I have lived in both England and France for extended periods of time. “I have traveled a lot,” I say. “Maybe that’s what you hear.”
“Must be.” He gestures to his side. “Lara, this is my girlfriend, Pat McQueen. Pat, meet Lara Adams.”
Pat nods. “Hi, Lara.” Her manner is not the least defensive. She trusts in Ray’s love, and in her own. That is going to change. I think of Riley’s computer, which I have left in his office. It will not be terribly long before the police come to look around, and maybe take the computer away. But I have not taken the machine because I would have no way of explaining to Ray what I was doing with it, much less be able to convince him to open its data files.
“Hello, Pat,” I say. “Nice to meet you.”
“Same here,” she says. “That’s a beautiful dress.”
“Thank you.” I would have preferred to have met Ray without Pat around. Then it would have been easier for him to start a relationship with me without her between us. Yet I am confident I can gather Ray’s interest. What man could resist what I have to offer? My eyes go back to him. “What are we studying in this class?” I ask.
“European history,” he says. “The class just gives a broad overview. Right now we’re talking about the French Revolution. Know anything about it?”
“I knew Marie Antoinette personally,” I lie. I knew of Antoinette, but I was never close to the French nobility, for they were boring. But I was there, in the crowd, the day Marie Antoinette was beheaded. I actually sighed when the blade sliced across her neck. The guillotine was one of the few methods of execution that disturbed me. I have been hanged a couple of times and crucified on four separate occasions, but I got over it. But had I lost my head, I know that would have been the end. I was there at the start of the French Revolution, but I was in America before it ended.
“Did she really say, ‘Let them eat cake’?” Ray asks, going along with what he thought was a joke.
“I believe it was her aunt who said that.” The teacher, Mr. Castro, enters the room, a sad-looking example of a modern educator if ever there was one. He only smiles at the pretty girls as he strides to the front of the room. He is attractive in an aftershave-commercial sort of way. I nod to him. “What’s he like?”
Ray shrugs. “Not bad.”
“But not good?”
Ray sizes me up. “I think he’ll like you.”
“Understood.”
The class starts. Mr. Castro introduces me to the rest of the students and asks me to stand and talk about myself. I remain seated and say ten words. Mr. Castro appears put out but lets it go. The lesson begins.
Ah, history, what an illusion humanity has of the past. And yet scholars argue the reality of their texts until they are blue in the face, even though something as recent as the Second World War is remembered in a manner that has no feeling for the times. For feeling, not events, is to me the essence of history. The majority of people recollect World War II as a great adventure against impossible odds, while it was nothing but an unceasing parade of suffering. How quickly mortals forget. But I forget nothing. Even I, a bloodthirsty harlot if ever there was one, have never witnessed a glorious war.
Mr. Castro has no feeling for the past. He doesn’t even have his facts straight. He lectures for thirty minutes, and I grow increasingly bored. The bright sun has me a bit sleepy. He catches me peeking out the window.
“Miss Adams,” he says, interrupting my reverie. “Could you give us your thoughts on the French nobility?”
“I think they were very noble,” I say.
Mr. Castro frowns. “You approve of their excesses at the expense of the poor?”
I glance at Ray before answering. I do not think he wants the typical teenage girl, not deep inside, and I have no intention of acting like one. He is watching me, the darling boy.
“I don’t approve or disapprove,” I say. “I accept it. People in power always take advantage of those without power.”
“That sounds like a generalization if I ever heard one,” Mr. Castro replies. “What school did you go to before moving to Mayfair?”
“What school I went to doesn’t matter.”
“It sounds as if you have a problem with authority,” Mr. Castro says.
“Not always. It depends.”
“On what?”
“Whether the authority is foolish or not,” I say with a smile that leaves no doubt I am talking about him. Mr. Castro, wisely, passes me over and goes on to another topic.
