in a giant white chariot." Then somehow her nightgown melted off her body, the feathers detaching and fluttering around her. The only thing she could do was say his name, the most beautiful word in the world to her, "Fidelito!" Her whole body trembled as he brought his lips to hers and took her in his arms. And then, nothing. Something was wrong. No taste of caramel. She stroked his hair, started to cry for their lost youth. As she cried, she reached out to touch his left ear, then to caress it. It was smooth, whole, unscarred.
　Lilia jerked up wildly, shoving with animal fury, shrinking from him as if he had opened his mouth and revealed a serpent's tongue.
　When she finally found her voice she screamed, "Fraud! Where's my Fidel?"
　
　Britt was going to give her lunch appointment with Dash Brandon two chances: minuscule and infinitesimal. If she couldn't find a parking space on Ocean Drive, she would drive right by Brandon without a glance in the rearview. She'd come up with some excuse later. Her computer crashed on deadline. The causeway bridge got stuck open. Her cats ate her homework.
　But just as she passed the corner of Ninth Street, a pink and white '56 Chevy convertible glided out from the parking spot it had occupied since the Reagan administration, forcing Britt to slam on her brakes less than a block from the News Cafe, where Dash awaited. She glanced suspiciously at the gaping vacancy on the curb directly opposite her. She hadn't seen that much real estate by a parking meter in South Beach in months.
　"What the hell," she sighed, and pulled in. From a table on the terrace, Dash and a plump man wearing a dog collar, tight leather pants, and a T-shirt that said "SOBE, where the girls are strong and the men are pretty," watched South Beach's human smorgasbord parade past the News Cafe: models and more models, male and female, the greatest concentration of beauty that had ever occurred in the history of the planet; old retirees and young ultratrendies dressed in the same "vintage" outfits; struggling artists splattered in paint; real estate agents frothing at the mouth; tattooed Mariel refugees smoking cigars; punks with red hair, old ladies with blue hair; European backpackers; Eurotrash; topless-G-string beauties baking brown almost all over; greased muscle-bound depilated gay boys; Hasids in fur hats and black coats; Miami gangbangers; pimps; whores; celebutantes; dominatrices. The parade was framed by blowing coconut palms, warm white sand, sparkling sea. Windsurfers, Hobies, Cigarettes, yachts, cruise ships, and sun-bleached surfers skimmed by on the ocean. Pelicans, Frisbees, wild parrots, seagulls, blimps, kites, and airplanes pulling advertisements flew by in the sky.
　As the remnants of last night's Special K drug dripped from his brain, Dash swallowed down big spoonfuls of Special K cereal. He licked his lips, could not keep his eyes from the bouncing breasts. His companion inhaled his coffee and cigarettes, stared transfixed at the bulging men's baskets. Britt walked up to their table; Dash jumped up, kissed her on both cheeks, and pulled a chair for her.
　"This," Dash said, introducing her to Ziff Bodine, "is the best special-effects man in the business."
　Ziff, Britt noted, either was wearing black nail polish or had recently slammed both hands in a car door.
　"The most valuable prop for his film is missing, stolen," Ziff blurted. "It would take me weeks to reproduce," he whined. "If we're going to stay on schedule-"
　"What is it?"
　"Fidel Castro, his head actually."
　Britt spit up her coffee and stared at the man.
　"Is it ... very lifelike?"
　Ziff leaned back in his chair, mouth open in surprise. Then he smirked.
　"Lifelike?" His eyes shifted to Dash. "She wants to know if it's lifelike." He leaned forward. "Did you see Alien Autopsy? That was my work. I did that."
　"It better be lifelike," Dash sneered. "It cost enough."
　Somehow these clowns had gotten wind of her situation, Britt thought. Had to be some elaborate joke. But Dash leaned across the table, his big hand on her slender arm. The man gave her the creeps. She'd always hated to watch him on the screen and he wasn't revising her thinking much in the flesh.
　"I had a call on my answering machine this morning. A woman's voice. She said if I 'wanted my head' I better show at Paulo Muschino's house tonight for dinner. I want you to go there with me."
　Britt wasn't sure she believed Dash had really gotten any message like that, and even if he had, it might be some kind of lame publicity stunt. And the last place she wanted to be was at some trendoid South Beach party on Dash's arm. But at this point, mention the word "head" and Britt was there.
　"I'll come, Dash," Britt said. "But this better not be some sicko come-on."
　
　As the limo cruised through the South Beach evening, Britt thought how much she hated it; drecko sandbar turned vulgar freak show, excreter of endless hype, festering petri dish of sexual disease and perversion, a sure sign of the apocalypse. "What do you think," Britt said snarkily, "they're going to serve the head as a main course?"
　Dash ignored her. "Isn't South Beach the coolest?" Dash said, as the limo pulled onto Ocean, a honky-tonk on XTC, and stopped at Maison Marzipan.
　"Isn't Muschino the coolest?" Dash said, as they walked into the fake Italian palazzo owned by the real Italian. Britt remembered when it had been a low-rent apartment building filled with friends of hers, struggling writers and artists.
　"His clothes are the coolest," Britt said sarcastically, thinking they only looked good on call boys.
　A butler, naked except for white gloves and a Muschino scarf wrapped around his waist, led them through rooms that looked like a vulgar Hollywood version of Pompeii. They passed through a walkway filled with fake Greek urns, into the dining room filled with fake Chinese silks. Everyone stopped talking, looked up. Paulo air-kissed Dash on both cheeks, ignored Britt. "You're here just in time for dessert," Paulo said, sitting Dash next to him, motioning at Britt with a flick of his hand. She was seated at the other end in table Siberia, between a sexless, no-talent writer and that lesbian fox Antonia Cesare. Next to Antonia was Madonna, who was in a liplock with that vapid bitters heir Chris Angostura.
　Paulo was talking to Claudia Schiffer. "I don't understand," he said, waving his wineglass dismissively. "What it is you date? A magician? What he do? Pull rabbits out of hat?"
　"So what was for dinner?" Britt asked, picking up the engraved menu. " 'Boiled loggerhead turtle eggs,' " she read aloud. " 'Florida panther steaks with bearnaise. Manatee mousse.' "
　"It was a Florida theme dinner in honor of Marion McAlister Williams," Madonna said. "She just died, or something."
　A gong rang and Paulo stood up. "Now for dessert, the most endangered species of all, the South Beach virgin." A flawless naked black girl, covered in melted white chocolate and surrounded by fresh fruit, was rolled out on a silver tray at one end of the table, while at the same time a flawless naked white boy covered in dark chocolate and surrounded with fruit was pushed out at the other end. Dash picked up a peeled banana from next to the girl, giggled, and asked, "Where should I dip it?"
　The white-chocolate confection opened her mouth, the icing cracking as she said, "If you want head, go to Hell."
　
　Thousands of people holding VIP invitations to the grand opening of a new nightclub named Hell were frenzied; screaming, begging, crying, rushing the velvet ropes. Hundreds of oversteroided bouncers held them back. Dash and Britt got out of the limo to the cry of "Dash! Dash!" Cameras flashed. The crowd parted, like the Red Sea for Moses. The velvet ropes lowered and they walked up the red carpet into Hell.
　Britt felt the darkness devour, the heat hit, the beat throb. Fog filled the room. Red and blue spotlights spun and twisted as green lasers pierced and wiggled the darkness, then turned into wheels and spun. Dash led her through the sea of flesh, torsos and trunks, heads and tails, which rose in tiers from the dance floor. Everyone was in a different stage of undress, showing off tattoos and body piercing. Some were completely naked. Every variety and possible combination of sex was taking place. A woman wearing an Astroturf dress grabbed on to a speaker as she was mounted from behind by a man covered from head to toe in leather.
　Britt felt faint, like she was swimming. Then she looked down and saw sharks, big ones, gliding in a floodlit subterranean aquarium under the glass dance floor beneath her feet. Just then a woman pushed up to them, held open her coat, a walking drugstore, and asked if they wanted speed, XTC, LSD, GHB, smack, crystal mesh, poppers, barbs, coke, rock, Chat, 'shrooms, peyote, opium.
　"You got any sugarless gum?" Britt asked.
　Outside the ropes the crowd was getting more and more unruly, as Juan Carlos Reyes arrived with two dozen members of the First of April anti-Castro paramilitary group, tipped off by an anonymous phone call that an extremely high official of the Cuban government was going to be at the opening.
　Inside, the main stage of Hell was flooded with light. Shelley Novak led a chorus line of drag queens. In her hands she held a silver platter, sauteed in blood, topped with an extremely lifelike head of Fidel Castro.
　"There's my damn prop!" Dash said, pointing to the head, pulling Britt in his direction. As they lurched forward in the throng, machines started pumping foam all over the club as the revelers cried out in unison.
　The din was so great nobody even heard the commotion at the door when the bouncers refused to let Juan Carlos and his men in. At Reyes's signal, they butted the bouncers with their guns and stormed in. The crowd of thousands still waiting outside the velvet ropes saw their opportunity and rushed behind them, screaming, into the club, into the darkness, the heat, the smoke, the foam, onto the dance floor all at once. Onstage, a conga line of fifty Castros in tutus kicked in unison. Juan and his men stood there pointing their guns, not knowing which one to shoot, as a thirty-foot-high red devil's head was lowered from the ceiling. Its mouth opened wide and a deep bass voice said, "Welcome to South Beach. Welcome to Hell." As if on cue, the glass dance floor splintered, then gave way, and squirming partygoers tumbled into the shark-filled pool.
　
　The Miami morning sun shone brightly, cheerfully, mocking Fay's sadness. She wished for some gray, some overcast. Remnants of last night's sleeping pills scuba-dived in her brain as she checked the black, late-model Acura following her in the rearview mirror. She'd easily shaken the other two cars that were following her, but this bastard seemed stuck to her. So much to do, so little energy, she thought. Planning her Granny's funeral in her head, worrying about Phil. And these damn reporters, worse than no-see-ums.
　She headed on 395 east toward Biscayne Bay, driving fast, faster, watching the speedometer, seventy, eighty, ninety. She hit a bump, her truck bounced, the scuba tanks in the back banging against each other, metal scraping metal. She knew she should have unloaded them.
　The Acura followed her as she screeched down the expressway ramp. This asshole wasn't just another reporter, she thought, or he would have given up by now. She headed up Biscayne Boulevard, the truck trembling as she swerved onto the Venetian Causeway.
　Fay saw the lights of the bridge gate, and then heard the bells of the bridge start to ring, the signal almost drowned out by the raucous strains of "Disco, Disco, Duck!" coming from a party boat, all lit up like Christmas, approaching from the south.
　Granny, she thought, help me, save me. She hit the brakes instinctively and then realized that flooring it was her only chance. She stomped on the pedal. The scuba tanks, which had slid violently forward when she hit the brakes, now shot back as the truck screeched forward. When they slammed into the tailgate, they leapt up, and out into the air, in a perfect arch.
　The bridge tender saw Fay's truck racing toward him on one side, the disco boat cruising toward him underneath on the other, scuba tanks flying above him, and almost directly below him, floating in the water, a big brown blob that looked like a booger.
　He jammed his finger on the red stop button, and the ancient spans that had just begun to rumble upward jerked to a halt. As soon as the truck hopped over the slightly inclined span, airborne for a split second, then slamming back down on the other side with a bump and a shimmy, he threw the drawbridge lift all the way to the right, full speed, hoping it would raise up high enough to allow the disco boat under it.
　But that was the least of his problems. The black Acura, apparently intent on leaping across the opening span, crashed through the blinking gate. But before it reached the center, the airborne scuba tanks crashed into the windshield at a relative velocity in excess of a hundred miles per hour.
　The explosion lit up the sky behind her, but Fay just kept right on driving until she pulled into the Barnett Bank on Alton Road. She grabbed an empty grocery bag and walked into the bank. If that fisherman hadn't handed her the key in Peacock Park, she might not have remembered this for weeks, remembered that years before, Granny had given her the duplicate key to her safe deposit box, "just in case anything happens to me."
　"But Granny," she'd protested. "Why should anything happen to you? You're only ninety-nine."
　Fay was led into the vault. She removed the box and carried it into the cubicle and shut the door. She took a deep breath, took out her key, took out the identical key the fisherman had given her, and opened the box. She couldn't believe her eyes. The box was jammed with money, piles and piles of neatly stacked hundred-dollar bills. Fay had never seen so much money in her life. Resting on top of it was a sealed envelope with her name printed neatly in her Granny's handwriting. Fay opened it.
　Dearest Fay,
　I could not die happily as long as I knew my lover, my friend, my life, my bay was in danger. When the bay gave me the head, I realized what I had to do. I knew the head would be worth a lot of money to the right people. There's dose to a million dollars in this box. Use it to save Biscayne Bay. But don't ask any questions about where I got this money. These are bad people.
　I love you with all my heart, my special Angelfish, Granny Marion
　
　10. DANCE OF THE MANATEE-Vicki Hendricks
　Booger heard the crack and rumble above him as he followed the party boat upstream. He felt chills rush down his hide and each bristle on his back push against the flow. He felt his nakedness. His two-thousand-pound bulk was as vulnerable as a bowl of fish aspic.
　He craved Marion, the human he called Ma. He sought the warmth of her frail flesh. But he sensed that the soft crepey arms would never again rock his fears away, nor the skeletal fingers massage the sensitive areas beneath his limbs.
　She had often come to him in the moonlight when the harsh air-world was smothering her, a hot trickle of energy seeping from her pores into the salt water. He would nuzzle his rubbery nose under her armpits or into her rump till she shrieked with pleasure. They had communication beyond words. They were good for each other. Now she was gone.
　His smallish brain replayed the scenario of the last afternoon he'd seen her alive. He'd been munching at the bottom, chewing well on a particularly bitter clump of turtle grass, when he'd recognized Ma's bony legs. They'd been fluttering and whipping in a foaming chaos of kicks that was sure to lure sharks. Behind her was the silent black hull of a Cigarette boat following at no-wake speed. Booger had surfaced to see Ma thrashing with her last strength through the waves, coughing, gulping air, digging in, trying to reach her Booger.
　She'd led them into Booger territory, for him to save her. He felt his adrenaline-like fluids start to pump. He dove and came up in front of her. He humped her onto his rounded shoulders and made a run for the shallows, but he couldn't submerge to get up speed. Ma was gasping, and her shaking arms could barely cling around his neck.
　They never had a chance. The monster boat could go most anyplace he could. It was on his tail, unstoppable as a freighter.
　"Okay, Miss Marion," a male human bellowed. "No more exercise. Tell us where it is or we shoot the porker you're ridin' on."
　She let go of Booger's neck instantly. He tried to nuzzle between her legs to get her back on top of him, but she was doing a scissors kick at top speed. She launched herself toward the boat. "No!" she was screaming. "No! Not him. He's innocent."
　Booger ran under her and flipped and banged his tail against the boat. Once, twice. He thumped it again, again, again. It was no use. He was off balance. He got water up his nose and his lower back seized up in pain. There wasn't even a dent in the hull.
　He surfaced and watched them drag Ma out of the water. There were two human males. A dark-haired, muscular one was holding Ma down. One that resembled a pale manatee was telling him what to do.
　Ma lay on her stomach, flattened and exhausted, across the stern. "Head?" she panted. "That's all you want?" She snorted, coughed. "Gone. Sucker's gone."
　"So where is it, Marion? Don't play senile on us," said the pale fat one.
　"Ha! Sold." She wheezed. "You'll never get the money. It's hidden. It's going to a good cause."
　The pointy black feet of the dark one straddled her torso, and an arm with a drawing on it grabbed a handful of her wet hair to raise her head. "We don't give a hoot about the f--ing money, ol' lady. We want the head. You're using up your time."
　She turned her face up to him. "No kidding," she said. She crossed her eyes and stuck her tongue out the corner of her mouth. She giggled and snorted.
　The rounded human hissed something.
　Booger sensed trouble. He had to get their attention. He rolled on his side, stuck his tail at an angle, and powered. He zigged. He zagged. He did the best shark imitation he knew how.
　Gold chains glinted as Pointy-foot leaned out over the water. Strong perfume drifted down and made Booger gag. "You saved that one for nothing, woman. He needs to be put out of his misery."
　The pudge motioned to Pointy-foot and he let go of her hair. She looked weak and paler than ever. Booger sensed he must do something fast.
　He dove to the bottom and looked, kept searching, using up the seconds. At last he found what he needed. A rock. A nice sharp piece of dead coral.
　He gummed it and rose to the surface. He could hear talk, but couldn't see Ma anymore. He took the coral to the black, shiny-painted surface and dug in. He zigged. He zagged. He cut deep into the fiberglass, propelling himself the length of the boat. He gashed at the hull. He couldn't make a hole like he wanted, couldn't sink them and save Ma-no matter how hard he tried-but he cut some ridges. He would know this boat if he saw it again.
　He heard Ma's voice from above. He surfaced. She was still flattened on the deck. He sensed her ebbing strength from her husky breath.
　"Swim, son. Fast. Go. They have guns."
　The crashing started as she spoke, and the four out-boards rumbled and churned up water. Booger couldn't make it under the boat. The water was ripped again and again alongside him. He felt a zing and tasted blood, hot and frothy, in his mouth. He had to swim. He blasted away at top speed until the engines roared. He turned to catch sight of the boat skimming the water in the opposite direction.
　It was sometime later he found Ma's body. He let her drift for a time, in the warm bay that she loved, but his own homing instinct made him sense he should take her near shore. She'd want her Fay-calf to know what happened.
　He nudged Ma to a quiet place, where the water was less murky and the sand soft enough for them to drag her out. She was peaceful. Her lips were set in the certain way he'd noticed when she cuddled skin to hide with him in the shallows on a summer evening. She'd had the last snort on those guys.
　Booger had slept and foraged, and his wounded lip stopped bleeding. He was used to pain and it was too late to worry about scarring. He watched Ma puff up till her wrinkles were gone and she resembled his true birth mother. Then the tan human brought the others to take her away.
　Now as Booger listened to the sirens racing too late to the explosion on the bridge, he struggled with his grief-a feeling of outrage at the whole land-world. He relived the foul smell of perfumed male, the gold chains catching sun, the shiny black pointed feet straddling Ma's sinewy frame.
　His blood began to heat. A chemical reaction took place in his disproportionate brain. The bristles on his back rose straighter, his shoulders squared, and his tail flared out and took up a steady, pulsing throb. He licked the crusty scab inside his mouth. Was it justice he wanted, or vengeance?
　Whatever it was, he needed to find that marked boat.
　
　Jake was jamming hot and heavy on his porch swing when Fay and Britt pulled into the drive. He thumped the canister on his lap in half-time with the creak of his joints. The squeak of unoiled hinges blended to produce what he thought to be an interesting rhythm.
　Fay came up the steps first. "Do you think you should be flashing that head around the neighborhood, Jake?"
　"Is that 'When the Saints Go Marching In'?" Britt asked. Fay snorted.
　Jake stared at Britt and straightened his legs to halt the music.
　"We need to take this thing to a safe place," Fay said. "Jake could be in danger."
　Britt looked inside the screen door. "Never mind. His place is perfect. Anybody who comes here will figure it was already ransacked."
　"That's what I like about you, Britt," Jake said.
　Fay picked up the canister. "I know where you can put it-my friend Ramona's. She has snakes and iguanas. It's very secure, and she's a nurse, not a bit squeamish."
　Britt put up her little finger and got Jake's attention. "What you like about me, Jake, is that I'm attractive, intelligent, kind, humorous, employed, and have female organs," she said. "I can cook too. I just don't." She punched him in the upper arm.
　He grabbed his shoulder and moaned. "Damn, Britt." He moaned again. "This joint's been dislocated eight times."
　"Ramona lives on the water," said Fay. "We can take the boat. It's the fastest, and maybe we'll see Booger. I feel in the mood for a swim."
　"Yeah. Good idea," said Jake. A flash of Fay clad only in moonlight flickered through his brain. He'd like to take a gander at her in sunshine. She was getting even hotter with age. He massaged his joint. It was aching. "I think this is beginning to swell," he said.
　"Surely you have ice," said Britt.
　The women waited on the porch while Jake went inside. He took a leak, swallowed some aspirin, then grabbed a Grolsch out of the refrigerator. He rolled it over the inflamed area. Sometimes he wondered whatever had made him play football. Then he remembered-it was the money and the women.
　Britt asked to use the bathroom and he directed her around cardboard boxes of briefs, then stepped back onto the porch with Fay. "You're looking lovely today," he said, and his hand reached to touch the soft tan skin of her throat.
　Fay stiffened. "I've been practicing my Tae Kwon Do, Jake. When I see aggressive movement, like hands on my neck, I get nervous." She took her stance. "Ke-hap!" Her foot whipped out and stopped a half-inch from his left jaw. "I can break rocks with this."
　Jake flinched. "Impressive. I was wondering if we could get together for a drink this evening. Maybe try one of those new clubs on the beach."
　"I don't think so, Jake-although I'd like to see those sharks I heard about. I have too much on the brain with my Granny and all. And I'm worried sick about Phil."
　There was a crash and whoosh inside the house. Britt came walking out at a fast clip. "Sorry, Jake. I touched something and started an avalanche. I hope nothing got mixed up."
　
　Jake struggled into the back of Britt's T-Bird with the canister and popped open his beer for the short drive to Fay's boat. The traffic was heavy. They could have walked in less time. He drank the beer, and next thing he knew, Britt was slapping his cheek to wake him up.
　He clomped down the dock following Fay and Britt.
　"Wonder where that horny manatee is. Doesn't he usually hang out by your boat, Fay?"
　"Horny?" Fay said. "Booger? Are you projecting, Jake?"
　The women looked at each other. "He's so rude," Britt said. "Somebody ought to give him a well-placed kick."
　Fay stepped into the boat. "Not me. It's too easy." She turned the key to start the engine, and switched on the VHP radio. Britt untied the bow line and hopped aboard.
　"Jake, grab the stern and push us off, will you?" said Fay.
　He handed the canister to Fay and she stowed it in the starboard locker. He unwrapped the line from the cleat and put a foot on the gunwale. The boat moved out fast, until his legs couldn't split any farther. He splashed face first into the oily bay water, got a noseful, and came up coughing. Time to cut back on the Grolsch, he thought. A plastic Winn-Dixie bag was plastered over his forehead and ear.
　Fay pulled it off and put it in the bucket she had for such purposes. "Good thing you found this bag. It might have gotten wrapped around the prop." She grinned. "You need to step decisively when getting into a boat, Jake."
　Jake smoothed his hair back and looked up into her green eyes. The bay paled and grayed in comparison.
　"There's a ladder on the stern," she said.
　"Listen to this," said Britt. She was pointing at the VHF. "There's a wounded manatee."
　Fay got on the radio and requested further information. The captain came back with a description of a long jagged scar across the upper back.
　"It's Booger!" said Fay. "We have to find him fast." Jake moved around toward the stern. He heard the location-north of Mattheson Hammock.
　"Thanks, Captain. I'll take care of it. Let's go!" yelled Fay. She hit the throttle as Jake took the first step up the ladder. His foot slipped off the stainless-steel rung, and his 225 pounds dragged by one arm, on the side with the bad shoulder. The prop was churning a few feet from his dangling legs. He tried to yell above the engine. "Fay, stop. FAY!" he screamed. Neither she nor Britt heard.
　Jake let go and fell backward, tried to yell an obscenity, but a wave choked him off. He sculled in place with one hand while he watched the boat speed away in the distance.
　Jake started the short swim back to the dock. He figured he'd wait there. Fay would turn the boat around as soon as she noticed he was gone. She would feel terrible. Maybe he could convince her to go out for a drink to make up for it.
　
　Fay headed toward Mattheson Hammock at top speed. The outlandish thought that Booger's injury had something to do with Granny's death hovered in her mind. It was more a feeling than a thought, like the sixth sense Granny had always talked about. It was beyond logic. Fay had always believed the minds of animals were badly underestimated. Someday the true potentials would be revealed, and humans would feel ashamed of their ignorant practices of slavery and butchery.
　Fay slowed the boat as she neared the location. "I'll watch starboard. Britt, take port." She cut the engine to an idle and they drifted.
　"Look," Britt hollered. She pointed at a half-moon shadow just visible under the edge of a dock. "There he is, just behind that black Cigarette boat." Britt blew out some air. "That's Joey G.'s dock. I don't think we should get any closer."
　Fay turned to ask Jake. "Where's Jake?" "Probably stopped off for another beer." Fay didn't take time to ask what she meant. Booger moved out from under the dock. He raised his head. His round black eyes stared into Fay's. He did a couple slow logrolls on the surface between them and the Cigarette.
　"What's the matter with him?" asked Britt.
　"Must be his equilibrium is off. There's a gash in his jowl. It looks like a bullet wound, for heaven's sake."
　Booger started smashing his tail flat on the surface of the water and angling his body toward the Cigarette. He smashed and angled, smashed and angled.
　"I don't know what he's doing," Fay said. She pulled the boat closer and idled. "Somebody really tore up the hull of that boat. I hope they didn't kill any coral."
　Booger smashed the water hard. Spray flew into the boat and drenched Britt from the shoulders down. "Damn!" she yelled. "Booger is going nuts. What's his problem?"
　"I don't know, but I have a bad feeling."
　Britt heard a sound and turned. Fay looked at her face and did likewise. On the dock behind them was a pudgy, balding man and a muscular, dark-haired man with a scorpion tattoo on his arm. She recognized him. "Hector," she said.
　"Joey G.," said Britt, waving a hand at the fat one. "I thought you were in Fiji."
　Hector lifted his other arm from his side and pointed an Uzi their way.
　"Damn," said Britt. "Double damn."
　"Pull your boat up to the dock, ladies," said Joey G. "We need to talk."
　Fay remembered the canister in the starboard locker: big trouble. She saw the throttle out of the corner of her eye, and thought about slamming it forward. These guys were probably bluffing ... but then she thought better. It was Miami.
　She shifted into reverse to maneuver into the spot and saw Booger hide himself back under the dock. She couldn't risk Britt's life. She'd have to wing it, pick the right moment to make a move.
　
　11. WHERE ARE YOU DYING TONIGHT?-John Dufresne
　In Biscayne Bay: Call me Booger. Now it is November in my soul and twilight in my heart. Light is leaving me. And hope. It is this blackness above all that appalls me. The blackness to come, the blackness of this loathsome hull above me, and the inky black hearts of those Stygian scoundrels who took Ma from me, the dark-complexioned, cloven-footed desperado who fired the bullet into my snout and that pink and squabby venom spouter who steered this floating coffin. The pair of them are madness-maddened, blackness-blackened. They have all that is bloody on their minds. What lunatic vision is it that drives these blackguards? What furious passion? What unimaginable fear has freed them from the irons of civility? Loosed their bonds of horror? Nothing so simple as greed. Not that. We see differently, they and I. They have their colors, I my grays. But blackness we share. Blackness, agent of the mind, not the eye. We all see black alike. And it's blackness where our fates will meet. I have a plan.
　
　At the Chapel of Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow and Everlasting Anguish: Monsignor Armand Turgeon celebrated the funeral mass for his friend and patron Marion McAlister Williams. He praised her generous philanthropy, her unconventional but enthusiastic faith, her tenacious efforts to save the Everglades from the ravages of Big Sugar and the Corps of Engineers, to save the wildness that was Florida from the teeming masses breathing free, flushing waste into the bay, and paving the earth. Father Turgeon suggested that after death we return to what we were before birth-washed in the precious blood of the Lord and rocked in His mighty arms. He looked out at the assembled mourners, at the politicians, the curious, looked into the glassy eyes and disinterested faces of these waking dreamers who fend off their fears with distraction. He told them that our longing to survive is vanity only. Even God, he said, envies our mortality.
　Jake Lassiter hadn't heard a word the reverend said. He'd spent the morning at the library, trying to keep his mind off Fay and Britt and where they might be and in how many pieces. He looked up "manatee" in the dictionary and learned that it comes from the Cariban manati, which means breast, and for some reason he found the revelation distressing and depressing. He couldn't stop himself from thinking about that sea cow Booger, and about Fay and Britt. What kind of man beholds a hulking sausage-shaped, beaver-tailed, cleft-lipped creature and decides to name it for the female breast? A man too long at sea, perhaps. But still. Jake reminded himself where he was. He studied the Stations of the Cross on the stained-glass window. Veronica wipes the face of Jesus. He stared at the crucifix suspended above the altar, thought Jesus looked like the daring young man on the flying trapeze. Jake couldn't stop his obsessive thoughts: beaver, sausage, tail, lips, cleavage, breast. What was worse, he'd also read that a manatee's breasts were situated under the flippers, where appendage meets torso. Jake cursed himself for going to the library in the first place. It would never happen again. He turned to Janice Deal, his buddy John's ex, smiled, squeezed her hand. She smiled, returned her attention to the priest. Jake inhaled her vanilla scent. He tried not to think of breasts in her armpits.
　Judge Manuel Dominguez wondered why this priest was carrying on about the failure of a people to cast off its oppressors. Quebec, he was yapping about, not Cuba. Not a very apt or decorous sermon, certainly. What did all this have to do with the death of this esteemed grande dame? Had he missed something? All this sadness. First his nephew Victor and now Ms. Williams. Poor Victor, a lousy bailiff, sure, and a worse jai alai player. "Victorless" they called him at the fronton. But why would he try to do that, race the drawbridge like he did in the new Acura? With the young, the judge thought, often the danger is in not taking the risk.
　Vernon Sawyer wanted to sing "What Wondrous Love Is This?" "Abide with Me," or "There Is Power in the Blood," anything. Why can't Catholics sing? He was tired with all this talk, talk, talk. He wanted his religion to carry him out of the church, out of himself, to lift his heart, to set his feet in ecstasy. He looked at the hair of this vaguely familiar man seated in front of him, saw how it thinned at the crown. He hated the treachery of baldness. Vernon knew that when there is a mystery, there are always two stories-what happened and what seemed to happen. What seemed to happen here was a drowning. But no, not with the granddaughter gone missing like she'd done. That was no coincidence, no sir. Something to do with that key he'd passed to Fay. The key to the whole mystery, likely.
　Dash Brandon didn't like his seat. He belonged up there with Governor What's-his-face and Jimmy Carter. This sort of affront would never happen at Planet Hollywood or at the Raleigh, where just this morning he'd been seated by Johnnie Cochran's table. What was he in town for? Defending some fat tourist? Something about a riot. Or was it the Club Hell fiasco? Dash had given Johnnie a nod and a conspiratorial thumbs-up. He'd eavesdropped as Johnnie rehearsed his forensic couplets: "If the facts don't indicate, you must vindicate," "If the fault's with the police, you must release," and so on throughout the brunch. Dash thought about his own funeral. A full-couch, polished copper casket with taffeta lining, interior lighting, brass fittings. Or an Egyptian sarcophagus. Wouldn't that be a hoot? Show tunes and spontaneous eulogies. He cast his pallbearers: Arnold, Bruce, Sly, Wesley, Woody, the Boz. No, not the Boz. Denzel. Ziff Bodine nudged Dash, showed him the sketch he'd been doodling. Castro, it looked like, without the beard and toupee.
　John Deal wondered if this was such a good idea, coming back to Miami. It had seemed like the right thing, sitting there in the bar with Mike, into his tenth Cuba libre, thinking he could straighten his whole life out in a minute if he could just get back home. He felt an intense heat at the base of his neck, an itch on his scalp that stung like shame. He touched the back of his head. He made a mental note: call 1-800-ROGAINE. Why the burn? Why at the back of his head. Too much Advil? Where was it coming from? Deal turned, and the man's doleful gaze locked with his for a moment. Deal returned his eyes to the altar. Where had he seen that face before? Havana? Not Havana. Deal felt-he didn't know-he was marked or something. That's it. The Grove. The man outside the market. Just a coincidence, he hoped. What was it his dad used/to say? You'll meet everyone twice before you die. This was like a reunion for Deal. The man behind him, his ex across the aisle with Jake Lassiter of all people, the movie actor who'd sued him over the hot tub. Deal wondered if he might be dreaming all this. No, this was Mike Weston right beside him, Mike Weston was real, wasn't he? And there's that quack, Irwin Schein ... berg? man? Schein? ...
　Irwin Scheinblum wondered why the cover-up. Marion's death was no drowning, of course. You don't have to be a coroner to know that it takes days for a drowned body to bloat with gas and rise to the surface. No weeds or sand in the lungs. He'd read the autopsy report. Evidence of pete-chiae, tiny hemorrhages, dark spots on the mucous membrane, caused most likely by increased pressure in the head from strangling, or choking perhaps. Face and neck congested and dark red, bruises on the arms and legs, contusions on the face, a fractured hyoid bone and torn thyroid cartilage. So why did the medical examiner rule the death an accident? And why wasn't anyone upset? Why wasn't anyone talking, writing about this? Irwin was puzzled. Irwin needed several drinks.
　Marion McAlister Williams felt deflated, degenerate, annoyed. So there you have it: there are no answers beyond the grave. Well, not the grave just yet. No answers beyond death. She was no longer one of the chosen people-those still alive. She found herself humming the tune to "The Yellow Rose of Texas" and singing the words to Emily Dickinson poems: Because I could not stop for death, da-da-da-dum-dee-tum. No answers and no tunnels and no lights. We spend our lives lumbering from hope to hope. So what is death then? No lights and no hope. Marion felt like her mind was going blind. Death belongs to life, not to whatever-this-is. No hope and no Buddha. No Jesus. No Allah. No angels, no time, no enlightenment, no nine circles of hell, no rest, no numbers, no regrets, no color, no stories, no space, no peace, no honor, no pain, no blood, no air, no matter. Just alone. All alone. That's all.
　Jimmy Carter was basking in a marvelous run of good luck and nothing was going to get him down-not Rosalynn's volatile mood swings, not Robertico Robles's threats, not this dismal ceremony, and certainly not these elitist book reviewers. Jimmy Carter stood with the congregation. He bent his head, moved his lips, as if in prayer. Yesterday he'd autographed eight hundred hardcover copies of Always a Reckoning in two hours at Books and Books, beating the Anne Rice record by seventy-five books. Mitchell Kaplan told him so, and booksellers don't lie. And then last night he'd beaten Vanilla Ice by a pentameter in the poetry slam at Warehaus 57. Then this morning's News carried his photo on page one. There he was driving a nail into a crossbeam in the new Habitat house in Liberty City. He was in a zone right now, and he dared to dream of, to lust in his heart for, the unprecedented Double Nobel-Peace and Literature. He was possessed by the Muse, on fire with a Promethean mission to steal poetry from the academic gods and deliver it to the people. Soon poetry would be accessible to working men and women in paper-hat jobs, would be understood and loved by schoolchil-dren, illiterates, babies, cats. And in the limo on the way to the cemetery he'd begin his Sonnet Sequence for Democracy, that is, if he could get Governor Whatchamacallit to shut his trap for a minute.
　Former altar boy Juan Carlos Reyes stood in line to receive Communion. Introibo ad altare Dei. The choir chanted Tantum Ergo. To God the joy of my youth. He felt his pager vibrate in his pocket. He checked the display. Ramona calling. Probably wanted him to pick up a bag of those pink mice for her snakes. I have no shame, he thought. Shame is for the young. Juan Carlos nodded to the Peanut Man as he passed the first pew. We live on secrets, he thought. He took the host in his hands. My God, what would the world be like if all our secrets were revealed, all our lusts, opinions, fears, dreams, our fantasies, our rituals? What secrets, he wondered, did this old woman take with her? Expensive secrets perhaps. Well, he wasn't here to worry about that. He was here to protect his holdings: Reyes Cuban-American Cruise Lines, Reyes Hotel and Casinos, Reyes PepsiCo Bottling Company, Reyes Burger King Havana, Inc. He was here to keep his eye on the slippery Dr. Irwin Scheinblum, the one man alive who could positively identify the body of Fidel Castro, the man who had performed Fidel's penile implant in 1962. But where was that body? Juan Carlos was not paying a million dollars to any Cuban Cuban for a severed head. The gentleman would have to provide the rest of the filthy Communist. Of course, if he, himself, could acquire the rumored lock of hair and match its DNA with the head, well, perhaps then he would negotiate. Yes, people will need to be relocated. Yes, people will have to die, unfortunately. Yes, of course, the transition to the Golden Age of freedom and prosperity will not be easy.
　This was still not what Joe Sereno had in mind when he joined the police department. This was not fighting crime; this was not making a difference. This was standing in the vestibule of a church waiting for some dignitaries to exit to their limousines. He'd been reduced to this, to special-detail security for Magic City Protective Services. He'd been suspended without pay after the Grove riot and would remain suspended until the trial was over, at least. And now he had to worry if Johnnie Cochran was going to turn him into the next Mark Fuhrman. Sure he'd called the fat guy a Canuck and a Frog, but he hadn't meant it in a bad way. Since when did people start worrying about the Frenchies, anyway? And now he was getting that uneasy feeling again like on the night of the Club Hell disaster when he worked the door. Who'd have thought the sharks would only go after the lawyers like they did? Must be some kind of pheromone they give off. What a mess that was. Joe Sereno himself had dragged two of the bodies out of the drink-the city manager of Miami Beach, who looked like a drowned cat, actually, and the city's insurance attorney, Russell B. Whittaker III, whose mascara had run over his face and whose left arm had been chewed to the bone. Joe felt dizzy again. Maybe he was bad luck like the sergeant said. He dipped his fingers into the holy water font, blessed himself. He waited for whatever would happen to happen.
　
　In Dania: When housewife Sabrina Kennedy saw the face of Mickey Schwartz on the door of her Kelvinator refrigerator, saw it blossom to life like a Polaroid photograph, why, she called Tristan Jude, Dania correspondent for the Broward Sun-Tattler and invited him over to see for himself. He wanted to know what she thought this meant. Well, she said, it means, apparently, that I'm going to win the lottery in the very near future. Yes, she had to agree with Tristan, this could possibly be Mickey's double, that Cuban dude, in which case she figured she'd meet some tall, dark stranger. Miracles aren't ordinary, she told him. Life's no accident. Everything means something.
　
　On Desi Arnaz Boulevard: Big Joey G. leaned against the fireplace, his arm resting on the onyx mantel, in his hand a Vietnamese trophy skull. "We boiled the flesh off the VC skulls," he told Britt. "We made table ornaments, ashtrays, candy dishes, like this fellow here. I call him Tranh. Sometimes we carved their ulnas into letter openers, their fingers into whistles." He set the skull on the mantel, sat in the club chair across from Britt. "Happiest days of my life, the war."
　"And now you find yourself playing with skulls again," Britt said. "How funny."
　"Not playing, Ms. Montero. Neurosuspension is not a game." Big Joey explained the process: A cryonicist opens the subject's chest, injects cryopreservatives and cooling solutions through the blood vessels to preserve the brain. He then severs the head at the sixth cervical vertebra, submerges the skull in a silicone oil bath with dry ice for twenty-four hours. "Then we pop the noodle in a neurocan and cool it in liquid nitrogen for ten days.
　Britt stretched her shackled legs on the couch. "Why just the head? Why not the whole body? Why not a corpsicle?"
　"Cephalic isolation is economical, portable. The body isn't very useful really."
　"Speak for yourself."
　"Eventually, we bring back the cryonaut, and he's himself, only we make him better because we provide an engineered body, a cyborg, a person who can breathe underwater or run like the wind."
　"Fidel the flying squirrel, maybe?"
　Big Joey smiled.
　"You can't make a flank steak back into a cow, Big Joey. The thermally challenged will remain so."
　The doorbell chimed. Big Joey G. stood, excused himself. "That would be our delivery: Lilia Sands and her faux Fidel."
　Britt said, "This is getting confusing."
　On the patio, Hector explained to Fay how it was, but how could a woman ever understand? "Yes, I killed your grandmother. Yes, I killed Phil. What were we supposed to do when he let you escape like he did? You think I had a choice? Besides, he was a nudge and you know it."
　Pay wiped her tears on her shoulder. "Scum!" She knew she'd destroy Hector if she could chew her way through these cuffs and the ropes.
　"I understand you're upset, but don't you see that the crime itself is a relief, you know, a release. It's a regeneration." Hector stood and stretched. He kissed his scorpion tattoo, flicked his tongue at Fay. He thought, Yes, this woman will understand. "Before I killed, I was far more horrible than I am now, because I was pregnant with evil, with the idea of murder. And now the evil is done, gone, vanished. The idea of violence, the threat of violence, is always more frightening than the act of violence. Don't you think?" Fay heard a chime, a tune that sounded like "Lara's Theme" from Dr. Zhivago.
　"Our guests have arrived," Hector said. "And now we're all going for a long boat ride."
　
　At the Odyssey Motel: Fidel Castro sat on his balcony smoking his Don Miguel de la Flor cigar, watching the topless bathers on the beach. Oxen in the sun, he thought. Fidel winced, lifted his weight off the chair as a shock of pain shot through his groin. What more, he wondered, can this hulk suffer? He'd done the surgery, the radiation, had the orchiectomy. Too late. The cancer had spread to the lymph nodes and the bone and to distant organs. Nothing left now but hormones and morphine. There he sat, anonymous in his morbidity, hairless and shrunken, listening to a Xavier Cugat CD in the heart of the city that wanted his head at any price. Drawn here, made reckless, by love.
　Fidel took the photo of Lilia Sands out of his shirt pocket. Oh, there had been others-Miss This, Miss That, Miss The Other. They were all lovely, but like flowers without scent compared to Lilia. She was his first socialist. I kiss the feet of you, senorita, he told her that night in his tent in the Sierra Maestra. He closed his eyes, tried to summon Lilia, his Penelope. Yes, he thought, yes, because she never did a thing like that before as bite my ear-her breakfast in bed-never a thing as cut a lock of my hair. Lilia, her boiled eyes and smutty photos, her samba, her wicked tongue. I gave her all the pleasure I could until she said yes and yes. I let her see my everything. O Lilia! O Cuba! My twin lovers! Yes, I know the back alleys of my heart, the dark corners of my soul, and though I tried to do you no harm, in the trying I failed. Love without commitment, socialism without democracy are doomed. Yes, I was seduced by revolution, driven to trample the worm who sold our country to the Mafia and the corporations, to trample him and drag his carcass ten times around the gates of Havana. A new order, I thought. A New Jerusalem. But politics is just who shoves whom, who doles out the pineapples and soup to whom, who pockets whose profits. Politics is a marketing strategy, a tool of business. It can never make anyone happy. For that we need virtue and knowledge, not laws.
　And so I get to live my simple life at last, here in the land of the lotus-eaters, where our people, some of them, have lost the hope of home. Others are worms who would devour our flesh. The aristocrats who fled, the professional class. I wouldn't give a snap of my fingers for all their learning, their fortunes, their self-righteousness. Let them try to create something, like an independent nation, like a poem. Yes, when at last this Cuban-head-as-Trojan-horse business sorts itself out, the exiles will be coming home. To those who return, welcome, but remember, no one will own us-the Cuban Cubans, we who have lived on our wandering rock for the last thirty-seven years. You see, we know how you think: eleven million Cubans-Demon Nation; one billion Chinese-Most Favored Nation. We understand the great fear in your adopted country, the USA: fear of the poor! Power is based on weakness of the masses. Those who come home must serve the people, not judge them, command them, prod them. Cubans, yes. Juan Carlos Reyes, no, no gusanos, no problem.
　Fidel thought again of Lilia, her legs and her lips. He remembered the moon setting over the Gulf of Man-zanillo, his comrade Che, and his heart was going like mad. Yes, Lilia, he said, senorita, yes, I will, yes and yes.
　
　12. THE ODYSSEY-Elmore Leonard
　Joe Serano caught the Odyssey night clerk as he was going off: prissy guy, had his lunch box under his arm.
　"I saw it this morning on TV," Joe said. "So there was a lot of excitement, huh? I thought the cops'd still be here, at least the crime scene guys. I guess they've all cleared out. You hear the shots? You must've."
　"I was in the office," the night guy said.
　Joe wondered how this twink knew he was in the office at the exact time the shots were fired. What'd he think, it was soundproof in there? But the cops no doubt had asked him that, so Joe let it pass and said, "It was the two guys in one-oh-five, wasn't it?"
　"I think so."
　"You're not sure?"
　The night guy rolled his eyes and then pretended to yawn. He did things like that, had different poses.
　"Fairly respectable-looking guys," Joe said, "but no luggage. What're they doing, shacking up? Maybe, maybe not. But I remember thinking at the time, they're up to something. The TV news didn't mention their names, so there must not've been any ID on the bodies and the cops didn't think the names they used to register were really theirs. Am I right?"
　The night guy said, "I wouldn't know," acting bored.
　"Soon as I saw those guys yesterday-they checked in as I was getting ready to go off-I said to Mel, 'Let me see the registration cards, see what names they gave.' He wouldn't show me. He goes, 'Registering guests is not a security matter, if you don't mind.' " Mel, the day guy, sounding a lot like Kenneth, the night guy.
　"I didn't have time to hang around, keep an eye on them," Joe went on. "I had to go to another job, a function at the Biltmore. They put on extra security for this bunch of Cuban hotshots meeting there. I mean Cuban Cubans, said to be Castro sympathizers, and there was a rumor Fidel himself was gonna show up. You believe it? I wore a suit instead of this Mickey Mouse uniform, brown and friggin' orange; I get home I can't wait to take it off. Those functions, you stand like this holding your hands in front of you, like you're protecting yourself from getting a hernia, and you keep your eyes moving. So"-he gestured toward the entrance-"I saw the truck out there, the tan van, no writing on the sides? That's the cleanup company, right?"
　"I wouldn't know," the night guy said.
　Little curly-haired twink, walked with his knees together.
　"Well, listen, I'll let you go," Joe said, "and thanks for sharing that information with me, it was interesting. I'll go check on the cleanup people, see how they're doing. What room was that again, one-oh-five?"
　It sure was.
　There was furniture in the hall by the open door and a nasty smell in the air. As Joe approached, a big black guy in a white plastic jumpsuit, latex gloves, what looked like a shower cap, goggles up on his head, blue plastic covering his shoes, came out carrying a floor lamp.
　Joe said, "Joe Sereno, security officer."
　"I'm Franklin, with Baneful Clean-Up."
　"Baneful?"
　"The boss named it. He tried Pernicious Clean-Up in the Yellow Pages? Didn't get any calls."
　Joe said, "Hmmmm, how about Death Squad?"
　"That's catchy," Franklin said, "but people might get the wrong idea. You know, that we doing the job 'stead of cleaning up after. This is my partner, Marlis," Franklin said, and Joe turned to see a cute young black woman approaching in her plastic coveralls, hip-hop coming out of the jam box she was carrying.
　"Joe Sereno, security officer."
　"Serene, yeah," Marlis said, "that's a cool name, Joe," her body doing subtle, funky things like it was plugged into the beat. She said to Franklin, "Diggable Planets doing 'Rebirth of Slick.' 'It's cool like dat.' "
　" 'It's chill like dat,' " Franklin said. "Yeah, 'it's chill like dat.' "
　Franklin bopping now, going back into the room.
　Joe followed him in, stopped dead at the sight, and said, "Oh, my God," at the spectacle of blood: on the carpet, on two walls, part of the ceiling, a trail of blood going from this room into the bathroom. Joe looked in there and said it again, with feeling, "Oh, my God."
　"Like they was skinnin' game in here," Franklin said. "Shotgun done one of them at close range. The other one, nine-millimeter pistol, they believe. Man got shot four times through and through-see the holes in the wall there? They dug out the bullets. Made it to the bathroom, got three more pumped into him and bled out in the shower. Thank you, Jesus. We still have to clean it, though, with the green stuff, get in between the tiles with a toothbrush. We thankful the man came in here, didn't go flop on the bed to expire."
　Joe said, "Man, the smell."
　"Yeah, it's what your insides get like exposed to the air too long, you know what I'm saying? Your viscera, it's called. It ain't too bad yet. But if you gonna stay in here and watch," Franklin said, "better breathe through your mouth."
　Joe said, "I think I'll step out to the patio for a minute."
　
　The two secretaries from Dayton, Ohio, their bra straps hanging loose, were out by the pool already, this early in the morning, to catch some rays, working at it, not wasting a minute of their vacation. Joe took a few deep breaths, inhaling the morning air to get that smell out of his nose. On the other side of the pool, still in shade, a guy sat in a plastic patio chair smoking a cigar as he watched the girls. Guy in his sixties-he'd be tall with a heavy frame; his body hadn't seen much sun, but his face was weathered. Joe believed the guy was wearing a rug. Black hair that had belonged to a Korean woman at one time. A retired wigmaker had told him they used a lot of Korean hair. This one looked too dark for a guy in his sixties. Joe had never noticed the guy before-he must've checked in yesterday or last night-but for some reason he looked familiar. Joe went back in the unit, ducked into the bedroom and picked up the phone.
　"Sereno, security. Who's in one-twenty?" The day guy's voice said, "Why do you want to know?" I'm doing something wrong, Joe thought. I'm failing to communicate. "Listen, it's important. The guy, there's something about him isn't right." ' "Like what?"
　"I think he's using the Odyssey as a hideout." "Is this the guy with the Steven Seagal hairpiece?" "You got it." "Just a minute." The twink was gone at least five minutes while Joe waited, trying to breathe through his mouth. Finally he came back on.
　"His name's Garcia."
　Franklin was working on the ceiling with a sponge mop; he would come down off his metal ladder and squeeze into a pail, then take the pail into the bathroom and dump it in the toilet. Marlis was scrubbing a wall with what looked like a big scouring pad, moving in time to the beat coming from the jam box, kind of spastic, Joe thought, but sexy all the same.
　The two looked like they were dressed up in moon suits they'd made for Halloween: the white plastic coveralls, goggles, respiratory masks, covered head to toe. The smell of the chemicals they were using was even stronger now than the other smell. Joe got a whiff and started coughing as he asked Marlis what it was they cleaned with.
　She said, "The green stuff for a lot of heavy, dried blood; the pink stuff when it isn't too old and hard to get off."
　"Girl," Franklin said, "your head keeps touching the wall and I see some hair sticking out."
　"I'll fix it in a minute."
　Marlis had on rubber gloves that came up her arms. She said to Joe Sereno, "See these little specks here in the wall? They from the man's skull, little tiny fragments of bone. Sometime I have to use pliers to pull them out. This dark stuff is the dude's hair. See these other holes? They from the shotgun." She funked around, doing steps to the music as she said to Franklin, "Coolio, for your pleasure."
　Franklin listened and said, "Ain't Coolio." Listened some more, said, "You got your Cools confused. It's LL Cool J, no other, 'cause that's 'Hey Lover.' " He paused, looking past Marlis to a framed print on the wall. "Girl, is that like modern art on there or something else?"
　Marlis went up to the picture for a close look and said, "It's something else."
　Joe looked at it and said, "Oh, my God."
　He watched Marlis remove the print and drop it into a red bag. "Ain't worth cleaning. Anything has body fluids, tissue, poo-poo, you know, anything biohazardous, goes in these bags. We give them to a company takes care of medical waste to get rid of."
　"You missed a speck there," Franklin said, pointing at the wall.
　"I'm still working on it, baby." Lowering her voice, she said to Joe, "He don't like to see me talking to other men."
　"Are you and him married?"
　"You'd think so to hear him."
　"I was wondering, is there any money in cleanup work? You don't mind my asking."
　"We quoted this job at fifteen hundred. Hey, how many people can you find to do it? Another reason it's a good business, recessions don't bother it none. This one here looks worse'n it is. Doesn't smell too bad. You work where a body's been decomposing awhile, now you talking about smell. Like old roadkill up close? You go home and take a shower, you have to wash out your nostrils good. The smell like sticks to the hairs in your nose."
　"What's the worst one you ever had to clean up?"
　"The worst one. Hmmmm." She said, "You mean the very worst one? Like an advanced state of decomp has set in? The body's in a dark, damp place and dung beetles have found it?"
　Franklin said, "Girl?"
　"I'm coming," Marlis said. She got a scraper, like a big putty knife, from a box of tools and went back to work. She said to Joe, "It dries on here it's hard to get off."
　"What is that?"
　She was scraping at something crusted on there. "Little piece of what the dude used to use to think with. His brain, honey. He maybe should've thought better about coming here, huh? Two dudes die and nobody even knows who they are. Least it's what I heard." She looked over at Joe Sereno standing by the closet door, staring at the knob. "Don't touch that, baby."
　"It looks like candle wax," Joe said, "but I don't see any candles in the room."
　"It ain't wax," Marlis said, "it's some more the dude's gray matter. Gets waxy like that outside the head. See how the wood's splintered right above it? That's from skull fragments shot in there. This one dude, I swear, is all over the room."
　"You just do murders?"
　"Homicides, suicides, and decompositions."
　"How about animals?"
　"Once in a while. We cleaned up after a woman poisoned her dogs, fifteen of 'em she couldn't feed no more. It smelled worse'n a dead manatee laying in the sun too long."
　Joe perked up. "There's a manatee over on the bay was shot. You hear about it?"
　Joe thought he saw a look pass between Marlis and Franklin on the ladder as she said no, she didn't think so. "A pretty friendly creature," Joe said, "used to play with that old woman who was killed. Marion something?"
　"McAlister Williams," Marlis said. "Yeah, I've heard of her. Hundred and two years old and still swimmin' in the bay."
　Joe; said, "And there was that guy tried to jump the drawbridge and didn't make it."
　"Name was Victor," Franklin said, down from the ladder, heading for the John with his pail. "Actually was a scuba tank I understand flew out of a truck, hit the man's car and blew him up. Totaled 'em both. Yeah, we heard about that. 'Cool like dat.' " He said, "So-Lo Jam," and right away said, "I take that back."
　"You better," Marlis said.
　"That's from Cold Chillin', so it has to be Kool G. Rap. Yeah."
　Joe had to wait, not having any idea what they were talking about, before saying, "How about that disaster at Club Hell? I was working there that night. It was horrible."
　"Nobody had to clean that one up," Franklin said, coming out of the John, "the sharks took care of it."
　"Come here for a minute, will you?" Joe motioned them over to the sliding glass door that led to the patio.
　"See that guy sitting by the pool? Over on the other side. Who does he look like?"
　"I can't see him good," Franklin said.
　"Take your goggles off."
　Franklin squinted now, eyes uncovered. He said, "I don't know. Who?"
　Marlis came over and right away said, "The dude with the cigar? He looks like Castro. Either Castro or that dude goes around thinking he looks like Castro. You know what I'm saying? Mickey Something-or-other's his name. Yeah, Mickey Schwartz."
　"Wait a minute," Franklin said, still squinting. "What Castro you talking about?"
　"Castro, the one from Cuba."
　"They all from Cuba."
　"What's his name-Fidel," Marlis said. "Fidel Castro, Shaved off his beard." She paused and hunched in a little closer to Joe and Franklin. "Shaved his beard and must've shaved his head, too, 'cause the man's wearing a rug."
　"That's what I thought too," Joe said. "But whose hair does the rug look like?"
　Now Marlis squinted till she had it and said, "Yeah, that high-waisted cat kung-fus everybody he don't shoot."
　Franklin said, "I know who you mean. That kung-fu cat with the big butt. Doesn't take shuck and jive from nobody. But listen to me now. If that's the Fidel we talking about here, there's a man will pay a million dollars to see him dead. Man name of Reyes. It would be easy as pie to cap him sitting there, wouldn't it?" He looked at Joe Sereno. "I mean if it was your trade."
　"Tempting," Marlis said, "but safer to clean up after. Celebrity, be nothing wrong with doubling the fee."
　Joe was thinking. He said, "You suppose a hit man killed these two in here?"
　"Hit men as a rule," Franklin said, "don't make this kind of mess. One on the back of the head, use a twenty-two High Standard Field King with a suppressor on it. We've followed up after hit men, haven't we, precious?"
　"We sure have," Marlis said. "Lot of that kind of work around here."
　Joe Sereno said, "You don't suppose ... " and stopped, narrowing his eyes then to make what he wanted to say come out right. "In the past few days I've run into three homicides, counting these two, and a fourth one they're calling an accident looks more like a homicide to me. I have a hunch they're related. Don't pin me down for the motive, 'cause I don't see a nexus. At least not yet I don't. But I got a creepy feeling that once these two are identified, it will explain the others. I'm talking about the old woman, and a guy named Phil. And, unless I miss my guess, it all has something to do with that man sitting over there smoking a cigar."
　"Unless," Marlis said, "the dude over there is the Fidel impersonator, Mickey Schwartz."
　"Either way," Joe Sereno said, "ID these two and this whole mess will become clear."
　A look passed between Franklin and Marlis.
　Joe caught it and thought, Hmmmm.
　
　13. THE LAW OF THE JUNGLE-Carl Hiaasen
　Mickey Schwartz had never been to Bimini, as there was not among Bahamians a huge demand for Fidel Castro impersonators.
　Nor had Mickey Schwartz ever been in a Cigarette boat crossing the Gulf Stream with an Uzi-toting goon, an obese fugitive politician, two crabby female hostages, and an older woman who elegantly claimed to have slept with the real Fidel.
　In that respect, it was the most interesting gig of Mickey Schwartz's show business career. And, except for the threat of gunplay, it was also the most gratifying, professionally.
　Being a Castro impersonator in Miami was no picnic-a vast impassioned segment of the population regarded the Cuban leader more as a murderous butcher than as cheap comic relief. As Mickey Schwartz could attest, there was no fortune to be made milking Castro for laughs, at least not in South Florida.
　Most of Mickey's Fidel gigs were weekend parades in Little Havana, and involved long hours of pretending to be dead-lying in an open casket, swinging from a gallows, rotting under a cloud of fake flies in a cane field ... that sort of thing. As long as Mickey didn't move a muscle, everything was fine; people cheered like crazy.
　Easy payday, his pals would say. But Mickey Schwartz hated it. The fatigues were stifling and the phony beard was scratchy. Besides, he was too talented for Sunday parade crap. He had a solid lounge act in Sunny Isles-Brando, Nicholson, Robin Williams. He even did a Howard Stern, for the younger crowd. Who else did a Howard Stern? Nobody, that's who.
　Mickey Schwartz believed he hated impersonating Castro nearly as much as the exiles hated Castro himself. Yet now, plowing across the Gulf Stream in a spiffy black Cigarette boat, he figured all the hard humiliating work was paying off. Ten grand, and a free trip to Bimini!
　Mickey wasn't sure exactly who was paying him, and didn't care. He was feeling pretty good about the day, until the speedboat hit the curling wake of an oil tanker and the humongous fugitive politician-the one they called Big Joey G.-choked to death on his conch salad.
　Fay Leonard said, "Tell me you're not just throwing him overboard."
　Hector squinted at her. "No, baby, I'm not throwing him overboard. I'm rolling him overboard."
　The body of Big Joey disappeared over the transom. The splash was majestic. Fay glared at Hector; she hated polluters.
　Hector said, "That oughta add about eight knots to our cruising speed."
　"And three hundred pounds of filth to the water column," Fay muttered.
　"No, baby, that man is definitely biodegrading."
　
　Britt Montero, shackled on the deck next to Fay, couldn't help but snigger. Hector winked and flexed, making the scorpion tattoo do a shimmy. He slipped the strap of the Uzi over his shoulder and returned to the wheel. Fay's gaze shifted to the red Gott cooler at Hector's feet. Glumly she considered what was inside, packed on a pillow of ice.
　Nothing left to bargain with now, she thought. The granddaughter of Marion McAlister Williams will soon be sleeping with the fishes, and Joey G.
　Fay felt an elbow in her ribs. Britt leaned close and said, "Don't worry." Fay nodded gamely. Maybe they could talk their way out of it. Maybe there was hope.
　Just as the despicable Hector had predicted, the newly lightened Cigarette boat picked up speed. In her mind, Fay replayed the long ride. By the time Joey G. started gagging, everyone aboard had grown sick of him. His preposterous cryogenics spiel had become a topic of open ridicule among the captives; even Hector admitted it was baloney, along with the Vietnam skull-boiling rap. Nobody who saw Big Joey cram an entire quart of diced conch into his voluminous cheeks could've imagined him as a soldier in any man's army, in any war.
　Then came the jolt of the tanker wake, a shower of salt spray, and Joey was flopping on the deck like an albino walrus. Hector flung himself across the Gott cooler to prevent it from being kicked overboard. Before the others realized Big Joey wasn't reenacting some ludicrous jungle-sapper fantasy, it was over. All of Hector's strength was required to jettison the prebloated corpse.
　At the splash, the elegant older Cuban woman made a sign of the cross. Her escort, the guy dressed up to look like Castro, blurted: "Doesn't anybody here know the Heimlich?"
　"Oh yeah. The Heimlich." Hector peered over the transom. "Gee, I guess it's too late."
　He cranked the outrageous four Mercs and set a course for the Bimini islands. "Bastard," hissed Fay Leonard, but her words were lost in the high roar of the big outboards.
　
　Booger the manatee had watched from a depth of nine feet as the black speedboat idled from the slender channel into Biscayne Bay. He didn't know the boat was headed for the ocean, then the Bahamas. He didn't know who was on board, or why. He didn't know the dark purpose of the voyage.
　In fact there was much Booger didn't know, wouldn't know, couldn't know, since his brain was approximately the size and complexity of a bocci ball. Booger's breadth of rumination was therefore limited to a daily quest for warm quiet waters, tasty seaweed, and (once in a great while) clumsy sea cow sex.
　Whatever had gotten into this manatee in recent days coursed like a mysterious fever, temporarily investing him with the cunning of a dolphin, the fierce agility of a killer whale, and the dopey loyalty of a Labrador retriever. None of those qualities typically was found in Trichechus manatus-an ancient, migratory, dull, but delightfully docile hulk of mammal.
　The death of the old woman, for example, had stirred in Booger the utterly alien feelings of sorrow, rage, a thirst for revenge. No mere manatee was ever burdened by such complicated emotions! For most, bliss was never farther than the next juicy clump of turtle grass.
　In a way, Booger's gunshot wound was a blessing. Eventually the nagging sting in his flank chased away the brain fever and unclouded his primordial thinking.
　Lolling under the dock at Big Joey's house, Booger found himself losing the insane urge to chase boats, slap his tail on the surface like some hyperthyroid beaver, or attach strange names ("Ma"-what the heck did that mean?) to pale wrinkled humans.
　As daylight slipped away, Booger was cogitating less like a Disney character and more like an ordinary sea cow. He no longer fretted over what was happening in the bright dry world above him. Likewise, the fate of other species was no longer Booger's worry-a kitten could either swim, or it couldn't. And presented with a choice between rescuing a drowning person and dodging the propellers of a lunatic Donzi, Booger wouldn't hesitate to dive for cover.
　Sorry, pal. Every mammal for himself.
　As darkness fell, Booger swam slowly into the bay. He kept to the shoreline and meandered north toward the familiar bustle of Dinner Key. When he got there, he was startled to find swimming among the sailboats another manatee, shy and sleek and miraculously unscarred. As she brushed against him, Booger felt a tingle in his fluke.
　Soon the bullet wound was forgotten, as were the queer events of recent days and the fading clamor of Coconut Grove. Together the two sea cows struck out across the silky waters, breaching and diving in tandem. Booger knew of a little out-of-the-way place on Virginia Key, a quiet teardrop of a harbor where friendly human shrimpers occasionally tossed crispy heads of lettuce to visiting manatees.
　It was a helluva first date.
　
　The yacht of Juan Carlos Reyes was anchored in a gentle chop a mile east of North Bimini. Even for Hector it was easy to find: a gleaming 107-foot Feadship called Entrante Presidente.
　Reyes greeted them in a navy blazer, cream-colored slacks, and dainty Italian loafers. The yacht's salon reeked of cigars and heavy cologne. Britt and Fay instantly became sick. Reyes ordered them taken to a private cabin and handcuffed to a bedpost. Hector eagerly volunteered, but Reyes told him to sit down. One of Reyes's bodyguards, a weightlifter type with a pearl nose stud, escorted the women away.
　Juan Carlos appraised the Castro impersonator. "The real one was heavier in the belly," he said, circling, "but overall, my friend, you're not bad."
　"Thank you," said Mickey Schwartz. He had a routine to go with the getup: a bombastic and humorously convoluted tirade against Yankee imperialists, capitalism, and blue jeans.
　Juan Carlos Reyes wasn't interested in hearing it. "You must be Lilia," he said to the elegant older woman. He attempted to kiss her hand, but she pulled it away.
　"Little fool," she scoffed. "Cuba will never take you back."
　"We shall see, puta."
　Lilia bent over (for she was a full six inches taller than Juan Carlos Reyes) and slapped him smartly on the face, dislodging the smoldering nub of his cigar. Hector sprang forward, raising the stubby Uzi, but Reyes waved him off.
　"Fidel is ten times the man you'll ever be," said Lilia Sands.
　Reyes smiled. "Your precious Fidel is dead, old woman. Croaked. Cacked. Deceased. Checked out. Whacked. Eighty-sixed. Muerto. Your amor is no more."
　With frost in her voice, Lilia declared, "I do not believe you, enanillo!"
　"Ah, but my sources are impeccable." Juan Carlos
　Reyes plucked the cigar off the carpet and relit it. "The highest of connections in Washington-and yes, Havana." He turned to Hector. "Do you have it?"
　Hector nodded, fished in a pocket. He brought out a wispy lock of dark hair, tied in a red and gold Montecristo wrapper. He handed it to Reyes, who examined it as if it were a rare jewel.
　"In a cigar box," Hector said, "in her bedroom."
　Reyes chuckled. "Ironic, no?"
　Lilia glared defiantly. Mickey Schwartz deduced it was not the appropriate moment to mention his fee. He stared down at his black military boots, crusty with salt from the boat ride.
　Juan Carlos Reyes held up the tuft of hair as a trophy. "Proof!"
　Lilia spun away. "You're a fool. Fidel is not dead." She felt a comforting hand on her shoulder-the impersonator. A harmless fellow, she thought. And not a bad kisser.
　Carefully, Reyes slipped the lock of hair into an inside pocket of his blazer. "Hector," he said. "Bring me the prize. Bring me the key to my destiny!"
　"Cuba's destiny, you said."
　"Whatever. Go get the damn thing."
　Reyes himself cradled the Uzi while Hector retrieved the red cooler from the speedboat, which was tied to the yacht's stern. He brought the Gott into the salon and set it ceremoniously before Reyes' s delicate loafers.
　Lilia Sands and Mickey Schwartz had no idea what they were about to see. Excitedly, Juan Carlos shoved the machine gun butt-first at Hector, and flipped open the cooler. He removed a stainless canister the size of a hatbox, and placed it-shiny and perspiring from the ice-on a beveled glass dining table.
　"Where was it?" Reyes asked breathlessly.
　"Hidden in the woman's boat," Hector replied. "The blonde's."
　The stumpy millionaire chuckled. "Lost and then found. Fate, no? That's what brought him to me. Fate in the form of wild women." He stepped back from the canister. "Open it, Hector."
　"St."
　"Let the bastard out!"
　"OK, OK." Hector grappled with the canister's vacuum lock until it surrendered with a burp. Cautiously, he opened the lid.
　"Take it out," Reyes commanded.
　Hector hesitated. By nature he was not a squeamish man, but ...
　"Take it out!"
　Hector grabbed a gray mossy handful and lifted the staring head from the canister. He held it like a lantern, his arm outstretched toward the two captives. Mickey Schwartz's mouth turned to chalk. Lilia lowered her eyes.
　Juan Carjos Reyes was trembling with pleasure. "Senor Castro, how nice of you to join us! You're looking very jaunty this evening-wouldn't you agree, Miss Sands?"
　Without comment Lilia collapsed into Mickey Schwartz's arms. "Swell," he said with a grunt.
　Reyes produced a gold-plated cuticle scissors and snipped a thatch from the severed head. "Hector," he said, "keep an eye on our guests. I'll be in the galley."
　
　The DNA expert had been waiting three hours; a Harvard doctor, the best. "This is very exciting," Reyes said to himself, hurrying with the twin locks of hair out of the salon.
　Hector kept the Uzi trained on his captives as he refit the Castro head in its container. Mickey Schwartz arranged the unconscious Lilia on a leather sofa. He pointed at the canister. "That's him, isn't it? The real deal."
　"Shut up," said Hector, feeling creepy-Fidel's ugly face, everywhere he looked. He returned the canister to the red Gott cooler.
　The bodyguard with the pearl in his nose appeared in the salon with Fay and Britt. Firmly, he placed them on tall stools at the bar. The women still looked queasy.
　Mickey Schwartz said, "You missed quite a show."
　Promptly, Hector whacked him with the back of his hand. "I told you to shut up." *
　Mickey shut up. He felt the yacht begin to rock under a freshening northern breeze. The slap of the waves, grew louder against the hull.
　Britt cynically motioned toward the red cooler. "How's the head?"
　"What head?" said Hector with a wink. "Nothing but Snapples in there. Kiwi-flavored."
　Fay looked up. "Randy, what's going to happen to us?"
　Randy was the bodyguard with the nose stud. He furrowed his tan brow and blinked intently at Fay's question.
　"Randy doesn't know what's going to happen to us," Britt Montero said wearily. "Randy barely knows how to dress himself."
　Randy ambiguously clicked his teeth. Hector sighed.
　"Sweetheart, there's lots of things Randy knows how to do, and he'll show you one in particular if you don't shut your fat trap."
　Britt fell silent. Fay laid her head on the bar. Mickey Schwartz rubbed his jaw, and Lilia Sands stirred on the couch. Not a word was spoken for a long time, until Juan Carlos Reyes returned in an ebullient glow.
　The human head for which Marion McAlister Williams had been paid close to a million dollars, and for which she had eventually been murdered, belonged not to Fidel Castro but to one of his Cuban doubles, a man named Rigoberto Lopez.
　The purchaser of the head had been well aware it was not Castro's. The purchaser worked free-lance for the U.S. Central Intelligence Agency. His first name was Raymond; his last name was unknown, even to his own team.
　Raymond and his people had been given to understand that a serious problem threatened the administration's top-secret plan to replace the Cuban dictator. The scheme-dreamed up at the NSC, presented in Havana by former president Carter, and ultimately endorsed by the ailing Castro himself-had been to trick Castro's enemies into believing he was dead by using a fake head. In exchange for leaving Cuba, Fidel had been promised a safe and secret exile, the best cancer specialists in the world, and a cash departure bonus equivalent to that paid to Baby Doc Duvalier, when he fled Haiti.
　Raymond had been informed that the Castro plan was in jeopardy, due to a surplus of bogus heads in Greater Miami. Raymond had also been told that the plan was so vital to national security that he was authorized to spend any sum of money to retrieve the extra heads before their existence became a public scandal.
　Therefore Raymond had no qualms about giving a million in taxpayer funds to an eccentric old bird in Coconut Grove. The head in her refrigerator had been picked up in its steel canister and transported by a Coast Guard Citation jet to Washington, D.C., where it had been placed in a locked freezer in the basement of the State Department.
　It was in no way Raymond's fault that the U.S. government had subsequently closed down because of a petty political squabble, or that a cost-conscious assistant undersecretary at the State Department had shut off electricity to the building's basement, or that the million-dollar head of Rigoberto Lopez was currently decomposing faster than your average wheel of cheap Brie.
　Meanwhile Raymond was at the Alexander on Miami Beach, in a suite once occupied by Keith Richards. Raymond was a happy man. The sun was bright, the sky was blue, and he was interviewing a hack actor named Brandon Dash and a skittish makeup artist named Ziff Bodine. And Raymond had become totally convinced that the other surplus Castro head was only a clever movie prop, and that it was now safely suppurating in the belly of a lemon shark at a club named Hell.
　Which left one remaining head-the important one, the correct one, the one with the notch in the ear. And that head, according to Raymond's contacts, was exactly where it was supposed to be.
　Raymond made a brief, smug phone call to Washington. The man in Washington then made a call to Havana. The man in Havana then telephoned Miami Beach: the Odyssey Motel. Room 105.
　Mike Weston grabbed it on the third ring. "What's the good news, compadre?"
　A short pause, then: "Everything's fine. We found your lost luggage. Where is Hector?"
　"On a seaplane flying home from Bimini."
　"It went well?" asked the voice from Havana.
　"Perfect. I expect him any minute," Weston said. "I'm already packing for Belize."
　"Don't go anywhere until you hear from us. Don't leave the room-you understand?"
　"Hey, you're the boss," Weston said.
　"You do understand? Stay right where you are."
　"I heard you the first time." Weston hung up the phone, stretched out on the starchy motel sheets, dialed up another porny film on Spectravision, and waited for Hector.
　That's where Franklin and Marlis found them later, their insides decorating the room.
　
　Aboard the Entrante Presidente, the captives were served lobster fritters and a tangy mango sorbet. Hunger overcame their pride and anxiety.
　Juan Carlos Reyes, who was in a celebratory mood, told them what would come next. "Of course you will not be killed, because there's no need. A small launch will take you from my yacht to the Big Game Club in Bimini. There you'll be met by Bahamian customs and immigration officers. For the next several days, you will have a most difficult time trying to return to Miami."
　Britt Montero started to speak, but the millionaire cut her off. "Miss Montero, don't ever think about calling in a story to your newspaper. Your cellular has already been disabled and your accommodations in Bimini, unfortunately, will be too rustic for telephone jacks."
　Britt said, "You'll never get away with it."
　"Oh, I will. Easily, in fact. By the time you get out, I'll be on my way to Havana."
　Angrily, Fay Leonard said, "You can't silence us."
　"Nor would I want to," said Juan Carlos Reyes. "Miss Leonard, I'll have my own version of these events, which will be substantiated by an esteemed scientist from Harvard, and also by Mr. Schwartz, if he still wishes to be paid for his services."
　Mickey hung his head.
　"My recollection," Reyes went on, "is that Miss Leonard and Miss Montero, having heard of my million-dollar offer for proof of Castro's death, greedily attempted to defraud me. They constructed a flimsy hoax involving a Castro impersonator and a delusional old woman, Miss Sands, in the hopes I'd fall for it-"
　"That's ridiculous!" Fay shouted.
　"Maybe, maybe not." Reyes took a sip of rum. "Miss Montero, do your readers know how little your newspaper pays you? A million dollars would buy lots of cat food, no?"
　Britt chewed her lower lip, and thought of her callow young editors. Assuming her story would eventually get published, she wondered what she could possibly write about the severed heads that would make any sense.
　Juan Carlos Reyes rose. "Randy will take you to the launch." He bowed slightly toward Lilia. "I'm sorry your heart is broken, Miss Sands, but I'm not at all sorry your infamous lover is dead. My only regret is that I didn't kill him myself."
　"As if you could," Lilia said venomously. "Little cockroach that you are. Cowardly limp-noodled-"
　"Enough," Mickey Schwartz cut in.
　"-rotten little crook!"
　Juan Carlos Reyes wagged a mocking finger at Lilia Sands. "Now is that any way," he asked, "to address the next president of a free Cuba?"
　It was a good plan; a solid plan. A plan that would've worked, if only the real Fidel Castro had not been insulted, propositioned, and mugged in broad daylight on Miami Beach.
　
　The messy murders of the two men in room 105-that hadn't bothered Castro, for he'd known of it in advance. He even knew what the police still did not know: the victims' names (Hector Pupo and Mike Weston), and why they'd had to die (they were loud, careless, and knew too much).
　A security matter handled by experts who made it look amateurish-Fidel understood such things.
　However, the arrival of the perky cleanup crew had put him on edge. Castro was rattled by the knowledge that murders were so common in South Florida that swabbing up crime scenes was a full-time trade, and evidently a lucrative one.
　Franklin and Marlis, the workers who came to room 105, were too talky and inquisitive. They stared dubiously at Fidel's Korean-made toupee, and posed snoopy questions disguised as banter. Fidel, as usual, pretended not to understand English. It was all he could do not to retch during Franklin's graphic monologue about the effects of gastric acids on suede upholstery.
　Castro realized that if Franklin and Marlis somehow recognized him, they could with one well-placed phone call generate more business for themselves, and perhaps even the gratuity of a lifetime. Once Castro gave a subtle tug on his good earlobe, three stocky men in guayaberas materialized to escort the voluble cleaners off the premises. Meanwhile Fidel slipped into his room and changed into a bathing suit, an absurd vermilion slingshot which was (Cuban intelligence had assured him) the prevailing beachside attire of old, pallid, pudgy male tourists.
　The outfit worked too well, the swimsuit a beacon. Strolling alone on the sand, Fidel was scarcely a hundred yards from the motel when a gum-popping prostitute offered to "rock your world, Gramps," for fifty U.S. dollars. Her efforts at detaching his red thong were interrupted by a wiry ferret-eyed man who roughly knocked Castro down, stuck a pistol in his belly, and stripped off the gold Cartier wristwatch he'd received as a gift on a state visit to Paris.
　Fidel didn't recognize the robber, but he recognized the prison tattoos on the man's grimy knuckles. Combinado del Este! With amazement Castro realized he was being mugged by a thug that he himself had sprung from prison and put on a boat to Key West in 1980. The bleak beautiful irony made him cough up blood.
　Numbed by the morphine, Fidel felt more indignity than pain as the mugger ran away. Before the old man could rise to his knees, a red-haired urchin no older than six plucked the hairpiece from his scalp and dashed down the beach, shouting to his mother that he'd found a dead crow.
　Castro, feeling himself hoisted by the armpits, reasonably anticipated dismemberment or evisceration.
　"Easy," said the voice, which belonged to a motel security guard. The cheap badge on his shirt said "Joe Sereno." Fidel was grateful to see him.
　"You all right?" Sereno asked. "Man, you don't look so good."
　In perfect English, Castro gasped, "What is this craziness? These monsters?"
　"Just another day at the beach." Sereno smiled ruefully. "The problem, see, it started when they went to topless. The guys, old tourist guys like yourself, come down here to stare at the cuties. Am I right? The gangs, hookers, scumbags-they all know this. So they hang on this stretch, just waiting."
　Fidel morosely dusted the grit from his chest. Sereno gently led him back toward the Odyssey. "I mean, you're a criminal it's not such a bad deal. Get a tan. Enjoy the naked babes. Mug a few Germans and Canadians, and that's your day."
　"Why," rasped Castro, "aren't these terrible people in jail!"
　Joe Sereno burst out laughing. "Where you from, old-timer-Mars? Come on, let me take you back to your room."
　"Thank you, officer."
　"By the way, there's something I gotta ask."
　Fidel's jaws clenched. The security guy was eyeing him closer now, the way the cleaners had.
　"Your name," said Sereno, "it's not really Garcia, is it?"
　Less than two hours later, a chartered Gulfstream jet landed at the Opa-Locka airport, where it was met by a black Chevy Blazer. Four men got out and moved toward the plane. The tallest one walked slowly, as if in pain. The others could be seen helping him up the stairs. Minutes later, a station wagon arrived and a fifth person, a woman in a long gown, was led to the jet.
　The flight plan indicated the Gulfstream would be heading nonstop to Kingston, Jamaica. This was a fib. The destination was Havana. Fidel Castro was going home to die.
　Miami was too damn scary. The deal was off.
　
　The remaining severed head, the one Juan Carlos Reyes imagined would make him president of Cuba, belonged to another expendable Castro double, Jose Paz-Gutierrez.
　This fact was known to Castro himself, Cuban State Security, the CIA, and of course Lilia Sands, who-on numerous long-ago lonely nights, when Fidel was away-had slept with Jose Paz-Gutierrez at a farmhouse in Camagiiey. Of course she'd saved a lock of Jose's hair, as she did for all her lovers.
　No one was less surprised than Lilia when Reyes's DNA expert matched with .9999995 certainty the hair from Lilia's cigar box with the severed head in the red Gott cooler. Her secret glee at fooling the munchkin-sized millionaire was tempered by a pang of wistfulness, for of all the Castro doubles Lilia had slept with, Jose Paz-Gutierrez had been the best-the one whose embrace most reminded her of Fidelito himself, the one whose earlobe she had once chomped off in ecstasy, just as she had Fidel's.
　In fact, though Lilia wouldn't dare confess it, Jose Paz-Gutierrez definitely had Castro beat in one department, lovemaking-wise. The ardent Jose had a much longer ... attention span, if you will. Lilia wondered if that's what had gotten him killed, as Castro's jealous streak was well known.
　So she had mixed feelings on this special Friday morning. Oh, she was glad to be back in Havana, holding Fidel's hand as a fussy gringo tried to restore the illusion of vitality-gluing on the frizzy beard, aligning a new toupee, ruddying the cheeks, powdering the shadows around the hollowing eyes.
　Still, Lilia took no joy in knowing that across the Florida Straits, the head of poor Jose Paz-Gutierrez soon would be boorishly displayed for all to see, like a taxidermied fish. Oh well, Lilia thought, it's all for the cause.
　As she stroked Fidel's arm, hairless from chemotherapy, she observed a pale stripe on his wrist.
　"Where is your watch?" she asked.
　"Miami," Castro said sullenly.
　"What happened?"
　"I got mugged," he said, grimacing at the memory, "by a Marielito. Go ahead and laugh."
　"I'm not laughing." Lilia turned, covered her mouth. "Honestly, Fidel, I'm not."
　
　The massive televised rally arranged at Miami's Torch of Friendship by Juan Carlos Reyes was not seen by:
　? Britt Montero and Fay Leonard, who were sharing bare cinder-block quarters at the South Bimini airfield, under the supervision of an armed Bahamas customs officer;
　? Mickey Schwartz, who was gambling away his ten-thousand-dollar payday on Paradise Island, where none of the cute croupiers seemed remotedly amused by his stand-up impression of Howard Stern;
　? Jake Lassiter, who was in a Flagler Street hot tub with the lukewarm ex-wife of his ex-client John Deal;
　? John Deal, who was on Bird Road shopping for a red Testarossa to go with his black Bentley convertible;
　? Marlis and Franklin, who were literally mopping up after a fatal cocaine dispute at a FEMA trailer court in Homestead;
　? Joe Sereno, who was thanking a police review board for reinstating him, and promising to be more careful when arresting incontinent tourists;
　? and Jimmy Carter, who was in Havana for a rare public appearance and historic announcement by Fidel Castro.
　So absorbed in the pomp of his "preinauguration" was Juan Carlos Reyes that he remained unaware of events unfolding simultaneously in Cuba, unaware he was about to share a TV screen five stories high with the same man whose severed noggin he intended to unveil, unaware that local television stations were already receiving a live satellite feed from the presidential palace in Havana.
　So that at the climactic moment when Juan Carlos Reyes victoriously hoisted a bearded head for all America to see, a very similar but undead head emerged on a sun-bleached balcony in Cuba. There the real Castro announced a liberal new human rights policy that freed every political prisoner, including (not coincidentally) two of Lilia Sands's nephews.
　In Miami, the cheers at the Torch of Friendship ebbed into a confused mass murmuring as the crowd struggled to understand what they were seeing on the huge split screen. On one side was Reyes, waving the goggle-eyed head and proclaiming himself the harbinger of a new democracy in Cuba. On the other side, flanked by former president Carter, was a person who looked very much like Castro, and very much like he was still breathing.
　Juan Carlos Reyes sensed the audience was no longer enthralled by his oratory. He spun around and saw what they saw on the giant TV screen.
　"Noooooo!" The millionaire wheeled, bellowing into the thicket of microphones. "It's a trick! Can't you see, here is Castro!" He shook the head like a tambourine. "I can prove it, I can prove this is Fidel's head!"
　Reyes was handicapped by the fact that, despite his wealth and power, he was not very popular in the exile community. For many years, Cuban-Americans had endured his grandiose promises, vituperative politics, and heavy-handed fund-raising tactics. Now this: a phony Castro head! It was too much.
　Members of the crowd registered their scorn by hurling rocks, bottles, and ripe coconuts at Juan Carlos Reyes, who fled the stage at a dead run. He showed fair speed for a short-legged fellow, but the mob chasing him through Bayfront Park was fueled by outrage. When Reyes reached the seawall, he hesitated only briefly before diving into Biscayne Bay. The bearded head went with him.
　
　While Booger didn't know much, he did know where human idiots liked to run their speedboats. From traumatic experience he'd learned to remain submerged in the busiest lanes of the bay, especially the waters between Dodge Island and Bayfront Park.
　Thus Booger and his new female friend, having taken a prodigious breath, were safely coasting across the bottom when the yellow Donzi full of would-be playboys roared out of Bayside Marketplace. The boat swung south at the ridiculous speed of fifty-eight knots. At its helm was a seventeen-year-old trust fund troglodyte, culturally intoxicated by his first visit to Hooter's.
　Reflexively, Booger glanced upward at the approaching growl of the Donzi. Fifteen feet above him, haplessly flailing into the boat's path, was a man in a business suit. One of his hands clutched something round and mossy-looking, though it definitely wasn't a head of lettuce.
　The Booger of forty-eight hours before-the febrile, erratic Booger with Flipperian fantasies-might have been reminded of poor old Marion, might have shot upward to rescue this wallowing specimen from the deadly propellers that had claimed so many of Booger 's dearest manatee companions.
　But the new Booger knew better. The notion of playing hero never entered his unconvoluted brain, which at the moment was singularly focused on procreation. Thirteen hundred pounds of saucy sea cow nooky had paddled into Booger's life, and he was serene beyond distraction.
　So he dismissed the human commotion on the surface of the bay; lowered his shoe button eyes and swam onward, nudging and nuzzling his slippery new mate. Booger might have flinched slightly at the familiar thud of the impact above, the sickening whine of cavitating props, but he didn't look up a second time.
　Every mammal for himself.

