Outside the diner, I leaned against a telephone pole and waited for my heart to slow down. When I felt strong enough, I walked toward the library. Except for a lurid streak of crimson on the western horizon, purple clouds darkened the sky. The moon hid her face. Most of the stars kept her company.
The wind nipped at my heels and bit through my parka. Overhead, branches swayed and creaked. Street lights cast dancing shadows on the snow’s icy crust. Across the road, a child came to a window and peered out. Behind her a woman moved to and fro, setting a table. A man read the evening paper. I raised a hand in greeting. Giving me one long, lingering look, the child turned away. Someone pulled a blind and the curtain fell, separating me from the little girl.
I exhaled slowly. My breath drifted away like smoke. I hurried into the library, anxious to escape the cold.
I found Will at a reading table, so deeply immersed in a book he didn’t notice me till I cleared my throat.
He looked up. “You’re back sooner than I thought. What did Dr. Berman say?”
“I’m just run-down,” I said; unable to meet his eyes. “A little rest and I’ll be fine.”
“That’s great.” Getting to his feet, Will began to gather his books, but I stopped him.
“If you don’t mind, I want to look for something.” When he offered to help, I told him to stay where he was. “I can find it by myself.”
Will shrugged and sat down. His red cheeks suggested my voice had been sharper than I’d intended.
It took longer than I’d thought. The old newspapers were on microfilm. I had to spool through several reels from the thirties before I saw the headline I wanted: “Missing Girl’s Body Found Near Underhill Inn.” The type was blurry and hard to read. If I kept Will waiting too long he might come looking for me. I didn’t want him to see what I was doing. He might ask questions I couldn’t answer.
Feeding coins into the machine, I made a copy of the story. Then, without reading them, I folded the pages, slipped them into my purse, and told Will I was ready to leave.
As we left the building, he took my hand. I clung to his hand, loving its warmth, its ordinariness. For a second, I felt like a normal person, a girl walking down a street with a boy, listening to him talk about school assignments and tests, familiar, everyday things.
Then I remembered Vincent and the hours of darkness that lay ahead. Gently I freed my hand from Will’s and climbed into the truck. If only I had the courage to tell him what was really wrong with me. If only he could help me.
When we pulled into the inn’s parking lot, the porch light flashed on, and Dad opened the back door. Waving to Will, he invited him to have dinner with us. “Susan’s set a place for you.”
Will shook his head, but Dad insisted. It was the least he could do to thank him for taking me to the doctor. “I’ve got steaks ready for the grill.”
“You can’t say no,” Susan added. “We’ve already phoned your grandmother. If you don’t eat here you won’t eat anywhere.”
Will threw up his hands in surrender and followed me inside. Todd was delighted to see him. Ignoring me, he begged Will for a piggyback ride. As they galloped out of the room, I heard Todd say something unpleasant about me.
Susan heard too. Looking up from the tray she was preparing for Vincent, she said, “Todd doesn’t mean it, Cynda. Children go through stages. Before you know it, he’ll be crazy about you all over again.”
I watched her carry the tray out of the kitchen. She probably thought she was disappointing me by taking it upstairs herself. Little did she know the last thing I wanted now was to be alone with Vincent.
When Susan returned, she asked what Dr. Berman had said. I was standing at the window, my back to her, staring at the snowman Will, Todd, and I had made weeks ago. He was thinner now and brittle with ice. His face reminded me of Vincent’s.
Without looking at Susan, I repeated the lie I’d told Will. “I’m just run-down.”
“Did you have some blood work done?” she asked.
I nodded. No lie this time. I’d certainly had blood work done.
“I have a feeling you’re anemic,” Susan said. “When Dr. Berman gets the test results, he’ll probably prescribe iron supplements.”
I smiled to myself. Anemic, yes, I was no doubt anemic. My blood needed more than iron, though. Without a transfusion, I’d soon be as white and bloodless as the snowman.
