1

I certainly never intended to become a vampire. The thought had crossed my mind, of course, as I im­mersed myself in literature of all types, but I dwelt on it maybe only a little more than I dealt with the fantasy of growing up to be an heiress, or a queen. Few people, I believe, set their minds on a lifetime path when they are young. I’m sure there are those who are like that; I was not. My dreams were of power over others, of that there is no doubt. I had no power when I was a child.

But my youthful dreams were impotent; I had little self-­esteem. I was the odd duck, the misfit, and I always struggled with life, argued against it, all the while knowing I was at its mercy. The best I could hope for was an innocuous lifetime assignment, with a few plump moments of pleasure. Life would ultimately do with me as it wished, I thought. I was powerless.

Today, of course, I know differently.

I was born Angelina Watson to John and Alice Watson when John was sixty and Alice was forty­-three. The reasons for their childlessness up to that point are matters only for speculation since both are now dead, but I was a surprise to them, to say the least. Mother said I was a gift from the angels. Hence, my name.

My father passed away when I was eight. I remember little of him but his big, warm hands, his thin gray hair, and his extraordinary booming laugh. He’d been a newspaperman all his life, and because of this, the whole town knew Mother and me, and greeted us on the street, whether we knew them personally or not.

Mother and I got along on what he’d left us, supplemented by what she earned as a file clerk, and what she made working for a janitorial service three nights a week. We didn’t have a lot, but we seemed to have enough. I was never chided because of hand-­me­-down clothes, like some of the other children. I was never chided at all, in fact. I was left alone. I was always alone.

When I was twelve, Alice fell in love with a man fifteen years her junior. They married, and he moved in with us. Rolf was his name, and he had a huge moustache and big, bushy eyebrows. He was a very nice man, good to Mother and me. He treated us well, bought us nice things, and eventually moved us to an improved neighborhood, to a new house on the nicer side of Wilton.

I remember the first night they were home after their weekend honeymoon. I was in my bed and they tucked me in and kissed me good night, then went to their room across the hall and shut the door. I heard the bedsprings creak as two people settled down on them; then they began to creak rhythmically, and I knew what they were doing in there. I’d heard at school, but I never really believed that Mother would do something like that, especially with Rolf and his eyebrows. I crept out of bed and sat next to their door and listened.

I remember pulling my knees to my chest, work­ing my toes in the hallway runner. My bum got cold as I sat on the wooden floor, listening to them talk and moan and bounce on the bed. I began to rock back and forth until my flannel nightie got too hot for me, and I wanted to take it off, but that seemed entirely improper, so I huddled up against the wall instead, rubbing my thighs together and chewing on the heel of my hand.

Just as I heard Rolf give a mighty gasp and groan, I bit through the skin of my palm.

The springs settled. I heard Mother talking softly, and I could imagine her smoothing the sweaty hair from his forehead as he lay collapsed atop her.

Then the springs creaked again as Rolf rolled over, and I sucked the warm, salty blood from my hand.

Soon I heard snoring, and in the dim light from the streetlight out in front, I could see the pattern on the wallpaper and the dark little drops that oozed from my palm. I Iicked them away, one by one as they appeared, and wiped the last one on the wallpaper next to the bedroom door.

“I remember my father saying to me, ‘Boyd, someday you’re going to hunt something that’s just a little too smart to be hunted, or a little too warm and pretty to be killed. And when that happens, you’ll hang up your shotgun.’ He never could understand my passion for hunting, and I could never understand how he could just one day give it up. My brother, too. They just sort of stopped going out, but I kept on. There was a challenge to it, there was timing, and knowledge and fresh air and beauty. But it was never enough. There was never enough challenge, never enough beauty, never a big enough thrill. The kill always came too soon; it was always too easy; it was never just quite right. I guess that’s why I kept on—I kept looking for the right chase. I knew it was out there, I just had to find it.”