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Roxanna came to herself with no memory. She opened her eyes. Darkness pressed on her from every direction. She bolted upright and shrieked in terror, scuttling on her behind into the corner she instinctively knew was behind her, covering her head with her arms. After a few moments, when the horrible nameless thing she feared failed to occur, she looked up from her huddled position, and peered out into the blackness.
There were shapes out there she recognized, now, instead of the all encompassing dark she had first perceived. Her excellent night vision finally started to compensate for the absence of any light, and slowly, she stopped shaking. After blinking and staring for a minute, she climbed to her feet, swaying a little. She realized she was in the Peterson's barn. She had spent quite a few days every summer over here with the Peterson kids, swinging from the hayloft on an old rope and falling into a warm and scratchy pile of hay. Not that the Peterson's had any animals now. They had just had riding horses, and that had stopped when the girls had gone to college. Both Genie and Erica were older than Xanna herself, and had gone off to school earlier. The barn still smelled very faintly of horse, and there was still a bale or two of musty hay on the floor. In fact, as straws started to make their way down her back, she realized that she had been lying propped on it. And she began shaking again.
How did I get here? What happened? The last I remember is walking down to the lake, and going over to the other side and . . . and . . . . She drew a complete blank as to what had happened next, that brought her to this place. But why would I come here anyway? Unless someone brought me. But that is stupid. So. I was stupid and came here, when it would be much closer just to walk back home. Which is what I will do right now. God, I'm so hungry! I don't remember ever being this hungry. She straightened her jacket and pushed back her hair. As her hand brushed the collar of her shirt, she felt something dried and crusty. She pulled the collar away from her face to see if she could recognize it, but even with her restored night vision, the barn was still too dark for her to really see clearly. She went outside, where the moon was high in the sky, shining brightly. It was almost as bright as day to Xanna's eyes. She once again pulled out her collar to peer at it.
Abruptly, she started to shake again. Her knees turned to jelly beneath her, and she sat down with force on the ground. Her mouth formed the words, "Oh, my God," but no sound came from her lips. Memory flooded back to her, carrying her along on its tidal wave of terror.
She had walked over to the other side of the lake, she remembered. She had howled at the moon, like she so often had before, but quietly. Then she had been grabbed viciously from behind and . . . bitten? Like a . . . vampire . . . would. She could recall the searing pain, the agony that had coursed like fire through her veins. And that voice, that voice in her head . . . could it have been Mike? Would he have done that to me? She wondered. Would he have hurt me like that?
No, no, it couldn't have been. She scoffed at the very idea. There's no way. There's no such thing. I'm just having delusions from being so hungry, that's all. She started to get to her feet again, but sat back down when she realized what she was hungry for. She felt her insides turn cold, and she shivered.
Blood. It painted her mind like a crimson tide. It was a haze she looked through at every object. She could practically smell it in the house next to the barn, pulsing through the veins of its keepers, sleeping in the quiet. She turned away and retched violently into the dirt, but nothing came up. She remained in that position for what seemed like a long time, huddled and shaking, feeling tears run down her face. She licked them off her upper lip, then reached up to wipe the wetness away. Her hand came back faintly streaked with blood. She was crying tears of blood.
Oh, my God, oh, my God, what is happening to me? Then it hit her with the force of a falling brick. Somehow, though she had always believed they were just a horror story by some imaginative . . . or crazy . . . Irish author, vampires were real. And she had become one.
She climbed unsteadily to her feet again, and wandered into the fringe of trees that separated the lake from the Peterson's barn. At least I'm not so lost that I can't find my way home . . . . She stopped in sudden realization, just inside the tree line. My mother. How am I going to explain this to my mother? What is she going to say? What am I going to say? Oh, Ma, by the way, if I suck your blood, it's nothing personal. It's just because I got turned into a . . . . She couldn't even think the word. She just couldn't believe it; it was just so impossible. Mom won't believe it either. Daddy might have believed me . . . maybe. She started to giggle hysterically. Oh, wouldn't that be a hoot? Rachael, our daughter's been turned into a . . . and Mom laughing on the floor. Either that, or glaring at us and saying, You know, that isn't even funny. There's no such thing as . . . vampires.
