People are born with a strong personal identity. As infants we know what we want. And we’re not afraid to cry about it.

A strong personal identity is like infancy: In time we might grow out of it. Some people’s strong personal identities are maintained by a good family. Other people’s personal identities are weakened by bad parenting and unchecked sibling rivalry. A few people’s personal identities are obliterated by neglect and abuse.

By the time I drank Theo’s blood, my personal identity had the strength of tissue paper. It tore easily. It soaked up many of my tears.

 

 

 

 

Theo’s Blood Memories pierced my heart and penetrated my mind. My heart raced with his feelings. My mind bubbled with his memories. It was as if I had taken into myself Theo’s deepest passion, pursuits, and perceptions – all of who and how he was.

This tissue paper girl felt she might burst from the potency of his self-possession.

 

 

 

 

Theo believed in a power greater than himself. He called this power “God” because that word alone was simple and small.

He dismissively waved off the association God had with religion. He thought God was an aptly insignificant word to describe an infinitely powerful mystery.

My personality had been insignificant until then. Like a reed in the wind. I needed a strong personal identity to borrow. Theo’s was brimming with the confidence I’d always wanted. I would try to be exactly like him. I would feel the way he felt. I would think the way he thought. I would stride the way he strode. I would pose with his poise. I would love what he liked – except for myself. I didn’t know how to love my “self” yet.

Who can say they deeply love tissue paper?

 

 

 

 

My china doll’s Blood Memories went to work in Theo immediately. On the violin, she could play Bach, Mendelssohn, Paganini, and much more great music from many other great violinists.

Now, Theo could do so also. Her Blood Memories surged through his veins. He knew the notes to every song she knew. He knew the fingering to any scale she knew. Theo was now a concert violinist – at least for a week or so, until his Blood Memories faded away.

 

 

 

 

Wyn had tucked away somewhere in his cavernous mansion a great Stradivarius violin, which was by that time gathering dust. He gave it to Theo for the week. It was interesting to see how Wyn regarded it so nostalgically.

“It’s good someone’s using it again,” he remarked.

I wondered who had owned the violin before. I had not yet met his dead wife, Aemilia.

 

 

 

 

Wyn said nothing more about it. But the way he moved explained much. His movements slowed while his breathing quickened. A human wouldn’t have noticed any change.

I’d never seen him look so mournful.

Whoever had owned that old Stradivarius violin had been very important to Wyn.

 

 

 

 

The next morning, I came into the kitchen to find Theo restringing the Stradivarius.

Wyn also came in, reading Brian Greene’s The Elegant Universe. He had drunk the blood of an astronomer. The astronomer was a lonely man living on the outskirts of the village near the mountaintop. His whole house was a homemade observatory. Wyn had devoured the man’s Blood Memories.

Wyn was now entirely occupied with the vast mysterious life of the universe. His mind was teeming with new ideas.

He also read Carl Sagan’s Cosmos in a few minutes, and then cross-referenced that with Lewis Carroll’s Through the Looking-Glass. He believed the two were highly interrelated.

 

 

 

 

Ms. Crystobal prepared coffee and fruit-salad for breakfast. She was our housekeeper, cook, and maid. She did everything. She never complained about the workload. She was amazing.

That should have told us: She wasn’t from our planet – or from our universe – and now that I think about it, I doubt that she was even from our dimension.

Her daily sour expression never relaxed. Sometimes I’d be walking alone down one of the numerous hallways and she’d suddenly appear out of nowhere, like a ghost, staring at me as though I’d done something wrong. She’d tell me that it was time for lunch or dinner, or she’d tell me that this hallway was being cleaned, and I wasn’t allowed down there right then, even though I couldn’t hear any cleaning going on. That woman could scare the Dickens out of me.

Of course, I later found out that she wasn’t a woman at all. Or a man.

 

 

 

 

Wyn and Theo ate their breakfast happily. They were already brimming with delicious Blood Memories.

So was I, with Theo’s in me.

Blood Memories rejuvenated us surprisingly. We all seemed reborn. We were like inquisitive children seeing the world in a whole new way.

The tissue paper of my personal identity was beginning to galvanize.

 

 

 

 

Ms. Crystobal gave me a plate of strawberries dipped in peanut butter. I’d never had it before. She seemed to know I’d love it. She was right. They were scrumptious!

Wyn talked about electromagnetism.

Theo finished stringing the violin. He stood before us. He positioned the instrument at his neck. His fingers pressed on the strings. He held the bow above the strings for a second.

Wyn and I watched. We were curious to know what he would play.

Ms. Crystobal sipped a cup of tea. Her eyebrow raised in doubt.

Theo slammed the bow down on the strings.

The violin music resounded beautifully. The kitchen had excellent acoustics.

The music was Bach's Chaconne for Solo Violin. Some say that Bach wrote that music as a tombeau at the death of his first wife.

When I consider that a tombeau is like a requiem, only less religious, it is no surprise that it was my china doll’s favorite piece. Mourning felt normal to her. It feels normal for many people. She was more normal than she knew.

 

 

 

 

We watched Theo working the bow across the violin. His fingers moved swiftly over the strings. He had such newfound power and speed and authority.

A tear came to Wyn’s eye. It was like seeing a Vulcan cry.

I couldn’t tell if Wyn was happy or sad.

He might have been happy. The Blood Vivicanti had proven to be his most successful science project.

Then again: He might have been mourning – the way Bach mourned his wife through music.

 

 

 

 

Theo played the violin for us for days. It was wonderful to have live music in the mansion. Yet his playing and his music were associative: They reminded me of how my china doll used to make me feel.

But the richness of my fantasy life turned my thoughts and hopes and dreams away from her and toward Theo. The network of my mind was making new associations.

 

 

 

 

He was a phenomenal dancer. And now that I had his Blood Memories in me, so was I.

Theo would play the violin and I would dance with his music. The memory of dancing was not in my muscles. It took me a day to get used to being graceful. I’d never been graceful before. My body had never moved so fluidly or so beautifully before. I could plié and brisé and pirouette.

I still can. His Blood Memories are still strong in me. If I wanted to, I could dance a very lovely Lobster Quadrille.

 

 

 

 

At the end of the week, Theo and I performed a dance recital in the ballroom.

Wyn came to watch.

Ms. Crystobal came too, but only because Wyn threatened her with immanent unemployment if she didn’t.