CH.NativeTongue

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CH.SickPuppy

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CH.TheCrazyKill

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CH.TheRealCoolKillers

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CHiaasen.StormyWeather

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CHiaasen.TouristSeason

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ChM.PerdidoStreetStation

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chuckpalahniuk.fightclub

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Clive Cussler.Serpent

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CP.CreaturesOfForever

  1
　　
　　I am a very powerful vampire. In the recent past several encounters have served to increase my abilities. My creator, Yaksha, allowed me to drink his blood before he perished. Yaksha, who originally made me a vampire five thousand years ago, was much stronger than I was. His final transfusion of blood heightened my strength as well as my senses, both my physical senses and supernatural ones. After that my blood was mingled, through the secret of ancient alchemy, with that of the divine child. I am not exactly sure what this child's blood did for me because I am still not sure what this child can do. Yet it did make me feel stronger, definitely more invincible. Finally, before she died, my own daughter Kalika gave me her blood in order to save me. And this last infusion has done amazing things for me. Really, I feel I have become my daughter, the irreproachable Kali avatar, and am capable of anything. The feeling is both reassuring and disturbing. With all this increase in power, I have to wonder if I have grown any wiser.
　　I am still up to my old tricks.
　　Killing for kicks, and for love.
　　In a sense, since vampires are considered dead by living beings, I killed my friend, Seymour Dorsten, by making him a vampire. But I only did this to prevent his certain death. I have to wonder if Lord Krishna will forgive me this-the third exception to my vow to him. I question if I am still protected by his divine grace. Actually, I wonder if Krishna has allowed me to become so powerful because he no longer intends to look after me. It would be just like him, to bestow a boon and a curse in the same act. God has a wicked sense of humor. I once met Krishna and still think about him.
　　At present I sit in a bar in Santa Monica with Seymour on the stool beside me. We are drinking Cokes and chatting with a young lady, but Seymour is thinking of blood and sex. I know his thoughts because, since drinking my daughter's blood, my mental radar has become incredibly sensitive. Before I could only sense emotions, now I get all the particulars. And I know that while Seymour flirts with the young lady, the guy at the end of the bar, with the swan tattoo on his left wrist and the shine on his black wing tips, is thinking of murder.
　　I have been watching this guy since I sat down, quietly reading his mind. He has killed twice in the last month and tonight he wants to make it number three. He prefers helpless young females, who silently scream as he slowly strangles them. But even though I try to catch his eye-smiling, winking-I am not successful and that puzzles me. I mean, I am cute and helpless looking, with my long blond hair and clear blue eyes, my tight blue jeans and my expensive black leather coat. But I intend to kill this guy, oh yes, before the night is through. He will die as slowly as his victims, and I will not feel a twinge of guilt.
　　"So what do you do when you're not partying?" the girl asks Seymour. She is pretty in a lazy sort of way, with short red hair that has been cut to mimic that of a popular magazine model, and nervous glossy lips that need to be moving, either talking or drinking. She is currently drunk but I do not judge her. Her name is Heidi and I know to Seymour she is the second cutest thing in the world. Since becoming a vampire, he has conquered his virginity and then some. But I haven't slept with him, and I suppose that is why I'm still a goddess in his eyes. Seymour leans close to Heidi and smiles sweetly.
　　"I'm a vampire," he says. "Every night is a party to me."
　　Heidi clasps her hands together and laughs heartily. "I love vampires," she says. "Is your sister one as well?"
　　"No," I interrupt. "I have a day job."
　　"She works undercover for the LAPD," Seymour continues. "She's really good, too. Last week she caught this thief in the act and blew off the back of his head."
　　Heidi frowns, her lower lips twitching. "Do you carry a gun?" she asks me.
　　I sip my Coke. "No. My hands are lethal weapons." I know Seymour intends to sleep with this girl, and I don't mind. But I don't want him to use his eyes to manipulate her into bed. This is a warning I have repeatedly given him, that his vampiric will cannot be used to dominate human will in order to gain sex. To me, that is just another form of rape, and so far Seymour has obeyed my rule. Also, I have forbidden him to drink from his conquests. He lacks the skill and control to stop feeding before he kills a person. For that reason, when he has to drink blood, he does so with me beside him. But unlike Ray, Seymour is not squeamish about blood. He loves being a vampire so much so that he should have been born one.
　　"Do you know karate?" Heidi asks me.
　　"She is a walking Kung Fu machine," Seymour gushes.
　　I stand and cast Seymour a hard look. "I am going to go talk to this guy at the end of the bar. I'll meet up with you later. OK?"
　　Seymour understands that I intend to kill this guy. He is not squeamish about blood, but death still disturbs him. We have never actually killed any of his meals. He pales slightly and lifts his glass.
　　"Let me know what you're up to," he says.
　　"Good luck," Heidi exclaims as I step past.
　　"Thank you," I say.
　　The guy at the bar notices my approach and makes room for me. Sliding onto the chair beside him, I bat my long lashes and smile innocently. I am sweet, the type I hope he enjoys.
　　"Hello," I say.
　　"Good evening," he replies. He is terribly good looking, and young, twenty-two at most, with a Rolex on his wrist to cover his tattoo and a seductive smirk on his adorable face. His hair is longish, brown and curly. "What's your name?" he asks.
　　"Alisa," I say, not being too secretive because I know he won't live long enough to repeat it. "You?"
　　"Dan. What're you drinking?"
　　"Coke. I'm on a diet."
　　He snorts. "What kind of diet is that?"
　　I laugh softly. "An all-sugar diet. Do you come here often?"
　　He sips his scotch. "No. To tell you the truth, this place bugs me."
　　I'm already tired of making conversation. I just want to kill him and be done with it. Since inheriting Kalika's psychic abilities, I have gone out of my way to kill a few bad apples. Of course, I have no intention of making it my life's work.
　　"Do you want to leave?" I ask.
　　He acts surprised. "Who are you?" he asks, with an edge to his voice.
　　I catch his eyes. I have a very strong stare. Just by looking at metal, I can make it turn to liquid. I pitch my voice so there is no way he can refuse my invitation.
　　"Just a girl. You're looking for a girl, aren't you?"
　　He finishes his drink and stands. "Let's go," he barks.
　　Out on the street, he walks fast toward a car he never seems to find. I have to adopt a brisk pace to keep up with him. People move past us in the dark, the nameless faces of a humanity I have known forever. The summer air is warm.
　　"I have a car if you can't find yours," I finally offer.
　　He shrugs. "I just thought we'd take a walk first, get to know each other."
　　"Fine. What do you do for a living?"
　　"I'm a plumber. What do you do?"
　　"I'm an artist."
　　He is amused. "Oh, yeah? Do you paint?"
　　"I sculpt. Statues."
　　He gives a wolfish grin. "Nudes?"
　　"Sometimes." It's so nice to get to know each other.
　　Yet there's something wrong, more than the obvious. He's not at ease with me, and his discomfort goes beyond his thoughts of wanting to murder me. He fantasizes how my bright blue eyes will dim as my brain dies beneath his grip. Yet I am more than just another victim to him.
　　He is afraid of me.
　　Someone has told him something about me.
　　But who that someone is, I don't know. My concentration is divided between Seymour and my situation. Yet I don't know why I should worry about Seymour. Certainly Heidi is not going to harm him. I scanned the girl's mind for a few seconds when I met her and there was nothing in there but thoughts of drink and sex. No, I tell myself, Dan is all that matters. I wonder where he's leading me, who we'll meet on the other end. He makes a sharp left into a dark alleyway. Naturally, to my eyes, everything in the alley is perfectly clear.
　　"Where are we going?" I ask.
　　"My place," he says.
　　"Can you walk to your place from here?"
　　"Yeah." He pauses and studies me out of the corner of his eye. Although he's striving to act cool, his breathing is rapid, his heart pounds. He definitely knows I am more than I seem, more dangerous than a cop with a gun. But he doesn't know I'm a vampire. There are no images in his mind of my drinking his blood. But the farther we walk, the more difficult his thoughts are to penetrate-another mystery. Yet I know he is worried what will happen with me in connection with another, how our meeting will go. This other, I sense, is also dangerous, in the same way he thinks I am.
　　The other is close. Waiting.
　　Are we going to meet another vampire?
　　There should be no other vampires, other than Seymour and myself.
　　I smile. "Do you live alone?"
　　"Yeah," he says, and his hands brush against his coat pocket. I realize he has a weapon there, and wonder why I didn't spot it before. The gun must be unusually small, I think. But when I sniff with my nose, I detect not even a trace of lead or gunpowder in the air, and I can smell a bullet from a quarter of a mile away. My questions pile one on top of the other, but I am far from ready to walk away from the encounter. There is a puzzle here-I must solve it.
　　"I live with my brother," I say.
　　"The guy back at the bar?"
　　"Yeah."
　　"He doesn't look like your brother." There is a bite to his remark. For some reason, Seymour is still very much on this guy's mind. Why?
　　"We had different fathers," I say, and my own hand brushes against the knife I wear in my belt beneath my black leather coat. Nowadays, I can kill a man at better than a mile with my trusty blade. Even good old Eddie Fender, a psychopath if ever there was one, would be useless against my new and improved reflexes.
　　Dan snorts. "I never knew my father."
　　That is one truth in a string of lies.
　　There is a warehouse at the end of the block, a shabby affair built to house dirty equipment and sweaty workers. Using a key, he opens the door and we go inside. The warehouse is chock full of shelves of metal gear, the nuts and bolts of larger pieces of machinery. There is a pronounced smell of diesel fuel. The yellow lights, coated in grime, are few and far away. The shadows seem to shift as Dan turns toward me. If he reaches for his weapon, I will put a foot in his heart. Already, I think, I should kill him. Yet I want to know why he has brought me to this place, who the other is. Even though I reach out with my mind, I sense no one else in the building. He studies me in the poor light.
　　"Are you really an artist?" he asks. His curiosity is genuine, as is his continuing fear. He wants the other to arrive soon, so he can return to the streets.
　　"No," I say, "I lied."
　　My remark unsettles him. He thinks about his weapon-the small something in his coat pocket. He shifts uneasily.
　　"What are you then?" he asks.
　　"A vampire," I say.
　　He smiles, a lopsided affair. "No shit."
　　"Yeah. It's true." Still staring at him, I begin to move around him. He feels my eyes-I let the fire enter them, sparks of pressure. Sweat appears on his forehead and I continue. "I am a five-thousand-year-old vampire. And you are a murderer."
　　His upper lip twists. "What are you talking about?"
　　"You, Dan, your private occupation. Because I'm a vampire, I can read your mind. I know about the two girls you killed, how you strangled them and then ate a big red steak afterward. Killing makes you hungry-that's one of the reasons you do it. That's opposite of me. I kill to satisfy my hunger." I reach out and finger the sleeve of his shirt. "I'm thinking of killing you."
　　He brushes my hand away. Yet he doesn't go for his gun. Someone has warned him that could be fatal. "You're insane," he says angrily.
　　I laugh softly. "You don't mean that, Dan. Someone told you I was different so you're not completely surprised by what I say. I want to know about that someone. If you tell me now, tell me everything you know, I might let you live." Once more I reach out. This time I touch his left ear, but before he can swat my hand away, I pinch it. Rather hard, I think. He is in pain. "Talk," I say softly.
　　"Stop," he pleads, as I force him to bend over.
　　"Just a slight tug of my hand," I say, "and your ear will separate from your head. I am very strong. So talk to me, while you still can. Who is to meet me here?"
　　"I don't know." He squeals as I twist his ear. "I don't know!"
　　"Tell me what you do know."
　　He gasps for air. "She is just someone I know. She came to me after I killed the first girl. She said I could work for her. She gave me money. Please, you're hurting me. Let me go!"
　　I shake him hard. "What is so special about her? Why didn't you just kill her and take her money?"
　　Red appears on the left side of his head. His ear is coming loose. He tries to straighten up and I force him back down.
　　"Her eyes," he cries. "She has strange eyes."
　　I pause, and then let him go. He is bleeding badly now.
　　"What is strange about her eyes?" I ask quietly.
　　He holds his hand to his ear, panting. "They're like yours," he says bitterly.
　　"Is she a vampire?" I ask.
　　He shakes his aching head. "I don't know what she is." He takes his hand away; it is soaked in blood. "Oh God."
　　I frown. "Does she have exceptional strength?"
　　The blood continues to drip from his ear onto his blue shirt. "I don't know. She never hurt me like you just did."
　　"When is she coming here?" I demand.
　　"She should be here now."
　　There is a sound off to my right, deeper in the warehouse. As I whirl to confront it, I also reach into Dan's coat pocket and remove his weapon. It is not something I can use to protect myself, not without study. It is a small rectangle of metal, with buttons on the side. Really, it looks like some sci-fi creation to defeat alien monsters.
　　Two figures move in the shadows beyond the towers of drawers. One is Heidi, the other Seymour. Heidi has one of these funny little boxes in her right hand, pressed to Seymour's neck. She stands behind him, using him as a shield. She is no longer drunk. When she speaks, her voice resonates with power and authority.
　　"Throw down the matrix or I will kill your friend," she says. "Do so now."
　　The matrix will take me several minutes to master and is of no use to me right then so I throw it down. Heidi takes a step closer, bringing Seymour with her. It is clear, from her body language, that she is stronger than my vampiric friend. The big question is, am I stronger and quicker than she is? Seymour stands relatively still, knowing the danger is real. Heidi's expression is harder to decipher. There is an emptiness to it, an almost total lack of humanity. I wonder at the transformation in her, and realize that Seymour and I have been set up. Dan fidgets on my left, anxious to be gone. His left ear continues to bleed freely. He speaks to Heidi.
　　"I have done everything you asked," he says.
　　She nods. "You may leave."
　　Dan turns toward the door we entered.
　　"Wait," I say in a simple yet powerful tone.
　　Dan pauses in midstride and glances over at me, sweating, bleeding, shaking. But my attention is on Heidi, or on the creature inside her. Right then she reminds me of James Seter, Ory of ancient Egypt, the Setian that possessed Dr. Seter's adopted son. Yet there is something different about her as well.
　　"I don't want Dan to leave," I add softly, planting the idea deep inside Dan's mind, so he has no choice but to stay. But I am not the only one in the room with subtle powers.
　　"Leave now," Heidi tells Dan.
　　His paralysis breaks. He takes another step toward the door.
　　I reach out and grab him, and now Dan is my shield. My fingers are around his neck and I push him toward Heidi and Seymour.
　　"Release Seymour or I will kill him," I say.
　　In response Heidi levels her matrix in our direction and pushes a button on the side of the black box. There is a flash of red light, and I let go of Dan and dive to the side, behind a tower of drawers. The weird light hits Dan and he is vaporized. Just like that, on a gust of burning air, he vanishes on the tail of a piercing scream.
　　Wow, I think. Heidi has a ray gun.
　　In a flash, I move through the building, using the equipment and machinery as camouflage. Heidi seems able to follow my movements, but not well. I estimate her powers to be equal to mine before Yaksha, the child, and Kalika restyled my nervous system. Yet her psychic control must be greater. In the bar she knew who I was, but I knew nothing about her.
　　I end up in a dark corner, up high, behind a bunch of boxes. For the moment, Heidi seems to have lost me. But I know if I speak to her, she will find me. Yet I am capable of projecting my voice, making it bounce off inanimate objects. Perhaps I can fool her yet. I do want to talk to her. She continues to keep Seymour close.
　　Heidi finally stops searching for me.
　　"We do not wish to destroy you," she calls out.
　　"Could have fooled me," I reply.
　　"We wish to meet with you, make you an offer," she says. "Come out where we can speak. You know this to be true. We could have killed you in the bar if your death was all we wished."
　　"I will come out only after you have explained who you are," I say. "And don't threaten Seymour. He is all you have to bargain with, and I think we both know it."
　　"We are of an ancient tradition," she says. "Our line is mingled with yours, and with that of others. We hold all powers. This world moves toward a period of transition. The harvest must be increased. We are here as caretakers, as well as masters. If you join us in our efforts, your reward will be great."
　　"Could you be a little more specific?" I say.
　　"No. You agree to join us or not. The choice is simple."
　　"And if I refuse?"
　　"You will be destroyed. You are fast and strong, but you cannot survive against our weapons."
　　"But I must have something you don't have," I say. "Or else you would not be interested in my assistance. What is this thing?"
　　"That is not to be discussed at this time."
　　"But I want to discuss it."
　　Seymour cries out in pain.
　　"This one is dear to you," Heidi says. "And you are wrong. We have more to bargain with than his physical shell. At the moment I am twisting off his arm. If you do not come out of hiding, he will be destroyed."
　　I hear no bluff in her voice.
　　"Very well," I say. "But if I show myself, you must give me your word that neither Seymour or myself will be destroyed."
　　"I give you my word," she says flatly.
　　I wish I still had the matrix with me, even if I don't know how to use it. But it is still in her sight lines: I cannot get to it. All I have is my knife. Just before I step into the light, I position it on a shelf near the circular area where Heidi holds Seymour captive. I point the tip of the blade toward them, then I appear around a tower of shelves. Heidi is not surprised. She continues to press the matrix into Seymour's neck.
　　"Release him now," I say.
　　"Not yet," she says. "Not until you join us."
　　"Don't be foolish," I say. "I cannot join a group I know nothing about. Where are your people from?"
　　"Here, and elsewhere."
　　"Are you from another world?"
　　"Yes and no."
　　"Are you human?"
　　"Partly."
　　"How many are in your group?"
　　"The number cannot be measured by human or vampire standards."
　　"So you know I am a vampire. Who told you?"
　　"You did."
　　"No. When?"
　　"Long ago." Heidi shakes Seymour and I hear the bones in his spine crack. "Enough of these questions. You join us now or you will be destroyed."
　　"What do I have to do to join you?" I ask.
　　"You must swear an oath, and offer us a large portion of your blood."
　　"What do I get in return?"
　　"I have told you. Power."
　　"Power to do what?"
　　She sharpens her tone. "Enough! What is your decision?"
　　Since she has a weapon at my friend's throat, I feel I have no choice. "I will join you," I say. "On the condition you release Seymour."
　　"Agreed." She pushes Seymour forward so that he stands midway between us.
　　"Seymour," I say quickly. "Leave this place."
　　He has been hurt and frightened, but he is no coward.
　　"Will you be all right?" he asks. He does not want to leave.
　　"Yes," I say firmly. "You cannot help me by remaining. Leave."
　　He turns toward the door.
　　"No," Heidi says. Seymour stops-there is strength in her tone. "He is not to leave. He is to be your sacrifice."
　　"We have an agreement," I say bitterly. "He is to be let go."
　　"No," Heidi repeats, and there is cold evil in her voice. "I agreed only to release him. I have done so. But to join us you must sacrifice him. It is part of your initiation."
　　My tone is scornful. "Is this the way of your people? You splice words so thinly they become lies."
　　Heidi points the matrix at Seymour's back. "Your choice remains the same. You have five seconds to make it."
　　I imagine she is good at keeping time. Seymour's face is ashen. He believes, either way, that he is a goner. But I have not lived five thousand years to be so easily tricked. Clearly this creature knows a great deal about me, but not everything. Since the recent infusion of Kalika's blood into my system, I have the ability to move things with my mind, as well as read minds. I have no doubt my daughter could effortlessly affect objects from immense distances. This psychokinesis, however, requires great concentration on my part and I have never used it under adverse conditions. Up at Lake Tahoe, where my friend Paula lives with the divine child, I have only practiced pushing rocks and sticks from place to place.
　　But now I must move a knife.
　　Push it through Heidi's throat.
　　The blade is above and behind her. I can see it; she cannot. Yet I am afraid to focus completely on it, afraid Heidi will guess what I am up to. Instead I must continue to stare at Heidi, while I think of the knife, only of the knife. Rising up on its own, flying through the air, digging deep into her soft flesh, slicing open her veins, ripping to pieces her nerves. Yes, I tell myself, the knife will fly. It can fly. The very magnetism of my mind commands it to do so now. At this very moment.
　　"You have two seconds," Heidi says.
　　"You have only one," I whisper as I feel my thoughts snatch hold of the cold alloy, a special blend of metals, far more powerful than steel, an edge far sharper than that of a razor. For me, it is almost as if I hold the blade in my fingers. There is pleasure for me in this killing. But for her, there is only surprise.
　　The blade swishes through the air.
　　Heidi hears it, turns, but too late.
　　The knife sinks into the side of her neck and suddenly her blood is pouring onto the dirty floor. Yet I do not take this to mean my victory is complete. Heidi's will is strong; she will not die easily. Even as her left hand rises up to remove the blade, her right hand brings up the matrix and aims it at both Seymour and me. We are standing in a straight line in front of her. I anticipate this move, and already am flying toward my friend. I hit him in the knees just as a flash of red light stabs the air where he was standing. Together Seymour and I roll on the floor. But I am quickly up and kick the matrix from Heidi's hand before she can get off another shot. My knife in her neck has slowed her down some, but she almost has it out, and perhaps she is capable of healing even fatal wounds, as I can. But I will not give her the chance. Before she can totally remove the knife, I reach out and grab her head and twist it all the way around, breaking every bone in her neck. She sags lifeless in my arms, dead, but still I am not finished with her. Ripping off her head, I throw it into the far corner. Now there is no way she can recover.
　　"Nice," Seymour says behind me.
　　"Get those two weapons," I say as I drop to my knees and examine Heidi's headless corpse. "We are leaving here in a few seconds. Her partners must be nearby."
　　"Understood."
　　While Seymour goes off to collect the two ray guns, I rifle through Heidi's clothes, coming up with a wallet and a passport. These I will study later. Feeling her from neck to foot, I find nothing else on her person. Seymour is quick on his feet. Already he stands behind me with the matrixes in his hand.
　　"Who was she?" he asks.
　　"I haven't the slightest idea." I stand. "Let's get out of here."
　　
   2
　　
　　The following morning I sit beside Paula Ramirez on the edge of Emerald Bay in the area of Lake Tahoe. The sun is brilliant in a clear cerulean sky. Inside Paula's house, Seymour sleeps, a young vampire still allergic to the sun. Now the sun doesn't affect me in the slightest, and again I must credit this to my daughter's blood. Even the burning Surya, the sun god, could not intimidate the Dark Mother, Kali. Kalika's ashes rest in a vase that sits beside me in the sand. I have brought the vase with me from the house. I don't know why. Except I still miss her so, my beautiful, mysterious daughter, killed by a Setian.
　　Paula holds her three-month-old son, John, and listens as I describe what happened in Los Angeles. I have driven all night to reach Paula. The infant kicks his bare feet in the cold water. He looks and sounds happy. I am happy just to see him. He always has that effect on me. It was this child's blood that brought Seymour back from the dead. Yet I did not take John's blood-once I had saved him from the Setians-to save my daughter. I knew it was not what she wanted. But I ask myself over and over how I could not have wanted it.
　　Unfathomable Kalika, Kali Ma, where are you now?
　　I finish my tale and Paula sits quietly staring at me with her warm eyes.
　　"She said she saw you before," she finally says. "Do you think she was lying?"
　　"It was impossible for me to tell if she was telling the truth or not," I explain. "She seemed to operate under a psychic shield. It was very strong-even I could not penetrate it. Certainly I could not bend her will to mine."
　　"But there wouldn't be any reason for her to lie about such a detail."
　　"Perhaps. But still, I don't remember her."
　　Paula stares out over the sparkling water at the small island in the center of the bay where Kalika met her end. "You know I have begun to remember many things, Sita," she says softly.
　　I nod. I've suspected for a while that certain memories were returning to her, but I have waited until she felt ready to talk about them.
　　"Suzama?" I say.
　　"Yes. I remember Suzama."
　　I suspected this, but still the statement is stunning to me. Paula remembers Suzama, my mentor from my time in ancient Egypt, because she is the reincarnation of Suzama. It is the only logical explanation, and I ask her to confirm the truth for me. Paula shakes her head.
　　"We may be the same from life to life," she says. "But we are also different. Do not expect Suzama to answer when you speak to me. Her time was long ago."
　　I probe deep into Paula's brown eyes and feel a rush of joy, and of sorrow. "But she is in you," I protest. "A part of me must have known that from the beginning. When I met you at the bookstore, I knew I could not leave you. You are Suzama, the great oracle. Can't you just admit it?"
　　She is flattered by my praise, and yet unmoved as well. "Perhaps I can't because I'm not able to see what happens next." She pauses. "Yet I knew, when you were down in Los Angeles, that you would confront something very old."
　　I lower my voice. "Then you know who she was?"
　　She shakes her head. "I have a feel for her, that is all." Reaching down, she touches the clear water, then feels John's feet to see if they are getting cold. She adds in a serious voice. "Interesting how she mentioned the harvest."
　　"Yes. I didn't understand that. What harvest was she talking about?"
　　Paula is thoughtful, her eyes focused far away, as Suzama often was.
　　"There is a time coming soon," she says, "when everything will change. I have seen this in what people call visions, but which aren't visions at all. People will either move forward or else repeat what they have already done.
　　I have to think about this.
　　Suzama never made casual prophecies.
　　"What will people move forward to?" I ask.
　　"An entirely different type of life. One we cannot even imagine as we sit here. Those who do go forward will live in light and bliss."
　　"But Heidi was wicked. Why would she want to increase such a harvest?"
　　Paula wipes the water off John's feet and warms them in her lap. "There are two kinds of harvests," she says. "There are two kinds of people. Those who serve others and those who serve themselves. You know this-it is nothing new. Of course, no one is one hundred percent one way or the other. No one is a perfect sinner or a perfect saint. But where there is a dominance of self-interest, a negative harvest will come about for that person. Where there is a dominance of love, a positive harvest will happen."
　　"You know these things for fact?"
　　"Yes."
　　"Suzama ..." I begin.
　　She smiles. "Paula. Please?"
　　"Paula. When will the harvest occur?"
　　"The date is not set. But some time in the next twenty-five years the change will occur."
　　"Will everyone be harvested?"
　　"Not at all."
　　"What is the criteria?"
　　"I knew you would ask that. The criteria, I believe, is the same for both sides, positive and negative. Yet it has nothing to do with religious persuasion, higher learning, physical health or beauty, relative importance in society. None of these qualities will matter."
　　"Then what will the criteria be?" I repeat.
　　"It is difficult to describe."
　　I am frustrated. "Try."
　　Paula laughs, and so does her child. John is for the most part a happy baby, but he can cry in the middle of the night with the best of them. Many times I have changed his diapers to allow Paula to sleep. Since drinking my daughter's blood, I seldom need to rest. "Life is the criteria," she says finally. "Who is alive, who is not. Remember, those who are negative can be more full of life than the most positive of people." She punches me in the arm. "Take you for example."
　　I am her naive student, from long ago, and her remark wounds. It strikes me then how much our relationship has changed since we met. Then I was the sole knower of profound secrets. Now I truly feel I am her student and study at her knee. Mystery surrounds her like a halo. I love her so much, but she scares me.
　　"Am I only fit for the negative side?" I ask quietly.
　　She laughs more. "Silly vampire. No, don't be ridiculous. Who more than you is ready to give her life for others?"
　　I gesture helplessly. "But I have killed so many over the years."
　　She is compassionate. "It doesn't matter, Sita. Really, I know this for a fact."
　　I have to smile. "I suppose you would since you have such a special child."
　　"You understand what I am saying. The issue of harvest is separate from the type of harvest. Whether a person will go forward is dependent on his or her life vibration. Whether he or she will enter a positive realm or a negative one depends on the quality of his or her heart." 
　　"Tell me more about this next realm?"
　　"I cannot."
　　"But you see it?"
　　"Yes. But words do not describe it. The next dimension is even beyond the realms souls encounter when they die." She pauses to run her hand through John's silky brown hair. How will the world react, I wonder, to a brown messiah? Of course, no race would satisfy everyone. Paula adds, "The coming harvest will affect heaven and earth."
　　"Is that why John was born? To increase the positive harvest?"
　　"Yes. But. . ." She does not finish.
　　"What?"
　　Paula frowns and then sighs. "Something is wrong. The plan is off."
　　"What are you talking about? What plan?"
　　"God's plan."
　　"He makes plans? Are you sure about that? I always thought he just rolled the dice when it came to us."
　　Paula smiles again, but the expression is short-lived. She continues in a serious tone, hugging her baby to her chest. John yawns and closes his eyes, ready for a nap.
　　"Every individual affects the world, but it is difficult for so many to go forward, the way we would wish them to, when there is so much evil in the world." She pauses. "Yet this evil is there for a reason. It plays its part. You remember Ory?"
　　"Yes. How could I forget? I just killed him last month. Why do you ask?"
　　But Paula is evasive, as Suzama often was. "He played his part" is all she says.
　　"Paula," I say. "I described to you what happened to me that night in the desert, when I confronted Ory. It seemed as if for a time I was not physical, that the very matter of my body had changed into light. Is that related to this harvest you describe?"
　　"Yes."
　　"But when I changed, it seemed that I entered a spaceship from another world. But it wasn't a spaceship. I don't think anyone could see it but me, in my changed condition. There were beings aboard. Beings like demons, and I entered the mind of one. At least I think I did. But as time goes by, I begin to doubt that any of this happened, that I didn't just dream it all. Does that make sense?"
　　Paula nods. "That is why I can't describe what is to come next. It would just be a dream to us, the way we are now."
　　"But were these beings from a negative harvest?"
　　She touches my knee. "Sita. You want to understand everything with your head. You ask me to describe what you call my visions with words. But neither thing is possible. Even your brilliant mind cannot reach beyond concepts. Even your vampire eyes cannot see beyond this world. I don't know who they were, these friends of Ory. I don't know who this Heidi was. I only know that she did not lie to you when she said she met you long ago." Paula pauses and she raises her eyes to the water, to Lake Tahoe beyond the sheltered bay. "And that it was long ago things went wrong."
　　"Went wrong? For whom?"
　　"For all of us."
　　"I don't understand," I complain.
　　"Did Suzama ever just explain things to you?"
　　"Sometimes."
　　"No. She would take a lesson only so far because she was not omniscient. She saw a portion of the mind of God, but no mortal can see all of it. Suzama was not infallible."
　　"Is John?"
　　The boy sleeps soundly. Paula speaks with love. "John's a baby."
　　"But who was he in the past?"
　　Paula pauses. "I don't know."
　　"Suzama said this child would be the same as the others: Jesus; Shankara, Krishna. She wrote that-I saw her words with my own eyes."
　　"Then why are you asking me?"
　　"To know if it's true."
　　"Ah. That is the question, isn't it? What is true? But didn't Suzama also write that faith is stronger than stone?"
　　"But I ask you these things so I will know what to have faith in."
　　"Have faith in yourself, Sita. These strangers have come for you for a purpose. It does not sound as if they have the welfare of mankind at heart. You must seek them out, learn what they want and how they hope to accomplish it."
　　"You have seen this in a vision?"
　　Paula turns her head away. "I have seen too many things."
　　I have to wonder if she has seen my death.
　　"You can tell me," I say carefully.
　　"No."
　　"I am not afraid to hear what is to be."
　　Paula lowers her head. A tear runs over her cheek.
　　"I am afraid," she whispers.
　　"Suzama," I say, and stop myself. But Paula is already looking at me and shaking her head.
　　"I didn't call you as I promised I would after I fled from Kalika," she says. "Do you know why?"
　　"I meant to ask you. I assume you had a vision that it would be better to keep your distance. At least for a time."
　　"No. I didn't talk to you because I began to understand your destiny-destiny itself. It can only be lived, it cannot be explained. It is like a mystery, which ceases to exist the moment you explain it. The same with a magic trick. When you are told how it works, it loses all its charm."
　　"What you're saying is that you'll tell me no more of what you've seen?"
　　"I have seen no more, and for that I am glad."
　　"You look more sad than happy."
　　Paula smiles sadly. "Because I know you'll be going away soon."
　　I thought the same thing. I am anxious to return to Los Angeles to trace Heidi's background. "But I will keep in touch," I say. "I will see you soon."
　　Paula doesn't say anything more. She glances at the vase containing Kalika's ashes.
　　"Why did you bring that here?" she asks.
　　"To put the ashes in the water."
　　She nods. "It is time to move on."
　　Sorrow washes over me. "I still think of her all the time."
　　"She lived the life she was born to live." She pauses. "I never told you what she said to me when she burst into my house and grabbed hold of John. She said, 'Hello, Paula. I have no friends but I am a friend of your son's. Tonight everything will come together in a wave of blood. But don't worry, he is stronger than this night.'"
　　Now I am close to tears. "Her life was so short."
　　Paula comforts me, rubs my arm. "She couldn't stay too long. She was a star that burned too bright. The strength of her soul would have made us all go blind." Paula gestures to the vase and stands, John still asleep in her arms. "Say your goodbyes. I will wait for you at the house."
　　I ask weakly. "To say goodbye?"
　　"Yes."
　　My voice cracks with emotion. I need her to understand why. "I loved Suzama. I loved her with all my heart. When she died, I almost died."
　　Her voice is soothing. "You were younger then. You are stronger now."
　　I look up at her. "Will I see you again? After today?"
　　Suzama stares at me for a long time. It is Suzama, yes, and she stares with the eyes of humanity's greatest clairvoyant. Her eyes are dry now; she has no tears, as she slowly shakes her head.
　　"I don't think so, Sita," she says.
　　She turns and walks away.
　　
　　I am left alone with my daughter's ashes, and soon these are gone, too, on the gentle ripples of the bay. I poured them from the vase without words, but with great nostalgia and love. True, she was an avatar, a creature of the divine, yet even Kalika's ashes dissolve in water. My memories are strong then, my pain nailed to a bloody past. But strong also is my vision of the future. It is true what Suzama says. I will leave this place, leave my few friends, and confront an enemy I know will kill me. Kill me because I crave love instead of power. But this I have lived five thousand years to learn. Power is as cold as forgotten ashes. Only my love can keep alive the memory of my daughter, the stories of Ray, Arturo, Yaksha, and most of all the grace of Krishna.
　　My blessed Lord-how he must laugh at me when I sing him to sleep in the middle of the night. Sing him songs from the holy Vedas that he himself wrote when he walked under the trees of ancient India. It is the divine child I will miss the most. Not to see him grow old, to hear him speak wisdom. I fear I will be ash before he even utters his first words. And I have to wonder who will remember me when I am gone. I worry that even Suzama and Seymour will forget me. Me-Alisa, Sita, or a thousand other names that I have been called by strangers who became friends or lovers. I fear it will be as if I never was. Never a vampire. The last vampire, whose long life now comes to a close.
　　Death does not scare me, but oblivion does. There is a difference. In my daughter's ashes I see my own bright star sink beneath the surface and go out. My end will erase my beginning. I don't know how but I know it is true. And I must choose that end because it is my destiny.
　　
   3
　　
　　The wallet and the passport from Heidi's pockets identified her as a certain Linda Clairee. I know her address, her bank account number, even her supposed birthdate. She is supposed to have lived in a house not far from where I lived when I gave birth to Kalika. I am very curious as I drive to her house after flying into LAX.
　　The place is modest, nondescript even, stucco walls with a wooden fence surrounding an uninspired yard of grass and a few bushes. Slowly I walk toward the front door. There is someone inside watching TV and drinking what smells like beer. The sounds and odors drift out through a torn screen door. I knock lightly and brace myself for instant death. Yet I have a matrix in my pocket, and I have finally figured out how to operate the ray gun. It is a totally cool weapon.
　　A bearded fellow in a frayed T-shirt answers the door. He looks as if he's on his second six-pack. Twenty-five, at most, his gut hangs over his belt like a sausage off the side of a breakfast plate. But I warn myself that Heidi-Linda-appeared to be very ordinary until her psychic force field went up. This guy might be more than he appears, but it's hard to believe.
　　"Hello," I say. "Is Linda home?"
　　He burps. "She's out of town."
　　At least he doesn't know she's missing her head.
　　"My name is Alisa," I say. "I'm an old friend. Do you know when she'll be back?"
　　"She didn't say."
　　"OK." I catch his eye through the screen door and squeeze his neuron currents. "Would it be OK if I come in and search through her personal things?"
　　His brain is soft mud, easy to impress-I think. "Sure," he says, and opens the door for me.
　　"Thank you," I respond.
　　I leave him in the living room, watching a baseball game. But my ears never leave him. If he tries to sneak up on me, he'll fail. But I won't kill him, if he shows strange powers, not right away.
　　Linda's room is neat and tidy. She seemed to enjoy sewing and the Dodgers. And if I begin to think I have the wrong house, there are pictures of her and Brother Bud on the mirror on top of the chest of drawers, cheap Polaroids shot with a camera with a dusty lens. Heidi is Linda and I am in the right bedroom. In each of the pictures Linda smiles as if someone just told her to.
　　I search the drawers and find nothing important. Even the closet is boring-clothes and baseball caps, shoes and socks. And this is the creature who said we all have powers? Talk about a double life. I am on the verge of leaving when a stack of papers under the bed catches my eye.
　　They are all about UFOs.
　　Specifically, newsletters from a UFO foundation.
　　FOF-Flying Objects Foundation.
　　What happened to the unidentified? I don't care. All the newsletters are addressed to Linda Clairee. She was definitely a member of this group, and it is the only wrinkle in her ordinary life that I have found. Holding the papers in my hand, I return to the living room and Bud. He is, in fact, finishing a can of Budweiser as I walk in. I turn off the TV without asking his permission and sit down across from him.
　　"Hey," he says, annoyed.
　　I catch his eye and burn a tiny hole in his frontal lobes. It will probably do him good, in the long run.
　　"Where did Linda say she was going?" I ask.
　　He replies in a flat voice, staring straight ahead. "Phoenix."
　　"What's in Phoenix?"
　　"A convention."
　　"A UFO convention?"
　　"Yes. FOF."
　　"Did Linda often attend such conventions?"
　　"Yes."
　　"Why?"
　　He could be hypnotized. "She likes UFOs."
　　"Why?"
　　"I don't know."
　　"Are you interested in UFOs?"
　　"No."
　　"Does Linda believe UFOs exist?"
　　"Yes."
　　"Is she an alien?"
　　	"What?"
　　"Is Linda an alien creature?"
　　"No."
　　"Are you sure?"
　　"Sure, I'm sure."
　　"When did you meet Linda?"
　　"Three years ago."
　　"Where?"
　　"In a bar in Fullerton."
　　"What does Linda do for a living?"
　　"She works as a secretary."
　　"Have you ever been to her place of work?"
　　"Yes."
　　"Where is it?"
　　"In Fullerton. On Commonwealth and Harbor. Grays DP Office."
　　"What is Linda like?"
　　"Nice. Boring. Sexy."
　　"What is it like to have sex with her?"
　　"Fun. Always the same."
　　"What's your name?"
　　"Bill."
　　"What do you do for a living, Bill?"
　　"Drive a truck."
　　"Have you ever noticed anything unusual about Linda?"
　　"What do you mean?"
　　"Besides attending UFO conventions, does she do anything else odd?"
　　"Yes."
　　"What?"
　　"She stares at the sky at night a lot."
　　"How often?"
　　"Every night."
　　"Does she tell you why?"
　　"No."
　　"Do you ask?"
　　"No."
　　"When do you expect her back?"
　　"In two days."
　　"The convention runs until then?"
　　"Yes, I think."
　　"Does Linda have any family?"
　　"No. They are all dead."
　　"Every one of them?"
　　"Yes. Everyone."
　　"Bill, I am going to leave now but I might be back later. Until I return, I want you to forget I was ever here. I never existed. If someone should ask you if a stranger was here, just say no. Do you understand?"
　　"All right."
　　"Also, if Linda should fail to come home, don't worry about her. Get yourself another girl. She is not so important. Understand?"
　　"Yes."
　　"Good." I stand and step over and turn the TV back on. "Goodbye, Bill."
　　He glances up from the game. He doesn't even realize I interrupted it. "Goodbye," he says.
　　There is a plane leaving for Phoenix in fifty minutes and I get on it. Linda's newsletters have told me where the FOF convention is being held-a Holiday Inn beside a busy freeway. Once in Phoenix, I rent a Jeep and drive to the hotel, but all the rooms are taken. Taking a room at a nearby hotel, I shower and then go for a walk in the desert. Perhaps the UFO freaks took a hotel near the edge of town so they could look at the night sky. It is late-I study the stars as I walk, but nothing flies down from the sky to whisk me away. Yet I feel no pleasure beneath the heavens. A past I cannot remember haunts me.
　　"We are of an ancient tradition. Our line is mingled with yours, and with that of others. We hold all powers."
　　Still, Linda wanted more of my blood, if she had any of it to begin with. Yet she must have had something unique. She was fast and strong, more powerful than virtually any vampire Yaksha made. Plus she had technology that put the government's most secret toys to shame. But so many of her answers had made no sense. What did she want to initiate me into?
　　"But to join us you must sacrifice him. It is part of your initiation."
　　It was almost as if she wanted to introduce me to the black mass.
　　I know about such things, sexual magic, from the past.
　　The torture and the blood, the sudden awakenings.
　　But I have not thought of them in a long time.
　　I find a sandy bluff and sit atop it to mentally survey my life, trying to find a point where my blood could have been taken without my knowledge. But except for Arturo and his alchemy, I think, my blood has always been mine to do with as I chose. Yet a faint feeling of dread sweeps over me as I look back. My shadow is long and dark. In it could lie secrets, hidden from even me, where blood was exchanged and vows were pledged that my conscious memory never recorded. It is as if I sense a blank spot, a place of reality that wasn't real after all. But I only sense its existence-I don't see it. I have to wonder if my imagination leads me to a wall of illusion. My thoughts are never far from those I left behind in Tahoe: John, Seymour, Paula. But Paula swears they are safe there, for now, and she should know. She who has deep visions.
　　A shooting star crosses the sky and I make a wish.
　　"Krishna," I whisper, "don't let me die until I have set right what I made wrong."
　　Suzama's words are with me. God's plan.
　　Somehow I know it was me who messed it up.
　　Maybe that's what she had been trying to tell me.
　　Maybe that was why she sent me away.
　　
   4
　　
　　The next morning I am at the FOF convention in the Holiday Inn, milling around the many booths, poking my head in on lectures. The attendance is substantial, at least two thousand people. The crowd is pretty evenly divided between males and females, but otherwise the cross section is peculiar. There are, for want of a better expression, a lot of nerds here. Many are overweight and wear thick glasses. These are true believers, no doubt about it. The saucers are coming and they are prepared. In fact, they believe they are already here. Eavesdropping on their jumbled thoughts, I soon get a headache.
　　I sense no superbeings in the vicinity, yet I don't drop my guard. If this convention was important to Linda, there is somebody significant here. If only I knew who. Besides thoughts, I listen to heartbeats, trying to find physiologies that mimic mine. But there is nothing here but pure humanity.
　　The talks are boring, discussions of different sightings that have about as much credibility as reports of Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny. As I sit through one, yawning, I think about what I should have done with my life. Retired to a remote spot to spend a year building toys and baking goodies, which I would deliver once a year to the needy. At least then I could have given vampires a better name.
　　Yet there is a lecture at the end of the day that catches my eye. It is entitled: "Control Versus Anarchy-An Interstellar Dilemma." The speaker is to be Dr. Richard Stoon, a parapsychologist from Duke University. He has a list of impressive academic credentials beside his name, but it is really the buzz of the crowd that draws me to the talk. They have been waiting for this guy. I hear them whispering to one another. Dr. Stoon is supposed to be brilliant, charismatic, unorthodox. It is the last lecture of the convention, and I take a seat at the back of the audience and wait for Dr. Stoon to enter.
　　Beside me sits a pale blond woman, with a waist as small as my own, and clear blue eyes. She has a kind smile and I quickly scan her mind, detecting nothing more than a day job at a boring office, and a husband who has just been laid off. She appears to be in her early twenties but could be older. Noticing my scrutiny, she glances over and brightens.
　　"Hello," she said with a southern accent. "It's been a fun convention, hasn't it?"
　　"I haven't been here for the whole thing. I just caught today."
　　"Have you heard Dr. Stoon speak before?'"
　　"This will be my first time. What's he like?"
　　"Very forceful, opinionated." She pauses. "He's interesting but to tell the truth he is awfully arrogant."
　　"Why don't you leave then?" I ask.
　　She makes a face. "Oh, I couldn't do that. I'm one of those people who has to see everything." She pauses and studies me. There is a sparkle in her eyes; she is far from stupid, but she doesn't want people to know. She offers her hand. "I'm Stacy Baxter."
　　I shake. "Alisa Perne. Pleased to meet you." I give one of my more common aliases because I'm no longer trying to hide. I want to draw the enemy out.
　　"Very pleased to meet you," Stacy replies. "I don't think I've seen you around before?"
　　"This is my first UFO convention."
　　"So what do you think?"
　　"It's all very interesting."
　　Stacy laughs. "No, you don't! You think we're all crackers."
　　Crackers. I haven't heard that expression in twenty years.
　　I have to smile. "I don't think you're crackers, Stacy."
　　She's pleased. "Maybe we can have coffee together after Dr. Stoon's talk."
　　"I'd enjoy that," I reply.
　　Dr. Stoon enters a short time afterward. He is a big burly man, of Slavic descent, with dark piercing eyes. His age, like Stacy's, is difficult to pinpoint. He could be thirty-five, or ten years older. He moves as if he owns the room, as if every eye should be on him. After a brief introduction, he is at the podium, overpowering it with his bulk and attitude. His voice, when he speaks, is gruff and unpleasant. Yet he sounds smart, like someone who knows more than he is saying.
　　And his words sound strikingly familiar.
　　"There are two kinds of beings in this creation," he says. "Those who strive for perfection and those who submit to chaos. It is the same in outer space as it is on this world-there is no difference. We either choose to be masters of our destinies, or we let the fates rule us. I am speaking now about power, and you might wonder what power has to do with a lecture on UFOs. I tell you it has everything to do with our space brothers. Each night we look to the heavens, waiting for them to arrive. But why should they come if we haven't made a choice in our own lives? But when we do make the choice, the right choice, to be important in the galactic scheme of things, then they will know. They will come to us at the most unexpected time, and fill our hands and minds with knowledge we cannot begin to imagine."
　　Stacy leans over and speaks in my ear. "Sounds like a bit of an evangelist, doesn't he?"
　　"Yeah. He talks without saying anything specific."
　　Stacy nodded. "But look at the people in this room. They are spellbound. Dr. Stoon doesn't have to say anything to have the effect he wants."
　　Stacy misunderstands me, but her point is well made. Dr. Stoon is one of those people who draws others in, smothers them. Even though he's not being specific, he touches on issues Suzama-and that's who she will always be to me-also explained. Yet his bias is from the other side, even though nothing he says sounds intrinsically negative.
　　He continues in a loud voice.
　　"We have to open our minds fully to the truth that we control our own futures, while at the same time we must accept that there are powers above us that are willing to help us if we align our thinking with theirs. Who are our space brothers? They are us a thousand years from now. They are strong. And for us to be strong we must cut off all that weakens us as a people. Here I have to speak on a matter that is almost considered a blasphemy in our society, and yet it is the single most important issue regarding our survival. We are literally drowning in the shallow end of our gene pool. Who is reproducing at the most rapid rate in our world? The uneducated and the foolish. But how did our space brothers reach their exalted state? By casting out the foolish. Our genes are our only treasure. We must plan their use, and use the plan-the plan our brothers are waiting to give us."
　　Again Stacy leans over and whispers in my ear.
　　"Sounds like Hitler to me," she says.
　　I smile. "But he's not blaming any specific group for mankind's woes."
　　"Isn't he?" Stacy asks, and her question is worth contemplating.
　　Dr. Stoon speaks for another half hour, and at the end of that time he doesn't accept questions- probably because no one would know what to ask him. I certainly wouldn't. Yet his words have affected me, not so much by their content, but by their resonance. I don't know, however, if the effect is a good one. His lecture was divisive; nothing he said could be used to bring people together for the common good. Another might say that was not true. Such was the strength and weakness of his talk.
　　When he finishes I wander toward the front, where he stands chatting with what appear to be old friends. But when his eyes meet mine, he momentarily freezes, and then quickly turns away. He excuses himself from his group and walks briskly toward the exit.
　　I walk after him.
　　In the parking lot he climbs in his car and races out onto the road, heading for the desert. Naturally I follow him. He must know I am tailing him. At this time of day, a half hour after dusk, we are the only ones on this narrow road that runs perpendicular to the main highway. Within twenty minutes we are deep in the desert, with the city only a glow on the horizon. The stars come out. Dr. Stoon is driving fast, but now it is possible he may not know I am behind him. I have turned off my headlights. I don't need them, of course, but maybe he doesn't either.
　　Ten minutes later he suddenly swerves off the road and drives across the sand toward a massive hill that is more reminiscent of Utah's Zion National Park than Phoenix's backyard. The hill is more a stone cathedral, built around a symmetrical interior. The rough terrain is hard on Dr. Stoon's BMW but my Jeep loves the challenge.
　　He drives his car as close to the hill as he can, then stops and gets out.
　　What do I do? I realize I could be walking into a trap. If he has a matrix, as I have, he could incinerate my Jeep from a distance. I have experimented with the weapon-it has a substantial range. The way he fled from me, for no apparent reason, indicates he is more than he seems. Yet his exit was obvious as well. But I sense no one else in the area, and I can hear a snake slither at a distance of five miles in such a desert.
　　I decide to risk direct confrontation.
　　Dr. Stoon stands with his arms at his sides as I drive up. Slowly I climb from my Jeep, the matrix in hand. I do not wish to waste time on pretense. If he is like Linda, he is going to do some talking. If he is human, he has a funny way of showing it. Either way I believe he will die in this desert tonight. I may even drink his blood, although I have not fed from anyone since Kalika brought me back from the edge of death. My hunger simply seems to have vanished. I gesture with my weapon. A million stars shine down on us. I see them all, more than a mortal can see with a medium-size telescope. "Move away from the car," I say. "Put your hands in the air." He does as I command. 
　　"What do you want?" he asks in a much softer voice than he used at the convention. 
　　I step closer. "I should ask you that question, Dr. Stoon," I say.
　　"What do you want?" He does not hesitate. "We told you." 
　　"You told me little. Who are you people?" 
　　He smiles slightly, cocky bastard. "Who do you think?"
　　 	"Extraterrestrials."
　　"You are partially right, and partially wrong. We have been here a long time."
　　"How long?"
　　"Don't you remember?"
　　His question disturbs me, his voice. I realize he is trying to overpower me with his eyes. His are at least as strong as Linda's. Try as I might, I cannot pierce his aura to read his mind.
　　"I remember nothing of you. Answer my question."
　　"Over a thousand years," he says. 
　　"Where did you come from? Originally?"
　　"There is no simple answer to that question. We move in space and time, through dimensions and distortions."
　　"Are you here to distort humanity?"
　　"We are here for the harvest."
　　"For which side of the harvest?"
　　"There is only one side-the expansion of the self, the growth of self-awareness."
　　"Sounds nice. But at whose expense?"
　　He snorts. "The expense of all those too weak to move forward. Why do you ask these questions? We know you are a vampire, the most powerful vampire on Earth. We have watched you for centuries. You do what you wish; we do as we wish. We are brothers to you, sisters. Why don't you join us?"
　　"It doesn't sound like you want me as a brother or sister. It sounds like you want me as a blood bank." I pause. "Or do you already have some of my blood?"
　　He makes me wait. "We do," he says finally.
　　I stiffen. The confirmation wounds me.
　　"When?" I ask. I feel violated.
　　"Over a thousand years ago."
　　"When?" I demand.
　　He gloats. "Kalot Enbblot. Chateau Merveille." He pauses before he says the next words. "The Castle of Wonder."
　　I tremble, not just in my body, but in my very soul.
　　In all my long life, there had never been darker days.
　　Yet I thought I had escaped his aerie unscathed.
　　"Landulf," I whisper. "Oh God."
　　Dr. Stoon grins. "Landulf took the best you had to give, now we will take it again. With or without your assistance."
　　I back up involuntarily. "You lie!" I gasp. "He never touched me!"
　　Dr. Stoon speaks with scorn. "He did more than touch you. He bled you, used you, and then twisted your mind so that you didn't know. But don't you remember now, Sita? As you swam through the waves away from his castle? Swam to what you thought was freedom? Even the ocean water could not wash off the contamination you felt then. Yet you thought you had won, defeated him. Just as you think you will defeat us now."
　　I cannot stop shaking. The images his words invoke-I cannot bear to see them in my suddenly shattered mind. Landulf and his sexual magic, satanic practice that used terror and pain for fuel. The human sacrifices, bodies split open with dirty knives, and worst of all the spirits that would appear at his bidding, vicious creatures from an astral hell buried beneath unheeded cries. From the Temple of Erix at which the Priestess of Antiquity had once guarded the Oracle of Venus, in southwest Sicily, he sent forth these unclean spirits and dominated the minds and hearts of men and women throughout southern Europe. Inviting the hordes of invading Moslems, showing them the weaknesses in the Christian world's defenses and so betraying his own race, Landulf had changed the course of history in the ninth century. And so he had changed my life, putting a stain on it that more than ten centuries had not totally erased. I tremble for many reasons, all of them unbearable. Landulf had indeed touched me, I remember, kissed me even, with lips that often enjoyed raw human flesh.
　　Yet I still thought I had tricked him.
　　"I will defeat you," I whisper without conviction. "If you have anything to do with him, I will not rest until all of your kind are wiped out. Landulf was a demon, and you use his name as if he were a hero. Your power is a travesty." I aim the matrix. "You will all die."
　　Dr. Stoon grins and lowers his hands. "We are not alone."
　　I glance left and right, see nothing, hear only the desert.
　　Yet I sense the truth of his words, sense a presence.
　　"Tell them to show themselves," I say carefully. "If you want to live one second longer."
　　"Very well." He bows his head slightly.
　　Suddenly there are three figures in red robes, one on each side, another at my back. Each carries a matrix in his or her hand, although their faces are shadowed, as are their minds. They are humanoid but that is all I know about them. They have me in their sights. There seems to be no escape. Dr. Stoon sticks out his hand.
　　"The matrix, please," he says.
　　I shake my head. "I will vaporize myself before you will have my blood."
　　He is amused. "Try."
　　I try the weapon on him. But it doesn't work.
　　"We neutralized it at the convention," he explains.
　　I throw the weapon aside. "You don't want me dead."
　　"True," he says. "But we will kill you before we allow you to kill us. Lay facedown on the sand."
　　"I hardly think so," I say, and my attention goes to the figure on my right, the one whose hand shakes ever so slightly, This person-I cannot even see his eyes-but I know it is a male, weaker than the others that guard me. Even though I cannot read his mind, I can sense the general character of it. This is an important assignment for him, one that he has had to struggle to win. If he completes it successfully, captures the vampire's blood, he will receive some type of advancement. But if he fails, he will be killed. Indeed, he is especially fearful of Dr. Stoon. He wishes the doctor dead. That is the chink in his psychic armor. He does not care for his associates, hates them in fact, wishes they all were dead so that all the glory could be his. My eyes fasten on his hidden face, my thoughts drill into his cranium.
　　Kill them. Burn them. Vanquish them.
　　The man's arm trembles more.
　　"It is not wise to refuse us," Dr. Stoon says.
　　"Do you still give me a chance to join you?" I mutter, stalling for time. Never before have I focused so hard, called upon the depths of my will. The strain is immense. For even though this one is the weakest, he is still strong beyond belief.
　　"Perhaps," Dr. Stoon says. "Lay facedown or die. Now."
　　"Die," I repeat softly, to the man. "Die."
　　His aim shifts slights. The finger on the button on his matrix twitches.
　　Dr. Stoon is suddenly aware of the danger. He whirls on the man.
　　"Kill him!" he screams.
　　There are two bursts of red light, one from behind me, one from my left. My victim vaporizes on an ear-piercing scream. But I do not pause to mourn the sound. I am already in the air, flipping backward in a curving arc, my legs going over me, carrying me over the assailant at my rear. There is another burst of red death-the one on my left tries to shoot me out of the sky. But already I have landed, behind the one who moments earlier stood behind me. In a matter of microseconds I seize his matrix and break his arm. Without speaking, I blow away the red robe on the left. Dr. Stoon reaches into his coat pocket but I caution him to remain still.
　　"Don't," I say.
　　The figure I have disarmed groans, moves.
　　I shoot him and he is no more.
　　Dr. Stoon has stopped grinning.
　　"How many more of you are there?" I ask.
　　He pauses. "There is just me."
　　"And when you die, you die?"
　　He hesitates. "We prefer not to surrender this form."
　　I chuckle. "I do believe there is a note of fear in your voice, good doctor. For a moment there, you know, I thought you were Landulf himself. But Landulf was never afraid."
　　"Not even of you," he says bitterly.
　　"Yes," I say sadly, thinking of what he has told me. "Perhaps I was tricked. What did he use my blood for?"
　　"Is it not obvious?"
　　"Only your death is obvious. Answer my question so that death won't catch you asking."
　　He is defiant. "I will not be your puppet. We are alone for the moment, but others of my kind are coming. And if you should slay me, their treatment of you will be that more hideous."
　　I shake my head. "Nothing can be hideous to me. Not after Landulf."
　　He speaks arrogantly. "You will not escape us."
　　"Really? You thought I wouldn't escape you."
　　He doesn't have an answer for that.
　　I shoot him and he troubles me no more.
　　
   5
　　
　　I return to my Jeep and drive back toward the road. When I reach it there is another car waiting for me, another person. She stands by the side of the road looking up at the stars. She hardly seems to notice my approach, and only glances over as I park and walk toward her, the matrix in my hand.
　　Stacy Baxter. She finally glances at me and smiles.
　　"Hello, Alisa," she says, and the southern accent is gone.
　　My finger is on the fire button. "What are you doing here?" I ask softly.
　　She shrugs and gazes back up at the sky. "Just enjoying the night. Isn't it beautiful?"
　　"Yes. Did you follow me out here?"
　　She pauses. "Yes."
　　"I see." I am a moment away from killing her. "Do you have anything else to say, Stacy Baxter?"
　　She looks at me again, not smiling now, just watching me, very closely. "No, Alisa Perne," she replies quietly.
　　I shift uncomfortably. This death does not feel right.
　　"Are you one of them?" I ask finally.
　　She shakes her head. "Not me."
　　"Who are you?"
　　"A friend."
　　"No. I don't know you." I shake the weapon. "Why are you here?"
　　"To help you, if you want my help."
　　"What's your real name?"
　　"Alanda," she replies. "Sita."
　　My heart pounds. "And you are another incantation of Lundulf's?"
　　Sorrow touches her face. "You suffered there."
　　I bite my lip. "Yeah, I suffered. But what's it to you?"
　　She lowers her head. "Everything you have experienced-it means a lot to me."
　　My voice is hard. "Why? Because you know me from long ago?"
　　"Yes."
　　I fidget on my feet. I want to kill her. Logic dictates that I should. This desert is filled with monsters. Chances are she is one, too. Certainly she is not normal, and knows too much about me. Yet she does nothing to defend herself, even to plead her case, and I find it difficult to strike down the helpless.
　　"Do you know this weapon I carry?" I ask.
　　"Yes."
　　"I know how to use it." I pause. "I will use it."
　　Alanda is staring at the stars again. "Then use it."
　　"You are impossible. I will kill you, just as I killed the others out there minutes ago. You saw that, didn't you?"
　　"Yes."
　　I am sarcastic. "Why didn't you come to my aid? Friend?"
　　"It was not allowed."
　　"By whom?" I demand.
　　"You had to refuse them. To offer to end your life before they would take it from you." She adds, "You did these things."
　　"I did nothing but kill. Because they answered me the same way you do, with vague mumblings." I pause and sweat over the trigger. "I think you are one of them."
　　For the third time she looks at me, and for the first time I really see her. Her blue eyes-they are very much like my own. I could be staring into a mirror. Yet it is more than a physical resemblance. The person behind the eyes, the soul within the body, seems to reach out and touch me in a way I cannot explain. For a moment-from this unassuming person I am threatening to destroy-I feel profoundly cherished. Suddenly she is more than a friend to me, she is a part of me. Sometimes when I looked at Suzama, I would feel this way. Occasionally, gazing at the divine child, I would sense this same expansion of consciousness, as if my mind were only a portion of a much greater mind. It is only in that moment that I realize Alanda is a spiritual being of great stature, someone who loves me more than I am able to love myself.
　　The matrix slips from my fingers, lands in the sand. A tear rolls over my cheek and joins it in the dust. I don't know why I cry, perhaps because I am happy. Alanda is an old friend.
　　Yet I don't remember her.
　　As I don't remember Landulf stealing my blood.
　　"I don't understand," I whisper.
　　She comes to me and hugs me, stroking my face. "Sita," she says over and over again. "My Sita."
　　But I am not a child. I am a monster. I cannot be comforted even if the space between us is suffused with the vitality of reunion. I cannot turn to this creature that I do not know for help or solace. In a swift move, I brush her off and step away, turning my back on her. If she wanted, she could pick up the matrix and vaporize me. But I know that is not her intention. She lets me stand silently alone. Nothing is hurried in her, I realize. She has waited long for this encounter, and I feel I have as well. Yet I feel exposed before her, and that is a feeling I have never enjoyed. I have always been the master of my own destiny, and now this angelic being comes to me in the night to tell me that I have been fooling myself. Truly, she is an angel to me, a being of light from a distant world I cannot imagine.
　　"There is no need for imagination," she says quietly. "Those worlds belong to you as much as to me."
　　I draw in a tight breath. "You are telepathic then?"
　　"Yes. As are you."
　　"No. I cannot read your mind."
　　"You can. You're just afraid, Sita."
　　"How do you know my name?"
　　"Because I know you."
　　"From when? From where?"
　　"From before. From the stars."
　　A smile cracks my face, involuntarily. Turning, almost mocking her, I say, "Where's your spaceship?"
　　"It's coming."
　　That remark makes me take a step back,t25.
　　"Are you here to take me away?" I ask, and I hear the hope in my own voice. For five thousand years, I have lived a glorious life, yet there has been too much pain. Alanda's love seems to flow to me in waves. The desert is dry, her eyes are moist. I cannot help but be mesmerized by them, by all of her. She is shimmering now with a faint blue light.
　　This blue glow, it reminds me of Krishna.
　　The stars. How bright they shine above us.
　　Almost as if they have moved closer to Earth.
　　But Alanda's face is both blissful and concerned.
　　"No," she says. "You cannot leave this world now, not until what has been ruined has been set right."
　　"Suzama said as much. Do you know her?"
　　"Yes. She is a sister, like you."
　　"Suzama is much more than I am."
　　"You are fond of denouncing yourself."
　　"I haven't been a saint exactly. You must know that."
　　"Yes. But that is past. You are here with me now, and I am with you."
　　My throat is constricted. "I feel you with me, yes."
　　"Why are you afraid of love, Sita? Because it has hurt you?"
　　I nod weakly. "It hurts all of us. Sometimes it seems that is all love is good for."
　　Alanda shakes her head. "Love is good for many things. You have just forgotten. The veil has to be lifted."
　　I am curious. "What is this veil?"
　　Alanda turns away and walks on the sand, between the weeds. She is barefoot-I only realize that now. The way her soles touch the ground, it is almost as if they caress the Earth. Gesturing at the desert, the stars, and playing with her long blond hair, she enchants me as she speaks. The communication may even be telepathic, her voice is so soft. But it is easy to understand her.
　　"This galaxy is ancient, as you know," she says. "Your sun is old, but the stars at the center of the galaxy were there first. The planets circling them gave rise to civilizations. So life evolved. First plants, then animals and finally, what you would call people arrived. Some of these people looked like us, but not all. They became conscious. They knew all that the people of this world know, and more. For there was at that time no veil between the conscious and the unconscious, no loss of the awareness that we are all a part of the creation. The gods of those suns did not desire this veil to confuse their children, and therefore everyone on those ancient planets lived in light and peace. Do you understand?"
　　"I'm not sure," I say. "Continue."
　　"Suzama has told you about the coming harvest, on this world. These ancient people also arrived at a point when it was important for them to move on, to move into another realm, a fourth dimension if you like. But then there was a problem. All these beings from the central suns of this galaxy were positive- what you would call good-hearted. But because they had always lived in bliss, they had no incentive to grow. Therefore, for many billions of years, from the third dimension to the fourth, there were few harvests. Such people were a rarity." Alanda pauses. "Do you understand?"
　　"Yes. The source of pain for us-here on this world-is the veil between the conscious and the unconscious. Yet this pain acts as a catalyst for us to grow."
　　"Precisely. People of your world often speak of good and evil. But what you call evil goads you onto the greatest good. This is necessary for you, and all people of your world. That is why it is there. That is why the great being within your sun allows the veil to exist. The story from the Garden of Eden-the knowledge of good and evil that your ancient ancestors received-that was not a curse but a blessing. It only seems a curse to you at times like this, when you are in doubt."
　　"But to some extent we live our whole lives in doubt." I pause. "So you're saying the devil wasn't such a bad guy after all?"
　　"No. I am saying there is a place for negativity-as much as there is a place for goodness-in the great scheme of things. There is no hero without a villain, no peak without a valley. But our path, the path of love, demands that we overcome negativity. But we do not overcome it by resisting it. That is an illusion. What you resist will persist."
　　"Why are you telling me this?" I ask, and there is suddenly fear in my voice. But I know what she will answer. For I knew, personally, the greatest evil that ever walked the Earth. Still, Alanda's words chill me to the bone.
　　"Landulf cannot be overcome by force," she says.
　　My lower lip trembles. "Landulf is dead. He died a long time ago."
　　"Perhaps. Perhaps not. But certainly his work lives on. You met a sample of it tonight in the desert. There are more of them emerging at this time, and they possess a sample of your blood." She steps toward me, looks at me. "Do you know what that means?"
　　I snort. "Yeah. It means they're tough sons of-bitches."
　　Alanda is serious. "Yes. They are tough. And it was never intended that the negative side of harvest should possess such a powerful army of warriors. In the coming years they will overwhelm your people, turn virtually everyone toward fear. This will be the downfall for all who aspire to the light. This fear will cause the negative harvest to be larger than it would have been. In other words, your world is out of balance."
　　"And I caused this imbalance?"
　　Alanda sighs. "This must be difficult for you to hear."
　　"The truth is always better than illusions." I pause. "Is it true?"
　　"Yes. You are the ultimate source of this cancer, and it must be rectified."
　　"Are you so sure?" I ask, trying to deny what I just heard. It's too much for me, to be told that I am the scourge of mankind. I feel as if I must run away. Only my irrational love for her makes me stay.
　　Alanda is gentle. Her next word is not. "Yes."
　　"But how can you be sure?" I demand.
　　"Because my old and dear friend, I am from your future."
　　I take a moment to absorb her statement. "What is it like?"
　　Now she stutters. "In ruins."
　　I am shocked. "This world?"
　　The life leaves her voice. "This entire sector of the galaxy. When so much of Earth fails, much else fails later." Alanda steps close to me, puts her hands on my shoulders, her eyes in my soul. "We have come back for you, Sita, to ask you to help us. To ask you to go back to the days of Landulf. To relive those days, and keep him from doing to you what he desired."
　　The prospect fills me with horror. "But I can't remember what he did to me!"
　　"You will, I promise, when you travel back to that time."
　　"No." I shake my head, feeling my guts turn to ice. "That is one thing I cannot do. Ask anything of me but that."
　　Alanda strokes the side of my face. "You are afraid."
　　Again I brush her off and turn aside. "Yes," I say in a shaky voice. "And I don't understand why. I can't understand why the simple thought of seeing him again overwhelms me."	
　　"It's because of what you can't remember."
　　I whirl around. "Then tell me what happened?"
　　"I cannot. You must face the memory when you are once more in his castle. It is the only way. It is why he was able to block your memory in the first place. At that time you refused to face what happened."
　　"Did he torture me? Did he mutilate me?"
　　She nods reluctantly. "In his own way. But there is more than that to the puzzle-you will see."
　　I am sick at the prospect. "Is your spaceship a time machine as well?"
　　Alanda glances up. "Not exactly."
　　"But how can I go back to those days? How can I meet myself?"
　　She stares at me. "Physically you will not journey in time. Only your mind will go back."
　　"I don't understand?"
　　"As our ships approach light speed, we are able to jump into a realm that exists outside time and space. In that realm we can cross many light-years in a moment. The enemy also has this technology, and that is how they were able to surround you in the desert tonight. In that realm, the laws of physics as you understand them do not apply. For a few seconds you will cease to exist in a particular time and place. Therefore, you will have the freedom to be where you wish to be. If you focus all your will on that ninth century vampire, you will become her. Do you see?"
　　"No. Will both our minds be in the same body?"
　　"No. There is only one of you. You will become her, and she will become you. There is no question of two."
　　I am still confused, but dread continues to dominate my mind. "I can't see him again," I plead. "You don't know what he was like."
　　Alanda is sad. "But I know his kind well. He is not from the dimension beyond this one, but from the one even beyond that. He is negative fifth density- not merely a sorcerer, but a master of sorcerers. Above his head the vipers hiss, and before his vision all wills turn to stone. Those you met tonight are only his minions. But he is not greater than you, Sita. I know you, old friend, know of your extraordinary origin. You cannot directly resist him when you confront him, for in doing so you will become him. That is his special power, the spell he cloaked you in before. Yet you can defeat him." Quoting Suzama, she adds, " 'Faith is stronger than stone.'"
　　"But you will not tell me how to defeat him?"
　　"No. You must find the way. It is your destiny to do so."
　　I don't want to ask the question but I do anyway.
　　"Is it also my destiny to die? Alanda?"
　　She shakes her head. "I cannot say."
　　"But you come from the future. You know. Tell me."
　　"I know that you will rewrite our future. Please do not ask me to say more." Her eyes return to the heavens and she points. "Behold, Sita. Our ship comes for you."
　　
   6
　　
　　The funny thing is, I don't see anything. Alanda explains that the ship will land deep in the desert, beside a clear pond. She offers to drive me there, but I prefer to take the Jeep, so she goes with me instead. We cut directly across the sand, murdering more than a few tumbleweeds in the process. Yet the ground is not excessively bumpy, and we soon reach the pond. After parking, I climb out and stare at it in amazement.
　　
　　The pond appears to be natural-Alanda assures me it is even though it is a perfect circle. A hundred feet across, the water lies so still that it could be a polished mirror set to reflect the stars. Indeed, as I approach the edge of the pond, I see more stars in the water than I do above. I see the approach of the saucer in the water before I see it in the sky, quite a few seconds before. It makes me wonder, yet I say nothing.
　　The saucer is blue-white, and the light from it slowly begins to flood the area and my eyes, wiping out any chance of my making out the details. If I weren't dreading seeing Landulf, I would be thrilled by this moment. But I can only think of Landulf s devilishly handsome face, his deep laugh, and the way he would make an incision in an abdomen with his long sharp nails and slowly pull out the victim's entrails while the victim watched. I feel I must resist Landulf with every fiber of my being. Yet Alanda says that is the way of failure.
　　I have no idea what I'll do that is different from what I did the last time.
　　I stare up at the saucer.
　　"This is incredible," I whisper.
　　"This is but a beam ship," she says. "Our mother ships are a thousand times this size."
　　"And I have been on these before?"
　　"Yes."
　　"When?"
　　"Another time."
　　"Are you sure the brakes work? The ship looks as if it's going to land on us."
　　"It will land over this pool."
　　"Then we should move?"
　　"No. We're fine. It will move right over us."
　　The light grows dazzling, and I have to shield my eyes.
　　"This must be visible from a hundred miles away," I gasp.
　　"No one sees it but us," Alanda replies.
　　I glance at her. "Is it physical?"
　　"What is physical in one density is not physical in another."
　　I have to laugh. "One of these days, Alanda, I am going to ask you a question and understand your answer."
　　The water of the pond seems to glow as the spaceship settles over us. One moment it is above us, the next we are inside it. The translucent floor, I assume, now covers the pond. During the move to the interior, we have had our clothes changed. We now wear long white robes. I don't even bother asking-the night is so weird already.
　　A gentleman waits for us inside. He is tall and bearded-like a child's drawing of a Biblical character. His robe is the color of the outside of the ship, blue-white. The interior of the vessel is in various shades of gold, and the ceiling is a clear dome, that opens to the sky. There appear to be no controls. Alanda introduces her friend as Gaia. He smiles and bows his head but doesn't say anything. His eyes are liquid green and very lovely.
　　"Gaia is from a race that doesn't speak," Alanda explains. "But he understands your thoughts."
　　I nod in his direction. "I appreciate your coming for us, Gaia. I hope it was not too long a journey."
　　He smiles and shakes his head. No, not too long.
　　There is a faint humming.
　　"What is that?" I ask.
　　"Our engines," Alanda says.
　　"Will we leave soon?"
　　"We have already left." Alanda motions with her arm. "See, we are in orbit."
　　The floor of the craft turns clear as glass, and I jump slightly, momentarily afraid I am going to fall. Below our feet is the black-blue Pacific, and the glittering coast of California. I spot Lake Tahoe, and think of my friends. We seem to be moving westward, at considerable speed. Yet the hum has stopped, and all is quiet. The view takes my breath away, it is so beautiful, and yet it also makes me sad. To see the Earth from such a vantage point, to realize it is all I have known. Never before did I realize how much I thought of the Earth as my mother.
　　"She is a strong woman," Alanda says softly, reading my mind. "But delicate as well."
　　"Can a planet be alive?" I ask.
　　"Can a sun?" she replies. "I told you that it was the god within your sun that decided that humanity should live with the veil-until this time."
　　"Are you from a world that experienced such a veil?"
　　"Originally, yes."
　　"Can you tell me about that world?" I ask.
　　"Not at this time."
　　"But I lived there before I came to Earth?"
　　"Not precisely. Before you came here, you existed in a realm of great glory."
　　"You're saying that I was in a higher dimension?"
　　"Yes," Alanda says. "A higher density."
　　"Why did I decide to come to Earth?"
　　"To serve, to grow. The two are the same in the creator's eyes."
　　"Why did I chose to be a vampire?"
　　Alanda hesitates. "When you came here, you were not a vampire."
　　"I had a life before this one?"
　　Her voice is abruptly filled with melancholy. "Yes. Very long ago."
　　She is trying to tell me something without saying it.
　　"I made a mistake when I returned?" I say. "Is that why I had to be reborn as a vampire?"
　　Alanda reaches over and touches my face. "You returned to this third density out of love. If you made a mistake, Sita, it was only out of love. You mustn't blame yourself."
　　Already we are over India. I nod to Rajastan, desert meeting green.
　　"I was born there five thousand years ago," I say. "I am sure you know that. But what you might not know is that I feel I never left that tiny village. I am still that young girl spying on the Aghora sacrifice that invoked Yaksha into Amba's dead womb." I pause. "I held him as an unborn infant in my hand. He was just a trace of movement beneath the hard skin of a corpse. I had a knife in my hand, and my father gave me the choice of ending his life before it could begin." A wave of weariness sweeps over me and I lower my head. "But I couldn't kill Yaksha."
　　Alanda hugs me. "Because of love, you see. You must let go of the past."
　　"But you are sending me into a past I want to let go of."
　　"But this is the only way you will be able to be finished with it. Trust us, Sita. We do this for you as much as for ourselves. Our futures are entwined,"
　　I look up and smile. "Just because I almost killed you doesn't mean I believe you would lie to me." I pause. "You risked your life meeting me like that."
　　"It was the only way to meet you."
　　"It was a test?" I ask.
　　"In a manner of speaking."
　　"You could have defended yourself from me."
　　Alanda turns back to the view. "I counted on your compassion."
　　"The compassion of a murderer?"
　　"Of an angel."
　　I have to laugh. "You are as bad as Seymour. He sees me that way, no matter what I do."
　　"He is wise."
　　I sigh. "I would love it if he were with us now."
　　Alanda is thoughtful. "In a sense, he is. He is always with you."
　　Her remark strikes deeply into me. "Why is that so true?"
　　Alanda stares at the Earth, India. "You will see."
　　A short time later the Earth begins to shrink as we pull away from it at a tremendous velocity. Soon it is only a blue ball, falling into a well of blackness. The floor turns solid as the sides become clear. The rays of the sun stab through the saucer's view screens and I feel their warmth. There is no sense of acceleration, however. I see the moon, but only for a few seconds, and then it is lost in the glare of the Earth. But then that planet, the only home I can remember, is also lost in the rays of the sun. The sun begins to diminish in size and brilliance. Alanda turns away and strolls to the center of the craft. But my eyes are gripped by the stars ahead of us.
　　"I've had these dreams," I say to Alanda and Gaia both. Gaia stands at a respectful distance, silent, peaceful, absorbed in a contemplation I cannot imagine. Yet I know he watches me and listens to my thoughts. I continue, "In them I would be in a spaceship flying through the galaxy toward the Pleiades. Ray would usually be with me, but sometimes it would be my husband, Rama. Never were both with me, but I think that's because-in my dreams-they were always the same person. Anyway, we would be excited and filled with a sense of adventure. We would know, when we reached the Pleiades, that all our friends would be waiting for us. We even knew that Krishna would be there, to welcome us and to heal the many injuries we had received living on Earth. Most of all, in these dreams, I would be happy, and it would be hard to wake from them." I pause. "Were they just dreams, Alanda?"
　　"Or were they real?" she asks. "Maybe they were a little of both."
　　I look at her. "Are you from the Pleiades?"
　　"It is a place I know." She shrugs. "We are each from God."
　　I listen to the silence. "It's time, isn't it?"
　　"Yes. In a few minutes, we will make what you might call a hyperjump. At that time, as I explained before, it is important that you focus your entire being to a time just before you traveled to Landulf s castle."
　　"It was Dante who led me to the castle," I say, stepping toward her. "Should I think of him?"
　　Alanda pauses. "The moment you reappear is entirely up to you."
　　I force a smile, although the dread weighs on me like a stone in my heart.
　　"It will be good to see Dante again," I say. "A little comic relief before I descend into hell." I gesture to the center of the floor. "Should I sit down and close my eyes?"
　　Alanda takes my hand. "Lie down and close them, Sita."
　　I do as she says, but she continues to hold my hand. I open my eyes and smile at her. "Don't worry," I say. "It is just my mind that is going back in time."
　　She shakes her head slightly. "But if you die back then."
　　I understand. "I won't exist today?"
　　She sighs. "There is something else. These fifth density negative beings-they can imprison you."
　　"I'm pretty good at breaking out of most prisons."
　　"They can imprison your soul, in their realm. Make you one of them."
　　Somehow that doesn't sound fair. "For long?"
　　"Billions of years. You would only be set free when they are set free." 
　　"Negative beings attain freedom?" I ask.
　　"Yes. Far up the ladder of evolution, the negative path meets the positive. In the end, all find God." She squeezes my hand. "But you could be lost for the life of this universe."
　　I cannot conceive of anything worse.
　　"How can he trap me?" I ask.
　　"He is subtle, and we cannot penetrate his mind. But he acts much as a mirror does. He stands before you. He shows you what you are. But only the parts of you that can be used to destroy you."
　　"He can cause me to destroy myself?"
　　"Exactly. Be wary. He can kill you without your permission. But he can only pervert you to his cause if you enter into an agreement with him out of free will."
　　"But I would never do that."
　　Alanda seems unsure. Her expression is anxious.
　　She leans over and kisses my cheek. There is a tear on her face and I reach up to wipe it away but she grabs my other hand.
　　"You are loved," she whispers. "Don't forget that."
　　"I know. I know you." I close my eyes. "Goodbye, Alanda."
　　"Sita. My Sita."
　　She lets go of me. The ship darkens.
　　I hear the strange hum again, a shift inside.
　　But inside, outside-they have lost their meaning.
　　We are beyond space and time, and I am falling.
　　Into horror unspeakable, yes, and maybe hope unimagined.
　　
   7
　　
　　The collage of colors and shapes that I now see is my life. Yet the different scenes from it are not arranged in a linear fashion, more in the form of a hologram, a pictorial dimension of time that encircles me like a living sphere. I have only to focus my attention on a particular event and I am there. But perhaps because my mind is used to dealing with sequential events, I take myself back in order. This is my deliberate choice, not the choice of the creation. To the creation, I realize, everything is happening in the same eternal moment.
　　I am with my daughter, Kalika, holding her as she bleeds from devastating chest wounds. Her smile is gentle and I am crying. She tells me she loves me. Then I cry over Seymour, beside his funeral pyre, because Kalika has killed him. Yet a few drops of the divine child's blood and he is alive again. Then I am laughing. Tears are connected to laughter in my life. One seems to bring the other, and that in itself is a great mystery to me. Blood, also, is everywhere. I see the night my daughter was born, in pain and love. The opposites of all life fly before my expanded vision, yet they now seem to be in harmony with one another.
　　Arturo and Joel are beside me. They tell me they love me. There is a flash of blinding light. They die, their love kills them, I destroy them. But a moment later I am saving Joel by making him a vampire, and a moment before that I am reviving Ray by the same process. Then I take a leap and I am sitting beside Ray's father as he dies from a ferocious blow I have struck to his chest. He perishes with the fear that I will harm his son, the son I love. Again and again, my love brings danger and death.
　　The hologram of my life seems to spin. In quick succession I see Hitler screaming at his troops, Lincoln ordering General Grant to take up the Union's moral cause. Then I am in a castle in the highlands of Scotland, defending it from an evil duke. Once more my lover dies, and in the next instant I stand before the Inquisition, condemning Arturo to death. Arturo, who has meant more to me than practically anyone I have ever known. I see his eyes as I curse him, but I do not see his heart, do not know that he has already tricked me. I ensure his death but he does not die.
　　Finally I am walking in the dry hills of Sicily outside Messina, eating a bunch of purple grapes and wondering where I am heading. It is the ninth century and even the evening air is hot. This is my first visit to Sicily; the previous day I took a sailboat across the straits from Italy. Something about the land has drawn me to this spot in particular, but as of yet I don't know what. My long blond hair is pulled up under a cap, and I wear gray hose and a short linen tunic. I could be a pretty young boy, with my baggy white shirt and long steel knife tucked in my belt. The sun is in the sky, but it bothers me just a little.
　　Then I am not watching this other self.
　　I am her, and it isn't easy for either of us.
　　There is a moment of duality. She does not know me.
　　I feel as if I bump heads with a shadow, and yet my shadow thinks she is the real one, and that I am the ghost. It takes me a moment to explain, and the moment almost cracks open into an insane fissure of delusion. This Sita does not have a volume of my memories, and certainly does not know about flying saucers and the possibility of mental time travel. I am forced to impress these possibilities on her through a wall of internal resistance that threatens to explode both our minds. Then I realize it is hopeless, that I cannot force myself on myself. I relax, and back off, and then suddenly she is curious about me. She knows me even when she doesn't know all of me. I was always one for a new experience, and meeting myself along an empty road is about as weird an experience as I have ever had. My younger self calls to me.
　　"Ritorna da me," she says. Come back to me.
　　"Fa bene," I  reply, aloud. All right.
　　Sita is startled. Who is talking to whom?
　　Her curiosity is greater than her fear.
　　I am able to get inside and there I stay.
　　Finally she understands. The duality ceases. I am Alisa Perne of the twentieth century, in the ninth century, here in Sicily to defeat a monster. There is only me but I am now of firm resolve. Landulf had better beware.
　　Around the bend of the next hill, I hear cries. Dante.
　　Before I had not known I would meet him, but now it is as if he is calling my name. Tossing aside my grapes, I run to an appointment I have with the past. Yet already I am not thinking of myself as from the future. Perhaps the other Sita is there as much as I. Yet I do notice that I am not nearly so fast as I was before. This body has not had the last infusions of powerful blood. I am just an ordinary vampire-I can't even read minds. All that I have, that I didn't have before, are memories of things that have not yet happened. They are my only new weapons against Landulf.
　　As I come around a hill, I find Dante naked and bleeding, strung up to a skeleton of a tree by a rope tied to his right arm and right foot. Gathered around him are two men and a woman, the two men holding swords and poking at poor Dante, encouraging him to sing. There is another rope around Dante's neck. The meaning is clear-if Dante stops singing, they will cut the other ropes and he will be hung.
　　Dante is not in good shape. At a glance I realize he has severe leprosy of his left arm and leg. The disease has actually eaten away portions of his bones, and I know he must live in terrible pain. He has also been castrated, but by the sweetness in his voice I recognize that he is no ordinary eunuch. He is a castrato, perhaps of the Holy Father in Rome, whom I despise. The castrati make up the greatest choirs in the Catholic Church. Their manhood is sacrificed to maintain their magical voices in a preadolescent range. There are few things the Church will not do, I realized long ago, to petition the angels in heaven. Dante cannot be more than twenty years old.
　　"Ciao!" I call as I stride up. "Che cosa fai?" What are you doing?
　　The men hardly look over, they are having so much fun. But the dark-haired woman with the cleft palate eyes me suspiciously. "Stai zitta!" she calls. Shut up. "He is a leper. He is to be killed."
　　"Penso di no." I don't think so. I slowly draw my knife as I move near. "Release him now, and I will spare your lives."
　　Dante stops singing and the two men with swords now give me their attention. One is a clumsy brute, dark featured, the other, the fair young one, appears quick on his feet. They eye my long narrow knife and chuckle to themselves. But the young man spreads his feet slightly, readying himself for combat. He is an experienced swordsman, although he is not sure yet if I am a boy or a woman. My skin is darker than usual from the sun, the gloss of my red lips partially hidden by my tan. Hanging half upside down, Dante stares at me in wonder, his face a mess of blood and tears. Incredibly, he has hope that I will be able to set him free. Naturally I will, in a few minutes. The brute gestures with his sword.
　　"Vattene dia," he says. Get away. "Or it will be you we string from the tree."
　　"It won't happen," I reply, and in a fast move I step forward and cut the top of the woman's left arm. The wound is not serious, it will heal, in time, but I want it to serve as a warning that I am skilled with a blade. Blood springs from her flesh and soaks her peasant clothes. The three hardly saw me move. Yet I know they will need more persuasion than this to back off. Of course I have been here before. A part of me knows that even though it is becoming easier to forget that I have. Surely I will kill them all, for the sake of poor Dante.
　　The woman screams in pain. "She has cut me! Kill her!"
　　"You foul creature!" the brute shouts as he dashes forward and tries to run me through. But I have sidestepped his lunge, and tripped him. As he tries to raise his head from the ground, I kneel beside him and pull his head back by the hair. My blade rests across his exposed throat, and I speak to the ugly woman and the fair man, who at least has had the wits to wait to see what I can do.
　　"If you leave now," I say. "I will let this man live."
　　"He is no friend of mine," the fair man says. "Do with him what you wish."
　　"No!" the woman cries. "He is my husband!"
　　"Then you agree to leave?" I say.
　　The brute, my knife scratching his trembling throat, is agreeable. "We will be gone," he says.
　　"Bene." Good. I smash his face in the dirt and then release him. But he is no sooner back on his feet than his dull eyes flash with anger and he makes another try for me. Once again I sidestep the thrust of his sword, but this time I sink my blade deep into his heart and withdraw it before he can take it with him to the bloody ground. His wife cries as he lands facedown. She jumps toward me, her arms flailing, and I kill her as I killed her mate. Now there is only the fair-haired man left. Dante is muttering prayers to heaven and drooling all over his wretched face. Wiping off my knife on the sand, I stand and pull off my cap, letting my blond hair fall. It shines in the last rays of the evening sun. Fair head smiles and nods in appreciation.
　　"My compliments," he says.
　　But since he now knows I am a woman, he cannot walk away. Sicilian pride-he finally draws his sword and points it in my direction.
　　"I have been trained by the Vatican guards," he says. "You may submit to me now, or I will have your head."
　　Pointing my knife at him, I laugh. "I have been trained by far more experienced teachers. Leave here this instant or I will cut you badly."
　　He takes a step closer. "My name is Pino. I would take no pleasure in killing such a beautiful woman as you. Drop your knife, and let us take pleasure in each other."
　　"No," I say. "I would rather kill you."
　　He moves closer still. The tip of his blade dangles three feet from my face-I could almost reach out, without moving my feet, and take it from him. But I am too much the good sport, and I don't want Dante to see me as a supernatural being. Then I might have to kill him as well. It is funny, how I know Dante, without even being introduced to him.
　　"You are young," Pino says. "Why make such a rash decision?"
　　"You are proud," I say. "You have seen my skills. Why not withdraw? Your death will prove nothing here."
　　He smiles but I have angered him. He takes a swipe at me with his blade, trying to cut my left shoulder. But he misses, and another smooth swipe also fails to draw blood. He appears more puzzled than worried.
　　"You move well," he says.
　　"Last chance," I say. "Leave or die."
　　"All right, cold woman," he says as he turns to leave. "I am no match for you." But he has hardly turned his back on me when he spins and tries to take off my head with his sword. Ducking, I thrust forward and plant my blade in his abdomen. There I leave it as I back off a few steps. He is still regaining his balance from his failed attack. He stares down at my knife in amazement. I don't know if he understands yet that his wound is fatal.
　　"What have you done?" he gasps as blood begins to show around my knife. Dropping his sword, he reaches down and pulls out the knife with both hands. Bad move-now the blood spurts out, over his hands and onto the ground. He still cannot comprehend that I have defeated him. "You witch!"
　　"I am not a witch," I say casually. "I am a good Samaritan. This man you torture has done nothing to hurt you."
　　Pino drops to his knees, bleeding over everything. "But he is a leper," he gasps.
　　"That is better than a corpse." I come closer so that I stand above him. I stick out my hand. "May I have my knife back please?"
　　He stares at me, incredulous. But he hands me back my knife, as if I might now help him because he is cooperating. But he is beyond a cure. I take a step toward Dante, whose head bobbles like that of a puppy dog.
　　"Oh, my lady," he gushes. "God has sent you."
　　I begin to cut him down. "Somebody did," I say.
　　Pino cries out to me as he slumps to the ground. There is great sorrow in his words, but I have heard it all before over the centuries. "Non voglio morire." I don't want to die.
　　Dante answers for me, giving me a future favorite line.
　　"Then you should never have been born," he says.
　　
   8
　　
　　Later, at night around a fire, I muse to myself that I killed the two men and the woman exactly as I had killed them before. The knowledge that their deaths were certain did not affect my actions in the slightest. Not even a single word that was exchanged between us was different. It makes me wonder whose future I'm from.
　　Dante sits across from me, wrapped in the swordsman's finery. He has washed out Pino's blood. My new friend is busy gloating over a rabbit I caught for him. A stick skewered through it, the meat hangs in the fire growing more tasty by the minute. The dripping grease crackles in the flames. Dante licks his diseased fingers and his dark eyes shine with joy. He has been muttering prayers to himself since I saved him.
　　"Tis a wonderful eve, I know," he says. "The light of heaven follows our steps. There can be no other way of explaining how a helpless maid was able to rescue me."
　　I laugh. "Dante, please don't call me that. Or I will show you again just how wrong you are."
　　He is instantly apologetic. "I meant no offense, my lady. I intended only to praise the grace of God. You are his instrument in this world, I know that in my heart." He adjusts the rabbit in the fire and licks his cracked lips. "We can eat soon."
　　"You can have it all," I say. "I have already eaten today."
　　He is offended. "If you will not feed with me, my lady, I myself will go hungry. It is not right that I should keep taking from you."
　　I continue to smile. "There is one thing you can give me-information. I have never been in Sicily before. Tell me about this land?"
　　He brightens. "It is a beautiful land, my lady, filled with sweet orchards and tall trees that cover the hills. You stay around Messina and wander not too far from the well-traveled roads, and you will have a pleasant visit."
　　"If I had not been far off the well-traveled roads this evening, I would not have been there to rescue you. But I am curious why you say I should stay close to Messina. Surely the Moslems have not landed on Sicily's southern shores?"
　　His face darkens. "But they have, my lady. A force of them is camped on the beaches in the southwest. Have you not heard?"
　　"No. I heard that the Duke of Terra di Labur is strong in the south, with many armed knights."
　　Dante trembles. "Do not speak that name, my lady, for he no longer goes by it. He has turned against the Christian God, and has murdered his own knights. It is by his power and with his protection that the heathens have managed to land their forces on Sicily."
　　I am surprised, even though I know all these things deep inside. Yet the future becomes more a dream to me with each passing hour. I know it exists, I know I am from there, but I have to focus to maintain this knowledge. Yet this does not worry me. It seems entirely natural that I should be one hundred percent in the present moment, with Dante, and the cooking rabbit, and his stories of the evil duke. But I have spoiled Dante's appetite by asking about the latter. Dante stares miserably at the fire as if he were staring at a picture of hell. He scratches at his lepered arm and leg-my questions bring him pain. Yet I know I must ask all about the political details.
　　"What does the duke call himself now?" I ask.
　　Dante shakes his head. "It is better not to repeat it in the night lest he hear us talking of him. For the night is his cloak, and shadows flow around him."
　　I laugh again. "Come on, he can't be that bad. I must know his name."
　　Dante is adamant. "I am sorry, my lady, I will not talk of him. To do so is a sin to your good company."
　　"My good company will not be so good if you do not answer me. What is the Duke's name now?"
　　Dante speaks in a whisper. "Landulf of Capua."
　　I have heard the name before, of course. But now it rings in my ears with less potency and more harmless connotations. Myth surrounds the title, not remembered agonies. Yet I know Landulf is the one I have come for-from the stars, for the stars-even if the flames that sparkle before my eyes blot out most of the nighttime sky. I do not want to focus on future facts-it is another choice I make. I am more intrigued than scared. Capua is tied to Landulf s name because he was originally from there.
　　"I know this name," I say. "Even in Italy, the farmers in the countryside speak of him. They say he is an evil wizard, capable of performing magical acts." I pause. "Dante, why are you crying?"
　　He is really devastated. "It is nothing, my lady. Let us talk of another person." He pokes at the rabbit with another stick he has found. "Or we can just eat, you can have some meat. You must be hungry after such a long day."
　　There is something in his tone that catches my attention. "Do you personally know this Landulf of Capua?" I ask.
　　He stiffens. "No."
　　"You must know him to be so frightened of him."
　　He rubs at his leper arm. Actually, the disease has spread so far, he has only a stump left. His left leg is also little more than a stump; he walks with the aid of a wooden brace I found not far from where he was strung up. His sores are open and fluid oozes from them. He must be near death, yet he has energy. But now his strength is in a whirlwind of constant motion. His eyes are moist and he cannot stop shaking.
　　"I cannot talk about him," he begs. "Please do not force me to say his name."
　　"Dante," I say. "Look at me."
　　He raises his head. "My lady?"
　　"Stare deep into my eyes, my dear friend," I say gently, carefully bending his will to mine. "You need not be afraid to speak of this duke. He cannot harm you now."
　　Dante blinks and his tears begin to dry. "He cannot harm me," he whispers.
　　"That is true," I say. "Now tell me about him, how you came to know him."
　　Dante sits back and stares at the fire again. He has forgotten the rabbit. He is half in a trance, half in a dream. I know I am asking him to repeat a nightmarish section of life. For even though I have calmed him with my power, his withered leg and arm continue to twitch. It is almost as if his leprosy was given to him by the duke, but that I find hard to believe.
　　Yet I do believe it. I know it.
　　What do I know? The stars are far away.
　　Dante's face holds my attention.
　　"My duke was not merely a duke, but an archbishop and a special friend of the Holy Father," Dante says, in a clearer voice than usual. "It was to Rome my duke brought me at the age of ten to serve as his personal attendant and to sing in the Vatican choir. The Holy Father said my voice was a sacrament, and I was allowed to join the privileged castrati and sacrifice my manhood to the Church. This I did not mind, as long as I was allowed to stay close to my duke. For five years I was at peace within the holy walls, and I thought of nothing but my duty and my vows." He pauses and sighs. Even though he is partly hypnotized, his pain comes through. "Then, it happened, one terrible day, that my duke was falsely accused."
　　"What was he accused of?"
　　Dante hesitates. "I thought it was a lie."
　　"Did the pope accuse him?"
　　"Yes. The Holy Father himself."
　　"Of what?" I repeat.
　　Dante pauses before he answers. "Of invoking the spirit of Satan."
　　I do not believe in such nonsense, nevertheless, his words are chilling. "Was he cast out?" I ask.
　　Dante coughs. The smoke of the burning logs has entered his lungs. The agony of remembering suffocates him, too. "There was a trial," he says. "The cardinals and the Holy Father were present. Accusations were made, then witnesses were called-I had never seen these people before. Each one came forth and stated how my beloved duke had poisoned their minds with demonic spirits. Even I was called to denounce him. The Holy Father made me swear to tell the truth and then-in the same breath-told me to tell lies." A tear rolls over Dante's ruined face. "I did not know what to say. But I had never seen my duke commit any of these sins. I was afraid but I knew in my heart I could not lie." A hysterical note enters his voice. "Jesus never lied, even when he stood before his accusers."
　　"Be calm, Dante," I say soothingly. "That was long ago. None of it can hurt you now. Just tell me what happened."
　　He relaxes some, but shifts closer to the fire, as if chilled.
　　"The pope grew angry at me, and accused me of being in league with Satan and my duke. I was chained to my seat and more witnesses were called, more people I had never seen before. These spoke against me as well as my duke, while the cardinals whispered among themselves. I was very afraid. They were talking about burning us. I did not know what to do!"
　　"Peace, Dante, peace. Continue."
　　Dante swallows thickly before continuing. On top of everything else, he seems to have trouble breathing. A frown wrinkles his features and he blinks, trying to remember where he is, or where he has been. Yet his voice remains clear.
　　"We were led away, my duke and I, and thrown into a stone cell where criminals were normally taken. We spent the night together in that stinking place. My fear was great-I knew we were about to be killed. But my duke acted pleased. He said nothing could harm us, that the Holy Father would be forced to release us."
　　"Were you released?" I ask. My knowledge of the inner workings of the Vatican is extensive. No one accused by the pope of consorting with Satan ever survives. Such mercy would set a poor precedent. Yet Dante nods in response to my question.
　　"The next morning the jailer came and opened our door. There stood the Holy Father. He said the judgment of the holy council was that we were to be let go, but to be banned from the city of Rome. My duke's titles and properties were not confiscated, and I was amazed. My duke knelt and kissed the pope's ring before we were led away, and then he stared into the pope's eyes, and far the first time I saw the Holy Father afraid." Dante pauses. "I was afraid as well."
　　"Of your duke?"
　　"Yes."
　　"Why?"
　　He gestures with a stump. "Because it was as if a black snake reached out from his eyes and touched the Holy Father between the eyes. A snake the others could not see."
　　"But you saw it?" I ask
　　"Yes."
　　"How?"
　　He speaks with conviction. "It was there!"
　　"I understand." I have to calm him again, not allow him to come out of his trance. "What did you and your duke do next?"
　　"Traveled to Persida."
　　The name is not familiar. "Where is that?"
　　"Not far."
　　"Where?"
　　"Near. Hidden."
　　I find it strange he is able to avoid answering me directly, and wonder if powerful hypnotic powers have already been brought to bear on his memory.
　　"What is special about Persida?" I ask carefully.
　　He coughs painfully. "It is where magic was first invented."
　　"By your duke?"
　　"Yes."
　　"Why did you stay with him in Persida?"
　　Dante struggles. "I had to."
　　"Why?" I insist. "Did he use magic on you?"
　　He bursts with memories. "Yes! He called forth the great serpent! The living Satan! He invoked it in pain and blood and it poured forth from his navel. I saw it again, the snake-it grew from his intestines and screeched when it saw the light of the world. He poisoned my soul with its filthy powers, and then he poisoned my body."
　　"That's when you started to get sick?"
　　He calms down, so sad. "Yes. In Persida, where magic lived, I began to die."
　　"Why did he make you sick?"
　　"For his pleasure."
　　"But you were a loyal subject?"
　　More tears. "He did not care. It pleased him to see me eaten away."
　　I want him to go on. "What did he do next?"
　　"He went to Kalot Enbolot. That is the door to Sicily. He has a castle there. It was given to him by the Holy Father. He wanted to open the door to the heathens."
　　"To let the Moslems overrun the Christian world through Sicily?"
　　"Yes."
　　"And it was there he took up the name Landulf?"
　　"Lord Landulf of Capua."
　　"How did he slay his knights? At the castle?"
　　"He made them slay one another. The demons summoned by the sacrifices always demand betrayal."
　　"You keep saying he invoked demons, that he summoned them. What proof do you have of this other than the snakes you thought you saw?"
　　"I did see them!"
　　"Fine. But what was Landulf able to do with these demons?"
　　"He used them to torture men. To control their wills." Dante stops and glances away from the fire, into the dark, and his whole body shakes. "Distance does not matter with these demons. They can cross water and bring death. In the fair land of England, my duke boasted, knights in search of the Holy Grail wander lost because of the spells he cast over them. They will never find the Grail, he said. Forever, they will be lost."
　　I was familiar with this mystical quest. But it was hard for me to imagine that Landulf had a hand in it. "Why does he bother with these knights?" I ask.
　　Dante speaks with pride. "Because they are righteous, and the light of God shines before them."
　　"But you say Landulf is stronger than they are?"
　　Dante hangs his head, as if ashamed. "I am afraid that he is the strongest."
　　"But you are a Christian. Your Lord Jesus Christ says no demon can stand before the name of Christ."
　　Dante continues, dejected, "Landulf cannot be defeated."
　　"Surely he is not all powerful. You escaped from him. How did you manage to do that?"
　　But Dante shakes his head. "I did not escape. He sent me away."
　　"Why?"
　　Dante looks me straight in the eye, and I believe my power has finally failed. He is no longer in a trance, but he is still frightened, more so than ever-terrified of what he has already told me, what I may do with the knowledge.
　　"My lady, he told me to find him an immortal ruby beyond all worth. And bring her back to him."
　　An immortal ruby? My vampiric blood?
　　It sounds as if Landulf of Capua already knows about me.
　　That is fair. I intend to know a lot more about him.
　　I will go to his castle, I decide.
　　Dante will lead me to the black wizard.
　　
   9
　　
　　It takes a week to walk to Landulf's aerie, which stands in the heights of Monte Castello, in southwest Sicily, where, Dante tells me, the Oracle of Venus, the Goddess of Love, once stood. Dante knows a tremendous amount of Roman and Greek history and mythology. He is much more educated than I would have guessed. I begin to understand that one of the reasons Landulf kept him around was because of his powerful story-telling abilities. Even the evil duke loved a good tale, and when Dante starts on a story, his whole demeanor changes, as if he were hypnotized, and he speaks with great eloquence. But the moment the tale is over, he reverts. The sudden personality changes are disconcerting, but I am sympathetic to him because he has obviously been warped by his exposure to Landulf. I feel guilty that I am manipulating him further. Only by dominating him with my eyes, by soothing him several times a day, am I able to persuade him to lead the way to the castle. The thought of the place fills him with dread and he must be wondering that his legs continue to carry him in that direction.
　　Yet he doesn't seem to wonder about me. His affection for me is genuine; it pains me to use him so. And it is obvious that he is more concerned about me than about himself. When my influence on him wanes, he begs me to turn back. The human sacrifices he tells me about as being commonplace at the castle fill me with doubt. It is hard to believe there could exist such evil as he describes. Of course that is Dante's point. Landulf is no longer human. He has become a beast he invoked. The devil lives and breathes on a peak once considered sacred in ancient Rome. Before resting each night, Dante recites the entire mass in Latin, praying to a small copper cross he hides during the day in the wooden brace that supports his leper's stump. At night I see him scratching at his sores, and his suffering weighs on my heart. Only a devil, I think, could have cursed him so.
　　Yet I still do not believe in his Christian demons.
　　But what draws me to meet Landulf is the chance to witness his magic, whether it be white or black.
　　Although I know for a fact it will be black, that I have visited the cruel wizard already. But what I remember of the future grows more abstract with each passing day. The dirt paths of old Sicily are my only guides. I remember Alanda's name but I cannot imagine her face. At night, though, I stare for hours at the stars, trying to convince myself that I was once there, in a mysterious ship, with creatures from another world.
　　And perhaps with the gods of ancient myths.
　　Dante wants to tell me about Perseus as we walk.
　　I am familiar with the mythology, of course, having lived in ancient Greece for many years. But Dante insists I have not heard it properly, and it seems to be one of his favorite stories, so I let him speak. But talking as he walks is a luxury Dante can ill afford. Often he must stop to lean on me for support, but now he is remarkably energetic. He has found a stout walking stick that helps him walk as he speaks with loving enthusiasm about the ancient hero. Obviously Dante worships such characters, and wishes he were one, instead of the crippled leper he is. A handsome young god who could sweep away a beautiful princess such as me. I know Dante is more than a little in love with me.
　　"Perseus was the son of Zeus and Danae. His grandfather was Acrisius, a cruel king, who visited the oracle at Delphi and learned that his daughter's child was destined to be the instrument of his death. Perseus and his mother were therefore locked in a chest and set adrift on the ocean. The chest floated to Seriphus, where it was found by a fisherman and brought to the king of the land, Polydectes, a generous man who received them with love. When Perseus had become a young man, Polydectes sent him to destroy the Medusa, a terrible monster that was laying waste to his land and turning men to stone. History has it that Medusa had once been a beautiful maiden whose hair was her chief glory. But she dared to compare herself to Athena, and in revenge the goddess changed her wonderful curls into hissing snakes and she became a monster," Dante pauses. "But that's not what happened."
　　I have to smile It is only a story. "What really happened, my friend?" I ask, a mocking note in my voice.
　　Dante is not dissuaded. "The Medusa never compared herself to anyone. She thought she was beyond comparison, beyond all the gods and goddesses. It was only her hair that became monstrous-her face remained beautiful." 
　　I laugh. "That is good to know." 
　　"It is an important point. One never knows if it was her beauty or the serpents on her head that were able to turn men and other creatures to stone. But I must continue with the tale. Perseus, given a divine shield by Athena, and winged shoes by Hermes, approached Medusa's cave while the monster slept, Perseus took special care not to look directly at her. All around him in the cavern were the stone figures of men and women and animals who had chanced to gaze at the evil creature. Guided only by the Medusa's image reflected in his bright shield, he cut off her head and ended the threat of the monster."
　　"Then he gave the head to Athena?" I knew the end, I thought. Dante shook his head and spoke seriously. "That is not true. He kept it for himself. It was with the Medusa's head that he was able to defeat Atlas, and steal the gods' golden apples. It was only with the Medusa's head that he was able to turn to stone the Titan that was threatening to eat Andromeda, who would later become his wife." Dante shook his head again "Perseus never gave up the severed head of the Gorgon. It was too valuable a weapon." I continue to smile, even though I know we draw close to Landulf s castle. The forest has changed, become wilder and darker, filled with trees that have twisted arms for branches, sharp nails for leaves. A gloom hangs over the land and it depresses even me, me who is usually not affected by subtle elemental vibrations. Even the sun's rays are dimmed by a gray overcast that appears made more of dust than water vapor. There is a constant odor of smoke, and I believe I detect the stench of burnt bodies. Still, I think I am an invincible vampire, no easy victim for Landulf and his black sorcery.
　　"That is only one version of the story," I say.
　　Dante regards me with disappointment.
　　"It is the correct version, my lady," he says. "It is an important story. Hidden within it are many great truths."
　　"You will have to explain them to me another time." I pause and survey the land ahead. We are in rugged mountains made of hard rock and dry riverbeds. In the distance hangs a black mist that even my supernatural vision cannot pierce. This unnatural cloud clings to some kind of massive stone structure, but I cannot discern the details. I point and ask, "What is that?"
　　Dante is suddenly the cowering fool again. He clings to my arm and the fluid from his open sores stains my white shirt. "It is our death, my lady. There is still time to turn back. Before his thralls come for us in the black of night."
　　"Who are his thralls?"
　　Dante speaks in a frightened whisper. "Men who have no hearts, and yet still live. I swear to you I have seen these creatures. They see without eyes and have no need to breathe fresh air."
　　"How many men does Landulf have at his command?"
　　Dante is animated. "You don't understand, my lady. His power is not in strength of arms. Had he not one man, he could still hold off the full might of Rome, and the Moslems for that matter. Even they fear him."
　　I grip Dante's shoulders. "Tell me how many men he has under his command. Even an estimate will help me."
　　Dante is having trouble catching his breath. "I never counted them. It must be several hundred."
　　"Two hundred? Eight hundred?"
　　Dante coughs. "Maybe five hundred. But they are not important. It is the spirits that haunt this land that will kill us. They are in the trees, the rocks-he sends them out to spy on those who dare to challenge him. He must already know we are here. We have to go back!"
　　I am gentle, but I do hold his eye. "Dante, my friend, you have done me a great service. I know you didn't want to come here but you have. And I know it was out of love and respect for me. But now you have repaid your debt to me. You are free to return the way you have come. I want you to return to Messina, and save yourself. There is no need for you to go any farther along this road."
　　To my surprise, my power over him is outweighed by his love for me. He shakes his head and pleads with me. "You do not know what he will do to you. He has powers you cannot imagine. A lust for cruelty and pain that cannot be spoken. He rips the eyes from his victims and stores them in jars to later feed to caged rats he keeps in his personal quarters. He pulls the bones from slaves before their very eyes and munches on them at gruesome suppers. All this he does to set the stage for his satanic invocations. But when the spirits come, there is nowhere to hide." Dante weeps and grips my arm fiercely. "Please don't go there, my lady! In God's holy name I beg you!"
　　I kiss him, stroke his face, and then shake my head.
　　"I must go," I say. "But I will go in the name of your God, if it comforts you, and the name of my God as well. Wish me luck, my dear Dante, and take care of yourself. You are a precious soul, and I have known so few in my life."
　　He is in despair. "My lady?"
　　"Goodbye. Do not worry about me."
　　I turn and walk deeper into the gloom.
　　I do not hear him follow.
　　Yet all around me darkness deepens.
　　The sun still shines.
　　
   10
　　
　　This castle and its enclosure are built at the top of a cliff. Coming within a mile, I am able to see through the mist enough to know that the rear of the castle is unapproachable. The drop down the back is virtually straight, a thousand feet easily. Unable to see beyond the drop, I know that the ocean must lie not far beyond that-two miles at most. With such a commanding view of the sea and coast, Landulf would be able to spot enemies approaching at any point along southern Sicily. His home is strategically placed-as Dante said-as a doorway to the Christian world.
　　Outside the castle proper but still within the high stone wall are many small houses, some for living, others military structures where horses and arms are stored. Soldiers with swords wander around small fires, cooking meat, talking among themselves. Over them hangs the bulk of the castle-much larger than I had imagined it. These fires, I see, could not be responsible for the strange mist. Yet I no longer smell cooking human flesh and have to wonder if I imagined it.
　　I glance behind me. The shadows have grown long, the day is almost over. Dante is nowhere in sight. Yet I hear horses approaching from behind me, where I left Dante. They have a cart of some kind-its wheels creak on the rutted path. Above, a thick branch hangs over me and in a single leap I am cloaked within the leaves of the tree. The castle will have to wait for a moment. I want to see what these men are up to.
　　Minutes later I receive partial verification of Dante's wild tales.
　　On the cart is a cage, with metal bars. Three desperate females are locked inside. They are naked, but the four soldiers who have captured them are in full battle gear. Two drive the horses, while the other two are on horseback, one at the front, the other at the rear. The men are young but appear strong and battle tested. The females are each about eighteen. There is, of course, no way I can allow them to be taken into Landulf's castle, even if my intervening might upset my plans.
　　Vaguely, I remember I have rescued them before.
　　My plan of attack is simple.
　　As the first horse passes beneath me, a hundred feet in front of the cage, I drop down and land on the animal right behind the soldier. He is surprised to have company. I don't give him a chance to experience the wonder. Reaching up, I grab the back of his head and twist his skull. There is an explosion of bone and cartilage in his neck. He sags to the side, dead, and I shove him from the horse. Behind me, the two horses pulling the cage rear up. My horse I bring to a halt, and turn to face the others.
　　Already my long knife is out. Whipping my arm through a blinding arc, I let go of the hilt and plant the blade in the forehead of one of the drivers. The other driver draws his sword. I am forced to run toward him empty-handed. But I receive unexpected help from one of the females. As the soldier raises his sword to strike me, a girl with long hair gives him a swift kick in the back. He loses his balance and topples toward me. Before he hits the ground I relieve him of his sword and cut off his head.
　　There is still the fourth soldier, the one bringing up the rear. He has drawn a bow and arrow and is taking aim at me. He is an excellent shot. In the blink of an eye I see an arrow fly toward my head. Ducking, I realize that even though it will miss me, it will strike one of the girls. I am reluctant to show too many of my powers, but I have no choice. As the arrow flies by, I reach up and grab it and then break it over my knee.
　　The fourth soldier is worried.
　　"I am going to release the women," I say to him, staring. "They will ride back the way they have come."
　　The soldier just nods.
　　There are keys to the cage tied to the belt of the soldier who has my knife in his forehead. I relieve him of these and open the cage, marveling at the intricacy of the lock. The craftsmanship is far beyond anything I have seen before. But the keys work fine and a moment later the women are free. I give the reins to the one who assisted me, and throw the cloak from a dead soldier over her.
　　"Ride fast from here," I say catching her eye. "Do not speak to anyone about me."
　　She nods. I step from the cart as she turns it around. In seconds the women in the cart are out of sight. Slowly I walk toward the remaining soldier, who has moved aside to let the women pass. I admire his courage, that he has not tried to bolt. But he is still a kidnapper, and I am thirsty. The soldier draws his sword as I approach but I shake my head.
　　"You are going to die," I say. "It is better not to resist."
　　He swings at my head, misses. Stepping forward, I grab the hand that holds his sword and look up into his frightened eyes. "Who sent you to capture those women?" I ask. "Was it Landulf?"
　　He shakes his head. "No."
　　"Who then?"
　　He refuses to answer me, even though I press him with my eyes. He continues to shake his head, and I am puzzled. I finally pull him from his horse and throw his sword aside. Drawing his face near, I let him feel the warmth of my breath.
　　"What is he like?" I ask.
　　The man is resolute. "He is my lord and my master."
　　"Is he evil?"
　　He sneers. "You are evil!"
　　I have to laugh. "I suppose I am-to you."
　　He dies, in my arms, from blood loss. Afterward, I feel refreshed, ready for more action. The bodies I hide in the bushes beside the path. The blood, even, I cover over with mud. I wash and dress like a young boy again, my hair under my cap. Then I walk toward the castle and boldly knock at the iron gate that guards the entrance in the wall. A host of soldiers answer and I am stern with them.
　　"I am here to see Landulf of Capua," I say in a powerful voice. "Bring me to him."
　　They lead me through the courtyard filled with soldiers and smoke to the castle door. A servant comes, and then another. They all seem fairly normal, although I obviously make them nervous. Finally the woman of the house arrives, Landulf s wife, Lady Cia. A striking woman, she wears a high-necked, tight-sleeved, long tunic belted at the waist. Many jewels adorn her hair and elegant fingers. Her hair is black and worn up and her eyes are dark. She is not Mediterranean but English. Her smile is welcoming, yet it doesn't reach her eyes. She is exceedingly thin, and holds herself under rigid control. I cannot say I warm to her, but she is anything but threatening. Certainly she does not seem afraid of me. I have left my long knife with the bodies of the soldiers.
　　Lady Cia invites me in without many questions. I don't ask why a man who used to be an archbishop now has a wife. Since the pope doesn't want him, I think, he may have decided to enjoy good company.
　　"It is seldom we get visitors from Greece," she says, when I explain where I have just come from. "But that is not your home, is it, Sita?"
　　Removing my cap, I shake out my blond hair. "No. Like you, I am from England."
　　She is pleased. "You are perceptive. But surely you are not traveling through the country by yourself?"
　　I act sad. "No. I was with my uncle. But there was an accident on the road, and he was killed."
　　She touches her heart "I am so sorry. What was the accident?"
　　"His horse threw him. His neck broke."
　　She shakes her head and leads me deeper into the castle. "You poor dear. You must be devastated. Let us give you food, shelter."
　　"Thank you."
　　The castle is magnificent, and although my eyes strain to detect anything odd, the only unusual thing I see is an excess of wealth, even for a Sicilian aerie commanded by a duke. Landulf has sculptures from all along the Mediterranean. The marble on his floor is inlaid with gold, and the plaster ceilings are warmed by wooden beams. Everything is tasteful, not an offense to the eye. I compliment Cia on her home.
　　"My husband prides himself on his collections." She points to a marble statue from ancient Greece. "Since you were just in that part of the world, I am sure you would appreciate our hero."
　　I approach the statue, touch it, think of Dante, and pray he is all right. Perseus holds the head of the Medusa in one upraised hand, a sword in the other. His head is slightly bowed; his great exploit has not made him proud. But the face of the Gorgon is a horror, even in death she finds no peace. A feeling of disquiet sweeps over me, but I push it away. I have seen this statue before, of course I have. Lady Cia stands by my side.
　　"Can I have a servant show you to your room?" she asks. "You can rest and wash. Then perhaps you can join us for supper."
　　"You and Lord Landulf?"
　　She does not flinch at the name. "Yes. We would both enjoy the company." She snaps a finger and a chubby maid appears. "Marie will show you to your room."
　　I grasp her hands. They are cold, although the castle is warm, with fires burning in most corners. She trembles at my touch but I steady her with my strength. Staring deep into her eyes, I notice nothing supernatural.
　　"You are most kind," I say.
　　Marie leads me up three flights of stairs before we come to my quarters. Along the way we pass a window covered with iron bars, and I see that night has firmly arrived. Marie is dressed in a long black tunic over a white chemise. With a rosary around her neck, she could have been a nun. A few of Landulf s walls are covered with frescoes, paintings done directly on fresh plaster. Most of these have a spiritual theme. He seems to have an obsession with the Old Testament. The God that looks over his household is often angry.
　　Marie opens a door onto a small room. There is linen on the straw mattress and a bowl of water. Marie lights a row of candles and asks if I need anything else.
　　"No thank you," I say.
　　She leaves and I am alone. Washing my hands in the water provided, I am at a loss to explain why I keep looking around for a faucet with running water. Then I remember there are such niceties, in other places. The water is cold but seems fresh. I drink some and it rinses away the blood in my mouth. I do not understand how the soldier was able to resist my questions.
　　
   11
　　
　　A short time later I am at Lord Landulf's supper table. An old spear is fastened to the wall. It is this spear that the room seems to be designed around. From the massive stone fireplace logs crack and shoot showers of sparks out into the room as I am introduced to Lord Landulf by Lady Cia.
　　"This is the young woman I told you about," she says. "She came to our door not more than an hour ago, seeking asylum. Her traveling companion, her uncle, has just been killed on the road. Sita, this is the duke and my husband, Lord Landulf."
　　He is not a tall man and looks frail, which surprises me, after all the gruesome stories I have heard of him. Yet his delicateness is not necessarily a sign of weakness. He appears to be physically agile, and I suspect he is an accomplished swordsman. He wears a neatly trimmed black mustache and a pointed graying beard. He has oily smooth skin, and is dressed impeccably in a dark red silk chemise with long, tight sleeves, black hose, and a red and gold embroidery tunic, which comes down past his knees. His hands, like those of his wife, are decorated with many uncut gems and pearls. A ruby on his left middle finger is the largest I have ever seen. His voice, when he speaks is cultured, educated and refined. His large dark eyes are warm but shrewd. He clicks his soft, heelless leather shoes together and bows in my direction.  "Lady Sita," he says. "It is a pleasure."
　　I offer my hand. "The pleasure is mine, Lord Landulf."
　　He kisses my middle finger, and glances up at me. "Surprise visitors are always the most enchanting."
　　"Hidden castles are always the most exciting," I say with a smile.
　　We sit down to a vegetable soup. Lady Cia leads us in a brief prayer. There are only us three at the table; we have four servants waiting on us. The soup is finished when Landulf inquires about my travels. Considering the expansion of the Arab World, it is impossible to talk for more than a few minutes without the subject turning to the invading Moslems. At this Landulf's mood turns foul.
　　"Six of those heathen ships tried to land on a beach not five miles from here," he says bitterly. "They came in on a wave of fog, but my scouts were wary, We were able to set fire to their sails before they reached land. All their people were lost in the tides."
　　His remark stuns me. "You fight the Moslems here?" I ask.
　　"Of course," he says, and there is a gleam in his eye as he studies me. "Have you heard different?"
　　I lower my head. "No, my lord."
　　"Come," he says with force, "We are sharing food. Why have secrets between friends? You have obviously traveled far and wide with your uncle. You know more of Greece than I do. What have you heard of my relationship with the Moslems?"
　　I hesitate, then decide I may as well dive in. "The word is that you are in league with them."
　　He does not lose his temper as I fear. But the air chills. "It is only in Rome they would speak such lies," he says.
　　"I have been in Rome," I say. "Not three months ago."
　　"Oh dear," Lady Cia mutters anxiously. "We did not know you had been exposed to such matters."
　　Landulf raises his hand, "It doesn't matter, in the short time I have known Sita, it is obvious to me she is not taken in by every story shared by every frustrated priest and nun."
　　"That is true, my lord," I say.
　　Landulf pulls his chair back from the table and sighs. "It is true that the Holy Father and I have gone our separate ways. But our differences were and still are more political than spiritual. Nicholas believes we should fortify our defenses, and wait for the Moslems to break against our walls. But I know this foe too well. I have met these bloodthirsty monsters on the battlefield. If we do not attack, push the war back into their own lands, they will see us as weak and never leave us in peace." Landulf stands and steps away from the table. "But all that is a question of strategy, and in my own land I pursue my own counsel. But to hear the talk in Rome I have denounced the Church and turned against Christ himself." He pauses. "Is that what you have heard, Lady Sita?"
　　I have already taken the plunge. The wild tales I may as well validate, or else put aside. "I have heard worse, my lord," I say. "The peasants say you conjure evil forces. That you are a master of the black arts and able to raise demons from the depths of hell."
　　Landulf is momentarily struck, then laughs long and hard. His wife joins him after a tense moment. "I would like to meet one of these peasants and ask him where he gets his information!" he exclaims. "That is the trouble with lies. They are perpetually pregnant. At every turn they give birth to more lies."
　　"There was a peasant I met along the roads," I say carefully. "He acted as if he knew you. His name was, Dante. You've heard of him?"
　　Lady Cia gushes. "Dante? My lord has known him since he was a child. Pray tell us where you met him?"
　　I am evasive. "When I was lost in the woods, after my uncle died. But that was three days' journey from here." I add, "Dante seemed lost as well, and I shared food with him."
　　"I pray you did not share anything else with him," Landulf says darkly, referring to Dante's leprosy.
　　"I was careful always to keep a safe distance," I say. "But when he spoke of this place, it was with fear. I couldn't understand why."
　　"Surely you must know," Lady Cia says. "It is his illness. Since he became ill, he has spoken of nothing but demons that chase after his soul."
　　Again Lord Landulf raises his hand. "It is not so easy as that. I am partly to blame for his condition. When I brought him to Rome, as a boy, the Holy Father became enamored of his singing voice. Without my consent or knowledge, the pope had him castrated, so that his voice would remain high. Dante took the loss of his manhood badly, and I think he never ceased blaming me for the disfigurement. Since I was the cause of one physical aberration, when the illness came over him, he blamed me for that as well."
　　"But we tried to keep Dante here, and comfortable," Lady Cia says. "It was just that our servants feared his illness and he himself felt he needed to be free to roam the world."
　　Landulf shakes his head. "It pains me to know that my own friend has joined the chorus against me. Very well, leadership has its price. I cannot turn from the task I have set before me, to protect the underbelly of the Christian world. If I go to my grave cursed by every cardinal in the Vatican, at least I will still be able to hold my head up high when I meet my Lord in heaven."
　　"That is all that matters," I mutter.
　　Landulf steps closer to the fire, to the spear, and points out the aged iron tip to me. "Sita, do you know what this is?"
　　I stand and join him near the object. There is a single crude nail bound to the spear by circles of wire. The black shaft, I see, has more recently been joined to the tip-it is not nearly so old. Landulf touches the metal spear tip lovingly, running his fingers over the tapered edges, which are surprisingly sharp given the spear's obvious antiquity.
　　"I have never seen it before," I say.
　　He nods. "Few people have, except those who have been chosen to lead the fight against unrighteousness. This is the Spear of Longinus, sometimes called the Maurice Spear. It is this very spear that Gaius Cassius, a Roman Centurion under the command of Pro-Consul Pontius Pilate, used to pierce the side of the blessed Lord himself. Thus he put an end to Jesus' suffering on the cross. The final prophecy from the Old Testament that Jesus had to fulfill to prove that he was the true Messiah was that of Isaiah, who said, 'A bone of Him not be broken.' You see, Sita, at the time Jesus suffered on the cross, Annas and Caiaphas, high priests of the Sanhedrin, were trying to convince the Romans to kill Jesus before the Sabbath began. It was the priests' hope that the Romans would mutilate Jesus' body, and therefore prove that he was not the chosen one. But Gaius Cassius, although a Roman soldier, was devoted to Jesus and his teachings, and did not want to see Jesus' body defiled. He took up this spear of his own free will, and in that moment all the prophecies of the world were held in balance in his hand. But at the moment this spear pierced Jesus' side, all the prophecies were fulfilled. For that reason, it is said that whoever holds this spear commands the destiny of the world." Landulf paused and smiled slightly. "It is the story that is told about it."
　　And a fascinating one, too. I reach out and touch the spear, and feel a strange power sweep over me. It is unlike anything I have ever experienced before, at least none that I can remember. But vaguely the thought of a brown-skinned child comes to my mind. The spear is a weapon of war, yet somehow it comforts me. I touch the tip and think of the blood that once spilled over it. The blood that supposedly had the power to wash away all sins. Standing beside Landulf, I feel the weight of all the people I have murdered for their blood. He seems to sense something odd because he stares at me intensely.
　　"Sita?" he says.
　　"But you believe this story?" I say in an unsteady voice.
　　He continues to watch me. "I do, but then I am a romantic at heart." He leans close and whispers in my ear. "What do you feel when you touch it, Sita?"
　　I momentarily close my eyes. "I feel the child," I whisper.
　　"The baby Jesus?"
　　"John."
　　He moves back. "The Baptist?"
　　I open my eyes, confused. For an instant the face of Suzama flashes in my mind. But she had no children, I think. Suzama was celibate. Yet the name of John haunts me, as does the face of a child I cannot quite pinpoint.
　　"I was not thinking of the Baptist," I say.
　　"What then?" he insists.
　　In that moment, in that castle, I cannot remember.
　　"I don't know," I say.
　　He gestures to the table. "Why don't we finish our meal?"
　　"Thank you."
　　He takes me by the hand and leads me back to the meal.
　　
   12
　　
　　Later, in my room, I feel dull and tired. I am four thousand years old, I do not normally need much sleep. Yet my vision is now blurred with fatigue. Staring in a mirror surrounded by candles, I feel as if my face changes into that of a person from another time and my blond hair turns dark red. The candles grow to the size of the flames that burned in the fireplace. Splashing water on my face, I feel some of the illusions leave me, but they do not go away. There is an unpleasant taste in my mouth that the water cannot wash away.
　　Then it strikes me.
　　I have been drugged.
　　Landulf, perhaps with his wife's knowledge, had something put in my food. There is no other explanation for my lethargy. But it is unlikely that the drug was administered for my benefit-a good night's sleep in a castle rumored to be filled with demons. If he has drugged me it is because he wants me unconscious so that he can do something awful to me. All of Dante's tales come back to me in a haunting wave, and I am amazed at how I have dropped my guard. But could my carelessness have something to do with Landulf s magic?
　　For all I know, his drug was poison and I am already doomed.
　　I force myself to vomit. Then I drink the water left in the bowl and vomit again. Within seconds my head clears, but I am still far from being at full strength. Moving to the door, I find it locked by a device as sophisticated as the one I found on the cage that held the young women. The metal parts are made of a peculiar alloy-stronger than anything I have ever encountered. Fortunately the door, although thick oak, is only wood. Leaning hard on it, and taking deep breaths to clear my system of the lingering effects of the drug, I am able to break it open without much noise.
　　Marie stands outside my door.
　　I grab her and pull her inside.
　　"What are you doing here?" I demand.
　　She is frightened. I have a strong grip on her neck.
　　"I was coming to see if you needed anything, my lady."
　　"You lie. You were waiting outside my door. Why?"
　　She wiggles her head. "No, my lady, I am here to serve you."
　　"You are here to spy on me." I choke her. "Did Lord Landulf send you?"
　　She gasps. "No. Please? You are hurting me."
　　I tighten my grip and she begins to lose color. "You feel how strong I am? I have the strength of a dozen men. Tell me the truth now or you will die in pain. Were you spying outside my door?"
　　She can hardly get the word out. "Yes."
　　"You had been told I was drugged?"
　　"Yes."
　　"Who told you?"
　　"Lady Cia."
　　"You were waiting by the door for me to pass out?"
　　"Yes."
　　"What were you going to do with me then?"
　　Marie turns blue. But she has enough will left to struggle.
　　"No!" she gasps.
　　I dig my fingernails into her neck, drawing blood. "You answer me or I'll rip your head off!"
　　She moans. "I was to take you to the sacrifice."
　　I loosen my grip and frown. "What sacrifice? Where?"
　　She struggles for air. "It is below-in the hidden chambers."
　　I point my finger at her. "You will take me there, through a back way. I want to see this sacrifice but I do not want to be seen. Do you understand?"
　　She coughs weakly. "I don't want to die."
　　I am grim. "You keep thinking that way."
　　Marie leads me through a dark passageway unconnected to the hallways and rooms of the public castle. We hardly leave my bedroom when we enter a narrow tunnel opened by touching a stone with a series of special pressures. The entrance closes behind us, and I wonder if I would have the strength to reopen it. The effect of the drug continues to plague me. Colored lights flash and trail at the corners of my vision. My heart pounds in my head and I cannot stop yawning. Cramps grip my spine. The power of the poison stuns me. Ordinarily, my system is immune to any kind of abusive substance.
　　We reach steep stairs and start down. The walls continue to press in on us. The stairs are seemingly endless. I carry a torch in one hand, grip the back of Marie's neck with the other. "If you cry out at any time," I say, "that cry will be the last sound you hear in this world."
　　"I won't betray you," she whispers.
　　"I can see you are very loyal."
　　We continue to go down for the next twenty minutes, and I begin to believe Landulf has fashioned his castle over a natural cave. It is ridiculous to think he could have carved away so much stone with human hands. Yet somebody must have built this passageway, and I have to wonder if it is older than I imagined. The surrounding stones appear ancient. I remember Dante's remark, that this spot used to shelter the Oracle of Venus.
　　Eventually I detect a red glow ahead. At the same time the temperature increases sharply. Putting out my torch, I stop Marie and question her.
　　"Lord Landulf performs sacrifices down there?" I ask.
　　"Yes."
　　"What kind?"
　　"All kinds."
　　I shake her. "Does he kill humans? Torture them?"
　　"Yes. Yes."
　　"Why?"
　　She weeps. "I don't know why."
　　"Then why do you stay here? Are you not a Christian?"
　　She trembles beneath my gaze. "If I do not serve, I will be sacrificed."
　　"Is that the law?"
　　"Yes. Please let me go."
　　"Not until I am finished with you. Is there a place from where we can watch these sacrifices? And not be detected?"
　　She glances in the direction of the red glow. It is as if the light of hell beckons us. I smell burnt flesh again, and it has the odor of fresh meat. Marie is having trouble breathing.
　　"There is a passageway off to the side and above," she whispers. "But it is not all stone."
　　"What do you mean?"
　　"It is a metal grill, set in the ceiling. If they look up, they will see us."
　　"Why should they look up?"
　　"The eyes of my lord are everywhere!"
　　"Shh. Don't call him your lord. He is a perverted human." I turn toward the red glow. "He will die this very night." I grab her by the neck again. "Come, you will see."
　　The passageway Marie speaks of comes well before we reach the cavern. I feel and hear the hot tension in the cavern, the sound of many people whispering among themselves, the moans of a few unfortunates, the faint clash of metal. Even before I see, I know Landulf has brought his devotees as well as his soldiers to this accursed hole. I have to wonder if they're not all Satan worshippers.
　　Marie leads me into a tunnel where we have to get down on our hands and knees and crawl. The way is hot and soon I am drenched with sweat. But below our hands and knees the stone finally turns to wire mesh. We have reached the grills from which we can peer down at what is to be.
　　The ceremony is about to begin.
　　We are directly above the altar. It is circular, surrounded on all sides by rows of pews that lead up and back one hundred feet. There are approximately six hundred people present. Each person wears a red robe, except for a few soldiers at the doors, who have on metal breast plates and helmets. The altar is black and polished; it appears to be made of marble. Inlaid is a silver pentagram. The five tips of the stars dissect the room into five sections. Landulf sits on the floor with his wife. He is the only one wearing a black robe, and I can't help but notice the small silver knife resting in his lap.
　　Candles surround the altar. They are black and very tall, but what is most remarkable is that they burn with purple flames. The sober light spills over the marble and the silent participants like a glow from an unearthed volcano. The tension in the air is palpable and it is not something I would wish to touch. I sense that Landulf strives for tension in his rites.
　　Landulf stands and walks to the center of the pentagram.
　　He raises his hand with the knife.
　　The group begins to sing, and for a moment I am bewildered. For it sounds to me as if they are singing the Catholic Mass in Latin. But then I realize they have started at the end, and are working their way toward the beginning, moving verse by verse through the litany. And the knife Landulf holds-the handle is shaped like a crucifix, yet he grasps it by the blade, upside down.
　　Everything they are doing is backward.
　　Landulf's grip is tight on his blade. Blood runs down his arm as his worshippers sing, but he doesn't seem to mind. In all of this, the most amazing thing is that their voices are quite beautiful. They remind me of Dante, who never went to sleep without reciting the Mass. Yet their motives are clearly the opposite of Dante's. He implored God for forgiveness for sins he had never committed. These creatures implore another power to accept their sins and reward them for them.
　　After forty minutes the twisted mass ends. A wooden cross is brought out by soldiers and laid in the center of the pentagram. Clad in a white robe, a bound female is carried out next. Her mouth is tied, she cannot cry out. But I see it is one of the girls I thought I had saved. That must mean the other two did not escape either. The girl is spread out on the cross but her white robe is left on. Finally the material stuffed in her mouth is removed and she cries out weakly. Landulf stands over her like the Grim Reaper, or worse. He has exchanged his knife for a small hammer and a bunch of nails. His intention is painfully obvious.
　　He is going to crucify the young woman.
　　I cannot watch this. I cannot let it happen.
　　But I have to watch. And I know I can do nothing.
　　Landulf holds nails and hammer up for all to see. So far the group has been fairly sedate, but now they leap to their feet and start screaming and jeering. I cannot tell if they are experiencing pain or pleasure. It seems a perverse mixture of both. Landulf kneels beside the girl and the soldiers who hold her down as the noise of the group reaches a frenzy. The very air is now vibrating. I find myself panting hard, on the verge of vomiting. I am a vampire who has killed thousands, yet I cannot bear that they should do this thing to such innocence, and enjoy it, and still remain human. It doesn't seem as if God should allow it.
　　I have to remind myself that God allowed it long ago.
　　Landulf begins to hammer in the nails.
　　The blood flows over the silver pentagram.
　　The girl's screams rend my soul.
　　Then I cry out, and the group falls instantly silent.
　　Plump, frightened Marie has stabbed a knife in my lower back. Put it in deep, cut a few arteries and important nerves. My blood seeps over the wire mesh and spills onto the altar below. Directly on to Landulf s face. He stares up and hungrily licks it as it drops-rain from hell. There is poison on the tip of Marie's blade; it mingles with the drugs already racking my system and causes havoc with my reflexes. Straining to pull it out, I feel my wound being licked by this docile servant girl. She has been told something about my blood, and thinks it will grant her immortality and great powers. She is like a giant insect sticking a needle in my vital organs. But apparently she takes the feeding ritual too far. Landulf suddenly shouts at her.
　　"It is for me!" he yells.
　　I am in such agony. Without wishing it, my weight and Marie's weight sag onto the wire mesh. It breaks. We fall like creatures cast down from heaven. Marie lands on her head and her skull explodes in a gray mass. I land on my back and the knife rams so deeply into me that it pokes through my liver and out my front. I have crashed beside the half-crucified woman, and Landulf steps over her to get to me. His face is smeared with blood, yet incredibly he appears sad, as if he wished it could have ended another way. I feel I have reached the end. My strength ebbs rapidly; I cannot get the knife out of my back, so that I may heal. The tortured girl screams at me as if I were a demon. Her mind is shattered. On the cold black altar our blood mingles and flows over the silver star as the crowd cheers. All this had been entertainment to them. Landulf puts a foot on my bloody hair and stares down at me.
　　"How do you feel, Sita?" he asks with feeling.
　　I cough blood. "Wonderful."
　　"You have come to where I always wanted you to be."
　　I try to roll on to my side, still trying for the blade.
　　He steps on my free arm with his other foot.
　　"I am happy for you," I gasp.
　　He grins slowly. "You are very beautiful, your body, your spirit. This agony is unnecessary. Join me, I will remove the knife and you will be better."
　　The pain is unbearable. "What do I have to do to join you?"
　　He presses hard on my arm, grinding the bone into the floor.
　　"A small thing," he replies. "Just finish nailing these stakes in this young woman you foolishly tried to save."
　　I think about it for a moment.
　　A long moment considering my situation.
　　"My lord," I say. "Go to hell."
　　He laughs and raises his foot and puts it over my face.
　　Darkness comes. It is especially dark.
　　
   13
　　
　　When I come to, I feel as if I am being crucified. There is pain in my arms and chest, and I can hardly breathe. Opening my eyes, I find myself chained in a cell, deep in a black dungeon. My arms are strung above me, spread out like the wings of a bird, pinned to a dripping stone wall with locks similar to the ones I saw on the cage. This metal is a special alloy that I am unable to break, at least in my present condition. I struggle with the binds and only end up exhausting myself further.
　　Naturally, I can still see in the dark. From head to foot, I am covered with blood, but I see that it is not my blood, but that of the girl they were sacrificing.
　　 The knife has been removed from my spine and that wound has healed. But there is no relief for me.
　　Crucifixion brings death by slow suffocation, and the position of my arms and legs mimics that of the Roman style of execution. My feet are also bound to the wall, but they are slightly above the floor so that all the pressure of the metal anklets is on my calf bones. Remnants of Landulf s poisons continue to percolate in my system. I have to wonder if he siphoned off large amounts of my blood while I was unconscious.
　　Yet I do not think so.
　　How long I have been hanging there, I do not know. But steadily my pain grows so great that I begin to cry quietly to myself. Yes, even I, ancient Sita, who has faced the trials of four thousand years of life and survived, feel as if I have at last been defeated. Each breath is an exercise in cruel labor; the air burns my chest as it is forced in, and each time I exhale, I wonder if I will have the strength to squeeze in another lungful. My cries turn to feeble screams, then moans that reverberate deep in my soul, like the solemn laminations of the dammed already sealed in hell. I feel I have been forced beneath the earth, into a place of unceasing punishment. Landulf s face swims in my mind and I wonder if I see a vision of Satan.
　　Yet in my suffering, on the verge of final unconsciousness, something remarkable happens. My mind begins to clear, and I remember Alanda and Suzama, Seymour and the child. I see the stars and recall how I floated high above the Earth, and swore to do everything I could to protect my mother world. I am five thousand years old, not four thousand. I am from the future and I have returned in time to defeat Landulf. And I will defeat him, I tell myself. He will come for me, I remember he did before. I just have to hang on a little while longer.
　　I remember other things as well.
　　The Spear of Longinus.
　　I remember it from twentieth century Europe.
　　In Austria, in the year 1927, in the capital city of Vienna, I saw Richard Wagner's opera Parsival, which portrayed the adventures of King Arthur's knights in search of the Holy Grail, in a mythological setting. Historians claimed at that time that there was no historical basis for the events in the opera. Still, Richard Wagner's masterpiece was very moving, the powerful music, the tragic plot of how the knights struggled against the evil Klingsor, who obstructed them at every step from behind the scenes. Most of all, I was intrigued by Wagner's use of the Spear of Longinus-which I had seen in my past-as a magic wand in the hands of the evil Klingsor.
　　It made me realize, then, that Klingsor might have been Landulf.
　　There could be historical accuracy in the opera, after all.
　　After leaving the theater, I researched Wagner's source material and read Wolfram von Eschenbach's Parsival, upon which the opera was based. I was intrigued to see that the spear played an even more central role in the actual tale, and was stunned to team that Eschenbach had lived eleven generations after the time of Arthur and Parsival, and yet had managed to write a thrilling story even though he was supposedly an illiterate imbecile. From what could be gleaned from the old texts, it seemed that Eschenbach had simply cognized-out of the thin air-the mystical tale.
　　Even then, in the twentieth century in Austria, that fact had made me wonder if perhaps Eschenbach's story was symbolic of deeper truths. Because by the twentieth century, history had all but forgotten Landulf. Yet even Eschenbach, a wandering Homer of little reputation, a minnesinger, had named him the most evil man who had ever lived. Who knew better than I why Eschenbach should condemn the duke so? Chilled by my own memories, I became convinced that Klingsor was indeed Landulf.
　　In the story, Klingsor had been an archbishop who lived at Kalot Enbolot, in southwest Sicily, where he summoned demons and sent them forth to torment the world. But most important, Eschenbach had described Klingsor's most important identifying mark and the basis of his evil.
　　Yet, in Landulf s dark prison, I cannot remember that mark.
　　From far away, as I become more delirious, I hear a sound. Knights and lords approaching from above, slowly winding down to my black cell. My torment is unbearable-for it to end, it seems, is all I can hope for. Yet I force in a shuddering breath and steel myself to fulfill my promise to those who sent me back in time. I recall Krishna's promise to me, that his grace shall always be with me. But I do not ask God to save me, only to give me the strength to save myself.
　　The door opens and in strides Landulf.
　　Alone. His men wait outside.
　　He brings a clean damp towel and wipes at the blood that has dried on my face. Then he touches my cheek, and before I can react, leans forward and plants a kiss on my cracked lips. I try to spit in his face, but there is not enough moisture in my mouth.
　　Landulf stares at me with such compassion that I have to wonder if I have slipped into a dream where demons are angels and the future is already burned to ash by our ancestors' sins. For moment I am in more than one time, but then Landulf slaps me hard on the cheek, even as he pretends to bemoan my torment, and then I am alone with him, only him.
　　"Sita," he says with sympathy. "Why do you do this to yourself?"
　　I strain to moisten my swollen throat. "I could swear, my lord, that I did not climb into these chains while I was unconscious."
　　He enjoys my gusto. "But these chains are of your own making. I have offered you another way. Why don't you take it? What is the sacrifice for one such as you? We are already old partners in this war."
　　"I didn't know that this was a war?" I say honestly.
　　He is serious. "But it is-a battle far older than even your nonperishable body. It goes back to the birth of the stars, to the dropping of the veil, and of the opening of the two paths back to the source. You see me as a monster but I tell you I am God's greatest devotee."
　　"Aren't you exaggerating just a little?"
　　He slaps me again. "No! It is the truth you refuse to see. Will is stronger than love. Power lasts longer than virtue, my path is left-handed, true, but it is the swiftest and the surest." He pauses and comes closer. "Did not your friends tell you that all roads lead to the same destination?"
　　His question stuns me, the implications of his insight "What friends are those?" I ask innocently.
　　He nods to himself as he studies my eyes. "I have seen you before on the path."
　　I force a smile and know it must more closely resemble a grimace. "Then you must know I will never join you. Because although I may be a sinner, I am also a servant. I love virtue, I love human love, even if I am not human. These are the things that bring me the most joy. Your path may be swift and sure but it is barren. The desert surrounds your every step and you walk forever a thirsty man. You may leave me to rot in this cell, but I am not forsaken. When I leave this body I know I will drink deep of Christ's and Krishna's fathomless love, and I will be happy while you crawl on your hands and knees to invoke your miserable demons. Whom you send out to perform deeds you are too frightened to perform in person. You sicken me, Landulf. Had I a free hand, I would tear your tongue from your face so that you could no longer spew lies in my direction."
　　He is unmoved by my speech.
　　"You will beg for my mercy, Sita. You will kill at my bidding."
　　I snort. "You will not live long enough, my lord, to see me do either."
　　He holds my eye. "We shall see." He raises a hand and snaps a finger and two armor-clad soldiers with torches, a prisoner between them, waddle into the cell.
　　They have brought Dante.
　　"My lady!" he cries when he sees me and tries to run to my side. But he trips and falls facedown on the damp floor, and is only able to rise when Landulf pulls him up by his hair. The black lord shoves my friend in my direction and Dante cowers and prays at my feet, weeping to see me in such a desperate condition. I would weep for my friend if there were any tears left in my body. But all I can do is sigh and shake my head.
　　"Dante," I say. "I told you to go back to Messina. Why are you here?"
　　He clasps my foot. "I could not leave you, my lady. I will never leave you."
　　Landulf is grim. "We caught him outside the castle walls, groveling like an animal." He grabs him by the neck and picks him all the way up off the floor with one hand. The demonstration of strength disturbs me. Perhaps he did take my blood, and put it into his veins, while I was unconscious. Yet Landulf does not show the signs of being a true vampire. He dangles Dante in front of me. "Will you not beg, Sita?" Landulf asks me.
　　I am fearful. "For what?"
　　"You know, my proud ruby."
　　I sneer. "Why beg for that which does not exist?"
　　In response Landulf throws Dante down in a heap and takes a torch from one of his men. Knocking out the flame on the damp wall, he steps toward Dante with the embers of the torch top still glowing. Seeing what Landulf has in mind, Dante tries to scamper to me but is kicked aside by Landulf. The evil lord kneels by my friend and points out to me Dante's sores.
　　"These wounds are infected," Landulf says. "They must be cauterized and sealed. Don't you agree, Sita?"
　　I stare in horror. "He served you loyally for many years."
　　Landulf eyes Dante, who trembles in anticipation.
　　"But he betrayed me in the end," he says. "And it is only the end that matters, not the manner of the path."
　　"Landulf!" I cry.
　　But he ignores me, and then Dante is crying, screaming for me to save him as if I were his mother. But even though I have returned in time with the wisdom of the ages, I can do nothing-cannot keep Landulf from pressing the embers into Dante's oozing sores. Landulf first does my friend's deformed hand, and then he moves toward Dante's leg, where the damage is even more extensive. Dante howls so loud and hard it seems as if his skull will explode. Certainly the sound threatens to rupture my own heart. As Landulf moves forward with the torch again, I hear myself cry out.
　　"Please?" I yell. "Please stop!"
　　Landulf pauses and smiles up at me. "You beg me?"
　　I nod weakly. "I beg you, my lord."
　　Landulf stands. "Good. You have passed the first step of initiation. The second step will come later, and then the final and third step." He gestures to Dante, on the floor, who appears to have gone into shock. He speaks to his knights. "Chain this bag of garbage up beside her. Let them keep each other company, and let them talk together about the redeeming and saving power of love and mercy." Landulf winks at me as he leaves the dungeon. "I will see you soon, Sita."
　　
   14
　　
　　More time goes by and with each passing minute I die a little more inside. Crucified alone in the dark, I could imagine no crueler torture, yet I had not known the half of it. Dante is largely unconscious, but still he moans miserably. For a time I pray that he does not wake again, that he simply dies, and so ends his suffering. But then the curse of all who suffer comes to me.
　　I glimpse a faint ray of hope.
　　I have to wake Dante, bring him back to the nightmare.
　　Calling his name softly, he finally stirs and raises his head and looks around. It is so dark; it is obvious he cannot see a thing. But I can see his ruined expression and it pierces my heart. He is hung up on the wall right beside me. "Sita?" he whispers.
　　"I am here," I say gently. "Don't be afraid." He is having trouble breathing. Landulf s knights have tied him up like me, his arms pinned by unbreakable chains. Yet his feet are not bound; they manage to touch the floor. But I know soon he will begin to smother. He coughs as he tries to speak. "I'm sorry, my lady," he says. "I disobeyed you." 
　　"No. You have nothing to be ashamed of. You are a true hero. Even when the situation appears hopeless, you plunge forward. Perseus himself, I would guess, would be envious of your stout heart." 
　　He tries to smile. "Could it be true?" 
　　"Oh yes. And you might yet save us both." 
　　He is interested. "How, my lady?" 
　　"I need you to shake free of your leg brace and push it over here." 
　　"My lady?"
　　"Your tiny copper crucifix, the one you pray to before sleeping each night. I need it." 
　　He is worried. "What are you going to do to it?" 
　　"I am sorry, Dante, I am going to have to ruin it. But I think I can form the cross into a narrow instrument that I can use to pick these locks." 
　　"But, my lady, your hands are bound!" 
　　"I am going to use my toes to mold it into a proper shape. Don't worry about the details, Dante, just push your brace over here. Is it easy to slip out of?"
　　"No problem, my lady." I see him struggle in the dark. "Are you on my right or on my left?" 
　　I have to smile. "I am on your left, two feet away." 
　　"I feel you near," he says with affection as he slips out of the brace and pushes it toward me with his stump. "Do you have it?"
　　"No. My feet are pinned together. You will have to give it a shove, but not too hard. The brace must come to rest against the side of my legs." 
　　"But I can't see your legs." 
　　"They are pinned to the wall. Lay the brace against the wall and just give it a slight nudge forward." 
　　"Are you sure this is a good plan?" 
　　"Yes."
　　"I am not sure." 
　　"Dante?"
　　He suddenly hyperventilates. "I am afraid, my lady! Without my brace I will be a cripple!"
　　I speak soothingly. "I will not damage your brace, Dante. Only the cross you keep hidden in it. When I am free, you will have your brace back and we will escape from here."
　　He begins to calm. "We will go back to Messina?" 
　　"Yes. Together we will travel to Messina, and there we will stay in the finest inn, and order the best food and wine. You will be my companion and I will tell everyone how you rescued me from the evil duke." 
　　Dante beams. "I will be like Perseus! I will slay the Gorgon!"
　　"Exactly. But let's get out of here first. Push the brace closer to me." 
　　"What if I push it too far?" 
　　"You won't, Dante. You are a hero. Heroes don't make mistakes."
　　Dante pushes feebly at the brace with his leper stump. "Is that all right, my lady?" 
　　"Harder." 
　　"I am trying, my lady." He strikes the brace with his stump and the wooden leg bumps up against my calf. "You have it?"
　　"I have it," I quickly reassure him. "You relax and catch your breath. You don't even have to speak to me. I will concentrate on getting us out of here."
　　He groans. "Hurry, my lady. I am in some pain."
　　"I know, my friend."
　　Even for a vampire, what I plan to do next is not easy. First I have to let the top of the brace slide down to where I can reach it with my toes. This I do without much effort, but Dante's cross is not stored at the top of the brace. It is fastened somewhat deeper inside the wooden stump. After fishing for it with my toes for ten minutes, I am no closer to reaching it, and even more weary, if that is possible.
　　Then it occurs to me that I must invert the brace. This is tricky, because if the copper cross slips past my toes, it will land on the floor and be out of reach. What I do to add a safety margin to my plan is to raise the brace up with just one foot, catching it between my big toe and the toe next to it. Then I plug the end of the brace with the bottom of my other foot. Shaking the brace upside down in the air, at a ninety-degree angle to my calf, I feel the cross touch the sole of my free foot. In a moment my toes have a grip on the crucifix and I let go of the brace.
　　"My lady?" Dante cries.
　　"Everything is all right."
　　"My brace is not broken?"
　　"It is fine. Be silent and conserve your strength. We will soon be free."
　　"Yes, my lady."
　　Both my feet grip the copper cross. I will keep plenty of toes wrapped around it at all times, I tell myself. There is no way it is going to spring beyond my reach. As I work to mold the copper, I pray Landulf s soon did not mean in the next few minutes. I have prayed many times since entering the castle.
　　The crucifix is relatively thin, little more than a stamped plate, and this is fortunate. It does not take me long to squeeze the lower portion of the cross into a stiff wire. True, it is a rather plump wire but the key holes in the locks that bind me are far from tiny. Clasping the wire in my right foot, and holding still the key hole with my left foot, I slowly glide the cooper toward the inner mechanism.
　　"My lady?"
　　"Shh, Dante. Patience."
　　"My hand pains me."
　　"We will make it better soon. Please do not speak for the next few minutes."
　　The wire enters the lock and I feel around to get a sense of its design. My mind is very alert now. The traumas I have suffered-I put them all behind so I can focus on the inside of the lock. It does not take long before I have a complete mental picture of how it was built, and when I do, I know precisely how to move my wire.
　　There is a click and the lock springs open.
　　I kick off the chains. My feet are free.
　　"My lady!" Dante cheers.
　　"Quiet. Let me finish."
　　He gasps. "Oh, yes, hurry. I cannot breathe like this."
　　Now comes the hardest part. I cannot pull either hand chain down close enough to my face so that I might work the locks with the wire between my teeth, assuming I could get the copper in my mouth. No, I have to reach up with my right foot, stretching my leg to a next-to-impossible length, and attack the left lock that way. My muscles are stiff so the task is doubly hard. Yet I can taste freedom now, and it gives me fresh strength.
　　Clenching the wire in my toes, I kick up.
　　My hamstring muscles scream.
　　I fail to reach the lock. I have to kick up a dozen times before I even approach it. But steadily my joints limber, and finally I am steering the wire into the lock that grips my left wrist. Since I already know the internal design of the mechanism, I take only a second to trip it. My left hand is now free, and I immediately transfer the wire from my toes into my fingers. Two seconds after that, I have sprung the right lock and am able to stand and stretch. But Dante has gone downhill. He doesn't even realize that I am free. I step to his side and caress the top of his head. He looks up without seeing me in the pitch black and smiles.
　　"Are we safe?" he asks softly.
　　"Almost," I say, and I use the wire to open his locks. But his arms don't come down when they are free, his limbs are so damaged. I have to draw them down, and this makes him cry out. He buries his face in my chest and I comfort him. "Dante," I say. "This dungeon will not hold us."
　　He lets go of me, but he is lost in the dark and he cannot stand without support. "Where is my brace?" he asks. "Will it still work?"
　　"Your brace is here and it is undamaged, as I promised." I slide his stump back into it but cringe at the smell of his burnt flesh. Taking his wounded left hand, I study the sores. Landulf took his cauterization too far; he burned into the healthy tissue beneath Dante's wounds. Later, I swear to myself, when we have time, I must sprinkle a few drops of my blood on the sores to ease his agony.
　　"It is best you don't touch me, my lady" Dante says in shame.
　　I squeeze his arm. "You are my hero. Of course I will touch you."
　　He is happy, for the moment, but he is also close to death.
　　"My lady," he gasps as he continues to struggle for air, despite his release from the bonds. "I know a secret the duke might not even know." He taps the wall behind his head. "There is a passageway back here, if we can get to it. The way leads under the farthest wall and out into the woods."
　　"Can we reach this passageway from the tunnel beyond this cell door?"
　　"Yes, my lady. But how are we going to get through the door?"
　　Good question. After studying the door, I see that it is made of the same alloy as the locks and chains. I cannot break through it. But I have come to this dilemma before. My awareness of the future is still present, but still somewhat cloudy. For several seconds I cannot remember precisely what I did next. Then the water dripping from the wall against which we were imprisoned catches my attention. The mortar between the stones must be weak, I reason, to allow so much moisture to seep through it and into the cell.
　　"Dante," I say. "Is this secret passageway of yours flooded?"
　　"Sometimes, my lady. At certain times of the year."
　　"Is this a certain time of the year?"
　　He hesitates. "There should be some water in the passage, yes. But I do not think it will be flooded. I hope it is not."
　　"Does the water run out into the forest?"
　　"The passageway leads in two directions. The water runs out to the cliff, in the direction of the sea."
　　"Stand away from this wall, by the door. I am going to work on these stones."
　　"Yes, my lady. Where is the door?"
　　I have to lead him to it. He slides down, weakly, with his back to the exit. He cannot stop moving his left hand, and I can only imagine the pain it must be causing him.
　　Landulf has removed my shoes, but this does not stop me from leaping in the air and kicking at one of the stones with my right heel. It cracks with a single hard blow, and a series of kicks crush it. I pull out the chunks of stone and mortar with my hands, and soon I have a small river running through my fingers and over my lap. Yet I see the passageway is slightly above us, and that there is not more than a foot of water passing through it. Dante shivers and cries out as the cold water touches him and I have to talk to reassure him. My hands are frantically busy, pulling out pieces of stone. My strength level has gone up another notch. We were both so close to death, everything was hopeless, and now we stand on freedom's door.
　　Soon there is a hole large enough for us to crawl through. I help Dante into the passageway, and then I follow him. Soon I am standing beside him, steadying him with my hand. The water current is feeble; even Dante is able to stand against it. He grabs my arm and points upstream.
　　"This way is the woods, my lady," he says. "Soon we will be free of this unholy place."
　　I stop him. "I can't go with you, Dante, not yet."
　　His exhilaration turns to distress. "My lady? Why not?"
　　"I cannot go from here and leave Landulf alive."
　　Dante is devastated. "But if you go after him you will die! He is too strong!"
　　"I am strong, Dante. You have seen that. But I need your help to find him. Where does he spend most of his time in the castle?"
　　Dante is animated. "No, my lady. I don't know. He is like most people and moves around from place to place. You will not find him before his knights find you. Please, we must escape now while we have a chance."
　　I clasp his shoulders. "But I have to try to find him, Dante. Landulf may have taken something from me, something very precious, and I cannot leave this castle without knowing that he has been destroyed."
　　Dante is confused. "What did he take from you that is so precious?"
　　"I cannot explain that to you. I just need you to trust me that I speak the truth. Come, you spent many years with him. Where is the most likely place he will be right now?"
　　"But I don't know when right now is, my lady. All is dark in here."
　　I stop and concentrate. Even though I have been unconscious much of the time, my very cells remember the passage of time. "It is the second morning after I came here, not long before dawn." I pause. "Where does he spend his mornings?"
　　Dante's face twitches. "If I tell you, will you do what you did last time? Will you go to him?"
　　I stroke his head and speak in a gentle hypnotic voice. "You have to tell me. You are my friend. You are the only one I can trust. It is imperative that I destroy Landulf before I leave here. Not merely for the safety of you and me, but for the well-being of all people everywhere. You can see that, can't you? His evil has spread far and wide. I must stop it here at its source."
　　My words go deep into Dante. "He causes much suffering in many lands," he whispers as he nods to himself.
　　"And that suffering can stop today. Tell me where in this castle he spends his mornings?"
　　"But, my lady, if you leave me now, when will I see you again?"
　　I continue to stroke his head. "Remember the pool of water where we slept the night before we came to the castle? It was off the road. Do you think you would be able to hike back there?"
　　He nods vigorously. "I can do it. I know these woods. When will you meet me there?"
　　"This evening. I can get there by then. Can you?"
　　"I am sure of it, my lady. If I do not stop to rest."
　　""You can stop to rest. If I get there before you, I will wait."
　　He grips my arm fiercely. "Do you promise, my lady?"
　　"I promise you, Dante. With all my heart." I pause and sharpen my tone. I know my next words must feel as if they cut right through him like knives but the time has passed for gentle persuasion. "Now tell me where Landulf is."
　　Dante speaks quickly, startled. "He is probably not in the castle now. He spends most mornings at the ancient oracle, where Venus was long ago venerated."
　　"Where is this spot?" I demand.
　　"It is a stone circle built into the side of the cliff at the back of the castle." He gestures downstream. "That way opens onto a stream that falls not far from the place. But it is a dangerous spot, my lady. His power is greatest there, and the spirits protect him. You will not be able to get to him. You have to wait until he leaves the circle."
　　"We will see." I pat Dante on the back. "Before this day is through, you and I will meet again. It will be a time of rejoicing. The evil enemy will be defeated and good friends will be together and free to go where they wish."
　　"To Messina?" he asks excitedly.
　　"Yes, we can go to Messina." I hug him. "Take care of yourself, Dante. You are much loved by me."
　　He hugs me in return and speaks in my ear.
　　"You are my love, my lady."
　　
   15
　　
　　The dark path leads to light, but the sun is not yet up when I exit the underground passageway and stand on the edge of the cliff and look out at the vast panorama. A large section of the south shore of Sicily is indeed visible. The sea is purple and there are few clouds. The closest beach-far below and perhaps three miles distant-is occupied by a large contingent of soldiers. I can see the color of their skin, their black and green flags that wave in the morning breeze.
　　Arabs. Moslems.
　　They could not be so near without Lord Landulf s consent.
　　The duke is not far away, off to my left, down about five hundred feet. As Dante warned, he sits in the center of a circle of stones-defined by the shape of the ledge and the pointed rocks that enclose it-in another pentagram. This five-pointed star appears to have been drawn by blood, and there is something red and slimy in his hands. He sits on his knees with his back to the cliff and I do not know what thoughts run through his corrupt mind. I only know he will be dead in a few minutes.
　　I start down the cliff.
　　Venus shines bright in the eastern sky.
　　I take her white light as a good omen.
　　I come within fifty feet of the stone circle before I pause. There is a young woman chained to the cliff just below me, and I see Landulf has the Spear of Longinus with him at the center of the pentagram. I find it odd that I did not see it at first since I have not let him out of my sight on the hike down the cliff. But the fact does not concern me; the girl does. She is the one who assisted me when I rescued her and her friends from the cage. Like her friend, who was sacrificed at the black mass, she wears a white robe and looks terrified. Yet except for the three of us, I sense no one else in the vicinity. I descend another thirty feet, silently, staring at Landulf s back. I know it is him. The girl sees me and I motion for her to remain silent. Her eyes are suddenly wide with hope, and I have to wonder if that is good. This all seems too easy.
　　Then I pause again. Something makes me sick.
　　Lady Cia lies not far from the chained girl.
　　Her heart has been cut from her chest.
　　Now I know what Lord Landulf holds in his hands.
　　He continues to sit with his back to me. Defenseless.
　　"It was necessary, Sita," he says softly.
　　That he knows I am here stuns me.
　　"Why?" I ask.
　　He glances over his shoulder.
　　"The sacrifice demanded the ultimate sacrifice," he says.
　　"To achieve what aim?" I ask.
　　"To bring you here, to this spot."
　　I snort. "I brought myself here, thank you. None of your demons assisted me."
　　He stands and stares at me. His wife's heart continues to drip in his open palm. His eyes are so dark "That's what you think," he says quietly.
　　I gesture to the girl. "Why is she here?"
　　"For you. For the next step in your initiation."
　　I point to my ears. "I have sensitive hearing. The three of us are alone on this cliff. Not that it matters. You would need an army to protect you from what I am going to do to you now."
　　He gestures to the circle, using the heart. "You say your ears are sensitive. What about your eyes? Can you not see what you are up against?"
　　Now that he mentions it, I do notice a peculiar vibration in the air. It's as if we're surrounded by a swarm of insects, yet there is no sound. The sensation of the swarm is psychological. Now I feel as if something foul picks at my skin. I start to brush it away, but stop myself. I fear to show weakness in front of him. Yet a faint thread of fear has already entered my mind, and slowly begun to wrap around the center of my brain. However, I still feel I have the upper hand. I am an ancient vampire of incredible strength. He is just a man. Why, he doesn't even have his spear in his hand to protect himself.
　　I step toward the stone circle and bump into a barrier.
　　It is invisible but palpable. A wall.
　　Or a magnetic force that resists physical contact.
　　I pound on it with my fist to no effect.
　　Landulf grins at me from inside the circle.
　　"To enter," he says. "You will have to sacrifice an innocent."
　　The girl cries behind me. I silence her with a gesture.
　　"That will never happen," I say as I slowly probe the perimeter of the stone circle, seeking for a weak spot. But the force field is uniform, and I am amazed that it even exists. My memories of the future are back again, clearer than ever. I have to wonder if the shield is of extraterrestrial origin. The last time I confronted Landulf on this spot, I defeated him by using his wife as a shield. This is the first event that is being played out differently from the last time. So I know I must have come back in time for this final moment.
　　Yet I do not know what to do.
　　Landulf follows my movements and does nothing to thwart me. I complete my inspection of the circle and pause to consider the possibility of jumping into the circle from the side of the cliff. Landulf reads my mind, or perhaps he logically figures out what my next move must be.
　　"You can try it," he says. "I would enjoy watching you bounce off the edge of the cliff."
　　"You cannot stay in there forever," I reply.
　　"Dante cannot stay in the underground passageway forever."
　　I freeze. "You bluff. You cannot stop him from here."
　　In response Landulf raises the heart toward the sky and to my amazement it starts beating. The blood squirts on his face and he licks it. Then he lets out a high-pitched cackle, and I hear a loud shifting of stone far above. Glancing up the way I came, I see that the exit to the cliff has been closed over with a fallen boulder. Landulf lowers the heart.
　　"That is one end," he warns. "I can close the other end the same way. If..."
　　He doesn't finish. He wants me to.
　　"If I don't come get you," I say.
　　"Exactly." He gestures to the chained girl, who is not enjoying the display of the duke's powers. "The life of your friend for the life of a stranger."
　　I glance at the girl and she shakes her head slightly.
　　"Don't worry," I snap at her.
　　"You need to rip out her heart," Landulf explains. "Quickly. While it still beats, you will be able to penetrate the circle."
　　"I do not barter in human lives." But sudden doubt plagues me. If I do not kill him, he will kill the girl anyway. And I will not be able to take her with me down the side of the sheer cliff. Dante's innocent face haunts me, as do Landulf s hypnotic eyes. I just want to get to the duke and scratch his face off to put an end to his circus. He moves to the edge of the circle, comes within five feet of where I stand. Once more I pound on the barrier but my fists rebound against my chest. His dead wife's heart continues to beat and now the sound is in my ears. I do not understand how his palm can animate it. How a wizard, no matter how powerful, can infuse life into what should be dead.
　　"You will barter," he promises. "Fool! There is no part of you I cannot touch. No aspect of you I cannot defile." He stops. "Hear something, Sita?"
　　The beating of the heart grows louder in my ears.
　　In my head. Even when I cover my ears it doesn't help.
　　He shoves the heart toward me and I am forced to stare at it.
　　This is madness-I cannot even close my eyes.
　　"Kill her and it will stop," he says.
　　"No!" I cry.
　　"Kill her and your friend will live! Kill her and you can kill me!"
　　The blood of the pounding heart splashes through the barrier and catches my face. I taste the waste of Cia's perverted life on my lips and the pounding in my head increases ten-fold. Surely I will go mad if I do not stop it in the next few seconds. Whirling toward the chained girl, I do not know what she hears except that she suddenly screams. Maybe the sight of my crazed expression makes her scream. What is one human life, I think? In four thousand years I have murdered thousands, ripped the lives from a parade of innocents. I need her heart, just for a second. Her sacrifice is necessary to spare the torment of billions in the future. She should be happy to die for such a noble cause. God should see that I have no choice in the matter.
　　But he will not see that and I know it.
　　Because I am five-not four-thousand years old.
　　I know to murder innocents is to murder my own soul.
　　But the pounding grows louder.
　　It is a miracle Landulf's voice can be heard above it.
　　"You can rip out my heart when you are done with me," he says. "And then you will finally be at peace. Peace, Sita!"
　　My body balls up in pain.
　　I squeeze my ears between my knees.
　　The beat of the dead heart. Nothing can stop it.
　　Tears run over my face. Bloody tears.
　　The girl swims in my red vision.
　　My head will explode, I know.
　　"Kill her, Sita!" Landulf implores.
　　My mission will fail. Billions will burn.
　　"Rip out her heart!"
　　In my head. The pain. The pounding. Please.
　　"Do it!"
　　I do it. Finally, just this once, I listen to him.
　　Leaping toward her, giving her almost no time to react, I thrust my left hand into her chest, smashing through her white gown and her pale ribs. Yet for a fraction of a second, she knows what I am going to do. She feels the absolute horror of the ritual execution. That is what Landulf wants, what he needs, to activate his black sorcery. The battery of the bastard is tied to perversity and pain. The girl's heart is in my hand. I feel its life, and still I yank it from her chest and leap toward the circle. Out the corner of my eye I see her staring at me, and understand the betrayal she is feeling deep in my soul. Her eyes are as blue as mine. Even in death, they could be mine.
　　I land inside the circle, at the tip of a point on the pentagram.
　　The pounding stops. The agony in my head.
　　The dead girl's heart seems to melt in my hand.
　　Landulf has picked up the mystical spear.
　　"They are always hungry," he explains as he nods toward the heart vaporizing in my left palm. In moments it is entirely gone. There is not even a stain of blood left on my hand. Landulf raises the spear and takes a step toward me. He is pleased with me. "You have passed the second step," he says.
　　I ready myself for his attack. I shift to the right side.
　　My foot touches fire.
　　I whip my foot back. There are no visible flames.
　　"You are now in hell," Landulf says. "You are required to stay inside the lines of the pentagram. But I am free to roam where I wish, all over the circle."
　　He lunges at me with the spear. He is fast.
　　I leap over to the adjacent star point.
　　He barely misses me. He flashes me a smile.
　　"Isn't this fun?" he asks.
　　"Delightful," I say.
　　"There is one other rule you should know. Don't jump or walk through the center of the pentagram. There is an invisible being waiting there that might consume you alive."
　　"You expect me to believe you?" I ask.
　　"You don't have to. But then, I will lose you forever, and you will be trapped in a dark place forever." He raises the spear once more. "But do what you want. You may even try to escape from the circle, but you won't be able to. Once you are in here with me, you will stay in here."
　　He makes another stab at me. I leap to the next point on the star. He misses, but I realize that I cannot keep on like this forever. His freedom of movement gives him a devastating advantage. His speed and strength are a mystery to me. But perhaps they come from the sum total of all the demons he carries in his heart. He is not necessarily as strong as I am, but his strength is close. I can tell by the power in his physical bursts. And he has the mystical spear, and I have to wonder if Christ's dried blood is an advantage or disadvantage in this cursed place.
　　"The spear is neither negative or positive," he says, maybe reading my mind, maybe guessing. "The tip is simply a point around which destiny turns. In the hands of a saint, it could be used for great healing. In my hands, it is merely a tool for my immortality."
　　"You are not immortal," I snap.
　　"But I will be, Sita. In a few moments. As soon as I pierce your side with this spear and channel your blood into my body."
　　"You could have done that when I was unconscious."
　　"No. To get the full benefit of your blood it is necessary that I drain you in my place of power. And you had to enter here of your own free will, after executing an innocent. Everything that has happened to you has been planned to bring you to this precise point." He pauses. "You see, Sita, I know you are from the future."
　　He continues to shock me.
　　"How do you know?" I gasp.
　　"Because I am from the same future."
　　"Did I know you?"
　　"Yes."
　　"Who?"
　　"Linda's boyfriend. I was the one who sent you into the desert."
　　"That fat slob?"
　　He is not offended. "I was in disguise."
　　I nod in admiration. "You are clever. More clever than any foe I have ever encountered."
　　My remark pleases him. He lowers the spear.
　　"Thank you. You have also been a worthy adversary. Why don't you let this end with dignity? I will give you that if you stop resisting me."
　　I sigh. "What do you want me to do?"
　　"Stand still for a moment. I do not need a lot of time."
　　"What will you do to me?" I ask.
　　"I will take your blood. I need your blood. But you will not have to suffer. You have my promise on that."
　　I consider. "All right. I will surrender on two conditions."
　　"What are they?"
　　"I want to open my own veins. And I want to use the nail that was on the cross, the one now tied to the tip of your spear."
　　"Why the nail?" he asks.
　　"Because you say it was pounded into the hand or foot of Jesus. If I am to die, I want that nail to pierce my own flesh." I add, "It will make me feel closer to him as I die."
　　Landulf is thoughtful. "That will not save you from what is to follow. You are already in my circle. No works of Christ function here. I am not lying to you."
　　"Perhaps. But those are my conditions." I shrug. "I don't ask much."
　　He is wary. "You could try to use the nail as a weapon. You could throw it at me."
　　"Would you be able to block such a throw?"
　　"Yes."
　　"Then what do you have to fear by tossing me the nail?"
　　"Nothing. I fear nothing in my place."
　　"Then toss me the nail, O Fearless One."
　　"You mock me?" he demands.
　　"Well, in the future it might be called flirting."
　　He hesitates. "I don't have to do this. I will get you eventually."
　　"Probably. But you never know."
　　"You believe the talisman will protect you? Despite what I say?"
　　"No. You are wrong there."
　　"Then you lie to me. You will not keep your side of the bargain."
　　I laugh. "You call me a fool? You have nothing to lose by trusting me." This time I catch his eye, and put all my will behind the gaze. "You will never be successful as an immortal if you live in such fear, Lord Landulf."
　　I have pushed the right button.
　　Perhaps his only button.
　　He hates to be called a coward.
　　He begin to undo the wire holding the nail in place.
　　"When you have the nail, you open your veins immediately," he says. "I will tolerate no delay."
　　"I will not waste your time," I promise.
　　The nail is free. He tosses it to me.
　　"Christian paraphernalia," he says bitterly.
　　I place the nail in my right palm, the tip pointed toward Landulf, and stare at it. Neither Yaksha's nor the child's nor my daughter's blood is in this present form of mine. I am strong but still only a shadow of what I will be in the future. Since returning to Sicily I have felt no power of psychokinesis, the ability to move objects with my mind. It was Kalika's blood alone that gave me that ability, and my daughter hasn't even been born yet. Still, my daughter gave her life to save the child, paid for his life with her own. And the child's blood, in an earlier reincarnation, was once on this nail. There is a connection that can reasonably be made here, or else mystically contrived. No doubt a particle of Christ's blood still remains on the metal, deep in the folds of the atoms that bind it together.
　　It is on this invisible blood I focus. I still believe in the miracle of this blood. My belief is born of experience. I have seen it bring a friend back to life. My belief is stronger than evil incantations spoken to cruel spirits, and bloody pentagrams drawn on forsaken cliffs. I made a serious mistake by stealing the girl's heart, but now I will give my own heart in exchange for hers. And in exchange for my life, for just a second of time, I ask for the power that my daughter already gave to me. I ask it out of favor to Kalika, whom I am sure would not want her mother to go down without a final chance of victory. Yes, I have the nerve to remind God that he owes me for my daughter's sacrifice. But I also have the faith to believe he hears me.
　　And my faith is stronger than stone.
　　Landulf lifts the spear. "You had better hurry."
　　I feel my mind touch the nail.
　　"Yes," I whisper. "Hurry."
　　I feel my heart touch it. Caress it.
　　And I know beyond all doubt it once touched Christ.
　　Landulf shoulders the spear. "You die now, Sita."
　　The nail trembles. My hand remains firm. My gaze.
　　Power sweeps over me from way beyond the circle.
　　"No," I say. "Evil one, you die."
　　Landulf starts to let the spear fly.
　　The nail flies out of my palm and is impaled in his forehead.
　　Between his eyebrows. He stares at me through a red river.
　　"You," he says, and drops the spear.
　　I leap to his side and catch the spear before it lands.
　　The nail has plunged all the way in.
　　"I take back what I said a moment ago," I say. "You are not so clever."
　　I stick the spear in his heart, and his blood spurts out, even into the center of the pentagram, where it is mysteriously consumed in midair. He tries to speak one last time, probably to curse my soul for all of time, but he is staggering blindly with a long spear thrust through him and a nail in his brain. He makes the serious mistake of stumbling into the center region of the five-pointed star he has drawn with his wife's blood, and there something truly awful happens. In a sickeningly wet sound, his clothes and flesh are simultaneously ripped from his body. For a moment he is a carved cadaver risen from an autopsy table. Then invisible claws go around his head, and he is pulled down and backward, into a pit of nothingness. He just vanishes and I am so grateful that I fall to my knees and weep for a long time.
　　The spear and nail remain where they have fallen from his body. They lie in the center of the circle. And I know the power of the circle has been broken.
　　Eventually I climb down the cliff, and walk toward the ocean. I swim away from the hordes of Moslems, who only stare at me as I step onto the beach covered with blood from their dead benefactor. Perhaps they are afraid to touch me, I don't know. But they must have heard stories about Landulf s castle.
　　The place where magic was performed.
　　I swim through the waves beyond the invading army.
　　Beyond reason. The water is clean and stretches forever.
　　Yet I feel as if I will never be clean again.
　　
   16
　　
　　When I reach the clear pool of water that same evening, Dante is not there. His absence hits me like a wall. It was too much to hope, I know. But as I sit exhausted beside the pond and stare at the reflection of the vanishing sunlight and the slow emergence of the stars, I ponder the unfairness of life. Here was Dante, a simple man who would give his life for a just cause, killed out of love for me. And here am I, a monster, who will easily kill, and I am still alive. God had granted me a miracle that very morning, yet I feel I would trade all of his grace just to see my friend for a few minutes.
　　But the night grows darker and still Dante does not come.
　　He is dead, I know. Death is all I know.
　　There is blood on my left hand.
　　The hand that stole the girl's life.
　　Funny I hadn't noticed it before. Leaning over the pond, I place my hand in the water and try to wash off the dark red stain.
　　But it does not come off. I wonder why.
　　"Good. You have passed the first step of initiation. The second step will come later, and then the final and third step."
　　Killing the girl had been the second step.
　　Or so he said. That Prince of Lies.
　　He is dead now. He will say no more.
　　Not to me. There will be no third initiation.
　　I scrub my hand fiercely. To no avail.
　　I have never seen a stain like this before.
　　"But I am sorry for what I did," I tell the starry pond. "You know I had to do it. I had no choice."
　　If I am explaining to God, he does not answer me.
　　But once more my memory of the future is clear. Perhaps the pond acts as a catalyst. It is every bit as clear and round as the one Alanda led me to. And as I could at that watery oasis, I imagine that I can see more reflected stars than I can in the sky itself. My sudden grip on reality makes me marvel at how much my memory faltered while I was embarked on my dark adventure. Maybe Landulf had been blocking me. Maybe my deep-seated fears distorted my memory. I could have tricked myself into not knowing the horrors that awaited me. Or perhaps it was all a function of coming back in time.
　　I feel as if all my powers, the ones I left behind in the twentieth century, have returned to me. Come back just when I no longer need them. I am surprised, now that my mission is complete, that my staring at the stars does not bring me back to Alanda and Gaia and their spaceship. Bat maybe I don't want to leave yet. I promised Dante I would wait for him and I am determined to wait. I don't care how long it takes, long past hope I will sit here. Or, indeed, I even consider the possibility of returning to the castle to see if he has been taken captive once more. I could free him, save him.
　　But the latter is all bravado.
　　I will not go back to that castle.
　　I swore it once before and I swear it again.
　　The stars, as they are reflected in the pond, move lazily on the faint motion of the water. They are beautiful and I feel as if I can stare at them forever. Yet my mood is not peaceful. There is music in my head and it will not go away. I hear a strident refrain from Richard Wagner's Parsival. It is almost as if, staring at the heavens, I look upon a vast stage where Wolfram von Eschenbach's Parsival is still being played out. I see the knights striving to fulfill their quest for the Grail, and then, Klingsor, in the background, always out of sight, obstructing their every move with his magic wand, the Spear of Longinus. I wonder if I should have left it in Landulf s body. The sacred stabbed through the sinful. But I had feared to approach the center of the pentagram to retrieve it.
　　Even when he was dead, I was still afraid of him.
　　It is a truth I have trouble accepting.
　　I am afraid even now. The stain bothers me.
　　How was Klingsor stained? What was his mark?
　　The play explained it all. If only I could remember.
　　Something about a certain kind of smoothness.
　　But I cannot remember. No.
　　Nor can I understand why Dante was so insistent that I understand the meaning of the Medusa story. He was such a simple fellow, full of phobias and goodness, but when he spoke of mythology, he spoke with great authority. Almost as if another personality used his mouth and lips. I keep feeling as if Dante had been trying to warn me of a deeper threat. One that could not be seen because the true power of the wizard was that he was able to control one's will. Capable of turning whomever he wished to stone, so that he or she did not move unless the wizard wished it.
　　Could that be the real meaning of the Medusa tale?
　　The Gorgon did not merely kill her enemies.
　　She placed them under complete mind control.
　　Doubts continue to assail me. Questions that are more like ancient riddles. What about the snakes in the hair of Medusa? What about her fair face? Dante had emphasized that the latter was crucial. And I had laughed and told him it was time to concentrate on what was real. But I of all people should have known that reality was not always what it seemed.
　　A profound certainty sweeps over me.
　　Dante had been trying to warn me of something unseen.
　　Then I see him. And it is a miracle.
　　He is struggling up the path to the pond, limping badly, gasping for breath. In a moment I am by his side, helping him to sit down on a large rock not far from the water. He is in worse shape than when I saw him last and is already babbling about how sorry he is that he is late, and why he is late. I can't get a word in, but I am so happy to see him that I weep. Really, it is one of the most wonderful moments of my life. God has heard all of my prayers.
　　"The passageway was blocked," he says rapidly, with hardly any air in his lungs. "There was a large stone. I had never seen this stone before. Never! My lady, I didn't know what to do. I tried walking back in your direction, but I couldn't find you, and I kept slipping in the water. My brace kept falling off, and once it almost floated away. I would have been crippled! Then I took another path that I know but no one else knows and I went back into the castle and by all the saints in heaven I knew I was going to be put back in the prison. But everyone ignored me! The knights were running all over the place and the servants were crying and it sounded as if something horrible had befallen Lord Landulf." He pauses to breathe and his eyes shine with hope. "What befell him, my lady?" he asks.
　　I have to smile. Yet there is no joy in it and I wonder why. My happiness is tempered with regrets I can hardly explain to myself.
　　"He died," I say. "I killed him."
　　Dante bursts out with laughter. But then he catches himself and quickly does the sign of the cross. But his relief is not to be contained and a moment later he is howling in pleasure again. He jumps up from his rock and hugs me and shakes like a child. Yet the news is too good for him. He is having trouble believing it.
　　"Is he is really dead?" he keeps asking. "Are you sure it was him? Did you see his body? Are you sure it was his body?"
　　I strive to calm him. "It was him, I swear it. I put the Spear of Longinus through his evil heart. He died like any other man."
　　Dante is smiling. "Did you burn his body? Did the smoke stink?" 
　　I shake my head. "No. I didn't burn him. There wasn't time."
　　His smile falters slightly. "But what did you do with his body, my lady?"
　　I shrug. "Nothing. I left it. Don't worry, he will not return to haunt us. I am sure of it."
　　Dante seems reassured. "Then we can go to Messina now and tell everyone that the world is safe?"
　　I force a laugh. "Yes. We can tell everyone that there is nothing left to worry about." But my laughter soon dies because that is not the way I feel. I add softly, "We will tell the whole world."
　　Dante is uncertain. "Is something wrong, my lady?"
　　I turn away. "No. I am just worried about you. You need to eat, to rest and regain your strength."
　　He stands and steps to my back. "Something weighs on your heart. Share it with me, my lady. Perhaps I can lighten your burden."
　　My eyes are suddenly damp. I am ashamed to look at his face.
　　But I feel I can tell him. He will understand. "When I found Lord Landulf," I say, "he was in the stone circle as you said he would be. But I did not do what you suggested. I did not wait for him to leave the circle to attack him. I was too impatient. He was simply sitting there-I thought I could just kill him and then it would be all over with."
　　Dante speaks sympathetically. "But you could not penetrate the circle."
　　My hands clasp each other uneasily. I cannot stop moving them. "Yes. There was an invisible shield around it. Landulf had created it, I believe, by employing a sacrifice that required him to cut out the heart of his own wife."
　　Dante gasps. "Lady Cia!"
　　"Yes. She was dead when I arrived. But there was a young woman chained nearby who was very much alive. Landulf told me if I wanted to get to him, I would have to rip out the girl's heart. At first I refused, but then this pounding started in my head, and it wouldn't stop, and I didn't know what to do. In a moment of pain and anger I reached for her ..." I have trouble finishing. "I reached for her and I-I killed her, Dante. I killed her with my own hands, and she had never done anything to me."
　　Dante is silent for a long time. Finally I feel his good hand touch my shoulder. "You did what you had to do, my lady."
　　I clasp his hand but shake my head. "I don't know. Sometimes I think I just did what I have always done in the past-kill. That has always been my ultimate solution to every problem." I gesture weakly. "But this girl-she was praying for me to save her."
　　"But you saved the rest of us."
　　I am emotional. "Did I? Did I do what I was supposed to do? If I did then can you explain to me why the stain of this girl's blood refuses to wash off my hand?"
　　Dante grabs my left hand and stares at it anxiously. "Perhaps we only need to wash it in clean water. Come, my lady, a quick wash in the pond and everything will be all right."
　　I take back my hand. "No, Dante. I have tried washing it a dozen times. The stain will not come off."
　　He is confused. "But why?"
　　I lower my head. "I think it is because I listened to Landulf, in the end." 
　　"No!"
　　"Yes. I performed the ritual murder of an innocent. That's all that was needed to be initiated by him." I pause and stare at my left hand. There is only the stars for light, but I see the stain well. It is almost as if I see my whole life expressed in the red of the mark. "I have become one of them," I whisper.
　　Dante is adamant. "No! You are the opposite of them! You are an angel! You bring light where there is darkness! Hope where there is despair! A dozen times you have come to my rescue! A dozen times I would have died without your courage!" 
　　I turn and force a smile. "Oh, Dante. I had to keep saving you because I kept putting you in danger." I raise my hand as he tries to protest. "Please don't look upon me as an angel. When you get to heaven, you'll see real angels and they'll look nothing like me." 
　　He pauses and seems to think hard for a moment, but his eyes never leave my face. "You have too much love in you to be hated by God," he says finally, "When we get to heaven, you'll see that." 
　　I have to laugh and hug him again. "My friend! What would I do without you? No, wait, don't answer that question. There is something I want to do for you. Something I have been planning to do for the last few days. But before I do it I want you to know that it is entirely safe. That no harm will come to your body or soul by the change I am going to bring." 
　　He is curious. "What is this wonderful thing you are going to do?"
　　I hold his shoulders and stare into his eyes, trying to bring calm and understanding into his excited mind.
　　"You saw how Landulf was anxious to get my blood? There was a reason for that. Long ago a mysterious man gave me some of his blood, and that blood changed me in a way that made me both strong and resistant to disease. It is impossible for me to get sick. And just a few drops of my blood is able to heal others." I pause. "Do you understand what I am saying, Dante?"
　　He shakes his head. "I am not sure, my lady."
　　"I want to cut myself and sprinkle a few drops of my blood over your sores. I know they hurt you terribly, but when a little of my blood touches them they will close and heal. It will be almost be like you never had leprosy. No one will be able to tell by looking at you."
　　He frowns. "But it is God's will that I am sick. My disease is a punishment for my sins. We cannot change the will of God."
　　"Your disease is not a punishment. It is not from God. It is something you caught from another person who had the same disease."
　　He blinks. "From the other lepers in Persida?"
　　"Exactly. They gave you the leprosy."
　　He protests. "But I never did anything to them. I only tried to help them."
　　"But you were around them. You touched them. That is how you got sick."
　　His confusion deepens. "But Landulf wanted to use your blood, my lady. I should not use it. I should not do anything he wanted to do."
　　"There is a difference, Dante. Landulf wanted to use my blood to hurt people. I want to use it to heal you."
　　His superstitions are deep. His disquiet remains.
　　"But blood should not be shared," he says. "That is what heathens do. When the Holy Father accused my duke, he said that he had been sharing blood with children. I thought at the time that it was lies but it came to pass that it was true. And it was a great evil that Landulf did that. With blood he invoked the demons from hell. The pope saw clearly."
　　"The pope did not see clearly. Good God, Dante, the pope had you castrated."
　　His face twitches and his lower lip trembles. I have wounded him with my words and feel ashamed. He drops his head in humiliation.
　　"I wanted only to do God's will," he moans. "That is all I want to do right now. But I do not know how your blood can make my disease disappear."
　　I feel I have no recourse. We can argue all night, and get nowhere, and I believe it is possible that he could die this very night. From the burning and the other abuse, his sores are even more inflamed. Half his body is infected tissue, and I feel without even touching him the fever that cooks his blood. The effort it took him to reach me has drained what reserves he had left. His breathing is a perpetual wheeze. If I do not give him my blood soon, I will not be able to return to the future with a clear conscience.
　　"Dante," I say, meeting his gaze again. "Look at me."
　　He blinks rapidly. "My lady?"
　　"Look only at me, my friend. Listen only to me. You do not need to be afraid of my blood. It is a gift from God. Just a few drops of it will make you feel better, and God wants you to feel better after all that you have struggled do in his name."
　　He is suddenly dreamy. "Yes, my lady."
　　"Now close your eyes and imagine how nice it will to have your sores healed. How good it will be not to have people run away when they see you because they see you only as a leper. Dante, my dear, I promise you the leprosy will be gone in a few minutes."
　　"It will be gone," he whispers to himself with his eyes closed.
　　"Good." I stretch out my hand. "Now keep your eyes closed but give me your hand. I will lead you to the pond and we will first wash your sores and then I will sprinkle something on them and they will be all better."
　　"All better," he mumbles. But he stiffens when I try to lead him toward the pond even though his eyes remain closed. He is still under my spell, at least I think he is. "No," he says.
　　I have to speak carefully. "What is the matter?"
　　"I cannot go in the pond."
　　"You will not go in the pond, only beside it. I need to wash you off."
　　"I can drown in the pond," he says.
　　Now that I think of it, I have never seen Dante wash beside a pond. It is probably one of the reasons he smells.
　　"I will not let you drown. There is no way you can fall in."
　　"No," he says.
　　He appears to be under my spell, but he is resisting me as well. I am reminded of an earlier time when I pressed him for information he knew and yet he managed to evade me-even while in the midst of a powerful hypnotic trance. There is still something in his mind, a psychic aberration of some type, that makes it impossible for me to read him clearly. Even with all my powers now at my disposal, I cannot read what he is thinking exactly.
　　And I should be able to read his mind completely.
　　"What if you rest on the rock you were sitting on a moment ago," I suggest. "And I bring you water to clean you. Would that be all right?"
　　He nods with his eyes closed. "I'll rest on the rock and be all right."
　　I lead him back to the stone where he initially rested. As he sits, I stroke his head. "I will moisten my shirt," I say. "Then I will touch your sores gently, to clean them. There will be no pain. You will feel nothing but relief. You understand, Dante?"
　　"I understand," he whispers.
　　I let go of him. "I will be gone a few seconds. Remain at peace."
　　He sighs. "Peace."
　　At the pond the water is very still, more so than ever. Like the pond in the desert, it is a perfect mirror of the heavens. There are so many stars on its delicate surface, so many constellations that it seems almost a sin to disturb the cool liquid. Yet I have stood here before. Last time I also gave Dante my blood and sent him on his way healed of his horrible disease. Like now, and then, I felt moved by love to give him what I could. Certainly he has earned my blood and my trust.
　　I bend to dampen my shirt and then pause.
　　I cannot stop staring in the water at the sky. There is the familiar constellation, Andromeda, and I can't remember it ever looking so clear. Why, I can almost imagine that I see Perseus' wife, chained to the rocks as the Titan slowly approaches, bound as a human sacrifice to appease an evil monster. Much as Landulf chained and sacrificed young women to appease his own wickedness. It is incredible, as I look closer, to see Perseus creeping closer to her side, to rescue her, with the Medusa's head hidden in his bag, out of sight. He will only show it at the last moment, when the Titan has exposed himself. Perseus was wise to keep his weapon hidden. It was Dante who suggested that Perseus would have been a fool to part with such power.
　　Medusa. Perseus. Dante.
　　"My lady," Dante whispers at my back.
　　"Coming," I say.
　　I kneel to wet my shirt.
　　But once again I pause.
　　Richard Wagner's opera returns to me on the silence of the night air. The music echoes in my mind with rhythms older than man. Again it is as if I am watching the opera, Parsival, being staged against the majestic background of the constellations. Each of the principal characters could be a mythological being. King Arthur could be King Polydectes, who sent Perseus after the Gorgon. Parsival could be Perseus, who slew the Medusa. But who would Klingsor be? Why, of course, the Medusa itself. The one who appears fair from the outside, but whose hair-whose aura-is filled with hissing snakes. I understand in that moment that the serpents are symbolically placed above the Medusa's head. They are there so her true identity cannot be mistaken.
　　"Hurry, my lady," Dante whispers.
　　I will," I say. But I cannot move, or breathe.
　　Klingsor and the Medusa. Klingsor and Landulf.
　　They had so much in common.
　　Except for one little thing. The play spoke of this "thing."
　　Wolfram von Eschenbach's Parsival told of this "thing."
　　Klingsor had a special mark.
　　He was smooth-in a delicate spot.
　　I remember now. Everything.
　　And I am sick because the truth is horrible beyond belief.
　　I am turned to stone. Tears cannot help me. They will not come. Not before a pain beyond all measure comes. Because even though I know the truth, I refuse to accept it. My faith may be stronger than stone, but in time all stones are worn away by water. Or tears- it doesn't matter. All I can do now is force my stone body to face what waits behind me.
　　Wetting my shirt, I stand and spy a lizard that slithers near the side of the pond. In a moment he is in my hand, in my pocket, and I casually walk back to Dante, who sits expectantly on the rock where I left him. A smile springs to his face as I approach even though his eyes remain closed. Leaning over, I begin to gently wipe at his burnt and diseased hand and arm. My touch pleases him.
　　"Oh, my lady," he says.
　　"Just relax, Dante," I say softly, "I have to clean you and then I can cure you. You want me to cure you, don't you?"
　　"Oh, yes."
　　"Good." I momentarily close my own eyes and bite my lower lip. "That's good."
　　Seconds later his hand and arm are clean. I stand and reach for the lizard in my pocket. "Now don't be afraid," I say.
　　"I am not afraid," he whispers.
　　Placing the lizard behind my back, I pulverize it in my hands. I crush it so hard all the blood squirts into my palms. Then my hands are over Dante's leper sores, dropping the reptile's blood over his wounds. The lizard was cold-blooded; its blood is not so warm as mine would have been. But Dante doesn't seem to notice and for that small favor I am glad. I cannot take my eyes off his face. I am looking for something there, a faint change of expression as his system soaks up my blood. An expression I have not seen before. An expression of triumph, perhaps, or maybe even arrogance. I need to see such a thing to dispel all my questions.
　　But what I see is much worse.
　　As the blood sprinkles over him, his lower lip curls ever so slightly. Curls in an unpleasant manner, and I believe deep in my heart that he is reacting to my great sacrifice with all but disguised contempt. I pull my hands away.
　　"Open your eyes, Dante," I say.
　　He opens his eyes and beams. "Am I cured, my lady?"
　　I grin with false pleasure. "Almost, my friend."
　　Then I grab him by the collar of his filthy shirt and, before he can react, I drag him to the edge of the pond. The water has not completely settled since I touched it, but it is flat enough to show his reflection. No wonder he did not want to stand next to the pond with me by his side. For in the water, Dante's supposedly ruined and pained expression is extraordinary.
　　Literally, he is more beautiful than a man should be.
　　He could almost be a goddess.
　　I leap back from him and tremble.
　　"Landulf," I gasp. "It was you. All along, it was you."
　　The other Landulf was just a puppet. Just a disciple of the real master, Dante. The duke in the castle was just a minion.
　　Dante was the real power behind the throne.
　　Dante was Landulf.
　　He stares down at his face for a long time before responding. Perhaps he has not seen his reflection in a while-I don't know. When he finally does speak, his voice is remarkably gentle, not unlike it was before, yet with more power, the confidence of a being that has for a long time been master of his own destiny. He straightens as he speaks, as if his physical disease has no real hold over him. But I am not sure if that is the case. He speaks with authority but there is disappointment in his tone.
　　"I should have guessed you would return with greater wisdom," he says. "Last time you were easily tricked. But now I am the one who has been fooled." He sighs. "You have grown, Sita, in the last thousand years."
　　"Because I chose wisdom over compassion?" I ask.
　　He glances at me. "In a sense. It is easier for humans to pass a test of love than a test that requires wisdom. Because even love often obscures wisdom."
　　I am bitter. "You do not have the right to speak to me of love."
　　He has been tricked but he still has the ability to smile. "But I do admire you even if I don't love you," he says. "Admiration is the closest my kind gets to love. It serves us well. I never feel the lack of this love you constantly crave."
　　"You imply that I need something from you. You're wrong."
　　"Yet you cherished Dante's love," he says.
　　"I was merely bewildered on the path. You are lost here at the end."
　　"Perhaps." He pauses. "How did you guess?"
　　"Parsival. I saw it in Vienna before World War Two. The character of Klingsor was Landulf. He had been castrated by the pope." I mock him. "In the play, they said he was smooth between the legs."
　　A wave of anger rolls over his face but he quickly masters himself. "You have an excellent memory. No doubt I made other mistakes with you as well."
　　"Yes. But I am puzzled. Why did you give me the clue of the Medusa's head?"
　　"It was necessary. For you to be totally mine, you had to be warned by me in advance. Free will operates on both paths, the right and the left. When you intentionally killed that girl, then and only then were you made ready to meet me here."
　　"It was all just a set up? The whole thing?"
　　"Yes."
　　"And had I willingly given you my blood, I would have completed the third step?"
　　"Precisely. Then your blood would have been of the most use to me."
　　I sigh. "Well, I guess now you're not going to have it."
　　He stares at me. I see him clearly now, his supernatural beauty, even the faint tendrils of black that crawl around the field above his head. Yet I realize he still has leprosy.
　　"You are wrong on that point," he says softly.
　　I take a step back. "You are still about to die. You need my blood to live even a few more days. Your evil invocations really did give you leprosy.
　　He takes a step in my direction. "That is correct. The work has its price. But I need your blood to sustain this physical body, and continue my work in this third density. But unlike last time, I will now be unable to pass my blood onto others. You can no longer be convinced to be my initiate and undergo a shift toward negative polarization. Still, your blood will be useful to me for a long time." He removes a dagger from under his dirty shirt. It is the same one that the maid stabbed me with. It is stained with my blood. "There is no point in trying to run from me, Sita, or in trying to harm me. My psychic powers are beyond yours."
　　I find it impossible to turn away from him.
　　Indeed, I cannot even move my arms or legs
　　The Medusa. My body has turned to stone.
　　"It doesn't matter what you do to me now," I say, thankful to be able to use my tongue. "I have defeated you and the rest of your kind. In the future there will be no army of invincible negative beings to confuse humanity. Your cancer has been cut from society. The harvest will go forward the way it was intended. You have lost, Landulf, admit it."
　　He steps to within two feet of me. He brushes my long hair with his knife. Then he licks the tip of the blade, the dried blood, and smiles sadly.
　　"It is not my nature to admit anything," he says. "But I will say that I would have enjoyed your continuing adoration almost as much as your body, and the immortal blood that pumps through it." He scratches the skin below my right eye and a red drop runs over my cheek. The sight fills him with pleasure. "A vampiric tear, Sita. Cried for me? I must still be your hero."
　　I am defiant, and no longer afraid.
　　The stain on my left hand has vanished.
　　"My only regret is the tears I cried for you," I say. "Other than that I have none. I am at peace. And you are still a monster. One day you will be forced to look in Perseus' mirror, and you will see your own reflection, and see just how foul you are to behold. And on that day you will turn to stone, Landulf. You will die and rot, and the world will be relieved of a great burden." I stop. "Kill me now and get it over with. If you have the nerve, you disgusting creature!"
　　I spit in his face. He does not like that.
　　He wipes the saliva away and raises his knife.
　　"I was going to kill you quick," he says. "But now, Sita, it may take all night."
　　He moves to slit open my side and then pauses, puzzled.
　　I am confused as well, for a moment. My body has begun to glow. The pond shines as well, with the light of the heavens. It is as if the constellations in the sky have been awakened, and been inspired to send down their light to Earth. The white light that fills my body comes from the direction of the pond as well as the sky. Landulf seems to recognize the transformation I am undergoing and is filled with dismay. But this stellar current fills me with euphoria. I have experienced it before, just before I rescued the child from the Setians. Landulf is like one of those creatures, I see, only worse. He struggles to cut into my flesh as I grow brighter. His frustration makes me laugh.
　　"I guess you're going to have to remain a leper," I say in a voice that grows faint. "But don't take it too hard. You're not going to be around much longer. Yaksha is still somewhere on this planet and you might try to find him, but I don't think that you'll get to him in time. As far as you're concerned, I am the last vampire. Your last chance, Landulf. How does that feel?"
　　His rage is incredible to behold. The fair face of the god is transformed into a demon. The all but invisible serpents above his head hiss poisonous vapors. They surround him in a noxious cloud. It is as if his whole body has been swallowed by his leper's sores. He tries to grab me but his fingers pass through me. Seeing his efforts are useless, he strains to regain his pleasant demeanor, to make one last stab at my soul. But he still has the knife in his hand and in either case I will never be fooled by him again.
　　"Sita," he says. "Our offer is still good. We can grant you powers unimaginable. You have only to join us, and we will rule this world together."
　　I am practically a ghost but I can still laugh.
　　"You shouldn't have mentioned the togetherness part," I reply. "I can't think of anything more dull."
　　
   17
　　
　　There is a brief moment when I am lying on the floor of the interstellar craft. I feel Alanda and Gaia close. It is possible Alanda even calls my name. She must know I have successfully completed my mission. She must be waiting for me, to smile at me, to take me to other worlds, into a glorious future.
　　But my battle with Landulf has taken something from me.
　　Finally I am tired of such adventures.
　　As Yaksha finally grew weary, I also crave a change.
　　Before Alanda can call me back to the present moment, I focus my entire being on another page of history. I return to the first vampire, the strange night Yaksha was born, five thousand years ago in India, when I was a girl of seven years. The Aghoran ceremony has ended and the evil priest has been killed by Amba's animated corpse. The corpse finally lies down but there is movement inside Amba's belly, which is still swollen with the nine-month-old fetus she was carrying when she died. My father takes his knife and goes to cut out the unborn child trapped in the womb. I leap from my hiding place behind the bushes.
　　"Father!" I cry, as I reach for his hand that holds the knife. "Do not let that child come into the world. Amba is dead, see with your own eyes. Her child must likewise be dead. Please, Father, listen to me."
　　Naturally, all the men are surprised to see me, never mind hear what I have to say. My father is angry with me, but he kneels and speaks to me patiently.
　　"Sita," he says, "your friend does appear dead, and we were wrong to let this priest use her body in this way. But he has paid for his evil karma with his own life. But we would be creating evil karma of our own if we do not try to save the life of this child. You remember when Sashi was born, how her mother died before she came into the world? It sometimes happens that a living child is born to a dead woman."
　　"No, "I protest. "That was different. Sashi was born just as his mother died. Amba has been dead since early dawn. Nothing living can come out of her."
　　My father gestures with his knife to the squirming life inside Amba's bloody abdomen. "Then how do you explain the life here?"
　　"That is the yashini moving inside her," I say. "You saw how the demon smiled at us before it departed. It intends to trick us. It is not gone. It has entered into the child."
　　My father ponders my words with a grave expression. He knows I am intelligent for my age, and occasionally asks my advice. He looks to the other men for guidance, but they are evenly divided. Some want to use the knife to stab the life moving inside Amba. Others are afraid, like my father, of committing a sin. Finally my father turns back to me and hands me the knife.
　　"You knew Amba better than any of us," he says. "You would best know if this life that moves inside her is evil or good. If you know for sure in your heart that it is evil, then strike it dead. None of the men here will blame you for the act."
　　I am appalled. I am still a child and my father is asking me to commit an atrocious act. But my father is wiser than I have taken him for. He shakes his head as I stare at him in amazement, and he moves to take back the knife.
　　But I don't give the knife to him.
　　I know in my heart what I must do.
　　I stab the blade deep into Amba's baby.
　　Black blood gushes over my hands.
　　But it is only the blood of one. Not thousands.
　　The creature inside Amba's body stops moving.
　　Alanda turns to Gaia after studying her friend's body. They are not in a spaceship, but stand in the desert at night beside a clear pond. Many stars shine overhead.
　　"She is not breathing," Alanda says. "Her heart has stopped."
　　"But she stopped him," Gaia says, who actually can speak in his own way. "The path is now clear for many."
　　Alanda glances down at her friend. There is sorrow in her voice. "But she was coming back to us," she says.
　　Gaia comforts her. "She always went her own path. Let her go this way."
　　Yet Alanda later sheds a tear as they slide her friend's body into the pond. For a moment her friend floats on the surface of the water, and the reflection of the stars frame her figure. And when Alanda glances up, she sees the same outline in the heavens. For a moment her friend is constellation and it gives her a measure of comfort. But when Alanda looks back down, her friend has sunk beneath the mirror of the water and is gone.
　　"It is like she never was," Alanda whispers.
　　"It is like that for all of us," Gaia says.
　　
　　One moonless night, when I am twenty years of age, I am awakened by a sound outside. Besides me sleeps my husband, Rama, and on my other side is our daughter, Lalita. I don't know why the sound wakes me. It was not loud. But it was peculiar, the sound of nails scraping over a blade. I get up and go outside my house and stand in the dark and look around.
　　For a long time I stand there, expecting to meet someone.
　　But there is no one there.
　　Finally I return to my bed and fall asleep.
　　The next morning I am playing with my Lalita by the river when a strange man comes by. He is tall and powerfully built. In his right hand he holds a lotus flower, in his left a gold flute. His legs are long and his every movement is bewitching. I cannot help but stare at him, and I am delighted when he comes and kneels beside me on the bank of the river. For some reason, I know he means me no harm.
　　"Hello," he says, staring at the water. "How are you?"
　　"I am fine." I pause. "Do I know you, sir?"
　　A faint smile touches his lips. "Yes. We have met before."
　　I hesitate. He does seem familiar but I cannot place him.
　　"I am sorry, I don't remember," I say.
　　He finally looks at me and his eyes are very blue. They remind me of the stars at night; they seem to sparkle with light from the heavens. "My name is Krishna," he says.
　　I bow my head. "I am Sita. This is my daughter, Lalita. Are you new to this area?"
　　He turns back to the water. "I have been here before."
　　"Is there anything I can do for you? Would you like some food?"
　　He glances at me, out the corners of his eyes, and I feel a thrill in my heart. There is such love in his glance, I don't understand how it can be so. "I was wondering if I could do anything for you, Sita," he says.
　　"My Lord?" I ask, and I feel he is deserving of the title.
　　He shrugs faintly. "I merely came to see if you were happy. If you are, then I will be on my way."
　　I have to laugh. "My Lord, I am not long married. My husband is a wonderful man whom I love dearly and God has seen fit to grace us with a beautiful child. We are all healthy and have plenty to eat. I cannot imagine being any happier than I am right now."
　　He nods briefly and then stands. "Then I will say goodbye, Sita."
　　But I jump up. "You came all the way here just to see if I was happy?"
　　"Yes." His eyes are kind as he looks at me for the last time. "Your happiness is all that matters to me. Remember me, Sita."
　　Then he walks away and I never see him again.
　　But I never forget him. Krishna.
　　
   Epilogue
　　
　　Seymour Dorsten sat at his computer in his bedroom and stared at the words on the screen. It was late, close to dawn, and he had been writing most of the night. For the last six months, in fact, he had worked almost every night without rest. But it didn't matter how much sleep he missed. He could always sleep during the day. Because he was very sick with AIDS, he no longer attended school, or even went out of the house. Indeed, his personal physician thought he wouldn't live out the year, and it was almost Christmas. Yet the tragedy of his early demise did not disturb him, at least not at the moment. Like his imagined heroine, he was happy in the end, to have even reached the end. He had just finished his story. Her story.
　　About Alisa Perne, his Sita. The Last Vampire.
　　Seymour felt as if he had taken her everywhere she could go, but at the same time he knew that it was she who had led him on the adventures. Lifted him up to heights he could not have imagined if not for his serious illness. For him, the constant experience of his waning mortality had been the greatest muse. She had never said who she was sending her thoughts out to, but it was to him, always to him. But he had made her immortal, and himself, so that he wouldn't have to be afraid of his own death. He knew, in the end, that she had not been afraid, and that her only regret had been that she had not been able to say goodbye to him. But at least he could say goodbye to her.
　　Seymour leaned forward and turned off the screen.
　　There was a noise outside his window.
　　He glanced over. Quickly, he always did.
　　But it was nothing. A cat, the wind.
　　But such sounds, this late at night, always made him think of her. Ageless Sita coming through the window to give him her magical blood. To save him from his illness. But she had chosen the only destiny worthy of her. She had simply decided to vanish, to exist only in his heart.
　　Seymour coughed weakly and brushed away a tear that came to his eye. He should be in a hospital. His lungs were half-filled with fluid, and he couldn't draw in a full breath without pain. Still, he thought, it was better to be at home with his computer and his story. He just wished his heart could beat for her forever.
　　Seymour was going to miss her. Yeah. "Goodbye, Sita," he said to the empty screen. He thought he would miss her forever.



68

CP.EvilThirst

  1
　　
　　I am a vampire. For centuries I believed I was the last vampire on Earth, that I was the most powerful creature in existence. That belief gave me great self-confidence. I feared nothing because nothing could harm me. Then one remarkable day, my supposedly dead creator, Yaksha, came for me, and I discovered I was not omnipotent. A short time later another vampire appeared, one Eddie Fender. He had Yaksha's strength, and once again I was almost destroyed. Yet I survived both Yaksha and Eddie, only to give birth to a daughter of unfathomable power and incomprehensible persuasion- Kalika, Kali Ma, the Dark Mother, the Supreme Goddess of Destruction. Yes, I believe my only child to be a divine incarnation, an avatar, as some would describe her. In a devastating vision she showed me her infinite greatness. The only problem is that my daughter seems to have been born without a conscience.
　　Actually, I do have three other small problems.
　　I don't know where Kalika is.
　　I know I must destroy her.
　　And I love her.
　　I don't know which of these dilemmas is worst, but together they make a very dangerous combination. There is another child who has recently been born to rival my daughter. I don't know the child's first name, but he is the son of my friend, Paula Ramirez. The power of this child is still a mystery to me. I only know that a tiny vial of his blood was able to bring my closest friend, Seymour Dorsten, back from the dead. I don't know where Paula and her son are either. I don't know if they're with Kalika. If they are, I do know they are both probably dead. Above all else, my daughter wants this child.
　　But why? I don't know.
　　I am beset with problems.
　　They seem never to stop.
　　I stand outside the Unity Church in Santa Monica, Seymour Dorsten by my side. Three months have passed since we were last in Santa Monica, on the pier. On that day Kalika first chose to spare Seymour's life, but then threw a stake into his spine while he thrashed in the ocean water below us. She said she did so to make a point.
　　"Do you really need to know?"
　　"Yes."
　　"The knowledge will cost you."
　　The question I had asked was who Paula's child was. Killing Seymour was her answer to the question, a very curious answer. Had Kalika not killed Seymour, I never would have thought to use the child's blood on a dead person. I never would have known just how special the child was. Yet Seymour does not remember any of this. The shock of being impaled has dimmed his memory of that night's events. He remembers being thrown off the pier and into the water-that's it. Of course he is still pressuring me to make him a vampire. He thinks then we will have great sex, or at least some sex. I don't sleep with him because I am afraid it would destroy our delicate balance of love and insults.
　　For the tenth time Seymour wants to know why I have dragged him to a New Age lecture. It is entitled: The Birth of Christ-an Egyptian Prophecy Fulfilled. The speaker is to be a Dr. Donald Seter, founder of the New Age group, the Suzama Society. I want to attend Dr. Seter's talk because of two incredible facts he has publicly announced. On a radio talk show he stated that Christ has been reborn-his birth took place on the exact day Paula's child was born. Of course he makes no mention of Paula and does not know to whom the child was born. The second fact is his claim that he has in his possession an ancient Egyptian scripture that supposedly gives details of this rebirth.
　　I would immediately discount the latter claim if the date had not been so personally coincidental, and if I had not happened to have known the original Suzama when I was in Egypt almost five thousand years ago. At one point Suzama was my teacher, and I know for a fact she was clairvoyant.
　　Yet I have never heard of the Suzama scripture before.
　　I wonder where Dr. Seter obtained it, and how accurate it is.
　　But these things I can't explain to Seymour without telling him that he was brought back to life by the blood of a three-hour-old Hispanic infant. I feel there is a reason for his memory block, and I hesitate to tamper with it. Besides, I am afraid he might not believe me if I told him the truth. Who would? It is difficult to contemplate God and His Son and immaculate conceptions without feeling like a potential fanatic. Especially since Paula was not-in her own words-a virgin.
　　"We could be at a movie," Seymour says. "We could be having dinner. Besides, this whole Christian thing bores me. They have been waiting two thousand years for him to show up. If he was coming back, he would be here already."
　　"Krishna promised to return," I say. "He said he would not be recognized."
　　"He won't be bringing his flute?"
　　"I think he will return in humble surroundings."
　　Seymour studies the poster outside the church announcing the lecture. "You are history. What can you learn from this joker?"
　　I have to let something slip or Seymour won't attend. Actually, I'm not sure why I've brought him, but I suppose I know that at some point I'll have to open my heart to him and ask his advice. I always have in the past. I want him at the lecture so that he'll have all the facts when I need his advice.
　　Yet I hesitate before speaking. Every time I bring him deeper into my life, I bring him closer to danger. Still, I remind myself, it is his decision to stay with me, even after he has seen what my daughter can do. He at least knows that I am searching for her, even if he doesn't realize I am also desperately seeking Paula and her child. Yet Paula hasn't called the number I gave her to call. She should have tried to contact me two months ago, a month after I said good-bye to her. It worries me that Kalika may have gotten to her first. I am at Dr. Seter's lecture in the hope that he can give me some clue as to where they might be. It is unlikely, I know.
　　"Dr. Seter says he has a copy of a scripture Suzama wrote," I tell Seymour. "She was a real person, a revered priestess of the Church of Isis, a high adept in ancient Egypt." I pause. "I knew her, I studied with her."
　　Seymour is impressed. "What did she teach you?"
　　"How to bring the white light above my head into my heart."
　　"What?"
　　"She taught primarily esoteric forms of meditation. She had many gifts." I grab his arm and drag him toward the church door. "I will tell you more about her later."
　　On the way in there is a registration table and a donation basket. I throw a few dollars in the latter. A young man in a dark blue suit and a red tie stands near the door greeting people. Actually, there are a number of people similarly outfitted- young, handsome people, males and females, wearing navy blue clothes and shiny faces. They are Dr. Seter's followers, I realize, but I hesitate to make the judgment that the man has formed a cult. Not all New Age groups, or Christian groups for that matter, signify sects. Besides, I don't care if he has formed a cult or not. I just care if he knows what he's talking about.
　　The young man greeting people pauses to say hello to me.
　　"Welcome," he says. "May I ask how you heard about our lecture?"
　　"On the radio," I say. "Yesterday night. I heard Dr. Seter's interview."
　　"KEXT?" he asks.
　　"That was the one," I say. "Have you known the doctor long?"
　　"I should say." The young man smiles and offers his hand. "James Seter-I work for my father. Have since I can remember." He pauses. "And your name?"
　　"I'm Alisa. This is Seymour."
　　"Hi," Seymour says, shaking James's hand when I'm through with it. But James Seter only has eyes for me.
　　"Have you read Dr. Seter's book?" he asks me.
　　"No," I say. "I was hoping to obtain a copy here."
　　"They will be on sale after the lecture," James says. "Fascinating reading, if I do say so myself."
　　"What allowed your father to predict so accurately the birth of Christ?" I ask.
　　"The Suzama scripture. It contains very detailed knowledge about the next coming of the messiah. It predicted Christ's coming the first time very accurately."
　　I smile. "And you believe all this?"
　　He nods, "Suzama had a great gift. Studying her words, I have never found her to make a mistake."
　　"It sounds like a remarkable document," I say. "Why haven't modern archeologists, linguists, and theologians had a chance to study it?"
　　James hesitates. "My father will address all these questions in the lecture. Better to ask him. His knowledge of the scripture is extremely comprehensive."
　　"Just one last question," I say. "Has he brought the original scripture with him tonight?"
　　"I'm afraid not. It's a priceless artifact. We cannot risk it at a public lecture."
　　I detect no deceit in his words, and I have a sharp ear for it. Also, there is an ease in his manner, a naturalness. He does not act like a fanatic. His dark eyes continue to study me, though. I think he likes me. He is remarkably handsome, and cannot be more than twenty-two years old.
　　After muttering my thanks and taking Seymour's hand, I step into the church and search for a seat. The place is crowded but we manage to squeeze in near the front. The audience is remarkably diverse, made up of old and young, tramps and professionals. I am disappointed I will not have a chance to study the scripture. I am certain I would know if it were authentic. Suzama had a fine hand for hieroglyphs. I remember her work well.
　　Dr. Seter enters five minutes later.
　　He is a small man with white hair and an unassuming manner. As he walks toward the podium, I estimate his age at seventy, although he appears less than sixty. It is his vitality and bright gray eyes that make him seem younger than he really is. He wears a medium-priced gray suit and expensive black shoes. He is not so handsome as his son, though. Indeed, I suspect he is not the biological father, that James is adopted. There is a scholarly air to Dr. Seter that I find interesting. The lines on and the planes across his face show intelligence and extensive education. I see all this in one penetrating vampiric glance.
　　James Seter comes forward to introduce his father. He lists a number of academic achievements. Dr. Seter has Ph.Ds in both theology and archeology, from Harvard and Stanford respectively. He is the author of numerous published papers and three books. For the last decade, James says, his father has been studying the Suzama scripture and bringing the knowledge contained in it to the world. James does not mention where his father obtained the scripture, probably to leave his father something of interest to discuss. The introduction is brief, and soon Dr. Seter is at the podium. His voice is pleasant, although somewhat reedy. He starts by welcoming us and thanking us for coming. Then he pauses and flashes a warm but shy smile.
　　"It is quite a claim for one to make," he says, "that one knows that the messiah is in the world. That he has been born on such and such a day in such and such a country. Had I attended this lecture as an observer ten years ago, I don't think I would have sat through the introduction. For as my son James has pointed out, I come from a fairly rigorous academic background. Until ten years ago, I never thought of the second coming or even, quite frankly, much of Christ himself. This may come as a surprise, since I hold a doctorate in theology. But the truth of the matter is my studies of religion were purely academic, I was an agnostic. I neither believed nor disbelieved the world's religions, yet I found them fascinating.
　　"Now this is where I may lose half of you. In fact, when I first began to lecture on the Suzama scripture, it was normal for a quarter of my audience to get up and leave at this point-my introduction to the scripture. Since those days I have managed to decrease that number by initially asking all of you to please set aside your doubts for the next few minutes to listen to what I have to say. You can form your judgments later. There is plenty of time, believe me."
　　Dr. Seter paused to sip from the glass of water on the podium. Then he cleared his throat and continued.
　　"The Suzama scripture comes from the culture of ancient Egypt. Carbon dating and an analysis of its hieroglyphic style place it back approximately five thousand years, in what is commonly called pre-dynastic Egypt. I did not find the scripture in Egypt, but in a country in Western Europe that I cannot reveal at this time. The reason for this secrecy may be obvious to some, and despicable to others." He pauses. "I took the Suzama scripture back with me to America to study, without the permission of the country where I found it. In that sense I am guilty of stealing, but I make no apologies. Furthermore, as long as I refuse to name the country from which I took it, I cannot be legally prosecuted for the act. But with my background, I felt I was best equipped to study the scripture.
　　"Now many of you may feel that is the height of egotism on my part. By keeping the original scripture to myself I immediately bring into question its authenticity. What reputable scientist would do such a thing? If you had told me ten years ago that I would be guilty of this behavior, I would have said it would not be possible. I would have said that every ancient artifact belongs to the world. Nothing should be hidden away and kept secret. That is a basic scientific credo. And yet I have hidden this document. Why?
　　"Because I believe the Suzama scripture contains information that could be dangerous if publicly revealed. Dangerous to whom, you might ask? To the Christ himself, as an infant, and to the public as a whole. For Suzama, a powerful clairvoyant of her time, has set down information that might allow one to find the Christ before his time. Also, the scripture contains information on powerful forms of meditation that are, in my estimate, dangerous for the inexperienced.
　　"Who am I to decide what knowledge is too dangerous for mankind to receive? I can only say in my defense that I have experimented personally with many of Suzama's instructions, and almost lost my life in the process. From my point of view, it would be the ultimate in irresponsibility to throw all of the Suzama material out there.
　　"Then why should you believe anything I have to say? Why should you even believe there was a Suzama? Well, you don't have to believe me. I don't ask that you do. But as a measure of proof I have turned over numerous slides of the original scripture to eminent archeologists. Because I have not allowed them access to the original artifact, they are unwilling to state unequivocally that the Suzama scripture is authentic. But many of them are willing to certify that as far as they can tell it is the real thing. A list of these experts is recorded in my book.
　　"What does this long dead woman have to say about the birth and rebirth of the Christ? For one thing Suzama states that Christ has not come just once, but at least four times in our history: as Lord Krishna of India, two hundred years before Suzama's birth, as Adi Shankara of India, five hundred years before Christ's birth, and finally as Christ himself. The Suzama scripture predicts each of these births, and says that the soul of all these great prophets and masters was identical. Furthermore the text predicts that this same infinite soul took birth in a human body recently, in the last three months. The exact date is given, in fact, as last March fifteenth, and the child was destined to be born here, in California."
　　A loud stir went through the audience. Dr. Seter pauses to have another drink of water. He deserves one, I thought, after the mouthful he had just said. Clearing his throat once more, he continues.
　　"What proof do I have that Suzama knew what she was talking about? If I accept her scripture as authentic, a product of ancient Egypt, then I am forced to accept that she has had a pretty good track record so far. But beyond that is the inner validation the material has given me. Following her prescribed instructions, I have been given an intuitive insight into the hidden meaning behind certain of her verses. Now I see many eyebrows rise with that statement. Are her instructions and her predictions presented in an obscure form? So obscure a form that their meaning is open to interpretation?
　　"The answer to both these questions is yes and no. Suzama is often specific when it comes to dates. She says when Shankara and Christ were to be born. But as far as esoteric practices are concerned she can be very subtle. A study of her text requires a study of one's own mind, and it is this last point more than any that has stopped me from letting the whole of the scripture become public. Scientists demand that knowledge be objective, empirical, when the very nature of this type of study, the search for the soul, for the God, is in my mind almost entirely a subjective exploration."
　　Dr. Seter pauses and scans the room. "I never like to lecture too long without taking questions. I will take some now."
　　Many hands shoot up. Dr. Seter chooses a middle-aged man not far from where we are seated. The man stands to speak.
　　"How did you manage to find this religious text in the first place?" he asks. "What led you to it?"
　　Dr. Seter does not hesitate. "A dream. I simply dreamed where it was and I went and dug in a certain spot and found it."
　　The man is stunned. "You're not serious?"
　　Dr. Seter holds up his hand as a murmur goes through the crowd. "Believe me I would like to give another answer. Unfortunately another answer would not be true. This is how I found the scripture. There was no research involved, no tedious digs lasting decades. I found it as soon as I started looking for it."
　　The man continues to stand. "So you believe God directed you to it?"
　　"I believe somebody directed me to it. I don't know if it was God himself. Actually, Suzama never speaks of Christ or Shankara as God. She calls them masters, or perfected beings. And she believes we are all evolving to the same heightened state of perfection." Dr. Seter pauses. "It was an especially vivid dream, unlike any I had ever had before. It would have had to be for me to act on it, I assure you." A pause. "Next question."
　　He chooses a young woman at the back. Even before she speaks, it is clear she has a chip on her shoulder.
　　"What if I were to say that you made this all up? That the Suzama scripture is a complete fraud?"
　　"I would say that's not a question." Dr. Seter pauses. "Do you have a question?"
　　The young woman fumes. "There was only one Christ. How can you dare to compare him to these heathens?"
　　Dr. Seter smiles. "It is questions like this that reaffirm my decision not to make public everything I know about the Christ's birth in our time. Each of the others I spoke of was a great spiritual leader in his time. Had you been born in India, even today, you might follow their teachings. It is largely because you were born in this country that you are a Christian." He pauses. "Don't you agree?
　　The young woman is uncomfortable but remains defiant. "I hardly think so. You twist the teachings of Christ, comparing them to these others."
　　"Frankly, I think I compliment all of them by comparing each to the other. But that is beside the point. I never asked you to believe that the Suzama scripture is accurate. I am merely saying that I believe it is, based on my research and personal experience. If you believe it is a fraud, fine. But the text warns that those who profess to worship the Christ will be the first to dismiss him when he returns."
　　I approve of the manner in which Dr. Seter deals with the young woman's insolent attitude. I have never appreciated religious dogma. It seems to me only a more insidious form of racial prejudice. Yet I am not sure if I agree with Dr. Seter when he says the three spiritual leaders were one and the same being. Having known Krishna personally, I have trouble reconciling many of Christ's teachings with Krishna's, although I suspect the early disciples of Christ distorted what their master said. At the same time I am familiar with Shankara's work, particularly his commentary on the Brahma Sutras, which I have studied over the centuries. I agree with the Eastern claim that Shankara was the greatest intellect who ever lived. Yet his style of teaching was very different from either Krishna's or Christ's. For one thing, he never claimed to be anyone special, either the son of God or God himself. Yet he worked many recorded miracles.
　　Nevertheless I find the doctor's words fascinating. I raise my hand and catch his eye, using a fraction of the great power I have in my eyes to rivet a person's attention. He immediately picks me. I also stand as I ask my question.
　　"You say Suzama gives exact dates as to the births of these various avatars," I say. "Yet the solar calendar was not used in ancient Egypt until two thousand B.C. Suzama surely must have used a lunar calendar when presenting her dates. How did you translate one to the other?"
　　"No translation was necessary. The dates are not expressed in terms of a lunar calendar but a solar one."
　　I am disappointed in his answer. "But you realize as an archeologist how unlikely that is. It almost certainly means the scripture you have found is either from a much later period, or that it is fake."
　　Dr. Seter is not dissuaded. "As an archeologist I was surprised she predicted the birth of these masters in terms of a solar calendar and not a lunar one. Yet if we accept as true her profound intuition, then we must also accept that she would understand that in the future her lunar calendar would not be used. Actually, at least to my mind, the fact that she did not use a lunar calendar supports her claims."
　　"Did she mention any other avatars besides the three you mentioned?" I ask.
　　Dr. Seter hesitates. "Yes. But she says they are of a different line."
　　"Does she mention Isis for example?"
　　Dr. Seter is taken aback. "I did not discuss that in any of my books. But, yes, it is true, Suzama was a high priestess of a group that worshipped Isis." He pauses. "May I ask why you ask that question?"
　　"We can talk about it another time," I say and quickly sit down. Seymour leans over and speaks in my ear.
　　"You're drawing attention to yourself," he warns.
　　"Only enough to make him want to meet me afterward," I reply.
　　"Do you think he's telling the truth?"
　　"He is definitely convinced he is telling the truth. There is not a shred of deceit in him." I pause. "But that is not the same as saying he is right. Far from it."
　　There followed dozens of questions.
　　"How did Suzama describe California?"
　　Answer "At the other end of the great continent across the ocean, where the sun always shines."
　　"What kind of family was Christ reborn into?"
　　Answer "A poor broken family."
　　"What nationality will the Christ be?"
　　Answer "Brown skinned."
　　A lot of people didn't like that answer. Of course it would have made me chuckle, except Paula's baby had brown skin, like his mother.
　　Toward the end there was one question that disturbed me, or rather, Dr. Seter's answer did. He was asked if the reborn Christ was in any danger, as an infant. Dr. Seter hesitated long before responding. Clearly the Suzama text contained a warning of some kind.
　　"Yes," he says finally. "Suzama states that the forces of darkness will bend even the will of the righteous to try to find the child and destroy him. She further states that it is the duty of the old and powerful to help locate the child and protect him."
　　My hand is up in an instant.
　　"Does Suzama describe the form these forces of darkness will take?" I ask.
　　He pauses. "No. Not really."
　　It is the first lie he has told all night. Curious.
　　The old and powerful?
　　Who on the planet is older and more powerful than I am?
   
   2
　　
　　It is my desire to have coffee with Dr. Donald Seter this very night, and to increase my chances of success I send Seymour away. He's only too happy to try to catch a late movie in Westwood. Seymour, I feel, may hold me back because I plan to reach the esteemed doctor through the son, James Seter. Picking up a copy of Dr. Seter's book, The Secret of Suzama, on the back table for a mere twenty bucks, I stroll over to where bright-faced James is saying good-bye to people. He stands near the exit and thanks people for coming. Such a nice young man, with a firm handshake, no less. He lights up when he sees me.
　　"Alisa," he says. "Your questions were very interesting."
　　"You remember my name. I am flattered." I pause. "I am perhaps a little older than I look, and a little more educated I have made a thorough study of ancient Egypt, and would enjoy chatting with you and your father about the Suzama scripture."
　　He doesn't take me seriously. "I'm sure that would be fun and informative, but my father has to catch a plane for San Francisco tomorrow morning early."
　　I catch his eye, put an ounce of heat behind my words. "Maybe you could talk to him about me. He expressed an interest in my knowledge of Suzama's connection to Isis."
　　James blinks a few times. He must have a strong will; he does not immediately jump at my suggestion.
　　"I could talk to him. But as you can see he is not as young as he once was. I worry about tiring him unnecessarily."
　　I do not want to push James too hard. There is always the possibility I might damage him in some way. Since my rebirth as a vampire, I have found the power in my eyes particularly biting. I use it in small doses. But I do not want Dr. Seter to just walk away. I decide to let a portion of my ancient knowledge drop, but in the form of a lie. Making a drama of it, I pull James Seter aside and speak in hushed tones.
　　"Your Suzama scripture is not the only one in existence," I say. "I have another one, but I think it is different. I would be happy to trade information with your father."
　　James pauses a moment to take this all in. "You can't be serious?"
　　I speak evenly. "But I am. If your father will meet with me, I would be happy to talk to him about it." I pause. "He will know within a minute whether I have discovered something authentic."
　　"He will want to question you before spending time with you."
　　I shake my head. "I will not talk here about what I have found. But please assure your father that I'm not a crackpot."
　　"Where do you want to meet?"
　　"There's a coffee shop three blocks from the ocean near Ocean Avenue and the freeway. I can meet you there in, say, half an hour."
　　That is the coffee shop where my beloved Ray came back to me, where he in fact returned to life. He appeared just after I shot two men to death after they'd tried to rape me. I was covered with a fine spray of blood at the time, a fitting ornament for dark delusions. I have not been back to the coffee shop since, but for some perverse reason I want to go there tonight. Maybe another phantom will appear to spice up my life. Yet I hope not. The pain of the last one is still an open wound for me. Just the thought of Ray fills me with sorrow. James is studying me.
　　"When you came here tonight," he says, "you acted like you had no knowledge of Suzama. Why?"
　　I reach out and straighten his tie. "If you knew what I know, James, you would make a point of appearing ignorant." I pause. "Tell your father to come. I will be waiting."
　　A half hour later I sit in the coffee shop across from Dr. Seter and his son. They have come alone, which is good. Actually it is good that they have come at all, but I suspect son dragged father along. The doctor doesn't look at me as if he expects to receive any divine revelation from me. But he does seem to be enjoying the apple pie and ice cream I've ordered for him. When you're a cute five-thousand-year-old blond, you can get away with murder.
　　"James tells me you're a student of archeology," Dr. Seter says as he forks up a heaping piece of pie. He has taken off the tie he wore to his lecture but otherwise he is dressed the same. His manner is relaxed, a scholar enjoying himself after giving a lecture he has obviously given a thousand times before. Briefly I wonder about his motivation for publicizing the Suzama scripture. I don't think he can be making much money from doing so. The cost of his book is nominal and he doesn't teach any high-priced seminar. He seems like a nice man with no hidden agenda.
　　"I am a student of Suzama," I say seriously. "I was not boasting when I said I possess a manuscript of hers."
　　Dr. Seter is amused. "Where did you find this manuscript?"
　　"Where did you find yours?" I ask.
　　"I have explained why I am reluctant to reveal that information."
　　"I have the same reluctance for the same reasons," I say.
　　He returns to his pie. He thinks I am a nice girl with nothing to say.
　　"Then I guess we'll just have to enjoy the food," he says politely.
　　I open his book to a photograph of a portion of the Suzama scripture. I point to the hieratic writing on the ancient papyrus.
　　"There are probably only two dozen people on Earth who can read this at a glance," I say. "You are one of them, I am another. This line says, 'The secret of the Goddess is in the sixteenth digit of the moon. Not the moon in the sky, but the moon in the high center. It is here the ambrosia of bliss is milked by the sincere seeker. It is only there the knowledge of the soul is revealed.' I pause. "Is my translation accurate?"
　　Dr. Seter almost drops his fork. "How did you know that? I don't translate that line in the text."
　　"I told you, I am a student of Suzama."
　　James interrupts. "How do we know someone else didn't translate the line for you?"
　　"Because I can give you information that must be in the portion of your scripture that you keep hidden, as it is in mine. For example, I know of the four-word mantra Suzama used to invoke the white light from above the head, where the moon digit is really located. I know how the first word relates to the heart, the second to the throat, the third to the head. I know how the breath is synchronized with the mantra and that on the fourth word the divine white light of Isis is brought down into the human body."
　　Dr. Seter stares at me, stunned. "What is the four-word mantra?"
　　I speak seriously. "You know from your scripture that it is only to be revealed in private, at the time of initiation. I will not say it here. But you must realize by now that I know a great deal about Suzama's secret meditation practices. Therefore, it should be easy for you to believe that I must have access to another scripture belonging to her." I pause. "Am I correct?"
　　Dr. Seter studies me. "You know something, that's for sure. Frankly, I would be very curious to see your scripture."
　　"You have to show me yours first," I say. "I will be able to tell if it is authentic."
　　"How?" James interrupts.
　　I smile for him. "I will compare it to mine."
　　"Do you believe your scripture is identical to mine?" Dr. Seter asks.
　　"No. Yours speaks of a danger to the new master. Mine does not address that point." I add, "You lied when you said your scripture did not specify what the danger is."
　　Dr. Seter sits back. "How do you know that?"
　　"It doesn't matter. It's true." I pause. 'Tell me how the danger is described?"
　　"I'm afraid that's not possible," James says. "Only inner members of our group are given such information."
　　"Ah," I say. "This inner group you have organized, what's its purpose? To protect the child once it is found?" By their reaction I see I have scored a bulls-eye. "Isn't that rather presumptuous of you? To think the messiah needs your protection?"
　　Dr. Seter is having trouble keeping up with me. Still, I have his full attention. "What if the scripture itself says he will need protection?" he asks.
　　"Does it?" I ask.
　　Dr. Seter hesitates. "Yes."
　　He is telling the truth, or at least the truth he knows.
　　"Father," James interrupts. "Should we be talking about these things in front of a stranger whom we have just met?"
　　Dr. Seter shrugs. "Isn't it obvious she knows as much about Suzama as we do?"
　　"But I don't," I say again. "I know different things about her. I am working with different source material. But back to your group, and how they will be used to protect the child. How exactly is that going to work?"
　　"Surely you can understand that we can't divulge the inner workings of our group," Dr. Seter says. "Not the way the government is scrutinizing every spiritual group in the country, searching for the next crazy cult. Please, let's try to keep this on an academic level. I would like to see your material, you would like to see mine. Fine, how can we work a place and a date to exchange information?"
　　"I told you," I say. "You have to show me yours first. If I am convinced it is authentic, I will show you what I have."
　　Dr. Seter is suspicious. "Why not have a simultaneous exchange?"
　　I smile warmly. "I will not harm your material. I'm sure when you show it to me there will be a dozen of your well-dressed boys and girls gathered around." I pause. "I suspect you travel with it. Why don't you show it to me tonight? I will not have to study it long to reach a conclusion."
　　Dr. Seter and James exchange a long look. "What could it hurt?" the doctor says finally, testing the waters.
　　James is unsure. He continues to study me. "How do we know you don't work for the FBI?"
　　I throw my head back and laugh. "Where will you find a FBI agent who can read hieroglyphics?"
　　"But you are curious about the purpose of our group?" James persists. "These are the kinds of questions the government might ask."
　　I catch James's eye and let my power out in a measured dose. "I am not from the government. I represent no one other than myself. My interest in the Suzama material is motivated only by the highest and best desires." I pause and catch the eye of the doctor as well. "Let me see it. You will have no regrets."
　　Dr. Seter touches his son's arm as he nods in answer to my request. "We don't exactly travel with it, but it's not far from here." He pauses. "It's out in Palm Springs."
　　"Palm Springs," I mutter. What a coincidence. One passes through Palm Springs on the way to Joshua Tree National Monument, where Paula supposedly conceived her child. I have been meaning to go out there for some time.
　　"James can show you the scripture tomorrow morning," Dr. Seter says, checking his watch. "It's too late to see it tonight."
　　I stand. "But I'm a night girl. And I would like you to be there, Dr. Seter, when I examine it. If you please? Let's go now."
　　He is taken aback by my boldness and gazes up at me. "May I ask how old you are, Alisa?"
　　I smile. "You must know that Suzama was not very old when she wrote your scripture."
　　Dr. Seter shakes his head. "I didn't know that. How old was she?"
　　"I take that back. I'm not sure how old she was when she wrote it. I only know she died before her twentieth birthday."
　　I don't add, like me.
　　Some, of course, consider vampires the walking dead.
   