But the teacher asks me to stay behind when the bell rings. This bothers me; I wish to use this time to speak to Ray. I watch as he leaves the room with Pat. He glances over his shoulder at me just before he goes out of sight. Mr. Castro taps his desk, wanting my attention.
“Is there something wrong?” I ask him.
“I hope not,” Mr. Castro says. “I am concerned, however, that we get off to a good start. That each of us understands where the other is coming from.”
I stare at him, not strongly enough to cause him to wilt, but enough to make him squirm. “I believe I understand exactly where you’re coming from,” I say.
He is annoyed. “Oh, and where is that?”
I can smell alcohol on his breath, from the previous night, and alcohol from the night before that, and the night before that. He is only thirty, but the circles under his eyes indicate his liver is close to seventy. His tough stance is only an image; his hands shake as he waits for me to respond. His eyes are all over my body. I decide to ignore his question.
“You think I have a bad attitude,” I say. “Honestly, I am not what you think. If you knew me you would appreciate my understanding of history and . . .” I let my voice trail off. “Other things.”
“What grade are you hoping to get in this class?”
His question makes me laugh, it is so ridiculous. I lean over and give his cheek a pinch, a hard one that makes him jump. He’s lucky I don’t do the same to his crotch. “Why, Mr. Castro, I’m sure you’re going to give little old Lara just about any grade she wants, don’t you think?”
He tries to brush my hand away, but of course it is already gone. “Hey! You better watch it, miss.”
I giggle. “I’ll be watching you, Mr. Castro. Just to make sure you don’t die of drink before the semester’s over. I’ve got to get that good grade, you know.”
“I don’t drink,” he protests feebly as I walk away.
“And I don’t give a damn about my grade,” I say over my shoulder.
I fail to catch Ray before my next class starts, which I do not share with him. Seems my pseudo guardian was unable to match my schedule exactly to Ray’s. I sit through fifty minutes of trigonometry, which naturally I know almost as well as history. I manage to refrain from alienating the teacher.
The next period I don’t have with Ray either, although I know fourth period we will be together in biology. Third is P.E. and I have brought blue shorts and a white T-shirt to wear. The girlfriend, Pat McQueen, has the locker beside mine and speaks to me as we undress.
“Why did Castro ask you to stay behind?” she asks.
“He wanted to ask me out.”
“He likes the girls, that guy. What did you think of Ray?”
Pat is not excessively paranoid, but she is trying to ascertain where I am coming from. “I think he needs lots of love,” I say.
Pat is not sure what to think of that, so she laughs. “I give him more than he can handle.” She pauses, admiring my momentarily naked body. “You know, you really are incredibly beautiful. You must have guys hitting on you all the time.”
I pull on my shorts. “I don’t mind. I just hit them back. Hard.”
Pat smiles, a bit nervously.
Phys ed is currently educating the boys and girls of Mayfair in the rudiments of archery. I am intrigued. The class is coed and the bow and arrow in my hands bring back old memories. Perhaps, though, the ancient memory of Arjuna, Krishna’s best friend and the greatest archer of all time, is not one I
should stir. For Arjuna killed more vampires than any other mortal.
All with one bow.
All in one night.
All because Krishna wished it so.
Pat follows me out onto the field, but tactfully separates herself from me as we select our equipment. I have already spooked her, and I don’t think that is bad. I wear strong sunglasses, gray tinted. As I gather my bow and arrows, an anemic-looking young man with thick glasses and headphones speaks to me.
“You’re new, aren’t you?” he asks.
“Yes. My name is Lara Adams. Who are you?”
“Seymour Dorsten.” He offers his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
My flesh encloses his, and I know instantly that this young man will be dead in less than a year. His blood is sick—how can the rest of his body not be? I hold on to his hand a moment too long, and he stares at me quizzically.
“You are strong,” he says.
I smile and let go of him. “For a girl?”
He rubs his hand on his side. His illness has startled me. I have bruised him. “I suppose,” he says.
“What kind of name is Seymour? It makes you sound like a nerd.”