He was joking of course.

I’m not sure if Ms. Crystobal gets jokes. They might be a little too human for her.

 

 

 

 

Theo and I danced to the music of Danny Elfman’s Topiary Garden Waltz.

We would twist our bodies beyond the limits of the human frame. We would leap high into the air. We’d spin around and around, far from the ground. We moved like two currents of clear water.

Ms. Crystobal sat with her arms folded the whole time. She looked annoyed and unimpressed.

Theo and I finished. We’d hardly broken a sweat.

He said I was “beautiful.”

My porcelain white cheeks blushed.

Ms. Crystobal said she’d resume her duties now. She promptly left without another word.

Wyn was very pleased with our dance. The good scientist had taken copious notes – like Jane Goodall observing wild chimpanzees.

 

 

 

 

Blood Memories helped me learn more about who I really was. I was beginning to see that I wasn’t the self others had shaped me to be. I wasn’t the girl my parents had framed, not the grade schooler my peers had rejected, not the high schooler my classmates had ignored. My journey as a Blood Vivicanti was a path toward my true self.

Was my “true” self a blood drinker?

Yes and no.

I needed to drink blood, yes. That was my nature now. Blood drinking happens when you’re a Blood Vivicanti. Blood Memories happen when you drink blood.

And I liked drinking blood. I just liked eating memories a little more.

My true “self” would be the woman I’ve grown into – the woman I’m still growing into.

No: Blood Vivicanti do not grow outwardly. But we can mature inwardly.

 

 

 

 

I stayed drunk on Theo’s Blood Memories for the whole week.

The hangover was bad.

 

 

 

 

Theo became sad and brooding again when his Blood Memories faded. He liked playing the violin as much as he had liked rock climbing. He did not like losing his skills. He missed them all. All he had after they faded were memories of Blood Memories.

Wyn was similar. With the Blood Memories of the astronomer, Wyn had understood much about life and growth beyond the limits of the Milky Way.

He became very mournful when his Blood Memories faded. It was as if someone had died.

Wyn listened to a tombeau all day.

I’ve never understood why Theo and Wyn used to get that way. Blood Memories do not fade in me. My photographic memory will not let them.

 

 

 

 

Wyn and Theo waited another three days to see if my Blood Memories would fade.

Wyn’s dour disposition lightened a little by Day Ten. My Blood Memories hadn’t faded at all. His theory was correct: My photographic memory not only retained my Blood Memories, but my mind also perfectly balanced Blood Memories with my own memories.

 

 

 

 

Theo was glad when Wyn let us hunt again. He was ready for someone else’s memories in his mind.

The week before, he had wanted to drink the blood of a cook.

This week he had other plans. His plans would surprise me. He was always surprising me.

 

 

 

 

Wyn was curious to see how two different Blood Memories would coexist in me. He theorized that, in the same way my mind neatly catalogues all my photographic memories, it would also neatly catalogue all my Blood Memories.

His null hypothesis had been: Retaining Blood Memories beyond a week will give her a mental breakdown. Prepare a room at Bedlam.

Thankfully his null hypothesis was disproven. It was balderdash.

Mostly.

 

 

 

 

Wyn encouraged us to feed outside the mansion. “No blood in the house.”

I made a game of it, tapping Theo’s shoulder. Tag. He was it. I was becoming more like Theo by the minute.

He laughed. Then he chased me from the mansion.

I loved being chased by him.

 

 

 

 

We ran faster than I’d ever run before – down the mountain – past the desert valley – west toward the setting sun.

Theo outran me. He tapped me on the shoulder. Now I was “It”. I chased him.

I was always chasing him.

 

 

 

 

He led me all the way to Los Angeles. We ran through the city to the Pacific Ocean.

The whole run took less than half an hour.

We stood on the shore of the sea. Barefoot. Panting. Toes in the sand. Cold salt water rushing all around our ankles.

The setting sun slowly sank into the sea. The sky was orange and red.

Theo took me to the amusement park on the Santa Monica Pier. He bought himself cotton candy. He used to love cotton candy.

He bought me a soft pretzel. I still love soft pretzels.

But that night I wasn’t hungry for food.

I didn’t feel hungry for blood either.

I was hungry to escape. I didn’t know how to live life any other way.

 

 

 

 

I hung around Theo’s neck. I hung on his every word.

I assumed I was in love with him. All I wanted was to feel safe. I was too young to know that love and safety is like oil and water.

I was confusing affection with certainty.

 

 

 

 

Theo and I leaned over the pier. Our sight was strong. We could see fish far below the surface.

Theo talked about the kind of blood he’d like to drink. He didn’t merely want to drink a person’s blood. He wanted to drink the blood of someone with a good personality. He wanted in him the Blood Memories of someone who had led a meaningful life.

He wasn’t interested in the skill of doing something new. He wanted the skill of living well.

“I’d like someone inside me who likes themselves,” he said. “I don’t like drinking the blood of a self-loathing soul. Their Blood Memories leave me feeling empty.”

He was sharing himself with me in a new way. I liked it. And I feared it.

Theo sighed. “That violinist didn’t like herself.”

I was beginning to realize how broken my china doll was.

I decided then: Theo shouldn’t drink from me. He might hate me if he knew how I really felt about my self.

 

 

 

 

Night soon fell.

In the desert it is easy to see the nighttime stars. They are infinite and infinitely beautiful. There are so many stars that the constellations get lost in the thick soup of the cosmos. City lights make it difficult for human eyes to see the stars. But I could see far through the atmosphere. I could make out small craters on the surface of the moon.

I wished I had a comfortable house there. I’d invite Theo over anytime for tea and a spacewalk.

 

 

 

 

Dark clouds were forming out at sea. A storm would hit the coast later.

Theo pointed to an old man far down the beach. No human eyes could see him from that distance. Mine could.

The old man was walking an old yellow lab. The dog’s hair was mostly white. So was the old man’s. The two were strolling side by side. The dog was watching his master. The old man was watching the coming storm.

Lightning flashed in the dark clouds.

I could hear the thunder. Theo could too.

He asked me what the old man was saying to me.

I didn’t understand. I could hear the old man. I knew he wasn’t speaking. I could see his lips. They weren’t moving.

Theo was patient with me. “What do the old man’s movements tell you about who he is?”

I could hear the old man breathing. Hear him sighing. Hear his footsteps dredge through the soft sand.