   3
　　
　　Before heading for Palm Springs, I leave Seymour a message on the answering machine in our new home in Pacific Palisades. We stay in regular contact. It's a promise we keep to each other. I have left him before in the middle of the night without explanation and have promised never to do it again. Also, my daughter, Kalika, still walks the streets, and it is impossible to tell when she will come for us again. Seymour and I, we cover each other's backs. But I feel in my heart it will not be long before I see Kalika again. A part of me senses that she has yet to find the child, but is searching constantly for him. I have to wonder if my intuition about her is attached to the psychic thread that connects all mothers to their children.
　　Dr. Seter and James drive ahead of me on the long road to Palm Springs. They have an old white Volvo, I a brand-new red Porsche. James is behind the wheel. I keep only fifty feet behind, just off to their right in the fast lane. They would be surprised to know that I can hear them as they speak. Yet it is only when we have been on the road an hour that they finally begin to talk. Before then Dr. Seter had bees slipping in and out of sleep.
　　James: "Why are we doing this?"
　　Dr. Seter: "Do you think we should just ignore her?"
　　James: "Not at all. I'm as curious about her as you. Remember it was I who insisted upon the meeting. But. I think we should investigate her background before totting her see the scripture."
　　Dr. Seter: "What harm can she do to it? She will not be able to translate a fraction of the hieroglyphics without hours of time. I don't care how well versed she is in the field." A pause. "She must be older than she looks. It takes years to learn to read the way she did."
　　James: "I'm sure she's older than she looks. Notice she didn't actually tell you her age?"
　　Dr. Seter: "What are you saying? That she has mastered Suzama's practices and managed to reverse her age?"
　　James: "It's possible. She knew enough about the high initiation."
　　Dr. Seter: "That's what startled me about her, too. There are few people in our group who know about that." A pause. "She must be telling the truth. She must have another text."
　　James: "I agree. But she's evasive. I don't trust her. I want full security when we show her the papyrus."
　　Dr. Seter: "Of course. You've called ahead? They know we're coming?"
　　James: "Yes. The whole group will be there."
　　Dr. Seter: "Really? Why? We don't need all of them there. The others should be on their way to San Francisco."
　　James: "I told you, I don't trust this girl." A pause. "But I have another reason."
　　Dr. Seter "What?"
　　James: "I wonder if Alisa has direct knowledge about the child."
　　Dr. Seter: "Now you're speculating."
　　James: "I'm not so sure. She seemed particularly concerned about the child being harmed." A pause. "Maybe I say that backward. I wonder if she already knows about the Dark Mother."
　　I almost drive off the road. They are talking about Kalika.
　　My daughter? Did Suzama brand her as evil five thousand years ago?
　　Dr. Seter: "I didn't get that impression."
　　James: "Can I say something really off the wall?"
　　Dr. Seter: "It's a long drive. We may as well discuss every possibility."
　　James: "What if this Alisa is working for the Black Mother?"
　　Dr. Seter laughs: "She hardly seems, the type, do you think?"
　　James: "Consider. She looks like a twenty-year-old, but she appears to have the education of someone who has studied for thirty years. Also, her manner is curious. Notice the way she catches your eye, and then says things you have trouble resisting."
　　Dr. Seter laughs some more: "I never noticed that. I think you are the one who is having trouble resisting her."
　　James: "I don't know. I just hope we're not leading her to the child by letting her study the scripture."
　　Dr. Seter :"But there's nothing in the scripture that points to where the child is at this time, except perhaps still in California."
　　James: "To us maybe. But she may find clues in the text we have missed." A pause. "I pray to God we're not doing anything to endanger the child further. From the descriptions I have read of the Dark Mother, I wouldn't want anyone, friend or foe, to run into her. I think that kind of evil lives to kill."
　　Dr. Seter: "But you know, son, we have spent the last ten years preparing to meet her." A pause. "It's inevitable, if we're to believe half of what we've read."
　　James: "Do you really think we're the ones chosen to defend the child?"
　　Dr. Seter: "I wouldn't have bought so many automatic weapons unless I did." A sigh. "I'm more worried that Alisa may be from the government than that she represents the Dark Mother."
　　James: "Then why show her anything?"
　　Dr. Seter. "As I said, it can cause no harm. She will not have time to translate the portions of the scripture we don't want her to translate. And she will find nothing in our center the government would be excited about."
　　James: "I hope you're right." A pause. "She is incredibly beautiful."
　　Dr. Seter: "I noticed."
　　I find their private conversation fascinating.
　　
　　The center they have referred to is a large house in an area clearly zoned for both business and residential properties. There are many cars parked along the street as we pull up. Like Dr. Seter, I am surprised that James has directed the whole group here, especially when they have a lecture the following night in San Francisco. Yet James's intuitions about me are shockingly accurate. He wonders if the Dark Mother has sent me. How would he feel if he knew I am the Dark Mother's mother? I would have a hard time convincing him I'm on his side, not hers.
　　Yet the one thing I have learned by eavesdropping is that the Suzama Society is there to protect the child, not harm it. Still, the reference to automatic weapons disturbs me. It is true that they might come in handy should Kalika show up, but I know guns in the hands of true believers seldom get pointed in the right direction at the right time.
　　What is the source of James's excellent intuition? Perhaps it is a result of following Suzama's meditation practices. I found his reference to reversed aging intriguing. Is James older than he looks? I remember Suzama's often saying that aging is a product of lower consciousness, and immortality the gift of highest consciousness.
　　Dr. Seter and James welcome me warmly as I climb from my car.
　　"Did you have a pleasant drive?" Seter asks.
　　"I listened to loud music the whole way," I say, gesturing to all the cars. "Is there another lecture here tonight?"
　　Dr. Seter glances at James. "Many in our group have returned here to collect supplies for the remainder of my tour," the doctor explains. "I have to fly to the East Coast after my San Francisco lecture." He gestures to the house. "Please come in. Would you like some coffee?"
　　"Thank you, no. I am wide awake."
　　"That's right," James says, moving up behind us. "You're a night person."
　　Inside there are two dozen navy blue suits, half and half, pants and skirts, male and female, all young and attractive. I don't get the uniform thing, especially around Dr. Seter, who seems so laid back. Perhaps it is James's idea, although he seems far from a fanatic. The group studies me as I step into the huge house. The place is orderly, the furniture traditional, every corner clean and dust free. There is a faint odor of fried chicken in the air, mashed potatoes, and broccoli. They are not vegetarians, even though Suzama was.
　　Staring at the innocent faces, I wonder if they practice using their automatic weapons deep in the desert when no one is around. Simply to own an automatic weapon is to invite a felony charge, jail time. Dr. Seter must be convinced the enemy is at hand to go to such extremes. Of course, who am I to judge? He has not fed the enemy another person's blood in the middle of the night just to get her to stop crying. My dear daughter-my, how fast she grew and how strong. She can kick my ass in a fight. That, I know from experience.
　　The memory of Eric Hawkins, Kalika's personal snack bar, is never far.
　　"Oh God, I'm bleeding! She's cut my neck! The blood is gushing out! Help me!"
　　But I could not help him. I was only able to use him.
　　A young woman about my apparent age steps forward to shake my hand. "My name is Lisa," she says. "You're Alisa?"
　　"Yes."
　　"We hear you can read hieroglyphics?"
　　"Hieroglyphics and comic books have always been favorites of mine," I say. There is a murmur of laughter. "Where are you from, Lisa?"
　　"North Dakota. I met Dr. Seter there last year-"
　　"Lisa is our accountant," Dr. Seter interrupts. "I call her boss."
　　The group laughs. They obviously love the man.
　　I am led down into a basement. Few homes in Southern California have basements, and this one is special, to say the least. As James closes the door behind us, I notice that it has a rubber seal all around it. Almost immediately I notice a change in the air pressure, and I understand why. They are worried about dust and dampness and the effect they would have on the scripture. The air in the basement is carefully filtered.
　　Six of the group have followed me into the basement, including James and Dr. Seter. A young man named Charles steps to a vault at the far end of the basement. In the center of the room is a large white table with brilliant overhead lights and a double ocular over-size microscope at one end. There are also a couple of magnifying glasses and loupes sitting handily by. Charles spins the steel knob on the vault, dialing the combination. His body is between me and the knob but I listen closely and in a moment I know the combination, R48, L32, R16, L17, R12, L10.
　　The vault pops open. Charles lifts out a pale yellow sheet of papyrus wrapped in acid-free tissue paper and carries it to the table to set down under the bright lights. The scripture is a foot across, two feet long. A rush of excitement makes my heart pound. Even through the covering tissue paper, I smell ancient Egypt!
　　I recognize the hieratic writing.
　　It is tiny, carefully crafted.
　　It is definitely in Suzama's cursive.
　　Dr. Seter gestures for me to examine it closer after he lifts off the tissue paper.
　　As I bend over the table, he has no idea I am about to read it much faster than he would read a large-print book. Yet James stands close beside me, his eyes on mine.
　　I begin to read.
　　
　　I am Suzama and my words are true. The past and the future are the same to my illumined vision. You who read these words are warned not to doubt what is recorded lest you fall into error and lose your way on the path. I am Suzama and I speak for the truth.
　　The lord of creation is both inside and outside creation. He is like the sap in the flower, the space in an empty room. He is always present but unseen. His joy shines like the sun in the sky, his will swims like a fish beneath the ocean. He cannot be known by the mind or even the heart. Only the inner silence recognizes him.
　　He is both male and female and he is neither. To speak of him as one or the other is only a manner of speaking. In order to protect the righteous and destroy the wicked, he takes birth again and again throughout the ages.
　　His most recent birth was as Sri Krishna in the land of the Pandu brothers. Then and there he slew demons and granted realization to the worthy. His life lasted 135 years, from 3675 to 3810. He will be remembered as the divine personality.
　　His next birth will be as Adi Shankara in the land of the Vedas. Then and there he will make available the knowledge of the Brahman, the highest reality. His life will last 32 years, from 6111 to 6143. He will be well remembered as the divine teacher.
　　His subsequent birth will be as Jesus of Nazareth in the land of Abraham. Then and there he will embody and teach perfect love and compassion. His life will last 108 years, from 7608 to 7716. He will be well remembered as the divine savior.
　　
　　The scripture ends there. I look over at Dr. Seter.
　　"Where's the rest of it?" I ask.
　　"You do not need all of it to judge its authenticity," Dr. Seter says.
　　"That doesn't answer my question," I say.
　　"The rest of it is in the vault," James interrupts, close to my right side. "But we decided it wouldn't be a good idea to bring it all out tonight."
　　On the road, I was briefly separated from them by a distance of two hundred feet. At that point they had their radio on and their windows up. Even I, with my supernatural hearing, could not hear what they were saying. They must have made this decision at that time. Naturally, I am disappointed not to see it all. Yet I am thrilled by what I have read. Already I am convinced the scripture is authentic. The papyrus even feels as if it is five thousand years old. I stroke it gently, making James jump.
　　"Don't do that," he says.
　　I withdraw my hand. "I know how to handle such things. I did not harm it in any way." I pause and look at the doctor. "It is my belief that this scripture is authentic."
　　Dr. Seter is taken back. "You can tell that by such a brief study?"
　　"Yes. This portion matches what I have. I take back what I said earlier. They're almost identical." I pause. "It would help us if I could see the rest."
　　Dr. Seter is apologetic. "Alisa, surely you understand what an act of good faith it was for us to show you what we have shown you. Now it's only right, before we reveal any more, that you show us at least a portion of what you have discovered." He pauses and smiles. "I think that is fair. Don't you?"
　　"Very fair. May I have a day or two to deliver the material to you?"
　　"Certainly," Dr. Seter says. "James will not be accompanying me east. You can bring what you wish to show us here and he will have a look at it."
　　"Fine," I say. "But you must look at it yourself, Dr. Seter."
　　"But I have told you about my commitments on the East Coast."
　　"What I have to show you will make those commitments seem unimportant."
　　Dr. Seter is troubled. "I am not willing to cancel any of my lectures until I have more proof."
　　"I will give you such proof before you leave for the East. Where will you be staying in San Francisco?"
　　"At the Hilton by the airport,montblanc john lennon," James says. "You can leave a message there. We'll return your call promptly."
　　I offer Dr. Seter my hand. "I look forward to meeting you again soon."
　　The doctor is surprised at my sudden departure. "But you've said hardly anything about what we've shown you."
　　I keep my tone light "It's what you haven't shown me that I would have a lot to say about."
　　James touches my arm. "I'll walk you out, Alisa, if you'd like."
　　I smile. "I would like that very much."
　　Outside James is a study in politeness.
　　"I hope you can understand our caution," he says. "We just met you tonight. While we're all impressed with your understanding of the Suzama material, we still have to take things one step at a time."
　　"No problem," I say as I open my car door. "I doubt that I would have been nearly as open as you and your father have been."
　　James smiles. "Actually, Alisa, you haven't been very open." He pauses. "You can at least tell us where you found your material."
　　"In India."
　　He frowns. "Are you serious? Where?"
　　"In Sri Nagar."
　　He nods. "I know where that is. In the Himalayas. What were you doing there?"
　　"I had a few dreams of my own." I pause. "How old are you, James?"
　　"Twenty-eight."
　　"You took much younger. I am twenty-five, for your information."
　　"You look much younger," he says. "Do you practice anything Suzama taught?"
　　I smite. "A personal question. I don't know if I want to answer that."
　　"Come on," he insists.
　　"I'll tell you what, I'll make a deal with you. Tell me what you practice and I'll tell you what I practice."
　　He gives a sheepish grin. "You're a clever young woman, Alisa. I don't know if it's smart to share too many secrets with you."
　　Before I climb into my car I place my palm on his chest I catch his dark eyes once more, and for the first time I notice how deep they are, how beautiful. There is more to him than meets even my penetrating eyes. A soothing warmth sweeps over me, for him, as well as for his father. Beneath my soft hand his warm heart beats faster. He may not trust me, but I know he likes me, maybe even wants me.
　　It is strange how I suddenly want him. Since Ray, I have not really desired any man. Even with Joel and Arturo, it was more my love for them that bound me to them. Yet, out of the blue, James has me all hot and bothered. Seymour would be incredibly jealous.
　　"Secrets are what make us all interesting," I say, and give him a light peck on the cheek. "Have fun in San Francisco. I will call you."
　　He grabs my arm.
　　"There is something unusual about you, Alisa," he says in a gentle voice. "I'm going to figure out what it is."
　　I laugh. "And tell the whole world?"
　　He smiles, but when he speaks there is a seriousness in his voice. "I have a feeling few in the world would believe me."
   
   4
　　
　　The time is well after one, but I do not drive straight home. Being a vampire, I find one in the morning not unpleasant. Also, since my rebirth as a vampire, I have found I need little rest, an hour's nap here and there. Even when the sun is high in the daylight sky, my powers are hardly affected. Once again I attribute this to the fact that I used primarily Yaksha's blood to bring about my transformation.
　　And a few drops of Paula's child's blood.
　　I, like Seymour, have the influence of it in my life.
　　I drive to Joshua Tree National Monument, and when I arrive the moon is high in the sky. The park is large, and I have no idea where Paula sat when the brilliant blue light came out of the sky and blessed her. Only that she sat on a bluff watching the sunset. After the blue light left and the sun rose the next morning, the surrounding Joshua trees were larger.
　　"The Joshua trees around me-they were all taller."
　　"Are you sure?"
　　"Pretty sure. Some were twice the size they had been the evening before."
　　I park in a spot that catches my eye and get out and walk across the desert. The moonlight, as it pours over me, seems to seep into the crown of my head, and I am reminded of the time in the desert outside Las Vegas when I escaped a nuclear explosion by filling my body with moonlight and floating high into the sky. As I prowl the sandy terrain among the Joshua trees that stand like sentinels from another age, I feel my step lighten. It is almost as if I can bob off the ground, and that possibility fills me with excitement. To fly up with the stars and escape the prison of my problems. My bare arms begin to glow with a milky white radiance. I can almost see through them.
　　Then I see the place. My recognition of it is immediate. I do not even have to take note of the tall surrounding trees to confirm my belief. I simply know it is the spot. A feeling of tranquility, of sanctity even, radiates from the place. It draws me forward. Clearly something momentous occurred here. In a minute I am standing atop the bluff where I am convinced Paula conceived her child. I lift my arms to the stars. "Suzama!" I call. "Show me what you saw!" There is no answer, at least no obvious one. Yet I am suddenly overcome by a wave of fatigue, and I sit down to close my eyes and meditate with the rhythm of the breath and the secret mantra. Soon white light is pouring, not from above, but from a place inside me, and I am lost in memories of nights of wonder and terror at the feet of a tender clairvoyant, who saw not only the birth of God, but the death as well. There was, of course, a reason Suzama died so young, and perhaps I was a part of that reason.
　　When I arrived in Egypt, it was fifty years after the death of Lord Krishna, fifty years into the dark age, what was to become known as Kali Yuga. Following the trail of adventurous merchants, who traveled the Far East thousands of years before Marco Polo was born, I arrived in an Egypt that to my eyes was infinite in splendor and riches. Truthfully, it overwhelmed me, although I was also relieved to be out of India, where Yaksha was in the midst of a bloody rampage to destroy every living vampire, as part of a vow he had made to Krishna.
　　The bright sun was hard on a young vampire like me. Riding into the enchanted city on the back of a camel, I had to keep my head covered with many layers of cloth. The sun burned into my brain, sapping every ounce of my strength. Yet the sight of the Great Pyramid, four times larger than the present-day pyramid that bears the same name, filled me with wonder. Covered with shiny white ivory and capped with glistening gold, it stole my breath away. All I could think as the bright rays heated my already boiling blood was to escape into its dark interior, rest, and try to forget the many trials of my journey. I thought it more than a coincidence that one of the first people I met when I entered the magical city was Suzama herself.
　　She was far from a high priestess that day. Only sixteen, with long dark hair and eyes as bright as they were kind, she wore a slave's simple garment. I saw her bending over the bank of the Nile to collect water in a large clay jar. On my exhausted camel, moving slowly toward her, I thought she seemed to stiffen. She glanced over her shoulder at me, almost as if she felt me approach. Later she was to tell me that she'd already had many visions of my coming. As our eyes met, my heart beat faster. I could remember no dream I'd had about her, but I knew her face was one I would never forget awake or asleep.
　　Suzama was not merely beautiful, although she would have been considered attractive in any age or place. Her allure came from the marks that austerity and pain had stamped on her young beauty, marks that made her enchanting, not repulsive. It was as if she had witnessed a thousand lives of suffering and come to a realization that transcended mortal acceptance. She was both saintly and sensual. Her lips so generous, she had only to smile to make you feel kissed. I loved her when I saw her, and until then I had never loved anyone on sight, except for Krishna himself.
　　She offered me a drink from her jug.
　　"I am called Suzama," she said. "Who are you?"
　　"Sita," I answered, giving her my real name. I drank the water hungrily, and splashed some on my dusty face. The Nile was cool and sweet in those days. I don't know what has become of it now. "I am new here."
　　But Suzama shook her head. "You have always been here." Then she touched her heart and I saw tears in her eyes. "I know you, Sita. You have great power."
　　This was my first sign of her power. Suzama knew things from inside herself, not from outside. Indeed, later, I came to believe the entire world was a dream to her. Yet paradoxically it could still cause her intense pain. Her deepest feelings were enigmatic, dispassionately unattached, but at the same time passionately involved. When she took my hand and led me in the direction of her family, I felt I had been touched by an angel. Yet I did not know that for the next three and a half years, I would hardly ever leave her sight. Her mystical mission had not yet begun, but soon it would hit like a bolt of lightning. And I would be her thunder.
   
   5
　　
　　The next morning I have been only seconds in my expensive and exquisitely furnished tri-level home in Pacific Palisades when the phone rings. Upstairs I hear Seymour snoring peacefully, yet the call makes me anxious. Our number is unlisted. Who would know to call? And so early in the morning?
　　I pick up the phone and hold it close.
　　"Hello?"
　　There is a pause. Then the soft voice, the gentle inflections.
　　"It is I," she says.
　　The blood freezes in my veins. "Kalika."
　　"Yes, Mother, you remember me. That is good. How have you been?"
　　"Fine. How are you?"
　　"Wonderful. Busy."
　　"You haven't found him yet," I say. "You're not going to find him."
　　Kalika could be smiling. "You are wrong. I haven't found him but I am going to find him. You are going to help me."
　　"I hardly think so."
　　"You think too much. Your thoughts blind you. I told you I'm not going to harm the child. I'm your daughter. You should believe me. I believe you even when I hear you lying to me."
　　"Where are you?" I ask.
　　"Not far, I'm high up. I have a view. You would enjoy it."
　　"How did you get this number?"
　　"It wasn't difficult." A pause. "I saw you last night at that boring meeting. I saw you talking to those people."
　　If possible, my blood grows colder. Just by meeting and talking to people, I put them suddenly in danger. It does not seem fair that I should love someone who causes me such grief. Yes, I am chilled by Kalika's call, and grateful for it as well. How hopeless mothers are.
　　"Those people are no concern of yours," I say harshly.
　　"I think the doctor is a nice man. But I see you like the son. Handsome devil, isn't he?" A pause. "Is it appropriate for a daughter to comment on the company her mother keeps?"
　　"No."
　　She laughs softly. "Nothing is as it seems. Black can appear white when the light is blinding. But white loses all luster at the faintest sign of darkness. Why trust them when you can trust me?"
　　"Because you are a cold-blooded murderer."
　　"Oh. We all have our faults. When did you become so judgmental?"
　　My tone is bitter. "You know when."
　　"I suppose. How is Seymour?"
　　"He's dead."
　　"That was his corpse at the lecture last night?"
　　I sigh. "He's fine, no thanks to you."
　　"See. I can be merciful. I am a mother as well, you know."
　　"You called Paula. You faked my voice, and even so she did not call you back."
　　"That is true," Kalika says. "But Suzama would know how to set up a meeting with Paula. She might have spelled that out in her book. You knew her, didn't you?"
　　I hesitate. "Yes."
　　"And you still think fondly of her. But to this day you do not know what destroyed her."
　　"She was destroyed in the big earthquake, along with the Setians. Her death is no mystery to me."
　　"But who were those Setians? You stared them straight in the eye and did not recognize them."
　　"I knew they were evil, in the end."
　　She mocks me. "But too late to save Suzama."
　　"Why do you talk about them? Or are you just up to your old tricks? The master manipulator trying to confuse the issue. If you want to come for me, fine. Come now, I tire of your games. You don't scare me."
　　Kalika is a long time answering. While I wait for her next words, I listen closely and hear in the background, not far from where Kalika is, the splash of water. My daughter must be near an open window, standing on a balcony perhaps. There is definitely a swimming pool in her vicinity. It is far below her I believe. There are many people in it, children playing with a ball, laughing and shouting, and more serious athletes swimming serious laps. I hear the latter turn in the water as they finish each lap and push off the walls. I count the strokes, and there are many of them. It is a large pool. There are not many such large pools in the Los Angeles area. I should be able to get a list of them.
　　Kalika finally speaks.
　　"I do not want to harm you, Mother. I am here for the child. But if you stand in my way, I cannot promise you that you or your darling Seymour will survive." She adds, "That is not a threat, merely an observation."
　　"Thank you. I feel much better. Why did you call?"
　　"To hear your voice. For some reason your voice carries special meaning to me."
　　"I don't believe that," I say.
　　"It is true."
　　"And the other reason for your call?"
　　"If I tell you that it will spoil all the fun." A pause. "Is there anything I can do for you, Mother?"
　　"Leave Dr. Seter and his people alone. Leave the child alone."
　　Kalika hesitates. "I'm afraid I can't do that. Is there anything else you want?"
　　I slump against the wall, exhausted. "You know, Kalika, the night you were born was hard for me. The delivery was agonizing and I lost a lot of blood. I almost died, and even when I held you in my arms and looked into your eyes I was scared. Even then I knew you were not normal, not even by vampire standards. But despite all that a part of me was happy, happier than I had ever been in my life. I didn't realize this until later. I had wanted a daughter and now I had one. God gave you to me, I thought, and I thanked him for you." I have to take a breath. "Do you understand what I am saying?"
　　"Yes."
　　"You are what you are. Your nature is to kill, and I understand that because I'm a killer as well. But over the centuries I have learned to control that instinct. Now I only kill when it is necessary. You can learn to do the same." I pause. "That is what I ask of you. Only that."
　　She considers. When she speaks next, her voice is particularly soft. It is almost as if she is speaking inside my brain. And I find her words strangely moving.
　　"I can do that for you, Mother. But my list of who can live and who must die is vastly different from yours. The phantom, Ray, was one of your illusions, one of your mayas. Your desire to have your child Lalita reborn is still a maya for you. You refuse to let it go. That is why you were given me as your daughter-one of the reasons. But anyone who sees through the veil of maya cannot fathom the divine will. The veil is stained and the absolute is without flaw. One cannot reveal the other. In the same way, I am your own daughter but you cannot fathom me."
　　I have to shake myself to resist her subtle spell.
　　My memory reminds me that she is using me.
　　"Was torturing Eric to death part of God's will?" I ask.
　　She speaks matter-of-factly. "I did what I did to Eric to inspire you to tell me the location of the child." A pause. "Besides, he was not well. He was going to die anyway. His next birth will be more auspicious."
　　I snort. "Of course he was not well! You had been drinking his blood night and day! He died in horrible pain, in your hands!"
　　"So he did, and he stained my dress." She laughs again. "Goodbye, Mother. Don't think about what I have told you. It will only confuse you more. Just have faith in your darling daughter. It is the only thing now that can save you from suffering much greater pain."
　　Kalika hangs up the phone.
   
   6
　　
　　As Seymour comes down for his breakfast, I am sitting at the kitchen table. I have made him bacon and eggs and toast, his favorite high-cholesterol meal. He has on a brown robe and is fresh from a warm shower. He smiles at me as I pour his hand-squeezed orange juice from the other side of the table.
　　"One day you're going to make somebody a great wife," he says.
　　"Thank you. One day you're going to make a girl have a nervous breakdown."
　　"You worry about me too much. I just went to the movies. God knows where you were." He picks up his fork and tests his eggs. "Did you get me the morning paper? You know I can't enjoy my food unless I'm fully informed on current events," he jokes.
　　I speak seriously. "I am your morning paper."
　　He butters his toast. "What's the matter? Did Suzama predict that I am the next messiah?"
　　"The scripture is authentic."
　　"You saw it?"
　　"A piece of it. Suzama wrote it."
　　He puts down his butter knife. "But how come you never saw her working on it?"
　　"I was with her most of the time, but not every second. She could have written it on any number of days."
　　"But she didn't talk to you about it? And you were her best friend?"
　　"She never talked about it to me. But Suzama kept her own counsel. I doubt if she spoke to anyone about the scripture. But she left it in a place where it could be found-at a time she wished it to be found."
　　Seymour considers. "How did you talk Dr. Seter into letting you see it?"
　　There is an edge to his question.
　　"Are you asking if I slept with his son?"
　　"I noticed you were talking to him after you told me to get lost."
　　"I didn't tell you to get lost. I told you to go have fun." I pause. "I convinced both son and father that I have a similar scripture. They want to see it soon."
　　"Great. We can make one up this afternoon. We can make papyrus and age it in the sun, then you can give me a lesson in drawing hieroglyphics." He pauses. "It wasn't a very inventive lie."
　　"It served its purpose." I frown. "I will have to give them something substantial to make them let me see the remainder of the scripture."
　　"Why don't you just give them me to use as a human sacrifice?"
　　"Stop that. They are not such a bad bunch." Then I have to smile. "But they are busy practicing with automatic weapons in the desert."
　　"They sound like a nice all-American cult."
　　"No, I don't think they're that, but they really do have guns. I heard the Seters talk about them when they didn't think I was listening." I pause. "But those guns might come in handy."
　　"Why?"
　　"Kalika called."
　　This shocks him. "When?"
　　"A half hour ago."
　　"Did she call here?"
　　"Yes."
　　He has lost his appetite for his breakfast and sits, staring out the window, his face pale. In the distance is the blue Pacific. Only he and I know how red the water can run when it is diluted with blood. Yet I remind myself that Seymour doesn't remember exactly what Kalika did to him. The time has come, I know, to tell him. Many things.
　　"How did she get our number?" he mutters.
　　"Who knows? She gets what she wants."
　　"If she has our number she has our address. She could be on her way here now."
　　I shake my head. "If she just wanted to kill us, I don't think she would have called first."
　　"Why did she call then?"
　　"She said she wanted to hear my voice."
　　"Like Hitler used to call home to talk to mom?" he asks.
　　"She hasn't found the child. She wants me to help her find him."
　　"But you don't know where the kid is."
　　"She knows that. Still, she seems to feel I can lead her to the Paula and the baby."
　　Seymour is puzzled. I can see the question coming.
　　"You must have some idea what is so special about this child?"
　　I pour myself a glass of orange juice. I have drunk blood only three times since my rebirth as a vampire, and none of my snacks were any the worse for wear in the morning. I suspect, toward the end of his life, that Yaksha did not need blood at all to survive. Still, it tasted good to me, the warm red elixir, better than the orange juice I now sip.
　　"This child could be the one spoken of in the Suzama scriptures," I say softly.
　　Seymour stares at me. "You've got to be kidding?"
　　"No."
　　He is annoyed. "That's ridiculous. All right, I believe in vampires. I believe in you. I even believe in your bad-tempered daughter. But I don't believe that Jesus was just born in a hospital in Los Angeles. I'm sorry but I can't. It's too weird."
　　"Do you remember what happened to you after Kalika threw you off the pier?"
　　He hesitates. "Yeah. The water was freezing and I got hypothermia and passed out and you came to my rescue."
　　"Where did you regain consciousness?"
　　"Up in the mountains. The next morning."
　　"You were unconscious for a long time, don't you think?"
　　"So? What does this have to do with this kid?"
　　I speak carefully. "Seymour, you did not simply pass out in the cold water. Kalika did not let you go so easily. She threw something at you, a sharp stake. It was shaped like a spear." I pause. "She threw it so hard it stabbed through your spine and out through your stomach."
　　Seymour stands. "That's not true."
　　"It is true. I jumped off the pier and helped you to shore, as I told you. But you were on the beach less than a minute when you finally lost consciousness."
　　He is agitated. "Then how did the wound disappear? You told me you didn't give me any of your vampire blood."
　　"At the time I intended to give you my blood. But I was afraid to pull out the stake. I thought it would kill you." I shrug. "So I left it in."
　　He is breathing hard. "You're not answering my questions."
　　I stand and step to his side and put a hand on his shoulder,
　　"You lost too much blood. Even I couldn't save you." I pause. "You died that night on that beach."
　　He forces a smile. "Yeah, right. I'm Lazarus, back from the dead."
　　"There was a vial of the child's blood. I stole it from the nurse who was caring for the baby at the hospital. I had that vial with me when I took you up to the mountains."
　　"Why did you take me up there? You never explained that."
　　"To cremate your body. You must remember that when you woke up you were lying on a huge pile of wood." I squeeze his shoulder. "Seymour."
　　He jumps back and trembles. "That's not possible. You're making this story up. I couldn't have been dead. When you're dead you're dead. God damn it, Sita, don't lie to me this way. You're scaring me and I don't like it."
　　I am patient. "Just before I lit the wood, a strange feeling swept over me. I was looking down at you and I was holding this burning lighter and I couldn't stop staring at your face and thinking how you shouldn't be dead. Then I remembered the vial of blood, and I took it out of my pocket and poured some over your wounds and some down your throat. Then I walked away and stood behind a tree and prayed to God that everything would be all right." I move to his side again and put my arm over his shoulder. Both our eyes are damp. "And you were all right, Seymour. It was a miracle. You were sitting there and everything was perfectly all right." I kiss the side of his face and whisper in his ear. "I wouldn't lie to you about this, you know. I don't lie to those I love."
　　He is still shaking. "But I don't remember any of this."
　　"Maybe that is part of the miracle. Maybe it is for the best."
　　He looks at me with a sad little boy's face. "She really killed me?"
　　"Yes."
　　"And that baby's blood brought me back?"
　　"Yes."
　　He is awed as well as shocked. "That must mean ..." He can't finish.
　　"Yes." I bury my face against his chest and dry my eyes on his robe. "I can't let my daughter get to him or to Paula. I just can't. I have to stop her and the only way I can do that is to kill her."
　　Seymour strokes my hair. Now he comforts me. We make a fine pair.
　　"Can she be killed?" he asks.
　　I raise my head. "I think so. Even Yaksha could be killed."
　　"But she is more powerful than Yaksha. You said so yourself."
　　I turn away and look at the ocean out the window.
　　"She must drink blood to survive," I say. "She has needs that only mortal flesh can fulfill. A portion of her must be mortal. She must be vulnerable."
　　"To the fire of automatic weapons?" He is recovering from the shock. His inner strength never ceases to amaze me. But he is a believer now, even if he won't admit it. Perhaps Lazarus argued that he had never been dead. For God's sake, Jesus, it was just a bad cold. Yeah, well, why do you smell so bad, Laz?
　　I continue to stand with my back to Seymour.
　　"I have thought of enlisting their aid," I say. "But to do so I would have to tell them an awful lot, maybe even what I am. I might have to give them a demonstration."
　　"You don't want to do that. They'd kill you after they killed Kalika, just to be on the safe side." Seymour considers. "Kalika is described in their scripture?"
　　"That's a perceptive question. Yes. But they haven't let me read that portion of the scripture. I only know of their knowledge of Kalika because I eavesdropped on their conversation."
　　"Did they call her Kalika?"
　　"The Dark Mother. It is the same difference." I grimace. "They have a horrible opinion of her."
　　"No doubt. Especially if Suzama was as accurate as you say." Seymour scratches his head. "You can't tell them that you're a vampire and knew Suzama personally. You would have to drink some blood in front of them to get them to listen to you after that, and then they would go running for their guns. But if you're able to describe Kalika in clear enough terms, they might believe you enough to check her out. How many of them are there?"
　　"Two dozen, which is a small army if they have the guns I think they do."
　　"You can give them some of your high-tech weapons."
　　"I've thought of that as well," I say.
　　"The only problem is that you don't know where your daughter is."
　　"That may not be true." I explain how Kalika spoke of her wonderful view, and the large pool below her. Yet this tip only seems to disturb Seymour.
　　"She mentioned the view," he says. "She went to the trouble to stand out on a balcony when she spoke to you. She knows all about your phenomenal hearing. And she probably knows how few places fit the description of her current residence. Does this add up to something in your mind?"
　　"A trap, of course. She might be lying in wait for us."
　　"She might be lying in wait for the entire Suzama Society. If she was watching you last night, she might suspect you will turn to them for help."
　　"I don't know if she takes them seriously. She called last night's lecture boring." I pause. "Plus she promised she wouldn't kill unless it was necessary."
　　"Oh, that's a relief. I feel a whole lot better now. The Mother of Darkness promises her vampire mother she's not going to get rough unless she gets pushed around. If I understand you correctly, the Suzama Society thinks it is their destiny to kill Kalika. Well, your daughter's not going to stand around and let them fill her full of lead."
　　I shake my head. "Kalika is many things, but I don't think she would have said such a thing to me unless it was true."
　　"By that reasoning you should believe she has no intention of harming the child."
　　"No. Obviously she intends to kill the child. She has killed to try to get to him. She is not some star-struck devotee who wants to gaze upon him in wonder. But her promise to me was something else. In fact, she asked if there was anything she could do for me."
　　"Still, the Suzama gang will have to hit her hard and quick if they're to survive."
　　"Agreed. But should we go to them for help? Should we risk their lives? Do we have the right?"
　　He shrugs. "It's their decision."
　　"Don't be so flip. No matter what you or I tell them, they won't understand how deadly Kalika is until they come face to face with her."
　　"I meant what I said. Their decision would not be flip. This is something these people believe in. They have dedicated their lives to it. Also, if all this is true, look at what's at stake? If this baby is the Big Guy then the world needs him. Kalika must be stopped, and I have to say no price is too high to stop her."
　　I nod sadly. "You said something similar when she was just a baby."
　　"Yes. And you wanted to give her a chance to see who she turned out to be." He pats me on the shoulder. "I'm sorry I have to put it that way. I just think we have to get a hold of all the firepower we can. Let's try to track down Kalika today. If we find her, and we live, then we'll go talk to Dr. Seter. Hell listen. It's just a question of how far you have to go to persuade him."
　　"Is there anything I can do for you, Mother?" There is pain in my voice as I speak next. "This child is special, there can be no question about that. But to me, Kalika, even if she is evil, is special as well." My head hangs heavy. "I don't know whether to pray for success or failure."
   
   7
　　
　　A local realtor informs me that there are only a dozen places in Los Angeles that fit my description of a tall apartment building with a large pool. The one with the largest pool is in Century City, at Century City Park East. Seymour and I decide to go there first. The place is exclusive, with twin towers that rise twenty stories into the sky. There is valet parking, a gym, and a tennis court beside the wonderful pool. I let the valet take the car, but I don't immediately head for the woman at the reception area.
　　"I appreciate what you said about this being a trap," I say to Seymour, who insisted on coming so that he could serve as lookout. "But the chances are she doesn't know we're here. I don't want to walk in and request her by name."
　　"Chances are she's working under a different name. Did you bring a picture of her?"
　　"Yes. I have several of her token when she was fully grown. But I don't want to tip our hand. If we quiz the woman at the desk, and show her Kalika's picture, she may tell Kalika someone was looking for her. These people are trained to do that. I would rather check out the underground garage first If Kalika has a car, it will probably be new and I should be able to smell her on it."
　　"She could be out," Seymour says.
　　"It is a possibility. But I want to do this first."
　　So we head underground. We're dressed properly, like rich sophisticates, so no one pays any attention to us. On the second garage level a new white Mercedes catches my eye. From where I am standing, forty feet away, I don't smell my daughter. Yet there is something about the car that draws my attention. I wonder if the vehicle is emitting vibrations. Certainly my daughter has a very powerful aura.
　　A moment later we have our hands on the car.
　　"If this is hers," Seymour says, "she has good taste."
　　"I need to smell the interior," I say.
　　Seymour points to a tiny flashing red light inside. "Don't set off the alarm."
　　"I see it," I mutter as I flex my palms over the driver's side window. Very slowly I begin to push the window down. A crack appears and I let go and stick my nose dose to it. There is a faint musky odor, which, according to the Vedas, is Kali's smell. But I don't need my knowledge of the Vedas to remember what my own daughter smells like. The odor fills me with nostalgia for her, but I don't know why. Ray and my darling daughter never allowed us to have a normal family life. He was a ghost and she was a demon. I glance at Seymour. "This belongs to her."
　　He is not as happy as he was a moment ago. He may not remember the stake through his back, but he was there when Kalika opened Eric's throat. I carefully push the window back up and wipe away the faint impressions my palms have made on the glass.
　　"We'd better get out of here," he says.
　　I study the number at the front of the parking spot. "Eighteen twenty-one. It must be her suite number. We need to stake out this building."
　　"Not down here," he says quickly.
　　"No. We'll cross the street to the high-rise office building and find an empty office that has a view of the valet parking area. When she leaves, I'll break into her condo and search it."
　　He swallows. "Do we have to do that?"
　　"You don't have to do anything. I'll do it."
　　"But then you'll think I'm a coward."
　　"I know you're a coward," I lie.
　　He is insulted. "Is that why you won't sleep with me?"
　　"No. It's because you're still a nerd. Let's get across the street."
　　Back outside we cross Olympic Boulevard and enter one of the triangular towers that overlooks the condo towers. This commercial building has forty floors, twice what the condo towers have. A glance at the office listings in the main lobby tells me that 3450 and 3670 and 3810 and 2520 are empty. I steer Seymour toward the elevator. We are alone as we rise up to the thirty-sixth floor.
　　"Maybe she never goes out," he says. "We could wait all day for her to leave."
　　"You're free to go to a movie if you like."
　　"That's not fair. You're a vampire. You don't have to fear her the way I do."
　　"You will recall that last time I tried to attack her on the Santa Monica Pier, she grabbed my foot before I could touch her and snapped my ankle." I shake my head. "She can kill me as easily as she can kill you, if she chooses."
　　"But you do think a bullet in the head or in the heart will stop her?"
　　"Who really knows?"
　　Suite 3670 appears empty. I listen at the door for a moment before breaking the lock, stepping inside, and closing the door behind us. Suite 3670 directly overlooks the condo towers. We have a clear view of the valet area. If Kalika comes down and asks for her car, or simply gets it herself, we will know. Briefly I scan the portion of the eighteenth floor that faces us. It is possible I can see 1821, but I can't tell without examining the interior of the building or seeing a floor plan. Yet all of the condos on that floor have closed vertical blinds, so even if I was staring directly at her place, it would do me little good.
　　Seymour and I sit down on the floor and take up the watch. Actually, it is only my eyes that are of any use. This high up, Seymour wouldn't recognize his own mother if she came out of the building across the street.
　　An hour goes by. Seymour gets hungry and goes for a sandwich. While he is gone I see a beautiful young woman with long dark hair come out of the condo tower. She hands the parking valet a dollar after he brings up her shiny white Mercedes. I am staring at the Dark Mother, the scourge of Suzama's prophecies, my own daughter.
　　"Kalika," I whisper to the glass. "What do you want?"
　　She climbs into her car and drives away. I am out the door in a flash. I run into Seymour on his way back with a sandwich for me. One look at my face and he is a mass of nerves. I raise my hand.
　　"I want you to stay here," I say. "I'm going into her condo, and you'll just get in my way."
　　"But you'll need a lookout," he protests.
　　"No."
　　"But I can't stay behind and let you take all the risks."
　　I decide not to be too quick to crush his brave initiative. Also, I am not in the mood to argue.
　　"All right," I say. "But if she rips your head off don't blame me."
　　He throws the sandwich in the garbage and we grab an elevator.
　　This time, at the condo tower, I have to speak to the receptionist, but I purposely keep the conversation short and silent. Catching her eye through the glass, I press her with my fiery will and mouth the words: "Open the door."
　　A moment later the door swings open.
　　Suite 1821 is naturally on the eighteenth floor. I do not want to break the lock because I still hope Kalika will know nothing of my visit. With a couple of pins I have brought for just this purpose, I quickly pick the lock. The door creaks open. Seymour stands behind me, the color of a hospital bed sheet.
　　"It's more fun to write about this stuff than do it," he says.
　　"Shh," I say as we step inside and close the door. "Stand on the front balcony and keep a lookout for her white Mercedes."
　　"What are you going to do?"
　　"Look for evidence of her state of mind."
　　Kalika owns, or rents, a two-bedroom corner condo. She has twin balconies and glorious views of the city. The place is elegant, the plush carpeting new, the white paint fresh. Her furnishings are few but tasteful. She seems to prefer traditional to modern, but nothing she has is old-fashioned. There are no magazines in the living room or dining area, yet she has a rather large TV, and I wonder how many channels she subscribes to and what her favorite programs are.
　　While Seymour stands outside on the balcony, I step into her office, the first bedroom on the right. She has a desk, a computer, a fax machine. Her drawers are unlocked and I rifle through them. Not entirely surprisingly, I find several maps. Most of them are of California, blow-ups of Big Sur, Mount Shasta, and Lake Tahoe. She has travel books on these areas also. There is also a guidebook on Sedona, which is located in Arizona. In another drawer are more books on these same places, but these are not typical travel guides. They contain personal accounts of the spots. I scan the books-I can read over thirty thousand words a minute with total comprehension. Quite a few of the stories describe how powerful the vibrations are in each place. I am fascinated because Kalika appears to be doing a lot of research on spots that have been New Age retreats for the last couple of decades.
　　"Do you like these places?" I whisper to myself. "Or do you think the child will be drawn to them?"
　　I move into my daughter's bedroom. Her queen-size bed is neatly made, covered with a hand-made quilt from China. In the corner, on top of a chest of drawers, a white silk cloth has been spread, almost as if a small altar has been set up. There are only a few books and a small Shiva Lingam set beside a brass incense holder in which a stick of musk incense has recently been burned.
　　The lingam is a polished gray phallic-shaped stone with three red marks on it. The shape and the markings are natural to the stone, I know. When I was a child, still a mortal, five thousand years ago, our tiny village had a Shiva Lingam. The rocks are supposed to contain the energy of Lord Shiva himself, Mahakala, who is the spouse of Mother Kali and the supposed destroyer of time at the end of all ages. Geologists describe lingams as the offspring of meteor crashes. In either case, they are highly magnetic. Brushing my hand over the stone, I feel its charge.
　　Kalika has three books beside the lingam: the Bhagavad-Gita: the Upanishads, the Mahanirvana Tantra. The Gita is the gospel according to Krishna, the Upanishads are collected stories of divine knowledge from ancient rishis, and the Mahanirvana Tantra describes Kali in her different avatars, and details her various modes of worship and innovation. All this reading material is entirely spiritual in nature. But try as I might, I cannot understand what that means. If I should be relieved or frightened. It is an old and regrettable truth that more people have been killed in the name of God than anything else.
　　I am picking up her copy of the Gita when Seymour bursts breathlessly into the room. "Her car just drove up," he says. "She wasn't gone long."
　　I replace the book in its exact spot. "It will take her a minute to get up here. Come, we have time."
　　Back out in the hallway, however, standing in front of the elevators, I begin to have doubts. As Seymour starts to push the down button, I stop him.
　　"Even in the garage basement," I say, "she might note the elevator going up to the eighteenth 0oor. She is shrewd-she might consider that more than coincidence." I pause. "Let's take the stairs."
　　"I just want to get out of here," Seymour says with emotion.
　　Halfway down the stairs I stop Seymour. Straining my ears to listen far below, I hear someone climbing up the stairs. The person is in no hurry and it could be anybody. But I don't like the fact that this person stands in our path, and that I can't see who it is-each floor is partitioned off. Seymour watches me anxiously.
　　"What is it?"
　　"Someone's coming up the stairs."
　　"Is it she?" he gasps.
　　"I can't tell." I pause. "I think it is a woman. This person has a light step."
　　"Oh God."
　　"Shh. She is far below still. Let's grab the elevator."
　　In the elevator, Seymour starts to push the button for the lobby, but I stop him for the second time and push the button for the second garage level. Seymour throws a fit.
　　"Why did you do that?" he asks.
　　"It is the last thing she'll expect us to do, if she thinks we know where her car is parked."
　　"But for all we know she's still in her car."
　　"Relax, Seymour. I knew what I'm doing."
　　I hope. When the elevator whooshes open, I am tensed for an attack. But none comes. We appear to be alone in the underground garage. Signaling for Seymour to remain where he is, I step lightly into the garage and stretch my sensitive senses to their limits. There is no sign of Kalika. I signal to Seymour to join me.
　　"Let's just get our car and get out of here," I whisper in his ear.
　　He nods vigorously. "I am not cut out for this crap."
   
   8
　　
　　I call Dr. Seter in San Francisco but end up speaking to James, who acts happy to hear my voice. Perhaps it is not an act, but he does want to know if I am ready to show them my scripture. I tell him I have something even more important to show him. After making an appointment to see him and his father at the Hilton, after the lecture, I book a flight for San Francisco. As the plane lifts off the ground, Seymour nods to the manila envelope in my hand.
　　"What's that?" he asks.
　　"Newspaper clippings. Proof."
　　"I won't ask."
　　"You'll see soon enough."
　　We do not attend the lecture because I have a slight fear that Kalika will be there. We are waiting in the lounge area of the Hilton when Dr. Seter returns to the hotel. The elderly doctor looks fatigued from his travels and lecture, but James is as bright faced as ever. I introduce Seymour as an old friend and they take seats across from us. Dr. Seter orders a scotch and James a Coke. Seymour munches on the pretzels and sips cranberry juice.
　　I have nothing to eat or drink, not even a few drops of blood. I fear there may soon be enough blood flying to satisfy my most perverse thirsts. I wonder if Kalika still kills her victims, how many she hunts a night.
　　Dr. Seter studies me with tired eyes. For the first time I listen to his heart beat in his chest. He has clogged arteries, cardiac arrhythmia. He must know-I sense he is experiencing a tightness in his chest even now. Yet he smiles warmly before he begins to speak. He is a charming man.
　　"James tells me you have something exciting to show us," he says.
　　I stare at both of them for a moment.
　　"I know where the Dark Mother is," I say. "I need your help to kill her."
　　This gets their attention. Dr. Seter takes a moment to catch his breath. James glances at him anxiously, but I don't know if his anxiety is concern for his father's health or concern for the confrontation. Finally the doctor manages to speak.
　　"How do you know about the Dark Mother?" he asks. "You said your scripture did not speak of a particular danger to the child."
　　"It speaks of her in general terms," I say. "And I know this young woman." I open the manila envelope I have brought with me. "I have chronicled her behavior. But perhaps you have as well. She's been in the papers lately."
　　First I give them clips from the Los Angeles Times of the series of brutal murders that were committed last December. Crazy Eddie Fender and his gang of nasty vampires were responsible for these crimes, but the murders are of such a bizarre nature-heads torn off, bodies drained of their blood-that I feel they strengthen my case. Next I show them clippings of the major shoot-out the police had with a gang of terrorists in downtown L.A.: three helicopters downed and dozens of police killed by a tiny but invincible force. Of course, I was responsible for those deaths. The police and FBI had the bad judgment to chase after me and Joel for our vampire blood.
　　I show them clippings of the Nevada nuclear explosion, and finally give them articles on Eric Hawkins, who was kidnapped from the park while playing basketball with friends. He was not found until weeks later, his throat scissored open by what appeared to be sharp fingernails. Yes, the words of the city coroner have made it all the way into the article, and they are surprisingly accurate. Naturally, it is only this last death Kalika was responsible for but now is not the time to reveal that Dr. Seter and his son study the clippings for several minutes and then the doctor frowns at me.
　　"I don't see what this has to do with the Dark Mother," he says.
　　His voice is without conviction. I suspect that either he or James has been collecting similar clippings. The possibility strengthens my position and I decide to hold nothing back. I lean forward slightly as I speak and my tone is deadly serious.
　　"The Dark Mother is vampiric in nature," I say. "The original serial murders in L.A. all bear a vampiric stamp. This is when the Dark Mother moved into the Los Angeles area. Notice the dates of the murders, how they cease right after the terrorist shoot-out with the police. Yet these terrorists have never been found, never been identified. The media says it's because they escaped, but the real reason is that these terrorists never existed. In fact, the only one the police ever spoke about definitively was a young woman who was able to move extremely fast."
　　"We have read about her," James says, glancing at his father.
　　"Then there is the nuclear explosion in the Nevada desert," I continue. "Once again the media and the government drew a connection to terrorists, but here, too, they failed to identify the terrorists. Because there weren't any. For a brief time the Dark Mother was a prisoner of the military camp where the explosion occurred. But even with all their guns, all their tanks and soldiers, they couldn't contain her and she broke free and destroyed them. She went underground after that, yet she didn't leave the Los Angeles area. Note the description of Eric Hawkins's supposed kidnapper and compare it to the descriptions the police gave of the young woman who helped mess up downtown L.A. You will see they match. That's because all these events originate with one young woman who is not really a human being at all." I pause. "I know her name. I know where she lives. She may know I know this, I'm not sure. She won't remain where she is long. If you want to destroy her, you'll have to strike at her tonight. And don't look so shocked. I know you've prepared for a long time to do exactly this."
　　Dr. Seter is so taken aback by my words he can't speak. James takes up his role. "How do you know these things?" he asks. "You didn't read about them in an ancient scripture."
　　"I had a friend in the FBI who leaked parts of this information to me. He came to me originally because his agency was researching the Suzama material. This friend is now deceased-he died in the Nevada explosion. But before he died he gave me enough clues to locate and speak to the Dark Mother." 
　　They both almost fall off their chairs. "You have seen her?" Dr. Seter exclaims.
　　"I have, too," Seymour says on cue. "We both spoke to her at the end of the Santa Monica Pier three months ago. She almost killed us both, but in the end decided to let us go."
　　"Why would she let you go if you're a danger to her?" Dr. Seter asks.
　　"She obviously doesn't think we are a danger to her," I say. "Or else she thinks we may eventually lead her to the child. That's why she agreed to meet us, to quiz us about the Suzama material."
　　"We still need to see your scripture," Dr. Seter says.
　　"You can't," I say. "She destroyed it this afternoon. Furthermore, she might be on the verge of destroying your copy, along with the rest of you." I pause. "She was at your lecture last night."
　　James's voice is harsh. "Why didn't you tell us?"
　　"I didn't know," I say honestly. "I only found out today when she called me at home to tell me."
　　"Why would she call you?" Dr. Seter asks.
　　"I told you. I think she stays in touch because we-Seymour and I-might possibly lead her to the child. Plus you do not know her the way we do. To you she is just a name. To us she is a witch, who calls to taunt us, to let us know we live in her shadow."
　　Dr. Seter regards me critically. "What is her name? Do you know?"
　　"If I tell you, will you believe me?" I ask.
　　"Not necessarily," Dr. Seter says. "But I will at least give more credence to your wild story."
　　"Her name is Kalika, Kali Ma. This dark age of Kali Yuga is named after her."
　　Clearly Kalika is mentioned in Suzama's scripture. Their suddenly shocked expressions confirm this fact. Yet the information fills me with dismay. Is there no hope for my daughter? I know I am here to solicit aid in killing her but a part of me still longs to discover that I have made a terrible mistake, that all the horrors Kalika has committed since she drew her first breath are nothing more than misunderstandings. But it is not to be and I know it. Either my daughter dies or we do, and then also the child who can save the whole world. Dr. Seter is again having trouble catching his breath.
　　"Can this be true?" he whispers to himself.
　　"It is true," Seymour says. "I have seen with my own eyes what she can do. She is stronger than two dozen men combined, as fast as lightning. She is already stalking your group. You don't have much time."
　　James stares at Seymour. "How do you know Alisa?"
　　Seymour shrugs. "We're old friends."
　　James turns to me. "Neither of you has ever given us a last name. We have no way to check your background. We still don't know if you're with the government or not."
　　"The names we have given you are false," I say. "So what is the point in giving you a false last name? Surely you can understand our reasons for secrecy. We can talk all night and into the next morning. There is only one way of convincing you that we have found the Dark Mother, and that is to bring you to her. But when you do meet her, you have to be ready to kill her or else to be killed by her. It is that simple. You lose nothing by trusting me enough to check her out. Once again, that is if you have all your forces standing at full readiness."
　　Dr. Seter scoffs. "We don't have any forces."
　　"You are a poor liar, doctor," I say. "The FBI knows about your training exercises and your automatic weapons. They didn't interfere with you because there were agents, like my friend, who knew about the Suzama material and understood what you were preparing for. But those agents are dead now. Kalika killed them. As a result your group is threatened from all sides, politically and spiritually. You might even think I'm a threat, that I've been sent here by the Black Mother to lure you into a trap. Actually, there may be a particle of truth in that. I am not working for her, but if you do choose to confront her you may be wiped out. Seymour is not exaggerating her strength. But at least if you hit first you stand a chance. If you go after her you must hold back nothing. Yet you must first explain to your people what the real nature of the risk is. Tell them that several dozen police and marines couldn't stop her."
　　Dr. Seter is shaking his head. "This is all happening too fast. We can't do anything tonight. It's out of the question."
　　I don't want to push him, to fry his brain, or even to confuse his mind. I want the decision to be his because I suspect I am not exaggerating when I say many of his people may die. So I assuage my conscience. Yet I cannot let him stall. I feel he is close to agreeing with me. I have told him much that only he would know is true. It doesn't matter to me that I have lied to him a lot as well.
　　"You knew when the time came there would be no time for hesitation," I say gently. "She is down in Los Angeles, right now, in a condo with a wonderful view of the city. We were in her place this afternoon."
　　"She told you where she lives?" James asks.
　　"No. She made a mistake when she called me. That is all I can say. Seymour and I were then able to figure out where she lives."
　　"You traced her call?" James persists.
　　"In a manner of speaking," I say. "Dr. Seter, this is all real. I know you have been talking about it so long that it has lost some of its reality to you. But you only have to come with me tonight and bring your group, and you will see a five-thousand-year-old prophecy fulfilled before your very eyes."
　　He looks at me. "You are not a normal young woman, Alisa. There is something in your face, in your voice, in your eyes. James mentioned it last night and now I see it." He pauses. "How do we know you're not the Dark Mother?"
　　I smile sadly. "Some nights I feel as if I am. And even if I were, then that's all the more reason to heed my warning." Reaching over, I touch his knees. "Trust the inner senses that Suzama's material has given you. Trust what they are telling you right now." I pause. "Your whole life has led up to this moment."
　　Dr. Seter flashes a faint smile. "Somehow I can't imagine you are evil." He turns to James. "I need to talk to my son, alone, for a few minutes, if you please."
　　I stand and point to the entrance. "We will wait over there. We will give you all the privacy and time you need to decide."
　　Of course the moment we leave I stand still and listen to every word they say. It is a short but intense conversation.
　　James: "She knew the name of the Dark Mother! No one in our group except us knows that'"
　　Dr. Seter: "She knows many things I would have thought impossible. But that doesn't mean we can trust her."
　　James: "But you heard her argument. It's the same argument I've been giving you for the last few months. Those incidents we read about were all caused by a single deadly force. Only she has put the pieces together much better than we did. I'm telling you, father, I believe her. I say we throw everything we've got behind her."
　　Dr. Seter: "But just last night you were worried she was working for the Dark Mother."
　　James: "She is not behaving like someone who is trying to harm us. Right now she gave us a ton of information she didn't have to. Information that could be used against the Dark Mother."
　　Dr. Seter: "Only if it's true."
　　James: "It is true! Look, she only asks us to trust her so far. We will know within seconds of meeting this person if she is the Dark Mother. But she is right, we must be prepared for a major attack. It is the only way to protect our people."
　　Dr. Seter: "But what if she's lying to us? If she's working for the government and is trying to trap our group white it is engaged in illegal activities? Think about it, Jim, we're going to be storming a residence of some kind. If it is a government trap, we'll look like just another evil and confused cult in the eyes of the public."
　　James: "We'll have her with us when we make our attack. If she's lied to us, she'll pay the price."
　　Dr. Seter: "That's just talk. You wouldn't hurt her."
　　James: "I don't think I'll have to hurt her. I think our enemy will be so evil our hatred will be turned totally on her." A pause. "Let's do it. If we don't, Father, we will regret it for the rest of our lives. That's what my inner feelings tell me."
　　Dr. Seter is a long time answering. But finally he gives his OK.
   
   9
　　
　　The attack has yet to begin but already I realize something is very strange. I had initially gone to Dr. Seter and James because I knew I was physically and emotionally ill-equipped to kill Kalika. She is too strong for me, and I can't imagine hurting her. All I wanted to do was send in twenty people with guns, close my eyes, and be told it was all over. Your daughter is dead, the world is safe for democracy again. Yet the Suzama Society seems to be much more than twenty people with guns. It should reassure me that they are better prepared than I imagined, yet it does not, and I puzzle over this. I stand in Suite 3670, in the commercial building across the street from Kalika's condo tower. Olympic Boulevard lies between us and my daughter, but at this time of night-three in the morning-it is rare that a car drives by. Beside me are Dr. Seter, Seymour, James, and two sharpshooters with laser-assisted rifles. They have cut away a circular panel in the glass and now are focusing their weapons on Kalika's windows, which are visible, barely-for we are eighteen stories above her. All of Kalika's windows are covered with vertical blinds, however. We have better views of her two balconies and the large pool far below. Of course, we have a dear view of the roof of the tower. It is at this spot that I stare as my doubts continue to grow.
　　Dr. Seter and his son have not assembled a group of spiritual fanatics and trained them how to aim and fire automatic weapons. Instead they have managed to construct the equivalent of a highly trained commando unit. I am staggered by the way they go about surrounding Kalika, who, by the way, is definitely at home. Their attack is much more coordinated than the attack the LAPD and the FBI sprang to capture me and Joel.
　　There are two units: Alpha Top and Alpha Bottom. The former has somehow managed to make it onto the roof of the building with ropes and pulleys. Alpha Bottom is already on Kalika's floor. The security guards are apparently unconscious, if we are to believe the radio reports that are constantly streaming in. We're all tied together with short wave. Both Alpha Top and Alpha Bottom have ten members each, male and female, all dressed in black. They have night goggles, gas grenades, even grenade launchers. Where they bought all this stuff, I have no idea.
　　I watch as the last of the Alpha Top team assembles on the roof.
　　"How do they plan on getting down to Kalika's balcony?" I ask James, pointing at the people on the roof. James is also dressed in black, a radio in his hand. His face shines with excitement. Apparently he likes playing soldier. The whole situation strikes me as odd, and yet I am the one who instigated it-I think.
　　"The same way they got on the roof," he says. "We will lower six of them onto the balconies before we attack, three onto each balcony. We won't attack until everyone is in position. Why?"
　　"She will hear them on the balcony," I say.
　　James peers through a pair of binoculars hung around his neck. "We have pretty much determined that she is asleep."
　　"I wouldn't count on that," Seymour mutters.
　　"We must give her a chance to cooperate," Dr. Seter says for perhaps the tenth time. Although the doctor is supposed to be the boss, it is clear to me the attack units are taking orders only from James.
　　"She'll be given every chance she deserves," James says. He clicks on his radio. "Alpha Bottom, this is Control. Are you still holding by the eighteenth floor elevators? Over."
　　"Control, this is Alpha Bottom. We are near the elevators. Over."
　　"Alpha Bottom, this is Control Alpha Top will be swinging onto the balconies momentarily. Do not move toward Suite Eighteen Twenty-one until you are ordered. Over."
　　"Control, this is Alpha Bottom. Understood. Out."
　　James studies the top group through his binoculars. Then he clicks his radio back on. "Alpha Top, this is Control. Any signs that Kalika is in the living room or kitchen area? Over."
　　"Control, this is Alpha Top. We have detected no activity in the living room or kitchen area. Over." 
　　"Alpha Top, are your ropes in place? Over." 
　　"Control, we are ready to swing down. Over." 
　　"Alpha Top, this is Control. You may start down. But hold on the balconies until you hear from me. Over."
　　"Control, understood. Alpha Top out." 
　　"You guys seem to know what you're doing," I say.
　　James smiles. "You sound disappointed." 
　　I give a wan smile. "I always have a thing for the underdog." More than a thing. Watching them all converge on Kalika, I feel sick to my stomach. I have to keep telling myself that Kalika is totally unpredictable, that they have to be careful Dr. Seter puts a hand on my arm.
　　"We have trained for this day for a long time," he says. "But we will not shoot first, I promise you that. She will be given every chance to surrender."
　　I shake my head. "She will never surrender."
　　In teams of three, dropping off from two points on the roof, the Alpha Top people begin to slide down toward the balconies. They land in seconds; I watch as they unclip the ropes from their belts. Each carries a weapon, has a radio in an ear, and night goggles. The guy in charge of Alpha Top comes back on the line, speaking in hushed whispers.
　　"Control, we are in position. Over."
　　"He shouldn't be talking," I say. "She'll hear him. In fact, they should be ready for her to attack. Now. Tell them to get their weapons drawn. She could come at them any second."
　　James ignores me. He talks into his radio.
　　"Alpha Top, this is Control. You will go on my command. Stand ready. Over."
　　Separated by a corner of the building, neither group of three can see the other group. This is a major weakness in the plan. They should know to the split second what every one of them is doing. Their radios are not fast enough. James continues to bark instructions.
　　"Alpha Bottom, this is Control. Move toward Suite Eighteen Twenty-one. Alpha Top is in position on the balconies. Over."
　　"Control, this is Alpha Bottom. Understood. Over."
　　The ten people on the Alpha Bottom team will crowd one another as they move along the hallway. I point this out to James and suggest he hold back half of them by the elevators. He brushes aside my comment.
　　"They know what they're doing," he says. "They won't accidentally shoot each other."
　　"You don't understand how fast she can move," I say. "The more room they have, the more chance they have of getting off a clean shot."
　　"I want Alpha Bottom to knock at the door first," Dr. Seter says. "She has to be told that she is surrounded and that escape is impossible."
　　"She doesn't think in terms of impossibilities," Seymour mutters. "I think it will be a mistake to knock."
　　James checks with me. "Do you agree?"
　　I think of Kalika riddled with bullets while she lies in bed.
　　"I agree." I turn to Dr. Seter. "There is no point in talking to her. Honestly."
　　Dr. Seter trembles. "But this could be cold-blooded murder."
　　"I say we listen to Alisa," James says. Before anyone can protest he clicks on his radio. "Alpha Top and Alpha Bottom, this is Control. We will move on the count of five. One... two... three..."
　　He does not reach five.
　　There is loud screaming.
　　We hear it over the radio and through the air.
　　We look down to see that the balcony farthest from us is empty-of Suzama people, that is. Kalika, alone, is out there, her hair hanging down the back of her white robe. Below her, three individuals in black float down toward the large swimming pool. Float is perhaps too kind a word. They are falling to their deaths, and they know it. The few feet of pool water are not going to absorb their falls. Their horrified screams rend the air and I scream at myself for believing that Kalika would just lie down and die.
　　The three hit the water, landing on top of each other, crashing through to the bottom. Their limbs and skulls explode on contact. The pool is well lit. Within seconds a red wave expands across the blue water. The screams cease. I turn to James.
　　"Call off the attack!" I yell. "Get your people out of there! She may let them go if they pull back now!"
　　James stares down in horror as blood fills the pool.
　　"This is incredible," he mumbles.
　　I grab him. "I was wrong! She can't be stopped this way! Tell them to back off!"
　　He looks at me and frowns. "No. We have only started to fight." He touches his two sharpshooters on the shoulders, the two that crouch below us. "Open fire."
　　Their bullets begin to ricochet off the balcony. Kalika moves inside.
　　"Alpha Top!" James shouts into his radio. "She is coming."
　　No, she has come. Before James can finish speaking, Kalika attacks those on the second balcony. Only my eyes are fast enough to see exactly what she does. The person closest to the balcony door is a woman with long red hair. Kalika grabs her and twists her head all the way around. Catching the dead woman's weapon as it falls, Kalika then shoots the otter two in the face. One, a handsome guy with no top skull, falls over the balcony and lands on the sidewalk seventeen floors below. The third one, a short dark guy, simply sits down and dies. Before our sharpshooters can readjust their aim to the nearer balcony, Kalika has retreated inside. And now she has an automatic weapon with her. James struggles to turn his radio back on.
　　"Alpha Bottom!" he yells. "You must attack!"
　　"What has happened to Alpha Top?" the guy wants to know.
　　"Those on the balcony have been taken out!" James says and forgets all the "Alpha" this and "over" that. There is no time for such formalities. "She is still inside! Get her!"
　　"Tell them she has a gun!" I say.
　　"She has a gun!" James yells. "Alpha Top, you must get down to the balconies! Alpha Bottom is going in!"
　　The four still on the roof are peering over the edges. They see that the pool is full of bodies and so is one of the balconies. Why, there is even a body down on the sidewalk. They don't want to go anywhere. I wish they would go back the way they came. I know they are in extreme danger just by being on the roof.
　　"We have to stop!" Dr. Seter cries to his son, his face ashen. "Alisa is right! Don't send any more people."
　　The radio is screaming.
　　Now Alpha Bottom is dying.
　　They have kicked in her door, violated her space. There are gunshots, sounds of tearing flesh, splattering blood, breaking bones. And over it all I hear Kalika laughing. She is unstoppable and knows it. It is only then I realize that from the very beginning this has been a trap. Seymour was right. Kalika let me hear enough to figure out where she lived. She knew I would try to get help, and since she obviously doesn't like the Suzama group, so much the better that they should come to her to die. I hear one woman begging for mercy and then it sounds as if she is smashed against a wall. James trembles with the radio in his hand. "Alpha Top!" he shouts. "Help your partners!" The four still on the roof look at one another and shake their heads. They would be better off getting down from the roof, yet they must think they are safe up there because they hardly move while the screaming continues. But when it stops, and the firing stops, I finally grab the radio from James's hands.
　　"Alpha Top," I say calmly. "She knows you're up there. Try to go back down the way you came up. Don't wait for her to come to you. Please, listen to me. Swing down to the nineteenth floor and get in the elevator. There's still time."
　　But what time there is they squander. A precious minute elapses while they seem to argue among themselves. At the end of that time, Kalika, her white robe now soaked red, peeks over the edge of the roof. They see her, and those left of Alpha Top are too scared even to level their weapons. As Kalika climbs up onto the roof, they slowly back into the corner farthest from her. Even the sharpshooters at our knees stare in awe. James slaps one on the head.
　　"Shoot her!" he shouts. "She's an easy target!" But my daughter makes nothing easy. As a bullet sparks at her feet, she leaps forward and grabs one of the men and holds him as a shield in front of her. The other three continue to stand immobilized by fear. But now Kalika is looking our way. The sharpshooters cease firing. James throws a tantrum.
　　"Don't stop!" he screams. "Kill her!"
　　"But she's holding Charles," one protests.
　　"Oh God, this can't be happening," Dr. Seter moans.
　　James shoves the guy aside. "Give me that gun!"
　　But I stop James. "Let me," I say quietly.
　　He glares at me. "What do you know about sniper rifles?"
　　"She knows a lot," Seymour says.
　　James continues to glare at me, but finally lets me take the gun.
　　"Just don't miss," he says bitterly.
　　Kneeling behind the stationary rifle, I peer into the telescopic sight. Kalika is standing relatively motionless, but she still has the guy held neatly in front of her. Only her face is visible behind the guy's right shoulder. The laser guide is helpful, even for someone like me who can hit a dime-size object at two miles if I have the right gun. For a moment I am able to plant the red dot precisely in the center of Kalika's forehead. My finger sweats over the trigger. I merely have to pull it and put a bullet in her brain and the night can still be considered a success, at least as far as the world is concerned.
　　But then I catch sight of her eyes, and I hesitate. She seems to be looking directly at me. Who am I fooling? Of course she knows who tracks her. The fact seems to amuse her because she smiles ever so faintly. Her lips move to form a soundless word, yet I hear it, hear it inside.
　　"Mother."
　　I  momentarily lose my concentration. In that time Kalika moves swiftly and with deadly purpose, vanishing from the field of view of my laser scope. Pulling back from the weapon, I watch her throw her human shield off the side of the roof. She tosses her victim straight at the pool-perhaps it amuses her to see the big red splash the screaming people make-and a moment later there is that much more blood to clean out of the filter.
　　In quick succession she grabs two of the three who are left. These she kills by smashing their skulls together. They are unrecognizable as she lets them fall onto the rooftop, their brains hanging over their collars. Then her attention turns to the final member of the Suzama Society, and I recognize her. Lisa, the accountant from North Dakota, whom I met last night. So great is Lisa's fear that she backs away from my daughter, right off the side of the roof. Kalika does not let her fall, but grabs her at the last instant. James yells at me.
　　"Why don't you shoot!" he says.
　　I set the gun down. "No. I can't kill Lisa."
　　"Lisa is as good as dead!" James cries. "Shoot!"
　　But Kalika has already disappeared with her prey, a spider crawling back into her web with a kicking insect in tow. The roof is now empty except for two virtually headless bodies.
　　I stand and look at all of them. "Stay here. I am going to speak to her."
　　Dr. Seter grabs my arm. "You can't go over there, child. It's a bloodbath."
　　I gently remove his hand. "I am responsible for this." I turn to Seymour. "I have to go."
　　Seymour is devastated by my decision. "There's no point."
　　"That is probably the understatement of the year," I agree.
   
   10
　　
　　The moment I am out the door I switch into hyper-mode. Using the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator, I reach the condo in less than one minute. In the distance I hear the cry of a dozen sirens. Yet the police are not really late to respond. Since the beginning of the attack less than seven minutes have elapsed. Kalika was definitely not sleeping.
　　Standing outside the building is a tide of moaning souls in pajamas and robes. Somebody should at least turn off the pool lights, I think. The floating bodies create a particularly gruesome sight. A few of the people, all men in their forties, have guns in their hands. They are arguing with one another as I dash inside the building.
　　I take the stairs to the eighteenth floor. Between the sixteenth and seventeenth floors I find two brutally slain bodies, their heads literally torn from their bodies.
　　"Would you be upset if I ripped this bird's head off?"
　　"Why do you ask these silly questions?"
　　"To hear your answers."
　　The sight of these poor people upsets me greatly, but it makes me pause to ask myself the question: what am I doing? Am I trying to save Lisa in order to bandage my shattered conscience for the other deaths I have caused? Not that Lisa is not worth my effort, but I know she is as James said, as good as dead. And if I die with her who will be left to stop Kalika?
　　But these questions, like most, are academic.
　　I hear cries above me. Lisa, in the claws of a jackal.
　　Picking up an automatic rifle, I continue up the stairs.
　　Kalika is waiting for me in the center of her living room. I have to walk over a glut of slashed bodies to get to her. The place is not as neat as it was that afternoon when Seymour and I investigated. There is hardly a square foot of wall or ceiling or floor that is not splattered red. Apparently my daughter let them come as far as they wanted into her home before she welcomed them as only she knows how.
　　Yet Lisa is still alive. In Kalika's arms.
　　I level my gun at the two of them.
　　"It's a coward who hides behind another," I say to my daughter.
　　Kalika smiles. Her face, her arms, even her hair are drenched in blood, and she has never looked happier. Tightening her hold on Lisa, she lifts the young woman a foot off the floor. For her part, Lisa is half in shock, with at least one foot in the grave. Yet she continues to struggle against my daughter, all the while making feeble whimpering sounds. The fight in her is instinctive. I believe Kalika has already shattered her mind.
　　"We did this once before," she says. "But you were not carrying a weapon that night."
　　"I am not going to put the gun down," I say.
　　Kalika chuckles. "Then I should kill her now?"
　　"No." I take a step forward. "Let her go. Show your mercy."
　　"Drop the gun. Show your courage."
　　"You will just kill us both."
　　"Perhaps," Kalika agrees.
　　"You set me up. You wanted me to bring them here. Why?"
　　"I would think the answer to that question is obvious."
　　"The police will be here in minutes," I say.
　　"The police do not concern me." She raises a sharp nail to Lisa's throat. "I cannot let you shoot me, Mother. I have a mission yet to perform."
　　"What is it?"
　　"To protect the righteous and to destroy the wicked."
　　I sneer. "Tonight is a fine example of that mission of yours."
　　"Thank you." Kalika presses her nail into Lisa's neck. A drop of blood appears and traces a line down the young woman's throat. Lisa, even though in shock, suddenly gasps and struggles harder. But Kalika's hold is stronger than steel. She speaks casually. "You remember this part, don't you, Mother?"
　　I begin to panic. I cannot let this girl die. She is almost a stranger to me, true, but she is all that Dr. Seter has left. If I can save her, I think, I can save the doctor. I know his heart will give out soon after this night. You will see prophecies fulfilled. Yeah, right. The Satanic Prophecies. How could I make him such promises? Kalika is right about one thing. I lie to suit my needs. It is an old habit of mine.
　　"You promised me this morning that you would not kill unless it was necessary," I say.
　　Kalika digs her nail in a little deeper. The red line on Lisa's throat thickens. Soon the blood will gush. Lisa's eyes are as round as overripe strawberries. Her breathing sounds labored. Or is that her heart I hear, skipping inside her trembling chest? Lisa is almost gone but still her expression begs for me to save her.
　　"This is becoming necessary," Kalika says. "Put down the gun."
　　"I can't."
　　"I will open her throat. She will go the way Eric did. You know how much that upset you."
　　Now I shake. "But this young woman is innocent."
　　"She came to kill me. Innocence is hardly the word I would apply to her."
　　"I brought her here. I am to blame. Please, Kalika, for the love of God, let her go."
　　Kalika pauses. "For the love of God? How can you say that to me after you have gazed into my eyes? Don't you know I do everything for the love of God?"
　　With that Kalika scratches her sharp nail all the way across Lisa's throat, opening two of the young woman's major arteries. The blood shoots out as if fired from a hose under tremendous pressure. But I am hardly given a chance to react, to fire through Lisa's body now that it has ceased to be a viable living shield. My daughter is swifter than Eddie Fender was. Lisa gags on pieces of throat as Kalika throws her at me. The blow is enough to knock me over and send my weapon flying. The back of my skull strikes a wall as Lisa slowly slips from me and everything is a blur to me for a moment. There is blood on the back of my own head. I reach up to feel the extent of my injury when I see a figure out of the corner of my eye. It is my daughter holding my gun. She speaks in a kind voice.
　　"Are you in pain?" she asks.
　　The room continues to spin. Lisa's body weighs heavily on my lower legs.
　　"Go to hell," I mumble.
　　"I am beyond heaven and hell." She reaches out and grabs my arm. "You have friends in the other building. Save me time and tell me what suite they're in."
　　Finally my eyes begin to refocus. I stare at her.
　　"You've got to be kidding," I say.
　　She smiles. "Just thought I would ask. Do you know how to swim?"
　　"Yes."
　　"Do you know how to fly?"
　　Sounds like a trick question to me.
　　I don't answer it but it doesn't matter.
　　Tossing aside the gun, Kalika grabs me by the chest and with one hand drags me outside and onto the balcony where she dealt with the first three members of Alpha Top. Far below the bodies continue to float in the red-stained pool. The police have finally arrived. Numerous black and white units are jammed into the valet parking area, their search beams pointed at us. I would wave but I'm afraid they might shoot me. Kalika sighs in wonder as she sweeps the city night with her dark eyes.
　　"I told you the view was stunning," she says.
　　"I am pleased that my only daughter should be so successful that she is able to afford such a nice place," I say sweetly.
　　Kalika leans over and kisses me on the cheek. Her lips are soft and gentle. She speaks in my ear and there is a trace of concern in her voice.
　　"Can you survive such a fall? Tell me the truth."
　　"I honestly don't know."
　　She pulls back slightly and strokes my hair. "Krishna loves you."
　　I am having trouble breathing. Her grip is cruel.
　　"It is good somebody does," I gasp.
　　"Did I ever tell you that I love you?"
　　"No. Not that I can remember."
　　"Oh." A deadly pause. "I must have forgotten."
　　"Kalika-"
　　I am not given a chance to finish the sentence.
　　My own daughter throws me over the side of the balcony.
　　The moon is out, it is true, and it is very bright. But there is no time to allow its gentle rays to pour into the crown of my head and fill my body to float me safely away as it did when the nuclear bomb threatened to kill me. At the moment I could be a mortal. Certainly I fall as fast as one. Kalika has thrown me toward the pool. As the bloody mess rushes toward me, I can only pray that I land in the deep end.
　　When I hit, my arms and legs are spread as far as they will go. I reason that this will give me more of a chance to break my fall. But I know even before I strike the water that something else will break when I strike the bottom of the pool.
　　The shock is crushing. There is a flash of red followed by an agony so searing I lose consciousness. But the oblivion is cruel; it does not last. When I awake my face is pressed into the floor of the pool. Indeed I have cracked the plaster, and half the bones in my body. My nose seems to have been obliterated, my face is a pancake of gross tissue. Inside my torn mouth I feel a lump of crumbled teeth. My chest feels as if ribs poke through my lungs and my shirt, pouring more blood into the pool.
　　Honestly, I don't think I can live through this.
　　Especially under nine feet of water.
　　The dead float above me, their expressionless faces inviting me to join them. The water seems to swim with nightmarish creatures. One of my black boots floats by. My sock, covered in red, is still inside. My spinal cord is possessed by a pain demon. He has brought sharp tools. I throw up in the water and blood and teeth come out and form a-ghastly cloud over my head. I start to lose consciousness again, and I know if I do, I will never wake up. Yet my eyes refuse to remain open. They are broken as well. Closing them, I sink into a deeper level of darkness.
　　Krishna. Let me have one more chance. That is all I ask.
　　To stop her. To save the child.
　　My heart keeps beating. The agony keeps throbbing.
　　Time goes by but pain counts it at a different speed. This time is what is called hard time by all those who have suffered. And hard times bring hard truths. My brains may be leaking from my ears, but I finally understand that Kalika cannot be defeated by guns and bullets. Twenty people, maybe more, had to die to make me understand that.
　　But I will never understand how she can be so cruel.
　　"But anyone who sees through the veil of maya cannot fathom the divine will. The veil is stained and the absolute is without flaw. One cannot reveal the other. In the same way, I am your own daughter but you cannot fathom me."
　　No matter how many die, I will not understand.
　　From far away, I feel feverish activity. It comes, I realize, from deep inside me, in my muscles, beneath my veins, and all around my joints. My supernatural body is trying to knit itself back together. Beneath my shirt, I feel my sternum grow back together into one piece. Next there are pops in my legs and ankles. The bones are resetting themselves at a frantic pace. My jaw flexes involuntarily and I feel new teeth pressing up from beneath my mangled gums. Finally I am able to open my eyes, and I give myself a gentle push toward the surface. The beat of my heart has turned to a shriek. If I do not draw in a breath soon, especially with all the repair work going on, my chest will explode.
　　The night air tastes good. Never better.
　　On the surface, I am forced to float on my back for a minute before I am strong enough to make my way to the side. There is a crowd gathered, and some of the people in it are cops. I hear screams as I begin to pull myself out of the pool, but a brave cop rushes to my side with a clean blanket. He is fat with a bushy mustache. He carefully wraps the blanket around me.
　　"You're going to be OK," he says. "Just lie here on the deck. Don't try to move. You may have broken bones."
　　I wipe at the blood on my face. I know I don't have much time.
　　"You have friends in the other building."
　　"No, I'm fine," I say. "Don't worry about me."
　　I try to stand but he tries to stop me.
　　"But you were thrown off that balcony," he protests. "It's a miracle you're still alive."
　　I finish wiping my face and hair with his blanket and hand it back to him all bloody. "You're a kind man," I say. "But I have to get out of here."
　　I move too fast for him to stop me-yet I am far from healed. Even as I dash across Olympic Boulevard, I feel the tissue inside my body struggling to recover. If I meet Kalika in the next minute I will be at a serious disadvantage. Not that it will make much difference. But it is fear that hurries me along, or maybe it is foolish hope. Hope that she might have let some of them survive.
　　In the office building, the elevator takes me to the thirty-sixth floor. The stairs are too much for me in my condition. When I stagger out of the elevator, the first thing I see is blood. For a moment all hope in me dies. The door to Suite 3670 has been pulverized. Yet there is a sound, soft words, faint moans. I hurry forward and peer inside.
　　Seymour and Dr. Seter huddle in one corner. My old friend appears to be taking care of the doctor, who's having trouble catching his breath. Twenty feet away from them, in the center of the room, the two sharpshooters lie in an ugly heap. It looks as if she kicked each of them so hard in the chest that she ruptured their hearts-an old Sita move. Yet Seymour and Dr. Seter appear unharmed. I almost weep I am so relieved.
　　It is only then I notice that James is missing.
　　"Where is he?" I demand.
　　They jump and look over. I am still covered with blood.
　　Dr. Seter gasps. "We thought you were dead."
　　I stride toward them and look down. "Where is James? Did she take him?"
　　Seymour stands and shakes his head. "He went after you, right after you left. We haven't seen him since." He hugs me; there are tears on his face. "Thank God you're alive. We saw her throw you off the-balcony. I thought it was all over."
　　I comfort him, but also catch his eye. "That was someone else you saw. Not me." I turn back to the doctor. "You have a heart condition. Will you be all right? Should I call for an ambulance?"
　　"I'll be fine." He reaches up. "Just help me up."
　　I do so. "What happened?" I ask.
　　Seymour gestures weakly. "The door exploded and she walked in. The guys tried to shoot her, but she didn't give them a chance. Then she pinned Dr. Seter to the wall and demanded he tell her where the scripture was."
　　Dr. Seter looks crushed. "And I told her everything. I tried to resist but I couldn't." He stops and he is close to crying. "Do you think she got James?"
　　"No." The voice comes from the door. James steps into the room. He surveys the dead sharpshooters and a shudder goes through his body. "I am unharmed," he says.
　　I step to his side. "Did you see her leave?"
　　"Yes. She stole a cop car and drove away in it."
　　"Did you see anything else?"
　　I am asking if he saw me hit the pool and survive.
　　He stares at me. "No. I mean, what do you mean? It's a holocaust over there."
　　"Nothing. I am sorry about tonight," I say. "I know the words sound stupid but I must say them. At least now you can see why she must be stopped."
　　Placing my hand over his heart, as I had the previous night, I am surprised at how evenly it is beating. He got rattled during Kalika's attack but has quickly regained his cool. I add, "You have to show me the remainder of your scripture. If it is still there."
   
   11
　　
　　Kalika was thorough. The Suzama Society has only two members now. The news shocks me. Surely, I say to James as he drives us toward Palm Springs, there have to be some personnel at the center who weren't involved in the attack.
　　"No," he replies. He adds with a bitter laugh, "We're all true believers. We believed your story, and went after the Dark Mother with everything we had." The morning sun is bright in his face but James appears close to despair as he thinks about the previous night. "We don't even have a secretary at the center now."
　　I reach over and rub his shoulders. "It wasn't your fault. If anyone is to blame, it is I. I knew what she could do."
　　"But you did warn us. You warned me. If I had listened to your suggestions, maybe fewer would have been killed."
　　"No. It wouldn't have made any difference. She was determined to kill them all."
　　He frowns. "Why did she spare my father and your friend?"
　　"That puzzles me," I say honestly. "The only thing I can think is that she must believe that either your father or Seymour, working with us, will eventually find the child."
　　He is concerned. "Do you think she's following us now?"
　　I have been checking to see if we are being shadowed.
　　"Not at this very moment, no," I say.
　　"Do you think my father and your friend will be safe at your house?"
　　He is not asking about a threat from Kalika. We are all fugitives from the law now, from the government. I have no doubt my description has been relayed to those higher-ups who knew I was at the military base in Nevada. My face has shown up at too many public slaughters lately. There is an excellent chance, I think, that the police or the FBI will be waiting for us at the Suzama Center in Palm Springs. When the bodies are all identified, they will make the natural link. That's why I have insisted we go to the center immediately. I have yet to decide if I will kill to see the scripture.
　　"For the time being," I say. "Your father can rest there, and Seymour will take good care of him." I pause. "You worry about him, don't you?"
　　He nods. "His heart is lousy."
　　"Are you adopted?"
　　My question surprises him. "Yes. I was adopted late. I was sixteen when my parents were killed in a car accident. At the time Dr. Seter and my father were colleagues at Stanford. He started out watching me so I started calling him dad, at first only as a joke. But now I feel closer to him than I did to my real father. A short time after I moved in with him he found the scripture and then we shared a mission together as well as a house."
　　"Where did he find it?"
　　He hesitates. "Israel. In Jerusalem."
　　"That's not Western Europe."
　　"It's better if he's not specific. Where did you find yours? Tell me the truth this time."
　　"In Jerusalem."
　　He nods. "And Kalika destroyed it yesterday?"
　　"She took it. I don't know if she destroyed it."
　　"So she lets you live as well."
　　"I suppose," I say, feeling sad. My own daughter tried to kill me. And there had been a time not so long ago when I was willing to risk losing the world to save her. Now I see I have lost my bet, even though I am still angling for another chance to win back what has been lost. I wonder if Krishna heard my prayer while I lay on the bottom of the pool, if he let me live for a reason. I wonder if Paula's child is Krishna. 
　　
　　From the outside the center appears to be undisturbed, but once we are in the basement it is clear that someone has been in the vault. Sheets of the scripture lie spread on the table in the center of the room. James grabs them frantically and studies them. The color drains from his face.
　　"She was here," he says. "Some papyrus sheets are missing. Others are torn in pieces."
　　His conclusion seems logical, yet I can find no trace of her smell in the basement, and that puzzles me.
　　"Are you sure there are no other members of the Suzama Society alive?" I ask.
　　"There are just me and my dad," he says.
　　I stop him. "Go upstairs and keep watch. Let me try to read what is here."
　　"But less than half of it is here."
　　I realize his whole adult life has been built around the document. Giving him a comforting pat on the back, I shoo him away. Finally I am alone with a piece of the puzzle I have never held before. But I have to wonder about what is missing.
　　The first piece I read deals specifically with the child.
　　
　　Of all the previous avatars, he who is born at the end of that time's millennium will manifest the greatest divinity to the world. He will have the playfulness of Sri Krishna, the wisdom of Adi Shankara, and the compassion of Jesus of Nazareth. He will be these divine beings, but something more, something that humanity has never seen before.
　　He will be born in a city associated with lost angels, but it will be dark angels who force him and his mother to flee to the mirror in the sky, where shoes move without feet and the emerald circle is seen in the morning light. There the dark forces will once again converge on him, but a powerful angel will rescue him only to lose him again. Then the place of sanctity will be defiled by red stars, and only the innocent will see the blue light of heaven. Faith is stronger than stone. The rest is a mystery.
　　The war between the Setians and the Old Ones never ends. I am Suzama of the Old Order. Even as these words are recorded, the mother of an angel burns under Setian stars. Her pain is my pain. I wait for the enemy, for the splinter in the earth element, and for my own death. This splinter will become a crack, and civilization will end as we know it. But all ends are temporary and all life is born from death. I am Suzama and I fear neither this end nor the loss of my own life. For this ancient war is for the purpose of dark angels and blue angels alike. Both are divine in my illumined vision, and all color is erased in the infinite abyss.
　　
　　There is another piece of papyrus, torn in two. It is much thinner than the others. It speaks of Kalika.
　　
　　She is the Dark Mother, all consuming and not to be trusted. She brings the light of the red stars, and a wave of red death flows from her fingertips. She is the scourge of the child, not its protector as she claims to be. Her name is Kali Ma, and it is her name that matches the dark age. All who know her will fear her.
　　
　　"Suzama," I whisper, shaking. "You don't know how you curse your old friend."
　　But does it matter what she says about my daughter? Wasn't tonight proof enough of my daughter's demonic nature? She laughed as she killed, and no doubt drank the blood of many of those who slumped to their deaths. Suzama can tell me nothing new about my own child.
　　But what about the holy child? Where is this mirror in the sky, where shoes move without feet and the emerald circle is seen in the morning light? It is difficult to imagine Suzama being any more ambiguous. I almost curse her. The last thing I need now is more riddles, and all the stuff about dark angels and mistaken angels confuses me. Even worse are Suzama's references to the Setians. They were destroyed when Suzama was destroyed, in the great earthquake of ancient Egypt. Why does she go on about the war? That war is over as far as I am concerned.
　　"I will wait here for you. I will be here when you return."
　　But there was no one there when I returned.
　　Suzama's last prediction to me was wrong.
　　I call to James and he returns to the basement quickly.
　　"There are people outside on the street pointing at the center," he says. "I think the police will be here any minute."
　　"We will go then. Gather up what is left of the scripture and take it to your father."
　　"Aren't you going with me?" he asks.
　　"No. I need some time alone to think. Do you have an extra car?"
　　He grimaces. "We have plenty of extra cars now. You can take any one you want. Should I go to your house?"
　　"Yes. I will join you there shortly. Go out the back way so you won't be stopped."
　　He is dying to ask the question.
　　"Did you find out anything useful?" he asks.
　　I give a wan smile. "Only time will tell."
   
   12
　　
　　On the spot where Paula's child was conceived, on the sandy bluff in Joshua Tree National Monument, I lie in the shade of a tall Joshua tree and stare up at the sky. It strikes me as a small miracle how the sky has not changed in five thousand years. Why, I could be lying on my back in ancient Egypt, beside the Nile, and there would be no difference in the sky.
　　But it is not easy for me to remember.
　　Suzama took me in, into her home, her heart. She shared a small shack with her parents. It is ironic that the greatest seer of all time should be born to a blind mother and a blind father. Neither of them ever knew what I looked like, yet they treated me with great kindness. They even tolerated the strange hours I kept. For in those days I needed to drink blood almost every night to quench my thirst. It was still difficult for me to feed myself and keep my victim alive. I lacked the control that was to come with age. Yet many people naturally died in those days during the night, especially the old, and I tried to confine my feeding to them so as to raise fewer suspicions.
　　When I returned home from one nightly sojourn, I found Suzama awake. At that time I had been in Egypt a month. There was pain in Suzama's large soulful eyes. She sat outside beneath a blanket of stars. I sat beside her.
　　"What's the matter?" I asked.
　　She would not look at me. "I followed you tonight."
　　I drew in a sharp breath. "What did you see?"
　　"What you do to people." She had tears. "Why do you do it?"
　　I took a while to answer her. "I have to do it to survive."
　　It was true. She of almost perfect clairvoyance could not see what her friend really was. When she had first met me, she had only suspected.
　　She was horrified. "Why?"
　　"Because I am not a human being. I am a vampire."
　　Even in those days they had a word for creatures like me. Suzama understood what I meant. Yet she did not flee from me, but instead held my hand.
　　"Tell me how it happened," she said.
　　I told her the entire story of my life, which even though it had just begun, seemed awfully long to me. Suzama heard of Yaksha and Rama and Lalita and Krishna. I told her every word Krishna had said to me, of the vow he had placed me under to make no more vampires, and of the vow he had made Yaksha take to destroy all vampires. Suzama listened as if in a dream. When I was finished she whispered aloud.
　　"I have seen this Krishna in many visions," she said.
　　"Tell me what you see?" 
　　She spoke in a distant voice. "He has the whole universe in his eyes. The sun we see in the sky is only one of many. All these stars-more than can be counted-shine inside the crown of his head." She paused. "You must be a very special kind of monster to receive his grace." I was able to relax.
　　Suzama was telling me she was still my friend. It was shortly after that night that she began to heal others.
　　The cures started innocently enough. Suzama was fond of collecting herbs. Even as a child she had had a knack for knowing which ones to prescribe for which illnesses. It was normal for a handful of ailing people to stop by each day for medical advice. Sometimes Suzama would have the sick person stay. She would have the person lie on his or her back and take long, slow deep breaths while she held her left hand above the forehead and her right hand over the heart. Invariably the person left better afterward, or at least they said they did. Then came a crippled man. He had not walked since a massive stone had fallen across his hips five years earlier. He had no feeling from the waist down. At first she prescribed some herbs and was about to send him away when the man begged her to bless him. Reluctantly, as if she knew this act would forever change the course of her life, Suzama put him down on the floor and had him take deep breaths. Her hands shook as she held them over the man, and there was sweat on her face. I couldn't take my eyes off her. A milky white radiance had begun to shine above her head. Even when the man's lower legs began to twitch, I couldn't stop staring at her angelic face. For the uncountable stars were shining through her now. The man was able to walk home. After that there was always a line outside Suzama's house. She continued to perform many healings, although only a few matched her healing of the crippled man. For many seriously ill people she was unable to do anything. It is their karma to be ill, she would say. They had the word karma in that part of the world at that time, and they understood its meaning.
　　More than healing, Suzama preferred to foretell the future and to teach meditation. A series of special meditation techniques had come to her in visions and each of them was related to the worship of the Goddess Isis, the White Goddess, who shone in each soul above the head. Suzama taught mantra and breathing techniques, and sometimes she mixed the two together. I was her first student, as well as her last. While doing the practices she showed me, I began to experience peace of mind. She was my guru as well as my friend, and I always felt deeply indebted to her.
　　A time came when Suzama's exploits reached the ears of the rulers of the land. The king at that time was named Namok, and his queen was Delar. Namok was forty years older than his wife, and their beliefs, so the rumors said, were contrary to each other. Namok was firmly behind the powerful priest caste at the time, the fabled Setians, who supposedly gained divine insight from the ancient past, as well as from beings in the sky. The Setians worshipped a number of angry-looking deities, all of which were reptilian. I was curious, at the time, why Isis was supposed to be married to Osiris, who was Set's brother. The deities couldn't have been more different. The Setians did not approve of Isis worship, and went out of their way to destroy it. That is why Suzama always conducted her initiations in secret.
　　But the secret was out as far as Suzama's foretelling abilities were concerned. She was summoned to the Great Pyramid, and as her closest friend, I was allowed to come with her. In fact, Suzama refused to go without me. By this time she knew of my great physical power and felt safer with me by her side.
　　It seemed that Queen Delar had had a dream the Setian priests and priestesses were unable to decipher, at least to the queen's satisfaction. Delar wanted Suzama to try. Together, we were ushered into the royal meeting room. Its opulence was breathtaking. Never again would Egypt have such wealth, not even in the supposed golden ages of latter years. The very floor we walked on was made of gold.
　　Both king and queen were present, old and shrewd Namok on his high throne, with his tall and muscular spiritual adviser, Ory, at his right shoulder. Delar sat beside him on her own throne, with her young but hard face. It was Delar who bid us come closer and I couldn't help noticing out of the corner of my eye how Ory watched me. It was as if he had seen me before, or at least had had my features described to him. I wondered if his army of secret police, the dread Sedan initiates, who had eyes like snakes, had taken note of my nocturnal ways. Ory wore a special dagger in his silver belt with which, it was reported, he cut out enemies' eyes before eating them. At that time the soul was thought to reside in the eyes.
　　Delar cleared her royal throat and spoke.
　　"You are Suzama. Your reputation precedes you. But who is this other person you have brought with you?"
　　Suzama bowed. "This is Sita, my queen. She is an Aryan-which is why her skin is fairer than ours. She is my friend and confidante. I ask your permission that she be allowed to remain by my side while I complete your reading."
　　Delar was curious about me. "Are you from India, Sita? I have heard stories of that land."
　　I also bowed. "Yes, my queen. I am far from home, yet I am happy to be a guest in your great land."
　　"What brought you to our land?" asked Ory. "Were you, fleeing from danger?"
　　"No, my lord. It is only a love of adventure that brought me here."
　　Ory paused and whispered something in Namok's ear. The king frowned and nodded. But Ory smiled as he asked his next question and I couldn't help noticing how flat his eyes were. His hand never moved far from his dagger.
　　"It seems improper that a woman of your age should have traveled so far alone," he said. "Who were your companions along the road, Sita?"
　　"Merchants, my lord. They know the road to India well."
　　"Then you are also a merchant," Ory persisted. 
　　"No," I said. "I have no special title." 
　　"But you live in the house of slaves," Ory said. "Suzama is a slave. You, too, must be a slave." I held his eye and there was strength in my gaze. "No one owns me, my lord," I said. My answer seemed to amuse Ory. He didn't reply but the power in my eyes did not seem to affect him. Perhaps he had goaded me on purpose, I thought.
　　Delar cleared her throat once more. "Come closer, Suzama and Sita. I will tell you my dream. If you are able to decipher it, your reward will be great."
　　Suzama bowed. "I will try my queen. But tell me first-did you have this dream at the last full moon?"
　　Delar was impressed. "I did indeed. How did you know?"
　　"I was not sure. But dreams that come at that time are particularly auspicious. Please tell me your dream, my queen."
　　"I was standing on a wide field in tall grass with lush rolling hills all around. It was night, but the sky was bright with more stars than we normally see on the dearest of nights. Many of these stars were deep blue. In the distance was a group of people who were walking into a ship that gave off a brilliant violet light. I was supposed to be on that ship, I knew, but before I could leave I had to talk to a beautifully dressed man. He stood nearby with a gold flute in his hand. He had bewitching dark eyes, was dressed in a blue robe, and had long dark hair. Around his neck was an exquisite jewel-it shone with many colored lights and hypnotized me. As I stared into it, he asked me, 'What is it you wish to know?' And I said, 'Tell me the law of life.' I don't know why I asked this question, but he said, 'This is the eternal law of life.' And he pointed his finger at me."
　　Delar paused. "That was the entire dream. It was incredibly vivid. When I woke from it I was filled with great wonder, but also great confusion. It seemed I was given a great secret but I don't understand what it is. Can you help me?"
　　"A moment please, my queen," Suzama said. Then she turned to me and spoke in whispers. "You have had dreams like this?"
　　My eyes widened. "Yes. How did you know?"
　　Suzama merely smiled. "Who is the man?"
　　"Lord Krishna. There is no doubt."
　　"And why did he point at her?"
　　"I don't know. Krishna often taught with riddles. He was mischievous."
　　"He was careful," Suzama said to me before turning back to the queen. "Delar, the answer to your dream is very simple."
　　Both the king and the queen sat up in anticipation. Even Priest Ory seemed to lean forward. He was no doubt one of those who had failed to decipher the dream properly.
　　"The blue stars signify the blue light of divinity," Suzama said. "You stood on a spiritual world in the spiritual sky. The man beside you was the Lord himself, come to give you instructions before you were born into this world. You asked the question you did because you wanted to know what law of life you should follow as queen of this land. You wanted to know what was fair, a means by which you could decide how to pass judgment on those you knew you would rule." Suzama paused. "He gave you the means when he pointed his finger at you."
　　Delar frowned. "I don't understand." "Point your finger at me, my queen," Suzama said.
　　The queen did so. Suzama smiled.
　　"When you point your finger at someone, anyone, it is often a moment of judgment. We point our fingers when we want to scold someone, point out what they have done wrong. But each time we point, we simultaneously point three other fingers back at ourselves."
　　The queen looked down at her hand and gasped. "You are right. But what does that mean?"
　　"It means you must be very careful in your judgments," Suzama said. "Each time you decide fairly about someone, you gain three times the merit. But each time you make a poor judgment, you incur three times the debt. That is the law of life, whether you are a queen or a priest or a slave. When we do something good, it comes back to us threefold. When we harm someone, we harm ourselves three times as much." Suzama paused. "The Lord was telling you to be kind and good, my queen."
　　Queen Delar was impressed.
　　King Namok was unsure.
　　The high priest Ory was annoyed.
　　The main players in the drama were set.
　　The dice had been thrown.
　　It was only a question of how they would land.
　　And who would be left alive to collect the promised reward.
   
   13
　　
　　Back in Los Angeles the same day, I do not drive straight to my home in Pacific Palisades, but I do call to see if everyone is safe. Seymour says there is no sign of either the cops or Kalika. It sounds as if he has been enjoying Dr. Seter's company, but I don't think joy is a word I could attach to his relationship with James. I promise Seymour I will be home soon.
　　At five in the evening I am once more in the living room of Mrs. Hawkins, in the very house Eric longed to return to before his throat was cut open by my daughter. Hot-tempered Mr. Hawkins is fortunately not at home with Mrs. Hawkins. As before, she is plump and kindly, always fussing with her hands. Curiously, since I am associated with the kidnapping and death of her son, she does not appear unduly afraid of me. Indeed, she promptly invites me in when I come to the door. But perhaps she believed me the last time I visited, when I told her I did everything I could to save Eric.
　　"Would you like something to drink?" she asks as she takes a seat across from me.
　　"No, thank you." I pause. "You don't seem surprised to see me again."
　　Her face twitches with the painful memory of her dead son. Truly it is not the tragedies that destroy us, but the memories of them. Clearly not a minute goes by when she does not think about Eric.
　　"I thought I would see you again," she says. "Why?"
　　"You just flew in that night, and then flew back out like a bird. My husband and I have talked about that a lot since you were here." She flashes a sad smile. "I think we convinced ourselves you weren't a devil, but an angel."
　　"I'm sorry I'm not an angel. I'm sorry I wasn't able to save your son."
　　She stops fussing with her hands for a moment. "You really tried, didn't you?"
　　"Yes." I lower my head. "I tried everything I knew."
　　She nods quietly. "That's what I told my husband. He didn't believe you at first, but maybe he does now." A pause. "Are you sure I can't get you something? I just baked some chocolate-chip cookies. Eric used to love them."
　　I look up and smile. "Sure. I would love a cookie."
　　She stands. "I have milk as well. You can't enjoy a cookie without milk."
　　"Ain't that the truth." I have to sit in the pain of the house while she busies herself in the kitchen. Since my rebirth I have noticed I sense the feelings of a place much more acutely. The chair where I sit feels as if it has been used to electrocute people. It is Mr. Hawkins's seat, I realize. He wanted to keep me from leaving the last time I came to visit. He wanted to call the cops.
　　Yet I also smell something as I wait for Mrs. Hawkins to return.
　　The foul odor of illness. A human would never detect it, but I do.
　　Mrs. Hawkins bustles in with a plate of cookies and a glass of milk.
　　"You must have more than one," she says, setting the plate before me. "Really, Eric and my husband used to finish a whole plate of these in a single afternoon. But with Eric gone and my- Well, Ted just doesn't seem as hungry as he used to be." I pick up a cookie. "I'll have at least two." She sits back down across from me. "You never told us your name last time, dear. Don't worry, I won't tell it to the police. I would just like to know what to call you." 
　　"It's Alisa."
　　"Where are you from, Alisa?" "Lots of places." I sip the milk. It is cold, good. The questions need to be asked but I find myself postponing them.
　　"I'm taking the year off from college, but I'll be in school next year. I just got accepted to SC. I'm going to major in pre-med."
　　"How do they taste?" she asks.
　　"Very good." But I end up putting the cookie down, half eaten. "Mrs. Hawkins, may I ask you a delicate question? It concerns Eric."
　　She hesitates. "What is the question?"
　　"Your son wanted to be a doctor. He said he wanted to follow in your husband's footsteps. Now I've met your husband, and he seemed like an intense and driven man. That is not a criticism but an observation. Eric was not so driven, yet I imagine some of that intensity must have rubbed off on him,"
　　"That's true," she admits carefully.
　　"You see, this is hard for me. I don't want to walk on your pain, and I apologize if I am. But I was just wondering why, if Eric was so keen to be a doctor, he was taking a year off from college? I mean, I know a break from studying is not so unusual," I pause, "but was there a special reason for his extended vacation?"
　　She stares blankly for a moment. "Yes."
　　"May I know the reason?"
　　A tear runs down her cheek. "Eric had cancer. Lymphoma. It had spread through most of his body. It had gone into remission three times but it always came back." She swallows thickly. "The doctors said he had less than three months to live."
　　"I see." I am stunned. Eric had told me he wasn't well. Kalika had told me the same thing. Indeed, she had implied that was one of the reasons she killed him. So that he would have a better birth in his next life.
　　"I'm your daughter. You should believe me. I believe you even when I hear you lying to me."
　　Perhaps Kalika had told me the truth.
　　Mrs. Hawkins sobs quietly.
　　"There were a couple of police officers who came to the door the day Eric died," I say carefully. "They were looking for him, but the person I told you about-the one who killed your son-she convinced them to go off with her. And I never saw those men again. I assumed this woman killed them as well. But I never saw an article in the paper about them, and you know what big news any police killing is. I was just wondering, in your conversation with the police about your son, after his body was found, did they make any mention of the fact that they had lost two men?"
　　Mrs. Hawkins wipes at her face. "No." 
　　I speak out loud, but mainly to myself. "It seems they would have, don't you think? If the disappearance was tied up with the same case as your son's death?" 
　　"I would think so. Maybe the police are all right."
　　I pick up the cookie again, thinking, "How did you get on with the policemen?" 
　　"Fine."
　　"Are they fine?"
　　"You don't have to worry about them, Mother."
　　 "They might be all right," I say. Maybe I am worrying about all the wrong things.
   
   14
　　
　　The night I turned myself back into a vampire, I went searching for an ounce of Yaksha's blood to serve as an aerobic catalyst. The only place to look, I thought, was the ice-cream truck where Eddie Fender had kept Yaksha's tortured body in cold storage. There I found the blood I needed, frozen beneath a box of Popsicles. But before I scraped it from the floor of the refrigerated compartment, I had a highly unusual conversation with an elderly homeless man with thinning white hair and a grimy face. He was obviously down on his luck. But when I strode up to say hello, he reacted as if he was expecting me.
　　"You look very nice tonight. But I know you're in a hurry."
　　"How do you know I'm in a hurry?"
　　"I know a few things. You want this truck I suppose. I've been guarding it for you."
　　"How long have you been here?"
　　"I don't rightly know. I think I've been here since you were last here."
　　The ice-cream truck should not have been there. The police should have hauled it away a couple of months earlier. Yet not only was the truck parked where it had been when it held Yaksha, the refrigerator unit was still working, and the homeless man implied he had kept it working for me. That was crucial, because if the blood had melted and rotted, it would have been of no use to me. I wouldn't have been able to turn back into a vampire. I would have possessed no special abilities with which to protect the child.
　　Now the big question was ...
　　Did the homeless man know that?
　　He obviously knew something.
　　The bigger question was how he knew.
　　With the sun setting and with no better place to go, I return to the street where I met the man. There, to my utter astonishment, I find him sitting near the spot where the ice-cream truck had been parked. It is gone but the man has not changed. In fact, he is drinking a carton of milk as he was the last time we met. He looks up as I approach and his eyes sparkle in the dull yellow light of the street lamps. He doesn't rise, though. He is an old man and getting up is hard on his knees. I remember I had to help him up the last time. He flashes me a warm smile.
　　"Why if it isn't you again," he says. "I thought you might come back."
　　"Have you been waiting for me?" I ask.
　　"Sure. I don't mind waiting around. Don't have a lot to do these days, you know."
　　I crouch by his side. "What do you do when you're not waiting for me?"
　　He is shy. "Oh, I just move around, pick up an odd job here and there, help out where I can."
　　I smile. "Well, you sure helped me last time."
　　He is pleased. "That's good. But you're a bright girl. You know how to help yourself." He stops. "Hey, would you like to play a game of cards?"
　　I raise an eyebrow. "Poker?"
　　He brushes his hand. "No. That's too hard a game for an old fella like me. You have to think too much. How about a game of twenty-one? I'll be the house. I'll play by house rules. I'll hit on every sixteen and give you a tip every now and then if you need it. As long as you promise to tip me if you win in the end. How does that sound? You know how to play twenty-one?"
　　I sit cross-legged in front of him. "I am a born gambler. Do you have cards?"
　　He reaches in his old coat pocket and pulls out a pack. "Do I have cards? These are fresh from a high roller's blackjack table in Las Vegas. Mind if I shuffle? Those are house rules, you know. Dealer has to shuffle."
　　"You shuffle. What are we betting?"
　　He takes a sip of his milk as he opens the pack. "It doesn't matter." Then he laughs and the sound is like music to my ears because it has been so long since I have heard the sound of pure joy. "An old bum like me-I have nothing to lose!"
　　I laugh with him. "What's your name, old bum?"
　　He pauses and catches my eye. "Now just one moment. You're the youngster here. You've never told me your name."
　　I offer my hand. "I'm Sita."
　　He shakes my hand. "Mike."
　　"Where are you from, Mike?"
　　He lets go of my hand and shuffles the cards. He is a pro with them; he obviously can shuffle both sides of the deck with as few as five fingers. Yet a trace of sorrow enters his voice. The tone is not painful, more bittersweet.
　　"Lots of places, Sita," he says. "You know how it is when you get as old as I am, one place blurs into another. But I try to keep moving, try to keep my hand in. Where are you from?"
　　"India."
　　He is impressed. "By golly, that's far away! You must have had plenty of adventures between here and India."
　　"Too many adventures, Mike. But are you going to stop talking and start dealing? I'm getting anxious to beat you at what I know is your favorite game."
　　He acts offended, although he is still smiling.
　　"Hold on just one second," he says. "We haven't decided what we're wagering. What have you got?"
　　"Money."
　　He nods. "Money is good. How much you got?"
　　I reach in my back pocket. "Three hundred dollars in cash."
　　He whistles. "My sweet lord! You carry your bankroll on you. Now I know that ain't smart, no sir."
　　I flip open my wad of twenties. Got them from an ATM machine down the street.
　　"I don't mind betting this. What are you betting?"
　　My question seems to catch him off guard. He asks with a trace of suspicion, "What do you want?"
　　"Oh. Just a few friendly hints, what you offered. Can you give me some of those? When I win I mean?"
　　He speaks with mock confidentiality. "You don't need them when you win, girl. You need them when you lose." He begins to deal the cards. "Sure, I'll help you out. Just don't you get too rough on old Mike."
　　I throw a twenty down. "I'll try to behave myself."
　　He deals me a fifteen, bust hand. He is looking strong, showing a ten. He peeks at his hole card and grins. By the rules, I know I should hit. But I hate chasing a strong hand with so little room to maneuver. He waits for me to make a decision, a sly grin on his old lips.
　　"Going to risk it?" he asks, teasing me.
　　"Sure." I scratch the ground between us. "Hit me."
　　I get a seven. Twenty-two. Bust. I'm twenty down.
　　He deals another hand. I get eleven, and he shows a six, the weakest card he can show. By most house rules I am allowed to double down at this point. But I ask if it is OK to be sure. He nods, pleased to hit me again. I don't know what hell do if he gets in my debt. I lay another twenty beside my turned-over cards and he deals me a card.
　　"A nine," I mutter. "Twenty. I'm sitting pretty."
　　"You are pretty, Sita," he says as he flips over his cards, showing a five, a total of eleven. He draws and gets a ten, twenty-one, beating me by one again. My forty belongs to him.
　　"Damn," I mutter.
　　I lose the next six hands. Every decision I make is wrong, yet I am playing by the book. The published rules say I should win about half the hands. Yet I don't think he is cheating me, even though he seems to take great pleasure in taking my money. He already has two hundred bucks, two-thirds of my bankroll. If I don't win soon I'll have to walk.
　　On the ninth hand he deals me a natural. Blackjack.
　　He is showing only a seven. I have finally won.
　　He offers me a twenty. The amount I bet.
　　"You want it?" he asks, and there is a gleam in his eye.
　　"You were going to give me a tip," I say.
　　"But you won. Fate favored you, Sita, you didn't have to do anything. When a winning hand is coming around, it's going to come no matter what." He gathers the cards together. He is down to the bottom of the deck; he has to shuffle again. He comments on the fact, as an aside. "You know if this was a casino and I had myself a shoe, I could deal as many as six decks without shuffling. What do you think of that?"
　　I go completely numb.
　　But it will be dark angels that force him and his mother to flee to the mirror in the sky, where shoes move without feet and the emerald circle is seen in the morning light.
　　Lake Tahoe, I remember suddenly, was called "the mirror in the sky" by the original Indians who lived in the area, because they had to hike up the mountain to reach it, and then, it was such a large, clear lake, it looked to them like a perfect mirror reflecting the sky. Also, there is a small but gorgeous cove in the lake called Emerald Bay. Finally, there are casinos nearby that have special shoes for playing twenty-one. As we are playing twenty-one right now, only without one of those shoes that moves without feet.
　　Kalika had a book on Lake Tahoe.
　　Mike stares at me. "Want to play another hand?"
　　I slowly shake my head. "It's not necessary, thank you."
　　He nods as he reads my expression. "I guess you'll be on your way now. I'm sorry to see you go."
　　I gaze into his bright eyes. "Are you sorry, Mike?"
　　He shrugs. "I know you have a job to do. I don't want to interfere with that none. It's just that I like it when you stop by, you know. It reminds me of when I was young."
　　"I'm older than I look. You must know that."
　　He gives me a wistful expression. "Well, I suppose I do. But I have to say you're still a youngster to me."
　　I lean forward and hug him, and feel his bony ribs, his dirty clothes, and his love. A powerful feeling sweeps over me, as if I have finally found a member of a family I never knew existed. But the hug can last only so long. He is right-I have a job to do. Letting go, I climb to my feet. The thought of leaving him is painful. I have to ask the next question even though I know he will not give me a straight answer.
　　"Will you be here when I return?"
　　He scratches his head and takes a sip from his milk carton. For a moment he appears slightly bewildered. He quickly counts the money he has won and stuffs it in his coat pocket. Then he coughs and looks up and down and street to see if anyone is listening. Finally he looks at me again.
　　"I'm sorry, Sita, I don't rightly know. I'm always moving around, like I said, trying to keep my hand in. But I hope I see you again." He pauses. "I like your spirit."
　　I lean over and kiss his forehead.
　　"I like your spirit, Mike. Be here for me again. Please?"
　　He flashes a faint smile. "I'll see what I can do."
   
   15
　　
　　The inevitable happened. Queen Delar became a student of Suzama's and a short time after the dream reading, Suzama privately initiated the queen in a small room in Suzama's own home. Suzama refused to do it in the Great Pyramid, saying the vibrations in there would never recover from Ory and the evil Setian initiations. Also, Suzama did not want the powerful priests to know what was happening. She asked the queen to keep quiet about her practices for the time being. Suzama knew King Namok did not have long to live.
　　Six months later the king did die, and Queen Delar moved more boldly than Suzama wished.
　　The queen immediately proclaimed her spiritual path via the Isis techniques and encouraged any who wished to follow Suzama to do so. Yet the queen was wise enough not to make it a state order. Suzama refused to teach anyone who was forced into the practice. At the same time the queen instructed a large team of laborers to build a temple to Isis not far from the Great Pyramid, which Suzama refused to enter. The queen wanted an elaborate temple but Suzama persuaded her to construct a modest building, and so Suzama had her own place in which to teach within a year of the king's death. Suzama filled it with plants and flowers and different-colored crystals brought from all over the continent.
　　Naturally, during this period, the Setians suffered a great setback as far as their influence was concerned. Yet the queen did not banish them from the land, because Suzama had advised her not to. I questioned my friend about not banishing them. But Suzama felt so strongly about freedom of thought that she even protected what was clearly an evil group. Yet I doubt if even Suzama knew how many assassins Ory sent to dispose of Suzama and me. Of course, none of those assassins ever returned to their leader, even when they came in groups of three and four. I seldom rested in those days and never sat with my back to a door.
　　But I never drank Setian blood. Just the smell of it filled me with bad feelings. The group was definitely working with subtle powers of some kind, and I began to pay more heed to their rumored contacts with an ancient reptilian race, which they achieved through a mind-meld process that used identical twins as catalysts. Even more important, I began to investigate their rumored liaisons with the direct remains of the same race, which now existed on different worlds circling other suns. I knew the Setians were getting their power from somewhere else, and I wanted to find the root of it. Yet I made little progress.
　　Even the Setians I killed had great strength in their eyes, a magnetic field they could generate to subdue weaker wills. Naturally, their power did not work on me, but I could see the effect on the people in the city, wherever they were allowed to speak. Suzama should have been welcomed as a great prophet and the masses should have embraced her teachings, yet her following, even when her temple was complete, was relatively small. The Setians were constantly stirring up hate and lies against her.
　　Fortunately, Suzama did shield the queen from Ory and his cult. Queen Delar wouldn't even meet with Ory once the king died, although I did see Ory from time to time. Even though he was always polite to me, I never failed to hear the hiss of a snake beneath his breath. Why shouldn't I recognize it? In a sense we were cousins. Yaksha, a yashini by nature, had created me. And the yashinis were well known in India as a race of mystical serpents.
　　Yet Ory never reminded me of Yaksha, who loved Krishna above all things. And my power to influence the wills of others was much different from the power of the Setians. For their power left their victims weak and disoriented. Many never recovered from it and this power became known by the seldom spoken name of seedling, because it sowed seeds of consciousness that were not one's own.
　　I could see that matters would eventually come to a head with the Setians, only the climax came more quickly and with a destructive force greater than I could ever have imagined. Suzama was only nineteen when I received a personal invitation from Ory. He wanted to meet me alone in the desert so that we could discuss our differences and try to put an end to our conflict. This was only six days after I had slain ten of his people who had stolen into the Temple of Isis in the middle of the night. Ory had never sent so many before and I had been lucky to kill them all, had he sent twice the number both Suzama and I would have died. Actually, I wondered why he had not, which should have served as a warning to me.
　　I sent back a messenger saying I would be happy to meet him.
　　He planned to kill me as surely as I planned to kill him.
　　Before heading to the desert I met with Suzama to tell her my plans. She was in her inner chamber in the temple and in a particularly reflective mood. She was writing when I entered but put aside the papyrus so that I could not see it. Her usual warm greeting was missing. Before I could speak, she wanted to know why I was dressed for the desert.
　　"You are wrong to think your enemies possess any virtues," I say. "I tire of our always having to be on guard. I am meeting with Ory tonight deep in the desert. He has chosen the spot but I know it well. When the head vanishes, the body falls. It will end tonight."
　　But Suzama shook her head. "This is not my will. You have not asked my permission. Tonight the stars are particularly inauspicious. Cancel the meeting right now."
　　I sat beside her. She almost seemed to disappear in the large silk cushions. Dressed in a simple white robe, she wore a blue scarf around her neck. Woven inside it were threads of gold that outlined all the constellations in the sky, even those seen from the bottom of the world. The latter, Suzama said, she had seen in visions. I had no doubt they were correct, even though I would not listen to her when it came to Ory. It was my turn to shake my head.
　　"I never told you how many of his people I slew last week," I said.
　　"How many?"
　　"Ten."
　　She grimaced. "In here?"
　　"I was able to deal with most of them outside. But there will be more if I don't destroy Ory now."
　　"But you don't know Ory. You don't know what he is."
　　"Of course I do. He is a Setian."
　　Suzama spoke gravely. "He is a real Setian. Just as you are no longer human, he is not one of our kind. Those he sent to kill us before were mere students." She paused. "I suspect he is not from this world."
　　"I don't care," I say. "If he comes alone, I can deal with him. And if he doesn't, then I will know and decide what to do. But I know I must face him. It is foolish to wait."
　　Suzama was reflective. "Wisdom is not always logical."
　　"Lacking your wisdom, I can only decide based on what I see and know."
　　She stroked my leg, which was bare beneath my robe.
　　"You know, I foresaw this conversation," she said. "Nothing I say to you right now will change your mind. That is because of who you are and because of the stars above. They pretend to be your stars but they're not." She paused and spoke as if she were far away. "They are arranged as they were the night you were transformed into a vampire."
　　I am shocked. "Is this true?"
　　She nods solemnly. "The serpent walked the forest. The lizard crawls in the sand. It is the same difference." She squeezed my leg and her eyes were damp. "Tonight is a time of transformation for you. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
　　"Yes. Death is the biggest transformation. Ory might kill me."
　　"Yes. It is possible."
　　"You don't know for sure?"
　　She was a long time answering.
　　"No. The Divine Mother does not show me." She shook herself and came back to Earth, for a moment. She kissed the side of my face. "Words are useless tonight, even written words. Go then, and go with tight I will wait here for you. I will be here when you return,"
　　I hug her. "I owe you a great deal. Tonight, perhaps I can repay you."
　　There was a place twenty miles from the city, deep in the desert, called the Bowl of Flies. In the late spring the flies would be so thick there during the day that it would be hard to breathe without inhaling them. Yet at night they would all but vanish, and there was no reason to explain why they came at all. There was nothing for the flies to eat, unless a small animal chanced to die there. But then again, an unusual number of animals did collapse in that spot Even a bird could seize up in midflight and fall dead into the place.
　　Ory wanted to meet me in the bowl.
　　I arrived early to see if he had assassins hidden. The area appeared empty for far around. There was no moon but I didn't need it. My eyes were not drawn to the sky as they usually were when the stars were so bright Suzama's words continued to haunt me. She had ended our good-bye almost in midsentence. Words are useless now.
　　Ory was suddenly there, sitting on a camel.
　　It was strange how I hadn't heard him approach.
　　He got down off his animal and slowly moved toward me. I had also come on a camel but had sent my beast off. For me to run twenty mites across the desert at night was nothing. On the way home I hoped to be carrying Ory's head. Like me, he wore a long naked sword in his belt, along with his sharp dagger. Listening closely, I could still detect no others, and I thought him a fool to meet me under such circumstances. Yet he smiled as he approached, his huge bald head shiny even in the faint starlight. It smelled as if he had oiled his skull before coming, a disgusting ointment smell.
　　"Sita," he said. "I thought maybe you would not come."
　　I mocked him. "It is not often I am granted an exclusive audience with such a renowned spiritual figure."
　　"Do you know whence our spiritual power comes?"
　　"An unhappy place. A place without love or compassion. I do not know the name of this place, but I do know I never want to go there."
　　He stood close, yet his hands stayed clear of his sword. He gestured to the sky. "This world is not the only one. There are many kingdoms for us to rule, and I can gain you safe passage to these other places, if you will join me. I have watched you closely these last two years, Sita, and I know you are one of us. You have power, you take what you wish. You kill as a matter of course to satisfy your hunger, to satisfy your lust for life. You move without the burden of conscience. Yet you hide behind the dress of that slave fortune teller. This I do not understand."
　　"I hide behind no one. Suzama is much more than a seer of the future. She sees into the hearts of men and women. She brings peace where there is pain, healing where there is sickness. The Setians do none of these things. They are interested in power for power's sake. Nothing could be more boring to me, or more offensive. You think we are alike only because I am strong. But that is the only thing we have in common, and before this night is over, even that will not be true. Because you will be buried in the sand, and I will be laughing in the city as I free it of the last of your kind."
　　He was amused at that. "Does your blessed Suzama permit such killings?"
　　"I will tell Suzama about it after I am done."
　　"And you think you could destroy all Setians so easily?"
　　I shrugged. "I have had no trouble in the past."
　　He came close and his smile vanished. "You are a fool. I sent mere apprentices to test your strength. In all the time you have been in the city, you have met fewer than a handful of our secret order. And you didn't even know them when you met them. We seldom come out from the depths of the Great Pyramid. Only I, Ory, the leader regularly attends to the things of this world. But I will not share this world with another, neither you nor Suzama. It is your choice. You join us now, and swear a sacred oath to me, or you will not leave this place alive."
　　I laughed. "You keep telling me what I don't know. I tell you that you don't know what I am." I drew my sword. "The blood that runs in my veins is not human, but I have the strength of many humans. Draw your sword and fight me, Ory. Die like a soldier rather than a coward and fake priest who puts silly spells on unsuspecting souls."
　　But he did not draw his sword. He lifted his arms upward.
　　A strange red light shimmered in his eyes.
　　His voice, as he spoke, boomed like thunder.
　　"Behold the night of Set, the will of those who came before humanity. It lives inside the stars that shine with the light of blood. Look up and see what force you think to defy."
　　Such was the strength in his voice, that I did glance up for a moment. To my utter astonishment the night sky had changed. Above me were fresh constellations laid over the old ones. They shone with brilliant red stars that seemed to pulse like stellar hearts feeding the burning blood of one huge ravenous cosmic being. Just the sight of them filled me with nausea. How had he managed to change the heavens? He must be a powerful sorcerer, I thought.
　　I drew my sword and moved toward him to cut off his head.
　　But there was flash of green light.
　　The metal of my sword flowed like liquid onto the sand.
　　My hand burned, the flesh literally black. The pain was so excruciating that I was forced to my knees. Ory towered over me, and behind his large skull the red stars seemed to grow even brighter. It was as if a bunch of them had clustered together and begun to move toward us. Through the mist of my agony I saw them form a circle and begin to spin. The very air seemed to catch fire around them. Ory gloated over me.
　　"We Setians control the elements," he said. "That was fire, in case you didn't know. Now I will show you the earth element."
　　He laid his big foot on my chest and kicked hard. He was many times stronger than I, I realized too late. Crashing down hard on my back, my arms spread out to my aides as if I were about to be crucified. No doubt that was the effect he was searching for. Before I could bring them back up and defend myself the red stars over his head seemed to throb again and I heard the sand crack on both sides, for a moment it seemed alive, the very ground, liquid mud shot through with veins of brains, and I watched in horror as it reached out like a thick fist and grabbed my lower arms and covered my hands. Then the sand turned to stone and I could not move. All this seemed to happen in a moment. Ory withdrew his dagger and knelt beside me and held the tip close to my eyes.
　　"Now you have seen a demonstration of real power," he said.
　　I spat in his face. "I am not impressed."
　　He wiped away the spit and played the tip of the dagger over my eyelids. "You are beautiful, Sita. You could have been mine. But I see now it would have been impossible to dominate you. Above all else a Setian must control those who are beneath him."
　　"Kill me and be done with it. I am tired of talking to you."
　　He smiled softly. "You will not die easily. I know how quickly your wounds can heal, but I also know that a deep wound cannot heal around a dagger such as this, which is poisoned, and which will fit nicely somewhere in your barren womb."
　　He stabbed me then, low down in my abdomen, and the blade burned like ice frozen from the tears of a thousand previous victims. I knew then that the stories about him and his dagger were true. He had cut out many eyes and eaten them in front of his victims. But he wouldn't blind me now because he wanted me to see the sun when it rose, and the millions of flies that would cover my body. His poison was subtle, not designed to immediately kill, but to draw out my agony.
　　I noticed that the red stars were no longer in the sky.
　　Ory stood and climbed back onto his camel.
　　"The earth can move as easily in the city as it can in this place," he said. "When the sun is high in the sky, the Temple of Isis will be buried along with your precious Suzama. You may hear the destruction even from here. Just know that the flies that feed here are always hungry, and that it will not be long before you join her."
　　"Ory!" I called as he rode off.
　　He paused. "Yes Sita?"
　　"I will see you again someday. It is not over."
　　"For you it is." He laughed as he rode away.
　　The sun rose and the flies came. Slowly my wound bled and steadily my pain increased. It seemed as if the desert wind were fire and the sky rained darts. The sound of the many flies sucking on my blood was enough to drive me mad. The filthy insects polluted my soul as much as my wound. All I had to look forward to was the midday sun, when my friend would die. I had a feeling I would hear something.
　　The day wore on. Breathing became a nightmare. Existence itself was the greatest torture. How I prayed to die then, for the first time ever. How I cursed Krishna. Where was his fabled grace now? I had not disobeyed him. Only he had set me up before an unstoppable foe. There was no hope for the world, I realized. The Setians were worse than a million vampires. And they were spreading across the stars.
　　The sun reached its high point. It was a red sun.
　　The interior of my skull began to boil and I heard myself scream.
　　Then the noise came, waves of rolling thunder. The ground began to shake, then to dance, tearing apart at the seams. The frozen sand that bound my arms and legs cracked, and I would have been able to stand if the entire desert had not suddenly been transformed into a torrential ocean. What had Ory set in motion? The elements had gone insane. The earth believed it was water. Beyond the Bowl of Flies I heard sand dunes pitch and break like waves upon a shore.
　　Then it stopped and all was silent.
　　Pulling out the dagger, I brushed off the flies and crawled out of the bowl. When I reached the upper rim, I stared at a desert I did not recognize.
　　It was entirely flat.
　　Slowly, for me, my wound healed.
　　
　　Somehow I managed to stagger back to the city. Ory's poison was still in my veins but maybe it had lost some of its potency. When the city finally came into view, I saw that Ory's day had passed, as had Suzama's. Either Ory had lost control of his precious earth element or else Suzama had seized control of it at the last moment and stuffed it down his throat. The worship of Isis and Set was over for that time.
　　A gash in the earth as thick as the Great Pyramid had opened up and swallowed the bulk of the city. The pyramid and all the other temples were gone. Those buildings that had not fallen into the chasm were nevertheless flattened. A handful of survivors stumbled around in the midst of this destruction but few looked as if they still possessed their wits.
　　I searched for Suzama but never found her.
　　Not long afterward I left Egypt.
   
   16
　　
　　We cannot get a flight to Lake Tahoe or even into Reno. San Francisco is our next best choice. The four of us, Seymour, James, Dr. Seter, and I, fly to San Francisco and rent a car in the Bay Area. Airport security has not allowed us to take weapons with us, so along the way, close to ten o'clock, I have the others wait while I break into a gun shop and steal two shotguns and several rounds of ammunition. James seems impressed when I get back to the car. He sits up front with me while Seymour talks to Dr. Seter in the backseat. The doctor is not looking good, and I wonder if he suffered a mild heart attack the previous night. "How did you get into the store?" James asks as we race back onto the freeway and head east at high speed.
　　"I picked the lock," I say, doing the driving.
　　"Did an alarm go off?" James asks.
　　"Not one that I could hear." I glance over my shoulder. "Do you need to use the restroom, Dr. Seter? There's a gas station a couple of miles ahead."
　　His face is ghastly white but he shakes his head. "We don't have time. We have to get there before she does." He pauses. "I'm still furious at myself that I didn't allow you to see all of the scripture the first night. How were you able to decipher the clues as to the child's location so quickly?"
　　"I had a little help," I say.
　　"From whom?" James asks.
　　"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
　　"I think everyone in this car is ready to believe anything," Seymour mutters.
　　"Ain't that the truth," Dr. Seter says.
　　Yet I hesitate to talk about Mike. "A little bird helped me."
　　James gently persists. "Does this bird have a name?"
　　I give him a look. "Not that I can remember."
　　We reach the mountains surrounding Lake Tahoe and I plow up the winding road that leads to the lake. The others sit, clutching the ceiling grips; I have rented a Lexus sports coupe and I push the car to its limit. Dr. Seter looks as if he will vomit over the backseat but he doesn't complain. There's too much at stake.
　　As we come over the rim of the mountain and see the lake, I smell Kalika. I am surprised at my own surprise because I should have expected her to be here, but in reality I didn't. Yet I still don't think she has deciphered Suzama's code before me. On the contrary, I think she is following us, using some invisible psychic tracking. I believe she still waits to see what moves we'll make next. And this is a paradox for me because I realize I might endanger the child most by trying to find it to protect it. Certainly there must have been a reason why my daughter has left so many of us alive. She didn't know where I was when I was at the hospital with the child. Yet she knew where I was when I was living in Pacific Palisades with Seymour. I have to wonder if the child has a mystical shield around him that Kalika can't pierce but maybe I can.
　　It may not matter.
　　If I can smell her, she can see us.
　　But I cannot have come this far just to turn away from the child. I cannot trust in my theories. I only know that if I can find Paula and her baby I can take them to some safe place. That is logical; it is something I can envision without employing the wisdom or intuition of Suzama. Starting downhill, I floor the accelerator and turn toward Emerald Bay.
　　We reach it twenty minutes later.
　　The spot is one of the most enchanting in all of nature. The bay is maybe two hundred yards across, sheltered on three sides by majestic cliffs with tall pines hugging them. The isthmus is narrow, giving the bay excellent shelter from the lake itself, which can get rough in stormy weather. There is a tiny island in the center of the water, a place for children to play and adults to relax. Even at midnight, beneath the brilliant moon, the circular bay is magical. But tonight it is silver, not emerald. Silver like the dagger Ory stabbed in me.
　　For some reason, I have to remind myself that that was long ago.
　　My abdomen cramps and I brush away a fly that has entered the car.
　　The odor of Kalika overpowers my other senses. Truly, since being touched by Yaksha's blood, my sense of smell has become my most potent weapon. Rolling down my window all the way, I use my nose like a needle on a compass, and it doesn't fail me. It points in only one direction, toward a small wooden house set on redwood stilts above an abandoned stone church at the floor of the cliff, not far above the water. The place is almost hidden in the trees, but I see it.
　　I drive faster.
　　
　　I stop some distance from the house. The road we're on circles all of Lake Tahoe but at this place it is three hundred yards up the side of the mountain. Grabbing a shotgun and ignoring the others, I slip six shells into it. The remainder of the ammunition is in the box that I stuff into my pocket. Popping open the driver's door, I am almost outside when James grabs my arm.
　　"Where are you going?" he demands.
　　"Some things you can't help me with," I say.
　　"Alisa," Seymour says. The others only know me by that name.
　　"It has to be this way." I shake off James. "Stay and take care of one another. She may come this way yet."
　　I don't give them a chance to respond. Jumping out of the car, I run around the bend, and the moment I am out of sight I switch into hyper-mode. The tangled trees and uneven boulders don't even slow me. I reach the house in thirty seconds.
　　The front door has already been kicked in.
　　Kalika was watching which way my nose turned.
　　Inside I find Paula staring out a window that overlooks Emerald Bay. There is a small boat on the cold water, with an outboard motor softly churning through the night, heading away from us. Grabbing Paula from behind, I turn her around.
　　"Did she take the child?" I demand.
　　Pretty dark-haired Paula is the color of dirty snow.
　　"Yes," she says with a dry voice.
　　"Stay here." I pump my shotgun. "I will get him back."
　　The next moment finds me outside, running along the edge of the bay. In places this is difficult because the sides are sheer stone. When I come to such a spot I jump higher for any inch of ledge that will support my feet and keep running. Kalika's outboard motor is not very strong. I reach the isthmus seconds before her boat does. Dressed in a long white coat, the baby wrapped in a white blanket on her knees, she looks up at me as I raise my shotgun and take aim at her bow. She is only fifty yards away. Her eyes shimmer with the glow of the moon and she doesn't seem to be surprised.
　　The baby talks softly to her, infant nonsense. He is not afraid, but fear is almost all I know as I sight along the barrel and squeeze the trigger.
　　The blast of the shotgun echoes across the bay.
　　I have blown a hole in the front of the boat
　　Water gushes in. Kalika grabs the handle of the outboard and turns the boat around. For a moment her back is to me, an easy shot. Yet I don't take it. I tell myself there is a chance I might hit the child. At first Kalika seems to be headed back toward the beach below Paula's house, but then it is clear the miniature island in the center of the bay is her goal. Perhaps the water is gushing in too fast. Kalika picks up the child and hugs him to her chest even before the boat reaches the island. Then she is tip and out of the sinking craft, scampering up the dirt path that leads to a small abandoned house at the top of the island. Sliding the shotgun under my black leather coat, I dive off the low cliff and into the water.
　　The lake temperature is bracing, even for me. But vampires never like the cold, although we can tolerate it far better than human beings can. My stroke is hampered by my clothes and gun, but I reach the island in less than a minute. Shivering on the beach in the rays of the moon, I remove the shotgun and pump another round into the chamber. There is a good chance it will still fire. If it doesn't then this will be the last moonlit night of my life.
　　I find Kalika sitting on a bench in the stone house at the top of the island. It is not properly a house, more an open collection of old walls. Last time I was here a guide told me people came here for tea during the Second World War. Kalika sits with the baby on her lap, playing with him, oblivious of me and my shotgun. I feel I have to say something. Of course I am not fooled. I keep my weapon held ready.
　　Yet maybe I am the biggest fool of all.
　　"It is over," I say. "Set the child down."
　　Kalika doesn't even look up. "The floor is cold. He might catch cold."
　　I shake my gun. "I am serious."
　　"That is your problem."
　　"Kalika-"
　　"Do you know what name Paula gave the child?" she interrupts.
　　"No. I didn't stop to ask her."
　　"I think she named him John. That's what I've been calling him." Finally she looks at me. "But you know Mike, don't you?"
　　I am bewildered. "Yes. Have you spoken to him?"
　　"No. But I know him. He's a bum." She lifts the child to her breast. Kalika has a voluptuous figure; she could probably bear many healthy children. God knows what they would be like. She strokes the baby's soft skull. "I think we have company."
　　"What are you talking about?"
　　"Your friend is coming."
　　"Good," I say, although I don't hear anyone approaching. "More reason for you to surrender the child." I grow impatient "Put him down!"
　　"No."
　　"I will shoot."
　　"No, you won't."
　　"You murdered two dozen innocent people. You ripped their hearts and heads off right in front of my eyes and you think I can still care for you? Well, you're wrong." I step closer and aim the shotgun at her face. "You are not immortal. If I fire and your brains splatter the wall behind you, then you will die."
　　She stares at me. We are out of the moonlight. There should be no light in her dark eyes at all. Nevertheless they shine with a peculiar white glow. I had thought it was red the last time I saw them during our confrontation on the pier. But maybe the color is not hers but mine. Maybe she is just a mirror for me, Kali Ma, the eternal abyss, who destroys time itself. My mother myself. I cannot look at her with the child and not think of when she was a baby.
　　"The body takes birth and dies," she says. "The eternal self is unmoved."
　　I shake my shotgun angrily. "You will move for me, goddamn you!"
　　Kalika smiles. She wants to say something.
　　But suddenly there is a blade at my throat.
　　"I will take that shotgun," James says softly in my ear.
　　I am surprised but not terribly alarmed.
　　"James," I say patiently, "I am not going to shoot the child."
　　He presses the blade tighter and forces my head back.
　　"I know that, Sita," he says calmly. "I still want the gun."
　　I swallow. Now I am concerned.
　　"How do you know my name?" I ask.
　　He grips the shotgun and carefully lifts it from my hands.
　　"We have met before," he says. "You just don't remember me."
　　"She remembers," Kalika says, standing now, her expression unfathomable.
　　James points the shotgun at her while he keeps the blade at my throat. Out of the corner of my eye I get a glimpse of it. A dagger of some kind, ancient design, cold metal. James is calm and cool. He gestures with the tip of the shotgun.
　　"You will set the child down on the bench beside you," he says to my daughter. "If you don't I will shoot, and you know I won't miss. Either of you."
　　Kalika does not react.
　　James scrapes me lightly with the knife and my throat bleeds.
　　"I will kill your mother," he says. "You will have to watch her die."
　　A shadow crosses Kalika's face. "No," she says.
　　James smiles. "You know me. You know I do not bluff."
　　Kalika nods slightly. Really, it is as if she knows him well.
　　"All right," she says in a soft, perhaps beaten, voice.
　　"Do it!" James orders.
　　Kalika turns to set the child down. The baby is almost out of her hands when I see her change her mind. Maybe James sees the same thing, I don't know. But he is ready for her when she suddenly grabs the baby and bolts. Kalika moves extraordinarily fast but James is no slouch when it comes to reflexes.
　　He shoots her in the lower back.
　　Kalika staggers but manages to hold on to the child. Keeping his blade tight to my throat, he pumps the shotgun again and takes aim. It is then I ram an elbow into his side. He seems ready for that as well, because even though I have hurt him, he manages to draw the blade all the way across my throat. And he doesn't just nick me. Suddenly my life's blood is pouring over my chest and James has got Kalika in his sights again and there is absolutely nothing I can do to stop him.
　　James shoots Kalika in the back, behind the heart.
　　Kalika is covered in blood. She tries to turn, perhaps to attack, but seeing James pumping again, she puts her back to him once more. He fires a third time, hitting her right shoulder. Kalika slumps to the floor, her right arm useless now. Still she manages to hold on to the child, to shelter him from the blasts that ravage her body. As I collapse to the floor, James pumps again and points the shotgun at Kalika's head, actually touching her left temple with the black barrel He still has the dagger in his right hand and I finally recognize it.
　　Ory's knife. I feel his poison once more in my system.
　　I even recognize Ory's voice when James speaks next.
　　Funny how I didn't before. Too bad, huh.
　　"I just want the child," James says to my daughter.
　　She stares up at him. "Your kind never wants just one thing."
　　He pulls the trigger back dangerously far.
　　"You missed me at the condo," he says. "That was your chance. But you will have no more chances if you do not do what I say. Nor will the child."
　　Kalika stares up at him a moment.
　　Then she hands him the baby with her left arm.
　　He takes the infant in his knife arm.
　　He turns to walk away.
　　Kalika tries to get up.
　　"No!" I gasp, choking on my own blood.
　　James pivots and shoots her directly in the heart. Stunned, she staggers back. He pumps again and shoots her in the exact same spot. Her chest cavity literally explodes. Her white coat and white dress are a mess of red tissue and torn threads. Reaching out a feeble left arm, trying to give it one last desperate try, she suddenly closes her eyes and falls face first on the floor. James stares down at her for a moment and then drops the shotgun and kneels beside me. The infant's face is only inches from my own but I am unable to reach out and touch him. The baby seems worried, but James looks as if he is having a good time.
　　"What did you tell me?" he asks." 'I will see you again someday. It is not over.'" He pauses. "Yeah, I think that was it. Well, at least you were half right."
　　I drown in red blood. My voice bubbles out.
　　"How?"
　　"How am I here again in a different body? That is a Setian secret, isn't it? But to tell you the truth I never left. Oh, I have transferred many times, into many forms, but that is a small trick for beings such as ourselves." He glances at motionless Kalika. "It is a pity your daughter had to destroy my entire crop of new apprentices. But there will be more from where they came."
　　"What?" I whisper.
　　He chuckles. "What am I going to do with the child now that you have led me to him? Honestly, you don't want to know. Better you go to your grave with no horrific image in your pretty head." He raises the dagger. "Where do you want me to put in the poison? It is a new and improved brand. It is guaranteed to kill even the strongest of vampires. And slowly."
　　"Go to hell," I gasp.
　　"Sita, I just came from there."
　　He stabs me in midback and leaves the blade in.
　　I am too weak to pull it out. To find it, even.
　　James stands and walks away with the child.
　　Finally, I hear the infant begin to cry.
   
   17
　　
　　Red, searing pain and black despair. These two colors, these two forms of torture, are all I know for the next few minutes. It is not as if I lose sight of the room, it is just that I see it from another angle. A place of pain and judgment where my soul floats above the boiling cauldron I am sure is waiting for me on the other side. To realize I have been working all along for the enemy, that I was in fact their greatest ally, is too much for me. Death, if it would just involve oblivion, would be more than welcome. But I know there must be a special hell prepared for the one who sold the messiah to the jackal.
　　From far away I feel something moist and warm touch my lips.
　　It tastes like blood, very sweet blood, but it is such a potent elixir that I swear I have never encountered it before. Before my mind knows it, my body is hungrily licking the substance. The flow of blood that has been steadily dripping from my throat finally begins to slow. At first I think it is because my body is running out of blood, but then I realize I am healing, which should be impossible with a severed neck, a knife in my back, and Setian poison pumping in my veins. Yet after a time my vision clears and I am able to see normally.
　　My daughter lies beside me.
　　She is feeding me her own blood with her cupped palm.
　　For a moment I think that means she is recovering. But then I see that her horrible wounds have not healed at all. My eyes register my sorrow but she smiles even now.
　　"There is only enough life left for you," she says.
　　I push her hand away. "You mustn't. You are the only hope."
　　"You are." She forces more of her blood down my throat and then rolls me on my side. There is a sharp pain in my back as she pulls out Ory's dagger. I still feel the poison in my system, however, crawling through my veins and feeding on my internal organs. Kalika opens the vein on her wrist and forces me to feed, and it is as if the current of her life energy overwhelms the poison, and I feel it die inside me. A peaceful warmth steals over my physical form. Already I think the wound in my throat has closed. Yet inside I am still in torment. Even as I sit up Kalika seems to lose strength and lies back down. The massive wound to her chest is still open and I cringe because I worry I may actually see her heart beating, or slowing down. I don't know, of course. I do try to open my vein to drip my blood over her wound, but she stops me.
　　"It's too late," she says.
　　This death I cannot bear.
　　"No," I moan.
　　"You see I did not want to harm the child. I just wanted to protect him from the Setians."
　　"That's why you came into this world?"
　　"Yes." She raises her left hand and touches my hair. "And to be your daughter."
　　The tears on my face are so red. They will stain my skin, I think, and I will carry the burden of this loss the rest of my days, out where people can see it. I want to bury my face in her chest but I am afraid I will hurt her more. So I take the hand she touches me with and I kiss it.
　　"I should have listened to you," I say.
　　"Yes."
　　"You never hurt the police, did you?"
　　"No."
　　"And you knew Eric had a fatal illness?"
　　"Yes. His suffering would have been worse if I had not killed him."
　　My voice is choked. "You should have told me."
　　This amuses her. "You hear what you wish. You are more human than you know. But that is your greatest strength as well. Krishna loves all humanity as his children."
　　"Who is the child, Kalika? Is he Krishna? Is he Christ?"
　　Her voice is weak, her gaze far away. "He is like me, the essence of all things. A name, a title, does not describe him. Divisions are for men. God knows only one being."
　　"Does the child need my help to survive?"
　　She is a long time answering. Her eyes are focused on the ceiling.
　　"You will help him. That is why you were born."
　　Sobs rack my body. "All this time you never lied to me."
　　That makes her look at me. "Once I did. When I told you I would not let you stand in my way to the child." A spasm shakes her body and I hear her heart skip as she begins to die. "I could never hurt you, Sita."
　　"How do I stop Ory?"
　　"Your age-old weapons, strength and cunning, will not do it."
　　"But what will?"
　　"Faith is stronger than stone," she whispers.
　　"The scripture." I am confused. "But it spoke against you."
　　That makes her smile. "Parts Suzama wrote. Parts Ory wrote to make it look like Suzama's writing."
　　"The papyrus about you was of a different texture."
　　"Yes. You cannot believe everything you read, even when it is supposed to be scripture." A convulsion suddenly grips her body and her back arches off the floor. My tears are a river. Five thousand years of life and death have not prepared me for this. To see my own daughter die, all because of me-how cruel the irony is. Yet Kalika, with her failing strength, pulls my hand down and kisses my fingers. "Words cannot inspire faith. Only love can destroy the maya."
　　"Is this just an illusion to you? Even your own death?"
　　She squeezes my hand and her eyes are bright.
　　"You are no illusion. I really am your daughter." A sigh escapes her lips and her eyes close. Inside her chest I hear her heart stop, but there is air left in her lungs, and she says in that special soft voice of hers, "I love you, Mother."
　　Those are her last words.
　　She is gone, back to the abyss from which she came.
　　
　　Another death, another farewell, waits for me on the shore, on the beach beneath Paula's house. There I find Dr. Seter slumped against a stone wall, his skin the blue color of a failing cardiac patient's. Seymour and Paula are nowhere to be seen. Dr. Seter has had a major heart attack and I do not have to stretch my imagination to figure out how he got it. James returned with the child and revealed that he was not a nice and kind son, after all. As I kneel beside the doctor, he opens his eyes and gasps for air.
　　"You're bleeding," he says.
　　I am soaked with blood but I am no longer bleeding.
　　"I am all right." I put a hand on his chest and feel his erratic pulse. "Can I get you a doctor?" I know that will not help him, and am relieved when he shakes his head.
　　"I am finished," he says, and his face is so sad. "I never knew."
　　"I didn't either."
　　He is bitter. "Suzama lied to us both."
　　"No. Most of the scripture was true. James only created the part that dealt with Kalika." I pause. "She was my daughter."
　　He is amazed. "Where is she now?"
　　"On the island. She's dead." I sigh. "We were fools."
　　He weeps for my pain. "I was the fool. It was my arrogance that made me believe God was giving me visions. That I understood the mind of God." He coughs. "James put those dreams in my mind. He led me to the scripture."
　　I nod. "He led you to where he buried it."
　　"But why would he do these things? How could he do them?"
　　"He was never your son. He only came into your life to use you. He possesses the body of the young man we see. He is neither young nor is he human. Please do not blame yourself, Dr. Seter. I fought with this creature long ago and I did not recognize him. If anyone is to blame it is I."
　　He stares up at me. "Who are you, Alisa?"
　　"I am your friend." I hug him. "And I will get the child back."
　　My words seem to comfort him. He dies a minute later but there is peace written on his face. He was a good man, I know.
　　Paula stands behind me.
　　"Sita," she says gently.
　　I turn and look at her. Around her neck she wears a blue scarf with gold threads running through it. These threads make a wonderful design, but I am in too much of hurry to pay it much heed. Letting go of Dr. Seter, I stand and step to her side.
　　"I know where the enemy is taking your child," I say.
　　She nods. She believes me, she always has. Such faith.
　　"Your friend," she says.
　　I grab her arms. "Seymour!"
　　She nods her head to the side. "He is out front. He has been shot."
　　"Is he dead?" I ask.
　　She hesitates. "He is close."
　　I gaze at the small island in the center of Emerald Bay. I had swum back ashore. It had not been easy to leave my daughter's body.
　　"Find a boat," I say to Paula. "That was my daughter who took your child, but she was only trying to protect him. Her body is on the island, in the house. Please bring her back here and wrap her in a blanket until I return." I turn away. "I will take care of Seymour."
　　She stops me. "I will help you with your friend first."
　　I shake my head. "No, Paula. I have to be alone with him to help him."
　　There are tears in her eyes. "Your daughter gave her life to save John?"
　　"Yes. She gave more than any of us knew."
　　
　　Seymour lies on his side in a pool of blood fifty yards up the hill from Paula's house, wedged cruelly between two large rocks. James had shot him in the stomach. One close-range blast was enough. He is unconscious and slipping away fast. The child is gone, and this time I do not have the mystery and magic of the universe in a convenient vial in my pocket. The only way I can save him is to grant his oldest wish. That I will do for him because I love him, and I know Krishna will forgive me. Indeed, if I can only find the child again, and give him a chance to grow old enough to understand me, then I can ask him to take away my vow. Leaning over, I open a vein and whisper in Seymour's ear.
　　"Now, old buddy, just because you're going to be a vampire doesn't mean you automatically get to sleep with me. We'll have to date first."
　　I give him my blood. It is all I have to give.
   
   18
　　
　　The next evening, at sunset, I arrive at the gruff in the desert where the child was conceived. The tall Joshua trees stand around me like guards that would offer me help if they could. But there is no one to help me. Even my own strength and cunning cannot aid me if I am to believe my daughter and Suzama.
　　I have brought the dagger James stuck into me.
　　It is my only weapon, pitiful as it is.
　　Faith is stronger than stone.
　　James will not simply murder the child. The divine blood is as important to a demon as it is to a saint. Only the two do not make the same use of it. I know he will have to bring the child to this spot.
　　He did not locate the Suzama Center in Palm Springs, so close to this place, by coincidence. Plus my old friend has said as much.
　　Then the place of sanctity will be defiled by red stars, and only the innocent will see the blue light of heaven.
　　Am I the innocent? At the moment I feel far from it. I know Kalika told me that my thoughts blinded me but I still cannot stop thinking how she let James get so close to the child when she clearly knew what he was and where he was. Of course it could be argued that I stopped her from fleeing, yet in the last minutes of her mysterious life she was content to quit running and sit and play with the child to let what was to be be. James clearly used me to defeat Kalika; he could not have done it alone. Yet Kalika let herself be defeated. Was it because she wished to fulfill the ancient prophecy?
　　There the dark forces will once again converge on him, but a powerful angel of mistaken color will rescue him only to lose him again.
　　No one mistook Kalika more than her own mother.
　　But what am I to do now?
　　The rest is a mystery.
　　For once, I wish Suzama had hinted a little more.
　　What am I to have faith in? I do not miss the fact that Suzama placed faith and stone together in the same sentence, since it was Ory's control of the earth element that allowed him to defeat me the last time. All right, I have faith in the child. He seems like a cute little guy with incredible vibes and a darling smile. I love him, I really do, and I only got to hold him for a short time. But what am I supposed to do with this faith? It seems I should be able to use it somehow.
　　The sun slowly sets. The stars come out.
　　The moon has yet to rise.
　　I stare at the stars and pray for them to help me.
　　Then I realize something quite extraordinary.
　　The last time I went to see Suzama, she was wearing a blue scarf that had gold threads woven in it deputing the constellations in the sky, both the northern and the southern sky. Last night Paula was wearing a blue scarf as well, also woven with a pattern in gold thread. In fact, the more I think about it, the more convinced I am that the scarves are identical.
　　I am hardly given a chance to wonder how that could be possible.
　　Because something strange starts to happen.
　　The more I visualize those hauntingly beautiful star patterns in Suzama's scarf the brighter the stars above me grow. And what is even stranger is that this experience has already been described to me by Paula.
　　"The sky was filled with a million stars. They were so bright! I could have been in outer space.... It was almost as if I had been transported to another world, inside a huge star cluster, and was looking up at its nighttime sky."
　　The stars grow so bright I can feel their energy on the top of my head, streaming down into my whole body. One star in particular, a bright blue one straight overhead, seems to soar in brilliance as I look up and concentrate on it. It grows in size. It could be a blue saucer racing toward the earth. A high-pitched sound starts to vibrate through the area. Paula's words are still in my mind.
　　"The rays of the star pierced my eyelids. The sound pierced my ears. I wanted to scream. Maybe I was screaming. But I don't think I was in actual physical pain. It was more as if I was being transformed."
　　I think I am screaming too. This is how it felt when the moon would pour into the top of my head and turn me into a nice friendly ghost that could float off on the desert wind. But this vibration is thousands of times more intense. It feels as if the starlight is irradiating the nerve fibers in my spinal cord, changing them into magnetic circuits on a cosmic grid, a stellar system of communication and propulsion that has been there since the beginning of time, even though no one imagined it existed. I only have to want to plug into it to be able to use it. At the same time, I don't know if I am in physical distress. Blissful terror is a better expression for it; the entire experience is destroying everything that I thought is me, and yet there is relief in the destruction as well. But just when I think I will either explode or turn into a galactic android, it stops.
　　Unlike Paula I do not black out.
　　I am suddenly floating high above the desert.
　　In a glistening blue body.
　　It is very nice. This body, this state of being, carries none of the burdens of the physical realm. I am quite content just to float around with the stars. I can still see the desert far below, the rolling hills of sand, the edges of the shadows of the tall Joshuas shimmering under the intoxicating rays of the galaxy's stars. I realize then how crucial a role the stars play in our lives, their constant subtle influence bubbles on the edges of energy fields we are unaware we possess. Yet I do not think about it too much because I cannot be bothered thinking.
　　After some time I become aware that there is a highly dense bundle of red energy descending from above. Just the sight of it fills me with revulsion and I want to get out of its way. It is the opposite of what I am; it is neither love nor bliss. I desire to avoid it at all costs and I know that I merely have to will myself to be gone.
　　It is only then that I fully remember who I am.
　　The transformation had caused me momentary amnesia.
　　I remember why I have come to the desert. The child.
　　Far below me, I see James holding the baby. He is encapsulated in the same red light, but the baby glows in his arms like a tiny blue star. My awareness goes up and down, back and forth between them. As the red energy bundle comes closer I see that it is taking on substance, gaining the vague shape of a flying saucer. It seems as if from an unseen realm I am presented with a choice. I can try to enter this ship, in my blue body, and stop what is being planned by the Setians, or I can simply float away and be happy. Yet if I choose the former course, there is danger. I can become trapped, I sense. My very soul can be chained in a place of demons.
　　Because if I go into the ship I will have to go into a demon.
　　The choice, the universe seems to say, is mine.
　　I think of Kalika then, of her great sacrifice.
　　This thought makes the choice for me.
　　I float into the ship.
　　It is a vessel of serpents. There are six of them, big ugly brutes with long tails and scaly hides, thick snouts and cold, dead eyes, all sitting around a square viewing port and each manipulating controls of some kind. But one is clearly in charge. Besides being the largest, he has the most highly charged energy field. He is like a swollen red sun from the wrong side of the galaxy. And I know he is the one I have to attack.
　　In a moment I am inside his body.
　　His mind. What a pit it is.
　　This is a true Setian, a genuine demon. His lusts and passions seem to spin in a vortex, yet he is highly intelligent and has worked long and hard to attain the rank he now holds. He is being sent by his superiors on this important mission to bring back the human avatar, the crowning jewel of all prizes. If he is successful, he will be given an opportunity to consume the energy of the child with his masters. His name is Croka and he lives off the emotions of hate and fear. They are food to him as humans are food to him. He can consume the holy child and be strengthened by him. On his home world, I see that black ceremonies will be performed to prepare the feast.
　　But Croka is not yet aware that I am in his mind.
　　The ship lands in the desert and the six Setians climb out into the night air. Still inside Croka I move with them. Yet I know this ship, these creatures even, are not really physical. The average human, if he or she were to pass this spot, would see nothing, yet he or she would most certainly feel a great dread. Simply to be inside Croka's mind is a torture as great as any that I have ever known. It is as bad as seeing my own daughter die. Yet I am now determined that her death will not be in vain.
　　James can see the Setians. He bows as they sit in a semicircle around him. He stands respectfully, the child in his hands. Little John gazes at them in wonder, the red light cracking and sparking around his blue aura. Clearly the baby can see them, yet he does not cry out. The reptilian Setians are large; even though they are sitting, their ugly heads rise above James's. The one farthest from Croka bids James bring the child closer. It seems the monster wants to gloat over it, paw it even, and this to me is unbearable. Yet I know the creature will not really harm it. The feast is planned for later, on the Setian hell planet.
　　James brings the child to each beast, and each one pokes at it a bit. The child does not cry out and this seems to annoy both the visitors and James. Finally it is brought to Croka, but before he can touch it my eyes fasten on the child's eyes, and so, in effect, the Setian commander's eyes are also focused, against his will actually, on the same spot, on the profound gaze of the infant. It is only then that Croka becomes aware that I am sitting deep within his mind, and I understand that this is the moment of greatest danger. For Croka, like most advanced Setians, is a master of seedling, the manipulation of will, and I feel his furious will suddenly rise up against mine.
　　He reaches for me too late, because I already have the kavach of the child's gaze, the armor or protection of the avatar, and seedling loses all power in the presence of a saint. Like Ory of old, Croka carries a dagger in his silver belt, and I reach for it with Croka's own arm. Before the Setian can stop me, before James even knows what I am up to, I stab the blade in James's left eye.
　　Then all at once I am back in my vampiric body.
　　Back in the desert with only James and the child standing before me. The saucer and the Setians appear to be gone. But James is in pain, and I realize that I have already stabbed his own knife into his eye. Well, I think, this time I must have come out of nowhere on him. Quickly, before he can recover, I withdraw the knife and poke it in his other eye, effectively blinding him. He howls in pain and the blood that pours from his wounds is black and foul smelling.
　　He drops the child and puts his hands over his torn eyes.
　　I catch the child before he hits the ground and set him down gently.
　　Then I turn back to James.
　　"Jimmy," I say sweetly, "where do you want me to put the poison? It is a new and improved brand. Guaranteed to kill even a slimy lizard like you."
　　He swings at me with his right arm and misses, spinning helplessly in front of me, and I stab the knife in his spine behind his heart, just where he shot my daughter. Screaming in agony, he falls to his knees and bows his head. His flaying hands desperately strain to pull out the knife but I know just how powerful the poison is, soaked deep in the folds of the blade itself. He is already doomed.
　　"Sita," he gasps. "You don't understand what this moment means to this part of the galaxy. You can't interfere."
　　I laugh. "Are you talking about your lizard friends? They are probably still here right now. I'm sure they are, but they don't have a physical body like mine. They have to work through scummy agents like you. And right now their poor agent can't even see well enough to tie his own shoes. Oh my."
　　His face is a mass of black blood. Yet it is as if he is weeping.
　　"You can't do this," he says. "This night was planned for ages."
　　I kick him and he cries out again.
　　"Yeah?" I say. "Who planned tonight for ages? Not Suzama. Not me. I just wish there were a swarm of flies here and I had the luxury of killing you slowly. But I have other things to do right now." I grab him by his mane of messy hair and pull his head back, exposing his throat. "This, I am going to enjoy."
　　"Wait!" he cries. "I have not completed my mission! I will not be allowed to transfer to another body!"
　　I pull out the dagger impaled in his spine.
　　"James," I say. "I honestly don't care."
　　"Stop!" he screams. "I don't want to die!"
　　Ah, there is a divine sweetness to total revenge.
　　God might not agree but I would argue the point.
　　"Then you should never have been born," I say.
　　His blood, when I open his neck, flows like black ink.
　　There is a loud hiss in my ear. The wind tugs at my hair.
　　A flash of red light momentarily blurs the stars.
　　The Setians have left, and in a hurry.
　　I let go of James and he falls dead on the sand.
　　Drawing in a deep breath of fresh air, I laugh out loud.
　　The child laughs with me as I carry him back to the road.
　　I think he likes me. Really, he is so cute.