Oh, but Ma, there is. And I am one. I don't quite know how. All I know is I don't want to be!
Her laughter turned into sobs again, but she checked herself before she cried too much, not wanting to feel the slickness of her own blood on her face. How am I going to tell her? Will she even believe me? And what will I tell Mike . . . .
Anger overwhelmed her fear. He's the one who did this to me. He's the one who took me away from my life. Why should I care what he thinks? Or how to get in touch with him, and tell him . . . because he already knows! She could see the moon above the trees, could hear the gentle lapping of the lake on its sandy shores. She lifted up her blood-streaked face to the moon and howled her anguish to its silvery beams.
Rachael shivered at the eerie bay of a what sounded exactly like a wolf howl. She was still up, pacing in her bedroom, sleepless with worry. The night before, she had woken up to the faint creaking of the old house, and heard the muffled curse from Xanna's room. Once awake, she stayed awake for several minutes, and heard Xanna tiptoe out, because, no matter how quiet the girl was, she would hear it. Rachael had gotten used to living alone. Any unfamiliar noise in the night would rouse her now, and had. She woke briefly again at a sound very similar to the one she just heard; then, since it was not repeated, she was able to return to slumber.
It wasn't until she opened her eyes to the golden sunlight streaming through her window this morning that she realized she hadn't heard Xanna tiptoeing back in. And she started to worry then.
It wasn't as if Xanna hadn't, in the past, spent the night with a friend. She had, even as late as last year. But this time . . . there was an indescribable feeling that something had happened to her child, and she didn't know what.
Rachael thought- just for a bare instant- that the howling voice had sounded like Xanna both times. But, she thought, Xanna would never do that. Not after that incident about 5 years ago, just after Jonathan died. Xanna went down to the lake almost every night and yowled at the moon and the stars and the unfairness of life. The neighbors had complained. Vigorously. And Xanna had been forbidden to go to the lake for a month. Not that it had kept her from going down there, but it had kept her from too much baying at the moon. She didn't want Rachael to know she had been there, and howling would have told Rachael just where her daughter had been. And she had been in no shape to handle Xanna just then. Dealing with Jonathan's death had been more than enough.
But now, she thought, now, she's gone, too. I don't know where she is, or even if she's all right. She didn't leave a note, and she would have if she'd gone anywhere but the lake. She knows what she ought to do. Please, God. Don't let this be the start of her returning to hating me again. I've enjoyed actually having a daughter again, like I haven't since she was about six.
She looked out the window that faced the lake, then twitched the curtain back into place. Feeling something damp on her cheeks, she reached up. Her fingers came away wet with tears. She stared at them in surprise. She had been crying so quietly, she hadn't even known it herself.
Mikhail shuddered at the uncannily realistic sound. It was so close, it raised the hackles on the back of his neck. He stood upon the wooded shore of the lake, some distance from Xanna. He could see her through the trees, just as a vague outline. He had heard her earlier, when she had woken from the slumber of the undead. He had been as near her as possible since the night before. After giving her his blood, he'd run. He couldn't bear what he had done. But he returned His heart ached with her for what she had become, the dread gift he had been forced to give her. And he had cried with her, as he had cried for her after transforming her to a vampire. For the second time in almost one hundred and twenty five years, he had wept tears of blood.
I'm so sorry, a ansacht, he thought, his soul aching.But I did not want you to die . . . . He smiled scornfully at his thought. That has to be the worst excuse I've ever heard for making someone into a vampire. Although, Miriel's runs a close second. As usual, when thinking of the architect of his life beyond death, a vile taste entered his mouth, and he cursed her silently. I'd damn you to Hell, but then, you're not the only one going there when you finally die. I guess I've insured that Xanna will go there as well now. His heart twisted at the thought, an emotional pain that was almost unbearable. But what else was I to do?