I could see the redness in his eyes, see his hands clenching, see his chin beginning to tremble with tears on the verge of falling like raindrops. The coming storm would be great, but there was a greater storm swirling around inside that old man.

I could relate to him.

 

 

 

 

Theo stood close to me. His voice was soft. “The old man lost someone close to him. He’s lost someone he’s known since he was young. He’s lost a childhood love.”

I could see that now.

The old man’s movements were tectonic. His whole world was reshaping itself. He felt very alone in the cosmos.

The old man was mourning.

He yearned, I saw, to plunge into the ocean, to swim out to that storm, and to wrestle with the powerful force of the torsional waves.

Yet he would not. He had no fear of death, and no fear of dying either.

That surprised me!

The old man had faith in the fullness of life. His wearied movements told me that he would not surrender to his sorrow. His old love had taught him the heart of loving other people and loving one’s self: Patience. The old man knew he would see his love again soon. He just had to be patient. He had more growth to live through, more experiences to learn from, and more life to know and understand.

For me, that old man defined the reason that patience can be as painful as it is rewarding.

 

 

 

 

Theo faced me. “I’m going to drink from him tonight.”

I couldn’t understand why. The old man didn’t appear to be anyone special. People all over the world lose childhood sweethearts. Besides, the old man’s movement said that he’d also had a desk job for decades before retirement, that he was living in a gated community in suburban sprawl, that he had no interest in the arts or sciences, and that he went to church.

He reminded me of my dad.

Theo smiled at me kindly.

“I’ve played violin sonatas,” he said. “I’ve scaled mountains. I’ve done so much more than that. But all of those Blood Memories were from people who had much skill with work and not enough experience with life.”

Theo pointed to the old man.

“Experience is in his blood. Wisdom is in his Blood Memories.”

“Does wisdom come from experience only?” I inquired.

Theo thought it did. All he wanted was a sense of interior balance. The old man would give it to him.

I wasn’t interested in wisdom, only in acceptance. I wanted to drink the blood that Theo drank. I feared being unlike him. I worried that he might dislike me if I was too different from who and how he was.

I was becoming my mom.

 

 

 

 

Theo wouldn’t let me drink the old man’s blood with him. Only a pint could be taken from the old man, and that pint belonged to Theo. Not me.

He sped off toward the old man. I watched from the pier. Theo actually introduced himself. The old man greeted him warmly. The yellow lab licked Theo’s hand, all sticky from the cotton candy. The dog loved Theo instantly. So did the old man.

The three of them walked along the beach together. They talked for a little while.

Theo pointed to the storm.

The old man looked.

Not even the dog heard Theo move. Theo was behind the old man in a blink. Probiscus in neck. Drinking his pint of blood. Nothing more.

Wisdom – experience – the blood of a self-actualized soul – that was all he wanted.

Perhaps that’s why he never asked to drink my blood.

I couldn’t fault him. Theo was right: The old man had a kind of wisdom. He had courage and humility, knowledge and understanding and prudence, and he had an awareness of a power greater than himself. For Theo, each of those facets was an important component of wisdom.

He liked the old man very much.

 

 

 

 

I looked for another old man to drink from. But I didn’t know how to see the embodiment of wisdom. Old men just looked old.

I was only seventeen after all.

 

 

 

 

I went on the Ferris wheel. I had a seat all to myself. I was used to being by myself. It felt normal. Normal felt safe.

The Ferris wheel looped around and around. From the top I could see the nighttime lights of San Diego over one hundred miles away. Beneath me I could see every sight, smell every scent, and hear every sound throughout the amusement park.

I could smell grease on the roller coasters, and I could smell arcade tokens touched by countless fingers, and I could smell the milky sweet scent of children sweating out sugar. And I could smell a million other scents.

I could see fathers digging deep into pockets to give begging kids coins for games, and I could see boyfriends winning girlfriends massive stuffed animals, and I could see vendors sneakily skimming pocket change off the top of the amusement park’s profits. And I could see a million other sights.

My photographic memory saw and heard and remembered everything. Every scent, every expression, every stitch the crowd wore, every laughter bubbling up from their throats – my mind cataloged all of it efficiently.

 

 

 

 

I also noticed someone watching me.

He looked like a man on the outside. He was tall and lean, middle aged, dark brown hair down to his chin, mustache, goatee, and redness around his eyes. I’d never seen someone so hungry, angry, alone, and tired.

His name was Lowen.

I called him The Dark Man.

You could call him my Jean Valjean, my Lex Luthor.

 

 

 

 

Beside him was my bread and my kryptonite. Her name was Nell.

I recognized her instantly: She was the girl who had been kidnapped from my fifth grade class.

Lowen had been her kidnapper, and she had been with him for all those terrible years, although I did not know that right then.

I would learn that when Nell tricked me into drinking her black blood.

 

 

 

 

Nell looked like a girl. Sometimes she acted like one too. She was petite like me. Her skin was very white like mine, but mine is snow-white porcelain, while hers was pale and sickly.

Her features were sunken. Around her eyes were dark rings, like two hollows. Her lips were blue, as if she had fallen into a frozen river and drowned.

That night, her black hair was short and cut across her chin. She wore a black shirt, black Converse high-tops, black knee-high socks, and a short skirt.

She could have been adorable. But she looked like a twisted version of the girl I had been only a year earlier, a girl defeated by life and loneliness.

Yet the more I recognized her, the more she was unrecognizable. She was no longer the young victim from fifth grade. To me, she was now only known as the Pale Girl.

 

 

 

 

Lowen the Dark Man had almost no scent at all. No sweat. No pheromones. The faint scent I caught of him was an odd mixture of Tennessee whiskey and Franken Berry cereal.

Nell the Pale Girl smelled like death.

 

 

 

 

Lowen never looked at her. He was leering at me. He never spoke with her, only to her, the way my parents used to speak to me.

His voice was deep and gruff. “you’re right. She is powerful. But our plans have changed.”

Nell had a new task.

 

 

 

 

The Ferris wheel swung me up and away. For a second I lost sight of them. Lost all sense of them too.

When the Ferris wheel looped back around, I sensed that they had gone.

I got off the ride and searched for them in the crowd. But even their scent and sound had vanished entirely.

At that time, I didn’t think too much of it. My mind was on Theo.

 

 

 

 

The old man was much happier now. He walked his dog back to his car with a lighter step.

