Her Loving Husband's Curse

by Meredith Allard

  “Will you talk to him, James?” Howard asked.

  “Of course,” James said.

  James opened the door, and Howard scampered away free and wild as any wolf roaming the plains. As he shut the door, James felt weighed down by a black-hole worry about the damage Hempel could cause if he went through with his plans to share his knowledge about vampires with the world. Should he tell Sarah? Did she need to know that Hempel was on the hunt again? James thought back to that day, just five months before, when he had gone into the sunlight and survived, proving to Hempel that he wasn’t a vampire, though he was. Hempel had been convinced, and James was no longer a suspect. He had taken himself out of the running for Hempel’s Vampire of the Year award. So why did he feel nervous knowing about Hempel’s latest plans?

  Sarah walked to him, pressed her head against his shoulder, held his hand in hers. She looked wistfully out the window the way Howard left. “How did Howard come to adopt Timothy?” she asked.

  James shook his head, pressing away his fears about Hempel so he could concentrate on his wife. “I think Geoffrey turned Timothy,” he said. “I don’t know that for a fact, but Timothy was left to fend for himself the way I was—completely abandoned. He was all alone like I was, afraid of what he had become. He needed someone to help him.”

  Sarah sat on the sofa, patting the cushion beside her.

  “Tell me,” she said.

  James sat next to her. He slid his arm around her waist, pulled her close, breathing in deeply, savoring the scent of strawberries and cream. He could live forever wafting in that delicious fruity haze. He pressed Sarah’s cheek to his chest, and he stared over her head out the window as he remembered.

  “It was about four years ago now. I was living in Washington State at the time, teaching at the University of Washington Seattle, when I got a call from Howard saying he found a vampling, a young one, living alone and frightened in the woods.

  “‘He’s just a boy,’ Howard said. ‘I tried to help him, but he was too afraid to come to me.’

  “‘Afraid?’ I said.

  “‘It was a full moon,’ Howard explained. ‘I heard the boy crying and I saw the blood on his cheeks so I tried to talk to him, but he was frozen with fear when he realized he understood a talking wolf. He ran away as quick as a flash, and as fast as I am I couldn’t catch him. Now I can’t find him and I don’t know where he went to stay out of the sun during the day. You have to help me find him, James. He’s just a boy and he’s scared.’”

  “What a kind man Howard is,” Sarah said. “I didn’t know.”

  James nodded. “The sight of the frightened vampire boy touched him and he had to do something.”

  “So you came back to Salem?”

  “Yes. When I arrived I saw a very human-looking Howard, his shirt rumpled, his beard untrimmed, his hair messy, his eyes red-rimmed. He couldn’t rest until he found the boy, so that night we went into the woods to search for him. At first there was nothing, no sounds, not even the scamper of animals or the rustling wind. Then I caught his scent and the sound of feet crunching fallen leaves. I moved as soundlessly as I could since I didn’t want to frighten him away. Finally, I saw him huddled against a tree, his knees pulled to his chest, his face and blue shirt stained with large pools of blood, some from his tears, and some from some previous feeding or injuries, I couldn’t tell. The sight tore at Howard’s heart, and it touched mine too. At least it touched where my heart used to be.”

  Sarah shook her head. “You’re like the Tin Man from The Wizard of Oz, James, wishing for a heart you already have.”

  “Perhaps,” James said. “The sight of Timothy touched my memories of how frightened and alone I felt when I was new to this life, and I understood what Howard felt because I had to help the boy too. I walked to him, and when he saw me he jumped as if he would run away.

  “‘It’s all right,’ I said. I moved toward him as if I were approaching a strange dog with my hands out to let it smell me. I knelt next to him and spoke softly. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ I told him. ‘I’m just like you.’

  “Timothy pulled into himself, his knees closer to his chest, his arms so tight around his legs they nearly wrapped around his back, an immortal ball of fear.