He knew what he should not have done. He'd known it from the beginning. He should not have followed her home. He should have been stronger, and resisted the pull that brought him here night after night. All it had done was tempted him beyond his control. He knew it, even as he did it, that watching Xanna was not a good idea. But it felt so good! Just being near her, even if she could never see him, was enough. It had fulfilled him, and that brief week, for the first time in decades, he had B been happy.
But it was not to be. He had known that from the beginning. Yet she captivated him. She lured him out here every night from his lair in Crixton. She had gone to college there for 9 months before he noticed her, and how well they knew each other. How could that have been? He had lived there for too many years, and had grown too used to the college set; that was the only excuse he could think of.
All that time . . . wasted! he thought, despairingly. And me . . . how can I possibly love this girl, whose great-grandmother probably wasn't even a twinkle in her father's eye when I was born? I was born too early. Far too early. The woman who could have been my soulmate is a child of the twentieth century, while I was born in . . . oh, I can't even remember any longer! Too many years, in any case. How can she know me so well? How could I have done this to her? I was here too much, and that attracted the attention of the others . . . . He felt a prickling in his eyes, that told him if he didn't want to look like some blood covered horror from the depths of hell, he'd better stop this train of thought. He watched Xanna carefully through the trees.
She fell to her knees after that lone howl of agony. She wasn't crying; if she was, she was trying not to. She curled up into a ball, her head resting on her knees, breathing deeply, although she no longer needed to.
I spared you all I could of the terror, he thought to her, hoping she both could and could not hear him. I tried . . . but it was not to be. I didn't want it to come down to this, I really did not. She gave no sign that she heard his silent plea. I'm sorry, my love. But I know, I can feel what you think of me right now. If you saw me, you would hate me still more. So, I must leave you, as I was left. No matter how I want to stay, I cannot. I want you to love me, not resent me, and feel the way you do now. You must find your own way for a while. Perhaps, when you have come to terms with this bloody way of life after death . . . perhaps then, I will come to you. Believe me, I will find you, where ever you are. For now, I don't think I could handle your utter rejection of me. I'm sorry, ionuine, truly I am. Please, some day, be able to forgive me for what I did not mean to happen. He turned and glided silently away, with not a leaf turned to signify his passing to another. He glanced back not at all, for there were, after all, ruby tears running down his cheeks.
Perhaps the power of his grief did, in fact, reach Xanna. Somehow sensing a familiar presence nearby, she lifted her head and swiped at her cheeks. But there was nothing. She heard no rustling of leaves, no twigs crunching under someone's running feet. There wasn't a bird to be heard, and the night was still and quiet.
She stumbled and weaved through the trees, making her way to the lake. The rocks cut open her jeans as she crawled to the water's edge, to dunk her head. In the back of her mind, she hoped that this would end it for her, but somehow she knew it wouldn't. She stayed under water for a couple minutes, waiting for the haze of unconsciousness to cloud her mind, for her lungs to burst from the pressure. It didn't happen. Furious at her hope, and at herself, she flung her head up out of the water, her hair spraying drops that caught the moonlight and refracted it like tiny prisms before plunging back into the lake. Dully, she watched the concentric circles in the water, until they reached the rocks or faded into the distance, to the opposite shore. It was supposed to be just a faint blur, she remembered from her view of it . . . last night. But now, it was sharp and distinct, as if she could see each and every grain of sand on the beach. She was almost able to count every blade of grass waving in the slight breeze, to tally up the individual leaves upon the brush and trees. Amazed, she looked up at the sky. The stars were a blaze of light, almost painful to her night vision, brighter than she had ever seen them.
She blinked, wondering if this sudden clarity would go away. But it didn't. If anything, she became more accustomed to it. From far off, she heard the yip of a dog. Dazed, she thought, But . . . the closest dog is the Chihuahua at the place about 5 houses down from us. How can I be hearing him now? They usually keep him inside, anyway . . . . She realized that the cricket chirping seemed inordinately loud tonight, and she could even faintly hear the sound of the highway, even though that took about 15 minutes to drive to.