Theo wondered off. He liked being alone after drinking blood, especially if the Blood Memories were the kind he really enjoyed, the kind that made him not merely remember, but also think.

He was off to journal about his experiences. He’d never journaled before. The old man’s Blood Memories were showing him the importance of keeping a journal. It helped him work out the problems of his mind. It helped his heart fondly recall good times. The old man had much wisdom to share with Theo. His Blood Memories were a good choice.

 

 

 

 

Theo left me. I didn’t see him for the rest of the night.

I walked along the beach alone. I let myself be hungry. The pain of hunger was better than the pain of heartache.

The rollers of the Pacific Ocean crashing on the shore sounded like a pride of lions roaring.

The storm was coming closer.

I’d never swum before. I didn’t know how to swim. I had to plunge into Theo’s Blood Memories. He knew how to swim. His Blood Memories gave me the skill to leap into the ocean.

I swam out to the storm. It was miles out to sea. I swam faster than fish and sound.

 

 

 

 

The storm was loud and violent and wonderful. The giant waves were like muscles. I let them lift me up. It felt good to be lifted up. I let them slam me down. It felt good to be slammed down.

The power of the waves thrust me far underwater. For a moment I wondered if I would drown. But being a Blood Vivicanti meant that water would never drown me again.

The pressure in the depths of the ocean felt good. It was the most powerful hug I’d ever had. And I needed a good hug right then.

 

 

 

 

I let myself be picked up and thrown down numerous times. I let myself be hugged by the mighty black sea. Down in the deep, the solitude was perfect. I was alone with the ocean. She was with me.

Too bad I couldn’t stop thinking about Theo.

 

 

 

 

I swam back long before the storm reached the shore.

I had hunger for food and blood. But I had no appetite. The thought of maintaining myself sickened me.

Why had Theo gone off? Had I done something wrong?

I was in torment.

My whole being yearned to be satisfied.

 

 

 

 

I took a cab ride back to the mansion that night, all the way from the coast to the mountains ringing the desert valley. The ride took over three hours.

I loathe LA traffic.

I could’ve run that distance six times if I’d had the energy. Wondering about boys was new and enervating, and I didn’t like it.

Besides, my mind was racing faster than I ever could.

 

 

 

 

To pay the cabbie I pierced his throat with my tongue. I let my delicious venom seep into his veins. He’d never had a better night in his life.

Good for him.

I didn’t want his Blood Memories. I spit out his blood.

It left a bad taste in my mouth.

 

 

 

 

I didn’t see Theo until the next day.

The morning sun felt too bright for me.

Theo and I almost collided on the stairwell. He didn’t seem very different. He smiled at me like nothing was wrong. “Ms. Crystobal is making pancakes this morning.” Theo loved pancakes.

I didn’t meet his eyes. Couldn’t.

He could see I hadn’t fed. My porcelain skin had lost some luster. Only a Blood Vivicanti could see it. I looked a little paler, sickly, like that girl who was following me, Nell.

Theo took my hand. “Let’s get you some sugary good fuel for the day.”

His invitation was all I needed. Instantly I seemed to snap from my heartsick feeling.

 

 

 

 

He led me down to the kitchen. I followed. I was good at following.

His words, his touch – they were hope. Hope eased my mind. Hope was invigorating.

I used to be very good at hoping.

 

 

 

 

Breakfast was amazing. I didn’t realize I was so hungry. I wolfed down a stack of pancakes soaked in butter and maple syrup.

But the urge for blood was more intense. I would have to feed that day. Just a pint.

Wyn came into the kitchen. He was reading The New York Times. He folded the paper and set it neatly down.

Ms. Crystobal served him his usual coffee.

Wyn studied Theo. “Do you like your new memories?”

Theo chewed and nodded a mouthful of food.

Wyn sipped his coffee. “I’m going to miss your violin playing.”

Theo smiled wryly. He spoke through his full mouth. “Me too.”

Wyn studied me next. He could see I hadn’t had any blood. He wasn’t displeased, just analytical.

“Didn’t find anyone you liked?” he asked.

I shook my head. I didn’t look at Theo.

Wyn could tell that something was bothering me.

The three of us ate breakfast together in silence. It wasn’t as lighthearted as usual. Our conversations felt forced.

Theo was lost in thought.

Wyn explained that he would be researching for the rest of the day in the library. Theo said he’d join him.

Beta followed Alpha.

Where did I fit in?

 

 

 

 

Breakfast finished. Theo and Wyn left.

I was about to follow them, but Ms. Crystobal grabbed my hand and held me back. She studied my eyes intently. Her expression had changed. No longer sour or impatient. I saw concern in her features, and anger too.

Her voice had a pitch of aggression. “Did anything unusual happen last night?”

I looked at her sideways. “Out of the ordinary for a Blood Vivicanti?”

“Did you see anyone strange?”

I didn’t think to mention Lowen or Nell. My mind was fixed on Theo. He was acting strange. I didn’t like his new Blood Memories.

Ms. Crystobal stood a little closer to me. Her voice lowered to a whisper. “Doors open all the time. Some open because of good choices. Some open because of choices that are not so good. Be careful about which door you choose to go through.”

I was more surprised that she had said so much to me. It was the most I’d ever heard her say. What she was saying didn’t quite sink in at that time. I assumed that she was speaking figuratively.

 

 

 

 

Wyn and Theo spent the rest of the morning in the library. Wyn was cross-referencing astrology with exobiology.

Later I learned the truth: He was trying to mentally dissect the Red Man, the source of the glowing violet blood.

Theo read an old manuscript in Latin. Then he wrote in Latin in his journal. He hadn’t been able to read Latin before the old man’s Blood Memories.

I wondered if I’d have to translate it for him once his Blood Memories faded and he forgot his new ability.

Me helping Theo was a nice fantasy.

 

 

 

 

I tried to read a book. But no books could hold my attention.

So I decided to wander around Wyn’s mansion.

I let myself get as lost as I felt.

 

 

 

 

The mansion was enormous. There were twists and turns every which way. It felt a little like the Winchester Mystery House.

I came upon one hallway I hadn’t seen before. It led into darkness.

A little ways down the hallway, sensory lights flickered on.

The floor was black marble, polished and glossy and bright.

With each step down the hallway, more sensory lights flickered on, marking my progress.

The smell of fresh cut flowers was all around me.