1

CP.Phantom

  1
　　
　　Someone knocks at the door of the Las Vegas home where I stand. It is late evening; the living room is dimly lit, four walls of blurred shadows. I don't know who this person is. For that matter, I'm not sure who I am. I have just awakened from a dead alchemist's experiment. My mind is foggy and my nerves are shot. But before I embarked on the experiment, only hours ago, I was a steel-willed vampire-the last vampire on earth. Now I fear-and hope-that I may once again be human. That I may be a young woman named Alisa, the humble offspring of a five-thousand-year-old monster called Sita. The person continues to knock. "Open the door," he says impatiently. "It's me." Who is me? I wonder. I do not recognize the voice, although it does sound familiar. Yet I hesitate to obey, even to respond. Of those few I call friends, only Seymour Dorsten is supposed to know I am in this Las Vegas home. My other friends-well, a couple recently perished in the Nevada desert, in a nuclear blast. A lot has been happening in the last few days, and most of it has been my doing.
　　"Sita," the person outside the door says. "I know you're in there."
　　Curious, I think. He knows my ancient name. He even says it like he knows me. But why doesn't he tell me his name? I could ask him, but some emotion stops me. It is one I have seldom known in my five thousand years.
　　Fear. I stare down at my hands.
　　I tremble with fear. If I am human, I know, I am practically defenseless. That is why I do not want to open the door. I do not want to die before I have had a chance to taste mortality. Before I have had the opportunity to have a child. That is perhaps the primary reason I employed Arturo's alchemetic tools to reverse my vampirism-to become a mother. Yet I am still not a hundred percent sure the experiment has succeeded. I reach down with the nails of my right hand and pinch my left palm. The flesh breaks; there is a line of blood. I stare at it.
　　The wound does not immediately heal.
　　I must be human. Lord Krishna save me.
　　The knocking stops. The person outside takes a step back from the door. I hear his movements, even with my mediocre human ears. He seems to chuckle to himself.
　　"I understand, Sita," he says. "It's all right. I'll return soon."
　　I hear him walk away. Only then do I realize I have been standing in the dark with my breath held. Almost collapsing from relief, I sag against the door and try to calm my thumping heart. I am both confused and exalted.
　　"I am human," I whisper to myself.
　　Tears roll over my face. I touch them with my quivering tongue. They are clear and salty, not dark and bloody. Another sign that I am human. Moving slowly, striving to maintain my balance, I step to the living room couch and sit down. Looking around, I marvel at how blurred everything is, and wonder if the experiment has damaged my eyesight. But then I realize I must be seeing things as a human sees, which means to see so little. Why, I can't even distinguish the grain in the wood panel on the far wall. Nor can I hear the voices of the people in the cars that pass outside. I am virtually blind and deaf.
　　"I am human," I repeat in wonder. Then I begin to laugh, to cry some more, and to wonder what the hell I'm going to do next. Always, as a vampire, I could do anything I wished. Now I doubt if I will ever leave the house.
　　I pick up the remote and turn on the TV. The news-they are talking about the hydrogen bomb that exploded in the desert the previous night. They say it destroyed a top-secret military base. The wind was blowing away from Las Vegas so the fallout should be almost nonexistent. They don't say anything about me, however, even though I was there and witnessed the whole thing. The experts wonder if it was an accident. They don't connect it to the mass police killings I committed in Los Angeles a few days earlier. They are not very imaginative, I think. They don't believe in vampires.
　　And now there are no more vampires to believe in.
　　"I beat you, Yaksha," I say aloud to my dead creator, the vampire who sucked my blood five thousand years ago and replaced it with his own mysterious Quids. "It took me a long time but now I can go back to an ordinary life."
　　Yet my memories are not ordinary. My mind is not either, although I suddenly realize I am having trouble remembering many things that hours ago were clear. Has my identity changed with my body? What percentage of personal ego is constructed from memory? True, I still remember Krishna, but I can no longer see him in my mind's eye as I could before. I forget even the blue of his eyes-that unfathomable blue, as dear as the most polished star in the black heavens. The realization saddens me. My long life has been littered with pain, but also much joy. I do not want it to be forgotten, especially by me.
　　"Joel," I whisper. "Arturo."
　　I will not forget them. Joel was an FBI agent, a friend I made into a vampire in order to save his life. An alteration that caused him to die from a nuclear bomb. And Arturo, another friend, a hybrid of humanity and vampires from the Middle Ages, my personal priest, my passionate lover, and the greatest alchemist in history. It was Arturo who forced me to detonate the bomb, and destroy him and Joel, but my love for him is still warm and near. I only wish he were with me now to see what miracle his esoteric knowledge has wrought. But would the vampire blood-obsessed Arturo have still loved my human body? Yes, dear Arturo, I believe so. I still believe in you.
　　Then there was Ray, my Rama reincarnated. My memories of him will never fade, I swear, even if my human brain eventually grows forgetful. My love for Ray is not a human or vampire creation. It is beyond understanding, eternal, even though he himself is dead. Killed trying to kill a demon, the malignant Eddie Fender. There are worse reasons to die, I suppose. I still remember more than a few of them.
　　Yet, at the moment, I do not want to dwell on the past.
　　I just want to be human again. And live.
　　There comes another knock at the front door.
　　I become very still. How quickly frightened a human can become.
　　"Sita," this person calls. "It's me, Seymour. Can I come in?"
　　This voice I definitely recognize. Standing with effort, I walk to the front door and undo the lock and chain. Seymour stands on the porch and stares at me. He wears the same thick glasses and hopelessly mismatched clothes of the high school nerd I met in a stupid PE class only a few months before. His face changes as he studies me; his expression turns to one of alarm. He has trouble speaking.
　　"It worked," he gasps.
　　I smile and open the door all the way. "It worked. Now I am like you. Now I am free of the curse."
　　Seymour shakes his head as he steps in the house and I close the door. He liked me as a vampire, I know. He wanted me to make him a vampire, to poison him through the metamorphosis, an act that was strictly forbidden by Krishna five thousand years ago. Now Seymour is upset. Unable to sit, he paces in front of me. There are unshed tears in his eyes.
　　"Why did you do it?" he demands. "I didn't think you would really do it."
　　I force my smile wider and spread my arms. "But you knew I would. And I want you to be happy for me." I gesture for him to come to me. "Give me a hug, and this time I won't be able to squeeze you to death."
　　He hugs me, reluctantly, and as he does so he finally does shed his tears. He has to turn away; he is having trouble breathing. Naturally his reaction upsets me.
　　"It's gone," he says to the far wall.
　　"What's gone?"
　　"The magic is gone."
　　I speak firmly. "It is only Yaksha's blood that has been destroyed. Maybe you don't like that. Maybe your fantasies of being a vampire are ruined. But think of the world-it is safe now from this curse. And only you and I know how close it came to being destroyed by it."
　　But Seymour shakes his head as he glances at me. "I am not worried about my own personal fantasies. Yeah, sure, I wanted to be a vampire. What eighteen-year-old wouldn't want to be one? But the magic is gone. You were that magic."
　　My cheek twitches; his words wound me. "I am still here. I am still Alisa."
　　"But you are no longer Sita. The world needed her in order to be a place of mystery. Even before I met you, I knew you. You know I knew you. I wrote my stories late at night and your darkness filled them." He hung his head. "Now the world is empty. It's nothing."
　　I approach and touch his arm. "My feelings for you have not changed. Are they nothing? Good God, Seymour, you speak to me as if I were dead."
　　He touches my hand but now it is hard for him to look at me. "Now you will die."
　　"All who are born die," I say, quoting Krishna. "All who are dead will be reborn. It is the nature of things."
　　He bites his lower lip and stares at the floor. "That's easy to say but it's not easy to live through. When you met me, I had AIDS. My death was certain-it was all I could see. It was like a slow-motion horror film that never ended. It was only your blood that saved me." He pauses. "How many others could it have saved?"
　　"Now you sound like Arturo."
　　"He was a brilliant man."
　　"He was a dangerous man."
　　Seymour shrugs. "You always have an answer for everything. I can't talk to you."
　　"But you can. I'm a good listener. But you have to listen as well. You have to give me a chance to explain how I feel. I'm happy the experiment has succeeded. It means more to me than you can imagine. And I'm happy there's no going back."
　　He catches my eye. "Is that true?"
　　"You know it is true. There is no more vampire blood, anywhere. It's over." I squeeze his arm and pull him closer. "Let it be over. I need you now, you know, more than I needed you before." I bury my face in his shoulder. "You have to teach me how to be a nerd."
　　My small joke makes him chuckle. "Can we have sex now?" he asks.
　　I raise my head and plant a wet kiss on his cheek. "Sure. When we're both a little older." I shake him, but not so hard as I used to. "How dare you ask me a question like that? We haven't been on a date yet."
　　He tries hard to accept the loss of his world, the death of his magic. He forces a smile. "There's a vampire movie in town. We could see it, and eat popcorn, and jeer, and then have sex afterward." He waits for an answer. "It's what most nerd couples do every Saturday evening."
　　I suddenly remember. It has taken me this long. There must be something wrong with my mind. I turn away and swear under my breath. "Damn."
　　"What is it?" he asks. "You don't like popcorn?"
　　"We have to get out of town. We have to leave now."
　　"Why?"
　　"There was someone here a few minutes ago. A young man-he was knocking at the door."
　　"Who was it?"
　　"I don't know. I didn't open the door. But this guy-he called me by name. He called me Sita. He kept insisting I open the door."
　　"Why didn't you?"
　　"Because I didn't know who he was! Because I'm human now!" I pause and frown. "His voice sounded familiar. I swear, I knew it, but I just can't place it."
　　"What makes you think he's dangerous?"
　　"Do you have to ask that question? No one alive, except you, knows me by the name Sita." I stop again. "He said he would come back. He laughed as he said it. He sounded so sure of himself."
　　"What else did he say?"
　　"He called himself my darling."
　　Seymour was thoughtful. "Could Arturo have survived the blast?"
　　"No."
　　"But he was a hybrid. Half human, half vampire. It's possible. Don't dismiss the possibility."
　　I shake my head. "Even Yaksha could not have survived that blast."
　　"But you did."
　　"I floated away at the last minute. You know, I told you." I turn toward the kitchen, my car keys. "The sooner we leave the better."
　　Seymour grabs my arm. "I disagree. You have said there are no more vampires. What do we have to fear from this person? Better we stay and find out who he is."
　　I consider. "The government must have known Arturo was using this house. Such records were probably kept somewhere else besides the army base I destroyed. The government might be watching this house now."
　　"But you said you knew this person."
　　"I'm not sure about that. There was something in his voice, though ..."
　　"What?" Seymour demands when I don't finish.
　　I strain to remember through my newfound human fog. "His tone-it gave me a chill."
　　Seymour acts like a wise guy. "In the real world not everybody who comes to the front door wants to kill you. Some guys just want to sell you a vacuum cleaner."
　　I remain stubborn. "We're getting out of here now." Grabbing the keys off the kitchen table, I peer out the back window and see nothing significant. In the distance, the lights of the Strip come alive and shimmer, colored beacons in a desert wasteland. A nuclear bomb just exploded but human vice will not be postponed. Of course the wind was blowing the other way, but I do not judge. I have always been a gambler. I understand better than most why the atomic dice did not betray the city of sin. Why the fallout fell the other way. Still, I swear again. "Damn. I wish I had my old vision right now. Just for a minute."
　　"And I bet your old hearing." Seymour comes up at my side and pats me on the back. "You're going to make that same wish a lot of times in the next few days."
   
   2
　　
　　I own houses all over the world, some modest places to relax when I enter a foreign country in search of fresh blood, others so extravagant one would think I was an Arabian princess. My home in Beverly Hills, where we drive after leaving Las Vegas, is one of the most opulent ones. As we enter the front door, Seymour stares in wonder.
　　"If we stay here," he says, "I have to get new clothes."
　　"You can have the clothes, but we're not staying. Ray's father knew about this house, so the government might as well. We're just here to get money, credit cards, clothes, and fresh identification."
　　Seymour is doubtful. "The government knew you were at the compound. They'll think you died in the blast."
　　"They'll have to know for sure that I died. They were obsessed with my blood, so they'll research every possible lead concerning me." I step to the window and peer outside. It is the middle of the night. "They may be watching us now."
　　Seymour shrugs. "Are you going to get me fresh ID?"
　　I glance at him. "You should go home."
　　He shakes his head firmly. "I'm not going to leave you. Forget it. I mean, you don't even know how to be human."
　　I step past him. "We can discuss this later. We don't want to be here a minute more than we have to be."
　　In the basement of my Beverly Hills home, I pick up the things I mentioned to Seymour. I also take a 9mm Smith & Wesson equipped with a silencer and several rounds of ammunition. My reflexes and vision are not what they used to be, but I believe I am still an excellent shot. All my supplies I load into a large black leather suitcase. I am surprised how much it weighs as I carry it back upstairs. My physical weakness is disconcerting.
　　I don't let Seymour see the gun.
　　We leave Beverly Hills and drive toward Santa Monica. I let Seymour drive; the speed of the surrounding cars disturbs me. It is as if I am a young woman from 3000 B.C. who has been plucked from her slow-paced world and dumped into the dizzyingly fast twentieth century. I tell myself I just need time to get used to it. My euphoria over being human remains, but the anxiety is there as well.
　　Who was at the door?
　　I can't imagine. Not even a single possibility comes to mind. But there was something about that voice.
　　We check into a Sheraton hotel by the beach. My new name is Candice Hall. Seymour is just a friend helping me with my bags. I don't put his name down on the register. I will not stay Candice long. I have other ID that I can change my hair style and color to match, as well as other small features. Yet I feel safe as I close the door of the hotel room behind me. Since Las Vegas, I have kept an eye on the rearview mirror. I don't believe we've been followed. Seymour sets my bag on the floor as I plop down on the bed and sigh.
　　"I haven't felt this exhausted in a long time," I say.
　　Seymour sits beside me. "We humans are always tired."
　　"I am going to enjoy being human. I don't care what you say."
　　He stares at me in the dimly lit room. "Sita?"
　　I close my eyes and yawn. "Yes?"
　　"I am sorry what I said. If this makes you happy, then it makes me happy."
　　"Thank you."
　　"I just worry, you know, that there's no going back."
　　I sit up and touch his leg. "The decision would have been meaningless if I could have gone back."
　　He understands my subtle meaning. "You didn't do this because of what Krishna said to you about vampires?" he asks.
　　I nod. "I think partly. I don't think Krishna approved of vampires. I think he just allowed me to live out of his deep compassion for all living things."
　　"Maybe there was another reason."
　　"Perhaps." I touch his face. "Did I ever tell you how dear you are to me?"
　　He smiles. "No. You were always too busy threatening to kill me."
　　I feel a stab of pain. It is in my chest, where a short time ago a stake pierced my heart. For a moment the area is raw with an agonizing burning, as if I am bleeding to death. But it is a brief spasm. I draw in a shuddering breath and speak in a sad voice.
　　"I always kill the ones I love."
　　He takes my hand. "That was before. It can be different now that you're not a monster."
　　I have to laugh, although it is still not easy to take a deep breath. "Is that a line you use to get a girl to go to bed with you?"
　　He leans closer. "I already have you in bed."
　　I roll onto my side. "I need to take a shower. We both need to rest."
　　He draws back, disappointed. "You haven't changed that much."
　　I stand and fluff up his hair, trying to cheer him up. "But I have. I'm a nineteen-year-old girl again. You just forget what monsters teenage girls can be."
　　He is suddenly moved. "I never knew the exact age you were when Yaksha changed you."
　　I pause and think of Rama, my long dead husband, and Lalita, my daughter, cremated fifty centuries ago in a place I was never to know.
　　"Yes," I say softly. "I was almost twenty when Yaksha came for me." And because I was suspended so long between the ages, I add again, "Almost."
　　An hour later Seymour is fast asleep beside me on the king-size bed. But despite my physical exhaustion, my mind refuses to shut down. I can't be free of the images of Joel's and Arturo's faces from two nights earlier when I suddenly began to turn to light, to dissolve, to leave them just before the bomb was detonated. At the time I knew I was dead. It was a certainty. Yet one last miracle occurred and I lived on. Perhaps there was a reason.
　　I climb out of bed and dress. Before leaving the hotel room, I load my pistol and tuck it in my belt, at the back, pulling my sweatshirt over it.
　　The hotel is located on Ocean Ave. I cross over it, and the Coast Highway that separates me from the ocean. Soon I am walking along the dark and foggy Santa Monica Beach, not the safest place to be in the early morning hours before the sun rises. Yet I walk briskly, heading south, paying little attention to my surroundings. What work it is to make my legs move over the sand! It is as if I walk with weights strapped around my ankles. Sweat drips in my eyes and I pant audibly. But I feel good as well. Finally, after thirty minutes of toil, my mind begins to relax, and I contemplate returning to the hotel and trying to sleep. It is only then that I become aware that two men are following me.
　　They are fifty yards behind me. In the dark it is hard to distinguish their features, but it is clear they are both Caucasian and well built, maybe thirty years old. They move like two good ol' boys, one dark featured, ugly, the other bright as a bottle of beer foaming in the sunlight. I think these boys have been drinking beer-and stronger-and are feeling uncomfortably horny. I smile to myself as I anticipate the encounter, even imagine what their blood will taste like. Then I remember I am not who I used to be. A wave of fear sweeps through my body, but I stand and wait for them to come to me.
　　"Hey, girl," the one with dark hair says with a Southern accent. "What are you doing out at this time of night?"
　　I shrug. "Just out for a walk. What are you guys up to?"
　　The blond guy snickers. "How old are you, girl?"
　　"Why?" I ask.
　　The dark-haired one moves slightly to my left. He flexes his fists as he speaks. "We just want to know if you're legal."
　　"I'm old enough to vote," I say. "Not old enough to drink. You boys been drinking tonight?"
　　They both chuckle. The blond guy moves a step closer. He smells of beer, whiskey. "You might say we've been looking at the wrong end of a few bottles tonight. But don't let that worry you none. We're still fully capable of finishing what we start."
　　I take a step back. Perhaps it's a mistake that I show fear. "I don't want any trouble," I say. And I mean it, although I feel as if I can still take them. After all, I am still a master of martial arts. A series of swift kicks to their groins, their jaws, should settle any unpleasantness. The dark-haired guy steps off to my left, and wipes at his slobbering mouth with the back of his arm.
　　"We don't want trouble either," he says. "We're just looking for a good time."
　　I catch his eye, and really do wish that my stare was still capable of burning into his brain. Seymour was right-my wishes have already settled into a pattern of wanting what I have lost. Yet I do my best to make my voice hard.
　　"Sometimes a good time can cost you," I say.
　　"I don't think so," the blond guy says. "You agree, John?"
　　"She looks like a freebie to me, Ed," John responds.
　　They've used their names in front of me. That is a bad sign. It means they're either too drunk to know better, or else they plan to kill me. The latter seems a distinct possibility since they clearly intend to rape me. I take another step back, and am tempted to reach for my gun. Yet I don't really want to kill them, especially since there is no need for their blood. Knocking them unconscious is my preference.
　　Actually, it is my second preference. Surviving is my first.
　　"If you touch me I'll scream," I warn them.
　　"No one's going to hear you down here," John says as he reaches out to grab me. "Take her, Ed!"
　　They go for me simultaneously, John close on my left, Ed three feet in front of me. But it is John who reaches me first. He has pretty good reflexes for a drunk. Before I can twist away, he catches me in a bear hug. Briefly I struggle, and then go limp. When Ed closes within two feet, however, I shove back against John and jump up, lifting both my feet off the ground. Lashing out with the right, I catch Ed in the groin. He shouts in pain and doubles up.
　　"The bitch got me!" he complains.
　　"Goddamn it!" John yells in my ear. "You're going to pay for that."
　　In response I slash backward and up with my left elbow. The blow catches John square on the jaw and his hold on me loosens as he staggers back. In an instant I am free. Since Ed is still bent over, I do him the favor of kicking him in the face, breaking his nose. He drops to his knees, his face dark with blood.
　　"Help me, John," he moans.
　　"Help him, John," I mock as John regains his balance and glares at me with death in his eyes. I gesture with my little finger. "Come on, John. Come and get your good-time girl."
　　John charges like a bull. I leap up and lash out with my left foot in order to kiss his jaw with the heel of my boot. The only trouble is that my timing and balance are all off. I have not risen far enough off the ground. Instead of striking him in the face, I hit him just above the heart, and the blow has not nearly the power I anticipated. John is a big man, over two hundred pounds. He grunts in pain as I strike but he doesn't stop. The momentum of his charge brushes aside my leg and now it is me who is suddenly off balance.
　　Frantically, I try to bring my left leg back in beneath me before I land but I am too late. With a thud, I topple on my right foot and hit the sand with the right side of my face. John is on me in a second, grabbing me from behind and pinning my arms midway up my spine. He's strong. My upper vertebrae feel as if they will explode. With his free hand he smacks me on the back of the head.
　　"You are one nasty bitch," he swears as he presses my face into the sand. Straining, I twist my head to the side so that I can breathe and see what is going to happen to me. "Ed, give me a hand with this whore. She looked like a good sport to begin with but I'm afraid when we're done pleasing ourselves we're going to have to bury her in this spot."
　　"Well let the crabs eat her," Ed agrees as he staggers over, still bleeding profusely from his smashed nose. Behind me, John reaches around for the button on my pants. That is something of a break because if he had just tried to pull my pants down from behind, he would have found the gun. Also, reaching around as he is, I realize, John is slightly off balance.
　　Digging in with my right knee and pushing off with the tip of my left foot, I shove up as hard as possible. The move catches John by surprise, and I momentarily break free and roll in the sand. But my freedom will be measured in fractions of a second if I don't take drastic action. Squirming onto my back, I see both John and Ed staring down at me with stupid grins. They look ten feet tall and as ugly as highway billboards. Together they reach for me.
　　"Wait!" I cry as I move my right hand slowly under my lower back. "If I lie still and cooperate will you please not hurt me?"
　　They pause to think about that. "You better lie still, bitch," John says finally. "But you've messed up my friend too much to just walk away from tonight."
　　"But we might give you a chance to crawl away," Ed says wiping at his bloody face and picking at his broken nose all in the same move.
　　"I won't leave here crawling," I say in a different tone of voice as my hand finds the butt of the gun. Leaning slightly to the left I whip it out and point it at the good ol' boys. They stare at it, frankly, as if they have never seen a gun before. Then they both take a step back. Maintaining my aim, I take my time getting back to my feet. I speak gently. "That's right boys," I say. "No sudden moves. No screams for help."
　　John chuckles uneasily. "Hey, you got us, girl. You got us good. We give you that. But you know we didn't mean you no harm. We just drank a little too much and didn't know what we were doing."
　　"We weren't going to hurt you none," Ed adds, sounding scared, as well he should. Still taking my time, I step within a foot of Ed and place the barrel of the gun between his eyebrows. His eyes get real big, and he wants to turn and run but I stop him with a faint shake of my head. To my left, John stands frozen in wonder and horror.
　　"You are both liars," I say in a cold voice. "You were not only going to rape me, you were going to kill me. Now I am going to kill you because you deserve to die. But you should be grateful I'm using a gun. A few nights ago I would have used my teeth and nails, and you would have died much slower." I pause. "Say goodbye to John, Ed."
　　Ed is consumed with murderer's remorse. "Please!" he says, his voice cracking. "I have a wife and kid back home. If I die, who will take care of them?"
　　"I've got two kids back home," John says passionately.
　　But I am unmoved. Being human has not made me more gullible.
　　Yet, I usually do not kill when I have the upper hand. I do not kill for pleasure. But I know these two will harm others in the future, and therefore it is better that they die now.
　　"It is better for your children not to grow up having to imitate trash like you," I say.
　　Ed's face is awash with tears. "No!" he cries.
　　"Yes," I say, and shoot him in the head. He falls hard.
　　I turn the gun on John, who slowly backs away, shaking his head.
　　"Have mercy," he pleads. "I don't want to die."
　　"Then you should never have been born," I reply.
　　I shoot him twice in the face. In the eyes.
　　Yet that is all I do. The ancient thirst is gone.
　　I leave their bodies for the crabs.
   
   3
　　
　　It is only on the way back that the shock of what has just happened overwhelms me. Ordinarily, killing a couple of jerks would occupy my mind for less than ten seconds. But now it is as if I feel the trauma in every cell. My reaction is entirely human. As I stumble off the beach and back onto Ocean Ave., I shake visibly. I scarcely notice that I'm still carrying the gun in my right hand. Chiding myself, I hide it under my sweatshirt. If I was in my right mind I would throw it in the ocean in case I'm stopped and searched. But I'm reluctant to part with the gun. I feel so vulnerable; it is like a safety blanket to me.
　　There is a coffee shop open three blocks from the sea. Staggering inside, I take a booth in the corner and order a cup of black coffee. It is only when the steaming beverage arrives, and I wrap my trembling hands around the mug, that I notice the faint mist of blood splattered on the front of my gray sweatshirt. It must be on my face as well, and I reach up and brush at my skin, coming away with red-stained palms. What a fool I am, I think, to be out like this in public. I am on the verge of leaving when someone walks in the coffee shop, heads straight to my table, and sits down across from me.
　　It is Ray Riley. The love of my life.
　　He is supposed to be dead.
　　He nods slightly as he settles across from me, and I am struck by the fact that he is dressed exactly as when he ignited the gasoline truck outside the warehouse filled with Eddie Fender's evil vampires and blew himself to pieces. When he sacrificed his life to save mine. He wears a pair of black pants, a short-sleeved white silk shirt, Nike running shoes. His brown eyes are warm as always, his handsome face serious even though he wears a gentle smile. Yes, it is Ray. It is a miracle, and the sight of him stirs so much emotion inside me that I feel almost nothing. I am in shock, pure and simple. I can only stare with damp eyes and wonder if I am losing my mind.
　　"I know this is a surprise for you," he says softly.
　　I nod. Yes. A surprise.
　　"I know you thought I was dead," he continues. "And I think I was dead, for a time. When the truck exploded, I saw a bright flash of light. Then everything went black and I felt as if I were floating in the sky. But I couldn't see anything, know anything, even though I was not in pain. I don't know how long this continued. Eventually I became aware of my body again, but it was as if I was at a great distance from it. The strange thing was, I could feel only parts of it: a portion of my head, one throbbing hand, a burning sensation in my stomach. That was all at first. But slowly, more parts woke up, and I finally began to realize someone was trying to revive me by feeding me blood." He pauses. "Do you understand?"
　　I nod again. I am a statue. "Eddie," I whisper.
　　A spasm of pain crosses Ray's face. "Yes. Eddie collected what was left of me, and took me away to some dark cold place. There he fed me his blood, Yaksha's blood. And I began to come back to life. But Eddie vanished before the process was complete, and I was left only half alive." He pauses again. "I assume you destroyed him?"
　　I nod again. "Yes."
　　He reaches across the table and takes my hands. His skin is warm, and it quiets the trembles that continue deep inside me. He continues his impossible tale, and I listen because I can do nothing more.
　　"Still, I continued to gain strength without Eddie's help. In a day-maybe it was two-I was able to move about. I was in a deserted warehouse, tied with rope. I had no trouble breaking out; and when I did I read about all the strange goings on in Las Vegas, and I knew you must be there." He stops. "It was me who was at the door."
　　I nod for a fourth time. No wonder the voice sounded familiar. "Why didn't you identify yourself?" I ask.
　　"I knew you wouldn't believe me until you saw me."
　　"That's true."
　　He squeezes my hands. "It's me, Sita. I've come back for you. It's Ray. Why can't you at least smile?"
　　I try to smile but I just end up shaking my head. "I don't know. You were gone. I knew you were gone. I had no hope." My eyes burn with tears. "And I don't know if I'm not just imagining this."
　　"You were never one to imagine things."
　　"But I'm no longer the one you knew." I withdraw my hands from his and clasp them together, trying to hold myself together. "I'm human now. The vampire is dead."
　　He is not surprised. "You let go of my hands too quickly, Sita. If you examine them, you will notice a change in me as well."
　　"What do you mean?" I gasp.
　　"I watched you at that house. I watched you enter it, and I watched you leave it. I knew you were not the same, and I wondered what had happened in there. I explored the house, and found the basement: the copper sheets, the crystals, the magnets, the vial of human blood." He pauses. "I performed the same experiment on myself. I am no longer a vampire either."
　　The shocks keep piling one on top of the other. I cannot cope. "How did you know what to do?" I whisper.
　　He shrugs. "What was there to know? The equipment was all set up. I just had to lie down and allow the vibration of the human blood to wash over my aura as the reflected sun shone through the vial of blood." He glances out the window. There is a kind of light in the east. "I did it this afternoon. Now the sunrise will no longer hurt me."
　　The tears in my eyes travel over my cheeks. My mind travels with them as my disbelief washes away. Swallowing thickly, I finally feel as if my body returns to my control. In a burst I realize I am not imagining anything. Ray is not dead! My love is alive! Now I can live my life! Leaning across the table, I kiss his lips. Then I brush his hair and kiss that as well. And I am happy, more happy than I can remember being in thousands of years.
　　"It is you," I whisper. "God, how can it be you?"
　　He laughs. "You have Eddie to thank."
　　I sit back down in my seat and feel my warm human heart pounding in my chest. My anxiety, my fear, my confusion-all these things have now transformed into a solitary glow of wonder. For a while now I have cursed Krishna for what he has done to me, and now I can only bow inside in gratitude. For I have no doubt Krishna has brought Ray back to me, not that monster Eddie Fender.
　　"Let's not even speak his name," I say. "I cut off his head and burned his remains. He is gone-he will never return." I pause. "I'm sorry."
　　He frowns. "What have you to be sorry for?"
　　"Assuming you were dead." I shrug. "Joel told me you were blown to pieces."
　　Ray sighs and looks down at his own hands. "He wasn't far wrong." He glances up. "I didn't see Joel at the house?"
　　My tower lips trembles. "He's dead."
　　"I'm sorry."
　　"We both have to stop saying that." I smile a sad smile. "I made him a vampire as well, trying to save him. But it just killed him in the end."
　　"Who created the equipment that transformed us back into human beings?"
　　"Arturo-old friend, from the Middle Ages. I was in love with him. He was an alchemist, the greatest who ever lived. He experimented with my blood and changed himself into a hybrid of a vampire and a human. That's how he was able to survive all these years." I lower my voice. "He died with Joel. He had to die."
　　Ray nods. One didn't have to explain every detail to him in order for him to understand. He knew Arturo must have still been after my blood; that he was dangerous. Ray understood that I could kill those I loved, as I had almost killed him. Ray reaches for my hand again.
　　"You have blood on you," he says. "Surely you're not still thirsty?"
　　"No, it's not like you think." I speak in a whisper. "Two men attacked me at the beach. I had to kill them." 
　　"I shot them in the head."
　　Now it is Ray's turn to be shocked. "We have to get out of here, away from here. Besides the government, you'll have the police after you too." He glances toward the door of the coffee shop. "I know you have Seymour with you."
　　I understand what he wants to say. "I have told him he has to go home."
　　"He won't want to leave you. You'll have to leave him."
　　"I have been thinking about that. I just don't know how to explain it to him."
　　Ray is sympathetic, but a curious note enters his voice. For a moment he sounds like I used to as the pragmatist.
　　"Don't explain it to him," he says. "Just leave him, and don't tell him where you're going."
　　"That seems harsh."
　　"No. You of all people know that to keep him with you will be harsh. You'll expose him to danger for no reason." He softens his tone. "You know I speak from experience."
　　"You're right. He's asleep at the hotel right now. I suppose I can sneak in, grab my things, and be away before he wakes up." But inside I know I will at least leave him a note. "Where are we going?"
　　It is Ray's turn to lean over and kiss me. "Sita, we can go anywhere we want. We can do anything we want." He whispers in my ear. "We can even get married and start a family if you want."
　　I have to laugh, and cry as well. My happiness lingers like the warmth of the sun after a perfect summer day. It is the winter outside, the darkness, that seems the illusion.
　　"I would like a daughter," I whisper, holding him close.
   
   4
　　
　　Two months later we are in Whittier, a suburb of Los Angeles, where the late President Nixon attended college. The city is largely middle class, completely nondescript, a perfect place, in Ray's opinion, to disappear. Certainly I have never been to Whittier before, nor harbored any secret desires to go there. We rent a plain three-bedroom house not far from a boring mall. Ray picked it out. There is a large backyard and an olive tree in the front yard. We buy a second-hand car and purchase our groceries at a Vons down the street I have lived five thousand years to do all these things.
　　Yet my happiness has not faded with the passage of the eight weeks. Sleeping beside Ray, walking with him in the morning, sitting beside him in a movie-these simple acts mean more to me than all the earth-shattering deeds I have accomplished since I was conceived beneath Yaksha's bloody bite. It is all because I am human, I know, and in love. How young love makes me feel. How lovely are all humans. Shopping at the mall, in the grocery store, I often find myself stopping to stare at people. For too long I admired them, despised them, and envied them, and now I am one of them. The hard walls of my universe have collapsed. Now I see the sun rise and feel the space beyond it, not just the emptiness. The pain in my heart, caused by the burning stake, has finally healed. The void in my chest has been filled.
　　Especially when I discover that I am pregnant.
　　It happens the early morning of the full moon, two months after the nuclear bomb detonated in the desert beneath a previous full moon. A fifteen-dollar early pregnancy kit tells me the good news. I shake the blue test tube in the bathroom and Ray comes running when I let out a loud cry. What is the matter, he wants to know? I am shaking-there must be something wrong. I don't even get a chance to show him my blue urine because I accidentally spill it all over him. He gets the picture and laughs with me, and at me.
　　I am at the bookstore later the same day, browsing through the baby books, when I meet Paula Ramirez. A pretty young woman of twenty-five, she has long black hair as shiny as her smooth complexion and a belly larger than her enchanting brown eyes. Obviously she is expecting, much sooner than I am. I smile at her as she juggles six different baby books in one arm, white reaching for another with her free hand.
　　"You know," I say. "Women were having kids long before there were books, it's a natural process." I put my own book back on the shelf. "Anyway, I don't think any of these authors know what the hell they're talking about"
　　She nods at my remark. "Are you pregnant?"
　　"Yes. And so are you, unless I'm bond." I offer my hand, and because I like her, without even knowing her, I tell her one of my more real names. Even as a human, I often trust my intuition. "I'm Alisa."
　　She shakes my hand. "Paula. How far along are you?"
　　"I don't know. I haven't even been to the doctor. It can't be more than two months, though, unless God is the father."
　　For some reason, Paula loses her smile. "Do you live around here?"
　　"Yes. Close enough to walk to the mall. How about you?"
　　"I'm on Grove," Paula says. "You know where that is?"
　　"Just around the block from us."
　　Paula hesitates. "Forgive me for asking, but are you married?"
　　It is a curious question, but I'm not offended. "No. But I live with my boyfriend. Are you married?"
　　Sorrow touches her face. "No." She pats her big belly. "I have to take care of this one alone." She adds, "I work at St. Andrews. It's just down the block from where you live."
　　"I have seen the crucifix. What do you do at St. Andrews?"
　　"I am supposed to be an assistant to the Mother Superior but I end up doing whatever's necessary. That includes scrubbing the bathroom floors, if no one's gotten to them. The church and the high school operate on a tight budget." She adds, almost by way of apology, "But I take frequent breaks. I pray a lot."
　　For some reason this girl interests me. She has special qualities-a gentleness of manner, a kindness in her voice. She is not a big girl but she seems to take up a lot of space. What I mean is there is a presence about her. Yet she acts anything but powerful, and that I also like.
　　"What do you pray for?" I ask.
　　Paula smiles shyly and lowers her head. "I shouldn't say."
　　I pat her on the back. "That's all right, you don't have to tell me. Who knows? Prayers could be like wishes. Maybe they lose their magic if you talk about them."
　　Paula studies me. "Where are you from, Alisa?"
　　"Up north. Why?"
　　"I could swear I've seen you before."
　　Her remark touches me deeply. Because in that exact moment, I feel the same way. There is something familiar in her eyes, in the soft light of their dark depths. They remind me of, well, the past, and I still have much of that, even if I grow older with each day.
　　Yet I intend to brush her comment aside, as I brush aside thoughts of my own mortality that come in the middle of night, when Ray is asleep beside me, and sleep is hard to find. My insomnia is the only obvious curse of my transformation. I must still be used to hunting in the middle of the night. Prowling the streets in a black leather miniskirt. Death with a sexy smile and an endless thirst. Now, instead, I get up from bed and have a glass of warm milk and say my prayers-to Krishna, of course, whom I believe was God. I still remember him best during the darkest hours.
　　Krishna was once asked what was the most miraculous thing in all of creation, and he replied, "That a man should wake each morning and believe deep in his heart that he will live forever, even though he knows that he is doomed to die." Despite my many human weaknesses, a part of me still feels as if I will never die. And that part has never felt so alive as when I stare at Paula, a simple pregnant young woman that I have met by chance in a mall bookstore.
　　"I just have one of those faces," I reply.
　　We have lunch, and I get to know Paula better, and I let her know a few censored facts about myself. By the time our food is finished, we are fast friends, and this I see as a positive step on my road to becoming truly human. We exchange numbers and promise to stay in touch, and I know we will. I like Paula-really; it is almost as if I have a crush on her, though I have had few female lovers during my fifty centuries, and certainly Ray now takes care of all my sexual needs. It is just that as I say goodbye to her, I am already thinking of the next time we will meet, and how nice it will be.
　　Paula is the rarest of human beings. Someone with intelligence and humility. It has been my observation that the more intelligent a man or woman is, the more dishonest he or she is. Modern psychologists, I know, would not agree with me, but they are often dishonest themselves. Psychology has never impressed me as a science. Who has ever really defined the mind, much less the heart? Paula has a quick mind that has not destroyed her innocence. As we part for the first time, she insists on paying for our meal even when it is clear she has little money. But I let her pay since it seems to mean a lot to her.
   
   5
　　
　　And so, for a week, life went on, sweetly, smoothly, with a new friend, a reborn lover, and a baby growing inside me. A daughter, I am sure, even though I pray to God to make it an absolute certainty. Yet fifty centuries cannot be forgotten. History cannot be rewritten. I live in the suburbs and abide by my country's laws. I have a new library card and am thinking of buying a little dog. Yet I have murdered thousands, tens of thousands, brutally and without mercy. That is a bloody fact, and perhaps there is such a thing as karma, of sin and judgment. I wonder if I am being judged when I begin to have trouble with the baby.
　　It is not normal trouble.
　　It is the worst kind. The supernatural kind.
　　The baby is growing much faster than she should. As I said to Paula, I can only be two months pregnant, and yet, one week after I meet Paula, I wake with something kicking in my abdomen. After hurrying to the bathroom and turning on the light-for I cannot see very well in the dark anymore-I am astounded to see that my stomach bulges through my nightgown. In the space of hours, even, the baby has developed through an entire trimester. This does not please me.
　　"Ray," I say. "Ray!"
　　He comes running, and takes forever to see what the problem is. Finally he puts his hand on my belly. "This is not normal?"
　　"Are you nuts?" I brush his hand aside. "She can't be human."
　　"We're human," he says.
　　"Are we?" I ask the empty bathtub.
　　He puts a hand on my shoulder. "This accelerated growth doesn't have to be a bad thing."
　　I am having trouble breathing. I had put so much hope in the past being past. But there is no future, not really. It is only a phantom of what we want to deny, a dream in a time that will never actually be.
　　"Anything abnormal is bad," I say. "Especially when you have to answer yes to the question on the medical form: Have you ever been a vampire?"
　　"The child cannot be a vampire," Ray says simply. "Vampires cannot reproduce this way."
　　"You mean they haven't done so in the past," I say. "When has a vampire ever turned human again? This is new terrain." I lean over and spit in the sink. My spit is bloody-I bit my lower lip the instant the light went on. "It's an omen," I say.
　　Ray rubs my back. "Maybe you should see a doctor. You were going to start looking for one anyway."
　　I chuckle bitterly. "I cannot see a doctor. We're in hiding, remember? Doctors report local monsters to the authorities. Young women who have babies in three months." The baby kicks again. I stare in the mirror at my bulge. "If it even takes that long."
　　My words prove prophetic. Over the next four days the baby grows at an insane pace, a month of development for each twenty-four-hour period. During this time I am forced to eat and drink constantly, but seldom do I have to use the rest room. Red meat, in particular, I crave. I have three hamburgers for breakfast and in the evening four New York steaks, washed down with quarts of Evian. Still, I burn with hunger, with thirst, and with fear. What would an ultrasound show? A horned harlot grinning back at the sound waves?
　　During this time, I avoid Paula and the world. Ray is my only companion. He holds my hand and says little. What is there to say? Time will tell all.
　　Five days after waking in the middle of the night to see my swollen belly, I awake again in the early morning hours in horrible pain with cramps in my abdomen. Just before Ray wakes, I remember when I had my first child, five thousand years earlier. My dear Lalita-she who plays. That birth had been painless, ecstatic even. I had intended to name this child by the same name. But as another spasm grips me, seemingly threatening to rip me in two, I don't know if such a gentle title will be appropriate. I sit up gasping for air.
　　"Oh God," I whisper.
　　Ray stirs beside me. His voice is calm. "Is it time?"
　　"It's time."
　　"Do you want to go to the hospital?"
　　We have discussed this, but never come to a decision. I can withstand tremendous physical pain, and of course I have delivered babies many times and know human anatomy inside out. Yet this pain is a thing of demons. It transcends any form of torment I have ever experienced. Literally, I feel as if I am being ripped apart, consumed from the inside. What is my child doing to me? I bury my face in my hands.
　　"It feels like it's eating my womb," I moan.
　　Ray is on his feet. "We have to get help. We have to risk the hospital."
　　"No." I grab his hand as he reaches for the car keys. "I won't make it. It's coming too fast."
　　He kneels at my side. "But I don't know what to do."
　　I fight for air. "It doesn't matter. It's all being done."
　　"Should I call for Paula?" Ray approves of my relationship with Paula, although, for some strange reason, he has avoided meeting her. How I long for her company right then, her soothing smile. Yet I know she is the last person who should see me like this. I shake my head and feel the sweat pour off my face.
　　"No," I say. "This would terrify her. We have to face this alone."
　　"Should I boil some water?"
　　For some reason his remark amuses me. "Yes, yes. Boil some water. We can put the baby in it when she comes out." I snort when I see his stunned expression. "That's a joke, Ray."
　　Yet he stares at me strangely. He speaks to me as if he is speaking to a third person in the room. "Sometimes I fed I came back just for this baby. I don't want anything to happen to her."
　　Another spasm grips me, and I double up and ignore his serious tone. The agony angers me. "If anything is going to happen to anyone," I whisper, "it will happen to me."
　　"Sita?"
　　"Get the goddamn water."
　　My daughter is born fifteen minutes later, and she puts a nice rip in me as she comes into the world. My blood is everywhere, even in my hair, and I know I am in danger of hemorrhaging to death. It is only now I let Ray call for an ambulance. But before he gets on the phone, he puts my bloody child on my chest. He has already cut the umbilical cord with a sterilized knife from the kitchen drawer. Cuddling my daughter as I lie on the verge of blacking out, I stare into her dark blue eyes and she stares back at me. She does not cry nor make any other sound. For the moment I am just relieved she is breathing.
　　Yet there is an alertness in her eyes that disturbs me. She looks at me as if she can see me, and all the books say a child of five minutes cannot even focus. Not only that, she stares at me as if she knows me, and the funny thing is, I do likewise. I do know her, and she is not the soul of my gentle and joyful Lalita returned to me from the ancient past. She is someone else, someone, I feel, they may have constructed temples to long ago, when mankind was closer to the gods in heaven and the forgotten creatures beneath the earth. I shiver as I look at her, yet I hold her tight. Her name just springs from my cracked and bleeding lips-I do not bring it forth consciously. The name is a mantra, a prayer, and also a name for that which cannot be named.
　　"Kalika," I call her. Kali Ma.
　　Not she who plays. She who destroys.
　　Still, I love her more than can be said.
　　
   6
　　
　　Kalika is two weeks old, really a year in size and ability, when she refuses to take my milk. For the last fourteen days I have enjoyed feeding her, although I have not relished the speed at which she grows. Each morning when I wake to her sounds, I find a different and older daughter. This morning she pushes me away as I try to hold her to my breast. She is strong and actually bruises my skin as she refuses what I have to offer. Ray sits across from me and tries to comfort me in my despair.
　　"Maybe she's not feeling well," he says.
　　I stare out the window as Kalika squirms on my lap. "Maybe she wants something else to drink," I say.
　　"She's not a vampire."
　　"You don't know."
　　"But sunlight doesn't bother her."
　　It is true, I have tested my daughter under the bright sun. She just stares at it as she stares at everything else. Indeed, the glare does not seem to annoy her young eyes, a fact that does nothing to comfort me.
　　"No one knows what she is," I say.
　　"Well, what are we going to do? We have to feed her."
　　Maybe Kalika understands the question. Already she has begun to speak, simple words as many twelve-month-old children do. But it is probable she understands more than she says, certainly more about herself than either of her parents is willing to admit. While I am gazing out the window at the sky, she leans over and bites my left nipple. She has teeth now and she bites so hard that she draws blood. The pain, for me, is sharp, but the flow, for her, is steady. And the blood seems to satisfy her.
　　I look at Ray and want to cry.
　　Another day has gone by and Kalika is in her bedroom screaming. She is hungry but my breasts are too sore-too drained actually-to give her another feeding. Ray paces in front of me as I lie on the living room couch and stare out the big window. My thoughts are often of the sky, and of Krishna. I wonder where God is at times like this, if he is not browsing in the horror section of the cosmic library searching for another chapter to slip in my life story.
　　I am exhausted-I have yet to regain my strength from the delivery. I'm a smashed doll who's been sewn together by an emotionless doctor, an aching mother whose daughter disembowels Barbies in search of something to eat. Kalika lets out another loud cry and Ray shakes his head in disgust.
　　"What are we going to do?" he asks.
　　"You asked me that five minutes ago."
　　"Well, we've got to do something. A child's got to eat."
　　"I offered her a steak, a raw steak even, and she didn't want it. I offered her the blood from the steak and she didn't want it. She just wants my blood and if I give her any more I will die." I cough weakly. "But considering the circumstance that might not be bad."
　　Ray stops pacing and stares down at me. "Maybe she doesn't just crave your blood."
　　I speak in a flat voice. "I have thought of that. I would have to be stupid not to have thought of that." I pause. "Do you want to give her some of your blood?"
　　Ray kneels on the floor beside me. He takes my hand and gives it an affectionate squeeze. But there is a look in his eyes, one I have never seen before. Of course having a child like Kalika in the house would give the Pope a new look, Ray speaks in a low conspiratorial voice and there is no affection in his words.
　　"Let us say she is not a human being," he admits. "I suppose that is obvious by now; Let's even go so far as to say she's some sort of vampire, although not a vampire in the traditional sense. Her indifference to the sun makes that seem certain. Now, all of this is not necessarily a bad thing if we can teach her right from wrong as she matures. She doesn't have to be a monster."
　　"What's your point?"
　　"Isn't it obvious? She's still our daughter. We still love her, and we have to give her what she needs to survive, at least until she can fend for herself." He pauses. "We have to get her fresh blood."
　　I smile without pleasure. "You mean we have to get her fresh victims."
　　"We just need blood, for now. We don't have to kill anyone to get it."
　　"Fine. Go down to the hospital and buy some. Take one of my credit cards. They're in my purse on the kitchen table."
　　Ray drew back. "I'm serious, Sita."
　　I chuckle bitterly. "So am I. I have experience in these matters, in case you've forgotten. The only blood she will take will be warm blood from a human being."
　　"I thought you sometimes survived on animal blood."
　　"I offered her the blood of a cat I caught and killed in the backyard and she didn't want it."
　　"You didn't tell me."
　　"Killing a cat wasn't something I felt like bragging about."
　　A peculiar note enters his voice, to match the strange look in his eyes. "You used to kill people all the time."
　　I brush off his hand and sit up. "Is that what you want me to do? Murder people for her?"
　　"No. No one has to die. You told me that the day you made me a vampire."
　　My temper flares. "The day I made you a vampire I had an arsenal of supernatural powers at my command. I could lure dozens of people into my lair, and let them go with little more than a headache. To get Kalika fresh blood, I will have to kill, and that I refuse to do now."
　　"Now that you're human?"
　　"Yes. Now that I'm human. And don't remind me of those two I wasted the night you returned. That was an act of self-defense."
　　"This is an act of self-preservation," Rays says.
　　I speak impatiently. "How am I supposed to get someone to donate blood for Kalika's breakfast? Where do you find people like that? Not in Whittier."
　　"Where did you go to find victims before? To bars? You went to them to lure men back to your place."
　　"I never took them back to my place."
　　Ray hesitates. "But we need someone, maybe a couple of someones we can take blood from regularly."
　　I snicker. "Yeah, right. And when we let them go we just tell them to please not mention what has been going on here. Just chalk the bloodletting off to a unique experience." I fume. "Whoever we bring here, we'll have to kill in the end. I won't do that."
　　"Then you'll let your daughter die?"
　　I glare at Ray, searching for the loving young man I once knew. "What's happened to you? You should be on the other side of this argument. Before the blast, you would have been. Where did you go when you died? Huh? You never told me. Was it hell? Did the devil teach you a few new tricks?"
　　He is offended. "I'm just trying to save our daughter. I wish you'd drop your self-righteous, pompous attitude and face the facts-Kalika needs blood or she will die. We have to get her blood."
　　"Fine, go out and get a young woman victim. You're handsome and you've got style. It shouldn't take you long."
　　He stops. "I don't know how to pick up people. I've never done it before."
　　I have to laugh. "You sure picked me up easily enough."
　　Kalika screams again.
　　Ray loses his dark expression and looks pained. "Please," he says. "She's all we've got. You're the only one who can save her."
　　Fed up with arguing, I stand and grab my black leather coat, the one I used to wear for hunting. Heading for the door, I say over my shoulder, "We used to have a lot, Ray. Remember that next time you order me to go out and kill."
   
   7
　　
　　I drive around for an hour before ending up at a local park. There are a couple of basketball courts, a baseball diamond, a circular pond with white ducks in it, and a wide field where children fly long-tailed kites. Sitting between the pond and the basketball courts, I try to think how I can fix my miserable life in one brilliant stroke.
　　For the last twenty-four hours I have considered taking Kalika to Arturo's secret laboratory, where the paraphernalia that completed my transformation is located: the crucifix-shaped magnets, the long copper sheets, the colored crystals. Yet the attempt, I know, to make Kalika into a human, would be a desperate act at best. One of the few times Arturo experimented on a boy-dear Ralphe-the results were disastrous.
　　Ralphe was transformed into a flesh-eating ghoul, and I had to break his neck with my own hands to stop him from killing. No, I realize, I cannot experiment on Kalika, not until every other alternative has been explored.
　　Which means I need human blood. Now.
　　A young man on the basketball court glances over at me. I may not be a vampire anymore, but I know I'm cute. This guy is maybe nineteen, with blond hair and a strong build, an easy six-two. His size is important to me. The more pounds he has, the more blood he can stand to lose. Yet the more difficult he will be to contain. But my daughter is screaming at home. I heard her screams as I drove away in the car, echoing in my ears like the cries of a thousand past victims.
　　I catch this young man's eye and smile.
　　He flashes me a grin. He is interested, doomed.
　　When his game finishes, he strolls over to say hi.
　　"Hi," I say in response, nodding to the court, to his companions. I sit with my profile to them- I don't want them to get a good look at me. "You know, you're pretty good. You have a great jump shot."
　　"Thanks. I still enjoy these pick-up games."
　　"You used to play in high school?"
　　"Yeah. Just got out last year. How about you?"
　　I laugh softly. "I was too short to play basketball."
　　He blushes. "I mean, did you just graduate?"
　　"Not long ago." I pause, let my eyes slide over him. "What's your name?"
　　"Eric Hawkins. What's yours?"
　　I stand and offer him my hand. "Cynthia Rhodes. Do you come here often?"
　　"I usually play at Centinela. This park-I haven't been here in ages."
　　That's good, I think. "What brings you here today?"
　　He shrugs. "Nothing in particular. I was just out driving around."
　　That's also good. The other guys he's playing with-they're not close friends.
　　"I was just doing the same," I say.
　　He glances at the ground, fidgets shyly. "Hey, would you like to go have a Coke or something?"
　　"Sure. I'm not doing anything."
　　We go to a coffee shop, and I order coffee. I have become a big coffee drinker since becoming human. It does wonders for my insomnia. Eric has a hamburger and french fries. I am happy he eats heartily. He will need his strength. Yet as he talks about himself, I begin to feel sad. He seems like such a nice boy.
　　"I'm taking a year off from college, but I'll be in school next year," he says. "I just got accepted to SC. I'm going to major in pre-med. My old man's a doctor and he's encouraged me to follow in his footsteps since the day I learned to talk."
　　"Why didn't you go straight to college?"
　　"I wanted to travel a little, work a little. I spent the summer in Europe. Spent a month in the Greek islands alone. You ever been there?"
　　I nod as I sip my coffee. "Yes. Did you visit Delos?"
　　"The island with all the ruins?"
　　"Yes. It's supposed to be the most sacred island in the Aegean Sea. Apollo was born there." I lower my voice. "At least, that's what the stories say."
　　"Yeah, I was there. When were you there?"
　　"A few years back." I pause and catch his eye, and hate myself for the blatant manipulation. "I'm glad I went to the park today."
　　He smiles shyly and stares down at his hamburger. "Yeah. When I saw you sitting there all by yourself-I don't know-I just felt like I had to talk to you." He adds, "I don't usually go around hitting on girls."
　　"I know, Eric."
　　We chat a while longer and he finishes his food, and then glances at his watch. "Boy, I better get going. My dad's expecting me at his office. I help out there Tuesday and Thursday afternoons."
　　I feel a moment of panic. I cannot imagine returning to Kalika's screams empty-handed. Reaching across the table, I touch his hand. "Could you do me a quick favor?"
　　"Sure. What is it?"
　　"It's kind of embarrassing to explain. You see, I have this ex-boyfriend who is sort of stalking me. He's not violent or anything like that, but if he sees me return home he immediately jumps out of his car and runs over and starts hassling me." I pause. "Could you follow me home in your car? Just to make sure I get in OK." I add, "I don't live far from here."
　　"You don't live with your parents?"
　　"No. Both my parents are dead. I live alone."
　　Eric is troubled. "Sure, I can come. But I won't be able to stay."
　　"I understand. If you can just walk me to my door."
　　Eric is agreeable, although his reluctance remains. As a human, I'm not the actress I used to be. He likes me, but he is slightly suspicious of me. I have to wonder exactly what I'm going to do with him once he's in my house.
　　To my immense bad luck, Paula is standing on my front porch as I drive up and park. Waving to her, I quickly run back to Eric's car, which is in the middle of the block. I ask if he can wait a minute, but he's anxious to get to his father's office.
　　"He loses his temper if I'm even ten minutes late," he explains.
　　"I'm grateful you followed me this far," I say. "But I'm still worried my ex is around. He could even be in the house."
　　Eric nods to Paula, who waits patiently for me. "Who is she?"
　　I snort, and feel another layer of guilt. "She's just this pregnant girl who stops by from time to time looking for money. I have to get rid of her, or she'll stay all afternoon." I touch his arm. "Please stay. Give me two minutes."
　　Eric hesitates. "OK."
　　Paula flashes me a warm smile as I hurry toward her. "What are you doing here?" I ask.
　　"I was worried about you. I haven't heard from you in so long." Paula studies me, and I know how perceptive she is. "Have you been sick? You look pale."
　　"I've had a bad flu. Look, I can't talk right now. That guy in the car-he's my boyfriend's brother, and he's in deep trouble that I can't go into right now. He needs my help."
　　Paula is hesitant. "Fine, I can go. I was just out for a walk." She glances at Eric. "Are you sure you're all right?"
　　"Yeah, no problem." I gesture to her swollen belly. "It won't be long now."
　　Paula is radiant. "No. Another three weeks is all."
　　"That's great." I nod to my door. "Did you knock? Did you talk to Ray?"
　　"I knocked but no one answered."
　　"Oh." That's strange. Ray is almost always at home. He would have to be at home, with Kalika and all. I can't imagine him taking her out. But perhaps our daughter is the reason he didn't answer. I cannot hear either of them inside. I add, "I'll talk to you soon, Paula. I promise, we'll have lunch."
　　Paula is gracious as she carefully moves down the steps. "You take care. I'll be thinking of you."
　　"Thanks. Say a prayer for me."
　　"I always do, Alisa."
　　Paula leaves, and I gesture for Eric to join me on the front porch. He parks in my driveway and approaches reluctantly. He has antennae of his own. I am definitely giving off bad vibes. His car will have to be moved quickly, I think, before if makes an impression on my neighbors. I fumble for my keys, like I'm nervous. And I am nervous-I can't imagine hurting him. For that matter, he might end up hurting me.
　　"Sometimes my ex comes in a back window," I say as I put the key in the lock.
　　"You should lock your windows," Eric mutters.
　　"Can I get you something to drink?" I ask as we step inside. A quick look around shows neither Ray nor Kalika. Maybe he did go out with her. Eric stays near the door.
　　"I really should be going," he says.
　　"At least have a lemonade. I made some fresh this morning." I move toward the kitchen. "I really appreciate you doing this for me."
　　Eric feels trapped. "I'll have a small glass," he says without enthusiasm.
　　In fact, I did make lemonade that morning, from concentrate. Pouring a couple of glasses, I hurry back to the living room. My resentment toward Ray continues to grow. For seducing Eric to come into the house, it is good Ray is out of sight. Yet I could use Ray to knock Eric unconscious. I mean, I am a hundred-and-ten pound blond chick who just had a baby. Eric accepts his drink and I toast him with our glasses. Eric drinks without relish.
　　"It's good," he mumbles.
　　"Thanks. We have lemon trees in our backyard."
　　"They give fruit this time of year?"
　　I smite. "No, but they do in the summer."
　　Eric finishes half his drink and sets the glass down on the coffee table. "Well, my dad's waiting. Let's talk another time. It was nice to meet you."
　　I jump slightly, and speak in a hushed tone. "Did you hear that?"
　　Eric is puzzled. "What?"
　　I point down the hall. "I think he's here."
　　Eric frowns. "I don't hear anything."
　　I am a picture of fear. "Would you check? Just to be sure."
　　"Cynthia, really. I don't think anyone's there."
　　I swallow heavily. "Please? It's terrible when he sneaks up on me like this. I can't get rid of him by myself."
　　Eric eyes the hallway. "You're sure he's not violent? Why does he break into your house?"
　　"He's never violent. He's just a pest. I hope I'm imagining the whole thing."
　　Eric starts up the hallway. I follow close behind him, silently. Even as a human, I can move like a cat. As he reaches for the last bedroom door on the left, I lash out with my right foot, striking behind his right knee. There is a mushy tearing sound-the spot is especially vulnerable. Letting out a painful cry, Eric topples to his knees. Before he can recover, I slash out with my left hand and catch him in the left temple, which is the thinness part of the skull. The blow stuns him but does not knock him out. Disgusted, I strike again, at the opposite temple, hitting as hard as I can, the side of my hand throbbing from the effort. Still on his knees, he sways precariously. Yet he refuses to go down. Quite the contrary, he grasps at the near wall, trying to pull himself up. He is a fighter and it breaks my heart not to let him go. But I'm committed now. Backing up a step, I jump in the air and kick him in the back of the head with the heel of my left boot. That does the trick. Eric falls forward like a sack of flour. Blood drips off the back of his head, staining the carpet. Just what we need.
　　"I'm sorry," I whisper as I kneel by his side, checking the pulse at the side of his neck to make sure I haven't killed him. His face against the floor, Eric breathes heavily but his pulse is strong.
　　Suddenly I am aware of someone at my back.
　　"Good job," Ray says.
　　I turn on him angrily. "Yeah, it's good I was able to handle him all by myself. Where have you been?"
　　He shrugs. "I was in the other room."
　　"Where's Kalika?"
　　He nods to the door Eric was about to open. "In there. I told her to remain silent."
　　"And she listened to you?"
　　Ray speaks seriously. "She always listens to me."
　　"Lucky you." I nod to Eric. "Where are we going to put him?"
　　"In the spare room. Well tie him up and gag him, and take only as much blood as our daughter needs."
　　"That might be more than he can give," I say, stroking Eric's hair.
　　"We'll have to worry about that later." Ray pauses. "How should we withdraw the blood?"
　　"We need needles, syringes, tourniquets, tubing, flasks. I have them at my house in Beverly Hills." I stand, wiping Eric's blood from my hands. "I'll go now."
　　Ray stops me. "That house might be watched, you said."
　　I don't like being stopped. "I'll have to risk it I'm not breaking into a drugstore to get this stuff."
　　"I want you to help me tie him up before you leave."
　　"Can't you tie him up? The sooner I leave, the sooner I can get back." I glance at the bedroom door. My daughter hasn't made a peep. "Kalika must be starving by now."
　　"It won't take us long if we work together. Then I can go with you to the other house."
　　"No," I say. "I'm going alone."
　　Ray hesitates. "Fine. But I think it's better this guy sees only one of us."
　　"Why?"
　　"Isn't it obvious? If he can identify me, it doubles our chances of being caught."
　　I stare at Ray. "You really have changed."
　　He shrugs. "Maybe it was Eddie's blood."
　　"Maybe." I hold his eye. "All right, I'll deal with him, like I deal with everything else. As long as we both understand that we're not pushing Eric beyond his limit. This boy is not going to die."
　　Ray nods his head, but his eyes do not seem to agree.
　　
   8
　　
　　Before entering my Beverly Hills house, I search the street and the surrounding houses for signs of anyone watching. The FBI's methods are not unfamiliar to me. The house appears unwatched. Once inside, I gather the supplies I need to turn Eric into a serious anemic. But before leaving I stop to call Seymour. I haven't spoken to him since I said good night in the hotel by the beach. Even the note I left said little.
　　Sorry, Seymour. Got to go. You know this is for the best. Love, Sita.
　　"Hello?" he says.
　　"It's me."
　　He takes a long time to answer. His voice comes out harsh. "What do you want?"
　　I speak with sincerity. "Just to hear your voice, Seymour. I miss you."
　　"Yeah, right."
　　"I do. I really do."
　　"Where are you?"
　　"I can't tell you."
　　"I have to go."
　　"No! Wait! You know why I can't tell you."
　　"No, I don't know why. I thought you were my friend. Friends don't leave each other in the middle of the night." He lowers his voice and there is pain in it. "Why did you leave?"
　　I hesitate. I didn't plan to tell him.
　　"Ray's come back."
　　Seymour is astounded. "That's impossible."
　　"It's true. We're living together." I add, "We've got a daughter."
　　"Sita, what kind of fool do you think I am? You haven't had time to have a daughter."
　　My voice cracks. "I know that. But this one came rather fast."
　　He hears that I'm serious. "Tell me everything that's happened since I last saw you."
　　So I tell him because I need someone to talk to. As always he listens patiently, closely, and I have to wonder what insights he will provide when I'm finished. He's so smart-he always has something interesting to say about my numerous predicaments. Yet the next words out of his mouth shock me.
　　"Why do you assume this guy is Ray?" he asks when I finish.
　　I have to laugh, although I almost choke on it.
　　"What kind of question is that? Of course it's Ray. I know it's Ray. Who else could it be?"
　　"I don't know who else it could be. But how do you know it's Ray? Remember, he died."
　　"Because he looks like Ray. He acts like Ray. He knows everything Ray knew. He can't be an impostor."
　　Seymour speaks calmly. "Let's take each of your statements. He looks like Ray you say. OK, I grant you that because you've seen him and I haven't. But you say he acts like Ray? I don't think so. The Ray you describe isn't the Ray I remember."
　　"He's been through a lot. In a sense, he died during the blast It was only Eddie's blood that brought him back to life."
　　"That worries me right there. Eddie was the incarnation of evil. What would his blood do to someone's psyche? Even the psyche of another vampire?"
　　I close my eyes and sigh. "I've worried about that myself. But please believe me, he can't be an impostor. Dozens of times we've discussed things only Ray and I knew."
　　"But you do accept you're dealing with a guy that has his priorities twisted?"
　　"Am I? I've asked myself that question many times. When you get right down to it, I would do anything to save Kalika. Ray's her father. Is he so different from me?"
　　"I don't know. There's something in your story- something I can't put my finger on. I think Ray's dangerous, and I'd keep an eye on him. But let's leave that for a moment. Let's talk about Kalika. How can she be a vampire and not be sensitive to the sun?" 
　　"I wasn't that sensitive," I say. 
　　"Because you'd been a vampire for over five thousand years. And still the sun did bother you; it sapped your strength. You say it doesn't affect her at all?" 
　　"Not as far as I can tell. She plays out in it." 
　　"Does she make any effort to move into the shade?" 
　　"No. She likes the sun as much as the moon." 
　　"Yet she wants human blood," Seymour muttered, thinking aloud. "Hmm. Is she exceptionally strong?" 
　　"Yes. Pretty strong. She must be a vampire." Seymour considers. "What does she look like?" 
　　"A lot like me, except her features are darker." 
　　"You mean she has brown hair, brown eyes?" 
　　"Her hair is brown, but her eyes are a dark blue." I add painfully, "She's very pretty. You'd like her."
　　"Not if she wants to drink my blood. Sita, let's be frank with each other. You're not superhuman anymore. You're not going to be able to go around abducting people without getting caught. As far as I can tell, you were lucky with this Eric guy. And how are you going to let him go when you're through with him? He'll go straight to the police."
　　I bite my lower lip and taste the blood. The flavor gives me no strength. "I know," I say.
　　"If you know then you've got to stop now." There are tears pooled in my eyes but I won't shed them. Not tonight. "I can't, Seymour. Ray's right about one thing. I can't let her die."
　　Seymour speaks gently. "You know what I'm going to ask next."
　　I nod weakly. "Yes. Does the world need a monster like her? All I can say is, I'm hoping she turns out all right. For godsakes, she was just born. She hasn't had a chance to show what she's like."
　　"But by the time she does, it might be too late. You might not be able to stop her." He adds carefully, "But you can stop her now."
　　I'm aghast "I can't murder my own daughter!"
　　"You can stop feeding her. Think what those feedings will cost you and your victims. You'll need a dozen Erics to keep her satisfied if she's growing at the rate you say. In fact, she'll be getting her own Erics soon enough. I know this is painful for you to face, but you should probably end it now."
　　I shake my head vigorously. "I can't do that."
　　Seymour is sympathetic. "But then I can't help you." He adds, "Unless you tell me where you are."
　　"It won't help for you to see her. "You'll just fall in love with her. When she's not hungry, she's really very lovely."
　　"I was thinking I'd like to speak to this new and improved Ray."
　　"I don't think that's a good idea. Not now."
　　Seymour speaks with feeling. "You've trusted me in the past, Sita. Trust me now. You're too close to this. You can't see what's real. You need me."
　　"It's too dangerous, Seymour. If something happened to you, I'd never forgive myself. Stay where you are, I'll call you again. And I'll think about what you've said."
　　"Thinking won't stop her from growing into what she really is."
　　"I suppose we'll see what that is soon enough." We exchange goodbyes. As I leave the house, I think of Eddie Fender's blood circulating in my lover's body. And I wonder what blood pumps through Kalika's veins. What it is capable of doing.
　　
   9
　　
　　At home, Eric has regained consciousness. His feet and hands are firmly bound, and there is duct tape over his mouth, but he has somehow managed to squirm his way so that he is sitting upright in the far corner of the spare bedroom. His eyes are wide with fear as I approach him with a syringe. It is hard to blame him. As I kneel by his side, I start to stroke his head but he trembles under my fingers so I stop.
　　"I'm sorry," I say. "This isn't easy for me either. I wish I could explain the whole situation to you but I can't. But I can promise you that you're not going to die. I swear this to you, Eric, and I keep my word. At the same time, I'm going to have to keep you here for a few days. I'm not exactly sure how long. And while you're here-please don't freak out over this-I'm going to have to occasionally take some of your blood."
　　The last sentence does not go over well. Eric's eyes get so round I'm afraid they're going to burst from his skull. He shakes his head violently from side to side and tries to wiggle away. But I pull him back.
　　"Shh," I say. "It's not going to be as bad as it sounds. I have clean needles, and am better trained than most doctors. You can lose a little blood and it won't damage you in the slightest."
　　He works his mouth vigorously. His meaning is clear.
　　"If I remove your gag," I say, "will you promise not to scream? If you do scream, I'll have to shut you up quickly, and I don't want to have to hurt you any more than I have to."
　　Eric nods rapidly.
　　"OK. But you mustn't raise your voice." I tear off the tape. Ouch.
　　Eric gasps for air. "Who are you?" he moans pitifully.
　　"Well, that's an interesting question. I am not Cynthia Rhodes if that's what you're asking, but I suppose you know that already." I pause. "I'm just a stranger in the park."
　　"What do you want with me?"
　　"I told you. Your blood. A little of your blood."
　　"But what do you want my blood for?" he cries.
　　"That's a long story." I pat him on the shoulder. "Just trust me that I really need it, and that in the end you're going to be OK."
　　He is breathing heavily. He stares down at his leg and looks so pitiful it breaks my heart "You broke my knee. It hurts. I need a doctor."
　　"I'm sorry. You can see a doctor later, in a few days. But until then you'll have to stay here. You'll have to eat here, and sleep here, and go to the bathroom here. Now you see that bathroom over there? I will let you use it from time to time if you just cooperate with me. In fact, if you're real good, I won't have to keep you tied up at all. You'll be able to walk around this room, even read and listen to music. But I warn you, I'm going to board up all the windows as soon as I take care of other business. And if you do try to escape, well, let's just say that wouldn't be a good idea."
　　He is a little slow. "Would you kill me?"
　　I nod gravely. "I would kill you slowly, Eric, by draining away all your blood. It's not a pleasant way to die. So don't mess with me." I fluff up his hair. "Now stick out your arm and don't move."
　　He tries to back up. "No!"
　　"Don't raise your voice."
　　"No!"
　　I ram the heel of my palm into his nose, which stuns him. White he tries to refocus his eyes, I replace the duct tape and grab his arm. I have the tourniquet on in seconds. His veins are big and bulging. Before he can pull away, I have a needle in his vein and blood flowing into a sterile tube. I lean over and whisper in his ear.
　　"Don't fight me," I say. "If you force me to hit you again, it won't be in the face, but in a much more sensitive spot." I tug on his earlobe. "Understand?"
　　He stares at the tube as his blood drips into it. He nods.
　　"Good boy." I kiss his cheek. "Just think of all this as a nightmare that will soon be over."
　　Kalika is waiting in the living room with Ray when I bring out the blood in a flask. She has a book on her lap. I assume it is one of the picture books that I have recently bought for her, but I am mistaken. Sitting beside her on the floor, I see she has been paging through an anatomy textbook that was in the house when we rented it. I don't ask if she knows what it is. I'm afraid that she might. Her dark blue eyes brighten when she sees the blood. Her little hands shoot out.
　　"Hungry," she says.
　　"Is that all you took?" Rays asks. "She's been waiting all day."
　　"The less I take the more often I can take it," I say, handing Kalika the flask. I am curious if she will notice the difference between my blood and Eric's. Actually, I wonder if she will drink it at all. But that doubt is soon dispelled. She wolves it down in a few gulps. The flask is thrust back into my hands.
　　"Hungry," Kalika says.
　　"I told you," Ray says. "You have to give her at least a pint."
　　I stare at Kalika, who stares back at me, and a curious sensation sweeps over me. There is a coldness in my daughter's eyes, but also a great expansive feeling. Few people in the West, who know anything of Vedic deities, understand the meaning of Kali or Kalika. To most she is simply a dark, bloodthirsty goddess. Yet that meaning is superficial, and I certainly would not have named my daughter after a monster with no redeeming virtues.
　　Actually, Kali is black, but this is because she represents space, the abyss, that which is before the creation, and that which will exist after. Her necklace of skulls symbolizes how she cares for souls after life, not just through one incarnation. Even the funeral pyre she sits on is representative of the many sins she burns to ash, when she is pleased. Kali is a destroyer, true, but she also destroys evil. Many of India's greatest saints worshipped her as the supreme being.
　　And they say she is easy to please-if one is careful.
　　Staring at my daughter, I am reminded of Krishna.
　　Yet Krishna had love as well as infinity.
　　Kalika has never been an affectionate child.
　　There is a bloodstain on her right cheek.
　　"Hungry, Mommy," she says softly.
　　Sighing, I take the flask and trudge back into the spare bedroom. Eric is upset to see me again so soon. Now this won't hurt a bit. I have to hit him again to get him to sit still, and I hate myself for the cruelty. I hate Krishna as well, for forcing me into this situation. But I know it is useless to hate God. It is like screaming at the night sky. The stars have no ears, and besides, they are too far away to hear. They just keep on shining, I must keep on living until death reaches my front door, or my own daughter comes for my blood in the dead of night. I have no doubt that, in a few days, she will be capable of killing me.
　　
   10
　　
　　After boarding up Eric's room and ditching his car a safe distance away, I go for another drive, this one entirely aimless. It is dark now and the time of day suits my mood. Kalika thrust back her second empty eight-ounce glass of blood with the same numbing words: Hungry, Mommy. I shudder to think what her appetite will demand tomorrow. Will I have to collect a whole team of basketball players? Maybe I should drive down to the Forum and wait for the Lakers to start practice. They have some big boys who know how to shoot a ball.
　　But should they bleed for my daughter?
　　Should Eric?
　　Seymour has scored with many of his points, as always.
　　Midnight finds me at the beach where I buried Yaksha's body, or rather, where I sunk it. There was little of Yaksha left when I sent him to a watery grave, with his full blessings. Eddie Fender had done his usual number on my creator: stabbed him, torn him, dissected him, drained him. Good old Eddie, never one to take a joke well. But Yaksha hadn't minded the horrific treatment. Indeed, in the end, the most feared of all earth's ancient demons had found peace of mind through faith in Krishna. Staring at the dark waves, I think of how the passage of the many years does not necessarily bring devotion, how my own suffering has more often than not brought cynicism.
　　I have to wonder if that is why I keep suffering.
　　"What am I missing?" I ask the ocean. "Why do I have to go on like this?"
　　Yet now it is more important than ever that I continue. I am a mother; I have a responsibility to feed my daughter; but it is very possible my daughter is capable of destroying all mankind. No one knows, except perhaps Krishna, what weird alchemy of blood she possesses. Bowing my head in the direction of Yaksha's grave, I turn and leave the beach.
　　Another hour finds me at Paula's school, inside St. Andrews church. It's peculiar how many churches don't have posted hours, how their doors are always open. The light of the candles, as I step inside, fill me with warm feelings. Despite my obsession with Krishna, my respect for Jesus has never faded, even during the Middle Ages when the Catholic Church tried to burn me at the stake for witchcraft. Me, a witch? I'm a goddamn vampire. I almost told them that, but then, the Church was never one to enjoy a joke.
　　St. Andrews is comfortably stuffy. The smoke from the candles and incense fills my nostrils as I take a seat in the third pew and stare at the stained-glass windows, dark and sinister without the sun to give them color. A statue of Mother Mary stands nearby, dozens of glowing red dishes flickering at her feet. I have never lit a candle for the Madonna in the last two thousand years, but I have a strong urge to do so now. But I won't pray to her, I won't ask for her help. Her own son was crucified, so I don't think she is the best person to run to with my problems. Yet I feel close to her, and that is reason enough to show her respect. Plus I like candles. I like fire of all kinds.
　　I have just lit my candles when I hear steps off to my right.
　　"Alisa?"
　　I smile as I turn. "Paula. What are you doing here at this hour? Praying?"
　　She is happy to see me. As best as she can with her swollen belly, she gives me a hug. "No, I was working on the school's books. I couldn't sleep tonight. I only stopped in here because I saw a car parked out front. I thought it might be yours. Why are you here?"
　　I gesture to Mother Mary. "I'm making my confession."
　　"You need a priest for that."
　　I shake my head. "I don't think there's a priest anywhere who would be able to sit through a list of my sins."
　　"Nonsense. They hear all kinds of stuff. None of us is that unique. I think it all sounds the same to them after a while."
　　"For once I have to disagree with you. My confession would set a record for the most difficult penance assigned." I pause as a wave of nostalgia sweeps over me. "Actually, I knew a Catholic priest once. He used to listen to my confessions. I think that's what drove him mad."
　　Paula wonders if I am kidding. "What was his name?"
　　"Arturo. He was Italian. I met him in Florence, a long time ago. But that is another story. I'm happy to see you. How are you feeling?"
　　Paula beams. "Wonderful. If I didn't have such trouble sleeping, I wouldn't even know I was pregnant."
　　"Not to mention the basketball in your belly. Well, that's great, I'm happy for you." I glance at the main crucifix and lower my voice. "Very happy."
　　Paula touches my arm. "Something's the matter?"
　　I nod grimly, still staring at Jesus, wondering how it felt to hang on the cross with so much power available to him, but unable to show it. In that instant I feel a great kinship with Jesus. Seldom in five thousand years was I allowed to demonstrate my full power, and then, when I did, people died.
　　Also, I think of how Krishna was killed, cut down in the forest by a hunter's arrow, mistaken for a beast and shot in the heel, the only portion of his divine body that was vulnerable to physical attack. So the legend of Achilles was born, not in Greece, but in the deep forests of central India. It is impossible for me to look at Jesus and not think of Krishna. Honestly, all the religious dogma aside, I believe they were one and the same. So universal that they were everybody, and nobody at the same time. Like Kali, Mother Kalika.
　　Who is my daughter? What is she?
　　"Something is the matter," I say to Paula.
　　"What is it? Maybe I can help."
　　"No. Thanks, but no. No one can help me." I gesture to the empty pews. "Could I remain here a while? I have to think, to meditate. I think that will clear my mind, and then I will know what to do."
　　Paula kisses me on the cheek. "Stay as long as you want. I will lock the doors as I leave, but they will still open from the inside. You'll be safe in here."
　　I smile feebly. "Thank you. You are a true friend. Sometime, when things are less hectic, we must talk."
　　Paula stares deep into my eyes. "I look forward to that talk."
　　When she is gone, I curl up in one of the pews and close my eyes. I meditate best when I am unconscious, when I allow God to do most of the talking. Even though I am in a Catholic church, I pray Krishna will visit me in my dreams.
   
   11
　　
　　The scene is the same as it has always been. It can be no other way for it is constructed in eternity. It is only here that dialogue with the Almighty can take place.
　　I stand on a vast grassy plain with many gently sloping hills surrounding me. It is night, yet the sky is bright. A hundred blue stars blaze overhead. The air is warm and fragrant. In the distance a stream of people move slowly toward a large spaceship. The ship is violet; bright rays of light stab into the sky from it. I know that I am supposed to be on this ship. Yet, before I go to it, I have something to discuss with Lord Krishna.
　　He stands beside me on the plain, his gold flute in his right hand, a red lotus flower in his left. His dress, like mine, is simple-a long blue gown that reaches to the ground. But he wears a jewel around his neck- the brilliant Kaustubha gem, in which the destiny of every soul can be seen. He does not look at me but at the vast ship, and the stars beyond. He waits for me to speak, to answer him, but for some reason I can't remember what he last said. I only know that I am a special case. Because I do now know how to respond, I say what is most on my mind.
　　"When will I see you again, my Lord?"
　　He gestures to the wide plain, the stars overhead. "All this creation is an ocean, turbulent on the surface, silent in the depths. But like an ocean, the creatures in it are always searching for meaning in the creation, the ultimate element." He smiles to himself at the irony. "The fish searches for water in the ocean. He has heard so much about it. But he never finds it, and that is because he searches too hard." He pauses. "I am everywhere in the creation. There is nowhere that I am not. Why do you speak to me of separation?"
　　"Because, my Lord, I fear I will forget you when I enter into the creation."
　　He shrugs, he has no worries. "That is to be expected. You learn by forgetting what you once knew. Then, when you remember, it is that much sweeter."
　　"When will you come to earth?"
　　"When I am least expected."
　　"Will I see you, my Lord?"
　　"Yes, twice. At the beginning of Kali Yuga and then at the end of the age."
　　"Will I recognize you?"
　　"Not at first, not with the mind. But inside you will know me."
　　"How will I know you?"
　　He looks at me then, and his eyes are a wonder, windows into the cosmos. Time loses all meaning. It is as if the whole universe turns while I stare at him. I see thousands of people, millions of stars, so much life striving for small joys, so many illusions ending in shattering bitterness. Yet in the end it all turns to red, then to black, as the blood of the people runs cold and the fires of Kali burn the galaxies to ash. Still, none of this disturbs the eternal Lord for he never blinks, even though the sheer magnitude of the vision forces me to turn away trembling. He has stolen my very breath.
　　"Sri Krishna," I pray, overwhelmed, "take my soul now. Don't send me out. I surrender everything to you. I can't bear to forget you even for a moment."
　　He smiles. "I will tell you a story. This same story will be told by a simple man named Jesus, in the middle of Kali Yuga. Few people will recognize this Jesus with their minds, but some will know him inside." Krishna pauses before he begins.
　　"There is a man named Homa, who is a good person but not a perfect soul. He is a friend of Jesus and one day Jesus asks him to go to the village to buy some food for a large meal Jesus wants to give for some elders of the nearby village. Jesus says to the man, 'Take these ten coins and buy twelve loafs of bread, five jugs of wine, four fish, and one bag of a grain. Load it all on my donkey, and when you are done bring it here. I will be waiting for you.'
　　"At this Homa is confused, as well as excited with greed. He can see Jesus does not understand the value of the coins because he knows he can get all the things Jesus has requested for only five coins. Yet Homa also knows Jesus will need twice as much as he has asked for in order to feed all the people who are expected. Still, Homa does not plan on spending all ten coins. He says to himself, 'I will buy what I have been told to buy, and I will pocket the rest of the coins.'
　　"So Homa takes the donkey to town, and sets about purchasing the food. At the bakery he buys twelve loafs of bread, but as he places them on the donkey, when he is not looking, they change to twenty-four loafs. Next, Homa gets the five jugs of wine and the four fish. But like before, when he is not looking, the five jugs turns to ten, and the four fish turn to eight. Finally, Homa obtains the bag of grain, but then, on the way back, he sees that he actually has two bags, and that everything else has doubled as well. He is astounded and feels to see if the five coins are still in his pocket.
　　"Jesus is waiting for him when he arrives and greets him with a kind smile. The smile of Jesus is a wonderful thing. Mankind's history will portray Jesus as filled with sorrow, but the love and joy that flow toward Homa when Jesus looks at him is all-consuming. Still, Homa is worried about seeing Jesus, even though Jesus has only kind words for him.
　　"Jesus says, 'Welcome back, Homa, you have brought everything we need for a great feast. Thank you.'
　　"But in shame Homa lowers his head and takes the five coins and places them at Jesus' feet. 'Don't thank me, Master, for I thought to cheat you. I knew you needed more than you asked for, but I was going to keep these extra coins for myself. It is only by some strange magic that all this food is here. I bought only half this.' At that he kisses Jesus' feet. 'I am unworthy to be called your friend, or even your servant.'
　　"But Jesus lifts him up, and says, 'No, Homa, you have done well because you have done my bidding. That is all you have to do. I ask nothing more of anyone.'"
　　Krishna pauses and stares up at the sky. "Did you enjoy this story?"
　　"Yes, my Lord. But I do not know if I understand it, or how it relates to me."
　　"This man, Homa, he is like every man. He is good-hearted but he has his flaws. Yet he is perfect in the eyes of Jesus because he has done what Jesus asks. You see, Sita, God does not expect you to give him all that you have. He understands the ways of the world, that it requires effort to deal with them. God only asks that you grant him half of what you possess, and then God will make up the other half. That is why the food multiplied. That is the miracle of this tale." Krishna pauses. "This story will be a part of the Gospel of Jesus, but too soon it will be removed from the holy book by those who want the peasant class to give everything to the Church, who do not understand the compassion of Jesus for those who struggle in the world." Krishna pauses again and smiles at me, that bewitching smile that steals even the hearts of the gods. "You don't need to surrender everything to me. Keep your head and I will take your heart. You will need your head to deal with Kali Yuga, particularly the end of the age."
　　"What will happen at the end, my Lord?"
　　Krishna laughs and raises his flute to his lips. "You will not enjoy the tale if you know the end of the tale. Enough questions, Sita, now listen to my song. It dispels all illusions, all suffering. When you feel lost, remember it, remember me, and you see the things you desire most are the very things that bring you the greatest sorrow. My song is eternal, it can be heard at all times in all places."
　　"But-"
　　"Listen, Sita. Listen in silence."
　　Krishna starts to play. But as he does, a sudden wind comes up on the plain and the notes of his melody are drowned out. The dust rises and I am blinded, and I can't see Krishna anymore. The light of the stars fades and everything turns black.
　　Yet in this blackness an even darker shadow fills the sky, and I know I see Kali, who is without color and who destroys all at the end of time. Sinners as well as saints, devils as well as angels, humans as well as vampires. And I know it is Kali who will eventually destroy me.
　　
   12
　　
　　Over the next three days Kalika grows to the approximate age of five, while Eric ages ten years. During this time she reads greedily and masters English, as well as many subtleties of conversation and social convention. I have tested her-her IQ appears off the charts. Her beauty flourishes as well. Her long dark hair is like a shawl of black silk, her face a fine sculpture of hidden mysteries. Even her voice is magic, filled with haunting rhythms. When she speaks, it is hard not to listen, to agree with her, to forget everything else. But it is seldom Kalika does speak, and what runs through her mind-besides her hunger for blood-I have no idea.
　　It is in the middle of night when my daughter wakes me in my bed. She does this by gently stroking my hair. I am forced to wake to confusion.
　　"I can't wait," she says. "I need more."
　　I shake my head. "He can't take it. You're going to have to wait till later in the day. I have to get you another."
　　Kalika is gently persistent. "I can do it if you don't want to. I know how."
　　I frown. "Have you been watching me?" Naturally, I have not let Eric see where his blood is going. Somehow I doubt it would lift his spirits.
　　"Yes," Kalika says. "I watch you."
　　I sit up. "Has he seen you?"
　　"No." She pauses and glances at Ray, who continues to sleep. "He hasn't seen either of us."
　　"You are not listening to me. This boy can give no more blood. Already his heartbeat is erratic. In a few hours, when it is light, I will go out and find another supply. Until then you will have to be patient."
　　Kalika stares at me with her dark blue eyes. Perhaps it is my imagination, but I catch a glimmer of red in their depths. She smiles slightly, showing her front teeth.
　　"I have been patient, Mother." That is her new name for me. "I will just take a little of his blood, and then we can go for another supply. We can go in a few minutes."
　　I snort. "You're not going with me. You're a little girl."
　　Kalika is unmoved. "I will come with you. You will need me."
　　I pause. "Do you know that for sure?"
　　"Yes."
　　"I don't believe you."
　　Kalika loses her smile. "I won't lie to you, Mother, if you don't lie to me."
　　"Don't give me orders. You are to do what I say at all times. Is that clear?"
　　She nods. "As long as you don't lie to me." She adds, as if it were related, "How is Paula doing?"
　　Her question confuses me. Kalika has never met Paula. How would I explain that I have given birth to a child and that she has grown to five years of age, all in a month? Of course, I have talked about Paula with Ray. Perhaps Kalika was listening.
　　"Why do you ask?" I say.
　　Kalika glances at Ray. "I am curious about her. She means a lot to you."
　　"She's my friend. She's doing fine. One day you will meet her."
　　"Do you promise?"
　　I hesitate. "We'll see." I throw off the covers and put my feet on the floor. "We can go out now, if you insist. But we're not disturbing Eric anymore."
　　Kalika puts a hand on my leg. It is still a small hand but I have to wonder if I would be able to stand if she didn't want me to. I doubt it, and do not try to brush her fingers away.
　　It is a terrible thing to be afraid of one's own daughter.
　　"I will take only a little of his blood," she repeats.
　　"How much?"
　　"Eight ounces."
　　"That is not a little, not for him. He is weak, don't you care?"
　　Kalika is thoughtful. When she gets that way, she stares at the ground. I have no idea what she looks for. Her eyes close halfway, and her breathing seems to halt. The overall effect is disturbing. Finally she looks up.
　　"I care," she says. "But not in the way you mean."
　　I am curious. She is still an enigma to me. "What do you mean?"
　　She shakes her head. "I cannot explain, Mother."
　　Kalika leaves me to get dressed. Knocking lightly on Eric's door, I step in his room. I have not been able to untie him as I had hoped. As his strength has failed, his behavior has become more desperate. He thinks only of escape, or of his own impending death. I wish I could release him. An unhappy bundle of nerves stuffed in a stale corner, he twitches as I step into the room.
　　"No," he moans. "I can't."
　　I kneel by his side. "I need just a little. Less than last time."
　　He weeps. "Why?"
　　"You know I can't tell you why. But it will be over soon, Eric, I promise. I'm going out right now to-to get someone else."
　　He shakes his head sadly as he stares up at the ceiling. "I'm not stupid. You're never going to let me go. You're going to keep me here till I die."
　　"No."
　　He speaks with passion. "Yes. You're evil. You're a vampire. You have to kill me to keep your evil ways secret."
　　His words hurt. "I'm not a vampire. I don't take this blood for myself."
　　He is not listening. He continues to sob but grows more animated. "You're some monster from another planet. You're going to rip me open and eat my guts. You're going to have a glass of wine and have my guts all over your face, dripping on your clothes, on the floor..." He raises his voice. "You're going to eat me alive!"
　　"Shh."
　　"You're an alien monster!"
　　"Eric!"
　　"Help! The monster's got me! The aliens are coming!"
　　I am forced to strike him hard in the face to shut him up. My reflexes are still excellent, my martial art skills sharp. I believe I break his nose. Yet he continues to moan softly as I tighten the tourniquet. After I have drained away eight ounces-I know Kalika will count them-he dozes, probably out of sheer loss of blood. I kiss the top of his head before I leave the room.
　　"You will go home, Eric," I whisper. "I am not a monster."
　　While Kalika has her breakfast, I dress in my bedroom, in black leather pants, a tight leather coat. Ray sits up in bed. I do not need to turn to feel his eyes on me.
　　"Are you going out?" he asks.
　　"Yes. You know why."
　　"Yes. You've waited too long anyway."
　　"It's not an enjoyable task, you know, finding people to kill."
　　"Eric's still alive."
　　"Barely."
　　"Find someone you don't like. A criminal, a rapist-you used to specialize in them if I remember correctly."
　　I turn on him. "I may not be able to handle a criminal or rapist nowadays, or does that concern you, my love?"
　　He shrugs. "Take your pistol. It has a silencer on it. Just get someone you're not going to go to pieces over every time you have to take blood."
　　I speak with thinly disguised bitterness. "You didn't answer my question, my love. But I suppose that is answer enough. You know I enjoy this little family we have here. A gorgeous daughter who is a medical and historical first, and a supposedly loving boyfriend who has forgotten what the words friend and love mean. I mean, you've got to admit, five thousand years of intense experience has really helped me create the perfect domestic environment. Wouldn't you agree?"
　　He is unimpressed by my outburst. "You create what you want You always have. If you don't like it, you can always leave."
　　I snort. "Leave you with Kalika! She would starve in a day."
　　"I doubt that Kalika will need either of us soon. She's not a normal child, you know." He adds, "Not like Paula's child will be."
　　I stop. "Why did you say that?"
　　He ignores me. "When is her baby due exactly? Soon?"
　　I frown. Why were they both dropping remarks about Paula? "She's not having a baby anymore," I say carefully. "She lost it."
　　He waves his hand. "Yeah, right, she got kicked by a donkey."
　　A donkey, I think. "Yeah, that is right." I turn away. "Seymour was right about you."
　　Ray is instantly alert. "You spoke to him. When did you speak to him?"
　　I reach for my black boots. "None of your business."
　　"What did he say about me?"
　　I glare at him. "He said that Eddie Fender's blood has warped your mind. He told me not to trust you, which was probably good advice."
　　Ray relaxes. "Good old Seymour. Did you invite him down for a pleasant evening of food and conversation?"
　　I have my boots on and stalk out the door. "He is not interested in our problems," I lie. "He has better things to do with his time."
　　But Ray's final remark makes me pause outside the door.
　　"I hope you didn't tell him about Kalika. I really hope you didn't."
　　I glance over my shoulder. "Of course not. He would never have believed me if I had."
　　Ray just nods and smiles.
　　
   13
　　
　　Kalika drives with me to a club in Hollywood. It is one in the morning but the place is still hopping. What I'm supposed to do with my daughter, I'm not sure. It is she who suggests she hide under a blanket in the backseat until I bring out whoever it is who is to be our next barrel of blood. As she crawls under the blanket, she peers up at me with her serious dark blue eyes.
　　"You'll be warm enough?" I ask.
　　"I am never cold," she says.
　　"If you want, you can sleep. Just don't make any noise when I return to the car. I'll take care of everything." I glance at the crowded parking lot. "But I won't be able to knock him out here."
　　"Take him to a secluded place," Kalika says. "I will help you."
　　"I told you, I don't want your help."
　　Kalika does the unexpected then. She reaches up and kisses me on the lips. "Be careful, Mother. You are not who you used to be."
　　Her kiss warms me, her words give me a chill. "You know what I used to be?"
　　"Yes. He told me."
　　"Ray?"
　　"Yes."
　　"How come you never call him Father?"
　　"You call him Ray. I call him Ray."
　　"But he calls me Sita."
　　"Do you want me to call you Sita?"
　　"No, it doesn't matter." I pause. "Do you like Ray?"
　　She shrugs. "How I feel-I can't explain to you at this time."
　　"Why not?"
　　"You are not ready to hear."
　　"When will I be ready to hear?"
　　"Soon."
　　"You know this?"
　　She pulls the blanket over her head. "I know many things, Mother."
　　The music is loud as I enter the club, the strobe lights flashing, unnatural thunder and psychedelic solar flares to match the scrambled brains of the alcohol-saturated clientele. I am, of course, a superb dancer, even without my vampire strength. Without looking around, I leap onto the dance floor and wait for my daughter's next meal to come to me. Guilt makes me less discriminating. Let destiny decide who is to suffer, I will not.
　　A man about thirty, with an expensive sports coat and a thin black mustache joins me within a few minutes. His speech is educated; he could be an Ivy League graduate, a young lawyer with something profitable on the side. His watch is a Rolex, his single gold earring studded with a carat diamond. He is not handsome but his face is likable. He speaks smoothly.
　　"Mind if I butt in?" he asks.
　　I smile, whirling, my hair in my eyes. "There's no one to butt out."
　　He chuckles. "Hey, you're a real dancer."
　　"You're not bad yourself. What's your name?"
　　"Billy. You?"
　　"Cynthia. But you can call me Cindy."
　　He grins, he's having a good time. "I'll call you whatever you want."
　　After twenty minutes on the floor, he buys me a couple of drinks. We catch our breath over them at the bar. I was right, he's a lawyer but he insists he's an honest one.
　　"I don't represent shmucks and I don't fudge my billing hours," he says proudly, sipping his Bloody Mary, my drink of choice when I am on the prowl. I am already on my second. The alcohol soothes my nerves, although I don't suppose it sharpens my reflexes. At my waist, above my butt and beneath my leather jacket, I carry my pistol and silencer. But I know I won't need it on Billy. He will go the way of Eric, to endless misery. Guilt hangs over my head but I keep it away with a stiff umbrella of denial.
　　"What firm are you with?" I ask.
　　"Gibson and Pratch. They're in Century City. I live in the valley. The traffic's hell coming over the San Diego Freeway in the morning. What do you do?"
　　"I'm a music teacher," I say.
　　"Cool. What instrument do you play?"
　　"Piano, some violin."
　　"Wow, that's incredible. I have an expensive piano that was left to me by my rich uncle. I've always meant to take lessons, but never got around to it." He pauses and then has a brilliant idea. God inspires it. I know what it is; he hasn't been able to take his eyes off my body. "Hey, will you play me something on my piano?"
　　I laugh and look around. "Did you bring it with you?"
　　"No, at my place. It doesn't take long to get there at this time of night."
　　I hesitate. "Like you say, Billy, it's late. I have to get up in the morning."
　　"Nah! You're a teacher. You call your students and tell them when you want to see them. Really, we can go in my car. I've got a brand-new Jag."
　　I'm impressed. "I love Jags." I glance uneasily at my watch, playing the role to the hilt. "OK, but I'm going to have to follow you there. That way I can head straight back to my place after your song."
　　Billy is pleased as he sets down his drink. "I'll drive slowly. I won't lose you."
　　Kalika is asleep when I return to the car. Her soft rhythmic breathing follows me as I steam onto the freeway and chase Billy's Jag into the valley. He has lied to me-he drives like a maniac.
　　My plan is simple. I will knock him out the second we get inside, then load him into my trunk. He looks like he's been drinking all night, an easy mark. He won't even know what hit him.
　　Kalika is still asleep when we reach Billy's place.
　　I leave my gun in the glove compartment.
　　Billy's house is modest, considering his new car. The driveway is cracked, the landscaping neglected. He lives in a cul-de-sac. His car disappears into the automatic garage as I park in the street. A moment later he is on the front porch, waving to me. Making sure Kalika is resting comfortably, I get out and walk toward Billy, my boots clicking on the asphalt and concrete. Billy thinks he's in for a night of sex and more sex. His grin as he greets me belongs to a sixteen-year-old. I'm not surprised when he kisses me the moment we're inside with the door closed. His mouth is sweet with the taste of alcohol, his groping hands moist with the thrill of seduction. He presses me against the wall and I have to turn my head to catch my breath.
　　"Hold on a second, Billy," I protest. "You haven't even shown me the house. And where's your piano?"
　　He stares at me with a gleam in his eye. "I don't have a piano."
　　"What do you mean. You said your uncle ..."
　　"I don't have an uncle," he interrupts.
　　Right then I smell it. The odor is faint, probably something most young women would miss, but I have had extensive experience with this smell. I don't need supernatural nostrils to identify it. Somewhere in Billy's house, perhaps buried beneath his bed, perhaps cemented into his bathroom floor, is one or more dead bodies. My best estimate as I look deeper into his manic eyes is that it is more than one. I curse myself for being such a fool, for being caught off guard. Certainly as a vampire I would have heard his lies a mile away.
　　Careful, I let none of my insights show on my face.
　　"That's all right, Billy," I say. "I don't know how to play piano anyway."
　　He is dizzy with pleasure. "You lied to me?"
　　"We lied to each other."
　　There is a single metal click. The sound is very specific, the snap of a switchblade. His right arm begins to slash upward. He is close to me, though, perhaps too close. Giving him a nudge in the chest, I yank my right knee up as hard as I can, catching him clean in the groin. But Billy must have balls of steel. My blow stuns him but he doesn't double up in agony. His switchblade continues its terrifying course toward my throat. Only by twisting to the side at the last second do I manage to avoid having my jugular severed. But even though I momentarily break free, the blade catches the tip of my left shoulder and slices through my leather jacket. The knife is incredibly sharp; it opens a four-inch gash in my tender flesh. Blood spurts from my body as I stagger into the center of the living room.
　　How I long for my pistol right then.
　　Billy limps toward me, holding his bloody knife in his right hand, his bruised crotch in his left. He grins again but he is no longer a happy-go-lucky serial killer.
　　"You are a spunky little bitch," he says.
　　I grab a vase of flowers and cock it back in my right hand. "Stop! I'll scream if you don't."
　　He laughs. "My nearest neighbors are all old and hard of hearing. This house is completely soundproof. Scream all you want, Cindy."
　　"My name's not Cindy. Yours isn't Billy."
　　He is surprised. "Who are you then?"
　　"Why should I tell you?"
　　"Because I want to know before you die."
　　I harden my voice. "I am Sita, of the ancient past. I am older than I look and I have dealt with scum like you before. It is you who will die this night, and I don't care what your name is."
　　He charges, and he moves fast for a nonvampire. The vase, of course, I throw at him merely to upset his balance. But he seems to know that ahead of time; he ducks and prepares for my real blow. I am already in the air, however, lashing out with my right foot, the heel of my boot, aiming for the sensitive spot on his jaw that professional boxers covet. One hard punch will put him out cold.
　　Unfortunately my human muscles fail me once again. I am short on the reach. As a result my devastating kick barely contacts his jaw. The blow backs him up, cuts him even, but it by no means puts him down. Wiping at his face, he has hatred in his eyes.
　　"Where did you learn this stuff?" he demands.
　　"Through a correspondence course," I snap as I begin to circle. Now I have lost the element of surprise. He watches my feet as he stalks me with his knife. Someone has trained him as well, I see. He does not lunge carelessly, but plots his strikes. One such swipe of his knife slashes open the back of my right hand. The pain is electric, burning, my blood is everywhere. Still, I maintain my balanced stance, circling, searching for an opening. He is skilled at defense; however, he never stops moving his arms. I know I can't let him catch my leg. He would probably saw off my foot, and make me watch.
　　Then he makes a mistake. Going for my eyes, he subtly telegraphs his intention. My initial reaction is simple-I duck. Then I leap up just after the knife swishes over my head and sweep his lower legs with my left foot. The move is kung fu, very old and effective. Billy, or whoever the hell he is, topples to the floor. I am on him in an instant. When he tries to rise, I kick him in the face, then again in the chest. He smashes into his coffee table and his knife bounces on the blood-stained carpet and I kick it away. Lying on his back, breathing hard, he stares at me in amazement. Standing over him, I feel the old satisfaction of triumph. I step on his left wrist and pin his arm to the floor.
　　"I actually can play the piano," I say. "If you had an instrument here, I would play Mozart's Requiem for the dead after I stuff you in a closet."
　　He still has a weird gleam in his eye. "Is your name really Sita?"
　　"Yes."
　　"How old are you? You're older than you look, huh?"
　　"Yes. How old are you and how do you want to die?"
　　He grins. "I'm not going to die."
　　"No?"
　　"No." And with that, before I can react, he pulls out a snub-nose silver revolver and points it at my head. "Not tonight, Sita."
　　Once again I am furious at myself, for not taking him out immediately when he was helpless. I know what my problem is. I am used to playing with my victims, a luxury I can no longer afford now that I am mortal. There is no way I can dodge the bullet he can send hurtling to my brain. It is his game now. Taking my foot off his wrist, I back up a couple of steps. He gets up slowly and guards me carefully. He is not one to repeat a mistake, as the odor in his house testifies.
　　"How many girls have you killed here?" I ask.
　　"Twelve." He grins. "You're going to be lucky number thirteen."
　　"Thirteen is traditionally an unlucky number," I remind him.
　　He gestures with his gun. "On your knees. Keep your hands on top of your head. No sudden moves."
　　I do as he says. Like I have a lot of choice. The blood from my hand wound drips into my hair and over my face. Like those of a full-fledged vampire, my tears are once again dark red. My situation is clearly desperate, and I cannot think of a dear course of action. He ties my wrists behind my back with nylon cord. Although I can work my way out of any knot, even with my current strength, he complicates my dilemma by redoing the knots several times over. When he is finished he crouches in front of me and takes out his switchblade. He plays with my hair with the tip of the blade, with my eyes even, letting the silver razor brush the surface of the whites. I won't be surprised if he gouges one of my eyes out and eats it.
　　"You're so beautiful," he says.
　　"Thank you."
　　"All my girls have been beautiful." He leans close, his breath on my face, his knife now inside my right nostril. "You know, I never met a girl like you. Not only can you fight, you are totally fearless."
　　I smile sweetly. "Yeah, I could be your partner. Why don't you untie me and we can talk about it?"
　　He laughs. "See! That's exactly what I mean. You make jokes in the face of death." He slides the knife a little farther up my nose and loses his smile. A typical serial killer, moody as hell. "But some of your jokes aren't that funny. Some of them annoy me. I don't like to annoyed."
　　I swallow thickly. "I can understand that."
　　He pokes the inside of my nose and a narrow line of blood pours over my mouth and down my throat. His eyes are inches from mine, his mouth almost close enough to lick my blood. I am afraid he will do that next, and not like the taste. It hurts to have a switchblade up my right nostril. Still, I cannot think of a way out of my situation. Yet I find I am more concerned about Kalika, asleep in the car, than I am about myself. Truly I am a good mother. It was only my love for my daughter that brought me into this evil place. Krishna will understand.
　　I feel I will be seeing him soon.
　　"You know what I don't like about you?" he asks. "It's your cockiness. I had a cocky girlfriend in high school once. Her name was Sally and she was so sure of herself." He pauses. "Until she lost her nose and her lips. A girl with only half a face is never a smart mouth."
　　I wisely keep my mouth shut.
　　There is a knock at the front door.
　　Billy pulls the knife higher, still inside my nose, forcing my head back. "Don't make a sound," he whispers. "There is dying all at once and there is dying piece by piece. Believe me, I can take a week to kill you if you try to get their attention."
　　My eyelashes flash up and down. Yes, I understand and agree.
　　I know who is at the door. The person knocks again.
　　Billy is sweating. Clearly he fears some noise has escaped his soundproof spider's lair and that a neighbor has called the police. All he can do is wait and worry. But he is not kept in suspense long. The door slowly opens and a beautiful five-year-old girl with stunning dark hair and large black-blue eyes pokes her head inside.
　　"Mother," Kalika says. "Are you OK?"
　　Billy is astounded and immensely relieved. He lowers his switchblade. "Is that your daughter?" he asks.
　　"Yes."
　　"What is she doing here?"
　　"She came with me. She was sleeping in the car."
　　"Well, I'll be goddamned. I didn't know you had a daughter."
　　"There are a few things about me you don't know." I glance at Kalika, wondering what I should do: be a good mother, warn her to get away, or remain silent and try to get out of this hell hole alive. Honestly, I don't know how quick Kalika is, exactly how strong she is. But a vampire her size and her age could take Billy. I speak carefully, "I am not OK, darling."
　　"I told you," she replies.
　　Billy withdraws his knife and stands in front of me. He is bleeding as well, and he has plenty of my blood on him. He holds his messy knife in his right hand and he has his shiny revolver tucked in his belt. Plus the light in his eyes is radioactive. He looks as trustworthy as Jack the Ripper on a PCP high. Yet he gestures to Kalika to come closer, as if he were Santa Claus anxious to hear her wish list.
　　"Come here, darling," he says in a sweet voice.
　　And she comes, slowly, observing every blessed detail: the composition of the floor, how Billy stands, the height of the ceiling, the arrangement of the furniture-moving precisely the way an experienced vampire would move while closing in for the kill. Her arms hang loose by her sides, her legs slightly apart, well-balanced, and she is up on her toes so that she can move either way fast. Billy senses there is something odd about her. When she is ten feet from him, he drops his smile. For my apart, I watch in wonder and terror. Only then do I realize the full extent of my love for my daughter. I would rather die a dozen times over than have anything happen to her.
　　"What's your name, sweetie?" Billy asks when she stops directly in front of him. His voice is uneasy, perhaps as a result of the power of her stare, which is now locked on his face. Kalika tilts her head slightly to one side, ignoring me for the moment.
　　"Kalika," she says.
　　He frowns. "What kind of name is that, child?"
　　"It's a Vedic name. It's who I am."
　　"What does it mean?" he asks.
　　"It has many meanings. Most of them are secret." She finally gestures to me. "You've hurt my mother. She's bleeding."
　　Billy gives an exaggerated sigh. "I know that Kalika, and I'm sorry. But it was your mother who hurt me first. I only hurt her back to defend myself."
　　Kalika doesn't blink. "You are lying. You are not a good man. But your blood is good. I will drink it in a moment." She pauses. "You can put your knife and your gun down now. You will not need them."
　　Billy is having a night of amazement. His face breaks into a wolfish grin and he looks down at me. "What kind of nonsense have you been teaching this child, Sita?"
　　I shrug. "She watches too much TV."
　　Billy snorts. "God, I can't believe this family." He takes a step toward my daughter, his knife still in his right hand. "Come here, girl. I'm putting you in the other room. I have business with your mother that can't wait. But I'll let you out in a little while, if you behave yourself." Billy holds out his free hand. "Come, give me your hand."
　　Kalika innocently reaches up and takes his hand. She even allows his fingers to close around her tiny digits. But then, in a move too swift for human eyes to properly follow, she grabs his other hand, twists his wrist at an impossible angle, and rams the knife into his stomach. Literally the blade is sunk up to the hilt. An expression of surprise and grief swallows Billy's face as he stares down at what she has done to him. Slowly, as if in a dream, he lets go of the knife. It is obvious his right wrist is broken. Blood gushes over his pants and Kalika stares at it with her first sign of pleasure.
　　"I am hungry," she says.
　　Billy gasps for air but finally he is getting the idea that he is in mortal danger, that he might be, in fact, already screwed. Summoning his failing strength, he makes a swipe for Kalika's head. But she is not standing where she was an instant before, and he misses. She is her mother's daughter. Twice she kicks with her right foot, with her shiny black shoes that I bought for her at the mall, and the cartilage in both his joints explodes. Falling to his shattered knees, he lets out a pitiful scream.
　　"How can you do this to me?" he cries.
　　Kalika steps over and grabs him by his hair and pulls his head back, exposing his throat. The calm on her face is eerie even for me to see.
　　"If you understood the full meaning of my name," she says, "you would have no need to ask."
　　Billy dies piece by piece, drop by drop.
　　Kalika satisfies herself before she releases me.
　　Even I, Sita the Damned, cannot bear to watch.
   
   14
　　
　　The following week Kalika attains full maturity, approximately twenty years of age, about the same age I was when I was changed into a vampire. At this point her growth seems to halt. I am not surprised. It is a fact that a human being is at his or her greatest strength, mentally and physically, just out of his or her teens. Certainly Kalika is very powerful, but how powerful I'm not sure. Except for the incident with Billy, she never demonstrates her abilities in front of me. One thing is sure, though-she no longer needs me to bring her lunch. Now she leaves the house for long stretches of time-on foot and at night. When she returns, I don't ask where she's been or who she's been with. I don't want to know.
　　Of course that's a lie. I scrutinize the papers each day for reports of unexplained murders. Yet I find none, and it makes me wonder.
　　The police have yet to find Billy-what is left of him. I know it is only a matter of time. I hope they will uncover his victims as well.
　　My hand and shoulder are still bandaged. I did not allow myself the luxury of a doctor and hospital, but I did manage to sew myself up fairly well. Still, I know I will be scarred for life.
　　The change in my daughter's eating habits means that I no longer need to keep Eric locked in the spare bedroom. Unfortunately, I can't figure out a way to let him go and keep him from running straight to the police. Simply moving to another city, or even another state, is not a solution. Well, it would probably help, but I don't want to move, not until Paula has her baby. Kalika and Ray don't want to move either. They have stated their opinion many times.
　　So I keep Eric locked up, but have stopped taking his blood. It had been my hope that this would cheer him up, and he'd be able to gain back his strength. But Eric is now deep in the throes of depression and won't eat a bite.
　　"Come on, Eric," I say as I offer him a hamburger and fries. "This is a McDonald's Big Mac and their golden delicious french fries, large size. I've even brought you a vanilla shake." I touch his head as he refuses to even look at me. He has lost over thirty pounds since meeting me, and his skin is a pasty yellow. There are black circles under his eyes, from his grief, and from the times I hit him. His nose is still broken; he has trouble breathing, especially tied up as he is. I add gently, "You've got to eat something. You're just wasting away in here."
　　"Then why don't you let me go like you promised?" he asks quietly. "I'm sick-you know I'm really sick."
　　"I am going to let you go. Just as soon as I figure out the logistics of the release. You understand I have to worry about you talking to the police. I have to be long gone from this place before you are freed."
　　"I won't talk to the police. I just want to go home."
　　"I know you do. It won't be long now." I push the hamburger his way. "Have a bite, just for me, and I'll have some of your fries. We can pretend we're in that coffee shop you took me to on our first date."
　　That is probably not the best thing to say. He begins to sob again. "I thought you were a nice girl. I just wanted to talk to you. I didn't know you would hurt me and take all my blood."
　　"But I stopped taking your blood. Things are looking up. Soon you'll see your mom and dad. And they'll be so excited to see you. Just think of that, Eric, and try to keep a positive attitude. Imagine what an incredible homecoming you're going to have. You'll be interviewed by every TV station in the country. You can even make your story more exciting than it really was. You can say how a whole horde of vampires tortured you night and day and used your blood for satanic rituals. The media will love that-they're really into the devil. You'll be a celebrity, a hero, and after that you'll probably get lots of dates. The girls will come to you. Heroes are sexy. You won't have to go looking for girls in the park."
　　My pep talk is wasted on him. He stares at me with bloodshot eyes and sniffles. "Even if you wanted to let me go, she'd never let you."
　　I pause. "Who's she?"
　　"The one you've been giving my blood to."
　　"I don't know what you're talking about."
　　"I've seen her. You serve her and you don't know it, but I know she's not human. I've seen her eyes, the red fire deep inside. She drinks human blood and she's evil." He nods like a man who's been granted a vision by God and won't be convinced otherwise. "After she kills me and eats my guts, she's going to kill you and eat your brains."
　　Well, I don't know what to say to that.
　　Placing the hamburger in his lap, I leave the room.
　　Ray is sitting in the living room. Kalika is in the backyard, sitting in the full lotus and meditating with her eyes closed in the bright sun, wearing a one-piece black bathing suit. She sits on a white towel in the center of the lawn and doesn't move a fraction of an inch, or even seem to breathe. This is a new habit of hers, but I am afraid to ask what she mediates on. Perhaps her own name, or the secret forms of it. They are reputed to be powerful mantras.
　　Ray looks up at me. "Is he eating?"
　　"No."
　　"What are we going to do with him?"
　　I sit on the couch across from Ray. "I don't know. Let him go."
　　"We can't let him go. Not now."
　　"Then we'll let him go later," I say.
　　Ray shakes his head. "I think that's a bad idea. It will require us to cover our tracks. He'll just give the authorities information we don't want them to have. Think about it a minute before you dismiss it. You said yourself that the government might still be searching for you. What are they going to think when they hear the story of a young man who was held captive by a beautiful blond woman who systematically drained his blood? They'll put two and two together, and they'll start a manhunt for you unlike anything that's been seen in this country. Remember, they still want that vampire blood."
　　I speak in a flat voice. "What is it you want me to think about?"
　　Ray hesitates. "Just getting rid of the problem."
　　"You mean kill Eric and bury him in the backyard?"
　　"I don't think we should bury him there. But, yes, I don't see how we can let him go and expect to remain free ourselves."
　　I smile as I stare at him. It is one of those smiles a salesperson gives to a customer. "You know, something just occurred to me."
　　"What?"
　　"I don't know who you are. Oh, you look like Ray. You talk like him and you even have his memories. But I honestly don't know who you are."
　　"Sita, be serious. You have to face reality."
　　"That's exactly what I'm doing. The Ray I met and loved would never talk about killing an innocent young man. No matter what the consequences to himself. The idea would never even enter his mind. And one more thing, I've been watching our daughter the last few days and I swear she doesn't look a bit like you. You don't share a single feature. How can that be?"
　　Ray snorts. "You're the one who should be able to answer that question. You're the one who got pregnant."
　　"I wish I could answer it. I believe if I could, many other questions would be answered as well."
　　"Such as?"
　　I lose my smile. "I don't know how much I should tell you. I don't trust you, and I'm not going to kill Eric. We'll leave here before it comes to that. I don't care if he does set the government on my tail."
　　"You will not leave here until Paula has her baby."
　　"Paula's baby is not the topic of this conversation. Also, I notice you're not responding to my accusations. You're not even trying to defend yourself."
　　"They're so ridiculous. What can I say?" He glances down the hall. "Eric has to die, and the sooner the better."
　　"Have you shared this with Kalika?"
　　"Yes."
　　"Does she agree with you?"
　　Ray is evasive. "She didn't say one way or the other."
　　"She never says much." I straighten up and point a finger at Ray. "But let's make one thing perfectly clear. If you so much as harm a single hair on Eric's head, you'll regret it."
　　Ray is amused. "You're not a vampire anymore. You have nothing to back up your threats.
　　I'm not given a chance to respond. By chance, if anything is chance, a police car pulls into our driveway at that moment. The two officers are almost to the door when I remember that I have not replaced Eric's gag. I've been letting him be without it for the last few days. He knows the penalty for crying out.
　　Yet if he hears the police in the house, what will he do?
　　Ray runs into the back room, not into Eric's. I answer the door. A blond-haired cop and a dark-haired one. The handsome black one holds a picture of Eric in his hand. Wonderful.
　　"Hello," he says. "I'm Officer Williams and this is my partner, Officer Kent. We're canvassing the neighborhood for information concerning the whereabouts of this young man. His name is Eric Hawkins. He vanished close to three weeks ago." He pauses. "May we come in?"
　　"Sure." I open the door wider. As they step inside, I ask, "Was this guy from around here? Excuse me, please, have a seat."
　　Kent and Williams settle themselves on my couch. Williams does the talking. He is the leader of the two-his eyes are everywhere, searching for clues. Well-muscled Kent sits content like a comfortable jock after a hard game. I plop down across from them.
　　"Actually, Eric lives some distance from here," Williams says. "But we have a report from one of your neighbors that a guy who fit his description was seen entering your house. Also, this same neighbor believes she saw Eric's car parked out in front of your house on the day he disappeared."
　　"So you're not just canvassing the neighborhood. You've come here specifically to see me?" I gesture to Eric's picture. "I've never seen this guy in my life."
　　Williams is grave. "We also have a description from two guys that Eric was playing basketball with on the day he disappeared. They say he left Scott Park in the company of a young woman who matches your description."
　　I raise my hand, palm out. "Hold on! You do not have my description. I don't even know where Scott Park is. What exactly did these guys say?"
　　Williams consults notes jotted on a piece of folded paper. "That he left the park in the company of a beautiful blond girl approximately eighteen to twenty-one. Her hair was long, like yours."
　　I'm not impressed. "There are literally tens of thousands of cute blond girls with long hair in Southern California."
　　"That is true ma'am," Williams says. "You're just a lead we're checking out." He pauses. "Did you have a guest with a blue Honda Civic park in your driveway three weeks ago?"
　　"I can't remember. Lots of friends drop by. They have all kinds of cars."
　　"Do you have a friend who looks like Eric?" Williams asks. "Someone your neighbor might have mistakenly identified as Eric."
　　I shrug. "I have a couple of friends who resemble him superficially."
　　Williams glances in the backyard. Kalika was no longer there. "Would you mind if we looked around?" he asks.
　　"Do you have a search warrant?"
　　Williams is cagey. "We just stopped by to ask a few questions."
　　"Then I certainly do mind. Look, I live here with my boyfriend and a girlfriend. We're not kidnappers, and I resent your implying that we are."
　　Kent speaks for the first time. "Then why won't you let us look around?"
　　"That's my choice."
　　"What happened to your hand?" Kent asks, pointing to the bandage that covers Billy's second good swing at me.
　　"I cut it on a broken glass," I say.
　　"Hello?" Kalika says softly as she enters the living loom from the direction of the hall, a towel tied around her waist over her bathing suit. "Is there a problem?"
　　"No," I say quickly. "These men were just leaving."
　　Williams stands and holds out the picture of Eric for Kalika to see. "Have you ever seen this young man?"
　　Kalika studies the photograph. Then looks my way with a cool smile. "Yes."
　　That's my daughter. She would talk about Billy next.
　　"Where did you see him?" Williams demands, casting me a hard look.
　　Kalika is thoughtful. "I can show you the place. It's not far from here. Would you like to take me there?"
　　I clear my throat. "That's not necessary."
　　"I don't mind," Kalika says. "It's not a problem."
　　I lower my head. Arguing with her in front of these men will not help.
　　"Don't be gone long," I say.
　　Kalika leaves with the officers. She doesn't even bother to change out of her suit. The men don't seem to mind. Kalika is more stunning than her mother, and they can't take their eyes off her. I pray they don't take their eyes off her, and that they don't have families. It is them I am worried about now.
　　Paula calls ten minutes after Kalika leaves.
　　She's in labor. I'll be there in two minutes, I promise.
　　Running out the door, Ray stops me. "Call us when the baby's been born."
　　I step past him. I haven't told him who was on the phone but I suppose it shows on my face. "I'll think about it."
　　He speaks to my back as I go down the steps. "Remember, you promised Kalika you would let her see the baby. Don't forget."
　　I ignore him, or wish I could.
　　
   15
　　
　　Paula is having contractions in my car when I decide we are not going to the local hospital where her doctor is waiting. I turn left and head for the freeway. Paula is in pain, and in shock when I floor it.
　　"What are you doing?" she cries.
　　"I don't like your hospital," I say. "It's ill equipped. I'm taking you to a much nicer one. Don't worry, I have money, I'll pay."
　　"But they're expecting me! I called before I left!"
　　"It doesn't matter. This hospital is only thirty minutes away." It is actually over forty minutes away. "You'll like it, we can get you a room with a view of the mountains."
　　"But I'm not going on vacation! I'm going to have a baby! I don't need a room with a view!"
　　"It's always nice to have a view," I reply, patting her leg. "Don't worry, Paula, I know what I'm doing."
　　This baby-I don't know what's special about it I don't know why Ray and Kalika are obsessed with it. But I do know they are the last people on earth who are going to see it.
　　The hospital I take her to, the famous Cedar Sinai, is surprised to see us. But the staff jumps to attention when I wave cash and gold credit cards in their faces. What a terrible thing it is that the quality of emergency care is often determined by money. Holding Paula's hand, I help her fill out the paperwork and then we are both ushered into a delivery room. The baby appears to be coming fast. A nurse asks me to put on a gown and a mask. She is nice, and lets me stay with Paula without asking questions.
　　Paula is now drenched in sweat and in the throes of real pain, which I have often been intimate with. An anesthesiologist appears and wants to give her Demerol to take the edge off the contractions, maybe an epidermal to partially numb her tower body. But Paula shakes her head.
　　"I don't need anything," she says. "I have my friend with me."
　　The anesthesiologist doesn't approve, but I am touched by the remark. I have become so human. Even sentimental nonsense has meaning to me. Paula's hand is sweaty in mine but I have seldom felt a softer touch.
　　"I am with you," I say. "I will stay with you."
　　The baby fakes us all out It is eight hours later, at night, when the child finally makes an appearance-a
　　handsome male of seven pounds five ounces, with more hair than most babies, and large blue eyes that I assume will fade to brown over the next few months. I am the first to hold the baby-other than the delivering physician-and I whisper in his ear the ancient mystical symbol that is supposed to remind the child of its true essence or soul.
　　"Vak," I say over and over again. It is practically the first sound the infant hears because he did not come out screaming, and the doctor and the others fell strangely silent at the moment of his birth. Indeed, it was almost as if time stood still for a moment.
　　Vak is a name for Saraswati, the Goddess of speech,t25 dvd, the Mother above the head who brings the white light to saints and prophets. The baby smiles at me as I say Vak. Already, I think, I am in love with him. Wiping him gently off and handing him to Paula, I wonder who his father is.
　　"Is he all right?" she asks, exhausted from the effort but nevertheless blissful.
　　"Yes, he's perfect," I say, and laugh softly, feeling something peculiar in my words, an intuition, perhaps, of things to come and a life to be lived. "What are you going to call him?" I ask.
　　Paula cuddles her child near her face and the baby reaches out and touches her eyes. "I don't know," she says. "I have to think about it."
　　"Didn't you think about a name before?" a nurse asks.
　　Paula appears puzzled. "No. Never."
　　
　　Death is a part of life. Calling home to see how Kalika has faired with the two police, I know the grave and the nursery sit on opposite sides of the same wall. That they are connected by a dark closet, where skeletons are hidden, and where the past is sometimes able to haunt the present. All who are born die, Krishna said. All who die will be reborn. Neither is supposed to be a cause for grief. Yet even I, with all my vast experience extending over fifty centuries, am not prepared for what is to happen next.
　　Kalika answers the phone. It is ten at night.
　　"Hello, Mother," she says.
　　"You knew it was me?"
　　"Yes."
　　"How are you? Did you just get home?"
　　"No. I have been home awhile. Where are you?"
　　I hesitate. "Ray must have told you."
　　"Yes. You're at the hospital?"
　　"Yes. How did you get on with the police?"
　　"Fine."
　　I have trouble asking the next question. "Are they all right?"
　　"You don't have to worry about them, Mother."
　　I momentarily close my eyes. "Did you kill them?"
　　Kalika is cool. "It is not your concern. The baby has been born. I want to see it."
　　How does she know the baby has been born? "No," I say. "Paula's still in labor. You can't see the baby now."
　　Kalika is a long time in responding. "What hospital are you at?"
　　"The local one. Let me speak to Ray a moment."
　　"Ray is not here. What is the name of this hospital?"
　　"But he seldom goes out. Are you sure he's not there?"
　　"He's not here. I'm telling you the truth, Mother. You will tell me the truth. What is the name of the hospital where you're at?"
　　Even as a human, I do not like to be pushed around. "All right, I will tell you. If you tell me why it is so important to you to see this baby?"
　　"You wouldn't understand."
　　"I gave birth to you. I am older than you know. I understand more than you think. Try me."
　　"It is not your concern."
　　"Fine. Then it is also not my concern to tell you where the child is. Let me speak to Ray."
　　Kalika speaks softly but there is tension in her words. "He's not here, I told you. I don't lie, Mother." She pauses. "But Eric is here."
　　I hear my heart pound. "What do you mean?"
　　"He's sitting on the couch beside me. He's still tied up but he's not gagged. Would you like to speak to him?"
　　I feel as if I stand on melting ice in a freezing river that flows into a black sea. A mist rises before me and the next moments are played out in shadow. There is no way I can second-guess Kalika because all of her actions-when judged by humans or vampires alike-are inexplicable. Perhaps it was a mistake to snap at her.
　　"Put him on," I say.
　　There is a moment of rumbling. It sounds as if my daughter has momentarily covered the phone with her hand. Then the line is clear. Eric does not sound well.
　　"Hello?"
　　"Eric, it's me. Are you all right?"
　　He is breathing heavily, scared. "I don't know. She ... This person says you have to tell her something or something bad will happen to me."
　　"Put her back on the line. Do it now!"
　　Another confused moment passes. But Eric remains on the line. "She doesn't want to talk to you. She says you have to tell me which hospital you're in. She says if you lie she will know it, and then something really bad will happen to me." Eric chokes with fear. "Could you tell her the name of the hospital? Please? This girl- She's so strong. She picked me up with one hand and carried me out here."
　　"Eric," I say, "try to convince her that I need to talk to her directly."
　　I hear Eric speaking to Kalika. But Eric is forced to stay on the line. I imagine his arms and legs still bound, Kalika holding the phone up to his ear. The tears in his eyes-I can see them in my mind, and I hear the many vows I swore to him.
　　"But I can promise you you're not going to die. I swear this to you, Eric, and I keep my word."
　　"You have to help me!" he cries. "She has long nails, and she says she's going to open the veins in my neck unless you tell her what hospital it is. Ouch! She's touching me!"
　　"Tell her the hospital is called St. Judes!"
　　"It's St. Judes!" He screams. Another  soul-shattering pause. "She says you're lying! Oh God! Her nails!"
　　Sweat pours off my head. My heart is a jackhammer vibrating.
　　"Kalika!" I yell into the phone. "Talk to me!"
　　"She keeps shaking her head!" Eric weeps. "She's scratching my neck! Jesus help me!"
　　I fight to stay calm, and lose the fight. "Eric, shove the phone in her face!"
　　"Oh God, I'm bleeding! She's cut my neck! The blood is gushing out! Help me!"
　　"Eric, tell her I'll tell her the name of the hospital! Tell her!"
　　He begins to choke. "This can't be happening to me! I can't die! I don't want to die!"
　　Those are the last intelligible words he speaks. The rest-it goes on another two minutes-is slobbering sounds and pitiful weeping. It trails off into strangled gasps, then I must assume his heart has stopped beating. I sag against the wall of the hospital next to the place where the phone is attached. People stare at me from down the hall but I ignore them. Kalika lets me enjoy the silence. Another minute goes by before she returns to the phone.
　　"Then he should never have been born," she says calmly. "Is that what you wanted to tell him, Mother? Your famous quote."
　　I am in shock. "You," I whisper.
　　"I want to see the baby, Mother," she repeats.
　　"No."
　　"What is the name of the hospital? Where is it located?"
　　"I would never tell you!" I cry. "You're a monster!"
　　It is as if she smiles. I hear her unspoken mirth, somehow. Yet her voice remains flat. "And what are you? What did Krishna say to you about vampires in Kali Yuga?"
　　I can only assume Ray explained my dialogue with Krishna to Kalika. It doesn't matter-I am not in the mood for philosophical discussions. There is an aching void inside me that I had always believed a daughter would fill. Well, the irony is bitter, for the real Kali has always been described as the abyss, and now the void inside me feels as if it stretches forever. Eric's death screams continue to reverberate inside my skull.
　　"I am human now," I whisper. "I don't kill unless I have to."
　　"The same with me. This baby-you don't understand how I feel about it."
　　"How you feel about it? You have no feelings, Daughter."
　　"I will not argue. I will not repeat my questions. Answer now or you will regret it."
　　"I will never answer to you again."
　　Kalika doesn't hesitate. "There is someone else here I want you to speak with. He also sits on the couch beside me. But I have gagged him. Just a moment and I will remove his gag."
　　Oh no, I cringe. My demon child.
　　Seymour comes on the line. He strains to sound upbeat.
　　"Sita. What's happening?"
　　My voice is filled with agony. "What are you doing there?"
　　"Your daughter called me six hours ago. She said she needed to speak to me. I think Ray gave her my number. You remember Ray and I used to be friends when we were both normal high school kids? I caught the first plane down. Your daughter met me at the airport." He hesitates and probably glances at Eric's body. "She seemed really friendly at first."
　　"I told you not to come. I told you it was dangerous."
　　"Yeah, but I was worried about you."
　　"I understand. Is Ray there?"
　　"I haven't seen him." Seymour coughs and I hear his fear. There is talking in the background. "Your daughter says you're to tell me the name of the hospital where you are."
　　"Or something bad will happen to you?"
　　"She didn't say that exactly, but I think it would be safe to bet that will be the case." He pauses. "She seems to know when you're lying."
　　"She knows an awful lot." Yet Kalika is unable to "tune into" where I am. I find that curious, what with her incredible psychic abilities. "Tell her I want to talk to her."
　　I catch snatches of more mumbled conversation. Seymour remains on the line. "She says you are to tell me the name and location of the hospital." Seymour stops, and a note of desperation enters his voice. "What she did to Eric-you'd have to have been here. She made the old you look like a Girl Scout."
　　"I can imagine." I think frantically. "Tell her I'll make her a counter proposal. I'll bring the child to her in exactly twenty-four hours. At the end of the Santa Monica Pier at ten tomorrow night. Tell her if she so much as scratches you, she'll never see this baby, if she searches the entire globe."
　　Seymour relays my offer. Kalika appears to listen patiently. Then the phone is covered and I imagine my daughter is talking to Seymour. A minute goes by. Finally Seymour returns.
　　"She wants to know why you need twenty-four hours?"
　　"Because the baby has to remain in an incubator for a day. Tell her that's normal hospital procedure."
　　Seymour repeats what I say. He doesn't cover the phone this time but I still can't hear Kalika speak- her voice is too soft. I tire of this game. But there is a reason why my daughter doesn't let me talk to her directly at critical times. It heightens my helplessness, and her strategy says a lot about how her mind works. She is a master manipulator. I have as much hope for the two missing police officers as I do for Eric. Seymour finally relays her latest message.
　　"She says you are lying about the incubator but she doesn't care," he says. "As long as you bring the baby, she will wait to meet you."
　　"She has to bring you as well," I say. "Alive."
　　Seymour acts cheerful. "I made that a condition of the bargain."
　　"Does she know where the Santa Monica Pier is?"
　　"We both know where it is, in Santa Monica." I try to sound optimistic. "Hang lose, Seymour. I'll get you out of this mess somehow." He pauses. "Do what you have to, Sita." Kalika must have taken the phone from him. It goes dead.
   
   16
　　
　　Midnight has arrived, the witching hour. I stand in a clean hallway and stare through the glass at the newborn babies in their incubators. There are six- they all look so innocent, especially Paula's. A pediatric nurse busies herself with the infants, checking their temperatures and heartbeats, drawing blood. She sees me peering through the glass, and I must look like a sight because she comes to the door and asks if I'm all right. I shuffle over to her.
　　"Yeah, I was just wanting to hold my friend's baby again. Before I leave the hospital." I add, "I'm not sure when I'll be able to come back."
　　The nurse is sweet. "I saw you earlier with the mother. Put on a gown and mask and you can hold him. I'll get you the stuff. Which one is he?"
　　"Number seven."
　　"He doesn't have a name?"
　　"Not yet."
　　Soon I am dressed appropriately and I am led into the newborns. I watch as the nurse draws blood from Paula's baby and places the vial in a plastic rack, with the other vials. Ramirez is all she writes on the white label. The nurse hands me number seven to hold.
　　"He's so beautiful," she says.
　　"Yeah. He takes after his mother."
　　It is good to hold the baby after the shock I have been through. Somehow the nearness of the child soothes me. I stare into his lovely blue eyes and laugh when he seems to smile at me. He is full of life; he kicks the whole time, tries to reach up and touch me with his tiny hands. It is almost as if I am his mother, I treasure him so.
　　"Why couldn't this have been my child?" I whisper.
　　Of course I had prayed for a daughter.
　　Ten minutes later, when the nurse is prepared to leave, she says I can take the baby to Paula's room if I want. The nurse has her back to me as she speaks.
　　"I'll do that," I say.
　　"I'll come check the child again in an hour," she says, working with the last baby on her rotation. I turn toward the door.
　　"I'll tell Paula," I say.
　　Then I stop and stare at the vials of blood. Warm red blood-it has been the center of my life for five thousand years. Perhaps that is why I halt. I want to be near it, to smell it, to enjoy its dark color. Yet a part of me has doubts. There is something about this blood in particular-number seven's-that draws me. It is almost as if the red liquid hypnotizes me. Hardly thinking, I remove the vial from its plastic rack and slip it into my pocket. The nurse doesn't look over.
　　I take the baby to Paula.
　　She is sitting up and praying when I enter, a rosary in her hands. Standing silently at the door, I watch her for a full minute. There is something about how she focuses as she prays. She projects an intensity and at the same time an ease that baffles me. She hardly speaks above a whisper but it is as if her words fill the room. "Our Father, who art in heaven ..."
　　"Hello," I say finally. "I brought you a present."
　　Paula is pleased. But she only smiles as I hand her the child. The boy is wise-he immediately searches for and finds her right nipple. I sit by Paula's bed in the dim room. The window is open, we are high up. The city lights spread out beneath us like a haze of jewels and dust. Seymour never leaves my thoughts, nor does Eric. I have twenty-two hours left to do the impossible.
　　"How do you feel?" I ask.
　　"Wonderful I'm hardly sore at all. Isn't he adorable?"
　　"If he was any more adorable we would do nothing else but stand around and admire him."
　　"Thank you for staying with me."
　　"Are you still mad that I brought you here?"
　　Paula is puzzled. "I like this hospital, but why did you bring me here?"
　　I lean forward. "I'd like to answer that question honestly because I lied to you before, and I think you know it. I'll tell you in a few minutes. But before I do, may I ask about this child's father?"
　　Paula appears troubled. "Why do you ask?"
　　"Because of your precise reaction right now. The day I met you, you reacted in the same way when I asked about the father." I pause. "I really would like to hear how you got pregnant."
　　Paula tries to brush me off. "Oh, I think it was in the usual way."
　　"Was it?"
　　Paula studies me. Even though she is feeding her baby, her gaze is shrewd. It is ironic that she pays me precisely the same compliment.
　　"You're perceptive, Alisa," she says. "I noticed that the day we met. You miss nothing. Have you always been this way?"
　　"For a long time."
　　Paula sighs and looks out the window at the city lights. "This is called the City of Angels. It would take an angel to believe what I have to say next. The priest at St. Andrews didn't believe me. I told him my whole story one day, in confession. He ordered me to do ten Hail Marys." She adds, "That's a huge penance."
　　"It must be a great story."
　　Paula shakes her head. "It's a confusing story. I hardly know where to begin."
　　"At the beginning. That's always easiest."
　　Paula continues to stare out the window, while her child suckles her breast "I grew up in an orphanage-I told you that-and was alone most of my life, even when I was surrounded by people. I purposely lived in my own world because my whole environment seemed harsh to me. But I wasn't what you would call unhappy. I often experienced moments of unusual joy and happiness. I could see a flower or a butterfly, or even just a tree, and become joyful. Sometimes the joy would become so strong I would swoon. A few times I lost track of where I was, what I was doing. When that happened I was taken to the doctor by the woman who ran my orphanage. They did all kinds of tests and I was given a grim diagnosis."
　　"Epilepsy," I say.
　　Paula is surprised. "How did you know?"
　　I shrug. "Saint Paul and Joan of Arc have since been diagnosed as epileptic because they had visions and heard voices. It's the current fad diagnosis for mystics-past and present. I'm sorry, please continue."
　　"I didn't know that. I just knew that at the moments I was most alive, I had trouble maintaining normal consciousness. But when I swooned it wasn't like I passed out. The opposite-I felt as if I was transported to a vast realm of beauty and light. Only it was all inside me. I couldn't share it with anyone. These experiences went on throughout my childhood and teens. They invoked in me a sense of... This is hard to explain."
　　"When you swooned you felt close to God," I say.
　　"Yes, exactly. I felt a sacred presence. And I found, as I got older, that if I prayed for long periods the trances would come over me. But I didn't pray for them to happen. I prayed because I wanted to pray. I wanted to think of God, nothing else. It was the only thing that completely satisfied me." She paused. "Does that sound silly?" 
　　"No. I often think of God. Go on." 
　　"It gets bizarre now. You have to forgive me ahead of time." She pauses. "I love the desert. I love to drive deep into it all by myself. Especially Joshua National Park-I love those tall trees. They stand out there in the middle of nowhere like guards, their arms up, so patient. I feel like they're protecting the rest of us somehow. Anyway I was out there nine months ago, by myself, near sunset. I was sitting on a bluff watching the sun go down and it was incredibly beautiful- the colors, the clouds shot through with red and orange and purple. It looked like a rainbow made out of sand and sun. The air was so silent I thought I could hear an ant walking. I had been there all day and as soon as it was dark I was going to head back to town. But as the sun vanished beneath the horizon I lost track of time, as I had done often before." 
　　"But this time was different?" I ask. 
　　"Yes. It was as if I just blinked and then it became pitch-black. The sky was filled with a million stars. They were so bright! I could have been in outer space, I can't exaggerate this-they were so bright they weren't normal. It was almost as if I had been transported to another world, inside a huge star cluster, and was looking up at its nighttime sky." 
　　"You were completely awake all this time?"
　　"Yes. I was happy but I hadn't lost awareness of my surroundings. I could still see the Joshua trees."
　　"But you had lost awareness of a big chunk of time?"
　　"It was more like the time lost me. Anyway, something else started to happen. While I marveled over the stars, the blue one directly above me began to glow extremely bright. It was as if it were moving closer to the earth, toward me, and I felt afraid. It got so bright I was blinded. I had to close my eyes. But I could still feel it coming. I could feel its heat. It was roasting me alive!"
　　"Were you in pain?"
　　Paula struggled for words. "I was overwhelmed is a better way to put it. A high-pitched sound started to vibrate the area. Remember, I had my eyes closed but I could still see the light and knew that it was growing more intense. The rays of the star pierced my eyelids. The sound pierced my ears. I wanted to scream- maybe I was screaming. But I don't think I was in actual physical pain. It was more as if I were being transformed."
　　"Transformed? Into what?"
　　"I don't know. That's just the impression I had at the time. That somehow this light and heat and sound were changing me."
　　"What happened next?"
　　"I blacked out."
　　"That's it?"
　　"There's more. The next thing I knew it was morning and I was lying on the bluff with the sun shining in my eyes. My whole body ached and I was incredibly thirsty. Also, my exposed skin was slightly red, as if I had been burned." She stopped.
　　"What is it?"
　　"You won't believe this."
　　"I'll believe anything if I believe what you just told me. Tell me"
　　Paula glanced at me. "Do you believe me?"
　　"Yes. But tell me what you wanted to say."
　　"The Joshua trees around me-they were all taller."
　　"Are you sure?"
　　"Quite sure. Some were twice the size they had been the evening before."
　　"Interesting. Could you take me to this spot someday?"
　　"Sure. But I haven't been back to it since."
　　"Why not?" I ask, although I know why.
　　Paula takes a deep breath and looks down at her son. "Because six weeks after this happened I learned I was pregnant." She chuckled to herself. "Pretty weird, huh?"
　　"Only if you weren't having sex with someone at the time."
　　"I wasn't."
　　"Are you a virgin?" I ask.
　　"No. But I didn't have a boyfriend at that time. Not even around that time. You must think I'm mad."
　　"I don't know," I say. "A few times in my life aliens have swooped down and tried to get me to go to bed with them."
　　"I didn't see a flying saucer," Paula says quickly.
　　"I was joking. I know you didn't." I am thoughtful.
　　"Did you have any other unusual symptoms after this incident? Besides being pregnant?"
　　Paula considers. "I've had colorful dreams for the past few months. They're strong-they wake me up."
　　"What are they about?"
　　"I can never remember them clearly. But there are always stars in them. Beautiful blue stars, like the ones I saw out in the desert."
　　I think of the dreams I've had of Krishna.
　　"What do you think this all means?" I ask.
　　She is shy. "I haven't the faintest idea."
　　"You must have a theory?" I ask.
　　"No. None."
　　"Do you think you were raped while you lay unconscious in the desert?"
　　Paula considers. "That would be the logical explanation. But even though I was sore when I woke up, I wasn't sore down there."
　　"But is it possible you were raped?"
　　"Yes. I was out cold. Anything could have happened to me during that time."
　　"Were your clothes disturbed in any way?"
　　"They were- They felt different on me."
　　"What do you mean?"
　　Paula hesitates. "My belt felt tighter."
　　"Like it had been removed, and then put back on, only a notch tighter?"
　　Paula lowers her head. "Yes. But I honestly don't think I was raped."
　　"Do you think you had an epileptic attack?"
　　"No. I don't think I have epilepsy. I don't believe that diagnosis anymore."
　　"But you believe Joshua trees stand guard over us? Like angels?"
　　She smiles. "Yeah. I am a born believer."
　　Her smile is so kind, so gentle. It reminds me of Radha's, Krishna's friend. I make my decision right then. Leaning forward and speaking seriously, I make Paula jump by the change in my tone.
　　"I have some bad news for you, Paula. I want you to brace yourself and I want you to listen to me with as open a mind as I have listened to you. Can you do this?"
　　"Sure. What's wrong?"
　　"There are two people I know who-for reasons I do not fully understand yet-want your baby."
　　Paula is stunned. "What do they want it for?"
　　"I don't know. But I do know that one of these people-the young woman-is a killer." My eyes burn and I have trouble keeping my voice steady. "She killed a friend of mine two hours ago."
　　"Alisa! This can't be true. Who is this woman?"
　　I shake my head. "She is someone so powerful, so brilliant, so cruel-that there is no point in going to the police and explaining what happened."
　　"But you have to go to the police. If a murder has been committed, they must be told."
　　"The police cannot stop her. I cannot stop her. She wants your baby. She is looking for him now and when she comes here for him you won't be able to stop her." I pause. "You are my friend, Paula. We haven't known each other long but I believe friendship is not based on time. I think you know I'm your friend and that I would do anything for you."
　　Paula nods, "I know that."
　　"Then you must do something for me now. You must leave this hospital tonight, with your son. I have money, lots of money I can give you. You must go to a place far from here, and not even tell me where it is."
　　I am talking too fast for Paula. "Is this the reason you took me to this hospital?"
　　"Yes. They thought you were going to the local one. But they know you've given birth to a baby somewhere in this city. They're clever-they'll check all the hospitals in the city to see where you're registered. Eventually they'll locate you."
　　"You spoke of a young woman. Who is the other person?"
　　I am stricken with grief. "My boyfriend."
　　"Ray?"
　　"Yes. But he's not the Ray I once knew." I lower my head. "I can't talk about him now. It is the girl who's the danger-she's only twenty. Her name is Kalika. Please believe me when I tell you there is literally no one who can stop her when she sets her mind on something."
　　"But how can she be so powerful?" Paula protests.
　　I stare at her. "She was just born that way. You see, she wasn't born under normal circumstances. Like your son, there's a mystery surrounding her birth, her conception even."
　　"Tell me about it."
　　"I can't. You wouldn't believe me if I did."
　　"But I would. You believed me."
　　"Only because I have gone through strange times in my life. But Kalika transcends anything I've ever encountered. Her psyche burns through all obstacles. She could be on her way here now. I swear to you, if she gets here before you get away, your child will die."
　　Paula doesn't protest. She is strangely silent. "I was warned," she says.
　　It is my turn to be stunned. "Who warned you?"
　　"It came in a dream."
　　"But you said you didn't remember any of your dreams."
　　"I remember this one. I was standing on a wide field and this old man with white hair and a crooked grin walked up to me and said something that didn't make sense. Until right now."
　　"What was it?" I ask.
　　"He said, 'Herod was an evil king who didn't get what he wanted. But he knew where the danger lay.' Then the old man paused and asked me, 'Do you know where the danger lies, Paula?'" She stops and looks once more at her child, we both look at him. "It was an odd dream."
　　"Yes." My heart is heavy with anxiety. "Will you leave?"
　　Paula nods. "Yes. I trust you. But why can't I tell you where I'm going?"
　　"This girl, this Kalika-I fear she could rip the information from my mind."
　　Paula cringes. "But I must have a way to get hold of you."
　　"I will give you a special number. You call it a month from now and leave your name and number. But don't tell me where you are. Wait until you talk to me-until you are certain it is me-to tell me that. That is very important."
　　Paula is worried for me. "Are you in danger?"
　　I lean back and momentarily dose my eyes. My greatest task is still before me and I am exhausted. If only I had my old powers, If-the most annoying word in the English language.
　　But what if I was powerful again?
　　Powerful as a vampire?
　　Seymour would not have to die, nor would I.
　　But my daughter would die. Perhaps.
　　"Don't worry, I have a protector," I tell Paula. "This wonderful man I once met-he promised to protect me if I did what he said. And he was someone capable of keeping his promises."
　　Of course I don't tell her that I have disobeyed Krishna many times.
　　
   17
　　
　　Arturo's alchemy of transformation works by having the substance of what one wishes to become vibrate at a high level in one's aura. To become human, I took Seymour's blood and placed it-above my head-in a clear vial the sun shone through while I lay on a copper plate surrounded by specially arranged magnets and crystals. Only Arturo knew how to use these tools fully. The New Age is still centuries behind his knowledge. The proponents of New Age mysticism hold quartz crystals or amethysts and relax some, but Arturo could use these minerals to attain enlightenment, or even immortality. His only weakness was that he strove for immortality with a vampire for a girlfriend. He was a priest and erroneously thought I could give him the equivalent of the blood of Jesus.
　　His blasphemy was his sin, and his eventual ruin. He tried to use me, betrayed me. But he is dead now and I mourn him.
　　To become a vampire again, I need a source of vampire blood.
　　I lied to Seymour, naturally. There is one possible source-Yaksha. Yet I have sunk Yaksha's body in the sea and will never be able to locate it, not without the powers of a vampire. Still, there is one other possible source of his blood, besides that in his body. Eddie Fender kept Yaksha captive in an ice-cream truck for several weeks, kept him cold and weak. It was from this very ice-cream truck that I eventually rescued Yaksha, who had no legs and hardly any lower torso. He bled in that truck and his blood must still be there, frozen and preserved.
　　But that truck was parked on the street in the vicinity of a warehouse I burned down to kill Eddie and his crew of vampires. That was approximately two months ago. The chances that the truck will still be there are slim. The police will almost certainly have confiscated it, towed it off to some forsaken lot. Yet I hurry to the dirty street in the poor part of town on the off chance that I can uncover a bloody Popsicle. Desperate people do desperate things.
　　And the ice truck is still there. Wow.
　　A homeless man with white hair and a grimy face sits in his rags near the driver's door. He has a shopping cart loaded with aluminum cans and blankets that look as if they were woven during the Depression. He is thin and bent but he looks up at me with bright eyes as I approach. He sits on the curb, nursing a small carton of milk. I immediately reach for my money. It is his lucky night. I will give him a hundred and tell him to hit the road. But something in his voice gives me reason to pause. His greeting is peculiar.
　　"You look very nice tonight," he says. "But I know you're in a hurry."
　　I stand above him and glance around. There is no one visible, but it is the middle of the night and this ghetto is a wonderful place to get raped or killed. Last time I was here I had to rough up a couple of cops. They thought I was a hooker, and one of them wanted to arrest me. I study the homeless man.
　　"How do you know I'm in a hurry?" I ask.
　　He grins and his smile is much brighter than I would have anticipated. Bright like his eyes even though he is covered in dirt.
　　"I know a few things," he says. "You want this truck I suppose. I've been guarding it for you."
　　I laugh softly. "I appreciate that. I have a horrible craving for an ice-cream bar right now."
　　He nods. "The refrigerator unit still works. I've kept it serviced."
　　I'm impressed. "You're handy with tools?"
　　"I have fixed a thing or two in my day." He offers me his hand. "Please help me up. My bones are old and sore, and I have been waiting here for you for such a long time."
　　I help him-I don't mind a little dirt. "How long have you been here?"
　　He brushes himself off, but ends up making a worse mess of his torn clothes. He blinks at my question as if I have confused him, although he does not smell of alcohol. He finishes his carton of milk and sets the empty container in his shopping cart.
　　"I don't rightly know," he says finally. "I think I've been here since you were last here."
　　I pause, feeling an odd sensation coursing through my body. But I dismiss it. I have too much on my mind to waste precious minutes with an old man in the middle of the night.
　　"I haven't been here in a couple of months," I say, reaching in my pocket. "Look, can I give you ..."
　　"Then I must have been here that long," he interrupts. "I knew you'd come back."
　　I stop with my hand wrapped around a few twenties. "I don't know what you're talking about," I say quietly.
　　He grins a crooked grin. "I don't need your money." He turns and shuttles up the street. "You do what you have to do. No one can blame you for not trying hard."
　　I stare at him as he fades into the night.
　　Such a strange old guy. He left his shopping cart behind.
　　I wonder what his name was.
　　The rear compartment of the truck is locked, but I break it with a loose brick. Actually, I could have sworn that I broke the lock the last time I entered it. The interior is ice cold as I squeeze inside, a flashlight in my hand.
　　Just inside the door is a puddle of frozen blood.
　　I slip a nail under it and pull up the whole red wafer at once. Shining my flashlight through the frosted glass, I feel a surge of tremendous power. I hold in my hands immortality, and I feel as if Krishna saved this blood just so I'd find it. Back in my own car, I break the ice into small pieces and let them melt in a stainless-steel thermos.
　　Now I must return to Las Vegas. If it were not the middle of the night, I would fly, but driving it will have to be-at least four hours of pushing the speed limit. Also, I have to worry that Arturo's house is being watched by government agents. From reading the papers, I know the dust has not settled from the nuclear explosion in the desert. They must think I am dead, but will not assume that I am. There is an important difference.
　　The rays of the sun will power my transformation. What is crucial is that I have most of the day to complete the transformation back to becoming a vampire, if it is possible. There is a chance I will end up like Ralphe, a bloodthirsty ghoul. But I have no choice except to risk the alchemist's ancient experiment. To give up my hard-sought humanity will be bitter, yet I have to admit a part of me craves my old power. It will be nice to confront my daughter one on one and not tremble in my shoes.
　　Yet I intend to tremble, especially if I am a vampire.
　　She will not know until too late who it is she faces.
　　
   18
　　
　　The drive to Las Vegas is more pleasant than I anticipated. There is something about roaring along a dark empty road that relaxes me. Keeping an eye out for police, I set the cruise control at an even eighty. It seems only a short while before the horizon begins to glow with the polluted lake of colored neon that is the gambling capital of the world. I will roll the red dice today, I think, and pray for a successful combination of DNA. The eastern sky is already warm with light. The sun will rise soon.
　　I park a block down the street from Arturo's house and scan the area for FBI agents, cops, or army personnel. But the place appears quiet, forgotten in the fallout of the incinerated army base. Slipping over Arturo's back fence, I am through an open window and into the house in less than a minute. An eight-and-a-half-by-eleven photograph stands in a cheap frame on the kitchen table-Arturo and me, taken one night while we were out on the Strip together. When I believed he was a down-on-his-luck government employee and he thought I was a sucker. The picture gives me reason to pause. I pick it up and study Arturo's features. They remind me so much of someone I know.
　　"You are Kalika's father," I whisper, stunned.
　　Everything makes sense in an instant. Vampires are sterile, with one another, with human partners. But Arturo was neither a vampire nor a human. He was a hybrid, forged in the Middle Ages, a combination of the two, and I slept with him in a Las Vegas hotel room just before he betrayed me to the government. I was pregnant from before the transformation. In other words, I was still a vampire when Kalika was conceived. Yet she is partially human, and that no doubt explains her lack of sensitivity to the sun. She is the result of a queer toss of the genetic dice, and perhaps that's what it took for a soul of her dark origin to incarnate on earth.
　　And I assumed Ray was her father.
　　I'm aware of him at my back even before he speaks.
　　"I'm surprised you didn't guess earlier," he says.
　　I turn, still holding the photograph. Ray remains hidden in the shadows, appropriately enough. It is not just Kalika's birth that I suddenly understand. But my new insights, which are not entirely clear to me yet, are ill-defined ghosts that refuse to enter the living body of logical reason. Despair and denial engulf me.
　　I feel as if I stand in a steaming graveyard with a tombstone at my back. The death date of the corpse is carved in the future, the name scribbled in blood that will never dry. I know the truth but refuse to look at it.
　　And there is a mirror on this tombstone.
　　Covered with a faint film of black dust.
　　"You could have told me," I say.
　　"I could only tell you what you wanted to hear."
　　The weakness of grief spreads through my limbs. Ray has become a travesty to me, someone I cannot bear to look at, yet I don't want him to go away. He is all I have left. The graveyard in my mind is littered with hidden mines. I fear that if I move or speak to him, one might explode and toss a skeleton in my lap.
　　"How did you get here?" I ask.
　　"You brought me here."
　　"Does Kalika know I'm here?"
　　"I don't think so. But she might."
　　"You didn't tell her?"
　　"No."
　　Putting down the photograph, I take a moment to collect myself. My imagined graveyard falls away beneath me as the tombstone collapses. Yet I am forced to remain standing in this house where Arturo once lived.
　　"Can I ask you a question?" I say finally.
　　He remains in the shadows. "Don't ask anything you don't want answered."
　　"But I do want answers."
　　He shakes his head. "Few really want the complete truth. It doesn't matter if you're a vampire or a human. The truth is overrated, and too often painful." He adds, "Let it be, Sita."
　　There is emotion in my voice. "I need to know just one thing."
　　"No," he warns me. "Don't do this to yourself."
　　"Just one little thing. I understand how you found me in Las Vegas. You explained that and it made sense to me, but you never explained how you picked up my trail again in Los Angeles. While I was driving here, you should have been in the basement in this house, changing back into a human."
　　"It was dark that night," he says.
　　His answer confuses me. "It's dark every night."
　　"It would have been dark in the basement."
　　The confusion passes. "You need the sun to power the alchemy."
　　"Yes."
　　"You must still be a vampire?"
　　"No."
　　"You must have followed us to L.A.?"
　　"No."
　　"Who are you? What did Eddie's blood do to you?"
　　"Nothing. Eddie's blood never touched me."
　　"But you said-"
　　"I lied," he interrupts. "You asked me to lie to you. You do not want the truth. You swear to yourself that you do but you swear at the altar of false gods. Let it be, Sita. We can leave this place together. It can be as it once was between us, if you will just let it. It is all up to you."
　　"You are not ready to hear."
　　"When will I be ready to hear?'
　　"Soon."
　　"You know this?"
　　"I know many things, Mother."
　　"Why is it all up to me?" I ask. "You're as responsible for what happened to us as I am."
　　"No."
　　"Stop saying no! Stop saying yes! Explain yourself!"
　　He is a long time answering. "What do you want me to say?"
　　I place my hands on the sides of my head. "Just tell me who you are. Why you are not like the old Ray. How you found me in the coffee shop." I feel so weak. "Why you knocked at my door."
　　"When did I knock at your door?"
　　"Here." I point. "You knocked at that door right there. You said it was you."
　　"When did I knock at your door?" he repeats.
　　Of course I have not answered his question. He is asking about time, and I am talking about place. I have to force my next words into the air where they can be heard and understood.
　　"You appeared right after I changed into a human," I say.
　　"Yes."
　　"You're saying that's a remarkable coincidence."
　　"I am saying you should stop now."
　　I nod to myself, speak to myself. "You are saying the two events are related; the transformation and your reappearance. That you only reentered my life because I had become human."
　　"Close."
　　I pause. "What am I missing?"
　　"Everything."
　　"But you just said I was close!"
　　"When you roll the dice, close does not count. You either win or you lose."
　　"What did I lose when you returned?"
　　"What is not important. Why is all that matters."
　　"Now listen to my song. It dispels all illusions... When you feel lost remember me, and you will see that the things you desire most are the very things that bring you the greatest sorrow."
　　"I have always desired two things," I say, remembering the Lord's words. "For five thousand years I have desired them. They were the two things that were taken from me the night Yaksha came for me and made me a vampire. The night he stole my daughter and husband. I never saw either of them again."
　　Ray is sympathetic. "I know."
　　I hang my head and it is now me who stands in shadows. "But when you came into my life I felt as if Rama had been returned to me. And when I became human and thought I was pregnant with your baby, I felt as if Krishna had returned Lalita to me." There is a tear on my face, maybe two, and I have to stop and take a deep breath. "But it didn't work that way. The things I craved so long were my greatest illusions. And they have brought me the greatest sorrow."
　　"Yes."
　　I lift my head and stare at him.
　　"They are not real," I say.
　　"Yes."
　　"As a vampire, I could see through my illusions, and that kept me going all these years, but as a human I couldn't see what was real and what wasn't. I was too weak."
　　"You create what you want. You always have. If you don't like it, you can always leave."
　　He speaks with gentle passion. "Don't say it, Sita."
　　But I have to. I feel as if I can see through him. Now I understand why he never went out. Why he never met my friends or spoke to anyone besides Kalika and me. Why I had to do everything with my own hands. Between us, they were the only pair of hands we had.
　　"You're not real," I say.
　　He steps out of the shadows. His face is so beautiful.
　　"It doesn't matter, Sita. We can pretend it doesn't matter. I don't want to leave you."
　　My body is a chalice of misery. "But you're dead," I moan.
　　He comes close enough to touch me. "It doesn't matter."
　　No tears fall from my face. Dry sobs rack my body. They are worse than moist tears, worse because they are the evidence of evaporated grief, and I have only these to show to this silhouette of a boyfriend who stands before me now. This lover who can only love me as I deem myself worthy. No wonder he turned against me when I turned against him. He is a mirror on the tombstone. The film of black dust clears, and I see in the mirror that I have slowly been burying myself since I first came up the stairs of this house and heard the knock at the front door.
　　Who is it? Your darling. Open the door.
　　"I can't keep this door open," I whisper.
　　He touches my lower lip. "Sita."
　　I turn my head away from his hand. "No. You must go back."
　　"To where?"
　　"To where you came from."
　　'That is the abyss. There is nothing there. I am not there."
　　A note of quiet hysteria enters my voice. "You're not here. You're worse than a ghost. No one can see you! How can I possibly love you?"
　　He grabs my hand. "But you feel me. You know I'm here."
　　I fight to shake free of his hand but I just end up gripping it tighter. Yet I do not press it to my heart, as I used to. His hand is cold.
　　"No," I say. "I know you're not here."
　　He lightly kisses my finger. "Do you feel that?"
　　"No."
　　"You lie."
　　"You are the lie! You don't exist! How can I make you cease to exist!"
　　My words wound him, finally-they seem to tear the very fabric of his existence. For a moment his face shimmers, then goes out of focus. Yet he draws in a sudden breath and his warm brown eyes lock on to my eyes. He is not merely a mirror, but a hologram from a dimension where there are more choices than time and space. He is the ultimate maya, the complete illusion. The perfect love dressed in my own grief. No wonder when I met him in the coffee shop he was wearing the clothes he died in. He is nothing but a memory shouted back down the tunnel all mortals pass through when they leave this world. Yes, Ray is dead but I have let him become my own death as well.
　　He seems to read my thoughts.
　　His hope fades. He answers my last question.
　　"I died a vampire," he says. "You must kill me the way you would kill a vampire." He grabs a knife from the nearby table and presses it into my hand. "My heart beats only for you."
　　He wants me to cut his heart out. I try to push him away, but he holds me close. I can feel his breath on my face, like the brush of a winter wind. Yet now, here at the end, his eyes burn with a strange red light, the same light I have occasionally glimpsed in my daughter's eyes. He nods again as he reads my mind.
　　"If I return to the abyss," he says, "I'll see Kali there." He squeezes the handle of the knife into my palm. "Do it quick. You're right, the love is gone. I do want to die."
　　"I should never have been born," I whisper, addressing his last remark.
　　He manages a faint smile "Goodbye, Sita."
　　I stab him in the heart. I cut his flesh and his bones, and the blood gushes over my hands, onto my clothes, and over the floor. The black blood of the abyss, the empty space of Kali. But I scream as I kill him, scream to God for mercy, and the knife mysteriously falls from my hand and bounces on the dry floor. The blood evaporates.
　　His heart no longer beats and I'm no longer bloody.
　　He is gone, my ancient love is gone.
　　Out the window, the sun rises.
　　Taking Yaksha's blood, I pour it into the vial that once held Seymour's blood, the clear vial that I place above the copper and the crystals, between the cross-shaped magnets and the shiny mirror that reflects the rays of the sun directly into Arturo's hidden basement. I recline on the copper and the alchemy begins to work its dark magic on my trembling body. I have to wonder exactly what I will be when the sun finally sets and the process is complete. On impulse I have added to the vial a few drops of blood from Paula's child. The blood of the infant that Kalika covets above all else. I can only hope it does me good.
   