  “‘It’s all right,’ I said again. ‘My name is James. What’s your name?’

  “Timothy’s black-night eyes looked like pinholes against his dead-pale skin, watching me as I inched closer to him. He must have sensed I meant him no harm because he released his grip some and he found his voice.

  “‘Timothy,’ he said. He looked at himself, his bloody clothes, the fresh blood from his tears on his hands. He looked confused, as though he hardly remembered his name himself. ‘I’m Timothy Bryston.’

  “‘How old are you, Timothy?’

  “‘I’m fourteen.’

  “‘Where’s your family?’

  “He heaved with such sadness he couldn’t speak, and he shuddered so hard I was afraid he’d damage himself even with his preternatural bones. I rubbed his back until he settled. He looked even younger than fourteen then. ‘They’re dead,’ he said through waves of sobs. ‘All of them. My mom and dad. My brother and sister.’ He held his blood-streaked hands out to me, pleading. ‘What’s wrong with me?’

  “‘You’re all right, Timothy,’ I said. ‘Tell me what happened to your family.’

  He paced the rocky forest ground, tripping over heavy tree roots he didn’t see through his blurred, swollen eyes, then stopped suddenly, his head in his hands. “‘We were driving home and another car zoomed around us. My dad lost control swerving away and our car smashed into a tree.’ Timothy dropped to his knees under the weight of his anguish. ‘They’re all dead! And I should be too! I was dying, everything was slowing down, everything was growing darker, but this man pulled me from the car and said he could help me. I asked him if he could help my mom and dad, and he said I’d thank him later. I woke up here in the woods.’”

  “That does sound like Geoffrey,” Sarah said.

  James grimaced. “Yes.”

  “Did Timothy recognize him at our wedding?”

  “I don’t think so. He hasn’t said anything.”

  Sarah shook her head. “That poor baby, all alone in the world without his parents and terrified at what he had become.”

  “I understood how he felt. I told him I was very sorry about his family, and I told him he didn’t need to be afraid anymore since Howard and I were there to help him. I looked back at Howard, the father’s concern already settled in his eyes. He stepped out from behind a tree, tentatively at first, fully human, heart wide open, like the arms he held out ready to embrace this boy he already knew would be his son. He kneeled near Timothy and smiled.

  “‘I’m Howard Wolfe,’ he said. ‘I’d like to help you, Timothy, if you’d let me.’

  “‘There’s something wrong with me,’ Timothy said, holding out his bloodied hands as proof.

  “Howard laughed. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘There’s something wrong with me as well. You’ll see in about a month. If you’d like to stay with me, I think that would be fine. James here is just like you, and he’s going to help you too. Your life will be different now, but it’s nothing we can’t figure out together. Would you like to stay with me, Timothy?’ I thought Timothy would burst into a fresh flood of red tears, he looked so relieved.”

  “I thought vampires and werewolves are enemies,” Sarah said.

  “It’s never been true. At least not as long as I’ve been around.”

  “How come Geoffrey doesn’t go to see Timothy the way he comes to see you?”

  “I don’t think he even realizes he turned Timothy. He’s never said anything about it.”

  Sarah shook her head. “Sometimes people don’t say everything they know,” she said.

  James nodded. He took his wife into his arms, holding her close. He guessed she knew he was keeping something from her, but that was his job, to protect her, to keep everything bad a
way from her. He was her safety cushion, her soft place to fall, shielding her from everything wrong in the world. He decided not to tell Sarah about Hempel. Not now. She didn’t need to know.

  But he needed to know. Later that night, while Sarah slept, he sat at his desk and turned on his laptop. One Internet search later he was staring at the blog with the finger-pointing words he remembered:

  Do vampires lurk in Salem? The demon tales from long ago may not be as fictional as many have come to believe. Do you know any demons? Or, perhaps a better question is, do you know any vampires? Before you laugh you may want to consider the facts. Vampires may be prowling as close as your hospitals, your favorite clothing stores, your dentists’s offices, even lurking in Salem State College.