The last sensory lights flickered on at the end.

Against the back wall was a white marble sarcophagus, like the kind from ancient Rome.

Fresh arrangements of lovely flowers surrounded it.

Around the base were small figures carved into the stone. All of them were of the same woman. Each figure displayed the woman doing different works of kindness. Aiding the infirmed, nurturing children, consoling the sorrowful, and giving food to the hungry.

One small carving of the woman depicted her playing the violin.

Atop the sarcophagus was a life-sized figure, also carved into the stone. It was the same woman. Only this time she wasn’t working at all. She was sleeping peacefully, turned on her side, the way she must have slept in life. Her cushion and pillow had been carved with astounding finesse. They looked soft and very real and comfortable. She looked real. She looked soft, as if she might wake up at any moment.

Who was she?

 

 

 

 

Ms. Crystobal appeared behind me. I hadn’t heard her approach. She startled me half out of my wits.

She glanced at the sarcophagus. Then she glared at me.

“Lunch is ready,” was all she said.

 

 

 

 

Lunch was light with delicious cucumber sandwiches, tea, and crumpets.

I’d never had cucumber sandwiches before. They seemed strange at first. But I ate them the way my mom taught me to eat anything dubious: I slathered them in mayonnaise.

Mayonnaise makes food much better.

Butter too.

 

 

 

 

Theo asked me if I’d like to go for a run after lunch.

What was I going to say? No? I was smitten.

The invitation to be with Theo made me happy. He could have invited me to Antarctica and I would have gone with him. I would have gone with him anywhere.

 

 

 

 

Wyn stood between us. He looked at me sternly. “You need to drink blood. You’re losing color in your cheeks.”

Theo took my hand. “She can feed later. I’ll show her someone good to drink from.”

Wyn rubbed his chin, considering this.

“No,” he said at last. He reached out and touched Theo’s shoulder. “I’ll show her someone meaningful now.”

Then he did something I never expected: He tapped Theo’s shoulder. “Tag,” he said with a playful grin. “You’re it.”

Then he dashed fast through the mansion.

Theo smiled widely at me. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get him!”

He chased after Wyn.

I chased after Theo.

Chasing him was becoming a habit, the way it had with my china doll.

 

 

 

 

The three of us raced throughout the mansion. Over chairs and sofas. Under tables and beds.

We dashed through the front door when Ms. Crystobal shouted at us: “Take this outside, children!”

We rushed through Idyllville forest.

We chased deer and coyotes.

We scaled Suicide Rock. We swan dived into the green canopy.

I was breathing hard through my nostrils like a bull. I felt like an animal.

It felt good.

 

 

 

 

I wished Wyn wasn’t with us. I wanted to be alone with Theo.

But the three of us stopped our chase in Idyllville and we walked through the village square. It was thronged with villagers and tourists. I saw peers from the academy. They didn’t recognize Theo. Or me.

Wyn wasn’t surprised.

“You’ve changed much in the last two weeks,” he told us.

 

 

 

 

Wyn insisted that I drink blood. He made a game of it. He challenged each of us to use our abilities to pick out of the crowd the finest blood.

Theo picked out a student from the Academy. A freshman ginger named Sebastian. I’d heard of him. Supposedly he was a polymath. He could dance, paint, sing, and play at least a dozen instruments. He had an astounding IQ.

Theo had already considered drinking his blood. Now he whispered in my ear. “The ginger boy would be perfect for you. His Blood Memories would enhance your own giftedness.”

I didn’t want Sebastian’s blood. I wanted more of Theo’s. I thought I needed him.

Besides, the idea of drinking someone else’s blood bothered me. Having someone else inside me didn’t feel right.

My tongue deep inside Theo’s neck was a good feeling. His blood in me was a better feeling. I wanted to be entangled with him again.

 

 

 

 

Wyn agreed with Theo. They insisted I should drink the ginger boy’s blood. They let me hunt him by myself.

I tailed the ginger boy for some time.

He led me through Idyllville, through the tortuous neighborhoods, to Hatter’s Café. He grouped with a few other Academy students. He mounted a drum set. The other students strapped on their instruments.

Together they played a fusion of baroque and jazz. I admit: It was fascinating.

I listened to them play. I watched the ginger boy. He would have filled me that day. My body was starving. My mind felt famished. My heart was ravenous. Mine was a psychosomatic starvation for something more in my life.

 

 

 

 

But then I saw someone else, an ordinary man, in his mid-50s it seemed. He was walking along the street that passed Hatter’s Cafe, up the mountain, away from the village square, toward quaint B&Bs and small shops.

I’d seen this man before. He owned and operated a used bookshop. That’s where he was going.

I left the cafe and followed him.

The man was gangly with thick glasses and crooked teeth. His sandy hair was always mussed. He was like the used books he resold: Worn on the outside, a treasure on the inside.

 

 

 

 

The ginger boy carried himself like one who owned the world.

But this aging man carried himself like one who owned nothing, yet seemed to have everything. It was attractive.

I hungered to carry myself like him. I thirsted to be that carefree.

 

 

 

 

His bookshop had once been a small studio apartment. Now books were stacked from floor to ceiling. There were more books than bookcases. Books were piled everywhere, on tables and under chairs, in stacks and in piles.

There was little order. Hemingway occupied a few shelves. Stephen King had some stacks. Agatha Christie lay in piles beside Isaac Asimov and Charles Dickens and R. L. Stine.

The whole place was perfumed with the wonderful scent of book pages over a decade old.

I love that smell.

 

 

 

 

The man’s name was Joe – just Joe – what a great name – simple, honest.

Joe wasn’t a bookseller. His used book business was a front. He ran it because he liked meeting people. Tourists came from all over Southern California to visit Idyllville. Joe liked meeting them, talking with them, asking about their lives.

Joe’s livelihood surprised me. He was the village garbage man. Every day he hauled away villagers’ garbage.

He came home every evening to a quiet wife and two daughters. Sometimes his eldest daughter helped him in the bookstore. Sometimes his youngest daughter helped him haul away garbage. They were a happy family because their household lacked ambition to change the world, yet they strove to change themselves for the better, “which is perhaps the least obvious way to make the world a better place,” Joe used to say.

He and his family knew the world was always changing all by itself. They just weren’t threatened by it.

I’d never seen a family so balanced and happy and fearless.

 

 

 

 

Their home wasn’t far from Joe’s bookshop. He liked to walk wherever he went.