   19
　　
　　Eight o'clock that evening I sit in the living room of Mr. and Mrs. Hawkins, in the very house Eric longed to return to until his throat was cut. Eric's parents are younger than I would have guessed. Mr. Hawkins can be no more than forty-two and I doubt his wife has reached forty. They must have married young and had Eric when they were barely out of their teens. He is stern faced, but it is a practiced expression, one he wears for his patients. But I see his intelligence and natural curiosity beneath it. She is plump and kindly, fussing with her hands as she constantly thinks of her son. She wears her heart on her face, her eyes are red from constant crying. Their address was in the phone book.
　　I just knocked at their door and told them I have information concerning their missing son. They invited me in because I am young and pretty and look as if I could harm no one. They sit across from me and wait for me to speak. There is no easy way to say it.
　　"Your son is dead," I say. "He was murdered last night. I thought you would want to know rather than to be left wondering. Before I leave here, I'll give you the address where his body can be found. He's in a house not far from here." I pause. "I'm truly sorry to have to bring you this information. It must be a great shock to both of you."
　　Mrs. Hawkins bursts into gasping sobs and buries her face in her hands. Mr. Hawkins's nostrils flare with anger. "How do you know this?" he demands.
　　"As you look at me you must see that I match the description of the young woman who picked up Eric in the park. I am, in fact, that person. But I am not the one who killed your son. On the contrary, I fought hard to save him. I'm very sorry I failed. Eric was a sweet boy. I liked him quite a lot."
　　They are in turmoil, which is inevitable. "This can't be true," Mr. Hawkins stammers.
　　"It is true. You will verify that for yourself when you go to the house. But I would rather you sent the police ahead of you. Eric died from a serious throat wound." I add reluctantly, "Just before I came here I tried to clean up, but there is still a lot of blood."
　　Mrs. Hawkins continues to sob. Mr. Hawkins leans forward in his chair, his skin flushed with blood, his face quivering with fury. "Who are you?" he asks.
　　"My name is not important. It's true I kidnapped your son but I meant him no harm. I do understand that you won't believe me. That you must hate me. If the situation were reversed I would probably hate you. But I can give you nothing to identify me with, and after I leave here, you will never see me again. The police will never find me."
　　Mr. Hawkins snorts. "You're not leaving this house, young lady. I'm calling the police as soon as I'm through with you."
　　"You should call the police. I've written down the address you need on a piece of paper." I take the scrap and hand it to him. He frowns as he glances at the slip. I continue, "I can give you directions to the house, but I must warn you two police officers who were there yesterday were also killed. Or rather, I must assume they were killed because they went off with the same person who killed your son and they didn't come back."
　　I add this last remark because I'm puzzled that no one has been to the house searching for them. When I stopped by half an hour earlier, looking for Kalika and Seymour, I could find no sign that the place had been examined by the authorities. Especially since Eric was still lying on the couch in all his gore. It was not pleasant trying to clean him up. He looked as if he had died in agony, which, of course, he had.
　　"You are talking a bunch of trash," Mr. Hawkins snaps.
　　"I am telling you the truth," I reply simply.
　　Mrs. Hawkins finally comes up for air. "Why did this person kill my boy?"
　　"To try to force me to reveal the whereabouts of a newborn baby. The person who murdered your son is obsessed with this child. She would do anything to get to him. But I refused to give her the information she needed, so Eric was killed." I pause. "None of these facts are important to you. None of them will make any sense to you. But I do want you to know that when I leave this house, I am going to meet with this young woman, and I am going to do everything in my power to stop her. I know you'll want revenge for what has happened to your son, or at the very least justice. I will try to give you both tonight, and keep this person from murdering again." I stand suddenly. "Now I have to go."
　　"You're not going anywhere!" Mr. Hawkins shouts as he tries to rise. But before his bottom can leave the chair, I effortlessly hold him down with one hand. My strength startles him.
　　"Please," I say gently. "You can't keep me here. It's not possible. And you won't be able to follow me. Just know that your son was brave and that forces beyond our control conspired to end his life before it should have ended. Try to understand his death as an act of God's will. I try to see it that way."
　　I leave them then quickly. They hardly have a chance to react, and later they will both wonder if my visit was a dream. But I know they will go straight to the house after they call the police. I know they will see their dead son before anyone else does. They loved him, and they should be the ones to close his eyes.
　　My car is around the block. Soon I am in it and driving for the ocean. There is an appointment I have with destiny and my daughter. I don't know which I trust less.
   
   20
　　
　　The transformation has worked and I am indeed a vampire again. Yet I am different, in a variety of ways, from what I was before. It was largely Yaksha's blood that filtered the sun's rays into my aura, and no doubt that is the main reason for the great increase in my strength. If I could jump fifty feet in the air before, I can leap a hundred now. If I could hear a leaf break and fall a mile away, now I can hear an ant crawl from its hole at twice that distance. My sense of smell is a wonder; the night air is an encyclopedia of fragrant information to me. And my eyes are like lasers. Not only can I see much farther than before, I feel the fire in my gaze, and I seriously doubt if even Kalika can withstand the power of it. Yet these refinements are not confined to strength and power. There is something else that has entered my life, something that I have never known before. I don't even have a word for it. I just feel-lucky, as if good fortune will smile on me. A white star seems to shine over my head, or maybe it is blue. I have to wonder if this is the effect of what I added to Yaksha's blood.
　　I am confident as I race toward the pier.
　　Santa Monica Beach, by the pier, is deserted as I drive up. I find that fact curious; it is, after all, only ten in the evening. The night is cold, true, but I have to wonder if there is another force at work. It is almost as if a psychic cloud hangs over the area, a fog of maya wrapped in astral matter. I clearly sense the force and my confidence wavers. For only my daughter could create it, and it is like nothing I have ever seen before. It seems to suck up life itself, which is why people have shunned the place. As I park my car down the block from the pier, I see not a soul. They may all be in their homes, trying to explain to their children that nightmares are not real. I myself feel as if I'm moving through a dream. My newly regained powers are physically exhilarating, but my dread of confronting Kalika is a heavy burden.
　　I see them, the two of them, at the end of the pier.
　　Seymour is looking out to sea. Kalika is nearby, in a long white dress, feeding the birds crumbs of bread. I am a half mile distant yet I see their every feature. Seymour pretends to be enjoying the view but he keeps glancing at Kalika. The muscles in his neck are tight; he is scared. Yet he appears unhurt and I am grateful for that.
　　Kalika is a mystery. There is an almost full moon, which shines through her long black hair like silver dust blowing on a black wind. As she feeds the birds, she is fully focused on them as if nothing else has greater meaning to her. This is a quality I have noticed in Kalika before. When she is doing something, nothing else occupies her mind. No doubt when she opened Eric's throat she was with him a hundred percent. It is a sobering thought given the fact that she has a hostage beside her. Kali and her string of skulls. Will my daughter have three fresh ones to add to her necklace before the night is over?
　　I think of Paula, who caught a cab from the hospital. Running out into the night with twenty thousand dollars in cash and a beautiful baby boy wrapped in a hospital receiving blanket. All because a new friend told her she was in danger. Then again, she had her dreams to warn her. Odd how the old man she described in her dream looked like the guy who was guarding the ice-cream truck.
　　"You look very nice tonight. But I know you're in a hurry."
　　Who was that guy?
　　It is a mystery that will have to be solved another time.
　　I make no effort to hide my approach. I know it would be useless to do so. Nevertheless I move as a human moves. My steps are tentative, my breathing tight. The muscles of my face are pinched with anxiety and my shoulders are slumped forward in defeat. Yet my performance goes unheeded as Kalika continues to feed the birds and doesn't glance up until I am practically on top of them. I pause twenty feet short of the end of the pier. By this time Seymour is looking at me with a mixture of hope and terror. He cannot help but notice I don't have the child with me. The sight of Eric's spurting arteries must have dug deep into his brain. He has little of his usual confidence, although he struggles to make up for it. He forces a smile.
　　"I'm glad you're not late," he says, and gestures to the moon, which was full the previous night, when Paula's child was born. "Lovely evening, isn't it?"
　　"I am here," I say to Kalika. "Let him go."
　　She stares at me now, a handful of pigeons still pecking at the crumbs beside her sandaled feet. Her long white dress-I have never seen it before-is beautiful on her flawless figure, the silky material moving in the moonlit breeze, hugging her mature curves. The birds scatter as she brushes her hands and slowly rises.
　　"I did not think you would bring the child," she says calmly.
　　"But I came myself. Release Seymour."
　　"Why should I?"
　　"Because I am your mother and I'm requesting this. That should be reason enough."
　　"It's not."
　　"He's young. He should not be brought into our affairs."
　　At that Kalika smiles faintly. "I am young as well, Mother. I should be forgiven any indiscretions I might have committed during my short life."
　　"Do you need my forgiveness?"
　　"I suppose not." There is one bird that continues to eat at her feet. Kalika bends back down, plucks it into her hands, and straightens. She strokes the pigeon's feathers and whispers something in its ear. Then she speaks to me. "You should know by now that it's not a good idea to lie to me."
　　"You force me to lie to you," I say. "Your complaint is absurd."
　　"Still, it's your habit. You have lied through the ages. You see nothing wrong in it."
　　"I would have told a million lies to have saved that boy's life." I add, "But you must know I hate to lie to those I love."
　　Kalika continues to stroke the bird. "Do you love me, Mother?"
　　"Yes."
　　She nods in approval. "The truth. Do you love Seymour?"
　　"Yes."
　　"Would you be upset if I ripped off his head?"
　　"I hope this is not a trick question," Seymour mutters.
　　"You must not hurt him," I say. "He's my friend, and he's done nothing to you. Let him go now and we can talk about the child."
　　Kalika is once again the master manipulator. She holds up the pigeon. "What about this bird? Should I let it go? Just let it fly away and complete this particular birth? You should know, Old One, that it doesn't matter if I do or if I don't. Whenever the bird dies, the bird will simply be reborn. It is the same with humans. If you kill one, it will in time be reincarnated in another body. Perhaps Eric and Billy will both be reborn in better conditions. Eric was not in the best shape when he died." She pauses and coos in the bird's ear again. "What do you think, Mother?"
　　There is something disturbing in her question, in her examples, besides the obvious. Maybe she is honestly trying to tell me something about her inner state, who she is, what she really is. It is said many times in the Vedas that whenever a demon dies in Krishna's hands, that demon gains instant liberation. But there are fewer books written about Kali's incarnation, her many exploits; and I am not yet ready to accept that my daughter is in fact the real Kali. Of course, I could ask her directly but the mere thought of doing so fills me with apprehension. Many things do: the way she holds the bird close to her mouth; her quick glances at Seymour; the steadiness of her gaze as she studies me, missing nothing. It is impossible to gauge what she will do next, and when she will do it. I try as best I can to answer her, trying to think what Krishna would say to her. Really, I am no saint; I cannot preach morality without sounding like a hypocrite.
　　"There is a meaning behind each life," I say. "A purpose. It doesn't matter if humans or birds live thousands of lives before they return to God. Each life is valued. Each time you take one, you incur bad karma."
　　"That is not so." She brushes the bird against the side of her face. "Karma does not touch me. Karma is for humans, and vampires."
　　She reproaches me, I realize, for being exactly what I tried not to be. "These last few centuries I have seldom killed without strong reason," I say.
　　"Eric and Billy died for a reason," she says.
　　"For what reason did Eric die?"
　　"To inspire you."
　　I am disgusted. "Do I look inspired?"
　　"Yes," she says. "But you did not answer my earlier question, about Seymour's head." She takes a dangerous step toward him. Seymour jumps and I don't blame him. But I catch his eye; I don't want him to make any more sudden moves. Kalika continues, "Would you be upset if I ripped it off?"
　　I have a choice to make and I must make it quickly. Before she can move any closer to Seymour, I can attack. If I leap forward, I can kick her in the nose and send her nasal cartilage into her brain and kill her. Seymour wouldn't even see my blow. Kalika would simply be dead. But I am still twenty feet from my daughter, not an ideal distance. She could react in time and deflect my blow. Then, before I could recover, Seymour would die.
　　I decided to wait. To be patient.
　　I wonder if my patience is grounded in my attachment to Kalika.
　　She is my daughter. How can I kill her?
　　"Yes," I say. "You know I would be upset."
　　Kalika squeezes the pigeon gently. "Would you be upset if I ripped this bird's head off?"
　　I am annoyed. "Why do you ask these silly questions?"
　　"To hear your answers."
　　"This sounds like a trick question," Seymour warns.
　　I hesitate. He's right. "If there is no reason to kill it, I would say you should leave it alone."
　　"Answer my question," she says.
　　"I would not be upset if you killed the bird."
　　Kalika rips the bird's head off. The tearing bone and tissue make a faint nauseating sound. Blood splashes over the front of my daughter's pretty white dress. Seymour almost faints. Casually, while still watching me, Kalika throws the remains of the bird over her shoulder and into the dark water below. It is only then I catch a glimmer of red light deep inside her pupils. The fire at the end of time, the Vedas call it. The smoky shadow of the final twilight. Kalika knows I see it for she smiles at me.
　　"You look upset, Mother," she says.
　　"You are cruel," I say. "Cruelness without rational thought is not far from insanity."
　　"I told you, I have my reasons." She wipes the blood on the left side of her face. "Tell me where Paula Ramirez's child is."
　　I glance at Seymour. "I can't," I say.
　　"Damn," he whispers, and he's not being funny.
　　"Why do you assume I am going to harm this child?" she asks.
　　"Because of your previous erratic behavior," I reply.
　　"If I had not killed Billy, you would not be here tonight. If I had not killed Eric, you would also not be here tonight."
　　"I didn't need Eric's death to survive the last twenty-four hours."
　　Kalika teases without inflection. "Really?"
　　She may be hinting at the fact that I am now a vampire, that I would never have gone through with the transformation without the motivation Eric's horrible murder gave me. She would be right on that point, if it is what she is hinting at. But I continue to hope she thinks I'm helpless. I feel I must attack soon, favorable position or not. The bird's death has not increased my faith in her nonviolent nature. She waits for me to respond.
　　"I cannot trust you around Paula's baby," I say, taking a step closer. "Surely you must understand that." When she doesn't answer right away, I ask, "What did you do to the police?"
　　"I fulfilled their karma."
　　"That's no answer."
　　Kalika moves closer to Seymour, standing now five feet from his left side. He can't even look at her. Only at me, the creature who saved him from AIDS, who inspires his stories, his savior and his muse. His eyes beg me for a miracle.
　　"What if I promise you that I will not hurt the child," Kalika says. "Will you take me to him?"
　　"No. I can't."
　　She acts mildly surprised. But there is no real emotion in her voice or on her face. Human expressions are merely tools to her. I doubt she feels anything at all, while eating or reading, walking or killing.
　　"No?" Kalika says. "Have I ever lied to you before?" She moves her arms as if stretching them. Blood drips from her sharp fingernails. In a microsecond, I know, she can reach out and grab Seymour and then it will all be over. She adds, "I am your daughter, but I do not have your habit of lying."
　　"Kalika," I plead. "Be reasonable. You refuse to tell me why you want to see this child. I can only conclude that you intend to harm it." I pause. "Is that not true?"
　　"Your question is meaningless to me."
　　I take another step forward. She is now only twelve feet away, but I want to be closer still. "What is so special about this child?" I ask. "You can at least tell me that."
　　"No."
　　"Why not?"
　　She is subtly amused. "It's forbidden."
　　"Oh, and killing innocent people isn't? Forbidden by whom?"
　　"You wouldn't understand." She pauses. "Where's Ray?"
　　I freeze in midstep. "He's gone."
　　She seems to understand. "He was forbidden." She glances at Seymour, smiles at him actually as a pretty girl might while flirting. But the words that come out of her mouth next are far from nice. They sound like a warning. She says, "Certain things, once broken, are better left unfixed."
　　The decision is made for me. Something in her tone tells me she is going to reach for Seymour and that his head will go over the railing as the bird's did-and with the same emotional impact on Kalika, I attack.
　　My reclaimed vampiric body is no stranger to me. I have not needed time to readapt to it. Indeed it feels almost more natural than it used to. But I definitely decide to stick with an old technique of killing-the nose into the brain thrust. It is straightforward and effective. My only trouble-as I tense my muscles to respond-is that I still love her.
　　Kalika begins to reach out with her right arm.
　　I leap up and forward. My lift off the ground is effortless. If I were taped and the video later slowed down for viewing, the human eye would assume that gravity had no effect on me. Of course this is not true-I cannot fly. Only strength is responsible for the illusion. I whip toward Kalika, my right foot the hammer of Thor. I cock it back-it will soon be over.
　　But somewhere in the air I hesitate. Just slightly.
　　Probably it makes no difference, but I will never know.
　　The red flames smolder deep in Kalika's eyes.
　　My divine hammer is forged of crude iron ore. My daughter grabs my foot before it can reach her face. Real time returns, and I begin a slow horizontal fall, helpless as she grips my foot tighter. Seymour cries in horror and my own cry is one of excruciating pain. She has twisted my ankle almost to the breaking point. I hit the asphalt with the flat of my back and the back of my skull. Kalika towers over me, still holding onto my boot. Her expression is surprisingly gentle.
　　"Does it hurt?" she asks.
　　I grimace. "Yes."
　　Kalika breaks my ankle. I hear the bones snap like kindling wood in a fire, and a wave of red agony slams up my leg and into my brain. As I writhe on the ground, she takes a step back and patiently watches me, never far from Seymour's side. She knows vampires. The pain is intense but it doesn't take long before I begin to heal. The effect of Yaksha's blood on my system no doubt speeds up the process. In two minutes I am able to stand and put weight on the ankle. But I will not be kicking her again in the next few minutes, and she knows it.
　　Kalika grabs Seymour by the left arm.
　　His mouth goes wide in shock.
　　"I will not ask you again what I want to know," she says.
　　I try to stand straight. Insolence enters my tone. "You know what bugs me most about you? You always hide behind a human shield. I'm here and you're there. Why don't we just settle this between us? That is, if you've got the guts, girl."
　　Kalika seems to approve of my challenge. She smiles and this particular smile seems genuine. But I'm not sure if it is good to push her into too happy a mood for she suddenly readies over, picks Seymour up with one hand by grabbing his shirt, and throws him over the side of the pier. The move is so unexpected that I stand stunned for a second. I hurry to the railing in time to see Seymour strike the water. She threw him hard and high-he takes a long time to return to the surface. He coughs as he does so and flays about in the dark but he seems to be all right I hope he is not like Joel who couldn't swim.
　　"Seymour!" I call.
　　He responds with something unintelligible, but sounds OK.
　　Kalika stands beside me. "He has a sense of humor," she says.
　　"Thank you for sparing him." The pier is long and the water is cold. I hope he is able to make it to shore. I add, "Thanks for giving him a chance."
　　"Gratitude means nothing to me," she says.
　　I am curious. "What does have meaning to you?"
　　"The essence of all things. The essence does not judge. It is not impressed by actions, nor does it reward inaction." She shrugs. "It just is, as I am."
　　"I can't tell you where the baby is. I deliberately told Paula not to tell me where she was going. They could be in Canada by now or in Mexico."
　　Kalika is not disturbed by my revelations. "I know there is something you are not telling me. It relates to future contact with the child. You told Paula one other thing besides what you just said. What was it?"
　　"There was nothing else."
　　"You are lying," she says.
　　"So I lie? What are you going to about it? I'm not going to tell you anything. And if you kill me you still won't get the information you want." I pause. "But I can't believe that even you would kill your own mother."
　　She reaches out and touches my long blond hair with her bloody hand. "You are beautiful, Sita. You have lived through an entire age. You have out-smarted men and women of all nationalities, in all countries and times. You even tricked your creator into releasing you from his vow to Krishna."
　　"I did not trick Yaksha. I saved him."
　　She continues to play with my hair. "As you say, Mother. You have faith in what you know and what you remember. But my memory is older, far older, and death or the threat of death is not the only means of persuasion I have at my disposal." She tugs lightly on my hair. "You must know by now that I am not simply a vampire."
　　"What are you then?"
　　She takes my chin in her hand. "Look into my eyes and you will see."
　　"No. Wait!"
　　"Look, Mother." She twists my head around and catches my eyes. There is no question of my looking away. It is not an option. The blue-black of her eyes have the pull of a black hole, the grip of the primordial seed that gave birth to the universe. The power that emanates from them is cosmic. They shine with colors the spectrum has forgotten. Yet they are such beautiful eyes, really, those of an innocent girl, and I fall in love with them all over again. From far away I hear my daughter's voice, and it is the voice of thunder echoing and also the mere whisper of a baby falling asleep in my lap in the middle of the night. "Behold your child," she says.
　　I look; I must look.
　　There are planets, stars, galaxies, and they are seemingly endless. Yet beyond them all, beyond the backbone of the sky, as the Vedas say, is the funeral pyre. There sits Mother Kali with her Lord Kala, who destroys time itself. As each of the planets slowly dies and each sun gradually expands into a red dwarf, the flames that signal the end of creation begin to burn. They lick the frozen asteroids and melt the lost comets. And there in that absolute space Kali collects the ash of the dead creation and the skulls of forgotten souls. She saves them for another time, when the worlds will breathe again, and people will once again look up at the sky and wonder what lies beyond the stars. But none of these people will know that it was Kali who remembered them when they were ash. None of them will know who buried them when there was no one left to cover their graves. Even if they did remember, none of them would worship the great Kali because they would be too afraid of her.
　　I feel afraid as I remember her.
　　As she asks me to remember.
　　There is another voice in the sky.
　　I think it is my own. The shock breaks the vision.
　　I stumble back from my daughter. "You are Kali!" I gasp.
　　She just looks at me. "You have told me the phone number Paula will call in one month." She turns away. "That's all I wanted to know."
　　It is hard to throw off the power of the vision.
　　"Wait. Please? Kalika!"
　　She glances over her shoulder. "Yes, Mother?"
　　"Who was the child?"
　　"Do you really need to know?"
　　"Yes."
　　"The knowledge will cost you."
　　"I need to know!" I cry.
　　In response Kalika steps to the end of the pier. There she kneels and pulls a board free. It is an old board, long and narrow, but as she works it in her powerful fingers it begins to resemble something I know all too well from more superstitious eras. Too late I realize she has fashioned a stake. She raises the tiny spear over her head and lets fly with it.
　　The stake goes into the water.
　　Into Seymour's back. He cries out and sinks.
　　"No!" I scream.
　　Kalika stares at me a moment. "I told you it would cost you." She turns away. "I don't lie, Mother."
　　My ankle is not fully recovered but I am still a strong vampire. Leaping over the side of the pier, I hit the cold salt water not far from where Seymour flounders two feet below the surface. Pulling him up for air, I hear him gasp in pain. My eyes see as well in the dark as in the daylight. The stake has pierced his lower spine. The tip protrudes from where his belly button should be. His blood flows like water from a broken faucet.
　　"This hurts," he says.
　　"Seymour," I cry as I struggle to keep him afloat, "you have to stay with me. If I can get you to shore, I can save you."
　　He reaches for the stake and moans in pain. "Pull it out."
　　"No. You'll bleed to death in seconds. I can take it out only when we reach the beach. You must hold on to me so that I can swim as fast as possible. Listen to me, Seymour!"
　　But he is already going into shock. "Help me, Sita," he chokes.
　　"No!" I slap him. "Stay with me. I'll get you to shore." Then, wrapping my right arm around him, I begin to swim as fast as I can with one free arm and two boot-clad feet. But speed in the water is not Seymour's friend. As I kick toward the beach, the pressure of the passing water on the stake makes him swoon in agony. The rushing water also increases his loss of blood. Yet I feel I have no choice but to hurry.
　　"Stop, Sita," he gasps as he starts to faint. "I can't stand it."
　　"You can stand it. This time you're the hero in my story. You can write it all down later. This pain will not last and you will laugh about it in a few days. Because tonight you're going to get what you've always wanted. You're going to become a vampire."
　　He is interested, although he is clearly dying. The beach is still two hundred yards away. "Really?" he mumbles. "A real vampire?"
　　"Yes! You'll be able to stay out all night and party and you won't ever get old and ugly. We'll travel the world and we'll have more fun than you can imagine. Seymour?"
　　"Party," he says faintly, his face sagging into the water. Having to hold his mouth up slows me down even more but I keep kicking. I imagine an observer on the pier would think a power boat were about to ram the beach. The sand is only a hundred yards away now.
　　"Hang in there," I tell him.
　　Finally, when we are in five feet of water, I am able to put my feet down. I carry him to the beach and carefully lay him on his right side. There is no one around to help us. His blood continues to gush out around the edges of the wooden stake, at the front as well as at the back. He is the color of refined flour. He hardly breathes, and though I yell in his ear I have to wonder if he is not already beyond hearing. Already beyond even the power of my blood. The situation is worse than it was with Ray and Joel. Neither of them had an object implanted in them. Even vampire flesh cannot heal around such an object, and yet I fear I cannot simply pull it out. I feel his life will spill out with it and be lost on the cold sand.
　　"Seymour!" I cry. "Come back to me!"
　　A minute later, when all seems lost, when he isn't even breathing, my prayer is mysteriously answered. He opens his eyes and looks up at me. He even grins his old Seymour grin, which usually makes me want to laugh and hit him at the same time. Yet this time I choke back the tears. The chill on his flesh, I know, is from the touch of the Grim Reaper. Death stands between us and it will not step aside even for a vampire.
　　"Seymour," I say, "how are you?"
　　"Fine. The pain has stopped."
　　"Good."
　　"But I feel cold." A tremor shakes his body. Dark blood spills over his lips. "Is this normal?"
　　"Yes. It is perfectly normal." He does not feel the stake now, or even recognize how grave his condition is. He thinks I gave him my blood while he was unconscious. He tries to squeeze my hand but he is too weak. Somehow he manages to keep talking.
　　"Will I live forever now?" he asks.
　　"Yes." I bury my face in his. "Forever and ever."
　　His eyes close. "I will love you that long, Sita."
　　"Me, too," I whisper. "Me, too."
　　We speak no more, Seymour and I.
　　He dies a minute later, in my arms.
　　
   Epilogue
　　
　　His body I take to a place high in the mountains where I often walked when I lived in Los Angeles. On a bluff, with a view of the desert on one side and the city on the other, I build a funeral pyre from wood I am able to gather in the immediate area. Seymour rests comfortably on top of my construction. At the beach I had removed the bloody stake and thrown it away. He is able to lie on his back and I fold his hands over his big heart.
　　"You," I say. "You were the best."
　　There is a wooden match in my right hand, but somehow I am unable to light it. His face looks so peaceful I can't stop staring at him. But I realize the day is moving on, and that the wind will soon pick up. The flames should finish their work before then. Seymour always loved the woods, and wouldn't have wanted them harmed by a raging forest fire. He loved so many things, and I was happy to be one of them.
　　I strike the match on the bark of a tree.
　　It burns bright red, and I can't help but think of Kali.
　　Many things pass through my mind right then.
　　Many question and so few answers.
　　Yet I let the flame burn down to my fingertips.
　　There is pain, a little smoke. The match dies.
　　And from my pocket I withdraw the vial of blood.
　　Number seven. Ramirez. I look up.
　　"What is the cost, Kalika?" I ask the sky.
　　After opening the vial, I pour half the blood over Seymour's wound, and the other half down his throat. Then I close my eyes and walk away and stand silently behind a tall tree for five minutes. Some mysteries are best left unexplained. My hope refuses to be crushed. I have found love and lost love, but perhaps what I have finally rediscovered is my faith in love. I stand and pray-not for bliss or miracles-I simply pray and that is enough.
　　Finally I walk back to the funeral pyre.
　　Seymour is sitting up on the wood and looking at me. His fatal wound has healed.
　　"How did we get here?" he asks.
　　Of course I have to laugh. "It's a long story," I say.
　　But I wonder how to finish the story for him.
　　I still wonder who the child is.
　　More, I wonder who he was.



61

CP.RedDice

  1
　　I am a vampire. Blood does not bother me. I like blood. Even seeing my own blood does not frighten me. But what my blood can do to others-to the whole world for that matter-terrifies me. Once God made me take a vow to create no more vampires. Once I believed in God. But my belief, like my vow, has been shattered too many times in my long life. I am Alisa Perne, the now-forgotten Sita, child of a demon. I am the oldest living creature on earth.
　　I awake in a living room smelling of death. I watch as my blood trickles through a thin plastic tube into the arm of Special Agent Joel Drake, FBI. He now lives as a vampire instead of the human being he was when he closed his eyes. I have broken my promise to Lord Krishna-Joel did not ask me to make him a vampire. Indeed, he told me not to, to let him die in peace. But I did not listen. Therefore, Krishna's protection, his grace, no longer applies to me. Perhaps it is good. Perhaps I will die soon. Perhaps not.
　　I do not die easily.
　　I remove the tubing from my arm and stand. At my feet lies the body of Mrs. Fender, mother of Eddie Fender, who also lies dead, in a freezer at the end of the hall. Eddie had been a vampire, a very powerful one, before I cut off his head. I step over his mother's body to search for a clock. Somehow, fighting the forces of darkness, I have misplaced my watch. A clock ticks in the kitchen above the stove. Ten minutes to twelve. It is dark outside.
　　I have been unconscious for almost twenty-four hours.
　　Joel will awaken soon, I know, and then we must go. But I do not wish to leave the evidence of my struggle with Eddie for the FBI to examine. Having seen how Eddie stole and used the blood of my creator, Yaksha, I know I must vaporize this sick house. My sense of smell is acute, as is my hearing. The pump that cools the large freezer in the back is not electric but powered by gasoline. I smell large amounts of fuel on the back porch. After I toss the gasoline all over the house, and wake Joel, I will strike a match. Fire pleases me, although it has the power to destroy me. Had I not been a vampire, I might have become a pyromaniac.
　　The gasoline is stored in two twenty-gallon steel tanks. Because I have the strength of many men, I have no trouble lifting them both at once. Yet even I am surprised by how light they feel. Before I passed out, I was like Joel, on the verge of death. Now I am stronger than I can ever remember being. There is a reason. Yaksha gave me what blood he had left in his veins before I buried him in the sea. He gave me his power, and I never realized how great it was until this moment. It is a wonder I was able to defeat Eddie, who also drank from Yaksha. Perhaps Krishna came to my aid, one last time.
　　I take the drums into the living room. From the freezer, I remove Eddie's body, severed head, and even the hard blood on the freezer floor. I pick them all up and place them on my living room barbecue. Next I begin to break up the couch and tables into easy-to-burn pieces. The noise causes Joel to stir but he does not waken. Newborn vampires sleep deep and wake up hungry. I wonder if Joel will be like my beloved Ray, reluctant to drink from the living. I hope not. I loved Ray above all things, but as a vampire, he was a pain in the ass.
　　I think of Ray.
　　He has been dead less than two days.
　　"My love," I whisper. "My sorrow."
　　There is no time for grief; there never is. There is no time for joy, I think bitterly. Only for life, pain, death. God did not plan this creation. It was a joke to him, a dream. Once, in a dream, Krishna told me many secrets. But he may have lied to me. It would have been like him.
　　I am almost done throwing the fuel around and tearing up the house when I hear the sound of approaching cars. There are no sirens but I know these are police cruisers. Police drive differently from normal people, worse actually. They drive faster and the officers in these squad cars are anxious to get here. I have incredibly sensitive hearing-I count at least twenty vehicles. What brings them here?
　　I glance at Joel.
　　"Are they coming for Eddie?" I ask him. "Or for me? What did you tell your superiors?"
　　But perhaps I am too quick to judge, too harsh. Los Angeles has seen many strange sights lately, many bodies killed by superhumans. Perhaps Joel has not betrayed me, at least not intentionally. Perhaps I have betrayed myself. I have gotten sloppy in my old age. I hurry to Joel's side and shake him roughly.
　　"Wake up," I say. "We have to get out of here."
　　He opens his drowsy eyes. "You look different," he whispers.
　　"Your eyes are different."
　　Realization crosses his face. "Did you change me?"
　　"Yes."
　　He swallows weakly. "Am I still human?"
　　I sigh. "You're a vampire."
　　"Sita."
　　I put a finger to his lips. "Later. We must leave here quickly. Many cops are coming." I pull him to his feet and he groans. "You will feel stronger in a few minutes. Stronger than you have ever felt before."
　　I find a Bic lighter in the kitchen, and we head for the front door. But before we can reach it I hear three cruisers skid to a halt outside. We hurry to the back, but the situation is the same. Cops, weapons drawn, have jumped out of their cars with whirling blue and red lights cutting paths in the night sky. More vehicles appear, armored monstrosities with SWAT teams inside. Searchlights flash on and light up the house. We are surrounded. I do not do well in such situations, or else, one might say, I do very well-for a vampire. What I mean is, being trapped brings out my most vicious side. I push aside my recently acquired revulsion for violence. Once, in the Middle Ages, surrounded by an angry mob, I killed over a hundred men and women.
　　Of course, they didn't have guns.
　　A bullet in the head could probably kill me, I think.
　　"Am I really a vampire?" Joel asks, still trying to catch up with reality.
　　"You're not an FBI agent anymore," I mutter.
　　He shakes himself as he straightens up. "But I am. Or at least they think I am. Let me talk to them."
　　"Wait." I stop him, thinking. "I can't have them examine Eddie's remains. I don't trust what will happen to his blood. I don't trust what his blood can still do. I must destroy it, and to do that I must burn down this house."
　　Outside, through a bullhorn, a gruff-voiced man calls for us to come out with our hands in the air. Such an unimaginative way of asking us to surrender.
　　Joel knew what Eddie had been capable of. "I was wondering why everything smelled like gasoline," he remarks. "You light the place on fire-I have no problem with that. But then what are you going to do? You can't fight this army."
　　"Can't I?" I peer out the front window and raise my eyes to the rhythmic thrumming in the sky. They have a helicopter. Why? All to catch the feared serial killer? Yes, such a beast would demand heavy forces. Yet I sense a curious undercurrent in the assembled men and women. It reminds me of when Slim, Yalcsha's assassin, came looking for me. Slim's people had been warned that I was not normal. As a result, I barely escaped. In the same way, these people know that there is something unusual about me.
　　I can almost read their thoughts.
　　This strikes me as strange.
　　I have always been able to sense emotions. Now, can I read thoughts, too?
　　What power has Yaksha's blood given me?
　　"Alisa," Joel says, calling me by my modern name. "Even you cannot break free of this circle." He notices I'm lost in thought. "Alisa?"
　　"They think there is a monster in here," I whisper. "I hear their minds." I grip Joel. "What did you tell them about me?"
　　He shakes his head. "Some things."
　　"Did you tell them I was powerful? Fast?"
　　He hesitates, then sighs. "I told them too much. But they don't know you're a vampire." He, too, peers through the curtains. "They were getting suspicious about how the others died, torn to pieces. They had my file on Eddie Fender, including where his mother lived. They must have tracked us here that way."
　　I shake my head. "I cannot surrender. It is against my nature."
　　He takes my hands. "You can't fight them all. You'll die."
　　I have to smile. "More of them would die." I lose my smile. "But if I do make a stand here, you will die also." I am indecisive. His advice is logical. Yet my heart betrays me. I feel doom closing in. I speak reluctantly. "Talk to them. Say what you think best. But I tell you-I will not leave this house without setting it ablaze. There will be no more Eddie Fenders."
　　"I understand." He turns for the door, then stops. He speaks with his back to me. "I understand why you did it."
　　"Do you forgive me?"
　　"Would I have died?" he asks.
　　"Yes."
　　He smiles gently, not turning to look at me. I feel the smile. "Then I must forgive you," he says. He raises his hands above his head and reaches for the doorknob. "I hope my boss is out there."
　　Through a crack in the curtains I follow his progress. Joel calls out his identity and a group of FBI agents step forward. I can tell they're FBI by their suits. Joel is one of them. He looks the same as he did yesterday. Yet they don't greet him as a friend. In an instant I grasp the full extent of their suspicions. They know that whatever plague of death has been sweep-
　　ing L.A. is communicable. Eddie and I left too many bodies behind. Also, I remember the cop I freed. The one whose blood I sampled. The one I told I was a vampire. The authorities may not have believed that man, but they will think I am some kind of demon from hell.
　　Joel is handcuffed and dragged into an armored vehicle. He casts me a despairing glance before he vanishes. I curse the fact that I listened to him. Now I, too, must be taken into the vehicle. Above all, I must stay close to Joel. I don't know what he'll tell them. I don't know what they'll do with his blood.
　　Many of them are going to die, I realize.
　　The SWAT team cocks their weapons.
　　They call again for me to surrender.
　　I twirl the striker on the lighter and touch it to the wood I have gathered around Eddie's body. I say goodbye to his ugly head. Hope the Popsicles you suck in hell cool your cracked and bleeding lips. Casually, while the inferno spreads behind me, I step out the front door.
　　
　　They are on me in an instant. Before I can reach the curb, my arms are pulled behind me and I am handcuffed. They don't even read me my rights. You have the right to a pint of blood. If you cannot afford one, the court will bleed a little for you. Yeah, I think sarcastically as they shove me into the back of the armored vehicle where they threw Joel, I will be given all my rights as an American citizen. Behind me I see them trying to put out the fire. Too bad they brought the firepower but forgot the fire engines. The house is a funeral pyre. Eddie Fender will leave no legacy to haunt mankind.
　　But what about me? Joel?
　　Our legs are chained to the floor of the vehicle. Three men with automatic weapons and ghostly faces lit from a single overhead light sit on a metal bench across from us, weapons trained on us. No one speaks. Another two armed men sit up front, beside the driver. One carries a shotgun, the other a machine gun. They are separated from us by what I know is bulletproof glass. It also acts as soundproofing. I can break it with my little finger.
　　But what about the miniature army around us? They won't break so easily. As the door is closed and we roll forward, I hear a dozen cars move into position around us. The chopper follows overhead, a spotlight aimed down on our car. Their precautions border on the fanatical. They know I am capable of extraordinary feats of strength. This realization sinks deep into my consciousness. For five thousand years, except for a few isolated incidents, I have moved unknown through human history. Now I am exposed. Now I am the enemy. No matter what happens, whether we escape or die trying, my life will never be the same.
　　I'll have to tear up my credit cards.
　　"Where are you taking us?" I ask.
　　"You are to remain silent," the middle one says. He has the face of a drill sergeant, leathery skin, deeply etched lines cut in from years of barking commands. Like his partners, he wears a flak jacket. I think I would look nice in one. I catch his eye and smile faintly.
　　"What's the matter?" I ask. "Are you afraid of a young woman?"
　　"Silence," he snaps, shaking his weapon, shifting uncomfortably. My stare is strong medicine. It can burn holes in brain neurons. My voice is hypnotic, when I wish it to be. I could sing a grizzly to sleep. I let my smile widen.
　　"May I have a cigarette?" I ask.
　　"No," he says flatly.
　　I lean forward as far as I can. These men, for all their plans, have not come as well prepared as Slim's people did. Yaksha had them bring cuffs made of a special alloy that 1 could not break. I can snap these like paper. Yet they are seated close together, these SWAT experts, and they have three separate weapons leveled directly at me. They could conceivably kill me before I could take out all of them. For that reason I have to take a subtle approach.
　　Relatively speaking.
　　"I don't know what you've been told about me" I continue. "But I think it's way out of line. I have done nothing wrong. Also, my friend here is an FBI agent. He shouldn't be treated this way. You should let him go." I stare deep into the man's eyes, and I know all he sees is my widening black pupils, growing as large as the dark sides of twin moons. I speak softly, "You should let him go now."
　　
　　The man reaches for his keys, then hesitates. The hesitation is a problem. Pushing a person's will is always a hit-or-miss proposition. His partners are watching him now, afraid to look at me. The youngest one rises half off his bench. He is suddenly scared and threatens me with his weapon.
　　"You shut your goddamn mouth!" he yells.
　　I lean back and chuckle. As I do, I catch his eye. Fear has made him vulnerable; he is an easy mark. "What are you afraid of?" I ask. "That your commander will let me go? Or that you'll turn around and shoot him?" I bore my gaze into his head. "Yeah, you could shoot him. Yeah, that might be fun."
　　"Alisa," Joel whispers, not enjoying my game.
　　The young man and the commander exchange worried glances. The third guy has sat up, panting, not really understanding what is happening. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Joel shaking his head. Let him see me at my worst, I think. It is the best way to begin our new relationship, without illusions. My eyes dart from the commander to the young one. The temperature inside their craniums is increasing. Ever so slightly, each weapon begins to veer toward the other man's chest. Yet I know I'll have to push them a lot harder to get them to let me go or kill each other. It is not necessary. I can do it on my own. Really, I just want to distract them a bit-
　　Before I break them in two.
　　With their guns aimed away from me, they are vulnerable when I suddenly shoot my legs up, snapping ray ankle chains. The third man, the one I have left untouched, reacts quickly, by human standards. But he is moving in slow motion compared to a five-thousand-year-old vampire. As he reaches for the trigger on his gun, my right foot lashes out and my big toe crushes his flak jacket, his breastbone, and the beating heart beneath the two. The heart beats no more. The man crumples and falls into a pitiful ball.
　　"Should have given me the cigarette," I say to the commander as I snap my handcuffs and reach over to take his head between my palms. His eyes grow round. His lips move. He wants to tell me something, maybe apologize. I'm not in the mood. He is putty in my hands, Silly Putty once I squeeze my palms together and crack his skull. Now his mouth falls open as his eyes slowly close. His brains leak out the back, over his starched collar. I don't want his flak jacket.
　　I glance over at the young one.
　　He's more scared than before.
　　I just stare at him. He has forgotten his weapon.
　　"Die," I whisper intently. My will is poisonous, when I am mad, and now, with Yaksha's blood in my veins, the poison is worse than the venom of a cobra. The young man falls to the floor.
　　His breathing stops.
　　Joel looks as if he will be sick.
　　"Kill me," he swears. "I cannot stand this."
　　"I am what I am." I break his chains. "You will become what I am."
　　He is bitter. He has no illusions. "Never."
　　I nod. "I said the same thing to Yaksha." I soften, touch his arm. "I cannot let them take you or me into custody. We could have a thousand Eddies running around."
　　"They just want to talk to us," he says.
　　I shake my head as I glance at the men up front, unaware, so far, of what has happened to their comrades. "They know we are not normal," I whisper.
　　Joel pleads. "You can escape far more easily without me. Fewer people will have to die. Leave me behind. Let them catch me in a shower of bullets. My blood will soak the pavement, nothing more."
　　"You are a brave man, Joel Drake."
　　He grimaces as he glances at what I have done to the others. "I have spent my life trying to help people. Not destroy them."
　　I stare softly into his eyes. "I can't just let you die. You don't know what I have sacrificed to keep you alive."
　　He pauses. "What did you sacrifice?"
　　I sigh. "The love of God." I turn toward the men at the front. "We will discuss this later."
　　Joel stops me one last time. "Don't kill when you don't have to."
　　"I will do what I can," I promise.
　　The bulletproof glass is two inches thick. Although the ceiling of the van forces me to crouch, I am able to leap far enough off the floor to plant two swift kicks onto the barrier. I have exceptionally strong legs. The glass shatters into thousands of little pellets. Before the two armed men can turn, I reach forward and knock their heads together. They collapse in a mangled heap. They are unconscious, not dead. I remove the revolver from the hip holster of the driver and place the barrel to his head.
　　"The men in the back are dead," I whisper in his ear. "If you glance in your rearview mirror you will see it is true. But I have allowed your partners up front to live. That is because I am a nice girl. I am nice and I am nasty. If you tell me where we are headed, I will be nice to you. If you don't, if you try to alert your partners on the road ahead of us or behind us, I will tear out your eyes and swallow them." I pause. "Where are you taking us?"
　　He has trouble speaking. "C-Fourteen."
　　"Is that a police station?"
　　"No."
　　"What is it? Quickly!"
　　He coughs, frightened. "A high-security facility."
　　"Who runs it?"
　　He swallows. "The government."
　　"Are there labs there?"
　　"I don't know. I've only heard stories. I think so."
　　"Interesting." I tap his head lightly with his gun. "What's your name?"
　　"Lenny Treber." He throws me a nervous glance. Sweat pours off him in a river. "What's your name?"
　　"I have many names, Lenny. We are in a tight fix here. You and I and my friend. How do we get out of it?"
　　He can't stop shaking. "I don't understand."
　　"I don't want to go to C-Fourteen. I want you to help me escape this dragnet. It is to your advantage to help, and to the advantage of your fellow cops. I don't want to leave several dozen women widowed." I pause. "Are you married, Lenny?"
　　He tries to calm himself with deep breaths. "Yes."
　　"Do you have children?"
　　"Yes."
　　"You don't want your children to grow up without a father, do you?"
　　"No."
　　"What can you do to help me and my friend?"
　　It is hard for him to concentrate. "I don't know."
　　"You will have to do better than that. What happens if you radio ahead and say you need to take a bathroom break?"
　　"They won't believe it. They'll know you have escaped."
　　"Is this van bulletproof?"
　　"Yes."
　　"What did they tell you about me?"
　　"That you were dangerous."
　　"Anything else?" I ask.
　　He is near tears. "They said you can kill with your bare hands." He catches a clear view of the brain tissue dripping out of the commander's skull. It is a gruesome sight, even by my flexible standards. A shudder runs through Lenny's body. "Oh God," he gasps.
　　I pat him sweetly on the back. "I do have my bad side," I admit. "But you cannot judge me by a few dead bodies. I don't want to kill you, Lenny, now that we're on a first-name basis. Think of another way for us to escape the escorts."
　　He struggles. "There isn't one. This job has the highest security imaginable. They'll open fire if I try to get away from them."
　　"Those were the orders?"
　　"Yes. Under no circumstances were you to be allowed to escape."
　　I ponder this. They must know me, even better than Lenny thinks. How's that possible? Have I left that much evidence behind? I think of the Coliseum, the necks I broke, the javelins I threw. It's possible, I suppose.
　　"I am going to escape," I tell Lenny, picking up the dropped machine gun and shotgun from the front seats. I also yank a flak jacket off one of the men. "One way or the other."
　　"They'll open fire," Lenny protests.
　　"Let them." I take ammunition for both weapons from the unconscious men. I gesture to Joel, who is still getting adjusted to his vampire senses. He's staring around the interior of the van as if he's stoned. "Put on one of those flak jackets," I tell him.
　　"Does there have to be shooting?" he asks.
　　"There will be a lot of shooting." I speak to Lenny. "What's the top speed of this van?"
　　"Eighty miles an hour."
　　I groan. "I need a cop car."
　　"There are a lot of them behind and in front of us," Lenny says.
　　I peer at the chopper in the sky. "They hang close to the ground."
　　"They're heavily armed," Lenny says. "They won't let you escape."
　　I climb in the front seat beside him, shoving the men aside. The flak jacket is a little large on me. "You think I should surrender?"
　　"Yes." He adds quickly, "That's just my opinion."
　　"You just follow my orders if you want to live," I say, studying the cruisers in front, in back. Sixteen altogether-two officers in each, I know. Plus there are at least three unmarked cars-FBI agents. It continues to amaze me how quickly they took Joel into custody. They hardly gave him a chance to speak. I call back to him, "Come up here. We're going to switch vehicles in a few minutes."
　　Joel pokes his head close to my shoulder, flak jacket in place. "The chopper is a problem," he says. "It doesn't matter how good a driver you are or how many cop cars you disable. It'll stay with us, lighting us up."
　　"Maybe. Put on a seat belt." I brace a foot on the dashboard and point to an approaching alley. "There, Lenny, I want you to take a hard left. Floor it as soon as you come out of the turn."
　　Lenny sweats. "OK."
　　I start to hand Joel Lenny's revolver. "Don't be afraid to cover my back." I pause and catch his eye. "You are on my side, aren't you?"
　　Joel hesitates. "I won't kill anybody."
　　"Will you try to kill me?"
　　"No."
　　I give him the revolver. "All right." The alley closes. "Get ready, Lenny. No tricks. Just put as much distance between us and the procession as you can."
　　Lenny veers to the left. The alley is narrow; the van shoots through it at high speed, knocking over garbage cans and crates. The response from the cops is immediate. Half the cars jam into the alley in pursuit. But half is better than all, and locked in behind us as they are, the cops can't fire at us so easily.
　　Unfortunately, the alley crosses several streets. Fortunately, it's midnight, with almost no traffic. At the first street we're lucky. But we lose two police cars to a collision. At the second crossing we're also fortunate. But as we drive into the third cross street we smash sideways into the only vehicle on the street, an open produce truck loaded with oranges. The fruit spills over the van. Lenny has bumped his head on the steering wheel and appears to be dazed. He gets another bump on his head when a squad car smashes into us from behind. This is what I wanted-a pileup. "Come on!" I call to Joel. I jump out of the side of the van and raise the machine gun and fire a spray of bullets at the cars piled up behind us. They are pinned down, but I know it won't be long before a herd of fresh cars comes around the block. The suddenness of my attack causes them to scramble from their vehicles. Overhead, the chopper swoops dangerously low, the spotlight momentarily focused straight on me. I look through the glare of the light and see a marksman stand in the open doorway and raise a high-powered rifle. Pumping the shotgun, I take aim at him and pull the trigger.
　　The man loses the top of his head.
　　His lifeless body falls onto the roof of a nearby building.
　　I am not finished.
　　My next shot takes out the spotlight. My third hits the small vertical rotor at the rear. The blade sputters but continues to spin. Pumping the shotgun, I put another round in it, and this time the propeller dies. It is the vertical rotor that prevents fuselage rotation and also provides rudder control. In other words, it gives stability to the helicopter. Immediately the flying machine veers out of control. To the horror of the watching police officers, it crash-lands in the midst of their line of cars. The explosion is violent, crushing several officers, setting a few ablaze. I use the distraction to reach in and pull Joel out of the van. We run down the block, faster than any human could.
　　All this has happened in ten seconds.
　　So far, not a single shot has been fired at us.
　　A second line of cop cars comes around the block.
　　I jump into the middle of the street and pour two shotgun rounds into the window of the first one, killing both officers inside. The vehicle loses control and crashes into a parked car. The police cars behind it slam on their brakes. A spray of bullets from my machine gun makes them scramble out of their vehicles in search of cover. I run toward the second car, shielding Joel with my body. To the police, I know, my movements appear as nothing more than a blur. They can't get a lock on me. Nevertheless, they do open fire and a hail of bullets flies around me. My flak jacket takes several rounds, causing no damage. But one bullet catches me in the leg above my left knee and I stumble, although I don't fall. Another shot hits me in my right upper arm. Somehow, I reach the second police car and shove Joel inside. I want to drive, I am bleeding, and the pain is intense, but I am in too much of a hurry to acknowledge it.
　　"Keep your head down!" I snap at Joel as I throw the car in gear. Peeling out, we are treated to another shower of bullets. I take my own advice and duck. Both the front and rear windshields shatter. Glass pellets litter my long blond hair. It will take a special brand of shampoo to get them out.
　　We escape, but are a marked couple in a highly visible car. I jump on the Harbor Freeway, heading north, hoping to put as much distance between us and our pursuers as quickly as possible. I keep the accelerator floored, weaving in and out of the few cars. But I have two police cars on my tail. Worse, another helicopter has appeared in the sky. This pilot has learned from his predecessor. He keeps the chopper up high, but not so high that he can't track us.
　　"We can't hide from a chopper," Joel says again.
　　"This is a big city," I reply. "There are many places to hide."
　　He sees I am bloody. "How bad are your injuries?"
　　It is an interesting question because already-in the space of a few minutes-they have completely healed. Yaksha's blood-it is an amazing potion.
　　"I am all right," I say. "Are you injured?"
　　"No." He pauses. "How many men have died since this started?"
　　"At least ten. Try not to count."
　　"Is that what you did after a few thousand years? You stopped counting?"
　　"I stopped thinking."
　　I have a goal. Because I know we cannot stay on the freeway long, I decide that the only way we can escape the helicopters is to get into one ourselves. Atop several of the high-rises in downtown Los Angeles there are helicopter pads with choppers waiting to whisk executives to high-level meetings. I can fly a helicopter. I can operate any piece of machinery humankind has developed.
　　I exit the freeway on Third Street. By now I have ten black-and-whites on my tail. Coming down the off ramp, I see several cop cars struggling to block the road in front of me. Switching to the wrong side of the street, I bypass them and head east in the direction of the tallest buildings. But my way is quickly blocked by another set of black-and-whites. We must have half the LAPD after us. I am forced to swerve into the basement garage of a building I don't know. A wooden bar swings down to block my way, but I don't stop to press the green button and collect my ticket. Nor does the herd of law enforcement behind me. We all barrel through the barricade. A sign for an elevator calls my attention and I slam the car to a halt inches from the door. We jump out and push the button. While we wait for our ride to higher floors, I open fire on our pursuers. More people die. I lied to Joel. I do count- three men and a woman take bullets in the face. I am a very good shot.
　　The elevator comes and we pile inside.
　　I press the top button. Number twenty-nine.
　　"Can they halt the elevator from the basement?" I ask as I reload.
　　"Yes. But it'll take them a few minutes to figure out how to do it." He shrugs. "But does it matter? They'll surround this building with an army. We're trapped."
　　"You're wrong," I say.
　　We exit onto the top floor. Here there are expensive suites, for law firms, plastic surgeons, and investment counselors. But there is too much high-priced real estate in Los Angeles-several of the suites are empty. Kicking in the door of the nearest vacancy, I stride up and down beside the wide windows, studying the neighboring buildings. I will have to cross the block and move over a few buildings to reach a high-rise that has a helicopter pad. I curse the fact that I am not a mythic vampire from films, capable of flying.
　　Yet I am able to leap tall buildings in a single bound.
　　Joel moves to my side. Below us, we watch the forces of righteousness gather. Two more helicopters have appeared in the night sky. Their bright beams rake the sides of the building.
　　"They won't come up the elevator after us," Joel says. "They will only come when they have us surrounded top and bottom." He pauses. "What are we going to do?"
　　"I am going to set a new Olympic record." I point to the building across the street. Its roof is only three stories below where we are. "I am going to jump over to it."
　　He is impressed. "That's far. Can you really do it?"
　　"If I get a running start. I'll come back for you in a few minutes, in a helicopter. I will land it on the roof of this building. Be waiting for me."
　　"What if you miss the roof of that building?"
　　I shrug. "It's a long way down."
　　"Could you survive the fall?"
　　"I think so. But it would take me time to recover."
　　"You shouldn't come back for me," Joel says. "Steal a helicopter and escape."
　　"That is not a consideration."
　　He speaks seriously. "Too many people have died. Even if we escape, I can't live with this slaughter on my conscience."
　　I am impatient. "Don't you see how dangerous you are to the human race? Even dead. They could take your blood, inject it into animals, into themselves- just as Eddie did. And they will do that, after witnessing what we can do. Believe me, I only kill tonight so that the world can wake safely in the morning."
　　"Is that true, Sita? You would die to save all these men and women?"
　　I turn away. "I would die to save you."
　　He speaks gently. "What did you sacrifice to keep me alive?"
　　I would weep, I think, if I could. "I told you."
　　"I didn't understand."
　　"It doesn't matter. It's done." I turn back to him. "There will be time later for these discussions."
　　He touches my hair-pieces of glass fall to the floor. "You miss him."
　　"Yes."
　　"I didn't know what he meant to you when I watched him die."
　　I smile sadly. "Nothing is really known about a person until he or she is gone."
　　"I cannot take his place."
　　I nod weakly. "I know." Then I shake my head. "I need to go."
　　He wants to hug me. "This could be goodbye."
　　"It is not over yet."
　　Before launching my daring leap, I kick out the window that blocks my way. This alerts the buzzing choppers but I don't give them time to zero in on me. I back away from the windows, taking only the shotgun with me, giving the machine gun to Joel.
　　"Are you afraid of heights?" he asks.
　　I kiss him. "You don't know me. I am afraid of nothing."
　　Taking a deep breath, I begin my hard approach. I can accelerate sharply and be at full speed in less than ten strides. My balance and ability to judge distance are flawless. I hit the shattered bottom edge of the window perfectly and all at once I am airborne.
　　The flight across the gap between the buildings is breathtaking, even for me. It seems as if I'll float forever, moving horizontally, in defiance of gravity. The searchlights on the helicopters are too slow to catch me. I soar in darkness, a huge bat, the cool air on my face. Below, the tiny figures raise their heads skyward, blinking at the impossible. I almost laugh. They thought they had me trapped, silly mortals. They thought wrong.
　　My landing is not entirely smooth because I have such momentum. I am forced into a roll as I skitter across the rooftop. I am bleeding as I finally come to a halt and jump up. Overhead the choppers are frantically maneuvering to open fire. I am not given a chance to catch my breath before moving. Leaping for the next rooftop, I watch as a line of bullets rips a path in front of me.
　　The ensuing jumps between buildings are all on the same side of the street and not so dramatic as the first one. Yet the last leap, to the skyscraper with the helicopter pad, is to be the most dramatic of all. Because I cannot jump to the top of a building twenty stories up, I do not plan to land on top of the skyscraper. I will jump into it, through its wall of windows. I only hope that I don't hit the steel and concrete between floors.
　　Once again, the choppers approach, their machine guns blasting.
　　Once again, I take a running start.
　　The windows of the skyscraper rush toward me like a hard black wall. An instant before contact, I lean back and kick out with my feet. My timing is perfect; the glass shatters around the lower part of my body, sparing my face and arms. Unfortunately, I land awkwardly on a row of secretarial desks. The shock is incredible, even for me. Coming to a halt in a pile of ruined PCs and paper clips, I lie still for a whole minute, trying to catch my breath. I am now covered with blood from head to toe. Yet even as I grimace in pain my flesh wounds begin to close and my broken bones begin to mend.
　　I have company on the outside. One of the helicopter pilots has taken it upon himself to come level with the hole I have punched into the side of the skyscraper. The chopper floats just outside the shattered window, scanning the office with its bright searchlight. There are three men, including the pilot, aboard the craft. Peering through the wreckage, I notice that the machine gunner has an itchy finger. I think to myself how much more-1 would prefer to have a police chopper than a civilian one. But the pilot is not reckless. He keeps the chopper constantly moving a little from side to side. For me to try to leap onto it would be risky. I opt for the more conservative plan.
　　I get up slowly, limping. My right shinbone is still fractured, but it will be all right in another minute - God bless Yaksha's blood. Ducking behind the desks, the beam from the searchlight stretching long, stark shadows across the office, I move away from the broken window. The helicopter swoops in a narrow arc, sometimes onto the far side of the hole, sometimes closer to where I'm hidden. The windows are tinted; it is easier for me to follow their movements than for them to follow mine, unless their light were to hit me directly. Yet they seem obsessed with the space just beyond the hole. They must feel that I am in the wreckage somewhere near it, injured and dying.
　　"Come to me baby," I whisper.
　　On their third swing toward my side, I punch out the window in front of me and open fire. I take out the machine gunner first; I don't like his looks. The searchlight goes next. I take aim on the fuel tank. As I said, I enjoy fireworks, wicked explosions. When I pull the trigger on the shotgun, the chopper detonates in a huge fireball. The pilot screams, the flames engulfing his body. The other man is blown out the side door, in pieces. The life goes out of the machine and it sinks to the ground. Far below I hear people crying. Far above, to my right, I hear the other two helicopters veer away. They have lost enthusiasm for the fight.
　　On the way to the elevator, I pass a custodian. He hardly looks up. Despite my blood and artillery, he wishes me a good evening. I smile at him.
　　"You have a good night," I say.
　　The elevator takes me to the top floor, and from there it is not hard to find a private access ladder onto the roof. Not one but two helicopters wait to fly us to freedom. Both are jet powered and I am pleased. They will at least be as fast as the cops' choppers, if not faster. Unfortunately there's a security guard on duty. An old guy, obviously working the night shift to supplement a meager retirement, he takes one look at me and hurries over. He has a handgun but doesn't draw it. His glasses are remarkably thick; he squints through the lenses as he looks me up and down.
　　"Are you a cop?" he asks.
　　I don't have the heart to lie to him. "No. I'm the bad guy. I'm the one who just blew that chopper out of the sky."
　　He is awestruck. "I watched you jumping from building to building. How do you do that?"
　　"Steroids."
　　He slaps his leg. "I knew it! The drugs young people are taking these days. What do you want? One of these choppers?"
　　I point my shotgun at him. "Yes. Please give me the keys. I don't want to have to kill you."
　　He quickly raises his hands. "You don't have to do that. The keys are in the ignitions. Do you know how to fly a helicopter?"
　　I turn my weapon aside. "Yes. I've been taking lessons. Don't worry about me."
　　He walks me to the closest chopper, a Bell 230. "This baby has a range of over three hundred miles. You want to get far out of town. The radio and TV are babbling about you, calling you a band of Arab terrorists."
　　I laugh as I climb into the cockpit. "You do nothing to destroy their illusions. Just tell them you were overwhelmed by superior forces. You don't want people to know a young woman stole a helicopter out from under your nose."
　　"And a blond one at that," he agrees. "You take care!"
　　He closes the door for me and I'm off.
　　Picking up Joel proves to be the easiest part of the night. The police helicopters are holding back-over a mile away. They aren't used to being blown out of the sky. The fire from the last downed chopper spreads over the front of the skyscraper. In the distance I see smoke from the first chopper. Joel shakes his head as he climbs in.
　　"They'll never stop hunting us after this," he says.
　　"I don't know," I jest. "They might be afraid to come after me."
　　We head northeast. I'm anxious to get out of the suburban sprawl and into the wild, somewhere we can disappear. The nearby mountains are a possibility. Our chopper is fast, capable of going two hundred miles an hour. To my surprise, the police helicopters don't really pursue us. It's not just because we're faster than they are-a fact I have to question. They allow the gap to grow between us to at least twenty miles. The length of the space doesn't reassure me because I know they still have us under visual observation.
　　Nothing will be gained by plunging low to the ground, below the radar. They are waiting for something, biding their time.
　　"Reinforcements," I mutter as we swoop over the sleeping city at an elevation of a thousand feet.
　　Joel nods. "They've called for bigger guns."
　　"Army helicopters?"
　　"Probably."
　　"Which direction will they come from?"
　　"There is a large base south of here. You might want to head north."
　　"I was planning to do so after I reached the Cajon Pass." The pass cuts into the desert, also a nice place to hide. Highway IS runs through the pass, and if followed far enough, leads to Las Vegas.
　　"You might not want to wait that long," Joel advises.
　　"I understand." Yet the temptation to put more distance between us and our pursuers is great. It gives me the illusion of safety, a dangerous illusion. But the farther we go, the more the desert beckons me. Being winter, the mountains are covered with snow, and even though I am highly resistant to cold, I don't like it. At our present speed Cajon Pass is not far ahead. Once over it, we will be clear of the city, able to roam free.
　　I ask the question I have been waiting to ask.
　　"Are you thirsty?"
　　He is guarded. "What do you mean?"
　　I glance over. "How do you feel?"
　　He takes a deep breath. "Feverish. Cramping."
　　I nod. "You need blood."
　　He takes time to absorb my words. "Do you really drink people's blood? Like in the stories?"
　　"The stories have germs of truth in them, but can't be taken literally. As a vampire, you do need blood to survive. Yet you do not need to kill the person you drink from, and your contact with them will not change them into vampires. You can also live off the blood of animals, although you will find it unsatisfying."
　　"Do I need blood every day?"
　　"No. Every few days. But at first, you will crave it every day."
　　"What happens if I don't drink it?"
　　"You will die horribly," I say.
　　"Oh. Do I still need to eat regular food?"
　　"Yes. You will get hungry as before. But if need be, you will be able to survive for a long time without food. You will also be able to hold your breath for incredible lengths of time."
　　"But what about the sun? You sat out in the sun with me."
　　"Yes. But that is not something you want to try yet. The sun won't kill you, but it will irritate you, at least for the first few centuries. Even now, after five thousand years, I'm not nearly so strong while the sun is up. But forget everything else you've heard about vampires. Crucifixes and white roses and running water-none of those will bother you. Bram Stoker was just spicing up his novel when he wrote that stuff." I pause. "Did you know I met him once?"
　　"Did you tell him you were a vampire?"
　　"No, but he knew there was something special about me. He autographed my copy of Dracula and tried to get my address. But I didn't give it to him." I raise my wrist to my mouth. "I am going to open my vein. I want you to suck my blood for a few minutes."
　　He fidgets. "Sounds kinky."
　　"You'll enjoy it. I taste wonderful."
　　A moment later Joel reluctantly accepts my bleeding wrist, but he is no Ray. He has seen plenty of blood in his line of work and it doesn't make him sick to his stomach. Indeed, after a couple of minutes he is sucking hungrily on my wrist. I have to stop him before he is sated. I cannot allow my strength to wane.
　　"How do you feel?" I ask as I take back my arm.
　　"Powerful. Aroused."
　　I have to laugh. "Not every girl you meet will be able to do that for you."
　　"Can we be killed with a stake through the heart?"
　　The laughter dies in my throat. His question brings back the agony of the wound I suffered when my house exploded and Yaksha supposedly died. The chest pain is still there-yet, since drinking Yaksha's blood, it has receded. I wonder what Yaksha would think of me now that I have broken Krishna's vow against creating more vampires. After I have killed so many innocent people. No doubt he would say I am damned.
　　I miss Yaksha. And Ray. And Krishna.
　　"You can be killed that way," I say quietly.
　　Ten minutes later we reach the gap in the mountains and I veer north, climbing in altitude. The pass is almost a mile above sea level. The police helicopters are now thirty miles behind us, blinking red and white dots in the night sky. We have at most four hours of night left. Before then, I must find shelter for Joel and a place to sit quietly and plot my next moves. Scanning left and right, I consider dumping the helicopter. The cliffs of the pass offer more hiding places than the desert will. Yet I don't want to set down so soon. Another idea has come to me, one that may throw our pursuers off.
　　What if I were to crash the helicopter into a lake?
　　It would sink and hopefully leave no sign behind.
　　The plan is a good one. Fuel dictates I choose the closest lake, Big Bear or Arrowhead. But once again I resist heading into the snowy mountains. As a newborn, Joel will not fare well there. I remember how sensitive I was to the cold after Yaksha changed me. Vampires, serpents, the offspring of yakshinis-we prefer warmth.
　　I need a sand dune oasis with a lake in the center of it.
　　We plunge over the pass and into the desert.
　　The bleak landscape sweeps beneath us.
　　Time passes. I cannot see anyone following.
　　"We can't stay up here forever," Joel says finally.
　　"I know."
　　"What are you waiting for?"
　　"Lake Mead." Hoover Dam-it is only twenty minutes away, I estimate.
　　But I have waited too long.
　　Five minutes later I catch sight of two military helicopters, coming at us from the west, not the south. Because my eyes are so sharp, I see them far off-sixty miles away. I feel it is still possible to reach the lake. Yet I know they have spotted us, that they are tracking us on their radar. When I alter course slightly, they do likewise. Joel sees my concern but doesn't understand it at first. Even changed, his sight is no match for mine.
　　"What is it?" he asks.
　　"We have company," I say.
　　He looks around. "Can we reach the lake?"
　　"Possibly." I ask in jest, "Can we fight two Apache helicopters?"
　　"No way."
　　I guess at the type of craft that pursues us, but a few minutes later I see that I was right. My knowledge of the Apache isn't extensive, but I have read enough to know that we are facing the most lethal attack helicopter on earth. The two choppers move close to each other, on a direct intercept course with us. Black as the desert sky, with wide hypnotic propellers-they are clearly faster than we are. Their machine-gun turret and rocket launchers hang from the sides like dangerous fists. They sweep toward us for a knockout punch. Joel sees them.
　　"Maybe we should surrender," he suggests.
　　"I never surrender."
　　They catch us three miles short of the lake. The  wide flat expanse of water is clearly visible, but it could be on the other side of the moon for all the good it can do us now. That's what I think at first. Yet the Apaches do not immediately lock on their weapons. They swoop above and below us, dangerously close, ordering us to land.
　　"Somebody has told them to take us alive," Joel observes.
　　"Who?"
　　Joel shrugs. "The order could have come from the President of the United States. But I suspect the commander of the base where these helicopters originated has given the order."
　　"We only need to get to the water," I say. "They couldn't imagine that we'd try to vanish underwater."
　　"I can't imagine it. Can we really hold our breath a long time?"
　　"I can go an hour."
　　"But what about me?"
　　I pat his leg. "Have faith. We should have died a dozen times tonight and we're still alive. Maybe Krishna hasn't deserted us after all."
　　"If they open fire in the next minute we might have a chance to ask him directly," Joel says dryly.
　　The Apaches buzz us a couple of times more, then grow tired of the cat-and-mouse game. They lay down a stream of bullets across our path and I have to slow sharply to avoid being torn to shreds. Still, they could blow us out of the sky whenever they wish. Yet they hold back, although they don't want me flying above the lake. They try blocking our path and I have to go into a steep dive to stay on course. We come within several feet of the ground and Joel almost has a heart attack.
　　"You are one mean pilot," he says when he catches his breath.
　　"I'm pretty good in bed as well," I reply.
　　"Of that I have no doubt."
　　These military men are not like the LAPD. They expect their orders to be obeyed. They may have instructions to take us alive, but they also have orders to prevent us from escaping. A quarter mile from the water, they open fire with surgical precision and suddenly our rotor blades are not a hundred percent intact. Our copter falters in the air, but stays up. The noise above us is deafening. Yet I continue on toward the lake. I have no choice.
　　"Get ready to jump," I tell Joel.
　　"I'm not leaving till you leave."
　　"Nice line. But you have to jump as soon as we cross over the water. Swim for the far shore, not the near one. Stay under water as long as possible."
　　Joel hesitates. "I don't know how to swim."
　　"What?"
　　"I said I don't know how to swim."
　　I can't believe it. "Why didn't you tell me that earlier?"
　　"I didn't know what you had planned. You didn't tell me."
　　"Joel!"
　　"Sita!"
　　I pound the chopper dashboard. "Damn! Damn! Well, you're just going to have to learn how to swim. You're a vampire. All vampires can swim."
　　"Says who?"
　　"Says me, and I'm the only authority on the subject Now stop arguing with me and prepare to jump."
　　"You jump with me."
　　"No. I have to wait until they fire their lethal blow-that way they'll think I'm dead."
　　"That's crazy. You will be dead."
　　"Shut up and crack your door slightly. When you reach the far shore, run into the hills and hide. I'll find you. I can hear a vampire breathing ten miles away."
　　The Apaches are still determined to prevent us from reaching the water. One swoops overhead and literally drops itself directly into our path. I have to go into another steep dive to avoid it, which is easy to do because the craft is ready to crash anyway. The water is now only a hundred yards away. The Apache behind us opens fire. They mimic my earlier strategy. They blow off our tail rotor. I immediately lose control We spin madly to the left. Yet the water is suddenly below us.
　　"Jump!" I scream at Joel.
　　He casts me one last glance-his expression curiously sad.
　　Then he is gone.
　　Pulling back hard on the steering bar, I try to gain altitude, partly to distract them from Joel and partly to stay alive. It is my hope they didn't see him jump. My chopper swings farther out over the water. A mile away I see Hoover Dam. There is no way I can make it that far. The chopper bucks like a hyperactive horse on speed. Cracking my door, I take hold of the shotgun and blast at one of the Apaches as it swings nearby. I hit the top blades, but these suckers are tough. The military chopper banks sharply. Then the two helicopters regroup, hovering behind me, twin hornets studying a wounded butterfly. Over my shoulder I see one pilot nod to his gunner. The man reaches for a fresh set of controls, no doubt the firing mechanism for the rockets. As I throw my door open wide, an orange tongue of flame leaps out from the side of the Apache. My reflexes are fast, blinding by human standards, but even I cannot outrun a missile. I am barely free of my seat when the rocket hits.
　　My chopper vaporizes in midair.
　　The shock from the explosion hits with the power of an iron fist. A fragment of burning metal cuts into my skull above my hairline, sending waves of searing pain through my whole system. I topple like a helicopter without a stabilizing propeller. Blood pours over my face and I am blinded. I do not see the cold water of the lake approaching, but I feel it when it slaps my broken side. The molten shrapnel in my head shudders as it contacts the dark liquid. I fell myself spiralling down into a forsaken abyss. Consciousness
　　flickers in and out. The lake is bottomless, my soul as empty as dice without numbers. As I start to black out, I wish that I didn't have to die this way--without Krishna's grace. How I would love to see him on the other side-his divine blue eyes. God forgive me, how I love him.
   
   2
　　I awake with a pale wash of light panning across my face. Opening my eyes, I see it is the searchlights of hovering helicopters pointing down on me. Only they are high in the air, and I am many feet underwater, on my back, on the bottom of the lake. Even though unconscious, my mind must have had the wisdom to halt my breathing. I don't know how long I have been out. My head still hurts but the pain is bearable. It is obvious that the personnel in the helicopters cannot see me.
　　I wonder how Joel is, if he escaped.
　　My left leg is pinned under the wreckage of my chopper. It is good because otherwise I would be floating on the surface, probably with many bullet holes in me. Pulling my leg free, I roll over on my belly and begin to swim away from the lights, not sure at first if I am moving deeper into the lake or closer to the shore. My desire for breath is strong but not overwhelming. I know I can swim a long way before I'll have to surface. They can't scan every square inch of the lake. I am going to escape.
　　Yet there will be no freedom for me if Joel is not free.
　　Ten minutes later, when the lights are far behind me, I allow myself to swim to the surface and peek. I am far out in the center of the lake. Behind me, near the shore where my chopper was blown out of the sky, the helicopters still circle, their beams still focused on the water. Close to this spot, on the shore, are several trucks, many uniformed people, some cops, some army personnel. Joel stands in the middle of them, a dozen guns pointed at his head.
　　"Damn," I whisper. "He really couldn't swim."
　　I cannot rush in to save him. I know this yet I have to stop myself from making the attempt. It is my nature to act quickly. Patience has not come to me over the centuries. Floating in the center of the black lake, it seems to me the years have only brought grief.
　　Joel is ushered into an armored truck. Men on the shore are donning scuba gear. They want my body, they want to see it before they can rest. I know that I must act quickly if I am to track Joel. Yet I also know I have to stop killing. They'll be looking for any suspicious deaths in the area as a way to confirm I am still alive. A throbbing sensation in my forehead draws my attention. I reach up and pull away a chunk of
　　shrapnel that has been working its way out of my skull. Before the infusion of Yaksha's blood, such an injury would have killed me.
　　I swim for the shore where Joel is being held, but a mile to the left, away from him and the dam. I am a better swimmer than most dolphins and reach land in a few minutes. No one sees me as I slip out of the water and dash into the rocky hills. My first impulse is to creep closer to the armed assembly. Yet I cannot steal one of their vehicles to follow Joel. Fretting about the growing gap between us, I turn away from the small army and run toward the campgrounds. Even in the winter, families come to Lake Mead to enjoy the nature. Overhead, an almost full moon shines down on me. Just what I don't need. If an Apache spots me again, I swear, I am going to jump up and grab its skids and take it over. My turn to fire the rockets.
　　The thoughts are idle, the mental chatter of a natural born predator.
　　I find a family of three asleep in a tent on the outskirts of the campground, their shiny new Ford Bronco parked nearby and waiting for me to steal. Silently, I break the lock and slip in behind the steering wheel. It takes me all of two seconds to hot-wire the vehicle. Then I am off, the window down.
　　Throughout my long life, hearing has always been ray best sense. I can hear snowflakes as they emerge from a cloud two miles overhead. Indeed, I have no trouble hearing the army's motor parade start their engines and pull away from the lake. Probably the commander thinks he should get Joel to a secure place, even before the body of the blond witch is found. I use my ears to follow them as they move onto a road that leads away from the lake. Yet, with my nose in the air, it is my sense of smell that is the most acute. It startles me. I can smell Joel-even in the midst of the others-clearly, in fact. I suspect this is another gift of Yaksha, master yakshini, born of a demonic race of serpents. Snakes always have exceptional senses of smell.
　　I am grateful for this newfound sense because I can accurately trail the military parade from a great distance. These people are not stupid-they will check to see if they are being followed. Once again I am struck by my ability to sense their thoughts. I have always been able to discern emotions in mortals, but never ideas. Yaksha must have been an outright mind reader. He never told me. I know for sure the people up ahead are checking their backs. I allow the distance between us to grow to as much as fifteen miles. Naturally I drive with the lights out.
　　At first the group heads in the direction of Las Vegas. Then, five miles outside the City of Sin, they turn east onto a narrow paved road. The column stretches out and I have to stay even farther back. There are many signs: RESTRICTED AREA. I believe we are headed to some sort of government base.
　　My hunch is confirmed less than an hour later. Approximately fifty miles outside of Las Vegas, the armored vehicle carrying Joel disappears into an elaborately defended camp. I speed up and take my Bronco off the road, parking it behind a hill a mile from both the road and the camp. On foot, I scamper toward the installation, growing more amazed with every step at how complex and impenetrable it appears. The surrounding fence is over a hundred feet high, topped with billowy coils of barbed wire. Ordinarily I could jump such a barrier without breaking a sweat. Unfortunately, the place has manned towers equipped with machine guns and grenade launchers every two hundred feet. That's a lot of towers. The compound is huge, at least a half mile across. In addition to the towers and fence, there is a densely packed maze of three-foot high electronic devices- they resemble metal baseball bats-stretched along the perimeter. I suspect that if tripped they emit a paralyzing field. Vampires are sensitive to electricity. I was once hit by a bolt of lightning and spent the next three days recovering in a coffin. My boyfriend at the time wanted to bury me.
　　One side of the compound is devoted almost exclusively to a concrete runway. I remember reading about a top-secret government installation in the desert outside of Las Vegas that supposedly tests advanced fighter craft, nuclear weapons, and biological weapons. I have a sneaking suspicion that I am looking at it. The compound backs into a large barren hill, and I believe the military has mined deep into the natural slope to perform experiments best hidden from the eyes of spy satellites.
　　There are Sherman tanks and Apache helicopters parked close to barrack-like structures. No doubt the weapons can be manned in ten seconds. One thing is immediately clear to me.
　　I will not be able to break into the compound.
　　Not and get out alive.
　　The armored vehicle carrying Joel has halted near the center of the compound. Armed soldiers scurry to line up around it, their weapons drawn and leveled. A cruel-faced general with a single star on his shoulder and death in his eyes approaches the vehicle. Behind him is a group of white-clad scientists-just what I don't want to see. The general signals to somebody out of view and the side door on the armored vehicle swings open. Heavily chained, his shoulders bowed down, Joel is brought into the open. The general approaches him, strangely unafraid, and searches him. Then he glances over his shoulder. Several of the scientists seem to nod. I don't understand the exchange. What are they approving? That Joel is a genuine vampire? They don't know about vampires.
　　"Or do they?" I whisper.
　　But it's not possible. For the last two thousand years or more, Yaksha and I were the only vampires on earth. Recently there have been others, of course. But Ray's conversion was short-lived, Eddie was a psychotic aberration, and I destroyed all of Eddie's offspring.
　　Or did I?
　　This general wanted us taken alive, I realize. He's the one who gave the order to the Apache pilots. They waited a long time before they used their rockets, and then only when they were forced to. In fact, the general is probably angry that they used them at all. The way he's studying Joel-it's almost as if he's gloating. The general wants something from Joel, and he knows what it is.
　　Joel is taken inside a building.
　　The general confers with one scientist and then they, too, go inside.
　　I sit back and groan. "Damn."
　　My objective is dear. I have to get Joel out of the compound before they can perform extensive tests on him-more specifically, before they can analyze his blood. I'm not even sure what they will find, but whatever they discover, it won't bode well for the long-term survival of the human race.
　　But I cannot force my way inside. Therefore, I must sneak in. How do I do that? Make friends with the guards? Seduce Mr. Machine Gun Mike? The idea may not be as farfetched as it seems with my magnetic personality and hypnotic eyes. But from what I can see, all the men live at the compound. This is unfortunate.
　　I glance in the direction of Las Vegas, neon fallout on the horizon.
　　"But the boys must leave the compound and go out on the town now and then," I mutter.
　　It is two hours before dawn. While I study the compound with my powerful eyes, searching for a vulnerable spot, I see the scientist whom the general conferred with climb into an ordinary car. He stops at a checkpoint before exiting the compound. By then I am running for my Bronco.
　　I want to talk to this scientist.
　　As I climb in my stolen vehicle, I notice that my arms and hands are glowing with a faint white light. The effect stuns me. My face is also glowing! In fact, all my exposed skin shines with the same iridescence as the full moon, which hangs low in the sky in the direction of Las Vegas.
　　"What kind of radiation are they fooling with out here?" I mutter.
　　I decide to worry about it later.
　　The scientist is a speed demon. He drives close to a hundred all the way to Las Vegas, or at least until he hits the public highway, five miles outside the town. I push the Bronco to keep up. I suppose no cop will give him a ticket on a government road. It is my hope he lives in Vegas, but when he goes straight to the Mirage Hotel, my hopes sink. He's probably just out for a few hours of fun.
　　I park near him in the lot and prepare to follow him inside.
　　Then I remember what I am wearing.
　　A ripped flak jacket and bloody clothes.
　　I do not panic. The people I stole the Bronco from are on vacation. They will have, I'm sure, ladies' clothes somewhere in the vehicle. Lo and behold, in the back I find a pair of blue jeans, two sizes too big, and a black Mickey Mouse sweatshirt that fits like a wet suit. Luckily, the blood and glass washed out of my hair while I slept beneath Lake Mead. Standing in a dark corner of the parking lot, I change quickly.
　　I find the scientist inside at the dice table.
　　He is an attractive man, perhaps forty-five, with thick black hair and large sensual lips. His face is sun dried, tanned and lined, yet on him the effect is not unpleasant. He looks like a man who has weathered many storms and come out ahead. His gray eyes are deep set, very alert, focused. He has discarded his white lab coat for a nicely tailored sports coat. He is holding a pair of red dice as I enter, and it seems to me that he is secretly willing them to obey his commands, as so many other gamblers do.
　　He fails to throw a pass, a seven, or an eleven. He loses his bet and the dice pass to another player. I note that he had a hundred-dollar chip on the table, not a small bet for a scientist on the government payroll. I am surprised when he lays down another hundred dollars. He loses that as well.
　　I observe the man for forty-five minutes. He is a regular-one of the pit bosses calls him Mr. Kane, another, Andy. Andrew Kane, I think. Because Andy continues to lose, at an alarming rate, he is forced to sign a slip to get more chips when the cash in his pockets is gone. But these black honeybees vanish rapidly, and his eagerness turns to frustration. I have been counting. Two thousand dollars gone-just like that. Sighing, he leaves the table and, after a double scotch at the bar, leaves the casino.
　　I follow him home. The place is modest.
　　He goes inside and prepares for bed. As the morning sun splashes the eastern sky, he turns out his own light. Obviously he works the night shift. Or else the general had called Andy into work because of Joel. I wonder if he will be working long hours in the days to come. Memorizing his address, I drive back toward the Mirage. If it is Andy's favorite hangout, it'll be mine as well.
　　I have no credit cards, money, or identification, but the woman at the reservation desk hands me a key to a luxury suite after staring hard into my beautiful blue eyes. Inside my room, I place a call to my primary business manager in New York City. His voice is unaffected-the government has not gotten to him yet. We do not talk long.
　　"Code red," I say. "Have the package delivered to the Mirage Hotel, Las Vegas. Room Two-One-Three-Four. Immediately."
　　"Understood," lie says and hangs up.
　　The package will include everything I need to start a new life: passport, driver's license, cash, and credit cards. It will arrive at my door in the next hour. There will also be an elaborate makeup kit inside, wigs and different-colored contacts. Over the last fifty centuries, I have prepared for every eventuality, including this one. Tomorrow I will look like someone else, and Andrew Kane will meet a mysterious young woman, and fall in love.
   
   3
　　The following evening a demure redhead with short bangs and green eyes waits outside Andrew Kane's house. Actually, I have been in the front seat of my newly purchased Jeep since noon, but the mad scientist has been fast asleep, as most normal people would be after staying up all night. I came to his house early because I am anxious to go through his things, learn exactly what he does before I make a move on him. The one fact that guides me as to his importance is that the general spoke only to him after Joel was brought inside the compound. Yet intuitively I sense Andy's value. There is something fascinating in his gray eyes, even though he is a degenerate gambler. This quality does not bother me, however, because I might be able to use his obvious casino debt against him. Of course, I plan to use Andy to get into the compound to rescue Joel.
　　Quickly. I feel the pressure of each passing hour.
　　Joel will be thirsty already, unless they happen to feed him.
　　A newborn's thirst is agonizing.
　　The papers are shouting about the barbaric terrorist attack in Los Angeles. Authorities estimate that there were at least three dozen Islamic fanatics involved, and that the local police were overwhelmed by superior forces and military equipment The mayor has vowed that the city officials will not rest until the murderers are brought to justice.
　　When in doubt, blame it on the Arabs.
　　The hot sun is draining for me after such an intense night. Yet I bear it better than I would have before drinking Yaksha's blood. I suspect, after five thousand years, the sun had no effect on Yaksha. I sure could use his power now. I pray he is finally at peace, in Krishna's blue abode. How often I pray to Krishna. How curious, since I am supposed to hate him. Oh well, the heart of a vampire is unfathomable. No wonder superstitious people are always trying to drive stakes through our hearts.
　　It is five in the evening before Andrew Kane emerges from his house and climbs in his car. He has no time for the casinos now. No doubt the general waits for him. Andy drives the five miles on Highway IS, then turns onto the government road, once again pushing his speed up to near a hundred. My Jeep has a powerful engine-I cruise five comfortable miles behind him. Actually, it is probably something of a waste to follow him all the way into work. He'll just drive inside and disappear into one of the buildings. But I want to see how long it takes him to pass through security, how many checks he goes through. Close to the compound, I veer off the road and tear across the desert, parking near the hill I hid behind before. On the seat beside me are high-powered binoculars. Even my supernatural sight can be improved by mechanical aids.
　　I am not given a chance to reach my vantage point before Andy gets to the front gate of the compound. Still, I can see well enough. He is stopped, naturally, but the guards know him well. He hardly has to-flash his badge. The guards do not search his trunk. He parks his car in the same spot and enters the building where Joel was taken, the largest, most modern building in the whole complex. Chemical smells drift out from the building. It definitely has a lab inside.
　　I would like to examine the compound further but night is the time to do it. Plus I am anxious to get into Andy's house. I tear back to Las Vegas, not passing anyone on the road. I wonder if the scuba divers are still searching the bottom of Lake Mead for my body. I wonder if the general suspects I will try to rescue Joel. I doubt it.
　　Andy's house is a three-bedroom affair at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac. This being Las Vegas, there is the obligatory pool in the backyard. Leaving my Jeep on the adjoining street, I climb his wall and pick his back door lock. Inside it is cool; he left the air conditioning on. I shut the door and stand listening for a moment, smelling. Many aromas come to me then. They tell me much about the man, even though we have never been formally introduced.
　　He is a vegetarian. There is no smell of animal flesh. He doesn't smoke, but he does drink. I see as well as smell the bottles of liquor in a walnut cabinet. He does not use cologne, but there is a faint odor of various makeup products. Our Mr. Andrew Kane resents middle age.
　　He is a bachelor, there are no pictures of a wife or kids on the walls. I step into the kitchen. He eats out mostly, there is little food in the refrigerator. I riffle through his bills on the kitchen counter. There are a couple of envelopes from banks. He is up to his limit on three credit cards.
　　I walk into the bedroom he uses as an office.
　　I almost faint.
　　On his desk is a black and white and red plastic model of the double helix DNA molecule. That is not what staggers me. Beside it is a much more complex model of a different kind of DNA-one that has twelve strands of encoded information instead of two. It is not the first time I have seen it. Seven hundred years ago, the great Italian alchemist, Arturo Evola, created a similar model after spending six months in my company.
　　"It's not possible," I whisper.
　　Andrew Kane has already begun to crack the DNA of the vampire.
   
   4
　　Italy, during the thirteenth century, embodied all that was wonderful and horrible about the Middle Ages. The Catholic Church was the supreme power. Monarchs came and went. Kings and queens fought and died. But the Roman Pope wielded the true power over life and death.
　　Art was the gift of the Church to the people in those days. This was above and beyond the gift of their strict theology, which did nothing for the poor masses except keep them confused until the day they died. I say that with well-deserved bitterness. It would have been impossible to live in those days and not become angry at the Church. Today, however, I think the Church does much that is good, and much that is questionable. No religion is perfect, not after man gets through with it.
　　I lived in Florence from 1212 till 1245 and spent many months touring the churches where the finest paintings and sculptures were displayed. The Renaissance was, of course, a long way off, and Michelangelo and Da Vinci had yet to be born. Still, these earlier days were remarkable for their creativity. I remember well Bonaventura Berlinghieri's radiant St. Franca and Niccola Pisano's hypnotic sculpture Annunciation to the Shepherds.
　　The Inquisition was another gift of the Church. The boon of the devil in the minds of most people in those days. Two informants, whose identities could remain unknown to the victim, were all that was necessary to charge someone with being a heretic. The informants could be heretics themselves, or witches-not pleasant titles to earn in old Italy. A confession was necessary to convict anyone of being a heretic. A little stretching of the limbs, or burning with live coals, or torturing the victim on the strappado-the dreaded vertical rack-was usually enough to get an innocent person to confess. I remember going to the central city courtyard to watch the victims being burned alive at the stake. I used to think back over the barbarism of the Emperors of the Roman Empire, the Mongolian hordes, the Japanese shoguns-and yet their forms of torture all paled compared to the pain caused by the Church because the people who lit the pyres wore crosses. They chanted prayers while their victims screamed and died.
　　I observed only a few executions before I lost the stomach for them. Yet I thwarted the Inquisition in my own way, by secretly killing many of the inquisitors. I usually left their bodies in compromised places --houses of prostitution and the like-to discourage thorough investigations. As I drained the inquisitors' blood, sucking their large neck veins and arteries, I whispered in their ears that I was an angel of mercy. None of them died easily.
　　Yet the Church was bigger than a single vampire, the Inquisition an infection that spread and multiplied through its own mysterious madness. It could not be easily stopped. It cast a gloom over my stay in Florence, over my joy in the resurgence of mankind's creativity. I have hunted humans throughout time, and yet I am proud of them as well, when they do something bold, something unexpected. The best art always comes unbidden.
　　Arturo Evola was not known as an alchemist or else he would not have lasted a day in medieval Florence. He was a twenty-one-year-old Franciscan priest, and a devout one at that. He had entered the priesthood at the age of sixteen, which was not unusual at that time, because the easiest way to obtain the finest education was to become a priest. He was a brilliant man, undoubtedly the most inspired intellect of the thirteenth century. Yet history does not know him. Only I do, and my memories of him are filled with sorrow.
　　I met him after Mass one day. I despised the Church, but enjoyed the actual service. All the chanting, the choirs, and I loved to hear the early organs played. Often I would go to communion, after attending confession. It was difficult for me to keep a straight face while I told of my sins. Once, for fun, I told a priest the whole truth of what I had done in my life. But he was drunk and just said to do five Hail Marys and to behave myself. I didn't have to kill him.
　　I received the Holy Eucharist from Arturo and met him after the service. I could tell he was attracted to me. In those days many priests had mistresses. I had gone out of my way to see Arturo because a gypsy healer had told me about him. He was an alchemist, she said, who could turn stone into gold, sunlight into ideas, moonlight into lust. The gypsy had a high opinion of Arturo. She warned me to approach him cautiously because his real work had to be kept from the Church. I understood.
　　Commonly, an alchemist is known as an esoteric chemist who attempts to convert base metals into gold. This is a crude understanding. Alchemy is a comprehensive physical and metaphysical system embracing cosmology as much as anthropology. Everything natural and supernatural can be found in it The goal of alchemy is to experience the totality of the organism. It is a path of enlightenment. The gypsy said Arturo was a born alchemist. Knowledge came to him from inside. No one had to teach him his art. "The only trouble with him is he's a Catholic," she said. "A fanatic."
　　"How does he merge the two disciplines?" I asked.
　　The gypsy blessed herself. She was superstitious of the Church as well. "God only knows," she said.
　　Arturo did not strike me as a fanatic when we first met. His demeanor was soft, like his lovely eyes. He had a special ability to listen totally to a person, a rare gift. His large hands were exceptionally fine; when he brushed my arm with his fingers I felt he was capable of touching my heart. And he was so young! That first afternoon we talked about astronomy-a midway subject, in my mind, to alchemy. He was delighted with my knowledge of the heavens. He invited me to share a meal and afterward we went for a walk around the city. When we said goodbye that night, I knew he was in love with me.
　　Why did I pursue him? For the same reason I have done many things in my life-I was curious. But that was only my initial reason. Soon I, too, was in love with him. I must say, the feeling was present before I began to probe his knowledge of alchemy. Before going that deep into his secret world, I knew he was unlike other priests of his day. He was a virgin, and his vow of celibacy was important to him.
　　I did not just spring the questions on him one day. Can you turn copper into gold? Can you heal lepers? Can you live forever? I showed him a glimpse of my knowledge first, to inspire him to share his. My understanding of the medical properties of herbs is extensive. An old friar in Arturo's church became ill with a lung infection, and it seemed as if he'd die. I brought Arturo an herb concoction of echinacea and goldenseal and told him to give it to his superior. The friar recovered within twenty-four hours and
　　Arturo wanted to know who had taught me how to make tea.
　　I laughed and told him about my Greek friend, Cleo, failing to mention how many centuries ago he had died. Arturo was impressed. It was only then he began to talk about his crystals and magnets and copper sheets-the secret elements of alchemy that have now passed from human understanding. That very day Arturo confessed his mission in life to me. To discover the elixirs of holiness and immortality-as if searching for the secret to one of these conditions was not enough. Arturo always thought big. He was determined to re-create nothing less than the blood of Jesus Christ.
　　"What makes you think you can do it?" I asked, shocked.
　　His eyes shone as he explained. Not with a mad light, but with a brilliance I had never seen before or since in a mortal man.
　　"Because I have found the spirit of man," he said. "I have proven that it exists. I can show you how to experience it, how to remove the veil of darkness that covers it."
　　Sounded interesting to me. Arturo took me to a secret chamber beneath the church where he lived. Apparently the elderly friar whose life I had saved knew of Arturo's hobby and looked the other way. He was the only one who knew of the master alchemist, besides the gypsy. I asked Arturo about her. Apparently she had nursed him back to health when he had fallen from a horse while riding in the countryside.
　　They had shared many intimate conversations over late-night fires. Arturo was surprised, and a bit angry, that she had told me about him.
　　"Don't blame her," I said. "I can be most persuasive." It was true that I had used the power of my eyes on her, when I saw she was hiding something important.
　　Arturo took me down into his secret room and lit many candles. He asked me to lie on a huge copper sheet, as thin as modern paper. On adjacent shelves, I noted his collection of quartz crystals, amethysts, and precious stones-rubies, diamonds, and sapphires. He also had several powerful magnets, each cut into the shape of a cross. I had never seen a magnetic cross before.
　　"What are you going to do?" I asked as I lay down on the copper.
　　""You have heard of the human aura?" he asked.
　　"Yes. It is the energy field that surrounds the body."
　　"Very good. It is spoken of in ancient mythology and is present in art. We see the halos in paintings above the heads of members of the holy family, and in drawings of saints. Still, most people don't believe in the aura because they don't experience it. They are only conscious of their physical bodies. What I am going to do to you now is draw out your aura, allow your consciousness to expand into it, so that your spiritual body becomes the focus of your attention, and not the physical body."
　　"Do you not like my physical body?" I asked. I often flirted with him.
　　He paused and stared down at me. "It's very lovely," he whispered.
　　He told me to close my eyes. He didn't want me to see how he set up the crystals and magnets. I peeked, of course, and saw that crystals were placed above my head and magnets below my body, at angles. He was creating a grid of some kind, one that transmitted unseen energies. He prayed as he worked, Hail Marys and Our Fathers. I have always enjoyed those prayers. But for me, of course, they reminded me of Radha and Krishna.
　　When Arturo was done, he told me to keep my eyes closed and breathe naturally through my nose. The breath was important, he said. It was one of the secrets of experiencing the soul.
　　For the first few minutes not much happened. But then, slowly, I felt an energy rise from my body, from the base of my spine to the top of my head. Simultaneously, I felt my mind expand. I became as big as the secret chamber. A curious floating sensation enveloped me, a warm peacefulness. My breath went in and out, sometimes fast, sometimes slow. I had no control over it and wanted none. Time passed. I wasn't entirely awake, but I wasn't asleep either. It was a mystical experience.
　　When Arturo spoke next, he sounded many miles away. He wanted me to sit up, to come out of the state. I resisted-I liked where I was. But he took my arm and forced me to sit up, breaking the spell. I opened my eyes and gazed at him. "Why did you stop it?" I asked.
　　He was perspiring. "You can get too much energy at once." He stared at me; he seemed out of breath. "You have an amazing aura."
　　I smiled. "What is special about it?"
　　He shook his head. "It is so powerful."
　　The experiment in consciousness raising was interesting, but I failed to see how his technique would allow him to transform human blood into Christ's blood. I quizzed him about it at length but he would divulge no more secrets. The power of my aura continued to puzzle him. As we said good night, I saw fear in his eyes, and deep fascination. He knew I was no ordinary woman. That was all right, I thought. No harm done. He would learn no more about my special qualities.
　　But that was not to be.
　　He was to learn everything about me.
　　Perhaps even more than I knew myself.
　　There was an altar boy, Ralphe, who lived with the priests. Twelve years old and possessed of an exceptional wit, he was a favorite of Arturo's. Often the two would go for long hikes in the hills outside Florence. I was fond of Ralphe myself. The three of us had picnics in the woods and I would teach Ralphe the flute, for which he had a talent. The instrument had been a favorite of mine since the day I met Krishna. Arturo used to love to watch us play together. But sometimes I would get carried away and weave a melody of love, of romantic enchantment and lost dreams, which would always leave Arturo quiet and shaken. How long we could go on like this, chaste and virtuous, I didn't know. My alchemist stirred ancient longings inside me. I wondered about the energies his crystals invoked.
　　One day while I was helping Ralphe repair a hole in the church roof, the boy decided to amuse me by doing a silly dance on the edge of the stone tiles. I told him to be careful but he never listened. He was having too much fun. That is the mysterious thing about tragedy-it often strikes at the happiest moment.
　　Ralphe slipped and fell. It was over a hundred feet to the ground. He fell on the base of his spine, crushing it. When I reached him, he was writhing in agony. I was shaken to the core, I who had seen so much pain in my life. But centuries of time have not made me insensitive. One moment he had been a vibrant young man, and now he would be crippled for the rest of his days, and those would not be long.
　　I loved Ralphe very much. He was like a son to me.
　　I suppose that's why I did what I did.
　　I did not need to make him a vampire to help him.
　　I opened the veins on my right wrist and let the blood splash where his shattered spinal column had pierced his skin. The wound closed quickly, the bones mended. It seemed he would make a complete recovery. Best of all, he appeared unaware of why he had recovered so quickly. He thought he'd just been lucky.
　　But there is good luck and bad luck.
　　Arturo saw what I did for Ralphe. He saw everything.
　　He wanted to know who I was. What I was.
　　I find it hard to lie to those I love.
　　I told him everything. Even what Krishna had told me. The tale took an entire night. Arturo understood when I was through why I preferred to tell the story in the dark. But he didn't recoil in horror as I spoke. He was an enlightened priest, an alchemist who sought the answer to why God had created us in the first place. Indeed, he thought he knew the answer to that profound question. We were here to become like God. To live like his blessed son. We just needed a few pints of Christ's blood to do it
　　Arturo believed Krishna had let me live for a purpose.
　　So that my blood could save mankind from itself.
　　From the start, I worried about him mixing Christ and vampires.
　　"But I will make no more vampires," I protested.
　　He eagerly took my hands and stared into my eyes. A fever burned in his brain; I could feel the heat of it. on his fingertips, in his breath. Whose soul did I experience then? Mine or his? It seemed in that moment as if the two of us had merged. For that reason, his next words sounded inevitable to me.
　　"We will make no more vampires," he said. "I understand why Krishna made you take such a vow. What we will create with your blood is a new man. A hybrid of a human and a vampire. A being who can live forever, in the glory of light instead of the shadow of darkness." His eyes strayed to the wooden crucifix hung above his bed. "An immortal being."
　　He spoke with such power. And he was not insane.
　　I had to listen. To consider his words.
　　"Is it possible?" I whispered.
　　"Yes." He hugged me, "There is a secret I haven't told you. It is extraordinary. It is the secret to permanent transformation. If I have the right materials- your blood, for example-I can transform anything. If you wish, you can become such a hybrid. I can even make you human again." He paused, perhaps thinking of my ancient grief over the loss of Lalita, my daughter. He knew my sterile condition was the curse of my unending life. He must have known, since he added, "You could have a child, Sita."
   
   5
　　Around midnight I return to the compound, determined to learn its layout from the outside. Dressed totally in black, I have an Uzi strung over my back, a high-powered pair of binoculars in one hand, a Geiger counter in the other. The momentary phenomenon of my glowing skin continues to haunt me. I wonder if they are doing something weird to Joel-using radiation on him.
　　I have decided the ideal vantage point from which to study the compound is the top of the hill in which the base is dug. To get to it I have to take a long walk. Here the terrain is even too rough for my new Jeep. I move swiftly, my head down, like the mystical serpent I embody. A deep desire to plant my teeth in that general I saw the past night stays with me. He reminds me of Eddie-not of the psycho's warped nature but of his delusions of grandeur. I can tell a lot by a man's face. Perhaps I read his mind a little as well. The general wants to use Joel to get ahead in the world, maybe take it over. I don't know where the Pentagon gets these people.
　　At the top of the hill I scan each square foot of the compound. Once again I am stunned by the level of security. It is as if they are set up to ward off an attack from an alien race. While I watch, a sleek jet with the lines of a rocket lands on the runway. It is like no jet I have ever seen before, and I suspect it can do Mach 10-ten times the speed of sound-and that Congress has never heard of it.
　　My Geiger counter indicates the radiation here is three times what is normal, but still well within safety limits. I'm puzzled. Radiation couldn't have been responsible for my luminous skin. Yet the fact that the level is high confirms that there are nuclear warheads in the vicinity. I suspect I am sitting above them, that they are stored in the caves the military has dug into this hill. The caves are now an established fact. I watch as men and equipment ride a miniature railroad beneath me into and out of the hill. This is how the human race gets into trouble. The danger of renegade vampires is nothing compared to the folly of handing unlimited sums of money over to people who like to keep "secrets." Who have on their payroll physicists and chemists and genetic engineers who, as children, rooted for Pandora to open her box of evils.
　　How Andrew Kane has partially managed to duplicate Arturo Evola's work continues to preoccupy me. I cannot imagine an explanation.
　　A black cart rides beneath me into the hill. Soldiers sit on it, smoking cigarettes and talking about babes. My Geiger counter momentarily jumps. The level is not high enough to harm the human body, but it does confirm that the boys in uniform are sitting next to a thermonuclear device. I know the famed fail-safe system is a joke, as do most people in the government. The President of the United States is not the only one who can order an American-made nuclear device to explode. In West Germany, before the Wall came down, the authority to fire a miniature neutron bomb was often in the hands of a lieutenant. Currently, all the nuclear submarine captains in the U.S. Navy have the authority to launch their missiles without the required presidential black box and secret codes. It is argued that the captains must have this authority because if the country is attacked the President would most likely be one of the first to die.
　　Still, it makes me nervous.
　　The general must have the authority to trigger these bombs if he wishes.
　　It is good to know.
　　I have finished my study of the compound and am walking back to my Jeep when I notice that my legs are glowing again, as are my hands and arms. Once more, every square inch of my exposed skin is faintly shining with the whiteness of the moon-not good here at a top-secret camp. It makes me that much more visible. I hurry to my Jeep, climb inside, and drive away.
　　But long before I reach Las Vegas, I pull over, far off the road.
　　A bizarre idea has occurred to me.
　　The problem is not radiation. It is not man-made.
　　Climbing out of the Jeep, I remove all my clothing and stand naked with my arms outstretched to the moon, as if I were worshipping the astronomical satellite, bowing to it, drinking up her rays. Slowly the skin on my chest and thighs begins to take on the milky radiance. And it seems the more I invite the moonlight onto my skin, into my heart, the brighter it becomes. Because if I will it to stop, my skin returns to normal.
　　"What does it mean, Yaksha?" I whisper to my dead creator.
　　My right arm, as the moonlight floods in, shines particularly bright. Holding it close to my eyes, / can see through it! 1 can actually see the ground through my flesh!
　　I put my clothes back on.
　　I can't look like a Christmas light when I try to seduce Andrew Kane.
   
   6
　　I am Lara Adams as I enter the casino later that night and stand beside Andrew Kane at the dice table. I'm still a redhead, with a soft southern accent and a prim and proper smile. The name is not new to me. I used it to enroll at Mayfair High in Oregon, where I met Ray and Seymour. It's hard to believe that was less than two months ago. How life can change when you're a vampire on the run.
　　Andy glances over at me and smiles. He has the dice in his hands. He has been in the casino five minutes but already he's had a couple of drinks.
　　"Do you want to place a bet?" he asks.
　　I smile. "Do you feel hot?"
　　He shakes the dice in his palm. "I am hot."
　　I remove a stack of black hundred-dollar chips from my bag and place one on the pass line, his favorite bet-seven or eleven. Andy rolls the dice. They dance over the green felt. Coming to a halt, the numbers four and three smile up at us.
　　"Lucky seven," the croupier says and pays off our bets. Andy flashes me another smile.
　　"You must be good luck," he says.
　　I double my bet. "I have a feeling this is my night," I say.
　　By the time the dice come to me, Andy and I have lost a combined total of eight hundred dollars. That is about to change. With my supernatural balance and reflexes, with practice, I can roll any number I desire. I have been practicing in my suite since I returned from the compound. Carefully I set the dice upright in my left palm in the configuration: five and six. In a blur, I toss them out. They bounce happily, seemingly randomly to human eyes. But they come to a halt in the same position they started out. Andy and I each win a hundred dollars on the number eleven. Since I threw a pass, I am invited to throw another-which I do. The people at the table like me. Most bet on the pass line.
　　I throw ten passes in a row before I let the dice go. We mustn't get greedy. Andy appreciates my style.
　　"What's your name?" he asks.
　　"Lara Adams. What's yours?"
　　"Andrew Kane. Are you here alone?"
　　I pout. "I did come with a friend. But it seems I'll be going home alone."
　　Andy chuckles. "Not necessarily. The night's still young."
　　"It's five in the morning," I remind him.
　　He nods at the glass of water I sip. "Can I get you something stronger?"
　　I lean against the table. "I think I need something stronger."
　　We continue to play craps, winning better than honest wages when I am throwing the dice. The people at the table don't want me to surrender the designated high roller position, but I am careful not to appear superhuman, just damn lucky. Andy bets heavily and wins back all the money he lost the night before, and then some. We both drink too much. I have four margaritas, Andy five Scotches and water, on top of what he had drunk before I entered. The alcohol has no effect on me. My liver neutralizes it almost the instant it enters my system. I can take in all kinds of poisons and remain undisturbed. Andy, however, is now drunk, just the way the casinos like people. He is betting five hundred dollars a roll when I pull him away from the table.
　　"What's the matter?" he protests. "We're winning."
　　"You can be winning and courting disaster at the same time. Come on, let's have some coffee. I'm buying."
　　He stumbles as he walks beside me. "I've been at work all night. I'd like a steak."
　　""You shall have whatever you want."
　　The Mirage coffee shop is open twenty-four hours a day. The menu is flexible-Andy is able to get his steak. He orders it medium rare with a baked potato. He wants a beer, but I insist he have a glass of milk. "You're going to destroy your stomach," I say as we wait for our food. I do have favorite foods, besides blood. I have ordered roast chicken with rice and vegetable. Surprisingly, for a vampire, I eat plenty of vegetables. Nothing is as good for the body as those fresh greens, except, perhaps, those dripping reds. Sitting with Andy, I become thirsty for blood as well. Before I rest, I will grab some male tourist off the streets, show him a good time. That is, if I don't spend the night-the day-sleeping beside Andy. His eyes shine as he looks me over.
　　"I can always have it removed," he replies.
　　"Why not just drink less?"
　　"I'm on vacation."
　　"Where are you from?"
　　He chuckles. "Here!" He is serious for a moment "You know you are one beautiful young woman. But I suppose you know that."
　　"It's always nice to hear,"
　　"Where are you from?"
　　"The South-Florida. I came with a boyfriend for a few days, but he got angry with me."
　　"Why?"
　　"I told him I wanted to break up." I add, "He's got a nasty temper." I sip my milk, wishing I could squeeze our waitress's veins into it, add a little flavor. "What about you? What do you do?"
　　"I'm a mad scientist."
　　"Really? What are you mad about?" 
　　"You mean, what kind of scientist am I?" 
　　"Yes. And do you work around here?" His voice takes on a guarded note, even though he is still quite drunk. "I'm a genetic engineer. I work for the government. They have a lab-in town." I mock him playfully. "Is it a top-secret lab?" He sits back and shrugs. "They would like to keep it that way. They don't feel comfortable unless we're working outside the reach of mainstream scientists." "Do I detect a note of resentment in your tone?" "Not resentment-that's too strong a word. I love my job. It has provided me opportunities I couldn't get in the normal business world. I think what you sense is frustration. The opportunities presented in our lab are not being fully exploited. We need people of many disciplines involved, from all over the world."
　　"You would like the lab to be more open?" 
　　"Precisely. But that doesn't mean I don't appreciate the need for security." He pauses. "Especially as of late."
　　"Interesting things are happening?" He looks away and chuckles, but there is a note of sorrow in his voice. "Very interesting things." He turns back to me. "May I ask you a personal question, Lara?"
　　"By all means."
　　 "How old are you?"
　　 I flirt "How old do you think I am?" 
　　He is genuinely puzzled. "I don't know. When we were at the table, you seemed about thirty. But now that we're alone together you seem much younger."
　　I have designed my makeup and dress to appear older. My longish white dress is conservative; I have a strand of pearls around my neck. My lipstick is glossy, overdone. I wear a red scarf to match my red wig.
　　"I'm twenty-nine," I say, which is the age on my new driver's license and passport. "I appreciate your compliment, however. I take care of myself." I pause. "How old are you?"
　　He laughs, picking up his glass of milk. "Let's just say my liver would be a lot younger if this was all I drank."
　　"Milk does a body good." He sets the glass down and stares into it. "So do other things." 
　　"Andy?"
　　He shakes his head. "Just something that's going on at work. I can't talk about it. It would bore you anyway." He changes the subject. "Where did you learn to throw dice like that?" "Like what?"
　　"Come on. You always throw them the same way, resting the number you want to come up on your open palm. How do you do it? I've never seen anyone who could control the bounce of the dice."
　　I realize I went too far. He is a smart man, I remind myself. His powers of observation are keen, even when he is intoxicated. Yet, at the same time I don't mind that he sees something special in me. I have no time to cultivate his interest slowly. I must have him under my thumb by tomorrow night. It is then I plan to rescue Joel.
　　I answer his question carefully. "I have had many interesting teachers. Perhaps I could tell you about them sometime."
　　"How about now, tonight?"
　　"Tonight? The sun will be up in an hour."
　　"I don't have to be at work until it goes down." He reaches across the table and takes my hand. "I like you, Lara. I mean that." He pauses. "I feel like I've met you before."
　　I shake my head, wondering if he senses the similarities between Joel and myself. "We have never met," I tell him.
   
   7
   We go back to his place. He offers me a drink. When I decline, he has one himself-a Scotch on the rocks. The food in his stomach has sobered him up somewhat, but he quickly proceeds to get drunk again. He has a real problem, and now it is my problem as well. Granted, his intoxicated state makes his tongue loose and he tells me far more about his work than he should, although he has yet to mention Joel or vampires. Still, I will need him clear headed to help me. I have no time to repair his wounded psyche. I wonder what makes him drink so much. He lied when he said he didn't resent his boss. Obviously he hates the general. But I cannot read his mind, probably because he keeps it scrambled with booze. I sense only deep emotional conflicts, coupled with intellectual excitement. He is grateful to be working on Joel, analyzing his blood, and yet it bothers him that he is directly involved in the project. I have no doubt of this.
　　We sit on the couch in the living room. He riffles through his mail and then throws it on the floor. "Bills," he mutters, sipping his drink. "The hardest reality of life, besides death."
　　"The way you gamble, I hope the government pays you well."
　　He snorts softly, staring at the eastern sky, which has begun to brighten. "They don't pay me what I'm worth, that's for sure." He glances at my strand of pearls. "You look like you don't have to worry about money."
　　"Daddy made millions in oil before he died." I shrug. "I was his only child."
　　"He left it all to you?"
　　"Every last penny."
　　"Must be nice."
　　"It is very nice." I move closer to him on the sofa, touch his knee. I have an alluring touch. I swear sometimes I could seduce an evangelist's wife as easily as I could a horny Marine. Sex holds no mystery for me, and I have no scruples. I use my body as easily as any other weapon. I add, "What exactly do you do at your lab?"
　　He gestures to his office. "It's in there."
　　"What's in there?"
　　He takes another swallow of Scotch. "My greatest  discovery. I keep a model of it at home to inspire me." He burps. "But right now a fat taise would inspire me more."
　　Even though I know what's in his office, I walk over and have a peep at the two models of the DNA, the human one and the vampiric molecule. "What are they?" I ask.
　　He is enjoying his drink too much to get up. "Have you heard of DNA?"
　　"Yes, of course. I graduated from college." "What school did you go to?" 
　　"Florida State." I return to my place on the couch, closer to him than before. "I graduated with honors." 
　　"What was your major?"
　　"English lit, but I took several biology classes. I know that DNA is a double helix molecule that encodes all the information necessary for life to exist." I pause. "Are those models of human DNA?" He sets his drink down. "One of them is." "What's the other one?"
　　He stretches and yawns. "A project my partners and I have been working on for the last month.*'
　　My blood turns cold. It was in the last month that Eddie began to produce his horde of vampiric gangbangers. Andy has been able to duplicate Arturo's visions of vampire DNA because he has been analyzing the molecules for a while, long before Joel was captured. That can only mean one of Eddie's offspring escaped my slaughter.
　　"/ don't know. I destroyed your silly gang."
　　"You're not sure of that."
　　"Now I am sure. You see, I can tell when someone lies. It's one of those great gifts I possess that you don't. There is only you left, and we both know it."
　　"What of it? I can make more whenever I feel the need."
　　Eddie admitted that there were no others. He couldn't have tricked me, yet perhaps he himself was tricked. Maybe one of his offspring had made another vampire and didn't tell him. It's the only explanation. That vampire must have been caught by the government and taken to the desert compound. I wonder if the mystery vampire is still in the place. My rescue effort has just been complicated.
　　I have to wonder if I'm already too late. Andy has-at the least-an outline of the DNA code of the vampire. How long will it be before he and his partners are able to create more bloodsuckers? The only thing that gives me hope is that the general struck me as a man who keeps everything under wraps, until it is time to make his move. Andy has said as much about him. Everything connected to vampires is still probably locked up in the compound.
　　In response to Andy's comment, I force a chuckle. Boy, do I force it. "Are you making a modern Frankenstein monster?" I ask, kidding, but not kidding.
　　My question hits a nerve, for obvious reasons, and Andy sits quietly for a moment, staring at his drink as if it were a crystal bait.
　　"We are playing a high-stakes game," he admits.
　　"Altering the DNA code of any species is like rolling the dice. You can win and you can lose." 
　　"But it must be exciting to be playing such a game?" 
　　He sighs. "We have the wrong pit boss in charge." I put my hand on his shoulder. "What's his name?" 
　　"General Havor. He's a hard ass-I don't think his mother gave him a first name. At least I don't know it. We call him 'General' or 'Sir.' He believes in order, performance,  sacrifice,  discipline,  power."  Andy shakes his head. "He definitely doesn't create an environment for free thinking and loving cooperation." I am the understanding girlfriend. 
　　"You should quit then."
　　Andy flashes an amused, bitter grin. "If I quit now I'd be walking away from one of the greatest discoveries of modern time. Plus I need the job. I need the money."
　　I caress his hair. My voice is soft and seductive. "You need to relax, Andy, and not think of this stupid general. Tell you what-when you get off work tomorrow, come straight to my suite. I'm staying at the Mirage, Room Two-One-Three-Four. We can play the tables and have another late dinner together."
　　Gently he takes my hand. His eyes momentarily come into focus, and I see his intellect again, feel his warmth. He is a good man, working in a bad  place.
　　"Do you have to go now?" he asks sadly. I lean over and kiss him on the cheek. "Yes. But we'll see each other tomorrow." I sit back and wink. "We'll have fun."
　　He is pleased. "You know what I like about you, Lara?"
　　"What?"
　　"You have a good heart. I feel I can trust you."
　　I nod. "You can trust me, Andy. You really can."
   
   8
　　One of the saddest stories told in modern literature, to me at least, is Mary Shelley's Frankenstein. Because in a sense I am that monster. Knowingly or unknowingly, to much of history, I am the inspiration of nightmares. I am the primeval fear, something dead come to life, or better yet-and more accurate- something that refuses to die. Yet I consider myself more human than Shelley's creation, more humane than Arturo's offspring. I am a monster, but I can also love deeply. Yet even my love for Arturo could not spare him from plunging us into a nightmare from which there seemed to be no waking.
　　His secret of transformation was very simple, and profound beyond belief. It is fashionable among New Age adherents to use crystals to develop higher states  of consciousness. What most of these people do not know is that a crystal is merely an amplifier, and that it has to be used very carefully. Whatever is present in the aura of the person, in the psychic field, gets magnified. Hate can be boosted as easily as compassion. In fact, cruel emotions expand more easily when given the chance. Arturo had an intuitive sense of the proper crystal to use with each person. Indeed, on most people he refused to use crystals at all. Few, he said, were ready for such high vibrations. How tragic it was that when he had a vial of my blood in his hand, his intuition deserted him. It is a pity his special genius did not leave him as well. It took a genius to take us as far as he did.
　　A mad one.
　　Using the magnets and copper sheets, in his secret geometric arrangements, the vibrations from whatever Arturo placed over the person were transmitted into the aura. For example, when he placed a clear quartz crystal above my head, a deep peaceful state settled in my mind. Yet if he used a similar crystal with young Ralphe, the boy would become irritated. Ralphe had too much going on in his mind and was not ready for crystals. Arturo understood that. He was an alchemist in the truest sense of the word. He could transform what could not be changed. Souls as well as bodies.
　　Arturo did not believe the body created the mind. He felt it was the other way around, and I believe he was correct. When he altered an aura, he changed the person's physiology as well. He just needed the proper materials, he said, to change anything. A flawed human into a glorious god. A sterile vampire into a loving mother.
　　It was, in the end, the chance to become human again that caused me to give him my blood. To hold my daughter in my hands again-what ecstasy! I was seduced by ancient griefs. Yaksha had made me pay dearly for my immortality, with the loss of Rama and Lalita. Arturo promised to give me back half of what had been stolen. It had been over four thousand years. Half seemed better than nothing. As I let my blood drip into a gold communion chalice for Arturo, I prayed to Krishna to bless it.
　　"I am not breaking my vow to you," I whispered, not believing my own words. "I am just trying to break this curse."
　　I did not know, as I prayed to my God, that Arturo was also praying to his. To allow him to convert human and vampiric blood into the saving fluid of Jesus Christ. Genius may make a person a fanatic, I don't know. But I do know that a fanatic will never listen to anything other than his own dreams. Arturo was soft and kind, warm and loving. Yet he was convinced he had a great destiny. Hitler thought the same. Both wanted something nature had never granted-the perfect being. And I, the ancient monster, just wanted a child. Arturo and I-we should never have met. But perhaps our meeting was destined. My blood looked so dark in the chalice. The sacredness of the chalice did nothing to dispel my gloom.
　　Arturo wanted to place my blood above the head of select humans. To merge the vibration of my immortal pattern into that of a mortal. If he changed the aura, he said, the body would be transformed. He, of all people, should have known how potent my blood was. He had stared deep into my eyes. He should have known my will would not bend easily to the will of another.
　　"You will not put the blood in their veins?" I asked as I handed him the chalice. He shook his head.
　　"Never," he promised. "Your God and my God are the same. Your vow will remain unbroken."
　　"I'm not fooling myself," I said quietly. "I have broken a portion of it." I moved close to him. "I do this for you."
　　He touched me then-he rarely did, before that night. It was hard for him to fed my flesh and not burn. "You do this for yourself as well," he said.
　　I loved to stare deeply into his eyes. "That is true. But as I do this-for you as well as for myself-you must do likewise."
　　He wanted to draw back but he only came closer. "What do you mean?"
　　I kissed him then, for the first time, on the cheek. "You have to break your vow. You have to make love to me."
　　His eyes were round. "I can't. My life is dedicated to Christ."
　　I did not smile. His words were not funny, but tragic. The seed of all that was to follow was hidden inside them. But I did not see that then, at least not clearly. I just wanted him so badly. I kissed him again, on the lips.
　　"You believe my blood will lead you to Christ," I said. "I do not know about that. But I do know where I can take you." I set down the bloody chalice and my arms went around him, the wings of the vampire swallowing its prey. "Pretend I am your God, Arturo, at least for tonight. I will make it easy for you."
　　There was one last ingredient in Arturo's technique that I did not witness during my first session. While I was lying on the floor with all the paraphernalia around me, he had set a mirror above the crystals. This mirror was coordinated with an external mirror, which allowed moonlight to shine through the crystals. It was actually the light, altered by its passage through the quartz medium, that set in motion the higher vibration in the aura that altered the body. Arturo never focused the sun directly through the crystals, saying it would be much too powerful. Of course, Arturo understood that the light of the moon was identical to the light of the sun, only softened by cosmic reflection.
　　Arturo made with his own hands a crystal vial to hold my blood.
　　His first experiment was with a local child who had been retarded since birth. The boy lived on the streets and existed on the scraps of food tossed to him by strangers. It was my desire that Arturo first work on someone who couldn't turn him over to the Inquisition. Still, Arturo was taking a big risk experimenting on anyone. The Church would have burned him at the stake. How I hated its self-righteous dogma, its hypocrisy. Arturo never knew how many inquisitors I killed-a small detail that I forgot to mention in my confession to him.
　　I remember well how gently Arturo spoke to the child to get him to relax on the copper sheet. Normally the boy was filthy, but I had given him a bath before the beginning of the experiment. He was naturally distrustful of others, having been abused so many times during his life. But he liked us-I had been feeding him off and on and Arturo had a way with children. Soon enough, he was lying on the copper and breathing comfortably. The reflected moonlight, peering through the dark vial of my blood, cast a haunting red hue over the room. It reminded me of the end of twilight, of the time just before night falls.
　　"Something is happening," Arturo whispered as we watched the boy's breathing accelerate. For twenty minutes the child was in a state of hyperventilation, twitching and shaking. We would have stopped the process if the boy's face hadn't looked calm. Plus, we were watching history being made, maybe a miracle.
　　Finally the boy lay still. Arturo diverted the reflected moonlight and helped the boy to sit up. There was a new strangeness to his eyes-they were bright. He hugged me.
　　"Ti amo anch'io, Sita," he said. "I love you, Sita."
　　 "I had never heard him say a whole sentence before. I was so overjoyed that I didn't stop to think I had never told him my real name. In all of Italy, only Arturo and Ralphe knew it. We were both happy for the child, that his brain seemed to be functioning normally. It was one of the few times in my life I cried, tears of water, not tears of blood.
　　The red tears would come later.
　　This first successful experiment gave Arturo tremendous confidence and weakened his caution. He had seen a mental change; he wanted to see a physical one. He went looking for a leper, and brought back a woman in her sixties whose toes and fingers had been eaten away by the dread disease. Over the centuries I had found it particularly painful to look upon lepers. In the second century, in Rome, I had a beautiful lover who developed leprosy. Toward the latter stages of his disease, he begged me to kill him, and I did, crushing his skull, with my eyes tightly clenched. Of course, now there is AIDS. Mother Nature gives each age its own special horror. She is like Lord Krishna, full of wicked surprises.
　　The woman was almost too far gone to notice what we were doing to her. But Arturo was able to get her breathing deeply, and soon the magic was happening again. She began to hyperventilate, twitching worse than the boy had. Yet her eyes and face remained calm. I was not sure what she felt; it was not as if she suddenly sprouted toes and fingers. When she was through, Arturo led her upstairs and had her lie down on a bed. But from the start she did seem stronger, more alert.
　　A few days later she began to grow toes and fingers.
　　Two weeks later there was no sign of her leprosy.
　　Arturo was ecstatic, but I was worried. We told the woman not to tell anyone what we had done for her. Of course she told everyone. The rumors started to fly. Wisely, Arturo passed her cure off to the grace of God. Yet, during these days of the Inquisition, it was more dangerous to be a saint than a sinner. A sinner, as long as he or she was not a heretic, could repent and escape with a flogging. A saint might be a witch. Better to burn a possible saint, the Church thought, than let a genuine witch escape. They had a weird sense of justice.
　　Arturo was not a complete fool, however. He did not heal more lepers, even though dozens came to his door seeking relief. Yet he continued to experiment on a few deaf and dumb people, a few who were actually retarded. Oh, but it was hard to turn away the lepers. The lone woman had given them such hope. Modern-day pundits often talk of the virtue of hope. To me, hope brings grief. The most content people are those who expect nothing, who have ceased to dream.
　　I had dreamed what it would be like to be Arturo's lover, and now that he was mine, he was unhappy. Oh, he loved to sleep with me, feel me close beside him. But he believed he had sinned and he couldn't stop. The timing of our affair was unfortunate. He was breaking his vow of celibacy just when he was on the verge of fulfilling his destiny. God would not know whether to curse or bless him. I told him not to worry about God. I had met the guy. He did what he wanted when he wanted, no matter how hard you tried. I told Arturo many stories of Krishna, and he listened, fascinated. Still, he would weep after we had sex. I told him to go to confession. But he refused-he would only confess to me. Only I could understand him, he said.
　　But I didn't understand. Not what he had planned.
　　He began to have visions during this period. He'd had them before-they didn't alarm me, at least not at first. It was a vision that had given him the mechanics of his transformative technique, long before we met. But now his visions were peculiar. He began to build models. Only seven hundred years later did I realize he was building models of DNA-human DNA, vampiric, and one other form. Yes, it is true, while we watched the people twitch on the floor under the influence of my bloody aura, Arturo saw more deeply than I did. He actually understood the specific molecule whose code defined the body. He saw the molecule in a vision, and he watched it change under the magnets, crystals, copper, and blood. He saw the double helix of normal DNA. He saw the twelve straight strands of my DNA. And he saw how the two could be conjoined.
　　"We need twelve helix strands," he confided in me. "Then we will have our perfect being."
　　"But the more people you experiment on, the more attention you will draw to yourself," I protested. "Your Church will not understand. They will kill you."
　　He nodded grimly. "I understand. And I cannot keep working on abnormal people. To make a leap toward the perfect being, I must work with a normal person."
　　I sensed what was in his mind. "You cannot experiment on yourself."
　　He turned away. "What if we try Ralphe?"
　　"No," I pleaded. "We love him the way he is. Let's not change him."
　　He continued to stare at the wall, his back to me. "You changed him, Sita."
　　"That was different. I knew what I was doing. I had experience. I healed his wounds. I altered his body, not his soul."
　　He turned to me. "Don't you see it's because I love Ralphe as much as you do that I want to give him this chance? If we can change him from the inside out, transform his blood, he will be like a child of Christ."
　　"Christ never knew of vampires," I warned. "You should not mix the two in your mind. It's blasphemy -even to me."
　　Arturo was passionate. "How do you know he didn't? You never met him."
　　I got angry. "Now you speak like a fool. If you want to experiment on anyone, use me. You promised me you would when we started this."
　　He stiffened. "I can't change you. Not now."
　　I understood what he was saying. Suddenly I felt the weight of shattered dreams. In my mind I had been playing with a daughter who had never been born, and who probably never would be.
　　"You need my blood first," I replied. "The pure vampire blood." It was true he had to replenish the blood in the crystal vial, not before each experiment, but often. Old blood did not work-it was too dead. I continued, "But what if your experiment does work and you do create a perfect being? I cannot give enough blood to alter everyone on this planet."
　　He shrugged. "Perhaps those who are altered can become the new donors."
　　"That is a huge perhaps. Also, I know people. This will be an exclusive club. It doesn't matter how good your intentions are now." I turned away and chuckled bitterly. "Who will be given a chance at perfection? The nobility? The clergy? The most corrupt will feel they are the most deserving. It is the oldest lesson of history. It never changes."
　　Arturo hugged me. "That will not happen, Sita. God has blessed this work. Only good can come from it."
　　"No one knows what God has blessed," I whispered. "And what he has cursed."
　　A few days went by during which Arturo and I hardly spoke. He would stay up late making models of molecules no one had seen, afraid to talk to me, to touch me. I never realized until then how he saw me as both a gift and a test from God. Of course I had given him my immortal perception on the matter, but he had seen me that way from the start. I brought him magic blood and delicious sensuality. He was supposed to take one and not the other, he thought. He lost his intuitive sense that kept him from mistakes, I believe, because he no longer thought he was worthy of having it. He stopped praying to God and started muttering to himself about the blood of Jesus Christ. He was more obsessed with blood than I was, and I had it for dinner every few days.
　　One evening I could find Ralphe nowhere. Arturo said he had no idea where he was. Arturo wasn't lying, but he wasn't telling the whole truth either. I didn't press him. I think I didn't want to know the truth. Yet had I insisted he tell me, I might have stopped the horror, before it got out of hand.
　　The screams started in the middle of night.
　　I was out for a walk at the time. It was my custom to go out late, disguised, find a homeless person, drink a pint of blood, whisper in his or her ear, and put the person back to sleep. Except for evil priests, I didn't often kill in those days. The cries that came to me that night chilled me through. I ran toward the sounds as fast as I could.
　　I found five bodies, horribly mangled, their limbs torn off. Obviously, only a being of supernatural strength could have committed these acts. One person, a woman with an arm lying beside her, was the test one still alive. I cradled her head in my lap.
　　"What happened I asked. "Who did this to you?"
　　"The demon," she whispered.
　　"What did this demon look like?" I demanded.
　　She gagged. "A hungry angel. The blood-" Her eyes strayed to her severed arm and she wept. "My blood."
　　I shook her. "Tell me what this demon looked like?"
　　Her eyes rolled up into her head. "A child," she whispered with her last breath and died in my arms.
　　Sick at heart, I knew who the child was.
　　Far away, on the far side of the town, I heard more screams.
　　I flew toward them but once again I was too late. There were more shredded bodies, and this time there were witnesses. An angry mob with burning torches was gathering. They had seen the demon child.
　　"It was heading for the woods!" they cried.
　　"We have to stop it!" others cried.
　　"Wait!" I yelled. "Look how many it has killed. We can't go after it without help."
　　"It killed my brother!" one man cried, pulling out a knife. "I'm going to kill it myself."
　　The mob followed the man. I had no choice but to tag along. As we wound through the dark streets, we found still more bodies. A few had had their heads ripped off. What was the mob thinking? I asked myself. They would fare no better against the monster. Of course mobs and rational thought are not complementary. I have seen too many mobs in my day.
　　When we reached the trees on the edge of town, I left the rabble to search for the monster myself. I could hear it, two miles-ahead, laughing uproariously as it tore off the head of an animal. It was fast and strong, but I was a pure vampire, not a hybrid. It would be no match for me.
　　I came across it as it ducked from tree to tree, preparing to attack the mob.
　　"Ralphe," I whispered as I moved up behind him.
　　He whirled around, his face covered with blood, a wild light in his eyes. Or I should say, no light shone there. His eyes were snakelike. He was a serpent on the prowl, searching for the eggs of another reptile. Yet he recognized me-a faint flicker of affection crossed his face. If it was not for that, I would have killed him instantly. I had no hope he could be converted back to what he had been. I have intuition of my own. Some things I simply know. Usually the bitterest of things.
　　"Sita," he hissed. "Are you hungry? I am hungry."
　　I moved closer, not wanting to alert the mob, which was closing in. Ralphe had left a trail of blood. The stuff dripped off him; it was enough to make even me sick. My heart broke in my chest as he came within arm's reach.
　　"Ralphe," I said softly, all the time knowing it was hopeless. "I have to take you back to Arturo. You need help."
　　Terror disfigured his bloody expression. Obviously the transformation had not been pleasant for him. "I will not go back there!" he shouted. "He made me hungry!" Ralphe paused to stare down at his sticky hands. A portion of his humanity did indeed remain. His voice faltered on a lump of sorrow in his throat. "He made me do this."
　　"Oh, Ralphe." I took him in my arms. "I'm so sorry. This should never have happened."
　　"Sita," he whispered, nuzzling his face into my body. I could not kill him, I told myself. Not for the whole world. But just as I swore the vow inside, I leapt back in pain, barely stifling a cry. He had bitten me! His sorrow had vanished in a lick of his lips. I watched in horror as he chewed down a portion of my right arm, an insane grin on his face. "I like you, Sita," he said. "You taste good!"
　　"Would you like more?" I asked, offering him my other arm, tears filling my eyes. "You can have all you want. Come closer, Ralphe. I like you, too."
　　"Sita," he said lustfully as he grabbed my arm and started to take another bite. It was then I spun him around in my arms and gripped his skull from behind. With all the force I could muster and before my tears overwhelmed me, I yanked his head back and to the side. Every bone in his neck broke. His small body went limp in my arms-he had not felt any pain, I told myself.
　　"My Ralphe," I whispered, running my hands through his long fine hair.
　　I should have fled with his body then, buried it in the hills. But the execution was too much, even for a monster like me. The life went out of me and I wanted to collapse. When the mob found me, I was cradling
　　Ralphe's body in my arms, weeping like a common mortal. My ancient daughter, my young son-God had stolen them both from me.
　　The mob surrounded me.
　　They wanted to know how I had stopped the demon child.
　　A few in the mob knew me.
　　""You take care of this boy!" they cried. "We saw you and the priest with him!"
　　I could have kilted them right then, all fifty of them. But the night had seen too much death. I let them drag me back to the town, their torches burning in my bleary eyes. They threw me in a dungeon near the center of town, where the executions took place, taunting me that they were going to get to the bottom of how this abomination was created. Before the sun rose, I knew they would be pounding on Arturo's door, digging into his secret underground chamber, collecting the necessary evidence to show the feared inquisitors. There would be a trial and there would be a judge. The only problem was, there could be only one sentence.
　　Yet I was Sita, a vampire of incomparable power. Even the hard hand of the Church could not dose around my throat unless I allowed it. But what about Arturo? I loved him but could not trust him. If he lived, he would continue his experiments. It was inevitable because he believed it was his destiny. He had enough of my blood left to make another Ralphe, or worse.
　　A few hours later they threw him in a cell across from me. I begged him to talk to me but he refused. Huddled up in a corner, staring at the wall with eyes as vacant as dusty mirrors, he gave no indication of what was going through his mind. His God did not come to save him. That was left for me to do.
　　I ended up testifying against him.
　　The inquisitor told me it was the only way to save my life. Even chained in the middle of the high court with soldiers surrounding me, I could have broken free and destroyed them all. How tempting it was for me to reach out and rip open the throat of the evil-faced priest, who conducted his investigation like a hungry dog on a battlefield searching for fresh meat. Yet I could not kill Arturo with my own hands. It would have been impossible. But I could not have him live and continue his search for the sacred blood of Jesus Christ. Jesus had died twelve hundred years ago, and the search would never end. It was a paradox- the only solution was agonizing. I could not stop Arturo so I had to let others stop him.
　　"Yes," I swore on the Holy Bible. "He created the abomination. I saw him do it with my own eyes. He changed that boy. Then he tried to seduce me with the black arts. He is a witch, Father, that fact is indisputable. God strike me down if I lie!"
　　The old friar at the church also testified against Arturo, although the inquisitor had to first stretch him on the strappado to get the words out of his mouth. It broke the friar's heart to condemn Arturo. He was not alone in his guilt.
　　Arturo never confessed, no matter how much they tortured him. He was too proud, his cause too noble, in his mind. After the trial, we never spoke. Indeed, I never saw him again. I didn't attend his execution. But I heard they burned him at the stake.
　　Like any witch.
   
   9
　　I sit at a poker table trying to bluff a high roller from Texas into folding. The game has been going on awhile. There is one hundred thousand dollars in cash and chips on the table. His hand is better than mine. Yaksha's mind-reading gift has grown more powerful in me-I can now see the man's cards as if viewing them through his eyes. He has three aces, two jacks-a full house. I have three sixes-Satan's favorite number. He has the winning hand.
　　The Texan wears leather cowboy boots, a five-gallon hat. The smoke from his fat cigar does not irritate my eyes. He blows a smelly cloud my way as if to intimidate me. I smile and match his last bet, then raise him another fifty thousand. We are enjoying a private game, in a luxurious corner of the casino,  where only fat cats hang out Three other men sit with us at the table, but they have since folded. They follow the action closely-they all know each other. The Texan will not like to be humiliated in front of them.
　　"You must have a royal flush, honey child," he says. "Betting the way you do." He leans across the table. "Or else you got a sugar daddy paying your bills."
　　"Honey and sugar," I muse aloud. "Both like me." I add, sharpening my tone, "But I pay my own bills."
　　He laughs and slaps his leg. "Are you trying to bluff me?"
　　"Maybe. Match my bet and find out"
　　He hesitates a moment, glancing at the pot. "The action is getting kind of heavy. What do you do, child, to have so much dough? Your daddy must have given it to you."
　　He is trying to ascertain how important the money is to me. If it means a lot, in my mind, then I will be betting heavily only if I have an unbeatable hand. Leaning across the table, I stare him in the eye, not strong enough to fry his synapses but hard enough to shake him. I don't like being called a child. I am five thousand years old after all.
　　"I earned every penny of it," I tell him. "The hard way. Where did you get your money, old man?"
　　He sits back quickly, ruffled by my tone, my laser vision. "I earned it by honest labor," he says, lying.
　　I sit back as well. "Then lose it honestly. Match my bet or fold. I don't care which. Just quit stalling."
　　He flushes. "I'm not stalling."
　　I shrug, cool as ice. "Whatever you want to call it, old man."
　　"Damn you," he swears, throwing his cards down. "I fold."
　　My arms reach out and rake in the money. They're all staring at me. "Oh," I say. "I bet you're wondering what I had? But you're all too professional to ask, aren't you?" I stand and start to stuff the cash and chips in my purse. "I think I'll call it a night."
　　"Wait right there," the Texan says, getting up. "I want to see those cards."
　　"Really? I thought you had to pay to see them. Are the rules different for Texans?"
　　"They are when you've got fifty grand of my money, bitch. Now show me."
　　I dislike being called a "bitch" more than a "child."
　　"Very well," I say, flipping over my cards. "You would have won. That's the last time I show a hand you didn't pay to see. Now do you feel better? You were bluffed out of your wrinkled skin, old man."
　　He slams the table with his fist. "Who are you anyway?"
　　I shake my head. "You're a sore loser, and I've wasted enough time on you." I turn away. One of his partners grabs my arm. That is a mistake.
　　"Hold on now, honey," he says. The others move closer.
　　I smile. "Yes?" Of course I am protected by the casino. I need only raise my voice and these men will be thrown out But I dislike going to others for help, when I am so capable of taking care of myself. Dinner will be a four-course meal tonight, I think. "What can I do for you?" I ask.
　　The man continues to hold on to my arm but doesn't respond. He glances at the Texan, who is clearly the boss. The Texan has regained his smile.
　　"We would just like to play some more, honey," he says. "That's only fair. We need a chance to win our money back."
　　My smile widens. "Why don't I just give you the money back?"
　　My offer confuses him. The Texan shrugs. "If you want. I'll be happy to accept it."
　　"Good," I say. "Meet me at the west end of the hotel parking lot in ten minutes. We'll go for a little drive. You'll get all your money back." I glance at the others. "The only condition is you must all come."
　　"Why do we have to go anywhere?" the Texan asks. "Just give it to us now."
　　I shake off the other's hold on me. "Surely you're not afraid of little old me, sugar daddy?" I say sweetly.
　　The men laugh together, a bit uneasily. The Texan points a finger at me.
　　"In ten minutes," he says. "Don't be late."
　　"I never am," I reply.
　　We meet as planned and drive a short distance from town, each in bur own cars. Then I lead them off the road and into the desert a few miles, stopping near a low-lying hill. The time is eleven at night, the evening cool and clear, the almost full moon brilliant against the night sky. The men park beside me and climb out They are afraid of me. I can smell their fear. Except for the big boss, they are armed. The bulges beneath their coats are noticeable. I smell the gunpowder in their bullets. They probably figure I am setting them up to be robbed. They study the terrain as they walk toward me, puzzled that I am alone. They are not very-subtle. Two of them have their hands thrust in their coat pockets, their fingers wound around their handguns. The Texan steps in front and reaches out to me.
　　"Give us your bag," Tex orders.
　　"All right." I hand him my bag. The money is inside, much to his pleasure. His eyes are wide as he counts it. I know he had expected to find a gun in the bag. "Are you satisfied?" I ask.
　　Tex nods to a partner. I am frisked. Roughly.
　　"She's cool," the partner mumbles a moment later, backing away.
　　Tex stuffs the money in his pockets. "Yeah, I'm satisfied. But I don't get it. Why did you drag us all the way out here?"
　　"I'm hungry," I say.
　　He grins like the crooked oil baron that he is. "We would have been happy to have taken you to dinner, honey pie. We still can. What would you like?"
　　"Prime ribs," I say.
　　He slaps his leg again. Must be a nervous gesture with him. "Goddamn! That's my favorite. Ribs dripping with red juice. We'll take you out and get you some right now." He adds with a phony wink, "Then maybe we can have a little fun afterward."
　　I shake my head as I take a step toward him. "We can eat here. We can have a picnic. Just the five of us."
　　He glances at my car. "Did you bring some goodies?"
　　"No. You did."
　　His impatience is never far away. "What are you talking about?"
　　I throw my head back and laugh. "You're such a fake! Your politeness only appears when it is useful to you. Now that you have stolen the money I won fair and square, you want to take me out for dinner."
　　Tex is indignant. "We did not steal this money. You offered to return it to us."
　　"After pressure from you. Let's call a spade a spade. You're a crook."
　　"No one calls me that and gets away with it!"
　　"Really? What are you going to do? Kill me?"
　　He steps forward and slaps me across the face with the back of his hand. "Bitch! You just be happy I'm not that kind of man."
　　I put a hand to my mouth. "Aren't you that kind of man?" I ask softly. "I see your heart, Mr. Money Bags. You have killed before. It's good we meet tonight, out here in the desert. If you lived, you would probably kill again."
　　He turns to leave. "Let's get out of here, boys."
　　"Wait," I say. "I have something else to give you."
　　He glances over his shoulder. "What?"
　　I take another step forward. "I have to tell you who I really am. You did ask, remember?"
　　Tex is in a hurry. "So, who are you? A Hollywood star?"
　　"Close. I am famous, in certain circles. Why just a few days ago the entire LAPD was chasing me around town. You read about it in the papers?"
　　A wary note enters his voice. Once again, his men glance around, this time looking for Arab backups. "You're not connected to that group of terrorists, are you?"
　　"There were no terrorists. That was just the cops trying to cover their asses. It was just me and my partner. We caused all the ruckus."
　　He snorts. "Right. You and your partner wasted twenty cops. You must be a terminator, huh?"
　　"Close. I'm a vampire. I'm five thousand years old."
　　He snickers. "You're a psycho, and you're wasting my time." He turns again. "Good night."
　　I grab him by the back of his collar and yank him close, pressing his cheek next to mine. He is so startled-he hardly reacts. But his men are better trained. Suddenly I have three revolvers pointed at me. Quickly, I shield myself with Tex. My grip on him tightens, cutting off his air. He gags loudly.
　　"I am in a generous mood," I say calmly to the others. "I will give you men a chance to escape. Ordinarily I would not even consider it. But since my cover has been blown, I am not so picky about destroying every shred of evidence." I pause and catch  each of their eyes, no doubt sending a shiver to the base of their spines. "I suggest you get in your cars and get out of here-out of Las Vegas completely. If you don't, you will die. It is that simple." I throttle Tex and he moans in pain. My voice takes on a mocking tone, "You can see how strong I am for a honey child."
　　"Shoot her," Tex gasps as I allow him a little air.
　　"That is a bad idea," I say. "To shoot me they have to shoot you first because you are standing in front of me. Really, Tex, you should think these things out before giving such orders." I glance at the others. "If you don't get out of here, I'll have you for dinner as well. I really am a vampire and, for me, prime ribs come in all shapes and forms." With one hand, I lift Tex two feet off the ground. "Do you want to see what I do to him? I guarantee it will make you sick to your stomach."
　　"God," one of the men whispers and turns to flee. He doesn't bother with the car. He just runs into the desert, anywhere to get away from me. Another fellow edges toward the periphery. But the remaining man- the guy who grabbed me in the casino, the same one who frisked me-snaps at him.
　　"She's not a vampire," he says. "She's just some kind of freak."
　　"That's it," I agree. "I take steroids." I glance at the guy who wants to leave. "Get out of here while you still can. You will see neither of these men alive again. Believe me, you'll hear their screams echoing over the desert."
　　My tone is persuasive. The guy leaves, chasing after the first one. Now there are just the three of us. How cozy. In reality, I was not looking forward to having to dodge the bullets fired by three separate men. I allow Tex a little more air, let him say his last words. His tune has not changed.
　　"Shoot her," he croaks at his partner.
　　"You could try it and see what happens," I remark.
　　The hired hand is unsure. His gun wavers in the air. "I can't get a clear shot."
　　Tex tries to turn toward me. "We can make a deal. I have money."
　　I shake my head. "Too late. I don't want your money. I just want your blood."
　　Tex sees I am serious. My eyes and voice appear devilishly wicked when I am in the mood, and I'm starving right now. Tex turns deathly pale, matching the color of the moonlight that pours down on us.
　　"You can't kill me!" he cries.
　　I laugh. "Yes. It will be very easy to kill you. Do you want me to demonstrate?"
　　He trembles. "No!"
　　"I will give you a demonstration anyway." I call over to Tex's partner, who has begun to perspire heavily. "What is your name?"
　　"Go to hell," he swears, trying to circle around us, to get off a lucky shot.
　　"That cannot be your name," I say. ""Your mother would never have called you that. It doesn't matter. You are going to be nobody in a minute. But before I kill you, is there anything you want to say?"
　　He pauses, angry. "Say to who?"
　　I shrug. "I don't know. God, maybe. Do you believe in God?"
　　I exasperate him. "You are one weird bitch."
　　I nod solemnly. "I am weird." The full power of my gaze locks into his eyes. With me boring into him, he is unable to look away. All he sees, I know, is my fathomless pupils, swelling in size like black holes. I speak very slowly, softly. "Now my dear man, you are going to take your gun and put it in your mouth."
　　The man freezes for a moment.
　　Then, as if in a dream, he opens his mouth and puts the gun between his lips.
　　"Chuck!" Tex screams. "Don't listen to her! She's trying to hypnotize you!"
　　"Now I want you to grasp the trigger," I continue in my penetrating voice. "I want you to place a certain amount of pressure on the trigger. Not enough to fire the bullet, mind you, but almost enough. There, that is perfect, you have done well. You are half an inch from death." I pause and turn down the power of my eyes. My voice returns to normal. "How does it feel?"
　　The man blinks and then notices the barrel in his mouth. He almost has a heart attack. He is so scared, he actually drops the gun. "Jesus Christ!" he cries.
　　"See," I say. "You must believe in God. And because I do as well, and I can only drink the blood of one of you at a time, I think I will let you go as well. Quick, join your partners out in the desert, before I change my mind."
　　The man nods. "No problem." He dashes away.
　　"Chuck!" Tex screams. "Come back here!"
　　"He is not coming back," I tell Tex seriously. "You cannot buy that kind of loyalty. You certainly cannot buy me. You can't even buy my dinner." I pause. "You must understand by now that you are dinner."
　　He weeps like a child. "Please! I don't want to die."
　　I pull him closer, whisper my favorite line.
　　"Then you should never have been born," I say.
　　I enjoy my meal
　　When I am finished draining the Texan and have buried him far from his car, I go for a walk in the desert. My thirst is satisfied but my mind is restless. Andy will be off work in a few hours. I should be planning how I will convince him to help me, yet I cannot concentrate. I keep thinking I'm missing something important. I contemplate the last few days and somehow I know something is missing-a piece of the puzzle. This piece exists just beyond the edge of my vision. What it is, I cannot grasp.
　　Arturo's ghost haunts me. The world never knew what it had lost in him. What greater sorrow could there be? I ask myself how he would have been remembered if there had been no Inquisition. If there had been no Sita and no magical blood to poison his dreams. Perhaps his name would have been uttered in the same breath as that of Leonardo da Vinci, of Einstein. It tortures me to think of the lost possibilities: Arturo the alchemist-the founder of a secret science.
　　"What did you do to Ralphe?" I whisper aloud. "Why did you do it? Why did you refuse to talk to me when we were in jail?"
　　But his ghost has questions of its own.
　　Why were you so quick to kill Ralphe?
　　"I had to," I tell the night.
　　Why did you betray me, Sita?
　　"I had to," I say again. "You were out of control."
　　But I never accused you, Sita. And you were the real witch.
　　I sigh. "I know, Arturo. And I was not a good witch."
　　I have come far from where I started. A steep hill stands before me and I climb to the top of it. Twenty miles off to my left is Las Vegas, glowing with extravagance and decadence. The almost full moon is high and to my right. The hike has left me hot and sweaty. After shedding my clothes, I once more bow to the lunar goddess. This time I feel the rays enter my body, a tingling coolness that is strangely comforting. My breathing becomes deep and expanded. I feel as if my lungs can draw in the whole atmosphere, as if my skin can soak up the entire night sky. My heart pounds in my chest, now circulating a milky white substance instead of sticky red blood. Without using my eyes, I know I am becoming transparent.
　　I feel extraordinarily light.
　　As if I could fly.
　　The thought comes from an unknown place. It is like a hissed whisper spoken to me from the eternal abyss. Perhaps Yaksha's soul returns to grant me one final lesson.
　　The soles of my feet leave the top of the hill.
　　But I have not jumped. No.
　　I am floating-a few inches above the cool sand.
   
   10
　　When I return to my room, I call Seymour Dorsten, my friend and personal biographer, the young man I cured of AIDS with a few drops of my blood. Seymour is my psychic twin-he often writes about what I am experiencing, without my having to tell him what it is. Lately, I've been broadcasting him great material. I wake him up, but as soon as he hears my voice he is instantly alert.
　　"I knew you'd be calling me soon," he says. "Was that you down in Los Angeles?"
　　"Joel and I."
　　He takes a moment to absorb what I am saying. "Joel is a vampire now?"
　　"Yes. Eddie roughed him up bad. He was dying. I had no choice."
　　"You've broken your vow."
　　"Do you need to remind me?"
　　"Sorry." He pauses. "Can I become a vampire?"
　　"You don't want the headache. Let me tell you what's been happening."
　　For the next ninety minutes Seymour listens while I detail everything that has occurred since just before I rescued Yaksha and battled with Eddie. I mention Tex, sleeping in his shallow grave in the desert, and my levitating in the moonlight. Seymour ponders my words for a long time.
　　"Well?" I ask finally. "Have you been writing about all of this already?"
　　He hesitates. "I was writing a story about you. In it you were an angel."
　　"Did I have wings?"
　　"You were glowing white and flying high above a ruined landscape."
　　"Sounds like the end of the world," I remark.
　　Seymour is serious. "It will be the end of the world if you don't get Joel away from these people. You think they really have another vampire in addition to Joel?"
　　"Yes. Andy has constructed a model of vampire DNA. He wouldn't have had time to do it after Joel was brought to him."
　　"How do you know what vampire DNA looks like?"
　　I haven't told Seymour about Arturo. The story is too painful, and besides, I don't think it applies to the situation.
　　"Trust me, I have experience in the matter," I reply. "Andy's model is accurate. Anyway, whether I have to rescue one or two, my dilemma is the same. I have to get in there and then I have to get three of us out"
　　"It sounds like your best bet is Andy. Can't you stare him in the eye and make him do what you want?"
　　"That can backfire. If I push too hard, I'll scramble his brain, and the others will know there's something wrong with him. But if I'm careful I can plant a few suggestions deep in his mind."
　　"Money is a smart angle. Offer him millions. The fact that he hates his boss doesn't hurt either."
　　"I agree. But, Seymour, you're supposed to tell me what I'm missing."
　　"Do you feel you're missing something?" he asks.
　　"Yes. I can't explain, but I know it's there. It's just not evident to me."
　　Seymour considers. "I'll tell you a couple things you won't want to hear. When you get inside the compound, you can't go straight for Joel."
　　"Why not?"
　　"You have to get to the general. You have to be able to control him."
　　"He might be harder to get to than Joel."
　　"I doubt it. Joel will be locked in a cage even you wouldn't be able to escape from. Obviously they know how strong a vampire is."
　　"Joel is powerful, no doubt. But he is still a child next to me. They don't know that."
　　"They know more than you think, Sita. "You're  really not looking at the whole picture. They're probably still searching Lake Mead for your body. The fact that they haven't found it tells the general that you're still alive. And for you to have survived what they put you through means that you have to be handled with extreme care." Seymour pauses. "The general must have figured you'll come for Joel." "You sound so certain," I say. "I'm not." "Look at it logically. You had several chances to leave Joel during your fight with the LAPD-but you didn't. In fact, you showed tremendous loyalty to him. Believe me, they have constructed a psychological profile on you. They know you're coming for him. They'll be waiting for you. That's one of the reasons you have to go after the general first. Control him and his mind and you control the compound." 
　　"His associates will know something is up." 
　　"You need only control him for a short time. Also, you have no choice. You need the general for something other than rescue and escape." "What?" I ask, knowing what he'll say. "Samples of vampire blood will be spread all over the compound. I bet they have several labs there, and you won't be able to walk around and find all the samples. On top of that, they'll have the research that they've conducted in their computers. For these reasons the compound has to be completely destroyed. It's the only way. You're going to have to force the general to detonate a nuclear warhead." 
　　"Just like that? Blow up all those people?" 
　　"You killed plenty of people down in L.A." My voice is cool. "I didn't enjoy that, Seymour." He pauses. "I'm sorry, Sita. I didn't mean to imply that you did. And I don't mean to sound cold and cruel. I'm not, you know. I'm just a high school kid, and a lousy writer on top of that."
　　"You're too brilliant to be lousy at anything. Please continue with your analysis. How can I get Joel out alive and blow the place up?"
　　He hesitates. '"You might not be able to do both."
　　I nod to myself. "This could be a suicide mission. I've thought of that" I add sadly; "Won't you miss me?"
　　He speaks with feeling. "Yes. Come here tonight. Make me a vampire, I'll help you."
　　"You're not vampire material."
　　"Why? I'm not sexy enough?"
　　"Oh, that's not the problem. If you were a vampire, Tm sure you'd be a sex machine. It's just that you're too special to be ..." My voice falters as I think of Arturo. "To be contaminated by my blood."
　　"Sita? What's wrong?"
　　I swallow past my pain. "It's nothing-the past. That's the trouble with living for five thousand years-I have so much past. It's hard to live in the present when all that history is inside you."
　　"Your blood saved my life," Seymour says gently.
　　"How are you feeling? Are the HIV tests still negative?"
　　"Yes, I'm fine. Don't worry about me. When do you see Andy next?"
　　"In a few hours, near dawn. Then, when he returns to work in the evening, I plan to stow away in the trunk of his car."
　　"You'll need his cooperation. You can't go searching the compound for Joel."
　　"Andy will cooperate, one way or the other." I pause. "Is there anything else you can tell me that might help?"
　　"Yeah. Practice that levitating trick. You never know when it'll come in handy."
　　"I don't know what's causing it."
　　"Obviously, Yaksha's blood. He must have developed the ability over the centuries. Could he fly when you knew him in India?"
　　"He never demonstrated that he could."
　　"You vampires are full of surprises."
　　I sigh. "You're so anxious to become like me. You envy my powers. But what you don't know is that I envy you more."
　　Seymour is surprised. "What do I have that you could possibly want?"
　　I think of Lalita, my daughter.
　　But I cannot talk about children, on this of all nights.
　　"You're human" is all I say.
   