  How well do you know those whom you encounter every night? Where are they going? What business do they tend to? While it’s difficult to believe that the undead are real, it would be to everyone’s benefit to consider such possibilities. These blood-devouring night creatures aren’t merely figments of imagination from books and movies, but they’re out there, among us, feigning human lives to be all the closer to our blood. We are their natural food source after all.

  James saw the addendum under the original article, and he read that too:

  I am in the process of gathering the final pieces of evidence I need to prove the reality of vampires. I will have names, facts, and details soon. I hope everyone will follow me on this journey as I disclose once and for all the undead who have cloaked themselves in darkness these many years.

  James shut down the computer and stared out the window, wallowing in the silence of a sleeping Salem. It was just as Howard said. But James had hope. Since writing the original article Hempel had dismissed James from his list of suspects. They would be fine.

  Dear God, James thought. Let us be fine.

  * * * * *

  They say the Indians are uncivilized with their barbaric customs. Forget their depraved heathen gods. The Indians should conform to the gods of commerce. Besides, they have no title to the land. They do not believe in land ownership. And the discoverer has rights too. What is the point of discovering land if you cannot have it when you find it?

  But the Cherokee assimilated. They converted. Their children go to proper schools. They have a written language, a syllabary, invented by Sequoyah over twenty years ago, and they have laws and a Constitution. They abolished clan revenge and other acts considered too savage for gentle American sensibilities. The women spin and weave while the men raise livestock and plant crops. They own their own plots of land, no longer shared as one whole. Most have become God-fearing, Bible-reading, prayer-speaking Christians. Many have become wealthy. Some further south are slave owners, a sad concession to their wish to conform. The people here are farmers, but others are doctors, lawyers, writers, teachers, professors, and journalists. But no matter how well they follow the leader they will always be Other.

  It’s the land, Lizzie. The Americans are greedy for the land. And now they will force the people to go away when they will not leave it all behind. When they will not pretend they were never here. It’s beginning already.

  As I look through the window all is dust. Even into the night the chalky air rises and swirls, settling on cornstalks, clothing, faces, leaving a pallid mask on everyone. There is the grit-covered white man I see here often who comes to trade with the natives. Now he is speaking to my neighbor.

  “Ridge and Boudinot signed the treaty in Georgia,” the white man says.

  “No,” says my neighbor. “Chief John Ross won’t allow it. He thinks we can keep our land.”

  “It’s done, Friend. They’re taking your land and sending you away.”

  “No,” my neighbor says again. “Chief John Ross has gone to Washington to talk to the government. They will listen. They will see why it’s wrong to take our land.”

  “Ridge and Boudinot thought there was no way the government would let you keep the land—that’s why they signed. Removal will start soon. I thought you should know.”

  The trot-trot-trot of horse’s hooves comes faster and closer. I heard it long before the men talking outside. Suddenly, the horse stops a few feet away. I see the stern-faced, blue-suited officer dismounting, his bayonet at his side. My neighbor’s family have come outside, his mother-in-law, wife, and daughters, huddled close to one another, watching.

  The wind picks up, and everyone disappears in the dust. Through the haze I see the officer nod at the white man. He doesn’t look at the native man or his family as he walks through their open doorway. He scans their possessions, their basic furniture, the spinning wheel, the beads and stones and pestles. He eyes my neighbor’s pretty black-haired wife with a suggestive gleam that boils rage from the soles of my feet to the tips of my hair. For a moment I am back in Salem in 1692, and I feel the constable at our door, cruel as he drags you away. I can hardly restrain myself from ripping the officer man to shreds. How dare he impose himself on this family. What have they done?

  The native man must also sense danger and he stands protectively in front of his women.

  “What do you want here?” the white man asks.

  “I have orders to take inventory of the belongings inside,” says the officer.

  “So you can confiscate it for yourself or sell it?”

  “I have orders.”