What is happening? she wondered again, taking a deep breath of night air, even though she didn't need to. What is going on with my senses? She could smell everything. The freshness of the rain that had washed over everything for the past week was alive in her nostrils. Exhaust from the highway wafted past, and made her cough at the intensity with which she perceived it. Turning her head, eyes closed, she caught a faint whiff of a familiar fragrance. She wrinkled her brow in the effort to identify it. It reminded her, in a vague sort of way, of bath time when she was small. She remembered gentle hands drying her off with a big, fluffy towel, and tucking her into bed. Didn't Daddy do that? No, the scent was not the smell she remembered for her father. It was . . . Mom? Yes, it was the perfume or cologne she usually wore. It was her father's favorite, so she put it on whenever he was about to come home from work, just so he could hug Mom, and whisper to her that she smelled so good . . . . And since bath time was usually just after supper, right after Daddy got home, I associate it with having a bath. Wow. I didn't even know she still had any. I didn't smell it much after Daddy died.
Oh, Daddy! What am I going to do? She stared out over the lake for a moment, letting utter despair wash over her.
After a minute or two, she found her mind was made up. She couldn't stay here, she just couldn't. Her mother wouldn't believe her, probably couldn't believe her. And she would have to find a private place- with no light. A voice in the back of her head told her that there was no place at home. It had to be around things, people, fresh blood . . . . She winced away from the voice, but it persisted. Her mom would not be her prey.
She crept back up to the house, up the creaky stairs to her room. They didn't squeak under her feet, as they had when she snuck out the night before. Everything was bright to her eyes, as if daylight shone in the room. She could see every detail of the room; her books on the floor, the clothes spilling out of the closet because she hadn't put them away yet, her unmade bed, almost as if it were bathed in sunshine. But she knew it was night, because the moon, just a sliver less than full, was outside her window. She could hear her mother's deep, even breathing, saying as plain as words that Rachael was asleep. The blood . . . hear it . . . smell it . . . running through her veins . . . . A Hunger welled up inside her, almost too strong to be denied. She closed her eyes, and shook her head in denial, her teeth gritted.
Quickly, before it got any stronger, Xanna stuffed clean clothes into her biggest duffel bag. She took enough for a week, hoping to be able to return later for the rest. Grabbing a pad and pencil from her stack of notebooks, she scribbled a note to her mother. She left it on the kitchen table, and didn't cry as she almost ran out the door. She didn't want to feel her face drenched in her blood again.
Outside, she stopped. Where to go? Go to Crixton, the voice said. You will be safer around more people. This time she listened to it. But Crixton was in Connecticut, and that was just too far to walk. Her mother only had one car. There was only the old motorcycle her father had, that was now hers. Tempting fate, she crept back up the stairs, and into her room. She froze when she heard her mother move in her sleep. She retrieved the helmet from her closet. In her head, she could hear him telling her about riding it, before he and her mother were married. It was as clear as if it were yesterday . . . . Yes, pumpkin, I would ride that motorcycle, and sometimes, be really wild . . . I think that was what first attracted your mother to me . . . And he laughed in the wonderful way he had. Resolutely, she marched herself into the shed next to the house, and, as quietly as possible, wheeled it outside. She hadn't ridden it since she started college, so it might need a little gas. She poured some from the small can they kept in the shed into the tank. She pushed it away from the shed, picked her bag back up and continued pushing it until she reached the road, some distance down the driveway. She spun her prayer wheel, and attempted to start it. The motor caught for a second, then sobbed and quit. Swearing under her breath, she tried again. "C'mon, you piece of . . . ." This time, the engine roared to life, and stayed that way. Xanna started off down the road, hoping that the knocking of the engine, and the noise of the failing exhaust system wouldn't attract too much attention. She'd had neither the time nor the money since it had become hers to have either fixed.
Damn you, Mike, she thought, anger burning in her heart. Damn you for doing this to me . . . . Her thoughts repeated themselves over and over during the long journey to Crixton.