   11
　　When Andy gets to my suite, he acts stressed out but excited. He is in the door only a minute when I give him a hard kiss on the lips. He wants more, and reaches for it, but I push him away.
　　"Later," I whisper. "The night is still young."
　　"It's almost morning," he says, recalling my line from the night before.
　　I turn away. "I want to gamble first."
　　For a degenerate gambler, I know, dice are better than sex.
　　"Now you're talking, Lara," he says.
　　We go down to the casino. It's only a few days before Christmas but the place is packed. The image of a nuclear bomb exploding on the Strip haunts me. Of course, that will never happen. Even if we set a  nuclear warhead to go off at the compound, it would not affect Las Vegas, except for slight fallout-if the wind is blowing the wrong way. I wonder if Seymour's dream means I will succeed in my mission or fail.
　　A glowing angel, flying above the world?
　　We play craps, dice, and I am the designated roller. Without trying, I throw ten passes in a row and the table cheers me on. Andy bets heavily, wins plenty, and drinks even more. Before we leave the first table, he is drunk. I scold him.
　　"How can you be a scientist when you keep killing off your brain cells?" I ask.
　　He laughs, throwing an arm over my shoulder. "I'd rather be a lover than a scientist."
　　We walk down the Strip to another casino, the Excalibur. Here it is even more crowded. It is a fact that the town never sleeps. We play blackjack, twenty-one. I count cards, only betting heavily when the deck favors the player. But the advantage from even perfect counting is limited, and we don't win any money. Andy drags me back to the dice table-his favorite. The dice come to me, and again I throw another six passes in a row. But I don't want Andy to win too much and be free of debt. Just as the sun begins to color the sky, I drag him back to the Mirage, to my hotel suite. Once there, he falls on my bed, exhausted.
　　"I hate what I do," he mutters to the ceiling.
　　I hate that I can't read his mind. It must be the booze. I sit beside him. "Another hard night at work?"
　　"I shouldn't talk about it."
　　"You can. Don't worry-I'm good at keeping secrets."
　　"My boss is crazy."
　　"The general?"
　　"Yes. He's stark raving mad."
　　"What do you mean? What is he doing?"
　　Andy sits up and glances at me with bloodshot eyes. "Remember I told you we were working on an amazing discovery?"
　　"Yes. You said it was one of the greatest discoveries of modern time." I smile. "I thought you were trying to impress me."
　　He shakes his head. "I wasn't exaggerating. We're playing with explosive genetic material, and that's putting it mildly. This general has ordered us to artificially done it. Do you know what that means?"
　　I nod. "You're going to make more of it-in a test tube."
　　"Yes. That's a layman's view, but it is essentially correct." He stares out the window, at the glitter that is the Strip. When he speaks again, his voice reflects the horror he feds. "We are going to try to duplicate something that, if it got out, could affect all of mankind."
　　It's worse than I thought. The charade must end.
　　He has given me an opening. I must seize it.
　　"Andy?" I whisper.
　　He looks at me. I catch his eye.
　　"Yes, Lara?" he says.
　　I do not push him, not yet, but I do not let him turn away either. A narrow tunnel of whirling blue fog exists between us. He is at one end, chained to a hard wall, and I am steadily rushing toward him, shadows at my back. I hold his attention but slightly blur his focus. Since ingesting Yaksha's blood, my mind-altering abilities are more refined, more powerful. I have to be careful I don't destroy his brain.
　　"My name is not Lara."
　　He tries to blink, fails. "What is it?"
　　"It doesn't matter. I am not who I appear to be." I pause. "I know what you are working on."
　　He hesitates. "How?"
　　"I know your prisoner. He is a friend of mine."
　　"No."
　　"Yes. I lied to you last night, and I'm sorry. I won't lie to you anymore. I came to Las Vegas for the purpose of freeing my friend." I touch his knee. "But I didn't come to hurt you. I didn't know I would end up caring for you."
　　He has to take a breath, "I don't understand what you're saying?"
　　I have to relax my hold on him. The pressure inside his skull is building. Sweat stands out on his forehead. Standing, I turn my back to him and walk to the window to look out at the Strip. The Christmas decorations glitter even amid the neon in the faint light of the dawn.
　　"But you do understand," I say. "You are holding a prisoner, Joel Drake. He is an FBI agent, but since you have begun to examine him you have come to see that he's much more than that. His blood is different from that of most humans, and this difference makes him very strong, very quick. That's why you keep him locked up in a special cell. Your general tells you he is dangerous. Yet this same general makes you and your partners work night and day so that you can change more people's blood to match that of the supposedly dangerous prisoner." I pause. "Is this not accurate, Andy?"
　　He is a long time answering. His voice comes out hesitantly.
　　"How do you know these things?"
　　I turn to face him. "I told you. I am his friend. I am here to rescue him. I need your help."
　　Andy can't stop staring at me. It's as if I'm a ghost.
　　"They said there was another," he mumbles.
　　"Yes."
　　"Are you the one?"
　　"Yes."
　　He winces. "Are you like him?"
　　"Yes."
　　He puts a hand to his head. "Oh God."
　　Once more, I sit beside him on the bed.
　　"We are not evil," I say. "I know what you must have been told, but it is not true. We only fight when threatened. The men and woman who died-on L.A. trying to arrest us-we didn't want to harm them. But they came after us, they cornered us. We had no choice but to defend ourselves."
　　His head is buried in his hands. He is close to weeping. "But you killed many others before that night."
　　"That is not true. The one who did the killing-he was an aberration. His name was Eddie Fender. He accidentally got a hold of our blood. I stopped him, but Eddie is a perfect example of what can happen if this blood gets out. You said it yourself a moment ago-it could affect all of humanity. Worse, it would destroy all of humanity. I am here to stop that. I am here to help you."
　　He peers up at me, his fingers still covering much of his face. "That's why you can throw the dice the way you do?"
　　"Yes."
　　"What else can you do?"
　　I shake my head. "It doesn't matter. All that matters is that more people are not allowed to become like me and my friend."
　　"How many are there of you?" he asks.
　　"I thought there were just two of us left. But I suspect you have another at the compound." I pause. 
　　He turns away. "I can't tell you. I don't know who you are."
　　"Yes, you know me better than anyone. You've seen what my DNA is like."
　　He stands and walks to the far wall. He puts a hand on it for support, breathing rapidly. "The man you speak of-Joel-he's ill. He has fever, severe cramps. We don't know what to do with him." Andy struggles. My revelation is too much for him. "Do you know?" he asks.
　　"Yes. Have you kept him out of the sunlight?"
　　"Yes. He's in a cell, in a basement. There is no sun" He pauses. "Is he allergic to the sun?"
　　"Yes."
　　Andy frowns. "But how does it make him ill? I told you, he doesn't see it."
　　"The sun is not what makes him ill. I was only ruling out a possibility. He is sick because he is hungry."
　　"But we have fed him. It doesn't help."
　　"You are not feeding him what he needs."
　　"What is that?"
　　"Blood."
　　Andy almost crumbles. "No," he moans. "You're like vampires."
　　I stand and approach him cautiously, not wishing to scare him worse than I already have. "We are vampires, Andy. Joel has been one only a few days. I changed him in order to prevent him from dying. Eddie had mortally wounded him. Believe me, I don't go around making vampires. It's against my- principles."
　　Andy struggles to get a grip on himself. "Who made you?"
　　"A vampire by the name of Yaksha. He was the first of our kind."
　　"When was this?"
　　"A long time ago."
　　"When?" he demands.
　　"Five thousand years ago."
　　My revealing my age does not help the situation. The strength goes out of Andy, he slides to the floor.
　　Rolling into a ball, he recoils as I come closer. I halt in midstride.
　　"What do you want from me?" he mumbles.
　　"Your help. I need to get into your compound and get my friend out before the world is destroyed. It is that simple. The danger is that great. And you know I'm not exaggerating. Our blood in the hands of your general is more dangerous than plutonium in the hands of terrorists."
　　Andy nods weakly. "Oh, I believe that."
　　"Then you will help me?"
　　My question startles him. "What? How can I help you? You're some kind of monster. You're the source of this danger."
　　I speak firmly. "I have walked this world since the dawn of history. In all that time, there have been only myths and rumors of my existence, and the existence of others like me. And those myths and rumors weren't based on fact. They were just stories. Because in all this time none of us has set out to destroy humanity. Yet your general will do this, whether he wants to or not. Listen to me, Andy! He has to be stopped and you have to help me stop him."
　　"No."
　　"Yes! Do you want him to clone Joel's blood? Do you want that material shipped to a weapons plant in the heart of the Pentagon?"
　　Anger shakes Andy. "No! I want to destroy the blood! I don't need your lectures. I know what it can do. I have studied it inside out."
　　I move closer, kneel on the floor beside him. "Look at me, Andy."
　　He lowers his head. "You might cast a spell on me."
　　"I don't need spells to convince you of the truth. I am not the enemy. Without my assistance, you won't be able to stop this thing from progressing to the next level. Try to imagine a society where everyone has our vampire strength and appetites."
　　The visions I conjure make him sick. "You really drink human blood?"
　　"Yes. I need it to live. But I do not need to kill or even harm the person I drink from. Usually, they don't even know what has happened. They just wake up the next day with a headache."
　　My remark causes him to smile unexpectedly. "I woke up with a headache this evening. Did you drink some of my blood without my knowing?"
　　I chuckle softly. "No. Your headaches are your problem. Unless you cut down on the booze, your liver is going to give out. Listen to the advice of a five-thousand-year-old doctor."
　　He finally looks at me, "You're not really that old, are you?"
　　"I was alive when Krishna walked the earth. I met him in fact."
　　"What was he like?"
　　"Cool."
　　"Krishna was cool?"
　　"Yes. He didn't kill me. He mustn't have thought I was a monster."
　　Andy is calming down. "I'm sorry I called you that. It's just-well, I've never met a vampire before, I mean, I was never in a hotel room with one."
　　"Aren't you glad you didn't sleep with me last night?"
　　He obviously forgot that small point "Would I have been changed into a vampire?"
　　"It takes more than sex with an immortal to make you immortal." I speak delicately. "But you may know that."
　　He is grim. "There has to be a blood transfer to bring about the change. I imagine a lot of blood is involved."
　　"Yes, that is correct. Have your experiments established that?"
　　"We have established a few things. But the human immune system reacts violently to this kind of blood. It embraces it and at the same time tries to destroy it. We have postulated that a large infusion of this DNA code would transform the entire system. Actually, we think your DNA would just take over, and replicate itself throughout every cell in the body." He pauses. "Is that what happened when Yaksha changed you?"
　　I hesitate. I don't want to give him information that could be used later.
　　"When he changed me, I was young. I cried through most of it."
　　"He is dead now?"
　　"Yes."
　　"When did he die?"
　　"A few days ago." I add, "He wanted to die."
　　"Why?"
　　I smile faintly, sadly. "He wanted to be with Krishna. That was all that mattered to him. He was evil when he changed me. But when he died-he was a saint. He loved God very much."
　　Andy stares at me, mystified. "You're telling me the truth."
　　I nod weakly. The thought of Krishna always shakes me.
　　"Yes. Maybe I should have told you from the beginning. You see, I was going to try to hypnotize you. I was going to seduce you and offer you money and set your head spinning-until you didn't know what you were doing." I touch his leg gently. "But none of that is necessary now. You are a true scientist. You seek the truth. You don't want to harm people. And you know that this blood can harm many people. Give it back to me. I know how to care for it, to keep it out of harm's way."
　　"If I help you into the compound, they will lock me away for the rest of my life."
　　"Vehicles go in and out of the compound all day. I've observed them from a distance. You can bring me ride in your trunk. When no one is looking, I will climb out, and no one will blame you."
　　Andy's not convinced. "Your friend is in a cell in a basement of our main lab. The walls of the cell are of a special metal alloy-even you couldn't walk through. I know for a fact your partner can't, watched him try. Also, your friend is under at surveillance. Cameras watch him twenty-four hours a day. Then, there is the security of the camp itself. It is surrounded by towers. The soldiers inside these towers are well armed. The place is a fortress. There are tanks and missiles behind every building." He pauses. "You won't be able to break him out."
　　"This special cell where Joel is being held-how does the door to it open?"
　　"There is a button on a control panel just outside the cell. Push it and the door swings aside. But it is a long way from my car trunk to that button. It is a longer way back outside the compound. To escape with your friend, you'll have to become invisible."
　　I nod. "We can go over, point by point, the security of the camp. But for now, answer my earlier question. Is there another vampire in the place?"
　　He hesitates, lowers his head. "Yes."
　　"How long has he been there? A month?"
　　"Yes."
　　"Was he captured in Los Angeles?"
　　"Yes. He's a black youth. He lived in South Central L.A. before he was changed." Andy looks up. "But he never said anything about an Eddie. The person who changed him was someone else. I forget the name right now."
　　My theory was correct. "That other person was changed by Eddie. Trust me-I know the ultimate source of this other vampire. Where is he located in relation to Joel?"
　　"In the cell beside Joel's. But he's virtually comatose. He has the same disease as your friend-cramps and fever." Andy shakes his head. "We didn't know what to do for him. He never asked for blood."
　　"Your people must have captured him right after he was changed. No one told him what he is now." It isn't pleasant to contemplate the pain this poor soul is going through. "I'll have to take him out as well."
　　"You'll have to carry him then."
　　"I can do that, if I have to."
　　Andy studies me. "You say you are so old. That must mean you're smarter than we short-lived mortals. If you are, you must know how the odds are stacked against you."
　　"I have always managed to beat the odds. Look how well I do at the dice tables."
　　"You will probably die if you do this."
　　"I'm not afraid to die."
　　He is impressed. "You really aren't a monster. You're much braver than I am."
　　I take his hand. "I was wrong a minute ago when I said your helping me would not put you at risk. It will take a brave man to sneak me inside the compound in the trunk of his car."
　　He squeezes my hand. "What's your real name?"
　　"Sita." I add, "Few people have known me by that name."
　　He touches my red hair. "I was wrong only to say your blood scares me. It fascinates me as well." He pauses and a sly grin crosses his face. "Sex is not enough to make me immortal?"
　　"It hasn't worked in the past. But these days are filed with mysterious portents." An unexpected  warmth for him flows over me. His eyes-they have me hypnotized, with their uncanny depth, their gentle kindness. Smiling, I lean over and hug him and whisper in his ear, "The dawn is at hand. In ancient times, it was considered a time of transformation, of alchemy. I'll stay with you, for now." I pause. "Who knows what may happen?"
   
   12
　　I dream a dream I've had before. A dream that seems to go on forever. It takes place in eternity, at least, my idea of such a place.
　　I stand on a vast grassy plain with a few gently sloping hills in the far distance. It is night, yet the sky is bright. There is no sun, but a hundred blue stars blaze overhead, shimmering in a long nebulous river. The place feels familiar to me. The air is warm, saturated with sweet aromas. Miles away a large number of people walk into a vessel-a violet-colored spaceship of gigantic proportions. The vessel shines from the inside with divine radiance, almost blinding in its brilliance. I know it is about to depart and that I am supposed to be on it. Yet I cannot leave until I have finished speaking with Lord Krishna.
　　He stands beside me on the wide plain, his gold flute in his right hand, a red lotus flower in his left. We both have on long blue gowns. He wears an exquisite jewel around his neck-the Kaustubha gem, in which the destiny of every soul can be seen. He stares up at the sky, waiting for me to speak. But I cannot remember what we were discussing.
　　"My Lord," I whisper. "I feel lost."
　　His eyes remain fixed on the stars. "You feel separate from me."
　　"Yes. I don't want to leave you. I don't want to go to earth."
　　"No. You misunderstand. You are not lost. The entire creation belongs to me-it is a part of me. How can you be lost? Your feeling of separation gives rise to your confusion." He glances my way, finally, his long black hair blowing in the soft wind. The stars shimmer in the depths of his dark eyes. The entire creation is there. His smile is kind, the feeling of love that pours from him overwhelming. "You have already been to earth. You are home now."
　　"Is this possible?" I whisper, straining to remember. Faint recollections of being on earth come to me. I recall a husband, a daughter-I can see her smile. Yet a dark film covers them. I view them from a peculiar perspective, from a mind I can scarcely believe is connected to me. In front of them many centuries stretch out, choked with endless days, and nights, suffering people, all awash in blood. Blood that I have spilled. I have to force the question from my lips. "What did I do on earth, my Lord?"
　　"You wanted to be different-you were different. It doesn't matter. This creation is a stage, and we all play roles as heroes and villains alike. It is all maya- illusion."
　　"But did I-sin?"
　　My question amuses him. "It is not possible."
　　I glance toward the waiting vessel. It is almost full. "Then I don't have to leave you?"
　　He laughs. "Sita. You have not heard me. You cannot leave me. I am always with you, even when you think you are on earth." He changes his tone-he becomes more of a friend than a master. "Would you like to hear a story?"
　　I have to smile, although I am more confused than ever.
　　"Yes, my Lord," I say.
　　He considers. "There was once a fisherman and his wife, who lived in a small town by the ocean. Every day the fisherman would go out to sea in his boat, and his wife would stay behind and care for the house. Their life was simple, but happy. They loved each other very much.
　　"The wife had only one complaint about her husband-he would eat only fish. For breakfast, lunch, and dinner, he would eat only what he caught. It didn't matter what she cooked and baked: bread or pastries, rice or potatoes-he would have none of it. Fish was his food, he said, and that was the way it had to be. From an early age, he had been this way, he had taken a vow his wife could not understand.
　　"It came to pass one day that his wife finally got fed up with his limited diet She decided to trick him, to mix a piece of cooked lamb in with his fish. She did this cleverly, so that from the outside the fish looked as if it had come straight from the sea. But hidden beneath the scales of the fish was the red meat. When he returned home that evening and sat down at the table, the fish was waiting for him.
　　"At first he ate his meal with great relish, noticing nothing amiss. His wife sat beside him, eating the same food. But when he was halfway through, he began to cough and choke. He couldn't catch his breath. It was only then he smelled something odd on his plate. He turned to his wife, eyes blazing with anger.
　　" 'What have you done?' he demanded. 'What is in this fish?'
　　"The wife sat back, scared. 'Only a little lamb. I thought you might enjoy the change.'
　　"At these words the fisherman wiped the plate from the table and onto the floor. His anger knew no bounds. Still, he could not catch his breath. It was as if the lamb had caught in his windpipe and refused to shake loose.
　　" 'You've poisoned me!' he cried. 'My own wife has poisoned me!'
　　" 'No! I only wanted to feed you something different.' She stood and slapped him on the back, but it did not help. 'Why are you choking like this?'
　　"The fisherman fell onto the floor, turning blue.
　　'Don't you know?" he gasped. 'Don't you know who I am?'
　　'"You are my husband,' the wife cried, kneeling beside him.
　　" 'I am ...' the fisherman whispered. 'I am what I am.'
　　"Those were his last words. The fisherman died, and as he did, his body changed. His legs turned into a large flipper. His skin became covered with silver scales. His face bulged out and his eyes became blank and cold. Because, you see, he was not a person. He was a fish, which is what he had been all along. As a big fish, he could eat only smaller fish. Everything else was poison to him." Krishna paused. "Do you understand, Sita?"
　　"No, my Lord."
　　"It doesn't matter. You are what you are. I am what I am. We are the same-when you take the time to remember me." Krishna raises his flute to his lips. "Would you like to hear a song?"
　　"Very much, my Lord."
　　"Close your eyes, listen closely. The song is always the same, Sita. But it is always changing, too. That is the mystery, that is the paradox. The truth is always simpler than you can imagine."
　　I close my eyes and Lord Krishna begins to play his magical flute. For a time, outside of time, that is all matters. The music of his enchanted notes floats a wind that blows from the heart of the galaxy, lead the stars shine down on us as the universe slowly revolves and the ages pass. I do not need to see my Lord to know that he is present everywhere. I do not need to touch him to feel his hand on my heart. I do not need anything, except his love. After a while, that is all there is-his divine love pouring through the center of my divine being. Truly, we are one and the same.
   
   13
　　I lie flat on my back in the trunk of Andy's car. My hearing is acute-up ahead I hear the noises of the compound, the guards talking at the gate. The blackness in the trunk is not totally dark to me. I clearly see the white lab coat I have donned, the fake security badge pinned to my breast pocket. The badge is an old one of Andy's. I have cleverly put my picture over his, and changed the name. I am Lieutenant Lara Adams, Ph.D., a microbiologist on loan from the Pentagon. Andy says a large number of scientists have arrived from Back East. My makeup makes me look older. I should be able to blend in.
　　We stop at the security gate. I hear Andy speak to the guards.
　　"Another long night, Harry?" Andy asks.
　　"Looks like it," the guard replies. "Are you working till dawn?"
　　"Close. This night shift is a bear-1 don't know whether I'm coming or going," Andy hands something to the guard, a pass that must be electronically scanned. He has to have one to leave the compound as well. I have one in my back pocket. Andy continues in a natural voice, "I just wish I could do a little better at the tables, and quit this stupid job."
　　"I hear you," the guard says. "How's your luck been holding out?"
　　"I won a couple of grand last night."
　　The guard laughs. "Yeah, but how much did you lose?"
　　Andy laughs with him. "Three grand!"
　　The guard hands the pass back. "Have a good night. Don't piss off the man."
　　I hear Andy nod. "It's a little late for that."
　　We drive into the compound. Andy has promised he'll park between two sheds, out of sight of the manned towers. From my earlier examination of the place, I am familiar with the spot. As the car moves, I feel confident we are heading straight for it. Especially when Andy turns to the left, stops, and turns off the engine. He climbs out of his car, shutting the door behind him, and walks away. I listen to his steps as he enters the main lab. So far so good.
　　I pop open the trunk and carefully peer out.
　　The car sits in shadow. No one is around. After slipping out of the car, I silently close the trunk. I  smooth my lab coat over my slim body, adjust my red hair. My thick glasses make me look almost nerdy but smart.
　　"Lara Adams from Back East," I whisper. Back East means the Pentagon, Andy said. They never called the place by name.
　　"You have to get to the general. You have to control him."
　　Seymour's advice remains with me. Resisting the temptation to follow Andy into the main lab-where I know Joel is being held captive-I turn instead in the direction of a small house located behind the lab. This is the general's private quarters. I move onto his front steps, then pause. I don't press the doorbell; I know without knocking that there is no one at home. Andy warned me of this. In fact, he said the general was seldom at home. Andy wants me to get Joel and get the hell out of the place, as quickly as I can. He doesn't, of course, know I need to control the general in order to blow the place up. But I have warned him that when the fireworks start, he should get out of the compound as quickly as possible.
　　For a moment, I stand undecided.
　　"The general knows you'll come for Joel."
　　Seymour is wise, but I still think he overestimates the intelligence of the man. For example, I tell myself, look how easily I entered the compound. The general couldn't know that I was on my way. Certainly, I can't search the entire compound for him.
　　I decide to have a peek at Joel. After seeing exactly where he is, I'll be in a better position to figure out what to do next. I head back to the front entrance of the lab, where Andy disappeared.
　　The interior of the lab is a complex maze of halls and offices. It seems clear the real work of dissecting and analyzing is done downstairs. Men and women in lab coats mill about. There is an occasional armed soldier. No one pays any attention to me. Listening for an elevator, I hear the sound of people going up and down steps. I prefer a stairway to an elevator. The latter can be a death trap for an invading vampire.
　　I find the stairs and go down a couple of flights. Andy told me Joel is being held two stories below the surface, and that his cell is at the east end of the building, farthest from the main gate. On this lower floor there are fewer people; they speak in soft tones. Moving like the sharp professional I'm supposed to be, I make my way down a narrow hall toward the rear of the building. Faintly, I smell Joel's scent. But I cannot hear his heart beating, his breathing. The walls of his cell must be thick. The scent is my compass and I follow it carefully, sensitive to the way it is spread by the ventilation ducts, the passage of people.
　　I come to a security center, equipped with monitors and two armed soldiers. I hear everything inside the closed room. Cracking the door, I peer inside and see Joel on one of the screens. He sits in the corner of a brightly lit cage, pinned to the corner by a metallic wrist chain.
　　I do not see another vampire on a separate monitor. Odd.
　　I dose the door and knock. One of the guards answers.
　　"Yes? Can I help you?"
　　"Yes. My name is Dr. Lara Adams." I nod to Joel on the screen. "I am here to talk to our patient."
　　The guard glances at his buddy, back to me. "You mean, over the speaker, right?"
　　"I would prefer to talk to him in person," I say.
　　The guard shakes his head. "I don't know what you've been told, but no one talks to the-to the patient directly. Only over the speaker." He pauses, glances at my badge, my breasts. Boys will be boys. "Who gave you clearance to interview this guy?"
　　"General Havor,"
　　The guy raises an eyebrow. "He told you himself?"
　　"Yes. You can check with him if you like." I nod to the interior of the room. "May I come in?"
　　"Yes." The guard stands aside. "What did you say your name was?"
　　"Dr. Lara Adams." I gesture to the monitor. "I see this guy but where is he really? Nearby?"
　　"He's just around the corner," the other guard answers, while his buddy reaches for the phone. "He's in a box so thick an atomic bomb couldn't blast through it."
　　"Oh," I say. That is useful information.
　　My hands lash out, my fingers cutting the air like knives.
　　Both guards crumple on the floor, unconscious, not dead.
　　I hang up the phone. Around the corner I go.
　　I push the large red button to open the cage.
　　There is a hiss of air. A door as thick as a man's body swings aside.
　　"Joel," I cry softly, seeing him huddled in the corner, chained to the wall, burning like a dying coal as he shakes. 1 rush toward him. "I'm going to get you out of here."
　　"Sita," he gasps. "Don't!"
　　The door slams shut at my back. Locking me in.
　　Overhead, a TV monitor comes to life.
　　Andy stares down at me. Behind him stands the cruel-faced General Havor, wearing a barely disguised smirk. Yet there is no joy in Andy's expression as he slowly shakes his head and sighs. It is strange, but it is only then that I see my adversary clearly. The many years have reshapen his face, dulled his eyes, bruised his soft voice. Yet it is no excuse, not for a vampire as supposedly careful as I am. Right from the start I should have known who it was I was dealing with.
　　"Sita," he says sadly with a faint Italian accent. "E'passato tanto tempo datt' Inquisizione."
　　"Sita. It's been a long time since the Inquisition."
　　In a single horrifying instant, I understand everything.
　　"Arturo," I whisper.
   
   14
　　Several hours have elapsed since my capture. I have spent the majority of it sitting on the floor with my eyes closed, like a meditating yogi. But I enjoy no blissful nirvana. Inside, I seethe with rage: at General Havor, at Arturo, and most of all at myself. Arturo left signs for me everywhere, and I missed them all. Again and again my mind forces me to review the list.
　　1. When Joel was captured, he was brought before Andy. It was Andy who confirmed the special nature of Joel to General Havor. But rather than stay to examine Joel, Andy left the compound and went gambling. What an odd thing to do right after the catch of the century! Of course Andy was not out for fun. He knew I would be watching. He knew I could be lured in.
　　2. I never saw Andy out in the sun, and it wasn't just because he worked the night shift. He was sensitive to the sun as a vampire should be. Yet he is not a pure vampire.
　　3. Andy talked about his highly classified work- to me, a total stranger. I hardly had to prod it out of him. He planted all the right clues for a person dissatisfied with his job-not enough pay, a totalitarian boss, a lousy work schedule. He tricked me in the most insidious way-by handing me all the ammunition I needed to think I could trick him.
　　4. He protested when I asked him to help me break into the compound. He put on a great show of defiance. But the fact that he helped me at all, without my having to manipulate his brain, was peculiar.
　　5. Andy had Arturo's model of vampire DNA. I passed it off, figuring he had already examined another vampire and broken the genetic code. The only problem was-there was no other vampire. I had destroyed all of Eddie's bastards. The only one the government had was Joel.
　　"Because, you see, he was not a person. He was a fish, which is what he had been all along. As a big fish, he could eat only smaller fish."
　　In my dream, Krishna had been trying to tell me that the hidden truth was the most obvious truth.
　　Andy was able to construct Arturo's model because he was Arturo!
　　Why did he leave it out for me to see? To taunt me, no doubt.
　　I open my eyes. "Damn," I whisper.
　　Joel looks over. I have broken his chains; he is no longer pinned to the wall, but is able to lie down properly and rest. The chains have accomplished their purpose, however. Had Joel been at the door, I would not have walked into the cage. I have tested the strength of the walls. The guard was right-a nuclear bomb couldn't blast through them.
　　The walls of the cell are a flat white color, metallic. The space is square-twenty feet by twenty feet. A seatless toilet is attached to one wall, a single cot to the opposite one. Joel lies on the thin mattress.
　　"We all make mistakes," he says.
　　"Some make more than others."
　　"I appreciate your trying to rescue me. You should have left me to die after Eddie opened my veins."
　　"You're probably right. But then I wouldn't have the pleasure of your company right now." I pause. "How are you feeling?"
　　The first thing I did after being captured, before sitting down to berate myself, was let Joel drink a pint of my blood. The transfusion alleviated his more severe symptoms but he still looked gaunt. Yet I am reluctant to give him more nourishment. We both know I need to be at full strength if we are to break out.
　　"I feel fine." He adds, "Better than I have in days."
　　I reach out and squeeze his hand. "It must have been hard for you. Have they been examining you inside out?"
　　"That's a literal way of putting the question." He gestures to the screen. I have told him nothing of Arturo. "I take it he is an old friend?"
　　I know our every word is being recorded. I don't know what can and will be used against me in a court of law. But I do know I don't have the right to remain silent. I wonder if they will try to torture information out of me. It will be a waste of their time. I doubt they're going to let me call a lawyer.
　　"We go way back" is all I say.
　　"How was Vegas?"
　　"Fine. Won a lot of money at craps."
　　"That's great. Where did you stay?"
　　"At the Mirage." I sigh. "I'm sorry, Joel. Neither of us should be in here. I messed up."
　　"Don't be so hard on yourself. After all, you stopped Eddie."
　　"Yeah. Only to set up a situation where there might be a thousand Eddies." I abruptly raise my voice and yell at the monitor. "Did you hear that, Arturo? A thousand Ralphes running loose! Is that what you want?" My voice sinks to a whisper. "That's what you're going to get."
　　I don't expect to get a response to my outburst, but a minute later the TV monitor comes back to life.
　　Arturo is alone, sitting at a desk in the security room. Around the corner, as they say.
　　"Sita," he says. "None oho mat pensato che ti avrei rivista."
　　"I never thought I would see you again."
　　"Same here," I mutter.
　　"Are you comfortable?" he asks, switching languages effortlessly. When he wishes, he has no accent. He must have been living in America for a long time.
　　"No cage is ever comfortable." I pause. "Are you comfortable?"
　　He spreads his hands. I remember how large they were. Suddenly, I recall many details about him: the warm gray of his eyes, the strength of his jawline. Why didn't I recognize him? There are the obvious reasons. He has aged twenty-five years since we last met, and yet, his face has changed more than the two and a half decades warrant. Probably since it has, in reality, been over seven hundred years.
　　Yet none of that should have fooled me. I didn't recognize him for two sound reasons: I knew he couldn't possibly exist in our time, so I never even considered the idea; and the Andy I stalked did not possess the same soul as the Arturo I once loved. This man who stares down at me-I hardly know him, and I slept with him for months.
　　"What would you have me do?" he replies. "You had to be stopped."
　　My voice is filled with scorn. "Stopped from what?"
　　"There were the violent murders in Los Angeles. I knew that was you."
　　"You knew it was not me! "You knew it was some other vampire! Don't start off our first conversation in seven centuries with a lie. You know I never killed for pleasure."
　　My wrath makes him pull back a step. "I apologize. I should say I knew you were indirectly involved." He pauses. "Who committed the killings?"
　　I forget my resolve to say as little as possible. The information cannot help them, anyway. My blood is all that matters.
　　"A psychotic vampire by the name of Eddie Fender started the murders. The LAPD and the FBI were doing everything they could to stop him. But it was I who put a halt to the killings. And what do I get for it? A medal? No, the entire police force comes after me."
　　"You killed two dozen of those officers."
　　"Because they were trying to kill me! I am not the villain here. You and the scum you are associated with are." I pause, settle down. "Why are you with these people?"
　　"I can help them. They can help me. We have vested interests. Isn't that the reason for most partnerships?"
　　"It is among people who have selfish goals. But I never remember you as selfish. Why are you working for the U.S. military machine?"
　　"Surely you must understand by now. I need to complete my experiments."
　　I laugh. "Are you stilt searching for the blood of Christ?"
　　"You say it as if it were a fool's errand."
　　"It's a blasphemous errand. You saw what happened last time."
　　"I made an, error-that's all. I will not make the same error again."
　　"That's all? Just some error? What about Ralphe? I loved that boy. You loved him. And you turned him into a monster. You forced me to kill him. Do you know what that did to me?"
　　Arturo's voice goes cold. "It made you want to testify against me?"
　　"You had to be stopped. I didn't have the strength or the will to do it myself." I pause. "You had a chance to talk to me in the inquisitor's dungeon. You chose not to."
　　"I had nothing to say."
　　"Well, then, I have nothing to say to you now. Come, get your fresh supply of vampire blood. Send plenty of scientists and soldiers. Not all of them will be coming back to you."
　　"You present no danger to us as long as you are in your cell. And you will remain in there for the remainder of your life."
　　"We will see," I whisper faintly.
　　"Sita, I'm surprised at you. Aren't you curious how I'm still alive?"
　　I draw in a weary breath. "I have an idea as to how you survived. Even when you swore to me you weren't experimenting on yourself, you were. That's why you began to have visions of DNA. You were seeing it through the eyes of your blessed hybrid state."
　　"I did experiment on myself. That is true. But I never reached the full hybrid status. That must be obvious to you,"
　　I nod. "Because you have aged. Does it hurt, Arturo, that you're not the dashing young priest anymore?"
　　"I may yet achieve immortality."
　　"Hmm. And I always thought you wanted to die and go to heaven." He is right, of course; I am curious about those days. "What happened after the trial? How did you escape? I heard they burned you at the stake."
　　"The inquisitor granted me a private audience. He couldn't let me go, he said, but in exchange for my confession of witchcraft, he agreed to hang instead of burn me."
　　"And you recovered?"
　　"Yes."
　　"Were you not surprised?"
　　"Yes. It was a calculated risk. I didn't have many options."
　　I hesitate. "What did you do to Ralphe?"
　　For once, Arturo looks ashamed. "I exposed him to the vial of your blood-with the midday sun pouring through it."
　　I was aghast. "But you said you'd never consider that. The vibration would destroy a man or woman."
　　"You saw how the word was spreading about me. I had only a limited time to complete my experiments. Ralphe had been spying on us all along. Neither of us knew. He saw what we were up to. He wanted to try it."
　　Fury possesses me. "That's a ridiculous rationalization! He was a child! He didn't know what would happen to him! You did!"
　　"Sita."
　　"You were a coward! If your experiment was so precious to you, why didn't you perform it on yourself, with the midday sun pouring through my bloody vial?"
　　My words wound him, but he is still full of surprises. "But I did subject myself to the blood in the sunlight. That morning, when the mob approached the church, I heard them coming. I hurried down to the basement and let the full power of the vampire vibration wash over me. I believe that is why I have been able to live as long as I have. If the mob had not stopped me, maybe the transformation would have been complete, and I would have achieved the perfect state. I was never to know. The first thing the mob did was break the vial."
　　His words sober me. "Then what went wrong with Ralphe? Why did he turn into a monster?"
　　"There could be many factors that influenced his outcome. One was that I laid him on the copper sheets when the sun was high in the sky. Also-and I think this is the primary reason the experiment failed- Ralphe was ordinarily fearless by nature. But when the transformation started, he got scared. The power of the magnetic field magnified his fear, which in turn warped his DMA. When the process was complete, I couldn't control him. He had the strength of ten men. He was out the door before I could stop him."
　　"You should have told me. I could have stopped him before he killed anyone. We might have been able to change him back."
　　Arturo shook his head. "I don't think there was any going back." He adds, "I was too ashamed to tell you."
　　"Finally, the high priest confesses." I continue to sneer at him. "All your talk doesn't disguise the fact that you experimented on a child before yourself. And that you lied to me, after swearing on the name of your precious God that you would always tell me the truth."
　　"Everyone lies," he says.
　　"Guarda cosa sei diventata, Arturo," I say, reverting to the language of his youth, out of frustration, hope. "Look what's become of you, Arturo." "When we first met, you wouldn't have hurt a fly. That's why I gave you my blood. I trusted you."
　　Even on the monitor, I see his gaze is focused in the far distance. My words stir painful memories, for both of us. My hatred for him is matched only by my love. Yes, I still love him, and I hate that about myself. He seems to sense my thoughts for he suddenly glances back at me and smiles. It is a sad smile.
　　"I cannot defend my acts to you," he replies. "Except to say I thought the rewards of success outweighed the possibility of failure. Yes, I should never have used Ralphe. Yes, I should never have lied to you. But if I had done these things-where would we be today? I'd be long dead in a forgotten grave and you'd be safe and secure in your own selfish universe. We wouldn't have your blood now so we could continue with our noble quest to finish what was started seven centuries ago."
　　I snicker. "I can't help but notice that you apply the word selfish to me. What sickness was magnified in your field when you lay beneath the vibration of my blood? You have become a megalomaniac. You were a priest, a good priest. You used to humble yourself before God. Now you want to be God. If Jesus were alive today, what would you say to him? Or would you give him a chance to explain himself before stealing his blood?"
　　"Do you want a chance to explain yourself?" Arturo asks gently.
　　"I answer to no man. My conscience is clear."
　　He raises his voice. I have finally hit a button. "I don't believe you, Sita. Why couldn't you look at me when you accused me of witchcraft?"
　　"You were a witch! And you haven't changed! Goddamn you, Arturo, can't you see how dangerous it is for me to be held captive by these people? I just have to look at General Havor to know he wants to rule the world."
　　"He's not the monster Andy led you to believe."
　　"You talk about beliefs. What do you believe in these days? I never met Jesus, it's true. But you must know as well as I that he would never condone your methods. Your lying and ambushing and torture. The means do not justify the end. You did not watch
　　Ralphe chew on human flesh. If you had seen him, you'd know that this path you want to take stinks of the devil."
　　Arturo sits back from the screen. He is as tired as I am, perhaps shaken as well. In that moment, his face becomes much older than forty-five. He appears ready for the grave. Yet he is resolved, his destiny will be fulfilled. He shakes his head as he sighs.
　　"We can do this the hard way, Sita," he says. "Or we can do it the easy way. It is up to you. I need your blood and I am going to have it."
　　I smile grimly. "Then you'd better prepare yourself for a fight. Let me warn you, Arturo-I've shown you only a fraction of my powers. But if you come after me now, you will see all of them. There aren't enough soldiers and bullets in this compound to contain me for the remainder of my life. Tell your general that people will die if I'm not released. Their deaths will be on your conscience, Arturo. I swear in the name of my God, you will never get to heaven-in this world or the next."
　　The screen goes dead.
　　But not before I see the fear in his eyes.
   
   15
　　More hours pass. Joel lies sleeping. Once again I sit silently on the floor, my legs crossed, my eyes closed. Yet this time my attention is turned outward. Through the wall, I can just hear the guards at the security station talk. There are three of them now. They discuss a football game.
　　"Those Forty-Niners are amazing," Guard One says. "Their offense works like a machine gun-it just keeps firing. I felt sorry for the Cowboys."
　　"You know, everybody looks at the quarterback," Guard Two says. "But I think when you got the receivers, you got all you need: Even a lousy pro quarterback can look good throwing to players who are wide open."
　　"I think it's the other way around," Guard Three says. "You got a great quarterback, he can hit a player who's totally covered. Not many teams win the Super Bowl with an average quarterback."
　　"Not many teams win the Super Bowl, period," Guard One says.
　　"Only one a year," Guard Two says.
　　"Wouldn't be a Super Bowl if everyone could win it," Guard Three says.
　　Beyond their chattering, I sense their thoughts. The gift of Yaksha's blood grows stronger the more still I become. Guard One is contemplating his sour stomach. He has an ulcer, and when he pulls an all-night shift, it always hurts. He wonders if he should go to his car on the next break and get his bottle of Maalox. But he needs to drink it in private. The other guys always kid him about having a stomachache like a little kid. Actually, Guard One has a lot of guts going into work in the pain he's in.
　　Guard Two's thoughts are dull. He is thinking about his wife, his current mistress, and a woman he just met in the cafeteria two hours earlier-all of them naked together in bed with him. He drank a large Coke before starting his last shift. He has to pee real bad.
　　Guard Three is interesting. Unknown to his buddies, he writes science-fiction in his spare time. His brother-in-law, who's a lawyer, just read his last book and told him to forget about becoming a writer. But Guard Three thinks that just because his brother-in-law has a law degree, it doesn't mean he can spot talent. And he's right-Guard Three's mind is rich in creative ideas.
　　I need to concentrate hard to sense their thoughts. I can only read one at a time. Since ancient times I have been able to influence people's thoughts by staring hard at them and whispering suggestions in their ears. But in here I am deprived of the power of my gaze, of the soothing allure of my velvety voice. Yet the longer I concentrate on these guys, the more certain I am that I can introduce thoughts into their minds. I focus in on Guard Three-he's the most sensitive. Creating a strong image in my mind, I send it through the wall.
　　"This girl is real dangerous. She can kill us all."
　　Guard Three is saying something that he suddenly breaks off in midsentence. I hear him shift uneasily in his chair. "Hey, guys," he says.
　　"What?" the other two ask.
　　"That chick in there is dangerous. We have to be careful with her. You saw what she did to Sam and Charlie."
　　"She knocked them out cold," Guard Two agrees. "But I'd like to see her try it on me. She wouldn't get far."
　　"I don't think you want to mess with her," Guard One says. "She's supposed to be super strong."
　　"Yeah, but they don't tell us why she's strong," Guard Three says. "They just tell us to watch her. But what if she gets out? She could kill us all."
　　"Yes," I whisper softly to myself.
　　"Relax," Guard One says. "There's no way she's getting out of that box."
　　"Even if she does break out," Guard Two says. "We can stop her. I don't care about orders, I'm opening fire."
　　"I hear bullets can't stop her," Guard Three says, continuing to dwell on how dangerous I am.
　　I shift my focus to Guard One and send out another suggestion.
　　"We mustn't lose sight of her."
　　"We'll keep an eye on her," Guard One says.
　　I place the same thought in Guard Three's mind.
　　"Yeah," Guard Three echoes, "We have to be alert, keep watching her."
　　I try to put the thought in Guard Two's mind.
　　"I've got to take a piss," Guard Two says.
　　"Oh, well," I whisper to myself. "Two out of three ain't bad."
　　Over the next thirty minutes-pausing only when Guard Two goes to the bathroom-I steadily build up their paranoia about how dangerous I am and how bad things will be if they don't keep me under constant surveillance. Pretty soon Guards One and Three are talking paranoid gibberish. Guard Two is not sure how to calm them down, or even why they need to be calmed down.
　　"If we don't watch her every second," Guard One says. "She'll escape."
　　"And if she escapes," Guard Three says. "She'll rip our hearts out and eat them."
　　"Stop!" Guard Two yells. "She's not going to escape."
　　"We know that," Guard One says. "If we don't blink, if we keep the lights on her, she won't escape."
　　"But if the lights go out, we're doomed," Guard Three says.
　　"Why would the lights go out?" Guard Two wants to know.
　　Taking a few deep breaths, I slowly ease out of my deep state of concentration. I reach over and gently shake Joel. He opens his eyes and smiles at me. In all the confusion I have forgotten how handsome he is. His dark blue eyes are filled with affection.
　　"What a pleasant sight to wake up to," he whispers.
　　"Thank you."
　　"Did you sleep?"
　　I lean over and whisper directly into his ear. "No. I've been planting the seeds of our escape. The guards outside are now terrified of losing sight of us."
　　He's curious. "You know this for a fact?"
　　"Yes. I'm going to break the lights in here, which will cause them to panic and call for help. I'm sure General Havor himself will come."
　　"Then what?"
　　"I have a plan of sorts, but it's not set in stone. Just follow my lead. Get up-get ready to act when I say the word."
　　Joel moves to the wall closest to the door. Standing in the center of the cell, staring at the overhead cameras, I give the guards on the other side of the wall one last thing to think about.
　　"I'm coming for you now," I say in a wicked voice.
　　"You'd better run, you'd better hide." I lick my lips. "Because I'm very hungry."
　　Then, in a series of blindingly fast moves, I shatter every light on the ceiling and plunge the cell into darkness. I see perfectly, but Joel has to reach for the wall to get his bearings. At the security station, I hear Guard One and Guard Three screaming in terror. Guard Two fumbles for his weapon, yelling at his partners to stop. I suppress a giggle.
　　"Come to me, General," I whisper. "Come, Arturo."
　　Five minutes later I hear Arturo and Havor pounding down the narrow hall, speaking heatedly. Although I have not heard the general's voice before, I recognize it by the authority it commands. Arturo has influence within the confines of the compound, but the man with the star on his shoulder is in charge. I wonder about the details of their relationship. All about them, clutching machine guns and trying not to panic, are dozens of soldiers.
　　"She's not a danger as long as we keep the lock in place," Arturo says to the general. "This is a stunt she's pulling to get us to open the door."
　　"I don't like it that we can't see her," General Havor snaps back. "You heard what she told you. We don't know the full extent of her powers. For all we know she's cutting through a wall of the cell as we talk."
　　"She's a master of manipulation," Arturo counters. "She talked about her unknown powers to plant a seed of doubt in our minds-for just this occasion. If you  open the door to check on her, she'll be on you in a second. You'll have to kill her to stop her and you can't kill her."
　　"We'll wait and see what she does next," General Havor says.
　　"What's happening?" Joel hisses in the dark.
　　I whisper softly so that only he can hear. "The general and Arturo are coming. They don't want to open the door, but I think I can do something to inspire them to relent. There will be a lot of noise in a few minutes. Besides creating the racket, I will be mentally projecting into the general's mind. Please don't speak to me during this time. I need to concentrate. Then, when they start to open the door, I need you to wedge yourself in the corner behind the door. But don't do it until I give the signal. There'll be gunfire, and the space behind the door will be the safest. Do you understand?"
　　"Yes. You really think they'll open the door?"
　　"Yes. I'll make them."
　　Once more I sit cross-legged on the floor, this time in the center of the room. Quieting my thoughts with several deep breaths, I project myself into the general's mind. It is easy to locate-the psychic energy that emanates from him is like molten lava from an erupting volcano. Yet his resolve will not be so easily manipulated with a few implanted thoughts. With a strong individual, even when I can look him in the eye and whisper in his ear, I have trouble getting him to do what I want. Now, I have neither of those options at my disposal. What I am attempting to do is set up several conditions that will work on the general and prompt him to give the order to open the door. Getting the guards nervous and knocking out the lights were the first of my conditional steps. The next ones will be more difficult.
　　I slip into General Haver's mind.
　　It is a black cavern, draped with the webs of poisonous spiders. When he does get my power, I see, General Havor fantasizes about raping me. He also plans to kill Arturo, as soon as the alchemist completes his experiments. There is no trust between the two. General Havor fears Arturo will alter his own DNA and then kill the general. But what Arturo thinks I cannot read. His mind is heavily cloaked- not unexpected in a partial hybrid. Anyway, I must concentrate on the man who gives the orders. General Havor must push the button that opens the door-this is all that matters.
　　I reach out with my mental claw.
　　"The witch will break down the door."
　　I hear the general speak to Arturo.
　　"Are you positive she cannot break down the door?" he asks.
　　"Even she cannot destroy this alloy," Arturo reassures him.
　　"The blood of a dead witch is as good as the blood of a living witch."
　　General Havor does not speak this thought aloud to Arturo. But I know he fantasizes about shooting me in the head, killing me, and immediately injecting my blood into his veins. It is an attractive idea to him;
　　Arturo will not be able to stop him, or to come back at him later at an unexpected time, with an unseen dagger in his hand. It is this latter point that is the general's primary worry. My suggestion hits home, and I watch as my mental implant expands and warps. General Havor can almost feel what it will be like to have my blood flow through his veins in the next few minutes. I give the idea another nudge.
　　"Why wait for the witch's blood?"
　　Again, General Havor does not share this idea aloud with Arturo.
　　Still, he is not ready to open the door.
　　Stretching and breathing normally, I slowly come out of my trance. Enough for mental gymnastics. It is time for brutal force. Climbing to my feet, I study the supposedly impenetrable door, then launch my attack. I leap into the air and plant three extremely powerful kicks on the hard metal with my feet. In quick succession I leap again and again, alternately pounding the door with first my right then my left foot. The door doesn't give, but the noise I create is deafening. Outside I can hear them shouting to one another, and I know what the general is thinking. The witch is going to break out. I may as well open the door and kill her while I have her cornered. To hell with Arturo.
　　I keep up the pounding.
　　By this time, I am sure, Guard One and Guard Three have wet their pants.
　　After five minutes, I pause. Something is happening.
　　I strain to listen with my ears. General Havor and Arturo are arguing again.
　　"You are playing right into her hands!" Arturo yells. "The only protection we have from her is this cell. Open it and you open the door to death-both for yourself and your men."
　　"How long do you think that door can withstand that barrage?" General Havor asks. "See, there are cracks in the walls."
　　"The cracks are in the walls that hold the metal cage! The cage itself shows no sign of giving."
　　"I don't believe it!" General Havor snaps. "I say we face her now when we're armed and ready. Better she die than escape."
　　"But what about her blood? We need it."
　　"There'll be plenty of her blood lying around when I finish with her."
　　Arturo hesitates. He lowers his voice. "Plenty of blood for what?"
　　General Havor does not answer. He knows there will be only enough blood left in my body for him to inject into his own veins. The more I listen to the two, the clearer it becomes that General Havor is not interested in Arturo's hybrid. He wants to be a full fledged vampire. That's where it's at in his mind.
　　I return to my pounding.
　　My feet ache. It doesn't matter.
　　The noise shakes the whole building.
　　I imagine even the men in the perimeter towers are trembling.
　　Outside the door, the guards shout to their general for orders.
　　General Havor and Arturo continue to argue. I hear them.
　　"We will die!" Arturo screams.
　　"She's only one!" General Havor yells. "She can't get us all!" He pauses, makes a decision, and shouts to his men. "Stand ready! We're going in!"
　　I relax for a moment and catch my breath. "They're coming," I whisper to Joel. "Get behind the door."
　　"Can't I help?" he asks, moving. "I am a vampire, after all. Not just FBI."
　　I chuckle softly. "Later, Joel."
　　Outside, I hear what sounds like a platoon of guards gathering around the red button. Each is more than a little reluctant to push it. The heavy metal door has become awfully comforting. But the general is shouting at them again to open it. Loaded magazines are popped onto Ml6s. Bullets are locked into firing chambers. Rifles are shouldered. I can smell the sweat of their fear.
　　Somebody gathers the courage to push the button.
　　The door begins to open.
　　I leap up and into a corner near the ceiling.
　　I don't need to use my newfound levitating abilities. I am able to wedge myself against the ceiling by pressing the back of my neck against one corner wall, and my feet against the other. Supernatural strength has its advantages. I leave my arms free-I am a black widow ready to swoop down and snatch her prey.
　　They are going to rue the day they decided to lock me in a solid metal cage.
　　The door opens wider.
　　I hear them outside in the hall. Their frightened breathing.
　　You could hear a pin drop. Even without vampire ears.
　　"She's not there," someone whispers.
　　They aren't even worried about Joel. Just me, that damn witch.
　　"She's behind the door," General Havor snarls from farther down the hall.
　　It's good to know exactly where he is.
　　"What do we do?" someone croaks. Sounds like Guard Three.
　　"I'm not going in there," Guard One moans. His ulcer must be killing him.
　　"I don't like this," Guard Two agrees.
　　The door will not close again, no matter what happens. I will not let it. But now I am faced with a decision to make. There is only one hostage who will get me to where I want to go, and that is the kind-hearted General Havor. If I abduct Arturo, the general will tell his men to open fire on both of us. Certainly, any guard I would grab would be expendable in the general's mind. Friendly fire, they call it. Yet the general is maybe fifty feet up the hall. Between us are many soldiers. I am going to have to reduce the numbers. I need the men to panic and flee.
　　I know I will have to cause pain to make that happen.
　　In a move too swift for the soldiers to see, I slide onto the top of the door, reach outside the cage, grab one of the soldiers by the hair, and pull him back up into the corner with me. The man screams in my hands and I let him carry on for a bit. No doubt he feels like a victim in an Alien movie. Because he is crying so loudly, it takes me several seconds to recognize his voice.
　　It is Guard Three-the one who writes science-fiction in his spare time.
　　I am sure he has seen all the Alien movies.
　　I take his weapon and put my hand over his mouth.
　　"Shh," I whisper. "Things are not so bad as they seem. I am not going to kill you, not if you cooperate. I know about you and I like you. The problem is, I need to scare your friends out there. Now I know they are already pretty spooked, but I've got to get them to the point where they want to flee, no matter what your general orders. Do you understand?"
　　He nods, his eyes ready to burst out of his head.
　　I smile. "That's good. They are probably imagining that I am ripping your heart out right now. And with a little help from you, I can make them think that is exactly what I am doing. I will hardly have to hurt you at all. Oh, I see you notice I use the word hurt. To be honest, I will have to cut you enough so that I can blow the stream of your warm blood out into the hall. Splashing blood always creates a wonderful effect, especially when vampires are involved. While I do that, I want you to scream bloody murder. Can you do that?"
　　He nods.
　　I pinch him. "Are you sure?"
　　"Yes," he croaks. "I don't want to die, I have a wife and two kids."
　　"I know, and your brother-in-law is a lawyer. By the way, don't listen to a thing he tells you. He is like all lawyers-envious of those who do honest work for a living. You just keep writing your stories. If you want, you can even write one about me. But make me a blond-this red hair is store-bought."
　　"What's your name?" he asks, relaxing slightly.
　　I don't want him too relaxed. "I am Mrs. Satan." I scratch him on the inside of his right arm, tearing his flesh and drawing plenty of blood. "Start screaming, buddy."
　　Guard Three does as he's told. His performance is admirable-he believes half of it. "Oh God! Stop it! Save me. Shefs ripping my heart out!" Actually, he didn't have to get so specific, but I let it pass. While he cries to his fellow soldiers, I purse my lips and blow on the blood that trickles from his arm. I have quite the set of lungs. The blood splatters over the exterior of the wall, and onto the floor outside. I hear the men moaning in horror. This is worse than 'Nam, many think.
　　They haven't seen anything yet
　　"Now let out a real loud death scream," I tell Guard Three, "Trail off into silence. Then, I'll drop you behind the door where my friend is hiding. You might want to stay there when the shooting starts. I warn you ahead of time, I am going to have to kill many of your friends. When I am through, you may leave this building. Get out as fast as you can. Steal a truck if you have to. Things are going to get awfully hot here. Do you understand?"
　　"Yes. You're not going to kill me?"
　　"No. Not tonight. You can relax, after you do exactly what I say."
　　The guard lets out the death scream. I spray an especially wide shower of blood through the doorway. Then I drop the guy down beside Joel, who pats him on the back and tells him to relax. I hand Joel the man's weapon and order him to keep it handy. Several guards outside the door are crying. They have backed away, but not far enough to be safe. I reach out and grab another. He carries a high-powered machine gun, which I wedge between the door and frame. He smells of hamburger and fries. His food is probably not digesting well. I don't know this soldier, which doesn't bode well for him.
　　""You're going to die now," I tell his horrified face. "I am sorry it has to be this way."
　　I kill him slowly, painfully, so that his throat-tearing screams and red blood mingle to create an image so ghastly that many of the soldiers feel they are trapped in a nightmare from which they cannot awaken. When I am done, I throw what is left of his body into the hall. It is very messy-the terror in the air is as palpable as the hard metal door that can no longer be closed.
　　This last execution has disturbed me. If I am forced to kill, I prefer to do so efficiently and painlessly. I will not make another example-I don't have the stomach for it. It is time to leave the building, with Joel and General Havor in hand. To grab the machine gun the soldier brought in,t25 dvd, I drop from my position on the ceiling and immediately retrieve it and open fire. The men outside the door stand frozen in place. They fall to their deaths like tenpins.
　　I kill eight of them before I step into the hall.
　　Arturo and General Havor are at the far end. They are a hundred feet away and backing up fast. Between us there are many soldiers. I cannot allow the big boss to leave the building without me. But the bloody examples I made of the first two men have had an effect. The soldiers are pushing and crowding behind General Havor and Arturo, slowing them down, preventing them from simply leaving. Also, General Havor has lost control of his men. I stand a clear and easy target in the hallway, but no order to fire comes. In their hearts, the men do not believe this witch can be killed with mere bullets.
　　They wish they hadn't opened the door.
　　"Drop your weapons and I will let you live!" I yell.
　　Most in front of me surrender right then. The few who don't, who take aim, I shoot in the head. The sheer number of deaths does not numb me. I look in the eyes of each one I destroy, and wonder about his life and who he leaves behind. If it was just my life-honestly, if there was no danger of my blood falling into the wrong hands, I would let them cut me down. But I have a responsibility to mankind. I know that is the rationale of every great man or woman, of every merciless monster. The smell of Wood is too thick even for my taste.
　　Arturo and General Havor disappear around the corner.
　　I call to Joel to join me in the hallway.
　　He cautiously peeks out. He groans.
　　"Nothing can be worth than this," he whispers.
　　"You may be right," I say. "Still, we have to get out of here. To do that, we need General Havor."
　　"Where is he?"
　　"On the second floor." I grab Joel with my free arm and shield the top of his head with my palm. "Let's join him."
　　I leap straight up and smash through the ceiling. Again, Yaksha's blood comes to my aid. Without it, such a move would have given me a righteous headache. This time the ceiling barely slows me down. Pulling Joel through the hole I have created, we stand up on the floor of the basement, level one. I see soldiers down the hall jamming the stairs, frantic to exit. Arturo and General Havor struggle in the midst of the human flood. Raising the machine gun to my shoulder, I take aim at General Havor's right thigh. For a split second it is dearly visible. I put a bullet in it. The general stumbles and lets out a cry. No one stops to help him, least of all Arturo. I grab Joel's arm.
　　"Come," I say.
　　As I wade into the crowd, they scream and scatter. I guess my red hair does not suit me. Or perhaps it is the fact that I am soaked from head to toe in blood. I must look like a beast that has climbed from the depths of hell. Arturo is already out of sight, but General Havor lies helpless at the side of the stairway. He is lucky that he-was not trampled to death. But he is not lucky that it is me who reaches out to help him to his feet. "General Havor," I say. "Pleased to meet you face to face. Sorry I have to ask a favor so soon after saying hello. But I need you to take me and my friend into the cave behind this compound. I need one of those thermonuclear warheads you keep there. I have a thing about fire, you see, about explosions. For me, the bigger the better."
   
   16
　　The cave turns into another prison. We reach it without excessive bloodshed, but once inside I am forced to kill all the soldiers. The endless slaughter weighs heavily on me. Joel's broken expression begs me to stop. But I can't stop until it is over, one way or the other. It is my nature never to quit.
　　We are scarcely inside when the remaining soldiers close the door on us. The metal is as thick as the door on the cell-it cuts in half the miniature rail tracks that run between the compound and the depths of the hill They also turn off our lights, but there are emergency lanterns. For Joel's sake, and the general's, I turn on several. The stark rays cast ghastly shadows over the carnage I have inflicted. There is blood everywhere. The red blurs in the silent gloom, in my racing mind; it is as if the walls of the cave Meed. I try not to count the dead.
　　"I didn't want this," I say, pointing my weapon at the general, who sits on the edge of the small railroad car that carries supplies into this place of secrets. His leg continues to bleed but he doesn't complain. He is a horrible human being, but he is not without strength. A hard man with a blunt face, he wears his hair as if it were a disease growing on top of his head. I add, "It's your fault."
　　My accusation does not faze him. "You can always surrender."
　　I kneel beside him. To my left Joel sits on the ground, looking weary beyond belief. "But you see that is not an option," I tell the general. "When history started, I was there. And the only reason mankind has been able to move steadily forward is because I have chosen to stand apart from history. I watch what happens. I have no desire to have important roles. Do you understand that I tell you the truth?"
　　General Havor shrugs. "You've changed your style today,"
　　My voice hardens. "You made me change." I gesture to the dead men who lie around us. "All this is because of you. Look at them. Don't you care about them?"
　　He is bored. "What do you want? A nuclear bomb?"
　　I stand and look down at him. "Yes. That's exactly what I want. And after you show it to me, I want you to arm it."
　　He snorts. "Do you think I'm crazy?"
　　"I know you're crazy. I have seen inside your mind. I know what you planned to do once you had my blood in your veins. You were going to murder Arturo and rape me."
　　He's cocky. "You flatter yourself."
　　I slap him in the face, hard enough to break his nose. "And you sicken me. I don't know how Arturo ever teamed up with you. He must have been desperate. He and I are not alike, by the way. I never beg for anything, but I know how to make you beg. Give me the warhead and arm it or I will subject you to such physical and mental torture you will think that soldier I ripped apart inside the cell died peacefully." I raise my hand to strike again. "Yes?"
　　He holds his nose; the blood leaks through his thick fingers. "May I ask what you plan to do with the warhead?" he asks.
　　I catch his eye, push hard enough to make him cower.
　　"I am going to clean up, your mess," I reply.
　　General Havor agrees to furnish me with a bomb. He digs it out of the back, and wheels it into view on the railroad cart. A black squat affair with a pointed tip and an elaborate control box on the side, it looks like something from an old sci-fi movie. The general informs us that it is rated ten megatons-ten million tons of TNT.
　　I point to the color-coded buttons on the side.
　　"Can it be rigged to go off at a specific time?" I ask.
　　"Yes. It can be set to detonate in ten minutes, or in ten years."
　　"Ten years is a little long for my tastes. But your men may escape, if they listen to me. You will want to argue my position to them, once we get back outside. Which leads me to my next point." I gesture to the metal wall that blocks the exit. "How do we open this door?"
　　"It can't be opened from the inside. They've cut our power."
　　"Is there a radio in here?" Joel asks. "Can you talk to them?"
　　General Havor shrugs. "I have nothing to say to them."
　　I grab the general by the collar.
　　It doesn't take much for him to piss me off.
　　"You will tell them that we have an armed warhead in here set to detonate in fifteen minutes," I say. "That will be, by the way, the literal truth. You will also inform them that if they wish to prevent the bomb from exploding, they are to let us out. Finally, you will mention that I am willing to negotiate."
　　He laughs at me. "You can do what you want to me, I am not going to arm this warhead."
　　I let him go, take a step back. "You think you can play with me, General. You think the worst I can do is kill you. Arturo never told you of the power of my eyes. How my gaze can permanently fry your brain." I pause. "If in the next ten seconds you don't tell me the code to arm this warhead, I will stab such a needle into your forehead that you will have the IQ of a chimpanzee for the rest of your life-however long that may be."
　　He lowers his head. "I cannot allow you to set off this bomb."
　　"Very well." I step forward and grab him by the jaw, thrusting his head up, forcing him to stare at me. "Look deep, General! Into the eyes of the witch you thought to control. See where I have prepared a place of fire for you to bum."
   
   17
　　Ten minutes later the door is opened by the highest ranking commander on the outside and we wheel a fully armed warhead into the nighttime air. The detonator clicks off the seconds. Fifteen minutes to Armageddon. Driving at high speed should give us and the soldiers time to get clear of the blast. Overhead, the full moon shines down on our heads, bathing the entire desert with a milky white radiance. The setting is dreamlike, as if there has already been a nuclear explosion, thousands of years ago and the radioactive fallout remains.
　　A small army aims a line of high-tech weapons at us.
　　On all sides, from the guard towers to the rocks in the hill, we are surrounded.
　　A minute before, a mumbling General Havor had ordered them to let us go.
　　But they're not listening.
　　The highest ranking commander on the outside is nowArturo.
　　He steps forward as we move out of the cave.
　　"Sita," he says. "This is madness."
　　"You tell me about madness, Arturo." I hold a pistol to General Havor's head, shielding myself and Joel with his wobbly figure. He wept as I bored into his brain, but he resisted me as well I had to destroy most of his mind to get what I wanted. Gesturing to the bomb, I add, "This warhead is set to detonate in less than fifteen minutes. That gives you and your men barely enough time to get clear."
　　Arturo shakes his head. "We cannot let you escape. An order has come from the President of the United States. At all costs, you are to be stopped." He gestures to the men around us. "We are expendable."
　　I force a chuckle. "You will not sacrifice all these people."
　　"It is not my decision to make."
　　"That's nonsense! They look to you to command them now. Command them to drop their weapons and get the hell out of here." I pause. "You are bluffing."
　　Arturo looks me in the eye. He is not intimidated by my gaze.
　　"I pray that you are the one who is bluffing," he says softly.
　　The timer on the detonator goes to fourteen minutes.
　　I meet his gaze, "When was the last time you prayed, Arturo? Was it before the inquisitor's court? The day they hanged you? I did what I did then because I know the danger my blood poses for the world. Tonight, I killed all these people for the same reason-to protect humanity."
　　Arturo challenges me. "To protect us from what? A chance to evolve into something greater? Into creatures that need never grow old, that need never hurt one another? Earlier you laughed at my mission. Seven hundred years ago you also laughed at me. But mine is still the noblest quest on earth-to perfect humanity, to allow it to become godlike."
　　"You do not become godlike by merging with a monster!"
　　My words surprise him. "You're not a monster, Sita."
　　"I am not an angel, either. Or if I am, I am an angel of death-as far as humanity is concerned. True, I have the right to live. Krishna granted me that right. But only if I lived alone, and made no more of my kind. Now I have broken that sacred vow. Krishna will probably judge me harshly. Perhaps he has already judged me, and that is why I am being forced to suffer in this place, to hurt all these people. But what is done is dose. I am what I am. Humanity is what it is. We can never join. Don't you see that?"
　　"Don't you see me, Sita? I am an example of what can be accomplished with a merger of our DNAs. And I am only an incomplete example because I never got to complete the process. Think what mankind can change into if youll just let me experiment with your blood for the next few weeks. Even a few days would be enough. That's all I'm asking. Then, when I'm finished, I promise to let you go. I will arrange it so that you can go free."
　　I speak with sorrow. "Arturo, I can see you. I see what's become of you. As a young man, you were the ideal person: devout, loving, brilliant. But your brilliance was perverted the day you received my blood. Your love was twisted. For the sake of your experiments, you even sacrificed a boy you loved. You sacrificed us-the love we had for each other. You lied to me, and I think you lie to me again. Your devotion is no longer to Christ-it is to yourself. And even though I have also lied to my God, I still love Krishna and pray he will forgive me for my sins. I still love you, and I pray you will order these people to let us go. But because of both of these loves, I cannot surrender. You cannot have my blood" I pause. "No man can have it."
　　Arturo knows me.
　　He knows I'm not bluffing, not when it comes to matters of life and death.
　　The timer goes to thirteen minutes. Unlucky thirteen.
　　His face and voice show his resignation. "I cannot let you go," he says quietly.
　　I nod. "Then we will stand here until the bomb goes off."
　　Joel looks at me. I stare silently at Joel. There are no words left.
　　Arturo stands still as a statue. The moon shines down.
　　Twelve. Eleven. Ten.
　　Ten minutes might be long enough to get clear of the blast.
　　"Arturo, ti prego, "I say suddenly. "Arturo, please." "At least warn your men. Let them flee. I have enough blood on my conscience."
　　"The blast will leave no blood," he says, turning his eyes upward, toward the sky. "We will be like dust, floating on the wind."
　　"That is fine for you and me. We have lived long lives. But most of these men are young. They have families. Give the order-enough will remain to prevent Joel and me from escaping."
　　Arturo sighs, and turns. He raises his arms and shouts. "Units G and H are free to go! Hurry! A nuclear bomb is about to detonate!"
　　There is a great commotion. I suspect more than units G and H want to leave. The men pour into their trucks. Engines roar to life. Tires burn rubber. The front gate is thrown open. The vehicles roar out of sight. Driving at a hundred miles an hour, they can put at least twelve miles between themselves and the blast in the time they have left. They should survive. Yet many remain behind who will not survive. Too many men still stand guard over us. If we try to escape, we will be cut down. It is better to go out like this, I think. Standing on our feet. Disintegrating in an all-consuming wave of fire. Then I remember something.
　　"He's in a box so thick an atomic bomb couldn't blast through it."
　　But if we move and try to flee toward the lab basement, they'll open fire.
　　For the first time in my long life, I can see no way out.
　　Time creeps by.
　　Eight. Seven. Six. Five.
　　"I don't even know if the warhead can be deactivated once it's armed," I mutter.
　　"It can't be," General Havor mumbles with what is left of his mind.
　　"Oh," I say.
　　Then I begin to feel a peculiar sensation, a subtle but constant vibration inside my body. The moon is directly overhead, of course. It has been shining down on us since we left the cave. But what I didn't realize-with all that was going on around me-was that the moonlight has been filling my body all the time we have been out in the open. It has become more and more transparent. I feel as if I am made of glass. Interesting, I think-and I didn't even have to take my clothes off. It is Arturo who is the first one other than myself to notice the effect.
　　"Sita!" he cries. "What's happening to you?"
　　Standing beside me, Joel gasps. "I can see through you!"
　　I let go of the general. Staring down at my hands, I glimpse the ground through my open palms, through my fingers. Yet I can still see the blood pulsing in my veins, the tiny capillaries glowing like a complex web of fiber optics. A cool energy sweeps over me, yet my heart is strangely warmed.
　　It warms even as it starts to break.
　　The white glow spreads around me.
　　I realize I can just lift off and fly away.
　　Yaksha's blood, maybe Krishna's grace, gives me another chance.
　　Do I want it? I feel myself leave the earth.
　　I reach out to hug Joel, to carry him away with me.
　　My arms go right through him!
　　"Joel," I cry. "Can you hear me?"
　　He squints. "Yes, but it's hard to focus on you. What's going on? Is this a special vampire power?"
　　My luminous body floats a foot off the ground now.
　　"It is a gift," I say. Despite my unusual physical state, I feel tears on my face, white diamonds that sparkle with a red sheen as they roll over my transparent cheeks. Once more, I have to say goodbye to those whom I love. "It is a curse, Joel."
　　He smiles. "Fly away, Sita, far away. Your time is not over."
　　"I love you," I say.
　　"I love you. The grace of God is still with you."
　　The ground is two feet below me now. Arturo tries to grab me, but can't. He stands back and shakes his head, resigned.
　　"You are probably right," he says. "Mankind is not ready for this." He adds, "Everything you require is in my basement. It is your choice."
　　I don't understand. But I smile at him as I float higher.
　　"Ti amo," I whisper.
　　"Ti amo anch'io, Sita."
　　A wind takes hold of me. Suddenly I am soaring. The stars shine around me. The moon beats down on the top of my head like an alien sun spawned in the center of a distant galaxy. It is so bright! My now-invisible eyes can hardly bear the glare, and I am forced to close them. As I do an even greater light ignites beneath me. The fiery rays of it rise up and pierce through my etheric body. There is tremendous heat and noise. A shock wave as thick as a granite mountain strikes me. Yet I feel no pain-just swept away, on currents of destruction and tidal waves of death. The compound is gone, the stolen blood is vapor. The world is safe once again. But I, Sita, I am lost in the night.
　　
   Epilogue
　　There is, to my utter amazement, a basement in Arturo's Las Vegas home. The afternoon after the atomic blast, I peer through the carefully hidden trapdoor and discover sheets of copper, magnetic crosses arranged in odd angles, and, most important of all, an empty crystal vial, waiting to be filled with blood. A mirror rests above the vial. It can reflect either the sun or the moon, depending on how much you want to wager.
　　I call Seymour Dorsten, explain the possibilities to him.
　　Wait, he cautions. He is on his way.
　　I sit down and wait. Time passes slowly.
　　"Everything you require is in the basement."
　　Do I still want a daughter? Do I still crave immortality?
　　Deep questions. I have no answers.
　　Seymour arrives and tries to talk me out of it.
　　Being human is not so great, he says.
　　Being a vampire gets old, I counter.
　　I know that I will attempt the transformation.
　　But I need some of his blood.
　　Make me a vampire first, he pleads.
　　That will not work, I remind him.
　　But, he protests.
　　The answer is no, I say firmly.
　　I take his blood, fill the vial to the brim, then tell him to get lost.
　　When the sun is at its peak, I lie down on the copper sheets.
　　The magnets draw out my aura. The magic begins.
　　When I awake, I feel weak and disoriented. Someone is knocking at the door. I have to struggle up the steps to answer it. There is a spongy texture to my skin I have never noticed before, and my vision is blurred. I am not even sure where I am-only that it is dark. Blood pounds in my head, and I feel I will be sick.
　　I reach the front door.
　　A shadow moves outside the glazed side window panel.
　　Just before I open the door, I remember everything.
　　"Am I human?" I whisper to myself.
　　Yet I am not given a chance to know.
　　The knocking continues.
　　"Who is it?" I call in a hoarse voice.
　　"It's your darling," the person replies. Odd. It doesn't sound like Seymour.
　　Yet the voice is familiar. From long ago.
　　But the tone is a little demanding. Sort of impatient.
　　"Open the door," the person calls.
　　I wonder if I should:
　　Staring down at my trembling hands, I wonder many things.



63

CP.TheLastVampire2

  1
　　I walk the dark and dangerous streets of L.A. gangland. A seemingly helpless young woman with silky blond hair and magnetic blue eyes. Moving down filth-strewn alleys and streets where power is measured in drops of blood spilled by bullets sprayed from adolescent males who haven't learned to drive yet. I am near the housing projects, those archaic hotels of hostility where the checkout fee is always higher than the price of admission. Because of my supernormal senses, I know I am surrounded by people who would slit my throat as soon as ask the time of day or night. But I am not helpless or afraid, especially in the dark at night, for I am not human. I, Alisa Perne of the twentieth century, Sita of the ancient past. I am five thousand years old, one of the last of two vampires.
　　But are there only two of us left? I ask myself.
　　Something is terribly wrong in gangland L.A., and it makes me wonder. In the last month the Los Angeles Times has reported a string of brutal murders that leads me to believe Ray and I are not the only ones with the special blood that makes us impervious to aging and most other human ailments. The victims of these murders have been ripped open, decapitated, and, in some cases, the articles say, drained of blood. It is this last fact that has brought me to Los Angeles. I myself like blood, but I am not eager to find more vampires. I know what our kind can do, and I know how fast we can multiply once the secret of procreation is known. Any vampire I may find this evening will not live to see the light of dawn, or perhaps I should say the setting of the moon. I am not crazy about the sun, although I can bear it if I must.
　　A full moon rides high above me as I step onto Exposition Avenue and head north, not far from where the last murder occurred-a sixteen-year-old girl found yesterday in the bushes with both her arms torn off. It is late, after midnight, and even though it is mid-December, the temperature is in the midsixties. Winter in Los Angeles is like a moon made of green cheese, a joke. I wear black leather pants, a short-sleeved black top that shows my sleek midsection. My black boots barely sound as I prowl the uneven sidewalks. I wear my hair pinned up beneath a black cap. I love the color black as much as the color red. I know I look gorgeous. Cool stainless steel touches my right calf where I have hidden a six-inch blade, but otherwise I am unarmed. There are many police cars out this fine winter night. One passes me on the left as I lower my head and try to look like I belong. Because I fear being stopped and searched, I do not carry a gun. But it is only for the lives of the police that I fear, and not for my own. A whole S.W.A.T. team couldn't stop me. Certainly, I decide, a young vampire will be no match for me. And he or she must be young to be killing so recklessly.
　　But who is this youngster? And who made him or her?
　　Disturbing questions.
　　Three young males wait for me a hundred yards down the street. I cross to the other side, but they move to intercept me. One is tall and slim, the other squat as an old stump. The third has the face of a dark angel brought up on the wrong side of the pearly gates. He is clearly the leader. He smiles as he sees me trying to get away from him and his buddies, flexing his powerful biceps as if they were laws unto themselves. I see he carries a gun under his dirty green coat. The others are unarmed. The three jog toward me as I pause to consider what to do. Of course, I could turn and flee. Even if they were in training for the Olympics, they couldn't catch me. But I don't like to run from a fight, and I am suddenly thirsty. The smile of the leader will fade, I know, as he feels the blood drain from his body into my mouth. I decide to wait for them. I don't have long to wait.
　　"Hey, babe," the leader says as they surround me in a fidgety semicircle. "What you doin' here by your lonesome? Lost?"
　　I appear at ease. "No. I'm just out for a walk. What are you guys up to?"
　　They exchange smirks. They are up to no good. "What's your name?" the leader asks.
　　"Alisa. What's yours?"
　　He grins like the young god he thinks he is. "Paul. Hey, you's one beautiful woman, Alisa, you know that? And I appreciate beauty when I see it."
　　"I bet you do, Paul. Do you appreciate danger when you see it, too?"
　　They cackle. I am funny, they think. Paul slaps his leg as he laughs. "Are you saying you're dangerous, Alisa?" he asks. "You look like a party babe to me. Me and my stooges, we're going to a party right now. You want to come? It's goin' to be hot."
　　I consider. "Are you three the only ones going to this party?"
　　Paul likes it that I'm sharp. "Maybe. But maybe that's all you need." He takes a step closer. There is alcohol on his breath-a Coors beer-Marlboro cigarettes in his coat pocket close to his gun. A brave boy, he puts his right hand on my left shoulder, and his grin is now more of a leer. He adds, "Or maybe all you need is me, babe. What do you say? Want to party?"
　　I look him in the eye. "No."
　　He blinks suddenly. My gaze has been known to burn mortal pupils when I give it free rein. But I have held something in check for Paul, and so he is intrigued, not scared. He continues to hold on to my shoulder.
　　"You don't want to go sayin' no to me, honey. I don't like that word."
　　"Really."
　　He glances back at his friends and then nods gravely in my direction. "You don't look like you's from around here. But around here, there's two ways to party. You either do it with a smile on your face or you do it screaming. You know what I mean, Alisa?"
　　I smile, finally. "Are you going to rape me, Paul?"
　　He shrugs. "It's up to you, honeysuckle." He draws his piece from his coat, a Smith & Wesson .45 revolver that he probably got for his last birthday. He presses the muzzle beneath my chin. "And it's up to Colleen."
　　"You call your gun Colleen?"
　　He nods seriously. "She's a lady. Never lets me down."
　　My smile grows. "Paul, you are such a simpleton. You can't rape me. Put it out of your mind if you want to be alive come Christmas Day. It's just not going to happen."
　　My boldness surprises him, angers him. But he quickly grins because his friends are watching and he has to be cool and in control. He presses the gun deeper into my neck, trying to force my head back. But, of course, I don't move an inch, and this confuses him as much as my casual tone.
　　"You tell me why I can't just have you right now?" he asks. "You tell me, Alisa. Huh? Before I blow your goddamn head off."
　　"Because I'm armed as well, Paul."
　　He blinks-my gaze is beginning to fry his brain. "What you got?"
　　"A knife. A very sharp knife. Do you want to see it?"
　　He takes a step back, letting go of me, and levels the gun at my belly. "Show it to me," he orders.
　　I raise my right leg in front of him. My balance is as solid as that of a marble statue. "It's under my pant leg. Take it out and maybe we can have a little duel."
　　Acting like a stud, throwing his pals a lecherous glance, Paul cautiously reaches up inside my pant leg. Throughout the act, he doesn't realize how close he is to having his head removed by my right foot. But I have compassion, and I don't like to drink from a gusher-it might stain my clothes. Paul's eyes widen as he feels the knife and quickly pulls it free from the leather strap. He handles it lovingly, showing his friends. I wait, acting impatient.
　　"I want it back," I say finally. "We cannot duel if you hold both weapons."
　　Paul can't believe me. He is tired of my insolent manner. I begin to tire of him as well. "You's a smart-mouthed bitch. Why should I give you this knife? You might stick it in me while I'm lovin' you."
　　I nod. "Oh, I'm going to stick it in you, be sure of that. I don't mind that you and your buddies prowl these streets like hungry panthers. This is a jungle and only the strong survive. I understand that, better than you can imagine. But even the jungle has rules. Don't take what you don't need, and if you do, be a sportsman about it. But you're not a sportsman, Paul. You have taken my knife and I want it back. Give it to me right now or you will suffer unpleasantly." I stick out my hand and add in a voice as dark as my long life, "Very unpleasantly."
　　His anger shows; his cheeks darken with blood. He is not a true animal of the jungle, or he would recognize a poisonous snake when he saw it. He is a coward. Rather than hand over my knife, he tries to slash my open palm with it. Of course he misses because my hand is no longer where it was an instant before. I have withdrawn it to my side, at the same time launching my left foot at his gun. I hit only the revolver, not his hand, and see what the other three don't-the weapon landing on the roof of a three-story apartment complex off to one side. Paul's buddies back up, but he continues looking for his gun. His mouth works, but words are slow to form.
　　"Huh?" he finally says.
　　I reach out and grab him by the hair, pulling him close, my left hand closing on his hand that holds my knife. Now he feels my gaze as beamed through a magnifying glass set in the hot sun. He trembles in my grip, and for the first time he must realize how many different kinds of animals are in the jungle. I lean close to his ear and speak softly.
　　"I see that you have killed before, Paul. That's OK-I have killed, too, many times. I am much older than I look, and as you now know, I am also much stronger. I am going to kill you, but before I do I want to know if you have any final requests. Tell me quick, I'm in a hurry."
　　He turns his head away, but his eyes cannot escape mine. He tries to pull away and finds we are momentarily welded together. Sweat drips from his face like the river of tears the families of his victims have shed. His partners back farther away. Paul's lower lip trembles.
　　"Who are you?" he gasps.
　　I smile. "I'm a party girl, like you said." I lose my smile. "No final requests? Too bad. Say goodbye to mortality. Say hello to the devil for me. Tell him I'll be there soon, to join you."
　　My words, a poor joke to torment a victim I care nothing for. Yet there is a grain of truth in them. I feel a wave of pain in my chest as I pull Paul closer. It is from the wound when a stake impaled me the night Yaksha perished, a wound that never really healed. Since that night, six weeks earlier, I have never been totally free of pain. And I have begun to suspect I never will be. The full extent of the anguish comes upon me at unexpected moments, fiery waves that roll up like lava. I gag and have to bend over and close my eyes. I have suffered a hundred serious injuries in my fifty centuries, I tell myself. Why does this one not leave me in peace? Truly, a life in constant pain is the life of the damned.
　　Yet I did not disobey Krishna when I made Ray- not really, I try to convince myself.
　　Even Yaksha believed I still had the Lord's grace.
　　"Oh, God," I whisper and clench Paul's blood-filled body to me as if it were a bandage that could seal my invisible scar. I feel myself begin to faint, but just when I feel I can take no more of the surging pain, I hear footsteps in the distance. Quick-sounding footsteps, moving with the speed and power of an immortal. The shock of this realization is like cold water on my burning agony. There is another vampire nearby! I jerk upright, open my eyes. Paul's buddies are fifty feet away and still backing up. Paul looks at me as if he is staring into his own coffin.
　　"I didn't mean to hurt you, Alisa," he mumbles.
　　I suck in a deep breath, my heartbeat roaring in my ears. "Yes, you did," I reply and slam the knife down into his right thigh, just above the knee. The blade goes in cleanly, and the tip comes out red and dripping on the other side. An expression of pure horror grips his face, but I have no more time for his excuses. I have bigger game to bag. As I let go of him, he falls to the ground like a trash can that has been kicked over. Turning, I run in the direction of the immortal's footsteps. I leave my knife behind for Paul to enjoy.
　　The person is a quarter mile away, on the rooftops, leaping from building to building. I cut the distance in half before leaping onto the roofs myself, getting above the three stories in two long steps. Dashing between shattered chimneys and rusty fans, I catch a glimpse of my quarry-a twenty-year-old African-American male youth with muscles bulky enough to squash TVs. Yet a vampire's strength has little to do with this muscle power. Power is related to the purity of the blood, the intensity of the soul, the length of the life. I, who was created at the dawn of civilization by Yaksha, the first of the vampires, am exceptionally strong. Leaping through the air, I know I can catch the other vampire in a matter of seconds. Yet I hold back on purpose. I wish to see where he leads me.
　　That my prey is indeed a vampire I don't doubt for a second. His every movement matches those of a newborn blood sucker. Also, vampires emit a very subtle fragrance, the faint odor of snake venom, and the soul who runs before me smells like a huge black serpent. The smell is not unpleasant, rather intoxicating to most mortals. I have often used it in the past, on lovers and foes alike. Yet I doubt this young man is even aware of it.
　　But he is aware of me, oh, yes. He doesn't stop to attack, but continues to run away-he is afraid. I ponder this. How does he know my power? Who told him? My questions are all the same. Who made him? It is my hope that he runs to his maker for help. The pain in my chest has subsided, but I am still thirsty, still anxious for the hunt. To a vampire, another vampire's blood can be a special treat, salt and pepper sprinkled on a rare steak. I move forward without fear. If the guy has partners, so be it. I will destroy them all and then fly back to Oregon in my private jet before the sun comes up, my veins and belly full. Briefly I wonder how Ray is doing without me. His adjustment to being a vampire has been long and painful. I know, without me there, be will not feed.
　　I hear an ice-cream truck nearby.
　　In the middle of the night. Odd.
　　My prey comes to the end of the row of apartment buildings and leaps to the ground with one long flying stride. He stumbles as he contacts the earth. I could take this opportunity to land on his back and break every bone in his spine, but I let him continue on his way. I now know where he is headed-Exposition Park, the home of L.A.'s museums, Memorial Sports Arena, and Memorial Coliseum. It is the Coliseum, where the 1984 Olympics were held, that I guess, is his ultimate destination. He speeds across the vacant parking lot like the Roadrunner in the cartoon. It is lucky there are no mortals standing around to watch me chase him because I am the Coyote, and this is not Saturday morning TV. I am going to catch him, and there will be little of him left when I am done.
　　The tall fence surrounding the Coliseum is already broken open, and this fact slows me slightly. Briefly I reconsider my boldness. I can easily handle five or six vampires such as the guy I am chasing, but not a dozen, certainly not a hundred. And how many there are, I really don't know. For me the Coliseum may turn out to be like the one in ancient Rome. Yet I am a gladiator at heart, and although I enter the Coliseum cautiously, I do not stop.
　　I am inside the structure only two minutes when I smell blood. A moment later I find the mangled body of a security guard. Flies buzz above his ripped-out throat; he has been dead several hours. My prey has slipped from my view, but I follow his movements with my ears. I am on the lower level, in the shadows beneath the stands. He is inside the Coliseum proper, running up the bleachers. My hearing stretches out, an expanding wave of invisible radar, as I stand rock still. There are three other souls in the Coliseum, and none of them is human. I track the steps. They meet together at the north end of the building, speak softly, then fan out to the far comers. I doubt that they know my exact whereabouts, but their plan is clear. They wish to surround me, come at me from every direction. I don't wish to disappoint them.
　　Leaving my shelter, I stride openly down a concrete tunnel and out onto the field, where the moon shimmers on the grass like radioactivity on an atomic blast sight. I see the four vampires at the same time they see me. They pause as I hurry to the fifty-yard line. Let them come to me, I think. I want time to observe them, see if they have weapons. A bullet in the brain, a knife in the heart, might kill me, although the wooden stake through my chest did not, six weeks ago. The pain awakens with the memory, but I will it away. These four are my problem now.
　　The moon is almost straight overhead. Three vampires continue to move to their corners; the one at the north end is in place and stands motionless, watching me. He is the only Caucasian, tall, thin, his bony hands like a fossilized skeleton. Even in the silver light, in the distance, I note the startling green of his eyes, the bloodshot veins that surround his glowing pupils like the strings of a red-stained spiderweb. He is the leader, and the cocky smile on his acne-scarred face reveals his confidence. He is thirty, maybe, but he will get no older, because I believe he is about to die. He is the one I wish to question, to drink from. I think of the security guard, the girl in the morning's paper. I will kill him slowly and enjoy it.
　　None of them appears to carry any weapons, but I look around for one for myself, regretting the loss of my knife, which I can fling over a quarter of a mile with deadly accuracy. It is mid-December, as I have said, but I see a collection of track and field equipment at the side of the field. The person in charge of equipment must have forgotten to put it away. I note the presence of a javelin. As the leader studies me, I move casually in the direction of the equipment. But he is sharp, this cold, ugly man, and he knows what I am going for. With a hand movement he signals to his partners to start toward me.
　　The three dark figures move quickly down the steps. In seconds they have cleared the bleachers and leaped onto the track that surrounds the field. But in those seconds I have reached the equipment and lifted the javelin in my right hand. It is a pity there is only one spear. I raise my empty left hand in the direction of the leader, still far away at the top of the bleachers.
　　"I would like to talk," I call. "But I am fully capable of defending myself."
　　The smile on the leader's face, over two hundred yards away, broadens. His goons also grin, although not with the same confidence. They know I am a vampire. They eye the javelin and wonder what I will do with it, such silly young immortals. I keep an eye on all three of them, although I continue to face in the direction of the leader.
　　"It is always a mistake to decide to die hastily," I call.
　　The leader reaches behind and removes a knife from his back pocket. There is fresh blood on the tip, I see. I am not worried that he can hit me from such a distance since my ability with my knife has only come after centuries of practice. Yet he handles the weapon skillfully, balancing it in his open palm. The young man whom I chased into the Coliseum is in front of me, between me and the leader. Four against one, I think. I will improve the odds. In a move too swift for mortal eyes to follow, I launch my javelin toward the young man. Too late he realizes my strength and agility. He tries to jump aside but the tip catches him square in the chest, going through his rib cage and spine. I hear the blood explode in his ruptured heart. A death grunt escapes his lip as he topples, the long sharp object sticking through his body.
　　I hear the whistle of a flying blade.
　　Too late I realize the skill of the leader.
　　I dodge to the left, fast enough to save my own heart but not fast enough to avoid having the knife planted in my right shoulder near my arm socket-up to the hilt. The pain is immense, and a wave of weakness shakes my limbs. Without wanting to, I fall to my knees, reaching up to pull out the blade. The other two run toward me at high speed, and I know it will be a matter of seconds before they are on me. Taking his time, the leader begins to descend the steps of the bleachers. I realize that the knife I have in me is my own. Obviously the leader observed my little episode with Paul, and yet had time to relieve him of my knife and be here to meet me at the Coliseum. How powerful is he? Can I, wounded as I already am, handle him?
　　I suspect Paul is no longer suffering any pain from his leg wound.
　　The other two vampires, not the leader, are my immediate problem. I manage to pull the knife free just as the first one lowers his head to ram me. In a slashing motion I let fly my blade and watch as it goes deep into the top of the man's cranium. Yet I am too weak to dodge aside, and although already dead, he strikes me and knocks me over. I hit the ground hard, two hundred pounds of human meat on top of me. Blood pours over my side from a severed artery deep in my shoulder and for a moment I fear I will pass out. But I do not lie down easily, not while an enemy still stands. I shake off the dead vampire as the third one raises a foot to stomp my face. This one lacks speed, however, and I am able to avoid the blow. Still on the ground, rolling in my own blood, I lash out with my left foot and catch his right shin below the knee, breaking the bone. He lets out a cry and falls, and I am on him in an instant, pinning his massive black arms to the grass carpet with my knees. In the distance I see the leader continue to approach slowly, still confident I will be there, easy prey. For the first time I wonder if I should stay around. I have no time to question the vampire below me at length, as I would like to. I grab his hair, pulling at the roots.
　　"Who is your leader?" I demand. "What's his name?"
　　He cannot be more than twenty-five and have been a vampire for longer than a month. A babe in the woods. He doesn't realize the full extent of his peril, even after having seen what I did to his friends. He sneers at me and I believe he will have a short experience at immortality.
　　"Go to hell, bitch," he says.
　　"Later," I reply. Had the situation been different I would have reasoned with him, tortured him. Instead I wrap my hands around his neck, and before he can cry out, I twist his head all the way around, breaking every bone in his neck. He goes lifeless beneath me. The next moment I am up and removing my knife from the skull of victim number two. The leader sees me grasp the weapon, but neither accelerates nor slows his approach. His expression is an odd mixture of detachment and eagerness. Indeed, only fifty yards from me now, he looks like a neon nutcase. Well, I think, he will be a dead nut in a moment. Placing the knife in my left palm, I cock my arm and let the blade fly, aiming directly for his heart, as he aimed for mine. I know that I will not miss.
　　And I don't, in a sense. But I do.
　　He catches the knife in midair, inches from his chest.
　　He catches it by the handle, something even I could not do.
　　"Oh, no," I whisper. The guy has the power of Yaksha.
　　I don't suppose he wants to talk out our difficulties.
　　Turning, I bolt for the tunnel through which I entered the field. My shoulder throbs, my heart pounds. Each step I take I feel will be my last The knife will come hurtling again, cut me between the shoulder blades, plunge deep into my heart, which has already been so badly injured. Maybe it will be for the best. Maybe then the pain will finally stop. But, in my heart, I don't want it to stop. Because the pain at least makes me know that I am alive, and I cherish my life above all things, even if I do sometimes take life casually from others. And if I do die, before he dies, what will become of life on earth? No question. I know this guy is bad news.
　　Yet he does not cut me down. He does not, however, let me go, either. I hear him accelerate behind me, and I understand he wants to talk to me-under his own terms-before he drinks my blood. He wants to suck away all my power and feel me die in his arms. But that, I swear, is a privilege he will not have.
　　Running down the long concrete tunnel, my boots pound like machine gun bullets, his steps like burning tracers behind me, closing, yard by yard. I simply do not have the strength to outrun him. Yet it is not my intention to try. After killing the security guard, these brothers of the night did not bother to remove the man's revolver. Entering the Coliseum, overconfident in my invincibility, I didn't either. But now that gun is my last hope. If I can get to it before my assailant gets to me, I can teach him what it is like to bleed from terrible wounds. I am not large, only ninety-eight
　　pounds naked, and I have already lost at least two pints of blood. Desperately I need to stop, to catch my breath and heal. The security guard's gun can give me that opportunity.
　　I reach the corpse with the monster only a hundred feet behind me. In a flash he realizes my plan. As I pull the revolver free of its holster, out the corner of my eye I see the powerful vampire wind up with the knife. He will use it now, and not care if he spills what is left of my blood. He must know how difficult bullets are to catch, to dodge, especially when fired by another vampire. Yet I still hope to dodge this knife throw. Gripping the gun firmly, I leap up as I pivot, flying high into the air. Unfortunately, my maneuver does not catch him by surprise. As I open fire, his knife, my knife, for the second time, plunges into my body, into my abdomen, near my belly button. It hurts. God, I cannot believe how unlucky I am. Yet there is a chance I can survive, and his good fortune is surely over. While coming down from my leap, I open fire, hitting him as best I can even though he jerks to avoid a fatal wound. I put a bullet in his stomach, one in his neck, his left shoulder, two in his chest. As I hit the ground, I expect him to hit the ground.
　　But he doesn't. Although staggering, he remains on his feet.
　　"Oh, Christ," I whisper as I fall to my knees. Will this bastard not die? Across the black shadows of the underbelly of the bleachers, we stare at each other, both bleeding profusely. For a moment our eyes lock, and more than ever I sense the disturbance in him, a vision of reality that no human or vampire should want to share. I am out of bullets. He seems to smile-I don't know what he finds so amusing. Then he turns and shuffles away, and I cannot see him or hear him. Pulling the knife from my naked belly, I swoon on the ground, trying to breathe through a haze of red agony. I honestly cannot remember the last time I had such a bad night.
　　Still, I am Sita from the dawn of humanity, a vampire of incomparable resiliency-unless, of course, I am to be compared to him, this fiend whose name I still do not know. He is not dead, I am sure of it. And after maybe twenty minutes of writhing on the concrete, I know I will survive. Finally my wounds begin to close and I am able to sit up and draw in a deep breath. Before taking the stake through the heart, my wounds would have closed in two minutes.
　　"I must be getting old," I mutter.
　　I cannot hear any vampires in the vicinity. But police are closing in on the Coliseum. After putting my knife back in its proper place under my pant leg, I stumble back up the concrete tunnel and onto the field. I find a hose and wash off as much blood as possible. My shoulder, my belly-they are not scarred. Yet I have lost much blood and am terribly weak, and now I have to worry about the police. Their cruisers park outside the arena. Somebody must have called about the gunshots. With so many bodies lying around, it would be a mistake to be caught inside the Coliseum. I would be taken downtown for questioning, where my messy clothes would be difficult to explain. I wonder if I should hide inside until things cool off, but, no, that might take hours, if not days, and I am anxious to return home and speak to Ray to figure out what to do next.
　　But before I leave the arena, I check on the three vampires to make sure they are indeed dead. It is always possible, despite the severity of their wounds, that they could heal and rise again. To be doubly sure, I crack each of their skulls with the heel of my right boot. The grotesque acts cause me no qualms of conscience. I am, after all, just protecting the officers who might find them.
　　I hurry in the direction of the least amount of noise and am outside, over the fence, and in the parking lot when a bright searchlight suddenly focuses on me. It is from a cruiser, damn. It pulls up alongside me, and a cop who looks as if he has been eating doughnuts for the last twenty years sticks his head out the passenger side.
　　"What are you doing here at this time of night, young lady?" he asks.
　　I appear anxious. "I'm trying to find my car. It broke down about an hour ago and I went looking for help and these boys started chasing me. They threw water balloons at me and threatened me." I shiver, catching his eye, pressing his belief buttons. "But I managed to get away."
　　The cop looks me over from head to foot, but I doubt he notices the bloodstains on my clothes. In the dark they would be hard to see on black clothes. Plus my gaze has shriveled his will. He is swayed by my great beauty, my obvious youth, my long blond hair, which I have let down. He throws his partner behind the wheel a look, then turns back to me and smiles.
　　"You're lucky all they threw was water balloons," he says. "This is no area to be walking alone at night. Hop in the back and we'll take you back to your car."
　　It will appear odd to decline the offer. "Thank you," I say, reaching for the door. I climb in the rear seat of the patrol car. His partner, a younger man, glances back at me.
　　"Were you inside the Coliseum just now?" he asks.
　　I catch his eye as well. "No," I say clearly. "How could I possibly be in the Coliseum? The fence is fifteen feet high."
　　He nods like a puppet. "We've just had some trouble in the area is all."
　　"I understand," I say.
　　A man calls on their radio. The fat officer explains how they ran into me. The man on the other end is not impressed with my story. He orders them to hold me until he arrives. There is strength in the man's voice, even over the staticky line. I wonder if I will be able to control him as easily as the other two. We sit and wait for the boss to arrive; the officers apologize for the delay. I consider drinking both officers' blood and leaving them dazed and incoherent, but I've always had a thing for cops. The fat one offers me a doughnut, which does little to satisfy my deeper hunger.
　　The man who arrives is not LAPD but FBI. He pulls up alone in an unmarked car, and I am told to get in up front I do not resist. He introduces himself as Special Agent Joel Drake, and he has an aura of authority about him. A young man, he has blond hair almost as light as my own, and blue eyes as well, although these are darker than mine. He wears a sea blue sport coat, expensive white slacks. He is strikingly handsome. I feel, as I climb in beside him, like an actor in a series. Agent Vampire-there should be such a show. His face is tan, his features sharp and intelligent. He studies me in the dome light before shutting his door. He notices that I am soaking wet, although, once again, the bloodstains on my black outfit are all but invisible. The other officers drive off.
　　"What's your name?" he asks.
　　"Alisa Perne."
　　"Where's your car?"
　　"I don't know exactly. I've been walking for an hour, lost."
　　"You say you got hit with water balloons thrown at you by a bunch of guys? You expect me to believe that?"
　　"Yes," I say, and I catch his eye, such beautiful eyes really. I hesitate to blunt his will too forcibly, afraid it might damage him. Yet he is strong; he will not be moved without great power. Nevertheless, I cannot let him take me in for questioning. Lowering my voice, I pitch my tone in such a manner that he will feel as if I am speaking between his ears, as if he were in fact thinking what I am saying.
　　"I have done nothing wrong," I say gently. "Everything I tell you is true. I am a young woman, helpless, a stranger here. The best thing you can do is take me to my car."
　　He considers what I say for several seconds. I know my voice runs like an echo inside him. Then he shakes himself, seemingly throwing off my implant. I can sense his emotions, although I cannot read his thoughts. His doubt remains strong. He reaches out and shuts his door, the engine is already running.
　　"Have you been inside the Coliseum tonight?" he asks.
　　"No. What's inside the Coliseum?"
　　"Never mind. The police say they found you here, in the parking lot. What were you doing here?"
　　"Fleeing from the guys who harassed me."
　　"How many were there?"
　　"I'm not sure. Three or four."
　　"We have a report from two young men in the area. They say their buddy was attacked by someone who fits your description. Minutes ago we found their buddy's body, lying in a gutter. What do you have to say about that?"
　　I grimace. "I know nothing about it. How did he die?"
　　Joel frowns. "Violently."
　　I shake my head, looking anxious. "I was just trying to get back to my car. Can't you take me there? It's been a long night for me."
　　"Where are you from?"
　　"Oregon. I don't know L.A. I took a wrong exit and then my car stalled. But with your help, I might be able to find it." I reach over and touch his arm, holding his eyes once more, but softly, without fire. "Please?" I say.
　　He nods finally and puts the car in gear. "Which exit did you get off?"
　　"I forget the name. It's up here. I can show you, and maybe we can retrace my steps." I point as we pull out of the parking lot and head north in the direction of the freeway. "Honestly, I've never hurt anyone in my life."
　　He chuckles bitterly. "I don't imagine you had anything to do with what happened tonight."
　　"I've heard L.A.'s a violent town."
　　He nods grimly. "Especially lately. I suppose you've read the papers?"
　　"Yes. Are you in charge of the murder investigation?"
　　"Several of us are overseeing it."
　　"Have you any leads?"
　　"No. But that's off the record."
　　I smile. "I'm not a reporter, Agent Drake."
　　He smiles faintly. "You shouldn't get within twenty miles of this area at night. How long are you going to be in L.A.?"
　　"Why?"
　　"We might need to ask you more questions later."
　　"I'll be around. I can give you a number once we find my car."
　　'That's fine. Did you get off the Harbor Freeway or the Santa Monica?"
　　"I was on the Santa Monica Freeway. Let's continue north a few blocks. I think I'll recognize the right street"
　　"How old are you Alisa?"
　　"Twenty-two."
　　"What's your business in L.A.?"
　　"I'm visiting friends. I'm thinking of going to school here next year."
　　"Oh. Where?"
　　"USC."
　　"The Coliseum is right next to USC."
　　"That's the reason I was driving around here. One of my friends lives on campus." I shiver again. "But with all this violence I'm seriously reconsidering my choice of universities."
　　"That's understandable." He glances over, checking out my body this time. He does not wear a wedding ring. "So you're a student. What are you majoring in?"
　　"History," I say.
　　We drive without talking for a few minutes, me merely pointing where I think we should turn next. Actually, I do not want to take him to my car because even though he is responding to my suggestions, he still has a will of his own. And he is obviously highly trained. He would memorize my license plate number if I brought him to my rental. A block from where I have parked, passing a red Honda, I signal for him to stop.
　　"This is it," I say, opening the car door. "Thank you so much."
　　"Do you think it will start now?" he asks. "Why don't you pull in front of me and wait to see if I can get it started." I add, a sexy note in my voice, "Could you do that for me?"
　　"No problem. Alisa, do you have any ID on you?" I grin foolishly. "I knew you were going to ask that. I'm afraid I'm driving without my license. But I can give you a number where I'll be tomorrow. It's 310-555-4141. This is a genuine L.A. number that will ring through to my house in Oregon. You can call me there any time for the next three days. Do you want me to write the number down for you?"
　　He hesitates, but I know he is thinking that with my license plate number he can always trace me. "That's not necessary, it's an easy number to remember." He pauses again, studying the damp marks on my shirt. There is no way he can tell they're bloodstains just by looking at them, but I have to wonder if he can smell the odor, even after my heavy washing. Despite my subtle influence, he would never let me go if he definitely saw blood. And I am not free yet. "Can you give me an address as well?" he asks.
　　"Joel," I say in my special way. "You don't really think I killed anyone, do you?" He backs away slightly. "No." "Then why do you want all these things from me?" He hesitates, shrugs. "If you have an address, I will take it. Otherwise your phone number is enough for me for now." He adds, "We'll probably talk tomorrow."
　　"Good enough. It was nice meeting you." I step out of his car. "Now I just hope the damn thing starts."
　　Joel pulls in front of me and waits, as I suggested. It was not a suggestion I made willingly, but felt I needed to allay his suspicions. The Honda door is locked, but I open it with a hard yank and slip behind the wheel. With two fingers I break the ignition switch, noting how Joel studies my license plate number in his rearview mirror. He writes it down as I press the contact wires together and the engine turns over. I wave as I quickly pull away from the curb. I don't want the people in the adjacent house to hear me leaving with their car. After driving around the block, I get into my own car, and in less than an hour I am in the air, flying in my personal Learjet toward Oregon. Yet I know I will return to Los Angeles soon to finish the war with the powerful vampire. For good or evil.
   
   2
　　Ray is not home when I get there. Our residence is new, obviously, since my original house blew up with Yaksha inside. Our modern mansion in the woods is not far from the old house. It has many electronic conveniences, a view of the ocean, and heavy drapes to block out the midday sun. More than any other vampire I have known, Ray is the most excruciatingly sensitive to the sun. He is made like a Bram Stoker model vampire out of old legends. Many things about his new existence trouble him. He misses his school friends, his old girlfriend, and especially his father. But I can give him none of these things-certainly not his father, since it was I who killed the man. I can only give him my love, which I dreamed would be enough.
　　I am only in the house two minutes before I am back in my car looking for him. Dawn is an hour away.
　　I find him sitting on his ex-lover's porch, but Pat McQueen is unaware of his nearness. Along with her parents, she is sleeping inside. I know she thinks Ray perished in the blast that supposedly took my life, too. He sits with his head buried in his knees and doesn't even bother to look up as I approach. I let out a sigh.
　　"What if I was a cop?" I ask.
　　He looks up, his melancholy consuming his beauty. Yet my heart aches to see him again; it has ached ever since he entered my life, both the physical heart and the emotional one. Radha, Krishna's friend, once told me that longing is older than love, and that one cannot exist without the other. Her name, in fact, meant longing, and Krishna's meant love. But I never saw how their relationship tortured them the way my passion for Ray does me. I have given him the kingdom of eternal night, and all he wants to do is take a walk under the sun. I note his weakness, his hunger. Six weeks and I am still forcing him to feed, even though we don't harm or kill our meals. He doesn't look happy to see me, and that saddens me more.
　　"If you were a cop," he says, "I could easily disarm you."
　　"And create a scene doing it."
　　He nods to the blood on my top. "It looks as if you have created a scene or two tonight" When I don't respond, he adds, "How was Los Angeles?"
　　"I'll tell you back at the house." I turn. "Come."
　　"No."
　　I stop, glance back over my shoulder. "The sun will be up soon." 
　　"I don't care."
　　"You will when you see it." He doesn't answer me. I go and sit beside him, put my arm around his shoulder. "Is it Pat? You can talk to her, you know, if you must. I just think it's a bad idea."
　　He shakes his head. "I cannot talk to her."
　　"Then what are you doing here?"
　　He stares at me. "I come here because I have nowhere else to grieve."
　　"Ray."
　　"I mean, I don't know where my father's buried." He turns away and shrugs. "It doesn't matter. It's all gone."
　　I take his hand; he barely lets me. "I can take you to where I buried your father. But it's just a hole in the ground, covered over. It will not help you."
　　He looks up at the stars. "Do you think there are vampires on other planets?"
　　"I don't know. Maybe. In some distant galaxy there might be a whole planet filled with vampires. This planet almost was."
　　He nods. "Except for Krishna."
　　"Yes. Except for him."
　　He continues to stare at the sky. "If there were such a planet, where there were only vampires, it would not survive long. They would destroy one another." He looks at me. "Do I do that to you? Destroy you?"
　　I shake my head sadly. "No. You give me a great deal. I just wish I knew what to give you in return, to help you forget."
　　He smiles gently. "I don't want to forget, Sita. And maybe that is my problem." He pauses. "Take me to his grave. We won't stay long."
　　"Are you sure?"
　　"Yes."
　　I stand, offer him my hand. "Very well."
　　We drive into the woods. I lead him through the trees. I remember the spot where I buried P.I. Michael Riley, of course-I remember everything. Also, I smell the faint fumes of his decaying body as they seep up from beneath six feet of earth. I fear Ray smells them as well. The life of a vampire is a life of many corpses; they do not invoke in me the strong emotions they do in most humans. Ray drops to his knees as we reach the spot, and I retreat a few dozen feet because I want him to be alone with his emotions-a caldron of sorrows. I am still too weak to let them wash over me. Or else I am too guilty. I hear Ray weep dry tears on a missing tombstone.
　　My two most recent wounds have completely healed, but my chest continues to burn. I remember the night Ray pulled the stake from my heart while my house burned nearby. Barely conscious, I didn't know if I would live or die, and for the next three days Ray didn't, either. Because even though my wound closed quickly, I remained unconscious. All that time I had die most extraordinary dream.
　　I was in a starship flying through space. Ray was beside me and our destination was the Pleiades star cluster, the Seven Sisters, as it is often called by astronomers. Outside our forward portals, we could see the blue-white stars growing steadily in size and brilliance, and although our journey was long, we were filled with excitement the whole time. Because we knew we were finally returning home to where we belonged, where we weren't vampires, but angels of light who lived on the radiance of the stars alone. The dream was painful to awaken from, and I still pray each time I lie down to sleep that it will return. The color of the stars reminded me of Krishna's eyes.
　　Ray spills his grief quickly. We are back in the car and headed for home as the eastern sky begins to lighten. My lover sits silently beside me, staring at nothing, and my own dark thoughts keep my lips closed. My energy is at a low, but I know I mustn't rest, not until I have formulated a plan to stop the black plague spreading six hundred miles south of us. He of the wicked eyes will make more vampires the next night, I know.  Replacements for the ones I destroyed. And they in turn will make their own. Each day, each hour, is crucial. The human race is in danger. Krishna, I pray, give me the strength to destroy this enemy. Give me the strength not to destroy myself.
　　As Ray lies down to rest, I let him drink from my veins, a little, enough to get him through the day. Even that mouthful drains me more. Yet I do not lie down beside him as he closes his eyes to sleep. Let him dream of his father, I think. I will tell him of Los Angeles later.
　　I visit my friend Seymour Dorsten. Twice I have seen him since I destroyed the AIDS virus in his blood with a few drops of mine. His health is greatly improved. He has a girlfriend now and I tell him I am jealous, but he doesn't believe me. I climb in his window and wake him by shoving him off his bed and onto the floor. He grins as his head contacts the hard wood with a loud thud. Only my Seymour would welcome such treatment.
　　"I was dreaming about you," he says, his blankets half covering his face.
　　"Did I have my clothes on?" I ask.
　　"Of course not." He sits up and rubs the back of his head. "What the eyes have seen, the mind cannot forget."
　　"When did you ever see me naked?" I ask, although I know the answer.
　　He chuckles in response. I do not fool him, Seymour the Great, my personal biographer. Knowing our psychic bond, I wonder if he has spent the night writing about my trials, but he shakes his head when I ask. He watched a video with his new girl and went to bed early.
　　I tell him about Los Angeles, why I am bloody.
　　"Wow," he says when I am done.
　　I lean back on his bed, resting my back against the wall. He continues to sit on the floor. "You're going to have to do better than that," I say.
　　He nods. "You want me to help you figure out where they're coming from."
　　"They're coming from that monster. I have no doubt about that I want to know where he came from." I shake my head. "I thought about it all the way here, and I have no explanation."
　　"There is always an explanation. Do you remember the famous Sherlock Holmes quote? 'When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.'" Seymour thinks, his palms pressed together. "A vampire that strong could only have been created by Yaksha."
　　"Yaksha is dead. Also, Yaksha would not have created a vampire. He was bound by the vow he made to Krishna. He spent the last five thousand years destroying them."
　　"How do you know Yaksha is dead? Maybe he survived the blast."
　　"Highly unlikely."
　　"But not impossible. That's my point. Yaksha was the only one besides you who could make another vampire. Unless you want to bring in the possibility that another yakshini has been accidentally invoked into the corpse of a pregnant woman."
　　"Don't remind me of that night," I growl.
　　"You're in a bad mood. But I suppose being stabbed twice in the same night, with your own knife, would do that to anybody."
　　I smile thinly. "Are you making fun of me? You know, I'm thirsty. I could open your veins right now and drink my fill and there would be nothing you could do about it."
　　Seymour is interested. "Sounds kinky. Should I take off my clothes?"
　　I throw a pillow at him, hard. It almost takes off his head. "Haven't you been able to get that girl of yours into bed? What's wrong with you? With my blood in your veins, you should be able to have who you want when you want."
　　He rubs his head again, probably thinking it is going to be sore for the rest of the day. "How do you know I haven't slept with her yet?"
　　"I can spot a male virgin a mile away. They walk like they've been riding a horse too long. Let's return to our problem. Yaksha would not have made this guy. It's out of the question. Yet you are right-Yaksha is the only one who could have made him. A paradox. How do I solve it? And how do I destroy this creature that clearly has at least twice my strength and speed? Tell me, young author, and I might let you live long enough to enjoy carnal pleasure with this silly girl you have foolishly chosen over me."
　　"I'm sorry, I can't answer your questions. But I can tell you where you must look to find the answers."
　　"Where?"
　　"Where you left the trail last. Where you last saw Yaksha. He went up in the blast you set at your house, but even dynamite leaves remains. Find out what became of those remains, and you might find out how your new enemy came to be."
　　I nod. His reasoning is sound, as always. "But even if I learn how he came to be, I still have to learn how to destroy him."
　　"You will. Yaksha was a more difficult foe. He knew at least as much as you about what a vampire could or could not do. The way this guy is carrying on, he must be newborn. He is still learning what he is. He doesn't know where he is weak. Find him, strike at that weak point, and he will fall."
　　I slip down onto the floor and kneel to kiss Seymour on the lips. Gently I toss up his hair. "You are so confident in me," I say. "Why is that?"
　　He starts to say something funny, but his expression falters. He trembles slightly beneath my touch. "Is he really that bad?" he asks softly.
　　"Yes. You are wrong when you say Yaksha was a more difficult foe. In his own way, Yaksha was a protector of mankind. This guy is a psychopath. He is bent on destroying all humanity. And he could succeed. If I don't stop him soon, nothing will."
　　"But you saw him only briefly."
　　"I looked deep into his eyes. I saw enough. Believe what I tell you."
　　Seymour touches my face, admiration, and love, in his eyes. "I have confidence in you because when you met me I was as good as dead and you saved me. You're the hero in my story. Find him, Sita, corner him. Then kick his ass. It will make for a great sequel." He adds seriously, "God will help you."
　　I squeeze his hand carefully, feeling once more my weakness, my pain. It will not leave me, I am certain, until I leave this world. The temptation is there before me for the first time. To just run and hide in oblivion. Yet I know I must not, I cannot. Like Yaksha, I have one last duty to perform before I die and return to the starry heaven of my dream.
　　Or to a cold hell. But I do not like the cold.
　　No vampire does. Like snakes, it slows us down.
　　"I fear the devil will help him," I say. "And I'm not sure who's stronger."
   
   3
　　The sun is firmly in the sky as I sit in my office to sort out what to do next. Three types of professionals arrived after my house blew up six weeks earlier: firefighters, police officers, and paramedics. Ray told me this. They didn't talk to Ray, who had dragged me out of sight into the woods, but I contacted them later once I had regained consciousness. I pleaded innocent to any knowledge of the explosion: its cause or the reason it was rigged. At that time they didn't tell me of any human remains found in the vicinity. That, of course, doesn't mean a body wasn't found. The police could have withheld that information from me. For all I know I am still under investigation for the explosion and whatever was discovered in the area.
　　I need a contact with the local police and I need it immediately. The paramedics and the hospital would have the remains of Yaksha, but if I do not go through the proper channels and authorities, they will show me nothing. With my extensive contacts and wealth, I can develop a contact, but it will take time. As I sit at my desk, thinking, a light on my phone begins to blink. It is an out-of-state call. I pick it up.
　　"Yes?" I say.
　　"Alisa?"
　　"Yes. Agent Joel Drake-how nice of you to call." I make a decision immediately, figuring it is a sign from Krishna that the FBI man has phoned at this precise instant. Of course, I do not believe in signs, I am just desperate. I add, "I've been meaning to call you. There are some things we should discuss that I failed to bring up last night."
　　He is interested. "Such as?"
　　"I have a lead on who is behind the murders."
　　He takes a moment. "Are you serious?"
　　"Yes. I have a very good lead."
　　"What is it?"
　　"I will only tell you in person. Fly into Portland this afternoon and I'll pick you up at the airport. I guarantee you'll be glad you came."
　　"I thought you said you wouldn't be leaving town for a few days?"
　　"I lied. Call the airlines. Book your flight."
　　He chuckles. "Hold on a second. I can't fly up to Oregon in the middle of an investigation. Tell me what you know and then we can talk."
　　"No," I say firmly. "You must come here."
　　"Why?"
　　"The murderer is from here."
　　"How do you know that?"
　　I pitch my voice in my most beguiling manner. "I know many things, Agent Drake. That one of the guys you found in the coliseum had a javelin through his chest, the other had his skull stabbed open, and every bone in the neck of the third was shattered. Don't ask me how I know these things and don't tell your FBI pals about me. Not if you want to solve this case and get all the credit. Think about it, Joel, you can be the big hero."
　　My knowledge stuns him. He considers. "You misunderstand me, Alisa. I don't need to be a hero. I just want to stop the killing."
　　He is being sincere. I like that.
　　"It will stop if you come here," I say softly.
　　He closes his eyes; I hear them close. My voice will not leave his mind. He wonders if I am some kind of witch. "Who are you?" he asks.
　　"It doesn't matter. I will hold while you book your flight. Take the earliest one."
　　"I will have to tell my partners where I'm going."
　　"No. Just the two of us are going to work on this. That's my condition."
　　He chuckles again, this time without mirth. "You're pretty gutsy for a young woman."
　　I think of the knife that stabbed me in the belly less than twelve hours ago. "I have strong guts," I agree.
　　Joel puts me on hold. A few minutes later he returns. His plane will land in three hours. I agree to meet him at the gate. After setting down the phone, I leave my office and crawl into bed beside Ray. He stirs and turns his back to me but doesn't wake. Portland is an hour and a half away. I have only ninety minutes to rest before I must take on the enemy.
　　Joel looks tired when I pick him up at the airport. I don't imagine he got much sleep the previous night He immediately starts with his questions, but I ask him to wait until we are in my car. Once inside I put on music, a tape of my playing the piano. We drive toward Mayfair. I am still thinking how I should approach this matter. Since we are dealing with evidence that points toward a mysterious agency, I am not worried about staying conservative.
　　"Who is the pianist?" he asks finally.
　　"Do you like it?"
　　"The music is haunting, and the pianist is wonderful."
　　An appropriate choice of words. "It's me."
　　"Are you serious?"
　　"You have asked me that twice today. I am always serious, Agent Drake."
　　"Joel, please. Is Alisa your real name?"
　　"Why? Have you been researching me?"
　　"A bit I haven't turned up much."
　　"You mean, you haven't turned up an Alisa Perne in your computers?"
　　"That's correct. What's your real name and who taught you to play such exquisite piano?"
　　"I am self-taught. And I like to be called Alisa."
　　"You haven't answered my question."
　　"I answered one of them."
　　He stares at me. For a few sentences I forgot to be careful how I pitched my voice, and the echo of my age creeps into it. My words and voice, I know, can throb like living ghosts. My music is not the only thing that is haunting.
　　"How old did you say you were?" he asks.
　　"Older than I look. You want to know how I know about the murders."
　　"Among other things. You lied to me last night when you said you had not been in the Coliseum."
　　"That is correct. I was there. I saw the three young men in the field killed."
　　"Did you get a good look at the killer?"
　　"Good enough."
　　He pauses. "Do you know him?"
　　"No. But he is associated with a man I once knew. That man died in an explosion at my house six weeks ago. The reason I have brought you here is to help me trace the remains of that man. We are driving to the Mayfair Police Station now. I want you to ask them to open their files to you."
　　He shakes his head. "No way. You're going to answer my questions before I do anything to help you."
　　"Or you will arrest me?"
　　"Yes."
　　I smile thinly. "That will not happen. And I am not going to answer all your questions, just the ones I choose to answer. You have no choice but to cooperate with me. Like you said last night-you have no leads. And you are more in the dark than you admit. You have several people who seem to have been killed by a person of extraordinary strength. A person so strong, in fact, that he seems superhuman."
　　"I wouldn't go that far."
　　I snort softly. "It takes a great deal of strength to snap every cervical in a man's neck. Isn't that what the autopsy showed?"
　　Joel shifts uneasily, but I have his full attention. "The autopsy isn't complete on any of the victims."
　　"But the LAPD medical examiner has told you about the guy's neck. It makes you wonder, doesn't it?"
　　He speaks carefully. "Yes. It makes me wonder how you know these things."
　　I reach over and touch his leg. I have a very sensual touch, when I wish to flaunt it, and I must admit I find myself attracted to Joel. Not that I love him as I do Ray, but I wouldn't mind seducing him, as long as Ray wouldn't know. Having had ten thousand lovers, I don't share most mortals' illusions of the sacredness of fidelity. Yet I will not risk hurting Ray for sex, and I will not lie to him anymore. Joel feels the electricity of my fingers and shifts all the more. I like my boys fidgety.
　　"You want to say something?" I ask, my hand still on his thigh.
　　He clears his throat. "You are very alluring, Alisa. Particularly when you are being vague, or trying to be persuasive." He stares down at my hand as if trying to decide whether it is a priceless jewel or a spider that has crawled into his lap. "But I am beginning to see through your facade." I remove my hand, not insulted. 
　　"Is that all it is? A facade?"
　　He shakes his head. "Where did you grow up?"
　　I burst out laughing. "In the jungle! A place not unlike where these murders are happening. I watched as that young man's neck was snapped. A normal person couldn't do that. The person you are looking for is not normal. Nor was my friend who died when my house blew up. If we can find what became of him, his remains, then we can find your murderer-I hope. But don't ask me how these people are not normal, how they have such strength, or even why my house was blown up. I won't tell you."
　　He keeps looking at me. "Are you normal, Alisa?" he asks.
　　"What do you think?"
　　"No."
　　I pat his leg. "It's all right. You go on thinking that way."
　　Yet, I think, he knows too much about me already.
　　When all this is over, I am going to have to kill Joel Drake.
   
   4
　　On the drive to Mayfair Joel tells me about his life. Maybe I pry the information out of him a bit Maybe he has nothing to hide. I listen attentively and grow to like him more with each passing mite, much to my disquiet Maybe that's his intention-to be open with me. Already, I think, he knows I am more dangerous than I appear.
　　"I grew up on a farm in Kansas. I wanted to be an FBI agent from the first time I saw that old series, The F.B.I., that starred Efrem Zimbalist, Jr.  Do you remember that show? It was great I suppose I did have dreams of being a hero: catching bank robbers, finding kidnapped kids, stopping serial murderers. But when I graduated from the academy in Quantico, Virginia, I was assigned to blue collar crime in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. I spent twelve months chasing accountants. Then I got a big break. My landlady was murdered. Stabbed with a knife and buried in a cornfield. That was at the end of summer. The local police were called in, and they found the body pretty quick. They were sure her boyfriend did it. They even had the guy arrested and ready to stand trial. But I kept telling them he loved his woman and wouldn't have hurt her for the world. They wouldn't listen to me. There is an old rivalry between the FBI and police. Even in Los Angeles, working on this case, the LAPD constantly withholds information from me.
　　"Anyway, privately, I went after another suspect- the woman's sixteen-year-old son. I know, he sounds like an unlikely candidate-the woman's only child. But I knew her son as well as the boyfriend, and the kid was bad news. An addict ready to steal the change from a homeless person. I was their tenant and I caught him breaking into my car once to steal my radio. He was into speed. When he was high, he was manic-either the nicest guy in the world or ready to poke your eyes out. He had lost all sense of reality. At his mother's funeral he began to sing "Whole Lot of Love." Yet, at the same time, he was cunning. His bizarre behavior hid his guilt. But I knew he'd done it, and, as you're fond of saying, don't ask me why. There was something in his eyes when I talked to him about his mother-like he was thinking about how nice it was finally to have the house all to himself. "The problem was, I didn't have a shred of evidence that linked him to the crime. But I kept watching him, hoping he'd reveal something. I was anxious to move to another place, but during my off hours, I told myself, I was on stakeout. I felt in my gut something would turn up.
　　"Then Halloween came, and that evening the sonofabitch was out on his front porch carving a huge jack-o'-lantern. He flashed me a nauseatingly sweet smile as I walked to my car, and something about his expression made me pause to look closer at his knife. By this time the victim's boyfriend was in the middle of his trial, and losing. As I mentioned, the woman had been stabbed, and as I studied her son and the pumpkin on his lap, I remembered how the autopsy report noted the unusual spacing of the metal teeth marks on the victim's skin. This knife was weird-the cutting edge had irregularly spaced ridges.
　　"I hid my interest in the knife with a nonchalant wave, but the next day I got a warrant to search the house. I obtained the knife, and its cutting edge was compared to the photographs taken by the coroner. There was a match. To make a long story short, the son was eventually convicted. He is serving a life sentence in Iowa as we speak." Joel adds, "All because of one jack-o'-lantern."
　　"All because of one sharp agent," I say. "Was your success on the case your ticket to bigger and better things?"
　　"Yes. My boss was pleased by my persistence, and I was put on a couple of old unsolved murder cases. I solved one of them and was promoted. I have been working difficult murder cases in LA. ever since." He nods. "Persistence is the key to solving most mysteries."
　　"And imagination. Why did you tell me this story?" He shrugs. "Just trying to make casual conversation with a potential witness."
　　"Not true. You want to see how I react to your tales of insight and intrigue."
　　He has to laugh. "What do you want with me, Alisa? To make me into a hero or a goat? I did as you requested-I told no one where I was going. But I'll have to call in some time today. And if I tell them I'm in Oregon riding around with a cute blond, it's not going to look good on my record." 
　　"So you think I'm cute?" I ask. 
　　"You catch the operative words, don't you?" 
　　"Yes." I add, "I think you're cute as well." 
　　"Thank you. Do you have a boyfriend?" 
　　"Yes."
　　"Is he normal?"
　　I feel a pang in my chest "He is wonderful."
　　"Can he verify where you were the last two days?"
　　"That's not necessary. I already told you I was in the Coliseum watching necks being broken and chests pierced. If there is guilt by association, then I'm guilty as sin." 
　　"Aren't you worried about telling that to an FBI agent?"
　　"Do I look worried?" 	
　　"No. That's what worries me." His tone becomes businesslike again. "How did this abnormal person break the young man's neck?"
　　"With his bare hands."
　　"But that's impossible."
　　"I told you not to ask me these questions. Let's wait till we get to Mayfair, see what we find out from the local police. Then perhaps I'll tell you more."
　　"I will have to call the local office of the FBI and have them notify the police that I'm coming. They won't open their files to me just because I walk in the front door."
　　I hand him my cellular phone. "Notify whoever you have to, Joel."
　　The Mayfair police give us scant information, and yet it is crucial. While I wait in the car and listen to the conversation that takes place inside the station, Joel learns that there was a body recovered from the explosion at my house, not just pieces of flesh as I expected. I have to wonder-how did Yaksha's form survive the blast? He was more powerful than any creature that walked the earth, but even he should have had to bow to several crates of dynamite. The police tell Joel that the body was taken to a morgue in Seaside, seventy miles south of Mayfair, the city where I combated the people Yaksha sent after me, Slim and his partners. "Please! I don't want to die." "Then you should never have been born." Slim's blood was bitter tasting, as was his end. So be it.
　　Joel returns to my car and I give him every chance to lie to me about what the police have told him. But he gives me the straight facts.
　　"We're going to Seaside," I say, handing him the phone again. "Tell them we're on our way."
　　"What was the name of your friend who died?"
　　"Yaksha."
　　"What kind of name is that?"
　　"It's Sanskrit." I glance over. "It's the name of a demonic being."
　　He dials the Seaside morgue. "Love the company you keep."
　　I can't resist-I give him a wink. "It's improving by the hour."
　　Joel is big-time FBI. The morgue is only too happy to show him whatever bodies they have on ice. The problem is, when we get there-this time I go inside with Joel-the body we are looking for is missing. Now I know what the Mayfair police were holding back. Joel looks irritated. I fed dizzy. Is Yaksha still alive? Did he create the monster who attacked me? If that is the case, then we are all doomed. Seymour can have all the confidence in the world in me, but I will not be able to stop my creator if he is bent on spreading our black blood. Yet it makes no sense. Yaksha was looking forward to his end, secure in the knowledge that he was going to his death having done the Lord's bidding.
　　"What do you mean, it's missing?" Joel demands. "What happened to it?"
　　The bespeckled coroner shakes at Joel's question. He is the kid who has been caught with his fingers in the cookie jar. Only this guy's fingers look as if they have been dipped in formaldehyde every morning for the last twenty years. The jaundice virus could be oozing out of his big ears. Here I am a vampire, but even I can't understand why anyone would want to be a coroner and work with corpses all day, even fresh ones filled with nice blood. Morticians are an even stranger lot. I once buried a mortician alive-in France after World War II-in his most expensive coffin. He made the mistake of saying all Americans were pigs, which annoyed me. He kicked like a pig as I shoveled the dirt on top of him. I enjoy a little mischief.
　　"We don't know for sure," the coroner replies. "But we believe it was stolen."
　　"Well, that's just great," Joel growls. "How long was the body here before it disappeared?"
　　"A week."
　　"Excuse me," I interrupt. "I am Special Agent Perne and an expert when it comes to forensic evidence. Are you absolutely sure the body we are discussing was in fact a body? That the person was dead?"
　　The coroner blinks as if he has tissue sample in his eyes. "What are you suggesting?"
　　"That the guy simply got up and walked out," I say.
　　"That would have been quite impossible."
　　"Why?" I ask.
　　"Both his legs had been blown off," the coroner says. "He was dead. We had him in the freezer all the time he was here."
　　"Do you know who might have stolen the body?" Joel asks.
　　The coroner straightens. "Yes. We had an employee here, an Eddie Fender, who vanished the same time as the body. He took off without even collecting his final paycheck. He worked the night shift and was often unsupervised."
　　"What was his position?" Joel asks.
　　"He was an orderly, of sorts."
　　I snort. "He helped prepare the bodies for dissection."
　　The coroner is insulted. "We do not dissect people, Agent Perne."
　　Joel raises his hand as a call for peace. "Do you have a resume on this guy? A job application?"
　　The coroner nods. "We handed over copies of those items to the Seaside police. But you are welcome to see the originals. If you'll come into my office, I'll dig them out of our files."
　　"Go ahead," I say to Joel. "I want to browse, check out the sights."
　　He rolls his eyes. "Don't disturb the dead."
　　I check the individual freezer lockers in the back. My keen sense of smell brings me quickly to the one Yaksha occupied. The aroma of the venom-still there even in death, in ice. Yet the odor is not precisely as I remember it, even from six weeks or five thousand years ago. There is something wrong with the faint traces of his blood that remain in the cold locker. Somehow it has been polluted. Grotesque vibrations linger over the hollow space. If Yaksha is in fact dead, he did not leave the world thinking about Krishna, as he hoped. My disquiet deepens.
　　While Joel stays with the coroner, I wander deeper into the morgue and find an office space with a secretary with her feet up on her desk, doing her nails. I like a woman who doesn't take her job too seriously. This gal doesn't even bother to sit up as I walk in. Of course, to some, I look like a teenager. About thirty, she has a National Enquirer and a two-liter bottle of Diet Pepsi sitting on her desk beside a computer screen that keeps flashing: TEMPORARY MALFUNCTION! Her lips swim in red paint; her hair stands up like an antique wig. Twenty pounds overweight, she looks jovial, a little slutty.
　　"Wow," she says when she sees me. "Aren't you a pretty little thing! What are you doing in this haunted house?"
　　I smile. "I am with Special Agent Joel Drake. My name is Alisa Perne. We are investigating a murder."
　　Now she sits up. "You're FBI? You look like a cheerleader."
　　I sit down. "Thank you. You look like an executive secretary."
　　She pulls out a cigarette and waves her hand. "Yeah, right. And this is the executive suite. What can I do for you?"
　　"Did you know Eddie Fender?"
　　"The guy who stole the stiff?"
　　"Did he steal it?"
　　She lights her cigarette. "Sure. He was in love with that corpse." She chuckles. "It did more for him than I ever did."
　　"Did you see Eddie socially?" She leans forward and blows smoke. "You mean, did I screw him? Listen, sister, I would just as soon blow my brains out as do it with Eddie Fender, if you get my meaning." I nod. 	
　　"What's your name?" 
　　"Sally Diedrich. I'm not German, just got the name. Is Eddie a suspect in a murder case?"
　　"We're just gathering background information at this point. I would appreciate anything you could tell me about him."
　　Sally whistles. "I could give you background on that guy that would make you want to turn your back and run the other way. Listen, you got a minute? Let me tell you a story about Eddie and his relationship to reality."
　　I cross my legs. "I have many minutes. Tell me everything you know."
　　"This happened three months ago. We had a temp in here helping me search through some of our oldest files for missing X rays. Don't believe what the cops and the papers tell you-none of that forensic evidence should hold up in court. We're forever mixing autopsy reports together. We had a dead guy who stayed here a few days, and it says on his death certificate that he croaked because of a tubal pregnancy. Anyway, the temp's name was Heather Longston and she was pretty as pie, if a bit slow. Eddie flirted with her and asked her out, and she said sure before I could warn her. By the time I did talk to her, she felt 'committed.' That's an example of how stupid she was. A guy compliments her on her dress and offers to take her to dinner and she feels committed. Heather was the kind of girl who felt obligated to buy everything that gets sold over the phone. I visited her home once, and she had two sets of those carving knives that they say can be used as dowsing rods to find water and oil.
　　"So Heather went out with Eddie, and let me tell you, that was one date for Ripley's Believe It or Not! First, he took her to McDonald's for dinner. She told me he had three hamburgers, nothing else. No drink, no fries, no nothing. He ate the hamburgers plain- meat on a bun. Then he took her for a walk. Guess where he took her?"
　　"The cemetery," I say.
　　"You got it! He wolfed down his burgers and took her hand and they went tombstone sighting. Heather said he got all giddy when they got to the graves. He wanted to lie down on top of them and make out. Said he would give her a rush like she wouldn't believe. Well, she believed it. They made out six feet above some rotting corpse. Heather said he wasn't a bad kisser. He swiped some flowers off a grave and gave them to her as a present. The gesture touched her, I swear." Sally shook her head. "Isn't it just lovely when two loonies get together?"
　　"As lovely as when two uglies get together," I say.
　　"I hear you. Anyway, here comes the sick part. Eddie takes her back to his apartment to watch videos, and guess what he pulls out of his drawer?" 
　　"Pornographic films?"
　　Sally leans farther forward. Her big breasts crush last week's work and push her bottle of Diet Pepsi aside. "Snuff films. Do you know what those are?"
　　"Yes. Videos made where people-usually woman -are supposedly killed."
　　"Sick, huh? Eddie had a whole set of them. He showed Heather three or four-they're usually pretty short, I understand-before she figured out she wasn't watching the latest Disney releases. Then she got up and wanted to leave. The only problem was, Eddie wouldn't let her." 
　　"Did he threaten to harm her?" 
　　Sally scratched her head. "I'm not sure. I don't think so. But what he did do was tie Heather up in his bedroom closet, standing up and wearing his high school jacket-and nothing else-and force her to suck on Popsicles all night." 
　　"How did he force her?"
　　"He would tickle her if she stopped. Heather was very ticklish. She worked those Popsicles until the sun came up. Said when she got home she felt as if she had gargled a whole pint of novocaine." 
　　"But he didn't hurt her in any way?" 
　　"Her wrists had rope burns on them, but other than that she was fine. I tried to get her to talk to the police about what had happened, but she wouldn't. She wanted to go out with him again! I said no way. I went to Eddie and told him if he saw Heather again, I would personally speak to the police about his collection of snuff films. They're illegal, you know. Of course you know that! You work for the FBI. Sorry, I forgot that for a moment, with you just sitting there looking so young and everything. Anyway, Eddie backed off 'cause he didn't want to lose his job. Jesus, I tell you, that guy was born to work with the dead. You'd think they were his Barbie dolls."
　　"You said he loved the corpse that was stolen. What do you mean?"
　　"He was always fooling with it."
　　"Exactly how did he fool with it?"
　　"I don't know. He just always had it out is all."
　　"Didn't anyone tell him to stop fooling with it?"
　　Sally giggled. "No! The corpse never complained."
　　I pause a moment to take this all in. Fooling with Yaksha's remains might mean fooling with his blood. Could the blood of a dead vampire make a living vampire? I didn't know.
　　"He didn't bother Heather again?" I ask.
　　"No."
　　"Did he take any revenge on you for threatening him?"
　　Sally hesitated; her natural gaiety faltered. "I don't know for sure. I had an old cat, Sibyl, that I'd owned since she was born. I was very fond of her. Two days after I spoke to Eddie, I found her dead in my backyard."
　　"How did she die?"
　　"Don't know. There wasn't a mark on her. I didn't bring her to a vet for an autopsy." Sally shivered. "I get enough of that here. You understand."
　　"I do. I'm sorry about your cat. Tell me-did Eddie have startling green eyes, bony hands, and an acne-scarred face?"
　　Sally nods. "That's him. Has he killed anybody?"
　　I stand. I feel no relief that I have found my man. He is worse than I feared.
　　"Yes," I say. "He is making his own snuff films now."
   
   5
　　We are the only ones sitting at the end of Water Cove Pier, where Slim and his people came for me with their many guns and unbreakable handcuffs. It is too cold for most people to eat outside, but we are bundled up. We eat fish and chips and feed the birds. The sun is bright and reflects off the calm water, and the chilly air is heavy with the smell of salt. I wear dark sunglasses and a hat. I like hats, red and black ones.
　　The first time I ever saw the sea I was already a vampire. So I don't know what it looks like to a mortal. The many fish, the seaweed, and the shells-I see them even in murky water. For me the ocean is a huge aquarium, teeming with visible life, food. In moments of extreme thirst I have drunk the blood of fish, of sharks even. Once, in the seventeenth century, off the coast of what is now Big Sur, I even killed a great white shark, but not for food. The thing tried to bite off my legs.
　　I think of Yaksha without his legs.
　　And I ask myself the impossible question.
　　Could he still be alive?
　　Joel holds in his hand the papers he obtained from the coroner, the details on Edward Fender-Eddie. I will relieve him of the papers in a few minutes. But first I want to talk to him because I want to keep him from talking. Honestly, I do not want to kill him. He is a good man-I see that. More interested in helping humanity than in being applauded. But to convince him to keep his mouth shut, I have to tell him even more about the enemy, and myself. And then I will have even more reason to kill him. It is a paradox. Life is that way. God designed it that way. I believe I met him once. He was full of mischief.
　　I will say things I never should say to any mortal. Because I am hurt, I feel my own mortality. The feeling gives me reason to be reckless.
　　"Do you often come here?" Joel asks, referring to Water Cove, which is twenty miles south of Mayfair. "Or go down to Seaside?"
　　"No." My weakness haunts me like a second shadow. If I do not drink soon, and a lot, I will be in no shape to return to Los Angeles tonight. "Why do you ask?"
　　"I was just thinking how you told me your house exploded six weeks ago. By strange coincidence there was a group of violent murders in Seaside at that same time. I believe they occurred a day before you said you lost your house, if my memory serves me correctly."
　　"You have a good memory."
　　He waits for me to elaborate, but I don't. "Were you and your friend connected with those murders as well?" he asks.
　　I peer at him through my dark lenses. "Why do you ask?"
　　"One of the people killed at a gas station in Seaside was a woman. Her skull was cracked open by an exceptionally strong person. The coroner told me about it. He said it would take a monster to do what had been done to her." He pauses, adds, "The manner of her death reminds me of what's happening in Los Angeles."
　　I offer a bird one of my french fries. Animals generally like me, if I'm not chasing them. "Do you think I'm a monster, Joel?"
　　"You cannot keep answering my questions with questions."
　　"But one answer always leads to another question." I shrug. "I'm not interested in discussing my life story with you."
　　"Were you there that night those people died in Seaside?" 
　　I pause. "Yes."
　　He sucks in a breath. "Did your friend kill that woman?"
　　A white dove takes my fry. I wipe off my hands on my skirt "No. My friend sent that woman to kill me."
　　"Some friend."
　　"He had his reasons."
　　Joel sighs. "I'm getting nowhere with you. Just tell me what you're trying to tell me and be done with it."
　　"Eddie Fender is our man."
　　"You don't know that."
　　"I do. To me, it's a fact. And the other thing is - I like you and I don't want you to get hurt. You have to leave Eddie to me."
　　He snorts. "Right. Thank you, Alisa, but I can take care of myself."
　　I touch his arm, hold his eyes, even through my dark glasses. "You don't understand what you're up against. You don't understand me." I let the tips of my fingers slide over the sleeve of his jacket. I hold his hand. Despite my weakness, his proximity is stimulating. Even without trying, my gaze weakens him. Better to kiss him, I think, than to kill him. But then I think of Ray, whom I love. He will be waking soon. The sun nears the horizon. The orange glow lights Joel's face as if he were sitting in a desolate purgatory, where the judgment of the damned and the saved had already been completed, five thousand years ago. He sits so close to me, but I cannot welcome him too far into my world without devouring his, as I did Ray's. But I do have to scare him, yes, and deeply. I add, "I was the one who killed that woman."
　　He smiles nervously. "Sure. How did you do it? With your bare hands?"
　　I take his hand. "Yes."
　　"You must be very strong?"
　　"Yes."
　　"Alisa."
　　"Sita. My name is Sita."
　　"Why do you go by Alisa?"
　　I shrug. "It's a name. Only those I care about call me Sita."
　　"What do you want me to call you?"
　　I smile sadly. "What would you prefer to call a murderer?"
　　He takes his hand from mine and stares at the ocean a moment. "Sometimes when I talk to you I feel like I'm talking to a mental case. Only you're too together to be labeled unstable."
　　"Thank you."
　　"You weren't serious about having killed that woman, were you?"
　　I speak in a flat voice. "It happened at the comer of Fryer and Tads. The woman was found on the floor of the women's room. Her brains were on the floor as well. Like you said, her head had been cracked open, the front of it. That was because I grabbed her from behind when I rammed her face into the wall." I sip my Coke. "Did the coroner give you these details?"
　　I see from Joel's stunned face that the coroner must have enlightened him on some of the facts. He can't quit staring at me. For him, I know, it is as if my eyes are as big as the sea, as black as the deepest subterranean crevasse. Beneath the ocean is molten bedrock.
　　Beneath my eyes I believe he senses an ageless fire. Yet he shivers and I understand why. My words are so cold.
　　"It's true," he whispers.
　　"Yes. I am not normal." Standing, I pluck the papers from his hand before he can blink. My eyes bore down on him. "Go home, Joel, to wherever home is. Don't try to follow me. Don't talk about me. If you do, I will know about it and I will have to come after you. You don't want that, any more than you want to take on this murderer. He is like me, and at the same time he is not like me. We are both cruel, but his cruelty is without reason, without kindness. Yes, I did kill that woman, but I didn't do so out of malice. I can be very kind, when it suits me. But when I am cornered, I am as dangerous as this Eddie. I have to comer him, you see, in a special place, under special circumstances. It's the only way to stop him. But you can't be there. If you are, you will die. You will die anyway, if you don't leave me alone. Do you understand?"
　　He stares at me as if I am a distorted apparition trying to materialize from a realm he never knew existed. "No," he mumbles.
　　I take a step back. "Try to arrest me."
　　"Huh?"
　　"Arrest me. I have admitted to killing a woman with my bare hands. I know details of the crime only the killer could know. It's your responsibility as an FBI agent to bring me in. Take out your gun and read me my rights. Now!"
　　My pounding gaze has short-circuited his brain synapses. But he does stand, and he does pull out his gun and point it at me. "You're under arrest," he says.
　　I slap the gun away. It lands a hundred yards off in the water. But for him it is just gone. His stunned expression, even in the ruby light, goes pale.
　　"You see," I say softly. "You can't play this game with me. You don't have the proper equipment. Your gun is on the bottom of the sea. Believe me, Joel, trust me-or you will end up in the bottom of a grave." I pat his shoulder as I step past him. "There will be a bus along soon. There is a stop at the entrance to the pier. Goodbye."
   
   6
　　Ray should not come with me to Los Angeles. I feel this in my heart. But after the sun sets, and he awakens, and I explain to him what is happening in L.A., he insists enjoining me. How he shudders at the thought of more vampires! How his horror breaks my heart, even though intellectually I share his opinion. Truly, he still sees us as evil. But, he says, two are stronger than one, and I know his math makes sense. I might very well need him at a critical moment Also, unless I take him with me, I know he will go another night without feeding. How many nights he can survive, I don't know. I can endure for as long as six months without drinking blood. As long as I don't have other vampires throwing knives in me, that is.
　　Anxious to get down to Los Angeles, we fly south in my Learjet without feeding. But once on the ground, before we do anything else, I tell Ray we are going hunting. He agrees reluctantly, and I have to promise him we will not hurt anybody. It is a promise I make reluctantly. Opening large veins, I never know what complications might result.
　　We go to Zuma Beach, north of Malibu. The beaches have always been a favorite den of victims for me. Plenty of out-of-state travelers, homeless people, drunks-portions of the population who are not immediately missed. Of course, I seldom kill my meal tickets these days, since I have begun to believe in miracles, or since I have fallen in love with my reluctant Count Dracula, whichever came first. Actually, I once met Vlad the Impaler, the real man Count Dracula was based on, in the fifteenth century in Transylvania during the war with the Ottoman Turks. Forget those stories about his mean-looking canines. Now, there was a fellow who needed modern dentistry. His teeth were rotting out of his mouth, and he had the worst breath. He was no vampire, just a Catholic zealot with a fetish for decapitation. He asked me out, though, for a ride in his carriage. I attract unusual men. I told him where to stuff it. I believe I invented the phrase.
　　Driving north on the Coast Highway, I spot a young couple on the beach making out on their sleeping bags. Up and down the beach, for at least half a mile, there isn't another soul. Looks like dinner to me, but Ray has his doubts. He always does. I swear, if we were a normal couple going out to a restaurant, he would never be satisfied with the menu. Being a vampire, you can't be a picky eater, it just doesn't work. Yet you might wonder-what about blood-borne diseases? What about AIDS? None of them matters. None of them can touch us. Our blood is a fermented black soup - it strips to the bone whatever we sink our teeth into. This particular young couple looks healthy and happy to me, a blood type I prefer. It is true I am sensitive to the "life vibration" of those I feed upon. Once I drank the blood of a well-known rap singer and had a headache for a week.
　　"What is wrong with them?" I ask Ray as we park a hundred yards north of them. They are behind and below us, not far from the reach of the surf. The waves are big, the tide high.
　　"They're not much older than I am," he says.
　　"Yes? Would it be better if they were both in their eighties?"
　　"You don't understand."
　　"I do understand. They remind you of the life you left behind. But I need blood. I shouldn't have to explain that to you. I suffered two serious wounds last night, and then I had to feed you when I returned home."
　　"I didn't ask you to feed me."
　　I throw up my hands. "And I didn't ask to have to watch you die. Please, Ray, let's do this quick so that we can take care of what we came for."
　　"How are we going to approach them?"
　　I open my car door. "There's going to be no approach. We are simply going to rush them and grab them and start drinking their blood."
　　Ray grabs my arm. "No. They'll be terrified. They'll run to the police."
　　"The police in this town have more important matters to deal with than a couple of hysterical twenty-year-olds."
　　Ray is stubborn. "It will take you only a few moments to put them at ease and hypnotize them. Then they won't suffer."
　　I stand up outside the car and scowl at him. "You would rather I suffer."
　　Ray wearily climbs out of his side of the car. "No, Sita. I would prefer to fast."
　　I walk around and take his hand-a handsome young couple out for an innocent stroll. But my mood is foul. "You would rather I suffer," I repeat.
　　The blond couple doesn't even look up as we approach, so entranced are they in each other's anatomy. I throw Ray another unpleasant glance. I am supposed to hypnotize these two? He shrugs-he would prefer I anesthetize them before pinching their veins. My patience has reached its limit. Striding over to the hot-blooded boy and girl, I reach down and grab their sleeping bag and pull it out from under them. They fly three feet in the air-literally. They look up at me as if I might bite them. Imagine.
　　"You are about to be mugged," I say. "It will be a novelty mugging. You will not be hurt and you will not lose any money. But you are going to perform us a great service. Stay calm and we'll be done in ten minutes."
　　They do not remain calm. I don't care. I grab the girl and throw her to Ray, and then I am on the guy. Pulling his arms behind his back and pinning them there with one hand, I don't worry when he opens his mouth and screams for help. With the pounding surf, no one will hear him. Not that it would make much difference if someone did. In L.A. the earth could shake and people would think it was the Harmonic Convergence. A little screaming on Zuma Beach never worried anyone. Yet I do end up clamping the guy's mouth shut with my free hand.
　　"I prefer to dine in silence," I say. Glancing over at Ray who is struggling with the girl-for no reason-I remark in his direction, "You make it worse by dragging it out."
　　"I do things my own way," he says. "Hmm," I grunt. Closing my eyes, using my long thumbnail to open a neck vein, I press my lips on the torn flesh and suck hard. I have cut the carotid artery. The blood gushes into my mouth like hot chocolate poured over ice cream. My young man goes limp in my arms and begins to enjoy the sensation. For me and my victim, feeding can be intensely sensual. I know he feels as if every nerve in his body is being caressed by a thousand fingers. And for me the blood is a warm pulsing river. But if I wish, feeding can be terrifying for my victim. By the time I finished with Slim, for example, he felt as if hell would be a welcome respite.
　　None of my victims, of course, becomes a vampire simply by being bitten. There has to be a massive exchange of blood to bring about that transformation. I wonder if Eddie Fender has needles and syringes.
　　So caught up am I in replenishing my strength that I don't immediately notice that we are three when we should be four. Opening my eyes, I see that Ray's girl has escaped. She is running down the beach at high speed, soundlessly, in the direction of concrete steps that will lead her past the beach boulders and back up onto the Coast Highway.
　　"What the hell!" I say to Ray.
　　He shrugs. "She bit my hand."
　　"Go get her. No, I'll get her." I hand over my happy boy. "Finish with this guy. He's good for another pint."
　　Ray accepts the young man reluctantly. "His strength is ebbing."
　　"You worry about your own strength," I call over my shoulder as I chase after the girl. She's a hundred yards away, on the verge of leaping onto the steps-it is a wonder that she hasn't started screaming yet. I have to assume she is in shock. She is ten feet from the highway when I pounce on her and drag her back down the steps. There is more fight in her than I expect, however. Whirling, she punches me hard in the chest. To my great surprise, the blow hurts. She has hit me exactly where the stake penetrated my heart. But my grip on her does not falter. "This is going to hurt, sister," I tell her as she stares at me in horror.
　　My right hand pins her arms, my left closes her mouth. Again, the thumbnail opens her big neck vein. But I am even more eager than before and suck her red stream as if I am drinking from the elixir of immortality itself, as indeed I am. Yet it is not the matter, the fluids or elements in the blood, that grant the vampire his or her longevity. It is the life-that essence that no scientist has ever been able to replicate in his laboratory-that makes any other source of nourishment pale by comparison. But this feeding with this girl is not erotic-it is ravenous. Feeling as if I am trying to drown my pain and weariness in one gulp, I drink from this girl as if her life is my reward for all the evildoers I have been forced to bring to justice.
　　Yet my thirst deludes even my sense of right and wrong. My vast experience fails me. Suddenly I feel Ray shaking me, telling me to let go. Opening my eyes, I notice the boy lying lazily on the beach, still a hundred yards away, sleeping off his unexpected encounter with the creatures of the night. He will wake with a bad headache, nothing more. The girl in my arms is another matter. Desperately pale, cold as the sand we stand on, she wheezes. Her heart flutters inside her chest Crouching down, I lay her on her back on the beach. Ray kneels across from me and shakes his head. My guilt is a bitter-tasting dessert.
　　"I didn't mean to do this," I say. "I got carried away."
　　"Is she going to make it?" Ray asks.
　　Placing my hand over her chest, I take a pulse reading that tells me more than an intensive care unit filled with modern equipment could. It is only then that I note the girl's heart is scarred-the right aorta; possibly from a childhood disease. It is not as though I have drained her completely. Yet I have taken more from her than I should have, and in combination with her anatomical weakness, I know she is not going to make it.
　　"It doesn't look good," I say. Ray takes her hand. He has not reached for my hand in over a month. "Can't you do something for her?" he asks, pain in his voice.
　　I spread my hands. "What can I do? I cannot put the blood I have taken back inside her. It's done-let's get out of here."
　　"No! We can't just leave her. Use your power. Save her. You saved me."
　　I briefly close my eyes. "I saved you by changing you. I cannot change her." 
　　"But she'll die."
　　I stare at him across my handiwork. "Yes. Everyone who is born dies."
　　He refuses to accept the situation. "We have to get her to a hospital." He goes to lift her. "They can give her a transfusion. She might make it"
　　I stop him, gently, slowly removing his hands from the girl's body. Folding her hands across her chest, I listen as her heart begins to skip inside. Yet I continue to look at my lover, searching his expression for signs of hatred or the realization that this being he is to spend the rest of eternity with is really a witch. But Ray only looks grieved, and somehow that makes it worse for me.
　　"She is not going to live," I say. "She would never make it to a hospital. Her heart is weak. I failed to notice that at the start. I was so thirsty-I got carried away. It happens sometimes. I am not perfect. This is not a perfect creation. But if it is any consolation, I am sorry that this has happened. If I could heal her, I would. But Krishna did not give me that ability." I add, "I can only kill."
　　Ray follows the girl's breathing for a minute. That is all the time it lasts. The girl gives a soft strangled sound and her back arches off the sandy floor. Then she lies still. Standing, I silently take Ray by the hand and lead him back to the car. Long ago I learned that death cannot be discussed. It is like talking about darkness. Both topics bring only confusion-especially to us, who have to go on living through the night. All who are born die, I think, remembering Krishna's words. All who die will be reborn. In his profound wisdom he spoke the words to comfort all those born in Kali Yuga, the age in which we now live, the dark age. Yet it's strange, as we get in the car and drive away from the beach, I cannot remember his eyes, exactly what they looked like. The sky is covered with haze. The stars, the moon-they are not out. I cannot think what it means to be young. All is indeed dark.
　　
   7
　　When I met Private Investigator Michael Riley, Ray's father, he talked to me about my previous residence. Trying to impress me with how much he knew about my wealth.
　　"Prior to moving to Mayfair, you lived in Los Angeles-in Beverly Hills, in fact-at Two-Five-Six Grove Street. Your home was a four-thousand-square-foot mansion, with two swimming pools, a tennis court, a sauna, and a small observatory. The property is valued at six-point-five million. To this day you are listed as the sole owner, Miss Perne."
　　I was very impressed with Riley's knowledge. That was one of the main reasons I killed him. It is to this house we go after Zuma Beach. Mr. Riley forgot to mention the mansion's deep basement. It is here I keep a stockpile of sophisticated weapons: Uzis, grenade launchers, high-powered laser-assisted sniper rifles, 10-millimeter pistols equipped with silencers- toys easily purchased on any Middle Eastern black market. Loading up my car, I feel like Rambo, who must have been a vampire in a previous incarnation. Loved the way that guy snapped people's necks. Ray watches me pile on the weapons with a bewildered expression.
　　"You know," he says, "I've never even fired a gun."
　　That concerns me. Just because he's a vampire he's not necessarily a crack shot, although he could quickly become one with a couple of lessons. Myself, I have practiced with every weapon I own. My skill is such that I use every gun to its full capacity.
　　"Just don't shoot yourself in the foot," I say.
　　"I thought you were going to say, just don't shoot me."
　　"That, too," I say, feeling uneasy.
　　Edward Fender's job application and resume contain only one permanent address, which is his mother's. It is my belief that the lead is valid. Mrs. Fender's house is located only four miles west of the Coliseum, in the city of Inglewood, a suburb of Los Angeles. It is a quarter after nine by the time we park in front of her place. Rolling down the window and bidding Ray to sit silently, I listen carefully to what's going on inside the residence. The TV is on to "Wheel of Fortune."
　　An elderly woman sits in a rocking chair reading a magazine. Her kings are weak; she has a slight dry cough. A front window of the house is half open. The interior is dusty and damp. It smells of poor health and of human serpents. A vampire has recently been in the house, but he is no longer there. Now I am absolutely certain of the identity of the monster I pursue.
　　"He was here less than two hours ago," I whisper to Ray.
　　"Is he in the area?"
　　"No. But he can come into the area swiftly. He has at least twice my speed. I am going to speak to the woman alone. I want you to park out of sight down the street. If you see someone approach the house, don't try to warn me. Drive off. I will know he is coming. I will deal with him. Do you understand?"
　　Ray is amused. "Am I in the army? Do I have to take your orders?"
　　I take his hand. "Seriously, Ray. In a situation like this you can't help me. You can only hurt me." I let go of him and slip a small revolver into my coat pocket. "I just have to put a couple of bullets in his brain, and he will not be making any more vampires. Then we can go after the others. They will be a piece of cake."
　　"Do you like cake, Sita?"
　　I have to smile. "Yes, of course. With ice cream, especially."
　　"You never told me when your birthday is. Do you know?"
　　"Yes." I lean over and kiss him. "It is the day I met you. I was reborn on that day."
　　He kisses me back, grabs my arm as I go to leave. "I don't blame you, you know."
　　I nod, although I don't completely believe him. "I know."
　　The woman answers the door a moment after I knock and remains behind the torn screen door. Her hair is white, her face in ruins. Her hands are arthritic; the fingers claw at the air like hungry rats' paws. She has flat gray eyes that look as if they have watched black-and-white television for decades. There is little feeling in them, except perhaps a sense of cynical contempt. Her bathrobe is a tattered gown of food and bloodstains. Some of the latter look fresh. There are red marks on her neck, still healing.
　　Her son has been drinking her blood.
　　I smile quickly. "Hello. Mrs. Fender? I'm Kathy Gibson, a friend of your son's. Is he at home?"
　　My beauty, my smooth bearing throw her off balance. I shudder to think of the women Eddie usually brings home to Mother. "No. He works the graveyard shift. He won't be home till late." She pauses, gives me a critical examination. "What did you say your name is?"
　　"Kathy." My voice goes sweet and soft, strangely persuasive. "I didn't mean to stop by so late. I hope I'm not disturbing you?"
　　She shrugs. "Just watching TV. How come I've never heard Eddie mention you before?"
　　I stare at her. "We only just met a few days ago. My brother introduced us." I add, "He works with Eddie."
　　"At the clinic?"
　　The woman is trying to trick me. I frown. "Eddie doesn't work at a clinic."
　　The woman relaxes slightly. "At the warehouse?"
　　"Yes. At the warehouse." My smile broadens. My gaze penetrates deeper. This woman is mentally unstable. She has secret perversions. My eyes do not cause her to flinch. She is fond of young women, I know, little girls even. I wonder about Mr. Fender. I add, "May I come in?"
　　"Pardon?"
　　"I have to make a call. May I use your phone?" I add, "Don't worry, I don't bite."
　　I have pushed the right button. She enjoys being bitten. Her son drinks her blood with her consent. Even I, an immoral beast, have never been drawn to incestuous relationships. Of course, in the literal sense of the word, we are not talking about incest. Still, the Brady Bunch would never survive in this house. She opens the screen door for me.
　　"Of course," she says. "Please come in. Who do you have to call?"
　　"My brother."
　　"Oh."
　　I step inside, my sense of smell on alert. Eddie has recently slept in this house. She must let him sleep away the days, not questioning his aversion to the sun. My ability to handle the sun is hopefully my ace in the hole against this creature. Even Yaksha, many times more powerful than myself, was far less comfortable in the sun than I am. Secretly I pray Eddie can't even leave the house in the daylight hours without wearing sunscreen with an SPF of 100 or better, like Ray. Although my senses study the interior of the house, my ears never leave the exterior. I cannot be taken unaware, like before. Mrs. Fender leads me to the phone beside her rocking chair. Her reading material lies partially hidden beneath a dirty dish-rag-a back issue of Mad Magazine. Actually, I kind of like Mad Magazine.
　　I dial a phony number and speak to no one. I'm at Eddie's house. He's not here. I'll be a few minutes late. Goodbye. Setting down the phone, I stare at the woman again.
　　"Has Eddie called here tonight?" I ask.
　　"No. Why would he call? He just left a couple of hours ago."
　　I take a step toward her. "No one's called?"
　　"No."
　　She's lying. The FBI has called, probably Joel himself. Yet Joel, or anyone else for that matter-with the exception of Eddie-has not been in the house recently. I would smell their visit. Yet that situation will soon change. The authorities will converge on this place sooner or later. That fact may not be as crucial as it appears. Eddie would not easily walk into a trap, and clearly he does not meet with his cohorts in this
　　house. The warehouse is the key. I need the address. Taking another step forward, I force the woman to back against a divider that separates the meager living room from the messy kitchen. My eyes are all over her, all she sees. There is no time for subtlety. Fear blossoms inside her chest but also awe. Her will is weird but weak. I stop only a foot away.
　　"I am going to visit Eddie now," I say softly. "Tell me the best way to the warehouse from here."
　　She speaks like a puppet. "Take Hawthorne Boulevard east to Washington. Turn right and go down to Winston." She blinks and coughs. "It's there."
　　I press my face to her face. She breathes my air, my intoxicating scent "You will not remember that I was here. There is no Kathy Gibson. There is no pretty blond girl. No visitor stopped by. The FBI didn't even call. But if they should call again, tell them you haven't heard from your son in a long time." I put my palm on the woman's forehead, whisper in her ear. "You understand?"
　　She stares into space. "Yes."
　　"Good." My lips brush her neck, but I don't bite. But if Eddie pisses me off again, I swear, I am going to strangle his mother in front of him. "Goodbye, Mrs. Fender."
　　Yet as I leave the house I note a cold draft from the back rooms. I feel the vibration of an electric motor and smell coolant. The house has a large freezer next to one of the back bedrooms. I almost turn to explore more. I have planted my suggestions, however, and to return may upset the woman's delicate state of illusion. Also, I have the location of the warehouse, and finding Eddie is my first priority. If need be, I can return later and search the rest of the house.
   