I watched Susan’s reflection in the window. She moved about the kitchen purposefully, maneuvering her stomach around obstacles, her attention fixed on preparing a salad. How innocent she seemed, how pure and untouched by evil. What would she say if I whirled about and told her the truth?
“By the way,” I might say, “Vincent comes to my room late at night and sucks my blood, that’s why I’m sick. What do you think we should do about it?”
Even if I dared tell her, Susan wouldn’t believe me. Worse yet, Vincent would kill me for betraying him. Weeks from now, some poor soul would find my body washed up on the rocks.
Dad came into the kitchen, carrying a platter of freshly grilled steaks. “Dinner is served,” he announced.
Unwillingly I took my place at the table, hemmed in like a prisoner between Will and Dad. The smell of food made my head ache, the sound of chewing and swallowing sickened me. I pictured the digestive system as shown in my ninth grade science book, remembered the dry explanation of what happened in the stomach and intestines.
Dad leaned toward me. “Eat your steak, Cynda. Red meat is just what you need to build up your strength.”
I stared at the meat, cooked extra rare the way I liked it. Red juices seeped out and puddled on the plate. Without thinking, I lowered my head and licked the juice, recognizing it for what it was—blood.
“Cynthia!” Dad reached for my plate. “What are you doing?”
Suddenly angry, I tipped the plate and drank more of the blood before Dad could stop me.
Todd covered his face and began to cry. Horrified by my behavior, Susan lifted him out of his chair and left the room.
Dad stared at me. Beside him, Will sat stupefied, his mouth open.
Realizing what I’d done, I pushed the plate away and burst into tears. Dad took my arm. “You’re overtired, Cynda. You’d better go to bed, lie down, get some rest.”
Too ashamed to look at Will, I left the room with my father. At my door, Dad stopped and studied my face. “Why did you do that, Cynda? What in God’s name is wrong with you?”
I clung to him. “I must be crazy,” I sobbed. “Maybe you should take me to the hospital, lock me up in the psych unit, keep me there.”
Dad stroked my hair and murmured comforting words. I was sick, visiting Dr. Berman had exhausted me, I’d feel better in the morning, and so on and so on. “Get into bed, Cynda, rest.”
“Don’t leave me, Daddy,” I begged. “Stay with me, don’t let him come, keep him away.”
Dad freed himself from my hands. “Keep who away? What are you talking about?”
I fell on my bed weeping. I couldn’t say Vincent’s name. He was right over my head, pacing back and forth. His footsteps beat out a warning: Don’t tell, keep it a secret, remember your promise.
“Nothing,” I sobbed, “nothing, I’m just upset, I don’t know what I’m saying, just stay a while, please, Daddy.”
Dad sighed and sat down on the bed. “I left poor Will sitting at the table all by himself,” he said. “And Susan’s worried about you, I have to tell her you’re all right.”
“Please, Daddy, please.” I clung to his hand and cried like a baby. I hadn’t been this upset since he’d left Mom years ago. I’d begged him to stay with us, I’d wept, I’d promised to be good, but he hadn’t listened then and he wasn’t listening now.
“Cynda, for heaven’s sake, you’re sixteen years old, you’re in your own room, what on earth can happen to you?”
I heard the impatience in Dad’s voice, but I kept on pleading. In desperation, I used my ultimate weapon. “You don’t love me,” I sobbed. “You never have.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Dad stood up and went to my door. “Get a grip on yourself, Cynda. I mean it. There’s no reason for this behavior.”
He left, shutting the door firmly behind him. I listened to his footsteps march away. I started to run after him but stopped at my door. Will was still in the dining room; I heard his voice. I couldn’t face him.
The ceiling creaked. Vincent kept pacing, his ear attuned to every sound from below. Soon he’d come downstairs. Taking his seat in the shadows, he’d charm Dad and pacify Susan. Then, when they were fast asleep, he’d come to my room. Even as I vowed to keep him out, I knew I wouldn’t be able to. He’d taken too much of my strength.
Hours later, Vincent tapped on the door. “Cynda,” he whispered, “let me in.”