I followed him to his house. I watched him go to his home. His house was four walls and a roof. His home was four people and a life.

It was evening.

Dinner was ready.

Joe’s family held hands around the dinner table. The meal was small and simple. I watched them through the window. I could hear them giving thanks to God for the gift of food.

The scent of food suffused the village. Other families were readying supper now.

I looked around at Joe’s neighborhood. It wasn’t like the gated community where my mom and dad lived. Joe’s neighborhood was on a nearly paved road. Each surrounding house was unique. No two looked alike. It was a place I’d like to live for the rest of my life, a place of simplicity, a place of peace.

But right then, once again, I saw the Dark Man and the Pale Girl.

Lowen and Nell.

 

 

 

 

Lowen was standing in the woods at the edge of the neighborhood. He still wore the same dark clothes and dark expression.

To his left stood Nell, the girl my age, still seeming so sickly and drowned in misery.

To Lowen’s right was an open doorway. It was made of stone more ancient than Stonehenge.

Darkness and fog were spilling from the doorway, spreading throughout the woods, bleeding into the neighborhood.

At the top of the doorway were letters that I could not read. They were from a dead language long forgotten by the human mind.

Lowen reached up and waved his hand over the letters. They changed. Now I could read them easily. They spelled two words:

 

HAPPY NOW

 

 

 

 

Lowen’s expression changed.

He stopped leering at me. He started to glare at someone over my shoulder.

I turned around to see what he saw.

Ms. Crystobal was standing at the far end of the road.

Beside her stood a country door, wooden, painted red and white. Over the iron knocker was a sign that read:

 

KNOCK TO FIND

 

 

 

 

I could hear everything in the forest, moles burrowing, owls soaring, wolves hunting, and more.

But I could not hear Ms. Crystobal. Or Lowen or Nell for that matter. It was as if they were not there.

Ms. Crystobal stood with her arms folded, a defiant stance. She wasn’t looking at me, but over my shoulder, back at Lowen and Nell.

I turned back around to Lowen.

But he was gone. Nell and the ancient stone doorway had gone with him.

I whirled to face Ms. Crystobal.

But she and her door had disappeared too.

The woodlands seemed unbothered. And right at that moment, I had a small wish to be like that old forest.

 

 

 

 

Joe and his family said together: “Amen!”

I turned to watch them. They were sitting down at the table. They were rolling up their sleeves. They were ready to eat.

I didn’t know what to think of the sight of Lowen and Ms. Crystobal. There was no explanation for it. I didn’t know who Lowen was or what he wanted. I couldn’t understand why Ms. Crystobal had followed me. Was she protecting me?

The sight of their doors was even more confusing. Could that be what she meant about doors and choices?

Theo’s Blood Memories gave me the confidence to confront Ms. Crystobal about this matter later, when I returned to the mansion.

Without his Blood Memories I would have only imagined confronting other people. I would have only been a tissue paper girl with a wild imagination.

 

 

 

 

I stayed outside Joe’s house all night. I watched him spend time with his family. They played a board game for an hour. For an hour each took turns reading from a book, Pride and Prejudice. Joe’s wife loved it. So did Joe. So did their daughters.

They were not a family of wealth. They weren’t fighting or bickering.

I never knew a wife could be so happy with her husband – or a husband with his wife – or a mother and father with their children – or children with their parents.

I’d never seen a family so large and so united and so satisfied. I’d never seen a family so well organized about being together. It was as if they wanted to be with one another. It was as if they loved each other.

It didn’t seem real.

 

 

 

 

I grew hungrier as the stars spun around in the nighttime sky. The night grew colder and I grew colder with it.

I became resolved: I would drink blood.

I assumed that my appetite was craving it. I hadn’t yet learned that my assumptions always end in disappointment.

Soon it was bedtime for Joe and his family.

Soon after that it was suppertime for me.

 

 

 

 

Joe’s family didn’t have an alarm in their house. Few families did in Idyllville. Villagers trusted one another. Real crime was in good fiction.

I stole into the house, as silent as a mote of dust.

Swiftly I crept into Joe’s bedroom. I stood as still as a statue at the foot of his bed. I watched him and his wife sleep.

His wife’s name was Mary, a simple woman, thin and freckly with cinnamon hair.

She and Joe faced one another, sleeping open mouthed.

Before then I’d wanted Joe’s blood and memories. But at that moment his wife seemed more appealing.

I knelt beside her.

My Probiscus extended from the tip of my tongue, sending waves of pleasure down my throat and into my stomach.

Mary never felt my stinger on her neck. I didn’t have to go too deep with her.

My delicious venom was in her faster than I’d realized. I must have been very hungry.

Her blood rushed into my mouth. It was so good. I grew lightheaded.

We both began panting, although that didn’t last long. I only took a pint of her blood – like Wyn wanted.

Joe never woke.

Mary would thank me in the morning. So would Joe.

 

 

 

 

I stumbled from their house, drunk on Blood Memories.

Mary astounded me.

Of course she remembered important events – her wedding – her children’s first words – their first steps – birthdays. And her strongest memories were of the small things that surprised her – the dirty faces of her children after a day outside – their scrapes and scabs – their hilariously astute observations about life and love and caterpillars.

Mary’s memories of Joe were not of their wedding day, or of him by her side as she gave birth. Her strongest memories were of the little things he did – taking out the trash on Tuesdays – painting the bedroom – changing for her the way he squeezed their tube of toothpaste – gathering roadside flowers for no reason, just to give as a gift.

To many people, Mary seemed so ordinary. She had graduated from high school, but she never went to college. She married her high school sweetheart. They tried for years to have children. They were tempted to believe God was punishing them. But they remained steadfast in the faith that they would one day have a brood of their own. Their first daughter came a year before the second.

“God gives in superabundance,” Mary said.

 

 

 

 

Mary enjoyed cleaning her house and preparing meals for her family. But she did not enjoy that work half as much as she enjoyed teaching her children the goodness of cooperation under one roof.

Joe helped her.

Together they did not trick their children into doing chores. They did not bribe their children into doing schoolwork. They knew no tricks. They had no money to offer.

They afforded their children the treasure trove of routine.

The minds of their children formed from the inside out into little fortified castles, guarded on all sides, with a moat of selflessness, a bridge of fearlessness, and strong ramparts of sincerely mutual devotion.

