By and large I was satisfied with my new rooming arrangement; Roommate and I got along well, had similar tastes in music, and didn’t generally step on each other’s toes too much. There was her tendency to maintain the room at subarctic temperatures throughout most of the day, but I put it down to personal comfort; I did not at first take seriously her comment that cold temperatures were best to “keep the blood from congealing.” The first few weeks kept us busy with the usual inconveniences—class, homework, police inquests and minor lawsuits—and so it was not until the first weekend in September that I began to realize what I had gotten myself into.

I awoke quite early Friday morning, much earlier than I would have liked, to a sort of deep, crooning chant echoing through our cold, hollow Reynolds room. I believe I was able to make sense of some of the words used, but unfortunately my mind was so muddled by sleep at the time that I am now unable to remember them. By the time I was fully conscious, the chanting had stopped, and had been replaced by pacing footsteps and the occasional mutter of “fools,” or “soon they will respect my dark power.” I looked up, blinking in the darkness (so early was it that the sun had not yet risen) and saw a figure in black robes moving briskly about the room, silhouetted by the eerie glow of the multicolored electric lights. (Roommate had insisted on festooning them around the room her first day here; she said it added character and made the bloodstains look black instead of that ugly brown color.)

“Roommate? What’s going on?”

She paused, and I could sense her staring at me from the depths of her voluminous black hood. “Mini-me?”

“What? Hey—Roommate, I told you to stop calling me ‘Mini-me’! It’s embarrassing.”

She seemed not to have heard me at all. “Good; you are awake. Come, acolyte, out of bed with you; it is time to prepare.”

“Prepare for what?”

She brushed the question aside with a shake of her head. “Not now, not now. All will be explained. Now, hurry—help me prepare the circle.”

With a resigned sigh I dragged myself out of bed, knowing that there was no arguing with her when she got into one of her “get up and help me prepare the circle” moods. I had begun to dread the sound of chanting in the morning; it always meant I was in for three or four long hours of arcane spellwork before my 10am music theory class. At least, I thought groggily, she hasn’t asked me to put on the vestal virgin costume.

“And acolyte—don’t forget to put on your vestal virgin costume.”

Damn.

Throughout the entire weekend I did almost nothing but light incense, cast circles, and cut the throats of sacrificial rabbits. (Roommate had been most pleased to discover, during one of our conversations that summer, that animal sacrifice had long been a hobby of mine and that she therefore would not have to train me much in that particular discipline.) I had only a few short breaks to eat and sleep, and barely enough time to use the bathroom. Still, though I nagged and wheedled as much as I thought was prudent, the only thing Roommate would say to me in explanation was that she would tell me what we were doing “when I was ready.” I took this as a bad sign, but as the door had been bound shut by forces far stronger than I, I saw no obvious way to escape.

Finally, when the last collection of improbable ingredients had been put in the hotpot to simmer, I was able to ask the question that had been bothering me since the beginning of our fearsome endeavor.

“Why do I always have to be the vestal virgin?”

“You are my acolyte,” said Roommate calmly. “You should wear garments befitting your youth and innocence.” I raised an eyebrow. “Well, relative innocence, anyway. What would you suggest—that I be the vestal virgin?”

“I just don’t think it’s fair,” I grumbled.

Roommate rolled her eyes, and muttered something under her breath. I frowned.“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“No, seriously, what did you say?”

Reluctantly, she repeated the words she had been mumbling.

I gaped at her. “That… wasn’t English.”

“No… Check and see if the pot is overflowing.”

“It’s not. What language was that?”

Apparently realizing that I was in one of my rare persistent moods, Roommate sighed. “Pennsylvania Dutch.”

Whatever answer I had expected, this was certainly not it. “What?”

“Pennsylvania Dutch. It’s a form of German spoken mostly in Amish communities.”

“What? But… you’re not Amish… are you?

“I used to be.”

This was news to me. “But… I thought you were from Wendell.”

“I am. There’s a small Amish community there, hidden in the trees; not many people know about it.”

Obviously. I’d come from the same part of the state as she had, and had certainly never heard that such a settlement existed. “Well, how’d you get here, then?”

The bored expression on Roommate’s face suggested that this was not a new conversation for her. “Amish children are offered a year-long sabbatical to the outside world when they reach adulthood, to give them a chance to see the world and decide if they want to remain in the community. Most of them return home after a year. I didn’t.”

“Wow,” I said, genuinely surprised. Roommate had mentioned something about a rather religious past, but I’d figured she meant she was Baptist or something. “Is that why you wear all black? I mean, I know Amish women don’t have to wear black, but…”

“No… no, the black is for… another reason,” she said with a faraway look in her eyes. She seemed to recall herself then, and added, “One that shall not be discussed.”

I’d lived with Roommate long enough at this point to know when not to dwell on a subject. “Right, of course not. Um… so why’d you decide not to be Amish anymore? If you don’t mind my asking, that is.”

“Oh, new people, new places, the usual thing… And it had been a bit awkward there, really, since the day I went back home after the burial.”

“Whose burial?”

“Mine.”

Fortunately, the hotpot chose that moment to boil over, and the discussion ended there. I prefer not to dwell on what that cryptic statement might have suggested; I have enough trouble falling asleep at night as it is.

The long weekend did at last reach its conclusion, and I looked forward eagerly to finally knowing what all our work was to accomplish. Time seemed to drag on, as for most of a week Roommate made no mention of the work we had done, and I knew better than to pursue the matter too closely when she was not ready to explain. The next Friday I returned from my one o’clock class to find the door locked from within. My knocks and halloos received no reply, and even a succession of RA’s with credit cards was unable to jimmy the lock. Finally, just as I began to consider the possibility of climbing through the window, the door opened.

“Mini-me.” Roommate’s face was flushed, and she looked oddly sated, in the same way that she had after we’d dealt with The Successor just before school started. “Won’t you come in?”

I did so, dropping my book-bag to the floor as I sniffed the air. I could detect no obvious traces of cooking, but there was something else, something I recognized. It was very faint, nothing like as strong as it had been during the business with James, and with a certain suggestion of… youth.

“Roommate, did you drain the life-essence out of another freshman?”

Roommate looked somewhat guilty. “And what if I did?”

“Well, is there any left?”

She furtively kicked something under her bed; it looked like the end of a dessicated limb. “No, I am afraid I have consumed all. Would you like one? I saw some fresh ones lurking just outside…”

“No, that’s all right,” I said, muffling a sigh. “I’ll just have a bagel instead.”

“Cheer up, my young acolyte,” said Roommate, sensing my disappointment. “I have a task for you, and I think you will enjoy it. Today, at the stroke of four, there will be a… meeting, of sorts, in the English faculty lounge, a meeting of such blasphemous fools as think they have no need for my inspired leadership.”

“Are these Guilde members you’re talking about?” I asked, curious. It had been assumed from the start of our association that Roommate, the Madonna Bacchanale of the Creative Writers’ Guilde, would sponsor me into the organization as a part of my initiation into the darker arts. I had been looking forward to the event for some time now, confident that whatever horrors my induction featured would be of no real significance when compared to living with Roommate.

Brittany paused before answering my question. “So they style themselves,” she sneered at last. “In truth they are usurpers, unbelievers, and unworthy of the Guilde’s protection. So I have prepared a little demonstration for them, to illustrate the true extent of my power.”

“And I get to help?” I said, delighted. “That’s so cool! Will I get to cut off their heads with the rabbit-killing knife? Summon a lesser demon to pluck their souls from their bodies as they scream in pain and terror?”

“Even better,” said Roommate with a magnanimous smile. “You get to work the fog machine.”