   8
　　Tell me about your husband Rama?" Ray asks as we drive toward the warehouse. "And your daughter, Lalita?"
　　The question takes me by surprise. "It was a long time ago."
　　"But you remember everything?"
　　"Yes." I sit silently for a moment. "I was almost twenty when we met. Three or four times a year merchants used to pass by that portion of India that is now known as Rajastan. We lived between the desert and the jungle. The merchants would sell us hats to keep off the sun, herb potions to drive away the bugs. Rama was the son of a merchant. I first saw him by the river that flowed beside our village. He was teaching a small child how to fly a kite. We had kites in those days. We invented them, not the Chinese." I shake my head. "When I saw him, I just knew."
　　Ray understands but asks anyway, anxious to dwell on my humanity in the light of what happened at the beach. "What did you know?"
　　"That I loved him. That we belonged together." I smile at the memory. "He was named after an earlier incarnation of Lord Vishnu-the eighth avatar, or incarnation of God. Lord Rama was married to the Goddess Sita. Krishna was supposed to be the ninth avatar. I worshipped Lord Vishnu from the time I was born. Maybe that's why I got to meet Krishna. Anyway, you can see how Rama's and my names went together. Maybe our union was destined to be. Rama was like you in a lot of ways. Quiet, given to thoughtful pauses." I glance over. "He even had your eyes."
　　"They were the same?"
　　"They did not look the same. But they were the same. You understand?"
　　"Yes. Tell me about Lalita?"
　　"Lalita is one of the names of the Goddess as well. It means 'She who plays.' She was up to mischief the moment she came out of my womb. Ten months old and she would climb out of her cradle and crawl and walk all the way to the river." I chuckle. "I remember once I found her sitting with a snake in one of the small boats our people had. Fortunately the snake was asleep. It was poisonous! I remember how frightened I was." I sigh. "You wouldn't have known me in those days."
　　"I wish I had known you then."
　　His remark is sweet-he means it that way-yet it stings. My hands fidget on the steering wheel. "I wish many things," I whisper.
　　"Do you believe in reincarnation?" he asks suddenly.
　　"Why do you ask?"
　　"Just curious. Do you?"
　　I consider. "I know Krishna said it was a reality. Looking back, I believe he always spoke the truth. But I never talked to him about it. I scarcely talked to him at all."
　　"If reincarnation is a reality, then what about us? Are we evolving toward God? Or are we stuck because we're afraid to die?"
　　"I have asked myself the same questions, many times. But I've never been able to answer them."
　　"Can't you at least answer one of them?"
　　"Which one is that?" I ask.
　　"Are you afraid?"
　　I reach over and take his hand. "I don't fear death for myself."
　　"But to fear it at all-isn't it the same difference? If you trust Krishna, then you must trust that there is no death."
　　I force a smile. "We're a philosopher tonight."
　　He smiles. "Don't be anxious. I'm not thinking of suicide. I just think we have to look at the bigger picture."
　　I squeeze his hand and let go. "I believe Krishna saw all of life as nothing more than a motion picture projected onto a vast screen. Certainly nothing in this world daunted him. Even when I held his companion, Radha, in my clutches, he never lost his serenity."
　　Ray nods. "I would like to have such peace of mind."
　　"Yes. So would I."
　　His reaches over and touches my long hair. "Do you think I am Rama?"
　　I have to take a breath. My eyes moisten. My words come out weak. "I don't understand."
　　"Yes, you do. Did I come back for you?"
　　There are tears on my face. They are five thousand years old. I remember them. After Yaksha changed me, I saw neither my husband nor my daughter again. How I hated him for doing that to me. Yet, had I never become a vampire, I never would have met Ray. But I shake my head at his questions.
　　"I don't know," I say.
　　"Sita-"
　　"When I met you," I interrupt, "I felt as if Krishna had led me to you." I reach up and press his hand to the side of my face. "You feel like Rama. You smell like him."
　　He leans over and kisses my ear. "You're great."
　　"You're wonderful."
　　He brushes away my tears. "They always paint Krishna as blue. I know you explained that it's symbolic. That he is blue like the vast sky- unbounded. But I dream about him sometimes, when you lie beside me. And when I do, his eyes are always blue, like shining stars." He pauses. "Have you ever had such a dream?"
　　I nod.
　　"Tell me about it?"
　　"Maybe later."
　　"All right. But didn't your husband die before he could have met Krishna?"
　　"Yes."
　　"So I can't be remembering a past life?"
　　"I don't know. I wouldn't think so."
　　Ray lets go of me and sits back, seemingly disappointed. He adds casually, "I never dream of blood. Do you?"
　　Often, I think. Maybe once, five thousand years ago, we had more in common. Yet I lie to him, even though I hate to lie to those I love. Even though I have promised myself and him that I would stop.
　　"No," I say. "Never."
　　We park two blocks away from the warehouse, a gray rectangular structure as long as a football field, as tall as a lighthouse. But no light emanates from this building. The exterior walls are rotting wood, moldy plaster, panes of glass so drenched in dust they could be squares etched on the walls of a coal mine. The surrounding fence is tall, barbed-a good stretch of wire on which to hang fresh corpses. Yet the occupants are more subtle than that, but not a lot more. Even from this distance I smell the decaying bodies they have ravaged inside, and I know the police and the
　　FBI are seriously underestimating Los Angeles's recent violent crime wave. The odor of the yakshini, the snakes from beyond the black vault of the universe, also wafts from the building. I estimate a dozen vampires inside. But is Eddie one of them? And how many of his partners presently walk the streets? Vicious dogs wander the perimeter. They look well fed.
　　"Do you have a plan?" Ray asks.
　　"Always."
　　"I want to be part of it."
　　I nod. "You realize the danger."
　　"I just have to look in the mirror, sister."
　　I smile. "We have to burn this building down with all of them inside. To do that we need large quantities of gasoline, and the only way we are going to get that is to steal a couple of gasoline trucks from a nearby refinery."
　　"With our good looks and biting wit, that shouldn't be too hard."
　　"Indeed. The hard part will come when we try to plant our trucks at either end of the building and ignite them. First we'll have to cut the fence, so we can drive in unobstructed, and to do that we will have to silently kill all the dogs. But I think I can take them out from this distance using a silencer on one of my rifles."
　　Ray winces. "Is that necessary?"
　　"Yes. Better a few dead dogs than the end of humanity. The main thing is, we must attack after dawn, when they're all back inside and feeling sleepy. That includes our prize policymaker-Eddie."
　　"I like to take a nap at that time myself," Ray remarks.
　　I speak seriously. "You are going to have to be strong with the sun in the sky, and drive one of the trucks. I know that won't be easy for you. But if all goes well, you can seek shelter immediately afterward."
　　He nods. "Sounds like a piece of cake."
　　"No. It's a baked Alaska." I study the structure and nod. "They'll burn."
　　Yet my confidence is a costume. The previous night, when I stared into Eddie's eyes, he seemed insane, but also shrewd. The ease with which we have found him and his people disturbs me. The stage is set for a snuff film, big time. But I have to wonder who is directing the show. Whether it will go straight onto the front pages of the Los Angeles Times. Or end up buried in video, in Eddie's private collection.
   
   9
　　We crouch in the shadows two blocks down the street from the warehouse as I load my high-powered rifle, especially equipped with laser-guided scope and fat silencer. At our backs are two gasoline trucks, with two huge tankers hooked on to each one. We didn't even have to go to a refinery to steal them. Leaving the ghetto, we just spotted the blasted things heading toward the freeway. I accidentally pulled in front of one and got my car slightly damaged. Both drivers climbed out, and I started screaming at them. How dare you ruin my brand-new car! I just bought it! Man, you are going to pay big time!
　　Then I smacked their heads together and took their keys. I figure they should be waking up soon, in the dumpster where I dropped them. Ray helped me drive one of the tankers back to the warehouse. For once, he seemed to be enjoying himself-the thrill of the hunt. Then the sun came up. Since that time, fifteen minutes ago, he has been hiding under a blanket and wiping at his burning eyes. He doesn't complain, though. He never does.
　　I finish loading the rifle and prop my left elbow on one knee, steadying the barrel in the direction of the big black dog closest to our end of the lot. Not only do I have to shoot each animal cleanly in the head, I must shoot between the holes in the wire fence. A stray bullet could ruin the whole plan. The dog growls as if sensing my attention, and I notice the blood that trickles from its saliva and the way it shakes when the sun catches in its eyes. Another Eddie Fender surprise.
　　An hour before dawn Eddie returned with a dozen partners. All together there are twenty-one vampires inside, all powerfully built males. With them they have two terrified Caucasian couples-breakfast. The four people started screaming the moment they were taken inside and didn't stop until their throats were ripped open. Ray paced miserably the whole time, insisting that we attack right then.
　　But I refused to risk the human race for the lives of four people.
　　"I would almost rather you were shooting people," Ray mumbles, hiding beneath the dirty orange covering. His blanket is a gift from a local homeless person. I gave the guy five hundred dollars for it and told him to flee the area. Although we are well shaded by a nearby brick wall, Ray's brow is covered by a film of sweat and he can't stop blinking. His bloodshot eyes look as if they have been sprayed with kerosene.
　　"If it's any consolation," I say, "these dogs are worse than rabid."
　　"What do you mean?"
　　"He has given them his blood."
　　"No way. Vampire dogs?"
　　"It could be worse. It could be vampire fish. Think of a school of those swimming the ocean. We'd never be able to find them all."
　　Ray chuckles weakly. "Can we go fishing up north after this is all over?"
　　"Sure. We can go salmon fishing in the streams in Washington. And you'll be pleased to know you won't need a fishing rod to catch them."
　　"I might still use a rod." He adds, "I used to go fishing with my dad."
　　"I did the same with my father," I say truthfully. Before Yaksha killed my father. Yaksha-where can his body be? And what shape is it in? Doubt continues to plague me, but I push it aside. Fixing my aim on the first dog, I whisper to Ray, "I'm going to do them quickly. Don't speak to me for a moment."
　　"Fine."
　　I peer into the dog's cruel eye through my scope. Pressing the trigger, there is a gentle swish of air. My caliber is small; nevertheless, the top of the dog's head comes off. Silently it topples over. Its partners hardly notice. But they will soon enough. They will smell the blood, and being infected with Eddie's blood, they may go crazy. But I don't give them the chance. Scarcely pausing between shots, I move from one beast to the next, killing all nine in less than a minute. I set the rifle down and pick up my wire cutters.
　　"Stay here until I return," I say. "Then be ready to move. If all goes according to plan, we'll be out of here in ten minutes."
　　Barefoot, soundlessly, I scurry toward the tall fence. Fortune continues to favor us. The hour is early and the street remains deserted. We are not all that far from the Coliseum, perhaps two miles, in a rundown industrial section of town. Cutting a hole in the fence would be unnecessary if I just wanted to ram the warehouse with our trucks and take a flying leap to safety. I have vetoed this idea for two reasons. I worry that Ray, in his weakened condition, would end up getting killed. Also, I believe a more deft approach will ensure we get all the vampires. My sensitive nose has determined that the warehouse was previously used as storage for foam rubber, and that there are still a large number of polyurethane sheets inside. Polyurethane is extremely flammable. It is our intention to quietly park our trucks at either end of the building, light the ten-second fuses attached to the explosive caps I have brought from my L.A. home, and dash for safety. The occupants will be caught between two crushing waves of expanding flame. Behind the warehouse stands the tall brick wall of another abandoned building. The fire will smash against that wall and cut off any chance of a rear escape. And if by chance any of the vampires do manage to get out of the inferno, I will be waiting for them beyond the perimeter of the fence with my rifle. They will go down as easily as the dogs. It is a good plan and it should work.
　　Still, I worry.
　　Kneeling by the fence, I quickly begin to cut the wires, searching for guards, or a head appearing at one of the filthy windows, or any sign of movement inside. All is silent and calm. Eddie's newly made vampires are undoubtedly sensitive to the sun and probably can't stand guard after dawn. He may be overconfident of his powers-that is my real hope. My cutters click like sharp electronic pulses over a telephone line. Soon I am laying the wire down on the broken asphalt ground. In less than five minutes I have opened a hole large enough to drive our trucks through. I retreat to Ray and the tankers. Huddling under his blanket, he peers up at me with feverish eyes.
　　"Wish it were a cloudy day," he mutters.
　　I nod. "An eclipse would be even better." I offer him my hand. "Are you ready to rock?"
　　He gets up slowly, his blanket still wrapped around his head, and studies my handiwork from afar. "Are they all asleep?"
　　"They seem to be."
　　"Are you sure Eddie's still inside?"
　　"I saw him go in. I never saw him come out. But he could have sneaked out the back way." I shrug. "We may never get this good a chance. We have to strike now and we have to strike hard."
　　He nods. "Agreed." He limps toward his truck, and I help him into the driver's seat. "You know, Sita, I don't have a license to drive this big a rig. What we're doing is against the law."
　　"There are human laws and there are God's laws. We may not be the most lovable creatures in creation, but we are doing the best we can."
　　He studies me seriously, his entire face now flushed red, soaked in sweat. "Is that true? Is there anything good we can give to the world?"
　　I hug him. "If we can stop these creatures, our being here will have been justified a thousand times over." I kiss him. "I'm sorry I let the girl die."
　　He wraps his arm around me. "It wasn't your fault."
　　"I'm sorry I killed your father."
　　 "Sita." He holds me at arm's length. "You're five thousand years old. You have too much history. You have to learn to live in the present."
　　I smile, feeling like a foolish child. It is not a bad feeling. Despite all I have seen and done, he is the wise one. Reaching up, I brush his hair aside, out of his eyes, and then all at once I am kissing him again.
　　"You do remind me of Rama," I whisper in his ear. "So much so that you must be him. Promise me, Ray, and I will promise you. We will stay together- always."
　　He doesn't answer right away, and I pull back slightly to see what the matter is. He has dropped his blanket and is staring in the direction of the sun, although not directly, since we are still in the shade. But I would think the move would just hurt his eyes more.
　　"The sky is so blue," he says thoughtfully. "So vast." He turns back to me and chuckles softly. "We're like those vampire fish, lost in that ocean."
　　I frown. "Ray?"
　　"I was just thinking of Krishna." He squeezes my hands. "I promise our love will survive." He glances at the warehouse. "You want me to go to the south side?"
　　"Yes, to the left. Follow me in. Stay close. Drive up with your door slightly ajar. Don't let it bang. Kill the engine as you pass the gate and coast in. Park as close as you can to the building. Don't close your door when you get out. As soon as you can, light the fuse and run. I will hear it burning and light mine. If they try to escape, I will cut them down. We will meet here when it's over. Then we can go fishing." I pause, wanting to add something else, not knowing what it is. "Be careful, Ray."
　　"You, too, Sita." He touches his heart. "Love you."
　　I touch mine. The pain is back; it is hard to breathe.
　　Maybe it is a sign from God.
　　"Love you," I say.
　　We cruise toward the warehouse, me first. The hole in the gate easily accommodates the tankers. The head of a dead dog flattens as the front wheel of the rig rolls over it. Turning off the engine, I allow my momentum to carry me toward the rear of the building. My maneuver is trickier than his, and for that reason I have chosen it. I have to swing around the side of the building rather than slide straight in. But there are few human devices I am not master of, and I have drunk the blood of so many long-distance truckers over the years that one could say the skill is deep in my veins. I complete the turn smoothly and park and climb out. My two tankers stand less than five feet from the wall of the building. Out the corner of my eye I notice an ice-cream truck parked down the block.
　　Still, all is calm, all is quiet. Even to my acute hearing.
　　Ray's truck, on the far side of the building, has also halted. I hear him climb out of his rig and walk toward the rear of the tanks where I have set the fuse. Yet I hear him stop in midstride, and I don't hear the fuse burning. I count my heartbeats and wait for him to complete his task.
　　But all is quiet. The fuse stays unlit.
　　My heart begins to pound.
　　My rifle over my shoulder, I walk toward the rear of my truck, moving in Ray's direction. Something is wrong, I fear. I cannot ignite my tankers without knowing what the problem is. Yet I cannot explode my gasoline from a distance-at least not easily. A bullet may or may not accomplish the feat. Yet I cannot check on Ray without leaving the fuel. It is a paradox once again-my whole life is. After a moment to consider, I reach out and unscrew the cap at the bottom of the rear tanker. The gasoline gushes out. The warehouse rests on an incline, my end higher than Ray's. Stepping around the comer of the building, the volatile fuel follows me in a bubbling stream, soaking my bare feet. I fear the fumes will alert whoever is inside, yet feel I have no choice. The gasoline runs ahead of me, down toward the other truck. Our bombs will become one.
　　Now I see Ray's truck, but I do not see him, nor his feet standing behind one of the tankers. Moving slowly, my rifle at the ready, I let my hearing precede me. Inside the building the status remains. Twenty-one vampires sleeping peacefully, their bellies full, their dreams dripping red. There is someone behind the truck, however. Two people, maybe.
　　Two vampires, maybe.
　　Faintly I hear their breathing. One is calm and easy. The other gasping, struggling, perhaps against a hand clamped over his mouth. In an instant I know what has happened. Eddie was lying in wait for us. He has caught Ray and is holding him hostage on the passenger side of the rig, standing on the step that leads up into the cab. Eddie is waiting for me to come for Ray, to poke my head out. Then he will pounce. I have made the mistake I swore I would not make. I have underestimated an enemy.
　　It was all a setup. Eddie wanted to trap me.
　　Yet I do not panic. I don't have time and the day may yet be saved. My hearing has grown more acute over the centuries. I suspect that, even though Eddie is stronger than I, his senses are not as keen. He may not be aware that I am aware of him. The element of surprise may still be mine.
　　Once again I consider quickly. I can come at him from the left or the right. Or I can come at him from above. The latter seems the most dangerous move, and therefore probably carries with it the greatest element of surprise. I favor it. But I will not simply leap onto the roof of the rig. I will fly right over it. Holding my rifle firmly in my hands, I take several long strides before the truck and then kick up vigorously, as long jumpers do. Floating over a respectable chunk of the lot, over the truck cabin, I turn in midair, bringing the muzzle to bear where I calculate Eddie will be. But I am moving fast, very fast, and when I reach the other side of the truck, near the end of my downward arc, they are not there. Damn.
　　So startled am I by their disappearance that I almost lose my footing as I hit the ground. It takes me a moment to get my bearings. And in that time Eddie casually walks out from behind the front of the truck, standing behind Ray, using him as a shield, his bony hands wrapped around my lover's neck. Eddie's speed continues to amaze. In the short time I was in the air, he managed to move out of harm's way. Yet it is not only his superior reflexes that shock me, but his ability to anticipate my moves. He reads me like an open book. But is that so amazing? After all, we are both predators. He shakes Ray to let me know his grip is deadly. For his part Ray appears calm. He believes I will save him. I wish I shared his belief. Eddie grins. 
　　"Hello, Sita. So we meet again." Yaksha must be alive for him to know my name. Yet I cannot believe Yaksha would betray me to this monster, even though we had been mortal enemies. Keeping my gun level and circling slowly, I study Eddie's expression. He appears to be more sedate than the previous night, slightly weary. Absorbing six bullets must have taken something out of him. Yet his eyes remain chilling. I wonder about his mother, his upbringing, what it takes to create a man who watches snuff films for pleasure. I understand that he has always felt an outcast, and that he spent the majority of his lonely nights imagining what he would do if he had unlimited power. Then it just fell into his lap. Like a gift from God. There is a bit of the fanatic in his eyes. He believes he is on a holy mission and has elected himself the main deity. That disturbs me even more. A prophet is more dangerous than a criminal. At least a criminal's needs are simple. A prophet requires constant stimulation. The false ones, at least. Eddie has not killed Ray yet because he wants to play with us. This is all right, I decide. I know many games. The sun bothers Eddie, but he can bear it. He squints.
　　"Hello, Eddie," I say pleasantly. "You look well." 
　　"Thank you. You've made a nice recovery yourself. Congratulations on finding me so quickly. I thought it would take you at least a week to locate the warehouse." He adds, "How did you find me?"
　　His voice is a strange brew-crafty and eager, easy and sick. There is no depth to his tone, however, and I wonder if he is susceptible to my gentle words. Trying to shoot him while he holds Ray is out of the question. At any one instant he barely shows an inch of himself. He knew I was in the area because he was waiting to ambush us. But his remarks show that he does not know I visited his mother, or how I probed his past.
　　"You leave a unique trail," I say softly. "I just had to follow the redbrick road."
　　He is amused. And annoyed. He is a pile of contradictions, I see. He shakes Ray hard and my lover gasps. "Answer my question," he orders.
　　"What will you give me in return?" I continue to circle at a distance of thirty feet. So far there is no movement from inside the warehouse. I do not believe he has an accomplice who can help him. The gasoline from my draining tanker puddles nearby, although none of us is standing directly in it. Once again I try to plant my words in his mind. But the ground there is not fertile. "I will let your boyfriend live," Eddie says. "Why don't we do this? Let my friend go and I will answer all your questions. I will even set aside this shiny new gun."
　　"Set it aside first and I will consider your suggestion," Eddie replies.
　　My voice has yet to affect his mind. Still, I continue to try. "It is clear we don't trust each other. We can remain stalemated for a long time. Neither of us wants that. Let me offer you something in exchange for my friend's release. You're a newborn vampire. I am very old. There are many secrets to using your powers that I could teach you. Alone, it would take you several centuries to discover those secrets. To be what you want to be, you need me."
　　"But how do I know you will give me these secrets?" he asks. "How do I know that the moment I release your friend you won't open fire on me?"
　　"Because I need you," I lie, but persuasively. "Your blood is more powerful than my own. We can have an even exchange-your power for my knowledge."
　　 	Eddie considers. "Give me an example of one of your secrets."
　　"You have already seen an example. I am here today, right now. You do not know how I got here so quickly. A secret led me to you. I can give you that secret, and others, if you will release my friend."
　　"You have an interesting voice."
　　"Thank you."
　　Eddie's voice hardens. "Is that one of your secrets? The manner in which you manipulate people?"
　　His question stuns me. He misses nothing, and if that is the case he is not going to release Ray because he must know I will kill him. I consider a dangerous alternative.
　　"I manipulate mortals like puppets," I reply. "It is not so easy to manipulate powerful vampires. But weaker ones-like many of your followers-I could show you how to control them. You know, Eddie, the more you make, and the more they make, the less control you will have."
　　"I don't believe that."
　　"You will. Listen to me with an open mind. This is a rare opportunity for you. If you do not take it, you will regret it. You will also die. You're so young. You feel so powerful. But you have made a big mistake confronting me unarmed. This rifle can fire many bullets before having to be reloaded. Your body cannot withstand what I will do to you. If you kill my friend, I will kill you. It's that simple."
　　He is undaunted. "You may be old and full of secrets, but you have made the big mistake. This guy is important to you. I have his life in my hands. If you do not put down your rifle, I will kill him." His grip tightens and suddenly Ray is unable to breathe. "Put it down now."
　　"You dare to threaten me, punk." I raise my rifle and point it at Ray's chest. "Release him now."
　　Eddie remains determined. "Did they play poker thousands of years ago? I don't think so. You don't know how to bluff. Put it down, I say. Your friend is already turning blue."
　　"Blue is better than red," I reply. "But a little red does not frighten me. I am going to shoot now unless you do as I say. This is a sniper rifle. The bullets leave the barrel at high velocity. I am going to shoot my friend in the chest, through one of his lungs, and that same bullet will probably go into one of your lungs. You will have trouble holding on to my friend with a hole in such a vital spot. True, you will start to heal immediately, but before you do, I will put another bullet in my friend, and in you. How many bullets do you think you can take before you have to let go? How many bullets can you take before you die?" I pause. "I don't make many mistakes, Eddie."
　　My audacity shakes him. It shakes Ray as well; he turns a bit green. He continues to choke. Eddie reconsiders. "You will not shoot your friend," he says.
　　"Why not? You're about to kill him anyway." I settle on a spot on Ray's belly, just below the rib cage. They are roughly the same height; the wounds should be identical, less serious than holes in the lungs. "I am going to count to three. One-two-"
　　"Wait," Eddie says quickly. "I'll make you a counter proposal."
　　I keep my aim fast. "Yes?"
　　"I will tell you where your other friend is-as a sign of good faith-and you will allow me to leave with your boyfriend as far as the other end of the warehouse. There I will release him."
　　He's lying. He will break Ray's neck as soon as he puts some distance between us. "First tell me where Yaksha is, then I will consider your proposal."
　　Eddie snorts. "You are one cunning bitch."
　　"Thank you. Where is Yaksha?"
　　"He's not far."
　　"I tire of this." I put four pounds on a five-pound trigger. "Ray," I say gently, "after I shoot, I want you to fight to shake free. He will try to hold on to you, of course, but remember he will be bleeding as badly as you are. And even though he is stronger than both of us, he is alone. Even if I have to put two or three bullets in you, I promise, you will not die." My tone becomes bitter. "But you, Eddie, will die screaming. Like those people you tortured last night."
　　He is a cruel devil. "I look forward to hearing your screams."
　　I fire. The bullet hits where I intend and penetrates both of them, exiting Eddie's back and striking the passenger door of the gasoline truck. Red blossoms on Ray's midsection and he gasps in pain. But Eddie does not try to defend himself by continuing to use Ray as a shield. The guy is totally unpredictable. Instead, he throws Ray at me, momentarily knocking me off balance. Then he is on me. Yes, even though I hold the rifle in my hands and there are thirty feet between us, Eddie is able to get to me before I can get off another shot. He is like black lightning. Crashing into me with tremendous force, he knocks me onto my back. The rear of my skull smacks the ground and my grip on the rifle falters, although I have not let go of it. For a moment I see stars, and they are not Krishna blue but hellish red and threatening to explode. Stunned himself, Eddie slowly climbs to his knees beside me. He regains his concentration swiftly, however. His eyes focus on the rifle, the only thing that gives me an advantage over him. I try to bring it up, to put a bullet in his face, but once again he is too fast Lashing out in a sharp karate-like motion with his right hand, he actually bends the barrel of the rifle, rendering it useless. He is bleeding badly from his stomach, but he grins as he stares at my broken toy. He thinks he has me now.
　　"I can take a lot before I die," he says, answering my previous question.
　　"Really?" I kick him in the belly, in his wound, and he momentarily doubles up. But my blow is not decisive. Before I can fully climb to my knees, he strikes with his left fist, and I feel as if my head almost leaves its place on top of my shoulders. Again, I topple backward, blood pouring from my mouth. I land dizzily in a pile of gravel. Pain throbs through my entire body from my face. He has broken my jaw, several of my teeth, at least. And he is not done. Out the side of a drooping eye, I see him climb to his feet and ready his sharp black boots to kick me to death. Out the other eye I see Ray also stand. Eddie has momentarily forgotten my lover, probably considering him small game.
　　Uncertain, Ray makes a move to attack Eddie that will lengthen my life by all of five seconds. Shaking my head minutely, I raise my bleeding arm in the direction of the truck. A look passes between us. Ray understands. Light the fuse, I am saying, detonate our bomb. Save the human race. Save yourself. I will keep Eddie busy for ten seconds. Ray turns in the direction of the truck, the gasoline from the other tanker puddling around the wheels. Of course Eddie also sees him turn for the truck. He moves to stop him. In that moment, summoning the last of my strength, I launch myself off the ground at Eddie's midsection.
　　We crash and fall into another painful pile. As we once more struggle to stand, he reaches over and grabs me by the hair, pulling my face close to his. His breath is foul; I believe he not only sucks his victims dry, but eats them as well. He looks as if he would like to take a bite out of me. His eyes are crazed: excited and furious at the same time. Prozac would not help him. He yanks at my hair and a thousand roots come out. "That hurts," I say.
　　He grins, cocking his fist back. "Try this on for size, Sita."
　　I close my eyes and wait for the blow. This one, I am sure, will send me into the promised land. I just hope I have bought Ray enough time. What I do not understand is that Ray is still trying to buy me time. The blow never arrives. Ray's voice comes to me as if from far away. 
　　"Eddie," he says firmly.
　　I open my eyes. Eddie and I both look over and discover that rather than follow my last instruction and light the fuse, Ray has chosen to punch a hole in the tanker with his fist. The gasoline pours out beside him like a gusher from a cracking dam. Of greater note, he has already struck a single wooden match and holds the flame above his head like a miniature torch that will lead us safely past the valley of the shadow of death. Or else straight into it. I am fully aware that the fumes of gasoline are more volatile than the actual liquid itself. And Ray stands in a cloud of petroleum fog. Not that Eddie and I loiter at a safe distance. Gasoline soaks both sets of our feet.
　　"I only have one match," Ray says to Eddie. "If you do not let Sita go, I will have to drop this one. What do you say?"
　　Eddie just won't learn. "You're bluffing," he says.
　　I catch Ray's eye. "No," I plead.
　　Ray smiles faintly in my direction. "Run, Sita. Fly. Return and fight him another day. In the end you'll win. Remember, you have Krishna's grace." His fingers move.
　　"Ray!" I scream.
　　He lets go of the burning match. Eddie lets go of me, in a hurry. For a moment I stare transfixed as the little orange flame topples toward the waterfall of gasoline. Despite my endless years, the countless deaths I have witnessed, it strikes me as inconceivable that such a tiny flame has the potential to scorch my universe, to burn everything I love and cherish. Yet my state of denial does not last forever. The match is halfway to the ground when I bolt toward Ray. But even I, Yaksha's prime pupil, am too slow for gravity. Before I can reach Ray's hands, which he holds up to ward me off, the match kisses the flowing river of fuel.
　　"No!" I cry.
　　Combustion is immediate. The gasoline at his feet ignites. The flames race up his soaked clothes. In an instant my beautiful boy is transformed into a living torch. For a moment I see his eyes through the flames. Perhaps it is a trick of the light, but his brown eyes suddenly appear blue to me, shining with the light of stars I have never seen, or stars I no longer remember. There is no pain on his face; he has made his choice willingly, to save me, to save us all. He stands for a moment like a candle fit to be offered to the Lord. But the flames are not idle; they rush toward me while at the same time they leap toward the truck that stands behind Ray. The truck is closer. Before my own legs begin to burn, before I can reach Ray and pull him free of the holocaust, the fire snakes into the opening Ray had punched in the tanker. The stream of fire is not a fuse we planned, but it is an effective one nevertheless.
　　The gasoline truck explodes.
　　An angry red hand slaps the entire front of my body. I have a last glimpse of Ray's fiery form disintegrating under the hammer of the shock wave. Then I am flying through the air, shooting through the smoke. A blur of a wall appears and I hit it hard and feel every bone in my body break. I slump to the ground, falling into a well of despair. My clothes are on fire, but they fail to tight this black well because it is bottomless. My last conscious awareness is of a sport coat being thrown over me.
　　Then I am blackness.
   
   10
　　I stand on a vast grass field of many gently sloping hills. It is night, yet the sky is bright. There is no sun, but a hundred blazing blue stars, each shimmering in a long river of nebulous cloud. The air is warm, pleasant, fragrant with the perfume of a thousand invisible flowers. In the distance a stream of people walk toward a large vessel of some type, nestled between the hills. The ship is violet, glowing; the bright rays that stab forth from it seem to reach to the stars. Somehow I know that it is about to leave and that I am supposed to be on it. Yet, before I depart, there is something I have to discuss with Lord Krishna.
　　He stands beside me on the wide plain, his gold flute in his right hand, a red lotus flower in his left. His dress is simple, as is mine-long blue gowns that reach to the ground. Only he wears a single jewel around his neck-the brilliant Kaustubha gem, in which the destiny of every soul can be seen. He does not look at me but toward the vast ship, and the stars beyond. He seems to be waiting for me to speak, but for some reason I cannot remember what he said last. I only know that I am a special case. Because I do not know what to ask, I say what is most on my mind. "When will I see you again, my Lord?" He gestures to the vast plain, the thousands of people leaving. 'The earth is a place of time and dimension. Moments here can seem like an eternity there. It all depends on your heart. When you remember me, I am there in the blink of an eye." "Even on earth?"
　　He nods. "Especially there. It is a unique place. Even the gods pray to take birth there." "Why is that, my Lord?"
　　He smiles faintly. His smile is bewitching. It has been said, I know, that the smile of the Lord has bewildered the minds of the angels. It has bewildered mine.
　　"One question always leads to another question. Some things are better to wonder about" He turns toward me finally, his long black hair blowing in the soft night breeze. The stars reflect in his black pupils; the whole universe is there. The love that flows from him is the sweetest ambrosia in all the heavens. Yet it breaks my heart to feel because I know it will soon be gone. "It is all mayo," he says. "Illusion."
　　"Will I get lost in this illusion, my Lord?"
　　"Of course. It is to be expected. You will be lost for a long time."
　　"I will forget you?"
　　"Yes."
　　I feel tears on my face. "Why does it have to be that way?"
　　He considers. "There was this great god who was master of a vast ocean. This ocean-you may not know its name, but it is very near to here. This god had three wives. You know how hard it is to please one wife? You can imagine how difficult it was to keep all three happy. Not long after he married the three, two of them came to him and asked for gifts. The first one said, 'O great Lord. We are the finest of your wives, the most beautiful. Reward us with special presents and we will be most pleased.' And the second one said, 'We have served you faithfully and love none other than you. Give us treasures and we will stay with you for the rest of your life.' The god laughed at their requests, but because he was pleased with them, he fulfilled their wishes. To the first he gave all the jewels in his ocean: the diamonds, the emeralds, the sapphires. To the second he gave all the colored coral, all the beautiful seashells. The third wife, of course, asked for nothing in particular. So he gave her the salt."
　　"The salt, my Lord? Is that all?"
　　"Yes. Because she asked nothing from him, he gave her the salt, which she spread out in the ocean. All the bright jewels became invisible, and all the pretty seashells were covered over. And the first two wives were unable to find their treasure and so were left with nothing. So you see the salt was the greatest of the gifts, or at least the most powerful." Krishna pauses. "You understand this story, Sita?"
　　I hesitate. There are always many meanings in his stories. "Yes. This nearby ocean is the creation we are about to enter. The salt is the maya, the illusion, that covers its treasures."
　　Krishna nods. "Yes. But understand that these treasures are not evil, and the goddesses who own them are not simply vain. Dive deep into this ocean and they will cause currents to stir that will lead you to things you cannot imagine." He pauses and then continues in a softer voice, once more looking at the sky. "I dreamed of the earth, and that is how it came to be. In my dream I saw you there." He reaches out and his hand touches my hair and I feel I will swoon. "You go there to learn things that only earth can teach. That is true but it is also false. All of truth is paradoxical. With me, there is never any coming or going. Do you understand?" 
　　"No, my Lord."
　　He removes his hand. "It doesn't matter. You are like the earth, unique. But unlike the others you see before you, you will not come and go there many times. In your dream, and mine, you will go there and stay."
　　"For how long, my Lord?"
　　"You will be born at the beginning of one age. You will not leave until the next age comes."
　　My tears return. "And in all that time I am never to see you?"
　　"You will see me not long after you are changed. Then, it is possible, you may see me again before you leave the earth." Krishna smiles. "It is all up to you."
　　I do not understand what he means by changed, but have more pressing concerns. "But I don't want to go at all!"
　　He laughs so easily. "You say that now. You will not say that... later." His eyes hold mine for what seems a moment, but perhaps is much longer. In that brief span I see many faces, many stars. It is as if the whole universe spins below and completes an entire revolution. But I have not left the hilltop. I continue to stare into Krishna's eyes. Or are they really eyes and not windows into a portion of myself that I have striven so hard to reclaim? A tiny globe of light emerges from his eyes and floats into mine, a living world of many forms and shapes. He speaks to me in a whisper. "How do you feel now, Sita?"
　　I raise my hand to my head. "Dizzy. I feel somehow as if I have just lived..." I stop. "I feel as if I have already been to earth and been married and had a child! It is all so strange. I feel as if I have been something other than human. Is that possible?"
　　He nods. "You will be human for only a short time. And, yes, it has all happened already. You see, that is the mayo. You think what you have to do, to accomplish, to perfect yourself to reach me. But there is no doer-ship. You are always with me, and I am always with you. Still, it is deep in your heart to be different from the rest, to try to do in one long life what it takes others thousands of lives to accomplish. So be it. You are an angel, but you wish to be like me. But I am both angel and demon, good and evil. Yet I am above all these things. Dive deep into the ocean, Sita, and you will find that the greatest treasures you find are the illusions you leave behind."
　　"I do not understand."
　　"It doesn't matter." He raises his flute to his lips. "Now I will play you a song made up of the seven notes of humanity. All the emotions you will feel as a human and as a vampire. Remember this song and you will remember me. Sing this song and I will be there."
　　"Wait! What is a vampire?"
　　But Krishna has already started to play. As I strive to listen a sudden wind comes up on the plain and the notes are drowned out. The dust rises and I am blinded, and I can't see Krishna anymore. I can't feel him near. The light of the stars fades and all goes dark. And my sorrow is great.
　　Yet I have to wonder if I have lost the song because I have become the song. If I have lost my Lord because I do indeed desire to be what I will become. A lover who hates, a saint who sins, and an angel who kills.
　　I awake to a world I don't want. There is no transition for me. I am in paradise, I am in hell.
　　"Hello?" a voice says.
　　Actually, I am in a cheap motel. Looking around, I see a chipped chest of drawers, a dusty mirror that reflects bare walls, a dumpy mattress. It is on this mattress that I lay, naked, covered with a sheet. In this reflection I also see Special Agent Joel Drake, who sits on a chair near the window and waits anxiously for me to respond to his query. But I say nothing at first.
　　Ray is dead. I know this, I feel this. Yet, at the same time I hurt too much to feel anything. I hear my heart pump inside my chest. It cannot belong to me, however. In my long life I have drunk the blood of thousands, but now I am an empty vessel. I shiver even though the room is warm.
　　"Yes?" I say finally.
　　"Sita." In the mirror I watch the reflection of Joel come and sit on the bed beside me. The soggy springs respond to the weight, and my body sags in the middle. "Are you all right?" he asks.
　　"Yes."
　　"You're in a motel. I took you here after the explosion at the warehouse. That was twelve hours ago. You have slept away the entire day."
　　"Yes."
　　He speaks without believing his own words. "I followed in your footsteps. I went to see the mother. She was in a strange state, incoherent, like a broken record. She kept repeating the location of the warehouse that blew up. She said little else."
　　"Yes." Clearly I pushed the mother's brain too hard, etched my suggestion in her psyche, set up an echo. I have done this in the past, and the effect is seldom permanent. The woman will probably be all right in a day or two. Not that I care.
　　"I immediately drove to the warehouse," Joel continues. "When I got there you and your partner were confronting that guy. I was running over just as the explosion happened." He pauses. "You were thrown free, but I was sure you were dead. You bit a brick wall with incredible force, and your clothes were all on fire. I covered you with my coat and put out the flames. Then I saw that you were still breathing. I loaded you in my car and was taking you to the hospital when I noticed ... I saw with my own eyes." He has trouble speaking. "You started to heal, right there in front of me. The cuts on your face closed, and your back-it had to be broken in a hundred places-just knit back together. I thought to myself, "This is impossible. I can't take her to a hospital. They'll want to lock her away for the next ten years for observation." He stops. "So I brought you here. Are you following this?"
　　"Yes."
　　He is getting desperate. "Tell me what's happening here. Who are you?"
　　I continue to stare in the mirror. I don't want to ask the questions. Simply to ask is to be weak, and I am always strong. It is not as though I have any hope. Yet I ask anyway.
　　"The young man near the truck..." I begin.
　　"Your partner? The guy who was on fire?" Yes." I swallow. My throat is dry. "Was he thrown?"
　　Joel softens. "No."
　　"Are you sure?"
　　"Yes."
　　"But is he dead?"
　　Joel understands what I am saying. My partner was like me, not normal. Even severely injured, he could have healed. But Joel shakes his head, and I know Ray was blown to pieces.
　　"He's dead," Joel says.
　　"I understand." I sit up and cough weakly. Joel brings me a glass of water. As I touch the rim of the glass to my lips, a drop of red stains the clear liquid. But the color does not come from my mouth or nose. It is a bloody tear. Seldom have I ever cried. This must be a special occasion.
　　Joel hesitates. "Was he your boyfriend?"
　　I nod.
　　"I'm sorry."
　　The words really do not help me. "Did both tankers, at both ends of the warehouse, blow?"
　　"Yes."
　　"Did you see anyone run out of the warehouse after the explosion?"
　　"No. That would have been impossible. It was an inferno. The police are still going through the mess, picking out the charred bodies. They've cordoned off the whole area." He pauses. "Did you set those tankers to blow?"
　　"Yes."
　　"Why?"
　　"To kill those inside. They were your killers. But I don't want to talk about that now. What about the other man? The one who was with my boyfriend and me? Did he get away?"
　　"I don't know where he went. He was just gone."
　　"Oh." That means he got away.
　　"Who was that man?" Joel asks.
　　"I'm sure you can guess."
　　"Edward Fender?"
　　I nod. "Eddie."
　　Joel sits back and stares at me. At this young woman whose body was crushed twelve hours ago, and who now appears completely well except for a few bloody tears. I note the dark sky through the cracked window, the glow of neon signaling the beginning of another long night. He wants me to tell him why. But I am asking myself the same question. Why did it take five thousand years to find someone to love again? Why was he then taken from me after only six weeks?
　　Why time and space, Krishna? You erect these walls around us and then close us in. Especially when those we love leave us. Then the walls are too high, and no matter how hard we jump, we cannot see beyond them. Then all we have are walls falling in on us.
　　I do not believe my dream. Life is not a song. Life is a curse, and no one's life has been longer than mine.
　　"How did you heal so fast?" Joel asks me.
　　"I told you, I am not normal."
　　He trembles. "Are you a human being?"
　　Wiping away my bloody tears, I chuckle bitterly.
　　What was that in my dream? That part about me wanting to be different? How ironic-and foolish. It was as if I were a child going to sleep at night and asking my mother if I could please have a horrible nightmare.
　　"Ordinarily I would say no," I reply. "But since I'm crying, and that's a thing humans often do, then maybe I should say yes." I stare down at my red-stained hands and feel his eyes on them as well. "What do you think?"
　　He takes my hands in his and studies them closer. He is still trying to convince himself that reality has not suddenly developed a pronounced rip.
　　"You're bleeding. You must still be injured."
　　I take my hand back and wave away his question. "I am this way. It is normal for me." I have to wipe my cheeks again. These tears-I cannot stop them. "Everywhere I go, everything I touch ... there is blood."
　　"Sita?"
　　I sit up sharply. "Don't call me that! I am not her, do you understand? She died a long time ago. I am this thing you see before you! This ... this bloody thing!" Not minding my nakedness, I stand and walk to the window, stepping over my burnt clothes, lying on the floor in a pile. He must have peeled them off me; the material is sticky with charred flesh. Pulling the curtain farther aside, I stare out a landscape that looks as foreign from the world of my dream as another galaxy. We cannot be far from the warehouse.
　　We are still in the ghetto, still on the enemy's turf. "I wonder what he's doing right now," I mutter.
　　Joel stands at my back. "While you rested, I went out and bought you some clothes." He gestures to a bag sitting on a chair in the corner. "I don't know if they will fit."
　　"Thank you." I go to the corner and put them on: blue jeans, a gray sweatshirt. They fit fine. There are no shoes, but I don't need them. I notice my knife sitting on the chair beneath the bag. However, the leather strap that I used to secure it to my leg is not there. I put it in my back pocket instead. It sticks out a few inches. Joel follows my moves with fear in his eyes.
　　"What are you going to do?" he asks. 
　　"Find him. Kill him."
　　Joel takes a step toward me. "You have to talk to me."
　　I shake my head. "I cannot. I tried to talk to you on the pier, and you still followed me. I suspect you will try to follow me again. But I understand that. You're just trying to do your job. I'm just trying to do mine." I turn toward the door. "It will be over soon enough, one way or the other."
　　He stops me as I reach for the knob. Even after all he has seen of me. He is a brave man. I do not shake his hand from my arm. Instead, I stare into his eyes, but without the intention of manipulation, the desire to control. I stare at him so that he can stare at me. Without Ray, for the first time in a long time, I feel so lonely. So human. He sees my pain.
　　"What would you like me to call you?" he asks gently.
　　I make a face. Without the mirror I don't know if it is very pleasant. "You may call me Sita if you wish ... Joel."
　　"I want to help you, Sita."
　　"You cannot help me. I've explained to you why, and now you've seen why." I add, "I don't want you to get killed."
　　He is anxious. It must mean he likes me, this bloody thing. "I don't want you to get killed. I may not have your special attributes, but I am an experienced law enforcement officer. We should go after him together."
　　"A gun won't stop him."
　　"I have more to offer than a gun."
　　I smile faintly and reach up to touch his cheek. Once again I think what a fine man he is. Consumed with doubts and questions, he still wants to do his duty. He still wants to be with me.
　　"I can make you forget," I say to him. "You saw how I affected the mother's mind. I can do that kind of thing. But I don't want to do it to you, even now. I want you just to get away from here, get away from me. And forget any of this ever happened." I take my hand back. "That is the most human thing I can tell you, Joel."
　　He finally lets go of my arm. "Will I see you again?" he asks.
　　I am sad. "I hope not. And I don't mean that cruelly. Goodbye."
　　"Goodbye."
　　I walk out the door and close it behind me. The night is not as warm as I like it, nor is it cold, as I hate. It is cool and dark, a fine time for a vampire to go hunting. Later, I tell myself, I will grieve for Ray. Now there is too much to do.
   
   11
　　On foot I return to the vicinity of the warehouse. But as Joel said, the entire area is cordoned off by numerous police officers. From several blocks away I study the remains of the warehouse with my acute vision, perhaps subconsciously searching for the remains of Ray. The investigative crew, however, is working the ruins. Whatever was lying around outside has already been picked up and deposited into plastic bags with white labels on them. With the many flashing red lights, the mounds of ash, and the ruined bodies, the scene depresses me. Still, I do not turn away from it. I am thinking. "But what he did do was tie Heather up in his bedroom closet, standing up and wearing his high school letter jacket-and nothing else-and force her to suck on Popsicles all night."
　　The night I met the newborn vampires, I heard an ice-cream truck in the vicinity, its repetitive jingle playing loudly. In the middle of December in the middle of the night. Then, when 1 visited Mrs. Fender, I learned she had a large freezer in her house. Finally, after parking my tanker outside the warehouse, I saw out of the corner of my eye an ice-cream truck. From where I stand now, I cannot see that same spot to tell if the truck is still there. But with the security in the area I think that it might be there, and I believe that it might be important.
　　What kind of thing did Eddie have about Popsicles?
　　What kind of fetish did he have about frozen corpses?
　　Were the fetishes related?
　　If Eddie did get his hands on Yaksha's remains and Yaksha was still alive, Eddie would have been forced to keep Yaksha in a weakened state to control him. There are two ways to do that-at least, only two that I know of. One is to keep Yaksha impaled with a number of sharp objects that his skin cannot heal around. The other is more subtle and deals with the nature of vampires themselves. Yaksha was the incarnation of a yakshini, a demonic serpent being. Snakes are cold-blooded and do not like the cold. In the same way vampires hate the cold, although we can withstand it. Yet ice thwarts us as much as the sun, slowing down our mental processes, hampering our ability to recover from serious wounds. Going by Eddie's obvious strength and knowledge of my identity, I hypothesize that he has indeed gotten a hold of Yaksha alive and is keeping him in an extremely weak state white he continues to drink his blood. I suspect Eddie keeps him impaled and half frozen.
　　But where?
　　At home with Mom?
　　Doubtful. Mom is crazy and Yaksha is a treasure too dangerous to leave lying around. Eddie would keep his blood supply close. He would even take it with him when he went out hunting at night.
　　I find a phone booth nearby and call Sally Diedrich. Before leaving the coroner's office, I had obtained her home and work number. I am not in the mood for idle gossip, so I come right to the point. Before going into the stiff business, did Eddie used to be an ice-cream man? As a matter of fact, yes, Sally replies. He and his mom owned a small ice-cream truck business in the Los Angeles area. That's all I wanted to know.
　　Next I call Pat McQueen, Ray's old girlfriend.
　　I don't know why I do it. She is not someone I can share my grief with, and besides, I do not believe such a thing should be shared. Yet, on this darkest of all nights, I feel an affinity with her. I stole her love and now fate has stolen mine. Maybe it is justice. Dialing the number, I wonder if I call to apologize or to antagonize her. I remind myself that she thinks Ray perished six weeks ago. My call will not be welcome. I may just open wounds that have already begun to close. Still, I do not hang up when she answers after a couple of rings.
　　"Hello?"
　　"Hello, Pat This is Alisa. I'm sure you remember me?"
　　She gasps, then falls into a wary silence. She hates me, I know, and wants to hang up. But she is curious. "What do you want?" she asks.
　　"I don't know. I stand here asking myself the same question. I guess I just wanted to talk to someone who knew Ray well."
　　There is a long silence. "I thought you were dead."
　　"So did I."
　　An even longer pause. I know what she will ask. "He is, isn't he?"
　　I bow my head. "Yes. But his death was not just an accident. He died bravely, by his own choice, trying to protect what he believed in."
　　She begins to weep. "Did he believe in you?" she asks bitterly.
　　"Yes. I like to think so. He believed in you as well. His feelings for you went very deep. He did not leave you willingly. I forced him."
　　"Why? Why couldn't you just leave us alone?"
　　"I loved him."
　　"But you killed him! He would be alive now if you had never spoken to him!"
　　I sigh. "I know that. But I did not know what would happen. Had I known, I would have done things completely different. Please believe me, Pat, I did not want to hurt you or him. It just worked out that way."
　　She continues to cry. "You're a monster."
　　The pain in my chest is great. "Yes."
　　"I can't forget him. I can't forget this. I hate you."
　　"You can hate me. That's all right. But you don't need to forget him. You wont be able to anyway. Nor will I be able to. Pat, maybe I do know why I called you. I think it was to tell you that his death does not necessarily mean the end of him. You see, I think I met Ray long ago, in another place, another dimension. And that day at school when we all introduced ourselves, it was like magic. He was gone, but he came back. He can come back again, I think, or at least we can go to him, to the stars."
　　She begins to quiet. "I don't know what you're talking about."
　　I force a smile, for myself. "It doesn't matter. We both loved him and he's gone, and who knows if there is anything else? No one knows. Have a good night, Pat. Have sweet dreams. Dream about him. I know I will for a long time."
　　She hesitates. "Goodbye, Alisa."
　　Hanging up, I stare at the ground. It is closer than the sky, and at least I know it is real. Clouds hang overhead anyway, and there are no stars tonight. I call my old friend Seymour. He answers quickly, and I tell him everything that has happened. He listens without interrupting. That's what I like about him. In this world of gossip a good listener is rarer than a great orator. He is silent when I finish. He knows he
　　cannot console me and he doesn't really try. I respect that as well. But he does acknowledge the loss.
　　"Too bad about Ray," he says.
　　"Yeah. Real bad."
　　"Are you all right?"
　　"Yes."
　　His voice is firm. "Good. You have to stop this bastard. I agree with you-Yaksha is probably in that ice-cream truck. All the signs point in that direction. Why didn't you wait until you checked it out before calling me?"
　　"Because if he is in there, and I get him away from Eddie and the cops, I won't be of a mind to make phone calls."
　　"Good. Get Yaksha. He'll heal quickly and then the two of you go after Eddie."
　　"I don't think it will be that easy."
　　Seymour pauses. "His legs won't grow back?"
　　"This might surprise you, but I don't have a lot of experience in such matters. But I doubt it"
　　"That's not good. You'll have to face Eddie alone."
　　"And I didn't do so well last time."
　　"You did well. You destroyed his partners. But you have to act fast or he will make more, and this time he will not allow them to gather in one place and be so easily wiped out."
　　"But I cannot beat him by force. I have proved that to myself already. He is just too fast, too strong. He's also smart. But you're smart, too. Just tell me what to do and I'll do it."
　　"I can only give you some hints. You have to place him in a situation where your advantages are magnified. He probably cannot see and hear as well as you. He is probably more sensitive to the sun."
　　"The sun didn't slow him down much."
　　"Well, he may be more sensitive to cold than you. I suspect that he is and doesn't know it. He certainly seems sensitive when it comes to his mother. He's what? Thirty years old? And he's a vampire and he's still living at home? The guy can't be that fearsome."
　　"I appreciate the humor. But give me something specific."
　　"Take her hostage. Threaten to kill her. He'll come a-running."
　　"I have thought of that."
　　"Then do it. But get Yaksha away from him first. I think it's Yaksha who can give you the secret of how to stop him."
　　"You read and write too many books. Do you really think there is a magical secret?"
　　"You are magic, Sita. You are full of secrets you don't even know. Krishna let you live for a reason. You have to find that reason, and this situation will resolve itself automatically."
　　His words move me. I had not told him of my dream. Still, my doubts and my pain are too heavy for words alone to wash away.
　　"Krishna is full of mischief," I say. "Sometimes, so the stories went, he did things for no reason at all. Just because he wanted to."
　　"Then you be mischievous. Trick Eddie. The football players at our school are all bigger and stronger than I am. But they're all a bunch of fools. I could whip their asses any day."
　　"If I survive this night, and tomorrow night, I will hold you to that proud boast. I might tell your football team exactly what you said about them."
　　"Fair enough." He softens. "Ray was enough. Don't die on me, Sita."
　　I am close to tears again. "I will call you the first chance I get"
　　"Promise?"
　　"Cross my heart and hope to die."
　　He groans but he is frightened for me. "Take care."
　　"Sure," I say.
　　Sneaking into the secured area is not difficult. I simply leap from one rooftop to the next when no one is looking. But getting out with an ice-cream truck in tow will not be so easy. There are police cars parked crossways at every exit. Nevertheless, that is the least of my worries. Moving silently a hundred feet above the ground, I see that the ice-cream truck is still in place. A palpable aura of pain surrounds it like a swarm of black insects above a body that has lain unburied. Dread weighs heavily on me as I leap from my high perch and land on the concrete sidewalk beside the truck. I feel as if I have just jumped into a black well filled with squirming snakes. No one stands in the immediate vicinity, but the odor of venom is
　　thick in the air. Even before I pull aside the locked door to the refrigerated compartment, I know that Yaksha is inside and in poor condition.
　　I open the door.
　　"Yaksha?" I whisper.
　　There is movement at the back of the cold box.
　　A strange shape speaks.
　　"What flavor would you like, little girl?" Yaksha asks in a tired voice.
　　My reaction is a surprise to me. Probably because I feared him for so long, it is difficult for me even to approach him without hesitation-even while seeking him out as an ally. Yet, with his silly question, a wave of warmth sweeps over me. Still, I do not stare too hard at what he has become. I do not want to know, at least not yet.
　　"I will get you out of here," I say. "Give me ten minutes."
　　"You can take fifteen if you need, Sita."
　　I close the compartment door. Only police cars are allowed in and out of the area. Not even the press has gotten through the roadblocks, which is understandable. It is not every day twenty-plus bodies are incinerated in Los Angeles, although, on the other hand, it is not that unusual an occurrence in this part of town.
　　My course is clear. I will get myself a police car, maybe a navy blue police cap to cover my blond hair. I walk casually in the direction of the warehouse, when who do I run into but the two cops who stopped me outside the coliseum: Detective Doughnut and his young prodigy. They blink when they see me, and I have to refrain from laughing. A box of doughnuts is set out on the hood of their black-and-white unit, and they are casually sipping coffee from Styrofoam cups. We are still a block from where all the action is going on, relatively isolated from view. The situation appeals to my devilish nature.
　　"Fancy meeting you here," I say.
　　They scramble to set down their nourishment. "What are you doing here?" the older cop asks politely. "This is a restricted area."
　　I am bold. "You make this place sound like a nuclear submarine."
　　"We're serious," the young one says. "You'd best get out of here quick."
　　I move closer. "I will leave as soon as you give me your car keys."
　　They exchange a smile. The older one nods in my direction. "Haven't you seen the news? Don't you know what's happened here?"
　　"Yeah, I heard an atomic bomb went off." I stick out my hand. "But give me the keys, really. I'm in a big hurry."
　　The young one puts his hand on his nightstick. Like he would really need it with a ninety-eight-pound young woman who looks all of twenty. Of course, he would need a Bradley Tank to stop me. The guy has a phony prep school demeanor, and I peg him for a rich dropout who couldn't get into law school and so joined the force to annoy Daddy.
　　"We're running out of patience," Preppy says, acting the tough guy. "Leave immediately or we're hauling your tight ass in."
　　"My tight ass? What about the rest of me? That sounds like a sexist statement if I ever heard one." I move within two feet of Preppy and stare him in the eye, trying hard not to bum it out of its socket. "You know I have nothing against good cops, but I can't stand sexist pigs. They piss me off, and when I get pissed off there's no stopping me." I poke the guy in the chest, hard. "You apologize to me right now or I'm going to whip your ass."
　　To my surprise-I could pass, after all, for a high school senior-he pulls his gun on me. Backing off a pace as if shocked, I raise my arms over my head. The older cop takes a tentative step in our direction. He is more experienced; he knows it is always a bad idea to go looking for trouble where trouble does not exist. Yet he does not know that trouble is my middle name.
　　"Hey, Gary," he says. "Leave the girl alone. She's just flirting with you is all. Put away your gun."
　　Gary does not listen. "She's got a pretty dirty mouth for a flirt. How do we know she's not a prostitute? Yeah, that's right, maybe she is. Maybe we should haul her tight ass in on a charge of soliciting sexual favors for money."
　　"I haven't offered you any money," I say.
　　That angers Gary. He shakes his gun at my belly. "You get up against that wall and spread your legs."
　　"Gary," the old cop complains. "Stop it."
　　"Better stop now, Gary," I warn him. "I can tell you for sure you won't be able to finish it."
　　Gary grabs me by the arm and throws me against the wall. I let him. When I am upset, I like to hunt Actually, when I feel any strong emotion, I like to hunt, to drink blood, to kill even. As Gary begins to frisk me, I debate whether to kill him. He is way over the line as he pats down my tight ass. He is not wearing a wedding band; he will not be missed much, except perhaps by his partner, who is soon headed for a heart attack anyway, with his diet of greasy doughnuts and black coffee. Yes, I think as Gary digs into my pockets and discovers my knife, his blood will taste good, and the world can do with one less creep. He holds the weapon up to his partner as if he has found the key to a treasure. In his mind it is that way. Now, because I am a certifiable criminal, he can do what he wants with me, as long as no one is videotaping the proceedings. No wonder the people in this neighborhood riot from time to time.
　　"Well, look at what we have here!" Gary exclaims. "Bill, when was the last time you saw a knife like this on a college coed?" He taps me on the shoulder with the flat of the blade. "Who gave this to you, honey? Your pimp?"
　　"Actually," I reply, "I took that knife off the body of a French nobleman who had the audacity to touch my ass without asking my permission." I slowly turn and catch his eye. "Like you."
　　Officer Bill reaches out and takes the knife away from Officer Gary, who tries to stare me down. He would have more luck staring down an oncoming train. Carefully I allow a little heat to enter my gaze and watch with pleasure as Gary begins to perspire heavily. He still grips his gun but has trouble keeping it steady.
　　"You're under arrest," he mutters.
　　"What is the charge?"
　　He swallows. "Carrying a concealed weapon."
　　I ease up on Gary for a moment, glance at Bill. "Are you arresting me as well?"
　　He is doubtful. "What are you doing with this kind of knife?"
　　"I carry it for protection," I reply.
　　Bill looks at Gary. "Let her go. If I lived around here, I'd carry a knife, too."
　　"Are you forgetting that this is the same girl we ran into outside the coliseum?" Gary asks, annoyed. "She was there the night of the murders. Now she's here at the burned-out warehouse." With his free hand he takes out his handcuffs, "Stick out your hands, please."
　　I do so. "Since you said please."
　　After bolstering his gun, Gary slaps on the cuffs. He grabs me by the arm again and pulls me toward the patrol car. "You have the right to remain silent. If you choose to give up that right, anything you say may be used as evidence against you. You have the right to the presence of an attorney, either retained or appointed-"
　　"Just a second," I interrupt as Gary starts to force my head into the rear seat.
　　"What is it?" Gary growls.
　　I turn my head in Bill's direction and catch his eye. "I want Bill to sit down and take a nap."
　　"Huh?" Gary says. But Bill does not say anything. Too many doughnuts have made him gullible. Already he is under my spell. I continue to bore into his eyes.
　　"I want Bill to sit down and go to sleep," I say. "Sleep and forget, Bill. You never met me. You don't know what happened to Gary. He just vanished tonight It's not your fault."
　　Bill sits down, closes his eyes like a small boy who has just been tucked in by his mother, then goes to sleep. His snores startle his partner, who quickly takes out his gun again and points it at me. Poor Gary. I know I am no role model for the war against violence, but they should never have let this guy out of the academy with live ammunition.
　　"What have you done to him?" he demands.
　　I shrug. "What can I do? I'm handcuffed." To illustrate my helplessness, I hold my chained hands up before his eyes. Then, smiling wickedly, I snap them apart. Flexing my wrists, the remains of the metal bonds fall to the concrete, clattering like loose change falling from torn pockets. "You know what that French nobleman said before I slit his throat with his own knife?"
　　Gary takes a stunned step back. "Don't move. I'll shoot."
　　I step toward him. "He said, 'Don't come a step closer. I'll kill you.' Of course, he didn't have your advantage. He didn't have a gun. As a matter of fact, there were no guns in those days." I pause and my eyes must be so big to him. Bigger than moons that burn with primordial volcanoes. "Do you know what he said as my fingers went around his throat?"
　　Gary, trembling, cocks the hammer on his revolver. "You are evil," he whispers.
　　"Close." Lashing out with my left foot, I kick the gun out of his hand. Much to his dismay it goes skidding down the block. I continue in a sweet voice, "What he said was, 'You are a witch.' You see, they believed in witches in those days." Slowly, deliberately, I reach over and grab my pale white victim by the collar and pull him toward me. "Do you believe in witches, Gary?"
　　He is a mask of fear, a bodysuit of twitches. "No," he mumbles.
　　I grin and lick his throat. "Do you believe in vampires?"
　　Incredibly he starts to cry. "No."
　　"There, there," I say as I stroke his head. "You must believe in something scary or you wouldn't be so upset Tell me, what kind of monster do you think I am?"
　　"Please let me go."
　　I shake my head sadly. "I'm afraid I can't do that, even though you did say please. Your fellow cops are just around the block. If I let you go, you'll run to them and tell them that I'm a prostitute who carries a concealed weapon. By the way, that wasn't a very flattering description. No one has ever paid me for sex, at least not with money." I choke him a little. "But they have paid me with their blood." His tears are a river. "Oh, God." I nod. "You go right ahead and pray to God. This might surprise you, but I met him once. He probably wouldn't approve of the torture I'm putting you through, but since he let me live, he must have known I would eventually meet you and kill you. Anyway, since he just killed my lover, I don't know if I care what he thinks." I scratch Gary with my thumbnail, and he begins to bleed. The red liquid sinks into his clean starched shirt collar like a line of angry graffiti. Leaning toward his neck, I open my mouth. "I am going to enjoy this," I mutter.
　　He clenches his eyes shut and cries, "I have a girlfriend!"
　　I pause. "Gary," I say patiently. "The line is 'I have a wife and two children.' Sometimes I listen to such pleas. Sometimes not The French nobleman had ten kids, but since he had three wives at the same time, I was not inclined to be lenient" His blood smells good, especially after my hard day and night, but something holds me at bay. "How long have you known this girl?" I ask. 
　　"Six months." 
　　"Do you love her?" 
　　"Yes."
　　"What's her name?"
　　He opens his eyes and peers at me. "Lori."
　　I smile. "Does she believe in vampires?"
　　"Lori believes in everything."
　　I have to laugh. "Then you must make such a pair! Listen, Gary, this is your lucky night. I am going to drink some of your blood, just until you pass out, but I promise you that I won't let you die. How does that sound?"
　　He doesn't exactly relax. I suppose he's had better offers in his days. "Are you really a vampire?" he asks.
　　"Yes. But you don't want to go telling your fellow cops that. You'll lose your job-and maybe your girlfriend, too. Just tell them some punk stole your car when you weren't watching. That's what I'm going to do as soon as you black out. Trust me, I need it." I squeeze him a little just to let him know I am still a strong little bitch. "Does this sound fair?"
　　He begins to see he has no choice in the matter. "Will it hurt?"
　　"Yes, but it will be a good hurt, Gary."
　　With that I open his veins farther and close my hungry lips over his flesh. I am, after all, in a terrible hurry. But only as I drink do I realize that his having a girlfriend has nothing to do with my letting him live. For the first time in my life the blood does not satisfy me. Just the feel of it in my mouth, the smell of it in my nostrils, revolts me. I do not kill him because I am tired of killing-finally. My prattle with the cops was a diversion for myself. The weight of knowing that I am the only one who can stop Eddie, the pain of my loss-they send sharp stakes into my heart that I cannot pull free. For once I cannot drown my trials in blood as I have drowned so many other difficult times over the centuries. I wish that I were not a vampire, but a normal human being who could take solace in the arms of someone who does not kill to live. My dream haunts me, my soul desire. The red tears return. I no longer want to be different
　　Gary barely starts to moan in pleasure and pain when I release him. As he slumps to the ground, dazed, I reach over and grab his keys and cap and get in the patrol car. My plan is simple. I will put what is left of Yaksha in the car and then slip through the barricade with a tip of my cap and a hard stare at whoever is in charge of security. I will take Yaksha to a lonely spot. There we will talk, of magic perhaps. Of death, certainly.
   
   12
　　I drive to the sea, not far from where I killed the woman the previous night. On the way there Yaksha rests on the seat beside me, what is left of him-a ruined torso shrouded at the base in an oily canvas sack that protrudes with the steel stakes Eddie has driven into him to keep him in pain. We do not talk. As I loaded him into the patrol car, I tried to pull off this hideous sack and remove the spikes, but he stopped me. He did not want me to see what had become of him. His dark eyes, still beautiful despite everything that has happened, held mine. The words passed unspoken between us. / want you to remember me the way I was. And I prefer to. The surf has quieted from the night before. The sea is almost as calm as a lake, and I remember a time Yaksha took me to a huge lake in southern India only a month before we met Krishna. It was at night, naturally. He wanted to show me a treasure he'd found under the water. Yaksha had a special gift for locating precious jewels and gold. He was simply drawn to them: secret caves, buried mines-they grabbed him like a magnet. Yet, when he found these things, he never kept them. It was as if he just wanted to see what beauty the past had left behind for us to discover.
　　He told me, however, that this particular lake had a whole city beneath it, and that no one knew. He believed it was over a hundred thousand years old, the last remnant of a great civilization that history had forgotten. Taking me by the hand, he led me into the water. Then we were diving deep. In those days I could go for half an hour without having to take a breath. Yaksha, I think, could last for hours without air. Being vampires, we could see fairly well, even in the dark and murky water. We went down over a hundred feet, and then the city was upon us: pillared balls, marble paths, sculpted fountains, all inlaid with silver and gold, now flooded with so many drops of water that they would never again sparkle in the sun. The city awed me, that it could simply exist completely unknown, so beautiful, so timeless. It also saddened me, for the same reasons.
　　Yaksha led me into what must have been a temple. Tall stained-glass windows, many still sound, surrounded the vast interior, which rose step by step in concentric circles, a series of pews that climbed all the way up the wall to a stone ceiling. The temple was unique in that there were no paintings, no statues. I understood that this was a race that worshiped the formless God, and I had to wonder if that was why they went the way they did, into extinction. But as Yaksha floated beside me, there was a joy in his eyes I had never seen before. He came from the abyss, I thought, and maybe it was as if he had finally found his people. Not that they were demons like him, certainly, but they seemed to come from beyond the world. I, too, in that moment felt as if I belonged, and it made me wonder where I had come from. Yaksha must have sensed the thoughts in me because he nodded, as if we had accomplished our purpose in coming, and brought me back to the surface. I remember how bright the stars looked as we emerged from that lost city. For some reason, from then on, the stars always shone with a special luster when I was near a large body of water.
　　In the present moment the clouds have fled and the stars are bright as I lay him on his back not far from the water, although the light of nearby Los Angeles dims the definition of the Milky Way. How much modern civilization has lost, I think, when they lost the awareness of the billions of stars overhead. Unfortunately, my awareness is also rooted to the earth this night. Eddie has actually sewn the canvas bag covering Yaksha into his flesh. The unseen spikes twitch under the material, or maybe it is the dissected muscles that shake. A wave of nausea passes through me as I think of the torture he has endured. Reaching out, I touch my hand to his still cold forehead. "Yaksha," I say.
　　His head rolls to one side. His lustrous dark eyes stare at the water with such longing. I know somehow that, like myself, he thinks of the lost city. That afternoon had been our last intimate moment together, before Krishna came on the scene and put a halt to the spread of the vampires by making Yaksha swear to destroy them all, if he wished to die with Krishna's grace.
　　"Sita," he says in a weak voice. "There must be many hidden cities beneath the ocean." 
　　"There are." 
　　"You've seen them?" 
　　"Yes. Under this ocean and the others." "Where do you think all these people went?" I ask. "They did not go to a place. Time is a larger dimension. Their time came, their time went. It is that way."
　　We allow some time to pass. The lapping of the small waves on the sand rhythmically echoes my breathing. For a minute they seem as one: each inhalation is a foam wave pushing up on the sand, each exhalation the pull of the receding tide. Over the last five thousand years the waves have reworked this coast, worn it down, carved out fresh bays. But even though my breath has moved in and out of my lungs all that time, I have not changed, not really. The ocean and the earth have known more peace than I have. They have been willing to change, while I have resisted it. My time went and I did not go with it. Yaksha is telling me that. "That night," I say. "What happened?"
　　He sighs, so much feeling in the sound. "The moment you ran out the front door, I had the urge to walk to the window. I wanted to get a better view of the ocean. It reminds me of Krishna, you know, and I wanted it to be my last sight before I left this world. When the bomb went off, I was blown out of the house and into the woods, in two pieces. Landing, I felt myself burning, and I thought, surely I will die now." He stops.
　　"But you didn't die," I say. 
　　"No. I slipped into a mysterious void. I felt as if I drifted forever on a black lagoon. The next ice age could have arrived. I felt bitter cold, like an iceberg drifting without purpose in a subterranean space. Finally, though, I became aware of my body again. Someone was shaking me, poking me. But I still couldn't see and I wasn't completely conscious. Sounds came to me out of a black sky. Some might have been my own thoughts, my own voice. But the others-they seemed so alien." 
　　"It was Eddie asking you questions." 
　　"Is that his name?" 
　　"Yes." 
　　"He never told me his name."
　　"He is not exactly a warm and fuzzy kind of guy."
　　Yaksha grimaces. "I know."
　　I touch him again. "Sorry."
　　He nods faintly. "I don't even know what I told him, but it must have been a lot. When I finally did regain full awareness and found myself in his ice cream truck, I also found myself the captive of a madman who knew a great deal of my history, and consequently yours."
　　"Did he withdraw your blood and inject himself with it?"
　　"Yes. When I was in the morgue, he must have noticed what was left of me trying to heal. He has kept me alive so that he can keep getting more of my blood. He has taken so much, he must be very powerful."
　　"He is. I have tried twice to stop him and have failed. If I fail a third time he will kill me."
　　Yaksha hesitates, and I know what he is going to ask. His vow to Krishna, to destroy all the vampires, is in jeopardy.
　　"Has he made more vampires?" he asks.
　　"Yes. As far as I can tell he made twenty-one new ones. But I was able to destroy them all this morning." I pause. "I had help from my friend."
　　Yaksha studies my face. "Your friend was killed."
　　I nod. Another tear. Another red drop to pour into the ocean of time and space, which collects them, it seems, with no thought of how much it costs our supposedly immortal souls.
　　"He died to save me," I say.
　　"Your face has changed, Sita."
　　I look at the ocean, searching for its elusive peace. "It was a great loss for me."
　　"But we have both lost much over the centuries. This loss has but uncovered the change that was already there."
　　I nod weakly and put a hand over my heart. "The night of the explosion, I took a wooden stake through the heart. For some reason that wound never really healed. I am in constant pain. Sometimes it is not so bad. Other times I can hardly bear it." I look at him. "Why hasn't it healed?"
　　"You know. The wound was supposed to kill you. We were supposed to die together."
　　"What went wrong?"
　　"I stood and walked to the window. You probably beheld your beloved's face as you passed out and prayed to Krishna to give you more time to be with him."
　　"I did just that."
　　"Then he has given you that time. You have his grace. I suspect you always get what you want."
　　I shake my head bitterly. "What I wanted more than anything was for Ray to be by my side for the next five thousand years. But your precious God didn't even give me one year with him." I bow my head. "He just took him."
　　"He is your God as well, Sita."
　　I continue to shake my head. "I hate him."
　　"Mortals have always exaggerated the difference between hate and love. Both come from the heart. You can never hate strongly unless you have loved strongly. The reverse is also true. But now you say your heart is broken. I don't know if it can be healed." He stops and takes my hand. "I told you this before. Our time has passed, Sita. We don't belong here anymore."
　　I wince and squeeze his hand. "I am beginning to believe you." I remember my dream. "Do you think if we do leave here that I will see Ray again?"
　　"You will see Krishna. He is in all beings. If you took for Ray there, you will find him."
　　I bite my lower lip, drink my own blood. It tastes better than the cop's. "I want to believe that," I whisper.
　　"Sita."
　　"Can you help me stop this monster?"
　　"No." His eyes glance over his mined body. "My wounds are too deep. You will have to stop him alone."
　　His statement deflates what strength I have left. "I don't think I can."
　　"I have never heard you say you couldn't do something."
　　I have to chuckle. "That's because we've been out of touch for five thousand years." I quiet. "He has no weak spot I don't know where to strike."
　　"He is not invincible."
　　I speak seriously. "He might very well be. At least in a fight with any creature walking this earth." I feel a sudden wave of longing for Ray, for love, for Krishna.
　　"I wish Krishna would return now. He could stop him easily enough. Do you think that's possible? That he will come again soon?"
　　"Yes. He may already be here and we don't know it. Certainly, when he returns, few will recognize him. It is always that way. Did you know I saw him again?"
　　"You did? Before he left the earth?"
　　"Yes."
　　"You never told me."
　　"I never saw you."
　　"Yes, I know, for five thousand years. When and where did you see him?"
　　"It was not long before he left the earth and Kali Yuga began. I was walking in the woods in northern India and he was just there. He was alone, sitting by a pool, washing his feet. He smiled as I approached and gestured for me to sit beside him. His whole demeanor was different from when we saw him the first time. His power was all about, of course, but at the same time he seemed much gentler, more an angel than a god. He was eating a mango and he offered me one. When he looked at me, I felt no need to explain how I had been doing everything in my power to keep my vow to him. We just sat in the sun and soaked our feet in the water and everything was fine. Everything was perfect. Our past battle was forgotten. I felt so happy right then I could have died. I wanted to die, to leave the earth with him. I asked him if I could, and he shook his head and told me this story. When he was finished, I didn't even know why he told it to me." Yaksha pauses. "Not until this night."
　　"What do you mean?" I ask.
　　"I believe he told me this story so that I could now tell it to you."
　　I am interested. 'Tell me."
　　"Lord Krishna said that there was once this demon, Mahisha, who performed a great austerity to gain the favor of Lord Shiva, who as you know is really no different from Krishna. Because there can be only one God. Mahisha kept his mind fixed on Shiva and meditated on him and his six-syllable mantra-Om Namah Shivaya-for five thousand years. But Shiva did not appear before him, and so Mahisha thought to build a huge fire and offer everything he possessed to Shiva, believing this would surely bring him. Mahisha put his clothing and jewels and weapons - even his fifty wives - into the fire. And still Shiva did not come to him. Then Mahisha thought, what have I left to offer? I have renounced everything I own. But then he realized he still had his body, and he decided that he would put that in the fire as well, piece by little piece. First he cut off his toes, and then his ears, and then his nose. All these things he threw into the fire. Seeing this from his high mountaintop in the blessed realm of Kailasha, Shiva was horrified. He didn't want any devotee, even a demonic one such as Mahisha, cutting himself up like that. Just when the demon was about to carve out his heart Shiva appeared before him.
　　"He said, 'You have performed a great and difficult austerity, Mahisha, and proved your devotion to me. Ask anything of me and I will grant it.' "Then Mahisha smiled to himself because it was for this very reason that he had undertaken his austerity. He said,'O Lord Shiva, I ask for but two boons. That I should be unkillable and that whoever I should touch on the top of the head should in turn be killed.'
　　"As you can imagine, Shiva was not too happy with the request He tried to talk Mahisha into something more benign: a nice palace, divine realization, or even a few nymphs from the heavens. But Mahisha would not be swayed, and Shiva was bound by his word, to grant anything asked of him. So in the end he said, 'So be it.' And then he quickly returned to Kailasha lest Mahisha tried to touch him on the head.
　　"As you can imagine Mahisha immediately started to cause all kinds of trouble. Gathering the hosts of demons together, he assaulted Indra, the king of paradise, and his realm. None of the gods could stop him because he was invincible, and, of course, every time they got near him, he would put his hand on the top of their heads and they would be killed. You understand that even a god can lose his divine form. In the end all the gods were driven from heaven and had to go into hiding to keep from being destroyed. Mahisha was crowned lord of paradise, and the whole cosmos was in disarray, with demons running wild, knocking down mountains, and raising up volcanoes."
　　"Were there people on the earth at this time?" I ask.
　　"I don't know. Krishna never said. I think there were. I think the ruins of the races I have found might have been from those times. Or maybe in the realms we speak of there is no time as we understand it. It doesn't matter. The situation was desperate and there was no relief in sight. But at the bequest of his wife, the beautiful Indrani, Indra performed a long austerity himself, with his mind fixed on Krishna and his twelve-syllable mantra-Om Namo Bhagavate Vasu-devaya. Indra was hiding in a deep cave on earth at the time, and he had to meditate for five thousand years before Krishna finally appeared and offered him any boon he wished. Of course Krishna realized what was happening in heaven and on earth, but he did not intervene until after there had been great suffering." 
　　"Why?" I ask.
　　"He is that way. There is no use in asking him why. I know, I have tried. It is like asking nature the same question about itself. Why is fire hot? Why do the eyes see and not hear? Why is there birth and death? These things just are the way they are. But since Krishna had offered Indra a boon, Indra was wise enough to jump at the opportunity. Indra asked Krishna to kill the unkillable Mahisha.
　　"It was an interesting problem for Krishna. As I have already said, in essence he is the same as Shiva, and he could not very well undo a boon he had freely granted. But Krishna is beyond all pairs of opposites, all paradoxes. What he did decide to do was appear before Mahisha as a beautiful goddess. The form he took was so ravishing that the demon immediately forgot about all the nymphs of the firmament and began to chase after her. But she-who was really a he, if the Lord can be said to have a particular sex - danced away from him, moving through the celestial forest, her hips swaying, waving her veils, dropping them along hidden paths so that Mahisha would not lose her, yet always staying out of arm's reach. Mahisha was beside himself with passion. And you know what happens when your mind becomes totally fixed on one person. You become like that person. Krishna told me that was how even the demons can become enlightened and realize him. They hate him so much they can't stop thinking about him."
　　I force a smile. "So it is all right if I hate him."
　　"Yes. The opposite of love is not hate. It is indifference. That is why so few people find God. They go to church and talk about him and that sort of thing. They may even go out and evangelize and try to win converts. But in their hearts, if they are honest with themselves, they are indifferent to him because they cannot see him. God is too abstract for people. God is a word without meaning. If Jesus came back today, nothing he said would make any sense to those who wait for him. They would be the first ones to kill him again."
　　"Did you ever meet Jesus?" I ask.
　　"No. Did you?"
　　"No. But I heard about him while he was still alive."
　　Yaksha draws in a difficult breath. "I don't even know if Jesus could heal me now."
　　"You would not ask him to even if he could."
　　"That is true. But let me continue with my story. In the form of the beautiful goddess, God was not too abstract for Mahisha. Because she danced, he in turn began to dance. He mimicked her movements exactly. He did so spontaneously, of his own free will, not imagining for a moment that he was in danger. He was fearless because he knew that he could not be killed. But the paradox of the boons granted to him was also the solution to the paradox. He had asked for two gifts, not one. But which one was stronger? The first one because it was asked for first? Or the second one because it was asked for second? Or was neither one stronger than the other? Maybe they could cancel each other out.
　　"As the goddess danced before Mahisha, in a subtle manner, at first almost too swift for the eye to see, she began to brush her hand close to the top of her head. She did this a number of times, slowing down a little bit on each occasion. Then, finally, she actually touched her head, and because Mahisha was so absorbed in her, he did likewise."
　　"And in that moment he was killed," I say, having enjoyed the story but not understood the purpose of it.
　　"Yes," Yaksha says. "The invincible demon was destroyed, and both heaven and earth were saved."
　　"I understand the moral of the story, but I do not understand the practicality of it. Krishna could not have given you this story to give to me. It does not help me. The only way I could bewitch Eddie would be to show him a snuff film. The guy is not interested in my body, unless it happened to assume the form of a corpse."
　　"That is not true. He is very interested in what is inside your body."
　　I nod. "He wants my blood."
　　"Of course. Next to mine, your blood is the most powerful substance on earth. He must have figured out that the two of us have grown in different ways over the centuries. He wants your unique abilities, and he can only absorb them by absorbing your blood into his system. For that reason I do not believe he will simply kill you outright when he sees you next."
　　"The first time we met he had a chance to kill me and didn't."
　　"Then you see the truth of what I say."
　　I speak with emotion, for all this talk does nothing to soothe my torment. Ray is dead and my old mentor is dying and God takes five thousand years to respond to a prayer. I feel as if I drift on the icy lagoon, hearing only gibberish whispered down to me from a black sky. I know Eddie will kill me the next time we meet. He will slowly peel off my flesh, and when I scream in pain, I know Krishna will not heed my pleas for help. How many times must Yaksha have cried out to Krishna to save him while Eddie pushed the steel spikes deeper into his torn body? I ask Yaksha this very question, but he is staring at the ocean again.
　　"Faith is a mysterious quality," he says. "On the surface it seems foolhardy-to trust so completely in something you don't know is true. But I think that trust, for most people, vanishes when death stands at the doorstep. Because death is bigger than human beliefs. It wipes them all away. If you study a dead Jew or a dead Christian or a dead Hindu or a dead Buddhist-they all look the same. They all smell the same, after a while. For that reason I think true faith is a gift. You cannot decide to have it. God gives it to you or he doesn't give it to you. When I was trapped in the truck these last few weeks, I didn't pray to Krishna to save me. I just prayed that he would give me faith in him. Then I realized it was all accomplished for me. I saw that I already had that faith." 
　　"I don't understand," I say. Yaksha looks at me once more. Reaching up, he touches my cheek where my red tear has left a tragic stain. Yet he smiles as he feels my blood, this creature who has just been put through such incredible pain. How can he smile? I wonder. There is a glow about him even in the midst of his ruin, and I realize that he is like the sea he loves so much, at peace with the waves that wash over him. Truly, we do become what we love, or what we hate. I wish that I still hated him and could therefore share a portion of his peace. With all I have lost, I fear to approach him with a feeling of love. Yet I lie even to myself. I love him as much as I love Krishna. He is still my demon, my lover, my enchanter. I bow my head before him and let him stroke my hair. His touch does not kill me but brings me a small measure of comfort.
　　"What I mean is," he says, "I knew you would come for me. I knew you would deliver me from my torment. And you see, you have. In the same way, even as he stuck his long needles into me and then injected himself in front of me and laughed and told me the world was now his, I knew that after you found me and heard Krishna's story, you would destroy him. You would save the world and fulfill my vow for me. I have that faith, Sita. God has given it to me. Please trust in it as I trust in you."
　　I am all emotion. I, the cold vampire. I shake before him like a lost little girl. I was young when I met him, so long ago, and in all that time I have failed to mature. At least in the way Krishna probably wanted me to. I know I am about to lose Yaksha, that he is going to ask me to kill him, and the thought devastates me.
　　"I do not know what the story means," I whisper. "Can't you tell me?"
　　"No. I don't know what it means, either." 
　　I raise my head. "Then we're damned!" Gently he takes a handful of my long hair. "Many in the past have called us that. But tonight you will make them repent those words because you will be their savior. Find him, Sita, bewitch him. I was every bit as powerful as he when I came for you that night I made you what you are. I did not come back willingly. You had bewitched me - yes,t25, even then - and I was a monster every bit as corrupt as this Eddie." 
　　I take his hand. "But I never really wanted to destroy you." He goes to speak and I quickly shake my head. "Don't say it, please."
　　"It must be done. You will need the strength of my blood. It is the least I can give you."
　　I hold his hand to my trembling mouth, but I am careful with his fingers, keeping them from my teeth. I do not want to bite them, even scratch them. How, then, can I drain him dry?
　　"No," I say.
　　His eyes wander back to the sea. "Yes, Sita. This way is the only way. And I am closer to it this time. I can see it." He closes his eyes. "I can remember him as if I saw him only yesterday. As if I see him now." He nods to himself. "It is not such a bad way to die."
　　I have had the same thought, and yet lived on. I do not deny him his last request, however. He has suffered greatly, and to make him go on as he is would be too cruel. Lowering my head and opening his veins, I press my lips to the flesh that brought my own flesh to this mysterious moment, which has sadly become a paradox of powers and weaknesses, of hopeless characters lost in time and space, where the stars turn overhead and shine down upon us like boons from the almighty Lord, or else curses from an indifferent universe. Yet the flavor of his blood adds color to my soul, and drinking it I feel an unlooked-for spark of hope, of faith. As he takes his last breath, I whisper in his ear that I will not do likewise until the enemy is dead. It is a vow I make to Yaksha as well as to Krishna.
   
   13
　　Once again I sit outside the house of the mother of Edward Fender. The time is eleven-thirty at night. Christmas is ten days away. Up and down the block cheap-colored lights, like so many out-of-season Easter eggs that have been soaked in Day-Glo paint, add false gaiety to a neighborhood that should have been on the late Soviet Union's first-strike priority list. Sitting in Gary and Bill's patrol car, I allow my senses to spread out, in and outside of the Fender home, around the block. My hearing is my greatest ally. Even the movements of worms through the soil a quarter of a mile away come to my sensitive ears. Mrs. Fender is still awake, sitting in her rocking chair and reading her magazines, watching a save-your-soul-before-
　　Armageddon Jesus program. She is definitely alone in the house, and I am pretty sure Eddie is not in the immediate neighborhood.
　　This puzzles me. With the police security near the warehouse and his confidence in the cleverness of his Yaksha hiding place, I can understand why Eddie left the ice-cream truck unguarded. But I cannot understand why he has left his mother wide open for me to take hostage. By now he must have figured out that I found the warehouse through her. Again, I am wary of a trap.
　　With Yaksha's blood in my system, my strength is back to a hundred percent, maybe even at a hundred and twenty percent, although I know I am still no match for Eddie, who drew upon Yaksha's blood many times over several weeks. Unfortunately, my state of mind is shaky. After Yaksha drew his last breath, I weighted the canvas bag that covered his lower portion with stones and waded out into the water and sank him. I made certain his remains are now safe from harm. He will never be found. Yet he has left me with a riddle I can't solve. Krishna told him his story five thousand years ago. Why was Yaksha so sure Krishna gave it to him to give to me for this particular emergency? For the life of me-and my life is very large-I can't see how I am going to destroy Eddie by dancing for him. For me, the word faith is as abstract as the word God. I trust that everything is going to work out for the best about as much as I trust that Santa Claus is going to bring me a bottle of blood for Christmas.
　　What can I do? I have no real plan except the obvious. Take Mrs. Fender hostage and force Eddie to come running, and then put a bullet in his brain when I get the chance. On my lap rests Officer Gary's revolver. Or is it Officer Bill's? It doesn't matter. It was in their car and it has six bullets in it. After tucking it in the front of my pants under my shirt, I get out of the car and walk toward the house.
　　I don't knock. Why bother? She will not open the door for me. Grabbing the knob, I break the lock and am on her before she can reach for the remote control on her TV. Modem Americans are so into their remotes. They treat them as if they were hand phasers or something, capable of leveling any obstacles. Fear and loathing distort her already twisted features. Yet the emotions are a sign that her brain has cleared. I am so happy for her, really. Grabbing her by the throat, I shove her up against the wall and breathe cold vampire air in her ugly face. Before burying Yaksha in the sea, I stripped down to nothing, but I was still wet when I put my clothes back on. The pants Joel bought for me drip on the wood floor as I tighten my grip on the old lady. Her weird gray eyes peer into mine, and as they do her expression changes. The bondage scares her but excites her as well. What a family.
　　"Where's your son?" I ask.
　　She coughs. "Who are you?"
　　"One of the good guys. Your son's one of the bad guys." I throttle her a bit. "Do you know where he is?"
　　She shakes her head minutely, turning a little blue. "No."
　　She is telling me the truth. "Have you seen him tonight?"
　　"No."
　　Another genuine reply. Odd. I allow a grim smile. "What did Eddie do as a kid for fun? Did he stick firecrackers in frogs' mouths and blow their heads off? Did he pour gasoline on cats and light them on fire? Did you buy him the gasoline? Did you buy him the cats? Really, I want to know what kind of mother it takes to make that kind of son."
　　She momentarily masters her fear and grins. The expression is like a crack in swamp mud, and smells just as foul.
　　"My Eddie is a good boy. He knows what to do with girls like you."
　　"Your boy has never met a girl like me before." I throw her back in her chair. "Sit there and keep your mouth shut." Taking the chair across from her, I sit down. "We are going to wait for Eddie."
　　"What are you going to do to him?"
　　I pull out my revolver. "Kill him."
　　She hardly blinks. In fact, on the whole she is remarkably accepting of my extraordinary strength. Her boy must have enlightened her on the new kids in town. Her fear continues to remain strong, but there is a cockiness to her as well. She nods as if to herself, her arthritic neck creaking like a termite-infested board.
　　"My boy is smarter than you. I think you'll be the one killed."
　　Turning off the TV with the remote, I cross my legs.
　　"If he's so smart, then why didn't he run away from home the day he learned to walk?"
　　She doesn't like that. "You're going to be sorry you said that."
　　I am already bored with her. "We shall see."
　　An hour later the phone rings. Since I hope to scare Eddie into rushing to the house, there is no point in having the mother answer and pretending that I am not here. Eddie will not fall for so simple a ruse anyway. I pick up the phone.
　　"Hello?" I say.
　　"Sita."
　　It is Joel and he is in serious trouble. In an instant I realize that after I left him, he went to this house, where he was abducted by Eddie. Eddie was here while I was rescuing Yaksha, probably outside hiding, probably confident I would return here the first chance I got. But when I didn't show, he took the man who rescued me from the flames, no doubt thinking he could use him as leverage with me. In a moment I understand that the chances of Joel living through the night are less than one in a hundred.
　　"He is nearby," I say.
　　Joel is scared but still in control. "Yes."
　　"He has made his point as far as you are concerned. Put him on the line."
　　"I am expendable," Joel says. "You understand that?"
　　"We're both expendable," I reply.
　　Eddie comes on the line a moment later. His voice is liquid grease. He sounds confident, as well he should.
　　"Hello, Sita. How's my mother?"
　　"She's fine, busy boasting about her son."
　　"Have you hurt her?"
　　"Thinking about it. Have you hurt Joel?"
　　"Just broke his arms is all. Is he another boyfriend of yours? That last one of yours didn't last so long."
　　I strain to sound casual. "You win some, you lose some. When you're as old as I am, one is as good as another."
　　Eddie giggles. "I don't know about that. Right now I don't think you could do any better than me."
　　I want to antagonize him, make him act foolishly. "Are you making a pass at me, Eddie? Is that what this is all about? You want to rule the world so you can be sure to have a date for Friday night? You know, I talked to your old employer and heard what your idea of a good time is. I swear, with your social graces, I wouldn't be surprised if you're still a virgin."
　　He does not like that. It is good, I think, to find sensitive nerves before we again meet in battle. For all of Eddie's intelligence, he seems to have a fundamental immaturity when it comes to dealing with people, and I don't mean that he is simply psychotic. Many psychotics I have known have had excellent interpersonal skills-when they weren't murdering people. Eddie is a sorrier case. He was the nerd in the high school library at lunch picking at his zits and fantasizing about rape every time a cheerleader walked by. His tone turns mean and nasty.
　　"Let's cut to the chase," he says. "I want you to meet me at Santa Monica Pier in thirty minutes. If you are not there by then, I will begin to kill your friend. I will do so slowly just in case a flat tire has delayed your arrival. It's possible you still might be able to recognize him if you're less than twenty minutes late. My mother, of course, is to be left in her home unharmed." He pauses for effect "Do you understand these instructions?"
　　I snort. "Oh, gimme a break. I don't jump when you say jump. You have nothing with which to threaten me. Such a thing does not exist on this planet. You want to talk to me, you get here within thirty minutes. If not, I will hang your mother's head on the front door in place of a Christmas wreath. The red color will be in keeping with the holiday spirit." I pause. "Do you understand my instructions, you foul-mouthed pervert?"
　　He is angry. "You're bluffing!"
　　"Eddie, you should know me better than that by now."
　　With that I hang up the phone. He will come, I am sure of it. But I have to wonder if I want him to bring Joel, if another standoff with an important life hanging in the balance will not cause me to falter again. Almost, I pray that he kills Joel before I am forced to kill him.
   
   14
　　A thousand years ago, in the Scottish Highlands, I was faced with a situation similar to the one that now confronts me. At the time I had a royal lover, the Thane of Welson, my Harold. We lived in a moderate-size castle on the northwestern coast of Scotland, where the biting winter winds blew off the foaming ocean water like ice daggers carved by frigid mermaids. They were enough to make me dream of Hawaiian vacations, even though Hawaii had yet to be discovered. I liked Harold. More than any other mortal I had met, he reminded me of Cleo, my old Greek friend. They had a similar sense of humor and they were both leches. I like horny men; I feel they are true to their inner natures.
　　Harold was not a doctor, however, like Cleo, but an artist, and a great one at that He painted me in a number of poses, many times nude. One of these paintings now hangs in the Louvre in Paris, and is attributed to an artist who never even existed. Once I visited the museum and found a skilled art student painting a copy of the work. Coming up at his side, I just stood there for the longest time, and he kept glancing at me and getting more curious. Indeed, looking a little closer he even acted kind of scared. He wanted to say something to me but didn't know what. Before leaving I just smiled at him and nodded. Harold had caught my likeness perfectly.
　　At that time in Scotland there was an arrogant authority figure in the area, a certain Lord Tensley, who had a much bigger castle and ego than my Harold, but not the great object of his desire, which just happened to be me. Lord Tensley wanted me in the worst way and did everything in his power to woo me away from Harold. He sent me flowers and horses and carriages and jewels-the usual Middle Ages fluff. But I will take a sense of humor over power and money any day. Besides, Lord Tensley was cruel, and even though I have been known to bite a few necks in my day-and crush a few skulls-I have never thought of myself as one who enjoys pain at another's expense. One story had it that Lord Tensley had beheaded his first wife when she refused to smother their slightly handicapped female firstborn. All of Lord Tensley's subsequent lovers had stiff necks from checking their backs constantly.
　　While I was with Harold, I was going through one of my reckless periods. Usually I go to great lengths to keep my true identity secret, and it wasn't as if I romped around the Scottish Highlands biting the neck of every MacFarland and Scottie Boy who walked by in the dark. But during that time, perhaps because I was lazy and tired of arguing with people, I used the power of my eyes and voice to quickly get what I wanted. Naturally, after a time, I developed the reputation of being a witch. This did not bother Harold, as it had not bothered Cleo before him. Both were progressive thinkers. But unlike Cleo, Harold actually knew that I was a vampire, and that I often drank human blood. It really turned him on to have such a girlfriend. When he painted me, I often had blood on my face. Harold occasionally asked me to make him a vampire so that he wouldn't have to grow old and die, but be knew of Krishna and the vow I'd made to him and so he didn't press me. Once Harold painted a picture of Krishna for me from my description, and that was a work I treasured above all others, until it was destroyed in England in a German bombing raid during World War II.
　　Because I had shunned Lord Tensley, and had developed the reputation of being a witch, the good man of God felt it was his duty to have me tried and burned at the stake, a practice that was later to come into vogue during the Inquisition. In a sense Lord Tensley was a man ahead of his time. He dispatched a dozen armed men to bring me in, and because Harold's entire security force consisted of maids, butlers, and mule boys, I met the contingent myself before they reached our castle and sent their heads back to Lord Tensley with a note attached: The answer is still no. I thought that would scare him off, at least for a while, but Lord Tensley was more determined than I realized. A week later he kidnapped my Harold and sent a note to me stating that unless I surrendered myself promptly, he would be sending me Harold's head. Storming Lord Tensley's heavily fortified castle would have been a difficult proposition, even for a creature such as I, and besides, I thought a little feigned cooperation would bring Harold back to me all the sooner. I sent another note back: The answer is yes, but you have to come get me. Bring Harold.
　　Lord Tensley brought Harold and twenty of his best knights. Hearing them approach, I sent my people off. None were fighters and I didn't want them to get killed. Alone, I stood atop my castle gate that cold dark night with a bow and arrow in hand as the witch-squad rode up on their horses. The nervous exhalations of the men and animals shone like dragon's breath in the orange glow of the flickering torches. Lord Tensley carried Harold before him on his own horse, a jagged knife held tight at my lover's throat. He called up to me to surrender or he would kill my boyfriend before my eyes. The interesting thing about Lord Tensley was that he didn't underestimate me in the slightest. Naturally, one would expect the ten heads I sent back to him to make him cautious. But the way he maintained his distance, keeping Harold directly in front of him, and even the manner in which he avoided looking in my direction made me think he honestly believed I was a witch.
　　That was a problem. Generally in the past, before the advent of modern weapons, I could extricate myself from most situations by sheer speed and strength. An arrow or spear shot in my direction-I could just duck aside or catch it in midair. There was never a chance someone could defeat me in a sword fight, even when I didn't have a sword. It wasn't until guns were developed that I had to move more carefully and use my head first before my feet or hands.
　　For a long moment I licked the tip of the arrow in my hand and considered taking my best shot at Lord Tensley. The chances were excellent that I would be able to kill him without harming Harold. The problem was I would not be able to stop the other men from quickly chopping up my lover.
　　"I will surrender," I called down. "But first you must let him go."
　　Lord Tensley laughed. He was an intensely handsome man, but his face somehow reminded me of a fox that dreamed of being a wolf. What I mean is he was sly and proud at the same time, and didn't care if he got his snout bloody, as long as it was at mealtime. Harold, on the other hand, was as ugly as a man could be and still have all his basic features in the right places. He had broken his nose on three occasions, each time while drunk, and the sad thing was that each shattered cartilage actually improved his appearance. But he could make me laugh and he could make love all night and what did the rest of it matter? I would do my best to save him, I knew, even at the risk of my own life. Cowards I have always despised above all else.
　　"You surrender first," Lord Tensley called back. "And then we will let him go."
　　"I am all alone here," I said. "A frail woman. Why don't your knights come get me?"
　　"We will not debate with you, witch," Lord Tensley replied. And with that he stabbed his knife through Harold's upper right arm, a serious injury to receive in those days without modern surgical techniques and drugs. Even in the cold wind, I could smell the amount of blood pouring out of Harold. By bartering, I had made a mistake. I had to get to him soon.
　　"I will come down now," I called, setting aside my bow and arrow.
　　Yet I hung behind the castle gate even as I peered my head out at the wicked gang. Knowing they were coming, I had placed a fresh horse and supplies just beyond a nearby bluff. If Harold could get to the animal, I knew he would ride to a cave two miles distant that only the two of us knew about. There he could hide until his girlfriend extraordinaire figured out a way to wipe out the enemy. Harold had the utmost confidence in me. Even at that moment, bound and bleeding as he was, he smiled at me as if to say, give 'em hell. I was not worried about that part. It was keeping him alive at the same time that concerned me. But to that end I sought to focus my gaze on Lord Tensley as I looked out from behind the gate. He continued to avoid my eyes, however.
　　"Let him go," I called, pitching my voice as powerfully as I could, knowing, if given the chance, that eye contact would magnify my subtle influence tenfold.
　　"Come out now, witch, or I stab his other arm," Lord Tensley called back. "Then your heathen lover will be doing no more of those corrupt paintings of your filthy body."
　　Harold was in fact left-handed. I had to restrain myself from replying that if I was burned at the stake, then Harold wouldn't be doing any more paintings of me in either case. And as far as my filthy body was concerned-he hadn't minded the look and smell of it until I had told him to take a hike. Another phrase, by the way, that I think I invented. There is a place for sarcasm and this was not one of them. I stepped into the open and spoke steadily.
　　"Now you keep your word and release him," I said.
　　Lord Tensley did as requested, but it was a feint. I knew the moment he had me bound and gagged he would chase after Harold and either cut him down or recapture him to be tried as a witch alongside me. Still, Lord Tensley could not know about the horse I had waiting nearby, and for that reason I exchanged a long stare with Harold as they untied him and let him climb to the ground. Harold and I had a deep telepathic bond; it was another special element in our relationship. Even with the pain of his wound and the pressure of the situation, he was able to sense my mind. Common sense also came to his aid; he knew I would want him to get to the cave. He nodded slightly before turning and fleeing into the night. Sadly, he left behind a trail of blood that I could smell only too clearly.
　　When he was out of sight, I turned my attention to Lord Tensley's son, who had no reservations about looking at me. The young man was barely sixteen but large as an ox. He had one of those cheerful blank expressions that made me think that if his karma remained constant, then in his next life he would be a lineman for a professional football team and make two million dollars a year. Never mind that at that time there was no football, or even dollars for that matter. Some faces and things I just have a feeling for. It was my intention to send him on to his great destiny as quickly as possible, but I knew subtle suggestion would not work on his primitive brain. Stepping forward and focusing my eyes deep into his head, I said in a calm clear voice:
　　"Your father is the witch. Kill him while you still can."
　　The boy spun and shoved his sword into his father's gut. A look of immense surprise shone on Lord Tensley's face. He turned to me just before he fell off his horse. Of course I was smiling.
　　"I know you've kept one of Harold's paintings of me in your closet," I said. "I look pretty good for a witch, dont I?"
　　e tried to answer, but a glob of blood came out of his mouth instead of words. Toppling forward, Lord Tensley was dead before he hit the ground. Half the knights fled right then, including the, athletic son, the other half stayed to fight. I dealt with them quickly, without mercy, largely because I was in a hurry to get to Harold.
　　But I was too late. I found him lying on his back beside the horse I had left for him. The wound in the arm had punctured an artery, and he had bled to death. My Harold-I was to miss him for a long time. To this day I have never returned to Scotland.
　　What was the moral of the story? It was painfully simple. One cannot argue with evil men. They are too unpredictable. Waiting for Eddie, with his mother firmly in hand, I know he will do something weird.
　　Still, I do not know what the moral of Krishna's story is.
   
   15
　　The smell of Eddie, even from four blocks away, is clear to me. Not that he makes any effort to sneak up on me. I assume this is because he values his mother's life as much as his own. His car stays at the speed limit. He parks out front. Two sets of feet come up the porch steps. Eddie actually pays me the courtesy of knocking. Standing on the far end of the living room with my gun to Mom's head, I call for them to come in.
　　The door opens.
　　Eddie has broken both of Joel's arms. They hang uselessly by the agent's side. Despite his intense pain, Joel strives to appear calm, and I admire him for it. He has many fine qualities-I really do care for the guy. Again, I have to tell myself that I cannot risk all of humanity for this one life. Joel flashes me a wan smile-almost in apology-as he is shoved through the door before Eddie. But be has no need to apologize to me, even though he has done exactly what I told him not to do. True courage, in the face of almost certain death, is the rarest quality on earth.
　　Eddie has found himself a gun, a 10-millimeter affair-standard FBI issue. He keeps it close to Joel's head and Joel's body close to his own. Eddie really does have a serious complexion problem. It looks as if when he was an adolescent he tried to treat his problem acne with razor blades. The experiment was a distinct failure. But it is his eyes that are the scariest. The green centers look like cheap emeralds that have been dipped in sulfuric acid and left out to dry in a radioactive dust storm. The whites are more red than white; his eyes are not merely bloodshot but hemorrhaging. Perhaps a local pollen irritates them. Maybe it's the sun I dragged him out into earlier. He looks happy enough to see me, though, and his mother. He flashes us both a toothy smile. Mom doesn't reply, not with my fingernails around her throat, but she does appear relieved to see her darling boy.
　　"Hi, Mom," Eddie says. "Hi, Sita." He kicks the door closed behind him.
　　"I'm glad you were able to make it on time," I say. "But I didn't mind waiting. It's been pleasant talking to your mother, getting to know what Edward Fender was like as a young man growing up in troubled times."
　　Eddie scowls. "You're a bitch, you know that? Here I try to be friendly in a difficult situation, and you try to insult me."
　　"I don't consider your trying to kill my boyfriend and myself an act of friendship," I say. 
　　"You drew first blood," Eddie says. 
　　"Only because I was quicker than your friends. Drop the B.S., Eddie, please. Neither of us is here to kiss and make up."
　　"Why are we here?" Eddie asks. "To play standoff again? That didn't work so well for you last time." 
　　"I don't know. I destroyed your silly gang." 
　　Eddie snickers. "You're not sure of that." 
　　I smile. "Now I am sure. You see, I can tell when someone lies. It's one of those great gifts I possess that you don't. There is only you left, and we both know it."
　　"What of it? I can make more whenever I feel the need."
　　"Why do you feel the need? So that you can always have someone to order about? And while we're on the subject, what is your ultimate goal? To replace all of humanity with a race of vampires? If you study the situation logically, you'll see that it won't work. You cannot make everyone a hunter. There will be nothing left to hunt."
　　Eddie appears momentarily puzzled. He is intelligent but not wise. His vision is sharp but also myopic; he does not look beyond next week. Then, just like that, he is angry again. His temper conies and goes like flares in a lava pit. Logic is not going to work on him.
　　"You're just trying to confuse me with that witchy voice of yours," he says. "I'm having a good time and that's all I care about."
　　I snort. "Well, at least now we understand your priorities."
　　He grows inpatient. Pulling Joel tighter, he digs his thumbnail into Joel's neck, coming close to breaking the skin. "Let my mother go," he orders.
　　I act casual, even as I dig my nail into his mother's neck. "You have a problem here, Eddie. I hardly know this guy. You can kill him and I won't bat an eye. You're in no position to give me orders."
　　He tries to stare me down. There is power in his gaze but no control. "I don't believe you will just kill an innocent woman," he says.
　　"She bore you," I say. "She's not innocent."
　　In response Eddie pricks Joel's neck. The ice-cream man has a good feel for deep-rooted veins. The flow of blood is immediate and thick. Joel shifts uneasily but does not try to shake free, which he probably knows is impossible anyway. So far he has allowed me to play the game, probably hoping I have a card up my sleeve that I'm not showing. All I have is Krishna's abstract tale. But as Joel feels his life draining away, soaking his white shirt a tragic red, I understand his need to speak. Yet he has finally begun to grasp the stakes of this particular pot and is not afraid to die.
　　"He's not going to let me walk out of here alive, Sita," Joel says. "You know that. Take your best shot and be done with it."
　　The advice is sound. Using Mom as a shield, I can simply open fire. The only trouble is Joel is not Ray. He will not heal in a matter of minutes. He will certainly die, and still I won't be sure of killing Eddie. This problem-it is age old. To do what is right and save the day without destroying the very thing the day is lived for. I hesitate a moment, then dig my nail deep into Mom's neck. The woman lets out a terrified gasp. Warm blood spurts over my fingers. Which pump will run out sooner? I honestly don't know. Mom shakes visibly in my arms and Eddie's face darkens.
　　"What do you want?" he demands.
　　"Let Joel go," I say. "I will let your mother go. Then it will just be between the two of us, the way it should be."
　　"I will beat you to the draw," Eddie says.
　　I am grim. "Maybe."
　　"There is no maybe about it and you know it. You're not going to release my mother. You're not here to negotiate. You just want me dead."
　　"Well," I say.
　　"Just use your gun," Joel says with feeling. His blood drips off his shirt and onto his pants. Eddie has opened the jugular. I estimate Joel has three minutes to live. He will be conscious for only half that. Slumping slightly, he leans back into Eddie, who has no trouble supporting him. Although Joel struggles to remain calm, his color is white. It is not easy to watch yourself bleed to death. And what makes it worse is with his broken arms he can't even raise a hand to press over his wound. Naturally, Mom tries to stop the bleeding, scratching me in the process with her clawlike fingers, but I keep the red juice coming. They will both die about the same time, unless I do something quick, or Eddie does.
　　But I do not know what to do.
　　"Release him," I say.
　　"No," Eddie says. "Release my mother."
　　I do not reply. I begin to panic instead. I cannot stand by and watch Joel die. Yes, I, ancient Sita, the scourge of Krishna, who has killed thousands. But maybe my unchanging nature has finally been rattled. I am not who I was two days ago. Perhaps it is because of the loss of Ray and Yaksha, but the thought of another death on my hands chills me to the core. A wave of nausea sweeps over me, and I see a red that is not there, a deeper red than even the color of blood. A blotted sun sinking below the horizon at the end of the world. It will be the end of humanity, I know, to surrender to this maniac, but the mathematics of human life suddenly won't add up. I cannot spend one life to protect five billion. Not when that one life begins to wobble and sink before my eyes. Joel's blood now drips off the hem of his pants, onto the dusty floor. Mom's blood does likewise, through her frumpy nightgown. What is wrong with Eddie? Can't he see the seconds ticking by? His mother cries in my arms, and I actually feel sorry for her. Yeah, I know, I picked a wonderful time to turn into a softy.
　　"In less than a minute your mother will be beyond help," I explain. "But if you act now, I will heal her neck and let her go."
　　Eddie sneers. "You can't heal. You can only kill."
　　I harden my voice. "I can do both. I can show you. Just let him go. I will do the same with your mother. We can do it together, simultaneously."
　　Eddie shakes his head. "You're lying."
　　"Maybe, maybe not. But your mother is dying. That's a certainty." I pause. "Can't you see that?"
　　Eddie's cheek twitches, but his will doesn't. "No," he says.
　　Joel sags dangerously to one side and now has to be completely supported. There are two pints of blood on his shirt, two on the floor. His eyes are the color of baking soda. He tries to tell me to be strong and he can hardly get the words out.
　　"Just shoot," he begs.
　　God, do I want to. A bullet in the brain to put Joel out of his misery, then another five bullets in Eddie, in more choice spots than at the Coliseum. With his mother's life still in balance, I am confident I can get off all six shots without taking a bullet myself. But the balance is on the verge of tripping; the scale is about to break. Mom sags in my arms. There is no longer enough blood in her veins to keep her heart from skipping. She has strength left for her tears, however. Why do they affect me so? She is a terrible person. Krishna will not be waiting to welcome her on the other side, if there really is such a place. Yet, ironically, it is her very wretchedness that makes me pity her so. I don't know what's wrong with me.
　　I don't know what to do!
　　"Joel," I say, showing Eddie just how lousy my hand is by letting pain enter my voice. "I didn't want any of this."
　　"I know ..." He tries to smile, fails. "You warned me."
　　"Eddie," I say.
　　He likes to hear the weakness in my voice. "Yes, Sita."
　　"You are a fool."
　　"You are a bitch."
　　I sigh. "What do you want? Really? You can tell me that much at least."
　　He considers. "Just what I have coming to me."
　　"Christ" I want to throw up. "They'll kill you. This planet is only so big. There are only so many places to hide. The human race will hunt you down and kill you."
　　He is cocky. "Before they know what's happening, there won't be many of them left to do the hunting."
　　Joel's dripping blood is like a river, a torrential current I cannot free myself of no matter how hard I try. Once upon a time I enjoyed such red floods, but that was when I believed they flowed into an ocean. The endless sea of Krishna's grace. But where is he now? This great God who promised me his protection if I but obeyed his command? He is dead, drowned by the indifference of time and space like the rest of us.
　　"Krishna," I whisper to myself. "Krishna."
　　He does not appear before me in a vision and explain to me why I suddenly release my grip on Eddie's mother. The surrender is not an act of faith. The despair I feel in this moment crushes the breath of either possibility. The woman stands at death's door but somehow manages to stagger toward her son, with a twisted grin on her face that reminds me of a wind-up doll's. Her darling son, she believes, has conquered again. A sticky red trail follows her across the wood floor. Bereft of my mortal shield, I stand helpless, waiting for the shots that never come. Of course, time is on Eddie's side, and he probably has worse things planned for me. He waits while his mother comes to him.
　　"Butterfly," she says sweetly, raising her bloodless arms to embrace him. Shifting Joel into one arm, Eddie acts as if he is ready to hug her.
　　"Sunshine," Eddie replies.
　　Yet he grabs his mother with his free hand. Hard.
　　He yanks her head around. All the way.
　　The touch of the demon. Every bone in her neck breaks.
　　Hitting the floor dead, her eccentric grin is still plastered on her face.
　　Guess he wasn't that crazy about Mom, after all.
　　"She was always telling me what to do," Eddie explains.
　　The next minutes are a blur. I am told to surrender my gun, which I do. Joel is deposited on the couch, where he stares glassy eyed at the two of us, still alive, still aware of what is happening, but unable to do anything about it. Eddie does allow me to stop Joel's bleeding, however, with a drop of blood from my own finger. Eddie probably just wanted to see how it was done. On the whole, as Yaksha predicted, he is very interested in my blood. By remarkable coincidence he has a syringe and plastic tubing in his pocket-don't leave home without them. The modern medical devices no doubt facilitated his manufacture of other vampires. Pointing his gun at me, Eddie has me take a seat at the dining room table. He also has a tourniquet, which he instructs me to tie around my upper left arm. I am a role model of cooperation. My veins pop up beneath my soft white skin. It is odd that I should notice a mole on my elbow right then, one which I never knew I had, even though it must have been there for the last five thousand years.
　　I cannot believe that I am about to die.
　　Not taking his eyes or his aim off me, Eddie fetches a couple of glasses, and ice, from the kitchen. Clearly he wishes to celebrate his conquest with several toasts. I do not flinch as he sticks the needle in my largest vein and my blood traces a dear plastic loop into his glass. I'll have a Bloody Sita-on the rocks. The glass fills steadily. We look at each other across the dining room table. Joel is lying semiconscious ten feet off to my left, his breathing labored. From vast experience I know a large blood loss can cause a person to smother. In a few minutes I may even know it from personal experience. The grin on Eddie's face is most annoying.
　　"So I win," he says.
　　"What do you win? You're a miserable creature, and when I'm gone you'll still be miserable. Power, wealth, even immortality-they don't bring happiness. You will never know what the word means."
　　Eddie laughs. "You don't look so happy right now."
　　I nod. "That's true. But I don't fool myself that I am. I am what I am. You are just a caricature of a hero in one of your perverted fantasies. One morning, one night I should say, you'll wake up and look at yourself in the mirror and wish the person staring back at you weren't so ugly."
　　"You're just a lousy loser."
　　I shake my head. "I am not just talking about your ugly face. If you live long enough, you're going to eventually see what you are. It's inevitable. If I do fail to kill you tonight, I predict you will eventually kill yourself. Out of sheer loathing. One thing for sure, you're never going to change. You'll always be something sick that the creation just happened to vomit forth when God was looking the other way."
　　He snorts. "I don't believe in God."
　　I nod sadly. "I don't know if I do, either."
　　A wave of dizziness sweeps over me.
　　My blood, my immortal blood, is leaving me.
　　It will not be long now.
　　Yet I cannot stop thinking of Krishna, even when the tall glass is full and Eddie raises it to his lips and toasts my good health and drinks it down in one guttural swallow. It is as if my dream of Krishna and the story he gave to Yaksha have become superimposed over each other in my mind. Actually, it is as if I have two minds, one in this hell I can't block out, the other in a heaven I can't really remember. But the duality of consciousness does not comfort me. The memory of the bliss of my imagined conversation with Krishna on the enchanted hilltop just makes this bitter end that much more difficult to accept Of course, I do not accept it. Even though I have surrendered, I have lived too long to lie down and be sucked dry like this. Krishna beat the demon by playing the enchantress. How may I play this same role? What is the key? If only he would appear before me now and tell me. Another glass fills and Eddie drinks it down.
　　"Now I will play you a song made up of the seven notes of humanity. All the emotions you will feel as a human and as a vampire. Remember this song and you will remember me. Sing this song and I will be there."
　　Why did he tell me that? Or did he tell me anything at all? Did I not just dream the whole thing? I had just lost Ray. My subconscious must have been starving for comfort. Surely I created the whole thing. Yet, if I did, the joy of the creation brought me more joy than anything in this world has. I cannot forget the beauty of Krishna's eyes-the blue stars wherein the whole of the creation shines. It is as if I trust in his beauty more than in his words. His love was a thing that never needed to be understood. The day we met, it was just there, like the endless sky.
　　The day we met.
　　What did he do that remarkable day?
　　He played his song on his flute. Yaksha had challenged him to a contest. Together they went into a large pit filled with cobras, and it was agreed that whoever came out alive would be the victor. Both carried flutes and played songs to enchant the serpents and keep them from striking. But in the end Krishna won because he knew the secret notes that moved the different emotions inside all of us who were present. With his song Krishna struck deep into Yaksha's heart and brought forth love, hate, and fear-in that order. And it was this last emotion that defeated Yaksha because a serpent only strikes when it senses fear. His body oozed venom by the time Krishna had Yaksha carried from the pit.
　　I have no flute on which to play that song.
　　Yet I remember it well. Yes.
　　"Sing this song and I will be there."
　　From that day, and that time outside of time, before there even were days, I remember it. My dream was more than a dream. It was a key.
　　Staring Eddie straight in the eye, I begin to whistle.
　　He pays me no heed, at first.
　　He drinks down a third glass of my blood.
　　My strength begins to fail. There is no time for love, even for hate. I sing the last song Krishna sang to us, the one of fear. The note, the tone, the pitch-they are engraved in my soul. My lips fold into the perfect lines of Krishna's flute. I do not see him, of course, and I doubt that I even feel his divine presence. Yet I feel something remarkable. My fear is great, it is true, and that emotion goes deep into my blood, which Eddie continues to drink. Anxiety crosses his face as he takes another sip, and for that I am glad. Yet beyond this I sense the true significance of my body, the instrument through which this song of life and death is continually playing for all of us. The realization even gives me a sense of the player, my true self, the I that existed before I stepped on this wicked stage and donned the costume of the vampire.
　　Again, I remember wanting to be different.
　　Eddie pauses with the bloody glass in his hand. He looks at me strangely. "What are you doing?" he asks.
　　I do not answer him with words. The tune continues to pour from my lips, a poisonous note with which I hope to save the world. The influence of it spreads throughout the room. Joel's breathing becomes painful-my song is killing him as well. It is irritating Eddie, that's for sure. He suddenly drops his glass and shakes his gun at me.
　　"Stop that!" he orders.
　　I know I have to stop, at least this melody. If I don't he will shoot me and I will be dead. But another note comes to me, and it is odd because it is not one that Krishna played the day he dueled with Yaksha. Yet I know it, and once again I believe that the dream must have been a genuine vision. Before I entered the creation, Krishna gave me all the notes of life, all the keys to all the emotions a human being, and a monster, could experience.
　　I sing the note of the second center in the body- the sex center. Here, when the life energy flows, there are experienced two states of mind. Intense creativity when the energy goes up, intense lust when it goes down. Leaning toward Eddie, holding his eye as if it were his pleasure button, I pierce that secret note through his ears and into his nervous system and I send it down. Down even into the ground where I wish to bury his stinking body. It does not matter that I do not lust for him myself. It only matters that I have finally understood the meaning of Krishna's fable. / am the enchantress. The gun in Eddie's hand wavers and he stares at me in a new light. No longer does he just want my blood. He wants the container as well - my flesh. I pause long enough to give him a nasty grin. He resisted my suggestions before and my lover died. He will not resist me now and he will die.
　　I am that cheerleader he never had in high school.
　　"You have never had someone like me," I say softly.
　　Another note. Another inhuman caress.
　　Eddie licks his lips.
　　"You will never have someone like me," I whisper.
　　I do not sing the note. It sings itself.
　　Eddie fidgets, beside himself with passion.
　　"Never." I form the word with my wet lips.
　　One more note. I barely get it out
　　Eddie drops his gun and grabs me. We kiss.
　　Hmm. Yuck.
　　I pull back slightly to let him adore the whole of me.
　　"I like it cold," I say.
　　Eddie understands. He is an ice-cream man, a connoisseur of frozen corpses. It is his thing and we should not judge him too harshly. Especially when he falls for my suggestion and drags me in the direction of the rear of the house. Toward the huge freezer where he used to go searching for Popsicles in the middle of the night. I am so weak-Eddie drags me by my hair. Yanking the fat white door open, he throws me inside, into the foggy frost, the cold dark, where his eyes are not as sharp as mine, and both our aversions to cold will stand or fall in critical balance. Landing on my ass, I quickly stand and find Eddie staring at me in that special way. I do believe he is not even going to give me a chance to fully undress. Tossing my head and hair to the side, I raise my right hand and place it on my left breast. One last time, just before I speak, I whistle the note.
　　"I do so prefer the dark," I say. "For me, it makes it that much more dirty."
　　Eddie-he has many buttons. This one makes his leg lash out. Behind him, the door shuts. The over-head light either doesn't work or doesn't exist. All is dark, all is cold.
　　I hear him coming toward me.
　　More than that I can distinguish a faint outline of him, even in the total absence of light. And I can tell by the lack of focus in his movements that he cannot see me at all. Also, already I can tell the cold has dulled his vampiric blood. This is both good and bad. The slower he is, the easier he will be to handle. Yet the same effect applies to me as well. My only advantage is that I know the dullness is coming. Unfortunately, snakes never mate on a winter night. The freezer puts a hold on his reckless passion just when I need it most. Before I can sing another note, he pauses in midstride, and I see that he realizes he has been tricked. In a flash he turns for the door.
　　I trip him. He falls to the floor.
　　In the event a large freezer door gets jammed and a person is locked inside, it is required by law that an ax be kept inside at all times. That way, if need be, the unfortunate individual can chop his way out In Eddie's freezer the ax is strapped to the inside of the door, which is normal. As Eddie falls, I leap onto his back and over his head and grab that ax. It is a big sucker. Raising it over my head, feeling the weight of its sharp steel blade, I know true happiness.
　　"What's your favorite flavor, little boy?" I ask.
　　Eddie quickly goes up onto his knees, searching for me in the dark, feeling with his hands, knowing I'm near but not realizing what I have in my hands.
　　"Huh" he says.
　　"Cherry red?" I shout.
　　I bring the ax down hard. Cut off his goddamn head. Black blood gushes out and I kick his amputated coconut into what could be a box of ice-cream sandwiches. Dropping the ax, I rumble in the dark with the door, barely getting it open. My strength is now finished. Even with the ax, even being a vampire, I would not have had the energy to chop my way out.
　　I find Joel dying on the couch. He has a minute more, maybe two. Kneeling before him, I lift up his sunken head. He opens his eyes and tries to smile at me.
　　"You stopped him?" he whispers.
　　"Yes. He is dead." I pause and glance at the needle still in my arm, the tourniquet and the plastic tubing. I twist the latter to keep it from leaking my blood onto the floor. Searching Joel's face, I feel such guilt. "Do you know what I am?" I ask.
　　The word comes hard. "Yes."
　　"Do you want to be like me?"
　　He closes his eyes. "No."
　　I grab him, shake him. "But you will die, Joel."
　　"Yes." His head falls on his chest. His breath is a thing of resignation, a settling of ripples on a mountain pond that prepares for a winter's frost Yet he speaks once more, one sweet word that pierces my heart and makes me fed he is my responsibility: "Sita."
　　The seconds tick. They always do. The power of an entire sun cannot stop them even for a moment, and so death comes between the moments, like a thief of light in the dark. Eddie had brought a spare syringe. It sits on the dining room table like a needle that waits for me to poke in the eye of God. Krishna made me promise to make no other vampires, and in return he would grant me his grace, his protection. And even though I did make another when I changed Ray, Yaksha believed I still lived in that grace because I gave Ray my blood to save him, only because I loved him.
　　'Where there is love, there is my grace."
　　I believe I can save Joel. I feel it is my duty to do so.
　　But do I love him?
　　God help me, I don't know.
　　Stumbling into the dining room, I fetch the extra syringe. It fits snugly onto the end of the plastic tubing. Because I still wear the tourniquet, the pressure is on my veins and my blood will flow into his. Like Ray, six weeks ago, Joel will be forever altered. But staring down at his unconscious face, I wonder if any creature, mortal or immortal, has the right to make decisions that last forever. I only know I will miss him if he dies.
　　Sitting beside him, cradling him in my arms, I stick the needle in his vein. My blood - it goes into him. But where will it stop? As I sink into the couch and begin to pass out, I realize that he may hate me in the morning, which from now on will always come at night for him. He told me not to do it. He may even kill me for what I have done. Yet I am so weary, I don't know if I even care. Let him carry on the story, I think.-Let him be the last vampire.