 

 

 

 

Now within me were two sets of Blood Memories – Mary’s and Theo’s. My mind was trying to make sense of it all. Balancing the thoughts of other people was difficult. Their personalities were overwhelming.

I stumbled back to the mansion like a drunkard.

My arms were swinging like dinner bells.

 

 

 

 

For the rest of the week, Theo wrote in his journal. Wyn spent more time in his laboratory beneath the mansion. We all did our own thing.

I confronted Ms. Crystobal about the other night, why I’d seen her, why she’d been following me, and if she knew the Dark Man and the Pale Girl.

Ms. Crystobal simply said to me: “I’ll answer your questions if you can answer mine.”

I agreed.

“You enjoy reading those two-dimensional images in the paper.”

She meant comic strips. Yes, I love Calvin and Hobbes and The Far Side, and Bloom County, too.

“If those two-dimensional characters became two-dimensional beings, and if they asked you to explain how you could be there, yet not with them in their two-dimensional comic strips, what would be your response?”

Honestly, I was still puzzling over those Doors of Freewill she’d talked about. I had no idea what to tell her now.

So Ms. Crystobal walked away, leaving my question unanswered.

Yet she also left me with an urge to reread Abbott’s Flatland. My photographic memory did so in under a minute. Two-dimensional love is a good match for a tissue paper heart.

 

 

 

 

During that week I walked around Idyllville. No, I didn’t merely walk. I strolled. The inner peace of Mary’s Blood Memories kept me from moving too fast through life.

Often I found myself stopping outside Joe’s bookstore. I would watch him meet tourists. He gave outrageous discounts. Paperbacks for $1. Five books for $3. He didn’t care about money. He only cared about people.

Mary knew this. I would dive into her Blood Memories. Deep into her thoughts and hopes and dreams. What she truly wanted in life was safety for her loved ones.

I’d never wanted that for anyone. The feeling was an otherworldly injection of selflessness.

 

 

 

 

Five days came and went.

Theo’s Blood Memories faded away. So did Wyn’s. They brooded and mourned. It was time to feed again. It was the hour for drinking blood.

Theo found a gymnast, a pretty girl visiting from Los Angeles. And my heart hurt to think of Theo biting her. I didn’t go with him, I couldn’t watch. The gymnast’s Blood Memories gave Theo new degrees of gracefulness. He tumbled all over the mansion. He taught me fresh meanings for words like spindles and moores and flairs.

Wyn bought him a pommel horse. “For scientific research.” Theo swung his legs around it for hours. It was impressive to watch. He was so beautiful.

 

 

 

 

Wyn left for Ontario Airport. His private jet was there. He was going to search for the Blood Memories of a theoretical physicist.

He was working on a big project. He told us it was a secret. I had no idea he was continuing his science experiment on the Red Man. Even by then I was still under the distinct impression that I’d dreamed up the violet-colored blood.

Theo asked Wyn which theoretical physicist he’d drink from.

Wyn grinned back mischievously as he walked out the front door.

“Stephen Hawking,” he said.

 

 

 

 

I returned to Joe and Mary.

I did it once a week for the next three weeks.

I drank from each family member, Joe and their two daughters, Leah and Eve. Leah had perfect grades. Eve was a natural at sports. Both loved reading. Both loved their mom and dad. Mary and Joe loved them too. The whole family loved each other.

Living in Joe’s Blood Memories redefined fearlessness. Joe wrestled with fears of failing to be a good father and husband, and with fears of failing to pay bills. But he didn’t let his fears control him. He mastered his fears by living one day at a time, trusting that a higher power loved all people and had a great plan for the whole world.

His self-confidence staggered me.

 

 

 

 

Living in Leah’s Blood Memories was like becoming a person of organization and duty. She did not have a photographic memory like me. She’d had to condition her memory. She had to systematize the way she learned.

That kind of thinking was entirely new to me. Her keen sense of personal responsibility inspired me.

 

 

 

 

Living in the Blood Memories of the youngest, Eve, was becoming the person I never thought I’d be. Eve felt safe. She had nothing to worry about. Her dad loved her. Her mom nurtured her. Her sister taught her important lessons about growing up. Eve was walled in by the love of her family.

I’d never had that. I’d never even guessed that was possible.

 

 

 

 

I went back for more.

I only needed a pint a week. It’s true. But I started having two pints a week – Joe and Leah, one week – Mary and Eve, the next.

This lasted a month. I kept telling myself: “Two pints, you don’t need any more. Just two.”

But once I’d had the blood from each member of the family, I wanted more. I thought I needed more.

Wants and needs get so confusing when I feel desperate and lonely.

 

 

 

 

With every new pint, their blood gave me new Blood Memories.

Twice a week became a few times a week.

And a few times became once a day.

I was telling myself: “It’s only a pint. Don’t worry, you’re not overdoing it.”

I was making a perfect pig of myself for blood. I was becoming a drunk for Blood Memories.

 

 

 

 

I wasn’t thinking about the family. I was rationalizing drinking more of their blood than I needed. I was rationing them like the food I wanted. I told myself: Their bodies can replace a pint of blood in a few days.

I never drank less than a pint. Although sometimes I did drink a little more than that…

Okay, maybe a lot more.

 

 

 

 

Villagers noticed that the family was looking tired and pale. Joe was out of breath a lot. Mary and their daughters were losing patience with one another more often. The family was fighting.

My selfishness was undoing the beauty I adored in them.

 

 

 

 

The power of my venom healed their flesh so that the mark of my pierce never remained. And I should have marveled that I had within myself the power to heal others.

But I was too busy hurting the ones I loved. I was treating them like dolls with dead eyes.

I never stopped to think whether the wounds I left were more than skin-deep. No one ever taught me to value other people’s minds. I had not yet learned the cost of living with a mind not only malformed, but also malfunctioning.

 

 

 

 

Some mornings I’d wake up feeling groggy. Too many blood Memories would be churning in my head.

But I always awoke feeling down-right guilty.

Every morning I’d promise myself: No more blood tonight.

Every night I’d break my promise. I would drink blood to escape the guilt I felt.

The cycle was terrible.

I’d sneak out from the mansion in the middle of the night. I’d drink the family’s blood. I’d escape into their memories. I’d feel gorged and utterly gluttonous.

I couldn’t stop. I tried. Not drinking their blood wasn’t physically painful. It was emotionally horrific – and that made it physically painful.