I tried to ignore him but his voice sang in my veins and throbbed in my neck. Moving like a sleepwalker, I opened the door and Vincent stepped into my room.
When he’d taken what he wanted, he lay on the bed beside me. I gazed into his eyes, so alien, so cold. It was hard to focus. His face seemed to double, triple, and split into dozens of replicas. Finally I succeeded in making him stay still. One Vincent was more than enough.
Propping himself up on his elbow, he said, “Shall I tell you about myself, Cynda? I know you’re curious. Mortals love to hear my history. They find it fascinating.”
I closed my eyes. Vincent’s ego was boundless. He’d tell me whether I wanted to hear or not.
“I’ve been as I am for over five hundred years,” he began. “The immortal who gave me his blood was a master of the species. Like him, I cannot be stopped with garlic, silver crosses, or stakes through the heart. I dislike sunlight, but it cannot seriously harm me. Nor do I need a coffin of earth to sustain me. Why should I? I’ve never been buried.”
He chuckled and ran his finger down my throat, caressing the mark he’d made. “Some of my brothers and sisters claim they were taken against their will. They insist they despise themselves, they long to die. Not I. I sought my destiny, I yearned for it. I have no wish to end my life. I’m delighted with myself.”
Somewhere in the darkness, the owl called. Vincent sprang to his feet and flung the window open to listen. When the last spooky note faded away, he turned to me and smiled. “How I love this old inn. It suits my needs perfectly—lonely, isolated, far from town, near the sea.”
Cautiously I slid off the bed. My legs were weak, my head so light I feared I might float across the snow as weightless as smoke.
Vincent slid his arm around my waist to steady me. “Best of all,” he murmured in my ear, “whenever I return to Underhill, I find a tender little mouse waiting for me, eager to give me what I need.”
He pointed into the darkness. The murdered girl stood on the snowy lawn, gazing at us and weeping. There were others with her, paler and less substantial, some no more than glimmerings of moonlight. Like her, they wept.
“My fans,” Vincent said, scorning them. “Even though their bodies are dust, they still want me.” He raised his hand in a threatening gesture and the ghosts fled, dissolving like mist. “They dare not come near.”
“And will you kill me too?” I whispered.
Vincent smiled. “The choice is yours, Cynda. As long as you amuse me, why should I kill you?”
He closed the window then and led me back to bed. Tossing a quilt over me, he stretched out beside me. “I’ve been careless of your health,” he said, “so careless, your friend Will drove you into Ferrington to see a doctor.”
“I didn’t go in, I couldn’t, I thought he might . . .”
Vincent cut me off with an unpleasant chuckle. “A doctor would indeed be puzzled by your blood.”
I stared at him. “You’re doing something to me, aren’t you? You’re changing me, I’m not the same. The sun hurts my eyes, I can’t concentrate, I do strange things, the whole world seems different, darker, scarier . . .”
“It’s unavoidable,” he admitted. “When I take your blood, my saliva enters your veins. It affects your behavior, your appetite, your response to sunlight.” He laughed. “I’m an infection for which there is no cure. Not even death.”
I shrank away from him. “No wonder Todd hates me. I’m becoming more and more like you, and he knows it.”
“What a clever little devil the child is.” Vincent rolled over on his back and contemplated the ceiling. I watched him uneasily, wishing I could read his thoughts as easily as he read mine.
Suddenly he laughed out loud and sprang to his feet, obviously pleased with himself. Before he left, he leaned down to embrace me. “‘One kiss, my bonny sweetheart,’” he whispered, “‘I’m after a prize tonight.’”
I pulled away fearing the sharp teeth behind his lips.
“Such a fickle child,” he said. “Once you couldn’t get enough of my kisses.”
Not long after the door closed behind him, I heard a soft cry. It might have been the owl, it might have been the cat, it might have been almost anything. Yet I found it hard to sleep for worrying. Was Vincent merely quoting a line of poetry or did he plan to seek another victim?