  “Seems awful late into the night for that. Can’t you come back tomorrow?”

  “I’m here now.”

  The officer brushes further into my neighbor’s house, his back stretched tall, shoulders back, a sad apology for his height—the Napoleon complex, I believe it’s called. He needs to make a show, the man in the uniform, the man with the orders. This is all a show of Power. You will do what we make you do. When we want what you have you must give it to us. When we want you to leave you must leave. There is no other way.

  The white trader notices me and nods. I can see in his face he is kind, but I have come away from the window. I do not want to be noticed. I hear the officer mount his horse, and the horse trots away, faster than he came. My neighbor and his family are left alone for one more night.

  CHAPTER 4

  James arrived at his office in the library, turned on the computer, and logged in to check his e-mail. There were the usual messages, white noise from the English department, notes from students asking about assignments, requesting extensions, making excuses, or all of the above. He remembered the red-filled bags, and he took them from his black backpack and slid them into the brown-paneled icebox beneath his desk. He hit the button to print his notes for his Shakespeare seminar that night, impatient because he was late to meet Sarah in the library. They would be home together soon, but he wouldn’t lose one moment with her. He wanted to spend every hour of every night with her, holding her, kissing her. He missed her when she wasn’t there. And if he could steal a kiss before he had to teach, he would.

  He stopped when he heard the footsteps come down the hall. For a moment he thought he heard Hempel’s heavy, plodding steps, but he shook that paranoia away and heard short, shuffling paces instead. He smelled musk, so it wasn’t a student since twenty-something boys don’t douse themselves in Old Spice. After the knock, he opened his door to see Goodwin Enwright, head of the English department, fiftyish, balding, wearing a white button-down shirt and brown tie over blue jeans and running shoes.

  “James,” said Goodwin, “I was hoping to catch you before you left for class.”

  “Here I am.” James gestured to the chair where his students sat during office visits. Goodwin shook his head.

  “I can only stay a minute. I have an idea for a new class I want to run by you.”

  “What is it?”

  “Vampire Literature.”

  James struggled not to gag, jump, or scream. “Goodwin, I don’t know…”

  “Hear me out, James. We’ve been stagnant as a department for a while and we need to be innovative. We’re a university now.”

  “I know. I sa
w the sign outside.”

  “We want to shake things up, so we took a poll of English students and asked for ideas for new classes. Turns out they’re crazy about vampires. So what if we offer a vampire literature class? And what if you teach it?”

  James didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, but since he would bleed from his eyes if he cried, suspicious during a conversation about vampires, he chose to laugh, or at least force a hearty smile. “I don’t know anything about vampire books, Goodwin.”

  “Sure you do. Everyone does, unless they’re dead.” Goodwin slapped James’s shoulder like they were buddies out for a beer. “You’re not dead, are you?”

  “Not very.”

  “I bet you know more than you think. There’s that book that’s so popular with the girls these days. What is it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Sure you do. The one about the sparkly kid?”

  “Twilight.”

  “That’s it. I was thinking the class could cover the development of vampire literature. People think Bram Stoker’s Dracula was the first vampire novel, but it wasn’t. Sheridan Le Fanu’s novel Carmilla and Varney the Vampire by James Malcolm Rymer came first.”

  “Carmilla is about a lesbian vampire who preys on a lonely young woman.”

  “See, so you do know some of the books.”

  James sighed. “Maybe you should ask Angela to teach the class. She’s younger. She might like the idea.”

  “Younger than who? We just went to her fortieth birthday party last month at the Lyceum Bar and Grill. I distinctly recall seeing you and Sarah there. So Angela’s forty, and what are you? All of thirty now?”

  “Something like that.”

  Goodwin pulled over the empty chair and sat down. “You’re one of the best we have in the English department, James. The students rave about you on your evaluations every term. We want someone young, someone the students like to teach the class. We’ll try it out once and see how it goes. What have you got to lose?”