He likes my forthright manner. “I’ve always hated it. My mother gave it to me.”
“Change it when you get out of high school. Change it to Marlboro or Slade or Bubba or something like that. And lose those glasses. You should be wearing contacts. I bet your mother even buys your clothes.”
I am a revelation to Seymour. He laughs. “She does. But since I am a nerd, shouldn’t I look the part?”
“You think you’re a nerd because you think you’re so smart. I’m a lot smarter than you and I look great.” I gesture to our bows and arrows. “Where should we shoot these things?”
“I think it would be best if we shot them at the targets,” he says wisely.
So that’s what we do. A few minutes later we are at one end of the football field sending our arrows flying toward the targets that have been arranged in a neat row on the fifty-yard line. I impress Seymour when I hit the bull’s-eye three times in a row. He is further impressed when we go to remove the arrows from the target and they are stuck in so deep he has to use all his strength to pull them out. He does not know that I could have split the shaft of my first arrow with the next two if I had wished. I am showing off, I know, and it is probably not the wisest thing to do, but I don’t care. My mood this day is frivolous. My first day of high school. First happy thoughts about Ray and Pat and now I have taken an immediate liking to Seymour. I help him pull the arrows from the target.
“You have shot before,” he says.
“Yes. I was trained by a master marksman.”
He pulls out the last arrow and almost falls to the ground as it comes loose. “You should be in the Olympics.”
I shrug as we walk back toward the goal posts, “I have no interest,” I say.
Seymour nods. “I feel the same way about mathematics. I’m great at it, but it bores me to death.”
“What does interest you?”
“Writing.”
“What do you like to write?”
“I don’t know yet. The strange and unusual fascinates me.” He pauses. “I read a lot of horror books. Do you like horror?”
“Yes.” I start to make a joke of his question, something about how close it is to my heart, but a feeling of déjà vu sweeps over me. The feeling startles me, for I haven’t had it in centuries. The sensation is intense; I put a hand to my head to steady myself, while searching for the source of it. Seymour reaches out to help, and once more I feel the sickness flowing beneath his skin. I am not sure of the nature of his disease, but I have a good idea what it is.
“Are you all right?” he asks me.
“Yes.” A cool film of sweat has gathered on my forehead, and I wipe it away. My sweat is clear, not tinted pink, as it becomes when I drink large quantities of human blood. The sun burns bright in the sky and I lower my head. Seymour continues to watch me. Suddenly I feel as if he has come so close to me his body is actually overlapping mine. Like the déjà vu, I do not like the sensation. I wonder if I have developed a greater sensitivity to the sun. I have not been out like this, at midday, in many years.
“I feel as if I’ve met you before,” he says softly, puzzled.
“I feel the same way,” I say honestly, the truth of the matter finally striking me. Already I have said how I can sense emotions, and that is true. The ability came to me slowly as the centuries of my life passed. At first I assumed it was because of my intense observatory faculties, and I still feel that is part of it. Yet I can sense a person’s feelings even without studying them closely, and the ability baffles me to this day because it suggests a sense that is nonphysical, which I am not yet ready to accept.
I am not alone with this ability. Over time I have met the occasional human who was as sensitive as I. Indeed, I have killed several of them because they alone could sense what I was, or rather, what I was not. Not human. Something else, they would tell their friends, something dangerous. I killed them, but I did not want to because they alone could understand me.
I sense now that Seymour is one of these humans. The feeling is further confirmed when once more I pick up my bow and arrow and aim at the target. For my vision is distracted. Mr. Castro stands in the distance behind the school gymnasium, talking to a perky blond. Talking and touching—obviously making a move on the young thing. The teacher is perhaps three hundred yards distant, but for me, with a bow in my strong arms, he is within range. As I toy with my next arrow, I think that I can shoot him in the chest and no one will know—or believe—that it was really me who killed him. I can make it so that even Seymour doesn’t see where the arrow flies. Killing Mr. Riley two nights earlier has awakened in me the desire to kill again. Truly, violence does beget violence, at least for a vampire—nothing quite satisfies as does the sight of blood, except for the taste of it.