Crixton seemed like a big city to her, the little "country mouse," although it didn't have quite half a million people. It was a post industrial town, built up along the river originally. It had spread since its founding. There were lots of factories that had been pulled down in the last few years, or converted into office buildings, or simply abandoned. It wasn't dying, but it wasn't growing by leaps and bounds, either. It was getting to be a stop in the road between Western Massachusetts and Hartford more than anything else. A business town, rather than an industry town; that was what it was becoming. It was also a college town, with fine education. Crixton College was one of the top ranked colleges in the Northeast. Its Biology and Life Sciences Department was exceptional; that was why she had applied there in the first place. In addition to this shining star, there were a couple other schools, not nearly so high in academic standing, but respectable schools nonetheless. The local community college was in the center of town.
Was it a place where a vampire could survive? Could she live here, and not be discovered and destroyed? Well, she thought bitterly. Mike had. Could I? Probably. Crixton would be able to support maybe two vampires . . . even if they each killed a someone every few nights through lack of blood.
Wait. What law says I have to feed on the same person and kill them? I could just drink a little bit from one person, and the next night, a little from another . . . . She realized all of a sudden the way she was thinking, and wanted to scream. Oh, God! I don't want to do this!
Unbidden, as if from an outside source, the thought popped into her head, You can drink from animals to survive . . . . It startled her so much she almost tipped the cycle over. What the hell . . . ?
Then she understood the reprieve she had just been given. It may be cruelty to animals, and she knew it would hurt her to do it to a dog or cat . . . but she believed the voice. Maybe she could find rats or something like them, something that had no real appeal to her humanity.
She saw she was getting close to the outskirts of Crixton, and speeded up slightly. She was so close. Maybe she could find Mike before the sun brightened the sky. No, she thought. Crixton was just to big for that.
She reached the city with almost no time to spare before sunrise. Anxiety beat a warning drum in her head that she could not ignore. She searched frantically for an uninhabited cellar, someplace where she could count on not being roasted in the sunlight. For one solitary second, she considered what would happen to her if she just sat there and let the sun caress her face. But the voice overrode her contemplation, and forced her to discover a hiding place. Finally, after much consideration, she decided to chance a hiding place at her college, that being the only place in the city with which she was reasonably familiar. For a couple days, she thought, I can stay here and be reasonably sure no one will find me. Then I will have to find another, safer haven. She found one of the dorm doors open, but didn't go in, because it might mean there were people there early for the summer term. She tried the doors to the auditorium, panic throbbing to the beat of her heart. They were locked. She dug into her wallet, which thankfully she had remembered to bring with her, and quickly slid one of her credit cards between the doors. Luck was on her side now, as if trying to make up for working against her the night before; they unlocked. She pushed one open, and dragged her bag inside. The ancient motorcycle that had brought her here she hid behind the building, having no other possible place for it. Just as the sun peeped above the horizon, she raced back inside, and into a shadow. The way to the basement was quick and easy, and the same credit card method unlocked one of the rooms the ROTC used. She locked it behind her, and sank to the floor in relief. Within moments, she was held fast in the slumber of the undead.
The note lay on the table. Rachael stared at it in disbelief and horror. She hadn't even seen it until she had made and poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down. Now that she read it, she wished she hadn't. She picked it up again, just to be sure she understood it the first time.Mom- Something terrible has happened, and I can't stay here any longer. I don't want to leave, truly I don't. When I can, I will come back again, but don't expect me for a while. Don't worry- I haven't been kidnapped or anything like that. I will call when I can, to let you know how I am. And . . . someday, maybe, I can tell you what happened. I'm really sorry, Ma.
-Xanna
What could be said to that? Was there any word, anything, that could make an adequate reply? No. Nothing.
Rachael said nothing. She sat down her coffee cup, covered her face and cried.
After a few minutes, when she could think again, she reached for the telephone. Her fingers bounced over the buttons, and then she waited, twisting the cord frantically in her fingers. Within a couple rings, the other end was picked up.
"Hello, North Glasgow Police Department. How can I help you?"
Rachael hesitated for a moment. "I . . . I want to report that my daughter is missing . . . ."
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