I’ve gone crazy. It’s the only explanation. This is no average storefront shrink. My parents have sent me to the Club Med of insane asylums. “I’m . . . Who are you?”
“My name is Archibald Mosby Radford, originally of the Virginia Radfords by way of eastern Mississippi, western Oklahoma, and Toronto. According to custom, you’re welcome to call me ‘master’ or ‘majesty’ or ‘father.’ I’d prefer ‘daddy,’ to tell the truth, but I’m sad to say it’s falling out of favor. There’s no need to fuss. You remember me, sugar. I’m the one who saved you that night in the cemetery.”
I remember the cemetery. I remember the light.
“You’ve got what folks these days are calling ‘post-traumatic stress,’” he adds. “It’s like a hangover from what you were before.”
Before I can process that, a matronly woman in an apron appears outside the open doorway. “Pardon me, sir.”
“Quickly, Nora,” the man spits out. “The medicine is wearing off. What’s the trouble?”
“The aristocracy has gathered outside in the snow beneath the windows,” she replies. “They’re waiting to see her. Harrison is handing out blood by the bucket.”
I’m standing. I don’t know how it happened. I don’t care. I like the feel of the bare wood on my bare feet. I’m naked. I don’t care about that either. I hear the blood slipping through the woman’s body, feeding her heart. It’s faster now, the heartbeat.
I’m moving fast. I’m not used to this speed. I slide on a round wool rug and miss my target. The woman. Nora. My palms hit the stone wall, my claw-like fingernails break. My head falls forward, and the impact feels like it cracked my skull.
Liquid snakes through my hair and runs down my cheeks. My tongue darts to taste. It’s my blood I’m drinking.
The woman, Nora, she’s filled with more. Only hers is warm.
Why doesn’t she run? Why do I want her to?
I know the answer, and it stops me in place. On some level, I’ve known since I woke up. All those monster movies Lucy made me sit through. My broken nails. The right pinkie nail is curved and an inch long. I feel my fangs with my fingers and puncture the tip of my tongue on each. Blood rises, salty and seductive.
I recall the radiant man . . . last night . . . was it last night? . . . in the cemetery. Why didn’t the butterflies save me?
No, he saved me. The other one. The doctor? The one with me now. That’s what he said.
A delusion; it’s the most reasonable explanation. I’m sick. That’s why I’ve been checked into this mental hospital.
Suddenly I’m caught, tangled and restrained in the black sheet.
“That will be all,” the commanding voice says to Nora.
She turns to leave. “Charming child. I look forward to knowing her better.”
Both of their voices carry a trace of the South. Not Texas, but . . .
I force out the questions because I need to hear the answers. “Where am I? What have you done to me?”
“I’ve taken care of you, made sure your elevation was as protected as it could be. Sugar, you’ve been spared the spiraling moods, the paranoia and indignity, the cramps and shooting pain. The erratic and unpredictable behavior. Tonight your transformation is behind us.” He leads me to a window, pulls back the drapes. It’s open, but the icy wind is no bother. “Tonight the world is ours.”
Below, a crowd has gathered in the moonlight. Hundreds of jovial bodies, perhaps as many as a thousand, swirling, bobbing. They’re the dead of winter, and they’re dancing in the falling snow. Wind ravages their flowing hair, tosses up their capes and full-length skirts, spreads their draping sleeves like rodent wings. Against the white of the landscape, they swirl in black and red, in gray and violet.
Surveying the scene, I can almost count their eyelashes, the needles of the evergreens. The revelers sing my name, “Miranda!”
“I’ve turned you into a princess,” he explains.
CYNTHIA LEITICH SMITH is the author of several acclaimed books for younger readers. About Tantalize, she says, “I tapped into my romantic nature and my love for monsters and marinara. Hold the garlic and enjoy!” A member of the faculty at the Vermont College MFA program in writing for children and young adults, she lives in Austin, Texas, with her husband, author Greg Leitich Smith.
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