I slip the arrow into the bow.
My eyes narrow.
Castro strokes the girl’s hair.
Yet out of the corner of my eye I notice Seymour watching me.
Seeing what? Sensing what? The blood fever in me?
Perhaps. His next word is revealing.
“Don’t,” he says.
My aim wavers. I am amazed. Seymour knows I am thinking about killing Castro! Who is this Seymour, I ask myself? I lower my bow and look over at him. I have to ask.
“Don’t what?” I say.
His eyes, magnified behind their glasses, stare at me. “You don’t want to shoot anybody.”
I laugh out loud, although his remark chills me. “What makes you think I want to shoot somebody?”
He smiles and relaxes a notch. My innocent tone has done its work on him. Perhaps. I wonder if Seymour is one of those rare mortals who can fool even me.
“I just had the feeling you were going to,” he says. “I’m sorry.”
“Do I look so dangerous?”
He shakes his head. “You are different from anyone I have ever met.”
First Ray notices that I have an accent, and now Seymour reads my mind. An interesting day, to say the least. I decide I should keep a lower profile, for the time being.
Yet I do not really believe he has read my mind. If I did, like him or not, I would kill him before the sun set.
“You’re just so dazzled by my beauty,” I say.
He laughs and nods. “It isn’t often a beauty such as you is caught talking to a nerd like me.”
I lightly poke him in the belly with the tip of my arrow. “Tell me more about the kind of stories you like.” I nock the arrow onto my bowstring. Mr. Castro will live another day, I think, but maybe not many more. I add, “Especially your favorite horror stories.”
So for the rest of the period Seymour tells me about an assortment of authors and books he has read. I am delighted to learn that Dracula is his all-time favorite story. I miss the bull’s-eye a few times on purpose, but I don’t know
if I fool Seymour. He never takes his eyes off me.
The next period I am off to biology. Ray sits in the back at a lab table. I waste no time. I walk straight back and sit beside him. He raises an eyebrow as if to say that someone else has that seat, but then seems to change his mind.
“How did you enjoy archery?” he asks.
“You talked to Pat?” I ask.
“Yes.”
There she is again, the girlfriend, between us. Once more I think of the data files at Mr. Riley’s office. If the police do examine them, and do decide Mr. Riley has met with foul play, they will be paying me a visit. If I cannot access the files soon, I will have to destroy them. I decide to hasten things, knowing that I run the risk of destroying my whole seduction. I want to look at those files tonight. I reach over and touch Ray’s arm.
“Can you do me a big favor?” I ask.
He glances at my fingertips on his bare arm. My touch is warm. Wait till he feels it hot. “Sure,” he says.
“My parents are gone for a few days, and I need some help moving some things into my house. They’re in the garage.” I add, “I could pay you for your help.”
“You don’t have to pay me. I’d be glad to help this weekend.”
“Actually, one of these things is my bed. I had to sleep on the floor last night.”
“What a drag.” Ray takes a breath and thinks. My hand continues to rest on his arm, and surely the soft texture of my skin must be a part of his thought processes. “I have to work after school today.”
“Till what time?”
“Nine. But then I’m supposed to go over and see Pat.”
“She’s a lovely girl.” My eyes rest on his eyes. It is as if they say, yes, lovely, but there are other things in life besides love. At least that is my intention. Yet as I stare into Ray’s eyes, I can’t help but feel that he is one of those rare mortals I could love. This is another startling revelation for me, and already, even before noon, it seems the day is to be filled with them. I have not loved a man—or a woman for that matter—in centuries. And none have I ever loved as much as my husband, Rama, before I was made into a vampire.
Yet Rama comes to mind as I stare at Ray, and at last I know why Ray looks familiar. He has Rama’s eyes.
Thirst No. 1 Page 3