26

CPatricia.AllThatRemains

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CPatricia.PointofOrigin

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CPike.TheLastVampire

　1
　
　
　I am a vampire, and that is the truth. But the modern meaning of the word vampire, the stories that have been told about creatures such as I, are not precisely true. I do not turn to ash in the sun, nor do I cringe when I see a crucifix. I wear a tiny gold cross now around my neck, but only because I like it. I cannot command a pack of wolves to attack or fly through the air. Nor can I make another of my kind simply by having him drink my blood. Wolves do like me, though, as do most predators, and I can jump so high that one might imagine I can fly. As to blood-ah, blood, the whole subject fascinates me. I do like that as well, warm and dripping, when I am thirsty. And I am often thirsty.
　My name, at present, is Alisa Perne-just two words, something to last for a couple of decades. I am no more attached to them than to the sound of the wind. My hair is blond and silklike, my eyes like sapphires that have stared long at a volcanic fissure. My stature is slight by modem standards, five two in sandals, but my arms and legs are muscled, although not unattractively so. Before I speak I appear to be only eighteen years of age, but something in my voice-the coolness of my expressions, the echo of endless experience-makes people think I am much older. But even I seldom think about when I was born, long before the pyramids were erected beneath the pale moon. I was there, in that desert in those days, even though I am not originally from that part of the world.
　Do I need blood to survive? Am I immortal? After all this time, I still don't know. I drink blood because I crave it. But I can eat normal food as well, and digest it. I need food as much as any other man or woman. I am a living, breathing creature. My heart beats-I can hear it now, like thunder in my ears. My hearing is very sensitive, as is my sight. I can hear a dry leaf break off a branch a mile away, and I can clearly see the craters on the moon without a telescope. Both senses have grown more acute as I get older.
　My immune system is impregnable, my regenerative system miraculous, if you believe in miracles- which I don't. I can be stabbed in the arm with a knife and heal within minutes without scarring. But if I were to be stabbed in the heart, say with the currently fashionable wooden stake, then maybe I would die. It is difficult for even a vampire's flesh to heal around an implanted blade. But it is not something I have experimented with.
　But who would stab me? Who would get the chance? I have the strength of five men, the reflexes of the mother of all cats. There is not a system of physical attack and defense of which I am not a master. A dozen black belts could corner me in a dark alley, and I could make a dress fit for a vampire out of the sashes that hold their fighting jackets closed. And I do love to fight, it is true, almost as much as I love to kill. Yet I kill less and less as the years go by because the need is not there, and the ramifications of murder in modern society are complex and a waste of my precious but endless time. Some loves have to be given up, others have to be forgotten. Strange as it may sound, if you think of me as a monster, but I can love most passionately. I do not think of myself as evil.
　Why am I talking about all this? Who am I talking to? I send out these words, these thoughts, simply because it is time. Time for what, I do not know, and it does not matter because it is what I want and that is always reason enough for me. My wants-how few they are, and yet how deep they burn. I will not tell you, at present, who I am talking to.
　The moment is pregnant with mystery, even for me. I stand outside the door of Detective Michael Riley's office. The hour is late; he is in his private office in the back, the light down low-I know this without seeing. The good Mr. Riley called me three hours ago to tell me I had to come to his office to have a little talk about some things I might find of interest. There was a note of threat in his voice, and more. I can sense emotions, although I cannot read minds. I am curious as I stand in this cramped and stale hallway. I am also annoyed, and that doesn't bode well for Mr. Riley. I knock lightly on the door to his outer office and open it before he can respond.
　"Hello," I say. I do not sound dangerous-I am, after all, supposed to be a teenager. I stand beside the secretary's unhappy desk, imagining that her last few paychecks have been promised to her as "practically in the mail." Mr. Riley is at his desk, inside his office, and stands as he notices me. He has on a rumpled brown sport coat, and in a glance I see the weighty bulge of a revolver beneath his left breast. Mr. Riley thinks I am dangerous, I note, and my curiosity goes up a notch. But I'm not afraid he knows what I really am, or he would not have chosen to meet with me at all, even in broad daylight.
　"Alisa Perne?" he says. His tone is uneasy.
　"Yes."
　He gestures from twenty feet away. "Please come in and have a seat."
　I enter his office but do not take the offered chair in front of his desk, but rather, one against the right wall. I want a straight line to him if he tries to pull a gun on me. If he does try, he will die, and maybe painfully.
　He looks at me, trying to size me up, and it is difficult for him because I just sit here. He, however, is a montage of many impressions. His coat is not only wrinkled but stained-greasy burgers eaten hastily. I note it all. His eyes are red rimmed, from a drug as much as fatigue. I hypothesize his poison to be speed-medicine to nourish long hours beating the pavement. After me? Surely. There is also a glint of satisfaction in his eyes, a prey finally caught. I smile, privately at the thought, yet a thread of uneasiness enters me as well. The office is stuffy, slightly chilly. I have never liked the cold, although I could survive an Arctic winter night naked to the bone.
　"I guess you wonder why I wanted to talk to you so urgently," he says,
　I nod. My legs are uncrossed, my white slacks hanging loose. One hand rests in my lap, the other plays with my hair, Left-handed, right-handed-I am neither, and both.
　"May I call you Alisa?" he asks.
　"You may call me what you wish, Mr. Riley."
　My voice startles him, just a little, and it is the effect I want. I could have pitched it like any modern teenager, but I have allowed my past to enter, the power of it. I want to keep Mr. Riley nervous, for nervous people say much that they later regret.
　"Call me Mike," he says. "Did you have trouble finding the place?"
　"No,"
　"Can I get you anything? Coffee? A soda?"
　"No."
　He glances at a folder on his desk, flips it open. He clears his throat, and again I hear his tiredness, as well as his fear. But is he afraid of me? I am not sure. Besides the gun under his coat, he has another beneath some papers at the other side of his desk. I smell the gunpowder in the bullets, the cold steel. A lot of firepower to meet a teenage girl. I hear a faint scratch of moving metal and plastic. He is taping the conversation.
　"First off I should tell you who I am," he says. "As I said on the phone, I am a private detective. My business is my own-I work entirely freelance. People come to me to find loved ones, to research risky investments, to provide protection, when necessary, and to get hard-to-find background information on certain individuals."
　I smile. "And to spy."
　He blinks. "I do not spy, Miss Perne."
　"Really." My smile broadens. I lean forward, the tops of my breasts visible at the open neck of my black silk blouse. "It is late, Mr. Riley. Tell me what you want."
　He shakes his head. "You have a lot of confidence for a kid."
　"And you have a lot of nerve for a down-on-his-luck private dick."
　He doesn't like that. He taps the open folder on his desk. "I have been researching you for the last few months, Miss Perne, ever since you moved to Mayfair.
　You have an intriguing past, as well as many investments. But I'm sure you know that."
　"Really."
　"Before I begin, may I ask how old you are?"
　"You may ask."
　"How old are you?"
　"It's none of your business."
　He smiles. He thinks he has scored a point. He does not realize that I am already considering how he should die, although I still hope to avoid such an extreme measure. Never ask a vampire her age. We don't like that question. It's very impolite. Mr. Riley clears his throat again, and I think that maybe I will strangle him.
　"Prior to moving to Mayfair," he says, "you lived in Los Angeles-in Beverly Hills in fact-at Two-Five-Six Grove Street. Your home was a four-thousand-square-foot mansion, with two swimming pools, a tennis court, a sauna, and a small observatory. The property is valued at six-point-five million. To this day you are listed as the sole owner, Miss Perne,"
　"It's not a crime to be rich."
　"You are not just rich. You are very rich. My research indicates that you own five separate estates scattered across this country. Further research tells me that you probably own as much if not more property in Europe and the Far East. Your stock and bond assets are vast-in the hundreds of millions. But what none of my research has uncovered is how you came across this incredible wealth. There is no record of a family anywhere, and believe me, Miss Perne, I have looked far and wide."
　"I believe you. Tell me, whom did you contact to gather this information?"
　He enjoys that he has my interest. "My sources are of course confidential."
　"Of course." I stare at him; my stare is very powerful. Sometimes, if I am not careful,, and I stare too long at a flower, it shrivels and dies. Mr. Riley loses his smile and shifts uneasily. "Why are you researching me?"
　"You admit that my facts are accurate?" he asks.
　"Do you need my assurances?" I pause, my eyes still on him. Sweat glistens on his forehead. "Why the research?"
　He blinks and turns away with effort. He dabs at the perspiration on his head. "Because you fascinate me," he says. "I think to myself, here is one of the wealthiest women in the world, and no one knows who she is. Plus she can't be more than twenty-five years old, and she has no family. It makes me wonder."
　"What do you wonder, Mr. Riley?"
　He ventures a swift glance at me; he really does not like to look at me, even though I am very beautiful. "Why you go to such extremes to remain invisible," he says.
　"It also makes you wonder if I would pay to stay invisible," I say.
　He acts surprised. "I didn't say that."
　"How much do you want?"
　My question stuns him, yet pleases him. He does not have to be the first to dirty his hands. What he does not realize is that blood stains deeper than dirt, and that the stains last much longer. Yes, I think again, he may not have that long to live.
　"How much are you offering?" he ventures.
　I shrug. "It depends."
　"On what?"
　"On whether you tell me who pointed you in my direction."
　He is indignant. "I assure you that I needed no one to point me in your direction. I discovered your interesting qualities all by myself."
　He is lying, of that I am positive. I can always tell when a person lies, almost always. Only remarkable people can fool me, and then they have to be lucky. But I do not like to be fooled-so one has to wonder at even their luck.
　"Then my offer is nothing," I say.
　He straightens. He believes he is ready to pounce. Then my counteroffer, Miss Perne, is to make what I have discovered public knowledge." He pauses. "What do you think of that?"
　"It will never happen.""
　He smiles. "You don't think so?"
　I smile. "You would die before that happened."
　He laughs. "You would take a contract out on my life?"
　"Something to that effect."
　He stops laughing, now deadly serious, now that we are talking, about death. Yet I keep my smile since death amuses me. He points a finger at me.
　"You can be sure that if anything happened to me the police would be at your door the same day," he says.
　"You have arranged to send my records to someone else," I say. "Just in case something should happen to you?"
　"Something to that effect." He is trying to be witty. He is also lying. I slide back farther into my chair. He thinks I am relaxing, but I position myself so that my legs are straight out. If I am to strike, I have decided, it will be with my right foot.
　"Mr. Riley," I say. "We should not argue. You want something from me, and I want something from you. I am prepared to pay you a million dollars, to be deposited in whatever account you wish, in whatever part of the world you desire, if you will tell me who made you aware of me."
　He looks me straight in the eye, tries to, and surely he feels the heat building up inside me because he flinches before he speaks. His voice comes out uneven and confused. He does not understand why I am suddenly so intimidating.
　"No one is interested in you except me," he says.
　I sigh. "You are armed, Mr. Riley."
　"I am?"
　I harden my voice. "You have a gun under your coat. You have a gun on your desk under those papers. You are taping this conversation. Now, one might think these are all standard blackmail precautions, but I don't think so. I am a young woman. I don't look dangerous. But someone has told you that I am more dangerous than I look and that I am to be treated with extreme caution. And you know that that someone is right." I pause. "Who is that someone, Mr. Riley?"
　He shakes his head. He is looking at me in a new light, and he doesn't like what he sees. My eyes continue to bore into him. A splinter of fear has entered his mind.
　"H-how do you know all these things?" he asks.
　"You admit my facts are accurate?" I mimic him.
　He shakes his head again.
　"Now I allow my voice to change, to deepen, to resonate with the fullness of my incredibly long life. The effect on him is pronounced; he shakes visibly, as if he is suddenly aware that he is sitting next to a monster. But I am not just any monster. I am a vampire, and in many ways, for his sake, that may be the worst monster of all.
　"Someone has hired you to research me," I say. "I know that for a fact. Please don't deny it again, or you will make me angry. I really am uncontrollable when I am angry. I do things I later regret, and I would regret killing you, Mr. Riley-but not for long." I pause.
　"Now, for the last time, tell me who sent you after me, and I will give you a million dollars and let you walk out of here alive." He stares at me incredulously. His eyes see one thing, and his ears hear another, I know. He sees a pretty blond girl with startlingly blue eyes, and he hears the velvety voice of a succubus from hell. It is too much for him. He begins to stammer
　"Miss Perne," he begins. "You misunderstand me. I mean you no harm. I just want to complete a simple business deal with you. No one has to ... get hurt."
　I take in a long, slow breath. I need air, but I can hold my breath for over an hour if I must. Yet now I let out the breath before speaking again, and the room cools even more. And Mr. Riley shivers.
　"Answer my question," I say simply.
　He coughs. "There is no one else,"
　"You'd better reach for your gun."
　"Pardon?"
　"You are going to die now. I assume you prefer to die fighting.,"
　"Miss Perne-"
　"I am five thousand years old."
　He blinks. "What?"
　I give him my full, uncloaked gaze, which I have used in the past-alone-to kill. "I am a vampire," I say softly. "And you have pissed me off."
　He believes me. Suddenly he believes every horror story he has been told since he was a little boy. That they were all true: the dead things hungering for the warm living flesh; the bony hand coming out of the closet in the black of night; the monsters from another page of reality, the unturned page-who could look so human, so cute.
　He reaches for his gun. Too slowly, much too.
　I shove myself out of my chair with such force that I am momentarily airborne. My senses switch into a hyper-accelerated mode. Over the last few thousand years, whenever I am threatened, I have developed the ability to view events in extreme slow motion. But this does not mean that I slow down; quite the opposite. Mr. Riley sees nothing but a blur flying toward him. He does not see that as I'm moving. I have cocked my leg to deliver a devastating blow.
　My right foot lashes out. My heel catches him in the center of the breastbone. I hear the bones crack as he topples backward onto the floor, his weapon still bolstered inside his coat. Although I moved toward him in a horizontal position, I land smoothly on my feet. He sprawls on the floor at my feet beside his overturned chair. Gasping for breath, blood pouring out of his mouth. I have crushed the walls of his heart as well as the bones of his chest, and he is going to die. But not just yet. I kneel beside him and gently put my hand on his head. Love often flows through me for my victims.
　"Mike," I say gently. "You would not listen to me."
　He is having trouble breathing. He drowns in his own blood-I hear it gurgling deep in his lungs-and I am tempted to put my lips to his and suck it away for him. Such a temptation, to sate my thirst. Yet I leave him alone.
　"Who?" he gasps at me.
　I continue to stroke his head, "I told you the truth. I am a vampire. You never stood a chance against me. It's not fair, but it is the way it is." I lean close to his mouth, whisper in his ear."Now tell me the truth and I will stop your pain. Who sent you after me?"
　He stares at me with wide eyes. "Slim," he whispers.
　"Who is Slim? A man?"
　"Yes."
　"Very good, Mike. How do you contact him?"
　"No."
　"Yes." I caress his cheek. "Where is this Slim?"
　He begins to cry. The tears, the blood-they make a pitiful combination. His whole body trembles. "I don't want to die," he moans. "My boy."
　"Tell me about Slim and I will take care of your boy," I say. My nature is kind, deep inside. I could have said if you don't tell me about Slim, I will find your dear boy and slowly peel off his skin. But Riley is in too much pain to hear me, and I immediately regret, striking so swiftly, not slowly torturing the truth out of him. I did tell him that I was impulsive when I'm angry, and it is true.
　"Help me," he pleads, choking.
　"I'm sorry. I can only kill, I cannot heal, and you are too badly hurt." I sit back on my heels and glance around the office. I see on the desktop a picture of Mr. Riley posed beside a handsome boy of approximately eighteen. Removing my right hand from Mr. Riley, I reach for the picture and show it to him. "Is this your son?" I ask innocently.
　Terror consumes his features. "No!" he cries.
　I lean close once more. "I am not going to hurt him. I only want this Slim. Where is he?"
　A spasm of pain grips Riley, a convulsion-his legs shake off the floor like two wooden sticks moved by a poltergeist. I grab him, trying to settle him down, but I am too late. His grimacing teeth tear into his lower lip, and more blood messes his face. He draws in a breath that is more a shovel of mud on his coffin. He makes a series of sick wet sounds. Then his eyes roll back in bis head, and he goes limp in my arms. Studying the picture of the boy, I reach over and close Mr. Michael Riley's eyes.
　The boy has a nice smile, I note.
　Must have taken after his mother.
　Now my situation is more complicated than when I arrived at the detective's office. I know someone is after me, and I have destroyed my main lead to him or her. Quickly I go through Riley's desk and fail to find anything that promises to be a lead, other than Riley's home address. The reason is sitting behind the desk as I search. Riley has a computer and there is little doubt m my mind that he stored his most important records on the machine. My suspicion is further confirmed when I switch on the computer and it immediately asks for an access code. Even though I know a great deal about computers, more than most experts in the field, I doubt I can get into his data banks without outside help. I pick up the picture of father and son again. They are posed beside a computer. Riley Junior, I suspect, must know the access code. I decide to have a talk with him.
　After I dispose of his father's body. My exercise in cleanup is simplified by the fact that Riley has no carpet on his office floor. A brief search of the office building leads me to a closet filled with janitorial supplies. Mop and pail and bucket in hand, I return to Mr. Riley's office and do the job his secretary probably resented doing. I have with me-from the closet -two big green plastic bags, and I slip Riley into them. Before I leave with my sagging burden, I wipe away every fingerprint I have created. There isn't a spot I have touched that I don't remember.
　The late hour is such a friend; it has been for so many years. There is not a soul around as I carry Riley downstairs and dump him in my trunk. It is good, for I am not in the mood to kill again, and murder, for me, is very much tied to my mood, like making love. Even when it is necessary.
　Mayfair is a town on the Oregon coast, chilly this late in autumn, enclosed by pine trees on one side and salt water on the other. Driving away from Riley's office, I feel no desire to go to the beach, to wade out beyond the surf to sink the detective in deep water. I head for the hills instead. The burial is a first for me in this area. I have killed no one since moving to Mayfair a few months earlier. I park at the end of a narrow dirt road and carry Riley over my shoulder deep into the woods. My ears are alert, but if there are mortals in the vicinity, they are all asleep. I carry no shovel with me. I don't need one. My fingers can impale even the hardest soil more surely than the sharpest knife can poke through a man's flesh. Two miles into the woods I drop Riley onto the ground and go down on my hands and knees and begin to dig. Naturally, my clothes get a bit dirty but I have a washing machine and detergent at home. I do not worry. Not about the body ever being found.
　But about other things, I am concerned.
　Who is Slim?
　How did he find me?
　How did he know to warn Riley to treat me with caution?
　I lay Riley to rest six feet under and cover him over in a matter of minutes without even a whisper of a prayer. Who would I pray to anyway? Krishna? I could very well tell him that I was sorry, although I did tell him that once, after holding the jewel of his life in my bloodthirsty hands while he casually brought to our wild party. No, I think, Krishna would not to my prayer, even if it was for the soul of one of my victims. Krishna would just laugh and return to his flute. To the song of life as he called it. But where was the music for those his followers said were already worse than dead? Where was the joy? No, I would not pray to God for Riley.
　Not even for Riley's son.
　In my home, in my new mansion by the sea, late at night, I stare at the boy's photo and wonder why he is so familiar to me. His brown eyes are enchanting, so wide and innocent, yet as alert as those of a baby owl seen in the light of the full moon. I wonder if in the days to come I will be burying him beside his father. The thought saddens me. I don't know why.
　
　
　2
　
　
　I do not need much sleep, two hours at most, which I usually take when the sun is at its brightest. Sunlight does affect me, although it is not the mortal enemy Bram Stoker imagined in his tale of Count Dracula. I read the novel Dracula when it first came out, in ten minutes. I have a photographic memory with a hundred percent comprehension. I found the book delicious. Unknown to Mr. Stoker, he got to meet a real vampire when I paid him a visit one dreary English evening in the year 1899. I was very sweet to him. I asked him to autograph my book and gave him a big kiss before I left. I almost drank some of his blood, I was tempted, but I thought it would have ruined any chance he would have had at writing a sequel, which I encouraged him to do. Humans are seldom able to dwell for any length on things that truly terrify them, even though the horror writers of the present think otherwise. But Stoker was a perceptive man; he knew there was something unusual about me. I believe he had a bit of a crush on me.
　But the sun, the eternal flame in the sky, it diminishes my powers. During the day, particularly when the sun is straight up, I often feel drowsy, not so tired that I am forced to rest but weary enough that I lose my enthusiasm for things. Also, I am not nearly so quick or strong during the day, although I am still more than a match for any mortal. I do not enjoy the day as much as the night. I love the blurred edges of darker landscapes. Sometimes I dream of visiting Pluto.
　Yet the next day I am busy at dawn. First I call the three businessmen responsible for handling my accounts-each located on a different continent- and tell them I am displeased to learn that my finances have been examined. I listen to each protestation of innocence and detect no falsehood in their voices. My admiration for Mr. Riley's detecting abilities climbs a notch. He must have used subtle means to delve into my affairs.
　Or else he'd had help.
　Of course I know he had help, but I also believe he turned against the man who sent him to find me. When he realized how rich I was, he must have thought that he could score more handsomely by going after me directly. That leads me to suspect that whoever hired Riley does not know the exact details of my life, where I live and such. But I also realize he will notice Riley's disappearance and come looking for whoever killed him. I have time, I believe, but not much. By nature, I prefer to be the hunter, not the hunted. Yes, indeed, I vow, I will kill those who hired Riley as surely as I wiped him from the face of the earth.
　I make arrangements, through my American businessman, to be enrolled at Mayfair High that very day. The wheels are set in motion and suddenly I have a new identity. I am Lara Adams, and my guardian, Mrs. Adams, will visit the school with my transcripts and enroll me in as many of Ray Riley's classes as possible. It has not taken me long to learn the son's name. The arm of my influence is as long as the river of blood I have left across history. I will never meet this fake Mrs. Adams, and she will never meet me, unless she should talk about her efforts on Lara's behalf. Then, if that happens, she will never talk again. My associates respect my desire for silence. I pay them for that respect.
　That night I am restless, thirsty. How often do I need to drink blood? I begin to crave it after a week's time. If a month goes by I can think of nothing other than my next dripping throat. I also lose some strength if I go too long. But I do not die without it, at feast not readily. I have gone for as long as six months without drinking human blood. I only drink animal blood if I am desperate. It is only when I feed from a human that I feel truly satisfied, and I believe it is the life force in the blood that makes me hunger for it more than the physical fluid itself. I do not know how to define the life force except to say that it exists: the feel of the beating heart when I have a person's vein in my mouth; the heat of their desires. The life force in an animal is of a much cruder density. When I suck on a human, it is as if I absorb a portion of the person's essence, their will. It takes a lot of willpower to live for fifty centuries.
　Humans do not turn into vampires after I bite them. Nor do they change into one if they drink my blood. Blood that is drunk goes through the digestive tract and is broken down into many parts. I do not know how the legends started that oral exchange could bring about the transformation. I can only make another vampire by exchanging blood with the person, and not just a little blood. My blood has to overwhelm the other person's system before he or she becomes immortal.
　Of course, I do not make vampires these days.
　I drive south along the coast. I am in Northern California before I stop; it is late. There is a bar off the side of the road, fairly large. I make a smooth entrance. The men look me over, exchange glances with their buddies. The bartender does not ask me for my ID, not after I give him a hard glance. There are many more men than women around. I am searching for a particular type, someone passing through, and I spot a candidate sitting alone in the comer. He is big and burly, unshaven; his warm jacket is not dirty, but there are oil stains that did not come out from the last cleaning. His face is pleasant enough, sitting behind his frosty beer, but a tad lonely. He is a long-distance truck driver, I know the type. I have often drunk from their veins.
　I sit down in front of him, and he looks up in surprise. I smile; the expression can disarm as well as alarm, but he is happy to see me. He orders me a beer and we talk. I do not ask if he is married-though it is obvious he is-and he does not bring it up. After a while we leave and he takes me to a motel, although I would have been satisfied with the back of his truck. I tell him as much, but he pats my leg and shakes his head. He is a gentleman. I won't kill him.
　It is while he is undressing me that I bite into his neck. The act makes him sigh with pleasure and lean his head back; he is not really sure what I am doing. He stays in that position the whole time I drink, hypnotized with the sensation, which to him feels as if he is being caressed from the inside out-with the tip of my nails. Which to me feels like it always does, sweet and natural, as natural as making love. But I do not have sex with him. Instead, I bite the tip of my own tongue and let a drop of my blood fall onto his wounds. They heal instantly, leaving no scar, and I lay him down to rest. I have drunk a couple pints. He will sleep deep, maybe wake up with a slight headache:
　"Forget," I whisper in his ear.
　He won't remember me. They seldom do.
　The next morning I sit in Mr. Castro's history class. My cream-colored dress is fashionable, on the rich side; the embroidered hem swings four inches above my knees. I have very nice legs and do not mind showing them off. My long wavy blond hair hangs loose on my shoulders. I wear no makeup or jewelry. Ray Riley sits off to my right, and I study him with interest. Class will begin in three minutes.
　His face has a depth his father's never imagined. He is cut in the mode of many handsome modern youths, with curly brown hair and a chiseled profile. Yet his inner character pushes through his natural beauty and almost makes a mockery of it. The boy is already more man than boy. It shows in his brown eyes, soft but quick, in his silent pauses, as he takes in what his classmates say. He reflects on it, and either accepts or rejects it, not caring what the others think. He is his own person, Ray Riley, and I like that about him.
　He talks to a girl on his right. Her name is Pat, and she is clearly his girlfriend. She is a scrawny thing, but with a smile that lights up whenever she looks at Ray. Her manner is assertive but not pushy, simply full of life. Her hands are always busy, often touching him. I like her as well and wonder if she is going to be an obstacle. For her sake, I hope not. I honestly prefer not to kill young people. Pat's clothes are simple, a blouse and jeans. I suspect her family has little money. But Ray is dressed sharp. It makes me think of the million I offered his father. Ray does not appear upset. Probably his father often disappears for days at a time.
　I clear my throat and he looks over at me.
　"Hello," he says. "Are you new?"
　"Hi," I say. "Yes. I just checked in this morning." I offer my dainty hand. "My name's Lara Adams."
　"Ray Riley." He shakes my hand. His touch is warm, his blood healthy. I can smell blood through people's skin and tell if they have any serious ailments-even years before the disease manifests. Ray continues to stare at me, and I bat my long lashes. Behind him Pat has stopped talking to another classmate and looks over. "Where are you from?" he asks.
　"Colorado."
　"Really? You have a slight accent."
　His comment startles me because I am a master at accents. "What accent do you hear?" I ask, genuinely curious.
　"I don't know. English, French-it sounds like a combination."
　I have lived in both England and France for extended periods of time. "I have traveled a lot," I say. "Maybe that's what you hear."
　"Must be." He gestures to his side. "Lara, this is my girlfriend, Pat McQueen. Pat, meet Lara Adams."
　Pat nods. "Hi, Lara." Her manner is not the least defensive. She trusts in Ray's love, and in her own.
　That is going to change. I think of Riley's computer, which I have left in his office. It will not be terribly long before the police come to look around, and maybe take the computer away. But I have not taken the machine because I would have no way of explaining to Ray what I was doing with it, much less be able to convince him to open its data files. "Hello, Pat," I say. "Nice to meet you." "Same here," she says. "That's a beautiful dress." "Thank you." I would have preferred to have met Ray without Pat around. Then it would have been easier for him to start a relationship with me without her between us. Yet I am confident I can gather Ray's interest. What man could resist what I have to offer? My eyes go back to him. "What are we studying in this class?" I ask.
　"European history," he says, "The class just gives a broad overview. Right now we're talking about the French Revolution. Know anything about it?"
　"I knew Marie Antoinette personally," I lie. I knew of Antoinette, but I was never close to the French nobility, for they were boring. But I was there, in the crowd, the day Marie Antoinette was beheaded. I actually sighed when the blade sliced across her neck. The guillotine was one of the few methods of execution that disturbed me. I have been hanged a couple of times and crucified on four separate occasions, but I got over it. But had I lost my head, I know that would have been the end. I was there at the start of the French Revolution, but I was in America before it ended.
　"Did she really say, 'Let them eat cake'?" Ray asks, going along with what he thought was a joke.
　"I believe it was her aunt who said that." The teacher, Mr. Castor, enters the room, a sad-looking example of a modern educator if ever there was one. He only smiles at the pretty girls as he strides to the front of the room. He is attractive in an aftershave-commercial sort of way. I nod to him. "What's he like?"
　Ray shrugs. "Not bad."
　"But not good?"
　Ray sizes me up. "I think he'll like you."
　"Understood."
　The class starts. Mr. Castro introduces me to the rest of the students and asks me to stand and talk about myself. I remain seated and say ten words. Mr. Castor appears put out but lets it go. The lesson begins.
　Ah, history, what an illusion humanity has of the past. And yet scholars argue the reality of their texts until they are blue in the face, even though something as recent as the Second World War is remembered in a manner that has no feeling for the times, for feeling, not events, is to me the essence of history. The majority of people recollect World War II as a great adventure against impossible odds, while it was nothing but an unceasing parade of suffering. How quickly mortals forget. But I forget nothing. Even I, a bloodthirsty harlot if ever there was one, have never witnessed a glorious war.
　Mr. Castro has no feeling for the past. He doesn't even have his facts straight. He lectures for thirty minutes, and I grow increasingly bored. The bright sun has me a bit sleepy. He catches me peeking out the window.
　"Miss Adams," he says, interrupting my reverie. "Could you give us your thoughts on the French nobility?"
　"I think they were very noble," I say;
　Mr. Castro frowns. "You approve of their excesses at the expense of the poor?"
　I glance at Ray before answering, I do not think he wants the typical teenage girl, not deep inside, and I have no intention of acting like one. He is watching me, the darling boy.
　"I don't approve or disapprove," I say. "I accept it. People in power always take advantage of those without power."
　"That sounds like a generalization if I ever heard one," Mr. Castro replies. "What school did you go to before moving to Mayfair?"
　"What school I went to doesn't matter"
　"It sounds as if you have a problem with authority," Mr. Castro says.
　"Not always. It depends."
　"On what?"
　"Whether the authority is foolish or not," I say with a smite that leaves no doubt I am talking about him. Mr. Castro, wisely, passes me over and goes on to another topic.
　But the teacher asks me to stay behind when the bell rings. This bothers me; I wish to use this time to speak to Ray. I watch as he leaves the room with Pat. He glances over his shoulder at me just before he goes out of sight. Mr. Castro taps his desk, wanting my attention.
　"Is there something wrong?" I ask him.
　"I hope not," Mr. Castro says. "I am concerned, however, that we get off to a good start. That each of us understands where the other is coming from."
　I stare at him, not strongly enough to cause him to wilt, but enough to make him squirm. "I believe I understand exactly where you're coming from," I say.
　He is annoyed. "Oh, and where is that?"
　I can smell alcohol on his breath, from the previous night, and alcohol from the night before that, and the night before that. He is only thirty, but the circles under his eyes indicate his liver is close to seventy. His tough stance is only an image; his hands shake as he waits for me to respond. His eyes are all over my body. I decide to ignore his question.
　"You think I have a bad attitude," I say. "Honestly, I am not what you think. If you knew me you would appreciate my understanding of history and ..." I let my voice trail off. "Other things."
　"What grade are you hoping to get in this class?"
　His question makes me laugh, it is so ridiculous. I lean over and give his cheek a pinch, a hard one that makes him jump. He's lucky I don't do the same to his crotch. "Why, Mr. Castro, I'm sure you're going to give little old Lara just about any grade she wants, don't you think?"
　He tries to brush my hand away, but of course it is already gone. "Hey! You better watch it, miss."
　I giggle. "I'll be watching you, Mr. Castro. Just to make sure you don't die of drink before the semester's over. I've got to get that good grade, you know."
　"I don't drink," he protests feebly as I walk away.
　"And I don't give a damn about my grade," I say over my shoulder.
　I fail to catch Ray before my next class starts, which I do not share with him. Seems my pseudo guardian was unable to match my schedule exactly to Ray's. I sit through fifty minutes of trigonometry, which naturally I know almost as well as history. I manage to refrain from alienating the teacher.
　The next period I don't have with Ray either, although I know fourth period we will be together in biology. Third is P.E. and I have brought blue shorts and a white T-shirt to wear. The girlfriend, Pat McQueen, has the locker beside mine and speaks to me as we undress.
　"Why did Castro ask you to stay behind?" she asks.
　"He wanted to ask me out."
　"He likes the girls, that guy. What did you think of Ray?"
　Pat is not excessively paranoid, but she is trying to ascertain where I am coming from. "I think he needs lots of love," I say.
　Pat is not sure what to think of that, so she laughs. "I give him more than he can handle." She pauses, admiring my momentarily naked body. "You know, you really are incredibly beautiful. You must have guys hitting on you all the time."
　I pull on my shorts. "I don't mind. I just hit them back. Hard."
　Pat smiles, a bit nervously.
　Phys ed is currently educating the boys and girls of Mayfair in the rudiments of archery. I am intrigued. The class is coed and the bow and arrow in my hands bring back old memories. Perhaps, though, the ancient memory of Arjuna, Krishna's best friend and the greatest archer of all time, is not one I should stir. For Arjuna killed more vampires than any other mortal.
　All with one bow.
　All in one night.
　All because Krishna wished it so.
　Pat follows me out onto the field, but tactfully separates herself from me as we select our equipment. I have already spooked her, and I don't think that is bad. I wear strong sunglasses, gray tinted. As I gather my bow and arrows, an anemic-looking young man with thick glasses and headphones speaks to me.
　"You're new, aren't you?" he asks.
　"Yes. My name is Lara Adams. Who are you?"
　"Seymour Dorsten." He offers his hand. "Pleased to meet you."
　My flesh encloses his, and I know instantly that this young man will be dead in less than a year. His blood is sick-how can the rest of his body not be? I hold on to his hand a moment too long, and he stares at me quizzically.
　"You are strong," he says.
　I smile and let go of him. "For a girl?"
　He rubs his hand on his side. His illness has startled me. I have bruised him. "I suppose," he says.
　"What kind of name is Seymour? It makes you sound like a nerd."
　He likes my forthright manner. "I've always hated it. My mother gave it to me,"
　"Change it when you get out of high school. Change it to Marlboro or Slade or Bubba or something like that. And lose those glasses. You should be wearing contacts. I bet your mother even buys your clothes."
　I am a revelation to Seymour. He laughs. "She does. But since I am a nerd, shouldn't I look the part?"
　"You think you're a nerd because you think you're so smart. I'm a lot smarter than you and I look great." I gesture to our bows and arrows. "Where should we shoot these things?"
　"I think it would be best if we shot them at the targets," he says wisely.
　So that's what we do. A few minutes later we are at one end of the football field sending our arrows flying toward the targets that have been arranged in a neat row on the fifty-yard line. I impress Seymour when I hit the bull's-eye three times in a row. He is further impressed when we go to remove the arrows from the target and they are stuck in so deep he has to use all his strength to pull them out. He does not know that I could have split the shaft of my first arrow with the next two if I had wished. I am showing off, I know, and it is probably not the wisest thing to do, but I don't care. My mood this day is frivolous. My first day of high school. First happy thoughts about Ray and Pat and now I have taken an immediate liking to Seymour. I help him pull the arrows from the target.
　"You have shot before," he says.
　"Yes. I was trained by a master marksman."
　He pulls out the last arrow and almost falls to the ground as it comes loose. "You should be in the Olympics."
　I shrug as we walk back toward the goal posts. "I have no interest," I say.
　Seymour nods. "I feel the same way about mathematics. I'm great at it, but it bores me to death."
　"What does interest you?"
　"Writing."
　"What do you like to write?"
　"I don't know yet. The strange and unusual fascinates me." He pauses. "I read a lot of horror books. Do you like horror?"
　"Yes." I start to make a joke of his question, something about how close it is to my heart, but a feeling of deja vu sweeps over me. The feeling startles me, for I haven't had it in centuries. The sensation is intense; I put a hand to my head to steady myself, while searching for the source of it. Seymour reaches out to help, and once more I feel the sickness flowing beneath his skin. I am not sure of the nature of his disease, but I have a good idea what it is.
　"Are you all right?" he asks me.
　"Yes." A cool film of sweat has gathered on my forehead, and I wipe it away. My sweat is clear, not tinted pink, as it becomes when I drink large quantities of human blood. The sun burns bright in the sky arid I lower my head. Seymour continues to watch me. Suddenly I feel as if he has come so close to me his body is actually overlapping mine. Like the deja vu, I do not like the sensation. I wonder if I have developed a greater sensitivity to the sun. I have not been out like this, at midday, in many years.
　"I feel as if I've met you before," he says softly, puzzled.
　"I feel the same way," I say honestly, the truth of the matter finally striking me. Already I have said how I can sense emotions, and that is true. The ability came to me slowly as the centuries of my life passed. At first I assumed it was because of my intense observatory faculties, and I still feel that is part of it. Yet I can sense a person's feelings even without studying them closely, and the ability baffles me to this day because it suggests a sense that is nonphysical, which I am not yet ready to accept.
　I am not alone with this ability. Over time I have met the occasional human who was as sensitive as I.
　Indeed, I have killed several of them because they alone could sense what I was, or rather, what I was not. Not human. Something else, they would tell their friends, something dangerous. I killed them, but I did not want to because they alone could understand me. I sense now that Seymour is one of these humans. The feeling is further confirmed when once more I pick up my bow and arrow and aim at the target. For my vision is distracted. Mr. Castro stands in the distance behind the school gymnasium, talking to a perky blond. Talking and touching-obviously making a move on the young thing. The teacher is perhaps three hundred yards distant, but for me, with a bow in my strong arms, he is within range. As I toy with my next arrow, I think that I can shoot him in the chest and no one will know-or believe-that it was really me who killed him. I can make it so that even Seymour doesn't see where the arrow flies. Killing Mr. Riley two nights earlier has awakened in me the desire to kill again. Truly, violence does beget violence, at least for a vampire-nothing quite satisfies as does the sight of blood, except for the taste of it.
　I slip the arrow into the bow.
　My eyes narrow.
　Castro strokes the girl's hair..
　Yet out of the comer of my eye I notice Seymour watching me.
　Seeing what? Sensing what? The blood fever in me?
　Perhaps. His next word is revealing.
　"Don't," he says.
　My aim wavers. I am amazed. Seymour knows I am thinking about killing Castro! Who is this Seymour, I ask myself? I lower my bow and look over at him. I have to ask.
　"Don't what?" I say.
　His eyes, magnified behind their glasses, stare at me. "You don't want to shoot anybody."
　I laugh out loud, although his remark chills me. "What makes you think I want to shoot somebody?"
　He smiles and relaxes a notch. My innocent tone has done its work on him. Perhaps. I wonder if Seymour is one of those rare mortals who can fool even me.
　"I just had the feeling you were going to," he says. "I'm sorry."
　"Do I look so dangerous?"
　He shakes his head. "You are different from anyone I nave ever met."
　First Ray notices that I have an accent, and now Seymour reads my mind. An interesting day, to say the least. I decide I should keep a lower profile, for the time being.
　Yet I do not really believe he has read my mind. If I did, like him or not, I would kill him before the sun set.
　"You're just so dazzled by my beauty," I say.
　He laughs and nods. "It isn't often a beauty such as you is caught talking to a nerd like me."
　I lightly poke him in the belly with the tip of my arrow. "Tell me more about the kind of stories you like." I nock the arrow onto my bowstring. Mr. Castro will live another day, I think, but maybe not many more. I add, "Especially your favorite horror stories."
　So for the rest of the period Seymour tells me about an assortment of authors and books he has read. I am delighted to learn that Dracula is his all-time favorite story. I miss the bull's-eye a few times on purpose, but I don't know if I fool Seymour. He never takes his eyes off me.
　The next period I am off to biology. Ray sits in the back at a lab table. I waste no time. I walk straight back and sit beside him. He raises an eyebrow as if to say that someone else has that seat, but then seems to change his mind.
　"How did you enjoy archery?" he asks.
　"You talked to Pat?" I ask.
　"Yes."
　There she is again, the girlfriend, between us. Once more I think of the data files at Mr. Riley's office. If the police do examine them, and do decide Mr. Riley has met with foul play, they will be paying me a visit. If I cannot access the files soon, I will have to destroy them. I decide to hasten things, knowing that I run the risk of destroying my whole seduction. I want to look at those files tonight. I reach over and touch Ray's arm.
　"Can you do me a big favor?" I ask.
　He glances at my fingertips on his bare arm. My touch is warm. Wait till he feels it hot. "Sure," he says.
　"My parents are gone for a few days, and I need some help moving some things into my house. They're in the garage." I add, "I could pay you for your help."
　"You don't have to pay me. I'd be glad to help this weekend."
　"Actually, one of these things is my bed. I had to sleep on the floor last night."
　"What a drag." Ray takes a breath and thinks. My hand continues to rest on his arm, and surely the soft texture of my skin must be a part of his thought processes. "I have to work after school today."
　"Till what time?"
　"Nine. But then I'm supposed to go over and see Pat."
　"She's a lovely girl." My eyes rest on his eyes. It is as if they say, yes, lovely, but there are other things in life besides love. At least that is my intention. Yet as I stare into Ray's eyes, I can't help but feel that he is one of those rare mortals I could love. This is another startling revelation for me, and already, even before noon, it seems the day is to be filled with them. I have not loved a man-or a woman for that matter-in centuries. And none have I ever loved as much as my husband, Rama, before I was made into a vampire.
　Yet Rama comes to mind as I stare at Ray, and at last I know why Ray looks familiar. He has Rama's eyes.
　Ray blinks. "We've been going out for a year."
　I sigh unintentionally. Even after fifty centuries I still miss Rama. "A year can pass quickly," I say softly.
　But not five thousand-the long years stand behind me like so many ghosts, weary, but also wary. Time sharpens caution, destroys playfulness. I think how nice it would be to go for a walk in the park with Ray, in the dark. I could kiss him, I could bite him- gently. I sigh because this poor boy doesn't know he is sitting beside his father's murderer.
　"Maybe I can help you," Ray says clearly. My eyes do not daunt him as much as I would expect, and I do not know if that is because of his own internal strength or because my glance is softened by my affection for him. "But I'll have to check with Pat."
　I finally take my hand back. "If you check with Pat, she'll say it is fine to help me as long as she gets to come along." I shrug. "Any girl would."
　"Can she come over, too?"
　"No."
　My answer startles him. But he is too shrewd to ask me why. He simply nods. "I'll talk to her. Maybe I can come a little later. What time do you go to bed?"
　"Late."
　The lecture in biology is about photosynthesis. How the sun's energy is changed into chemical energy through the presence of green chlorophyll, and how this green pigment in turn supports the entire food chain. The teacher makes a comment I find interesting-chlorophyll and red blood cells are practically identical. Except in chlorophyll the iron atom is replaced by a magnesium atom. I look over at Ray and think that in the evolutionary chain, only one atom separates us.
　Of course, I know that evolution would never have created a vampire. We were an accident, a horrible mistake. It occurs to me that if Ray does help me examine his father's files, I should probably kill him afterward. He smiles at me as I look at him. I can tell he likes me already. But I don't smile back. My thoughts are too dark.
　The class ends. I give Ray my address, but not my phone number. He will not call and cancel on me. It is the address of a new house that was rented for me that morning. Mr. Riley will have my other address in his files, and I don't want Ray to draw the connection when and if we go into his computer. Ray promises to come over as soon as he is able. He does not have sex on his mind, but something else I cannot fathom. Still, I will give him sex if he wants it. I will give him more than he bargains for.
　I go to my new home, a plain suburban affair. It is furnished. Quickly, not breaking a sweat, I move most of the furniture into the garage. Then I retire to the master bedroom, draw all the shades, and lie down on the hard wooden floor and close my eyes. The sun has drained my strength, I tell myself. But as I doze off I know it is also the people I have met this day that have cut deep into me, where my iron blood flows like a black river over the cold dust of forgotten ages, dripping onto this green world, onto the present, like the curse of the Lord himself. I hope to dream of Krishna as I fall asleep, but I do not. The devil is there instead.
　Yaksha, the first of the vampires.
　As I am the last.
　
　
　3
　
　
　We were the original Aryans-blond and blue eyed. We invaded India, before there were calendars, like a swarm of hornets in search of warmer climates. We brought sharp swords and spilled much blood. But in 3000 b.c., when I was born, we were still there, no longer enemies, but part of a culture that was capable of absorbing every invader and making him a brother. I came into the world named Sita, in a small village in Rajastan, where the desert had already begun to blow in sand from the dead lands to the west. I was there at the beginning, and had as a friend the mother of all vampires. Amba, which meant mother in my language. She was a good woman. Amba was seven years older than my seven years when the disease came to our village. Although separated by seven years, we were good friends. I was tall for my age, she was short, and we both loved to sing, bajans mainly, holy songs from the sacred Vedas, which we chanted by the river after dark. My skin was brown from the harsh sun; Amba's dark from a grandfather who was of original Indian stock. We did not look alike, but when we sang our voices were one and I was happy. Life was simple in Rajastan.
　Until the disease came. It did not strike everyone, only half. I do not know why I was spared, since I drank from the polluted river as much as Amba and the rest. Amba was one of the first to fall ill. She Vomited blood the last two days of her life, and all I could do was sit by her side and watch her die. My sorrow was particularly great because Amba was eight months pregnant at the time. Even though I was her best friend, she never did tell me who the father was. She never told anyone.
　When she died, it should have ended there. Her body should have been taken to the cremation ground and offered to Vishnu, her ashes thrown in the river. But recently an Aghoran priest had entered our village. He had other ideas for her body. Aghora was the left-handed path, the dark path, and no one would have listened to what the priest had to say if the panic over the plague hadn't been in the air. The priest brought his blasphemous ideas, but many listened to him because of their fears for the plague. He said the plague was the result of an evil rakshasa or demon that had taken offense at our worship of the great God Vishnu. He said the only way to free our village of the rakshasa was to call forth an even greater being, a yakshini, and implore the yakshini to eat the rakshasa.
　Some thought this idea was reasonable, but many others, myself included, felt that if God couldn't protect us, how could a yakshini? Also, many of us worried what the yakshini would do once it had devoured the rakshasa. From our Vedic texts we knew that yakshinis had no love for human beings. But the Aghoran priest said that he could handle the yakshini, and so he was allowed to go ahead with his plans.
　Aghorans usually do not invoke a deity into a statue or an altar but into the corpse of someone recently dead. It is this practice in particular that has them shunned by most religious people in India. But desperate people often forget their religion when they need it most. There were so many dead at the time, the priest had his choice of corpses. But he chose Amba's body, and I think the fact of her late pregnancy attracted him. I was only a child at the time, but I could see something in the eyes of the priest that frightened me. Something cold and uncaring.
　Being so young, I was not permitted to attend the ceremony. None of the women were allowed. Because I was worried what they were going to do with my friend's body, however, I stole into the woods in the middle of the night they were to perform the invocation. I watched from behind a boulder, at the edge of a clearing, as the Aghoran priest with the help of six men-one of them my father-prepared Amba's naked body. They anointed her with clarified butter and camphor and wine. Then, beside a roaring fire, seated close to Amba's upturned head, the priest began a long repetitious chant. I did not like it; it sounded nothing like the bajans we chanted to Vishnu. The mantras were hard on the ear, and each time the priest completed a verse, he would strike Amba's belly with a long sharp stick. It was as if he were imploring her to wake up,t25, or else trying to wake something up inside her.
　This went on for a long time, and soon Amba's belly began to bleed, which frightened the men. Because she bled as a living person, as if there were a heart beating inside her. But I knew this could not be. I had been with Amba when she died and sat beside her body for a long time afterward, and not once, even faintly, had she drawn in a breath. I was not tempted to run to her. Not for a moment did I believe the priest had brought her back to life. Indeed, I was tempted to flee back to my mother, who surely must have been wondering where I was. Especially when a dark cloud went over the moon and a heavy breeze began to stir, a wind that stank of decay and waste. The smell was atrocious. It was as if a huge demon had suddenly appeared and breathed down upon the ceremony.
　Something had come. As the smell worsened, and the men began to mutter aloud that they should stop, the fire abruptly shrank to red coals. Smoke filled the air, curling around the bloody glow of the embers like so many snakes over a rotting prey. Some of the men cried out in fear. But the priest laughed and chanted louder. Yet even his voice failed when Amba suddenly sat up.
　She was hideous to behold. Her face dripped blood. Her eyes bulged from her head as if pushed out from the inside. Her grin widened over her teeth as if pulled by wires. Worst of all was her tongue; it stretched much longer than any human tongue could, almost a foot, curling and licking at the air like the smoking snakes that danced beside what was left of the fire. I watched it in horror knowing that I was seeing a yakshini come to life. In the haunting red glow it turned to face the priest, who had fallen silent. No longer did he appear confident.
　The yakshini cackled like a hyena and reached out and grabbed the priest. The priest screamed. No one came to his aid.
　The yakshini pulled the priest close, until they were face to face. Then that awful tongue licked the priest's face, and the poor man's screams gagged in his throat. Because wherever he was touched by the tongue, his skin was pulled away. When the priest was a faceless mass of gore, the yakshini threw its head back and laughed. Then its hands flew up behind the priest's neck and took hold of his skull. With one powerful yank it twisted the priest's head around until it was facing the other way, his bones cracking. The priest fell over dead as the yakshini released him. Then the monster, still seated, glanced around the campfire at the terrified men. A sly glance it was. It smiled as its eyes came to rest on me. Yes, I believe it could see me even as I cowered behind the huge stone that separated me from the clearing. Its eyes felt like cold knives pressing into my heart.
　Then finally, thankfully, the monster closed its eyes, and Amba's body lay back down.
　For a long moment none of the men moved. Then my father-a brave man, although not the wisest- moved and knelt beside Amba's corpse. He poked it with a stick and it did not move. He poked the priest as well, but it was clear the man wasn't going to be performing any more ceremonies in this life. The other men came up beside my father. There was talk of cremating both of the bodies then and there. Hiding behind my boulder, I nodded vigorously. The stench had blown away on the wind, and I did not want it to return. Unfortunately, before more wood could be gathered, my father noticed movement inside Amba's belly. He cried out to the others. Amba was not dead. Or if she was, he said, her child was not. He reached for a knife to cut the infant out of Amba's womb.
　It was then I jumped from behind the boulder and ran into the clearing.
　"Father!" I cried, reaching for his hand holding the knife. "Do not let that child come into this world. Amba is dead, see with your own eyes. Her child must likewise be dead. Please, Father, listen to me."
　Naturally, all the men were surprised to see me, never mind hear what I had to say. My father was angry at me, but he knelt and spoke to me patiently.
　"Sita," he said. "Your friend does appear dead, and we were wrong to let this priest use her body in this way. But he has paid for his evil karma with his own life. But we would be creating evil karma of our own if we do not try to save the life of this child. You remember when Sashi was born, how her mother died before she came into the world? It sometimes happens that a living child is born to a dead woman."
　"No," I protested. "That was different. Sashi was born just as his mother died. Amba has been dead since early dawn. Nothing living can come out of her."
　My father gestured with his knife to the squirming life inside Amba's bloody abdomen. "Then how do you explain the life here?"
　"That is the yashini moving inside her," I said. "You saw how the demon smiled at us before it departed. It intends to trick us. It is not gone. It has entered into the child."
　My father pondered my words with a grave expression. He knew I was intelligent for my age and occasionally asked for my advice. He looked to the other men for guidance, but they were evenly divided. Some wanted to use the knife to stab the life moving inside Amba. Others were afraid, like my father, of committing a sin. Finally my father turned back to me and handed me the knife.
　"You knew Amba better than any of us," he said. "You would best know if this life that moves inside her is evil or good. If you know for sure in your heart that it is evil, then strike it dead. None of the men here will blame you for the act."
　I was appalled. I was still a child and my father was asking me to commit an atrocious act. But my father was wiser than I had taken him for. He shook his head as I stared at him in amazement, and took back the knife.
　"You see," he said. "You are not sure if what you say is true. In a matter of life and death, we must be careful. And if we are to make an error, it must be on the side of life. If this child turns out to be evil, then we will know as it grows up. Then we will have more time to decide what should be done with it." He turned back to Amba's body. "For now I must try to save it."
　"We may not have as much time as you think," I said as my father began to cut into Amba's flesh. Soon he held a bloody male infant in his hand. He gave it a gentle spank, and it sucked in a dry rasping breath and began to cry. Most of the men smiled and applauded, although I noticed the fear in their eyes. My father turned to me and asked me to hold it. I refused. However, I did consent to name the child.
　"It should be called Yaksha," I said. "For it has the heart of a yakshini."
　And the child's name was as I said. Most considered it an evil omen, yet none of them, in their darkest dreams, would realize how appropriate the name would be. But from that time on, the plague vanished and never returned.
　My father gave Yaksha to my aunt to raise, for she had no children of her own and greatly desired one. A simple but loving woman, she treated the child as if it were her own-certainly as if it were a human deserving of her love. Whether she felt any love in return from the child, I don't know. He was a beautiful baby with dark hair and pale blue eyes.
　Time went by, and it always does, and yet for Yaksha and for me the years took on a peculiar quality. For Yaksha grew faster than any child in the history of our village, and when I was fifteen years of age, he was already, in stature and education, my age, although he had been born only eight years earlier. His accelerated development brought to surface once again the rumors surrounding his birth. But they were rumors at best because the men who had been there the night Yaksha had come into the world never spoke about what had happened when the priest had tried to invoke the yakshini into Amba's corpse. They must have sworn one another to secrecy because my father occasionally took me aside and reminded me that I should not talk about that night. I did not, of course, because I did not think anyone outside of the six men would have believed me. Besides, I loved my father and always tried to obey him, even when I thought he was making a mistake.
　It was at about this time, when I was fifteen, that Yaksha started to go out of the way to talk to me. Until then I had avoided him, and even when he pursued me I tried to keep my distance. At least at first, but there was something about him that made him hard to resist. There was his great beauty, of course, his long shiny mane of black hair, his brilliant eyes, cool blue gems, set deep in his powerful face. His smile was also beguiling. How often it flashed in my direction, his two rows of perfect white teeth like polished pearls. Sometimes I would stop to talk to him, and he would always have a little gift to offer-a spoonful of sandlepaste, a stick of incense, a string of beads. I accepted these gifts reluctantly because I felt as if one day Yaksha would want something in return, something I would not want to give. But he never asked.
　But my attraction to him went deeper than his beauty. Even at eight years of age he was clearly the smartest person in the village, and often the adults consulted him on important matters: how to improve the harvest; how best to build our new temple; how to barter with the wandering merchants who came to buy our crops. If people had doubts about Yaksha's origin, they had nothing but praise for his behavior.
　I was attracted to him, but I never ceased to fear him. Occasionally I would catch a disturbing glimmer in his eyes, and be reminded of the sly smile the yashini had given me before it had supposedly vacated Amba's body.
　It was when I was sixteen that the first of the six men who had witnessed his birth disappeared. The man just vanished. Later that same year another of the six disappeared also. I asked my father about it, but he said that we could not hold Yaksha to blame. The boy was growing up well. But the next year, when another two of the men vanished, even my father began to have doubts. It was not long after that my father and I were the only ones left in the village who had been there that horrible night. But the fifth man did not just vanish. His body was found gored to death, as if by a wild animal. There was not a drop of blood left in his corpse. Who could doubt that the others had not ended up the same way?
　I begged my father to speak up about what was happening, and Yaksha's part in it. By then Yaksha was ten and looked twenty, and if he was not the leader of the village, few people doubted that he would be in charge soon. But my father was softhearted. He had watched Yaksha grow up with pride, no doubt feeling personally responsible for the birth of this wonderful young man. And his sister was still Yaksha's stepmother. He told me not to say anything to the others, that he would ask Yaksha to leave the village quietly and not come back.
　But it was my father who was not to come back, although Yaksha vanished as well. My father's body was never found, except for a lock of his hair, down by the river, stained with blood. At the ceremony honoring his death I broke down and cried out the many things that had happened the night Yaksha had been born. But the majority of people believed I was consumed with grief and didn't listen. Still, a few heard me, the families of the other men who had vanished.
　My grief over my lost father faded slowly. "Yet two years after his death and the disappearance of Yaksha, near my twentieth birthday, I met Rama, the son of a wandering merchant. My love for Rama was instantaneous. I saw him and knew I was supposed to be with him, and by the blessings of Lord Vishnu, he felt the same way. We were married under the full moon beside the river. The first night I slept with my husband I dreamed of Amba. She was as she had been when we had sung late at night together. Yet her words to me were dark. She told me to beware the blood of the dead, never to touch it. I woke up weeping and was only able to sleep by holding my husband tightly.
　Soon I was with child, and before the first year of my marriage was over, we had a daughter-Lalita, she who plays. Then my joy was complete and my grief over my father faded. Yet I was to have that joy for only a year:
　One moonless night I was awakened late by a sound. Beside me slept my husband, and on my other side our daughter. I do not know why the sound woke me; it was not loud. But it was peculiar, the sound of nails scraping over a blade. I got up and went outside my house and stood in the dark and looked around.
　He came from behind me, as he often used to when we were friends. But I knew he was there before he spoke. I sensed his proximity-his inhuman being.
　"Yaksha," I whispered.
　"Sita." His voice was very soft.
　I whirled around and started to shout, but he was on me before I could make a sound. For the first time I felt Yaksha's real strength, a thing he had kept hidden while he lived in our village. His hands, with their long nails, were like the paws of a tiger around my neck. A long sword banged against his knee. He choked off my air and leaned over and whispered in my ear. He had grown taller since I last saw him.
　"You betrayed me, my love," he said. "If I let you speak, will you scream? If you scream you will die. Understood?"
　I nodded and he loosened his grip, although he continued to keep me pinned. I had to cough before I could speak. "You betrayed me," I said bitterly. "You killed my father and those other men."
　"You do not know that," he said.
　"If you didn't kill them, then where are they?"
　"They are with me, a few of them, in a special way."
　"What are you talking about? You lie-they are dead, my father's dead."
　"Your father is dead, that is true, but only because he did not want to join me." He shook me roughly. "Do you wish to join me?"
　It was so dark, I could see nothing of his face except in outline. But I did believe he was smiling at me. "No," I said.
　"You do not know what I am offering you."
　"You are evil."
　He slapped me, hard. The blow almost took off my head. I tasted my own blood. "You do not know what I am," he said, angry, but proud as well.
　"But I do. I was there that night. Didn't the others tell you before you killed them? I saw it all. It was I who named you-Yaksha-cursed son of a yakshini!"
　"Keep your voice down,"
　"I will do nothing you say!"
　He gripped me tight again, and it was hard to breathe. "Then you will die, lovely Sita. After first watching your husband and child die. Yes, I know they are asleep in this house. I have watched you from afar for a while now."
　"What do you want?" I gasped, bitter.
　He let me go. His tone was light and jovial, which was cruel. "I have come to offer you two choices. You can come with me, be my wife, become like me. Or you and your family can die tonight. It is that simple."
　There was something strange in his voice besides his cruelty. It was as if he were excited over an unexpected discovery. "What do you mean, become like you? I can never be like you. You are different from anybody else."
　"My difference is my greatness. I am the first of my kind, but I can make others like me. I can make you like me if you will consent to our blood mixing."
　I didn't know what he was offering, but it frightened me, that his blood, even a little, should get inside mine. "What would your blood do to me?" I
　it, the space beyond the black space in the sky where the yakshinis came from. Just with that tiny bite I felt as if every drop of my blood turned from red to black. I felt invincible.
　Still, I hated him, more than ever.
　I took a step away.
　"I watched you grow up," I said. "You watched me. You know I always speak my mind. How can I be your wife if I hate you so? Why would you want a wife like me?"
　He spoke seriously. "I have wanted you for years now."
　I turned my back on him. "If you want me so, it must mean you care about me. And if you care about me, then leave this place. Go away and don't come back. I am happy with my life."
　I felt his cold hand on my shoulder. "I will not leave you."
　"Then kill me. But leave my husband and child alone."
　His grip on my shoulder tightened. Truly, I realized, he was as strong as ten men, if not more. If I cried out, Rama would be dead in a moment. Pain radiated from my shoulder into the rest of my body, and I was forced to stoop.
　"No," he said. "You must come with me. It was destiny that you were there that night. It is your destiny to follow me now, to the edge of night."
　"The edge of night?"
　He pulled me up and kissed me hard on the lips. Once more I tasted his blood, mixed with mine. "We will live for eternity," he swore. "Just say yes. You must say yes." He paused and glanced at my house. He did not have to say it again; I understood his meaning. I was beaten.
　"Yes."
　He hugged me. "Do you love me?"
　"Yes."
　"You lie, but it doesn't matter. You will love me. You will love me forever."
　He picked me up and carried me away. Into the dark forest, to a place of calm, of silence, where he opened his veins and mine with his nails, and pressed our arms together, and held them such, for what seemed forever. In that night all time was lost, and all love was tainted. He spoke to me as he changed me, but it was with words I did not understand, the sounds yakshinis must make when they mate in their black hells. He kissed me and stroked my hair.
　Eventually, the power of his transfusion overwhelmed my body. My breathing, my heartbeat- they raced faster and faster, until soon they chased each other, until I began to scream, like one dropped into a boiling pot of oil. Yet, this I did not understand, and still do not. The worst of the agony was that I could not get enough of it. That it thrilled me more than the love any mortal could give to me. In that moment Yaksha became my lord, and I cried for him instead of for Vishnu. Even as the race of my breathing and heartbeat collided and stopped. Yes, as I died I forgot my God. I chose the path my father had rejected. Yes, it is the truth, I cursed my own soul by my own choice as I screamed in wicked pleasure and embraced the son of the devil.
　
　
　4
　
　
　The expression "the impatience of youth" is silly. The longer I live, the more impatient I become. True, if nothing much is happening, I can sit perfectly still and be content. Once I stayed in a cave for six months and had only the blood of a family of bats to dine on. But as the centuries have gone by, I want what I want immediately. I enter into relationships swiftly. Therefore, in my mind, I already consider Ray and Seymour friends, although we have just met.
　Of course, I often end friendships as quickly.
　It is Ray's knocking at my door that brings me out of my rest. How does a vampire sleep? The answer is simple. Like something dead. True, I often dream when I sleep, but they are usually dreams of blood and pain. Yet the dream I just had, of Amba and Rama and Yaksha, of the beginning, is the one I find the most painful. The pain never lessens as the time goes by. It is with a heavy step that I walk from the bedroom to answer the front door.
　Ray has changed out of his school clothes into jeans and a gray sweatshirt. It is ten o'clock. A glance at Ray tells me that he is wondering what he is doing at my house after dark. This girl he has just met. This girl that has such hypnotic eyes. If he wasn't thinking about sex before, he might be thinking about it soon.
　"Am I too late?" he asks.
　I smile. "I'm a vampire. I stay up all night." I step aside and gesture. "Please come in, and please forgive the bare rooms. As I said, a lot of the furniture is still in the garage. The moving people couldn't get into the house when they came."
　Ray glances around and nods his approval. "You said your parents are away?"
　"I did say that, yes."
　"Where are they?"
　"Colorado."
　"Where did you live in Colorado?"
　"In the mountains," I say. "Would you like something to drink?"
　"Sure. What do you have?"
　"Water."
　He laughs. "Sounds perfect. As long as you'll join me."
　"Gladly. I might have a bottle of wine as well. Do you drink?"
　"I have a beer every now and then."
　We head for the kitchen. "Wine is much better, red wine. Do you eat meat?"
　"I'm not a vegetarian, if that's what you mean. Why do you ask?"
　"Just wondering," I say. He is so darling, it is hard to resist nibbling on him.
　We have a glass of wine together, standing in the kitchen. We drink to world peace. Ray is anxious to get to work, he says. He is just anxious. Alone with a mortal, my aura of difference is greater. Ray knows he is with a unique female, and he is intrigued, and confused. I ask how Pat is. May as well confront his confusion.
　"Fine," he says.
　"Did you tell her you were coming to visit me?"
　He lowers his head. He feels a twinge of guilt, but no more. "I told her I was tired and wanted to go to bed."
　"You can sleep here if you want. Once you bring in the beds."
　My boldness startles him. "My father would wonder where I was."
　"I have a phone. You can call him." I add, "What does your father do?"
　"He's a private detective."
　"Sounds glamorous. Do you want to call him?"
　Ray catches my eye. I catch his in return. He doesn't flinch as his father did under my scrutiny. Ray is strong inside.
　"Let's see how it goes and how late it gets," Ray says carefully.
　He sets to work. Soon he is huffing and puffing. I help him, but only a little. Nevertheless, he comments on my strength. I tell him how I befriended Seymour and he is interested. Apparently Seymour is a friend of his as well.
　"He's probably the smartest guy in the school," Rays says, lugging in a couple of dining room chairs. "He's only sixteen years old and he'll be graduating in June."
　"He told me he likes to write," I say.
　"He's an incredible writer. He let Pat read a couple of his short stories, and she gave them to me. They were real dark, but beautiful. One was about what goes on in the space between moments of time. It was called 'The Second Hand.' He had this character who suddenly begins to live between the moments, and finds that there is more going on there than in normal time."
　"Sounds interesting. What made the story dark?"
　"The guy was in the last hour of his life. But it took him a year to live it."
　"Did the guy know it was his last hour?"
　Ray hesitates. He must know Seymour is not well. "I don't know, Lara."
　He has not used my name before. "Call me Sita," I say, surprising myself.
　He raises an eyebrow. "A nickname?"
　"Sort of. My father used to call me that."
　Ray is alert to my change of tone, for I have allowed sadness to enter my voice. Or maybe it is the sound of longing, which is different from sorrow. No one I have cared about has used my real name in thousands of years. I think how nice it will be to have Ray say it.
　"How long will your family be in Colorado?" Ray asks.
　"I lied. My father's not there. He's dead."
　"I'm sorry."
　"I was thinking about him before you came." I sigh. "He died a long time ago."
　"How did he die?"
　"He was murdered."
　Ray makes a face. "That must have been terrible for you. I know if anything ever happened to my father, I would be devastated. My mother left us when I was five."
　I swallow thickly. By the strength of my reaction, I realize how involved I have allowed myself to become with the boy. All because he has Rama's eyes? There is more to it than that. He also has Rama's voice. No, not his accent surely-the average person would have said, had they heard them together, that they sounded nothing alike. But to me, with my vampire ears, the subtle aspects of their voices are almost identical. The silence between their syllables. It was Rama's deep silence that initially attracted me to him.
　"You must be very close" is all I can say. But I know I will have to bring up the father again soon. I want in that office tonight. I just hope I mopped up every drop of blood. I have no wish to be with Ray when he learns the truth.
　If he ever does.
　I let him finish bringing in the furniture, which takes him a couple of hours, although it took me less than twenty minutes to put it in the garage. It is after midnight. I offer him another glass of wine-a large glass-and he drinks it down quick. He is thirsty, as I am thirsty. I want his blood, I want his body. Blood drinking and sex are not that separate in my mind. Yet I am no black widow. I do not mate and kill. But the urges, the lusts-they sometimes come together. But I don't want to hurt this young man, I don't want any harm to befall him. Yet just by being with me his chances of dying are much greater. I have only to think of my history, and of the person who stalks me now. I watch as Ray sets down his empty glass.
　"I should get home," he says.
　"You can't drive."
　"Why not?"
　"You're drunk."
　"I'm not drunk."
　I smile. "I gave you enough alcohol to make you drunk. Face it, boy, you're trapped here for a while. But if you want to sober up quick, then take a hot tub with me. You can sweat the alcohol out of your system."
　"I didn't bring my suit."
　"I don't own a suit," I say.
　He is interested-very-but doubtful. "I don't know."
　I step over and rest my palms on his sweaty chest His muscles are well developed. It would be fun to wrestle with him, I think, especially since I know who would win. I look up into his eyes; he is almost a head taller than I. He looks down at me, and he feels as if he is falling into my eyes, into bottomless wells of blue, twin skies behind which the eternal black of space hides. The realm of the yakshinis. He senses my darkness in this moment. I sense other things about him and feel a chill. So much like Rama, this boy. He haunts me. Could it be true? Those words of Krishna's that Radha had told me about love?
　"Time cannot destroy it. I am that love-time cannot touch me. Time but changes the form. Somewhere in some time it will return. When you least expect it, the face of a loved one reappears. Look beyond the face and- "
　Odd, but I cannot remember the last part of it. I of the perfect memory.
　"I will not tell Pat," I say. "She will never know."
　He draws in a breath. "I don't like lying to her."
　"People always lie to one another. It's the way of the world. Accept it. It doesn't mean you have to hurt with your lies." I take his hands; they tremble slightly, but his eyes remained fastened on mine. I kiss his fingers and rub them on my cheek. "What happens with me will not hurt her."
　He smiles faintly. "Is that a lie to save me hurt?"
　"Maybe."
　"Who are you?"
　"Sita."
　"Who is Sita?"
　"I told you already, but you weren't listening. It doesn't matter. Come, we'll sit in the water together and I'll rub your tired muscles. You'll love it. I have strong hands."
　Not long after, we are naked in the Jacuzzi together. I have had many lovers, of course, both male and female-thousands actually-but the allure of the flesh has yet to fade in me. I am excited as Ray sits with his bare back to me, my knees lightly hugging his rib cage, my hands kneading deep into the tissue along his spine. It has been a long time since I have massaged anybody and I enjoy it. The water is very hot. Steam swirls around us and Ray's skin reddens. But he says he likes it this way, so hot he feels he's being boiled alive. I, of course, don't mind boiling water. I lean over and bite him gently on the shoulder.
　"Careful," he says. He does not want me to leave any marks for Pat to find.
　"It will be gone in the morning." I suck a few drops of blood from his wound. Such a pleasant way to spend a night. The blood flows like an elixir down my throat, making me want more. But I resist the urge. I pinch the tip of my tongue with my teeth and a drop of blood oozes onto the small bite. It vanishes instantly. I return to my massage. "Ray?" I say.
　He moans with pleasure. "Yes."
　"You can make love to me if you want."
　He moans some more. "You are an amazing girl, Sita."
　I turn him around, slowly, easily, pleasurably. He tries not to look at my body and fails. I lean over and kiss him hard on the lips. I feel what he feels. His initial surprise-kissing a vampire is not like kissing a mortal. Many men and women have swooned just from the brush of my lips. Such is the pleasure I can give. Yet there is the painful side-my kiss often sucks the breath from a person, even when I don't intend it to. Inside, I feel Ray's heart begin to pound. I release him before there is any danger. The later it gets, the more I vow not to harm him, and the more inevitable it seems. He hugs me, all slippery and wet, and tries to catch his breath while resting his chin on my shoulder.
　"Are you choking on something?" I ask.
　"Yes." He coughs. "I think it's you."
　I chuckle as I continue to stroke his back. "You could do worse."
　"You are not like any girl I've ever met."
　"You don't want just any girl, Ray."
　He sits back, my naked legs still around him. He is not afraid to look me in the eyes. "I don't want to cheat on Pat."
　"Tell me what you do want."
　"I want to spend the night with you."
　"A paradox. Which one of us is going to win?" I pause, add, "I am a master at keeping secrets. We can both win."
　"What do you want from me?"
　His question startles me, it is so perceptive. "Nothing," I lie.
　"I think you want something."
　I smile. "There is your body."
　He has to smile, I sound so cute, I know. But he is not dissuaded. "What else do you want?"
　"I'm lonely."
　"You don't look lonely."
　"I'm not when I'm looking at you."
　"You hardly know me."
　"You hardly know me. Why do you want to spend the night with me?"
　"There is your body." But he loses his smile and lowers his head. "There is something else, too. When you look at me I feel-I feel you are seeing something nobody else sees. You have such amazing eyes."
　I pull him back toward me. I kiss him. "That's true." I kiss him again. "I see right through you." Again, another kiss. "I see what makes you tick." A fourth time, a hard kiss. He gasps as I release him.
　"What is that?" he asks, sucking in a breath.
　"You love Pat, but you crave mystery. Mystery can be as strong as love, don't you think? You find me mysterious and you're afraid if you let me slip away you'll regret it later."
　He is impressed. "That is how I feel. How did you know?"
　I laugh. "That is part of the mystery."
　He laughs with me. "I like you, Sita," he says.
　I stop laughing. His remark-so simple, so innocent-pierces me like a dagger. No one in many years has said something as charming as "I like you" to me. The sentiment is childish, I know, but it is there nevertheless. I reach to kiss him again, knowing this time I am going to squeeze him so tight he will not be able to resist making love to me. But something makes me stop.
　"Look beyond the face and you will see me."
　Krishna's words to Radha that she has given to me. There is something in Ray's eyes, a light behind them, that makes me reluctant to soil them with my touch. I feel it then, that I am a creature of evil. Inside I swear at Krishna. Only the memory of him can make me feel this way. Otherwise, if we had never met, I would not care.
　"I care about you, Ray." I turn away. "Come on, let's get out and get dressed. I want to talk to you about some things."
　Ray is shocked at my sudden withdrawal, disappointed.
　But I sense his relief as well.
　Later we sit on the floor in the living room by the fire and finish the bottle of wine. Alcohol has little effect on me; I can drink a dozen truck drivers under the table. We talk of many things and I learn more details of Ray's life. He plans to go to Stanford the next fall and study physics and art-an odd double major he is quick to admit. The tuition at Stanford worries him; he doesn't know if his father can afford it. He should be worried, I think. He is a fan of modern quantum mechanics and abstract art. He works after school at a supermarket. He does not talk about Pat, and I don't bring her up. But I do steer the conversation back to his father.
　"It is getting late," I say. "Are you sure you don't want to call your father and tell him that you've been sitting naked in a Jacuzzi with a beautiful blond?"
　"To tell you the truth, I don't think my dad's home."
　"He has a girlfriend of his own?"
　"No, he's been out of town the last few days, working on a case."
　"What kind of case?"
　"I don't know what it is, he hasn't told me. Except that it's big and he hopes to make a lot of money on it. He's been working on it for a while now." Ray adds, "But I'm getting worried about him. He often leaves for days at a time, but he's never gone so long without calling."
　"Do you have an answering machine at home?"
　"Yes."
　"And he hasn't even left you a message?"
　"No."
　"How long has he been out of touch?"
　"Three days. I know that doesn't sound long, but I swear, he calls me every day."
　I nod sympathetically, "I would be worried if I were you. Does he have an office in town?"
　"Yes. On Tudor, not far from the ocean."
　"Have you been by his office?"
　"I've called his secretary, but she hasn't heard from him, either."
　"That is ridiculous, Ray. You should call the police and report him missing."
　Ray waves his hand. "You don't know my dad. I could never do that. He would be furious. No, I'm sure he just got wrapped up in his work, and he'll call me when he gets a chance." He pauses. "I hope."
　"I have an idea," I say as if it just occurred to me. "Why don't you go down to his office and check his files to see what this big case is. You'd probably be able to find out where he is."
　"He wouldn't like me looking through his files."
　I shrug. "It's up to you. But if it were my father, I would want to know where he was."
　"His files are all on computer. I'd have to go into his whole system, and there would be a notation left that I had done so. He has it set up that way."
　"Can you get into his files? I mean, do you know the password?"
　He hesitates. "How did you know he has it set up that a password is required?"
　There is a note of suspicion in his question, and once more I marvel at Ray's perceptive abilities. But I do not marvel long because I have waited for this very moment since I killed his father two days ago, and I have no intention of upsetting my plan.
　"I didn't," I say. "But it is a common way to protect files."
　He appears satisfied. "Yeah, I can get into his files. The password is a nickname he had for me when I was a kid."
　I do not need to ask him what it is, which may only increase his suspicion. Instead I jump to my feet. "Come on, let's go to his office right now. You'll sleep better knowing what he's up to."
　He is startled. "Right now?"
　"Well, you don't want to go looking at his files when his secretary's there. Now is the perfect time. I'll come with you."
　"But it's late." He yawns. "I'm tired. I was thinking I should go home. Maybe he'll be there."
　"That's an idea. Check to see if he's at home first. But if he's not, and he hasn't left you a message, then you should go to the office."
　"Why are you so worried about my father?"
　I stop suddenly, as if his question wounds me. "Do you have to ask?" I am referring to the comment I made about my own poor dead father and feel no shame using him that way. Ray looks suitably embarrassed. He sets down his glass of wine and gets up from the floor.
　"Sorry. You may be right," he says. "I'll sleep better knowing what's going on. But if you come with me, then I'll have to bring you back here."
　"Maybe." I give him a quick kiss. "Or maybe I'll just fly home."
　
　
　5
　
　
　At Ray's house I wait in the car while he goes in to see if his father has returned, or if there is a message from him. Naturally, I am not surprised when Ray returns a couple of minutes later downcast. The cold has sobered him up, and he is worried. He climbs into the car beside me and turns the key in the ignition.
　"No luck?" I ask.
　"No. But I got the key to his building. We won't have to break in."
　"That's a relief." While I had Ray look away, I intended just to break the lock.
　We drive to the building I visited only forty-eight hours earlier. It is another cold night. Throughout the years I have gravitated toward the wanner climates, such as my native India. Why I have chosen to come to Oregon, I am not sure. I glance over at Ray and wonder if it has something to do with him. But of course I don't believe that because I don't believe in destiny, much less in miracles. I do not believe Krishna was God, or if he was God-maybe he was God, I simply do not know for sure-then I do not believe he knew what he was doing when he created the universe. I have such contempt for the lotus-eyed one.
　Yet, after all these years, I have never been able to stop thinking about him.
　Krishna. Krishna. Krishna.
　Even his name haunts me.
　Ray lets us into the building. Soon we are standing outside Mr. Michael Riley's office door. Ray searches for another key, finds it. We step inside. The lights are off; he could leave them off and I would still be able to find my way around. But he turns them on and heads straight into his father's office. He sits at the computer while I stand off to one side. I survey the floor. Minute drops of blood have seeped into and dried in the cracks between the tiles. They are not noticeable to mortal eyes, but the police will find them if they search. I decide, no matter what happens, that I must return and do a more thorough cleaning. Ray boots the computer and hastily enters the secret password, thinking that I do not catch it. But I do-RAYGUN.
　"Can you check what his latest entries were?" I ask.
　"That's exactly what I'm doing." He looks over at me. "You know about computers, don't you?"
　"Yes." I move closer so I can see the monitor. A menu flashes on the screen. The computer is equipped with a mouse. Ray chooses something called Pathlist. A list of files appears on the screen. They are dated. The number of bytes they occupy on the hard disk is also listed. A rectangular outline flashes around the file at the top.
　ALISA PERNE.
　Ray points to the screen. "He must be working with this person. Or else investigating her." He reaches for the Enter button. "Let's see who this woman is."
　"Wait." I put my hand on his shoulder. "Did you hear that?"
　"Hear what?"
　"That sound."
　"I don't hear anything."
　"I have sensitive hearing. I heard someone outside the building."
　Ray pauses and listens. "It could have been an animal."
　"There it is again. Didn't you hear it?"
　"No."
　I appear mildly anxious. "Ray. Could you please see if anyone's there?"
　He thinks a moment. "Sure. No problem. Stay here. Lock the door. I'll call to you when I return." He goes to get up.
　But he exits the files before he leaves, although he leaves the computer running.
　Interesting, I think. He was willing to sleep with me, but he doesn't trust me alone with his father's files. Smart boy.
　The moment he's out the door, I lock it and hurry to the computer. I enter the password and call up the files. I can speed read like no mortal and have a photographic memory, yet I cannot read nearly as fast as a modern computer can copy. From the other night I know Mr. Riley has a box of formatted three-and-a-half-inch high-density diskettes in his desk. I remove two from the drawer and slip one into the computer. I am familiar with the word processor. I set it to copying the file. Mr. Riley had accumulated a lot of information on me. The Alisa Perne file is large. I estimate, given the equipment I am using, that it will take me five minutes to copy the file onto both diskettes. Ray will return before then. While the file copies, I return to the office entrance and study the lock. I can hear Ray walking down the stairs. He hums as he walks. He doesn't think there is anyone outside.
　I decide to jam the lock. Taking two paper clips from Riley's desk, and bending them into usable shapes, I slip them into the tumblers. The first diskette finally fills as Ray returns from his quick outside inspection. I slip in the second diskette.
　"Sita," Ray calls. "It's me. There was no one there."
　I speak from the back office. "You want me to open the door for you? I locked it like you said."
　"Never mind, I have the key." He inserts the key into the lock. But the door does not open. "Sita, it won't open. Have you thrown the latch?"
　I approach the door slowly so that my voice will sound closer, but I have turned the monitor around so that I can keep an eye on it. The bytes accumulate quickly, but so, I suppose, do Ray's suspicions.
　"There is no latch," I say. "Try the key again."
　He tries a few times. "Open the door for me."
　I give the appearance of trying real hard to open it. "It's stuck."
　"It opened a few minutes ago."
　"Ray, I'm telling you it's stuck."
　"Is the lock latch turned up?"
　"Yes."
　"Turn it sideways."
　"I can't get it to turn. Am I going to be stuck in here all night?"
　"No. There's got to be a simple solution to this." He thinks a moment. "Look in my father's desk. See if you can find a pair of pliers."
　I am happy to return to the desk. In a minute I have to remove my second diskette and exit the files. I open and close the drawers while I wait for the copying to finish. When it is complete, I jump into the file, scan the first page, then highlight the remainder of the file-which is several hundred pages long-and delete it. Now the Alisa Perne file contains only the first page, which holds nothing of vital importance. I return to the screen that requests the password. I put both diskettes in my back pocket. Striding back to the door, I pull out the paper clips and slip them in my back pocket as well. I open the door for Ray.
　"What happened?" he asks.
　"It just came unstuck."
　"That's weird."
　"Are you sure there's no one outside?"
　"I didn't see anyone."
　I yawn. "I'm getting tired."
　"You were full of energy a few minutes ago. You want me to take you home now? I can come back later and study the file."
　"You may as well look at it while you're here."
　Ray returns to the computer. I lounge around the reception area. Ray lets out a sound of surprise. I peek in the door at him.
　"What is it?" I ask.
　"There isn't much in this file."
　"Does it say who Alisa Feme is?"
　"Not really. It just gives some background information on who contacted my dad to investigate her."
　"That should be helpful."
　"It's not, because even that information is cut off in midsentence." Ray frowns. "This is an odd file for my dad to create. I wonder if it's been tampered with. I could have sworn ..." He looks at me.
　"What?" I ask.
　He glances back at the screen. "Nothing."
　"No, Ray, tell me. You could have sworn what?" I worry he may have registered how big the file was when he first started on the computer. Certainly it is much smaller now. Ray shakes his head.
　"I don't know," he says. "I'm tired, too. I'm going to look at this stuff tomorrow." He exits the files and turns off the computer. "Let's get out of here."
　"OK."
　Half an hour later I am at home, my real home, the mansion on the hill overlooking the ocean. I have come with the diskettes because I need my computer. My good night kiss to Ray was brief. His emotions were difficult for me to read. He is clearly suspicious of me, but that is not his dominant feeling. There is something in him that feels like a mixture of fear and attachment and gladness-very strange. But he is worried about his father, more than he was before we went to the office.
　I have a variety of word processors and have no trouble loading the Alisa Perne file and bringing it up on the screen. A glance at the information shows me that Mr. Riley investigated me for approximately three months before calling me into his office. The data he dug up on me is interspersed with personal notes and comments on his correspondence with someone named "Mr. Slim." There is a fax number for Slim, but no phone number. The number indicates an office in Switzerland. I memorize it and then proceed through the file more carefully. Riley's initial contact note is interesting. Nowhere in the file are copies of Mr. Slim's faxes, just comments on them.
　Aug. 8th
　This morning I received a fax from a gentleman named Mr. Slim. He introduces himself as an attorney for a variety of wealthy European clients. He wants me to investigate a young woman named Alisa Perne, who lives here in Mayfair. He has little information on the woman-I have the impression that she is but one of many people he or his group is investigating. He also mentioned a couple of other women that he might have me look into in this part of the country, but he did not give me their names. He is particularly interested in Miss Perne's financial situation, her family situation, and also-and this is surprising-whether anyone she has been associated with has died violently recently. When I faxed back and asked if this woman was dangerous, he indicated that she was far more dangerous than she appeared, and that I was not to contact her directly under any circumstances. He said she appears to be only eighteen to twenty years of age.
　I am intrigued, especially since Mr. Slim has agreed to deposit ten thousand dollars in my account to start me on my investigation. I have already faxed back that I will take the case. I have the young woman's address and Social Security number. I do not have a picture but intend to take one for my records, even though I have been warned to keep my distance. How dangerous can she be, at that age?
　There followed an account of Riley's preliminary investigation into me. Apparently he had a contact at TRW that gave him access to information not usually available to a common investigator. I suspect Mr. Slim knew of this contact and hired Riley for that reason. Almost immediately Riley discovered that I was rich, and that apparently I had no family. The more he found out, the more eager he was to pursue the investigation, and the less information he faxed back to Mr. Slim. At one point Riley made what to him was a major decision, to use a contact on the New York Stock Exchange. By going to the man he was using up a valuable favor. But I suppose he thought I was worth it.
　Sept. 21st
　Miss Perne has gone to extremes to hide her financial holdings, and not just from the IRS. She has numerous accounts at various brokerage houses set up under different corporations, some off shore. Yet they appear to be coordinated by a single law firm in New York City-Benson and Sons. I tried to contact the firm directly, speaking as a rich investor, but they rebuffed my inquiries, making me suspect they handle Perne's account and no other. If that is true it is another example of this woman's wealth, for Benson and Sons has investments in the range of half a billion dollars.
　Yet I have seen her-this girl-and she is as young as Mr. Slim says and very attractive. But her age confuses me, and I wonder if she has a mother somewhere who has the same name. Because many of her business dealings go back two decades, and they can all be traced to the name Alisa Perne. I am tempted to talk to her directly, despite Mr. Slim's warning.
　Mr. Slim is not happy with me, and the feeling is mutual. He has the impression I have been withholding information from him and he's correct. But he has done the same with me. He still refuses to tell me the reason for his interest in this young lady, although I can imagine several scenarios. But his initial comment about her dangerous nature keeps coming back to me. Who is Alisa Perne? One of the richest people in the world obviously. But where did she get her wealth? By violent means? From her nonexistent family? I must, before I give up this case, ask her these questions myself.
　I have been thinking that Mr. Slim has been paying me well, but that Alisa Perne may want to pay me more. I see already, though, that it would be unwise to let Mr. Slim know I have gone behind his back. There is a certain ruthless tone to his faxes. I don't think I ever want to meet the man. Yet I find myself looking forward to talking to Alisa.
　Late September and he is on a first-name basis with me. But he did not contact me till November. What did he do during that time? I read farther and learned that he investigated my international dealings. He discovered I have property in Europe and Asia, and passports from France and India. This last fact was a revelation for him, as well it should have been. Because it appeared, accurately, that I had held the passports for more than thirty years. No wonder, I think, he asked me my age so quickly.
　Finally, though, he found a violent act connected to my past. Five years earlier, in Los Angeles. The brutal slaying of a Mr. Samuel Barber. The man had been my gardener. I killed him, of course, because he had a bad habit of peering into my windows. He had seen things I didn't want talked about.
　Oct. 25th
　According to the police report, this man worked for her for three years. Then one morning he was found floating facedown in the ocean not far from the Santa Monica pier. His throat had been ripped out. The coroner-I spoke to him myself-was never able to determine the type of weapon. The last person to see him alive was Miss Perne.
　I don't think she killed him. I like to think she didn't-the more I have studied her, the more I have come to admire her cunning and stealth. But perhaps this man learned things about her she didn't want known, and she had him killed. Certainly, she has the resources to hire whomever she pleases. When I meet with her I must ask her about her gardener. It will be another thing I can use as a bargaining chip. And I have decided I will see her soon. I have broken off all contact with Mr. Slim. In my last fax I told him that I was not able to verify any of my earlier claims about Miss Perne's personal wealth. I have since changed my fax number, so I do not know if Mr. Slim has tried to contact me again. I imagine he is not happy with me, but I am not going to lose any sleep over it.
　How much should I ask from Miss Perne? A million sounds like a nice round number. I have no doubt she'll pay it to keep me quiet. What I could do with that much money. But in truth, I don't think I'll touch it. I'll just give it to Ray when he's old enough.
　I will arm myself when I meet with her, just in case. But I am not worried.
　That was his last entry. I am happy I have deleted the file in the computer. If the police had such information on me, they wouldn't leave me alone. It might not be a bad idea to burn down the entire office building, I muse. It wouldn't be hard to arrange. Yet such an act might draw Mr. Slim's attention to peaceful Mayfair. To young and pretty Alisa Perne.
　Yet Mr. Riley was a fool to think Mr. Slim stopped watching him just because he changed his fax number. I am quite sure Slim observed him all the closer, and now that the detective has disappeared, Slim and company might even be in the neighborhood. Slim clearly has a lot of money at his disposal, and therefore a lot of power.
　Yet I am confident in my own power, and I resent this unseen person shadowing me. I hold the Swiss fax number in my memory, and I contemplate what I would say to this fellow should I meet him face to face. I know that my message would be short because I do not think I would let him live long.
　But I do not forget that Slim knows how dangerous I am.
　That does not necessarily mean he knows I am a vampire, but it is worrisome.
　I turn to my fax machine and press the On button.
　Dear Mr. Slim,
　This is Alisa Perne. I understand you have hired a certain Mr. Michael Riley to investigate me. I know you haven't heard from him in a while-I don't know what could have happened to him-so I thought I would contact you directly. I am prepared to meet with you, Mr. Slim, in person, and discuss whatever is on your mind.
　Yours Truly, Alisa
　I attach my personal fax number and send the message. Then I wait.
　I do not have to wait long. Ten minutes later a brief, and to the point, fax rolls out of my machine.
　Dear Alisa, Where would you like to meet and when? I am available tonight.
　Sincerely, Mr. Slim
　Yes, I think, as I read the message, Slim and company are probably close by, the Swiss number notwithstanding. I figure the message went to Europe and was then sent back here-nearby. I type in my return message.
　Dear Mr. Slim,
　Meet me at the end of Water Cove Pier in one hour. Come alone. Agreed?
　Again, ten minutes later.
　Dear Alisa, Agreed.
　
　
　6
　
　
　The pier is a half hour from my house, in the town of Water Cove, twenty miles south of Mayfair. I arm myself before I leave the house: a snub-nosed forty-five in the pocket of my black leather coat; another smaller pistol in my right boot; a razor-sharp knife strapped inside my left boot. I am handy with a knife; I can hit a moving target a hundred yards away with a flick of my wrist. I do not believe Slim will come alone, knowing how dangerous I am. Yet he will have to bring a small army to contend with me.
　I leave immediately. I want to arrive before Slim does. And I do. The pier is deserted as I cruise by in my black Ferrari. I park two blocks down from the pier and climb out. My hearing is alert. I can hear the bolt of a rifle being pulled back from over a mile away. Slim would have to come at least that close to try to assassinate me outright, and that is a possibility I consider. But all is calm, all is quiet. I walk briskly toward the end of the pier. I have chosen the meeting place for two reasons. Slim will only be able to approach me from one direction. Also, if he does arrive with overwhelming odds, then I should be able to escape by diving into the water. I can swim out a mile along the bottom of the ocean before having to surface. My confidence is high. And why shouldn't it be? In five thousand years I have never met my match.
　Almost to the hour of our agreement to meet, a long white limousine pulls up to the entrance to the pier. A man and a woman climb out of the back. The man wears a black leather coat, a dark tie, a white shirt, smart black trousers. He is approximately forty-five and has the look of a hardened Navy Seal or CIA agent: the short crew cut, the bulging muscles, the quick shifting eyes. I see that his eyes are green even from two hundred yards away. His face is tan, deeply lined from the sun. There is at least one gun in his coat, possibly two.
　The woman is ten years younger, an attractive brunette. She is dressed entirely in black. Her coat is bulky, as are her hidden guns. She has at least one fully automatic weapon on her. Her skin is creamy white, the line of her mouth set and hard. Her legs are long, her muscles toned. She may be an expert in karate or some such discipline. Her mind is easy to read. She has a nasty job to do and she is going to do it right. Her promised reward is great.
　Yet it is clear the man is the leader. His smile is straight and thin lipped, more chilling than the girl's frown. This is Slim, I know.
　Four blocks down the street I can hear another limousine parked, its engine idling. I cannot see the second car-it is hidden behind a building-but I am able to match the sound of the engines. The cars could hold maybe ten people each, I estimate. In all the odds might be twenty to one against me.
　The man and the woman walk toward me without speaking. I consider escaping over the side of the pier. But I hesitate because I am a predator first and foremost; I hate to run. Also, my curiosity is high. Who are these characters and what do they want with me? Yet if they reach for their weapons, I will jump. I will be gone in the flick of an eye. It is clear to me that neither of these approaching creatures is anything but mortal.
　The woman stops walking thirty yards from me. The man approaches to within ten yards but comes no closer. They do not reach for their weapons but they keep their hands ready. Down the street I hear three people get out of the second limousine. They spread out in three different directions. They carry weapons: I hear the metal brush their clothes. They take up positions-I am finally able to see them out of the corner of my eye-one behind a car; another next to a tree; the last crouched behind a sign. Simultaneously three people inside the limousine at the pier level high-powered rifles at me.
　My hesitation has cost me already.
　I stand in the sights of six sets of cross hairs.
　My fear is still manageable. I figure I can take a bullet or two and still escape over the side. As long as they don't get me directly in the head or heart. Still, I do not want to run. I want to talk to Slim. He is the first to speak.
　"You must be Alisa."
　I nod. "Slim?"
　"In the flesh."
　"You agreed to come alone."
　"I wanted to come alone. But my associates didn't think it would be wise."
　"Your associates are all about. Why so many soldiers for one girl?"
　"Your reputation precedes you, Alisa."
　"What reputation is that?"
　He shrugs. "That you are a resourceful young woman."
　Interesting, I think. He is almost embarrassed by the precautions that have been taken to abduct me. He has been told to take them-ordered. He doesn't know that I am a vampire, and if he doesn't know, then probably no one with him knows since he is clearly in command of the operation. That gives me a huge advantage. But the person above him knows. I must meet this person, I decide.
　"What do you want?" I ask.
　"Just that you come with us for a little ride."
　"To where?"
　"To a place not far from here," he says.
　That is a lie. We will drive a long distance if I get in his limousine. "Who sent you?"
　"You will meet him if you come with me."
　Him. "What is his name?"
　"I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to discuss that at this time."
　"What if I don't want to come?" I ask.
　Slim sighs. "That would not be good. In fact, it would be very bad."
　They will shoot me if I resist, without question. It is good to know.
　"Did you know Detective Michael Riley?" I ask.
　"Yes. I worked with him. I assume you met him?"
　"Yes."
　"How is he?"
　I smile, my eyes cold. "I don't know."
　"I'm sure you don't." He gestures with his hand. "Please come with us. A police car might be along at any moment. I'm sure neither of us wants to complicate matters."
　"If I do come with you, do I have your word I will not be harmed?" I ask.
　He keeps his face straight. "You have my word, Alisa."
　Another lie. This man is a killer. I can smell the blood on him. I shift slightly on my feet. The rifles aimed at me all have telescopic sights. They move as I move. I estimate at least one of the shooters will hit me before I can get over the pier rail. I don't like being shot, although I have a few times. I have no choice but to go along, I decide, for the moment.
　"Very well, Mr. Slim," I say. "I will come with you."
　We walk toward the limousine, Slim on my right, the woman on my left. As we are almost at the entrance to the pier, the limousine down the street suddenly appears. Without picking up the men it deposited, it drives until it is parked behind the first limousine. Four men jump out. Their clothes are all similar-black sweatsuits. They point automatic weapons at me. My fear escalates. Their precautions are extraordinary. If they decide to open fire now, I will die. I think of Krishna, I don't know why. But he did tell me I would have his grace if I listened to him. And in my own way I have not disobeyed him. Slim turns in my direction.
　"Alisa," he says. "I would like it if you would slowly reach in your coat and remove your gun and toss it on the ground."
　I do as he asks.
　"Thank you," Slim says. "Do you have any other weapons on you?"
　"You will have to search me to find out."
　"I prefer not to search you. I'm asking you if you have any other weapons, and that you surrender them now."
　These are dangerous people, highly trained. I have to go on the offensive, I think, quickly. I stare at Slim, my eyes boring into him. He tries to glance away but is unable to. I speak softly, knowing he hears my words as if they were whispered between his ears.
　"You do not have to be afraid of me, Mr. Slim," I say. "It does not matter what you have been told. Your fear is unnecessary. I am nothing more than I appear."
　I am planting a suggestion deep in his psyche, pushing buttons he already feels. But the woman takes a sudden step forward. She speaks. "Don't listen to her. Remember."
　Slim shakes his head as if trying to clear it He gestures to the woman. "Search her," he orders.
　I stand perfectly still while the woman works her way down into my boots and discovers my remaining pistol and knife. I consider grabbing her and holding her as a hostage. But a study of the eyes of the men assembled tells me that they will kill her to get to me, and lose no sleep over the act. The woman disarms me and jumps back from me as if afraid she will catch something from me. All of them, without exception, are confused about why I have to be treated with such caution. Yet all of them are determined to follow orders. Slim removes two pairs of handcuffs from inside his coat. They are gold colored, and don't smell like steel-probably some special alloy. They are three times thicker than normal cuffs. Slim tosses them toward me and they land at my feet.
　"Alisa," he says patiently. "I would like you to put one pair of these around your wrists, the other pair around your ankles."
　"Why?" Now I want to stall for time. Maybe a police officer will come by. Of course, these people would just kill the officer.
　"We have a long drive ahead of us, and we want you safely tucked away before we allow you in our car," Slim says.
　"You said we didn't have far to go?"
　"Put on the cuffs."
　"All right." I put them on, marveling once more at their preparation.
　"Press them together so that they lock," Slim suggests.
　I do so. They click. "Happy?" I ask. "Can we go?"
　Slim removes a black eye mask from his pocket, similar to the kind people wear to bed. He steps toward me. "I want you to put this on," he says.
　I hold out my cuffed hands. "You'll have to put it on me."
　He takes another step toward me. "Your hands are free enough to put it on."
　I catch his eye again; it may be my last chance. "You do not have to be so afraid of me, Slim. Your fear is ridiculous."
　He hurries toward me and covers my eyes. I hear his voice.
　"You're right, Alisa," he says.
　He grabs my arm and pulls me toward the limousine.
　We drive south on the Coast Highway. All is dark, but I still have my sense of direction. All my senses with the exception of my eyes are very alert. Slim sits on my right, the woman on my left. Four burly men sit across from us; two up front. I count the breaths. The second limousine follows a hundred yards behind. They picked up their three marksmen before we hit the road.
　There are no incidental smells in the limousine. The car is new. There is no food in the limousine, but there is drink in the bar: sodas, juice, water. There is a faint smell of gunpowder in the air. One or more of the guns in the vehicle has recently been fired. Everybody has his gun out, in his hands or resting in his lap. Only the woman keeps hers aimed at me. She is the most afraid of me.
　Several miles go by. The breathing of the people around me begins to slow, to lengthen and deepen. They are relaxing, except for the woman. They think the difficult part is over. Careful, I test the strength of the cuffs. The metal is incredibly hard. I will not be able to break it. But that doesn't mean I can't get around. I can hop, even bound, far more quickly than any mortal can run. I might be able to grab one of the automatic weapons from the lap of one of the men across from me and shoot and kill most of the people in the limousine before they can shoot me back. Then again, the woman might put a bullet in my brain first. Also, I know the car behind us is operating under strict instructions. The pattern in the abduction is clear. If they see me attacking, they will open fire without hesitation. Everyone in the first limousine will die, and I will be one of them. This is why there are two cars, not one.
　I must try another way.
　I let another thirty minutes go by. Then I speak.
　"Slim. I have to go to the bathroom."
　"I'm sorry, that's not possible," he says.
　"I have to go bad. I drank an entire bottle of Coke before meeting you."
　"I don't care. We are not stopping."
　"I'll pee all over the seat. You'll have to sit in it."
　"Pee if you must."
　"I will do it."
　He doesn't respond. More miles go by. Since Slim carried the cuffs, I decide he must be the one who has the key to open them. The arm of the woman beside me begins to tire. She lowers her weapon hand: I hear the rustling of her clothing. I estimate our speed to be sixty miles an hour. We are maybe fifty miles south of Water Cove. Seaside is approaching; I can hear the town up ahead; the two all night gas stations; the twenty-four-hour doughnut shop.
　"Slim," I say.
　"What?"
　"I have a problem besides having to pee."
　"What is it?"
　"I'm having my period. I have to get to a rest room. I need only two minutes. You and your lady friend can come with me into the rest room. You can point your guns at me the whole time if you want, I don't care. If you do not stop, we will have a mess here and we will have it soon."
　"We are not stopping."
　I raise my voice. "This is ridiculous! I am bound hand and foot. You are armed left and right. I just have to go to the bathroom for two minutes. For God's sake, what kind of sick person are you? Do you like piss and blood?"
　Slim considers. I hear him lean forward and glance at the woman. "What do you think?" he asks.
　"We are not supposed to stop for any reason," she says.
　"Yeah, but what the hell." He adds a line, and as he does so, I hear my implanted suggestion. "What harm can she do?"
　"She must be guarded at all times," the woman insists.
　"I already said you two can follow me into the rest room," I say.
　"So we have your permission?" the woman asks sarcastically. The sound of her voice is aggravating. She is from Germany-the east side. I hope she follows me into the bathroom. I have a surprise for her. "I have no sanitary napkins," she says.
　"I will use whatever is available," I say softly.
　"It is up to you," the woman says to Slim.
　He considers, studying me, I know. Then he decides. "Hell, call the others. Tell them we're stopping at the first gas station. We'll pull around back."
　"They won't like that," the man up front says.
　"Tell them they can talk to me if they are worried," Slim says. He turns toward me. "Happy?"
　"Thank you," I say in my velvety voice. "I won't cause any problems. You really can accompany me if you want."
　"You can be sure I will, sister," Slim says-as if it were his own idea. I want those keys.
　The call is made. We slow as we enter Seaside. The driver spots a gas station. I hear the all-night attendant making change. We drive around the side, the second limousine close behind us. The car stops. Slim opens his door.
　"Stay here," he says.
　We wait for Slim to return. The woman has her gun pointed at my head again. She just doesn't like my looks, I suppose. But the men are relaxed. They are thinking, all this security for what? Slim comes back. I hear him unholster his weapon.
　"There will be two of us on you," he says. "Don't get smart."
　"You have to take this thing off my eyes," I say. "I'll make a mess if I can't see."
　Of course I can reach up and remove it myself, when I make my move. But to have it removed now will save me the extra step. Also, I want my vision to plan when to attack. Finally, by asking them to take it off, I emphasize my helplessness.
　"Any other requests?" Slim asks.
　"No."
　He reaches over and pulls off the mask. "Happy?"
　I smile at him, grateful. "I will be when I get in the bathroom."
　He stares at me, doubt and confusion touching his face. "Who the hell are you?"
　"A girl with a bad attitude," I say.
　The woman pokes her pistol at my temple. "Get out. You have two minutes. No more."
　I climb out of the car. The guys in the other limousine are all out, their weapons hidden but handy. They form a wall between me and the front of the gas station. I hope none of them accompanies me into the rest room. But Slim and the woman are determined to stay with me. I give the watching gang a timid smile as I shuffle past. They chew gum. They stare at my body. They, too, wonder what all the fuss is about. The woman goes into the bathroom first. I follow, Slim on my tail. No one else comes in. The door closes behind us.
　I strike immediately. I have it all planned.
　In a move too fast for a mortal eye to follow, I whirl and knock Slim's pistol away. Raising my cuffed hands over my head, I bring them down on top of his skull. I use only a fraction of my strength; I want to stun him, no more. He topples to the floor as the woman turns, bringing up her gun. I kick it from her hand by lashing out with both my feet. She blinks as I land upright. She opens her mouth to say something when I grab her face with both my hands. My grip is ferocious; there is blood even before I kill her, around her eyes. My nails destroy her vision permanently.
　There is lots more blood when I smash the back of her head on the tiled wall. The plaster cracks under the blow sending up a miniature cloud of white dust shot through with streaks of red. Likewise her skull cracks, in many places. She sags in my arms, the blood from her mortal wounds soaking the front of my leather jacket. She is dead; I let her drop.
　The door is closed but not locked. Quickly I press it tight and lock it. At my feet Slim lets out a moan. I reach down and grab him and press him against the wall beside the stain of the dead woman's brains. My hands go around his throat. Perhaps five seconds have elapsed since we entered the bathroom. Slim winces and opens his eyes. They focus quickly when they see me.
　"Slim," I say softly. "Look around you. Look at your dead partner. Her brains are leaking out of her head. She's a mess-it's terrible. I'm a terrible person. I'm also a very strong person. You can feel how strong I am, can't you? That's why your boss wanted you to be so careful with me. You can't screw with me and get away with it. Please don't even consider it. Now, let me tell you what I want. Reach in your pocket and pull out the key to these cuffs. Unlock them. Don't shout out to the others. If you do these things, then maybe I will let you go. If you don't, your brains will be all over the floor like your partner's.
　Think about it for a moment, if you want, but don't think too long. You can see what an impatient person I am."
　He stammers. "I don't have the keys."
　I smile. "Bad answer, Slim. Now I will have to go through your pockets and find them. But I'll have to make sure you're lying perfectly still while I do so. I'm going to have to kill you."
　He's scared. He can hardly talk. He accidentally steps in the mess dripping out of the woman's head. "No. Wait. Please. I have the keys. I will give you the keys."
　"That's good. Good for you." I release my grip slightly. "Undo the locks. Remember, if you shout out, you die."
　His hands shake badly. All his training has not prepared him for me. His eyes keep straying to what I have done to the woman's head. A crumpled accordion of bloody assault. Finally, though, Slim gets my cuffs off. My relief at being free is great. Once more, I feel my usual invincibility. I am a wolf among sheep. The slaughter will be a pleasure. I toss the cuffs in the wastebasket. Just then someone knocks at the door. I press my fingers deep into the sides of Slim's throat.
　"Ask what it is," I say. I let go just enough to allow him to speak.
　He coughs. "What is it?"
　"Everything OK in there?" a man asks. They have heard noise.
　"Yeah," I whisper.
　"Yeah," Slim says.
　The man outside tries the doorknob. Of course it is locked. "What's happening?" the man asks. He is the suspicious type, to be sure.
　"Everything is cool," I whisper.
　"Everything is cool," Slim manages. It is no wonder the guy outside doesn't believe Slim; he sounds like he's about to weep. The guy outside tries the door again.
　"Open the door," he demands.
　"If we go out that way," I ask Slim, "will they shoot us both?"
　He croaks. "Yes."
　I study the bathroom. The wall against which I hold Slim is completely tiled; it appears to be the thickest wall in the rest room. But the wall behind the lone toilet looks flimsy. I suspect on the other side of it might be the late-night attendant's office space. Keeping Slim pinned with my left hand, I reach down and pick up the dead woman's automatic weapon.
　"We are going to go through that wall there," I say. "I will kick it in, then we will move. I don't want you wrestling with me. If you do, I will rip out your throat. Now tell me, what is behind this gas station? A field? Another building? A road?"
　"Trees."
　"Trees like in the forest?"
　"Yes."
　"Excellent." I drag him into the stall. "Prepare yourself for a fun ride."
　Still holding on to Slim, I leap into the air several feet and plant three swift kicks on the wall above the toilet. It splinters and I break through what is left of it with a slash of my right arm. We enter the all-night attendant's office. Before he can turn to identify us, I strike him on the back of the head. He goes down, probably still alive. I kick open the door to the outside. The fresh air is sweet after the staleness of the rest room. Behind me I hear the bathroom door being broken down. There are shocked gasps when they see what I have done to poor Miss Germany.
　Dragging Slim, I come around the two parked limos from behind. There are men inside the rest room, more hovering at the door, still more getting out of the first limo. I raise the automatic weapon, an Uzi, and let loose a spray of bullets. Screams rent the air. Several of the men go down. Others reach for their guns. I empty the clip in their direction and drop the Uzi to the ground. I don't need it, I am a vampire. I need only my natural power.
　In a blur, still holding on to Slim, I cross the parking lot and enter the trees. A trail of bullets chases us. One of them catching me in the butt, the right cheek. The wound burns, but I don't mind. The woods are mainly pine, some spruce. A hill rises above us, a quarter of a mile to the top. I pull Slim to the pinnacle, and then back down the other side. A stream crosses our path and we splash through it. The old belief is not true; running water does not bind my steps.
　By now I have badly wrenched Slim's neck. Behind us I hear men entering the forest, six of them, spreading out, searching for us. I can hear others at the gas station, moaning in pain, the sputtering breath of still others dying. I literally pick Slim off his feet and carry him a half mile upstream, running faster than a deer in her prime, even with the bullet in me. Then I throw Slim down behind a cluster of bushes. I straddle his chest. He looks up at me with eyes wide with fear. I must be little more than a shadow in his vision. Yet I can see him perfectly. I reach around to my back side, digging my fingers into the torn tissue. I pull out the bullet and toss it aside. The wound begins to heal immediately.
　"Now we can talk," I say.
　"W-who?" he stutters. I lean over, my face in his.
　"That is the magic question," I say. "Who sent you after me?"
　He is struggling for breath, although I am no longer holding him by the throat. "You are so strong. How is it possible?"
　"I am a vampire."
　He coughs. "I don't understand."
　"I am five thousand years old. I was born before recorded history began. I am the last of my kind ... I believe I am the last. But the person who sent you after me knew of my great strength. You were carefully prepared. That person must know that I am a vampire. I want that person." I breathe on his face and know he feels the chill of the Grim Reaper. "Tell me who he is, where I can find him."
　He is in shock. "Is this possible?"
　"You have seen a demonstration of my power. Do you really want me to give you another one?"
　He trembles. "If I tell you, will you let me live?"
　"Perhaps."
　He swallows thickly, perspiring heavily. "We work out of Switzerland. I have only met my boss a few times. His name is Graham-Rick Graham. He is very wealthy. I do odd jobs for him, my people and I. Two years ago he set us searching for someone who fit your description."
　"How did he describe me?"
　"The way you look. Other things as well. He said you would be rich, private, have no family. He said there would be mysterious deaths connected with your name."
　"Did he know my name?"
　"No."
　"Has he had you look for anyone else?"
　"No. Only someone who fit your description." He grimaces in pain. "Could you get off me? I think you broke several of my ribs when you pulled me through the trees."
　"You were not concerned about my comfort in the car."
　"I stopped to let you go to the bathroom."
　"That was your mistake." My voice is cold.
　He is very afraid. "What are you going to do to me?"
　"What is Graham's address? Is he in Switzerland?"
　"He is never in one place. He travels constantly."
　"Why?"
　"I don't know why. Maybe he looks for you."
　"But is he on the West Coast now? In Oregon?"
　"I don't know."
　He is telling the truth. "But you were taking me to him tonight, weren't you?"
　"I don't know. We were to drive you to San Francisco. I was to call from a certain phone booth. I can give you the number. It is in Switzerland."
　"Say it." He gives me the number. I consider. "I faxed you in Switzerland earlier tonight. Yet you were here. It is possible Graham is here as well?"
　"It is possible. We have relays."
　"Do you have a business card, Slim?"
　"What?"
　"A card. Give me your card."
　"My wallet is in my front right pocket."
　I rip away his pocket. "So it is." I stuff the wallet in my back pocket. My pants are soaked with blood, some of my own, some of the woman's. In the distance I hear two of the men coming my way. Farther off I hear a police siren, heading south on Coast Highway. The men hear it as well. I can practically read their thoughts, they are so obvious. This woman is a monster. If she has Slim, Slim is dead. She will probably kill us if we do catch up with her. The police are coming. We'd better get the hell out of here and chalk it up to a bad night.
　The men reverse their direction, back toward the gas station. I lovingly stroke the sides of Slim's face. Of course there is no possibility I will let him live.
　"Why do you work for Graham?" I ask.
　"The money."
　"I see. Tell me what Graham looks like?"
　"He is tall, six three maybe. His hair is dark. He wears it long."
　Now I am the one who trembles. "What color are his eyes?"
　"Blue."
　"Pale blue?"
　"Yes. They are frightening."
　My voice whispers. "Like mine?"
　"Yes. God, please don't kill me. I can help you, miss. I really can."
　Yaksha.
　It is not possible, I think, after all this time. The stories, why did I listen to them? Just because they said he was dead? He probably invented them. But why does he come for me now? Or is that the most foolish question of all? These people had orders to shoot if I so much as burped. He must want me dead.
　He must be afraid of what Krishna told him.
　"You have helped me enough," I tell Slim.
　He pants. "What are you going to do? Don't do it!"
　My fingers reach down to his throat, my long nails caressing the big veins beneath his flesh. "I told you what I am. And I'm hungry. Why shouldn't I suck you dry? You are no saint. You kill without conscience. At least when someone dies in my arms, I think kind thoughts about him."
　He cries. "Please! I don't want to die."
　I lean over. My hair smothers him.
　"Then you should never have been born," I say.
　I open him up. I open my mouth.
　I take my pleasure slowly.
　
　
　7
　
　
　The body I bury beneath the stream. It is a favorite place of mine. Police seldom look under running water. I hear them in the distance, the law, at the gas station, maybe two black and whites. They have a shoot-out with the boys in the limos. The boys win. I hear them tear away at high speed. They are clever. I believe they will get away.
　Yet if I want them, I will have them later.
　More police can be heard approaching. I decide to exit the forest the back way. I jog through the trees, setting cross-country records. Six miles later finds me at a closed gas station on a deserted road. There is a phone booth. I think of calling Seymour Dorsten, my archery buddy. It is a mad thought. I would do better to keep running till I find a busier road, a few parked cars. I can hot-wire any car in less than a minute. I am soaked through with blood. It would be madness to involve Seymour in this night's dirty business. He might tell his mother. Yet I want him involved. I trust the little guy. I don't know why.
　Information gives me his number. I call. He answers on the second ring and sounds alert. "Seymour," I say. "This is your new friend."
　"Lara." He is pleased. "What are you doing? It's four in the morning."
　"I have a little problem I need your help with." I check the street sign. "I am at a gas station on Pinecone Ave. I am six miles inland from Seaside, maybe seven, due east of the city. I need you to come get me. I need you to bring a change of clothing for me: pants and a sweatshirt. You must come immediately and tell no one what you're doing. Are your parents awake?"
　"No."
　"What are you doing awake?"
　"How did you know I was awake?"
　"I'm psychic," I say.
　"I was having a dream about you. I just woke up from it minutes ago."
　"You can tell me about it later. Will you come?"
　"Yes. I know where you're talking about. Is it a Shell station? It's the only one on that road."
　"Yes. Good boy. Hurry. Don't let your parents hear you leave."
　"Why do you need the change of clothes?"
　"You'll understand when you see me."
　Seymour arrives a little over an hour later. He is shocked at my appearance, as well he should be. My hair is the color of a volcano at sunset. He stops the car and jumps out.
　"What happened to you?" he asks.
　"A few people tried to rough me up, but I got away. I don't want to say any more than that. Where are the clothes?"
　"Wow." He doesn't take his eyes off me as he reaches back into the front seat. He has brought me blue jeans and a white T-shirt and two different sweaters: one green, the other black. I will wear the black one. I begin to strip right in front of him. The boy has driven far and deserves a thrill. "Lara," he says, simply amazed.
　"I am not shy." I unbutton my pants and wiggle them down. "Do you have a towel or some kind of old cloth in the car?"
　"Yes. You want to wipe off some of the blood?"
　"Yes. Get it for me please."
　He gives me a stained dish towel. Now I am completely naked, the sweat on my skin sending off faint whiffs of steam in the cold night air. I clean my hair as best I can and wipe the blood from my breasts. Finally I reach for the clothes he has brought.
　"Are you sure you don't want to call the police?" he asks.
　"I am sure." I pull the T-shirt on first.
　Seymour chuckles. "You must have had a bow and a few arrows with you when they caught up with you."
　"I was armed." I finish dressing, putting my boots back on, and bundle my clothes together. "Wait here a second. I have to get rid of these."
　I bury the clothes in the trees, but before I do so I remove my car keys and Slim's wallet from my pants pocket. I am back with Seymour in ten minutes. He is behind the wheel with the engine on, the heater up high. In his frail condition he must get cold easily. I climb in beside him.
　"My car is in Seaside, not far from the pier," I say. "Can you take me there?"
　"Sure." He puts the car in gear. We head north. "What made you call me?"
　"Your sexy mind."
　He laughs. "You knew I was the only one in town who wouldn't immediately report you to the authorities."
　"I am serious about you keeping this private."
　"Oh, I will."
　I smile and pat his leg. "I know you will. Besides your sexy mind, I called you because I know you don't object to a little stroll on the wild side from time to time."
　He eyes me through his thick glasses. "You may be a little wild even for my tastes. You can't even tell me a little something about what happened?"
　"You would have trouble believing the truth."
　He shakes his head. "Not after this dream I had about you. It was amazing."
　"Tell me about it."
　"I dreamed you were on a battlefield and a whole army of demons was approaching you from every direction. They had all kinds of weapons: axes and swords and hammers. Their faces were hideous. They were jeering loudly, anxious to rip you to shreds. Where you were standing was a bit above the rest of the field, on a grassy knoll. But the rest of the field was a reddish dust color, as if it were a plain on Mars. The sky was filled with smoke. There was only you against thousands. It looked hopeless. But you were not afraid. You were dressed like an exotic goddess. Your chest was covered with silver mail. You had a jeweled sword in your right hand, emerald earrings set in gold that chimed as you slowly surveyed the army around you. A peacock feather stood in your braided hair, and you wore tall boots made of fresh hide. They dripped with blood. You smiled as the front rank of the demons went to strike you. You raised your sword. Then you stuck out your tongue."
　"My tongue?"
　"Yeah. This was the scary part. Your tongue was real long. It was purple, bloody-it looked as if you had taken a bite or two out of it. When you stuck it out, all the demons froze and acted afraid. Then you made this sound at the back of your throat. It's hard to describe. It was a loud sound, nasal. It echoed across the whole battlefield, and as it reached the ear of each demon, he toppled over dead."
　"Wow," I say. The part about the tongue naturally reminds me of the yakshini. There is now no question in my mind. Seymour is supernaturally sensitive to emotional states. More than that he seems to have linked up with me somehow, formed an intuitive bond with me. Certainly, I have with him. I am mystified. I cannot logically understand my great affection for him. It is not the same as my love for Ray, my passion for the son of Riley. For me, Seymour is like a younger brother, a son even. In five thousand years I have never had a child except for Lalita. I would like to play with this young man. "Is there more?" I ask.
　"Yes," he says. "But you might not want to hear this part. It's pretty gross."
　"I do not gross out easily."
　"After seeing you tonight, I imagine you don't. When all the demons were dead, you began to stride about the battlefield. Sometimes you would step on a demon's head and it would be crushed and the brains inside would ooze out. Sometimes you would stop and cut off the head of a demon. You accumulated a number of heads. You were making a necklace out of them. Other times you would find a demon that wasn't entirely dead. These you would grab by the throat and raise up to your mouth." He pauses for effect. "You would open their necks with your nails and drink their blood."
　"Doesn't sound so bad." He continues to amaze me. His dream is like a metaphor for the entire night. "Anything else?"
　"One last thing. When you were through walking about, and stood still, the flesh of the demons began to decay. In seconds they were nothing but dust and crumbling bones. Then the sky began to darken more. There was something in the sky, some kind of huge bird, circling above you. It disturbed you. You raised your sword to it and let out that weird sound again. But the bird kept circling, getting lower and lower. You were afraid of it. It did not seem you could stop it."
　"That hasn't happened yet," I whisper.
　"Pardon?"
　"Nothing. What kind of bird was it?"
　"I can't be sure."
　"Was it a vulture?"
　"Maybe." He frowns. "Yeah, I think it was." He gives me an uneasy look. "You don't like vultures?"
　"They are symbolic of a forsaken ending."
　"I didn't know that. Who told you that?"
　"Experience." I sit silent with my eyes closed for a few minutes. Seymour knows not to disturb me. The boy saw the present, I think, why couldn't he see the future? Yaksha is circling me, closer and closer. My old tricks will stop him. My strength, my speed, were never a match for his. The night is almost over. The day will soon be. But for us the day is the night, the time to rest, to hide, to despair. I know in my heart that Yaksha is not far.
　Yet Krishna said I would have his grace if I obeyed him.
　And I have. But what did he promise Yaksha? The same?
　I do not believe so.
　The scriptures say the Lord is mischievous.
　I think Krishna told him the opposite.
　I open my eyes. I stare at the road in front. "Are you afraid of dying, Seymour?"
　He speaks carefully. "Why do you ask?"
　"You have AIDS. You know it."
　He sucks in a breath. "How did you know?"
　I shrug. "I know things. You know things as well. How did you catch it? You don't seem gay. You were staring at me too hard when I was naked."
　"You have an awesome body."
　"Thank you."
　He nods. "I am HIV positive. I suppose I have full-blown AIDS. I have the symptoms: fatigue; skin cancer, bouts of parasitic pneumonia. But I've been feeling good the last few weeks. Do I look that bad?"
　"You look awesome. But sick."
　He shakes his head. "I was in a car crash five years ago. Ruptured my spleen. I was with an uncle. He died, but I got to the hospital in time. They operated on me and gave me two pints of blood. It was after the test for HIV was routine with all donated blood, but I guess this batch slipped through the cracks." He shrugs. "So I'm another statistic. Is that why you asked about fear of dying?"
　"It was one reason."
　"I am afraid. I think anybody would be lying if he said he wasn't afraid of death. But I try not to think about it. I'm alive now. There are things I want to do ..."
　"Stories you want to write," I interrupt.
　"Yes."
　I reach over and touch his arm. "Would you write a story about me someday?"
　"What should I write?"
　"Whatever comes to mind. Don't think about it too much. Just whatever is there, write it down."
　He smiles. "Will you read it if I write it?"
　I take my hand back and relax into the seat. My eyes close again; I feel suddenly weary. I am not mortal, at least I didn't think I was until tonight. Yet now I feel vulnerable. I am as afraid of death as everyone else.
　"If I get the chance," I say.
　
　
　8
　
　
　Seymour takes me to my car and tries to follow me back to Mayfair. But I speed away at a hundred miles an hour. He is not insulted, I'm sure. I warned him I'm in a hurry.
　I go to my mansion by the sea. I have not described it before because to me a house is a house. I do not fall in love with them as do some mortals. The house is on twenty acres of property, at the top of a wooded yard that reaches from my front porch all the way down to the rocky shore. The driveway is narrow and winding, mostly hidden. The house itself is mainly brick, Tudor style, unusual for this part of the country. There are three stories; the top one has a wide view of the sea and coast. There are many rooms, fireplaces and such, but I do most of my living in the living room, even though it has wide skylights that I have yet to board up. I do not need a lot of space to be happy, although I have lived in mansions or castles since the Middle Ages. I could be quite happy living in a box. I say that as a joke.
　My tastes in furniture are varied. At present I surround myself with lots of wood: the chairs, the tables, the cabinets. I sleep on a bed, not in a coffin, a grand mahogany affair with a black lace canopy. I have gathered art over the centuries and have a vast and expensive collection of paintings and sculptures in Europe, but none of it in America. I have gone through phases where art is important to me, but I am not in one now. Still, I have a piano wherever I go. I play almost every day, and with my speed and agility, I am the most accomplished pianist in the world. But I seldom write music, not because I am not creative, but because my melodies and songs are invariably sad. I do not know why-I do not think of myself as a sad vampire.
　Tonight, though, I am an anxious vampire, and it has been centuries since I felt the emotion. I do not like it. I hurry into my home and change and then rush back out to my car. My concern is for Ray. If it is Yaksha after me, and I have little doubt now, then he may try to get to me through Ray. It seems a logical course to me based on the fact that Yaksha probably first became aware of me through Ray's father. I now suspect Yaksha has been observing me since I first visited Mr. Riley's office. But why he didn't attack immediately, I don't know. Maybe he wanted to study the enemy he hadn't seen for so long, to probe for weaknesses. Yet Yaksha, more than any living or nonliving being, already knows where I am vulnerable.
　I am still in shock that he is alive.
　I drive to Ray's house and leap to the front door. I half expect to find him gone, abducted. For a moment I consider not ringing the doorbell, but to just barge in. I have to remind myself that Ray is not Seymour, capable of accepting anything that comes along. I knock on the door.
　Pat surprises me when she answers.
　The girlfriend is not happy to see me.
　"What are you doing here?" Pat demands.
　"I have come to see Ray." Pat must have called Ray's house while he was at my place, probably several times. She must have called not long after he came home. He probably invited her over to pacify her concerns. But she does not look that pacified.
　"He's asleep," Pat says. She starts to slam the door in my face. I stick out my arm. She tries to force it shut. Naturally, she is not successful. "Get out of here. Can't you tell when you're not wanted?"
　"Pat," I say patiently. "Things are not as they appear. They are much more complicated. I need to see Ray because I believe he is in danger."
　"What are you talking about?"
　"I cannot tell you, not easily. I have to talk to Ray and I have to talk to him now." I put my eye on her. "Please do not try to stop me. It would not be a good idea."
　She cowers under my stare. I move to press her farther, but it becomes unnecessary. Upstairs, I hear Ray climb out of bed. I wait a few seconds, then call out his name.
　"Ray!" I say. I hear his steps quicken. We both do.
　"He's mine," Pat mutters as we wait for Ray to arrive. She is sad, seemingly defeated already. Instinctively she knows I have a power she does not, beyond my beauty. Her love for him is genuine, I can see that, a rare thing in a girl her age.
　"Have hope," I say sincerely.
　Ray appears. He has on sweat pants, no top. "What's going on?" he asks.
　"Lots of things. I need to talk to you, alone." I glance at Pat. "If that would be all right?"
　Her eyes are damp. She lowers her head. "I can just go," she mumbled.
　Ray puts a hand on her shoulder. "No." He gives me a sharp glance. I have to be careful. "Tell me what it is?"
　"It has to do with your father," I say.
　He is concerned. "What is it?"
　I am stubborn. "I must tell you alone." I add, "I'm sorry, Pat."
　Ray rubs her back. "Go upstairs to bed. I'll be up in a few minutes."
　Pat shakes her head, giving me a look as she leaves. "I don't think so."
　When we are alone, Ray wants me to explain myself. "You told me you wouldn't hurt Pat," he says.
　"My coming here could not be helped. I have not been entirely honest with you, Ray. I think you suspect that."
　"Yes. You tampered with the file on my father's computer."
　"How did you know?"
　"When I turned on the computer, I noted the size of the file. It was large. When I returned, most of it had been deleted."
　I nod. "That file was about me. Your father was investigating me. He was hired by some people to do so, one man in particular. This man is dangerous. Tonight he sent some people to abduct me. I managed to get away. I believe he may come after you next."
　"Why me?"
　"Because he knows you are my friend. I believe he has been watching me today and tonight. Also, even though this man hired your father, your father did not part company with him on the best of terms."
　"How do you know that?"
　"The people who came for me tonight told me."
　"What do you mean, they came for you? Were they armed?"
　"Yes."
　"Then how did you get away from them?"
　"They made a mistake, and I am resourceful. I do not want to get into all of that now. What is important is that you come with me now."
　"I'm not going anywhere until you tell me where my father is."
　"I can't."
　"You don't know?"
　I hesitate. It is not easy for me to lie to those I love. "No."
　Ray is suspicious. His sense of the truth, and therefore of lies, is remarkable. "Do you think my father is in danger?" he asks.
　"Yes."
　He hears the truth in that word. "We should call the police."
　"No!" I grab his arm. "The police cannot help us. You have to come with me. Trust me, Ray. I can tell you more once we are at my house."
　"What will we do at your house that we can't do here?"
　"You will see," I say.
　Ray consents to accompany me. He goes upstairs to say goodbye to Pat. I hear her crying, and wonder if she will not shed a stream of tears in the days to come. I could be wrong. I could be bringing Ray into danger, not away from it. I scan up and down the street but see nothing. Yet I feel eyes on me, powerful eyes such as my own. I wonder if I am not reaching for Ray because I am afraid.
　Maybe afraid to die alone.
　Ray reappears in a few minutes, dressed. We go to my car. He has not seen it before and marvels that I have a Ferrari. We drive toward my mansion and he wonders why we are not going the same way as before. I tell him I have two houses.
　"I am very rich," I say.
　"Is that one of the reasons my father was investigating you?" he asks.
　"Yes. Indirectly."
　"Have you spoken to my father?"
　"Yes."
　"When?"
　"Two and a half days ago."
　"Where?"
　"At his office."
　Ray is annoyed. "You didn't tell me. Why did you speak to him?"
　"He called me into his office."
　"Why?"
　I have to be more careful than ever. "He wanted to tell me that I was being investigated."
　"He wanted to warn you?"
　"I believe so. But-"
　"What?"
　"He didn't fully understand who had hired him, the nature of the man."
　"But you know this man?"
　"Yes. From a long time ago."
　"What's his name?"
　"He changes his name often."
　"Like you?" Ray asks.
　The boy is full of surprises. I reach over and touch his leg. "You are worried about your father. I understand. Please try not to judge me too harshly."
　"You are not being completely honest with me."
　"I'm telling you what I can."
　"When you say my father is in danger, what exactly do you mean? Would this man kill my father?"
　"He has killed in the past."
　The space inside the car is suddenly cramped. Ray hears beyond my words. "Is my father dead already?" he asks quietly.
　I have to lie, I have no choice. "I don't know."
　We arrive at my house. No one has come while I was away, I can tell. I activate the security system. It is the most elaborate available on the market. Every wire of every section of fence around my house is now heavily electrified. There are motion sensors and laser beams and radar tracking the perimeter. I know it will not stop Yaksha for a second if he wishes to come for me. At a minimum he has twice my strength and speed. In reality I think he is much more powerful than that.
　Ray wanders around my house, taking in the sights. He pauses and looks out over the ocean. A waning moon, half full, hangs over the dark shadow of the water. We face west, but behind us, in the east, I detect a hint of dawn.
　"What next?" he asks.
　"What do you want to do next?"
　He faces me. "You are waiting for this man to come here."
　"Perhaps. He could come."
　"You said something about arming yourself. Do you have guns here?"
　"Yes. But I'm not going to give you one. It would not help."
　"Are you some kind of expert with guns?"
　"Yes."
　He is exasperated. "Who the hell are you, Sita? If that is even your real name."
　"It is my real name. Few people know it. It is the name my father gave me. The man I am talking about-he is the one who murdered my father."
　"Why don't we call the police?"
　"This man is very powerful. He has almost unlimited resources. The police would not be able to stop him if he wants to hurt us."
　"Then how are you going to stop him?"
　"I don't know if I can."
　"Then why are we here? Why don't we just get in the car and drive away?"
　His question is an interesting one; it has a certain logic to it. I have considered the option since disposing of Slim. Yet I do not believe that I can run successfully from Yaksha, not once he has got me in his sights, which he obviously does. I do not like to postpone the inevitable.
　"You can drive away if you want," I say. "You can take my car and go home. Or you can take my car and drive to Los Angeles. That might be the best thing for you to do. I can tell you for a fact that while you are here you are in extreme danger."
　"Then why did you bring me here?"
　I turn away. "I do not know why. But I think-I don't know."
　"What?"
　"This man-his real name is Yaksha-he knows you are my friend. You are part of the equation that deals with me-in his mind."
　"What do you mean?"
　I turn back to Ray. "He has been watching me since I saw your father, I'm sure of it. But he has not come for me personally. Oh, he sent his people after me, but that is not the same thing, not to him and not to me."
　"You think that I afford you some protection?"
　"Not exactly. More, I think he is curious about my relationship with you."
　"Why?"
　"I do not make friends easily. He knows that much."
　Ray sighs. "I don't even know if I am your friend."
　His words sting, more than the bullet I was hit with earlier in the night. I reach out and touch his face. Such a beautiful face, so like Rama's, even though they do not look that much alike. Their essence is similar. Maybe Krishna was right. Maybe their souls are the same, if there are such things. I doubt I have one.
　"I care more for you than I have cared for anyone in a long time," I say. "I am much older than I look. I have been more lonely than I have been willing to admit to myself. But when I met you, that loneliness eased. I am your friend, Ray, even if you do not want to be mine."
　He stares at me, as if he, too, knows me, then lowers his lips to kiss my hand that touches him. His next words come to me as if from far away.
　"Sometimes I look at you and you do not look human."
　"Yes."
　"You're like something carved from glass."
　"Yes."
　"Old but always new."
　"Yes."
　"You said you are a vampire."
　"Yes."
　But he does not ask me if I am a vampire. He knows better. He knows I will tell him the truth, and he does not want to hear it. He kisses my hand again, and I lean forward to kiss his lips. Long and deep-he does not smother this time and I am glad. He wants to make love, I can tell, and I am very glad.
　I start a roaring blaze in the living room fireplace, many logs piled high. There is a rug from ancient Persia on top of the wall-to-wall carpeting in front of the fire; it is where I sometimes sleep, when the sun is high. I bring in blankets and pillows. We undress slowly; I let Ray take off my clothes. He touches my body, and I kiss his from head to foot. Then we lie down together and the sex is a wonder to him, as well as to me. I am careful not to hurt him.
　Later, when he is asleep, I go for an automatic weapon in the attic. I load the clip carefully, making sure all the parts are well oiled, ready for use. Then I return to Ray's side and put the weapon under my pillow. Ray is exhausted; I stroke his head and whisper words that will cause him to sleep away the entire day. I suspect Yaksha will not come until the following night-a fresh night for a fresh slaughter. It would be his way. I know my gun will not stop him. I have only Krishna's promise to protect me. But what is the promise of a God I don't even know if I believe in?
　Yet one thing is certain. If Krishna was not God, he was the most extraordinary human who ever lived. Even more powerful than all the vampires combined. I think of him as I lie beside Ray, and I wonder about my feelings of love for the boy. If they are just my longing for the face of Krishna hidden inside him. I do remember Krishna's face well. It was a face that would be impossible to forget even after five thousand years.
　
　
　9
　
　
　Once more, I go back. We left the area, Yaksha and I. We were quickly joined by two of the men from the village who had disappeared. They were vampires. I was a vampire. But that word did not exist then. I didn't know what I was, except somehow I was like Yaksha.
　The horror and the wonder of it all.
　My craving for blood did not come over me in the first days, and Yaksha must have told the others not to speak to me about it, because they did not. But I did notice that bright light bothered me. The rays of the midday sun were almost intolerable. This I understood. Because when we were growing up, I had noticed that Yaksha had a tendency to disappear in the middle of the day. It saddened me that I would never again enjoy a wonderful daytime sky.
　Yet the nights, they became a thing of great beauty. For I could see in the dark better than I had been able to see in the day. I would look up at the moon and see that it was not the smooth orb we had all believed, but a pitted and scarred world with no air. Distant objects would appear before me as if only an arm's length away. I could see detail I had never imagined before: the pores of my skin; the multifaceted eyes of tiny insects. Sound, even on a supposedly silent plain, became a constant. I quickly became sensitive to the breathing patterns of different people. What each rhythm meant, how it corresponded to different emotions. My sense of smell took on an incredible vitality. With just a slight shift of the breeze the world was constantly bathed in new perfumes.
　My newfound strength I loved most of all. I could leap to the top of the tallest tree, crumble huge boulders with a clap of my hands. I loved to chase the animals, especially the lions and tigers. They ran from me. They knew there was something inhuman about me.
　But my blood hunger came over me quickly. On the fourth day I went to Yaksha and told him my chest was on fire and my heart was pounding in my ears. Honestly, I thought I was dying-I kept thinking about bleeding things. Yet I did not think of drinking blood, it was too impossible an idea. Even when Yaksha told me it was the only way to stop the pain, I pushed it out of my mind. Because even though I was no longer human, I wanted to pretend I was. When Yaksha had held me that long night, I felt myself die. Yet I imagined that I was alive as others were alive. But the life in me was not from this world. I could live off that life, but I could never give in to it. Yaksha told me I was sterile at the same time he told me about the blood. It made me cry for Lalita and Rama and wonder how they were doing without their Sita.
　But I would not go to see them.
　I would not let them see the monster I had become.
　I feared I would make them vampires, too.
　I resisted drinking another's blood, until pain was all I knew. I grew weak; I couldn't stop moaning. It was as if because I would not drink another's blood, then the thing Yaksha had put inside me would eat me alive. A month after my transformation, Yaksha brought me a half-conscious boy, with his neck veins already partially open, and ordered me to drink. How I hated him then for putting such temptation in front of me. How it rekindled in me my hatred for how he had taken me from Rama and Lalita. Yet my hate did not give me strength because it was not a pure thing. I needed Yaksha after he changed me, and need is a close kin of love. But I would not say I ever loved Yaksha; rather, I looked up to him because he was greater than I was. For a long time he was the only one to look up to-until Krishna.
　Yet I drank the boy's blood. I fell upon him even as I swooned. And even though I resolved not to kill him, I couldn't stop drinking once I started. Then the boy was dead. I cried in horror as he took his last breath in my arms. But Yaksha just laughed. He said that once you killed, it was easy to kill again.
　Yes, I hated him then because I knew he was right.
　After that, I killed many, and I grew to love it.
　The years went by. We headed southeast. We never stopped moving. It never took that long for people in a village to realize we were dangerous. We came, we made friends-eventually we slew, and the rumors went before us. We also made more of our kind. The first vampire I created was a girl my age, with large dark eyes and hair like a waterfall made from the light of the midnight sky. I imagined she could become a friend, even though I took her against her will. By then Yaksha had told me what was necessary: the lifting out of my vein coming from my heart; the merger of her vein going back to the heart; the transfusion; the terror, the ecstasy. Her name was Mataji, and she never thanked me for what I did to her, but she stayed close in the years to come.
　Making Mataji drained my strength, and it was several days and many victims later before I regained my full powers. It was the same for all of us except Yaksha. When he created another, he just grew stronger. I knew it was because it was his soul that fed us all. The yakshini embodied. The demon from the deep.
　Yet there was kindness in him, but I couldn't understand its source. He was protective of all he created, and he was unusually nice to me. He never again told me that he loved me, however, but he did. His eyes were often on me. What was I supposed to do? The damned could not marry. God would not witness the union as we had been taught from the Vedas.
　It was then, maybe after fifty years of being a vampire, that we began to hear stories about a man many said was the Veda incarnate. A man who was more than a man, perhaps Lord Vishnu himself. Each new village we plundered brought us another detail. His principal name was Krishna and he lived in the forests of Vrindavana near the Yumana River, with the cowherders and their milkmaids-the gopis, they were called. It was said this man, this Vasudeva-he had many names-was capable of slaying demons and granting bliss. His best friends were the five Pandava brothers, who had the reputation of being the incarnation of more minor deities. Arjuna, one of the brothers, had almost the fame of Krishna. He was said to be the son of the great god Indra, the lord of paradise. We did not doubt, from what we heard, that Arjuna was indeed a magnificent warrior.
　Yaksha was intrigued. The rest of us vampires were as well, but few of us wanted to meet Krishna. Because even though our numbers by then were close to a thousand, we felt Krishna would not greet us with open arms, and if half the stories told about him and his friends were true, he might destroy us all. But Yaksha could not bear the thought that there was a man in the land more powerful than he. Because his reputation had grown great as well, although it was the notoriety of terror.
　We set out for Vrindavana, all of us, and we marched openly, making no secret of our destination. The many mortals whom we passed seemed happy, for they believed our wandering herd of blood drinkers was doomed. I saw the gratitude in their faces and felt the fear in my heart. None of these people had personally met Krishna. Yet they believed in him. They simply trusted in the sound of his name. Even as we slew many of them, they called out to Krishna.
　Of course Krishna knew we were coming; it required no omniscience on his part. Yaksha had a shrewd intellect, yet it was clouded by the arrogance his powers had given him. As we entered the forests of Vrindavana, all seemed calm. Indeed, the woods appeared deserted, even to us with acute hearing. But Krishna was only saving his attack until we were deep into his land. All of a sudden arrows began to fly toward us. Not a rain of them, but one at a time. Yet in quick succession and fired with perfect accuracy. Truly, not one of those arrows missed its target. They went through the hearts and heads of our kind. They never failed to kill that which Yaksha had told us could not be killed. And the most amazing thing is we could not catch the man who shot the arrows. We could not even see him, his kavach, his mystical armor, was that great.
　Mataji was one of the first to fall, an arrow between her eyes.
　Still, we were many, and it was going to take time even for the finest archer of all time to kill us. Yaksha drove us forward, as fast as we could go. Then the arrows began to strike only the rear of our contingent, and then they ceased altogether. It appeared that we had been able to outrun even Arjuna. But we had left many behind. Rebellion stirred against Yaksha. Most wanted to leave Vrindavana, if they knew which way to flee. For the first time Yaksha was losing command. But it was then, in those enchanted woods, that we came across what at first seemed to Yaksha a great boon. We ran into Radha, the chief of the gopis, Krishna's consort.
　We had heard about Radha as well, whose name meant "longing." She was called this because she longed for Krishna even more than she desired to breathe. She was picking jasmines by the clear waters of the Yamuna when we came across her. We did not frighten her; she actually smiled when she saw us. Her beauty was extraordinary; I had never seen and never would see in five thousand years such an exquisite female. Her skin was remarkably fair, her face shone with the subtle radiance of moonlight. Her form was shapely. She moved as if in a joyful theater, each turn of her arm or bending of knees seemed to bring bliss. It was because each step she took, she took with the thought of Krishna. She was singing a song about him when we came upon her. In fact, the first words out of her mouth were to ask us if we wanted to learn it.
　Yaksha immediately took her captive. She did not try to hide her identity. We bound her wrists and ankles. I was put in charge of her while Yaksha sent several of our kind calling through the woods that we had Radha and that we were going to kill her unless Krishna agreed to meet Yaksha in single combat. It did not take Krishna long to respond. He sent Yudhishthira, Arjuna's brother, with a message. He would meet us at the edge of Vrindavana where we had entered the woods. If we did not know how to find it, Yudhishthira would show us the way. He had only two conditions. That we not harm Radha, and that he get to choose the form of combat. Yaksha sent Yudhishthira back saying that he accepted the challenge. It may have been that we should have first asked Yudhishthira which way to go. The woods were like a maze, and Radha was not talking. Yet she did not seem afraid. Occasionally she would glance my way and smile with such calm assurance that it was I who knew fear.
　Yaksha was ecstatic. He did not believe any mortal could beat him at any form of combat. By such a pronouncement he appeared to discount the stories concerning Krishna's divine origin. Yet when I asked him about that, he did not answer me. He had a light in his eyes, though. He said that he had been born for this moment. Personally, I was fearful of a trick. Krishna had a reputation for being mischievous. Yaksha brushed aside my concerns. He would destroy Krishna, he said, then he would make Radha a vampire. She would be his consort. I did not feel jealous. I did not think it would happen.
　Eventually we found our way back to the place where we had entered the forest. We remembered the spot because there was a huge pit in the ground. Apparently Krishna intended to use this pit when he challenged Yaksha. His people were gathered about it when we came out of the woods. Yet they made no attempt to attack us, although our numbers were roughly equal. I saw Arjuna, standing near his brothers, his mighty bow in his hands. When he looked my way and saw me holding on to Radha, he frowned and took an arrow into his hands and rubbed it to his chest. But he did nothing more. He was waiting for his master. We were all waiting. In that moment, even though I was not yet seventy years old, I felt as if I had waited since the dawn of creation to see this person. I who held captive his great jewel.
　Krishna came out of the forest.
　He was not a blue person as he was later to be depicted in paintings. Artists were to show him that way only because blue was symbolic of the sky, which to them seemed to stretch to infinity, and which was what Krishna was supposed to be in essence, the eternal infinite Brahman, above and beyond which there was nothing greater. He was a man such as all men I had seen, with two arms and two legs, one head above his shoulders, his skin the color of tea with milk in it, not as dark as most in India but not as light as my own. Yet there was no one like him. Even a glance showed me that he was special in a way I knew I would never fully comprehend. He walked out of the trees and all eyes followed him.
　He was tall, almost as tall as Yaksha, which was unusual for those days when people seldom grew to over six feet. His black hair was long-one of his many names was Keshava, master of the senses, or long-haired. In his right hand he held a lotus flower, in his left his fabled flute. He was powerfully built; his legs long, his every movement bewitching. He seemed not to look at anyone directly, but only to give sidelong glances. Yet these were enough to send a thrill through the crowd, on both sides. He was impossible not to stare at, though I tried hard to turn away. For I felt as if he were placing a spell over me that I would never recover from. Yet I did manage to turn aside for an instant. It was when I felt the touch of a hand on my brow. It was Radha, my supposed enemy, comforting me with her touch.
　"Krishna means love," she said. "But Radha means longing. Longing, is older than love. I am older than he. Did you know that, Sita?"
　I looked at her. "How did you know my name?"
　"He told me."
　"When?"
　"Once."
　"What else did he tell you about me?"
　Her face darkened. "You do not want to know."
　Krishna walked to the edge of the pit and gestured for his people to withdraw to the edge of the trees.
　Only Arjuna remained with him. He nodded to Yaksha, who likewise motioned for our people to back up. But Yaksha wanted me near the pit with my hands not far from Radha's neck. The arrangement did not seem to bother Krishna. He met Yaksha not far from where I stood. Krishna did not look directly at Radha or me. Yet he was close enough so that I could hear him speak. His voice was mesmerizing. It was not so much the sound of his words, but the place from which they sprang. Their authority and power. And, yes, love, I could hear love even as he spoke to his enemy. There was such peace in his tone. With all that was happening, he was not disturbed. I had the feeling that for him it was merely a play. That we were all just actors in a drama he was directing. But I was not enjoying the part I had been selected for. I did not see how Yaksha could beat Krishna. I felt sure that this day would be our last.
　Yet it was not day, but night, although the dawn was not far off.
　"I have heard that Yaksha is the master of serpents," Krishna said. "That the sound of his flute intoxicates them. As you may have heard, I also play the flute. It is in my mind to challenge you to a combat of instruments. We will fill this pit with cobras, and you will sit at one end, and I will sit at the other, and we will each play for the control of the serpents. We will play for the life of Radha. You may play what you wish, and if the serpents strike me dead, so be it. You may keep Radha for your own pleasure. But if the serpents should bite you so many times that you die, or decide to surrender, then you must swear to me now that you will take a vow that I will ask you to take. Is this a reasonable challenge?"
　"Yes," Yaksha said. His confidence leaped even higher, and I knew how strong Yaksha was with snakes. For I had watched many times while he had, hypnotized snakes with the sound of his flute. It never surprised me because sometimes yakshinis were depicted as serpents, and I thought Yaksha was a snake at heart. In reality vampires have more in common with snakes than bats. A snake prefers to eat its victim alive.
　I knew Yaksha could be bitten many times by a cobra and not die.
　Krishna left it to our people to gather the cobras, which took time because there were none in the forests of Vrindavana itself. But vampires can work fast if they must, and travel far, and by the following evening the pit was filled with deadly snakes. Now the feeling in our group favored Yaksha. Few believed a mortal could survive for any length of time in the pit. It was then I saw that even though Krishna had impressed the vampires, they still thought of him as a man, an extraordinary man, true, but not as a divine being. They were anxious for the contest to begin.
　I stayed with Radha throughout the day. I talked to her about Rama and Lalita. She told me that they had both passed out of this world, but that Rama's life had been noble and my daughter's had been happy. I did not ask how she knew these things, I simply believed her. I cried at her words. Radha tried to comfort me. All that are born die, she said. All who die are reborn. It is inevitable, Krishna had told her. She told me many things Krishna had said.
　Finally, close to dark, Yaksha and Krishna climbed into the pit. Each carried a flute, nothing more. The people on both sides watched, but from a distance as Krishna had wanted. Only Radha and I stood close to the pit. There had to be a hundred snakes in that huge hole. They bit each other and more than a few were already being eaten.
　Yaksha and Krishna sat at opposite ends of the pit, each with his back to the wall of earth. They began to play immediately. They had to; the snakes moved for each of them right away. But with the sound of the music, both melodies, the snakes backed off and appeared uncertain.
　Now, Yaksha could play wonderfully, although his songs were always laced with sorrow and pain. His music was hypnotic; he could draw victims to feed on simply with his flute. But I realized instantly that his playing, for all its power, was a mere shadow next to Krishna's music. For Krishna played the song of life itself. Each note on his flute was like a different center in the human body. His breath through the notes on the flute was like the universal breath through the bodies of all people. He would play the third note on his flute and the third center in my body, at the navel, would vibrate with different emotions. The navel is the seat of jealousy and attachment, and of joy and generosity. I felt these as he played. When Krishna would blow through this hole with a heavy breath, I would feel as if everything that I had ever called mine had been stripped from me. But when he would change his breath, let the notes go long and light, then I would smile and want to give something to those around me. Such was his mastery.
　His playing had the snakes completely bewildered. None would attack him. Yet Yaksha was able to keep the snakes at bay with his music as well, although he was not able to send them after his foe. So the contest went on for a long time without either side hurting the other. Yet it was clear to me Krishna was in command, as he was in control of my emotions. He moved to the fifth note on the flute, which stirred the fifth center in my body, at the throat. In that spot there are two emotions: sorrow and gratitude. Both emotions bring tears, one bitter, the other sweet. When Krishna lowered his breath, I felt like weeping. When he sang higher I also felt choked, but with thanks. Yet I did not know what I was thankful for. Not the outcome of the contest, surely. I knew then that Yaksha would certainly lose, and that the result could be nothing other than our extinction.
　Even as the recognition of our impending doom crossed my mind, Krishna began to play the fourth note. This affected my heart; it affected the hearts of all gathered. In the heart are three emotions-I felt them then: love, fear, and hatred. I could see that an individual could only have one of the three at a time. When you were in love you knew no fear or hatred. When you were fearful, there was no possibility of love or hate. And when there was hate, there was only hate.
　Krishna played the fourth note softly initially, so that a feeling of warmth swept both sides. This he did for a long time, and it seemed as if vampires and mortals alike stared across the clearing at one another and wondered why they were enemies. Such was the power of that one note, perfectly pitched.
　Yet Krishna now pushed his play toward its climax. He lowered his breath, and the love in the gathering turned to hate. A restlessness went through the crowd, and individuals on both sides shifted this way and that as if preparing to attack. Then Krishna played the fourth note in a different way, and the hate changed to fear. And finally this emotion pierced Yaksha, who had so far remained unmoved by Krishna's flute. I saw him tremble-the worst thing he could do before a swarm of snakes. Because a serpent only strikes where there is fear.
　The group of snakes began to crawl toward Yaksha.
　He could have surrendered then, but he was a brave creature even if he was ruthless. He continued to play, now a frantic tune to drive away the snakes. At first it did slow them down, but Krishna did not tire. He continued on the fourth note, his breath quivering up and down through the hole, and at last a large snake slithered up to Yaksha. It bit him on the shin and held on fast with its teeth. Yaksha could not afford to set down his flute to throw it off. Then another snake came forward, and still another, until soon Yaksha was being bitten on every part of his body. He was the king of vampires, the son of a yakshini, yet even his system could absorb only so much venom. At last the flute fell from his hands and he swayed where he sat. I believe he tried to call out; I think he might have said my name. Then he toppled forward and the snakes began to eat him. I could not bear to watch.
　But Krishna stood then and set his flute aside. He clapped his hands, and the snakes hurried off Yaksha's body. He climbed out of the pit and motioned to Arjuna. His best friend entered the deep hole and carried out Yaksha's body and dumped it on the ground not far from me. He was breathing, I could see that, but barely, soaked head to foot with black venom; it oozed out of the many wounds on his body.
　I let Radha go. She hugged me before leaving. But she did not run to Krishna, but to the other women. Behind me I could hear the main body of the vampires shifting toward the woods, as if they planned to flee. Yet they waited still; they felt compelled to, I think, to see what Krishna would do next. Krishna ignored them. He gestured to me and came and knelt beside Yaksha. My feeling then was so peculiar. As I knelt beside Krishna, this being that would in all probability wipe me from the face of the earth, I felt as if I was under the umbrella of his protection. I watched as he put one of his beautiful hands on Yaksha's head.
　"Will he live?" I asked.
　Krishna surprised me with his question. "Do you want him to?"
　My eyes strayed over the ruin of my old enemy and friend. "I want what you want," I whispered.
　Krishna smiled, so serene. "The age is to change when I leave this world. Kali Yuga will begin. It will be a time of strife and short years for humanity. Your kind is for the most part tamasic-negative. Kali Yuga will be challenge enough for people without you on earth. Do you agree??
　"Yes. We cause only suffering."
　"Then why do you go on, Sita?"
　At his saying my name I felt so touched. "I just want to live, Lord."
　He nodded. "I will let you live if you obey my command. If you never make another of your kind, you will have my grace, my protection,"
　I lowered my head. "Thank you, my Lord."
　He gestured toward the other vampires. "Go stand with them. I must talk to your leader. His days are not over. They will not be over for a long time." I moved to leave, but Krishna stopped me. "Sita?"
　I turned to look into his face one last time. It was as if I could see the whole universe in his eyes. Maybe he was God, maybe he was simply enlightened. I didn't care right then, in that blessed moment, I just loved him. Later, though, the love was to turn to hate, to fear. They seemed so opposite, the feelings, yet they were all one note on his flute. Truly he had stolen my heart.
　"Yes, Lord?" I said.
　He bid me lean close to his lips. "Where there is love, there is my grace," he whispered. "Remember that."
　"I will try, my Lord."
　I went and stood with the others. Krishna revived Yaksha and spoke softly in his ear. When Krishna was done, Yaksha nodded. Krishna bade him climb to his feet, and we saw that Yaksha's wounds were gone. Yaksha walked toward us.
　"Krishna says we can go," he said.
　"What did he tell you?" I asked.
　"I cannot say. What did he tell you?"
　"I cannot say."
　Yet it was not long before I learned part of what Krishna had told Yaksha. Yaksha secretly began to execute each of the vampires. His acts did not stay secret long. I fled, we all did. But he hunted down the others, over the long years, even after Krishna was gone and Kali Yuga reigned. Yaksha chased them to the ends of the earth over the many centimes until there were none left that I knew of, except me. Yet he never came for me, and in the Middle Ages, as the Black Plague swept Europe, I heard that he was accused of being a witch, and also hunted down, by an entire army, and burned to ash in an old castle. I cried when the news came to me because even though he had stolen what I loved, he had in a sense created what I was. He was my lord as Krishna was my lord. I served both masters, light and darkness, both of which I had seen in Krishna's eyes. Even the devil does God's will.
　I never made another vampire, but I never stopped killing.
　
　
　10
　
　
　Ray stirs as the sun descends toward the western horizon. I sit by the fax machine on the small table at the end of my living room sofa, with the numbers Riley and Slim have provided for me. But I do not send Yaksha a message. It is not necessary. He is coming, I can feel him coming.
　"Ray," I say. "It's time to get up and enjoy the night."
　Ray sits up and yawns. He wipes the sleep from his eyes like a little boy. He checks the time and is amazed. "I slept away the entire day?" he asks.
　"Yes," I say. "And now you have to go. I have decided. It is not safe for you here. Go to Pat. She loves you."
　He throws aside the blankets and pulls on his pants. He comes and sits beside me and touches my arm. "I am not going to leave you."
　"You cannot protect me. You can only get yourself killed."
　"If I get killed, then I get killed. At least I will have tried."
　"Brave words, foolish words. I can make you leave. I can tell you things about myself that will make you run out of here cursing my name."
　He smiles. "I do not believe that."
　I harden my tone, though it breaks my heart to treat him cruelly. But I have decided that my reasons for bringing him to my home are selfish. I must have him. go, whatever it costs.
　"Then listen to me," I say. "I lied to you last night even when I supposedly opened my heart to you. The first thing you must know is that your father is dead and that it was I, not Yaksha, who killed him."
　Ray sits back, stunned. "You're not serious."
　"I can show you where his body is buried."
　"But you couldn't have killed him. Why? How?"
　"I will answer your questions. I killed him because he called me into his office and tried to blackmail me with information he had dug up on me. He threatened to make it public. I killed him by crushing the bones of his chest."
　"You couldn't do that."
　"But you know that I can. You know what I am." I reach over and pick up a small miniature of the Pyramid of Giza that stands on my living room table. "This piece was made for me out of solid marble by an artist in Egypt two hundred years ago. It is very heavy. "You can feel it if you don't believe me,"
　Ray's eyes are dark. "I believe you,"
　"You should." I hold the piece in my right hand. I squeeze tight and it shatters to dust. Ray jumps back. "You should believe everything I tell you."
　He takes a moment to collect himself. '"You are a vampire."
　"Yes,"
　"I knew there was something about you."
　"Yes."
　There is pain in his voice. "But you couldn't have killed my father."
　"But I did. I killed him without mercy. I have killed thousands over the last five thousand years. I am a monster."
　His eyes are moist. "But you would not do anything to hurt me. You want me to leave now because you do not want me to get hurt. You love me, I love you. Tell me you didn't kill him."
　I take his hands in mine. "Ray, this is a beautiful world and it is a horrible world. Most people never see the horror that there is. For most that is fine. But you must look at it now. You must look deep into my eyes and see that I am not human, that I do inhuman things. Yes, I killed your father. He died in my arms.
　He will not be coming home. And if you do not leave here, you will not return home, either. Then your father's dying wish will have been in vain."
　Ray weeps. "He made a wish?"
　"Not with words, but, yes. I picked up your picture and he cried. By then he knew what I was, though it was too late for him. He did not want me to touch you." I caress Ray's arms. "But it is not too late for you. Please go."
　"But if you are so horrible why did you touch me, love me?"
　"You remind me of someone."
　"Who?"
　"My husband, Rama. The night I was made a vampire, I was forced to leave him. I never saw him again."
　"Five thousand years ago?"
　"Yes."
　"Are you really that old?"
　"Yes. I knew Krishna."
　"Hare Krishna?"
　The moment is so serious, but I have to laugh. "He was not the way you think from what you see these days. Krishna was-there are no words for him. He was everything. It is he who has protected me all these years."
　"You believe that?"
　I hesitate, but it is true. Why can't I accept the truth? "Yes."
　"Why?"
　"Because he told me he would if I listened to him. And because it has been so. Many times, even with my great power, I should have perished, But I never did: God blessed me." I add, "And he cursed me,"
　"How did he curse you?"
　Now there are tears in my eyes. "By putting me in this situation again. I cannot lose you again, my love, but I cannot keep you with me, either. Go now before Yaksha arrives. Forgive me for what I did to your father. He was not a bad man. He only wanted the money so that he could give it to you. I know he loved you very much,"
　"But-"
　"Wait!" I interrupt. Suddenly I hear something, the note of a flute, flowing with the noise of the waves, a single note, calling me to it, telling me that it is already too late. "He is here," I whisper,
　"What? Where?"
　I stand and walk to the wide windows that overlook the sea. Ray stands beside me. Down by the ocean, where the waves crash against the rocks, stands a solitary figure dressed in black. His back is to us, but I see the flute in his hand. His song is sad, as always. I don't know if he plays for me or himself, but maybe it is for both of us.
　"Is that him?" Rays asks;
　"Yes."
　"He's alone. We should be able to take him. Do you have a gun?"
　"I have one under my pillow over there. But a gun will not stop him. Not unless he was riddled with bullets."
　"Why are you giving up without a fight?"
　"I am not giving up. I am going to talk to him."
　"I'm coming with you."
　I turn to Ray and rub the hair on his head. He feels so delicate to me. "No. You cannot come. He is less human than I am. He will not be interested in what a human has to say." I put my finger to his lips as he starts to protest. "Do not argue with me. I do not argue."
　"I am not going to leave," he says.
　I sigh. "It may be too late for that already. Stay then. Watch. Pray."
　"To Krishna?"
　"God is God. His name doesn't matter. But I think only he can help us now."
　A few minutes later I stand ten feet behind Yaksha. The wind is strong, bitter. It seems to blow straight out of the cold sun which hangs like a bloated drop of blood over the hazy western horizon. The spray from the waves clings to Yaksha's long black hair like so many drops of dew. For a moment I imagine him a statue that has stood outside my home for centuries. Always, he has been in my life, even when he was not there. He has stopped playing his flute.
　"Hello," I say to this person I haven't spoken to since the dawn of history.
　"Did you enjoy my song?" he asks, his back still to me.
　"It was sad."
　"It is a sad day."
　"The day is ending," I say.
　He nods as he turns. "I want it to end, Sita."
　The years have not changed his appearance. Why does that surprise me when they haven't changed mine? I don't know. Yet I scrutinize him more closely. A man has to learn something in so many years, I think. He cannot be the beast that he was. He smiles at my thought;
　"The form changes, the essence remains the same," he says. "That is something Krishna told me about nature. But for us the form does not change."
　"It is because we are unnatural."
　"Yes. Nature abhors the invader. We are not welcome in this world."
　"But you look well."
　"I am not. I am tired. I wish to die."
　"I don't," I say.
　"I know."
　"You tested me with Slim and his people. To see how hard I would fight."
　"Yes."
　"But I passed the test. I don't want to die. Leave here. Go do what you must. I want nothing to do with it."
　Yaksha shakes his head sadly, and that is one change in him-his sorrow. It softens him somehow, making his eyes less cold. Yet the sorrow scares me more than his wicked glee used to. Yaksha was always so full of life for a being that would later be labeled the undead.
　"I would let you go if I could," he says. "But I cannot."
　"Because of the vow you took with Krishna?"
　"Yes."
　"What were his words?"
　"He told me that I would have his grace if I destroyed the evil I had created."
　"I suspected as much. Why didn't you destroy me?"
　"There was time, at least in my mind. He did not put a time limit on me."
　"You destroyed the others centuries ago."
　He watches me. "You are very beautiful."
　"Thank you."
　"It warmed my heart to know your beauty still existed somewhere in the world." He pauses. "Why do you ask these questions? You know I didn't kill you because I love you."
　"Do you still love me?"
　"Of course."
　"Then let me go."
　"I cannot. I am sorry, Sita, truly."
　"Is it so important to you that you die in his grace?"
　Yaksha is grave. "It is why I came into this world. The Aghoran priest did not call me, I came of my own will. I knew Krishna was here. I came to get away from where I was. I came so that when I died I would be in that grace."
　"But you tried to destroy Krishna?"
　Yaksha shrugs as if that is not important. "The foolishness of youth."
　"Was he God? Are you sure? Can we be sure?"
　Yaksha shakes his head. "Even that does not matter. What is God? It is a word. Whatever Krishna was we both know he was not someone we can disobey. It is that simple."
　I gesture to the waves. "Then the line has been drawn. The sea meets the shore. The infinite tells the finite what is supposed to be. I accept that. But you are faced with a problem. You do not know what Krishna said to me."
　"I do. I have watched you long. The truth is obvious. He told you not to make another of your kind, and he would protect you."
　"Yes. It is a paradox. If you try to destroy me, you will go against his word. If you do not try, then you are damned."
　Yaksha is not moved by my words. He is a step ahead of me; he always was. He points to the house with his flute. Ray continues to stand beside the window, watching us.
　"I have watched you particularly close the last three days," he says. "You love this boy. You would not want to see him die."
　My fear is a great and terrible thing in this moment. But I speak harshly. "If you use that as a threat to force me to destroy myself, then you will still lose Krishna's grace. It will be as if you struck me down with your own hands."
　Yaksha does not respond with anger. Indeed, he does seem weary. "You misunderstand me. I will do nothing to you while you are protected by his grace. I will force you to do nothing." He gestures to the setting sun, "It takes a night to make a vampire. I am sure you remember. When the sun rises again, I will come back for you, for both of you. By then you should be done. Then you will be mine."
　There is scorn in my voice. "You are a fool, Yaksha. The temptation to make another of our kind has come to me many times in the long years, and always I have resisted it. I will not forsake my protection. Face it, you are beaten. Die and return to the black hell from where you came."
　Yaksha raises an eyebrow. "You know I am no fool, Sita. Listen."
　He glances toward the house, at Ray, then raises the flute to his lips. He plays a single note, piercingly high. I shake with pain as the sound vibrates through my body. Behind us I hear glass break. No, not just glass. The window against which Ray is leaning. I turn in time to see him topple through the broken glass and plunge headfirst onto the concrete driveway sixty feet below. Yaksha grabs my arm as I move to run to him.
　"I wish it did not have to be this way," he says.
　I shake off his hand. "I have never loved you. You may yet have grace before you die, but you will never have that."
　He closes his eyes briefly. "So be it," he says. I find Ray in a pool of blood and a pile of glass. His skull is crushed, his spine is broken. Incredibly, he is still conscious, although he does not have long to live. I roll him over on his back, and he speaks to me with blood pouring from his mouth. "I fell," he says.
　My tears are as cold as the ocean drops on my cheeks. I put my hand over his heart. "This is the last thing I wanted for you." "Is he going to let you go?" "I don't know, Ray. I don't know." I lean over and hug him and hear the blood in his lungs as his breath struggles to scrape past it. Just as the breath of his father struggled before it failed. I remember I told the man that I could not heal, that I could only kill. But that was only a half truth, I realize, even as I grasp the full extent of Yaksha's plan to destroy me. Once he used my fear to make me a vampire. Now he uses my love to force me to make another vampire. He is right, he is no fool. I cannot bear to watch Ray die knowing the power in my blood can heal even his fatal injuries. "I wanted to save you," he whispers. He tries to raise a hand to touch me, but it falls back to the ground. I sit up and stare into his mortal eyes, trying to put love into them, where for so many years with so many other mortals I have only tried to put fear.
　"I want to save you," I say. "Do you want me to save you?"
　"Can you?"
　"Yes. I can put my blood in your blood."
　He tries to smile. "Become a vampire like you?"
　I nod and smile through my tears. "Yes, you could become like me."
　"Would I have to hurt people?"
　"No. Not all vampires hurt people." I touch his ruined cheek. I haven't forgotten Yaksha's words about coming for both of us at dawn. "Some vampires love a great deal."
　"I love ..." His eyes slowly close. He cannot finish.
　I lean over and kiss his lips. I taste his blood.
　I will have to do more than taste it to help him.
　"You are love," I say as I open both our veins.
　
　
　11
　
　
　Ray's sleep is deep and profound, as I expect. I have brought him back to the house, and laid him in front of a fire I built, and wiped away his blood. Not long after his transfusion, while still lying crumpled on the driveway, his breath had accelerated rapidly, and then ceased altogether. But it had not scared me, because the same had happened to me, and to Mataji, and many others. When it had started again, it was strong and steady.
　His wounds vanished as if by magic.
　I am weak from sharing my blood, very tired.
　I anticipate that Ray will sleep away most of the night, and that Yaksha will keep his word and not return until dawn. I leave the house and drive in my Ferrari to Seymour's place. It is not that late-ten o'clock. I do not want to meet his parents. They might suspect I have come to corrupt their beloved son. I go around the back and see Seymour through his bedroom window, writing on his computer. I scratch on his window with my hard nails and give him a scare. He comes over to investigate, however. He is delighted to see me. He opens the window and I climb inside. Contrary to popular opinion, I could have climbed in without being invited.
　"It is so cool you are here," he says. "I have been writing about you all day."
　I sit on his bed; he stays at his desk. His room is filled with science things-telescopes and such-but the walls are coated with the posters of classic horror films. It is a room I am comfortable in. I often go to the movies, the late shows.
　"A story about me?" I ask. I glance at his computer screen, but he has returned to the word processor menu.
　"Yes. Well, no, not really. But you inspired the story. It comes to me in waves. It's about this girl our age who's a vampire."
　"I am a vampire."
　He fixes his bulky glasses on his nose. "What?"
　"I said, I am a vampire."
　He glances at the mirror above his chest of drawers. "I can see your reflection."
　"So what? I am what I say I am. Do you want me to drink your blood to prove it?"
　"That's all right, you don't have to." He takes a deep breath. "Wow, I knew you were an interesting girl, but I never guessed..." He stops himself. "But I suppose that's not true, is it? I have been writing about you all along, haven't I?"
　"Yes."
　"But how is that possible? Can you explain that to me?"
　"No. It's one of those mysteries. You run into them every now and then, if you live long enough."
　"How old are you?"
　"Five thousand years."
　Seymour holds up his hand. "Wait, wait. Let's slow down here. I don't want to be a pest about this, and I sure don't want you to drink my blood, but before we proceed any further, I wouldn't mind if you showed me some of your powers. It would help with my research, you understand."
　I smile. "You really don't believe me, do you? That's OK. I don't know if I want you to, not now. But I do want your advice." I lose my smile. "I am getting near the end of things now. An old enemy has come for me, and for the first time in my long life I am vulnerable to attack. You are the smart boy with the prophetic dreams. Tell me what to do."
　"I have prophetic dreams?"
　"Yes. Trust me or I wouldn't be here."
　"What does this old enemy want? To kill you?"
　"To kill both of us. But he doesn't want to die until I am gone."
　"Why does he want to die?"
　"He is tired of living,"
　"Been around for a while, I guess." Seymour thinks a moment. "Would he mind dying at the same time as you?"
　"I'm sure that would be satisfactory. It might even appeal to him."
　"Then that's the answer to your problem. Place him in a situation where he is convinced you're both goners. But arrange it ahead of time so that when you do push the button-or whatever you do-that only he is destroyed and not you."
　"That's an interesting idea*"
　"Thank you. I was thinking of using it in my story."
　"But there are problems with it. This enemy is extremely shrewd. It will not be easy to convince him that I am going to die with him unless it is pretty certain that I am going to die. And I don't want to die."
　"There must be a way. There is always a way."
　"What are you going to do in your story?"
　"I haven't worked out that little detail yet."
　"That detail is not little to me at the moment."
　"I'm sorry."
　"That's all right." I listen to his parents watching TV in the other room. They talk about their boy, hisr health. The mother is grief-stricken. Seymour watches me through his thick lenses.
　"It's hardest on my mother," he says.
　"The AIDS virus is not new. A form of it existed in the past, not exactly the same as what is going around now, but close enough. I saw it in action. Ancient Rome, in its decline, was stricken with it. Many people died. Whole villages. That's how it was stopped. The mortality rate in certain areas was so high that there was no one left alive to pass it on."
　"That's interesting. There is no mention of that in history books."
　"Do not trust in your books too much. History is something that can only be lived, it cannot be read about. Look at me, I am history." I sigh. "The stories I could tell you."
　"Tell me."
　I yawn, something I never do. Ray has drained me more than I realized. "I don't have time."
　"Tell me how you managed to survive the AIDS epidemic of the past."
　"My blood is potent. My immune system is impenetrable. I have not just come here to seek your help, although you have helped me. I have come here to help you. I want to give you my blood. Not enough to make you a vampire, but enough to destroy the virus in your system."
　He is intrigued. "Will that work?"
　"I don't know. I have never done it before."
　"Could it be dangerous?"
　"Sure. It might kill you."
　He hesitates only a moment. "What do I have to do?"
　"Come sit beside me on the bed." He does so.
　"Give me your arm and close your eyes. I am going to open up one of your veins. Don't worry, I have had a lot of practice with this."
　"I can imagine." He lets his arm rest in my lap, but he does not close his eyes.
　"What's the matter?" I ask. "Are you afraid I will try to take advantage of you?"
　"I wish you would. It's not every day the school nerd has the most beautiful girl in the school sitting on his bed." He clears his throat. "I know that you're in a hurry, but I wanted to tell you something before we begin."
　"What's that?"
　"I wanted to thank you for being my friend and letting me play a part in your story."
　I think of Krishna, always of him, how he stood near me and I saw the whole universe as his play. "Thank you, Seymour, for writing about me," I lean over and kiss his lips. "If I die tonight, at least others will know I once lived." I stretch out my nails. "Close your eyes. You do not want to watch this."
　I place a measured amount of blood inside him. His breath quickens, it burns, but not so fast or hot as Ray's had. Yet, like Ray, Seymour quickly falls into a deep slumber. I turn off his computer and put out the light. There is a blanket on the bed that looks as if it was knitted by his mother, and I cover him with it. Before I leave, I put my palm on his forehead and listen and feel as deep as my senses will allow.
　The virus, I am almost sure of this, is gone.
　I kiss him once more before I leave.
　"Give me credit if you get your story published," I whisper in his ear. "Or else there will be no sequels."
　I return to my car.
　Giving out so much blood, taking none back in return.
　I feel weaker than I have in centuries.
　'There will be no sequels," I repeat to myself.
　I start the car. I drive into the night.
　I have work to do.
　
　
　12
　
　
　Seymour has given me an idea. But even with his inspiration, and mine, even if everything goes exactly as planned, the chances of it working are fifty-fifty at best. In all probability much less than that. But at least the plan gives me hope. For myself and Ray. He is like my child now, as well as my lover. I cannot stand the thought that he is to be snuffed out so young. He was wrong to say I would give up without a fight. I fight until the end.
　There is a concept NASA is entertaining to launch huge payloads into space. It is called Orion; the idea is revolutionary. Many experts, in fact, say it won't work in practice. Yet there are large numbers of respected physicists and engineers who believe it is the wave of the future in space transport. Essentially it involves constructing a huge heavily plated platform with cannons on the bottom that can fire miniature nuclear bombs. It is believed that the shock waves from the blasts of the bombs detonating-if their timing and power is perfectly balanced-can lift the platform, steadily into the sky, until eventually escape velocity is achieved. The advantage of this idea over traditional rockets is that tremendous tonnage could be shot into space. The primary problem is obvious: who wants to strap themselves atop a platform that is going to have nuclear bombs going off beneath it? Of course, I would enjoy such a ride. Extreme radiation bothers me no more than a sunny day.
　Even with my great resources, I do not have a nuclear bomb at my disposal. But the idea of the Orion project inspires a plan in me. Seymour hit the nail on the head when he said Yaksha must be placed in a situation where he thinks all three of us will perish. That will satisfy Yaksha. He will then go to Krishna believing all vampires are destroyed. I theorize that I can build my own Orion with dynamite and a heavy steel platform, and use it to allow Ray and me to escape while a secondary blast kills Yaksha.
　This is how I see the details. I let Yaksha into my house. I tell him that I will not fight him, that we can all go out together in one big blast. I know the possibility will entice Yaksha. We can sit in the living room around a crate of dynamite. I can even let Yaksha light the fuse. He will see that the bomb is big enough to kill us all.
　But what he will not see is the six inches of steel sheeting under the carpet beneath my chair and Ray's. Our two chairs will be bolted to the steel sheet- through the carpet. The chairs will be part of the metal plate-one unit. Yaksha will not see a smaller bomb beneath the floor of the plate. This bomb I will detonate, before Yaksha's fuse burns down. This bomb will blast my amateur Orion toward the wide skylights in my ceiling. The shock wave from it will also trigger the larger bomb.
　Simple. Yes? There are problems, I know.
　The blast from the hidden bomb will trigger the larger bomb before we can fly clear. I estimate that the two bombs should go off almost simultaneously. But Ray and I need rise up only fifteen feet on our Orion. Then the blast from the larger bomb should propel us through the skylights. If the two bombs are more than fifteen feet apart-ideally twice that distance-then the shock wave from the hidden bomb should not get to the larger bomb before we have achieved our fifteen feet elevation.
　Our heads will heal quickly after we smash through the skylights as long as we are in one piece.
　The physics are simple in theory, but in practice they are filled with the possibility for limitless error. For that reason I figure Ray and I will be dead before sunrise. But any odds are good odds for the damned, and I will play them out as best I can.
　I stop at a phone booth and call my primary troubleshooter in North America. I tell him I need dynamite and thick sheets of steel in two hours. Where can I get them? He is used to my unusual requests. He says he'll call back in twenty minutes.
　Fifteen minutes later he is back on the line. He sounds relieved because he knows it's not good to bring me disappointing information. He says there is a contractor in Portland who carries both dynamite and thick steel plating. Franklin and Sons-they build skyscrapers. He gives me the address of their main warehouse and I hang up. Portland is eighty miles away. The time is ten-fifty.
　I sit in my car outside the warehouse at a quarter to midnight, listening to the people inside. The place is closed, but there are three security men on duty. One is in the front in a small office watching TV. The other two are in back smoking a joint. Since I have spent a good part of the night thinking about Krishna, hoping he will help me, I am not predisposed to kill these three. I climb out of my car.
　The locked doors cause me no problem. I am upon the stoned men in the back before they can blink. I put them to sleep with moderate blows to the temples. They'll wake up, but with bad headaches. Unfortunately, the guy watching TV has the bad luck to check on his partners as I knock them out. He draws his gun when he sees me, and I react instinctively. I kill him much the same way I killed Ray's father, crushing the bones in his chest with a violent kick. I drink a belly full of his blood before he draws his last breath. I am still weak.
　The dynamite is not hard for me to find with my sensitive nose. It is locked in a safe near the front of the building, several crates of thick red sticks. There are detonator caps and fuses. Already I have decided I will not be taking my car back to Mayfair tonight. I will need a truck from the warehouse to haul the steel sheets. The metal is not as thick as I wish; I will have to weld several layers together. I find a welding set to take with me.
　There are actually several suitable trucks parked inside the warehouse, the keys conveniently left in the ignitions. I load up and back out of the warehouse. I park my Ferrari several blocks away. Then I am on the road back home.
　It is after two when I reenter Mayfair. Ray is sitting by the fire as I come through my front door. He has changed. He is a vampire. His teeth are not longer, or anything silly like that. But the signs are there-gold specks deep in his once uniformly brown eyes; a faint transparency to his tan skin; a grace to his movements no mortal could emulate. He stands when he sees me.
　"Am I alive?" he asks innocently.
　I do not laugh at the question. I am not sure if the answer is something as simple as yes or no. I step toward him.
　"You are with me," I say. "You are the same as me. When you met me, did you think I was alive?"
　"Yes."
　"Then you are alive. How do you feel?"
　"Powerful. Overwhelmed. My eyes, my ears-are yours this way?"
　"Mine are more sensitive. They become more and more sensitive with time. Are you scared?"
　"Yes. Is he coming back?"
　"Yes."
　"When?"
　"At dawn."
　"Will he kill us?"
　"He wants to."
　"Why?"
　"Because he feels we are evil. He feels an obligation to destroy us before he leaves the planet."
　Ray frowns, testing his new body, its vibrancy. "Are we evil?"
　I take his hands and sit him down. "We don't have to be. Soon you will begin to crave blood, and the blood will give you strength. But to get blood you don't need to kill. I will show you how."
　"You said he wants to leave this planet. He wants to die?"
　"Yes. He is tired of life. It happens-our lives have been so long. But life does not tire me." I am so emotional around Ray, it amazes me. "I have you to inspire me."
　He smiles, but it is a sad smile. "It was a sacrifice for you to save me."
　He takes my breath away. "How did you know?"
　"When I was dying, I could see you were afraid to give me your blood. What happens when you do? Does it make you weak?"
　I hug him, glad that I can squeeze his body with all my strength and not break his bones. "Don't worry about me. I saved you because I wanted to save you."
　"Is my father really dead?"
　I let go of him, look into his eyes. "Yes."
　He has trouble looking at me. Even though he is a vampire now, a predator. Even though his thought processes have begun to alter. He didn't protest when I told him about the blood-drinking. But his love for his father goes deeper than blood.
　"Was it necessary?" he asked.
　"Yes."
　"Did he suffer?"
　"No, less than a minute," I add gently. "I am sorry."
　He finally raises his eyes. "You gave me your blood out of guilt as well."
　I nod. "I had to give something back after what I had taken."
　He puts a hand to his head. He doesn't completely forgive me but he understands, and for that I am grateful. He still misses his father. "We won't talk about it," he says.
　"That is fine." I stand. "We have much to do. Yaksha is returning at dawn. We cannot destroy him with brute force, even with our combined strengths. But we might be able to trick him. We will talk as we work."
　He stands. "You have a plan?"
　"I have more than a plan. I have a rocket ship."
　Welding the sheets of metal together so that we have six inches of protection does not take long. I work outside with the arc gun so that Yaksha will not notice the smell when he enters the house. He will have to come into the house since I won't go out to him. Cutting a huge rectangle in the floor to accommodate the metal plate, however, takes a lot of time. I fret as the hours slip by. Ray is not much help because he has not acquired my expertise in everything yet. Finally I tell him to sit and watch. He doesn't mind. His eyes are everywhere, staring at common objects, seeing in them things he never imagined before. A vampire on acid, I call him. He laughs. It is good to hear laughter.
　As I work, I do not feel Yaksha in the area.
　It is fortunate.
　My speed picks up when I bolt the two chairs to the plate and recover the plate with carpet. Here I do not have to work so carefully; the skirts of the chairs cover much. When I am done, the living room appears normal. I plan to use an end table to hide the detonator to the bomb I will strap beneath the steel plate. I bore a long hole through the table and slip in a metal rod that goes through to the metal plate. I hide the tip of the rod under a lamp base. I place a blasting cap at the bottom end of it. When the time comes, I will hit the top of the small table, the rod will crush the blasting cap, and the first bomb will go off, sending us flying.
　The other bomb should go off as well, almost immediately. I keep coming back to that point in my mind because it is the central weakness in my plan. I hope we will be high enough to take the shock from the second bomb from below so the plate will protect us.
　Attaching the bomb beneath the plate takes only minutes. I use twenty sticks of dynamite, tightly bound. I place fifty sticks, a whole crate, beside the fireplace in the living room, next to the most comfortable chair in the house. That seat I will offer Yaksha. We will live or die depending on how accurate my calculations are, and how well we play our parts in front of Yaksha. That is the other serious weakness in my plan; that Yaksha will sense something amiss. For that reason I have instructed Ray to say little, or nothing at all. But I am confident I can lie to Yaksha. I lie as effortlessly as I tell the truth, perhaps more easily.
　Ray and I sit in our special flight chairs and talk. The bomb in the crate sits thirty feet away, directly in front of us. Above us I have opened the skylights. The cold night air feels good for once. Even with them open, we will still strike glass as we rocket by. I warn Ray, but he is not worried.
　"I have already died once today," he says.
　"You must have had your nose pressed against the glass to fall with it."
　"I didn't until just before he raised his flute."
　I nod. "He glanced at the house then. He must have pulled you forward with the power of his eyes. He can do that. He can do many things."
　"He has more power than you?"
　"Yes."
　"Why is that?"
　"'He's the original vampire." I glance at the time- an hour to dawn. "Would you like to hear the story of his birth?"
　"I would like to hear all your stories."
　I smile. "You sound like Seymour. I visited him tonight while you slept. I gave him a present. I will tell you about it another time."
　I pause and take a breath. I need it for strength. The simple work of a terrorist has exhausted me. Where to begin the tale? Where will I end it? It doesn't seem right that it could all be over in an hour. Right-what a word choice for a vampire to make. I who have violated every injunction of the Vedas and the Bible and every other holy book on earth. Death never comes at the right time, despite what mortals believe. Death always comes like a thief.
　I tell Ray of the birth of Yaksha, and how he in turn made me a vampire. I talk to him about meeting Krishna, but here my words fail me. I do not weep, I do not rave. I simply cannot talk about him. Ray understands; he encourages me to tell him about my life in another era.
　"Were you in Ancient Greece?" he asks. "I was always fascinated by that culture."
　I nod. "I was there for a long time. I knew Socrates and Plato and Aristotle. Socrates recognized me as something inhuman, but I didn't scare him. He was fearless, that man. He laughed as he drank the poison he was sentenced to drink." I shake my head at the memory. "The Greeks were inquisitive. There was one young man-Cleo. History does not remember him, but he was as brilliant as the others." My voice falters again. "He was dear to me. I lived with him for many years,"
　"Did he know you were a vampire?"
　I laugh. "He thought I was a witch. But he liked witches."
　"Tell me about him," Ray says.
　"I met Cleo during the time of Socrates. I had just returned to Greece after being away for many years. That's my pattern. I stay in one place only as long as my youth, my constant youth, doesn't become suspicious. When I returned to Athens, no one remembered me. Cleo was one of the first people I encountered. I was walking in the woods when I found him helping to deliver a baby. In those days that was unheard of. Only women were present at births. Even though he was covered with blood and obviously busy, he took an immediate liking to me. He asked me to help him, which I did, and when the child was born, he handed it to the mother and we went for a walk. He explained that he had worked out a better way to deliver babies and had wanted to test his theories. He also admitted that he was the father of the infant, but that was not important to him.
　"Cleo was a great doctor, but he was never recognized by his peers. He was ahead of his time. He refined the technique of the Caesarean delivery. He experimented with magnets and how they could restore ailing organs: the positive pole of the magnet to stimulate an organ, the negative pole to pacify it. He had an understanding of how the aromas of certain flowers could affect health. He was also the first chiropractor. He was always adjusting people's bodies, cracking their necks and backs. He tried to adjust me once and sprained his wrists. You can see why I liked him."
　I went on to explain how I knew Cleo for many years, and spoke of his one fatal flaw: his obsession with seducing the wives of Athens' powerful men. How he was eventually caught in bed with the wife of an important general, and beheaded with a smile on his face, while many of the women of Athens wept. Wonderful Cleo.
　I talk of a life I had as an English duchess in the Middle Ages. What it was like to live in a castle. My words bring back the memories. The constant drafts. The stone walls. The roaring fires-at night, how black those nights could be. My name was Melissa and in the summer months I would ride a white horse through the green countryside and laugh at the advances made to me by the knights in shining armor. I even accepted a couple of offers to jostle, offers the men later regretted making.
　I speak of a life in the South during the American Civil War. The burning and pillaging of the Yankees as they stormed across Mississippi. A note of bitterness enters my voice, but I do not tell Ray everything. Not how I was abducted by a battalion of twenty soldiers and tied at the neck with a rope and forced to grovel through a swamp, while the men joked about what pleasure I would give them come sunset. I do not want to scare Ray, so I do not explain how each of those men died, how they screamed, especially the last ones, as they tried to flee from the swamp in the dark, from the swift white hands that tore off their limbs and crushed their skulls.
　Finally I tell him of how I was in Cape Canaveral when Apollo 11 was launched toward the moon. How proud I was of humanity then, that they had finally reclaimed the adventurous spirit they had known so well in their youth. Ray takes joy in my pleasure of the memory. It makes him forget the horror that awaits us, which is part of the reason I share the story.
　"Did you ever want to go to the moon?" he asks.
　"Pluto. Much farther from the sun, you know. More comfortable for a vampire."
　"Did you grieve when Cleo died?"
　I smile, although there is suddenly a tear in my eye. "No. He lived the life he wanted. Had he lived too long, he would have begun to bore himself,"
　"I understand."
　"Good," I say.
　But Ray doesn't really understand. He misconstrues the sentiment I show. My tear is not for Cleo. It is for my long life, the totality of it, all the people and places that are a part of it. Such a rich book of history to slam shut and store away in a forgotten corner. I grieve for all the stories I will never have a chance to tell Seymour and Ray. I grieve for the vow I have broken. I grieve for Yaksha and the love I could never give him. Most of all I grieve for my soul because even though I do, finally, believe that there is a God, and that I have met him, I do not know if he has given me an immortal soul, but only one that was to last me as long as my body lasted. I do not know if when the last page of my book is closed, that will be the end of me.
　Darkness approaches from outside.
　I feel no light inside me strong enough to resist it.
　"He is coming," I say.
　
　
　13
　
　
　There is a knock at the door. I call out to come in. He enters; he is alone, dressed in black, a cape, a hat-he makes a stunning figure. He nods and I gesture for him to take the chair across from us. He has not brought his flute. He sits in the chair near the crate of dynamite and smiles at both of us. But there is no joy in the smile, and I think he truly does regret what is about to happen. Outside, behind us through the broken windows, a hint of light enters the black sky. Ray sits silently staring at our visitor. It is up to me to make conversation.
　"Are you happy?" I ask.
　"I have known happiness at times," Yaksha says. "But it has been a long time."
　"But you have what you want," I insist. "I have broken my vow. I have made another evil creature, another thing for you to destroy."
　"I feel no compulsions these days, Sita, except to rest."
　"I want to rest as well."
　He raises an eyebrow. "You said you wanted to live?"
　"It is my hope there will be life for me after this life is over. I assume that is your hope as well. I assume that is why you are going to all this trouble to wreck my night."
　"You always had a way with words."
　"Thank you,"
　Yaksha hesitates. "Do you have any last words?"
　"A few. May I decide how we die?"
　"You want us to die together?"
　"Of course," I say.
　Yaksha nods. "I prefer it that way." He glances at the crate of dynamite beside him. "You have made us a bomb, I see. I like bombs."
　"I know. You can be the one to light it. You see the fuse there, the lighter beside it? Go ahead, old friend, strike the flame. We can burn together." I lean forward. "Maybe we should have burned a long time ago."
　Yaksha picks up the lighter. He considers Ray. "How do you feel, young man?"
　"Strange," Ray says.
　"I would set you free if I could," Yaksha says, "I would leave you both alone. But it has to end, one way or the other."
　This is a Yaksha I have never heard before. He never explained himself to anyone.
　"Sita has told me your reasons," Ray says.
　"Your father is dead," Yaksha says.
　"I know."
　Yaksha pulls his thumb across the lighter and stares at it. "I never knew my father."
　"I saw him once," I say. "Ugly bastard. Are you going to do it or do you want me to do it?"
　"Are you so anxious to die?" Yaksha asks.
　"I never could wait for the excitement to begin," I say sarcastically.
　He nods and moves the flame to the end of the fuse. It begins to fizzle, it begins to shorten-quickly. There are three minutes of time coiled in that combustible string. Yaksha sits back in his chair.
　"I had a dream as I walked by the ocean tonight," he says. "Listening to the sound of the waves, it seemed I entered a dimension where the water was singing a song that no one had ever heard before. A song that explained everything in the creation. But the magic of the song was that it could never be recognized for what it was, not by any living soul. If it was, if the truth was brought out into the open and discussed, then the magic would die and the waters would evaporate. And that is what happened in my dream as this realization came to me. I came into the world. I killed all the creatures the waters had given life to, and then one day I woke up and realized I had been listening to a song. Just a sad song."
　"Played on a flute?" I ask.
　The fuse burns.
　There is no reason for me to delay. Yet I do.
　His dream moves me.
　"Perhaps," Yaksha says softly. "In the dream the ocean vanished from my side. I walked along an endless barren plain of red dust. The ground was a dark red, as if a huge being had bled over it for centuries and then left the sun to parch dry what the being had lost."
　"Or what it had stolen from others," I say.
　"Perhaps," Yaksha says again.
　"What does this dream mean?" I ask.
　"I was hoping you could tell me, Sita."
　"What can I tell you? I don't know your mind."
　"But you do. It is the same as yours."
　"No."
　"Yes. How else could I know your mind?"
　I tremble. His voice has changed. He is alert, he always was, to everything that was happening around him. I was a fool to think I could trick him. Yet I do not reach for the metal rod that will detonate the bomb. I try to play the fool a little longer. I speak.
　"Maybe your dream means that if we stay on earth, and once more multiply, then we will make a wasteland of this world."
　"How would we multiply this late in the game?" he asks. "I told you you can have no children. Krishna told you something similar." It is his turn to lean forward. "What else did he tell you, Sita?"
　"Nothing."
　"You are lying."
　"No."
　"Yes." With his left hand he reaches for the burning fuse, his fingers hovering over the sparks as if he intends to crush them. Yet he lets the countdown continue. "You cannot trick me."
　"And how do I trick you, Yaksha?"
　"You are not waiting to die. I see it in your eyes."
　"Really?"
　"They are not like my eyes."
　"You are a vampire," I say. Casually, as if I am stretching, I move my hand toward the lamp stand. "You can't look in a mirror. There would be nothing there. What do you know about your own eyes?" I joke, of course. I am one bundle of laughs.
　He smiles. "I am happy to see time has not destroyed your wit. I hope it has not destroyed your reason. You are quick. I am quicker. You can do nothing that I cannot stop." He pauses. "I suggest you stop."
　My hand freezes in midair. Damn, I think. He knows, of course he knows.
　"I cannot remember what he said," I say.
　"Your memory is perfect, as is mine."
　"Then you tell me what he said."
　"I cannot. He whispered in your ear. He did that so that I would not hear. He knew I was listening, even though I was lying there with the venom in my veins. Yes, I heard your original vow to him. But he did not want me to hear the last part. He would have had his reasons, I'm sure, but the time for those reasons must be past. We are both going to die in a few seconds. Did he make you take a second vow?"
　The fuse burns.
　"No."
　Yaksha sits up. "Did he say anything about me?"
　Shorter and shorter it burns.
　"No!"
　"Why won't you answer my question?"
　The truth bursts out of me. I have wanted to say it for so long. "Because I hate you!"
　"Why?"
　"Because you stole away my love, my Rama and Lalita. You steal my love away now, when I have finally found it again. I will hate you for eternity, and if that is not enough to stop you from being in his grace, then I will hate him as well." I point to Ray. "Let him go. Let him live."
　Yaksha is surprised. I have stunned the devil. "You love him. You love him more than your own life."
　There is only pain in my chest. The fourth center, the fourth note. It is as if it is off key. "Yes."
　Yaksha's tone softens. "Did he tell you something about love?"
　I nod, weeping, I feel so helpless. "Yes."
　"What did he tell you?"
　"He said, where there is love, there is my grace." The sound of his flute is too far away. There is no time to be grateful for what I have been given in my long life. I feel as if I will choke on my grief. I can only see Ray, my lover, my child, all the years he will be denied. He looks at me with such trusting eyes, as if somehow I will still manage to save him. "He told me to remember that."
　"He told me the same thing." Yaksha pauses to wonder. "It must be true." He adds casually, "You and your friend can go."
　I look up. "What?"
　"You broke your vow because you love this young man. It is the only reason you broke it. You must still have Krishna's grace. You only became a vampire to protect Rama and your child. You must have had his grace from the beginning. That is why he showed you such kindness. I did not see that till now.'I cannot harm you. He would not wish me to." Yaksha glances at the burning fuse. "You had better hurry."
　The sparks of the short fuse are like the final sands of an hourglass.
　I grab Ray's hand and leap up and pull him toward the front door. I do not open the door with my hand. I kick it open; the wrong way. The hinges rupture, the wood splinters. The night air is open before us. I shove Ray out ahead of me.
　"Run!" I shout.
　"But-"
　"Run!"
　He hears me, finally, and dashes for the trees. I turn, I don't know why. The chase is over and the race is won. There is no reason to tempt fate. What I do now, it is the most foolish act of my life. I stride back into the living room. Yaksha stares out at the dark sea. I stand behind him.
　"You have ten seconds," he says.
　"Hate and fear and love are all in the heart. I felt that when he played his flute." I touch his shoulder. "I don't just hate you. I didn't just fear you."
　He turns and looks at me. He smiles; he always had a devilish grin.
　"I know that, Sita," he says. "Goodbye."
　"Goodbye."
　I leap for the front door. I am outside, thirty feet off the front porch, when the bombs go off. The power of the shock wave is extraordinary even for me to absorb. It lifts me up, and for a few moments it is as if I can fly. But it does not set me down softly. At one point in my trajectory fate makes me a marksman's prized bird. An object hot and sharp pierces me from behind.
　It goes through my heart. A stake.
　I land in a ball of agony. The night burns behind me. My blood sears as it pours from the wound in my chest. Ray is beside me, asking me what he should do. I writhe in the dirt, my fingers clawing into the earth. But I do not want to go into the ground, no, not after walking on it for so long. I try to get the words out-it is not easy. I see I have been impaled by the splintered leg of my piano bench.
　"Pull it out," I gasp.
　"The stick?" It is the first stupid thing I have heard Ray say.
　I turn my front to him. "Yes."
　Ray grabs the end of the leg. The wood is literally flaming, although it has passed through my body. He yanks hard. The stick breaks; he has got half of it. The other half is still in my body. Too bad for me. I close my eyes for an instant and see a million red stars. I blink and they explode as if the universe has ended. There remains only red light everywhere. The color of sunset, the color of blood. I find myself settling onto my back. My head rolls to one side. Cool mud touches my cheek. It warms as my blood pours from my mouth and puddles around my head. A red stain, almost black in the fiery night, spreads down my beautiful blond hair. Ray weeps. I look at him with such love I honestly feel I see Krishna's face.
　It is not the worst way to die.
　"Love you," I whisper.
　He hugs me. "I love you, Sita."
　So much love, I think as I close my eyes and the pain recedes. There must be so much grace, so much protection for me if Krishna meant what he said. Of course I believe he meant it. I do believe in miracles.
　I wonder if I will die, after all...



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Nessuno dei casi è stato risolto.

Commissione per i diritti umani del Messico dice 74 operatori dei media sono stati uccisi 2000-2011. La commissione di New York to Protect Journalists dice 51 sono stati uccisi in quel momento.

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