I had blinded myself to the truth: I yearned to stop drinking blood, yet at the same time I was too afraid to do so.

My life had become unmanageable.

 

 

 

 

In no time I fell back into my old reclusive ways, like the way I was in high school. I started going off alone.

Theo noticed. Wyn did too. “It’s a phase,” they assured one another.

It was the first time Wyn didn’t treat me like a science project.

Everyone left me to myself. I thought I was glad about this.

Truthfully, it made me feel worse.

 

 

 

 

Sometimes it’s good when bad things happen to us – bad from our point of view, good from the perspective of others, namely those whom our bad habits are hurting.

Falling from the cliff was hitting a rocky bottom that broke my body. But hitting the rock bottom of my bad behavior was the breaking of my spirit.

My bad behavior led me from the cliff of common decency. And hitting rock bottom was a blessing for Joe and his family, and a blessing for me too.

It would take a while for me to accept that.

 

 

 

 

Here’s how my fall happened:

One night I snuck from the mansion to pounce upon my beloved family. Joe, Mary, Leah, Eve. I lived with the selfish attitude that they were my possessions, my dolls, their blood, their memories, all mine.

But before I got to their house I saw Nell, the Pale Girl I’d seen with the Dark Man, Lowen.

I noticed her because she was watching me. No one saw me unless I let them see me. But she saw me.

Lowen was nowhere in sight. And I could not smell him or hear him either.

Nell recognized me, perhaps she also remembered me from the fifth grade. But she appeared to know that I was a monster. She had no fear of me at all.

She smiled at me. She waved at me to follow her. She turned from me. She went skipping away.

I followed her.

She didn’t have Blood Vivicanti speed or strength. But she was elusive. She could hide herself from me.

If I lost her, she would appear from behind a house or tree, far ahead, waving for me to follow her farther.

She led me through Idyllville. She led me through the forest, around tree and rock.

She led me to the cliff where it all began, the place where Wyn had saved me from the two men – Lowen’s Sleeper Devils. It was the place where I’d fallen and broken, the place where Wyn had pierced me, where he’d saved me, where I started to become the monster that I became.

 

 

 

 

Nell was on the edge of the cliff, balancing, walking back and forth on it like a tightrope.

She turned and faced me, her toes on the edge, her heels poised over the fall.

Her voice was high and soft and gentle. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

No one had ever been waiting for me.

She tilted her head to one side. She pulled her collar away from her neck, exposing the sweet spot on her throat.

“Pierce me,” she said. “Drink from me, Blood Vivicanti.”

 

 

 

 

I was amazed. How could she know me?

“You’re a monster,” she said.

I was under the assumption that only Theo, Wyn, and Ms. Crystobal knew about the Blood Vivicanti.

Nell smiled at me, trying to be coquettish, but she seemed too pitiable. “A ghost told me about you.”

“You speak with ghosts?” I asked.

“Only one ghost.”

“Who would want a monster like me to drink their blood?”

“I don’t want you to.”

“Then why are you offering yourself to me?”

“I need to.”

“Do you want my venom to make you feel better?”

“I need to feel something.”

I understood how she felt. “You poor thing.”

She nodded sadly. “I am a thing.”

 

 

 

 

Nell put her face in her hands. She began weeping. “I’m not your friend,” she said.

“That hurt,” I said.

“Feeling hurt is feeling something.”

“I’d like to be your friend,” I said.

Nell looked at me through the divide of her fingers. A horrible sound came from her throat. I couldn’t tell if it was laughing or wheezing.

“You covet me,” she said.

“I covet much.”

“You shouldn’t pity what you covet. You should have it.”

Nell took her hands from her face.

“Have me,” she said. “If I give you my self, then I’m a gift to you.”

I was stunned. I didn’t know how to respond.

She pointed to her neck – the sweet spot.

“Pierce me,” she said again. “Drink me.”

 

 

 

 

Much was going on inside me. I was thinking of Joe and his family. I was thinking of Theo and Wyn.

Ages zero to seventeen had been a life of making the best decisions for a girl trying to survive the thoughtlessness of others. But now that I had the power to move mountains, all my decisions had seemed so reckless while I struggled to survive crossing the threshold from girlhood to womanhood.

The urge to pierce Nell was as small as a grain of sand compared to all my other thoughts and feelings. Yet this urge was the lust of my body. I didn’t lust for blood, only for escape. It was the animal of my self-control that I fed until it consumed me. And I fed my self-control until my self lost control. My lust overpowered my reason.

 

 

 

 

I prowled closer to Nell.

She waited for me, showing only one emotion, not fear, not worry, just the phlegmatic acceptance of a courtesan who had a job to do.

 

 

 

 

I leaned close to her neck.

Her skin smelled like ice.

I opened my mouth. My Probiscus extended from the tip of my tongue. Wave upon wave of pleasure rolled down my throat and into my stomach.

The tip of my tongue touched her neck. Then my bee stinger pierced her skin. The flesh opened. The muscles widened. In slipped my tongue. Out flowed her blood. I drove down deep into her neck.

Nell’s blood tasted ice-cold.

Her Blood Memories were a black hole.

She had no heartbeat. She had only one thought… Pain! That’s all she felt – pure pain – the torment of the damned. So that’s all she fed me.

Into my mouth poured the brink of brokenness and the breadth of woundedness, the edge of rejection and the cut of replacement.

Nell was a creature bred to be forgotten, alone, and lonely. She was the furthest form of the thing I could have become.

And now she was inside me, her blood, her Blood Memories. Who she was was flowing through my veins. How she was was feeding my sinews and my spirit. I could not vomit up all the agony that I’d already swallowed down.

 

 

 

 

I released Nell. I fell to the ground.

I couldn’t breathe. I grabbed my throat.

The Pacific Ocean with her powerful waves had not been able to drown me. But the gentle current of Nell’s blood smothered my every attempt at breath.

The stream of her consciousness was a vast expanse of emptiness and sorrow.

 

 

 

 

Yet one image lived in Nell’s blood like a cancer. The image was of the man I’d seen with her – the Dark Man.

Lowen.

Lowen was laughing at me in her Blood Memories. His cruel laughter filled the void of Nell’s existence.

He hated her. He hated me.

Now his laughter was filling my last thoughts as I suffered the suffocation that lurks within the woeful mind of an abused girl.